Archive for January, 2013


I am not so sure any children were really killed…

Short Little Rebel

UPDATE to this story:

It’s very difficult for me to write this update because what has happened to this article is rather unbelievable.  But it has happened to one other article I have written as well (Who Is Rupert Murdoch & Who Controls the News?).   That article had all its images, charts and photos of the owners removed- luckily I found a computer copy and reinstated it.    This articlehas also been changed dramatically since I originally wrote it in 2012.  The original article had a blow by blow analysis of all the events that unfolded on the day Adam Lanza allegedly shot children at Sandy Hook Elementary School- from when it was first reported in the news until the official Sandy Hook Police report was released months afterward.  (please note that this ‘new’ version of my alleged story fails to even address the official Sandy…

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Randy McCall Story #3- “I Saw The Lord!”

I was sitting on the front porch of Crab’s house (the McCall home) on Christopher Ave. It was a summer afternoon. As was my usual, I had a 16 oz can of Colt 45 Malt Liquor in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. I was preparing to make my living by selling drugs. I worked as a roofer when I could. I also worked for a local contractor named Walt Winter when I could. But he always seemed to take on some very hard jobs involving very intensive labor. Anyway, I can’t remember my life situation at this particular time. More than likely, I was living in Slick McCall’s broken-down American-made station wagon that was sitting in the driveway about 15 feet from where I was currently sitting. My father threw me out of his house without warning when I was 18 years-old. This was a few months later. Someone was on the porch with me…I just don’t recall…

The afternoon was a typical Hamilton summer afternoon: People were outside in their front yards, working in their gardens, or working on their cars…children were playing hopscotch or other children’s games. Not much was happening. School was out for the summer. Occasionally, an administrator would exit the school and get in their car to go home for the evening. Every few minutes a car would turn onto Christopher Ave., and pass between us and the schoolyard, on its way to Harford Rd. I was always hoping the driver would pull over and request an $10 or $20 bag of weed…that’s how I made my living, after all. But this was a particularly slow day.

I sold mostly weed. Back then, 2-toned Mexican was desirable. I didn’t know what “kind bud” was. Basically, except for some Thai Stick that was actually high-grade pot tied to sticks that came around once, I never saw any real good stuff. I had heard rumors of Panama Red, Alcapoco Gold, or Red and/or Green Columbian, all my life. But I hadn’t actually seen much “special” weed. Anyhow, I used to get a quarter-pound of the aforementioned 2-toned Mexican marijuana for $45. That would break down into 8-10 $10 bags. It seemed like the right thing to do back then. I never really gave it much thought. I also sold hashish and flakes, as well. Fortunately, cocaine and heroin weren’t very popular at that time. If they had been, I probably would have crashed-and-burned along with most of the folks who messed with that stuff did.

Suddenly, the front door screen door swung open…all the way. And in a blur, I saw Randy McCall running out of the house…passing within a foot of me…I think I actually felt a breeze when he passed by me. Before I knew it, Randy was in the center of the schoolyard with his pants down around his ankles yelling at the top of his voice,” I saw the Lord! I saw the Lord!” It was like, all of a sudden, everything stopped. All the neighbors were incredulous. Some were urging their children to run into their houses. Some were frozen I even saw a mother placing her hands over her children’s eyes, pick them up, and carry them inside. It was somewhat surrealistic. Randy was smiling.

Let me explain about Randy…and flakes: A few days before this incident, he had decided to join the rest of us (almost all of us, it seemed, were selling something) in selling some drugs. A good friend had trusted him enough to front him an ounce of greens. Now, I think the only reason Randy made this decision (to sell drugs) was due to the fact that they were VERY GOOD! He probably thought he couldn’t lose. For those who don’t know (or remember), “flakes” refers to parsley flakes treated with the chemical PCP. Now, PCP was originally used as an animal tranquilizer. It was primarily for treating horses during procedures, etc., and other very large animals, I suppose. Evidently, it could send a 2000 pound animal to La-La Land almost instantly. So, it’s not difficult to imagine what it could do to a 140 lb. teenager (or less). However, the circumstances surrounding this incident are extraordinary.

An ounce of good quality flakes break down into just about 7 “cans” of good flakes. You see, a “can” refers to a 35mm film canister. Normally, flakes of this quality would be cut by the dealer with plain parsley flakes to produce 10 – 15 cans of mediocre flakes per ounce. But Randy was honest and fair and did not stomp on them at all. However, as I mentioned before, Randy began to get high on his own supply. I’m sure, he had every intention of selling at least 5 cans…to repay his debt for the ounce he borrowed. And, back then a can of flakes sold for $25. And an ounce cost $125. Well, you can do the math. This is the thing that makes this case extraordinary: 1 can of good flakes could get 4-5 teenagers so high that they may very well wander around in a telephone booth for 4 or 6 or 8 hours, thinking they are at the pearly gates of heaven…and really believe it, too! So, I have a very difficult time trying to imagine where Randy’s head was as he finished the 7th can all by himself!

I mean, Randy was a wild child to begin with. He came from wild stock (on his father’s side, of course). His family and mine were somewhat similar. In fact, his dad and mine knew one another and ran in the same circles. I had three brothers, but didn’t have any sisters. Randy had 3 brothers. Plus he also had 2 sisters. And both of our fathers were prone to drink and get mean. Randy’s dad like to teach him and his brothers how to fight at these times. Mine just liked to terrorize the hell out of us…take away our spirit and crush our souls. But that’s another story.

The point, I guess, is that Randy went crazy. I believed that he believed he “saw the Lord.” But the neighbors, especially the ones with small children, were not as sympathetic as I was. But just as suddenly as Randy had burst through the door, Crab and Weasel came bursting through the same door. But they were carrying an extension cord and were on a mission. Within seconds they wrapped Randy up in that extension cord and carried him, resisting as he was, like a wriggling rug up the front steps right past me, just like clockwork. For some reason, I was not particularly disturbed by any of these events. Perhaps it was the flakes I had been consuming the past few days. After all, I had done some rolling around the laundry room visiting those pearly gates myself just days before (more than likely, that is). So this was not out of the norm. The feelings and concerns of the neighbors did not give me pause, at all. I had a pretty good chuckle about it. Got another tall boy from my lunchbox and lit another Kool.

It was just about that time that many police cars came from all the cardinal directions right towards me. Then dozens of cops were suddenly interested in what I had just seen. I took another drag off my Kool and assured them all that I had been sitting there for at least 30 minutes, but that I had not seen anything unusual at all. They pressed me. But I reiterated the fact that I had no idea what they were talking about. The lead cop told me they had received so many phone calls in such a short time that it broke some sort of record for the Baltimore City Police Department. I explained that his records didn’t interest me in the least. His face turned many shades of red and purple. But I wasn’t phased. Then they proceeded to knock on the door to inquire. Randy’s brother and friend appeared just as mystified by their suggestions that something indecent had occurred.

Crab, or Clayton McCall invited them into the house to look around, which they most assuredly did with great interest and haste. But nothing was found to indicate the validity of the neighbors’ tales. With no proof, and just the neighbors exciting stories…and I suppose, my affirmation that no such event had occurred, the police really had no choice but to abandon their investigation and leave. Back then I had no love or respect for the men-in-blue…which were typically referred to as “pigs” by every friend I had. What they actually did with Randy, I was never quite fully made aware. I believe I was told they had wrapped him up in a rug, and stuffed into a dark recess in the basement until the coast was clear…

Ravenhurst Story With Johnny Kirtz

I can remember the time Ravenhurst was digging in the dirt in the back yard of 2829 Beechland Ave. with a metal beach shovel. Johnny Kirtz came to the back fence (at “Dog Alley”) and asked if my younger brother Phil was home. Rave said, ”It’s none of your business!” I guess he was about 7 or 8 years old at the time. Johnny was older…about 12. Well, Johnny said he didn’t like the way Rave had talked to him, since he was much older. And he threatened to come over the fence and kick Rave’s behind. Now, I was right there with Rave. So I can only assume Johnny was kidding around with Rave. I certainly wouldn’t have sat by and watched Johnny Kirtz kick my baby brother’s ass for no good reason.

Then, Johnny asked Ravenhurst (it was Eugene, back then) just what he planned to do about it if he did climb over the fence with the intention of kicking his ass. And Rave said, “I’ll throw this shovel at you and break out your teeth!”  Of course, Johnny said, “Oh, yeah!” and proceeded to climb over the fence… Ravenhurst took aim with that shovel (he was a good 15-20 feet away) and sailed that thing in his direction. Well…and I can still see this when I close my eyes…that shovel hit him square in the teeth and broke one of his front teeth right in half. It was broken on a near-perfect 45-degree angle as clean as you please! I saw Johnny Kirtz 25 years later and he still had that broken tooth!  As best I can remember, he never even got mad at Ravenhurst. I guess it was because he told him he was going to do it. And he did, too. I miss my baby brother!

Here’s a Jimmy Holthaus story:

In the summer of 1977, or thereabouts, Jimmy Holthaus used to drive from his parents’ house on Arizona Ave. to Big Dan Golombowski’s house in a classic Dodge Roadrunner. It was, I think, around a 1970-ish bright orange “muscle car.” Well, I don’t remember exactly how I did it, or why…but I ended up straddling the beast up on the roof of his car on Roselawn Ave. I think what took place was, I expressed to him my strong desire to go for a ride in his way-cool car, (notice I said “in” it, and not “on” it). But he must’ve told me that if I was going to go for a ride with him on that particular day, it would have to be on top of the roof…not on the inside. I accepted his not-so-generous offer.

It was summertime in Hamilton, Baltimore, Maryland in 1977. Before me was one of the coolest cars ever produced by Mopar…the Roadrunner. I wanted so much to go for a cruise in it. But as I stated above, the invitation was only good for the roof. I proceeded to “gingerly” slither up to the roof. In those days, I weighed about 175 lbs. You see, the previous year I had spent about 8 months in Flintstone, MD in a Maryland institution called, “Boys’ Forestry Camp #1. Having gotten in all sorts of trouble with the law, I owed a debt to “society,” whatever that means. I suppose if my parents had had the money, and were willing to pay my “debt,” they could have substituted cash money for 8 months of my life. Anyway, back to the Roadrunner…

I believe we had to wait for Big Dan to get into the car where Jimmy, Big Al Hasselbarth, Angelo Torrie, and a guy named John (I think), were squeezed in already. I didn’t mind the prospect of riding on top. And we hadn’t talked about how far we were going, either. I had nothing else pressing upon my schedule that particular day. Finally, Big Dan came swaggering out of his house and got into the car. He didn’t seem to think my lying face down and spread-eagled on the roof of Jim’s Roadrunner was all that unusual. We were heading west on Roselawn Ave., starting near the top of the 2800 block (in front of Dan’s house), and proceeded down the hill towards the Triangle. Now, the Triangle in not called that on maps or Google Maps. It was a nickname given to a 3-way intersection at the meeting of Roselawn, White, and Hamlet Avenues. It didn’t take long for me to realize I hadn’t thought this idea through very thoroughly…

It didn’t take too long to learn first-hand why they called them muscle cars. By the time we had traveled 3 houses down the street, we must’ve been doing 50 mph. Then something happened that I was not ready for…or hadn’t entered my mind…Jimmy slammed on the brakes! Apparently he thought it would be a good idea, or maybe just funny, if he could use the inertia of my moving body to propel me from the roof of his car…over the rather large hood (I think he was packin’ a 440 cubic inch monster under there) and into the street. Well, I was young. My reflexes were fast and my instincts were sharp. Also, I had a lot of surface area to hold on to. Since it was warm outside, all the windows were down. So I had a firm grip on the side edges of the roof with my fingers wrapped around to the under-side of the roof. Back then the cars were more substantial. I think this model Roadrunner had a small gutter running along the side edges of the roof…you know…so rainwater would not drip on your head when you had the door open, sitting sideways…and it was raining.

Although I had been quite satisfied with my ride thus far, the boys inside were not happy yet. I could’ve easily been persuaded to dismount the big orange beast with very little resistance. After all, I had not been informed of the driver’s intentions regarding his putting on a rodeo, with me starring as the lead bull rider! But Jim wasn’t done with me yet…round 2 was fast approaching. Once again, we were accelerating rapidly down Roselawn Avenue. But to my displeasure, they must’ve thought I had a little too much to hold onto. Because, around the time we reached 60 mph, I felt the windows on both sides of the car beginning to crush my fingers. Now I had a decision to make: do I leave my fingers in place letting my “friends” decide how hard to crank down on them and be relatively sure I wouldn’t be thrown onto the hot pavement for a “tuck’n’roll” scenario. Or do I withdraw my fingers from harm’s way, hoping I can still find enough to grip onto so as not to be thrown the next time the beast bucks…I chose the latter…

I don’t know exactly how fast I was flying…at least twice as fast as those 2 screwballs on the Titanic flew…at least…When we reached the Triangle, he slammed on the brakes again. I’d like to say I remember the car skidding xx number of feet. But, honestly, it took every bit of strength, concentration and faith at my command to NOT take off like one of those toy planes that comes with the big rubber band attached to the little stick! I think if he had just gotten that car going a couple miles per hour faster, I’d have spent some time in the hospital that summer. All I had to hold on to was that little half-inch tall gutter. My knuckles weren’t white. The only bodily members engaged in this gargantuan effort were the tips of my thumbs and the first 2 fingers on both hands.

I am certain that we decelerated faster this time than we did the first time. Not only because going much faster would be the logical thing to expect from a teenager. But, even more indicative, is the way my cigarettes and lighter (that were in my front shirt pocket) shot straight out and flew about 20 feet. Well, they didn’t even become dislodged during the first attempt to throw me. When the car finally came to rest…and my measly digits withstood the incredible forces involved…all I could think about was, “I better get my cigarettes before they get run over…” And that’s what I did. I kinda needed one by that time, anyway. There were no conversations… no harsh words. What had just occurred was understood by all parties concerned for just what it was…a stupid stunt that turned out alright for all involved. I’m pretty sure they were all going to meet Dan’s “guy” for something green. Meanwhile, I walked up that long sloping hill that was (and still is) Roselawn Ave., waited at Dan’s house for them to get back, and the rest is, as they say…history.

The End

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