I’m slowly getting accustomed to life in South Brooklyn. Bay Ridge might wind up being the perfect neighborhood for me, in all of its remote and eccentric charm. It’s very quiet and beautiful down here, with the stately Verrazano bridge towering over everything. My own view of the bridge is minimal. You have to crane your neck out my bedroom window to see the very tippy-top of the eastern spire over an abandoned construction site.

The fog rolls off the harbor and blankets the neighborhood with a strangely comforting regularity. It can make driving over the Verrazano feel like walking through the London streets of a Jack the Ripper story. The foghorns of passing ships lull me to sleep, or gently awake me like the distant clickety-clack of the Long Island Rail Road in the house in which I grew up.

I can’t look at the rocket launch
The trophy wives of the astronauts

Bay Ridge is about as old timey as Brooklyn gets. The bridge connects two military bases. I’m not sure what’s still housed at Fort Hamilton except for a VA hospital, but the neighborhood is dotted with armed forces recruitment centers. The local barbershops offer free haircuts to servicemen, and front lawns still display their “Support the Troops” signs, faded and yellowed.

And I won’t listen to their words
’cause I like birds

I spend most of my time in New Jersey, or on the road, for work, so, so far, Bay Ridge is more of a bedroom community for me than much of a real home. I haven’t checked out nearly enough of the local restaurants and bars. I’m a little too reliant on take-out (particularly for a nabe lacking in any Mexican food).

I don’t care for walkin’ downtown
Crazy auto car gonna mow me down

The whole driving-between-Jersey-and-Brooklyn thing has made me even less keen on ever going in to Manhattan. My car’s been in the shop this week, so I’ve been having to take the N/R to Penn Station to take the Jersey Transit. It’s an inhuman squeeze.

Look at all the people like cows in a herd
Well, I like birds

Our Congressional district is lumped in with Staten Island, and, until last year, we were the only district in NYC to send a Republican to Congress. Early on, while at brunch at a local pub, I overheard a bunch of middle-aged bellyachers complaining about the upcoming MLK holiday and speculating that with our new (BLACK!!!) president it was the first of many such holidays. Next up, Huey P. Newton Day!

I can’t stand in line at the store
The mean little people are such a bore

duck took a while to get used to the new digs. While our we were in storage, waiting to close, we stayed in a studio apartment, which greatly comforted the clingy little beast. Now in a far more spacious two bedroom, she spent her first weeks getting lost in each new room and crying. Eventually, she rediscovered the joy of windows.

Although we are once again on the second floor, this time our windows face the quiet parking lot of a church, as opposed to a busy boulevard with buses driving noisily past. Up on the window sill, duck gets calmer and actually shuts up for a change. She seemed to take a particular interest in the birds.

But it’s all right if you act like a turd
’cause I like birds

I bought a bird feeder to encourage the wee winged ones to gather by our fire escape. The bird feed label promised to attract blue jays, cardinals and other “attractive outdoor pets” (as opposed to those dead common finches and pidgeons), and, boy, did it deliver.

If you’re small and on a search
I’ve got a feeder for you to perch on

I can’t yet name every variety of bird that’s stopped by my fire escape for a quick meal. I’m not quite at the point of buying a book to recognize them, although, it occurs to me that since grandma died it does fall to someone to be the family’s resident birdwatcher.

For now, I may content myself with hanging up a second feeder and filling it with a different kind of bird feed, just to see if I can increase the biodiversity of the fire escape. Maybe I’ll add a small plant, who knows?

I’ve got a feeder for you to perch on
Yeah, I’ve got a feeder for you to perch on

(Apologies to Mark Oliver Everett)

Finally watching Julian Temple’s revisionist Sex Pistols documentary, “The Filth and the Fury,” I get the feeling that perhaps I wasn’t cheated after all. Like many 15-year-olds, the Sex Pistols for me were a gateway to new rebellion and new friends. I bought every officially released note of music and a goodly amount of bootlegs, eagerly read every book or article I could about them and sought out every interview I could with John Lydon, as he was legally obligated to call himself back then. (In fact, I was tuning in to W-DRE for an interview with Lydon on the occasion of the publication of his new memoir when I learned of Kurt Cobain’s suicide.)

The Pistols had the kind of attitude that only a 15-year-old could love. Spitting, sneering swagger. Vague contempt for authority (who? why?). Non-conformist and no respect for rock-n-roll as an “Institution.”

And then you grow up, and you start to think that instead of being some kind of truth-telling iconoclastic leader, that maybe John Lydon (nee Rotten) is a wee bit autistic and just generally a prick. And perhaps a bunch of nabobs wearing identical black leather jackets and purple mohawks are victims of the worst kind of conformity. And perhaps rebellion requires a specific target and grievance. And, worst of all, perhaps punk rock, as ritualistic rebellion against record labels and Elvis Presley has become a kind of institution itself. And then the Sex Pistols regroup for a couple of cash-in nostalgia tours, and you put away your Pistols records for fifteen years or so.

Well, the music still packs a punch. And Lydon can still focus his withering rage with a laser-like focus (if only Temple could more specifically place the Pistols and the punk rock movement in their particular geopolitical moment). But, mostly, “The Filth and the Fury” finds surprising pathos in the pathetic story of John Simon Ritchie (nee Sid Vicious). Throughout the film, Temple weaves in an interview with Vicious recorded after the Pistols breakup but before his New York adventures. With a stupid bloody scab on his face, Vicious comes across as both a pathetic junky and the scared little kid (he couldn’t have been more than 19-years-old). He just seems so tragically overwhelmed by circumstances. The poor kid can’t even manage a poker face, a facade or even a no comment. Instead, he plainly and meekly complains that he doesn’t want to be a junky all his life, and describes in excruciating detail the pain of junk withdrawal. Elsewhere, some prescient videographer documents, the uneasy co-dependent co-existence he shared with groupie/murder victim Nancy Spungeon. If the tears that John Lydon chokes back in remembrance (far more effectively recorded in the shadows than if Temple had focused a spotlight) don’t get you choked up, then maybe you’re as black-hearted as the film’s villain, Malcolm McClaren, who profited from Sid’s pathetic end.

The film was good enough that it inspired me to rip my old Pistols CDs onto my digital audio player (no brand names, comrades). Would that someone would do for Nirvana for today’s 15-year-olds, fifteen years hence.

Nearly three years after organizing their union, the professional and support staff at Sussex County Community College have had to endure union-busting efforts and attacks on their free speech rights.

Take action by telling the college administration to respect their employees’ rights and bargain in good faith with the American Federation of Teachers, and join us on Tuesday, April 28 from 4:30 to 6:00 for a rally in support of the union at Sussex CCC.

Skylar Deleon should have waited five years. The former child actor (he was a bit player on “The Mighty Morphin Power Rangers,” not, alas, an actual Power Ranger) was sentenced to die by lethal injection for the murder of Thomas and Jackie Hawks. In November of 2004, Deleon responded to an advertisement that the Hawks had posted to sell their yacht, the Well Deserved (and, no, I’m not making this up), and joined them for a test drive (or whatever the nautical equivalent of a test drive is). When they got out into the ocean Deleon forced the Hawks to sign over the title to the yacht, tied the couple to an anchor and dropped them to the bottom of the ocean.

Deleon planned to get away from his financial problems and sail to Mexico. Apparently, after the “Power Rangers,” Deleon had a Forest Gump-like knack for stumbling through the cultural zeitgeist and swindled a living as a mortgage broker and “entrepreneur.” Today, a lot of us have financial problems, and owning a yacht is a luxury that people seem all-too-willing to walk away from. According to the NY Times, as boat owners face difficulty making payments on loans and dock slips, many owners are simply unmooring their boats and letting them float out to sea. These abandoned boats are an environmental hazard, and localities are rushing to pass laws to outlaw the abandonment of a sea vessel.

Florida officials say they are moving more aggressively to track down owners and are also starting to unclog the local inlets, harbors, swamps and rivers. The state appropriated funds to remove 118 derelicts this summer, up from only a handful last year.

In South Carolina, four government investigators started canvassing the state’s waterways in January. They quickly identified 150 likely derelicts.

[snip]

Crab Bank, a protected bird rookery in the harbor within sight of Fort Sumter, is home to a dozen derelicts — two sunken, two beached, the other eight still afloat. They range from houseboats to a two-masted sailboat.

It’s not hard to see where this trend will end up: Piracy! I’m only half-kidding. If a two-bit punk like Skylar Deleon could resort to double homicide and theft to realize a fantasy of sailing away to Mexico to continue a career of pettier larceny and confidence schemes during a relatively decent economy, what we’ve got now is a whole lot more desperate unemployed people out there, a small flotilla of houseboats, yachts and speedboats and the compelling example of the very successful Somali pirates.

I’m almost tempted to spit on my hands and hoist the black flag, myself. Of course, as a pacifist, I need to tweak the Somali model of piracy. Perhaps I could sail alongside civilian yachts, climb aboard, look really menacing and then announce that I have Snickers bars for sale “not to raise money for my basketball team or my school, but to put money in my pocket and keep me out of trouble.”

Eels frontman, E., has long mined personal tragedy to make uplifting art. Starting with 1997’s beautiful “Electro-Shock Blues,” a visceral elegy to the twin tragedies of his sister’s suicide and his mother’s death from cancer (events that occurred within months of his scoring his first big hit with “Novocain for the Soul”), and culminating with 2006’s sprawling “Blinking Lights (And Other Revelations),” E has incorporated his family biography into his music. But in the last two years, the erstwhile Mark Oliver Everett has gotten explicitly autobiographical. First, he hosted a documentary, which aired in the U.S. on PBS’ “Nova,” about his troubled genius of a father, Hugh Everett III, who directly challenged Niels Bohr with his “many worlds” theory and was crushed, professionally and spiritually, as a result. Finally, E published a sprightly memoir, “Things The Grandchildren Should Know,” late last year.

The book reveals Everett as a memoirist on par with Sedaris and as a smart ass philisopher who could hold his own with Vonnegut. The Vonnegut comparison is particularly apt. All that’s missing is the “So it goes” refrain as death compounds death. The tragic slow decline of his older sister is well-worn territory, but brings extra poignancy to both the book and the earlier eels LPs, while his bizarro accounts of a mad scientist father who spoke not more than a dozen sentences to his son during his life would be too fantastical, if it were not corroborated by the “Parallel Lives” documentary. Meanwhile, a beloved dg is put to sleep (so it goes), a ghost-watching neighbor unexpectedly passes (so it goes), a beloved roadie OD’s on heroin after a joke made in bad taste (so it goes) and a cousin is a flight attendant on the airplane that crashed into the Pentagon on 9/11 — probably into the side of the building where Everett’s dad once worked (so it goes and goes and goes).

There is a certain lump-in-the-throat quality to E’s memoir that is nicely cut with sweet reminiscences, plain-spoken confessions and good old fashioned piss and vinegar. There are few rock-n-rollers today who are as vital or as relevant as Everett. Would he to publish the Vol. 2 of his “Chronicles.” In the meantime, we can rejoice in the impending release of his first album of new material in four years, “Hombre Loco” (due out June 2nd).

The Employee Free Choice Act might have died this week. Arlen Specter refused a deal wherein labor unions would encourage their members who are registered Republicans to support the Senator in a tough primary in exchange for his vote for cloture. Instead, the entire Republican caucus will filibuster the Act. Now is as good a time as any to ask: Why did the entire labor movement choose to make the Employee Free Choice Act the all-or-nothing focus of labor law reform?

The Free Choice Act is a fairly narrow tweaking of a legal framework that has become a union-busting machine. It does nothing to address so-called “Right To Work” rules that allow scab workers to utilize union resources without paying a dime in dues. It does nothing to outlaw, or even curtail, the use of permanent replacement workers by employers during strikes and lockouts. It does nothing to repeal the sections of the Taft-Hartley and Landrum-Griffin Acts that outlawed union solidarity in the form of unions taking a fight with one employer to a related secondary employer. It does nothing to expand the right to organize to the millions of employees whose rights have been systematically stripped from the Act: supervisors, graduate employees, temps and on and on.

The Free Choice Act does provide for some financial penalties for employers who violate the terms of the act and the basic human rights of their employees. That would be put some teeth in a regulatory machinery that routinely gives employers a slap on the wrist for firing union activists. It would also curtail ability of an employer to thwart a successful unionization effort by subsequently going through the motions during bargaining and never agreeing to a first contract, by subjecting first contract negotiations to binding arbitration after three months. And, finally, it would allow unions to organize through majority sign-up procedures.

I’ve been organizing under a majority sign-up law in New Jersey for a few years now, successfully. Does it make organizing easier? Only slightly. In the private sector, card check has been used very successfully by UNITE HERE and SEIU, usually in combination with a neutrality agreement with the employer. Perhaps that combination of card check neutrality has dazzled too many labor leaders and caused us to put all our eggs in one EFCA basket.

Make no mistake: card check is not neutrality. Even with financial penalties, employers will still campaign against unionization. Employers will still fire union activists and threaten to go out of business. They will be fined, after the fact. In the meantime, union supporters will lose their resolve and give up. Under the curent framework, even after a majority (usually 60% or more) have voted for a union by signing authorization card, they still must vote a second time, some months later after enduring a phalanx of legal hearings, captive audience meetings and the firing of activists. All too often, when that second election is held, many of the employees who had signed cards are frightened into not voting or voting no. All that EFCA gives us, then, is that the initial cards count as the votes, and those votes are impounded at the National Labor Relations Board while the employer beats up and scares the shit out of the employees who voted for the union. EFCA will get you a bargaining unit, but it will not get you a union.

As best as I can tell, the fantasy is that moments after the Employee Free Choice Act is signed into law, the large industrial unions will send hundreds of organizers out into the field to collect cards at major employers in retail, shipping and even manufacturing – Wal-Mart, Toyota and so on – get the cards, get the bargaining unit and get get the first contracts by arbitration. Then, hopefully, with new dues resources, the unions would turn around and actually organize these new union members, gain thousands of new labor voters and press for greater reform. It sounds wonderful, but it it, I believe, a fantasy. Unfortunately, I don’t think that most unions are prepared to run major nationwide campaigns like that. At least not effectively. And at the AFT, the Free Choice Act will do very little for us since most of the private sector workers in our field are still not defined as “employees” under the act.

Gaining card check and doing little with it is far worse than never gaining it at all. Just think of how much fund the Wall Street Journal would have fun with that. Labor gets its dream bill to make organizing “easier” and workers still don’t sign up in droves. It seems to me far better to focus on winning fines against union-busting employers, compulsory arbitration for first contracts and expanding the Act to define as “employees” the workers in the information economy whose unionization is as crucial to labor today as General Motors’ was 70 years ago.

My hometown’s getting a bit of a black eye from the NY Times this weekend. On Friday, the Grey Lady published a profile of Bellerose (a few blocks from my Floral Park and “across the street from Nassau County,” take note), where our local drive-in Frozen Cup ice cream shop is being bulldozed to make way for a new sex hotel.

This is one of many changes, notes Times scribe James Angelos:

I played in a youth league at the Bellerose Lanes, mind you. My dad worked a part-time job there. I was sorry to see it go, if only because it’s damn hard to find a decent bowling alley in New York these days. Around the same time, two bowling alleys near my old Kew Gardens home also closed down, muscled out by new developers who will likely also replace them with hotels or office supply stores. And when I moved in to Bay Ridge, it was hot on the heels of a protest over the shuttering of the local Key Food grocery store to be replaced by – wait for it – a Waldgreens drug store, while the nearest supermarket, Coney Island’s Pathmark, is swamped with shoppers from four under-served adjacent neighborhoods. It’s all just capitalist development, no? Another example of Jane Jacobs’ theory of success driving out success when it comes to real estate development, leading to numbing homogeneity and the “death of great cities?”

But the Times smells something else at play. At that something else is the faint whiff of curry:

“They’re turning the neighborhood into a third-world country,” Mr. Augugliaro said. “We don’t want it over here to look like Richmond Hill or Jackson Heights,” he added, speaking of Queens neighborhoods with sizable South Asian populations.

As he spoke, Ms. Augugliaro shook her head in disapproval at some of his remarks, and he seemed to pick up on her unspoken criticism.

“I’m not a racist,” Mr. Augugliaro quickly added. In fact, he said, he was tired of the subject of race coming up so often. “What does race have to do with it?” he asked.

Indeed. What does race have to do with it? I have a strange sort of pride that the neighborhood I grew up in is now New York’s Little India; that slumming yuppies make pilgrimages to Floral Park to sample the vindaloo (pity my bland palate can’t handle the stuff); that my parents’ home has quintupled in value, and when they cease to live there, it will be painted purple and adorned with brushed nickel metal accents.

Others, like Mr. Augugliaro (whose name sounds familiar; I think he volunteers for the same community theater group as my folks), are threatened that the changes to the neighborhood look and talk different from the Irish and Italian stock that formerly constituted northeast Queens. But they are letting The Man pit us against each other. The problem is not that another generation of immigrants are pulling themselves up by the boot-straps, buying in to the community and adding a taste of curry to the proverbial melting pot. The problem is that land, and usage, and community service are for sale to the highest bidder, and that local real estate desperately needs some limits and controls placed on it, to ensure a continued diversity of use and community, and that the endless sea of Wal-Marts, Walgreens, Applebees and Home Depots are still dotted with the occasional bowling alley and ice cream shop so that our neighborhoods remain communities.

Too often Social Democrats are consumed by their grudges. Getting through the biographies they write about their heroes can be a tedious chore. Worse, the subjects of these biographies are poorly served by books that devote more attention to attacking enemies than defending their subjects’ virtues. Arch Puddington’s biography of Lane Kirkland is an egregious offender.

Kirkland, President of the AFL-CIO following George Meany’s retirement in 1979 until he was pushed out of office in the mid-1990’s, presided over an enormously difficult period for American labor. The decline in union density was accelerated by open hostility from the Reagan-Bush administration and a cottage industry of aggressive union-busting consultants, while corporate globalization shipped millions of unionized American jobs overseas. Kirkland’s reputation is as something of a Nero-type character who fiddled with anti-Communist foreign policy while Rome burned.

That is certainly an unfair over-generalization, but “Lane Kirkland: Champion of American Labor” does its subject no favors by devoting several large chapters – almost half the book – to championing Kirkland’s Cold War diplomacy, while tacking on a few dozen pages at the end to document Kirkland’s trade union achievements. Otherwise, Puddington’s book is about settling scores, but even here there is little useful scholarship. Names are invoked as a short-hand. Bella Abzug, without explanation is singled out as an example of hated “New Left” style politics, while Henry “Scoop” Jackson is similarly name-checked as the Great White Hope of the New Deal coalition.

Kirkland is deserving of a critical re-evaluation from a serious biographer, particularly in light of the fracture of the AFL-CIO during the Sweeney-era. It is literally true, as Puddington briefly notes, that the AFL-CIO was never more united, or could claim a larger number of members, than on the tenth anniversary of Lane Kirkland’s tenure as AFL-CIO President, thanks to his assiduous courtship of the unions that left the fold during the Meany years. It is ironic that the large unions that Kirkland wooed back into the House of Labor – the Teamsters, Auto Workers and Miners – played pivotal roles in the effort to oust Kirkland from office a few short years later. Unfortunately for the reader, Puddington shares no insight into the breakdown of support that Kirkland suffered amongst these unions.

To his credit, Kirkland was an early and insightful critic of NAFTA trade policies, and could voice an opposition that was internationalist in orientation. And, contrary to the popular image of him, Kirkland did take modest steps to tun the tide of labor’s declining fortunes. Readers (including myself) may be startled by the reminder than Kirkland started the AFL-CIO Organizing Institute which has trained a generation of organizers.

Future labor scholars would be better served by a new Kirkland biography that pays more attention to these chapters of his life, as well as conducting a more critical evaluation his aggressive involvement in foreign policy. A key question to be explored is the influence of Kirkland’s career path on his executive decision-making. Kirkland was the first president of a labor federation to not only not rise from the rank-and-file or elected office, but to have never been employed as an organizer or Business Agent. Having never cut his teeth on the core functions of a labor union, could that have influenced Kirkland to focus energy and resources on foreign policy work that most union leaders would skip? Could it have deprived him of the political calculus to know when you’re losing the support of your board?

In Michael Harrington’s remarkable deathbed autobiography, “The Long-Distance Runner,” he describes attempting to pick up the pieces of the shattered Socialist Party and a movement split between “Old” and “New” Lefts. The Democratic Socialist Organizing Committee that he formed from his old wing of the party and the diaspora of unaffiliated socialists in the labor and feminist movements was structurally a “mass” organization (albeit, one with few illusions of attracting the masses to it) with a soft cadre at its center.

This terminology, Harrington notes, would be foreign to all but the .0001% of Americans who have spent any time in the organized sects of the left. A cadre are the people who give some internal coherence to an organization. The people who write and photocopy fliers, raise funds, sweep floors, attend meetings and caucus for votes, and so on and so forth. In a Leninist model, this cadre operates with a fairly tight discipline and a democratic centralist decision-making process. Translated to what my 14-year-old cousin would call “normal talk,” that means that the group has an internal debate, following which all members “toe the party line” and carry out the decision of the majority. It also means that no one can join the organization who is not vouched for by a member of the cadre. (Although we don’t use these terms in the context, political campaigns and union organizing campaigns follow similar principles.)

Harrington graduated from an arcane milieu of “anti-Communist, Leninist democratic sects.” Although DSOC (later, Democratic Socialists of America) took all comers, there was a soft cadre at its center – prominent intellectuals and labor leaders, as well as more anonymous volunteers – who nudged the broader organization towards its ecumenical bridge-building envisioned at its founding. One primary challenge, Harrington noted, is that each successive generation has less of a tradition of the movement and less ability to form a coherent cadre. The problem has obviously worsened in the two decades since Harrington published “The Long-Distance Runner.”

Harrington has the decency to note that the old Socialist Party died in a three-way split. Most scholars only deal with the two most prominent factions: Harrington’s and the majority Social Democrats who drifted towards the neoconservatism of Reagan and Bush. The third faction, which kept the name of the old party, provides little of scholarly interest. It is there that I cut my teeth politically. There is probably a paper to be written about the failed experiment of the new Socialist Party in attempting to recreate the mass-based party of yore without the benefit of an intellectual cadre, and, lately, without the benefit of a culture or tradition of the movement. Instead, each successive generation (a generation here being two or three years) joins the party cold after reading some inspiring speech of the long-dead Eugene Debs, and proceeds to engage in pointless faction fights over bureaucratic details (what is to be the name of the magazine, whom shall appoint the members of the International Commission) that are divorced from the actual politics of society.

We do need a socialist party, but first we need to rebuild the cadre for democratic socialism. The first step must be some kind of think tank, which can limit its membership to only the most serious and comradely of comrades, and pt out useful material (studies, statements, blogs, etc) that could find an audience in the greater number of Americans who consider themselves socialists but do not belong to any explicitly socialist organization. With a cohesive cadre and a modest audience, then, and only then, can we consider forming a new socialist formation that is open to any who would join it.

It figures that it would take the United Electrical Workers union to try to rally the fighting spirit in America’s battered working class with a sit-down strike at a shuttered factory in Illinois. The UE have a proud history of daring and desperate fighting stands that culminated in their expulsion from the Congress of Industrial Organizations early in the Cold War for refusing to purge their ranks of Communists. That fight resulted in the loss of over a hundred thousand members and the union’s relegation to the sidelines of the labor movement. The UE that survived those terrible fights of the 40’s and 50’s remained a leaner, meaner fighting machine; a union that prized democratic rank-and-file control, labor education, the long haul struggle and the value of a symbolic fight.

The tactic of the sit-down strike was expelled from the labor movement long before the Communists who perfected it. The great wave of sit-down strikes that formed the United Autoworkers, United Steelworkers and other mass production industrial unions of the CIO-era were contemporaneous with the legal fight over the constitutionality of a new law that enshrined labor’s legal right to organize. Many employers, declaring that the National Labor Relations Act overreached Congress’ authority to regulate interstate commerce, simply decided to ignore the law and continue to fire union activists in spite of government orders to recognize and negotiate with the duly-authorized unions they chose to represent them. The workers compelled the employers to recognize them and the unions they formed by taking control of the factories until the employers relented and began negotiating for good contracts.

The Supreme Court, in some respects, merely recognized the fact of this de-facto truce when they declared the NLRA constitutional in 1938, and ordered the reinstatement of all terminated union activists. However, the court attempted a balancing act by declaring that employees terminated for engaging in illegal activities in the course of their union activity were not entitled to reinstatement. Sit-downers – trespassers and thieves, all – could thus be fired for engaging in such a strike. Having won the legal right of a union recognition process in the NLRA, therefore, most unions abandoned the sit-down strike tactic and reached a tacit understanding with management that most employers respected until they resumed open warfare with the labor movement in the late 1970’s.

While management has spent the past thirty years firing union activists and shuttering factory gates as legitimate labor relations strategies, most unions have continued to respect the earlier understanding with management, to follow the rules of the National Labor Relations Act and to get their asses kicked. The UE has changed that, but, really, what did they have to lose?

What did they have to gain, you might be asking? Well, first of all, federal law requires a company to provide at least 60 days advance notice to its workers before closing a factory. Republic Windows only provided three. Fifty-seven days’ pay is not chump change when you’re facing unemployment. The UE’s contract with Republic further called for severance of a certain number of days paid for each year of service, which would provide a badly needed cushion to those workers at a time like this. And, finally, there’s the possibility that the layoffs and factory closing may not be necessary at all, that Republic may be preparing to open a new (non-union) factory, with new (non-union) employees a few states away.

By sit-downing in the factory the union has made it impossible for Republic to sell it. Would you buy a building that was infested with 200 angry union members? By focusing their wrath and the media glare on Bank of America, the bailed-out bank that initially refused Republic Windows the loan that would have kept it afloat, the union has harnessed the public rage over a $700 billion Congressional bail-out that has protected the interests of the rich investors who created this recession while screwing the rest of us. Desperate people who might otherwise have been portrayed as greedy union members are instead valorized as aggrieved community members.

Win or lose, the United Electrical Workers have provided a shining example of the potential of resistance to cut-backs in these lean times. I hope that my own union, which is formulating a public campaign to resist disinvestment in public spending, can galvanize the public with the fights we pick and the way we fight them.

With the departure of Isobel Campbell and a turn towards straight-forward power pop, Belle and Sebstian morphed into a new band earlier in the decade. This was not a totally unwelcome development, as the genre is desperately in need of a savior and the band’s “Dear Catastrophe Waitress” and “The Life Pursuit” were two of the best releases in recent years. And, yet, we lost a delightfully idiosyncratic voice in the old B&S. Matador Records reminds of of what was lost in their recent releases of Belle’s sloppy seconds (to paint a vulgar picture).

2006’s sprawling collection of odds and sods, “Push Barman To Open Old Wounds,” consisted of more highlights than some of the band’s official LPs and paved the way for their new collection of BBC sessions. Most bands take advantage of the Beeb’s generous compensation package to pad their numbers and add back-up session players. Belle and Sebastian, already known for the expansive sound of their rock-n-roll chamber music choose an oddly pared down sound on these tracks, as if to prove they could take their music out of the studio and on the road. The collection includes four songs from 2001 that mark the transition from their earlier twee period to the later power pop years. Alas, they are no great revelation.

“The BBC Sessions” comes packaged as a two-disc set, although a sticker on the cover warns that the second disc, a live Belfast concert recording from 2001, is a “limited edition.” In front of a live audience, the band seems to come alive in ways John Peel could only dream of. You’d feel pretty good too if you could get a stadium of fans to sing along about “a girl next door who’s famous for showing her chest.” Covers include the Beatles, Velvet Underground and local heroes Thin Lizzy, whose “The Boys Are Back In Town” is a clear highlight, but in Belfast that’s a bit like singing the “Star Spangled Banner” and being surprised that people stand and remove their caps.

I first noticed Barack Obama on the campaign trail for the New Hampshire primary. He annoyed the shit out of me. Granted, I was dispatched there by my union to campaign for Hillary Clinton. Neither of them would ever get my vote, but at least Hillary had a track record. You knew what you were getting with her. With Obama, a very eloquent and inspiring (to everyone but me) speaker, he was so vague that it seemed supporters projected onto him what they wanted to hear. After all, what does “Change” mean? Reagan was a change from Carter. Lenin was a change from the czar. The Good and Fruities with the jelly bean center were a change from the Good and Fruities with the licorice center.

Obama’s zombie teenage hordes of supporters really annoyed me. Were they excited about politics that looked like a Hollywood movie? It’s one thing to work like hell for his election once he was the Democratic nominee, but what made him so special in a pack of candidates who all essentially stood for the same issues? Was it that he had not been in politics long enough to disappoint yet?

Like any good organizer, I got competitive. I lustily counter-booed the Obama kids who made a fiasco out of the NH Dems’ annual dinner by booing Hillary during her speech and rushing the stage during Obama’s speech like there was a mosh pit up there or something. I’m not sure what that proved except that Obama’s campaign bought more tickets to the ball than the other candidates (and that Hillary should have followed John Edwards’ lead by boycotting the event). I cheerfully teased the inexperienced Obama canvassers and tore down every door hanger I found. (The rental agency where I returned the car must have been confused by the trunk full of Hillary lawn signs and the back seat full of crumpled Obama flyers.) Of course, Hillary won, forcing the protracted primary fight between her and Obama. She simply had the better ground operation (if I do say so myself).

After New Hampshire, I got a break from campaigning until the final two months of the general election. Up until the last minute, I expected the Democrats to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory as usual, and didn’t breath a sigh of relief until around 10:30 on Election night. In the final estimation, the Obama campaign was a modern marvel. It was an extraordinarily well-run campaign with almost no missteps or gaffes, that consistently put together a powerful ground operation, that really harnessed the power of the internet for spreading talking points, recruiting volunteers and, obviously, impressive fundraising.

The McCain campaign, on the other hand, was inept in ways that I thought were impossible in the modern political era. Like, aren’t Vice Presidential candidates supposed to undergo deep background searches? Shouldn’t a campaign worker check out “an average voter” before the candidate name checks him in a debate? In its own odd way, the McCain is an inspiration. The office politics and back-biting, the hare-brained schemes, poor communications and lousy marketing. This was a campaign staff that reminds all of us of the ridiculous offices where we have worked. Where the Obama campaign reinforces that hoary old notion that anyone can grow up to be President, the McCain campaign encourages us that truly anyone can run for President.

But this week belongs to the American people in a way that politics rarely does. If we had a real socialist movement in this country, the Obama campaign is what we would have called a real popular front-type of campaign. We were organizing across broad swaths of the public, from the center to the left, from the labor movement, to the pro-choice and civil rights movement to the peace movement to defeat the extreme reaction of the modern Republican party to elect our first black president. The spontaneous celebrations that broke out across the country and the very real and deserved pride of African-Americans is an inspiration. We are in a unique historical moment. Socialists should respect this moment, and we should respect Obama for what he currently represents, even if we suspect he will ultimately be a disappointment. We need a November 5th movement in this country to keep pressure on the President to pursue a more progressive agenda. But we should take care to be a loyal opposition for the time being.

I cast my absentee ballot today, and, yes, I voted for Nader just to be contradictory. I had the odd timing of being at the Board of Elections at the exact time they were running a public demonstration of new voting machines. In New York, we’ve been voting on the same machines that sent Kennedy to the White House. New machines have been long promised (or threatened, depending on your perspective). Apparently fearing voter backlash, the New York City Board of Elections shied away from a full-on computerized ballot. Instead, the Ballot Marking Device is a clunky touch screen and computer ballot that looks like a 1970’s version of the “future.”

The paper ballot never entirely leaves your hand. You feed it in to the machine, like a Scantron test sheet from when you were in school. A nigh-on unresponsive touch screen runs you through the various contests and prompts you to mash your thumb closest to the candidate you hope to vote for. You might miss and pick the other guy, but, don’t worry, the clerk advised me. You’ll have three chances to get it right. Review your choices, press “done” and the machine will print little black bubbles next to the candidates you selected on the paper ballot. Unless it misses, or runs out of ink.

A switch to any new voting machine after 50 years is likely to produce voter confusion and long lines. These cheap and clunky “Ballot Marking Devices” only makes things worse. Look for them to really break down that special election on term limits we might have.

Should we have a special election on term limits? No! We had that election. Twice. Truth be told, I am against term limits in principle, and, in fact, I voted in favor of extending our limits to three terms in 1996. But I was outvoted. The people spoke. Move on. It is the absolute height of hypocrisy for Mayor Bloomberg and the current City Council to attempt an end-run around the people’s will. It is, however, disingenuous for the Working Families Party and others to narrow our protest to making sure that any vote on term limits is done by referendum. With the past votes in favor of term limits so recent and so overwhelming, why should we waste taxpayers’ dollars on another plebiscite that will produce the same predictable results? That money could be better spent on other things, like, say, new voting machines that work.

Finally, let’s just come out and say what we really mean: Mike Bloomberg should go away. We don’t need a billionaire to protect us from the big bad recession. Any asshole in a three piece suit could raise property taxes and slash services, which is all he’s going to do anyway. The very idea of a billionaire mayor, with his $1 a day salary, private jet and “financial independence” is corrosive to our democracy. Allowing ourselves to be conned into begging him to stay would be the nail in the coffin. Mayor Bloomberg has to go, even if we have to vote twice to make it happen.

After a morning that saw me put a bid in on a spacious two bedroom apartment with a formal dining room in Bay Ridge – $10,000 down with 75% financing and a very adult activity, if ever I engaged in one – I decided to go shopping for a new hat. I’ve been wearing hats for a little over a year now: a straw hat followed by a light felt black fedora. Fashionable as it might otherwise be, a black hat clashes with the navy blazer I’ve taken to wearing lately. This is another dubious sign of maturity. As the Clash song goes, “You grow up and you calm down / You start wearing blue and brown.” A grey hat seemed in order, so I made my way to Bencraft Hatters.

Bencraft has two locations in Brooklyn. The original is located in Williamsburg, not far from where my paternal grandfather lived when he married my grandmother. It’s probably where he purchased (or, more likely, rented) the top hat he wore on their wedding day. The other, which I frequent, is in Borough Park. Inside of Bencraft, you will find the kind of intense debates, measurements and arguments over hats that made most American men heave a sigh of relief when J.F.K. attended his inauguration bare-headed. Being a Sunday, I found a dozen Jewish men (customers and salesmen) engaging in heated debates over coloring, brim size and the ever-ephemeral quality of “quality.”

A family – two older brothers and their father – fretted over the difference of a quarter of an inch of brim for the youngest of their clan. A 10-year-old girl rejected her father’s new hat as “not as good” as his last one, and chastised him for losing his yarmulke inside of a display hat and thus exposing his chrome dome to Yahweh. At the sales counter, an agitated little man complained of a barely detectable “bump” in the crown of his new hat. “I wouldn’t complain, except that this is the fourth hat I purchased from you this week,” he explained. The salesman countered, “In every hat in this store, could I find an imperfection? These are handmade hats, they will never be 100%” Finally, though, the salesman agreed to steam the hat in an attempt to work out the bump, although, he complained, Sunday was a bad day for it. He gestured to the long line of Hassidic men waiting to have their hats steamed and cleaned.

As for me, I meekly requested a grey hat in the same cheapo style as the “lite felt” fedora I was already wearing. None in my size, the salesman apologized. He did find a slightly-more-expensive Stefano. “It’s a real hat,” he explained, “as we say in the business.” Almost thirty, a real home and a real hat. How could I refuse?

“Vicky Christina Barcelona” is the most thoroughly enjoyable hour and a half you could spend at the movies this season. At what point does Woody Allen’s “comeback” (as each of his last few movies have been hailed by critics) get to stick? Liberated from the upscale Manhattan locations that his characters could no longer afford, as well as from the crutch of casting himself or a famous impersonator as the romantic lead, Allen’s films have been consistently thoughtful, sober and darker than his proverbial “early, funny ones.”

Bankrolled by the Spanish tourism industry, the film is set in a clearly booming Barcelona (note the construction cranes that dot the skyline), which gets top billing along with the two American tourists (played by Scarlett Johansson and Rebecca Hall) whose summer in the city fuels the plot-line. Vicky and Christina are propositioned by painter Juan Antonio for a weekend of art, wine and sex. Javier Bardem is charming as the oddly well-rounded and soulful lothario (particularly for a Woody Allen film). Hall’s Vicky opens her mouth and Woody incredulously rejects Bardem’s proposition (though she thankfully spares us an impersonation). Johansson’s Christina, however, is intrigued and accepts. Johansson is a very spotty actress, but she usually acquits herself in roles such as this, that are basically variations on the 20-something ingenue set adrift that she played in “Lost In Translation.” Like all mid-summer night’s sex comedies, everyone eventually sleeps together. This includes a refreshingly non-judgmental open relationship between Bardem, Johansson and Bardem’s tempestuous unstable ex-wife, Penelope Cruz (who’s a wicked delight every moment she’s on the screen).

Ultimately, every winds up alone with a little less faith in perfect love. This is a consistent theme in Allen’s movies. Remember, his best-loved romantic comedy is wistfully narrated after his break-up with Annie Hall. Love rarely lasts in Allen’s movies. And lust, particularly lust for a passionate but unstable lover, usually ends badly – either in murder (”Match Point,” “Crimes and Misdemeanors”) or institutionalization (”Stardust Memories”). Here, Penelope Cruz stabs and shoots at Javier Bardem. This is a comedy, mind you, and a very funny one.