Shy David picket me up at the train station and we groped our way to Gold Base. OSA, we made those wrong turns to confuse you!

We spotted Keith, flanked fore and aft by 'security'. They were keeping well away from him, as required by the PD. I hopped out of the car and approached Keith while David parked. Both of Keith's escorts promptly left to get orders. So much for 'thinking for yourself.' They were soon back, trudging along heavily behind us with camcorders. We picked up a couple of picket signs from Keith and started the day's work.

David decided to play with our handlers, and posed as a reporter interviewing Keith. When he asked if they wanted to be interviewed as well, one said, "Hi, Mr. Rice." Busted!!! I cracked up!

On our first pass, Keith pointed out several rather large pine trees in wooden pots that have been placed over the underground tunnel. There isn't enough soil there to plant them, due to the tunnel, so they've wrapped the bases with plastic sheeting. Those trees are heavy! I hope the tunnel is reinforced to support this weight after watering. Wouldn't want another incident, although it would not surprise me a bit if there was a cave-in. Safety does not seem high on Scientology's list of priorities.

We paused periodically to take GPS readings of the interesting spots along the road; Davey's house, the church, the front gate, and so forth.

David had brought his handheld GPS device, what a gadget!

At one point, we separated from Keith by about 100 yards. Our handlers muttered to each other, and also separated; Keith got one, and we got the other. I think ours was broken. He was a man in his 60s, heavy set, silver hair, wearing no hat in the hot sun. He carried a water bottle and would seek out shade when we stopped. His face was very red, and he did not seem to be doing too well in the heat.

David kept expressing concern for his condition; truly, the man did not look well. His breathing was labored, and I felt sorry for him being assigned this duty in his state. Not. Actually, my idea was to stop well away from any shade when we took a water break and see how long it took for him to drop. I probably would have helped him if he'd succumbed to heat stroke. Cold water on the old head-bone and a lie down in the shade will aid in a startlingly swift recovery if caught in time. Fortunately that wasn't necessary, our old boy gamely trudged along with us the whole time, but did not appear to be having much fun. He didn't want our water, or David's spare hat, and was unobtrusive, as was Keith's more robust handler.

We picketed til 12:30, then went to Ida's for a delicious lunch! I really recommend her chicken wings! Since David only eats things that aren't meat, there were plenty of wings!

Keith made us go out again after lunch. We decided to do just one pass, as it was at least 90 degrees out and no cloud cover. Our handlers came out as we were parking, and again stumped along behind us. This time, our guy was wearing a red cap that said 'Talon.' I understand it's a scieno related security company. We made our pass and went back to the car. 'Our' handler approached us to tell us that he was not a scientologist, just a hired guy from Talon Security. David offered him a Xenu flier, which he refused. He thanked us for being there because, "I get $800 a day to do this. Come on out any time, I appreciate the business."

"You better ask for a raise!" I retorted. "We get paid way more than that for picketing!"

In summation, the handlers obeyed the police department's orders to not speak to us and stay 10 feet away. We had numerous honks and waves. One white car pulled over and wanted to speak to Keith, who directed them to the pull-out by his car. While we were talking to them, a car gave us a honk and thumbs up. I pointed out to our handler that it was for us, not scientology. The folks in the white car took a Xenu flier. All in all, a pretty uneventful picket, the kind I like!

If you go, take plenty of water, a hat, and sunscreen. It's brutal out there in the sun!

-- barb "Every week, every month, every year, every decade and now every century, Scientology does wierd and stupid things to damage its own reputation." - Steve Zadarnowski http://www.xenu.net
http://www.xenutv.com (see live Scientologists in their natural state!)

PICKET: (1) A person or group of persons stationed outside a place of employment (such as during a labor strike) to express grievance or protest and discourage entry by non-striking employees or customers. (2) A person or group of persons present outside a building to protest.

THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT.

Alas, I did not want to spend yet another day protesting Scientology’s crimes and abuses. It is a chore, and I would much rather be doing other things. Yet when I read about how the crime syndicate sent two thugs out to chase Keith Henson into the street and into traffic, presumably to injure or kill him, I felt compelled to once again register my protest against such criminal acts. I didn’t want to picket: Scientology’s OSA made me.

Barb Warr agreed. Keith needed help, but more importantly, we believe that Keith needed a show of support for what he was doing. Conversely, I vehemently oppose Keith’s being out there alone, and I went to Golden Era Productions with the specific intent to try to talk him out of picketing them alone. It was, and still is, my personal wish that Keith would cease the picketing and protesting of "Gold Base" alone, and go home.

Keith, if you are reading this, PLEASE consider this again.

And for anyone else in A.R.S. who may be reading this, please consider going to "Gold Base" and picket with Keith. In my opinion he needs people out there with them:

for his safety, as well as for protection against "manufactured crimes."

Speaking of "manufactured crimes," the Highway Patrol office has a copy of the Dreaded Crime of J-Walking that Keith committed as the two thugs chased him into traffic.

The crime syndicate carried that tape, all bright eyed and flush with pleasure, to the HP office to try to get Keith fined and / or otherwise get him into trouble with the law. The law enforcement officers were livid with anger at these thugs chasing Keith into traffic, and had some very harsh words with the thugs--- Foot Bullet Number 332893 and counting!

MISTER SANDMAN, GIMME A DREAM.

Ah, where was I? Oh, yeah.

Wednesday Barb got about 6 hours of sleep and I got about two hours; we were therefore not totally firing on all eight cylinders, but we were still much, much sharper and aware and awake than your average OSA goon whom we were sure to meet. I grabbed Barb (so to speak) at 8:43AM and, with a stop for some compressed atmosphere (32 PSI), we were on our way.

Arrived at "Gold Base" at 10:28AM and saw Keith out there.

The sight was, to say the least, astonishing bordering on the absurd. Perhaps even farcical. Keith was in the middle of two goons: sort of like a Nabisco Entheta Cookie--- a center of truth pressed between dark, tasteless intimidators. While I was thinking "Wha’ th’ fuh?"

Mistress Barb yelled out "LET ME OUT!" so I halted the vehicle and she leaped out with a bound that would have made Xena Warrior Princess green with envy.

I went to go park, leaving the OSA goons in the hands of Mistress’ Barb’s cold, callous, stoic mercy.

I parked at David Miscavige’s house.

No, really.

CLARK KENT IS ON THE JOB.

In a hurry, I placed a microphone on my hat, ran the wire to my hand held GPS unit, grabbed a pad of paper and pen, and rushed off to "interview" Keith. By the time he and Barb arrived at where I had parked, the two goons had received their orders and were waiting for us. I pretended to be interviewing Keith.

"Mister Henson is it!?" I said very loudly, for the benefit of the OSA goons. "How do you spell that!? H E N S E N or is it H E N S O N?!" as we walked by his shadows. I pretended to write down Keith’s answers. Then I addressed his shadows.

"Hi! I’m from Sun Valley Times. After I’m finished interviewing Mister Henson here, may I interview you?"

"Good morning Mister Rice," one said with a smirk.

*POP!* went my balloon. Otch, it slayed; it wounded. My TR-L was definitely "not in." Barb and Keith laughed while I turned red. Now I know who my friends are. Ah, "aren’t"

I mean.

Trudge; trudge; trudge down the road we travailed, walking West on the Eastbound side of the road. Past interesting, yet very, very dead squirrels: none fresh enough to play with. I resisted the urge to pick one up and toss it to our shadows. RPFers never ate so well.

The five of us were much more noticeable than just Keith out there picketing alone. If the crime syndicate did not send their goons out to harass him, I suspect that a great many motorists would not even notice he is out there. One person with a sign is less attractive than FIVE PICKETERS / PROTESTERS outside protesting the crime syndicate’s abuses. Foot Bullet Number 332894 and counting!

BREAKING UP IS BARD TO DO.

Keith suggested we split up. I did not wish to separate from Mistress Barb (I exist just to serve her), so Keith went off about 30 yards while Barb and I paused at the roadside memorial for Ashlee Shaner. The two shadows seemed to be greatly confused by this sneaky, underhanded, diabolical, infernal Machiavellian bit of cunning on our part. They split up too.

We got the sorrier deal in the split, to say the least.

Barb kicked off a round of "Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport"

while I added the "wocka wolcka wocka" sound effects to go along (sorry: you’ll have to listen to the song to understand this bit of craziness). A merry time was being had by all!

PHAëTHON TAKES THE REIGNS.

Uh, did I say "All?" Check that: our shadow was anything but merry. Anything but healthy, too. Or more to the point, on the verge of heat prostration. He was over weight, under hydrated, and hatless. My big, warm, "save the ugly mongrel puppy" heart went out to him. Phaeton seemed to have stolen dad’s chariot and parked it on our shadow’s head: the sun beat down upon him mercilessly. I offered water; I offered a hat; I offered advice--- all rebuffed without even a word, polite or otherwise. I was hurt by the slight, but soon recovered.

Indeed, when we paused, he staggered to the nearest shade.

He seemed very grateful to us for the break. Short-lived gratitude, alas.

"Let’s walk him to death," Mistress Barb suggested. I was game.

And that game consisted of us pausing for a water break out where there was no shade for our shadow. Since he was there to harass and "intimidate" us [rolling on the floor with laughter], it seemed only fitting that he pay the price for that offense.

Trudge; trudge; trudge our travail continued until 12:48PM upon whence we met up with Keith and we demanded a break.

The heat was getting to me (lack of sleep, and the countryside around the area all conspired against my nasal passage to beat me senseless with an allergy), and pictures of iced tea danced before my eyes.

We split up and headed for our cars. Our shadow dogged us to the last centimeter. To ease his troubled, parboiled mind, I told him we were leaving for the day--- his demeanor brightened; I told him we would be back on Saturday--- his demeanor darkened. He had no way of knowing I was lying, but then he cannot even tell Hubbard’s blatantly apparent lies for the lies they are.

THESE BOOTS WERE MADE FOR STOMPIN’.

We drove to Ida’s house for lunch. My shoulder muscles were in a knot from hoisting the picket sign (note to Keith: BALSA WOOD!).

"Lay down, dog!" Mistress Barb commanded me. I did so. "On your face, worm!" she commanded again. I obeyed without question; without hesitation. She then jumped on me.

"Ooof!" I said.

"Silence, pond scum!" Mistress Barb demanded, as she stepped all over me. Stomp here; stomp there; hop, skip, jump elsewhere. I felt so unworthy of being stepped on by her; undeserving of her divine feet pressing hard upon my worthless, penitent body.

After I was properly humiliated, Mistress Barb jumped off me and we went to the lunch table. My back and shoulder muscles felt brand new: not a kink, not a knot, not a NOTs 34, nary a curl, twist, or bend.

LETTERS HOME.

The crime syndicate had Ida’s son and grandson send two very odd e-mails to her. To say these were "freaky" would be a gross understatement. It was as if a mad scientist had reanimated Joseph Goebbels’s corpse just so it could write two more pieces of propaganda. The intent of the e-mail was to convince her to eject Keith from her abode.

The propaganda called Keith a "full-time hater," which made one and all break out in roaring laughter. We tried out variations on the theme.

"I’m a part-time hater myself" someone said.

"I only hate when I’m on vacation" said another.

"I’m scheduled to hate on alternate Tuesdays and Thursdays" said someone else.

The e-mail was as silly and absurd as the "Dead Squirrel"

shore story. One might almost come to think that just one person was writing the crime syndicate’s propaganda / Public Relations bullcrap.

I THINK I’LL WING IT.

Chicken wings for lunch. I was rather looking forward to Soylent Gold on a stick, but the larder was not stocked with such. The salad was great; the bread and cheese was stupefying and throttled my brain with thoughts of relaxation, ease-taking, rest, and digestion. The ice cream put an exclamation point to that insolent necessitation.

"Let’s be off for more picketing!" Keith suggested. Well, ah, okay. Maybe a step or two, though all I wanted was a bath and a nap.

With a fond good-bye to Ida, we were off yet again. I did a few convoluted, meandering, perplexing, complicated turns around various streets to "lose our tail" as I put it (i.e., I got lost). Barb said she had the "power to cloud men’s minds," but only The Shadow Knows which answer is the correct one.

We got to "Gold Base" and parked near Ashlee’s memorial.

That is, right in front of a crime syndicate camera.

Parenthetical element: any bets that the crime syndicate takes down the license plate numbers and records the faces of those who stop there to give the dead girl’s memory their best wishes? Any bets they add those people to their long list of "enemies?"

We did a brief protest, just one circuit up and down the road. Long enough to have the same two shadows come out and dog our heels--- only this time Mister Lobster had a hat on! I imagine he had an emergency auditing session after we left to determine the reason why he was suffering so much under the sun; the e-meter pointed to the place on the dial that read "Put on a damn hat, you stupid shit!"

See, the "tech" DOES work!

TELL THAT TO THE IRS.

Keith went to his car: Barb and I strolled off to our ground transport vehicle, sickly and beet-red shadow trailing behind. (This guy was not a clam: he was a lobster, fully cooked.) As we dumped the picket signs into the enturbmobile, I again reminded our shadow that we would be back on Saturday. He, in a sudden fit of magnanimity, good will, and friendship, said that he was paid US$800 a day just to walk behind us, and he thanked us for the work. Since Barb and I have contracted for 10 pickets at US$1,000 each, we could only laugh at his lower pay. I’m sure he is quite pleased he did not have to say his usual "Want fries with that?" question to customers for the two days he was "employed" at "Gold Base."

We left in a car, not a huff. I for one was glad to be done with it. I did not want to be there; I do not want to go back--- picketing and protesting sucks. Keith seems determined to picket, regardless of his own personal safety, and my talk with him did not dissuade him. I had little hope that it would have, but I gave it a shot.

On the drive back to San Diego, all of Hemet’s great fields of pollen ganged up on me and did so smite my eyes and nose that a plague of toads falling from the sky would have been less a distraction from driving. I take this as clear unequivocal proof that Oat Tea Powerz exist and were concentrated upon my crashing us into a cement pillar.

Barb seemed placid and cool in the face of this almost certain death. Fortunately, we made it to San Diego without mishap.

--- "I want to dance." --- Lisa McPherson, 18 Nov 95 http://holysmoke.org/lm/lm.htm
"Soylent Gold is wogs!" --- barb
http://www.taxexemptchildabuse.net

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