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Friday, March 08, 2013
St. Patrick's Peace Parade
People's Parade for Peace, Equality, Jobs, Environmental Stewardship, Social & Economic Justice
Unite, Participate, Celebrate
Sunday, March 17, 2013, 2:00 pmD Street & West Broadway, South Boston • Look for white "Vets for Peace" Flags
Assemble: 2pm. Parade
start: 3pm Sign Up to Attend - We Need to Know You will Be
There!
There are several
DIVISIONS marching in the parade, as well as two marching bands, Duck Boats,
bagpipers, and the Bread and Puppet Theater.. The DIVISIONS are: Veterans
groups; Peace groups; LGBT groups; Faith groups; environmental groups; social
and economic justice groups; labor groups; political groups. Please invite your
group(s) to come! Contact: Veterans for Peace, Pat Scanlon, info@massvfp.org, 978-475-1776;
Massachusetts Peace Action, Cole Harrison, info@masspeaceaction.org, 617-354-2169; faith groups contact
Lara Hoke, minister@uuandover.org.
Please join us for our
Third Annual Saint Patrick’s Peace Parade, the Alternative People’s Parade for
Peace, Equality, Jobs, Environmental Stewardship, Social and Economic
Justice.
Logistics
Sunday, March 17,
2013
Assemble: 2pm. Parade
start: 3pm Sign Up to Attend - We Need to Know You will Be
There! The parade route is 4.5 miles and ends at
Andrew Station.
 Rides along the parade route are available
for those who need them, but please let us know ahead of time that you may need
a ride.
Come by
T if at all possible as the area will be very
congested. Broadway is the closest MBTA subway station.
Parking is
available for participants in the St. Patrick’s Peace Parade.
Vehicles must enter from the north from Summer Street
onto D Street; the parking lot is at 383 D Street. Look for the lot with 40 foot
white truck trailers. Allow extra time for traffic.
DirectionsFrom North
Route I-93 to South
Station exit (20 A). Merge onto Purchase Street to light (100 feet). Make a left
onto Summer Street (will pass South Station on right). Go approx. 1 mile to
Convention Center. Turn right onto D Street, parking lot .2 mile up on left,
(look for VFP Flag)
From South
Route I-93 – Take exit 20
toward South Station. Follow signs for Chinatown, continue straight onto Lincoln
Street, turn right onto Kneeland Street, turn left onto Atlantic, south Station
will be up on your right. Take a right onto Summer Street. Go approx. 1 mile to
Convention Center. Turn right onto D Street, parking lot .2 mile up on left,
(look for VFP Flag)
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Why are there two
parades on Saint Patrick’s Day?
For the past three years
Veterans For Peace have been denied to walk in the historic Saint Patrick’s
Parade in South Boston. This is the largest parade of its kind in the country
with over 700,000 people viewing the parade. The parade has a dual purpose; the
celebration of Saint Patrick and the Irish traditions and heritage and a
celebration of Evacuation Day, the day the British were run out of Boston. Both
days fall on March 17th, so the City of Boston thought it a good idea to have
the Allied War Veterans Council (AWVC) organize the parade. The problem is that
one side of the equation, St. Patrick, a man of peace, is second fiddle to a
military parade. AWVC has the exclusive say in who gets to walk in this
historical parade. The City of Boston, South Boston Community Groups, the Boston
Police have absolutely no say in who walks the streets of South Boston in the
Saint Patrick’s Day Parade.
Twenty years ago the LGBT
community wanted to walk in the parade and were denied which resulted in a
lawsuit that went all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court resulting in the Hurley
Decision. The Smedleys immediately reached out to the LGBT community, inviting
them to “walk in our parade”
In 2012 we had close to
2,000 people, seven divisions (Veterans, Peace, LGBT, Labor, Political,
Religious, Occupy Everywhere) two bands, bag pipers, drummers, a Duck Boat, two
trollies etc. It was a grand success. We have an Environmental Stewardship
Division this year. Our goal is to end this last vestige of institutionalized
exclusion, prejudice, bigotry, and homophobia and make this parade inclusive and
welcoming to all and bring the message of peace to South Boston on Saint
Patrick’s Day.
Please join us in South
Boston on March 17. Be sure to bring your Chapter’s or Organization’s banners,
signs and costumes and join us in our fabulous Third Annual Saint Patrick’s
Peace Parade.
On behalf of the Saint Patrick’s Peace Parade Organizing
Committee.
Thank you,
Pat Scanlon (VN '69)
Coordinator, VFP Chapter
9, Smedley Butler Brigade
Vets4PeaceChapter9@gmail.com Phone: 978-475-1776
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VIDEO: Ain't Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Around! Marchers gear up
for International Women's Day
The march, entering its fifth day, is starting to hit home with
people both inside and outside the marchers, prompting some truly moving
reflections, two of which we wanted to share with you today. Writing in the
pages of christianweb.us, prominent Evangelical leader and writer Brian
McLaren highlighted the march in a piece reflecting on the connection between
farmworker poverty and Publix's purchasing policies:
"[Publix has] refused even to have a substantive face-to-face meeting to
discuss the matter.
As a result, they are cooperating with an old and broken system that has exploited farmworkers for far too long. The workers are asking them to join a new system that will treat the farmworkers with dignity as human beings. Republicans, Democrats, and Independents have been speaking a great deal lately about their concern about "generational theft" - the way that our current spending and debt policies are unsustainable and place burdens on the young for the benefit of the old. Sustainability - economic and ecological - is a valid concern that deserves real attention. But almost nobody has been talking about "demographic theft" - the way our current economic policies are aiding and abetting in a huge transfer of wealth from the poor and middle class to the rich. (More on that here.) Listen to the voices of some of our nation's hardest-working people - people to whom we are connected by what we eat, and you will hear a moral summons to all of us - to corporate executives at Publix, and to buyers like you and me. "We are poor," they say, "but we, too, are human beings."" read more
Also, straight from the heart of the march, between miles, meals,
and stretching, Zach Blume with Nashville Fair Food and Dignidad Obrera somehow
found the time to pen a powerful reflection on his experience:
"Why the struggle, why the strain?
Why make trouble? Why make scenes? Why go against the grain? Why swim upstream? Nothing changes anyhow. - "Nothing changes" by Anaïs Mitchell (listen) I've been on the march for three days now with the Coalition of Immoaklee Workers (CIW). It is tiring in the Florida sun. Think of the last time you spent eight hours in the sun — now multiply that by 14 days, constantly walking the whole time. People are already getting blisters. There have been laughs among runners that it's much easier on our bodies to run a half marathon than to walk one everyday. The consistency wears on you. That's what we're up against... ... If Publix continues buying tomatoes without coming to the table with the farmworkers who pick them, there will continue to be growers who, for whatever reason, don't appreciate the Fair Food agreement and who nevertheless will still have the unscrupulous buyer of Publix to offload their unethical tomatoes onto. We're marching on Publix because it stands in the way of the march towards justice that is going on right now in the fields." read more |
Out In The Noir Night - The Stuff Of Dream, Part One
From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin
… she had it all figured out even before the secretary, a secretary by the way as she observed the scene and made mental notes, all blonde, busty and polished who was obviously somebody in the office’s good- time girl or mistress, maybe both since she did not appear to have ever worn her fingers to a frazzle over some lousy steno pool typewriter, opened the door to their office and made introductions. The office of a couple of gumshoes, shamuses, private dicks, Ash and Shaw, that she fully intended to have run interference for her on her road to easy street, her golden egg road . She had two thoughts as she sat down in an offered chair, a chair that had seen better days and so she knew she was in the right precinct for her proposition. One was maybe superficial, maybe a bit a catty, but she could hardly suppress a certain smirk smile about it once she surveyed the terrain, these guys would be easy, would be putty in her hands once she laid her story out for them. The other, the real driving force behind her returning to Frisco, was that no way, no way in hell was she going back to that Hong Kong whorehouse world (and before that a couple of years trick walking these very lonely and unsavory Frisco streets for nickels and dimes really). So they had to fall for her plan, or else.
Yah, she had prepped herself well about how she was in dire, but not desperate, need of help, a little protection, keeping it vague but alluring, to retrieve an item, a valuable item, from a tough customer, Fritz Lager, a former lover who she, putting on her best all frilly, silly and defenseless manner, was afraid to confront alone. Just a couple of minutes work, no rough stuff if they were smart, and then home for supper or whatever (maybe a rendezvous with that blonde although she couldn’t figure which guy was bonking her). Keep the story breezy and simple, but above all vague enough to seem harmless but alluring enough to take a chance. And throw in enough dough, say a couple of hundred bucks, maybe three, to set the trap.
As she surveyed the two gumshoes sitting kind of forlorn and from hunger she almost licked her lips knowing (as they were busy licking their lips over her making her think that maybe that blonde number out front was just trimming and had a walking daddy somewhere else who was keeping her out of trouble, and his hair, with this pair while he dealt with his wife or some other girlfriend) that she had selected just the right pair. She would tell them a cover story about how she had just plucked their names out of the San Francisco telephone book and they, or rather the secretary had answered the phone and made the appointment for her (she wondered again now that she saw the set-up a little closer which one that tramp was sleeping with, probably the very married- looking Ash).
She smiled when she thought about the previous two days preparationsmaking sure of her marks, checking out the low- rent office building filled with failed dentists, repo men, magic elixir pushers, chiropractors, and other grafters all with big- lettered signs on their doors advertising their essential services and not much traffic at their doors. Cheap Street, a couple of hundred dollars, not three would work magic. Moreover these guys had bungled a couple of cases according to the newspapers and were not on good term with the coppers as a result. Yah, forlorn and from hunger.
She wasn’t going to leave it strictly to from hunger though, not with men. She had learned a trick or two about men when she had done a trick or two out on this very streets over around Post (or maybe she just always knew about men from that first time when Timmy Shea conned her out of her virginity telling her she was still a good Catholic schoolgirl virgin until she had done it ten times, ten times with him. Little did he know he would not have had to ask the second time as she was ready to go whatever number of times he wanted once she got that first awkward one under her belt and knew she had to do it more to get looser down there and to get better at it . But she liked that he gave she a present, some bauble, after each tryst so maybe she had a little whore in her even back then). It wasn’t that she hated men, no, she liked her sex, liked it a lot going back to Timmy days, especially after that tenth time when she wasn’t sore afterward, but she hated the idea of being thought a brainless whore. And after this caper she would prove it.
Just then she remembered something that she learned from Mr. Fats (that is what everybody including his boyfriend called him) owner of that damn Hong Kong whorehouse she slaved in-“every man, woman and child is a whore, it is just the way you carry yourself that makes a difference.” And so this day she put a little extra lilac perfume behind her ear just before she entered the outer office (that would be enough, more than enough for Ash as he was already licking his chops a second time, Shaw looked like he would need more coaxing , just a little more.)
So she presented her story, kept it vague and alluring about a box, a box that had some sentimental as well as real value, that her ex-lover, that Fritz Lager mentioned previously, had taken from her in Hong Kong, had set sail on a tramp steamer for Macao, and whom she had traced back to the states. When she found him over on Mission Street he said he wanted some dough for his troubles, some serious dough which she did not have on her but which she agreed to pay the next night, that night at 8 o’clock, at a neutral spot in front of the Empire Hotel on Post Street. Ash, now Marty to her, lust in his eyes, and expecting maybe a little more reward that money for playing the gallant, put up both hands to volunteer.
Shaw, now Steve to her, a little more cautious, a little more cautious around a woman whose story was full of holes, and who was showing just a little too much silk stocking than was necessary to make her point, gladly seconded his partner’s bravado. And that money, that money was just enough, to put icing on the cake at a time when the landlord had been dunning the boys for a few months back rent. Good luck Marty.
And that night at that fateful meeting with her old lover all hell broke loose and now it would be necessary for Steve to change the signs on the doors and windows to Steve Shaw, private investigator, poor Marty had gone down in a blaze of gunfire, poor Marty had cashed his check. And in the aftermath she had seemingly flown the coop with no explanation and no alibi. Marty and he had not made much money, and what they did make was too often spend on wine, women, and song (she was wrong Marty had not been very married but very divorced), separately as they shared differences in women and hang-out spots. They had not been particularly friendly terms throughout their stormy partnership especially after Marty, they, let the ball drop on that Claremont case, the big construction pay-off case, and a couple of cops got caught up in the crossfire and wounded, severely wounded and a police and a public works commissioner both got lots of egg on their faces. But, like a lot of things in life, you can’t let something like your partner being gunned down like a dog in some back alley (according to the police reports which he confidentially received from a guy on the force) juts roll off your back. Bad, bad for the profession, bad all the way around. And so he put his snooping nose to the grindstone and found out a ton of stuff, and in the process got dinged up a little.
She, all fresh flowers smells, long legs and show (a show and smell that had dazzled him more than a little but we will let that pass as he is the hero here and as victor gets to write the history of this little nefarious episode his way), had been Fritz ‘s lover all right, except not ex-lover. Well not ex-lover in the way that normal people would think of it. She had blasted old Fritz rooty-toot-toot one night in Hong Kong when he was drunk not for being mean to her, or after giving her one too many once over slaps, guys didn’t do that to her, no way, but just to get his stash-the two kilos of pure heroin he was holding for Mr. Fats. See Fritz was a drug runner, what they call a “mule,” for the old boy and Mr. Fats had him keep the stuff in his place just in case the coppers, the paid off coppers got uppity and decided to go retail.
She, of course , wanted out, wanted out of that sister whore life bad, wanted out of Asia bad, wanted back to Frisco bad. So she shot Fritz, fled with the suit-cased golden brick, grabbed the fastest tramp steamer she could find and would up in Frisco just as planned. Well as she planned. Of course Mr. Fats might object to such a course, might not think much of the plan, and he didn’t. He sent an, uh, emissary to retrieve his goods. It was the emissary, Joe Lilac, a rough customer despite, or maybe because of the name, that she was to meet at the hotel who killed Marty after figuring out she was not alone. And in the meleeshe off-handedly shot Joe, shot him good and dead. And that was that.
Not quite, Mr. Fats was in town a few days after finding out about Joe Lilac’s demise by hands unknown, although he suspected he knew who did the deed. And that hard fact was why she had come up from underground and was sitting in Steve Shaw’s office all gardenia-smelling wearing a very short shirt. She confessed to Steve a little of her dilemma. He didn’t buy it at first but don’t forget those legs and that scent, and that first day’s licking of the chops, and don’t forget she worked on him hard, real hard so he decided to play out the hand. She made it easier for him, hell, made him ready to jump through hoops when she locked the office inner office door and came over and sat on his lap.
After they finished their lap business (come on, you can figure it out, can’t you) when she had sealed the deal the best way she knew how they worked on a new plan. Steve was to be the emissary to Mr. Fats where he would make a deal that the big man would agree to. Steve balked at first, a little Then she went into her frilly manner act, she was frightened of Mr. Fats after the Fritz a and Joe net losses, so Steve needed to pull the deal off and get her money and they would forthwith go off some sunny place and be happy. Later, after the smoke had cleared, it came to light she had a one-way ticket to Rio in her pocketbook. Although she never would get to use it.
See, Steve had set the deal to take place in the lobby of the American West Hotel but she had crossed him up by being there, under cover, when she blasted Mr. Fats to the next world and grabbed the money before he got there. Later back at Steve’s office now with both the fat man’s money and that golden brick in her possession she tried to waste him. She missed. He clipped her with his own rod, clipped her back onto her seat. She tried one last come hither trick on him moving her slip up her thigh but to no avail. If he could have trusted her for one minute, one non- come hither minute he might have taken another tumble. No. He then called the coppers who took her and the brick into custody. She now awaits the big step-off. The money Stevekept, kept as payment, for Marty, for justice, hell for himself. Ah, the stuff of dreams.
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