So where has BZ been? Why no radio show? Is it coming back? When?
For those unaware, I have been in the process of coordinating a move from Kalifornia to a free state, somewhere around Montana, Idaho, Wyoming, North or South Dakota.
I wanted a northern free state (not Oregon or Washington) that still received rain, possessed something akin to four actual seasons, had water, was cold in the winter, and embraced the color green. Unlike Kalifornia, whose seasons are manifestly only two: Brown, and Wildfires.
Astoria, Oregon, on our 2007 honeymoon. Beautiful, but a deadly-stupid state. For a time, I wanted to live there. Then, maybe. Now? Hell no.
Though we initially looked at Astoria, Oregon for retirement, a cute and beautiful town at the mouth of the mighty Columbia River (where we took our honeymoon in 2007) and Ilwaco in Washington, we decided both states of Oregon and Washington were clearly insane and would not meet our political, reality, or freedom needs.
Today, politics are truly most everything. If you don’t realize that, then you’re not living in 2021 corporeality.
We both wanted absolutely nothing to do with Leftists, Demorats, anarchists, Antifa, BLM, racists (every Demorat or Leftist), Socialists, Marxists, Communists, genetic mutants, misfits, the homeless, garbage, shit, piss, pederasts, gangs, thieves, Big Government, liberty killers, America haters, and those who don’t believe in American exceptionalism, America first, the US Constitution, Bill of Rights, the rule of law, and due process.
Though born in Kalifornia, it has taken me seven decades to finally realize that Kalifornia isn’t going to change while I’m alive, and it’s way past time to take care of myself and my wife. We have no kids, family to speak of (both of my parents passed away in 2002 and 2009, respectively), or anything of that nature to hold us back.
I cannot afford to waste any more time or money on a state that despises my melanin count, fleeces me at every turn, and takes advantage of those stupid enough to vote for Newsom and all the other Leftist, racist, hating, divisive hacks whose agendas include the entire ruination of not only the state but our nation.
I did have to wait for my wife to retire and, now that she has in July, we could concentrate on selling both of our respective homes, purchasing another, and getting the hell out of a state that has absolutely nothing to offer normal human beings any more.
BZ’s cabin in the Sierra Nevada mountains, now sold. A strange feeling indeed. It was a wonderful house, strong, beautiful, kept me safe, kept me warm, kept me dry, kept me happy and, mostly, kept me sane for 28 years.
Since May, we traveled widely and identified a specific home in a specific state, a location I shall not yet reveal because all the deals are not yet done. Let’s just say that it’s such a drastic change, such a breath of fresh air, that I have noted a physical reaction to leaving Kalifornia. It’s called glee.
Driving to a free state three weeks ago, Mt Shasta finally has a little snow.
So the purchase of a new home in a free state is done. The selling of my Sierra Nevada mountain cabin has now wrapped and closed. I was able to find movers (though almost, at the last second, not — because they couldn’t locate an available large truck in Kalifornia and, at one point, were told the closest 26-footer was in Arizona), and my cabin contents are now in a 2,000-square-foot home, at the 2,300 foot elevation, in a free state with a glorious view of the surrounding mountains.
We have to sell my wife’s house next. I need to sell two cars.
People smile in my new state. They speak English. The signs are in English. They wave with all their fingers. Yeah, there are tons of jobs unfilled. Same as every other state. Yet for those still in the mix they are pleasant and working every day.
The new neighborhood isn’t a trash heap. There is great pride. There is no HOA — people just naturally take care of their homes.
Unfettered genetic mental mutants aren’t adorning every street and sidewalk, or staked out on every corner.
There aren’t yard cars. There aren’t derelict cars abandoned on the street. There aren’t piles of crap, shopping carts everywhere,
And I can’t tell you how many people actually addressed me with these specific words: “welcome to a free state” when I told them I had just arrived.
Of course, there were the hardcores. Upon seeing our two huge, rented, Chevrolet Express vans with Kalifornia plates (moving our delicate items and valuables), a family in a restaurant parking lot was grumbling about “fucking Kalifornians” in September.
This most recent time in early October, we were driving a rented Nissan Murano (a terrible, ugly SUV with intrusive and irritating nanny features, uncomfortable seat belts, weird body dents that somehow Nissan thinks stylish, a loose hood with a big gap all around, an obnoxious 110-decibel turn signal clicker that requires earplugs, and two cramped front seating positions) with Kalifornia plates, and got honked at numerous times (not in a friendly fashion) just because. Okay. I get it. Not everyone running to a red state is a massive Conservatarian like me. But to know me is to love me. I’ll grow on you.
Some older chick in a market parking lot looked at the Murano plates when I was by myself making a grocery run, and said “another damned Kalifornian,” to which I replied with something similar to “and the last time I checked, movement was still allowed between states, and I don’t remember asking for your fucking opinion, bitch,” or words to that effect. I might have been nicer. Or not. The memory escapes me.
Some people open carry here, though I’ve only seen three. It’s legal. Personally, I think open carry is massively stupid. But freedom comes with being stupid. Just ask Darwin.
Excuse me. I’m still thinking like a Kalifornian.
Constitutional permitless concealed carry is also lawful. I’m all in on that. Way in.
But here’s the weird thingie.
As Leftists and Demorats clutch their pearls and swoon onto fainting couches with the fantods because you can carry a firearm without a permit — this free state isn’t all adrip with a massive spike in crime, rife with gangs, drugs, bodies lying in streets bleeding into gutters, or ablaze with carjackings and home invasions.
Because if you’re a thug, the people here will simply cap your ass (most everyone has a gun safe and a reloading bench), local law enforcement will respond and may scold you for some poor marksmanship, and then the Coroner will come gather your remains and conclude that you weighed slightly heavier in death than in life.
In a Free State, you get straws in drinks, bags at the supermarket, gas dispensers that actually dispense gas and don’t shut off, good food, honest people, no stupid speed bumps on every other street, no speed bumps in parking lots, no HOV lanes, no stop lights at freeway onramps, no sirens all night, no constant police pursuits, no police helicopters orbiting over crime scenes, shining lights in back yards, calling out “stay in your home, we have an escaped dangerous genetic mutant,” gas lawn mowers (and snow blowers), about 110% less stress, “please” and “thanks” and — this actually floored me — the words “you’re welcome” after you say “thank you.”
Not the casual, dismissive, verbal castoff “no problem” followed by the occasionally unspoken word “dude.”
Most everyone speaks English, the mountains are beautiful, we can see them from our front door and our back patio, we have a quarter-acre back yard, a little shed, a two car garage, a laundry room, a den, a huge tub, a huge shower, and neighbors.
We’ve both never had new washers and dryers. We have two new Speed Queen commercial units now.
We’ve never had a King sized bed before. We have one now.
I have never had a flat screen TV before. We have a 65-inch Sony now.
A word about the neighbors.
The neighborhood is such that it’s its little own locale by itself, all homes built in 2007 or newer. We’re surrounded by a rural area about 8 miles north of any sort of significant “city” center, though I use the word “city” loosely. Maybe a “city” area of 40,000 or so.
We are 99 miles from the Canadian border.
That said, our neighborhood is comprised of a wide range of retired folks, from law enforcement to religious scholars to Lockheed engineers to architects to gardeners to all points in between. There are some younger families thrown into the mix as well.
And then something — to us — very strange occurred after we started to move in. Our neighbors introduced themselves, came by, and welcomed us to the neighborhood. With cookies and flowers and plants and gifts.
This was entirely foreign to me and my wife. That had literally never happened before, to either of us. It was weird.
Our lives had always been such that we never really knew our neighbors because of our jobs, law enforcement. I worked days, swings, graves, holidays, weekends, my schedule always changed. I was on call almost constantly, especially in my various and multiple Detective assignments.
My cabin was a place to which I retreated in order to avoid humanity. I had no stomach for neighbors or any of that stuff. No time, no inclination. When I was done with the flats, I was done.
I would drive rapidly up to my beautiful cabin at the 4,000 foot level in the Sierra Nevada Mountains in order to divest myself of that disgusting, congealed, clot known as mankind.
When people were talking about the cool TV shows in the 80s or 90s or 2000s, I missed them all. When others had the internet, I had dial-up until the year 2005 (not kidding) — and I had to purchase a separate, dedicated AT&T phone line to get dial-up.
I never had a flat screen TV in my house. My very first flat screen TV was purchased a month ago for the new place in a free state, a 65-inch Sony. I never had a king bed. I never had a new washer and dryer. I write this again because I’m still astounded. Yeah. Apparently I can get normal stuff.
I never had anything remotely resembling a “normal life” in my career. But now, post retirement, in my dotage — and finally with my wife’s retirement — we can both attempt to approximate something nearing normality.
Which is why neighbors who are actually friendly is concerning and a little off-putting to us. This is a brand new and alien concept and experience, we readily admit.
We’re going to have to get used to this thing called normality.
That said, the logistics and coordination of buying and selling three houses and then moving 950 miles away is a bitch kitty — in a national housing market where prices have skyrocketed, you can’t get the things you once could, everyone is Fear Porned-out due to Wuhan-19, and winter is coming.
I’ve moved NINE times in my life — TEN now — and at my age everything hurts and you can’t lift the shit you once could twenty years ago.
But this — to an actual Free State? This is my final move.
Which brings me to my wireless radio presentation, BZ’s Berserk Bobcat Saloon Radio Show. It began on January 17th of 2017 and has continued with consistency up until April of this year, when it went on hiatus. It has only intermittently returned.
There’s nothing that will kill a show faster than lack of consistency. And I have allowed mine to languish. But only because I have been otherwise occupied by moving out of Kalifornia.
Here are my goals.
I hope to be primarily moved by Christmas. Including the studio. But nothing is etched in stone.
Here are my goals for 2022:
- Bring BZ’s Berserk Bobcat Saloon Radio Show back every Tuesday and Thursday night, with consistency.
- Bring back the SHAT Show (Sack Heads Against Tyranny) every Wednesday night, with consistency.
And then further investigate the possibility of making the Saloon a daily one hour show, Monday through Friday, with perhaps an encapsulation show on the weekend.
Pie-in-the-sky stuff, I know.
But even though Shaun and Clint are gone — I feel I owe them to try.
God bless America, the last and best hope for the entire planet.
BZ
Roger passed away, altogether way too young, of medical complications on Monday, November 1st, at the age of 63.
Roger Dillon (“Sgt Booker” in the chat room) monitoring in the SHR Media Network studio, as the great Lonnie Poindexter is on the air.
Roger Dillon (center) talks to the original owner of the SHR Media Network, Shaun Lewis (L) after the show — which featured Lonnie Poindexter (R).
EBLM doesn’t striate Black Americans into inconvenient political pigeon-holes. It instead seeks to represent every black life in the nation.
Hours 1 and 2: 
Hours 1, 2 & 3: 
Hours 1 and 2: