Hollywood’s Gary Webb Movie and the Message that Big Media Couldn’t Kill

By Al Giordano

 

Gary Webb reached out to me in 2001 at a time when lesser lights were ready and willing to see me thrown under a bus.

I had been sued for libel by a billionaire narco-banker in the New York Supreme Court, threatened by a New York Times bureau chief that he’d ruin me over the same story, and told by Manhattan attorneys that I had to come up with a $50,000 down payment to defend Narco News and me when I didn’t have the $100 I would need for my next rent payment in Mexico. This online newspaper was less than a year old. Its top donor had gotten spooked by the lawsuit and, like some other colleagues, slipped into the shadows. My world was suddenly dark and the walls seemed to close in all around me.

Gary’s email arrived quite by surprise. I knew about his Dark Alliance series, five years prior, documenting the CIA’s trafficking of cocaine to fund paramilitary squads in Central America. I also knew he had been pummeled by corporate media and had lost his job over it. “They’re trying to turn you into me,” he said, “but you can win because you don’t have a boss who can sell you out.” Gary mentioned that he was negotiating a movie deal for the Dark Alliance book – and a major motion picture titled Kill the Messenger is coming out, finally, next month, ten years after Gary’s death – and offered to donate to our defense once he inked the contract. He then penned a letter to our readers that brought an immediate $10,000 into that defense fund.

Gary gave me, on that day, something far more important than money.

Gary gave me hope. And hope kills fear.

The short version of this tale is that with Gary’s help we beat the narco-censors in court, humiliated the New York Times in its own front yard, and much to the chagrin of corporate media the case established press freedom for the Internet under US law. Gary and I and others then teamed up to found the School of Authentic Journalism, now in its eleventh year.

Kill the Messenger will hit the cinemas one month from today and tell the true story of Gary Webb’s saga that others tried so hard to make disappear. There is Oscar buzz over Jeremy Renner’s portrayal of Webb (Renner, 43, has twice been nominated by the Academy: best supporting actor for Our Town in 2010, and best actor for The Hurt Locker in 2008; and through the Avengers, Mission Impossible and Bourne franchises, Renner is one of the world’s biggest box office draws.) Kill the Messenger is based on the book by the same name by Nicholas Schou and on Webb’s own book, Dark Alliance. Michael Cuesta (Homeland, Dexter) is the director. Investigative journalist Peter Landesman is the screenwriter.

This is no boring documentary. It’s an action-packed full-scale Hollywood epic with a star-studded supporting cast: Michael Sheen, Paz Vega, Andy Garcia, Michael Kenneth Williams, Ray Liotta, Oliver Platt and Mary Elizabeth Winstead, among others, join Renner in the ensemble.

As the October 10 premier draws near, Narco News will tell more of these stories, and publish never-seen videos of Gary in his own words, but let’s talk about the movie and the story it retells because it’s a BFD (a big fucking deal) that is about to bring Gary the vindication he did not live to see, and that will deliver overdue justice to the big media bullies – yes, the movie mentions some of the worst offenders by name – who betrayed Gary, the First Amendment, and the tenets of basic human decency along with him.

*     *     *

When in the summer of 1996 the San Jose Mercury News published Gary’s investigative series on CIA cocaine trafficking, I had previous knowledge that it was all true but honestly thought that it was old news. Ten years prior, first-term US Senator John Kerry had held hearings and issued a 1,100-page report that had reached the same conclusion. The nation’s major news outlets gave the Kerry Committee Report scant attention, but the record had been established. It was an airtight case. The Central Intelligence Agency had broken US law by brokering planeloads of cocaine into the United States, and millions of dollars in those drug profits were used to fund the Contra army seeking the violent overthrow of the Nicaraguan government. The CIA did so to get around the US Congress, which had voted to ban US funds going to that terrorist organization. The Reagan administration, even as it ramped up the “Just Say No to Drugs” campaign at home, entered the cocaine business through private contractors coordinated by the CIA.

Webb came across the other end of that officially-sanctioned cocaine trail while reporting on a drug case in California, and followed the trail in reverse: from the crack-plagued neighborhoods of Los Angeles to the federal courtroom where lower level traffickers were prosecuted, to a Nicaraguan prison to interview the Contra army’s banker, to the real drug kingpins behind it all: decision makers in Washington DC. Webb documented what had happened to that cocaine when it entered California. Cocaine had previously been the hundred-dollars-a-gram drug of choice of yuppie bankers and lawyers. But when dealers figured out how to convert it to crack, teenagers, poor and working folks could afford it at five or ten bucks a pop. Then the problems compounded when they kept needing more of an addictive and prohibited substance.

The major narco-traffickers at the top of that food chain were given protection and immunity by US government agencies as reward for their participation in the scheme. Meanwhile prosecutors offered up small timers as scapegoats for the crack invasion in the inner cities of America. Pulling that thread, Webb’s reporting deepened the Kerry Committee conclusions with more evidence of CIA involvement. Yet the real marvel of his masterpiece of investigative journalism was that it exposed the street level end of the pipeline that harmed so many lives. It was authentic journalism: tough, gritty, scrupulously documented and sourced at a time when the news industry was running away from that practice.

Webb’s Dark Alliance series was also the first-of-a-kind in that the Mercury News posted it on the Internet, along with the supporting documents, interviews and the reporter's notes. Talk radio and alternative newsweeklies spread the word about the website, and suddenly the gatekeepers of the national media could not control the story in the same way they had the previous decade when ignoring the Kerry Committee Report. Everything that is great and powerful about Internet journalism today began with that series. For the first time, New Media had beaten Old Media.

And Old Media flew into a rage.

The gatekeepers of the national news media first tried to ignore and wish the story away. But the impact at the grassroots level grew and grew over the next three months to the point where if pretending the CIA-drugs nexus never happened wasn’t working, Plan B was to practice overkill to try and discredit it. What I didn’t realize at the time was the swift and effective reaction that would come from the African-American community on the West Coast, whose neighborhoods bore the brunt of the crack invasion. Or that such a powerful din would be created that would embarrass the national media for having not reported the story for the previous decade. Or that the three national “papers of record” – the New York Times, the Washington Post and especially the Los Angeles Times, having lost face in its own territory by Gary’s superior reporting in the smaller Mercury News – would instead of correcting their failures spend obscene manpower and resources looking for dirt on Gary Webb and seeking to discredit him and his story. A lone journalist’s investigative reports were sailing towards the Pulitzer Prize, so he had to be stopped by the big boys by any means necessary.

The big three American newspapers were, then as now, run by white folks, and imbued their response to the Dark Alliance series with an ugly racism that suggested that the story was only a big deal because black folks were somehow more susceptible to “conspiracy theories.” Yes, this was less than twenty years ago, but one need only look at this particularly nasty bit in the New York Times of October 21, 1996 to see just how extreme things got.

“Though Evidence Is Thin, Tale of C.I.A. and Drugs Has a Life of Its Own,” blazed the headline that day, in a long hatchet job signed by Timesman Tim Golden.

“While the (Dark Alliance) assertions might owe their widest dissemination to the World Wide Web,” wrote Golden, “they owe much of their power to the longstanding network of newspapers, radio stations and word of mouth that informs and connects blacks in the United States.”

“At Styles, a New York City hair salon catering to an African-American and Hispanic clientele,” gasped Golden on behalf of the NYT, “a printout of the series sits in the magazine rack, alongside copies of Ebony and Essence magazines.”

Imagine that! Black folks reading the news alongside Ebony and Essence! The smears against Webb – beyond the bigoted implication that doing reporting that African-Americans found important made him some kind of race traitor – included an attack on Gary’s (completely legitimate, and, indeed, clever) newsgathering tactic of feeding questions to a defense attorney who then asked them to a protected government witness during trial. In response, the witness – which federal prosecutors had prevented from giving interviews to the press – spilled the beans under oath about government participation in cocaine trafficking. Golden and the Times used that courtroom story – which is portrayed quite brilliantly in a script for Kill the Messenger – to imply that Webb was too close to a defense attorney that represented a defendant along the CIA cocaine trail. The smear is utter rubbish. That kind of creativity by a reporter deserves awards and promotions, not baseless innuendo hurled against him. There was nothing untoward about it at all. The big media attackers knew it, but they found little else to throw at Webb in their desperation to discredit him.

Alexander Cockburn would later write: “Few spectacles in journalism in the mid-1990s were more disgusting than the slagging of Gary Webb in the New York Times, Washington Post and Los Angeles Times. Squadrons of hacks, some of them with career-long ties to the CIA, sprayed thousands of words of vitriol over Webb and his paper.”

The attacks by the big three newspapers had a secondary effect on B-list journalists all over the country; those whose dream was to step their careers up the ladder to be able to work at one of those institutions. It sent a loud and clear message that they could curry favor with the Washington, New York and Los Angeles dailies by joining in the witch-hunt, and likewise risk their wrath if they dared to praise or defend Webb’s series.

The deepest cut perhaps was closest to home. The editor of Webb’s newspaper, Jerry Ceppos of the Mercury News, reacted to the October blitzkrieg by the bigger papers by publishing an editorial backpedaling from the Webb series. The Mercury News eventually removed the Dark Alliance series, and its supporting documentation, from its website, and Gary Webb was shipped off to a small town bureau which might as well have been in Siberia. The Pulitzer prize-winning investigative journalist was then relegated to reporting on the local police blotter and human-interest stories about pets and farm animals.

Gary soon after resigned from the newspaper and published the book Dark Alliance: The CIA, the Contras and the Crack Cocaine Explosion (1999, Seven Stories Press), which won some awards and kept the facts alive even after the Mercury News tried to sweep them back under the rug. The US government eventually issued its own report admitting that everything Gary reported was true.

Gary wanted so much to return to his work as an investigative reporter for a daily newspaper. His kids helped him address scores of envelopes and sent his resume to every major daily in the United States. Not a single US daily called him in for an interview. Gary paid the bills for a while by working as an investigator for the California state legislature, but that gig ran out, too.

When in December of 2004 his house was sold and he had nowhere to live at the age of 49 other than to move in with his mother, Gary wrote a suicide note and killed himself with a pistol. There are still many who don’t believe it, who prefer to think the same CIA assassinated him. But Gary had called friends in the days before his death telling them he had bought the gun and was going to do it. And then he was gone.

*     *     *

Had Gary not gone through that hell, I might very well have been next. He shared our victory in December of 2001 when the New York State Supreme Court dismissed the National Bank of Mexico’s lawsuit against us out of court and wrote case law establishing that Internet journalists now enjoy the same First Amendment protections as the New York Times.

When, then, my inbox filled with hundreds of emails from young journalists and journalism students asking if they could come work as unpaid interns for Narco News, expressing their dissatisfaction with what had happened to the news industry and what they were taught in its university mills, I contacted Gary with an idea: Let’s start a school for these young people. Gary signed on and came to Mexico in February 2003 to teach at the first School of Authentic Journalism. After Narco News won the lawsuit, some of our old funders returned and we were able to offer 25 scholarships that year.

Gary may be the most beloved professor to have ever taught at the school. The scholars nicknamed him “The Marlboro Man” for his rugged handsome cowboy look and his penchant for filtered cigarettes. When Gary spoke of his experiences, everyone gave their full attention. The Old Media may have declared him a pariah, but a new generation that no longer views the pinnacle of the profession as getting a job at a disgraced national daily saw Gary as a role model and leader.

The world can also plainly see what has happened to a daily newspaper industry that abandoned its muckraking roots as dailies have downsized and gone out of business. The New York Times and the others have lost their previous luster and now only attract B-list writers and editor-bureaucrats into their ranks. The same Internet that Gary Webb pioneered is now the preferred source for news everywhere on earth.

After Gary’s death, we got a copy of the CD-Rom of his series and with his family’s blessing we published Dark Alliance on Narco News, uncensored. It remains today among the most sought-after pages in our fourteen years of archives.

When word began to spread that Hollywood would take Gary’s story to the silver screen, a new panic began to ensue in the Old Media circles that had so maliciously destroyed his career.

Sensing the prick of the humungous needle from Hollywood about to stick him and the rest of the bullies who hounded Gary until his death, Mercury News editor Scott Herhold, who claims to have been Gary’s “first editor” at the paper, fired off a preemptive shot last year that sought to, in his own words, “salt the Renner version with skepticism.” Herhold labeled the late Gary Webb as “a man of passion, not of fairness. When facts didn’t fit his theory, he tended to shove them to the sidelines.” Herhold offers no facts himself to back up that claim, other than that Webb had written a memo about his shitty editing to their bosses and that Herhold is still butthurt about it: “If he could do that to me,” Herhold complained, “he could easily do that to his stories.” In other words, he offers a hypothetical extraction from an inter-office memo Webb wrote about Herhold to smear Webb’s published journalism.

We should never confuse “New Media” as that which is on the Internet and “Old Media” as that which is in print: These terms have to do with a mindset, not the medium upon which one types. Some of the stalest journalism now lurks the halls of the Internet and some of the sharpest New Media journalists have old school tendencies dating back to when American newspapers were relevant in all the ways they have ceased to be. Internet news aggregator James Romenesko – who years ago had become the house cheerleader for B-list American journalists (the kind that sees every story as an audition to get a job at the New York Times) at the website of the Poynter Institute – now has his own blog, and dutifully linked to Herhold’s column. (Romenesko may dress himself as “New Media” but when the New York Times asks him to censor a link to a story it does not like, he slavishly obeys; and, if he'd like to deny that he's that kind of obsequious industry suck-up, let's rumble anew.)

In the coming weeks we can expect more such panicked response to the Kill the Messenger movie from the same career apparatchiks that smeared Gary Webb to begin with, doubling down on their worn and rusted hatchets.

Like Wile E. Coyote, they’ll hoist the piano over their heads one last time, and predictably the piano will fall back down upon them. With the release of the movie, they’ll not only be reminding all journalists and readers of conscience of what industry tools they are, but will also be up against an entertainment media that has long been sensitized to McCarthyism in all its forms.

Kill the Messenger represents nothing less than Hollywood’s recognition that the new McCarthyism has more often than not come wrapped in a war on drugs. And those that attacked Gary Webb will be cast into the same dustbin of disgrace in which the blacklist proponents of the Red Scare are now buried.

Yet there is another possible response from the 1990s cowards who gambled that by smearing Gary they would promote – or at least protect – their own sinecures in the dying corporate news industry. It is that offered last year by former LA Times reporter Jesse Katz as Kill the Messenger was about to begin shooting. In a LA Weekly interview with Nick Schou, Katz recanted and apologized for his behavior as one of 17 Los Angeles Times reporters assigned by editors Shelby Coffey and Leo Wolinsky to try and discredit Webb’s Dark Alliance reports:

“As an LA Times reporter, we saw this series in the San Jose Mercury News and kind of wonder(ed) how legit it was and kind of put it under a microscope… And we did it in a way that most of us who were involved in it, I think, would look back on that and say it was overkill. We had this huge team of people at the LA Times and kind of piled on to one lone muckraker up in Northern California.”

What Katz has done is simply what journalism requires of each and every one of us who claim to be part of it: If you find you have made an error in your reporting, you issue a correction. Failure to do so is malpractice, plain and simple. That Katz is the only member of the media ranks who has expressed regret so far at his role in the knowingly false attacks on Webb speaks volumes about how far the rest of them have strayed from the practice of real journalism.

A paradox is that many of the generation of media pundits and editors who attacked Webb in the nineties got into journalism inspired by the Watergate era reporting of Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein at the Washington Post, and the 1976 motion picture about them, All the Presidents Men, portrayed by Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman, from a time when the major daily newspapers could at least sometimes be watchdogs instead of lapdogs. Thirty-eight years later, the movie that will define the current sad chapter of the news industry tells the story of how the same Washington Post participated in the US government cover-up of its agency’s cocaine trafficking and went so far as to besmirch the reporter out in the field who did the job that the newspaper’s reputation was built upon, that of investigative journalism.

Where is the apology and correction from Walter Pincus, the Washington Post CIA beat reporter who curried favor with the agency by attacking Webb? Where are his beltway colleagues Robert Suro and Jackson Diehl who joined in the malicious bullying of a man who was twice the journalist any of them will ever be? Where is the Mea Culpa from the NY Timesmen Tim Golden and James Risen, who did the dirty work for that newspaper in the witch hunt? What about you Shelby Coffey? No longer at the LA Times, Coffey is now a PR flack for APCO and graces the boards of the Newseum and the Council on Foreign Relations. Such are the rewards for being a spineless toady for those in power. And you, Leo Wolinsky? Where is the correction you owe your readers? How about your LA Times colleague Doyle McManus? And you, Ralph Frammolino? Are you enjoying the public relations industry now that you’re washed up in journalism? Where are the corrections, bitches? No Hollywood star is ever going to portray any of you in a movie (unless it is as villain, as Jerry Ceppos is about to see when he is portrayed by Oliver Platt). When, if ever, do you wash the stain off your hands from the atrocity of journalism that is one and only thing any of you ever did in this business that will cause you to be remembered by future generations?

You have become, each and every one of you, nothing but a dirty and shamed footnote to the story of an immortal hero, Gary Webb.

You see, gentlemen: You made the same mistake that despots and their lackeys have made throughout human history. You thought that by killing the messenger you could kill the message.

Even in a worst-case scenario for the movie, Kill the Messenger, if it were a box office bust, it will still appear, again and again, on cable movie channels for generations to come, correcting the record and naming names on the real offenders. Your children and grandchildren will see it. There is also the possibility that the movie might stall at the box office but then be given new life by this year’s Oscar nominations, and soar back into public view. And with a cast, subject and script as exciting as this one, there is also the chance that it comes out roaring to public attendance and acclaim. Tell us, please, gentlemen: Is there any one of these scenarios in which you come out on top? No, Sirs, there is not! Not unless and until you do the right thing and issue the same kind of correction that Jesse Katz has offered.

Beyond the culprits at the three national dailies, there is long line of second-string mynah bird repeaters of their “conventional wisdom” against Webb and his reporting, of varying degrees of embarrassment to those writers. Should any of them pop their heads up in the coming weeks to repeat their libels, they can expect the archives of their own shoddy work to be rolled up and swatted back upon their puppy dog noses. They are from an era of corporate journalism when the motivating force was no longer truth or justice or any kind of idealism, when the motor of career journalism became fear and only fear. Some were poseurs of alternative media, from David Corn at The Nation to Glenn Garvin at Reason magazine (who moved on to join another US daily wallowing in decay, the Miami Herald), whose noses were stuck so far up power’s ass in the 1990s that they still can’t get the brown off. They considered the CIA-cocaine connection to be their story, and were envious that an unknown gumshoe reporter out in the hinterlands had stepped onto "their" turf to cause a greater impact than they ever had.

Gary Webb’s reports were that powerful that they made careerist journalists tremble and lash out and dutifully show that era’s media bosses that they had done their bidding.  And then there were others who tried to be fairer to Webb but still feared the big media lords so much that they colored their defenses of the essential truth of the Dark Alliance series with sprinkled disclaimers that he had made errors or wasn’t a saint. You know, the false dichotomy of "telling both sides" of a story that does not have two sides that is formula for corporate media. Eighteen years later, the record reflects that Webb's reporting was spot on and that those unnecessary disclaimers revealed more about the fear by other writers of offending the powerful than they did about Webb’s good works.

There were courageous, real journalists who stood up tall to critique Webb’s attackers and set the record straight on the stunning accuracy of his work. Most of them paid a price in their careers but kept their souls intact. Making a list of each and every one of them would surely risk leaving some out in error. But I do wish to mention three that are, like Gary, no longer with us: The aforementioned Alex Cockburn, the late WBAI New York broadcaster Robert Knight, and one very dear colleague who died this only month, Chuck Bowden, who in 1998 when Gary had already been cast out by the news industry, wrote the definitive story, titled The Pariah, for Esquire magazine, setting the record straight.

They’ve moved on, perhaps to join Gary in a better newsroom in the great beyond.

Meanwhile, here on earth, new generations are up and coming that understand perfectly well that the present and future of journalism is not entered by landing a byline at the New York Times, the Washington Post or the Los Angeles Times, but in the trenches pioneered by Gary Webb.

What Readers Can Do

Now is the time - the October 10 release of Kill the Messenger creates new opportunity - for all good people to join forces to correct the terrible injustice that was done to the messenger.

We can start by reading the Dark Alliance series and its supporting documents, so that when Kill the Messenger generates discussion and questions more of us will be ready to answer them.

We can be supportive of Gary’s family who will have to relive these horrible events in the coming weeks but who have the inner fortitude and commitment to justice to be willing to do so. They’ve just opened a Facebook page in Gary Webb’s name. We can all join it at this link.

We can listen to Gary in his own words. Doing so is always a worthwhile experience. One can hear him on various videos and audio files posted around the Internet. Whether it was 5 a.m. in California as he did a phone interview with C-Span on the East Coast or his appearance on rough and tumble talk radio shows, Gary’s demeanor was always calm, confident and willing to let the facts speak for themselves. This was a journalist who trusted the readers to figure things out. There was no similarity at all between Gary and today’s shrieking carnival barkers on cable television.

Here are some excerpts of Gary speaking at the 2003 School of Authentic Journalism:

We have recently taken inventory of the Narco News and School of Authentic Journalism archives and found more video of Gary in his own words. In the coming weeks Narco News TV will release eight more videos that feature him, so that at his posthumous hour of global attention, Gary can still speak for himself.

Over the next month, we, the friends and colleagues of Gary Webb (1955-2004), will announce other steps to be taken to bring more attention to his message, including grassroots organizing and actions that can be taken at the most local level involving your local cinema and your local media organizations.

Gary Webb - the messenger - will not be with us to see this movie about him.

Gary’s message, however, is here to stay.

 

Help Wanted: The Case for a Generational Challenger to Secretary Clinton

By Al Giordano

 

When was the last time in the United States that a Democrat who was not the incumbent US President, and who was older than the Republican nominee, won the White House?

The last time that happened was 158 years ago, in 1856, when Democrat James Buchanan, 65, defeated Republican John C. Fremont, 43, and former President Millard Fillmore, 56, of the Whig Party (the last president who was neither Democrat nor Republican).

And this perfectly explains why the Democratic Party of the present, if it really is hell-bent on nominating former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton as its candidate in 2016, will very likely end up handing the presidency over to one of the Republican presidential hopefuls, all of whom are younger – by 6 to 21 years – than the presumed Democratic nominee.

Elections of more than 150 years ago aren’t really that relevant to the prospects for 2016. But there are five more recent presidential elections that are prologue to the present moment, because they took place in the context of how the current Democratic and Republican coalitions have formed. The only five presidential contests of the past 82 years in which a Democrat who was not the incumbent defeated the Republican candidate happened during “generational change” elections in which a younger Democrat inspired higher voter turnout at the edges of the party base to win the election.

In 1932, Democrat Franklin Delano Roosevelt, then 50, defeated Republican President Herbert Hoover, 58. In 1960, John F. Kennedy, 43, bested Richard M. Nixon, 51. In 1976, Jimmy Carter, 52, triumphed over Gerald Ford, 63. The story of the 1992 “generational change” election is one that Secretary Clinton knows well: that’s when a 50-year-old Bill Clinton unseated a 72-year-old George H.W. Bush. And we all remember how in 2008 Barack Obama, 49, turned both the Democratic primaries and the November election into a “generational change” tidal wave, when he won the day over 72-year-old John McCain.

The reason why Democrats who are not already president have only succeeded in taking the White House as younger generational candidates is not about age discrimination or the qualifications of the candidates. John Kerry was certainly competent to govern when he lost to George W. Bush, four years his junior in 2004. And, agree with her policy positions or not, Secretary Clinton is at least as qualified as those who have occupied the Oval Office to date. The feeling among many Democratic Party insiders that Clinton is “next up,” that it is “her turn,” that the Secretary has “earned it,” however is precisely the kind of bureaucratic and insular thinking that has brought political parties to crushing defeat time and time again.

The road to the White House is littered with the failed campaigns of institutional candidates whose turn it surely was on both sides of the partisan aisle: from Hubert Humphrey to Bob Dole to John McCain – and Secretary Clinton follows snugly in their footsteps – elder statespersons of political parties have not inspired young people and minority voters turn out to vote the way that FDR, JFK, Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton and Barack Obama did to return the Democrats to power. The winners made elections “cool” and exciting for young Americans and marginalized groups to participate in ways they normally do not (a consequence of the more common dynamic, in which these core Democratic constituencies do not vote, will be felt this November in the US Senate and House elections, where the only question is how bad the results will be for Democrats).

The train wreck ahead on the Democratic track is even more visible when one takes measure of the relative youth of each of the leading Republican presidential hopefuls. While Secretary Clinton will be 69 on Election Day 2016, the oldest of the Republicans mentioned, Rick Perry, who will be 66, just got indicted, so he’s much less likely to be the nominee. Next in seniority is Jeb Bush, who will be 63. By generational math, he would be the most preferable rival for the Clinton camp, the one less likely to be seen as newer and fresher. But a Bush nomination would also make Clinton more stale to public opinion because of the obvious flashback to the last century. A rematch, 24 years after the first November showdown between the Bush-Clinton dynasties, is not going to be an attractive idea to millions of young Americans whose votes the Democrats need, but who usually don’t vote. What young person wants to relive his and her parent’s wars? There is no more perfect recipe for depressing young voter turnout than a Bush-Clinton re-run. It would suppress voting more than putting Mississippi town clerks in charge maintaining the national voter rolls. It is the lamest scenario possible, worthy of a parody story in The Onion, not of the nation that considers itself the world’s showcase democracy.

But let’s imagine that America successfully evades the bullet of a Bush-Clinton rematch to plunge everyone a quarter century backward. How old will the other possible GOP candidates be in 2016? Mike Huckabee will be 61, Scott Walker, 59, Chris Christie, 53 – and now we get closer to pols that might more likely win that nomination – Rand Paul, 54, Paul Ryan, 46, and both Marco Rubio and Ted Cruz will be 45. Those last two have about the same generational distance between them and Secretary Clinton as young Bill Clinton had when he shut down the political careers of his eminence George H.W. Bush and, in the next round, Bob Dole.

Two years prior to the last three times that Democrats took the presidency anew – the point in the 2016 cycle where we are now – almost nobody thought Jimmy Carter or Bill Clinton or Barack Obama had a prayer to win their party nominations, much less to become president. “Generational elections” by definition must have a candidate that “comes out of nowhere” to add a fresh face and tone to the whole show. One can argue blue in the face that the “change” isn’t real, or take the other side that it is. But that evergreen debate is irrelevant to this lesson in history. The fact remains that young people and marginalized minorities only vote in large enough numbers for Democrats to succeed when they believe that a break from the old order is possible.

This math, by the way, should Secretary Clinton decide not to run for president, or for some who might dream about challenging her in primaries, is also a big wet blanket for enthusiasts of Joe Biden, Bernie Sanders, Elizabeth Warren, Howard Dean, Robert Reich or Jim Webb, each of whom is already over 65 years old and therefore older than any of the likely Republican nominees.

Perhaps it’s not fair to lump them all together. Senator Warren’s possibility to inspire with a message of economic populism delivered by a relatively new voice on the national scene – she may be chronologically an elder, but at least she’s not “old news” yet – is intriguing. Bob Reich has the communication skills and wonky policy smarts that could force other candidates to address issues they prefer to avoid (but as his gubernatorial run in Massachusetts showed, his distaste for making money calls is legend). Both know how to use the Internet in ways the others do not, now a prerequisite for a national political campaign. Warren’s recent “tweets” speaking out early on Ferguson – while Clinton and others maintained awkward silence at the hour of crisis – and also in opposition to an energy pipeline project in Massachusetts show that she’s someone aware in touch with those grassroots movements that do exist. And Reich’s mini-essays he posts to Facebook are often brilliant. The others have degrees of personality and experience, but when it comes to the 2016 election they might as well be Grandpa Simpson yelling at the kids to get off the voting lawn.

This is not to say that any one or more of them who wants to run for president shouldn’t do it. The Democratic Party desperately needs not just one primary rival to Clinton but, more ideally, multiple ones. Then let the voters sort out which would be the ideal alternative. Voters are pretty good at that.

Sometimes when I hear key sectors of the Obama coalition, particularly young people, African-Americans and community organizers, yearn for a Senator Warren candidacy I get the sense that the concept is situational. They’re thinking backwards about who could forge the path of least resistance to challenge Secretary Clinton, rather than first considering what kind of candidate is needed to light a generational spark. I’d like to reset that horse before the cart right now.

A great many Americans are worried that a Secretary Clinton nomination would bring the right wing back to executive power because of suppressed voter turnout, and a great many have a legitimate fear of her well-established hawkish foreign policy or pro-corporate tendencies. But instead of merely reacting to the “Clinton is inevitable” chatter we could first envision what kind of candidate could fill the vacuum and stir up a generational storm (or continue what Obama began), and then create the political and social context to seduce that mystery candidate into the fray. With that candidate on stage, the Clinton Inevitability Steamroller would start to self-combust quickly enough.

There are some prominent younger Democrats, none of whom are perfect vessels, but who nonetheless hold some of that potential and promise. Former Montana Governor Brian Schweitzer will be 59 in 2016; Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick, 58; Minnesota Senator Amy Klobuchar, 56, and Maryland Governor Martin O’Malley will be 53. That’s not a comprehensive list, but merely a few examples that there is younger talent out there that could thread the generational needle. The fact that almost nobody thinks any of them, or others like them, could possibly win the nomination or the presidency is exactly one of the qualities that such a surprise candidate has to have, like Presidents Carter, Clinton and Obama before them. Thinking about possible candidates like that and creating the vortex to seduce one or another’s entrance into the presidential context has a much better chance of bearing fruit than endlessly waiting for a bigger foot to step in. Those old enough to remember the 1992 cycle will recall the teeth-gnashing over whether then-New York Governor Mario Cuomo would enter, and all that dreaming was for naught. A Comeback Kid had to come out of vapors instead.

Take O’Malley, for example, who has actively made many visits to early contest states like Iowa and New Hampshire and signaled that if he sees an opening he will declare his candidacy. Few of us know anything about this guy. That’s not all bad. The good part is that we neither know enough to hate him or discount him. He’s not “damaged goods.” A competition with a consummate pro like Clinton and her well-armed and financed machine would be a real test for someone like that. He – or she, in the case of Klobuchar and other potential candidates – would have to be really smart not to fall in the frequent traps that Secretary Clinton baits for her rivals so often.

A path must be struck that honors Secretary Clinton’s impressive experience and good intentions without providing an opening to throw down the victim flag that she tosses so skillfully. (Remember the fuss about whether Obama “snubbed” Clinton during President Bush’s 2008 State of the Union speech? And how it supposedly was to be taken as an affront to half the population? Even Clinton’s 2008 supporters laugh about it now. They knew it was just a game. That’s an example of how that machine can turn nothing into something if a rival gives the slightest opening.) A candidate is needed who can say – and convincingly – that, “Yeah, Secretary Clinton is great, but I’m bringing what America needs that’s different than what she brings and here’s why.” He or she would need to show us, and not just tell us. This mystery candidate needs some core principals and issues that separate him or her from the more troubling parts of the Clinton agenda. In shorthand, that means going more populist than the Secretary on the economy and going on the offensive vs. the Secretary’s bellicose tendencies in foreign policy. That’s a winning platform in the Iowa Caucuses and elsewhere.

Even if someone like O’Malley or the others mentioned enter the campaign and don’t prove to be ready for prime time – and only the rough and tumble of an actual campaign would show it or not – there is historic precedent that even a weak candidate can reveal the vulnerability of a frontrunner enough to cause a stronger candidate to jump in late.

A good example happened in 1968, when so many dreamed that Robert F. Kennedy would challenge President Lyndon B. Johnson but RFK was not going to budge. The second choice among opponents of the Vietnam War in the Democratic Party was Senator George McGovern, but he wouldn’t run either. Finally, Senator Eugene McCarthy – a flawed vessel with little real chance of wresting the nomination from LBJ, much less of winning a general election – went to New Hampshire’s first-in-the-nation primary and although he lost to Johnson, the fact that he got 42 percent of the vote convinced many that LBJ was no longer invincible. Robert Kennedy felt the force of the vortex and announced his candidacy. Two weeks later, President Johnson surprised everybody when he withdrew his candidacy.

Had Robert Kennedy, then 43, not been assassinated, he very well might have been nominated and gone on to run against Republican Richard Nixon, then 55, in the general election. It would have been a perfect storm for another “generational election.” Instead, the Democratic Party nominated Johnson’s Vice President Hubert Humphrey, the institutional “next man up,” and quickly went down to defeat.

The point is that relatively unknown (on a national stage) people like O’Malley, Patrick, Klobuchar or Schweitzer don’t have to be perfect candidates to be able to reveal enough of the weakness in the Clinton armor that some of us see already but many haven’t yet noticed. Any one of them if she or he has the right stuff could turn out to be an Obama-type figure, or at least a Gene McCarthy-type figure who paves the way for someone or something formidable. And if one or more of these people – or someone like them – decide to run, it would be entirely worthwhile to get in on the ground floor of that campaign and see what can be made to happen.

Anybody with the guts and sense to go up against the Clinton organization is going to be tested, but you know what? He or she will end up testing Secretary Clinton, too. And the fall from that precipice is much longer and harder.

It’s not just the history of the last 82 or 158 years of presidential elections in the United States that suggest that Secretary Clinton, as much as she deserves all good things and success in life, is the wrong candidate at the wrong time to win a general election. Very recent history is also instructive. As we all saw during the 2008 Democratic primaries, Secretary Clinton has an uncanny talent causing blowback when she speaks, and that this is a regular, even frequent, occurrence. What are the last two statements anyone remembers out of the Secretary? Last month it was her attempt via Atlantic magazine to distance herself from Obama’s “first, do no harm” foreign policy by saying she would have armed the guys in Syria (who soon after became ISIS). That was not only mind-numbingly boneheaded, but also a frightening reminder that for whatever reasons the Secretary almost always has the most war-making worst first instinct when it comes to problems on the world stage. It’s that impulse that got the Iraq quagmire ignited to begin with. And that was only last month. The month before that, in June, while defending her $200,000 special-interest group lecture fees, the Secretary – reportedly worth tens of millions of dollars – pled that she and Bill Clinton were “dead broke” when they left the White House in 2001. Way to connect, Secretary, with the economic reality of the average American, eh?

Those are just the two major Clinton pre-campaign moments of the last two months. The road ahead, if she declares her candidacy, will provide many more such illuminating statements. It always has when she has traveled any public road. And yet the more recent gaffes seem almost subconsciously self-destructive. There is a kind of Political Tourette's lurking beneath the surface bravado of that potential candidate, almost as if the alter ego inside of Secretary Clinton that doesn't really want to run keeps sabotaging the super ego that lurches toward ambition. One should never, ever underestimate the capacity of Candidate Clinton to talk her way out of victory. We’ve seen this movie before.

The amazing thing about how the big media pundits and political reporters keep harping on the “Clinton is inevitable” virus is that time and time again the voters have shown that they “get” this dynamic in a fundamental way that Cable Television does not. In most Democratic presidential primary cycles, a new face appears that becomes a contender. Sometimes – like Presidents Carter, Clinton and Obama – they go all the way. Others have come close but collapsed either on their own weaknesses or their lack of campaign funds. But the voters did make Walter Mondale sweat when they tagged Gary Hart as a serious rival. Social movements drove Mike Dukakis crazy when coalescing the Rainbow Coalition around Jesse Jackson. The same occurred with Paul Tsongas, Bill Bradley and Howard Dean in subsequent years.

It is a completely noble and worthwhile goal that finally a US president could and should be a woman. People who belittle that goal only help Clinton’s aspirations. But it is another thing altogether to enter the delusion that the historic nature of a Clinton nomination would somehow spark a rise in voter turnout among women the way that Obama’s has done twice now with younger voters and African-Americans. The reason for that is that women already vote in numbers well above the average for the rest of the population. In the most recent presidential election 63.7 percent of voting-age women cast ballots compared to just 56.7 percent of men. Those numbers go even higher among older women. Therefore it is simple math that there is less room for participation among that demographic to grow enough to offset the assuredly lower turnout among young voters and African-Americans should Clinton win the 2016 nomination.

Somebody recently told me, “Clinton will get all the Obama voters and also some white racists that he didn’t.” That’s the sort of blind optimism that has been the downfall of many political campaigns. Young people and minority members do not automatically turn out to vote for Democrats or even against Republicans. Their record participation in the last two presidential elections was the result of very specific factors both of history – African-Americans have historically been discriminated against when trying to vote, and there are still obstacles placed in their way today – and also of agency: The Obama campaigns understood and deployed community organizing tactics in a way that Candidate Clinton and her partisans still fail to grasp. You can’t replicate something you fundamentally don’t understand. Hiring all the former Obama staff in the world can’t even make that happen for Clinton. The candidate has to move these voters for field organizers to get them to the polls. If these voters could be taken for granted in that way, then Al Gore and John Kerry would have already been presidents.

The Internet changed the game so that in 2008, when Obama became the voters’ vehicle to reject the last “Clinton in inevitable” story, it allowed Obama to raise enough millions in a short enough time that he couldn’t be out-hollered or out-dollared. The Obama campaign’s training of tens of thousands of mostly-young volunteers in the fine arts of community organizing, through Camp Obama, was as important a game-changer. The candidate himself was ready for prime time. The rest is history.

When a guy I know pretty well published in the Boston Phoenix in September 2007 the case for why Obama would best Clinton, win the nomination and the presidency, even many of his good friends thought he’d jumped the shark. It made him feel much better about the American voter when he and she happened to agree even as Cable Television and newspaper pundits told them they would never do so. The voters aren’t stupid. At least they are not 100 percent of the time! Things don’t just happen: Things are made to happen. That’s the story of history. That’s all it’s ever been. Real people organizing and doing big things that “important” people lectured they could not.

Perhaps a year from now someone will be able to write a similar story, about a candidate who suddenly appears to make history again. And maybe it will be a candidate who can spark a “generational election” and have a shot at enough voter turnout in November 2016 to not lose the baby steps of progress – not long or fast enough steps by far, but at least the motion has been forward – that have been made over the past six years in the United States. After all, for its many and grievous faults, the US does finally have health care for so many more of its people, did measurably ratchet down two wars, did change the tone so that people who organized for LGBT rights, nonviolent marijuana and drug users and patients, immigrants and dreamers, grassroots XL pipeline opponents, among others, have finally started making progress on the level of law and policy. These are among the only things governments can do that help, or stop harming, the lives of real people.

When, in 2007, Obama’s campaign began recruiting volunteers to attend three-day community organizer trainings (called “Camp Obama”) that were designed by United Farmworkers Union organizer Marshall Ganz, it didn’t just built an army with a huge advantage over its rivals. It also trained a new generation in the forgotten skills of how change is really made at the most grassroots level. Many of the aforementioned tens of thousands of new organizers then went on, after the campaign, to organize with non-electoral social movements: LBGT and immigrants rights, drug policy referenda, and stopping climate change mega-projects like the pipeline. (“Activist” complaints that “nothing has changed” under Obama only indicate that the complainer still doesn’t get the profound qualitative difference between organizing and protesting.) The new generation of organizers trained by Camp Obama should not drop these grassroots struggles in exchange for a presidential campaign. It is those non-electoral movements that create the only context for a campaign to exist. It will be up to new candidates to train newer generations, and fortunately the blueprint has already been charted on how to do that.

Clinton partisans gush over the “Ready for Hillary” SuperPac’s popularity in certain sectors as supposed evidence that the next Clinton campaign has learned the lessons of 2008 and will simply be some kind of “Obama 2.0” operation. The SuperPac smells more like Astroturf than anything resembling real grassroots. It’s a data-mining device, ready to part fools with their money. That it hasn’t started training its enthusiasts with an Obama style organizing boot camp offers the first clue that it has learned nothing from its own history. It’s a fan club that could just as easily be titled “Ready for Justin Beiber,” not anything resembling a real force in national politics. And when Clinton insiders sing its praises, that’s a pretty good indication that they still don’t understand what hit them six years ago.

The Obama presidency will be remembered a lot more fondly once it is over including by many people frustrated with it today but who will need the lessons of time to see it in its full context, presuming it doesn’t all go awry over the next two years. Incremental change is still far preferable than going back to the year 2000 or, worse, 1984, or 1968, when Democrats nominated the institutional “next pol up” and terrible things consequently happened to so many people at home and abroad.

There is a coalition waiting to be born. Its core demographics view Secretary Clinton and her possible campaign as ho-hum and not worth our investment: Young Americans, African-Americans and community organizers are three key hubs, but the nascent vortex is hardly limited to those. Believe in that vortex. Cultivate and feed it. The vortex abhors a vacuum and if made large and visible enough, a candidate or candidates will emerge to fill it.

All it needs is a generational candidate smart enough, organized, and better on policy than the latest “inevitable frontrunner” who bears a striking resemblance to the last inevitable candidate that imploded. If you’re out there, America has a message for you: Help Wanted.

Life Inside of the Song of History with Pete Seeger

By Al Giordano

Photo © 1983 by Leslie Desmond.

It is said that when you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes.

For a great many people, that was also the case when Pete Seeger died last month.

Almost everybody I know has a Pete Seeger story as compelling as any I could tell. The guy handed out meaningful exchanges like candy. That’s how he rolled.

I confess that didn’t always love Pete, and was skeptical about him until I got to see and hear him up close. His music was force-fed on me, and others my age, as children. “Go to church on Sunday, eat your vegetables, wash behind your ears, and listen to your Pete Seeger, because it’s good for you!” His most popular recorded tunes were either children’s songs or what, as an emerging adolescent in the seventies, I considered “lite” odes to hippie slogans which had already become over-baked, like “peace,” or “freedom.” Some had been popularized by more saccharine acts (we don’t need to name them, everybody knows who they are).

I figured this Seeger fellow was just a slightly older sixties hippie with a professorial salt-and-pepper beard. Hippies were a dime a dozen back then. Like the police officers and military men they professed to dislike, they sure tended to don the same clothing and hairstyles as each other. They were old news already. Similar to many of my own, younger, generation, I was on the prowl for something more original and authentic.

See, that was the media image of Pete, the aging folksinger with a banjo, washed clean of his radical backstory. The entire population in the 1970s seemed to be suffering a hangover and nobody really wanted to talk about whatever it was that happened the night before. All society was doing the walk of shame. My high school pal Philip Shelley’s father, I had learned, an actor, had been blacklisted during the decades-long nightmare of persecution of communists and their suspected sympathizers. Stories like that were whispered, but not really talked about in any kind of meaningful way. There was still a lot of fear (and a lot of commie-bashing) but I would learn, through Pete and others, that what had preceded it was a hell of a lot worse; a plague upon the land.

Pete Seeger’s music would – like alcohol and cigarettes – prove to be an acquired taste. (Pete, who did not like to drink or smoke, would probably find that funny.) At the age of 17, about a month after I’d been arrested with 1,400 or so others for camping out on the construction site of the Seabrook nuclear plant in New Hampshire, I heard that a lot of those folks with whom I’d lived that coming-of-age story were headed to Amherst, Massachusetts, for something called The Towards Tomorrow Fair, a convention and festival dedicated to alternative energy sources and where thinkers – from Buckminster Fuller to Helen Caldicott to Murray Bookchin – would present their ideas. There would also be a concert by Seeger at the 2,000-seat UMass Fine Arts Center.

Pete, at first glance, seemed older than his 58 years, already a grey eminence. And between each song he sang, he told stories. While introducing “Wasn’t That a Time” as the song he tried to play in the halls of Congress in 1955 when subpoenaed before the US House Unamerican Activities Committee (HUAC), I looked at Connie Hogarth – who had brought some of us youths from New York up to Massachusetts in her station wagon – almost in disbelief. She explained that Pete had been “blacklisted” for refusing to name names at that hearing, and that his music had been banned for the following years on radio and television in the US. And that is probably the moment when I felt like a schmuck for having thought of Seeger as a mere hippie. I let my guard down, and started singing along.

Other stories he told, in the songs and between them, revealed pieces of his already long road saga: singing with Woody Guthrie and others to organize labor unions and strikes in the 1930s, enlisting in the Armed Forces to stop Hitler in the ‘40s (he and a group called The Weavers had a hit single during WWII, titled “Round and Round Hitler’s Grave,” which envisioned a public hanging of the despot), joining with blacks and whites in the Southern Civil Rights desegregation struggles of the ‘50s. I learned that it was a captain of a slave ship who had penned “Amazing Grace” - what I had considered a sappy church song – when in a burst of conscience he had turned the ship around to return the captured to Africa.

Even some of the songs I had considered “lite,” or corny or cloying, like the kid stuff, after some investigation, turned out to be those numbers Pete developed during his blacklisted years (roughly between the 1955 Contempt of Congress violation served upon him and the 1962 appeals court order that reversed it, and then another five years before they let him back on network TV), in which the seemingly innocent lyrics were in fact “code” for more subversive messages. “Follow the Drinking Gourd,” a gospel spiritual, wasn’t taken from Bible verses, as I had wrongly presumed. Those were real instructions for escaping black slaves in the 1800s to learn how to read the constellations in the sky in order to head north toward freedom. To decode Pete was to learn the code of the secret history of the United States of America, of those troubling things that “nice” people only whispered about, if at all.

That night at UMass, he sang a song called “Acres of Clams,” based on an old sea shanty by the same title and rewritten by Charlie King, himself arrested at the Seabrook nuke site some weeks prior. The organization that had convened and trained us occupiers (receiving nonviolence training had been a requirement to be able to participate), was the Clamshell Alliance and its members had taken to calling each other “Clams.” Pete was suddenly singing about another chapter of American History, but a very recent one that I had taken part in. That’s when “the switch” went off in my head. I realized that these people who are mentioned in songs because they did something interesting or even heroic were people just like me. Every other story Pete sang about was suddenly in my reach. It was impossible to be cynical or even skeptical at that moment – looking around the hall, seeing all these folks who had risked arrest along with me, singing their hearts out to a song about them – and “getting” it that, holy shit, I’m in the song, and if I keep living my life that way, I’ll never be left outside of the song. That song was where I wanted to live.

That’s a dangerous thought. It led to a whole chain reaction of events and choices I soon made at early forks in the road of life. I left my teenaged punk rock band the day after we had been offered a record contract. I dropped out of university about as quickly as I entered it. I dedicated the next decade of my life to continued ventures of civil disobedience (27 arrests by age 27) and soon graduated to the harder, more meaningful, work of community organizing. I saw our fledgling movement against nuclear plants grow nationally and internationally, stop a new generation of atomic plants in the US, and even win the shut down of the particular nuke I had most organized against. That’s the song, baby, the one that never ends. And we keep working on the next verse of the story.

Three things about Pete surprised me at first, because they ran counter to his media image.

One, unlike so many of the “activists” who attended his concerts, he was unabashedly patriotic about America and what he considered its true ideals.

Two, he was really into winning (also distinct from many of the aforesaid types). He may have shunned other intoxicants, but, whoa, he was definitely hooked on “the buzz.” In his homage to Woody Guthrie, who had died in 1967, “Precious Friend,” he sang, “And when we sing another victory song, precious friend you will be there.” The whole point of it all – the music, the singing, the traveling, the organizing – for Pete, was to triumph. He didn’t sing and participate merely to be able to think of himself as a “good person.” He did it because those were steps toward concrete changes in society, toward the rush of that victory song, the greatest high there is.

Third – and I found this, as a young guitarist, a bit infuriating – was the astounding refinement of his musicianship. That night, on a twelve-string guitar, he played and sang “The Bells of Rhymney,” set to music from a poem by a Welsh miner-turned-poet, Idris Davies, who had lost one of his fingers in the mine. The “folk music revival” of my childhood had an air of “anybody can do it,” and a lot of those who did had only rudimentary musical skills; a very accessible and populist art form, worthy of its name. The sounds Pete got out of that instrument put the day’s revered rock axe-man guitar legends in their respective places, an entire orchestra and rainforest of cacophony put to order, in escalating and, alternately descending, rhythms. Add to that the perfect pitch of a voice that spanned multiple octaves, with the coordination between the vocal chords, lungs and hands on the instrument – “if, if, if, if, IF!” – and then whistling to hit even higher notes. I could go on, but instead I’ll share this video of a 1964 performance by a 44-year-old Pete, and you, kind reader, can find or write your own description.

A month later, then graduated from high school, I heard anew from Connie Hogarth, the 51-year-old director of the Westchester People’s Action Coalition (WESPAC) in White Plains, New York. She invited me to a benefit fundraising event for WESPAC on July 13, 1977, that would be held on a boat on the Hudson River called the Clearwater Sloop, a project founded by Pete to educate the populations along the 315 miles of riverbank from upstate to New York City about the need to clean it up from the industrial cesspool it had become, and also to train people in how to organize to do just that. We boarded the boat in Beacon in the early evening. Pete and other musicians shared songs and stories about the river and their work to save it. Young, volunteer members of the ship’s crew tended to the sails, and as the sky darkened it began to rain. At 8:37 p.m. the sloop was close enough to the Indian Point nuclear power plant in Buchanan to see it. And suddenly – WHAM! – a frightening lightning bolt zapped from the skies right down upon that nuke. Vox Populi. Vox Dei.

This was not a hallucination. It really happened. Everyone on the boat saw the blast and heard its thunderous roar. Millions of people remember that night from their own experience. At that precise moment all the house and road lights on the banks of the Hudson spookily went dark, and thus began the legendary New York City Blackout of 1977, marked by absolute chaos down in the city, where looting and rioting broke out in the darkness with no pretext of politics or protest at all. A prophecy, perhaps it was, of the eighties and nineties and next century to come.

There on the river, we didn’t know what happened, but the first obvious fear was that we were caught on the water, closer than anybody should be to the nuke if a nuclear accident were happening. The fear on the boat was palpable. So what did Pete do? Well, what do you think he did? He broke into song, and we all just started singing along. And I figured, hey, there would be worse ways to die young than to do so with experienced warriors like Pete and Connie and this boat’s crew, and to die singing. Right? The fear dissipated and when we got back to dock we set about investigating whether that lightning bolt had triggered a more serious accident at the nuke, which, thankfully, it had not.

Four or five years passed before I found myself in close proximity to Pete again, this time on the banks of another river, the Delaware, in Point Pleasant, Pennsylvania. It’s a longer story but in abridged form I had been there for less than two weeks, having arrived on Christmas Day 1982 with another such warrior of organizing, Abbie Hoffman. The residents of that valley were desperate, because construction was scheduled to begin on January 7 on a pumping station to divert millions of gallons of river water to the Limerick River, 40 miles away, to provide cooling water for a nuclear plant there. These were conservative people, mostly members of the Republican Party, who had fought the pump in court and lost, and were so desperate that they hired the notorious Abbie – formerly on the FBI’s Top Ten Fugitives list – as their one-dollar-a-year “consultant” to organize them into a campaign to dump that pump. I was 22, had just managed a successful statewide anti-nuclear referendum in Massachusetts, and was brought in by Abbie to be the hands-on organizer while he drummed up regional and national attention to the cause.

One of the first things we did after meeting with the local folks and hearing their story was to go off and come up with a strategy that might work with this conservative population. Abbie borrowed somebody’s car and drove me to Washington’s Crossing State Park, a few miles down the river, and we threw stones into the water while planning what would be a winter encampment and blockade of construction of the pump. I commented to Abbie that the imagery of a winter camp came straight out of the story from the American Revolution of another place in Pennsylvania called Valley Forge. (The song that Pete Seeger had tried to sing to the HUAC committee in 1955, but was prohibited from doing so, began, “Our fathers bled at Valley Forge/The snow was red with blood/Their faith was warm at Valley Forge/Their faith was brotherhood/Wasn’t that a time…/A time to try the soul of man/Wasn’t that a terrible time.”

Abbie replied, “Nobody in the rest of the country knows exactly where Valley Forge is! It’s in Pennsylvania, that’s all they know. We’ll tell ‘em that a national landmark is about to be destroyed and they’ll believe it!” We decided then and there to call the planned encampment “Valley Forge II,” and giggled a lot as we tore through the Washington’s Crossing State Park gift shop buying hundreds of small American flags and other revolutionary war era paraphernalia to dress up the protest in red, white and blue. “I think I’ll call Pete up,” Abbie said, putting the newly acquired weapons on his credit card, “and ask him to come to Valley Forge II and sing that song!”

And he did.

The plan by the Philadelphia Electric Company (PECO) and its lackey county government to have a glorious groundbreaking ceremony for the pump on January 7 quickly went awry. Abbie went on radio programs to announce a $1,000 cash reward “for anybody who steals the silver shovel” and thousands of local citizens showed up to block construction. Pete came and sang and absolutely loved all the American flags and patriotic imagery that we had laid out as backdrop to the protest. Although he had a long drive home ahead of him, he then came out to the Applejack Tavern and Rustic Cellar with the organizers after the event, sipping water while most of us drank to our first victory among many that would come.

America was still, even in the early ‘80s, stuck in the hangover of blacklists and the polarization of the sixties that followed, and had just elected a notorious anti-communist, Ronald Reagan, as president. Protesters against or for anything were still seen as anti-American by much of the public, and protesters rarely did anything to deter from that idea, and yet this was the first big protest in an environmental struggle that had wrapped itself so blatantly in the American flag. And it worked. Pete was beside himself laughing and enjoying the moment, which some perhaps thought surreal, but some of us saw as a new move in designing social movements with a strategy that Abbie and I called “capture the flag.” That was the first time Pete noticed that I existed. And for the next 27 years, through the last time I saw him at his 90th birthday party in Beacon, New York, whenever our paths would cross he always made a point of coming over to me and asking a lot of questions about whatever it was I was up to at that moment. (I’ve never been the sort to rush upon someone else’s fame; if you stand off to the side or back in a corner and do interesting things, the quality folks will eventually come to you.) And he usually had some organizing stories of his own to share that would shed light on the current problems I’d be trying to solve.

In 1987, at a gathering then called Songs of Freedom and Struggle (later the People’s Music Network), I had performed a little ditty I called “The American Revolution,” an acoustic rock and roll number with a poppy chorus, telling a people’s history of the war of independence and the community organizing that historic figures like Sam Adams, Thomas Paine, Ben Franklin and Betsy Ross had done to win public support for the revolt. Songwriting, then and now, has not been a career. It’s just something to do for fun and because some things can only be said with rhyme, melody and humor because if one says them any other way one will probably be chased down by a pitchfork mob and hung in the village square. The chorus’ tag-line was, “It was a revolution/But it ain’t over yet.” Pete was there and came up to me afterward asking if he could publish it in Sing Out magazine.

A few weeks later I received a letter from Pete, asking again for the tune. “Do you have a tape of it or a record I could buy, or even a lead sheet with the words? I think it is one of the greatest songs I ever heard in my life.”

Some musician friends to whom I showed his letter urged me to take those words by America’s premier folk god and parlay them into a music career. But I was busy organizing at the time, to shut down a nuclear power plant. Even after Pete sent a follow up postcard thanking me for sending him the lyrics but insisting I send him the tune, I never got it together to record it. I guess I’ve always been more comfortable doing the work that makes the histories that songs get sung about than being their constant performer on stage.

In any kind of entertainment business, one has to suffer a lot of fools. I saw it time and time again whenever accompanying Pete at a protest or backstage at a concert or during the funeral of a friend. Everybody seemed to want and demand his personal attention all the time. I’d just stand there and marvel at his patience with them, and a lot of people concluded he was the nicest guy in the world and an absolute saint for the way he gave that dose of personalized attention to virtually everybody he met. Then they’d walk away, with an autograph or a story to tell, and Pete would shoot me a look, sometimes roll his eyes or shrug his shoulders, as if to say that this was the price he paid for chasing the buzz of “one more victory song” day after day, night after night.

I’ve long had the sense that underneath Pete’s everyman persona lurked a misanthrope who had to spend exhaustive energy repressing his inner big green rage machine in order to be able to do the work he loved. He lived at the end of a dirt road, and spent considerable periods of down time there with his family, because, I think, he needed lots of solitude to gird up for the public forays that were so much part of his life’s work. I think that paradox is the thing I most admire about him, still.

My friend Greg Berger remembers when one day, as a child, his father took him for a drive up the Hudson from Manhattan and stopped in Beacon, sixty miles north, to look at the river. Greg asked his dad why the river was coated with an ugly green substance. A lone man who had been walking along the riverside, picking up trash, overheard the child’s question and stopped to explain that the green gook was algae caused by pollution, but that people were organizing to clean up the river. Then the man continued walking, alone, and picking up garbage and Greg’s dad said, excitedly, “Son, that was Pete Seeger!” It was like an episode of The Simpsons. Thousands upon thousands of people have similar stories to tell, stories that changed their lives. We’ve heard many of them in these weeks since Pete passed.

Another paradox comes in a story that my friend Stephan Said, a singer-songwriter, tells, when he had written, in 2002, a song against the Iraq War called The Bell, which Pete liked enough to record the spoken word part to it. Pete had invited Stephen up to his home in Beacon to share more music and Stephan left original scores of sheet music of his compositions there for Pete to read. When Stephan returned for the next visit, Pete had taken the liberty to hand-scrawl a copyright symbol with Stephan’s name atop of each page of his music, explaining that musicians and industry people are notorious thieves and as an artist and worker Stephan needed to protect his work. Stephan had lived for years in a squat on New York’s Lower East Side, a subculture where copyright was considered “bad” along with every other kind of private property. Pete’s different conclusion was parallel with a lot of his views, those of someone who cut his teeth in the labor movement: that an artist is a worker and has the right to the fruits of his labor.

Many people who liked Pete and his music were probably not aware of some of his impulses like that which were contrarian to the usual activist fare because, unlike "activists," Pete had an intense dislike for political debates, and if one popped up anywhere near him he'd go chop some wood, play his banjo, or tinker with the mast of the boat to avoid getting swept up into it. A master at persuading people by sneaking up behind their hearts with a story or a song, he had the wisdom to know that the usual political arguments rarely serve to convince anybody of anything.

One of the inspirations for the School of Authentic Journalism was a place in Tennessee called The Highlander Center. It’s where many nonviolence training sessions were held during the southern civil rights movement. Rosa Parks didn’t spontaneously step on a Montgomery bus in 1955 and refuse to sit in the back. She had traveled from Alabama to Tennessee first to be trained in how to do it. The Highlander Center was also where Pete reworked the old spiritual “We Will Overcome” into “We Shall Overcome,” what became the anthem of that movement. He did it precisely during the years that he had been blacklisted and banned from the US airwaves. His then-pariah status in white America gave him credibility and common footing with so much of black America then rising up for equal rights, and his experiences in earlier labor movement victories made him a valuable resource to that and also to other later struggles.

The most important day of Pete’s long story was when, at the age of 35, he was subpoenaed before a congressional committee and asked to provide names of alleged communists. Many well-known artists and others did indeed provide names, which were then used to blacklist so many talents out of being able to make a living. So many lives, ruined, along with those of their friends and family members. Some brave folks had also refused to snitch at those hearings. They invoked the Fifth Amendment of the US Constitution against self-incrimination. But Pete took a third and different path. He didn’t invoke The Fifth. He insisted he had no crime to hide. He politely told the committee, over and over again, that he didn’t respect their questions and would refuse to answer them. The members of Congress, the press, and so much of the public were shocked at that brazen move by a young man, who even at the moment when his own life was being ruined potentially by that witch hunt, insisted aloud that he was doing it out of patriotism and love for the true ideals of his country. That took big ones. I frankly wonder that if Pete had not have done so, whether the red scare would ever have come to a close. It was a fateful day for his life but an even bigger one for that of the country.

It was that moment when he gained the moral authority that he deployed so splendidly for the rest of his life – for another 59 years! – and that made the songs he sang and the stories he told more than just mere entertainment. Pete had been through hell and back again, and had lived to tell the story.

And just as the clouds lifted and he started receiving invitations to play on TV or in larger concert halls, when a younger generation of singers and rock and folk groups began interpreting his songs and making them popular, what he chose to do then also marked a key turning point. Instead of parlaying that moment into music industry stardom, he dedicated so many more of his days to an idea so simple that a lot of his friends thought it was crazy. At minimum, they thought it overly romantic, feeble and much too simple. “There’s a war going on,” another folksinger told him at the time. “That boat is a distraction.”

That damn boat! Yes, Pete wanted to build a boat. He wanted to put it into the Hudson River, and use it as an organizing tool to build a movement to clean up that river. He used his own resources and talents to organize others to help him do that. And once the boat set sail, it became his own version of The Highlander Center. Like many truly great organizers, Pete understood that to be able to teach and train people to do it well, they have to be pulled outside of the other pressures and distractions of their daily lives and be given something else to do with their hands and minds to encounter the space to evolve. How many thousands of young people spent a week or a month on that boat, learning songs and stories and about the river and the tools and skills to save it, I don’t know. But I’m certain that it is larger in number than the standing armies of many countries. More than half a million school children have boarded the boat on class trips.

And the river is cleaner now. Today, one can swim in it. One could not do that in my youth.

I marvel even more at what he accomplished with those people. He made it fun to learn about organizing. And he established that organizing, by definition, is done in a geographic place at the most local level, where "that one big victory song" is constructed one small victory at a time. Many of those former Sloop hands were among the 20,000 of us that gathered at Madison Square Garden in 2009 for the concert celebrating his ninety years on earth. The sails of the Clearwater boat were displayed by strings of lights above the stage as legend after legend interpreted the songs that Pete made popular in darker times. Pete had gone from being blacklisted at the age of 35 to performing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial for a new US president’s inauguration earlier that year. That doesn’t happen for everybody who makes the brave and right decisions at the tough moments of life. But I sure am glad I lived to see it happen for Pete.

Last May, I visited Connie Hogarth in Beacon, where she was Pete and Toshi Seeger’s neighbor and best friend, to record her own significant life story for an oral history of the No Nukes movement. After various hours she invited Laura Garcia, my right hand on that book project, and I out to dinner at a local Asian restaurant. Connie dialed up Pete and Toshi to invite them to come, too. Pete reported that Toshi wasn’t feeling well enough for it, and two months later Toshi passed away. Six months after that, Pete went.

Earlier this year, Connie had contacted me about coming up in May for Pete’s 95th birthday. “I think he can go to 100!” she said. He’d been reportedly out chopping wood just days prior.

As for the rest of us, the ones who Pete put into the song of history, we’re still writing it, together, with our deeds. It’s our daily actions that determine whether these verses and choruses rise to the ecstatic high that Pete always sought, the full elation of the victory song. I choose to live inside a permanent victory song because, thanks to Pete, I would find it utterly impossible and unpleasant to live anywhere else. And that song is a lot like his boat: One can wave to it from the riverbank. Or one can come aboard.

A Letter Worth Reading Before the Year Ends

 
Dear Friend,
 
So much has changed since a little online newspaper named Narco News was born almost 14 years ago. On the first day of publication, in 2000, it made the bold assertion that Latin America would be the place where the so-called “war on drugs” would be toppled, paving the way for the rest of the world and even the United States. “The movement will be multi-national, involving many Latin American nations,” I wrote. “History is in the making.”
 
Many people thought that was nuts: Maybe you were one of them. Well, 2013 will now go down in history as the year that it happened. The first country to legalize marijuana, Uruguay, did it from South America, and it is only a matter of time before its neighbors - and then the rest of the world - do the same.
 
Narco News started the ball rolling with hard-hitting investigative reporting and the creation of a language conducive to the birth and growth of a social movement. A lawsuit that attempted to silence us in our first year by a narco-banker didn’t hurt. It actually helped the project gain global attention and grow from one online muckraker to, now, an international network of hundreds of journalists, organizers and change-makers who train each other and have each other’s backs. One story at a time, we created that language that the rest of the Americas adopted to begin the end of drug prohibition. Should we be jumping up and down declaring victory and dancing in the end zone? We’re proud of our unique role in that chapter of history, but we’re not ones to rest on any laurels. We take each triumph along the road and always do the heavy lifting to make sure that the next victory is even larger.
 
Narco News was never content to be a one-trick pony. We expanded our reporting to expose and confront so many injustices, not just those of the drug war (although we continue to do that, too). And we started a school to train new generations of authentic journalists and history makers, a program that after ten years is still the only one of its kind on earth.
 
In our third year when we ran out of resources and briefly stopped publishing, our own readers revolted and formed The Fund for Authentic Journalism, the 501c3 nonprofit organization that has supported our journalists – and the School of Authentic Journalism – through many small donations that have added up to make so many great works possible.
 
In these final days of the year, you’re probably receiving emails and letters from many organizations seeking your help. This is a time of year when people make tax-deductible donations that can also help the donor reduce his and her own coming tax burdens. Many of those projects are very worthy. Let me give you my view on why this one is so unique and deserving of every cent you can give it that it is worth prioritizing over others.
 
In almost any discussion about the state of the world and its countries, the conversation eventually turns to “the problem of the media.” Everybody complains about the media, and almost nobody does anything about it. Part of the problem is that most of the publications and projects that call themselves “alternatives” to big media end up replicating its worst vices of pack journalism, sensationalism, pandering to advertisers or trying to shock you, the reader, in order to get more hit counts and thus more advertisers. 
 
Narco News has a very wide and influential readership, and in two languages! Advertisers come to us all the time offering obscene amounts of money if we would only let them put ads on our pages. For more than 13 years we have said “no” each and every time. We believe that advertising is the worst villain in turning what used to be a free press into one that is bought and paid for. And over these years while so many flash-in-the-pan “alternative media” operations had to close up shop, we’re still here, because we didn’t crash on the rocks seeking the siren call of the easy buck. If a media organization doesn’t have absolute integrity, it can’t be trusted on any other matter. Our own definition of integrity has no price. That’s probably obvious after so many years.
 
And what are we doing about “the problem of media” that nobody else is doing? This year we held the sixth School of Authentic Journalism. We’ve trained hundreds of young people intensively in the martial arts of investigative reporting, online journalism and the making of “viral videos” on urgent problems and solutions that in only a few days receive more views than most long-form documentaries will ever reach. Narco News began doing that before YouTube existed! We’re pioneers in that field and continue to stay a step ahead of the pack, always innovating and improving how we do it. If you haven’t seen the latest from Narco News TV, make sure to check out “Frack U. Mexico” for your year-end enjoyment and ongoing political education:
 

 
Another thing that makes this project unique is that you, the reader, are not a spectator or a consumer, but, rather, a core participant in the project. It’s you that makes our videos and news stories “go viral” by sharing them on social networks and talking about them with your friends. It’s you who points young talents of social conscience toward us and encourages them to apply for the School of Authentic Journalism. And it’s you – and only you and people like you – that make the many donations that add up, year after year, into a tsunami of creative and effective action that reliably changes history for the better time and time again.
 
Those small donations have been our insurance policy from ever being tempted to sell out or dealing from a position of weakness. When we have been fortunate enough to draw larger support for our school and other projects, those organizations have always had to respect that we’re going to do things our way with fierce independence and they know that it’s true because our network of individual supporters is large enough to sustain our work with or without major grants.
 
We’re not a dry “nongovernmental organization,” nor another “activist mag” that preaches to the converted and tells people only what they want to hear because of the tendency to confuse hit counts with relevance. Narco News and the School of Authentic Journalism are projects with personality! We’ve never stopped being feisty and daring about our work and we never will. It’s not on our DNA to do so. As such, we regularly piss some people off. Well, that’s part of the work of authentic journalists, too. Anybody who is not doing that is never going to make real changes in this world.
 
One has to be a rebel to change the world. We’re rebels with staying power. That includes our reporters, our professors, our scholars and, as importantly to all of us, our readers and donors. Just donating to this project makes you an authentic rebel, too. And it feels good, doesn’t it?
 
Now, “the pitch.” It’s simple enough:
 
To make the 2014 School of Authentic Journalism happen (you can read all about it here) and for another year of investigative reports and uncommon analysis to occur on these pages, we need your help to do it.
 
Please make as generous a contribution as you can (and for many people, ten dollars is as generous as ten thousand would be for someone else). You can do it right now via this link online:
 
http://www.authenticjournalism.org
 
Or you can send a check to:
 
The Fund for Authentic Journalism
P.O. Box 1446
Easthampton, MA 01027 USA
 
Finally, I’d just like to personally thank you. I planned this project in my 30s, grew it from an "I" to a very big "we" in my 40s, and now, in my 50s, I get to be the ringleader of what I consider the most fun way to do meaningful work possible. Every day I see the seeds we planted with stories we reported years ago, or through the work of a younger journalist or organizer who refined her and his talents at our school, bear positive fruit for a better world. Our own role in bringing about the Latin America-led changes in drug policy is only one of many such victories. 
 
And not a day goes by that I don’t think about you, the reader, and how you’ve made it all happen. I may be the director of the project, but I have one, and only one, boss and that’s all of you together. I hope you’ve enjoyed this “annual report,” Chief, and with your continued support I look forward to giving you another one next year.
 
From somewhere in a country called América,
 
Al
 

Mandela's Paradoxes Made His Journey Even Greater

By Al Giordano

Two of the paradoxes surrounding the late great Nelson Mandela are on my mind today.
 
One is how our celebrity-focused culture virtually ignores the work of the rest of his colleagues during Mandela’s 27 years in prison (1963-1990) that ended Apartheid. The official media picture is as if a man went to jail and solely by example toppled an entrenched system of mandatory racial segregation. That’s not at all how it happened. The organizing – and, in particular, the evolution of it – by so many others remains one of the epic collective heroic stories of the twentieth century.
 
The other is Mandela’s absolutely unique evolution on questions of violence and nonviolence and their efficacy in struggle. Mandela began, by his own words, as an expressly Gandhian leader. “I followed the Gandhian strategy for as long as I could,” he later reflected, “but then there came a point in our struggle when the brute force of the oppressor could no longer be countered through passive resistance alone.” He then helped lead the military wing of the movement, received training in guerrilla warfare and sabotage in Algeria, and was arrested when back in his own country for that activity. He was kept in prison longer than his original five-year sentence precisely because he refused to renounce armed struggle, right up through his release in 1990.
 
But while Mandela was in prison, his colleagues in the African National Congress and related organizations changed their strategy from one of armed insurgency to one of nonviolent civil resistance. One former ANC official, Howard Barrell, has described a turning point that came when a delegation from South Africa went to visit Vietnamese military general Vu Xuan Chiem and others who had defeated the US occupation in the early 1970s. The South Africans laid out their situation and sought advice, telling how many trained soldiers they had, how many weapons of each kind, etcetera. They believed they were ready to escalate to a guerrilla war. It was the Vietnamese, according to Barrell, who convinced them otherwise. I’ll paraphrase because I don’t have a recording of his remarks, but the Vietnamese reportedly told the South Africans: You haven’t done the most important thing yet. In Vietnam, we were not ready to fight a guerrilla war until first we had educated and organized public opinion to support us. That is the most important first step. Without that, nothing else is possible.
 
The movement changed its strategy, returning to its Gandhi-influenced roots, and set about organizing and educating to build public support. It wasn’t the gun that defeated Apartheid – and those who claim it was are being willfully ignorant of the authentic history of events – but, rather, the strike, the boycott, the training of participants in how to organize such things, and a full arsenal of nonviolent civil resistance tactics that won the day.
 
Mandela told his jailers that he would renounce armed struggle only when the State – which had committed serial massacres and violence upon civilians – would do the same. Yet during his 27 years in prison, the movement simply found that nonviolent resistance was more effective than armed struggle. It wasn’t a question of “morality” as society understands the word. It was a question of what worked and what did not work (which to me, I suppose, is the highest moral question for any aspiring change agent out there).
 
Once out of prison, Mandela’s position evolved anew to advocating nonviolent resistance and crediting it for his release and the toppling of Apartheid.
 
"In a world driven by violence and strife, Gandhi's message of peace and non-violence holds the key to human survival in the 21st century,” Mandela said in 2007, adding that Gandhi “rightly believed in the efficacy of pitting the sole force of the satyagraha against the brute force of the oppressor and in effect converting the oppressor to the right and moral point."
 
This was a leader who paid close attention to his fellow and sister organizers, and to the everyday struggles and opinions of the people (that explains, for example, his keen interest and use of sports – something many of today’s hapless “activists” consider somehow “bad” because sports are “competitive” and have “winners” and “losers,” gasp! – as an organizing tool to heal the wounds of so many years of imposed racial segregation). 
 
I admire Mandela, first and foremost, as a shining example of a leader who was “in it to win it.” He sought concrete, historic and “big” change, knew that it could not be achieved without the support of public opinion, and proved expertly flexible in, through trial and error, discovering what worked and what did not work, and embracing what did work.
 
People who confuse the question of nonviolence as one of “violence or peace” – this includes those who fanaticize pacifism and those who fetishize armed struggle, who to me are mirror images of each other’s most authoritarian impulses – don’t seem to get what I take as the real lesson of Mandela and the other great heroes of social struggle of the twentieth century, including Gandhi himself: Choosing what works over what does not work is not a question of ideology. It is one of life or death. Mandela will always be one of history’s great role models in the art of building public opinion to win victory, instead of suffering defeat after defeat.
 
I dedicate these reflections to my dear friends and colleagues of the School of Authentic Journalism Mkhuseli “Khusta” Jack and Anele Mdzikwa, for whom the struggle brought extreme personal sacrifices and also great meaning.
 

Thor: The Dark World, and the Comforting Universe of Marvel

By Al Giordano
 
 
In 1967, I was seven, and my parents granted me a weekly “allowance” of a whopping 25 cents. Other kids I knew received as much as a dollar per week, but I was thrilled to enter the ranks of consumers even with limited purchasing power. My chums and I would go together to the candy store to spend these riches on on packets of cards with our favorite baseball, football and basketball players, each containing a stick of chewing gum.
 
At the store, there was a rack of magazines and comic books, and I noticed some titles with the names of super heroes I had seen on TV cartoons. After school, on weekdays, on the black and white television, there were five such programs. On Mondays, there would be a half-hour adventure of Captain America, the World War II everyman who had been converted into a super-soldier by an experimental serum. On Tuesdays, the millionaire playboy and arms-dealer Tony Stark would suit up as Iron Man. On Wednesdays, the Hulk would fly into fits of rage and smash the same kinds of tanks that Cap rode and that Stark manufactured. In very Catholic form, there was fish on Fridays, as Prince Namor, the Submariner, would rule and protect the seven seas, harassed by humans and their governments whose stupidity was destroying the oceans.
 
Thursday was “Thor’s Day,” a different kind of hero, because he was a god from another realm, named Asgard, straight out of ancient Norse mythology, and his story reflected the generation gap that was raging throughout society in the 1960s. I found the Thor myth irresistible. Thor had long, flowing blond hair and an authoritarian father who forbade him his love for an earthling, Jane Foster (a metaphor for the struggle for racial integration that defined those times). Thor rebelled from his dad, King Odin, adopting the humans of earth and protecting them from super-villains, intergalactic monsters, and even from rival gods. When not saving the world, he disguised himself as a handicapped doctor, Donald Blake, who needed a cane to walk, and at times when his vengeful father stripped him of his powers he would be stuck in that limping body. When danger appeared, Blake would strike his cane into the ground, it would transform into the mighty hammer Mjolnir, and the longhaired God of Thunder would jump into action.
 
The suggestion that there were many “gods,” and not just the one I was dragged off to church on Sundays and Catholic school on Wednesdays to be instructed in how to worship, presented an extremely liberating idea. Kids naturally identify with and want to be heroes. But Thor suggested an entirely new heresy: that we could aspire to be as gods, even if, like him, we had personal problems, societal taboos, and family expectations to disobey in order to do so.
 
When I noticed, at the candy store, that there were comic books featuring these heroes, and that they cost 12 cents apiece, I realized I could purchase two a week on my hefty allowance. I’d take them home, read them over and over again, save them like treasures of gold in a trunk in my room, and lament that I couldn’t afford all the titles. Not only did those five books come out each month - Captain America, Iron Man, Hulk, Thor and The Submariner – but there were other titles like “Tales of Suspense,” which that year featured team-ups of Cap and Iron Man, and “The Avengers,” which had an ever-changing ensemble of those guys and others, including heroines like the former Soviet super-spy, Black Widow, and The Scarlet Witch (an introduction to the concept of mutant heroes who had genetically evolved beyond human limitations, and which alerted me to another book, X-Men, where she and her speedy, overly protective, mutant brother, Quicksilver, also appeared), and, from Africa, Prince T’Challa, the Black Panther. Around the same time, new programs began appearing on Saturday morning television, featuring Spiderman and the Fantastic Four, whose exposure to nuclear radiation gave them freakish powers, and those books were on the stands, too.
 
There had to be a way to be able to read all those amazing stories. I set to work convincing my friends – especially the ones with larger weekly budgets to expend – to watch those cartoons and to begin buying the books, too. Then we’d lend and borrow and trade until each of us was able to read every title each month.
 
The common theme of each Marvel book was that of the flawed hero. These guys and gals were markedly different from the protagonists of the rival DC Comics brand – the most well-known DC stars were Superman and Batman, each of which had TV series, not cartoons, in which they were played by human actors – in that while the DC canon of heroes were iconic, bigger than life figures, they also seemed predictable and one dimensional to me. The Marvel cast’s lives all revolved around the annoying problems each faced in their home, school and family lives. In other words, the Marvel heroes were a lot more like us kids, trying to navigate an era in which technology and mass media had begun to outpace humanity’s ability to cope with it all. They seemed more attainable and accessible. 
 
Guys like Peter Parker would save the city as Spiderman, but would always lose the girl, get mistreated by his boss, screw up in his school studies because he’d been out all night fighting crime, and Spidey would be demonized by the Daily Bugle as a menace despite his good works.
 
Spiderman was the prototype for the “flawed hero,” and became a huge success among young comic consumers, so Marvel’s creators quickly doubled down on the genre, and began to produce super beings not merely plagued by bad luck, but whose own powers, and their difficulty controlling them, made them downright neurotic. Hank Pym was a scientist who, in the comics, invented a helmet to reduce him to the size of an ant, and later another to make him many stories tall, and the legend of “Ant Man/Giant Man” was born. He was obsessed with his wealthy white Anglo-Saxon Protestant debutante girlfriend, Janet Van Dyne (she always seemed styled after Jackie Kennedy, with her purses and hats), who – through the use of “Pym Particles” invented by Hank - could reduce herself to the same insect size, sprout wings, and sting rivals who could not see her coming, “The Wasp.” Hank flew into jealous rages every time another man even talked to Janet, and she calculatingly sought his attention by flirting with other heroes. Their domestic squabbles – and Hank’s cockfights with other Avengers - filled years of pages of the Avengers books. But when evil threatened, they’d bury their differences, suit up, and defeat the monsters. The characters were just like people one found in any project. They may have had extraordinary powers or talents, but they were ordinary people dealing with the same personal weaknesses regular mortals deal with every day.
 
If you grew up in the New York metropolitan area, these Marvel heroes were your neighbors. The aforementioned Daily Bugle was at 39th Street and Second Avenue in Manhattan, and Peter Parker took the subway to work there from his Aunt May’s triple-decker at 20 Ingram Street in Forest Hills, Queens. The Fantastic Four’s headquarters, The Baxter Building, was at 42nd and Madison. Up Mad Ave was the SHIELD headquarters, at 59th Street, near Central Park.  The Stark Tower, where Iron Man’s uniforms and weapons were made, up the block at Columbus Circle. On the east side of Central Park was the Avenger’s Mansion at 890 Fifth Avenue, at 70th Street. In the then hardscrabble zone of Hell’s Kitchen, south of Times Square, a blind public service attorney, Matt Murdock, who had lost his sight as a kid from a collision with a toxic waste barrel and saw his other five senses sharpened by it, would go after mobsters and other ill-doers at night as the acrobatic Daredevil. And down in Greenwich Village, where the folk song hippie culture was thriving in those times, at 176A Bleeker Street, lived the oddball master of magic, Doctor Stephen Strange. Out somewhere in Westchester County, in these books, was the classroom to which I dreamed of being able to attend: Xavier’s School for Gifted Children, at 1407 Greymalkin Lane, a mansion where Professor Charles Xavier trained young mutants to control and use their powers for good, and formed the team called X-Men.
 
In each month’s comic books, these guys and gals would save New York City and its residents from terrible and evil attacks and threats (only in the next century would life begin to imitate art, except that there were no heroes to save it).
 
So much of the Marvel Universe took place in New York, and the comics themselves were also penned and inked there, at Marvel headquarters, where Stan Lee, Jack Kirby and the other pioneers of the genre would invent new heroes and villains, float new titles, and communicate hyperactively with their young fans. Each comic had a letters section – Stan “The Man” Lee would answer many of the letters there – and the frames of the comics themselves would be filled with little notes, one-liners, inside jokes, and clues from Lee, Kirby and other writers and artists, dropping little Easter eggs of hints about what might happen next, or how the same storyline was playing out that same month in another of the titles. In all this swirl of activity, they had created a subculture of nerdy, bookish kids, who found the Marvel Universe more comforting than the often-banal, and sometimes tragic, circumstances of our own daily lives.
 
Marvel Comics created a world where values mattered, but they were more evolved values, more attractive to me, than those we got from school, Church, television or family. Nobility and self-sacrifice was the mark of each hero. Inner independence and willingness to disobey family or societal norms to save the day was their trademark. Overcoming personal problems and the obstacles placed by such institutions in order to do so provided much of the adventure and journey of the books.
 
And these books mirrored the societal tumult of the 1960s. When Charles Xavier and his old friend Max Eisenhardt, the super-villain Magneto (in the movies he is named Eric Lensher), a survivor of the Holocaust and Nazi death camps, debated on whether mutants should separate from or integrate with the human race, their arguments provided a platform for the then-current debates embodied by Martin Luther King and Malcolm X on the direction of the civil rights movement. Captain America, while he had the most jingoistic red-white-and-blue uniform and shield, frequently questioned and challenged the policies of the US Armed Forces and its government, arguing that might did not make right, that the ends don’t justify the means, that peace was always preferable to war, and that a soldier must never be a bully. Tony Stark developed inner conflicts and guilt about his work as a weapons inventor and magnate, and fell into bouts of alcoholic stupor so messy that at times others had to don the Iron Man suit while he was passed out drunk. The Hulk was persecuted by the military industrial complex and simply smashed any weapon it would send his way. The same US government whose citizens these heroes saved time and time again persecuted not just The Hulk, but also the Submariner (the themes often involved the environmental destruction by man of the seas and the earth, and the efforts of heroes to stop it), the X-Men, and all mutants. The comics were a teach-in on power and its abuses. The message did not “protest” or “denounce” such societal ills, but, rather carried the strong, repeated suggestion that they were violating the true “American Way,” which was not to be a bully but to stand up to such villainous behavior in a nation born, after all, out of an anti-imperialist revolution.
 
At some point, my young friends and I moved on from comic book heroes to rock and roll stars, guitars replaced baseballs and footballs, and girls became more interesting than being nerds alone in our rooms. But speaking only for myself, I have felt since those days that so much of my own values system was instilled thanks to Lee and Kirby’s Marvel Universe and its Campbellian heroes’ journeys. As I grew older, I felt certain nostalgia for that universe. From time to time, mass media would attempt to make grist from those characters. A particularly bad “Hulk” TV series came out in 1978 starring Bill Bixby, who seemed to have been spray-painted green, but was completely non-credible and untrue to the book, stripped of its warnings about mechanized and militarized society. And I had turned 18 anyway and was off on my own “anger management” journeys by then. 
 
All the problems those heroes confronted – greed, imposed sameness and persecutions against being “different,” environmental and military destruction, and evil figures who plotted world domination – began, year after year, to encroach upon the real world we lived in. But there were no gods from Asgard to come down and save us from these monsters, no superhero teams to fly out from an Avengers Mansion to protect New York or anywhere else. And yet when, upon the realization that nobody else would save us, I threw myself into the anti-nuclear movement in my teens and twenties, and found a new kind of hero called an organized people, the storylines from those comic books would come back to me and suggest tactics and strategies, as well as clues to finding the inner strength to overcome my own weaknesses and difficulties in that work.
 
The most compelling of those comics to me were the “teams,” particularly X-Men and the Avengers. Each featured a group of talented individuals with gigantic egos to match their powers, different cultural roots and norms, and serious personality conflicts between them, who would have to overcome those differences to be able to work in a team and confront an urgent crisis that none of them could solve alone. And as life marched on I found in all my ventures the exact same situation to overcome. After all, what is “community organizing” other than the art and science of getting people to put down their petty differences and pool their diverse talents to save the day from evil impositions?
 
Fast-forward three decades to the turn of the century. I found myself forty years old, self exiled to Mexico, disillusioned with a media career from which I had burned the bridge behind me. Speaking a language that was not my native tongue in daily life, far away from anybody I had known for more than a few years, and using dial-up Internet to post writings that no other publication would touch about the macabre world of the drug war, with a tiny online portal called Narco News, which had only about 3,000 readers a day. That summer, the motion picture X-Men hit the cinemas worldwide. Well, I thought, that’s interesting, and took a bus from the indigenous town I lived in to a nearby city to see the premier. A box office success, grossing almost $300 million dollars, X-Men gave birth to 13 more years of big budget movies from the Marvel Universe, including two sequels. Ushered back, in that cinema, to the imaginary high school of my dreams – Xavier’s School for Gifted Children – it struck me how very alone I felt, and I longed for the days when I used to organize others to right great wrongs. I missed the camaraderie of organizing. A writer has to be a bit alienated to see the world from outside of it, but I had taken the lone writer thing too far.
 
I was pleasantly surprised to find the cinema where X-Men premiered filled with young Mexicans, who laughed at those moments in the film when inside jokes known only to those immersed in the Marvel Universe were told, things like references to a yellow spandex uniform that the Wolverine character had worn in the early X-Men books. Really? I thought. These kids are as much into this myth as I was at a younger age? It infused me with a certain hope, that maybe my own values system, which had led to my self-expulsion from United States culture, in fact would someday “go viral” and cease to be such a lonely domain.
 
Three weeks later, I found myself sued by the richest narco-banker in Mexico, and his bank, for reports I had posted on Narco News. This was a super-villain worthy of Marvel comics, except he really existed in life, and really was bent on world domination. I thought, damn, where is my team of super heroes to stave off this menace? When very powerful people go after you, you find out who your reliable friends are, and how few they are while most duck and hide at moments of moral crisis. What little funding support I had to keep writing on third world wages dried up very quickly. A lot of folks were quietly betting that I would lose that fight. It was evident that as marginalized and small as I already was, that someone very powerful was trying to destroy whatever little shred of life I had left.
 
Damn, I wished I had a team like Professor Xavier had in the comics! And then I looked around and thought, well, maybe I do. My codefendant, the Mexican journalist Mario Menéndez Rodríguez, once trained alongside Che Guevara in Cuba and elsewhere, and fought legendary battles he still has not written about. He knows something about heroism in the face of grave threats. My lawyer, from back in my no nukes organizing days, Tom Lesser, had become over the years one of the most successful defenders of the First Amendment in the United States. Thirteen years prior, we had collaborated with the late Abbie Hoffman, presidential daughter Amy Carter, and others, to put the CIA on trial, and won. Other outsider (mutant!) journalists, suffering as I was and alienated from the industry, began getting the word out that this monster was suing us. Readers of Narco News began donating for a defense fund. 
 
And as word spread across the Internet, I began receiving emails from young people I’d never met. They said things like, “I got my first job at a newspaper, but they won’t let me print the truth.” And, “I’m paying $20,000 a year for journalism school, but they’re teaching me total crap.” And they all said, “Can I come work as an intern in your office?” That was pretty funny, since there was no office.
 
I went back to New York – hometown to the Marvel Universe - to confront the libel charges against me. And I confess that many of the stunts I pulled to defend our press freedom from the super-villain narco-banker and his slimy lawyers came straight out of the Marvel canon. We not only won the case, but we did it with swagger, verve, and in a manner that increased Narco News’ global audience a hundred fold, and that suddenly moved me from the “no longer relevant” category back on stage in this over-mediated world.
 
Winning was great. But with it came a debt: what to do for all these, by then hundreds, of young people who emailed me asking if they could come work for this project? And with Xavier’s School very much on my mind, the School of Authentic Journalism was born.
 
So, you see, I’m basically still seven or ten years old, dreaming of attending a school like that, where somebody with experience can help me control and best utilize whatever mutant talents I might have. Except by the time something like it became possible I was the guy with experience, and victories under my belt. I never got to attend Xavier’s School. But I got to start one, and over the past decade we’ve built an international team of talented individuals whose first weakness was that we had to learn to work together to defeat evils greater than any one of us could do alone.
 
For ten years now, we’ve taken in hundreds of young talents, many we’ve been able to help, some we could not, some even fell into the side of evil: Just like the X-Men school! Yes, I’m still ten. Get used to it.
 
Which brings me to the new movie, Thor: The Dark World. It is the twenty-ninth major motion picture based on the Marvel Universe since X-Men came out in 2000. Hardly a night goes by on cable television when you can’t find one or more of these movies playing anew. Their success at the box office with younger generations guarantees there will be many, many more. And suddenly that obscure little comic book universe has infiltrated popular culture in every land.
 
Thor: The Dark World is part of a specific series that began with the first Iron Man movie, followed by The Incredible Hulk (both in 2008), Iron Man 2 (2010), Thor and Captain America: The First Avenger (both in 2011), which each served as prequels to Marvel’s The Avengers (2012), the highest grossing film of that year, the third most watched film in human history, and the most viewed movie ever produced by Disney. My little childhood nerd universe now infiltrates the minds of the next generations, and these films have been so very true to the values taught by the original 1960s comic books they were based upon. If I could boil down their combined message into a single axiom it might be: You have super talents? So what? Learn to work as a team!
 
The Avengers prequel I most identified with was the first Thor movie. Its money moment was nothing less than a treatise on the efficacy and spirit of nonviolent civil resistance. Thor, the arrogant warrior-prince and heir to the throne of Asgard, had been stripped of his powers and of his mighty hammer, Mjolnir (“forged in the center of a dying star”), plunged down to earth by his father, Odin, and pursued even there by his whacked-out brother Loki, who sought to destroy the human race along with Thor. In the town of Puente Antigua (“Ancient Bridge”), New Mexico, the giant robot sent by Loki to destroy Thor and everyone else was leveling the town to ashes. Not even Thor’s comrades, Lady Sif and the Warriors Three, could stop it. Thor – powerless, and stuck like the Dr. Donald Blake of comics lore, in a mortal human coil – instructs his friends to return to Asgard and stop Loki, saying, “I have a plan.” As his new human friends and his Asgard colleagues look on, shocked and scared, the unarmed Thor walks toward the robot monster, and speaks directly to his insane brother through it. “Brother,” he says, apologizing for having offended him, “take my life, not theirs.”
 
When Odin had cast Thor from Asgard, he also threw his powerful hammer down to earth, which – very much like Arthur’s Excalibur sword – nobody there could lift from the ground. Odin spoke into the hammer saying that, “he who shall be worthy of this hammer shall have the power of Thor.” But as this drama unfolded, Odin was stuck in his “Odin Sleep,” a kind of semi-aware comatose state necessary to old Asgardians who live an average of 5,000 years, and thus are seen as “gods” by earthlings. While in the Odin Sleep, Thor’s father (played by Anthony Hopkins) still sees and hears all that happens in the “nine realms,” one of which is earth, or “Midgard.” The robot monster swats Thor like a mosquito and leaves him to die in New Mexico, with his human love interest, Jane Foster (represented on this earth by Natalie Portman) crying over him as he breathes his last breath. What Thor has just done – saving earth from the robot monster by giving his own life – suddenly echoes the words of Odin (“he who shall be worthy shall have the power”), the hammer flies from the ground and into Thor’s hand. He earns back his worthiness through selfless sacrifice. His flashy Asgard cape and uniform return to him. Natalie Portman cries out “Oh. My. God!” Thor destroys the robot, saves the planet earth, and returns to Asgard and his birthright. And there you have it: Civil Resistance 101, in a single movie scene.
 
Thor returned to earth for The Avengers movie to defeat – this time in a team with Cap, The Hulk, Iron Man, The Black Widow, the archer Hawkeye, and under the leadership of Nick Fury and his Agents of SHIELD – Loki once more, and save New York City from alien invasion.
 
So how do you top that in yet another sequel in the series?
 
Here in the realm called Mexico, we got to see it a week earlier than denizens of the United States. At the midnight premier the cinema was filled, young people were in fact almost fighting over the scarcity of seats.
 
Having now established, in the first Thor movie and in the Avengers, the basic origins of this super Norse god and his miscreant brother Loki, Thor: The Dark World brings the viewer right back to the earliest comic book versions of the 1960s when the comic book, “Tales of Asgard,” preceded and gave birth to the Thor books. The origin story out of the way, now we get to hear from the top actors of the Motion Picture Academy, as the roles of Anthony Hopkins as Odin, Rene Russo as Frigga (adoptive mother of Thor and Loki, and a powerful sorceress), and Idris Elba as the all-seeing Heimdall are deepened exponentially. Natalie Portman – like Hopkins, already bestowed with the Academy’s highest honor – also steps onto center stage, as Odin’s sneering contempt for Thor’s descent into intergalactic miscegenation provides a Romeo-and-Juliet forbidden love story for the saga. And the very funny Kate Dennings (of the TV series, Two Broke Girls) returns in the role of Darcy Lewis as the audience’s representative and interpreter of these strange gods and realms. Chris Hemsworth and Tom Middleton reprise the sibling rivalry of Thor and Loki. That’s a lot of resources expended as many of the top actors on earth are now part of the international teach-in on the Marvel Universe that these films are bringing forth.
 
We live in a time when the world’s dominant religions and their myths have lost credibility and terrain. It’s no wonder that religious fundamentalists loathe science so much: new discoveries keep decimating their claims. If past is prologue, this is an hour of history when new myths will begin to overtake the dominant ones. As I watched and enjoyed Thor: The Dark World, it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, these movies and the comics they are based upon may be grist for an emerging, more relevant, mythology for humanity’s current and future struggles.
 
In 1990, Harold Bloom, deploying the ancient Hebrew translation services of David Rosenbaum, published The Book of J, a new translation and interpretation of the oldest known text upon which the Judeo-Christian Bible’s Old Testament and its first chapter, Genesis, were based upon. Bloom concluded that the original text was not intended at all to be part of any religious canon. He posited that it was written as a savagely funny parody of how rulers used myth to establish order through religions and bureaucracies. The comedic work – penned soon after the fall of King David and with it the golden times of an empire gone awry – would later be appropriated by rulers and sold as a religious text, and became the new, dominant mythology for centuries to come. Judaism, Christianity and Islam would eventually be built upon it. The J book was the first draft of the simple story of Adam, Eve, a serpent, and a “tree of knowledge of good and evil,” in which the original sin of the first man and woman was to disobey authority and eat a consciousness-altering plant that permitted them to “be as gods,” infuriating a jealous monotheist god.
 
Bloom also concluded based on an analysis of the writing style that the author of this parody of religions that got turned into the mythological basis for the three major religions of today was most likely… a woman.
 
History teaches us that old orders and creeds fall to new ones at those moments when technology outpaces humanity’s ability to believe what it previously thought gospel. People have always turned to myths – their gods, monsters, and super-powered beings - to explain the inexplicable. 
 
The current cycle can be traced to 1882, when Friedrich Nietzsche wrote, “God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. Yet his shadow still looms.”
 
In 1966, as some guys were having fun at Marvel headquarters creating comic books about gods and super beings, TIME magazine put the Nietzsche quotation on its cover. The rest has been society catching up with the concept.
 
If we humans were truly capable of the great evolutionary leaps described, say, in X-Men comics, we might blessedly jump into an advanced state in which we no longer need gods or myths to explain our circumstances to us. But my money is more on the idea that history keeps repeating itself, and that humanity – ill-served by its present set of religions and myths – is groping around for a new mythology to hang its believer hat upon. I would prefer the former, bet on the latter, but thankfully I’ll be pushing up daisies and so will all of you before this matter is settled decisively.
 
Perhaps the need for myths and grand stories is what defines us as human, and later our attempt to bureaucratize and institutionalize them into creeds is what gets us into trouble as a species.
 
Technology has always played a role in the belief systems of our species, and motion pictures and cable television are surely dong their part, for better and for worse, in forming the next ones.
 
But if a sarcastic text penned by a woman upset over the fall of the Davidian renaissance thousands of years ago can become the basis for what today are the three major monotheist belief systems on earth, who is to say that children’s comic books cooked up by some fun-loving New Yorkers in the twentieth century, later boosted on the silver screen and television reruns for the entire world to see and contemplate, won’t be the source material for the emerging and new dominant myths?
 
I am inherently distrustful of bureaucracies and institutions, and iconoclasm is the highest calling I know, so I won’t be promoting what I’m about to suggest: that the Marvel comic universe and its vast global popularity among the newest generations is very well positioned in the competition of ideas and between myths to become the seed from which new widely-held belief systems sprout.
 
And yet, at the same time, I find that idea comforting. If we are going to have myths and “gods” and all that fuss, there might as well be some new and improved values attached to them. 
 
Thor: The Dark World is not only a great rock ‘em, sock ‘em, action flick and Shakespearian drama all at once. It is also true to the values promoted by the original books: Values read by children who today belong to the fifty-something generation that has begun to run the world. The values of the two Thor movies and the entire series of Avenger-related cinema include: Be yourself, disobedience from those who don’t want you to be yourself is the highest calling, plotting of world domination is for fools who always lose, and, most importantly, you may have talents or special powers, but if you don’t learn to deploy them as part of a team, all else will be lost. 
 
The climax of the movie – during which portals between earth, Asgard, and seven other realms briefly open as a super-villain from an extinct realm tries to use the moment to impose permanent darkness upon all of them – involves that very kind of teamwork between Thor and his human friends. All hell breaks loose as our protagonists keep falling through those portals and the fight extends to the entire universe. Paradoxically, at this moment of extreme danger come some of the funniest laugh-out-loud moments of the picture. The scenes remind much of some episodes of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, produced by Joss Whedon, who had directed the Avengers film but not this new Thor movie. Whedon was another kid who grew up on Marvel comics, and he’s often acknowledged their influence on his Buffy series. Directing the Avengers was a childhood dream come true for him. In Thor: The Dark World, even though Whedon isn’t behind the camera lens, it’s as if the teacher – Marvel – has also learned new tricks from its apprentice, Whedon. The result is some of the fastest, most adrenaline producing, fifteen minutes of cinema I’ve ever seen. During that climax, it’s not just Thor who is heroic, but the motley crew of ordinary humans around him, all teaming up to literally save the universe, and in a big, chaotic hurry. This “god” truly helps those who help themselves.
 
Remember, also, if you see this magnificent movie, something that is true for all the Marvel motion pictures: You must sit through the credits to the very end. Without offering spoilers, suffice to say that there is not just one, but two, scenes that prequel future episodes from the Marvel Universe on the silver screen. One includes the stunning appearance of Benicio Del Toro in a role he’ll play in the upcoming Guardians of the Galaxy movie. The other involves Thor, Jane Foster, and some clean-up yet to be done from the opening of the portals between realms, suggesting strongly that the Thor movie franchise is here to stay.
 
Among the lessons of Thor: The Dark World are that Gods don’t exist. And neither does justice. They must be organized. So be it.
 

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