Press Release... Press Release... Press Release... Press Release... Press Release... Contact: Giorgio Riva (Payday men's network) 07837 89699 Anne Neale (Queer Strike) 07958  152171 HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHELSEA MANNING - FREE HER NOW! Tuesday 17 December 2013  3 - 4.30 pm Vigil at St Martin in the Fields, Trafalgar Square London WC2N 4JJ, Charing Cross tube   Supporters of international whistleblower Chelsea (formerly Bradley) Manning will gather in London on Tuesday to celebrate her 26th birthday by demanding her immediate release. The US soldier was jailed for 35 years for leaking documents via Wikileaks that exposed US and other governments’ war crimes and corruption. There will be similar actions in Berlin, Detroit, Philadelphia, San Francisco . . . Thanks to Chelsea's whistleblowing, we the public now knows about: The “collateral murder” video of a US helicopter crew killing Iraqi civilians ● the cover-up of rape in Iraq & Afghanistan ● the extent of drone strikes ● US dirty tricks in Haiti, Venezuela, Peru & elsewhere ● the corruption of Tunisian dictator Ben Ali that spurred the 2011 revolution ● Israel consulting with the Egyptian government and the Palestinian Authority before invading Gaza . . . Protestors will invite people to support a petition by Amnesty International demanding her immediate release and another petition by the Private Manning Support Network demanding President Obama's pardon.  "The sentence imposed on Chelsea Manning is harsher than most convicted murderers and rapists. The US government wants to make an example of Chelsea Manning to discourage whistleblowing on their crimes, including the surveillance of all of us," says Giorgio Riva of Payday men's network, joint organiser of the vigil. "Ever since Chelsea was detained and tortured in 2010, international protests, including by LGBTQ people, have demanded the release of our Queer Hero.  It’s urgent that we increase the pressure for her immediate release. The prison authorities need to respect her new identity as a woman - Chelsea should now be able to start the hormone therapy he wants,” explains Anne Neale of Queer Strike, joint organiser of the event. The vigil will denounce the recent witch-hunting of The Guardian which published secret information on government surveillance operations. As well as demanding that governments "stop spying on us," the vigil will highlight the situation of the growing list of courageous whistleblowers: Julian Assange, WikiLeaks founder, confined by the UK to the Ecuadorian embassy in London where he was granted asylum ● Edward Snowden, computer expert exiled in Russia for revealing massive spying by government agencies NSA & GCHQ ● Sarah Harrison, British Wikileaks journalist who ensured Snowden's safety to Russia and whose return to the UK is deemed "unsafe" ● David Miranda, interrogated at Heathrow airport on Snowden's disclosures, under the Prevention of Terrorism Act ●  Jeremy Hammond,  jailed for 10 years for hacking the intelligence contracting firm Stratfor, exposing the use of paid informants ● Barrett Brown:  US journalist who faces over 100 years in prison for reporting on firms like Stratfor and linking to hacked information.      Julian Assange Edward Snowden Sarah Harrison David Miranda Jeremy Hammond Barrett Brown  Payday men’s network  payday@paydaynet.org  www.refusingtokill.net  020 7267 8698  Queer Strike  queerstrike@queerstrike.net   020 7482 2496

***From Out In The Doo Wop Be-Bop 1950s Night- The Golden Age – A CD

Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers performing the classic doo wop song, Why Do Fools Fall In Love.

CD Review

The Golden Age Of American Rock ‘n’ Roll: Doo Wop: Special Edition -1953-63, Ace Records, 2004

Why Do Fools Fall In Love lyrics
Oh wah, oh wah, oh wah, oh wah, oh wah, oh wah

Why do fools fall in love?
Why do birds sing so gay?
And lovers await the break of day
Why do they fall in love?

Why does the rain fall from up above?
Why do fools fall in love?
Why do they fall in love?

Love is a losing game
Love can be ashamed
I know of a fool
You see
For that fool is me

Tell me why, Whyyyy, Whyyy
Tell me why

(Background Music)

Why do birds sing so gay?
And lovers await the break of day?
Why do they fall in love?

Why does the rain fall from up above?
Why do fools fall in love?
Why do they fall in love?

Why does my heart skip a crazy beat?
Before I know it will reach defeat!

Tell me why, Whyyyy, Whyy

Why do fools fall in love?(Hold Long)



Oh wah, oh wah, Oh wah sure, it is easy, easy for most of you anyway, to dismiss or otherwise degrade our growing up absurd 1950s red scare cold war night be-bop doo wop craze as some aficionado throw-down. Ya, easy for you to say. But I am here to give you the “skinny” and can back it up by pointing to the thirty song contents of the CD under review, Ace Record’s Doo Wop Special Edition-1953-63 (but it was really over by about 1959, okay), that if you were a guy, short, tall, ugly handsome, large or small, and you wanted to get anywhere with the opposite sex, girls, okay, then you had better have been right up to date on what was what in doo wop land.

Or better had some friends that you could group with, maybe three, maybe four others and croon to make Bing Crosby and his ilk blush. To speak nothing of The Inkspots and The Mills Brothers. Squares, ya, has-been squares. Punk acts, pure vaudeville sideshow stuff against The Dubs’ Could This Be Magic or The Charts’ Desiree. Strictly girl magnet stuff, Hell, why else would you strain your growing to manhood boy voice, and that of others, except to dazzle some twist, some frail, some frill, okay, okay some girl.

All made easy if you had a voice (and some sense of rhythm) like Frankie Lymon. But here is the other part of the skinny, they, okay, okay, Dick Clark on American Bandstand, didn’t tell you. What if your voice was turning into some kind of son of Bela Lugosi (before you knew who he was but you knew the voice) gravel pit. Then all chances of holding laughing hands nights by the shore, basement family room petting parties complete with a gaggle of giggling girls, church last dance visions of slow dance be-bop magic with some certain she, were gone. And all chances of golden age of American dream happiness with it. So if you ever had the slightest inkling of teen angst and alienation, whatever your generation, then you know, know deep down that this music could set you right on those lonely single nights. And it did. Damn.

A YouTube film clip of Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers performing the classic doo wop song, Why Do Fools Fall In Love.

CD Review

The Golden Age Of American Rock ‘n’ Roll: Doo Wop: Special Edition -1953-63, Ace Records, 2004

Why Do Fools Fall In Love lyrics
Oh wah, oh wah, oh wah, oh wah, oh wah, oh wah

Why do fools fall in love?
Why do birds sing so gay?
And lovers await the break of day
Why do they fall in love?

Why does the rain fall from up above?
Why do fools fall in love?
Why do they fall in love?

Love is a losing game
Love can be ashamed
I know of a fool
You see
For that fool is me

Tell me why, Whyyyy, Whyyy
Tell me why

(Background Music)

Why do birds sing so gay?
And lovers await the break of day?
Why do they fall in love?

Why does the rain fall from up above?
Why do fools fall in love?
Why do they fall in love?

Why does my heart skip a crazy beat?
Before I know it will reach defeat!

Tell me why, Whyyyy, Whyy

Why do fools fall in love?(Hold Long)



Oh wah, oh wah, Oh wah sure, it is easy, easy for most of you anyway, to dismiss or otherwise degrade our growing up absurd 1950s red scare cold war night be-bop doo wop craze as some aficionado throw-down. Ya, easy for you to say. But I am here to give you the “skinny” and can back it up by pointing to the thirty song contents of the CD under review, Ace Record’s Doo Wop Special Edition-1953-63 (but it was really over by about 1959, okay), that if you were a guy, short, tall, ugly handsome, large or small, and you wanted to get anywhere with the opposite sex, girls, okay, then you had better have been right up to date on what was what in doo wop land.

Or better had some friends that you could group with, maybe three, maybe four others and croon to make Bing Crosby and his ilk blush. To speak nothing of The Inkspots and The Mills Brothers. Squares, ya, has-been squares. Punk acts, pure vaudeville sideshow stuff against The Dubs’ Could This Be Magic or The Charts’ Desiree. Strictly girl magnet stuff, Hell, why else would you strain your growing to manhood boy voice, and that of others, except to dazzle some twist, some frail, some frill, okay, okay some girl.

All made easy if you had a voice (and some sense of rhythm) like Frankie Lymon. But here is the other part of the skinny, they, okay, okay, Dick Clark on American Bandstand, didn’t tell you. What if your voice was turning into some kind of son of Bela Lugosi (before you knew who he was but you knew the voice) gravel pit. Then all chances of holding laughing hands nights by the shore, basement family room petting parties complete with a gaggle of giggling girls, church last dance visions of slow dance be-bop magic with some certain she, were gone. And all chances of golden age of American dream happiness with it. So if you ever had the slightest inkling of teen angst and alienation, whatever your generation, then you know, know deep down that this music could set you right on those lonely single nights. And it did. Damn.

***Ancient dreams, dreamed-A Detour - Magical Realism 101

Fidgety. No, not some usual schoolboy eternal girl swaying in the mind’s eye breeze, next-up girl swaying fidgety but fidgety, get out of town, get out of the rut, hit the Jack Kerouac highway (after a mad midnight to dawn or later fresh air 1971 re-reading of On The Road, the first time was just 1962 kid’s stuff trying to get out of the house kid’s stuff, and just reading what everybody was reading to be cool), farmer brown get the stink blown off fidgety after wasting away so much breeze on this and that, inconsequential this and that.

And just maybe too to rekindle a sagging girl sway relationship (see I told you it goes to the grave, eternal, or close) that was heading to the rocky shores. Rocky shores just then meaning “commitment,” commitment to white picket fence complete with fully mortgaged white picket fence house, running field dogs, and flowered gardens (left unspoken those two point three kids to clutter up said house, to pet such dogs and to run amok in the petunias but she, Joyell she to name her, at least knew how not to sell her case). Jesus, no, jesus one thousand, no, one million times no, not after just escaping, and barely, steel-barred rooms, dram de-drunks, and erased sweet bobby kennedy-visioned dreams of forty years and pension. No, let’s just shake the dust of this town and see what happens kind of gentle like. Okay. Ah, okay. Joyell finally seeing the light okay, I think.

So off into the chili night (no sic, the final southern destination is winter Mexico before the drug cartels blew into mountain breeze Cuernavaca) we roamed, or rather prepared to roam. Prepared with Salvation Army’s, Joe’s Army-Navy, Harry’s Cheapo Depot cheap, serviceable camping gear, or rather the bare minimum we could squeeze in that broken down box of a car (a Datsun, a gone automobile name yellow, and far from boyhood dream ’57 Chevy cherry reds) that I had managed to cadge off some guy, a friend of a friend guy, who had no cash, needed to get west fast (or at least out of town and west was the only way unless he figured on swimming).West fast meaning either girl trouble or some imminent drug crash out knowing whose friend of a friend he was. We, smart we, smart Joyell we, had set aside plenty of funds just in case this rag-a-muffin of a car decided to join its Zen spirit master on some by-road west when we headed north.

Working funds to see us through thick and thin, you ask? Well said white picket fence dreaming yankee lady had some dough, some father Manhattan NYSE stockbroker (or some such I never really did get all the details of his occupation although he acted like a damned proper don in some Mafioso dream sequel and so just in case he or his capo progeny are around let’s stick with stockbroker), which then meant dough, daughter dough. But said princess daughter (WASP daughter) found herself slumming (if dream slumming really, and talking about it too with all her waspish girlfriends like some red badge of courage, but you probably figured that out already) with some half-heathen, half-broken, faux Irishman and while she was not above white picket dreams she still insisted that on this trip we would do frugal, thrifty yankee “dutch treat.” And this fidgety dog-fearing, white paint-hating, and weed-loving half-heathen wanted to have his own dough just in case he decided he had to go to Butte instead of Beverly Hills in a fit of hubris. Oh, freedom, dough freedom.

So our brother, our story brother, me, worked at this and that and if you asked me (or her, but with scowls) what he did you would receive the usual hobo tramp bum – “a little of this and that.” A little this and that really meaning “the best he could,” just in case the statute of limitations has not run out. And “the best he could” got him that yellow box car, a couple of army sleeping bags(vintage World War II, of course, no Korean War/Vietnam War stuff to revile his dreams, or her dreams of him when she played him a hero, their love was fresh, and they fell fitfully down in first days 1971 New Hampshire snows and kissed gentle kisses just to see what it was like to kiss a hero she later told him and he laughed, and she reddened, and he reached out his laughing hands to her, and, and, but on with our travel story, you can figure out what those laughing hands did, can’t you), a small two-man army surplus tent (excuse me, two person, both to reflect the “new age” of person-hood and that that two part was all that could possibly fit into the damn thing, not even a stray dog could nozzle his or her nose in), and a “house” worth of utensils. Canteens, Coleman stoves, mess kits, all very travel-worthy stuff as he knew from his minute field army experience. Cheapsville, very cheapsville, got it.

And off, hot August dog days off, heading north to catch a breeze and a dream before it got too cold, or the funds ran out after those first days of spending more than was budgeted because this or that cost more than expected. Backup though- some yankee stockbroker would come through, or some half-heathen would take another stab at “doing this and that.” First stop old time yankee gangway to fresh seas hideout from the Irish and other assorted trash Kennebunkport. (Not Kennebunk, that was for the heathens, she told him without qualification or guile, knowledge told him, and he was proud that day she told him, proud of his little smitten waspy conquest and gave just a peep of a thought that maybe a white picket fence might not be so bad.) First night sleep out in some yankee farmer’s blueberry late season black fly field and first crack of setting up camp. Long hours to set “pup” tent (with no room for pup, no way, save that for dream white picket fences), fix hungry dinner on Coleman stove and wait for eternal, infernal water to boil for fresh day coffees and giggles. We are off, we are free, and we are one day into hard adventure and still in one piece- the morning would tell that same tale. Hey, this is easy, he said, easy before the fidgets could speak.

Head north bright next morning to yankee Bar Harbors, maybe deeper yankee than Kennebunkport (with no Kennebunk for the heathen refuge, just Ellsworth) and more tents, and more eternal, infernal waits for precious coffees. North more, Campobello, north Calais (callus; don’t call it some French thing though if you don’t want to get into an argument). Then more slowly, more north to New Brunswick sweet Moncktons and switch off youth hostel indoor one night living (nobody probably every called it sweet before, no reason, but I will remain discrete and let you just think of laughing hands), north more to Nova Scotia (New Scotland, no question) Neil’s Harbor tents and Peggy’s Cove bed and breakfast inn (figured in funding, so don’t get nervous). Push until no more easts can be seen short of flight or boats and then west, the great blue pink America west night adventure waits and we are both like two intrepid pioneer kids (although now, after a few weeks, old camping hands) hard –faced to the wind.

Still more Canadian lands but island Prince Edward Island lands, sweet Charlottetown, rocked inlet boats, and another bed and breakfast, this time with ocean view and white picket fences but both of us are too rough-hewn now, just now anyway after several weeks on the roads, to care a fig for white picket fences. Or rustic scenes and rolling farm lands, and endless sea-side fishing villages just starting to fog up and rust up with lack of shoals work. Time for the cities, time for Quebec City and Montreal down the mighty Saint Lawrence and ooh, la, la French delights. And lights other than stars, sounds other than night crickets, and talk other than get firewood, get tent pegs set and hammered, sleeping bags morning dew aired out, and fresh coffee boiling waits, infinity waits. Edge city waits.