Wednesday, August 13, 2014



Update on Jamil Al Amin

July 17th, 2014 Lynne wants everyone to know that Jamil is now at Butner Medical Center (federal prison facility) and we all must continue to pay close attention to his situation and make sure he gets good treatment while there.
The will be an update TONIGHT (7/17) at 8pm Eastern on the WBAI program Where We Live. Click here to go to the WBAI website and stream live tonight.
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Emergency Meeting for Jamil Al Amin!

July 15th, 2014
Calling all people of conscience in New York. Please Forward Widely.
As you know, political prisoner Imam Jamil Al Amin (AKA H. Rap Brown) is in medical crisis. Please join the Campaign to Bring Mumia Home in this public response to his condition and incarceration. We welcome co-sponsors and co-organizers to this event. Please spread the word in your networks. Flyer below and attached. Also note the petition and letter from his wife, Sister Karima Al Amin, Esq. below with an update on his condition and numbers to call. Also listen to interview with Sis Karima and Ramsey Clark on WBAI’s Law and Disorder this Monday morning. (MP3)
Wed July 16 at 7PM
Bluestockings Bookstore
172 Allen Street
Petition
https://www.causes.com/posts/919704-and-what-answer-will-you-give-for-abandoning-your-brother
People of conscience should
  • contact the ADX at (719) 784-9464
  • send e-mails to FLM/ execassistant@bop.gov
  • voice concerns on http://www.bop.gov/inmates/concerns.jsp by selecting Florence ADMAX USP, and entering Jamil Al-Amin #99974-555
  • contact their Congressional reps
  • contact the Medical Director in Washington, DC, at nkendig@bop.gov
  • contact the director of the Federal Bureau of Prisons, Charles Samuels, in Washington, DC; and sign petitions.
  • There also is an effort underway to contact Eric Holder.

Letter from his wife, Karima Al Amin, Attorney at Law, with more details on his condition.
There are several updates on the internet, but this is where we are at this point:

1.)  Imam Jamil has had a dental problem for more than a year, which resulted in swollen jaws, broken teeth, and the inability to swallow;
2.)  He lost 29 lbs. over a three-week period;
3.)  His legs, feet and ankles have been swollen; and
4.)  He went through a two-week period whereby he could not get out of his bed except for two times a day.
He attempted to see a physician at ADX, but instead saw a physician’s assistant who gave him water pills, and antibiotics weeks after his second extraction.
Based on people calling and inquiries from two Congressional reps, ADX finally took blood and urine tests.  Results were shared with Imam Jamil, on June 23, 2014, a day after Attorney Ramsey Clark completed his visit with him at the ADX.  The Regional Medical Director discussed the preliminary findings with Imam Jamil and said the findings suggested that he may have Multiple Myeloma–cancer of the plasma cells, and the stage would be confirmed once he had a bone marrow biopsy.  If he has not reached stage 1 of the condition, then it would suggest that he has MGUS, which is a pre-Multiple Myeloma condition.  Imam Jamil’s take on the discussion was that he had cancer, and the stage would be confirmed once he has the biopsy.
Based on this information, his age (70 years), and the symptoms, we are calling for his immediate transfer to a federal medical center, Butner, NC, or Rochester, MN, where he could receive the appropriate monitoring and medical care.
I hope this information is useful.  Please let me know if you need additional information.  We appreciate your assistance.
Best,
Karima
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Support Imam Jamil Al-Amin aka H. Rap Brown!

July 11th, 2014
From: Karima Al-Amin
I do want to send information to you, and folks are circulating numbers to call and things to do.  Just briefly, Imam Jamil has been ill for quite some time, i.e., loss of 29 lbs., abscesses in his mouth–swollen jaw, difficulty breathing, swollen feet and ankles, weakness, and fatigue.
We launched a campaign for people to contact Florence ADX, the Federal Bureau of Prisons, and the regional medical division of the FBOP, demanding that he be examined by a physician.  After pressure also from two Congressional reps, he finally had blood and urine tests.  We then found out that the results revealed perhaps an early stage of Multiple Myeloma–cancer of the plasma cells.  With this preliminary diagnosis, he has to have a bone marrow biopsy to determine the stage.
We are calling for him to be transferred immediately to a federal medical center (Butner, NC, or Rochester, MN) where he can receive the treatment that ADX failed to give him.
Please e-mail the following right now and request that he is moved to the best federal medical facility that can give him the best attention for this particular rare cancer.

Include his name and ID#:
Jamil Abdullah Al-Amin #99974-555

It is important to say, I am writing to request that Jamil Abdullah Al-Amin #99974-555 is moved from ADMAX, USP to the best federal medical facility that can give him the best attention for this particular rare cancer.
Please Call the following and request that he is moved to the best federal medical facility to receive comprehensive medical treatment:
It is important to say, hello I am calling to request that Jamil Abdullah Al-Amin #99974-555 is moved from ADMAX, USP to the best federal medical facility that can give him the best attention for this particular rare cancer.
  • Federal Bureau of Prisons (202) 307-3198 Press #3 for Office of General Counsel and request that he is moved. You will be transferred to an individual to document the call. Pressing #7 and then #6 for Medical Services simply gives other recordings and was not as effective.
  • Lisa Gregory, Director of Health Services for The North Central Region of the Federal Bureau of Prisons – telephone number – 913-621-3939. Press 0 (Zero) for the operator. Leave a message if necessary.
  • Please also Write:
Director Charles Samuels
Federal Bureau of Prisons
320 First Street, NW
Washington, DC 20534
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July 2014 Blog from Lynne

July 2nd, 2014
My very dear friends, comrades, supporters;
Since my prognosis designated July as a terminal date, I decided I better write so that you would know that all is well and we continue to fight on !!
In the past months we had a superb trip and rousing events in California — lots of people old and new to continue to share in the joy that I am OUT !   Ralph and I danced in the street in the mission district of San Francisco accompanied by a Leftist Brass Band.  We had a barn burner event in Oakland and we traveled to San Jose, Marin County and Sacramento to meet and greet the many supporters who played the all important role that has put me back on the streets.  The effort was movement wide and proves what can be done. We just have to muster the will to do it.  After we returned to the East we made a visit to Boston and met with many folks of past struggles and of course, their greeting to me was formidable.  Right here in my own NYC we participated in the many events surrounding the effort to free Oscar Rivera Lopez, Puerto Rican political prisoner held for 33 years.  Hopefully that will happen soon.  We also made numerous phone calls and signed petitions on behalf of Abdullah Majid and Jalil Montecalm, Seth Hayes and Jamil el Amin and others  I am committed to emptying the jails of our Mandelas.
Healthwise I have been keepin’ on.  With guidance from my Doctor daughter Zenobia and the folks at Memorial Sloane Kettering I am embarked on an experimental regimen that has shown success in people whose cancer involvement is similar to mine.  It is quite rigorous in its scientific discipline and keeps us close to home even when we might want to be away.  BUT it is a positive hope and I am determined (as you all know) to beat this affliction into the ground and continue with the WORK.  It seems to become more pressing with each day as the predations of capitalism grow more ominous.
On the negative side, I continue to have trouble walking and must lean on the good Ralph — literally as I did figuratively for the last 4 years— Side effects from the experimental meds are bothersome but not more.  On the Positive side, we have moved from my generous son and daugher in law’s  back into the little house i was living in at the time I went to jail.  SNAIL MAIL   1676  8th Avenue, Brooklyn, NY 11215   A great deal of family effort and a fair amount of $$$ made this possible but it is so restorative to be living there once again—my books, my old ’60′s posters, the family pictures…  Heavenly.  I just wish that I could summon up a little more energy to respond to many of you who have reached out to us. Hopefully the new drug will remedy this.
We are extremely grateful for all the money raised to help pay for the necessities, medical and otherwise.  Now that we are back out in the real world in our own house we have some new needs . Each visit to the Doctors in Manhattan costs at least $100. for parking and etc.   If you are in a position and feel inclined to help out, we are always appreciative.
Tomorrow I will be at SK to be prodded and poked and then we will join my beloved family upstate for the holiday to be celebrated in a revolutionary manner.  It is a good day to think about true revolutionary movements world wide and the people who made them,,not the least of whom are the many brave men and women in the political prisoner gulag of America.
LoveStruggle
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Uprising Radio: Lynne Stewart and Ralph Poynter On Life, Activism, Prison, and Freedom

June 25th, 2014 Famed activist Lawyer Lynne Stewart as freed earlier this year on compassionate release as she battled cancer in prison. The celebrated lawyer who had been incarcerated under post 9-11 “Special Administrative Measures” for sharing her terrorism suspect client’s views with a reporter, was freed after 4 years in prison, where she suffered from late-stage breast cancer and was given only 18 months to live.
Progressives all over the nation, led by Stewart’s husband, Ralph Poynter, organized for her release for many months.
Lynne Stewart is well known for representing controversial clients, and according to one press account, she “defended America’s poor, underprivileged, unwanted, and forgotten (Indymedia).”
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Photo: Lynne and Ralph at John Brown’s Grave

June 3rd, 2014
Lynne and Ralph at John Brown’s grave in Lake Placid, NY, 2014.
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Lynne and Ralph’s Panel at the Left Forum (NYC)

May 29th, 2014

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Photos: Lynne and Ralph Guest Speakers at Betty Davis’s Philosophy Class

May 17th, 2014
Ralph Poynter & Lynne  Stewart were guest speakers at Betty Davis’s senior class in philosophy  on this past Thursday, May 15,2014.
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Support the new book from Lynne’s former client Tom Manning!

May 16th, 2014
Show Your Solidarity and Help Make this Inspiring Book Come Alive!
Tom Manning is a freedom fighter, political prisoner and prolific artist. His paintings are stories that jump off the page, revealing the outlook of people who struggle for liberation around the world. His paintings are about life and his landscapes recall times of importance. The years of work to produce this beautiful book and important document are nearing their end and we need your help to fund the last phase of production! ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY: https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/for-love-and-liberty
Featuring:
  • 86 full color reproductions of Tom’s Painting
  • Preface by Robby Meeropol
  • Article, “In My Time” by Tom
  • Poem by Assata, “Affirmation”
  • Autobiography of Tom Manning
  • Afterword by Ray Levasseur
  • Notes from photographer Penny Schoner
All proceeds, after production costs, will be donated to the Rosenberg Fund for Children: Twitter: @wwwrfcorg  Facebook:rosenbergfundforchildren

Tom Manning: Freedom Fighter, Political Prisoner

From the Preface by Robby Meerpol:
“Tom’s been incarcerated for 34 years.  But even before he received his current life sentence he was trapped by the limited choices left to an impoverished child surviving in Boston’s infamous Maverick Street Projects. The military during the Vietnam era seemed like a way out, but that too became a hellish form of confinement.
Tom broke free, he revolted.  He became a revolutionary.  He committed the unforgivable sin of confronting today’s great imperial empire, the United States, on its home turf.  For that, I expect the prison industrial complex will do its best to keep him confined for as long as it can.”
More info at: https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/for-love-and-liberty
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Support Sundiata Acoli!

May 15th, 2014
Please provide support for Sundiata whatever way you can.  If you’re in the region, go to the courthouse on May 28.  If not, donate to his legal defense or (if you cannot) send Sundiata your support after checking out his website (link below). The following information is from his webpage. KN

Sundiata gave the Sundiata Acoli Freedom Campaign (SAFC)  an update on his May 1st annual review. The parole board will reduce his sentence by only three months, to be taken off the 8-year (illegal) hit they added to his time. He would not be eligible for parole for over four more years. It is important to note that Sundiata has 41 years in prison and is 77 years old. He has maintained a clean record.
Sundiata’s attorney will argue an appeal of denial before the New Jersey Appellate Division in Trenton, New Jersey on May 28, 2014. This is an important and significant day.
http://www.sundiataacoli.org/
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***Out In The Noir Night - The Stuff Of Dream, Part One

 

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin

 

I remember I was at a party once, maybe a year or so ago, a party of political people, well maybe not so much political people although the event was being held to raise money for a political cause as aware of what was going on in the world. Oh, maybe I better say literary people and be done with the description. In any case the crowd was always up for some arch conversation about any subject that might hit the floor. That night a guy, a well-known local writer, was bemoaning the fact that “they don’t make detectives, private detectives in books, movies and such like they used to.” Of course he meant going back to the classic age of the detective, the hard-boiled detectives one read about in old magazines like Black Mask, blood and guts guys with a finely-defined code of honor and enough savvy to get into, or out of, a jam without winding up face down in some arroyo somewhere. Sure he was talking about guys like Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe and Dashiell Hammett’s Spade in the book world, and guys like Humphrey Bogart and Robert Mitchum in the celluloid world. He was particularly fascinated by Hammett’s Sam Spade from the book (and film) The Maltese Falcon and the combination of honor, greed, chasing after windmills, toughness under pressure and about six other attributes that made Spade the epitome of the old-time private detective. He then regaled us with about a half hours’ worth of how he would play a variation on the story line in that classic.

See, he said in the book you get the story strictly from Sam’s side -the seeker after some kind of rough justice in this wicked old world. He thought that it might be interesting to look at it from Brigit’s side, the femme fatale foil for Sam. And maybe mix it up little with a look from lavender Joel’s, the Fat Man’s and her something erstwhile crony, and maybe the cops, one of the cops, Sergeant Bond, friendly to Sam anyway, since they were clueless until Sam wrapped up the case with a bow for them. He then began to chirp in about how you could look at it from Miles Archer’s point too but I chimed in that that idea would require too many moving parts, would take the guts out of the thing, take that code thing Sam had and tear it all to hell. He backed off a little at that but in later conversation tried to spin the idea giving more details about how he would shake things up for the modern audience.  Here is his spin on the story as best I remember.            

… she, let’s see what name should she use on this caper, oh, maybe Mae Kiley, she hadn’t used that one in a while and nobody, no cops, were looking for her under that name, had it all figured out even before the secretary, Gladys she had called herself when she answered the telephone so Mae could set up an appointment, gave her professional glad tidings, offer of a seat, and “wait a minute I’ll see if they are in” spiel as she entered the foyer to the office.  Gladys by the way as Mae observed the scene and made mental notes, all blonde, busty and polished was obviously somebody in the office’s good- time girl or mistress, maybe both since she did not appear to have ever worn her fingers to a frazzle over some lousy steno pool typewriter. Gladys after making an appearance of checking over the intercom, opened the door to their office and made introductions. (Mae also made a mental note to compare notes with Gladys once she figured out whose honey she was in order to find out what made him tick. She figured a matter of professional courtesy one girl trying to make it in a wicked old world to another doing the best they could Gladys would oblige her once she knew Mae’s score.)The office of a couple of gumshoes, shamuses, private dicks, Marty Ash and Steve Shaw, that she fully intended to have run interference for her on her road to easy street, her golden egg road. When she saw the pair she knew she had made the right decision-like shooting fish in a barrel.  

Getting back to business though Mae had two thoughts as she sat down in an offered chair, a chipped chair that needed some repair and so had seen better days. Looking around at the not busy desks, the dusty file cabinets and the empty hat-rack told her automatically-cheap street. She knew she was in the right precinct for her proposition. One thought was maybe superficial, maybe a bit a catty, since it would not be the first or even close to the first time in her shorty twenty-two year old life that she used a guy and then tossed him over when the next best thing came along, but she could hardly suppress a certain smirk smile about it once she surveyed the terrain, these guys would be easy, would be putty in her hands once she laid her story out for them. The other, the real driving force behind her returning to Frisco just ahead of the law and of some vague cartel looking for the same thing she was looking for, was that no way, no way in hell was she going back to that Hong Kong whorehouse world (and before that a couple of years trick walking these very lonely and unsavory Frisco streets for nickels and dimes really). So they had to fall for her plan, or else.

Yah, Mae had prepped herself well about how she was in dire, but she would make clear with a sigh not desperate, need of help, a little manly protection, keeping it vague but alluring, to retrieve an item, a valuable item, from a tough customer, Fritz Lager, a former lover who she, putting on her best all frilly, silly and defenseless manner, was afraid to confront alone. Just a couple of minutes work, no rough stuff if they were smart, and then home for supper or whatever (silently she thought maybe a rendezvous with that blonde out front although she still couldn’t figure which guy was bonking her). Keep the story breezy and simple, but above all vague enough to seem harmless but alluring enough for them, or one of them, to take a chance. And throw in enough dough, say a couple of hundred bucks, maybe three, to set the trap. No more than three though because just then she was a little light and needed to keep some aside for the room rent. Wickedly she entertained thoughts of some kind of barter, you know for services rendered, saving some dough but she was right then trying to play the virginal damsel in distress so she thought better of it. Maybe later when she had the hooks in, had gotten under one of these guys’ skin. Hah, by then they would be slipping her dough. 

As Mae surveyed the two gumshoes sitting kind of forlorn and from hunger she almost licked her lips knowing that she had selected just the right pair (as they were busy licking their lips over her making her think that maybe that blonde number out front was just trimming and had a walking daddy somewhere else who was keeping her out of trouble, and his hair, with this pair while he dealt with his wife or some other girlfriend). She would tell them a cover story about how she had just plucked their names out of the San Francisco telephone book and they, or rather the secretary had answered the phone and made the appointment for her (she wondered again now that she saw the set-up a little closer which one that tramp was sleeping with, probably from the ring on his finger the very married-looking Ash).

Mae smiled to herself when she thought about the previous two days preparations making sure of her marks, checking out the low- rent office building filled with failed dentists, repo men, magic elixir pushers, chiropractors, and other grafters all with big- lettered signs on their doors advertising their essential services and not much traffic at their doors. Cheap Street, a couple of hundred dollars, not three would work magic. Moreover these two guys had bungled a couple of cases according to the newspapers and were not on good term with the coppers as a result. One headline had read that Marty had held out on the cops when some married dame in hock to Eddie Mars, the big-time ship casino owner out in the bay, had conned him into letting her go after she took old Eddie face down with a couple of slugs in him after he tried to shake down her husband. Funny too after the dame had offered to pay back Eddie in trade but he was lovesick over some silver-haired wife who had taken off for parts unknown and so no go). Another story had Steve almost losing his license when he slammed some rogue cop down and tried to bring him in when the cop shot his ex-wife and the Department was furious since it still took care of its own, still hushed up that stuff, and no two-bit shamus was going to ruin that deal. Yah, forlorn and from hunger.

Mae wasn’t going to leave it strictly to from hunger though, not with men. She had learned a trick or two about men when she had done a trick or two out on these very streets over around Post. Or maybe she just always knew about men from that first time when Timmy Shea conned her out of her virginity telling her she was still a good Catholic schoolgirl virgin until she had done it ten times, ten times with him. Little did he know he would not have had to ask the second time as she was ready to go whatever number of times he wanted once she got that first awkward one under her belt and knew she had to do it more to get looser down there and to get better at it . But she liked that he gave she a present, some bauble, after each tryst so maybe she had a little whore in her even back then. It wasn’t that she hated men, no, she liked her sex, liked it a lot going back to Timmy days, especially after that tenth time when she wasn’t sore afterward, but she hated the idea of being thought a brainless whore. And after this caper she would prove it.

Just then she remembered something that she had learned from Mr. Fats (that is what everybody including his boyfriend called him) owner of that damn Hong Kong whorehouse she slaved in-“every man, woman and child is a whore, it is just the way you carry yourself that makes a difference.” And so this day she put a little extra lilac perfume behind her ear just before she entered the outer office (that would be enough, more than enough for Ash as he was already licking his chops a second time, Shaw looked like he would need more coaxing , just a little more.) Of course Mr. Fats and his appetites, his desires and his vices would play out here in Frisco as well since she knew that once she parted company with him and his cronies getting out of Hong Kong just in time that they would appear in this old town before long. She could practically hear the Fat Man’s horrible laugh, practically smell Joey the Turk’s own lilac perfume in the room, practically hear the Fat Man’s young daughter, Rhonda, carping about something and ominously practically smell the gunpowder from Wino’s, the hired gun, doings from the Fat Man. With that in mind she figured that she had better close the deal now.

So she presented her story, kept it vague and alluring about a box, a box that had some sentimental as well as real value, that her ex-lover, that Fritz Lager mentioned previously, had taken from her in Hong Kong, had set sail on a tramp steamer for Macao, and whom she had traced back to the states. When she found him over on Mission Street he said he wanted some dough for his troubles, some serious dough which she did not have on her but which she agreed to pay the next night, that night at 8 o’clock, at a neutral spot in front of the Empire Hotel on Post Street. Ash, now Marty to her, lust in his eyes, and expecting maybe a little more reward that money for playing the gallant, put up both hands to volunteer. The whole thing seemed easy, and those two one hundred dollar bills talked, although Steve seemed less convinced than Marty. Had arched his right eyebrow when he quizzed Mae about why she needed some armed protection for a simple exchange. Mae told the story of how Fritz had played the gallant for her in some mix-up with some Chinese merchants (failing to tell just then that the merchants were opium-dealers wondering, wondering out loud what had happened to a shipment that they had entrusted to her) and they had become lovers before some ill-defined falling out. This was the stopper-it seems that Fritz always slept in rooms with about six or seven mirrors so that he could see anybody coming in the room. Nice guy thought Steve (hence that raised eyebrow) but the rent was due on the office and so in for a dime, in for a dollar. He would question her more later, as she gave him a wicked smile to seal the deal. Still Shaw, now Steve to her, a little more cautious, a little more cautious around a woman whose story was full of holes, and who was showing just a little too much silk stocking than was necessary to make her point, gladly seconded his partner’s bravado. And that money, that money was just enough, to put icing on the cake at a time when the landlord had been dunning the boys for a few months back rent. Good luck Marty he chuckled.

 

 

And that night at that fateful meeting with her old lover all hell broke loose and now it would be necessary for Steve to change the signs on the doors and windows to Steve Shaw, private investigator, poor Marty had gone down in a blaze of gunfire, poor Marty had cashed his check. And in the aftermath she had seemingly flown the coop with no explanation and no alibi. Marty and he had not made much money, and what they did make was too often spend on wine, women, and song (she was wrong Marty had not been very married but very divorced), separately as they shared differences in women and hang-out spots. They had not been particularly friendly terms throughout their stormy partnership especially after Marty, they, let the ball drop on that Claremont case, the big construction pay-off case, and a couple of cops got caught up in the crossfire and wounded, severely wounded and a police and a public works commissioner both got lots of egg on their faces. But, like a lot of things in life, you can’t let something like your partner being gunned down like a dog in some back alley (according to the police reports which he confidentially received from a guy on the force) just roll off your back. Bad, bad for the profession, bad all the way around. And so he put his snooping nose to the grindstone and found out a ton of stuff, and in the process got dinged up a little.

She, all fresh flowers smells, long legs and show (a show and smell that had dazzled him more than a little but we will let that pass as he is the hero here and as victor gets to write the history of this little nefarious episode his way), had been Fritz ‘s lover all right, except not ex-lover. Well not ex-lover in the way that normal people would think of it. She had blasted old Fritz rooty-toot-toot one night in Hong Kong when he was drunk not for being mean to her, or after giving her one too many once over slaps, guys didn’t do that to her, no way, but just to get his stash-the two kilos of pure heroin he was holding for Mr. Fats. See Fritz was a drug runner, what they call a “mule,” for the old boy and Mr. Fats had him keep the stuff in his place just in case the coppers, the paid off coppers got uppity and decided to go retail.

She, of course, wanted out, wanted out of that sister whore life bad, wanted out of Asia bad, wanted back to Frisco bad. So she shot Fritz, fled with the suit-cased golden brick, grabbed the fastest tramp steamer she could find and would up in Frisco just as planned. Well as she planned. Of course Mr. Fats might object to such a course, might not think much of the plan, and he didn’t. He sent an, uh, emissary to retrieve his goods. It was the emissary, Joe the Turk, Joey Lilac she called him, a rough customer despite, or maybe because of the name, that she was to meet at the hotel who killed Marty after figuring out she was not alone. And in the melee she off-handedly shot Joe, shot him good and dead. And that was that.

Not quite, Mr. Fats was in town a few days after finding out about Joe Lilac’s demise by hands unknown, although he suspected he knew who did the deed. And that hard fact was why she had come up from underground and was sitting in Steve Shaw’s office all no-holds-barred- gardenia-smelling wearing a very short shirt. She confessed to Steve a little of her dilemma. He didn’t buy it at first but don’t forget those legs and that scent, and that first day’s licking of the chops, and don’t forget she worked on him hard, real hard so he decided to play out the hand. She made it easier for him, hell, made him ready to jump through hoops when she locked the office inner office door and came over and sat on his lap.

After they finished their lap business (come on, you can figure it out, can’t you) when she had sealed the deal the best way she knew how they worked on a new plan. Steve was to be the emissary to Mr. Fats where he would make a deal that the big man would agree to. Steve balked at first, a little Then she went into her frilly manner act, she was frightened of Mr. Fats after the Fritz a and Joe net losses, so Steve needed to pull the deal off and get her money and they would forthwith go off some sunny place and be happy. Later, after the smoke had cleared, it came to light she had a one-way ticket to Rio in her pocketbook. Although she never would get to use it.

See, Steve had set the deal to take place in the lobby of the American West Hotel but she had crossed him up by being there, under cover, when she blasted Mr. Fats to the next world and grabbed the money before he got there. Later back at Steve’s office now with both the fat man’s money and that golden brick in her possession she tried to waste him. She missed. He clipped her with his own rod, clipped her back onto her seat. She tried one last come hither trick on him moving her slip up her thigh but to no avail. If he could have trusted her for one minute, one non- come hither minute he might have taken another tumble. No. He then called the coppers who took her and the brick into custody. She now awaits the big step-off. The money Steve kept, kept as payment, for Marty, for justice, hell for himself. Ah, the stuff of dreams.

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***The Roots Is The Toots-The Music That Got The Generation Of ’68 Through The 1950s Red Scare Cold War Night-Elvis' One Night With You -An Encore  



From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
 –With “Joyce D., The Girl With The Faraway Eyes” In Mind 

A while back when I was doing a series of scenes, scenes from the hitchhike road in search of the great American West night in the late 1960s, later than the time of Frankie’s early 1960s old working class neighborhood kingly time that I want to tell you about now, I   noted that there had been about a thousand truck-stop diner stories left over from those old hitchhike road days. On reflection though, I realized that there really had been about three diner stories with many variations. Not so with Frankie, Frankie from the old neighborhood, stories. I have got a thousand of them, or so it seems, all different. Hey, you already, if you have been attentive to this space, know a few Frankie, Frankie from the old neighborhood, stories (okay, I will stop, or try to, stop using that full designation and just call him plain, old, ordinary, vanilla Frankie just like everybody else).

Yeah you already know the Frankie story (see I told you I could do it) about how he lazily spent a hot late August 1960 summer before entering high school day working his way up the streets of the old neighborhood to get some potato salad (and other stuff too) for his family’s Labor Day picnic. And he got a cameo appearance in the tear-jerk, heart-rendering saga of my first day of high school in that same year where I, vicariously, attempted to overthrow his lordship with the nubiles (girls, for those not from the old neighborhood, although there were plenty of other terms of art to designate the fair sex then, most of them getting their start in local teenage social usage from Frankie’s mouth). That effort, that attempt at coping his “style”, like many things associated with one-of-a-kind Frankie, as it turned out, proved unsuccessful.

More recently I took you in a roundabout way to a Frankie story in a review of a 1985 Roy Orbison concert documentary, Black and White Nights. That story centered around my grinding my teeth whenever I heard Roy’s Running Scared because one of Frankie’s twists (see nubiles above) played the song endlessly to taint the love smitten but extremely jealous Frankie on the old jukebox at the pizza parlor, old Salducci's Pizza Shop, that we used to hang around in during our high school days. It’s that story, that drugstore soda fountain story, that brought forth a bunch of memories about those pizza parlor days and how Frankie, for most of his high school career, was king of the hill at that locale. And king, king arbiter, of the social doings of those around him as well.

And who was Frankie? Frankie of a thousand stories, Frankie of a thousand treacheries, Frankie of a thousand kindnesses, and, oh yeah, Frankie, my bosom friend in high school. Well let me just steal some sentences from that old August summer walk story and that first day of school saga because really Frankie and I went back to perilous middle school days (a.k.a. junior high days for old-timers) when he saved my bacon more than one time, especially from making a fatal mistake with the frails (see nubiles and twists above). He was, maybe, just a prince then working his way up to kingship. But even he, as he endlessly told me that summer before high school, August humidity doldrums or not, was along with the sweat on his brow from the heat a little bit anxious about being “little fish in a big pond” freshmen come that 1960 September.

Especially, a pseudo-beatnik “little fish”. See, he had cultivated a certain, well, let’s call it "style" over there at the middle school. That “style” involved a total disdain for everything, everything except trying to impress girls with his long-panted, flannel-shirted, work boot-shod, thick book-carrying knowledge of every arcane fact known to humankind. Like that really was the way to impress teenage girls, then or now. Well, as it turned out, yes it was. Frankie right. In any case he was worried, worried sick at times, that in such a big school his “style” needed upgrading. Let’s not even get into that story, the Frankie part of it now, or maybe, ever. We survived high school, okay.

But see, that is why, the Frankie why, the why of my push for the throne, the kingship throne, when I entered high school and that old Frankie was grooming himself for like it was his by divine right. When the deal went down and I knew I was going to the “bigs” (high school) I spent that summer, reading, big time booked-devoured reading. Hey, I'll say I did, The Communist Manifesto, that one just because old Willie Westhaven over at the middle school (junior high, okay) called me a Bolshevik when I answered one of his foolish math questions in a surly manner. I told you before that was my pose, my Frankie-engineered pose. I just wanted to see what he, old Willie, was talking about when he used that word. How about Democracy in America (by a French guy), The Age of Jackson (by a Harvard professor who knew idol Jack Kennedy, personally, and was crazy for old-time guys like Jackson), and Catcher In The Rye (Holden was me, me to a tee). Okay, okay I won’t keep going on but that was just the reading on the hot days when I didn’t want to go out. There was more.

Here's what was behind the why. I intended, and I swear I intended to even on the first nothing doing day of that new school year in that new school in that new decade (1960) to beat old Frankie, old book-toting, mad monk, girl-chasing Frankie, who knew every arcane fact that mankind had produced and had told it to every girl who would listen for two minutes (maybe less) in that eternal struggle, the boy meets girl struggle, at his own game. Yes, Frankie, my buddy of buddies, prince among men (well, boys, anyhow) who kindly navigated me through the tough, murderous parts of junior high, mercifully concluded, finished and done with, praise be, and didn’t think twice about it. He, you see, despite, everything I said a minute ago he was “in.”; that arcane knowledge stuff worked with the “ins” who counted, worked, at least a little, and I got dragged in his wake. I always got dragged in his wake, including as lord chamberlain in his pizza parlor kingdom. What I didn’t know then, wet behind the ears about what was what in life's power struggles, was if you were going to overthrow the king you’d better do it all the way.  But, see if I had done that, if I had overthrown him, I wouldn’t have had any Frankie stories to tell you, or help with the frills in the treacherous world of high school social life (see nubiles, frails and twists above. Why don’t we just leave it like this. If you see the name Frankie and a slangy word when you think I am talking about girls that's girls. Okay?)

As I told you in that Roy Orbison review, when Roy was big, big in our beat down around the edges, some days it seemed beat six ways to Sunday working-class neighborhood in the early 1960s, we all used to hang around the town pizza parlor, or one of them anyway, that was also conveniently near our high school as well. Maybe this place was not the best one to sit down and have a family-sized pizza with salad and all the fixings in, complete with family, or if you were fussy about décor but the best tasting pizza, especially if you let it cool for a while and no eat it when it was piping hot right out of the oven.

Moreover, this was the one place where the teen-friendly owner, a big old balding Italian guy, Tonio Salducci, at least he said he was Italian and there were plenty of Italians in our town in those days so I believed him but he really looked Greek or Armenian to me, let us stay in the booths if it wasn’t busy, and we behaved like, well, like respectable teenagers. And this guy, this old Italian guy, blessed Leonardo-like master Tonio, could make us all laugh, even me, when he started to prepare a new pizza and he flour-powdered and rolled the dough out and flipped that sucker in the air about twelve times and about fifteen different ways to stretch it out. Sometimes people would just stand outside in front of the doubled-framed big picture window and watch his handiwork in utter fascination.

Jesus, Tonio could flip that thing. One time, and you know this is true because you probably have your own pizza dough on the ceiling stories, he flipped the sucker so high it stuck to the ceiling, right near the fan on the ceiling, and it might still be there for all I know (the place still is, although not him). But this is how he was cool; he just started up another without making a fuss. Let me tell you about him, Tonio, sometime but right now our business to get on with Frankie, alright.

So there was nothing unusual, and I don’t pretend there is, in just hanging out having a slice of pizza (no onions, please, in case I get might lucky tonight and that certain she comes in, the one that I have been eyeing in school all week until my eyes have become sore, that thin, long blondish-haired girl wearing those cashmere sweaters showing just the right shape,  please, please, James Brown, please come in that door), some soft drink (which we called tonic in New England in those days but which you call, uh, soda), usually a locally bottled root beer, and, incessantly dropping nickels, dimes and quarters in the jukebox.

 (And that "incessantly" allowed us to stay since we were paying customers with all the rights and dignities that status entailed, unless, of course, they needed our seats). But here is where it all comes together, Frankie and Tonio the pizza guy, from day one, got along like crazy. Frankie, Francis Xavier Riley, map of Ireland, red-headed, fair-skinned, blue-eyed Frankie got along like crazy with Italian guy Tonio. That was remarkable in itself because, truth be told, there was more than one Irish/ Italian ethnic, let me be nice, “dispute” in those days. Usually over “turf”, like kids now, or some other foolish one minute thing or another.

Moreover, and Frankie didn’t tell me this for a while, Frankie, my bosom buddy Frankie, like he was sworn to some Omerta oath, didn’t tell me that Tonio was “connected.” For those who have been in outer space, or led quiet lives, or don’t hang with the hoi polloi that means with the syndicate, the hard guys, the Mafia. If you don’t get it now go down and get the Godfather trilogy and learn a couple of things, anyway. This "connected" stemmed, innocently enough, from the jukebox concession which the hard guys controlled and was a lifeblood of Tonio's teenage-draped business, and not so innocently, from his role as master numbers man (pre-state lottery days, okay) and "bookie" (nobody should have to be told what that is, but just in case, he took bets on horses, dogs, whatever, from the guys around town, including, big time, Frankie's father, who went over the edge betting like some guys fathers' took to drink).

And what this “connected” also meant, this Frankie Tonio-connected meant, was that no Italian guys, no young black engineer-booted, no white rolled-up tee-shirted, no blue denim- dungareed, no wide black-belted, no switchblade-wielding, no-hot-breathed, garlicky young Italian studs were going to mess with one Francis Xavier Riley, his babes (you know what that means, right?), or his associates (that’s mainly me). Or else.

Now, naturally, connected to "the connected" or not, not every young tough in any working class town, not having studied, and studied hard, the sociology of the town, is going to know that some young Irish punk, one kind of "beatnik' Irish punk with all that arcane knowledge in order to chase those skirts and a true vocation for the blarney is going to know that said pizza parlor owner and its “king”, king hell king, are tight. Especially at night, a weekend night, when the booze has flowed freely and that hard-bitten childhood abuse that turned those Italian guys (and Irish guys too) into toughs hits the fore. But they learn, and learn fast.

Okay, you don’t believe me. One night, one Saturday night, one Tonio-working Saturday night (he didn’t always work at night, not Saturday night anyway, because he had a honey, a very good-looking honey too, dark hair, dark laughing eyes, dark secrets she wouldn’t mind sharing as well it looked like to me but I might have been wrong on that) two young toughs came in, Italian toughs from the look of them. This town then , by the way, if you haven’t been made aware of it before is strictly white, mainly Irish and Italian, so any dark guys, are Italian period, not black, Hispanic, Indian, Asian or anything else. Hell, I don’t think those groups even passed through; at least I don’t remember seeing any, except an Arab, once.

So Frankie, your humble observer (although I prefer the more intimate umbrella term "associate" under these circumstances) and one of his squeezes (not his main squeeze, Joanne) were sitting at the king’s table (blue vinyl-seated, white formica table-topped, paper place-setting, condiment-ladened center booth of five, front of double glass window, best jukebox and sound position, no question) splitting a Saturday night whole pizza with all the fixings (it’s getting late, about ten o’clock, and I have given up on that certain long blondish-haired she who said she might meet me so onions anchovies, garlic for all I know don’t matter right now) when these two ruffians come forth and petition (ya, right) for our table. Our filled with pizza, drinks, condiments, odds and ends papery, and the king, his consort (of the evening, I swear I forget which one) and his lord chamberlain.

Since there were at least two other prime front window seats available Frankie denied the petition out of hand. Now in a righteous world this should have been the end of it. But what these hard guys, these guys who looked like they might have had “shivs” (yah, knives, shape knives, for the squeamish out there) and only see two geeky "beatnik" guys and some unremarkable signora do was to start to get loud and menacing (nice word, huh?) toward the king and his court. Menacing enough that Tonio, old pizza dough-to-the-ceiling throwing Tonio, took umbrage (another nice word, right?) and came over to the table very calmly. He called the two gentlemen aside, and talking low and almost into their ears, said some things that we could not hear. All we knew was that about a minute later these two behemoths, these two future candidates for jailbird-dom, were walking, I want to say walking gingerly, but anyway quickly, out the door into the hard face of Saturday night.

We thereafter proceeded to finish our kingly meal, safe in the knowledge that Frankie was indeed king of the pizza parlor night. And also that we knew, now knew in our hearts because Frankie and I talked about it later, that behind every king there was an unseen power. Christ, and I wanted to overthrow Frankie. I must have been crazy as a loon.

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***A Tale Of Two Women- The Saga Of Sam Lowell

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

As she sat across the high-back café table at Rummy Jack’s up in Old Hampstead (that’s in New Hampshire not far from where she lived) Melinda Loring, without rancor (or maybe better with controlled rancor, yes, that would be a better way to put the matter) and without malice softly, as was her manner, told Sam Lowell that he had “two women now, whether he liked it or not, whether he recognized the situation or not.” And that short precise statement set the tone for that afternoon, and for the slippery slope downward that brought their affair to an end so that at last notice they had not spoken to each other, had not e-mailed each other in months. But we had better step back in this Melinda-Sam saga before we go forward where those words of Melinda will get more play than one Samuel Lowell, North Adamsville High School Class of 1964 could have imagined when he decided that he wanted in on his class’s 50th anniversary reunion celebration. 

Naturally one does not wind up at Rummy Jack’s having a late lunch with one woman (of that “spoken” two but more on number two later), one old classmate too boot, without some pre-history since this pair had not known each other back in high school (although he had given her many furtive glances in the corridors back then, had made something of a science out of those glance, she just ignored him, was clueless about who he was back then. That however never stopped those furtive glances of his then or later, no way). They had only recently connected via the class website established by the class reunion committee (of which Sam had become a part before he “met” Melinda). That class website “meeting” turned into a frantic furious exchange of e-mails when they found that while had not known each other back then they shared many academic, social, political, literary and personal connections.  (Wondering aloud in those frantic e-mails, he had made her laugh with their urgency and once when he said that he hoped they would not run out of cyberspace, why the hell they had not met back then). The frantic e-mails led to frantic cellphone calls (she liked his voice, liked his soft-spoken-ness, he liked her fresh spirit, her organized sense of things) which naturally led to that first date where she called him (prematurely, very prematurely, as it turned out) her “forever” man and he, a little slower on the uptake was smitten with her after the second date. Well first date, second date, forever man, smitten all added up to going under the satin sheets together. All along those fierce devoted weeks (it seemed impossible that they could move so quickly, especially with her since she was organized one of the two). Then the other shoe fell.

See Sam was smitten, but he was also conflicted, was not sure where he wanted the relationship to go. Was not sure he and Melinda had staying power, Hell, was not sure about how he felt about Laura. Laura? Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you the name of the second woman before. Sam had had a long- time relationship with Laura, a companion whom Melinda was aware of and who Sam said to her had become, after having been lovers for a number of years, something like roommates. See they shared a house together down in Whelan (in Massachusetts which is where he lived and which was one of the points of contention between Sam ad Melinda since she wanted him to come up and live with her). Well that explanation is what he gave Melinda to believe but as the Sam-Melinda relationship developed he had confront the fact that he had stronger feelings for Laura than he let on to Melinda.

It does not take a great literary mind, a great knowledge of human psychology, or even a treasure trove of common sense, to know that nothing but trouble was brewing, brewing up a storm that would not subside until there was not common language that Sam and Melinda could speak to each other. Naturally Melinda a woman who had been twice divorced, twice divorced under trying circumstances where she had to initiate the proceedings and wanted only one “forever” man and her to be his forever woman. She had made it clear from the beginning that she was a “one man woman” and that she wanted no fling and no affair but the real deal with all the bells and whistles or nothing (although not married, not that institution which she had had enough of, thank you).

She worked her understanding of their relationship under that strategic imperative all through their few months together, pressing Sam as often as she could about when he was going to leave Laura (at one point suggesting that he just move out of Whelan and get a place of his own if he was not ready to live with her). See she had her plans for Sam and they did not include any kind of three-some (truthfully Sam did not want that either) or some such “modern” arrangement. Sam hemmed and hawed but as he got more interested in Melinda, got a better sense that she would be good for him,  got more committed to leaving Laura since they had hit a  very serious dry patch in their relationship and he said he was just waiting for an excuse to move on he would have recurring second thoughts. Melinda meanwhile was getting more and more anxious about putting a life for of them together (they after all were not sixteen, although they both laughed that in some ways they were acting like that) and time was an enemy. And that urgency on Melinda’s part brought them to Rummy Jacks’ after they had exchanged a couple of acrimonious e-mails and decided they needed to meet face to face to hash things out, or split if that was in the cards. And hence Melinda’s opening statement.   

Sam, when he thought about, thought about it constantly for a while, had never been sure about the what or why of Melinda’s breaking off the affair shortly after that lunch (and after another series of acrimonious e-mails and cellphone calls). Was not sure at all on that subject beyond the tense arguments at the end and one ill-advised e-mail where he proposed that they become “friends” for a while. That bothered him considerable over the next few months while he absent-mindedly speculated that she might had decided to go back with man who she had dropped when she took up with Sam, might have had enough of the drama (as had he), or maybe just got her own version of wet feet but in any case she would at some point not answer his calls, answer his e-mails.

Melinda kept putting him off for a couple of weeks, told Sam  they should be apart that long to see if she felt the same after that time and if so would close the whole thing off. But this is what really had (has) Sam more confused than anything because he had actually told Laura he was leaving her for Melinda during this period when Melinda was in the process of dumping him. Fortunately, or so he thought so later, he had hedged his bets with Laura and made that leaving of their joint household conditional on what Melinda’s final decision was to be.

Naturally Laura was not thrilled with Sam behavior. Hell, she was as angry as he had ever seen her since all along he had downplayed his affair with Melinda declaring one night when she confronted him that they were “just friends”).  Almost hit him on another night when Sam burst out during one conversation that he had “two women” and unfortunately said it with a certain dramatic flair saying in such a way like “what is a guy to do with such good luck.” She would bring that remark up constantly to him when after Melinda’s decision became final and Sam in a desperate effort to salvage his long-time relationship with Laura and not face the old world alone begged her forgiveness they decided that they would stay together. She would bring the remark up to friends to embarrass him, to make him seem the fool having “left” Laura for, ah, a “never” woman. Made it plain that he only had only had one woman now. Or else.

But see that is where Laura was wrong, where the ghost of Melinda really had the last laugh. After Melinda dumped him he kept constantly thinking about her, tried to unsuccessfully contact her a couple of times before letting the efforts fade out. Still on many lonesome nights when he would be sitting with Laura talking over dinner he would be thinking of Melinda, thinking about how their thing had really been written in the stars after all and that he had made a mistake in not trying desperately to keep her when he had the chance. Would find himself thinking about Melinda in lots of situations and at strange times. Would get kind of swoony, would make up ways in his head about fantasy reconciliations. Yeah, so in the dark of night, some sweaty summer night when he could not sleep Sam knew, knew deep down that he still had “two women,” Melinda still had her hooks in him, and he was still missing his Linny.   

 

 

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***A Tale Of Two Women- The Saga Of Sam Lowell

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

As she sat across the high-back café table at Rummy Jack’s up in Old Hampstead (that’s in New Hampshire not far from where she lived) Melinda Loring, without rancor (or maybe better with controlled rancor, yes, that would be a better way to put the matter) and without malice softly, as was her manner, told Sam Lowell that he had “two women now, whether he liked it or not, whether he recognized the situation or not.” And that short precise statement set the tone for that afternoon, and for the slippery slope downward that brought their affair to an end so that at last notice they had not spoken to each other, had not e-mailed each other in months. But we had better step back in this Melinda-Sam saga before we go forward where those words of Melinda will get more play than one Samuel Lowell, North Adamsville High School Class of 1964 could have imagined when he decided that he wanted in on his class’s 50th anniversary reunion celebration. 

Naturally one does not wind up at Rummy Jack’s having a late lunch with one woman (of that “spoken” two but more on number two later), one old classmate too boot, without some pre-history since this pair had not known each other back in high school (although he had given her many furtive glances in the corridors back then, had made something of a science out of those glance, she just ignored him, was clueless about who he was back then. That however never stopped those furtive glances of his then or later, no way). They had only recently connected via the class website established by the class reunion committee (of which Sam had become a part before he “met” Melinda). That class website “meeting” turned into a frantic furious exchange of e-mails when they found that while had not known each other back then they shared many academic, social, political, literary and personal connections.  (Wondering aloud in those frantic e-mails, he had made her laugh with their urgency and once when he said that he hoped they would not run out of cyberspace, why the hell they had not met back then). The frantic e-mails led to frantic cellphone calls (she liked his voice, liked his soft-spoken-ness, he liked her fresh spirit, her organized sense of things) which naturally led to that first date where she called him (prematurely, very prematurely, as it turned out) her “forever” man and he, a little slower on the uptake was smitten with her after the second date. Well first date, second date, forever man, smitten all added up to going under the satin sheets together. All along those fierce devoted weeks (it seemed impossible that they could move so quickly, especially with her since she was organized one of the two). Then the other shoe fell.

See Sam was smitten, but he was also conflicted, was not sure where he wanted the relationship to go. Was not sure he and Melinda had staying power, Hell, was not sure about how he felt about Laura. Laura? Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you the name of the second woman before. Sam had had a long- time relationship with Laura, a companion whom Melinda was aware of and who Sam said to her had become, after having been lovers for a number of years, something like roommates. See they shared a house together down in Whelan (in Massachusetts which is where he lived and which was one of the points of contention between Sam ad Melinda since she wanted him to come up and live with her). Well that explanation is what he gave Melinda to believe but as the Sam-Melinda relationship developed he had confront the fact that he had stronger feelings for Laura than he let on to Melinda.

It does not take a great literary mind, a great knowledge of human psychology, or even a treasure trove of common sense, to know that nothing but trouble was brewing, brewing up a storm that would not subside until there was not common language that Sam and Melinda could speak to each other. Naturally Melinda a woman who had been twice divorced, twice divorced under trying circumstances where she had to initiate the proceedings and wanted only one “forever” man and her to be his forever woman. She had made it clear from the beginning that she was a “one man woman” and that she wanted no fling and no affair but the real deal with all the bells and whistles or nothing (although not married, not that institution which she had had enough of, thank you).

She worked her understanding of their relationship under that strategic imperative all through their few months together, pressing Sam as often as she could about when he was going to leave Laura (at one point suggesting that he just move out of Whelan and get a place of his own if he was not ready to live with her). See she had her plans for Sam and they did not include any kind of three-some (truthfully Sam did not want that either) or some such “modern” arrangement. Sam hemmed and hawed but as he got more interested in Melinda, got a better sense that she would be good for him,  got more committed to leaving Laura since they had hit a  very serious dry patch in their relationship and he said he was just waiting for an excuse to move on he would have recurring second thoughts. Melinda meanwhile was getting more and more anxious about putting a life for of them together (they after all were not sixteen, although they both laughed that in some ways they were acting like that) and time was an enemy. And that urgency on Melinda’s part brought them to Rummy Jacks’ after they had exchanged a couple of acrimonious e-mails and decided they needed to meet face to face to hash things out, or split if that was in the cards. And hence Melinda’s opening statement.   

Sam, when he thought about, thought about it constantly for a while, had never been sure about the what or why of Melinda’s breaking off the affair shortly after that lunch (and after another series of acrimonious e-mails and cellphone calls). Was not sure at all on that subject beyond the tense arguments at the end and one ill-advised e-mail where he proposed that they become “friends” for a while. That bothered him considerable over the next few months while he absent-mindedly speculated that she might had decided to go back with man who she had dropped when she took up with Sam, might have had enough of the drama (as had he), or maybe just got her own version of wet feet but in any case she would at some point not answer his calls, answer his e-mails.

Melinda kept putting him off for a couple of weeks, told Sam  they should be apart that long to see if she felt the same after that time and if so would close the whole thing off. But this is what really had (has) Sam more confused than anything because he had actually told Laura he was leaving her for Melinda during this period when Melinda was in the process of dumping him. Fortunately, or so he thought so later, he had hedged his bets with Laura and made that leaving of their joint household conditional on what Melinda’s final decision was to be.

Naturally Laura was not thrilled with Sam behavior. Hell, she was as angry as he had ever seen her since all along he had downplayed his affair with Melinda declaring one night when she confronted him that they were “just friends”).  Almost hit him on another night when Sam burst out during one conversation that he had “two women” and unfortunately said it with a certain dramatic flair saying in such a way like “what is a guy to do with such good luck.” She would bring that remark up constantly to him when after Melinda’s decision became final and Sam in a desperate effort to salvage his long-time relationship with Laura and not face the old world alone begged her forgiveness they decided that they would stay together. She would bring the remark up to friends to embarrass him, to make him seem the fool having “left” Laura for, ah, a “never” woman. Made it plain that he only had only had one woman now. Or else.

But see that is where Laura was wrong, where the ghost of Melinda really had the last laugh. After Melinda dumped him he kept constantly thinking about her, tried to unsuccessfully contact her a couple of times before letting the efforts fade out. Still on many lonesome nights when he would be sitting with Laura talking over dinner he would be thinking of Melinda, thinking about how their thing had really been written in the stars after all and that he had made a mistake in not trying desperately to keep her when he had the chance. Would find himself thinking about Melinda in lots of situations and at strange times. Would get kind of swoony, would make up ways in his head about fantasy reconciliations. Yeah, so in the dark of night, some sweaty summer night when he could not sleep Sam knew, knew deep down that he still had “two women,” Melinda still had her hooks in him, and he was still missing his Linny.   

 

 

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As The 100th Anniversary Of The Beginning of World War I (Remember The War To End All Wars) Starts ... Some Remembrances-Poet’s Corner -Siegfried Sassoon's Glory Of Women
 
 
 

Glory of Women


You love us when we're heroes, home on leave,
Or wounded in a mentionable place.
You worship decorations; you believe
That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace.
You make us shells. You listen with delight,
By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled.
You crown our distant ardours while we fight,
And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed.
You can't believe that British troops 'retire'
When hell's last horror breaks them, and they run,
Trampling the terrible corpses--blind with blood.
O German mother dreaming by the fire,
While you are knitting socks to send your son
His face is trodden deeper in the mud.  
 

 
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"You Know How To Whistle, Don't You?" Lauren Bacall Passes

Frank Jackman comment;

Bacall and Bogie-You know in To Have And Have Not  this pair did some of the sexiest scenes two people could do-with their clothes on. Enough said-RIP


 
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Tuesday, August 12, 2014


Funny Man Robin Williams Passes On At 63

 
 
Frank Jackman comment:

Robin Williams was not the first, nor will he be the last, to be a walking bundle of human contradictions. Nor the first “celebrity” to create masterful works while living under some unknown (unknown to the audiences anyway) inner turmoils to work through the creative process. Heck, the guy was purely a mad monk high priest funny guy who made me laugh. Made me roar with his portrayal of an Army radio DJ in Good Morning, Vietnam because I ran into guys just like that goof DJ in the service. Hey, bringing laughter to a laughter-starved world, that’s the ticket. That too is a fine epitaph.      
 
Saying Goodbye To Comic Master Robin Williams
 
https://onpoint.wbur.org/2014/08/12/robin-williams-death-memorial
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