On Labor Day Mescaline Franklin, armed with his camera took me on a mission to examine the defaced ruins of recently desecrated and removed monuments to 18th Century Americans. The massive blocks of granite and marble will take time and expense to erase. In the meantime, red spray paint, white thug tags and even a cardboard sign, were left as monuments to the undying evil of the heroes of a long passed age.

As we wandered through the ruins of the current city and sought the half-erased traces of its former corpse we noticed three things:

Affluent paleface families making their privileged way to a Baltimore Orioles game, escorted by a dispersed but vigilant army of mostly ebony police officers, the ushers of the anarcho-tyranny age…

Black folk lounging before storefronts or shopping…

Paleface men in their 30s, between 10-12 or them, and one paleface wench, begging for money at major traffic stops…

We saw white privilege, but it was a simpering peep of dissipation, unsustainable, protected by their new praetorians.

Oppression was on display, oppression of working class whites, financed by government addiction programs and CIA heroin trafficking.

Of strength, might, greatness, there was not a whisper, as even the iron ghosts of the past are no more than a shat upon memory.

On the way out of town, headed to the last close redoubt, Edgemere, a secluded peninsula bypassed by federal ghettoization initiatives, we decided to have a meal. As we drove a five mile stretch of Latinized Eastern Avenue, protecting progressive waterfront from the army of thugs in Perkins Homes and Old East Baltimore, I suggest Latino food. Three years ago, I couldn’t take him into a Latino eatery without him arguing with the owner about the superiority of American food, but the man is cooling off as he approaches middle age and says, “If they’ll serve us. Where I’m from you can’t get served by them. Just like the Chinese won’t serve you unless you have a Chinese person eating with you and then they try and rip you off and your friend has to argue with them.”

I assured him that I had recently eaten in numerous Latino eateries and had been well-served. Besides, we had eaten pizza all weekend and the only thing to eat along our route other than Latino was pizza. We stopped into a joint on the corner of Eastern and Haven, across from the pharmacy, right before you drive under the interstate into what used to be Greek Town but is now Los Azteca.

He is suspicious of Dominicans and sees one. I tell him that the Dominican barber has cut my hair a few years back and a guy I train with is friends with him.

We entered the narrow, eatery, with an open kitchen behind the low counter, staffed by a waitress and a female cook. I very much like the Honduran and Salvadoran food at this place over the Mexican and we make our selections as the smiling waitress gets our drinks.

47 minutes later, the cook has still refused to prepare our meal, even when the place emptied. Then, when three Hondurans came in and the counter girl gave her their order she immediately went to work on it.

We got up, I placed a $5 for the drinks on the counter and we went out to Megan’s for leftovers—which were quite good.

This was the very first time that any person I know in or around Baltimore has been refused service by anyone. Even Tony O got his six-pack of beer at the black bar after they pounded his face into the bar top.

I believe in freedom of association.

I am not angry that the Salvadoran bitch would not cook for me. If she hates me that much, I don’t want her touching my food.

I was pissed off about the waste of my time.

I would have appreciated a “No Blancos” sign. But we can’t have that in these delusional times.

Since this has happened, I will not chance the loss of more of my time, so will therefore never eat at a Latino eatery in Baltimore City or Baltimore County again. The other dozen odd eateries that I have patronized are now off-limits, for, once there is an open turning of the hateful wheel it will not stop but burn ever more hot.

It will happen again, to some other paleface, but not to me.

Though most of my Latino interactions have been positive, below is one from a decade ago which was not, although I did not mind it, as it made me feel like Jim Bowie. The Seven Dwarves Of Pratt Street

One thing that is for certain, Baltimore is no longer my city, but a living laboratory of urban blight wherein I study the degeneration of a once great nation.

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