From The High School Archives-The Day The Boys' Bowling Team Balked At Co-Ed Bowling -Go Figure These Holy Goofs

From The High School Archives-The Day The Boys' Bowling Team Balked At Co-Ed Bowling -Go Figure These Holy Goofs     

The attentive reader already knows part of this story-the so-called distaff side, the side about how from what now seems like time immemorial the boys’ and girls’ bowling teams at North Adamsville High School never shall meet. Here is a quick recap for those who are rightly clueless that in the year 2019 this should still be an issue, the issue of co-ed bowling teams, you know mixed, both sexes in the same bowling alleys at the same time a situation which has not happened since before World War II like this whole school had been in some monstrous time warp:   

“Maybe in some corners of the world there are odd-ball traditions that exist for no earthy purpose except somebody got a bee in their bonnet or had hit the bong pipe too heavily and never got over it. Maybe ingested too much coke or went over edge in some mystical ashram of the mind. That is the case of the long-standing tradition carried out to this day, to 2019 if you can believe that what with the “Pill, sexual revolution, #MeToo and a thousand other movements which would, or should have led to other more rational conclusions that the North Adamsville high school girls’ bowling team will never become co-ed, will never mingle with members of the boys’ team, at least on the bowling alley floor.

Rumor had it back in the 1960s when it would have made some sense, never confirmed although the story has the ring of truth to it, that before the war, World War II, before the world went up in smoke and fog the bowling teams were mixed, boys and girls mingling just like real people in real relationships. That school, social, maybe religious and parents policy all such agents would seemingly have had their hands deep state inside this one was established, in perpetuity, because one night some smartass male bowler, the list of possible villains included such well-known historic names as Tiger Callahan, Bomber Kiley, Gary Devine and Jimmy Larkin  brought hard liquor into the place, distributed it and all hell broke loose, including long suppressed evidence of sexual activity.

The latter a well-known activity among the young since I would guess there have been young was not that hard to figure for later generations since certain young women, I will use first names only, Cindy, Jane, Irene, and Ellen had reputations for sneaking in the back room at Billy Larkin’s (Jimmy’s father) Bowling Lanes and “playing the flute, ” you figure it out if you don’t know what that means long before the night in question.   

What set the town on fire, what got cops, priests, ministers, rabbis if there were any, parents and school administrators is that some of those girls had to go see “Aunt Betty” out in Iowa or Nebraska somewhere within a few months of that escapade. The deep dark secret that every guy and gal in the 1960s knew was afoot so the reason for the deep cold files seems baffling. Nevertheless Henry Hanks, some old fogy headmaster whose photograph still graces the front foyer of the high school main entrance as you enter the hallowed hall declared by executive order that henceforth and forever separate teams at separate bowling alleys. Nobody since has made a squawk. Weird, right ?”    

I don’t know if anybody earlier ever tried to have the policy changed given all kinds of movements for women’s equality since that time, certainly since the 1960s. I do know that nobody in my generation back in the 1960s tried, I didn’t even know the school had bowling teams of any kind, co-ed or not until I got my yearbook and saw the photographs. Recently though I have found out that this year, this school year okay, the girls’ team petitioned to have co-ed teams. And the administration and I don’t know who else was

consulted gave their agreement, busting the logjam, contingent on the boys’ team’s response.

The boys balked, said nada, nunca, nada, no. Why? These pristine fellows wanted to keep their male cave intact, wanted to continue to bowl at Billy Larkin’s (long since under new management Billy and classmate Jimmy having passed away years ago) and not at Lucky Lanes across town. Here is the real deal though some of the boys had heard that some of the girls drank and maybe did some dope. Maybe would throw a party instead of worrying about a split or something. The boys, some boys, worried that old worry that some girl bowlers might have to go see “Aunt Emma” in Iowa or Wyoming after a few months of such activity. Weird, really weird, right?  

   

 

From The Archives-Why Bath Iron Works Must Convert To Green New Deal A

In The Days When Crime Paid And The Coppers Took Their Graft Anyway They Could-Gene Tierney and Dana Andrew’s “Where The Sidewalk Ends” (1950)-A Film Review

In The Days When Crime Paid And The Coppers Took Their Graft Anyway They Could-Gene Tierney and Dana Andrew’s “Where The Sidewalk Ends” (1950)-A Film Review

DVD Review

By Will Bradley

Where The Sidewalk Ends (yeah, I know, they must have spent about three dollars to some starving stringer in the scriptwriters’ quarters to come up with that title), starring lovely Gene Tierney and pretty boy Dana Andrews, directed by Otto Preminger, 1950    

I get down on my hands and knees every day and pray that the day never comes when professional writing, review writing, ever stops being a dog eat dog proposition. Stops being what young, well she is younger than I am after all, Sarah Lemoyne, a fellow reviewer here following her mentor old greybeard Seth Garth has called a cutthroat business where only the strong and ruthless survive-once they get their coveted by-lines. Of course I would discount out of hand anything Mr. Garth has to inform the young and unwashed with, impressionables like Ms. Lemoyne, since I took the full measure of the man when he went down in flames in our “dueling” film review set-too on the question of the iconic nature of Sherlock Holmes and Doc Watson in their long and illustrious film series. I won’t bore the reader with details here but Garth insisted that the whole series was nothing but an ill-disguised homage to the Homintern, to their kinky little high-brow male same-sex club complete with every thief and con man in the kingdom doing their bidding.  And Ms. Lemoyne bought into that madness, following Seth’s lead about me being wet behind the ears since I didn’t catch on to the importance of “dilly boys,” young male whores, riffraff really in the whole scheme of their illegal Baker Street operations covered up by a see no evil landlady. But enough of that since if anybody is still interested in that what did wizened and senile, for once Sarah got it right, Sam Lowell call it, oh yes, a tempest in a teapot they can thumb through the archives at this publication (and American Film Gazette with whom this publication has reciprocal agreements on high profile reviews).         

Yes, I gladly bent the knees for the glories of beating down so-called film reviewers who have passed their prime and hope the nightmarish day never comes when, egged on by the likes of Amazon and Netflix, every buffoon who has access to the Internet, to endless cyberspace decides without any evidence that they can take on the lions, the real film reviewers. I have made a point of this mainly to respond to Ms. Lemoyne’s comments in her baffling film review of the first of the Star Wars episodes where she castigated me for not being a whirling dervish slave of the series after I panned, dismissed out of hand, Star Wars: The Last Jedi where ancient has-been, maybe never was, Mark Hamill as some sullen greybeard AARP-type Luke Skywalker finally gives us some relief from his tedious attempts at fighting inter-galactic evil from some ill-thought out self-imposed exile while younger,  fresher forces are willing to do battle up close and personal. Hell, I just realized that the plot-line of that movie could stand in for the controversy swirling around this joint’s water cooler between the has-beens and the new vanguard forces.  

Maybe I had better step back a bit and describe what the whole sad saga, this eternal office politics struggle is all about.  Sarah was assigned, and in this I think rightly so, a nice six-pic review package of cheaply produced and scripted psychological thrillers outsourced by Columbia Pictures to low-rent, low overhead Hammer Productions over in England back in the late 1950s. Then wizened and senile Sam Lowell who seems to endlessly hangs around the water cooler looking for young women to recognize him as the max daddy, his expression I think, of the film noir world based on some book he wrote or ghosted I never got it straight stormed into site manager Greg Green’s office and demanded based on some film noir series he had done put out by the same production company years ago to do Sarah’s series. Greg, needless to say, caved in automatically. Reason: Sam Lowell’s by-line is still a watch-word among noir aficionados. Real reason: Sam was the decisive vote when he cut his old friend Allan Jackson’s throat which gave the job to Greg. Yeah, office politics.      

Moving along. Sarah outraged turned to her mentor Seth hanging out at the water cooler just after her banishment. I would discount any denials by either one of them that nothing, noting romantic is in the cards between them but that is not germane to what happened next so I will can it. I will say old-time mentor Seth really did give some good advice on this score. He told Sarah to get right back in there before things cooled off and demand some kind of equivalent assignment. Hence her Star Wars package. Hence her stabbing me in the back over my perfectly righteous review of a bunch of has-beens whose only real existence now is to keep extorting sad sack parents for tickets, sodas and that awful popcorn for sullen underfoot kids that keeps the studios humming along.

I took her measure and the next Star Wars review I will give my considered judgment of the film and of her work but today I have a bigger score to settle. Have to take down one Samuel Lowell (don’t know his middle name or if he has one) and his sullied reputation as the king hell king, his expression of the film noir world. A reputation based on his “definitive” work The Night Belongs To Film Noir way back in the late 1960s and which even Sarah Lemoyne mentioned was something that every serious aficionado or noir reviewer has to acknowledge as the cat’s meow. Then it might have been true, and even today there are probably kernels of wisdom which a reviewer could profit by. But some of the stuff he spewed out was, well, bullshit. How do I know this?

Greg Green who is all over the place on what he does, or does not, want to see this publication become has latched onto a new idea that the younger writers like Sarah and I, maybe Minnie Moore, should take a fresh eye look at some older material that has withstood the test of time-or Hollywood is still putting out. Hence Sarah’s Star War look, hence my Sherlock Holmes take, and now I have been assigned to do a fresh-eyed look at film noir. Starting with the classic Dana Andrews and Gene Tierney film noir Where The Sidewalk Ends.

Reason: this is one of the films Sam reviewed, or somebody under his direction reviewed, many years ago. Re-reading his piece gave me a better idea that the old man really did have one idea and blasted a gullible world with ever since. I will explain below but you should also know that Sam was notorious for either having somebody, a stringer, write his stuff once he got his lifeline by-line or just ripped off whatever the studio publicity department put out and signed his name to it. I think the latter here.

My late grandfather who was a cop’s cop which I believed until I found out that he like all his brethren never paid for his coffee and crullers at Ida’ Bakery once some older cop clued him in always said that if a cop turns, if a cop goes rogue then get rid of him (and now him or her). And he should have known since he was a captain in the Albany Police Department and had seen it all, done it all. That seemed to be the family consensus as well since the family was infested with coppers who paid attention to the old man and probably took their coffee and cruller graft too. That idea, that getting rid of a bum cop is the story line behind this cute little noir. My grandfather would have been happy with the ending here. Of course Sam Lowell went to great lengths to yak about how one Mark Dixon, played by Dana Andrews, should have been lauded not lammed (and old town expression meaning given the boot, unceremoniously given it). And in the process destroying the whole premise of noir that no evil deed will go unpunished even as the bodies pile up. But maybe I had better run the story-line and you will see how Sam booted the ball something terrible.            

Even Sam Lowell, if not now then in his prime, in the time of his so-called definitive noir primer, would have to agree with my contention that it was a lot easier to say what a good noir private detective is than what a good public copper was when it came right down to it before he got all soft and dewy-eyed about reformed coppers. Jesus, Sam set the table on private eyes, guys, always guys in those days, who maybe had gotten some higher education (a good observation by him noting the germane reason why private dicks always were one or seven steps ahead of the slothful by-the-book, a book they couldn’t read in most cases, public coppers), had worked the public racket maybe in the DA’s office but saw the graft and gaff and didn’t worry about the pension twenty years out for staying low and unobserved, ready to take a slug or two, a fist or two to get a little rough justice in this wicked old world. If a good-looking dame, a femme, a what did Sam call them in the prime, frails, twists crossed his path and maybe curled his toes, and I hope I don’t have to explain what that meant to the good reader so much the better. If he rode off in the sunset with her fine, if he had to throw her over, well that was the breaks, that’s the way the ball bounced. Guys like Sam Spade, Phil Marlowe, Lance Larkin, and a host of others lighted up the firmament and raised hell with the public coppers just for kicks while getting their respective cases closed.

        

Film noir good public coppers, guys like Mark Dixon under review here are harder to figure in those pre-Miranda days. Mostly they didn’t have a pot to piss in, my grandmother’s expression, the one married to the police captain, could have given a fuck about criminal rights save that for the ACLU lawyers and the faint-hearted liberals and had the mindset of desert rats in heat. I would have taken Mark Dixon, bright boy Mark Dixon for what passed for a good cop in those days. Unlike my uncles who were afraid to get out of the squad car for fear they might have to do something which might jeopardize their heavenly pensions, who were mostly “on the take” from one guy or another (unknown to grandpa while he was alive anyway) and whose idea of justice was roughing up, pistol-whipping, Ida of Ida’s Bakery for having the audacity to ask them to pay for their coffee and crullers when she was having trouble meeting the rent money Mark Dixon was a straight-arrow copper. Did a little “third degree” here, a little rabbit punch there, a cold-cocked pistol-whipping for kicks. A little over the top but            not enough to get the commissioner and his underlings in a snit unlike when the Mayfair swells complained when he busted up their floating crap games or they had to fork over cases of high shelf whiskey. Mark’s idea of justice, if he knew the word, ran to hard fists and no bullshit.

For a while and for a while Sam Lowell kept propping him up in his famous turncoat review (the first time he went soft on a police procedural public copper when he did not have to do so at all). Then Dixon went crazy trying to frame local mobster Jimmy Scalise for everything from starting World War II to jacking up the price of gold and silver. Reason: and this would be Sam’s downfall, his Achilles Heel if you really want to know, Mark’s father, Jeep Dixon was the king-pin mobster before Jimmy, had put Jimmy on easy street with the gambling and whorehouse concessions and when Jeep ran afoul of the coppers for trying to cut their swag he died in a blaze of gunfire “trying to escape.” I don’t have to draw a diagram for you on that one. Dixon was scarred, was bleeding heart liberal scarred by being the son of a gangster, couldn’t take it and became a hard-nosed, third degree no holds barred copper. Sam bought that lonely hearts story hook, line and sinker. Saw this as a breakthrough for noir coppers with brains. Jesus.      

Of course Sam all rose-colored glasses now, or was it his ghostwriter who did him in, that will probably be his alibi when he answers this accusation, if he has the moxie to, and an accusation is exactly what it is, didn’t count on Mark committing about eight thousand felonies and a few misdemeanors in the mix, trying to save his damn ass from going up to Ossining and a “party” with a few guys he put in stir, a few guys who needed a “girlfriend” to while away those twenty years they were doing for crossing Dixie boy. This is where the unacknowledged American psycho part comes in. Mark was so obsessed with getting Scalise and his boys that he would stop at nothing. Figured when some rich Texas oilman got bonged, got good and bonged to death for winning too much dough at one of Jimmy’s get togethers that he had the bastard cold. Jimmy was not Jeep’s acolyte for nothing and he easily slipped Dixon’s noose with a pretty tale which the chief coppers bought.

Dixon was frantic, saw his golden opportunity for a frame, a big old square frame slip away, melt like butter on a hot summer day so he went to see the ringer, to see the guy who brought Tex to the party, brought some pretty frill as well who will get introduced soon. Confronted the ringer a little too hard and said ringer who had a steel plate in his head from a war injury went dead. Oops.

From there it is all downhill for Dixon as he makes mistake after mistake even a mental midget could see would not work. He tried to frame Jimmy for this one and instead got the ringer’s father-in-law, or maybe ex-father-in-law facing the big step-off in his place. This is where Morgan, played by Gene Tierney last seen in this space with that same Dana Andrews under different circumstances when he was trying to find out who killed her in the noir classic Laura, comes in and muddies up the waters, for Mark. See that ringer was her ex-husband, had been a guy, a war veteran like so many others and who various older writers at this publication, including Seth and Sam, have written extensively about, who couldn’t adjust after their military service. The ringer wanted easy street and so linked up with Jimmy. Brought Morgan along for the ride on the Texas oilman caper.

Mark and Morgan meet and are attracted to each other without knowing why and without knowing that Mark did in her ex-husband, accident or no, and would set the trap for her father to take the rap for killing his ex-son-in-law. But there is a light at the end of the tunnel which Sam gushed all over himself about. Tough copper Dixon, falling for the frill, can’t let her father fall fatally so devised a plan to let Jimmy fall if he can get one of his minions to snitch. That bastard does and Dixon grabs Jimmy for a hard fall. Here is where it gets sappy, where Sam begins his long fall from grace, Dixon’s superior is all set to let him back on the force when he hands back Dixon a letter he had written telling all he had done to cover up murder, mayhem and frameups. Dixon in a fit of conscience tells the superior to read the letter. Dixon will get to be somebody up at Ossining girlfriend after all. Morgan, father cleared, will stand by her man now that he has manned up. Sam has declared that scene the beginning of neo-film noir. I swear the last original thing he had to say was in about 1964, 1965.  As for his take on this film. Ugh! The emperor has no clothes.        

The Centennial Of Pete Seeger’s Birthday (1919-2014)- *The Folk Historian On Camera- Pete Seeger Back In The Days

Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Sonny Terry And Brownie McGhee Doing "Hootin' The Blues".

DVD REVIEW

Rainbow Quest: Sonny Terry/Brownie McGhee, Hedy West, Mississippi John Hurt, Paul Cardwell and hosted by Pete Seeger, Shanachie Entertainment, 2005

In a year that has featured various 90th birthday celebrations it is very appropriate to review some of the 1960’s television work of Pete Seeger, one of the premier folk anthologists, singers, transmitters of the tradition and “keeper” of the folk flame. This DVD is a “must see” for anyone who is interested in the history of the folk revival of the 1960’s , the earnest, folksy style of Pete Seeger or the work of Mississippi John Hurt, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, Hedy West or banjoist Paul Cardwell.

This DVD contains some very interesting and, perhaps, rare television film footage from two Pete Seeger shows entitled “Rainbow Quest”. Each show is introduced (and ends, as well) by Pete singing his old classic “If Oh I Had A Golden Thread” and then he proceeds to introduce and play banjo along with the above-mentioned artists. No date is given (as far as I could find) but these shows must have been fairly early in the 1960’s because I believe that John Hurt died in about 1964 or 1965.

Pete’s relationship with Sonny and Brownie went back to the days of the Almanac Singers (that included Woody Guthrie) and New York City in the early 1940’s. That segment gives some details about various goings on of those times and the genesis of some of the songs that are sung in the set. I have read elsewhere that at some point in their joint careers Sonny and Brownie stopped talking to each other even as they continued their professional lives together. Here, at least, they appeared to be civil to each other as the combination of Brownie’s guitar and vocals, Sonny’s smokin’ harmonica and accompaniment by Pete on the banjo is a rare treat.

The second segment is a little less entertaining as Pete introduces the mountain banjo man Crawford doing traditional reels and jigs and Hedy West doing a couple of numbers . Then there is a magic moment. Mississippi John Hurt, with his clean, simple guitar picking, doing “ Lonesome Valley”. Wow. And then ending with his version of Lead Belly’s “Goodnight, Irene” (with the others joining in). These, alone, are worth the price of admission. Wow, again.

One final note. This is a piece of folk history. Pete Seeger is a folk legend. However, the production values here are a bit primitive and low budget. Moreover, for all his stature as a leading member of the folk pantheon Pete was far from the ideal host. His halting speaking style and almost bashful manner did not draw his guests out. Let’s just put it this way the production concept used then would embarrass a high school television production class today. But, Pete, thanks for the history lesson.

Ain't no tellin

Don't you let my good girl catch you here.
Don't you let my good girl catch you here.
She might shoot you, may cut ya and starve you too.
Ain't no tellin, what, she might do.

I'm up the country where the col' sleet and snow.
I'm up the country where the col' sleet and snow.
Ain't no telling how much further I may go.

Eatin' my breakfast here, my dinner in Tennessee.
Eatin' my breakfast here, my dinner in Tennessee.
I tol' you I was comin', baby, won't you look for me.
Hey, hey, such lookin' the class.

The way I'm sleepin' my back and shoulders tired.
Way I'm sleepin' babe, my back and shoulders tired.
Gonna turn over, try it on the side.

Don't you let, my good girl catch you here.
She, might shoot you, may cut you and starve you too.
Ain't no tellin', what, she might do.

Ain't nobody but you baby

Chorus:
Ain't nobody but you baby,
Ain't nobody but you,.
Ain't nobody but you,
Ain't nobody but you.

I got a letter last night,
I got a letter last night,
I got a letter last night,
How do you reckon it read?

chorus

I went down to the ball,
Went down to the ball last night.

chorus

Avalon Blues
written by: Mississippi John Hurt

Got to New York this mornin', just about half-past nine
Got to New York this mornin', just about half-past nine
Hollerin' one mornin' in
Avalon
, couldn't hardly keep from cryin'
Avalon is my hometown, always on my mind
Avalon is my hometown, always on my mind
Pretty mama's in Avalon want me there all the time
When the train left Avalon, throwin' kisses and wavin' at me
When the train left Avalon, throwin' kisses and wavin' at me
Says, "Come back, daddy, and stay right here with me"
Avalon's a small town, have no great big range
Avalon's a small town, have no great big range
Pretty mama's in Avalon, they sure will spend your change
New York's a good town, but it's not for mine
New York's a good town, but it's not for mine
Goin' back to Avalon, near where I have a pretty mama all the time

Big Leg Blues
written by: Mississippi John Hurt

Raise up, baby, get your big leg offa mine
Raise up, baby, get your big leg offa mine
They're so heavy, make a good man change his mind
I asked you, baby, to come and hold my head
I ask you, baby, to come and hold my head
Send me word that you'd rather see me dead
I'm goin', I'm goin', your cryin' won't make me stay
I'm goin', I'm goin', cryin' won't make me stay
More you cry, the further you drive me away
Some crave
high yellow
, I like black and brown
Some crave high yellow, I like black and brown
Black won't quit you, brown won't lay you down
It was late at midnight and the moon shine bright like day
It was late at midnight and moon shine bright like day
I seen your
faror
goin' up the right of way


Candy Man Blues

written by: Mississippi John Hurt

Well all you ladies gather 'round
That good sweet candy man's in town
It's the candy man
It's the candy man
He likes a stick of candy just nine inch long
He sells as fast a hog can chew his corn
It's the candy man...
All heard what sister Johnson said
She always takes a candy stick to bed
Don't stand close to the candy man
He'll leave a big candy stick in your hand
He sold some candy to sister Bad
The very next day she took all he had
If you try his candy, good friend of mine,
you sure will want it for a long long time
His stick candy don't melt away
It just gets better, so the ladies say
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Casey Jones

written by: Mississippi John Hurt

Casey Jones was a brave engineer,
he told his fireman to not to fear
Says, "All I want, my water and my coal
Look out the window, see my drive wheel roll"
Early one mornin' came a shower of rain,
'round the curve I seen a passenger train
In the cabin was Casey Jones,
he's a noble engineer man but he's dead and gone
"Children, children, get your hat"
Mama, mama, what you mean by that?"
"Get your hat , put it on your head,
go down in town, see if your daddy's dead"
"Mama, mama, how can it be?
My daddy got killed on the old I.C.
"Hush your mouth and hold your breath,
you're gonna draw a pension after your daddy's dead"
Casey's wife, she got the news,
she was sittin' on the bedside,
she was lacin' up her shoes
I said, "Go away, children, and hold your breath,
you're gonna draw a pension after your daddy's dead"
Casey said, before he died,
fixed the
blinds so the boys can't ride
If they ride, let 'em ride the rod,
trust they lives in the hands of God"
Casey said again, before he died,
one more road that he wanted to ride
People wondered what road could that be?
The Gulf Colorado and the Santa Fe
Casey Jones was a brave engineer,
he told his fireman to not to fear
Says, "All I want, my water and my coal
Look out the window, see my drive wheel roll"
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Coffee Blues

written by: Mississippi John Hurt

(spoken:
This is the "Coffee Blues", I likes a certain brand
- Maxwell's House - it's good till the last drop,
just like it says on the can. I used to have a girl
cookin' a good Maxwell House. She moved away.
Some said to
Memphis
and some said to Leland,
but I found her. I wanted her to cook me some
good Maxwell's House. You understand,
if I can get me just a spoonful of Maxwell's House,
do me much good as two or three cups this other coffee)
I've got to go to Memphis, bring her back to
Leland
I wanna see my baby 'bout a lovin'
spoonful
, my lovin' spoonful
Well, I'm just got to have my lovin'
(spoken: I found her)
Good mornin', baby, how you do this mornin'?
Well, please, ma'am, just a lovin' spoon,
just a lovin' spoonful
I declare, I got to have my lovin' spoonful
My baby packed her suitcase and she went away
I couldn't let her stay for my lovin',
my lovin' spoonful
Well, I'm just got to have my lovin'
Good mornin', baby, how you do this mornin'?
Well, please, ma'am, just a lovin' spoon,
just a lovin' spoonful
I declare, I got to have my lovin' spoonful
Well, the preacher in the pulpit, jumpin' up and down
He laid his bible down for his lovin'
(spoken: Ain't Maxwell House all right?)
Well, I'm just got to have my lovin'


Corrina, Corrina

traditional

Corrina, Corrina, where'd you stay last night?
Corrina, Corrina, where'd you stay last night?
Come in this morning, clothes ain't fittin' you right
I left Corrina, way across the sea
I left Corrina, way across the sea
She wouldn't write me no letter, she don't care for me
Oh Corrina, Corrina, where you been so long?
Oh Corrina, Corrina, where you been so long?
She wouldn't write me no letter, she don't care for me
Corrina, Corrina, where'd you stay last night?
Corrina, Corrina, where'd you stay last night?
Come in this morning, clothes ain't fittin' you right
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Frankie

written by: Mississippi John Hurt

(spoken introduction:
"Frankie and Albert", the same thing as "Frankie and Johnnie")
Frankie was a good girl, everybody know,
she paid one hundred dollars for Albert's suit of clothes
He's her man, but he did her wrong
Frankie went down to the corner saloon, she ordered her a glass of beer,
she asked the barkeeper, "Gas my lovin' Albert been here?"
"He been here, but he's gone again"
"Ain't gonna tell you no story, Frankie, I ain't gonna tell you no lie"
Says, "Albert a-passed about a hour ago, with a girl you call Alice Frye
He's your man, and he's doin' you wrong
Frankie went down to the corner saloon, she didn't go to be gone long
She peeked through keyhole in the door, spied Albert in Alice's arm
He's my man, and you's doin' me wrong
Frankie called Albert, she shot him three or four times,
says, "Stand back, I'm smokin' my gun, let me see is Albert dyin'
He's my man, and he did me wrong"
Frankie and the judge walked outta the stand, and walked out side by side
The judge says, "Frankie, you're gonna be justified,
killin' a man, and he did you wrong"
Frankie was a good girl, everybody know,
she paid one hundred dollars for Albert's suit of clothes
He's her man, but he did her wrong
Said, "Turn me over, mother, turn me over slow,
it may be my last time, you won't turn me no more
He's my man, and he did me wrong"
Says, Frankie was a good girl, everybody know,
she paid one hundred dollars for Albert's suit of clothes
He's her man, but he did her wrong
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From The Spy World Archives-The Day David Long Came In From The Cold-They Think

Back in the 1960s, back in the Cold War red scare days when it was an open question whether the world would survive or get blown to smithereens by some damn fool’s trigger-happy hand many young men, and a few young women, decided that they could best join the fight by enlisting in one of the national security agencies, FBI, CIA, NSA, the elite IYF units. Many did good and useful service and others rumbled along in some catacomb building far from the action. That latter cohort had a few members who did not get the word that the Cold War was over until recently and have only now come in from the cold. Clearly David was no James Bond figure in the great scheme of things, but this is the last known photograph of him when he was using one of his many aliases. Who knows what the bugger looks like now probably in serious need of assisted living or some such aid. 

I would not have thought much about the matter except I knew David Long in the old days, knew him in high school where he was alternately the class clown, the class dunce (I still don’t know how he passed whatever examinations you needed to pass to get into the IYF although he would eventually fail in that line of work) and the class loner, especially after he struck out with every girl he asked out even Hilda Malone, a transfer student, who seemed like she was made in heaven for him.

That was high school and even though I was in some disbelief when David told me he had passed the exams some years later l was glad that he was doing something for his country which was a strong motivating drive for him, had some kind of spook code-breaker for a girlfriend from what he said. I mentioned some of David’s other characteristics earlier but somewhere along the line he developed the art, and it is an art in the spook line of work, of bullshitting people. Trying to pull some wool over my eyes. Had me believing that he had been instrumental in neutralizing Kim Philby, had proof positive that the martyred Julius and Ethel Rosenberg were in Uncle “Joe” Stalin’s hip pocket, had been in deep in the decoding of the Russian nuclear codes and doing a deep six on Leonid Brezhnev which led to some instability in the Soviet leadership from which it never recovered.   

    

I did not see or hear about David for many years so I thought he was off on some super-secret mission and had to go to deep cover. How was I to know it was all a crock, that David had been so deep in some catacomb building in Arlington, Virginia that he only recently came up for air (reminding more than a few of the isolated Japanese soldiers still holding out for the Emperor many years after World War II was over) and the truth was exposed that he flunked out day one of IYF training and was deep cover assigned to the catacombs so and I quote, he would not be danger to himself, to others and to national security. That said it all.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

 7/8 6:30pm Why Raytheon: A Forum on the Raytheon Anti-War Campaign

Ryan Costello<ryanvcostello@gmail.com>

11:57 AM

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Why Raytheon: A Forum on the Raytheon Anti-War Campaign
*Date:* Monday 07/08/2019
*Time:* 6:30-8:30pm
*Place:* Encuentro Cinco, 9a Hamilton Place, Boston, MA
*Facebook: *https://www.facebook.com/events/405826533355502/

Speakers and video from Campaign activities will inform you about:


- How arms sales by Raytheon and other military companies are
devastating Yemen
- How the Campaign works to end the war in Yemen and to prevent war with
Iran
- The Campaign’s strategy to end Raytheon’s arms sales to Saudi Arabia
- The Campaign’s relationship with college students
- The numerous actions carried out by the Campaign over the past 9 months
- The Campaign’s bill in the Mass. state legislature to divest from war
companies selling weapons to the Saudis
- Implications of Raytheon's plans to merge with United Technologies to
form an even bigger war company
- How you can connect with this growing new peace campaign


For information or to sign up to help the campaign, go to
masspeaceaction.org/raytheon-antiwar
<http://masspeaceaction.org/raytheon-antiwar?fbclid=IwAR0TFoptjtP37OAWToemAafi6m1GHOOWUlWgbk_MX-1iKz_eTJlQhuaDznI>
or call 617-354-2169
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From The World Cross Country Runners Archives- The Day Boomer Cadger Set The Record Straight

As a casual perusal of this photograph will tell back in the days when runners were honed at incessantly by irate motorists and pedestrians, mocked by children and old-timers as menaces to society one Boomer Cadger let all that go as so much wind, like some annoying fly. Boomer started running when he was maybe seven or eight along the sands of La Jolla beaches dodging surfers and laughing sand pail little girls. When he came of age though he blew all his competition away, went like that wind mentioned a moment ago. Won many races against older more experienced if not as hungry men. And for his herculean efforts he received some beef stew and the scorn of two or three young women he was interested in who would not dream of dating a guy running around in his underwear or who was not football hero fit.    

From The Archives And Now Too- Veterans For Peace Calls Out -Stop The Endless Wars And Don't Start New Ones

Sam Eaton and Ralph Morris two now old men who first met each other in Robert F. Kennedy Stadium in Washington, D.C. after both had been arrested along with other members of their respective contingents, the Red Collective and the Vietnam Veterans Against the War (VVAW) still get the hairs in the back of their necks raised when they see a sea of dove-anchored Veterans for Peace flags furling in the wind. Like at the latest anti-war event protesting (in advance) against war with Iran. It appears they will do so until the end, their end more likely than the end of the endless wars which their country has embroiled itself in for many decades now.