A famous sand story of WWII when a young women is waiting for her man–a Soldier–a story of our tragic and heroic past which must be never forgotten.

This performance was presented on “Ukraine’s got talent” show by Kseniya Simonova and brought her a win.

Kseniya Simonova is a sand artist from Ukraine. She lives in Crimea (South of Ukraine). Her great-grandfather was an officer in the USSR army and defended his Motherland from a horrible Nazi invasion. He was killed in 1943 and Kseniya decided to devote her semi-final performance on UGT to his heroism.

In the end of the story Kseniya writes in Russian a phrase which means “You are always nearby.”

Living near highly-populated and traffic-congested roads heighten women’s risk of suffering a sudden cardiac death, according to a study led by Harvard Medical School.

by Stephen Adkins

“It’s important for healthcare providers to recognize that environmental exposures may be under-appreciated risk factors for diseases such as sudden cardiac death and fatal coronary heart disease,” said Jaime E. Hart, study lead author and an instructor in medicine at Brigham and Women’s Hospital and Harvard Medical School. “On a population level, living near a major roadway was as important a risk factor as smoking, diet or obesity.”

According to the Environmental Protection Agency, nearly 35 million Americans lived within 300 meters (984 feet) of a major road in 2009.

For the study, the researchers examined data from 107,130 women (predominately white, average age of 60) who were part of the Nurses’ Health Study from 1986-2012.

The researchers found that among 523 cases of sudden cardiac death, living within 50 meters (164 feet) of a major road increased the risk of sudden cardiac death by 38 percent as compared to those living at least 500 meters (.3 miles) away.

Each 100 meters (328 feet) closer to roadways increased the risk of sudden cardiac death by 6 percent. Among 1,159 cases of fatal coronary heart disease, risk increased 24 percent.

“Regardless of where you live, adopting heart-healthy habits, such as maintaining a healthy weight, being physically active, eating nutritious foods, quitting smoking, and managing stress, can help decrease your risk of heart and blood vessel disease,” said Hart, who is also an instructor at the Harvard School of Public Health.

“Our next step is to try to determine what specific exposures, such as air pollution, are driving the association between heart disease and major roadway proximity.”

The finding is published in the American Heart Association journal Circulation.

(NOTE: Be advised–Eric has been afforded ample opportunity here, in the ‘reply’ exchanges, unlike most blogs, for rebuttal, but has, unsurprisingly,  primarily used it for blanket denials and gaslighting.  UPDATED @ article’s end)

Falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus

Great trombone player and respects music…but the law? Nor so much.

Shelton, WA — This reporter was present when a bench warrant was issued for Eric Valley, a local attorney, for failure to appear (as noted below) in Mason County District Court as required. Today (8-12-2018) Mr. Valley is one of the surviving two candidates (Valley and Steele) for Mason County District Court judge…there being only one such position for this important county office.

Eric Stephen Valley, defendant – Mason District Court – case #: 4Z0704742 – filed 7-7-14

Click>HERE<to view NY State Bar Disciplinary action against Eric S. Valley, et ux. (1988)

Click>HERE<for list of disciplinary actions & critical client reviews of Eric S. Valley, esq on AVVO.

Mr. Valley, who has a checkered past and long acted as a local attorney, both on the criminal docket as well as the civil. Unfortunately, due to his respected family’s long residence in Mason county, Valley undeservedly garners the benefit of strong name recognition from local voters…a local boy familiarity he expertly exploited in his primary campaign. Yet he not only has been embroiled in some serious litigation as either a defendant or a plaintiff (including an action seeking a protection order against Mr. Valley in the abstract below), but now has been sanctioned by the Washington State Bar (and previously the New York State bar) for professional misconduct. In 1988, Mr. Eric Valley resigned from the NY State bar for misconduct…conduct Mr. Valley attempts to trivialize, but was punished (in both NY & WA) by a public reprimand (or worse) from the respective State bars.

What doesn’t appear in these records is Mr. Valley’s history of substance/alcohol abuse and using his familiarity with local law enforcement to successfully urge at least one Mason county sheriff’s detective (Dean Byrd, now retired since 2013) to harass, bully, threaten, and intimidate this reporter (circa 2005) for having the temerity to serve Mr. Valley with a notice of default at his office on behalf of Marylou Bishop, the note holder for his deed of trust from the sale of her home to Eric Valley, an instrument whose terms he soon breached, putting Mary’s (a retired nurse) collateral and retirement at risk. Mason county was scheduled to foreclose on said home for want of property taxes Valley owed and hadn’t paid. Mary had to pay them out of her own pocket to avoid losing her most valuable asset.

Mr. Valley promptly filed for bankruptcy relief singling out Mary Lou Bishop as his creditor although the IRS also had an interest in Valley’s financial affairs for unpaid taxes. Singling out a creditor is considered abuse/misuse of the bankruptcy code. In his sworn declarations submitted to the bankruptcy court, Eric claimed his monthly gross income was ~$2,500.  He failed to declare his business or office expenses, an office he maintains on Railroad Ave. in Shelton to this day and appears to never have missed a payment on the lease (to Transamerica Title), unlike his obligation to Marylou Bishop, who could not find an area attorney to sue Eric for breach of contract BECAUSE (they indicated) HE WAS A LAWYER!

The most damning part of this incident arises from the fact Eric Valley attempted to suborn perjury from Marylou Bishop. She was desperate to have Eric resume payments to her for the house he was purchasing from her (and continues to live in to this day). He suggested to her that if she would write a letter attesting to the false assertion that he had never been late on a payment to her, he would use it to refinance the loan (which Mary was personally carrying) with a bank and pay her off for the remaining principle.  Had she done so, Eric would have succeeded in making Mary a co-conspirator to bank fraud! Mary was counseled to do NO such thing, and Eric’s bankruptcy petition followed shortly thereafter. Eric had also let the casualty and fire insurance for the home lapse, leaving Mary utterly exposed and unable to secure insurance to protect her interests. According to the owner, at the time, of Angle Insurance Agency, the industry considered Mary’s predicament a “moral hazard”.  A corrupt attorney’s moral failure had left Mary virtually without an effective remedy.

While on the phone with the Angle Insurance Agency’s owner (a woman who was very familiar with Eric’s parents) attempting to find an insurance policy to protect Mary, who should call but the devil himself. In accepting the call, Eric was patched into a 3-way call, but the insurance agency owner chose to remain silent. Eric sounded heavily inebriated and aggressively became belligerent and verbally abusive before the call was terminated. Rather than being sympathetic to the recipient of the abuse, she accused him of ‘planning’ it! How she squared this with serendipity wasn’t immediately apparent.

Soon thereafter (perhaps a week) Detective Dean Byrd (Eric’s drinking buddy at the time) called and proceeded to announce he was an inspector with the Mason County Sheriff (true) but initially refused to identify himself when asked to repeat who he was. He attempted to threaten and intimidate on Eric’s behalf, repeatedly asking just who had prepared the document (notice of default) Eric had been served with. (“Mr. Byrd, you know what?–I don’t have to answer that question…and I’m not going to!” was the response Byrd got before bidding him goodbye. Subsequent research revealed that no sheriff’s official or prosecuting attorney had authorized Byrd’s actions. It was entirely a ‘favor’ of intimidation for Eric, Byrd’s drinking buddy–a shakedown.

The obvious QUESTION arises:

IS THIS CORRUPT ATTORNEY, ERIC VALLEY, THE KIND OF JUDGE MASON COUNTY RESIDENTS WANT SITTING ON THE BENCH?

George Steele may not be adequately competent, but at least he hasn’t been sanctioned by the bar multiple times, had a petition for a protection order filed against him, subjected himself to the disabilities of drug and alcohol abuse, had a bench warrant issued against him for failure to appear, suborned perjury, and conspired with county law enforcement to abuse their authority in order to harass, bully, threaten, and intimidate. Neither has George Steele submitted suspicious bankruptcy declarations in an effort to vex and delay his lawful debt to a retired nurse dependent on the income from the sale of her home.

TORT for Vehicle Collision Damage & Eric’s Response:

17-2-00456-23

17-2-00456-23 17-2-00456-23 (1)

Court: Mason Co Superior Ct
Case Number: 13-2-00255-1 (Unlawful Harassment)
[Please read the court record documents below the index, added due to Eric’s repeated denial he was a defendant in this action, NOT merely appointed/hired counsel!]

Sub	Docket Date	Docket Code	Docket Description	Misc Info
–	04-24-2013	FILING FEE RECEIVED	Filing Fee Received
–	04-24-2013	CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION FORM	Confidential Information Form
1	04-24-2013	PET FOR OR OF PROTECTION-HARASSMENT	Pet For Or Of Protection-harassment
2	04-24-2013	TEMP ANTIHAR PROT ORD RESP UNDER 18 ACTION	Temp Antihar Prot Ord Resp Under 18 Protection Order Anti-harassment	05-08-2013MC
–	04-24-2013	EX-PARTE ACTION WITH ORDER COM0004	Ex-parte Action With Order Comm. Stephen T. Whitehouse
3	04-25-2013	RETURN OF SERVICE	Return Of Service
4	04-25-2013	RETURN OF SERVICE	Return Of Service
5	05-07-2013	RECUSAL OF JUDGE JDG0001	Recusal Of Judge Amber Finlay Judge Amber L. Finlay
6	05-07-2013	DECLARATION	Declaration Response By Eric Valley
6.1	05-07-2013	RESPONSE	Response To Show Cause
6.2	05-07-2013	RECUSAL OF JUDGE COM0005	Recusal Of Judge Comm. Robert D. Sauerlender
7	05-08-2013	ORDER OF DISMISSAL	Order Of Dismissal
8	05-08-2013	MOTION HEARING	Motion Hearing
9	05-09-2013	RECUSAL OF JUDGE COM0001	Recusal Of Comm Adamson Commissioner Richard Adamson

Eric Stephen Valley, esq, (360)426-4959 evalley@hctc.com
209 W. Railroad Ave.
Shelton, WA 98584

Scammers play sophisticated psychological tricks to fool their marks, says Colin Barras, and that means anyone can be vulnerable unless they know what to look for.

by Colin Barras

None of us likes being scammed, and David Modic is no different. But it’s not the fact that scammers try to trick us into handing over our money that bothers him – it’s the way they can rob people of something far more important: their hope.

Take the abuse of dating websites. “People go on dating sites in the hope of fulfilment, and they sometimes get scammed,” says Modic, who researches the psychology of internet fraud at the University of Cambridge. “And that makes me angry.”

It’s this personal passion that’s convinced Modic to study the psychology of scamming. He’s not alone: the field is thriving, and the information that researchers are uncovering is valuable to us all – from vulnerable singletons in search of love to the technology wizards in charge of the world’s online security.

Modic is particularly interested in what makes people vulnerable to scams. It’s tempting to imagine that only the foolish or poorly educated might fall victim – but even anecdotal evidence suggests this is not the case. Take Paul Frampton, an Oxbridge educated academic who was, until earlier this year, a professor of physics at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. In 2012 Frampton was given almost 5 years in prison for drug smuggling in Argentina, after falling victim to an online dating scam. And then there’s John Worley. As a psychotherapist, Worley arguably knows more than most of us about controlling life’s trajectory. But in 2005 he was put on trial for bank fraud and money laundering after becoming a victim of the notorious Nigerian email scam. This scam sees people contacted by someone claiming to be a Nigerian government official appealing for help moving large sums of money out of the country – who just requires a little money upfront to release the fortune. Worley was found guilty and sentenced to two years in prison.

Intelligence and experience offers no protection against scammers, says Modic. “If it did, then better educated people and older people would be less likely to fall for scams. And that is not supported by my research.”

So what does make someone vulnerable? To look for answers to that question, Modic and his colleagues have quizzed thousands of people, asking them first whether they think various scams are plausible – and whether they have fallen victim to them – before asking them to perform a personality test. The research has identified a number of characteristics that people who are victims of scams seem to share in common. Some of these traits – like a lack of self-control – we would probably recognise as dangerous. But others – a trust in authority, a desire to act in the same way as our friends, or a tendency to act in a consistent way – we might think of as good characteristics.

These may be new findings to psychologists, but they are not new to scammers. Modic points out, for instance, that some scammers gain a victim’s trust by pretending to share a mutual friend. In other situations the scammer might contact the victim under the guise of a figure of authority – a doctor or a lawyer – to appear more persuasive. There are also scams that initially involve no loss of money and which are designed to encourage a victim to behave in a certain way, so that later they are more likely to behave in the same way when their money is at stake.Some card game swindles use this strategy.

“I am surprised at the ingenuity of scammers who, perhaps subconsciously, have discovered such principles themselves without scientific studies,” says Frank Stajano, a security and privacy researcher at the University of Cambridge. “I can’t imagine individual scammers working it all out by themselves, so I wonder what kind of word-of-mouth network they use to learn the tricks of their trade?”

Hidden knowledge

The very fact that scammers clearly are aware of our psychological vulnerabilities – no matter how they gained that knowledge – suggests they can potentially teach us as much as their victims about confidence tricks. This is something Stajano has taken to heart in his research. He has worked with Paul Wilson, a close-up magician and security consultant to casinos, to explore exactly how scammers persuade their victims to hand over their personal belongings. Wilson is one of the writers and stars of BBC television show The Real Hustle, in which he and his team “scam” members of the public by recreating notorious confidence tricks (any money or valuables are later returned).

Wilson’s team has recreated hundreds of scams for the cameras, but Stajano – who quickly became a fan of the show – realised that the scammers repeatedly used one or more of the same seven persuasion principles. Three of these principles are similar to those Modic identified by talking to potential or actual scam victims. Scammers use the “time principle” to persuade us we need to act quickly before we can think rationally and exercise self-control. They also make use of the “deference to authority principle” and the “herd principle” – our tendency to act like our friends or those around us – to convince people that the scam is legitimate.

But scammers have at least four other tricks up their sleeves, says Stajano. They might distract us so we don’t recognise a scam – making use of physically attractive accomplices, for instance. They can use our deepest desires to blind our reasoning – which is why online dating scams are so common. They can hook some victims by manipulating our innate dishonesty and making us act criminally ourselves – knowingly attempting to launder money as part of the Nigerian email scam, for instance. Finally, they can use the kindness of some well-meaning victims against them – scam emails begging for help and money are often sent out in the wake of a natural disaster.

Old tricks

What’s really fascinating, says Stajano, is that scammers have used these principles for centuries. For instance, the Nigerian email scam might seem the product of the digital age, but a version of it existed in 16th Century Europe.

There’s a good reason for that, he says: many of the vulnerabilities that scammers exploit are actually human strengths rather than weaknesses. He points to the work of psychologist Robert Cialdini at Arizona State University, who is famous for his work on the psychology of persuasion. “He’s explained that the authority principle, for example, is actually very helpful for surviving peacefully in human society,” says Stajano. “We shouldn’t see scam victims as stupid – they’re acting in a way that’s beneficial for our survival most of the time.”

The techniques used by card trick conmen are similar to scammers online

The seven persuasion principles might be as old as the hills, but Stajano says they are often ignored by security experts, who are as likely to blame security breaches on the people using their systems as they are to blame the scammers. “Too many security professionals think: users are such a pain – my system would be super-secure if only users behaved in the proper way,” he says. He is trying to persuade experts that they need to make security systems that work in harmony with – not despite – the way we behave.

Making those new systems won’t be easy, and Stajano believes the only solution is to encourage people to empathetically understand and anticipate human behaviour.

As an example of the problems security experts face, imagine you’re about to win an online auction for a mobile phone. You might reasonably expect to trust the seller, whose profile is brimming with positive feedback from other users. But Stajano points out that your trust in this case is really based on the herd principle: you can’t be sure that the seller is not in fact a scammer who has built up a positive reputation by trading with a handful of accomplices. Any of us might fall victim to this scam. In fact, even Modic has been tricked. “I bought a mobile phone from China that was not as it appeared online,” he says.

We may never be truly immune to confidence tricks. But perhaps ordinary users and system designers alike can protect ourselves to some degree by learning to think like a scammer.

Portland’s China Town is now a tense convergence zone between the dispossessed and the city’s business interests.

“When it’s uncomfortable, when it’s unpopular, even when it’s dangerous to speak the truth, is the precise time the truth should be spoken.” 

Portland, OR (9-20-14) — Portland’s University of Oregon Turnbull Center campus permitted @narchists attending the Cascade Media Convergence to H@rass a photojournalist attending to cover the event. The UoO has a journalism department as well as a school of law. The narrative reporting on the dereliction of duty and incompetence at the University along with pictures of some of the miscre@nts follows.

Rick’s Magical Mystery Bus was a no-show.

It all began with a Facebook invitation to Portland’s Cascade Media Convergence event from what turned out to be Olympia’s Works In Progress’ (WIP) Sylvia Smith–a woman who had edited the community based alternative newspaper for the past 24 years. It had steadily devolved from its inception during the heady days of Jesse Jackson’s Presidential bid through his ‘Rainbow Coalition’ to a screed for many malcontents and those sympathetic with violently r@dical elements in the State’s capitol city. Sylvia had asked Rick Fellows, the director of Oly’s Media Island (a 501(c)3 non-profit located across the street from the public library)  if he would provide transportation on a bus HE owned to those interested in attending. The bus was not rented or leased by anyone, including Sylvia or WIP. It was to be done on a cost share basis among those riding on it interested in attending the event. Figures vacillated between $10 and $25 with at least 10 on board to be viable. The exact time of departure was going to be announced, but it was said it would be leaving from the Media Island location. Some registered as interested online including yours truly.

WIP’s Sylvia Smith

Consternation must have reached apocalyptic proportions as Sylvia belatedly notified the reporter he was talented, well written, but persona non grata and too ‘black’ to even ride the bus let alone in the rear of it. A self appointed spokesperson for a community based alternative newspaper was telling an independent photojournalist he would not be permitted to ride in the company of fellow independent journalists on a privately owned bus that had not been rented/leased belonging to a friend (Rick) who has benefited from the generosity of the reporter in the past. Rick, incidentally, when asked, confided if the reporter paid his share of the fuel expenses for the trip, Rick wasn’t about to kick him off the bus, but expressed discomfort with the awkward position Sylvia has created for him. Sylvia also roundly discouraged this reporter from even attending the event itself–an event  neither she nor WIP were sponsoring or even attended (no, not one) in the end. Rick was last seen repairing his car and is not thought to have attended either. There were not enough people from Olympia interested in going to make taking the bus practical. Yet Sylvia had argued others who were going to be in attendance had taken exception to a photojournalist coming said to have a reputation of taking photos of his subjects at public events with/without their permission. Moreover, Sylvia asserted the reporter had a “gnarly reputation” at relating to others at such events ‘inappropriately’ and disrupting them. (Without fear nor favor?) There was NO substantiation of the same or any disruptions except at the hands of the miscre@nts because there was no truth to the assertion. Clearly, WIP had been hi-jacked by Sylvia’s chosen outl@ws and the paper had become a cheerleader rather than an editorial asset to the community.

Friday’s opening blast at the event was a social and dance held at Portland’s Musicians’ Union Hall–a party that could be skipped without missing what was anticipated as the centerpiece to the intrigue: The sheltering of @narchists conspiring against the state using its facilities and tax supported institutions to work out the details of their strategies to sow revolution and v@ndalism, pontificating about their ‘rights’ while relishing denying the rights of others. It would all have to wait until Saturday’s first workshop scheduled for 10:00 am.

Milit@nt Literature Tabled under the guise of a public ‘Cascade Media Convergence’ at a public university

Considerably late for the 1st after checking into a local hostel, the 2nd workshop was presented by a journalism faculty member at the University without a hitch. Lunch was to be a 45 minute pause. Portland’s Saturday Marketplace was only a block away under the Burnside Bridge. The Graffiti Workshop was scheduled in room 302. This was the one said to be attended by those who wanted nothing documented or pictures taken.

The organizers had demanded registration from the reporter upon his arrival and $ for the 2 days of workshops. Both were given. While getting oriented, he noticed many other photographers present taking pictures or filming in the various rooms where workshops were being held. Knowing photography is not a crime and the scope of 1st Amendment guarantees, the reporter was confident of the legal boundaries, but not his safety. He’d been set upon/mobbed & robbed by @narchists before such as at TESC’s Anarchist Convergence in Olympia, 2013. He’d brought witnesses for this occasion and the resolve to defend himself. One open carry advocate had offered to come. A surge of support had been voiced by civil rights advocates and those fond of a free press. One woman with a 7-year old daughter had offered to accompany him on the trip, but had been discouraged due to the fact that if a venue isn’t safe for a journalist, it isn’t safe for a 7-year old child.

Greg Lewis @ttended the Casc@de Medi@ Convergence

Sensei Lewis in a different venue

Upon leaving the elevator, the photographer was challenged by the young man with the big hands seen below. “Are you going to take pictures?” he was asked. “I’m not required to respond to you and don’t want to talk to you,” he replied, “You’re blocking my path.” He was in the public hallway leading to room 302 where the great graffiti grope was to be held. The br@t crowded him and repeated his question with the same rebuff as the photographer stepped back and the miscre@nt advanced with each step, with each warning to step away from him–to leave him alone or he would defend himself from the @ssault. The young man ignored the warnings while asking what the reporter was doing as he dialed the University for assistance. “None of your business,” he was told.

Eventually, virtually all of those there/arriving opted to mob the photographer while certain unannounced witnesses looked on and the confrontation was recorded until the totally incompetent inadequately trained security guard for the building arrived. Being about the same age as the other callow miscre@nts, possibly a student as well, the guard joined in the very same antics, trying to block/intimidate the photographer while the organizers offered the reporter’s registration fee back. It was declined. The University administrator (Mike) had, by that time, arrived and witnessed a tense physical standoff on the verge of escalating to a self-defense action where the @ggressors had been repeatedly warned to stop yet continued to advance on the retreating reporter. In the interest of safety and perceiving more responsiveness from the older man, Mike asked the reporter to leave the scene but accompany him to discuss it. The journalist acceded to the request but continued to be h@rried by the incredibly incompetent ill-trained security guard until the reporter warned him NOT to touch him. Seeing this excess, the administrator chimed in and ordered the guard to back off. Reaching the ground floor, witness in tow, a discussion ensued.

“You blew it,” opined the photographer, “My rights as a photojournalist in a public venue at a public event were clearly being violated and you sided with the miscre@nts!” “I’m not certain what the laws are regarding this situation,” plead Mike. Mike was the responsible University administrator for the facility that Saturday. “I don’t think it’s ‘public’, but I just don’t know,” he continued. “Well, it is,” pressed the reporter, “Why don’t you call some of the University lawyers or law instructors and find out?” “That’s not so easy on a weekend,” said Mike. “Geeze, you’re a public university, you have a law school and a department of journalism here,” scoffed the reporter. He began to go into a litany of legal precedents and examples to make his case. “I used to work for the Seattle Times,” announced Mike. “Good,” came the reply, “Then we won’t have to reiterate basics to journalism we both already know–stuff like reporting without fear nor favor or having to seek permission from the very subjects on whom you’re reporting. You are a government institution/facility and if I had to ask its permission to do what I do, a free press wouldn’t mean very much, now would it?” “I just don’t know for sure,” pleaded Mike, “Give me some time to consult to find the answers.” “I’m sure you’ll come up with the right ones after you do your homework,” the photojournalist reckoned, “I’m an expert in this area. How much time do you need?” The reporter was wearing his 6″ PRESS button and cynically anticipated Mike telling him it might be a few days. “Can you give me about 25 minutes,” came the reply. “Sure,” the man with the camera nodded, “We’re near the Saturday Market and riverfront park. I’m certain we can find something to do for that amount of time.”

It was still early afternoon. As they proceeded to leave the building, the reporter stopped by the desk where his security guard antagonist had positioned himself near the entrance. “Do you have a phone book?” he asked, “I’d like the phone number of The Oregonian.” The guard looked through it and gave him the correct phone number. “So, tell me,” he continued, “Why are you so ‘shy’ about having your picture taken?” “Why are you so insistent on taking them or adverse to being blocked?” sneered the guard. “Look! Let me fill you in on some stuff in which you should be professionally interested,” glared the reporter, “First, you are NOT a law enforcement officer. You have no arrest powers and unlike a sworn peace officer, neither I NOR YOU may ‘advance’ on a person. Only a police/law officer may do that in law. Nor may you touch me.” “I didn’t touch you,” he objected. “Yes, you did! Unlike a sworn peace officer, you do NOT have qualified immunity from a lawsuit holding you liable for your actions, even if they were in good faith,” he continued. The guard nodded in agreement.

The Oregonian was sympathetic, called the situation tragic, but as a mainstream outlet, didn’t appear inclined to follow up on the story. They may have placed a phone call to the university, who knows?

The weather was quite warm/sunny that afternoon, muggy even except for the welcome breeze that floated down the river valley near its waters. The streets and park were crowded. The huge expanse of grass was cluttered with the homeless and all their worldly possessions, even teacup poodles thrown together among shopping carts and whatever could hold them. Daytime was siesta time for them. Public bathrooms were scarce, but unlike Olympia, there were some including a hybrid that exposed the head and lower legs of the occupants to public view while shielding their torso and pelvis as they sat on the toilet set into the public sidewalk. Somewhat further away beyond the bevy of food carts was an army of fiberglass outhouses in formation beneath the Burnside Bridge. Its ranks were arranged so as to discourage any who might want to squeeze through to open one of the doors. Its flank was cordoned/fenced off, but careful reconnoitering allowed a maneuver that granted relief. Portland was a city with accommodations for the savvy and/or determined only. Still, they existed–in stark contrast to Seattle and Olympia. Portland is also a city wildly enthusiastic about bicycles. They’re everywhere in a bewildering array of configurations and styles. Portland is a city intensely 3-dimensional. It is dense, tall, highly engineered, and equally deep hidden below grade. It’s public transportation system with Max, buses, trolleys and tram is rivaled by none–dirt cheap to ride. In fact, the drivers downtown weren’t seen to be asking anyone for proof of their fare. Hostels run about $35/night in the Pearl/Nob Hill District. Quality eateries abound w/reasonably priced menus. Volunteers wandered the core area handing out free sandwiches to those who appeared needy. For civil engineers and students of architecture, it is an impressive work of art–full and robust with a glut of humanity among the shards of high rises, plethora of bridges, and riverfront hideaways.

Perhaps an hour had passed. A call to Mike yielded a request for about 15 minutes more. “It’ll take us about that long to walk there,” he was reassured, “That’ll be fine.” He was still talking upon our arrival, not in an office, but seated in an alcove of the lobby in the leased historic building. “I’m sorry. It took somewhat longer than I anticipated,” he apologized upon approaching us perhaps just within earshot of the security guard near the entryway. He paused, caught his breath, and candidly announced, “We agree with you!” Before a response could be had, he excused himself for a few moments more to complete some pressing business before returning. “It is true that this space is public and so is the event,” he declared, “It’s also true the university administers the space.” “You know, this isn’t exactly my first rodeo,” leveled the reporter, “I’ve become an expert in this area of law and am exquisitely familiar with the nuances, boundaries, and precedents. I was confident your conclusions would make more sense once you’d done your homework.” “Well,” Mike continued, “I spoke with some of the organizers as well as the security guard. They admitted other photographers were present. We clarified to them they were not permitted to discriminate against you, et ux, while allowing others taking photos/video.” That was precisely what had gone on, in fact, as many tripods and cameras were seen earlier at the event. “So, what do you want to do,” queried Mike. “Actually, I’d like to continue to cover all of the event, including tomorrow,” the reporter suggested. “OK,” Mike responded, “but there are some conditions.” “Such as?” asked the photographer. “I won’t be able to be here tomorrow, so if any dispute arises, the security guard will have to sort it out,” Mike clarified. “No!” the reporter balked, “He’s incompetent.” Mike remained silent in apparent agreement.  The guard had been monumentally incompetent and vacuous, the epitome of a clueless apparatchik, as willfully ignorant as the miscre@nts he’d sided with. “I’ll tell you what,” winked the journalist, “I’ll make you a counter-offer…an accord and satisfaction in legal parlance. It’s obvious that there will be no love lost between myself and the @narchists in any event. Here’s the deal I’ll accept….”

Unfortunately the story will have to be truncated here as the deal included a non-disclosure clause. But, if there’s feathers on the face of this reporter who looks like the cat that ate the canary, it’s because it was delicious. It’s an agreement that likely wouldn’t have been reached but for the suspicion Mike genuinely liked the reporter and his journalistic ethics/dedication to 1st Amendment principles, his love of this country and the precepts upon which it was founded, the inalienable rights of all the people, his courage in pursuing reporting without fear nor favor–in short, a truly independent journalist. The public is entitled to no less, the Constitution singles out only one profession by name for protection–the press! The University of Oregon stands 4-square for that proposition without fear nor favor.

Just another brick in the w@ll

Guardians of Tranquility stand guard next to homeless rest area

Tiff@ny glowers at photojournalist w/chutzpah to snap pictures at a public event held in a public venue–Portland’s public University of Oregon at 70 Couch Ave.

“Smiling faces I can see, but not for me…”

Gr@nd Poob@h?

Coconspir@tors bridle at being unm@sked/exposed

W@tching Us W@tching Them

@ggressive r@dicals @ssault/h@rass photojournalist at Portland’s University of Oregon during public media event

Timothy Allen Rice, organizer at the C@scade Media Convergence Gr@ffiti workshop held in Portland’s University of Oregon Turnbull Center on 70 Couch Ave. sponsored by BMedia.

3525 SE Schiller St, Portland, OR 97202

Timothy Allen Rice, 5′-10″, 33yo (now), 175#’s, swis id: 759907, eyes: blue, hair: brn, dob: 4-7-81, Cleveland High graduate, Occupy Portl@nd, self described atheist & libertarian soci@list

Tiffany w/comr@des & Tomas

Heil! Tim graduated from the U of OR in 2004 (Sociology) w/a BS degree, of course. He’s chairman of the board for The Portland Alliance; Cleveland High (Portland) 1999 graduate.

Yet another @ttendee at the gr@ffiti workshop

Something’s H@ppening here–Bew@re!

‘Ibrahim’ Muhammad Mubarak’s Fellowship & Compassion

Prop@ganda for the Young

CLICK BELOW for Audio of Registration & Payment for Cascade Media Convergence at Portland’s University of Oregon Turnbull Center facility:

CLICK BELOW for Audio of @ssault and the University of Oregon’s dereliction of duty by failing to protect and defend the photojournalist’s civil rights as well as the public’s:

It’d been too damn hot, even for God who was on Sabbatical. The crimson beat of the Cinnabar and orange pirouette of the Monarch in the verdant dawn had been flattened, not by the heat, but by the thundering wash of rotary blades scattering the morning mist across the valley floor. The acrid smell of blackened firs hung heavy as the lords of the forest spiraled over the great cloud of smokey ash desperately searching for their lost aeries.

There’d been mischief afoot aplenty as convoys of firefighters, aerial bombers, and rotary dragon flies with their loads of water raced to meet it. The emerald filled with smoke and despair as Haven Lake fell headlong into the  unyielding inferno. Newly formed, the Olympic mountains were cloaked in thick elegant rain forests couched among chimneys fashioned by ancient rock faces and narrow canyons. Parched, the landscape beckoned and the Devil heard her name. Satan had entered and found the Landlord absent. Paradise was, if not for sale, at least for rent.

Though records said otherwise, he knew his spiritual birthplace through dreams and visions long before fate allowed him to enter. He’d traveled these mountains, crossed its streams and valleys through the rain, sometimes the snow. He’d stood naked in the rain unafraid beneath the stars and the full moon, marveling at the darkness and the cool wetness on his skin. He had slept on the deep moss covered maple tree stretched over the adjacent river with his young son in his arms. He’d gathered wood to lay against the coming winter, gathered berries and fruit from abandoned apple trees, butchered roadkill to nourish his young. Though alarmingly indigent, this was the promised land, a poor man’s paradise he knew from ancient ancestral coding hardwired into the fiber of his being. He would never forsake it. Many came seeking, but few were chosen. He was among the lucky few. His sacred mountain respite came complete with a waterfall, island, and bittersweet memories where he’d been happy if only for awhile. Ferns provided hygiene. A ram pump laughed at utility bills. The pasture fed his goats who provided milk, yogurt, cheese, and kefir in turn. Once a month he ventured down into the outside world for supplies. He could afford no less, but no more. Yet happiness did not shield him from loneliness. He’d been warned not to partake of this particular self indulgence, yet could not rest while it did abide within him. As luck would have it, the Devil was in the details.

Came the day, one year in early summer, he met a beautiful serpentine lady. He’d read of the Sirens of old. He knew of the tree of good and evil. He’d been warned of the forbidden fruit. Yet he tarried. He admired her art, her craft, her body, her mouth, her face, her eyes…especially her eyes–and her voice when she began to speak. He might have escaped, but for her seizing the moment and her singing. “What did you say your name was again?” he queried. “Luci,” she twinkled, “but I like to go by Perfidia.” “Mine’s Amicus,” he rejoined, “you are astonishingly talented and beautiful.” “Do tell,” she sparkled. “What do you do with all this?” he gestured, pointing at all the wood and partially assembled boxes around her. “Oh, I’m a collector,” she hinted, “I commune with nature in collaboration with volunteers. Do you love nature?” “Oh, yes,” he confided, “though my own Heaven has no angels such as yourself.” “Really?” she mused, “I struggle so hard without a partner. People do not understand me, they fail to appreciate my situation. I’m very poor. For this I’ve been banned from the Garden.” She eyed him carefully, then went for the jugular–“You look like God,” she exclaimed, “just like He’s portrayed on the Sistine Chapel ceiling! And your hair, your hair is so soft–so silky,” she purred as she ran her fingers through it. His heart fell out of his chest and fibrillated wildly on the floor. Besotted, he invited her to share Paradise. He’d pay the damage deposit, he offered.

Gabriel had accompanied God and taken her trumpet with her. Michael, the archangel, had left her post to get a pizza. Thus, the gates to Paradise were left open and undefended upon Perfidia’s arrival. She was still in her prime, but he was in the autumn of his years and knew it only too well. “You are a fantastic lover,” she told him the night of that first day while Michael was away. “Will you grown tired of me?” he fretted. “Not if you continue to be this good,” she assured him, “but would you mind not questioning me right now while my underwear is about my ankles? It makes me feel terribly vulnerable.”

It was a smoldering romance too hot not to cool down. And as it died, Paradise began to burn. Perfidia had once complained of too little attention, of too little time spent, of wanting more–always more. Yet, even from the outset, she did not want to be seen in his company as knowing him, or at least knowing him too well. The Devil may wear Prada, but Perfidia preferred the invisibility cloak of discretion and…collecting. The latter must have been time consuming as soon enough she was heard to say she abhorred the idea of him gobbling up every available moment, of investing too much time. And there was no such thing as constructive criticism, she said. A new soul was on her horizon, almost within her grasp, and most of her attention focused there. “I give it about 6 months or less,” he thought, “people go back to what they know. If it ain’t broken, why fix it?” Indeed, Perfidia wasn’t about to fix a thing. She wasn’t about to hear any criticism either. She’d said, “When you feel like you’ve had enough, you’ll just walk away.” “You ask me if this heart of mine will ever grow tired of you,” he quietly sang to himself. But in the end, it was she who walked away and always had, for she knew it. It was her nature.

“Never give a sucker an even break.” -P. T. Barnum- had said. The ancient Greeks were convinced that when the gods want to punish us, they grant our wishes. Upon Michael’s return, finding Paradise burning, she asked him, “What have you done?” “I partook of the forbidden fruit,” he sobbed. “Why? You were warned,” Michael persisted. “A serpent beguiled me. She beckoned me to eat, saying the fruit was good. I was lonely. God never gave me a woman who truly loved me for who I am,” he cried. “Fear not,” Michael glowered, “God is merciful. But, you know, nothing will ever be the same!” Somehow, he doubted the former, but not the latter.

When he calls, Perfidia is no longer home. Paradise yet burns, God is still on holiday, and the man told he resembled Him awaits his fate and eventual banishment from Eden. Being poor sucks. But then he knew that. So did Perfidia when she made it her opening move.