American citizenship -Liberty for Chaplin

Born in London on April 16, 1889, Charles Spencer Chaplin rose from crippling poverty to become the preeminent comedic star of his day. Employing a fake moustache and splayfooted walk, he specialized in slapstick portrayals of the quintessential everyman.
Despite living in the United States for almost 40 years, Chaplin never became an American citizen. Meanwhile, due in part to “Modern Times,” a satire of the machine age, he gained a reputation as a communist sympathizer.

Troublesome Speech of Truth

During the McCarthy era, the FBI put him under surveillance, and a Mississippi congressman called for his deportation.  Then the US Attorney-General announced plans to lauch an inquiry into whether he would be re-admitted to the US.

They arrived one day at his home. When the deputation arrived, it consisted of a stenographer, an FBI agent and an immigration officer, who told him that they had the right to demand Chaplins evidence under oath. 

The unexpected inquisition lasted for four hours and was recorded by the stenographer. It contained personal questions about Chaplins racial origins, political views and sex life. He found the enquiries into his life, thought and opinions most personal, insulting and disgusting.

The U.S. government then revoked his re-entry permit in 1952 as he traveled to England on vacation. Mr Chaplin is still a British citizen, despite living in America for almost 40 years, and has no automatic right to re-enter the country.

Under US law, grounds for denying a foreigner admission include "moral turpitude" and "political affiliations".  

GUARDIAN_ Video- BBC -here 

He turned against his erstwhile home, saying, "I would not go back there even if Jesus Christ was the president."

For a Follow-up

The Banishment of Charlie Chaplin

   ADDENDA  

• English writer Aldous Huxley, author of Brave New World, and his wife Maria applied for U.S. citizenship in 1953 after having lived in the United States for fourteen years.  

• Huxley renounced all war, and his pacifist views ultimately prevented him from becoming a U.S. citizen.  

• Huxley presented themselves for examination. When Huxley refused to bear arms for the U.S. and would not state that his objections were based on religious ideals, the judge had to adjourn the proceedings.

• ... Huxley never received U.S. citizenship.

On 21 October 1949, Huxley wrote to George Orwell, author of Nineteen Eighty-Four, congratulating him on "how fine and how profoundly important the book is." In his letter to Orwell, he predicted:

• Within the next generation I believe that the world's leaders will discover that infant conditioning and narcohypnosis are more efficient, as instruments of government, than clubs and prisons, and that the lust for power can be just as completely satisfied by suggesting people into loving their servitude as by flogging them and kicking them into obedience.

branding lessons... keep faith on the brave old brand

              The Brave New Brand World

John Hegarty the creative guru behind some of the most iconic ads of the last 30 years with Audi, British airways or google.
When questioned about powerful brands, he had an extremely interesting answer, one that many would raise an eyebrow over however - when you stop and think...... actually he is right.
 It wasn't Coca Cola, Nike, Apple but...

• A brand that has potentially the most iconic logo - .....
• A brand that has and has had the most incredible architects - for instance......
• A brand that has and has had the most iconic designers/artists - for instance .....
• A brand that went global - ......
• A brand that has and has had some amazing composers - for instance Bach
• A brand that has published its main work countless times - billions
• This powerful brand is .... really universal!

Jeez YOU GOT IT:  by gosh, keep fingers CROSSed... 

Anvar Alikhan   made a tongue-in-cheek presentation on how the best “brand” ever was built, by using a brilliant combination of:

market segmentation, symbols and music, 

“store design”, “brand rituals”, “sponsorships” and a deeply motivated “sales force”

In a discussion on the world’s greatest brand Hegarty says it is none of these but instead the Catholic Church, καθολικὴ ἐκκλησία, which he calls “the world’s first truly global brand”.

http://catholicbrand.blogspot.com.es/

A little over 2,000 years ago, 12 poor men from a back-water town in the Roman Empire founded what was to become the largest, richest, and most influential organization in human history. 

Lesson 7: Maintain the Mystery

Many successful companies have used secrets to propel their brands. From McDonald's secret sauce to the Colonel Sander's secret recipe, keeping something behind the curtain can help generate interest and buzz in a brand. 

Lesson 6: Appeal to Accepted Traditions and Tastes

Lesson 5: Engage All the Senses

Lesson 4: Create a New Category

Lesson 3: Provide Consistent Service

Lesson 2: Promote a Consistent Message

Lesson 1: Protect Your Intellectual Property

Does the Catholic Church Need a Brand Manager? 
by Shannen Zarate   November 11, 2002 

  

Brand Manager Position: Available Immediately Would you like to work for the largest and most influential nongovernmental agency outside the US? We are seeking an ambitious and experienced brand manager to help address market challenges such as lack of relevance and differentiation for a US$ 7 billion brand. If interested, please send a resume to The Vatican, Rome.What? The Vatican doesn't have a brand manager, right? Well perhaps they should. All great brands have brand managers and the Catholic Church is a great brand. A great brand that is suffering considerably because it has gone unmanaged for far too long. The Catholic Church is currently struggling with many of the same challenges that brand-focused companies like Cadillac, and Dean Foods struggle with regularly. Things like shrinking market share due to a lack of differentiation and failure to maintain relevance with its core customers.

One of the biggest challenges that the Catholic Church is facing right now is the lack of a differentiating benefit from its competitive set. In the simplest terms, the core benefit of Catholicism is salvation.

From I to WE: getting involved - playing an active part

A spoken word  2015 film about taking action and using your voice.

‘It’s Your Future’ is a film about getting involved and playing an active part in politics. Politics affects everyone, especially young people. No matter how disengaged you feel, the only way to make a difference is to take action. For change to begin, you must make your voice heard.  

REGISTER TO VOTE: https://www.gov.uk/register-to-vote

It’s Your Future  -   Edited by Gary Turk.

When I was 18, politics was boring. 

I didn’t go and vote, I didn’t pay attention, I didn’t really care at what age people got their pension. That seemed ages away, I was just starting out, I really had no interest in what politics was about.

But I should have, the young are most affected. Most 18 to 24s don’t care who gets elected. And I’m not surprised, I once felt that way too... Why vote for a system that doesn’t represent you?

Middle aged, middle classed, old men in old buildings. Too posh and too rich to care about the small things.From the same schools and same clubs, to same suits and same tailors. To the same privileged upbringings with no experience of failures.

When we see them answer questions, a chance they should be seizing. They forget about us, and resort to playground teasing. Like children, taking part in a food fight. Wasting words that have power on a false appetite, that lies. That only wants first prize. That cares less about its people and more what power buys.

But the government works for you, and this can all be resolved. If you stand up for what you believe in, and do your part to get involved. There is strength in your numbers, you are not the minority. You only feel this way as you’ve been made a low priority... by politicians, who are chasing the vote. They won't try and please you if they think there’s no hope.

So prove them all wrong, prove you have a voice. Do the unexpected and accept you have a choice. And vote, but first find out the truth,Look at their policies and how it affects the youth.

This world is yours to inherit, it’s more your future than theirs. Don’t let your life be dictated by the old and billionaires.
It’s the young that pay tuition, it’s the young that fight the wars. It’s the young who need jobs, or could end up living outdoors. 

It’s the young who adopt the planet, it’s the young who clean up the mess. It’s the young who care for the old, so why do the young vote less?
You have a say, that needs to be respected. People are dying for the right to have a leader that’s elected. 

So register to vote, be a part of democracy. Doing nothing and complaining is outright hypocrisy.
You don’t have to be a whisper, your voices are real,You can be the generation that creates a better deal. 

If you want to make a difference, you have to grow up,Our country’s fate is decided by those who show up.

Bonus track

Latest Gary's speech  at  TEDx talk  Newcastle 

• October 2019

UPDATED  2019: 
on Friday 13th  morning ... poetic indeed. 

After the Theresa May’s “strong and stable” in the dustbin of history, 

the Tory party got a 40-seat majority (365 representatives) 

in Dec 12  elections to get Brexit done.

  

• taking back “control of our money” 
• taking back “control our own trade policy”.

Mark Grist 2018- Alchemist - a poem and a punishment:

To go back to this dark 

atmosphere of

 R. Dahl's characters.... 


you may also read 

some negative criticism

 to his work... here

Mark Grist   

 Alchemist: A Poem about a Mistake

            TASK1.  Listen to the poem below 
                           and assess the final punishment.

      TASK2.   Read the script provided in the automatic captions

 and deal with the punctuation of one of the  6 passages.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8qbu-RDvzRc 

Oct 3, 2018

hERE IS a poem for National Poetry day  2018. 

Hope you like it

·        

•        my stomach flipped thinking of downing vinegar.. oof!

•       Chapter 5: Solution- made me chuckle

•                    Chapter 1.   The confesion

•       01:23   Chapter 2.   Desire

•       02:22    Chapter 3.   Action

•       03:05   Chapter 4.   Failure

•       04:47   Chapter 5.   The solution

•       06:19   Chapter  6.   Punishment

      TASK2.   Read the script provided in the automatic captions

 and deal with the punctuation of one of the  6 passages

here's a confession

Chapter 1.   The confesion

When I was 7, 
I harbored a rather unusual obsession.

Deep in the night when my parents both slept,

I would creep to the kitchen ...

find bottles,
 and neckin the sauces, the syrups 

Oh, how I loved it! 
Sneaking supplies from the back of the cupboard. 
A conquerer, plunderer, condiment pillager.

My favorite thing to drink...
 it was vinegar.

And glug, glug, glug, glug, I would

secretly chug upon each of those bottles.

Guzzle them up. Yes.

Cooking oil was nasty, Tabasco was rough,

but these were experiments and 
I wasn't fuss and with each one I sampled 

I felt a bit braver,  a little bit bolder.

As I nicked them all down 

but really my eye was 

on something much greater :
a bottle that shimmered brighter... and pinker.

The liquid within was so vibrant ... and loud.

What I wanted was sat 
far off from the kitchen 
the sweetest of visions, ...
 it was my dad's mouthwash.

01:23   Chapter 2.   Desire

oh how it sat there

so shiny so pink from high on its throne

looking down on the sink each night I

would brush on my teeth and I'd wonder

what does it taste like and asking my

mother if tonight was the night that I

could try some she'd shake her head

saying oh you're still much too young

now knowing the things I had secretly

drunk all these rules and concern seemed

a little bit dumb oh it's only for

adults mouthwash is dangerous and look

how my father he'd carefully take it all

measured out in some small little cap I would certainly

swig on it braver than that so one fine

night I headed to bed excited elated

already quite proud because tonight

was the night I would do something great

tonight was the night I was drinking

that mouthwash

02:22    Chapter 3.   Action

I had a small nap early that evening so

wide awake and my parents both sleeping

I crept out of bed I crept to the door I

crept to the bathroom looked up and saw

that bottle

oh goodness how brightly it Shawn as

bright as the fleece that the argonauts

one and the moon high above me not

making a sound I climbed on the sink and

pulling it down I stood with it held in

both of my hands this was my moment this

was my chance i undid the lid and

tilting it up I went glug glug glug ride

it hurt and it stung   

 03:05   Chapter 4.   Failure

and I yelped and

gassed as if in slow motion the bottle

it dropped and lashings of potion in

great whopping arks flew out I stood

stunned the bottle then hitting the

floor with a dunk and I dropped down to her tripping hands that were shaken I grabbed for the bottle held it dismayed

it was practically empty down to the

dregs most of it soaked in the bath mat instead and my throat it was stinging my

eyes were now brimming with tears when

they found out I knew they'd be livid

because when I was a child if he did something rotten the punishment was that

you got a smacked bottom and I didn't

want one I wiped both my eyes and I

tried to get what I could back up inside

but there wasn't much more than some drops to be found so I picked up the bat

mat began squeezing it out but now there

was just some grey bits therefore in the bottle there wasn't much there what there was and looked awful

again the tears came and I thought of my dad and the imminent burn on my bum of that smack I was really in trouble I was

out for the count but what if somehow

I could make a new mouthwash it just replaced what was lost with the same pinkish glow I could balance it back my

dad wouldn't know I look around the bathroom surveying the bottles and

things of course this is doable I'll

take some of these things and I'll mix

them together who knows perhaps I could make something that tastes even better

04:47 Chapter 5.   The solution

so first off I took toothpaste

you know it's minty it's fresh it goes

in your mouth I picked up the tube began squeezing it out then I added some water

measured and thorough eye drops for texture

cow poll for color then I moved on to

the rest of the bathroom it got a bit

weird that added some shampoo and some shower gel - it wasn't like it was

planned I really regretted the bit of

bubble bath because it was now really bubbly and it still wasn't complete so with things looking drastic I added some

bleach and now if I'm honest it didn't

look right there were great big yellow

blobs and even the pink bits looked a

bit odd but I found if I took it and

shook it together it looked kind of

alright for a couple of seconds so I

shook it and balanced it turned and I

scuttled on back to my bed I hid under the covers and for hours that night I lay awake in my bed knowing that when my dad drinks it he'll drop down dead and

knowing the trouble I'd be in for owning

up my head in this work I just wasn't

sure which of those two things was worse

so I lay there and cried and I shivered

and bored until suddenly it was sunlight

I woke up all sprawled on the floor and

I turned and looked on with dread

my parents were stood at the end of the be

06:19   Chapter  6.   Punishment

ma have you done something? my father

then asked I could see the bottle held

tight in his grasp it was now sort of

green with these yellow blobs - so I

cried out I'm sorry dad I think I've

just murdered you you've done what my

dad said I've killed you I babbled they

looked at me looking really quite

baffled you've not killed him my mum

said don't be ridiculous this looks like

some kind of poison no way that he's

drinking it there there it's all right

there's no need to panic just tell us

what happened

they were both understanding and they

were both really kind and they gave me a

hug and they said that they thought I'd

been punished enough so I saved up my

pocket money and I paid for a

replacement my bottom when unsnapped

 I'd somehow escaped it reborn and forgiven a

true prodigal son and I only ever stole

condiments from that morning on.

Postcard 2011_Catalan Christmas from NY

     A Catalan Christmas -2011 (Lisa Abend)

IT was the Christmas season in Barcelona, but inside the city hall, a 14th-century palace, a scene from “the Arabian Nights” was playing out. Palm trees and satin cushions had turned the Gothic patio into a desert tent, complete with incense and Middle Eastern music. Pages, clad in pantaloons and velvet-trimmed turbans, led each child to the Moorish throne of the Royal Mailman and the bulging satchel he would use to convey their petitions to the Three Kings. Yes, those Three Kings: the magi in the manger with the frankincense and myrrh. Here in the Mediterranean, the North Pole and the jolly guy in the fur-trimmed suit don’t make much cultural sense. And you have to admit that there’s a certain biblical logic to having the Kings rather than Santa bear gifts.

Like so many things in life — soccer, sex, pigs’ feet with snails — Christmas is better in Barcelona. Not for the Catalans the tinsel, the candy canes, the celebrity reindeer with his blinking nose. No, Christmas in Barcelona is an altogether sleeker affair, whimsical and exotic in equal measure.

     (....)

Next came the dish I had heard most about. Canelones are quintessential Christmas food in Catalonia, and I had been told that the only place to eat them was in someone’s home. Fina Navarro, the Fonda’s manager and wife of the chef Carles Gaig, explained: “Traditionally, you eat them on St. Stephen’s Day,” Dec. 26, she said. “Your grandmother would have made a big pot of escudella for Christmas Day,” she added, referring to a chickpea and meat stew, “and she would use the leftover meat to stuff the canelones.” It was hard to imagine even a grandmother making a better version: the tender meat encased in pasta tubes and topped with a creamy béchamel was deeply flavorful but surprisingly light.

The next day, I had a date at the crèche in Sant Jaume Square in the center of Barcelona. In recent years, the Christmas tree, like Santa Claus, has made inroads into Spanish holiday culture. But the Spanish still reserve most of their adornment impulses for Nativity scenes. The one in the square was huge — a diorama, really — with bucolic scenes of peasants leading donkeys and hauling hay. Mary and the baby Jesus seemed almost beside the point. Especially when I noticed the figure in the corner of the manger relieving himself.

“You found him,” said Joan Lliteras, the collector I had arranged to meet. It was hard not to; the squatting figurine had his pants around his ankles. He is called a caganer, and as Mr. Lliteras explained, is a feature in every Barcelona Nativity scene. To prove the point, he led me a few blocks away to an annual exhibit organized by the Association of Friends of the Caganer, of which Mr. Lliteras is president. Inside were some 400 figures, some dating back to the 18th century. The stream of visitors seemed particularly taken by the ones of the famous — Lady Gaga, Plácido Domingo — all doing their business.

“In the past, people believed that if you didn’t put a caganer in your Nativity scene, you’d have a bad harvest,” said Mr. Lliteras , with the gravity of a man discussing debt relief. “Others say that they’re a reminder of our essential humanity — that even in the midst of the most divine moments, nature still calls.” He pointed out a caganer dressed as a politician. “For me, they speak of the absurdity of life. The caganer reminds you that there’s always something to laugh about.”

Laughing myself, I realized it was almost time for the big moment, and I hurried to the port. Barcelona celebrates the arrival of the Three Kings with the pomp of a state visit, and by the time I arrived on the afternoon of Jan. 5, the waterfront was a mob scene. The mayor was there, waiting anxiously on his receiving platform as a tall-masted ship sailed into the harbor. The kings — Gaspar with a flowing white beard and with layers of fur draped over his shoulders; red-haired Melchior with his soaring crown; and dark-skinned Baltasar with his turban — disembarked amid a scrum of paparazzi. After a few speeches about peace on earth, they received the key to the city: one that, the mayor noted in this land of chimneyless apartments (another reason Santa would find it tough in Barcelona), would unlock the doors to every child’s house. A high-pitched roar went up as a mounted guard parted the crowd of thousands. Gaspar, Melchior and Baltasar made their way toward the fleet of Model T’s that would whisk them to the start of the cabalgata, or parade.

I raced along the waterfront and, turning left on the Via Laietana, grabbed a prime viewing spot. It was nearly dark, and the whole city, it seemed, had turned out, with families stuffed onto balconies, and a clutch of Sisters of Mercy passing the wait by snacking on sunflower seeds. A toddler in a bear hat made a break for the street; his parents snatched him back just as the red-coated guards on their black stallions approached. Behind them came floats, though the word hardly does justice to the magical creations processing up the street.

There were dancing angels with illuminated wings, and disco balls suspended from silvery sculptures that cast glittering shards of light on the street. Fantastical birdmen on stilts preceded a swaying dinosaurlike creature, and archers lowered their 15-foot-tall bows so that procrastinators could drop last-minute wish lists into the wire mailboxes attached there. Through it all, elaborately costumed revelers on the floats pelted the crowd with candy; one nun elbowed me out of the way in her quest to get a Starburst. Finally, the Kings themselves rode by, mounted on fine carriages, and behind them, a giant clock, reminding children it was time for bed.

For the rest of us, it was time for dinner. In Spain, what you eat at Christmas when you’re not eating truffle-stuffed turkey and the almond nougat called turrón, is shellfish. In Barcelona, no less an authority than Ferran Adrià told me the best place for it was Rías de Galicia. He’s hardly an objective source; José Carlos Iglesias, one of three brothers who inherited the restaurant from their parents, is a partner with Mr. Adrià and his brother Albert in Tickets, a tapas bar. Still, I figured, he’s got good taste.

And so he does. Rías de Galicia, just outside the old theater district, is a formal, old-fashioned seafood restaurant, complete with gilt-framed seascapes on the walls. Some of the preparations, like a sashimi tasting, which included perfect specimens of shrimp, gilthead bream and tuna belly were unexpectedly modern. Razor clams on the plancha were sweet and dense, and shellfish rice, full of cockles, scallops and — another innovation — wild mushrooms, was utterly delicious.

When it was over, it was midnight. I wandered over to the Gran Via, the broad avenue that cuts across the city, to find it lighted festively and full of people happily perusing the offerings at a toy market. Barcelona apartments are small, making it difficult for parents to keep presents hidden until Reyes. So the sensible Catalans devised the very seny solution of holding a market late on the night before the holiday; you can tuck your kids into bed and go shopping without the little ones being any the wiser. Except for a candy stall or two — all oversize ruby lollipops and snaking lengths of lime taffy — the vendors were selling mostly plastic junk. But everyone seemed so pleased to be there that the place felt charming nonetheless. I walked back to my hotel, I pondered the mystery of a culture that could delight in both a spectacle like the cabalgata and an earthy trickster like the caganer; that could produce both a delicate béchamel and a market full of cheap Barbie knock-offs.

The next morning, I walked to Escribà, the city’s most famous bakery. It was early, but lines had already formed as people waited to buy the traditional roscón, a ring-shaped cake made from brioche, filled with marzipan or cream, and topped with candied fruit. Each one hides in its eggy innards a dried bean, said to bring good luck — as well as the obligation of paying for the cake — to the finder.

That morning, Christian Escribà himself was there, busily making and decorating one ring after the next. He estimated he would sell 3,000 roscones that day. As a saleswoman tied up each cake, she slipped a paper crown beneath the knot. “My father started adding the crown in 1960, as a way of distinguishing ours from everyone else’s,” Mr. Escribà said. I looked at the crown, which reminded me of things they used to hand out to kids at Burger King to serve essentially the same purpose: marketing, pure and simple. Then I looked at the exquisite cake, with its perfect ripples of cream and jewel-like fruits. Art and commerce, whimsy and pragmatism. Rather than a conundrum, I realized as I stepped into a city waking to one final day of celebration, this was balance.