137 Is a Natural Number Following 136 and Preceding 138

It is the 33rd prime number, and more than that, it is a Chen prime (and the fourth Stern prime.) It is the most common age of death mentioned in the Bible and in California, it is the penal code for an officer bribe to influence testimony. 137 is the numerical value of the Kabbalah and it might even lie at the heart of the Grand Unified Theory.

137 is also the page where you will find my poem "Plus a Lineup" in the second issue of Black Moon Magazine. All praise 137!

Brooklyn Is Berning, Bernie Sanders’ First Campaign Rally: A Review

He's above the blue hoodie

Of course it had to snow. As Bernie Sanders would put it, we got Vermont weather in honor of his visit to Brooklyn. Of course, it’s not that strange to get snow in March. Oregon Trail taught me that, which is why it’s better to leave Independence, Missouri in April. We think somehow because there’s been a change in the page of the calendar, spring is suddenly supposed to be here. March is as good as May, just as early September should be exactly like late November. Nevertheless, I went to the rally this Saturday at Brooklyn College.

Authentic Brooklyn snow

I couldn’t trust the sidewalks. Otherwise I would’ve walked there. Many of them were slushy and icy, while every intersection seemed to have the kind of puddles made famous by Groundhog Day. That meant using the buses or trains to get to the rally. I opted for the train since taking buses involved transfers, and I would be above ground, dealing with the cold and snow all over again. But using a train wasn’t’ a quick fix either. Thanks to the legacy of Manhattan’s imperialism over Brooklyn, there wasn’t a direct way to get there. All lines lead into the city, instead of crisscrossing the borough. I had to take the Q north, then get on the 2, and using Atlantic Avenue as a slingshot to get down to the campus.

The weather gave me mixed feelings. I’m not sure if there’s a name for it. The snow was a disappointment on one hand, and a blessing for me on the other. I wanted there to be a big turnout so the event would be a success and get coverage. On the other hand, I wanted fewer people there so I could get a good view. It’s like how you want everyone in the world to use public transportation, just not when you want to get on the train or the bus. When I reached the end of the 2 line and got off, I saw lots of people moving with me. That was the first time I got a sense of how many people were going to the rally. It was a lot.

Of course, none of us knew exactly where to go or how to get in. As I left the Flatbush Avenue Station, I headed into the part of Brooklyn I call Little America. Traffic was coming in all directions and Berniecrats stumbled around looking for the college. Eventually, I got my bearings and found a side street that took me to the entrance. That was not enough though, there was a line to get in, and it snaked around the block and then some. I’d never seen anything like it before. It just went on and on with no end in sight. At one point I thought maybe I would end up all the way in Canarsie, or Dead Horse Bay, freezing and hardly feeling the Bern.

I didn’t have to travel that far, but it was still a good distance. Good for Bernie, I thought, good for America, bad for me, but then again, I too am America or something like that. It was hard not to be in a Whitmanesque mood. Everyone was upbeat, including the campaign volunteers. Even the people selling buttons stuck to umbrellas seemed happier than normal, as well as the cranks shoving newspapers and poorly xeroxed manifestos in our faces. Sure it was cold and wet, with snow clinging to the branches. Nevertheless there was a sense of excitement and anticipation.

It only grew as the line inched closer to the East Quad, the site of the rally. The path to the event was lined with campaign volunteers who thanked us all for coming, then high-fived us. I admit I was a little restrained at first. What was I getting myself into here? So many genuine people, what was the catch? As a Millennial, I’m not used to such displays without a catch. I remember plenty of occasions of forced fun throughout my years in school, college, work retreats, and summer camp bondings. Energy and enthusiasm for the lamest of things like new regulation coasters, corporate sponsored trust falls, and cheers about how one particular student government association was going to kick the ass of another particular student government association.

In my head I went through the possibilities. Was I being led into a cult? I know a thing or two about them and I couldn’t say this was one. There were no matching uniforms or rhetoric. I heard no code words and twisted forms of grammar. I had a clear example of a cult outside of the event too. In addition to the members of other Leftwing groups, there were LaRouche supporters. I saw them while I was waiting in line to get in. One of them had a sign that read: THE GREEN NEW DEAL IS SUICIDE. Another had a shirt that asked WHO IS LYNDON H. LAROUCHE? “A dead man!” I wanted to yell at him, but I didn’t. (Don’t engage with LaRouche supporters folks, just blast music at a non-scientific pitch at them).

The other possibility? My mind went to Disney. That’s the only other example I had to go with. All these smiling people, excited, and welcoming me forward, they were leading me to Bernieland. Or maybe Sandersworld. On the other side of the gate would be rides and games. I could play whack-a-Bezos and go on the equality-coaster, which would just go in a circle on a level track. Of course, this idea was nonsense. As soon as I reached the East Quad, I saw nothing but signs, bleachers, flags, and a crowd of people nervously waiting for Bernie to take the stage. This is what faith in democracy looks like, I guess.

It was a diverse group, though it was younger and Whiter than Brooklyn as a whole. It was still a far cry from the stereotypes from 2016. College-aged Berniebros were there for sure but their voices didn’t dominate or drown out anyone else during the event. I saw people from all walks of life from the borough, including people too young to vote. There was also a snowman covered in merchandise for the campaign. Bernie Snowmanders, if you will.

The Whitest Berniebro 

The event opened with the Star-Spangled Banner. It reminded me how much I hate the Star-Spangled Banner. It’s a terrible tune about a mostly forgotten war that expresses nothing of value about America. We fought, the flag was still there, we’re great. Don’t ask any questions about the people in chains living in the shacks next to the home of the brave. Plus it just leads to people showing off when they can manage to sing it. I wasn’t sure why Bernie needed to open with it or who would be convinced by it. I mean, who is on the fence thinking he’s the incarnation of Lenin but would support him now because of that song? From now on it’s going to be This Land Is Your Land (including the verse about private property), and nothing else.

A series of speakers went before Bernie. I understand why they were there and they all said good things. However, it was cold and I wish the introductions were a little bit shorter. I’m sure everybody prepared their remarks for warmer weather. Jane Sanders went on and talked about Bernie’s roots in Brooklyn. I learned about Bernie’s support for a strike in Pennsylvania from a union official, and received pep talks from Nina Turner and Terry Alexander. Shaun King spoke about Bernie’s history in the Civil Rights movement in the 1960s. I learned about his protests against the Willis Wagons, which were substandard trailers used to house Black students in overcrowded redlined schools in Chicago.

Waiting for Bernie

Throughout the whole time, any mention of Brooklyn led to massive cheers from everyone, because it’s the law that when somebody says Brooklyn, people from there have to make noise. None of the other boroughs do this, I think. Anyway, this habit backfired at least for one person in the crowd. Shaun said that Bernie was “born in Brooklyn, the year the Holocaust started.” He paused after saying Brooklyn, and somebody cheered right after, which made it sound they were happy about the Holocaust. Who knows if that will be used for fodder to claim Sanders or his supporters are anti-Semites?

Then it was finally time for Bernie. I was losing feeling in my fingers, but I soldiered on. I had a rolled-up copy of the Independent and used it to make noise by rapping against my hands. That kept the frostbite at bay. I didn’t have a sign and I don’t know where they came from. They were everywhere though, and they came out to welcome the candidate. I was fortunate to have a good view of Bernie and saw him embrace his wife while surrounded by a sea of signs. They were white or blue, and the blue was either, sky, navy, or Dodger. It was a nice image. Sometimes you come across them in real life and wonder if you’re in a movie.

Bernie looked energetic, although I could see the pink in his face all the way from the back of the East Quad. At one point we began chanting his name and he shushed us. It was not about him, he said, it was about us and what we were going to do together. He pulled no punches and went after Trump directly. However, he didn’t just go on and on about norms and how the Orange man was bad. He made his attacks and then pivoted to the kind of campaign he wanted to run and what he was running for. He mentioned Medicare for All, college for everyone, a reduction in American intervention abroad, criminal justice reform, a $15 minimum wage, ending the Drug War,  and making it easier for workers to join a union.

We were all enthused, cheering, shouting, clapping, and pumping fists. I never thought I would ever get to hear a major party candidate say these things, and use this kind of rhetoric. Of course, he did in 2016 as well, but here I was in public, hearing it directly from Bernie Sanders. Talking about labor rights, and the struggle against the oligarchy in particular. Plus the military industrial complex. Who was the last to sue that phrase? Kucinich in 2008?  No vague platitudes and bromides about “opportunity” and the “American Dream.” A real vision and a road map to getting us to the kind of hope we need and real change we can use. Did he whip out charts and crunch the numbers in front of us? Certainly not.

This was no TED Talk. This was no corporate presentation. This was something more. It was a rally, in the sense that it gathered us together and boosted our beleaguered spirits. But it also needs to be pointed out that it was all about the ideas. Sanders had no slick production behind him (there were no Bernie Babe Dancers). He wasn’t young and bouncing around the stage, his hair was white, thin, and disheveled in the wind. There were no pithy or memorable turns of phrase. Just as in 2016, we were for Bernie because of the vision, not the man. It’s something a lot of pundits and commentators still fail to understand. He has charisma through his ideas, not apart from them.

After Sanders left the stage, we shuffled out through the campus. The Doobie Brothers’ “Takin It to the Streets” played overhead. Perhaps it was a nod to Sanders call for decriminalization of marijuana. It was followed by Jon Lennon’s “Power to the People” and Neil Young’s “Rockin’ in the Free World.” All of these superior to the Star-Spangled Banner. It was jarring to leave the collective warmth of the Brooklyn College campus for the hustle and bustle of Little America (i.e. Flatbush Junction). I watched as people carried their Sanders signs through the neighborhood and did their best to disburse. Some people waved the signs at the cars and buses, others held them close.

Since all the places to eat were packed by Berniecrats, I started walking back to Ditmas Park. The snow had started to melt, and I thought I could make it smoothly along the sidewalks. But it hadn’t melted enough. There were plenty of patches that remained, along with piles blocking the intersections. People hadn’t shoveled and it left glistening hazards behind. I guess it was evidence against the twin pillars of today’s Left. The snow was proof Global Warming is a hoax, and the fact nobody wanted to remove it showed Bernie Sanders’ socialism can’t work. Checkmate liberals...

...nevertheless the specter of Communism still haunts us

FREE RADICALS!

Spend the night with them and other poems at the Basil O'Flaherty Review

An American Diplomat in Franco Spain: A Book Review

An American Diplomat in Franco Spain by Michael Aaron Rockland (paperback, 178 pages, Hansen) is a memoir from a former member of the Foreign Service who was stationed in Spain during the late 1960s, a period of time when the country was still under the dictatorship of Francisco Franco. The work is a quick read and filled with many amusing anecdotes along with comparisons between the American and Spanish ways of life. Several famous figures make an appearance within its pages as well as a first-hand account of a military disaster that threatened to become Spain's version of Chernobyl. However, Rockland's work has a tendency to digress into observations about the present as well as his life back in the States after serving in Spain. Both of these make the book seem padded for length. In addition, even though the term "Franco" and "Spain" are in the title, the memoir itself deals little with the everyday reality of life under the Caudillo. 

At the heart of the memoir is the story of a young diplomat's struggle to put his personal politics and beliefs aside to serve his country abroad. When Rockland arrives in Spain, he is overjoyed to be in a land whose language and culture he admires, but he is dismayed having to work with a fascist regime his parents raised him to oppose. Making matters worse, Rockland often encounters ex-Nazis the government is sheltering at routine diplomatic functions. Rockland does try to resist as best he can without becoming a persona non grata.  In one scene for instance, the author manages to sneak out of having to shake Franco's hand when the dictator comes to an event and the other diplomats have to stand in a line to greet him. As his time at the embassy goes on, Rockland's idealism wears away and when he is transferred from Madrid to Saigon, he decides to leave the Foreign Service for good.   

But he makes the most of his time in Spain and treats the reader to a series of amusing anecdotes and encounters.  As an aspiring writer, Rockland visits the haunts of Ernest Hemingway and meets a female bullfighter who has a secret theory that explains why the famed author killed himself.  Meanwhile, he engages in a battle of wills and wits with his neighbor's dog, whose owners he suspects of being Nazis exiled from Romania.  He also learns to adapt to his position as a Jew in Spain, which means clarifying numerous misconceptions among the Spanish, such as Jews having horns. For his part, he learns not to take offense at such things as the costumes of the Semana Santa despite their resemblance to those worn by certain groups back home. In a particularly fascinating turn of events, Rockland's son auditions for and wins a role in the movie Dr. Zhivago, which was filmed in Spain. 

Through his position at the embassy, Rockland gets to meet some of the important people of the era. One of these is Martin Luther King Jr. The author acts as an unofficial interpreter and assistant to the civil rights leader while he stops in Spain for a brief visit as part of a tour of Europe. In their time together, Rockland gives King a lesson in geography and helps him get over a bout of diarrhea.  King makes Rockland realize his own prejudices, particularly against the South, and that Black Southerners are as much a part of the region and its culture as are its Whites. A little while later, the diplomat meets Ted Kennedy and largely performs the same role for him, except that he also gets to serve as the senator's social companion. This comes with the downside of having to pick up the Senator's bar tab, which serves as another reality check for Rockland because it was his idolization of JFK which lead him into the Foreign Service in the first place.  He is also involved with the diplomatic response to the Palomares incident when a B-52s collided with a Stratotanker over Spain during a refueling mission. The collision caused the bomber to inadvertently drop several hydrogen bombs which had to be retrieved without setting off mass panic. In the end, Rockland went for a swim off the coast with Ambassador Angier Biddle Duke to assuage concerns about radioactivity   

Despite these picaresque incidents and others, they are not enough to justify a book-length treatment for Rockland's years in Spain. All too often, the chapters are bulked up with gratuitous asides which take the reader out of Franco's Spain (or Francoist Spain, why "Franco Spain" was chosen for the title is a mystery) and into the present with only the flimsiest link to the author's experiences in late sixties Madrid. Sometimes the asides can be interesting, such as his observations on bullfighting and tipping, but they still digress, along with his idea to have special personal ads for garlic eaters. All too often, Rockland tackles topics such as Columbus, cosmopolitanism in America, the Protestant work ethic, and our changing terms for Black Americans, instead of discussing the nature of the dictatorship he had to work with.  

An American Diplomat in Franco Spain starts out strong but finishes weak. Perhaps Rockland could have made his memoir about the sixties in general instead of his time in Spain since he often references what he was doing during the decade before and after his tenure in Madrid. He mentions the Kennedys, hearing Bob Dylan for the first time, working in South Vietnam, and dealing with campus strife, all subjects which could be elaborated upon to form a more perfect memoir. It would certainly give Rockland an opportunity to dig through his personal archives to find more interesting pictures. The photographs supplied for the book mainly feature him in a variety of seated poses, either by himself at a desk, or next to older men proudly crossing their legs to show off bit of calf.  

Happy Belated Birthday, Bukowski

Sometimes I get the strange urge to throw certain terms into Google and search for them. I suppose it is a projection of my psyche at the time. A writer could keep a record of them and they could create a sort of portrait, like an artist throwing paint against a canvas or a wall. Often I just type in "Jew," which must make me a secret Hebrew or paranoid Aryan, or perhaps both. Either way I'm part of a chosen people. Maybe I just find it amusing that it is one of the only search terms that comes with a warning when you type it in. I guess having an explanation backfires in a way though, it makes Google appear to be part of the massive worldwide Zionist conspiracy (which I believe has something to do with replacing fish sticks with gefilte fish.)

Not to sound like too much of a weirdo, I will throw in terms such as "Italy," "Italian," "Beatnik," and "Jack Chick" for good measure as well. I also throw in the last names of writers and poets to see what I come up with, often appending their surnames with phrases such as "alcohol," "booze," "sex," or "scansion." The other day I had Bukowski on the mind and maybe it was the alignment of the planets, but it turned out that it was his birthday. Charles Bukowski died in 1994 and would be 91 if he were alive today. I doubt he could ever have made it this far, but the fact he got to his seventies was quite a feat considering the, ahem, liquid diet he adhered to.

Nevertheless, after typing in his name, I found a lot of interesting material on Bukowski that has recently been released on the Internet. Some of it consciously posted because of the birthday, but much of it probably accidental. Clearly the planets are at work, not just on me, but others as well. YouTube has a few new videos that are either about Bukowski or else feature him in some way and give a fascinating glimpse into the writer and his world. First, someone has posted an early reading of Bukowski at Bellevue College in Washington. Through the grainy footage we seen him before he became well-known.

In this documentary from Taylor Hackford in 1973, a different Bukowski shows up on film. Here is the Bukowski that emerged from the success of his first novel Post Office, full of swagger, confidence, and completely absorbed by his public persona and reputation. The film traces Bukowski from LA to San Francisco, where he gives a reading put on Lawrence Ferlinghetti. If nothing else, it is a fascinating glimpse of the underground West Coast poetry scene in the early 1970s, after the rise and fall of the San Francisco Renaissance but before the Slam poetry revolution.   

Lastly, I came across a documentary that Bukowski narrated some time in the 1980s about the "best hotel on skid row." While Bukowski never spent much time on Skid Row, despite the legends, he was certainly familiar enough with it.  Even though he never makes an appearance, the documentary shows the kind of people and places who populate much of his work. I think it's an interesting idea that could be utilized more often, having a writer or any other kind of artist, narrating a documentary about the world that inspired them and informed their work, without making any specific reference to themselves.

Observation of the Day

When this Manuel Miranda guy talks about Elena Kagan, he sounds like Alvy Singer from Annie Hall:


"She comes from that background. I grew up in New York, she grew up in New York. I'm very familiar with the sort of Jewish socialist culture in New York, which has an enormous pedigree, has done wonderful things in promoting a way of life and developing American society, but at the end of the day is still socialist."

(go to 4:14 on the video for the reference)