It’s complicated Bernie Fans: Not so much

It’s complicated Bernie Fans: Not so much

One person one vote. Isn’t that what we were told in school. Our little minds propagandized by the wonders of democracy. I grew up during the Cold war, felated by a constant message about how those godless communists rigged every election. Could all that have been bullsh..? No, they wouldn’t…

Wow, I’ve been active in elections going on 30 years now. I consider myself perhaps better informed than many, which is why I was so taken aback by the avalanche of minutia coming out of the caucus’ and primaries this past month. When have you ever heard so much about super delegates? Hmm, could be an effort to remind those silly young and idealistic Bernie supporters that just because you show up in overwhelming and impassioned numbers to vote doesn’t mean that your candidate will win? Apparently there is a process and it has nothing to do with democracy, transparency or even legality.

So Hillary will be the nominee? We were sold that from the beginning, it was just that Bernie supporters stubbornly cling to the idea that this is a representative republic in which those representatives are democratically elected. But then we are treated to a primary and caucus system where there are no rules, and in which Hillary and her minions can cheat with impunity. Cap that with a media in apparent league with the DNC leadership in which Bernie Sanders couldn’t get coverage if the image of Jesus miraculously appeared on his ass.

What coverage there is from a corporate Left sells the belief constantly that Hillary WILL be the nominee, and once Bernie people get all that other mess from their system they will zombie dutifully over to the Hillary parade. The bigger lesson will be the one in which millions of young people, energized from complacency are now taught that the system feeds itself and that one person one vote, well…who are we kidding?

That bodes dangerous for  a representative republic, with reps chosen democratically. Then again, that might be the point. Perhaps we are seeing the corporations, fronted by their media wings, asserting their hegemony over the people and the electoral process, and most particularly against the one candidate truly and faithfully standing in opposition to full and complete corporate control over or country.

Sapphire Gin contributed to this post…


Winter Storm Dantrall! Damn!

Winter Storm Dantrall! Damn!

Winter storm Dantrell is bearing down on the  Great Lakes, and Dantrell is pissed. Dantrell is comin’ straight out of the southside. don’t say nothing about no black ice. Dantrell and the Que4 weather team reminds you that Chicago will be oppressed by far more White snow!…

I’m on the board a community radio station, called Que4. The stations founding principle is to defend diverse voices and to bring them back to the media. These are, after all, the public’s airwaves. As I told a West side youth group,  the airwaves have been stolen from you, we are just giving them back.

As we grow we’ll start adding news and weather. I turned to the weather channel today and if they can name storms with White people names, what about some diversity? So Winter Storm Dantrell is on the way. We are looking also at a feature coming out of the south that might be here Friday called Javier. But we are about positive news as well.

Dantrell isn’t bad, he’s just being characterized that way by the media. Give Dantrell a little respect and he could be a lot of fun. Act the fool and you are likely to end up in a ditch.

Check out Que4 Radio, where we create beauty and defend it at WC Turck’s Helter Skelter can be heard Saturday’s from 11am-1pm.

An excerpt from my First Novel

An excerpt from my First Novel

This is for a friend, or actually several friends who have lost loved ones lately. It is from my novel “Broken,” by WC Turck:

…Her eyes were the color of a silver Dollar moon on a warm summer night. They were clear but distant, as if away in a memory that only just now gained its true importance. That distant gaze hovered somewhere between the flowing lace curtains and the window of the little hospice in French River just north of Duluth. A warm breeze through the window carried the perfume scent of lilac. Life was running away from those eyes, but not in a cruel or sad or lamentable way. Instead it ran away like a child in a grassy meadow. Eleanor’s eyes were laughing, filled with a light that infected fellow church members gathered around her bed.

Pastor Simmons held her hand tightly in his. He’d known her since, since… well it seemed forever now. He too saw that light in her eyes, but saw something more, something he knew that the others did not. He carried her secret and would always carry that secret, because she had asked him to. That boy at the docks had begged her not to tell because he had a family to look after and she had given her word. Not that it mattered much anymore. It had been so long that Simmons could no longer recall his name.

A knowing smile creased his mahogany face as he led the others in quiet prayer. They saw only a woman so filled with love and warmth that Pastor Simmons could already feel the world becoming a little colder for her passing. Her hand was warm enough, but Simmons was quite certain there was no feeling in it any more. It was a bittersweet thought, for he understood as well as anyone how she had struggled with her affliction all these years. He thought of those who had taken such comfort and inspiration in the peaceful fortitude and quiet indifference to her own troubles. Some folks suffered much worse than Eleanor. She was humbled and sympathetic to those folks, and an inspiration to those whose suffering paled by comparison. From Eleanor’s private confessions Simmons knew it was the affliction in her heart that gave her the greatest difficulty.

Funny but Simmons couldn’t think of a prayer. He had never been without a prayer, but now he couldn’t think of one. What kind of pastor can’t think of a damn prayer? Problem was, prayers were always sort of somber and solemn things. They were acts of desperation, appeals for consolation, or they betrayed a sense that good fortune was maybe a little undeserved. But somehow Eleanor’s passing did not qualify under any of those. That was fully evident in the smiles and joyful tears of those gathered around her bed.

The nurses had gone. There was nothing more they could do, or should have done, except let this moment pass in peace. Spontaneously the others began to hum “Nearer my God to thee.” They were holding hands and swaying gently to the melody.

…Darkness be over me, my rest a stone.

Yet in my dreams I’d be nearer, my God to Thee.

Nearer my God to Thee, Nearer my God to Thee…

Simmons imagined that she would be reunited with him again. He imagined that everyone would be together again, one day. Not like some big town picnic, or as some continuation of this world, where folks went off to do their own thing for eternity. Instead Pastor Simmons believed it was something much different. He imagined that we were all pieces of a greater whole, as if God did not wish to interfere with the evolving universe, but rather sprinkled parts of itself to truly experience the wonder of what unfolded quite on its own. It made her handicap less of an affliction and more of a perspective. It comforted him, and explained the deeper connection all living things share. All those different faiths were, in the end, different roads to the same destination. In the end all roads lead home.

Her hand was colder now, lying limp inside his. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He was humming with the others. The song could be heard clear down the hall of the hospice, and out into the yard where it was lost among the singing of birds and the rustle of spring leaves. Simmons wanted to laugh from joy through the tears. So much so he thought his heart might just burst.

…There in my Father’s home and at rest,

There in my Savior’s love, perfectly blessed,

Age after age to be, nearer my God to Thee…

Folks don’t pass all at once, Simmons thought. They pass on in pieces, a memory here, a memory there. Maybe it’s a card, or a letter they wrote that one day gets put away for good, a brush that’s no longer of any use now that the owner is gone, or a way they flavored the world that fades like an echo. Just pieces, that’s all folks are. Broken pieces, the lot of ‘em, some more broken than others.

Something in her gaze changed at that moment. It came as a moment of clarity. It was brief, and most of those in the room missed it somehow. Others couldn’t be certain just what they had seen, though it would resonate in their lives for all time, like an ideal to aspire to or to pray for. Simmons saw it and new exactly what it was. He leaned and brought his lips close to her ear. He could smell the musky scent of her skin and breathed it in one last time as he spoke. Oh, how he would miss her.

“It’s all right now,” he said. “You go and be with him. The rest of us will be along soon enough.”

Eleanor’s breathing paused. The air seemed to catch in her chest a moment. It was as if that breath was something more, something suddenly undecided about the body and its viability anymore. Her body tensed a little with it, holding vainly for just another second. This time they all saw it. The singing that had built to something of a crescendo quieted. It didn’t stop altogether, but was low and peaceful, like it was a quality to the air and the room itself.

 …Nearer my God to Thee.

Nearer my God to Thee.

Then, with that final breath, Simmons thought he had heard her say something. He couldn’t be sure. Even this close it was almost too soft to be heard, though Simmons could be quite sure no one else had heard. Even if they had, it was certain none of the others would have understood what it meant.

“Timothy,” he thought he heard her say. With that Eleanor’s body relaxed as the last breath escaped from her body. Her eyes closed a moment later and she was gone…


BROKEN: ONE SOLDIER¿S UNEXPECTED JOURNEY HOME is available on Amazon, Barnes and and Amazon Prime.

Emmetsburg: The Novel

Emmetsburg: The Novel

So folks are reading books again. I am dusting off  a book I wrote some years ago. It takes place during the Depression. A murder, a revolution, a man and wife struggling against the world. From the bloody trenches of France to the forgotten Pig war in Iowa, the endless prairies of South Dakota to the Dust Bowl, a story as big as America. Feels, in some ways as if we are teetering on those times again. Here is a sneak peak of the previously unpublished novel Emmetsburg, by WC Turck. Love to know your thoughts…



 Silver. The leaves of Oak and Maple trees across Pleasant Street turned over in anticipation of the rain. In the moonlight, before that light was obliterated by storm clouds, the leaves shone polished and ghostly against the midnight sky. From the semi-consciousness of a restless sleep John was vaguely aware of the approaching storm. It came at first as a sudden gust pushing the long branches of the old willow out front against the little white wood-frame house. A lone street lamp at the corner threw wild shadows across the window in the strengthening wind. The wind was scented with rain and cool, breaking a string of broiling days that had taken hold of Northwest Iowa.

There hadn’t been a drop of rain in nearly a month. Not since that sudden all too brief downpour, just as church was letting out one Sunday morning. But it wasn’t enough to help crops withering in the fields. But for scattering the usual social congregations on the steps of Saint Mary’s church, it dried almost before hitting the ground. A few folks took a soaking and it precipitated Mabel O’Connor’s spill down the steps of the church. Mabel is a large woman though and, but for a possible bruised bottom, which only Mister O’Connor could verify, she could only lay claim to an injured ego.

Lightening grew brighter, painting shadows of things upon the bedroom wall. The shadows of haphazardly arranged things upon the tall four-drawer bureau became larger than life, splashed in snapshots with the lace patterns of the curtains. Thunder rumbled distant, but growing was the storm bore down upon little Emmetsburg. It could be felt as much in the gut and in the soul as anything. John tensed and drew a deep breath. The storm seemed to foretell something. John’s eyes searched the ceiling above.

A few counties over some cows had come up sick. Some said from the weather. The government sent out inspectors to make tests with the authority to condemn whole herds if need be. That could prove a disaster for a family, losing a herd (Pennies on the Dollar was as good as a loss). In times such as this it was, well, as close to a declaration of war on decent salt of the earth folks as the government could get. It was only a matter of time before it brought good men to the end of their rope, and showed conniving men for their darkest character.

The cost of everything had gone up, while paychecks went down. Banks called in bad debts from folks with no means to pay those debts. Those banks foreclosed and threw good god-fearing people off their land and out of their homes, then closed their own doors for good. Other families didn’t bother to wait for the bank to call in their notes, and overnight packed up and left Iowa forever. Every day brought some new insult, some new weight around the neck of a struggling economy that was, in the end, not international bankers and corporations and industry, but millions of men and women toiling and bleeding and dying for their god-given right to carve out a small plot of this earth.

John sighed heavily and turned towards the window. He’d seen all this coming. This great slump, as it had come to be called, hadn’t happened overnight. Nothing happened overnight, except to fools and those fighting desperately to fend away the constant indignities of being down and out.

John had seen this coming, at least as much as any average working Joe could. Maybe it was the war that had opened his eyes, or darkened them enough to see how fragile and arrogant the veneer of civilization was. He had eschewed the allure and temptation of debt which had seduced so many others. It meant that he and Anna had to go without during the spend-and-boom years of the Twenties, but they had a roof over their heads and a chance to weather this better than most.

Anna was beside him. Her buttocks were warm through the thin cotton fabric of the gown he’d bought her last Christmas for a buck and change from the Sears & Roebuck’s catalog. She was breathing rhythmically, her lips fluttering ever so slightly. For a moment her breathing built, disturbing John’s sudden onslaught of thoughts and worries and memories. He reached back and ran a hand gently across her hip and stilled her somewhat.

It was the first decent sleep she’d had since, well, in some time anyway. That thought led him invariably to a place he preferred not to be, but in the dark and quiet of the night it was a place he could hardly avoid.

It was best not to dwell on such things, thought John. Better to force them from the mind and get on with living. Of course it was easier for a man than a woman. Men are so much farther from the body. They are ego drenched in misgivings, and who, by force or by necessity, have buried those misgivings deep. They bury them deep enough that it takes a lifetime for them to resurface again. Women, by contrast were worry vainly longing for lost innocence. Theirs was an ill-defined ideal alternately negotiated with or abandoned to men.

There was something more though, something that John struggled to fathom. It was that marital rhythms came more naturally to women. She knew his secrets, while he could barely come to terms with them himself. She knew desires and thoughts he endeavored to keep for himself. It was that which made him desire and despise and long for her and run from her all at once. It was that which kept him unwaveringly at her side while wishing for the farthest horizon.

“Oh,” he sighed, exhausted. It came as a trembling breath that escaped him almost without knowing.

It was a lament. It was a lament over life and all its many burdens, both the physical and those rampaging through his conscience. It fell like a weight upon his chest, as full and heavy as the approaching storm, protesting the very purpose of his existence.

His thoughts led inevitably to some end, with the realization that the precious nature of each life was alternately a definition of its ultimate futility. It was a thought that reflected the tragedy of the past several months and of a growing cynicism that engulfed him like a cancer.

Sleep fell away from him now, like metal shavings on a concrete floor. Sleep gave way to primal stirrings and more rational worries over the tarpaper roof he’d put up the summer before. The roof had taken the worst that Iowa winters could muster, holding on by hardly more than a wish and a prayer. But John could sense this storm was something more. He could feel its power as it fell upon little Emmetsburg, and knew it would be a hard night. What he couldn’t know was how this single storm would call into question everything in his life and plunge him towards its lamentable end.

Anna felt his worry, even before she was fully awake. She turned to him as the first fat rain drops patted against the front of the house. John closed his eyes, pretending to sleep, the furl of his brow and cadence of his breathing betraying that little effort. He could feel her looking at him. For a moment they were both silent. He reached over and pulled the window shut. Instantly the heat rose in the room.


“Go back to sleep?” he said quietly.

“What is it?” she asked, touching his bare shoulder.

He didn’t wish to worry her and frowned over thoughts refusing to form themselves into proper sentences.

“It’s nothing. Get some sleep.”

With a blinding flash of lightening, thunder, like a rumbling kettledrum, shook the world. John’s heart skipped a beat. Anna pulled closer, her warm breath at his neck an arm across his bare chest. Her gasp was lost to the racket of a sudden spectacular downpour.

“Worried for the roof?” she asked. She ran a hand across his body, teasing lightly the hairs of his stomach. He smelled warm and familiar, scented of sweat and wood pulp from the previous day’s work. For Anna, this place and this moment were a preferable destination to any conceivable fantasy of heaven.

“Some,” he said.

He was worried for the roof, worried for the truck, for Anna and the prospect of not going back to work any time soon. He worried over the banks and all those who had lost hope along with their homes, and he worried for a world whose governments always saw the simple way out of their population’s discontent and disillusionment through nationalistic fervor and war. He could feel it all out there somewhere, rising as a certain tension in the world. And tensions had either to be relieved or they broke altogether. And John feared the world seemed to be coming to one hell of a break.

He turned his head and found her hazel eyes in the dark. He said the only thing he could have said to her. The only thing his ego would permit. “Be fine.”

She pulled him closer still until he suddenly felt trapped in her embrace. John’s heart thudded madly, as though about to burst from his chest. He was already sliding sideways out of bed, pulling gingerly away from her.

“Be back,” he said.

In just shorts John pushed his feet into a pair of old brown slippers. Anna didn’t protest. She watched as he left the room and crossed the small, dark dining room to the kitchen door.

He pushed open the back screen and a gust of wind tore it from his hands. The sound of it banging against the house was lost to roaring waves of rain. Water already stood deep in the yard, with waves whipped and sheared by the wind, the cool mineral taste of the rain tempering and deepening John’s thoughts and fears.

Anna sat up, her feet still covered beneath her late mother’s heavy quilt. She swept back a lock of long Irish-red hair and studied him as if he was a strange animal, at once wild and beautiful in its power. He was like those pictures of great male lions from the National Geographic. The fight had long ago gone out of them though they still projected awesome strength.

John’s shoulders were broad and strong. His wavy brown hair brushed with the pewter evidence of hard years and great disappointment. He was no longer the bright-eyed boy she waved goodbye to as he went off to join Pershing in Europe. He was every bit the man who returned to her darker for that year at war.

He was silhouetted in the door against the silvery blue downpour, like some dejected mythical hero. One arm was upraised, a hardened and calloused hand pressed to the aging white-washed wood frame. But the lightening, that immense and constant lightening, threw his shadow in snapshot moments across the tiny kitchen’s pale linoleum floor, making him appear all the more tragic and lonesome. There came the flat tap-tap-tapping of water falling upon the tiles behind him. Anna watched with a measure of sympathy and understanding as her big man sighed heavily at the sound and looked skyward.

Anna loved him. She loved him more than he could ever realize. She loved that enduring energy, the stalwart refusal to quit, to quit her and to quit this life where lesser men might have given up. She loved that quality which compelled him to remain in the fight when all conscious faculties might have convinced him of its futility. It was love that drew Anna from bed.

She paused in the dining room, the thin gown mapping the contours of her figure beneath. The room was small, with hardly enough room for the old oak table and four heavy chairs, let alone the Franklin sewing machine opposite, where Anna hired out her services to help make ends meet.

The lace-white curtains over the window were pulled tight. Beside the window a new trickle of water ran along the wall past an oval framed photograph of her parents, taken just after landing in America hardly three decades before. The couple looked ancient, and part of a very different world than they would leave for their only daughter.

Anna went to John, wrapping her arms around his body and pressing her cheek against the cool flesh of his bare back. She breathed him in once more, suddenly and completely aroused by his scent. She moaned softly and listened to the steady thudding of his heart.

“Bad storm,” he said quietly. A flash of lightening brought a sharp and quick boom from somewhere across town. It was of a much different character than the thunder. He flinched slightly and looked to the sound.

“Been worse,” she softly kissed his back.

He was a man of so very few words, but each was supported by deeply resonating thoughts. The words he chose so sparingly truly meant something.

“Gets so fighting even the little ones is too much anymore.”

She was quiet a long moment, and was suddenly fearful that he might slip away from her. “John Perkins, don’t you quit on me.”

Seriously, America, will you believe anything?

Seriously, America, will you believe anything?
See the “creepy” image reflected in the window? Spoiler alert: there is the image of a little girl in this staged family dinner photo. Clearly the creators, competent in Photoshop, are seeking to manipulate people into believing there is some ghostly spirit sitting in the chair who is smart enough to be invisible, but not smart enough that her reflection(?) isn’t visible in the window. And yet, no one responding to this picture ever mentioned photoshop.
I have posted meme’s on injustice, racism, politics, corruption and so much more on Facebook that hardly gets attention, if any. A post about the dangerous law enforcement over reach of house to house searches, forcing people from their homes at gunpoint following the Boston Marathon bombing was widely read on the old Revolution and Beer blog, but the post on Facebook was virtually ignored. Likewise, I have sought to reveal the perverse and cross marketed manipulation of information and news strengthening a growing police state in which we are controlled and directed into “correct” forms of dissent that actually support oppression, or into voting for pre-fab candidates, or what to wear and what to eat and who to love.
The picture above received hundreds of shares and likes. The Facebook posters asked people not to reveal what they had seen, but that they “had seen it.” Every single one of the comments either said “creepy” or “I see it,” as if this was evidence of something other than their own gullibility. And this is what I have been talking about with media. It is part of the reason we built Que4 radio. This is what the media and the government does daily. It creates illusions and fictions to sell you things that are ultimately dangerous to you, your family and your community.  picghost1
The lesson here, as we slide into the most ridiculous, but most marketed realityTV-esque  political campaign in American history, is the reaction of Americans. You are being manipulated and entertained with slights of hand. On my radio show last week I spoke about all the things we have lost; the success of social security which Wall street is pressing politicians to turn over to them, or that one person, like a produce manager at a grocery store, in this country could  once support a family, or the security of clean water, the 40 hour work week, decent health insurance for our families, affordable housing, a government that works for the common citizen and decency have all been shoved aside to the profit of a few. So, we fall in line to the top salesmen, or woman for more pilfering of what we once saw as, well, America… 

Wheaton College’s New Curriculum! Exclusive!

Wheaton College’s New Curriculum! Exclusive!

Determined to recover from the scandal in which it attempted to fire a tenured professor because she donned a Hijab in solidarity with American Muslims, Wheaton College announced  a new spring line up for their Christian-based curriculum. Helter Skelter got an exclusive peek at some of the new classes. Here is some of those awesome new faith-based electives:

  1. War, What is it Good For? Absolute Extremism, Say it Again. 101. description: This course describes the most effective ways to keep nations and religions in a state of perpetual war and hatred by driving extremism. Students will learn how to use religion to co-opt government and pollute the media to sow distrust among religions while reaping massive profits. 6 weeks. Credits: 3
  2. Reformation, shmeshformation. 201.  description: Follow up to War, What is it good for, 101. This class reveals that there really wasn’t a reformation, and the Christianity wasn’t reformed at all. Students are encouraged to use misunderstandings and ignorance about this period in history to insult Islam. 6 weeks. Credits: 3 Prerequisite: FOX News.
  3. Cooking and baking, 203. description: Something for the ladies, so they don’t forget their proper place.  6 weeks. Credits: 3
  4. The Antichrist, 101. description: A retrospective of the Obama Administration. Elective. 1 Credit
  5. Walls of Jericho. description: Architecture. This program  helps Wheaton College students become prepared in the building and engineering trades building walls around Palestine and the Mexican border. 6 weeks. Credits: 3
  6. Erasing History 103. description. History and facts are dangerous. This course prepares students to write text books for children in Texas, preparing the next generation of Tea Party voters. Students will learn how to connect Jesus with cowboys, Dinosaurs and the Alamo, and how Davy Crockett’s last act before being assassinated by evil Mexicans was to strike oil. 6 weeks. Credits: 3
  7. Flanders. 103. description: This course prepares the man of tomorrow. Based on the Simpson’s character, Ned Flanders, male students learn to become the man for tomorrow, sweater vests, dumb as bricks, Christian fundamentalist and…am I wrong or is he, I mean I know he has a wife and kids, but I really think he’s…6 weeks. Credits: 3

Joe Walsh Silent on Cop Deaths?

Joe Walsh Silent on Cop Deaths?

Deposed Illinois congressman Joe Walsh, little “c”, is not a racist. He’ll be the first to tell you, like all non-racists. He’s got a Black friend. Walsh will also tell you he luuuuuuuvs cops. He loves ’em so much that he takes assaults and attacks on police officers deeply personally. Every time a Black man was implicated in any sort of violence against a cop, for any reason, Walsh shouted from his radio pedestal, red-faced and hysterical about a war on cops. He would decry and accuse the #BlackLivesMatter movement, or Al Sharpton or Jessie Jackson for harming a hair on America’s heroes. The heroes, by the way, who, despite being union like teachers, are never criticized for their liberal pensions…but I digress.

So this week, in the span of two days Joe Walsh was silent on the deaths of 4 police officers. In one case, in suburban Maryland, one of those cops was shot execution style in a Panera Bread restaurant. In another we heard the tearful reports from colleagues and family as  a police officer died surrounded by loved ones. I actually tuned in to Walsh’s radio pretend theatre to hear him  bemoan and outrage over the loss, by guns of four cops. One officer, a Black cop was apparently shot by a fleeing Black suspect. The officer subsequently died. Yet Walsh was silent. We spent the entire show yesterday avoiding the cop deaths for critical news about something silly Ted Cruz’ wife said in an interview. I can see the urgency, Joe.sanders1

I would hate to think that Joe Walsh didn’t mention the deaths because they would show guns in a bad light, and that he cares more for guns than cops. I would really hate to think that Black cops don’t matter to Joe, or that white men shooting cops doesn’t fit a certain narrative Joe and his cohorts are attempting to proliferate. I hope, Joe, but you can let me know. You have promised to debate me previously on numerous occasions. I’m up. Are you? Any Saturday on my radio show, 11-1 in the afternoon, 312-985-7834. You bring your Black friend, I’ll bring mine. Mike Sanders?