Friday, January 22, 2016

A View From The Left -Socialist Alternative



Frank Jackman comment:

Usually when I post something from some other source, mostly articles and other materials that may be of interest to the radical public that I am trying to address I place the words “ A View From The Left” in the headline and let the subject of the article speak for itself, or let the writer speak for him or herself without further comment whether I agree with the gist of what is said or not. After all I can write my own piece if some pressing issue is at hand. I do so here.     






VIDEO:
Kshama Sawant Responds to State of the Union Address


Friends,

We have
an

unprecedented and historic opportunity
before us to build the
progressive and socialist movement.  

But these
movements won't be built from the sidelines, we need you in the field.  We know
who's already in the field fighting for
their interests - the 1% and
the right, CEO's and Wall Street, the developers and the landlords - in short
the ruling elite.


Socialist
Alternative is the tip of the spear of struggle.  From launching 15 Now with
labor and community allies and building a movement that won a $15/hr minimum
wage in Seattle to electing and reelecting Kshama Sawant who has fought
unabashedly alongside working people - Socialist Alternative is an organization
that has proven itself to be a serious force with the right strategies and
tactics to take the fight to the 1%.

Socialist
Alternative is doing what few other organizations are - winning!

Because of
this we've been flooded with people from all over the country wanting to join
our movement. From Utah to Texas to Alabama working people are searching for a
way through the morass of capitalism. If 1000 people  
donate $5/month or $50 we can afford to hire
organizers that can go to these states to grow our movement.

Last night
Obama talked about the U.S. needing a "better" politics, we would say that's not
good enough - we need a
new politics.  One that
will put human need before corporate greed.  A New Politics for the millions,
not the millionaires!  


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Socialist Alternative | P.O. Box 150457 | Brooklyn | NY | 11215


This week on Love (and Revolution) Radio, Paul K. Chappell shares his views on bringing about a peaceful revolution of the heart.

This week on Love (and Revolution) Radio, Paul K. Chappell shares his views on bringing about a peaceful revolution of the heart.
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Waging Peace with Paul K. Chappell

"What history has shown is the most powerful motivator in human history is love. . . . We hear that love is naive, but the military knows that love is the most powerful force in the world, that's why you hear that whole band of brothers thing." - Paul K. Chappell
 
This week on Love (and Revolution) Radio, we talk with Paul K. Chappell about the intersections of heart, spirit, strategy and action, exploring his unique vantage point on conflict studies that comes from spending years in both the US military and in the peace movement.
 
 
Below you'll find a list of fascinating links . . . and references to things we mention or discuss on this week's show, including quotes, books, and articles.
 
About Our Guest:
Paul K. Chappell (http://paulkchappell.com/) is one of the most powerful voices for peace of our day. He was born to a Korean mother and an American father who was half black and half white. His father served in the military for thirty years, and completed combat missions in Korea and Vietnam. Following in his father´s military footsteps, Chappell graduated from West Point in 2002 and served as a captain in Iraq.
 
While on active duty, Chappell wrote two books, Will War Ever End?: A Soldier’s Vision of Peace for the 21st Century and The End of War: How Waging Peace Can Save Humanity, Our Planet, and Our Future. He is now the author of five books, including Peaceful Revolution: How We Can Create the Future Needed for Humanity’s Survival; The Art of Waging Peace, and; The Cosmic Ocean.  Find them all here.
 
After leaving active duty in November 2009, Paul began serving as the Peace Leadership Director for the Nuclear Age Peace Foundation in Santa Barbara, CA. He now speaks and teaches peace leadership skills all over the world. His books offer compelling insights on how we might end war, reconnect with our basic humanity, and live more compassionate lives. Based on his personal experience, military training, and research into human nature and the myths that perpetuate war, Chappell avoids blaming any particular political group; his ideas have found traction with liberals, conservatives, veterans, and civilians. On this week's show, Paul shares with Love (and revolution) Radio his views on bringing about a peaceful revolution of the heart.

Also! We are listener-supported radio. If you'd like to help us improve audio quality with good microphones, keep our archives up-to-date, and help us keep putting out this unique and heart-warming production . . . Here's how you, our listener-supported radio friends, can help!  Thank you!

Special thanks to everyone who reached out to their local radio station this week! We have been connecting with stations who want to know if they can broadcast our show. (The answer is always yes!)

Curious about next week?  We'll be interviewing Dena Eakles of Echo Valley Farm about building change from the ground up (literally). Rivera will be visiting her as the show is airing, initiating conversation about using nonviolence as a tool of change, and hearing stories from people in the area. If you're in western Wisconsin, come find her! Here's more info.

Yours in love and revolution,

Sherri and Rivera
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LINKS:
Know Your Nonviolent History:
The 6 Principles of Nonviolence from Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. You can learn more about these principles on the King Center website: 
http://www.thekingcenter.org/king-philosophy#sub2
Books and Resources Mentioned: 
The Cosmic Ocean - the Road to Peace Series
http://paulkchappell.com/the-cosmic-ocean/

The Interest Convergence Theory by Derrick Bell, Civil Rights Scholar 
http://professorderrickbell.com/scholarship/ 

Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maslow%27s_hierarchy_of_needs
Music By: 
"Love and Revolution" by Diane Patterson and Spirit Radio www.dianepatterson.org
"Chanterelle" by the band Crowfoot on their album "As the Crow Flies".
www.crowfoot.org and www.maivish.com
 
Quotes:
"I do not pretend to understand the moral universe. The arc is a long one. My eye reaches but little ways. I cannot calculate the curve and complete the figure by experience of sight. I can divine it by conscience. And from what I see I am sure it bends toward justice."
-Theodore Parker

"I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality... I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word."
- Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

"An enemy is one whose story you have not heard."
- Jewish saying
About your co-hosts:

Sherri Mitchell (Penobscot) is an Indigenous rights attorney, writer and activist who melds traditional life-way teachings into spirit-based movements. Looking for essays, writings, tweets and posts from Sherri Mitchell? Follow her at Sherri Mitchell – Wena’gamu’gwasit https://www.facebook.com/sacredinstructions/ or via the social media links below.

Rivera Sun is a novelist, and nonviolent mischief-maker. She is the author of The Dandelion Insurrection, Billionaire Buddha and Steam Drills, Treadmills, and Shooting Stars. She is also the social media coordinator and nonviolence trainer for Campaign Nonviolence and Pace e Bene. Her essays on social justice movements are syndicated on by PeaceVoice, and appear in Truthout and Popular Resistance. http://www.riverasun.com/

 
Copyright © 2016 Love (and Revolution) Radio, All rights reserved.
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A View From The Left-Chicago: Emanuel Must Go! -Enough with the Democrats!-We Need a Multiracial Workers Party!

Workers Vanguard No. 1081
15 January 2016
 
Chicago: Emanuel Must Go! -Enough with the Democrats!-We Need a Multiracial Workers Party!
 


The arrogant labor-hating, cop-loving Democratic mayor of Chicago, Rahm Emanuel, is on the ropes. The seething anger of black people, Latinos, the working class and the poor at the misery of life in “Segregation City” burst into the open with the release of the chilling video showing 17-year-old Laquan McDonald being pumped with 16 bullets by a Chicago cop—most of them fired as he lay wounded in the street. But even more than this depraved execution, which was perpetrated in October 2014, it was the cover-up by the Emanuel regime that lit the fuse.
Facing a highly contested election in February 2015, with his job dependent on corralling the black vote, Emanuel wouldn’t have had a prayer if the video of McDonald’s execution had been released. All the stops were pulled out to bury it. Days after Emanuel won the runoff election, a $5 million settlement was paid to the McDonald family, who had yet to even file a lawsuit, with the explicit provision that the video not be made public. But the jig was up in late November when the city was finally forced to release the video.
Only hours before it was released, the Cook County state’s attorney, Anita Alvarez, suddenly found cause to file first-degree murder charges against the cop who emptied his clip into McDonald. Daily protests immediately erupted demanding Emanuel’s head, and they haven’t stopped. In late December, a 55-year-old black mother of five was killed by the cops. She had simply opened her door to let the police in after her upstairs neighbor called them about a mentally distraught black youth, whom the police also shot dead. An article in the Washington Post (2 January) described the scene Emanuel faced when he was called back to Chicago:
“Mayor Rahm Emanuel cut short a family vacation this past week and returned to a city in crisis: On the North Side, more than a dozen people stood outside his house, hurling insults. On the West Side, a close aide was punched and kicked while attending a prayer vigil for a police shooting victim. And all week long, there were protesters, haunting one of Emanuel’s biggest political donors, haranguing his police force, beating a papier-mâché likeness of his face at City Hall.
“More than a month has passed since a judge forced Emanuel and other city officials to release a graphic video of a white Chicago police officer shooting a black teenager 16 times. But public anger over the fatal shooting of Laquan Mcdonald in 2014 has not dissipated. Instead, it has grown bitter and more personal.”
With Emanuel’s approval rating dropping through the floor, polls show that a majority of the Chicago population wants him out. Emanuel must go! But the point isn’t to replace this strutting bully with a “nice guy” face of Democratic Party rule in a city lorded over by this capitalist party for over 80 years. To quote Emanuel against himself, “You never want a serious crisis to go to waste.” The crisis now rocking his regime and reverberating up to the highest echelons of the Democratic Party opens the door for our class—the multiracial working class—to launch some real struggle not only in its own interests but also in the fight against racist cop terror and in defense of all the oppressed.
Now Is the Time to Fight!
The Chicago Teachers Union (CTU), whose contract expired in June, is in a face-off with Emanuel’s City Hall, which is out to ax thousands more jobs while further slashing wages and benefits. The anger of the union ranks is palpable. In mid December, almost the entire membership cast ballots in a strike vote. Ninety-six percent voted to strike and are champing at the bit to hit the bricks. The 2012 strike by Chicago teachers was widely popular and supported by black and Latino parents whose children attend the segregated and decrepit schools that pass for public education. They continue to burn with hatred for Emanuel, who in the aftermath of the strike shut down 50 schools—the biggest school closure in U.S. history—most of them in Chicago’s ghettos and barrios.
With the city administration shaken, the CTU should seize the opportunity and strike in defense of public education. Such a strike could galvanize the seething discontent against Emanuel and his racist police marauders as well as provide the spark for other unions to fight. The largely black workforce in Chicago transit is working without a contract. Last month, the city’s bus workers union passed a motion declaring:
“ATU Local 241 condemns racist cop terror, as gruesomely displayed in the murder of a black youth, Laquan McDonald, by the Chicago Police. Our ATU Local knows firsthand about racist cop brutality. Local 241 takes a stand and will issue a statement to be sent to all area unions against the killing of Laquan McDonald and all racist cop terror, as well as the City Hall cover up. We urge all unions to do the same.”
Emanuel recently showed up at a Chicago transit garage to promote the Democrats’ union-busting slave-labor Second Chance Program for hiring ex-convicts to work for poverty wages and no benefits as evidence of his “concern” for those victimized by the criminal injustice system. A transit worker told WV that the bosses announced they were turning off the PA system, worried that workers would use it to chant “16 shots.”
All the raw material is there to launch a class-struggle fight that could fuse the power of labor to the anger of the ghettos and barrios. But sitting on top of this volcano are the trade union bureaucrats. For decades, they have kept a tight lid on labor struggle, subordinating the social power of the multiracial working class to the interests of its exploiters, particularly as represented by the capitalist Democratic Party.
This is equally true of the “progressives” who head the Chicago teachers’ union. While the hated Emanuel regime scrambles to stay in power, CTU vice president Jesse Sharkey, who is supported by the International Socialist Organization, offers Emanuel the opportunity for redemption. In an interview with Chicago Magazine (14 December) after the teachers had voted to strike, Sharkey opined that “if Rahm Emanuel is really the effective leader he claims to be”(!) he would be shaking down his banker and hedge fund manager buddies to shell out money to resolve the Chicago Public Schools’ budget crisis! Such an insane pipe dream could only be peddled by a true believer in the myth that the Democrats represent the interests of the “little guy,” as opposed to the capitalist rulers they serve.
On January 6, the CTU House of Delegates voted to demand the resignation of both Emanuel and State’s Attorney Alvarez, arguing that they “impeded the criminal justice system,” and thus eroded “public trust and confidence in their leadership.” As revolutionary Marxists, we welcome such erosion of trust. Kicking Emanuel and Alvarez out of office would be richly satisfying. Our purpose is to fight to translate the mounting anger and discontent into a conscious understanding that the working class needs its own party—not an electoral vehicle vying to be the administrators of the capitalist state and its cops, courts and jails—but a party that would play a leading role in a broad fight against the ravages of capitalism. Such struggle, drawing in the unemployed, immigrants and the poor, would include fighting for such demands as quality, integrated public schools and housing and decent jobs, public services and health care for all.
Obama Stands by His Man
The Chicago bourgeoisie, whose fortunes have been well served by the brutal austerity measures enforced by their snarling pit bull in City Hall, are worried that Emanuel may no longer be able to maintain control over the masses of working people, blacks and Latinos. Emanuel’s crisis extends all the way up to the Obama White House, where he served as chief of staff before landing the mayor’s job in Chicago, which he secured with the backing of America’s first black president. When Emanuel was floundering in the most recent elections, Obama helped secure his victory, including by flying in to Chicago to promote him.
A high-level operative in Bill Clinton’s administration, today Emanuel is being described as “political kryptonite” for Hillary Clinton’s presidential campaign. With Clinton trying to woo Black Lives Matter activists, Emanuel is a liability and not just for covering up the crimes of the racist Chicago cops. He was an architect of Bill Clinton’s 1994 crime bill, which dramatically increased the number of cops and the number of blacks and Latinos rounded up and entombed in America’s prisons. With both Clintons now cynically apologizing for such “tough on crime” policies and Hillary trying to strike a populist pose, the despised Emanuel could be damaging. Even some candidates in the reactionary, racist circus that is the Republican presidential primary season are demanding that Emanuel come clean.
Obama is standing by his man, with his chief of staff announcing that the president has full confidence in Emanuel. Chicago Democratic Party politicians like Danny Davis and Bobby Rush are also working to shore up Emanuel’s rule. In a letter to the editor of the Chicago Sun-Times (18 December), Rush, a former Black Panther, argues that he knows “better than anyone that emotions are running high and we would like to see change within the city.” But as a longtime loyal servant of the Chicago Democrats, he concludes: “If Rahm were to resign, Chicago would only move from one chaos to another chaos.”
Where Rush finds “chaos,” we see opportunity in the fight to break workers, blacks, Latinos and others from the grip of the Democratic Party. For decades, this party has played on racial and ethnic hostilities to divide and weaken the working class and to strengthen the hand of the notorious killers and torturers in the Chicago Police Department. The race, gender or ethnicity of the mayor doesn’t matter; the job of the city’s chief executive is to enforce the rule of racist capitalism. In 1983, Chicago’s first black mayor, Harold Washington, came into office under the slogan, “It’s our turn.” Although his election was met with a barrage of racist reaction, it wasn’t long before Washington went after the very unions that had supported his election, including the ATU and CTU. Throughout the Washington years, and those of his successor Richard M. Daley, the notorious “midnight crew” under police commander Jon Burge continued to extract phony confessions from black men through such interrogation techniques as battery clamps to the genitals.
Today, many of the protests against the execution of Laquan McDonald have been headed up by a coterie of “progressive” Democrats, ranging from Jesse Jackson Sr. to Jesus “Chuy” Garcia, who was Emanuel’s opponent in last year’s mayoral election. Their aim is to keep outrage within the electoral confines of the Democratic Party, and they call on people to register to vote. The union bureaucracy has also long been integral to building electoral support for the Democrats. During last year’s election, some unions supported Emanuel while others, most prominently the CTU, as well as the ATU, stumped for Garcia. Now, with hatred burning for Emanuel, these forces are trying to promote a “kinder, gentler” face of Democratic Party rule. The myth that the capitalist Democrats are the “friends” of blacks and labor has long served to tie workers and the oppressed to the class enemy.
For Black Liberation Through Socialist Revolution!
The Black Youth Project 100, an organization of black activists who have been prominent at many of the Chicago protests, raises demands to “defund the police and invest those dollars and resources in Black futures” as well as for “investments in Black communities that promote economic sustainability.” But the capitalist rulers are not about to defund the police thugs who serve as a front-line defense of their system, which is rooted in brutal exploitation and the forcible subjugation of the majority of the black population at the bottom of this society. Black oppression is structurally embedded in American capitalism. It is not going to be overcome short of a socialist revolution in which the working class rips the economy out of the hands of the racist capitalist rulers and reorganizes it on an egalitarian socialist basis.
The ruling class only throws money at black communities when necessary to douse the fires of rebellion. The last time was in the 1960s, when “war on poverty” programs aimed to quell ghetto upheavals; once they were quelled, the money dried up. The main beneficiaries of these programs were a thin layer of the black community, many of them former leaders of the fight for black rights. Like Bobby Rush, many were co-opted into the Democratic Party. Today everyone from George Soros to the Ford Foundation is courting the leaders of the Black Lives Matter movement, many of whom are rapidly getting pulled behind Hillary Clinton’s presidential campaign.
In an article on socialistworker.org (15 December), the International Socialist Organization asks: “Will Rahm Pay for All the Black Lives Lost?” Their answer is to advise Chicago’s rulers: “Instead of spending hundreds of millions of dollars on legal settlements for brutal cops, much less the vast sums devoted to police militarization and surveillance, the city of Chicago should devote resources to programs that create living-wage, union jobs.” The half billion dollars that the rulers of Chicago have paid to people killed and tortured by their cops over the past decade is part of the overhead they pay for the armed guard dogs of their system. It is only through struggle that the working people and oppressed will wring concessions from the overlords of capitalist America.
There is no question that the capitalists are sitting on mountains of cash, the ill-gotten gains of a system based on the exploitation of the many for the profits of a few. The problem is that you are not going to get your hands on this wealth by appealing to the rulers to reorder their priorities to serve human needs. The policies of U.S. capitalism are determined not by elections or by “pressure from below” but by the interests of the ruling class, as overseen by the Democrats and Republicans alike, and the balance of forces in the class struggle.
The crisis faced by Emanuel’s Democratic Party regime demonstrates the pressure that has been building up at the base of this society and that at some point will explode. The key to unlocking the social power of the multiracial working class is to break the political chains, forged by the trade-union misleaders, that shackle labor to its exploiters. What is needed to defend the interests of workers, blacks, immigrants and others against the bourgeoisie is a multiracial revolutionary workers party. Such a party would provide the vitally necessary leadership for struggle against oppression and exploitation. Through such struggles, the workers will be armed with the political understanding that if there is to be fundamental change, the entire system of capitalist wage slavery must be swept away. When the working class takes power into its own hands, the workers government will expropriate the capitalists’ productive wealth and establish a rationally planned, collectivized economy.

The Times To Try Men’s Souls (Women Too)- With The Music Of Irving Berlin In Mind


The Times To Try Men’s Soul (Women Too)- With The Music Of Irving Berlin In Mind

 
 
 
 
 
 
By Bart Webber 

All Josh Breslin knew was that he didn’t like it, didn’t like the music on the lonely family pride radio planted squarely in her, his mother’s   kitchen and the record player (both RCA of course in those days, maybe today too, a sign of quality, you know that dog guaranteeing said result)  sitting forlornly center stage in the threadbare living room alongside  the  well-worn second-hand sofa given to them by Delores mother when her parents up-graded theirs and mismatched chairs courtesy of Big Max’s furniture store, also second-hand, and a handwoven by grandmother braided rug that his mother had gone to work at some cost to her standing in the community and at a cost to her husband’s pride, in order to purchase. Didn’t like the constant every housewife working day turned to WJDA music, worse, worse if that was in itself not enough to set a five year old boy’s teeth on edge if he could have explained it that way, or if he had dared to, was the inevitable Saturday night mother, father and four brothers, three older plus him, sitting in that threadbare living room on that second-hand furniture listening to the record player play that music that he did not like. 

That music that had gotten his mother, Delores (nee Leblanc) through the hard time of the Great Depression when her father Lauren was out of work more than in work in the town of Olde Saco’s main textile mill, the MacAdams mil that had employed more than one LeBlanc and had on occasion gone back to the farm in the old country, old country Canada, really old country Quebec, which is where he would tell everybody him was from with a certain benign pride rather than Canada as a whole, where things had been so bad that his whole generation had flee south to work in the mills in Maine and New Hampshire but with no work the farm at least provided some relief, a some wages. Had gotten Delores through the waiting first for her three brothers off to war with the American Army in Europe (one brother having transferred over from the Canadian Army which he had enlisted in in the days before America got into the war) and later for her future husband, Prescott, when he went off to the Marines to finish up the Pacific War against the Japanese. Had gotten Prescott Breslin through the Great Depression too down in benighted coal mine country Kentucky where he hailed from (his always curious to Josh term reflecting that slight regional difference in expressions) where he had worked as a coalminer before the Japanese decided to make their play for the world. Had gotten him through (along with those forever country mountain ballads that Appalachian dwellers were addicted too) the war too once he knew that there was somebody back home who would be listening to that same music, and would be channeling him (of course nobody by fortune-tellers used such an outlandish word back then speaking of the bonds to loved ones.  

So that was the history, family history but history nevertheless, that Josh was up against. What he had had to put up with at ages five, six and seven the latter the age when he finally got the nerve to ask one Christmas after the fifteenth hearing of White Christmas why they had to play all that Irving Berlin (he didn’t know how much of what they listened too had been composed by him and other Tin Pan Alley composers then and was shocked later how much had been in the days before singer-songwriters took the lead during the folk and rock days), Frank Sinatra, Vaugh Monroe, Peggy Lee, Dick Haymes, Perry Como, Helen Whiting, Tony Bennett and all the rest (of course those were only names to him then, names dutifully recited by the mellow-voice announcer, Marlowe James on WJDA).

He, aged seven, was met with stone silence, not a word one way or the other. Maybe if he had been more perceptive, more attuned to emotional nuances he would have sensed that he had made a huge faux pas. He let it go at that until about age ten when he had begun listening to fugitive rhythm and blues caught via the airwaves late at night from out in Chicago, something called Be-Bop Benny’s Blues Hour and then rock and rock from a Boston station, WMEX, which would later be a big part of his growing up life, on his transistor radio bought by Delores to keep him away from changing the channels on the radio and turning off the record player. Before that compromise though he had gotten seven kinds of hell for his uncalled behavior, uncalled for by Delores, the main executioner, including a few leather belt hits on his ass by Prescott (they had hurt too).                

What Josh didn’t know, didn’t know until he was in high school, when that radio in the kitchen and that record player in the increasingly threadbare  living room were still in place of pride was that they were what held Delores together, Prescott too but less so, as the reality of their poor lives finally hit home. That realization they would not partake of what would be called by later generations the” Golden Age of the American working-man.” So they reverted back to sunnier times in one of the few ways that they could by listening to the music that got them through their own troubled youth. Held to the dreams from the days when Prescott had met Delores in Portland at a USO dance where he asked her to dance to Tangerine, their first song. Later that night they finished up the evening with a slow one, Till We Meet Again, which would be their forever song.    

It was not until high school either that Josh realized why his first pleas to stop the music had met with stone silence. To have spoken to his concerns his parents would have had to open a whole can of worms, had to let Josh know a little about the dire circumstances under which that precious radio and record player had been bought not as a sign of prosperity in the golden age but as one small token that they had at least a couple of things they could call their own. (It was not until those high school revelations that Josh got the import of his family not having a television until 1959 and not having a reliable car for most of that period as well.)

See Delores had had to work at Molly’s Diner across the street from the MacAdams Textile factory, the main employer in Olde Saco then. She had served them off the arm, as one of her fellow waitresses (today wait staff but lets’ stick with the terminology of the times the late 1940s and early 1950s time when waitress was the term of art for females serving them off the arm) to the morning shift guys for a few years in order to be able to afford the luxury of that radio and record player. Josh had not thought it unusual then that his mother was working in a diner, thought that she liked it. The reality was something quite different.

First off Delores had actually graduated from high school (something Prescott had not done, having only gone to the eight grade before hitting the mines-his own father saying “what does a coalminer need with ‘larning’ to pick the coal out of the ground”). Had gone to business school for a year too but with four close together boys to take care of anything other than mothers’ hours was out (even though many days when Molly was short some waitress who had stayed out too late with a boyfriend, or had her “friend” or some other excuse she would be asked to cover and during the school years the boys would be left to themselves after school-not good, not good at all as it turned out). So Delores took lots of heat from her parents by working, working when other mothers were at home doing their motherly thing. Got grief handed to her too when her high school and neighborhood girlfriends wondered out loud why she had to work. Worse of all took grief from Prescott who went through the roof when she proposed that she take the morning shift at Molly’s. What would his fellow workers think, what would she have to put up with from guys who would “hit” on her since most of Molly’s waitresses were older, younger and single, or divorced and thus “fair game.” But worse, if anything could be worse, was what not being the sole breadwinner, not being able to provide even the necessities for his family rained hell on his self-esteem.

So Delores worked, got those few extra things, worked longer than she had expected too when MacAdams started shifting his operation to the South and Prescott lost his job never really to get back on track while Josh and his brother were young. In the end that radio and record player went to his older brother Lauren when his parents passed away. And here is the funny thing Josh these days when he listens to Vera Lynn doing We’ll Meet Again says it doesn’t sound half bad. At least he knows all the words from memory.              

***Those Oldies But Goodies…Out In The Be-Bop ‘50s Song Night- Billie’s Lament-Elvis’ “One Night”


***Those Oldies But Goodies…Out In The Be-Bop ‘50s Song Night- Billie’s Lament-Elvis’ “One Night Of Sin”

 

 

From The Pen Of The Late Peter Paul Markin

 

With A 2015 Introduction By Sam Lowell

 

If you did not know what happened to the late Peter Paul Markin who used to write for some of the alternative newspaper and magazine publications that proliferated in the wake of the 1960s circus-war/bloodbath/all world together festival/new age aborning cloud puff dream, won a few awards too and was short-listed for the Globe Prize this is what is what. What is what before the ebb tide kind of knocked the wind out of everybody’s sails, everybody who was what I called “seeking a newer world,” a line I stole from some English poet (Robert Kennedy, Jack’s brother, or his writer “cribbed” the line too for some pre-1968 vision book before he ran for President in 1968 so I am in good company.) I will tell you in a minute what expression “the Scribe,” a named coined by our leader, Frankie Riley, which is what we always called Markin around the corner we hung out in together in front of Salducci’s Pizza Parlor in our hometown of North Adamsville, used to describe that change he had sensed coming in the early 1960s. Saw coming long before any of the rest of us did, or gave a rat’s ass about in our serious pressing concerns of the moment, worries about girls (all of the existential problems angst including about bedding them, or rather getting them in back seats of cars mainly), dough (ditto the girl existential thing to keep them interested in you and not run off with the next guy who had ten bucks to spend freely on them to your deuce, Jesus) and cars (double ditto since that whole “bedding” thing usually hinged on having a car, or having a corner boy with some non-family car to as we used to say, again courtesy of the Scribe via scat bluesman Howlin’ Wolf, “doing the do.” The Scribe though wanted to give it, give what we were felling, you know our existential angst moment although we did not call it that until later when the Scribe went off to college and tried to impress us with his new found facts, his two thousand new found facts about guys like Sartre and Merleau-Ponty. Like I said we could give a rat’s ass about all that.

 

All I know is that ebb tide that caught Markin kind of flat-footed, kind of made him gravitate back toward his baser instincts honed by every breathe he took as a kid down in the projects where he learned the facts of life, the facts of fellaheen life which is what one of our junior high school teachers called us, called us peasants, called it right too although we were the urban versions of the downtrodden shanty peasants but they were kindred no doubt, is still with us. So maybe being, having been a “prophet, ” being a guy who worried about that social stuff while we were hung up on girls,  dough and cars (him too in his more sober moments especially around one Rosemond Goode), wasn’t so good after all. Maybe the late Markin was that kind of Catholic “martyr saint” that we all had drilled into us in those nasty nun run Sunday catechism classes, maybe he really was some doomed “n----r” to use a phrase he grabbed from some Black Panther guys he used to run around with when he (and Josh Breslin) lived in Oakland and the “shit was hitting the fan” from every law enforcement agency that could put two bullets in some greasy chamber to mow down anybody even remotely associated with the brothers and the ten point program (who am I kidding anybody who favored armed self-defense for black men and women that’s the part that had the coppers screaming for blood, and bullets).

 

Here is a quick run-down about the fate of our boy corner boy bastard saint and about why stuff that he wrote forty or fifty years ago now is seeing the light of day. I won’t bore you with the beginnings, the projects stuff because frankly I too came out of the projects, not the same one as he did but just as hopeless down in Carver where I grew up before heading to North Adamsville and Josh who was as close as anybody to Markin toward the end was raised in the Olde Saco projects up in Maine and we are both still here to tell the tale. The real start as far as what happened to unravel the Scribe happened after he, Markin, got out of the Army in late 1970 when he did two things that are important here. First, he continued, “re-connected” to use the word he used, on that journey that he had started before he was inducted in the Army in 1968 in search of what he called the Great Blue-Pink American West Night (he put the search in capitals when he wrote about the experiences so I will do so here), the search really for the promise that the “fresh breeze” he was always carping about was going to bring. That breeze which was going to get him out from under his baser instincts developed (in self-defense against the punks that were always bothering him something I too knew about and in self- defense against his mother who was truly a dinosaur tyrant unlike my mother who tended to roll with the punches and maybe that helped break my own fall from heading straight down that Markin fate ladder) in his grinding poverty childhood, get out from under the constant preoccupation with satisfying his “wanting habits” which would eventually do him in.

 

Markin had made a foolish decision when he decided to drop out of college (Boston University) after his sophomore year in 1967 in order to pursue his big cloud puff dream, a dream which by that time had him carrying us along with him on the hitchhike road west in the summer of love, 1967, and beyond. Foolish in retrospect although he when I and others asked about whether he would have done things differently if he had known what the hell-hole of Vietnam was all about was ambivalent about the matter. Of course 1967, 1968, 1969 and other years as well were the “hot” years of the war in Vietnam and all Uncle Sam and his local draft boards wanted, including in North Adamsville, was warm bodies to kill commies, kill them for good. As he would say to us after he had been inducted and had served his tour in ‘Nam as he called it (he and the other military personnel who fought the war could use the short-hand expression but the term was off-bounds for civilians in shortened form)  and came back to the “real” world he did what he did, wished he had not done so, wished that he had not gone, and most of all wished that the American government which made nothing but animals out of him and his war buddies would come tumbling down for what it had done to its sons for no good reasons.

 

And so Markin continued his search, maybe a little wiser, continued as well to drag some of his old corner boys like me on that hitchhike road dream of his before the wheels fell off. I stayed with him longest I think before even I could see we had been defeated by the night-takers and I left the road to go to law school and “normalcy.” (The signposts: Malcolm X’s, Robert Kennedy’s and Martin Luther King’s assassinations, hell maybe JFK’s set the who thing on a bad spiral which kind of took the political winds out of any idea that there would not be blow-back for messing with the guys in power at the time, the real guys not their front-men, the politicians; the rising tide of “drop out, drug out, live fast and die young” which took a lot of the best of our generation off giving up without a fight; the endless death spiral of Vietnam; the plotted killings of Black Panthers and any other radical or revolutionary of any color or sex who “bothered” them; and, the election of one master criminal, Richard Milhous Nixon, to be President of the United States which was not only a cruel joke but put paid to the notion that that great unwashed mass of Americans were on our side.)

 

Markin stuck it out longer until at some point in 1974, 1975 a while after I had lost touch with him when even he could see the dreams of the 1960s had turned to dust, turned to ashes in his mouth and he took a wrong turn, or maybe not a wrong turn the way the wheel of his life had been set up but a back to his baser instincts turn which had been held in check when we were in the high tide of 1960s possibilities. (Josh Breslin, another corner boy, although from Olde Saco, Maine who had met Markin out in San Francisco in the summer of love in 1967 and who had also left the road earlier just before me was in contact until pretty near the end, pretty close to the last time in early 1975 anybody heard from Markin this side of the border, this side of paradise as it turned out since Josh who lived out in California where Markin was living at the time confirmed that Markin was in pretty ragged mental and physical condition by then).           

 

Markin had a lot invested emotionally and psychological in the success of the 1960s “fresh breeze coming across the land” as he called it early on. Maybe it was that ebb tide, maybe it was the damage that military service in hell-hole Vietnam did to his psyche, maybe it was a whole bunch of bad karma things from his awful early childhood that he held in check when there were still sunnier days ahead but by the mid-1970s he had snapped. Got involved in using and dealing cocaine just starting to be a big time profitable drug of choice among rich gringos (and junkies ready to steal anything, anytime, anywhere in order to keep the habit going).

 

Somehow down in Mexico, Sonora, we don’t know all the details to this day a big deal Markin brokered (kilos from what we heard so big then before the cartels organized everything and before the demand got so great they were shipping freighters full of cold cousin cocaine for the hipsters and the tricksters and big for Markin who had worked his way up the drug trade food chain probably the way he worked his way into everything by some “learned” dissertation about how his input could increase revenue, something along those lines) went awry, his old time term for something that went horribly wrong, and he wound up face down in a dusty back road with two slugs to the head and now resides in the town’s potter’s field in an unmarked grave. But know this; the bastard is still moaned over, moaned to high heaven.

 

The second thing Markin did, after he decided that going back to school after the shell-shock of Vietnam was out of the question, was to begin to write for many alternative publications (and I think if Josh is correct a couple of what he, Markin, called “bourgeois” publications for the dough). Wrote two kinds of stories, no three, first about his corner boy days with us at Salducci’s (and also some coming of age stories from his younger days growing up in the Adamsville Housing Authority “projects” with his best friend, Billie Bradley before he met us in junior high school). Second about that search for the Great Blue-Pink American Night which won him some prizes since he had a fair-sized audience who were either committed to the same vision, or who timidly wished they could have had that commitment (like a couple of our corner boys who could not make the leap to “drugs, sex, rock and roll, and raising bloody hell on the streets fighting the ‘monster’ government” and did the normal get a job, get married, get kids, get a house which made the world go round then). And thirdly, an award-winning series of stories under the by-line Going To The Jungle for the East Bay Other (published out of the other side of the bay San Francisco though) about his fellow Vietnam veterans who could not deal with the “real” world coming back and found themselves forming up in the arroyos, along the rivers, along the railroad tracks and under the bridges of Southern California around Los Angeles. Guys who needed their stories told and needed a voice to give life to those stories. Markin was their conduit.

 

Every once in a while somebody, in this case Bart Webber, from the old corner boy crowd of our youthful times, will see or hear something that will bring him thoughts about our long lost comrade who kept us going in high school times with his dreams and chatter (although Frankie Riley was our leader since he was an organizer-type whereas Markin could hardly organize his shoes, if that). Now with the speed and convenient of the Internet we can e-mail each other and get together at some convenient bar to talk over old times. And almost inevitably at some point in the evening the name of the Scribe will come up. Recently we decided, based on Bart’s idea, that we would, if only for ourselves, publish a collection of whatever we could find of old-time photographs and whatever stories Markin had written that were still sitting around somewhere to commemorate our old friend. We have done so with much help from Bart’s son Jeff who now runs the printing shop that Bart, now retired, started back in the 1960s.

 

This story is from that first category, the back in the day North Adamsville corner boy story, although this one is painted with a broader brush since it combines with his other great love to write about books, film and music. This one about music, about doo wop, women’s side which always both intrigued him and befuddled him since the distaff side lyrics (nice combination term that Markin would have appreciated especially that distaff thing for women who also as this piece will speak to, befuddled him, befuddled him straight up). It had been found in draft form up in Josh Breslin’s attic in Olde Saco, Maine where he had lived before meeting Markin in the great summer of love night in 1967 and where he had later off the road stored his loose hitchhike road stuff and his writerly notebooks and journals at his parents’ house which he had subsequently inherited on their passings. We have decided whatever we had to publish would be published as is, either published story or in draft form. Otherwise, moaning over our brother or not, Markin is liable to come after us from that forlorn unmarked grave in that Sonora potter’s field and give us hell for touching a single word of the eight billion facts in his fallen head.     

 

Here is what he had to say:                        

 

 

Billie, William James Bradley, comment:

 

Yah, I know I haven’t talked to you in a while like I was supposed to. I was supposed to tell you all about Markin’s, Peter Paul Markin's, my best friend over Adamsville Elementary School, ill-fated attempts to single-handedly close the space gap they keep talking about ever since the commies put that Sputnik satellite up in orbit last year. I will have to put that on hold for now, because I still kind of broken up about something. See I got caught up, well I might as well just come out with it, with woman trouble, alright girl trouble okay. Some of you may know about how old best buddy Peter Paul tried to used Jerry Lee Lewis to cut my time with Laura, Laura Doyle. Ya Laura, the hottest frill in school, and maybe in this dead old town if you just count twelve or thirteen year old girls. And for right now all that counts, anyway. Got it.

Oh you think that Peter Paul, old best pal but definitely strictly junior varsity when it comes to the women, ah, girls took Laura away from me. Jesus, are you kidding? Come on now, if you know the story then you know that’s a joke, and if you don’t you should still know it is a joke. Hell, I swept Laura back even before the next school dance. I just let, once I figured out that Laura was really dazzled more by Jerry Lee’s hopped-up piano on High School Confidential than Peter Paul’s book shuffle dancing, nature take its course and she was back in my arms before you knew it. Maybe I will tell you the details of that one sometime but unlike that space thing, that Markin single-handed space thing, don’t hold me to telling you that story. Just say that nature is one thing you can’t escape from, nature and the king of the rock night around here, me, putting on his charm, his high Elvis charm and it was all over. Markin’s white flag was flying all over the place almost before it began.

No, what has me down in the dumps, seriously down in the dumps is that Laura moved  away from the neighborhood a couple of weeks ago. Now I don’t know if Markin explained what this “projects” neighborhood thing is here down in Adamsville but it started out with guys like Markin’s father Prescott (a good guy although he is nothing but a Protestant, a Southern Baptist or something like that, but not a Roman Catholic like most of us here, and definitely not Irish like most of us too, but everybody likes him even William James Bradley Senior, my father, and he doesn’t like anybody usually, anybody without a beer bottle in his hand giving it to him anyway) and my father coming back from the war, World War II, and needing some housing, some cheap housing to hold them over until better times came along. And that’s how it worked for lots of people, well, except for Markin’s father and mine, who seem are going to be here forever and you can forget the better times. Well the ship finally came in for Laura’s father, a veteran like Prescott and mine, and so they moved to New Hampshire to some better place in the country or something. Laura showed me a picture of the place and it looked pretty good.

But see here is the bitch, excuse my language. No question Billie, William James Bradley, is strictly a love ‘em and leave guy. I have had plenty of girlfriends already, most of them sticks, no shapes, if you know what I mean, eleven and twelve year sticks, maybe one or two ten, sticks like Theresa, Karen and Donna (Cool Donna O’Toole, not my older sister Donna who is no stick but who I don’t talk to lately, if I can help it, what with her not liking anything in the world just because I like it). Laura though was my first step-up not stick girl, with a nice shape, a shape like a woman, or trying to be, and it showed, the trying part. Definitely something to invest some time in, some Billie time, and I did.

Here is where the bitch part comes in. Not only was Laura smart, and had those curves, that shape I just told you about. But as it turned out she had some great kind of kiss, long kisses, longer than any of the stick girls, way longer. And Laura was not afraid, once I put on the charm, to let me feel her up. I am not bragging and she is gone far away and so I am not talking behind her back but a few times, about four or five, she and I well, we acted like adults that way. And it wasn’t all me pushing either. See I knew that from my sister Donna, when we were talking more, that girls like this kind of stuff as well as guys do although they usually don’t let on. So, if you excuse me, I am kind of down in the dumps because I will now be left with just the sticks. And you know they don’t go for that sex stuff, or even think about it, or maybe even dream about it like it was a mortal sin. And maybe it is but don’t tell me that, or Laura.

And do you know how we set the mood for our fooling around once Laura got over that one-hit Jerry Lee thing? Well, I’ll give you a hint. A guy from Mississippi with long sideburns and a wicked sneer that made all the girls act crazy, and women too. Sure, Elvis. But not just any Elvis song. One Night. That was OUR song. And if you think about the lyrics a minute it talks about a guy being lonely, finding the right girl and making plans for the future. That guy was me, me with Laura because, and just ask Peter Paul, otherwise I am a love ‘em and leave ‘em guy. But now she’s gone, gone to some freaking farm country and will probably wind up showing some hayseed a good time, if you know what I mean. But, as my father s ays, says all the time-“that’s the breaks, kid.”

 

See, now that I am over my period of mourning, two weeks is enough for any girl, shape or no shape, and I am talking to Peter about different records I might as well tell you what I discovered in checking up on history, Elvis history, what else? That One Night thing was strictly kid’s stuff, goodie, goodie Ed Sullivan, and good parenting seal of approval kid’s stuff to make us act just like grown-ups. Find a girl or guy, make plans, settle down and maybe listen to Elvis all day and all night until we are old, like thirty maybe. Square, very square, if not just plain cube.

There is the real thing though and I can hardly wait to try it out on my next chick, my next love ‘em and leave ‘em chick. I found a recording up at Benny’s Record Shop in Adamsville Square that Elvis recorded that has the same beat as One Night but with different lyrics, One Night Of Sin. Yah, that’s more like it, more like real Elvis, more like Billie, William James Bradley, king of the rock night around here. And guess what? I have been noticing that Donna O’Toole, Cool Donna O’Toole is starting to have some shape, some woman’s shape, or trying to and maybe I‘ll give her another chance. Peter Paul, mad man Peter Paul Markin, heard that Donna cried no tears, no tears at all, when Laura headed north. I know one thing for sure I am going to make One Night Of Sin my song, and I don’t mind paying for my sins after. Got it.

*****

One Night Of Sin lyrics

One night of sin, yeah

Is what I'm now paying for

The things I did and I saw

Would make the earth stand still

Don't call my name

It makes me feel so ashamed

I lost my sweet helping hand

I got myself to blame

Always lived, very quiet life

Ain't never did no wrong

But now I know that very quiet life

Has cost me nothing but harm

One night of sin, yeah

Is what I'm now paying for

The things I did and I saw

Would make the earth stand still

Always lived, very quiet life

Ain't never did no wrong

But now I know that very quiet life

Has cost me nothing but harm

One night of sin, yeah

Is what I'm now paying for

The things I did and I saw

Would make the earth stand still