***Out In The American Neon Wilderness-In The Beginning

 

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman  

This is the way that I heard the story, a story out of the neon wilderness, a story of a still not quite finished love, one sad, rainy, bluesy Cambridge bar stool night in the late 1970s, the Miller Hi-Life sign blinking off and on making strange shadows on Josie’s sad brown world eyes as she talked:  

…she, Josie Little (Anglicized from Litvinov a couple of generations back, back around the turn of the 20^th century, by paternal grandparents from Russia seeking Americanization as well as by immigration officials at Ellis Island who could not spell the old country name correctly), had been at her wit's end, or maybe that was too harsh a term to express her condition giving her need, but she had been unhappy in the early 1970s, a few years before this Miller-Hi-Life sign-etched bar stool conversation took place. Unhappy after years, her growing up years, of being the dutiful daughter, the New York Jewish middle-class gentile- emulating dutiful daughter. No JAP princess she although she had dreamed of that exalted position when she was young and had hung out with some serious JAPs when she attended Hunter College High School in Manhattan where she had been an outstanding student, and they, well, they attended the school and it looked good on the future husband-hunting resumes. Just then though she had been  unhappy, having just finished an internship (via Boston University) with Doctor Telly, yes that Telly, the big up and coming quantum sociologist who was on the cutting edge of the next big thing in the field, and she was also exhausted from study, research and her gofer existence on his team..

Having been the dutiful daughter, striving to please her parents as she accumulated each new degree and award, she had missed the turmoil on the campuses in the 1960s (her undergraduate campus the volatile University Of Wisconsin, although given her dogged attention to her studies she might as well have been at North Dakota State or some such Podunk school). She had only found out about half the anti-war, anti-establishment, anti, well, anti- everything, every not student thought of stuff that went on there when she had come to Boston, and her fellow doctoral program students kept quizzing her about this and that thing that had happened there and had she been she involved in it once they knew where she was from. More importantly, she had missed that new wave breeze that had come through the land in those days, the sense of jailbreak from what pleased (or didn’t please) parents, professors, police, employers , or anyone else who got in the way. She was ready, all twenty-five years of her ready, to break out, break out and check out what he had called the American neon wilderness.

The he in question, Allan Murphy, her boyfriend, companion, partner, lover whatever term of art, relationship art you wished to use in those topsy-turvy times, had told her about the search for the American neon wilderness one night when they had been together for while (not living together, that came later), the night when she first tried some mescaline with him. And after that night she had been frantic to get out and see the American countryside and make her own estimate about what was going, or not going, on. As part of that mescaline dream night Allan had steadily tried to coax her into travelling with him on that journey, a journey that would probably last six months to a year depending, depending on what pleased them, what they wanted to see, what happened on that far-flung road and she had gotten getting rid of enough hesitations in order to get rid of that wit's end condition, or whatever it was that was eating at her to buy into his plan. But she said she was getting ahead of herself. She hadn’t explained to me how she had come to be entranced by Allan, how she was beginning to smell those open roads wherever they might lead and to dream of them, and to begin to think of a defensive barrage against her parents’ seventy-seven wishes, expectations, and disappointments when explanation time came.

Sometime after she had come to Boston in late 1970 she had settled into the student ghetto across the river in in Brighton with her own little first- floor apartment off of Commonwealth Avenue, and after she had settled into her studies, those Telly-inspired studies that she was exhausted from, she had become interested in what was then to be the last stages of the anti-Vietnam war movement. That interest was sparked (along with some square-baiting by some fellow interns when she expressed her basic previous un-political nature) on a couple of dates with a guy whom she met through a girl in her seminar, Lucy, who was something in the Socialist Workers Party, an organization that at the time was involved in a last push to end the war before President Nixon blew the place to kingdom come. That organization was also involved (as were other groups) in trying to corral in or contribute to the burgeoning anti-war fever among the U.S. soldiers, both in America and in Vietnam. The rank and file soldiers of the Army, in particular, were half in mutiny over the pace of withdrawal and other issues related to their cannon-fodder existence.

One night, one Monday night, she attended a meeting here in Cambridge, at the Harvard Divinity School, where there was to be planning for a retreat to help organize that anti-war G.I. movement. A lot of those in attendant were ex-servicemen, including Allan. Allan had just been released from an Army stockade after about a year for refusing to fight in Vietnam (or anywhere else for that matter, although she did not know that at the time) and as the meeting progressed and it was his turn to speak he was explaining the ins and outs of his struggle to get out of the clutches of the military, the complicated legal case that was waged to get him out, and the absolute (his word) necessity of continuing to directly cramp the military’s style by going right to the source, the soldier, the cannon fodder(his term that is where she got it from having had absolutely no experience or knowledge about the military). He said all of this in a slow, steady style with a wicked Boston accent, you know that “pahk the cah in Harvard Yahd” goof stuff that Kennedy had made everybody aware of a few years back, with a little working-class twist. While he was addressing the audience she, sitting not twenty feet away from him, noticed that he had some very fierce blue eyes. She, from a brown-eyed, brown hair, brown everything world (including all brown herself) had never seen such blue eyes, and fierce too. She was mesmerized.

After he finished and the audience broke into groups that were split up according to what task one wished to participant in to help organize that anti-war G.I. retreat she gravitated toward the group where he was sitting, the contacting GIs group. When the members introduced themselves she noticed that he was kind of staring, well, not staring but he kept looking in her direction, and gave a little smile her way. She responded with little smiles too, and a little confusion too because while she considered herself nice, and maybe pretty, she was not some movement heavy or anything like that, as were some of the women in the room. She tried to see if he was smiling at anybody else, at any other woman there. She did not think so. At the close of the meeting he went up to her and softly, very softly, shook her hand and said that he hoped that she would be able to make the retreat to be held at a site, a well-known retreat site, just over the New Hampshire border that had been donated to the cause by some anonymous people who wanted to make sure that the movement had a place to put on such events. People, according to Allan and others were always doing stuff like that then. It was part of that wave that she had missed most of by being the dutiful daughter. That was it. A hand-shake. Darn, that was it.

The retreat was to be held two weekends after that meeting and she had originally planned to attend it, if she got her studies completed by then. After “meeting” Allan she knew she would be going and as it turned out she would be going up in the same car as him. That retreat Friday night as they met in Harvard Square to take the trip north she noticed Allan looking at her in that same way he had looked at her at that first meeting with that little smile when they greeted. After arriving at their destination and while waiting in line to register he asked her, expressing a hope, a fervent hope he said later, that she would spare some time to talk to him if she had a chance.

This comment disarmed her a little, most of the guys she had dated (and slept with, while she may have been dutiful daughter she was no prude, not since back in Hunter College High days when those Jewish princesses told her, and showed her, what was what with guys), mostly Jewish guys from Long Island or places like that, not the city, when she went to Wisconsin, had been, maybe sensing something in her, kind of pushy, kind of bossy and took the lead, like it was a manly right. And in the boy and girl wars then those were kind of the rules, at least that is what she thought and everybody else too, new breeze coming through or not. Here though was a guy who was asking her if she had time for him, like he didn’t take that local poster boy of the anti-war GI struggle role assigned to him all that seriously. At least with her. With a dry throat and barely getting it out she remembered she said she hoped that he might have some time to talk to her. She blushed, red-brown blushed, and he, sensing the oddness of the moment just squeezed her hand, squeezed it almost as softly as at their first meeting. Then he said with those blue eyes sparkling, not fierce but devilish sparkling , showing his little blarney Irish side (his term, explained later), he would not have bothered to come up if he hadn’t expected to talk to her. And then he blushed, and out of nowhere she squeezed his hand. Whether it was softly done or not she could not remember but it was a squeeze. Just then someone yelled out the first call for the meeting to start and they parted, him turning back to her with that quizzical smile as they did so. And that was how they had started and maybe why she was ready later to chance things, to chuck everything to travel with him wherever the winds might take them.

Jose kept coming back to that first mescaline-edged night when Allan laid out his puff dream scenario, scenarios really, since they were, drug-induced, up all night and half the next day. Allan had said all along, or from pretty early on in their affair, that he had a childhood dream that he wished to tell her about, wished to bring her in on, wished her to make part of her dreams too but that he felt that he should wait until the proper moment to discuss it. The proper moment being understood as a time when they were comfortable with each other, comfortable enough that he could spill what he had to say and not be dismissed out of hand. And also, to be in some drug –induced state, not weed but mescaline which she had never tried, that they could feel totally honest with each other and then he changed his mind and said she could dismiss the thing out of hand if it felt too crazy to her.

Josie had not experimented with drugs while she was at drudge Wisconsin although she (or anybody else ) could not walk in a dorm or most any place on campus, or its immediate environs like the Rathskeller, the big hip local drink, drug, and  rock and roll hang-out, without getting at least a second-hand high (she did not know what that meant then but only learned what it meant subsequently) from some pungent mary jane, weed, herb or whatever somebody called it on any given day or reflecting any given local moniker for the stuff. She had heard, as well, that peyote buttons, mescaline, a little LSD (for the advanced heads but not as widely used as on the East and West coasts), and more and more, cocaine were becoming favored recreational drugs de jus but no, she had not partaken of those pleasures.

When she had come to Boston some people in one of her classes, Advanced Quantum Sociology (taught by Professor Telly himself), organized a party and that was where she had her first drug encounter as a big old joint was passed around and she felt she had to be cool and so took a few hits and coughed, coughed like crazy for a while when the harsh smoke hit her throat and everybody laughed. [Join the club, sister.] She liked it, like the way it relaxed her, like the odd feeling and strange moods that she felt while high but had seldom imbibed in while she was in her drudge phase before Allan. Strangely she had kept some hash, given as a gift from some guy who took her fancy one night at the Kasbah Grille in Harvard Square when she was “on the hunt” with her girlfriends. He had spent the night with her at her apartment after he had introduced her to the bong of hashish (and its far less harsh throat-tickling and more vivid sweet dreams than weed) that next morning, since he was heading out of the hitchhike road to D.C. for some anti-war demonstration and knew, especially in Connecticut knew, that if he did not want to spend some hard time, some very hard time, in the pokey that he better not be “holding.” And thus the gift (fired up when Allan and she were looking for a different kick when he said he had never tried it.).

Allan and she, started, discreetly, to smoke more weed (his term, she always had called it pot from what she heard it called in her Wisconsin days but she picked up his more street-wise term for some reason) both to relax, relax while having sex, and just to kind of catch up with their generation and its predilections. The discreet part was necessary because he, and to a lesser extent she, had a high political profile doing that anti-war G.I. work that placed them square in the sights of the state and federal cops. Once he had been hauled in for questioning by the feds in Boston and that clinched the discreet part. So no smoking in the Wild West streets of Boston, or at parties, and such. Their connection was through an interesting  third party, Sam Stevens, who had a millions connections for dope, mostly weed, going all the way down to high-grade Mexico and back, although he, himself was not a dealer but an angel of mercy, a guy who passed the stuff on to his friends. He lived like a lot of Boston student ghetto denizens off a very hefty trust fund and so not only did he have the capacity to show largesse, but did so.  A real cool guy.

Allan admitted to her that he had not been much of a drug user; he said maybe he would do a little speed on exam prep nights to catch up on that reading he had put off until the last minute at school, before his army stint, before he got “religion” on what the American state was all about. Previously he  had been, as an official member in good-standing of the working- class, of the Irish working- class, a heavy drinker, whisky mainly, with a beer chaser when he was frisky, water chaser when he was broke, and had done just a little in the service, some passed joints.  He said that he didn’t like the taste of the stuff, the way the smoke bothered his throat, although he was a tobacco smoker, or the way it made him feel, feel out of control, in another place without kicks. And that was how they got to the idea of trying mescaline and other drugs, but mainly mescaline to help express eternal truths or whatever they thought would come from such experimentation. Naturally Sam was the friendly provider for the stuff, and also to insure that it was righteous since in that period of time lots of awful stuff was being put into drugs by street dealers who were looking to make quick scores and blow town, the stuff of dreams, or of dream puffs.

So that first mescaline night Allan told of his child dream, his dream to escape the damn world that he was born into and hadn’t any say in creating, or being asked about. One could see when he talked like that why he would be a prime candidate for some foreboding army stockade when the deal went down, although his decision to confront the Army head-on was a closer thing than one might think as he explained one night, one non drug-induced night. That” had not being asked about stuff” he said bothered him since about age ten or eleven. He related some stuff about his family, as she did about hers but that later, about how he was in a constant civil war with his mother from as early as he could remember. His poor, hard-working when he could find work father, with no breaks in the world, the hard scrabble world of coal mine Appalachia, was a shadow figure somewhere in the background. The main bouts were with “Ma,” over money, over going, or not going here or there, of breathing, breathing too much to hear him tell it. Kid’s stuff but big on some kid horizon. So that around ten or eleven he started dreaming, first started dreaming about escaping from his tumble- down working poor boy fate, about the big jail breakout.

Where he lived growing up was near the water in Hull, about fifteen or twenty miles from Boston. He said he could see across to Castle Island on a good day and so he could see the tankers and other ships coming in the bay to leave off their product or pick up stuff. That is where he then got the idea to build a raft and go out to join a ship moored in the channel and fled to the big wide world part unknown. In the end it didn’t work out since his reach exceeded his grasp, he could not, not being very good mechanically even then, even with brother help get a sea-worthy, a channel worthy raft together. But that escape idea, that idea of seeing the great big world, of seeing in person the places and persons that he had heard about, from teachers and others heard about, read about, big sassy book poured over and thumbed over until he was exhausted, and seen too that old black and white television screen we all were glued to crowded his brain.

That failed raft experiment, in any case, was not the end of it although it ended his physical break-out end for a while. He spoke of sneaking out the back of the house on midnight runs to Harvard Square at sixteen. Of walking a couple of miles to caught a local all-night bus to then catch the subway at Fields Corner in Dorchester and to rumble, tumble, amble his way over to Cambridge, to the all-night open Hayes-Bickford. Being there just to feel the air of the place when things were beginning to happen there in 1962, to just be around the new thing, the jailbreak out thing that he sensed was coming. And then rumble, tumble, amble back on that subway before dawn to avoid mother worries, mother hassles and mother penalties. And then one thing led to another and he put the dream on hold, put it on hold through college, through whisky nights, through some personal political dream etched out in Kennedy days splendor, in short  to get his while helping others get theirs. And so his horizon narrowed, his fervent desire to see, hear, read, be with everything, everybody, to see how things ticked is what he said he called it faded, childhood, young manhood faded.

And then came the Army. Allan didn’t like to talk about it, talk about it all that much, especially when early on she would go on and on about it trying to get a feel for who she was getting tied up with, about what happened while he was in the military, the Army. He would cut her short with this- he did what he had to do, did it, and he was not sorry, nor sorry for a minute, that he did what he did. He said, chuckling, the worst of it was when they threw him in solitary for a while and wouldn’t let him smoke cigarettes in those days when he was a fairly heavy smoker (although the system worked out among solitary prisoners allowed him to cadge a few puffs while in the rest room, ah, latrine). He had begun to smoke more after he was inducted when there was so much dead time that the trainees would just stand around smoking one cigarette after another to kill time until some jackass (his word) sergeant sadistically decided he wanted his charges to double- time with full backpack somewhere for some reason known only to that self-same sergeant, for some odd national or personal security reason.

Mainly though Allan said he would go back and forth in his mind about whether before he went in he should have decided differently and not allowed himself to be inducted. The back and forth really centered on that faded dream, that faded break out dream that he let fall on the back burner at a time when having it front and center would have counted . See, he came from working-class people, no, working poor, a notch below that, his poor be-draggled father, from down in Podunk (his term) Kentucky, down in white hillbilly Appalachia, down among the poor white trash of literature. The just poor that she knew needed help from when she read Michael Harrington’s The Other America for a sociology class that she took as an under-graduate where he described the white folks left behind in the go-go America of the 1950s.

Allan turned red one time when she mentioned that book and that she knew, book knew, of what his father, and his people were all about, the wretched of the earth in America. He related a story, a school story, about how his high school,  Hull High, was going to reach out to the victims in Appalachia by sending food, clothing and money down there, down to Hazard, Kentucky. Jesus, he said when the headmaster announced the program over the loudspeaker, that was where his father was born (he had shown her that fact listed on his birth certificate). In any case his father was always out of work, out of luck, and out of Allan’s frame of reference especially when he got older and started drifting away from the family and started to develop his own political perspective and his own jailbreak way out of the scene he grew up with.

But that was exactly the problem, that from hunger bringing up, that hand-me-down-where-is-the-rent-money-coming-from-keep-your-eyes-to-the-ground-shame and sorry combined with three thousand pounds of plain ordinary vanilla 1950s all ships rising teen angst and teen alienation, that came between him and all his decisions in those days. Along with some very standard American idiotic patriotic my-country-right-or- wrong local mores and customary Roman Catholic subservience to authority, Rome or D.C.(in this life he said, all was to be milk and honey in the next) in that Irish neighborhood that he grew up in. That and his very real appetite for going for the main chance in politics. That was what he had been aiming for, a career, a regular career in politics, helping his people while helping himself, is the way he put it.

He told Josie that he had spent most of 1968 working that main chance idea as he was getting ready to graduate from school and had some time to “build his resume.” He started out that fateful year holding his nose and committed to backing Lyndon Johnson for re-election until Eugene McCarthy (Irish Gene he mentioned, a poet and a dreamer and thus worthy of support) pushed the envelope and Johnson backed out. He went wild for Robert Kennedy, his idea of beau political animal then, ruthless to political enemies, young or old, and not forgetful about old wounds either, and this beautiful patrician vision of “seeking a newer world.” When Bobby was assassinated he went over to Humphrey and would up there under the principal that Richard Noxious, uh, Nixon was the main enemy of the people of the world (and of his political advancement). So not the profile of a guy who was going to chance charging windmills, or crush dreams of bourgeois break-outs, no way

So Allan went, sullenly went when drafted. After about three days he realized that he had made a mistake, a serious mistake and that he should have chanced draft- dodger jail instead. But see, it was hard for a guy hard wired for a political career to shift gears like that, so he fumbled and bumbled with the problem for a while. He had always been anti-war in kind of an abstract way; kind of an “all men are brothers” way. He told Josie that he had first expressed that opinion on the Boston Common back in the fall of 1960 when he attended a small demonstration at the Park Street Station with a bunch of little old angel ladies in tennis sneakers and stern-faced Jehovah-etched Quakers who were calling for nuclear disarmament. He also told her as if to express the Janus nature of the times, of himself, that the next week he was working the streets of Hull passing out Jack Kennedy presidential literature. So he stumbled and mumbled fitfully through the problem.

Of course if you were part of the military, down in some boondock (his term) southern town out in nowhere far from northern gentility, even rough-edged northern working- class gentility, you were up the creek without a paddle (her expression), and also surrounded by guys, maybe sullen, maybe gung-ho, but mainly like you were kind of committed to your fate (and afraid, afraid like hell of that constant threat, Fort Leavenworth, the main Army penal threat) then stumbling and mumbling is what you did, and did it for a while. But the military fates were not kind, not wartime kind, not 1969 wartime kind, when the war was eating up men and material at prestigious rates, while the world clamored for shut-down and so Allan’s fate was to be a grunt, a foot soldier, and the only place that foot soldiers were being gainfully employed in those days was in sweaty, sullen Southeast Asia. And in the normal course of events after training he was so ordered.

And still he mumbled, stumbled, and tumbled. He, political animal he, tried to work around it administratively, pulling some chip dues in with his cronies, no go. He tried to do an end- around by claiming conscientious objector status, although he was uneasy about it since he believed that there were some just wars and that position was not a ground for discharge then, no go. Then one night, one night, a Sunday night, a hot and sweaty Sunday night, sitting in the base PX after the library had closed he decided, decided that some form of resistance was the only way out. Personal resistance since he saw no other kindred. He went out in the sultry night and started walking and planning, and half-hesitating. He would make a public display; he would go AWOL and make a splash. Other soldiers he had heard had done such stunts prodded on by those same Jehovah Quakers who formed the backdrop of his political coming of age in Boston Common as a boy. No. As his resolve firmed up, and as he got courage, some well-spring of Appalachia hunker- down father genes- bought courage he thought later when he had plenty of time to think, he decided that he would make a showing in front of his fellow soldiers.

So one Monday morning as the base gathered for its weekly gathering of troops on the parade ground for inspection (and to see who was missing, if anybody) he walked out, walked out of his nearby barracks in civilian clothes, carrying a simple homemade sign “Bring The Troops Home.” He was immediately seized and man-handled by some what he called ‘lifer’ sergeants (who, when he thought about it later probably didn’t know if he was soldier or just a damn hippie protester trespasser and he therefore should have been in uniform). And the rest was mainly legal proceedings, and doing the time, doing that almost a year in the base stockade. (Under the outside civilian parallel legal proceedings on his behalf then in effect they couldn’t sent him to Fort Leavenworth without violating a civilian judge’s order.) Like Josie said, he didn’t like it talk about it all that much, except he had plenty of time to think, think those ancient break-out thoughts that had him (and her as he told his story) in its thrall.

Josie realized that the way she told the story, told Allan’s childhood dream story, all cold sober, no sweet dream drug haze, no colors, no pizzazz, sounded as straight narration like a good description for why he wanted to see the world, or at least the continent which was what his preliminary plan had entailed, but did not half-explain how she was inflamed by his fire that night, or thereafter. Or why he was either. That night as she remembered it he was in what he called (and she started to get a drift sense of it more and more after that drift snowdrift night they connected up in New Hampshire) his high blarney Irish lost land poet and prophet mood, a mood for him enhanced not by the color dream sequences going through hi mescaline-fueled brain but ancient memory longing to understand the world, the fellahin world that she associated, via her fervent Zionist parents, with the Palestinian refugee camps but he associated with his own bog Irish, his mill town Lowell, Nashua, Lawrence, Saco, his Iowa farmhands, his Nova Scotia Grand Banks hearty and hellish fisherman, his Woody Guthrie okie and arkie dust- blown refugees, his bracero mex, or flip (Filipino) grape-picking field hands, and mex dark home land village runaways when the land gave out or the federales got too close. And that was just on this continent. He wanted to understand, as well, what made people tick, why they worked so hard to keep in one place, in order to keep from going backwards.

And why too in certain spots, in certain cultural oases she called them (and he yelled at her, faux yelled at her although as she thought back on the moment he probably was serious, to stop with the soc jargon that was destroying the common language of explanation, almost like a damn church that has spent too much time in the wilderness and developed a secret coda among the elect but had only generals, no corporals, not followers), new forms of expression, new words to explain life’s struggles were developed and nowhere else. Places like Frisco town (his always usage for that place after he heard Memphis Minnie’s song of the same name) with its beat down, beat around, beat beatitude beat scene and later it summer of love, like L.A. and its characters out of central casting, cast really on the beaches of Santa Monica, Venice Beach, and surfer- ready Malibu, like New Jack City (although that locale, her hometown and his place of a thousand times, was not scheduled except to end at and to dump whatever was to be dumped at her parents place when they finished up), like Boston even to some extent. So that was what was on his mind but that was just the outline, they talked for hours (and other days after that first extended outline they continues talking about it, about what was remembered, tip of tongue remembered since color, and other less ancient dreams also snuck into that night).

Strangely he started talking about stone cold jetties, the one up in Hampton, up in New Hampshire (not our first bonding New Hampshire old converted farmland homestead night but the seacoast, by the water, that drove a lot of his imaginings) and how a man could sit for hours and watch the seas come and go, crashing against that rock-strewn jetty, ripping the face of the stone and shipping it express back to the shoreline sands. He had actually done such sitting one time when they first started going together, before they lived together, and he ran up there to see some old anti-war G.I. buddy, a kooky guy, a wild monk guy all caped up, for real, named Magic Mick, who was transforming himself into some kind of groupie zen master. He had heard from Magic Mick that up in mill town Saco, up in Maine there was a jetty that made Hampton look like dry land slumbers, stretching out to motherland sea, the homeland, the place where we started from. Allan said they could check that out as they headed up the coast. See the vague outline of the trip was to head north before it got too cool, head west before the cold Denvers hit, California about November and then south to Mexico for the winter and then back east. There was no need to stop at Hampton though as those stones were, as he said, passé, they needed new adventures, new sittings for hours druid Stonehenge by the sea stones. She did not learn until later, later when the trip was well under way, that while he was addicted to ocean edges, tepid waters running to shore, fetid marshes to feed mother oceans starving denizens, and mephitic smucks at low tide fetching earthbound clams for human hungers, that he feared, deathly feared, and rightly so mother sea’s fury. Feared since childhood being on the water, being boat-stirred or swim- stirred since he had logged drifted out to sea and almost three dip drowned and so he searched, searched longingly for succor from the ocean depths by getting landward as far out as possible.

He expected to see from that Saco jetty vantage point as well the fellaheen lobster boat men plying the waters off the coast, plying their lobster trap trade. Fierce men fiercely defending their flash- colored pots against all-comers, all comers except king Neptune with his quirky habit of dumping a certain percentage of them on land as tribute to his generous nature at other times. Allan knew, childhood knew, the mucky gypsy clam muckers down at Hull’s Hell’s End (real gypsies who worked the carnivals by night, their women the old  wilting rose for the lady trick, and maybe the night sweat trick as well for a lonely carnival fortune wheel losers, pay up, pay up twice, brother). Swarthy, dark heathens, gruff, gruff even to homeland ocean boys and gruff about who could and could not ply the mudflats seeking clam bits to spice up some off-hand spur-of-the-moment family barbecue before it all, the family, fell apart and went about six different ways. So he wanted to know their brethren, their swamp yankee down east brethren brought up in small seacoast villages harsh learning life against the Atlantic gales, out in the creeping boats, seaworthy or not, fully-equipped or not, at dawn, if not before, coffee-filled, some stone cold breakfast so they could get a little extra sleep, maybe rum brave when all was said and done. Knowing fair shares of “oh yah jim, he fell overboard a few years back, they have his name over on the seamen’s memorial in town if you want to know, a fine lobster man, “Sam well, Sam never, was right after that boom hit him, hit him square on the noggin, maybe his name should go up there too,” and such.

When Allan got his fill of sitting and viewing, and viewing and sitting they would move on up the coast, maybe picking blueberries along the way for fresh fire- side breakfast pancakes, or just pop it in with the oatmeal, and head to Bar Harbor and the swells, and some Arcadian delight. And of sweetening it up with thoughts midnight love-makings on the secluded rocks all naked and free and away from prying eyes and with the sea playing some kind of sea symphony to the rhythm of their love. [Yes, I could see what she meant about his blarney, myself full of blarney, although she smiled when she mentioned the rocks, mentioned the love-making on the rocks and maybe thought back to nights of risings and falling of the sea and of them, or as she related another time, when she told me a story about them in Perkin’s Cove also up in Maine, that she had started that whole idea with her delight at the sea that day and had suggested that very idea.]

Josie had to laugh as she told of Allan’s dream, Allan’s get out in the wide world dream for he was, like her, strictly a city dweller even if he grew up in the working- class suburbs. When he started going on and on about being some mountain man she cut him short. It must have been the honesty brought forth by the drugs that she chirped up that she at least had been to camp when she was a kid and remembered how to pitch a tent, work camp fires, and hike a freaking trail without needing first aid or a bevy of hospital services. He stopped for a moment, for a candid moment. He confessed, confessed that come the first night of camp, that he would be fearful when he was away from city lights, lamp posts, when the only light was from some blinking star (she shared part of that fear, not for dark nights, but what lurked, lurked for a woman, in an untamed world), and that while he was the ocean’s own nature boy, some son of Neptune his oceans always bordered land, sighted land. That was all prelude he confessed to pre-excuses for any difficulties when they traversed (what the heck was traverse he asked) some small trail headed up to the summit of Cadillac Mountain in Arcadia National Park.

Allan then, as if to change the subject, got back to his point about the beauty of seeking nature’s course like some latter day Thoreau rising with the dawn, rising with the sun, rising to the sound of birds, to keep faith with the handiwork of nature especially when they hit the summit and could see all of the ocean for miles around that he had seen in pictures.  (And Magic Mick had told him about one desperate hashish night when they were preparing for some protest, or something and needed new age “rum bravery” to see them through. They were going to distribute some anti-war material on an army base, Daniel Ellsberg’s The Pentagon Papers she thought, and had been arrested and thrown off the base and told in no uncertain terms not to come back, sixty days in the some stinking federal pokey, if they did. So maybe that courage was necessary).

Then he got on his high horse about natural wonders, which while he didn’t understand he could appreciate. Like that idea behind television and transistor radios when he was a kid, and the red scare cold war sputnik, about how did they do that stuff. That drove him mad (although when she explained a couple of things to him, things picked up at Hunter College High, to dispel his “heathen seeing silver flying birds” theory of the universe, he waved it off, “too heavy” waved it off, and she relented. What drove him crazier though was the idea of natural stuff, stuff like the reversing falls at Saint John up in New Brunswick, or craters come down to earth and then just sit there. Old Faithful out in Wyoming or someplace out there on the prairie was the end though, imagine something blowing off steam every ninety minutes or something like that, He hoped they would get to see that on their way to Denver if the thing moved along okay and it was not too late to chance a detour if it looked like the snow squalls didn’t block them in late October or so. But the Bay of Fundy and its funny tides had him flipped, he said maybe that would be worth watching for hours like that Saco jetty (and coming back on her about that afternoon they rocked the rocks in old Perkins Cove, maybe they could start an international trend like some new edition of the Kama Sutra.

Then Allan got serious again, real serious, which meant that he was going to go onto some political thing, some political-etched thing. Then he started reciting from memory Longfellow’s Evangeline the one about the French in Arcadia being pushed out of their ancient land by the bloody British after the various world- wide battles those two European powers fought throughout the eighteenth century, and about love, land love, ocean love, love love being uprooted and they were exile sent down to swamp Cajun country. Jesus he almost cried. He said he wanted to stand in solidarity with another victim of John Bull’s tyranny, to stand with the lost fellahin long suffering on another of history’s long marches to oblivion and the death of the Arcadian dream then, and now. She still remembered the half-lilt in his voice when he did that recital (how the hell did he do that, she thought ). She could see in the way that he spoke that he was thinking his own fellaheen thoughts, his old neighborhood thoughts about how his people had been displaced (like her own, although she did not identify as strongly with that diaspora sentiment as he did, after all her people, her parents their kin had made it in America, as had she) and about some nagging, festering sore that would not quit him, about those small dream days, about how everybody pushed hard to stay in the same place (some of the kindred had been in the neighborhood for four generations, a long time in go-go America), He named a spot, Grand Pre where he wanted to stop and express his solidarities and so that was plotted onto their ever- expanding itinerary.

Allan floored her after that recital and gabfest  with a thing he picked up from Jack Kerouac’s On The Road, which he said he had read again in the stockade along with a bunch of his other books, Desolation Angels, Dharma Bums, Big Sur, and a couple of others she didn’t remember. She had read On The Road as an undergraduate although it didn’t make a big impact on her since she felt that it was mainly a man’s book, a book about guys doing what guys always do, try to screw women and then take off for some other adventure, or other women. She thought he was going to go on and on about the beauty of the relationship between Sal and Dean, about some mystical lost kindred spirit, about the wide open spaces, and of a man’s (or woman’s, Allan was pretty good about including women in the road, and real worlds, without making a big deal about it although a couple of times she had to take him up quick on the subject of a women’s place ) need to break-out of convention, to explore stuff, and to observe human nature in the raw, and do something about it, if only to write about it.

Instead he berated the characters of On The Road for not stopping at some youth hostels where they could have stayed for cheap, or little dough, in clean (you helped keep it that way as part of the fee), rooms or dorms instead of sleeping in the back seats of cars, on the side of the road, in some freaking corn field, or something that. Besides they could have met better people, better ride-sharing and expenses people, and people with some dough, since there usually were people from Europe or places like there who had traveler’s cheques and such, than at the Traveler’s Bureaus or u-ride places. See when he was in the stockade there was a guy he used to talk to (before that guy got shipped to Leavenworth, he was doing some big time for the same kind of things Allan was in for but without his civilian legal backing), Bruce, from New York City who had done some on the road travelling and “hipped” him to that scene. It sounded kind of hokey to her, since she expected that they would either tent or stop at an occasional bed and board.

Josie also thought they were a little too old to be sitting in some dorm thing, like they were at college, with a million people who maybe didn’t speak English (or French, her college language) and they might not even, from the way he told it, depending on the hostel, be able to sleep together. She didn’t like that idea since she had gotten used to them sleeping in their double bed. He said the one in Halifax, the first one that he figured they would try was co-ed, and had private rooms so they should try it, try, he laughed to be more “progressive,” road progressive than Jack and his crowd. There would be time enough to sleep on the sides of roads, or in some lazy cottage, or with friends dotted at spots over the American landscape. And with that, after many fretful hours, they drifted off to sleep.     

That night (and day) was their beginning, their real beginning and she said every once in a while although she could no longer be with him, no way, there had been too much sorrow between them, on wind-swept nights, or when she was near some ocean, or some raggedy scruffy guy selling some left-wing newspaper passed by her she would get misty about her sweet walking daddy. She said I would have to know that, know that up front, on that rainy, sad, bluesy night. And that was our beginning… 

YOU DO NEED A WEATHERMAN (PERSON) TO KNOW WHICH WAY THE WIND BLOWS

 

DVD REVIEW

THE WEATHER UNDERGROUND, 2003

In a time when I, among others, are questioning where the extra-parliamentary opposition to the Iraq War is going and why it has not made more of an impact on American society it was rather refreshing to view this documentary about the seemingly forgotten Weather Underground that as things got grimmer dramatically epitomized one aspect of opposition to the Vietnam War. If opposition to the Iraq war is the political fight of my old age Vietnam was the fight of my youth and in this film brought back very strong memories of why I fought tooth and nail against it. And the people portrayed in this film, the core of the Weather Underground, while not politically kindred spirits then or now, were certainly on the same page as I was- a no holds- barred fight against the American Empire. We lost that round, and there were reasons for that, but that kind of attitude is what it takes to bring down the monster. But a revolutionary strategy is needed. That is where we parted company.

One of the political highlights of the film is centered on the 1969 Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) Convention that was a watershed in the student anti-war protest movement. That was the genesis of the Weathermen but it was also the genesis of the Progressive Labor Party-led faction that wanted to bring the anti-war message to the working class by linking up the student movement with the fight against capitalism. In short, to get to those who were, or were to be, the rank and file soldiers in Vietnam or who worked in the factories. In either case the point that was missed , as the Old Left had argued all along and which we had previously dismissed out of hand,  was that it was the masses of working people who were central to ‘bringing the war home’  and the fight against capitalism. That task still confronts us today.        

One of the paradoxical things about this film is that the Weather Underground survivors interviewed had only a vague notion about what went wrong. This was clearly detailed in the remarks of Mark Rudd, a central leader, when he stated that the Weathermen were trying to create a communist cadre. He also stated, however, that after going underground he realized that he was out of the loop as far as being politically effective. And that is the point. There is no virtue in underground activity if it is not necessary, romantic as that may be. To the extent that any of us read history in those days it was certainly not about the origins of the Russian revolutionary movement in the 19^th century. If we had we would have found that the above-mentioned fight in 1969 was also fought out by that movement. Mass action vs. individual acts, heroic or otherwise, of terror. The Weather strategy of acting as the American component of the world-wide revolutionary movement to bring the Empire to its knees certainly had (and still does) have a very appealing quality. However, a moral gesture did not (and will not) bring this beast down. While the Weather Underground was made up a small group of very appealing subjective revolutionaries its political/moral strategy led to a dead end. The lesson to be learned; you most definitely do need weather people to know which way the winds blow. Start with Karl Marx.  

 

WHEN TO BE YOUNG WAS VERY HEAVEN, PART II

 

DVD REVIEW

REBELS WITH A CAUSE, 2000

DON’T REMINISCE-ORGANIZE!

THE SIXTIES: YEARS OF HOPE-DAYS OF RAGE, TODD GITLIN, BANTAM BOOKS, NEW YORK, 1987

In previous reviews in this space this writer  has alluded several times to the 1960’s movements for social change –the defense of the Cuban Revolution, the fight for nuclear disarmament, the centrally important black civil rights fight, the struggle against the Vietnam War and the emerging struggles for women’s and gay rights. And ultimately, for a few (too few) of us, the necessary struggle to change the social organization of American society-the fight for socialism. In short, all the signposts for that part of a political generation, my generation, which in shorthand I will call the Generation of ’68. Let us be clear, nostalgia and the ravages of time on the memory on the part of this writer aside, this was a short but intense period that he believes requires serious study.

Militant leftists today face many, if not all, of the social problems that confronted the generation of ’68. Thus, a careful viewing of this film is warranted by those who want to understand what went right and what went wrong with student movement centered on the Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) of the 1960’s that held out much promise but in the end left the field to the ugly predator capitalists and their agents. Many of the points discussed in this documentary parallel  those made in Professor Todd Gitlin’s seminal book: THE SIXTIES: YEARS OF HOPE, DAYS OF RAGE. I have fully reviewed that important book elsewhere. One can profit from using both sources, although Professor Gitlin is now as then a political opponent of mine.

I would add two additional comments concerning the ‘talking heads’ that are used to tell the story of the student struggles. I found that no one of interviewees mentioned the word socialism as an animating force behind their very deeply held convictions at the time. Now that is neither her nor there except that in the end the fight for socialism was dictated by the struggles not only for its positive social value but as the only way to effective fight in the ‘belly of the beast’. That tells part of the tale. The other is that these people have ‘made it’ in capitalist society, as the final credits make clear, since that time. However, we have a little problem that the ‘monster’ is still with us. I would be the last to begrudge anyone from that time their memories of a time ‘when to be young was very heaven’. But I prefer the slogan – Don’t Reminisce-Organize! 

While it is entirely possible for today’s militant leftist youth to start fresh and ignore what for all of them is at best a mythical experience- that would be short-sighted.  I agree, due to the lack of a critical mass of militant leftists who could have assimilated and transmitted those experiences, that a militant movement today could get along without knowing anything about the 1960’s. However, at some point the issues, the conflicts, the struggle for a victorious strategy to fight the monster (otherwise known as American imperialism) will be replayed. Believe me it is never fruitless to learn something from the past.          

Professor Gitlin has written in the currently reviewed volume what is probably the definitive general survey of the central events that roiled American (and eventually, much of Western society) in the 1960’s. That said, we are not talking about the working class 1960’s, we are not talking about the 1960’s of the mainly middle class parents of the generation of ’68. We are most definitely not talking about the Vietnamese people’s 1960’s. In fact we are not talking about an experience that most of the people during that period experienced except as media events or at the margins. What we are talking about is the youth explosions of the 1960’s, their repercussions, effects and legacies. This is the area of Professor Gitlin’s intimate personal experience and therefore is a good place to start. 

In the usual case this writer spends his book reviewing time describing and analyzing events that occurred before his time. Things like the American, French and Russian Revolutions.  It is therefore with certain amount of pleasant, if not nostalgia, that he can review a book that deals with events that made up not only the author’s but my youth. All the signposts of my youth are described and analyzed there from the ‘beats’ through Cuba to the civil rights movement and eventually through the struggle against the Vietnam War. That said, the author and this reviewer have very different interpretations of the meaning of the events at the time and the inevitable lessons to be drawn from then. 

Professor Gitlin takes us through the necessary influences which formed the basis for the 1960’s revolt. It is always problematic whether the general cultural climate or particular prior events had much influence on what followed later. It is easier to see both influences in hindsight and to over-analyze their importance. Nevertheless he takes us through the trials and tribulations of the ‘beats’, the rise and mainstream commercialization of the original rock and roll movement and the initial youth culture rebellion through such figures as James Dean, Marlon Brando, the work of Tennessee’s Williams and other cultural figures. It strikes me that such figures rather than, let us say, Che Guevara, acted as a catalyst to move away from the mainstream society and not change it. The rise of the counterculture movement bears witness to that effect. It is easy enough to challenge the orthodoxy of the 1950’s it is another to have seen a way out. None of these phenomena pretended to or sought to do so.

Professor Gitlin gets closer to the core of the influences upon the sixties generation when he discusses the Kennedy Administration, particularly after the Bay of Pigs fiascos. Two issues galvanized youth- the struggle against nuclear war and the struggle for black civil rights. The pretensions of the Kennedy administration to form a liberal society  were the legitimate and logical target for the increasing numbers of young who wanted to take the Kennedys at their word- the need to rollup your sleeves and change society. However, the Kennedys did not expect that change to start with them as the targets. The early movement started with that love/hate relationship with the liberals-it never rally got resolved (and still hasn’t today).  

The central organizational expression of the student/youth rebellion and the key to Professor Gitlin’s political perspective then, especially on the campuses, was Students for Democratic Society (SDS). Professor Gitlin was an early president of that organization and therefore can and generally does present the political and organizational ups and downs of SDS accurately and with a certain amount of insight. A couple of caveats though- he is very wedded to the notion that early SDS and its ‘old politicos’ network was something of Golden Age  tarnished by the later craziness of Progressive Labor and Weatherman interventions that brought about the demise of the organization in 1969. In short, he takes a fundamentally social democratic side on the reformist vs. revolutionary question. Professor Gitlin also suffers from a belief that the student movement by itself could have then led the fight for social change as some kind of ‘new class’ to lead a new society. If nothing else the history of the last forty years of campus life has cruelly placed that theory in the shade. Nevertheless read this book and learn why we would both agree that in the 1960’s ‘to be young was very heaven’.    

YOU DO NEED A WEATHERMAN (PERSON) TO KNOW WHICH WAY THE WIND BLOWS, PART II

 

BOOK REVIEW

FUGITIVE DAYS, A MEMOIR, BILL AYERS, PENGUIN, 2001

Recently in this space I reviewed the documentary Weather Underground so that it also makes sense to review the present book by Bill Ayers, one of the ‘talking heads’ in that film and a central leader of both the old Students for a Democratic Society and the Weather Underground that split off from that movement in 1969 to go its own way. Readers should see the documentary as it gives a fairly good presentation of the events around the formation of the Underground, what they tried to accomplish and what happened to them after the demise of the anti-war movement in the early 1970’s.

To get a better understanding of what drove thousands of young American students into opposition to the American government at that time the documentary Rebels With A Cause (also reviewed in this space) is worth looking at as well. Between those two sources you will get a better understanding of what drove Professor Ayers and many others, including myself, over the edge. Professor Ayers makes many of those same points in the book. Thus, I only want to make a couple of political comments about the question of the underground here. They were also used in my review of the Weather Underground documentary and apply to Professor Ayers thoughts as well. I would also make it very clear here that unlike many other leftists, who ran for cover, in the 1970’s I called for the political defense of the Weather Underground despite my political differences under the old leftist principle that an injury to one is an injury to all. Moreover, and be shocked if you will, the courageous, if misguided, actions of the Weather Underground require no apology today. I stand with the Professor on that count. Here are the comments.         

“In a time when I, among others, are questioning where the extra-parliamentary opposition to the Iraq War is going and why it has not made more of an impact on American society it was rather refreshing to view this documentary about the seemingly forgotten Weather Underground that as things got grimmer dramatically epitomized one aspect of opposition to the Vietnam War. If opposition to the Iraq war is the political fight of my old age Vietnam was the fight of my youth and in this film brought back very strong memories of why I fought tooth and nail against it. And the people portrayed in this film, the core of the Weather Underground, while not politically kindred spirits then or now, were certainly on the same page as I was- a no holds- barred fight against the American Empire. We lost that round, and there were reasons for that, but that kind of attitude is what it takes to bring down the monster. But a revolutionary strategy is needed. That is where we parted company.

One of the paradoxical things about the documentary is that the Weather Underground survivors interviewed had only a vague notion about what went wrong. This was clearly detailed in the remarks of Mark Rudd, a central leader, when he stated that the Weathermen were trying to create a communist cadre. He also stated, however, that after going underground he realized that he was out of the loop as far as being politically effective. And that is the point. There is no virtue in underground activity if it is not necessary, romantic as that may be. To the extent that any of us read history in those days it was certainly not about the origins of the Russian revolutionary movement in the 19^th century. If we had we would have found that the above-mentioned fight in 1969 was also fought out by that movement. Mass action vs. individual acts, heroic or otherwise, of terror. The Weather strategy of acting as the American component of the world-wide revolutionary movement to bring the Empire to its knees certainly had (and still does) have a very appealing quality. However, a moral gesture did not (and will not) bring this beast down. While the Weather Underground was made up a small group of very appealing subjective revolutionaries its political/moral strategy led to a dead end. The lesson to be learned; you most definitely do need weather people to know which way the winds blow. Start with Karl Marx.”  

CRIME DOES NO PAY-THE BIG KNOCKOVER AND OTHER STORIES- DASHIELL HAMMETT

 

 

A Minute Book Review

Dashiel Hammett, along with Raymond Chandler, reinvented the detective genre in the 1930’s and 1940’s. They moved the genre away from the amateurish and simple parlor detectives that had previously dominated the genre to hard-boiled action characters who knew what was what and didn’t mind taking a beating to get the bad guys. And along the way they produced some very memorable literary characters as well. Nick Charles, Sam Spade and Phillip Marlowe are well known exemplars of the action detective. However, on the way to creating these literary works of art Hammett did journeyman’s work at the detective genre in various pulp detective magazines. The Dain Curse seems to be at the tale end of that period.

The unnamed universal Continental Operative who is the central character of the story (and others, as well) is the prototype for Hammett's later named detectives. He has all the characteristics that mark a noir detective-tough, resourceful, undaunted, and incorruptible with a sense of honor to friend and foe alike that sets him apart from earlier detectives. However the plot line here is not as strong as in his latter work. Oh sure, there is murder and other crimes and plenty of sub-plots on the way to the solution and some less than savory although otherwise bourgeois characters to muddle up the Op’s well laid plans. However, unless you are fairly familiar with 1920’s ‘lost generation’ hijinks there is less sympathy here for victims and villains alike than the later work. Religious cults, drugs, ennui, etc. have lost their cutting edge as material for dramatic tension. Still anytime you can get your hands on a Hammett book-do it.

Although the stories are mainly set in San Francisco the Op branches out to other locales in the stories but he keeps those same virtues. If you want mainly well-thought out stories that are also well-written this is for you. Additionally, and this may be as good a reason to read this book is the Introduction provided by Hammett’s long time companion the playwright Lillian Hellman.      

AN ANNIVERSARY OF SORTS-IN DEFENSE OF MARXISM 

COMMENTARY

 

This summer marks my 40ht  year of my commitment to Marxism. Those who have been reading my commentaries for a while know that I try to commemorate, and comment on, important anniversaries in our common working class and leftist history like those of the execution of Sacco and Vanzetti or the start of the Paris Commune. Those same readers also know that I have been rather short with bourgeois politicians like John Kerry who have a habit of commemorating every little political action they have taken. The winner for me was Kerry’s very public celebration at historic Fanueil Hall in Boston in 2006 of the 35^th anniversary of his anti-war testimony before Congress in 1971. Christ, I still chuckle over the absurdity of that one. But hear me out on this one.  I want no pat on the back but to just make a comment about why, despite the current historic trend away from socialist solutions to the world’s problems, I still proudly carry the title communist.

I once remarked in a review of Karl Marx’s Communist Manifesto that the third section of that document where he polemicized against the various other liberal and so-called socialist groups of his day that in my search for political solutions in my early days I had probably held virtually every position that he argued against. And believe me, dear reader, that is no exaggeration-except maybe I did not advocate for feudal socialism. But the rest, liberalism, both tactical and principled versions of pacifism, anarchism, guerilla warfare, well you get the drift. This is probably why when I headed, reluctantly I might add, to Marxism it stuck. And that is the main idea I am trying to get at in this piece. That is the power of Marxism as a tool for looking at and changing the world.  The only other point I would add is that over the past thirty-five years nothing in politics, our few victories and our many, too many defeats at the hands of the capitalists, has made me regret that I took the road back to my working class roots. I have made many a political mistake in my life, that is for sure. But this is not one of them. LONG LIVE THE WORLD SOCIALIST REVOLUTION!!!    

From The American Left History Blog Archives(2008) - On American Political Discourse - A MODEST PROPOSAL-RECRUIT, RUN INDEPENDENT LABOR MILITANTS FOR THE 2013 ELECTIONS (Updated)

Markin comment:

In 2007-2008 I, in vain, attempted to put some energy into analyzing the blossoming American presidential campaign since it was to be, as advertised at least, a watershed election, for women, blacks, old white anglos, latinos, youth, etc. In the event I had to abandon the efforts in about May of 2008 when it became obvious, in my face obvious, that the election would be a watershed only for those who really believed that it would be a watershed election. The four years of the Obama presidency, the 2012 American presidential election campaign, and world politics have only confirmed in my eyes that that abandonment was essentially the right decision at the right time. In short, let the well- paid bourgeois commentators go on and on with their twitter. I, we, had (have) better things to do like fighting against the permanent wars, the permanent war economies, the struggle for more and better jobs, and for a workers party that fights for a workers government . More than enough to do, right? Still a look back at some of the stuff I wrote then does not a bad feel to it. Read on.

************
This commentary was edited and updated on February 17, 2013

A MODEST PROPOSAL-RECRUIT, RUN INDEPENDENT LABOR MILITANTS FOR THE 2008 ELECTIONS

IN THIS TIME OF THE ‘GREAT FEAR’ WE NEED CANDIDATES TO FIGHT FOR A WORKERS GOVERNMENT.

FORGET DONKEYS, ELEPHANTS AND GREENS- BUILD A WORKERS PARTY THAT FIGHTS FOR SOCIALISM!

I originally planned to repost the blog below in the summer of 2007. However, two trends have forced me to republish earlier than I planned. The first is the fact that the whole 2008 bourgeois electoral process has gone into warp speed. Yes, yes I know that thinking about electoral politics, or any politics, in the spring of 2007 is only for political junkies and other misbegotten types. I confess to that sin and someday I will turn myself into the appropriate twelve-step program. Nevertheless the campaign season goes full throttle. Thus if we are to have any effect on the 2008 campaign on behalf of our fight for socialism we better get in harness now.

The second trend revolves around the periodic publication of, and commentary on, the not so startling, by now, fact that the wealth distribution gap between the very, very rich here in America and the rest of us has over the last few years has once again become wider, the widest since the 1920s. In response a number of political commentators, especially liberal commentators, have bemoaned this condition noting that part of the problem is the very real ‘class struggle’ by the rich and their minions. One of the better commentators on this subject the Boston Globe Op/Ed writer Robert Kuttner, who is almost always worth reading to gauge the pulse of the Eastern liberal part of the Democratic Party, recently placed the blame on the fight against unionization by the corporations and their political hangers-on. So far, no argument there. Where we part company is over his exclusive and eternal strategy of relying on the political ‘goodwill’ of the ‘friends of labor’ in the Democratic Party to make capitalism fairer. He further argues that this is where labor has found its earlier successes. No, one thousand times no. Despite Kuttner’s obviously truncated reading of labor history (if at all) the way unions were organized, particularly in the 1930’s the heyday of militant action, usually meant hard-fought factory and street actions over and against those so-called ‘friends of labor’. This is the simple truth that we must get out and have labor militant candidates shout to the rooftops. LET OUR CAMPAIGN BEGIN.

A MODEST PROPOSAL-RECRUIT, RUN INDEPENDENT LABOR MILITANTS IN FOR THE 2006 ELECTIONS.

Updated April 2007. In the summer of 2006 I wrote a commentary about writing in workers party candidates based on a program for the fall 2006 elections. With the hoopla already starting for the 2008 election cycle I repost that commentary below with that same intention of getting thoughtful leftist to use the 2008 campaign to further our propaganda needs.

All “anti-parliamentarian”,“anti-state”, “non-political” anarchist or anarcho-syndicalist brothers and sisters need read no further. This writer does not want to sully the purity of your politics with the taint of parliamentary electoral politics. Although I might remind you, as we remember the 70^th anniversary of the beginning of the Spanish Civil War, that your political ancestors in Spain were more than willing to support the state and enter the government when they got the chance- the bourgeois state and the bourgeois government. But, we can fight that issue out later. We will, hopefully, see you on the barricades.

As for other militants- here is my modest proposal. Either recruit fellow labor militants or present yourselves as candidates to run for public office, especially for Congress, during the 2006 election cycle. Why? Even a quick glance at the news of the day is calculated to send the most hardened politico screaming into the night. The quagmire in Iraq, immigration walls, flag-burning amendments, anti- same-sex marriage amendments, the threat to separation of church state raised by those who would impose a fundamentalist Christian theocracy on the rest of us, and the attacks on the hard fought gains of the Enlightenment posed by bogus theories such as ‘intelligent design’. And that is just an average day. Therefore, this election cycle provides militants, at a time when the dwindling electorate is focused on politics, a forum to raise our program and our ideas. We use this as a tool, like leaflets, petitions, meetings, demonstrations, etc. to get our message across. Why should the Donkeys, Elephants, and Greens have a monopoly on the public square?

I mentioned in the last paragraph the idea of program. Let us face it if we do not have a program to run on then it makes no sense for militants to run for public office. Given the political climate our task at this time is to fight an exemplary propaganda campaign. Our program is our banner in that fight. The Democrats and Republicans DO NOT RUN on a program. The sum of their campaigns is to promise not to steal from the public treasury (or at least not too much), beat their husbands or wives or grossly compromise themselves in any manner. On second thought, given today’s political climate, they may not promise not to beat their husbands or wives. You get the point. Damn, even the weakest neophyte labor militant can make a better presentation before working people that that. In any case, this writer presents a five point program that labor militants can run on (you knew this was coming, right?). As point five makes clear this is not a ‘minimum’ program but a program based on our need to fight for power.

1. FIGHT FOR THE IMMEDIATE AND UNCONDITIONAL WITHDRAWAL OF U.S. TROOPS FROM THE MIDDLE EAST NOW (OR BETTER YET, YESTERDAY)! U.S. HANDS OFF THE WORLD! VOTE NO ON THE WAR BUDGET!

The quagmire in Iraq and elsewhere in the Middle East (Palestine, Iran) is the fault line of American politics today. Every bourgeois politician has to have his or her feet put to the fire on this one. Not on some flimsy ‘sense of the Congress’ softball motion for withdrawal next, year, in two years, or (my favorite) when the situation is stable. Moreover, on the parliamentary level the only real vote that matters is the vote on the war budget. All the rest is fluff. Militants should make a point of trying to enter Congressional contests where there are so-called anti-war Democrats or Republicans (an oxymoron, I believe) running to make that programmatic contrast vivid.

But, one might argue, that would split the ‘progressive’ forces. Grow up, please! That argument has grown stale since it was first put forth in the ‘popular front’ days of the 1930’s. If you want to end the war in Iraq fight for this no funding position on the war budget. Otherwise the same people (yah, those progressive Democrats) who unanimously voted for the last war budget get a free ride on the cheap. Senator Hillary“Hawk” Clinton desperately needs to be opposed by labor militants. Closet Republican, Democratic Senator Lieberman of Connecticut should not take his richly deserved beating on the war issue from a dissident Democrat. By rights this is our issue. Let us take it back.

2. FIGHT FOR A LIVING WAGE AND WORKING CONDITIONS-UNIVERSAL FREE HEALTH CARE FOR ALL.

It is a ‘no-brainer’ that no individual, much less families, can live on the minimum wage of $5/hr. (or proposed $7/hr). What planet do these politicians live on? We need an immediate fight for a living wage, full employment and decent working conditions. We need universal free health care for all. End of story. The organized labor movement must get off its knees and fight to organize Wal-Mart and the South. A boycott of Wal-Mart is not enough. A successful organizing drive will, like in the 1930’s, go a long way to turning the conditions of labor around.

3. FIGHT THE ATTACKS ON THE ENLIGHTENMENT.

Down with the Death Penalty! Full Citizenship Rights for All Immigrants who make it here! Stop the Deportations! For the Separation of Church and State! Defend abortion rights! Down with ant-same sex marriage legislation! Full public funding of education! Stop the ‘war on drugs’, basically a war on blacks and minority youth-decriminalize drugs! Defend political prisoners! This list of demands hardly exhausts the “culture war” issues we defend. It is hard to believe that in the year 2006 over 200 years after the American Revolution and the French Revolution we are fighting desperately to preserve many of the same principles that militants fought for in those revolutions. But, so be it.

4. FIGHT FOR A WORKERS PARTY.

The Donkeys, Elephants and Greens have had their chance. Now is the time to fight for our own party and for the interests of our own class, the working class. Any campaigns by independent labor militants must highlight this point. And any campaigns can also become the nucleus of a workers party network until we get strong enough to form at least a small party. None of these other parties, and I mean none, are working in the interests of working people and their allies. The following great lesson of politic today must be hammered home. Break with the Democrats, Republicans and Greens!

5. FIGHT FOR A WORKERS AND XYZ GOVERNMENT.

THIS IS THE DEMAND THAT SEPARATES THE MILITANTS FROM THE FAINT-HEARTED REFORMISTS. We need our own form of government. In the old days the bourgeois republic was a progressive form of government. Not so any more. That form of government ran out of steam about one hundred years ago. We need a Workers Republic. We need a government based on workers councils with a ministry (I do not dare say commissariat in case any stray anarchists are still reading this) responsible to it. Let us face it if we really want to get any of the good and necessary things listed above accomplished we are not going to get it with the current form of government.

Why the XYZ part? What does that mean? No, it is not part of an algebra lesson. What it reflects is that while society is made up mainly of workers (of one sort or another) there are other classes (and parts of classes) in society that we seek as allies and could benefit from a workers government. Examples- small independent contractors, intellectuals, the dwindling number of small farmers, and some professionals like dentists. Yah, I like the idea of a workers and dentists government. The point is you have got to fight for it.

Obviously any campaign based on this program will be an exemplary propaganda campaign for the foreseeable future. But we have to start now. Continuing to support or not challenging the bourgeois parties does us no good now. That is for sure. While bourgeois electoral laws do not favor independent candidacies write-in campaigns are possible. ROLL UP YOUR SHEEVES! GET THOSE PETITIONS SIGNED! PRINT OUT THE LEAFLETS! PAINT THOSE BANNERS! GET READY TO SHAKE HANDS AND KISS BABIES

IN DEFENSE OF THE CUBAN REVOLUTION

 

COMMENTARY-BOOK REVIEW

END THE U.S. BLOCKADE!-U.S. OUT OF GUANTANAMO!

THE REAL FIDEL CASTRO, LEYCHESTER COLTMAN, YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS, NEW HAVEN, 2003

This year marks the 59th anniversary of the Cuban July 26^th movement, the 54th anniversary of the victory of the Cuban Revolution and the 46^th anniversary of the execution of Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara by the Bolivian Army after the defeat of his guerilla forces and his capture in godforsaken rural Bolivia. I have reviewed the life of Che elsewhere in this space (see July archives, dated July 5, 2006). The Cuban Revolution stood for my generation, the Generation of 68, and, hopefully, will for later generations as a symbol of revolutionary intransigence against United States imperialism.  Thus, it is fitting to review a biography of Che’s comrade and central leader of that revolution, Fidel Castro. Obviously, it is harder to evaluate the place in history of the disabled, but still living, Fidel than the iconic Che whose place is secured in the revolutionary pantheon.  The choice of this biography reflected my desire to review a recent biography. As always one must accept that most Western biographers have various degrees of hostility to the Castro regime and the Cuban Revolution and one would expect that to be particularly true of a former British Ambassador (who has since died). After reading this biography I find that it gives a reasonable account of the highlights of Fidel’s life thus far and for those not familiar with the Fidel saga a good place to start.

Let us be clear about two things.  First, this writer has defended the Cuban revolution since its inception; initially under a liberal- democratic premise of the right of nations, especially applicable to small nations pressed up against the imperialist powers, to self-determination; later under the above-mentioned premise and also that it should be defended on socialist grounds, not my idea of socialism- the Bolshevik, 1917 kind- but as an anti-capitalist, anti-imperialist revolution nevertheless. That prospective continues to be this writer’s position today.  Secondly,  my conception of revolutionary strategy and thus of world politics has for a long time been far removed from Fidel Castro’s (and Che’s) strategy, which emphasized  military victory by guerrilla forces in the countryside, rather than my position of mass action by the urban proletariat leading the rural masses. That said, despite those strategic political differences this militant can honor the Cuban Revolution as a symbol of a fight all anti-imperialist militants should defend.

The Ambassador obviously differs with my political prospective. Nevertheless he hits also the highlights of Fidel’s career; the early student days struggling for political recognition; the initial fights against Batista; the famous but unsuccessful Moncada attack; the subsequent trial, imprisonment and then exile in Mexico; the return to Cuba and renewed fight under a central strategy of guerilla warfare rather than urban insurrection; the triumph over Batista in 1959; the struggle against American imperialist intervention and the nationalizations of much of Cuba’s economy; the American sponsored Bay of Pigs; the rocky alliance with the Soviet Union and the Cuban Missile Crisis; the various ups and downs in the Cuban economy stemming from reliance on the monoculture of sugar; the various periods of Cuban international revolutionary support activity, including Angola and Nicaragua; the demise of the Soviet Union and the necessity of Cuba to go it alone along with its intendent hardships; and, various other events up until 2002. There is plenty of material to start with and much to analyze. As mentioned before Che’s place is secure and will be a legitimate symbol of rebellion for youth for a long time. Fidel, as a leader of state and a much more mainline Stalinist (although compared with various stodgy Soviet leaderships he must have seemed like their worst Trotsky nightmare) has a much less assured place. Alas, the old truism holds here - revolutionaries should not die in their beds      

 

From The American Left History Blog Archives (2007) - On American Political Discourse  

Markin comment:

In the period 2006-2009 I, in vain, attempted to put some energy into analyzing the blossoming American presidential campaign since it was to be, as advertised at least, a watershed election, for women, blacks, old white anglos, latinos, youth, etc. In the event I had to abandon the efforts in about May of 2008 when it became obvious, in my face obvious, that the election would be a watershed only for those who really believed that it would be a watershed election. The four years of the Obama presidency, the 2012 American presidential election campaign, and world politics have only confirmed in my eyes that that abandonment was essentially the right decision at the right time. In short, let the well- paid bourgeois commentators go on and on with their twitter. I, we, had (have) better things to do like fighting against the permanent wars, the permanent war economies, the struggle for more and better jobs, and for a workers party that fights for a workers government . More than enough to do, right? Still a look back at some of the stuff I wrote then does not a bad feel to it. Read on.

************
SUMMER RERUNS, SUMMER SOLDIERS, SUMMER BLOCKBUSTERS

COMMENTARY

There is an old saying that no news is good news. Whatever the validity of that statement is there is no denying that it is hard to get a focus what to make of latest political news as summer bears down on us. However, here are a few comments –

SHEEEE’S BACK

In May I commented on the decision of courageous anti-war activist Cindy Sheehan to ‘resign’ as the face of the anti-war movement noting that her frustration at the Democratic failure to reverse the direction of the war ‘as advertised’ in the 2006 midterm Congressional elections  had driven her to despair. Apparently now she is back and ‘on the low’ is traveling and preparing, if necessary, to oppose herself as a congressional candidate to House Speaker Pelosi in the 2008 elections. The dilemma of Ms. Sheehan graphically illustrates the tremendous political problems associated with the long time dependence on the ‘good’ offices of the Democratic Party, the other party of capitalist, in order to bring about social change. Or in the case of Iraq to even stop the imperialist madness. Militants should not only redouble their efforts to change things but also take a harder look at ways to defeat this Democratic behemoth. That is where the fight is in America.

WAITING FOR GODOT

Part of Ms. Sheehan’s dilemma stems for the chronic inability to break out from the parliamentary cretinism that we have been confronted with as the solution to the Iraq question. Right now, as Republican office holders, with the apparent bizarre exception of Arizona Senator McCain, are fleeing the U.S.S. Bush like rats from a sinking ship the Democrats are trying to cobble yet another resolution to ‘redeploy’ the troops out of  Iraq. But hold on, Dems- we still have the July 15^th interim report of the interim report to wait on to see if the situation in Iraq has improved. Of course, that is just the icing on the cake.  Everyone is really waiting (delaying) until General Petraeus’ report in September. Hear this now- forget these bogus reports- this Bush Administration will see enough ‘light’ in these documents to continue the current strategy until January 20, 2009. My suggestion to Ms. Sheehan and others is that they get on board and fight for a workers party. That is a great lesson to be learned from all of this.

 

REQUIEM FOR A SUMMER SOLDIER

We have just passed the celebration of the 4^th of July and the usual patriotic hoopla. Readers of this space know of my great, if rather belated, admiration for the winter soldiers at Valley Forge and elsewhere who kept the democratic faith through think and thin. As if to mock such devotion there has been a recent spate of conservative commentary on old time notions of patriotism expressed by ritual display of the flag. Locally this has been expressed in a commentary in the Sunday Boston Globe of July 8, 2007 by Op/Ed contributor Jeff Jacoby. Mr. Jacoby and I have locked horns before but here apparently he is in a lather about the lack of flags displayed in his neighborhood. The inference to be drawn is that those who do not display the flag are not patriotic. Of course, Mr. Jacoby is well known locally as one of the last of about seven supporters in Massachusetts of the current Iraq War. He, on more than one occasion, has expressed his willingness let some other father’s son fight on his behalf in this worthless cause. On the other hand he apparently will be more than happy to wave the flag in the front of his house. Forget this flag thing, here is the ‘skinny’- until further notice we stand on this idea- yes we love this country- no, we do not love this government. Enough said

THE CLASH OF THE TITANS

Of course no commentary by this writer would be complete without at least a little swipe at that other party of capitalism, the Democrats. If there is one thing that has become apparent this summer it is that the real battle for the Democratic presidential nomination is down to the intergenerational fight between Hillary and Obama ‘The Charma”. In recognition of this the first ‘blood’ was drawn in Iowa last week. Hillary with her man Bill in tow barnstormed through Iowa spreading the Old Gospel news that the good old days of the Bill Clinton Administration were pretty good. Well yes, Bill you were probably better than George Bush. I would not, however, deem that as high praise under the circumstances since George W. Bush makes Millard Fillmore, another accidental president, look good by comparison.  As the campaign progresses the “golden age” of the Clintons will be discussed further here. Obama is the new kid on the block and strictly a New Gospel guy and in a not so veiled way has declared that the Emperor (or currently the Empress) has no clothes. Stay tuned to see how this fight develops. It will not be pretty, especially if the race gets closer than it is now. Yes, youth must be served but these ‘guys’ are already old news.   

From The American Left History Blog Archives (2007) - On American Political Discourse  

Markin comment:

In the period 2006-2009 I, in vain, attempted to put some energy into analyzing the blossoming American presidential campaign since it was to be, as advertised at least, a watershed election, for women, blacks, old white anglos, latinos, youth, etc. In the event I had to abandon the efforts in about May of 2008 when it became obvious, in my face obvious, that the election would be a watershed only for those who really believed that it would be a watershed election. The four years of the Obama presidency, the 2012 American presidential election campaign, and world politics have only confirmed in my eyes that that abandonment was essentially the right decision at the right time. In short, let the well- paid bourgeois commentators go on and on with their twitter. I, we, had (have) better things to do like fighting against the permanent wars, the permanent war economies, the struggle for more and better jobs, and for a workers party that fights for a workers government . More than enough to do, right? Still a look back at some of the stuff I wrote then does not a bad feel to it. Read on.

************
THE ‘CLASS-WAR’ DEMOCRATS

COMMENTARY

ON THE DEMOCRATIC ‘ANTI-POVERTY’ CAMPAIGN

FORGET DONKEYS, ELEPHANTS AND GREENS- BUILD A WORKERS PARTY!

This week, the week of July 16, 2007, we have seen the spectacle of the leading Democratic presidential candidates former North Carolina Senator and 2004 Democratic Vice-Presidential candidate John Edwards and Illinois Senator Barack Obama squaring off to see who is the ‘better’ advocate of ‘class war’ in defense of the downtrodden or in the parlance of polite society, the “have-nots”. Of course, in response the leading Democratic candidate Hillary Clinton has also chimed in on this theme. What is unusual about all of these doings is that the central electoral strategy of the Democrats for at least the past thirty years has been to deny that the class struggle, despite all the evident of relative decline in the standard of living of the working class to the contrary, even existed.  The Democrats were content to struggle along with their version of “trickle down’ theory by arguing that a ‘robust’ economy would help float ‘all boats’. Well, we knew, and now know differently and there is no satisfaction in these quarters that these bourgeois politicians have taken up the issue, for the moment. Why? Their ‘solutions’ are more of the same. Tinker a little with the system to ‘redistribute’ the wealth (a very little from what I have read of these plans) by tax schemes or public works but to keep the system fundamentally as is. Even with the best of intentions this is a plan for failure for working people, especially the marginal working poor. Not only is it necessary to throw much more money at the problem than any bourgeois candidate would dream of doing but the whole thrust is wrong. The culture of poverty, of being poor and without resources to compete in a ‘rich’ society, not only requires money to get out from under but a whole different way of looking at life. In short, to be empowered. This is not our society. We live in it yes but we do not control it. And the way to get empowered is through a workers government. This, dear reader, is the hard reality.

That is the crux of the matter and something none of these well-educated, well fed parliamentary types have a clue about. Even the patently reformist Chicago social activist and community organizing guru Saul Alinsky whom Hillary admiringly wrote her senior thesis on at Wellesley and whom Obama admired knew that much. Moreover what I do not hear about from these born-again ‘class-warriors’ is any talk about the necessary first step in raising the ‘boats’ of the poor-unionization. I have hammered away elsewhere on the importance of organizing the South and the desperate need to organize Wal-Mart. That, rather than 'make work' and easily evaded tax schemes would go a long way toward breaking this cycle of poverty.

One final point on John Edwards. Much has been made of the fact that Edwards is the son of a Southern mill worker. Also, he more than other candidates has taken this ‘two Americas’ concept as his theme both in 2004 and now. Yes, John Edwards is a son of the working class. However, his career is a very good case study in why those of us who propagandize for a workers party have been stymied for so long. In the normal course of events if there had been in place even a small viable mass workers party Mr. Edwards in his youth might very well have been attracted to such a formation. In the absence of such a formation he saw his main chance as the Democratic Party. Such are the ways of politics. However, until we can break this vicious cycle our work will continue to be that of unceasing propaganda for a workers party and a workers government. Be assured though that in the end we will get our share of real class war fighters.

The Trail Of One Thousand Tears-With Val Kilmer’s Thunderheart In Mind

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

They were waiting on a sign. That news had been given to them by an ancient tribal elder, Sammy Eagle Feathers, before he passed to the next life, given to the desperately spiritually poor (and every other which way too) Lakota Sioux who were waiting, waiting on a sign that the avenger of ancient wrongs was to come among them. Waiting for a few generations now impatiently for a leader, a righteous shaman to take their hurts away. Waiting always in forlorn hope in the rugged rural squalor of the reservation that they had been pieced off on by the‘great white father.Always waiting sitting in half-baked trailers and make-shift lean-tos. Places almost as primitive as those ancient dream teepees and sweet peyote hogans. Old wrecks of automobiles carelessly strewn around their sacred land like they were the new totem. Waiting on the side of the road, fellahin waiting on their haunches, looking for rides into town to buy the white man’s liquor (firewater for those addicted to those old time black and white cowboy and injun movies), some cheap untaxed cigarettes (useful for a little black market trade with the white man), and some super-processed food to fill tired and worn-out stomachs. Waiting too at Jimmy Two Feathers’ Gas Station for some major job to be finsihed on that broken down 1961 Chevy truck that needed to get a few thousand more miles on it. Waiting any way you described it.

The list of hurts in need of avenging, white man hurts, was endless from the time he set foot on the sacred land but they were looking for more immediate revenge for modern hurts, the killing of their tribal leaders, the jailing of their militants, and the grinding down of their slender hopes into powered dust. And always, always that unforgotten festering hurt of Wounded Knee told to every child almost before he or she understood any other ways of the world. As so one day Billy Three Crows came thundering into Red Cloud.That is a town in the nowhere Western tablelands on the reservation just east of Rapid City in the Dakotas, up in high Lakota Sioux country, country where the native population made the white man cry his fill for a while, before he then took exterminating angel revenge.

Billy Three Crows came to town though not as the shaman avenger but just on a routine job working for the dreaded Bureau of Indians Affairs. What did they call him in the BIA office in Rapid City, oh yah, a cigar store Indian. Even he laughed at that one, laughed to think that a quarter red skin would be able to solve the civil wars going on among the tribal factions exploding on the scene now that high grade shale, shale that sweet gas could be pulled out of making everybody, even the injuns, rich just as long as they saw it the big company extractors’way and granted the drilling rights to plunder the land once again (or somebody granted the drilling rights, maybe Sammy Eagle’s Nest, one the white man’s favorite kept Indians, and his confederates). And so Billy was to be the new sheriff in town, if he lived long enough.

But a funny thing happened to Billy once he got among his people, got to see that he had denied his heritage for the white man’s pot of porridge, denied his Native American heritage to say it properly these days, and little by little as he saw and heard what had happened he went “native.” That turn of events came to a point of no return one night, one moonless night, at the tribal dance of the new moon, a most sacred rite in timeless lore. An old medicine man, a man who had seen it all on the reservation since about Wounded Knee to hear the elders tell it, slipped a couple of peyote button into the new sheriff’s coffee. And that was when he had his vision, his previously denied connection to his past.

Now in the time of Billy Three Crows, the time we are talking about, the late1970s, these tribal dances were attended by all kind of people who were encouraged to be there by the elders as source of revenue for the tribe, a big source then. Especially at the summertime Dance of the New Moon which was held over several days (until that new moon came). So the night in question along with most of the Lakota Sioux who could get there, there were white garbacho tourists and a slew of hippies who had deserted the cities to go back to nature living in rural communes all over the West. And they, mainly young, as young will do, brought their own instruments to play along with the tribal drums, beads and sticks. A couple of guys, one calling himself Captain Midnight and the other Black Jack, had flutes and fiddles. Everybody was gathering around the huge camp fire which had an important symbolic presence in the dance as it lit up the canyon walls behind the crowds.

Once the tribal drums started, slowly and in synch at first, getting louder a little later, some strange images started to appear to Bill Three Crow against the multi-layered canyon walls. Strangely several others commented on them, including Captain Midnight and Black Jack who started playing their instruments, at first a little out of synch with the tribal drums but then catching up. Billy Three Crows then got up, got up as if possessed, and starting dancing like the images on the walls. As the music droned on those images got clearer and one and all, one and all who wanted to see, could see the outlines of some ancient warriors preparing for battle, getting their courage up, getting their spiritual affairs in order before their ancestors by a collective dance.

The music picked up, and Billy went into a trance around the camp fire. The walls appeared to become one great fire dance. Then a few moments later almost as quickly as they had appeared the images vanished into the canyon night. Billy kept on dancing for a bit, then suddenly stopped. At that moment he knew, knew as the on-looking elders knew, that he was the avenging shaman that his people had been warrior waiting for. And wherever that knowledge might lead, whatever hell was ahead, just that moment Billy Three Crows knew what it was like when fearless ancient warriors roamed those hills.

 

 

***Out In The Tinsel Town Night–With Lana Turner’s The Bad And The Beautiful In Mind

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

The Bad and the Beautiful, starring Kirk Douglas, Lana Turner, Barry Sullivan and Dick Powell

Kirk Shields, yes that Kirk Shields, the one who had more Oscars on his mantle than he knew what to do with and the one who was the genius behind that film classicThe Girl From Faraway Mountain, wished he had a dollar for everybody in Tinsel Town that he had given a break to, had made in to something they never thought possible. (Actually his wished he had a million dollars for each one.)He, Kirk Shields, head of Waterworld Studios, a guy who had carried weight in that glittering burg, who had made guys and gals jump every time he made some move just that minute though had run into a dry spell, a dry spell that could have happened to anyone. That dry spell entailed three big flops in a row, first, that money pit From Here To Romethat had everything, everything except a box office, then, going back to his first days in the town a comedy with Sid Kidder, The World Goes Round, that busted flat when Sid’s slapstick humor went out of style before they could release the damn thing. This last one took the cake though, Irma Combs, the siren of the ages, starring in Women Talk, a sure winner that took his last dollars, his last line of credit, a hefty mortgage on his place, Mont Pied, and his last tinsel town credibility when the younger audience decided that there was not enough sex, or suggestion of sex on those forlorn Saturday night movie dates. Christ, Irma and her no-name male co-star almost burned up the screen in one bedroom scene where she, practically naked, went mano y mano with her lover boy. Damn fickle audience .

Fickle audiences or not Kirk was busted, busted flat, busted six ways to Sunday if such a thing was possible, busted worse that when he had started out producing newsreels to keep the wolves from the door until he got his big break, his big break with Harry Smith’s Westward Bound. At least then he could have slid in anonymous obscurity, maybe sell shoes or something, but now he had his reputation, his life’s work, hell, he knowledge that he had some more great films in him, at least a few anyway. But the way the system worked, as he well knew, was that one bust could happen to anybody, two, well, maybe the times were not right for the vehicles but three, three was the kiss of death. So Kirk Shields with all those Oscars gathering dust at Mont Pied could not raise five dollars, if that, on his next picture idea, a remake of Eric Von Ronk’s classic She Stoops To Conquer, updated of course, with the works, plenty of close quarters sex, plenty of bingo bongo be-bop action between sex scenes and a totally different ending in case a sequel came out of it. But he needed that dough, that upfront dough, which could get him past the idea stage. And he had an idea of how to get that dough, an iffy proposition but he was desperate.

Here’s the “skinny.” He called Harry Smith, still the head of production at Waterworld and a master at getting people to do things that they under no circumstances wanted to do. Yah, Harry had that old time Hollywood charm that went out of fashion in about 1950s but had a certain cache with the arty types. Here is what he figured Harry could do for him. Kirk needed a director of note and he wanted Harry to call Fred Dean. Yes, Fred Dean the director who had a couple of years back won that beautiful Oscar for The Tempted , and rightfully so for it not only was a great art-house type film that he wished he had make but it made a ton of money. He and Fred had started out on Jump Street together making art films at night that nobody watched and soft-core porno films to keep the wolves away from the door which everybody watched.

He also needed a great woman actress to play Clarissa, the enchantress, siren, earth mother combination and since Irma Combs would not answer his calls, and had threatened to have him arrested for fraud over that last film, he sought out Harry to call Lanna Day. Lanna Day who after Irma was the siren de jus, all blond and curves for the guys and really misunderstood little miss innocent for the gals. Jesus, he had given Lanna her start in pictures, built her up big from some bit player doing tricks on the street on the side to make ends meet, and to support that growing smack habit that would have consumed her. He had taken a chance on her and it paid off. Now she couldn’t go anywhere without a mob following her, mainly young women who figured that maybe they could get the glitter by being around her. Nothing but money in the bank.

Finally, damn it, he needed somebody to round that She Stoops To Conquer script into shape, to make it sexier, to make the innuendoes of the old- time film more explicit while passing the code standard. Frankly he had expected to do that task himself but he was in a dry spell in that department as well so he wanted Harryto call Dick Sullivan his old writer, and the guy who just won the Bookends Award for his novel Daisy Buchanan. Dick also had a couple of Oscars sitting in his office over at UCLA where he was teaching screenwriting to the eager kids courtesy of one Kirk Shields’ faith that he could write for Hollywood and not just for eager kids.

So Harry, kicking and screaming, made those three dutiful calls and reported back to Kirk on the results a few days later.Nada, no go, nothing, get lost, go on welfare, go jump in the ocean. And that was just the stuff that could be printed here. See Kirk in his overweening passion, and it was a passion, to make great films, or at least moneymakers, stepped on many, many toes. Many of the same give a break to toes that he wished he had a dollar for (or really a million dollars for). See he had cut Fred Dean out when he made his first big deal with Harry Smith to do that first feature- length film and so Fred was still a little sore (we are being nice here). And Lanna, well, Lanna had it in for Kirk on two scores. First, he realized that she had star power, star power plus, but only if she was on the needle. And so Lanna had Kirk to thank for that junk habit, that jones, which took her years and plenty of dough to cure. Second, she had fallen in love with him during that first production together. But like a lot of successful men (maybe women too) he did not mix work and pleasure. Moreover his pleasure ran not to blonde junkies but low dive brunettes with curvy bodies, no brains, and plenty of sexual energy. Dick, well, Dick had a little problem with Kirk since Kirk in order to keep Dick on board writing great scripts had connections with people who put in the word not to pick one of Dick’s books when it came Pulitzer time. Later it took Dick many years to get that award, an award that he coveted above else.

So the last time anybody took note there was a For Sale sign on Mont Pied and somebody had sighted Kirk selling shoes in a Hollywood men’s clothing store …

Note: If some enterprising Hollywood director (or producer for that matter) had decided to do a film version of Kirk Shields’illustrious life they would have had all three called performers begging to do that film that Kirk had tried to corral them on and it would have been a great success and all that. But Tinsel Town is a place that has this funny little habit of devouring its own and so we will leave Kirk selling his Florsheim shoes and leave it at that.