This space is dedicated to the proposition that we need to know the history of the struggles on the left and of earlier progressive movements here and world-wide. If we can learn from the mistakes made in the past (as well as what went right) we can move forward in the future to create a more just and equitable society. We will be reviewing books, CDs, and movies we believe everyone needs to read, hear and look at as well as making commentary from time to time. Greg Green, site manager
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
By Frank Jackman
Those of you who know me and who have attended the Midnight Voices program that Veterans for Peace supports along with other organizations know that I periodically read some pieces about guys, mostly Vietnam veterans, guys from my generation who had a hard time coming back to the “real” world after “Nam.” Especially guys that I met when I was out in California after my own checkered military service. Guys whom Bruce Springsteen addressed in his powerful song-Brothers Under the Bridge. Most of the guys once they came to trust me, trust me as far as any guys could in that very here today, gone tomorrow world out under the bridges and along the railroad tracks of Southern California would want to talk about something, get something off their chests. Maybe it was about the war, maybe about some girl who sent them a Dear John letter which tore them up, and still did, maybe about the old neighborhood, especially if they were from the East and I might know about their town, maybe about buddies who got left behind in “Nam, whose names are now eternally etched in black marble down in Washington.
When I volunteered at our last VFP monthly meeting to be on the program today I knew I was going to be talking about one of those guys, talking about Phil Larkin, a guy from Carver down in cranberry bog country, down where the bogs provided work for generations of Larkins. Talk about him because the story he told me one night out in the Westminster railroad “jungle” while we were drinking cheap wine, cheap wine was all we had dough for fits in very nicely with what we are about here today. Phil, unlike a lot of veterans I met out West had had qualms about going into the service, had thought about jail, going to Canada, going underground you know the stuff a lot of guys from our time had to think through as we can under the threat of induction.
He went in, went in when drafted and not before which he was very proud of, did the 11 Bravo route since cannon fodder was all they were looking for in late 1967, early 1968-later too. Took his physical beating, two purple hearts if I recall correctly, took his psychological beating which explained why he was drinking cheap wine with me out in some desolate railroad patch but that night he didn’t want to talk about himself but an uncle, no grand uncle, Frank O’Brian, whom when he said his name said it with a sneer. This guy, this grand uncle is why he wound up going into the service against his better instincts.
See Frank O’Brian had served in World War I, had died shortly after the war from some wounds he received during the war. Because of that, and because he was one of the few guys from Carver who had died in that war he had a square up by the town hall named after him, had a plaque stating as much. You know the corners and squares of most cities and towns in most countries of the world have such memorials to their war dead, needless to say far too many. Probably you I and pass five, ten every day without even recognizing them as such, except maybe today or on Armistice Day when some organization puts a flag or something to acknowledge those deaths.
But see too that damn plaque was the final straw that got Phil into his olive drabs. Frank O’Brian was his Grandma Riley’s brother and when Phil tried to get counsel from that august, his word, old lady whom he loved dearly she tore into him said what would people think, what would her dead brother think if a Larkin/Riley/O’Brian son, a son of Carver did not do his duty. That ended any thought of Phil’s not going into the service. But you can see why he had that sneer on his face that night when he mentioned that uncle’s name. Maybe we should start naming the squares and corners of the world after those who would not serve in the military, the brave resisters who have languished in the prisons and stockades.
From The Anti-War Archives-War And Remembrance- A Boston Veterans For Peace Memorial Day-(Updated)
A continuing cautionary tale
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
Fritz, old battle-scarred and battle-weary purple-hearted Fritz Taylor, Vietnam, 1969-1971, Fritz John Taylor, RA048433691 to be exact, had to laugh as he made his way from Adamsville to the downtown Boston waterfront in the later spring of 2014. To the green jut of land Christopher Columbus Park, and that name, causing further bemusement when he first heard of the locale, could itself tell a big story about the old days of European-centered military adventures to the Americas and also to the days when the first Pilgrims like old F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Dutchmen on seeing the “fresh green breast” of Long Island had the capacity to wonder about what the new land, to them, might bring forth, for what he was not sure, exactly, was either the third or fourth annual Veterans For Peace counter-Memorial Day commemoration (partnered in November with the counter-traditional Armistice Day, the original named reason for the observance in order to commemorate the armed truce which ended the blood-bath First World War). Fritz had not laughed a funny laugh as he was prone to do these days when something struck him as unusual, but laughed out loud at the thought of a no-go, not even boot camp as far as he knew, commander-in chief of all the American imperial armed forces, United States President Barack Obama, suddenly warming up to his post-Osama Bin Laden kill authorization (after having , vicariously, watched the SEAL action in “real time”) very consciously earlier this day placing himself at the center of the Memorial Day action in Arlington National Cemetery trying to draw succor from the ghost of Abraham Lincoln at Gettysburg. Talking aimlessly, or maybe better superficially, about valor, about the good of the cause, about the last full measure of devotion, and lastly, what war in the end is all about, saving your buddy’s ass, or he yours. But see, to Fritz’s way of thinking, Lincoln at least had the advantage, the very distinct advantage, of not only having said those kinds of words and those kinds of sentiments first and therefore in a more free-lance, free-wheeling eloquent way but said them at humankind's hallowed Gettysburg in the wake of what turned out to the decisive great Northern victory (along with Grant’s Vicksburg victory) in a war, that by hook or by crook, turned chattel slavery times out the door. What could one imperial chief, Barack Obama, today draw on for succor? Leading a 50,000 troop wind-down in Iraq [a wind-down fact to finish in 2015 in serious dispute what with the creeping “re-escalations” of recent years-FJ], a thoughtlessly unjust war if there ever was one, with more than its fair share of collateral damage, read American troop-driven civilian killings, and to call it by its right name, murder. Yes, yes, by all means Fritz Taylor knew, knew chapter and verse, that when it did not really count one non-president Barack Obama opposed George’s Follies but that was then, and this, this was desperately now with the latest headlines out of Baghdad announcing a 200,000 mass march calling for an American withdrawal post-haste. Fritz Taylor, Fritz Taylor who had gotten “religion” on the subject of war, on collateral damage, on don’t give a damn about spending soldiers’ blood and lives since those lost Vietnam days, himself lost in some drug addiction time, some newspaper-strewn park bench time, some lost family connection time, took a moment to reflect on that fact, and to murmur softly to himself- Obama, Mr. President, since Fritz is putting things in a more kindly fashion now- get the hell out of Iraq, completely out, and stay out. [Ditto-2015-FJ] Fritz had to laugh, and the nature of that laugh need not be repeated here, about how big bad Barrack Obama, whom almost every non-veteran of any battle, except maybe the battle for the Democratic nomination for President in 2008, or of the bar stool in some ill-lit barroom but those don’t count in real battle scars world, has been touted as some kind of Gandhian pacifist while constantly upping the ante in Afghanistan since about day one of his administration, the troop commitment ante, the one that really counts. And making that ill-conceived policy the lynch-pin for his whole world-wide war strategy, with no serious end date in sight (and no congressional oversight to stop him, according to a recent vote on the question of war budget authorizations-the real deal when it comes to war policy). Fritz’s thoughts just then as well dwelled on the more recent, the more off-hand stuff, the several hundred drones attacks in Pakistan, the few thousand, give or take, cruise missiles (oops, that’s a NATO operation, he forgot, sorry) in Libya and the general policeman of the world carrying a big stick, a very big stick indeed, in the rest of the world. So he felt compelled to murmur under his breathe, no, really curse under his breathe, Mr. President, Fritz still being the soul of politeness these days, these got anti-war “religion,” drug- free, alcohol-free, stable home under his feet days, get the hell out of Afghanistan and stay out. [Ditto-2015-FJ.] And while you are at it, Mr. Obama, keep American hands off, way off the rest of the world, as he then saw the first of several white dove on black background Veterans for Peace (VFP) flags flying in the wind down near the ferry docks adjacent to this Columbus honor park.
And although a moment ago he raged with grievous anger at the American imperial state and its two-bit sheriff (oops, sorry again, President) he felt calmer, as he always felt calmer, when he spied the white-doved, black-background flags because that meant kindred, mainly Vietnam-era kindred but sprinkles of others as well. Guys, mostly, and a few women as well, now graying guys, seriously graying guys, now walking a little more haltingly due to life’s toll, now maybe not in that tip-top shape that made them prime Grade A cannon fodder back in the days, who had been through battles, real battles and post-war battles, some of them anyway just like him, whom he always argued had more than enough “cred” when anti-war talk time came around. And others, other anti-warriors, who only credentials were some well-written papers, some well-spoken speech, or a safely-protected street march in some big or middle-sized American city or town who knew, knew deep in their hearts that Fritz’s point was true. And they were deferential, sometimes just a little too paternally or maternally deferential, when the big brassy white flag-draped veterans came marching their way. Oh sure, this third (or was it fourth) commemoration was not well-attended, maybe a hundred, not the thousands standing on those big and mid-sized city and town street corners, or walking past those benighted American flag-bedecked blessed sweet good night grave sites with their complements of still-grieving kin, but this place, this momentarily hallowed anti-war place is not measured by numbers this day but by remembrance, hard-earned remembrance, hard-earned rage against the night cannon fodder-used and folly remembrance. And, oh sure, the speeches, the speeches by those graying activists, with just the barest sprinkle of newer Iraq and Afghanistan era veterans, were directed at that hundred angel choir of kindred. And Fritz, having heard every anti-war argument before, having heard every political prisoner Private Bradley Manning story before [Now Chelsea to reflect her newer female sexual identity self, still a private but also still since her conviction in 2013 serving a thirty-five sentence for, in the end, spilling the beans about American atrocities in Iraq and Afghanistan mostly graphically and sickeningly the video called “Collateral Murder”], [Now mercifully released via last minute commutation of sentence by that same Obama whose administration went after whistle-blowers with a vengeance.] having heard about the collateral damage, foreign division, Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Libya, Palestine, civilian horror story before; and every collateral damage, domestic division, devastated military families story before still drank in the words. And said his fair share of old-time protest “right on,” brother, or sister. And yelled loudly and proudly, “Free Bradley Manning.” [Chelsea now] Yes, these days Bradley [Chelsea] Manning’s fight is us, our younger fighting spirit us. The torch has now been passed to the new guys, and the core of that couple of hours as well. Fritz Taylor just for that moment felt ten feet tall for having made this day’s journey. He was charged-up again. On the way home, or rather on the way to meet, over near the Adamsville River, his better other, Lillian, his “sweet pea” he had named her for her sunny disposition, and her tough determination to give him a home to feel planted in and, early on, a little anti-war “religion” bump start too he passed, as thinking about it later he should have expected, a very different Memorial Day celebration sponsored by the Adamsville Veterans Of Foreign Wars (VFW). Before he got “religion” he had spent many a cheap drinks drinking hour at that same VFW hall, or the American Legion hall farther up the street, and had thought nothing of retelling many bar stool battle stories to anyone who would listen. And listen they did because Fritz had another kind of “cred” in those days, battle-tested credentials, as against the state-side duty and or rear area supply sergeants that populate these VFW and American Legion barrooms.
But right now he was chagrined at this tactless “celebration” going on before his eyes, complete with family-friendly barbecue, pony rides and merry-go-round for the kids, and more thoughtless, neglected and discarded American flags than one could shake a stick at. Those quickly passed scenes momentarily brought back to Fritz’s mind ancient unhealed, unheal-able, wounds, and ancient, also unheal-able, angers as well. What was not ancient, although also unheal-able, was when, as he quietly passed by, some long-in-the-tooth ex- supply sergeant VFW honcho noticed Fritz’s still shirt-pinned buttons calling for Obamian troop withdrawal from Iraq and Afghanistan and freedom for Private Bradley [Chelsea] Manning and called him a “commie”. Fritz thought, Jesus, where has this guy been the past twenty years or so but he also reflected, especially seeing the kids unconsciously drink in the warrior atmospherics that went with this celebration, that charged-up or not, he still had a hell of a lot of work to do. A hell of a lot.
Tom Wolfe-Fashionista Of
His Own Kind-And A Hell Of A Writer When The Deal Went Down Has Cashed His
Check
By Bart Webber
I had been, strangely
enough, in La Jolla out in California attending yet another writers’ conference
which seems to be the makings of my days these days, attending writers’
conferences that is instead of taking pen to paper or rather fingers to word
processor keyboard, when I heard Tom Wolfe had cashed his check. “Cashed his
check” a term (along with synonymous “cashed his ticket”) grabbed from memory
bank as a term used when I was “on the bum” hanging out in hobo jungle camps
and the whole trail of flop houses and Salvation Army digs to signify that a
kindred had passed to the great beyond. Was now resting in some better place
that a stinking stew-bitten, flea –bitten, foul-aired and foul-person place. No
more worries about the next flop, the next jug of cheapjack wine, the next
run-in with vicious coppers and railroad bulls, and the next guy who was ready
to rip whatever you had off to feed his own sullen addiction.
By the way this is not
Thomas Wolfe of You Can’t Go Home Again,
Look Homeward, Angels, etc. but the
writer, maybe journalist is a better way to put the matter of tons of
interesting stuff from acid trips in the 1960s hanging with Ken Kesey and his
various tribes of merry pranksters, the Hell’s Angels, drifters, grifters and
midnight sifters, to marveled space flights in the 1970s to Wall Street in the
reckless 1980 and back who had cashed his check. The strange part of the
“strangely enough” mentioned above was that on Monday May 14th 2018,
the day he died, I was walking along La Jolla Cove and commenting to my
companion without knowing his fate that Tom Wolfe had made the La Jolla surfing
scene in the early 1960s come alive with his tale of the Pump House Gang and
related stories about the restless California tribes, you know those Hell’s
Angels, Valley hot-rod freaks and the like who parents had migrated west from dustbowl
Okies and Arkies to start a new life out in Eden. These next generation though
lost in a thousand angsts and alienation not having to fight for every breath
of fresh air (with the exception of the Angels who might as well have stayed in
the Okies and McAllister Prison which would have been their fate.
I don’t know how Tom
Wolfe did at the end as a writer, or toward the end, when things seemed to
glaze over and became very homogenized, lacked the verve of hard ass 1960s,
1970s, and 1980s times. Although I do note that he did a very although I note
he did an interesting take on the cultural life at the Army base at Fort Bragg
down in North Carolina in a book of essays around the theme of hooking up. That
hooking up angle a sign that social cohesiveness in the age of the Internet was
creating some strange rituals. Know this those pound for pound in his prime he along
with Hunter Thompson could write the sociology of the land with simple flair
and kept this guy, me, flipping the pages in the wee hours of the morning. RIP,
Tom Wolfe, RIP.
The 50th Anniversary Of The Summer Of Love, 1967-In The Time Of The Hard Motorcycle Boys- “The Wild One” A Film Review-And More
Zack James’ comment June, 2017:
Sometimes you just have to follow the bouncing ball like in
those old time sing along cartoons they used to have back in say the 1950s,the
time I remember them from, on Saturday afternoon matinees at the old now long
gone Stand Theater in my growing up town of North Adamsville. Follow me for a
minute here I won’t be long. Earlier this spring my oldest brother, Alex, took
attended a conference in San Francisco which he has done periodically for
years. While there he noticed an advertisement on a bus for something called
the Summer of Love Experience at the de Young Museum in Golden Gate Park. That
ad immediately caught his attention he had been out there that year and had
participated in those events at the urging of his friend Peter Paul Markin who
was something of a holy goof (a Jack Kerouac term of art), a low rent prophet,
and a street criminal all in one. When Alex got back to the East after having
attended the exhibition he got in contact with me to help him, and the still
standing corner boys who also had gone out West at Markin’s urging to put
together a tribute booklet honoring Markin and the whole experience.
After completing that project, or maybe while completing it
I kept on thinking about the late Hunter S. Thompson who at one time was the
driving force behind gonzo journalism and had before his suicide about a decade
ago been something of a muse to me. At first my thoughts were about how
Thompson would have taken the exhibition at the de Young since a lot of what he
wrote about in the 1960s and 1970s was where the various counter-cultural
trends were, or were not, going. But then as the current national political
situation in America in the Trump Age has turned to crap, to craziness and
straight out weirdness I began to think about how Thompson would have handled
the 24/7/365 craziness these days since he had been an unremitting searing
critic of another President of the United States who also had low-life
instincts, one Richard Milhous Nixon.
The intertwining of the two stands came to head recently
over the fired FBI director James Comey hearings where he essentially said that
the emperor had no clothes. So I have been inserting various Thompson-like
comments in an occasional series I am running in various on-line publications-Even The President Of The United States
Sometimes Must Have To Stand Naked-Tales From The White House Bunker. And will
continue to overlap the two-Summer of Love and Age of Trump for as long as it seems
relevant. So there you are caught up. Ifs not then I have included hopefully
for the last time the latest cross-over Thompson idea.
************
Zack James comment, Summer of 2017
Maybe it says something about the times we live in, or maybe
in this instance happenstance or, hell maybe something in the water but certain
things sort of dovetail every now and again. I initially started this
commentary segment after having written a longest piece for my brother and his
friends as part of a small tribute booklet they were putting together about my and
their takes on the Summer of Love, 1967. That event that my brother, Alex, had
been knee deep in had always interested me from afar since I was way too young
to have appreciated what was happening in San Francisco in those Wild West days.
What got him motivated to do the booklet had been an exhibit at the de Young
Art Museum in Golden Gate Park where they were celebrating the 50th
anniversary of the events of that summer with a look at the music, fashion,
photography and exquisite poster art which was created then just as vivid
advertising for concerts and “happenings” but which now is legitimate artful
expression.
That project subsequently got me started thinking about the
late Hunter Thompson, Doctor Gonzo, the driving force behind a new way of
looking at and presenting journalism which was really much closer to the nub of
what real reporting was about. Initially I was interested in some of Thompson’s
reportage on what was what in San Francisco as he touched the elbows of those
times having spent a fair amount of time working on his seminal book on the
Hell’s Angels while all hell was breaking out in Frisco town. Delved into with
all hands and legs the high points and the low, the ebb which he located
somewhere between the Chicago Democratic Convention fiasco of the summer of
1968 and the hellish Rollins Stones Altamont concert of 1969.
Here is what is important today though, about how the dots
get connected out of seemingly random occurrences. Hunter Thompson also made
his mark as a searing no holds barred mano y mano reporter of the rise and
fall, of the worthy demise of one Richard Milhous Nixon at one time President
of the United States and a common low-life criminal of ill-repute. Needless to
say today, the summer of 2107, in the age of one Donald Trump, another
President of the United States and common low-life criminal begs the obvious
question of what the sorely missed Doctor Gonzo would have made of the whole
process of the self-destruction of another American presidency, or a damn good
run at self-destruction. So today and maybe occasionally in the future there
will be some intertwining of commentary about events fifty years ago and today.
Below to catch readers up to speed is the most recent “homage” to Hunter
Thompson. And you too I hope will ask the pertinent question. Hunter where are
you when we need, desperately need, you.
*******
Zack James comment, Summer of 2017
You know it is in a way too bad that “Doctor Gonzo”-Hunter S
Thompson, the late legendary journalist who broke the back, hell broke the
neck, legs, arms of so-called objective journalism in a drug-blazed frenzy back
in the 1970s when he “walked with the king”’ is not with us in these times. (Walking
with the king not about walking with any king or Doctor King but being so high
on drugs, your choice, that commin clay experiences fall by the way side. In
the times of this 50th anniversary commemoration of the Summer of
Love, 1967 which he worked the edges of while he was doing research (live and
in your face research by the way) on the notorious West Coast-based Hell’s
Angels. His “hook” through Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters down in Kesey’s
place in La Honda where many an “acid test” took place, where many walked with
the king, if you prefer, and where for a time the Angels, Hunter in tow, were
welcomed. He had been there in the high tide, when it looked like we had the
night-takers on the run and later as well when he saw the ebb tide of the 1960s
coming a year or so later although that did not stop him from developing the
quintessential “gonzo” journalism fine-tuned with plenty of dope for which he
would become famous before the end, before he took his aging life and left
Johnny Depp and company to fling his ashes over this good green planet. He would
have “dug” the exhibition, maybe smoked a joint for old times’ sake (oh no, no
that is not done in proper society, in high art society these days) at the de
Young Museum at the Golden Gate Park highlighting the events of the period
showing until August 20th of this year.
Better yet he would have had this Trump thug bizarre
weirdness wrapped up and bleeding from all pores just like he regaled us with
the tales from the White House bunker back in the days when Trump’s kindred one
Richard Milhous Nixon, President of the United States and common criminal was
running the same low rent trip before he was run out of town by his own like
some rabid rat. He would have gone crazy seeing all the crew deserting the
sinking U.S.S. Trump with guys like fired FBI Director Comey going to Capitol
Hill and saying out loud the emperor has no clothes and would not know the
truth if it grabbed him by the throat. Every day would be a feast day. But
perhaps the road to truth these days, in the days of “alternate facts” and assorted
other bullshit would have been bumpier than in those more “civilized” times
when simple burglaries and silly tape-recorders ruled the roost. Hunter did not
make the Nixon “hit list” (to his everlasting regret for which he could hardly
hold his head up in public) but these days he surely would find himself in the
top echelon. Maybe too though with these thugs who like their forbears would
stop at nothing he might have found himself in some back alley bleeding from
all pores. Hunter Thompson wherever you are –help. Selah. Enough said-for
now
DVD Review
The Wild One, Marlon Brando, Lee Marvin, produced by Stanley Kramer,1954
Okay here is the book of genesis, the motorcycle book of genesis, or at least my motorcycle book of genesis. But, before I get to that let me make about seventy–six disclaimers. First, the whys and wherefores of the motorcycle culture, except on those occasions when they become subject to governmental investigation or impact some cultural phenomena, is outside the purview of the leftist politics that dominate the commentary in this space. There is no Marxoid political line, as a rule, on such activity, nor should there be. Those exceptions include when motorcyclists, usually under the rubric of “bad actor” motorcycle clubs, like the famous (or infamous) Oakland, California-based Hell’s Angels are generally harassed by the cops and we have to defend their right to be left alone (you know, those "helmet laws", and the never-failing pull-over for "driving while biker") or, like when the Angels were used by the Rolling Stones at Altamont and that ill-advised decision represented a watershed in the 1960s counter-cultural movement. Or, more ominously, from another angle when such lumpen formations form the core hell-raisers of anti-immigrant, anti-communist, anti-gay, anti-women, anti-black liberation fascistic demonstrations and we are compelled, and rightly so, to go toe to toe with them. Scary yes, necessary yes, bikes or no bikes.
Second, in the interest of full disclosure I own no stock, or have any other interest, in Harley-Davidson, or any other motorcycle company. Third, I do not now, or have I ever belonged to a motorcycle club or owned a motorcycle, although I have driven them, or, more often, on back of them on occasion. Fourth, I do not now, knowingly or unknowingly, although I grew up in working class neighborhoods where bikes and bikers were plentiful, hang with such types. Fifth, the damn things and their riders are too noisy, despite the glamour and “freedom” of the road associated with them. Sixth, and here is the “kicker”, I have been, endlessly, fascinated by bikes and bike culture as least since early high school, if not before, and had several friends who “rode”. Well that is not seventy-six but that is enough for disclaimers.
Okay, as to genesis, motorcycle genesis. Let’s connect the dots. A couple of years ago, and maybe more, as part of a trip down memory lane, the details of which do not need detain us here, I did a series of articles on various world-shaking, earth-shattering subjects like high school romances, high school hi-jinks, high school dances, high school Saturday nights, and most importantly of all, high school how to impress the girls( or boys, for girls, or whatever sexual combinations fit these days, but you can speak for yourselves, I am standing on this ground). In short, high school sub-culture, American-style, early 1960s branch, although the emphasis there, as it will be here, is on that social phenomena as filtered through the lenses of a working class town, a seen better days town at that, my growing up wild-like-the-weeds town.
One of the subjects worked over in that series was the search, the eternal search I might add, for the great working class love song. Not the Teen Angel, Earth Angel, Johnny Angel generic mush that could play in Levittown, Shaker Heights or La Jolla as well as Youngstown or Moline. No, a song that, without blushing, one could call our own, our working class own, one that the middle and upper classes might like but would not put on their dance cards. As my offering to this high-brow debate I offered a song by written by Englishman Richard Thompson (who folkies, and folk rockers, might know from his Fairport Convention days, very good days, by the way), Vincent Black Lightning, 1952. (See lyrics below.) Without belaboring the point the gist of this song is the biker romance, British version, between outlaw biker James and black-leathered, red-headed Molly. Needless to say such a tenuous lumpen existence as James leads to keep himself “biked" cuts short any long term “little white house with picket fence” ending for the pair. And we do not need such a boring finish. For James, after losing the inevitable running battle with the police, on his death bed bequeaths his bike, his precious “Vincent Black Lightning”, to said Molly. His bike, man. His bike. Is there any greater love story, working class love story, around? No, this makes West Side Story lyrics and a whole bunch of other such songs seem like so much cornball nonsense. His bike, man. Wow! Kudos, Brother Thompson.
Needless to say that exploration was not the end, but rather the beginning of thinking through the great American night bike experience. And, of course, for this writer that means going to the books, the films and the memory bank to find every seemingly relevant “biker” experience. Thus, readers of this space were treated to reviews of such classic motorcycle sagas as “gonzo” journalist, Doctor Hunter S. Thompson’s Hell’s Angels and other, later Rolling Stone magazine printed “biker” stories and Tom Wolfe’ Hell Angel’s-sketched Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test (and other articles about California subset youth culture that drove Wolfe’s work in the old days). And to the hellish Rolling Stones (band) Hell’s Angels “policed” Altamont concert in 1969. And, as fate would have it, with the passing of actor/director Dennis Hooper, the 1960s classic biker/freedom/ seeking the great American night film, Easy Rider. And from Easy Rider to the “max daddy” of them all, tight-jeaned, thick leather-belted, tee-shirted, engineer-booted, leather-jacketed, taxi-driver-capped (hey, that’s what it reminds me of), side-burned, chain-linked wielding, hard-living, alienated, but in the end really just misunderstood, Johnny, aka, Marlon Brando, in The Wild One.
Okay, we will cut to the chase on the plot. Old Johnny and his fellow “outlaw” motorcycle club members are out for some weekend “kicks” after a hard week’s non-work (as far as we can figure out, work was marginal for many reasons, as Hunter Thompson in Hell’s Angels noted, to biker existence, the pursue of jack-rolling, armed robbery or grand theft auto careers probably running a little ahead) out in the sunny California small town hinterlands.(They are still heading out there today, the last time I noticed, in the Southern California high desert, places like Twenty-Nine Palms and Joshua Tree.)
The development of that young hope, although hopeless, boy meets girl romance relationship, hither and yon, drives the plot. Natch. Oh, and along the way the boys, after a few thousand beers, as boys, especially girl-starved biker boys, will, at the drop of a hat start to systematically tear down the town, off-handedly, for fun. Needless to say, staid local burghers (aka “squares”) seeing what amount to them is their worst 1950s “communist” invasion nightmare, complete with murder, mayhem and rapine, (although that “C” word was not used in the film, nor should it have been) are determined to “take back” their little town. A few fights, forages, casualities, fatalities, and forgivenesses later though, still smitten but unquenched and chaste Johnny (and his rowdy crowd) and said waitress part, wistfully. The lesson here, for the kids in the theater audience, is that biker love outside bikerdom is doomed. For the adults, the real audience, the lesson: nip the “terrorists” in the bud (call in the state cops, the national guard, the militia, the 82nd Airborne, The Strategic Air Command, NATO, hell, even the weren't we buddies in the war Red Army , but nip it, fast when they come roaming through Amityville, Archer City, or your small town).
After that summary you can see what we are up against. This is pure fantasy Hollywood cautionary tale on a very real 1950s phenomena, “outlaw” biker clubs, mainly in California, but elsewhere as well. Hunter Thompson did yeoman’s work in his Hell’s Angels to “discover” who these guys were and what drove them, beyond drugs, sex, rock and roll (and, ya, murder and mayhem, the California prison system was a “home away from home”). In a sense the “bikers” were the obverse of the boys (again, mainly) whom Tom Wolfe, in many of his early essays, was writing about and who were (a) forming the core of the surfers on the beaches from Malibu to La Jolla and, (b) driving the custom car/hot rod/drive-in centered (later mall-centered) cool, teenage girl–impressing, car craze night in the immediate post-World War II great American Western sunny skies and pleasant dream drift (physically and culturally). Except those Wolfe guys were the “winners”. The “bikers” were Nelson Algren’s “losers”, the dead-enders who didn’t hit the gold rush, the Dove Linkhorns (aka the Arkies and Okies who in the 1930s populated John Steinbeck’s Joad saga, The Grapes Of Wrath). Not cool, iconic Marlin-Johnny but hellbend then-Hell Angels leader, Sonny Barger.
And that is why in the end, as beautifully sullen and misunderstood the alienated Johnny was, and as wholesomely rowdy as his gang was before demon rum took over, this was not the real “biker: scene, West or East. Now I lived, as a teenager in a working class, really marginally working poor, neighborhood that I have previously mentioned was the leavings of those who were moving up in post-war society. That neighborhood was no more than a mile from the central headquarters of Boston's local Hell’s Angels (although they were not called that, I think it was Deathheads, or something like that). I got to see these guys up close as they rallied at various spots on our local beach or “ran” through our neighborhood on their way to some crazed action. The leader had all of the charisma of Marlon Brando’s thick leather belt. His face, as did most of the faces, spoke of small-minded cruelties (and old prison pallors) not of misunderstood youth. And their collective prison records (as Hunter Thompson also noted about the Angels) spoke of “high” lumpenism. And that takes us back to the beginning about who, and what, forms one of the core cohorts for a fascist movement in this country, the sons of Sonny Barger. Then we will need to rely on our Marxist politics, and other such weapons.
*************
ARTIST: Richard Thompson
TITLE: 1952 Vincent Black Lightning
Lyrics and Chords
Said Red Molly to James that's a fine motorbike A girl could feel special on any such like Said James to Red Molly, well my hat's off to you It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952 And I've seen you at the corners and cafes it seems Red hair and black leather, my favorite color scheme And he pulled her on behind And down to Box Hill they did ride
/ A - - - D - / - - - - A - / : / E - D A / / E - D A - / Bm - D - / - - - - A - - - /
Said James to Red Molly, here's a ring for your right hand But I'll tell you in earnest I'm a dangerous man I've fought with the law since I was seventeen I robbed many a man to get my Vincent machine Now I'm 21 years, I might make 22 And I don't mind dying, but for the love of you And if fate should break my stride Then I'll give you my Vincent to ride
Come down, come down, Red Molly, called Sergeant McRae For they've taken young James Adie for armed robbery Shotgun blast hit his chest, left nothing inside Oh, come down, Red Molly to his dying bedside When she came to the hospital, there wasn't much left He was running out of road, he was running out of breath But he smiled to see her cry And said I'll give you my Vincent to ride
Says James, in my opinion, there's nothing in this world Beats a 52 Vincent and a red headed girl Now Nortons and Indians and Greeveses won't do They don't have a soul like a Vincent 52 He reached for her hand and he slipped her the keys He said I've got no further use for these I see angels on Ariels in leather and chrome Swooping down from heaven to carry me home And he gave her one last kiss and died And he gave her his Vincent to ride
On Memorial Day Day- Iraq War Veteran Warrior Writer Douglas Randall- Jihadi Girl- a poem
Frank Jackman comment:
Every war will bring out some writing or other artistic ability not necessarily previously shown by those who had the hard task of fighting wars up close and personal, too personal, in order to make some sense, some fucking sense in GI speak, out of the ordeal. World War II to name one such war had three outstanding writers tell what they saw and felt-James Jones of From Here To Eternity fame, Norman Mailer of The Naked And The Dead fame and William Styron of Sophie’s Choice (I know, I know, J. D. Salinger was a soldier-writer when he penned Catcher In The Rye but I am talking war story stuff not young guys coming of age stuff just now). My Vietnam War generation had Phil Caputo and Tim Neal among others. And so on through the litany of endless wars since those halcyon 1940s days. Iraq/Afghanistan is just starting to produce writing from guys and gals (the latter only on the margins of previous wars) who have had time to think about what they went through. Douglas Randall is one of the new faces on the scene from the recent series of endless wars.
************
On Armistice Day- Iraq War Veteran Warrior Writer Douglas Randall- Jihadi Girl- a poem
Frank Jackman comment:
Every war will bring out some writing or other artistic ability not necessarily previously shown by those who had the hard task of fighting wars up close and personal, too personal, in order to make some sense, some fucking sense in GI speak, out of the ordeal. World War II to name one such war had three outstanding writers tell what they saw and felt-James Jones of From Here To Eternity fame, Norman Mailer of The Naked And The Dead fame and William Styron of Sophie’s Choice (I know, I know, J. D. Salinger was a soldier-writer when he penned Catcher In The Rye but I am talking war story stuff not young guys coming of age stuff just now). My Vietnam War generation had Phil Caputo and Tim Neal among others. And so on through the litany of endless wars since those halcyon 1940s days. Iraq/Afghanistan is just starting to produce writing from guys and gals (the latter only on the margins of previous wars) who have had time to think about what they went through. Douglas Randall is one of the new faces on the scene from the recent series of endless wars.
I am a Muslim informant for the U.S. Government. My boyfriend, Paul, is a colonel in the U.S. Army. Jihadi terrorists abduct me and make me their hostage. They take me to the desert. Of course the U.S. won’t pay my ransom. Why should they?
My desert prince places my fingers on the blade of his knife. He’s gentle. The knife leaves a slash mark on my fingers, but no blood. His friend video records my prince and me in the desert. Do I want to say anything? “Paul,” I murmur, my American boyfriend’s name.
My prince draws the blade slowly across my throat. It is so sharp, I don’t feel anything but the tickle of blood as it seeps from the slash across my throat. I look wildly across the desert. The video camera’s red light pulses erotically. Prince grips my hair strongly pulling my head up as his blade continues its journey. Up higher he pulls. The blade seems to circle my neck. Suddenly there’s a popping sound and I watch my body tumble to the sand. I’ve never seen my body from that angle before. I’m laughing uncontrollably. I’ve always enjoyed laughing, but now I run out of breath unable to inhale, my facial muscles frozen in a curious smile. I want to wave my arms, but they’re tied to my body sprawled in the sand. There was a movie, “Blood and Sand,” with Tyrone Power as a bull fighter. I remember him delivering the coup de grace to a dying bull. He was so handsome. My torso paints the desert red, the shifting sands cover all traces of human contact. I feel sad. A bold prince rides across the desert on a camel. Lawrence of Arabia. He’s come to save me. From what? I’m not in pain. Arabs loved Lawrence. He came to save them too. Behind Lawrence came a smiling Britannia. France was smiling too…and far in the distance the United States. Only Lawrence wasn’t smiling.
They came to carve up my Arabia….Sykes-Picot – PARTITION southern Iraq, northern Iraq, Jordan, Turkey – pain…..League of Nations – PARTITION Syria – pain…..Balfour Agreement – PARTITION Palestine, Saudi Arabia, Iraq – pain….Great Britain, France, Faisal and in the far distance America are laughing….Jihadi prince - PARTITION my head from my body….so slowly I thought I would die. Three seconds is a long time. Blackout.
La Dolce Vita-Senior Set-Tennessee Williams’ “The Roman Spring Of Mrs. Stone” (1961)-A Film Review
DVD Review
By Sam Lowell
The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone, starring Vivian Leigh, Warren Beatty, from the play by Tennessee Williams, 1961
The playwright Tennessee Williams was a hard fought acquired taste for me. Hard fought since the subject matter, or subplot anyway, of many of his most famous works revolved around homosexuality even if in a somewhat muted manner reflecting those harsh times when sodomy was on the criminal law books and everybody stayed at least publically in the closet, deep in the closet in the case of one of my hometown hang-out corner boys Timmy Riley, oddness and off-beat-ness in general, loneliness and assorted despairs. Back to that hard fought part though when I first read I think the play Suddenly Last Summer and then saw the film starring Kate Hepburn, Liz Taylor and Monty Clift I was put off by the insinuated homosexual procuring process which was behind the storyline. Kate as mother procuress and Liz as “bait” for the boys.
Reason: well, reason which even Timmy Riley claimed to understand when he hung around with us. “Fags,” guys light on their feet that kind of were nothing but subject matter for verbal abuse, fights and endless baiting. It was sometime after Stonewall in 1969, a few years later, when Allan Jackson found out that Timmy was gay, and was also doing a drag queen act in Frisco where he fled to when his parents essentially disowned him after he told them about his sexual preferences. (WFT, Timmy had been the lead guy when we went down drunk as skunks to eternally gay-friendly Provincetown with the specific purpose of gay-baiting some poor sap in order to beat him up. What awful stuff Timmy must have gone through since he later told Allan he knew his was gay from about thirteen). That and Scribe finally telling us we had been dead ass wrong about those fights and that bear-baiting we indulged in on the corner.
That was when I went all out to check out Tennessee Williams after seeing The Glass Menagerie on the stage at I think the ART in Cambridge. Funny the more I checked on Williams the more I found out that half the literary figures, or so it seemed, were gay or lesbian. Guys like Walt Whitman, Auden, Allan Ginsberg (although I knew he was gay before vaguely from when Scribe would recite Howl to us and almost get murdered for it, not because of the homosexuality but because we could have given a fuck about such stuff when we were hanging out Friday nights girl dateless).
I may have read the offering here The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone in play form but I don’t remember it so this is my first take on his take of the underside of the ex-pat community, the well-heeled single older women part, in Rome in the post-World War II la dolce vita world of those lonely, worried types who need plenty of assurance that they still had “it,” still had sex appeal of one form or another. Take the lead character Karen Stone, played by Vivian Leigh who was facing her own battle as a fading actress after her legendary performance as Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With The Wind, she Karen of the famed legitimate theater, the Broadway white lights when that meant something. Her latest effort, a run at Shakespeare’s As You Like It trying to play the young queen type was in her mind a bust. Friends were publicly more generous but among themselves knew the thing was a stinker. That led to her closing the play and taking off for parts unknown with her ill husband. During the trip there he had a heart attack and died leaving Karen to face the future alone.
Karen went into exile in Rome after that in order to as she said “drift.” But drifting only goes so far for a still young senior set denizen. Of course in those days proper and rich women left by themselves didn’t go to the Yellow Pages looking for companionship or go to get picked up in a bar. It was all done through various nefarious upscale native connections but in the end there was no dearth of poor beautiful young men to “escort” milady-for a fee one way or another usually with “gifts” or expense accounts. That was how Mrs. Stone met Paolo, played by a very young Warren Beatty. The duel here is between Paolo’s alleged sensibilities about Karen and her fending him off as another gigolo- for a while. But soon the inevitable expense account gets established and she plays his bills. Problem or rather two problems, one, Paolo is a whore and goes after a young American actress and two, on the rebound of sorts, Karen goes the go with another beautiful young man who has been stalking her. We are left with some serious doubts about what will happen with that young man who looks like he could murder her and not give a damn about the consequences. Pure Tennessee.
This entry on behalf of the defense of Mumia Abu-Jamal was originally written in by me in 2008 in response to the Appeals Court’s turning down his appeal of his murder conviction, a conviction filled with all kinds of legal and moral problems from the government’s side. I have edited the piece slightly here in 2017 but the main political points, unfortunately retain their validity-Frank Jackman
*********
Frank Jackman comment(2008):
The legendary social commentator and stand-up comic Lenny Bruce, no stranger to the American ‘justice’ system himself over a slew of obscenity and drug-related cases, once reportedly said that in the Halls of Justice the only justice is in the halls. The truth of that statement came home on Thursday March 27, 2008 as a panel of the federal Third Circuit Court of Appeals voted two to one to uphold Mumia’s conviction.
The only question left is that of resentencing- the death penalty or, perhaps worst, life in prison without parole. I have not yet read the decision but we are now a long way away from the possibility of a retrial-the narrow legal basis for even appealing in the legal system in the first place. (Pennsylvania has since stopped demanding the death penalty and Mumia is now serving a life without parole sentence-2017) Know this- in the end it will be in the streets and factories through the efforts of the international labor movement and other progressive forces that Mumia will be freed. That is the only way, have no illusions otherwise, whatever the next legal steps might be.
An Open Letter to Mumia Abu-Jamal Supporters-A Personal Commentary
By Frank Jackman
The Partisan Defense Committee had (in 2008) passed "An Open Letter to All Supporters of Mumia‘s Freedom" to this writer. Those few who might not know of the torturous legal battles to free this innocent man can find further information at the above-mentioned Partisan Defense Committee site archives. I make my own comments below.
Normally I pass information about the case of political prisoner Mumia abu-Jamal on without much comment because the case speaks for itself. The case has been front and center in international labor defense struggles for over two decades. However, in light of the adverse ruling by a majority of a federal Third Circuit Court of Appeal panel in March 2008 that affirmed Mumia’s 1982 conviction for first-degree murder of a police officer and left the only issue for decision that of resentencing to either reinstate his original death sentence or keep him imprisoned for life without parole I have some things to say about this fight.
Occasionally, in the heat of political battle some fights ensue around strategy that after the smoke has cleared, upon reflection, leave one with more sorrow than anger. Not so today. Today I am mad. Am I mad about the irrational decision by the majority of the Third Circuit panel in Mumia’s case? Yes, but when one has seen enough of these cases over a lifetime then one realizes that, as the late sardonic comic and social commentator Lenny Bruce was fond of saying, in the Hall of Justice the only justice is in the halls.
What has got me steamed is the obvious bankruptcy of the strategy, if one can use this term, of centering Mumia’s case on the question of a new trial in order to get the ‘masses’- meaning basically parliamentary liberal types interested in supporting the case. This by people who allegedly KNOW better. The bankruptcy of this strategy, its effects on Mumia’s case and the bewildered response of those who pedaled it as good coin is detailed in the above-mentioned Open Letter. Read it.
Today, in reaction to the Third Circuit court’s decision, everyone and their brother and sister are now calling for Mumia’s freedom. At a point where he is between a rock and a hard place. However, it did not have to be that way. Mumia was innocent in 1982 and he did not stop being innocent at any point along this long road. Freedom for Mumia was (and is) the correct slogan in the case. A long line of political criminal cases, starting in this country with that of the Haymarket Martyrs if not before, confirms that simple wisdom. Those who consciously pedaled this weak ‘new trial’ strategy as a get rich quick scheme now have seen the chickens come home to roost. And Mumia pays the price.
I would point out two factors that made a ‘retrial’ strategy in the case of an innocent man particularly Pollyanna-ish for those honest militants who really believed that Mumia’s case was merely a matter of the American justice system being abused and therefore some court would rectify this situation if enough legal resources were in place. First, it is illusory that somehow, as exemplified in this case, a higher court system would remedy this egregious wrong. Long ago I remember a lawyer, I believe that it might have been the late radical lawyer Conrad Lynn no stranger to political defense work, telling a group of us doing defense work for the Black Panthers that all these judges belong to the same “union.” They do not upset each other’s work except under extreme duress.
Second, and this is where the ‘wisdom’ of the reformists about reaching the ‘masses’ by a stage-ist theory of defense work (fight for retrial first, then freedom) turns in on them. As witness the list of names of those who have signed the Partisan Defense Committee’s call for Mumia’s freedom, excepting professional liberals and their hangers –on, those interested in Mumia’s case (or any leftwing political defense case) will sign on just as easily for freedom as retrial. Thus, opportunism does not pay, even in the short haul. That said, Free Mumia- say it loud, say it proud.
Click on the headline to link to a "Wikipedia" entry for the great American writer, Ernest Hemingway. BOOK REVIEW
A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway, Vintage-New Edition, New York, 2000 This book, published after the death by suicide of Ernest Hemingway in 1961, but written in 1960 is a little gold mine of insights about the personalities and places that made Paris in the 1920's the home of the post World War I "lost generation". Hemingway notes that these memoirs can be treated as fiction but that one can still gain some insight even through approached through that lens. Certainly the writing is as sparse and well turned as any of his short stories, including the characteristic last sentence or two of each section structured to sharply give the point he was trying to get across in the story. Of course Hemingway was young , newly married, and fairly poor in this Paris but apparently his reputation was such that all the great American and British expatriates crossed his path (or he theirs). Gertrude Stein (and Alice B.) get a nod. As does Ford Maddox Ford, T.S. Eliot, James Joyce, Ezra Pound and a smaller group of secondary writers and poets. Hell, I believe after this exposition that you had to have been in Paris at that time if you wanted to fertilize your work. A special note should be taken of the sections dealing with his relationship with Scott Fitzgerald. From Hemingway's perspective Fitzgerald was a very difficult man but one whom he tried to befriend. And of course there, as always, was the Zelda problem. If you want to understand the inner strain of Fitzgerald's Tender is The Night read Hemingway's tidbits. At some level Hemingway was trying to `save' Fitzgerald as a writer but as we know that was not to be. Read here and then go out and read other books on the "lost generation". Some of it will make more sense then.
Tom Wolfe-Fashionista Of
His Own Kind-And A Hell Of A Writer When The Deal Went Down Has Cashed His
Check
By Bart Webber
I had been, strangely
enough, in La Jolla out in California attending yet another writers’ conference
which seems to be the makings of my days these days, attending writers’
conferences that is instead of taking pen to paper or rather fingers to word
processor keyboard, when I heard Tom Wolfe had cashed his check. “Cashed his
check” a term (along with synonymous “cashed his ticket”) grabbed from memory
bank as a term used when I was “on the bum” hanging out in hobo jungle camps
and the whole trail of flop houses and Salvation Army digs to signify that a
kindred had passed to the great beyond. Was now resting in some better place
that a stinking stew-bitten, flea –bitten, foul-aired and foul-person place. No
more worries about the next flop, the next jug of cheapjack wine, the next
run-in with vicious coppers and railroad bulls, and the next guy who was ready
to rip whatever you had off to feed his own sullen addiction.
By the way this is not
Thomas Wolfe of You Can’t Go Home Again,
Look Homeward, Angels, etc. but the
writer, maybe journalist is a better way to put the matter of tons of
interesting stuff from acid trips in the 1960s hanging with Ken Kesey and his
various tribes of merry pranksters, the Hell’s Angels, drifters, grifters and
midnight sifters, to marveled space flights in the 1970s to Wall Street in the
reckless 1980 and back who had cashed his check. The strange part of the
“strangely enough” mentioned above was that on Monday May 14th 2018,
the day he died, I was walking along La Jolla Cove and commenting to my
companion without knowing his fate that Tom Wolfe had made the La Jolla surfing
scene in the early 1960s come alive with his tale of the Pump House Gang and
related stories about the restless California tribes, you know those Hell’s
Angels, Valley hot-rod freaks and the like who parents had migrated west from dustbowl
Okies and Arkies to start a new life out in Eden. These next generation though
lost in a thousand angsts and alienation not having to fight for every breath
of fresh air (with the exception of the Angels who might as well have stayed in
the Okies and McAllister Prison which would have been their fate.
I don’t know how Tom
Wolfe did at the end as a writer, or toward the end, when things seemed to
glaze over and became very homogenized, lacked the verve of hard ass 1960s,
1970s, and 1980s times. Although I do note that he did a very although I note
he did an interesting take on the cultural life at the Army base at Fort Bragg
down in North Carolina in a book of essays around the theme of hooking up. That
hooking up angle a sign that social cohesiveness in the age of the Internet was
creating some strange rituals. Know this those pound for pound in his prime he along
with Hunter Thompson could write the sociology of the land with simple flair
and kept this guy, me, flipping the pages in the wee hours of the morning. RIP,
Tom Wolfe, RIP.
******* The 50th Anniversary Of The Summer Of Love (1967)-In The 1960s Time Of Fear And Loathing- The Movie-Hunter S. Thompson’s “Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas”
Zack James’ comment:
You know it is in a way too bad that “Doctor Gonzo”-Hunter S
Thompson, the late legendary journalist is not with us in these times both this
50th anniversary commemoration of the Summer of Love, 1967 which he
worked the edges of while he was doing research (live and in your face research
by the way) on the notorious Hell’s Angels. His “hook” through Ken Kesey and
the Merry Pranksters down in Kesey’s place in La Honda where many an “acid
test” took place and where for a time the Angels, Hunter in tow, were welcomed.
He had been there and later as well when he saw the ebb tide of the 1960s
coming a year or so later. He would have “dug” the exhibition at the de Young
Museum at the Golden Gate Park highlighting the events of the period.
Better yet he would have had this Trump thug wrapped up and
bleeding from all pores just like he regaled us with the tales from the White
House bunker back in the days when Trump’s kindred one Richard Milhous Nixon,
President of the United States and common criminal was running the same low
rent trip before he was run out of town by his own like some rabid rat. Hunter
Thompson wherever you are –help. Selah. Enough said-for now
Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas, starring Johnny Depp, based on the gonzo journalism of Doctor Hunter S. Thompson.
Make no mistake I have read everything of Hunter Thompson’s that I could get my hands on. I love Johnny Depp as an actor. However, this film does a true disservice to both of their talents. Johnny makes no sense as Hunter, although he was legitimate wild man Hunter’s friend. More importantly, Fear and Loathing, driven by stuff internally spinning in Thompson’s head, does not translate on the screen as anything but a diffused and nonsensical homage to late counter-cultural self-indulgence, drug division. Of the worse sort.
Thompson always claimed that his literary attempt to use the tenets of ‘gonzo’ journalism in the book was a failure. I disagree with that evaluation for the book but certainly not for the film. Let us face it this is classic case of the film being very, very inferior to the book, although the episodes and language hew fairly close to it. Please, please read the book. And please, please read many times that little gem snippet of his about his take on the high (and low) side of the 1960s experience, what it meant to those who got caught up in the excitement and danger, and when he could see the whole thing literally ebbing. Classic. You will also laugh and be entertained by his drug-induced attempt to find the meaning of the American experience in the post-World War II world. As for the film it will give you nothing but fear and loathing.
