Courtesy Note: Feel free to jump down to the few lines in ***italicized boldface*** if the following four paragraphs are too off-putting.

You owe it to yourself to warble on this razor-thin deadwire made by high-handed Amerikka. And you have a clear obligation to lullaby others, as you turn yourself inside out in ‘06 to deep-six the sick lack of solidarity on these shores. Hope+ will spring…if we can hold the world differently on the dance floor this year, taking our eyes off of the outlined footsteps which are… below us…and slow us down.

There is no *solidarity* of the kind that Rebecca Solnit types claim for us from book to article, and there is an unsettling “certainty” that the Noam Chomsky-like (neatly) boxed brand of hopes is irreversibly swirling down the unclean leftist drainpipe, widened of late to accommodate fully packaged paradigms unopened. **Nevertheless, in song one often finds relief and positive vision, a hint of *romantic solidarity* which is worthwhile pursuing alone or together, promising Heaven on Earth**.

Watch your Tupamaros Two-Step, will ‘ya? Or at least…take a look at mine. I have some singular lyrics here that I pray readers will embrace, and then help me to put in capable hands…and into sensitive ears before too many more years go by. Scores of singers, and as many different bands doing it as what comprises The Market’s range for *White Christmas*.

Reprise my whole Wish List? No.

***Just scroll down to the melodic song words if you don’t want to put up with my introductory blah blah. They stand on their own, I believe. Speak volumes themselves***. “Hey, Nina from Argentina” begins the postmodern *madrigalian* dirge.

Back in the 60s the Uruguayan Tupamaros –some say– stood for “O Bailan Todos O No Baila Nadie.” William Blum claims that their *memorable slogan was scrawled on the walls* of a Montevideo nightclub, setting themselves up in opposition to U.S. foreign policy, which included well-documented torture courtesy of inky Dan Mitrione (Office of Public Safety/Agency for International Development/CIA-linked) and his predecessors. Bill’s statements in **Killing Hope** served as a basis for me and partner Sylvie putting on a huge event in Santa Cruz, California a couple of years ago…with the idea of tapping into whatever potential for nationwide solidarity might exist.

Some disappointments on that count at our event, OneDance: The People’s Summit, are touched upon peripherally in my recent “Iris Chang Banged” piece at www.oxtogrind.org. This particular article assumes a positive stance vis-a-vis solidarity, but that SCruz experience –if a song– might have been titled The No Solidarity Stench Rag.

In short (but only in part), the Chang piece submits that Solidarity is dead in Modern America. That doesn’t mean that Romantic Solidarity can’t exist, that the Real Hopelessness which permeates all activism, and dominates nationwide leftist efforts –precluding advancement– can’t be addressed. First, however, must come the acknowledgement of the negative. A *first cousin*, if you will, to admitting USA’s a cancerous growth…before accepting a blood transfusion from her.

Perceptive activists –a distinct minority– are in the same position with respect to the vast majority of anti-Bushites as starving South Americans are in relation to handouts/needed support from hegemonic, moronic Amerikkan capitalists. In both cases, help is sought…with great unacknowledged risks running a good chance of running everyone into the ground. Two feet down, if you will, exchanged for each advance of twelve infected inches.

IMF = Inches, my foot! Athlete’s feet as a treat?

I look at Chavez and the others –all the outrageous, courageous fighters in South America right now– and I am moved to song. What’s below –the lyrics– drew upon a few words written two decades ago –romantic-oriented *palabras*– and grew into something with a political edge…without effort, quickly. Now I look forward to some soulful group tweaking my music, and providing an inspiring blend that will send people…where they should go. Short of that, I trust that some goosebumps will rise. A modest uprising, perhaps, but hopefully a refreshing refrain in the vein sans hitting anyone over the cabeza. Just don’t look for outmoded 30s type cries…or the *lies of literal lyrics*.

One question I have is whether or not it should be called Tupamaros Two-Step, Solidarity Song or Nina from Argentina. Maybe you’ll let me know what you think. It’s meant to be played very slow at first with plaintive expression. *At first*.

Hey, Nina from Argentina

How do you do?

I met a sailor from Venezuela

Told me ’bout you

(Digame…digame…digame…)

No Patagonian skies

Make up for what’s been comin’ down

But, hey, Nina from Argentina…

Me?

I’ll be around

Hey, Nina from El Alto

Wanna tango with you

Baila until I cry as you do

Get down upon my knees

To see the sea inside of you

Mmm, Nina from Argentina…

Nina from El Alto…

I’m with you

Hey, Nina from Argentina

I’ll tell you what we do

Make compañeros of marineros

To help us all get through

Let the Transandino Railway

Ride us well beyond its cars

Then, Nina from Argentina…

We’ll go very far

Let the Transandino Railway

Take us all beyond the stars

Then, Nina from Buenos Aires…

Tina from Cochabamba…

We’ll go very far.

Richard Oxman, at rmoxman@yahoo.com in Los Gatos, California, is very close to where little cable cars climb halfway to the stars already. However, “sadly gay” Paris sits quite well on top of his Panama hat (1) too, which he trusts will be apparent from recent writing at www.oxtogrind.org and http://www.parisgraves.com. For what it’s worth, he’s paid his musical dues, having put in quite a tenure in Tin Pan Alley while growing up around N.Y.C. And old buddies in the business –that’s why they call it *Life*, perhaps– have no interest in extending a helping hand. Enter The Reader?

Solitary dancing footnote:

(1) Teddy (yech!) Roosevelt, Al Capone and Winston (yech!) Churchill all had the *sombrero de paja toquilla* in common, a *jipijapa* which really originated in Ecuador, not Panama. I’ve got one for the lucky bastard who helps me out with my plea above.