Saturday, October 28, 2006

From Boog City Issue 24, April 2005

Fragments of a Shattered Hope
Brazil Makes War on Sohno Real Squatters
by Brad Will
The first time I ever squatted was almost an accident. I was living in Boulder, Colorado, and all of my crazy poet roomies fled the scene. I stayed and didn’t even have the phone number for the landlord.
I came to the LES looking for trouble and I landed, broke and confused, on my friends. They took me in at the 5th Street squat, urban camping with water from the hydrant, bucket flush toilets, and unpredictable electricity. Eventually the city came with a wrecking crane, and I almost got knocked down with the building. The city didn’t care that I was still inside trying to stop the horror.
I floated to different squats in the ’hood for years and fought the good fight for housing, and I dug in deep and locked down in the community garden struggle. They stole my heart, those old tenements, and the simple captured plots of green free space. Pure direct action—you are not talking politics and yelling in the streets; you are doing it, making it real, and sharing it with the community.
Wanderlust eventually did me in. I reached South America as a media activist with contacts from IMCistas I met squatting at the Independent Media Center office in New York City. I visited MST (the landless workers movement) rural encampments in Brazil, and saw a whole different side to squatting.
I came to Goiânia, Brazil after I connected with some great IMC media activists in Porto Allegre at the world social forum. They told me of a squatter’s encampment called Sohno Real (real dream) in their city within the interior of the country. The court fight got them nowhere and they started to dig in. They surged on the abandoned land nine months before, after the owner of the land hadn’t paid taxes in over 30 years. A couple of months later it was election time and the governor promised them they could stay, and they started building for real. It was all talk.
The first day I arrived in the city, I was still dazed from hard travel and hit the camp just as night fell. There was a pattern of nightly harassment that was escalating. The night before the police had shot some rounds randomly to scare people guarding the barricades. The barricades were inspiring, layers of tires piled in a hermetic order locking into each other vertically, and some had moats with bamboo spikes and barbed wire. Near the barricades people were at the ready—
T-shirts for masks, some with slingshots and Molotov cocktails, but the norm was a nice big stick. Many of the warriors were in their teens and were excited, but they didn’t really seem to know what was in store. Others were battle-hardened soldiers from other occupations in the region. There were eight barricades, all of them guarded night and day. It got really dark without streetlights, and it was disorienting.
Two nights in a row the police came to attack after midnight. Tear gas crept up, concussion grenades exploded everywhere. Two nights in a row the barricade burst into flames and lit up the night and the community fought back, their silhouettes floating, blurring in pure black inside the inferno. Slingshots singing, fireworks spraying, a Molotov would miss its mark. The police brought it up with incendiary flares and rubber bullets. The second night they used real bullets—they have such a distinct sound as they whiz by your head. Inside the camp someone was screaming with a bullet wound clean through his bicep. A policeman was wounded. They vanished and the barricade kept burning for hours. No one knew if they would return in a few minutes or never.
We got no sleep. Daylight always came up strange and brilliant in the camp. So cruel was this beauty, the contrast at dawn—the sun smiling on the simple homes and the flowers opening their eyes, pineapple and banana trees, gathering water from the well, a black spot in the road where the tires had burned through. There was silence but for a few feet slowly making their way to work, to scrap through the trash for cardboard or bottles or cans. The women were off to market, or the kids on their way to school yawning.
Life pulsed on just like the neighborhood next door. Poor folks were trying to get by living, loving, arguing, cooking, and sharing. Some had settled in nicely, selling everything they owned to buy bricks and mortar. All of them were basically single-room dwellings with a simple garden outside with yucca, squash, or kudzu. Some were still camping in a shanty tent with a black plastic roof. There was a communal kitchen that fed those who needed it. There were all sorts of Christians, lots of Catholics, tons of believers, evangelicals of a different breed than the Bush voters back home. Everyone was so nice. I wasn’t greeted with suspicion but with a smile and a hand. You pass a small simple home and they ask you in for coffee. It was great kindness, generosity, and dignity, in spite of the poverty they faced. They had built a dream in the dust—a new people’s village, a giant squat, a community.
Night returned after rumors flying all day. They had a regular Bible revival rally with singing and little kids and a few politicians. It was beautiful, hands all raised in prayer for peace, for a new life. All the while the paranoia was creeping and chattering, gripping your teeth. No sleep again, the morning dead quiet. Then an announcement on a loudspeaker: 30 trucks on the road, full of military police. The governor had promised 2,500 police and they were on their way. People trickled to the main entrance, but there was no panic. Slowly the police closed the roads, slowly their buses filled the plaza, slowly they unloaded their human cargo. Inside people sang the national anthem of Brazil. A group of women formed a line to pray hard and loud. Soon a large group joined them with children and white flags. The night warriors were not to be seen. The police formed blocks and started to move in with black and green battle paint, bulletproof vests, shields, and helmets, ready for war. Everyone stood terrified, unsure what to do.
Suddenly we heard explosions behind our backs. There was gas inside the camp. The police were already inside shooting. Another explosion directly behind my back pushed my body forward and my ears started ringing. Everyone scattered in a panic. Military police with pistols drawn were right behind me, one of them kicking a woman. I ran, but there was nowhere to go. Shots whizzed past my head. I headed for the back yards and leaped through the yucca bushes where I saw an open door and a welcoming hand inviting me in. Everyone was affected by the gas and in a panic. A little baby was vomiting. A man of the house opened the door and I started filming, and twice got shot at by passing military police. They came screaming, but I could only understand bits and pieces. I was explaining I was a journalist from the U.S.A. The police, with their pistols pointed at my head, didn’t seem interested in my credentials. When they hit me it was first in the back of the head, then one threw me down, three or four kicked me, then one on top hard with his knee in my back. Then the plastic handcuffs like a vise. I got on my feet looking for my video camera. What the fuck happened? I stumbled dazed in the sun into a different group of police. One smacked me on the side of the head and almost sent me to the ground, except another was holding me up. Later I realized they were being gentle with me.
The police came marching out in formation singing songs celebrating their victory—”We will put a sword in your skull and drink your blood!” Twisted. I looked into some of their eyes and saw darkness, cold hard soulless steel. Soon I was in the mayhem at the police station. The pain started to settle in to the bone. There was a first aid area with puddles of blood starting to turn black at the edges. I saw people with stitches, broken arms, and bullet wounds in the head. They moved me along and after eight hours cut me loose. Over 800 were arrested and the bulldozers were busy all night. People said they saw bodies being dumped in the water wells and thrown into burning buildings. People were shot in the head while on their knees. No one knew how many were still missing.
All night there were military ambulances leaving the encampment. IMC volunteers were at the hospitals and these ambulances never arrived. People saw trucks full of dirt entering in the night and leaving still full of dirt and something else. A massive cover-up was underway. People working in the hospitals were afraid to talk with us. One later came forward in secrecy and told us there were 20 violent deaths reported at the morgue; on a normal day there are one or two. In the jail so-called leaders were being selectively pulled into special detention for interrogation. Children were looking for their parents. There were streams of refugees and no government plan for what to do with these people. They went to the Catholic cathedral to sleep and rallied in the morning. They gathered to write down the names of the disappeared. There was a mass funeral the next day. An undercover agent infiltrated and tried to arrest someone randomly, and got beaten down by the crowd until his buddy fired over everyone’s head. Only two official deaths were listed, but we may never know how many for real. People moved into two gyms across town for refugee housing. A young man looked me in the eye. “This is Brazil,” he said “it is not the north east and the beaches or Rio and Carnival—now you know the real Brazil.”
Back at the encampment they had their way with the houses. Scorched earth policy, every house was destroyed. A horse was tied to a post, waiting for someone who was not coming. Butterflies and strange birds flew in the sunflowers and corn left to blaze in the heat. Heaps of belongings and bricks and scrap wood lay everywhere. A dead vulture was at the bottom of a well. Sohno Real became a living land without shade, a new dump, fragments of a shattered hope.
Everyone I knew was shattered and paranoid. The history of the military police in this state is brutal. Nothing seems to have changed here in the interior since the end of the dictatorship. Everyone—the politicians, the media, university students, the middle class—talked about youths in the slums turning up dead after a tall tale from the police; about re-adjusting your car in the middle of the night and a few days later having an unexpected accident; about complete impunity, about midnight disappearances. Two people from the community who testified got late night calls threatening their life. Every phone had echoes and seemed tapped. The police were the muscle for the land-owning elite, which was clinging to a colonial power that had yet to vanish.
Everyone kept telling me I should leave town or go into hiding. I was lost but something was holding me there. There was an image I couldn’t get out of my mind—a thin woman curled up fetal and broken lying in a short pool of water at the bottom of a well. I was haunted.
I would visit the gyms where everyone was sprawled around with fragments of foam mattresses and bundles of clothes in plastic bags. Life was pushing forward. The bathrooms were packed and filthy. Lunch was the only meal and it was mayhem, people pushing and grabbing, little kids all confused and vanishing under a sea of desperate arms. Folks weren’t happy, spending most of the day sleeping just trying to make it through. These people were working hard to build a new home and suddenly they are piled up and waiting, some washing a few clothes and hanging them on the fence next door, some sitting in the shade waiting for news, the kids running wild and looking for mischief. A passing car hit one young child. I could feel the weight in everyone’s eyes. There is a stress that lingers deep and settles in, the unknown, the not forgetting, the clinging doubt, the silent fear, a held breath, the missing. They are all missing.
One warm day the community was on the march. Both gyms mobilized and they walked to the camp. They joined up en route and the joy was overflowing. It was a family reunion. They rallied at the entrance where the military police had invaded, together for the first time since the funeral. There was hope. There was a call to action for global solidarity put out on the internet and there were actions at the embassies and consulates in Amsterdam, Buenos Aires, New York City, Oslo, and Washington. The federal government stood up and took notice after people made trips to Brasilia, the capital, using my video as principle evidence. The parliament voted to federalize the investigation. One breath and it will fall into place. All the pieces are ready and they are waiting. All of them, the children, the warriors, pregnant mothers, the unsettled spirits, are waiting. On the one-month anniversary, the young people organized a simple theater of the eviction. They were learning to heal. Time skips a beat, pushing through, and the struggle continues. The dream never died.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

The Incredibly Strange Saga of Christopher X. Brodeur
By Brian Homa
The best things in life are free, and they’d better be; otherwise a city this expensive would have cleaned me out a long time ago. What could be better on an overcast April morning than going to court to support/laugh at your annoying/talented friend who just got sentenced to six months in jail just for running his mouth? Lots of things. Lots of things are better but very few things are as free.
So we arrive at 100 Centre St., wading through cases, waiting for the prosecutors to finally produce our boy, Christopher X. Brodeur. With me is the talented, non-annoying Jessica Delfino, Christopher’s girlfriend, who’s spent a lot more time here than I have, and far too much time for anyone who wasn’t paid to be here and/or isn’t insane.
How did we get here? Musician, illustrator, art star, and provocateur, Christopher X. Brodeur rocks. And if you don’t like it, he’s here to tell you where to put your mouth. Brodeur tells a lot of people where to put their mouths—journalists, businessmen, landlords, mayors, fellow artists, are all told frequently and in capital letters where they can go if they disagree with him. An angry opponent of the Giuliani and Bloomberg administrations, an irritant to those who can’t rock, and an inspiration to those who want to rock harder, he is an important man who may well be insane.
I had the great personal honor of being deeply and profoundly annoyed by Christopher on two separate occasions. The first came after I supported my friend Raven’s decision to overcharge Chris five dollars for admission to Braincell Genocide, a rock party I was throwing. Raven was producing the show, and had the right to charge people whatever he wanted. He wanted to fuck with Chris because of an old beef over a girl. Chris harangued me for roughly a month via the now-closed Girlbomb message board, calling me “ethically bankrupt,” while labeling Raven a Nazi.
The second time I was deeply and profoundly annoyed by Christopher lasted for about a month on the still-running message board, when he used it to pursue/perpetuate all his various feuds and vendettas at full volume. It kind of sucked the air out of things because you couldn’t talk about anything else. Finally site administrator Tom Tenney gave Chris his own annex, outside of which he wasn’t allowed to post anything. He whined about it for a little bit but soon it proved suitable for everyone.
These two instances I was annoyed pale in comparison though to how much I enjoyed the art. Touching You, his solo project, involved songs like “Kill a Newspaper Editor, Pt. 2” and “Humans are Shit.” Have you ever seen Haunted Pussy, the histrionic fear-metal band which featured Chris feeding back on guitar while two battered-looking female leads (Jessica and Mikey) ran around the room screaming about being raped by a ghost? They were AMAZING! They were freaks on a mission, and that mission was to FREAK YOUR SHIT. They didn’t care where they played, as long as they caused a commotion and bugged out everyone in the room. Their best show featured Michael Portnoy in a guest spot as Jesus, singing in atonal operatic faux-Aramaic while participating in the rape. Wozzeck with boobs … sort of. And it was always exciting to see his cartoons in NY Press, or to see his letters to the editor in scads of papers where he’d sign his name as a mix-up of two different people you knew (“You’re all a bunch of FASCISTS!” signed, Lach Berger).
As exhilarating as his mania was, there was always something kind of depressing and redundant about the language of his resistance. It’s like, “Blah blah Hitler, blah blah you’re a Nazi, blah blah” I get it. You’ve given me permission to stop listening. You want me to debate you, so that you can call me a Nazi five million more times? I’ll pass.
The question remains, does Chris deserve to be locked up? The answer is … maybe. He’s been convicted of harassing with threatening language a bunch of folks, including journalists and people from City Hall. While he’s never actually followed through on any of the threats, it’s hard to argue that his language wasn’t threatening. While haranguing The New York Observer’s Ben Smith over something or other, Chris reportedly said that *if* he shot Smith, he’d be a hero, “Just like Bernie Goetz.” (Chris is apparently friends with subway gunman Goetz.)
While on a quest to find out the annual salary of Bloomberg’s press secretary, Christopher reportedly told City Hall employee Ed Skyler, “If you lie to me, I should cut your throat.” If you hear this stuff and you know Chris, you’re probably just like, “Yeah, whatever. Your dick’s too small.” If you don’t know Chris, you probably think he’s coming to shoot you and cut your throat.
What is troubling to people who care about Chris and respect his talent, is his apparent desperate need to be locked up. Acting as his own attorney, insisting on a jury trial guaranteeing a two-year sentence if convicted, his behavior will not set him free. While waiting for him to show up at court, civil libertarian and celebrity attorney extraordinaire Ron Kuby, there to speak on Chris’ behalf, said, “Chris presents himself as a scary asshole. And judges don’t want to let scary assholes go, because they don’t want to make the cover of The Post for having freed the guy that killed somebody.”
Jessica protested and said, “But there was a woman called up just now, for aggravated assault, and she only got sentenced to six days!”
“Did she lecture the judge about Nazism?” Ron asked.
“Well... no...”
“Did she send the judge a letter, calling him an asshole?”
“No, but Chris didn’t do that either!” said Jessica.
“He did call the other tenant lady a ‘cunt,’” I said.
“Yeah, he did do that.”
Chris never showed up. Due to some administrative snafu the prosecution failed to produce him, and he spent the day in jail. A couple of days later Jessica told me that in his recent run for mayor of New York, with a campaign budget of about $120, Chris got 4 percent of the vote in the Democratic primary, roughly 17,000 votes. Mostly through letter-writing and phone calls, the campaign has scored Chris and Jessica, his campaign manager, boatloads of publicity. It has also exposed people like me to radical new ideas like, “What if the pay phones actually worked?” “What if the subways were free, just as the police department and fire department are free?” and “What prevents this from happening?”
Chris has never given any indication that he plans on ending his strange crusade (he does mention quitting politics and moving to Europe, but no one knows how much to believe him). No one knows if Jessica plans on switching channels from the Brodeur Show, but she has suggested it may happen (see Touching You’s Annex on, even though she has absolute respect for the drive that makes him behave as he does. It’s difficult to imagine how following someone so closely on such a self-destructive mission wouldn’t stretch someone past their breaking point. Kuby spoke to us when court was adjourned, and he said, “I get a very real sense that all of the supporting players in this little drama are getting tired of it.”
Chris has insinuated, via the message board, that if anyone steps to Jessica while he’s locked up he’ll cut their nuts off, but will he really? Is he *threatening* you?
While incarcerated, Brodeur was sneaked the following questions. These are his handwritten answers:
Q. Who should the Family kill next?
A. Like a cancerous tumor is removed—MUST be removed—Any and ALL families must kill all editors and journalists of mainstream media to save ALL little families. (If we clean up media, we automatically clean up government, because gov’t cannot commit any crime if media is honest and exposes it. Or, the family should kill ME to free me from this evil, evil world.
Q. Who is your least favorite Art Star?
A. This is a trick question, as, by my definition, “Art Star” means the top tier of downtown performers/weirdos (sic). I don’t think it means just ANYONE who gets onstage. Also, your question is unclear: some I may love artistically but hate personally. (Uh … Tom Tenney? Actually I like Tom most of the time. See?)
Q. Do you have any new boyfriends yet?
A. I have many “boyfriends” in here. They all hate the corrupt NYPD, D.A., Judiciary, and barbaric department of “corrections,” just like me. (And then we give out mutual foot rubs.)
Q. Any new tattoos?
A. Just one. It’s crude but effective: It reads “Eat This” on my buttocks with an arrow pointing to my chocolate vagina. It’s for when the government rapes me.
Q. Do you plan on singing in prison?
A. I already do. ex: I sing my new hit to Jessica Delfino, “I Dream of You Each Night (As I’m Being Raped in Jail).”
Q. Do you plan on using the word “nigger” in prison?
A. I already have. ex: I’m recruiting muscular black musicians to form a noise-metal “Monkees/’N Sync/Sex Pistols” fabricated group of anti-white-male imperialism called “SUPERNIGGER”.
Q. Did you fuck anyone up on your first day, just so that people knew that you were crazy and that they shouldn’t mess with you?
A. I got royally FUCKED (by the gov’t) to get in here, but I got mad respect when the inmates found out I fucked up Giuliani/Bloomberg (which put me in here). One guy literally interrupted me writing this to call me the White Moses, “Let my people go!” None of us are afraid of prisoners. We’re afraid of cops and the corrupt government who torture us daily, starve us, give us three hours of sleep a night, etc.
(Note: Brodeur was subsequently assaulted by a fellow prisoner)
Q. What are you going to do if/when you get out?
A. Record the dozens of songs I wrote in jail and then get out of Police State Central (NYC) ASAP! And kiss my girl. A lot.

Christopher X. Brodeur frequently takes issue with the articles on him on factual matters, so make sure to check out his annex on, in the event he wants to set the record straight.

Reports also make their way to Delfino’s

Brian Homa sings and plays guitar as Brer Brian, on his own and in the effervescent New York Howl.


(Christopher X. Brodeur wrote the following letter from jail in response to the above Brian Homa piece from Boog City 33.)

Dear Boog City:
Thanks for your story on my plight (I guess) but I hope you'll let me rebut many misleading bits in it. (And I was sad that it lets our super-corrupt government off the hook.)
1. I didn't "get sentenced to 6 months in jail for running my mouth." Nor for "threatening" anyone. This is what our govern-media wants people to think, ala "Bush invaded Iraq because of WMDs" & "Giuliani was the hero of 9/11." It is 2006 & yet most people STILL believe everything politicians and their cronies say?! (AARGH!) I was falseley arrested 3 times last year solely because it was Bloomberg's re-election year & he was at 30% in the polls & I was bashing him (metaphorically!) in each issue of NY Press. Even the dumbest casual observer can clearly see that...
ARREST 1 came five DAYS after I was on the cover of NY Press in a giant four page spread emasculating Bloomberg. (And my weekly cartoon "Idiot Patrol" even had a drawing of me being arrested for exposing Bloomberg's crimes in that same issue!)
ARREST 2 came a few DAYS after I made Bloomberg #1 in NY Press's 2nd most popular annual issue, '50 Most Loathsome New Yorkers'. I also made my super-crooked landlord, downtown developer Paul Stallings #22 and exposed just a few of his crimes. (Yet the DA & he argued that I "harassed" Stallings 3 years earlier & both got caught lying about why I wasn't arrested until I hurt Stallings public rep!)
ARREST 3 came a week before the election -- the same week I told Ben Smith (another Bloomberg shill)(who now praises govt for the Daily News!) I would be flooding the block outside his workplace with flyers exposing his crimes (such as plagiarism) protecting City Hall's crimes. A judge appointed by Bloomberg instantly broke the law and gave me 13 days in jail (before bail would even be discussed!) to keep me jailed until AFTER the election. (Funny...Bloomberg did a similar illegal tactic when he falsely jailed 1800 RNC protestors! Does Brian Homa think this is more uncanny coincidence?) They cheated "convictions" in the first 2 arrests & the third is pending.
I am sitting in jail for the exact reason Bush & OJ are NOT: our "legal" system is corrupt umpteen times over. ALL the judges I'm before are appointed by my opponents (Giuliani & Bloomberg) and this is illegal -- and all these judges are EX-prosecutors, too, favoring corrupt DAs in my cases -- illegally -- and just as my last "conviction" was unanimously ordered FALSE and ILLEGAL (after I sat in Rikers for 17 days) by the Appeals court judges (who do not owe their jobs to my enemies) I will be cleared again. (The problem is, that I will sit in jail for another NINE months before I'm cleared! AARGH!!!) Also, I would already be out of jail on Bail Pending Appeal but I am POOR, and if y'all don't know that Justice is for those who can afford it, then we are really in trouble as a society! The Supreme Court says I broke no laws ("could" and "should" don't equal threats they say) so Mr. Homa does a grave disservice to us all by letting his ignorance of facts or The Law cover up govt. scandal. (AARGH!) [Ask for more details]
2. Mr. Homa, likewise, gets superficial with his criticisms of my criticisms. I don't run around calling people Nazis, as that doesn't mean anything. (Any idiot can call people "Nazi".) What I do is -- in great detail -- expose scandals, crimes & sleazy behavior and then OFTEN show how that behavior is identical to Bush, Stalin & Hitler. Example: Giuliani smeared me on tv & radio as mentally ill, and also smeared the artists in the Brooklyn Museum "Sensation" show with the lazy insult. It is no coincidence that Chancellor Hitler [everyone loves to forget he was a "popular" politician] did precisely the same thing. Ditto Giuliani / Bush's avoidance of most public debates (Hitler's M.O.) and Giuliani/Bush's stealing tax money to pay off journalists & media (Hitler's M.O.) and fabricating threats to "national security" (Hitler's M.O.). Just as Europe learned nothing from World War I, (hence World War II's immediate follow up), the human race today continues to make the same stupid mistakes and I feel obligated to educate the Suckers Born Every Minute.
3. Lastly, (b/c I don't want to bore y'all to tears -- too late, I know) (jail has gutted my wit; sorry) [Riker's is NYC's Abu Ghraib!], I note that Mr. Homa quoted people like Ron Kuby, Who DO NOT KNOW 99% of the DETAILS OF MY CASES! (see: that children's game 'telephone'.) WHY you would get any info from people who don't know the facts is beyond me. It sounds like the NY Times' stories on WMDs which were secretly sourced by Hussein's ENEMY. (OUCH!) Mr. Homa is a fantastic artist. (But he's a questionable reporter.) (Double ouch!) Don't quit your night job, buddy. The fourth Reich is here, people. Wake the fuck up fast.
Christopher X. Brodeur
100 Innovations For NYC


A) Brer Brian Homa wrote "it's hard to argue that [CXB's] language wasn't threatening" which is only true if you know nothing about the English language and nothing about the First Amendment and case law. Saying "if" "Could" or "Should" hurt you is clearly not a threat. Everyday, people actually say, "I AM GONNA KILL YOU/kick your ass, blah blah" and are not arrested for threats b/c the Supreme Court has said even "I will kill you" (vs. I should kill you) isn't actually a credible threat unless you can prove it was realistic beyond a reasonable doubt. A week after I was arrested for "if you lie to me I should cut your throat", Bloomberg publicly said to NYC's public advocate (after she embarassed him in the media) "I could just shoot you." Nutjob Giuliani not only publicly proclaimed "The Board of Education should be blown up", (he was probably unaware of public buildings being blown up and targeted)(right?), when pressed, he said, "I'm not kidding." Neither was arrested, because most prosecutions are political -- not based on law & order. (NOTE: City Hall had gotten similar non-threatening messages from me for 12 years, so they can't claim they didn't know me.)
Mr. Homa should be mature enough to PUBLICLY apologize but I suspect he won't. (Should I mention Mandela got life in prison for being a "terrorist"?)
B) Mr. Homa says he (and others) always chicken out of debates with me b/c I'll just call them Nazi five million more times" but as 100% of humans can attest, the above paragraph proves this smear to be an Absolute Lie. Homa & all others refuse to publicly debate me b/c I can point by point disprove all their baloney and rhetoric. (EX: in 22 live radio arguments tween me & Rudy on WABC, I not once called Rudy a Nazi, yet he killed my line & chickened out 100% of the time.) (Probably a crazy coincidence.)
Again I'd like to see Homa PUBLICLY apologize (and prove me wrong b/c I doubt he will.)