“LOCAL ORPHAN IS HERO”
A short story
By
John William Tuohy
He walked
to work because he couldn’t drive a car. He never learned how. So five mornings
a week, at 5:45 A.M., he began the half-mile journey to the Diner.
He walked
slowly because he was aging now and because of his limp and the defined tilt
his body took to the left because of what happened to him in the war.
Although
it happened so long ago, when he was a younger and thinner man than he is now,
every morning it all came back to him.
He still
felt himself being flung backwards onto the ground, and that tiny piece of
burning hot metal that flew inside his left ear and lodged there, scalding him
from the inside. Dozens of bits of metallic specks burned his face, his chest,
and his stomach. It hurt and it all hurt in the same way. First, it burned for
a while and then stopped after it melted onto his skin. Even after the hospital
dislodged dozens and dozens of tiny bits of the scrap with a razor-sharp
scalpel, black scars pockmarked his face and gave him a rough, slightly
intimidating appearance. The big piece that went inside his ear did the most
damage. It felt as if someone had shoved a pair of burning pliers into his head
and then tried to open them. All he had wanted to do was to open his mouth as
wide as he could because that made the pressure go away for a few seconds.
During one of those brief reprieves from the pain he realized he couldn’t hear
anything. He thought maybe he was dead.
He looked
around and realized he was sprawled on the ground, and looked to his right and
saw Machaon, that guy from—where was he from? That place in the south.
Machaon’s eyes were open so wide he wondered if it hurt to do that, to open
your eyes that wide.
He narrowed
his eyes to see what Machaon was staring at: his stomach and all the things
that go into the makings of his stomach, except they were outside of him now.
There were blue veins and red veins and long skinny white things that looked as
if they could be veins, and something still inside his stomach that bounced up
and down and was purple.
He lifted
his eyes back to Machaon’s face and his eyes were still open wide and his mouth
was open too, wide, just like his eyes. He was startled when Machaon shook violently
from head to toe, so he looked like he was dancing on his back. Then, as
suddenly as he started shaking, he stopped. After a few seconds, his head
snapped backwards, fast like, and then he was perfectly still. And that’s when
he got nervous, because he never saw anything like that before. He never saw a
human being do those things and look that way.
Arriving
at the Diner through a light rain, he unlocked the large glass doors that led
to the vestibule area and then unlocked the second set of small glass doors
that opened to the main dining floor, and entering the darkened restaurant,
found the main switch and turned on the lights. He looked around the room,
relaxed, and let the warm glow of familiarity sweep over him. He liked it here
in the Diner. It relaxed him. He walked behind the gleaming white
Formica-topped counter and pushed open the swinging black door leading to the
kitchen, turned on the grill, and started the coffee.
He
remembered that he had been nothing but nervous after he left the Valley, and
after two years in the Army, although he was a good solider, he never felt as
if he belonged among those people. He belonged to the Valley, where he felt safe, living on a cliff on a
side street above the old Naugatuck River, protected by the long, steep hills
of the place that raised him. His entire life was there, although he didn’t
remember a lot of it. He knew that people like himself, slow people, can’t
remember a lot of things.
He
remembered, barely, his mother. They had lived in an apartment on a hill,
somewhere, with almost no furniture except the black and white television. One
morning his mother went out and never came back and after a few days, the
police came and gave him to a social worker who delivered him to Ivy Day, his
foster mother. A heavyset woman who watched television all day and complained
about her illnesses, Ivy Day didn’t have a husband either, although she did
have one, once. That’s what she said. That’s what she told him.
He and
Ivy were happy in the many years that they were together up there in a
third-floor walk-up with tin ceilings and linoleum-covered floors and windows
covered in ancient paint dried solid from the heat of the iron radiators in
every room. It wasn’t nice or pretty but they were happy and comfortable and Ivy
Day wasn’t a stickler when it came to his schooling. On cold days she let him
stay home and they watched her soap opera drama shows, ate TV dinners, and were
happy all the cold day long.
One day
Ivy died. She didn’t wake up out of her chair in front of the TV. After a day
and a night had passed, he went down to the corner and called the police from
the phone there and they came and said, yes, she was dead all right, and took
her body away. After that, the rent went unpaid. So did the lights and the gas and
the telephone and, one by one, every week, the companies turned something off.
And then all the food was gone.
After a
few days of not eating anything, he went down to the corner drugstore. He told
the man there that he needed to eat and why he was hungry and everything else,
and the man called somebody. Later that afternoon the social worker knocked on
his door and talked to him for a long time.
The
social worker told him he had to leave the third floor walk-up with the
linoleum floors and the tin ceiling. She made him go live in a small room
upstairs at the YMCA where a lot of old men lived and everybody watched TV in a
big room together. She, the social worker lady, said there was really no point
in going back to school because he had missed so much schooling. She didn’t see
what kind of difference it would make if he just got a job and went to work
someplace. She came back to the YMCA a few days later and drove him to a bigger
city to see a soldier. He liked the army life. There weren’t many decisions to
make and people told him what to do and when to do it.
He didn’t
know where the country was that the Army had sent him to. It wasn’t in the
United States, he knew that much. It was far away and he didn’t see much of
that country anyways. Mostly he saw the countryside that always smelled damp
and moldy, and it was hot all the time.
At 6:15,
Angel, the cook, tapped on the heavy metal kitchen door. He unlocked the door
and silently allowed the stout cook with the shock of raven-black hair in. He
noticed that the rain had increased and that the day ahead held no promise of
sunlight. He closed the door and loaded a cart with water glasses, paper
napkins, and silverware and pushed it to the dining room.
After
that bomb blew up in that foreign country the army put him in all those years
ago, and hot metal from that bomb spit all over him, his senses were filled
with the smell of crisp, cold New England salt air. A cool burst of it had
floated up from the Long Island Sound, over the jungle and landed protectively
around his sweaty, blood-drenched body. Then Ivy was there, and she wasn’t dead
anymore. She was as he first saw her, tall and large and robust with a healthy
red face. She smiled at him as always and said, “You had better get up now.
Those men over there are coming to kill you, Hon.”
And then
she disappeared.
He lifted
his head from the red-brown soil and saw a thin line of young men, some even
younger than himself, walking towards them, yelling and firing their weapons. A
few feet in front of him was Sergeant Sentor, lying silent on the ground. His
legs were gone. So were his hands. He was dead. He must have been the one who
stepped on the mine. He liked Sergeant Sentor because he was kind, and when he
spoke to him he spoke slowly and always asked, “Do you understand? ’Cause if
you don’t, you just tell me,” and he chewed Dentyne and smoked cigarettes and
rested his hands on his hips. Sometimes he did those things all at once.
He heard
the Sergeant’s voice and looked to his left and there was Sergeant Sentor,
standing above him, looking down at him except now he still had his hands and
legs.
“You
remember what I told you?” the Sergeant asked. “When it hits the fan, you grab
on to that fifty,” the sergeant said, pointing to the .50- caliber machine gun,
“and shoot everything that looks, acts, walks, talks, crawls or otherwise fits
into the general description of the goddamn enemy.”
“Yes
sir,” he answered.
“Don’t
call me sir,” the sergeant said. “I work for a living.”
Sergeant
Sentor looked across the field at the young men approaching and said gently,
“This don’t look real good, son, but you do your best.”
“Yes
sir.”
“I’ll be
seein’ ya,” the Sergeant replied. “You take care.”
“You’re
not gonna stay, Sergeant?”
“Nope,”
he answered. “I gotta go. It’s my time. You’ll be all right, I guarantee it.”
They grow
them tough in the Valley. Although every inch of him ached and he was pretty
sure his left eye was gone and there was a lot of blood inside his mouth, he
lifted himself to his elbows and then to his knees and he did what the sergeant
told him to do. He crawled over to the weapon and he laid in on the fifty and
didn’t let up until the cotter pin got too hot and broke and the shells jammed.
When he released the trigger he was the only person there who wasn’t dead. Out
in front of him were rows and rows of boys, all shot to holy hell and as dead
as dead gets.
He half
fell and half walked over to Machaon, whose eyes were open and staring up into
heaven. He knelt next to him and stuffed his scattered body parts back into his
stomach where they belonged, because that seemed liked the right thing to do.
While he pushed the multicolored veins and pieces of purple and red muscle back
into Machaon, he thought that blood doesn’t feel the way you think it will
feel, like red water, maybe. It feels more like greasy paint, and it dries brown,
not red. He hadn’t known there was all that stuff inside the human body.
When he
finished, he crawled silently to the others that were still alive, doing
whatever he could to soothe them, which was not much. Most were dead. Hylas,
the tall guy, was alive but not by much. When he got to Hylas and gave him some
water, Hylas said, “Kill me,” and kept saying that over and over, so he put his
hands over his ears.
He didn’t
remember much past that. It was nighttime when he woke up and some guys from a
recon platoon were talking to him but he couldn’t hear them. One of them was
chewing Dentyne and gave him a stick and winked at him. He seemed like a real
nice guy.
When he
was finished placing the water glasses and silverware on the tables, and
checking the levels in the salt and pepper shakers, he pushed his cart back
into the kitchen. There he washed and dried the mustard and ketchup bottles,
loaded them onto his cart and wheeled it back out to the dining room and
stocked the bottles in the waitress’ shelf. The large clock on the wall, the
one with the white face and black glass trim, was stuck on 12 as it had always
been. It was 6:25 and Dolores the waitress was late, as always.
A long,
long time went by while he was in that army hospital, and one day a colonel
came to see him to give him a medal. The Colonel had a Captain and a couple of
Second Lieutenants with him. They smiled at him and said they were proud to
know him, that he was a good man, a good solider and a hero.
The
Colonel said, “Now you’ll catch all the pretty gals,” and then winked and
smiled. But he knew that wasn’t true. The pretty gals always passed him by and
now that the hand grenades had made him look ugly, he was sure that the pretty
gals would look away from him. Long scars that ran up and down and across his
face, and his right eye stuck out more than it should, and he limped when he
walked.
They said
they were going to put him in a hospital in southern California. And that’s
what they did. After a year in the
hospital, they sent him home but not with hearing—most of that was gone, along
with a couple of his fingers and toes. He could still hear some, out of his
right ear, and a lot of the time he got dizzy and it felt as if the ground were
moving under him but it wasn’t really. That’s just what happens when you lose
your hearing. His left eye drooped more than the right and sometimes it just
plain moved on its own without asking him first. It up and moved around and
then stopped when it felt like it.
He went
home to the Valley and took a room at the YMCA on State Street across from the
armory. He didn’t have to work anymore, because every month the army sent a
check for a lot of money, but he got a job anyway, up at the Valley Diner,
because there was nothing else to do all day. He liked it there because they
needed him, and because they made him feel regular, as if he were just like
everyone else.
One day a
man from The Evening Sentinel came by the Diner. He sat on the stools that
twirl around and talked to him for a long time. The man knew a lot of stuff
about what happened to him in the war and about the hospital in California. He
wrote things down and when the fellow from The Evening Sentinel was all done,
he stood up and shook his hand. He said, “Thank you for your sacrifice.” He
told him that was okay, because the guy was real nice and talking to him was
not all that much of a sacrifice.
The
Evening Sentinel ran a story about him the next day with a headline “Local
Orphan is Hero.” After the story ran, people came into the Diner to meet him.
Some drank a fifty-cent cup of coffee and left a twenty-dollar tip. One lady
wrote a note to him on a napkin that said, “We are all real proud of you.” He
kept that note in a plastic baggie in his sock drawer. Whenever he felt bad, he
took that note out and sometimes read it out loud, and then felt good again.
I’M
TRYING TO TEACH MYSELF SPANISH AND THIS IS WHAT I LEARNED TODAY…..
Hablar: to speak
Example sentence: Baxter, sabes que no hablo espaƱol.
Sentence meaning: Baxter, you know I don't speak Spanish.
http://www.amazon.com/No-Time-Say-Goodbye-Memoir/dp/
In
1962, six year old John Tuohy, his two brothers and two sisters entered
Connecticut’s foster care system and were promptly split apart. Over the next
ten years, John would live in more than ten foster homes, group homes and state
schools, from his native Waterbury to Ansonia, New Haven, West Haven, Deep
River and Hartford. In the end, a decade later, the state returned him to the
same home and the same parents they had taken him from. As tragic as is funny
compelling story will make you cry and laugh as you journey with this child to
overcome the obstacles of the foster care system and find his dreams.
http://www.amazon.com/No-Time-Say-Goodbye-Memoir/dp/0692361294/
http://amemoirofalifeinfostercare.blogspot.com/
John
William Tuohy is a writer who lives in Washington DC. He holds an MFA in
writing from Lindenwood University. He is the author of numerous non-fiction on
the history of organized crime including the ground break biography of
bootlegger Roger Tuohy "When Capone's Mob Murdered Touhy" and
"Guns and Glamour: A History of Organized Crime in Chicago."
His
non-fiction crime short stories have appeared in The New Criminologist,
American Mafia and other publications. John won the City of Chicago's Celtic
Playfest for his work The Hannigan's of Beverly, and his short story fiction
work, Karma Finds Franny Glass, appeared in AdmitTwo Magazine in October of
2008.
His
play, Cyberdate.Com, was chosen for a public performance at the Actors Chapel
in Manhattan in February of 2007 as part of the groups Reading Series for New
York project. In June of 2008, the play won the Virginia Theater of The First
Amendment Award for best new play.
Contact
John:
MYWRITERSSITE.BLOGSPOT.COM
JWTUOHY95@GMAIL.COM
The indulgent world of F. Scott Fitzgerald
By Michael Riedel
In 1922, Scott and
Zelda Fitzgerald, new parents and pinched for cash, gave up their suite at the
Plaza Hotel and rented a house on Long Island in Great Neck. The rent was $300
a month, compared with the $200 a week they were paying at the Plaza.
Located at 6
Gateway Drive, the house was pleasant but modest. Zelda called it their “nifty
little Babbit home.”
But nearby were
more than 1,000 country houses of the Gilded Age, vast estates belonging to the
Goulds, the Guggenheims, the Astors and the Vanderbilts.
Flashier money was
there, as well. Hollywood was in its infancy, so New York City was still the
center of the entertainment world. Eddie Cantor, Ed Wynn, Groucho Marx and
Samuel Goldwyn all had houses on the Gold Coast.
There were also a
few mobsters throwing around their ill-gotten gains from bootlegging.
Never a couple to
miss a party, Scott and Zelda mingled with everyone, drinking Champagne,
splashing about in pools, playing lawn tennis and having flings.
It was in this
atmosphere of money — old and new, elegant and garish — that the idea for
Fitzgerald’s most celebrated novel, “The Great Gatsby,” took shape.
The Fitzgerald
house is up for sale for $2.999 million. It’s been expanded over the years, but
it still looks like it did in 1922.
The Gold Coast
itself does not. What was once a pastoral escape for the superrich has become a
sprawling suburb, with condominiums occupying tracts of land that were once
polo fields.
But the geography
is the same, and here and there you can catch glimpses of places that may have
inspired “The Great Gatsby.”
Fitzgerald
famously named the two peninsulas that jet out into the Long Island Sound “East
Egg” and “West Egg.”
He liked the word
egg, calling friends “colossal eggs” and enemies “unspeakable eggs,” writes
biographer Jeffrey Meyers.
East Egg — where
the old money lives in the novel — is Sands Point on the Port Washington
peninsula. West Egg — where Jay Gatsby, emblematic of new money, has his
mansion — is Kings Point on the Great Neck peninsula.
“The North Shore
colony developed because of its easy access to New York City,” says historian
Paul Mateyunas, author of “Long Island’s Gold Coast.” The Fitzgeralds’ Great
Neck house is within walking distance of the Long Island Rail Road station.
“It was untouched
by industry, so if you were rich, you had rolling hills for fox hunting and
deep harbors for your boat.”
The best way to
see the mansions on both peninsulas is from the Manhasset Bay. I took the Great
Gatsby Boat Tour, which is led by amateur “Gatsby” historian Eleanor Cox.
A few old-money
mansions are still standing on the Port Washington side. Jock Whitney’s massive
hunting lodge is intact. The enormous window on the top floor looks into what
was once his trophy room.
An elegant white
house with dormer windows is thought to have inspired Tom and Daisy Buchanan’s
mansion. The ceiling in the main room, says Cox, resembles the “frosted wedding
cake of a ceiling” Fitzgerald describes in the novel.
The flashy
mansions are on the Great Neck side. And most of them are ghastly. One
belonging to a doctor looks, as Cox puts it, as if it’s made out of tongue
depressors. Another, a sprawling amalgam of clashing French styles, could
belong to a James Bond villain.
It has underground
parking for 30 cars, yellow Lamborghinis, no doubt.
If you’re looking
for the house that inspired Jay Gatsby’s party mansion, you’re out of luck. As
Mateyunas points out, the house was a composite of several estates Fitzgerald
would have visited, on both sides of the bay and in other towns along the Gold
Coast.
Beacon Towers on
Sands Point, which was owned by Alva Vanderbilt Belmont, is thought to be one
of his inspirations. All that’s left of it are the garage and the gates.
Another possible
inspiration, Oheka Castle — with 127 rooms, the second-largest private home in
America when it was built in 1919 — is still standing, though it’s a few miles
east, in Huntington.
Built for Otto
Kahn, it was the site of many celebrated Gilded Age parties. Although there is
no record of Fitzgerald ever having attended any of them, he would have been
familiar with the house through newspaper reports, says Mateyunas.
Very Gatsby-ish,
it’s now a fancy hotel.
One of the
best-preserved Gilded Age mansions is Falaise in Sands Point. Modeled on a
French country manor, it was built by Harry F. Guggenheim in 1923. Charles
Lindbergh, one of Guggenheim’s close friends, was a frequent guest. His station
wagon is still in the garage.
Guggenheim died in
1971, leaving the house and most of its contents to Nassau County. It’s now a
museum, and well worth a visit, though it’s doubtful Fitzgerald ever set foot
in it.
The Fitzgeralds
only lived in Great Neck for two years. Once again, their spending habits — and
partying — caught up with them. Fitzgerald put all his “eggs,” East and West,
in one basket, hoping that his Broadway-bound play “The Vegetable” would be a
hit.
When it flopped,
he “was forced to go on the wagon and write himself out of debt,” writes
biographer Meyers. He retreated to an unheated room above the garage at 6
Gateway Drive and churned out indifferent articles for popular magazines of the
day.
In 1924, he and
Zelda sailed to the French Riviera, which, improbable as it seems today, was
cheaper than Great Neck.
And it was there
that he fashioned his impressions of the Gold Coast and its privileged
partygoers into “The Great Gatsby.”
GOOD WORDS TO HAVE
Umbra \UM-bruh\ 1: a shaded area 2 a:
a conical shadow excluding all light from a given source; specifically:
the conical part of the shadow of a celestial body excluding all light from the
primary source. The Latin word umbra ("shade, shadow") has given
English a range of words in addition to umbra itself. An umbrella can provide
us with shade from the sun. So can an umbrageous tree—in this case, umbrageous
means "affording shade." The connection to shade or shadow in other
umbra words is less obvious. When we say someone takes umbrage, we mean they
take offense, but in times past people used the word as a synonym of shade or
shadow. Those two senses of umbrage influenced umbrageous, which can mean
"inclined to take offense easily" as well as "affording
shade."
Dubious \DOO-bee-us\
1 a: of doubtful promise or
outcome
b:questionable or suspect as to
true nature or quality
2: unsettled in opinion :
doubtful
Dubious derives from the Latin
verb dubare, meaning "to hesitate in choice of opinions or courses," and
it is related to the Latin word for "two": duo. Dubious can be used
to indicate uncertainty about the result of an action or the truth of a
statement as well as about the uncertainty of a person and his or her
character. In either case, it usually implies a feeling of doubt from
suspicion, mistrust, or hesitation.
I LOVE BLACK AND WHITE PHOTOS FROM FILM..............
“A flower does not think of competing to the
flower next to it. It just blooms.” Sensei
Ogui, Zen Shin Talks
HERE'S SOME GREAT ART FOR YOU TO LOOK AT............................
Preoccupied by
her task of preparing a feast, the maid here seems unaware of the biblical
scene taking place behind her: Christ visiting the house of Martha and Mary. As
recounted in the Gospel of Luke (10:38–42), Mary sits down to listen to Christ
preach, leaving her sister Martha to prepare the meal; when Martha complains,
he replies that Mary has made the better choice. This moralizing lesson of
elevating the spiritual, contemplative life over worldly distractions tempers
the almost carnal sensuousness of the foreground scene, where Wtewael’s
extraordinary talent for depicting objects realistically is on display.
"Pleasure
and Piety: The Art of Joachim Wtewael " runs through October 4:
http://1.usa.gov/1RS555D. Joachim Anthonisz
Wtewael, "The Kitchen Maid," c. 1620-1625, oil on canvas, Collection
Centraal Museum, Utrecht, Purchase with support from the Rembrandt Society,
1999 Centraal Museum, Utrecht / Ernst Moritz
Albert Bierstadt's
"Buffalo Trail: The Impending Storm,” 1869.
By 1869, when he created
this idyllic view, Albert Bierstadt had made two extensive trips to the
American West. Based on views he had sketched during one or both of these
expeditions, the artist created this lush scene of buffalo peacefully making
their way across a river or creek against a roiling sky. Bierstadt's meticulous
attention to detail and texture, as well as his tightly brushed
technique—results of his early training in DĆ¼sseldorf, Germany—characterize
this bucolic, romantic scene.
Learn more about this work
at: http://1.usa.gov/1gDBVf6.
Albert Bierstadt,
"Buffalo Trail: The Impending Storm," 1869, oil on canvas, National
Gallery of Art, Washington, Corcoran Collection (Museum Purchase, through the
gift of Mr. and Mrs. Lansdell K. Christie)
So you trust Iran
to make an honest deal?
In 1994 Iran
directed the bombing on the AsociaciĆ³n Mutual Israelita Argentina (AMIA;
Argentine Israelite Mutual Association) building in Buenos Aires that killed 85
people and injured hundreds more.
On October 25,
2006, Argentine prosecutors Alberto Nisman and Marcelo MartĆnez Burgos formally
accused the government of Iran of directing the bombing, and the Hezbollah
militia of carrying it out.
The prosecutor, Alberto
Nisman, was killed on the eve of testifying about a secret Argentine government
deal with Iran to kill the investigation into the bombing. Nisman had laid out
a 375 page report detailing how the Argentine government had sought the
arrangement as part of a trade pact with Iran.
So the Iranians
murdered 89 Jews, maimed 100 others, tried to bribe a government into not
investigation the murders and then killed the prosecutor who tried to bring
them to justice.
Alberto Nisman, Argentine Prosecutor, Was Killed, His Ex-Wife Says
By JONATHAN
GILBERT
New York Times
MARCH 5, 2015
BUENOS AIRES — The
former wife of a federal prosecutor who died of a gunshot wound to the head
after making explosive accusations against Argentina’s president charged
Thursday that he had been murdered — reviving a bitter debate here over the
mysterious circumstances shrouding his death.
Citing a report by
investigators she had hired, Sandra Arroyo Salgado, a judge and the former wife
of Alberto Nisman, said at a news conference, “Suicide and an accident are
totally ruled out, so we can only conclude that Nisman was without doubt the
victim of a homicide.”
The official investigation
into Mr. Nisman’s death, which has shaken the country and turned Argentines
into armchair detectives, has yet to establish whether he shot himself or was
killed.
“Nothing allows me
to categorically assert today that it was suicide or homicide,” Viviana Fein,
the prosecutor leading the investigation, said Thursday.
Mr. Nisman’s body
was found in a bathroom of his apartment in Buenos Aires on Jan. 18, hours
before he was to appear before a commission to elaborate on criminal
accusations he had filed against President Cristina FernƔndez de Kirchner.
In a 289-page
complaint, Mr. Nisman accused Mrs. Kirchner of conspiring to shield Iranian
officials from responsibility in the bombing of a Jewish community center here
in 1994 that killed 85 people.
He contended that
the Argentine government had sought the arrangement as part of a trade pact
with Iran. This week, the prosecutor who revived Mr. Nisman’s case appealed a
judge’s decision to dismiss the complaint against Mrs. Kirchner.
Ms. Arroyo Salgado
said the investigation she commissioned had given “scientific rigor” to her
belief that Mr. Nisman was killed. She said she hoped the report would help
guide the official inquiry.
The judge
overseeing that investigation will consider Ms. Arroyo Salgado’s report when
evaluating all the evidence, said Martin Bƶhmer, a law professor at the
University of Buenos Aires.
Pointing to
evidence of homicide, Ms. Arroyo Salgado said that Mr. Nisman’s body had been
moved after his death, and that he had suffered “anguish” as he died. That, she
said, contradicted autopsy findings suggesting suicide. Also, the pistol used
was found on the bathroom floor.
Ms. Arroyo
Salgado’s comments come amid an onslaught of claims and counterclaims about the
events surrounding Mr. Nisman’s death.
A news agency
under the authority of a government ministry, for instance, wrongly said this
week that Mr. Nisman was drunk at the time of his death and reported that there
had been an open bottle of vodka in his apartment. On Thursday, it backtracked
on that account.
Mrs. Kirchner has
suggested that Mr. Nisman was killed after being manipulated by forces trying
to destabilize her government, and she has cast suspicion on a former spymaster
who worked with the prosecutor on the bombing investigation.
We Need
Optimists
New York
Times Op-Ed
Arthur C.
Brooks
MY wife, Ester, and I had just
endured a difficult parent-teacher conference for one of our teenage children.
It was a grades issue. The ride home was tense, until Ester broke the silence.
“Think of it this way,” she said. “At least we know he’s not cheating.”
That’s an optimist. We need more
optimism in America today — especially in our politics.
Are you an optimist or a
pessimist? At the personal level, optimism clearly seems superior.
Psychologists find that optimists generally enjoy better physical health than
pessimists, and a greater ability to cope with setbacks. Optimists are happier
than pessimists, as a rule.
On the other hand, optimism is
not without cost. Research shows that optimists are more likely than pessimists
to keep gambling after losing money. Optimism bias can be a contributing factor
in car accidents, as drivers overrate their own abilities. Playing down the
probability of disaster can lead us astray in other situations where assessing
risk is vital, like choosing a profession or selecting a mate
Optimism and pessimism have
always competed in the American character. Think of it as Horatio Alger versus
the Zombie Apocalypse.
On one hand, rags-to-riches
confidence has always drawn entrepreneurs and immigrants to our shores and
captured the popular imagination. The American attitude that all will be well
often amazes our European friends — and not always in a positive way. In The
New York Times in 2003, a former adviser to the president of France derisively
declared that, “The United States compensates for its shortsightedness, its
tendency to improvise, with an altogether biblical self-assurance in its
transcendent destiny.”
But at the same time, Americans
have often been attracted to apocalyptic predictions. In 1988, for example, a
former NASA engineer named Edgar C. Whisenant published a book titled “88
Reasons Why the Rapture Will Be in 1988.” Scoff if you want; it sold millions
of copies. When 1988 came and went and the end times did not materialize, Mr.
Whisenant updated his prediction to 1989. And then 1993 and 1994.
While the citizenry may
vacillate, leaders generally have to select one disposition or the other.
Pessimism arouses fear and anger, while optimism inspires hope. Hope can
accompany fear in times of extraordinary sacrifice (such as war), but this is
rare. As a practical matter, a leader must choose.
Look beneath the platitudes that
every candidate recites, and you’ll find politicians on both sides. Among both
liberals and conservatives, there have been true optimists — like Presidents
Reagan and Clinton — who seemed to exude faith in and affection for the
American people. In recent times, however, right and left have more often
produced competing pessimists who insist that the country is going down the
tubes, the citizens are being stepped on, and everyone ought to be taking up
torches and pitchforks.
“This is the most important
presidential election of our lifetimes,” we hear year after year. If the other
side wins, we can practically expect a jackbooted thug and a knock in the
night. I exaggerate, but only a little. Witness the extraordinary political
negativity of the past three weeks from presidential candidates on both sides.
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Why on earth would a politician
choose pessimism? Because it seems the smarter bet for connecting with a sour
public. After all, the wisecracking cynic and smirking hipster are certainly
more emblematic of popular culture today than the cockeyed optimist.
And there is a tangible, growing
mainstream depression about the future of the nation that seems ripe for
politicians to tap into. You simply can’t find a survey or poll that doesn’t
show this. For decades, for example, Gallup has asked a large sample of
Americans their view of “the way things are going in our country.” Averaging
each month’s results for the year 2000, 37 percent said they were dissatisfied.
So far in 2015, that number is 69 percent. In 2014, a Wall Street Journal/NBC
poll revealed that 76 percent of Americans did not feel confident that “life
for our children’s generation will be better than it has been for us.” This is
10 percentage points worse than the poll had ever recorded.
But we are paying a steep price
for our politicians’ choosing the dark side. More than half of Americans said
that our last presidential election was too negative, and complaints about the
destructive, ad hominem discourse that dominates Washington have become a
national clichƩ.
Furthermore, in taking the
pessimism shortcut, our politicians are neglecting a major strategic advantage.
Business studies identify optimism as a core trait of the most successful
executives. And recently, social science has shown a big advantage for
optimistic leaders. In 2013, for example, Dutch researchers published a study
in The Leadership Quarterly showing that a positive, happy leader is judged to
be 132 percent more effective than a dour, negative one.
A positive vision requires the
hard work of winning over new friends, which means going where politicians have
not been invited, and enduring less-than-adoring crowds. This is much harder
than telling true believers what they already believe. But voters will reward
candidates who have the talent and perseverance to do this. This isn’t wishful
thinking or naĆÆvetĆ©; just look to history.
Take the case of Ronald Reagan,
the patron saint of the political party that most Americans currently see as
the more negative of the two. Conservatives revere Reagan, but frequently
misremember why he was so phenomenally effective. It was not a result of raging
against liberals or fighting against big government. Reagan’s success came from
his sunny optimism.
Reagan’s “Morning in America”
campaign theme is an obvious example, but his optimism went much deeper, to his
faith in Americans’ desire to fight for people. “Together, let us make this a
new beginning. Let us make a commitment to care for the needy,” said Reagan at
the 1980 Republican National Convention in Detroit as he accepted the
nomination of his party. “We have to move ahead, but we’re not going to leave
anyone behind.”
My own analysis of this speech
found that “people” is Reagan’s most frequently repeated word, uttered 38
times. When we add in all the specific people he is fighting for — “families,”
“children,” “the needy” and so on — the number more than doubles.
I was 16 years old when Reagan
was first elected. If I could have voted, I certainly would not have voted for
him. When I was growing up in Seattle, no one I knew could stand him. But his
optimism had an effect on me. Despite all of my biases and influences, I wanted
a leader with this optimistic attitude. Secretly, I was not sorry he won.
Reagan’s optimism should not be
understood ideologically; it was simply about people and our potential. He
possessed an unflinching belief that all people — the poor, children, the
elderly — were human assets, waiting to be developed so they could earn their
success.
In contrast, pessimists see people
as liabilities to manage, as burdens or threats that we must minimize. This
manifests itself on the political left when we construct welfare programs that
fail to boost unemployed Americans back into the work force. On the right, it
shows up in strains of anti-immigrant sentiment or throw-away-the-key criminal
sentencing.
Millions of Americans are
frustrated by the environment of competing pessimisms in Washington today. Some
say it is a result of the fact that the parties have never been further apart
ideologically. They hark back to better times when there was more overlap
between Democrats and Republicans.
I disagree. Maximum progress
would come not from convergence on an unsatisfying centrism, but from a true
competition of optimistic visions for a better future. Research suggests that
optimists can find solutions where pessimists do not. And while competing
optimists may disagree, sometimes fiercely, they don’t mistake policy
differences for a holy war.
But let’s say that competition
does not occur. What happens if one side unilaterally breaks out of the current
negative equilibrium? I predict it will see victory — especially if the other
side doubles down on pessimism and division.
Naturally, I might be wrong. But
I would offer a political version of Pascal’s wager to a politician who is of a
naturally Churchillian or Reaganite disposition: Let’s say you lose an election
because you were your positive and joyful self.
Hey, at least you weren’t
cheating.
Arthur C. Brooks is the president
of the American Enterprise Institute, the author of the book “The Conservative
Heart” and a contributing opinion writer.
Brooklyn Girl's
'Mysterious' Poem Inspires the World
Chanie Gorkin's
poem "Worst Day Ever?" can be read two ways.
By SIMONE WILSON
The Hasidic
community of Crown Heights, Brooklyn, has watched one of its daughters shoot to
international fame over the course of a week.
It all started
when Chanie Gorkin, who is apparently an 11th grader at Beth Rivkah High School
in Crown Heights, submitted a clever poem called “Worst Day Ever?” to
PoetryNation.com.
The poem reads:
Today was the
absolute worst day ever
And don’t try to
convince me that
There’s something
good in every day
Because, when you
take a closer look,
This world is a
pretty evil place.
Even if
Some goodness does
shine through once in a while
Satisfaction and
happiness don’t last.
And it’s not true
that
It’s all in the
mind and heart
Because
True happiness can
be attained
Only if one’s
surroundings are good
It’s not true that
good exists
I’m sure you can
agree that
The reality
Creates
My attitude
It’s all beyond my
control
And you’ll never
in a million years hear me say
Today was a very
good day
Now read it from
bottom to top, the other way,
And see what I
really feel about my day.
After the poetry
site posted Gorkin’s submission online, it quickly made its way across the
Atlantic.
Mashable reports
that London resident Ronnie Joice “spotted the poem tacked to the wall of a bar
in North London,” then posted it to social media.
Her piece has
since become a viral sensation.
Gorkin’s brother,
Shimon, posted a news story about his sister’s poem on Facebook. “That’s my
sister!” he wrote.
“So, my daughter
Chanie wrote this poem last fall as a school assignment and submitted it to
Poetry Nation,” wrote her dad, Baruch, in a post of his own. “In the last few
days the thing went totally viral, apparently after being pinned up on a wall
of a [London] bar... “
Gorkin has been
mentioned in quite a few Crown Heights newsletters and announcements over the
years, and her creativity seems to have amassed a fan base within her own
community, as well.
Salvador Litvak,
who blogs as The Accidental Talmudist, calls the poem a “spectacular meditation
by Chanie Gorkin of Crown Heights, Brooklyn.”
We’ve reached out to
Gorkin and her family to see how they’re handling all this love and admiration
flooding in from around the world.
THE OTHER DAY
SOMEONE ON FACEBOOK SAID TO ME THAT WE CAN’T UNDERWRITE EVERYONE'S COLLEGE EDUCATION THERE
ISN’T ENOUGH MONEY….OKAY, EXPLAIN THIS............................IF WE HAVE ENOUGH MONEY FOR THIS, WE HAVE ENOUGH MONEY TO EDUCATE OUR CITIZENS FOR FREE.
Feds spent $95,700
to adapt Shakespeare without words
By Elizabeth
Harrington
The federal
government has invested nearly $100,000 to bring Shakespeare to the stage—only
without the legendary playwright’s words.
The National
Endowment for the Arts (NEA) and its state agency the Virginia Commission for
the Arts has funded numerous shows from the Crystal City-based Synetic Theater,
including a production of Hamlet without words, making the title character’s
“To be or not to be” soliloquy slightly less potent.
The Wall Street
Journal bemoaned the dumbing down of Shakespeare, noting Shakespeare’s plays
“without puns is like French cooking without butter,” in a recent review of
Synetic’s adaptations.
“The latest
Shakespeare fashion, at least in the Washington area, is to invite people to a
feast of language and serve nothing but grunts, grimaces and grins—with a few
gyrations thrown in for dessert,” James Bovard wrote on Monday.
“The fact that
many Washingtonians consider Silent Shakespeare an improvement rather than an
oxymoron reflects unkindly on the capital’s cultural pretensions,” he added.
“But perhaps we should not be surprised that the city that pioneered
obfuscation is now exalting expunging English altogether.”
Paata
Tsikurishvili, Synetic Theater’s artistic director, says his inspiration comes
from Charlie Chaplin. The company received taxpayer dollars to put on a
pantomime version of Twelfth Night. The adaptation is set in the 1920s, and was
the tenth play of Shakespeare’s the theater group has adapted without words.
10 secrets to
happiness
By Pope Francis
Don't worry, be
happy - Pope Francis says secrets to happiness include parents spending time
with their children, caring for nature and building peace
1. Live and let
live. Everyone should be guided by this principle, which has a similar
expression in Rome with the saying, "Move forward and let others do the
same."
2. Be giving of
yourself to others. People need to be open and generous toward others because
if you withdraw into yourself, you run the risk of becoming egocentric.
3. Proceed calmly
in life; move with kindness, humility and calmness.
4. Develop a
healthy sense of leisure. The pleasures of art, literature and playing together
with children have been lost. Consumerism has brought us anxiety and stress,
causing people to lose a healthy culture of leisure. Time is swallowed up, so people
can't share it with anyone. Even though many parents work long hours, they must
set aside time to play with their children; work schedules make it complicated,
but you must do it. And families must also turn off the TV when they sit down
to eat because, even though television is useful for keeping up with the news,
having it on during mealtime doesn't let you communicate with each other.
5. Sundays should
be holidays. Workers should have Sundays off because Sunday is for family.
6. Find innovative
ways to create dignified jobs for young people. We need to be creative with
young people. If they have no opportunities they will get into drugs and be
more vulnerable to suicide. It's not enough to give them food. Dignity is given
to you when you can bring food home from one's own labour.
7. Respect and
take care of nature. Environmental degradation is one of the biggest challenges
we have. Isn't humanity committing suicide with this indiscriminate and
tyrannical use of nature?
8. Stop being
negative. Needing to talk badly about others indicates low self-esteem. That
means, "I feel so low that instead of picking myself up I have to cut
others down." Letting go of negative things quickly is healthy.
9. Don't
proselytise; respect others' beliefs. We can inspire others through witness so
that one grows together in communicating. The church grows by attraction, not
proselytising.
10. Work for
peace. We are living in a time of many wars and the call for peace must be
shouted. Peace sometimes gives the impression of being quiet, but it is never
quiet, peace is always proactive and dynamic.
I LOVE THE COLD
I AM NOT A SUMMER PERSON
Here’s a wonderful poem for you to enjoy………….
The Swimming Pool
By
Thomas Lux
The Swimming Pool
All around the
apt. swimming pool
the boys stare at
the girls
and the girls look
everywhere but the opposite
or down or up. It
is
as it was a
thousand years ago: the fat
boy has it
hardest, he
takes the sneers,
prefers the winter
so he can wear
his heavy pants
and sweater.
Today, he's here
with the others.
Better they are
cruel to him in his presence
than out. Of the
five here now (three boys,
two girls) one is
fat, three cruel,
and one, a girl,
wavers to the side,
all the world
tearing at her.
As yet she has no
breasts
(her friend does)
and were it not
for the forlorn
fat boy whom she joins
in taunting, she
could not bear her terror,
which is the
terror
of being him. Does
it make her happy
that she has no
need, right now, of ingratiation,
of acting fool to
salve
her loneliness?
She doesn't seem
so happy. She is
like
the lower middle
class, that fatal group
handed crumbs so
they can drop a few
down lower, to the
poor, so they won't kill
the rich. All
around
the apt. swimming
pool
there is what's
everywhere: forsakenness
and fear, a
disdain for those beneath us
rather than a rage
against the ones
above: the exploiters,
the oblivious and
unabashedly cruel.
POETRY
PICKS
Three emerging Indian women poets
with voices you cannot ignore
Often flying beneath the radar,
these poets are likely to be heard of widely, and soon.
Jennifer Robertson
Today, many eclectic Indian women
poets are examining the role of form in contemporary poetry. They need to be
spoken about and their work duly showcased. Here are three such writers:
Sohini Basak
For Sohini, poetry has been a
tryst with a series of astonishments. She confesses that she chronicles
everything obsessively till a poem is born. She's fascinated by trees, windows
and streets. She has a quaint kinship with poetry, and says that it all began
with writing rhyming verse about animals.
Sometimes
You Dream of Wolves Not Foxes
fur green
I watch your face emerge
at the
vanishing point of dawn
you tread
the dry river beds with ease
you have
crossed higher fences fir lined
valleys
blur with the sound in your throat
I claimed
this road but you made a bridge
this
earth is no longer mine nor wholly yours
could we
be both dew and gravel?
Sohini writes about animals with
the same “phantasmagoric and anecdotal impulse” of a Russell Edson poem, minus
the Ted Hughes bravado and bestiality. Could this be born out of a Jungian
impulse: dreams originating in the unconscious moving autonomously into the
conscious and external space of a poem? Her ruminations end on a timorous,
indecisive note: could we be both dew and gravel? Sohini says the poem was
partly inspired by WisÅawa Szymborska's poem, 'The Joy of Writing'
Mnemonic
It
started with matchboxes. On my first collectible I
Recall a
black ship sailing, so on the second, its twin found
En route
to school. I traded in duplicates. With time,
Memorabilia
changed to notebooks. I collected in between:
Eagle’s
feathers, shiny wrapping paper, phone numbers,
Magnets,
and all those letters addressed to you. Rhyming
Billets-doux,
confessionals, pieces of my mind and heart
Engraved
in red: ink feelings spilling over the borders.
"I’ve liked boxes since
childhood. I kept my wretched treasurThe word “mnemonic”, is for me synonymous with “The Kreb's cycle”. It reminds me of everything that is grade twelve. It's how one teaches oneself to learn; in the absence of a teacher, or a parent who sits with you while you do your homework. The word is also the story Memento Mori and Jonathan Nolan.
Sohini's poem Mnemonic opens with the word “matchboxes”. Nothing grand, nothing spectacular but just the arresting image of the sentence: It started with matchboxes. One would expect pyrotechnics after an opening like this.
But no. She goes on to talk about objects almost as stealthily as W.G. Sebald, including photographs: delicately, sumptuously. Sohini's assiduous obsession with collection of random objects, bric-Ć -brac, brings to mind the Polish poet Anna KamieÅska and her lines from the poem A Nest of Quiet: A Notebook:es in them, scraps, bits of glass. Then
letters, family keepsakes. But now there’s nothing good enough. Can you fit
love into a box? Even the final box can’t hold a person."
Sohini writes further:
"Realizing that age calls
for gravity, it was pebbles."
Pebbles! She pens this sentence
as a profoundly simple thought, almost as simple as a barn swallow caught,
mid-flight. I can't think of pebbles and stones sans the Beckettian genius of
Molloy – the stone sucking sequence: luminously absurd. Sohini gives us that
too.
Sacrilegiously
I have packed away the thingamajigs. In
Memories
I trade, to deserted islands I ship them away.
En fete,
I made a bonfire with the fire hoarded inside
Sohini Basak’s poems should be
read because she collects boulders and all things that have weight. Her poems teach you How Not to Freak Out When
You Wake Up Invisible. And you learn words like thingamabob. It's a win-win.
Read four of her poems.
Nandini Dhar
First, a candid statement from
Nandini Dhar posted on her blog about herself:
"I was a very political
person even then, leftist in a way that my views could never really be
comfortably accommodated anywhere in America– whether it’s a grad seminar,
graduate student hangout, community creative writing workshops. But I was yet
to be completely disillusioned by the dominant strands of US (neoliberal?)
identity politics. My understandings of race, gender, class and capital were
far more book-learned, tended to be in binaries, and shorn of the complexities
of lived experiences. I used to live in an organizational/collective void,
failed to find any viable political collectivity myself, and was using my poems
to fill up that void."
If Virginia Woolf were to to
participate in a television drama series like LOST, whom would she like to be
lost with? Who would have the authority to call her Mem-Sahib? Does Nandini
explore the same dissonance and smallness of gendered desire that Woolf was
interested in? Is Nandini simply tearing Woolf apart?
Sample these lines:
since
1835,
when
abhinavagupta, shudrak, and rumi were forced to sit
tight-packed
on a single shelf, leaving the rest of the world to alphabets
that
jumped out of ships and judge-sahib’s wigs, textbooks have perfected
the art
of making crazed scribbling-chicks look tame.
tame
enough to be tapestried into buttercream muslin pillow cases
tame
enough to be painted on jasmine-white schoolroom walls
And these lines where she
critiques the institution of marriage, cheekily calling it 'holy matrimony'.
you were
running,
your
skirt hitched up to your knees,
from the
very old man
with
scissors for clipping the wings of women
who build
abodes other than the ones thrust upon them
by holy
matrimony.
These lines remind me of Woolf's
first novel The Voyage Out and the text below:
"Marriage, marriage that was
the right thing, the only thing, the solution required by every one she knew,
and a great part of her meditations was spent in tracing every instance of
discomfort, loneliness, ill-health, unsatisfied ambition, restlessness,
eccentricity, taking things up and dropping them again, public speaking, and
philanthropic activity on the part of men and particularly on the part of women
to the fact that they wanted to marry, were trying to marry, and had not
succeeded in getting married. If, as she was bound to own, these symptoms
sometimes persisted after marriage, she could only ascribe them to the unhappy
law of nature which decreed that there was only one Arthur Venning, and only
one Susan who could marry him."
What I found rather interesting
is that through a vexed yet persuasive voice, Nandini's poem compels us to look
at diverse polar critiques of Virginia's work: Arnold Bennet, David Daiches,
Robert Stanley Martin and Naomi Black.
Divya Rajan
Divya lives in a Buddhist
monastery in an idyllic town, south of the Himalayas, inside her head. I also managed
to find out that she loves growing different varieties of mint, parsley and she
“pines for greens”. Her parents being avid readers, she learnt to devour
nutritional labels, newspaper wrappings and manuals. But her poetry is serious,
often cathartic and distilled.
"It
is said that the quintessence
of poetry
is a cold, dry, exhausted
universe."
- Inoue
Yasushi
What do you think of when you
hear the title Factory Girls? Not loo breaks and desiccated leaves borne by
acacias. Yet, Divya Rajan gives you exactly that. It is all Radiohead – think
of Radiohead's video for All I Need, MTV's exit campaign: the glacial distancing,
the aching capacity to embrace the ordinary.
Divya's poems are steeped deeply
in the wabi-sabi aesthetic. There is a deep sense of astringency and frugality
to her poetry. Yet, I find a deep sense of purpose; the kind that is
cultivated. I'm tempted to quote the lyrics of a Radiohead song and compare it
with her poem Factory Girls.
I am a moth / who just wants to
share your light / i’m just an insect / trying to get out of the night. Divya
Rajan is all Thom Yorke and here's why:
From
behind glass frames, scarred
with
moth- like mausoleum fires, we
pore at
tall steel buildings, megaliths
with
stretched spines,
new ones
preceding the old.
They kiss
the sky with corroded lips
the shade
of jaded gray.
She talks about the putrid
conditions of women working in factories with extraordinary humanity and
understated panache. The following closing lines are frightfully close to the
extended look at the sneakers at the end of the Radiohead video.
"We
work hard
to kill
people we don't know.
The ones
who can afford
to
die."
Divya Rajan's poem reminds me of
what Naomi Klein said: “Our economic system and our planetary system are now at
war. Or, more accurately, our economy is at war with many forms of life on
earth, including human life.Only one of these sets of rules can be changed, and
it’s not the laws of nature.” This poem compels you to reevaluate your loo
breaks and whom you think of when you visit your closest shopping mall, and
think hard.
"It's all wrong/It's all
right/It's all wrong."
The second poem that I'd like to
discuss is titled Brand Names are Important. Divya starts the poem with an
epigraph from the film Poetry:
“'When Alzheimer strikes, the
nouns are the first words to go.' That’s what the doctor tells the central
female character in Poetry, Lee Chang-dong’s poignant movie."
Divya is peerless in her knack
for chronicling unobtrusiveness, pain and rusticity. Sample these lines:
There was
a time when she’d ogle
At the
incongruities, disproportionate parameters, faded corners
Of the
used blender, dishwasher, coffee grinder, microwave, oven,
Appliances
on pitch granite. She’d touch the surface
To check
for grease, ready the ammonia solution.
Not
anymore.
Clutches
of the consonants, arching vowels
Into
strict oblongs. It’s important to tame the waywards,
They
don’t crack like consonants, fluidity begging
To be
reined in.
Hamilton
Beach, Frigidaire, Bosch, Kenmore.
Whatever
is repeated, thrives.
That’s
true for floss, and other things too.
Waking up
with dislodged memory, is a fear
She shall
not succumb to.
Forgetfulness
is a trait she shall not inherit.
This poem silenced me. That's
probably the greatest homage to be paid to stunningly adroit words put together
to make a poem as fascinating as this. I'll leave you with the same tranquillity
I experienced.
BLOGLAPEDIA’S BLOGS
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http://pulpfictiontrash.blogspot.com/
Admit it, you want to Read this Book (The art of Pulp Fiction covers)
http://goaheadadmitityouwanttoread.blogspot.com/
FILM
The Godfather Trilogy BlogSpot
http://thegodfathertrilogyblogspot.blogspot.com/
On the Waterfront: The Making of a great American Film
http://onthewaterfrontthefilm.blogspot.com/
FOOD
Absolutely blogalicious
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http://andiloveclams.blogspot.com/
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http://inpraiseoftherhodeislandwiener.blogspot.com/
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http://whickedcoolnewenglandrecipes.blogspot.com
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http://oldnewenglandrecipes.blogspot.com
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Foster Care new and Updates
Aging out of the system
Murder, Death and Abuse in the Foster Care system
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HEALTH
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http://mevsdiabetes-bloglapedia.blogspot.com/
HISTORY
The Quotable Helen Keller
http://thequotablehelenkeller.blogspot.com/
Teddy Roosevelt's Letters to his children (Book support site)
http://teddyrooseveltsletterstohischildren.blogspot.com/
The Quotable Machiavelli (Book support site)
http://thequotablemachiavelli.blogspot.com/
HUMOR
Whatever you do, don't laugh
http://whateveryoudodontlaugh.blogspot.com/
The Quotable Grouch Marx
http://thequotablegrouchmarx.blogspot.com/
IRISH-AMERICANA
A Big Blog of Irish Literature
http://abigblogofirishliterature.blogspot.com/
The Wee Blog of Irish Jokes (Book support blog)
http://theweeblogofirishjokes.blogspot.com/
The Wee Blog of Irish Recipes
http://theweeblogofirishrecipes.blogspot.com/
The Irish American Gangster
http://irishamericangangsters.blogspot.com
The Irish in their Own Words
http://theirishintheirownwords.blogspot.com/
When Washington Was Irish
http://whenwashingtonwasirish.blogspot.com/
The Wee Book of Irish Recipes (Book support site)
http://theweeblogofirishrecipes.blogspot.com/
LITERATURE
Following Fitzgerald
http://followingfitzgerald.blogspot.com/
Shakespeare
http://shakespeareinamericanenglish.blogspot.com/
The Blogable Robert Frost
http://theblogablerobertfrost.blogspot.com/
Charles Dickens
http://charlesdickensfan.blogspot.com/
The Beat Poets of the Forever Generation
http://thebeatspoetsoftheforevergenera.blogspot.com/
Holden Caulfield Blog Spot
http://holdencaulfieldblogspot.blogspot.com/
The Quotable Oscar Wilde
http://thequotableoscarwilde.blogspot.com/
NEW ENGLAND BLOGS
The Quotable Thoreau
http://thequotablethenrydavidthoreau.blogspot.com/
Old New England Recipes
http://oldnewenglandrecipes.blogspot.com
Wicked Cool New England Recipes
http://whickedcoolnewenglandrecipes.blogspot.com
Emerson
http://emersonsaidit.blogspot.com/
The New England Mafia
http://thenewenglandmafia.blogspot.com/
And I Love Clams
http://andiloveclams.blogspot.com/
In Praise of the Rhode Island Wiener
http://inpraiseoftherhodeislandwiener.blogspot.com/
Watch Hill
http://watchhillwesterly.blogspot.com/
York Beach
http://yorkbeachfortheblogofit.blogspot.com/
The Connecticut History Blog
http://connecticuthistory.blogspot.com/
The Connecticut Irish
http://theconnecticutirish.blogspot.com/
Good chowda
http://goodchowda.blogspot.com/
NOSTALGIA
God, How I hated the 70s
http://godhowihatedthe70s.blogspot.com/
Child of the Sixties Forever
http://childofthesixtiesforeverandever.blogspot.com/
The Kennedy’s in the 60’s
http://thekennedysinthe60s.blogspot.com/
Music of the Sixties Forever
http://musicofthesixtiesforever.blogspot.com/
Elvis and Nixon at the White House (Book support site)
http://elvisandnixonatthewhitehouse.blogspot.com/
Beatles Fan Forever
http://beatlesfanforever.blogspot.com/
Year One, 1955
http://yearone1955.blogspot.com/
Robert Kennedy in His Own Words
The 1980s were fun
http://the1980swereokayactually.blogspot.com/
The 1990s. The last decade.
http://1990sthelastdecade.blogspot.com/
ORGANIZED CRIME
The Russian Mafia
http://russianmafiagangster.blogspot.com/
The American Jewish Gangster
http://theamericanjewishgangster.blogspot.com/
The Mob in Hollywood
http://themobinhollywood.blogspot.com/
We Only Kill Each Other
http://weonlykilleachother.blogspot.com/
Early Gangsters of New York City
http://earlygangstersofnewyorkcity.blogspot.com/
Al Capone: Biography of a self-made Man
http://alcaponethebiographyofaselfmademan.blogspot.com/
The Life and World of Al Capone
http://thelifeandworldofalcapone.blogspot.com/
The Salerno Report
http://salernoreportmafiaandurderjohnkennedy.blogspot.com/
Guns and Glamour
http://gunsandglamourthechicagomobahistory.blogspot.com/
The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre
http://thesaintvalentinesdaymassacre.blogspot.com/
Mob Testimony
http://mobtestimony.blogspot.com/
Recipes we would Die For
http://recipeswewoulddiefor.blogspot.com/
The Prohibition in Pictures
http://theprohibitioninpictures.blogspot.com/
The Mob in Pictures
http://themobinpictures.blogspot.com/
The Mob in Vegas
http://themobinvegasinpictures.blogspot.com/
The Irish American Gangster
http://irishamericangangsters.blogspot.com
Roger Touhy Gangster
http://rogertouhygangsters.blogspot.com/
Chicago’s Mob Bosses
http://chicagosmobbossesfromaccardoto.blogspot.com/
Chicago Gang Land: It Happened Here
http://chicagoganglandithappenedhere.blogspot.com/
Whacked: One Hundred years of Murder in Gangland
http://whackedonehundredyearsmurderand.blogspot.com/
The Mob Across America
http://themobacrossamerica.blogspot.com/
Mob Cops, Lawyers and Front Men
http://mobcopslawyersandinformantsand.blogspot.com/
Shooting the Mob: Dutch Schultz
http://shootingthemobdutchschultz.blogspot.com/
Bugsy& His Flamingo: The Testimony of Virginia Hill
http://bugsyandvirginiahill.blogspot.com/
After Valachi. Hearings before the US Senate on Organized Crime
http://aftervalachi.blogspot.com/
Mob Buster: Report of Special Agent Virgil Peterson to the Kefauver Committee (Book support site)
http://virgilpetersonmobbuster.blogspot.com/
The US Government’s Timeline of Organized Crime (Book support site)
http://timelineoforganizedcrime.blogspot.com/
The Kefauver Organized Crime Hearings (Book support site)
http://thekefauverorganizedcrimehearings.blogspot.com/
Joe Valachi's testimony on the Mafia (Book support site)
http://joevalachistestimonyonthemafia.blogspot.com/
Mobsters in the News
http://mobstersinthenews.blogspot.com/
Shooting the Mob: Dead Mobsters (Book support site)
http://deadmobsters.blogspot.com/
The Stolen Years Full Text (Roger Touhy)
http://thestolenyearsfulltext.blogspot.com/
Mobsters in Black and White
http://mobstersinblackandwhite.blogspot.com/
Mafia Gangsters, Wiseguys and Goodfellas
http://mafiagangsterswiseguysandgoodfellas.blogspot.com/
Whacked: One Hundred Years of Murder and Mayhem in the Chicago Mob (Book support site)
http://whackedonehundredyearsmurderand.blogspot.com/
Gangland Gaslight: The Killing of Rosy Rosenthal (Book support site)
http://ganglandgaslightrosyrosenthal.blogspot.com/
The Best of the Mob Files Series (Book support site)
http://thebestofthemobfilesseries.blogspot.com/
PHILOSOPHY
It’s All Greek Mythology to me
http://itsallgreekmythologytome.blogspot.com/
PSYCHOLOGY
Psychologically Relevant
http://psychologicallyrelevant.blogspot.com/
SNOBBERY
The Rarifieid Tribe
http://therarifiedtribe.blogspot.com/
Perfect Behavior
http://perfectbehavior.blogspot.com/
TRAVEL
The Upscale Traveler
http://theupscaletraveler.blogspot.com/
TRIVIA
The Mish Mosh Blog
http://theupscaletraveler.blogspot.com/
WASHINGTON DC
DC Behind the Monuments
http://dcbehindthemonuments.blogspot.com/
Washington Oddities
http://washingtonoddities.blogspot.com/
When Washington Was Irish
http://whenwashingtonwasirish.blogspot.com/
FROM LLR BOOKS. COM
Litchfield Literary Books. A really small company run by writers.
AMERICAN HISTORY
The Day Nixon Met Elvis
Paperback 46 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Day-Nixon-Met-elvis/
Theodore Roosevelt: Letters to his Children. 1903-1918
Paperback 194 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Theodore-Roosevelt-Letters-Children-1903-1918/dp/
THE ANCIENT GREEKS AND CIVILIZATIONS
The Works of Horace
Paperback 174 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Works-Horace-Richard-Willoughby/
The Quotable Greeks
Paperback 234 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Quotable-Greeks-Richard-W-Willoughby
The Quotable Epictetus
Paperback 142 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Quotable-Epictetus-Golden-Sayings
Quo Vadis: A narrative of the time of Nero
Paperback 420 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Quo-Vadis-Narrative-Time-Nero
CHILDRENS BOOKS
The Porchless Pumpkin: A Halloween Story for Children
A Halloween play for young children. By consent of the author, this play may be performed, at no charge, by educational institutions, neighborhood organizations and other not-for-profit-organizations.
A fun story with a moral
“I believe that Denny O'Day is an American treasure and this little book proves it. Jack is a pumpkin who happens to be very small, by pumpkins standards and as a result he goes unbought in the pumpkin patch on Halloween eve, but at the last moment he is given his chance to prove that just because you're small doesn't mean you can't be brave. Here is the point that I found so wonderful, the book stresses that while size doesn't matter when it comes to courage...ITS OKAY TO BE SCARED....as well. I think children need to hear that, that's its okay to be unsure because life is a ongoing lesson isn't it?”
Paperback: 42 pages
http://www.amazon.com/OLANTERN-PORCHLESS-PUMPKIN-Halloween-Children
BOOKS ON FOSTER CARE
It's Not All Right to be a Foster Kid....no matter what they tell you: Tweet the books contents
Paperback 94 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Right-Foster-Kid-no-matter-what
From the Author
I spent my childhood, from age seven through seventeen, in foster care. Over the course of those ten years, many decent, well-meaning, and concerned people told me, "It's okay to be foster kid."
In saying that, those very good people meant to encourage me, and I appreciated their kindness then, and all these many decades later, I still appreciate their good intentions. But as I was tossed around the foster care system, it began to dawn on me that they were wrong. It was not all right to be a foster kid.
During my time in the system, I was bounced every eighteen months from three foster homes to an orphanage to a boy's school and to a group home before I left on my own accord at age seventeen.
In the course of my stay in foster care, I was severely beaten in two homes by my "care givers" and separated from my four siblings who were also in care, sometimes only blocks away from where I was living.
I left the system rather than to wait to age out, although the effects of leaving the system without any family, means, or safety net of any kind, were the same as if I had aged out. I lived in poverty for the first part of my life, dropped out of high school, and had continuous problems with the law.
Today, almost nothing about foster care has changed. Exactly what happened to me is happening to some other child, somewhere in America, right now. The system, corrupt, bloated, and inefficient, goes on, unchanging and secretive.
Something has gone wrong in a system that was originally a compassionate social policy built to improve lives but is now a definitive cause in ruining lives. Due to gross negligence, mismanagement, apathy, and greed, mostly what the foster care system builds are dangerous consequences. Truly, foster care has become our epic national disgrace and a nightmare for those of us who have lived through it.
Yet there is a suspicion among some Americans that foster care costs too much, undermines the work ethic, and is at odds with a satisfying life. Others see foster care as a part of the welfare system, as legal plunder of the public treasuries.
None of that is true; in fact, all that sort of thinking does is to blame the victims. There is not a single child in the system who wants to be there or asked to be there. Foster kids are in foster care because they had nowhere else to go. It's that simple. And believe me, if those kids could get out of the system and be reunited with their parents and lead normal, healthy lives, they would. And if foster care is a sort of legal plunder of the public treasuries, it's not the kids in the system who are doing the plundering.
We need to end this needless suffering. We need to end it because it is morally and ethically wrong and because the generations to come will not judge us on the might of our armed forces or our technological advancements or on our fabulous wealth.
Rather, they will judge us, I am certain, on our compassion for those who are friendless, on our decency to those who have nothing and on our efforts, successful or not, to make our nation and our world a better place. And if we cannot accomplish those things in the short time allotted to us, then let them say of us "at least they tried."
You can change the tragedy of foster care and here's how to do it. We have created this book so that almost all of it can be tweeted out by you to the world. You have the power to improve the lives of those in our society who are least able to defend themselves. All you need is the will to do it.
If the American people, as good, decent and generous as they are, knew what was going on in foster care, in their name and with their money, they would stop it. But, generally speaking, although the public has a vague notion that foster care is a mess, they don't have the complete picture. They are not aware of the human, economic and social cost that the mismanagement of the foster care system puts on our nation.
By tweeting the facts laid out in this work, you can help to change all of that. You can make a difference. You can change things for the better.
We can always change the future for a foster kid; to make it better ...you have the power to do that. Speak up (or tweet out) because it's your country. Don't depend on the "The other guy" to speak up for these kids, because you are the other guy.
We cannot build a future for foster children, but we can build foster children for the future and the time to start that change is today.
No time to say Goodbye: Memoirs of a life in foster
Paperbook 440 Books
http://www.amazon.com/No-Time-Say-Goodbye-Memoir
BOOKS ABOUT FILM
On the Waterfront: The Making of a Great American Film
Paperback: 416 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Waterfront-Making-Great-American-Film/
BOOKS ABOUT GHOSTS AND THE SUPERNATUAL
Scotish Ghost Stories
Paperback 186 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Scottish-Ghost-Stories-Elliott-ODonell
HUMOR BOOKS
The Book of funny odd and interesting things people say
Paperback: 278 pages
http://www.amazon.com/book-funny-interesting-things-people
The Wee Book of Irish Jokes
http://www.amazon.com/Book-Series-Irish-Jokes-ebook
Perfect Behavior: A guide for Ladies and Gentlemen in all Social Crises
http://www.amazon.com/Perfect-Behavior-Ladies-Gentlemen-Social
BOOKS ABOUT THE 1960s
You Don’t Need a Weatherman. Underground 1969
Paperback 122 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Dont-Weatherman-Notes-Weatherman-Underground-1969
Baby Boomers Guide to the Beatles Songs of the Sixties
Paperback
http://www.amazon.com/Boomers-Guide-Beatles-Songs-Sixties/
Baby Boomers Guide to Songs of the 1960s
http://www.amazon.com/Baby-Boomers-Guide-Songs-1960s
IRISH- AMERICANA
The Connecticut Irish
Paper back 140 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Connecticut-Irish-Catherine-F-Connolly
The Wee Book of Irish Jokes
http://www.amazon.com/Book-Series-Irish-Jokes-ebook/
The Wee Book of Irish Recipes
http://www.amazon.com/The-Wee-Book-Irish-Recipes/
The Wee Book of the American-Irish Gangsters
http://www.amazon.com/The-Wee-Book-Irish-American-Gangsters/
The Wee book of Irish Blessings...
http://www.amazon.com/Series-Blessing-Proverbs-Toasts-ebook/
The Wee Book of the American Irish in Their Own Words
http://www.amazon.com/Book-American-Irish-Their-Words/
Everything you need to know about St. Patrick
Paperback 26 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Everything-Need-About-Saint-Patrick
A Reading Book in Ancient Irish History
Paperback 147pages
http://www.amazon.com/Reading-Book-Ancient-Irish-History
The Book of Things Irish
http://www.amazon.com/Book-Things-Irish-William-Tuohy/
Poets and Dreamer; Stories translated from the Irish
Paperback 158 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Poets-Dreamers-Stories-Translated-Irish/
The History of the Great Irish Famine: Abridged and Illustrated
Paperback 356 pages
http://www.amazon.com/History-Great-Irish-Famine-Illustrated/
BOOKS ABOUT NEW ENGLAND
The New England Mafia
http://www.amazon.com/The-New-England-Mafia-ebook/
Wicked Good New England Recipes
http://www.amazon.com/Wicked-Good-New-England-Recipes/
The Connecticut Irish
Paper back 140 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Connecticut-Irish-Catherine-F-Connolly
The Twenty-Fifth Regiment Connecticut Volunteers
Paperback 64 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Twenty-Fifth-Regiment-Connecticut-Volunteers-Rebellion
The Life of James Mars
Paperback 54 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Life-James-Mars-Slave-Connecticut
Stories of Colonial Connecticut
Paperback 116 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Stories-Colonial-Connnecticut-Caroline-Clifford
What they Say in Old New England
Paperback 194 pages
http://www.amazon.com/What-they-say-New-England/
BOOK ABOUT ORGANIZED CRIME
Chicago Organized Crime
Chicago-Mob-Bosses
http://www.amazon.com/Chicagos-Mob-Bosses-Accardo-ebook
The Mob Files: It Happened Here: Places of Note in Chicago gangland 1900-2000
http://www.amazon.com/The-Mob-Files-1900-2000-ebook
An Illustrated Chronological History of the Chicago Mob. Time Line 1837-2000
http://www.amazon.com/Illustrated-Chronological-History-Chicago-1837-2000/
Mob Buster: Report of Special Agent Virgil Peterson to the Kefauver Committee
http://www.amazon.com/Mob-Buster-Peterson-Committee-ebook/
The Mob Files. Guns and Glamour: The Chicago Mob. A History. 1900-2000
http://www.amazon.com/Mob-Files-Guns-Glamour-ebook/
Shooting the Mob: Organized crime in photos. Crime Boss Tony Accardo
http://www.amazon.com/Shooting-Mob-Organized-photos-Accardo/
Shooting the Mob: Organized Crime in Photos: The Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre.
http://www.amazon.com/Shooting-Mob-Organized-Valentines-Massacre
The Life and World of Al Capone in Photos
http://www.amazon.com/Life-World-Al-Capone
AL CAPONE: The Biography of a Self-Made Man.: Revised from the 0riginal 1930 edition.Over 200 new photographs
Paperback: 340 pages
http://www.amazon.com/CAPONE-Biography-Self-Made-Over-photographs
Whacked. One Hundred Years Murder and Mayhem in the Chicago Outfit
Paperback: 172 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Whacked-Hundred-Murder-Mayhem-Chicago/
Las Vegas Organized Crime
The Mob in Vegas
http://www.amazon.com/Mob-Files-Vegas-ebook
Bugsy & His Flamingo: The Testimony of Virginia Hill
http://www.amazon.com/Bugsy-His-Flamingo-Testimony-Virginia/
Testimony by Mobsters Lewis McWillie, Joseph Campisi and Irwin Weiner (The Mob Files Series)
http://www.amazon.com/The-Kennedy-Assassination-Ruby-Testimony-ebook
Rattling the Cup on Chicago Crime.
Paperback 264 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Rattling-Cup-Chicago-Crime-Abridged
The Life and Times of Terrible Tommy O’Connor.
Paperback 94 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Life-Times-Terrible-Tommy-OConnor
The Mob, Sam Giancana and the overthrow of the Black Policy Racket in Chicago
Paperback 200 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Giancana-ovethrow-Policy-Rackets-Chicago
When Capone’s Mob Murdered Roger Touhy. In Photos
Paperback 234 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Capones-Murdered-Roger-Touhy-photos
Organized Crime in Hollywood
The Mob in Hollywood
http://www.amazon.com/Mob-Files-Hollywood-ebook/
The Bioff Scandal
Paperback 54 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Bioff-Scandal-Shakedown-Hollywood-Studios
Organized Crime in New York
Joe Pistone’s war on the mafia
http://www.amazon.com/Joe-Petrosinos-War-Mafia-Files/
Mob Testimony: Joe Pistone, Michael Scars DiLeonardo, Angelo Lonardo and others
http://www.amazon.com/Mob-Testimony-DiLeonardo-testimony-Undercover/
The New York Mafia: The Origins of the New York Mob
http://www.amazon.com/The-New-York-Mafia-Origins
The New York Mob: The Bosses
http://www.amazon.com/The-New-York-Mob-Bosses/
Organized Crime 25 Years after Valachi. Hearings before the US Senate
http://www.amazon.com/Organized-Crime-Valachi-Hearings-ebook
Shooting the mob: Dutch Schultz
http://www.amazon.com/Shooting-Mob-Organized-Photographs-Schultz
Gangland Gaslight: The Killing of Rosy Rosenthal. (Illustrated)
http://www.amazon.com/Gangland-Gaslight-Killing-Rosenthal-Illustrated/
Early Street Gangs and Gangsters of New York City
Paperback 382 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Early-Street-Gangs-Gangsters-York
THE RUSSIAN MOBS
The Russian Mafia in America
http://www.amazon.com/The-Russian-Mafia-America-ebook/
The Threat of Russian Organzied Crime
Paperback 192 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Threat-Russian-Organized-Crime-photographs-ebook
Organized Crime/General
Best of Mob Stories
http://www.amazon.com/Files-Series-Illustrated-Articles-Organized-Crime/
Best of Mob Stories Part 2
http://www.amazon.com/Series-Illustrated-Articles-Organized-ebook/
Illustrated-Book-Prohibition-Gangsters
http://www.amazon.com/Illustrated-Book-Prohibition-Gangsters-ebook
Mob Recipes to Die For. Meals and Mobsters in Photos
http://www.amazon.com/Recipes-For-Meals-Mobsters-Photos
More Mob Recipes to Die For. Meals and Mobs
http://www.amazon.com/More-Recipes-Meals-Mobsters-Photos
The New England Mafia
http://www.amazon.com/The-New-England-Mafia-ebook
Shooting the mob. Organized crime in photos. Dead Mobsters, Gangsters and Hoods.
http://www.amazon.com/Shooting-mob-Organized-photos-Mobsters-Gangsters/
The Salerno Report: The Mafia and the Murder of President John F. Kennedy
http://www.amazon.com/The-Salerno-Report-President-ebook/
The Mob Files: Mob Wars. "We only kill each other"
http://www.amazon.com/The-Mob-Files-Wars-other/
The Mob across America
http://www.amazon.com/The-Files-Across-America-ebook/
The US Government’s Time Line of Organzied Crime 1920-1987
http://www.amazon.com/GOVERNMENTS-ORGANIZED-1920-1987-Illustrated-ebook/
Early Street Gangs and Gangsters of New York City: 1800-1919. Illustrated
http://www.amazon.com/Gangsters-1800-1919-Illustrated-Street-ebook/
The Mob Files: Mob Cops, Lawyers and Informants and Fronts
http://www.amazon.com/The-Mob-Files-Informants-ebook/
Gangster Quotes: Mobsters in their own words. Illustrated
Paperback: 128 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Gangsters-Quotes-Mobsters-words-Illustrated/
The Book of American-Jewish Gangsters: A Pictorial History.
Paperback: 436 pages
http://www.amazon.com/The-Book-American-Jewish-Gangsters-Pictorial/
The Mob and the Kennedy Assassination
Paperback 414 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Mob-Kennedy-Assassination-Ruby-Testimony-Mobsters
BOOKS ABOUT THE OLD WEST
The Last Outlaw: The story of Cole Younger, by Himself
Paperback 152 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Last-Outlaw-Story-Younger-Himself
BOOKS ON PHOTOGRAPHY
Chicago: A photographic essay.
Paperback: 200 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Chicago-Photographic-Essay-William-Thomas
STAGE PLAYS
Boomers on a train: A ten minute play
Paperback 22 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Boomers-train-ten-minute-Play-ebook
Four Short Plays
By John William Tuohy
http://www.amazon.com/Four-Short-Plays-William-Tuohy
Four More Short Plays
By John William Tuohy
http://www.amazon.com/Four-Short-Plays-William-Tuohy/
High and Goodbye: Everybody gets the Timothy Leary they deserve. A full length play
By John William Tuohy
http://www.amazon.com/High-Goodbye-Everybody-Timothy-deserve
Cyberdate. An Everyday Love Story about Everyday People
By John William Tuohy
http://www.amazon.com/Cyberdate-Everyday-Story-People-ebook/
The Dutchman's Soliloquy: A one Act Play based on the factual last words of Gangster Dutch Schultz.
By John William Tuohy
http://www.amazon.com/Dutchmans-Soliloquy-factual-Gangster-Schultz/
Fishbowling on The Last Words of Dutch Schultz: Or William S. Burroughs intersects with Dutch Schultz
Print Length: 57 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Fishbowling-Last-Words-Dutch-Schultz-ebook/
American Shakespeare: August Wilson in his own words. A One Act Play
By John William Tuohy
http://www.amazon.com/American-Shakespeare-August-Wilson-ebook
She Stoops to Conquer
http://www.amazon.com/She-Stoops-Conquer-Oliver-Goldsmith/
The Seven Deadly Sins of Gilligan’s Island: A ten minute play
Print Length: 14 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Seven-Deadly-Gilligans-Island-minute-ebook/
BOOKS ABOUT VIRGINIA
OUT OF CONTROL: An Informal History of the Fairfax County Police
http://www.amazon.com/Control-Informal-History-Fairfax-Police/
McLean Virginia. A short informal history
http://www.amazon.com/McLean-Virginia-Short-Informal-History/
THE QUOTABLE SERIES
The Quotable Emerson: Life lessons from the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson: Over 300 quotes
http://www.amazon.com/The-Quotable-Emerson-lessons-quotes
The Quotable John F. Kennedy
http://www.amazon.com/The-Quotable-John-F-Kennedy/
The Quotable Oscar Wilde
http://www.amazon.com/The-Quotable-Oscar-Wilde-lessons/
The Quotable Machiavelli
http://www.amazon.com/The-Quotable-Machiavelli-Richard-Thayer/
The Quotable Confucius: Life Lesson from the Chinese Master
http://www.amazon.com/The-Quotable-Confucius-Lesson-Chinese/
The Quotable Henry David Thoreau
http://www.amazon.com/Quotable-Henry-Thoreau-Quotables-ebook
The Quotable Robert F. Kennedy
http://www.amazon.com/Quotable-Robert-F-Kennedy-Illustrated/
The Quotable Writer: Writers on the Writers Life
http://www.amazon.com/The-Quotable-Writer-Quotables-ebook
The words of Walt Whitman: An American Poet
Paperback: 162 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Words-Walt-Whitman-American-Poet
Gangster Quotes: Mobsters in their own words. Illustrated
Paperback: 128 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Gangsters-Quotes-Mobsters-words-Illustrated/
The Quotable Popes
Paperback 66 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Quotable-Popes-Maria-Conasenti
The Quotable Kahlil Gibran with Artwork from Kahlil Gibran
Paperback 52 pages
Kahlil Gibran, an artist, poet, and writer was born on January 6, 1883 n the north of modern-day Lebanon and in what was then part of Ottoman Empire. He had no formal schooling in Lebanon. In 1895, the family immigrated to the United States when Kahlil was a young man and settled in South Boston. Gibran enrolled in an art school and was soon a member of the avant-garde community and became especially close to Boston artist, photographer, and publisher Fred Holland Day who encouraged and supported Gibran’s creative projects. An accomplished artist in drawing and watercolor, Kahlil attended art school in Paris from 1908 to 1910, pursuing a symbolist and romantic style. He held his first art exhibition of his drawings in 1904 in Boston, at Day's studio. It was at this exhibition, that Gibran met Mary Elizabeth Haskell, who ten years his senior. The two formed an important friendship and love affair that lasted the rest of Gibran’s short life. Haskell influenced every aspect of Gibran’s personal life and career. She became his editor when he began to write and ushered his first book into publication in 1918, The Madman, a slim volume of aphorisms and parables written in biblical cadence somewhere between poetry and prose. Gibran died in New York City on April 10, 1931, at the age of 48 from cirrhosis of the liver and tuberculosis.
http://www.amazon.com/Quotable-Kahlil-Gibran-artwork/
The Quotable Dorothy Parker
Paperback 86 pages
The Quotable Machiavelli
Paperback 36 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Quotable-Machiavelli-Richard-L-Thayer
The Quotable Greeks
Paperback 230 pages
http://www.amazon.com/Quotable-Greeks-Richard-W-Willoughby
The Quotabe Oscar Wilde
Paperback 24 pages
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