By: Grainne Rhuad

World Book Night is a brand new annual event.  Its birth year was 2011, its birth place was the U.K. The folks at World Book Night picked the night well as additionally; April 23 is UNESCO’s World Book Day, chosen due to the anniversary of Cervantes’ death, as well as Shakespeare’s birth and death.

This year it came to the U.S. and I only heard about it serendipitously through following Neil Gaiman onTwitter.  When I did I headed over initially to help vote for books to be highlighted for the year.  The book I chose, The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson sadly did not get chosen.  (I cannot recommend this book highly enough however.  Go, Get It, Read It.)

But I was happily connected now through email, so when it came time to sign up to give away books.  I did that too.  I did not realize at first what a Big Deal this was; that it was only the second year and the first in the U.S and those books would be free to me.

I also did not realize that We, the givers were going to be the main PR people in our areas.  Okay, well I did kind of get that, but not the extent.  There was no media, which in retrospect, I  think, I should have maybe done some flyers, contacted the local stations, etc.  Lesson learned.

There is a map of the U.S. and where all the books were given away.  Northern California where I am is pretty sparse and I was amongst only 4 people in my community giving away books.  I do not know who these people are or were or even what books they had.  Most likely because they, like me were brand spanking new at this and had no idea what we were doing.

The book I ended up with was one of 30, you can see the full list here: http://www.us.worldbooknight.org/wbn2012-the-books

I chose Patti Smith’s Just Kids.  It was my first choice and I will tell you I had been thinking about reviewing this book since I read it last year.  Somehow the time got away from me.

Here’s a bit about me and Patti Smith and this book:

I didn’t learn to really appreciate her until I grew up a bit.  I always loved what she had done with music and poetry, the doors she opened for women and punk artists, art-artists and poets and mash-up mixers of all of the above.

But, I never really understood her.  All her interviews that I had seen including her documentary, Dream of Life, seemed highly tangential, yet deliberately so, as if she were trying too hard to keep from making sense.  As if, she didn’t want to share too much, she was holding back.  Which given the fact that Dream of Life was a 10 year project seems like a lot of work, the holding back, the privacy.  Actually the privacy intrigued and impressed me.  I like my privacy, that piece I did understand.

It wasn’t until I read her own written memoirs that I felt I understood any of what she had been getting at.  It was as if she had taken me by the hand and led me through her life.  And that ultimately is what we all want to feel when we are reading memoirs…isn’t it?

Anyway, the book is touching it focuses on her life with Robert Mapplethorpe, their love story and how it sometimes thrived, sometimes starved and made sense to them.  It was lovely.  So too was the weaving of music in her life.  So much so that I spent a good part of the next year exploring further the people music, era that was the soundtrack to this time of her life.  I have found a playlist-somewhat condensed for you here:

Just Kids

The music is integral to her story.  You just cannot get around it, it wove the fabric of her experiences and I think really that’s when and where I started to love her.  Her tastes are as eclectic as mine and I spent the days writing this listening to this sound track.  The spoken word or Burroughs, T.S. Elliot and Jim Morrison weave in and out, providing time and space.  You remember, there wasn’t television for poor artist, even most people.  Spoken word was listened to, soaked in, over and over.  I did this too on my little suitcase Mongomery Ward’s record player.  It made me remember how words and music became ingrained and so very important to me.

You may not have time to listen to the entire playlist right away, but I encourage you to do it, in sections even it will all make sense at the end.

Right, so the night of giving approached ever closer and we were given choices of bookstores where we could pick up books.  I chose my local small bookseller Lyons Books, over the larger box store seller.  Give me a second for a plug here.  I love this little book store.  It is the last locally owned book store in our area that doesn’t (only) sell used books.  It is wonderful and reminds you why you love books and your community when you walk in.  Sitting across from our central park, it is an icon in our area.  We love it to death and go to great lengths to help them fight off the empire of big bookstores and electronic devices.

Some areas did World Book Night parties.  As I look, these seemed to be mostly in larger areas.  Mine did not do this.  I was given a box, not asked my name, as I can only assume maybe the young man couldn’t begin to pronounce it and I seemed to know what I was doing.  He looked at me oddly, as if he should say something.  He didn’t and so neither did I.  It was quite strange.

When signing up we had to answer the question: “Where do you plan to hand out your books. “  I assume this was because one of the missions of World Book Night was to seek out non- or light readers.

I had answered. “Everywhere, anywhere including but not limited to: stores, libraries, parks, crosswalks, bowling alleys and laundry mats. “

My day on April 23, as it turns out did not lend itself to that.  In fact, it was a Monday which I had not even thought about.  Monday’s are usually my day off from the world, to do exactly as I like at the pace I want to.  World Book night necessitated that I interrupt my regularly scheduled Mondays.

I ended up offering up five via Freecycle.org.  of which I gave away two.  I did make it a point to greet the freecyclers face to face which I don’t normally do when giving other things away like old clothes and plant starts or whatever.  It was my first interesting encounter of the day.

Two lovely ladies turned up on my doorstep and were very excited to get books.  They also wanted to give me some.  Not Book Night books, just books that they had.  I didn’t need any of the books they had so they asked me how they could give them away.  I did not know I was becoming an expert on book giving, these were my first two.

So we talked a bit about what World Book Night was, what other agencies in our area took books, what stores would give trade in values, etc.  I completely forgot to get any pictures.  In fact I had intended to get more, but I was handing out books and I didn’t think to have anyone else do it.

The next 5 were given away at my husband’s office, to a variety of different people who I mostly knew from secretaries to counselors and administrators.  Most people I talked to just wanted to chat and were actually planning to share the book with someone else which I guess was okay.

I then crossed the street to a hotdog stand on a whim and gave one away to one excited man who began paging through it as he hit his dog with mustard.  Another somewhat confused man took one , but the cart owner declined.   He only liked books on tape he said and talked to me about his favorite author, some evangelist from Texas.  It was maybe the oddest exchange of the day.  However, I think people equate book giving with proselytizing.

I gave away four more at our local music store where my daughter takes violin lessons.  One went to her teacher who was pleasantly surprised.  Another to  a clerk who although had the look of a rocker had never heard of Patti Smith, a woman on a couch who was gleeful and one of the owners, who was distracted and looked a little stunned to get a book handed to her.

I gave the book out at a grocery where people wore stunned faces and wanted to know what they could give me.  I then took a few hours off and went out in the evening with the last 5 books and my family, each person holding one and turned them loose on downtown.

A couple of men out on a date shuffled hurriedly away from us with disgusted faces when we offered them a book, we heard them muttering something about breeders which was disappointing as the only message we were carrying was literacy and Rock and Art.

Another college  aged couple accepted a book from me, a young man closing the art store accepted one from my eleven year old.  He wanted to give a donation and gave a huge smile and talked about Patti for a minute when we said no to money.  My older teen gave hers to the “cutest boy she could find.”  Himself gave one to a bouncer who said he hadn’t read a book in several years (since getting out of the joint) and was happy his first free read was this one.  (He also right away, found the Easter-egg-hidden Subversify sticker in the book and loved it.)

The last one was given outside of the candy shoppe.  We had been given odd looks, dire looks, curious and glad ones and we had given out 20 books for free.

What I learned was this.  People are terribly suspicious of anything free.  They almost want to give you money they weren’t planning on spending rather than be beholden.

However a smile and a minute to explain yourself usually does the trick with the suspicious.  Children help your cause too.

What I learned about myself is I am terribly out of practice at getting out and talking to people.  It took a couple of times for me to feel comfortable talking to strangers about something that I loved.  I couldn’t imagine going out trying to hock something I didn’t give a care about.  It made me really appreciate my life in which I can chose how, when, where and about what to communicate.

In another way I was very glad for this moment outside of my normal inclination that got me talking to people, especially about books and music and how they can get involved next year.

I can hardly wait until next year and the next and more.  I hope it grows, I hope the organization can continue to fund free books; I hope people continue to want books.  Real ones, with pages.

And I hope everyone who received one this year, logs on to participate next year, they are already beginning mailing lists for next year’s participants.  If you are interested visit: http://www.us.worldbooknight.org/component/forme/?fid=3  and you too can be a Book Faerie!

By: Grainne Rhuad

I recently found myself in front of the Hunger Games.  It had been decided by the young ones in my life that I had to attend.  So there I was, entirely expecting another Narnia/Harry Potter/ Shiny-teen mash-up full of the requisite teen angst, longing stares and unrequited romance.

Thankfully it ended up being none of these things and I found myself enjoying it.  It probably helped that I hadn’t read the books, not because they hadn’t been sitting in my plain sight for more than a year, also not due to the fact that they hadn’t been lovingly gushed about by each person in my life under 20.  No, I hadn’t read it because I had reached teen reading burnout a while ago. Also I figured, rightly in this case that if I was being told the plot of it on an almost daily basis at home it would soon be a movie.

Now, the movie itself wasn’t a great work of art.  But it was special, I think in two ways.

1.It was watchable.  So much of the PG-13 packaged movies are insipid and clearly designed to either make pre-teens buy stuff or want to sign up for something. Example:  A marked rise in female soccer players after Bend It Like Beckham and Increased Karate class sizes after both incarnations of Karate Kid.  Although sadly this sales technique did not work out as well for Akeela and the Bee.

2.This movie and the success of the book seemed to be a part of a continuum of movies, television shows and books marketed directly at young people which contain revolutionary tones.

It was the second thing that interested me. (Although I’m sure plenty of kids are going to want to take archery now.)

The Hunger Games series is meant to be a tale of heroic personages overcoming corrupt governments that use their conquered people for both sustenance and entertainment.  It has been described as part Running Man and part Lord of the Flies, and while I’d question the Lord of the Flies bit, it gives you a good enough idea.

Some reviewers and fans have referred to the emergence of Katniss as the morally righteous and still kick-ass; take no prisoners heroine as the crowning achievement in a new Feminist model for storytelling.

In fact, Lynn Parramore penned an article published at Alternet which took it further stating that finally women are getting more power both in film and real life and we are ready to accept women as our saviors in this time of economic turmoil.  Especially, as “Men just aren’t getting the job done.”

To me this message seems at odds with how we are actually treating women as a culture.  Surely nobody has missed the recent headlines detailing women’s rights to birth control and other health needs?  Did Parramore somehow miss every one of Santorum’s speeches? Did she also miss the last decade of Rush Limbaugh?  Or how about any of the Christian churches on our soil, actively teaching women should be at home birthing babies?

Herein lies the problem for me; why, at this time, when our government clearly wants to curtail thoughts of subversion, are we seeing more of it in film?

Take for example the wildly popular Starz series, Spartacus.  Yes it is popular for the sex and nakedness that pleases heteros and gays and everyone in-between as well as for the generous violence, but hidden underneath all that is the story.  The story of a slave rebellion led by a very angry but very moral and righteous leader which occurs not because slavery exists, but because of poor treatment.

That’s not all, HBO has also been successful with their noble and moral heroes on Game of Thrones; the entirety of the cast takes up arms to fight for their brand of justice this year.

Last year also saw X-Men back on the screen, a notoriously riotous crew, who showed just exactly how the outcast mutants began giving the finger to our government. This year our crime fighters are all about vigilantes with Batman coming back as an unwanted addition to Gotham and Wolverine spinning through to piss everyone off.

These are not the heroes that teach us of Truth, Justice and the American Way, like the first round of Super Hero movies targetting youth  after 9/11.

What all these shows have in common is they are aimed at a younger audience and they convey an attitude of subversion.  Is this an accident?  Do we really want our youth to act out against authority?

I think it’s more complicated than that.  I think the goal is to make people believe they are experiencing rebellious acts without actually committing them.

Studies of brain patterns of athletes show that when they have down-time due to injury, watching their sport makes them believe in their mind they are still actively practicing.  Now, their bodies obviously will not be getting a work out, but their heads are still in the game, they are still learning the tactics and mechanics.

Now take that idea and apply it to a bunch of young adults sitting in a movie theatre or at home in front of a movie, or even playing a video game.  While they are taking images into their minds they get adrenaline rushes, raised heart rates and emotional stimulation.  Their minds believe they are participating in what they are viewing.

This explains why so many young people who go on shooting sprees are so incredibly bad at it.  They think they know how to be militant tacticians from playing video games.  In actuality, given the time of most shooting sprees, if someone had actually been trained, we would see a lot more death at any given school, etc.

I believe this is no accident.  In order to maintain control of people who would traditionally be the most fed up and most likely to act out on their ideals of injustice it seems like a good idea to satiate that desire with a false belief that they have experienced some of it.  It’s filling an emotional need and tricking the brain without having to manage a revolution of young people.

Because of this, I see things that help audiences’ brains experience a story getting more high tech.  3D is already well on the way and I suspect that other impactful technology that has been tried on audiences in the past like smell, electricity and movement will be revived.

But, maybe I’m wrong; maybe it’s just an accident that Total Recall is being re-made to be more consumer friendly to young people.

In any case I was brightened to see as I walked out of the theatre, groupings of youth from 13 to 25-ish standing about and comparing notes.  Was this realistic?  Could I, you, we have done any of that?  What would you do?

It made me feel a little more hopeful that it seemed that while they loved the story, they were in some ways doing a reality check.  Not all of them, but some.

Maybe the human race won’t be satiated into oblivion.

Editor’s Note:  This article originally was published in May 2010, but we thought it seemed timely to bring it back for St. Paddy’s day.  Enjoy!

By: Grainne Rhuad

The world renowned music ensemble The Chieftains have entertained regaled and educated with their music for 48 years. They have won Grammys and an Emmy.  They are on Celtic playlists all over the world.   Their newest project while left of center and unexpected for many, follows their bard-ish tradition of bringing lost stories to the masses.

Building from their Celtic roots and combining with traditional Mexican harmonies may sound more like an outrageous amount of din, however somehow they make it work.  Admittedly it is a little bit busy at first but it soon grows on you as you begin to pick up the thread of the story.

The San Patricios, an almost forgotten part of Mexican and American history.  In 1846 Irish immigrants were conscripted into the U.S. army to fight against Mexico in the Mexican/American war.   Generally poorly treated by the United States citizenry and bearing no love for the Yankees themselves, the Irish soldiers decided it was sinful to fight against their fellow Catholics.  They deserted and joined with the Mexicans and battled against the United States.

As we all know, the outcome of this war; Mexico was pushed back in Texas and ended up conceding California as well.  But it was the incredible joining of two very different cultures that makes such a good story.

Indeed if you listen closely enough you can find the Celt in Mexican music, you will find concertinas, accordions and Celtic rhythms in their polka.

But how did a band of Irish soldiers find themselves deserting the U.S. Army?   The Mexican Government had assiduously been urging all of doubtful loyalty or otherwise disaffected “to abandon their unholy cause and become peaceful Mexican citizens.” Bounties and land grants of 320 acres, rising with the deserter’s rank, were promised rewards. Impetus was added by harsh discipline in units of the U.S. Army where flogging was legal. Riley, like many other Irishmen, may well have been irked by the strong anti-Irish sentiment then prevalent in the United States.

These deserters weren’t met with immediate trust by the Mexican people themselves.  Often slandered it wasn’t until they went to battle and proved themselves that they were treated with respect.

The San Patricios also were called the Colorados or “Red Company” because many of them were redheaded. They carried a banner blazoned on one side with a figure of St. Patrick and on the other with a harp and the arms of Mexico.

It was on the second day of the Battle of Padierna or Contreras, August 20, 1847, that the San Patricios made their last stand, betrayed by former comrades committing espionage, the U.S  calvary was ready for them.

Churubusco, derived from an Aztec word meaning Place of the War God, justified its name that day. Riley’s gunners, mainstay of the defense of the bridgehead to the massive-walled Convent of San Pablo, served their pieces with battle fury well recognized in the Celts. American losses equaled 137 killed, 879 wounded and 40 missing.

During the storming of the convent, which Santa Anna ordered held to the last to cover his retreat, the San Patricios fought with the utmost desperation. There was no thought of surrender among men who faced death for treason. At last Riley and his remaining men, their ammunition exhausted, were overpowered. Seventy-five survived out of a battalion of 260; the rest, except for some who escaped, lay dead in the uniform of Mexico.

Along with fellow Grammy winner Ry Cooder , Lila Downs, The Folklorists, South of the border favorite Linda Ronstandt, Los Cenzontentles, Carlos Nunez, Los Campros de Valles,Moya Brenan,Chavela Vargas,Mariachi Santa Fe de Jesus, Lost Tigres de Noche;  The Chieftains set about to tell this tale from a south of the border perspective.  With Music and Spoken word they bring to a new generation a story that without telling would probably be lost, particularly in these times when Mexicans and Mexican Americans are facing such harsh defamation.

The music is both hopeful and melancholy.  Featuring battle songs like “March to Battle” which speaks of their resolve matched with funerary songs like “Lullaby for the Dead” it reminds us that the ending of this story is sacrifice.

But oh with what joy this sacrifice is made, for in true subversion did the San Patricios fight for what they knew in their hearts to be right.

It is especially heartwarming in this time of persecution against the Mexican people in our country to see that the Chieftains are honoring this memory of a partnership nearly forgotten, not taught in our schools.  One can almost see the ghosts of the fallen smile.

By: Ronald Thomas West

This book is a damning indictment of the cowardice of men in leadership, a testament to the courage and sacrifice of those they presume to lead. For anyone who’d thought a nascent and growing extreme fundamentalism in the USA merely a threat, this book should make them think again and should rightfully frighten and galvanize to action anyone concerned a cult within our military can both: break the mentality of, and train a young officer for future assignment to launch nuclear weapons.

Where to begin? I could write essays on multiple subjects of peril this book has only scratched the surface of, yet that scratch bleeds profusely throughout its pages. It may seem odd to some that, for me, the most striking and empathetic passages of the book is a wife and mother with Multiple Sclerosis surrendering her dream of a life as uncomplicated as possible, as a matter of principle, giving up her pursuit of happiness and the American Dream to take on the malignant social cancer infesting and infecting what must ultimately be what our nation is judged by in the eyes of today’s world; The perception of American empire, the Armed Forces of the United States of America.

As I write, I know empathy, suffering Neuro-Behcets Syndrome, a mimic Multiple Sclerosis. My own desire has been many years wishing only to live out those years I have left in peace, but no, a narcissism of arrogance circumstantially known as fundamentalist Christian dominionism has dictated my duties according to conscience as well. Yes’m, I understand and know empathy in our common alliance against evil.

The human dimension is profound, the humiliation, the grief, the sacrifice and the fighting back against stacked odds at every turn for those ethical civilian and military warriors detailed in this book.

Where to begin? Striking is the thought, here is the true story’s protagonist with impeccable conservative credentials, Michael L. ‘Mikey’ Weinstein, breaking down every stereotype and smashing every barrier in a focused, concerted effort which, if successful, and there is no guarantee of success, should win the admiration of dyed in the wool liberals, feminists particularly, and people of every sane persuasion. Mikey has marched a long march to arrive on the cusp of achieving immortality in history. I am moved by his story and, by my own independent research, towards expending precious drops of my own small reservoir of life force to help Mikey achieve his goals.

This is no small achievement in its own right that a man, Mikey Weinstein, would have come so far in his personal evolution as to overcome his history of working to keep Iran-Contra from spilling into the open under Reagan, to win my avowed admiration. But here again is a striking moment, it was my own experiences as a soldier had turned me against wars altogether, no different to Howard Zinn. Mikey fits the same mold, only we each have our separate timelines to fated evolution and goals.

Mikey’s goal is quite straight forward. To take the American military, the most lethal military in the world by far, out of the hands of and keep it out of the hands of, what can only be accurately described as Madmen. Any such endeavor is highly worthy of my liberal support.

Where to begin? Critically important, the book makes a case for young American service women and men dying in vain on account of the narcissism, and nothing more, of those General Officers and politicians trusted with our soldiers care at the highest levels of these United States of America’s institutions, whether at the level of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or sitting in either house of Congress.

This last will be the focus of my essay; I will leave the several other critically important subjects to the insights of other reviewers. I cannot speak to nukes as an expert, there are better qualified to speak to contemporary military/civilian life, but one thing I had dusted off and polished these past several years were my intelligence analysis skills. Here follows my analysis, in lockstep with the books conclusions, insofar as how deeply penetrated and compromised our military’s highest offices and ranking officer corps have become by dominionism and will yet cost us dearly in American lives and blood.

In my day, our Special Operations Forces had not yet become pervasively criminalized. We saw ourselves more along the lines of an elite Peace Corps working the most hazardous territories of a Cold War world. Critical to our mission was pacification of populace in the areas we worked, and pacification is and was a straightforward word. We worked to bring peace to neighborhoods in conflicts. John Wayne stereotype aside, the military aspects were honest endeavor to provide self-defense training to remote villages with an objective the populace could not be easily exploited by irregular militia, but that was never going to be accomplished in any case, except that we understood and respected and even integrated to the local customs and culture. That we had elite and lethal training was primarily survival oriented, yes there were the occasional ‘special operation’ to perhaps decapitate the leadership of a particular guerrilla group or undertake sabotage behind enemy lines in the course of our work, examples given, but this was the exception, not the rule. Primarily our superior skills were required to operate small teams in areas where we might meet with considerably stronger numerical force. The highly honed and elite skills of the 1960s and 1970s Green Berets teams were more often than not, more than equal to any larger irregular force. If vastly out numbered, we knew how to inflict savage and costly casualties on our pursuers in the course of evasion. In our pacification work, Action Anthropology was the norm of the day. We integrated to our human and social environment. We were armed educators, medical providers and social workers. We were not primarily meant to be offensive; to the contrary, restraint was a big piece of our discipline and training. Cowboy mentalities were not tolerated.

It is quite clear things have changed away from this focus, dramatically, for the military applications of special operations forces, in the approximately four decades since Vietnam.

In the span of a few hours or so in Iraq, one Special Forces team leader, inflamed by watching the ‘Passion of the Christ’, instigated an incident that effectively made a war zone of an entire neighborhood and radicalized several hundred, perhaps several thousand Muslims. This commissioned officer had used a bullhorn to have “Jesus kill Mohammed” blared into a Muslim neighborhood, and when the perfectly predictable reaction was everyone with a gun in that area of the city showing up to shoot at this moron, a weapon that could blow through the front and back wall of a house was turned on the neighborhood homes by the Special Forces team.

Many of those consequently radicalized Iraqis no doubt turned to local militia and offered their services to train to kill our regular American soldiers over this one of many [unpunished] incidents of Christian extremism provided elite training. Our ‘elite’ forces had just accomplished the absolutely criminal act of getting more Americans killed in future battles. This is the criminalization of our special operations forces by extremist Christian fundamentalist commanders. Who are those commanders? I will name two.

General William G. Boykin. A rabid fundamentalist Christian, his career in special operations is littered with tactical disasters. It would seem his only qualifications to have advanced throughout his career are his ‘belief in God.’ That and his belief in his special operations crusaders. With these mentalities at the top of command, what is promoted under you will be a solid corps of those with shared bigoted beliefs. General Boykin, since his retirement in 2007, had to be ‘dis-invited’ from speaking at West Point Academy on account of his virulent hatred of all things and people that are ‘not Christian or not Christian enough.’ Consider it is today’s special operations trained veterans who move into SWAT jobs in your local and state police force, are hired by Blackwater [then Xe Corp, now Academi, a lot of changed identities over a string of fundamentalism motivated crimes] and other de facto corporate militia, join the CIA and FBI or simply become mercenaries. These people with elite training and extreme belief will be getting many more Americans killed over a long haul ahead of us and not only in places like Iraq and Afghanistan. Their numbers are only growing, thanks in large part to:

General Patraeus. It is common political knowledge in Washington DC that President Obama had appointed General Patraeus to head the CIA as a means of sidelining the General’s political ambitions over serious concerns Patraeus would hook up with the likes of Sarah Palin or Michelle Bachman in a run against Obama for the presidency in 2012. Either way you have it, a commander-in-chief, whether a military veteran or not, is a sword that can cut two ways. Obama’s naiveté in military affairs, having never served, is the 2nd worst possible circumstance in an America where naked fundamentalist ambition has overtaken the leadership of American military command structures, outside an out and out fundamentalist president. That Obama would, as a matter of political expediency, appoint Patraeus to head up the CIA with its out of control Operational Division working in close concert with the radicalized and criminalized Christian extremist special operations forces of today’s American military, is simply asking for disaster. General Patraeus was key [together with Robert Gates] in convincing Obama to radically beef up the USA’s special operations forces, at a time it was already decided the overall troop numbers would have to be reduced.

General Patraeus has had a close association with special operations forces throughout his career. Since Patraeus appointment to DCI [Director of Central Intelligence or CIA] Admiral William H McRaven, now overall boss of the special operations forces which these days are routinely assigned to CIA operational missions, has requested his forces be allowed to operate outside the traditional Department of Defense channels. This is, no doubt, a sleight-of-hand grab for these elite forces away from normal supervision via established Department of Defense structures, and away from oversight by Admiral McRaven’s professional associate CIA Director Patraeus. This cannot be a good thing.

The myth of General Patraeus in the public purview is a demonstrable tactical lie. In fact the ‘surge that turned around the war in Iraq’ for which he became famous was at best a deceit along the lines of a shell game or bait and switch. General Patraeus beefed up the American force, momentarily disrupted the insurgency with an all out push that could not be sustained in any case, and then pulled the bulk of the American forces back to their bases and took the Americans, for the first time, largely out of public circulation before the insurgents could regroup. It is this removing the American soldiers from the everyday Iraqi life which had dramatically dropped the violence in Iraq, nothing more. The same could have been accomplished in 2004, and honestly at that, were it not for literally crusading extremist neo-con commanders and secular officers afraid to speak out and challenge the status quo at the CIA and Pentagon, to call a spade a spade, a career ending move. It is truly Faustian, if you speak out your career is over and you have been weeded from the ranks which only become more Christian extremist with the favored or ‘blessed’ replacements, if you keep your mouth shut, it all evolves towards fascism regardless.

Moving over to Afghanistan, notoriously there have been many special operations forces crimes, inclusive of attacking a wedding where fleeing women and kids had been shot in their backs, cold blooded murders. We pay the Afghans compensation but the root problem of anti-Islam fundamentalism is never effectively addressed and the hate for the Americans only spreads. General Patraeus has had a large hand in keeping these American special operations independent of NATO, effectively exercising impunity and generating a strengthened Taliban when the Americans are seen as a worse curse.

Now, we are seeing the full fruition of the crusading mentality and criminal anti-social behaviors with the ‘burning of the Koran’ riots in Kabul triggering a long pent up but growing frustration of the Afghan people as a whole. No Snowflake in an Avalanche points towards the inevitable conclusion: Our fundamentalist neo-con Generals, in the guise of patriotism, have handed an untrained Obama a perfect storm. This is no accident.

The book’s holdings are consistent with the preceding scenario I have drawn for the reader from my knowledge of social psychology, special operations intelligence and tactics. The book meticulously documents the facts of the extremism in our military leadership; it is a well written book, concise and cohesive to the points of sedition and treason at the highest levels of the United States Armed Forces and matches my independent assessment of these past several years, summarized in the preceding.

**

No Snowflake in an Avalanche by Michael L. ‘Mikey’ Weinstein and David Seay, review by Ronald Thomas West, a Vietnam Veteran, recipient of the United States Army Commendation Medal (individual citation) & the Vietnam Cross of Gallantry (Brigade Aviation, 199^th Light Infantry Brigade, unit citation.) Subsequent to an extended tour of Vietnam, Ronald served as operations & intelligence sergeant for a Special Forces detachment [19^th Special Forces Group] and was Distinguished Graduate of the Hawk Improved Missile program at the U.S. Army Missile School, Ft Bliss, Texas.

Ronald’s family tree has soldiers serving in nearly every period of American conflict including the Civil and American Revolutionary Wars. Immediate family members who have served in the military include both grandfathers, his father, uncle, brother, nephew and two of his three sons.

Ronald is co-author [together with Dr Mark D Cole] of the Mueller-Wilson report [International Law/Human Rights.] Today he is a medically retired investigator, author and part time investigative reporter for the online magazine subversify.com

You may purchase  ‘No Snowflake in an Avalanche’ at Amazon

The 84th Academy Awards Review: Millionaires Plead for Your Money

By The Late Mitchell Warren

There’s nothing quite as refreshing as millionaires giving each other gold statues, as the avuncular Billy Crystal pointed out at the 84th Annual Academy Awards Show. Except, of course, for said millionaires asking for your money. While most people perceived the 84th Oscar show to be about nostalgia (considering that big winners The Artist, Hugo and Midnight in Paris told stories from the early 1920s) what I observed was a collective of multimillionaires begging for my money in their own egocentric, larger-than-life sort of way.

Not only was the show broadcast for the first time on the Internet, but it also felt like an interactive, customized Oscar show, with awards going to your own preferred choices. Critical favorite and gimmicky silent film The Artist triumphed over more traditional Oscar fare like Warhorse and The Iron Lady. Meanwhile, the Academy made room to award the kid-friendly, 3-D theme park movie Hugo while also bestowing love upon sentimental jokester Alexander Payne (The Descendants) and even Woody Allen (Midnight in Paris), for what could be his last hurrah at Oscar night. (And how could you even think he would show up to accept the award?)

The Academy also handed Meryl Streep her third Best Actress Oscar, shortly after giving Best Supporting Actress to Octavia Spencer of the crowd-pleasing racism dramedy The Help. It seemed as if everyone who was loved this year received something in return, except of course for traditional Oscar bait who felt the almighty snub from the usual gang of millionaires.

Oscar host Billy Crystal was back on demand, as was the theme of the night, and brought his usual Uncle Billy wit to the show, with zingers caustic only in thought, and delivered in such giggling senior moments no one could take offense. It was nice to see a host with no fear (Crystal’s ribbing of Nick Nolte and Martin Scorsese was the biggest laugh of the night) and yet nothing to prove, in contrast to Ricky Gervais, James Franco and Chris Rock of the Mean Millionaires Club.

Perhaps the most surprising twist of the night was the fact that the Academy Awards Show seemed very short, and almost (gasp) on time! They predictably cut the acceptance speeches of foreign technical artists short, while allowing big American actors (and at least one Frenchmen in Jean Dujardin) their full time in the sun.

One of the most popular decisions of the night was the Best Supporting Actor win from Christopher Plummer (Beginners) who became the oldest actor in Oscar history to win a competitive award. Christopher Plummer also gave the most eloquent acceptance speech of the night, and the victory of senior acting chops over 21st century irony (in grand display with unfunny presentations by Robert Downey Jr., Ben Stiller, and the usual fools) was inspiring. Only Will Ferrell and Zach Galapagos-Islands (Hey, he mispronounced it first!) came off as genuine smart-asses, as they demonstrated amazing commitment to shallow characters, worthy of a George Lucas or James Cameron film. All those comedy bits and all those scenery-chewing Best Actor previews were still trumped by Glenn Close’s performance as a woman starring in a movie as a woman playing a man who was still defeated for the umpteenth time by Meryl Streep. Take notes, kids. This is what a face of grace looks like covering over molten lava-level frustration.

The commercials were just as pandering, and featured all of your favorite celebrities hawking brands, like Ellen DeGeneres and Jerry Seinfeld. There were Muppets, there was a bizarre “leg-bombing” by Angelina Jolie (and appropriate mocking of said leg-bombing by unknown Documentary winners) and there were “upset” wins that we kind of demanded, like A Separation winning Best Foreign Language film from Iran. (The real question is, if Obama attacks Iran, will he swipe the Oscar for himself or just claim that Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was respectfully buried at sea and send the Oscar back to the Academy?)

The Academy even did the unthinkable, no doubt listening to your complaints, and shortened the long-winded but sentimental Lifetime Achievement Awards by relegating them to an off-camera ceremony. (The winners got to wave to the people like Prince William and Duchess Catherine) Come on, you don’t want to let poor James Earl Jones on stage to say a few Darth Vader-esque thank you’s? Oh wait, the other winner was Oprah Winfrey. Yeah, probably a good idea to let those precious moments go untelevised.

Even the cruel death popularity contest was done away with, as all of your favorite ex-celebrities were featured in a fast moving montage reminiscent of The Borne Ultimatum with pin-drop silence instead of rising and falling applause. Dead celebrity quotes were also featured amid the tragic music. At one point, I hoped that Billy Crystal had inserted a gag clip of himself in the death montage, as it would have brought the house down. Then I remembered, no, this is a well-behaved Oscar show. These are multimillionaire starving artists doing what they do best and politely extending their hands for a tip.

The highlight of the show came from talents who are just barely cracking the millionaire mark, and some of whom might actually be only slightly wealthy if not completely poor. Cirque Du Soleil stole the show with a once on a lifetime tribute to the movies, and made the hall of celebrities give a standing ovation for the tenth time or so. Old millionaires standing up and sitting down for three hours…how can you not be moved? I can just visualize all the hand-to-mouth gestures that happened in the auditorium as Cirque Du Soleil, with their weird feats of strength and elastic choreography, reminded all these grown children, Barbie hookers, pseudo-activists and coke fiends what real death-defying talent and ability looks like.

All in all, I enjoyed Oscar’s faux tribute to nostalgia, which seemed to me more like an abbreviated Celebrity Telethon begging for your admission tickets. Yes, pity these millionaire unemployeds who make a living begging for your change by becoming customized prostitutes of the highest acting ability. They are being ravaged by Internet piracy, undervalued at the box office, and retired early because of our recessionary bitching. Robbing a celebrity of his/her money constitutes rape! I mean my God, people! Poor Jennifer Aniston had to show her tits on Wanderlust. What won’t these wonderful hookers do for us?

You missed the best part of the show, as it wasn’t televised. No, not the Academy kicking out Sasha Borat (er, Baron) Cohen off the red carpet and escorting him out (apparently because he messed up Ryan Seacrest’s suit, or was spilling fake ashes or something) but the heartwarming speech by Billy Crystal that was censored due to its overt advertising.

It was when Billy Crystal, with the dog from The Artist in his arms, spoke to the televised audience in a moment of grotesque sincerity.

“Ladies and gentleman, we in the entertainment industry are ailing. A few years more of cut salaries and no gross percentages and we’re going to be six feet under Jack Palace. No seriously folks, how is my grandson going to go to Harvard with this type of economy? It’s just like you 99%-ers to take up so much space. I mean come on, you know how much we had to pay George for another on-screen kiss? (Giggles at himself) I mean really, does your father really need Social Security? If Diane Keaton and Kathy Bates keep appearing nude in more films they’re going to kill the poor bastard. Okay, no more jokes. Please, come back to the movies, ladies and gentleman. It’s not just the magic or the memories we cherish. It’s not about the awards. It’s about the box office gross. And the cable proceeds. It’s about a little kid picking up Mr. Saturday Night at a pawn shop for two bucks instead of a dollar. I don’t know about you but back when I was a youngster—and back when Christopher Plummer first retired—I don’t remember ever buying a ticket for a dollar. Movies are so much more expensive than that. So long folks, and please for the love of God, our blouse is wide open, please leave us a tip in our giant, fake plastic cleavage! You look mah-velous, mah-velous!”

I applaud Hollywood for respectfully reminding us that this is a quid pro quo business and if we really want to keep seeing all of this great entertainment at a low price all we have to do is “love the movies.” They elegantly upheld their part of the agreement and gave us an Oscar show for the ages. Now it’s time for us to honor our traditions of going back to the movies.

It was a beautiful show. I didn’t get to see all of the Best Picture nominees because for some reason MegaUpload is not working. But I’ll be sure to catch them all on BitTorrent.

By Colin LaVaute

www.decadentnation.com

www.facebook.com/decadentnation

Many of our readers may remember Subversify’s interview with Decadent Nation, a lively progressive rock group currently touring nationally and putting together a new mind bender album.  What one discovers when corresponding with the group is, they aren’t just a closely knit quartet of musicians, they are extremely aware of the social/political climate and have a lot of strong opinions.  They have given volunteer performances for the Occupy Movement, a number of charities, and even took their music to the upper middle class residential area of St. Louis, playing from a flatbed truck.  Recently, the group has been expressing a bit of unhappiness, not about politics, but about a fellow rock group; the Black Keys.  This social transgressor has apparently dissed Led Zeppelin.  When Subversify asked lead singer and song writer, Colin LaVaute, if it was possible to develop your own blusey hard rock style music, astonishingly similar to Led Zeppelin’s without having studied the artist, he responded with a statement so vivid, Subversify would like to publish it in its entirety.  

Rock is dead.

That’s been the moniker for the troubled genre for decades now. Turn on the radio, and it’s hard to argue against such a sentiment. The airwaves, now mostly owned and run by corporate conglomerates, inundate the masses with a form of the genre that lacks the luster of the early 70’s or 90’s. One station proclaims to play the “rock of today,” and still we hear music that’s twenty years old piped out in between the post-grunge butt rock of Nickleback and the fifty something bands that sound like…Nickleback. Why? Because the station knows, as well as the listener does, that grunge was one of rock’s last gasping breaths.

Not all is lost, right? One of the biggest rock acts out there right now, The Black Keys, have made rock relevant again with their refurbished version of bluesy rock n’ roll.

Too bad they’re assholes.

In a recent interview with Maxim Magazine, Dan Auerbach of The Black Keys, when asked if the band was influenced by Led Zeppelin, responded by saying:

“Man, you know what? I never listen to Led Zeppelin. But, I mean, I don’t think Robert Plant or Jimmy Page listen to Led Zeppelin, either. We all prob­ably obsessed over the same old blues records growing up.”

Really?

One of the most played and celebrated rock bands of all time, and The Black Keys act like they owe nothing to them; that their success is predicated by themselves, and that Zeppelin didn’t lay down the golden brick road for their music 30 years before anyone knew who The Key were. Auerbach making this statement is akin to The Avett Brothers saying, “You know I never listened to Bob Dylan, I just think that we listened to the same Woody Guthrie albums, and BAM! Awesome-sauce!”

Never mind that not giving the greatest hard rock band of all time their props borders on sacrilege when you’re in The Black Keys position, but seriously, how can anyone growing up in the 70’s and thereafter not have listened to Led Zeppelin? Just like Nickleback and The Black Keys, Led Zeppelin has been steadily piped out since the band’s first album hit. Furthermore, if you are a guitar player in a rock band, whether you would like to admit it or not, you have been influenced by Jimmy Page.

Oh, but the pomposity doesn’t stop there. In an interview with Rolling Stone, Black Keys drummer Patrick Carney, laid into, of course, Nickleback.

“”So they became OK with the idea that the biggest rock band in the world is always going to be shit – therefore you should never try to be the biggest rock band in the world. Fuck that! Rock & roll is the music I feel the most passionately about, and I don’t like to see it fucking ruined and spoon-fed down our throats in this watered-down, post-grunge crap, horrendous shit. When people start lumping us into that kind of shit, it’s like, ‘Fuck you,’ honestly.”

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a Nickleback fan by any means of the word, and I have some  respect for The Black Keys. That being said, at least Nickleback doesn’t take themselves so seriously as to proclaim that they are the originators of their genre. In fact, Nickleback has a pretty good sense of humor about the fact that they have more detractors than fans.

When I was growing up, it was a time for rock music to be proud of itself. Bands like Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Tool, and Rage Against the Machine embraced their many varying influences and the end result was something much more original than anything The Black Keys have to offer. All of those bands obtained something else Auerbach and Co. lack: character.

The point is, just because you may have obtained what Ricky Gervais calls “Fuck You Money”, doesn’t necessarily mean you should walking around literally saying”Fuck you, honestly.” Carney’s attitude speaks to a greater sense of inherent entitlement in our society. What happened to humility, and a humble attitude? When do we see music artists actually grateful for what they obtained? I keep hoping for things to come around, for a real breath of fresh air; a new era of truly original rock music, made with sense of purpose, by musicians that don’t shoot off at the mouth like they’re Kanye. I hope to be apart of this era when it comes, until then, I will not mourn the death of Rock n’ Roll, but wait for it to rise from the ashes of modern music.

by Michael A.

One typically retreats into an art museum to escape the world of crassness, sluthood and overbearing human beings. Therefore, it is with much chagrin I report that the Dallas Museum of Art is characterized by all of those qualities. A pity, since there are so few redeeming positives in the entire city of Dallas, a city only known for greedy people named J.R. and for the death of John F. Kennedy.

My criticism concerns the management style and the poor choice of modern day artwork, not to mention a rather disturbing encounter in the restroom area that was truly a moment of grotesque postmodernism.

I was harassed a total of four times by staff members to show my orange bracelet of admission, strongly implying I had snuck in illegally—an implication that screamed racial profiling. It appears as if the staff was convinced that a Mexican-Spaniard must surely be sneaking into such a wonderfully white environment—indeed, a scalable premise that parallels the issue of immigration. However, much to my disappointment, there was no apparent satire involved; they were just being jerks.

In fact, one staff member was so preoccupied with my conspicuous presence that she totally ignored a repugnant creature to her far left (I believe it is called a “child”) who was literally defacing a crafted and hanging artwork that fell low from the ceiling. The creature was literally in the center of the artwork destroying its grandeur, before the staff member took note and nervously ran to alert the parents. I laughed all the way to the next incongruent exhibit.

Speaking of the staff, although they were a refreshingly multiethnic group of people, I was concerned by the gum-chewing, the giggling and the overly youthful features of the attendants. I would prefer my art escorts to be mature, or at least give the illusion that they can comprehend great art. Alas, these Gen Xers seemed resentful of their jobs, as if the dichotomy between great art and absolute futility were something like the poor vs. the rich.

The label of “incongruent” is perhaps giving the art director too much credit. For the first floor celebrating modern artworks, the Dallas Museum featured a great deal of “urban art”, which may well be a paradoxical achievement. There is no great art in suffering itself; art is birthed from great suffering. However, I felt as if much of the first floor of modern art were simply rewarding urban artists for the pseudo-art of ironic reproduction.

Perhaps this is the sniggering monster that Andy Warhol started, but I felt nothing when I beheld one behemoth of an exhibit by Mark Bradford (“Mithra”), a sort of Noah’s Ark creation featuring torn up posters of the Will Ferrell movie “Semi Pro.” Reproduction is not art, though I do share the passion of seeing Will Ferrell movie posters destroyed. Ideally, the formula goes reproduction plus individual interpretation. This feature, and many others seem shockingly ill-prepared for such a prestigious display, one might actually liken it to a premature baby being delivered just to appease a dying grandmother. But I digress on the metaphors…

Now don’t judge me as an art snob just yet. I do acknowledge there were many thought provoking pieces scattered throughout the museum, and a few brilliant Old World Baroque masterpieces on the second floor—however, some really bad exhibits (and at least one defaced by toddlers), together with an entire floor of old furniture (lazily prepared) seemed contrary to my vision of what proud standing, elitist Dallas art looked like.

Nevertheless, bad art can be forgiven. My main quibble was with the managerial style, or lack thereof, which seemed to be perfectly embodied in my next experience. As I proceeded to the restroom area to do thy bidding, I saw a most alarming sight, the likes of which might provoke allusions of a trompe l’oeil, or at least a Banksy-esque prank.

As I looked to the floor and to the next stall over (situated in front of me, not to the side, because of the awkward design) I noticed a pair of bare human butt cheeks grimacing at me from below the bottom of the stall. At first, I figured maybe it was a mistake, or perhaps a case of a poor foreigner confused at how American toilets work.

However, the longer I looked, cruelly held hostage and exposed to the ass-inine trauma, I noticed the individual had mature-looking legs. I fear this was perhaps an older man—perhaps one of the staff attendants still harassing me? Of course, it is quite possible the butt belonged to a bratty young person (with old, leathery legs); still, what a shame that he was allowed to run through the museum defacing art, and defecating on art lovers. By the time the butt started wiping itself for my viewing disgust, I knew this was intentional harassment, and of all places, suffered while at the Dallas Museum of Art.

I regret that I did not snap a cell phone photo of the “Dallas Art Butt”, as proof that this experience really happened (trust me, I having nothing to gain from writing a fictitious review), and perhaps as a mooning snapshot, well-symbolizing Dallas’ snarky response to my criticism of its Dallas Art Museum.

I fled the scene quickly, not wishing to provoke the pair of buttocks anymore than I had. Nevertheless, I feel it is my duty to warn you of what you might encounter should you choose to visit the museum. The human body is not always a thing of beauty in art, at least not in the restrooms of the Dallas Art Museum.

Wyly Theatre, Dallas-Backstage Entrance

Subversify welcomes Alexandra Bonifield, a theatre critic out of  Dallas, Texas.  You can find more of her writing at http://criticalrant.com/

By: Alexandra Bonifield

Like most theatre-loving folks in Dallas and as a regional theatre critic, I was very curious to see what the experience of attending a performance the new Wyly Theatre would be like. I got my chance this past Friday night, October 30, when Dallas Theater Center inaugurated its use of the Wyly Theatre with the production of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I call the evening “My Nightmare on Pearl St.”

WYLY: Giant Gray Water Cooler

It took a while for my press pass to get confirmed by DTC staff, but when it did, I learned they arranged a parking pass for me at “the garage” so I wouldn’t have to pay $15 to park. I was instructed to “enter the garage from Pearl St. to get my parking pass.” Sounded simple. Seek parking pass, Wyly Theatre garage off Pearl St.

I hardly ever go downtown. Why would I? The theatre productions I review weekly are performed at a wide range of accessible venues in neighborhoods throughout the community. The closest I generally get to downtown is Deep Ellum for Undermain Theatre or Uptown for Kitchen Dog Theater. Plenty of free parking, close to the venues, with interesting bars and restaurants nearby for post-show discussion. I didn’t feel the need to Google the location; after all, the Wyly Theatre is a tall building standing off alone, probably sporting a prominent marquee of some sort, right? Hard to miss. I figured I’d get on Pearl St., cruise down to the theatre and park in its garage, as instructed. Just to be on the safe side, I left home fifteen minutes early, to allow for traffic.

I get to Pearl St., no problem. Except, it’s one way. Not the way I need to go. I know the general location of the venue, so I start exploring the frustrating one-way, ‘no turns allowed’ zigzags one has to follow to negotiate downtown Dallas’ street maze. If there are street signs, I can’t see them at night. I know I’m somewhere close as I can see the lipstick red of the Winspear Opera House as I foray along. Oddly, I can find no sign saying, “This is the Wyly Theatre”, or “Wyly Theatre Parking Here”. Five minutes pass. I go by what looks like a giant old-fashioned evaporative cooler, a tall, grayish box-y building. Not attractive or welcoming. Maybe the Wyly? Nothing much near it except the Winspear glowing like a space ship in full bloom about a football field away. I keep making turns; sure I’ll see a line of cars going into the bowels of the earth below the building, with signs and uniformed attendants. Finally I come across a line of cars heading into a parking structure. Delighted, I join the queue. This has to be it; I won’t arrive late. As I approach the attendant gate, it occurs to ask if I’m at Wyly parking. There are no signs anywhere, none that I can see. Wouldn’t it be silly to be at the wrong garage? “You’re at the Meyerson, miss.” Oops. I glance at the LONG line of cars behind me. “How do I get out, and where is Wyly parking?” I ask in panic. Told to “drive on through” with a shrug as though this is an everyday occurrence, I begin the labyrinthine search for an exit, recalling the Minoans and Sartre, realizing that at least three of the four cars parading along ahead of me are being piloted by lost souls, too. Another five minutes passes, feels like half an hour. The exit looms, and I pull to its lip. “Right Turn Only” greets me, again no street signs. I am truly lost now.

“The Wyly, a tall box of a building wrapped in a skin of aluminum tubes, is standoffish outside and yoga-flexible within; in classic Koolhaas form, the 600-seat theater dares the Dallas arts establishment to complain about its severe, basement-level concrete lobby, the almost punitively narrow main staircase and a terrace lined with bright-green fake grass.” Christopher Hawthorne, in the Los Angeles Times

I note again that giant grayish water cooler structure looming darkly, and there appear to be cops wearing reflective orange vests on another street corner a half block away, directing creeping carloads of confused people. Maybe they’ll guide a lost soul?  Cheerily, they point me to the Winspear. I insist I’m there for the Wyly. “The WYLY.  It’s over there?” Cop smiles broadly. “It’s got no parking yet, miss; you have to park under Big Red.”  Big Red: a revelation. I turn left to approach Winspear parking entrance off yet another no-name street. To my amazed delight, the attendant has my name on his press-parking list, and I’m waved on in. By now, my “extra” five minutes have elapsed. My heart races, even if my car cannot due to the line of lost souls chugging ahead of me, seeking similar respite. I park my 2004 Kia Hatchback on Lexus P2, exhale a huge sigh and follow two ladies in stiletto heels to an escalator up. Up? I’m feeling disoriented by now. Am I still in Dallas or on some weird glass and concrete planet?

We arrive at ground floor level by Big Red. I can see Giant Gray Water Cooler some distance away. Trying not to fall into a dusky reflecting pool at walkway level, I approach another orange-vested gent. “Is that the Wyly over there, and how do I get to it?” I query him.  “Just hop right in this golf cart, young lady, and I’ll buzz you on over! There’s a long, steep slope and I’d hate to see you fall in the dark, hurrying down it.” Golf cart? I notice a flotilla of them. Steep slope? And howdy, more concrete. A bonanza for the skateboard set ought to be real interesting to negotiate in heels when black ice season hits. So, the terrain is flat around here…why dig a hole with a steep slope to bury the theater entrance below ground level? How will limos or cars with elderly and disabled people pull up close to disgorge their attending patrons? I flash on a sudden image of a graceful circular drive, landscaped attractively with colorful, live plants, flowing under an elegant, arching portico, bright-lit and welcoming. A bevy of handsome doormen bustle to assist patrons to alight. Chandeliers, buzz, merry anticipation? Wishful thinking. Back to dark, steep slope in a golf cart. Fake greenery. Grim aspect. It doesn’t even look like a theater.

Jeremy Gerard (former Dallas Morning News theater critic), in Bloomberg News: “In the Wyly, “There seems to be no quiet way for the actors to make exits and entrances; footsteps on metal stairs throughout the building pierce the walls, as do noises from the lobby. The seats are torture-chamber hard. All that stacked technology, I guess, required the entrance to the theater to be below the plaza level, down a concrete hill that seems to invite tripping.”

I emerge from my chariot and enter the Wyly’s main doors that remind me of a 1960’s science fiction movie set. I’m hoofing it now; don’t want to miss the opening moments of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. 8pm curtain. Can’t be hard to locate my seat.

I get my ticket at the press table and go through more sci-fi doors. Stairs loom ahead of me. LOTS of steep stairs. In grey metal, dimly lit. Whoa. No time to lay carpet before opening? I trudge slowly up, placing my feet carefully. On the landing, an usher purrs, “Thanks for going slow up these stairs, that’s very wise of you.” Ominous, yet… “Where is the carpet?” I wonder. “Gosh, these stairs are ugly and slippery. Hope there’s an elevator.” I’m baffled.

I find my seat on the ground floor, against the back wall, toss my purse and press packet into the empty chair bucket next to me and fall into mine. I need a stiff drink, but the show’s about to start, once the junior league chairman of the auxiliary committee to redefine art as we know it for the next century concludes his opening remarks. What’s this? No cush for the tush? Hard grayish plastic bucket seat, following the grey metal stairs motif. Ouch! Rough to sit through O’Neill’s Desire under the Elms or Stoppard’s The Invention of Love in chairs like these. Venue booking requirement; only short one-act plays, please, seats hurt audience bums too much for longer performance.  How much did Dallas pay for this theater? Does the architect hate audiences? Did he ever take time to sit in these seats? I’ve sat on high school gym bleachers more comfortable than this. These seats will be easy to wash–just hose them down. Note to self: if you ever return here to review, bring ample stadium pillow for comfort.

Then I look up and around. The seating here is raked, so why can’t I see the stage? A man, average-sized, no Afro, no Stetson, sits in the row below, directly in front of me. I can’t see most of the stage through his head. I’m no midget. A seat with an obstructed view in a theater that cost how much? I shift to the empty seat to my left. Better, I think, until I realize my view of stage right is now blocked by a huge, grey, (no other color will do) column. A seat with an obstructed view in a theater that cost how much? I’d be pretty mad by now if I’d paid for this.

Finally, relief! Shakespeare’s words begin to grace the air. It’s a fast-paced show with much running up and down levels, climbing ladders, and entrances and exits from all sides of the modified thrust stage. There’s a catwalk about five feet above my head. I realize I’m missing dialogue because of the loud clomping of the herd of elephants, “fairies”, charging pell-mell down the ramp above to get to their next entrance on time. No baffling? No carpet? More bleak grey metal surface perhaps? Another venue requirement: only produce shows here where actors are barefoot and tiptoe along the catwalks. Whose ridiculous idea was this?

Intermission arrives. My neck aches from leaning way over to try to view stage right action, and I can’t feel my derriere. I stand up. Presumably there’s a ladies’ rest room and a BAR, somewhere, but I may need to rappel back down the slippery metal stairs to find them. I stretch and eat a breath mint. Pass on bathroom and adult beverage, at least for here. Visions of Knox-Henderson late night.

The play ends with cascades of balloons and soap bubbles, loud music and dancing, commingling of audience and cast in what feels like the final scene from the film Slumdog Millionaire. I find an exit out of Giant Gray Water Cooler Wyly at street level. I don’t have to climb the steep slope back out of the hole in the ground.  I pause at the street corner en route to Big Red, marveling at the discomfort and confusion I’d just experienced. Who will want to endure it when winter comes, when rain and ice and wind whip across the vast emptiness between the Winspear and the Wyly, with no way to avoid their onslaught? Didn’t the architect learn about Dallas weather?

I ride a crowded elevator with other exhausted, stressed playgoers to Lexus P2 and slide into the comfy, padded driver’s seat of my lowly Kia. Before I turn on the ignition I find I can’t stop smiling. I really love reviewing Dallas’ regional theatre. Visions dance on my dashboard. I picture Undermain Theatre with its congenially tended parking lot right next to it on Main St. and Flower Mound Performing Arts Theater with its rustic charm, up close ground level access, free parking. I smell the breezes wafting off White Rock Lake by the Bath House Cultural Center and recall the warmth of its reception/ gallery/ box office area, the friendly staff. I recall how welcome I feel at well-lit Water Tower Theatre in Addison with its two clearly designated performance spaces, ground floor accessible, and easy to find bathrooms. Right next door is the Stone Cottage where MBS Productions performs with folding padded chairs, but no obstructed view in the house. I don’t mind sharing the one bathroom with Mark-Brian’s cast. At Lyric Stage I can drive right up to the brightly lit entrance and drop off a companion before I park in the lot adjacent; the excitement of live theatre spills out of the building from its ample carpeted lobby. No obstructed views and well-padded seats help make attending theatre there a pleasure. At Shakespeare Dallas’ Samuel-Grand Park setting, I set up my folding chair wherever the PR director escorts me to, ease back and enjoy a great view with snack and libation right out of my own ice chest. In Ft. Worth, there’s free parking after 6pm in the downtown garages on the square. Whether I’m heading to elegant Bass Hall or intimate Circle Theatre, I feel safe strolling to any of the eight or ten restaurants not five minutes from either venue before the show, or after, even if I’m alone. There are no steep concrete slopes to negotiate, unprotected from severe weather. I’m so glad the metroplex has a wide array of thriving performance arts groups and venues that serve the needs of attendant audiences and artists so well. My” Nightmare on Pearl St.?” It offers a different sort of memorable experience. I wish the Wyly Theatre speedy resolve with some of their evident opening challenges. I also wish Dallas Theater Center, flagship Theatre Company for the region, the very best with productions at its new, modern venue.

“Although Los Angeles is often dismissed (and misunderstood) by Europhiles as a city with no center and no heart, Dallas would be the better example….The Arts District is the cultural version of that city. Here star projects sit in self-satisfied isolation, unrelated to each other, unconcerned. If these buildings are supposed to be part of an effort to ‘regenerate’ or ‘reconnect’ the city center, they have failed.” Edwin Heathcote, in Financial Times

Quotes pulled from Scott Cantrell’s article in the Dallas Morning News Sunday, November 1, 2009: “Critics weigh in on Wyly Theatre and Winspear Opera House”

By: Grainne Rhuad

Most Stars seem to reach a certain age when they start having children and want to connect with their kids.  Madonna pushed out a couple of crappy tea party books for children, Ice Cube started making some family movies his kids could watch, Brad Pitt became the voice of a superhero.  But Chris Rock did a little something different.

He says he went on a quest, when his daughter came in and asked “Daddy, why don’t I have ‘Good Hair’.” To find out what he could about the Billion dollar industry of Black Hair Products.  The result is Good Hair.

The film kept my attention for several reasons.  Chris Rock mostly took off his comedian hat and donned a pretty nice investigative journalism one.  He visited a factory owned and operated by African Americans where relaxer or “creamy crack” is made.  He went to India to check out where the bulk of hair for extensions is harvested and visited Krishna’s temple to witness the tonsure ceremony in which the vanity of hair is given up; so the temple can sell it to the highest bidder and it can go on African American Heads.  Of course he visited a lot of Barber Shops and Beauty Salons, as well as pulling in some of his celebrity friends.

All this made me think about my own experiences with Black hair.  My daughter was born into a well mixed family.  She had an equal amount of cousins with “good hair” and “bad hair.”  Just for clarification “good hair” is manageable, brushable hair.  “bad hair” is considered nappy hair, hair that is curlier, harder to manage, doesn’t grow down and long but grows up and out.

When she was born her hair was so fine and so straight and she herself so light colored that her father actually gave me a look or two when he noted how light she was.  She grew into her color and into her hair.  She had inherited the fine texture of my hair and the incredible curl of her father’s hair.

Now, I actually thought I had a handle on managing black hair.  For years I had cut relaxed, braided and put extensions into her father’s hair.  Although he loved to play with his hair, I secretly loved the short tight cuts.  The thick curls as they just left the head smoothing and curling on his head.

However I was not at all prepared for the variance in hair.  The unique combination our daughter had been blessed with gave her the most curly mop of hair I have ever seen.  In sixth grade, when she was done with letting me brush it, it became unmanageable and I finally gave in and took her to the hairdresser, the only black hairdresser that didn’t work out of her kitchen in our community at the time.

I learned there was a lot I didn’t know about Black hair.  What I learned and paid for over the next ten years was a lot.  We went through relaxers and irons and braids.  Thankfully she never needed nor wanted a weave because I almost lost my breath when I learned how much they cost to get and keep up.

This film is a couple of years old, it débuted at the Sundance Film Festival in 2009.  So after I watched it I was interested in seeing what kind of response it had been getting.

I learned it was now shown in beauty schools to would be cosmologists.  I learned that Sodium Hydroxide which is the main chemical will eat through chicken skin almost immediately and decimate a soda can in three hours.  I learned that people were surprised Chris Rock could be un-funny.  But most interesting to me were the lines drawn around this issue.  A good portion of African American women were pissed off.

One of the reasons was fairly obvious.  Chris Rock had told some of their secrets.  While a growing industry around all nationalities getting hair weaves and extensions has pretty much let us all know that a lot of women’s hair wasn’t real, or strictly speaking; theirs.  This movie took a lot of the feminine mystery away.  No matter whom we are we all like our level of mystery.  That “how does she/he do it?” feeling.

But one of the things the women reacted to the strongest was some unflattering truths that the film revealed.  For example, at one salon in a working class neighborhood, the “Weavologist” quoted a weave from her at starting around $1000.00.  That’s out the door; not including maintenance like cuts, bi-monthly washing and setting and any emergencies that arise like say, you got it wet.  She had even set up lay-away plans for her client’s hair requirements. Reverend Al Sharpton responded to the cost of weaves in his interview by saying women were neglecting needs in favor of wanting to look a certain way and needed to put their budget in perspective.  Several men stated there had been women that they knew they couldn’t afford due to their hair.

Bloggers, reporters and everyday people took to their computers to dispel this idea right away.  They were affronted at the Reverend Al Sharpton’s statements that women he had known had skipped house payments in favor of European-like hair.  Indeed, the idea of their hair being European at all really pissed them off.  Perhaps it should, as it almost certainly was Asian hair anyway.

The point I think the detractors were trying to make but I think were too angry to connect was this was a man, investigating a mostly woman’s world.  They maybe weren’t ready for what the men interviewed would say and take away from it.  I think it’s telling.

Men for the most part weren’t mystified as to why they couldn’t touch their partner’s hair or even why the women in their lives submitted to all this fuss.  They really got it; it was about them feeling good, powerful and attractive.  This is something we all want in our own ways.  What they seemed to be most frustrated about was the way it separated them in their relationships.  This was a line they could not cross.  There is no negotiation about hair in most of the African American community.  A lot of the men I think would have been just as happy if their partners went natural.

Natural is what my daughter ultimately decided on in her adult life.  She gets people from children to old women who want to touch her hair.  It is something she has had to get used to.  I can remember her coming home from school some days tired out from all the attention lavished on her hair by her white friends.  She would lay her head in my lap, but we all knew she did not want it played with.  She is older and much more giving now and smiles a lot as children run their hands through her unique soft curly auburn hair;  Hair that curls around your fingers like a living thing and very often comes away with you a little bit.

Another of the nastier things said about Chris Rock was that he needed to have his girls hanging out with more African Americans, less Hollywood white folk. Strange but my daughter grew up until her teen years with only one African friend, she never once thought her hair wasn’t “Good Hair.”   Also I think this completely misses the mark of what he set out to do.

Ultimately this film is a love letter to his daughters.  He shows his strong commitment as a father of female children wanting to find out all he can so he can help guide them through the choices they will make that will make them feel beautiful, powerful, and glorious.  We should all want such good things from our fathers, husbands and partners.