Monday, July 03, 2017

In Boston 7/04 10th Annual Anti-Imperialist Picnic-Join and Build the Resistance

Charlie Welch via Act-MA
To  act-ma@act-ma.org  
Anti-Imperialist Picnic Tuesday July 4th. Noon to 4 PM (A tradition
since 2008)

Are you sick of all those boring July Fourths you've suffered through?
Too much red, white, and blue? Have you had enough of that July 4th
American jingoism? But you still do love grilling and relaxing with
friends, don't you?

Well then, the Anti-Imperialist Picnic is for you! On July 4th at noon
to 4PM come on out to the Allston Brighton riverside. It will be right
next to the canoe and kayak rental place.

Here are detailed directions:
http://www.paddleboston.com/boston/directions.php

Potluck We will be grilling many things like hamburgers, hotdogs.There
will be food and drink for all! If you can please bring food, drinks,
footballs, Frisbees, or other things to share. Vegan food a plus!

People will meet up to have a picnic and NOT partake in the July 4th
spectacle. We meet on this day to say NO to the U.S. government's
imperial intentions, its war on working people worldwide, and its
exploitative economic system. We come together to show solidarity with
people who are
fighting against capitalism, colonialism, imperialism, patriarchy,
xenophobia, and all other forms of oppression!

For many years radicals have come out on this day to relax with friends
and comrades and to show our opposition to the imperial intentions of
the US government.

Directions: Head west on Soldiers Field Road. The Charles river will be
on your right. After the Eliot Bridge, look for the first parking area
to pull off the road. We will be near the Kayak rental area.
If you are coming by public transportation, take bus 70 to Western Ave.
and Everett St. It's about a 10 minute walk. Go down Everett St and turn
right at Soldiers Field Road.
It's about 1.3 miles from the Harvard Square T stop
Here's a map: http://tinyurl.com/jqrcrzz

Facebook Link
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The 50th Anniversary Of The Summer Of Love, 1967-Scenes In Search Of The Blue-Pink Great American West Night-Scenes In Search Of The Blue-Pink Great American West Night

Scenes In Search Of The Blue-Pink Great American West Night-Scenes In Search Of The Blue-Pink Great American West Night

 Scene Two: Hayes-Bickford Breakout -October 1962


 Here I am again sitting, 3 o’clock in the morning sitting, bleary-eyed, slightly distracted after mulling over the back and forth of the twelve hundredth run-in (nice way to put it, right?) with Ma that has driven me out into this chilly October 1962 early morning. And where do I find myself sitting at this time of morning? Tired, but excitedly expectant, on an uncomfortable, unpadded bench seat on this rolling old clickity-clack monster of a Red Line subway car as it now waggles its way out past Kendall Station on its way to Central Square and then to the end of the line, Harvard Square. My hangout, my muse home, my night home, at least my weekend night home, my place to make sense of the world in a world that doesn’t make much sense, at least not enough much sense. Sanctuary, Harvard Square Hayes-Bickford sanctuary, misbegotten teenage boy sanctuary, recognized by international law, recognized by canon law, or not.


 That beef with Ma, that really unnumbered beef, forget about the 1200 I said before, that was just a guess, has driven me to take an “all-nighter” trip away from the travails of the old home town, North Adamsville, across Boston to the never-closed Hayes-Bickford cafeteria that beckons just as you get up the stairs from the Harvard subway tunnel. Damn, let me just get this off my chest and then I can tell the rest of the story. Ma said X, I pleaded for Y (hell this homestead civil war lent itself righteously to a nice algebraic formulation. You can use it too, no charge). Unbeknownst to me Y did not exist in Ma’s universe. Ever. Sound familiar? Sure, but I had to get it off my chest.


 After putting on my uniform, my Harvard Square “cool” uniform: over-sized flannel brownish plaid shirt, belt-less black cuff-less chino pants, black Chuck Taylor logo-ed Converse sneakers, a now ratty old windbreaker won in a Fourth of July distance race a few years back when I really was nothing but a wet-behind-the ears kid to ward off the chill, and, and the absolutely required midnight sunglasses to hide those bleary eyes from a peeking world I was ready to go. To face the unlighted night, and fight against the dawn’s rising for another day. Oh ya, I forgot, I had to sneak out of the house stealthily, run like some crazed broken-field football player down the back of the property, and, after catching my breathe, walk a couple of miles over bridge and nasty, hostile (hostile if anyone was out, and anyone was sniping for a misbegotten teenage boy, for any purpose good or evil) Dorchester streets to get to the Fields Corner subway stop. The local Eastern Mass. bus had stopped its always erratic service hours ago, and, any way, I usually would rather walk than wait, wait my youth away, for those buses to amble along our way with their byzantine schedules.


 Right now though I am thinking, as those subway car wheels rattle beneath my feet, who knows, really, how or why it starts, that wanderlust start, that strange feeling in the pit of your stomach that you have to move on, or out, or up or you will explode, except you also know, or you damn well come to know that it eats away at a man, or a woman for that matter, in different ways. Maybe way back, way back in the cradle it was that first sense that there was more to the world that the four corners of that baby world existence and that if you could just, could just get over that little, little side board there might be something better, much better over the horizon. But, frankly that just seems like too much of a literary stretch even for me, moody teenage boy that I am, to swallow so let’s just say that it started once I knew that the ocean was a way to get away, if you needed to get away. But see I didn’t figure than one out for myself even, old Kenny from the old neighborhood in third grade is the one who got me hip to that, and then Johnny James and his brother filled in the rest of the blanks and so then I was sea-worthy, dream sea-worthy anyway.


 But, honestly, that sea dream stuff can only be music for the future because right now I am stuck, although I do not always feel stuck about it, trying to figure my way out of high school world, or at least figure out the raging things that I want to do after high school that fill up my daydream time (study hall time, if you really want to know). Of course, as well, that part about the ocean just mentioned, well there was a literal part to the proposition since ocean-at-my-back (sometimes right at my back) New England homestead meant unless I wanted to take an ill-advised turn at piracy or high-seas hijacking or some such thing east that meant I had to head west. Right now west though is Harvard Square, its doings and not doings, it trumpet call to words, and sounds, and actions in the October Friday night all-night storm brewing.


 The train now rounds the squeaky-sounding bend out of Central Square and stops at the station. So now I leave my pensive seat and stand waiting, waiting for the driver to release the pressure to let the sliding train door open, getting ready to jump off the old subway, two-steps-at-a-time my way up the two flights of stairs and head for mecca to see if things jump for me tonight. The doors open at last. Up the two-stepped stairs I go, get to the surface and confront the old double-glassed Hayes door entrance and survey the vast table-filled room that at this hour has a few night owl stranglers spotted throughout the place.


 You know the old Hayes-Bickford, or one of them, if you live in Boston, or New York City, or a few other places on the East Coast, don’t you? Put your tray on the metal slider (hey, I don’t know what you call that slider thing, okay) and cruise down the line from item to item behind the glass-enclosed bins of, mostly, steamy food, if you are looking for fast service, for a quick between doing things, pressing things, meal. Steamed and breaded everything from breakfast to lunch to dinner anytime topped off by dishwater quality coffee (refills on demand, if you feel lucky). But this is not the place to bring your date, certainly not your first date, except maybe for a quick cup of that coffee before going to some event, or home. What this is, really, is a place where you can hang out, and hang out with comfort, because nobody, nobody at all, is going to ask you to leave, at least if you act half-way human. And that is what this place is really about, the humans in all their human conditions doing human things, alien to you or not, that you see floating by you, as you take a seat at one of the one-size-fits all wooden tables with those red vinyl seat-covered chairs replete with paper place settings, a few off-hand eating utensils and the usual obligatory array of condiments to help get down the food and drink offered here.


 Let me describe who is here at this hour on an early Saturday morning in October 1962. I will not vouch for other times, or other days, but I know Friday and Saturday nights a little so I can say something about them. Of course there is the last drink at the last open barroom crowd, said bar already well-closed in bluelaw Massachusetts, trying to get sober enough by eating a little food to traverse the road home. Good luck. Needless to say eating food in an all-night cafeteria, any all-night cafeteria, means only one thing-the person is so caught up in a booze frenzy that he (mainly) or she (very occasionally) is desperate for anything to hang the name food on to. Frankly, except for the obligatory hard-dollar coffee-steamed to its essence, then through some mystical alchemic process re-beaned, and served in heavy ceramic mugs that keep in the warmth to keep the eyes open the food here is strictly for the, well, the desperate, drunk or sober.

I might mention a little more about the food as I go along but it is strictly to add color to this little story. Maybe, maybe it will add color to the story but this is mainly about the “literary” life at the old Hayes and the quest for the blue-pink night not the cuisine so don’t hold me to it.

 Here is the kicker though; there are a few, mercifully few this night, old winos, habitual drunks, and street vagabonds (I am being polite here) who are nuzzling their food, for real. This is the way that you can tell the "last drink" boys, the hail fellows well met, who are just out on the town and who probably go to one of the ten zillion colleges in the area and are drawn like moths (and like wayward high schools kids, including this writer) to the magic name, Harvard Square. They just pick at their food. Those other guys (again, mainly, guys) those habituals and professional waywards work at it like it is their last chance for salvation.


 Harvard Square, bright lights, dead of nights, see the sights. That vision is nothing but a commercial, a commercial magnet for every young (and old) hustler within fifty miles of the place to come and display their “acumen”. Their hustle. Three card Monte, quick-change artistry, bait and hook, a little jack-rolling, fake dope-plying, lifting an off-hand wallet, the whole gamut of hustler con lore. On any given Harvard Square weekend night there have got to be more young, naïve, starry-eyed kids hanging out trying to be cool, but really, like me, just learning the ropes of life than you could shake a stick at to set a hustler’s heart, if he (mainly) or she (sometimes) had a heart.


 I’ll tell you about a quick con that got me easy in a second but right now let me tell you that at this hour I can see a few con artists just now resting up after a hard night’s work around a couple of tables, comparing notes (or, more likely, trying to con each other, there is no honor among thieves in this little night world. Go to it, boys). As to the con that got me, hey it was simple, a guy, an older guy, a twenty-five year old or something like that guy, came up to me while I was talking to a friend and said did I (we) want to get some booze. Sober, sixteen years old, and thrill-seeking I said sure (drinking booze is the coin of the realm for thrills these days, among high school kids that I know, maybe the older set, those college guys, are, I hear, experimenting with drugs but if so it is very on the QT).


 He said name your poison, I did, and then he “suggested” a little something for himself. Sure, whatever is right. I gave him the money and he returned a few minutes later with a small bag with the top of a liquor bottle hanging out. He split. We went off to a private area around Harvard Yard (Phillips Brook House, I think) and got ready to have our first serious taste of booze, and maybe get rum brave enough to pick up some girls. Naturally, the bottle was a booze bottle alright but it had been opened (how long before is anyone’s guess) and filled with water. Sucker, right. Now the only reason that I am mentioning this story right here is that the guy who pulled this con is sitting, sitting like the King of Siam, just a few tables away from where I am sitting. The lesson learned for the road, for the future road that beckons: don’t accept packages from strangers without inspecting them and watch out for cons, right? No, hell no. The lesson is this: sure don’t fall for wise guy tricks but the big thing is to shake it off, forget about it if you see the con artist again. You are way to cool to let him (or occasionally her) think that they have conned you. Out loud, anyway.


 But wait, I am not here at almost four o’clock in the Hayes-Bickford morning, the Harvard Square Hayes-Bickford morning, to talk about the decor, the food if that is what it is, about the clientele, humble, slick, or otherwise. I am here looking for “talent”, literary talent that is. See, I have been here enough, and have heard enough about the ”beats” (or rather pseudo-beats, or “late phase” beats at this time) and the “folkies” (music people breaking out of the Pop 40 music scene and going back to the roots of America music, way back) to know that a bunch of them, about six in all, right this minute are sitting in a far corner with a light drum tapping the beat listening to a guy in black pants(always de rigueur black), sneakers and a flannel shirt just like me reciting his latest poem. That possibility is what drove me here this night, and other nights as well. See the Hayes is known as the place where someone like Norman Mailer had his buttered toast after one of his “last drink” bouts. Or that Bob Dylan sat at that table, that table right over there, writing something on a napkin. Or some parallel poet to the one now wrapping up his seventy-seven verse imitation Allen Ginsberg's Howl master work went out to San Francisco and blew the lid off the town, the City Lights town, the literary town.


 But I better, now that the six-ish dawn light is hovering, trying to break through the night wars, get my droopy body down those subway stairs pretty soon and back across town before anyone at home notices that I am missing. Still I will take the hard-bitten coffee, re-beaned and all, I will take the sleepy eyes that are starting to weigh down my face, I will even take the con artists and feisty drunks just so that I can be here when somebody’s search for the blue-pink great American West night, farther west than Harvard Square night, gets launched.

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An Encore-Yes, You Had Better Shake, Rattle And Roll That Thing-With Big Joe Turner In Mind

An Encore-Yes, You Had Better Shake, Rattle And Roll That Thing-With Big Joe Turner In Mind



















From The Pen Of Bart Webber
In the old days, the old days when the songs were just starting to be weaned off of the old time religion gospel high heaven savior thing you know to testify, to consider yourself "saved" and had come down in the mud of speaking of hard, hard drinking, hard lovin’ maybe with your best gal's friend if it came right down to the core, maybe flipping the bird on you and running around all flouncy with your best friend, maybe some hard-hearted "do this do that" woman on your mind, yeah, the old birth of  the blues days, the blue being nothing but a good woman or man on your mind anyway, around the turn of the 20th century and you can check this out if you want to and not take my word for it a black guy, a rascally black guy of no known home, a drifter, maybe a hobo for all I know, and who knows what else named Joe Turner held forth among the folk. Old Joe would come around the share-cropper down South neighborhoods and steal whatever was not nailed down, including your woman, which depending on how you were feeling might be a blessing and if you in a spooning mod might be a curse on that bastard's head. Then Joe Turner would leave and move on to the next settlement and go about his plundering ways. Oh sure like lots of blues and old country music as it got passed on in the oral traditions there were as many versions of the saga as there were singers everybody adding their own touch. But it was always old Joe Turner doing the sinning and scratching for whatever he could scratch for. 

But for the most part the story line about old ne’er-do-well Joe Turner rang very similar over time. So Joe Turner got his grizzly self put into song out in the Saturday juke joints out in places like the Mississippi Delta where more legends were formed than you could shake a stick, got sanctified once old  Willie’s liquor, white lightning home-made liquor got to working, and some guy, maybe not the best singer if you asked around but a guy who could put words together to tell a story, a blues story, and that guy with a scratch guitar would put some verses together and the crowd would egg him on. Make the tale taller as the night went until everybody petered out and that song was left for the next guy to embellish.


By most accounts old Joe was bad man, a very bad man, bad mojo man, bad medicine as the folk call what ails but can't be fixed just short of as bad as Mister’s plantation foremen where those juke joint listeners worked sunup to sundown six days a week or just short as bad as the enforcers of Mister James Crow’s go here, not there, do this not that, move here not there laws seven days a week. Yeah, Joe was bad alright once he got his wanting habits on, although I have heard at least one recording from the Lomaxes who went all over the South in the 1930s and 1940s trying to record everything they could out in the back country where Joe Turner was something like a combination Santa Claus and Robin Hood. Hell, maybe he was and some guy who lost his woman to wily Joe just got sore and bad mouthed him. Passed that bad mouth on and the next guy who lost his woman to somebody pinned on Joe, Joe Turner, yeah it was that old rascal that did her in. Stranger things have happened.

In any case the Joe Turner, make that Big Joe, Turner I want to mention here as far as I know only stole the show when he got up on the bandstand and played the role of “godfather” of rock and roll. Yeah, that is what I want to talk about, about how one song, and specifically the place of Big Joe and one song, Shake Rattle and Roll in the rock pantheon. No question Big Joe and his snapping beat has a place in the history of rhythm and blues which is one of the musical forbear strands of rock and roll. The question is whether Shake is also the first serious effort to define rock and roll. If you look at the YouTube version of Big Joe be-bopping away with his guitar player doing some flinty stuff and that sax player searching for that high white note and Big Joe snapping away being  very suggestive about who should shake and what she should shake you can make a very strong case for that place. Add in that Bill Haley, Jerry Lee, and Elvis among others in the rock pantheon covered the song successfully and that would seem to clinch the matter.      


In 2004, the fiftieth anniversary of the debut of Shake by Big Joe, there had been considerable talk and writing again as there is on such occasions by some knowledgeable rock critics about whether Shake was the foundational song of rock. That controversy brought back to my mind the arguments that me and my corner boys who hung out in front of Jimmy Jack’s Diner in Carver, a town about thirty miles south of Boston, had on some nothing better to do Friday nights during high school (meaning girl-less, dough-less or both nights). I was the primary guy who argued for Big Joe and Shake giving that be-bop guitar and that wailing sexy sax work as my reasoning while Jimmy Jenkins swore that Ike Turner’s frantic piano-driven and screeching sax Rocket 88 (done under an alias of the Delta Cats apparently for contract reasons a not uncommon practice when something good came up but you would not have been able to do it under the label you were contracted to) was the be-bop beginning and Sam Lowell, odd-ball Sam Lowell dug deep into his record collection, really his parents' record collection which was filled mainly with folk music and the blues edge played off that to find Elmore James’ Look On Yonder Wall. And the other corner boys like our leader Frankie Riley lined up accordingly (nobody else came up with any others so it was those three).


Funny thing Frankie and most everybody else except I think Fritz Taylor who sided with Jimmy Jenkins sided with me and Big Joe. The funny part being that several years ago with the advent of YouTube I started to listen to the old stuff as it became available on-line and now I firmly believe that Ike’s Rocket 88 beats out Shake for the honor of the be-bop daddy of rock and roll. As for the old time Joe Turner, done come and gone, well, he will have to wait in line like the rest of us. What do you think of that?
 
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Songs For Our Times-Build The Resistance-Woody Guthrie's "Mister Charlie Lindbergh" (The Old Time America First Guy)-For D. Trump And S. Bannon

Songs For Our Times-Build The Resistance-Woody Guthrie's "Mister Charlie Lindbergh" (The Old Time America First Guy)-For D. Trump And S. Bannon  











During, let’s say the Obama administration or, hell, even the Bush era, for example  we could be gentle angry people over this or that notorious war policy and a few others matters and songs like Give Peace A Chance, We Shall Overcome, or hell, even that Kumbaya which offended the politically insensitive. From Day One of the Trump administration though the gloves have come off-we are in deep trouble. So we too need to take off our gloves-and fast as the cold civil war that has started in the American dark night heads to some place we don’t want to be. And the above song from another tumultuous time, makes more sense to be marching to. Build the resistance!
Mister Charlie Lindbergh
Words and Music by Woody Guthrie
Mister Charlie Lindbergh, he flew to old Berlin,
Got him a big Iron Cross, and he flew right back again
To Washington, Washington. 
Mrs. Charlie Lindbergh, she come dressed in red,
Said: "I'd like to sleep in that pretty White House bed
In Washington, Washington."
Lindy said to Annie: "We'll get there by and by,
But we'll have to split the bed up with Wheeler, Clark, and Nye 
In Washington, Washington."
Hitler wrote to Lindy, said "Do your very worst." 
Lindy started an outfit that he called America First 
In Washington, Washington. 
All around the country, Lindbergh he did fly, 
Gasoline was paid for by Hoover, Clark, and Nye 
In Washington, Washington.
Lindy said to Hoover: "We'll do the same as France:
Make a deal with Hitler, and then we'll get our chance."
In Washington, Washington. 
Then they had a meetin', and all the Firsters come,
Come on a walk and they come on a run,
In Washington, Washington. 
Yonder comes Father Coughlin, wearin' the silver chain,
Gas on his stomach and Hitler on the brain.
In Washington, Washington.
Mr. John L. Lewis would sit and straddle a fence,
But his daughter signed with Lindbergh, and we ain't seen her since
In Washington, Washington.
Hitler said to Lindy: "Stall 'em all you can, 
Gonna bomb Pearl Harbor with the help of old Japan."
In Washington, Washington.
Then on a December mornin', the bombs come from Japan,
Wake Island and Pearl Harbor, kill fifteen hundred men.
In Washington, Washington
Now Lindy tried to join the army, but they wouldn't let him in,
Afraid he'd sell to Hitler a few more million men.
In Washington, Washington 
So I'm a-gonna tell you people, if Hitler's gonna be beat,
The common workin' people has got to take the seat
In Washington, Washington.
And I'm gonna tell you workers, 'fore you cash in your checks:
They say "America First," but they mean "America Next!"
In Washington, Washington.


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From Socialist Alternative-Minneapolis Won $15

Socialist Alternative Ginger Jentzen via Socialist Alternative Ginger Jentzen
To  t  
Under pressure from our grassroots movement, Minneapolis is about to get a raise, and become the first Midwestern city to enact a $15/hr minimum wage! $15/hr will raise wages for 71,000 workers, predominantly women and workers of color. This victory is an example of how cities can beat back Trump’s billionaire-supported agenda: by putting forward bold demands capable of inspiring powerful movements.
Let’s build on this momentum.
Winning $15 took challenging the business-backed DFL City Council majority head on. But there’s a lot more work to do. We need to build a fundamental alternative to corporate politics-as-usual.

That’s why I’m running for Minneapolis City Council Ward 3, pledging not to take corporate cash from anti-worker big businesses or from the developers who are pricing working people out of our city. If elected, I would use the position as an organizing seat to win more victories for working people, as my colleague Kshama Sawant has done in Seattle.
In three years, a $15/hr minimum wage in Minneapolis has gone from an isolated call on the left to the central issue of the Minneapolis labor and progressive movement. Socialist Alternative was the first to popularize $15 in Minneapolis back in 2013, when we came within 229 votes of electing Ty Moore to Minneapolis City Council in Ward 9.
But even after Kshama Sawant spearheaded a victory for $15/hr in Seattle in 2014, most in Minneapolis’ City Hall ignored it. At first, many relied on a narrow the strategy of lobbying City Hall, which is dominated by Democratic Party politicians. And despite the Democratic Party formally adopting $15 into its platform, most in City Hall refused to take any substantial steps towards ending poverty wages and Minneapolis' worst-in-the-nation racial inequalities.
We argued that the movement for $15/hr would not succeed by limiting ourselves to tactics that avoided a public clash with the local Democratic Party establishment. This debate came to a head, resulting in a section of the coalition moving forward with going around City Hall and putting the question of $15/hr directly to voters as a ballot initiative.
In a grassroots effort spearheaded by Socialist Alternative, 15 Now Minnesota, Neighborhoods Organizing for Change (NOC), Centro de Trabajadores Unidos en Lucha (CTUL) and backed by the Minnesota Nurses Association and Communication Workers of America, we collected 20,000 petition signatures in under ten weeks.
The majority in City Hall fiercely opposed the ballot initiative, as it presented a dangerous precedent for movements to rely on their own strength, not the political establishment, to win progressive change. Eventually, they relied on the conservative Minnesota Supreme Court to block $15/hr from the ballot.
But while we lost the battle in court, our movement decisively won the battle of public opinion, with a poll showing 68% support for our proposal to take all Minneapolis workers to a $15/hr minimum wage. This forced City Council to concede by launching a formal process to raise minimum wage.
We’ve shifted the political landscape of Minneapolis. Due to our movement for $15/hr, insurgent Bernie-inspired candidates are challenging anti-$15 City Council incumbents in elections across the city. And in the party’s endorsement process, these left challengers blocked most conservative City Council members either from endorsement by pro-$15 left challengers, or won endorsement outright.
I think we have an opportunity to build an entirely new type of politics. That’s why I’m running for City Council as a Socialist Alternative candidate, independent of the Democratic Party. Already, our campaign has raised $40,000 and mobilized over a hundred volunteers. The momentum behind our campaign, and of the campaigns for other pro-$15 left Democrats, shows that the mood for a political revolution is strong. 
We’ve seen with the fight to win $15/hr that working people cannot limit ourselves to what is deemed acceptable by the political establishment. Right now, big business has its own parties and representatives. Working people need a party of our own. I’m running to become the second socialist elected to office in a major U.S. city, to show that a political alternative is possible.
The victory for a $15/hr minimum shows how socialists fight for immediate reforms under capitalism in a way that empowers working people to fundamentally transform society in our own interests, to win a socialist world.
Please join us in this fight, and chip in to Vote Ginger Jentzen.

Solidarity,

Ginger Jentzen, Socialist Alternative
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Veterans For Peace-Power to Peace Festival at VIC Theatre Date: Friday, Aug 11, 2017

Public Events/Concerts

Power to Peace Festival at VIC Theatre
Date:   Friday, Aug 11,  2017
Doors at 6pm w/ revolutionary sounds from Chicago's own DJ Dapper
Performances begin at 7pm
7 artists of diverse genres including the Jazz Songstress Maggie Brown
1 Poetry circle
1 Intermission w/ sounds from DJ Dapper
Pricing:
  •  Convention attendees - $25
  •  General Admission - $45
  •  VIP Admission - $125
  •  Unemployed Vets Admission: Free
*The $25 ticket for Convention registrants will be available at Convention

Purchase Tickets for Friday's Power to Peace Festival!


Jackson Browne Concert at Copernicus Theatre
Date:  Sunday, Aug 13, 2017
Time:  Doors: 6:30 PM 
          Show: 7:30 PM
Price: ​$50-$100
The concert is scheduled for the final day of our 32nd Annual Convention. Accompanying Jackson Browne at the benefit concert is long time band mate and multi-instrumentalist Greg Leisz. All net proceeds raised from the benefit concert will support Veterans For Peace.
"I want to add my voice to those of Veterans For Peace in calling for the dismantling our war for profit economy, and working to end all wars," says Jackson Browne. "I recommend reading their position statement in response to the Trump Military budget. We need to follow VFP's courageous and principled example in calling for an end to our country's insane and inhumane military expansion."

Purchase Tickets!



VFP  Led March

The March will take off from the Palmer House around 12 Noon on Sunday, August 13, proceed for about 35 minutes to Trump Tower.

We will slowly march around the Tower, and then proceed for about two minutes to the Veterans Memorial, where everyone will be able to sit for 5-7 minute of speakers.

We will then proceed to the Headquarters of the Chicago Public Schools (our nation’s most militarized school system) for another 5-7 minutes of speakers.
For about two minutes, we will march back to the Palmer House and disperse.

The March has been plotted out to last no more than 80 minutes, and should conclude around 1:20 pm.

Chicago is seeking VFP volunteers to bring signs and to serve as marshals.

More information to come.
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