Unlike many New Yorkers I’ve always enjoyed my trips to Boston. There’s a sense of tradition that stretches back to the soulful philosophies of Thoreau and Emerson, while a stroll over to Cambridge can send your IQ soaring as you ingest the rarified air around Harvard.
And yet it’s hard not to be conscious that Boston is a city of divisions. When first playing up there in the 70’s it would not have been hard to imagine that African-Americans had not made it quite so far north such was the general pale complexion of the downtown area. In those days I had yet to become acquainted with Roxbury and its surrounding areas.
Playing in the various pubs and saloons of Somerville, Charlestown and Brighton, I was never less than aware of the huge Irish influence. The Boston Irish had come a long way from those tired and hungry who were dumped dockside after fleeing the ravages of the Potato Famine. And yet, literally and figuratively, it was still a long way from the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Southie to the Harvard-Yale game.
One could be forgiven for feeling that some things never change, because as enlightened as Thoreau, Emerson and the other Transcendentalists were, it’s possible to catch whiffs of class and even race prejudice in their references to the recently arrived Irish. Indeed, it is not unlike some of our own “there goes the neighborhood” attitude to the Latino emigrants of these times.
Such thoughts were on my mind some weeks back as I stood in Kenmore Square and watched a green shirted army descend on the House of Blues to cheer on the Dropkick Murphys. I have seen many bands from Boston capture the local imagination and become major hometown favorites including J. Geils, The Cars, Aerosmith, the Mighty Mighty Bosstones among others, but I’ve never witnessed anything like the Murphs. They not only represent Boston – they own the joint.
What’s it like to play a set before them? Well, it can be a formidable sight to gaze out at 2500 avid fans chanting “Let’s go Murphys” before you’ve even played a note. Luckily, all remnants of sensitivity were long ago stripped from Black 47 in raucous nights of apprenticeship on Bainbridge Avenue; we could at this stage give a decent account of ourselves opening for Godzilla.
But the Murphys and their audiences are a phenomenon. It’s like battling Tom Brady, Jon Papelbon, The Fields of Athenry, The Sex Pistols and the ghost of every immigrant who ever raised a glass in Dorchester all packed together into one adrenalized clenched fist.
It’s the spirit of ’76 Punk throbbing like a piston through the Black Velvet Band. It’s hardcore, three chord chants from the late lamented “Rat” meets the Wolfe Tones and Paddy Reilly leaping out of the juke boxes in the pubs of Quincy and Dorchester, and to top it all it’s coming at you at one hundred and forty beats a minute.
It may be loud and obnoxious to some but that’s the point. It’s pride and prejudice brought screaming to the surface. Pride in being Irish and strong enough to finally sweep away the second class tag that the Paddies endured across the centuries up in the stately red brick environs of Boston.
With fists in the air the Murphy army sang along to the working class anthems of their homegrown heroes. And their sweaty jubilant faces proclaimed that they had the last laugh on the Transcendentalists. For if the audience was largely of Irish descent, many of WASP heritage moshed and shouted along with their Gaelic sisters and brothers.
It’s far from everyone’s cup of tea: Irish ballads infused with the raw feral power of punk and a “to hell with the begrudgers” sense of entitlement. But at the end of the night, as the sweaty green shirted army filed out onto the street, I could have sworn I saw the ghosts of some of those tired and hungry from 1847 dance along beside them.
The square had truly been circled. Let’s go Murphys!
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
Death of the Bishop
“Another One Bites The Dust.” The title of the email gave me pause.
It was from an old Wexford friend, Jack O’Leary and my heart sank. It’s a wonder anyone is still standing in my hometown such is the rate of deaths and suicides. Indeed, so many people have been hopping into the Slaney, the Gardai have been summonsing those lucky enough to be fished out.
Ah well, nothing for it but a double click.
“Oh no, not the Bishop Rossiter!”
No one knows exactly how Anthony Rossiter got the nickname; he certainly didn’t act like one of those grave men wielding a crosier. Always smiling, a scallywag glint in his eye, the Bishop was a dancer of renown with the combined moves of Rod Stewart, Mick Jagger and Delaney’s donkey.
To top it all, he ran five miles a day. In fact, the Bishop moved in such a blur, it was hard to figure just how Death The Leveler managed to get a decent skelp in at him.
The news put a considerable dent in my day. Rossiter had been one of the gang – cavorting around the streets, pubs and discos of the old Wexford, not a tosser to his name but full to the gills of auld chat, charm and life.
An hour later I was still conjuring up memories when another email from O’Leary hopped into my box bearing the title: “Hold The Obituaries!”
I double clicked with ferocity and read, “Anthony Rossiter deceased - but not our one! More to follow.”
Thrusting my fist in the air I bellowed, “YES!” Me auld segosha had hopped from the coffin, ripped off his shroud and done a victory lap around the statue of Commodore John Barry. Even now he was tossing back pints at his own wake.
It got me thinking though, no matter how bad things are, there’s nothing sweeter than life. You can keep your heavens, hells and nirvanas – I’ll trade them all for an extra twenty-four hours on this mortal coil.
Bad as these economic times are, they pale in comparison to an eternity spent squinting up at the daisies. Things have been bad before – in the end, what results from them is all that counts.
Take the Great Depression - the money invested back then in roads, bridges and dams laid the foundation for the relative prosperity of the last seventy years.
And how about Social Security introduced as a safety net in 1935? It may go kaput in the next couple of decades, despite the fact that it’s all many will have in their golden years to keep the wolf from the door.
Surely, it’s time to re-examine this great program? If there’s one thing we can learn from the current financial debacle it’s that you cannot depend on the stock market to keep rising – have you had nerve enough to check out your 401(k) lately?
Small wonder! At a time when we should have been shoring up the social safety net, we were wasting billions blowing up Fallujah while running up the national credit card with Chairman Mao’s children.
It’s not an ideal time to reform the health insurance system, but if we don’t employers cannot afford to create meaningful jobs.
Nor are these great days to edge social security towards a workable European style pension plan, still FDR faced an even more daunting task in daring to propose the original program. He was called a communist and a traitor to his class who would pulverize capitalism. Yet he persevered and set the stage for a fairer and more compassionate America.
Now it’s our turn. It won’t be easy with unemployment rising, but the system has been broken for a long time - almost 50 million citizens uninsured, the infrastructure collapsing, a college degree costing upwards of six figures, and on and on…
Meaningful change won’t happen overnight, but there is a time to sow and a time to reap. We’ve been reaping the hell out of the system for many years with scarcely a seed tossed into the earth.
But it’s spring again. The Mets are playing ball - this is our year! Hey you gotta believe! After all, who could have guessed that the Bishop Rossiter would be drinking pints at his own wake?
It was from an old Wexford friend, Jack O’Leary and my heart sank. It’s a wonder anyone is still standing in my hometown such is the rate of deaths and suicides. Indeed, so many people have been hopping into the Slaney, the Gardai have been summonsing those lucky enough to be fished out.
Ah well, nothing for it but a double click.
“Oh no, not the Bishop Rossiter!”
No one knows exactly how Anthony Rossiter got the nickname; he certainly didn’t act like one of those grave men wielding a crosier. Always smiling, a scallywag glint in his eye, the Bishop was a dancer of renown with the combined moves of Rod Stewart, Mick Jagger and Delaney’s donkey.
To top it all, he ran five miles a day. In fact, the Bishop moved in such a blur, it was hard to figure just how Death The Leveler managed to get a decent skelp in at him.
The news put a considerable dent in my day. Rossiter had been one of the gang – cavorting around the streets, pubs and discos of the old Wexford, not a tosser to his name but full to the gills of auld chat, charm and life.
An hour later I was still conjuring up memories when another email from O’Leary hopped into my box bearing the title: “Hold The Obituaries!”
I double clicked with ferocity and read, “Anthony Rossiter deceased - but not our one! More to follow.”
Thrusting my fist in the air I bellowed, “YES!” Me auld segosha had hopped from the coffin, ripped off his shroud and done a victory lap around the statue of Commodore John Barry. Even now he was tossing back pints at his own wake.
It got me thinking though, no matter how bad things are, there’s nothing sweeter than life. You can keep your heavens, hells and nirvanas – I’ll trade them all for an extra twenty-four hours on this mortal coil.
Bad as these economic times are, they pale in comparison to an eternity spent squinting up at the daisies. Things have been bad before – in the end, what results from them is all that counts.
Take the Great Depression - the money invested back then in roads, bridges and dams laid the foundation for the relative prosperity of the last seventy years.
And how about Social Security introduced as a safety net in 1935? It may go kaput in the next couple of decades, despite the fact that it’s all many will have in their golden years to keep the wolf from the door.
Surely, it’s time to re-examine this great program? If there’s one thing we can learn from the current financial debacle it’s that you cannot depend on the stock market to keep rising – have you had nerve enough to check out your 401(k) lately?
Small wonder! At a time when we should have been shoring up the social safety net, we were wasting billions blowing up Fallujah while running up the national credit card with Chairman Mao’s children.
It’s not an ideal time to reform the health insurance system, but if we don’t employers cannot afford to create meaningful jobs.
Nor are these great days to edge social security towards a workable European style pension plan, still FDR faced an even more daunting task in daring to propose the original program. He was called a communist and a traitor to his class who would pulverize capitalism. Yet he persevered and set the stage for a fairer and more compassionate America.
Now it’s our turn. It won’t be easy with unemployment rising, but the system has been broken for a long time - almost 50 million citizens uninsured, the infrastructure collapsing, a college degree costing upwards of six figures, and on and on…
Meaningful change won’t happen overnight, but there is a time to sow and a time to reap. We’ve been reaping the hell out of the system for many years with scarcely a seed tossed into the earth.
But it’s spring again. The Mets are playing ball - this is our year! Hey you gotta believe! After all, who could have guessed that the Bishop Rossiter would be drinking pints at his own wake?
Thursday, 26 March 2009
State of the Union
Talk about a state of the union. I’ve passed through many states in the course of my recent travels with Black 47. How are things going out there in the country? Well, as ever, you’re hit with the sheer irrepressible sense of energy and optimism that Americans have always had in abundance; yet, these ineffable characteristics are curried with a deep anger, a brooding sense of anxiety and a revulsion towards politicians and the shadowy mix of financiers and speculators who many feel have sucked the life-blood out of the country.
In short, there’s almost a palpable sense of betrayal abroad. Most people feel that they’ve worked hard, done their part and deserve better. Some may have stretched to buy the home that was a bit beyond their means or overcharged their credit cards, but even they don’t want or expect handouts from the government, and they’re perfectly willing to work that extra job to get things back on the straight and narrow. The problem is: the ground is being pulled from beneath their feet as many face unemployment in tandem with rising health care and education costs.
Most are aghast at the wars and excesses of the last eight years, yet they hardly had time to celebrate the lifting cloud before the new president was swamped by a deluge of problems. The more financially secure feel that it’s the inevitable case of the chickens coming home to roost, while those who have already lost their jobs - or fear for them - are just plain frightened.
Everyone wishes to get the country back on track again. But, unlike the mobilization of World War Two, the enemy is not tangible. This time it’s not the Germans or the Japanese that are being confronted – it’s a basic lack of trust. The social contract that unified us was dismantled brick by brick in the recent go-go years of narcissism and “looking out for number one.”
And in the background there’s the endless chatter of cable TV, instant Internet news, partisan blogs and twitters that vilify and predict by the second, then recalibrate their opinions, nail a new victim and predict all over again.
Many people are disoriented because they must come to terms with the fact that the America they knew has changed. Where once we were a great manufacturing nation, now we have become a service society that gets paid to look after and entertain each other. Look at the glass darkly and it could seem that the US risks becoming a big Ronald McDonald, minimum-wage franchise.
Great ideas put into practice, however, can and will elevate the country. The next Apple or Google is even now being conceived in someone’s bedroom or garage. The keys, as ever, are education and innovation. While more and more people cannot afford the former, I saw no lack of the latter out there in the middle of America. In fact, many are already reeducating and reinventing themselves to meet what they fear is a coming meltdown.
They despise both Democratic and Republican poseurs and naysayers. They don’t trust the media and regard all the talking heads as mere pawns who will jump through any hoop to boost their ratings. They want positive change and they’re willing to pay for it, but they’re leery of spending their children’s heritage in parcels of “trust us” trillion dollar schemes that they have not been consulted about.
They are crying out for affordable health care and back the President’s as yet unannounced plans because they recognize that costs must be brought under control. None has a kind word to say for their current insurers and yet all are deathly afraid of losing their coverage.
Many are amazed that they trust this new President so deeply, including some who are borderline racists. They desperately want him to succeed and admire his quiet confidence. They will stick with him, though one gets the impression that time is tight and his political capital is finite.
In an age of bitter anxiety and dreams postponed, I was repeatedly struck by how much, and in such a short time, we have all come to depend upon President Barack Obama.
In short, there’s almost a palpable sense of betrayal abroad. Most people feel that they’ve worked hard, done their part and deserve better. Some may have stretched to buy the home that was a bit beyond their means or overcharged their credit cards, but even they don’t want or expect handouts from the government, and they’re perfectly willing to work that extra job to get things back on the straight and narrow. The problem is: the ground is being pulled from beneath their feet as many face unemployment in tandem with rising health care and education costs.
Most are aghast at the wars and excesses of the last eight years, yet they hardly had time to celebrate the lifting cloud before the new president was swamped by a deluge of problems. The more financially secure feel that it’s the inevitable case of the chickens coming home to roost, while those who have already lost their jobs - or fear for them - are just plain frightened.
Everyone wishes to get the country back on track again. But, unlike the mobilization of World War Two, the enemy is not tangible. This time it’s not the Germans or the Japanese that are being confronted – it’s a basic lack of trust. The social contract that unified us was dismantled brick by brick in the recent go-go years of narcissism and “looking out for number one.”
And in the background there’s the endless chatter of cable TV, instant Internet news, partisan blogs and twitters that vilify and predict by the second, then recalibrate their opinions, nail a new victim and predict all over again.
Many people are disoriented because they must come to terms with the fact that the America they knew has changed. Where once we were a great manufacturing nation, now we have become a service society that gets paid to look after and entertain each other. Look at the glass darkly and it could seem that the US risks becoming a big Ronald McDonald, minimum-wage franchise.
Great ideas put into practice, however, can and will elevate the country. The next Apple or Google is even now being conceived in someone’s bedroom or garage. The keys, as ever, are education and innovation. While more and more people cannot afford the former, I saw no lack of the latter out there in the middle of America. In fact, many are already reeducating and reinventing themselves to meet what they fear is a coming meltdown.
They despise both Democratic and Republican poseurs and naysayers. They don’t trust the media and regard all the talking heads as mere pawns who will jump through any hoop to boost their ratings. They want positive change and they’re willing to pay for it, but they’re leery of spending their children’s heritage in parcels of “trust us” trillion dollar schemes that they have not been consulted about.
They are crying out for affordable health care and back the President’s as yet unannounced plans because they recognize that costs must be brought under control. None has a kind word to say for their current insurers and yet all are deathly afraid of losing their coverage.
Many are amazed that they trust this new President so deeply, including some who are borderline racists. They desperately want him to succeed and admire his quiet confidence. They will stick with him, though one gets the impression that time is tight and his political capital is finite.
In an age of bitter anxiety and dreams postponed, I was repeatedly struck by how much, and in such a short time, we have all come to depend upon President Barack Obama.
Saint Patrick's Day
On one day a year, they congregated outside Old St. Patrick's Cathedral on Mulberry Street in New York City and marched in celebration. To some of these immigrant Irish and their American born children it was a religious occasion, but to most the gathering was an affirmation of their right not only to survive but to thrive in their adopted country.
That's what I sense on St. Patrick's Day - an echo from a time when the Irish were despised outsiders. And that's why I go along with the raucous energy, the excitement and even the green beer, the plastic shamrocks and the ubiquitous leprechaun.
I didn't always feel that way. When I arrived from Ireland, these manifestations of Irish-America were at best embarrassing. Back home, our own celebrations were rigid and religious; we did sport actual sprigs of shamrock but there was no beer, green or otherwise. The Parade up Fifth Avenue and the ensuing bacchanal seemed downright pagan by comparison.
I had other immigrant battles of my own ahead. The band, Black 47, was formed to create music that would reflect the complexity of immigrant and contemporary Irish-American life and to banish When Irish Eyes Are Smiling off to a well earned rest in the depths of Galway Bay.
This idea met with not a little resistance in the north Bronx and the south sides of Boston and Chicago; but when irate patrons would yell out during a reggae/reel "why can't yez sing somethin' Irish?" I would return the compliment with, "I'm from Ireland, I wrote it! That makes it Irish!”
With time and familiarity, Irish-America came to accept Black 47, probably more for our insistence that each generation bears responsibility for solving the political problems in the North of Ireland, than for recasting Danny Boy as a formidable gay construction worker.
I, in turn, learned to appreciate the traditions of the community I had joined along with the reasons for the ritualized celebration of our patron saint.
And now on St. Patrick's Day, no matter what stage I'm on, mixed in with the swirl of guitars, horns, pipes and drums, I hear an old, but jarring, memory of a people rejoicing as they rose up from their knees.
Our battles, for the most part, have been won; indeed, one has to search an encyclopedia for mention of the Know-Nothing Party or various 19th Century nativist politicians and gangs of bullyboys. Anti-Irish sentiment, not to mention Anti-Catholicism, is a rarity.
Might it not be time then for our New York St. Patrick's Day Parade to celebrate all Irish people no matter what religion (or lack thereof), sexuality or political conviction?
It's a broad step, I know. But with a just peace finally taking seed in the North of Ireland, might we not some day witness Dr. Paisley, Mr. Adams and various members of the Irish Gay community walk arm in arm up Fifth Avenue.
Impossible? Perhaps, but I, for one, would have wagered heavily 15 years ago that Sinn Fein would never sit in a Northern Irish Parliament. Times change, as do tactics and even rigid principles.
Whatever about Parade pipe dreams, we still must honor the memory of those who paved the way for us. Part of that responsibility is that Irish-Americans should never forget the new immigrants from other lands, legal and undocumented.
Many, like our forebears, are fleeing poverty and are striving to feed and educate their families. It would be the ultimate irony if an Irish-American were to look down upon the least of them; for to my mind there is no place in the Irish soul for racism, sectarianism, homophobia or even dumb old Archie Bunker type xenophobia.
I once heard Pete Hamill ask: "What does the Pakistani taxi driver say to his children when he gets home after 12 hours behind the wheel?" I can't say for certain but I'll bet he echoes many of the sentiments of those Irish who gathered outside Old St. Patrick's Cathedral on Mulberry Street so many immigrant years and tears ago.
That's what I sense on St. Patrick's Day - an echo from a time when the Irish were despised outsiders. And that's why I go along with the raucous energy, the excitement and even the green beer, the plastic shamrocks and the ubiquitous leprechaun.
I didn't always feel that way. When I arrived from Ireland, these manifestations of Irish-America were at best embarrassing. Back home, our own celebrations were rigid and religious; we did sport actual sprigs of shamrock but there was no beer, green or otherwise. The Parade up Fifth Avenue and the ensuing bacchanal seemed downright pagan by comparison.
I had other immigrant battles of my own ahead. The band, Black 47, was formed to create music that would reflect the complexity of immigrant and contemporary Irish-American life and to banish When Irish Eyes Are Smiling off to a well earned rest in the depths of Galway Bay.
This idea met with not a little resistance in the north Bronx and the south sides of Boston and Chicago; but when irate patrons would yell out during a reggae/reel "why can't yez sing somethin' Irish?" I would return the compliment with, "I'm from Ireland, I wrote it! That makes it Irish!”
With time and familiarity, Irish-America came to accept Black 47, probably more for our insistence that each generation bears responsibility for solving the political problems in the North of Ireland, than for recasting Danny Boy as a formidable gay construction worker.
I, in turn, learned to appreciate the traditions of the community I had joined along with the reasons for the ritualized celebration of our patron saint.
And now on St. Patrick's Day, no matter what stage I'm on, mixed in with the swirl of guitars, horns, pipes and drums, I hear an old, but jarring, memory of a people rejoicing as they rose up from their knees.
Our battles, for the most part, have been won; indeed, one has to search an encyclopedia for mention of the Know-Nothing Party or various 19th Century nativist politicians and gangs of bullyboys. Anti-Irish sentiment, not to mention Anti-Catholicism, is a rarity.
Might it not be time then for our New York St. Patrick's Day Parade to celebrate all Irish people no matter what religion (or lack thereof), sexuality or political conviction?
It's a broad step, I know. But with a just peace finally taking seed in the North of Ireland, might we not some day witness Dr. Paisley, Mr. Adams and various members of the Irish Gay community walk arm in arm up Fifth Avenue.
Impossible? Perhaps, but I, for one, would have wagered heavily 15 years ago that Sinn Fein would never sit in a Northern Irish Parliament. Times change, as do tactics and even rigid principles.
Whatever about Parade pipe dreams, we still must honor the memory of those who paved the way for us. Part of that responsibility is that Irish-Americans should never forget the new immigrants from other lands, legal and undocumented.
Many, like our forebears, are fleeing poverty and are striving to feed and educate their families. It would be the ultimate irony if an Irish-American were to look down upon the least of them; for to my mind there is no place in the Irish soul for racism, sectarianism, homophobia or even dumb old Archie Bunker type xenophobia.
I once heard Pete Hamill ask: "What does the Pakistani taxi driver say to his children when he gets home after 12 hours behind the wheel?" I can't say for certain but I'll bet he echoes many of the sentiments of those Irish who gathered outside Old St. Patrick's Cathedral on Mulberry Street so many immigrant years and tears ago.
Monday, 9 March 2009
Nationalization
Nationalization! The dreaded “N” word is on all lips except the President’s. Has the former “most liberal member of the senate” been mesmerized by the soothing, soporific cadences of Gov. Bobby Jindal?
I think not. After all he has introduced a stimulus the like of which could raise FDR from the dead, while I hear that his health insurance plan has Speaker Pelosi hoisting her skirts and dancing the Tarantella. The only fly in the ointment is that he continues to treat a growing number of zombie banks as though his communion penny was deposited amongst them.
As long as the financial system of the country totters on a foundation of “toxic assets,” President Obama, Treasury Secretary Geithner and Lawrence Summers, can huff and puff ‘til the cows come home but they will not return the US to economic normality. Then again, as Bob Dylan once pointed out, “I don’t know what normal is anymore.” After the recent economic shellacking who does? Makes you almost long for good old Dubya voodoo economics when the war in Iraq was fought without costing the country a dime.
President Obama’s dithering is indeed puzzling. He seems to have so much else right. Spend your way out of the approaching deflation, break the stranglehold of petro-dictators, and provide a sane national health system so that when jobs eventually begin trickling back employers wont have to shoulder prohibitively expensive health insurance.
It’s staggering that the President still listens to his Treasury Secretary, the same gentleman who barely raised a whimper at the New York Fed during the worst Wall Street excesses. At least, Mr. Geithner appears to be banned from spouting anemic daytime prognostications for fear the Dow will keel over and slide into the Hudson.
As for Lawrence Summers - all I ever hear is just how smart he is. Well, he wasn’t so smart when he endorsed deregulation back during his own treasury reign; while his views on women’s aptitude for mathematics when President of Harvard were hardly those of a considered thinker. Even had he been correct in his Archie Bunker musings, he was either too arrogant or unaware to muzzle himself. Show me the home where a woman hasn’t the best handle on mathematics, practical or theoretical; and point out the lady who would allow banks to keep their tainted assets on the books at some fairytale price rather than at market value.
President Obama is throwing good money after bad into the black holes that are Citigroup, Bank of America and AIG. Better send in the shock troops now and find out if these institutions are, as suspected, basically insolvent. Short-term nationalization – or whatever genteel term you’d prefer - won’t be pretty but eventually a credible financial floor will be established, thereby encouraging the private sector to invest in and reclaim these failed banks again.
The real fear is that neither the vast sums needed nor the public’s goodwill will still be on tap unless the problem is faced immediately. Governor Jindal is already taking rehabilitation classes at the Sarah Palin School of Economics, and Newt Gingrich waits in the wings ready to resurrect the Reagan deregulatory revolution.
Try not to get sidetracked by all the hot air about clamping down on the bonuses of Wall Street executives. Those billions are mere drops in the bucket compared to the trillions that our masters of the universe have gambled – and lost - on securitized mortgages. We’ve had all the smokescreens and Band-Aid economics we can handle. How about a dose of reality for a change?
Anyway, enough doom and gloom! I for one am hedging my bets. I have applied for a shovel-ready stimulus grant and plan to start an all-ages retirement community up in E. Durham. We’ll do yoga in the morning, drink dollar beers in the Blackthorn all afternoon while watching the Mets sweep to the World Series. And, in a masterstroke of synergistic marketing, I have approached both Guinness and Viagra to donate a pint and a pill for each member’s nightcap. As the subway driver said, “they’ll never know what hit them!”
I will be accepting applicants at BB Kings on March 17th. All those who oppose nationalization will receive preference. Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
I think not. After all he has introduced a stimulus the like of which could raise FDR from the dead, while I hear that his health insurance plan has Speaker Pelosi hoisting her skirts and dancing the Tarantella. The only fly in the ointment is that he continues to treat a growing number of zombie banks as though his communion penny was deposited amongst them.
As long as the financial system of the country totters on a foundation of “toxic assets,” President Obama, Treasury Secretary Geithner and Lawrence Summers, can huff and puff ‘til the cows come home but they will not return the US to economic normality. Then again, as Bob Dylan once pointed out, “I don’t know what normal is anymore.” After the recent economic shellacking who does? Makes you almost long for good old Dubya voodoo economics when the war in Iraq was fought without costing the country a dime.
President Obama’s dithering is indeed puzzling. He seems to have so much else right. Spend your way out of the approaching deflation, break the stranglehold of petro-dictators, and provide a sane national health system so that when jobs eventually begin trickling back employers wont have to shoulder prohibitively expensive health insurance.
It’s staggering that the President still listens to his Treasury Secretary, the same gentleman who barely raised a whimper at the New York Fed during the worst Wall Street excesses. At least, Mr. Geithner appears to be banned from spouting anemic daytime prognostications for fear the Dow will keel over and slide into the Hudson.
As for Lawrence Summers - all I ever hear is just how smart he is. Well, he wasn’t so smart when he endorsed deregulation back during his own treasury reign; while his views on women’s aptitude for mathematics when President of Harvard were hardly those of a considered thinker. Even had he been correct in his Archie Bunker musings, he was either too arrogant or unaware to muzzle himself. Show me the home where a woman hasn’t the best handle on mathematics, practical or theoretical; and point out the lady who would allow banks to keep their tainted assets on the books at some fairytale price rather than at market value.
President Obama is throwing good money after bad into the black holes that are Citigroup, Bank of America and AIG. Better send in the shock troops now and find out if these institutions are, as suspected, basically insolvent. Short-term nationalization – or whatever genteel term you’d prefer - won’t be pretty but eventually a credible financial floor will be established, thereby encouraging the private sector to invest in and reclaim these failed banks again.
The real fear is that neither the vast sums needed nor the public’s goodwill will still be on tap unless the problem is faced immediately. Governor Jindal is already taking rehabilitation classes at the Sarah Palin School of Economics, and Newt Gingrich waits in the wings ready to resurrect the Reagan deregulatory revolution.
Try not to get sidetracked by all the hot air about clamping down on the bonuses of Wall Street executives. Those billions are mere drops in the bucket compared to the trillions that our masters of the universe have gambled – and lost - on securitized mortgages. We’ve had all the smokescreens and Band-Aid economics we can handle. How about a dose of reality for a change?
Anyway, enough doom and gloom! I for one am hedging my bets. I have applied for a shovel-ready stimulus grant and plan to start an all-ages retirement community up in E. Durham. We’ll do yoga in the morning, drink dollar beers in the Blackthorn all afternoon while watching the Mets sweep to the World Series. And, in a masterstroke of synergistic marketing, I have approached both Guinness and Viagra to donate a pint and a pill for each member’s nightcap. As the subway driver said, “they’ll never know what hit them!”
I will be accepting applicants at BB Kings on March 17th. All those who oppose nationalization will receive preference. Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
Thursday, 12 February 2009
Rebel in the Soul
“MacBride refuses to stand behind him
McQuaid has got him in a vice
The country turns its back upon him
No choice left but to resign…”
Both people mentioned in the above verse will be a mystery to many, but those of a certain age will know the song deals with one of the most enigmatic men to ever grace Irish politics – Dr. Noel Browne.
No matter what ones views on him, it can hardly be argued but that he changed Ireland and for the better.
Sixty years ago the country was in the grip of Tuberculosis, also known as Consumption. Noel Browne set out to rid Ireland of the dreaded disease and, amazingly, he succeeded. Not single-handedly, of course, but he was the engine that drove a crusade.
As many who knew him would testify, he could be a difficult man at the best of times. Then again, his boyhood was beyond Dickensian.
His father died from the disease when Browne was seven. Homeless and near destitution, his mother took the family to England where she soon after expired. His account of kissing her damp forehead goodbye would wrench tears from a stone. His elder brother - crippled from birth by the curse - along with two of his sisters would die from it, while Browne himself suffered recurring attacks through much of his life.
Yet there is a fairy-tale element to this tale. Through sheer good fortune and his immigrant sister’s efforts he was enrolled gratis in St. Anthony’s, an exclusive Catholic prep school. He then won a scholarship to Beaumont, a Jesuit public school, where he met Neville Chance whose wealthy family more or less adopted him and paid his way through Trinity College where he resolved to become a doctor.
Although he would later specialize in psychiatry, he devoted his early medical years to eradicating Tuberculosis. He and his colleagues did Trojan work in various hospitals in the UK and Ireland, but he eventually realized that the magnitude of the problem called for a political solution.
He joined the nascent Clann na Poblachta party led by Sean MacBride (talk about a fascinating, controversial and multi-faceted character). In the general election of 1948, Dr. Browne was elected on a personal platform of eradicating TB. On his first day in Dail Eireann he was chosen as Minister for Health in the coalition government that had unseated Eamonn DeValera’s Fianna Fail party.
The new government was riven by ideological differences. Led by Fine Gael’s John A. Costello, it spanned the spectrum from right to left - while to add fat to the fire the Minister for External Affairs, MacBride, had once been chief of staff of the IRA.
Nonetheless, Browne hit the ground running. He recognized that the only way to halt and ultimately defeat the disease was to isolate those suffering from it. To that end, he converted hospitals and commissioned new facilities, sending all patients - regardless of means - to sanitoria whose very names can still evoke unease amongst those who remember them: Ardkeen, Cherry Orchard, Portiuncula.
He had a number of things on his side: much money from Joe McGrath’s Irish Hospitals Sweepstakes Fund, the recent discovery of the drug, Streptomycin, and the support of a broad swathe of people whose families had been oppressed by the disease.
Tuberculosis was not eradicated overnight but Browne and the many who combated it in the 1940’s and 50’s stopped it dead in its tracks, so much so that the dreaded “san,” as it was known, has slipped off into its own chapter in Irish history along with diphtheria and scarlet fever wards .
And what of Browne? We’ll need another column to deal with his complex story but here’s a clue for next week.
“Did you think you were the Saviour
When the sick blessed your name
You may have defeated your enemy
But you made new ones
And they had patience and they were waiting…”
McQuaid has got him in a vice
The country turns its back upon him
No choice left but to resign…”
Both people mentioned in the above verse will be a mystery to many, but those of a certain age will know the song deals with one of the most enigmatic men to ever grace Irish politics – Dr. Noel Browne.
No matter what ones views on him, it can hardly be argued but that he changed Ireland and for the better.
Sixty years ago the country was in the grip of Tuberculosis, also known as Consumption. Noel Browne set out to rid Ireland of the dreaded disease and, amazingly, he succeeded. Not single-handedly, of course, but he was the engine that drove a crusade.
As many who knew him would testify, he could be a difficult man at the best of times. Then again, his boyhood was beyond Dickensian.
His father died from the disease when Browne was seven. Homeless and near destitution, his mother took the family to England where she soon after expired. His account of kissing her damp forehead goodbye would wrench tears from a stone. His elder brother - crippled from birth by the curse - along with two of his sisters would die from it, while Browne himself suffered recurring attacks through much of his life.
Yet there is a fairy-tale element to this tale. Through sheer good fortune and his immigrant sister’s efforts he was enrolled gratis in St. Anthony’s, an exclusive Catholic prep school. He then won a scholarship to Beaumont, a Jesuit public school, where he met Neville Chance whose wealthy family more or less adopted him and paid his way through Trinity College where he resolved to become a doctor.
Although he would later specialize in psychiatry, he devoted his early medical years to eradicating Tuberculosis. He and his colleagues did Trojan work in various hospitals in the UK and Ireland, but he eventually realized that the magnitude of the problem called for a political solution.
He joined the nascent Clann na Poblachta party led by Sean MacBride (talk about a fascinating, controversial and multi-faceted character). In the general election of 1948, Dr. Browne was elected on a personal platform of eradicating TB. On his first day in Dail Eireann he was chosen as Minister for Health in the coalition government that had unseated Eamonn DeValera’s Fianna Fail party.
The new government was riven by ideological differences. Led by Fine Gael’s John A. Costello, it spanned the spectrum from right to left - while to add fat to the fire the Minister for External Affairs, MacBride, had once been chief of staff of the IRA.
Nonetheless, Browne hit the ground running. He recognized that the only way to halt and ultimately defeat the disease was to isolate those suffering from it. To that end, he converted hospitals and commissioned new facilities, sending all patients - regardless of means - to sanitoria whose very names can still evoke unease amongst those who remember them: Ardkeen, Cherry Orchard, Portiuncula.
He had a number of things on his side: much money from Joe McGrath’s Irish Hospitals Sweepstakes Fund, the recent discovery of the drug, Streptomycin, and the support of a broad swathe of people whose families had been oppressed by the disease.
Tuberculosis was not eradicated overnight but Browne and the many who combated it in the 1940’s and 50’s stopped it dead in its tracks, so much so that the dreaded “san,” as it was known, has slipped off into its own chapter in Irish history along with diphtheria and scarlet fever wards .
And what of Browne? We’ll need another column to deal with his complex story but here’s a clue for next week.
“Did you think you were the Saviour
When the sick blessed your name
You may have defeated your enemy
But you made new ones
And they had patience and they were waiting…”
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
If the foundations be destroyed...
One of the great inauguration moments was watching President Bush’s helicopter disappear from view. Was it my imagination or did I hear a mass American sigh of relief? Talk about time to go!
Hopefully he took with him the dumb and dumber pills that his administration fed the country for eight vapid years. If President Obama ushers in anything, let’s hope that it’s a new era of respect for intelligence and practicality.
That man is indeed a breath of fresh air. He recognizes the importance of a decent health insurance system, the pointlessness of invading other countries, the incompatibility of torture with the American way, and the necessity of restoring our image internationally. In my book that puts him ahead of the curve before he even gets his gloves off.
What he doesn’t seem to have come to terms with is the gross overvaluation of assets on the balance sheets of many of our great financial service firms. Until then, all his talk of a stimulus is just so much dust - or should I say - dollars in the wind.
Or could it be that the figures he’s crunching are so bad he can’t risk letting us peons – or the Dow - know the full story. Truth or fiction, the present financial crisis will remain with us until we all take a deep gulp and let the market reassert itself.
Strange talk, you may say, from a person who cut his teeth on the economic tracts of James Connolly! Oddly enough, the man they shot in a chair predicted the current international financial meltdown; only problem - he was off by 90 or so years.
One way or another these “toxic” assets must be dealt with. Until then banks will not loan to each other, much less you, me or General Motors.
Markets abhor doubt and respect only one law – that of the jungle. Many of the unhealthier financial institutions must go under so that the fitter ones can survive. Tragically, they’ll take with them the hopes and dreams of their employees. Still, pumping billions more into Citigroup, et al, is pointless until all institutions that made bad calls actually value their assets in the real world and not the Narnia they’re currently inhabiting.
That will cause a seismic shock but what’s the alternative? Let the crisis dawdle on while the country’s fiscal future is ransomed to various stimuli that won’t work? Have you checked out your 401(k) lately? Probably not, the sight is just too gruesome. Yet, to my mind, stocks of many solid companies seem undervalued. But what chance is there of any appreciation in the current uncertain conditions?
President Obama can employ his accustomed flights of oratory until the cows come home, but a phrase from scripture that I first heard uttered by Rev. Ian Paisley hits closest to the mark, “if the foundations be destroyed, what can the righteous do?”
Despite the dumbing down of the last eight years, I don’t have the least doubt that Americans will rise to the occasion. But we do need a good rock-solid floor beneath our feet before we get to work restoring the country’s fortune.
And what of Citigroup? Well, my Irish psychiatrist (local barman) gave his verdict a couple of nights back: “Just give me one of them corner bank buildings and I’ll turn it into the best bar in the city – presuming any of yez still has the price of a couple of pints.”
Seeing the new president didn’t take my advice and offer Steve Duggan, the gig as Treasury Secretary, maybe he should try the Rev. Ian. The man has some considerable baggage, and we’ll probably have to give him a pass on the questionnaire; but at least he’s got the first principle right – lay down a decent foundation before you start building.
Hopefully he took with him the dumb and dumber pills that his administration fed the country for eight vapid years. If President Obama ushers in anything, let’s hope that it’s a new era of respect for intelligence and practicality.
That man is indeed a breath of fresh air. He recognizes the importance of a decent health insurance system, the pointlessness of invading other countries, the incompatibility of torture with the American way, and the necessity of restoring our image internationally. In my book that puts him ahead of the curve before he even gets his gloves off.
What he doesn’t seem to have come to terms with is the gross overvaluation of assets on the balance sheets of many of our great financial service firms. Until then, all his talk of a stimulus is just so much dust - or should I say - dollars in the wind.
Or could it be that the figures he’s crunching are so bad he can’t risk letting us peons – or the Dow - know the full story. Truth or fiction, the present financial crisis will remain with us until we all take a deep gulp and let the market reassert itself.
Strange talk, you may say, from a person who cut his teeth on the economic tracts of James Connolly! Oddly enough, the man they shot in a chair predicted the current international financial meltdown; only problem - he was off by 90 or so years.
One way or another these “toxic” assets must be dealt with. Until then banks will not loan to each other, much less you, me or General Motors.
Markets abhor doubt and respect only one law – that of the jungle. Many of the unhealthier financial institutions must go under so that the fitter ones can survive. Tragically, they’ll take with them the hopes and dreams of their employees. Still, pumping billions more into Citigroup, et al, is pointless until all institutions that made bad calls actually value their assets in the real world and not the Narnia they’re currently inhabiting.
That will cause a seismic shock but what’s the alternative? Let the crisis dawdle on while the country’s fiscal future is ransomed to various stimuli that won’t work? Have you checked out your 401(k) lately? Probably not, the sight is just too gruesome. Yet, to my mind, stocks of many solid companies seem undervalued. But what chance is there of any appreciation in the current uncertain conditions?
President Obama can employ his accustomed flights of oratory until the cows come home, but a phrase from scripture that I first heard uttered by Rev. Ian Paisley hits closest to the mark, “if the foundations be destroyed, what can the righteous do?”
Despite the dumbing down of the last eight years, I don’t have the least doubt that Americans will rise to the occasion. But we do need a good rock-solid floor beneath our feet before we get to work restoring the country’s fortune.
And what of Citigroup? Well, my Irish psychiatrist (local barman) gave his verdict a couple of nights back: “Just give me one of them corner bank buildings and I’ll turn it into the best bar in the city – presuming any of yez still has the price of a couple of pints.”
Seeing the new president didn’t take my advice and offer Steve Duggan, the gig as Treasury Secretary, maybe he should try the Rev. Ian. The man has some considerable baggage, and we’ll probably have to give him a pass on the questionnaire; but at least he’s got the first principle right – lay down a decent foundation before you start building.
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