In prefacing the share, I posed this question: how do deeply religious people justify Trump’s course language, his mockery of a disabled man, his boasts of shooting someone and getting away with it, his name-calling based on looks and gender, and his scathing, below-the-belt attacks on people who dare disagree with him? My post generated a number of interesting comments, all of which were from anti-Tumpers, except for a series of comments from a dear old friend. Sure, it’s good to get a debate going and hear views from all sides. But I’m left wondering why I even bother to share political views on social media, especially when a majority of my contacts are liberals. Do I really think my opinions are going to sway anyone with opposing views? Of course not. Facts, figures, research, logic, the voting-against-your-own-interest argument—none of it matters when it conflicts with deeply-held, family-instilled values and experiences.
When disgraced Fox News personality Bill O’Reilly incited a fear-fest by saying that if elected 2004 Democratic presidential candidate John Kerry would abolish Christmas as a federal holiday and replace it with “winter solstice or something” — it’s obvious we’re dealing with people who value what’s personally sacred, more than policies that might actually improve their lives. Plus, we live in an age of what-about-ism. When the only way a Trump supporter can defend the President is with things like — “Well, what about Clinton’s lying and womanizing?” or “What about Hillary calling Trump’s followers ‘deplorables?’, and “What about the bad things Democrats have done in the past?” — any kind of intelligent debate is off the table.
Yes, I admit that erstwhile Democratic leaders have lied, cheated on their wives, prolonged wars, and mucked up the economy. And I’m appalled. Politics is a dirty, egocentric business. I believe that a lot of politicians start out with the best of intentions, and eventually get sucked into the vortex of sexual temptation, delusions of power, and personal gain from special interest groups with deep pockets.
I can sort of understand how and why Trump initially appealed to certain people, based on his promises to drain the swamp of Club Washington politicians. But I’m just plain baffled by how the deeply religious set can still support him. I consider myself a spiritual, not a religious, person. I dig Jesus as a prophet. And I KNOW that Jesus would not tolerate a Trump. “Oh, he shoots from the hip and sometimes says naughty things, but he’s getting things done!” This is what I usually hear from Trump supporters who are interviewed by reporters at his rallies. Oy vay, what’s the use?
So, here’s MY twist on what-about-ism: What about Obama? What if he had acted in the same brash, name-calling manner as Trump while in office? What if he had bragged about getting away with murder in the streets? Would the public have tolerated it? I think not. I wouldn’t tolerate any bully-leader like that, Democrat or otherwise, no matter how much they improved the economy (if we are to assume that a President is solely responsible for economic improvement).
So, back to my original proclamation: I am done posting or responding to political posts on Facebook. Sure, there’s a certain feeling of hope that grows when we connect with like-minded people. But when we share these never-ending horror stories about the President, what are we really accomplishing? We’re just working ourselves up. Wouldn’t those of us who fear a second term for Trump be better off doing something more constructive to prevent that outcome? And if so, what should we do that’s within our ability or comfort zone?
We liberals on Facebook are merely preaching to the choir. And maybe we feel just a wee bit superior as we consume intelligently-written, in-depth articles and compelling op-ed pieces in venerated publications. In the end, are we disparaging “the others”? Isn’t that a right-wing tactic? When we proclaim on social media that a vote for Trump is a vote for the end of the world as we know it, aren’t we engaging in the same type of fear-mongering that we accuse Republics of? Do we see most Trump supporters — even the highly-educated — as delusional, ill-read, Fox-addicted, xenophobes and racists? Might this be “intellectual bullying?” Are we to dissolve life-long friendships with people whose beliefs conflict with ours? In the days following the massacre of 11 innocent people in a Pittsburgh synagogue, I declared, in my need to blame someone or something, that the killings were incited by Trump’s “immigrant invasion” rhetoric. Maybe, maybe not. Much depends upon the intrinsic human need to process a killer’s horrendous action.
Political commentator David Brooks wrote a very interesting piece in the New York Times on January 9, titled “Trump Has Made Us All Stupid.” His thesis is that Democrats are becoming hysterical with fear and loathing in the same manner as Republicans, spending more time and energy hating Trump than dissecting facts and presenting fair and balanced news. (Personally, I’m growing weary of liberal-leaning MSNBC’s increasingly over-the-top editorial stance.) Brooks’s article opines, “Hating Trump together has become the ultimate bonding, attention-grabbing and profit-maximization mechanism for those of us in anti-Trump world. So you get a series of exaggerated fervors — the Mueller report! Impeachment! The Steele dossier! — that lead ultimately nowhere. Most of this week’s argument about the Middle East wasn’t really about the Middle East. It was all narcissistically about ourselves! Democrats defend terrorists! Republicans are warmongers!” Perhaps we’re just all too smug, judgmental and worried for our own good.
When I showed an early draft of this article to a friend, she said, “Well, that’s all well and good, but we need to hold these Trump supporters accountable!” Really?
Facebook is not a forum in which I feel comfortable sharing my thoughts and passions. I prefer to limit any socio-political posts to articles about action-oriented ways to advance liberal ideals. And, more importantly, I will continue to use The Hip Quotient as a forum to share content that encourages people to create and experience art, music, film, and literature that empower us all.
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Attention: this is an important history lesson for all you sweet young things born after the baby boom! The subject is Abbie Hoffman, who died 25 years ago today. He was one of the most colorful pranksters and political activists of the 1960s, and a hero to many. He was a founder of the Youth International Party (Yippies) and one of the “Chicago Seven,” a group arrested for conspiracy and inciting a riot during the 1968 Democratic National Convention. His outlandish behavior inspired many to become politically active, question authority and protest the Vietnam war. What an adorable little bad-ass Jew!
The Nixon government considered him a subversive, due to his association with such controversial groups as the Black Panthers, the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) and the Socialist Workers Party (SWP). His FBI file consisted of over 13,000 pages.
One of his grand symbolic stunts involved taking a group of Yippie followers to the New York Stock Exchange in 1967, where they tossed both real and phony dollars from the gallery, amusing themselves as traders went wild trying to catch the falling bills. No one in Hoffman’s entourage even thought to alert the press ahead of time, but the story spread like wildfire through the media. As a result of the prank, the NYSE spent $20,000 to enclose the gallery with bulletproof glass.
Another of his capers involved leading a group of war protestors to the Pentagon, only to find that a throng of soldiers had formed a human chain to prevent them from nearing the building. Abbie suggested the use of psychic energy to levitate the Pentagon until it turned bright orange and began to vibrate – thus bringing the Vietnam war to an end. Allen Ginsberg was on hand to lead the crowd in Tibetan chants. Oh, what a time!
The courtroom trial of the Chicago Seven was like a scene from a Marx Brothers movie. Abbie and fellow defendant Jerry Rubin wore judicial robes to court one day. As Abbie was being sworn in, he managed to flash the finger while his hand was on the bible. When asked to give his state of residence, he replied, “the state of mind of my brothers and sisters.” He led his codefendants in daily harassments of Judge Julius Hoffman (no relation). Abbie told the judge, “you are a ‘shande fur de Goyim’ [disgrace in front of the gentiles]. You would have served Hitler better.” During the trial he repeatedly called the judge “Julie,” and even suggested he try LSD, promising to set him up with a dealer in Florida.
Abbie and four of his codefendants – Rubin, David Dellinger, Rennie Davis, and Tom Hayden (who later married Jane Fonda after their controversial jaunt to North Vietnam in 1972) – were found guilty of “intent to incite a riot while crossing state lines.” They were fined $5,000 and sentenced to five years in prison, but the convictions were later overturned when a commission ruled that a “police riot” caused the violent clashes at the Democratic convention.
When Abbie was convicted for wearing a shirt resembling the American flag – which police had torn from his back – he announced, Nathan Hale-style, “I only regret that I have but one shirt to give for my country.” (To make matters worse, he had a Viet Cong flag painted on his back.)
Through the years Abbie continued to stir things up. He jumped on stage while The Who were performing at Woodstock, and delivered an LSD-fueled message: “I think this is a pile of shit while [militant counterculture leader] John Sinclair rots in prison.” Pete Townshend charged at him, whacking him with his guitar for violating the “sanctity of the stage.” (Townshend denied striking him; accounts vary.)
In 1973, police nabbed Abbie for “intent to sell and distribute cocaine.” Maintaining that he was framed, he skipped bail, underwent plastic surgery and went into hiding, finally surrendering in 1980 (he served a four month sentence). In 1986, he (along with President Carter’s daughter Amy) was arrested for trespassing during a protest of CIA actions on the campus of the University of Massachusetts at Amherst.
Along the way, he authored the wildly popular guide to political activism, “Steal This Book,” and, with Jonathan Silvers, co-authored “Steal This Urine Test,” which exposed the flaws in the government’s war on drugs.
As the Reagan ’80s progressed, Abbot Howard Hoffman remained active in social causes, but was battling bi-polar disorder and no doubt bemoaning the lack of activism among young people. On April 12, 1989, at age 52, he washed down 150 phenobarbital tablets with liquor. Some say it was an unintentional overdose, but swallowing 150 pills does require some effort on the part of even the most experienced aficionado. It was ruled a suicide.
Abbie would have approved of the eulogy delivered by Rabbi Norman Mendell, who said that his activism and rabble-rousing were in keeping with “the Jewish prophetic tradition, which is to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.”
Now, let’s all steal THAT philosophy!
“Revolution is not something fixed in ideology, nor is it something fashioned to a particular decade. It is a perpetual process embedded in the human spirit.”
After Abbie told a Chicago city official that he’d take $100,000 to call off the massive demonstration planned for the 1968 Democratic Convention, a reporter asked him if he was serious. Here’s what he said.
By Dana Spiardi, April 12, 2014
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The Iron Curtain. That was a term I heard often as a kid growing up in the Cold War ’60s. What exactly was this metallic barrier, and who or what was behind it, I wondered. Little did I know back then that British Prime Minster Winston Churchill had coined the term to refer to the ideological barrier that separated the free world from the Communist world. But in time, I came to realize that an actual curtain really did exist – one made of concrete. It was called the Berlin Wall, and it held much fascination for me.
By the time I first set foot in Berlin in 1993, there was virtually nothing left of the monolith that separated the two parts of the city between August 13, 1961, and November 9, 1989. I was expecting to see something of the 97-mile-long structure that was born at roughly the same time as I. Still, I understood the need to destroy this ugly reminder of socio-political oppression.
My first order of business was a trip to the famous Checkpoint Charlie area to buy up as much memorabilia as I could: from silly touristy things like a tiny chunk of the demolished wall, tastefully encased in plastic (whether it’s authentic or not, it’s on my kitchen wall!), to books detailing the history of the barrier and the incredible stories of East Germans who carried out elaborate schemes to scale or burrow under the wall (at least 136 people died trying to cross the border). But my favorite souvenir is a book that features the incredible amateur graffiti that once adorned the western side of the wall, as well as the more professional paintings that cover the structure’s few remaining remnants.
The most famous of these graffiti images is a painting based on a 1979 photograph of Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev planting a big wet kiss on the lips of East German President Erich Honnecker during a celebration to mark the 30th anniversary of the formation of the Deutsche Demokratische Republik (the Communist-ruled German Democratic Republic, or DDR). French photographer Régis Bossu snapped the original image, perfectly capturing the creepy lip-lock of the Commie brothers. The photograph was an immediate media hit, published in newspapers around the globe. French magazine Paris Match named the photo “The Kiss,” and devoted a two-page spread to the picture. A German telecommunications firm even used the photo in advertising posters without permission. (Bossu filled a lawsuit and won.)
In 1990, with the euphoria of German reunification at its peak, Russian painter Dimitri Vrubel discovered Bossu’s photo and decided to paint a version of it on a remnant of the wall that was still standing in East Berlin. He added the caption, “God help me to survive this deadly love affair.” His work became one of the most photographed graffiti images of all time, and was reproduced on everything from t-shirts to towels. The East-Side Hotel in Berlin even used the image in its logo.
Vrubel’s painting was the key attraction of what came to be known as the East Side Gallery – a 1,000-foot-long section of remaining wall which runs parallel to the Spree River. Through the years, 117 artists from 21 countries have displayed their work on this once controversial canvas. The stretch of wall – considered the largest open air gallery in the world – is a major tourist attraction. It’s been protected by a preservation order since 1993. But vandalism and bad weather eventually took their toll; the artwork – much of which was created using cheap paint – slowly deteriorated.
In 2009, the East Side Gallery launched a major overhaul of the art wall. They removed the faded paintings using steam, and invited the original artists to repaint their sections. Vrubel was offered $4,000 to recreate his “Fraternal Kiss.” He donated the money to a social art project.
And while poor old Bossu never got rich from his shot seen ’round the world, he does garner a small, steady income every time his photo is published — which, to date, has amounted to over 500 times! He and Dimitri Vrubel finally met in 2009, when Bossu was invited to Berlin to exhibit his photos at the East-Side Hotel.
The fall of the Berlin wall was the most significant world event that occurred in my lifetime. As I watched the televised scenes of ecstatic people chiseling away at the wall with pickaxes on November 9, 1989, I never imagined that one by one the countries of the Soviet empire would soon be independent, or that I would spend the majority of my next five years immersed in the culture, history, and media landscapes of those fascinating regions.
Most of the Berlin Wall art panels have been removed and only exist in places such as Potsdamer Platz, Mühlenstrasse, and Bernauer Strasse. A few original remnants reside in museums. I took these photos: first, at the Centre de Commerce mondial in Montréal (in the “underground city”), and second, at the Newseum in Washington, DC. The third photos shows a wall section from the John F. Kennedy library in Boston. Click here to read more about art from the Berlin Wall.
© Dana Spiardi, Nov 9, 2014
When the Fab Four invaded America 50 years ago, Ringo Starr quickly became the favorite of the band’s American fans, including me. From his beat-happy debut on the Ed Sullivan show, to his hilarious hip-swiveling Elvis imitation during the band’s first press conference, to his scene-stealing role in “A Hard Days Night,” Ringo charmed the Yanks like no other.
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n a March 1964 article in the Saturday Evening Post, veteran music journalist Al Aronowitz said of Ringo: “The most popular of the Beatles in America, he evokes paroxysms of teen-age shrieks everywhere by a mere turn of his head, a motion which sends his brown spaniel hair flying. When he flips his wig, the kids flip theirs. ‘Riiinngo! Riinngo!’ the kids call out.”
Such was his appeal that fans launched a “Ringo for President” campaign in the midst of the Johnson/Goldwater race. A well-organized contingent – most of whose members were below the voting age of 21 – banded together to enter the drummer as a third-party write-in candidate for Commander in Chief. They produced buttons, t-shirts and signs; organized rallies; and even inspired the recording of a novelty song – “We Want Ringo for President” – that was released by both Australian performer Rolf Harris and a studio group called the Young World Singers.
When asked his reaction to this fan-fueled campaign, Ringo said, “Well, it’s rather…it’s marvelous!”, yet admitted that he was not “politically minded.”
But his reluctance didn’t stop a large group of fans from carrying Ringo signs as they swarmed the perimeters of the GOP National Convention at San Francisco’s Cow Palace in July 1964, hoping to drum up votes and draw attention away from Senator Barry Goldwater. The “Vote for Ringo” movement generated enough hoopla that it actually earned a mention in Theodore H. White’s best-selling book, The Making of the President, 1964.
Yes, in the parlance of the times, the diminutive drummer was gear that year. “I love Ringo” lapel pins outsold all other Beatle merchandise. British music journalist Penny Valentine wrote a novelty tune called “I Want to Kiss Ringo Goodbye.” No other Beatle had the distinction of being memorialized on vinyl in those days. One of the highlights of every Beatles concert was the “Ringo number.” The minute John placed the microphone in front of his drums, the audience immediately erupted with hysteria. Critics deemed Ringo the star of the Beatles’ 1964 debut film “A Hard Days Night,” raving over his natural, “lovable schnook” performance in the stylish, madcap comedy.
Ringo was at times overwhelmed. He once said, “In the States I know I went over well. It knocked me out to see and hear the kids waving for me. I’d made it as a personality.” But he’d go on to prove that he was much more than a mere personality. He was the rock world’s most versatile drummer, providing rhythm for some of the most complex songs in modern music. “Ringo’s got the best backbeat I’ve ever heard and he can play great 24-hours a day,” George Harrison once said. There isn’t a rock drummer from the past 50 years who hasn’t cited Mr. Starr as a beat-making godfather. Yet, Ringo modestly describes himself as “your basic offbeat drummer with funny fills.”
Like most people who were lucky enough to experience full-frontal Beatlemania during that incredible zeitgeist, I’ll always remember where I was and how I felt the first time I saw the band on the Sullivan show. I flipped for all four Fabs that night, but it was the smiling drummer who captured my heart with his sad blue eyes, pouty lips, and shaggy, bopping head. No musician in the history of rock-n-roll ever looked as happy as spunky little Ringo, sitting throne-like above his bandmates (all younger than he), keeping the beat on his Ludwig Black Oyster drum kit the night the Beatles changed the course of music history.
I’ve been in love with “this boy” all my life. I’ve sat on the stoop of his childhood home in Liverpool’s poor Dingle neighborhood. I proudly display the Ringo doll my grandmother bought me soon after I fell for him. I’ve had the pleasure of seeing him four times with his All-Starr Band. He even high-fived me once, as I reached up to him from the foot of the stage.
Now here I am, joining millions of others, getting ready to watch Ringo reunite with Paul tonight for an anniversary gala marking the night they “auditioned” for America with their long-gone bandmates John and George. World renowned musicians will pay tribute to the group that inspired them. Every media outlet in the world will cover the event. Facebook and Twitter will be abuzz with posts. Rock writers will churn out a few more books on the musical and cultural significance of the phenomenon known as the Beatles. And while all this fanfare is going on, I somehow get the feeling that deep down, Richard “Ringo” Starkey, the sickly boy from the Liverpool slums, still can’t quite believe what happened to him.
I love this montage of Ringo’s movie scenes, beautifully assembled by one of his fans:
Here’s Rolf Harris’s version of “We Want Ringo for President”:
© Dana Spiardi, Feb 9, 2014
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