The people who would like to run things had thier way with downtown on Saturday.

This is outside the USBank Stadium.

"Read Assata." Nah. Read her bio, maybe:

Assata Olugbala Shakur (born JoAnne Deborah Byron; July 16, 1947, sometimes referred to by her married surname Chesimard) is a former member of the Black Liberation Army (BLA), who was convicted of being an accomplice in the first-degree murder of State Trooper Werner Foerster during a shootout on the New Jersey Turnpike in 1973.

A true heroine, in other words.

As long as we're drawing up proscription lists, don't forget the Jews:

For such intellectually robust people, they only have about three words.

An ordinary Sunday afternoon: trying to remove the paint from a newly renovated building.

He was the only person I saw working on the blight.

Your piquant juxtaposition of the year:

That sentiment was common. Comrads, let not your spirit slacken! It is not enough to kill a few! Strive to fufill the plan!

Lovely marble, once.

This is the Federal Building. I'm sure they want a replay of Portland, and lure in the KKK Gestapo, don't you know. They may not have sufficient numbers.

They sprayed the windows and the plaza and the statuary, and no one stopped them, because the cops are either busy or have been told to let them have their fun - we wouldn't want any peaceful protestors to get justice-system-involved - or, the cops don't want the optics of arresting someone who's doing nothing more than spray-painting a building. Is it worth putting someone in a squad car for that? Fascists.

You care more about a building than someone's life? say the people who are manifestly incapable of holding more than one idea simultaneously in their heads.

The plaza has a series of whimsical statues, with round 20s-style cartoony characters enjoying the area, looking at the things they've built.

They're now looking at Fuck 12. If they turned around . . .

I'm sure these are meant to be taken metaphorically.

Over at the Armory, recently restored and shined up at considerable expense:

. . . they wrote their thoughtful manifestos on the newly-polished stone.

The pink cursive is a nice touch. Someone had a good teacher. Somoene else can't spell "burn," if that's what it is. Could it be "ban"? No:

If you're wondering "what do these people want," there you go: Empty the prisons, and kill policemen.

I post this not because it's unusual; it isn't. I post it because I'll show you next week if it's all still there.

That is, whether removing the sentiments would be regarded as a provocation.




Remember, he can't be invisible, and he's fighting a guy who can be invisible. TOTALLY the Shadow here.


To get you up to speed:


We all know - every one of us, without exception - that the Shadow did not get bisected by a train. There’s never any question that the hero escapes the cliffhanger. The ingenuity lies in how he does it, and while I hesitate to use that word in the context of serials, some of them do display imagination.

So far we’ve seen the Shadow buried and burned, and in each case he just shakes it off. What do you think will happen this time?

What type of train was it?

Ah, the sequel to Ozzie’s Crazy Train.

Usually we go to the Lair, but this time it’s Lamont’s lab. He’s talking to one of the Plutocrats whose business interests are threatened, and he’s bitching about “Weston,” the chief of police. He’s not doing enough! You know, those cops don’t make much money.

Listen carefully.

He’s got the same tonalities as the Black Tiger. Of course we’re supposed to think this and suspect him now.

Back to the Lair for a meeting of the Gang of Utter Failures at Shadow Killing, where the Black Tiger . . . orders the abduction of Cranston and the guy we thought for a moment might be the Tiger.

So they wasted that.

The crooks stage an accident . . .

Because hey this is a good way to bring the guys back alive. They take one industrialist but leave Cranston, figuring he’s dead - and this provides the serial with one of the few impressive moments that borders on iconic, to use the dreaded word.

Somehow he knows the industrialist has been taken to the Sanitarium, and enlists Margo to assist so she can issue her trademark scream, no doubt.

Cranson goes undercover as . . . a telephone repairman.

It seems the director of the sanitarium might not be on the up-and-up.

He's got one of those Bllllllack Tiiiger communication stations.

He suspects the “new nurse” he just hired, who called herself Margo, is in reality Margo Lane. Cleverness abounds.
Now what?

THE SPECIAL ROOM! Gas, or walls that come together?

(boring hallway fight snipped)

And so:

DEATH RAY! Slow moving, beginning seven feet away to give everyone time to figure out how to survive!

That'll do. See you around.



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