***Just When You Thought It Was Safe To… Be-Bop-No Doo-Wop-Redux

 

A YouTube film clip of the Capris performing There's A Moon Out Tonight.

Joshua Lawrence Breslin comment:

Confused by the headline? Don’t be. All it does is refer to a previous seemingly endless series of Oldies But Goodies CD reviews in this space a while back. (Cold war, red scare, jail break-out 1950s-1960s , there at the creation, there when Elvis, Jerry Lee, Chuck, Wanda and their brethren were young and hungry and we were too, oldies but goodies, just so you know.) That gargantuan task required sifting through ten, no, fifteen volumes of material that by the end left me limping, and crying uncle.

Christ who am I kidding I was ready for the sweet safe confines of some convalescent home just to “dry out” a little and prepare myself for yet another twelve-step “recovery” program and I hadn’t even gotten to 1960 before I went off the deep end. See, as I explained in the last few reviews of the series, just when I thought I was done at Volume Ten I found that it was a fifteen, fifteen count ‘em, volume series. In any case I whipped off those last five reviews in one shot and was done with it. Praise be and all of that. I would rather cover six non-descript American presidential campaigns straight up than go through that again. Make that seven presidential campaigns, including that of some dingbat over in New Hampshire named “Red Bucket” whose “campaign” consists of mocking everybody who even has pretensions to the vaunted oval office.

The reason for such haste at that point seemed self-explanatory. After all how much could we rekindle, endlessly rekindle, memories, teen memories, teen high school memories mainly, from a relatively short, if important, part of our lives, even for those who lived and died by the songs (or some of the songs, others have died, mercifully died, and gone to YouTube heaven to be clicked “like” by about three people, including the up-loader, and probably “Red Bucket”) in the reviewed compilations. How many times could one read about guys with two social left feet (and I won’t even mention geeky clothes and shoes brought on by an onslaught of, well, family poverty in my case), the social conventions of dancing close (and not being hip to mouthwash and deodorant wisdom, although very hip to that fragrance a certain she was wearing, that maddening come hither fragrance), wallflowers (and their invisibleness) , the avoidance of wallflower-dom (at all costs, including cutting loose on long- time friendships with geeky future lawyers, professors and doctors, jesus) , meaningful sighs (ho-hum), meaningless sighs (ah, gee), the longings, eternal longings from tween to twenty, for certain obviously unattainable shes (or hes for those of the opposite sex then, or maybe even same sex but that was a book sealed with seven seals then, maybe more, maybe more than seven seals that is), the trials and tribulations associated with high school gymnasium crepe paper-adorned dances, moonlight-driven dream thoughts of after dance doings, and hanging around to the bitter end for that last dance of the night to prove... what. And there and then I threw in the towel, I thought. Bastante.

Well now I have “recovered” enough to take a little different look at the music of this period-the doo wop sound that hovered in the background radio of every kid, every kid who had a radio, a transistor radio, to keep parental prying ears at arm’s length, and who was moonstruck enough to have been searching, high and low, for a sound that was not just the same old, same old that his or her parents listened to. Early rock and rock, especially that early Sun Record stuff, and plenty of rhythm and blues met that need but so did, for a time, old doo wop-the silky sounds of lead singer-driven, lyrics-driven, vocal-meshing harmony that was the stuff of teenage “petting” parties and staid old hokey school dances, mainly, in my case, elementary school dances.

As I mentioned in those oldies but goodies reviews not all of the material put forth was good, nor was all of it destined to, or meant to be, playable fifty or sixty years later on some “greatest hits” compilation but some of songs had enough chordal energy, lyrical sense, and sheer danceability, slow danceabilty, to make any Jack or Jill start snapping fingers then, or now. Of course that begs a question. As I asked in that previous series and is appropriate to ask here as well what about the now seeming mandatory question of the best song of the times-doo-wop variation. The one that stands out as the inevitable end of the night high school dance (or maybe even middle school) song? The song that you, maybe, waited around all night for just to prove that you were not a wallflower, and more importantly, had the moxie to, mumble-voiced, parched-throated, sweaty-handed, asked a girl to dance (women can relate their own experiences, probably similar).

Here The Capris’ There’s A Moon Out Tonight fills the bill. And, yes, I know, this is one of those slow ones that you had to dance close on. And just hope, hope to high heaven, that you didn’t destroy your partner’s shoes and feet. Well, as I have noted before, one learns a few social skills in this world if for no other reason than to “impress” that certain she (or like before he for shes, or nowadays, just mix and match your sexual preferences) mentioned above. I did, didn’t you?

P.S. Okay, okay I’ll “confess” but only because I know that if don’t somebody, maybe even someone who was at one of those damn dances, will pry it out of me with some mean and evil method of torture. And if there is one thing in life that I have had enough of after a long career in the public prints, even if they were mainly alternative rags and trendy radical chic reads, is threats of public exposure and other ill-advised methods of “getting the truth out.” Yes, I took dancing lessons to try to cover up those two social left feet.

But wait! It wasn’t just some generic moonbeam boy meets girl thing but for “her.” Her being in this case, one Lydia MacAdams, and yes, if that name sounds familiar, from the MacAdams Textiles family. The ones who seemingly make every towel placed in every hotel in America, and maybe beyond for all I know. Lydia was a granddaughter of the founder, although I never did quite catch the full details on the exact relationship. The MacAdams mills used to be located in Olde Saco, Maine where I grew to manhood and employed most of the town, including my father, before they headed south for cheaper labor from what I remember. The Lydia branch stayed put in Olde Saco over on Elm Street where all the fancy Victorians were located (and still are, more recently refurbished for old-time house crazies).

Lydia and I went to Olde Saco East Junior High School (now Middle School) together and first met in art class in eighth grade. We used to talk, serious and funny talk, all the time. I never did anything about it that year, although I think that Lydia expected me to ask her out. Maybe it was me just wishing but that’s what I thought then. Of course “asking out” (read: date, okay) meant going after school over to Jimmy Jack’s Diner over on Main Street just down from East for something to eat but really to listen to Jimmy Jack’s jukebox that had all the latest be-bop rock, doo wop hits and stuff like that on it. Like I said I never got that far. Why. Well that’s where coming from the “wrong side of the tracks” comes in, the Albemarle “projects” wrong side of the tracks over in back of the old mills. No dough, okay. And no dough meant no go with Lydia in my head.

So that is where the dancing lessons came in. I caddied over at the Olde Saco Country Club all summer to save up money to take lessons (and for dough in case I got Jimmy Jack’s lucky). Why? Well two whys. One to “ be ready” for the Olde Saco High freshmen mixer in October when I was planning to take dead-aim at Lydia for the last dance of the night. The last slow dance, see. Two, because one Lydia MacAdams was also taking dance lessons at Miss Jean’s over on Atlantic Avenue. Do not ask how I found that out I will not tell and you can torture me all you want on that one.

But do feel free to ask about this, about the lead-up to that mixer night. The first day, the very first day of dance class after school in September just shortly after we had entered august Olde Saco High, Lydia came up to me and said, no, commanded, that whether or not I somehow thought she had two left feet because I had not asked her to the mixer, we, she and I, were going to dance the last dance. She also said she hoped that it would be that dreamy There’s A Moon Out Tonight that she loved to play on Jimmy Jack’s jukebox. I was stunned and blurted out that if she wanted me to take her I would. No dice, no dice because in my timidity she had accepted Lance Allison’s invitation to take her, take her as a friend she said with a wicked look like “see what you missed out on, buster.”  She did say that if I invited her to the Thanksgiving Dance that she was free, if I was stopped being so timid and asked her. Well, what’s a fellow to do when he is “commanded” to do something by Lydia MacAdams. I can still smell that maddening come hither fragrance, bath soap or perfume I don’t which but maddening, she wore that mixer night as we danced that last dance  night away so close it would have taken an army to separate us. And no I did not ask her to the Thanksgiving Dance, not because I was timid though, but because we were an “item” after that last dance and naturally we would be going, going two left feet or not. 

***Out In The Be-Bop 1960s Night- Josh Breslin’s Chucks-In Honor Of Chuck Taylor, Or Rather His Sneakers-A CD Review

A YouTube film clip of Ruby and the Romantics performing their classic teen angst song, Our Day Will Come.
From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin

CD Review

Super Hits 1963, various artists, Time-Life Music, 1991

Scene brought to mind by the cover that graces this CD. Simple, very simple. A pair, black, of course, of Chuck Taylor Hi-Top sneakers (minus the trademark logo here). For those who are clueless, Chuck Taylor was an ancient (and white, very white too) 1930s (or so) professional basketball player whose trademark were these hi-top sneakers that in the 1960s were sold with his famous Chuck Taylor logo on them. I had a bunch of pairs, black of course, in my Jack Kerouac /Allen Ginsberg Harvard Square Hayes-Bickford all night dive “beat” minute along with my black uncuffed chinos, flannel short, red bandana and midnight sunglasses before I turned, full-bore to generation of ’68 hip-hop concerns. Different ‘style,’ same concerns.

Since that time there have been periodic revivals, the early 1980s and mid-1990’s come to mind, (including what looks like a resurgence now) of these note-worthy items. I, naturally, tipped my hat to the trend and bought that mandatory bunch of pairs, black, of course. Now that I see resurgence, although about seven different knee, ankle and hip problems preclude any but a ritualistic symbolic purchase, I will buy a pair, black, of course. Today though, if one can even utter such sacrilege, they are in all colors of the rainbow. There are even low-tops (although how uncool is that) and, mercy, in an age of complete sneaker kill there are imitation Chucks (minus the Chuck logo, un-cool, don’t even say it).

What makes this all remarkable, remarkable to my old eyes, is that these are the very sneaker, although rather primitive by today’s techno-scientifically driven, aero-dynamically precise, lighter than air float, fleet-footed wedge of a sneaker, that Josh Breslin wore to win the Maine state championship in the mile for Olde Saco High School back in the day, the 1967 day. As he has reminded me again just recently, in case I might have forgotten a hard fact that he has repeated constantly since I first meet him wearing those same sneakers, or same style, black, of course up on a San Francisco Russian Hill park in the summer of love in the year of our lord, 1967. And if you do not know that particular summer of love reference and think it was, or is, just some reference to your average, ordinary, plain vanilla version of summer love like happens every summer when boy meets girl, or girl meets boy, or name your particular combination these days, well hell’s bells, go look it up on Wikipedia.

Oh, sorry, you don’t know Josh Breslin or have never heard of him. Well, I guess, probably not, but he like about twelve million other guys (and gals) had Olympic dreams, or at least Olympic –sized dreams based on that silly little local schoolboy win. Moreover, Josh based that big time dream, more understandably, understandably to these ears, on the fiercest desire to get out from under his working poor roots. Yah, Josh’s is that kind of story, another in a long line of such stories, but a story nevertheless. And although he told me the story a long time ago it always kind of stuck with me since I too had some dreams, not Olympic dreams, or Olympic-sized dreams for that matter, but shared his great desire to get out from under my own low-rent working poor roots. That’s probably, although Josh is a few years younger than I am, why when we meet in the summer of love in 1967 out in day-glo, merry prankster, magical mystery tour, yellow brick road San Francisco we kind of hit it off right away. Even though he “stole” my girl, Butterfly Swirl (real name Kathleen Callahan from down in Carlsbad in that same California dream night, Yah, it was that kind of time, read up on it like I said), right from under my nose. But to his story.
********
Josh Breslin, church mouse proud, poor as a church mouse proud, maybe poorer, just like his father, Prescott, never liked to show how poor he was, especially after his father lost his job in the MacAdams Textile Mills after that firm fled south for cheaper labor and left many in Olde Saco, that’s up in coastal podunk Maine, with not much to scratch by on. With the years Prescott’s dreams faded to insect size, maybe ant size, but Josh, once he got to be about eleven or twelve just decided one day that way, that dreamless father dream way, was not for him. Let’s just leave it at that for his motivation, and that seems about right for the eight millions strains that a young boy is under, and puts himself under.

But like many twelve- year olds what the hell is he going to do about it. Too young to work, to young and clueless to take off on some bum freighter, or smoke dream freight train. In short, no prospects, no hit you in the head with prospects. Then one day, one late fall day Josh, walking down to Olde Saco Beach after school, purple paisley-print hand-me-down shirt from older brother, untucked, chinos, uncuffed, (signifying not cool, not cool in Olde Saco boy teen world, but cuffed were more expensive and that argument won the day, the Mother Breslin day), and wore buster brown shoes to guide him through early tween-hood just started to run once he hit the sand, and he kept running for long while, long enough to work up a serious sweat, and get rid of some serious angst, tween variety.

And that simply enough is how it started. Now at twelve or so he was no speed demon, and too ill-formed physically to have endurance yet but he was on a roll and for a couple of years he just ran, ran to get some sweat up, and take some of that angst crust off. By the time he reached Olde Saco High in the ninth grade he had something of a reputation as a guy who ran (and as a loner, except for the odd girl or seven who fell for his “from hunger” but “cute” routine but that, like the later, ah, Butterfly Swirl “theft” incident is not part of the story so we will move on) so, naturally, the cross country coach (who also tripled as indoor and outdoor track coach), “recruited” him to the teams. Grade 9 Josh was something of a bust because he tried to keep pace with the older boys rather than run at his own pace, and part of grade 10 too, but anyone could see that he had plenty of determination to run, and seek his glory by running. This was the ticket out, the way out.

There is no need to go into details about his training regimen (running the dunes, beach work, mainly) or that toward the end of tenth grade he started to beat the older boys not just at Olde Saco but around southern Maine too. You can look that stuff up. What you can’t look up, at least in any record book, is how Josh in his senior year won it all, won the Maine state one mile championship that was going to propel him to, well, Olympic heights. And the key? Josh, sometime in the eleventh grade got hold of a pair of Chuck Taylor’s. ( I won’t bore you with the black, of course tag) Why, well, in those pre-techno-wiz sneakers with bells and whistles crazed days because they were cheap, all Prescott could afford for his son. Now Chuck’s may have had (and have) a certain cache as basketball shoes, and maybe even by the time Josh started winning a lot a certain “cool” cache with the girls but to win races, even podunk state championship races, you needed real track shoes, Adidas, stuff like that. Not Josh though. The kid he beat from Auburn upstate had them but there was young Josh in the winner’s circle with his old clickety-clack Chuck’s.

More than one Olde Saco girl who had not previously fallen for his “from hunger” act started calling him up in the night. Late at night. Including one cheerleader-type who practically stalked him and who when she introduced herself stated “I didn’t know Olde Saco had a track team.” Oh, well. Now I wish that I could say that Josh then went on to fame and fortune as a runner. In those days, unlike now when there is real dough in the thing, runners as a species were “from hunger” and so that dream energy went into other stuff. But, hell, it still is a good story, right? Especially that "cool with the girls" part. I know Butterfly Swirl liked his “kicks” (code name for Chuck’s among the aficionados) out in that warm San Francisco summer of love night. Damn Josh and his damn silly sneakers. 

***Out Of the Be-Bop 1940s Film Noir Night-Publish Or Perish- “The Big Clock”- A Review

DVD Review

The Big Clock, starring Ray Milland, Charles Laughton, Elsa Lancaster, Paramount Pictures, 1948
Yes, after over a score of film reviews of noir efforts I can truthfully say they come in all sizes, some that stretch the limits of “proper” noir dimensions like the noir under review, The Big Clock. After all plenty of glib lines, some faded femme fatale, a few screwball scenes and an off-hand maniacal press baron as the bad guy could have fit as well as in the 1930s social comedy beat. The thing that saves this actually nice ninety minute film is the flashback aspect of the plot line as it unfolds and the comeuppance of one Rupert Murdoch, oops, Earl Janoth (played a little too woodenly, and perhaps archly, by great actor Charles Laughton).

As to the plot line here is the skinny. Press baron Janoth will stop at nothing, nothing at all (sound familiar?), to keep up the circulation of his various world-wide journalistic enterprises, in the days before social media clicked our cares away, when such items were massively bought and read by the large reading public, Needless to say in order to keep producing plenty of grist for the mill, and keep people employed, it is necessary to have a staff that is little short of workaholic (to say nothing of alcoholic). And here is where hard working journal editor George Stroud (playing in dapper, and perhaps a little too arch as well, manner by Ray Milland) trying to balance work and home life comes in. Because if anybody is going to get to the bottom of anything, anything, at all, it will be George Shroud. Just ask his hard-pressed wife.

And George has plenty to get to the bottom of. It seems that among his oddball, off-hand interests (besides big clocks, keeping a very tight ship, and firing people at a patrician whim) Mr. Janoth doesn’t like the idea of being the “fall guy” for murder. Oh, yes and he also is jealous of other men “courting” his wayward, conniving mistress. Which leads to said murder (maybe murder two, but murder nevertheless) when he confronts his dear after seemingly seeing some shadowy guy coming out of their little love nest. That is why he needs a fall guy.

What he doesn’t know is that George, innocently (at least from what we are shown on camera and what figures given the unfolding plot line), is the spotted guy. Naturally Mr. Janoth, given his aversion, wants to cover his tracks and find that fall guy. As is also inevitable he puts someone on the case that will leave no stone unturned. Yes, George. So you know, know even before the final confrontation of good and bad that drives noir that Mr. Murdoch, oops again, Janoth is going to take “the fall.” And that, my friends, is what passed for high drama, high journalistic-themed drama, in the days before social networking eliminated the guesswork.


 

***You Don’t Need A Band To Perform The Last Waltz-Do You?

A YouTube film clip of Mark Dinning performing his teen tear-jerker, Teen Angel to set an "appropriate" mood for this post.

The Last Waltz, Indeed

Peter Paul Markin, North Adamsville Class Of 1964, comment:
Note: The term “last waltz” of the title of this piece is used as a simple expression of the truth. The life, or better, half-life of this sketch came about originally through reviewing, a few years ago, a long-running series of “Oldies But Goodies” CDs from the 1950s and early 1960s, the time of my coming of age time. After reviewing ten of these things I found out that the series was even longer, fifteen in all. Rather than turning myself into some local hospital for a cure and the good effects of some oldies twelve-step program to restore my soul health I plugged on. Plugged on, plugged on intrepidly, with the full knowledge that such things had their saturation point.

After all how much could one rekindle, endlessly rekindle, memories from a relatively short, if important, part of our lives, even for those of us who lived and died by the songs (or some of the songs) in those treasured compilations. How many times, moreover, can one read about wallflowers (their invisibleness and, dread of dreads, not winding up like them even if it meant casting off friendships with every known nerdish future, doctor, engineer and lawyer in town), sighs (ahs, and otherwise), certain shes (or hes for shes) the real point of reviewing any such compilations, the crepe paper-etched moonlight glow on high school dance night (if there was any, moon that is) and hanging around to the bitter end for that last dance of the night to prove... what. Bastante! Enough!

Or so I thought until my old friend, my old mad monk, merry prankster, stone freak, summer of love (1967 version) compadre from Olde Saco up in Maine, Josh Breslin. Yes, that Josh Breslin, or rather Joshua Lawrence Breslin for those who have read his by-line over the years in half the unread radical chic or alterative vision publications in this country, called me up in a frenzy just after I had finally completed the last damn review. And as usual when he calls up in the dead of night it was “girl” trouble, if that is the appropriate way to describe such an illness for sixty-somethings.

His frenzied three in the morning problem? Josh’s Old Saco High School Class of 1967 was going to have its fortieth reunion, and through the now weathered Mainiac grapevine he found out that some middle school (then junior high) sweetheart, Lucy Dubois (Olde Saco was, and is a central gathering spot for French-Canadians and French Canadian Americans, including Josh’s old mother, Delores, nee LeBlanc), was going to show and he needed a refresher on the old time tunes. More importantly, he continued on to explain why he, madcap love ‘em and leave Josh in that summer of love 1967, and beyond, including a not forgotten “theft” of my girlfriend at the time, Butterfly Swirl (ya it was that kind of time), still had a “crush” on Ms. Dubois and what was he going to do about it come reunion night. So the following is just a little mood music from Josh’s backward trek in the old reprobate own words, or close to them as that degenerate will ever get.
********
No question that those of us who came of age in the late 1950s and early 1960s were truly children of rock and roll. We were there, whether we appreciated it or not at the time, when the first, sputtering, musical moves away from ballady Broadway show tunes and rhymey Tin Pan Alley pieces hit the radio airwaves. (If you do not know what a radio is then ask your parents or, ouch, grandparents please. Or look it up on Wikipedia if you are too embarrassed to not know such ancient history things. Join the bus.) And, most importantly, we were there when the music moved away from any and all music that one’s parents might have approved of, or maybe, even liked, or, hopefully, at least they left you alone to play in peace up in your room when rock and roll hit post- World War II America teenagers like, well, like an atomic bomb.

Not all of the material put forth was good, nor was all of it destined to be playable forty or fifty years later on some “greatest hits” compilation like the ones Peter Paul has been satanically reviewing but some of songs had enough chordal energy, lyrical sense, and sheer danceability to make any Jack or Jill jump then, or now. And, here is the good part, especially for painfully shy guys like me (and Peter Paul when we talked about such august matters one Big Sur 1968 night, one stoned night but that is just redundant after I already said Big Sur 1968), or those who, like me as well, had two left feet on the dance floor. Just don’t remind Lucy of that, okay. You didn’t need to dance toe to toe, close to close, with that certain she (or he for shes). Just be alive…uh, hip, to the music. Otherwise you might become the dreaded wallflower. I had to drop more guys from the old neighborhood over on Albemarle, the Olde Saco projects, who later made good just because I didn’t want the guilt by association wallflower nerd label hanging around my neck. But that fear, the fear of fears that haunted many a teenage dream then, maybe now too, is a story for another day. Let’s just leave it at this for now. Ah, to be very, very young then was very heaven.

But what about the now seeming mandatory question that Peter Paul made a point of asking in those dimwitted reviews he is so proud of, the inevitable end of the night high school dance (or maybe even middle school) song that I really want to talk about. Or rather about Lucy Dubois’ (I won’t use her married name because she still lives up around Olde Saco and has, many, many family connections around, including a couple of giant economy-sized brothers). The song that you, maybe, waited around all night for just to prove that you were not a wallflower, and more importantly, had the moxie to, mumble-voiced, parched-throated, sweaty-handed, asked a girl to dance (women can relate their own experiences, probably similar).

Here the 1960 Mark Dinning tune Teen Angel fills the bill, or filled Lucy’s bill. Hey, I did really like this one too, especially the soulful, sorrowful timing and voice intonation. Yes, I know, I know the lyrics are, well, not life-enhancing and apparently the Laura or Lorraine who, ill-advisedly, ran back to that car stuck on the railroad track was none too bright. Not if she went overt he edge for some cheapjack high school ring that would not survive more than few hand-washings before turning green and that, moreover, Lance or Larry had already previously given (and taken back) from half the girls in the school. Jesus, did we really think we were that immortal. Yes, before you even start, I also know, this is one of the slow ones that you had to dance close on. And just hope, hope to high heaven, that you didn’t destroy your partner’s shoes and feet. Well, one learns a few social skills in this world if for no other reason than to “impress” that certain she (or he for shes, or nowadays, just mix and match your preferences). I did, didn’t you?

Well Lucy showed up that class reunion night as expected since my intelligence source on the matter was very reliable. Moreover the “as expected” aspect had an additional factor also relayed by that same source. Lucy was coming back only because she had heard that I was coming back for the reunion. Damn, she still held me in thrall when I saw here coming in the entrance of the hotel ballroom where the reunion was being held on the outskirts of Portland, as I flashed back to the old days, the days when Lucy and I shared many a laugh, many an awkward boy and girl junior high school laugh, and later many a stolen kiss down at Squaw Rock, the “parking” end of Olde Saco Beach.

See, there was some kind of cosmic karma bond between us from early on even though we had more than our share of battles, break-ups, alternative romances, and the like. And from early on she was always the sensible one the one that teethered my flights of fancy and kept me from going off more than one deep-end. Or almost. Lucy, as was the serious tradition in Podunk Olde Saco French-Canadian culture, the working class part which when you got right down to it was on the only real part back then, was “slated” to be married (and out of the house) right after high school. And I was the guy, the glad guy for most of high school to join her in that act. Much to the joy of her parents and my own French-Canadian mother (nee LeBlanc).

But then the 1960s hit backwater Olde Saco in late 1966 and early 1967 and I got the wanderlust a little, although I was “slated” to go to State U in the fall of ’67. Peter Paul already mentioned my summer of love exploits, or if he didn’t he will although take any such talk strictly with the grain of salt. So instead of marrying Lucy that summer I told her to wait until I got back. Well, I got a little delayed, made seventeen detours here and there, and by the time I was ready to settle down a little Lucy had already found somebody else to marry and that was that. Except that never-ending slight gnawing in my stomach every time I heard the name Lucy, Olde Saco, Maine, the ocean, somebody parking a car, or took more than more than one stolen kiss.

Upon seeing her once again across the ballroom I almost could smell that faint-edged scent, some lilac and dreams, bed sheet dream, scent, that always travelled around with her and drove me (and other guys too, no question) to distraction. That slender girl with the do good in the world dreams and cozy cottage ambitions. But mainly it was that sensibleness, that what you see is what you get, and that ingrained gentliness no book or essay could convey that would see her, and you, through many stormy nights. And what song did we, Josh Breslin and Lucy Dubois, trot out on that scary dance floor to on that wintry November reunion night? Come on now, guess.
*************
....and a trip down memory lane.

MARK DINNING lyrics - Teen Angel

(Jean Surrey & Red Surrey)

Teen angel, teen angel, teen angel, ooh, ooh

That fateful night the car was stalled
upon the railroad track
I pulled you out and we were safe
but you went running back

Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love

What was it you were looking for
that took your life that night
They said they found my high school ring
clutched in your fingers tight

Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love

Just sweet sixteen, and now you're gone
They've taken you away.
I'll never kiss your lips again
They buried you today

Teen angel, can you hear me
Teen angel, can you see me
Are you somewhere up above
And I am still your own true love
Teen angel, teen angel, answer me, please

***Ancient dreams, dreamed- When Miss Cora Swayed –Magical Realism 101

Yah, sometimes, and maybe more than sometimes, a frail, a frill, a twist, a dame, oh hell, let’s cut out the goofy stuff and just call her a woman and be done with it, will tie a guy’s insides up in knots so bad he doesn’t know what is what. Tie a guy up so bad he will go to the chair without a murmur, the electric chair for those not in the know or those not wound up in the love game with a big old knot very tightly squeezing him. That is he will not murmur if there is such a merciful chair in his locale, otherwise whatever way they cut the life out of a guy who has been so twisted up he couldn’t think straight enough to tie his own shoes, or hers. Here’s the funny part and you know as well as I do that I do not mean funny, laughing funny, the guy will go to his great big reward smiling, okay half-smiling, just to have been around that frail, frill, twist. dame, oh hell, you know what I mean. Around her slightly shy, sly, come hither scents, around her, well, just around her. Or maybe just to be done with it, the knots and all, although six-two-and even he would go back for more, plenty more, and still have that smile, ah, half-smile as they lead him away. Ya, guys just like Frank.

Frank Jackman had it bad.(but you might as well fill in future Peter Paul Markins, Joshua Lawrence Breslins, name your name, just kids when they started getting twisted up in knots, girl knots, and a million, more or less, other guys as easily as Frank, real easy). Ya, Frank had it bad as a man could have from the minute Miss Cora walked through that café door from the back of the house, the door that separated the living quarters from the café. Just an off-hand plain plank door, cheaply made and amateurishly hinged, that spoke of no returns.

She breezed, Frank thought later when he tried to explain it, explain everything that had happened and how to anyone who would listen, trade winds breezed in although this was the wrong coast for that, in her white summer frilly vee-necked buttoned cotton blouse, white short shorts, tennis or beach ready, maybe just ready for whatever came along, with convenience pockets for a woman’s this-and-that, and showing plenty of well-turned, lightly-tanned bare leg, long legs at first glance, and the then de rigueur bandana holding back her hair, also white, the bandana that is. Ya, she came out of that crooked cheapjack door like some ill-favored Pacific wind, some Japan current ready, ready for the next guy out. Jesus.

I might as well tell you, just like he told it to me before he moved on, it didn’t have to finish up like the way it. Or start that way, for that matter. Like the way it did play out. Not at all. No way. He could have just turned around anytime he said but I just took that as so much wind talking, or maybe some too late regret. Sure there are always choices, for some people. Unless you had some Catholic/Calvinist/Shiva whirl pre-destination mandela wheel working your fates, working your fates into damn overdrive like our boy Frank.

Listen up a little and see if Frank was just blowing smoke, or something. He was just a half-hobo, maybe less, bumming around and stumbling up and down the West Coast, too itchy to settle down after four years of hard Pacific battle fights on bloody atolls, on bloody coral reefs, and knee-deep bloody islands with names even he couldn’t remember, or want to remember after Cora came on the horizon but that was later. He was just stumbling like he said from one half-ass mechanic’s job in some flop garage here, another city day laborer’s job shoveling something there, and picking fruits, hot sun fruits, maybe vegetables depending on the crop rotation, like some bracero whenever things got really tough, or the hobo jungle welcome ran out, ran out with the running out of wines and stubbed cigarette butts. He mentioned something about freight yard tramp knives, and cuts and wounds. Tough, no holds barred stuff, once tramp, bum, hobo solidarities broke down, and that easy and often. Frank just kind of flashed that part of the story because he was in a hurry for me to get it straight about him and Cora and the hobo jungle stuff was just stuff, and so much train smoke and maybe a bad dream.

Hell, the way he was going, after some bracero fruit days with some bad hombre bosses standing over his sweat, the “skids” in Los Angeles, down by the tar pits and just off the old Southern Pacific line, were looking good, a good rest up. Real good after fourteen days running in some Imperial Valley fruit fields so he started heading south, south by the sea somewhere near Paseo Robles to catch some ocean sniff, and have himself washed clean by loud ocean sounds so he didn’t have to listen to the sounds coming from his head about getting off the road.

Here is where luck is kind of funny though, and maybe this is a place where it is laughing funny, because, for once, he had a few bucks, a few bracero fruit bucks, stuck in his socks, he was hungry, maybe not really food hungry, but that would do at the time for a reason, and once he hit the coast highway this Bayview Diner was staring him right in the face after the last truck ride had let him off a few hundred yards up the road. Some fugitive barbecued beef smell, or maybe strong onions getting a work out over some griddled stove top, reached him and turned him away from the gas station fill-up counter where he had planned, carefully planning to husband his dough to the city of angels, to just fill up with a Coke and moon pie. But that smell got the better of him. So he walked into that Bayview Café, walked in with his eyes wide open. And then she walked through the damn door.

She may have been just another blonde, a very blonde frail, just serving them off the arm in some seaside hash joint as he found out later, but from second one when his eyes eyed her was nothing but, well nothing but, a femme fatale. Frank femme fatale, fatal. Of course between eying, pillow talk dreaming, and scheming up some “come on” line once she had her hooks into him, which was about thirty seconds after he laid eyes on her, he forgot, foolishly forgot, rule number one of the road, or even of being a man in go-go post-war America. What he should have asked, and had in the past when he wasn’t this dame-addled, was a dish like this doing serving them off the arm in some rundown roadside café out in pacific coast Podunk when she could be sunning herself in some be-bop daddy paid-up hillside bungalow or scratching some other dame’s eyes out to get a plum role in a B Hollywood film courtesy of some lonely rich producer. Never for a minute, not even during those thirty seconds that he wasn’t hooked did he figure, like some cagey guy would figure, that she had a story hanging behind that bandana hair.

And she did. Story number one was a “serve them off the platter” hubby short-ordering behind the grill in that tramp cafe. The guy who, to save dough, bought some wood down at the lumber yard and put up that crooked door that she had come through on first sight and who spent half his waking hours trying to figure how to short-change somebody, including his Cora. Story number two, and go figure, said hubby didn’t care one way or the other about what she did, or didn’t do, as long as he had her around as a trophy to show the boys on card-playing in the back living rooms and Kiwanis drunk as a skunk nights. Story number three was that she had many round-heeled down-at- the-heels stories too long to tell Frank before hubby came along to pick her out of some Los Angles arroyo gutter. Story number four, the one that would in the end sent our boy Frankie smiling, sorry half-smiling, to his fate was she hated hubby, hell-broth murder hated her husband, and would be “grateful” in the right way to some guy who had the chutzpah to take her out of this misery. But those stories all came later, later when she didn’t need to use those hooks she had in him, use them at all.

I swear, I swear on seven sealed bibles that I yelled, yelled from some womblike place, at the screen once I saw her coming through that door for him, for Frank, to get the hell out of there at that moment. This dame was poison, no question. Frank stop looking at those long paid for legs and languid rented eyes for a minute and get the hell out of there to some safe hobo jungle. Hell, just go out the café door, run if you have too, get your hitchhike great blue-pink American West thumb out and head for it. There’s a hobo jungle just down the road near Santa Monica, get going, and tonight grab some stolid, fetid stews, and peace.

But here is where fate works against some guys, hell, most guys. She turned around to do some dish rack thing or other with her lipstick-smeared coffee cup and then, slowly, turned back to look at Frank with those languid eyes, what color who knows, it was the look not the color that doomed Frank and asked in a soft, kittenish voice “Got a cigarette for a fresh out girl?” And wouldn’t you know, wouldn’t you just know, that Frank, “flush” with bracero dough had bought a fresh deck of Luckies at the cigarette machine out at that filling station just adjacent to the diner and they were sitting right in his left shirt pocket for the entire world to see. For her to see. And wouldn’t you know that Frank could see plain as day, plain as a man could see if he wanted to see, that bulging out of one of the convenience pockets of those long-legged white short shorts was the sharply-etched outline of a package of cigarettes. Ya, still he plucked a cigarette into her waiting lips, kind of gently, gently for rough-edged Frank, lit her up, and dated her up with his eyes. Gone, long-gone daddy, gone except for dreams and that final smile.

I screamed again, some vapid man-child scream, some kicking at the womb thump too, but do you think Frank would listen, no not our boy. You don’t need to know all the details if you are over twenty-one, hell over twelve and can keep a secret. She used her sex every way she could, and a few ways that Frank, not unfamiliar with the world’s whorehouses in lonely ports-of-call, was kind of shocked at, but only shocked. Like I said, he was hooked, hook, line and sinker. Frank knew, knew what she was, knew what she wanted, and knew what he wanted so there was no crying there.

Here is what is strange, and while I am writing this even I think it is strange. She told Frank her whole life’s story, the too familiar father crawling up into her teen bed, the run-aways, returns, girls homes, some more streets, a few whore house tricks, some street tricks, a little luck with a Hollywood producer until his wife, who controlled the dough, put a stop to it, some drugs, some L.A. gutters, and then a couple of years back some refuge from those mean streets via husband Manny’s Bayview Diner.

Even with all of that Frank still believed, believed somewhere from deep in his recessed mind, somewhere in his Oklahoma kid mud shack mind, that Cora was virginal. Some Madonna of the streets. Toward the end it was her scent, some slightly lilac scent, some lilac scent that combined with steamed vegetable sweat combined with sexual animal sweat combined with ancient Lydia MacAdams' bath soap fresh junior high school crush sweat drove him over the edge. Drove him to that smiling chair.

He had to play with fire, and play with it to the end. Christ, just like his whole young stupid gummed up life he had to play with fire. And from that minute, although really from the minute that Frank saw those long legs protruding from those white shorts Manny was done for. Hell, these two amateurs gummed up the job every which way, gummed it so that even a detective novel writer would turn blush red with shame. If you want the details just look them up in the 1946 fall editions of the Los Angeles Times, they covered the story big, and the trial too. That’s just the details though. I can give you the finish now and save your eyes, maybe. Frank, ya, Frank was just kind of smiling that smile, what did I call it, half-smile, all the way to the end. Do you need to know more?

***Songs To While The Time By- The Roots Is The Toots- Memphis Minnie's In My Girlish Days

A YouTube clip to give some flavor to this subject.

Over the past several years I have been running an occasional series in this space of songs, mainly political protest songs, you know The Internationale, Union Maid, Which Side Are You On, Viva La Quince Brigada, Universal Soldier, and such entitled Songs To While The Class Struggle By. This series which could include some protest songs as well is centered on roots music as it has come down the ages and formed the core of the American songbook. You will find the odd, the eccentric, the forebears of later musical trends, and the just plain amusing here. Listen up-Peter Paul Markin

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Songwriters: LAWLER, ERNEST

Late hours at night, trying to play my hand
Through my window, out stepped a man
I didn't know no better
Oh boys
In my girlish days

My mama cried, papa did, too
Oh, daughter, look what a shame on you
I didn't know no better
Oh boys
In my girlish days

I flagged a train, didn't have a dime
Trying to run away from that home of mine
I didn't know no better
Oh boys
In my girlish days

I hit the highway, caught me a truck
Nineteen and seventeen, when the winter was tough
I didn't know no better
Oh boys
In my girlish days

(spoken: Lord, play it for me now)

All of my playmates is not surprised,
I had to travel 'fore I got wise
I found out better
And I still got my girlish ways

***Songs To While The Time By- The Roots Is The Toots- Memphis Minnie's Bumble Bee 

 

A YouTube clip to give some flavor to this subject.

Over the past several years I have been running an occasional series in this space of songs, mainly political protest songs, you know The Internationale, Union Maid, Which Side Are You On, Viva La Quince Brigada, Universal Soldier, and such entitled Songs To While The Class Struggle By. This series which could include some protest songs as well is centered on roots music as it has come down the ages and formed the core of the American songbook. You will find the odd, the eccentric, the forebears of later musical trends, and the just plain amusing here. Listen up-Peter Paul Markin

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Bumble bee, bumble bee, please come back to me
Bumble bee, bumble bee, please come back to me
He got the best old stinger any bumble bee that I ever seen

He stung me this morning, I been looking for him all day long
He stung me this morning, I been looking for him all day long
Lord, it got me to the place, hate to see my bumble bee leave home

Bumble bee, bumble bee, don't be gone so long
Bumble bee, bumble bee, don't be gone so long
You's my bumble bee and you're needed here at home

I can't stand to hear him buzz, buzz, buzz
Come in, bumble bee, want you to stop your fuss
You're my bumble bee and you know your stuff
Oh, sting me, bumble bee, until I get enough

Bumble bee, bumble bee, don't be gone so long
Bumble bee, bumble bee, don't be gone so long
You's my bumble bee and you're needed here at home

I don't mind you going, ain't going to stay so long
Don't mind you going, don't be gone so long
You's my bumble bee and you're needed here at home

I can't stand to hear him buzz, buzz, buzz
Come in, bumble bee, I want you to stop your fuss
You's my bumble bee and you know your stuff
Oh, sting me bumble bee, until I get enough

***Out In The Be-Bop 1960s Night- When The Music’s Over-On The 43rd Anniversary Of Janis Joplin’s Death-Magical Realism 101

A YouTube film clip of Janis Joplin and Big Brother and the Holding Company performing the bluesy classic, Piece Of My Heart.
Scene: Brought to mind by the cover art on some fogged memory accompanying CD booklet of a wispy, blue-jeaned, blouse hanging off one shoulder, bare-foot, swirling mass of red hair, down home Janis Joplin-like female performer belting out some serious blues rock in the heat of the “Generation of ‘68” night. In the time of our time. Belting out songs, band backed-up and boozed-up, probably Southern Comfort if it was late and if the package store was short of some good cutting whiskey, but singing from somewhere beyond a no good man, no job, no roof over a head, no pocket dough, no prospects and a ton of busted dreams in some now forgotten barrelhouse, chittlin’ circuit bowling alley complete with barbecued ribs smoking out back or down town “colored” theater. Or the echo of that scene, okay.
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Josh Breslin (a. k. a. the Prince of Love, although some merry prankster yellow brick road bus wit made a joke of that moniker calling him the Prince of Lvov, some Podunk town in Poland, or some place like that) was weary, weary as hell, road- weary, drug-weary, Captain Crunch’s now Big Sur–based magical mystery tour, merry prankster, yellow brick road bus-weary, weary even of hanging out with his “papa,” “Far-Out” Phil Larkin who had gotten him through some pretty rough spots weary. Hell, he was girl-weary too, girl weary ever since his latest girlfriend, Gypsy Lady (nee Phyllis McBride), decided that she just had to go back to her junior year of college at Berkeley in order to finish up some paper on the zodiac signs and their meaning for the new age rising. Ya, okay Gypsy, do what you have to do, the Prince mused to himself. Chuckled really, term paper stuff was just not his “thing” right then.

Moreover this summer of 1968, June to be exact, after a year bouncing between summers of love, 1967 version to be exact, autumns of drugs, strange brews of hyper-colored experience drugs and high shamanic medicine man aztec druid flame throws, winters of Paseo Robles brown hills discontent, brown rolling hills until he sickened of rolling, the color brown, hills, slopes, plains, everything, and springs of political madness what with Johnson’s resignation, Robert Kennedy’s assassination piled on to that of Martin Luther King’s had taken a lot out of him, including his weight, weight loss that his already slim former high school runner’s frame could not afford.

Now the chickens had come home to roost. Before he had joined Captain Crunch’s merry prankster crew in San Francisco, got “on the bus,” in the youth nation tribal parlance, last summer he had assumed, after graduating from high school, that he would enter State U in the fall (University of Maine, the Prince is nothing but a Mainiac, Olde Saco section, for those who did not know). After a summer of love with Butterfly Swirl though before she went back to her golden-haired surfer boy back down in Carlsbad (his temperature rose even now every time he thought about her and her cute little tricks to get him going sexually) and then a keen interest in a couple of other young women before Gypsy Lady landed on him, some heavy drug experiences that he was still trying to figure out, his start–up friendship with Phil, and the hard fact that he just did not want to go home now that he had found “family” he decided that he needed to “see the world” for a while instead. And he had, at least enough to weary him.

What he did not figure on, or what got blasted into the deep recesses of his brain just a couple of days ago, was a letter from his parents with a draft notice from his local board enclosed. Hell’s bells he had better get back, weary or not, and get some school stuff going real fast, right now fast. There was one thing for sure, one nineteen-year old Joshua Lawrence Breslin, Olde Saco, Maine High School Class of 1967, was not going with some other class of young men to ‘Nam to be shot at, or to shoot.

Funny, Josh thought, as he mentally prepared himself for the road back to Olde Saco, how the past couple of months had just kind of drifted by and that he really was ready to get serious. The only thing that had kind of perked him up lately was Ruby Red Lips (nee Sandra Kelly), who had just got “on the bus” from someplace down South like Georgia, or Alabama and who had a great collection of blues records that he was seriously getting into (as well as seriously into Miss Ruby, as he called her as a little bait, a little come on bait, playing on her somewhere south drawl, although she seemed slow, very slow, to get his message).

Josh, all throughout high school and even on the bus, was driven by rock ‘n’ roll. Period. Guys like Elvis, Chuck, Jerry Lee, even a gal like Wanda Jackson, when they were hungry, and that hunger not only carried them to the stars but slaked some weird post-World War II, red scare, cold war hunger in guys like Josh Breslin although he never, never in a million years would have articulated it that way back then. That was infernal Captain Crunch’s work (Captain is the “owner” of the “bus” and a story all his own but that is for another time) always trying to put things in historical perspective or the exact ranking in some mythical pantheon that he kept creating (and recreating especially after a “dip” of Kool-Aid, LSD for the squares, okay).

But back to Ruby love. He got a surprise one day when he heard Ruby playing Shake, Rattle, and Roll. He asked, “Is that Carl Perkins?” Ruby laughed, laughed a laugh that he found appealing and he felt was meant to be a little coquettish and said, “No silly, that's the king of be-bop blues, Big Joe Turner. Want to hear more stuff?” And that was that. Names like Skip James, Howlin’ Wolf, Robert Johnson, Son House, Muddy Waters and Little Walter started to fill his musical universe.

What got him really going though were the women singers, Sippie Wallace that someone, Bonnie Raitt or Maria Muldaur, had found in old age out in some boondock church social or something, mad Bessie Smith squeezed dry, freeze-dried by some no account Saint Louis man and left wailing, empty bed, gin house wailing ever after, a whole bunch of other barrelhouse blues-singers named Smith, Memphis Minnie, the queen of the double entendre, sex version, with her butcher, baker, candlestick-maker men, doing, well doing the do, okay, and the one that really, really got to him, “Big Mama” Thornton. The latter belting out a bluesy rendition of Hound Dog made just for her that made Elvis' seem kind of punk, and best of all a full-blast Piece Of My Heart.

Then one night Ruby took him to club over in Monterrey just up the road from the Big Sur merry prankster yellow bus camp, the Blue Note, a club for young blues talent, mainly, that was a stepping-stone to getting some work at the Monterrey Pop Festival held each year. There he heard, heard if you can believe this, some freckled, red-headed whiskey-drinking off the hip girl (or maybe some cheap gin or rotgut Southern Comfort, cheap and all the in between rage for those saving their dough for serious drugs).

Ya just a wisp of a girl, wearing spattered blue-jeans, some damn moth-eaten tee-shirt, haphazardly tie-dyed by someone on a terminal acid trip, barefoot, from Podunk, Texas, or maybe Oklahoma, (although he had seen a fair share of the breed in Fryeburg Fair Maine) who was singing Big Mama’s Piece of My Heart. And then Ball and Chain, Little School Girl, and Little Red Rooster.

Hell, she had the joint jumping until the early hours for just as long as guys kept putting drinks in front of her. And maybe some sweet sidle promise, who knows in that alcohol blaze around three in the morning. All Josh knew was this woman, almost girlish except for her sharp tongue and that eternal hardship voice, that no good man, no luck except bad luck voice, that spoke of a woman’s sorrow back to primordial times, had that certain something, that something hunger that he recognized in young Elvis and the guys. And that something Josh guessed would take them over the hump into that new day they were trying to create on the bus, and a thousand other buses like it. What a night, what a blues singer.

The next day Ruby Red Lips came over to him, kind of perky and kind of with that just slightly off-hand look in her eye that he was getting to catch on to when a girl was interested in him, and said, “Hey, Janis, that singer from the Blue Note, is going to be at Monterrey Pops next month with a band to back her up, want to go? And, do you want to go to the Blue Note with me tonight?” After answering, yes, yes, to both those questions the Prince of Love (and not some dinky Lvov either, whoever that dull-wit was) figured he could go back to old life Olde Saco by late August, sign up for State U., and still be okay but that he had better grab Ruby now while he could.

As The Class Struggle Heats Up And We Take Arrests-Some Important Information From The American Civil Liberties Union

Click below to link to an American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU)-Massachusetts website for additional information and links to other chapters.

http://aclum.org/

Markin comment:

I have crossed swords with the ACLU over their defense of "free speech" for fascists and other issues but this information is very useful as we take more arrests in our current struggles. And as the class struggle heats up and more occasions for arrest occur. We are not constrained by legalism, the ACLU's or anybody else's, in our actions, obviously, but we had better, collectively, be prepared on all fronts otherwise we will be picked off one by one.

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WHAT TO DO IF YOU'RE STOPPED BY POLICE, IMMIGRATION AGENTS OR THE FBI

We rely on the police to keep us safe and treat us all fairly, regardless of race, ethnicity, national origin or religion. This card provides tips for interacting with police and understanding your rights. <br />

Note: Some state laws may vary. Separate rules apply at checkpoints and when entering the U.S. (including at airports).

YOUR RIGHTS

- You have the right to remain silent. If you wish to exercise that right, say so out loud.

- You have the right to refuse to consent to a search of yourself, your car or your home.

- If you are not under arrest, you have the right to calmly leave.

- You have the right to a lawyer if you are arrested. Ask for one immediately.

- Regardless of your immigration or citizenship status, you have constitutional rights.

YOUR RESPONSIBILITIES

- Do stay calm and be polite.

- Do not interfere with or obstruct the police.

- Do not lie or give false documents.

- Do prepare yourself and your family in case you are arrested.

- Do remember the details of the encounter.

Do file a written complaint or call your local ACLU if you feel your rights have been violated.

IF YOU ARE STOPPED FOR QUESTIONING

Stay calm. Don't run. Don't argue, resist or obstruct the police, even if you are innocent or police are violating your rights. Keep your hands where police can see them.

Ask if you are free to leave. If the officer says yes, calmly and silently walk away. If you are under arrest, you have a right to know why. <br />

You have the right to remain silent and cannot be punished for refusing to answer questions. If you wish to remain silent, tell the officer out loud. <br >

In some states, you must give your name if asked to identify yourself. <br />

You do not have to consent to a search of yourself or your belongings, but police may "pat down" your clothing if they suspect a weapon. You should not physically resist, but you have the right to refuse consent for any further search. If you do consent, it can affect you later in court.

IF YOU ARE STOPPED IN YOUR CAR

Stop the car in a safe place as quickly as possible. Turn off the car, turn on the internal light, open the window part way and place your hands on the wheel.

Upon request, show police your driver's license, registration and proof of insurance.

If an officer or immigration agent asks to look inside your car, you can refuse to consent to the search. But if police believe your car contains evidence of a crime, your car can be searched without your consent. <br />

Both drivers and passengers have the right to remain silent. If you are a passenger, you can ask if you are free to leave. If the officer says yes, sit silently or calmly leave. Even if the officer says no, you have the right to remain silent. <br />

IF YOU ARE QUESTIONED ABOUT YOUR IMMIGRATION STATUS

You have the right to remain silent and do not have to discuss your immigration or citizenship status with police, immigration agents or any other officials. You do not have to answer questions about where you were born, whether you are a U.S. citizen, or how you entered the country. <br />

(Separate rules apply at international borders and airports, and for individuals on certain nonimmigrant visas, including tourists and business travelers.) <br />

If you are not a U.S. citizen and an immigration agent requests your immigration papers, you must show them if you have them with you. If you are over 18, carry your immigration documents with you at all times. If you do not have immigration papers, say you want to remain silent. <br />

Do not lie about your citizenship status or provide fake documents. <br />

IF THE POLICE OR IMMIGRATION AGENTS COME TO YOUR HOME

If the police or immigration agents come to your home, you do not have to let them in unless they have certain kinds of warrants. <br />

Ask the officer to slip the warrant under the door or hold it up to the window so you can inspect it. A search warrant allows police to enter the address listed on the warrant, but officers can only search the areas and for the items listed. An arrest warrant allows police to enter the home of the person listed on the warrant if they believe the person is inside. A warrant of removal/deportation (ICE warrant) does not allow officers to enter a home without consent. <br />

Even if officers have a warrant, you have the right to remain silent. If you choose to speak to the officers, step outside and close the door. <br />

IF YOU ARE CONTACTED BY THE FBI

If an FBI agent comes to your home or workplace, you do not have to answer any questions. Tell the agent you want to speak to a lawyer first. <br If you are asked to meet with FBI agents for an interview, you have the right to say you do not want to be interviewed. If you agree to an interview, have a lawyer present. You do not have to answer any questions you feel uncomfortable answering, and can say that you will only answer questions on a specific topic.

IF YOU ARE ARRESTED

Do not resist arrest, even if you believe the arrest is unfair. Say you wish to remain silent and ask for a lawyer immediately. Don't give any explanations or excuses. If you can't pay for a lawyer, you have the right to a free one. Don't say anything, sign anything or make any decisions without a lawyer. 

You have the right to make a local phone call. The police cannot listen if you call a lawyer. 

Prepare yourself and your family in case you are arrested. Memorize the phone numbers of your family and your lawyer. Make emergency plans if you have children or take medication.< br />

Special considerations for non-citizens:

- Ask your lawyer about the effect of a criminal conviction or plea on your immigration status. <br />

- Don't discuss your immigration status with anyone but your lawyer. <br />

- While you are in jail, an immigration agent may visit you. Do not answer questions or sign anything before talking to a lawyer. <br />

- Read all papers fully. If you do not understand or cannot read the papers, tell the officer you need an interpreter. <br />

IF YOU ARE TAKEN INTO IMMIGRATION (OR "ICE") CUSTODY

You have the right to a lawyer, but the government does not have to provide one for you. If you do not have a lawyer, ask for a list of free or low-cost legal services. <br />

You have the right to contact your consulate or have an officer inform the consulate of your arrest.

Tell the ICE agent you wish to remain silent. Do not discuss your immigration status with anyone but your lawyer. <br />

Do not sign anything, such as a voluntary departure or stipulated removal, without talking to a lawyer. If you sign, you may be giving up your opportunity to try to stay in the U.S

Remember your immigration number ("A" number) and give it to your family. It will help family members locate you. <br />

Keep a copy of your immigration documents with someone you trust.

 

 IF YOU FEEL YOUR RIGHTS HAVE BEEN VIOLATED

Remember: police misconduct cannot be challenged on the street. Don't physically resist officers or threaten to file a complaint.

Write down everything you remember, including officers' badge and patrol car numbers, which agency the officers were from, and any other details. Get contact information for witnesses. If you are injured, take photographs of your injuries (but seek medical attention first).

File a written complaint with the agency's internal affairs division or civilian complaint board. In most cases, you can file a complaint anonymously if you wish.

Call your local ACLU or visit www.aclu.org/profiling.

This information is not intended as legal advice.

This brochure is available in English and Spanish / Esta tarjeta tambián se puede obtener en inglés y español.

Produced by the American Civil Liberties Union 6/2010

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