Los Angeles Riots

Medical Evidence: Trayvon Martin, Who Looks Like Obama’s Son, Beat Zimmerman Bloody Before Shooting

May 16, 2012 by Robert J. Avrech 7 Comments

George Orwell observed that “we have now sunk to a depth at which the restatement of the obvious is the first duty of intelligent men.”

Seraphic Secret will now restate the obvious:

1. George Zimmerman was lynched in advance by race hustlers Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, Barack Obama and the usual cast of vulgar, opportunistic, chronically self-righteous progressives.

2. The mainstream media, which is to say the ministers of progressive propaganda who act as enablers for the race baiters, are, once again—remember the verbal lynching of the Duke Lacrosse team?—guilty of journalistic terrorism.

3. The New York Times labeled George Zimmerman a “white Hispanic.” This was the first time such a Nuremberg-like racial designation was ever used by the newspaper of record. Obviously, a naked attempt to turn a murky incident into a racial crime starring an evil caucasian—with a Jewish last name—deliberately murdering an innocent black man.

Flashback: Los Angeles Riots 20 Years Ago

April 30, 2012 by Robert J. Avrech 11 Comments

This is the 20th anniversary of the Rodney King riots. Those days and nights are imprinted in my memory as vividly as a movie.

Thus, I am republishing my three-part series about the LA Riots of 1992 in which Karen and I and the children were caught. We were unarmed, helpless save our wits. The police were conspicuously absent and the bad guys owned the streets. It was a defining moment in my life.

I’m reposting this series as a cautionary tale because the Trayvon Martin race hustlers—the usual suspects who helped stoke the LA riots, now enabled by the most powerful man in the world, Barack Obama—are carefully laying the groundwork for more deadly riots.

Part One

Hollywood is Burning

Jew Without a Gun

Hollywood is on fire.

Karen and I lock every door in the house, shut tight the windows, we move through the house switching off all the lights.

Gazing from our bedroom window we watch orange flames lick at the darkness, pillars of black smoke climb into the sky. We can actually smell the acrid odor of burning rubber.

“Look how close they are,” says Karen.

“Just past La Cienega. Maybe eight blocks away.”

Karen gives me a long penetrating gaze:

“What do we do if they come here?”

My mind is racing away. The truth is we are defenseless. Unless I get crazy inventive like Dustin Hoffman in Straw Dogs.

“After this is all over,” I vow, “I’m going to buy a pistol.”

Karen says: “How about a shotgun?”

Hollywood is Burning, or: Jew Without Gun

August 17, 2011 by Robert J. Avrech 18 Comments

In light of yesterday’s post about Jews and guns and the vigorous, articulate comments from our readers I am republishing my three-part series about the LA Riots of 1992 in which Karen and I and the children were caught. We were unarmed. The police were, um, absent, and the bad guys owned the streets. It was a defining moment in my life.

Hollywood is burning.

Karen and I lock every door in the house, shut tight the windows, we move through the house switching off all the lights.

Gazing from our bedroom window we watch orange flames lick at the darkness, pillars of black smoke climbing into the sky. We can actually smell the acrid odor of burning rubber.

“Look how close they are,” says Karen.

“Just past La Cienega. Maybe eight blocks away.”

Karen gives me a long penetrating gaze:

“What do we do if they come here?”

My mind is racing away. The truth is we are defenseless. Unless I get crazy inventive like Dustin Hoffman in Straw Dogs.

“After this is all over,” I vow, “I’m going to buy a pistol.”

Karen says: “How about a shotgun?”

Hollywood is Burning, Part III: Gauntlet

March 24, 2009 by Robert J. Avrech 3 Comments

The torture of Reginald Denny.

“We had no orders except to hold our ground and whenever possible to attack—always attack.”

All this whips through my mind as I aim our car—I’m already thinking of the Lexus as a tank, a Centurion—towards the exit of the parking garage. A knot of rioters are milling about at the exit. It’s hard to see clearly but, oh boy, it looks like a few of them are brandishing baseball bats.

I’m gonna make a wild guess and assume that they’re not Little League dads.

I haven’t turned on the car’s headlights. We’re still lurking in the shadows, not yet detected by the barbarians.

Good thing the car is fashionably black.

Karen says: “Maybe there’s another exit.”

“Nope.”

“How do you know?”

“DGA building. I’ve been here like a zillion times.”

“What are we going to do?”

We.

The Talmud teaches that when a husband or wife uses the collective we it means there is love in the relationship.

Is there a finer way to enter battle than with the woman I have been in love with since third grade?

To read the final chapter of my account of the 1992 Los Angeles riots, please head on over to Big Hollywood.

Hollywood is Burning, Part II: Get-a-Way

March 17, 2009 by Robert J. Avrech 7 Comments

I have to protect my family.

In my pocket, as always, a little Swiss Army Knife.

“I’ve never yet seen an eyeball who felt that the Swiss Army Knife was not a dangerous weapon.”

This charming and somewhat gruesome comment, advice really, was given to me by my Israeli buddy, a grizzled tank commander who, one drunken evening, cheerily listed for yours truly all the common, everyday objects that have lethal potential. My friend was a big fan of the ordinary Swiss Army Knife and its zillions of nifty attachments.

So: it is pitch black, rioters are gathering outside the DGA building, and to make matters even worse, women and children in the lobby are yelling, sobbing—every moist and yucky sound imaginable—in panic.

I feel like announcing:

“People, shrieking does not help. Really it doesn’t.”

But, why bother? It’s a mob mentality and there is no reasoning with such people. Unless maybe you’re Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird.

Which I am not.

Anyhoo.

I’m busy formulating a plan, trying to figure out a way to escape this building before the rioters break in, before they figure out a way of crashing through one of the numerous doors.

To read the complete chapter, my account of the 1992 Los Angeles riots, head on over to Big Hollywood.