The Santa Cruz WILPF Raging Grannies

GRANNIES OCCUPY WITH WORDS & MUSIC

Jan — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 05:17:56 +0000

SC WILPF and its intrepid Raging Grannies are all out for Occupying, Wall Street or the Santa Cruz County Courthouse, or wherever politicians are bought and sold. We’ve been showing up and singing for them, whether they like it or not (and they DO like it!). Here are three new OCCUPY songs which everybody can sing.

THE NINETY-NINE PERCENT

tune: The Farmer in the Dell

We’re the 99%

We’re living in a tent

And what we really want to know

Is where our money went.

My uncle lost his store

Our jobs have gone offshore

There always seems to be enough

To finance one more war.

We worked for 30 years

Through hopes and dreams and fears

They siphoned off our pension funds

To bail out profiteers.

They took our homes away

Because we couldn’t pay

But even if we paid on time

We can’t trust B of A.

They can beat us and put us in jail

But they can’t get us off their tail

We are the 99%

AND WE’RE TOO BIG TO FAIL!

(Words by Mischa Adams)

SOLD OUT (Tune: I Got Rhythm)

Banks got bailed out

We got sold out

Banks got bailed out

Now they’re ten times richer than sin!

Banks got bonus

We got butkus

Raise a ruckus

That’s how revolutions begin!

Now we’re movin’

Now we’re groovin’

We’ve been provin’

Together we’re a success!

Keep on tryin’

Occupyin’

Hopes are flyin’

We won’t settle for anything less!

WE AIN’T GONNA TAKE IT NO MORE

(Tune: It ain’t gonna rain no more)

Oh, we ain’t gonna take it no more, no more

we ain’t gonna take it no more

We’re mad as hell and we’re here to yell

We ain’t gonna take it no more, no more!

We’ll stay right here till we make a change

or till the sea runs dry

We’ve just decided, it’s too lopsided

So we’ll stay here and occupy!

Oh, we got no house cause the bank foreclosed

We’ve no place left to go.

We losst our lease when they sent police

to throw us out in the snow.

Oh, the filthy rich want to have it all

They’ve got billions more than they need

While the sick and the poor go from door to door

The rich are chokin’ with greed.

Oh, we ain’t gonna take it no more, no more

we ain’t gonna take it no more

We’re mad as hell and we’re here to yell

We ain’t gonna take it no more, no more!

‘DANGEROUS WOMEN’ – A Novel about the Raging Grannies!

Jan — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 20:55:28 +0000

DANGEROUS WOMEN: A RAGING GRANNY MYSTERY Part One. The Grannies, April, 2008 CHAPTER 1. THE WHARF If you don't mind crowds of happy people strolling, munching, licking ice cream and gawking, the old Santa Cruz wharf has to be one of the most magical places in the world on a warm, breezy Saturday afternoon. The mile-long stand of old grey pilings supports wide weathered boards upon which tires bump along musically beside a string of some of the best seafood restaurants in the world. You can find every kind of eating-place from fish-and-chip stands to elegant dining, at tables that overlook the Bay all the way to the Monterey coastline. Shops sell tee-shirts, sea-shells, and cheap jewelry; Mariani's make their own incomparable ice cream and fudge; another shop offers paintings and crafts by local artisans. You can buy a ticket for a cruise to watch gray whales spout and pods of smiling dolphins play tag. Whole families spend the day fishing from the dock-side, snacking out of the backs of their vans or pick-ups. Katinka Craft stood at the white-painted railing, looking down at a sea otter floating on his back in the teal-green bay with a clam between his clever little paws, and another with a tiny pup resting on her belly. Sleek harbor seals clustered on a sunny plat-form below, barking and crawling good-naturedly over each other to find good sleeping spots. Alice Ann, Katinka's housemate, loved watching the pelicans-comically gawky as they perched on the rail, but swift and sleek as they dove beak-first after a fish. But today, Ally's mind was set on other things, namely an ice-cold vodka martini, straight up, and fresh fried oysters. For their celebration dinner, the friends of some sixty-nine years decided on Gilda's--a medium-priced place where, even on a weekend, you'd find more locals than Silicon Valley yuppies. The Italian-American family that owned it had been catching and serving fish in Santa Cruz since the 1800s; no fancy decor or elaborate menus were needed to draw customers, just fresh seafood and friendly service. They also served a killer martini, two of which, crystalline and frosty, were placed on a formica table in front of the women five minutes after they settled into the turquoise naugahyde booth. They had a view of a quiet cove, perfect for the easy rides of “grommets”-- budding surfers--and the town's western cliff, with its charming silhouettes, in glowing afternoon light, of Victorian houses and old cypress trees. Alice Ann took her first bracing sip. “This is the best idea you've had in weeks! What a relief to let go of all that grisly murder business--and get back to our true calling--bashing the Bushies!” “I agree.” Katinka held out her stemmed glass for a toast. “Here's to letting the police do their job, successfully, and soon!” They clinked, grinned at each other, and took tiny sips to make the joy of it last. “Although, I sure would like to know how their investigation is coming.” “Come on now, Ally, just let it go! 'Let go and let God', as they say in AA--or in this case, let Detective Matthews.” “I'm trying. The trouble is, I'm not sure they're really doing anything. From what Alva says, Matthews isn't all that swift. Maybe he's decided the woman in the hall was of no impor-tance, and reverted to the suicide theory.” “Enough, already! We have enough trouble with the killers in Washington without hunting for local ones.” As a waitress placed big platters of sizzling seafood, baked potatoes, salad and veggies in front of them, all thoughts of atrocities, local and national, swam right out of their heads; they dug in with appetites sharpened by vodka, the sea air, and their blessed release from an onerous task-which they had to admit, they'd assumed quite voluntarily. Outside again in the salty, fishy breeze, Alice Ann sug-gested they stroll to the end of the wharf. “I like to look at those big sea lions under the dock--hear the old beggars barking for fish?” “How could I help it? They're loud enough to hear in Kansas City!” They crossed to the other side of the wharf, pausing to look back at the beach, where people lay under bright umbrellas and kids chased small, chilly waves in and out. Gorgeously tanned, barely-clad young men and women played volleyball, threw Fris-bees, or jogged along the wet sand at the water's edge. Further along the gentle curve of Monterey Bay, the fanciful structures of the Boardwalk rose like a fairy-tale kingdom: the red-domed Cocoanut Grove, where dances, parties, weddings, and conventions had been held since the early 1900s; the Ferris wheel, the giant wooden Dipper--still a terrifying ride after a hundred years; tiny cable-cars gliding high above the carnival crowd, the beautiful old merry-go-round, the arcades, and the fun house. The women dodged buckets, baskets, strollers and other gear of fisher-folk who were casting long lines over the rails, occasionally pulling in small, silvery fish. White sails dotted the blue water, and a few weathered fishing-boats sat at anchor, their work day over since early morning. Near the end of the wharf, a group of excited Japanese teenagers pressed up against a waist-high railing that surrounded an eight-by-twelve-foot opening in the wharf floor. Kat and Ally waited while the kids tossed small fish to the demanding sea lions far below in the shadowed water. When the group left, giggling and mimicking the animals' raucous voices, the women had their pick of viewing spots. With childlike pleasure, they watched the big animals glide through dark water, heads up, their large, dog-like eyes begging for the chum that one could buy at a nearby stand. A half-dozen of them, brown, gray, and tawny, sprawled on thick cross-beams between the pilings, blissfully asleep on their bellies or backs, with no interest whatever in the gawkers above. Fascinated, as always, by this exotic, noisy exposition of sea-life, Alice Ann leaned over the rail and pointed at a humongous, patchy-brown fellow, who leaped effortlessly from the water onto one of the beams. “Look, Kat--how do they do that?” she squealed like a kid on a trip to the zoo. At that moment, she felt her jeans clad legs being grabbed from behind, and before she knew what was happening, she was plunging head first into the icy water some twenty feet below. She heard Katinka scream, but had no time to cry out her-self, before she hit the water--and also something solid, with a terrific blow to her head and left shoulder. Half unconscious, she sank deeper and deeper into the frigid depths. The startled animals around her swiveled and glided swiftly away from the structure, while their sleeping relatives slumbered on, untroubled. Then, suddenly, Ally bobbed to the surface. Through a semi-conscious daze, she heard Kat's voice yelling frantically, “Grab a piling, hold on, someone's coming! Hold on, Ally!” But all she could do was grab a quick breath before she sank down, down, deep under the water again. “Ally, grab on to something!” As she surfaced again, she stretched her arms as high as she could, but the beams were five feet above her. Never a good swimmer, and only dimly aware of where she was or what was near her, she flailed her arms and legs wildly to stay afloat, and managed to grab on to one of the pilings, slimy with a film of rotting wood and green algae. She threw her arms around it and held on, thrash-ing as hard as she could with her rapidly tiring legs, to keep from slipping down again. “Good work, Ally, hang on, girl, help is coming!” Kat called again and again, as her friend struggled not to slide below the green-black surface. She understood only one thing: she had to hold on! Then she heard a motor, and, through her exhaustion and the veil of bright blood streaming over her eyes from a head lacera-tion, she dimly perceived a small boat with people in yellow jackets heading toward her. The noise of the motor ceased as they maneu-vered the boat over to where she clung. She hardly felt the strong arms that lifted her into the boat, or the icy, blood-tinted water sluicing off her in sheets. The rescuers wrapped her tightly in blan-kets, and one of them, a woman, was pressing something soft against her head wound, talking to her, reassuring her. “You're okay, honey, don't worry, we've got you now, you're all safe and sound!” Vaguely wondering if she would ever be warm again, Alice Ann finally let it all go.

How to be a Raging Granny:

Jan — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 04:56:17 +0000

The WILPF Raging Grannies welcome all women of any relevant age (you don’t
actually have to be a grandmother), especially if you’re passionate about
peace and justice, like to sing, and are willing to wear funny hats. To join, just call Jan at (831) 471-9992 or e-mail her at jharwood@elgatito.com, and come to our rehearsals. Since we’re all members of the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom, we’ll encourage you to join us there, too. We love new Grannies (and old ones, too.)

STIMULUS

Jan — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 21:36:51 +0000

STIMULUS
(Jalousie)
(This marvelous tango can be found, like everything else, on YouTube)

Stimulus, by god i need stimulus
I’ve got no credit
I ask for loans, they say fuhgeddit!
(I’m not too big to fail)
S0 hear me cuss
I’m pleading for stimulus
One little fed-ex from the fed would do!

I’m out of cash
Can’t pay my den-tist, o-or my shrink
I can’t get smashed
Can’t even afford one lo-ousy drink.
This economy
That threatens me
It pains me–it drains me dry!

At one time my mail was replete
With credit card offers so sweet;
My banker would pester me to take out a loan
I’d get it approved, right o-over the pho-one.
But now, they say i caused the crash
I could not come up with the cash.
Yes, i was a louse: i paid down on a house!
And i’ve nothing but cat food to eat.

Stimulus, the fat cats get stimulus
They fly their jets down
To washington to pay their debts down
But what do little folks like me receive?
We may get a week’s reprieve
Before they throw us out into the street! OY VEY!

The Mellow-dious Grannies are:

Jan — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 01:20:20 +0000

Left to right, starting from left in the back row: Stephanie Keenan, Jane Doyle, Judy Geer, Jan Harwood, Ruth Hunter, Celia Scott, Phyllis Greenleaf; front row, left: Emily Maloney, Pat Arnold, Judy Smith, Barbie Schaller, and Cappy Israel.

Since that picture was taken, by one of our most esteemed and hard-working WILPF members, Paul Johnson, we have added Willow Katz, Joan Anderson, Coral Bruhn, Artress Cornmesser, Margaret Metzinger, Susan Worth, and sometimes Sherry Conable, Gaby Litsky and Margie Kern Marshall. All granny types are welcome, whether they have grandkids or not, and whether they can sing or not. (We ask some of them to please, just lip-sync, okay?) It’s the SPIRIT and the RAGE that counts!

WHEN WE’RE NINETY-FOUR

Jan — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 00:05:22 +0000

WHEN WE’RE NINETY-FOUR

(When I’m Sixty-four)

When we get older, losing our minds,
Many years from now,
We will still be raging in our flow’ry hats
At Democans and Republicrats.
Where there’s injustice, where there is greed
Where there’s waste and war,
You better heed us
You will still need us
When we’re ninety-four.

We have seen it all
We’ve watched dictators rise to power
Watched their righteous fall!

Fountains of wisdom, hearts full of love
Dear old Grannies rule;
We remember when our country was our pride
Ideals for which our foremothers died.
We’re on the net, our iphones are hot!
Grannies know the score.
You better heed us,
You’re gonna need us
When we’re ninety-four.

We’re not afraid of going to jail–
We’ve been there, done that.
Some of us have records long as War & Peace
We’re best friends with the local police.
Some of us die, but others come in
The Granny Justice Corps.
You better heed us, You will still need us
When we’re ninety-four.

We don’t sit and cry
Life’s not fair till we make it so–
We go out and try!

Grannies are kindly, gentle and frail
Till you get us riled
Marching in our walkers and our wheely-chairs,
We’re as fierce as Grizz-ely bears (sic).
We’ll kiss the boo-boos, make them all well,
Then we’ll rage and roar!
You better heed us,
You will still need us
When we’re ninety-four.