I finally got a pet. A cat. I found her lounging under a tree, at a “golden community” located behind the parking lot of the Wal-Mart at the Green Acres mall at Valley Stream. I was doing my usual union organizer thing, but stopped to pet this unusually sweet and friendly stray cat.

One of the residents, Pat Day, caught me petting her, and commenced a month-long lobbying effort to get me to adopt the cat. Lots of strays gather at the retirement community, since the residents are perfectly happy to feed and care for them. I’ve been thinking about adopting a pet for some time, so I was tempted by this cute little rusty-colored calico with an awful gravelly meow. But I was worried about my long hours at work, and how little I would be home for it, not to mention cat hair everywhere and cat claws scratching up all my furniture.

Well, Pat kept working on me, and when she called me to report on the kitty’s visit to animal control, which turned up the fact that the cat had been “altered” and declawed, I ran out of excuses. It’s a terrible thing to declaw a cat and then send it out to fend for itself in the suburban “wild.” Clearly, my home is better than that. Plus, my furniture would be safe!

After spending the first night crying and behaving badly, she seems quite content and at-home by now. She sleeps on my bed, and jumps up to meet my hand when petting her. She’s chasing her tail around the living room as I type this. I can’t imagine why anyone would abandon this sweet little cat.

I don’t feel inclined towards naming her. It’s kind of arrogant of us humans to name cats and expect them to respect our nomenclature. My brother has seized this opportunity to give the cat a new name everyday. So far, she has been General Whiskers, the Queen of Spain, Mork (not Mindy) and Sandy Duncan (that last one was mine; it felt right at 8 am). Why, you too can name her for a small donation.

Richard Winger, the stalwart defender of independent and third party ballot access rights, and the man who has kept the Coalition for Free and Open Elections going, has put the Ballot Access News online as a blog. It is a tremendous resource for news and information about legal challenges to this country’s various draconian ballot access laws, as well as occasional success stories from third parties.

The Drum Major Institute, the non-partisan, non-profit progressive think tank, has launched a new blog. My friends Elana Levin and Amy Traub work for DMI and are among the contributers.

As token gestures go, this one is particularly insulting. Executives at Delphi, the financially troubled auto parts producer that was spun off from GM a few years ago, are voluntarily cutting their million dollar salaries by as much as 20% as the company goes through bankruptcy procedures and seeks to void its union contracts and slash the pay of its workers by as much as two-thirds. This magnanimous act was meant to make up for the previously announced (now retracted) executive bonuses meant to “entice” these brilliant captains of industry to remain with the company through the hard times that they caused.

The workers at Delphi make around $26 an hour. The business community likes to toss around the figure of $70 an hour, which would include the cost of payments for medical insurance, pension funds and other benefits. Delphi says these wages make the company uncompetitive, as similar workers in Mexico make one tenth of that. They probably wager that the public at large aren’t as sympathetic to these greedy union members who make too much money.

Well, think about this. $26 an hour probably translates to around $50,000 annually, more with overtime. That’s enough to support a family, maybe buy a house and have some expectation to send your kids to college. That’s not wealthy, folks. That’s not too much money. That’s the elusive American Dream. Ten dollars an hour, on the other hand, would result in an annual income that would qualify for the Earned Income Tax Credit. For welfare, in other words. That’s the kind of change that the two-thirds pay cut that Delphi’s executives seek would produce in their workers: from the middle class to the welfare line.

What kind of sacrifice does a 10% reduction of a million dollar salary produce? One less trip to Paris? A smaller yacht? Delphi’s token gesture towards shared sacrifice is a total insult, and it makes my Bolshevik blood boil. How about a 10% reduction of their actual persons, starting right at the top. Off with their heads!

The tension between solo work and band work is sometimes palpable, as is the resentment of the post-breakup competition. Sometimes it’s laid right out in the album title. Here are my five favorite pissed-off, post (or pre)-breakup album titles. Or at least, the first five that occurred to me while writing this.

5. Bach’s Bottom by Alex Chilton. The mercurial lead singer of Big Star has had some pretty confounding output as a solo artist. His first almost-complete record mostly consists of covers (fans would eventually get used to this). His nervy and needy cover of “Can’t Seem to Make You Mine” is the best ever, while his original “Bangkok” features a double entendre that would make AC/DC’s eyes roll. Alex was in a band called the Box Tops, y’see, before Big Star. See, bad puns abound!

4. Rigor Mortis Sets In by John Entwistle. The Who’s bassist, the writer behind “Whiskeyman” and “Boris the Spider” (which, for the record, was Jimi Hendrix’ favorite Who song), dabbled in a solo career as Townsend the artiste started hogging entire records with his damn “operas.” I guess even the Ox had to admit that his creative juices weren’t quite flowing the way they used to by the time of his third record.

3. I’ve Got My Own Record To Do by Ron Wood. Rod Stewart used to be cool, back when he was in the Faces. He was still a bit of a prick, though, as he cultivated his solo career at the expense of his band. “I’ve got my own record to do,” was his excuse for skipping band sessions. Wood, the Faces’ guitarist, decided to use his time off productively, cutting a record with none other than Keith Richards. By the time Rod the Mod announced that he was through with the Faces, Woody had a better job lined up.

2. Congratulations, I’m Sorry by the Gin Blossoms. Your band has just scored a string of hits on “alternative” radio, but your principal songwriter (who is not the singer) has a huge heroin problem. How to deal? Kick him out of the band, but be sure to buy his rights to the songwriting royalties. Now, how do you apologize when he spends all that money on heroin, and then blows his brains out? Do it in the follow-up album title.

1. 75% Less Fat by Chris Mars. Mars was the drummer for the fabulously fucked-up Replacements. He was “replaced” for their last record and tour. Two years later, when he returned to recorded music, Mars decided to play the whole album himself. The Mats were a quartet. Do the math.

After much ado, the complete September-October issue of “The Socialist” is finally available online.

The United States Postal Service has apparently revamped its bulk mail
rules which has resulted in an extremely disappointing delay in this
issue getting our readers’ hands all ink-stained and sloppy.

When this issue went to press, back in late August, articles like B.
Guise’s expose of Bush’s ExxonMobil connection and Barbara Garson’s
skewering of Paul Wolfowitz were poppin fresh and relevant. Now they’re
merely relevant. Sadly, David McReynolds’ “troops out now” article could probably be published verbatim two years from now and still be fresh.

In any event, please check out the new issue, and consider subscribing. Thank you for your support.

I miss the days of “selling out” in rock and roll. It’s hard to fathom the purist fury that fans once generated over “plugging in” or signing to a major label. These days, not only does the clearest act of selling out – licensing music for teevee commercials and even performing in such commercials – not generate controversy, it is rewarded by higher sales!

The once-underground techno star Moby became famous by licensing all of the songs off of his 1999 album, “Play,” for use in movies and commercials. For many, it was their first exposure to his music, and it led to more radio airplay and huge record sales. Established “catalog” artists discovered that this strategy could work for them as well. An old Who album cut, “Bargain,” has become a classic rock radio staple after being used in some car commercial. New Who “best of” collections had to be assembled to include the track, which sold like gangbusters.

What’s worse is that some stars are appearing in these ads. As a fan, I want to go to concerts and see rock stars, not ladies’ lingerie salesmen. Yes, fine, my objection is partially some kind of hipster elitism about what is cool. So shoot me. It’s also based in my commie revulsion of crass commercialism. But, while many artists may not have once shared my objection to such commercialism, and thus can’t be argued to have sold out any of their own principles, they are still selling out something precious by licensing their back pages.

“People lost their virginity to this music, got high for the first time to this music,” says former Doors drummer John Densmore. “That’s not for rent.” That’s well said, even if his refusal to allow Doors songs to be licensed in commercials is a high-minded cover for his longtime estrangement from his former bandmates.

Still, Densmore is passing up a $15 million payday for sticking to his guns. That kind of money is something of an aberration, I’d wager. My friend, Alan Amalgamated (himself a rock drummer, who spent years in the industry), predicts that one day corporations will make artists pay for the privilege of having their music promoted in these ads. Already, with so many artists willing to sell out, I’m sure the market price of one’s soul has dropped considerably. $15 million for a famous rock song like “Break On Through,” which is not yet associated with any corporate product is kinda understandable. But what about a song like “Lust for Life.” That bugger’s been used for everything. What corporation is going to pay the big bucks for someone else’s sloppy seconds?

The problem for many of the artists is that they get robbed left and right, by producers, managers, directors, A&R men and many more. It is not uncommon for rockers who are made “millionaires” by their major label record contracts to wind up “thousandaires” once the final accounts are settled.

Recording artists desperately need some sort of collective action to balance the power at the major labels. Fans should engage in some kind of boycott themselves. I would say, don’t buy any song that’s used in a corporate advertisement. Don’t encourage this lousy system. If you like what you hear, and don’t already own it on scratchy, dusty vinyl, then, by all means, illegally download.

Even better, throw your teevee out the window, like I did years ago. You won’t even know who’s selling out anymore, and you’ll have more times to simply listen to the music.

I got a check for $400 from Mike Bloomberg yesterday. He’s so thoughtful! It came right in the nick of time, too: all those start of the month bills were piling up. What timing.

What timing, indeed. The general election is one month away, and it’s not like that good-for-nothing Freedy Ferrer can afford to cut a check that fat for every voter. However, unlike last year’s property tax rebate, this check wasn’t signed by the Mayor. City ethics rules prevent a candidate’s name from appearing in a high profile city-funded mailing such as this within 90 days of the election.

It’s a nice nod to ethics, but how are the last 90 days supposed to counter-balance an entire term spent plastering the incumbent’s name and face all over government funded mailings, tv ads and billboards? All politicians do this. George Pataki can be heard extolling the beauty of New York in tourism ads, and crowing about health care for tots in PSA’s. In the town of Hempstead (where, yes, I have been spending an awful lot of time), the blasted name Kate Murray is ubiquitous. Her ads are everywhere. Her name appears on every town building, van, pamphlet – you name it. Seniors, got a problem? Call Kate Murray’s senior hotline.

The spoils of office have been exploited since the earliest days of cities and party politics. Tammany Hall hacks famously gave out free turkeys at Thanksgiving to maintain the loyal votes of the poor. So why mask it with this veneer of fairness in the very late days of the election campaign? Just put the mayor’s name and face at the top of the ballot, along with a special message from him saying “these elections are the city’s way of thanking you for keeping New York City strong during difficult times.”

Alternatively, we can ban elected officials from appearing in taxpayer financed advertisements and mailings. In fact, let’s ban anyone with a remote chance of running for office from appearing in these materials. I nominate convicted felons and undocumented immigrants to be the city’s new spokespeople. If this is too controversial, perhaps we could arrange for an anthropomorphic cartoon puppy, or perhaps a reanimated dead celebrity?

I was standing outside a “seaside resort” in Long Beach this morning. I don’t believe that it’s actually a resort anymore; just a home for seniors. And so I stood outside in the early morning hours, doing what I do.

A nice old lady came out and proceeded to the red bus stop bench in front, but stopped when she large puddles of heavy morning condensation all over the bench. “I have a rag in my car,” I offered. “I can wipe it down.” She let out this strange, excited yelp. “Ooh. You would do that for me? That’s so nice. Only in Long Beach!” I’d like to think that this sort of thing happens in Queens and Brooklyn, too. I wiped down the bench and we both took a seat.

“My daughter is coming to pick me up,” she explained, excitedly. “It’s a very special Jewish holiday. Rosh Hashanah. Tonight and tomorrow night.” She paused, then continued to explain, “It’s the New Year.”

“Oh, right,” I replied, and smiled. It did seem awfully quiet in Long Beach. Lots of folks must have been visiting family.

As if on cue, a gold minivan pulled up, and its automatic door slid open. The old woman beamed a bright smile, jumped up and rushed to the car, which had stopped in a large puddle. “Bobbie,” she cried out to her daughter, “you’re right in the dirty water. Could you back up?” Silently, the door slid closed, the car backed up five feet and the door opened again.

The woman began to climb into the back seat, and let out that same strange yelp when she saw her grandkids. “You don’t have to yell,” lectured her daughter in very cold, clipped speech. “We can hear you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, still happy and loud. “It’s just seeing them…They’re so much bigger than the pictures!” The grandkids, at least, seemed to share her excitement, and breathlessly told their grandma all about school and friends and games and such.

The daughter, behind the wheel, wouldn’t allow her classic snit to be interrupted by the happy family reunion. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to pick you up at this hour? I’ve started a new job. I have responsibilities. I have to be on time.” Her speech thunders like a mother and pouts like a child. I was embarrassed to overhear it.

“You have a job?,” her mother mousily responded. “I didn’t know.”

“Now you know,” the daughter spat back, icily.

Happy New Year.

In another lifetime, Norma McCorvey was the anonymous Jane Roe who allowed herself to be used by the pro-choice movement as the plaintiff in the case that established the constitutional right to privacy and abortion, Roe vs. Wade.

In the intervening years, the radical right violated her right to privacy, tracked Ms. McCorvey down and exploited her own ambivalence over her personal tragedy and its use in national policy debate. They turned Jane Roe into a pro-lifer, as if the simple change of heart of a turncoat would invalidate the legal principles of Roe vs. Wade, and convince all women not to have abortions.

Since that “change of heart,” Ms. McCorvey has played a farcical role in the abortion debate, not unlike the titular (anti)hero of the movie, Citizen Ruth. The New York Times has dug her up one more time for an article published today, on a drug for ulcers that could also be used as a black market abortificant when the Roberts court inevitably overturns Roe Vs. Wade. Here’s what the erstwhile Roe had to say:

“When women start using these self-induced drugs, and start seeing body parts in their potty, they’re going to go bananas,” Miss McCorvey said. “And it’s going to be horrible.”

The Times did not identify any medical or scientific credentials for Ms. McCorvey, nor did it really identify her for speaking for any organization. Nope. Guess they just decided to interview a puppet for the fun of it.

Rockville Centre is, I believe, one of the “Five Towns” on Long Island. I’m not exactly sure what the other four towns are, except that one is Valley Stream, and that they all focus around shopping malls, the Long Island Rail Road and a shitty college.

Actually, I’m pretty sure at this point that Rockville Centre is not a town at all, but an incorporated village. Nassau county has lots of incorporated villages. I’m not really sure what their function is, but they all seem to have police departments whose main function is to write traffic and parking tickets.

The actual governmental structure of Nassau seems to consist of a county legislature and executive, who can establish prevailing wage laws like the NY City Council and…well, I’m sure they can do other things, too. Within the county, are three major townships (Hempstead, North Hempstead and Oyster Bay), which manage some public housing for seniors, maybe collect taxes and might even collect garbage. I’m vague on these details. Within Nassau are two independent cities, Glen Cove and Long Beach, which act like any other city that lies within the borders of a county (rather than encompassing five entire counties). While I’m still unclear on how these borders and responsibilities overlap, I’m impressed that I’ve learned this much in the space of two weeks, after living two and a half decades in such close proximity to the edge of the world. I figured this information would be a lesson, of sorts, to my readers, which is why I share it.

My observation about Rockville Centre is that residents actually press the “pedestrian waiting” button at street light intersections! Consistently. Reliably. Their naive faith in governmental authority is enviable.

I’m sure you’re familiar with these buttons. Accompanied by a sign that says something along the lines of “Press button and wait for green light,” these are the busy-work doohickies that can be found at most city streetlight intersections. Seasoned city slickers probably allow themselves a private chuckle when someone actually presses the button, expecting a green light light that will come sooner than that crazy scheduled light change.

In New York City, at least, we have have two buttons on any corner; you known, to signal which direction you intend to cross, north or east, south or west.

In Rockville Centre, they have only one button per corner. How this is supposed to tell the computerized traffic gods which light you hope to turn which color is beyond me, but the fact that residents – seniors, workers, businessman, school children and crossing guards, alike – dependably press this button while waiting for a light change kinda warms my heart. I envy that naive faith in truth in advertising, governmental honesty and patience as a virtue.

Come to think of it, I saw a lot of Bush re-election bumper stickers there, too.

A message from Gloria Mattera, Green Party candidate for Brooklyn Borough President.

With just 5 weeks to go before election day on November 8, our campaign is having a real impact. We’ve brought Cindy Sheehan to Brooklyn and had her speak in front of 500 cheering supporters; today (Oct. 1) we protested outside Chuck E. Cheese’s on Flatbush Avenue for its showing of Department of Defense videotape to small children, and last week I had fun blasting Marty Markowitz on the Ratner project in a public debate.

Gloria Mattera