Stop Cold War II
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Saturday, December 20, 2014
Stop Cold War II
It's All About Whitey... Ah, Bulger
best wishes to all for a happy holidays!
best wishes to all for a happy holidays!
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watch the trailer! Showing Thursday, December 18, in Cambridge [please download & distribute flyer] From Academy Award-nominated documentarian Joe Berlinger (Brother's Keeper, the Paradise Lost trilogy) comes the shocking true crime story of infamous gangster James “Whitey” Bulger, who terrorized the city of Boston without ever being charged with so much as a misdemeanor. Bulger was a monster, but did the FBI and local law enforcement give his reign of terror a free pass? With shocking, never-before-seen evidence, WHITEY shines new light on this still evolving, gripping case. The FBI thought they had him, It was the other way around. "This isn't really a typical trial. James Bulger knows that by following the strategy he has directed us to do, he will be found guilty. And he's going to die behind the walls of the prison. But for Jim it doesn't matter. ...For Jim it's his last opportunity to tell people that he was never an informant. That our federal government is more corrupt in law enforcement than anyone ever imagined. Even to this day! Even in this trial, it's corrupt! And [Whitey] wants people to know it." ~ J. W. Carney, Bulger defense lawyer "Whitey Bulger is smaller than what he seems. … If the FBI had not made Whitey its favorite mobster, broken the rules and rigged the game to his benefit, Bulger would never have reached as high as he did.” ~David Boeri, WBUR reporter "This not about getting acquitted. The most important thing for us was the truth. We wanted the community and the public to see what our department of justice was doing." ~Hank Brennan, Bulger defense lawyer "It just may be one of the best true crime documentaries. Like Morris or Herzog, Berlinger has emerged as one of the great documentaries of the age." ~Jason Gorber, Twitch "The film weaves together an ornate tapestry of corruption that is a comprehensive exploration of a very complicated case." ~Raffi Asdourian, The Film Stage "Is the government excited about having Bulger come back? Some people certainly are, but there are others who have many sleepless nights about what Bulger is going to testify to." ~J. W. Carney, Bulger defense lawyer "I had contacts in the State Police, the Boston Police and the FBI." ~Whitey "Without the FBI, my father would be alive today." ~David Wheeler, son of victim Roger Wheeler ["Roger Wheeler was purportedly murdered for uncovering an embezzlement scheme that was going on at his business, World Jai Alai. After retiring from the FBI, H. Paul Rico took a job as head of security for World Jai Alai. He saw the perfect opportunity to set up his former confidential informants Whitey Bulger and Steve Flemmi in a skimming operation there." ~Wikipedia] "The story of Whitey Bulger is inextricable linked to the Federal Government. Because the fact of the matter is the government made him into who he became. ... I call it a case that never stops and a crime that never ends. ...It involves really 4 decades in which a city, a state, law enforcement, culture, media, were all corrupted by the government's relationship with him." ~David Boeri, WBUR reporter "Whitey Bulger is a vicious, venal murderer. But he was enabled by the FBI and the FBI was enabled by the Justice Department. And to the day, the Justice Department, as far as I'm concerned, was engaged in a cover-up to minimize the extent of FBI corruption." ~Tommy Donahue, victim's son "Don't you want to know what really went on?" ~Stephen Rakes, former South Boston liquor store owner who claimed Whitey Bulger muscled him out of business When/where doors open 6:40; film starts promptly 7pm 243 Broadway, Cambridge - corner of Broadway and Windsor, entrance on Windsor rule19.org/videos Please join us for a stimulating night out; bring your friends! free film & free door prizes[donations are encouraged]feel free to bring your own snacks and soft drinks - no alcohol allowed "You can't legislate good will - that comes through education." ~ Malcolm X UPandOUT film series - see rule19.org/videos Why should YOU care? It's YOUR money that pays for US/Israeli wars - on Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, Palestine, Libya. Syria, Iran, So America, etc etc - for billionaire bailouts, for ever more ubiquitous US prisons, for the loss of liberty and civil rights... |
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First Night Against the Wars: Stop Bombing Syria and Iraq
Stop Bombing Syria &
Iraq
Ring in the
new year -- with a spirited rally against a new war!
Our war in
Iraq destroyed that country and triggered the creation of ISIS.
Who knows what
death and calamities our government’s bombing of Syria and Iraq might lead to --
unless we stop it!
President
Obama is seeking Congressional authorization to bomb ISIS not only in Iraq and
Syria – but anywhere he wants.
Join us on
New
Year’s Eve 2014
for a First
Night peace rally
anytime
noon to 6pm
Copley
Square, Boston
Dartmouth street
side of Boston Public Library
Bring your signs or help hold our banners
After
6pm we will join in the First Night Parade with banners &
signs
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United for
Justice with Peace is a coalition of peace and justice organizations and
community peace groups in the Greater Boston region. The UJP Coalition, formed
after September 11th, seeks global peace through social and economic
justice.
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Humor for Humanity! Jimmy Tingle January 3
Dear friends,
Join Timmy Tingle at Harvard's Sanders Theater on Saturday, January 3 for an evening of comedy and commentary that benefits Massachusetts Peace Action Education Fund!
From 60 Minutes II and MSNBC, comedian and commentator Jimmy Tingle captures the sweet spot between Jon Stewart and Jay Leno. His unique brand of topical yet timeless comedy is as insightful as it is hilarious. Jimmy Tingle will make you laugh, make you think, and make you feel better. Clean, funny intelligent humor for all audiences.
Humor for Humanity is an evening of comedy, commentary and conversation with comedian Jimmy Tingle. Join Massachusetts Peace Action for a fun social evening which also benefits Massachusetts Peace Action Education Fund!
Mingle with Tingle: Post-show reception included with Premium Seating tickets. Join us for the post show meet & greet in the Queens Head Pub on the ground floor of Memorial Hall. It will feature complimentary appetizers, cash bar and the family, friends and fans of Sanders Theatre and Jimmy Tingle. We hope you can make it!
General admission tickets $35
Reserved Seats Mezzanine $50
Orchestra Premium (Wheelchair Accessible) $80
Purchase tickets online. Or make check payable to Massachusetts Peace Action Education Fund, write “Tingle” on memo line, and mail to 11 Garden St, Cambridge, MA 02138 (must arrive by Dec. 31). Or call 617-354-2169 to reserve your seats with a credit card. A portion of the ticket price is tax-deductible!
*Please note FREE PARKING is available at the Broadway Garage, 7 Felton St., with your ticket stub.
DINNER/SHOW DISCOUNTS:10% off the food portion of your bill with ticket stub at Grendel’s Den, Hong Kong Restaurant, Daedalus, and Grafton Street Pub & Grille .
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Because sometimes all you can do is
laugh!
Cole HarrisonExecutive Director Massachusetts Peace Action |
***He and She-With Warren
Smith’s Rock and Roll Ruby In
Mind
A Sketch From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
…he
knew, knew deep in his bones, knew on the face of it too that he could not keep
her, keep her to himself, keep her settled down and so he accepted that she
would blow away like the wind on him sometime, that same wind would take her
away as the one on which they had proclaimed, or maybe better he had proclaimed
and she went along with, that their love was written on, and it was just a
matter of how long he could keep her. It was not that he was perceptive about
women and their needs, wants, desires, nothing like that, not women in any case,
girls really since he did not know anything at all about women who were older
than say twenty, twenty-one except relative women, mothers, aunts, grandmothers
and what was there to know about them to help him, help him with a wild side
woman they all placid and proper, or about anything like that. And even on the
girl thing he was filled with as much mystery and awe as with any real knowledge,
his knowledge like everybody else, every guy, in town acquired on the street,
in the boys’ sports locker rooms, and on the corner when he hung out with guys,
or did before she took up his time but a lot of that was just flat-out wrong,
half church-truth, half-just getting it wrong, about what made them tick, and
about how to hang onto them.
And
it was not like he could lay claim to as a wet-behind-the ears high school kid
trying to survive in the doldrums 1950s some inside knowledge about what was
going to happen when his generation, the generation which would post-war born be
called baby boomers and who would not fall into the false security, or at least
he did not think that then, that their from hunger parents craved, broke out of
the straitjacket but he just knew that she was like the wind and would get
caught up in everything that was breezing across the land. He knew in his
knotted stomach that what was happening in the cold war red scare night could
not be the end of things, the end of the world and that when the time came for
the break-out all hell would break loose. She would imbibe, joyfully imbibe the
“newer world” was the way she put it to him one night when she wanted to go to
a dance and he wanted to just hold hands or something at the movies (they went
to the dance and she danced like Fred Astaire going up the walls in some movie
they had seen), everything that was coming whether about ways of getting high
not just the illicit liquor but some drugs that were beginning to make their
way into the neighborhoods among the hipped; ways of dressing, especially ways
of dressing sexy without old prudes scolding or guys leering; ways of dancing,
dancing free from the old forms; and ways of hearing the music that always seemed
to exist in her head just below the surface of what drove her personality.
Him,
well, he was what she called when she was angry at him when he would not dance,
wanted to square parent hold hands, or got mad when she did dance with other
guys or he was smothering her with his forever plans (her take, not his) a
“square.” Jesus, a square and with his strict Jehovah upbringing and his “get
out of from hunger and get ahead dreams” maybe he was. He knew that he would
not be able to go with her when she broke out, knew that for sure. Knew from
that one time some guy at a dance at the Surf Ballroom down by the beach gave
them a couple of shots of rotgut Southern Comfort which she dug and on which he
just threw up, knew that other time in downtown Boston when some college guy
was giving her the once over and passed them a “joint” (marijuana for the
squares like him) and she got all high and flirty (and he did too except he
could not go with the flow of the thing); knew when she started wearing her
dresses shorter showing her well-turned legs and challenging guys to look; knew
when she got all esoteric in her dancing like she was of the she with the seven
veils; knew that when she began to dig electric blues and some helter-skelter
hipster jazz, that he would not be able to go with her. No question.
It
hadn’t started out that way, at least he did not see it like that at the
beginning, see that she was a wayward wind, see that she had the desire to deeply imbibe the new wave coming across the
continent. That wind born of the wild reckless feckless boys sunk knee-deep in
alienation and angst, of outlaw motorcycle bikers who played for real and
played rough, of surf city guys searching for perfect waves with golden-haired
girls waiting patiently on shore for that event, of hot rod Lincoln “chicken
run” guys with boffo girls sitting high-breasted wearing cashmere sweaters in
that coveted passenger seat turning the radio dial reaction against the staid
Great Depression and World War II parents’ generation search for the security
blanket in a hostile red scare Cold War world where they, the parents, just
wanted their Johnny coming home from the war music, big Cadillac, two car
garage with two cars and stardust memories.
You know what he meant, don’t you, the undefined but vital mood change
that started when Elvis and a bunch of other hungry guys [and a few women like
Wanda Jackson and Laverne Baker] ripped it up with a new sound, a new not your
parents’ tinny sound, but blessed, no, twice blessed rock and roll. And then
other guys, other be-bop guys who had been around but were just then getting
noticed called the beat, called the beat down to rise up and play themselves
true, no hassles man, no hassles. All under the umbrella of dropping that
dragged out, square, red scare cold war night thing the ancients had everybody
stirred up about. Yeah and all their old has-been crowd. A little later, in
Billy and Jenny time, the he and she here to introduce them but they could have
been any of ten thousand kids hooked on the visual bible of the new religion American Bandstand, standing on corners
looking be-bop beat, or throwing nickels and dimes at some Doc’s Drugstore jukebox
complete with soda fountain to abate hungers in order to hear the latest about
twenty times the music changed up again, and square was nowhere to be. Billy
sensed it, sensed before Jenny even but he with ten thousand worries in his
head blew it off, called it at first a passing fad then got real scared when
his Jenny got testy with him more often.
They
had met conventionally enough in senior year at old North Adamsville High, although
they had seen each other around for ages as most of the kids in town had been
at endless school assemblies, rallies, dances together but what of that in teen
life had, for as such things go, they had not paid particular attention to kids
they knew for ages, or kids that were not in their clique.. Had moreover grown
up together on the wrong side of the tracks and wore a few scars to prove it
although mostly they just acknowledged the slights from the Brahmins, noticed
the no nods, the no look of approval, their slightly under-cool cheap Bargain
Center dressing against the latest hip thing from Filene’s or Macy’s and didn’t
talk about it thinking it was uncool to talk about roots, about yesterday,
about anything but the moment, and Billy all bunched up about the future.
Something
clicked though in that senior year as they both had responded to each other’s
furtive glances in Miss Williams’ study hall, had furtively danced around each
other at Doc’s Drugstore where all the kids hung out after school to listen the
latest music, their music juke box, and had finally gone out on a double-date
(he without a car at the time and so they had doubled up with her girlfriend
Terry in her beau’s car, a “boss” Chevy since that beau was out of school and
working as a welder down at the shipyard) at the local drive-in theater where
she, sitting in the back seat with him, surprised him with her sexual advances.
Stuff
that Billy wasn’t all that familiar with but which he liked and which she knew
that he liked. He, at least, was embarrassed when Terry and Eddie kept telling
them to quiet down a little while Jenny was doing her thing on him. She on the
other hand just to show how wild she could be if provoked took that as a signal
to make him go crazier. Terry later told Jenny there would be
no more double-dates after she told her that Eddie had asked her to do what he
called “doing the Jenny” on him before he left her off at her house. Terry said
she did not know how to do that mouth thing and refused him flat when he said
he would show her how. Jenny told Billy later after she had taught Terry the
technique and Eddie coaxed her into doing it one afternoon after school she would
chide Terry with a little “so did you do the Terry” again Saturday night down at
the beach when they compared notes on their respective weekends before school
on Monday morning. Somehow that “do the Terry” got around school and when Terry
dumped Eddie guys would try to coax her into it. Sometimes yes, sometimes no. That
is when Billy and Jenny would go back to double-dating with whatever new beau with
a car that Terry had.
Yeah,
Billy liked it, liked it like any guy would, especially since Jenny was one of
the prettiest girls in class and had a reputation for being kind of
“unapproachable.” (Billy later found out
it was not so much the stuck-up thing as that she had been dating a college guy
and at that time was strictly under his sway after they had a few sexual experiences
which had kind of loosened her up. Joe College eventually took off with some girl
from some college in Michigan once he was done with Jenny.) Yeah, he liked it
but also thought to himself that night and the several other nights Jenny and
he found themselves in some secluded spot on the beach (the Squaw Rock end not
the Seal Rock end where parents and young kids hung out) when she did her thing
to him, those times when she got all loud and screamy when he touched her where
had she picked up that knowledge of what made a guy moan (and a girl all
screamy). When he asked her about it later, not any of the nights when they
were alone down the beach but a couple of weeks later, she just said girls knew
stuff like that and she had learned it from her first boyfriend (that Joe
College) who was older. Said that older guys, older guys who had been out in
the world, guys who knew how to turn a woman on, and who expected to be turned
on showed girls like her what was what. He let it pass. So they were an “item” that last year of
school and many a Monday morning before school when the other guys were
speaking of so-called weekend conquests by the billion he just smiled a knowing
silent smile.
Then,
a couple, a few years out of high school, Billy working taking a few classes at
the local junior college at night, Jenny working a couple or three nights a
week as a high end restaurant waitress, the music at Doc’s jukebox changed, got
more charged, frankly, got more sassy and sexual far different from their
parents’ sappy sentimental stuff that didn’t get anybody’s heart rate up. And Jenny
changed, well maybe not so much changed as got caught up in the new
dispensation, the new moves. When they went on dates then it wasn’t to the
movies or to some restaurant but to Smiley’s Bar & Grille on the outskirts
of town where old Smiley had a hot new cover band, the Rocking Rockets, playing
all the latest big beat stuff from guys like Warren Smith with his Rock ‘n’ Roll Ruby that she flipped out
on. Not that she, like Warren said, would dance on the tables and stuff like
that but that she would dance with lots of guys, would be flirty, tease flirty
right before his eyes. When he questioned her on it she just said “don’t be a square,
daddy” and refused to discuss it further. And then it began. Some nights when
he called her mother answered to say she was not home, had gone out with the
girls, or something like that. Yeah, he knew deep in his bones …
********
…he had changed, Billy had changed too much for her tastes,
changed into a “square” just like all the parents in town and all the kids who
didn’t want to have fun and just be like them, be like their parents and worry
like Billy’s parents’ Jehovah worried about the new devil’s music coming on the
scene to replace, square, square Pat Boone and those clowns. Billy, Jesus,
Billy worrying and just barely out of high school about some house, kids, dogs
and two cars. Funny though he never complained, not one word, when she did her
thing, her “doing the Jenny” thing they laughingly called it when they were in
that mood, with him down at the beach. Oh, he asked, Jehovah hypocrite asked
where she learned how to satisfy a man but he never asked her to stop but just
moaned like every other man. She had learned all about sex from a college guy
she had been dating before Billy when she was in high school but who had ditched
her for some college girl from Michigan. Had done a couple of sexy turn on one-night
stands with some other college guys before latching onto Billy who she suddenly
became attracted to senior year when they shared a study class together and she
kept taking furtive glances his way until they began talking to each other after
school at Doc’s Drugstore, the one place in town which had an up-to-date jukebox
and a soda fountain, and that was that.
He was fun at first, fun when she did her thing with him and
he got all soft and stuff and she could have gotten anything she wanted from him.
Then he started on his ten million plans for them. So she knew, knew sooner or
later she was not sure which, she would have to drop him, drop him for somebody
who was fun, who liked what she did and didn’t act the hypocrite about it. Hell,
in one of her fantasy moments maybe drop him for the first guy who wanted to
dance with her close and fast, maybe had some reefer or Scotch and didn’t ask
forever how she knew what she knew about sex and just enjoy it (and enjoy her).
The problem was that in square old North Adamsville that
someone who was fun and the rest had not passed her door, but she had hopes. In
the meantime she thought she would have to stick with old gloomy Gus as he
fretted his life away. As long as he
kept his mouth shut when she started
swaying when the juke-box played some hot, latest rock and roll tune or the
cover band at Smiley’s started her dancing to the beat on something like Warren
Smith’s Rock ‘n’ Roll Ruby. Started
guys looking through Billy her way too, and licking their chops.
Funny, as she thought back to that time a little over a year
before when they had eyed each other in Miss Williams’ study hall that she was
then attracted to his easy manner, his sly boyish-ness which she thought she
could talk him out of with a little coaxing (he had made her laugh when after
they became an “item” he said that the eyeing had really been furtive
glances-he said funny things like that then). They had not spoken a word until
they had spent what seemed like a lifetime dancing around each other at Doc’s
Drugstore where he put in endless nickels and dimes in the juke-box and then
just sat there dreamy-eyed looking at her until she had said enough and went
over to him and stood right in front of him and dared him to ignore her with
her look. He had surrendered easily enough and they became an “item” after a
subsequent drive-in movie date where she had shown him a few things in the back
seat of her friend Terry’s boyfriend’s car. He liked her doing that stuff and
she knew he liked her doing that stuff although he was a very shy boy for the
first few times. So this was how they had spent their last year of school
together in some kind of bliss.
Things changed though, changed a couple of years later when
a new breeze came through the town, when Doc’s juke-box started to almost jump
off the walls what with the latest rock tunes coming one right after another.
But Billy did not catch on, wanted to stay mired in his parents’ music and so
the frets began-his about marriage and settling down, hers about having fun
rocking the night away. The worse times had been when they went to Smiley’s, the hot-spot bar on
the outside of town where there was plenty of booze and bop and guys who eyed
her, maybe not furtively shy like Billy
had but eyed her like they wanted to
have a good time, wanted to have fun rather mope around and be square. He would
just sit there and be mopey while she danced with a few guys, a couple of whom
she had given her telephone number to although they in the end had not worked
out. She began telling her mother sometimes that when Billy called to tell him
she was out and to tell him that she didn’t know when she would be back. Even when, like this night, she was just
sitting up in her room waiting for a new guy who had danced her off her feet
the night before who said he would definitely call and maybe, just maybe, want
to have fun …
***********
"Rock And Roll Ruby"
Well I took my Ruby jukin'
On the out-skirts of town
She took her high heels off
And rolled her stockings down
She put a quarter in the jukebox
To get a little beat
Everybody started watchin'
All the rhythm in her feet
She's my rock'n'roll Ruby, rock'n'roll
Rock'n'roll Ruby, rock'n'roll
When Ruby starts a-rockin'
Boy it satisfies my soul
Now Ruby started rockin' 'bout one o'clock
And when she started rockin'
She just couldn't stop
She rocked on the tables
And rolled on the floor
And Everybody yelled: "Ruby rock some more!"
She's my rock'n'roll Ruby, rock'n'roll
Rock'n'roll Ruby, rock'n'roll
When Ruby starts a-rockin'
Boy it satisfies my soul
It was 'round about four
I thought she would stop
She looked at me and then
She looked at the clock
She said: "Wait a minute Daddy
Now don't get sour
All I want to do
Is rock a little bit more"
She's my rock'n'roll Ruby, rock'n'roll
Rock'n'roll Ruby, rock'n'roll
When Ruby starts a-rockin'
Boy it satisfies my soul
One night my Ruby left me all alone
I tried to contact her on the telephone
I finally found her about twelve o'clock
She said: "Leave me alone Daddy
'cause your Ruby wants to rock"
She's my rock'n'roll Ruby, rock'n'roll
Rock'n'roll Ruby, rock'n'roll
When Ruby starts a-rockin'
Boy it satisfies my soul
Rock, rock, rock'n'roll
Rock, rock, rock'n'roll
Rock, rock, rock'n'roll
Rock, rock, rock'n'roll
When Ruby starts a-rockin'
Boy it satisfies my soul
On the out-skirts of town
She took her high heels off
And rolled her stockings down
She put a quarter in the jukebox
To get a little beat
Everybody started watchin'
All the rhythm in her feet
She's my rock'n'roll Ruby, rock'n'roll
Rock'n'roll Ruby, rock'n'roll
When Ruby starts a-rockin'
Boy it satisfies my soul
Now Ruby started rockin' 'bout one o'clock
And when she started rockin'
She just couldn't stop
She rocked on the tables
And rolled on the floor
And Everybody yelled: "Ruby rock some more!"
She's my rock'n'roll Ruby, rock'n'roll
Rock'n'roll Ruby, rock'n'roll
When Ruby starts a-rockin'
Boy it satisfies my soul
It was 'round about four
I thought she would stop
She looked at me and then
She looked at the clock
She said: "Wait a minute Daddy
Now don't get sour
All I want to do
Is rock a little bit more"
She's my rock'n'roll Ruby, rock'n'roll
Rock'n'roll Ruby, rock'n'roll
When Ruby starts a-rockin'
Boy it satisfies my soul
One night my Ruby left me all alone
I tried to contact her on the telephone
I finally found her about twelve o'clock
She said: "Leave me alone Daddy
'cause your Ruby wants to rock"
She's my rock'n'roll Ruby, rock'n'roll
Rock'n'roll Ruby, rock'n'roll
When Ruby starts a-rockin'
Boy it satisfies my soul
Rock, rock, rock'n'roll
Rock, rock, rock'n'roll
Rock, rock, rock'n'roll
Rock, rock, rock'n'roll
When Ruby starts a-rockin'
Boy it satisfies my soul
Finally The Last Of The Cuban Five Are Free- Next Steps -End The Blockade Now!
U.S. Out Of Guantanamo Now!
A link to the National Committee to Free the Five website
http://www.freethefive.org/
Frank Jackman comment:
Those of us who have for the past several years been pushing hard to gain freedom for the heroic Cuban Five who did their duty as they saw it to defend the gains of the Cuban Revolution greet the latest change in American foreign policy and freedom for the remaining imprisoned Five with a great deal of satisfaction. We can also note that the normalization of diplomatic relations is welcome after an incredible and fruitless denial of reality by the American government for the past fifty-five years. There are still some issues that are not clear yet about the parameters of the deal and certainly about a Congressionally-mandated the end of the economic blockade and about the pressing issue of returning Guantanamo to Cuban sovereignty. That said I have today updated a blog entry from several years ago which describes this writer’s relationship to the Cuban Revolution.
For The Final Time- The Defense Of The Cuban Revolution Begins With The Defense Of The Cuban Five-Free The Last Of Them Now!
END THE U.S. BLOCKADE!-U.S. OUT OF GUANTANAMO!
A link to the National Committee to Free the Five website
http://www.freethefive.org/
Frank Jackman comment:
Those of us who have for the past several years been pushing hard to gain freedom for the heroic Cuban Five who did their duty as they saw it to defend the gains of the Cuban Revolution greet the latest change in American foreign policy and freedom for the remaining imprisoned Five with a great deal of satisfaction. We can also note that the normalization of diplomatic relations is welcome after an incredible and fruitless denial of reality by the American government for the past fifty-five years. There are still some issues that are not clear yet about the parameters of the deal and certainly about a Congressionally-mandated the end of the economic blockade and about the pressing issue of returning Guantanamo to Cuban sovereignty. That said I have today updated a blog entry from several years ago which describes this writer’s relationship to the Cuban Revolution.
For The Final Time- The Defense Of The Cuban Revolution Begins With The Defense Of The Cuban Five-Free The Last Of Them Now!
From the American Left History
blog, July 2006
END THE U.S. BLOCKADE!-U.S. OUT OF GUANTANAMO!
This year marks the 53rd anniversary of
the Cuban July 26th movement, the 47th anniversary of the victory of the Cuban
Revolution and the 39th anniversary of the execution of Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara
by the Bolivian Army (aided and abetted by the American CIA)after the defeat of
his guerilla forces and his capture in godforsaken rural Bolivia. I have
reviewed the life of Che elsewhere in this space (see blog, dated July 5,
2006). Thus it is fitting to remember the anniversary of the Cuban Revolution, an
event in which he was a central actor. Additionally, the Cuban Revolution stood
for my generation, the Generation of '68, and, hopefully, will for later
generations as a symbol of revolutionary intransigence against United States
imperialism.
Let us be clear about two things.
First, this writer has defended the Cuban revolution since its inception;
initially under a liberal- democratic premise of the right of nations,
especially applicable to small nations pressed up against military forces of
the imperialist powers, to self-determination; later under the above-mentioned
anti-imperialist premise and also that it should be defended on socialist
grounds, not my idea of socialism- the Bolshevik, 1917 kind- but as an
anti-capitalist, anti-imperialist revolution nevertheless. That prospective
continues to be this writer’s position today. Secondly, my conception of
revolutionary strategy and thus of world politics has for a long time been far
removed from Fidel Castro’s (and Che’s) strategy, which emphasized military
victory by guerrilla forces in the countryside, rather than my position of mass
action by the urban proletariat leading the rural masses in such situations.
That said, despite those strategic political differences this militant leftist can
honor the Cuban revolution as a symbol of a fight that all anti-imperialist
militants should defend.
Let me expand on these points, the
first point by way of reminiscences. I am old enough to have actually seen
Castro’s Rebel Army on black and white television as it triumphantly entered
Havana in 1959. Although I was only a low-end teenager at the time and hardly
politically sophisticated I, like others of my generation, saw in that ragtag,
scruffy group the stuff of romantic revolutionary dreams. I was glad Batista
had to flee and that ‘the people’ would rule in Cuba.
Later, in 1960 as the nationalizations
occurred in response to American imperialist pressure, I defended them. In
fact, as a general proposition I was, hazily and without any particular
thought, in favor of nationalizations everywhere as a step forward in the way
humankind does its business. In 1961, despite my then deeply felt affinity for
the Kennedys, especially the sweet ruthless younger brother Bobby, I was
pleased that the counterrevolutionaries were routed at the Bay of Pigs.
Increased Soviet aid and involvement in
the economic and political infrastructure of beleaguered Cuba? No problem once
the American night descended on that then impoverished one crop economy. The
Cuban Missile Crisis, however, left me and virtually everyone in the world,
shaking in our boots. Frankly, I saw this crisis (after the fact) as a typical
for the time Cold War confrontation between the United States and the Soviet
Union with Cuba as the playground. Not as some independent Cuban ploy. In
short, my experiences at that time can be summed up by the slogan- Fair Play
for Cuba. So far, a conclusion that a good liberal could espouse as a
manifestation of a nation’s, particularly a small nation’s, right to self-determination.
It is only later, during the radicalization of the Vietnam War period and my
own left-ward political movement that I moved beyond that position.
Now to the second point and the hard
politics. If any revolution is defined by one person the Cuban revolution can
stand as that example. From its inception it was Fidel’s show, for better or
worse. The military command, the strategy, the political programs, and the
various national and international alliances all filtered through him. On
reflection, that points out the basic problem and my major difference with the
Fidelistas, in Cuba and here. And it starts with question of revolutionary
strategy. Taking power based on a strategy of guerilla warfare is fundamentally
difference from an urban insurrection led by a workers party (or parties)
allied with, as in Cuba, landless peasants and agricultural workers responsible
to workers and X (fill in the blank for whatever allies apply in the local
situation) councils. And it showed those distortions then and continues to show
them as the basis for decision making –top down. It is necessary to move on
from there.
Believe me, this writer as well as
countless others, all went through our phase of enthusing over the guerrilla
road to socialism. But, as the fate of Che and others makes clear, the Cuban
victory was the result of exceptional circumstances. Many revolutionaries
stumbled over that hard fact and the best, including Che, paid for it with
imprisonment or their lives. In short, the Bolshevik, 1917 model still stands
up as a damn good model for the way to take power and to try to move on to the
road to socialism. Still, although I have made plenty of political mistakes in
my life I have never regretted my defense of the Cuban Revolution. And neither
should militants today. As Che said- the duty of every revolutionary is to make
the revolution- and to defend them too. Enough said. U.S. END THE BLOCKADE!
U.S. OUT OF GUANTANAMO!
Looking For The Heart Of Saturday Night, Christ The Heart Of Any Night-The Songs of Tom Waits-Take Five
From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin
A YouTube film clip of Tom Waits performing Looking For The Heart Of Saturday Night
If you, as I do, every once in a while, every once in a while when the norms of the today’s bourgeois-driven push, you know grab goods, grab the dough, grab some shelter from the storm, the storm that these days comes down like a hard rain falling, to get ahead in this wicked old world have to step back and take stock, maybe listen to some words of wisdom, or words that help explain how you got into that mess then you have come to the right address. Okay, okay on that bourgeois-driven today thing maybe going back further to Calvinist Puritan avenging angels times with John Winthrop and the Mayflower boys but you best ask Max Weber about that since he tried to hook the boys to the wheel of the capitalist profit, profit for you at the expense of me, system with the new dispensation coming out like hellfire from Geneva and points east and west. But you get the point.
If all that to-ing and fro-ing (nice touch, right) leaves you wondering where you fell off the edge, that edge city (edge city where you danced around with all the conventions of the days, danced around the get ahead world with blinkers on) where big cloud outrageous youthful dreams were dreamt and you took risks, damn did you take risks, thought nothing of that fact either, landed on your ass more than a few time but just picked yourself up and dusted your knees off and done stick around and listen up. Yeah, so if you are wondering, have been pushed off your saintly wheels, yeah, pushed you off your sainted wheels, and gotten yourself into some angst-ridden despair about where you went off that angel-driven dream of your youth, now faded, tattered, and half- forgotten(but only half, only half, the wisp of the dream, the eternal peace dream, the figuring out how to contain that fire, that wanting habits fire in your belly dream sisters and brothers), and need some solace (need some way to stop the fret counting the coffee cups that while away your life), need to reach back to roots (reach back to roots that the 1950s golden age of America kicked the ass out of to make us crave oneness, to forget about those old immigrant customs, made us forget that simple country blues, mountain breeze songs, cowboy ballads, Tex-Mex, Cajun Saturday night that make the people feel good times), reach back to the primeval forest maybe, put the headphones on some Tom Waits platter (oops, CD, YouTube selection, etc.- “platter” refers to a, ah, record, vinyl, put on a record player, hell, look it up in Wikipedia, okay) and remember what it was like when men and women sang just to sing the truth of what they saw and heard.
If the norms of don’t rock the boat (not in these uncertain times like any times in human existence were certain, damn, there was always something coming up from the first man-eating beast to the human race-eating nuclear bombs), the norms of keep your head down (that’s right brother, that’s right sister keep looking down, no left or rights for your placid world), keeping your head down being an art form now with appropriate ritual (that ritual looking more and more like the firing squad that took old Juan Romero’s life when he did bad those days out in Utah country), and excuses, because, well, because you don’t want to wind up like them (and fill in the blank of the “them,” usually dark, very dark like some deathless, starless night disturbing your sleep, begging, I swear, begging you to put that gun in full view on the table, speaking some unknown language, maybe A-rab, maybe gibberish for all you know, moving furtively and stealthily against your good night) drive you crazy and you need, desperately need, to listen to those ancient drum beats, those primeval forest leave droppings maybe, that old time embedded DNA coda long lost to, oh yes, civilization, to some civilizing mission (think of that Mayflower gang or ask Max Weber), that spoke of the better angels of your nature when those angel dreams, half-forgotten but only half remember, ruled your days. Turn up the volume up another notch or two on that Tom Waits selection, maybe Jersey Girl or Brother, Can You Spare A Dime (can you?), Hold On, or Gunn Street Girl.
If you need to hear things, just to sort things out, just to recapture that angel-edge, recapture the time when you did no fear, you and everybody else’s sisters and brothers, that thing you build and from which you now should run, recapture that child-like wonder that made you come alive, made you think about from whence you came and how a turn, a slight turn this way or that, could have landed you on the wrong side. And I have the list of brothers and sisters who took that wrong road, when he wound up face down in some dusty back road arroyo down Sonora way when the deal went bust or when she, maybe a little kinky for all I know, decided that she would try a needle and a spoon, I swear, or she swore just for kicks and she wound up in Madame LaRue’s whorehouse working that bed to perdition, hey, sweet dreams baby I tried to tell you when you play with fire, watch out.
So if you need to sort things out about boozers (and about titanic booze-crazed struggles in barrooms, on beaches, in the back seats of cars, lost in the mist of time down some crazed midnight, hell, four in the morning, penniless, cab fare-less night), losers (those who have lost their way, gotten it taken away from them like some maiden virginity), those who never had anything but lost, not those who never had a way to be lost, dopesters inhaling, in solitary hotel rooms among junkie brethren, gathering a needle and spoon in some subterranean dank cellar, down in dark alleys jack-rolling some poor drunk stiff out of his room rent for kicks (how uncool to drink low-shelf whiskeys or rotgut wines hell the guy deserved to be rolled, should feel lucky he got away with just a flipped wallet), out in nighttime canyons flame blaring off the walls, the seven seas of chemical dust, mainly blotter, maybe peyote (the sweet dreams of ten million years of ghost warriors working the canyon walls flickering against the campfire flames) if that earth angel connection comes through (Aunt Sally, always, some Aunt Sally coming up the stairs to ease the pain, to make one feel, no, not feel, better than any AMA doctor without a prescription pad), creating visions of long lost tribes trying, trying like hell, to get “connected,” connected in the campfire shadow night, hipsters (all dressed in black, mary mack dressed in black, speeding, speaking be-bop this and be-bop that to stay in fashion, hustling, always hustle, maybe pimping some street urchin, maybe cracking some guy’s head to create a “new world order” of the malignant, always moving), fallen sisters (sisters of mercy, sisters who need mercy, sisters who were mercifully made fallen in some mad dash night, merciful sister feed me, feed me good), midnight sifters (lifting in no particular order hubcaps, tires, wrenches, jacks, an occasional gem, some cheap jewelry in wrong neighborhoods, some paintings or whatever is not saleable left in some sneak back alley, it is the sifting that counts), grifters (hey, buddy watch this, now you see it, now you don’t, now you don’t see your long gone John dough, and Mister three card Monte long gone too ), drifters (here today gone tomorrow with or without dough, to Winnemucca, Ogden, Fresno, Frisco town, name your town, name your poison and the great big blue seas washing you clean out into the Japans ), the drift-less (cramped into one room hovels, shelters, seedy rooming houses afraid to stay in-doors or to go outside, afraid of the “them” too, afraid to be washed clean, angel clean), and small-time grafters (the ten-percent guys, failed insurance men, repo artists, bounty hunters, press agents, personal trainers, need I go on). You know where to look, right.
If you need to be refreshed on the subject of hoboes, bums, tramps (and remind me sometime to draw the distinction, the very real and acknowledged distinction between those three afore –mentioned classes of brethren once told to me by a forlorn grand master hobo, a guy down on his luck moving downward to bum), out in the railroad jungles in some Los Angeles ravine, some Gallup, New Mexico Southern Pacific trestle (the old SP the only way to travel out west if you want to get west), some Hoboken broken down pier (ha, shades of the last page of Jack Kerouac’s classic), the fallen (fallen outside the gates of Eden, or, hell, inside too), those who want to fall (and let god figure out who made who fall, okay), Spanish Johnnies (slicked back black hair, tee shirt, shiv, cigarette butt hanging from a parted lip, belt buckle ready for action, leering, leering at that girl over there, some gringa for a change of pace, maybe your girl but watch out for that shiv, the bastard), stale cigarette butts (from Spanish Johnnie and all the johnnies, Camels, Luckies, no filters, no way), whiskey-soaked barroom floors (and whiskey-soaked drunks to mop the damn place up, for drinks and donuts, maybe just for the drinks), loners (jesus, books, big academic books with great pedigrees could be written on that subject so let’s just pass by), the lonely (ditto loners), sad sacks (kindred, one hundred times kindred to the loners and the lonely but not worthy of study, academic study anyway), the sad (encompassing all of the above) and others at the margins of society, the whole fellahin world, then Tom Waits is your stop.
Tom Waits is, frankly, an acquired taste, one listen will not do, one song will not do, but listen to a whole record (CD okay) and you won’t want to turn the thing off, high praise in anyone’s book, so a taste well worth acquiring as he storms heaven in words, in thought-out words, in cribbed, cramped, crumbled words, to express the pain, angst and anguish of modern living, yes, modern living, looking for busted black-hearted angels (who left him short one night in some unnamed, maybe nameless, gin mill), for girls with Monroe hips (swaying wickedly in the dead air night, and flaming desire, hell lust, getting kicked out of proper small town hells (by descendants of those aforementioned Mayflower boys promising the world for one forbidden night), get real, and left for dead with cigar wrapping rings, for the desperate out in forsaken woods who need to hold on to something, and for all the misbegotten.
Tom Waits gives voice in song, a big task, to the kind of characters that peopled Nelson Algren’s novels (The Last Carousel, Neon Wilderness, Walk on the Wild Side, and The Man with the Golden Arm). The, frankly, white trash Dove Linkhorns of the world, genetically broken before they begin, broken before they hit these shores (their forbears thrown out of Europe for venal crimes and lusts, damn them, the master-less men and women, ask old Max about them too), having been chased out, cast out of Europe, or some such place. In short, the people who do not make revolutions, those revolutions we keep hearing and reading about, the wretched of the earth and their kin, far from it, but those who surely, and desperately could use one. If, additionally, you need a primordial grizzled gravelly voice to attune your ear and occasional dissonant instrumentation to round out the picture go no further. Finally, if you need someone who “feels your pain” for his characters you are home. Keep looking for the heart of Saturday night, Brother, keep looking.
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