“That ha[s] to be one of the STUPIDEST things I’ve heard in a long time. Quite frankly (no pun intended), that passage is about as sexual as a gynecological exam. Even if there was a legitimate objection to that one passage, the loss of what the rest of the diary teaches is immeasurable.”

This was the reaction from one friend of mine, in regards to the Virginia School District that removed the current version of “The Diary of Anne Frank,” from their shelves. According to an article in “The Raw Story,” one parent – that’s right, one parent – complained about a passage in the book, where Anne, essentially discovers her vagina.

Another response was as follows.

“Imagine being so terrified of anatomy that the mere description of a vagina sends you into shrieking, mouth-foaming outrage.”

Myself, I’m finding it much harder to put my feelings on this matter into words, other than to say that this is just one more example of why I’m terrified at the thought of teaching High School, in this most puritanical and  backwards of nations. It’s not the kids that scare me. It’s the parents, and the spineless, pencil pushing administrators.

At the College level, Professors and adjunct instructors are given more academic freedom, the students are actually there to learn, not held against their wills, and above all, there is no constant scrutiny by ignorant, uneducated parents, ruled by fear.

The article went on to quote the administrator in question, as saying, “I’m happy when parents get involved with these things because it lets me know that they are really looking and have their kids’ best interest (in mind). And that’s where good parenting and good teaching comes in.”

My question to him would be, what about the hundreds of students whose parents didn’t complain about the book? Why do we have to drop the educational bar, to the lowest common denominator, for one zealot, who’s afraid his daughter will discover that she too, is a girl? And why paint this whole thing as some sort of beneficent act of good parenting, in an almost Orwellian manner?

Now, Anne Frank’s diary is not an 800 page academic tome, like “Hitler’s Willing Executioners,” or “The Nazi Doctors,” or “The Third Reich in Power,” or “The Destruction of the European Jews.” But, I never would have read any of those books, had I not, first read Anne Frank. Erin Gruwell, visionary educator, and creator of the Freedom Writer’s Foundation, used this book to introduce her students to the idea of keeping diaries.

Thankfully, I suppose, the district will continue to teach the book, but will use an older, redacted version. Another friend made this point. “At least they are still teaching it, but an older addition [sp]. I have read both, and the newer addition gives a much fuller portrait of Anne as a real teenage girl, and therefore makes her more accessible to students. Speaking as a former teenage girl myself, what girl hasn’t had those exact thoughts? ”

The key word in the above quote is, accessible. Kids need to be able to relate to the people they read about. It’s what I love about History, and why I want to teach it. History is alive. It’s not a bunch of dry dates and names of long dead Generals, it’s stories about people. Napoleon was, whatever else, a Human Being. Babyface Nelson woke up in the morning and went to bed at night, just like you and I. Thomas Jefferson had difficulty struggling with his biological urges, just like every other Human being who ever lived.

The only way to prevent horrors like the Holocaust from continuing to happen – as they are, and do, all over the world – is to educate our young. And the only way we’re going to be able to do that is by giving them literature that they can access, and relate to.

So, in closing, I would like to propose some other works that this particular school district may want to ban. “East of Eden”, “Tess of the d’Urbervilles,” “Invisible Man,” “The Sun Also Rises,” “Women in Love” “Sophie’s Choice” etc. etc. etc.

Here’s the link to the original article: http://rawstory.com/2010/01/school-district-pulls-anne-franks-diary/

I wanted to write, today, some high minded intellectual piece about Millenialism during the French Revolution, and its commonalities with the Atheism vs. Theism that we have occurring in 21st century America.

That wasn’t really working for me, so I thought I’d do something on this world’s tragic losses of both Howard Zinn, and J. D. Salinger. Both men had strong influence in my life, and are perhaps the two most responsible for my current direction in literature and History.

But… I just couldn’t make the spark grow into a flame.

Then, I thought, what about Obama’s wonderful, enlightening and terminally long SOTU, last night. Maybe I could argue some of his positive points, or perhaps, play devil’s advocate by presenting some ideas in contrast to his. Or perchance, just dwell on the fact that the man spoke for an hour and a half.

An Hour and a half? Who does that? The greatest orator this country has ever known, Abraham Lincoln, delivered the Gettysburg Address – the speech maker’s benchmark – in seven minutes.  I mean Christ, I’ve been to Greek Orthodox masses that went quicker!

OK, fine. I could have written about any of those things, but it’s late. I’m tired, getting over a cold and all, and I wanted to write something fun.

Kicking the hell out of the rubber man. Where I train, we have this big ugly rubber torso, mounted on a plastic water bucket. He stands about six feet tall, and has a real menacing look on his rubber mug. The idea is that you punch him and kick him. This way, you can work on combinations, and get used to the idea of hitting and kicking an adversary.

For reasons that are beyond my grasp, my Sifu (teacher) gave him the name, “Jerky.” Before we begin kicking and punching Jerky, we bow to him. This is because he teaches us. Isn’t that cool? We bow, out of respect, to what is in essence a heavy bag, because he teaches us.

It hurts to hit Jerky. Ten good punches to the face, and your hands are purple and sore. The first time I hit him, I indicated to Sifu, that it hurt. She said, “Yeah, it hurts when you hit somebody.” People forget that. Sure, you hurt them more than they hurt you, but it does hurt. That might be the most important lesson I’ve learned from Jerky.

In “Enter the Dragon,” Bruce Lee is squared off with somebody or other. I don’t remember who. The opponent breaks a board, in order to intimidate Lee – like that’s even possible. Bruce Lee says, “Boards don’t hit back.” If you were raised, as I was, on Kung Fu movies, that line is your equivalent to “Of all the gin joints in all the world, she had to walk into mine.”

Obviously, the same can be said of Jerky. He doesn’t hit back. But that’s what makes him such a wonderful friend. I’ve been in fights, real ones and tournaments. It’s never fun. Even now, when I spar with my boxing coach, although I do enjoy it, I wouldn’t exactly call it fun.

Well, maybe tomorrow I can write about the French Revolution, Social History from the research perspective, or the sad state of politics in post-Bush America. For now, however, I hope I’ve done an adequate job of introducing you to one of my favorite people – Jerky, the rubber man. I’ll keep you posted, and if he ever does hit back, you, my readers will be the first to know.

I love to drive. Traffic is a constantly changing and flowing river of amorphous steel and that which is an open lane now, will be a motorcycle in the blink of an eye. Crossing over three lanes of 85 mph traffic in less than 1200 feet and swooping effortlessly onto your exit is a truly exhilarating experience.

Whatever else, my life has been a love affair with the automobile. My earliest, and most fond memories are all of cars. I think I was about 10 years old when my parents decided I was mature enough to be my own babysitter. No sooner were the good-byes said and the door closed, than I was in my father’s room, digging for cigarettes – and car keys. I remember him standing in the driveway, staring at the car. I knew what he was thinking. “I couldn’t have parked it like that. Nobody would park it like that.”

Everything was fine until a neighbor called. “Hey Al, I saw your kid driving around the neighborhood in your car.” Yes, that was certainly one of his better beatings, and my old man was a pro. He beat the hell out of me, but he didn’t do a thing to quench my insatiable thirst to drive.

Of all the great cars that have ever been, there is one which has always been my favorite, the definitive American sports car, Corvette.

Coming into the world as an experiment from the mind of the legendary Harley Earl, the Corvette, introduced in 1953, was a true depiction of the American male psyche. Only 300 of the cars were produced that year and none of the innovations for which the model is known, were available. It was a standard frame, solid rear axle car. It had a steel body and came with an overhead valve six-cylinder engine. The Straight Six truck motor, equipped with a triple carburetion system known as “Tri-power,” was called the “Blue Flame.” The first Corvettes could only be had with a 2 speed automatic transmission and rear wheel drum brakes.

By 1963, the car was available with a 4 on the floor, a 6.5 liter V-8, a mind blowing 6 barrels of Holley carburetion and the famous fiberglass body. In ’65, along with the 5 speed overdrive shift, they brought out the feature that made Corvette the ultimate automobile, the unique, fully independent, 4 wheel midpoint suspension system. Now you not only had the most visually appealing car on the road, you had the single fastest production automobile on Earth. The power to weight ratio was bordering on the ridiculous. With a 550 horsepower plant pulling a plastic body that weighed less than 400 pounds, the 1965 Corvette Stingray was the first American car capable of speeds greater than 150 mph.

I am fortunate in that I have had the opportunity to drive an abundance of Detroit Muscle from the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. I’ve driven a ‘69 Judge, a Boss 302 Mustang, a Shelby and even the “Kowalski” Dodge Challenger, made famous in the movie “Vanishing Point.” But none of these experiences compares to the time I drove a friend’s ‘Vette from Lebanon, New Hampshire to Boston.

It was the summer of 1981 and I was working for the band Trapper, as their road manager and soundman. The rest of my time was spent pickling my liver with Jack Daniels and killing my brain with homemade liquid Cocaine, known as Free-base. One night, as we were striking the stage after a gig in Keene, one of the roadies asked me to drive up with him, to pick up his Corvette.

“Sure,” I said, “as long as I get to be the one who drives the ‘Vette back.” He reluctantly agreed, and we headed up.

It was just about dawn when we arrived at the home of his parents, who were of course, still asleep. We went into the garage and there she sat. Looking like some kind of hungry, wild animal, was a purple 1970 LT-1 Stingray. This kid hadn’t missed a trick. The car was the complete package. Hi-rise intake manifold, Hi-lift racing cam, big fat cheater tires, this car had it all.

We looked at the massive engine; checking out the low restriction air cleaners, the big, fat dual Holley quad-barrel carburetors and the Edelbrock Slingshot exhaust manifolds with their intricate connections to the two huge, chrome side-pipes.

After his parents awoke, and we had eaten some sorely needed breakfast and drank some coffee, we went out and started her up. What a roar. Deep and throaty, the car growled menacingly.

I miss that period in our History. That time growing up, when American cars were the envy of the world, and the only issue was how to pack still more horsepower under the hood. I remember my Old man’s 1961 Buick Electra with the Wildcat 445 Cu. In. V-8. He hated that car, because even then, when gas was all of 28 cents a gallon, it still demanded a 35-gallon tank full – 3 times a week. Yeah, he hated it but I loved it. It was an enormous, gas guzzling, Detroit land yacht, and its engine could power a submarine.

Between my friend’s house and the interstate, all through the town of Lebanon, I never got the car out of 2^nd gear. In fact, I didn’t even have to put my foot on the gas. I was doing 35 at an idle. At one point, we came up to a red light. When the light went green, I, out of habit, let out that stiff clutch and put my foot down on the gas – about half way. I heard the back tires squeal as the car lurched forward, pushing me back into the Recaro bucket seat. Oh, it just wanted to run.

Finally, we got to I-89S, heading towards 93. I passed my friend on the on ramp, and I was in flight. Second to third, she still squealed. 4^th – and then, just as smoothly as you can imagine, syncro-meshed into overdrive. My foot was barely touching the pedal and the car was doing an easy 80.

Where Corvettes are concerned, it’s not just the power, but the handling as well. The cars are low to the ground and that spider style suspension means they don’t steer through corners; they float through them. Furthermore, you go somewhere in most cars, you drive a Corvette. The front wheels fight you and the steering column tells you what the road feels like. Shifts are quick and responsive and everything you do translates instantly into action in the car’s muscles. It really seems like a living thing.

This was back in the double nickel days, the 55 mph speed limit. Staties love ‘Vettes, anyway, but the last thing I was going to do was worry about traffic laws when I had this once in a lifetime opportunity. I’d just hope for the best, because I sure as hell wasn’t going to drive this sexy beast at 55.

It was early in the morning, and it would have been a Sunday anyway, so Police-wise we had no problems, and the two of us, more or less alone, soared south on the interstate. My friend straining to keep up, me slowing from time to time so as to not lose him; all the while the purple hellcat under my charge urging me on to go faster, faster.

I knew that I would never forgive myself if I didn’t try to open it up just once. I didn’t want my friend to get pissed off and I couldn’t have afforded a bust, but I also couldn’t have walked away from this car without taking it to the max, either. Just once, just for a minute. Perfect day, perfect road, perfect car, what would you do?

I slowed, waiting for my friend to pull up in the right lane, looked over at him, smiled teasingly and punched it. I could hear the vacuum advance kick in and  the four auxiliary barrels of the 2 Holleys open up and gulp air. In what couldn’t have been 5 seconds, I glanced down at that famous round, clock face-style speedometer and watched it jolt up past a hundred. The world is a different place at a buck-plus, so I hovered, visiting this strange new planet for just a few more seconds, then eased my foot off the gas, dropped it into 4^th and waited for my friend to catch up.

I’m sure he understood.

The ride ended much too quickly, or so it seemed, and soon we were at his place in the city.

I won’t ever own a Corvette. They’re expensive, impractical, difficult to insure, and even the newer ones suck up gas like beer through a straw. Anyway, I couldn’t bear to be one of those stereotypical, tragically pathetic, middle aged men, driving a ‘Vette, wearing a toupee and cheating on my wife.

I’ve accepted that but I’ll always love them. I’ll always remember that bright Sunday morning and if there is a heaven, and I’m lucky enough to make it there, I’ll be driving a Corvette.

The men in the white coats are coming, coming with their clipboards. They’ll stand in front of our little cells. We’ll sit on the cold concrete floor, shivering in our own piss, waiting. Wondering. Will it be me this time? Will I be the one who gets roped by the neck, and dragged down the hall to that little room?

One of us gets taken. It’s not me yet. it’s a big old man, all white in the face. I can see the fog covering his watery eyes, the sagging flesh under his mouth. I know him. We were talking together, just last night. He’s shaking like a newborn, and trying, through his tears, to say goodbye.

The first thing I can remember, is knowing that there were five of us. I couldn’t see my brothers and sisters, yet, but I remember their smells. And there was my mother. I can remember how she smelled too – all warm and musky.

We’d climb all over each other and bump into each other. And all the time, there was my mother, never more than a few wobbling steps away. I can remember sleeping, in the warmth of the Summer sun. All of a sudden, I’m pounced on! One of us, up early and ready for play.

A few days passed like this, and one at a time, we began to see. It was with that, that we started working things out. Who was strongest, who was fastest and who needed to be helped along. I don’t know quite how or when it happened, but one morning, two of us, the strongest of the five, and the weakest, were gone. I just remember waking up one morning and they were gone.

It was shortly after that, that my mother, myself, and my remaining brother and sister, were put into a big wooden box. We were taken for a ride, and left by the side of a road. My mother managed to tip the box over so we could get out. She wanted us to find our way back home.

The three of us would trot along behind our mother, her nose, constantly moving over the ground. When we’d get tired, and it was as if she knew, she’d stop and let us feed. There was no food for her though, and she started walking less during the day, and letting us feed less and less.

Then one day, we had found another road, and as we were walking, I heard a terrible noise. My mother lay by the side of the road. She was shaking and twitching, and her eyes no longer shone. I put my nose next to hers, but I couldn’t feel her breath. She smelled strange to me. Soon, she stopped twitching, and she moved no more. And – no more milk was to be had from her. The three of us, just sat there, for the longest time, waiting for her to get up. She never did.

I think of her often, now, as I try my best to curl up on this cold concrete slab, as I try to get warm enough to sleep. My muscles hurt all the time, and I’m so hungry. My brother and sister are both gone now. They went into that little room, and when they came out, they looked and smelled just like my mother had, on that morning. The shine gone from their eyes, and that strange smell on their bodies.

This story was inspired by an article in Facebook called, “Bay State Rock: The Gaston Rescue Experience.” This is the link to that article.

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The Flying Dutchman is a reference to a doomed ghost ship, traveling from haunted port to haunted port, constantly enshrouded in fog. It was intended as a joke, in reference to Scott Brown’s victory in the recent Massachusetts Special Election. I was trying to poke fun at the doom and gloom prognosticators, with whom I was communicating on Facebook.

It was about 1966. I would have been 9 years old. I didn’t understand politics, or religion, or the war in Vietnam. All I knew was that there was something in the air, something intangible. There was this feeling that some people knew the answer to the unanswerable questions. In short, the World was just being born. The World was just being born, and I wanted on. That pretty much sums up my entire youth.

People think anti-consumerism, atheism, the peace movement, equal rights, anti-imperialism… People think these concepts are new. That they sprang from the decaying corpses of the last Presidential Administration. But, they didn’t. In fact, most of these ideas have been around since the late 18th century. I often tell young people today; You think things are wild, now? You should have seen 1970. One day I said that in the presence of an elderly gentleman who said to me, “and you should have seen 1930!”

The point is that the Progressive fight has been ongoing for longer than any of us have been alive, and it will, likely go on long after all of us are dead. So, Scott Brown’s victory is really a minuscule event. Sure, it bodes ill for Democrats. It sticks yet another “spear of destiny,” in the side of the pitiful messiah that would be health care reform. It sends Women back to the alleys for coat hanger abortions. I agree with all that. But, we fought McCarthy and Nixon. We fought Reagan.

We’ve struggled to gain equality among the races. Every day, we save animals, rediscover safe food sources, block evil corporations, hold religious demagoguery at bay, and be the thorn in the side of the Military Industrial Complex. Every day we do that, and the war still isn’t won. It may never be.

But, Scott Brown’s victory is just one little rabbit punch, in a 10 round heavyweight bout. it’s one shell, from Big Bertha, in an entire battle of the Somme.

So, does this magazine cover-boy’s political win, doom us to wander the 7 seas, invisible to all mariners, never to find purchase at a port we can call home? No. For alas, twas always thus. We were doomed to this fate, long before Scott Brown.

Hence, the name for this blog site. Let’s see what we can make happen.