Monday, January 28, 2008

Beauty and the bank robber: The strange life of Lydia Hearst

Beauty and the bank robber: The strange life of Lydia Hearst

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/you/article.html?in_article_id=510336&in_page_id=1908

By JANE GORDON
25th January 2008

She is a top model and a member of the one of the America's richest families.

But Lydia Hearst, great-granddaughter of press baron William Randolph
Hearst, has a bizarre background. Her mother was once kidnapped by
terrorists and ended up being jailed for bank robbery.

Lydia Hearst-Shaw is only too aware of the responsibilities that come
with great wealth and exalted social status.

The 23-year-old heiress and supermodel is a member of one of the most
fascinating – and moneyed – families in America.

The privately-owned Hearst Corporation (worth an estimated $4.4
billion) has interests across the media (it owns magazines such as
Cosmopolitan and Good Housekeeping, a tranche of American newspapers
and various cable TV channels) and was founded by Lydia's
great-grandfather, William Randolph Hearst, the inspiration for the
ruthless press baron of Orson Welles's 1941 film Citizen Kane.

But it isn't just the dark central character that makes the Hearst
history so intriguing. In 1974 the family became headline news around
the world when Lydia's mother – William Randolph's 19-year-old
granddaughter Patty – was kidnapped by a left-wing terrorist group
calling itself the Symbionese Liberation Army (SLA).

After several months in captivity, the Berkeley University student –
apparently suffering from Stockholm syndrome (a psychiatric disorder
where a victim becomes sympathetic towards their captor) – took part
in an SLA bank robbery and was eventually arrested, tried and given a
seven-year prison sentence, of which she served 22 months.

It took Patty 25 years to have that sentence overturned – she was
given a full pardon by the outgoing President Clinton in 2001 – and
her struggle to clear her name and lead a normal life has had a
profound effect on Lydia.

"I am very proud of my mother – she is one of the greatest influences
in my life.

"She has instilled in me this belief that I have a responsibility to
make a difference, to live up to my family name and become involved
with contemporary issues that are important.

"It's not about wearing a cocktail dress on the red carpet, it's
about being 100 per cent involved with a cause," she says with a
smile that softens a face that is startlingly similar to the iconic
image of her mother – wielding a sub-machine-gun – that appeared in a
1974 SLA publicity photograph.

It is to the credit of Patty Hearst and her husband Bernard Shaw –
her former bodyguard whom she married two months after her release
from prison in 1979 – that Lydia and her sister Gillian, two years
her senior, were given a 'regular' upbringing in Connecticut.

The girls attended their local high school and enjoyed a sheltered
childhood with the minimum of media attention. Indeed, it wasn't
until Lydia enrolled on a communications and technology degree at the
Sacred Heart University in Fairfield, Connecticut, that she became
aware that she was different from the other students.

People magazine featured her as one of the '50 most beautiful' young
Americans, and she found herself the focus of intense, and not always
favourable, peer scrutiny.

"Because my course involved studying the media it was often
embarrassing for me.

"When we studied 'yellow journalism' – the scandal-mongering and
sensationalising of news that my great-grandfather had been involved
in originating – everybody would look at me.

"I later discovered that everyone else on my course – but in
different classes – had studied what happened to my mother, but the
whole episode had been edited out of my classes. I think they were
trying to be kind, but it was odd."

Until she arrived at university, Lydia had thought that the only
really different thing about her was her unorthodox fashion taste.
She was, she says, a fashion victim from infancy.

"I don't really believe there is such a thing as bad fashion – it is
all self-expression, which used to get me into trouble when I was a
little girl because I think I started wearing heels when I was about
ten, and I always refused to wear matching socks," she says, grinning
down at her six-inch wedge-heel Celine shoes.

It was always her ambition to be a model but at 5ft 6in (without her
heels) she was regarded as too small.

"I started out like any other model – I didn't use my name as
leverage. I went out with a portfolio and pounded the pavement and it
was surprising how many people wouldn't see me because I was too short.

"Then I got a call from the photographer Steven Meisel's office, my
first job was the cover of Italian Vogue, and the rest is history," she says.

Lydia may have never knowingly used her name as 'leverage' in her
modelling career – she prides herself on never having worked for any
Hearst Corporation magazines – but she is known professionally as
Lydia Hearst (she won't say why the 'Shaw' was dropped).

There is little doubt, though, that she has worked hard to sustain
her success – she has featured on the catwalk and in ad campaigns for
everyone from Prada to Cavalli, she is the face of the new Escada
perfume Incredible Me, she writes a bi-monthly 'society' column in
the New York Post magazine Page Six, and there is a range of 'Lydia'
bags that she has designed for Puma.

A socialite with a social conscience, Lydia last year organised a
major fashion show and auction to raise awareness and funds for
Darfur, and she has recently become involved in an American-based
charity that aims to lower the rate of teen pregnancy through education.

"It was really important for me to try to do something about the
situation in Darfur because in America – shockingly – a lot of people
had no idea what was happening.

"It's surprising but in a sense the news in the US is very censored,
people are very sheltered and they don't have a realistic perspective
on what is taking place in the rest of the world. I don't want to
knock America, I love America, but I don't think many Americans
understand what genocide and terrorism truly are," she says.

With her charity commitments and punishing work schedule, Lydia has
little time for romance: "I have trouble even getting a date," she says.

Since her eight-month relationship with American actor Justin Bartha
broke up last summer she has been single, although she does concede
she currently has a crush (she won't say who he is, although he is
'famous'). It was recently rumoured in the US that she was the new
girlfriend of Cisco Adler (ex-boyfriend of Kimberley Stewart and
Mischa Barton) but she laughs out loud when his name is mentioned and
insists he is just an old friend.

"The most incredible rumour I read was that I was dating Prince
William. An American magazine did a three-page story on us. While I
have quite an imagination and I am sure he is lovely, I haven't
actually met him," she says.

When she does marry it will, she believes, be 'for ever' in the
manner of her own parents' marriage.

Her family is at the centre of her social life – she is very close to
her father, who is head of security for the Hearst Corporation, and
she has an apartment in the same New York block as her adored married
sister, an editor on the Hearst magazine Town and Country.

She speaks to her mother every day and whenever she can she spends
weekends at the family home in Connecticut.

"My mother was very protective at the start of my career – she was
present when I had my test shots taken and she sat in on my first
press interviews. I know she is always there for me."

Lydia is obviously relishing her success and enjoying the way her
career is expanding. Her forthright views – expressed in her new
column (which she rather pretentiously compares to the work of Mark
Twain) – are already causing controversy in the US, where models do
not often express themselves on important subjects such as this
year's presidential elections.

"I would like Hillary Clinton as president but to be honest, I don't
believe that the United States is ready for a woman president.

"Every other country in the world is, but not us – we will have a
foreigner in office before we have a woman. America may be the home
of feminism, but I don't think the electorate will allow a woman to
be president.

"It may be possible for a woman of my generation – in ten or 20
years' time…" she adds, making you think she herself might one day
enter politics.

For now her energies are focused on her modelling (which she loves)
but her charm and strong convictions (she is a vociferous opponent,
for example, of reality television) could well propel her into a
wider role in the media.

And although Lydia laughs when I suggest a political future (William
Randolph Hearst, after all, was a member of the House of
Representatives), she is that rare thing – a model on a mission.

"I am aware that there are very few positive role models for young
people – that is something I would like to change. I am very
disappointed by the way so many young society men and women behave.

"Their idea of supporting a cause is to turn up on the red carpet and
party – they are not making donations, they are not raising awareness
– they are just going for the party, and it's not a party at all.
It's very serious," she says.

So if Lydia had to choose between politics and partying would
politics be the winner? "Well, you won't see me getting out of a car
without underwear on, or falling over drunk or being on drugs. That
is not me," she says.

And you can't help but believe her.

.

'My Revolutions' by Hari Kunzru

'My Revolutions' by Hari Kunzru

http://www.latimes.com/features/printedition/books/la-bk-ulin27jan27,1,3416240.story?ctrack=7&cset=true

A former radical wanted for bombings as a youth must come to terms
with his actions and his ideals.

By David L. Ulin
January 27, 2008

My Revolutions
A Novel
Hari Kunzru
Dutton: 280 pp., $25.95

Eearly in Hari Kunzru's third novel, "My Revolutions," there's a
scene that highlights its edgy clarity. It's 1968, and Kunzru's
protagonist, a young radical named Chris Carver, has just been
arrested after an antiwar rally in London turns violent. In his jail
cell, he meets another protester, self-proclaimed revolutionary
filmmaker Miles Bridgeman, who asks about the world Chris means to build.

"[W]hat kind of future will it be?" Miles wonders. "What exactly? . .
. Picture it in your head. What's different? How does it work? How do
they do things? What do you see?" Frustrated, Chris can summon up
only the image of "walking down the street smiling," as if the future
were a kind of ad. "I was angry with myself," he admits. "Was that
really all I could imagine? Not even to have a picture of freedom.
How abject. How bleak."

It's precisely this tension -- between the romance of insurrection
and the elusive goal of a new order; between the anger of the young,
the disillusioned and the entrenched structures of society -- that is
the underlying theme of "My Revolutions," which opens 30 years after
Chris' jailhouse revelation in an England where "the old town-center
tradesmen have gone out of business, butchers and ironmongers and
family-run tea rooms edged out by branches of Starbucks and Pizza
Hut." Chris now lives quietly under the name Mike Frame, with a
common-law wife and an adopted daughter who know nothing of his
history; he's been hiding in plain sight since the early 1970s, when
the radical group with which he was affiliated embarked on a virulent
bombing campaign.

How, Kunzru wants us to consider, does idealism lead to violence, and
then to a passivity that nullifies them both? In recent years,
similar questions have motivated a host of novels, including
Christopher Sorrentino's "Trance" and Susan Choi's "American Woman,"
both of which re-imagine the strange saga of Patty Hearst and the
Symbionese Liberation Army, and Dana Spiotta's "Eat the Document,"
which also traces the after story of a 1960s radical gone underground.

But if "My Revolutions" has much in common with these efforts, it's a
more inward-looking book. Beginning at the very moment when a much
older Miles blows Chris' (or Mike's) cover, this is a novel about
identity as much as politics, built around the notion that our most
cherished beliefs, hopes, desires, even memories, are little more
than constructs in the end. "All things are transitory," Chris
reflects. "All things must pass. Attachments, whether to material
possessions, to people, to places or a name, are futile. Despite your
clinging, these things will fade away."

At its heart, "My Revolutions" is an inquiry into the metaphysics of
rebellion, a novel that frames radicalism as a spiritual path. "You
can't hate the world's imperfection so fiercely, so absolutely,
without getting drawn toward death," Kunzru suggests. "Beyond a
certain point it becomes the only possibility." He's writing here
about Anna Addison, the now-dead revolutionary who once inflamed
Chris' heart, but the statement resonates across the book. Shifting
back and forth in time between Chris/Mike's flight from exposure and
his relentless explication of his history, "My Revolutions" dissects
the pure white heat of extremism and the way it often leads less to
liberation than to a self-imposed servitude.

Certainly, this is what happens to Chris, who starts out protesting
atomic weapons, only to slip into radicalism after he meets Anna and
her on-again-off-again lover Sean Ward. Together, they form a group
devoted to a rigid, if amorphous, revolutionary practice based
equally on Marxist theory and middle-class guilt. "We are advocates
of the abolition of war, we do not want war," Sean is fond of saying,
quoting Chairman Mao. "But war can only be abolished through war and
in order to get rid of the gun, it is necessary to take up the gun."
Still, in the early days, their actions have a more practical effect.
At one point, they break into a supermarket, liberating "chicken
after chicken . . . sacks of potatoes, jars of coffee, whole pallets
of canned vegetables" to distribute to the poor. "We formed a human
chain to get the stuff upstairs," Chris recalls, "and by the time it
was properly light, people across the area were waking up to find
several days' of groceries on their doorstep. In each box was a slip of paper:

"After the revolution there will be enough for all."

That's a beautiful moment, politics as poetry, a reminder of the hope
that fueled the best of 1960s activism. Before long, however, that
vision collapses into a shadow world of the group's invention, in
which not hope but paranoia is the fundamental force. Here, Kunzru is
at his finest, subtly evoking the slow slip into dogma, the fascism
of the doctrinaire. "You just aren't human, you people. What's so
bloody revolutionary about being cruel?" cries one member of the
group after a particularly brutal Criticism-Self-Criticism session,
and even 30 years later, Chris/Mike can't quite free himself of that
rigidity, the idea of revolution as a form of asceticism, a way to
seal himself off from, rather than engage with, the world. "Renounce
anger," he tells himself, "forsake pride. Sorrow cannot touch the man
who is not in thrall to anything, who owns nothing."

Partly, it's a survival strategy, but Kunzru is deftly exploring how
we get caught in our belief systems, in abstractions that separate us
from ourselves. Certainly, this is true of Chris, who walks away from
his past, drifting across Europe and Thailand, only to end up trapped
by the lie he's forced himself to live inside. But it's also true of
Miles, who has long since sold out to the highest bidder, as well as
the long-dead Sean and Anna, bound in a rhetorical spiral from which
they cannot escape.

This theme is echoed throughout the book: "So I carry on, round and
round, Porte des Lilas, Porte de Montreuil, right shoulder inward,
circumambulating the large stupa at Wat Tham Nok, following the line
of chanting monks, the tea light in its little clay bowl warming my
hands. Circling in the Aegean, the taste of salt on my lips, blank
and free. Round and round. Porte de Charenton. Trudging round the
yard at morning exercise. My revolutions." In the end, it all blurs
together, past and present, personal and political, Chris Carver and
Mike Frame.

So how do we break free? How do we come clean? How do we make a real
revolution in our lives? Kunzru's too smart to offer an answer,
except to argue that the only revolution that matters is the personal
revolution, based on responsibility and love. This is the
counterpoint that runs through the novel, marking even its most
overtly radical sentiments. "I wanted an end to poverty, to carpet
bombing, to the numbness and corruption of the death-driven society
I'd been born into," Chris observes, explaining the sentiment that
underscores his tilt toward violence.

And yet, as his experience shows us, our fiercest passions are not
enough. "Because legality is just the name for everything that's not
dangerous for the ruling order, because the poor starve while the
rich play, because the flickering system of signs is enticing us to
give up our precious interiority and join the dance and because just
round the corner an insect world is waiting, so saying we must love
one another or die isn't enough, not by a long way, because there'll
come a time when any amount of love will be too late." *

david.ulin@latimes.com David L. Ulin is book editor of The Times.

.

His Illegal Self

His Illegal Self

http://www.theage.com.au/news/book-reviews/his-illegal-self/2008/01/28/1201369007318.html

James Ley
January 28, 2008

This is one of Peter Carey's most unassuming books and has a rare
earthy poignancy.

One of Peter Carey's best early stories, American Dreams, is a
beautifully ironic comment upon America's powerful hold over the
Australian imagination. To the characters who populate the tiny
unnamed town in which the story is set, America appears both familiar
and distant. Its chimerical glamour enthrals them. It is a land of
movie stars, giant televisions, luxurious cars. It represents escape.

When the enigmatic Mr Gleason startles everybody by transforming
their mundane lives into art, crafting a perfect replica of the town
and its inhabitants, they are puzzled and discomforted at being
exposed in such a way.

The story ends with Americans coming to see the model, which has been
transformed into a tourist trap, and gawk at the locals, but in a
neat ironic reversal the tourists have trouble accepting that the
inhabitants are really the people being represented.

American Dreams becomes less a tale of mutual incomprehension than of
wilful blindness. The two cultures gaze at each other but each
prefers the representation to the unglamorous reality.

Not the least significant aspect of Carey's 10th novel, His Illegal
Self, is that it turns the small town perspective of American Dreams
on its head. Its two main characters, a young woman named Anna Xenos,
who goes by the nickname Dial, and a six-year-old boy named Che
Selkirk, are Americans. They spend much of the novel stranded in a
hippie commune near the towns of Namboor and Yandina in southern Queensland.

The sense of defamiliarisation as Dial and Che adjust to the strange
landscape and its odd inhabitants is one of the novel's achievements.

Carey has, on occasion, explored questions of cultural difference in
a very colourful fashion - notably in the elaborate allegory of Efica
and Voorstand in The Unusual Life of Tristan Smith, and in his
amusing memoir Wrong about Japan. But in His Illegal Self, which is
written in an unobtrusively Americanised idiom, the quiet sense of
dislocation provides impetus to the book's deep emotional undertow.

The novel is set in the early '70s against the backdrop of the
political radicalism of the time. Che is the son of two disaffected
children of the privileged classes, both of whom have joined the
militant fringe of the counter-culture. They have abandoned Che to
the care of his grandmother, a wealthy New York matron, who describes
herself as a "bohemian", deplores her daughter's revolutionary zeal
and insists upon calling her grandson Jay.

The opening chapters, in which Dial absconds with Che, taking his
hand and running away from his grandmother on a New York street, are
as taught as any thriller. The point of view switches back and forth
between Che and Dial, and the overlapping perspectives are
brilliantly handled, gradually revealing the farcical nature of the
plot and the bungling that compels the pair to go underground.

Carey is not particularly interested (a la Philip Roth) in the
destructive passions that politics can unleash but the novel does set
out a pointed contrast between the countercultures of Australia and
the US. The American radicals, for whom the narrative displays no
sympathy whatsoever, are self-important and ruthless. They are full
of passionate intensity and are genuinely dangerous: they rob banks
and build bombs.

The Australian hippies, with whom Dial and Che eventually come to
reside after a series of on-the-road travails, are hapless ferals in
Joh Bjelke-Petersen's Queensland, which the omniscient narrator (not
a character) describes at one point as "a police state run by men who
never finished high school". (Would it have improved matters, one
wonders, if they had finished high school?) They are not apolitical
but they are mumbo-jumbo spouters, bumbling and ineffectual.

Dial and Che might have no knowledge of the country in which they
have sought refuge but there is more than a hint of mockery in the
way some of the Australian characters' understanding of the US is
revealed to be little more than a jumble of preconceptions.

But if there is mockery in Carey's portrayal of the hippie commune,
there is affection too. Trevor, a dodgy character who is an
illiterate but smart petty criminal, as well as a keen nudist, is
revealed to be a soft-hearted chap, who becomes an unlikely ally for
Dial and Che.

Even the unwelcoming Rebecca, a minor character who is initially
portrayed as the kind of laid-back fascist who doesn't care what you
do as long as you obey the rules, is granted a degree of empathy
towards the end of the book.

This is reflective of the overall movement of the novel and is
ultimately more significant than its contextualising politics. His
Illegal Self is concerned with loss of innocence but also with the
painstaking creation of personal trust.

In the book's gently paced second half the fragile and evolving
relationship between Dial and Che is deepened. Che's conflicted
feelings about his estranged father are explored and the two exiles
slowly come to develop something like a sense of affinity for their
shambolic new home, whose landscape the novel affectionately evokes.

His Illegal Self is a sad story but it has a warmth and directness,
an earthy poignancy, that one does not immediately associate with
Carey's boisterously inventive fiction.

His recent novels have not been shy about acknowledging their debt to
classic literature. He has rewritten Charles Dickens in Jack Maggs,
William Faulkner in True History of the Kelly Gang and Mary Shelley
in My Life as a Fake. His writing has also at times revelled in its
virtuosity, most obviously in the booming voice of Ned Kelly and the
rambunctious double-act of "Butcher" Bones and his perceptive idiot
brother Hugh in his previous (and very different) novel, Theft.

His Illegal Self is in its quiet way a technically accomplished work
but it does not flaunt its proficiency. A few passing references to
Huckleberry Finn, which highlight the novel's sympathy for Che's
child's-eye view of the world and the sense of freedom he discovers
as he romps through the bush with the commune's hippie children, are
as close as the book gets to a canonical homage. It is none the worse
for this unassuming quality.

His Illegal Self might be a relatively straightforward and
understated tale by Carey's usual standards but it is a fine novel.

.

Man to Surrender in 1969 Police Shooting

Man to Surrender in 1969 Police Shooting

http://ap.google.com/article/ALeqM5iAn2uTHGkoDccN_Xp-MwMyxGZJVgD8UC9IOG0

1/24/08

CHICAGO (AP) ­ A former Black Panther Party member accused of
shooting a police officer in 1969 and then fleeing to Canada wants to
return to the United States to stand trial, his attorney says.

Chicago authorities accuse Joseph Coleman Pannell, now 58, of
shooting Officer Terrence Knox after the officer stopped him for
questioning outside a South Side store. Pannell was free on bond in
that case in 1973 when he fled Chicago.

Pannell, who changed his name to Douglas Gary Freeman and was a
library research assistant outside Toronto, has waived extradition
and will return to Chicago within 30 days, his attorney, Neil Cohen,
told the Chicago Sun-Times.

Pannell has been jailed since his 2004 arrest in a suburb of Toronto.
A judge in 2005 ordered Pannell returned to Chicago to face trial on
charges of attempted murder and aggravated battery. But his lawyers
appealed, saying Pannell feared for his life and would not get a fair
trial in the U.S.

In 2006, Canadian Justice Minister Vic Toews denied Pannell's
request. Pannell's attorneys mounted a last appeal of Toews' decision.

Knox was on patrol when he approached Pannell, then 19 and AWOL from
the Navy, and asked why he wasn't inside a nearby high school.

Knox said he almost lost his right arm because of the bullet wounds,
and his life was saved when a fellow police officer stuck a finger
into his arm to stop the bleeding from a torn artery.

Pannell was arrested in 1971, skipped bail, then was re-arrested in
1973 and skipped bail again, according to court records.

Knox said Philip Cline was the only Chicago Police superintendent
since 1973 to take an interest in tracking down Pannell. The
cold-case squad started investigating the case after Knox met with
Cline in 2004.

But Knox, 60, remains angry about the Cook County judges who twice
freed Pannell on bail in the 1970s.

"My position is the same," said the retired officer, who lives in
southwest suburban Orland Park. "I want the court system to do its
job. If he is innocent I will shake his hand. If he is guilty, I will
slam the door behind him and never look back."

Pannell, who had been fighting extradition, has changed his mind in
part because of what he views as a different political climate in the
United States, Cohen said.

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‘From Liberation Schools to Oakland Learning Center’ Exhibit

'From Liberation Schools to Oakland Learning Center' Exhibit

http://www.sfbayview.com/20080123827/News/Culture_Currents/From_Liberation_Schools_to_Oakland_Learning_Center_Exhibit.html

by Billy X Jennings, Curator
Wednesday, 23 January 2008

This exhibit is in celebration of the Oakland Learning Center, which
was started 35 years ago in East Oakland. The Black Panther Party
started this school as a model for decent education. The center
housed a school, which won awards for its curriculum from the state
Legislature. The Learning Center served as an oasis in the Oakland
community. Thousands of youth attended programs there provided by the
Black Panther Party.

The exhibit will be up in the History Room at the Oakland Main
Library, 125 14th St. in Downtown Oakland, through April 15.

Ericka Huggins wrote about the school in 1995: "When members of the
State Department came to visit the school, they had their minds blown
because they thought they would see a storefront. What they saw
instead was a valuable and replicable educational model in the inner
city. It offered a quality education, with cultural resonance on par
with a private school. It was located in the inner city but the
parents, who were poor, did not have to pay tuition. We moved to the
larger site because we wanted the community and its children to be
able to come to school. It wasn't insular or exclusive. Party members
wanted their children to be able to connect with other children."

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Angela Davis to speak at Brown

Angela Davis to speak at Brown

http://www.projo.com/news/content/ANGELA_DAVIS_01-28-08_FM8PAUM_v12.1906f5b.html

January 28, 2008

PROVIDENCE ­ Angela Davis, the social activist and educator, will
deliver Brown University's Martin Luther King Jr. Lecture on Feb. 7,
at 4 p.m. in Room 101 of the Salomon Center for Teaching. Her talk,
"Recognizing Racism in the Era of Neo-Liberalism," is free and open
to the public.

Davis has spent the last 15 years at the University of
California-Santa Cruz, where she is professor of history of
consciousness, an interdisciplinary doctoral program, and professor
of feminist studies. She is the author of eight books and has
lectured throughout the United States and around the world.

One of the more visible radicals in the 1960s and 1970s, Davis spent
18 months in jail and on trial after being placed on the FBI's Ten
Most Wanted List. She was charged and acquitted in connection with a
shooting in a California courthouse.

Since then, she has conducted research on issues related to race,
gender and imprisonment. Her most recent books are Abolition
Democracy and Are Prisons Obsolete? She is now completing a book on
prisons and American history.

Davis has focused on the tendency to devote more resources and
attention to the prison system than to educational institutions, and
helped popularize the notion of a "prison industrial complex."

Through her activism and her scholarship in recent decades, Davis is
known for her deep involvement in the quest for social justice, Brown
said in announcing the lecture. "Her work as an educator emphasizes
the importance of building communities of struggle for economic,
racial and gender equality," Brown said.

.

Julie Christie: Beauty that never fades

Julie Christie: Beauty that never fades

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/julie-christie-beauty-that-never-fades-774338.html

On the surface she can be forthright. But there is vulnerability
glistening in her peerless eyes

26 January 2008

It is one of the great movie title sequences of the Sixties. Over a
torn charity advertisement of starving African children, a
bill-poster, with ladder, brush and paste bucket, hangs a 12-sheet
image on a hoarding. It's like a big jigsaw. The corner of a wide,
sensuous mouth appears, then a huge mascara-ed eye, then a necklace.
As each feature is brushed into place, Julie Christie's face is
gradually revealed – a beautiful girl/woman, flagging her imminent
confessions in Ideal Woman magazine.

It is the opening of Darling and, although it wasn't Christie's first
appearance on film, it nailed her status as the Face of the Sixties.
The year was 1965, half-way through the self-consciously "swinging"
decade, and she was flagged as the Ideal Woman of the new
groovocracy: gorgeous, independent, ambitious, sexually uninhibited.
The fact that these attributes coincided with the character of the
film's minxy heroine was a happy coincidence.

Though its Frederic Raphael-scripted story of a manipulative model
who sleeps her way to the top of the fashion scene was badly reviewed
at the time and has dated (the apex of the fashion scene turned out
to be a cabal of Martini-generation, Eurotrash jet-setters wearing
avant garde slacks and playing saucy parlour games) it brought
Christie her first best-actress Oscar. The attendant hoo-hah brought
her global fame at 24 and the beginning of a lifelong loathing for
the limelight.

Forty-something years later, she may have to endure the ordeal all
again. She has already won a Golden Globe, and has now been nominated
for an Oscar, for Away From Her, an unbearably moving study of a
45-year marriage threatened by the onset of Alzheimer's, directed by
her friend Sarah Polley. When Fiona Anderson (Christie) realises she
is on a slide to dementia, she checks herself into a care home, to
the alarm of her husband Grant (Gordon Pinsent). Once incarcerated,
she forgets who Grant is and falls for another patient in his place –
leaving Grant to find a way of rescuing his stricken Euridyce from
this centrally-heated Underworld.

Despite its glum premise, the film created a buzz from its debut at
the Toronto International Film Festival a year ago. When it was
released in the US last summer, critics swooned. "Julie Christie is
transcendent," cooed The New Yorker; "Christie's performance is a
true marvel as her character moves in and out of lucidity, there one
moment and gone the next, holding on to old betrayals and then
forgetting them completely," said the LA Times. Away From Her is the
most substantial role she has played in decades. "I think I work,
actually work, every 10 years," she says.

She was drawn back, she told Variety, "because this film is about
being alive, and being alive means many things. Like illness and
love. The film is really about love enduring through immense
difficulty and a bond that persists despite mammoth negative
oppositional forces." Mostly, she came out of semi-retirement because
she was persuaded by Polley, an actress and close friend, to star in
her directorial debut. Typically, she says she dreaded being
nominated for an Oscar, and now dreads leaving her Welsh farmhouse
for Hollywood. "I get a deep anxiety about it," Christie told The
Daily Express. "It's like you have to go to Mars and pretend to be a Martian."

The only thing that makes her go through with it, it seems, is fear
of press reaction. "I don't care about pissing off 'Hollywood'
because it doesn't really exist any more. But pissing off the media?
It was difficult when I was a girl and they're not any kinder now. I
just hate not being strong enough." In fact, inner strength is
something the press has always appreciated in Christie: strength,
determination, boldness, virtues sometimes undercut by the
inconvenience of falling in love. On the surface, she can be
forthright and businesslike, but you can see vulnerability glistening
in her peerless eyes.

She began her career on television in 1961, playing a foxy alien in A
For Andromeda. Her first two films, Crooks Anonymous and The Scarlet
Lady, were both feeble romps in which Christie gamely played
girlfriend to Leslie Phillips and Stanley Baxter. Her real debut came
in Billy Liar (1963), where she made a spectacular entrance. It still
looks good: she is filmed walking through town in a white blouse,
jacket and short skirt, swinging a bag and smoking a cigarette while
her fingers run along metal railings and her face registers a
succession of smiles, frowns, grimaces and little bursts of song.

John Schlesinger's camera follows her like a lover, watching her
across the street, through shop windows, filming not just her beauty
but the procession of her moods and thoughts. "She goes where she
feels like," breathes a smitten Billy to a male pal. "She's crazy."
What Christie represented was a quintessentially Sixties dream of
freedom. She offers Billy an escape to London from his provincial
northern trap. But eventually she goes and he, pathetically, stays.

Christie's amazing face, her rock-chick hair, her sad spaniel eyes
abruptly lit up by her crinkly smile, her unfeasibly wide mouth –
lots of women explained she could never be called "beautiful" with a
distorted gob like that; lots of men, especially teenage youths,
begged to disagree – and her warm London delivery made her the
Swinging Sixties' favourite dream girlfriend, the unpindownable chick
who might just let you into her perfect life. In 1967, a photo-book
of Sixties faces, sexistly titled Birds Of Britain, called her "the
very incarnation of the new British girl".

After Billy Liar and Darling came David Lean's box-office-bursting
Doctor Zhivago, in which she looked unhappy as Lara, plaything of Rod
Steiger and lover of Omar Sharif, in an unbecoming Russian hat. She
was reunited with Schlesinger for a prettified version of Thomas
Hardy's Far From The Madding Crowd. Her Bathsheba Everdene was a
no-nonsense farmer who turned down the advances of Alan Bates but
fell, disastrously, for the phallic "sword exercise" of Sergeant
Troy, played by Terence Stamp.

The 1970s saw her best work, when she put away her dazzling smile and
let her intelligence and inner control shine through. In McCabe & Mrs
Miller, she was barely recognisable under the hat, poodle hair and
steely demeanour of Constance Miller, an unsmiling, Cockney brothel
madam. In Nicolas Roeg's stunning chiller Don't Look Now, playing the
bereaved Laura Baxter in wintry Venice, she was a marvel of pathos.
The moment when she sees her dead daughter in her husband's arms, and
her face shatters into an eldritch shriek, is a harrowing coup de cinema.

Midway through the 1970s, Christie decamped to Hollywood, where she
and Warren Beatty became a power couple. (Apart from McCabe, they
starred together in Shampoo and Heaven Can Wait – he once called her
"the most beautiful and the most nervous person I have ever known.").
But when they split up, Christie made a life-changing decision. She
had to leave. "I thought I was going mad," she told the press. "You
do fall into Hollywood. You slip into it."

She moved to a farm in Montgomeryshire (a throwback to the days spent
with her mother in Wales after her parents divorced) and accreted
around her a kind of commune. She remained there for the next two
decades, turning down, inter alia, the lead roles in They Shoot
Horses, Don't They?, Anne Of The Thousand Days and The Greek Tycoon.
It was if she'd put a sign over the door of her film career, saying
"closed for the foreseeable future".

Friends came, stayed for a while and departed, families with children
joined the commune and moved on. Some fanciful journalists dubbed her
"the British Garbo". Christie embedded herself in the countryside,
went for long walks with friends and became radicalised. She has
campaigned for years against nuclear waste, for animal rights and is
a staunch supporter of the Medical Foundation for Victims of Torture.

After her early romances with dashing co-stars (Terence Stamp, Donald
Sutherland, Warren Beatty), she has enjoyed a long relationship with
the journalist Duncan Campbell, whom she met in the 1970s when he was
a crime correspondent in LA. They now live in north London and,
according to Andrea Galer, costume designer on Don't Look Now, "they
are just very down-to-earth, grounded people – not easy for anyone
when you are surrounded by fame."

Christie herself calls it "a wonderful relationship", saying: "We've
got closer and closer over the years. It's a bit like in the film
[Away From Her]; now we just have to hope that neither of us goes
bananas." They have no children. Refusing any surgery to deal with
the onset of age, she is startlingly beautiful at 67. She had to be
comprehensively aged and de-beautified by the make up department to
play Fiona as a convincing Alzheimer's victim.

In the intervening years, Christie has emerged to play bit-parts (she
admitted taking one role "to pay for my roof to be fixed") but she
did nothing of note until Kenneth Branagh persuaded her to play
Gertrude in his Hamlet in 1996. A year later, her performance as the
put-upon wife in Afterglow, Alan Rudolph's comedy-drama, brought a
second Oscar nomination. She turned up in the third Harry Potter
movie, and was chillingly bitchy as Kate Winslet's mother in Finding
Neverland, telling Johnny Depp (as JM Barrie) to cut the crap.

Next month, she will learn if the Indian summer of her career has
been climaxed by a second Oscar. It is one of the great pleasures of
the season to see the Ideal Woman of the 1960s still causing a stir,
45 years after she swung so emblematically through the streets in
Billy Liar, and still radiating the troubled, mesmerising glow that
once drew the eye, as if magnified, to her perfect face. Al Pacino,
asked by Playboy which actress he would most like to work with, said:
"Julie Christie, because she is the most poetic actress." You can see
exactly what he means.

A Life in Brief

Born 14 April 1941, in Assam, India.

Education Convent school in India; Wycombe Court boarding school in
Buckinghamshire; Central School of Speech and Drama in London.

Career Got her big break in 1961 in the BBC science-fiction series A
For Andromeda. She won her first Oscar for her role in Darling
(1963). Further Bafta and Oscar nominations arrived, most notably for
Doctor Zhivago (1965) and McCabe & Mrs Miller (1971). More recently,
Christie won acclaim for roles in Afterglow (1997) and Finding
Neverland (2004). She has just been nominated for an Oscar for
portrating an Alzheimer's disease sufferer in Away From Her.

Family No children and has never married. Her long-term partner is
the journalist Duncan Campbell.

She says "I was born with a need to be the centre of attention and,
of course, you are the centre of the world when you're acting."

They Say: "Julie is captivating, magnetic and stunningly beautiful.
She's full of life, wonder and curiosity. It's impossible not to fall
in love with her." - Sarah Polley, director of Away From Her

.

The Visual Rage of Emory Douglas

[See URL for embedded links.]

The Visual Rage of Emory Douglas

http://blog.seattlepi.nwsource.com/bookpatrol/archives/130376.asp?from=blog_last3

From the 1967 until the early 1980's when the Black Panther Party
disbanded Emory Douglas was their Minister of Culture. During that
time he produced hundreds of pieces of graphic art to accompany the
Panther message.

The Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA), Los Angeles is hosting an
exhibition of Douglas's work titled Black Panther: The Revolutionary
Art of Emory Douglas. The exhibit, curated by Sam Durant with MOCA
Chief Curator Paul Schimmel, presents almost 150 examples of Emory
Douglas's work.

From the Press Release:

"At a time when political unrest, war protests, and social inequality
have again reached a boiling point, but where artistic responses are
not as easy to find, the work of Emory Douglas serves as a powerful
reminder of the efficacy of visual art to communicate and push
forward a political agenda."

Douglas's "work gave potent visual form to the plight of urban
mothers and to the humanitarian work undertaken by the Black Panthers
to bring social services to their communities."

The influence of Emory Douglas extends to the work of numerous
contemporary black artists including Public Enemy and Spike Lee.

MOCA has a great online exhibition to accompany the show featuring
numerous examples of Douglas's work which includes his commentary on
each piece. Durant has also assembled a healthy selection of links,
books, articles, audio, and video related to the exhibit. If you are
in LA head on over to the Pacific Design Center and have a look. The
show runs through February 24th.

Rizzoli will be publishing a monograph on Emory edited by Durant due
to be released in February. The book contains a preface by Bobby
Seale, a foreword by Danny Glover and contributions by Kathleen
Cleaver and Amiri Baraka.

.

Pot debate focuses on religion, medicine

Pot debate focuses on religion, medicine

http://www.thepost.ohiou.edu/Articles/News/2008/01/25/22570/

Published: Friday, January 25, 2008

Students experienced a "high" level of discussion at last night's
sold-out Heads vs. Feds event.

The first in the Sex, Drugs and Rock n' Roll Debate Series at Baker
University Center, pit "head" Steve Hager, editor in chief of High
Times magazine against "fed" Robert Stutman, a former Drug
Enforcement Agency officer. Both parties declared their position
about the legalization of marijuana before opening the debate up to
student questions.

Hager gave five reasons for the legalization of marijuana: its
medicinal purposes, the benefits of hemp fiber, overcrowded prisons,
the funding of corruption, along with cannabis' religious importance
to counterculture.

"We're good people," he said. "We're as American as apple pie and
baseball. We are honest, sincere people and to us marijuana is a
sacrament. So please, can we have a little freedom of religion in America?"

Stutman said Hager was "acting like a petulant eight year old" by
including religion in the debate, saying that "10 guys getting
together on Saturday night and smoking a joint isn't religion."

Religion isn't something on which to base public policy, Stutman argued.

"I guess we didn't learn our lesson on 9/11," he said. "Just because
you did it in the name of religion doesn't make it right."

Stutman also countered Hager's argument for legalized medicinal
marijuana, citing several studies that downplayed the medical
benefits of cannabis and the current use of natural substances in
prescription drugs.

He also addressed the increased number of marijuana users
legalization would create and the effect that would have on
automobile accidents because of cannabis' effect on depth perception.

Hager reiterated his belief in marijuana as good medicine because of
the lack of sexual and mental side effects that often come with
prescription medication.

"Side effects (of marijuana) are you eat great, you sleep great and
you have the best sex of your life," he said.

Both stressed the importance of activism and voting, regardless of
which side you supported.

"If you think I'm wrong and you don't vote next November, you sit
down and shut up," Stutman said.

.

Terrorism's Christian Godfather

[2 articles]

Terrorism's Christian Godfather

http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1707366,00.html

Monday, Jan. 28, 2008
By SCOTT MACLEOD/CAIRO

You could call George Habash, a Palestinian leader who died in Amman
on Saturday at the age of 82, the godfather of Middle East terrorism.
If you assumed that Palestinian or Arab extremism somehow sprung
entirely from Islam ­ from the puritanical Wahabbi intolerance and so
forth ­ take a close look at Habash's first name. He was a Greek
Orthodox Christian, who sang in his church choir as a boy back in the
Palestinian town of Lydda. Habash's life tells us a lot about the
long Israeli-Palestinian conflict, which seems as intractable as
ever, and prompts reflection on the Middle East's seemingly
unstoppable whirlwind of violence.

Habash's group, the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine
(PFLP), pioneered the hijacking of airplanes as a Middle East terror
tactic ­ one eventually employed by the al-Qaeda hijackers on 9/11 ­
way back in 1968 when three PFLP armed operatives commandeered an
Israeli El Al airliner enroute from Rome to Tel Aviv. Checking in for
a flight has never been the same since.

Many PFLP operations remain etched into history as some of the most
infamous acts of terrorism. In 1970, PFLP terrorists hijacked four
airliners at one time, flew three of them to Jordan, blew them up,
and triggered the Black September civil war between Jordan's
Hashemite monarchy and Palestinian guerrillas. In 1972, Japanese Red
Army terrorists working with the PFLP massacred 24 people at Israel's
Lod International Airport (now called Ben Gurion International Airport).

In 1976, the PFLP's last hijacking ended in the daring rescue by
Israeli counter-terrorism commandos in Entebbe, Uganda. By then, the
actions of Habash's small but radical faction had propelled the
Middle East into cycles of violence that were ever more extreme. They
have yet to subside. Besides multiplying in number and intensity,
Palestinian terrorism prompted reciprocal Israeli counter-attacks on
neighboring countries that in some instances led to the outbreak of
war. But compared to the terrorists behind today's nihilistic suicide
bombings and mass atrocities such as 9/11, Habash's commandos were
almost softies. Before they blew up the three planes in Jordan in a
spectacular, televised moment that was the 9/11 of its day, all of
the 300 or so passengers were evacuated and quickly freed.

To what exact extent Habash inspired the likes of Osama bin Laden is
a matter of conjecture. While the al-Qaeda leader seeks to avenge
Palestinians and surely was aware of Habash's exploits, he would not
be impressed by Habash's Christianity, Marxist-Leninist politics or
connections to the ex-Soviet Union. It is clear, however, that the
PFLP's audacious actions prompted other Palestinian factions to
launch international terror campaigns of their own. Admirers of the
PFLP's headline-making attacks within Yasser Arafat's mainstream
Fatah group went on to plan an attack on the Olympic Games in 1972 ­
ending in the Munich Massacre of 11 Israeli athletes and six others.

What led Habash, a Christian physician ­ hence his nickname al-Hakim
or the doctor ­ into such a life, of revolution, of killing? The son
of a well-to-do merchant, he was trained at the American University
of Beirut, the most liberal university in the Middle East then as
now. His background was almost identical to that of his best friend,
Wadia Haddad, the No. 2 in the PFLP and the operational genius and
passionate proponent of the group's terrorist acts. When I asked
Habash that question during a series of interviews many years ago, he
simply told me about his personal experiences when his family lost
its home during Israel's 1948 War of Independence, what the
Palestinians call the Catastrophe.

Habash's mother insisted he stay in Lebanon for his studies. He told
me he "respected her very much. She was praying all the time. She
influenced me to be merciful, kind to people, to love people, etc."
When war broke out in 1948, he returned to Lydda. In July, Israeli
forces led by Moshe Dayan entered Lydda and its population emptied.
Israeli accounts long portrayed the Palestinians as having "fled."
But Israeli historian Benny Morris wrote in 1999 that Israeli forces
killed at least 250 townspeople, including young men massacred in a
mosque. "Immediately after this, with [Israeli Prime Minister] Ben
Gurion's authorization, the troops expelled the inhabitants of Lydda
and Ramle and drove them toward the [Arab] Legion lines to the east,"
according to Morris.

That was the horror Habash recollected as well, compounded for him by
a personal tragedy: the same night, one of his sisters died in the
town. Although she succumbed to typhoid, the clan blamed the Israeli
onslaught for preventing her from receiving proper care. He buried
the sister in the backyard, took her small children by the hand and
followed the orders of the Israeli soldiers to leave. "The soldiers
would say, 'All of you, out! In this direction!'" Habash recalled. "I
remember asking one of the soldiers where we were supposed to go."
Habash told me he rejected Christianity then. "I was all the time
imagining myself as a good Christian, serving the poor. When my land
was occupied, I had no time to think about religion."

Habash never returned to Lydda, which, renamed Lod, became part of
the State of Israel. He and Haddad spent their time volunteering
medical services in the newly established Palestinian refugee camps
and later formed the Arab Nationalist Movement in solidarity with
Egypt's revolutionary leader, Gamal Abdul Nasser. After Nasser's
humiliating defeat in the 1967 war with Israel, Palestinians broke
off from the group and formed the PFLP. Habash initially sought to
use terrorism to instigate a Palestinian uprising against Israel and
popular revolts in Arab countries like Jordan ruled by pro-Western leaders.

When I told Habash, "You were a medical doctor, yet you killed and
assassinated and used volence," he did not flinch from responding.
"All the time I was believing from the bottom of my heart and brain
that I am fighting for a righteous cause," he said. "The Israelis
took our country because they are powerful, and that is why we have
to attain power, because justice without power means nothing. Certain
[terrorist] operations would make Palestinians themselves feel that
they can do something, which would make all the world stop and say,
'Oh, what is this?'"

Four decades after Habash introduced the world to airplane hijacking,
that question continues to be asked about the violent actions of
Palestinians. Habash succeeded in raising awareness of their cause,
yet his extreme, vengeful methods also helped drench it in blood, and
likely brought Palestinians no closer to freedom and dignity.

---------

Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/1604540.stm

26 January 2008

Founded by George Habash after the occupation of the West Bank by
Israel in 1967, the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine
(PFLP) was formed as a resistance movement.

Combining Arab nationalism with Marxist Leninist ideology, the PFLP
sees the destruction of Israel as integral to its struggle to remove
Western influence from the Middle East.

During the 1970s the group fostered links with militant groups across
the world, including the German Baader Meinhof organisation and
Japan's Red Army.

Working with other groups, the PFLP pioneered aircraft hijackings as
a high-profile means of drawing attention to their movement, most
notably with the capture of an Air France plane en route from Paris
to Athens in 1976.

The plane was flown to Entebbe in Uganda where, after a stand-off,
Israel launched a dramatic commando raid to rescue nearly 100 hostages.

During the 1970s, the PFLP was the second largest faction in the PLO,
but pursued a markedly different strategy to Yasser Arafat's dominant
Fatah organisation.

While Fatah attempted to build support for the Palestinian cause from
Arab countries, the PFLP became disillusioned with what it saw as
inertia among Middle Eastern leaders. Instead the PFLP enlisted
backing from Russia and China.

After 1978 the group switched the focus of its operations to attacks
on Israeli and moderate Arab targets.

Decline

But the decline and collapse of the Soviet Union during the late
1980s undermined the PFLP, and the group lost ground to the radical
Islamic Hamas movement.

Attempting to bolster its position after the supposed 1993
PLO-Israeli peace accord the PFLP added its weight to a disparate
group of Palestinian organisations opposed to the deal.

It boycotted Palestinian elections in 1996, but three years later,
the PFLP accepted the formation of the Palestine Authority and sought
to join Yasser Arafat's administration.

The succession of Abu Ali Mustafa, who replaced an ailing George
Habash in 2000, was seen by many in Israel as heralding a return to
the group's radical policies of 1960s, 70s and 80s.

But Mustafa was soon assassinated by Israeli forces in August 2001 -
a sign, said some analysts, of how Israel saw the PFLP as a continuing force.

Indeed the group struck back, shooting Israeli Tourism Minister
Rehavam Zeevi, leader of a right-wing party, and claiming it as
revenge for Mustafa's death.

Israel alleges that Ahmed Saadat, the current leader of the PFLP,
ordered Zeevi's assassination.

Mr Saadat was imprisoned by the Palestinian authorities but later
seized by Israeli forces and taken to Israel.

Founder George Habash died in January 2008. Palestinian President
Mahmoud Abbas described him as a "historic leader" and announced
three days of national mourning.
--

PFLP HISTORY
1967: Founded in the West Bank
1968: Hijacks Israeli plane in first major operation
1972: Involved in Tel Aviv airport massacre
1976: Participates in Air France hijacking
1978: Targets Israel and moderate Arabs
1993: Opposes Oslo peace accord

.

CSNY Speak Out and Listen In “Deja Vu”

[2 articles]

Concert film 'Déjà Vu' polarizes Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young fans

http://www.usatoday.com/life/movies/movieawards/sundance/2008-01-24-sundance-csny_N.htm

By Anthony Breznican, USA TODAY
1/24/08

PARK CITY, Utah ­ A concert film closes the Sundance Film Festival
tonight, and the subject is the group CSNYY.

That's Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young ­ and you.

For CSNY Déjà Vu, Neil Young set his own cameras rolling when his
longtime bandmates joined him for a cross-country tour for his album
Living With War. But what makes the film unusual is that it focuses
less on the band than on the people who come to see them play.

The film captures the visceral, often angry, sometimes jubilant
reactions of ticket buyers, while Young and his colleagues David
Crosby, Stephen Stills and Graham Nash reflect on their involvement
in the '60s anti-Vietnam protest movement and how it relates to today.

Turning the lens from the stage to the seats was a way to find out
why people felt the way they did about the fiery new anti-war songs,
whether they liked or hated them.

"They are my own personal songs," Young says. "Even though it was
such a heartfelt thing, and I really believe what I believe, the way
we presented it allowed everybody to say what they felt. The idea of
the whole project was just to stimulate debate."

Often the camera crew roams the corridors and lobbies of the arenas,
capturing on-the-spot interviews with people at the height of their
emotions. At one particularly divisive performance in Atlanta,
one-third of the audience walked out. Many of their on-camera remarks
are unprintable.

Young says they shouldn't be condemned for their feelings.

"They feel that way because they believe in it, and you've got to
respect somebody who's expressing their anger or their sorrow. They
feel totally attacked when they see some of these things on the tour.
They felt betrayed because they bought tickets. … 'How could we
spring this on them when we're down in the South where the majority
of the kids that are getting killed are from?' " Young says. "What I
was trying to do with the film was just let it happen, just let it be
and let people say what they felt. We were looking and looking trying
to find more from the other side."

Concertgoers interviewed going in say they know the subject of
Young's latest album ­ but hope he will stick to the oldies. They get
numbers like Let's Impeach the President and the title track (with
lyrics such as, "I join the multitudes / I raise my hand in peace / I
never bow to the laws of the thought police"), and the footage often
captures the audiences' political differences.

Many middle-aged concertgoers who attest to being fans of the band's
1972 anti-war hit, Ohio, about the Kent State shooting of unarmed
protestors, now recoil from Young's criticism of a different war.

Younger fans, in their teens and 20s, also seem to be bigger fans of
the old protest songs, though their generation is the one most
affected by the current conflict.

"People today are just as sensitive and just as idealistic as the
people of the '60s. Young people have got the same feeling. The only
difference is, their lives are not directly threatened by this
thing," Young says. "The big difference between the '60s and now is
there's no draft."

And, he adds, the public is burned out on media. "You become deadened
to it. You think, 'Oh, who am I gonna believe?' because there's so much."

The movie isn't entirely political; many new performances of the
band's vintage hits are showcased. And Young doesn't shy away from
showing the aging rockers struggling with the rigors of the tour,
especially early on. The '60s are over, but their 60s are just beginning.

Young was at Sundance two years ago with Heart of Gold, and this year
he's part of a musical showcase that includes U2 3D, Patti Smith:
Dream of Life and punk-rock-singing senior citizens in Young@Heart.

Young is proud to have the final new film of the 10-day event.
"Sundance is like a farmers market," he says. "Everybody goes there
and brings their wares. Now, to get in there, you've got to have
something good to sell or you can't be in it. So it's a great honor."

--------

CSNY Speak Out and Listen In "Deja Vu"

http://www.commondreams.org/archive/2008/01/28/6675/

by Gregg Goldstein
Published on Monday, January 28, 2008 by Reuters

Park City, Utah - Death threats, loud catcalls and walkouts didn't
stop rock legends Crosby Stills Nash & Young from completing their
fiercely anti-Bush reunion tour in 2006.

Two years later, the band has reunited again to unveil its Sundance
Film Festival closing-night film, "CSNY Deja Vu," a documentary that
isn't so much a concert movie as a balanced examination of America's
fiercely divided opinions about the Iraq War.

"We went to war for one reason, then the reason changed every six
months," said the project's main catalyst, Neil Young, an
approachable guy despite his habit of locking eyes with you and not
blinking when he speaks. "America never had a pre-eminent war in
history before this, so we had something to say. But if anyone has
anything else to say, the more the merrier."

"Deja Vu" takes a 360-degree look from inside the eye of a storm the
band set out to create on their Freedom of Speech tour. It profiles
civilians and soldiers both for and against the war between
performances of popular '60s protest songs and newer, less
universally accepted ones, like "Let's Impeach the President" from
Young's 2006 album "Living With War."

And don't get Young started on the war.

"Some people support the troops by saying they're being abused, put
in a situation with no armor, where they can't win, where there's not
enough of them so they're used over and over again," he said. "They
say the American way of life is threatened, and we're at war for our
lives. But if that's true we should've had a draft. These guys didn't
believe that enough to put their own careers on the line. It would be
political suicide for this administration."

BOTH SIDES NOW

But there are plenty of well-articulated, contrary opinions in the
film, and lots of self-criticism. There's footage of fans leaving en
masse with middle fingers raised during "President" ­ though Nash
noted that it came three hours into a 3 1/2-hour show ­ and gripes
about $350 top ticket prices.

The film even includes a review saying the huddled sixtysomethings
look like they're comparing prescriptions onstage. "I didn't get
putting that in for a while because I'm not a masochist, but I came
around," Stephen Stills said with a laugh. "We're all pretty proud of
Neil for including it," David Crosby added. "But don't tell him I said that."

As the band sat in a swank Park City Delta Sky Lounge suite, they had
an easy camaraderie that showed their mutual affection ­ and a love
of giving one another a hard time. When Crosby put his bare feet up
on the table, Stills quickly waved his hand in front of his nose.

But while all members support the film's inclusion of differing
points of view, like the pro-war sentiments some people express
onscreen ­ "We don't want to stand on a mountain and tell everyone
how to do things because we don't know more than everyone else,"
Crosby said ­ they chose not to include the death threats and
bomb-sniffing dogs they faced at each stop on the tour.

"I've never gone into a hotel where everyone else went into the room
before to look behind the curtains. But we did it," Young said.
"We're not going to live like this forever. You don't want to fan
that (by putting it on film) or say, 'Look at poor us, we have death
threats.' "

The band members are famously contentious. "We watch out for each
other like brothers, and we fight like brothers," said Young, who has
drifted in and out of the band for decades.

"We're a damn Jerry Springer show!" said Stills, drawing much laughter.

"Yeah, it's the Jerry Springer Tour!" Crosby added.

But virtually none of that is onscreen, and on further reflection,
the band said this tour might have elicited the least interpersonal
tension of their career.

"We were basically scared s­less, so we were hanging together
closely," Young said. "It wasn't comfortable out there, just because
of the subject matter. Positive or negative, we crossed a line."

ENTERING THE DEBATE

Young said he doesn't really care what audience the $500,000-plus
digital-video feature reaches ­ "We're not making it to score
commercially," he said ­ yet the band feels strongly about securing a
theatrical release to help stir debate several months before the
presidential election.

"Deja Vu" is directed by Bernard Shakey, a shadowy figure who has
never been seen in the same place at the same time as Young. His work
includes the quirky 1982 comedy-drama "Neil Young: Human Highway" and
dates back to the trippy 1974 film "Journey Through the Past," which
has never been released on home video. "It'll come out again, and now
it'll live up to its name," said Young, Shakey's unofficial spokesman.

The film could lead to a concert album, another promotional tour or
even an original album, said Nash, depending on its reception.
They're hitting the road soon in different combinations: Crosby
Stills & Nash in July, Crosby and Nash in the fall. Graham Nash is
completing his box set and helping Stills on a box set. CSNY is
prepping an album of demos of their songs dating back to the '60s.

Young insists that his "Archives" project, delayed more than a
half-dozen times, will be released this year on Blu-ray Disc and DVD
(but not CD) "now that technology has caught up to how we want to present it."

But right now their focus is getting "Deja Vu" seen to stir debate.

"I truly believe there are good people on both sides. You can't look
at John McCain and say he's not a good man," Young said of one of
Crosby's friends. "He's not dirty, he has experience, and he believes
he's doing the right thing. How is that different from Barack Obama?

"This movie is not about our opinion, just people willing to stand up
and express what they believe" he said.

Or, as Stills put it, "The Constitution doesn't say you have to
support the liberal blowhards, just freedom of speech."

.

It's official: Feminism is out of style

It's official: Feminism is out of style

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/story/LAC.20080126.NOTICED26/TPStory/Entertainment/columnists

January 26, 2008
KAREN VON HAHN
kvonhahn@globeandmail.com

The death this week of Suzanne Pleshette - that sassy, sexy
comedienne who, along with playing Bob Newhart's better half, starred
in the kind of swinging seventies, Love, American Style romps that
comprised my inappropriate after-school TV viewing schedule - has me
feeling like I should be stuffed and put on display in some sort of
museum of women's liberation.

That, and the revelation that came to me while playing a board game
over the holidays with my 26-year-old niece and 18-year-old daughter.
The game is called Hoopla: You pick a card and act out the person,
place or thing named on it for the group to guess. After drawing her
card, my hip and literate niece asked whether she could choose
another. "I don't have any idea who this is," she said, passing the
card to my daughter. "Me neither," shrugged my well-informed Sophie.
They passed it to me. The woman on the card was Gloria Steinem.

Whether it's because we've all fallen asleep at our tasks like Snow
White, or whether we've been outplayed in a subtle and long-standing
culture war, what is clear is that we are living in a new era of
post-feminism. That the young women I know see no great victory in
Hillary Clinton's run for the U.S. presidency is proof enough. That
they also see Barack Obama as the one candidate who represents
"change" is nothing less than astounding.

Ever since Clinton and her contemporaries crammed their way into law
and business schools, we've been told by everyone from the
cheerleading women's business networks to Virginia Slims that we've
made it. Turning our backs on conventional feminism and its grinding
focus on women's oppression, we empowered our daughters to embrace
the more upbeat Girl Power movement. Candy-coating the world in Spice
Girls tunes, pink-feathered purses and Sex and the City, we sold them
a bill of goods: that women are as free and unencumbered as men, that
they can achieve any goal they might dream of - even that the odds
are in their favour.

As a result, the girls of this generation, who consider it "lame" to
align themselves with a woman candidate on the sole ground of
sisterhood, are more likely to tune in to the new CosmoTV digital
channel (sample program, Dirty Cows: "Take 10 stylin' British babes,
add one cold and lofty barn and a young, rich, handsome farmer
looking for love, and you've got a recipe for mayhem, because to win
his heart they're going to have to fight like dirty cows") than flip
open the 35th-anniversary issue of Ms. Magazine.

Talk about old school: The issue featured Superwoman on its cover.
(That's how tired the movement is looking: They had to resort to a
comic-book heroine who appeared more than half a century ago to
illustrate it.) The hard truth is that we have failed to impress upon
our own daughters that women's issues still matter.

As Steinem herself (yes, she is still alive) observed of the
Clinton/Obama challenge in The New York Times, gender - not race - is
still "probably the most restricting force in American life," adding
that "black men were given the vote a half-century before women" and
have ascended the ranks of power in greater numbers in advance of women.

With our hands in the air begging to answer, we have outperformed our
male colleagues at school only to be slapped hard in the real world.
According to an April, 2007, study by the American Association of
University Women, despite pulling in higher grade point averages
across all majors, women earn 80 per cent of what their male
counterparts take home one year after graduation. Ten years later,
the figure drops to 69 per cent.

In 2007, just 12 of the Fortune 500 companies boasted female chief
executive officers. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, only 14.6
per cent of board seats are held by women, and a scant 6.7 per cent
of us qualify among the top five wage earners. The most recent
numbers from Statistics Canada are even worse: In our country, women
make a measly 64 per cent of what men earn. Which means that pay
equity day - the date by which women will reach the amount that men
earned by the end of last year - won't happen till May 10 of this year.

At the same time, according to numerous recent global studies, women
- even those part of the growing ranks of double-income families -
still shoulder the brunt of both housework and child care. And the
right to choose, a key rallying cry for traditional feminists, is so
taken for granted by today's young women that they giggle along with
the hipster protagonists in Knocked Up who aren't mature enough to
say the word "abortion" and the wisecracking teenager in Juno who
opts to carry her baby to term because the abortion clinic gives her
the creeps.

But worst of all is feminism's failure to create true sisterhood.
Like mean girls in the playground, we started feeling all warm and
fuzzy toward Clinton only after our claws and barbs drew tears.
Which, given the current "race versus feminism" question, might help
explain why Clinton is doing just about as well with black voters as
Obama is doing with women. Because if there is one thing that blacks
and women share, apart from their oppression from the white male
corridors of power, it is their enduring lack of faith in their own community.

.

Rocker finds peace with 'Blues' and Cheer

Rocker finds peace with 'Blues' and Cheer

http://newsok.com/article/3196644/1201224727

By Gene Triplett
Entertainment Editor
January 25, 2008

Dickie Peterson is still fussing and hollering about his "Summertime
Blues" more than 40 years after the sun went down on the Summer of Love.

He remembers a period in his career when he was loathe to sing that
Eddie Cochran classic one more time, that 1958 hit that he and Blue
Cheer bandmates Leigh Stephens and Paul Whaley resurrected in 1968
with a feedback-and-thunder cover that's now considered a classic in
its own right. But he's made his peace with the song that's been his
calling card, like it or not, ever since it peaked at No. 14 on the
Billboard charts four decades ago.

"I can't walk into a place or even go to a jam session and not sing
this song," the bassist and vocalist said in a phone interview from
his Sebastopol, Calif., home. "If somebody knows I'm from Blue Cheer,
I've gotta do that song. The thing is, for a number of years I hated
this, that I couldn't go anywhere without playing this song. As I
grew older, I grew to realize how much I owed Eddie Cochran, how much
I owe that song. That is a great song. And I feel privileged and
honored every time I get to sing it."

It was the band's only hit single, considered by many to be a
prototype of heavy metal, along with the album that bore it,
"Vincebus Eruptum." It's even been said that The Who adopted the
Cochran song as a concert staple after hearing Blue Cheer's version,
which gives Peterson a laugh.

"I don't think their version touches ours," Peterson said, his voice
roughened from years of belting lyrics over a morass of grinding
guitar. "Yes, they technically do these things that are more precise
than we are. What I could compare it to is a Honda and a Harley.
They're the Honda. We're low-end. We're American-made iron, not heavy
metal. Heavy metal is high-end. We're low-end, man, we're low gear.
We don't run at you with speed, we just slowly overwhelm you."

The San Francisco power trio's career got its start when Peterson met
a Hell's Angel member named "Clean Gut" Turk while tripping on LSD in
Golden Gate Park. Peterson had been a motorcycle enthusiast and an
admirer of the outlaw biker club since he was kid; "Gut" was a music
lover. The two struck up a friendship.

"He himself was a really fantastic artist and a really good thinker,"
Peterson said. "He developed into a mentor for me, and he taught me
things about life and survival that I use to this day."

Turk also became Blue Cheer's manager for a time, and the trio, in
turn, was adopted as something of a Hell's Angels house band.

"The Angels were sort of like the hippie equivalent of the securities
and, you know, Ken Kesey and Timothy Leary and all this stuff was
happening," Peterson said.

The counter-culture acid-rock movement was booming as well, led by
such luminaries as the Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane, but the
ultra-loud, acid-damaged music churned out by Peterson, guitarist
Stephenson and drummer Whaley commanded little respect among Bay Area
musicians.

"We were like 19 years old," Peterson said. "We could barely play,
which made us a lot of enemies around the San Francisco music scene,
because these older guys were supposed to make it, not us."

And make it Blue Cheer did, at least through 1971, before constant
personnel changes and lack of a follow-up hit single caused the
Phillips record label to drop the band from its roster, retaining the
publishing rights to all of Peterson's original songs.

"I can say unequivocally, the stone fact is, bikers never ripped us
off, and we've played for bikers for the last 40 years," he said.
"Never, ever, not one time did they ever rip us off. But the guys in
the suits, they got us."

Peterson, at that point the only remaining original member, decided
to pull the plug on one of the most influential bands of the acid rock era.

But Peterson has never stopped working as a musician. He re-formed
Blue Cheer in 1979, and various personnel lineups have been playing
and recording off and on ever since. Peterson, Whaley and guitarist
Andrew "Duck" MacDonald have just released an album of new material
called "What Doesn't Kill You ..." and are on a tour that will bring
them to Oklahoma City on Saturday.

"It's the only thing that keeps me alive, my friend," said Peterson,
61. "I'll never stop playing. I've said it before. When I go, I want
to be standing in front of my microphone with my hammer in my hand."

.

Boulder's drug use skyrocketed in the late '60s

Boulder's drug use skyrocketed in the late '60s

http://dailycamera.com/news/2008/jan/25/boulders-drug-use-skyrocketed-in-the-late-60s/

By Silvia Pettem
Friday, January 25, 2008

When Donald Vendel became Boulder's new police chief in 1967, he
wrote a column in the Camera titled "Chief's Corner." At the time,
illegal drugs had become Boulder's biggest police problem, but the
city's residents knew very little about them. In one of Vendel's
articles, he invited the locals to bring their own popcorn and to
view a free movie at the Boulder Public Library on "the dangerous
mind-warping drug LSD."

Drug use was rapidly increasing. Before long, Boulder became known as
"a home for displaced hippies and a crossroads of the nation's drug
traffic," according to a Camera reporter.

The beginning of Boulder's drug era coincided with major societal
changes all across the United States. The American build-up in
Vietnam fed the country's social unrest and was partly responsible
for the rise of its counterculture.

Closer to home, Boulder voters, after 60 years, finally repealed the
prohibition that had outlawed the sale of liquor within the city
limits. While the Catacombs (in the basement of the Hotel Boulderado)
and Tom's Tavern scrambled to get liquor licenses, the Boulder Police
Department began its crackdown on drugs.

By the summer of 1968, marijuana sold for $100 a kilogram, and LSD
came in lots of 100. The late Harvard professor Dr. Timothy Leary had
encouraged the use of the hallucinogen, telling young people to "turn
on, tune in, and drop out." Transient subgroups hitchhiked to the
foothills west of Boulder, where they freely sold and used drugs from
their makeshift shelters and plastic lean-tos.

Meanwhile, narcotics detectives made the circuit of service clubs and
luncheon groups, urging members to write to their legislators to
demand laws against the possession, use and sale of illegal drugs. In
the first six months of 1969 alone, Boulder police seized more
hallucinogens and amphetamines than did the Denver Police Department,
prompting the Boulder police to add two more narcotics detectives to
the two already employed.

In 1969, after Hill merchants filed numerous complaints about
loitering, panhandling, vagrancy and drug use, the police increased
their patrols of the neighborhood. By then, heroin had become
available on the street, and LSD sold for $4 per tab. Marijuana, most
of which was imported from Mexico, had risen to $125 to $180 per
kilogram, broken down on the street to $15 to $20 baggies. The
stronger drug hashish, a purified resin prepared from the flowering
tops of female marijuana plants, was valued at $10 per gram.

Undercover agents were already at work, mixing with the "pushers" and
setting up sales that led to the drug dealers' arrests. One of the
first "busts" involved two detectives from the Adams County Sheriff's
Department who worked with Boulder detectives, since those from Adams
County were not known to local suspects.

Boulder's drug problem grew so rapidly that a 1969 newspaper article
stated that police were "losing the battle." Boulder dealers supplied
other dealers in St. Louis, Kansas City and Chicago. The Camera
quoted one police officer at the time who stated, "If the Chicago
vice squad wants to know what they'll have to deal with in November,
they call Boulder in October."
---

Silvia Pettem's history column appears every Sunday in the Camera.
Write her at the Camera, P. O. Box 591, Boulder 80306, or e-mail
pettem@earthlink.net

.

Thrills And Pills

Thrills And Pills

http://www.nypost.com/seven/01232008/entertainment/movies/thrills_and_pills_843666.htm

By V.A. MUSETTO

Movie Review

January 23, 2008 -- HAROLD L. "Doc" Humes was an icon of the counter
culture, even though in his prime he looked more like a CPA. But
looks can be deceiving, as we discover in the lively and loving
documentary "Doc," directed by one of Humes' four daughters, Immy.

You know Humes was special when Norman Mailer calls him "one of the
few people I've ever met who was more vain, more intellectually
arrogant than I was at the time." And LSD guru Timothy Leary says
Humes "played an important role in our society."

So what exactly did Humes do during a stormy life that stretched from
1926 to 1992?

He began MIT at age 16, co-founded the prestigious Paris Review,
wrote two acclaimed novels, directed a film ("Don Peyote"), did
copious drugs, fought with the NYPD, spent time in a mental hospital,
befriended some of the great minds of his generation and, in his
later years, became what novelist Paul Auster calls a disheveled
"hipster visionary neo-prophet."

Front-page news in his day, Humes is mostly forgotten now. Let's hope
that "Doc" brings him back into the public consciousness, where he
belongs. Already, his novels ("The Underground City" and "Men Die")
have been re-released after years of being out of print and are
available at the Film Forum.

DOC
Running time: 98 minutes. Not rated (mature elements). At Film Forum,
Houston Street, west of Sixth Avenue.

.

Weather Reports

Weather Reports

http://www.thenation.com/doc/20080211/isserman

January 24, 2008 (February 11, 2008 issue)
Maurice Isserman

One of the shrewdest assessments of the fate of 1960s radicalism was
also among the first: Elinor Langer's essay "Notes for Next Time: A
Memoir of the 1960s," which appeared in 1973 in the pages of the
long-since-defunct radical magazine Working Papers for a New Society
and was reprinted in a 1989 collection edited by R. David Myers
titled Toward a History of the New Left. Langer, a writer and teacher
active in the civil rights, antiwar and women's movement in the '60s,
was dismayed to discover--even as early as 1973--that students who
had just missed out on being part of the '60s generation were already
in the process of idolizing her "as a relic of some brave
revolutionary struggle whose meaning they didn't quite catch--their
La Passionaria perhaps." Hoping that in the future '60s radicals
would come to be remembered "neither as false heroes nor as fallen
idols," she reflected in her essay on her generation's political
illusions. The fate of the student movement of the 1960s, she argued,
was determined when its leaders made the "curiously apolitical"
decision to start thinking of themselves as revolutionaries:

Because revolution was effectively impossible one did not have to
dirty one's hands in compromise, nor mingle much with the hoi polloi
(meaning: the middle class; the un-Chosen) along the way. And it was
also ahistorical and smug, since it mistook revolution, a rare
historical event, for a moral choice.

That the New Left "mistook revolution...for a moral choice" is the
best one-sentence summary I've ever read of the complexities of
late-'60s radicalism. I would suggest a corollary that seems implicit
in Langer's essay. The movement's revolutionary turn was not so much
a measure of its un- or anti-American character, as conservative
critics would have it, but rather an indication that, if anything,
the New Left might have been a bit too American for its own good. Its
impatience with the half-measures of liberal reformism, its lack of
interest in creating a stable constituency or institutional base, and
its promotion of a politics of confrontation and risk ("putting your
body on the line," as the saying went) revealed the movement as an
exotic but recognizable descendant of the powerful Protestant
antinomian tradition of radical individualism--one whose adherents
defied social custom and religious law to follow the inner promptings
of God's voice wherever they might lead. "John Brown is a good symbol
for us," Langer noted in passing. "At one point he wanted to run a
school for Negroes but he came to find the idea too small: he had to
attack Harper's Ferry."

Cathy Wilkerson's memoir, Flying Close to the Sun, offers a
compelling cautionary tale of what comes from mistaking revolution
for a moral choice. Weatherman was a small but influential faction
within Students for a Democratic Society (SDS), the largest campus
radical group of the '60s. Taking their name from a Bob Dylan lyric,
"You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows," the
group's leaders proclaimed it the revolutionary duty of white
radicals in the United States to come to the aid of brethren
revolutionaries in the Third World--including those in the "black
colony" at home--through violent and disruptive protest (and, before
long, armed struggle). Anything less risky, at a time when Vietnamese
peasants by the millions and (as was widely believed) Black Panthers
by the dozens were being killed, was a capitulation to the moral
failure of "white-skin privilege." Weatherman leaders--the most
famous of whom included Bernardine Dohrn, Bill Ayers and Mark
Rudd--gained control of SDS in the summer of 1969; by early 1970 they
had shut down the organization, taking a few score of the most
committed of their followers into the clandestine Weather Underground.

Although never among the top circle of Weatherman leaders, Wilkerson
was nonetheless a charismatic presence in her own right. Susan Stern,
a member of Weatherman's Seattle collective, met her when they were
both in Cook County Jail, following the violent "Days of Rage"
demonstration staged by Weatherman in Chicago in October 1969. "Cathy
Wilkerson was in my tier," Stern recalled in her 1975 memoir With the
Weathermen (recently reissued in a new edition ably edited and
introduced by Laura Browder). "Tall and slender, the beautiful young
woman listened critically but intently as I told her about my life
and the progression of events that had led me to Weatherman."

Wilkerson's fame, or rather infamy, was bound up with a single moment
five months later, on March 6, 1970, the date of the "Townhouse
Explosion." The building in question, on West 11th Street in
Greenwich Village, belonged to Wilkerson's father, a well-to-do New
York City advertising executive who had no idea that his wayward
25-year-old daughter was using it in his absence as a temporary safe
house and bomb factory. While she was upstairs on that March morning
incongruously ironing sheets, three of her comrades were in the
basement putting the finishing touches on a nail-studded dynamite
bomb they intended to plant and set off that night at a dance at Fort
Dix in New Jersey. Their desire to "bring the war home" with a
homemade antipersonnel weapon outstripped their understanding of
electrical circuitry, however, and instead of killing others, Terry
Robbins, Ted Gold and Diana Oughton killed themselves. Wilkerson and
another survivor, Kathy Boudin, stumbled out of the ruins, shaken but
unharmed, and made their escape. Wilkerson spent ten years
underground before turning herself in, and she eventually served
eleven months in prison for illegal possession of dynamite. Boudin
remained underground until 1981, when she was captured in the
aftermath of the Brinks armored car robbery in Nanuet, New York, a
fiasco that cost the lives of a Brinks guard and two policemen. She
was paroled from prison in 2003.

Before Wilkerson became a terrorist, as she recounts in the early
chapters of Flying Close to the Sun, she had been a Quaker-educated
pacifist, a Swarthmore student picketing for civil rights, a reader
of Gandhi. She was particularly taken by the lessons to be learned
from Gandhi's "struggle to apply his political ideas to the minutest,
most personal detail of his life." What came later was not, it should
be noted, Gandhi's or the Quakers' fault: the fact that Wilkerson's
older sister Ann, coming from the same background and influences,
wound up as an American Friends Service Committee staff member at the
same time as Cathy was being drawn to Weatherman suggests the wildly
different ways such lessons could be applied.

After graduating from Swarthmore in 1966, Wilkerson worked in SDS's
national office in Chicago, editing the organization's weekly
newspaper, New Left Notes. It was a time of great optimism in the
student movement: SDS was expanding at an exponential rate (within
another two years, the 15,000 members of 1966 would grow to an
estimated 100,000 members), yet the organization retained some of the
intimacy of the days in the early 1960s when it had only a few
hundred members and a few dozen chapters. "I felt like I had landed
in a community supportive of both women and men," Wilkerson recalls.
"The day-to-day life in the office seemed free of gender
stereotypes.... I was being listened to with more respect than I had
ever experienced."

There were, by this time, forces chipping away at her earlier
pacifist convictions, all part of the familiar narrative of SDS's
decline and fall that one can find in histories by Kirkpatrick Sale,
Todd Gitlin and James Miller, among other sources. These included a
succession of ghetto riots that raised the specter of domestic civil
war, the appalling and ever-escalating conflict in Vietnam and the
need felt by some SDS leaders to come up with a suitably
revolutionary ideology of their own to counter that promoted by the
Progressive Labor Party, a Maoist/Stalinist fringe group bent on
capturing SDS for its own purposes. The early '60s sense of the
movement as a "beloved community" eroded as a multitude of rival
would-be vanguard factions emerged in the SDS leadership. Like many
others in SDS trying to make sense of the chaos of the moment,
Wilkerson turned to theorists like Régis Debray and Frantz Fanon who
celebrated the political and psychological benefits of violence in
Third World revolutionary struggles.

One of the virtues of Wilkerson's memoir is that it suggests that her
path toward the Townhouse Explosion was by no means predetermined.
Her political future, like that of SDS, remained in flux as late as
the fall of 1967. At the famous Pentagon protest in October of that
year, some SDSers wanted to break away from the main event and
skirmish with the police in the streets. Wilkerson was tempted. But
in the end she and the others observed the nonviolent discipline
advocated by David Dellinger of the National Mobilization Committee.
And it worked--the warmakers were confronted on the steps of the
Pentagon in a dramatic tableau that redounded to the antiwar
movement's appeal on the nation's campuses. Wilkerson was one of
those who spoke to the crowd of protesters, urging them not to take
unnecessary risks. "While I had been excited by Debray and Fanon,"
she recalls of that October day forty years ago,

"here in the heat of confrontation it was the model of the nonviolent
confrontations of the civil rights movement that seemed most
powerful. To the extent we had any power at the Pentagon, which
didn't feel like much, it was the power of a moral witness."

Over the next two years, Wilkerson would abandon moral witness, if
not a morally charged politics. The urge to take what she describes
as "decisive moral action," measured by acceptance of an
ever-increasing level of personal risk, crowded out considerations of
strategic ends. Young and politically inexperienced undergraduates
were swelling SDS's membership at the chapter level: "They weren't
looking for a complicated discussion about how to bring about
change," Wilkerson notes, "but for validation, for a community, and
for a way to express their anger about the war." And they looked to
SDS's veteran leaders--which is to say, young people like Wilkerson,
only a few years older than themselves--to provide the answers. What
they were actually offered by SDS leaders in 1968-69, she writes, was
a "lift off from reality."

Wilkerson's self-critical tone stands in marked contrast to that
found in another memoir by a Weatherman, Bill Ayers's Fugitive Days,
published in 2001. As Ayers told a New York Times reporter in a
soon-to-be-infamous interview published on September 11, 2001, "I
don't regret setting bombs. I feel we didn't do enough." Wilkerson,
who issued a scathing review in Z Magazine of Fugitive Days when it
appeared, does regret the bombs: the Weather Underground, she writes
in her memoir, "accepted the same desanctification of human life
practiced by Richard Nixon, Henry Kissinger, and William Westmoreland."

And yet at times, despite the tone of regret that runs as leitmotif
throughout the book, she adopts a curious distancing tone.
Wilkerson's self-portrait through 1967 (one that accords with the
memories of those who knew her at the time) is of a young woman
steadily gaining competence and confidence, and emerging as a natural
and accomplished leader. SDS had a reputation, not entirely
undeserved, as a bastion of male chauvinism; but at critical moments,
like the one at the Pentagon, Wilkerson's male comrades
unhesitatingly handed the bullhorn over to her (and it is a picture
of her, bullhorn in hand, that graces the cover of her memoir). But
in describing her actions and beliefs from 1968 on, Wilkerson
increasingly characterizes herself as a classic dependent female, the
passive follower of initiatives taken by others, incapable of
independent judgment and continually surprised by the decisions of
her leaders (mostly men, with the exception of Bernardine Dohrn).
"When Bernardine declared SDS's mission [in 1968] to be the building
of a 'revolutionary movement,'" Wilkerson writes,

I thought she showed both courage and foresight; if she hadn't
explained what she meant, she had, I thought, made a commitment to
take on that challenge.... I assumed the details would become clearer
as we went along.

In October 1969, when only 300 or so of SDS's 100,000 members
responded to Weatherman's call for the Days of Rage action in
Chicago, Wilkerson declares that she was astonished when "the march
leaders and many others [began] smashing windows of stores and cars
as they ran full speed down the street." In contrast, Susan Stern,
lower down the chain of command than Wilkerson, notes in her own
memoir that she and most of those who showed up for the Days of Rage
made sure to wear gloves "to protect the hands from the broken glass
that would soon be flying and shattering." And then, in her weirdest
act of dissociation, Wilkerson writes of the bomb being built in the
basement of her father's townhouse: "I didn't think about the fact
that the nails might actually kill people."

Wilkerson attributes her "cult-like" adherence to Weatherman doctrine
as a product of the group's "clumsy misuse of
religious-psychotherapeutic technique" in its famously brutal
"criticism-self-criticism" sessions. Weatherman was a cult, but the
crucial question of why some succumbed to its appeal and others did
not goes unaddressed in Wilkerson's account. Stern, in contrast,
makes it painfully clear that her own self-loathing and
self-destructive bent had much to do with her joining Weatherman (she
made one suicide attempt as a child, another in her Seattle days and
eventually succumbed in 1976 to a combination of drugs and alcohol
that may have constituted a final successful attempt). Stern, who
privately thought of herself as "Susan Stern Sham" while projecting a
miniskirted and leather-jacketed image of tough sexy femininity,
confessed in her memoir to being

"obsessed with death and dying.... I fantasized about shootouts with
a dozen pigs, killing some of them, and finally getting killed
myself.... I had to die with meaning. "

It would be psychologically reductive to suggest that all
Weatherman's adherents were motivated by similar obsessions (Ayers's
book suggests that his problems were rather the opposite of
self-loathing). The trouble with Flying Close to the Sun is that we
get no persuasive explanation for Wilkerson's transformation from the
woman who, at age 21, could walk into the office of the nation's
largest radical group and without previous experience immediately
take over the editing of its weekly newspaper to the woman who, four
years later, apparently found it difficult to grasp that a
nail-studded dynamite bomb could actually kill people.

Carl Oglesby was not a Weatherman, but as we learn from his memoir
Ravens in the Storm, he spent a lot of the later 1960s arguing with
its leaders, especially with Bernardine Dohrn. Oglesby was elected
president of SDS in 1965, much to his surprise. He was 30 years old
that year, married, with three children and a job as a technical
writer in the defense industry; his profile was hardly that of a
typical SDSer. On the other hand, he had educated himself to become a
knowledgeable critic of the Vietnam War and had taken part in the
first teach-in against the war at the University of Michigan. In 1967
he would publish, with Richard Shaull, an extended critique of
American foreign policy called Containment and Change, one of the
most influential texts shaping the politics of the radical wing of
the antiwar movement. (Wilkerson, in her memoir, devotes five pages
to attesting to its importance.)

Within a few years, Oglesby found himself out of step with the
organization he had led from 1965 to 1966. As he wrote in 1969 in
"Notes on a Decade Ready for the Dustbin" (also included in R. David
Myers's invaluable collection on New Left history), "We are not now
free to fight The Revolution except in fantasy." He had no use for
those who sought to reduce SDS to a "small, isolated band of
super-charged cadre who, knowing they stand shoulder to shoulder with
mankind itself...face repression with the inner peace of early
Christians" (a pretty good piece of prophetic writing, considering
Oglesby composed it months before the Days of Rage). Instead, he
wanted SDS to focus on what it was good at: building campus chapters
and opposing the war, offering a radical critique of American foreign
policy while forming alliances with liberals and even libertarian
conservatives, wherever and whenever possible. New Leftists, he
thought, "should stop being scared of being reformed out of things to do."

Oglesby thus represents a road not taken by SDS, and I wish I could
report that he has written a better memoir about the days in which he
argued for that alternative. But since he asks us repeatedly in
Ravens in the Storm to trust his reconstruction of conversations with
Dohrn and others--conversations that took place decades earlier and
that spread out over many pages--it is not reassuring to find a text
so riddled with obvious errors. He has New York Times reporter
Harrison Salisbury filing a famous series of articles on the bombing
of Hanoi in 1968 (actually 1966) and the Paris Peace Accords adopted
in 1975 (actually 1973). He writes that he admired Black Panther
Eldridge Cleaver's book Soul on Ice when it came out in 1968 but
"didn't know yet that his record included several rapes" (crimes
that, in fact, Cleaver discusses in the opening chapter of Soul on
Ice). He has the Weatherman "simultaneously" bombing "eight court
houses across the country where movement-related cases were being
heard" in October 1969 (they actually bombed two courthouses, a year
later.) And so on. The Oglesby legacy is much better served by a
re-reading of "Notes on a Decade Ready for the Dustbin."

The last of the wave of new books on SDS is Students for a Democratic
Society: A Graphic History, a radical comix-inspired work edited by
historian and former SDSer Paul Buhle. Buhle is one of the "radical
elders" who in 2006 oversaw the launching of a new group claiming the
SDS name along with descent from the original. This volume seems
intended as a combination recruiting pamphlet and internal education
document--and its mixed intent is its principal problem, since it
jumbles together genuine history with alluring mythology. I can't
quite imagine what an undergraduate today would take away from it,
other than a confusing mishmash of contradictory ideas about SDS's
role in the 1960s. The opening chapter, "SDS Highlights," written by
graphic novelist Harvey Pekar and illustrated by Gary Dumm, offers a
good overview of SDS's rise and fall, with an appropriate emphasis on
the ever-widening split in the late 1960s between chapter members and
the national leadership caste ("Man," an SDSer in one panel complains
to another, "the N.O. [National Office] doesn't ask us anything. They
go ahead and do what they want"). Progressive Labor and Weatherman
come in for well-deserved knocks. But some of the later contributions
by other authors seem to take it all back, at least as far as
Weatherman is concerned. An entire page is devoted to a poem written
in 1970 commemorating Ted Gold, one of Cathy Wilkerson's three
comrades who died in the Townhouse Explosion, including the line "he
is dead/Of a bomb meant for better targets." Really? Would the
"better targets" have been just the soldiers at the dance at Fort
Dix, or would they have included their girlfriends and wives as well?

The final chapter, written by Buhle and fellow radical elder and
former Weatherman Bruce Rubenstein, is pure recruiting pamphlet.
Rubenstein is depicted in the opening panel claiming that the new SDS
"is back [and] as strong as it was in 1966"--a dubious proposition
both mathematically and politically. Marx famously commented that
history repeats itself first as tragedy and then as farce; he never
dreamed there would be a further cycle in which it would reappear yet
again, even further diminished, as comix.

.

Free Bob Avakian!

Free Bob Avakian!

http://www.boston.com/bostonglobe/ideas/articles/2008/01/27/free_bob_avakian/

Oh, he's already free? Never mind.

By Mark Oppenheimer
January 27, 2008

IT WAS HARD to miss, splashed recently across a full page of The New
York Review of Books: an advertisement featuring the boldface words,
"Dangerous times demand courageous voices. Bob Avakian is such a voice."

Wrapped around those words, Talmud-page-style, were, to the left, a
short essay about the importance of Avakian's "compelling approach to
Marxism" and, to the right, a list of dozens of signatories,
including academic superstars like Cornel West, performers like
Rickie Lee Jones and Chuck D., and activists like Cindy Sheehan.

Some of the signatories were regulars on left-wing petitions, but
even for people often associated with radical causes, signing a
pro-Avakian ad seemed bizarre. Did they not know what he stands for -
or did they just not care?

Avakian is the chairman of the Revolutionary Communist Party, USA, a
tiny Maoist organization whose most visible activity is running
several branches of a store called Revolution Books. (There's a
branch on Massachusetts Avenue in Cambridge.) Through the bookstores,
the party's website and newspaper, and his prolific pamphleteering,
Avakian has advanced his views: Mao Zedong's China was "wondrous,"
according to Avakian's autobiography, and, despite the show trials,
mass purges, and other acts of tyranny that Avakian acknowledges,
Joseph Stalin had "an overall positive historical role."

Many of the men and women who signed the ad are respectable scholars
- the list also includes Harvard's Brad Epps and Timothy Patrick
McCarthy - and I knew it was not possible that they were all actually
devoted to Avakian. In fact the ad is lukewarm, at best, on the man's
actual politics: "While those of us signing this statement do not
necessarily agree with all of [Avakian's] views," the ad says, "we
have come away from encounters with Avakian provoked and enriched in
our own thinking."

Curious, I began to call around. The first few signatories I tried to
reach, including West and Michael Eric Dyson, a prominent
African-American studies scholar at Georgetown, did not return my
calls or e-mails. Rickie Lee Jones's management company promised to
pass along my number, but I never heard from her.

But as I reached others, it became clear that what Avakian represents
to them, more than his role as one of the last true believers in
revolutionary Maoism, is the ideal of truly free speech.

For the past 25 years Avakian has been ostentatiously underground,
whereabouts unknown, his followers insisting that the political
climate is too dangerous for so brilliant a critic of America to show
his face publicly. The ad plants a stake in the ground on precisely
this issue: "We are also serving notice to this government that we
intend to defend his right to freely advocate and organize for his
views," it reads.

Epps, a Spanish professor, sent an e-mail confirming that this is why
he lent his name to the ad. "My support has more to do with freedom
of speech than any substantive ideological adherence," he wrote.
McCarthy, a historian, said that he signed the ad to show his support
for free speech, adding, "If my signing the statement is in any way
taken as supporting the views of Bob Avakian, I would reject that."

In the age of the Patriot Act, in the aftermath of a war caused
partly by the quiescent media's fear of asking hard questions,
liberal and left-thinkers have naturally been quick to defend
anybody's free speech. As well they should.

And if this is the person whom so many have chosen to rally around -
even though nobody seemed ready to defend Avakian's actual views -
then, I figured, he must be quite a remarkable figure.

So I resolved to meet the man himself: Chairman Avakian.

As it happened, I had an idea where to start. When I used to live
nearby, I would sometimes kill time by browsing in the Revolution
Books in Cambridge. I enjoyed leafing through the pamphlets by Mao,
listening to the cashier explain to curious patrons how Deng Xiaoping
was a sellout. The small stock always included several shelves
devoted to the works of Bob Avakian. It was a name I hadn't thought
of in years until I saw the New York Review ad.

The store was now upstairs, having moved when streetside rents got
too high. It still had the dusty works by obscure presses, and the
books by lefty heroes like Howard Zinn and Noam Chomsky. I asked the
new cashier, a serious fellow with an old-school Boston accent named
Ben O'Leary, where I could find Bob Avakian.

"It's not something that's going to get discussed," O'Leary said, ominously.

"Do you know where he is?" I asked.

"I'm not saying whether I know or not," O'Leary said.

So I bought a copy of Avakian's autobiography, "From Ike to Mao and
Beyond," and left. Taking O'Leary's advice, I called the number that
I found on the website of the Revolutionary Communist Party, USA, and
left a message for Carl Dix, the national spokesman. The next day, I
got a call back from a Los Angeles talk-radio host, Michael Slate.
Dix was not available, Slate said, but instead Slate could speak
about Avakian, whose views he "wholeheartedly" supported.

"So did you help write the ad?" I asked.

"I wasn't in the core of putting the ad together," Slate said.

"Can you tell me who was?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Have you met Bob Avakian?"

"I'm not going to say."

"When did you last see him?"

"I would object to that question. It has nothing to do with the article."

I turned to Google, looking for someone who might be able to help. I
quickly discovered that Scott McLemee, a critic, essayist, and
blogger, had written extensively on Avakian. Once, for an article
that never came to pass, he spent months trying to score a meeting
with the chairman.

"I wanted to sit down with the guy," McLemee told me on the phone,
"and see what Chairman Bob seems like in person. We had meetings
which led to meetings which led to meetings. I was told to come to
New York, we would have a meeting, I'd be told one way or the other
if we could have a meeting or not.

"I came and sat down and was told, 'Yes, we should continue discussions."'

McLemee, who had paid his own way to New York for the meeting, was
incensed. "And I was ready to be driven around in the back of a van
for eight hours just to meet Bob Avakian," he said.

"What are they scared of?" I asked McLemee.

"There's a real fear there for his safety, which if you saw Malcolm
killed and King killed, might be understandable. Except Chairman Bob
[is] about as much threat to the US government as my grandmother."

In "From Ike to Mao and Beyond" (2005), Avakian tells the riveting
story of a middle-class California boy who moved left during the
'60s, first in the Free Speech Movement and Students for a Democratic
Society at Berkeley, then with the Black Panthers, and finally into
the far-left Maoism of the party he founded in 1975.

In 1979 Avakian was arrested at a demonstration against Deng
Xiaoping's visit to the White House; charged with assaulting a police
officer, he fled the United States for France. His autobiography
contains a picture of a bearded Avakian, wearing a Che-like beret,
gazing solemnly at the camera, the caption reading: "[t]he author in
exile, in front of the Wall of Communards in Paris, 1981."

And so he remains in exile, a man persecuted in his own land.

Except he isn't. All charges against Bob Avakian were dropped in
1982, as he admits in his book. But the chairman is still on the run,
even if nobody is chasing him.

There is a fine line between paranoia and narcissism, and some people
live on both sides of it. As the chairman slips further into
obscurity, the Revolutionary Communist Party, USA, has become ever
more clearly a cult of personality focused on him. And the move is
not subtle: in "Meaningful Revolutionary Work," an essay posted in
early January on the party's website, Avakian writes, "One important
aspect of boldly spreading revolution and communism everywhere is the
work of building what we have characterized as a culture of
appreciation, promotion, and popularization around the leadership,
the body of work and the method and approach of Bob Avakian."

As one man who for decades has been close to the party told me, "That
word 'culture of appreciation' is their word for 'cult of
personality."' And Avakian has admitted as much. Once asked by a
college radio station if the party was developing a "cult of
personality" around Bob Avakian, he replied, "I certainly hope so.
We've been working very hard to create one."

The party members are right about one thing, though it's not
something they'll admit: Avakian is more of a threat in hiding than
visible. The cult of personality would be more difficult to maintain
if Avakian were giving speeches, having to answer questions from
reporters, or - worse - never being asked questions by reporters.
What if Bob Avakian threw a revolution and no one came?

The followers of Bob Avakian want to believe that their chairman is
important enough to be hunted. Because if the only people looking for
Bob Avakian are Scott McLemee and me, then he hasn't had much of an
impact on the world. Which means, too, that if the mainstream left is
hitching its free-speech cart to a mule like Bob Avakian, it has even
bigger problems.

"It does make you wonder about the acumen, shall we say, of those who
sign on," said Todd Gitlin, the sociologist and former president of
Students for a Democratic Society, who knew Avakian slightly in the
late '60s. "This is a marker of the ludicrous feebleness of the
unreconstructed left."

Those who don't agree with Avakian but signed the ad anyway think
that voices like his are being suppressed. And some surely are.
"Quite frankly," Slate, the LA radio host told me, "we live in an era
of Norman Finkelstein, we live in an era of Ward Churchill, we live
in an era of Joseph Massad" - academics whose careers have been
threatened in part because of their controversial views.

But perhaps such real cases are insufficient rallying cries, even for
the oppressed themselves. No one was more certain of Avakian's
silencing than Churchill, the former University of Colorado professor
who was much attacked for writing in 2001 that "the little Eichmanns"
in the World Trade Center were not innocent in their own deaths. I
wrote an e-mail to Churchill, who signed the Avakian ad, suggesting
that nobody was conspiring to deprive Avakian of the right to speak.
He replied, in part, "I mean, you can't possibly be that naive, can you?"

The petition-signing left has many reasons for enabling Bob Avakian's
personal mythology. He's a living link to the '60s, an era when
American campus radicalism reached its apogee of influence. And he
was an outspoken atheist back in the day, too, before Christopher
Hitchens and others found bestsellerdom in unbelief; one professor
told me he admired Avakian's stand against religious fundamentalism.
But above all the Avakian narrative allows civil libertarians to
register a vote for free speech, even if they have to ignore the fact
that Avakian's speech is in no danger of being suppressed. Rightly
concerned about Guantanamo and the Patriot Act, they figure that
Avakian is a good proxy fight, or good enough.

As for party members, if they were being honest, their choices would
be rather limited. Either they could believe, on scant evidence, that
Avakian is being oppressed. Or else America, for all of its faults,
isn't as dangerous or malevolent a place as they want to believe. Or,
just maybe, America is that terrible, but has more dangerous people
to target than Avakian.

The journalist in me really wants to talk this over . . . with Bob
Avakian. So Mr. Chairman, let's meet for lunch. You can tell me if I
have it all wrong.
---

Mark Oppenheimer is the author of "Thirteen and a Day: The Bar and
Bat Mitzvah Across America" and editor of The New Haven Review.

.

Imagine: The Fab Four live - 'Rain: The Beatles Experience'

Imagine: The Fab Four live - 'Rain: The Beatles Experience' making
three-day stop in Boston

http://www.eagletribune.com/pulife/local_story_027102330?keyword=secondarystory

January 27, 2008
By Rosemary Ford , Staff writer
Eagle-Tribune

For two years - 1964 through 1966 - The Beatles played live concerts
here in the states.

If you were lucky - and if you were more than a twinkle in your
parents' eyes - you might have seen these rock pioneers.

More likely, you were one of the thousands, even millions, of fans
who didn't have that privilege.

Enter "Rain: The Beatles Experience," and your chance to glimpse the
magic of a Beatles performance in Boston from Feb. 6 through 8.

If you've seen a good tribute band - or a bad tribute band - you've
got this group to thank. Rain is one of the originals, formed in the
'70s, not terribly long after The Beatles broke up.

"Five years after The Beatles, there was this whole world that just
needed The Beatles, you know?" said Steve Landes, the John Lennon of
Rain, which takes its name from the title of a Beatles song.

"I think that is why we are still going, because The Beatles are more
relevant now in a lot of ways. This music speaks to people."

The show's format and the musician-actors portraying the Beatles have
changed over the years. Today, Joey Curatolo, with Rain since 1983,
plays Paul McCartney. Joe Bithorn, also with the show since 1983,
plays George Harrison. Ralph Castelli has been Ringo Starr since
1986. And Landes, the junior member, joined as John in 1998.

The show combines a live concert by the actor/musicians with a
multimedia presentation that includes newsreels and commercials from
the '60s. It expands on "Beatlemania," which was more of a music
revue, telling more of the story behind the rise and fall of The Beatles.

It's not exactly seeing The Beatles, but Landes believes it's the
next best thing.

"There is something about seeing a live band that connects to an
audience," said the 30-something musician. "Unfortunately you can't
go see The Beatles."

"Rain" performers play the same kinds of guitars, wear the same style
clothes and even alter their hairstyles as the show progresses - from
the mop tops of the early years to the shaggy hippie hair they sported later.

The goal, Landes said, is for audience members to have as authentic a
Beatles experience as possible; for them to see, hear and feel The Beatles.

"They changed the way we looked at rock and roll," said Landes, a
self-described hard-core Beatles fan. "To only have the music on
stage only tells half the story."

To capture their characters, "Rain" performers listened to Beatles
records and watched footage of their performances hundreds and
hundreds of times.

"We learn them literally note for note, even the mistakes, all the
anomalies, to replicate subtle nuances," Landes said. "You can listen
to a song 1,000 times and the 1,001st time you hear something different."

Versed in the more than 200 songs in The Beatles' catalogue, the
performers change the lineup regularly.

"It keeps it fresh for us and the audience," Landes said.

Landes said people often ask him why he doesn't do his own thing,
rather than working with a tribute band. His answer, he said, is
always the same: No one asks Will Smith if he's less Will Smith for
portraying a character like Muhammad Ali.

"You are portraying a character. You are telling a story," he said.
"We are telling a story of The Beatles using their music. It's just
different things."

A highlight for Landes was when former Beatles drummer Pete Best
played with him at the Casbah in Liverpool.

The Beatles sang there with Best, who was eventually replaced by Ringo Starr.

"That was very surreal. He's about the only guy alive, besides Paul
and Ringo, who can actually say he was a Beatle," Landes said.

As for those two remaining Beatles, Landes said the group hasn't
heard from them. And in his mind, that's a good thing.

"We don't overstep boundaries," he said.

Still, he said, they would love a visit from McCartney, Starr or even
Yoko Ono.

"I keep hoping Yoko comes to the show. I think she would like it,"
Landes said.

Landes sees no end in sight for "Rain." Just when you think a band
that formed nearly 50 years ago has no more legs, he said, new
generations find themselves engulfed in Beatlemania.

"We will have 12-,13-, 14-year-old kids who know every single word,"
Landes said. "For some reason The Beatles are forever. They find new
audiences."

If you go

* What: "Rain: The Beatles Experience"
* When: Feb. 6 through Feb. 8
* Where: Colonial Theatre, 106 Boylston St., Boston
* How: Tickets available through Ticketmaster.com, by calling
617-931-200 or at the box office.
---

The rise and fall of the Beatles: A time line

July 7, 1940: Ringo Starr is born.

Oct. 9, 1940: John Lennon is born.

June 18, 1942: James Paul McCartney is born.

Feb. 25, 1943: George Harrison was born.

1956: Julia, John Lennon's mother, buys him his first guitar through
a mail-order ad. His incessant playing prompts John's Aunt Mimi to
say, "The guitar's all very well as a hobby, John, but you'll never
make a living out of it." John forms his first group, the Quarrymen.

July 6, 1957: John Lennon meets Paul McCartney at the Woolton Parish
Church in Liverpool during a performance by John's group, the
Quarrymen. Impressed by Paul's ability to tune a guitar and his
knowledge of song lyrics, John asks him to join the group.

Feb. 1, 1958: Paul McCartney introduces George Harrison to the
Quarrymen at a basement teen club called the Morgue. George joins the group.

Aug. 1, 1960: The Beatles make their debut in Hamburg, West Germany,
with Stu Sutcliffe on bass and Pete Best on drums.

Jan. 1, 1961: The Beatles make their debut at the Cavern Club in Liverpool.

Nov. 1, 1961: Record store manager Brian Epstein is introduced to the
Beatles. He soon signs a contract to manage them.

March 7, 1962: The Beatles make their radio debut performing three
songs, including Roy Orbison's "Dream Baby," on the BBC.

June 1, 1962: The Beatles audition for George Martin at
Parlophone/EMI Records. He agrees to sign the group, but insists that
Pete Best be replaced. Within months, Richard "Ringo" Starkey joins the group.

Sept. 4-11, 1962: The Beatles record their first sessions at EMI
Studios in London, with George Martin as producer.

Dec. 1, 1963: "I Want to Hold Your Hand" is released by Capitol Records.

Jan. 26, 1964: "I Want To Hold Your Hand" becomes a hit.

Feb. 7, 1964: The Beatles arrive in America.

Feb. 9, 1964: The Beatles first appear on "The Ed Sullivan Show."

April 4, 1964: The top five slots on the Billboard chart are held by
the Beatles, a feat never before or since matched.

July 6, 1964: The world premiere of The Beatles' "A Hard Day's Night"
takes place in London.

April 1, 1965: John Lennon composes "Help!" the title song for the
Beatles' second film. He later confides that the lyrics are a cry for
help and a clue to the confusion and despondency he felt.

July 29, 1965: The Beatles release their second film, 'Help!'.

Aug. 15, 1965: The Beatles play in front of almost 60,000 fans at
Shea Stadium in New York City.

Aug. 27, 1965: The Beatles spend the evening talking and playing
music with Elvis Presley at his Bel Air home.

Oct. 26, 1965: The Beatles are awarded England's prestigious MBE
(Members of the Order of the British Empire).

March 1, 1966: London's Evening Standard publishes an interview with
John Lennon in which he claims that The Beatles are "more popular
than Jesus now." The comment provokes several protests, including the
burning of Beatles records.

July 31, 1966: John Lennon's comments on the state of Christianity -
made in March, but only lately picked up in the United States - spark
protests and record burnings on the eve of the Beatles' 1966 American tour.

Aug. 29, 1966: After their concert at San Francisco's Candlestick
Park, the Beatles declare this to be their final concert tour.

September/October 1966: John Lennon makes his first appearance away
from The Beatles in the role of Private Gripweed in Richard Lester's
film "How I Won the War." He writes "Strawberry Fields Forever"
during the filming.

June 1, 1967: "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" is released in Britain.

Aug. 1, 1967: Beatle George Harrison and his wife, Patti, stroll
through the streets of Haight-Ashbury, bringing more international
attention to the scene.

Sept. 1, 1967: John Lennon writes "I Am the Walrus" while under the
influence of LSD. He also anonymously sponsors Yoko Ono's "Half a
Wind Show" (subtitled Yoko Plus Me) at London's Lisson Gallery.

Feb. 15, 1968: The Beatles depart for Rishikesh, India, for an
advanced course in transcendental meditation.

May 1, 1968: Apple Corps Ltd. begins operating in London. It is the
Beatles' attempt to take control of their own creative and economic
destiny. Later that month, John invites Yoko to his house in
Weybridge. They make experimental tapes all night.

Jan. 30, 1969: The Beatles have their last performance as a group on
the roof of the Apple building during the filming of "Let It Be.

April 10, 1970: Paul McCartney announces that he is leaving the
Beatles due to "personal, business and musical differences."

Jan. 2, 1975: John and Yoko are reunited. The Beatles' final
dissolution takes place in London.

Dec. 8, 1980: John Lennon is shot as he and Yoko return to the Dakota
after a recording session. He is pronounced dead at Roosevelt Hospital.

1988: The Beatles inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Nov. 19, 1995: "Free as a Bird," the first new Beatles single in 25
years, is premiered on the televised Beatles Anthology.

March 23, 1996: "Real Love," a 1979 John Lennon demo finished in 1995
by the other Beatles, becomes the second new Beatles single to chart
in less than three months. It is released as part of "The Beatles
Anthology: recordings and TV special.

2000: '1' compilation album is released, containing every No. 1
single released by the band from 1962 through 1970. The collection
sold 3.6 million copies in its first week (or three copies a second)
and more than 12 million in three weeks worldwide. The collection
also reached number one in the United States and 33 other countries
and had sold 25 million copies by 2005 (about the ninth best selling
album of all time).

Nov. 29, 2001: George Harrison dies at the age of 58 after a long
battle with cancer.

2006: The 'Love' album, an acclaimed collection of remixes of Beatles
songs, is released.

Source: Beatlesstory.com

.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

Donna Jean makes a good CD

Donna Jean makes a good CD

http://www.telegram.com/article/20080127/NEWS/801270464/1102

January 27, 2008
By Scott McLennan Entertainment columnist
smclennan@telegram.com

Donna Jean and the Tricksters "Donna Jean and the Tricksters" (HGR/DIG Music)

Donna Jean Godchaux was the only woman to crash the rock 'n' roll
boys club known as the Grateful Dead. She and her husband, piano
player Keith Godchaux, were part of the band through the 1970s, and
Donna Jean gave the group a soulful accent, one that she honed as a
back-up singer at Muscle Shoals recording studios. Keith and Donna,
as fans referred to the couple, helped define a particular era of
Dead music spanning "Europe '72" to "Shakedown Street."

She and Keith left the Grateful Dead in 1979, and Keith Godchaux was
killed in a car crash the following year. Donna Jean remarried, and
it wasn't until later in the 1990s that Donna Jean Godchaux-MacKay
resurfaced in performances with members of the Grateful Dead.

Yet rather than develop a musical project with former band members
who splintered into various projects of their own following the death
of Grateful Dead guitarist Jerry Garcia, Donna Jean hitched up with
The Zen Tricksters, a band that got its start as a Grateful Dead
cover project and slowly built up a repertoire and identity of its
own within the jam-band scene.

The resulting Donna Jean and the Tricksters on paper held little
promise beyond satisfying some curiosity factors among fans of the
Dead and psychedelic music. She was good with the Grateful Dead, yet
never lacked detractors within the fan base. And the Zen Tricksters
suffer the legacy of the cover-band curse, even though it has
produced three albums of original music.

But in the end, Donna Jean and the Tricksters defy expectation with a
smoking self-titled debut album due out Tuesday on HGR Records and
distributed by Rykodisc's DIG Music (meaning you should be able to
find this album in your favorite music shop). The band is also
performing in the area and has concerts Feb. 24 at The Stone Church
in Newmarket, N.H., and Feb. 25 at The Iron Horse in Northampton.

In addition to having a varied repertoire, Donna Jean and the
Tricksters has a deep bench of talent. All of the players are
schooled in the psychedelic ethos of blending and blurring musical
styles into heady and danceable concoctions. The band has Jeff
Mattson and Tom Circosta playing guitars and singing, Klyph Black on
bass and singing, Dave Diamond playing drums and singing, Mookie
Siegel handling keyboards and singing, and Wendy Lanter joining
Godchaux-MacKay in the female vocals department.

Godchaux –MacKay's songs raise the bar for the group, as her slinky
and soulful "All I Gotta Say" and spiritual slowburner "Shelter"
(co-written with Mattson) are two of the record's standouts. Over the
course of 72 minutes, the band hits upon shoot'em up rock 'n' roll
("Reno"), Southern rock ("Moments Away"), and a rollicking country
'n' gospel fusion ("A Prisoner Says His Piece").

Donna Jean and the Tricksters may not exactly be breaking new ground.
But the band is charming in its commitment to musical ideals: play
from the heart; make it fun; celebrate the good around you and cast
aside the bad.

.

Saturday, January 26, 2008

Stallone on a Mission

Stallone on a Mission

http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1706759,00.html

Thursday, Jan. 24, 2008
By JOEL STEIN

Sylvester Stallone has memorized a lot of Procol Harum lyrics, and
for the next two minutes I'm going to hear them. Because if you want
to know what inspires a man to write a movie in which hundreds of
people are blown up and which, by his own estimate, contains only
three pages of dialogue between the two main characters, apparently
you have to listen to the lyrics of a psychedelic 1968 song called In
Held 'Twas in I: Glimpses of Nirvana. This is the song that made
Stallone want to be a writer, which is surprising because while it
contains one Zen koan and mentions the Dalai Lama three times, it
does not allude to firing a rocket launcher through a helicopter window.

The 61-year-old actor is explaining why he made this Rambo, which
seems like a dumb career move after 2006's Rocky Balboa.
Stallone­pretty much hitless since the 1980s, when he was one of the
biggest box-office draws in the world­wrote, directed and starred in
the sixth installment of that dead franchise and emerged with a
critical and commercial success. Rocky Balboa was a touching, honest,
personal look at longing for past glory; Stallone held off from
pandering so much that it didn't even have a training montage. But
Rambo­the fourth one, and the first in 20 years­is a movie without
apology for the foreign markets that still adore him: Rambo quickly
gets talked into saving captured missionaries in Burma, and then
Rambo kicks ass­age and the physics of ballistics be damned.

Sure, Stallone agreed to do the movie before Rocky Balboa was
approved, but that doesn't mean he didn't find something to say. Like
Procol Harum, Stallone is not afraid of metaphor, of being opaque, of
answering some questions with questions and other questions with a
hail of bullets. What he wanted to say in the new Rambo came down to
one smart speech: "Old men start wars. Young men fight them. And
everyone in the middle gets killed. War is natural. Peace is an
accident. We're animals." Stallone eventually cut all that dialogue
out because Rambo is a silent man, and blurting out your thesis is
for college papers, not movies.

No one remembers this, but First Blood, the first Rambo movie, about
a Vietnam vet with massive posttraumatic stress disorder who winds up
shooting up a small American town, is an antiwar movie. The second
Rambo­the glossy action movie loved by many, including President
Reagan­is about a vet who goes back to Vietnam and wins, freeing a
bunch of pows. The new Rambo is supposed to be back in the antiwar
camp. "What I was trying to say is that nothing changes. The world
will never come together and say we are one," Stallone says, smoking
a cigar and wearing a tight Army-green shirt in his Beverly Hills
office, which is decorated with some paintings of Rocky that he made.
"Rambo thought he would have accomplished something with all he's
given. I think about the lifelong police officer who retires after 50
years, and crime is up. He's gotten hurt, he's lost his wife, and
what has he accomplished? Crime is up."

The guy who created Rocky is a cheery pessimist who believes that
despite an ugly world, you can make incredible things happen with
great effort. "Rocky represents the optimistic side of life, and
Rambo represents purgatory," he says. The world, Rambo realizes, is
perpetually chaotic and dangerous. "If you think people are
inherently good, you get rid of the police for 24 hours­see what
happens," Stallone says. "I could start a war in 30 seconds. But some
countries spend 100 years trying to find peace. Just like good
manners, peace has to be learned." So, after reading about the unrest
in Burma in Soldier of Fortune magazine (You thought he subscribed to
Better Homes and Gardens?), Stallone decided to set the film in
Burma, shooting in Thailand and struggling to cast real Burmese, many
of whom feared reprisals against family in their home country.
Stallone says he regularly got threats from people associated with
the Burmese government. "They were like my wake-up calls," he says.
"They were very polite. 'This film will not be made, and if it is,
people will be killed.'" He borrowed a Thai princess's armored
vehicle to travel to the set, and at one point, people who worked
with him on the movie say, he wanted to drop the project entirely.

Unlike the rest of Hollywood, Stallone was smart enough to make an
antiwar movie that's not about the Middle East. And he wasn't about
to make a pro-Iraq-war film; 2004 was the first year he didn't vote
for a Republican presidential candidate, even though the man was born
on the same day as he was and has pecs almost as big. Stallone's
particularly galled by Bush's tough talk. "You see Bush, and you see
the obstinacy and the arrogance. Go out there and ride in a humvee 10
times, and then I'll listen to you. Take the ride. Have your bowels
go into a square knot. Then I'll respect you." Stallone is awesome at
tough talk.

Of course, the futility of war isn't what you think about when you're
watching an hour of bad-guy heads popping off in the latest Rambo,
the most violent of the series. In fact, it's not even what Avi
Lerner, one of the film's producers, saw in it. "This is the Rambo
that makes America feel good about what he's doing," Lerner says.
"This time it's a Rambo that's saving the world."

But the character, Stallone thinks, has always been misunderstood,
even by Reagan. "I never saw Rambo as a Republican," Stallone says,
though he liked the President too much to make an issue of it. "We
watched Escape to Victory on folding chairs in the White House. It
was really makeshift. You had a better sound system in your pickup
truck." Rambo, he says, is underestimated emotionally and
intellectually, just because he doesn't so much talk as use his voice
like a car horn to warn or scare others. "In a film like Rambo, the
more he speaks, the less interesting he is. It's much harder to play
than Rocky," he says. Milo Ventimiglia, who played Rocky's son in the
last movie, says he was impressed with how detail-oriented and
self-assured Stallone was as both a director and an actor. "Maybe
there were a little too many bullets in some of the movies or too
much blood in other ones, but you saw a performer. And when I got to
witness the process of a creative person knowing exactly what he
wants to do, I was blown away. To me, he's an artist."

Playing a guy who acts with only his eyes and his biceps is harder
than playing a fast-talking, earnest boxer, especially on a
61-year-old body. Which was one of the reasons Stallone wanted to do
it. He pumped up to a freakish 209 lbs. (95 kg); in Rambo II he
weighed only 168 (76 kg). And, he insists, he did it without
steroids, though with the help of a prescription testosterone. "HGH
[human growth hormone] is nothing. Anyone who calls it a steroid is
grossly misinformed," he says. "Testosterone to me is so important
for a sense of well-being when you get older. Everyone over 40 years
old would be wise to investigate it because it increases the quality
of your life. Mark my words. In 10 years it will be over the
counter." He was in such great shape, it freaked out his co-star,
Julie Benz. "I'm a runner. I sprint. And I'm extremely competitive.
And he blew past me every time. And he doesn't run at all. He's that
focused," she says.

So the meaning of Rambo, really, comes just from the act of making
it. "This was a physical tour de force," Stallone says. David
Morrell, who wrote the novel that Rambo is based on, says Stallone
has been thinking of the character this way for years. "Sly phoned me
two years ago and said he thought [the postmovie] Rambo would be
working with scrap metal from the Vietnam era, and the metaphor was
that he's a salvager and was trying to salvage his life. Sly is very
big on metaphors," he says.

Is the return to Rambo a sign of a last-quarter-life crisis? It's
less of a sign than what's under Stallone's right sleeve. Yesterday,
he says, he finished his tattoo, and it's not subtle. It's a huge,
color-saturated portrait of his wife surrounded by three roses (the
middle name of each of his three daughters is Rose) and looked over
by a tiger (apparently, Rocky was fond of tiger eyes). "When people
read about this, they'll go 'Tattoo?' But after a certain age it
takes on a different meaning," he says. "You get your first tattoo at
61, you realize, what [event] are you saving it for?"

.

The ominous lesson of Tet

The ominous lesson of Tet

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/story/0,,2247297,00.html

The Vietnamese death toll after America's defeat 40 years ago is a
terrifying pointer for the Iraq retreat

Mike Marqusee
Saturday January 26, 2008
The Guardian

Next week marks the 40th anniversary of an event that seemed to turn
the world upside down. In the early hours of January 31 1968,
soldiers of the National Liberation Front of South Vietnam and the
army of North Vietnam launched what came to be known as the Tet
offensive (it coincided with Tet Nguyen Dan, the lunar new year)
against the US military and its local allies.

The insurgents struck simultaneously across the country, targeting
more than 100 cities and towns in what the historian Stanley Karnow
describes as an offensive "of extraordinary intensity and astonishing
scope ... audaciously shifting the war for the first time from its
rural setting to a new arena - South Vietnam's supposedly impregnable
urban areas". Military installations, police stations, prisons,
government offices and radio stations came under attack. Most
spectacularly, a group of 19 commandos fought their way into the US
embassy compound in Saigon, where they held out for six-and-a-half
hours - long enough for the images of defiance to be broadcast around
the world.

Hue, the ancient capital and the south's third-largest city, was only
recaptured by the US after 25 days of house-to-house fighting.
Atrocities against the civilian population were committed by both
sides, and by the battle's end 116,000 of the city's population of
140,000 were homeless.

NLF and North Vietnamese casualties reached terrifying proportions.
Perhaps a half - 45,000 - of the soldiers engaged in the initial
offensive were killed. What is more, they were unable to hold any of
the ground they had seized. The aim had been to spark a popular
uprising in the South. When that did not materialise, partly because
the communist party was weak among urban workers, the US's superior
armaments prevailed.

The US counter-offensive was ferocious and indiscriminate. Urban
areas held by the NLF were pulverised. Within two weeks, 630,000
civilians had been made refugees. On February 7, when the US
recaptured the charred wasteland of what had been the town of Ben
Tre, a US major told the press: "It became necessary to destroy the
town in order to save it." Soon after, in the course of flushing out
alleged collaborators in Saigon, the chief of South Vietnam's
national police was filmed calmly shooting a bound prisoner in the
head. This image also went round the world, further eroding US claims
to moral purpose.

Years later, General Tran Do, one of the architects of the offensive,
commented: "In all honesty, we didn't achieve our main objective,
which was to spur uprisings throughout the South. Still, we inflicted
heavy casualties on the Americans and their puppets, and this was a
big gain for us. As for making an impact in the United States, it had
not been our intention - but it turned out to be a fortunate result."

For an American public reared on a belief in US supremacy, Tet was a
shock. For three years they had been assured that the war in Vietnam
was being won. Now the disparity between US government claims and the
reality on the ground became untenable. The antiwar movement was
vindicated. In the New Hampshire primary, held on March 12, President
Lyndon Johnson was embarrassed by the strong showing of antiwar
candidate Eugene "Gene" McCarthy. On March 31, two months after Tet,
he announced that he would not seek re-election and offered to open
negotiations with the North Vietnamese, who accepted on April 3.

Tet caused fear and trembling in the corridors of power, but in the
wider world the spectacle of the greatest power on earth defeated by
an army of poor people inspired millions. The student revolts for
which 1968 is famous took off in the wake of Tet, first in Germany
and Italy, spreading subsequently to the US, France, Mexico and Pakistan.

However, the US war in Vietnam was to continue in its destructive
fury for another four years. US policy did change after Tet - towards
"Vietnamisation", in which reliance on air power increased. US
casualties fell, from 16,000 killed in 1968 to 600 in 1972. On the
other side the toll rose. Perhaps half the 5 million killed in the
war, according to Vietnam government figures, perished during these
post-Tet years.

Here is the ominous lesson for Iraq. There are few things as
dangerous as an imperial power in retreat. Yes, the war is
discredited and the major presidential candidates promise to reduce
US troop numbers. None, however, seems prepared to abandon the
mission in Iraq, which is also propped up by an array of corporate
interests. As Vietnam showed, the alternative to a prompt and
complete withdrawal is not a happy compromise, but prolonged devastation.
---

Mike Marqusee is the author of Redemption Song: Muhammad Ali and the
Spirit of the Sixties
mikemarqusee.com

.

OBIT: Bernie Boston, 74; photographer

Bernie Boston, 74; photographer chronicled a tumultuous era

http://www.latimes.com/news/printedition/california/la-me-boston24jan24,1,5543324.story?ctrack=6&cset=true

By Jocelyn Y. Stewart, Los Angeles Times Staff Writer
January 24, 2008

Bernie Boston, the photojournalist who captured the iconic image of a
young Vietnam War protester placing a flower in the barrel of a rifle
held by a National Guardsman, died Tuesday at his home in Basye, Va. He was 74.

Boston, a former photographer for the Washington Star, the Dayton
Daily News and the Los Angeles Times, died from complications of
amyloidosis, a rare disease in which abnormal proteins build up in
organs and tissues, said his wife, Peggy Boston.

The photo known as "Flower Power" became Boston's signature image and
earned him acclaim in the world of photojournalism. Taken during an
antiwar march on the Pentagon on Oct. 22, 1967, the photo was a
finalist for the Pulitzer Prize.

" 'Flower Power' is one of those quintessential images," said Therese
Mulligan of the Rochester Institute of Technology, which houses
Boston's archives and in 2006 presented an exhibition of his works.
"It sums up that period, how a lot of people feel about the '60s."

Boston was a photographer for the now-defunct Washington Star when
antiwar demonstrators approached the Pentagon. Positioned on a wall
at the mall entrance to the Pentagon, Boston watched as a lieutenant
marched a squad of guardsmen into the sea of demonstrators. The squad
formed a semicircle, their guns pointed at the demonstrators. Boston
was ready for anything that might happen.

"And this young man appeared with flowers and proceeded . . . [to]
put them down the rifle barrel," Boston told National Public Radio in
2006. "And I was on the wall so I could see all this, and I just
started shooting."

The resulting photograph is a rich, nuanced image of a chapter of U.S. history.

"In photojournalistic terms, it's referred to as a decisive moment
when everything comes together," Mulligan said of the moment Boston captured.

Back at the office, Boston's photograph received a lukewarm response.
It was not prominently displayed in the newspaper.

"The editor didn't see the importance of the picture," Boston said
later. "We buried it," Boston told NPR. "I entered it in contests,
and it started winning everything and being recognized."

Born May 18, 1933, in Washington, D.C., Boston grew up in McLean,
Va., and was a photographer for his high school newspaper and
yearbook. In 1955, after earning a degree in photography from the
Rochester Institute, he spent three years in the Army. He joined the
staff of the Dayton Daily News in Ohio in 1963 and three years later
joined the staff of the Washington Star, where he remained until the
paper folded in 1981.

The same year he photographed "Flower Power," Boston shot a portrait
of former Black Panther H. Rap Brown. He captured images of the civil
rights movement, including a portrait of the Rev. Martin Luther King
Jr. during his Poor People's Campaign. Boston also photographed every
U.S. president from Truman to Clinton.

In 1981 the Los Angeles Times hired Boston in its Washington, D.C.,
bureau. Six years later, Boston was a finalist for a Pulitzer Prize
in spot news photography for his photograph of King's widow, Coretta
Scott King, at the unveiling of a bronze bust of King.

Boston and his wife moved to Basye in 1994, where he published and
she edited the Bryce Mountain Courier. Boston is survived by his
wife, an aunt and two nieces.

jocelyn.stewart@latimes.com

.

Peace sign makes a statement in the fashion world

Peace sign makes a statement in the fashion world

http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/headline/features/5480262.html

Jan. 23, 2008
By JOY SEWING

It's unlikely the creator of the iconic '60s peace symbol envisioned
making a fashion statement well into the 21st century.

Today, designers have embraced the symbol again, using it on
T-shirts, dresses, shoes and jewelry. It's a subtle way of paying
homage to the past.

"Now when you see the peace symbol, it's a fashion statement first,"
says Joseph Kotarba, a sociology professor at the University of
Houston. "It's part of the general pattern of periodic nostalgia,
like 1950s diners. There's a generation of baby boomers who were
introduced to the sign because of the politics of the world and a
younger generation that sees the symbol as something cool."

The symbol's origins began in Britain, according to the Designers for
Peace Project, an anti-war and anti-violence organization. It was
created by Gerald Holton in 1958 for the Campaign for Nuclear
Disarmament. He designed the symbol based on the naval semaphore
flags, which are used by sailors to communicate. He combined the code
letters for N and D, or "nuclear disarmament." (The N is two flags
with arms downstretched at a 45 degree angle; the D is two flags with
one arm straight up and one straight down.)

The symbol was later adopted in the U.S. by Vietnam War protesters
and the civil rights movement.

Kotarba says during the 1960s, it was one of several symbols,
including the rainbow and the raised fist, used to protest the
establishment. "It was the mark of the counter-culture generation who
was anti-war, anti-establishment and anti-adult," he said. It also
was the first time a symbol was widely used in crafts, from macramé
to posters, as way for protesters to personalize their effort.

The hand gesture peace sign ­ two fingers in a "V" shape ­ is
believed to have originated in Europe during World War II as a signal
for "victory."

But today's peace symbol has lost some of its punch. Even with the
nation at war in Iraq, the symbol doesn't carry the strong anti-war
message it did in the 1960s, Kotarba says.

"The peace sign doesn't have much competition," he says. "It's really
the only thing that young people can grab on to identify with that
isn't tied to a product or brand. There's nothing commercial about it."

Shoe and handbag designer Donald J Pliner has created a line of shoes
and handbags detailed with the peace symbol. A portion of sales
benefits his Peace of Children Foundation.

"You never realize how important peace is," said Pliner, who was in
town recently to unveil his spring collection. "I want peace very
much," he said.

Pliner and his wife, Lisa, a Houston native, recently started the
charity to fund initiatives and programs that advance the care and
welfare of children in need. Its first charge is to support KaBoom!,
a national organization that builds playgrounds, skate parks and sports fields.

Pliner also teamed with luxury Swiss watchmaker Kriërger to create
the "Pliner Peace" edition Gigantium watch, $1,500-$9,000, with
proceeds benefiting his charity.

The design house Moschino has put the peace sign on jeans. Michael
Kors has put it on clothing and shoes. Even mainstream retailers such
as Zales and Nordstrom offer jewelry featuring the symbol.

"It's a sign of love, hope and future prosperity," said Steve Larkin,
senior vice president of Zales.com. "With retro looks back in
fashion, the peace sign pendant is perfect accent to any wardrobe."
---

joy.sewing@chron.com

.

You Don't Need a Weatherman...

"You Don't Need a Weatherman..."

http://www.thrivenyc.com/nyc31/youdon'tneed.html

Political action then and now

January 2008
by Charles Degelman

Political activist Mark Rudd has been bucking the system since the
1960s. This veteran of the war at home has tried it all, from
non-violence to armed resistance, from high-profile demonstration to
underground flight, with plenty of reflection in between. In the
battle for social justice, Mark Rudd is experienced. But experience
does not always prepare one for the future … or the present.

After "growing up absurd"[1] in middle-class New Jersey, Rudd
attended Columbia University, where he joined a vibrant new
political-action group called Students for a Democratic Society. As
the blowback from the Vietnam war touched down on American campuses,
a radicalized Rudd helped shut down Columbia University for its
complicity with the war machine.

Along with thousands of other activists, Rudd fought and lost the
bloody struggle to persuade timid Democratic candidates to add an
antiwar plank to their 1968 presidential election platform.

By 1969, Rudd and many of his compatriots had reached the boiling
point. They had tried everything: strikes, boycotts, protests,
demonstrations, mass arrests, street theater, courtroom drama, even
party politics … but to what end?

The war in Vietnam raged on; urban ghettos ignited … again. While
astronauts danced on the moon, poverty still dominated the "other"
America. Despite their protestations, women – even in the Movement –
continued to be treated as second-class citizens.

Angry and frustrated, Rudd and a small group of hard-liners threw out
a challenge to their brothers and sisters in SDS and the broader New
Left movement: Drop the burnt-out tactics of non-violence and civil
disobedience. It was time to move forward – quickly, and by any means
necessary.

Rudd and his compatriots decided to move from protest and arrest to
resistance and armed struggle. First dubbed Weatherman[2], this
revolutionary guerrilla group broke into isolated cells that planted
and detonated dozens of bombs in federal buildings, courthouses, and
war-research laboratories nationwide.

They eluded a top-priority program (CointelPro) set up by the FBI to
destroy the Weather Underground and the Black Panther party. Rudd
remained a federal fugitive until 1977.

Today, Mark Rudd has resumed his role as an out-front political
activist. An adamant advocate of non-violent, civil disobedience, he
often prefaces calls to action with comparisons to the political
movements of the 1960s. "What's hard to understand," he writes in a
2005 Los Angeles Times op-ed piece, "is why the antiwar movement
isn't further along than it is … "

"The antiwar movement," he wrote in 2007, "has hit a plateau since
the [Iraq] war began in 2003 …. Nor is there a countercultural
movement today that questions authority like the one that emerged in
the 1960s and 1970s."

Rudd may be justified in comparing the present with the past. Many of
us remember the energy, intensity, and change fomented by 1960s
political activism. It was real. It came from the heart, made sense,
and blew people's minds. It was in your face.

Where are the demos today? Where are slogans and the freaks in the
street? Where is the loud, crazy energy of resistance, rebellion, and
revolution that permeated those times? Considering the state of the
nation today, a return to the passionate, outlandish tactics of the
1960s might serve as an antidote to the current decline and fall of
just about everything.

"If all of us 'gray-hairs' were to tell our stories," Rudd wrote in
2005, "we might be able to … help people find hope in this dark
time." A noble sentiment from a dedicated 1960s warrior. However …

The past, although connected, does not necessarily bear comparison
with the present.

The radical political movements of the 1960s were top-down
movements.[3] Anti-war, feminist, and early save-our-planet campaigns
were largely developed by educated, campus-based activists whose
principal goal was to bring the word to the people. Believing that
knowledge is power, they preached the evils of capitalism,
imperialism, racism, sexism, and the abuse of social justice, hoping
the word they spread would translate into mass action.

There were successes. The New Left, the politicos, the freaks ­
however you wish to characterize them ­ brought about positive change
for minorities and women, the environment, our health and welfare,
even our spirits.

In the end, however, the top-down New Left of the 1960s was unable to
create lasting connections to Middle America, the poor, the
disenfranchised, and most minorities. In short, our movement, the
movement that Mark Rudd uses as a call to action, suffered from isolation.

Today a new political movement is alive and growing ­ from a
different direction. New American "radicals" operate from painful
duress and dire necessity; they are the people hit hardest by the war
in Iraq and global warming. They are the folks denied access to a
decent education, affordable housing, effective healthcare, or a
meaningful culture. Social change coming from the downtrodden? Sound
naïve? Bleak? Hopeless? Hardly. Because those people are us. All of us.

As it shakes, rattles, and rolls through its first decade, the new
American century is rattling everyone's cage. Even the middle class
is recognizing that, during crisis, people can respond quickly,
resolutely, and collectively across race, gender, culture, and class,
without being organized or "taught." As with the radicals and hippies
of the 1960s, Americans today can resonate to Bob Dylan's universal
lyric: "You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows."

Ain't Gonna Study War No More
During the Vietnam war, parents who went through World War II often
expected their baby-boomer children to defend democracy against
communism just as dad and often mom had fought "the good fight"
against fascism in Europe, Africa, and the Pacific. Most Vietnam-era
kids didn't go for it.

For many of today's "old folks," the blundering tragedy of Vietnam
still burns in their memories. They're urging their kids and
grandkids to stay the hell away from the military and Iraq.

Antiwar sentiment has spread far beyond its usual haunts on campuses
and coastal cities. Edward Luce, Washington bureau chief of London's
Financial Times, points out that "white, small-town America pays the
price in Iraq." Combat soldiers are overwhelmingly from small towns
in the Midwest and the South. South Dakota leads the list of Iraq war
casualties per capita, with Nebraska and Louisiana coming next.

After suffering the loss or prolonged absence of family members and
workers who have been ordered on second and third tours of duty,
nobody needs to prompt middle-Americans to shout: "Hell, no, we won't
go." They aren't going. Last June (2007), the U.S. Army missed its
recruiting goals by 16 percent.

In addition, a nationwide CBS/Times poll found that 55 percent of all
Americans describe Operation Iraqi Freedom as "a disaster."
Fifty-nine percent of those polled want Americans to "leave Iraq
immediately," while 62 percent would choose to "finance paying for
the rebuilding of the [U.S.] Gulf Coast by cutting spending in Iraq."

Without ever attending a demonstration or a teach-in, Americans know
that we are not fighting "the good fight" in Iraq any more than we
were in Vietnam.

Fossil Fuel and Treehuggers
Counter-cultural movements of the late 1960s began to regard planet
Earth as a living entity through the re-"discovery" of
Native-American cultures. Environmental awareness spread quickly,
with 20 million demonstrators participating in the first Earth Day (1970).

In the decades that followed, environmental awareness and activism
remained in the hands of the counterculture and those Americans who
could afford earth-friendly consumption and recycling. Environmental
concerns and public-policy initiatives were often overshadowed by the
demand for jobs and the momentum of the still-booming American
industrial economy.

"Tree huggers," a phrase coined for Ronald Reagan by his
scriptwriters, was seconded only by his observation that "… You've
seen one redwood, you've seen 'em all."

Jobs-first pragmatism and cavalier attitudes toward the fragility of
the planet allowed Americans to ignore symptoms of pollution and
global warming until the end of the century. In 2001 a University of
Illinois study concluded that the United States was "among the most
[environmentally] misinformed of the developed nations surveyed." The
same study found that only 15 percent of those questioned could
identify the burning of fossil fuels as the primary cause of global warming.

Today – despite governmental tinkering with scientific data and a
timid, non-committal media – Americans are being forced to recognize
the causes and consequences of two centuries of industrialization.

A Zogby poll, conducted a year after Hurricane Katrina hit the Gulf
Coast, found that 70 percent of respondents believed "global warming
was having … a major effect on weather extremes." The same poll found
that "personal experience has convinced the American people that
climate change is occurring."

When mega tornadoes, supercharged hurricanes, and abnormal flooding
descend on whole communities, global warming can't be ignored or
shoved under the media carpet. As with the war in Iraq, personal
experience has led to political awareness. People want their children
to inherit a green planet.

Our Bodies, Ourselves
First published in 1973, Our Bodies, Ourselves was written by a
collective of Boston-based healthcare professionals and political
activists. This ground-breaking book by and about women arose out of
a recognized need for women to take control of their bodies and their
healthcare in a medical system largely dominated by men and male values.

Today's healthcare climate is vastly different from the days when Our
Bodies, Ourselves covered new territory and sat on nearly every
counterculture bookshelf in the nation.

Neglect and incompetence in the health system no longer happens to
the other guy. Increased cancer rates, the rise in childhood asthma,
inadequate healthcare, and a shortfall in medical insurance is
(again, in Bob Dylan's words) "bringin' it all back home" for men and
women, the young and the elderly. Even the wealthy have been
victimized by the failure of the American healthcare system.

More than 46 million Americans lack health insurance ­ up from 39
million in 1993. Catastrophic health issues can foreshadow
bankruptcy, even in the employed middle class. It's little wonder
that Americans consider health care the most critical domestic-
policy issue going today.

A recent ABC News/Washington Post poll found that 63 percent of
Americans disapprove of the way the government handles health care.
And contrary to modern mythology, Americans do care: 76 percent of
insured Americans believe it is "unacceptable" that millions are
stranded without health insurance; 55 percent of those polled would
prefer a government-funded program over the existing privatized snarl.

In contrast to the era that spawned Our Bodies, Ourselves, no one had
to teach Americans that there is a crisis in healthcare; they are
experiencing it themselves.

Huelga!
In the 1950s, America saw the Montgomery, Alabama, bus boycott render
segregated public transportation unconstitutional. In the 1960s and
'70s, the word Huelga!, or strike, became a rallying cry when the
United Farm Workers launched a five-year boycott of table grapes. The
boycott led to new contracts with major growers and set protective
precedents for field laborers everywhere.

Today, America is undergoing a new boycott, perhaps the most tragic
yet effective holdout we have ever experienced. The current embargo
doesn't come at the hands of revolutionaries. It wasn't led by
charismatic leaders like Mahatma Gandhi, Dolores Huerta, or Cesar Chavez.

Over the past two years, with painful but steadily mounting momentum,
the American middle and working classes began smashing the global
credit system – by default.

Barbara Ehrenreich, journalist, columnist, author, and social critic
observed that "this may be the first case in history in which the
downtrodden manage to bring down an unfair economic system without
going to the trouble of a revolution."

Ms. Ehrenreich is referring to those of us with the nerve to seek the
security of owning a home without being "able" to afford one. As the
housing market ballooned, clever mortgage companies began to offer
tempting, de-regulated "sub-prime" loans to hungry buyers with shaky
income and no equity. Acting without legal or financial counsel,
people grasped for a piece of the American Dream, signing up for
delicious-sounding homeowner deals.

But if the banks are made of marble, their contracts are full of fine
print. As interests rates flared, many working- and middle-class
"homeowners" found that their loans had turned to financial
quicksand. Families with limited incomes (conveniently overlooked by
the lenders) were unable to keep step with massive rate increases
that built up as rates "adjusted" skyward and late-pay penalties
kicked in. Homeowners defaulted; lenders foreclosed. However …

Foreclosures do not cover debt burdens. Sub-prime companies, carrying
defaulting clients in overwhelming numbers, were unable to pay off
debt markers to the more "legitimate" money handlers up the loan chain.

The sub-prime loan community was trapped in a quagmire as
debilitating as the war in Iraq. Foreclosures mounted, personal
heartbreak and family tragedy abounded, and government-sponsored
real-estate lenders like Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae and Countrywide
Financial Corp., the nation's largest mortgage lender, all reported
losses in the billions.

At the same time American consumers stopped buying. Both Wal-Mart and
Home Depot have announced steadily dropping quarterly profits,
plunging the consumer-based stock market into the economic equivalent
of an ice-cap meltdown. H. Lee Scott, CEO of the low-wage Wal-Mart
empire, admitted "it's no secret that many customers are running out
of money at the end of the month."

What do Americans do when they run out of money? They turn to their
credit cards. Now, without equity in their homes, many have been
unable to buy off bloated credit- card debts. According to
investigative journalist Danny Schecter, three hundred million
Americans live beneath $3,000,000,000,000 – that's three trillion
dollars – worth of debt. Boil it down, you'll discover that the
average U.S. household now carries a credit-card balance of $30,000
... apiece.

America Then ­ and Now
An unwinable war, global warming, inadequate healthcare, and a
teetering economy all conspire to paint a different America than the
one tackled by the baby-boom generation. During the 1960s, America
straddled the planet like a colossus, indisputably the world's leader
in industry, banking, per capita wealth, health, science, and education.

Thanks to the power of our postwar hegemony, Americans were numbed by
conformity, seduced by Mickey Mouse, and tucked in with lullabies of
liberty and justice for all. By the 1960s it had grown agonizingly
clear that the United States was sleep walking while it was being
torn apart by a costly Cold War, anti-Communist hysteria, economic
schizophrenia, and gender and racial conflict. Wake up, America,
became a critical battle cry.

Today, America leads no one. We are no longer a producer nation; we
are a nation of consumers. Banking, like industry, has sailed away on
the flowing tide, and frontiers in science and technology are
explored elsewhere. We rank 34th in infant-mortality rates, and don't
even appear on the Richter scale of quality education.

Today, Americans are waking up. Not just the poor and downtrodden.
All of us. And we don't need to be told by Stephen Stills and Buffalo
Springfield that "… somethin's happenin' here."

Americans are, in the words of scriptwriter and social prophet Paddy
Chayevsky, "mad as hell, and we're not gonna take it anymore." Stay
tuned, Mark Rudd and the rest of us 1960s "gray hairs." Once again,
"the times, they are a-changin'."
---

Charles Degelman is a writer and editor living in Los Angeles.
http://www.charlesdegelman.org
Published titles include books, periodicals, and Internet resources
on U.S. and world history and on contemporary issues including the
environment, the war in Iraq, healthcare, the economy, civil
liberties, terrorism, immigration, and more. Degelman recently
completed Gates of Eden, a novel set in the anti-war movement of the 1960s.

Notes:
[1] Growing Up Absurd: Sociologist Paul Goodman's study about
adolescence described 1950s and '60s Western society as "a paradise
of consumerism," a "confused, seduced, spoiled mass society" that
"destroys the dreams of youth."

[2] Weatherman quickly changed its name to the Weather Underground to
recognize that women were as integral to the Movement as men.

[3] The civil-rights movement was an exception.


How to:

Military Families Against The War www.mfso.org
People opposed to the war in Iraq who have relatives or loved ones
currently in the military or who have served in the military since
the buildup to the Iraq war. "Civilians" welcome.

Save Our Environment
www.saveourenvironment.org
A collaborative effort of the nation's most influential environmental
advocacy organizations dedicated to "increasing public awareness and
supporting activism on today's most important environmental issues."

Health Care Reform
michaelmoore.com/sicko
Popular, populist documentarian Michael Moore (Sicko, Farenheit 9/11,
Bowling for Columbine) has assembled an online resource for health
care reform featuring relevant facts and figures, breaking news, and
an impressive list of health care reform organizations.

Americans for Debt Relief Now www.stopthesqueeze.org
Organized by investigative journalist Danny Schecter, this
collaboration among like-minded organizations is "dedicated to
alleviating the debt burden on American families and raising
awareness about the consumer debt issue."

Students for a Democratic Society www.studentsforademocraticsociety.org
A contemporary association of young people on the left seeking to
"create a sustained community of educational and political concern
uniting activists and scholars, students and faculty." Includes
1960s-era SDS history, photos, and primary-source material.

Mark Rudd's Web Site
www.markrudd.com
Check out what an activist "then" is doing "now" to buck the system.

Tom Hayden's Website
www.tomhayden.com
Since he helped found SDS, Tom Hayden remains a leading voice for
activism. Check out his Web site.

.

Vietnam War films in spotlight at Berlin festival

[2 articles]

Berlinale marks 40th anniversary of 1968 anti-war movement

http://www.earthtimes.org/articles/show/176352,berlinale-marks-40th-anniversary-of-1968-anti-war-movement.html

Mon, 21 Jan 2008
Author : DPA

Berlin - The Berlin Film Festival is marking the 40th anniversary of
the 1968 student uprising and the growing opposition to the Vietnam
War with a series of movies about the war and US cinema, Berlinale
organizers announced Monday. The list of films to be shown as part of
the Berlinale special include Robert Altman's black comedy about
American doctors on the frontline M*A*S*H, Emile de Antonio's
experimental In the Year of the

Pig and Mike Nichols' Catch 22, which tells of the madness of war.

In particular, the Berlinale series, War at Home - The Vietnam War in
US Cinema is being mounted to mark the 40th Anniversary of Berlin's
so-called Vietnam Congress, which was organized by the Socialist
German Student Association (SDS) in February 1968.

The Vietnam Congress also helped to trigger the student protest
movement which culminated in the uprisings across Europe that became
known as May 1968.

This in turn led to growing criticism among German students about
Germany's post World War II history.

At the same time, the student revolts across Europe and a deepening
sense of anger in the US over the course of the Vietnam War helped to
lead Hollywood directors to produce movies taking a critical look at
the US involvement in war.

Also among the movies to shown at the Berlinale will be The War at
Home by Barry Brown and Glenn Silber, which chronicles the
anti-Vietnam movement in the 1960s and 1970s. Silber will present the
film at the Berlinale.

From 1972 comes Winter Soldier by the Winterfilm Collective, which
reports on a Vietnam Veterans Against the War conference and which
documents reports of rape, torture and murder committed by American
soldiers against civilians in Vietnam.

Also included in the line-up of films in the Berlinale special is
Basic Training by Frederick Wiseman. The 1971 movie documents the
horrors of daily life in a boot camp where young recruits are turned
into soldiers.

Ray Kellogg's 1968 film The Green Berets starring Hollywood legend
John Wayne was one of the few Hollywood films that tried to justify
the US military action in Vietnam, reducing the war to something like
a western with the Vietcong in the role of the Indians.

--------

Vietnam War films in spotlight at Berlin festival

http://afp.google.com/article/ALeqM5hfGWaIY_MiXSLIKVNurOHf1xqVUg

1/21/08

BERLIN (AFP) ­ The 58th Berlin Film Festival will screen a
retrospective recalling the impact of the Vietnam conflict on US
cinema, the organisers said on Monday.

Mike Nichols' 1970 anti-war film "Catch-22" and "Coming Home", for
which Jane Fonda won an Oscar in 1979, will also be part of the
eight-film programme running from February 8 to 15.

Not all the films deal directly with the Vietnam War -- "Catch-22" is
set during World War II and Robert Altman's comedy classic "M*A*S*H"
in the Korean War -- but they were mostly made during the later
conflict and reflect a new perspective in Hollywood cinema, the
Berlinale organisers said.

They said the retrospective has been timed to coincide with the 40th
anniversary of the "Vietnam Congress", an anti-war protest in Berlin
that became a key moment in the left-wing student movement that swept
Europe in 1968.

The Berlinale will open on February 7 with the premiere of acclaimed
US director Martin Scorcese's documentary about the Rolling Stones,
"Shine A Light".

.

DVD Retro Rec: The President's Analyst

DVD Retro Rec: The President's Analyst

http://www.film.com/dvds/story/dvdretrorecthepresidentsanalyst/11597476/18048234

Jan 18, 2008
by Mark Bourne

So far throughout the 2008 presidential campaign season, one point
about the candidates' qualifications hasn't received its due
attention in the media -- the mental stamina of the person sitting in
that big chair. Who helps the president sort his (or her) collected
marbles? Who dusts the furniture in the whack-attic? We all know that
the pressures of the office are enormous, so whom does the president
turn to when some private couch time is necessary? Forty years ago,
the answer was lean, mean James Coburn in The President's Analyst,
where Coburn's Dr. Sidney Schaefer finds that the reality-based
community isn't all it's cracked up to be.

If Philip K. Dick had worked for Mad magazine, he might have come up
with The President's Analyst.

In this mordant comic satire (which is also a bottle of distilled,
carbonated 1967), the president of the United States is "overworked,
overtired, overburdened." So the FBI and CIA grudgingly join forces
to press Manhattan psychoanalyst Sidney Schaefer into service. At
first the mod, urbane Schaefer is ecstatic at such an august
promotion, and the job of unburdening the "great man" is an exhilarating rush.

But soon he discovers that he's been dropped down the rabbit hole
into a spy-vs.-spy world of espionage, counter-espionage and
counter-counter-espionage, where paranoia really is the most sensible
response. After the strain of his top-secret sessions drives him to a
nervous breakdown, he flees to the outside world.

Once there, his insights into the president's brain make him the
priority target for international abductors and assassins (such as
the Canadian Secret Service disguised as a Beatles-like rock group).
Worse, the FBI (headed by a sour, morality-obsessed J. Edgar Hoover
homunculus) wants the hapless shrink dead in the interests of
homeland security.

Coburn plays Schaefer with a wry straight-man comedic prowess that
both complements and counterpoints his super-spy spoofery in Our Man
Flint ('65) and In Like Flint ('67). 1967 being the year of Sgt.
Pepper and Monterey, The President's Analyst played straight to its
youth audience. Its impudent cynicism lampoons the squares and their
Cold War tribalism, obsolete values, police-state bureaucracies and
robotic conformity. Schaefer learns that drugs and sex are freeing,
and that the running joke we call The Establishment is more neurotic
than even Abby Hoffman could have imagined.

Schaefer's disorientation and increasingly legitimate paranoia --
even his girlfriend (Joan Delaney) isn't what she seems -- thrust him
from one set piece to another. He hides out with a suburban family of
militant, self-described political "liberals" armed to the teeth
against right-wing "fascists" who "oughta be gassed." The father
(William Daniels) boasts that they're for "Negro" rights, yet Mom
(Joan Darling) offhandedly calls going out for Chinese food "eating
Chink"; Arte Johnson's Dragnet-clone FBI agent reprimands their
wire-tapping boy for using such bigoted argot. One minute Mom is
asking Schaefer if he reads Gourmet magazine, the next she's
delightedly kick-boxing international killers while dead-eye Dad is
blasting away with his .357 Magnum.

Elsewhere Schaefer foils an ocean abduction by turning his
psychiatric training against his captor. Pretty soon he's finding his
groovy LSD and free-love vibes with a band of hippies.

The film's daisy-chain structure pushes Schaefer through the "doors
of perception" you'd get if the title sequence of TV's Get Smart
included a Jim Morrison soundtrack.

Supporting it all are first-rate performances by Coburn (who gets to
chuck his patented sangfroid out the window), Godfrey Cambridge as a
CIA agent, and Severn Darden as Cambridge's garrulous, likable Soviet
counterpart.

Along with Watermelon Man, this is the finest movie work we have from
Cambridge, who had made his name as a stand-up comedian. While posing
as one of Dr. Schaefer's patients in the opening scene, his moving
soliloquy -- recalling an incident of schoolyard racism that occurred
when he was five years old -- immediately wins us to the side of a
character we've just seen impassively stabbing another man through
the heart on Seventh Avenue.

Darden's Russian spy, Kropotkin, is likewise an affable and pleasant
fellow who's also a cold professional killer. (His proficiency as a
spy and assassin come rooted in Oedipal issues.) Cambridge and Darden
have such a pleasurable sporting rivalry that it's a shame they
weren't spun off into their own movie.

If it seems that writer-director Theodore J. Flicker -- who, like
Darden, is a foundational alum of the Second City comedy troupe -- is
making it up as he goes along, chalk that up to a period modular
comedy style à la The Party or The Magic Christian. The scenes beaded
together work, some brilliantly, though the whole falls just short of
the sum of its parts.

The President's Analyst benefits on DVD as multiple viewings reveal
Flicker's witty and telling little details that come to light only
after you've seen the whole movie. For instance, during the Greenwich
Village chase scene (shot largely in front of the venerable Cafe
Wha?) as Dr. Schaefer is besieged by a multinational onslaught of
attackers, notice in the background the interaction between an
assassin and a phone booth. And what's the logo on that van parked
outside the suburban family home where he hides out and makes a "top
secret" call?

Nowadays The President's Analyst comes with a patina of yesteryear
kitsch beyond the in-period send-ups Flicker built into it. Of course
some of its components are dated, such as the sub-Ken Russell LSD
trip and the idyllic hippies. Nonetheless, a scene with Schaefer
making love in a field with a pretty flower-power girl (Jill Banner),
while secret agents bump off each other trying to nab him first,
remains some sort of perfect poetic metaphor.

On the other hand, several prescient scenes foreshadow more recent
history: manipulative autonomous megacorporations, government
surveillance of private citizens, and a rivalry (cleverly visualized)
between the CIA and FBI are all today's wet-ink headlines. Exchanges
such as this...

Soviet agent Kropotkin: "Are you trying to tell me every phone in the
country is tapped?"
American agent Masters: "That's what's in my head."
Kropotkin: "Don, this is America, not Russia!"

...now come with a discomfiting Patriot Act freshness. We laugh
through clenched teeth. (You know the adage about "The more things
change...") Someone defanged a bit of the screenplay's parody; notice
that the acronyms "FBI" and "CIA" are ungracefully redubbed as "FBR" and "CEA."

The movie's punch line is both retro and 21st-century hip: the
insidious supervillain, operating behind the scenes and more powerful
than governments, became obsolete in 1984 -- but you'll remember its
charmingly illustrated master plan next time you upgrade your
ever-shrinking cell phone. While leading us to the fade-out's
sardonic absurdist sight gag, Schaefer essentially "takes the red
pill" and stumbles into a demented backstage reality that predates
Wachowskian Matrix head games by 30-odd years.

About the DVD:

Paramount's 2004 DVD of The President's Analyst is a bare-bones disc,
but long-time fans of the film still have plenty to be happy about
here. The print is very well-preserved and looks super. It's vivid
and clean, and now it's back in its original 2.35:1 (anamorphic)
widescreen ratio. The audio is excellent in DD 1.0 monaural, giving
Lalo Schifrin's musical scoring a clean, crisp presence. (During
Schaefer's early Manhattan reverie, Schifrin's "Look Up" is the
grooviest version of "Joy to the World" in the movies.)

Because of problems over music rights, previous home video editions
deleted two songs performed on screen, the edits masked
unsatisfactorily by substituted music and trimmed footage. This DVD
restores that original music and footage, most memorably "Inner
Manipulations" from the hippie songster played by Barry McGuire
(whose non-cinematic "Eve of Destruction" remains an Oldies radio
fave). However, this DVD inexplicably does not restore a scene with
Dr. Schaefer meeting his lover Nan at an avant-garde underground movie.

The English subtitle option is so thorough that when Severn Darden's
agent Kropotkin meets with his boss at the Kremlin, their exchange of
authentic Russian dialogue is, only for home viewers with the
subtitles turned on, fully translated in the captioning.

There are no "featurettes," retrospective interviews or other extras.
Or maybe the bonus extras are here -- just hidden to all except those
who know the password...and who haven't been seen since... Why is my
cell phone ringing...? "No caller ID?" I gotta run...

.

Witness to '69 UCLA shootings speaks out

Witness to '69 UCLA shootings speaks out

http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-panthers18jan18,1,3054998.story?coll=la-headlines-california&ctrack=5&cset=true

Controversy has persisted over the deaths of two Black Panthers at a
meeting on leadership of a fledgling black studies program.

By Bob Pool, Los Angeles Times Staff Writer
January 18, 2008

The quarrel between black power advocates that ended in gunfire in a
UCLA classroom had lasted only a few moments that sunny day.

But the controversy over who was responsible for the murder of two
young men taking part in a discussion over leadership of a fledgling
black studies program at the campus has simmered for nearly four decades.

On Thursday, aging leaders of the 1960s Black Panther Party returned
to the site of the Jan. 17, 1969, shooting to urge groups to work
together to finally achieve equality for all.

For the first time, an eyewitness to the shootings that killed two
Black Panther members -- John J. Huggins, 23, and Alprentice "Bunchy"
Carter, 26 -- described publicly what happened that day in Room 1201
of Campbell Hall, on the east side of the sprawling Westwood campus.

J. Daniel Johnson is now a 60-year-old family therapist in Santa
Monica. He said he was standing a few steps away from Huggins and
Carter when they were gunned down by another black man, 21-year-old
Claude "Chuchessa" Hubert.

"There were about 13 to 15 people in the room. But very few people
witnessed what went on. . . . I saw the shooting," Johnson told a
crowd of several hundred outside Campbell Hall at a noontime rally
Thursday marking the 39th anniversary of the slaying.

The shootings were followed by finger-pointing among those in various
black nationalist and separatist groups that were jockeying for
control of the black power movement. Johnson described the aftermath
as full of "misinformation and false rumors" that needed to be dispelled.

A 21-year-old UCLA senior majoring in political science at the time,
Johnson had chaired the meeting, which was called to discuss the
creation "of a balanced advisory committee" and the selection of a
director of the planned black studies program.

The session, held in what was then a small dining room, had ended and
participants were starting to drift out when a man identified as
Harold "Tuwala" Jones, 19, entered the room. Huggins confronted Jones
about an encounter he'd had with another Black Panther member, Elaine
Brown, Johnson said. At that point, gunman Hubert entered the fray.

"After a scuffle between John and Tuwala, Chuchessa shot John in the
back. Then Bunchy tried to take cover behind a chair and Chuchessa
shot through the chair and killed him instantly," Johnson said.

Huggins, who was armed, pulled his gun out as he fell, mortally
wounded. "John emptied his gun on reflex," Johnson said.

Later, there was speculation that there had been a gunfight. Los
Angeles police arrested three members of a rival black group, US, on
suspicion of conspiracy and murder. Hubert and Jones fled and were
never apprehended.

Johnson said that for years he was among those who suspected that a
rival black group was behind the shooting.

But "no one else deserves blame except the person who shot them," he
told the crowd. "No one else physically contributed to the death of
those two besides Chuchessa."

Johnson and others urged that Campbell Hall be renamed Carter-Huggins
Hall in honor of the pair. Brown, who lives in Brunswick, Ga.,
attended Thursday's rally and voiced support for the idea.

There "was a black assassin . . . and we have to recognize the
reality and not pretend and wash over the truth," she said. "Don't
act like it didn't happen. It happened on this campus. The blood of
John and Bunchy still stains the halls of Campbell Hall."

Huggins' widow, Ericka Huggins, was the 20-year-old mother of an
infant daughter at the time of the shooting.

Now an Oakland resident, she said various groups need to set aside
their differences. "We don't know how to talk to each other in this
city," she told the crowd at Thursday's rally. "We can't function like that."

Johnson, who after the rally visited the scene of the shooting, said
he still feels the U.S. government was in some way involved in the
supposed escape by Hubert and Jones to Guyana, where they
subsequently dropped from sight.

"Very strong forces allowed them to get out of the country," Johnson
said as he stood in the spot where Huggins fell.

He said many students were armed on campus during the tense late
'60s. He even engaged in target practice at a campus shooting range
that was operated as part of UCLA's physical education facilities,
Johnson said.

Things are more peaceful now. Many students walked by and ignored
Thursday's at-times-noisy rally.

Its organizer, Kendra Arsenault, a 20-year-old UCLA junior, said
future efforts to revive the "Power to the People" rallying cry of
the '60s will be inclusive. It will involve "black people, red
people, yellow people and green people," she promised.

bob.pool@latimes.com

.

Revolutionary solutions needed to battle racism, says Davis

Revolutionary solutions needed to battle racism, says Davis

http://www.al.com/news/mobileregister/index.ssf?/base/news/1200651382285480.xml&coll=3

Friday, January 18, 2008
By RHODA A. PICKETT
Staff Reporter

Racism, materialism and militarism will continue to play defining
roles in American society unless citizens find "revolutionary
solutions" to reduce their impact, Angela Davis told a packed Saenger
Theatre on Thursday night.

"Race still matters in this society," Davis said. "It matters a great
deal. It matters who is going to university and who is going to have
to put up with a life of incarceration."

Davis, a Birmingham native, college professor and social activist
with a controversial past, touched on the war in Iraq, the need for
an overhaul in education, the upcoming election, the lack of honest
conversations about race, gender and politics and the prison system
during her nearly 48-minute speech before an audience of more than 700.

She was in Mobile at the invitation of the University of South
Alabama to commemorate the legacy slain civil rights leader Martin
Luther King Jr. The federal holiday will be observed Monday.

Davis said that during the civil rights movement, King and others
"had an ability to see beyond the present" which enabled them to see
a world without overt racial oppression.

"People learned to think critically about their lives, their
surroundings, their community and their nation," she said.

Davis also said that the number of young black men with felony
convictions is creating a population of non-voters.

"If we had not had the felony disenfranchisement that we have, there
would be no way the George Bush would be in the White House," Davis said.

Davis came to national prominence in 1969 when she was removed from
her teaching position at the University of California at Los Angeles
for being a member of the Communist Party. She was associated with
the Black Panther Party. In 1970, Davis was placed on the FBI's Ten
Most Wanted list. Davis was arrested and imprisoned for 18 months.
She was acquitted in 1972.

Davis is a professor at the University of California Santa Cruz. In
1994, she was appointed to fill the University of California
Presidential Chair in African-American and Feminist Studies.
---

More events commemorating King's legacy are scheduled for this
weekend and Monday.

You can listen to Mobile Mayor Sam Jones' Martin Luther King Jr. Day
speech from Wednesday night online at http://blog.al.com/pr/documents/.

.

Speeches, workshops honor Black Panthers killed in ’69

Speeches, workshops honor Black Panthers killed in '69

http://www.dailybruin.ucla.edu/news/2008/jan/18/speeches-workshops-honor-black-panthers-killed-69/

by Audrey Kuo, Daily Bruin senior staff
Published: Friday, January 18, 2008

More than 100 students and community members gathered Thursday to
commemorate the lives of Alprentice "Bunchy" Carter and John Huggins,
two UCLA students who were shot and killed in Campbell Hall on Jan. 17, 1969.

The Afrikan Student Union organized a series of events, including a
march to Campbell Hall, speeches and workshops, to honor the two men.

Carter and Huggins, who were members of the Black Panther Party, were
murdered after a meeting centered on the selection of a chair for
what was then the black studies department at UCLA.

Just before noon on Thursday, ASU Chair Christina Walter addressed
the assembled crowd of about 50 in Bruin Plaza. She spoke briefly
about how students do not often stop to think that others have paid
something for them to be able to be on campus.

"I want us to treat today ... like somebody died for us to be here.
Because the truth is, somebody did," Walter said.

After Mohammad Tajsar, the external affairs director of the Muslim
Student Association, spoke about how he was inspired to become
involved on campus after hearing the story of Carter and Huggins, the
crowd began marching up Bruin Walk toward Campbell Hall.

The events of the day returned several times to the theme "Educate to
liberate," a slogan originally created by John Huggins, according to
his widow, Ericka Huggins.

After the marchers arrived in front of Campbell, Huggins was
introduced by ASU Programming Coordinator Kendra Arsenault. Huggins
spoke about the importance of personal revolution and empowerment, as
well as emphasized the need for collective action.

Ericka Huggins called the deaths of Carter and her husband the
product of a "very powerful system in place that didn't like the
descendants of slaves ... saying 'no' to capitalism."

She said of the Panthers, "We never said, 'All power to some people.'
We said, 'All power to all people.'" A few minutes later, the growing
crowd loudly chanted this phrase with her.

In her speech and in workshops later that day, Huggins repeatedly
stressed that young people have the power to enact change and urged
them to do so. Huggins said that at the time of their deaths, John
Huggins and Carter were 26 and 23. She was 20 at the time, and the
only reason she was not on campus on the day of the shooting, she
said, was because she was at home with her three-week old infant.

"We didn't stop for anything," she said, explaining that the Panthers
worked to help the impoverished and incarcerated and address the
problems they saw in society in any way possible.

The crowd swelled to more than 100 by the time Elaine Brown, the only
woman ever to have led the Black Panther Party, addressed the
marchers and assorted passersby who had joined the audience.

Brown, along with Carter and John Huggins, was a student at UCLA
during the pilot year of the High Potential Program, which sought to
identify black students who could succeed on campus but had not met
traditional enrollment requirements, such as minimum GPAs.

After thanking Arsenault for having taken up the cause of
memorializing Carter and Huggins – Arsenault contacted Brown over the
summer and also arranged for her to speak on campus last November –
Brown described a history of oppression of black people in the United
States, which she said has continued "from 1865, the so-called end of
slavery in America."

According to Brown, one of the main goals for the Panthers during the
'60s was to stop police brutality, "the first line of oppression."
She said the Panthers did not simply dress in leather and pose for
photographs but were out on the streets trying to improve society.

"Actions are supreme," Brown said. "Words are beautiful, but actions
are supreme."

Like Huggins, Brown also emphasized that the Black Panthers were
interested in the liberation of all people, whatever their skin color.

"Our goal was to educate to liberate, not just ourselves, but
everyone," Brown said. She added that the blood of Carter and Huggins
still stains Campbell Hall and that the only way to cleanse it is for
the students to stand up and act.

The events following the speeches reinforced the goals of the
speakers and the ASU. The Academic Advancement Program, an event
cosponsor, had several tables of counselors available to speak to
students during the lunch break.

Following the lunch was a speech by Husseyn Bey, the founder of
Building Communities and Families, another cosponsor of the commemoration.

Bey discussed the importance of learning history; he said his own
life was changed when he began studying history and turned away from
participating in gangs.

"When I start learning my history, I'll stop gangbanging," Bey said.
He said that the lack of leadership after Carter was assassinated
could be seen as a direct link to the formation of the Bloods and
Crips in Los Angeles.

Bey also stressed the importance of carrying on the work of Carter and Huggins.

"We must not allow those who have died for us to be forgotten," Bey
said. "But more importantly ... we have to carry out their legacy.

"You guys have all the power and they don't want you to know it."

As Bey concluded, the ASU invited students to participate in
workshops led by the speakers, student leaders and professors, to
learn more about how to overcome obstacles to progress. The workshops
were followed by a night program also featuring many of the speakers
from the day.

The ASU hopes the commemoration will become an annual event and is
also working on a petition to rename Campbell Hall in honor of Carter
and Huggins.

.

What Would Shirley Chisholm Say?

What Would Shirley Chisholm Say?

http://blogs.vibe.com/man/2008/01/what-would-shirley-chisholm-say/

by Mark Anthony Neal
Posted 01/20/2008

"Hello Brooklyn!" I imagine that Bedford-Stuyvesant (Bed-Stuy, do or
die...) native Shirley Chisholm might have said that when she
addressed a crowd of hundreds, as she stood in front of a Brooklyn
Church 36 years ago this January, to announce her candidacy for
President of the United States. Ms. Chisholm, was the first black
women elected to Congress in 1968 and a founding member of the
Congressional Black Caucus (CBC)--her announcement in January of 1972
was historic. That Ms. Chisholm is not more often recalled in our
current political season is a reflection of a corporate media
structure that possesses a criminally short memory (particularly in
relation to black folk). Shirley Chisholm was a political maverick
who held both the black political establishment and professional
feminists accountable as she toiled on behalf of the poor, Black and
Latino/a constituents that she represented for 14 years. I wonder
what Ms. Chisholm, who died in 2005, would have said about the
current debates about race and gender in the presidential campaigns
of Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama

Shirley Chisholm was born Shirley St. Hill in Brooklyn in 1924 to
Guyanese and Barbadian parents. Until her parents were more
financially stable, Chisholm and her sisters were sent to Barbados to
live with their grandmother; Chisholm returned to Brooklyn at age 10
and later earned a degree from Brooklyn College graduating cum laude.
Important to Chisholm's later political views is the fact that her
mother was a domestic worker, her father a union man and her early
career was spent working in and around the child care profession.
Chisholm never wavered politically in her concerns for workers, poor
women, particularly mothers, and children. Ms. Chisholm's initial
grassroots activism led her to like-minded activists in organizations
like the Bedford-Stuyvesant Political League (BSPL) and the Unity
Democratic Club (UDC), both of which she helped to elect black
candidates to local offices in New York State, including the State
Assembly, which she herself was elected to in 1964.

Despite Chisholm's successful election to the New York State assembly
in 1964, she was viewed with some with suspicion and derision,
largely based on her gender and her Caribbean heritage. In a recent
essay on Chisholm published in the Journal of African-American
History, Julie Gallagher notes that "One male constituent
sarcastically inquired whether [Chisholm] has fixed her husband's
breakfast before campaigning." The New York Times suggests that there
were "whispers" in relation to Chisholm's heritage. Though some of
Chisholm's Brooklyn constituents might have felt that she was not
"African-American" or "church" enough for their taste, such thinking
was more likely related to the discomfort produced by the public
presence of a self-assured, broadly focused and articulate black woman.

Chisholm's emergence as a national political figure occurs in an
historical moment where black women were still largely viewed as
incapable of fulfilling the expectations of the "race man." As such,
Gallagher is right in stating that Chisholm "helped fashion ideas
about African-American women in the public sphere by taking bold
stands and encouraging the media attention." "Fighting Shirley
Chisholm-- Unbought and Unbossed" was one of those bold statements
and the one that she employed during her campaign to be elected to
the US House of Representatives in 1968. Chisholm's candidacy bought
to the forefront debates about gender within the black community as
she found herself running against James Farmer, Jr. (yes, that James
Farmer). Chisholm's subsequent victory, as Yvonne Bynoe suggests,
"stomped on the idea that leadership was the sole prerogative of black men."

In the her first years in congress, Chisholm demanded the repeal of
anti-abortion laws (this in the years before Roe v. Wade), supported
the right for workers to unionize, introduced legislation to address
urban poverty and was a vocal critic of the Vietnam War. That
Chisholm found so little traction on these issues within congress,
was, perhaps, the major stimulus for her decision to run for
President in 1972. The idea of Chisholm's candidacy germinated with
her involvement in the National Women's Political Caucus (NWPC) which
she founded with prominent feminists Betty Freidan, Gloria Steinem
and follow New York congresswomen Bella Abzug. When Chisholm formally
announced her candidacy on January 25, 1972, the expectation was that
she could garner support from the black political establishment as
well as feminist activists. Instead Chisholm was reminded of the
perceived lack of political gravitas held by black women.

With the exception of the Black Panther Party, few major black
institutions supported Chisholm's candidacy (and many of those
institutions pressured Chisholm to renounce the Panthers' support). A
telling aspect of Chisholm's candidacy with regards to the black
political establishment is that when black leaders gathered in Gary,
Indiana for the oft-celebrated National Black Political Convention,
Chisholm wasn't invited to participate. There's little doubt that
some distanced themselves from Chisholm because of her mercurial
nature and the symbolic nature of her candidacy. It's hard to imagine
though that the Gary gathering, which was in part premised
buttressing the role of black patriarchy in formal political circles,
would have ever closed ranks around Chisholm--particularly given her
desire to remain "unbought and unbossed," even to the expectations of her race.

More telling about Chisholm's candidacy was the reaction of
professional feminists like Freidan and Steinem (who never mentions
her "friend" Chisholm is her recent New York Times op-ed), who while
offering tepid acknowledgement of the importance of Chisholm's
campaign, never forcefully came out in support of it. A few years
later when Chisholm's congressional colleague Bella Abzug ran for the
Senate against Daniel Patrick Moynihan, Chisholm chose to support
Moynihan. When asked about her decision, Chisholm responded "Where
was Abzug when I ran for President? Why didn't reporters ask why a
lot of women didn't support me for the Presidency?" Chisholm recounts
the difficulties of her presidential campaign in her second memoir
The Good Fight (1973). As Gallagher admits in her essay "Waging the
'Good Fight': the Political Career of Shirley Chisholm," politicians
were "more willing to accommodate the status quo in exchange for
gradual, but tangible victories for African Americans and women. Full
endorsement of Chisholm's presidential campaign would have been a
risky political move for mainstream civil rights and feminist organizations."

Chisholm's political career, which ended in 1982, resonates in the
current political environment. Upon leaving congress in 1982,
Chisholm, for example, chided black politicians for "always putting
their eggs in one basket." As she told The New York Times in October
of 1982, "[black politicians] are not politically sophisticated
enough to understand the pragmatic reasons behind my moves."
Chisholm's wisdom is echoed in the decision of some mainstream black
leaders to lend support to both the Clinton and Obama campaigns,
though the racial litmus test that some apply to Obama's candidacy
bespeaks the lack of recognition of his political pragmatism.

Chisholm's political career is also reminder of the difficulties of
managing race and gender in a society that rarely seeks to address
sexism, racism and misogyny with the seriousness that it deserves.
While NOW founder Steinem can weigh in on the side of gender, at the
expense of race, and Clinton can legitimately celebrate the historic
aspects of her campaign--the first woman candidate to win a
primary--both could be more sensitive to the positions of the black
women voters that they are so desperately trying to attract to
Clinton's campaign. As Yvonne Bynoe argued at the time of Chisholm's
death, the "prospects for white women...are distinguished from those
of black women by the fact that there are several white female
senators and governors in the pipeline, but not one black women
similarly positioned." Bynoe's comments, like Chisholm's career in
general, is a reminder of the claim that a group of black feminist
made a generation ago--"All the Women are White, All the Blacks are
Men, but Some of Us Are Brave."

.

[Joni] Mitchell Mourns The Loss Of Sixties' Dream

Mitchell Mourns The Loss Of Sixties' Dream

http://www.contactmusic.com/news.nsf/article/mitchell%20mourns%20the%20loss%20of%20sixties%20dream_1056594

17/01/2008

Folk singer JONI MITCHELL is disappointed her 1960s dream of changing
the world failed to inspire any real progress. The Big Yellow Taxi
hitmaker applauded attitudes in the sixties but criticised the
'hippie' generation for failing to make good on their promises of
world peace - giving in to material greed instead. She says, "My
generation was ready to change the world but when the baton was
passed on in the seventies (the hippie movement) fell into a mass
depression. "We degenerated into the greediest generation - the
hippie, yippie, yuppie transition from the sixties to the seventies
to the greedy eighties. "My generation dropped the baton and spawned
this lacklustre generation."

.

Truly, a Magical Mystery Tour [Across The Universe]

Truly, a Magical Mystery Tour

http://inhome.rediff.com/movies/2008/jan/18atu.htm

Raja Sen
January 18, 2008

There are two kinds of people in this world,' Mia Wallace told
Vincent Vega in an unshot scene from Quentin Tarantino's Pulp
Fiction. 'Elvis people and Beatles people.'

Across The Universe is a celebration of the latter. And it's super.

As glorious, flippant and frivolous as it is nostalgic, Julie
Taymor's musical is a work of staggering affection and ingenuity. For
those just tuning in, the film is a simple 1960s romance, just told
using the Beatles songbook. Yup, you read that straight.

The plot itself is of chick-flick quality, a teen romance that begins
conveniently and is jarred by the simplest of misunderstandings. But
then this isn't a movie about the story, it's one rejoicing about the
frills. The characters are nice, the visuals are often perfect and
there is much counterculture in the backdrop -- despite war and
revolution handled with significant naivete.

Hang all that, however. This is a movie about the music, and
everything in it is out of a Beatles song. True, the greatest band in
history did write enough songs to, with some thinking, be matched to
every possible situation. Yet Universe is a grandiose attempt, trying
to craft an audacious wonderworld of lyric and visual -- a rabbithole
where young characters plunge into John, Paul, George and Ringo's
words and emerge doused in the Beatles spirit, dripping with irony
and intelligence and irresistible wit and charm and innocence. Abracadab-haha!
Does it succeed? In its own right, yes, it's a triumph. Agreed, this
is -- more than anything else -- a sweet film, when it could
potentially have been deviously, mindblowingly clever. It could have
been a lot more subversive, a lot cheekier, and you could edit it
very differently indeed. Blah, blah, blah. There are times in life
when All You Need Is a Lollipop.

And yes, everything is a reference. If they aren't singing it -- and
the cast is laudably prolific, taking on 33 songs from the catalogue,
dished out in full or fly-by snippets -- then they are it, from
Liverpudlian leading man Jude (Jim Sturgess) and his immaculately
toothed ladylove Lucy (Evan Rachel Wood) to the rest of the madcap
folk that flit in and out or stay in the film. Allusions are made to
everything from song-names to record labels to relationships to
famous undersea covers of Rolling Stone.

It takes a while to get a hang of things, the music overwhelming the
characters as Jude croons the haunting opening lines of Girl and
takes us into a montagey flashback that is, we realise, the film.
High-school schlock flies thick and fast and while the singing is
decidedly above-par, we aren't quite relating to this young limey
heading into America, or this girl sobbing goodbyes to her uniformed,
war-bound lover. The music is startling and great, but there's a
clear disconnect.

Things fall into place a few scenes later, at Princeton, where Jude
meets Max (yes, Maxwell of the famed Silver Hammer), played by Joe
Anderson, who instantly swings the film to life. Max is the John
Lennon (complete with Bridget Bardot fixation -- plus the identical
poster Lennon had) to Jude's Paul McCartney, and as he strums on the
instrument he plays best -- the fool -- all over the place, the rest
of the characters come into their own and the film is suddenly
infectious with charm. Before you know it, you're grinning.

The music is used smartly, unsparingly. Some songs are turned on
their head, contexts and genders changed, while others continue to
underscore moments of poignancy and loss, strength and ecstasy. It's
a wonder how versatile the words are, used unchanged, to fit into
these young lives, even as war explodes around them. Strawberry
Fields Forever -- used when Jude the (obscure?) artist is impaling
said berries to name a record label after the fruit -- ranks among
the strongest interpretations, as do Happiness Is A Warm Gun, Let It
Be and All You Need Is Love, complete with that blessed Lennon adlib
that takes on new character here.

I still think If I Fell should only ever be sung by a man, but that's
just one bad shot. With merciful restraint, nobody sings the words to
A Day In The Life; they just read the newspaper, oh boy.

The characters are interesting, the support-acts often more fun than
the near-perfect leads. The acting is pretty consistently spot-on,
and the cameos work -- Bono, Joe Cocker, Eddie Izzard and Salma Hayek
[Images] are all superbly cast and clearly thrilled to be a part of
the film. The Hendrixian JoJo (Martin Luther) plays a mean guitar and
doesn't quite dig the Purple Haze outfit forced onto him by Sadie
(Dana Fuchs), the bourbon-swigging Janis to his Jimi. The latter is
fittingly Sexy, enough to make us rethink the truth -- that the boys
wrote it about the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi (Sexy Sadie, what have you
done? You made a fool of everyone) and changed the name from
Maha-rishi to Sexy Sadie to avoid litigation.

This, then, is a film about universality of meaning, best expressed
by Prudence (TV Carpio), a lesbian cheerleader who takes the happiest
of songs and, convincingly, makes it sad. The gang lives in
worn-down, very cool New York digs, and, on a stormy night, she
enters the room with a faceful of bruises, and stands dripping on the
wooden floor.

Sadie walks by, bemused, sees Prudence and asks, 'Where'd she come
from?' Jude unblinkingly deadpans, 'She came in through the bathroom window.'

Take a bow, Julie.

Elvis himself, I firmly believe, was a Beatles person. Leave the
cynicism on the flower-patterned welcome mat, walk in and grin
through this film. Be warned: you may have to head to karaoke bar
right after. Rodgers-Hammerstein they may not be, but a
Lennon-McCartney musical is very special indeed.

.

Sour CREEM

Sour CREEM

The life, death and strange resurrection of America's only rock 'n'
roll magazine:
the first of two parts.

http://www.metrotimes.com/editorial/story.asp?id=12383

[January 2008]
by Bill Holdship

Almost Famous was probably the big bang that finally pushed it over
the top. Doesn't matter that director Cameron Crowe ­ a former CREEM
and Rolling Stone journalist whose semiautobiographical screenplay
won an Oscar ­ presented a fairly Disney-ized portrait of the rock
'n' roll lifestyle of that era. It generally takes a sanitized
sweetener to reach the mainstream, and, after Almost Famous, one
could refer to both the late Lester Bangs and, by association, CREEM
Magazine as "legendary" without fear of being ridiculed.

Jim DeRogatis ­ whose 2000 Let It Blurt biography of the, um,
legendary rock critic got the ball rolling when it was published to
much fanfare several months before the film debuted ­ moderated a
panel about CREEM at the 2001 South by Southwest music conference in
Austin, Texas, which, by many accounts, was the most anticipated and
popular of the entire festival. DeRogatis mentioned an interview he'd
recently done with Marianne Faithfull during which all she wanted to
discuss was how much she loved Lester Bangs (who got the biggest
ovation of the panel when his image appeared on a video screen).
Bangs' closest high school friend later told DeRogatis that he'd
watched Faithfull on The Ed Sullivan Show with Lester in 1964 and
marveled in retrospect: "If you'd have told us that in the future,
there'd be a book and a movie about Lester, and that the girl on TV
singing 'As Tears Go By' would be talking about him in interviews,
we'd have thought you were mad."

Just more proof that life truly is what happens to you while you're
busy making other plans, as someone else so eloquently put it.
Despite any qualms one might have about Crowe's film, Philip Seymour
Hoffman did a wonderful job portraying at least one endearing aspect
of the complicated Bangs persona ­ namely, "the kind mentor," a role
Bangs served to many fledgling writers over the years. Even if Bangs'
work ­ which currently fills two published anthologies, neither of
which have gone out of print ­ should someday seem too antiquated for
modern tastes, Almost Famous guarantees that, thanks to celluloid,
Lester Bangs (and, by association, CREEM magazine) is now immortal.

Of course, CREEM was considered "legendary" by many of us long before
the Crowe film; some of us knew it was "legendary," if only
subconsciously, when we were first reading it as kids. And that
legendary status doesn't just hinge on those facets that are now
cemented to the legend, such as the now-famous underground cartoonist
R. Crumb's Boy Howdy! logo and covers. Or critic "Metal" Mike
Saunders' first use of the term "heavy metal" and co-founding editor
Dave Marsh coining the term "punk rock" in its pages. Or Kurt Cobain
telling an interviewer at the height of Nirvana's fame that he'd
learned everything he knew about punk rock from reading CREEM
magazine as a kid.

No, you knew "America's Only Rock 'N' Roll Magazine" ­ as it so
modestly termed itself almost from the beginning ­ was "legendary"
because the first time you picked it up, it was like absolutely
nothing you'd ever experienced before. What you found in its pages
was you ... if you were at all interested in what was becoming known
as "rock culture." Rolling Stone, which began in San Francisco two
years before CREEM, latched onto the hippie counterculture that was
taking shape in its own back yard. The culture that CREEM celebrated,
however, was a totally different one ­ it was loud, crude and
obnoxious, championing the music and the sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll
lifestyle that fit those criteria. James Taylor or Crosby, Stills &
Nash would've never made it onto a cover of CREEM, just as the
Stooges or Lou Reed ­ some of CREEM's earliest cover subjects ­ never
made the cover of Rolling Stone back then. As Bangs himself once
described the aesthetic: "Grossness is the true criterion for rock
'n' roll. The cruder the clang and grind, the more fun."

Maybe you'd sensed a similar sense of community in rock 'n' roll
music itself and the communal spirit that seemed to be part of
pre-corporate rock radio. Even Gloria Stavers' 16 magazine offered an
early glimpse in the mid-'60s, despite its teenybop orientation. But
in CREEM, one could find actual words and photos that alerted you to
the fact others shared the same unique rock 'n' roll universe (which
included much more than just music) that you previously thought was
exclusively your own.

"Don't ask me why I obsessively look to rock 'n' roll bands for some
kind of model for a better society," Bangs wrote. "I guess it's just
that I glimpsed something beautiful in a flashbulb moment once, and
perhaps mistaking it for prophecy, have been seeking its fulfillment
ever since."

Some have claimed that Bangs' best writing reads and feels like great
rock 'n' roll music, and that was frequently true of the entire
magazine as well. CREEM set the ball in motion for the truism that
junk culture and the trash aesthetic can also be brilliant art. As he
often argued: "The first mistake of art is to assume that it's serious."

Many believe to this day that Bangs and CREEM conceptualized, if not
invented, what would eventually become the punk rock explosion,
celebrating Detroit revolutionary John Sinclair's concept of a
"Guitar Army" and offering a window into the future. "Every great
work of art has two faces," Bangs once suggested, "one toward its own
time and one toward the future, toward eternity."

CREEM, of course, was a uniquely Detroit institution, as important to
the city's musical legacy as the MC5, the Stooges, the White Stripes
or any other rock 'n' roll institution you care to name.

The magazine has recently resurfaced in the media limelight due to
the publication of a new, extremely controversial anthology book,
compiled by former Detroiter Robert Matheu (who first licensed and
then bought the rights to the magazine last year) and Brian J. Bowe
(a Michigan-based writer and journalism instructor who served as
editor of Matheu's CREEM Web site for several years). A few old
staffers, including Dave Marsh, are extremely upset about the book,
while the ownership of the brand name is currently a matter of
litigation and bad feelings. However, in the middle of all the
squabbling, writer Scott Woods astutely observed on his popular
rockcritics.com Web site that there appeared to be an "underlying,
more interesting battle going on here, a sideshow to [the book] vs.
the CREEM critics ­ that being '70s CREEMsters vs. '80s CREEMsters."

And, indeed, a large community of rock aficionados ­ some of them not
even born when CREEM was in its initial early '70s heyday ­ have been
all over various Web sites, taking opposing sides and arguing among
themselves over the life, death and strange resurrection of a rock
'n' roll landmark.

CREEM was founded in the winter of 1969 by Barry Kramer, a Wayne
State University student and entrepreneur who ran a hip Detroit
record store called Full Circle, as well as Mixed Media, the city's
first head shop and alternative book store (which reportedly employed
a young Gilda Radner, among others). Kramer ­ who briefly hosted a
WABX radio show ­ was also trying his hand at concert promotion and
later managed Mitch Ryder's post-Detroit Wheels band, Detroit, among
several other groups. Legend has it that when a local radical
"underground" newspaper rejected a review Kramer had written of the
Incredible String Band (the same group he'd disastrously booked into
Ford Auditorium), he decided to start his own publication.

Tony Reay, a British expatriate who worked as a clerk in Kramer's
record store, became the first editor, naming the magazine ­ which
was originally his idea ­ after his favorite band. Charlie Auringer,
later a Metro Times art director, signed on as the new publication's
photo editor and designer (following a brief stint by Robin Sommers).
Dave Marsh, who once described himself as "a skinny 19-year-old
suffering from overexposure to LSD and the MC5, with absolutely no
prospects," joined the staff in the summer of that same year. The
first issue of the magazine was only distributed in Detroit and
nearby communities, originally taking the form of what are considered
"zines" today. Kramer soon made a deal with a New York-based
distributor, which sent the magazine direct to retailers (although a
majority of those retailers turned out to be porn shops, which picked
up the magazine due to its strange name; it frequently sat beside Al
Goldstein's Screw on many newsstands).

It would eventually evolve, within a relatively short two years, from
something that resembled a newspaper into a glossy, color-filled
magazine; it was a rapid evolution after newsstands alerted Kramer
that the newspaper format ­ even quarter-folded as it now was ­
wouldn't fit on newsstands. After Kramer signed a deal with the
national magazine distributor Curtis Circulation, with Richard
Siegel, one of his hippie buddies (who also wrote and shot photos for
CREEM) in place as circulation director, the magazine would explode
on the national scene.

The first office was in the Cass Corridor, specifically 3729 Cass
Ave. It remained on Cass for the next two years, before moving to a
120-acre farm that Kramer purchased in Walled Lake at 13 Mile and
Haggerty roads. The move came after a group of gangsters, brandishing
automatic weapons, had stormed and robbed the Cass offices, and
Kramer determined that the area was no longer safe for his staff. The
move also came shortly after 23-year-old Bangs ­ who'd recently been
fired from Rolling Stone's record reviews department by publisher
Jann Wenner for "disrespecting musicians" after a hatchet job on
Canned Heat ­ arrived in Detroit from his native California in late
1971. The writer originally came to town to do an Alice Cooper story,
ended up loving the city (once calling it "rock's only hope") and
stayed five years.

The magazine thrived during those Walled Lake years, where all the
staff lived communally on the farm in one big house. That isn't to
say there weren't major volatile blowups in those early days. In
fact, some of the legendary stories make the squabbling going on
between former staffers today seem tame by comparison. Bangs and
Marsh got into a fistfight so bad one day that Marsh ended up with a
gash in his head. Seems the tidier Marsh, tired of Lester's dog
pooping everywhere, placed the dung on Bangs' typewriter. Strangely,
their relationship was much better from that day forward. There are
also stories of physical spats between Bangs and Kramer.

CREEM would eventually settle into swank editorial offices in
downtown Birmingham, which certainly spelled success in those years
(which included several different editorial lineups) before its 1987
move to Los Angeles ­ six years after Kramer's death from a nitrous
oxide overdose on Jan. 29, 1981. Bangs, who left the magazine in 1976
and never wrote for it again, died in near poverty at age 33 about a
year later from an accidental Darvon overdose in New York City on
April 30, 1982. The move to California, following the sale of CREEM
to Los Angeles businessman Arnold Levitt (who kept the publication in
Detroit for 18 months after purchasing it) would result in the
magazine's demise following years of bleeding money, bad drugs,
mismanagement and, ultimately, dwindling readership in changing
economic and cultural times.

On my "official" MySpace page there's an ancient photo of the
long-gone Higby's Drugstore in downtown Bad Axe, which was where, on
its relatively small newsstand, I first discovered CREEM in the early
'70s. I vividly remember leafing through its pages one afternoon
after school, especially enthralled by a feature article on Alice
Cooper, who'd only just recently released Love It to Death. I bought
it, rode my bike home as fast as I could, and devoured every single
word inside as though they were revelations from on high. From then
on, I waited for CREEM every month the way one awaits a trusted
friend. And it would remain a trusted "friend" throughout my high
school and college days.

You see, the world was a much smaller (or larger, depending on how
you view it) place then. You could spend years looking for a specific
record in those pre-Internet days ... and I often did. But I was able
to read about the New York Dolls, Roxy Music, Television, the Ramones
and, hell, even the Velvet Underground in CREEM before I ever heard a
note of music by any of them, before many of them had even released a
note of music. One could read the work of a brilliant New
Jersey-based writer-poet named Patti Smith in the pages of CREEM
years before she released a life-changing album called Horses. This
was an era before every daily newspaper had a pop music critic. There
was no such thing as Entertainment Tonight, and even if there had
been, it certainly wouldn't have been covering badass proto-punk rock bands.

No, the only way a fan could know what, say, David Bowie or Lou Reed
were doing at any particular time in those days was by buying the
records, going to the concerts, or reading CREEM (or, somewhat later,
looking at the photos in the NYC-based Rock Scene magazine). In fact,
the magazine became so pertinent to some of those artists' careers
that when I saw Reed at Detroit's Masonic Auditorium on his
peroxided-hair, painted-black-fingernails Sally Can't Dance tour in
1975, I recall him saying only two things from the stage the entire
night: "Shut the fuck up and let me dance!" and "Take a walk on the
wild side, Lester Bangs!" Without Bangs, Reed (and many of the
aforementioned artists) would've never have had a career ... or, at
least, certainly not the same career.

When Bangs was at his peak, CREEM was one of the funniest
publications ever, as hilarious as anything that ever appeared in
National Lampoon. Irreverent? Oh, yes. And then some. But while it
skewered and made fun of everyone and everything, it also
consistently ridiculed itself (an element seemingly lost on so many
"irreverent" and "humorous" hipper-than-thou publications and Web
sites of recent times). High-energy, sometimes crude, and often in
your face? Oh, yes. But with a heart. Always with an extremely huge heart.

Bangs' style has often been compared to the Beat writers (if the
Beats were moralists with even greater senses of idealism) and
described as gonzo journalism; imagine an even funnier Hunter S.
Thompson with a sweet side and obsessed with music. But what he came
up with was all his own, not to mention a major influence on
hundreds, if not thousands, of often lame imitators over the past
four decades. "If you give people the license to be as outrageous as
they want in absolutely any fashion they can dream up," he'd later
write, "they'll be creative about it and do something good besides."
He was describing the then-blossoming punk rock scene, but he could
have just as easily been describing his career at CREEM.

If you do a Google search on Bangs' name, you'll find numerous quotes
and morsels of wisdom and outrage. For instance, this lead to a Helen
Reddy review (an album he reviewed positively): "All men are weasels.
The only use they have for women is to get their rocks off, and half
the time the only reason they want to do that is to prove something.
Which is why all women hold them in such utter contempt." You might
get some sense of his extreme honesty and sensitivity in such
statements as "Lou Reed is my hero principally because he stands for
all the most fucked-up things I could ever possibly conceive of.
Which probably only shows the limits of my imagination."

But reading Lester and experiencing his magic is a cumulative effect.
It can't ­ and shouldn't ­ be taken out of context. Perhaps writer
Andrew Leonard said it best when writing about Bangs for Salon.com:
"To pull out a sentence or a phrase here and there ... is to do an
injustice to the whole. [Lester's] sentences pile on top of each
other, the attention wanders frenetically ... To read his essays is
to lose your breath; it's like hanging on for dear life as the
toboggan hurtles downhill ­ you don't really know where it's headed
and you've lost all ability to steer, but the adrenaline rush from
the experience is enough, the racing heart is its own reward."
Leonard ultimately concludes that if he was still alive today,
"Lester would have the best blog of all time ... because Lester's
blog would be essential to our cultural sanity."

No faint praise, but Bangs would probably be quite amused by some of
the loftier intellectual claims made for the magazine and his writing
in recent times. An article in the Toronto Globe & Mail several years
ago compared the ideas floating around the early CREEM to Dorothy
Parker and the other writers who frequented the famed Algonquin
Roundtable in the '20s and '30s. Billy Altman ­ who served as CREEM's
New York (and records review) editor for a little more than a decade,
beginning after Bangs' 1976 departure ­ has heard people compare
CREEM to the New Yorker magazine, although the only real similarity
was that both publications gave writers the freedom to write about
whatever they wanted, in the way they wanted. Interestingly, it was
in the pages of the New Yorker that late, great music writer Ellen
Willis came up with one of the most apt descriptions of the CREEM I
read as a kid when she wrote: "Unlike Rolling Stone, which is a
bastion of San Francisco counter-culture rock-as-art orthodoxy, CREEM
is committed to a pop aesthetic. It speaks to fans who consciously
value rock as an expression of urban teenage culture.'' In that
sense, then, New Yorker founder Harold Ross and Barry Kramer were
kindred spirits. And if any real genius, beyond marketing, can be
ascribed to the latter, it would be his knack for discovering young
creative talent and allowing it to flourish.

Despite all that young talent, however, Lester Bangs was the first
name I memorized when I started reading CREEM. His writing voice
spoke to me directly, immediately, often almost touching something in
my soul. It would be years before I realized that the voice was doing
the same thing to thousands of others ­ and those sparks helped kick
off a revolution in popular culture that would eventually come to
captivate millions (many of whom had never even heard the name
"Lester Bangs" when they were drawn into the culture that he'd helped
to create).

He turned me and so many others on to tons of music that we may not
have experienced otherwise. And his touch eventually ended up all
over the magazine, from the response to readers in the letters
section to those famously hilarious photo captions, which first took
root during Lester's brilliant reign.

So, it was a great honor and the fulfillment of an early life's
ambition to become part of CREEM's history when I joined the
magazine's editorial department in 1981. I was equally thrilled when
I got to be the youngest (for a change) former CREEM editor to appear
on DeRogatis's aforementioned 2000 CREEM panel. It struck me as a bit
sad, however, that I appeared to be the only one on the panel still
talking to every other member of the panel at the time ... or at
least the only one who wasn't still mad at another panelist about
something that had happened in the past. Well, maybe John Morthland ­
the esteemed music journalist who jumped from Rolling Stone to CREEM
in the early '70s ­ wasn't carrying any personal grudges either.
Morthland, who's frequently credited with bringing some editorial
professionalism and structure to the magazine upon his arrival, was
honest enough to admit during the panel that "some of my very worst
writing was in
CREEM as well as some of my very best" ­ something I believe is true
about the writing in general in CREEM during every era of the
magazine. Perhaps the continued respect former staffers have for him,
not to mention his abject honesty, guaranteed he was still getting
along with everyone.

But aside from that, current Detroit News scribe Susan Whitall ­ who
essentially hired me as an editor at CREEM and who, despite several
major disagreements over the years, I still considered a friend ­
wasn't on good terms with Ed Ward, who I'd first met, along with
Marsh and renowned critic Greil Marcus, at the University of Memphis'
first academic Elvis conference and symposium in 1982. (I later
visited Ward for a week's vacation in Austin, Texas, after which he
tried to get me to take his rock critic job at the Austin
American-Statesman newspaper, unfortunately only weeks after I'd
moved to L.A. with CREEM.) For as long as I've known both of them,
Dave Marsh ­ who befriended me via mail after seeing a college paper
review I'd written of his first book, and continued to encourage me
by mail long before I met him in Memphis ­ hasn't gotten along with
the aforementioned Altman, another longtime friend (who I agreed to
share my microphone with on the panel when he asked to join at the
last minute). And so it went.

I've always liked and respected fellow panelist Ben Edmonds, an early
'70s CREEM editor whom I'd first met when Kramer's ex-wife Connie
(who ran the magazine for four years after his death) briefly brought
him to Birmingham from L.A. to serve as an editorial "consultant"
right before the magazine folded for the first time in 1985. Not long
after his arrival, however, CREEM filed for bankruptcy and was sold
to Levitt, a New Jersey-born, L.A.-based publishing businessman (and
reportedly a friend of Connie's family) who was formerly the business
manager of Larry Flynt Publications. And I've always had "tons of
love" (to use her parlance) for Jaan Uhelszki, another early CREEM
editor, who's had an almost maternal relationship with me over the
years to the point that she'd joke "This is your mother talking" when
we'd talk on the phone in the '90s.

So, I was obviously thrilled to be in the presence of all these
folks, together for the first time in many years as a group. After
all, a few of those names had once come close to replacing the
superheroes and cartoon characters whose comic books I'd been buying
at Higby's in those grade school years before discovering CREEM. I'd
certainly considered all of them spiritual friends even before I'd
actually met any of them in person. On the panel, I was basically
saying the same things about what the magazine meant to me as a kid
as I've written here, and had just gotten to the part about how funny
the magazine was ... when Marsh, who'd already had his say as the
first panelist to speak that afternoon (and spoke long enough, albeit
with always interesting info, that Altman was mumbling something to
the effect of "Is he going to let anybody else speak?" under his
breath) interrupted me by stating: "With all due respect, by the time
Bill got there, the magazine had become just a comic book."
---

Next week, part two: An examination of the new controversial CREEM
book and the battle over the magazine's legacy.

SEE ALSO:

CREEM crop
Selected characters from the seminal music mag.
http://www.metrotimes.com/editorial/story.asp?id=12387

CREEMed
Part Two: Tempers flare in the wake of a new CREEM anthology and
Lester Bangs rolls in his grave.
http://www.metrotimes.com/editorial/story.asp?id=12411

A CREEM editor remembers...
An excerpt from the new CREEM anthology book, America's Only Rock 'N'
Roll Magazine.
http://www.metrotimes.com/editorial/story.asp?id=12409

CREEM in court
Legal fight haunts mag's legacy.
http://www.metrotimes.com/editorial/story.asp?id=12403

---
Bill Holdship is music editor of Metro Times. Send comments to
bholdship@metrotimes.com.

.

You Can’t Kill the Truth: Remembering MLK

You Can't Kill the Truth: Remembering Martin Luther King

http://www.rutherford.org/articles_db/commentary.asp?record_id=514

By John W. Whitehead
1/14/2008

"We've got to give ourselves to this struggle to the end. Nothing
would be more tragic than to stop at this point. We've got to see it
through. Be concerned about your brother. Either we go up together,
or we go down together."­Martin Luther King, Jr., April 3, 1968

As 1968 dawned, the vision of peace and hope that had seemed so
promising the year before during the so-called "Summer of Love" was
splintering.

On January 30, 1968, the Viet Cong launched what is now known as the
"Tet Offensive." The powerful North Vietnamese forces attacked more
than 30 South Vietnamese cities, including Saigon. The American
military, which had earlier reported that most of Vietnam was secure
and an end to the divisive war was in sight, was stunned.

With more and more Americans dying in rice paddies, it seemed as if
the war would last forever. And Dwight Eisenhower's warning of a
military-industrial complex taking over the country, delivered a few
years before in his Farewell Address to the Nation, took on greater weight.

Reports of civilian massacres by American troops soon began to
surface, and by the summer of '68, cynicism had set in among young
people. Raised power fists and rebellion at universities and in the
streets symbolized the moment. Many who believed that peace and
understanding were going to change things, as I did, began to
question such assumptions. Distrust and even a hatred of all in
authority­the "establishment"­emerged as a universal sentiment among
the young. "You gotta remember, establishment, it's just another name
for evil," Beatle John Lennon would remind us years later. "The
monster doesn't care whether it kills all the students. It's out of control."

Trying to understand what was going on at the time was impossible,
and many lost themselves in drugs and music. But these were only
temporary, false respites from the grim reality of a world filled
with violence, chaos and hate. It seemed as if we were being lied to
on all fronts, and there were very few people we could believe­let
alone believe in.

Martin Luther King was that clear moral voice that cut through the
fog of distortion. He spoke like a prophet and commanded that you
listen. King dared to speak truth to the establishment and called for
an end to oppression and racism. A peace warrior in a world of war,
King raised his voice against the Vietnam War and challenged the
military-industrial complex.

Little did we know that his voice would be prematurely silenced, but
King knew his days were numbered. He was a target, not only by
racists who wanted to kill him but by his own government as well.

King was in Memphis fighting for the rights of striking sanitation
workers when he delivered his last, and most apocalyptic, sermon on
April 3, 1968, on the eve of his assassination. Just that morning, as
he was leaving Atlanta, King's plane had been delayed so that the
airline could check all the bags, as well as the airplane­which had
been under guard all night, to make sure they contained no bombs.
Even the airlines seemed to understand the danger he was in.

However, King did not cower or hide away. He did not soften his
message, hoping to pacify his enemies. He knew there was a larger
force at work in his life. And that's how he concluded his sermon­the
last words he spoke in public:
Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult
days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to
the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live
a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about
that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up
to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised
land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight,
that we, as a people will get to the promised land. And I'm happy,
tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.

Forty years after King's assassination, our nation is still plagued
with wars, government surveillance and a military-industrial complex
that feeds a national diet of warmongering.

And King, once a charismatic leader and voice of authority, has been
memorialized in death to such an extent that younger generations
recognize his face but miss out on his message. Yet he still speaks
volumes to us today.

"Speaking truth in times of universal deceit is a revolutionary act,"
George Orwell once said. Such was Martin Luther King. They may have
killed the man, but his spirit of truth lives on. We would do well to
learn from him how to speak truth to power.

.

A '60s tour with a familiar soundtrack

A '60s tour with a familiar soundtrack

http://www.philly.com/inquirer/weekend/theater/20080117_A_60s_tour_with_a_familiar_soundtrack.html

Jan. 17, 2008
By Toby Zinman
For The Inquirer

Is it fun? Is it cheesy? Did the audience love it? Yeah, yeah, yeah.

The faux fab four, a.k.a. the band called Rain, has the Academy of
Music in fast-rewind mode with "Rain: The Beatles Experience," the
spectacular extravaganza in which the Beatles are channeled note by
note, hairdo by hairdo, year by year. Two huge screens provide a
flyby of the past: vintage footage of hula hoops, Nixon and
Khrushchev, the Twist, JFK's inauguration. At last they appear: the
mop tops, emerging from a plane in New York in 1964, met by thousands
of shrieking, fainting girls.

Then Rain takes the stage, greeted as if it's the real thing.

The 2½-hour show progresses through five sets, from the early Ed
Sullivan days of the 1960s ("I Want to Hold Your Hand," "All My
Lovin' ") through "A Hard Day's Night," through "Yesterday," through
"A Little Help From My Friends," "Eleanor Rigby" and "Strawberry
Fields Forever."

Act 2 begins with "Hello Goodbye" and moves on to "Come Together" and
"Give Peace a Chance." The encores are predictably gratifying:
"Imagine," and the inevitable "Hey, Jude." The crowd loved it -
swaying, arms in the air, two-fingered peace signs aloft.

As musical time passes, the accompanying visuals change - Vietnam War
footage, campus protests, wild dancing in the park during the Summer
of Love, Twiggy and space launches. The band's costumes change too,
from neat black suits and ties to the bizarre getups of the Sgt.
Pepper era, to jeans; the guys acquire mustaches, then long wigs;
Lennon's wearing glasses and chewing gum.

A young woman in the row in front of me sings to the guy she's with,
"Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64?" and
plants a big smooch on him. Of course, a good many people in the
happy audience already have found out the answer to those questions.
The crowd is an interesting mixture of generations, and everybody
seems to know all the lyrics. For a phenomenon that lasted barely a
decade, the Beatles' legacy is astonishing.

There is, of course, something really weird and creepy about people
making their careers out of imitating the Beatles - two of the Rain
rockers have been at it for 25 years. They also cast us, the
audience, as imitators of the Beatles' audiences - "Scream" they
instruct us at the point where the audience screams in the
recordings, and we oblige. They keep asking if we're having a good
time, and milk the applause shamelessly. The show even has its own CD
- which, presumably, sounds exactly like a Beatles CD.

But, hey, let it be.
---

Rain: The Beatles Experience

Cast: Joey Curatolo (Paul McCartney), Joe Bithom (George Harrison),
Ralph Castelli (Ringo Starr), Steve Landes (John Lennon) and Mark
Lewis (keyboards and percussion).

Playing at Academy of Music, Broad and Locust Streets. Through
Sunday. Tickets $35 to $85. Information: 215-731-3333 or
kimmelcenter.org/broadway.

.

'Momix' director draws on energy of the '60s

'Momix' director draws on energy of the '60s

http://www.dailynewstribune.com/state/x1295936490

By Francis Ma
GateHouse News Service
Wed Jan 16, 2008

You can take a guy out of the '60s, but you can't take the '60s out
of the guy. Especially if he doesn't want to go.

Witnessing the impossibly flexible dancers of Momix contort their
bodies in a surreal production on stage, it's easy to be pulled in by
their elegant and soft movements, and the graceful choreography.

Yet, beneath that is the company's audacious and rebellious nature,
one that took the creativity and artistic freedom of the Summer of
Love and carried it into the technological world of the 21st century.

Despite having no formal dance training, Momix leader and founder
Moses Pendleton has led his people to freedom amidst a world of
conformity and repetition.

"I was part of that particular time in the '60s," explains Pendleton.
"We weren't interested in making a living the normal way. It was
about how you could beg and borrow and be free and creative."

Throughout the years, Pendleton's dance company has consistently
impressed audiences with performances that suggest anything is
possible. The only limit in the world is one's imagination.

"The Best of Momix," which Pendleton describes as "the highlights of
the past 25 years," will play the Cutler Majestic Theatre, Jan. 25-27
and will feature acts from "Baseball," "Opus Cactus" and a couple
from the group's classical show.

Imagine your most surreal dreams being performed on a stage, and
you'll get an idea of what to expect. With props, creative lighting,
and artistic body movements, Pendleton creates a mesmerizing show
that can re-create a desert landscape (as in "Opus") or reveal the
delicate ballet in sport (as in "Baseball")

But more interesting than the show is how Pendleton, who grew up on a
farm in rural Vermont, got involved in dance in the first place.

"It was from a skiing accident," says Pendleton, completely serious.
"Every summer I would train with the Austrian ski team in Mt. Hood in
Oregon. I broke my leg in a skiing accident and had to take dance
classes to recuperate and found my dance instructor was more
attractive than my ski instructor. So it was partly for athleticism
and aesthetics."

Pendleton wasn't interested in formal dance training. Instead, he
embraced the artistic freedom and surreal creativity of the "wild
people" he met during the Summer of Love.

His first show starred a white sheet and 50 grazing cows.

"I had the white sheet over my head and ran ahead of them," says
Pendleton. "Witnesses were amazed at the stampeding, milking
Holsteins coming directly at you."

Later on in Dartmouth, he experimented more, trying to do things with
natural light and forming unnatural shapes with just the use of
shadows. They were so impressive that Pendleton and his friends were
asked to open a Frank Zappa concert.

"Zappa called us 'far out theater' and wanted us to tour with him,"
recalls Pendleton. "We told him we had math exams. But it was a very
formative experience and showed us that there was an audience for
what we were doing."

This led to the creation of the Pilobolus Dance Company (which he
co-founded) in 1971. The company focused on people coming together
and creating various shapes with their bodies. If you watched the
Academy Awards last year, you may remember the dance routines where
the troupe created images for "The Departed" (they formed a gun) and
"Happy Feet" (they formed penguins).

Soon, Pendleton broke away from Pilobolus and created Momix, a
company that Pendleton says is a bit more mature.

"If I was the skewer, then Pilobolus would be the green pepper and
Momix would be the meat," laughs Pendleton. "I've always been
interested in the surreal. Pilobolus is more dance-oriented where
Momix finds new ways of moving…with 10-foot poles."

Today, Pendleton still lives on a farm and has managed to maintain
his creative freedom, even when he gets a gig with the corporate
world (he did a commercial for Mercedes Benz where he had tree
branches morph into a car).

"Sure, I miss those early days, the Love Generation," says Pendleton.
"But I continue to draw energy from that, taking the best out of that
generation and using it for Momix."

It's not a bad life, as he draws inspiration from taking hikes,
listening to music and surveying his acres of sunflowers helped bring
him dream up his next show. He reveals that it will be called
"Botanica," a piece with very green themes that should be completed in a year.

"I have a strong interest in birds, bees and the secret life of
trees," says Pendleton, not realizing he just made a rhyme. "I'm an
avant-garde farmer and figured if I'm going to spend that much time
in the garden I should find a way to bring it into the theater."

"The Best of Momix"
Cutler Majestic Theatre, Boston
Jan. 25-27
Tickets: $40-$60
Call 800-233-3123

.

Reviewing the Rules

Reviewing the Rules

http://www.fwweekly.com/content.asp?article=6623

Why do we treat artists and athletes differently when it comes to drug use?

By E. R. BILLS
January 16, 2008

Roger Clemens. Barry Bonds. Steroids. Human Growth Hormone (HGH).

These days, baseball is about as American as Benedict Arnold, and
between that sport, the Tour de France and U.S. Track and Field,
we're constantly barraged with the names of disgraced (or soon-to-be
disgraced) athletes and performance-enhancing drugs ­ a growing
all-star roster of shame.

As a former high school and college athlete, I'm disgusted. Back in
the day, I enjoyed winning as much as the next guy, but not enough to
"roid" up and shrink my gonads. Folks like Bonds, Clemens, Mark
McGwire, former local favorite Rafael Palmeiro, fallen track star
Marion Jones, and disgraced cyclist Floyd Landis have soiled the
record books and put a bad taste in the mouths of fans, damage that
will linger for years to come.

Considering how strongly I feel about all that, maybe it's odd that I
take a very different stance on drugs and artists. I'm not the only
one, though ­ society in general seems to have two sets of standards
in this area.

"Lucy" would never have been "in the sky ... with diamonds" if the
Beatles hadn't been experimenting with LSD. Jimi Hendrix wouldn't
have begged our pardon while he "kissed the sky" if not for heroin.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner wouldn't have fermented in the mind
of Samuel Taylor Coleridge without laudanum. Hashish helped melt
Salvador Dali's clocks.

Let's be honest: LSD, opium, marijuana, etc. have provided the same
enhanced production, acuity, and vigor for many artists as steroids
and HGH have done for many athletes.

Drugs, psychedelic and otherwise, have long been accepted by artists
as mind-expanding, inhibition-blocking and subconscious-plumbing
shortcuts if not outright mainline connections. The peace movement of
the late 1960s might have developed without pot or LSD, but it would
have lost anthems by folks like Bob Dylan and figureheads like Abbie
Hoffman and Timothy Leary (famous for the mantra "Turn on, tune in,
drop out"). Modern jazz might have evolved without pot or heroin, but
Charlie Parker wouldn't have been a pioneer. And the Cubist movement
of the early 20th century might have taken place without opium, but
with Pablo Picasso as a bystander instead of a progenitor.

If we took marijuana, heroin, and LSD out of rock 'n' roll, we'd
probably lose some of the most influential works by Dylan, Hendrix,
Janis Joplin, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and hometown great
Townes Van Zandt, to name a few. Jim Morrison actually named The
Doors after Aldous Huxley's The Doors of Perception, a groundbreaking
treatise on hallucinogenic drugs and their effects. Reggae legend Bob
Marley often publicly stumped for "ganja," claiming, "When you smoke
the herb, it reveals you to yourself."

Take drugs out of modern literature, and you probably lose Edgar
Allan Poe, Allen Ginsberg, and Alice in Wonderland and certainly
William S. Burroughs, Charles Baudelaire, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, and one of my heroes, Hunter S.
Thompson, who once claimed that a five-dollar cap of good acid would
treat you to a "universal symphony with God singing solo and the Holy
Ghost on drums." Though reticent to recommend "sex, drugs, and
insanity" for others, he said they'd always worked for him.

Drug-free comedy would also be free from Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor,
John Belushi, and Chris Farley. No drugs in the blues, no Billie
Holiday. In punk, no Sid Vicious. The list goes on and on and on.

Could the aforementioned artists have created cleanly, soberly?
Maybe, but their imagination or muse wouldn't have been as pumped up
or free-flowing, and their work might not have been as profound (or
pseudo-profound). The drugs elevated their output or perhaps gave
their work a pysche-addled quality that passed for vision, depth, or
mystery, helping them to chart the abyss for us, baring souls ­
theirs and ours.

I feel my life is richer because I have experienced the art of
Picasso, Marley, and Belushi. But I have a hard time reconciling my
admiration for those artists with my contempt for athletes who've
also turned to drugs for help.

Consider: Last September, Sylvester Stallone was busted in Australia
with a sizable stash of HGH. He was on his way to Thailand to finish
shooting the fourth installment of Rambo, which opens this month.
There's no question that 61-year-old Stallone was juicing up for a
blockbuster hit, and yet the majority of the folks who are upset with
chemically enhanced athletes will probably go see Rambo IV. Why isn't
Stallone being summoned to testify before Congress? Why don't we
think of what he was doing as cheating?

I don't have an answer to the hypocrisy of such attitudes, my own
included. I'm certainly not making a case for going easy on
drug-using athletes. But as the world bears down on Bonds, Clemens,
Jones, and Landis, is there anything more juiced up than the societal
double standard at play here?
--

E. R. Bills is a local freelance writer.

.

SDS: A Graphic History [reviews]

[3 articles]

History inked

http://www.suntimes.com/entertainment/books/749363,SHO-Books-graphic20.article

GRAPHIC NONFICTION | Hoover, SDS receive sketch-and-prose treatment

January 20, 2008
BY KEVIN CANFIELD

Rick Geary's new book about the most famed, feared and paranoid crime
fighter in this country's history is in no way definitive. Surely
even the author himself would admit as much, as he dispenses with
some of the most fascinating events in America's recent past in a
page or two. But as an introduction to the seminal head of the FBI,
J. Edgar Hoover: A Graphic History is a lively effort and a reminder
that unhindered power is the most dangerous kind.

The book is a chronological A-to-B-to-C narrative, beginning with
Hoover's birth on the first day of 1895 and following him to the
grave. In between is an overview of one of the most fascinating and
destructive careers of the 20th century.

Patronage got him his first government job -- he was hired in his
early 20s by the Justice Department, "a post obtained for him by his
mother's cousin," Geary points out -- but Hoover quickly
distinguished himself as not just another beneficiary of familial
favoritism. By his mid-20s, Geary writes, Hoover had "impressed his
superiors with his efficiency, his reliability, his high moral
character, and his absolute lack of self-doubt."

If that last part, the "lack of self-doubt" reference, calls George
W. Bush to mind, well, that's the point. Geary's book, beautifully
illustrated throughout, is as much a warning as it is a biography.
Geary writes that in the years after being appointed to head the
Bureau while still in his 20s, Hoover would systematically harass FBI
employees he felt weren't loyal enough; spy on an incalculable number
of Americans, from innocent members of the working class to Eleanor
Roosevelt; enable Joseph McCarthy's ruinous investigations, and
consolidate his office to the point of "an absolute dictatorship."

This can be frightening stuff for citizens living in a nation that
has recently endured the outing of a secret intelligence official
whose husband questioned the White House's war plans and the
dismissal of federal prosecutors who were deemed to be lacking
loyalty to the White House.

Geary, too, deserves credit for not dwelling on the more salacious
allegations about Hoover's private life, although there is one
illustration of the director dressed as a woman. The image makes
clear that whether he liked dresses and stockings or not, he wouldn't
have been making a run at Doris Day's fan base.

Students for a Democratic Society: A Graphic History is another new
title given the sketch-and-prose treatment. Written by American
Splendor author Harvey Pekar and several other contributors, with
drawings by Gary Dumm and a few other talented artists, Students
looks at the work of 1960s activists who rallied against racism, the
Vietnam War and bottom-line oriented corporate interests.

Before giving way to chapters that recall the experiences of
individual SDS members, the book opens with an account of the group's
rise in the Kennedy era to peaceful demonstrations in the mid-'60s.
The group was effective at putting outrage on the evening news, but
idealism foundered on the part of some former SDS members toward the
end of the decade. The most zealous among them resorted to violence.

There's a lesson in the story of SDS. Any large organization that
loses control of its public image is in serious trouble. When the
more militant revolutionary band known as the Weathermen chose a
different path, they began to shape the debate with bombs and other
violence. If optimism fueled SDS, it was now gone.
---
Kevin Canfield has reviewed books for the Sun-Times and many other
publications.
---

J. EDGAR HOOVER
A GRAPHIC BIOGRAPHY
Written and illustrated by Rick Geary
Hill and Wang, 112 pages, $16.95

STUDENTS FOR A DEMOCRATIC SOCIETY
A GRAPHIC HISTORY
By Harvey Pekar and other writers; Illustrated by Gary Dumm and other artists
Hill and Wang, 224 pages, $22

----------

Twee Radicals

http://www.citypaper.com/digest.asp?id=15116

By Christopher Skokna
1/17/2008

Students for a Democratic Society: A Graphic History
Written (mostly) by Harvey Pekar, art (mostly) by Gary Dumm, edited
by Paul Buhle (Hill and Wang)

I hate to inaugurate my comics reviewing on the S/Hitlist with a pan,
but, wow, this is dire. If there's one thing we've learned since the
American Splendor movie, it's that Harvey Pekar does one thing
excellently, and that's transforming his own life into comics. He's
also pretty good at writing jazz and literature reviews--his
workingman's take on avant-whatever can be bracing--but when someone
else hires Pekar to write something, the results are usually toast-dry.

This hagiography of Students for a Democratic Society, edited by
leftist writer Paul Buhle, starts out with a lengthy, yet
perfunctory, history of the radical organization, for which the
comics format does nada. Basically: Disillusioned younger folks in
old-time leftist organizations form SDS in the early 1960s; the
organization organizes war and union protests and helps out in the
inner city; as expected, there's a in-fighting and politicking within
the group; and things peter out in the late '60s/early '70s.

The information contained within this fast-moving history is nothing
that can't be found in SDS's Wikipedia entry, and, worse, there's no
point of view or individual voice. It reads just like a Wikipedia
entry, too. It almost comes alive when Pekar shows up to do some of
his trademark ranting, but those moments are very few (two) and even
further between.

SDS gets better once it moves out of the history and into personal
stories of organization members. But these stories are pretty boring,
too, not to mention often self-aggrandizing: "So, what do you do?" "I
work on the revolution." Once you've heard one story about some
middle-class kid getting involved in the Movement, you've pretty much
heard them all. Pekar's flattening prose style doesn't help either,
squeezing any personality out of these vignettes.

Worst of all is the art by Gary Dumm, a longtime Pekar artist out of
their shared hometown of Cleveland. Dumm draws like a reporter
assigned to cover the county school board writes. This is OK if
something exciting happens--Dumm shines here some when drawing police
beat-downs--but otherwise you might find more scintillating prose in
the meeting minutes. The artist's figures look like stiff dolls
rather than real people, almost like a parody of the type of
newspaper cartoonist who draws Mary Worth or Judge Parker. Dumm does
seem to like drawing Tom Hayden, however. Whenever Hayden and his
hair appear, it's like George Clooney showing up on the set of the
local morning news show.

There is a saving grace, though, and it has nothing to do with Pekar,
Dumm, or Buhle. Cartoonist Nick Thorkelson--brother of Monkee Peter
Tork!--shows up on pages 91-95 to show everyone how a book like this
should have been done. Thorkelson, of whom I've never heard but who's
apparently a Movement artist of long tenure, performs like a real
cartoonist here: Instead of just drawing his story of traveling to
Kentucky to help out in some miner strikes as if it were a
storyboard, he uses the tricks of his trade--visual metaphor,
silhouettes, sound effects--to tell a rollicking tale. And, he's just
a plain great scribbler, in the tradition of Lat and Sergio Aragonés.

So, if you're interested in the SDS, find a book with some oomph in
it, a strong point of view or personality, important
scholarship--something. If you're looking for nonfiction comics worth
reading, take a peek at Thorkelson's story (and his web site), or
pick up some Pekar books that are more self-centered, but don't stop here.

--------

Local artists' books take comics to a new level

http://www.madison.com/tct/mad/topstories/267114

Kevin Lynch ­ 1/14/2008

Harvey Pekar, Paul Buhle and Tom Pomplun know the score: Traditional
print media are losing readers. Maybe their graphic novels --
essentially bulked-up versions of "comic books" -- are the answer.

The three are producing books that might make a difference by not
just racking up sheer sales numbers but by communicating graphically
in funny, stylish and meaningful ways.

Graphic novels are constantly growing in popularity, says Tom Cox,
manager of Walden Books at West Towne Mall, and were ranked tops
nationally in book sales, along with religious fiction, in a recent
Publishers Weekly survey, he says.

But the visual form -- panel drawings of people followed around by
talking balloons -- has become much more ambitious and diverse, he notes.

Graphic novels are the offspring of several notable species:
Underground comics, which are loaded with acid, pot, sex, rock and a
little bit of politics.
Alternative comics, which are personalized comic books about many
different stories.

One of the first graphic novels, Art Spiegelman's "Maus," depicted
the experience of Spiegelman's father in Nazi concentration camps,
with all the people drawn as rodents. ("Maus" is the German word for
"mouse.") "Maus" won a "special" Pulitzer Prize, because the
committee didn't know how to categorize it.

The graphic novel had come of age.

Buhle, a longtime Madison activist, edits a series of historical
graphic novels. The latest, "A History of the Students for a
Democratic Society," will be published Tuesday.

Buhle was perhaps destined for this book, as the founding editor of
the SDS journal "Radical America." The book's lead story was written
by Pekar, who became America's best-known graphic novelist when
"American Splendor," his endearingly cranky and quirky autobiography
of a working-class schmo, became a hit film starring Paul Giamatti
and Hope Davis.

But there's more than a blue-collar grunt to Pekar, who has
collaborated with famed underground comic artist R. Crumb. In Pekar's
"Unsung Hero," a raw African-American Vietnam War recruit receives
duty controlling race riots in the Watts section of Los Angeles and
then barely survives the war. Another book, "Macedonia," examined the
politically torturous war in Bosnia.

"I'm trying to do something important," Pekar says from his home in
Cleveland. "I've always had the ambition to broaden the range of what
comics do. I've always thought that comics could handle history and
other subjects just like other art forms do."

So Pekar said it wasn't hard to make a compelling story of a
long-defunct student organization, which has recently revived itself.

"Hey, I lived through these times, and they were damn exciting, so I
just had to tell that story," he says.

Madison stories

The new book unflinchingly delineates the peace movement's messy
internal clashes between races and sexes.

"Some of the women got very pissed but later realized they came of
age through SDS," says Buhle, who believes that women's lib is the
organization's strongest legacy.

Illustrated by "American Splendor" artist Gary Dumm, the book
includes several stories set in Madison. "Madison Strike Riot"
dramatizes the protests SDS joined in 1967 at a University of
Wisconsin building where Dow Chemical was recruiting potential
employees. Dow produced napalm for Air Force use in Vietnam, and the
book vividly depicts administrators and police smashing a peaceful
sit-in. The notorious 1970 bombing of the UW's Sterling Hall involved
no members of SDS, which had disbanded a year earlier.

"Only about 5 percent of SDS were ever vocal about violent action,
and the rest of us thought of them as bad fellows," Buhle recalls.

Upcoming Buhle-edited volumes will include biographies of pioneer
feminist Emma Goldman, modern dancer Isadora Duncan, South American
revolutionary Che Guevera and adaptations of Howard Zinn's "A
People's History of the United States," to be drawn by Madison
political cartoonist Mike Konopacki, whose cartoons appear on The
Capital Times editorial page every Saturday, and journalist Studs
Terkel's acclaimed oral history "Working."

Graphic Classics

Another graphic entrepreneur, Tom Pomplun, designs, edits and
publishes Graphic Classics from his 127-year-old farm house outside
of Mount Vernon. The 14-volume series, which includes editions of
adventure and horror tales, has found a niche by adapting short
stories, novellas and verse by classic authors along with artwork by
graphic artists from around the world.

His newest title updates one of his best-sellers, "Mark Twain," which
now includes the first graphic version of "Tom Sawyer Abroad," the
sequel to "Huckleberry Finn."

Like Buhle and Pekar, Pomplun strives for books that enlighten
without being too preachy about their value as a gateway to "real
literature." His Ambrose Bierce volume (soon to be re-issued)
exemplifies Pomplun's appeal to wide audiences and diverse style,
employing 60 artists in a 145-page book. His adaptation of Edgar
Allan Poe's famous poem "The Raven" renders the poor bird
schizophrenic with 10 artists, one for each page.

Graphic Classics are available at www.graphicclassics.com and at
local bookstores and comics shops, including Frugal Muse and Westfield Comics.

klynch@madison.com

.

Green Mountain Communes: The Making of a Peoples’ Vermont

Green Mountain Communes: The Making of a Peoples' Vermont

http://www.anarkismo.net/newswire.php?story_id=7248

by David Van Deusen - Catamount Tavern News Service, Northeast Kingdom, VT
Monday, Jan 14 2008

From 1965 through 1975 it is estimated that 100,000 young people
migrated north to the Green Mountains; most simply passed through.
Still, many thousands remained. These newcomers, mostly white, of
mixed class background and primarily from the eastern cities, shared
the commonality of being part of a loosely defined 60s counter-culture.

*"Gonna leave the city, got to get away,
Gonna leave the city, got o get away.
All that hustling and fighting man,
you know I sure cant stay."
-Goin' Up To The Country, Canned Heat

"Something is happening here but you don't know what it is. Do you, Mr. Jones?"
-Ballot of a Thin Man, Bob Dylan

From 1965 through 1975 it is estimated that 100,000 young people
migrated north to the Green Mountains; most simply passed through.
Still, many thousands remained. These newcomers, mostly white, of
mixed class background and primarily from the eastern cities, shared
the commonality of being part of a loosely defined 60s
counter-culture. This youth migration culminated in the founding of
50-100 communes by 1970. Their forms varied; some were organized
around radical left politics, others around agriculture, many more
lacked any defining focus beyond the vague parameters of the hippy
counter-culture. What they all had in common, whether this was
individually articulated or not, was a desire to transcend mainstream
America. With this, social experimentation as opposed to adherence to
traditional political-social-family structures became the counter-culture norm.

The first wave of communards hit the Green Mountains in the mid 60s.
By 1967 a number of communes were established, especially in the
southeast part of the state. Of these, a good deal of their members
cut their teeth in the Civil Rights Movement, and the continuing
resistance to the war in Vietnam.

Robert Houriet, an early communard and a current resident of the
Northeast Kingdom, recalls, "The commune movement began with the
Civil Rights Movement. The Freedom Houses in the south became the
incubators of the communes… People continued to live communally
because they wanted to restore the broader community of the Civil
Rights Movement."

However, Houriet [who authored Getting Back Together, a book on
communes in 1969] contends that this first wave was not necessarily
intending to organize Vermont - at least not at first. In fact he
understands these first commune pioneers essentially as political
refugees suffering from both urban police repression and political burnout.

"The first phase was an escape, but it was an escape which had a
utopian element… The big bang came after the Chicago [Democratic
National] Convention. The Chicago convention [and the ensuing riots]
was the epigamic event where people realized the political movement
was over –fractured beyond repair. You can go to the Weathermen or
you can go to Vermont," says Houriet.

Many of these early migrants, a good number of whom were formally
members of or allied to the radical Students for a Democratic Society
(SDS), sought to take refuge in these northern hills. It was a time
for reflection, experimentation with psychedelic drugs, and an
evaluation of their personal and social lives. But it was not long
before two things occurred. First, after 68' the trickle of
counter-culture migrants turned into a flood. This mass second wave
quickly led to the formation of dozens of new communes, especially in
the north. Second, the older SDS/political elements realized that any
attempt to circumvent personal and economic alienation was intimately
tied to the external community. And with that, new efforts at
political organizing were rekindled.

One commune, Red Clover, was at the forefront of these new efforts.
Members, including John Douglas, Jane Kramer, Robert Kramer, and Roz
Payne, began as a radical media collective in New York City called
Newsreel. By 1969 this group, now transplanted to Putney, formed an
organization called Free Vermont. The goal of Free Vermont was,
simply put, to bring forth a popular revolution in the Green
Mountains.To do so they worked to consolidate the newly arrived
counter-cultural elements into the radical left. To a smaller extent,
and with mixed results, they also sought to radicalize the native
population. Free Vermont's political analysis also hinged on the
belief that the urban centers of the United States were teetering on
revolt, especially in the Black community. In the event of widespread
urban insurrection, it was their contention that Vermont, and other
rural areas, should be prepared to act in a supporting role. Towards
this end they acquired firearms as a means of self defense. But the
acquiring of weapons was by no account considered a strategic end by
Free Vermont. They realized that to foster a meaningful and socialist
revolution and/or to provide the anticipated broader revolution
support, it was first necessary to build up their own effective
institutions which in turn would give the counter-culture left a
non-capitalist (or at least a more participatory) means of
subsistence and production. By enlarge these new institutions took
the form of producer, consumer, and service orientated co-ops and
collectives. By bringing people together within co-ops it was hoped
that the ingrained cultural posits of individualism and
authoritarianism could be, in part, replaced with a new cooperativism
compatible with the basic principals of socialism.

As Free Vermont began to reach out to the communes, they soon
launched a number of co-ops across the state. In Brattleboro they
opened a free auto shop (Liberation Garage) and worker-owned and
operated restaurant (the Common Ground). They began dozens of food
purchasing co-ops. A free health clinic was formed in Burlington. A
children's collective school called Red Paint was formed in southern
Vermont. A Peoples' Bank was started whereby economically better off
communes deposited money that could be accessed by communes of lesser
means. They organized forums against the war, organized woman's
groups, and around ecological issues. Free Vermont also printed a
leftist newspaper which was distributed by the thousands in the high
schools and communes alike. In the north, where many communes focused
on agricultural pursuits, farming co-ops were formed. Attempts were
made to circumvent the highly capitalistic produce markets in Boston
and New York by establishing a cooperative distribution center. The
success of these endeavors varied, but for a few years, perhaps
between 1969-1973, one could squint their eyes and almost see the
outline of a true cultural revolution on the horizon. Free Vermont,
though counting a hardcore activist base of no more 100, soon
attracted ten times that many fellow travelers; a sizable force in a
state that at that time had a total population of less than 400,000 people.

John Douglas, co-founder of Free Vermont and current Charlotte
resident, recalls "[Our goal was] fucking revolution! Free Vermont
was… the umbrella organization we had put together... We traveled
around Vermont rooting out communes and collectives. We really were
focused on bringing the state together politically around [opposition
to] the war [in Vietnam], around the [Black] Panthers, [and] Civil Rights."

Roz Payne, who later went on to form another Free Vermont commune in
Burlington called Green Mountain Red states, "We were living together
and we were trying to create a better world together… We were trying
to make changes in our lives and the politics of the world as far as
racism and imperialism and capitalism."

But the story of Free Vermont is not the whole story. In Plainfield
the Maple Hill Commune, which had dealings with Free Vermont but
should not be considered part of its political core, also had their
own impact on their surroundings.

Jim Higgins, a former Maple Hill resident and presently a writer for
the Barre-Montpelier Times Argus, recalls "[In 1971] I went on to
form the Plainfield Co-op with a lot of my old communards… One of our
goals was to bring into our co-op network local born adults. It was
an energetic effort to reach out with our ideas of cooperative
business practices and wholesome food and subverting the system as it
were through tremendously reduced prices… There was many co-op
discussions about products we would offer that would bridge the gap,
so we vigorously pursued non-food products from [wood]stoves to
chainsaws, to ball jars, snowshoes, [and] skis; products that
generally had interest to those around us who would not necessarily
be interested in brown rice and soy beans. That helped a great deal
simply breaking social barriers. They had to come into the co-op to buy it. "

The experience of the Maple Hill Commune, who also took an active
role in organizing demonstrations and teach-ins to end the conflict
in Vietnam, is not dissimilar from experiences of dozens of other
communes across the state. In short, the Commune Movement was a
force, or at least a point of conversation, in many a small Vermont town.

Internally, a good number if not most communes sought to break the
subtle and not so subtle chains of sexism. More often than not (and
as a rule on Free Vermont Communes), decisions were made
democratically, by all the members, housework was expected from
males, while tasks such a splitting winter wood was also done by
women. Childcare was collectivized and was preformed by both sexes.
Political meetings would include woman's caucuses. The Liberation
Garage in Brattleboro held free auto repair classes, organized by
Jane Kramer, especially aimed at teaching women how to fix their cars
and trucks. In Burlington the Green Mountain Red collective was
pivotal in opening a free woman's health clinic (which today is
merged with the local Planned Parenthood). The Red Clover Collective
organized a touring performance which taught and celebrated woman's history.

In many ways, Vermont communes, or at least the more politically
active communes, did not suffer the same fractures that much of the
broader U.S. left did when feminism came into its own in the early
70s. This was a result of the genesis of the Free Vermont Movement.
Free Vermont was essentially founded by the Red Clover Collective,
which itself was an outgrowth of the older Newsreel Collective. And
here, the Newsreel Collective already recognized the problems of
internal sexism and found ways of correcting these tendencies.

Roz Payne, who was considered one of the political heavies of the
movement, contends, "Free Vermont was a political activity that we
had undertaken to organize and politicize all the [Vermont] communes.
And we're the ones that…came out of a Newsreel Collective that talked
about woman's issues starting in 67, 68, and 69 when we were making
films in New York and we had those discussions. 'Why were only the
women holding the microphones…and why are all the men holding the
cameras?' Then John Douglas got cameras for [women] to use… These
were issues that we brought up earlier. So we already had those
issues [dealt with]… I never felt oppressed in my commune around the
women or the men."

However, their efforts did not result in perfection. Female
communard, Lou Andrews, recalls her days on the rural Franklin
Commune (which was a core Free Vermont commune) as a time where she
felt more liberated than previously in mainstream society, but one
where men still had a disproportionate influence upon the general
direction of the commune. In her opinion this influence was a
subconscious force; one that was not guaranteed by formal process,
but one that existed none the less.

As far as the division of labor goes, Lou, who now lives in
Burlington, assesses her commune as a mixed bag, but one that clearly
falls more in the direction of sex equality than does the traditional
nuclear model. "It was always a struggle to get men to do the dishes…
[But] we all gardened. Men and women canned the food. Men and women
drove the horses. And men and women did the sugaring, although it was
men who primarily were what we called 'the firemen' who in the sugar
house fed the wood into the evaporator. And that was kind of a little
macho deal going on. Cause they got to where cowboy chaps (ha ha ha)."

Roz, current resident of Richmond VT, also recalls that not all
communes were free of the traditional divisions of labor based on
sex. "You'd find some of the more rural communes the women were in
the kitchen, and the men were outdoors doing stuff. So [Free Vermont]
would talk about that, and we would have women's meetings, a communal
women's grouping that would break off to discuss the things that were
happening with various people."

While Free Vermont sought to build equitable relations on the
communes and a radical base of operations in the Green Mountains, it
did not lose sight of its second purpose. As the local
counter-culture became better organized, aid was offered to the urban
revolutionary movement. In some instances children of Black Panthers
from the eastern cities were sent north to attend the Red Paint
collective school. Political aid was offered too. One former
communard (who will remain unnamed) contends that the first dynamite
procured by the Weather Underground Organization [an armed leftist
group who carried out 27 bombings between 1969-1977 including those
on the US Capital Building and the Pentagon] came from a granite
quarry in Barre. John Douglas, for his part, states that Free Vermont
helped establish safe houses for Weathermen and Black Panthers who
went underground. They also facilitated clandestine boarder crossings
into Quebec. But these activities were not committed without a price.
Free Vermont communes were raided by the police and FBI. Government
informants were known to be operating in many quarters. Douglas tells
of a gathering he attended at the Franklin Commune (in far northern
Vermont) where a group of federal agents posing as bikers offered to
provide them with hand grenades and dynamite. Douglas declined. This
surveillance and harassment ultimately lead to a pervasive atmosphere
of paranoia and tension. In turn these pressures contributed to the
eventual decline of the movement.

While many of the hippy communes collapsed due to lack of rational
internal organization or focus [see Barry Laffan, Communal
Organization and Social Transition, Peter Lang Publishing, New York,
1997] the decline of the more overtly political communes has more to
do with political repression, disillusionment (as neither the local
or urban insurrections came to pass), and again a new round of burn
out. Just as they were compelled to evacuate the cities by the end of
the 60s, the radical communards felt an increasing pressure, though
be it maybe in a more personalized and defuse form, to abandon their
communal lands in the face of a new backlash of political repression
and interpersonal pressures. By 1976, following the end of the
Vietnam War, less than half of the original 100 communes remained. By
1980 all but a few were gone. While many former communards remained
in Vermont, and while a number of the institutions they founded
continued, the general trend was overwhelmingly a turn away from
models espousing collective living and working. Instead they
increasingly turned to a private home life, or a traditional nuclear
family arrangement. Cooperative farms were replaced with privately
owned and operated organic farms. Radical agricultural organizations,
such as the Northeast Organic Farmer Association (NOFA), drifted into
a modest liberal reformism. Calls for insurrection were heard less,
while calls for issue based reformism became louder. Where in 1970
the battle cry was for a complete new left social revolution, the
mantra of the 80s was for a nuclear freeze. In short, as the Commune
Movement broke down, and as its participants began to return to more
individualistic-traditional living arrangements, their politics,
though remaining left, grew more moderate.

During the declining phase of the Franklin Commune it is interesting
to note the further observations of Lou Andrew. She contends that
when the difficulties of operating the collective farm were
exasperated by a serious house fire, it was the men who were the
first ones to leave the commune, and oftentimes Vermont too. On the
other hand she notes that the women were more apt to try to work
through the difficulties longer and ultimately, to at least remain in
Vermont. Andrews speculates that the reason for this dynamic is
because woman found their social relations and power within a
communal structure to be more liberated than that which they
previously experienced in mainstream America. The men on the other
hand had a male dominated outside world to return to where they would
at least be afforded the same limited rights and privileges that were
too often elusive to women.

In the end the Commune Movement did not vanish into thin air, nor did
all communards drop out of the social and political arena. The
Vermont of today is inescapably a product of those times, just as it
is also a product of other progressive migrations; be it radicals
coming north during the Great Depression, the anarchist and socialist
labor movement brought by Italian immigrants in 1900, or yeoman
farmers/Green Mountain Boys who pioneered Vermont during the
1760-70s. The Commune Movement is just the latest of these defining
eras of Vermont's history, and its epitaphs and advancements are
perhaps most apparent in their relative newness. The Bread & Puppet
Theater (now considered a staple of Vermont culture), the dozens of
food co-ops (perhaps the most per-capita in the world), a large free
health clinic in Burlington (now employing over 60 people), a number
of worker-run businesses (i.e. the Common Ground in Brattleboro),
NOFA (and by extension Rural Vermont which began through NOFA), and
countless farmers' markets are all direct results of organizing done
by Free Vermont and the communards of the 60s and 70s. However, its
true legacy can perhaps best be seen through its indirect contributions.

Generational diffusion of the basic values of the 60-70s
counter-culture has resulted in the left being more firmly embedded
in all corners of Vermont making the state the most progressive in
the country; the only state never visited by President G.W. Bush. In
recent years Vermont (population 600,000) has led the nation in many
important social issues. Universal healthcare is provided for all its
children (and will continue to be regardless of the eventual outcome
of the Federal SCHIP debate), funding for public education has
essentially been socialized, gay couples retain the same civil rights
as straight couples, and more than 70% of the people firmly oppose
the war in Iraq (in 2003 three thousand marched on the rural state
capital to oppose the war). Even Vermont's organized labor is greatly
influenced by the Commune Movement.

In 1998 a Central Vermont anarchist group known as the #10 Collective
[themselves members of the Love & Rage Revolutionary Anarchist
Federation and largely influenced by the political teachings of
Vermont 60s radical Murray Bookchin] played a lead role in forming
the Vermont Workers' Center. One of the prime movers of this
collective was a young man named Jason Winston. Jason, like thousands
of other native born Vermonters, was the child of counter-culture
parents. And today the Workers' Center, with a constituency above
20,000, functions as a grand coalition of most the major Vermont
labor unions as well as individual workers. As such Vermont labor has
been a leader in opposing the current war, and in the fight for the
establishment of single payer universal healthcare. This fact can
also be understood as another indirect influence of the leftism of
the 60-70s. In a word, those communards that stayed, those that
organized, those that eventually became neighbors and friends with
thousands of native working class Vermonters, did in fact have an
impact on public opinion.

Electoraly Vermont, unlike most of the US, recognizes four major
political parties. In addition to the Democrats and Republicans,
there is also the very far left Liberty Union Party. This party,
which received 5.7% of the vote for State Treasurer in 2006, was
formed in the 70s as the electoral expression of the Commune
Movement. Besides the Liberty Union, there is also the
social-democratic oriented Vermont Progressive Party. The
Progressives were formed by former Liberty Union member Bernie
Sanders (now serving as the first socialist in the US Senate) and
includes many activists and supporters from the commune days. Sanders
won his first election in 1981, becoming the socialist mayor of
Burlington. He formed the Progressive Coalition, the forerunner of
the Progressive Party, shortly thereafter. His victory was a result
not only of gaining the backing of key unions, but also of support
work done by former communards. One such communard, Barbara Nolfy of
the Franklin Commune, went on to serve in his administration as a
member of a newly organized Burlington Woman's Counsel. Furthermore,
Progressive Party Chairman Anthony Polina (who won 25% of the vote in
the 2002 Lieutenant Governor's race and is currently considering a
run for Governor in 2008) was once an organizer with counter-culture
allied NOFA. Presently the Progressives are the strongest third party
in the nation, with six seats in the State Legislator (including the
Chair of the House Agriculture Committee), the Mayorship of the
largest city (Burlington, population: 39,000), several City Council
positions, and countless Town Select Board seats as well as lesser
elected posts.

And again, our present seems to be witnessing a generational revival
of cooperativism. In 2006, on the heals of greatly falling wholesale
milk prices, the Dairy Farmers of Vermont (co-founded by Anthony
Polina) opened a farmer owned milk processing plant in Hardwick. More
generally, of the forty worker-owned businesses in the state (which
employ 2000 people), 10% are organized as democratic co-ops. From the
Red House construction company in Burlington, to the Brattleboro Tech
Collective, to the popular Langdon Street Café and Black Sheep
bookstore in Montpelier, worker and farmer co-ops are again on the rise.

But just as the Commune Movement has had its effects on Old Vermont,
Old Vermont has had its effects on the counter-culture activists and
institutions that have survived. Its long standing tradition of local
democracy through Town Meeting has focused much of the continuing
political angst of the left out of closed off communities, and into
the directly democratic Town Halls, where their ideas have spread
throughout the population. It should come as no surprise that
hundreds of Vermont towns have passed resolutions against the war,
for the impeachment of the President, against GMOs, and in support of
universal healthcare. And where the old co-ops have drifted into more
traditional business practices, the unions have been there to
organize the workers [such as the United Electrical Workers at
Montpelier's Hunger Mountain Co-op, and Burlington's City Market
–both of which are large area employers]. In a very real sense the
relationship between Old Vermont and the Vermont of the communes has
become symbiotic; elements of each driving the state in both a more
democratic and more socialistic direction.

This continuing trend to the left can even be observed in the
declarations of the State's General Assembly and other bodies of
Vermonters who have gathered in capital building in Montpelier.
Pressured from below, in 2007 the State Senate passed a resolution
calling for the impeachment of President Bush, and both the House and
Senate passed a resolution calling for a military withdrawal from
Iraq. In 2003, the day the U.S. invaded Iraq, hundreds of Vermonters
met in the State House were they unanimously passed resolutions
condemning the acts of the Federal Government as illegal and immoral.
And again in 2006 more than 200 Vermonters held a meeting in the
State House to discuss the possibility of secession from the United
States (a cause now supported by 13% of the population). Former
communards and 60s-70s radicals were undoubtedly present at both
events. All these declarations, as symbolic as they may be, point to
the leftward trajectory of politics in Vermont; a trajectory which,
in part, was set in course by the Commune Movement a generation before.

***

The final chapter on Vermont's Commune Movement cannot be written
until history reveals whether or not those heady days of the 60s and
70s were a cultural abrasion, or an immediate harbinger of things to come.

For Robert Houriet the future, and therefore the past, holds a bitter
promise. "We were just ahead of the economy," say Robert. "We were
trying to go back to 1930 at a time when the economy was going off
the scale in terms of abundance. A false abundance, as it turns out…
[The final victory of the cooperative movement] will have to be
economically determined. People will do this because they have to,
because they choose to do what is possible. And what becomes possible
is [determined] when the price of oil becomes too high, when the
price to the environment becomes too high not to do it that way. Not
for idealistic reasons, but because they have to. The farmer [for
example] will feel the pinch… –they can't achieve the mechanization,
the storage, the distribution without doing it cooperatively. So
cooperativism will become efficient. It will become necessary that
people adopt cooperative methods."
---

David Van Deusen is co-author of The Black Bloc Papers, and Neither
Washington Nor Stowe. He is currently News Editor of Catamount Tavern
News, and is a freelance journalist in Vermont. David is a member of
the Teamster Local 1L as well as the National Writers' Union UAW
Local 1981, and is Vice President of the Vermont AFL-CIO. David lives
on a collective compound in the hills of Moretown were he serves as
First Constable.

.

The Port Huron Project...

The Port Huron Project, Julian Schnabel's Drawings, and Artists Against the War

Recommendations by R.C. Baker

http://www.villagevoice.com/art/0803,baker,78832,13.html

by R.C. Baker
January 15th, 2008

Figures of Speech

Flags surrounding the Washington Monument flutter gently in a video
of a young man standing at a podium, declaring: "The incredible war .
. . has provided the razor­the terrible, sharp cutting edge­that has
finally severed the last vestige of the illusion that morality and
decency are the guiding principles of our foreign policy." He then
quotes a U.S. senator: "The United States may very well be the
greatest threat to peace in the world today." Whoa­which brave
senator is he talking about? A presidential contender? Afraid not.
The young orator is actor Max Bunzel, re-creating a 1965 speech by
Paul Potter, the president of the Students for a Democratic Society.
The war in question is Vietnam; the senator, Oregonian Wayne Morse, a
lonely, early voice excoriating President Johnson's foreign policy.
The piece, We Must Name the System (2007), and other re-enactments of
'60s and '70s political declarations are the brainchild of artist
Mark Tribe, a professor of modern culture at Brown University, who
began these historical simulations to counter the political apathy of
his students. The speeches selected so far for The Port Huron Project
(named after Tom Hayden's 1962 New Left manifesto) reveal sad
parallels between yesteryear's wrongheaded military intervention and
our own Iraq quagmire. (The first three videos are available online;
later this year, Creative Time will sponsor live re- enactments of
historic speeches by Bobby Seale, César Chávez, and Stokely
Carmichael.) In 2006's Until the Last Gun Is Silent, actress Gina
Brown, wearing a somber black dress and a midnight-blue hat, channels
Coretta Scott King's poignant 1968 Central Park address, derived from
notes found in her husband's pocket at the time of his assassination
three weeks earlier. She speaks of his vilification for opposing the
Vietnam War, then moves on to the tension between the haves and
have-nots, noting: "Our Congress passes laws which subsidize
corporation farms, oil companies, airlines, and houses for suburbia,
but when they turn their attention to the poor, they suddenly become
concerned about balancing the budget." Plus ça change. . . . The
production values of these faux time capsules are spare, but the
rhetoric resonates across the decades, hopefully making it easier for
us­unlike the generation that trusted no one over 30­to heed the
wisdom of our elders.

...

.

MLK Jr. inspires generations of Non-violence

Behind the Picket Lines

http://www.thepost.ohiou.edu/Articles/Culture/2008/01/18/22464/

MLK Jr. inspires generations of Non-violence

Published: Friday, January 18, 2008

For Francine Childs, Monday is more than a day off school ­ it's a
chance to reflect on the day she met Martin Luther King Jr.

Childs, professor emeritus of African American Studies at Ohio
University, remembers the day in 1956 when she was at a workshop
about nonviolent protest and civil disobedience at the University of
Texas. Gathered in a crowded room, she sat on a sofa. A moment later,
King entered the room, sat on the arm of the sofa and asked Childs
what she wanted to do with her life.

"To work with and influence young people to action the way you have
so influenced me," she said.

Many protests, boycotts and years later, she has achieved that goal.
When she returned to Paul Quinn College in Dallas after the workshop,
she helped lead similar trainings for other students and led a
boycott against a local drugstore that would not let any black people
eat at the lunch counter.

As she walked across the street to start the boycott, Childs carried
a pocketknife.

"Even though we'd gone through the workshops, I wasn't sure if I
could face the rotten eggs and name calling and spit," she said. "But
then my boyfriend asked if I wanted to be a part of history or
prevent it from happening. I flipped the knife in the weeds and never
went back."

The boycott was successful.

Fast forward to 1970, when then-OU president Claude Sowle called the
National Guard to OU. This was in the aftermath of the Kent State
University shootings in May of that year.

Also that May, OU closed for several months because of violent
confrontations between students and police. The graduating class,
including now-President Roderick McDavis, received their diplomas in the mail.

Then to now

OU has seen protests this year about topics ranging from the cutting
of four sports programs to the layoffs of university custodial staff
to the existence of "free speech zones."

Students for a Democratic Society has been at the forefront of most
of these protest efforts.

Civil rights activists protested with the goal of taking action
against injustices, said Will Klatt, member of SDS. But now, many
protests are used to raise awareness about a problem.

SDS member Olivia Dawson said that protesting can be difficult.

"I struggle with the idea of protest because you can drive six hours
for a protest where you shake your fist and then nothing comes of
it," she said.

SDS has considered sit-ins, but more and more those methods don't
seem feasible because people are not willing to get arrested, Dawson said.

"The greatest challenge we face on this campus is apathy," she said.

Klatt echoed her statement, saying that students need to get involved.

"Politics isn't about going to the polls twice a year; it's an
experience for every day, said Klatt.

.

When black cults turned bad

When black cults turned bad

http://www.voice-online.co.uk/content.php?show=12753

BY Janelle Oswald
Published: 21 January 2008

Out of the civil unrest caused by black oppression in '60s America,
sprang many different black nationalist political groups and
sometimes bizarre cults.

Between 1972 and 1974 the 'Zebra Killings' sent shock waves around
the US. It was not only the nature of the crimes that astonished the
country, it was the men behind them. Serial killings are usually
committed by white men between the ages of 25-35 years, but the
murderers of at least 14 people – possibly as many as 71 – in the San
Francisco Bay area were black men.

Members of a sect called the Death Angels, a splinter group of the
Nation of Islam, were responsible for the slayings. They were dubbed
the Zebra Killings because of the radio channel used by the police
investigating the case (channel Z), and because the selected victims
were white.

Although eight people were arrested for the killings, the attacks
were mainly carried out by Jesse Lee Cooks, J.C. Simon, Larry Green,
Manuel Moore and Anthony Harris, who all believed that white people
were created 3,000 years ago by a 'mad' black scientist named Yakub
(also spelled Yacub or Yakob).

According to ancient teachings, Yakub wanted to create a race of weak
people that he and his ancestors could rule over. During his analysis
of the black race he 'discovered' that a black and a brown germ
existed in every man, and found a way to separate the two. Yakub
ruled that blacks who were alike could not marry. Dark-skinned people
had to marry light-skinned, and light-skinned had to marry lighter.
This separation eventually led to the creation of caucasian people.
However, the white population outgrew the black and went on to rule
the world, leaving the black race to suffer and be labeled inferior.

Angered by this revelation, the Death Angels wanted to reclaim their
ancestral power and bring back black rule by wiping out the white
race. They believed that they could achieve a better way of life and
gain 'points' towards getting into the heaven when they died, if they
eradicated the white population. For them, whites were not human
beings but 'grafted snakes' and 'blue-eyed devils'.

Fuelled with hatred, the Death Angels – most of whom were uneducated
– began a series of vicious attacks, mainly carried out against
women, the weak or the elderly.

Richard and Quita Hague were the first victims in San Francisco to
fall prey to the gang. The couple were taking an after dinner walk
when they were abducted at gunpoint and forced into a van. They were
bound and Richard was beaten over the head with a lug wrench, and
knocked unconscious. Quita was sexually molested and hacked with a
machete. It was said that while she begged for her life she was
decapitated. Before leaving, the attackers hacked at the face of the
still unconscious man. Miraculously, he survived and was able to give
valuable information to the police.

Like most victims of street crime, the Hagues did nothing to provoke
their killers. They simply were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Vincent Wollin was shot in the back and killed on his sixty-ninth
birthday. Mildred Hosler was shot while frantically trying to get
away from her younger, faster attacker. Ilario Bertucci, a 135-pound,
81-year-old man, was killed while walking home from work, and
Marietta DiGirolamo was shot and killed on her way to a neighborhood bar.

But it was not only ordinary folk that suffered at the hand of Death
Angels - there were also some high profile victims. Art Agnos, who
would later go on to become mayor of San Francisco, was shot and
almost killed by the group. A member of the California Commission on
Aging, Agnos was attending a community meeting in a predominantly
black neighbourhood to discuss building a government funded health
clinic in the area.

In the same neighbourhood, the killers were out hunting for their
next prey. As the meeting came to an end, Agnos stopped to talk with
two women. One of the killers came up behind him, and shot him twice
in the back. The bullets ripped apart Agnos' lungs, spleen and
kidneys. Bystanders called an ambulance, and Agnos managed to survive
the brutal shooting.

Lou Calabro was a street patrol sergeant with the San Francisco
Police Department (SFPD) at the time, and stated that as the bodies
piled up, the SFPD came under increasing pressure to stop the killings:

"In what was known as Operation Zebra, more police were put on the
street and security checks were beefed up. Despite the increased
police presence, the attacks did not stop. They would often happen
when we were on full alert. Some officers suspected a black cop who
was a member of 'Officers for Justice,' a black police officers
association, was tipping off the killers, though this was never
proven. We were very frustrated at not being able to stop the killings."

As word got out within the black communities of the bay area in San
Francisco, numerous blacks blamed 'unemployment' and 'oppression' for
the attacks. One man said, "The madness that drives black men to kill
innocent people . . . involves a sickness that is as American as
apple pie." Black Panther leader Bobby Seale declared: "Every black
man in the Bay area is in danger of losing his life." The Reverend
Cecil Williams claimed that the entire black community was "under a
police state that could erupt into a racial war."

Detectives, Gus Coreris and John Fotinos, 13-year veterans of the
Homicide Unit, led by black Inspector Prentice Earl Sanders,
conducted the investigation and eventually cracked the case.

Though they suspected the black Muslims, it was hard to get any
information on them because of a ban on surveillance of religious
institutions. But Coreris and Fotinos were able to link the murders
because the Death Angels always used the same weapon for each attack.
They were also able to put together information and descriptions from
those who survived, such as Agnos and Richard Hague. However, the
case was eventually solved when one of the members of the Death
Angels came forward with information.

During the trial the Nation of Islam paid for the legal
representation of every one of the killers except Cooks, who
immediately admitted his murders. They were all sentenced to life.

The story of the solving of the the Death Angels saga is set to be
turned into a film with Jamie Fox playing the role of Inspector
Prentice Earl Sanders. A book, 'The Zebra Murders'., written by
Sanders about the killings gave the inspiration for the film.

.

Porsche Cayenne Turbo Cannabis

[2 articles]

[See URLs for pics.]

High Times COTY: Porsche Cayenne Turbo Cannabis

http://jalopnik.com/346463/high-times-coty-porsche-cayenne-turbo-cannabis

We're not huge fans of the idea of Porsche building an overweight,
oversized suvvie in the first place, but this is just adding insult
to injury. Thanks to the eagle eyes of Vintage Racer, we're now torn
up about what to think about the Porsche Cayenne Turbo "Cannabis"
Edition built by the Russian builder GT-A Tuners. Yes it's got some
very nice 20" wheels, yes it has some Rinspeed go faster parts, but
the cabin is also painted like the inside of a Bob Marley festival.
Our money says the customer for this piece of work is a 70 year old
grandma with cataracts.

--------

Jamaica Porsche

http://englishrussia.com/?p=1653

It seems that some rich Russians are also familiar with Jah cult and
Jamaica culture according to this Porsche Cayenne spotted on the
streets of Moscow.

.

Former alternative New York newspaper publisher from Enid dies

Former alternative New York newspaper publisher from Enid dies

http://www.enidnews.com/localnews/local_story_017003454.html

January 17, 2008

A former Enid resident who became known in the 1960s for publishing
an alternative New York newspaper, The East Village Other, has died.

Walter Bowart, 68, died Dec. 18, 2007, in Inchelium, Wash.

According to an obituary in the Wall Street Journal, Bowart published
The East Village Other from 1965 to 1972. It was among the country's
first major underground newspapers and at its height had a
circulation of 60,000.

Bowart also wrote a book, "Operation Mind Control," in 1978, which
argued the United States government conducted covert psychological
experiments on uwitting people.

He was born Walter Howard Kirby in Omaha, Neb., on May 14, 1939. He
was adopted as an infant by a family named Bowart and grew up in
Enid. He attended the University of Oklahoma before he set out for
New York, where he became involved in the underground cultural scene.

He is survived by four children, three sisters and two grandchildren,
all living in California and Montana.

Dances with Wolfe

Dances with Wolfe

http://books.guardian.co.uk/departments/generalfiction/story/0,,2243616,00.html

He was the first pop journalist and the perfect chronicler of Sixties
America. He invented 'new journalism' to report the radical energy of
the times, hung out with Ken Kesey and wrote The Electric Kool-Aid
Acid Test. But amid the psychedelia, he remained the Southern dandy
and now, still in his trademark suit at 76, he finds new exotic
creatures to marvel at.

By Tim Adams
Sunday January 20, 2008
The Observer

Tom Wolfe does not dress like a child of the Sixties. In his
14th-floor Manhattan apartment with its snow-covered, late-afternoon
view over Central Park, he is Wolfeishly immaculate in his white suit
and his co-respondent shoes. He does not behave like a child of the
Sixties, either. We sit at his circular antique dining table and he
sips iced water while polishing anecdote and aphorism. But the
Sixties was the decade that formed him and the one that he first
helped to form (he has had a hand in characterising all those that
have followed, too). America's greatest sentence-by-sentence show-off
is 76, and made somewhat frail by an unreliable heart, but when he
thinks back over those decades, he does so with a wicked grin. For
all of his grand ambition as a novelist, he has never forgotten that
a journalist's primary function is the creation of mischief, and
Wolfe's mischief-making began in earnest in 1962.

That was the year he first came to live in New York. It had taken him
a while. He was 31 and still deciding how he could make his name when
he was hired by the Herald Tribune as a writer of features. On
arrival in the city, he felt he needed a trademark, so he adopted the
suit and a homburg hat, an outfit that his father, an agronomist and
gentleman farmer in the Shenandoah Valley, had worn in the golden
summers of his Virginian youth.

The suit (he now has 40 or so of them) served many purposes: it got
under the skin of the natives (early on, Wolfe's most truculent
sparring partner, Norman Mailer, declared: 'In my mind, there is
something silly about a man who wears a white suit all the time,
particularly in New York'), it disarmed his subjects, and, most of
all, it gave him something to write up to. As he is fond of pointing
out: 'If most writers are honest with themselves, this is the
difference they want to make: before they were not noticed, now they
are.' All he needed to find was a voice that had the same exclamatory
élan as his tailoring.

Wolfe instinctively understood that the essence of the 1960s lay not
in its politics but in its fashions. He was the first pop journalist,
alive to the cults of youth and the glister of American capitalism,
able to do for American writing pretty much what Andy Warhol, that
other arch-conservative dandy up from the sticks, did for its art. By
1964, he was opening articles (about 'the Girl of the Year') with
sentences like this: 'Bangs manes bouffants beehives Beatle caps
butter face brush-on lashes decal eyes puffy sweaters French thrust
bras flailing leather blue jeans stretch pants stretch jeans honeydew
bottoms éclair shanks elf boots ballerinas Knight slippers, hundreds
of them, these flaming little buds, bobbing and screaming, rocketing
around inside the Academy of Music Theatre underneath that vast, old,
moldering, cherub dome up there - aren't they super-marvellous!'

Wolfe believes the Sixties began with the arrival of the Beatles in
New York in 1964. He had been sent by his paper to cover the story
and remembers a wave of young men running across the airport, having
seen the group for the first time, all furiously combing their hair
out of rock'n'roll DAs and forward into moptops. There were four
limousines, one per Beatle; Wolfe managed to jump into a car with
George Harrison and drove into the city with him: 'I might have got
better lines in Lennon's car,' he says, 'but a more straightforward
man than Harrison I never met.'

The decade ended, he suggests, four years later, in 1968, the year he
published The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, the high-voltage account
of the psychedelic experiments of Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters.
In between times, Wolfe was an ever-more excitable transmitter of the
energy of the moment. His great secret was that he was as much
horrified as amused by what he reported. He wrote like a pot-head but
thought like a Southern gent. 'As long as I was writing about hippies
and stuff, I was assumed to be a flaming liberal,' he says now,
snorting at the idea.

Wolfe's default attitude is devilment; he behaves as if nothing is
more fun than winding up liberals. Thus the short Sixties decade in
his reading was primarily about money. 'There was,' he says, with a
cocked eyebrow, 'almost 10 years of uninterrupted boom in the
financial markets and that accounts for so many things that
happened': children living in communes on trust funds; children for
the first time with enough money to support the music and fashion
industries; children who could afford drugs.

It was dollars, he also believes, that led to Vietnam: without the
booming economy, America would never have undertaken the war (just as
he thinks that without the bullish stock market of recent years,
George W Bush would not have gone into Iraq). He is happy to describe
both conflicts as 'idealistic' in the sense that they were driven by
American desire to police the world. 'Vietnam was really an
idealistic thing to stop the spread of communism, which,
incidentally, it did. It was a pretty costly way to do it, but it
achieved its goal.' The goals in Iraq, he concedes, are somewhat less clear.

If money created the conditions for a youth-led revolution, it was,
he suggests, ignited by the loss of faith in God 'among
higher-degree-educated people'. The result of this sudden atheism was
that parents had no authority with which to disapprove of their
children's behaviour. 'If your children have convictions and you
don't know what to believe, it is very hard to say, "Thou shalt not",
with that long alabaster finger.'

Wolfe recalls sitting on a panel discussion about Vietnam with Allen
Ginsberg and Günter Grass and some underground film-makers in 1967.
'They, and the audience,' he says, still slightly affronted by the
memory, 'were all making not only anti-war statements but malign
statements about the American government - as some people are now,
freedom of speech and all of this...' Wolfe heard himself shouting:
'Ah! Come on! This is a happiness explosion! People are flush with
money! They go dancing in these discotheques all over the country!'
And the thing is, he says now: 'I was right and they were wrong.'

Wolfe's account of this happiness explosion was always at one remove.
The idea of his 'new journalism' was to dissolve the distinction
between writer and subject and Wolfe was so good at the tricks of
this total submersion reporting that it was easy to forget that he
was as likely to let go of his critical distance as he was to walk
down Fifth Avenue in flip-flops; it was this tension that gave his
writing its narcotic charge. His friend and fellow new journalist
Hunter S Thompson, who had no qualms about genuinely throwing himself
into the fray, once argued: 'Wolfe's problem is that he is too crusty
to participate in his stories. The people he feels comfortable with
are dull as stale dogshit, and the people who seem to fascinate him
as a writer are so weird they make him nervous. The only thing new
and unusual about Wolfe's journalism is that he is an abnormally good
reporter.'

Those skills were paraded to pyrotechnic effect in The Electric
Kool-Aid Acid Test, which still stands up as a definitive document of
1968, a decline and fall of the DayGlo empire. Wolfe had been looking
for a subject that would allow him to dazzle about the decade at book
length and the hallucinogenic road trips of the Merry Pranksters were
everything he wanted. 'It was a primary religious group. That is why
Kesey began these acid tests [lacing Kool-Aid at parties with LSD].
It was the ecstatic experience... in the way that the early
Christians depended on wine.'

Wolfe's first interest in Kesey was as a fugitive. The author of One
Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was off in Mexico on the run from drug
charges. When Kesey was eventually arrested south of San Francisco,
Wolfe went to the jail to interview him. Kesey's followers were
camped out. 'One guy had a crystal in the middle of his forehead so
if you looked at him a certain way there would be a sudden sunburst.
I had never seen anything like them.'

When Kesey got out on bail, Wolfe was in an abandoned pie factory in
the Tenderloin district of San Francisco where the Pranksters were
living. 'Kesey walked in and for a long time he said nothing.
Eventually he sat down and they literally gathered on the floor
around his feet and he told them parables.' In the months that
followed, Wolfe stayed with the Pranksters, listening, recording. Was
he seduced by Kesey's charisma? 'I would find myself under this
spell,' he says. 'It was all very mystical and in the morning I would
be driving back to San Francisco to get some sleep and all these
people would be going to work; I felt infinitely superior to them
because I had been up all night hearing truths,' he laughs. 'By noon,
though, I would be thinking: "What the hell was that all about?"'

Did he ever take the drugs?

'I would not have touched that stuff,' he says, mock-shocked at the
thought. 'And Kesey did not push it. But one day he came to me and
said, "Tom, why don't you put that notebook and that ballpoint pen
away and just Be Here?"'

Was he tempted?

'Well, I thought hard about it for about six seconds.'

He held on to his notebook, reaffirmed his own faith. 'You have to
believe that what you write is more important than any cause, up to
the point where the barbarians are two blocks from your home. Then
maybe you should think again...'

As Wolfe is talking, with the wintry sun going down over the park,
I'm reminded of a line he is fond of using: 'You never realise how
much of your background is sewn into the lining of your clothes.'
Wolfe never wanted to stop being the Southern boy in the big city and
it is from that sense of himself as the blow-in to 'Cultureburg' that
he still derives his outsider's eye. It's a bit absurd now, like the
Panama hat lampshades in his study - he has a wife who was art
director of Harper's magazine, this apartment, summers in the
Hamptons. He could hardly be more embedded in the literary world but
it is an identity he holds on to. His opinions survived the Sixties
probably not that far removed from those of his Virginian father.

'When these hippy kids would move on to a farm somewhere, my father
always laughed,' he recalls. '"Farmers," he would say, "get up at
four in the morning to feed the cattle... you don't play the guitar
on a farm." These kids would use the fields as a bathroom. You would
go to some of these communes and you thought maybe it was the remains
of a decoration for some holiday and in fact it was toilet paper
going on for acres.'

This sense of the absurdity of the liberal 'charmed aristocracy' has
been Wolfe's most consistent theme. Not long after he arrived in New
York, he wrote a 15,000-word attack on the bible of that aristocracy,
the New Yorker, that many of the city's literati have never forgiven
him for. He has added many insults to that original injury over the
years, not least in his invention of 'radical chic' to describe the
infatuation of the intelligentsia with the Black Panther movement.
Nothing is more likely to raise hackles in New York than a Southern
dandy having fun with racial politics, as Wolfe has consistently done
since civil rights days. It is, he still argues, the last great taboo
and hence a major theme of all of his novels - his next, set in
Miami, will look at illegal immigration. Having grown up in
segregated Richmond, he knows all about the sensitivities he is
addressing. 'It was apartheid [back then],' he says. 'And it was
never discussed. I remember visiting New York for a baseball game
when I was 17 and going into a drugstore to get a Coca-Cola and there
were black people sitting there at other stools. And I remember
thinking: this is odd. I can remember extolling the virtues of
coloured people, as they then were, to my mother and she would say,
"Don't get carried away now - they are not the be all and end all."'

If America was strange to him then it has only got stranger. 'I'm
still convinced,' he says, 'that if you went to live anywhere in this
country for 30 days you would see sides of life that you did not
think possible. Think of Paris Hilton. A novelist could dream up a
beautiful heiress who gets caught on a pornographic tape. But the
rest of the novel would be about extortion. I don't think you could
come up with a plot where an heiress becomes a television star
because she has done a pornographic tape.'

Mailer - 'I miss him. He was good to feud with, which I did over and
over' - took to putting Wolfe down as a journalist, not a literary
man. Despite his first two novels selling more than a million
hardback copies, he has no problem with that. At heart, he knows he
is a reporter - 'such an exciting calling'. It's what fuels his
fiction, keeps him going. He still works at the pace he did in 1968
and his writing has never stopped buzzing. Is there a secret?

'John Maynard Keynes said the people who are successful are the
people with animal spirits who refuse to acknowledge the risks they
are taking in the same way that the healthy young man ignores the
possibility of death. I'm not a young man, and,' he checks
ostentatiously, pulling back the buttoned cuff of his jacket,
grinning his Wolfe grin, 'I do have a pulse, but when it comes to
mortality, mostly I choose to ignore the subject.'

From cub to Wolfe

1931 Born 2 March in Virginia. He began writing seriously at nine and
wrote and illustrated a biography of Mozart before reaching his teens.

1959 Hired by the Washington Post as a reporter.

1962 Joined the New York Herald Tribune as a reporter and feature writer.

1964 Wrote a feature for Esquire about car culture in southern
California, credited with kickstarting a new style of reporting, new
journalism, which incorporated literary techniques.

1968 Published The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, an account of Ken
Kesey's travels across America, experimenting with LSD, which became
one of the defining texts of Sixties.

1987 Published his first novel, The Bonfire of the Vanities,
originally serialised in Rolling Stone

He says 'To me, the great joy of writing is discovering. Most writers
are told to write about what they know, but I still love the
adventure of going out and reporting on things I don't know about.'

Listen in

Tom Wolfe talks to Tim Adams about his recollections of 1968, to
Norman Mailer and the Hells Angels
here

http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/podcasts/2008/01/i_love_to_see_an_issue_which_h.html

.

When hippies got back to nature

When hippies got back to nature

http://books.guardian.co.uk/reviews/generalfiction/0,,2243615,00.html

Peter Carey's powerful His Illegal Self is a dense exploration of
1970s counterculture seen through the eyes of an eight-year-old boy,
says Rachel Cooke

Sunday January 20, 2008
The Observer

His Illegal Self
by Peter Carey
Faber £16.99, pp300

It is 1972 and Che is almost eight years old. He lives with his
grandmother - only she calls him Jay - in isolated privilege on New
York's Upper East Side: no television, no other kids, no Grandpa (he
is off with his fancy woman elsewhere). Phoebe Selkirk is waspy and
patrician, but she and her grandson are nevertheless locked in a needy embrace.

At night, when she is dreaming her martini-induced dreams, her grey
hair spread over the pillow like seaweed, he listens to her
breathing, fearing that it may stop before 'they' come for him. Who?
His parents, a pair of student radicals on the run from the FBI, whom
he has not seen, save for in the tight bundle of newspaper cuttings
he carries in his back pocket, since he was a baby. 'They will come
for you, man,' says his long-haired, teenage neighbour. 'They'll
break you out of here.' Che longs for this unlikely release, but he
is only a boy: he lacks his parents' daring. Ideally, he'd like it to
happen while Grandma is still around to wave him goodbye.

Then one day, the lift doors open and there she is: he recognises her
straight off, this creature with a khaki backpack, though he must
call her not 'Mum', but Dial (short for 'dialectic'). The trouble is
that Che's longing results in his making a mistake: Dial is not who
she seems. This is the first and, I think, the most acceptable of the
many misunderstandings on which His Illegal Self, Peter Carey's 10th
novel, turns. A child without a mother can easily imagine one,
especially if he has mythology on which to build (Susan Selkirk first
made herself and her baby, Che, famous when, during the visit of the
US Secretary for Defence Robert McNamara to Harvard University in
1966, she threw them both in front of his black Lincoln).

But can a woman like Dial, who has just landed a longed-for job as an
English professor at Vassar, imagine that doing a revolutionary whom
she knew as a freshman a favour ('I was sort of wanting to say hi to
my guy,' says Susan, America's most wanted woman, on the line from
Philly. ' ... I mean my son.') will be without serious consequences?
Of this, I am less convinced.

Dial's sleepwalking into disaster (is it bravado that induces her to
act or the class fury that sweeps over her when faced with Phoebe
Selkirk's 'tailored' hair and her firm ways with shop assistants?)
and the tangled events that follow it are, however, mostly just a
plot device, a way of getting Dial and Che alone together, in a
putrid hippy commune in the Queensland jungle. Occasionally, the
story is told from her side - 'her mother would have died to see her
genius in a dump like this' - but in the main it is Che who gives it
to us: the adventure turned to muddle, the prison fled, only to be
replaced with another, less comfortable cell.

'The afternoons were slow and thick as ants ... in the town he had a
sneaky traitor's heart and he would stare like a maniac at anyone who
glanced his way. It was not home, no matter what she called it, but
sometimes he saw how it contained the parts of home he would rather
have forgotten - the colour of sadness, the same light on the moss
side of the trees.'

Novels narrated by children are nearly always flawed and tiresome.
But Che is as convincing a child as any I have found in the pages of
a book: beady as a boy scout; innocent and yet so knowing; brimming
with watery nostalgia for states he has never even known.

Growing up with Grandma Selkirk, we're told, he had been treated like
some kind of 'lovely insect, expected to know things through your
feelers, by the kaleidoscope patterns in the others' eyes', and it is
this Che who pulls the reader through the novel's long middle
section, when Dial seems incapable of organising anything, bar the
odd pan of tomato sauce. By Carey's ordinarily teeming standards, the
commune is oddly rather lifeless, for all that he has given it a
scattered cast of outlaws: a renegade called Trevor, who knows how to
dig fox-holes and mulch cauliflowers; a hippy, Rebecca, who objects
to Che's stray cat because it will kill native birds (told that
either the cat or she and Che must go, Dial eventually breaks its
neck, one of several moments when you wonder if she is sicker, more
dumbly violent, than her Harvard degree suggests). Here, the tale is
full of menace and vague despair - 'the forest around the huts was
laced with narrow, winding trails, like veins in a creature as yet
unnamed' - but it is also strangely without incident. Carey wants to
show that it does not take a parent to love a child, nor a wholly
good and clear-thinking person, and, as the novel reaches its sickly
climax, there is no doubting that we believe in the emotional noose
that binds Dial to her contraband charge.

The impenetrable thickness of the jungle, however, somehow contrives
to strangle Carey's natural vivacity as writer, just as it keeps Dial
and Che hidden from prying eyes. Were it not for a couple of
beautiful set pieces early on - Dial at her Vassar interview, in
twinset and court shoes; Grandma Selkirk trying to mitigate the shame
of her daughter's pregnancy with all sorts of generous offers to
Harvard - His Illegal Self would be an impenetrable mystery. As it
is, its opacity is both a virtue and a frustration.

.

School for scandal [Summerhill]

School for scandal

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/tv_and_radio/article3191799.ece

The BBC has rethought children's TV and made Summerhill. Our critic
sits up straight and tries to pay attention

January 19, 2008
Caitlin Moran

At the end of a week in which The Times has dedicated itself to
children's TV, it seems fitting, correct – and like I know what's
going on in the rest of the paper – to review the BBC's new kids'
drama, Summerhill.

Children's drama gets a short straw. Of all the areas of the arts, it
registers the longest delay between broadcast, and the
programme-makers finding out if the audience liked it. With
children's TV, there are no congratulatory e-mails from your mates
the next day. You have to wait until your viewers have stopped
wetting themselves, left school, discovered marijuana, and spent long
evenings passionately, but slightly ironically, discussing all the
programmes of their childhood to find out if, after all, Biker Mice
From Mars hit the spot.

Anyone who has a fondness for children's TV will already have been
sent reeling by last week's announcement, on the future of Grange
Hill. It is, apparently, to be reimagined to "fit in" with the new
BBC charter. All the awkward teenagers – with their edgy, socially
relevant problems like drugs, horniness and flick-knives – are to go.
In their place, a host of 7 to 11-year-olds will be installed, and
shows will revolve around such plots as "an escaped puppy causing chaos".

One would hope, then – Grange Hill clearly having had its knackers
cut off and thrown in a ditch – to see the BBC's children's drama
department being able to show its balls on other projects. Although
obviously not literally, as I should imagine there have been some
pretty strict memos around the BBC in recent months about such things.

And Summerhill does promise some sinew. After all, this four-part
series focuses on the legendary school where children make the rules,
and its 2000 court case – when David "No hippy teachers in Hush
Puppies on mywatch" Blunkett tried to close it down, but failed. In a
world where we worry about simultaneously mollycoddling and
over-pressurising our children, a drama about kids who spend all day
running around with their arses hanging out, screaming, and falling
out of trees, but at a boarding school, borders on the subversive.

Alas – as you would kind of expect from a show almost singlehandedly
representing the BBC's children's drama department – Summerhill
buckles under the weight of its many tasks. Despite having four
half-hour episodes to tell its story, Summerhillcan't fit in
everything it wants to. It has painstakingly to spell out the
educational ethos of Summerhill, in a serious of earnest speeches –
"Freedom is a big thing to deal with. Sometimes, you have to learn
it." It has to cover an educational tribunal that set a legal
precedent in British teaching standards. And – as all TV must these
days; even the weather reports and Nasdaq updates – it has some
"emotional journeys". These concern the two new arrivals to the
school – Maddy and Ryan.

Maddy (Holly Bodimeade) is a hyper-anxious overachiever. She
seriously needs to get a small muddy smudge on her nose, take her
shoes off, and dance to some crazy rhythms being knocked out on some
steel drums in the school's courtyard.

Ryan (Eliot Otis Browne Walters), on the other hand, is a
one-stop-shop ASBO rat-boy. His path to responsible adulthood will
clearly have to involve nurturing a small, abandoned baby rabbit back
to health.

Having watched all four episodes of Summerhill,however, I must report
it's a bit of a curate's egg. A bit of a Lowby David Bowie (no one
ever listens to side 2). For while there are lots of pleasingly
lysergic shots of English woodland in summer, and a hot turn from
Jessie Cave as teen hippy sex-pot Stella, the second half of the
series focuses on Summerhill's pivotal educational tribunal.

Desperate to razz the whole thing up, Summerhill descends into
"imagineering", culminating in the boggle-some scene in which the
renowned human rights lawyer Geoffrey Robinson, QC, dresses up as
Peter Pan, and attacks Blunkett's lawyer with a cutlass. Watching it
borders on the mortifying, and makes you wish they had just stuck
with emotional journeys, educational proselytising, and Jessie Cave
smiling sexily in the sun.

In 20 years' time, however, when Summerhill's viewers are stoned
thirtysomethings, it will seem semi-legendary – like the episode of
Camberwick Green when Windy Miller goes whacky on cider.
---

Summerhill begins Mon, CBBC Channel, 6pm, continuing Tues; episode
one repeated on BBC One, Wed, 4.30pm. A full version is also due to
be shown on BBC Four

.

These were the days that shook the world

These were the days that shook the world

http://observer.guardian.co.uk/review/story/0,,2243585,00.html

Riots swept the globe, assassinations rocked America, the Russians
crushed the Prague Spring, the hippy dream turned sour, and women and
black people fought for equal rights. It was a year of unparalleled
ferment, and the remarkable events of 1968 shaped an entire
generation. In a special issue of Review, we look at the political
and cultural revolution that took place, starting here with the
fascinating personal recollections of six key figures caught in the
eye of the storm

Interviews by Tom Templeton and Kate Kellaway
Sunday January 20, 2008
The Observer

Tommie Smith
Olympic 200m gold medallist, then aged 24

Black people were, and still are, second-class citizens in America. I
saw my family members treated terribly when we were share-croppers in
Texas. Most of '68 I was training daily in San Jose, in anticipation
of the Olympics. My first son, Kevin, was born in February and his
birth made me feel responsible, both for him and for other young
black men who had children and needed to get bread on the table. En
route to Mexico City, the Black Athletic Committee met to discuss a
proposed boycott. We decided we couldn't afford it, but that each
athlete would represent themselves. I felt it was time for the young
black American male to stand up for his cause. I asked my wife,
Delois, to buy me some gloves. I didn't know what I was going to do
but I knew it was going to be visual.

I won the final in a world record time. As I walked to the podium I
decided I would raise one gloved hand in the air and bow my head in
prayer. It was a silent gesture heard around the world, and each
individual had their own interpretation of what it meant.

When the national anthem ended the boos, hisses and fingers in the
air started. I was kicked out of the Olympic village. When we got
home there was no parade, no handshake, not even a ride home. Friends
were afraid to come around to see me. I couldn't get work. I was
kicked off my military studies programme for Un-American activities.
I got death threats. No black athlete had ever stood up to the system
and said 'explain this'.

So then I had to work extra hard, and I knew I had to get on with my
education. I washed cars in the day, the only job I could get, and I
went to night school. By December I was even more broke and less
popular than I had been in January. I had been famous when I kept my
mouth closed and now I was infamous because I had opened my mouth.
But where I had thought in the past I was free, I was just running in
the direction society wanted me to.

· Dr Tommie Smith became an athletics coach, professor of sociology
and a motivational speaker. His autobiography Silent Gesture is
published by Temple University Press

Malcolm McLaren
Then a 24-year-old student

I was a student at Croydon College of Art when a few articulate old
fogeys in Paris - the Situationists - became the arbiters of the
revolutionary game. So we conspired to take over the college in
sympathy with what we had read about from Berlin and Paris. I knew we
were ultimately going to lose, but it didn't matter, it was the
attempt I cared about.

I remember one student meeting. This sculptor stood up and said, 'Why
can't I make my works in gold?' After two hours the professor said,
'OK, I think we've finished for today', we stood up and said: 'The
demonstration will never end.' Then we got orange juice, cupcakes and
roll-up cigarettes brought in to fortify people. The teachers and
caretakers left eventually, and we ended up camping out for days. The
general public drifted in: hardcore Maoists, anarchists and romantic
hobos just looking for places to camp out for a few days. Many people
got pregnant - it was one massive orgy. Everyone was getting stoned
and taking speed. People got scared, saying: 'If you don't sleep for
72 hours, then you die.' It became a scene.

We would take pews out of St Martin-in-the-Fields on Trafalgar Square
and see police running up Whitehall, and by sheer adrenaline we'd
break the back door of the South African embassy open and these very
gallant characters with these elegant black leather gloves flicked
Zippo lighters and threw these beautiful Molotov bottles in, and we
were off to the next site. I remember being at Grosvenor Square with
Mick Jagger and Jimmy Page. We rolled hundreds of marbles along the
floor at the mounted police. Suddenly it looked like these horses
were on an ice skating rink, and then, like Agincourt, we ducked down
and people behind us had catapults and started firing gobstopper
marbles at the windows of the American embassy, and that was how they
got smashed.

At year's end we decided there would be 26 Father Christmases in
Selfridges. So we all changed in the toilets and moved into the toy
department and started to give away all of the toys to these kids.
I'll never forget one little kid had tears flooding down his cheeks
because he couldn't actually hold all of these toys and take them away.

· Malcolm McLaren managed the band that pioneered punk, the Sex
Pistols. He now lives and works as a composer in Paris

Mary Quant
Fashion designer, then 33

The King's Road was like a swinging catwalk with American magazines
and film crews shooting the street from both sides, often getting
each other in camera. Our shop, Bazaar, was on the corner of Markham
Square, and we opened another in Knightsbridge. Customers included
John Osborne, Audrey Hepburn, Bridget Bardot, Julie Christie and
Twiggy, all followed by photographers and film crew. The Beatles
often came in, Lennon to buy his cap and Paul McCartney and George
Harrison to buy for their girlfriends. Paul became tired of being
mobbed so he took to going to our studio in Draycott Avenue. The
first time he turned up one of our machinists fainted with shock.

My husband, Alexander, and I lived in our new studio flat in Draycott
Avenue. It had parquet floors and long windows all down one side. At
one end was a raised platform with a decorative stove; at the other a
look-out conservatory decorated in PVC and silver. It was ideal for
working on designs and showing collections.

I designed and developed 18 collections that year, including dresses
and undies, tights, bed linen and make-up. I liked using
black-and-white-stripe men's suitings or outrageous colours like
Colman's mustard yellow, a pruney grape colour jersey and creamy
natural calico with matching embroidery anglaise lace. And I was
working on the idea of hotpants. Fashion for the first time was about
young fashion. Before the Sixties young people dressed as though they
were old. I remember saying, 'Good taste is death - vulgarity is
life.' If you do something new, it's described as vulgar. But I love the new.

So much of the Sixties' revolutionary new ideas and talent came out
that year. The Pill created freedom. Women today can look great while
holding down the toughest careers and bringing up children. Women
have always been good at saying: 'Come on boys, no more wars, lets
get on with living.'

· Mary Quant is one of Britain's most influential designers, credited
with inventing the mini-skirt and hotpants. She has been awarded the
Minerva medal and an OBE

Kate Millett
Feminist author, then 33

I spent the year writing Sexual Politics in New York. It was a
wonderful time. Crowds of women - a divine debating society - in
serious study, asking questions. We had meetings every night. It was
very hopeful. We thought we were going to change the world. And we
did change it a bit: an inch or two.

I remember hearing the news about Bobby Kennedy's assassination,
standing at home, ironing a shirt. My husband, the Japanese sculptor
Fumio Yoshimura, was there, the radio was on. We just could not
believe it. When Martin King died, I called all my black friends.
They were so angry. I thought I was upset, but it was hard for them
to talk with me because I was white.

I did an underground sculpture in the basement of my house about
Vietnam and capitalism: little figures who were tied up with money in
front of them; women who had turned into urinals - to represent
symbolically the US government brothels in Vietnam. It was an
invigorating period creatively but it could be frustrating too. We
had to go to hearings at City Hall investigating abortion, where we
found the commission consisted entirely of men and two nuns. Men
wanted to control reproduction: it was about social control, and it
still is. When I wrote about Norman Mailer [she dared to put his work
on the laboratory table in Sexual Politics], he responded with a
whole book against me called The Prisoner of Sex - not one of his best.

At that time we had genuine revolutionary fervour, which was exciting
and wonderful. Now, just when we thought we had tamed and changed
attitudes, women once again have grave enemies in the world.

· Kate Millett's book Sexual Politics (published 1970) was one of the
key texts of the feminist movement. She runs the Women's Arts Colony
Farm in upstate New York

Jim Lovell
Apollo 8 command module pilot, then 40

We had two years left to make good on President Kennedy's pledge to
get to the moon by the end of the decade, and we were under a lot of pressure.

Apollo 1 had burnt up on the launch pad the year before, killing
three friends, and we had no idea how the rival Russian space
programme was going. I was married with four children, and life was
exceptionally busy, pretty focused and competitive, though I remember
enjoying the song 'Aquarius' [from Hair]. I was largely immune from
the demos and the protests. I read about it in the papers but I was
involved in the space programme and we were pretty insulated.

I was back-up man for a mission to fly the lunar module in Earth
orbit. Then Michael Collins had to drop out because of an old back
injury; we were told the lunar module wasn't ready; and the CIA told
us the Russians were aiming to circumnavigate the moon. So in a bold
move we decided to speed the whole thing up by sending the service
module up to orbit the Moon - and I was on the team. It was a
seven-day mission and it went incredibly smoothly. In a piece of
serendipity we got into lunar orbit on Christmas Eve. We did a TV
broadcast on which we read the first chapters of 'Genesis'. The moon
was grey, devoid of colour, looked like plaster of Paris. I still
felt connected to humanity, although when we passed behind the far
side of the moon we were out of radio contact, and totally cut off.
When I went up to the window and put the Earth behind my thumb, it
completely disappeared and I realised how insignificant we are down
there. The Earth's a regular planet, circling a normal star, tucked
away in the corner of an ordinary galaxy in this universe that we
know of. And it's amazing how lucky we are to live on the green Earth.

We didn't know the impact of the flight on people of the world until
we got back. I remember a very quick but very pertinent telegram we
received on our return. It said: 'Thank you Apollo 8. You saved
1968.' People felt that the space programme put human problems in
perspective and that humanity would change as a result. But the mind
forgets very easily, and not too long after that people got back to
the way they lived before - wars and disruption and human cruelty.
People don't realise what they have here until they leave, and only a
few people have done that.

· Captain Jim Lovell flew four Nasa missions, and commanded the
flight of the ill-fated Apollo 13, during which he uttered the
immortal words: 'Houston, we have a problem.' He now owns a
restaurant in Michigan and lectures at universities

Astrid Proll
Student, then 20

I was a child at the beginning of the year, and I didn't understand a
lot of it. Early on I visited my elder brother, Thorwald, a student
in West Berlin, and I was shocked: all these people with long hair,
and all these demos. Then, one day, me and my father saw on TV that
Thorwald had been arrested, along with his mates Baader and Ensslin,
for burning some warehouses in Frankfurt. We were dumbfounded. So I
drove over to Frankfurt in my VW Beetle.

Then I started a photography course in West Berlin amid a tidal wave
of change. Students were living together in very big flats for the
first time. Wilhelm Reich, the psychoanalyst who advocated sexual
freedom, was very popular. The communes were havens of sub-culture,
new living practices and drugs. I saw a talk by the anti-Nazi
campaigner Beate Klarsfeld. She had just slapped the Chancellor at a
public meeting for his alleged Nazi crimes, and she was cheered. It
left a big impression, a strong woman doing what she knew was right.

At the heart of it was a radical separation of the first postwar
generation from a society that was very sticky. The establishment
still had Nazis in some top positions, judges and politicians. That
made it easier for us to step over lines, to ask for power and later
to get into violence. The other big issue was Vietnam. When young
Germans travelled abroad we were tarred with the Nazi brush, so any
opportunity to join a worldwide youth movement was welcomed.

There was a big demo on 1 May. Because I had a car they sent me to
East Berlin where communist party officials gave us loads of miner's
helmets to protect us from the police batons. On the demo students
dressed with Mao buttons and the Little Red Book in the style of the
Chinese Cultural Revolution. I remember this huge banner stating:
'The duty of the revolutionary is to do the revolution.' A very
German attitude: every day you had to show how much more radical you
were getting.

At the end of the year there was a famous demo called the Battle of
Tegeler Weg where people began throwing cobblestones at the police.
At Tegeler Weg we connected with the Rockers, criminals who knew how
to hotwire cars and stuff. It was the first time there was real violence.

· Astrid Proll became a member of the Red Army Faction (Baader
Meinhof) and was jailed for five-and-a-half- years for her role in
bank robberies and fraud. She has since worked as a picture editor

.

Playboy's Silverstein Around the World

Playboy's Silverstein Around the World

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/books/reviews/51918/playboys-silverstein-around-the-world-by-shel-silverstein/

Playboy's Silverstein Around the World
by Shel Silverstein
Fireside
May 2007, 192 pages, $24.00

by Peter Swanson
15 January 2008

Shel Silverstein, commonly known as a children's author, and arguably
most famous for The Giving Tree, got one of his first big breaks as a
cartoonist for Playboy Magazine between 1957 and 1968. He was given
the enviable task of traveling the world and sending dispatches back
in the form of autobiographical sketches and cartoons. These pieces
have been collected in a well-designed coffee table book, and while
they are far from Silverstein's best work, they've held up pretty
well, amusing both as an artifact of the era, and because of
Silverstein's dry, self-deprecating wit.

Prior to the travel gigs, Silverstein was already a bit of a
renaissance man­playwright, songwriter, lyricist­plus a regular
cartoonist for Playboy Magazine and a good friend of Hugh Hefner's.
When he decided to pay an extensive visit to Japan, it was Hefner's
idea to have him send back travel cartoons, and also, for Silverstein
to include himself in the pieces, a concept originally unseemly to
Silverstein. However, with Playboy paying the travel expenses, he
agreed, and over 11 years, filed 23 dispatches from far-flung places,
among them Scandinavia, Spain, Mexico, Moscow, and Africa.

Each dispatch contained about a half dozen dashed-off drawings by
Silverstein, a few photographs to prove he was actually where he said
he was, and plenty of humor, not all of it, but most of it, detailing
the difficulties of getting laid in foreign cultures. A typical gag,
this one from the dispatch from Scandinavia, has Silverstein talking
to an overly bundled local of indeterminate gender, and saying, "If
you're a girl, how about having dinner with me tonight?"

The travel pieces are amusing, but never really laugh-out-loud funny,
and the whole enterprise comes off, somehow, as quaint, a word
probably not often associated with Playboy. Still, the word fits;
Silverstein, in the self-portraiture of his cartoons, comes across as
a little nebbish, an innocent in the world of jet-travel and
free-love. He's living the promise of the Playboy lifestyle yet he's
never 100 percent sure of himself, and he's definitely never taken
with himself. In some ways, he's the anti-Hefner.

The best travel pieces are the ones where Silverstein doesn't travel
far. In one, he reports back from Greenwich Village, skewering the
beatnik scene of 1960, and in 1968 he travels to San Francisco to be
among the hippies. Photographs show him hanging out with the street
people in Haight-Ashbury, and attending a nude body-painting party.
The cartoons display a blistering wit about the pretentiousness of
the hippie scene­a girl Silverstein is making love to says, "I'm
doing this as a statement of independence, a rebellion against my
parents and a protest against outdated puritanical morality. Why are
you doing it?"

He also satirizes, surprisingly, the ravages of drugs: the same girl,
in another cartoon, states, "Oh, Shel, what a beautiful day! We'll
take some Dexi to get us going ... smoke some pot to make breakfast
taste better ... then we'll take that acid trip I've been promising
you ... and tonight we'll sniff coke to help us make love." In the
accompanying drawing Silverstein draws himself looking toward the
reader, a bewildered look on his face, the look of the common man
dropped down into an uncommon world.

The funniest piece is the one in which Silverstein immerses himself,
disrobed, into the culture of an American nudist camp, in one cartoon
asking a completely nude woman standing in front of him if he can
take a peek under the Band-Aid she has affixed to her shoulder. The
other piece worth mentioning is Silverstein on Fire Island from 1965,
in which Silverstein mingles among the vacationing gay population,
mining humor, but never stooping to ridicule those who are different from him.

Silverstein stopped the travel pieces right around the time he was
becoming increasingly famous as a writer of children's stories­The
Giving Tree was published in 1964­and, in particular, a master of
children's verse. The work that's collected in Silverstein's two most
famous books of verse­Where the Sidewalk Ends and The Light in the
Attic­are the types of drawings and poems that make you want to read
them again, or read them aloud to someone. The travel pieces, on the
other hand, while amusing, feel dashed-off and fairly dated; the
hardcover book is ultimately only for the Silverstein completist, or
maybe it would make a decent Christmas present for your recently
divorced uncle who's started wearing smoking jackets.

Silverstein died in 1999, and considering his prolific output, a lot
was lost when he had a heart-attack before reaching 70 years of age.
His death haunts the mini-travelogues collected in the book,
although, to me, these pieces had a haunted quality all their
own­they profile an era that now seems farther away than the years
would suggest. All told, Silverstein's travel pieces are like some of
the fringe countries and cultures that he explored: not essential,
but worth a visit.

.

Waking the Dead

Waking the Dead

http://thejournal.epluribusmedia.net/index.php/book-reviews/39-general-reviews/53-waking%20the%20dead

Written by Aaron Barlow
Saturday, 19 January 2008

A Review of The Grateful Dead and Philosophy: Getting High Minded
About Love and Haight, edited by Steven Gimbel (Chicago: Open Court, 2007).

Appropriately enough, I learned about The Grateful Dead and
Philosophy: Getting High Minded About Love and Haight not through any
academic conference or high-minded scholarly journal but through
Daily Kos, the premier liberal group blog... a place of popular
discourse well beyond the academy. Editor Steven Gimbel, aside from
being a Philosophy professor at Gettysburg College, is a dedicated
Kossack. Following the philosophical lead of The Grateful Dead, he
wants to move his work beyond library walls and book covers, just as
the Dead did, opening their work, providing accessibility beyond
concert halls and album jackets.

Part of a series called "Popular Culture and Philosophy" that covers
everything from Seinfeld to Star Wars, this volume contains 19 essays
by a motley group of academics who seem prouder of their histories as
Deadheads than of their academic credentials, impressive though the
latter are. All of them are trying the tricky task of writing
inclusively on an academic topic for, yes, even though this volume is
tied to the Dead, the discussions on philosophy are serious, not
ironic or simplistic. As Gimbel writes:

When you put the words "philosophy" and "Grateful Dead" in the same
sentence, you run the risk of invoking precisely that sort of
image­vapid, silly statements that collapse into the triviality of
something you'd find in a fortune cooking when you take the time to
think about it with a sober mind. (xvii)

But trivial this book is not. As Gimbel goes on to say, some of those
Deadheads who argued all topics into the wee hours while listening to
traded tapes of Dead shows went on to study philosophy seriously.
This volume is the result.

The first essay, "Keep Your Day Job? Tie Dyes, Veggie Burritos, and
Adam Smith in the Parking Lot" by Gimbel and Brendan Cushing-Daniels,
explores the brisk marketplace that surrounded just about every Dead
show, even as early as the mid-1970s. What statement about capitalism
was made? About the larger corporate culture? As background, they write:

Capitalism began as a far out left-wing notion, as an economics of
liberation. In European societies which were agriculture-based with
long-standing monarchies, where the property was owned and controlled
by a few nobles, but worked by serfs and generation after generation
there was not even the possibility of economic, social, or political
mobility, the idea that just anyone could make money, and lots of it,
was quite radical. (4)

One of the greatest contributions a scholar can make is to provide
context for the events of our world­and everything does reflect the
past and the broader world, whether those involved know it or not.
Someone selling a home-made tie-tied tee-shirt may have thought they
were simply trying to pick up a couple of extra bucks to put some
food in the stomach and provide a ticket for the next show. But they
were involved in a much larger continuum­we all are.

One of the most unfortunate aspects of the ivory tower is that it
concentrates knowledge that should be available to all of us. But
there are cracks in the walls, letting some actually useful knowledge
escape into the broader public discourse. Socrates may have said that
the unexamined life is not worth living, but he might have wanted to
add that the examination means nothing without context. And it is
books like this one that attempt to provide that for all of us, not
simply for fellow academics.

In "Buddhism Through the Eyes of the Dead," Paul Gass writes:

We cling to a sense of self-identity and believe there is a permanent
self or soul that persists not only through this life but through our
many reincarnations. But, ultimately, there is nothing there to cling
to, and this becomes the root of our suffering. We detect this
disjointedness between perception and reality and feel an uneasiness
because things are misaligned. (130)

This is no problem just for philosophers, but for all of us, and its
implications temper our personal belief systems, whatever they may
be. That The Grateful Dead can be used to crystallize discussion
should not be surprising: A band with such a wide range of music and
that cared enough about its lyrics to the extent of having
songwriters as, essentially, part of the band­and sustain success
over decades­could be expected to do no less. Without some sort of
real grounding­and not just in the notes­The Grateful Dead would be
as forgotten as The 1910 Fruitgum Company.

But the Dead are not forgotten, remaining with us through the music,
yes, but also through memories of the experience of listening­live,
and through cassette tapes that often surpassed the band's recorded
albums in quality.

There's something else that makes The Grateful Dead last where The
1910 Fruitgum Company does not: Judgment of quality. This is a
complicated topic for philosophers, as Mary MacLeod shows in "You
Don't Need Space," but significant to the rest of us, too, whether we
want it to be or not:

Unless you're a music critic or an art critic, aesthetic judgments
may not matter much to you, but moral judgments do, so before you
relegate Realism to the trash, you may want to consider recycling.
With music, Subjectivism doesn't leave much of a bad taste in your
mouth, but with ethics, it does. We don't think that action choices
are simply a matter of personal preference. Rather, we think moral
errors are possible. There may be no errors in musical taste, but we
think people can be wrong in their judgments about the moral status
of actions­which kinds are morally right and which kinds wrong. (196-197)

The point is that there is no way of leaving things 'as a matter of
taste' without making implied statements about ethical issues, too.
Even if you posit a dividing line, you are stuck with defending both
the existence of the line and its particular placement.

The book ends, appropriately, with an essay entitled "Death Don't
Have No Mercy: On the Metaphysics of Loss and Why We Should Be
Grateful for Death" by Ian Duckles and Eric M. Rubenstein. It ends with this:

Though it may be mere coincidence, we can nevertheless see an
important respect in which the name "Grateful Dead" makes sense. If
we weren't mortal, if we didn't someday die, we wouldn't have the
freedom and control over our lives and our values that an authentic
confrontation with death provides. Thus, we should be grateful for
death, or, at the very least, grateful for our mortality. Without it,
we wouldn't be what we are, and we wouldn't be capable of doing the
things we can. (238)

There are lessons from any cultural phenomenon as powerful and
long-lasting as The Grateful Dead. There certainly are. All it needs
is the looking to find them. The value of this book is that it opens
the exploration to everyone, not simply to scholars hiding away in
ivied halls. It is a volume that most any Deadhead will want,
something to pull down and browse at three in the morning while "St.
Stephen" plays in the background. But it can be of use to others as
well. Not only can it open up an 'alien' subculture, but can lead to
new personal explorations, Dead or no Dead.
---

About the Author: Aaron Barlow teaches English at New York City
College of Technology (CUNY) in Brooklyn. He is the author of The
Rise of the Blogosphere.

.

At the Yippie Museum, It’s Parrots and Flannel

Greenwich Village

At the Yippie Museum, It's Parrots and Flannel

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/01/20/nyregion/thecity/20yipp.html

By JENNIFER BLEYER
Published: January 20, 2008

ASIDE from the oversize photograph of Jerry Rubin sporting a giant
Afro and the three-foot-high marijuana leaf painted on the wall, the
most noticeable museum-worthy facets of the Yippie Museum and Cafe in
Greenwich Village may be the people hanging out there. On a recent
Thursday evening, there seemed to be a greater concentration of men
and women with long gray hair, flannel shirts and mellow smiles than
one was likely to find anywhere else in Manhattan.

Among the group was Gloria Waslyn, a wide-eyed woman with a royal
blue and gold Amazonian macaw perched on each shoulder.

"This is Merlin and this is Baby," Ms. Waslyn said, introducing the
birds. "They're parrots for peace."

A year after the museum's opening last January in a rundown
three-story building at 9 Bleecker Street near the Bowery, the
institution is still very much a work in progress. Its choppy first
year may be a reflection of the precarious state of the building
itself, for 35 years a crash pad and watering hole for politically
minded allies of the Yippies, the leftist prankster group.

In 2004, after the building was sold and the Yippies faced eviction,
they joined forces with the National AIDS Brigade, a social services
organization. As Yippie Holdings, they bought the building with a
loan from a private lender for $1.4 million and remained on the premises.

Last month, however, when the Yippies failed to file for an extension
on their loan on time, the lender removed their name from the deed to
the building, again placing them in peril of eviction.

For now, the building remains in Yippie hands as the group prepares
to sue the landlord in case negotiations with him go poorly.

Although the building is home to little in the way of museum
exhibits, the plan is to display artifacts like old Yippie newspapers
and protest fliers, and to open what the group is calling the Lenny
Bruce Academy of Comedy in the basement.

A. J. Weberman, a Yippie veteran who helped start the museum, hopes
that interest in the movement will be rekindled by a forthcoming film
by Steven Spielberg, "The Trial of the Chicago Seven." Jerry Rubin
and Abbie Hoffman, the founders of the Youth International Party,
whose members were called Yippies, were later among those charged
with inciting a riot at the 1968 Democratic National Convention.

"It's going to help for sure," Mr. Weberman said of the project.
"It's going to show that we played a part in American history."

On a recent Thursday, a few dozen people gathered in the small
ground-floor museum for a night of folk music and speeches about
issues like water pollution. A man led the crowd in a rousing chant
of "Water not weapons."

For a moment, the place seemed to fulfill its mission of preserving
the Yippie spirit. By the end of the evening, everyone joined in a
lively rendition of "This Land Is Your Land," performed with three
guitars, a banjo, a flute, a clutch of clapping singers and a pair of
squawking parrots.

.

1968 Year of Rage

1968 Year of Rage

http://www.chieftain.com/metro/1200812676/6

POLITICS

While the Vietnam War raged, college campuses revolted and the
international scene was as unstable as usual, American politics and
culture were, not surprisingly, in disarray.

President Lyndon Baines Johnson of Texas, who had succeeded to the
office upon the assassination of President John F. Kennedy in 1963,
was the target of serious protest from students and derision from
fellow politicians on both sides of the aisle. Johnson knew, as
proved by later released telephone and other transcripts, that the
war was lost, yet he poured thousands of American troops into that
Southeast Asian country. Eventually, more than 58,000 Americans died
in Vietnam.

In March, a U.S. senator from Minnesota, Eugene McCarthy, challenged
Johnson in the New Hampshire Democratic primary and finished within 5
percentage points of LBJ. This showing by McCarthy emboldened Sen.
Robert F. Kennedy, D-N.Y. and brother of the slain president, to
enter the race.

That month the casualty count in Vietnam passed that of the Korean War.

On March 31, Johnson stunned the nation by announcing a reduction in
the bombing of North Vietnam and that he was not going to run for
re-election in November, although historians note than LBJ maneuvered
behind the scenes for a possible nomination at a brokered Democratic
convention.

Among antiwar activists, joy greeted the announcement. But just five
days later, chaos reigned in American cities after civil rights
leader Martin Luther King Jr. was gunned down in Memphis, Tenn., by
career criminal James Earl Ray.

According to William Manchester in "The Glory and the Dream," 168
towns and cities across America were in revolt after the King
assassination, with 2,600 fires set, 2,600 arrests and more than
21,000 reported injuries and many deaths.

The country was fighting a cold war with communism, a shooting war in
Vietnam and a cultural and political war at home with itself.

And the situation continued to deteriorate.

In April and May, Kennedy defeated McCarthy in state presidential
primaries, and in mid-May a record thus far for dead soldiers in a
week - 562 (May also saw the highest American death toll in Vietnam
of any month that year, more than 2,000) - further pushed the antiwar
RFK closer to the nomination. Also in May, there were race riots in
Baltimore and Louisville, Ky., and in Paris 20,000 French youth
rioted in the streets in support of socialist causes and U.S.
withdrawal from Vietnam, a former French colony. By June 3, students
demonstrated all over Europe.

On June 5, Kennedy was assassinated by Jordanian Sirhan Bishara
Sirhan after winning the California primary. After Kennedy's coffin
was viewed by thousands in New York City, the funeral train carrying
his body to Washington, D.C., took eight hours because of mourners
turning out along the track. For the third time in fewer than five
years, the killing of a national leader brought grief to America.

Also in June, Supreme Court Chief Justice Earl Warren, a villain to
the American right wing, resigned. Later, a nasty fight ensued in the
Senate over his successor, a tradition that continues to this day.
Johnson that month sent a proposal to Congress suggesting an
amendment to the Constitution to lower the federal voting age to 18.

On July 10, famed pediatrician Dr. Benjamin Spock and Yale University
Chaplain William Sloane Coffin were sentenced to two years in federal
prison for counseling young men to avoid the military draft. All over
the nation young people demonstrated against the war (the difference
between then and now is that there was a mandatory military draft
then, not an all-volunteer military.)

Young people, a good number of them but not nearly as many as is
often presumed (there were 5,500 members of the leftist Students for
a Democratic Society in 1968), took on the mantle of the
"counterculture." If it was traditional, youth often was against it.
Poverty was chic, even to the advantaged sons and daughters of
successful parents. A socialistic mentality, as well as a defiance of
authority, was a credo. The great rock 'n' roll and folk music of the
times was political and defiant in nature and counterculture youth -
hippies - fed off of the vibes. During the year, 100 universities
across America saw demonstrations and takeovers of buildings, the
most famous at Columbia University in New York City. There, students
and agitators took over the president's office, smoking his cigars
and drinking his sherry.

Hippies dressed differently and espoused a separatist, back-to-nature
point of view, which eventually greatly influenced the culture at
large and still does. It was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius,
according to the smash Broadway hit musical "Hair." But, generally,
violence and discord trumped harmony and understanding. The
hallucinogen, LSD, and marijuana were paramount "sacraments" of the movement.

In July, three commercial airliners were hijacked to Cuba and Algeria
(that year, more than 20 airliners were hijacked); thirteen died,
including three police officers, in a July 23 gun battle in the
Cleveland ghetto; the mail-order sale of rifles and ammunition in the
U.S. was banned on July 24; on July 28 riots broke out in Lansing,
Mich.; and on July 29 Pope Paul VI confirmed the Catholic ban on
artificial birth control.

American Catholics largely ignored the pope, and two days after his
ban, it was announced that the U.S. birth rate was 17.9 live births
per 1,000 women, the lowest in the nation's history.

Richard M. Nixon was nominated in Miami to be the Republican
presidential candidate on Aug. 7. A day later there were riots in the
city, because a U.S. black senator, Ed Brooke of Massachusetts, was
refused entry into a party reception because of his skin color. That
week also saw race riots break out in Cincinnati and St. Petersburg, Fla.

On Aug. 21 Warsaw Pact troops, the Soviet Union, really, invaded
Czechoslovakia because the new Czech government had instituted liberal reforms.

Three days later, the French exploded a hydrogen bomb in the Pacific.

An explosion of a different kind occurred on the streets of Chicago,
at the Democratic National Convention on Aug. 28 and 29. Antiwar
college students, members of SDS and radicals called Yippies clashed
with more than 20,000 Chicago police, Illinois National Guardsmen and
others, protesting the nomination of Hubert Humphrey to run against
Nixon in November. The so-called "Happy Warrior," Humphrey ran on a
pro-war platform, and had not won a single primary. Later that year,
a commission called the event a "police riot," concluding that the
response by authorities to the demonstrators was far too harsh.

September was relatively quiet, with just one gun battle between
blacks and a states' rights militia, a student riot in Berkeley, a
deadly battle on the Suez Canal between Israelis and Egyptians, two
jets hijacked and a major student riot in Mexico City that reportedly
left 17 dead, a number many say is very low in relation to the actual
body count.

On Oct. 3, again in Mexico City, 49 were killed and 500 injured in
student clashes with police. That number is also in dispute and the
toll is estimated to be much higher, at least 200-300 dead. "The
Troubles" in Northern Ireland erupted (or were reborn) on Oct. 6,
which led to more than 30 years of sectarian violence between
Protestants and Catholics and about 3,500 people dead.

Thirty-four thousand people died in the United States in 1968, not
from political violence, Vietnam or poverty, but from the Hong Kong
flu, Influenza A (H3N2). Fifty million Americans were infected with
the flu that year and in early 1969.

On Nov. 5, Nixon and his running mate, Maryland Gov. Spiro T. Agnew,
were elected with just 43 percent of the popular vote. Both would
later resign in disgrace.

More than half of New York City's meter collectors were arrested on
Dec. 6 for theft of more than $5 million over four years.

On Dec. 24, Apollo 8 circled the moon, giving earthlings their first
look at the satellite's dark side and a photograph of the Earth
rising over the moon's horizon. The astronauts read to the people of
the world from the biblical book of Genesis. It may have seemed like
the first peaceful moment of the year.

MOVIES

Not many will recall it and no film historian will praise it, but a
lurid little film called "Wild in the Streets" perhaps best
exemplified 1968 as well as many of the better flicks that moviegoers
attended that year.

The movie was centered on 22-year-old Max Frost, played by
Christopher Jones (so subsequently unsuccessful that the Independent
Movie Data Base doesn't even have a photo of him), who sweeps into
the White House on the wave of - what else? - a youth revolution in America.

In the movie, youth prevails and everyone over 30 is sent to the
old-folks camps, where they were forced to ingest LSD. Surprisingly,
established actors Shelly Winters, Hal Holbrook and Ed Begley Sr.
also starred in this nutty but popular movie. Future superstar
Richard Pryor played Stanley X.

The Academy Award winner was "Oliver!" It was a musical twist on
Charles Dickens' "Oliver Twist." But the real movie of the year was <