“The second day of July, 1776, will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.”

John Adams, signer of the Declaration of Independence and, later, second president of the United States, was, obviously, off by a couple of days. Or, are we, when we celebrate July 4^th as Independence Day? 

It was June 7, 1776 when Richard Henry Lee of Virginia, proposed to the Continental Congress a resolution calling for independence of the 13 American colonies from Britain. (The notion was not new; the “Continental Army” and British troops had been shooting at each other for over a year.) Claiming they weren’t authorized to vote on independence, delegates from Maryland, New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania and Delaware succeeded in getting a vote postponed for three weeks.

 

There were still quite a few Colonial leaders who hoped for a compromise with the Crown. Those hopes were drowned, though, in a rising tide of popular support for separation from England. A pamphlet called Common Sense published earlier in the year played a certain, pre-Twitter role. By a recently arrived Englishman, Tom Paine, it was short – about fifty pages – and totally disrespectful of both the concept and personage of monarchy, and equally totally supportive of the rule of the people in the form of a democratic republic. Our first bestseller; it sold over 100,000 copies in three months, about 500,000 in a year. If you were a literate colonial then, there was a nearly fifty percent chance you owned a copy of Common Sense. 

 

Braced by the growing pro-independence forces back home, Maryland, New Jersey, Pennsylvania and Delaware’s representatives came back to the congress in Philadelphia to vote for independence. And did, along with all the other delegates – except New York’s; he still hadn’t gotten “authorized.” So, by a vote of 12 to 0, with one abstention, the Continental Congress voted:

 

“That these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States, that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved.”

 

That was July 2^nd, 1776.

Back on June 11th a Committee of Five had been appointed to draft a formal declaration of independence.  It was July 4^th when Thomas Jefferson – he apparently had “drawn the short straw” and had to do the actual writing – brought it to the congress, which approved it. Though eloquent, the famous declaration is a statement “after the fact.”

The first public reading – as far as anyone can tell – of the declaration was to detachments of the Continental Army in New York City on July 9^th, the same day the city’s assembly endorsed independence. 

The signing of the document took place on August 2^nd. It had taken till then for the congress to get the “engrossed copy,” the formal and stylized (and now, every faded) version with which we’re all familiar. Fifty delegates signed then, and six more over the next few months. The story that John Hancock’s signature is so large because he wanted King George to be able to read it without his spectacles has no basis in fact. The wealthy Boston merchant and smuggler was the first to sign and had a lot of blank space at his disposal.

And the famous “quote” of Benjamin Franklin’s, that the signers “must, indeed hang together, or most assuredly we shall all hang separately,” cannot be traced back any further than 1856.

The Fourth of July is too well-enshrined for the Second to ever, however chronologically correct, supplant it as the “day of deliverance.” And what’s history without a myth or two to “flesh it out?” These quibbles don’t detract from the historical significance of Jefferson’s document and of the movement that inspired – and was inspired by – it.

A real social, economic, political revolution took place. The new republic became a beacon to revolutionaries in Europe. In 1945, Ho Chi Minh opened his declaration of Vietnam’s independence quoting the first two sentences of ours (c’mon, you know: “All….happiness.”). But by then, as Ho was to find out, this country had turned into its opposite.

The real mistake we make regarding our history is thinking that a straight line connects us to 1776. That revolutionary continuity was broken long ago. As it’s been said: “The past is like a foreign country; they do things differently there.”     

This is a truly interesting - and fun - article concerned with the problems associated with the institution of marriage.  The author actually uses the term "serial monogamy," which I invented over a year ago, in a blog about ol' what's-her-name.  OK, I remember, it was Janet (that was kind of cheap, wasn't it?)  Anyway, check it out:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/31452178/ns/today_relationships//

If Bristol and Willow Palin were my daughters, I’d probably be in jail – for kicking David Letterman’s ass up and down Times Square. I don’t care if their mother’s a conservative Republican and he’s a liberal Democrat. His so-called jokes were out of line, firstly as an invasion of privacy (Sarah Palin’s a public figure, her kids aren’t), secondly as an expression of smugly hypocritical middle-class moralizing.

 

What is conveyed by a joke about an unmarried teenager having been “knocked up?”  I hear “family values.” And I thought that was a “conservative” rallying cry. Maybe Letterman is for easy access to birth control, so the youngsters can “plan” their futures. That sounds like “social engineering.” In either case middle-class prejudice oozes.

 

When Hillary Clinton was a presidential candidate, and earlier, as “first lady,” she was a lightning rod for rightwing, sexist attacks, often disguised as “jokes.” It was an attempt to stir up anti-woman prejudice under cover of “political debate.” It stunk then, and it stinks now.

 

Letterman has described Sarah Palin’s “look” as that of a “slutty flight attendant” and compared her to “the flight attendant who won’t give you a second can of Pepsi.” She’s like “the waitress at the coffee shop who draws a smiley face on your check. Have a nice day.” “She looks like the lady at the bakery who yells out: 44, 44, 45!”

 

The ultimate insult the millionaire liberal Letterman can hurl at Palin is to compare her to a worker. 

 

This type of “humor” reinforces stereotypes of women (and girls) as weak and stupid (and “slutty”), and unequal with men. The liberal Democratic elite, of course, includes many “accomplished,” professional women – Michelle Obama, for example. They have been silent on this issue. Rest assured, if anything remotely like this were said in a congressional hearing on the appointment of one of their own to a cabinet job, whoever uttered the offense would be excoriated.

 

What unites conservatives and liberals is disdain for the workingclass, including its women. As a communist, I reject any demeaning of the female sex. I reject any attempt to impose middle-class “morality” or social engineering on a woman’s decision whether, or when, to have a baby. And if you talk bad about my kids, I’ll punch you in the nose.

 

Try me.       

 

     

Revolutionary Road, which I watched last night, is an excellent  – and disturbing – movie.   It opens with Frank and April meeting in the late 1940s. She wants to act, he wants to…well, he’s not sure. They are both determined not to be ordinary. The film then cuts to a jarringly different time seven years later. Frank and April have settled into a prosperously suburban, and very ordinary, rut. They hate it, and take their frustrations out on each other. She comes up with a plan to escape to Paris. She will even support him there while he figures out what he wants to do. Frank says no, then yes, but doesn’t really mean it and everything then goes to an unhappy hell.

 

It’s all done very well – the acting, dialogue, directing. What amazed me was how the film managed to put everything in the social context of the times. Young April and Frank’s non-conformism would not have been out of place in the late ‘40s. Millions of demobilized GIs came home, setting off more than just a “baby boom.” They brought home Django Reinhardt records. They went to college – the GI Bill gave a free college education to the sons of parents who had been lucky to see the inside of a high school for a year or two. 

 

Those who went into the factories joined the unions and reinspired the radicalism of the ‘30s – 1946 and ’47 saw the biggest strike wave in US history. The Communist, Socialist and Socialist Workers Parties all experienced their biggest growth at the same time.

 

There was new ground being broken in the arts. Just in literature, this was the formative period for writers like Norman Mailer, Joseph Heller, Kurt Vonnegut, Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams. Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs and Jack Kerouac were getting acquainted. 

 

The remains of that time lay not far under the surface of April and Frank’s discontent in the mid-‘50s. The Cold War and anti-communist witchhunt of those days is never mentioned in the movie but the accompanying pall of conformity the came down over all aspects of life in this country shows in the couple’s frustrated existence. April is the caged bird Betty Friedan wrote of a few years later in The Feminine Mystique. Frank is the man who will never be free until women are too.

 

I should emphasize that these are my conclusions from watching the movie. Absolutely nothing is said in it about these “deeper issues.” That’s why I think it’s such a good movie. There is no attempt to “backwrite” a feminist consciousness into the story. When April and Frank tell some friends about their Paris plan, and a guy says, incredulously: “and let her support you?” all Frank can do is mutter an embarrassed “yeah.” It was a crazy idea. And he had no smart-aleck, politically correct answer.

 

In terms of  relationships, as portrayed in Revolutionary Road, we have made progress, though. Women are financially a lot more independent now than then – which is one reason why there are more divorces now: that trap has been sprung. Emotionally, however, we may be asking for trouble. 

 

Nowadays, in a marriage, or a “committed relationship,” you’re supposed to be “everything” to your partner: emotionally, sexually, intellectually, recreationally. And share housekeeping and child-rearing tasks, as well. It’s a tall order. In some respects, the old way was easier, if you accepted the social premises, along with their restrictions.

 

Freedom is complicated. 

It all reminded me of something from The Great Gatsby:
 

 

"Long after midnight the towers and spires of Princeton were visible, with here and there a late-burning light and suddenly out of the clear darkness the sound of bells. As an endless dream it went on; the spirit of the past brooding over a new generation, the chosen youth from the muddled, unchastened world, still fed romantically on the mistakes and half-forgotten dreams of dead statesmen and poets. Here was a new generation, shouting the old cries, learning the old creeds, through a revery of long days and nights; destined finally to go out into that dirty gray turmoil to follow love and pride; a new generation dedicated more than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success; grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken...."

Land of the Free

 

The United States, with a population of 300 million, accounts for five percent of the world’s people, yet holds 25% of the world’s prisoners. It even beats China, with its population of 1.3 billion, in absolute numbers.

 

Per capita, according to a study released last year, nearly one in 100 adults in the US are behind bars – 750 per 100,000. China’s not even Number Two.   That would be Russia at 628. By contrast, England is 143 per 100,000; Canada 108; France 91; Germany 88; and Japan 63. 
  

 

Things are Worse than You Think

When you read news like how the Consumer Price Index for May rose by 1.8 percent, bear in mind that the feds have their own way of calculating things. Back in the late ‘70s – which was also a time of severe economic crisis (we had high unemployment and high inflation at the same time – a capitalist first! – they called it “stagflation”) – it was felt that “unusual” price fluctuations were distorting the CPI and government monetary policy.

 

So they came up with a calculation for “core inflation,” a figure that did not include “volatile” factors such as energy or food costs.

 

Propaganda value aside, there was a dollar-and-cents reason for the change. At the time, many unions had cost-of-living increases, pegged to the CPI, in their contracts with employers. The change of formula cost workers at the time millions of dollars that were rightfully theirs. 

 

The mathematical sleight-of-hand now robs recipients of Social Security, health, workers compensation and other federal benefits of their true cost-of-living increases.  

President Barak Obama doesn’t talk like his predecessor. Can’t you just hear ol’ “Dubya” sounding off right now about the “evil” regime in Teheran, its “hatred of freedom,” his undying support all “those folks” over there who want “democracy.”

 

Obama expresses his “concern” for democratic election procedures and hopes for an end to violence. The difference is purely verbal. The US is not in a position to “take on” Iran, regardless of who occupies the White House.   

 

The US problem in Iran, since the Shah was run out thirty years ago, is a serious lack of contacts “in country.”  The pro-US elements that didn’t follow him into exile were quickly “marginalized,” especially after Jimmy Carter’s abortive hostage-rescue attempt in early 1980. The state bureaucracy, the armed forces and police were thoroughly purged of pro-US elements.

 

Unfortunately for the Iranian people, that purge –  progressive from the point of view of national self-determination – was accomplished by a regime that had hijacked the leadership of the revolution. When the country’s social, economic and political contradictions exploded into the mass protests of early 1979 that brought down the Shah’s savage regime, the people had no political party, no program for what to do next. (The reason for that has to do with the role of the Iranian Communist Party during the days of the Mossadegh government that overthrew the Shah in 1953, but that’s another story.)

 

The mullahs moved into the vacuum. The long-oppressed workers and peasants of Iran who overthrew the tyrant were out-maneuvered by the capitalists and landlords who thought too much Iranian oil wealth was being siphoned off to the US. Many Iranians, most of them good Muslims, had always turned to the mosque as the only place were dissenting voices could be heard, making it easier to restrain the revolution under a religious guise.

 

It’s hard to tell what’s really going on in Iran. Clearly, large numbers of people are involved. The leaders, though, like Mousavi, are part of the “Islamic Elite.” There are, obviously, serious differences in Iranian ruling circles about how to respond to US pressure on the nuclear issue.

 

The question is, are the opposing factions using the masses as pawns in their internal power struggle, or are the Iranian masses taking advantage of a fight among their rulers to change how their society is to be run? Time will tell. 

 

And now, back to Barak Obama. As the leader of the most powerful capitalist country on earth, he is NOT for the latter. He’s looking for someone, anyone, in the Islamic Republic to help him bring the country back into Washington’s orbit. He speaks softly, but he does carry the famous big stick; unlike George W. Bush he just doesn’t talk about it.

 

  

Well, I have not clarified the situation with my beautiful coworker. We’ve talked, briefly, a couple of times this week but nothing significant came up. And I don’t see me actually posing the issue. Aside from embarrassing the hell out of myself (I really could be misreading those “signals”), I can’t recall a single one of those “let’s get things straight” conversations – and I’ve been in a few – leading to anything good.

 

Like hello helloo said in her reply to my earlier post, “You might have to redefine as things go along.” Story of my life! Of course, things always got redefined out of existence. That’s not a complaint, just a statement of fact.

 

Regardless, I have something real – for now – happening. After a two-week disappearance, Cody called and asked me if I wanted to help her celebrate her birthday. We went to my favorite Mexican restaurant (El Ranchito in Oak Cliff).

 

She’s 23 now. Her birthday was a couple of days before and she talked a little about the party – she didn’t invite me, she said, because I had said I didn’t like hanging with her friends. Cody assumes that’s because of the dope. That’s part of it, the other part is that her male friends have lots of hair and muscles, and her female friends…well, never mind. 

 

I was primed to tell her that this crazy thing had to end. I even shelled out 40 bucks for two songs by the Mariachis, Como Amigos and La Media Vuelta: beautiful breaking-up songs. She doesn’t understand Spanish, the numbers were for me, to encourage me to be the wise one, to help me say goodbye. 

 

Forty dollars down the drain. Then later, at her place, she told me I was her “security blanket.” It was one of those quiet moments; I just said “umhuh.” 

 

But today: Security Blanket?! What the hell does that mean? No, don’t tell me. I should ask Cody. But I won’t; just like I won’t ask Lisa what she wants. I’ll just wait and see what they do. And what I do. That’s how I’ve always done it.  And I'll be retired and living in Nicaragua two years from now (at the most), so, what are the prospects? 

Then again, Lisa is from Honduras.

A month or so ago, I posted something about the birthday of a coworker - a very nice, very attractive coworker.  My intention had been some harmless flirting - I told her I wanted to give her a kiss for her birthday, expecting an embarrassed giggle - and then hand her a Hershey's Kiss.  And as I handed her the foil-wrapped Kiss, she popped out of her chair, smiling, and giving me the ol' nose tilt.

Caught totally off guard (I mean totally) I gave her what I am sure was a very blank look while the synapses in my brain sorted themselves out (long suppressed desire had crossed paths of unexpected result of current action, causing a short circuit leading to a temporary halt of all brain activity).  I think she experienced something similar.  We ended up in an awkward (for me, at least) hug.

Since then, I've played it cool.  So has she.  At least until yesterday.  First a little background is necessary.  I was on vacation all of last week.  This past Monday, I came back to work and found that Lisa now occupied the cubicle on the other side of mine.  This was not, I learned due to her wishes - several people had been moved, simply the result of another one of the reshufflings management there engages in periodically (they think seating arrangements affect "productivity."  Don't ask why.  They don't know and neither do I.  It's just something we have to put up with there).  

Anyway, yesterday morning we had all that rain.  I got in to work a little bit ahead of it, Lisa didn't.  She was late, and wet.  She was telling me about the drive in, the detours and delays, and I asked, "where do you live?"  She told me and asked me where I lived.  "You know where I live," I said.

And then the look came across her face.  Nine or ten years ago, she and her first husband and their toddler-aged kid lived in the same apartment complex I still live in.  "Oh, right," she said.

Then she asked what I paid for rent.  I told her, and asked if they (she's married remember, and now with two kids) were looking for a place. 

Lisa said that "maybe" SHE was.  

"Things aren't going good," she said.  

After another synaptical short circuit - this one was shorter, maybe I'm getting better at this - I recalled a flyer put out by my apartment manager.  "Hey," I said, "if I refer you, and you move in, I get $200.  I'll split it with you."  I also said "we could carpool."

I don't know what she said back; my brain's audio circuits were down, jammed probably, by video signals of what else we could do.  (Have I mentioned that this woman is HOT?  On a scale of 1 to 10, I'm thinking 11.5.)  And then we had to start working.  Today, we talked a little in the morning but I spent most of the day on union business.  

What we have here is (as was famously said before in a very different context) a failure to communicate.  Come Monday, I intend to establish a clear line of communication.  I mean I'm going to ask her what she wants from me, with me - if anything.  I have a whole weekend to figure out how to do it.  

  

From the book by Fidel (and Ignacio Ramonet), My Life, A Spoken Autobiography, in response to the question, “how do you think history will judge you?”

 

“That’s something it’s not worth worrying about. You know why? Because this mankind has made so many mistakes, there’ve been so many stupidities, that if it manages to survive – which is yet to be seen – if it manages to survive, in 100 years people will look at us as tribes of barbarians and uncivilized cavemen who aren’t worth remembering. 

“…I’m more interested in the prestige a country might have for its struggle, its battles, but not necessarily linked to me.

“”…Napoleon is known more for the cognac that bears his name than for all the things done by the real general and emperor…. So I say, why worry?”

June 6^th has come and gone with its usual spate of commemorative articles about the famous Allied invasion of Normandy in 1944. As one article I read put it, the landings began “the liberation of Europe” from Nazi rule. Actually, D-Day was – in military terms – little more than a diversionary action and the Allied forces involved were Johnnies-come-lately to the fight to free the continent

 

That fight had started nearly two years before when the German High Command, seeing its initially successful invasion of the USSR stalled outside of Leningrad and Moscow, turned its attention to Stalingrad. Straddling the Volga River, Stalingrad was a major industrial center about 500 miles south of Moscow, where ethnic Russians mixed with Tatars, Kalmuks and Cossacks. After taking the city, the Germans planned on turning most of their forces south into the Caucasus region in order to cut off the Soviets’ supply of oil.  

 

Aware of the stakes (and conscious of the propaganda value to the Nazis of taking a city named for their “Great Leader”) the Soviets pulled out all the stops. Every possible resource – human or material – was put to the task of stopping the German advance. The battle of Stalingrad was in fact a series of battles between July, 1942 and February, 1943.

 

Every form of combat that can take place on land was engaged in there and then: motorized infantry assaults, massed tank attacks, aerial bombardment, artillery shelling and mortar attacks, house-to-house fighting, hand-to-hand combat – and snipers on both sides had a field day.  After nearly seven months, the Germans started moving backwards – for the first time since launching their invasion in June, 1941.  

 

At the same time, the Red Army started moving forward.  Bulgaria, Romania, Austria, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Poland: it was only when it appeared that the Soviets just might take Berlin, that planning for D-Day started. 

 

Just for purposes of comparison, it took nearly seven months to stop the Germans at Stalingrad, less than three weeks to establish a secure beachhead at Normandy. The Red Army suffered over a million casualties; about 500,000 killed and over 600,000 wounded.  German casualties numbered over 850,000. 

 

Allied forces at Normandy didn’t number more than 160,000, facing fewer than 100,000 Germans. About 4,400 Allied soldiers died, 2500 of them from the US.    

 

By the way, over 40,000 Soviet civilians died in Stalingrad and its suburbs during a single week of aerial bombardment by the Germans. The total number of civilians killed after that in the city or in the surrounding area is unknown.  Speaking of civilian deaths, the Soviet Union suffered over 11,000,000 during WWII. Its military losses were actually a little less, about 10,500,000. And that’s not to speak of the wounded, both physically and otherwise. And those are conservative estimates; some historians say total deaths numbered around 29,000,000.

 

So, who should we really be thanking for winning World War II?

 

(A few years ago, I had the pleasure, and honor, of meeting someone who had lived through the siege of Leningrad. I told her it was people like her who saved the world from the Nazis. She seemed reserved about it – as heroes often are. If you know her, tell her I hope she’s doing well.)

 

About two weeks ago I posted some thoughts relating to the 40^th anniversary of the death of my father. I got an email response from an old friend (to that and another post about North Korea). What follows is my reconstruction of our communications.

 

While running errands, I drove past the old gas station this morning.  It's hard to believe it was 40 years ago and that we’re older than your Dad was at the time.  It's not unreasonable to think that he could still be alive today, age 86.

 

- That’s hard for me to visualize. His image, for me, is frozen in that time. Funny how “old” he seemed to me at the time. That’s a 17-year old perspective for you. (Jesus! Brendan must think I’m really ancient!)

 

I checked my files and found some news clippings. Your father was killed on Friday, May 23.  My recollection, by the way, is that the Sentinel account of the accident appeared on the front page of the Saturday edition. What a different era!

 

- Slow news day, I guess. May 23?! Oh well, never was much good at anniversaries. Is this other clipping from the Journal? I never knew it ran anything on this; and that was the paper we subscribed to at home!

 

I thought you'd instantly recognize the headline fonts, but I guess that's something so geeky that it only means something to me. I can't remember the actual names of the headline fonts in use 40 years ago, but the body type is Bedford. Well, I guess that's obvious! The sans-serif hed is from the Sentinel and the serif is from the Journal.

 

- Oh, I (geekily) recognize them alright. It’s just a surprise seeing the Journal article. Nick recognized the Sentinel piece. He says his Aunt Pat showed it to him a couple of years ago. I knew it was still around, somewhere. 

 

My recollection is that my father and I had just picked up our AMC Javelin a day or two earlier and I had stopped by at your house early that Friday evening to see if you wanted to help me break in the new car.  I rang your side doorbell and I was met at the door by your teary-eyed sister.  She broke the news and I felt so awkward and so out of place that I just wanted to flee.

 

- Hey, I felt the same way. I kind of, dimly, recall you being there that night. There were a lot of people. I was in a fog. I was probably in shock, traumatized, as they say now. I didn’t like all the attention. The wake, the funeral, everything seemed like a big imposition. I just wanted to be left alone.

 

I'm sure I was so self-absorbed that I didn't fully appreciate how devastating this must have been.

 

- Look, you – and the other guys – being “self-absorbed” was the best thing for me. Everything else in my life had changed, but we kept hanging out together the same way we always had. That was my “toehold on reality.” Speaking of reality, that Sentinel article is a vast departure from it. It definitely illustrates what a journalism professor I once had said. He said he’d never been involved in any public event, the news coverage of which did not include at least one error. The thing in Dad's pocket was the shaft - about the size of a pen - from the motor of our washing machine, which had broken down.  Dad brought the shaft to the station so he could use the electric grinder to smooth out rough spots on it caused by the breakdown.  Prying tool?  Homemade?

 

- My mother was very upset by the account because she had been bugging him to fix the damned thing for a couple of days.  According to the undertaker (there was no autopsy), his rib cage had been crushed, mangling his heart and lungs, and that relieved her sense of guilt. 

 

- The car was not rolling backwards; it had been facing out towards the street when it started to roll.  He "stumbled over a concrete island containing the gas pumps"?   "...rolled up the island and then dropped back down, pinning Mauer under it"?  First of all, the pump island was at least two feet tall (hard to stumble over).  "...running backward..."?  If he was, he managed to turn himself around in the second or two it took for me to turn around and look at the scene. 

 

It was obvious what had happened.  The car was about to run into the gas pumps.  Dad was running along side the car, trying to reach in and steer it away from the pumps.  He almost made it.  The car didn't hit the pumps but sideswiped the concrete abutment protecting them.  He slipped and was pinned between the car door and the rocker panel.

 

"...rolled up the island and then dropped back down, pinning Mauer under it"?  Huh?

 

- Then we have the "witnesses."  There were only two: the customer I was attending to, and the nurse in the VW.  And they were both gone in a flash.  Remember, this was out in the suburbs before things were very built up.  At this intersection there was the Briggs & Stratton factory, two other gas stations, and us.  We had a liquor store on one side and a small office building behind us.  Eventually, we attracted a little crowd of onlookers, drawn by the cops and the ambulance.  They just stood there, watching. 

 

I've had the same experience as your journalism professor and repeatedly have commented on the experience of attending a news event and then always reading at least minor mistakes in the published account.  The worst was back when Katie G. was playing basketball for DSHA.  The idiot reporter who wrote about a DSHA game packed four different mistakes into one paragraph about Katie.  Soon after I was hired at the Sentinel, there was a shootout involving rival motorcycle gangs at a West Milwaukee bar where many Sentinel people had gone to after a staff Christmas party.  One biker was killed and several were injured, including a couple of Sentinel people.  I remember how frustrated the cops were with the conflicting accounts of the shooting provided by the Sentinel's so-called professionals.

 

- Kind of reminds me about my blog about North Korea and piracy.

 

Right. The facts seem to conflict with your blog account of the timing of South Korea's decision to join the Proliferation Security Initiative.

 

- Yeah, yeah. Look, one of the problems of blogging is not having a copy editor.  I'd been reading about the escalation of belligerent rhetoric after the nuclear test, came across a reference to the PSI, and put 1 and 1 together - and came up with 3!  I have no excuse, but (to paraphrase Tom Waits) my computer had been drinking, not me.  I still think my parallel piracies proposition is perfectly brilliant.

 

 

Yes, you're brilliant. But everyone needs a second set of eyes.  Sometimes, a third. I worry that expectations might be higher for me because I supposedly am an editor (although I haven't actually written or edited for more than 15 years).

 

- Well, you DO know how to write, though, something which seems to be a disappearing art.

 

 

It seems that I've been living in the late 1960s this week in remembering your father's death and in handling an obituary last week for one of the Milwaukee 14.  That prompted me to look at the YouTube video of the draft records being burned. I see in the background the signs for the Democratic campaign headquarters at Plankinton and Wells. I spent a little time there that summer, working for Gaylord Nelson and Bronson La Follette (I was more interested in politics than supportive of either candidate) and I remember you and I handing out literature on the steps of the auditorium one Sunday afternoon.

 

- Yes, you pulled me into that. I thought the campaign headquarters was exciting – people rushing about, phones ringing. You also had that newsletter for the political science club at school, and I remember being assigned to write something about Eugene McCarthy, which helped me focus on the growing antiwar movement.

 

 

That period -- especially the years 1968 and 1969 -- was so breathtaking.  Your father died, man landed on the moon, Teddy Kennedy killed Mary Jo Whatshername, Charles Manson went on a rampage and tens of thousands of hippies flocked to Woodstock.   It all seems so important that I'd like to infuse these events with some great meaning. As I reflect, however, all I can conclude is that, hmmm, that sure was a newsy time.  Pretty profound, eh?

 

- Hey, don’t forget the Democratic Convention in Chicago, the demonstration at the Pentagon, the riots after MLK was killed, the Moratorium. It was newsy because people were involved, active, doing stuff. These days, it’s all talk, no action.  I kind of miss it.

 

 

The clippings:
 

C:\Documents and Settings\Tom\My Documents\Mauer[1].jpg

Just before he took ill and retired, Fidel Castro finished over a hundred hours of interviews with Ignacio Ramonet, a Spanish-French journalist.  The result, My Life, a Spoken Autobiography, is interesting for a lot of different reasons but something that struck me was the nature and tone of these comments on Ernesto Che Guevara.

"Although I'd been aware of the danger he was in, the risks he was running for months, and the extremely difficult conditions he was facing, his death to me was incredible, something, I don't know, that you can't easily accept, or get used to.  Time passes and you still sometimes dream of the companero who died, and you see him alive, and you talk to him and then you waken to reality again."

  

Brendan's at the Junior Prom.  I wish I'd had a chance to see him in his tux; maybe there will be pictures.  What's funny is he's not with his "girlfriend," but another girl who had asked him several months ago, when he was "unattached."  He says his girlfriend "understands."  We'll see.

Takes me back to my prom night forty years ago.  I went to an all-boy Catholic high school (and yes, well, maybe that helps explain some of my weirdness).  It was my junior year but I had no date for our prom.  I was girl-shy.  I had not yet even asked a girl out on a date.  A girl from the nearby all-girl Catholic high school asked me to her prom.

It was all set up by her mother and mine.  They were cousins.  My mother's cousin Bess, who lived a few blocks away, had been widowed and then married a guy with two kids, one of whom was Kathy.  She was my age, and shy also, and she really wanted to go to the prom.  Her mother had a brilliant idea - at least my mother thought it was.

So one evening, we're all in the kitchen.  My dad got home from the gas station late and always ate supper after us, and my sister and brother and I would sit at the table and talk with him.  Mom would be doing something at the stove or sink.  This evening, the phone on the wall rang (yes, kids, we had one phone in the house, and it was stuck on the kitchen wall, the receiver on a cord five feet long).  Mom was unusually quick in answering.  "Oh yes, he's right here."

She pulled me from my seat at the table while thrusting the receiver at me. "It's Kathy," she said, making a very poor attempt at looking surprised.  The conversation went something like this:  "Do you want to go to the prom with me?"

"Yeah, sure."

Okay, bye."

"Bye."

I don't remember how the details got worked out but when prom night came I was ready, in my tux, with a corsage for Kathy.  I drove to her house in my parents' '68 Dodge Polara - one of those gas-guzzling behemoths of the day - and her mother took pictures of us.  Funny thing though, we were standing there as Bess lifted the camera to her eye.  "Uh, mom?" Kathy said.

"Yes?"

"You have the camera backwards."

And of course we had to stop back at my house so my mom could take pictures.  And she did the same thing!  Seems our mothers were much more nervous than we were.  Kathy and I had a great time.  Any awkwardness was gone quickly - after all, we did know each other.  We weren't really into each other romantically but we did a little necking - the situation called for it - and I got her garter.  I'm grateful to her mom and mine for what they did because it led to something I would not have otherwise experienced.  

Brendan went to his prom in a "Ford Excursion Limousine" with several other couples.  They're all going to spend the night in the hotel in Fort Worth where the prom's being held.  He'll be okay.  He still has two of the three condoms I gave him a while back.  His mother plans to give him a drug/alcohol test tomorrow (yeah, I warned him, after all, what are fathers for?)  It would be easy to lapse into cliches about how innocent we used to be but I didn't feel innocent then.  I felt pretty much cutting edge.

We didn't have limousine services then - at least not for high school proms.  And when you're in a tux and your date in a gown, a big, shiny four-door sedan was the indicated vehicle, especially when she's snuggled up next to you on that wide bench seat (bucket seats were for cars like Mustangs).  A pint bottle of Bacardi 180 was passed around, surrepticiously, at the prom and I spiked my Coke with it.  A bunch of us met at a 24-hour hamburger joint afterwards and I didn't get home till 4:00 am.  And despite my shyness, I'd made it to the prom.    

I hope Brendan has as good a time.      
   

 

One of the factors contributing to north Korea's resumption of nuclear weapons testing seems to have been south Korea's recent opting in on the "Proliferation Security Initiative."  This "Initiative," sponsored by the US, somehow gives it and its allies the right to interdict on the high seas ships suspected of transporting nuclear weapons or materials intended for their manufacture.
Somalis who "interdict" oil tankers and merchant ships are pirates.  The age-old law of the sea - guaranteeing free passage to all vessels outside territorial waters - no longer applies, however, to the enforcers of the imperial monopoly on nuclear arms. 

by Laurie Guevara-Stone / March 19th 2009

Cuba: Viva la Revolucion Energetica

What nation is the most sustainable in the world? If you guessed Sweden or Denmark, you would be wrong. Instead, the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) has declared Cuba as the only country on the planet that is approaching sustainable development. Key to this designation is the island's Revolución Energética, an energy conservation effort launched only two years ago.

The WWF's Living Planet Report 2006 assesses sustainable development using the United Nations Development Programme's (UNDP) Human Development Index (HDI) and the ecological footprint. The index is calculated using life expectancy, literacy and education, and per capita GDP.

The UNDP considers an HDI value of more than 0.8 to be high human development. According to the ecological footprint, a measure of human demand on the biosphere, 1.8 global hectares per person or less denotes sustainability. The only country in the world that meets both of the above criteria is Cuba.

From blackouts to efficiency

Just a few years ago, Cuba's energy situation was bleak. This communist nation of 11 million people had 11 large, inefficient thermoelectric plants that functioned less than half of the time. There were frequent blackouts and high transmission line losses. Adding to the crisis, most Cubans had inefficient appliances, 75% of the population cooked with kerosene and residential electrical rates did not encourage conservation.In 2004, back-to-back hurricanes slammed into Cuba, leaving a million people without electr icity for 10 days.

In the face of an antiquated system, violent storms, peak oil and climate change, Cubans realized that they had to make energy a priority. Thus, in 2006, they embarked on their Revolución Energética.Only two years later, the country consumes 34% less kerosene, 37% less LPG (liquefied petroleum gas) and 80% less gasoline. Cuba's per capita energy consumption is one-eighth that in the US, while Cubans' access to health services, education levels and life expectancy rival those of their North American neighbors.

Solar panels on the roof of a Cuban school

Prior to the 1959 Cuban revolution, only about half of the country's population had electricity. By 1989, that number had risen to 95%. After 1991, however, food, gas and oil all became scarce as a result of the collapse of the Soviet Union and the US economic blockade. This time came to be known as the "Special Period" because Cubans had to learn how to produce more of their food, medicines and energy locally and sustainably.

In the mid-1990s, Cuba embarked on a drive to save energy and use more renewables. All rural schools, health clinics and social centers not previously connected to the grid were supplied with solar energy, making lights, computers and educational television programs accessible to all students. This program garnered Cuba the Global 500 award from the United Nations in 2001.

However, despite 10 years of revolutionary effort, Cuba still had a crisis on its hands. So in 2006, it took some drastic steps. Cuba's energy revolution has five main aspects: energy efficiency and conservation, increasing the availability and reliability of the national grid, incorporating more renewable energy technologies into its energy portfolio, increasing the exploration and production of local oil and gas, and international cooperation.

In an address to the Cuban electrical utility in 2006, then-president Fidel Castro said, "We are not waiting for fuel to fall from the sky, because we have discovered, fortunately, something muchmore important: energy conservation, which is like finding a great oil deposit."

To decrease energy demand, Cuba began changing over to more efficient appliances. In two years, residents have replaced almost two million refrigerators, over one million fans, 182,000 air conditioners and 260,000 water pumps.. Compact fluorescent light bulbs were handed out for free and within six months, over nine million - or almost 100% - of the island's incandescent bulbs had been replaced. At the same time, Cubans were discouraged from cooking with kerosene. Families have consequently purchased almost 3.5 million rice cookers and over three million pressure cookers.

To encourage conservation, Cuba introduced a new residential electrical tariff. People consuming less than 100 kWh per month pay 0.09 pesos per kWh (a fraction of a cent). For every increase of 50 kWh per month the rate rises steeply. Consumers using over 300 kWh per month pay 1.30 pesos per kWh.

Cuba's national energy program implemented in 1997, teaches Cubans about energy-saving measures and renewable energy. "If we begin to insist on at the preschool age, we are creating a conduct for life," explains Teresa Palenzuela, a specialist with Cuba's energy-saving program.

The program has held energy festivals for the past three years, educating thousands about efficiency and conservation. The festivals target students, who express energy conservation through songs, poetry and theatre. In each Cuban school, the children with the best energy efficiency projects go on to the festival at the municipal level. The best of them then move on to a provincial event and from there to the national stage. The public lines up for blocks to attend the national festival. "These contests are important to the entire country; they motivate children, students and the general population to save energy in all their actions," says 15-year-old Liliana Rodríguez Peña.

Social workers power the revolution

To carry out its ambitious energy conservation plan, Cuba relies on its small army of trabajadores sociales or social workers. Cuba's social workers are made up of youth who have the task of bringing social justice to the island in many different spheres, including labor, education, culture, sports and the environment ..As well as assisting people with disabilities, the elderly and those convicted of crimes, the social workers help carry out the Energy Revolution.

Since 2006, 13,000 social workers have visited homes, businesses and factories around the island, replacing light bulbs, teaching people how to use their new electric cooking appliances and spreading information on saving energy. The social workers also teamed up with the Ministry of Agriculture to save energy during the sugar cane harvest and for the national bus system.. Former president Fidel Castro, who founded the program, refers to the social workers as "Doctors of the Soul."

Media promotes efficiency

The media does its bit to help disseminate information about energy. Dozens of billboards that promote conservation are scattered across the country, a weekly television show is dedicated to energy issues, and articles espousing renewable energy, efficiency and conservation appear regularly in newspapers. In 2007 alone, there were over 8000 articles and TV spots dedicated to energy efficiency.

Nonetheless, in 2005, blackouts were still common as a result of an old and inefficient electrical grid. Thus began the move to decentralized energy, which involves generating electricity in smaller substations. In 2006, Cuba installed more than 1800 diesel and fuel-oil micro-electrical plants, which now produce over 3000 MW of power in 110 municipalities.

This switch virtually eliminated the blackouts. In 2004 and 2005, there were over 400 days of blackouts greater than 100 MW that lasted at least an hour. In 2006, there were three and in 2007 there were none at all.Cuba also embarked on an impressive plan to fix its old electrical transmission network. It upgraded over 120,000 electrical posts, installed almost 3000 kilometres of cable and half a million electric meters.

As a result, the nation reduced the amount of oil needed to produce a kWh of electricity by 3%, from 280 grams in 2005 to 271 grams in 2007. It is estimated that over the same period, Cuba saved almost 872,000 tons of oil through its energy-saving measures.

Cuba is also incorporating renewables into its energy mix. 100 wind-measuring stations and two new wind farms bring the island's total wind energy installation to 7.23 MW. They are also developing the country's first grid-tied 100 kW solar electric plant.

"We need a global energy revolution," says Mario Alberto Arrastia Avila, an energy expert with Cubaenergia, an energy information centre. "But for this to happen we also need a revolution in consciousness. Cuba has undertaken its own path towards a new energy paradigm, applying concepts like distributed generation, efficiency, education, energy solidarity and the gradual solarization of the country."

Laurie Guevara-Stone is the international program manager at Solar Energy International, a non-profit renewable energy education organization based in Colorado, USA.

Source: Solar Energy International

 

 

 

 

At the movie theater the other day (The Soloist – very good) there was a preview of a film about John Dillinger. It looked like it was going the take the “populist” approach to this once so-called “public enemy’s” career. By that I mean the notion that he and other Depression-era bandits represented some sort of rebellion of the poorer classes against their rich oppressors.

 

Here in Dallas, where the legend of local products Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker started, and still lives, that notion resonates with people who remember those days. Over the years I’ve seen several locally-produced documentaries about the outlaw couple which were interesting in that they allowed relatives and descendants of both Bonnie and Clyde, and of their victims to speak.

 

And there was an article about their brief and violent career in the paper the other day, the anniversary of the ambush just across the state line with Louisiana that killed them. Some people think Bonnie & Clyde were rebels against an unjust system. Others say they were just murdering punks who got what they deserved. What they got, by the way, would today be called a “targeted assassination.” They were driving down a country road when they stopped to help a friend (who had been bribed) change a flat tire on his truck, when they came under fire from multiple submachine guns, rifles and shotguns.

 

There’s a great movie about their adventures, called Bonnie & Clyde (surprisingly enough), that came out in the late ‘60s. I think Arthur Penn directed it. It was highly praised at the time (and a box-office hit), and is considered one of the first films to explore the concept of the “anti-hero.” Very ‘60’s, y’know.

 

Of course, over the years, artistic assessments change. In the ‘80s and beyond, with the shift to the right in politics in this country, a new interpretation of the movie changed Bonnie & Clyde from populist rebels to murderous punks.

 

Not having been there at the time, I have no opinion on how to classify the pair, sociologically, politically or whatever. All I know is that Bonnie & Clyde is a great love story. The key scene (for me) in the movie is when they’re in bed in one of their hideouts after one of their robberies and Bonnie asks Clyde, if it were possible, would he change anything.

 

Clyde says, yeah, and starts to talk about a previous job that had gone wrong and how he would change the plan. That wasn’t what Bonnie was waiting to hear. But she loved him and stuck with him.  And there was even another time when he couldn’t get it up (not like that would happen with the rest of us, right, guys?). Apparently he had some issues that might have stemmed from his two years in prison where he was raped repeatedly by an older, bigger inmate. (That’s not from the movie, it’s from the documentaries.)

 

Although from the same low social register as Clyde, Bonnie had actually finished high school and liked poetry, even writing some, including some about her and Clyde. He, on the other hand, led by his older brother, started on burglaries and stick-ups at fifteen (again, from the documentaries). For whatever reason, though, they loved each other. At least that’s what I got from the movie. 

And that's what makes it timeless, regardless of what kind of "spin" you want to put on it.  Okay, Clyde was a murderous punk who drew Bonnie into a life of crime.  She had her own reasons, though, one of which was loving Clyde.   

 

Remember, I’m talking about a movie, not history.  Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway played two people who were so in love they would do anything – even kill or be killed – for each other. In modern terms, they always had each other’s back. They got caught up in a situation that could have no happy ending. 

 

Sometimes that’s just the way it goes.      

 

Looking at the calendar on my wall just now – I’m trying to plan a trip to Nicaragua for Nick, Brendan and me in July – today’s date seemed significant for some reason. May 21^st. Then it hit me: Forty years ago on this day my father died. At least I think it was this day. It might have been the 20^th.

 

My confusion stems from a “holy card” my aunt, Sr. Joelle – my Dad’s youngest sister was (and still is) a nun – had printed for the wake and funeral. The card, which included a prayer, gave his dates as born April 12, 1923, died May 20, 1969. She was off by a day, just about everyone noticed (it was otherwise a very nice card), but I can’t really swear to the correct date being one or the other – Sr. Joelle may have had the 21^st on the card, and his death really being the 20^th.

 

Anyway, I got confused. I could have cleared it up years ago. There was a clipping from the old Milwaukee Sentinel about the accident that is probably in box somewhere in my sister’s house. Or I could have asked my mother (when she was still alive) or brother or sister but it wasn’t the kind of thing that came up in conversation. And my family always treaded rather carefully with me regarding dad’s death.

 

That’s because I was there when it happened. He ran a gas station and when I was thirteen he started bringing me out there to stock the shelves and keep it clean. I loved it, and he paid me! A dollar a day!  Listen, in those days a hamburger at McDonald’s cost 15 cents, okay? My Dad was not cheap. As I got older and taller, I advanced to the position of “pump jockey.”

 

This was before “self-service.” I pumped the gas, checked the oil, wiped the windows and all that. That’s what I was doing that day, not even two weeks after my 17^th birthday. It was about noon. He was going to go home (ten minutes away) for lunch and a quick nap, like always. His brother, my uncle Greg, had left his car there for some work while he was on vacation. It was in the garage and Dad was going to use it to go home.

 

We were both in the office of the station. A customer pulled up at one of the pump islands and I went out to take care of a Volkswagen bug, the kind with the gas tank in the trunk in the front. While her tank (it was a nurse in her white uniform) was filling, another car pulled in at another pump (there were three). I got him started, went back and finished with the VW. I went back to the other customer, a middle-aged Black man who worked at the Briggs & Stratton factory kitty-corner to us. He was a regular but I didn’t know his name.

 

I had my back to the station. He was across from me on the other side of the car. We were talking about something. Then he got a funny look on his face, and he winced and said “ooh!” at the same time I heard a little crash. I also heard a grunt, kind of like “ungh.” I can’t repeat it, though I’ve tried. I can still hear it. It’s the death sound, the giving up of the ghost. 

 

I turned around and saw my father lying face down, the upper half of his body in his brother’s car, his legs on the pavement. The car door was pinned against the concrete embankment protecting our third pump island, crushing his chest. Apparently, he pulled the car out of the bay but maybe forgot something and had to go back into the office. He must not have put the car in Park and it started to roll – straight toward that third pump island, and tried to stop it.

 

I don’t know how long I stood there staring. I finally started walking toward “it.” Thankfully, the nurse had not yet pulled out when it happened. She got to him first, and turned around and stopped me, saying, go call an ambulance. After that it’s a blur, with a few sharp images: my mother in a bright yellow dress, hands to her face; my grandfather in a straw fedora, short-sleeved white shirt and tie (they were supposed to be going to visit someone), cops, ambulance, stretcher with a pair of workboots sticking out from under the blanket, priest.

 

After that I don’t remember much; there was a wake with an overflow crowd, the funeral. Probably, people asked me about what happened. What I told them I don’t know. Attention was focused on my mother, understandably. I never talked about it much, until a few years ago when a friend lost a close relative and I told this story and how I was traumatized by what happened (I didn’t realize that until later), and how I’ve learned that if someone’s death upsets you it must be because they were a force for good in your life.

 

In that case, the best way to honor the memory is to show some sense in how you live your life, and to show some courage, and some compassion. That’s what they would want you to do, right?     

 

Anachronisms can be funny. Remember Robin Hood starring Kevin Costner? There was a scene with a “Wanted” poster nailed to a tree, an obviously printed poster. The legendary outlaw of Sherwood Forest lived during the reign of King John, who died in 1216, two and a half centuries before Gutenberg invented the printing press. 

 

It was still an okay movie, better, anyway, than most the star of it has come up with since. Anachronisms are, in fact, likely to creep into any retelling of past events. Unless you’re simply repeating verbatim something handed down generation to generation, the past you see is bound to be colored by your present. That, at least, is the thesis of a great book I’m reading now, The World of Odysseus, by British historian M.I. Finley.

 

Actually, I’m re-reading it. The first time was in college (around the time of the Third Crusade). And I’m getting a lot more out of it – which is not surprising. I had way too much going on back then to really learn much of anything about anything. Finley, by the way, started out as the American historian Moses Finkelstein. The name change was an attempt to evade the anti-Semitism blocking his advance in academia; the move to England was flight from McCarthyism. He ended up at Cambridge where he became renowned (as much as historians can be) in the study of Archaic (pre-Ancient) Greece.

 

The Iliad and the Odyssey, the foundations of Western literature, are, Finley says, the product of a Dark Age. The two long poems, attributed to “Homer”, about whom we know absolutely nothing (except that he was a damned good poet), date most likely (but not for sure) to the Eighth century BCE. Some historians say they could be a century or two older, hardly anyone says they’re any more recent.

 

The Trojan War recounted in the poems took place – if we go by people, places and things named in them – around 1200 BCE. Finley points out that Homer didn’t really know all that much about that earlier society that waged that war. For example, Greeks of the Mycenaean Age (that’s the tag put on that society – named after a leading city) used chariots extensively in battle.

 

The chariots carried archers back and forth across the battlefield spraying the enemy with arrows, at times massing and driving straight into the opponents’ ranks. For Homer, who lived after the chariot had been abandoned militarily, it simply served to carry a warrior to the battlefield, where he tossed a spear at his counterpart – always missing – then fighting sword to sword. One of many anachronisms Finley found in the epics.

 

None of this, of course, really detracts from their beauty and power as literature. After being passed along in one form or another for three or four centuries, the stories handed down naturally had some blank spots that Homer filled in as best he could. 

I think that’s what I’m doing with Cody. I’m as out of place in her life as that “Wanted” poster in Robin Hood or Achilles’ chariot in the Iliad.  But, as in both those cases, I serve a purpose. I help the story along. My anachronisms are things like peace and quiet, a relationship without demands, counsel concerning school and the future. All of which Cody appreciates, without I’m afraid, taking too much of it to heart. Oh well, that’s youth for you. And youth is beautiful, as Trotsky said, precisely because of old age. When she gets to be my age, I’ll be dead, but maybe she’ll remember. We remember Homer, right? And he’s been dead a very long time.           

 

 

Well, Cody is now a peroxide blonde – with purple streaks. She wears it well. So well in fact that the attention directed our way bugged me to the point I suggested an early exit from the bar where we had met for a few beers. It was a place called “A Step Up” (from a dive) where I used to hang out a few years ago with some work buddies. It’s in the same Love Field area where she lives.

 

Maybe I’m too sensitive. The few times Cody and I have been out in public we seem to draw more than a few stares and whispers. Can’t blame them: “Beauty and the Bygone.” I’d be looking, too, if I saw a guy with a woman young enough to be his granddaughter – which she is if I had started early and my progeny had, too. 

 

I’m perfectly okay with letting people think she’s out with an older relative. Cody seems to like walking arm-in-arm and insists on sitting next to me instead of across the table. And before we left that place she kissed me, on the lips. I know she did it simply because she knew how uncomfortable I was. Such a sense of humor!

 

Anyway, I got her back to my place, where I could feel at ease. Funny, how the older you get, the number of places you feel at ease starts narrowing down. My balcony is one and there we were – wine, cigarettes, cigar – and Cody asked me about my t-shirt. It bore the prominent letters: IRA and a quote from Bobby Sands. (I got it online from the Sinn Fein store in Ireland).  

 

I had it on because it was the 28^th anniversary of his death, on his 66^th day on hunger strike. He was the first of ten young men to die that way that terrible and beautiful spring in the north of Ireland.   Now we were really in my comfort zone: politics, history, revolution. 

 

Or so I thought. I found myself stumbling through my standard account of Irish history. (I’ve actually given public talks on it). What kept hitting me about this human sacrifice was not the iron coldness of Margaret Thatcher nor even the undoubted heroism of the martyrs. It was all about me. 

 

Bobby Sands was about my same age. He’d been born into a workingclass family, like I was. His nine comrades on the strike were all of similar ages and backgrounds, and all had, like me, come to radical political conclusions about what needed to be done in the society in which they lived.

 

Where he lived, armed struggle was the path to political and social change. Where I lived we had other, peaceful means open to us. I like to think that if the situation demanded, I would fight arms in hand, to the death for the cause I believe in. Bobby Sands took up arms to fight, but was captured by the enemy. He and his comrade prisoners, having been subjected to countless tortures and humiliations (Bush didn’t invent that, y’know), decided to fight back with the only weapon they had left – their lives. 

 

I kept trying to tell Cody how it affected politics in Northern Ireland (which she’d never heard of) and the current drive to peacefully unite the island free of British control, but I couldn’t stay on task. I kept flashing back to those days, when I was part of the vast international movement in solidarity with the hunger strikers, organizing protests in my  little corner of the world, picket lines, telegram campaigns, letters to the editor. I took it personally then, and still do, apparently.

 

I really wanted to save Bobby Sands. When I failed, I was left to wonder if, under the same circumstances, I could venture forth, unarmed as he did, to fight the enemy, and accept willingly death in delirium and pain. Sixty-six days. And nine more young men volunteered, and followed him. And as each one succumbed I had to ask myself that same question. To which, of course, there is no answer.

 

Try talking about all that with a 22 year-old whose biggest decision is ordering HBO with, or without, Cinemax. Okay, that’s a little cruel. She’s got life decisions to make and all that. Then she asked what makes a person do what Bobby Sands did or what I did (all proportions guarded, meaning I gave up a big career with big money. etc., not my life). Well, I said, it’s like you hear the call, and you follow.

 

And what if you don’t hear the call? she asked.

 

Listen harder, I said. 

 

And set off an argument. Now I’m accusing her of being uncaring and a counterrevolutionary (a term I’m sure she’s never heard, or at least never used in conversation, before meeting me). Well, no, I say, only listen harder if you want to. Or listen for something about art or engineering or something (god, I’m thinking, please don’t let it be something about a middle-aged biker with long black hair with a white stripe down the middle). 

 

Cody calmed down. So did I. We were both thinking about very different things – at the same time. She was thinking about herself and me now; I was thinking about me then. Funny, how I used to think that getting older would make me wiser.

 

I know what I know, and I’ve known it so long and so well (I think) that it has yet to be shaken. In politics, economics, philosophy, every new thing I learn reinforces old, stored knowledge. Sources don’t really matter. I can read a story about the economy in the Wall Street Journal and it reinforces what I learned from Capital Vol.1 (admittedly, some “reading between the lines” is required).

 

What I know is not the problem. It’s what I do, or more precisely, what I don’t do. My revolutionary days, in the sense of activity, are far behind me. I’ve kept doing union work as a sort of weak echo my old communism. I’ve just put in a twelve-hour day of hand-billing and meetings as part of my union’s efforts to organize the non-organized people working for the same company we work for. 

 

I’m not complaining about the hours. It’s that a month ago, two of my union comrades had been run off by the cops from a site they had been hand-billing on the grounds that they needed a permit. The targeted building is in a well-to-do suburb north of Dallas. We decided to go there today, but first went to City Hall to get the ordinance, and then went to police headquarters to discuss the matter. 

 

Everybody agreed that we would violate no law as long as we did not obstruct traffic (which by the way is the recognized rule everywhere else in this great semi-free country we live in). Happy ending, right?

 

Not really. In my day I’d have said: fuck city hall. We’re gonna hand out our fucking flyers, and if they want to fucking arrest us, let ‘em! We’ll fucking beat ‘em in court. (I used to use the “f” word a lot – for emphasis, y’know.)  It’s like old King Nestor said, in the Iliad, “would that I were in the prime of my youth and my might as steadfast (as)… the first time I went to war.”

 

Note: The above could be taken – as my last few posts were – as a sign of me being “down.” For example check this email I received from an old friend:

   
I've been following "This Old Anvil" and it sounds like you're in a bit of a funk. Some cheery people might suggest that you count your blessings. But you're German, so take all the pleasure you can in others' miseries.

 

(My friend is of Teutonic extraction also.)

 

But if I am down, I will be up soon. I will be going to see Lana, who I have not seen for a long time, and I will meet little Sarah. Babies are very uplifting. They’re why we fight, right?