By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
According to Martin, diversity will turn Southern California into "Beirut in 10 years." After making that prediction, he stole a page from the plot of The Turner Diaries, the white-supremacist novel that envisions a race war in America. (The book was a favorite of Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh.) "We're going to have an enclave of Muslims here," Martin declared, pointing at an imaginary map, "an enclave of radical Hispanics here, an enclave of blacks here—and everyone will be fighting for what should have been voted for. But there will no longer be votes; there will be bullets."
That chilling image didn't seem to bother CCIR's membership, which cheered Martin for more. But Martin had already run out of breath, and after answering a few questions from the crowd, he yielded to Prince, who had finally materialized with two blazer-adorned aides.
Prince apologized for his subdued voice—he was sick, he said, and almost had to cancel the appearance. He promised to speak "as long as my voice holds out." Then he compared himself to George Washington crossing the Delaware to attack the Hessians in 1776. Washington was sick that day, too, Prince explained, giggling deliriously.
Biting his lip, Prince suddenly regained his senses.
"Are there any press people here tonight?" he asked.
The lone Latina in the crowd raised her hand and quickly identified herself as Minerva Canto, an Orange County Registerreporter. Prince told Canto that he didn't like the coverage he'd received in the Register and added that he wouldn't utter another word until she left the room. Shortly after she exited the building to jeers and catcalls from the crowd, I identified myself as an OC Weekly reporter. I might as well have said I worked for The Revolutionary Worker.
"Oh, my God!" one woman exclaimed with a genuine look of horror on her face.
"You're kidding!" someone else said, grinning hopefully.
As I walked out of the building, a red-faced CCIR member leaned out the door and shouted after me.
"Hey!" he yelled. "Go tell your buddy Stalin that we said, 'Howdy!'"