***Out In The 1950s Be-Bop Night-Rick’s Flying Saucer Rock Moment

He was glad, glad as hell that angel thing, that guardian angel hovering over you and at your beck and call making sure that you don’t fall off some wagon, don’t do any of the one thousand one hundred and one that Mother had warned you off, and don’t do anything he (or she as the case maybe), the angel wouldn’t do, was over and done with. You know that Sunday school thing they beat you over head with about how your guardian angel was there to keep you on the straight and narrow, or else. Yes, Rick Roberts certainly was glad that was over although now that he thought about further it just kind of passed out of sight as he got older and other things filled his mind. Things like girls, the mystery of girls at first, but no strictly the mystery of his June ("June Bug" was his pet name for her but he had better not hear you call her that, especially one Freddie Jackson, or else). Yes, Rick was now large enough, strong enough, and smart enough strong, not to have to worry about some needlepoint guardian angel looking out for him. He could look out for himself and his June Bug. Although truth to tell he was worried, a little anyway, kind of vaguely like a long of the talk around the subject, about this Cold War red scare Russian bear thing (his father, Rick, Senior, an old World War II warrior and just as patriotic as the next man called them Russkies) over here to take his brain away, or maybe put the big heat on him, the A-bomb heat and creating alien things from outer space to haunt his dreams. But only a little.

What was exercising Rick these days was his June (you know her pet name but don’t say it, please) and causing him no end of sleepless nights was that thing about Freddie Jackson, June’s old flame. At least according to his sister, Celia, a reliable source of North Adamsville High gossip, and not afraid to spread it when it pleased her, was that Freddie was taking his peeks at June, and she was peeking back. So, lately, in order to pass those sleepless fretful nights Rick had begun to sit up in his bedroom at night with his transistor radio on, the one that he had forced his parents to buy him, batteries included, last Christmas, rather than the practical ties in some god awful colors and styles that he would not be caught wearing they had intended to foist on him. And what Rick listened as the hour turned to midnight was The Crazy Lazy Midnight Madness Show on WMEX, the local be-bop, no stop, all rock radio station the that got the sleepless, the half-awake, the lame and the lazy through the 1950s Cold War night, and into the dawn.

Now this Crazy Lazy Show fare was strictly for night owls, stuff that would not appeal to daytime rockers, you know, those listening to guys like Elvis, Carl, Bo, Little Richard, and Jerry Lee, or just stuff that appealed to Lazy’s off-center, off-beat funny bone. One night, one really restless night, as Rick was revving up the transistor around midnight he heard Buchanan and Goodman’s silly The Flying Saucer, parts one and two back to back no less, so you see Crazy was serious about presenting goofy stuff. That was followed by Sheb Wooley’s devouring the Purple People Eater, and then, for a change of pace The Royal Teens be-bop Short, Shorts and that got his to thinking about how good June looked in them, and then back to zaniness when Bobby Pickett’s flattened Monster Mash hit the air, and as he got a little drowsy, The Detergents waved over Leader of the Laundromat.

That last one got to him, got to him good, because, believe it or not the song had sentimental value to him. See he met June at the North Adamsville All-Wash Laundromat one day. His mother’s washing machine had broken down and she needed to bring the Roberts laundry to the All-Wash and Rick drove her over. During that time June had passed by, he had said hi, they had talked and then more seriously talked, and that was that. Freddie Jackson was after that dust, a memory, nothing to June.

All this thinking really got Rick tired this night and as the last chords of Laundromat echoed in his head he fell into a deep sleep. Around four o’clock in the morning though he was awoken with a start, with the high pitched whining sound coming from somewhere outside his window. Next thing he knew a huge disc-like object was hovering over most of Adamsville, and stayed there for maybe a minute before departing just as quickly as it appeared. Rick took this for a sign, a sign that he and June would hang together. And a sign, maybe a sign from some unknown benefactor, that Freddie Jackson probably should have taken a trip on that flying saucer while he could, or else.

Photos/Video:Anti-War Memorial Day Boston
by Michael Borkson Email: nosanctions (nospam) yahoo.com (unverified!)	28 May 2013
Boston, Mass.-May, 27, 2013: Peace activists gathered on Boston's waterfront to observe a Memorial Day For Peace-an alternative to the usual militaristic displays of the day.
Boston, Mass.-May 27, 2013: About 100 peace activists, including Veterans For Peace, Military Families Speak Out, United For Justice With Peace, and Mass Peace Action, gathered on Boston's Waterfront near Quincy Market to observe a solemn Memorial Day against war. Speakers included veterans, a Japanese Hiroshima atomic bomb survivor, and refugees from Iraq.Also, Military Families Speak Out co-founder Charley Richardson, who recently passed away, was memorialized as a true and dedicated man of peace. After the speakers, participants one by one tossed flowers into the bay as the names of Mass. US troops and Iraqi and Afghani civilians who were killed in the US wars were read aloud. Photos link: http://www.flickr.com/photos/protestphotos1/sets/72157633746882051/detai/ Video link with extensive video: http://youtu.be/Ab_3N9n15dU Veterans For Peace Boston: www.smedleyvfp.org

***Out On The Mean Streets- “Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?”-Take Two

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman 

“Hey, brother (or sister), can you spare a dime?,” followed by “Got an extra cigarette, pal (or gal)?” Yah, Billy Bailey, used-to-be brash corner boy William James Bailey, certainly had the panhandler lingo down, down pat, after only a few days on the bum. Had his new “profession” down as one might have expected from a Southie corner boy, the corner brick wall in front  of Ma’s Variety over on Broadway, circa 1965 who had learned a few things in his time about the youthful clip (grabbing stuff from jewelry and department stores without paying, okay), the jack-roll (taking down a drunk or some poor wandering sap with a sap and leaving him penniless for being at the wrong place at the wrong time) and the midnight grift (a step up from the clip, taking stuff from houses not one’s own and selling it  cheap through some shyster fence). This stuff was easy compared to that, and the couple of three month sentences he received courtesy of the county and state when he couldn’t explain why he had somebody’s stuff, somebody who had reported that stuff as stolen. The overhead of the profession he called in those days, those days when the world looked a lot rosier that it did just that moment. Yah , he had never been on the bum then whatever else happened .

Worse though on the bum in his own home town, his ever-loving’ roots, Boston. On the bum this time, this time a as a result of a real fall from grace fall, and not just some a vagrant short money, pick up some spare change, free campsite, Volkswagen bus pick-up sharing stews, brews and dope hitchhike road looking for the great blue-pink American West night with some honey, some Angelica honey, bum like a few years back after he had caught that breeze blowing through his generation’s window. Had given up as nothing but hubris and bad odor those old corner boy habits and had taken up a new age aura, had gotten “religion” about that peace and love stuff.  For a while.  

In those “for a while” days he practically made a religion, yah a religion out of living “free,” living out of the knapsack, living under a bridge in some makeshift reinforced cardboard hut, or living out in the open, before roaring campfires and hell broth kitchen sink stews, with some  interesting  railroad jungle camp brothers, no sweat, if need be. But those “golden days” had dried up a few years back and now in 1976 he was facing a real skid row choice. How it happened that he came face to face with such a decision after that new age aura had turned to ashes, had turned in on itself, had turned nasty and greed-headed, if there was such a word, and started looking very much like that hard-edged corner boy night that he had grown up in we will get to along the way. First though let’s set the parameters of what 1976 panhandling, to put an eloquent name on it for “bumming”, shiftless bumming , looked like and how to survive in the new new age of everybody me-ing themselves, even with people who were not on the bum. Christ, lord the times were hard, hard times in old Babylon, no question.

See, a guy, a guy who called himself “Shorty” McGee for obviously physical reasons but who knows what his real name was, maybe he didn’t remember either after all the rum-dum sterno heat years and the endless backsides of skid row haunts, that he had hitched up with for a minute, an overnight minute at the Salvation Harbor Lights Center over in the South End kind of hipped him to the obvious tricks of the new down-at the-heels road. Like putting the two requests together deal when you were panhandling, the request for dough and then for a cigarette or coffee or something, anything to keep you moving, hustling, grabbing.  Shorty said it was all a matter of psychology, of working the crowd, the downtown crowd, the bustling Park Street Station crowd, and the Copley Square sunning themselves crowd just right. The idea was that to get you out of their sights and back to whatever sweet thing they were doing that would piece you off with something and if not money then cigarettes or something like that which could be parlayed into something else in trade. So you endlessly put the two requests together, time after time after time, and always. And what happened was that when they turned you down for the dough, or maybe took you literally and pieced you off with just a dime or a quarter, Christ a dime that wouldn’t even buy a cup of joe, they could feel good about themselves, if they smoked, smoked cigarettes anyway, by passing you a butt.

Billy thought, nice, this Shorty really does have it worked out just about right. Of course dimes and drags were not going to get him out from under, not this time.

Well, rather than leaving the reader out in the dark, Billy Bailey that fair 1976 spring was not just on the bum, but on the lam as well, keeping his head very far down, very far down indeed, just in case there were some guys who were looking for him, including a few corner boys who wanted a desperate word with him. Or worse, the cops, in case some irate victim of one of his scams took a notion to “fry his ass.” and yelled for the law. Of course he was counting on them, those victims, being mainly friends and acquaintances, of the new age variety although in the end he tapped down to those corner boy roots, of not putting “the heat” on him since he had already promised through the grapevine that he would make restitution. But we are getting a little ahead of the story, let’s step back.

The early 1970s were not kind to “free spirits” the previous name for what in 1976 were “free-loaders,” strictly drifters, grifters and midnight shifters, and Billy, well, got behind in his expenses, and his bills, his ever expanding bills. You know keeping company with some honeys over on Beacon Street who were getting their kicks from slumming with jailbird corner boys before going off to marry some high-priced corporate lawyer of stockbroker who known the family for years and keeping the lid one a growing jones as result of sharing kicks with those Beacon Street swells. See the transition, the fast transition, from free “s” to free “l” caught him off-guard, moreover he was just then in the throes of a fit of “the world owes me a living,” a serious fit. Why? Well see, he as a pauper son of the desperate working poor, “felt” that since he missed out on the golden age benefits of his youth that he was to make up the difference by putting the “touch” on the richer (not really rich but richer than he knew of, no question) friends that he had acquired through his doing this and that, mainly high-end drug connections. And sampling the merchandise to, well, this is the way he put it, “get him well.”  

The long and short it was that he would “borrow” money off Friend A under some scam pretext of putting it to good use (yes, his good use, including several long airplane fight trips to California and other points west-no more hitchhike roads for this moving up the food chain lad once he hipped to the changed scene) and then borrow dough off Friend B to cover some of his debt to Friend A. Something like an unconscious classic Ponzi scheme, as it turned out. And then when he got to Friend X or somewhere around there things got way too complicated and he started “kiting” checks, and on and on as far deep into his white- collar crime mind as he could think. Frankly though Billy was strictly muscle, strictly the hired gun, strictly the gofer and so he got in way over his head. That Ponzi scheme could only go on a for a short while and he calculated that "short while" almost to the day when he would have to go “underground” and that day had sprung up a couple of weeks before.

So it took no accountant or smart-ass attorney to know that dimes and drags, whatever the virtues of Shorty’s insights into the human psyche were not going to get him back on his feet. Nor many of the schemes that Shorty had outlined over at Harbor Lights as ways to grab quick cash. These were chicken feed for his needs, even his immediate needs, although some of the scams would fill the bill for a rum-dum or life-long skid row bum. But here was the secret, the deep secret that Billy Bailey held in his heart, after a few nights on bus station benches, cold spring night park benches, a night bout under the Andersen Bridge over by old haunt Harvard Square, and a few nights that he would rather not discuss just in case, he finally figured out, figured out kicking and screaming, that the world did not owe him a living and that if he wanted to survive past thirty he had better get the stardust and grit out of his eyes. But just this minute, just that underground spring 1976 minute, he needed to work the Commons. “Hey, brother, hey sister, can you spare a dime?” “Pal, have you got an extra cigarette?”

Postscript: Not all wisdom found ends happily, no matter how preciously fought for, and not all good intentions grow to fruition. Yes, Billy paid off his debts to his friends, mostly. (Not by that damn Shorty diems and drags strategy but by picking up a working relationship with a street hustler who turned him on to the growing cocaine industry as the way to get well, well with those who wanted to “fry his ass” first and foremost. Of course Billy could not leave well enough alone, couldn’t see that the thing was fixed from the beginning and rather than work his way up the food chain he got the bright idea that he would go independent. Billy Bailey was killed, murdered under suspicious circumstances never really investigated, left face down in some dusty back road  while “muling” some product in a drug war shoot-out in Juarez, Mexico in late 1979. That was the official Federales report anyway, not much to hang a life on. Other sources, not narcs, said that Billy tried to skim a little something off the top, maybe a couple of kilos of cocaine, while he was doing that muling and took a couple of facedown slugs for his efforts. Billy Baily’s life was apparently so inconsequential that it was two years before his widowed mother found out what had happened to him through a hired private eyes she sent to Mexico- Jesus, maybe Billy’s should have stuck with dimes and drags-RIP Billy Bailey.   

***Out In The 2000s Crime Noir Night-“Sin City”-A Film Review

Sin City, starring Mickey Rourke, Bruce Willis, based on Frank Miller's graphic novels, co-directed by Frank Miller, 2005

No question I am a film noir, especially a crime film noir, aficionado. Recently I have been on a tear reviewing various crime noir efforts and drawing comparisons between the ones that “speak” to me and those that, perhaps, should have been better left on the cutting room floor. The classics are easy and need no additional comment from me as their plot lines stand on their own merits. Others, because they have a fetching, or wicked, for that matter, femme fatale to muddy the waters also get a pass. Of course when I think of noir it is 1940s-50s noir, black and white in film and in the good guys-bad guys constellation with a little murder and mayhem mixed in to keep one’s eyes open just in case there is no femme fatale to muddy the waters. Neo-noir, such as the film under review, Sin City, is another matter, perhaps. Here’s the why of the perhaps.

Central to the old time crime noir was the notion that crime did not pay and as stated above the bad guy(s) learned that lesson the hard way after a little mussing up or a date with a bullet. Kids’ stuff really when compared to the over-the-top action of this three vignettes series on modern day good guys versus bad guys. Three separate male characters, all tough guys and guys you would want to have at your back if real trouble headed your way, are trying, trying within the parameters of common sense or believability, to clean up slices of Sin City. Sin City as the rather obvious name implies, is in the grips of corruption from the top down, including in virtually every civic institution. Our avengers are trying to cut a wedge into that bad karma by individually, one, tracking down a bizarre, politically connected heir whose thing was slice and dice of very young girls, two, avenge the death of a high class call girl who was kind to one tough guy, and, three, keep the pimps and cops at bay in the red light district where the working girls have set up their own Hookers’ Commune.

All of this doing good is, of necessity in today’s movie world, linked up with, frankly, over the top use of violence of all sorts from cannibalism to barbaric death sentences, well beyond what tame old time noir warranted. Apparently the succeeding crime waves since the 1940s have upped the ante and something like total war is required to exterminate the villains. That and some very up-to-date use of cinematography to give a gritty black and white feel to the adventures. And also a not small dose of magical realism, suspension of disbelief, and sparseness of language to go along with the plot and visual action.

But here is the funny thing, funny for an old-time crime noir aficionado, I really liked this film. Why? Well go back to the old time crime noir premise. Good guys (and then it was mostly guys- here some very wicked “dames” join in and I know I would not want to cross them, no way) pushed their weight around or tilted at windmills for cheap dough or maybe a little kiss. They got mussed, up, trussed up, busted up in the cause of some individual justice drive that drove the “better angels of their natures.” Guess what, sixty years later, a thousand years advanced cinematically, a million years advanced socially (maybe) and these guys are still chasing windmills. Nice, right.

***Out In The 1940s Crime Noir Night-“The Naked City”-A Film Review

The Naked City, starring Barry Fitzgerald, Howard Duff, Universal International, 1946

No question I am a film noir, especially a crime film noir, aficionado. Recently I have been on a tear reviewing various crime noir efforts and drawing comparisons between the ones that “speak” to me and those that, perhaps, should have been better left on the cutting room floor. The classics are easy and need no additional comment from me as their plot lines stand on their own merits. Others, because they have a fetching, or wicked, for that matter, femme fatale to muddy the waters also get a free pass. Some, such as the film under review from 1946, The Naked City, offer neither although the stark New York City cinematography and the voice-over narration place it firmly in the genre. This film is that old noir stand-by from the period, the police procedural with its never-ending cautionary tale about how “crime does not pay.”

A little plot summary is in order. Yes, New York City, well the New York City of the 1940s and 1950s had eight million stories, although maybe really just two, rich and poor, or maybe better getting richer or sliding down poorer, but that is the subject for another day. Of course telling eight million stories, other than as a few seconds relief slice-of-life scenes, would make me very sleepy, very sleepy indeed.

So the plot line reduces the sleepiness to a minimum by telling one story, or rather one murder story that wraps quite a few people in its tentacles, including one major city homicide squad. A squad led by perennial Irish actor Barry Fitzgerald as the foot-sore but worldly-wise detective in charge. The grift (profit motive) that drives the story line is stealing jewelry from those self-same getting richer New York City swells, including an inside society swell finger man. But things turn awry when one drop-dead beautiful model winds up being murdered (maybe I should not have used just that phrase to describe that unseen model, but I will let it stand) by her some of her thieving confederates.

The twists and turns, such as they are, revolve around a mystery man lover, suitor, whatever it was never really clear, except he was daffy over that drop-dead beautiful model, and finding him since he was the logical guy to have done, or to have ordered the murder, is the order of the day. In New Jack City and elsewhere that is hard to do, one and one half hours hard to do. But in the end Barry and his homicide squad cohorts get their man, a strangely agile bad man for noir who are usually portrayed as just straight thugs. And the city moves on to the next…murder, mayhem or whatever. Not exactly my cup of tea in noir but if I recall this film was the model for a television series of the same name in the late 1950s so somebody must have though well of it beyond the slice-of-New York life scenes interspersed in the story and the great black and white cinematography of the Big Apple just after the end of World War II.

Get Ready to March Together in the DORCHESTER DAY PARADE! This SUNDAY, June 2

Dorchester People for Peace will be marching again this year in the Dorchester Day Parade on June 2 along with our friends and allied organizations. Please join us!

Together, we bring our vision and our values to thousands of people along the four-mile route.

Our message will focus on ending the war in Afghanistan and opposing any new military intervention in Iran or Syria; reducing the military budget; and funding urgent needs at home in our neighborhoods and communities. Thousands of marchers and parade watchers will see our banners and get our anti-war flyers!

We’ll gather around Noon in Dorchester Lower Mills (Richmond St.) with the parade kick-off about 1pm.

We’ll have our after-Parade barbeque and celebration at Jeff Klein’s house, 123 Cushing Ave. from about 3:30pm. Bring a dish or something to drink if you can. Marchers can drop things off at Jeff’s house before the parade if they want – please call ahead – 617-288-4578.

WHERE: Lower Mills, Dorchester

Richmond Street between Dorchester Ave and Adams Street Look for the Dorchester People for Peace van You can’t drive or park anywhere near there on Dorchester Day, so travel early and travel by T (to Ashmont Station on the Red Line, Butler or Milton on the Mattapan trolley) …. Or park a ways away and walk. BRING: A sun hat, comfortable walking shoes (it’s four miles), water. You can bring a banner for your organization if you have the people to carry it. COOKOUT: After the parade at Jeff Klein’s, 123 Cushing Ave (near the end of the parade and near Savin Hill T station)
			Dorchester People for Peace works to end the wars; to build a multi-racial peace movement against violence and militarism at home and abroad; to oppose budget cuts, racism and political repression. 617-282-3783 * info@dotpeace.org

Veterans For Peace Stands With Bradley Manning!

Mass Rally at Ft. Meade, Maryland, Saturday, June 1

Court Martial Begins on Monday, June 3,

International Days of Action, June 1-8

Military veterans are turning out in force to show support for PFC Bradley Manning on the eve of his historic court martial, which begins on Monday, June 3, at Fort Meade, Maryland. The diminutive 25-year-old Manning, who has acknowledged giving classified Army documents to Wikileaks about U.S. conduct of the wars Iraq and Afghanistan, is facing the possibility of life in prison. In what many people see as “overkill,” the Army has charged him with “Aiding the Enemy,” the most serious of 22 charges.
Many members of Veterans For Peace and Iraq Veterans Against the War will attend a large rally at Fort Meade this Saturday, June 1. Veterans will also participate in International Days of Action, June 1-8, in over 100 cities around the U.S. and worldwide, to demonstrate widespread support for PFC Manning.

What Manning released through Wikileaks was evidence of the routine killing of civilians by US forces in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the routine cover-up of these war crimes. The Iraq War Logs and the Afghan War Diaries also revealed that military and civilian leaders were lying to the U.S. people when they presented rosy assessments of the progress of those wars.

“Bradley Manning is a hero who wanted to aid the public, not a traitor who wanted to aid the enemy” said Gerry Condon, a spokesperson for Veterans For Peace. “It is a shame that our nation did not pay more attention to the information he shared with us three years ago. Many lives could have been saved - hundreds of Afghani civilians and hundreds of U.S. soldiers.”

PFC Manning has been held in prison for over three years, much of it in solitary confinement and under other abusive treatment, as documented by the United Nationsl Special Rapporteur on Torture.

The Army's court martial of Manning, which begins on Monday, is expected to continue throughout the summer, with the prosecution presenting over 100 government witnesses, many of them in secret testimony. Veterans For Peace will participate in a daily vigil outside the front gate of Fort Meade.The Army's presecution of Bradley Manning coincides with the Obama Administration's crackdown on whistle-blowers and journalists alike. Over twice as many people are being prosecuted under the 1917 Espionage Act than in all previous administrations combined.

On Thursday, February 28, Bradley Manning made a profound and historic statement to a military court and to the world. Reading from prepared notes for over an hour, Bradley detailed how he released classified military and government documents to Wikileaks, and he explained why he did so.

“I believed if the public, particularly the American public, could see this it could spark a debate on the military and our foreign policy in general as it applied to Iraq and Afghanistan. It might cause society to reconsider the need to engage in counter terrorism while ignoring the human situation of the people we engaged with every day.... I felt I accomplished something that would allow me to have a clear conscience.”

One of the most moving aspects of Manning’s testimony was his explanation as to why he released the so-called “Collateral Murder” video, which shows the gunning down in Baghdad of two Reuters journalists and bystanders by American soldiers in a US Apache helicopter. Manning described being deeply troubled by the video, especially the crew’s “lack of concern for human life” and lack of “concern for injured children at the scene.”

Veterans For Peace, an international organization with chapters in over 100 cities, demands that the US Army drop all charges against Bradley Manning and release him from prison immediately. We intend to stand with Bradley every step of the way. We will protest at Fort Meade, Maryland and in our hometowns, including at military recruiting stations. We will not stop until Bradley Manning is free.

For more information or interviews with Veterans For Peace, call Gerry Condon at 206-499-1220
or visit www.veteransforpeace.org and www.bradleymanning.org

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***The Real Scoop Behind “Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?”

 

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman  

“Hey, brother (or sister), can you spare a dime?,” followed by “Got an extra cigarette, pal (or gal)?” Yah, Billy Bailey, used-to-be brash corner boy William James Bailey, certainly had the panhandler lingo down, down pat, after only a few days on the bum. Worst though on the bum in his own home town, his ever-loving’ roots, Boston. On the bum this time, this time a real fall and not just some short money, pick up some spare change, free campsite, Volkswagen bus pick-up sharing stews, brews and dope hitchhike road looking for the great blue-pink American West night with some honey, some Angelica honey, bum like a few years back.

In those days he practically made a religion, yah a religion out of living “free,” living out of the knapsack, living under a bridge, or some railroad jungle camp, no sweat, if need be. But those “golden days” dried up a few years back and now in 1976 he was facing a real skid row choice. How it happened he will get to along the way but first let’s set the parameters of what 1976 panhandling, to put an eloquent name on it for “bumming”, shiftless bumming , looked like and how to survive in the new age of everybody me-ing themselves, even with people who were not on the bum. Christ, lord the times were hard, hard times in old Babylon, no question.

See, a guy, a guy who called himself “Shorty” McGee for obviously physical reasons but who knows what his real name was, maybe he didn’t remember either after all the rum-dum sterno heat years and the endless backsides of skid row haunts, that he had hitched up with for a minute, an overnight minute at the Salvation Harbor Lights Center over in the South End kind of hipped him to the obvious tricks of the new down-at the-heels road. Like putting the two requests together deal when you were panhandling, the request for dough and then for a cigarette or coffee or something, anything to keep you moving, hustling. See, Shorty said it was all a matter of psychology, of working the crowd, the downtown crowd, the bustling Park Street Station crowd, and the Copley Square sunning themselves crowd just right to get you out of their sights and back to whatever sweet thing they were doing. So you endlessly put the two requests together, time after time after time, and always. And what happened was that when they turned you down for the dough, or maybe took you literally and pieced you off with just a dime, Christ a dime that wouldn’t even buy a cup of joe, they could feel good about themselves, if they smoked, smoked cigarettes anyway, by passing you a butt. Billy thought, nice, this Shorty really does have it worked out just about right. Of course dimes and drags were not going to get him out from under, not this time.

Well, rather than leaving the reader out in the dark, Billy Bailey this fair 1976 spring was not just on the bum, but on the lam as well, keeping his head very far down just in case there were some guys who were looking for him, or worst, the cops, in case some irate victim of one of his scams took a notion to “fry his ass.” Of course he was counting on them, those victims, being mainly friends and acquaintances, of not putting “the heat” on him since he had already promised through the grapevine that he would make restitution. But we are getting a little ahead of the story, let’s step back.

The early 1970s were not kind to “free spirits” the previous name for what on this day were “free-loaders” and Billy, well, got behind in his expenses, and his bills, his ever expanding bills. But see the transition from free “s” to free “l” caught him off-guard, moreover he was just then in the throes of a fit of “the world owes me a living,” a serious fit. Why? Well see, he as a pauper son of the desperate working poor, “felt” that since he missed out on the golden age benefits of his youth that he was to make up the difference by putting the “touch” on the richer (not really rich but richer than he knew of, no question) friends that he had acquired through his doing this and that, mainly high-end drug connections.

The long and short it was that he would “borrow” money off Friend A under some scam pretext of putting it to good use (yes, his good use, including several long airplane fight trips to California and other points west-no more hitchhike roads for this moving up the food chain lad) and then borrow dough off Friend B to cover some of his debt to Friend A. Something like an unconscious classic Ponzi scheme, as it turned out. And then when he got to Friend X or somewhere around there things got way too complicated and he started “kiting” checks, and on and on as far deep into his white collar crime mind as he could think. That could only go on a for a short while and he calculated that "short while" almost to the day when he would have to go “underground” and that day had sprung up a couple of weeks before.

So it took no accountant or smart-ass attorney to know that dimes and drags were not going to get him back on his feet. Nor many of the schemes that Shorty had outlined over at Harbor Lights as ways to grab quick cash were. These were chicken feed for his needs, even his immediate needs, although some of the scams would fill the bill for a rum-dum or life-long skid row bum. But here is the secret, the deep secret that Billy Bailey held in his heart, after a few nights on bus station benches, cold spring night park benches, a night bout under the Andersen Bridge over by old haunt Harvard Square, and a few nights that he would rather not discuss just in case, he finally figured out, figured out kicking and screaming, that the world did not owe him a living and that if he wanted to survive past thirty he had better get the stardust and grit out of his eyes. But just this minute, just this underground spring 1976 minute, he needed to work the Commons. “Hey, brother, hey sister, can you spare a dime?” “Pal, have you got an extra cigarette?”

Postscript: Not all wisdom ends happily, and not all good intentions grow to fruition. Yes, Billy paid off his debts to his friends, mostly. However, Billy Bailey was killed, left face down in some dusty back road, while “muling” some product in a drug war shoot-out in Juarez, Mexico in late 1979. That was the official Federales report anyway. Other sources said that Billy tried to skim a little something off the top, maybe a couple of kilos of cocaine, while he was doing that muling and took a couple of facedown slugs for his efforts-RIP Billy Bailey.    

***Out In The 1940s Crime Noir Night, Kind Of-Undercurrent

 

DVD Review

Undercurrent, starring Katherine Hepburn, Robert Taylor, Robert Mitchum, directed by Vincent Minnelli, 1947

No question I am a film noir, especially a crime film noir, aficionado. Recently I have been on a tear reviewing various crime noir efforts and drawing comparisons between the ones that “speak” to me and those that, perhaps, should have been better left on the cutting room floor. The classics are easy and need no additional comment from me as their plot lines stand on their own merits. Others, because they have a fetching, or wicked, for that matter, femme fatale to muddy the waters also get a pass. Some, such as the film under review from 1946, Undercurrent, frankly baffles me. A pyscho-drama, no question, a famous director, no question, but also a very non-femme fatale in Kate Hepburn, and a very non-tough guy (street or detective) role for classic 1940s tough guy and a good guy to have at your back, Robert Mitchum.

A little plot look will help explain my bafflement. Robert Taylor, a ruthless, driven high-tech capitalist who made big dough during World War II is also a little mad, well, a lot mad. However he is able to cover that little problem up while courting, well not beautiful, but let’s call her handsome, Kate Hepburn. Seems he needs a trophy wife and Kate fills the bill. And that is where the problems begin because Brother Taylor has a brother whom he is insanely jealous of for the usual Freudian, or pseudo-Freudian, reasons, that drive the plot lines of these pycho-dramas. Kate, however, loves the big lug Taylor until he starts going over the edge about his brother (and some other things like a little murder of an employee that goes a long way to allowing him to be that ruthless high-tech capitalist). Of course, as in all such dramas old Robert will get his comeuppance, have no fear.

But where is the noir in this noir? No femme fatale, no tough guy throwing his weight around or tilting at windmills to right the world’s wrongs, no problem that requires quick thinking to right those wrongs. Well when you go on a tear on a subject as I am on crime noir not everything will come up Out Of The Past or The Big Sleep. Not this one anyway.

 

***A Remembrance On Memorial Day- The Road Less Traveled

 

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman  

Staff Sergeant John Prescott in the adjacent room, “Johnny P.” to his pals gathered around a small table drinking sodas and coffee, was a quiet, unassuming guy, a guy with just that barebones patriotism that animated many working- class kids to “do their duty” and join up when America was in danger, no questions asked. Not quite “my country, right or wrong” but pretty close when all was said and done. And that call came as the early 1960s, a time of high school fun and frolic and for ace football star Johnny P, fun and frolic with one fetching Chrissie O’Shea and their flaming romance that was the talk of the Class of 1964 at old North Adamsville High, turned to mid-1960s and that clarion drumbeat the country was in danger in some place called red-infested Vietnam. Johnny, and not just Johnny, answered the call. And here, gathered around a small table, in early May 1968 his old corner boys from in front of Salducci’s Pizza Parlor “up the downs,” as they called the small stores and shops that made up the area, were chatting away like mad.

Suddenly, Frank Riley, fabled Frankie, the king of the be-bop Salducci’s night in those fresher days, that early 1960s time when the world was young and everything seemed possible, yelled to no one in particular but they all knew what he meant, “Remember that night after graduation when Tonio threw us that party at the pizza parlor.” And all the other five gathered at the table became silence with their own memories of that night. See, Tonio was the king hell owner and zen master pizza maker at Salducci’s and a guy who treated Frankie (and therefore most of Frankie’s friends) like a son. So Tonio put out a big deal party right on the premises, closed to all but Frankie, his friends and hangers-on (and girls of course). Tonio, at least this is what he said at the time, appreciated that Frankie brought so much business his way what with his corner boys, their corner boys, and the, ah, girls that gathered round them and who endlessly fed the juke box that he had to show his appreciation in such a way. And everybody had a great time that night, with the closed door wine, Tonio-provided wine, flowing like crazy and nobody, no authorities or parents the wiser for it.

Part of that great time, the part the guys around the 1968 table were remembering just then, the part of that great gun-ho 1964 time occurred late that night when, plenty of wine under their belts, Frankie and the corner boys, talked “heroic” talk. Talked about their military service obligations that was coming up right on them. And this was no abstract talk, not this night, for not only was this a party put on by Tonio to show his gratitude but a kind of going away party for ace football player and part-time corner boy (the other part, the more and more part, with one fetching Chrissie O’Shea), Johnny Prescott, who had decided to sign up right after graduation and would be getting ready to leave for “boot camp” at Fort Dix, New Jersey in a few weeks. So everybody was piling on the bravery talk to Johnny about “killing commies” somewhere, maybe Vietnam, maybe Germany, hell, maybe Russia or China. And Johnny, not any rum-brave kind Johnny, not any blah blah-ing about bravery, football or war, Johnny just kind of sat there and let the noise go by him. His thoughts then were of Chrissie and doing everything he could to get back to her in one piece.

Of course heaping up pile after pile on the bravery formula was one Frankie Riley, ever the politician as well as the king of the corner boy night, who had so just happened to have landed, through a very curious connection with the Kennedy clan, a coveted slot in a National Guard unit. So, Frankie, ever Frankie, could be formally brave that night in the knowledge that he would be far away from any real fighting. His rejoinder was that his unit “might” be called up. The others kidded him about it, about his “week-end warrior” status, but just a little because after all he would be serving one way or another. Also kind of silent that night was Fritz Taylor just then on the unannounced verge ready to “do his duty” after having had a heavy-duty fight with his mother about his future, or lack of a future, and her “hadn’t he better go in the service and learn a trade” talk.

Most vociferous that night was Timmy Kiley. Yes, Timmy, the younger brother of the legendary North Adamsville and later State U. football player “Thunder Tommy” Kiley. He was ready to catch every red under every bed and do what, when and where to any he caught. Timmy later joined the Navy to “see the world” and saw much of some dreary scow in some dry-dock down in Charleston, South Carolina. Even Peter Paul Markin, Frankie’s right-hand man, self-described scribe, and publicly kind of the pacifist of the group, who usually got mercilessly “fag-baited” for his pale peace comments was up in arms about the need to keep the “free world” free as the tom-toms of war in Southeast Asia were seeping through and getting down to the places where the cannon fodder, ah, kids who would do the actual fighting lived. Places exactly like North Adamsville. But that was just the way he talked, kind of a studied hysterical two-thousand facts diatribe then. Markin, student deferred, at that 1968 table had just gotten notice from his friendly neighbors at the North Adamsville Draft Board that upon graduation he was to be drafted. And he was ready, kicking and screaming about some graduate school project that the world really needed to know about, to go. That was the way it was in the neighborhood. Go or be out of step, be different, be a red or pink maybe.  Frank Ricco, the so-called token Eye-talian, of the Irish-laden Salducci’s corner boy night (and a kid that Tonio actually hated, some kind of Mafioso, omerta thing with his father) also displayed super-human brave talk that 1964 night but he, at least, was credited , not so many months later, with not only going in the Marines but of seeing some heavy-duty action in jungle-infested Kontum, and some other exotic and mainly unpronounceable places farther south in the water-logged rice paddles of the Mekong Delta of Vietnam.

Quiet, quieter than Johnny Prescott when he was thinking of Chrissie in the old corner boy night, or Fritz, then sullenly furious at his mother or at his hard-scrabble fate, or both, was Johnny Callahan. Johnny no stranger to corner boy controversy, no stranger to patriotic sentiments, at least publicly to keep in step with his boys, secretly hated war, the idea of that war in Vietnam coming up and was seriously hung up on the Catholic “just war” theory that had been around since at least Saint Augustine, maybe earlier. See Johnny had a grandmother (and also a mother, but less so) who was an ardent Catholic Worker reader and adherent to their social philosophy. You know, Dorothy Day and that crowd of rebel Catholics wanting to go back to the old, old days, the Roman persecution days, of the social gospel and the like.

And grandmother had the “just war” theory down pat. She had been the greatest knitter of socks for “the boys” during World War II that the world may have ever known. But on Vietnam she was strictly “no-go, no-go, no way” and she was drilling that in Johnny’s head every chance she got (which was a lot since Johnny, having, well let’s call it “friction” with his mother, the usual  teenage angst friction, sought refuge over at grandma’s). Now grandma was pressing Johnny to apply for conscientious objector status (CO) but Johnny knew that as a Catholic, a lapsing Catholic but still a Catholic, the formal “just war” theory of that church would not qualify him for CO status. He wanted to, expected to, just refuse induction. So that rounded out that party that night. Hell, maybe in retrospect it wasn’t such a great party, although blame the times not Tonio for that.

Just then, as each member at the table thought his thoughts, started by Frankie’s remembrance someone from the other room called out, “pall-bearers, get ready.”

Postscript: Staff Sergeant John Phillip Prescott made the national news that 1968 year, that 1968 year of Tet, made the Life magazine photo montage of those killed in service in Vietnam on any given week. Johnny P.’s week was heavy with casualties so there were many photos, many looks of mainly working-class enlisted youth that kind of blurred together despite the efforts to recognize each individually. And, of course, Johnny P.’s name is now etched in black marble down in Washington, D.C. John Patrick Callahan served his two year “tour of duty” as federal prisoner 122204, at the Federal Correctional Institution, Allentown, Pennsylvania. The road less traveled, indeed.

***Reflection On A Veterans For Peace Memorial Day 2013 - A Remembrance Worthy Of The Day

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

To The Fallen-In Lieu Of A Letter

The mere mention of the name Veterans For Peace evokes images of hard-bitten ex-servicemen and women, many old, ramrod straight holding their beloved black and white peace dove-emblazoned banners flying proudly in all weathers. Of images of quickly written urgent and militant calls for withdrawal of American military personnel from conflicts somewhere in the bewildering number of places that this American government has planted its forces. And too images of relentless exposure of the thousand and one ways that this American government (and not just this government) tries to hide its atrocities against overwhelmed opponents and the innocent civilians who get caught up in the juggernaut. Those exercises of our democratic and moral obligations are what drives VFP most days but I want to put politics aside this day, or put them aside at least long enough to speak of another role that we have taken on over the past several years here in Boston on Memorial Day, a day of remembrance for our fallen.

Others can address, and eloquently, the origins and purposes of the day, a task that usually would come easily to this writer. Others will throw symbolic flowers into our beloved homeland the sea, into Boston Harbor, to give somber recognition to the fallen of current conflicts. Still others in other commemorations can, and will, speak of valor, honor, duty and unquestioned obedience to orders accompanied by the far-away tattoo of drums, the echo of the distant roar of cannon, cannon headed to some unmarked destination, and the whish and whirl as an unseen overhead airplane unloads it sacrilegious payload.

Today I choose though to speak of long ago but not forgotten personal remembrance, and to give name to that remembrance. To give name, James Earl Jenkins, old North Adamsville rough-house Irish neighborhoods friend and fellow of many boyhood adventures not all fit for public mention, a name now blood-stone etched in Vietnam War memorial black marble down in Washington, D.C. To give name, Kenneth Edward Jackman, my brother and James’ friend also, a name not etched in black stone but a causality of war nevertheless who, despite his fervent desire, “never made it back to the real world” from his tour in “Nam and spent his shortened lonely life reliving the past.

James and Kenneth, what happened to each of them and why, take on special meaning today as I utter their names publicly from the misty past for the first time in a long time because those names link to those we remember today. Not just those, like James, who served under whatever conditions and for whatever personal reasons, those seem beside the point just now served died, but those  like my brother, those who do not show up in any official casualty report but all those nevertheless damaged by the close-hand experience of war.

But enough of this, as it only brings another saddened tear. But, as well, enough of war.

***Why I Will Be Standing In Solidarity With Private Bradley Manning At Fort Meade Maryland On Saturday June  1^st At 1:00PM- A Personal Note From An Ex-Soldier Political Prisoner

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman  

A couple of years ago  (2011) I wrote a little entry in this space in order to motivate my reasons for standing in solidarity with a March 20th rally in support of Private Bradley Manning at the Quantico Marine Base in Virginia where he was then being held. I have subsequently repeatedly used that entry, Why I Will Be Standing In Solidarity With Private Bradley Manning At Quantico, Virginia On Sunday March 20th At 2:00 PM- A Personal Note From An Ex-Soldier Political Prisoner, as a I have tried to publicize his case in blogs and other Internet sources, at various rallies, and at marches, most recently at the Veterans For Peace Saint Patrick’s Day Peace Parade in South Boston on March 17th.

After I received information from the Bradley Manning Support Network about the latest efforts on Private Manning’s behalf, an International Day Of Solidarity on June 1^st at Fort Meade, Maryland as he prepares for his June 3^rd trial date scheduled for April 24th and 25th in Washington and Fort Meade respectively I decided that I would travel south to stand once again in proximate solidarity with Brother Manning at Fort Meade.  As one would expect when the cause is still the same, Bradley Manning's freedom, unfortunately most of the entry is still in the same key. And will be until the day he is freed by his jailers. And I will continue to stand in proud solidarity with Brother Manning until that great day.
*****

Of course I will be standing at the front gate to the Fort Meade , Maryland on April 25th because I stand in solidarity with the actions of Private Bradley Manning in bringing to light, just a little light, some of the nefarious doings of this government, Bush-like or Obamian. If he did such acts they are no crime. No crime at all in my eyes or in the eyes of the vast majority of people who know of the case and of its importance as an individual act of resistance to the unjust and barbaric American-led war in Iraq. I sleep just a shade bit easier these days knowing that Private Manning (or someone) exposed what we all knew, or should have known- the Iraq war and the Afghan war justification rested on a house of cards. American imperialism’s gun-toting house of cards, but cards nevertheless.

Of course I will also be standing at the front gate of Fort Meade, Maryland on April 25th because I am outraged by the treatment meted out to Private Manning, presumably an innocent man, by a government who alleges itself to be some “beacon” of the civilized world. Bradley Manning had been held in solidarity at Quantico and other locales for over 500 days, and has been held without trial for much longer, as the government and its military try to glue a case together. The military, and its henchmen in the Justice Department, have gotten more devious although not smarter since I was a soldier in their crosshairs over forty years ago.

Now the two reasons above are more than sufficient for my standing at the front gate at Fort Meade on April 25th although they, in themselves, are only the appropriate reasons that any progressive thinking person would need to show up and shout to the high heavens for Private Manning’s freedom. I have an additional reason though, a very pressing personal reason. As mentioned above I too was in the military’s crosshairs as a citizen-soldier during the height of the Vietnam War. I will not go into the details of that episode, this comment after all is about brother soldier Manning, other than that I spent my own time in an Army stockade for, let’s put it this way, working on the principle of “what if they gave a war and nobody came”.

Forty years later I am still working off that principle, and gladly. But here is the real point. During that time I had outside support, outside civilian support, that rallied on several occasions outside the military base where I was confined. Believe me that knowledge helped me get through the tough days inside. So on April 25th I will be just, once again, as I have been able to on too few other occasions over years, paying my dues for that long ago support. You, Brother Manning, are a true winter soldier. We were not able to do much about the course of the Iraq War (and little thus far on Afghanistan) but we can move might and main to save the one real hero of that whole mess.

Private Manning I hope that you will hear us and hear about our rally in your defense outside the gates. Better yet, everybody who reads this piece join us and make sure that he can hear us loud and clear. And let us shout to high heaven against this gross injustice-Free Private Bradley Manning Now!