When All The World Was Young-In The Pre-Lapsarian Days Before The Boot Out From Eden-When The Late Famed California Private Detective Lew Archer Was “Walking With The King”-The Broadmore Case

When All The World Was Young-In The Pre-Lapsarian Days Before The Boot Out From Eden-When The Late Famed California Private Detective Lew Archer Was “Walking With The King”-The Broadmore Case    

By Seth Garth

[About a year ago, maybe more I did an earlier series of articles on the rise and fall of famed 1950s California private detective Lew Archer who after a really good start to his career wound up on cheap street, wound up working for wages at Sheila Sharp’s detective agency on Post Street in San Francisco doing at first the dregs  repo work and key-hold peeping and then when he fell down on that basically the office go-fer since Sheila had a soft spot for him, or something. Once he started taking dough out of the coffee and crullers till, the petty cash she had to reluctantly let him go. He would wind up working like a dog for the notorious junkie private eye agency run by Kenny Millar and who knows who else before he laid down his head. (I did not know of the Millar connection then but only learned it from Sheila recently).  

I did that series based on the assumption that Lew had passed away many years ago so I was shocked to learn that he had only passed away a few months ago at the age of 104. He was found in a Bunker Hill (L.A.) skid row rooming house head down in a toilet after overdosing on heroin (That description may seem indelicate, but a surprising number of famous and not so famous junkies have been found in that condition.) That renewed my interest in the fate of one Lew Archer who in the immediate post-World War II period after serving in Military Intelligence in the war and forsaking his pre-war public copper job set up his own agency and was ready to give guys like Sam, Marlowe, Phil Larkin and Benny Gold a run for their money.    

In the interest of the current craze for transparency I should mention that I interviewed Lew in person in the early 1970s for the East Bay Other where the editor Ruth Ryan knew Sheila Sharp who had helped set up the interview. Ruth’s idea, mine too, was to focus on what happened to bring Lew low, why was he then reduced to doing repo work and key-hole peeping. I spent considerable time with Lew, and with others like his ex-wife Martha who had an idea of how the big fall down happened. I even found myself drafted onto a couple of committees urging the P.I Hall of Fame nominating committee to put Lew on the ballot in those days for basically life-time achievement and subsequently for changes in the way the profession moved on from just hard-boiled macho types with twists hanging off every arm while a P.I. worked his case against the bad guys. They laughed in our faces on both counts since Lew had less than a decade of first-rate work and the repo stuff was beneath contempt and that to avoid an anachronism Lew had to stand up to the doll-swirling P.I. model of his time.      

Bringing things forward to the almost present as part of that series last year I joined a group which once again was attempting to get Lew in the Hall this time through an end around on the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) seeing his sexual disfunction as a qualifying medical condition which would be factored in. The nominating committee this time, given the subject, did not laugh in our faces but could find no reason like sexual dysfunction to bring a guy in when they had one-armed Bart Devine and wheel-chair-bound Chris Lord waiting for induction. Real disabilities is what they really meant. The junkie head in the toilet will preclude any further efforts, no question.]   

Ah, to be young was very heaven as old greybeard poet Wordsworth had it. To be young when hard-boiled private detectives, male mostly, the parlor pink stuff was left for amateurs like Dame May Whitty, took on the bad guys with dolls swinging from every arm and unlike the public coppers closed down the case without shipping it off to the dead water cold case bin. Yeah, in the days when a guy like Sam, Sam Spade, went right about against evil, female evil and sent over his paramour without blinking an eye after the bodies started to rise to block out the sun. Grabbed some other frail the next day and never missed a beat. Take Phil, Philly Dog Marlowe who lammed into a beautiful money pit complete with a couple of wild child doll sisters who couldn’t keep their clothes on for long. And all the Dog had to worry about was a couple of whacks to the head and a couple of off-hand slugs before he did the big kiss off. Starting to round out things how about Phil Larkin who specialized in co-eds and young tail but who cleaned up Dodge when the deal went down. I could go on but one more, Danny Moore, the handsome ex-film star turned P.I. couldn’t show up on Sunset Boulevard without a fistful of lovelies and some serious iron.          

That my friends is the culture, the ethos, if unwritten that the once famous California private dick Lew Archer who I have written about extensively about over the past couple of years, partially in a final last ditch effort to get him into the P.I. Hall of Fame, partially to show how easy it was for a guy to essentially lose his nerve and in the end wind up as a bag man for the notorious junkie fixer man gumshoe Kenny Millar and partially as a cautionary tale for any guys and dolls coming into the shamus grift these days, days when it is not seen as a virtue to have a ton of frail or muscle hanging off your arms. Of late I have spent most of my time, once I found Lew had only this year passed away as a dead weight junkie on skid row, bringing up his failed cases, cases which he fell down on leading to his being  reduced to repo man, key-hole peeper and eventually office go-fer for real private detectives in Sheila Sharp’s Frisco agency and then bag man for the evil Millar and his sleaze ball operations out of darkest Oakland. But today, thanks to some fancy footwork and some archival work by Sarah LeMoyne I have the details of Lew’s last successful caper, the Broadmore case when he was in his prime, when he was ready to take on the whole known shamus world.       

Yeah, the Broadmore case, was classic Lew. Lew, coming like a bat out of hell after Military Intelligence duty in the Army in the Pacific during World War II. Racked up a few classic cases like Galton, Harlan, Hardmore, the last piece of the Sternwood case which brought in dough, glory plenty of referrals from people who could pay the freight or get their hands on plenty of dough from somewhere. The Damask case is what got Lew in the front door of the Broadmore case, his known    
discretion, his getting kidnap victims back alive and when women are involved a little romp in the hay along with that one hundred large and expenses, tax exempt.    

Laura Broadmore, against his husband’s wishes, sent for Lew once it was clear their son had been taken, probably kidnapped, by a couple of lame longhair types (beatniks really but strictly from Corona not the Frisco hardcore), boy and girl who had some kind of agenda which Lew was supposed to solve. All teary-eyed when talking about that son, Ronny, Lew consoled her the best way he knew how (after that quick romp she would admit that relations, sexual relations with hubby, some blowhard named Stanley, were on the ropes. Amazing how many such stories Lew heard, and acted on when he was himself in good sexual health, providing something like a public health service he told one colleague at the time.)        

Lew went through his paces (paces plus in this one) getting on the trail of these bastards, a trail that led to some mountain retreat that belonged to this Stanley’s mother who was the source of the dough from her father who was one of the rancid oilmen who blew the West Coast to smoke and traffic jams. There he found Stanley killed by some force of nature it seemed which left his mother distraught with Lew there to console her. Meanwhile the girl beatnik, Sandy something, was reported missing by her parents and since they knew this Laura he went to interview them and see what was what. As it turned out this Ellen, Sandy something’s mother, was another one of those frustrated 1950s housewives, sexually frustrated, a situation Lew helped tamp down. He eventually worked his way into grabbing that share of the case too (although by rights he should have farmed it out to his ex-partner Willie Brown). To grab the trifecta the male beatnik, some hulky punk named Jerry, was connected to the other two families by some earlier financial dealings and his parents didn’t have a clue as to what to do with this bum of the month. After Martha, Jerry’s father’s second wife, got rid of that pesky husband she and Lew settled down to drinks and silky sheets Lew grabbing all three parts of the deal, great stuff.            

You have to follow the bouncing ball on this one because unlike say the Sternwood case where Lew picking up the remnants, grabbing young Carmen Sternwood for a saucy weekend in the bargain, was not dealing with old-time Los Angles gangsters who were not ready to give in to the new boys like Bugsy and Lucky from the East and who played rough, including the usual spray of orchid-like slugs to keep things interesting this was not about hardened criminals but misunderstood youth who got blended in with plenty of unsavory behavior by their parents and/or friends’ parents. Not worse but different because the bang-bang factor didn’t get much play and Lew got cold-cocked only once. Some experts I have run into think beyond his later sexual dysfunction when his ex-wife gave him the big boot out of the household door that he had gotten a little soft, had begun to look for cases where he didn’t have to run into hard guys, did need to bleed as much as when he was younger. That his career life’s blood was heading south.     

Whatever the truth of that assertion and I don’t necessarily buy the story this was a “soft” case beyond the bewildering number of nubile young to middle-aged housewives who were ready to run him in their racks as part of the play. Okay, okay I will tell you right now Ronnie, sweet little Ronnie got back to his mother safe and sound via the cleverness of one Lew Archer. Here is where things get weird and maybe started the weirdness trend very much associated with California even today. The two beatnik felons despite what looked like a snatch for cash were playing out some weird drama revolving around things their parents had done say fifteen years before. They thought in their demented drug-soaked minds filled with all the 1950s-1960s alienation and angsts which some prosperity created in essentially overindulged and under emotionally cared for post-war youth they were saving the little guy from the tyranny of the past. And Lew, for good or evil bought the argument and let these juvenile delinquents off easy. But that was later, much later.   

Here is the play old man Broadmore was nothing but a ladies’ man and a guy with no dough except through his wife, the one who grabbed it from her oilman father. All this some fifteen years before the snatching of baby Ronnie. If it wore a skirt he grabbed, willingly or not, and on occasion had a couple of these bored housewives doing tricks in one of his buddy Lester’s motels along the Pacific Coast for travelling salesmen. Once the heat was on though thoughts of stir, thought of a world without access to women made him close up shop, got out of the country especially when one friendly copper, public copper asked him if he wanted to play ball with the law to get out from under. Knowing Eddie Mars was the subject of that snitch he decided to blow town fast before Eddie had Mister Brown Suit hang him out to dry. So he took off with this Ellen and that was to be the end of the troubles.  

As it turned out that Ellen was a woman not his wife and that triggered a whole bunch of stuff not so much by her as by her old-time evangelical housekeeper, a woman named Sister Snow who even Lew passed on not because she wasn’t desirable but because he couldn’t take the gaff with her Book of Revelation fire in the lake bullshit. What happened was this Broadmore brought this Ellen to a mountain cabin owned by his wife and that flipped the wife out and Sister too. Wifey killed hubby and put him about sixteen feet under with the help of Sister’s oddball son. Nothing happens for a long time except a wildfire brings out some craziness, brought out the link between Ronnie’s snatching and old man Broadmore’s murder via Ronnie’s father, that dwebb Stanley, who was looking for the father he never knew. To keep the thing tamped down Sister Snow wasted that Stanley when he was up at that very same mountain cabin and anybody else who got in the way, meaning anybody else who was looking for answers about the whereabouts of the old man or Ronnie, or both. Lew finally caught up with the snatchers left them in the care of their parents and blew back to L.A. and some well-deserved rest  

Like I said follow the bouncing ball but know this our Lew didn’t travel back to L.A. alone he had that Laura and little Ronnie riding sidesaddle on the golden calf. Shacked up with her for a while. That would be either the last straw or pretty close to the last straw for his wife Martha. The rest you know. Still, to be young at that time was very heaven.    

      

On The 80th Anniversary Of The Founding Of The Fourth International-The100thAnniversaryYearOfTheBolshevik-LedOctoberRevolution-Lessons- *Defeated, But Unbowed-The Writings Of Leon Trotsky, 1930-31

On The Anniversary Of The Russian Revolution Of 1905-

By Frank Jackman

For the attentive reader of this unabashedly left-wing publication which moreover not only takes history seriously but commemorates some historical nodal points worthy of attention today I have drawn attention this month of January to the 100^th anniversary of the assassinations of key nascent German Communist Party leaders Rosa Luxemburg, the rose of the revolution, and Karl Liebknecht the heart of the left-wing German workers movement. In that commentary I noted that history in the conditional, especially when things turned out badly as they did in Germany with the failure of the Communists to take power within a few years of the Armistice and aid the struggling isolated and devastated Russian revolution, is tricky business. There were certainly opportunities closed off by the decimation of the heads of the early German Communist Party that were never made up. That failure helps in its own way to pave the road to the Nazi takeover and all that meant for Europe and the world later. I also cautioned against stretching such conditionals out too far without retreating to an idea that the rise of the Nazis was inevitable. Give it some thought though.
History in the conditional applies as well to events that would in the future turn out well, well at the beginning in any case, and that leads to the role played by what many parties including Vladimir Lenin and Leon Trotsky referred to as the “dress rehearsal” for the October Revolution in Russia in 1917. That was the Revolution of 1905 which although it was shattered and many of the leading participants either killed, exiled or banished still provided some hope that things would turn on that proverbial historical dime in the end. The key organization structure set up in 1905, the Workers Soviets, councils, which in embryo provided the outline for the workers government everybody from Marx and to his left argued for to bring socialist order to each country, to the world in the end almost automatically was reestablished in the early days of 1917. Who knows in conditions of war and governmental turmoil what would have happened if that organizational form had not already been tested in an earlier revolutionary episode. Again, let’s not get too wide afield on history in the conditional on this end either. Think about those episodes though as we commemorate that 1905 revolution. 


   


The100thAnniversaryYearOfTheBolshevik-LedOctoberRevolution-Lessons-    *Defeated, But Unbowed-The Writings  Of  Leon Trotsky, 1930-31

Click on title to link to the Leon Trotsky Internet Archives copy of an article from the pen of Leon Trotsky, "Thaelmann And The "People's" Revolution" for 1931, the period of the book reviewed below.

BOOK REVIEWS

If you are interested in the history of the International Left in the first half of the 20th century or are a militant trying to understand some of the past lessons of our history concerning the communist response to various social and labor questions this book is for you. I have reviewed elsewhere Trotsky’s writings published under the title The Left Opposition, 1923-1929 (in three volumes) dealing with Trotsky’s political struggles for power inside the Russian Communist Party (and by extension, the political struggles inside the Communist International) in order to save the Russian Revolution. This book is part of a continuing series of volumes in English of his writings from his various points of external exile from 1929 up until his death in 1940. These volumes were published by the organization that James P. Cannon, early American Communist Party and later Trotskyist leader founded, the Socialist Workers Party, during the 1970’s and 1980’s. (Cannon’s writings in support of Trotsky’s work are reviewed elsewhere in this space). Look in the archives in this space for other related reviews on and by this important world communist leader.

After the political defeat of the various Trotsky-led Left Oppositions 1923 to 1929 by Stalin and his state and party bureaucracy he nevertheless found it far too dangerous to keep Trotsky in Moscow. He therefore had Trotsky placed in internal exile at Ata Alma in the Soviet Far East in 1928. Even that turned out to be too much for Stalin’s tastes and in 1929 he arranged for the external exile of Trotsky to Turkey. Although Stalin probably rued the day that he did it this exile was the first of a number of places which Trotsky found himself in external exile. Other places included, France, Norway and, finally, Mexico where he was assassinated by a Stalinist agent in 1940.

As these volumes, and many others from this period attest to, Trotsky continued to write on behalf of a revolutionary perspective. Damn, did he write. Some, including a few of his biographers, have argued that he should have given up the struggle, retired to who knows where, and acted the role of proper bourgeois writer or professor. Please! These volumes scream out against such a fate, despite the long odds against him and his efforts on behalf of international socialist revolution. Remember this is a revolutionary who had been through more exiles and prisons than one can easily count, held various positions of power and authority in the Soviet state and given the vicissitudes of his life could reasonably expect to return to power with a new revolutionary upsurge. Personally, I think Trotsky liked and was driven harder by the long odds.

The political prospects for socialist revolution in the period under discussion are, to say the least, rather bleak, or ultimately turned out that way. The post-World War I revolutionary upsurge has dissipated leaving Soviet Russia isolated. Various other promising revolutionary situations, most notably the aborted German revolution of 1923 that would have gone a long way to saving the Russian Revolution, had come to nought. In the period under discussion there is a real sense of defensiveness about the prospects for revolutionary change. The specter of fascism loomed heavily and we know at what cost to the international working class. The capitulation to fascism by the German Communist and Social Democratic Parties in 1933, the defeat of the heroic Austrian working class in 1934, the defeat in Spain in 1939, and the outlines of the impending Second World War colored all political prospects, not the least Trotsky’s.

Organizationally, Trotsky developed two tactical orientations. The first was a continuation of the policy of the Left Opposition during the 1920’s. The International Left Opposition as it cohered in 1930 still acted as an external and unjustly expelled faction of the official Communist parties and of the Communist International and oriented itself to winning militants from those organizations. After the debacle in Germany in 1933 a call for new national parties and a new, fourth, international became the organizational focus. Many of the volumes here contain letters, circulars, and manifestos around these orientations. The daunting struggle to create an international cadre and to gain some sort of mass base animate many of the writings collected in this series. Many of these pieces show Trotsky’s unbending determination to make a breakthrough. That these effort were, ultimately, in large part militarily defeated during the course of World War Two does not take away from the grandeur of the efforts. Hats off to Leon Trotsky.

I WILL ADD TO THIS SERIES AS I REREAD OR ACQUIRE THE OTHER VOLUMES IN THIS SERIES. HERE GOES FOR NOW.

THE WRITINGS OF LEON TROTSKY, 1930-31, PATHFINDER PRESS, NEW YORK, 1973

As to the 1930-31 volume this reviewer recommends a careful reading of the following articles: On the Question of Thermidor and Bonapartism, (taken from analogies with the French Revolution which nicely draws the distinctions between the overturn of the revolutionary leadership and the balancing act implied in a military dictatorship); Thermidor and Bonapartism (same); Problems of the German Section (on the ever reoccurring problem of German Left Oppositionists taking serious political action toward the rank and file of the German Communist Party before it is too late);New Zigzags and New Dangers (on the notorious ‘third period’ strategy of the Communist International); and, At the Fresh Grave of Kote Tsintsadze, (probably one of the best and most insightful political obituaries of a fellow revolutionary ever written).

On The 80th Anniversary Of The Founding Of The Fourth International-The100thAnniversaryYearOfTheBolshevik-LedOctoberRevolution-Lessons- Defeated, But Unbowed-The Writings Of Leon Trotsky, 1939-40

The100thAnniversaryYearOfTheBolshevik-LedOctoberRevolution-Lessons-   Defeated, But Unbowed-The Writings  Of  Leon Trotsky, 1939-40

Google Leon Trotsky Internet Archives for a copy of an article, "Marxism In Our Times", from the pen of Leon Trotsky for 1939, the period of the book reviewed below.

BOOK REVIEW

If you are interested in the history of the International Left in the first half of the 20th century or are a militant trying to understand some of the past lessons of our history concerning the communist response to various social and labor questions this book is for you. I have reviewed elsewhere Trotsky’s writings published under the title The Left Opposition, 1923-1929 (in three volumes) dealing with Trotsky’s political struggles for power inside the Russian Communist Party (and by extension, the political struggles inside the Communist International) in order to save the Russian Revolution. This book is part of a continuing series of volumes in English of his writings from his various points of external exile from 1929 up until his death in 1940. These volumes were published by the organization that James P. Cannon, early American Communist Party and later Trotskyist leader founded, the Socialist Workers Party, during the 1970’s and 1980’s. (Cannon’s writings in support of Trotsky’s work are reviewed elsewhere in this space). Look in the archives in this space for other related reviews on and by this important world communist leader.

After the political defeat of the various Trotsky-led Left Oppositions 1923 to 1929 by Stalin and his state and party bureaucracy he nevertheless found it far too dangerous to keep Trotsky in Moscow. He therefore had Trotsky placed in internal exile at Ata Alma in the Soviet Far East in 1928. Even that turned out to be too much for Stalin’s tastes and in 1929 he arranged for the external exile of Trotsky to Turkey. Although Stalin probably rued the day that he did it this exile was the first of a number of places which Trotsky found himself in external exile. Other places included, France, Norway and, finally, Mexico where he was assassinated by a Stalinist agent in 1940.

As these volumes, and many others from this period attest to, Trotsky continued to write on behalf of a revolutionary perspective. Damn, did he write. Some, including a few of his biographers, have argued that he should have given up the struggle, retired to who knows where, and acted the role of proper bourgeois writer or professor. Please! These volumes scream out against such a fate, despite the long odds against him and his efforts on behalf of international socialist revolution. Remember this is a revolutionary who had been through more exiles and prisons than one can easily count, held various positions of power and authority in the Soviet state and given the vicissitudes of his life could reasonably expect to return to power with a new revolutionary upsurge. Personally, I think Trotsky liked and was driven harder by the long odds.

The political prospects for socialist revolution in the period under discussion are, to say the least, rather bleak, or ultimately turned out that way. The post-World War I revolutionary upsurge has dissipated leaving Soviet Russia isolated. Various other promising revolutionary situations, most notably the aborted German revolution of 1923 that would have gone a long way to saving the Russian Revolution, had come to nought. In the period under discussion there is a real sense of defensiveness about the prospects for revolutionary change. The specter of fascism loomed heavily and we know at what cost to the international working class. The capitulation to fascism by the German Communist and Social Democratic Parties in 1933, the defeat of the heroic Austrian working class in 1934, the defeat in Spain in 1939, and the outlines of the impending Second World War colored all political prospects, not the least Trotsky’s.

Organizationally, Trotsky developed two tactical orientations. The first was a continuation of the policy of the Left Opposition during the 1920’s. The International Left Opposition as it cohered in 1930 still acted as an external and unjustly expelled faction of the official Communist parties and of the Communist International and oriented itself to winning militants from those organizations. After the debacle in Germany in 1933 a call for new national parties and a new, fourth, international became the organizational focus. Many of the volumes here contain letters, circulars, and manifestos around these orientations. The daunting struggle to create an international cadre and to gain some sort of mass base animate many of the writings collected in this series. Many of these pieces show Trotsky’s unbending determination to make a breakthrough. That these effort were, ultimately, in large part militarily defeated during the course of World War Two does not take away from the grandeur of the efforts. Hats off to Leon Trotsky.

I WILL ADD TO THIS SERIES AS I REREAD OR ACQUIRE THE OTHER VOLUMES IN THIS SERIES. HERE GOES FOR NOW.


THE WRITINGS OF LEON TROTSKY, 1939-40, PATHFINDER PRESS, NEW YORK, 1973

As to the 1939-40 volume this reviewer recommends a careful reading of the following articles: On the Eve of World War II (an analysis of the impending war and what revolutionaries had to do when it came ): The German-Soviet Alliance (an interesting take on an policy that sent faint-hearted defenders of the Soviet Union overboard); The World Situation and Prospects (an optimistic, and as it turned out too optimistic assessment of the revolutionary prospects); Manifesto of the Fourth International on the Imperialist War and the Proletarian World Revolution (the program of the Fourth International for the war period and its aftermath); and, Another Thought on Conscription (on the American conscription question and a first look at the ill-advised Proletarian Military Policy).

Happy Birthday Jim Kweskin-The Max Daddy Of Jug- *A “Blues Mama” For Our Times- The Blues Of Maria Muldaur

Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Maria Muldaur Performing "Handy Man".

CD Review

Naughty Bawdy &Blue, Maria Muldaur, Stony Plain Records, 2007

This CD review was originally posted in 2007 elsewhere hence the now dated reference to ex-president Clinton…

If you ever wondered who, if anyone, was going to carry on the tradition of great female blues singers now that the likes of Bessie Smith, Mamie Smith, Sippy Wallace and Memphis Minnie have long been gone from the scene look no further. As I pointed out in a review of her last album, "Sweet Lovin' Ol' Soul",. Maria Muldaur has paid her dues and here she is doing it all over again. This is the third album in series that she started in 2002 to cover the old great blues singers. In the present album she covers the above-mentioned singers and others in a style in which they would surely recognize as their own. These are the classic female blues singers of the 1920's and 30's. Maria is in fast company but she does not miss a beat.

Pay particular attention to her rendition of Victoria Spivey's "Handy Man" (Spivey"s "TB Blues" is nicely done, as well). Check out what the divine Ms. Spivey had to say about Maria on the liner notes. And do check out the covers of Sippy Wallace songs, "Up Country Blues" and "Separation Blues". Damn if Maria does not sound like that unfortunately not well known singer (Maria also covered a Wallace classic "Don't Advertise Your Man" on her last album). Update: I just found out recently (2009) that Sippy Wallace appeared with the Jim Kweskin Jug Band (Maria's old group) in the 1960's. Now it all makes sense, right?

I would also add that I had the pleasure of hearing some of the cuts on this album live in concert by Maria in Cambridge (one of her old stomping grounds in her youthful days with the Kweskin Jug Band back in the sixties) and she can still belt them out. If there is any truth in the assumption that former President Clinton was our first `black' president no one can deny that Maria is our first `black' classic blues singer. And has the stage presence, to boot. The tradition lives. Listen on.


"Don’t Advertise Your Man"

This Tom-Swifter,
A blab-mouth sister,
Had herself a lovin' sheik!
She had a way of braggin'
Kept her tongue a-waggin',
With every woman she'd meet;
So her bosom friend
Vamped her lovin' man,
He quit her cold as ice;
Now she never had
So much to say,
But gives very woman this advice:

Open your eyes,
Woman, be wise!
And don't you advertise your man!
It's all right to have a little bird in a bush,
But it ain't like the one you've got in your hand.
Your head will hang low,
Your heart will ache,
Your threatenin' frog's
Gonna vamp and snake,
So take a tip,
Hold your lip,
And don't you advertise your man!

What a blunder
To blow like thunder,
When you love you love your daddy so!
You better keep him hidin',
Don't you be confidin'
To every woman you know!
If you do, you'll find,
Some gal will sure be tryin'
Her best to take him 'way from you!
So you'd better heed my good advice,
And do like a woman ought to do.

Don't be a nut,
Keep your mouth shut,
And don't you advertise your man!
It's all right to brag about your hat or your dress,
But don't go blowin' 'bout the man you love best!
Just rave about the things your man can do,
And some woman will sure take him away from you!
So take a tip,
Hold your lip,
And don't you advertise your man!
And don't you advertise your man!

On The 80th Anniversary Of The Founding Of The Fourth International-The100thAnniversaryYearOfTheBolshevik-LedOctoberRevolution-Lessons- *From The Pen Of Leon Trotsky- On The Anniversary Of His Death- On the National Question (1938)

The100thAnniversaryYearOfTheBolshevik-LedOctoberRevolution-Lessons-    *From The Pen Of Leon Trotsky- On The Anniversary Of His Death- On the National Question (1938)

Google the Leon Trotsky Internet Archives for an online copy of the article mentioned in the headline.

Markin comment:

The name Leon Trotsky hardly needs added comment from this writer. After Marx, Engels and Lenin, and in his case it is just slightly after, Trotsky is our heroic leader of the international communist movement. I would argue, and have in the past, that if one were looking for a model of what a human being would be like in our communist future Leon Trotsky, warts and all, is the closest approximation that the bourgeois age has produced. No bad, right?

Note: For this 70th anniversary memorial I have decided to post articles written by Trotsky in the 1930s, the period of great defeats for the international working class with the rise of fascism and the disorientations of Stalinism beating down on it. This was a time when political clarity, above all, was necessary. Trotsky, as a simple review of his biographical sketch will demonstrate, wore many hats in his forty years of conscious political life: political propagandist and theoretician; revolutionary working class parliamentary leader; razor-sharp journalist (I, for one, would not have wanted to cross swords with him. I would still be bleeding.); organizer of the great October Bolshevik revolution of 1917; organizer of the heroic and victorious Red Army in the civil war against the Whites in the aftermath of that revolution; seemingly tireless Soviet official; literary and culture critic: leader of the Russian Left Opposition in the 1920s; and, hounded and exiled leader of the International Left Opposition in the 1930s.

I have decided to concentrate on some of his writings from the 1930s for another reason as well. Why, with such a resume to choose from? Because, when the deal went down Leon Trotsky’s work in the 1930s, when he could have taken a political dive, I believe was the most important of his long career. He, virtually alone of the original Bolshevik leadership (at least of that part that still wanted to fight for international revolution), had the capacity to think and lead. He harnessed himself to the hard, uphill work of that period (step back, step way back, if you think we are “tilting at windmills” now). In that sense the vile Stalinist assassination in 1940, when Trotsky could still project years of political work ahead, is not among the least of Stalin’s crimes against the international working class. Had Trotsky lived another ten years or so, while he could not have “sucked” revolutions out of the ground, he could have stabilized a disoriented post-World War communist movement and we would probably have a far greater living communist movement today. Thanks for what you did do though, Comrade Trotsky.

An Encore Salute To The Untold Stories Of The Working- Class 1960s Radicals-“The Sam And Ralph Stories”- The Angel Of Mercy-From The Sam Eaton-Ralph Morris Series-From The Pen Of Sam Lowell

An Encore Salute To The Untold Stories Of The Working- Class 1960s Radicals-“The Sam And Ralph Stories”- The Angel Of Mercy-From The Sam Eaton-Ralph Morris Series-From The Pen Of Sam Lowell

Allan Jackson, editor The Sam And Ralph Stories -New General Introduction

[As my replacement Greg Green, whom I brought in from American Film Gazette originally to handle the day to day site operations while I concentrated on editing but who led a successful revolt against my regime based on the wishes of the younger writers to as they said at the time not be slaves to the 1960s upheavals a time which they only knew second or third hand, mentioned in his general introduction above some of the series I initiated were/are worth an encore presentation. The Sam and Ralph Stories are one such series and as we go along I will try to describe why this series was an important testament to an unheralded segment of the mass movements of the 1960s-the radicalized white working- class kids who certainly made up a significant component of the Vietnam War soldiery, some of who were like Sam and Ralph forever after suspicious of every governmental war cry. Who also somewhat belatedly got caught up in the second wave rock and roll revival which emerged under the general slogan of “drug, sex and rock and roll” which represented a vast sea change for attitudes about a lot of things that under ordinary circumstances would have had them merely replicating their parents’ ethos and fate.        

As I said I will describe that transformation in future segment introductions but today since it is my “dime” I want to once again clear up some misapprehensions about what has gone on over the past year or so in the interest of informing the readership, as Greg Green has staked his standing at this publication on doing to insure his own survival, about what goes on behind the scenes in the publishing business. This would not have been necessary after the big flap when Greg tried an “end around” something that I and every other editor worth her or his salt have tried as well and have somebody else, here commentator and my old high school friend Frank Jackman, act as general introducer of The Roots Is The Toots  rock and roll coming of age series that I believe is one of the best productions I have ever worked on. That got writers, young and old, with me or against me, led by Sam Lowell, another of my old high school friends, who had been the decisive vote against me in the “vote of no confidence” which ended my regime up in arms. I have forgiven Sam, and others, as I knew full well from the time I entered into the business that at best it was a cutthroat survival of the fittest racket. (Not only have I forgiven Sam but I am in his corner in his recent struggles with young up and coming by-line writer Sarah Lemoyne who is being guided through the shoals by another old high school friend Seth Garth as she attempts to make her way up the film critic food chain, probably the most vicious segment of the business where a thousand knives wait the unwary from so-called fellow reviewers.) The upshot of that controversy was that Greg had to back off and let me finish the introducing the series for which after all I had been present at the creation.               

That would have been the end of it but once we successfully, and thankfully by Greg who gave me not only kudos around the water cooler but a nice honorarium, concluded that series encore in the early summer of 2018 he found another way to cut me. Going through the archives of this publication to try to stabilize the readership after doing some “holy goof” stuff like having serious writers, young and old, reviewing films based on comic book characters, the latest in video games and graphic novels with no success forgetting the cardinal rule of the post-Internet world that the younger set get their information from other sources than old line academic- driven websites and don’t read beyond their techie tools Greg found another series, the one highlighted here, that intrigued him for an encore presentation. This is where Greg proved only too human since he once again attempted an “end around,” by having Josh Breslin, another old friend whom I meet in the Summer of Love, 1967 out in San Francisco, introduce the series citing my unavailability as the reason although paying attention to the fact that I had sweated bullets over that one as well.      

This time though the Editorial Board, now headed by Sam Lowell, intervened even before Greg could approach Josh for the assignment. This Ed Board was instituted after my departure to insure the operation would not descend, Sam’s word actually, into the so-called autocratic one-person rule that had been the norm under my regime. They told Greg to call me back in on the encore project or to forget it. I would not have put up with such a suggestion from an overriding Ed Board and would have willingly bowed out if anybody had tried to undermine me that way. I can understand fully Greg’s desire to cast me to the deeps, have done with me as in my time I did as well knowing others in the food chain would see this as their opportunity to move up.  

That part I had no problem with, told Greg exactly that. What bothered me was the continuing “urban legend” about what I had done, where I had gone after that decisive vote of no confidence. Greg continued, may continue today, to fuel the rumors that not only after my initial demise but after finishing up the Roots Is The Toots series I had gone back out West to Utah of all places to work for the Mormons, or to Frisco to hook up with my old flame Madame La Rue running that high-end whorehouse I had staked her to in the old days, or was running around with another old high school pal, Miss Judy Garland, aka Timmy Riley the high priestess of the drag queen set out in that same town whom I also helped stake to  his high-end tourist attraction cabaret. All nonsense, I was working on my memoir up in Maine, up in Olde Saco where Josh grew up and which I fell in love with when he first showed me his hometown and its ocean views.          

If the reader can bear the weight of this final reckoning let me clear the air on all three subjects on the so-called Western trail. Before that though I admit, admit freely that despite all the money I have made, editing, doing a million pieces under various aliases and monikers, ballooning up 3000 word articles to 10,000 and having the publishers fully pay despite the need for editing for the latter in the days before the Guild when you worked by the word, accepting articles which I clearly knew were just ripped of the AP feed and sending them along as gold I had no dough, none when I was dethroned. Reason, perfectly sane reason, although maybe not, three ex-wives with alimony blues and a parcel of kids, a brood if you like who were in thrall to the college tuition vultures.

Tapped out in the East for a lot of reasons I did head west the first time looking for work. Landed in Utah when I ran out of dough, and did, DID, try to get a job on the Salt Lake Star and would have had it too except two things somebody there, some friend of Mitt Romney, heard I was looking for work and nixed the whole thing once they read the articles I had written mocking Mitt and his white underwear world as Massachusetts governor and 2012 presidential candidate. So it was with bitter irony when I heard that Greg had retailed the preposterous idea that I would now seek a job shilling for dear white undie Mitt as press agent in his run for the open Utah United States Senate seat. Here is where everybody should gasp though at the whole Utah fantasy-these Mormons stick close together, probably ingrained in them from Joseph Smith days, and don’t hire goddam atheists and radicals, don’t hire outside the religion if they can help it. You probably had to have slept with one of Joseph Smith’s or Brigham Young’s wives to even get one foot in the door. Done.              

The helping Madame La Rue, real name of no interest or need to mention,  running her high-end exclusive whorehouse out in Half Moon Bay at least had some credence since I had staked her to some dough to get started after the downfall of the 1960s sent her back to her real world, the world of a high class hooker who was slumming with “hippies” for a while when it looked like our dreams were going to be deterred in in the ebbtide. We had been hot and heavy lovers, although never married except on some hazed drug-fogged concert night when I think Josh Breslin “married” us and sent us on a “honeymoon” with a fistful of cocaine. Down on dough I hit her up for some which she gave gladly, said it was interest on the “loan: she never repaid and let me stay at her place for a while until I had to move on. Done

The whole drag queen idea tells me that whoever started this damn lie knew nothing about my growing up days and had either seen me in The Totem, Timmy Riley’s aka Miss Judy Garland’s drinking with a few drag queen who worked and drew the wrong conclusions or was out to slander and libel me for some other nefarious reason. See Miss Judy Garland is the very successful drag queen and gay man Timmy Riley from the old neighborhood who fled to Frisco when he could no longer hide his sexual identity and preferences. To our great shock since Timmy had been the out-front gay-basher of our crowd, our working-class corner boy gay-bashing crowd. I had lent, after getting religion rather late on the LGBTQ question, Timmy the money to buy his first drag queen cabaret on Bay Street and Timmy was kind enough to stake me to some money and a roof before I decided I had to head back East. Done.

But enough about me.  This is about two other working- class guys, Sam Eaton and Ralph Morris, met along life’s road one from Carver about fifty miles away from where Seth, Sam, Timmy and a bunch of other guys grew up and learned the “normal” working-class ethos-and broke, tentatively at times, from that same straitjacket and from Troy, New York. Funny Troy, Carver, North Adamsville, and Josh’s old mill town Olde Saco all down-in-the-mouth working class towns still produced in exceptional times a clot of guys who got caught up in the turmoil of their times-and lived to tell the tale. I am proud to introduce this encore presentation and will have plenty more to say about Sam and Ralph in future segments.]

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Allan Jackson Encore Introduction

Most of the stories about Sam and Ralph center on politics or their freaking army time in the fucking Vietnam War (sorry for the sensitive but that “fucking” is the only way I can describe the war, the war that bled a generation dry, bled plenty of working-class kids like me  dry as hell and we are still not right about what the hell it all meant even fifty years later-except we have been on an eternal tour of ‘getting on the good side of the angels” after all the hell we brought on people we had not quarrel with). This one is about personal relationships which if you knew these guys, if you knew me, if you knew Josh from working-class Olde Saco in Maine or my boys from the working-class Acre neighborhood of North Adamsville was, is a subject sealed with seven seals. Meaning about dealing with women which given our collective divorce cohort, which young Sarah Lemoyne commented on and not to our benefit, we still have never figured out, had no guidance worth a damn about. But enough of my rant because Sam and Ralph speak in a way for a whole misbegotten generation of 1960s coming of age kids and I can add nothing essential to what they have to say.    

The Angel Of Mercy-From The Sam Eaton-Ralph Morris Series 

From The Pen Of Sam Lowell

As long as Sam Eaton and Ralph Morris had known each other they never spent much time or effort discussing their various romantic interests. Never spoke of little rendezvous or trysts, never spoke of their two divorces much beyond recording the facts of the disengagements even though Sam had been Ralph’s best man at his first wedding to Clara, his high school sweetheart from Troy, New York whom he married after the dust of the 1960s settled down and people, “movement people” too were going back to some of the old norms. (Sam had been not designated as ‘best man” but rather “truest friend and witness” or something like that designation since they were beyond bourgeois martial norms at the time but we will use that former designation here to signify that they were close enough for Sam to gladly take on that task).

Maybe it was the Catholic reticence to speak of personal matters, personal sexual manners with another male (probably female too but let’s stick to male here) both having come up “old school” working-class Catholics when that meant something before Vatican II in the 1960s when the “s” word was not used in polite society, not used, God no, from the pulpit (even when discussion came up of the obligation to, unlike the bloody Protestants with their two point three children, of propagating the faith; having scads of children to bump up the Catholic population of the world).

Maybe closer to home it was the “theory,” probably honored more in the breech that the observance, of “not airing one’s dirty linen in public” drilled into them by their respective maternal grandmothers, especially when the “s” word was involved (certainly no parents gave the slightest clues probably assuming that the birds and the bees story line would suffice and both men learned like millions of their Generation of ’68 kindred about sex on the streets, most of it erroneous or damn right dangerous). 

Maybe it was the times they met in “the liberated 1960s” where the Pill (and having capitalized that word no one should have to ask what pill) had made the whole subject somewhat bland to discuss (as opposed to doing the act, or as an old friend of Sam’s, Bart Webber, used to say taking his cue from the old bluesman Howlin’ Wolf “doing the do”) and that extended to the individuals they were involved with either through those collective four marriages and divorces or other relationships. It was not, as both were at pains to declare when the subject came up one recent night which will be discussed more fully below, that they were not friendly with those respective spouses, or when the spouses left then the one-night stands, the flings, the affairs to use an old-fashioned word for it and the flame dreams but their thing had been heavily weighted toward the male bonding that drew them close together back in the early 1970s.

And maybe it was the way that they had “met,” a story that they have endlessly repeated in one form or another and which had been told so many times by Sam mostly in the old days in small alternative presses and magazines and more recently in 1960s-related blogs that even they confessed that everybody must be “bored” with the damn thing by now. So only the barest outline will suffice here since their meeting is not particularly relevant to the story except to help sort out this reticence about relationships business. Sam, an active opponent of the Vietnam War, and Ralph an ex-soldier of that war who had turned against the war after eighteen months of duty there and become an anti-war activist in his turn with Vietnam Veterans Against The War (VVAW) after being discharged from the Army “met” in RFK Stadium in Washington on May Day 1971 when they were down there with their respective groups trying to as the slogan went “shut down the government, if the government did not shut down the war.”

For their ill-advised efforts they and thousands of others were tear-gassed, billy-clubbed and sent to the bastinado (ill-advised in that they did not have nearly enough people on hand and were incredibly naïve about the ability of the government to do any dirty deed to keep their power including herding masses of protestors into closed holding areas to be forgotten if possible although Ralph always had a sneaking suspicion the government would not have been unhappy seeing those bodies floating face down in the Potomac). Sam and Ralph met on the floor of the stadium and since they had several days to get acquainted were drawn to each other by working-class background, their budding politics, and their desire to “seek a newer world” as some old English poet once said. And so they stuck together, stuck politically mostly, through various peace organizations and ad hoc anti-war committees fighting the good fight along with dwindling numbers of fellow activists for the past forty plus years.                              

There were thick and thin times as Ralph stayed close to home in Troy, New York working in his father’s high-skilled electrical shop which he eventually took over and had just recently passed on to his youngest son and Sam had stayed in the Greater Boston area having grown up in Carver about thirty miles south of Boston working in a printing business that he had started from scratch and from which he in turn had just turned over to his more modern print-imaging tech savvy son, Jeff. The pair would periodically take turns visiting each other sometimes with families in tow, sometimes not and were always available to back each other up when some anti-war or other progressive action needed additional warm bodies in Boston, New York or a national call came from Washington. Lately now that they were both retired from the day to day operations of their respective businesses and also now both after their last respective divorces “single” they have had time to visit each other.

It had been on Ralph’s last visit to Sam who now resided in Cambridge that he tentatively broached the subject of whether Sam was “seeing” anybody. Sam had been somewhat struck by the question since he could not remember the last time that term had been used by either man. Sam wondered if Ralph was about to tell him that he was “seeing” somebody or, worse, a thought he kept to himself for the moment, that Ralph had heard something from somebody about him. Of course all of the wondering and “liberated” talk about relationships occurred one summer night at Jack’s, the well-known bar in Cambridge a few streets up from where Sam lived, while both men were drinking high-shelf whisky, and not sipping so perhaps neither man should have been surprised when Sam blurred out. “Well, yes I am, I am seeing an angel of mercy.” (Before we go on that high-shelf whisky reference should be noted since in the old days when they were “from hunger” working-class kids drinking rotgut low-shelf whiskies they could not afford to drink the stuff on Jimmy the bartender’s third shelf behind him on the back wall.)            

Ralph took a double-take and maybe the liquor getting to his brain a little said, “What are you dating an ex-nun or something, you old devil I thought you swore off those Catholic virgins with the big novena book in one hand and the well-worn rosary beads in the other.” Sam laughed and then explained that his “angel of mercy,” Sarah Parsons, had been no nun but had saved his soul anyway. Then Sam proceeded to tell his little story, tell it as best he could as both men were getting a little drowsy with the hour (another virtue of Jack’s being near-by Sam’s dwelling when last call came):

“You know I had a very hard time with that last divorce from Melinda, she tried to take me for all I had, all I will ever have although Frankie Riley as usual with his sharp lawyer’s wit eased the sting a little and I survived with the business intact which Jeff runs now under a trust arrangement that Frankie worked out. What you don’t know because I never told you and you never asked and if you had I probably wouldn’t have told you anyway was things had been bad with Melinda for several years before she left the house three years ago and moved into that apartment in Plymouth that cost me an arm and a leg to pay for although I did it gladly at some level.”

“What you also don’t know is that about seven, eight years ago when I went to my fortieth class reunion from Carver High I ran into an old flame, a minute old flame whom I ditched for some other faster girl at the time but whom I would occasionally think about, think I had been a horse’s ass to dump. We talked into the wee hours that night, Melinda as usual didn’t want to go to the reunion since she didn’t want to go to her own Olde Saco High reunion why should she go to mine. That’s the way Melinda was, particularly the last few years when I think we both realized we have been ships passing in the night for a long time. Sarah and I agreed to talk and e-mail each other more and we did. You know the routine as well as I do, we talked a lot for several weeks and e-mailed cute stuff or sent links to songs we liked from YouTube, told our life stories since high school. Sarah too had been married twice unhappily, that twice seems to be the norm for our “liberated” generation and eventually although she knew I was still married agreed to a “date.” A great date at a small out of the way restaurant I know in the North End where I took a woman I had a short fling with about twenty years ago. And we hit it off, hit it off like we were still fresh and starry-eyed as in high school. Naturally we went to bed together not long after that and while she was not happy (nor was I really) with our “arrangement” she “understood” what was what.”            

“And that “understood” is important because Laura was really an angel of mercy. Maybe Melinda sensed something was up, maybe she was having her own affair although she was always home when I called but Sarah kept my spirits up, kept me on keel and I knew before she did, well before, that I was falling in love with her even though things looked bleak at home. And even though she was naturally very hesitant to love me back. Still we knew something was there, some strong bond which may have been there since high school. I like to think that in my mushy moments. Well, there are some tender mercies in the world because one day Melinda said she couldn’t stand the marriage anymore, wanted out, wanted her own “space” and she got it for my arm and my leg. Like I said Melinda tried to grab everything and would have if she had known about Sarah but Melinda was just Melinda in trying to grab everything. Nothing new there. Sarah lives in Arlington since we still are figuring out about the future but maybe we will go tomorrow and see her. Okay.”

Ralph answered back, “Okay” as they exited Jack’s and walked up the street toward Sam’s apartment and then Ralph turned his head to Sam and said, “Does your Sarah have any spare ‘angels of mercy’ hanging around?” They both laughed as they walked along in silence after that.