From The Boston Bradley Manning Support Committee Archives (March 2012)

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- The People Are War-Weary, Very War Weary Although There Is No End In Sight- Five-Immediate Unconditional Withdrawal Of All U.S./Allied Troops From Afghanistan!-President Obama Pardon Private Bradley Manning!

Joshua Lawrence Breslin comment:

Recently my old back in the 1960s days friend, Peter Paul Markin, himself a war veteran, were comparing notes about the virtual “under the radar” place that American imperial war policies (there is no other name for it with over 1000 bases in the world and over 700 billion plus dollars eaten up by the war budget each year) has taken in this year’s presidential campaign. And, additionally, the almost total lack of organized public outcry about those policies, most notably the lingering death sore of Afghanistan. That despite the fact that some far-sighted, hell, even some jaded bourgeois commentators have placed the odds of civil war in that benighted country (I will not even dignify such a war lord and mercenaries run place as a state) after the alleged American troop draw down scheduled now for 2014 at two to one in favor of civil war. Even by the American government’s own self-serving estimates the forecast is almost as grim. I ask; what gives? Where are the mass rallies against the beast?

The reason for Peter Paul and me comparing notes on this subject was simple enough. Between the two of us we have attended over the past several months in various capacities a whole series of parades and marches only one of which I will mention more on later that was specifically a peace parade. I will describe our purpose in using those settings as a way to bring the anti-war message home below. However right now I can state that we have come to agree, without a doubt, there is a vast war-weariness that if not organized in a public way runs pretty deep just under the surface among the plebeian masses of this country.

For those who do not know, Peter Paul, over the past decade going back before the beginning of the Iraq War in 2003 has attempted to move might and main along with his fellow Veterans For Peace (VFP)to end the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan (and lately to urge no war with Iran) to no avail. I, although not a veteran, have attempted in various journalistic endeavors and on the streets to make those same basic points to no avail as well. Those “no avails” though have never stopped us from continuing to push the rock up the mountain when the cause is righteous. And the struggle against these particular wars in Iraq and Afghanistan is righteous and has brought us closer together of late. That has not always been the case, as Peter Paul tends to take a harder anti-capitalist look at the wars as systematic of the need to bring down the whole damn American house of cards and I more from a more anti-imperialist perspective of just trying to hold the American military monster in check. We united on one idea earlier this year and that was the need to continue to get the anti-war message out to the general public. By any means necessary.

That is where the parades idea came in play, although we claim no originally for the idea, none at all. The parades notion actually kind of hit us in the face as a way to bring any kind of peace message to the folks whom we do not normally run into in our rarified big city radical circles. Of course the original focus started out last year in 2011 with Peter Paul’s chapter of Veterans for Peace in Boston, the aptly named Smedley Butler Brigade (“war is a racket”), attempts to march in the “official” South Boston Allied War Council’s Saint Patrick’s Day Parade. Without going into all the particulars of the denial of permission for VFP to march (involving reams of material from a 1995 U.S. Supreme Court decision permitting such exclusions for“private” parades) that organization was shut out of the official parade. Needless to say these resourceful vets (mainly long in the tooth Vietnam era vets who cut their teeth on such symbolic actions) just created their own peace parade to follow the official parade to let those who came to South Boston know there was another voice to be heard from on the questions of war and peace.

That parade in 2011 is where a first tentative recognition of war-weariness came in. Now for those not familiar with South Boston (“Southie”) this is, or was, according to Peter Paul, the last bastion of Irish-centered working class pro-war (or at least don’t question war policy) sentiment left in the world ( a little hyperbole from him, but I am used to it). His family roots stem from that community and I will defer to his analysis (although I would argue that my own hometown, Olde Saco up in Maine filled with grateful immigrant French-Canadians and old time Down East Yankees, would give his Irish a run for his money on unquestioning patriotic sentiment). Expecting the worst all were surprised by the positive reception in Southie.

This spring when we marched (yes, I marched with Peter Paul and his VFP brethren like in olden VVAW times) the response by those same plebeian masses was even more cordial to say the least. Not in the “down with the war, slay the dragon, down with the war budget, take care of things at home” sense that we have “preached” to high heaven about in this space, and others but in the tap of the fingers to the head salute, the ubiquitous throwing up of peace signs, the response when we called for troops out, and enough is enough, as we passed by. Salutes of the VFP flag by hoary old war veterans decked out in their military attire just put icing on the cake. And that is how the Breslin-Markin antiwar “spring offensive” (with, ah, a little help from VFP and others obviously) took off.

A Dorchester Day Parade just south of Southie in one of the more ethnically diverse Irish/Vietnamese/Latino/ Brazilian you name it neighborhoods of Boston (although neighborhoods like Southie that have provided more than their fair share of troops to America’s imperial adventures) produced an even more cordial response. Here some even took up our chants from the sidewalks, shook hands, and offered vocal support as we passed by. Ditto at several Memorial Day services in the area where there was much gnashing of teeth by those who have lost loved ones in the last decade’s wars (and over the post-service stresses that are only now coming to light in huge streams). More recently parades in affluence Rockport and working- class Portsmouth, New Hampshire have only confirmed the cordiality, openness to anti-war messages, and the war weariness. That last one, Portsmouth, by the way, held in a town that depends (read: would not survive) substantially for its local economy on naval appropriations for the huge shipyard there.

So the disconnect between American governmental war policy and the genuine war-weariness of the masses is real enough. But real enough as well, despite the openly expressed sentiments, is any sense of one being able to do anything about it other than patiently waiting for withdrawal due dates. And that is where my simple suggestion comes in.

I, as well as other honest and knowledgeable anti-warriors, have recognized that we did not have any serious effect on Bush-Obama war doctrine in Iraq and have had precious little thus far in Afghanistan. There is one place, and one thing that we can do to turn that around right now. Call on President Obama, who has the built-n executive constitutional power to do so, to pardon Private Bradley Manning now being held in pre-trail detention in Fort Leavenworth Kansas pending charges that could amount to a life sentence for the young soldier. For the forgetful Private Manning allegedly passed sensitive information about U.S. atrocities against civilians and other cover-ups in Iraq and Afghanistan to Wikileaks who then passed it on to a candid world. Thus Private Manning is the “poster person” for opposition to all that has failed, all that is wrong, all that was (and is )atrocious, and all that was (and is) criminal in Bush-Obama war policy. So raise the cry with us-Immediate Unconditional Withdrawal Of All U.S./Allied Troops From Afghanistan! President Obama Pardon Private Manning!

***A Confession, Of Sorts

For Joyce D., Hunter College High School, NYC, Class Of 1965, Out There Somewhere In Cyberspace

From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin:
We live in an age, thanks to Internet technology, where one is able to tell-all in an instant pushing the limits of an already previously burgeoning confessional ethos well beyond what the average person needs to know. Needs to know, frankly, even on the high side of the “information super-highway.” Needs to know about anyone else’s personal business, okay. Well, here is my little contribution to the genre with a half-fictional, half-whimsical tale. But only half...

Okay, okay I have a confession to make. I am being forced to do so, kicking and screaming, and not your average kicking and screaming but door-kicking and banshee- screaming so you know, know deep down, that I do not want do this, by my "soul mate." A woman who I have trusted, trust, and will continue to trust until I can trust no more, although this request stretches that trust thing more than a little. Her telling me, moreover, something about coming clean for the good of my soul. I hate that imperative moral tone but I have learned a thing or two over time. One of the things being that you ignore than “tone” of hers at your peril.

In any case one and all should now know that I am on this North Adamsville Class of 1964 classmate site under false pretenses. [Referring to a site set up by do-gooder members of the class to run amok in our sweetly and quietly aging lives, going gentle into that good night, by peppering anyone they could round up via the Internet with endless questions about what we have been doing for the past almost fifty years-jesus, get lives, get lives please, and let me return to writing political stuff-PPM].

Oh, sure, when I originally came on the site I, like everybody else, was just trying to take a little nostalgic trip down memory lane to the good old high school days. However, once here, I started to spew forth about the fates of various sports figures like the fleet-footed long distance runner, Billy Kelly, and the behemoth football player, Thundering Timmy Riley, and his heroic partners in the victorious 1964 football season. And high school dances, corner boy life, boy meets girls dates and stuff, “watching the submarine” races down at old Adamsville Beach, drive-in movies and restaurants, be-bop nights and not be-bop nights. Kids’ stuff ready, harmless kids’ stuff.

Then, seemingly as an act of hubris, I felt compelled to investigate various aspects of our common past using a very handy copy, a copy made handy by one Billy Kelly, of the North Adamsville Magnet, our class yearbook, as a guide. I ran through a whole series of investigations from rather simple ones like the pressing question of the rationale for white socks and white shorts in gym (and white socks elsewhere) to the more urgent one of the rationale for separate boys' and girls' bowling teams and, ultimately, stumbling on to the apparently nefarious doings of Tri-Hi-Y. Well, you get the drift- a guy with a little time on his hands and a decided penchant for mischief.

Well those would all be good and sufficient reasons for being on the site, if those were indeed the reasons. But here is where the confessional part comes in. The REAL reason I am on the site is the generic class homepage. Apparently in order to finance the website those curmudgeonly class do-gooders rented out space for cyber-advertising, helter-skelter advertising. Also, apparently, unconcerned about heart attacks and other medical problems for their fellow male AARP-worthies (and maybe female as well), they “permitted” advertising by online dating services. Thus, I am very, very curious, among other things, about those 833 nubile young women, courtesy of one such online dating service, who live near my town and who are just dying to meet an old geezer. (Fellow women classmates, I am sure, get the same pitch with hulky, beefcake young guys.) The slender, slinky, saucy (and intelligent, of course) Kerry, in particular, has my attention. But enough of talking about such things. That above-mentioned "soul mate" would take a very dim view on this subject since I am here merely to confess not to speak of ogling. However now I know why the expression "dirty old man" and the word "lecher" were created in the English language long ago, long before the Internet reared its ugly head into our lives.

That hardly ends this sordid tale though. Other, admittedly, lesser kinds of information also intrigued me like my credit rating. Hell, apparently, my credit is too good. I can't raise a bank loan for hell nor high water. Seemingly only GM, Goldman Sachs, AIG and that bankrupt-prone crowd gets the nod these days. (Now, let's not get political here Peter Paul. Save that for another day.) More appropriately, if ominously, our brethren at AARP have seen fit to extol the virtues of long-term health care insurance. So you can see how one can get easily sidetracked. So be it. However, here is the good part. I have taken, and I hope others will join me, the PLEDGE. From here on in I will keep my eyes straight forward on my profile page [each member, as in many social networking sites, has his or her own page, for better or worse], the Class Of 1964 home page and only click on the Message Board section. Well, except for one little, little peek at... winsome Kerry.

Dorchester Parade - Sunday - June 2, 2013

Please join the Smedleys in the Dorchester Day Parade, this Sunday.

Please see information below, assembly area and time is at the bottom of this message.

We need your participation in this important effort. Years ago the Smedleys had a strong presence in this parade. We started walking in the parade again last year and had a very good turn-out, we are hoping for a good turn-out again this year. There are tens of thousands who will be watching this parade. We are warmly welcomed, and our message is welcome. We will have our banners and flags and will be handing out information along the way

Please come and help us have the strongest showing possible as we walk the 3.2 miles through the streets of Dorchester.

If you are interested in coming but can't walk the distance please let me know. If there are members who would like to participate but can’t walk the distance please let us know. We have one convertible and one other car to help with rides for those who can not walk the distance.

Please let us know if you are planning on coming so we have some idea of how many of us there will be.

We will assemble between 11:00 and 11:30 noon. The parade steps off at 1:00 pm.

(We have to have a contingent at the staging area at 11:00 am, not everyone needs to be there that early). So if you have a morning commitment (ie church, temple, synagogue or mosque) please still try and come. We are in the middle of the parade this year and will probably not actually step off until about 1:15 pm or later.

Please invite any veteran you know who might want to walk in this parade to join us.

If you have any questions please feel free to contact me or Winston for information

Pat: 978-475-1776

Winston: 617-784-7518

Parade Information: Assembly Point and Directions are below

Dorchester Parade – Assembly location

VFP is in the 2^nd Division

We will assemble on Richmond Street at the corner of Dorchester Ave.

Assembly time is 11:00 - 12:00 noon

Look for VFP flags.

Directions to Dorchester Parade Staging Area:

We recommend public transportation:

If you are driving – recommendation:

GET THERE EARLY TO FIND A PARKING SPOT.

By T – Take the Red line to Ashmont Station.

Transfer to the Mattapan Hi-speed Line (Trolley) – get off at the “BUTLER” stop. Walk north two short blocks on Butler Street to Richmond Street – Look for VFP flags. We will be down near Dorchester Ave.

For those of hearty stock – from Ashmont Station you can walk down Dorchester Ave. about one mile to Richmond and Dorchester Ave.

Preferred driving directions:

Drive to Ashmont Station, park your car. Take Mattapan Hi-speed line (Trolley) – get off at Butler stop.

OR: Drive to the Butler Station area - to get a space you should be there early

Driving from the North:

93 South to exit 11B, merge onto Granite Ave toward MA-203/Ashmont, go .5 miles.

Turn left onto Milton Street – go .2 miles

Take 1^st left onto Adams Street – go .7 miles

Turn left onto Medway Street – go .2 miles

Slight left onto Bearse Ave – go .1 mile

Take 1^st left onto Butler Street – you will be at Butler Station.

Driving from the South:

Take 93 North to exit 11, Merge onto Granite Ave towards MA-203/Ashmont

Follow the directions above.

Driving from the Southwest:

Take Route 128, Exit onto Route 28 North towards Milton (North Main St/Randolph Ave) – go 4.8 miles

Slight right to stay on Randolph Ave - go 75 feet

Turn left onto Adams Street – go 443 feet

Take 1^st right onto Medway Street – go .2 miles

Slight left onto Bearse Ave. – go .1 mile

Take 1^st left onto Butler Street – you will be at Butler Station

***White socks.....and white shorts

For James And John C., Clintondale Class Of 1964

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

Jimmy Taylor was desperate for a pair of gym-worthy white shorts, gym day worthy whites. Desperate enough to go into the dreaded battered white shorts discard cardboard box now slumped across from the shower stalls and rummage, rummage nose held, for a pair that would pass muster. Pass muster when Coach Dickson (everybody called him Coach, although he hadn’t coached a sport in Clintondale since Roosevelt was president, Teddy Roosevelt, Jimmy thought) passed down the line like some imitation colonel inspecting two things-white shorts and white socks. Clean, unwrinkled, better be pressed, white shorts of the appropriate size.

That last quality mattered, at least this is what Jimmy had heard from his own older brother, Kenny, Class of 1961, ever since one small sophomore, or maybe it was a freshman, whose brother was a behemoth on the Clintondale football team, the 1960 one that went on to win the Class D state championship if you remember that great team and that great season, “inherited” his brother’s perfectly good white shorts. Perfectly good according to this lad’s mother, and with the concurrence of many a Clintondale Irish working-class mother who knew things in that neighborhood were dear just then. They kept falling down, the behemoth's white sail shorts that is, exposing, well, exposing the fact that he did not have a jock strap on, and we will leave it at that, or could. Except Coach Dickson, cold-hearted Coach, merely cuttingly commented that he was glad there were no girls around because there would be nothing to see, wink, wink.

Needless to say every boy, particularly every senior boy, every Class of 1964 boy that is, in the place laughed or at least chuckled at Coach’s lame remark, fearful that "His Vengefulness" might hold up their graduations for failure to pass a state-mandated requirement. And according to local school lore, Clintondale High lore any way, back in those Roosevelt days (Teddy or Franklin, could have been either Jimmy again thought) he had actually done so. And the school committee backed him up, creating a legend that he lived, no, feasted off of for the next few decades. There was another story, or maybe stories, of too tight shorts exploding on the wrestling mat or while the guys were doing some gymnastic exercise. Those were just rumors though, Kenny never mentioned anything about that. In any case Coach Dickson’s Rule Three A ruled. (Rule Three being the part about clean and presentable white shorts.)

The failure to observe the afore-mentioned rule branded you as a felon not fit for civilized company, or it might as well have, for you had exactly one excused non-white short, non-white-sock gym period, per year, per student, as per Coach Dickson’s rule. (Rule Four, for all the rules see the bulletin board in front of Coach’s office. Bring a chair and reading glasses, if you need them, you will be there a while). And Jimmy had already used his up back in the fall when he had “forgotten” his after going down one of the back halls, far down in one of the back halls, with a certain girl, a certain nameless girl, and left his bag with his shorts and socks in it behind. (Really, it’s true, guys, and, oh well, he won’t mention names, although he told me it, but a certain girl, a certain very “hot” girl, could back Jimmy’s claim up. Jimmy claimed that you too would have forgotten your foolish gym bag if you had been around her, and her craze-inducing perfume or soap that made her smell like some flower, a gardenia maybe. I agree about the craze-inducing part too.)

Today he had forgotten, real forgotten, to bring his shorts, and in any case he was probably fated for the death penalty anyway since he had also forgotten to have Martha (dear, sweet mother Taylor, for those not familiar with Clintondale, or with the Taylor clan that has been part of Clintondale society since Hector was a pup, and who do not know that woman) wash his dirty pairs of shorts and socks.

Of course Jimmy's scramble for white shorts much less for white socks, white matching socks, although the now doddering Coach Dickson was not always careful in inspecting socks so there was some wiggle room, was fated to be nothing but a humiliating experience, and was designed by His Vengefulness as such, since this wretched, battered cardboard box was filled with every thrown-away, nasty, off-white, sweat-grinded pair of shorts that Coach Dickson found lying around the locker rooms, or wherever he could find such things. (Although Jimmy, in a fit of gallows humor, chuckled to himself that he bet that Coach had not found those shorts down that dark hall where he had gone with Liz, oops, no names.)

But the white socks were worse, much worse, thrown hither and yon after doing yeoman’s service on some perspiring feet. All dirt-smudged caused by rubbing against the inners of some too tight sneakers while playing volleyball, basketball, or a really athletic endeavor like throwing the medicine ball and then left on some dank floor to walk home by themselves (no kidding either) when Coach’s charges changed into “civilian” socks-brown, black, or blue to go with their penny loafers. (The rest of the “uniform” being a plaid shirt and black chino pants, cuffed, preferred, uncuffed if your mother bought them.)

Today though he also started to notice some stuff that he could have cared less about yesterday. A lot of the guys on gym day wore their white socks with their uniform (plaid shirts and, cuffed or uncuffed, black chinos, remember), with their penny loafers. Egad. Squaresville, squaresville cubed. Also he started to remember that when the Class of 1964 athletic team pictures were being taken along with the jacket, tie, and slacks he noticed that most of the guys, especially the guys who were sitting down had white socks on. Double squaresville cubed. White socks, jesus. Jimmy was dumbfounded and said to himself what, pray tell (although he may have not used that exact term), was the meaning of this sartorial display. Moreover, did it extend beyond athletics? He knew, as a creature of habit at the time and one who desperately wanted to be “in”, that he too wore his "whites," sometimes unthinkingly.

But what kind of fashion statement were they trying to make at the time? “White socks” meant only one thing- dweeb, nerd, outcast and not cool. He distinctly remembered that term in reference to scientific and engineer-types. And they were not cool. As cool as he and his corner boys tried to be were they really all dweebs who did not get the message fast enough out in the 'sticks' of Clintondale?

And that last question got Jimmy to thinking, rebelliously thinking when he started to get up a head of steam about it. Why, if you forgot your white shorts or white socks, couldn’t you just wear your civilian clothes in gym and not have to go through the indignity of the dread battered box discard pile. And while Fritz was organizing this train of revolutionary thought (to Coach and his rules, if to nobody else) in his head he added why if you did have your white shorts but had forgotten your white socks couldn’t you just use your civilian brownblackblue socks. It’s only two-period-a-week gym, right? And on that note Fritz made a momentous decision. He was, come hell or high water, going to find a pair of decent white shorts and just wear them with his brown civilian socks as a protest against the injustice of Coach’s silly rule. He then found a suitable pair, donned them and walked out to face the music.

***Frankie Riley Holds Forth- On The Aches And Pains Of Aging

-With Jim Cullen, North Adamsville Class Of 1964, And All Other AARP-Worthy Brethren In Mind

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

"Do not go gentle..

...into that good night." First line of Dylan Thomas' poem of the same name.

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT- Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Frankie Riley here. Yah, I know it’s been a while since you have heard from me and I have seen or heard from most of you. Now some of you know, know full well, that back in North Adamsville days I could, well, you know “stretch” the truth. Stretch it pretty far when I was in a fix, or one of my corner boys like my right-hand man Peter Paul Markin up at our old "up the Downs" haunt, Salducci’s Pizza Parlor, needed some outlandish excuse to get right. And fellow women classmates and some other women non-classmates as well know I would outright lie, lie like the devil, in church or out, to get, well, “close” to you. Hope you forgive me about the lying, not about the trying to get close to you part. But that is all water of over the dam or under the bridge, take your choice. Today I am a new man, a truth-teller, or trying to be, except of course when I am practicing my profession as a lawyer. Then the truth might just be as elusive as it was when I was making up excuses for my corner boys or, if you were a woman, trying to“feel” you up. But enough of that as I am not here to speak of my repentance or about me at all, as hard as that might be to believe, but of the hard fact of age, yah, that creeping up thing that just kind of snuck up on us. So I am here to say just one thing- “won’t you take my word from me” like the old blues singer Rabbit Brown used to sing when he had the miseries. Listen up.

I am, once again, on my high horse today like I used to be when I had the bee in my bonnet on some subject in the old days. I have heard enough, in fact more than enough, whining from fellow AARP-worthies that I have been in contact with lately and others of my contemporaries from the "Generation of '68” about the aches and pains of becoming “ a certain age.” If I hear one more story about a knee, hip, heart, or, maybe, brain replacement or other transformative surgery I will go screaming into that good night. The same goes for descriptions of the CVS-worthy litany of the contents of an average graying medicine cabinet. Or the high cost of meds.

If I am not mistaken, and from what that old gossipy Markin has told me, many of you fully imbibed in all the excesses of our generation from crazed-out drug overkill to wacky sexual exploits that need not be mentioned in detail here (although I would not mind hearing of a few exploits strictly in confidence, attorney-client type confidence, of course), and everything else in between. Admit it. So come on now, after a lifetime of booze, dope, and wild times what did you expect? For those of us who have not lived right, lo these many years, the chickens have come home to roost. But I have a cure. Make that THE cure.

No I am not, at this late date, selling the virtues of the Bible, the Torah, the Koran or any of a thousand and one religious cures we are daily bombarded with. You knew, or at least I hope you knew, I wasn't going to go that route. That question, in any case, is each individual's prerogative and I have no need to interfere there. Nor am I going to go on and on about the wonders of liposuction, botox, chin lifts, buttocks tuckers, stomach flatteners and the like. Damn, have we come to that? And I certainly do not want to inflame the air with talk of existentialism or some other secular philosophies that tell you to accept your fate with your head down. You knew that, as well. No, I am here to give the "glad tidings," unadorned. Simply put- two words-graham crackers. No, do not reach for the reading glasses, your eyes do not deceive you- graham crackers is what I said.

Hear me out on this. I am no "snake oil" salesman, nor do I have stock in Nabisco (moreover their products are not "true" graham). So, please do not start jabbering to me about how faddish that diet was- in about 1830. I know that it has been around a while. And please do not start carping about how wasn't this healthful substance "magic elixir," or some such, that Ralph Waldo Emerson and his transcendentalist protégés praised to high heaven back in Brook Farm days. Well, I frankly admit, as with any such movement, some of those guys went over the top, especially that wacky Bronson Alcott. Irresponsible zealots are always with us. Please, please do not throw out the baby with the bath water.

Doctor Graham simply insisted that what our dietary intake consisted of was important and that a generous amount of graham flour in the system was good for us. Moreover, in order to avoid some of the mistakes of the earlier movement, in the age of the Internet we can now Googleto find an almost infinite variety of uses and helpful recipes. Admit it, right now your head is swirling thinking about how nice it would be to have a few crackers and a nice cold glass of milk (fat-free or 1%, of course). Admit also; you loved those graham crumb-crusted pies your grandmother used to make. The old chocolate pudding-filled ones were my favorite. Lime was a close second. Enough said.

Here is the closer, as they say. If people have been mistaking you for your father's brother or mother's sister lately then this is your salvation. So scurry down to your local Whole Foods or other natural food store and begin to fight your way back to health. Let me finish with this personal testimonial. I used to regularly be compared in appearance to George Bush, Sr. Now I am being asked whether Brad Pitts is my twin brother. Or is it Robert Redford? .....Oh well, that too is part of the aging process. Like I say-“won’t you take my word from me.” Get to it.

******

To “jump start” you here is a little recipe I culled from my own Google of the Internet.

Graham Crackers Recipe
November 10, 2004

I'm nostalgic about graham crackers because they remind me of my Grandma Mac. Her full name is Maxine McMurry and she is now 90 years old. She lived just a short drive from our house (when my sister and I were kids) and we would tag along after soccer games when my dad would go by on Saturdays to check up on her, trim hedges, wash cars, or do any handyman work she needed. Heather and I didn't mind at all because she had a huge driveway that was flat as a pancake and smooth as an frozen pond --perfect for roller skating. This was in striking contrast to our house that was on a steep hill which made skating perilous at best.

Grandma Mac always had snacks and treats for us when we arrived. She had a beautiful cookie jar in the shape of a big red apple which was always filled with oatmeal raisin cookies (I admittedly picked out all the raisins). Around the holidays she would fill old See's candy boxes with perfect cubes of chocolate fudge, and if we were really lucky she would have a plate full of sweet, graham cracker sandwich cookies in the refrigerator. It was a pretty simple concept, but I've never had it since. She would take cream cheese frosting and slather it between two graham crackers and then let it set up in the fridge. I couldn't get enough.

So I thought of her when I saw this recipe for homemade graham crackers from Nancy Silverton's pastry book. I've cooked a few other winners from Nancy's books in the past; the Classic Grilled Cheese with Marinated Onions and Whole Grain Mustard, and Spiced Caramel Corn, and have quite a few more tagged for the future.

Most people think graham crackers come from the box. Period. But making homemade versions of traditional store-bought staples is worth the effort if you have some extra time or enthusiasm -- in part because the homemade versions always taste better, but also because people LOVE seeing and tasting homemade versions of foods they have only tasted out of a store-bought bag or box. I've done marshmallows and hamburger buns in the past, as well - both a lot of fun.

As far as Nancy Silverton's take on graham crackers goes - this recipe was flawless. I didn't even have to make a special trip to the store because I had every ingredient in my pantry - flour, brown sugar, honey, butter. The dough was easy to work with, and the best part of the whole thing is that the cookies actually taste exactly like graham crackers. They are delicious. I included a recipe for the cream cheese frosting in case you want to make sandwich cookies out of your homemade crackers.

Graham Cracker Recipe

2 1/2 cups plus 2 tablespoons unbleached pastry flour or unbleached all-purpose flour

1 cup dark brown sugar, lightly packed

1 teaspoon baking soda

3/4 teaspoon kosher salt

7 tablespoons (3 1/2 ounces) unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch cubes and frozen

1/3 cup mild-flavored honey, such as clover

5 tablespoons whole milk

2 tablespoons pure vanilla extract

For the topping:

3 tablespoons granulated sugar

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

In the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade or in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, combine the flour, brown sugar, baking soda, and salt. Pulse or mix on low to incorporate. Add the butter and pulse on and off on and off, or mix on low, until the mixture is the consistency of a coarse meal.

In a small bowl, whisk together the honey, milk, and vanilla extract. Add to the flour mixture and pulse on and off a few times or mix on low until the dough barely comes together. It will be very soft and sticky.

Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured work surface and pat the dough into a rectangle about 1 inch thick. Wrap in plastic and chill until firm, about 2 hours or overnight.

To prepare the topping: In a small bowl, combine the sugar and cinnamon, and set aside.

Divide the dough in half and return one half to the refrigerator. Sift an even layer of flour onto the work surface and roll the dough into a long rectangle about 1/8 inch thick. The dough will be sticky, so flour as necessary. Trim the edges of the rectangle to 4 inches wide. Working with the shorter side of the rectangle parallel to the work surface, cut the strip every 4 1/2 inches to make 4 crackers. Gather the scraps together and set aside. Place the crackers on one or two parchment-lined baking sheets and sprinkle with the topping. Chill until firm, about 30 to 45 minutes. Repeat with the second batch of dough.

Adjust the oven rack to the upper and lower positions and preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Gather the scraps together into a ball, chill until firm, and reroll. Dust the surface with more flour and roll out the dough to get about two or three more crackers.

Mark a vertical line down the middle of each cracker, being careful not to cut through the dough. Using a toothpick or skewer, prick the dough to form two dotted rows about 1/2 inch for each side of the dividing line.

Bake for 25 minutes, until browned and slightly firm to the tough, rotating the sheets halfway through to ensure even baking.

Yield: 10 large crackers

From Nancy Silverton's Pastries from the La Brea Bakery (Villard, 2000)

Cream Cheese Frosting1

8-ounce package of cream cheese

2 tablespoons butter, softened

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

3 cups of powdered sugar, sifted

Beat the butter in the bowl of an electric mixer until creamy. Mix in the cream cheese and beat until light and fluffy. Stir in the vanilla extract and when fully incorporated add the powdered sugar. Mix until smooth and creamy. Place in the refrigerator for an hour before using.

from Nancy Silverton's Pastries from the La Brea Bakery - reprinted with permission

***On Being Kadin- With Orson Welles’ Mr. Arkadin In Mind

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

Sometimes it was hard to know about a guy, about whether he was on the level, whether he was playing straight with you. That thought had crossed Frank Leroy’s mind a few weeks before as he heard the proposition put before him by a guy who had been standing right in front of him in his office, a guy named, let’s just call him Mr. Welles, a name that might just have been his real name and after all hell broke loose in the couple of weeks after that who really knew what his damn name was, or who he really was before the whole thing crashed in on him. That playing it straight part though was important to Frank even though in that Welles case he had made a serious error in judgment, an error that in his business, the private, very private, eye business where a life, his life, might depend on whether the guy was on the square, was on the level, or not.

Funny it all seemed so straight at the time, or maybe the money that Mr. Welles flashed at him was just too green and plentiful for him to not push the envelope of straight a little further than necessary. He needed dough just then, needed it to keep the dunning landlord from putting a For Rent on his crummy Acme Office Building two-bit office in London’s East End and more importantly keep his ex-wife’s attorney from slamming him before some irate domestic relations judge for being way behind on his alimony and child support payments. And so he bit, although he knew, no, sensed Welles’ story was just a little too pat.

Of course everybody, everybody in post-world, post-World War II Europe, if you are asking which war, knew who Simon Welles was, or knew the name, knew that he had his hand in every kind of activity, legal and illegal, and that he as a result was one of the richest men in Europe, and maybe the most ruthless in that eerie black market, Marshall aid, red scare cold war night that was descending on Europe. And Welles had the inside track on every kind of angle, had every connection, especially to the Americans, and had, if it came to that, many angels on his side because he spread dough around, enough dough around to make people, hungry, ravaged people, forget the source of his largesse. So when he stood in front Frank, with some kind of weird wig and false beard disguise that he said he needed to protect himself from some guys trying to find him, find him and put a couple of slugs in his skull, he knew he had hit the gravy train. (Welles’ took that wig and beard get-up and Frank immediately knew he was the legendary, ah, financier. At least that was what the sympathetic press called him. )

And here was Mr. Welles’ simple request. It seems that when he had started out his “career,” his early corner boy gangster career in Germany (Frank later found out, found out the hard way, that Welles had started out that very real career in Croatia under the name Arkady, or something like that) that he had been involved in some rough stuff and now that he was well-known certain parties from back then were searching for him with designs on his head, designs to take it off. The problem was that Mr. Welles claimed he had had an accident, a head injury accident, shortly before the war and could not remember what he had done then, whose wrath he might have drawn, and who had sent the guys who had already taken one pot shot at him in Barcelona. (That turned out to be actually have been Madrid where he was known by the name Arkins and that pot shot turned out to be just short of a full field- fire infantry assault on his home there in Welles- friendly Spain.)

So Mr. Welles wanted Frank, since he was English and unknown on the continent to reconstruct his past. And as he flashed those hundred dollar American bills (the only money worth taking in Europe just then. The money turned out to be real enough just in case you are wondering, although not nearly enough to catch him just short of death, and in the end just plain not enough.) Frank saw that the proposition certainly had it risks but not more so than some of the jobs he had handled before for much less kale. So he played his hunch, his spin-the-wheel guy on the level hunch, and took the job.

That was the last safe moment he had. Welles had given him a few leads, a few names of guys who might be able to steer him in the right direction. Yah, he should have known, should have known who was doing the steering, if not why. He went to the first guy, a guy down at the Thames docks, Wally, and asked if he knew a certain name, Aberdeen, and where he might have known it from. He said he knew a guy by that name, or a name like that, Arkwright, back in the early 1930s, a Russian, he thought who brought dough from the Communist International, maybe from Stalin himself , he wasn’t sure, to support a long strike on the docks. He said ask a guy Bruno who he heard was over in Paris working in a café, The Flower, something like that, the last he had heard. (Wally, real name Orlov, unknown to Frank, was found dead three day later face down fished out from along the Thames two well-placed shots through his eyes.)

So Frank moved on to Paris, did some simple leg work and, and found Bruno at the Red Rose Café that catered to Americans with some dough. Frank asked about Aberdeen/Arkwright (it turned out to be Arkwright). Bruno thought for a bit and remembered that he had known that name because he was the guy who provided the funds to get him and his buddies some weapons to form a private militia in Austria when the Germans were egging the Austrian fascists on in the early 1930s to overthrow the Socialist government there. (The money actually came from Italy although it might have originated in Germany; Frank was in no position to follow that up.) Bruno said Mann, a guy still in Vienna, who owned a smoke shoppe, The Cigar Factory, might know more since he was in charge of the militia before all hell broke loose in 1938. (Bruno was found a week later in mysterious circumstances hanging from the ceiling light of his small room, ruled an “accident” as suicides were then labeled by the Paris police).

In Vienna Frank hit pay-dirt. Frank arrived at the smoke shoppe as Mann was about to close. Mann knew everything about the man Frank called Arkwright but that he called Arkov. See Arkov was an émigré Russian who hated the Bolsheviks and he had been there in 1923 when Hitler tried to seize power or whatever the hell he was doing to create havoc. This Arkov was something like Hitler’s bodyguard or something, rough stuff, a real gangster but a gangster with politics and he had helped Mann and his boys out with dough and weapons when things were looking good in Germany in the 1930s and they wanted the same in Austria. This Arkov bragged that he had killed a few Reds in the 1923 melee and then fled. The last he had heard was the Russians still wanted a word with him. That was in early 1941. As the pair finished their conversation and Mann headed to the door to go home for the day a deadly fuselage of gun fire cut Mann down. Frank, who was nicked by a passing bullet, ducked behind the counter and worked his way out the back door and got the hell away from that death trap.

And it was a close thing. See Oscar Kadin, a Croat, our Mister Welles, actually had been an agent of Hitler’s, had killed a number of Reds, and those Reds having long memories, long post-war Cold War memories, decided that they needed to have more than a word with Kadin. They had been following Kadin into Vienna. They had caught up with him later that night in the Imperial Hotel and took care of their business with Mr. Kadin. Frank, forgetting his close call for a minute, thought damn he never got paid the rest of his fee, damn that Mister Welles.

Manning & the media: Daniel Ellsberg, Jesselyn Radack, Michael Ratner, Peter Van Buren. 6/2 DC

digg

Daniel Ellsberg speaks out for Bradley Manning (Creative Commons license, Bradley Manning Support Network))

When: June 2, 2013 – 5:00-7:00
Where: All Soul’s Church, 1500 Harvard Street NW, Washington DC, 20009 (Directions)
How has WikiLeaks changed and influenced journalism thus far? How will Bradley Manning’s trial affect the way the press functions in the U.S.?
Pentagon Papers whistle-blower Daniel Ellsberg, Government Accountability Project director and DOJ whistle-blower Jesselyn Radack, Center for Constitutional Rights president emeritus Michael Ratner , and former State Department employee Peter Van Buren will tackle these questions in a panel discussion at All Soul’s Church in Washington D.C. on Sunday, June 2, 2013, from 5-7 PM ET.

The panelists will examine how the information released by Bradley Manning helped shaped the public’s understanding of war, diplomacy, and government secrecy, and the way the press reports on each. They’ll explore how the government’s unprecedentedly broad interpretation of “aiding the enemy” in prosecuting Bradley Manning gravely threatens press freedoms in the United States.
Can’t make it to Washington D.C.? We’ll livestream the event at bradleymanning.org.
This event comes just one day after our major rally at Ft. Meade on June 1 and one day before Bradley Manning’s court martial begins, on June 3.

***A Song To While Away The Struggle By-Bruce Springsteen’s Brothers Under The Bridge- With A Story From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin

Joshua Lawrence Breslin comment:

Recently in grabbing an old Bruce Springsteen CD compilation from 1998 to “burn” and download into my iPod I came across a song that stopped in my tracks, the one highlighted in the title to this entry Brothers Under The Bridge. I had not listened to or thought about that song for a long time but it brought back many memories from the late 1970s when I did a series of articles for the now defunct East Bay Eye (California, naturally) on the fate of some troubled Vietnam veterans who, for one reason or another, could not come to grips with “going back to the real world” and took, like those a great depression generation or two before them, to the “jungle”-the hobo, bum, tramps camps located along the abandoned railroad sidings, the ravines and crevices, and under the bridges of California, mainly down in Los Angeles and created their own “society.”

The editor of the East Bay Eye, Owen Anderson, gave me this assignment after I had done a smaller series for the paper on the treatment, the poor treatment, of Vietnam veterans by the Veterans Administration in San Francisco and in the course of that series had found out about this band of brothers roaming the countryside trying to do the best they could, but mainly trying to keep themselves in one piece. My qualifications for the assignment other than empathy, since I had not been in the military during the Vietnam War period, were based simply on the fact that back East I had been involved, along with several other radicals, in running an anti-war GI coffeehouse near Fort Devens in Massachusetts and down near Fort Dix in New Jersey. During that period I had run into many soldiers of my 1960s generation who had clued me on the psychic cost of the war so I had a running start.

After making connections with some Vietnam Veterans Against The War (VVAW) guys down in L.A. who knew where to point me I was on my way. I gathered many stories, published some of them in the Eye, and put the rest in my helter-skelter files. A couple of weeks ago, after having no success in retrieving the old Eye archives, I went up into my attic and rummaged through what was left of those early files. I could find no newsprint articles that I had written but I did find a batch of notes, specifically notes from a story that I didn’t file because the Eye went under before I could round it into shape. The format of those long ago stories was that I would basically let the guy I was talking to give his spiel, spill what he wanted the world to heard, and I would write it up without too much editing (mainly for language). I have reconstructed that story here as best I can although at this far remove it is hard to get the feel of the voice and how things were said. This is Jeff and Zeb’s story as told by Jeff, probably one of the only stories that have ever driven home to me the hellishness of war and what it does to men’s souls.

For the record Jeffrey James Adams served in Vietnam from mid-1969 to-early 1970 and Zebulon Samuel Johnston from mid-1969 to late 1971. Zebulon Johnston’s name appears etched in no rededicated black marble wall down in Washington but just maybe it should. Read below why.

**********
This conversation took place one afternoon (date, unknown) in late October, 1977 under a massive concrete overpass along U.S. Interstate 5 just south of Inglewood near Los Angeles, California.

“Yah, Zeb was quite a guy in his time, a guy you could depend on, a guy you could count on, if you know what I mean. Who did you say you worked for, mister? Oh, yah, the East Bay Eye. I still miss the bastard, miss him for leaving me here without a guy I could count on, and will until I leave this good green earth and that ain’t no lie, no sir. A real brother, unlike my own brother who sometimes was a brother to me and sometimes just a same last name.

Zeb and I went back, went back to basic training in the Army down at Fort Gordon in Georgia. Jesus just remembering that hellhole place and that hellhole time and that hellhole way the good citizens outside in Augusta treated us the couple of times we had weekend passes just like the blacks just because I was a Yankee and old Zeb was from broken down Appalachia, some dink town called Hazard, a coal dust town from what he said about it. A town he always said was full of history and written up in song and in the books. But I had never heard of it, and truth, never have heard of it since so I think that was old Zeb just being old Zeb. Just so you know when you write this story his real name was Zebulon Samuel Johnston, named after his father, his pa-pa he said, simple as that. And don’t call him a Johnson, either. He was a Johnston, born and bred, he said.

But the big thing about how we hit it off right from the start was that first day when we got off that olive drab bus and hit the barracks and Jeb was bunked across from me and I had to show him how to tie his boots. See, he never had proper shoes from the way he told it and the way he tried to tie those boots before the boot camp sergeant snapped his neck back for him I can believe that and maybe that was the way things were down in broken down Hazard. All I know is that all through basic training, through rough woods stuff, Zeb paid me back, paid me back big time, for my minute kindness. See he knew more about the woods, and how to survive in them, and little tricks about how to use this and that to get stuff done than a city boy, a big time Boston city boy, Yankee to the core, and corner boy smart not woods smart could ever know.

So he kept me on, as he said, as his mascot. And anytime he needed some fancy way to get out of something he would yell for me, and then he would be my mascot. Tight we were right from basic. Same tight, and you'd better be tight, or get our asses kicked when we took Advanced Infantry Training down at Fort McClellan down in Alabama where the civilians put Yankees and hillbillies below blacks in the pecking order they had established, or so it seemed every time we had town leave.

And then shipped out to ‘Nam. Yah, ‘Nam hellhole of all hellholes and I know, know for certain I never would have made it out alive if not for Zeb. See one time after we had a few days off from the line we hit Saigon and jesus, the place looked just like home, or somebody’s home if that home was Vegas or one of those glitter town, action night or day. I couldn’t leave the place, or want to. Zeb could take it or leave it so he went back first. Well one day, yes, day time he pulled me out of some brothel, some sweet Eurasian girl specialty house just in time to keep me from being locked up for about six months in Long Binh for being, well, a few days over my leave time.

But I am getting a little sidetracked and confused because that is not really the time he saved my young white ass. No that was when we were out in the boonies, out in the Central Highlands, near Pleiku just doing a routine patrol, keeping as far away from the enemy as we could and as close to this little river, a crick Zeb called it, but really a creek, a little low during the dry season. From out of nowhere we start taking fire from“Charlie,” or maybe NVA regulars because the field of fire was pretty concentrated like these guys had done it together for a while. In any case the fire was getting heavy and so I wasn’t paying enough attention to where I was heading. Next thing I know I am in the creek, water all around and muddy, big muddy, and I can’t get out, no way. I take a round in the shoulder; see that scar there, yah, that’s Purple Heart territory. I guess the hit made me crazy, crazy not with pain as with fear, animal fear, and that ain’t no lie. I could smell it and it wasn’t pretty.

I started crying out, started crying out like crazy “Zeb, don’t leave me here to die alone so far from home, please Zeb.” And you know I don’t have to say anything more about it because as you can see Jeb did not leave me in any 'Nam. Yah, he got the Bronze Star for that, and a Purple Heart to boot for his own wounds carrying me to the medivac area although I must have passed out because I don’t remember much after the screaming and that fear smell. My war was over, and I lost a little contact with Jeb as guys will do when they get split up in wartime.

Back in the real world and out, maybe 1972, I was doing okay, a little of this and that, nothing big and nothing that couldn’t be shoved aside like air if I wanted to take off. Then about a year later I heard through a mutual friend that Jeb had made it back to “the real world” after another tour of duty in ‘Nam and was out in Los Angeles. What that friend didn’t tell me, or didn’t know, was that second tour took the stuffing out of Zeb and he had started doing some girl. You know what that is right? Cocaine. Yah, drugs to ease the pain and erase the horror. And once girl couldn’t shake the dreams and the pain then boy, plenty of boy took you out of this world. Boy, since you didn’t know what girl was, is nothing but horse, heroin, sweet dreams, for a while heroin.

Yah, Jeb was in a bad way out there in L.A. living on the streets, knocking off drug stores and I don’t what else is what he told me later when he was sober a couple of times. Somehow our mutual friend gave Zeb my number and one night, one hellish stormy night up in Maine where I was staying working at a small shipyard, I got a phone call from Zeb saying, “Jeff, don’t leave me out here alone to die, please Jeff.” And you know I don’t have to say anything more because I did not leave Jeb to die alone in any L.A. Jesus, no, not a good old country no shoes boy like Zeb in L.A. They would eat him alive.

So, a few days, maybe a week later, we met in a Mission Of God house or some such place over on Wiltshire, not the good part, and I got him fixed up there for a while. He was shaky, very shaky. Then, after a few months, he decided that he had to get out of that mission house and live on the streets. Well not exactly the streets but in a place like this, near the railroad tracks, in case he wanted to head home he said, just a hobo jungle really. So I stayed with him naturally. Somehow he got some boy from god knows where and he went off to the races again. He wouldn’t even consider getting help or leaving the jungle. He said he felt at home under bridges, and along railroad tracks.

Well, somehow one day, I wasn’t around that day I was down at the pier looking for a couple of days work to tide us over, he got a hold of some badass smack , some poison left-over stuff and started dancing on the tracks from what some ‘bo who was there said later. You know as well as I do you can’t dance on any railroad track and not draw a wrong number. They say he tried to get off the track but he wasn’t fast enough.

Yah, Zeb was quite a guy in his time, a guy you could depend on if you know what I mean. I still miss the bastard and will until I leave this good green earth and that ain’t no lie, no sir. Poor Jeb lived on sweet dreams and train smoke and I guess I will for a while. Maybe do a little of this and that again. But not right now, okay.