Today's Stories

July 31 - August 2, 2009

Alexander Cockburn
The Biden and Clinton Mutinies

July 30, 2009

Patrick Cockburn
Victims of a Covert Tit-for-Tat War

Gareth Porter
Afghanistan's US-Backed Child-Raping Police

Saul Landau
Summer of Denial

Greg Grandin
Honduran Coup Over?

Ray Bourgeois / Margaret Knapke
School of Coups

Diane Farsetta
Pentagon Pundits Get a Pass

Stephen Soldz
The King Case, the APA and the Missing Ethics Investigation

Alan Farago
Learning How to Survive in a Depression From "Weeds"

David Macaray
Cops and Labor Unions

Mike Howells /
Jay Arena
Volunteerism Will Not Rebuild the Gulf Coast

Christopher Brauchli
Oatmeal Envy

Website of the Day
Changing the SOFA

July 29, 2009

Carl Ginsburg
Our Crisis, Their Gain

Clifton Ross
From Tegucigalpa to El Paraiso: a Voyage From Curfew to State of Siege

Paul Craig Roberts
How Fake is the "Recovery"?

Franklin C. Spinney
Winning Hearts and Minds, Pentagon Style

James Bovard Lackawanna Six: Bogus Charges and Martial Law

Anthony DiMaggio
Health Care, the Media and Public Opinion

Bouthaina Shaaban
How Will Arabs Wake Up?

Greg Moses
A Catch and Trade Policy for Labor Costs

Wajahat Ali
No Racism in Obama's Post-Race America?

Gary Leupp
Beer Will Not Solve This

Ayesha Ijaz Khan
Musharraf, Imran Khan and Overseas Pakistanis

Website of the Day
Why Single-Payer Gets No Respect

July 28, 2009

Jean Bricmont
Bombing for a Juster World?

Uri Avnery
Obama, Netanyahu and the Settlements

Dean Baker
Right to Rent: a Remedy for the Foreclosure Crisis

Heather Gray
Stupid Cop Tricks: Driving Too Close to a White Female and Other Episodes in Racist Policing

Jonathan Cook
Can an "Arab Soul" Yearn for Israel's Anthem?

Winslow T. Wheeler
Beyond the F-22: the Future of Pentagon Reform

Belén Fernández
Thomas Friedman Does Afghanistan

Carl Finamore
The Hotel Workers' Kickass Local 2

Eli Jelly-Schapiro
Striking the World Cup

Harvey Wasserman
We All Stand Before Peltier's Parole Board

Website of the Day
Behind the Wheel

July 27, 2009

Ishmael Reed
Gates: Post-Race Scholar Yells Racism

Patrick Cockburn
Elections Shake Kurdistan

Roger Burbach
Hillary and Obama Nix Change in Honduras

Steve Breyman
Bomber Joe and Russia: Why is Biden Channeling Cheney?

Ramzy Kysia
Gaza: On the Right of Resistance

Stephen Soldz
Will the American Psychological Association Renounce the Nuremberg Defense?

Raymond J. Lawrence
Sexual Hocus Pocus in the Episcopal Church

Greg Moses
The Color Line is Black

Binoy Kampmark
Swine Flu Panic

Kim Ives
Lavalas and Haiti's Student Union Unite

Website of the Day
Meet the Paid Assassins of Health Care

July 24-26, 2009

Alexander Cockburn
"A Damned Murder, Inc."

Clifton Ross
Surreal Honduras

Patrick Cockburn
Party of "Change" Challenges Old Guard in Kurdistan

William Polk
Report Card on Obama From a New Frontiersman

David Sterritt
Screening the Politics Out of the Iraq War

Ray McGovern
Hooded in Bush's Hood

David Lindorff
Cops Gone Wild

Hannah Mermelstein
"The War is With the Arabs"

Carl Ginsburg
The Actually Existing Health Care System

Helen Redmond
The Selling of Single-Payer Features

John Ross
The Song of the Guerrilla

Bill Simpich
Fair Play for Cuba and the Cuban Revolution

Mark Weisbrot
Learning From China on How to Beat the Recession

Lee Sustar
U.S. Labor in Crisis

David Macaray
Union Workers Forced to Accept Massive Cuts

Felipe Matsunaga
Obama's Slow (and Familiar) Dance With Cuba

Sara Mann
Why Health Care Will Kill My TV

Martha Rosenberg
Which is Worse? Germs in Our Food or the Antibiotics That Kill Them?

Missy Beattie
Cha-ching Culture

David Ker Thomson
Empty Nest: a Natural History of Now

Ron Jacobs
United4Iran, a Footnote

Stephen Martin
The Crying of Lots 1 Thru 50

David Yearsley
Psst, I Show You a Feelthy Gluck

Gilad Atzmon
Bruno: a Glimpse Into Zionism?

Kim Nicolini
Guilty Laughter in the Dark: Seeing Brüno Twice

Poets' Basement
Kakak and McLellan

Website of the Weekend
Dead Prez: Summertime

July 23, 2009

Jeffrey St. Clair
The Masters of Perfidy: AIG and the System

Saul Landau /
Nelson Valdés
Hypocrisy and the Honduran Coup: Term Limits Only Apply When Governments Help People

Jonathan Cook
The Reality of Israel's "Open" Jerusalem

Nadia Hijab
Israeli Warships in the Red Sea

Dave Lindorff
Living in a Police State: the Gates Incident

Laura Carlsen
21st Century Coups d'Etat

Steve Breyman
Bankers Beware?

Ellen Brown
How California Could Turn Its IOUs Into Dollars

Norman Solomon
Spinning Health Care

Jorge Mariscal
Youth Activists Demand Military-Free Schools

Website of the Day
Copy-Editing Sarah Palin

July 22, 2009

Bernard Chazelle
How to Argue Against Torture

Nikolas Kozloff
The Coup and the U.S. Airbase in Honduras

Carl Ginsburg
The Recovery, Phase Two

Clifton Ross
Back to the Future? Return to El Salvador

Anthony DiMaggio
Health Care, Media and the Case for Socialized Medicine

Michael Donnelly
The Whoppers Behind WOPR

Nadia Hijab
Memoirs of a Lost Arab World

Dedrick Muhammad
Structural Inequality: News Not Fit to Print?

Charles Thomson
Cronyism at the Tate

Alan Farago
Ted Williams and the Florida Keys

Website of the Day
Himmelstein: Howard Dean is a Liar

July 21, 2009

Sasan Fayazmanesh
The Iranian Election and Its Aftermath

Uri Avnery
Breaking the Silence on Israeli War Crimes

Dean Baker
Séance on Wall Street

Jonathan Cook
Team Twitter: Israel's Internet War

Dave Lindorff
Saving Private Bergdahl

Andy Worthington
Interrogating the Uighurs

David Macaray
Heat, Dust and OSHA

Carl Finamore
The Deferential Party

Harvey Wasserman
Cronkite and Three Mile Island

Walter Brasch
The Marie Antoinettes of Health Care

Website of the Day
Linebaugh: Magna Carta and the Commons

July 20, 2009

Pam Martens
Judicial Apartheid

Nikolas Kozloff
Honduras and the Big Stick: Obama's Bullish Behavoir in Latin America

Paul Craig Roberts
Threatening Iran

Deepak Tripathi
Obama's Policy on China and Iran

Ira Glunts
Netanyahu's Time Bomb: Building in the Vineyard of the Mufti

P. Sainath
Put Your Money Down, Boys

Binoy Kampmark
The Moon Landing and the Cold War

Stephen Fleischman
The First Anchorman

Norman Solomon
Cronkite and Vietnam: Beyond the Hype

Andy Worthington
Predictable Chaos as Gitmo Trials Resume

Ron Jacobs
Out of the Haze, Into the Darkness: Recalling 1979

Website of the Day
Why Publishing Can't be Saved (as it is)

July 17-19, 2009

Alexander Cockburn
"Watch What We Do, Not What We Say"

Nikolas Kozloff
Chiquita in Latin America: From Arbenz to Zelaya

Joanne Mariner
CIA Apples: Bad at the Top of the Tree

Joe Bageant
America's White Underclass

Jonathan Cook
Israeli Road Signs: Wiping Arabic Names Off the Map

Saul Landau
Why So Much Sympathy for Madoff's Dupes and So Little for the Poor?

John Ross
Jurassic Fallout in Mexico

Sue Sturgis
Senator Sessions, Race and Impartiality

Anita Sinha /
Daniel Farbman
The Ricci Case and the Myth of Special Treatment

Peter Morici
Obama's Donut Economics

Pervez Hoodbhoy
Whither Pakistan? A Five-Year Forecast

Ramzy Baroud
Gaza and the Language of Power

Greg Moses
The Real Demand Crisis

Kia Mistilis
The Niger Delta Crisis

Missy Beattie
The Placebo President

David Ker Thomson
How Not to See: Things to Tell Your Eyeballs

James G. Abourezk
Evil Spirits: the Booze Strip in Indian Country

Paul Richards
Why Does Jon Tester Want to Log Wild Montana?

Dave Lindorff
Dark Days for Working People (With Three Small Rays of Light)

Marc Levy
Just Like Hanoi Jane

Matt Siegfried
The Good War Goes Hot

Stephen Martin
Panopticon Blues

Ben Sonnenberg
Sembène's Faat Kiné

David Macaray
Casablanca: When Melodrama Trumped History

Charles R. Larson
A Pakistani, Victorian Novel Celebrating Women

David Yearsley
That's Women for You: Abbas Kiarostami's Così

Lorenzo Wolff
Death Rattle and Roll: the Sound From England's Gutters

Poets' Basement
Payne, Anderson and Williams

Website of the Weekend
Hitler Learns of Sarah Palin's Resignation

July 16, 2009

Paul Craig Roberts
What Economy?

Afshin Rattansi Iranian Planes and the Hidden Toll of Economic Sanctions

Gregory V. Button
The Search for Environmental Justice in Perry County, Alabama

Evan Knappenberger
Profile of a Deserter

Michelle Bollinger
Why is Leonard Peltier Still in Prison?

Russell Mokhiber
White House to ABC News: No Obama Single-Payer Doc

Belén Fernández
Iranian Penetration, Oh My!

Alice Walker
What is Torture Like? A Letter to Obama

Nicholas Dearden
Paying the Climate Debt: the G-8's Troubling Model

Albert Osueke
Sotomayor and the Identity Mountain

Website of the Day
Sotomayor for the Prosecution

July 15, 2009

Manuel Garcia, Jr.
The Assassination Bureau

Vijay Prashad
A Political Recession

Dean Baker
Stimulus Arithmetic

Ray McGovern
Cheney Sweating Bullets

Jonathan Cook
Jenin's Model of "Economic Peace"

David Rosen
Shouts From the Gallery: the Sotomayor Hearings and the Culture Wars

Eric Walberg
Uighurs vs. Afghans: a Study in Contrast

Greg Moses
Three Dimensions of a Complete Stimulus Plan

Sousan Hammad
Decolonizing Israel

Binoy Kampmark
The Trial of Charles Taylor

Tracy McLellan
The Story of My Arrest

Website of the Day
11 Days in Saudi Gitmo

July 14, 2009

Eamonn McCann
The Emperors of Bombast: Bono, U2 and the Crisis of World Capitalism

Joanne Mariner
Obama's New Euphemism

Franklin Spinney
The Taliban Rope-a-Dope

Steve Heilig
Walking Mount Tam: an Interview with Gary Snyder

Ali Abunimah
Hamas' Choice

Dave Lindorff
The End of "Nice" Health Care Reform

Nikolas Kozloff
The Politics of Destabilization: McCain and Honduras

Ellen Brown
From Golden State to Subprime State

Alice Slater
How US Missile Defense Plans Sabotaged Nuclear Disarmament Talks With Russia

Ron Jacobs
Protest U.S. Aggression

Joe Allen
The Fight to Save James Hickman in Jim Crow-Style Chicago

Website of the Day
Mel Brooks Does the French Revolution

July 13, 2009

Uri Avnery
The Essence of the Regime

Mike Whitney
The Deflating Economy

P. Sainath
How the World Depression Hits Orissa

Gareth Porter
A US / Iraq Conflict on Iran

Paul Moore
Rap in the Streets, Rap in the Suites

Tim Wise
Off the Deep End: Private Clubs, Public Prejudice

Andy Worthington Former Insider Shatters Credibility of Military Commissions

David Macaray
Cartoon Voices: Serf's Up in Hollywood

Cal Winslow
The Healthcare Worker War

Niranjan Ramakrishnan
Spring in the Time of Obama

Website of the Day
Washington's Deep Game with China

July 10-12, 2009

Alexander Cockburn
Obama's Biden Problem

José Pertierra
The Cuban Five: a Cold War Case in a Post-Cold War World

John Ross
After the Honduran Coup

Conn Hallinan
The Settlements and the Quartet

Nikolas Kozloff
C Street Band: Sex Scandals, Moral Hypocrisy and the Far Right Agenda in Latin America

Clifton Ross /
Marcy Rein
U.S. and Honduras: Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Good Neighbor

Carl Ginsburg
Summers' Clouded Crystal Ball

Michael Neumann
Say It Loud, Say It Proud: There is No God!

Gilad Atzmon
The Left and Islam: Thinking Outside of the Secular Box

Jeffrey St. Clair
The Parable of the Golden Parachute

Ellen Hodgson Brown
California Dreamin': How the State Can Beat Its Budget Woes

Jim Goodman
Rural America Needs More Than Listening Sessions

Christopher Bickerton
Europe's New Politics of Hard Times

Wendell Potter
Health Care Industry Adopts Tobacco Lobby's Tactics

Dave Lindorff
CIA Lies: Why Isn't Congress in Open Revolt?

David Ker Thomson
Switchbacking Toward Bastille Day

Anthony DiMaggio
The Michael Jackson Feeding Frenzy

Raymond Lawrence
Michael Jackson as Sexual Pervert: the Calumnies of Peter King

Walid El Houri
Neda and Marwa: a Tale of Two Murdered Women

Stephanie Westbrook
Yes, We Camp

Roger Gaess
The Shades of Highgate Cemetery

David Yearsley
Tara, America's Dream House

Kim Nicolini
Caution: Men at Work, Robbing Banks

Poets' Basement
Five Poems From the Japanese

Website of the Weekend
Free Tiga and Hugh!

Weekend Edition
July 31 - August 2, 2009

Thomas Pynchon's "Inherent Vice"

Onward, Into the Fog

By ALAN CABAL

Thomas Pynchon ate my head in 1974. I was 20 years old at the time. I spent that summer in Ocean City, NJ. I was living in my uncle’s house down there, four blocks from the beach. I took a minimum-wage job over in Somers Point at a Bradlee’s department store in a strip mall. Jobs like that were plentiful then, even for a 20 year-old hippie. They assigned me to the housewares department, which was pretty amusing given that I had no knowledge of anything more complicated than a frying pan or a spatula. I knew that forks were invented in Croatia. Hardly any customers ever came in. I don’t think it was me, but the few that did invariably asked me for some really arcane implement or another that I’d never heard of before, stuff like counter-clockwise cap snafflers and left-handed tuber fletchers. That summer I learned a lot about esoteric housewares, and rockets, and plastic, and a hideous eldritch entity known as I.G. Farben, “the Golden Octopus”, as it was known in its time.

I’d brought some acid in little gelatin pyramids and a quarter-pound of pot for the summer, knowing better than to try to score in Ocean City. It’s a small island. It’s a dry town, no booze. Technically it was illegal to serve booze in your home, but this was rarely and very selectively enforced, almost never in the summer. Frat boys spend a LOT of money. The drinking age was 18 back then.

I needed something fresh to read, so when I hit town I picked up the paperback edition of Gravity’s Rainbow, having no clue what it was about or how it would impact my already drug-soaked fractal labyrinth of a life. I still can’t recall the specific impulse that motivated me to buy it, as opposed to, say, some Philip K. Dick thing or more H.P. Lovecraft, some horror, my usual beach fare. Stephen King wasn’t really on the map yet. I read it every day at lunch, which I took in a pizza parlor across the parking lot from Bradlee’s. Two slices and a glass of milk, followed by a joint back by the dumpsters. I usually took it to the beach after work, where I’d smoke dope and read until it got too dark.

By the time I got to Slothrop’s encounter with Grigori the octopus, an incredibly deft simultaneous reference to Rasputin, the apocryphal Book Of Enoch (ever popular with the consumer occultnik crowd), the contemporary nickname for I.G. Farben, and Rudy Wurlitzer’s fantastic hippie novel Nog, I’d acquired a whole new wardrobe of OD fatigue pants and Hawaiian shirts, taken to crashing parties from Sea Isle City to Wildwood, and developed a penchant for quick hookups with Philly girls in the bushes outside the Anchorage (“Seven Beers For A Buck!”) in Somers Point. Back then if you couldn’t get laid at the Anchorage, you couldn’t get laid. This was the Golden Age of humanity, between the Pill and the Plague. I thought I was Pirate Prentice.

I finished the book shortly before Labor Day and knew that I had just experienced the most magnificent literary adventure of my life, not to mention a near-perfect blueprint of the Forbidden Wing of 20th century history, and a completely perfect summer of utterly joyous chaos and crazy irresponsible sex. Thus began my Pynchon fixation, and my delight in his every published work. As for the next 30 or so years, well, life imitates art, especially art you like.

Deeply into 2006 and the manifest horror of open fascism and every Pynchonian terror or boogeyman you can cite running shamelessly naked in the streets and the corridors of power, I escaped from Las Vegas in the middle of the night with my hide and very little else intact and landed in the heart of Silicon Valley. Going for the low-hanging fruit, I put in an application at Ikea, participated in a paid simulated two-week lunar excursion at NASA’s Ames Research Center, and started hustling my editor at High Times to get me some space and folding money to review Pynchon’s forthcoming super-epic-Cinerama monstrosity, Against The Day.

These negotiations were hilarious.

They’re in New York City saying, “Like, why should High Times run a review of Thomas Pynchon? None of our readers are going to read that.”

I’m on the other end of the phone, surrounded with flowers and birds and stoned, exploring the virtual Moon for six hours a day on Red Bull and nicotine gum looking for water, saying “You dedicated lots of space to William Burroughs. I loved him and I love his work, but he hated pot and potheads, really. Didn’t really respond well to psychedelics at all. Thomas Pynchon is to pot as William Burroughs was to heroin. Carl Sagan was a pothead. Not every pothead is a 16 year-old boy, no matter how hard we might try.”

This went round and round until I managed to wrangle 350 words out of them for $150. I pushed the due date all the way down to February so I could actually read the book. I figured with deadlines and all, given the release date of November 21, the severe lateness of the galley deliveries (deliberate?), and just the massive size and sheer density of the thing that very few of the critics would actually read it. I wanted to make the most of my 350 words.

Meanwhile, after a series of prolonged interviewing and personality testing, Ikea offered me a start date on a job selling rugs for $10 an hour. I had to take a piss test. I failed on the THC thing. I went round on them about fobbing it off onto the lab to tell me I couldn’t work at Ikea, insisted I was no sort of beatnik hippie pothead, I wanted something in writing from the old match seller’s enterprise itself, something I might honestly and on a relatively level playing field contest, but they were adamantine and resolute in their refusal to provide any documentation whatsoever of their whimsical cancellation of my hire date.

I called the offices of the legal firm that sort of owns High Times, suggesting a class action suit based on the presumptive nature of drug testing. They dismissed the idea out of hand, saying “Where’s the class in this class action suit?” I responded that given that every federal, state, county, and city job hire involves a drug test, as well as far too many private enterprises, a half-page ad in High Times itself might gather a class. They laughed.

I was exploring the lunar surface using some sort of exotic skid-steerer (like a Bobcat or a tank) in search of seismic beacons that had been left behind by a previous exploratory team that had found water but mysteriously vanished shortly thereafter. The beacons formed a trail to the reservoir. There were plenty of distractions. Against The Day was the biggest and the best distraction. Pynchon had finally topped Gravity’s Rainbow. I did a deep web search on Dr. Norbert Kraft, the director of my simulated lunar excursion. He’s a Pynchon character, for sure. He does good work, it pertains to our human situation here. It’s about teamwork.

What I did get to say in my scant 350 words was that Pynchon is the last and greatest voice of the Beats, despite his absence from the direct clique we have been trained to identify as “Beats.” It’s jazz: you either get it or you don’t. That was enough. I also indicated as clearly as I could under such constraints that Against The Day was the most beautiful work of literature I had ever experienced. It is.

His latest, Inherent Vice, is the most accessible novel he has written. Weighing in at a mere 369 pages, it can be read easily over the course of a weekend and involves no complex mathematical formulae or hypotheses. Set mainly in Los Angeles in 1970 with the Manson Family trials looming in the background, the book is a wild romp through the paranoid landscape of post-‘60s America. It’s very cinematic, the narrative doesn’t pose any particular challenge to the average reader and it would make a great movie with, say, Terry Gilliam or Oliver Stone directing. My first take on it was “Holy Shit! Pynchon has written a Tim Dorsey novel!”, and that isn’t too far from the truth. But Inherent Vice is much more than that.

It might be the herald of a whole new genre: psychedelic noir. Kinky Friedman and the aforementioned Tim Dorsey have both skimmed the waters here, but neither of them has produced anything as thoroughly soaked in dope as this thing, and Pynchon’s well-known talent for depicting the vast Manichean world of unseen forces bidding for dominion over souls it at its clearest and sharpest here. His ability to shift effortlessly from slapstick comedy to profound and lyrical longing is his territory exclusively. No one else does this, and I’m not sure that anyone else can. Here’s an excerpt of noir prose that is completely worthy of Chandler or Hammett:

“Sunrise was on the way, the bars were just closed or closing, out in front of Wavos everybody was either at the tables along the sidewalk, sleeping with their heads on Health Waffles or in bowls of vegetarian chili, or being sick in the street, causing small-motorcycle traffic to skid in the vomit and so forth. It was late winter in Gordita, though for sure not the usual weather. You heard people muttering to the effect that last summer the beach didn’t have summer till August, and now there probably wouldn’t be any winter till spring. Santa Anas had been blowing all the smog out of downtown L.A., funneling between the Hollywood and Puente Hills on westward through Gordita Beach and out to sea, and this had been going on for what seemed like weeks now. Offshore winds had been too strong to be doing the surf much good, but surfers found themselves getting up early anyway to watch the dawn weirdness, which seemed like a visible counterpart to the feeling in everybody’s skin of desert winds and heat and relentlessness, with the exhaust from millions of motor vehicles mixing with microfine Mojave sand to refract the light toward the bloody end of the spectrum, everything dim, lurid and biblical, sailor-take-warning skies. The state liquor stamps over the tops of tequila bottles were coming unstuck, is how dry the air was. Liquor store owners could be filling those bottles with anything anymore. Jets were taking off the wrong way from the airport, the engine sounds were not passing across the sky where they should have, so everybody’s dreams got disarranged, when people could get to sleep at all. In the little apartment complexes the wind entered narrowing to whistle through the stairwells and ramps and catwalks, and the leaves of the palm trees outside rattled together with a liquid sound, so that from inside, in the darkened rooms, in louvered light, it sounded like a rainstorm, the wind raging in the concrete geometry, the palms beating together like the rush of a tropical downpour, enough to get you to open the door and look outside, and of course there’d only be the same hot cloudless depth of day, no rain in sight.”

The protagonist here is Doc Sportello, a hippie PI who is coming up on 30 and smokes pot like a rasta. His ex-girlfriend reappears after a long absence seeking his help in securing the well-being of a billionaire real estate developer she’s been having an affair with, whose wife may be hatching a kidnap plot or worse to get her hands on the loot. Sportello takes the job, and thereon hangs the tale.

The cast of characters includes Nazoid ex-cons and bikers, one with a serious fixation on Ethel Merman, surfers and surf musicians (including a zombie surf band), bent cops, heroin smugglers, black militants and FBI agents, COINTELPRO informants and provocateurs, Vegas mobsters, a reanimated dead junkie, sinister dentists, an LSD guru whose main squeeze is fixated on the lost continent of Lemuria (which may or may not be resurfacing off the coast of L.A.), and a mysterious ship called The Golden Fang, the most demented and enigmatic plot device in the book.

Pynchon’s knowledge of surf music is encyclopedic, he very nearly pounds us with it here, and I was delighted to see that he shares my fondness for the Bonzo Dog Band, one of the truly great under-appreciated acts of the period. His depiction of the creeping menace of corporate fascism encroaching upon the various avatars of freedom at play in the book speaks of personal experience.

It’s a hugely comic novel that ends on a wistful, tragic note lost in the fog, out on the freeway, the procession of the preterite, not sure where they’re going, not sure where they are. It’s a love letter to the Sixties, a wake, an elegy to doomed aspirations and thwarted idealism, but it speaks to our present condition directly and clearly, with an open heart. Nobody does it better.

Inherent Vice
Thomas Pynchon
Penguin Press
369 Pages
ISBN 978-1-59420-224-7
$27.95

Alan Cabal lives in Mountain View, California. He can be reached  at al_cabal@yahoo.com

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