This space is dedicated to the proposition that we need to know the history of the struggles on the left and of earlier progressive movements here and world-wide. If we can learn from the mistakes made in the past (as well as what went right) we can move forward in the future to create a more just and equitable society. We will be reviewing books, CDs, and movies we believe everyone needs to read, hear and look at as well as making commentary from time to time. Greg Green, site manager
Saturday, June 21, 2014
No U.S, Intervention In Iraq! Rally In Boston
Rally - No Military Intervention in Iraq
When: Saturday, June 21, 2014, 1:00 pm to 2:00 pm
Where: Park Street MBTA Station • Tremont & Park Sts. • Boston
NO BOMBS! NO TROOPS! NO DRONES!
Despite spending a trillion dollars on the Iraq war from 2003 to 2009 that cost the lives of 4500 U.S. soldiers and hundreds of thousands of Iraqis, and despite providing billions of dollars worth of training to the security forces of our brutal ally in Baghdad, Iraq faces the prospect of a horrible civil war.
Former U.S. Marine veteran of the Iraq war in Fallujah, Ross Caputi, minces no words when he speaks of U.S. policy: “The Maliki regime has been waging a genocide against the Sunni population of Iraq for the past six months with US weapons. Any further support for Maliki, be it troops on the ground or more weapons, is absolutely unacceptable and immoral."
But as the situation in Iraq deteriorates, the “Never Learn” caucus is demanding more US military intervention in the form of ground troops, air strikes, Special Operations and weapons deliveries. The same leaders who lied to us to get us to go to war, now expect us to follow them down that same path again. And President Obama appears to be preparing for more military action.
But the unfolding tragedy in Iraq is a direct consequence of the illegal and brutal American invasion and occupation of that country. That invasion tore Iraqi society apart, setting off sectarian tensions that had not existed and giving rise to an extremist group that had never had a base in Iraq before.
It is pure lunacy to continue a policy that has caused so much suffering and turmoil. Whatever form it takes, U.S. military intervention will inflame the situation in the Middle East and drain more resources from our communities that need jobs, education and vital services. Sponsored by United for Justice with Peace (UJP), the Committee for Peace and Human Rights, and other antiwar organizations and individuals in the Boston area.
***Of This And That In The Old North Adamsville Neighborhood-In Search Of….. The Lost Submarines
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
For those who have been following this series about the old days in my old home town of North Adamsville, particularly the high school days as the 50th anniversary of my graduation creeps up, will notice that recently I have been doing sketches based on my reaction to various e-mails sent to me by fellow classmates via the class website. Also classmates have placed messages on the Message Forum page when they have something they want to share generally like health issues, new family arrivals or trips down memory lane on any number of subjects from old time athletic prowess to reflections on growing up in the old home town. Thus I have been forced to take on the tough tasks of sending kisses to raging grandmothers, talking up old flames with guys I used to hang around the corners with, remembering those long ago searches for the heart of Saturday night, getting wistful about elementary school daydreams, taking up the cudgels for be-bop lost boys and the like. These responses are no accident as I have of late been avidly perusing the personal profiles of various members of the North Adamsville Class of 1964 website as fellow classmates have come on to the site and lost their shyness about telling their life stories (or have increased their computer technology capacities, not an unimportant consideration for the generation of ’68, a generation on the cusp of the computer revolution and so not necessarily as computer savvy as the average eight-year old today).
Other stuff defies simple classification as is the case here in dealing various locations in the old town that formed a key part of the teenage coming of age experience. As an ocean-edged town the beach, rocky, pebbly old Adamsville Beach, oil-slicked then at low tide (which did not stop us from digging for clams down at the Merrymount to who knows what effect) played a central role in that drama. From daytime sitting between the two boating clubs watching, waiting, hoping that one of the beach blanket bingo blondes (hell, any colored hair) might give you a tumble to the chaste early evening ice cream cone at Howard Johnson’s across from the beach to whet one appetite to the not so chaste struggle to find those damn midnight “submarine races” off the coast to whet another appetite. In any case I can hardly do justice to the delights and heartaches associated with the beach that one classmate did with a posting about the doing there. So I will let him tell the story from here, with thanks for the memories many of which I had forgotten:
Daydream Visions Of Adamsville Beach, Circa 1964-For “The Girl On The Rocks”-NAHS Class of 1964
Taffrail Road, Yardarm Lane, Captain's Walk, Quarterdeck Road, Sextant Circle, and the Adamsville Old Sailor’s Home (and cemetery about a quarter of a mile away, closed now but the final resting place for many a sea-faring man, known and unknown). Yes, those names and places from the old housing project down in Adamsville South where I came of age surely evoke imagines of the sea, of long ago sailing ships, and of desperate, high stakes battles fought off shrouded, mist-covered coasts by those hearty enough to seek fame and fortune. And agile enough to keep it. Almost from my first wobbly, halting baby steps down at “the projects” I have been physically drawn to the sea, a seductive, foam-flecked siren call that has never left me. Moreover, ever since I was a toddler my imagination has been driven by the sea as well. Not so much of pirates and prizes but of the power of nature, for good or evil.
Of course, anyone with even a passing attachment to Adamsville has to have had an almost instinctual love of the sea; and a fear of its furies when old Mother Nature turns her back on us. Days when the fugitive waves respect nothing in front of them surging over crumbling seawalls, laying waste to helpless abandoned houses, and flooding roadways from Malibu to Adamsville Boulevard (oops, Adamsville Shore Drive). And moonless nights when she shows her furious face to sea- craft from dingy to super-tanker leaving drowning men to ponder their lives in those long last moments. Yes, the endless sea, our homeland the sea, the mother we never knew, the sea... But enough of those imaginings. If being determines consciousness, and if you love the ocean, then it did not hurt to have been brought up in Adamsville with its ready access to the bay and water on three sides anchored by its longest shoreline stretch, Adamsville Beach of blessed memory.
The glint of silver off the Long Island Bridge when the sun hit it at a certain time of sunny day. The early morning winter sun coming up over the horizon on the bay. The Boston skyline at dusk (pre-Marina Bay times when there was an unimpeded view). Well, I could go on and on with my beach view memories but the one thing that mattered for me in any season or any weathers was the word “escape.” Adamsville Beach can serve as a metaphor for that idea. I do not know about you and your family but I had a very rocky time growing up and certainly by the time I got to high school I was in desperate need of a sanctuary. It is no accident that I spent a fair amount of time there. It may be hard to believe looking at its disheveled sands and tepid waves aimlessly splashing to shore seen with today's older eyes after recent trips there and after subsequently seeing many more spectacular ocean settings but then the place provided a few happy memories, now old hazy, happy memories.
For the Class of 1964 one cannot discuss Adamsville Beach properly without reference to such spots such as Howard Johnson's famous landmark ice cream stand (where now stands a woe-begotten clam shack of no repute). For those who are clueless as to what I speak of, or have only heard about it in mythological terms from older relatives, or worst, have written it off as just another ice cream joint I have provided a link to a Wikipedia entry for the establishment below. Know this: many a hot, muggy, sultry, sweaty summer evening was spent in line impatiently, and perhaps, on occasion, beyond impatience, waiting for one of those 27 (or was it 28?) flavors to cool off with. In those days the prize went to cherry vanilla in a sugar cone (backup: frozen pudding). I will not bore the reader with superlative terms and the “they don’t make them like they use to” riff, especially for those who only know “HoJo’s” from the later, orange pale imitation franchise days out on some forsaken great American West-searching highway, but at that moment I was in very heaven.
Moving on how could one forget the 19 cent hotdogs sold on the beach a few doors down at Maggie’s. (That can’t be right, I must be misremembering, maybe it was nineteen dollars, nothing in this wicked old world ever cost 19 cents.)Or those stumbling, fumbling, fierce childish efforts, bare-footed against all motherly caution about the dreaded jellyfish, pail and shovel in hand, to dig for seemingly non-existent clams down toward the Merrymount end of the beach at the just slightly oil-slicked, sulfuric low tide. (By the way the jellyfish are still there in all their glory and please, take mother's advice, do not step on them, they might be poisonous.) And one could always see some parent parading a group of kids down to the flats. Generally staying for a couple of hours before high tide, and after as well, and that parent always seemed to have had snacks and drinks in tow in an all-purpose cooler.
Elsewhere along the shoreline older kids swam, dug dream castles in the sand to be washed away by an indifferent tide, played catch in the water with a rubber ball, and when they finally got tired, could be seen laying on towels strewn every which way listening to WRKO or WMEX on the transistor radio. Listening to Earth Angel, Johnny Angel, Teen Angel,Who’s Sorry Now, I Want To Be Wanted, Suzie Q and the like. [I know this is a geriatric site but there may be a stray child who sees grandma’s computer glued to this page, you know some young member of generations X, Y or Z, who may not be familiar with the term “transistor radio.” For their benefit that was a little battery-powered gizmo that allowed you to listen to music, the “devil's music,” to hear one’s parents tell the story, rock 'n' roll, without them going nuts. And no, sorry, you could not download whatever you wanted. Yes, I know, the Stone Age.]
Farther down the shore came overpowering memories of the smell of charcoal-flavored hamburgers on those occasional family barbecues (when one in a series of old jalopies that my father drove worked well enough to get us there) at the then just recently constructed barren old Treasure Island (now named after some fallen Marine, and fully-forested, such is time) that were some of the too few times when my family acted as a family. Memory evoked too of roasted, really burnt, sticky marshmallows sticking to the roof of my mouth. Ouch!
But those thoughts and smells are not the only ones that interest me today. No trip down memory lane would be complete without at least a passing reference to high school Adamsville Beach. The sea brings out many emotions: humankind's struggle against nature, some Zen notions of oneness with the universe, the calming effect of the thundering waves, thoughts of immortality, and so on. But it also brings out the primordial longings for companionship. And no one longs for companionship more than teenagers. So the draw of the ocean is not just in its cosmic appeal but hormonal as well. Mind you, however, I am not discussing here the nighttime Adamsville Beach, the time of "parking" and the "submarine races." Our thoughts are now pure as the driven snow. We will save that discussion for another time when any kids and grand-kids are not around. Here we will confine ourselves to the day-time beach. Although I still have a long-standing nighttime question now grown fifty years hoary with age- Why, while driving down the boulevard on some cold November night could one notice most of the cars parked there all fogged up? What, were their heaters broken?
[For the heathens, the pure of heart, the clueless, those who just got in from Kansas or some such place, or the merely forgetful, going to watch the “submarine races” was a localism meaning going, via car, preferable your own car and not some borrowed father’s car to be returned by midnight no later, down to the beach at night, hopefully on a very dark night, with, for a guy, a girl and, well, start groping each other, and usually more, a lot more, if you were a lucky guy and the girl was hot, while occasionally coming up for air and looking for that mythical submarine race out in the bay. Many guys (and gals) had their first encounter with sex that way if the Monday morning before school boys’ lav talk, and maybe girls’ lav talk too, was anything but hot air.]
Virtually from the day school got out for summer vacation I headed for the beach. And not just any section of that beach but the section directly between the Adamsville and North Adamsville Yacht Clubs. Most of the natural landmarks are still there, as well as those poor, weather-beaten yacht clubs that I spend many a summer gazing on in my fruitless search for that aforementioned teenage companionship. Now did people, or rather teenage boys, go to that locale so that they could watch all the fine boats at anchor? Or was this the best swimming location on the beach? Hell no, this is where every knowledgeable boy had heard all the "babes" were. We were, apparently, under the influence of Beach Blanket Bingo or some such early 1960s Frankie Avalon-Annette Funicillo teenage beach film. (For those who are again clueless this was a “boy meets the girl next door” saga, except at the beach...)
Get this though. For those who expected a movie-like happy ending to this piece, you know, where I meet a youthful "Ms. Right" to the strains of Sea of Love, forget it. I will keep the gory details short. As fate would have it there may have been "babes" aplenty down there on the shore but not for this boy. I don't know about you but I was just too socially awkward (read: tongue-tied) to get up the nerve to talk to girls (female readers substitute boys here). And on reflection, if the truth were to be told, I would not have known what to do about the situation in any case. No job, no money, and, most importantly, no car for a date to watch one of those legendary "submarine races" that we have all agreed that we will not discuss here. But don’t blame the sea for that.
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_Johnson's)
***Out In The Be-Bop 1960s Teen
Dance Club Night-Sonny James’ Young Love
I
have always been intrigued by the different little social gatherings that
dominated our teen-age lives back in the late 1950s and early 1960s. To a
certain extent every generation of teen-agers since they invented the category
as enough kids in a family made it to that age and had enough free time on
their hands to form a distinct segment of society has had some of the same
institutions, you know school, sports, special day parties and periodic dances
stuff like that. Although I am not as familiar with the inner workings of
today’s millennial generation I do not believe that I have heard much about an
institution that was mainstay while I was growing up, the teen dance club. The
place where you were allowed to go and have fun and of which parents approved (which
should have made us suspect, and would have later but while we were dealing
with trying to fit the fixture into our lives we looked forward to its weekly
charms.
The teen dance club memory just did not
suddenly come up and hit me out of the blue but was a result of some work I
have been doing of late that brought it to the fore. I, seemingly, have
endlessly gone back to my early musical roots in reviewing various compilations
of a classic rock series that goes under the general title Rock ‘n’ Roll Will
Never Die. And while time and ear have eroded the sparkle of some of the
lesser tunes, tunes that our local jukeboxes devoured many a
hard-earned father nickel and dime it still seems obvious that those
years, say 1955-58, really did form the musical jail break-out for my
generation. The generation of ’68, the generation that slogged through the red
scare cold war night, survived and, for a minute, were ready to turn the world
upside down in the mid to late 1960s before the wave ebbed and we wound up
fighting something like a forty plus year rearguard action to maintain the semblance
of dignity, and who had just started to tune into rock music as some sort
of harbinger of things to come, that jailbreak previously mentioned.
And we, we small-time punk (in the
old-fashioned sense of that word, not the derogatory sense), we hardly wet
behind the ears elementary school kids, and that is all we were for those who
would now claim otherwise, claiming some form of amnesia about when that
beat hit them square in the eyes, listened our ears off. Those were strange
times indeed in that be-bop 1950s night when stuff happened, stuff parents did
not have a handle on and stuff we saw as our way out of the box that was being
fit around us. Kid’s stuff, sure, but still stuff like a friend of mine, my elementary
school best friend “wild man” Billie who I will talk about more some other
time, who claimed, with a straight face to the girls, that he, all ten years
old of him, was Elvis’ long lost son. Did the girls do the math on that one?
Or, maybe, they like us more brazen boys were hoping, hoping and praying, that
it was true despite the numbers, so they too could be washed by that flamed-out
night when Elvis (and us, us too) were young and hungry.
Well, this I know, boy and girl alike
tuned in on our transistor radios (small battery- operated radios that we could
put in our pockets, and hide from snooping parental ears, at will and we owe a
lot to whoever put that idea together especially for poor ass projects boys
with too little space as it was) to listen to music that from about day one, at
least in my household was not considered “refined” enough for young, young
pious you’ll-never get-to-heaven-listening-to-that-devil's- music and you had
better say about eight zillion Hail Marys to get right Catholic, ears.
Yeah right, Ma, Pa like Patti Page or Bob Crosby and The Bobcats (not Bing, not
the Bing of Brother, Can You Spare A Dime? anyway. I would come to know that
song more closely, too closely later but that is another story) were supposed
to satisfy our jail-break cravings.
And we had our own little world, or as
some hip sociologist trying to explain that Zeitgeist today might say,
our own sub-group cultural expression. I have already talked about the pre 7/11
mom and pop corner variety store hangout with the tee-shirted, engineered-booted,
cigarette (unfiltered, of course) hanging from the lips, Coke, big-sized glass
Coke bottle at the side, pinball wizard guys thing. And about the pizza parlor
jukebox coin devouring, hold the onions I might get lucky tonight, dreamy girl
might come in the door thing. And, of course, the soda fountain, and…ditto,
dreamy girl coming through the door thing. Needless to say you know more about
middle school and high school dance stuff, including hot tip “ inside” stuff
about manly preparations for those civil wars out in the working-class
neighborhood night, than you could ever possibly want to know, and, hell, you
were there anyway (or at ones like them).
But the crème de la crème to
beat all was the teen night club. Easy concept, and something that could only
have been thought up by someone in cahoots with our parents (or maybe it was
them alone, although could they have been that smart). Open a “ballroom” (in
reality some old VFW, Knight of Columbus, Elks, etc. hall that was either going
to waste or was ready for the demolition ball), bring in live music on Friday
and Saturday night with some rocking band, ours the Ready Rockers who did good
covers on all but Elvis since they lacked his implicit sexual energy (but not too rocking, not Elvis swiveling at
the hips to the gates of hell rocking, no way), serve the kids drinks…, oops,
sodas (Coke Pepsi, Grape and Orange Nehi, Hires Root Beer, etc.), and have them
out of there by midnight, no later, unscathed. All supervised, and make no
mistake these things were supervised, by something like the equivalent of the
elite troops of the 101st Airborne Rangers. Usually some maiden teachers dragged
in to volunteer and keep an eye, a first name eye on things, or some refugees from
the sporadic church-sponsored dances who some priest or minister dragooned into
volunteering with heaven held out as a reward but eagle-eyed for any unauthorized
hand-holding, dancing too close or off-hand kissing.
And we bought it, and bought into it
hard. And, if you had that set-up where you lived, you bought it too. And why?
Come on now, have you been paying attention? Girls, tons of girls (or boys, as
the case may be). See, even doubting Thomas-type parents gave their okay on
this one because of that elite troops of the 101st Airborne factor. Those
hardened surrogate parents with the beady eyes and tart tongues. So, some down
at the heels, tee-shirted, engineer- booted Jimmy or Johnny Speedo from the
wrong side of the tracks, all boozed up and ready to “hot rod” with that
‘boss”’57 Chevy that he just painted to spec, was no going to blow into the
joint and carry Mary Lou or Peggy Sue away, never to be seen again. No way.
That stuff happened, sure, but that was on the side. This is not what drove
that scene for the few years while we were still getting wise to the ways of
the world The girls (and guys) were plentiful and friendly in that guarded,
backed up by 101st Airborne way (damn it). And we had our …sodas (I won’t list
the brands again, okay). But, and know this true, we blasted on the music. The
music that was on the compilations I have reviewed, no question. And I will
tell you some of the stick outs that made my pray for dance card:
Save The Last Dance
For Me, The Drifters (oh, sweet baby, that I
have had my eye on all night, please, please, James Brown, please save that last
one for me, and on too few occasions she did, or her kindred did later when I
had other roving eyes so I came out about even); Only The Lonely, Roy
Orbison (for some reason the girls loved Ready Rockers’ covers of this one,
especially one night, not a teen club night but a night the Rockers were
playing a church hall teen dance Friday night when a certain she planted a big
kiss on my face, well, on my lips after I sang, really more like lip-synched that one along with the band. Unfortunately
she soon had a boyfriend and I was strictly past history but the memory of that
kiss lasted lots longer); Alley Oop, The Hollywood Argyles (a good goofy
song to break up the sexual tension that always filled the air, early and late,
at these things as the mating ritual worked its mysterious ways and despite prying
prudent eyes hand-holding, dancing too close and off-hand kissing got done, got
done much more than our parents would ever know); Handy Man, Jimmy
Jones( a personal favorite which dove-tailed into my “style” then, as I kept telling every girl, and maybe a few
guys as well just to keep them away from the ones I was seriously eyeing, that
I was that very handy man that those self-same gals had been waiting,
waiting up on those lonely weekend nights for. Egad! Did I really use that line?);
Stay, Maurice Williams and The Zodiacs (nice harmonics and good feeling,
and excellent for dancing too close on); New Orleans, Joe Jones (great
dance number as the twist and other exotic dances started to break into the
early 1960s consciousness and great too because awkward self-conscious dancers
like me could “fake it” with juke moves since we were basically dancing by ourselves
on the fast ones); and, Let The Little Girl Dance, Billy Bland (yes, let
her dance, hesitant, saying no at first mother, please, please, no I will not
invoke James Brown on this one, please). Oh yeah, and Sonny James’ Young Love that got the girls all juiced
and happy to dance close even with guys like me with sweaty hands and unsure
feet.
So you can see where the combination of
the dance club, the companionship, and that be-bop rock beat that we could not
get enough of would carry us along for a while. Naturally the thing could not
go on forever, our forever, once we got older, once we tasted cigarettes and
liquor (okay, okay beer) and once parents took fright when too many down at the
heels, tee-shirted, engineer- booted Jimmy or Johnny Speedos from the wrong
side of the tracks, all boozed up and ready to “hot rod” with that ‘boss”’57
Chevy that they just painted to spec, started blowing into the joint to carry
Mary Lou or Peggy Sue away, carry them away gladly never to be seen again.
No U.S, Intervention In Iraq! Rally In Boston
Rally - No Military Intervention in Iraq
When: Saturday, June 21, 2014, 1:00 pm to 2:00 pm
Where: Park Street MBTA Station • Tremont & Park Sts. • Boston
NO BOMBS! NO TROOPS! NO DRONES!
Despite spending a trillion dollars on the Iraq war from 2003 to 2009 that cost the lives of 4500 U.S. soldiers and hundreds of thousands of Iraqis, and despite providing billions of dollars worth of training to the security forces of our brutal ally in Baghdad, Iraq faces the prospect of a horrible civil war.
Former U.S. Marine veteran of the Iraq war in Fallujah, Ross Caputi, minces no words when he speaks of U.S. policy: “The Maliki regime has been waging a genocide against the Sunni population of Iraq for the past six months with US weapons. Any further support for Maliki, be it troops on the ground or more weapons, is absolutely unacceptable and immoral."
But as the situation in Iraq deteriorates, the “Never Learn” caucus is demanding more US military intervention in the form of ground troops, air strikes, Special Operations and weapons deliveries. The same leaders who lied to us to get us to go to war, now expect us to follow them down that same path again. And President Obama appears to be preparing for more military action.
But the unfolding tragedy in Iraq is a direct consequence of the illegal and brutal American invasion and occupation of that country. That invasion tore Iraqi society apart, setting off sectarian tensions that had not existed and giving rise to an extremist group that had never had a base in Iraq before.
It is pure lunacy to continue a policy that has caused so much suffering and turmoil. Whatever form it takes, U.S. military intervention will inflame the situation in the Middle East and drain more resources from our communities that need jobs, education and vital services. Sponsored by United for Justice with Peace (UJP), the Committee for Peace and Human Rights, and other antiwar organizations and individuals in the Boston area.
*In
Honor Of Our Class-War Prisoners- Free All The Class-War Prisoners!-Abdul
Majid,
Abdul (Anthony Laborde)
http://www.thejerichomovement.com/prisoners.html
A link above to more information
about the class-war prisoner honored in this entry.
Make June Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month
Markin comment (reposted from 2010)
In “surfing” the National Jericho Movement
Website recently in order to find out more, if possible, about class- war
prisoner and 1960s radical, Marilyn Buck, whom I had read about in a The Rag
Blog post I linked to the Jericho list of class war prisoners. I found
Marilyn Buck listed there but also others, some of whose cases, like that of
the “voice of the voiceless” Pennsylvania death row prisoner, Mumia Abu-Jamal,
are well-known and others who seemingly have languished in obscurity. All of
the cases, at least from the information that I could glean from the site,
seemed compelling. And all seemed worthy of far more publicity and of a more
public fight for their freedom.
That last notion set me to the task at hand.
Readers of this space know that I am a longtime supporter of the Partisan
Defense Committee, a class struggle, non-sectarian legal and social defense
organization which supports class war prisoners as part of the process of
advancing the international working class’ struggle for socialism. In that
spirit I am honoring the class war prisoners on the National Jericho Movement
list this June as the start of what I hope will be an on-going attempt by all
serious leftist militants to do their duty- fighting for freedom for these
brothers and sisters. We will fight out our political differences and
disagreements as a separate matter. What matters here and now is the old
Wobblie (IWW) slogan - An injury to one is an injury to all.
Note: This list, right now, is composed of
class-war prisoners held in American detention. If others are likewise
incarcerated that are not listed here feel free to leave information on their
cases in the comment section. Likewise any cases, internationally, that come to
your attention. I am sure there are many, many such cases out there. Make
this June, and every June, a Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month- Free All
Class-War Prisoners Now!
*In
Honor Of Our Class-War Prisoners- Free All The Class-War Prisoners!-Ruchell
Cinque Magee (Co-defendant from the Angela Davis Case, the forgotten one when
CP defense publicity time came)
http://www.thejerichomovement.com/prisoners.html
A link above to more information
about the class-war prisoner honored in this entry.
Make June Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month
Markin comment (reposted from 2010)
In “surfing” the National Jericho Movement
Website recently in order to find out more, if possible, about class- war
prisoner and 1960s radical, Marilyn Buck, whom I had read about in a The Rag
Blog post I linked to the Jericho list of class war prisoners. I found
Marilyn Buck listed there but also others, some of whose cases, like that of
the “voice of the voiceless” Pennsylvania death row prisoner, Mumia Abu-Jamal,
are well-known and others who seemingly have languished in obscurity. All of
the cases, at least from the information that I could glean from the site,
seemed compelling. And all seemed worthy of far more publicity and of a more
public fight for their freedom.
That last notion set me to the task at hand.
Readers of this space know that I am a longtime supporter of the Partisan
Defense Committee, a class struggle, non-sectarian legal and social defense
organization which supports class war prisoners as part of the process of
advancing the international working class’ struggle for socialism. In that
spirit I am honoring the class war prisoners on the National Jericho Movement
list this June as the start of what I hope will be an on-going attempt by all
serious leftist militants to do their duty- fighting for freedom for these
brothers and sisters. We will fight out our political differences and
disagreements as a separate matter. What matters here and now is the old
Wobblie (IWW) slogan - An injury to one is an injury to all.
Note: This list, right now, is composed of
class-war prisoners held in American detention. If others are likewise
incarcerated that are not listed here feel free to leave information on their
cases in the comment section. Likewise any cases, internationally, that come to
your attention. I am sure there are many, many such cases out there. Make
this June, and every June, a Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month- Free All
Class-War Prisoners Now!
*In
Honor Of Our Class-War Prisoners- Free All The Class-War Prisoners!-Oscar López
Rivera
http://www.thejerichomovement.com/prisoners.html
A link above to more information
about the class-war prisoner honored in this entry.
Make June Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month
Markin comment (reposted from 2010)
In “surfing” the National Jericho Movement
Website recently in order to find out more, if possible, about class- war
prisoner and 1960s radical, Marilyn Buck, whom I had read about in a The Rag
Blog post I linked to the Jericho list of class war prisoners. I found
Marilyn Buck listed there but also others, some of whose cases, like that of
the “voice of the voiceless” Pennsylvania death row prisoner, Mumia Abu-Jamal,
are well-known and others who seemingly have languished in obscurity. All of
the cases, at least from the information that I could glean from the site,
seemed compelling. And all seemed worthy of far more publicity and of a more
public fight for their freedom.
That last notion set me to the task at hand.
Readers of this space know that I am a longtime supporter of the Partisan
Defense Committee, a class struggle, non-sectarian legal and social defense
organization which supports class war prisoners as part of the process of
advancing the international working class’ struggle for socialism. In that
spirit I am honoring the class war prisoners on the National Jericho Movement
list this June as the start of what I hope will be an on-going attempt by all
serious leftist militants to do their duty- fighting for freedom for these
brothers and sisters. We will fight out our political differences and
disagreements as a separate matter. What matters here and now is the old
Wobblie (IWW) slogan - An injury to one is an injury to all.
Note: This list, right now, is composed of
class-war prisoners held in American detention. If others are likewise
incarcerated that are not listed here feel free to leave information on their
cases in the comment section. Likewise any cases, internationally, that come to
your attention. I am sure there are many, many such cases out there. Make
this June, and every June, a Class-War Prisoners Freedom Month- Free All
Class-War Prisoners Now!
The Class Struggle Continues In Boston ....
***Of This And That
In The Old North Adamsville Neighborhood-In
Search Of….. A Few Good People
From The Pen Of Frank
Jackman
For those who have been following
this series about the old days in my old home town of North Adamsville,
particularly the high school day as the 50th anniversary of my
graduation creeps up, will notice that recently I have been doing sketches
based on my reaction to various e-mails sent to me by fellow classmates via the
class website. Also classmates have placed messages on the Message Forum page when they have something they want to share
generally like health issues, new family arrivals or trips down memory lane on
any number of subjects from old time athletic prowess to reflections on growing
up in the old home town. Thus I have been forced to take on the tough tasks of
sending kisses to raging grandmothers, talking up old flames with guys I used
to hang around the corners with, remembering those long ago searches for the
heart of Saturday night, getting wistful about elementary school daydreams,
taking up the cudgels for be-bop lost boys and the like. These responses are no
accident as I have of late been avidly perusing the personal profiles of
various members of the North Adamsville Class of 1964 website as fellow
classmates have come on to the site and lost their shyness about telling their
life stories (or have increased their computer technology capacities, not an
unimportant consideration for the generation of ’68, a generation on the cusp
of the computer revolution and so not necessarily as computer savvy as the
average eight-year old today).
Other stuff defies simple
classification as is the case here when a fellow classmate feltcompelled to honor another classmate who had
spent his life doing good works while a member of a Catholic clerical brotherhood.
This one can stand on its own and needs no further introduction by me:
In Honor of Brother Ronald Kelly
Usually when I have had an occasion
to use the word “brother” it is to ask for something like –“Say brother, can
you spare a dime?” Or have used it as a slang word when I have addressed one of
the male members of the eight million political causes that I have worked on in
my life. Here, in speaking of one of our fellow classmates, Brother Ronald
Kelly, I am using the term as a sincere honorific. For those of you who do not
know Brother Ronald is a member of the Xaverian Brothers, a Catholic order
somewhere down the hierarchical ladder of the Roman Catholic Church. Wherever
that is, he, as my devout Irish Catholic grandmother would say (secretly hoping
that it would apply to me), had the “calling” to serve the Church.
Now Brother Ronald and I, except for
a few sporadic e-mails over the last several years, have neither seen nor
heard from each other since our school days. So this is something of an
unsolicited testimonial on my part (although my intention is to draw him out
into the public spotlight to write about his life and work). Moreover, except
for a shared youthful adherence to the Catholic Church which I long ago placed
on the back burner of my life there are no religious connections that bind us
together. At one time I did delight in arguing, through the night, about the actual
number of angels that could dance on the head of a needle, and the like, but
that is long past. I do not want to comment on such matters, in any case, but
rather that fact of Brother Ronald’s doing good in this world.
We, from an early age, are told, no,
ordered by parents, preachers, and Sunday school teachers that while we are
about the business of ‘making and doing’ in the world to do good, or at least
to do no evil. Most of us got that ‘making and doing’ part, and have paid
stumbling, fumbling, mumbling lip service to the last part. Brother Ronald, as
his profession, and as a profession of his faith and that is important here,
choose a different path. Maybe not my path, and maybe not yours, but certainly
in Brother Ronald’s case, as old Abe Lincoln said, the “better angels of our
nature” prevailed over the grimy struggle for this world’s good. Most times I
have to fidget around to find the right endings for what I want to say, but not
on this one. All honor to Brother Ronald Kelly.
No U.S. Intervention In Iraq-Bruce Springsteen's Cover Of Bring 'Em Home Frank Jackman Comment: sometimes a song says it all.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
***The Roots Is The Toots-The Music That Got The Generation
Of ’68 Through The 1950s Red Scare Cold War Night-The Falcons' You're So
Fine –Take Two
Sometimes it is funny how people
will get into certain jags. Some of us will
go all out to be the best at golf or some such sport (or game, I guess you
would call golf a game because sport sounds too rough for such a gentile
pastime) or will devout endless hours to the now thirty-seven, at least,
flavors of yoga now passing through a rage period and others will climb
straight-faced (theirs and the mountain’s) sheer rock precipices. So be it.
Take me for example although I am not up for rigors of golf, yoga or
mountain-baiting recently I have been on a tear in reviewing individual[CL1] CDs in an extensive generic commercial classic Rock ‘n’
Roll series (meaning now the 1950s and 1960s) called Rock and Roll Will Never Die. The impetus for reviewing that
particular CD at first was hearing the song Your
So Fine by the Falcons after I had been listening to The Dubs’ Could This Be Magic on YouTube. That
combination was driven by a memory flashback to about 1959 when I used to
pester (I am being kind here) every available girls in my seventh grade class
by being flirty and calling her, well, “so fine” (available by the way meaning
not going “steady” with a boy, especially a guy who might be on the football
team and who might take umbrage with another guy trying to cut his time). Such
is the memory bank these days.
While that particular review was
driven by a song most of these reviews have been driven by the intriguing artwork
which graces the covers of each CD, artwork drawn in such a way to stir ancient
memories of ancient loves, ancient loves, too many to count, anguishes, ditto, alienations,
you give a number, angsts, infinite, and whatever else teen–age life could rain
down on you just when you were starting to get a handle on the world, starting
to do battle to find your place in the sun. Starting to feel too that this wicked
old world might be a place worthy of the fight to preserve it but such thoughts
were only flushed out later, much later after the dust of angst and alienation settled.
Moreover these artwork covers reflected
that precise moment in time, time being a very conscious and fungible concept
then when we thought we would live forever and if we did not at least let us do
our jailbreak rock and roll rock with the time we had, the youth time of the
now very, very mature (nice sliding over the age issue, right?) baby-boomer
generation who lived and died by the music. And who fit in, or did not fit in
as the case may, to the themes of those artwork scenes. That fit in or didn’t
fit in as the example of that flirty “your so fine” mantra that I would pin on any
girl (remember any available girl just in case some big brute is still holding
a grudge).
Some artwork in the series like those
that portrayed the terrors of Saturday night high school dance wallflower-dom, hanging
around the you-name-it drugstore soda fountain waiting for some dreamy girl to
drop her quarters in the juke-box and ask you, you of all people, what she
should play to chase her blues away after someguy left her for another girl and she needed a sound to shed a tear by
and you there with that empty shoulder to ease the way, or how about a scene
down at the seclude end of Adamsville Beach with a guy and his gal sitting
watching the surf and listening to the be-bop radio before, well, let’s leave
it at before, and picture this a few beauties sunning themselves at the beach
waiting for Johnny Angel to make an appearance need almost no comment except
good luck and we, we of that 1950s demographic, all recognize those signposts
of growing up in the red scare cold war night. This cover that I am thinking of
though did not “speak” to me, a 1959
artwork cover from the time when the music died (meaning Elvis turned “square,”
Chuck got caught with Mister’s girls and Jerry Lee failed to check the family
tree).
This cover was a case of not fitting
in for this reviewer. On this cover, a summer scene (always a nice touch since
that was the time when we had least at the feel of our generational breakout,
listening all afternoon to the transistor radio, trying to keep the sand from
destroying your sandwich getting all or red and pretty for Saturday night in
white), two blondish surfer guys, surf boards in tow, were checking out the
scene, the land scene for that minute they were not trying to ride the perfect
wave, or thinking about that possibility. That checking out of course was to
check out who was “hot” on the beach, who could qualify to be a “surfer girl”
for those lonely nighttime hours when either the waves were flat or the guys
had been in the water so long they had turned to prunes. That scene although
not pictured (except a little background fluff to inform you that you are at
the beach, the summer youth beach and no other, certainly not the tortuous
family beach scene with its lotions, luggage, lawn chairs, and longings,
longings to be elsewhere in early teen brains), can only mean checking out the
babes, girls, chicks, or whatever you called them in that primitive time before
we called them sister, and woman.
No question that this whole scene is
nothing but a California come hinter scene. No way that it has the look of my Eastern
pale-face beaches, family or youth. This is nothing but early days California
dreamin’ cool hot days and cooler hot nights with those dreamed bikini girls. But
hold on, see as little as I know about West Coast 1950s growing up surfer culture
I was suddenly struck by this hard fact. These pretty boys are, no question,
“beach bums” no way that they are serious surfer guys, certainly not Tom Wolfe’s
Pump House LaJolla gang where those surfers lived for the perfect wave, and
nothing else better get in the way. For such activity one needed rubberized
surf suits complete with all necessary gear. In short these guys are “faux”
surfers. Whether that was enough to draw the attention of those shes they are
checking out into the humid night I will leave to the reader’s imagination.
As I noted before and commented on
in the review the music, the 1959 music, that backed up this scene told us we were
clearly in a trough, the golden age of rock with the likes of Jerry Lee Lewis,
Elvis, and Chuck Berry was fading, fading fast into what I can only describe as
“bubble gum” music. Sure I listened to it, listened to it hard on my old
transistor radio up in my lonely shared room or out on those surly, tepid Eastern
beaches mainly because that was all that was being presented to us. Somehow the
parents, the cops, the school administrators and, if you can believe this, some
of those very same bikini girls who you thought were cool had flipped out and
wanted to hear Fabian, Bobby Vee and Bobby Darin, got to the record guys, got
to Tin Pan Alley and ordered them to make the music like some vanilla shake. So
all of a sudden those “you’re so fine” beach blanket blondes were sold on faux
surfer guys, flip-floppers and well-combed guys and had dumped the beat, the
off-beat and the plainly loopy without a thought. Leaving hard-boiled Harvard
Square by night denizens like me homeless, and girl-less more than less.
It was to be a while, a few years, until
the folk, folk rock, British invasion, and free expression rock engulfed us. My
times, times when I did not have to rely on some kid’s stuff flirty “your so
fine” line but could impress the young women of my acquaintance (admittedly not
the beach blanket bingo blondes of my youth but long straight brunette-haired
women with faraway eyes and hungry haunted expressions) with eight million Child
ballad, Village, traditional music, mountain music facts I had accumulated
during that red scare cold war trough before the break-out.
As the bulk of that CD’s contents
attested to though we were in 1959 in the great marking time. There were,
however, some stick-outs there that have withstood the test of time. They
include: La Bamba, Ritchie Valens; Dance With Me, The Drifters; You’re
So Fine (great harmony),The Falcons; Tallahassee Lassie (a favorite
then at the local school dances by a local boy who made good), Freddy Cannon; Mr.
Blue (another great harmony song and the one, or one of the ones, anyway
that you hoped, hoped to distraction that they would play for the last dance),
The Fleetwoods; and, Lonely Teardrops, Jackie Wilson (a much underrated
singer, then and now, including by this writer after not hearing that voice for
a while).
Note: After a recent trip to the
Southern California coast I can inform you that those two surfer guys, who
actually did turn out to be landlubbers and were working the shoreline while
serious surfers with no time for beach blanket bingo blondes sought that
perfect wave stuff, are still out there and still checking out the scene.
Although that scene for them now is solely the eternal search for the perfect
wave complete with full rubberized suit and gear. No artist would now, or
at least I hope no artist would, care to rush up and draw them. For now these
brothers have lost a step, or seven, lost a fair amount of that beautiful bongo
hair, and have added, added believe me, very definite paunches to bulge out
those surfer suits all out of shape. Ah, such are the travails of the baby-boomer
generation. Good luck though, brothers.
***The Roots Is The Toots-The Music That Got The Generation Of ’68 Through The 1950s Red Scare Cold War Night-The Falcons' You're So Fine
Sometimes it is funny how people will get into certain jags. Some of us will go all out to be the best at golf or some such sport (or game, I guess you would call golf a game because sport sounds too rough for such a gentile pastime) or will devout endless hours to the now thirty-seven, at least, flavors of yoga now passing through a rage period and others will climb straight-faced (theirs and the mountain’s) sheer rock precipices. So be it. Take me for example although I am not up for rigors of golf, yoga or mountain-baiting recently I have been on a tear in reviewing individual[CL1] CDs in an extensive generic commercial classic Rock ‘n’ Roll series (meaning now the 1950s and 1960s) called Rock and Roll Will Never Die. The impetus for reviewing that particular CD at first was hearing the song Your So Fine by the Falcons after I had been listening to The Dubs’ Could This Be Magic on YouTube. That combination was driven by a memory flashback to about 1959 when I used to pester (I am being kind here) every available girls in my seventh grade class by being flirty and calling her, well, “so fine” (available by the way meaning not going “steady” with a boy, especially a guy who might be on the football team and who take umbrage with another guy trying to cut his time). Such is the memory bank these days.
While that particular review was driven by a song most of these reviews have been driven by the intriguing artwork which graces the covers of each CD, artwork drawn in such a way to stir ancient memories of ancient loves, ancient loves, too many to count, anguishes, alienations, angsts and whatever else teen–age life could rain down on you just when you were starting to get a handle on the world, starting to do battle to find your place in the sun.
Moreover to reflect that precise moment in time, time being a very conscious and fungible concept then when we thought we would live forever and if we did not at least let us do our jailbreak rock and roll rock with the time we had, the youth time of the now very, very mature (nice sliding over the age issue, right?) baby-boomer generation who lived and died by the music. And who fit in, or did not fit in as the case may, to the themes of those artwork scenes.
Some artwork like those that portrayed the terrors of Saturday night high school dance wallflower-dom, the hanging around the you-name-it drugstore soda fountain waiting for some dreamy girl to drop her quarters in the juke-box and ask you, you of all people, what she should play to chase her blues away after some guy left her for another, a scene down at the seclude end of Adamsville Beach with a guy and his gal sitting watching the surf and listening to the be-bop radio before, well, let’s leave it at before, and a few beauties sunning themselves at the beach waiting for Johnny Angel to make an appearance need almost no comment except good luck and we, we of that 1950s demographic, all recognize those signposts of growing up in the red scare cold war night. This cover however did not “speak” to me, a 1959 artwork cover from the time when the music died (meaning Elvis turned “square,” Chuck got caught with Mister’s girls and Jerry Lee failed to check the family tree).
This cover was a case of not fitting in for this reviewer. On this cover, a summer scene (always a nice touch since that was the time when we had least at the feel of our generational breakout), two blondish surfer guys, surf boards in tow, were checking out the scene, the land scene for the minute they were not trying to ride the perfect wave. That checking out of course was to check out who was “hot” on the beach, who could qualify to be a “surfer girl” for those lonely nighttime hours when either the waves were flat or the guys had been in the water so long they had turned to prunes. That scene although not pictured (except a little background fluff to inform you that you are at the beach, the summer youth beach and no other, certainly not the tortuous family beach scene with its lotions, luggage, lawn chairs, and longings, longings to be elsewhere in early teen brains), can only mean checking out the babes, girls, chicks, or whatever you called them in that primitive time before we called them sister, and woman.
No question that this whole scene is nothing but a California come hinter scene. No way that it has the look of Eastern pale-face beaches, family or youth. These is nothing but early days California dreamin’ cool hot days and cooler hot nights with those dreamed bikini girls. These are, no question “beach bums,” no way that they are serious surfer guys, certainly not Tom Wolfe’s Pump House LaJolla gang where those surfers lived for the perfect wave, and nothing else better get in the way. For such activity one needed rubberized surf suits complete with all necessary gear. In short these guys are “faux” surfers. Whether that was enough to draw the attention of those shes they are checking out I will leave to the reader’s imagination.
As I noted before and commented on in the review the music, the 1959 music, that backed up this scene told us we were clearly in a trough, the golden age of rock with the likes of Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis, and Chuck Berry was fading, fading fast into what I can only describe as “bubble gum” music. Sure I listened to it, listened to it hard on my old transistor radio up in my lonely shared room, mainly because that was all that was being presented to us. Somehow the parents, the cops, the school administrators and, if you can believe this, some of those very same bikini girls who you thought were cool had flipped out and wanted to hear Fabian, Bobby Vee and Bobby Darin, got to the record guys, got to Tin Pan Alley and ordered them to make the music like some vanilla shake. So all of a sudden those “you’re so fine” beach blanket blondes were sold on faux surfer guys, flip-floppers and well-combed guys and had dumped the beat, the off-beat and the plainly loopy without a thought.
It was to be a while until the folk, folk rock, British invasion, and free expression rock engulfed us. As the bulk of that CD’s contents attested to we were the great marking time. There were, however, some stick-outs there that have withstood the test of time. They include: La Bamba, Ritchie Valens; Dance With Me, The Drifters; You’re So Fine (great harmony),The Falcons; Tallahassee Lassie (a favorite then at the local school dances by a local boy who made good), Freddy Cannon; Mr. Blue (another great harmony song and the one, or one of the ones, anyway that you hoped, hoped to distraction that they would play for the last dance), The Fleetwoods; and, Lonely Teardrops, Jackie Wilson (a much underrated singer, then and now, including by this writer after not hearing that voice for a while).
Note: After a recent trip to the Southern California coast I can inform you that those two surfer guys are still out there and still checking out the scene. Although that scene for them now is solely the eternal search for the perfect wave complete with full rubberized suit and gear. No artist would now, or at least I hope no artist would, care to rush up and draw them. For now these brothers have lost a step, or seven, lost a fair amount of that beautiful bongo hair, and have added, added believe me, very definite paunches to bulge out those surfer suits all out of shape. Ah, such are the travails of the baby-boomer generation. Good luck though, brothers.
NO BOMBS! NO TROOPS! NO DRONES!
