From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin-In The Juke Box Rock And Roll Night, Circa 1958

                            

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin-In The Juke Box Rock And Roll Night, Circa 1958

Jake LeFleur (nee Jeanbon, but no one called him that, except old country mere and grandmere called him that, not if you didn’t want as much corner boy trouble as you could handle, maybe more. Jake, like many French-Canadian (F-C) next generation guys wanted none of that old country patios-church bow down-poor boy from hunger stuff but to be a pure vanilla American be-bop daddy and bon this and bon that was not part of the program, not against the Downeast Yankee and Irish toughs) had it bad, had it bad as a man (young man, okay, twenty-three) could have it for a girl (oops, young woman, twenty-two) and still be able to breath, breath normally. And she, Marnie Capet she, the object of one Jake LeFleur’s palsied breath, knew that hard fact, and depended on it for a time to keep Jake in that state.

But before you say “dames what can you do with them, or without them” like all of Jake’s corner boys whom he hung around with in front of Jimmy Jake’s Diner (run by Jacques Jean LeBlanc who had enough sense to anglo-up the names of his establishments, that one on Atlantic Avenue for the touristas and blue-haired lady luncheon specials and the one on Main Street that catered to the younger set, and that had a be-bop bop jukebox with every possible tune for the music hungry young to deposit their three for a quarter selections in) said every time they heard the latest installment of the Marnie leading Jake by the nose saga hear her side. Then, perhaps, you will not worry so much about the how and whys of Jake’s breathing.

Marnie, for all the world to know, for all the important world to know in 1958 in Olde Saco, Maine, and that meant her friends, her friends known since high school if not before now mainly working alongside of her in the front offices of the MacAdams Textile Mills which drove the town’s economy, her girls, whom she hung around on Friday and Saturday nights in front of, guess, Jimmy Jake’s Diner (the one on Main Street, naturally) , had been minding her own business when one Jake LeFleur came swooping down on her a few months before. And she would swear on a stack of seven, hell, seventy sealed bibles (as all her “corner girls” would attest to after they had heard the latest installment of the Jake leading Marnie by the nose saga) that she had no intention of finding herself riding in Jake’s ’55 two-toned souped-up Chevy after a few minutes of Jake smooth talk. But she did, although she would also swear, at least for public consumption, that she had a problem breathing when she found herself in that position (or later in more intimate positions, as she would slyly allude to when describing her latest date with Jake.)

But at some point Jake, or maybe Marnie, it was never clear discovered two things, one, that Jake was crazier about Marnie that she was about him, and, two, more importantly , Marnie was taking more than a few peeks at a new boy in town, Bernie Albert, who if one could believe this, had neither a car, hot or otherwise, nor had the least inclination to hang around Jimmy Jake’s Diner because he was crazy for the sea, and crazy for writing stuff about the sea once he found the best spots over at Olde Saco Beach (naturally including the exclusive lovers’ lane hot spot at the Seal Rock end). Bernie came in like a breath of fresh air and before long one did not see Marnie Capet riding, front seat riding, in any funny old ’55 Chevy. She was breathing the sea air down at the beach after walking there with Bernie. She had decided that she had one chance at getting out from under that secretarial job at the mill, getting out from under Jake-or-name-the-car-crazy-guy cruising Main Street, getting out from under hanging in front of Jimmy Jake’s with her girls discussing what to play next on that damn jukebox, getting under from under about six kids and money enough to support only about two, and getting out, well, just getting out from under.

Now the tale turns back to Jake though, Jake of the thousand chicken run victories, Jake of the hard boy corner boy society in front of Jimmie Jakes Diner, spurned Jake. And before you wonder what hell our boy Jake was going to rain down on one Bernie Albert for “stealing “ his Marnie you should know this. Not only did you not see Marnie riding in that Chevy, that boss Chevy as anyone in town, anyone that counted would have told you, meaning the habitués of Jimmy Jake’s but you did not see Jake riding around. If you can believe this, Jake was still carrying a big torch for Marnie and had taken to his room to write her a letter begging her to come back. And since he was not a scholar like Bernie, and since he wanted to note her upcoming birthday he played the Tune Weavers’ Happy, Happy Birthday Baby to help him through task, and settle his uneasy breathing. Stay tuned. 

In The Time Of The Be-Bop Baby Boom Jail Break-Out- In The Time Of The “Boss”Car

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I had several months ago been on a tear in reviewing individual CDs in an extensive classic rock ‘n’ roll series (now classic, then just our music). A lot of those reviews had been driven by the artwork which graced the covers of each item, both to stir ancient memories and reflect that precise moment in time, the youth time of the now very, very mature (nice sliding over the age issue, right?) baby-boomer generation who lived and died by the music. And who fit in, or did not fit in as the case may, to the themes expressed in those artwork scenes. Here we have the latter, the not fit in part, for this reviewer anyway. The latter is the case here although the cover art was simplicity itself- the rear view of an aerodynamically-contoured rear fin (yes, fin) of a “boss” (yes, boss) 1950s automobile of unknown provenance (but we can guess, right?)

Yes, and that slight description is all that is needed for those of us who came of age in the “golden age of the automobile”in the speed and thrills-craving aftermath of World War II when restless Americans, young and old, more young as it turned out, went into spasms over the latest “boss” (yes, boss) vehicle coming out of Detroit, the motor capital of the world then. Of course the cars kind of sorted themselves out- you wouldn’t, if you were young, dream of driving something that your father drove. So if you got his hand-me-down after he decided that he needed, just absolutely needed, that much more power in his automobile in order to keep up with the Joneses, you would move might and main in order to transform that old clunky dad car into a respectable tool. A rocket-like tool to fit the age, to ride and to ride with some sweet honey at your side, on those hot sticky, sultry summer nights down by the seaside, or at the drive-in, movie or for food, your choice.

Yes, and this is why even a mainly a not fit in no car boy like me, from a mainly no car family, could (and maybe still could) stare his eyes out over some boss of the bosses ’57 Chevy charging down the be-bop night boulevard, or a lanky turbo-driven long-line Lincoln, or a rebuilt Cadillac or a tear-up Thunderbird. Relics from a high cubic volume engine age when your twenty-nine cents a gallon gas took you about three feet per gallon. But still, come on now, they looked, well, boss.

Oh, yes, and of course you needed to amp up that boss wagon car radio, previously set exclusively to some father business news station (jesus), booming out the latest rock and roll hits about cars, especially West Coast car legends and their chicken runs, girls (east coast or west coast, hell, even the Mid-West), girls and boys in trouble, in love, out of love (ditto on that geography thing), chasing that sunset ocean-flecked dream. But mainly, when the dust settled, you had to worry about how and who was going to front that dough to get that new back chrome fender you just needed, absolutely needed, needed like crazy to keep up with the Jones’ son.

But on that boss car radio you were likely, very likely, to be cruising to (even if only riding shotgun in some buddy’s boss car cruising that boulevard looking for, what else, girls who just that moment might be in need of some seaside company, or wanted to go the drive-in, their choice) many of the tunes reviewed in that series. Stick-outs on this fin tail art beauty included: For Your Love, Ed Townsend; Silhouettes, The Diamonds; Somethin’ Else, Eddie Cochran (totally underrated in the classic rock scheme of things after he died in a car accident, naturally, especially his classic Summertime Blues that was a rite of passage each summer vacation); and, as always when you talk 1950s rock, the serious stuff, the serious riffing guitar stuff from the place where rock met the blues, Chuck Berry on Almost Grown, not his number one, A-list material but good in this company.

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin-Juke Box Rock And Roll Night, Circa 1958

CD Review

The Golden Age Of American Rock ‘n’ Roll: Volume 5, Ace Records, 1995

Jake LeFleur (nee Jeanbon) had it bad, had it bad as a man (oops, young man, boy) could have it for a girl (oops, young woman) and still be able to breath, breath normally. And she, Marnie Capet she, the object of one Jake LeFleur’s palsied breath, knew that hard fact, and depended on her ability to keep Jake in that state. But before you say “dames what can you do with them, or without them” like all of Jake’s corner boys whom he hung around with in front of Jimmy Jakes Diner 9said every time they heard the latest installment of the Marnie leading Jake by the nose saga hear her side. Then, perhaps, you will not worry so much about the how and whys of Jake’s breathing.

Marnie, for all the world to know, for all the important world to know in 1958 in Olde Saco, Maine, and that meant her friends, her teenage friends, her girls, whom she hung around with in front of, guess, Jimmy Jakes Diner, had been minding her own business when one Jake LeFleur came swooping down on her. And she would swear on a stack of seven, hell, seventy sealed bibles (as all her “corner girls” would attest to after they had heard the latest installment of the Jake leading Marnie by the nose saga) that she had no intention of finding herself riding in Jake’s ’55 two-toned souped-up Chevy after a few minutes of Jake smooth talk. But she did, although she will also swear, at least for public consumption, that she had a problem breathing when she found herself in that position (or later more intimate positions, as she would slyly allude to when describing her latest date with Jake.)

But at some point Jake, or maybe Marnie, it was never clear discovered two things, one that Jake was crazier about Marnie that she was about him, and more importantly ,two, Marnie was taking more than a few peeks at a new boy in town, Bernie Albert, who if one can believe this, had neither a car, hot or otherwise, and had not the least inclination to hang around Jimmy Jakes Diner because he was crazy for the sea, and crazy for writing stuff about the sea once he found the best spots over at Olde Saco Beach (naturally including the exclusive teen hot spot of Seal Rock). Bernie came in like a breath of fresh air and before long one did not see Marnie Capet riding, front seat riding, in any funny old ’55 Chevy. She was breathing the sea air down at the beach after walking there with Bernie.

Now the tale turns back to Jake though, Jake of the thousand chicken run victories, Jake of the hard boy corner boy society in front of Jimmie Jakes Diner, spurned Jake. And before you wonder what hell our boy Jake is going to rain down on one Bernie Albert for “stealing “ his Marnie you should know this. Not only do you not see Marnie riding in that Chevy, that boss Chevy as anyone in town, anyone that counted would tell you, meaning the habitués of Jimmy Jakes but you do not see Jake riding around. If you can believe this, Jake was still carrying a big torch for Marnie and had taken to his room to write her a letter begging her to come back. And since he was not a scholar like Bernie, and since he wanted to note her upcoming birthday he played the Tune Weavers’ Happy, Happy Birthday Baby to help him through task, and settle his uneasy breathing. Stay tuned. And while you are waiting check out this volume to see if Bernie has a chance to select something to counter Jake’s move.

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- In The Time Of The Be-Bop Baby-Boomer Jail Break-Out-1964

                                


I had several months ago been on a tear in reviewing individual CDs in an extensive classic rock ‘n’ roll series (now classic, then just our music). A lot of those reviews had been driven by the artwork which graced the covers of each item, both to stir ancient memories and reflect that precise moment in time, the youth time of the now very, very mature (nice sliding over the age issue, right?) baby-boomer generation who lived and died by the music. And who fit in, or did not fit in as the case may, to the themes expressed in these artwork scenes. Here we have the latter, the not fit in part, for this reviewer anyway.

The1964 art cover piece I want to comment on here had as its subject an illustration of a high school girl (the guy, the heads turned guy backdrop used let you know, just in case you were clueless, that the rock scene was directed, point blank, at high school students, high school students, especially girls, with discretionary money to buy hot records, or drop coins in the local juke box), or rather since her top part was not shown her high heel sneakers (Chuck Taylor red high tops, for sure, no question, although there is no trademark present no way that they can be some knock-offs in 1964, no way, I say). The important thing, in any case, is the sneakers, and that slightly shorter than school regulation, 1964 school regulation, dress, a dress that presages the mini-skirt craze that was then just on its way from Europe. Naturally said dress and sneakers, sneakers, high- heeled or not, red or not, hell, Chuck Taylors or not, against the mandatory white tennis sneakers on gym days and low-heel pumps on other days, is the herald of some new age.

And, as if to confirm that new breeze, that sniff of a breeze even those who did not fit in could sense, in the background scouring out her properly lonely prudish window, a sullen, prudish (oops, I said that already) old dame, an old dame who probably never was a jitterbug dame, never a raise her skirt dame, when her generation had their day, was looking on in parent/teacher/cop/priest/authorities distaste and dismay. She, the advance guard, obviously, of that parentally-driven reaction to all that the later 1960s stood for to us baby-boomers, as the generations fought out their epic battles about the nature of the world, our world or theirs.

But see that is so much “wave of future” just then because, sullen old prudish dame or not, what Ms. Hi-heel sneakers (and dress, yah, don’t forget that knee-showing dress and those guys dreams about what that meant, meant even for not fit ins) is preening for is those previously mentioned guys who are standing (barely) in front of said apartment entrance and showing their approval, their approval in the endless boy and girl meet game.

And these guys are not just of one kind, they are cool faux “beat” daddy guys, tee-shirted corner boy guys, and well, just average 1964- style average plaid shirt, black chino loafer guys out of some American Graffiti dream guys. Now the reality of Ms. Hi-heel sneakers (and a wig hat on her head) proved to be a minute thing and was practically forgotten in the musical breeze that was starting to come in from Europe (British invasion led by the Beatles and the Rolling Stones) but it was that harbinger of change that the old dame (prudish assumed) dreaded and we, teenagers, especially we teenagers of the Class of 1964, were puzzled by. All we knew for sure, at least some of us knew, was that our generation, at least for a moment, was going to chase a few windmills, and gladly. Little did we know, and perhaps it would not have changed our course not it should have, that we would fight, some of us anyway, a forty plus year cultural war based on that slight breeze we sniffed.

That is the front story, the story of the new breeze coming, but the back story is that the kind of songs that were on that CD with that British invasion coming full blast were going to be passé very soon. Moreover, among my crowd, my hang-out crowd, my hang-out guy and girl crowd of guys who looked very much like those guys pictured on the artwork, if not my school crowd (with a slightly different, more nerdy look) also dug the folk scene, the Harvard Square at weekend night, New York City Village every once in a while folk scene, the Dylan, Baez, Van Ronk, Paxton, Ochs, etc. scene which was still in bloom and competitive (although that scene, that folk scene minute, ironically, would soon also be passé).

Thus 1964 was a watershed year for a lot of the genres, really sub-genres, featured on that CD. Like the harmony-rich girl groups (The Supremes, Mary Wells, The Shangri-Las, Martha and the Vandellas, Betty Everett) and the surfer boy, hot-rod guys of blessed neighborhood memory (Ronnie and the Daytonas, The Rivieras, and The Beach Boys, a little). But it was also a watershed year for the guys pictured in the artwork (and out in the neighborhoods, the hard-bitten working-class neighborhoods where I came of age). Some, like a couple of guys down the end of my street now with names chiseled in black marble down in Washington, would soon be fighting in Vietnam, some moving, for a time anyway, to a commune to get away from it all, and others would be raising holy hell about that war, the need for social justice and the way things were being run in this country.

And Ms. Hi-heel sneakers? Maybe, just maybe, she drifted, mini-skirt and moccasins, or jeans and buckskin jacket, headband to hold her hair (and head) on, name changed to Butterfly Swirl, or some such, into that San Francisco for the Summer of Love, 1967 version, night, going barefoot into that good night. And maybe, just maybe she ran into my old merry prankster yellow brick road friend, or his one of his ilk, Peter Paul Markin, and survived to tell the tale. I like to think so anyway.

Watershed year or not, there were some serious non-British invasion stick-outs in that CD. Under The Boardwalk (great harmony), The Drifters; Last Kiss, Frank Wilson and The Cavaliers; Dancing In The Streets (lordy, lordy, yes), Martha and the Vandellas; Leader Of The Pack (what a great novelty song and one that could be the subject of a real story in my growing up neighborhood filled with motorcycle boys looking for kicks, and respect), The Shangri-Las; Hi-Heel Sneakers, Tommy Tucker (thanks for the lead-in, Tommy), and, the boss song of the teen dance club night, worthy of its own sketch or illustration, no question, no challenge, no competition, Louie, Louie by the Kingsmen.

From The Archives Of The Class Struggle- Frantz Fanon’s “The Wretched Of The Earth”- A Book Review

Click on the headline to link to a Wikipedia entry for Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched Of The Earth.

Book Review

The Wretched Of The Earth, Frantz Fanon, Grove Press, New York, 1968

I have often had reason, when speaking of my long and painful trek to Marxism many years ago now, to note that the polemics of the third section of the Communist Manifesto, where Marx and Engels skewer the various left-wing political tendencies of their day for their short-comings, that I had probably espoused all the tendencies met there, or their modern day equivalent. That said, I have also noted that as a member (a member in good standing, by the way, meaning merely having survived the cultural wars of the past forty years or so and still standing) of the generation of ’68 I had run through all of the “theories” prevalent on the New Left (then New Left, now old and hoary with age) of the 1960s. They included such thread-worn “theories” as that the working class had then (and now by some new new left advocates) lost its central role (had sold out or been bought off in the vernacular of the times) as vanguard for socialism, youth as a class was per se a revolutionary agent for change (perhaps best known in the “red”university premise), guerilla warfare (rural as in China, Cuba and many African countries and urban as in the Weathermen, and its various transformations, creating a second front for those rural struggles, just then, the Vietnamese Revolution, as the central fact of late 20^th century revolutionary practice theory), and most importantly for the discussion here black, blacks as an oppressed minority in the United States were, without question, and without questioning, the vanguard of the socialist revolution. And, one way or another, torturously one way or another, a nation with all that implied for self-determination rather than a segregated caste at the bottom of the main society.

One would think, given even cursory look at the condition of the international revolutionary movement today, and particularly its American component that that last premise would have been proved false by history and by reality. Not so. Recently I had occasion to attend a local planning meeting around the question of police harassment and surveillance of basically peaceful anti-war protestors who wanted to take action, rightfully so, to expose this nefarious activity in a public way. Fair enough, just put together a united front of all those from civil rights advocates, to the peaceful anti-war activists under attack, to the anarchists who right now are taking the brunt of police activity, to any other segment like immigrants, victims of the “war on drugs,” etc. who have come under the police dragnet, set a time, publicize the event(s) and you are off.

Well not so fast, not so fast by a long shot. Apparently, at least in some quarters, some old New Left and some new New Left quarters, whites, generic whites with “white skin privilege” (the basic component of that meeting) cannot move in their own defense without“waiting” on more oppressed (read: communities of color, but really black and Latinos) to chime in. So therefore no action was taken (except, maybe, more meetings to discuss this “theory”). So the old theories (granted in new clothing) have reared their very hoary heads. And sent me back to the books. Particularly to the grandfather of all such theories derived, somewhat unfairly and somewhat haphazardly, from Frantz Fanon’s seminal work, The Wretched Of The Earth.

Certainly if one merely observed empirically the thrust of revolutionary activity in the post-World War II period one would have seen vast national liberation struggles of colonial subjects from Algeria (Fanon’s revolution) to Cuba to Vietnam and everywhere in between to become free from the fetters of empire. And see, see in general, the relative decline of revolutionary activity by the Western working classes. Thus Marxism, or the parody of Marxism, was turned on itself to proclaim that new third world forces would create a new type of socialism (one based not on plenty since not frontal assault on the imperial centers after liberation was contemplated for the most part, but rather some ancient forms of societal existence, if any) led by new types of revolutionary organizations not tainted with the smell of sell-out Western and urban-centered communist and socialist parties or their colonial adherents, and creating a “new man” culture. But first the liberation, and the ethos of liberation.

Obviously such theories, based as they were on dismissal of the historic Marxist centrality of the working classes take state power and creating working class forms of economic and social life, could only work as theories of some military defeat of the imperial centers by revolutionary declassed intellectuals and lumpenproletariat elements freed from the land in third world countries. In short the creation of rural (or urban in some cases) guerilla armies guided by an ethos of revolutionary violence as cleansing its supporters in the process of knocking out the old order. In short, as well, a variant of the old Narodnik theories in the old time19^th century Russian Empire that revolutionaries like Lenin and Trotsky had to fight against in their time.

The real problem with such lumpen-dependent strategies, borne out over time, and now in re-reading The Wretched Of The Earth, painfully borne out, is that the masses play no, or a passive role, in their liberation with all the distortions that a strategy based on a central military strategy creates. Revolutionary violence is probably, very probably, necessary to overturn imperial power but the cult of the gun, the cult of the purifying gun is not, and has not, worked in the struggle for a new socialist culture. The most dramatic example from the American left scene was the fate of the Black Panthers whose best elements (George and Jonathan Jackson, Fred Hampton, Eldridge Cleaver, etc.) bought into the Fanon substitutionist revolutionary thesis (the internal black nation theory they got elsewhere including early American Communist party doctrine on black self-determination as advocated by Harry Haywood and his fellows). And some very good Panthers wound up dead, wound up in jail (and some still in jail) and wound up cynical for their efforts. Let that example set in as you read Fanon’s very intriguing book, a book like I said earlier that was very influential in my own early left-wing thinking, and that of the generation of ’68.

Note: I would be incomplete in this review if I did not mention that Fanon, as a well-trained and extremely competent psychiatrist, spent a good portion of the book (the end section) describing the various traumas and pathologies ttributed to both the oppressed and the oppressor in Algeria during the national liberation struggle as a result of the colonial experience. He makes a very strong prima facie case for the proposition that oppression oppresses everyone and we had best get rid of this malignancy and take it off the human agenda as quickly as possible. To that I can say amen, brother.

Quantico psychiatrist: Bradley Manning’s pretrial confinement worse than death row

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By Emma Cape. November 29th, 2012.

Protesters take action out in the cold rain at Bradley Manning’s November 27th hearing that addressed his unlawful pretrial punishment.

Ft. Meade, MD - Yesterday at Bradley Manning’s Article 13 hearing, professional military psychiatrist Captain Kevin Moore testified that Bradley Manning’s pretrial confinement conditions at Quantico military brig were worse than that of any other long-term pretrial prisoner he’d observed. He added that Bradley’s restrictive conditions, including being held in a 6×8 foot cell, having access to only 20 minutes of sunshine and exercise per day, and being deprived of basic items such as clothing and toilet paper for periods of time, were most comparable to yet still more severe than conditions of prisoners he’d observed on death row.
Bradley Manning’s case garnered considerable media buzz early in 2010 when it came to light that the UN and Amnesty International had initiated investigations into possibly illegal conditions of pretrial confinement at Quantico. Wednesday in court, two high-ranking military psychiatrists, Captain William Hoctor and Captain Moore, testified that the extent to which their recommendations were ignored by the Quantico Marine staff was unlike anything they had experienced elsewhere over a combined 30+ years of experience at various bases. Cpt. Hoctor went so far as to say that even at Guantanamo Bay his recommendations were implemented much faster than at Quantico. At Quantico, it would often take up to two weeks for the staff to implement his recommendations to change a prisoner’s status, in contrast with the few days it would take elsewhere. In PFC Manning’s case, the recommendations of both Cpt. Hoctor and Captain Moore to allow PFC Manning more exercise and downgrade him from Prevention-of-Injury (POI) status based on improved mental state was ignored over the course of many months.
Captain Hoctor said he became the angriest he’d been a long time when Quantico base commander Colonel Daniel Choike stated in a meeting that “Nothing’s going to change. He won’t be able to hurt himself. He’s not going to be able to get away, and our way of ensuring this is that he will remain on this status indefinitely.” During testimony on Tuesday, Col. Choike confirmed his position during that exchange. In reference to this statement, Bradley Manning Support Network Steering Committee member Jeff Paterson responded, “I think a reasonable person can see why PFC Manning was frustrated with these conditions. No matter what he did or how exemplary his behavior, the Col. had no intention of respecting his overall well-being and legal rights as a pretrial prisoner.”
While base commanders Col. Choike and Col. Robert Oltman testified that they believed brig staff acted in interest of PFC Manning’s safety, they both stated that the longest they had seen any other prisoner held at Quantico was 2 months. Additionally, they had both informed commanding officers that the Quantico brig was unsuitable for holding a prisoner longer than 90 days.
During his testimony, Psychiatrist Captain Moore indicated that he’d been trained in military interrogation, and that adverse mental side effects were to be expected in any prisoner held in such constrictive conditions for a long period of time. POI, the psychiatrists clarified, was typically a short-term status. In closing questions, defense attorney David Coombs asked Cpt. Hoctor how, in his professional psychiatric opinion, he would characterize an authority who chose to ignore or discount possible adverse effects when choosing a highly restrictive status such as POI for a long period of time. After a thoughtful look, Cpt. Hoctor replied the word he would choose is “callous.”

Bradley Manning takes the stand: Quantico abuse, brig deception — courtroom notes, 11/29/12

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PFC Bradley Manning testified today to explain the brutal detention conditions he suffered at the Quantico Marine brig, officials deceiving him regarding how to change those conditions, and relaxed conditions at Ft. Leavenworth. See day 1 notes and day 2 notes here.
By Nathan Fuller, Bradley Manning Support Network. November 29, 2012.

Courtroom scene when David Coombs played a Quantico video. Sketch by Clark Stoeckley.

Today PFC Bradley Manning took the stand to give much-anticipated testimony about his detention conditions in Kuwait, at the Quantico Marine brig, and at Ft. Leavenworth, explaining that he endured harsh and needlessly restrictive conditions at Quantico, yet was put in much less constrictive custody as soon as he was transferred to Ft. Leavenworth. Furthermore, Quantico’s brig counselor, Gunnery Sergeant Blenis, misled Bradley about who was responsible for his abusive conditions.
Bradley answered questions from defense lawyer David Coombs for several hours in Ft. Meade, MD, for the defense’s motion to dismiss charges based on unlawful pretrial punishment. First he explained his traumatic experience in Kuwait, where he was brought to a military tent, forced to stay in a metal cell that he said felt like an “animal cage,” and was so disoriented and isolated that he felt suicidal. He thought he was going to die in Kuwait, felt “trapped” because no one told him what was happening to him, and when he was transferred he figured he would be sent to Guantanamo Bay.
When transferred to Quantico on July 29, 2010, Bradley was immediately put on Suicide Risk watch, which is effectively solitary confinement with guards checking on him every five minutes. Brig psychiatrists recommended that Bradley’s detention status be reduced to Prevention of Injury (POI) watch in seven days, but Quantico officials didn’t change the status for nearly two weeks. On Suicide Risk, Bradley saw only 20 minutes of natural light each day, interacted with almost no one else, and became increasingly anxious.
For the remainder of his nine-month stay, Bradley was then held on restrictive POI watch, which he described as nearly the same as Suicide Risk, though he was a model detainee and psychiatrists confirmed that he posed no threat to himself or others. Suicide Risk and POI watch aren’t technically referred to as ‘solitary confinement,’ but Bradley was segregated from the rest of the Quantico population. Seeing only the reflection of sunlight down the hall, Bradley was largely cut off from the world. The rooms adjacent to his were empty, and he wasn’t allowed to speak loud enough to communicate with the detainees much further down the hall.
On Suicide Risk, Bradley had to wear a coarse smock and sleep on a tiny uncomfortable mattress. He was never given a pillow during his entire time at Quantico, regardless of his custody status. Throughout his time there, a fluorescent light blasted into Bradley’s six-by-eight-foot cell, 24 hours a day. When he turned his face from the light when trying to sleep, brig officials woke him up to “make sure he was okay.” On Suicide Risk, this happened two or three times every single night, and it still happened a few times a week on POI.
Blenis deceives Manning about his conditions
More and more stressed out, Bradley desperately wanted to be removed from POI watch. Each time he met with brig psychiatrists and during most of his interactions with the brig counselor, he asked what he could do to get his status reduced. GYSGT Blenis, who met with Bradley at least once a week, and who frequently gave him an ‘A’ grade as a detainee, told Bradley that he was perplexed as to why the psychiatrists kept recommending he stay on POI status. However, brig psychiatrist Cpt. Hoctor testified yesterday that the exact opposite was true: Cpt. Hoctor recommended almost every single week that Bradley be removed from POI watch, and was exasperated that Quantico officials fully ignored his advice. He believed “they had made up their mind” to keep Bradley in isolated confinement.
Cpt. Hoctor told Bradley that he recommended normal treatment, and upon hearing the conflicting messages Bradley didn’t know whom to trust. Since GYSGT Blenis and other Quantico officials continued to praise him as a model detainee, with one of them saying he wished he had “100 PFC Mannings,” he thought Cpt. Hoctor might be deceiving him.
Guards provoke Manning, officials remove his clothing
The confusion, coupled with the repeated refusal of brig officials to hear his arguments for ending the restrictive POI watch, led Bradley to become withdrawn and to consider alternative channels to remedy his situation, such as through his defense counsel.
A day after supporters of Bradley Manning protested at Quantico on January 17, 2011, Bradley testified that staff guards handled him gruffly, were curt with their orders, and then put him in an intentionally confusing “shark attack environment” in which they barked contradicting orders at him and yelled at him when he didn’t follow properly. Bradley became panicked, fell down in the recreation hall, and said he “became emotional.”
Bradley continued with his recreation time as usual after the incident, but when he returned to his cell, he knew something was wrong. Guards were whispering outside his cell, officials were passing by and gathering outside, and then Brig Officer in Charge Averhart entered his cell to yell at Bradley.
The two discussed the situation, seemed to relax, and then Bradley brought up his POI status while he had the chance. Averhart felt “insulted” and “furious” that Bradley would broach the subject, and he reminded Bradley of his rank. Averhart left the cell, and GYSGT Blenis asked Bradley to remove his clothes and informed him that he’d be back on Suicide Risk.
Coombs then played two short videos that Quantico officials took of GYSGT Blenis’s response, in which he told Bradley, “We’re not outside rules and regulations with anything we’re doing,” when Bradley countered, “But I’m not a suicide risk.”
Bradley said that psychiatrists recommended he be removed from POI, and GYSGT Blenis responded, “Who sees you every day?” GYSGT Blenis said that Cpt. Hoctor’s was “just a recommendation,” and that “other factors” had to be considered.
Bradley was forced to remain nude, except for his boxers during the day, for the rest of his time at Quantico.
Transitioning to life at Ft. Leavenworth
Finally, Bradley testified about his transfer to Ft. Leavenworth on April 20, 2011. After the multi-day ‘reception process,’ Bradley was not deemed harmful to himself, and was immediately placed in medium security. Bradley was shocked not to be in metal restraints, and felt awkward. He was expecting to be placed in the same status as in Quantico, and said he thought they’d “bring the hammer down.”
At Ft. Leavenworth, which he called a “huge upgrade,” Bradley was given his clothes back, allowed to have basic toiletries he wasn’t allowed to have in Quantico, and was free to use the library, gym, common area, and word processor just about whenever he pleased.
Leavenworth commander confirms Bradley didn’t need POI
Just before Bradley’s testimony, the defense called Ft. Leavenworth’s Garrison Commander Lt. Col. Dawn Hilton telephonically to explain the processes at Ft. Leavenworth to take in detainees, assess their mental health, and determine their custody status.
Lt. Col. Hilton said that she never overruled a mental health professional’s advice regarding Suicide Risk. In fact, she said she made it a priority to try to get detainees off of Suicide Risk, knowing that it affects their mental health, and if a detainee is not off of Suicide Risk within 48 hours, she works to get the detainee into a psychiatric ward. The longest she’s ever had a detainee on Suicide Risk was seven days – an extreme case, and an extreme contrast with Bradley’s several months on that status.
Lt. Col. Hilton said Bradley has never appeared at risk of potentially harming himself, and that he’s been on medium security since his arrival.
Tomorrow, the government will cross-examine Bradley, Coombs will re-direct follow-up questions, and Judge Denise Lind will ask him her own questions.

Quantico psychiatrist: Bradley Manning treated worse than death row inmates

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Notes from the courtroom in today’s hearing for PFC Bradley Manning. Two mental health professionals testified to the fact that Quantico was the first brig to blithely ignore their recommendations to remove a detainee from restrictive conditions. See day 1 notes here.
By Nathan Fuller, Bradley Manning Support Network. November 28, 2012.

Psychiatrist Captain William Hoctor. Courtroom sketch by Clark Stoeckley.

Mental health professional Captain Kevin Moore took the stand in the second day of this week’s pretrial hearing for PFC Bradley Manning, explaining that Bradley’s isolated conditions that wore on his mental health were even worse than death row treatment he observed earlier in his career.
Cpt. Moore and another psychiatrist, Captain William Hoctor, testified that Quantico Brig officials ignored their recommendations to remove Bradley from Suicide Risk watch and then from Prevention of Injury (POI) watch for several months. They both said that this was completely different than previous brig officials they’ve worked for, who usually complied with their recommendations within days.
The military didn’t listen to Cpt. Hoctor’s concerns that holding Bradley on Suicide Risk watch when he was in no danger of harming himself was detrimental to Bradley’s mental health. A detainee earlier that year had killed himself at Quantico, and Cpt. Hoctor explained that officials were keenly aware of the high-level of media scrutiny in Bradley’s case and was exerting extreme caution. However, they had no psychiatric reason, he said, to keep him on POI watch or to remove his clothes, and that the restrictive treatment left Bradley isolated, stressed, and depressed.
Cpt. Hoctor recommended within one week of meeting with Bradley at Quantico that he be removed from Suicide Risk watch, saying that Bradley was not a danger to himself, didn’t appear depressed, and needed to socialize with other detainees. The brig ignored that recommendation, without explaining why.
Later, while Bradley was still on Suicide Risk, Cpt. Hoctor asked if Bradley could get more time to exercise, as his already-slim frame was dropping weight quickly. He recommended that Bradley be integrated into the prison population, as he was becoming withdrawn and hadn’t had contact with his peers in months. He also told officials that Bradley needed more time outside, since he was only getting 20 minutes each day. In addition to these specific requests, in his weekly reports on Bradley’s mental health, Cpt. Hoctor continually recommended that Bradley be removed from POI watch.
Unfortunately, “They had made up their mind” to keep Bradley on POI watch, Cpt. Hoctor said. Quantico officials refused each specific offer and continued to ignore his weekly calls for reduced confinement treatment, again giving no explanation.
Defense lawyer David Coombs asked Col. Hoctor if he thought Quantico was running the risk of of endangering Bradley Manning, and Col. Hoctor said yes, it was, as these conditions might have “unintended consequences.” Coombs asked how Col. Hoctor would describe officials who didn’t consider these effects, and he said, “callous.”
Bradley’s treatment would continue indefinitely
When Cpt. Hoctor expressed his concerns, and the fact that Bradley’s restrictive conditions should not be justified with mental health language, to Col. Robert Oltman, Security Battalion Commander in charge of Quantico, Col. Oltman told him that Cpt. Hoctor should continue to report weekly but that “we’ll do what we want to do,” and that Bradley would be on POI watch for the foreseeable future.
This made Cpt. Hoctor the “angriest [he’d] been in a long time,” as the treatment was “senseless,” had no psychiatric justification, and a Battalion Commander had never before said outright that such a confinement statues would continue indefinitely regardless of his recommendations. He also said that this treatment could harm Bradley, as “everyone has limits,” though “he’d been strong.”
Col. Oltman’s testimony
Col. Oltman himself testified for most of this morning, explaining why Bradley remained on POI watch and why he didn’t fully trust Cpt. Hoctor’s opinion. Col. Oltman didn’t make the decision to put Bradley on POI watch, but decisions in Bradley’s confinement were passed along to Col. Oltman who then passed them up the command chain. He had the authority to change Bradley’s status, but never reduced his status. He said that because a soldier, Captain Webb, had killed himself at Quantico earlier that year, and since Cpt. Hoctor hadn’t recommended Cpt. Webb be put on Suicide Risk, Col. Oltman didn’t weigh his advice for other detainees as heavily.
But in most of his testimony, Col. Oltman emphasized that Quantico officials were interested in Bradley’s safety and media coverage. At one point, after Coombs asked him whether he ever disagreed with the decision to keep Bradley on POI watch, Col. Oltman said that he was never 100% certain that Bradley could be taken off of POI watch at all.
Removing Bradley’s underwear
Coombs asked Col. Oltman about the incident in which Brig Officer in Command Denise Barnes decided to remove even Bradley’s underwear after he quipped that he could hang himself with his elastic waistband. Cpt. Hoctor had said that Bradley was merely making a sarcastic comment “intellectualizing the absurdity of his conditions,” but Col. Oltman said, “You don’t joke about suicide.”
Coombs shot back reminding Col. Oltman that he’d laughed at Lt. Col. Greer’s Dr. Seuss parody that mocked Bradley’s nudity.
Corrections official Col. Wright didn’t find Quantico’s response very funny either, as he informed Col. Oltman that removing a detainee’s clothes for suicidal reasons was inappropriate for a prisoner on POI watch and not on Suicide Risk.
“This is not the way we do business,” Col. Wright said.
But Col. Oltman didn’t change the status, nor did those below him. Instead Col. Oltman characterized Col. Wright’s as the view from “30,000 feet,” meaning it wasn’t informed by on-the-ground information, similar to Col. Choike’s “armchair quarterback” comment yesterday.
OIC Barnes and Col. Oltman emailed back and forth about the incident, and OIC Barnes found a loophole of sorts in brig regulations: one of the instructions of POI watch says that OIC can remove clothing (the loophole element being that OIC Barnes just had to refrain from justifying it with the potential suicide element).
Col. Oltman didn’t bother to reconcile Col. Wright and OIC Barnes’s opinions, satisfied with OIC Barnes’s reasoning, while Bradley remained humiliated and naked each night.

Military feared independent reviews of Bradley’s treatment: notes from the courtroom, 11/27/12

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Quantico’s base commander testified about internal discussions about Bradley’s detention conditions, why Quantico wasn’t fit to detain him in the first place, and the response to Bradley’s complaints about abusive treatment.
By Nathan Fuller, Bradley Manning Support Network. November 27, 2012.

Despite freezing rain, dozens of Bradley Manning supporters rallied outside Ft. Meade before his hearing.

Quantico base commander Col. Daniel Choike revealed in testimony today that the military barred or delayed independent analyses of PFC Bradley Manning’s abusive confinement, claiming that Bradley’s defense could “exploit” such a review in the press, and instead sought reviews that would confirm and justify the military’s handling of the young private.
Col. Choike answered defense lawyer David Coombs’ questions for nearly eight hours today at Ft. Meade, Maryland, during the defense’s Article 13 motion to dismiss charges based on unlawful pretrial punishment that Bradley endured for more than nine months at Quantico.
When the former Security Battalion Commander in charge of Quantico, Col. Robert G. Oltman, and Col. Choike discussed an independent mental health professional’s impending visit to the Marine brig, the two expressed reservations about what the review would conclude. Col. Choike asked if the visit could be blocked or pushed back, and Col. Oltman assured him that this could be “easily done with an email.”
In emails, Col. Choike attempted to justify this position, saying, “armchair quarterbacks are not welcome,” and that whoever reviewed the confinement would need “expertise” to understand the command structure and why the military needed to keep Bradley on Prevention of Injury watch. When Bradley’s defense brought an Article 138 Complaint (a complaint any member of the Armed Forces can make against his or her commanding officer), the military assigned the Marines’ own Chief Warrant Officer 5 Abel Galaviz to investigate the conditions, despite the fact that Galaviz and his superior officers had already been involved with and approved of Bradley’s confinement status.
Col. Choike testified at length about his specific role in reviewing and maintaining Bradley’s maximum security, the collective refusal to listen to brig psychiatrists’ recommendations for medium security, and just how involved three-star General George Flynn was in directing Bradley’s confinement.
Earlier this fall we learned that Gen. Flynn oversaw Bradley’s confinement from the Pentagon. Today, Col. Choike revealed that Gen. Flynn primarily wanted to be notified of changes in Manning’s status or new elements regarding his conditions before the media got wind of them, so that he could control the narrative regarding Bradley’s conditions, or, as Col. Choike said today, be “ahead of the disinformation campaign.”
Later in the testimony, Col. Choike discussed how Gen. Flynn worked to make sure that if “something happened” to Bradley, meaning if he were to harm himself, “Quantico would not be left holding the bag.”
Col. Choike also revealed, near the day’s end, that he didn’t believe from the start that Bradley should have been kept at Quantico. The Marine brig, which had recently been in transition from a post-trial to a pre-trial confinement facility, was meant for short-term detention. Government lawyers told Col. Choike early on that they expected Bradley’s trial to last nearly two years, and Col. Choike told his superiors that he didn’t think Quantico was adequately resourced to hold Bradley for that long, and that Bradley shouldn’t be held there for more than 90 days at most. The military ignored Col. Choike’s qualms, clearly to Bradley’s detriment.
Another revealing bit: in reviewing the hundreds of emails among Quantico officials with Col. Choike, Coombs stopped upon one email from an unnamed brig official who, when Bradley was forced to remove his underwear and stand naked against his will, emailed a mocking Dr. Seuss version of the events:

“I can wear them in a box,
I can wear them with a fox,
I can wear them in the day,
I can wear them so I say,
But I can’t wear them at night,
My comments gave the staff a fright.”

“Col. Choike,” Coombs asked after reading the poem aloud. “Do you think the subject of the removal of his underwear was a joking matter?”

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- Wasn’t That A Mighty Storm

Tom Rush-Eric Von Schmidt Lyrics from an old traditional song

Chorus:
Wasn't that a mighty storm
Wasn't that a mighty storm in the morning
Say, wasn't that a mighty storm
Blew all the people away

Well, Galveston had a sea wall
Meant to keep the water down
High tide from the ocean
Sent water over Galveston

Chorus

Yeah, year was 1900
Fifty long years ago
Death came walking on the water that day
Death calls, you gotta go

Now the trumpets, they sounded warning
Said it's time to leave this place
But no one thought about leaving town
Til death stared them in the face

Chorus[ Lyrics from: http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/j/james_taylor/wasnt_that_a_mighty_storm.html ]
Right then the sea started boiling
A thing that no ship could stand
I thought I heard a captain crying out
Somebody save a drowning man

They had two trains loaded
With people trying to leave town
Tracks gave way to the water now
And all of those people drowned

Chorus

I said the year was 1900
Fifty long years ago
Death came walking on the water
Death calls, you gotta go

I said Death, your hands are clammy
You got them on my knee
You came and threw a stone at my mother
And now you're coming after me.

Chorus

Chorus

Funny he, Adam Evans, thought as he laid in his toss and turn early morning Seals Rock Inn, San Francisco bed, as the rain poured down in buckets, literally buckets, at his unprotected door, the winds were howling against that same door, and the nearby sea was lashing up its fury how many times the sea stormy night, the sea fury tempest day, the, well, the mighty storm anytime, had played a part in his life. He was under no circumstances, as he cleared his mind for a think back, a think back, that was occupying his thoughts more and more of late, trying to work himself into a lather over some metaphorical essence between the storms that life had bestowed on him and the raging night storm. No way, too simple. Rather he was just joy searching for all those sea-driven times, times when a storm, a furious storm like this night or maybe just an average ordinary vanilla storm passing through and complete in an hour made him think of his relationship with his homeland the sea and with its time for reflection. And so on that toss and turn bed he thought.

He thought first and mainly about how early the sea came into his life, almost from birth down at those ragged slopes around Germantown where he lived growing up and was tumbled into the sea early. And learned the power of the sea early when one winter storm night Mother Nature played a trick on her seaward brethren and tried to bring them home to her bosom all in one lashed-up swoop as the water came right up to that hovel (really a cottage, maybe slightly bigger) door and the lot of them only reached higher ground in a split second before a big foam-flecked (aren’t they always when they come in that hard, fast and furious) wave crashed that cottage down. And later, childhood later, a few years later anyway, when he, bravo he, decided, yes, decided that the impeding summer storm he could sense coming would be no deterrent to his taking that log on the beach and using it to swim to China , or some such place, on the current. And losing the log in the churning waters almost drowned, except for the screams of his panic beach-bound brother sounding the alarm for help and some Madonna savior swimmer, beach-bound too, came and swooped him up before he went down for the third time. Don’t tell Ma, jesus, don’t tell Ma.

Or that night, that funny night (funny night in retrospect, then and now retrospect) when he, his buddy Will and his girl, and she, she Terry Wallace, sat in Will’s father-bought high school car, a ’59 Dodge, “making out”while the sea churned up around them at old Nippo Beach just up from home Germantown and the police, spotting the car and the fix, came and rescued them rescued them while they were in, ah, compromising positions (you figure it out, he just laughed his thought laugh) because in the throes of love they had not realized that they were in a couple of feet of sea water that had splashed over some poor man-made seawall built against Mother’s angers.

Or that day, that wind- swept day, when his world fell apart, the day when Diana had left him, left him for good, left him for another man, another non-sea driven man, after she called it quits when spending a couple of months up in that storm-ravaged Maine cottage where she, quote, was tired as hell of the sea, of the wind, of the stuff that the wind did to her sensitive skin, and, and, tired of him playing out some old man of the seas, some man against nature thing with her in his train.

Or that time later with Sarah when the winter seas once again bore down on them in Marblehead coming up over a double seawall, damn a double sea walls, and almost touching their front steps. And she too calling it quits, although not over another man, or over his man and nature obsession, or over that breeched double sea-wall but just her calling it Sarah quits. And he sorry, more than Diana sorry, when she left.

Or that Maine time a few years back when a sudden winter storm came up the coast of Maine and he was stranded for a couple of days when Mile Road was cut off and he finally knew what it was like to be totally dependent on happenstance, on others, and, in the end on his own devises.

Or tonight, the winds blasting away, rain splashing down, left to his own devises, his own thoughts, and just then he thought, that no, no he was wrong, he really was searching for that metaphor, that metaphor, that mighty storm metaphor. that would sum up his life.

From The Pen Of Amercian Socialist Leader Eugene V. Debs-The Canton, Ohio Anti-War Speech 1918

Markin comment:

Every presidential candidate worth his or her salt (and vice-presidential candidates as well) should consider it an honor and a requirement to run for high office by being arrested as described below following in the tradition of Socialist party candidate Eugene V. Debs in 1920 when he ran his campaign from the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary. And why was Brother Debs in prison? For opposition to his generation’s imperial war, World War I. The one, to remind everyone, that was “to make the world safe for democracy.”         

And here is a challenge, post-election challenge, to the candidates of the major bourgeois parties, Democrat Barack Obama and Republican Mitt Romney (or is it the other way around?). Why were you not at that demonstration and subject to arrest for a righteous cause?  They are more likely to be subject to arrest for other more heinous crimes.  Barack  Obama for his war crimes against the peoples of the world and Mitt Romney for simple tax evasion and being stupid and greedy in a public place. And tell everybody that is what Debs would say too.

*************

http://www.marxists.org/archive/debs/works/1918/canton.htm

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- Out In The Be-Bop 1950s Night- The Time Of Motorcycle Bill

 

There was a scourge in the land, in the 1950s American land. No, not the dreaded but fatalistically expected BIG ONE that would send old mother earth back to square one, or worst, coming from the Russkies. Sure that was in the air and every school boy and girl had their giggling tales of having to hide, hide ass up, under some desk or other useless defense in air raid drill preparations for that eventually. Sure, as well, the air stunk of red scare, military build-up cold war “your mommy is a commie turns her in.” But that was not the day to day scare for every self-respecting parent from Portland to the Pacific. That was reserved for the deadly dreaded motorcycle scare that had every father telling his son to beware of falling under the Marlon Brando sway and spiraling down to a life, a low life of crime and debauchery (of course said son not knowing of the word, the meaning of debauchery, until much later just shrugged his innocent shoulders). More importantly every mother, every blessed mother, self-respecting or not (with a gentle nod from Dad) warned off their daughters against this madness and perversity.

Of course that did not stop the sons from mooning over every Harley that rode the ride down Main Street, Olde Saco (really U.S. Route One but everybody called it Main Street and it was) or the daughters from mooning (and maybe more) over the low- riders churning the metal on those bad ass machines. Even prime and proper Lily Dumont, the queen of Saint Brigitte’s Catholic Church rectitude on Sunday and wanna-be “mama” every other waking minute of late. And the object of her desire? One “Motorcycle Bill,” the baddest low- rider in all of Olde Saco.

Now baddest in Olde Saco (that’s up in ocean edge Maine for the heathens and others not in the know) was not exactly baddest in the whole wide world, nowhere as near as bad as say Sonny Barger and his henchmen outlaws- for- real bikers out in Hell’s Angels Oakland as chronicled by Doctor Gonzo (before he was Gonzo), Hunter S. Thompson in his saga of murder and mayhem sociological- literary study Hell’s Angels. But as much is in life one must accept the context. And the context here is that in sleepy dying mill town Olde Saco mere ownership, hell maybe mere desire for ownership, of a bike was prima facie evidence of badness. So every precious daughter was specifically warned away from Motorcycle Bill and his Vincent Black Lightning 1952 (although no mother, and maybe no daughter either, could probably tell the difference between that sleek English bike and a big pig Harley). But Madame Dumont felt no need to do so with her sweet sixteen Lily who, maybe, pretty please maybe was going to be one of god’s women, maybe enter the convent over in Cedars Of Lebanon Springs in a couple of years after she graduated from Olde Saco High along with her Class of 1960.

But that was before, walking home to Olde Saco’s French- Canadian (F-C) quarter, the Acre, on Atlantic Avenue with classmate and best friend Clara Dubois, Lily heard the thunder of Bill’s bike coming up behind them, stopping, Bill giving Lily a bow, and them revving the machine up and doing a couple of circle cuts within a hair’s breathe of the girls. Then just a suddenly he was off, and Lily, well, Lily was hooked, hooked on Motorcycle Bill, although she did not know it, know it for certain until that night in her room when she tossed and turned all night and did not ask god, or any of his associates, to guide her in this matter.

One thing about living in a sleepy old town, a sleepy old dying mill town, is that everybody knows everybody’s business at least as far as any person wants that information out on the public square. Two things are important before we go on. One is that everybody in town that counted which meant every junior and senior class high schooler in Olde Saco knew that Bill had made a “play” for Lily. And the buzz got its start from none other than Clara Dubois who had her own hankerings after the motorcycle man (her source of wonder though was more, well lets’ call it crass than Lily’s, Clara wanted to know if Bill was build, build with sexual power like his motorcycle. She had innocently, perhaps, understood the Marlon mystique). The second was that Bill, other than his bike, was not a low life low- rider but just a guy who liked to ride the roads free and easy. See Bill was a freshman over at Bowdoin and he used the bike as much to get back and forth as to do wheelies in front of impressionable teenage girls from the Acre.

One day, a few days after their Motorcycle Bill “introduction,” when Lily and Clara were over at Seal Rock at the end of Olde Saco Beach (not its real name but given it because it was the local lovers’ lane and many things had been sealed there including a fair share of “doing the do”) Bill came up behind them sans his bike. Now not on his bike, without a helmet, and carrying books, books of all things, he looked like any student except maybe a little bolder and a little less reserved. He started talking to Lily and something in his demeanor attracted her to him. (Clara swore, swore on seven bibles, that Lily was kind of stand-offish at first but Lily says no.) They talked for a while and then Bill asked Lily if she wanted a ride home. She hemmed and hawed but there was just something about him that spoke of mystery (who knows what Clara thought). She agreed and they walked a couple of blocks to where he was parked. And there Lily saw that Vincent Black Lightning 1952 of her dreams. Without a word, without anything done except to tie her hair back she climbed on the back of the bike at Bill’s beckon. And that is how one Lily Dumont became William Kelly’s motorcycle “mama.”