CYNOCEPHALIC

goodnight

Every minute that passes carries with it more pain for this innocent child who silently struggles with the disease. His family stands helpless in the face of the exorbitant costs of treatment, and after God they have nothing but your compassionate hearts. With your simple contribution, you can be the reason for his recovery and hope again in his life. Time is running out, and our call today is the only lifeline. Don't be stingy with him by extending a helping hand

We cannot stand idly by while this innocent child is in pain. The burden is very heavy on his family, and your solidarity is their last hope. Whether through a direct donation, a bank transfer, or even by sharing this campaign to reach every compassionate heart your contribution means a new chance at life. Take action now and be a part of his survival.

Time is not in our favor, and every minute that passes doubles the danger to his small body. Illness doesn't wait, and every second delay can make the difference painful. Don't let time run out; your quick response now is the real difference between the extinction of hope and the survival of this child.

“Swastikas in punk are basically another way for kids to get a rise out of their parents and maybe the press, both of whom deserve the irritation. To the extent that most of these spikedomes ever had a clue what the stuff originally meant, it only went so far as their intent to shock. “It’s like a stance”, as Ivan [Julian] says. “A real immature way of being dangerous.” Maybe. Except that after a while this casual, even ironic embrace of the totems of bigotry crosses over into the real poison… Something harder to pass off entered the air in 1977, when I started encountering little zaps like this: I opened up a copy of a Florida punk fanzine called New Order and read an article by Miriam Linna of the Cramps, Nervus Rex, and now Zantees: “I love the Ramones [because] this is the celebration of everything American — everything teenaged and wonderful and white and urban…” You could say the “white” jumping out of that sentence was just like Ornette Coleman declaring This Is Our Music, except that the same issue featured a full-page shot of Miriam and one of her little friends posing proudly with their leathers and shades and a pistol in front of the headquarters of the United White People’s Party, under a sign bearing three flags: “GOD” (cross), “COUNTRY” (stars and stripes), “RACE” (swastika). Sorry, Miriam, I can go just so far with affectations of kneejerk cretinism before I puke.”