Frack Immaculata!

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Frack Immaculata! 2011. Acrylic on oak panel, 48 x 24″

[Senator Throop would see oil and fracking industry lobbyists only if he could serve them hot urine beverages and hors d’oeuvres of body grease cheese from only God knows where. I wrote the following essay for an anti-fracking exhibition I gave in Syracuse in April, 2015. If she had her druthers, Senator Ritchie (48th NY district) would free up fracking and therefore toluene ingestion to every toddler in New York State.]

Frack Immaculata!

I am taking art to the level it was meant to be. Presently I am documenting our last battle.
I am one man, one artist insane, crazy enough to place the entire hydro-fracking debate onto my shoulders. I have taken up a position, and now will give the only argument morally acceptable. I shall schlop onto canvas, paper, and hardboard the property rapists of my country in all the colors of their inside organs and respective juices. After viewing my show, all pro-fracking dreams will blow out of the state quicker than the greedy butt-crack stampede from Texas that brought them here.
I shall not take up a scientific argument on the process. Hydraulic fracturing of the Marcellus Shale has the potential of poisoning the groundwater for hundreds of thousands of people for many generations. A man need only hear this news once to react. Just using the logic of foraging black bears would measure some intelligent questions to follow. Who is to profit from these drilling ventures? Is it true that there are cases where tap water out west can be ignited from a faucet? What are the chemicals used in the process? Why doesn’t the industry have to disclose them publicly? Pushing millions of gallons of freshwater laced with up to a hundred chemicals (known and unknown) into the rock bed under high pressure to release mass quantities of methane just doesn’t sound that safe, does it? I mean, even to a moron, or an alcoholic, or wife beater. So why does the Governor of New York State allow this kind of Texas oilman trespass upon his constituents? True, the silent-majority of Americans are mostly short-sighted and selfish, always ready with an opinion on either side of the death debate.
Farmer Ted: “A hundred grand a lease? That’s powerful money. I don’t want government telling me who not to poison. Where do I sign?”

Governor Andrew: “Eight million to my super-fund? Screw New York infants!”
I am working on a painting to shame the governor out of his fine Italian suit. I have the bones of his grandmother, Immaculata, in a red dress, being shot from her Long Island grave by a geyser of liquid carcinogens. Some shore birds and other funny creatures are hanging out in the cemetery on a moonlit night. Words across the sky might read: Hey Governor, We Sure Hope That Immaculata Isn’t Fracked Out of the Very Ground You Saturate With Poison. We’ll see what kind of reaction I get from our state boss. I will put on a price tag of six thousand dollars. Maybe he will buy it to destroy it. Half of the proceeds will pay my tax to the Onondaga. The other half will go toward a bigger painting of shame until the Governor uses his overpaid trooper gang to escort Texas oil the hell off our land.
Laissez-faire capitalism was a grand party for the chosen few during the 19th century. And it ran like a top beside the presence of cholera and death-by-childbirth. Such frequent miseries kept all survival joys in check. A slave workforce made anyone not a slave much too busy to oversee the rich neighbor’s trespass. And the water was always dirty poop, for science had not yet escaped the confines of the Pentateuch. God took little Johnny because it was predestined to be. What matter that Grandma picked pole beans with fecal fingers? Or that they laid Johnny to rest with his lead toy soldier ten feet from the well-sweep? Suzy was next, and the family watched her every move with working dread.

Today we know better. We know a lot about the environment and the fragile balance that exists wherever man settles his toxic prejudice. Modern families don’t pour known carcinogens into their wells for a paycheck. Yet for some wicked reason the government by the people, and for the people, wants to persuade the people to consider this action as an economic opportunity. Poison our kids and we will reap wonderful financial benefits. Instant winnings for the well leasers. Trickle-down, cheap energy for everyone else. A few, maybe even thirty dead kids, but all iPhones still humming at Cafe des Artistes on the Upper West Side.
Politics have officially warped into a vile adjunct of corporate power. The Governor knows hydrofracking has the potential to make all life around it sick and dying. He knows that the majority of his lunch friends are corrupt, negligent, and possibly homicidal in their dealings with the red-faced Texans and their high greed agenda. Yet he still touts childhood cancer as a regretful, albeit necessary result of hydraulic fracturing.
We who matter should have our legs sawed off for being such cowards. Why is my call for immediate arrest of the Governor ignored? He should be unkindly imprisoned for life for perpetuating this phony debate endangering the better health of our friends and families.
Another angle to consider is this: New York State government has no authority to offer these carpetbagging cheese faces high bid rights to our land. The chemical water shoots over boundaries, and seeps across roads.
It’s a vote of no-confidence folks. Take a walk in the woods to reflect upon who has power over your family and friends. I shall start paying my tax to the true nation-state where throughout this life I rest my travel bones. The Onondaga base their policy decisions on how the seventh generation will be affected. Oh that is wise. And strong. The Governor could use a real father-chief to slap him down in shame before the rest of the tribe.

The dumb among us will take all of their neighbors to the justice of the Onondaga quicker than a frack-gush up the proverbial coke nose of avarice. We are so poisoned in the brain by this government we prop up by virtue of a coddled economy.

Here’s a take from a long dead Atlantic traveler on how man has become a somewhat useful pawn of the present state:

After having thus successively taken each member of the community in its powerful grasp and fashioned him at will, the supreme power then extends its arm over the whole community. It covers the surface of society with a network of small complicated rules, minute and uniform, through which the most original minds and the most energetic characters cannot penetrate, to rise above the crowd. The will of man is not shattered, but softened, bent, and guided; men are seldom forced by it to act, but they are constantly restrained from acting. Such a power does not destroy, but it prevents existence; it does not tyrannize, but it compresses, enervates, extinguishes, and stupefies a people, till each nation is reduced to nothing better than a flock of timid and industrious animals, of which the government is the shepherd.

—de Tocqueville

Those local clans still bearing a conscience need to organize a mob. The land men want your land. The companies they represent want to see your babies get sick for a profit. A super biggie profit. A hot dangy-dong-diddle-dee-doo kind of big fat Texas goo profit.  A glass of cool, fresh indian water and not-so-indian carcinogenic compounds to quench a summer thirst. A Saturday night bath and a red rash tattoo for little coughing Tom and coffin Sue. What’s it worth to you, shale squatters of the present moment? A temporary new smell in a shiny red pick-up? A pole barn envy? The NFL Sunday ticket?
They desire a hot ejaculation of benzene and phenol into your village groundwater. The Governor hovers above in a trooper chopper, rubbing his hands together in a show of fiendish glee. He longs to see all of you rurals heaped onto a pile. Your pathetic firehouse vote is laughable to the millions of Manahattas sucking the earth out from under your feet. A hundred grand to sicken my family for life? Really? That much, eh?
Okay, I’m in. Wait till they see my loaded Deere at the Grange. That hog Harold Hoenow will be green from envy, or that Vanadium cocktail he shared on the porch with Ruth.
No, I have to hope there is still a slurry of indigenous righteousness left swirling in our guts. Please good people temporarily living atop the ancient beds of shale, be kind and hospitable to the landmen at your door. A smile and a kind word is all anybody needs. And on a hot summer’s day, a cold glass of lemon-lime aid sweetened with antifreeze wouldn’t hurt either. It might teach these raunchy carpetbaggers to prey on their own kind back in the dumbed-down, drought-dried southlands.
They’re coming to a door near you. Get ‘em.

 

Today I’ll Be a Pretend Lobbyist for Sanity

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Look! Where I Live, Negativity Nearly Traps the Sun! 2018. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″

The main difference between a lobbyist and activist is money. Enormous money! Holy money! Sweet, adorable, hot potato in my pocket money! Money, money, money! Money makes the world go round; money sucks my face when nothing loves me and I love nothing. Money is politics, for everybody knows that a politician with no money cannot be a politician.

U.S. Congressional Representative John Katko (NY-24) and State Senator Patty Ritchie (NY-24) are politicians, and politicians must end pronto their involvement with the orchestration of government.

Have we caught on yet?

The heavy majority of politicians are bad. Because money is bad?

Yes, because money is bad, very dirty, kinda like a prostitute and prostitute’s patron in 1910’s Paris. Party affiliated politicians, with their gobs of money, borderline very, very bad, close to the point of what evil would be if we could stop for a few minutes to think about the age old connection to money to power to evil deeds. If you think the cultural and social fabric of our nation and state is status quo perfecto to raise our spawn creatively, then vote ignorance and avarice again and again this June and November.

Otherwise join me today in a firestorm of lobby against the powers that refuse the best care for teachers and schools and opt for tax breaks for the super wealthy and corporations, because the latter house money and the former cheer for the penniless rank and stinkbutt of idealism. The super rich are only gross anomalies because the peasants (which includes all of us), think our ship is stalled at sea, and shall arrive just in time some dusk before death with martinis and a paid-for hot tub.

On April 20, 1999, two aggressors of American politics terrorized a school in Colorado, leaving 13 humans and their sub-human killers dead.

And the guilty politicians in the state of Colorado escaped jail time.

Today I’ll work the Internet lines reminding Mr. Katko and Ms. Ritchie their awesome responsibilities as statesmen(women) and legislators.

Each is an NRA success story in avarice, and each deserves their calling out celebration.

Patty Ritchie thinks that a man (or woman) accused of domestic violence should own a firearm, even after a skeletally attached firearm was used last week to hard slap an abused spouse clear over the sofa.

John Katko thinks it would be cool to allow some hot-headed Texan to step off a plane in Hancock and shoot the other end of an argument waiting for his cappuccino in a busy Wegmans.

These are our future guilty politicians, praying their ships come in with bubbling hot tubs before the district school shooting or the district wife gets shot to death over a bowl of bloody Apple Jacks®.

Today I shall spend time in my role as unpaid Sanity Lobbyist. You won’t find us in local radio, TV, most churches and so rarely in politics that it hurts the brain. I will redress my grievances with the unresponsive leaders of my district (including the 4th Estate). These people are the bad ones. Rather than the cream that rises to the top, they’re the vinegar that sours the big cup of sweet cream, that is us, or will be, the moment we stop acting like cowardly peasants to money and power.

 

 

 

 

Thank you Eric, The Rent is Too Damn High

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Old Couples Appear More Invisible Publicly in Proportion to Their Private Acceptance of Mutual Flabation 2018. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″

Back in the autumn of 1991 I had my first encounter with homelessness that set my cerebral cortex unfolding and re-folding in quiet spasm. I was a new father temporarily separated from responsibility, playing mind games with myself, while trying to set a plan of action that would keep me in close proximity to my daughter. It was a high and low time of intense emotional energy, and I learned a great deal about me, enough to become a devoted daddy, and shun any pathway to security that neglected the first priority of child rearing.

I spent mid-August to October of that year sleeping at the lake, under bridges, or in the woods, collecting cans for bananas and Drum® tobacco before reaching out to a previous boss for a job practicing dish washing in a rinky dink steak and seafood restaurant. I was promoted to salad station and then novice line cook in no time, and set my path from that point, where I have steadily dropped in social status over the last 27 years, only by my own volition.

In the early years I watched my childless friends struggle with opportunity to find nominal success initially. Most left town to build careers and use contraception, while I kept to the latter and learned how to love well living check-to-check as the world turned.

While homeless I realized how easy it was to fall into a perceived state of “no going back”. No lines to tree and lake shore telephones to leave a contact number on an application. Razors and showers were also difficult to come by while tramping friendless in a park. The mind wandered to thoughts of sleeping soundly under shelter in the playground, putting aside dreams of running water and central heating.

Anyway, I wasn’t so broken yet, with a friend who let me crash in his hallway after his roommates went to bed, and I used his shower to interview for the dishwashing position. 40 hours a week at $4.25/hour.

I was on my way to paradise.

Another good friend in New York City lent me enough money to put down deposit, and first and last month’s rent on a basement apartment, that was much more basement than apartment (the shower was a refurbished coal bin).

He told me that to live comfortably at any level, one week’s pay must cover a month’s rent or mortgage. My rent was $200 (cheap for a basement even then), and since I made roughly $150.00 clear a week, I would never be able to afford living without more hours worked or finding a roommate who would agree to shower in a coal bin. Which leads me to another issue of New York legislature importance.

Minimum wage.

On December 31, 2018, it is set to become $11.10/hour. 40 hours a week with one week’s (unpaid) vacation amounts to a yearly salary of $22,644, and after payouts to state and Uncle Sam, $18,706.00. Divide the latter by 12 for a monthly income of $1,559.00.

On Craigslist I spotted an apartment I rented in 1993 (with a girlfriend) for $350/month, available today for $1100.00. Affordable then, but still struggling $25/month behind for two people working full time at minimum wage. Today the same scenario for the same apartment for a couple earning minimum wage (as of January 1, 2019) would leave each wage earner down $160 toward reaching that month’s rent with one week’s pay.

So, in order to live well by having one week’s pay cover the expense of a month’s rent in the same apartment rented 25 years ago, a dishwasher today, sharing an apartment with a roommate, would need to earn $15.11/hour.

Minimum wage was too low then (1993), and too low today, but much lower today by comparison.

In 2020, it is poised to go up to $12.50/hr upstate, $14.00/hr in Long Island and Westchester (to cap at $15 in 2021), and remain at $15.00/hr in New York City.

I cannot imagine the soaring rents downstate. I foresee several roommates per apartment (a lá photo essay by Jacob Riis), more struggle, more broken families, more social dysfunction.

As senator, I will pen a bill for a universal New York State minimum wage set at $15.00/hr, to increase gradually by a rate set with federal cost of living increases. If the billionaire class and its small army of cronies thinks this is an unsustainable wage, then the billionaire class can help me write up the next few bills placing a 69% wealth tax on persons and corporations whose net worth is over a billion dollars. I thought out loud that idea recently, and determined it quite fair and useful for the common good.

McDonald’s might not play along. Or perhaps it will, and men and women can have jobs that support a family while deep frying mutilated chicken parts at the same time. A waiter can be a proud employee, especially if his employment is a lifelong career of dignity including a roof over one’s head. In the 48th District, the majority see minimum wage employment as a beginning and not an end. Some young people play at it part-time to supplement car payments and boredom. However, there are many others like the young Ron Throop who want to do right by their families, knowing that to work hard is enough to laugh, to live, and to raise bright, sensitive children. Yet it’s just not reality in the state of New York, or anywhere on the planet at this time.

But the money is there. The wealth and resources exist. Unfortunately, so too does the greed and the power class. The latter should be relieved there are sane, less drastic solutions to income disparity. The rich can keep the private plane (but only one), and the poor can earn a decent living with basic needs covered, and time allowed for mental healing and growth.

To our dear and disabled 48th District,

As senator, I vow to pen a bill to institute ASAP a minimum wage set at $15.00 hour. I wish I could help those struggling downstate, but minimum wage would need to be at least $25/hr to make ends meet nicely in the 5 boroughs and beyond. All I can say to these fellow New Yorkers is that you have representatives. Call them out and demand the financial dignity your labor deserves.

And small business, may I suggest demanding that localities stop giving tax breaks to incoming corporations and nuclear power plants. If anything, your tax burdens must be lowered, and Walmart’s should skyrocket to the moon.

Hope to get your vote in November.

Thank you!

Ron Throop

 

Growth in Disenfranchisement is Land and People (Dis)Proportionate

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I Never Wanted Pinocchio to Become a Real Boy Because He Lied All the Time 2018. Acrylic on canvas, 20 x 16″

District 48 is a long stretch of territory. 162 miles from Hannibal to West Massena, and a wide point of 45 miles from Cape Vincent to Carthage. It also reaches out about 20 miles into Lake Ontario, in order to franchise qualified aquatic creatures. To contrast, the 12th District covers a six mile stretch of the population in Brooklyn from Astoria Park to Woodhaven.

This is an unequal distribution of responsibility in any world, but especially earth, where humans think their species is the only living matter to happen since the Big Bang. So political representation is based on concentrations of homo sapiens, instead of “equal” lines drawn by land acreage and resource availability/control. I imagine the 12th District to be human all too human in its approach to governance, whereas our district resources are so much more varied, as to make the two political maps incomparable beyond those laws born from wedge issues that administer instant human gratification. So many people stuffed together in Brooklyn cannot share the same day to day politics as residents among the many northern New York towns, villages, and hamlets suffering a more “spread out” diversity. No troop of bears ever congregated in Brooklyn’s Highland Park for a parasitic picnic of bodega leftovers. Likewise, Michael Gianaris, the 12th District Rep, must have much more in common with the people in a land where, from a centrally located tall building, he could scout the entire perimeter of the 12th for any threat of invading bears.

I imagine constituent’s local concerns more genuinely shared among folks in the 12th compared to those in the 48th. Clean and safe mass transit, affordable housing, crime reduction, street sweeping, park landscaping, etc. Access to utilities, minimum wage, healthcare, and gun control might be state level concerns, and these may be shared loosely to a degree by the people in northern New York. However, the difference is that a would-be senator of the 12th District in Brooklyn shares closer, day-to-day realities with the majority of his or her district. The local stuff. The “Me too!” affiliation with neighbors. A majority might know the best pizza special for lunch on the same avenue. One thing for certain, there are no dairy farms or 10th Mountain Divisions in the 12th District. There is one city—Brooklyn, and everyone knows their way around. There are 30 square miles of constituents in the 12th District compared to 5,000 square miles in the 48th! Mr. Gianaris can canvass on a street corner for two days to get the required number of signatures for primary ballot access as a democrat. He can walk the length of his entire district in 4 hours or less, wearing nothing but a sandwich board that says “Vote For Me”, and name recognition would be cheaply achieved. “Crazy Naked Guy” would get votes.

I run a bare bones campaign for several reasons, one being to call attention to a disadvantage for any candidate of an enormous, rural district seeking ballot access as an independent. During the petition drive, I need to obtain about 150 registered voter signatures per day for 35 days beginning on July 10. John Doe and a couple independently-minded friends can roam about Highland Park (the 12th District) on a bright picnic weekend and realistically achieve the signature benchmark by Monday.

As independent, I cannot compete on the same level without significant grass-roots help. Enter the two giant, corporately-funded political parties, and their paid-for, super stardom outreach.

No contest.

Unless the contest includes a determined man, who can turn off the noise of a broken system to achieve a dreamer’s end.

At present, I am the only candidate in our district, besides Patty Ritchie, to run for state senate. With ballot access (determined in late August), a choice will be offered to all those whom I cannot reach. This website serves as introduction. If you are without Internet access, and heard about me from a friend, may I suggest riding to the center of the district and climbing the tallest tree or wind generator. Call out my name as loud as you can and we’ll meet for a coffee and some political talk. Of course you’ll have to wait for a nor’easter wind to carry your voice to Oswego. Otherwise, please pick me just to shake things up a bit. Like Hippocrates, I will vow to first, do no harm.

The greatest asset to this campaign right now, is a fool’s approach to machine politics.

So far, I am winning.

 

Dan and George Throop of 1844 School the 21st Century

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KI + 2S —> KISS 2014. Acrylic on canvas, 30 x 24″

I am fortunate that my Great Grandfather was a fair weather civil engineer because over a lifetime of winters he amassed an impressive archive of Throop genealogy. His most productive time was during the Depression, dozens of letters back and forth to Throop relations scattered about the country, before Ancestory.com and those creepy cultish Mormons thought to corner the market. Henry passed it on to my grandfather Ronald, who didn’t touch it, then on to David, my dad, who has an interest, but never took up the hobby to add to it. Now the treasures are in my hands and I continue to take advantage.  I have had the history bug on and off for years, and it is during the intellectual season when it can take hold of my imagination for a day, and I can easily see how ancestor worship has been practiced by cultures from time out of mind.

And I suggest it to anyone lucky to be employed half time at some lessor chore like painting or civil engineering.

Anyway, I have a book by a great, great cousin in Iowa, published in 1940, all about my line of Throops. From William in England, to Barnstable, Mass, to Lebanon, Connecticut, to Hamilton, New York, to me. The book centers mainly on the four generations of Throops in Hamilton, their lives and many letters, and it is like reading a primer in optimism and goodness among a real world of daily god-smiting. Why the great powerful who ruled from on high wouldn’t take an hour to teach a lesson on germ theory to his devoted subjects, is cause for further study into the many religions of woe. I know this: I would not be alive and well-minded today if it weren’t for the devotion and complete faith my forebears had for their god and religion. Death and dying made them humble and good and patient, nearly beyond recognition today. Pleasure slummers they were not, certainly not in the way we expect to be entertained. However, I am certain from reading these letters, that paradise was a human place, and it was a joy to work for one’s food.

I sent the book with my daughter to school to let her U.S. History teacher have a look. I am thrilled to find out he made a lesson for Monday out of letters from two Throop brothers (my 3x great uncles) that parallel the history presently being discussed in class. It’s a fascinating read. These were men who spent their boyhood on a hops farm, their education as simple and straight from the best teachers that very little money could buy back in the early 19th century. That would not stop a nation of nobodies from acquiring a faith, less in the obeyance of a smiting god, than in mankind’s imagination and ingenuity. Many people like Dan DeWitt and George Throop of the Burned Over District of central New York had great faith in the science of mankind. The greatest modern irony is our discounting their achievements as backward and quaint, when what they were is more than our culture will let us become. We’ve been duped into the lies of an industrial capitalism that pretends for its survival that any work is good work as long as it holds an iPhone at the end of a stick. No. Most work for money is stultifying, non-creative, and unnecessary to survival and enlightenment. My great grandfather was smart to stock up on potatoes and a box of genealogy for the long winter ahead. From his work and accounts of the lives before him, I have learned about the great lie that power perpetuates.

I live with it. We live in it. Thoreau wrote, “A living dog is better than a dead lion”. My revision: “A living dog is alive, and a dead lion is dead.”

And that’s about it.

If these men could see us now, twittering and facebooking our recycled ideas in the briefest memes, soundbites, and he-said, she-saids… Oh boy. Oh boy!

I am running for senator in the 48th District of New York State because of the following letters. Please do not vote for me if you cannot desire and dream now a modern rendition of these souls from way back:

DanGeorge1DanGeorge2DanGeorge3DanGeorge4

 

Anyone Who Can Look This Serious Needs a Title

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Yesterday I requested promotional materials online from the Campaign for New York Health. I got an e-mail back from a representative asking that I make the candidate’s pledge to support the campaign for single payer (government insurance) in New York. I did, and before submitting was asked permission to download a photo of me from my website.

Of course! Though I realized afterwards that my site images are just paintings with one restful picture of me lounging with a book in an art gallery.

Won’t do. One can see so much into a candidate by his or her official campaign photo.

So, what is obvious about me from the picture?

• I am older than many dirts such as compost and accumulated attic dust.

• I have 20/20 vision yet sport dark-rimmed glasses to disguise effects of SES (Small Eye Syndrome) and eyebrow hair-thinning. Also to appear library smart when I have marbles for brains. Bright marbles.

• At any time of the day I will be wearing some piece of clothing donated by my rich uncle. On this afternoon last fall, it was the funky paisley Oxford shirt.

• I am happily married. (It sure wasn’t my mistress taking the photo).

• I have an affinity for railroad tracks where I spent much of my youth of hard knocks. Although an aristocrat of the spirit, I cannot separate from my roots. My ambition has remained hobo-light since time out of mind. Every day I pray for the sun and a good meal. Like the hobo I am incorruptible. Corruptible hobos don’t remain hobos for long unless they get caught and go to prison.

I have never been to prison—which happens to be another reform subject for another day.

I hope this photo works for New York Health.

 

 

 

 

Pick Me and We Can Pass the New York Health Act

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Since I Have the Kind of Beauty That Moves, Please Use the Rule of Thirds When Photographing Me 2018. Acrylic on canvas, 20 x 16″

I have spent the last half hour internetedly trying to find Senator Patty Ritchie’s stance on passage of the New York Health Care Bill.

Nada. Zip.

The nearest article on the subject is a newspaper opinion from a constituent who declares that in 2017 it was stuck in committee.

Well, I can tell you, as would-be senator, I would vote “Yay” if this bill had my vote. Recently I attended a forum at SUNY Oswego on the New York Health Act bill S4840, and learned a great deal about the possibility of a kind of medicare for all being actualized in New York State.

The Assembly has passed it three times, and each time, Republicans in the Senate, killed it in committee. As previously mentioned, I do not know Ritchie’s stance. I do know, however, that she is the first ever Assistant Deputy Chair of the Health Committee. She got 15 grand to do the job that was never a job in the past. Now there are three head honchos in the committee preventing an open debate and vote.

Yuck. Politics is wasteful play.

As senator I will serve only one term, accept only 1/3 of salary for my family, and advocate sincerely for passage of the New York Health Act.

To be sure, there are hurdles to a Health Care for all law in NY. The highest would be to get the federal government to play along. It would have to continue New York’s alottment of medicare/medicaid funds flowing to Albany. Even so, there are other paths to collecting revenue. Eminent domain would be cool. I’ve thought about a Billionaire’s tax.  Mr. Trump doesn’t think that’s a good idea—unless he’s getting a new hotel built tax free.

Please read about The New York Health Act bill. There’s too much sick in New York not to.