Socialism

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What’s Going On

/ Phil Strawn / 20 Comments

Marvin Gaye had it right…

Here we are, nearly 60 years later, and the lyrics to his song, “What’s Going On,” have never rung truer. War, riots in the street, brother killing brother, mothers grieving over their dead sons and daughters, fathers and sons disagree over almost everything, and the socialists and foreign invaders are taking over our country. Karl Marx is celebrating in Hell along with Adolph and the rest of humanity’s demons.

I was a teenager graduating high school in the late sixties, and in that first Vietnam draft. I knew there was a good chance I would wind up in Asia, either killing to survive or being killed. I stayed in a 1-A, draft status through college, vowing that if I was drafted, I would join the Navy and follow in my father’s footsteps. Sure, it was a family thing: my great-grandfather was a Texas Ranger for a while, a deputy; my grandfather fought in the trenches of France in WWI; and my father served at Pearl Harbor in WWII. So was it expected of me to be part of what Vietnam had become? To this day, I am not sure, and age has made my memory of then cloudier than it should be. But I still remember the music that kept those young men and women over there sane. Some of it was harsh, mean, belligerent protest; much of it was peaceful, but forceful in its own way.

My wife, Momo, and I were the Woodstock generation. Me, a rock n roll guitarist, her a straight-laced, Catholic school girl, plaid skirts, fish sticks on Friday, and bruised knuckles, compliments of the nuns’ rulers: a jarringly intelligent girl with a protest gene that led her to speak her voice about the war. I wasn’t as forceful about it as she was. Now we have much of the same things Marvin Gaye sang about happening in our country. What goes around comes around, and it’s not always good.

Back then, it was us young folks against the establishment, our parents’ views, and our grandparents’ staunch loyalty to this Republic; don’t trust anyone over thirty. We didn’t see it; we were too busy being young, idealistic, and, most of the time, plain stupid about the reality of what was carrying us on top of the wave of discontent.We would give others the two-finger peace sign as we passed them by, not knowing that it meant “victory” and that Winston Churchill made it famous. Our parents had fought the evil that wanted to end America and knew, at best, it was a temporary fix. They tried to tell us, but we didn’t listen; the music and the evening news rewired our thinking, taking away our logic.

Will our grown, adult children teach their children well? Momo and I carry our own fears and insecurities from our upbringing and subliminally pass them on to our children, who will do the same with theirs. We have to ask ourselves: did we teach them well enough to overcome those moments? Will they see their parents’ hell slowly go by?

Do our children and grandchildren have the fortitude to stand up for this country and lay down their lives for the good of it? Ben Franklin was a genius when he told a woman, when asked, ” Do we have a monarchy or a Republic, he replied, “Madam, we have given you a Republic, if you can keep it.” Can we? Will we? Lord, put your divine hand on every citizen of this country and lead us to victory over the forces of evil that are real and coming for us.

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The Times They Have Changed

/ Phil Strawn / 13 Comments

At least that’s what Bob Dylan said

It has to be me, or the results of my brain injury from five years ago: but have you noticed, the times have changed, and Dylan knew it was coming, and it started about the time he was swapping spit and writing prolific pot inspired lyrics with Joan Baez. Sitting in that crappy New York apartment, plucking on that old Martin guitar with a bowed neck and rusted strings. Bob was poor as a hobo with no soup can, and couldn’t afford new guitar strings, so Joan boiled them in water and vinegar, and he got a few more months out of them. That trick actually works; I’ve tried it, and it’s good for your finger calluses as well.

Dylan knew the Beat crowd was old history, at least everyone but Kerouac and Ginsberg. He knew the Commies were already here and planning to ruin our youth with their pious speil, and now their spawn has taken up the red flag of Mao. Pete Seeger told Bob about Woodie Guthrie and his Fascism killing guitar, and he thought, “well, if Woody can do it, so can I,” and he did. Joan was far too clingy and wrapped him in her musical web, so, of course, he had to ditch her after the Newport Folk Festival, at Johnny Cash’s insistence. ” Walk the line boy, get yourself a gal with some meat on her bones and can cook a pot roast with carrots and taters, and your song writing will soar” says ole Johnny C. Bob was as obstinate as a politician, and didn’t heed the advice, but he did spit out some more tunes, had a motorcycle wreck and met a group of musicians from Canada, and one from Arkansas, that fit his style. He made them as famous as himself.

The Beatles had already come over the pond and changed folk-loving young folks into mop-top-dancing fools. Spectors wall of sound still ruled the studio, and Brian Wilson was writing as fast as he could in between nervous breakdowns. Whose hand were we supposed to hold? That hair across my forehead gives me pimples. Chubby Checker had a conniption fit because the Fabs stole his song about the twist and added a shout to the title. Nobody did the twist anymore; that was for parents’ martini parties at the country club and basement parties in New Jersey.

The times started to change. I got an electric guitar, ditched the mandolin my father gave me, ditched the violin, and he loaned my Gibson J45 to a relative who never returned it, so the times changed for me. Kennedy was still in office for a few more months before our deep state took him out, and Nikita was pounding and breaking everything with his size 10 Gucci leather shoe. A breathy speaking Jackie invented Camelot, JFK was humping Marilyn, and the world was on the brink of a nuclear war as Castro was rolling cigars for Nikita. I kept playing my electric guitar; it didn’t faze me in the least. But Bob, he was writing songs about all of this Alice in Wonderland, Fantasia-inspired world his head was in. The times had changed in a matter of months. Was it history, or did Bob inspire it? Maybe a bit of both.

Then, Dylan picked up a Fender Strat, plugged into a Fender Super Reverb amp, and Al Kooper made the Hammond B3 church organ into a legend. The world was aghast. Peter Paul and Mary had a collective breakdown, and Joan was history, still writing those tired songs and whining about a long dead Joe Hill.

Russia was on the move. Their young folks wanted Dylan, and the Beatles, but Nikita wouldn’t let them in, so they became good little Communist and toed the line, much like our own good little socialist commies are doing today. With an Ivy League education, you get two worthless degrees, one that wont do you a damn bit of good, and the other is a masters in socialism. Nikita would be proud of New York City these days. A Commie Islamist smiling Devil for a mayor, my-my, Dylan knew it was coming. He warned us as Pete and Woody had before. We didn’t listen to the music close enough.