It turns out maintaining a blog while taking on increasing responsibilities at work and trying to finish my Masters degree and trying to maintain some semblance of a personal life is a bit tricky. Plus, I think Facebook statuses suck up an alarming amount of my wit (or potential wit). But before I throw in the towel and start a Twitter, I’m going to try my hand at one of those lazy Larry King round-ups of commentary, reviews and “observations.” (Actually, I’ve never really seen a full installment of Mr. Suspenders’ program, so I’m really just aping those even lazier parodic send-ups of Larry King.) Either these are placeholders for bigger, better posts or else they are the aborted remains of very promising ideas.

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There’s a certain poignancy in that moment of steeling oneself at the front door for a charging dog who will never again slam his 90 pound body into your knees. Or how a leash, brush and bowl in a plastic supermarket bag can require the same negotiation as a chest full of heirloom jewels at the reading of a will. And when does dropping little bits of food on the ground cease being nice, and start being rude?

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Upon third listening, the new Spoon record (a sleeper, like all others before it) sounds like a new, incredible advance. Like many of “Transference’s” reviewers, I’m attracted by the idea of Britt Daniel & Co. fully embracing the bombast that they have spent four successive records stripping to the bone. But the more that the band breaks down their songs to the most spare and elemental, the more I enjoy following them on their journey. I’m ready for their next record, comprising the sounds of Daniels’ pencil scratching paper while Jim Eno tunes his snare.

…

How hard is it to find a good coffee table?! I realize that furniture is particularly subjective to taste (and there are few people more particular than me), but sheesh. If it’s not one thing, it’s the color. Black, for the record, is not tobacco, not coffee and certainly not mahogany. It seems like everything out there alternates between the extremely baroque or the post-post-modern. Gahd forbid you want to protect the wood finish with a little bit of glass. Oh, no. If you want a glass-top coffee table, the glass will be held aloft by skinny angular metal, positive vibes and pixie dust.

…

Having as many obituaries on my site as I do, I’ve grown accustomed to estranged friends of the deceased learning the bad news by stumbling upon my blarg via Gooooooogle searches. It is somewhat dispiriting to see how long it can take before a good college buddy, former comrade or ex-girlfriend decides to investigate a bounced email or missing Christmas card. The responses to one particular comrade’s death (no names, comrades) are notable for their extreme sadness and their extreme tardiness. Did he make deep, profound connections with his friends and then retreat into his own private world? Am I doomed to do the same?

I’m reminded of the outlaw country singer / mystery writer Kinky Friedman, who writes of his shared fear of dying in his apartment and being devoured by his hungry cat before anyone notices. In his novels, Kinky writes of the “M.I.T. System.” The idea is quite simple. “M.I.T.” stands for Man In Trouble, and the point is to establish a reciprocal understanding with a friend that every few days each will call the other and say nothing more than, “M.I.T., M.I.T., M.I.T.” (Because, really, who wants to force small talk every two or three days?) If you don’t receive an “M.I.T.” call from your friend after three days, convince his Super to let you into the apartment to search for his half-eaten corpse and lay some kibble out for the ravenous cat.

I’ve made “M.I.T.” arrangements with a handful of friends over the years and, come to think of it, I have not received a “M.I.T.” call from any of them, nor they from I, in a long while. Better start Goooooogling.

Presented without commentary:

big rats
selective service letter
allen sessoms
gastonia strike,1929
“mary loritz”
red strawberry shoelace licorice
umass ula program
red scare political cartoon
shaun richman
finska black licorice
“federation of union representatives”
old fashioned licorice laces not twirler
cat abortificant
“shaun richman” jew
shaun richman aft national staff

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)

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?

I’m not a well-traveled person. I secured a reputation of sorts in grad school, on the first day of Elaine Bernard’s global labor movements class. As we went around the room for introductions, and everyone explained who they were and where they came from (yes, yes, they were the union, the mighty, might union) and discussed their various international contacts and trips abroad, I introduced myself with a flip “Shaun Richman, AFT, Queens, NY. Frankly, I’m uncomfortable leaving Queens.” I’ve spent my entire life – nearly 30 years of it – in this fine borough, but all things have an end. I finally received an acceptable offer on my apartment. I signed the contract of sale on Friday and will be gone by November.

I’m looking to move to Brooklyn, someplace close to the Belt Parkway and the Verrazano Bridge, and within an hour of midtown by subway. Someplace quiet, pretty, affordable and in close proximity to fun. I’m not sure such a neighborhood exists. It’s the “affordable” part that’s difficult. I managed, in the end, to sell my apartment for nearly twice what I paid for it five years ago. Unfortunately, everything else went up in cost at least as much. Obvious choices like Park Slope and Fort Greene are prohibitively expensive.

I had high hopes for Sunset Park, with its ubiquitous park and skyline views. It is affordable – barely – but sleepy and undeveloped. Bay Ridge, slightly to the south, had much more appealing shopping and dining, but it’s so far from everything, I’m afraid no one would ever visit me and the neighborhood would serve as little more than a bedroom community for my Jersey commute.

Yesterday I got my hopes up about the unfortunately-named Prospect-Lefferts Gardens, but I dashed them today by visiting there. Even the nabe’s enthusiastic booster blog has trouble highlighting more than nice architecture and convenient geography:

“PLG is among the last of the neighborhoods that border Prospect Park where average working people can still (almost) afford to live… That lower price tag, however, comes with concessions – there are none of the higher-end boutiques, bars and restaurants that populate Park Slope, Prospect Heights and Brooklyn Heights.”

It was lovely, but I had a hard time locating a supermarket, a fruit stand or even a decent slice of pizza. You could call places like Prospect-Lefferts Gardens and Sunset Park “up and coming” neighborhoods, but only a fool counts on a neighborhood turnaround in troubled economic times like these. Perhaps I’m asking for too much. Perhaps simply being able to afford a roof over one’s head is the best one can hope for these days in New York. I’ve got three months until I’m out on my ass. Expectations decline on a daily basis.

Shannon Hammock just mailed me a parcel of the past: silly factional buttons from the Socialist Party’s 2001 national convention. It was the first time in many years that an organized caucus was formed to compete for seats on the party’s national committee. Although they called themselves “the Issues Caucus,” their focus seemed to be on personalities. They lumped a bunch of comrades with wildly different politics that didn’t necessarily even like each other into a cabal, the “us vs. them” that they had to “get.” And so I was opposed for re-election as the party’s Vice Chairman, and Shannon and I printed up a bunch of buttons that mocked the whole situation.

“This is a shamelessly factional button” was a properly irreverent sentiment, and I think we got comrades on all sides to wear those little yellow buttons. “No Factions” and the Rodney King button further got the point across. “I’m okay. You have ‘Issues’” was cute, I thought. The cowboy button was inspired by a bizarre, rambling attack e-mail by one young comrade from Chicago that ended with the hysterical exhortation, “Circle the wagons, boys!!!”

In another e-mail, David McReynolds had accused me of being “against Chicago.” My flippant response was that I had nothing against the city of Chicago, except that I hate they way they cut pizzas into squares. I’m really very right-wing on this issue. As my response successfully diverted attention from whatever-the-hell supposed “issue” we were debating to a free-for-all over what constitutes good pizza (I’m not actually making this up), we thought “No Square Pizzas” would make a good button. Bill Stodden later formed a “No Square Pizza” Caucus to keep up the shenanigans, but, being anti-organized factions myself, I did not join.

Much of the personality focus was on lumping myself and Greg Pason together as some kind of gruesome twosome of party bureaucrats. It was so bad that one could be forgiven for thinking that Greg’s last name is “and Shaun.” The picture of the two of us, with the word “Evil?” was a fitting rejoinder. (What’s particularly funny about that button is that there was a third man standing between us in the original photograph, but, like a good apparatchik, I airbrushed the comrade out of the photo!) The idea of floating Greg’s name as a possible Presidential candidate (even on the preposterous ticket of Greg Pason-Angela Davis) was, perversely meant to provoke a little more hostility from the anti-Greg and Shaun crowd. The supreme irony, of course, is that Greg and I, despite being good friends, could never agree on anything politically.

Finally, my sole campaign button read, “Shaun indulges my vices, so I’ll indulge him as Vice Chair.” The only campaign caucusing I did that weekend in Boulder consisted of booze and sex and lots of it (well, mostly booze). I lost, of course.

I want to be Philip Marlowe. Or maybe Nick Charles. My favorite kinds of movies are film noir, particularly the hard-boiled detective genre. I love the interplay of shadows and light in black and white. I love the cynical worldview, the disdain for scruples, morals and basic decency. I love that the characters drink rye and gin, smoke Chesterfields, wear fedoras and ties, consult the phone directory for research and do any number of other terribly old-fashioned things. I love the women – tall, thin, legs for miles, usually dressed in black and up to no good.

But, mostly, I hero worship the gumshoe protagonists. The hard-boiled detective is the ultimate male fantasy. He is how we would all like to envision ourselves: suave, a sense of style, quick-witted and sarcastic, a healthy appetite for liquor that actually serves to sharpen his senses, seemingly irresistible to women, knows when he’s being played and always saves the day. Dashiell Hammett, the ultimate master of the genre, acknowledged this male fantasy aspect in the creation of one of his most famous characters, Sam Spade:

“Spade has no original. He is a dream man in the sense that he is what most of the private detectives I worked with would like to have been and in their cockier moments thought they approached. For your private detective does not, or did not ten years ago when he was my colleague, want to be an erudite solver of riddles in the Sherlock Holmes manner; he wants to be a hard and shifty fellow, able to take care of himself in any situation, able to get the best of anybody he comes in contact with, whether criminal, innocent by-stander or client.”

The protagonist from Hammett’s early novels, the nameless Continental Op, was just such a Holmes-like solver of riddles. These – “The Dain Curse” and “Red Harvest” – are true mystery novels, emphasizing clues and plot twists over character, as the Continental Op has none. It was with Spade in “The Maltese Falcon” that the detective story developed true heroes. The detective hero in Hammett’s final novel, Nick Charles, has character in spades. Seen as a mash note to his lover Lillian Hellman, “The Thin Man” presents a male fantasy of a committed relationship: to a saucy heiress half his age, who mixes his drinks, massages his shoulders, countenances a fair amount of hanky panky with the novel’s femme fatales and helps him compile the clues to the mystery.

Raymond Chandler, the author who is credited as carrying Hammett’s hard-boiled mantle, did not improve upon his predecessor’s economy of words nor his gripping plots, as most of Chandler’s stories were obvious and perfunctory. But he did create the ultimate Hollywood detective: Philip Marlowe. With a back story that involves getting fired from the D.A.’s office for political reasons, Marlowe has charm of the renegade hero that Hollywood has been trying to imitate in action and adventure movies ever since. Always too quick to mouth off to cops and criminals, Marlowe frequently takes his punches and his nights in the clink. His bottle of whiskey is conveniently available to loosen up a suspect or an already loose woman. Usually hard up for cash, he nevertheless passes up opportunities to shake down his clients and often shields them from the wives, daughters and mistresses who are scandalizing them. Still, he’s no softie (“I don’t like your manner, Mr. Marlowe.” “That’s all right. I’m not selling it.”).

Playing Marlowe in the movies is a kind of drag. The early actors – Robert Montgomery, Dick Powell, George Montgomery and the best of the lot, Humphrey Bogart – played him as the traditional tough guy of noir stereotype. James Caan played an older, wearier Marlowe in “Poodle Springs.” Robert Mitchum brought his unique brand of cool to a British adaptation in the 1970′s, perhaps because the stiffness and properness of the 1940′s U.S.A. could only be recreated in the 1970′s by transporting the tale to England. Elliott Gould, also in the 70′s, played Marlowe as a man out of time in sunny L.A. That portrayal, in Robert Altman’s “The Long Goodbye” is perhaps most intriguing for the purposes of this article. Following his iconoclastic “M*A*S*H*,” it was hoped that Altman would do for noir genre what he did for the war movie and make a kind of a “Trapper John, PI.” While Gould maintains his roguish charm, Altman maintains a certain reverence for the Marlowe archetype. He tips his hat to the nudists next door and refuses to loosen his tie even on the beach. All the characters around him tease him for his old-fashioned ways.

The film was not a success, although a recent revival at the Film Forum landed Elliott Gould on the cover of the Village Voice decades after his curious period as a smart-ass Jewish matinee heartthrob. Instead of a revival of noir, the 1970′s saw the rise of Dirty Harry and other vigilante heroes, who in turn gave rise to that loathsome archetype, the action hero. In place of black suits and fedoras, we get ripped t-shirts and bulging muscles. In place of flirtatious banter and crossed legs, we get an inarticulate bodybuilder gnawing on some starlet’s tits at around the 50 minute mark in a well-choreographed bedroom romp. In place of investigation and deduction, we get explosions and lots of them.

Why has the action hero replaced the hard-boiled detective as the male fantasy? I would chalk it up to sort of generalized anxiety that men feel about their role in society these days, except that the hard-boiled fantasy is also about being in control (of the situation, of life, of women). Maybe the difference between the two stock types is too little to fret over, and I’m just guilty once again of being nostalgic for a time before I was born.

I mulled over an all-encompassing Theory of Everything as I was squeezing a lemon over my filet of flounder for dinner tonight. First I pondered why seafood and lemons go so well together. I figure it has something to do with sailors (I was in New Orleans during Fleet Week, so don’t blame that spectacle for inspiring my theory).

As every schoolboy learns, when sailors of yore discovered that the terrible illness they tended to develop after long months at sea – scurvy – was, essentially, Vitamin C deficiency, they took to sucking on lemons and limes. The Brits must have been early adapters of this health regimen, since we still slur them as “limeys.” I imagine it wasn’t long before some sailors got sick of that silly “pucker” face one makes when sucking a lemon and got the bright idea of squeezing the citrus fruit over the catch of the day. They must have taken this bright idea to shore, and the corporate Red Lobster chain was born!

That mystery solved, I got to wondering why I love seafood so much. For this, as most things, there’s a woman to thank. A number of years ago I began dating one of my favorite ex-girlfriends, a pesco-vegeterian who was on a curious shellfish kick, and ignited my own love affair with the creatures of the deep (Come to think of it, she also had a charmingly kooky tendency to suck on lemons and cackle that it was to “prevent scurvy”). Day after day, week after week, we gobbled up mussels, clams, lobsters and shrimps together. Naturally, as I taught myself to cook, these were my chosen quarry.

The more I think about it, though, she unlocked a hidden desire for the fishies that was planted there by my father. The enthusiasm that dear old Dad showed on those rare occasions when Ma (ever the paranoiac about food poisoning) would cook up some scallops or prawns clearly inspired some insatiable desire inside me. (I realize now that I am practically inspiring Ma, the eternal lurker, to register on this Blarg, or at least sign up for the Live Journal feed.)

So where did my Dad’s love of seafood come from? This, I am fairly confident, can be attributed to his foster Mom, much like my dependable tendency to shout out “Svigna!” when someone belches or farts in my proximity. Like every frugal eastern European immigrant, Grandma sought to enroll her kids in the Clean Plate Club. Grandma was a particularly effective brainwasher when it came to convincing her charges that the ugliest, nastiest bits of leftovers and gristle were, in fact, delicacies. Why, you should see my father drool over the turkey’s asshole at Thanksgiving!

So, of course it would follow that Dad considers the ugly creatures of the deep to be a rare treat, and that opinion has rubbed off on your narrator. Let this post serve as my Father’s Day tribute. Cheers, Dad, and thanks for all the fish.

The high cost of health care is a problem for more than just us monkeys. The price of veterinary services has skyrocketed faster than inflation, too. I had the opportunity to buy pet insurance through my union, but declined. Pet insurance is for little old ladies who order chemo-therapy for their hobbled, mangy 19-year-old cats, isn’t?

Well, about two months ago, my cat, the duck, began a campaign of biological warfare in protest of my longer hours at work on a campaign in New Jersey (or so I thought). I took her to the vet. Urine tests were inconclusive, but antibiotics were prescribed anyway, in case it was a urinary tract infection. Oh, and duck needed booster vaccinations. It’s the law, the vet said. The bill was eighty bucks, but that didn’t seem too bad a price to pay to get my cat to stop peeing on every piece of furniture I owned.

The duck would foam at the mouth when the cold white goo was injected in her mouth, and she proceeded to go on a three day hunger strike. Back at the vet’s office, she was admitted for overnight observation and more tests, also inconclusive. This time the diagnosis was behavioral, and the doctor ordered anti-depressents, which included options for kitty Prozac and kitty lithium. “They’re actually the same as human Prozac and lithium,” the vet helpfully explained, in case I might want to dip into the supply myself after seeing the bill. Another ninety dollars.

This bought thirty days of relief. As soon as the medication was out of her system, though, she peed on my couch. This time I found blood in her urine. Back to the vet for another overnight stay, more tests and another hundred and something dollars in expenses. The tests, an X-Ray and MRI, found a stone in her bladder. Surgery would be required. That was estimated to cost seven hundred bucks.

Of course, there were options when I brought her back for the surgery. Laser surgery would reduce bleeding and improve recovery time. That would be another fifty dollars. An IV catheter was strongly recommended for older cats (Oh, yes. I forgot to mention. duck is an older cat. When we rescued her from the mean streets of Valley Stream, LI, she was estimated by that vet to be two years old. When I brought her in to the local clinic for the first time, the vet said, “If I was being charitable, I would say this cat is six years old. This is a middle-aged cat.”). The IV and fluids would cost another seventy bucks. What the hell. It’s kinda like throwing in options on a new car. You’re already paying so much, what does it matter now?

It’s a good thing I’m in line for a promotion at work. All the money will go directly to the duck. Back at home, the couch is covered in garbage bags because the stitches on her bladder will itch and irritate and may still cause “accidents” for the next ten days. She also needs to take antibiotics, which, helpfully, are pills this time. She gobbles them and her pink crazy pills like a good little pill popper. Her front left leg is shaved like a poodle, as is a good deal of belly, revealing a ridiculous fleshy paunch with a zipper of stitches in the center. She’s wearing a cone around her neck to keep her from chewing out the stitches. She looks more annoyed than usual, and her equilibrium is totally thrown off. She does a ridiculous high step so she can see her paws and be sure they’re walking in the right direction. She keep bumping and snagging on doorways, as she still slinks and rubs against them before entering a room.

With great timing, I’m finally being sent back to New Orleans on Monday. A sucker, er, sweet friend has volunteered to duck-sit and handle medical chores. I need to figure out a living situation for me and the duck if the promotion I get is a traveling organizer position with the national union. This has involved calling ex-girlfriends to see if they would be foster cat moms while I sell my apartment in order to trade up to a 2-bedroom with space for a cat-loving roommate.

Re-reading this article, it occurs to me that I have become the little old lady who orders chemo for her geriatric cat.

I’ve finally rejoined the National Writers Union (UAW Local 1181), the freelancers union. I had been a member when I was the editor of the Five Borough Institute’s newsletter, mainly because we wanted to have a bug on the masthead. I let my membership lapse during my long stint of unemployment, even though I had begun to write regularly for this blarg.

I realize I should be paying lip service to this supposed new media revolution, but truthfully, it’s hard to think of myself as a “Writer” because of a silly blog. I want to be in print. I’ve made sporadic attempts at submitting op-eds to local newspapers. Unfortunately, most of the community weeklies don’t publish opinion pieces. Even the one paper where I was briefly hired and quickly “dooced” doesn’t want actual opinions in their op-eds. I’m hoping that my renewed NWU membership will spur me on to try more seriously to get in print, even if that pesky “full-time union organizer / part-time graduate student” thing gets in the way.

It is with no small amount of pride that I note today’s second anniversary of this Blarg. When I started writing, I kept it a secret because I was unsure how long I would keep at it, for there are few things sadder than a failed blogger. To a certain extent, I still keep this blarg a secret. I don’t publicize it much. I’ve even stopped pressuring my friends to read it. Perhaps my only readers are the eager salesmen of “herbal Viagra” who post so many comments, and misguided fans of Natalie Portman’s butt.

I recently overhauled this website, with completely new software that requires registration in order to post comments. I used to get an occasional comment from a friend or a colleague or a complete stranger, in the midst of the tens of thousands of spam messages that ultimately crashed the site and necessitated the switch. I don’t know if it’s an aversion to registration that’s keeping people from posting comments, but I’d sure like to hear from you, dear readers. All eight of you.

The Green Party failed to regain ballot status in New York on Tuesday. With its superior budget and no threat to the two-party system, the Working Families Party easily retained its ballot line. We have a new, independent socialist Senator in Vermont, although his Progressive Party studiously avoided incurring the wrath of the Democrats by not contesting any major elections.

This is a disappointing time for supporters of an independent people’s party. The Green Party is clearly on the wane, with ballot status in a few dozen states and the mighty Nader campaign of 2000 a fading memory. Not to be too pessimistic, but I have been predicting it for six years now. The Greens will join a crowded graveyard of similar efforts to establish a third party, a party of the people, to supplant the Democrats. They come along every few election cycles. There’s Bob LaFollette’s 1920′s Farmer-Labor Party, Henry Wallace’s Progressive Party in 1948, the 1960′s Peace and Freedom Party of Eldridge Cleaver, the 1970′s People’s Party of Benjamin Spock, the 1980′s Citizen’s Party of Barry Commoner and the Green Party of Ralph Nader. There is no such party on the horizon, just the detritus of past efforts, which exist here and there scattered among the states.

I was not a supporter of the Greens at their height. In 2000, I managed the Socialist Party’s presidential campaign of David McReynolds. I drafted the candidate to run, raised about $20,000, put him on the ballot in seven states (including Florida, where his 622 votes eclipsed the 537 votes by which Bush officially triumphed; fuck you very much), got him in front of dozens of college audiences and garnered some pretty fantastic press coverage for a tiny little party.

Was I wrong in 2000 not to support Nader’s candidacy, one of the most energetic, high profile threats to the two party system in the late 20th century? The answer to that question is complicated. Certainly in a year when the burning question among liberal circles was whether a vote for Nader was, in effect, a vote for Bush, it was a tad awkward to explain to people that, no, I wouldn’t be voting for Nader or Gore but for someone they’d likely never heard of. It struck most listeners as typical sectarianism of the socialist left, and, indeed, it was.

In the Socialist Party’s defense, our crystal ball was just as clouded as the Green Party’s. Ralph Nader ran lackluster, quiet semi-campaigns in 1992 and 1996 (the former in the Democratic New Hampshire primary, the latter as the Greens’ drafted standard bearer), and there was no telling in late 1999 (when the SP had to choose to run or not) that Nader would, in fact, campaign seriously, energetically and in the face of such opposition from his liberal former allies. Had I known then that he would do so, I would likely have still supported running a Socialist Party candidate, but I’d have been wrong. But even that is complicated. As exciting as the 2000 Nader campaign was, as much of a blow to the two-party system that it had been and as many activists that it created, as many voters it ripped away from the Democrats and as many progressives it split away from the shrill, bankrupt liberals, a few short months later, only the barest hint of the Nader movement was left as many of its supporters were scared back into the Democratic fold. Meanwhile, the attention that the Socialist Party got for its campaign (we delighted in media attention; I got David on “Politically Incorrect” and “the Daily Show” and my sarcastic voicemail in response to the Florida vote controversy was quoted in the “Washington Post.”) increased our tiny membership by about 30%.

But that’s a sectarian justification. As little as there was, in the end, to show for the Green Party effort, the right policy would have been to support it, to strike a blow at the two-party system and gain the long-term loyalty of as many voters as possible for an eventual mass party of the people. The problem with an organization like the Socialist Party, that makes the running of candidates under its banner – even if done in only a handful of instances a year – its raison d’etre is that it inevitably leads to the priority of party building over movement building.

The mass people’s party that we need will not be able to meet the stringent ideological requirements of sectarian socialists. It cannot be Marxian, although it must be free of corporate money and influence. We need a party that will push for universal health care, oppose militarism, democratize the broadcast media, promote equal rights for gays and affirmative action for blacks, that will be feminist in its internal decision-making, promote unions rights, expand Social Security, tax the rich, fully fund our schools, open up our ballots and push for fairer systems of elections. We socialists should take our place within such a party as activists and allies of the major streams of progressivism, only splitting after major reforms have been introduced and we can take a sizable following that demands to go further with us out of the party. It would be far better to be left opposition to powerful social democrats than weak liberals.

Should such a party form, it is likely to happen only when a large number of the furthest-left liberal elements of the Democrats – including many officeholders – are willing to finally break with the Siamese twins of capitalism, and might perhaps be cobbled together by the patchwork of state ballot lines and parties – the detritus at past efforts to create a national people’s party – that have gained substantial followings. Which means that the “correct” electoral policy for a socialist to follow largely depends on the state in which you live. In California, it means being active in the Peace and Freedom party, or even the Green Party. In Vermont, it probably means Bernie Sanders’ Progressive Party. In New York, it might mean a policy of boring from within the Working Families Party and forcing primary elections against the worst of the Democrats in the best of the districts.

Should I join another socialist organization, it will certainly not be one that considers itself a “party.” I’ve spent too much of my life trying to recreate the conditions of Eugene Debs’ long-gone era. We need greater flexibility of tactics and openness to our natural allies, and less nostalgia and sectarianism.

You can’t even pump your gas in this town without people interviewing you for a newspaper article (See next to last paragraph).

A YELLOW LIGHT FOR POLICE’S RACE PLAN
Experts and LI drivers say Suffolk police should proceed with caution in project to record race of those stopped for traffic violations

BY JENNIFER MALONEY

Newsday Staff Writer

July 12, 2006

Law enforcement experts and Suffolk residents reacted with skepticism yesterday to the Suffolk police department’s plan to gather data as a check against racial profiling.

The opinions came a day after Suffolk police said they are recording the race of drivers stopped on the Long Island Expressway and Sunrise Highway for routine traffic violations in an effort to document if cops are profiling residents by race. The department, which began the initiative about two months ago and will continue for the next six to 12 months, hopes the data gathered will help prove that Suffolk officers don’t give tickets more often to members of a particular race.

But many drivers interviewed yesterday objected to the method of gathering the data — and particularly to the fact that officers note the drivers’ race without consulting them.

“They’re assuming the race,” said Erica Lopez, 23, of Huntington Station. “What if I’m Italian? What if I’m black? That’s not going to get anything except some statistics that prove nothing.”

Peter Moskos, a professor at John Jay College of Criminal Justice, said the data gathered will be meaningless unless it is compared with statistics on how often different races commit traffic violations.

In New Jersey, a similar project showed that more blacks were pulled over for speeding than other races, he said. But an academic study later showed that blacks there were more likely to speed, he said.

“If it’s skewed, you need someone else to figure out if that’s justified or not, because it might be,” Moskos said.

Suffolk police spokesman Tim Motz said the department will consider “all potential statistical variables” when it analyzes the data. “It’s a very complex issue. They’re looking at everything.”

Motz did not say whether the department has access to statistics on how often different races commit traffic violations.

While many Suffolk drivers agreed yesterday that racial profiling occurs, some said gathering data on race will only exacerbate the problem.

“So they’re going to conduct racial profiling to test how much racial profiling they do?” said Shaun Richman, 27, a Queens resident who commutes to Hauppauge.

Others applauded the department’s effort. “I think it’s proactive,” said Marie Orlando, 43, of Brightwaters. “It’s not like they’re ignoring it.”

I recently quit as editor of The Socialist, the magazine of the Socialist Party. After just two issues, I found the intolerance and general stupidity of many of the Editorial Board members that I had to work with too frustrating to continue. There’s real work that has to be done for the movement, and I am no longer willing to waste my time on fruitless endeavors.

Among the Socialist Party’s many virtues over the last one hundred years has been its ability, and the ability of its members, to be wrong. Multi-tendency before there was even a word for such a thing, the party has always been home to wildly divergent opinions and the occasional faction fight. With so many different factions and tendencies, somebody has to be wrong at any given moment. I find this so reassuring.

The party’s early right-wing, made up of Social Democratic politicians in the modern European sense, over-emphasized voting and cynically limited their union activity to cajoling striking workers to “Vote Socialist!” Too often they embraced mainstream racism and xenophobia. Most curiously, they aggressively opposed the Industrial Workers of the World and led a crusade to expel from the party Wobblies who advocated “direct action” (then more confused with violent terrorism than today). Still, they couldn’t be all wrong. They won office and enacted legislation. Clearly, masses of people supported them.

One of my greatest heroes is “Big Bill” Haywood, the most prominent Wobbly to be expelled, precisely because of his wrong decisions. In the SP, he exacerbated the rightwing with vague and irresponsible talk of “direct action” that hinted at violence, precisely the type that he eschewed within the IWW. It was almost as though he wanted to be martyred rather than face a frustrating faction fight, or maybe he was just a natural contrarian (Our party’s had plenty of them, too). On strike, Haywood counseled a crude sort of pre-Gandhian civil disobedience. It’s his greatest legacy.

His worst legacy is that he fled to Russia to avoid a long prison term for opposing the war. This is why I sympathize with “Big Bill.” Disillusioned by his government, which had usually vindicated him when he was innocent (at least until whatever “crisis” that put him in jail had been averted), and by his own IWW, which had rejected him, Haywood went to the one place where he would be least appreciated: Bolshevik Russia! It was the sort of stupid mistake that comes from wounded pride and that any one of us can and does make.

Sam Friedman, who died six years too soon for me to meet him, is another SP character that I enjoy. Maybe it’s because he did so many things that I have done (Chaired the New York local, edited the NY Call – at a time when it was actually impressive to do such things) or would like to do (He organized a mutual aid society that helped bail party activists out of jail and pay legal bills). Maybe it was because he was such a set-in-his-ways pain in the ass. He stuck with Social Democrats, USA in the 1973 split because he did not believe in splits and they technically won the final vote. He hated their politics and stayed close to the SP so he could be around people who still used the “S” word. He telegrammed the party’s 1983 convention: “DEEPLY REGRET INABILITY TO ATTEND. DISAGREEING WITH SOME OF YOUR JUDGEMENTS AND CONCLUSIONS, I STILL ADMIRE AND LOVE YOUR TENACITY, COURAGE AND DEVOTION TO SOCIALIST PRINCIPLES. MORE POWER TO YOU.”

It’s a great encouragement to read in Rob Tucker’s brief history that Eugene V. Debs had such personal animosity towards Daniel Deleon and mistrusted anyone recently associated with him. Debs, too, is a hero, but in history books he comes across as too perfect. Saints belong in the Bible, not the Socialist Party. It’s the Eugene Debs who said, “While there is a lower class I, am in it; While there is a criminal element, I am of it; and while there is a soul in prison I am not free” that inspired me to join the Socialist Party, but it’s the Eugene Debs who called Daniel Deleon a “black-hearted scoundrel” that I can relate to.

When I was younger, my favorite treat at the candy shops in the malls was the red licorice shoelace. I’d tie them into knots and gobble them up before I’d make it to the parking lot. I have been craving them for some time, and I think I may never taste them again.

The problem is that, a number of years ago, some genius and his focus groups decided to change the formula for the red shoelace licorice, making it taste like Twizzlers. Extensive field research has brought me to the conclusion that all shoelace licorice throughout the malls of America is produced in the same factory, by the same Oompa Loompa gulag, because it all tastes like Twizzlers. If I want a Twizzler, I’ll buy a goddamn Twizzler. I really don’t understand this switch, as a business decision. Why be just like a ubiquitous, multi-million dollar product?

Two years ago, I discovered at Penn Station a candy from Necco called Danish Ribbons that, lo and behold, tasted just like shoelace licorice. I bought a roll just about every day on the way home to the Long Island Rail Road. Unfortunately, this only lasted a few weeks before Hudson News stopped carrying it. My recent internet sleuthing has revealed that the candy has been discontinued. Curse you, candy oligarchs!

It’s a bitter reminder of another traumatic candy loss: the original Good and Fruity. Good and Fruity is the sweeter sequel product to the candy covered black licorice product, Good and Plenty. The original Good and Fruity was candy covered red licorice, but many years ago, before shoelace went Twizzler, Good and Fruity replaced its licorice filling with jelly bean-like goo.

So, I’ve been on the search for another candy with that old licorice flavor. I have tried Kookaburra licorice (tastes like gelatinous fruit snacks), Panda licorice (tastes like prunes), Finska licorice (tastes like fruit roll-ups). I’m running out of options. I’ve been searching various “olde tyme candy shoppe” websites, but flavor is a hard thing to describe. One promises red licorice laces that are “not the shiny red ‘licorice’ laces that taste like those famous spiral red licorice sticks. Instead ‘Old Fashioned’ tasting laces from our youth.” I have my doubts. In any event, I can’t figure out how to order them.

I’m intrigued by Red Vines, since some descriptions have hinted that they might be the flavor I’m looking for. Besides, I have heard that Red Vines plus Mr. Pibb equals crazy delicious (of course, neither of those products can actually be purchased in New York on a lazy Sunday or any other day).

It has been suggested to me that perhaps the only way that I will ever taste real red licorice laces again is to launch a campaign, but I think I have my hands full with other, more pressing campaigns. So get to work, Internet! Launch the online petitions. Start the blogs. Let’s get some banner ads. You can do it!

And if you can’t, then hopefully my crazy pregnant woman cravings will switch back to pickles in a few days.