Baby Killers

I leave this for your descendants

For your ears are deaf and your eyes blind

Your children will carry your names with bowed heads

This generation of vipers will pass

You will carry this legacy as a badge of calumny

It will be a testimony to your perfidy

No name calling is required

Every child who survives will remember

I want to go Apollo Creed on you all

I want to seize your false piety and warped dreams of Armageddon

And scream, WHAT’S THE MATTER WTH YOU?

I was raised on these stories

Munich, Hitler, poor Anne Frank

who should be a happy Jewish grandmother

Interspersed with moments of glory—ahh, Entebbe!

Reality would intrude little by little, exploding in Lebanon

Yet no one asks why

Why do they hate each other?

Animosity does not arise from nothing

We’re never taught to ask why

Only to choose sides, and it’d better be OUR SIDE or else

How many times have we seen these images

Emaciated shells that should be full and round

Flesh stretched tight over bones that should never be so pronounced

This is not God’s handiwork, this is no freak of nature

It is always deliberate

The speeches so full of platitudes

Oh, they were so convincing

But now I don’t know who you people are

Or what sick place you’re coming from

Our eyes are open, the masks have fallen

You people have debased our proud nation

Marco, Donnie you have shamed us

Joe, worst of all you taught me shame

Three years into your term and we’d have followed you, gladly

Thanks to you, old man, I’ve begun to shed my islamophobia

Would that you had ever done the same

Is it just children in general

Or do you despise babies who don’t quite look like you?

Is their complexion not quite right

Or is it just you?

Were your mothers this disdainful of life?

I would not waste retribution on your souls

I offer you something worse

I hope and pray that you will be forgotten

In days to come I wish it that your names,

Netanyahu, Trump, Biden

When they are spoken

Our descendants will rise from the ashes of civilization

And ask, Who? Sorry, those names don’t mean anything to me

You have created nothing

You have saved nothing

You have made NOTHING great again

May you be footnotes, barely registering

On the ledger of man’s inhumanity

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Remembering Jackson Browne’s Running on Empty (1978)

This album was sitting prominently on a bookshelf at our county library when were living in University Place, Washington in 1979. The cover grabbed me; art is more impactful when its spread over a 12-inch surface and not squashed onto a five inch CD case. I took it home in a paper bag. Back then I walked everywhere, even to school.  

My memory is that I loved that album; maybe I loved some tracks more than others. I wasn’t too familiar with Jackson Browne. I blame FM radio. The only song I’d ever heard from him was back in our house in Fircrest, “Doctor My Eyes”, back in 1972—six years before! I hear “The Pretender” on my store’s radio network NOWADAYS, but most AM-FM stations only played the hits. Critics may have loved him, but most of us (myself at least) were oblivious. After 1979 and checking out that LP, I was more aware of Browne and paying attention more when his songs hit the airwaves.     

This LP was recorded on the road, either in concert or into hotel rooms, backstage in at least one case (“Nothing but Time”) on a bus in New Jersey on the way to another gig. Basically it was a travelogue of musicians, by musicians, about life on the road. “Running on Empty”, “The Load-Out” & “Stay” were recorded live at Meriweather Post Pavillion in Columbia, Maryland. “You Love the Thunder” was performed at Garden State Arts Center in Holmdel, New Jersey, while “Love Needs a Heart” was taped in Universal City, California.

Some songs were meant to stick out. The big hit getting airplay in the summer of ’78, along with the music from Grease, was “The Load-Out”, which segued into a cover of Maurice Williams & the Zodiac’s “Stay”. “Stay” was the A-side of a double sided single, backed on vocals by Rosemary Butler and David Lindley on falsetto in the second verse. (To be fair, the Zodiac’s version was short at 1 minute, 36 seconds long).     

Other tunes I no longer appreciate on principle, such as “Cocaine”, recorded in a hotel room at a Holiday Inn in Illinois. Having seen the damage drugs had done to my family in the ‘70’s, I’m finding myself of the permissiveness, and also sad for all the artists buried by their addictions.        

Some songs I understand better, now that I’m older, especially the title song. No that I’m a musician, but I can relate. The verses make sense in a general way, like this one:

I look around for the friends that I sued to turn to to pull me through/     

Lookin’ into their eyes, I see them runnin’ too

Blue Oyster Cult: Some Enchanted Evening (1978)

I found this in one of those cut-out bins at a local drug store in 1979; that must have been 45 plus years ago. I don’t know why it was in a cut-out bin, it was an extraordinary album. It was my first experience with Blue Oyster Cult. Apparently, the best way to listen to this band is in a live setting. It’s actually their second live LP, after 1975’s On Your Feet or On Your Knees. This record’s only sin is that at 38 minutes, it’s too damn short.     

The classic line-up is here—Buck Dharma on guitars, Eric Bloom on vocals & stun guitar (whatever the hell that is), Allen Lanier on keyboards, Joe Bouchard on bass, and his older brother Albert Bouchard on drums. Four of the numbers are from their most recent albums (‘R.U. Ready to Rock’ and ‘Godzilla’ from Spectres (1977), and ‘E.T.I. (Extra Terrestrial Intelligence’ and ‘(Don’t Fear) the Reaper’ from Agents of Fortune (1976)). Only one song originates from their early albums (‘Astronomy’, from Secret Treaties (1974), but then they’d only released five albums at this point. The last two numbers are cover tunes.

The cover reaches out and grabs you. The Grim Reaper rides a black horse over a desert landscape. T.R. Shorr (ie, Todd Shorr) painted it based on a concept by Hillary Vermont and Marty Pekar, with Andrea Klein for the sleeve design. This album recalls the times in the 1970’s when Metal gave the impression of obscure meanings in mystic lyrics.   

This was recorded at different venues, for instance at the Fox Theatre, Atlanta, Georgia (‘R.U. Ready to Rock’ & ‘Kick Out the Jams’); the Columbus Municipal Auditorium in Columbus, Georgia (‘E.T.I.’ & ‘Astronomy’), both in April, 1978; New Castle City Hall in the UK, June 1, 1978 (‘Godzilla’ & ‘We Gotta Get Out of This Place’). ‘(Don’t Fear) the Reaper’ was recorded live at Barton Coliseum, Little Rock, Arkansas on April 9, 1978.

The show launches off with a kick-ass rendition of ‘R.U. Ready to Rock’ and never lets up on the momentum. Donald “Buck Dharma” Roesner cranks out some masterful solos without a trace of the self-indulgence Led Zeppelin was known for. Not one song overstays its welcome. I didn’t know MC5 growing up, but I think BOC took their version of ‘Kick Out the Jams’ and made it their own.      

I first heard ‘Godzilla’ on one of those late-night rock concert shows they had in the 70s, Night Flight maybe, with a Godzilla head bobbing in the background. I couldn’t believe somebody had actually done a song about him. I’ve always been a Godzilla fan, having watched a lot of admittedly dubbed movies on Saturday afternoon reruns. That song captures the grandeur and sheer terror, the force of nature that is Godzilla.     

Everybody knows (Don’t Fear) the Reaper’; it’s the only BOC song they’ll play on the radio these days. This performance from Arkansas is more energetic than what we heard on vinyl. Eric Bloom channels Eric Burdon’s vocals on the closer, “We Gotta Get Out of This Place”, and it’s just possible BOC exceeds the Animals on this tune. I know there’s an expanded version on CD somewhere out there, but this LP remains a treasured favorite. You need to try it sometime.

Review: Washington: A Life by Ron Chernow (2010)

Some Presidents age better under scrutiny than others. Despite well-known faults, I’ve found that a John F. Kennedy or Abraham Lincoln holds up the more I read about them, and in fact my opinion may actually improve. As far as Richard Nixon goes, the more I read the more appalled I become.

George Washington has always been a hero of mine. I found myself lured back to Ron Chernow’s massive biography because frankly I’ve become disillusioned with the whole party system in this country, especially the cult of personality around one man undeserving of our devotion. Reverting to backwards customs and prejudices best left in the 19th Century is not the way forward and will not advance our nation’s progress. Reminding ourselves of the integrity, decency and civility of the Founding Fathers, as well as their faults, might engender some much-needed humanity in our future leaders.

This biography is dense but engaging. In terms of bias, the author is clearly in love with his subject, though he’s not shy about expounding on his contradictions and failings. While Washington didn’t originate radical ideas, he had valuable coaches in the Revolutionary period like George Mason, and once these ideas were formulated he was able to express them eloquently. Reading about Washington, I miss the grace and humility of our forefathers. Although he began the Revolutionary War with disdain for the soldiers he had to work with, by the end of the war he had so thoroughly bonded with them, they could truly be considered this country’s first ‘band of brothers.’

Young and brash, he was only 21 when he involuntarily launched a world war, the Seven Years war, known in America as the French and Indian war. The death of the French ambassador led to a humiliating defeat at Fort Discovery, a swampy piece of land poorly situated for defense. He learned from the experience but British General Edward Braddock was unwilling to listen.

At the Battle of the Monongahela River, Braddock’s reliance on European imperial battle tactics was defeated by the frontier tactics of Native Americans and the French. Braddock fell back dying while his men deserted en masse. Washington had two horses shot out from under him yet somehow seemed impervious to harm—well, despite the fact that he went into battle exhausted from dysentery. By the time he retired from military service at the age of 26, he’d survived smallpox, pleurisy, malaria and dysentery. For a time he settled into domestic tranquility by marrying the widow Martha Custis in 1757.

The Revolutionary War period takes up the better part of the book, as it should. He served eight years as commander in chief of the Continental Army. By 1780 Washington was stymied by lack of support from state legislatures and “Congressional ineptitude.” He repeatedly had to exhort Congress and the states to remedy desperate shortages of men, shoes, shirts, blankets and gunpowder. This meant dealing with selfish, apathetic states and “bureaucratic incompetence in Congress.” Sound familiar?

After the war, his hopes for a peaceful retirement last only four years, after which he was drafted as president of the convention to devise the Constitution, then essentially drafted as the first President of the United States. He was aware the world was watching everything he did as President and set precedents for the conduct of future Presidents that mostly held.

Jean-Antoine Houdon life sculpture of Washington, perhaps the best representation of how he actually looked.

The best one can say on one subject is that while privately he despised slavery, he was ambivalent about making any effort to eradicate it nationally or on his own plantation. He frequently displayed a schizophrenic application of liberty. One week after the first Continental Congress in October 1774, he sold off property on behalf of his partner George Mercer, including ninety of his slaves. His views evolved in the course of the war; his actions were negligible. The very existence of his plantation, Mount Vernon with its five farms bound him to that ‘peculiar institution’. He was only able to free his own slaves (not the dower slaves from the Custis estate) by writing it into his will.

Partisan infighting is no stranger to American politics. In his second term the press, especially the Aurora, had pretty much declared open season on Washington, denigrating him in ways that would make Fox News blush. In the course of his two terms, he was backstabbed by Jefferson, Madison and Monroe, as well as Thomas Paine, who never learned to tamp down his revolutionary fervor. In his notes on an early draft of his Farewell Address, he complained that the newspapers “teemed with all the invective that disappointment, ignorance of facts, and malicious falsehoods could invent to misrepresent my politics.”

The most important precedent was his decision to step down after two terms. The Presidency is a killer job that wore down every man who answered the call of office. It’s important to remember at that time, in the 18th Century, no leader had ever voluntarily relinquished power. Not only did he surrender power, he welcomed the relief of that burden, looking forward to the bliss of retirement after two decades of public service.

Washington was not perfect. He took a great deal of time to come to decisions; he often suffered from feelings of inadequacy, both qualities I see in myself; and frankly he had a tendency to live beyond his means. It’s those imperfections that made him strive to better himself, make the best decisions possible. For that we should be grateful he was first in so many things, and that he put country before himself.

Houdon’s life bust of Washington.