Good or Bad for the Jews

"Good or Bad for the Jews"

Many years ago, and for many years, I would travel to Morocco to visit uncles, cousins, and my paternal grandmother. Some lived in Tangiers;...

Tuesday, May 13, 2014


I am trying to put together a detailed and hopefully interesting account of a huge fraud investigation in which I was involved while overseas. It's a story that's hard to tell as it has many moving parts, lots of people, and all taking place in many countries over a considerable span of time. It's a story I wish I had written a few years ago when it was all fresh in  my mind. It's also a story with some legal implications so I have to be very careful about what I say.

It is a story, however, that would make a great HBO miniseries. Any producers out there?

I will be commenting on other things, but my postings might be a bit more eratic than normal while I try to write this without letting it become some Russian novel.


  1. Go ahead, let it become a Russian novel. I for one can hardly wait--even though I know the wait need be substantial. You have a gift for writing, and a well of writer's capital.

    Russian novels are great in themselves; they also make great miniseries.

  2. I'm with a6z: if it's good, long is better. :-)

  3. Trying to get Hollywood attention for a TV series? Hmmm. Might be better as one of those "Reality" games. What the heck, the contestants could hardly do worse than the teenagers in the White House.

    Green Bear

  4. Hmm, a Russian novel? Sounds good, take your time. Just don't confuse erratic with erotic. However, Omar Sharif and Julie Christie are no longer available.

  5. I can help with style and editing (pro bono in advance of sales).Ex.

    There was no hint of the violence of the past 5 years in the brilliant blue of the sky as I accepted my ticket for the Holyhead ferry from Maeve the ticket-girl. She was pretty in that elfish way so common with girls from the west coast of Ireland. Galway I decided from her accent and just a few years younger than me. She was bright and chirpy, a bit like the shoals of spring birds scading across the sky. Birds, the eternal prognosticators of Irish events. Portenders of freedom, or, is it flight. I can never remember. I was tempted to try my charm on Maeve but then thought better of it as I had serious things on my mind. Anyway there was a queue forming behind me and while I wasn’t in any particular hurry, most of those waiting seemed to be, judging by their faces. It was warm for this time of year, but it was mitigated a little by the diesel infused breeze blowing off the Irish Sea in Dun Laoghaire. I scanned around to imprint on my memory what was likely to be my last view of Ireland’s rustic beauty for a long time. The country never seems to change, only the people. And for these people flocking to the ferry it seemed things were changing only for the worse. I could hear the steady rumble of the Irish sea as it fought its eternal struggle with the land and off in the distance I saw the Dublin to Belfast flyer hustling across the railroad trestle bridge. I’d taken that train a few times over the years. I’d not noticed it before but the whistle’s moan seemed lonely and painful.

    1. Love it! Very Joycean, well, except the sentences aren't 800 words long.

    2. Thank you. Me Ma daughter of a Republican father and member of the women of Irelands league Cumann na mBan a tould me I oughta be a journalist since I couldn't right prose and then promptly issued me to Joyce's related alma mater where I banged shoulders with the grandson of Eamon D. of the same name wot you properly spanked the other day and im sure them birds in play had some say in my life’s fallout in allegory relation to wattles laid on islands supplying solace to the wounded warrior of which is abundantly increasing on the side of right whilst the evil left revert funny thing is I ended up playing professional sports while traveling the world (OZ, Canada and the US) whilst remaining a wee bit scared about following my dreams pretentions to be a writer and thus falling into the hallowed halls of 800 word continuous confusion

      800 word idiocy aside, I’m still mates with Eamonn DeValera 111, despite being an avowed proponent of Michael Collins. Like Joyce I questioned all things Catholic in the most fanatically Catholic country on the planet. My grandfather‘s house hid travelling priests, destitute teachers and wounded soldiers from both sides over the centuries. There is stuff I’m familiar with would be of interest to historians. Ah them scudding birds, what memory you transport. My Catholic temperance funneled my belief in right and wrong, which is all one needs to separate right FROM wrong and see the world as it is which is much like you see it. I’m 1/64th Jewish and there are three countries I would spill blood for; Ireland, Israel and the United States of America I knew prior to September 11th, 2001. Max.

  6. 3:00 AM

    Beslan, a small market town in the autonomous region of North Ossetia in the Russian Federation was peaceful and quiet. The night was pitch black and the light cast from the few stars visible through the skeeting clouds wasn’t enough to illuminate the shadowy figures moving stealthily up Comintern Street in the middle of town. It had been easy to avoid the roadblocks around the town thanks to the map provided by a sympathetic Muslim Police sergeant. There were 30 of them and they were dressed in a mélange of ill-matching camouflage tunics. There were some women in the group. They were heavily armed with AK-47’s and hand grenades and each wore a bulky backpack stuffed with plastic explosives. Exposed skin was smeared with camouflage paint.

    As they approached the school buildings set between Comintern Street and a blind Alley that formed the southern border of the compound, they split into three columns. The group led by Psvloukin headed south to the alley and entered the school grounds through an unlocked gate. Once through they raced, one at a time towards the new gymnasium located in the centre of the quadrangle. The second group, under Vladimir Anatolievich Khodov, also known as the “Vulture” spaced themselves around the three sides of the compound away from the front entrance to deal with any unexpected visitors.

    Ruslan Tagirovich Khuchbarov, “The Colonel” led the remaining group through the front gates and approached the massive metal doors that permitted entrance to the administrative part of the school. The doors were locked but they didn’t pose much challenge to the lock-drill carried by one of the men. Once through the door the men spread out toward their pre-assigned targets. Two men armed with VSK-94 sniper rifles raced up the stairs to the roof of the gym where they established themselves at corners diagonally opposite each other. This disposition allowed them un-obscured vision of the entire surrounding area. The roof of the gym was the highest point for several hundred yards in all directions. The rifles were equipped with infrared telescopic sights and the snipers wore night-vision goggles. The Colonel glanced at his watch and urged his men to hurry. There was less than 3 hours till dawn and much remained to be done. The buildings had to be wired with explosives and each room to be searched for security guards. As the men spread out the Colonel unclipped his satellite ‘phone from his belt and speed-dialed. His call was answered by, his handler, Shamil Basayev, safely ensconced in a safe-house 50 miles away in the capital,Vladikavkaz. “Tell me” he said curtly. “Everybody is inside and we are proceeding with the explosives” responded the Colonel. “Good” grunted Basayev, “Call again when the wiring is finished”. The Colonel hung up.

    Two hours later the explosives were in place and the buildings had been declared clear. Wednesday, September first was the first day of the new school year and the school staff would start arriving soon to prepare for the influx of students and parents eager to register.

    The Colonel’s plan was to stay hidden until 10:00 am when the majority of students would be on the premises. He had sent the majority of his men to the roof of the gym where they wouldn’t be noticed and the rest were in a utility room off the gym. The room was locked from the inside.

    1. Now that's some outstanding word working! I bow in awe.

    2. Thank you James. Writing ain't easy. I marvel at the productivity of bloggers of the calibre of Daniel Greenfield and Mark Steyn and others and not least our estimable host Mad. Words are only words and in the right incubator can lead to action.

      Action is what is needed to turn the game though. I captained numerous sports teams and issued many instructions in the flow of the game and often was argued with producing deleterious results. Took me a bit but then I realized you gotta show ‘em how itz done. Blood and guts. And its blood and guts is required to rid America of the fraud in the White House.

      But what the heck; easy for me to say. Max.

    3. Daniel Greenfield is indeed a fine writer. He is able to think complete concepts and then let them flow in simple sentences through his keyboard. I marvel at it. I can do the first's the second part that I have trouble with. You are a word smith yourself I believe.