From The American Left History Blog Archives (2007) - On American Political Discourse

 

 

 

Markin comment:

 

In 2007-2008 I, in vain, attempted to put some energy into analyzing the blossoming American presidential campaign since it was to be, as advertised at least, a watershed election, for women, blacks, old white anglos, latinos, youth, etc. In the event I had to abandon the efforts in about May of 2008 when it became obvious, in my face obvious, that the election would be a watershed only for those who really believed that it would be a watershed election. The four years of the Obama presidency, the 2012 American presidential election campaign, and world politics have only confirmed in my eyes that that abandonment was essentially the right decision at the right time. In short, let the well- paid bourgeois commentators go on and on with their twitter. I, we, had (have) better things to do like fighting against the permanent wars, the permanent war economies, the struggle for more and better jobs, and for a workers party that fights for a workers government . More than enough to do, right? Still a look back at some of the stuff I wrote then does not a bad feel to it. Read on.     

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

HUE AND CRY OVER SLAVERY

 

COMMENTARY

 

NO POST-DATED APOLOGIES REQUIRED, THANK YOU- THE VICTORIES OF THE UNION ARMIES IN THE CIVIL WAR HAVE SPOKEN FOR US 

 

Earlier this year the Virginia legislature passed a formal resolution ‘apologizing’ for its history of slavery. A few days ago the North Carolina Senate passed the same kind of resolution. Reportedly, other states of the former Confederacy are considering similar actions. What gives? Apparently these elective bodies have succumbed to the same fits and starts of non-actionable ‘collective guilt’ noted in other situations as such as President Clinton’s apology to Native Americans and the German apology for the Holocaust. Of course, these anti-slavery resolutions are toothless. Of course, they come much too late to do those who were actually affected any good. More importantly, in the case of the descendents of the slaves no real benefits accrue or are proposed to alleviate today’s very real wage slavery for the vast majority of blacks. Thus, we should accept such apologies for what they are worth and move on.

 

I have stated more than once that politics is many times a matter of timing. I would be, for example, much more impressed by the force of these anti-slavery resolutions if the various legislatures had enacted them in say, 1957. Or 1927. Or better yet, 1877. Certainly not 2007. Moreover, in 2007 I much prefer to stand by actions against slavery like Captain John Brown’s at Harpers Ferry. Or the big fights by the Union armies at Gettysburg or Vicksburg. Or the brave black Massachusetts 54^th Regiment before Fort Wagner. Or Grant’s merciless pounding of Lee’s remnants in the above-mentioned Virginia or pursuing General Johnstone’s forces down into the also mentioned North Carolina. For those not so militarily-inclined the codification by post Civil War Radical Republican-dominated Congresses against slavery and for the expansion of civil rights in the 13^th, 14th and 15^th Amendments to the United States Constitution as a result of those victories will do as well. Enough said.  

 

 

 

 

 

AL FIN DE GUERRE

At first glance the story line in this French film, sub-titled in English, set in the mid-1960’s about the trials, tribulations, frustrations and sexual adventures (this is a commercial film, after all) of an exiled underground Spanish Communist Party functionary still working to defeat the Franco regime in Spain would seem a little dated. However, two things retrieve it from that fate. First, despite the victory of Franco in 1939 those who fought the Civil War on the Republican side most definitely had some unfinished business. Thus, the exploration, even if only cinematically, of the dangers and pitfalls of the necessary underground work in the fight against reactionary regimes still rings true as a lesson for latter day struggles. Secondly, an exploration of the wear and tear on committed cadre still fighting the good fight under much more trying circumstances than we currently face should help those who are trying to fight against today’s ‘monsters’.

An interesting sidelight of the film is the counter-position of the strategies of the old guard Spanish Communist underground leadership committed to patient, if unrewarding, work to gain a hearing from the masses and what turned out to be the Spanish “New Left” of the 1960’s that was looking for more demonstrative means of igniting those same masses. Thus the issue presented in the film of the classical general strike proposed by the old guard versus what amounted to urban guerilla warfare, including spectacular individual acts of terrorism, once again was played out on the Spanish left. Who won the argument? Well the class war still goes on so to pose the question is to give the answer. That in the end General Franco died in his bed in the mid-1970s is, however, something no progressive should have been or should be happy about.

From The American Left History Blog Archives (2007) - On American Political Discourse

 

Markin comment:

In 2007-2008 I, in vain, attempted to put some energy into analyzing the blossoming American presidential campaign since it was to be, as advertised at least, a watershed election, for women, blacks, old white anglos, latinos, youth, etc. In the event I had to abandon the efforts in about May of 2008 when it became obvious, in my face obvious, that the election would be a watershed only for those who really believed that it would be a watershed election. The four years of the Obama presidency, the 2012 American presidential election campaign, and world politics have only confirmed in my eyes that that abandonment was essentially the right decision at the right time. In short, let the well- paid bourgeois commentators go on and on with their twitter. I, we, had (have) better things to do like fighting against the permanent wars, the permanent war economies, the struggle for more and better jobs, and for a workers party that fights for a workers government . More than enough to do, right? Still a look back at some of the stuff I wrote then does not a bad feel to it. Read on.     

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

ON CAMPAIGN FINANCES AND PUBLIC FUNDING

COMMENTARY

THE COIN OF THE REALM IN BOURGEOIS POLITICS IS MONEY-THAT IS FOR DAMN SURE

FORGET DONKEYS, ELEPHANTS AND GREENS- BUILD A WORKERS PARTY THAT FIGHTS FOR SOCIALISM!

Clinton- $26 million. Obama the “Charma” -$25 million. Mitt “Flip-Flop” Romney- $20 million. John Edwards- $14 million. And so on. Those are the sums raised that have recently been announced by their respective presidential campaigns. And all, apparently, without working up a sweat. There is no doubt that those sums will soon be dwarfed as the campaigns really get going. One cannot avoid the conclusion that in bourgeois electoral politics money is the coin of the realm. Hell, they rub it in our faces. And for what? Weak or non-existence programs that will do very, very little to change the lives of average Americans. But that is a tale for another day. Today I want to comment on the campaign finance policy of those of us interested in building a workers party that fights for socialism and our relationship to public campaign funding. Although, seemingly, we are the only ones who even have an interest in the issue as most of the bourgeois candidates have laughed that idea off as a bad joke.

 In the interest of full disclosure, even though not mandated by federal regulations, I can announce, not without sorrow, that our campaign coffers are in terminal condition. Well, that is politics and goes with the territory of left-wing politics. So be it. However, I will gaze into the future here. If we ever have the political ear of those that we want to have listen to us –the working poor, women, blacks and other minorities, gays, and lesbians, legal and illegal immigrants, etc,- and run a workers party presidential candidate we will NOT accept publicly funded (read governmentally regulated) matching funds. Why not?

In Europe, in France and Germany among others, socialist and far left candidates have, as a matter of course, taken their versions of public campaign funds for electoral purposes from their respective governments. This is flat-out wrong. As a matter of strategy why would those of us who seek to replace the current forms of government subject themselves to the supposed largesse of the state? With all the strings that such a course entails for our integrity and security. No, we will find our own sources of finance from those small individual heartfelt contributions by those interested in our message. Frankly, there is no other way.

While we are on the subject of gazing into the future I  hope that we will also be able to find the ‘techies’ and financial ‘wizards’ that will  know how to milk the Internet and other sources for the possibilities that such technology has opened up in the personal computer age. While ideas, not money, is the coin of our realm it nevertheless is true that we, as always, will also need our ‘angels’ to fight for what humankind needs. In fact this commentary can serve as an open appeal to those enamored of the Internet as a source of campaign finances to stop wasting their time and talents on bourgeois electoral politics and come join us. Enough said.          

 

From The American Left History Blog Archives(2007) - On American Political Discourse

Markin comment:

In 2007-2008 I, in vain, attempted to put some energy into analyzing the blossoming American presidential campaign since it was to be, as advertised at least, a watershed election, for women, blacks, old white anglos, latinos, youth, etc. In the event I had to abandon the efforts in about May of 2008 when it became obvious, in my face obvious, that the election would be a watershed only for those who really believed that it would be a watershed election. The four years of the Obama presidency, the 2012 American presidential election campaign, and world politics have only confirmed in my eyes that that abandonment was essentially the right decision at the right time. In short, let the well- paid bourgeois commentators go on and on with their twitter. I, we, had (have) better things to do like fighting against the permanent wars, the permanent war economies, the struggle for more and better jobs, and for a workers party that fights for a workers government . More than enough to do, right? Still a look back at some of the stuff I wrote then does not a bad feel to it. Read on.

************
HUE AND CRY OVER SLAVERY

COMMENTARY

NO POST-DATED APOLOGIES REQUIRED, THANK YOU- THE VICTORIES OF THE UNION ARMIES IN THE CIVIL WAR HAVE SPOKEN FOR US

Earlier this year the Virginia legislature passed a formal resolution ‘apologizing’ for its history of slavery. A few days ago the North Carolina Senate passed the same kind of resolution. Reportedly, other states of the former Confederacy are considering similar actions. What gives? Apparently these elective bodies have succumbed to the same fits and starts of non-actionable ‘collective guilt’ noted in other situations as such as President Clinton’s apology to Native Americans and the German apology for the Holocaust. Of course, these anti-slavery resolutions are toothless. Of course, they come much too late to do those who were actually affected any good. More importantly, in the case of the descendents of the slaves no real benefits accrue or are proposed to alleviate today’s very real wage slavery for the vast majority of blacks. Thus, we should accept such apologies for what they are worth and move on.

I have stated more than once that politics is many times a matter of timing. I would be, for example, much more impressed by the force of these anti-slavery resolutions if the various legislatures had enacted them in say, 1957. Or 1927. Or better yet, 1877. Certainly not 2007. Moreover, in 2007 I much prefer to stand by actions against slavery like Captain John Brown’s at Harpers Ferry. Or the big fights by the Union armies at Gettysburg or Vicksburg. Or the brave black Massachusetts 54^thRegiment before Fort Wagner. Or Grant’s merciless pounding of Lee’s remnants in the above-mentioned Virginia or pursuing General Johnstone’s forces down into the also mentioned North Carolina. For those not so militarily-inclined the codification by post Civil War Radical Republican-dominated Congresses against slavery and for the expansion of civil rights in the 13^th, 14th and 15^thAmendments to the United States Constitution as a result of those victories will do as well. Enough said.

From The American Left History Blog Archives (2007) - On American Political Discourse

 

Markin comment:

 

In 2007-2008 I, in vain, attempted to put some energy into analyzing the blossoming American presidential campaign since it was to be, as advertised at least, a watershed election, for women, blacks, old white anglos, latinos, youth, etc. In the event I had to abandon the efforts in about May of 2008 when it became obvious, in my face obvious, that the election would be a watershed only for those who really believed that it would be a watershed election. The four years of the Obama presidency, the 2012 American presidential election campaign, and world politics have only confirmed in my eyes that that abandonment was essentially the right decision at the right time. In short, let the well- paid bourgeois commentators go on and on with their twitter. I, we, had (have) better things to do like fighting against the permanent wars, the permanent war economies, the struggle for more and better jobs, and for a workers party that fights for a workers government . More than enough to do, right? Still a look back at some of the stuff I wrote then does not a bad feel to it. Read on.     

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

 

RUMBLINGS IN THE EMPIRE

 

COMMENTARY

 

 

THE MILITARY STRATEGY IN IRAQ IS WORKING?

 

FORGET DONKEYS, ELEPHANTS AND GREENS- BUILD A WORKERS PARTY THAT FIGHTS FOR SOCIALISM!

 

 

Can we all, please, take time out from the new growth sport of bashing the singularly unattractive Don Imus and return to the central issue of the day-the bloody war in Iraq. While there has been much gnashing of teeth over Imus as the media falls all over itself on one side or the other for one of its fallen comrades some genuinely weird things have happened on the Iraq front here  in America and there. Here’s some commentary in a nutshell about the week of April 9^th 2007.   

 

·       Secretary of War Robert Gates announces an immediate, all-inclusive extension of tours of duty in Iraq. The rationale given is that now the troops will know for sure how long they really have to stay rather than the old policy of surprise extensions. That policy naturally will go over well with the troops and their families, especially those close to coming home. I would think that it would also be a lovely recruitment tool to drum up a few inductees knowing that if deployed they will have to spend 15 months in that hellhole. Moreover, the real upshot of all this news is that the Pentagon, at least, is planning for a very, very long stay in Iraq, win or lose.  If there was ever a time when we should be pushing hard for those anti-war soldier and sailor solidarity committees that I have been propagandizing for over the last year it is now. Let us do it.

 

 

·       After several weeks in operation now it is clear that the much-touted Bush Administration military strategy to secure Baghdad is working. No, this is not a typo. It is working for the insurgents, sectarians and others who one way or another oppose the United States presence in Iraq. How? While the military strategy is to tamp down the situation in Baghdad those oppositional forces have stood down or moved out of Baghdad. The sectarian civil war has been moved, at least temporarily, to the suburbs. Speaking from a strictly military viewpoint it is obvious that many, many thousands of more troops would be needed for the current military strategy to even get to square one. If I recall a member of the Army General Staff was booted into oblivion for even attempting to make such an evaluation before the war started.   What is more important, however, is the arrogance behind the strategy. That is a belief that the various oppositionists would stay in place to be wiped out by the American forces. As demonstrated in Vietnam and is again apparent here the military has vastly underestimated the enemy. And is reaping the windfall for its errors. I guess the millions of dollars that it takes to educate each West Point graduate do not buy what they use to. Oh, well.

 

 

 

·       In something out of Catch-22, the satirical book by Joseph Heller about the misadventures of some soldiers and the inanities of the military bureaucracy in World War II, a military spokesperson this week used an anti-American demonstration led by Al-Sadr and his Madhi Army in civilian guise calling for an end to the American presence as apparently the latest rationale for the Iraq War. With no sense of irony he pointed out that four years ago such a demonstration under the Saddam regime would not have been permitted.  So, in the final analysis, the reason for the war is to allow potential insurgents against the American presence to yell their lungs out for the U.S. to get the hell of their country. 

 

·       While on the subject of Al-Sadr it is apparent that he is starting to feel his oats with this successful mobilization mentioned above. From this geographical and political distance I make no presence to predict what the radical Shiite cleric is up to. But Sadr has powerful Shiite friends in Iran. He seems to be tiring of being the water boy for the current puppet government. He has what is seemingly a reasonably disciplined force and he has been bloodied by the Americans when he was in a weaker military position. Most importantly, he has a mass base in Sadr City and its environs that will soon tire of having their doors kicked down by every ugly American who passes by. This situation bears watching.  

 

·       I have on more than one occasion mentioned that politics many times is a matter of timing. With a look in the direction of American presidential electoral politics I note that, beyond any rational calculation, Arizona Senator John McCain this week went out of his way in a speech at the Virginia Military Institute to not only support the Bush doctrine in Iraq but take credit for initiating it.  Has anyone else noticed that when ANYONE, including President Bush, defends the war it is done in some isolated military outpost or other pro-military gathering like the VFW?  I would hope they are afraid to go any other place. But I digress. Why any candidate, even a war supporter, in the year 2007 would go out of his or her way to claim credit for this disaster is beyond me. Perhaps, there is some truth to that ‘Manchurian Candidate’ charge due to McClain’s years as a prisoner of war during the Vietnam War.  But wait, maybe McCain is just a sincere patriot for the American Way? On a recent trip to a Baghdad market he stated that he saw some real progress there toward the secure democratic solution that he fervently desires. Of course, he was escorted by half the American troop ‘surge’ on his journey. Obama the “Charma” had some well earned fun commenting on that one. Let me just say this. I recently went down to my local farmers’ market and I found no need for a military escort. That is a democratic norm in my book. McCain, however, is presumably privy to more inside ‘dope’ than I am so I will just let Obama have the day on that one.

 

·       Finally, I cannot resist saying a little something about one Don Imus. I cannot say that I have every listened to his radio show although I have heard plenty of others that are as bilious as his appears to have been. I cannot say that I have any interest in basketball, collegiate or professional, except to note that the Rutgers women’s basketball team was something of a rag to riches story that everyone can appreciate. I, however, can make a couple of observations. If the words used by Imus on the public airwaves are indicative then you can imagine how deeply racist and sexist the talk is around the water cooler. That itself would come as no surprise. However, reportedly, his audience of an estimated two million listeners is at its core composed of young and affluence listeners. An advertiser's dream, to be sure. A nightmare for those of us trying to reach the youth in our fight for socialism. Every time one of these ‘incidents’ occurs there is much discussion about the aberrant behavior of the individual involved. True enough. But, underneath that commonplace is a hard fact. This is a deeply racially segregated society with enough sexism to drive the sane crazy. The hard truth is that until we change the material social basis for every day existence these ‘incidents’ will continue unabated. I, moreover, as very comfortable with my participation in the fight for socialism to insure that future. That fight continues. In the meantime-Rutgers women’s basketball team well done, on and off the court.  

***In The Time Of The Be-Bop Baby-Boom Jail Break-Out- My Baby Loves The Western Movies, Okay?” –Take Two

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin:

A while back I was on a tear in reviewing individual CDs in of an extensive rock and roll series, you know those “oldies, but goodies” compilations pitched to, uh, certain demographic, an ARRP-worthy demographic, okay. A lot of those reviews had been driven by the artwork which graced the covers of each item, both to stir ancient memories and rather truly 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, the generation of ’68, who lived and died by the music. And who fit in, or did not fit in as the case may have been, to the themes of those artwork scenes. One, a 1963 cover was a case of the former, of fitting in. And that fitting in was triggered by a real life example, as I was passing the still operating Olde Saco Drive-In up in the old hometown, up in Maine to be exact as I was here on a recent visit.

On that CD cover, a summer scene (always a nice touch since that was the time, the no school time, no carping teachers, no curly-eyed cops wondering if we were playing hooky , and no nagging Ma, always Ma, in those days, except for big stuff since Dads’ were working their butts off trying to keep their families’ heads above water, when we had at least the feel of our generational break-out minute ) we are at the drive-in, the drive-in movies for those of theInternet/Netflicks/YouTube generations who have not gotten around to checking out this bit of Americana on Wikipedia, with the obligatory 1950s-early 1960s B-movie monster movie (outer space aliens, creatures from the black lagoon, blobs, DNA-damaged dinosaurs, foreign-bred behemoths a specialty) prominent on the screen.

Oh sure, everyone of a certain age, a certain baby-boomer age, a generation of ’68 age, has plenty of stories to tell of being bundled up as kids, maybe pre-set with a full set pajamas on to defend against the late sleepy-eyed night, the sleepy-drowsy late movie night, placed in the car backseats and taken by adventurous parents (or so it seemed) to the local open air drive-in for the double feature. That usually also happened on a friendly summer night when school did not interfere with staying up late (hopefully through both films). And to top it all off you got to play in the inevitable jungle jim, see-saw, slide, swing set-laden playground during intermission between the film while waiting, waiting against all hope, for that skewered, shriveled hot dog, rusty, dusty hamburger, or stale, over the top buttered popcorn that was the real reason that you “consented” to stay out late with the parents. Yah, we all have variations on that basic theme to tell, although I challenge anyone, seriously challenge anyone, to name five films that you saw at the drive-in that you remembered from then-especially those droopy-eyed second films.

In any case, frankly, I don’t give a damn about that kid stuff family adventure drive-in experience. Come on, that was all, well, just kid’s stuff, fluff. The “real” drive-in, as pictured in the cover art I am speaking of is what I want to address. The time of our time in that awkward teen alienation, teen angst thing that only got abated, a little, by things like a teenage night at the drive-in.

Yah, that was not, or at least I hope it was not, you father’s drive-in experience. That might have been happening in the next planet over, for all I know. For one thing, for starters our planet involved girls (girls, ah, women, just reverse the genders here to tell your side of the experience), looking for girls, or want to be looking for girls, preferably a stray car-full to complement your guy car-full and let god sort it out at intermission. (And see, I can finally, in the year of our lord, 2013, reveal the hidden truth, that car-full of girls had worked on the same premise, they were looking for guys to complement their car-full and let god sort it out at intermission, the common thread intermission.)

Wait a minute. I am getting ahead of myself in this story. First you needed that car, because no walkers or bus riders need apply for the drive-in movies like this was some kind of lame, low-rent, downtown Saturday matinee last picture show adventure. For this writer that was a problem, a personal problem, as I had no car and my family had cars only sporadically. Fortunately we early baby-boomers lived in the golden age of the automobile and could depend on a friend to either have a car (praise be teenage disposable income/allowances) or the use of the family car. Once the car issue was clarified then it was simply a matter of getting a car-full of guys (or sometimes guys and gals) in for the price of two (maybe three) admissions. This was in the days before they just charged a flat fee for the whole carload.

What? Okay, I think that I can safely tell the story now because the statute of limitations on this “crime” must have surely passed. See, what you did back then was put a couple (or three guys) in the trunk of that old car (or in a pinch one guy on the backseat floor the rest in the trunk) as you entered the drive-thru admissions booth. The driver paid for the two (or three tickets) and took off to your parking spot, that secluded area far from kiddie pajama night madnesses (complete with a ramp speaker just in case you wanted to actually listen to the film shown on that big wide white screen). Neat trick, right? (I think the record was either ten or eleven in one car, but I only know this second-hand, from some Monday morning before school boys’ “lav” talk when one of the participants touted the feat, so I don’t know the gender mix, or whether there were midgets recruited to fill in since it seemed improbable that many growing teenagers could squeeze into that standard sedan of the period, or anything like that.)

Now, of course, the purpose of all of this, as mentioned above, was to get that convoy of guys, trunk guys, backseat guys, backseat floor guys, whatever, to mix and moon with that elusive car-full of girls who did the very same thing (except easier because they were smaller) at the intermission stand or maybe just hanging around the unofficially designated teen hang-out area. Like I said no family sedans with those pajama-clad kids need apply (nor, come to think of it, would any sane, responsible parent get within fifty paces of said teens). Occasionally, very occasionally as it turned out, some “boss” car would show up complete with one guy (the driver) and one honey (girl, ah, woman) closely seated beside him for what one and all knew was going to be a very window-fogged night.

And that was, secretly thought or not, the guy drive-in dream. (Although unlike at Seal Rock, the local lovers’ lane, down the far end of Olde Saco beach, that one-on-one scene, and speculation about what went on, was not the subject of any comment, none, Monday morning before school, like some unwritten law precluded such discussion in the sacred drive-night.) The reader should however not get the wrong idea about what actually went on at that secluded, reserved end of the drive-in. Sure, car loads of boys were looking for car loads of girls to mix and match, preferably from some other town, for a change of pace (and because the one-on-one no talk rule didn’t apply in that milieu and hence Monday morning chatter, plenty of it, I wish I had taken notes).

The collective drive-in scene though was more like surveillance than anything risky (or risqué). Let me give you an example, a good example, and then you can judge for yourself what it was all about. One Friday night, a 1963 summer night of course, a car load of farm girls came over from Arundel after they heard about what went on at Olde Saco (we found that out later). Since they didn’t know the social etiquette (the casing the joint ethos we had well-tuned to a science) as soon as they pulled into their spot, saw me and my corner boys, they just starting preening and giving those sly glances that meant only thing once we gave our own sly glances right back -this was the combo mix and match for the evening. Like I said these were farm girls, Maine farm girls, although nice-looking and fun to talk to, they were a little behind the curve as for “making out” (if you don’t know the term figure it out, teen boy, teen girl, back seat of a sedan, okay), so what happened that night was that we (and they too) made some mental notes, like Sandy was cute but didn’t let you touch her bosom, stuff like that, for future reference, for that future reference one on one at the drive-in or, more probably, Seal Rock. That was how it was with this Donna that I eyed that night (although she might have been a farm girl she wound up at Colby and some other place for graduate school I heard later). Since it was hot we kind of slow-danced to some music coming from a car radio, she kind of nestled her body very close to mine. I told a note. A few weeks later when we were at Seal Rock I expanded on that note and we would up at point number sixteen on the first day back at school before school boys’ talkfest. Got it.

As for the movies shown at said drive-in? Did they show movies there? Enough said.
Oh, except that at said drive-in, before the first show started at dusk, between shows and on the way home, girl-matched or not, you were very liable to hear many of the songs from that old CD on the old car radio. Stuff like : Heat Wave (not as good as Dancing In The Streets but good), Martha and the Vandellas; Just One Look (make that look my way, please, even if you are munching on popcorn) Doris Troy; Wild Weekend (just in case you wanted to dance during intermission rather than watch the screen clock ticking off the time until that next film began), The Rockin’ Rebels ; and, Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad About My Baby (yah, you have got that right, sisters), The Cookies. Yah, that was the frosting on the cake in that good night.

Out In Super-Hero Be-Bop American Night- Robert Downey, Junior’s The Avengers

DVD Review

The Avengers, starring Robert Downey, Junior , Scarlett Johansson, Walt Disney Studios, l2012

Look, on an average caper, let’s say some mad scientist trying to take over the world with some big-time one- size- fits- all invention and is just missing one little exotic thing, or some bad guys, maybe a drug cartel, are trying to dope up the world, and want an exclusive, unencumbered franchise or, maybe , some guy, some off- the- wall political guy, who never heard of Hitler or Tojo and who runs a place like Ruthenia wants to flex his muscle and exercise his army, you only really need one larger than life super-hero, max. But when they, the aliens (from outer space or maybe just Moslems or something), want to come to the good green earth and take it over, then wait a minute, then you better call on the services of every super-hero who still draws, or is still capable of drawing, breath, no question. Guys like Agent so and so, the dishy gymnast flip dame with the Russian name, Captain America, Thor, Iron Man, guys with big thrust arrows, and hell, even the Hulk for some beef so they, those aliens know, or show be on notice to know, that there is going to be hell to pay if someone other than earthlings want to wantonly exploit the earth ’s resources.

And that little idea, that little band of brave brothers and sisters (and their support structure) saving the day against some neurotic Loki from who knows where and his mercenary army ready to proclaim himself king of the hill is what drives this very long, action- packed film. Of course, like in all professions, professions that have super-stars anyway, the collective does not gel right off so there is the usual bickering and working at cross-purposes before everybody gets on the team. And then watch out because no way is some half-mad Loki (and some kin to Thor, of all people) going to take his massive, seemingly never-ending and well-equipped army against the good folks of New Jack City (hey, haven’t those citizens had enough lately why not pick on say, Charleston , South Carolina or some place like that) without a fight to the finish, And there you have it. Oh, except this thought, if the American government hired this little heroic band then that seven hundred billion defense budget could be reduced to the price of airfare and a new change of clothes. Watch this one while waiting out a snowstorm like I did.

Poet’s Corner- Langston Hughes- “Bound No’th Blues”

Bound No’th Blues

Goin’ down the road, Lawd,
Goin’ down the road.
Down the road, Lawd,
Way,way down the road.
Got to find somebody
To help me carry this load.

Road’s in front o’ me,
Nothin’ to do but walk.
Road’s in front of me,
Walk…an’ walk…an’ walk.
I’d like to meet a good friend
To come along an’ talk.

Hates to be lonely,
Lawd, I hates to be sad.
Says I hates to be lonely,
Hates to be lonely an’ sad,
But ever friend you finds seems
Like they try to do you bad.

Road, road, road, O!
Road, road…road…road, road!
Road, road, road, O!
On the no’thern road.
These Mississippi towns ain’t
Fit fer a hoppin’ toad.

Langston Hughes

… he, Bradley Brim (juke joint, roadside house, rent party stage moniker, Clarksville Slim, but let’s just stick with Bradley until he needs to use that moniker again up north), was sick and tired of, hell, being sick and tired. First off, after last Saturday night, Bradley was sick and tired of every no account jive- ass jackass field hand, cotton field hand, in the great state of Mississippi feeling like he could, like he could as a natural right, all rum brave on Spider Jones’ homemade, feel that he could throw his whiskey jar at the stage when he didn’t like a particular number he was doing. Damn, go elsewhere. Next off he was sick and tired unto death of every Louella, Bee, Sarah, Selma, and Victoria (those his last four, ah, five girlfriends, for those not in the know, not in the juke joint circuit know), taking what little money he had (and it wasn’t much after expenses, a little reefer, a couple of bucks for some trifle for his girl of the moment) and spending it on her walking daddy, her husband or her pimp. And then at the end of the night saying, sweet purr saying, he was her one and only walking daddy, after he had picked up her tab and they headed to his place, his cabin for what no walking daddy, husband or pimp was giving her. And lastly off he was just about ready to shake the dust of old Spider Jones’ juke joints (road houses and cafes too, he had a string of them around the southern part of the state), his cornball liquor, the dust of Clarksville, and the dusts of the great state of Mississippi and follow the northern star to the promised land, to Chi town, to legendary Maxwell Street where a man could make himself and still come out ahead.

And as he started thinking, thinking once again about shaking that damn dust off, he thought too about how he wouldn’t miss his day job at Mister Baxter’s Lumber Company that was hampering his musical development because he couldn’t practice during the day like he should, wouldn’t miss every Mister James Crow-craving white man, woman and child in the state telling him, sit here, don’t sit there , walk here, don’t walk there, eat here, don’t eat there, drink the water here, don’t drink the water there, even Mister Baxter, wouldn’t miss every cornball white hick, white trash hick, really, eye-balling him anytime he went downtown for Mister Baxter, or on his own hook. Wouldn’t miss a lot of things, except those women who shook loose of their walking daddies and wanted him to be their coffee-grinder when the dawn came up.

He heard, and he thought he heard right, heard it from Mickey Mack’s woman who was waiting for him to send for her to come to Chi town any day now that there were plenty of jobs up there, good paying jobs in steel mills and slaughter houses (he thought about, and laughed too, how in school Miss Parker had read the class a poem by some crusty old white guy who called Chi town “hog-butcher to the world”), the housing wasn’t too bad (some cold- water flats which sounded better than the raggedy ass old Mister Baxter cabin he lived in) and get this, nobody, nobody on this good green earth cared where you ate, drank, sat on the bus, as long as you didn’t bother them (and maybe didn’t live next door to them).But mainly all he cared about was making it, or breaking it, he held that possibility out too, on Maxwell Street (or starting out on one of the side streets and working his way up) singing his stuff, singing his covers of Robert Johnson that he thought would drive the women wild (especially his version of Dust My Broom) and of Muddy too. Yah, all he cared about was following that northern star to sweet home Chicago.

***Out In Film Noir Night – With Robert Mitchum’s “Where Danger Lives” In Mind

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman:

He should have known, thought young, well, maybe not so young these days, after the last few go-rounds, Robert Mitchell as he lay all patch-worked up in yet another hospital bed, this time San Francisco General, as a result of yet another, ah, indiscretion, indiscretion meaning only one thing, a woman entered into it, that she was poison, that she, Faith, would do him not good. It was not like he had not been through this kind of thing before, an occupational hazard in his chosen, uh, professional, private investigator, gumshoe, private eye, peeper, shamus, snooper, and every other dirty defiling name you could think of, except a guy, guy who has been down on his uppers had to make a living, make a living anyway he could, any legal way (he had been a cop, a good cop, so he knew the illegal way, the grafter way only too well).

That “rep,” that sleazy rep kind of came with the territory (although he did no divorce work, no setting some guy or dame up for the adultery fall, complete with strewn bed sheet photos, court-certified photos, those beat down guys really were sleazy) , part of the overhead in the business where some heavy- lifting was necessary, and where a young guy, well, kind of young the way he was feeling just then, had to take what came his way in the form of business before he got so he could wave off the tough cases. Besides if a dame, a good- looking dame, came with it he was young and eager enough to go chasing a few windmills to help that good-looking dame out, and maybe get a little something extra beside twenty- five a day plus expenses for his efforts.

Like he said though he had been through this kind of caper, this Faith caper, before and should have known what was coming unlike that first time with Jane, Jane who was so tied into a mob guy, Kirk, yes, Kirk Donnelly, the now departed big numbers guy over in Reno, the tie-in a little fact that he was unaware of when he took the case, when Kirk hired him to find her whereabouts, which is how he got blind-sided by her charms. Yes, she took him for a ride, rode him through the Mexican nights after he Kirk money followed her there and he caught a whiff of that gardenia perfume (as he thought back about Jane he kept coming up against the image of smelling that perfume even before she hit the café door, hit the door running, running right at him, with that “big boy, got a cigarette for a lonely girl” line, adios hermano, adios). That minute, or maybe that minute before she opened that door, he was hooked, hooked bad, bad as a man could be hooked on a woman.

They were going to run away together, South America maybe, and spent some of old Kirk’s dough she had grabbed living the easy life. Except old Kirk, the late Kirk, through no fault of his own, or maybe he too should have known, known what she was capable of , didn’t get to be a big numbers guy by letting dark-haired drop-dead beautiful no holds-barred dames take him like that. And so he found them, brought them back, and was ready to make a cement resting place for them, him anyway, when Jane let Kirk have a slug, or six, from a .32, his, to settle the matter. And then she clipped him too, clipped him in the shoulder, to put frosting on the cake, and then fled, fled with everything she could grab from Kirk’s safe, and was probably living in Rio, or some sunny spot like that right now while he was crabbing strained baby food, or whatever the called the hospital meal fare.

Or if not with Jane he should have learned the last time, the last time with Lana, another dark-haired beauty although complete with jasmine perfume that time, when he was supposed to follow her to from Frisco to Mexico (he thought, when he was half coming out of surgery, maybe Mexico was unlucky for him, something in the air, something in the tequila, maybe that reefer madness these dark-haired women were hungry for to get them in the mood, their mood, maybe that explained it) in order to protect her interests in case some actor she had her hooks into welched when he was supposed to get a divorce from his wife to marry her. She had played footsies with him on the side once she hear that Raymond Morales, a mob guy, Mexican section (dope, gold, white-slave), was putting the squeeze on the actor for dough owed, big dough, and she was afraid she was going to be left out in the cold with nada (or she had it planned out – him the next best thing, windmill-chasing, durable heavy-lifting best thing for what she had in mind). That one ended up with him chasing rainbows on some off-shore ship that Raymond was using as a hide-out from the Federales and he had received a serious working over by Raymond’s boys. Lana, well, Lana shot a couple of guys, dead-aim shot them too, a handy girl, who were guarding Raymond’s dough, cleaned him out, grabbed in passing the actor’s dough sitting on Raymond’s desk ready for deposit, the dough he was set to pay over to Raymond for his debts, fled, alone or aided he never did find out although a flashy dark-haired dame with curves in all the right places and that damn jasmine would have them lined up ten deep to provide whatever little service they could render the bonita senorita, adios hermano, and maybe she too was living in Rio and Jane and she were charter members of the Robert Mitchell Sucker Club. Welcome another member girls, Faith is on her way.

Betty, the gal who nursed him back to health when they shipped him norte after the Lana, ah, incident, and whom he started dating, seriously dating, before Faith got her hooks into him, said one night when he was talking about this stuff to her that he, Robert Mitchell, was the kind of guy that any woman would be looking for as a protector. Tall, rugged, brawny, good looks, manly, a guy who looked like he could take a few punches and not squawk about it when some woman asked him to chase an off-hand windmill, and looked like he might be interesting for a tumble in bed too. He had laughed at that one. Yah, Betty, solid, no nonsense, fetching, funny, proper, although a little improperly surprising in bed and he hadn’t complained, now long gone, lost in the fateful Faith tumble. Faith, a woman who guys, wind-mill chasing guys too, would give up hope for, and she would make them do so, and who had no charity no charity at all as those two slugs about six inches from his heart that had just been surgically removed attested to. Betty said this too, funny Betty, she said the only different between her and these“fallen” women that he had run around with, when it came to men, was that she did not know how to shoot a gun. Yah, funny Betty. Gone Betty

He did not want to think how Faith had played him, played him for a fool, not now, not ever, but as he lay there all patched- up he could not help but think back to how he could have played it better, if for no other reason than professional pride. She had come into his office all a-flutter, kind of school -girlish and laid her proposition on the line. He husband, her older very jealous husband, was being abusive (thinking she was being unfaithful, she swore to Robert she had not. He assumed she was lying.) and she wanted to get a divorce and needed some proof of his abuse to take to court. He had said sorry that he did not do divorce work. She pouted, started to cry, and then her Chanel No.5 kicked in. He took her to dinner, they had a few drinks, and they tumbled over to his place. Done, flame-broiled done. The next few weeks were like that, like some strange exotic, erotic dream, except she kept pressing him to confront the husband, to tell him they, she and Robert, were in love and that he had to grant the divorce.

Well, Robert bought it, bought her argument, and they went to confront dear old hubby. Naturally with a good-looking dame like Faith and with a ton of dough the husband laughed. Not for long though. Faith pulled a gun, and plugged old hubby bang- bang- bang (as he recollected the scene he grimaced and thought about what Betty had said about these dangerous women and their guns). He rushed over but apparently hubby was a goner. This time he was cooked, he was going to take the big step- off on this one, and she would probably not even take the fall. The poor as a church mouse guy took advantage of the poor distressed wife to grab some dough and the easy life. Yah, that’s the way the jury would get the case all wrapped up in a pretty bow. He, they had to get away. Mexico he thought without thinking, thought better of the idea too once she said she had some dough stashed in Mexico City. Yah, that was a good idea, head south.

And so they did, although keeping on the back roads and out of sight was tough especially when their dough was low and expenses were high as they had to depend on low-lifes to eventually get then across the border at Nogales, an easy exit spot. Then in Bakersfield he picked up a newspaper that got him wise, got him wise in a hurry. It seems that Faith had not leveled with him about the fact that she had killed a couple of other guys (let off on self-defense grounds by the time she got through with the all-male juries) who allegedly had abused her, had spent a considerable time in some swanky mental institutions for all kinds of problems and, the kicker, had failed to inform him that hubby had not been killed by the bullets she threw his way but had died from being smothered by a pillow, her pillow when he went to see if anybody had heard her shots . He was off the hook. But Faith didn’t see it that way, not at all and so the little gift of a couple of slugs. And she long gone, maybe to Rio like he said before. And so here he was, sitting alone in a hospital, no Betty, no nothing, nothing except the high heaven hope that when he got back on his feet he hoped that no more young women came through his office door. But he was not sure, not sure he hoped that.

***In The Time Of The Be-Bop Baby-Boom Jail Break-Out- My Baby Loves The Western Movies, Okay ?”

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin:

A while back I was on a tear in reviewing individual CDs in of an extensive rock and roll series, you know those “oldies, but goodies” compilations pitched to, uh, certain demographic, an ARRP-worthy demographic, okay. 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 have been, to the themes of those artwork scenes. One, a 1963 cover was a case of the former, of fitting in. And that fitting in was triggered by a real life example, passing the still operating Olde Saco Drive-In up in the old hometown, up in Maine to be exact as I was passing through for a visit.

On that CD cover, a summer scene (always a nice touch since that was the time, the no school time, no carping teachers, no curly-eyed cops wondering if we were playing hooky , and no nagging Ma, always Ma, in those days, except for big stuff since Dads’ were working their butts off trying to keep their families’heads above water, when we had at least the feel of our generational break-out minute ) we are at the drive-in, the drive-in movies for those of the Internet/Netflicks/YouTubegenerations who have not gotten around to checking out this bit of Americana onWikipedia, with the obligatory 1950s-early 1960s B-movie monster movie (outer space aliens, creatures from the black lagoon, blobs, DNA-damaged dinosaurs, foreign-bred behemoths a specialty) prominent on the screen.

Oh sure, everyone of a certain age, a certain baby-boomer age, a generation of ’68 age, has plenty of stories to tell of being bundled up as kids, maybe pre-set with a full set pajamas on to defend against the late sleepy-eyed night, the sleepy-drowsy late movie night, placed in the car backseats and taken by adventurous parents (or so it seemed) to the local open air drive-in for the double feature. That usually also happened on a friendly summer night when school did not interfere with staying up late (hopefully through both films). And to top it all off you got to play in the inevitable jungle jim, see-saw, slide, swing set-laden playground during intermission between the film while waiting, waiting against all hope, for that skewered, shriveled hot dog, rusty, dusty hamburger, or stale, over the top buttered popcorn that was the real reason that you “consented” to stay out late with the parents. Yah, we all have variations on that basic theme to tell, although I challenge anyone, seriously challenge anyone, to name five films that you saw at the drive-in that you remembered from then-especially those droopy-eyed second films.

In any case, frankly, I don’t give a damn about that kid stuff family adventure drive-in experience. Come on, that was all, well, just kid’s stuff, fluff. The “real” drive-in, as pictured in the cover art I am speaking of is what I want to address. The time of our time in that awkward teen alienation, teen angst thing that only got abated by things like a teenage night at the drive-in.

Yah, that was not, or at least I hope it was not, you father’s drive-in experience. That might have been happening in the next planet over, for all I know. For one thing, for starters our planet involved girls (girls, ah, women, just reverse the genders here to tell your side of the experience), looking for girls, or want to be looking for girls, preferably a stray car-full to complement your guy car-full and let god sort it out at intermission. (And see, I can finally, in the year of our lord, 2013, reveal the hidden truth, that carful of girls had worked on the same premise, they were looking for guys to complement their carful and let god sort it out at intermission, the common thread intermission.)

Wait a minute. I am getting ahead of myself in this story. First you needed that car, because no walkers or bus riders need apply for the drive-in movies like this was some kind of lame, low-rent, downtown matinee last picture show adventure. For this writer that was a problem, a personal problem, as I had no car and my family had cars only sporadically. Fortunately we early baby-boomers lived in the golden age of the automobile and could depend on a friend to either have a car (praise be teenage disposable income/allowances) or could use the family car. Once the car issue was clarified then it was simply a matter of getting a carful of guys (or sometimes guys and gals) in for the price of two (maybe three) admissions.

What? Okay, I think that I can safely tell the story now because the statute of limitations on this “crime” must have surely passed. See, what you did was put a couple (or three guys) in the trunk of that old car (or in a pinch one guy on the backseat floor the rest in the truck) as you entered the drive-thru admissions booth. The driver paid for the two (or three tickets) and took off to your parking spot, that secluded area far from kiddie pajama night madnesses (complete with a ramp speaker just in case you wanted to actually listen to the film shown on that big wide white screen). Neat trick, right?

Now, of course, the purpose of all of this, as mentioned above, was to get that convoy of guys, trunk guys, backseat guys, backseat floor guys, whatever, to mix and moon with that elusive carful of girls who did the very same thing (except easier because they were smaller) at the intermission stand or maybe just hanging around the unofficially designated teen hang-out area. Like I said no family sedans with those pajama-clad kids need apply (nor, come to think of it, would any sane, responsible parent get within fifty paces of said teens). And occasionally, very occasionally as it turned out, some “boss” car would show up complete with one guy (the driver) and one honey (girl, ah, woman) closely seated beside him for what one and all knew was going to be a very window-fogged night. And that was, secretly thought or not, the guy drive-in dream. As for the movies. Did they show movies there? Enough said.

Oh, except that at said drive-in, before the first show started at dusk, between shows and on the way home, girl-matched or not, you were very liable to hear many of the songs from that old CD on the old car radio. Stuff like : Heat Wave (not as good as Dancing In The Streets but good), Martha and the Vandellas; Just One Look (make that look my way, please, even if you are munching on popcorn) Doris Troy; Wild Weekend (just in case you wanted to dance during intermission rather than watch the screen clock ticking off the time until that next film began), The Rockin’ Rebels ; and, Don’t Say Nothin’ Bad About My Baby (yah, you have got that right, sisters), The Cookies. Yah, that was the frosting on the cake in that good night.

***An Archaeological Dig?- Remembrances Of Things Past-The Yearbook-For Carol C., Class Of 1964

Peter Paul Markin, Class Of 1964, comment:

Quick, where is your North Adamsville High School yearbook, the Magnet? Yah, I knew I would catch some of you off-guard with that one. For some of you though it is merely a fast jump over from your easy chair to the bookshelf, a little dusting off of that treasure with a conveniently placed rag, and you are ready for duty, nostalgia duty. Or shuffle, creakily shuffle by the way if I am any judge of conditions these days, up to the old cobwebby attic, cursing the day (or night, for that matter) about how hard it is to get around and how it's not like it used to be, wondering, thoughtfully wondering, where in hell the box that you put that valued heirloom in is. Yah, I know that drill. Then, finally, finding the precious cargo under layers of later photo albums, albums showing your life’s work, your family outings, and your other righteous keepsake memories. And, yes, taking too out the rag to wipe a half century’s dust off, although not memories. Or trudging out to the garage/storage area/dump the final resting place for all ephemera, exotica and just plain “don’t know what to do with” items (except, well, of course not, throw the damn stuff away since you have not used those gee-gawks since about 1972). Yah, I know that drill too. In all cases though, shelf, attic, garage, ready, as if you were waiting, cosmic waiting patiently, for someone, some old reprobate classmate with an itchy finger on the Internet in the year 2013 to ask you that very question. Well, okay we all have our little quirks.

Others though will have to answer AWOL (absent without leave, for those who did not do that military service of unblessed memory) and confess that item got tossed out, mistakenly or not, long ago on some vagabond move, or some other now long forgotten excursion. It wasn’t like you didn’t treasure the thing, really, but times moved on, you moved on and maybe the euphoria of high school pictures, of maybe five hundred plus people that you barely knew, or remembered, clubs you did not belong to, or sports that you did not participate in had passed by. Or, it wasn’t like you did not intend to keep the holy of holies but on those long ago hitchhike roads, those hitchhike roads west to start anew, maybe, just maybe, you had to leave it behind in some desolate motel room, or some godforsaken high mountain campsite. I understand your dilemma, believe me.

Or it was sold to the highest bidder at some flea market yard sale to pay off some untidy debt, some untidy small debt, I assume. The list of possibilities is endless, but at least those irresponsible renegade raider reds that simply lost or left theirs in some undisclosed place had enough spunk to leave the dust of high school traumas, dramas and bad karmas behind in some also now long forgotten way station.

As for myself, for those dying to know, or even those who are not because I have no story to tell otherwise, I know exactly where my previously uncoveted copy is, or at least where I threw it. Soon, very soon after graduation, in a fit of hubris, teen alienation, teen angst, teen rage against the dark I threw it, threw it unceremoniously, into the Neponset River not far from the old school, and my family’s house. Beyond that I take no responsible for where it landed, although I hope that it landed in some far off island where they have never heard of yearbooks, photographs, and pictures of people doing strange activities and would be clueless on such questions as why guys are running around in white shorts, why boys and girls are on separate bowling teams, why certain Greek vestigial Tri-Hi-Y girls take the three purities vows, and why guys were wearing non-fashionista white socks when posing for group activities. Things frankly that I wonder at now, wonder at intensely, myself. And maybe, just maybe, that Magnet is now an item of veneration, high holy veneration by some cargo cult-worshipping peoples who had no other use for the thing.

But that is more a fit task for an anthropologist’s analysis. Today I wish to speak of, as the headline indicates, archeology, of the search for ancient treasures, not of their meaning, well, not seriously of their meaning. And along that line I have a question, no, I have 1000 questions. I have just been on a “treasure hunt.” Was it in search of the Dead Sea Scrolls? No, that's kid's stuff. Did I venture to the cradle of civilization, Mesopotamia, to dig up ancient sculptures? Boring, for my purposes here. Did I go on an Indiana Jones-style adventure in search of the lost Ark of the Covenant? Mere child’s play. No, I bravely went to the wilds of Winchester, Massachusetts to the lovely home of Frankie Riley, Francis Xavier Riley, the king hell king corner boy of the North Adamsville schoolboy be-bop night, from our class. And what treasure did I dig out? A rather pristine copy of the Magnet for the Class of 1964. This, my friends, is the find of the age.

Okay, now I have you exactly where I want you. Forget Botox and Hair Club for Men, from now on, guys and gals, no more trying to pass for fifty-something just because sixty is the new fifty. That include you Chrissie McNamara (maiden name). I have proof of age. In black and white glossies. And I do believe that I could find a good enough lawyer to have it hold up in court. Frankie, though, is already talking about hiring “hit men” to do me in if I so much as harm a hair on any classmate's head. You know Frankie; he was always one for the wild talk.

But enough of that wild noise for now. A couple of comments are in order, after an initial quick run through, before I do a more thorough scientific examination of this artifact. First, in the interest of scientific veracity I must confess an error. At one time or another when talking about “back in the days” I told one and all that Frankie and I spent (or misspent) many a summer evening on the front steps of North Adamsville High discussing our dreams, mainly small dreams and other getting through the day things, not big, cosmic mortality dreams like we would now. In describing the steps I mentioned that there were either stone lions or gargoyles that flanked either side of the steps. Well, in many pictures in the yearbook, especially of group activities, the front steps frame the shot. The items on the side of the steps were actually stone columns and globes. I was close though, right? That error is definitely either a result of the "mist of time" misting up big time or creeping senility. Your choice.

And now for some observations (and a posing of some those 1000 questions) on a first run through of the class pictures, individually and collectively. For most of the guys I would not want to meet you in a dark alley, even now. Unless I was heavily armed, or had the 82nd Airborne at my back. Actually make that the 82nd Airborne and at least one regiment from the 101st Airborne. Especially looking at those football players. I won't even speak of basketball and baseball players because they were mainly football guys after the season was over anyway. Were they on steroids in those days? Or some less exotic tobacco-like drug down in the locker room after the coaches called it a day? Is that why all the girls gathered round? I thought it was athletic prowess, but now I wonder. And wonder also what they look like now, now after all those years of youthful punishment on those hips, knees, and ankles. Come to think of it I don't think I will need that extra 101st regiment after all.

While we are on the subject of girls, the eternal subject then (and let's face it now too) and who they were and were not hanging around with, it is totally understandable that they would flock to the gridiron goliaths who carried our hopes and dreams on their broad shoulders on those brisk, yellow-leafed, gathering ice grey clouds autumn afternoons. Fair is fair. What is not fair, after looking at the picture of the billiards team, is why all the girls flocked to them. Many an afternoon I would drift (nice word use, right?) over casually to Joe's Billiard Parlor (although everybody knew it was nothing but a glorified pool hall, and Joe was nothing but a "connected", connected meaning you know connected do I have to spell it out, bookie using the place as a front) to check out the girls, the very lively, interesting girls, that seemed to be hanging off the rafters watching the boys (and it was always boys in those days) "shoot pools." Fifty years later and I am still burned up about it. Christ those guys were nothing but rough-hewed corner boys (although that may have been the attraction for those bouncy, tight sweater-wearing frails).

And continuing on with the sports teams, the track guys, christ, they look like they just came out of the wheat fields of Kansas with those uniforms that were issued in about 1926. And those squinty eyes like this was the first time they had seen a camera. One guy definitely looked like he was posing to be some jut-jawed Old West guy, cowboy guy, that made me think of a poor man's version of the actor/playwright Sam Shepard. Maybe my cargo cult reference above applies here too, except for cameras not yearbooks. Although I don’t know much about what goes on in Kansas, except don’t bury me there. No wonder people honked horns, caroomed their cars close to them, and yelled profanities as they passed when those guys ran in the road, the mad-hatter running road.

The tennis guys and gymnasts looked okay, normal as far as I could see, no dopey look in their eyes, mercifully. I swear though that I didn't know we had a tennis team but there it is in black and white so we must have. I know this for sure though some of those golf guys have that shifty look, you know, that look like they know the ball moved and they didn't take a penalty in that last match against Adamsville High. That's okay guys, it was only Adamsville. I won’t even speak about the treachery oozing out of the eyes of guys on the boys’ bowling team (or the girls’ for that matter). I thought bowling was a genteel sport. Why does everyone, male or female, look like, maybe, they cheated when adding up their scores. Strange, strange indeed.

And moving away from sports and clubs did we (guys) really wear our hair that way (and wear it that short, with those pseudo-sideburns)? And did we really wear those dweeby sports jackets with those white socks (with loafers it looks like) that seem to be sticking out endlessly of every sports team photograph?

For most of the gals, and call me a "dirty old man" but please, please do not tell my "significant other" I would not mind meeting you in the dark. No armed escorts necessary. Especially those gals on pages 78, 100, 106, 126, and 130. Yah, you know who you are. And I know you haven’t changed a bit since 1964, right?

Here is what I don’t get though. Well, maybe I better start off with what I do get. The cheerleaders did their cheer-leading thing and I swear no football game would have been the same without their rah, rah, rahs on those previously mentioned brisk, granite grey autumn days. The majorettes, well, the majorettes did their twirling, and especially one twirler that caught my eye, knew how to flip that thing. Be still my heart. And the band members played their tubas, trombones, and trumpets to perfection, although I heard some disturbing, if unsubstantiated, information about what went on in the band practice room, or really during the after practice hours. But I do not get this, and am desperately seeking enlightenment. Why did perfectly normal (at least from their photos they appear normal, 1960s beehive hair, cashmere sweater, whimsical smile normal) girls (a.k.a. young women, now) submit to the ridiculous three purities (no bad thoughts, words, or actions, christ) required, no demanded, for entry into Tri-Hi-Y. Something very unsettling was underfoot there, especially as we were on the threshold of the sexual revolution. I will investigate that matter further. Count on it.