This summer, the Fair Food Nation turns up the heat on Wendy’s and Publix in Florida!
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Friday, August 10, 2018
This summer, the Fair Food Nation turns up the heat on Wendy’s and Publix in Florida!
Trump scares and angers Maine men who embraced peace after fighting in World War II
Trump scares and angers Maine men who embraced peace after fighting in World War II
On The 50th Anniversary Of The Death Of Singer From The Soul Otis Redding
On The 50th
Anniversary Of The Death Of Singer From The Soul Otis Redding
By Josh Breslin
The beauty of art, music,
you know cultural artifacts is that they can last, outlast their creators. The
beauty of art, music you know cultural artifacts in the modern age is that you
can access almost anything via some site on the Internet. What you cannot do is
get a sense of certain personalities, certain singers in this case that you had
seen in person once that have passed on. That was the case with the singer from
the soul Otis Redding who passed away fifty years ago this year. (Hell, even I
can’t believe it has been that long). Saw Otis in his prime, saw Otis with my then
flame, a gal we all called Butterfly Swirl (real name Carol Callahan) a surfer
girl from Carlsbad out on the Pacific Coast Highway just then slumming, thank god,
with “hippies” on Captain Crunch’s yellow brick road bus tooling up and down
the Pacific Coast at the Monterey Pop Festival in 1967. Was there at the
creation of the short sweet legend of Otis. Enough said
Link to a Christopher
Lydon Open Source NPR program on the life
and times of Otis Redding for an audience 50 years later.
radioopensource.org/afterlife-otis-redding/
As The 100th Anniversary Of The Armistice Day 11/11/1918 at 11 AM Commences-Some Creative Artists Who Fought/Died/Lived Through The Nightmare That Destroyed The Flower Of European And American Youth – Lajos Zilahy, (Century in Scarlet)
As The 100th Anniversary Of The Armistice Day
11/11/1918 at 11 AM Commences-Some Creative Artists Who Fought/Died/Lived
Through The Nightmare That Destroyed The Flower Of European And American Youth – Lajos Zilahy,
(Century in Scarlet)
By Seth Garth
A few years ago, starting in August 2104 the 100th
anniversary of what would become World War I, I started a series about the
cultural effects, some of them anyway, of the slaughter which mowed down the
flower of the European youth including an amazing number of artists, poets,
writers and other cultural figures. Those culturati left behind, those who
survived the shellings, the trenches, the diseases, and what was then called
“shell shock,” now more commonly Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) which is
duly recognized, and compensated for at least in the United States by the
Veterans Administration in proven cases reacted in many different ways. Mainly,
the best of them, like the ordinary dog soldiers could not go back to the same
old, same old, could not revive the certitudes of the pre-war Western world
with it distorted sense of decorum and went to what even today seem quirky with
moderns like Dada, Minimalism, the literary sparseness of Hemingway, and so on.
I had my say there in a general sense but now as we are only a few months away
from the 100th anniversary of, mercifully, the armistice which
effectively ended that bloodbath I want to do a retrospective of creative
artistic works by those who survived the war and how those war visions got
translated into their works with some commentary if the spirit moves me but
this is their show-no question they earned a retrospective.
The Resurrection And The Light-The 50th Anniversary Revival Of Doctor King’s Poor People’s Campaign-Join Us, Join The Struggle Against Poverty-Join The Resistance
The Resurrection And The Light-The 50th Anniversary Revival Of Doctor King’s Poor People’s Campaign-Join Us, Join The Struggle Against Poverty-Join The Resistance
By Leslie Dumont
Doctor Martin Luther King was personally a brave man. Brave in that understated way that young women like myself could admire and follow if it came down to that as it had down in hell-hole Alabama, Mississippi, North Carolina, all those places where the anguished cries for justice could be heard. Bravely withstood jails, beatings and blood.
I was a young girl actually since I was only twelve when the whirlwind of 1968 hit my home in Cambridge, North Cambridge like a storm (although social and cultural movement like the folk and poetry music period of the early 1960s, the bulk of the black civil rights struggle as it headed north, the draft resistance and anti-Vietnam War protests which were a daily occurrence happening right down the street in Harvard Square). The Tet offensive in Vietnam by the North Vietnamese which meant that the war there was far from over and that I had a sneaking suspicion filtered down by my father that America was on the short end of the stick as far was winning went. Doctor King’s death which left his last great project The Poor People’s Campaign the revival of which I am introducing here. Ruthless, idealistic beautiful Robert Kennedy dead as well so that the hopes for a “newer world” he kept touting would be stalled, continue to be stalled. The disaster of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, a bloodbath that I wept tears for a long time. All too much for a twelve year old girl to understand, to take in. Still hard fifty years later when 2018 places all those events before the still-divided, cold civil war divided, country again.
The war, the Vietnam War, Sam Lowell keeps telling me we have to reference which war for the younger crowd to distinguish that war from the myriad others the American government has pursued or purchased proxies for since then, took the stuffing out of a lot of other social movements, other points on the national social agency. That stuffing being pulled including the War on Poverty that then President thought might be his legacy but which went to ground in the rice fields and highlands of Vietnam. Like I say I was too young to appreciate all of that, of the lost. But I still kept thinking and reading about it, about how to reduce the poverty around that was not doing anybody any good. My father, my late father, was deeply concerned about the poverty issue especially the white Appalachian Mountains poverty from whence he came. He had this book, this The Other America by Michael Harrington which dealt with just that neglected (and still neglected) rural poverty, in his library which I asked him about after I read it. He told me some stories about his growing up dirt poor with nothing to hang onto but some bastardized dream of getting the hell out of there one way or another.
So I was very disappointed, very concerned when the first Poor People’s Campaign, the Resurrection City campaign down in Washington produced nothing, or not enough to banish poverty from this great over abundant country. And now in some truly ironic twist of silly fate there is a movement, a recent movement, afloat to go back to the ideas presented in Doctor King’s dream of eradicating poverty. The damnation is that in the 2018 as in 1968 the poor are still with us and still need champions working like seven dervishes to get the story back on the public agenda. Good luck to you, good luck to me too since unlike that twelve and too young to fathom the whole thing I am ready to roll now.
***************
Once Again On The Cultural Front of The 1960s Uprising-The 50th Anniversary Of The Musical “Hair” On Broadway-A Few Thoughts
Once Again On The Cultural Front of The 1960s Uprising-The 50th Anniversary Of The Musical “Hair” On Broadway-A Few Thoughts
A link to an National Public Radio On Point program featuring the 50th anniversary of the musical and it meaning then, and now:
http://www.wbur.org/onpoint/2018/05/04/fifty-years-of-hair
By Si Lannon
The first time I heard that Seth Garth was going to preempt political aficionado Frank Jackman and do the 200th anniversary of the birth of Communist Manifesto writer Karl Marx was upon publication under the former’s name. Which pisses me off since I have been squeezed out apparently of getting any assignments around the incredible number of 1968 events which are having their 50th anniversary commemorations. (The Marx 200th birthday anniversary thing intersects 1968 via a then growing interest in his theories among students and young radicals once the old tactics and strategy around Democratic Party takeover politics went asunder.) Upon privately complaining to site manager Greg Green he gave me this assignment to make a few comments of the 50th anniversary of the musical Hair, on Broadway at least although it had been off-Broadway the year before, one of the few musicals that could have possibly captured some of the pathos, bathos and essence of what was going on in all its messy splendor in that year.
Hair represented that trend away from goodie two shoes formula entertainment like song and dance musicals and thinly pitched family dramatic productions. That represented what the audiences of the 1950s were interested in and still had, have a place in the Great White Way scheme of things. But the unacknowledged (at the time not so now once the cultural critics took their long look at the subject) effect of the vanguard work that was being done in little theaters for little money for little audiences finally took root. Artaud’s Theater of the Absurd, Brecht’s didactic efforts and the like finally found a more receptive general audience. So Hair in 1967-68 did not raise as many hairs (no pun intended among the theater going public as it might have earlier in the decade when it would have been treated as an end of run “beat” saga. That is no to say the subject of intense profanity, vivid sexual reference, an interracial cast and endless paeans to drugs of all sorts didn’t raise hackles, didn’t have members of the audience walking out shaking their heads but as word got out that this was a generational sage for the agents of the Age of Aquarius the thing couldn’t be stopped. And as one voice in the above-mentioned link noted she was still playing in, albeit in Vermont one of the last real refuses of the survivors of the Generation of ’68 along with the Oregon woods and maybe Seattle now that nobody with any left-over hippie aspiration could afford to live in any part of San Francisco except maybe the streets, is still being produced someplace in this wild wicked old land.
In a funny sort of way the saga of Hair almost accidently traced the line of the 1960s explosion but more importantly in one place stamped “youth nation” as a tribal village like it had never been before, although you could have seen around the edges of it all the way back to the wild boys of the West Coast in their souped up jalopies and hot rods with a “don’t give fuck” about the golden age of American prosperity aborning, the bad boys offspring of the Okie migration that said the more menacing “fuck you up” of the outlaw bikers with their big “hogs” and larcenous hearts, the alienated teen angst misunderstood “please don’t fuck with my head” rebel without a cause types who cooled on James Dean, and the “fuck, fuck, fuck” beat boys talking a blue streak about junkies, negro streets and jailbreaks. And you wonder why youth nation jumped right in the middle of all this when the social situation ran up against racial segregation, sexual uptightness, the fucking war in Vietnam which formed on the corners that Hair hung its hat on since every single guy, and it was all guys then, from the most gung ho Green Beret film watcher to the most ardent draft resister had to deal with the draft and the generational question-go or resist-and the weird queer drag queen fag baiting and women’s liberation.
That draft issue, that each and every guy and by extension their lovers, caught between a rock and a hard place was no joke. Was centrally why Hair spoke to a generation struggling with that very issue-to go or resist- a question that the parents’ generation had almost no conception of since they had fought, or waited anxiously at the door, in their “good war” and could not understand their kids and their idea that maybe going off to kill people, poor people, who they had no quarrel had to be thought about. Claude, a lead character had plenty to think about doped up to the gills or not. The other stuff about race, sex, dope, the signs of the Zodiac, karma, mediation, oneness with the world flow from that central concern.
It wasn’t all beautiful by any means and the threads that hung “youth nation” together came asunder readily enough once the counter-offensive by the night-takers began in earnest (and as Seth Garth and Frank Jackman have said we have been fighting a forty plus year cultural rearguard action against the bastards ever since with no letup in sight). Even in the halcyon days of the Summer of Love in 1967 which is the framework a lot of us had from my town under the guidance of the one and only Scribe, the late Peter Paul Markin who in the end fell under the bus himself, there was plenty of bad stuff going with people ripping people off for drugs, food, anything that was not nailed down. But that was a side issue like many things when something new is trying to breakout and not everybody is as pure as the driven snow and who knows who will show up.
The Captain Crunch-led converted yellow brick road bus we ran up and down the Pacific Coast Highway on picking up vagrant travelers and the wanderers of the youth nation world mostly were seekers, ranters, good people to have on your side when you are trying create a newer world out of what late capitalism and its social norms had left us to pick up the pieces with.
Like I said not everybody, not the Scribe in the end, could go the distance and once that critical mass which sustained the youth nation lost it love of plainsong, of seeking for the mysteries of the universe in a million different ways from tarot cards to LSD and everything in between, and the sense that we could win the drift went against us as people headed back to the confines of late capitalist bourgeois society. Headed back from that youthful detour, except of course those small enclaves mentioned earlier still existing in places like Vermont and Oregon if you ever get up that way. Everybody has some timeline for when the whole thing ebbed, after the hellish 1968 year of events being the prime candidate but that was/is for academics to ferret out. As Frank Jackman has said repeating what the Scribe said before he fell off the world-Wasn’t that a time, yeah, wasn’t that a time.
When The Whole World Reached Out For One Sweet Breathe Of Hollywood Glamour When It Counted-In Honor Of The Commemoration of 100th Birthday Of Rita Hayworth-Who Is That Rita Hayworth Is Dancing With?-“You Were Never Lovelier”- A Film Review
When The Whole World
Reached Out For One Sweet Breathe Of Hollywood Glamour When It Counted-In Honor
Of The Commemoration of 100th Birthday Of Rita Hayworth-Who Is That Rita Hayworth Is Dancing With?-“You Were Never Lovelier”- A Film Review
By Si Lannon
You know the Internet is
a wonderful tool at times especially for sites like this one very interested in
history, of everything from governments to holy goofs. Most of the time you can
find out information or information comes your way when you are perusing for
something else. That was the case last year when I was looking something up at
the archives of American Film Gazette
and noticed they were doing a serious commemoration of the 100th birthday
of ruggedly handsome and versatile male hunk from the 1940s Robert Mitchum.
That information led to a full-scale retrospective of his work, or the best of
it anyway. The best being his noir stuff where he is hunk style and manly ready
to take a few punches, throw a few, take an errant slug or two, bang-bang a few
too for some dame, for some femme who had him all twisted up inside trying to
find the mystery of her. Fat chance of discovering that as a million guys since
Adam, maybe before have found out the hard way, although usually not at the end of some femme fatale gun.
Not so with the way I
got the information about 1940s sex siren and maker of guys, who knows maybe
gals too and not just lesbians or bi’s either although they can have their
stares just like anybody else but in their own right beautiful women who will concede
that she has bested them, steamy midnight dreams Rita Hayworth. I was in
Harvard Square on some unrelated business when I passed the famous and historic
Brattle Theater a place I knew well in my 1970s cheap date period and have
probably seen more films there than any other place. But video stores, studio
comps, and lately Netflix and Amazon have taken the place of going to the big
screen theater for me for many years now just because it is easier and more
efficient to see the films at my discretion. For old-time’s sake I decided to
take an “upcoming schedule” broadside which was provided in a little box in
front of the theater entrance. When I opened it up later there was one of the icons
of icons of Hollywood glamour when that burg was the only game in town and when
glamour meant something to eye candy hungry soldiers and sailors, airmen too, during
World War II and their waiting for the other shoe to drop anxious honeys
sitting in dark movie houses too. Yes, Rita in a 1940s provocative, although
what would now draw nothing but a snicker from even naïve eight grade girls,
sun suit with that patented come hither if you dare look that every guy, every
cinematic guy, begged to get next to. Was ready to take the big step off for
like her then husband Orson Welles almost did in the fatal Lady From Shanghai.
What the theater was
doing and was famous for in the old days when the classic no money classic college
date world was when I lived was a big retrospective of her work from early
B-film stuff as she made her way up the Hollywood stardom food chain to some astonishing
dance routines with Fred Astaire making you watch her moves not his something
hard to do believe me to the later femme fatale classics like Gilda and the previously mentioned Lady From Shanghai and then the drop back to B-films and cameos at
the end of her career. Since the theater had treated her to this royal treatment
I decided the least I could was to do a retro-review of those efforts for a now
glamour-hungry world. That type of “innocent” glamour will never come back, the
world is just a bit too weary and wary for that to happen but the younger sets should
at least know why their grandfathers and grand-grandfathers stirred to her
every move, pinned her photo up on a million lockers and in a million duffle
bags.
My own Rita experience is
like many things in the film business when Hollywood was top dog, rightly or
wrongly, second hand from those cheap date retrospectives and earlier, high
school earlier with Allan Jackson who used to rule the roost at this publication.
In those old Acre neighborhood days, usually Saturdays, we would hike a couple of
miles up the carless road to the old Strand Theater in Adamsville Center and
watch plenty of 1940s films since to save money Sal Cadger the gregarious owner
of the theater on first run features from the studios filled up the screen with
this older material. We loved it, have loved it ever since. Bang-the first time
I saw Rita sa-sashing into her hubby’s casino down in Buenos Aires, I think that
is right, and stumbles onto ex-flame down and out gambler on a losing streak Glenn
Ford, to find him working for her old man. Electricity beyond whatever words I
could use to describe that tension in the air which spelled some hard times for
somebody. I hope the reader will get an idea of that is this series as we commemorate
Rita’s 100th birthday year.
Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip from the movie, You Were Never Lovlier.
DVD Review
You Were Never Lovelier, Fred Astaire, Rita Hayworth, Xavier Cugat, Adophe Menjou, music by Jerome Kern and Johnny Mercer, 1943
The first paragraph below is taken from other reviews about Rita Hayworth although the male stars are different here, except they all have a similar feature; they all are smitten, very smitten, by Ms. Hayworth’s charms. Join the line, boys:
“Okay, let me bring you up to speed on the obscure meaning of the headline. See, a while back I was smitten by a film star, an old time black and white film star from the 1940s, Rita Hayworth. The film that sent me into a tailspin: the black and white noir classic Gilda where she played a “good” femme fatale who got in a jam with a no good monomaniacal crook. But that part is not important femme fatales, good or bad, get mixed up with wrong gees all the time. It’s an occupational hazard. What is important though is that I got all swoony over lovely, alluring Rita. And as happens when I get my periodic “bugs” I had to go out and see what else she performed in. Of course Lady From Shang-hai came next. There she plays a “bad” blondish femme fatale (against a smitten Orson Welles)."
And now this film under review, You Were Never Lovelier. We are caught up.
Now the plot line here, the never-ending boy meets girl plot line that Hollywood mass-produced (and mass-produces) is pretty simple, except that it takes place in Buenos Aires (although the twelve dollars spent on fake stage scene-settings made me think of little white houses with picket fences in Indiana, or some place like that). When all is said and done, despite the machinations of Maria’s (Rita Hayworth) father (Adophe Menjou), Broadway show dance man Fred Astaire is smitten, very smitten (join the aforementioned line, the now long line, Fred) by her “Spanish” charms and her sweet coquettishness. And from there the hi-jinks really begin as all parties, wives, aunts, sisters, Christ, even grandma, and a much put upon father’s business assistant try to get this pair matched up. And as these Hollywood boy meet girl things often turn out, we will hear wedding bells before the end.
But forget the story line. This thing, like almost all Fred Astaire vehicles, and righteously so, is strictly about Fred’s dancing, dancing alone, dancing with a partner, dancing up a wall (oops that was another film) but dancing with so much style it is impossible to keep your eyes off him (saying how did he do that all the while). For style, grace, and physical moves every one of those guys you see on shows like Dancing With The Stars, well, just tell them to move on over, and watch a real pro. Hey, wait a minute, what about Rita? Ya, what about her. Here she is just along for the ride, although less so than in the previously reviewed You’ll Never Get Rich. She is more in synch here with Fred’s moves but it is still Fred's dancing which draws the eye. As I noted before, Rita, however, has other charms, okay.
Note: The music of Jerome Kern and Johnny Mercer need no further comment, nor does the work of band leader Xavier Cugat. These are all pros from the old Tin Pan Alley music days of the American songbook. Enough said
Thursday, August 09, 2018
Blues Legend Henry Butler Passes To The Great High White Note Search Beyond
Blues Legend Henry Butler Passes To The Great High White Note Search Beyond
In The Age Of A Cold Civil War-Immigrant Or Citizen- Know Your Rights From The ACLU-Short Course
In The Age Of A Cold Civil War-Immigrant Or Citizen- Know Your Rights From The ACLU-Short Course
Comment
In the age of Trump no matter how many generations you and yours have been here in America the beginning of wisdom is to know your rights such as they are and who to contact if they “come in the morning” for you and yours.
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