John William Tuohy lives in Washington DC

Do your thing and excepts from four of my books

Writing is hard work that requires discipline and commitment for very little money...with that said this slime bucket company steals my work and the work of other decent, hard working writers and sells it on the internet through an off-shoe company...and they get away with it. 

The Mob Files
... files, Inc. Emblom. Reviews Author John Tuohy, of William Hanley, the .... bibliography, biography and community discussions about John W. Tuohy.

The Life And World Of Al Capone By John William Tuohy
John W. Tuohy: You Bet Your Life by Stuart M Mrs. William Randolph ... Dutch Schultz By John William Tuohy The Murky World of Joey Ep. By John ...
The Mob In Hollywood By John William Tuohy
Mob in Hollywood pdf by John William Tuohy uxwcdgg then you've come to the right website. We have. The Mob in Hollywood epub, pdf and kindle ...

Whacked. One Hundred Years Murder And Mayhem In The Chicago Outfit By John William Tuohy

by John William Tuohy vxkjisk in pdf format then you've come to the right website. We presented the full version of this ebook in pdf and epub formats.

People taking pictures of people: Chicago
 I'm an amateur photographer, I travel a lot so some years ago and I noticed that everywhere I went there was someone taking a photo of someone else. It's part of the human condition and I think it’s fun so I started snapping pictures of people taking pictures. 

There is are a lot of courageous people in the world, you just have to want to find them.

Frances Kelsey, doctor who kept thalidomide out of US, dies aged 101

Canadian doctor refused to bow to pressure from makers of drug when she worked for the US Food and Drug Administration in the early 1960s

Saturday 8 August 2015 

Frances Kelsey, a Canadian doctor known for her tenacity in keeping the drug thalidomide off the US market, has died aged 101.
Kelsey died on Friday morning, less than 24 hours after receiving the Order of Canada in a private ceremony at her daughter’s home in London, Ontario.
Company knew risk of thalidomide six months before it was pulled, says book
 Kelsey was a medical officer for the US Food and Drug Administration in the early 1960s when she raised concerns about thalidomide, a drug that was being used in other countries to treat morning sickness and insomnia in pregnant women.
After the sedative was prescribed beginning in 1950, thousands of children whose mothers took the drug were born with abnormally short limbs and in some cases without any arms, legs or hips. The birth defects were reported in Europe, Australia, Canada and Japan.
Despite pressure from the makers of thalidomide to approve the drug in the US, Kelsey refused.
In 1960, Kelsey was hired by the FDA in Washington, D.C. At that time, she "was one of only seven full-time and four young part-time physicians reviewing drugs" for the FDA. One of her first assignments at the FDA was to review an application by Richardson Merrell for the drug thalidomide (under the tradename Kevadon) as a tranquilizer and painkiller with specific indications to prescribe the drug to pregnant women for morning sickness. Even though it had already been approved in Canada and more than 20 European and African countries, she withheld approval for the drug and requested further studies.
 Despite pressure from thalidomide's manufacturer, Kelsey persisted in requesting additional information to explain an English study that documented a nervous system side effect.
Kelsey's insistence that the drug should be fully tested prior to approval was vindicated when the births of deformed infants in Europe were linked to thalidomide ingestion by their mothers during pregnancy.
Researchers discovered that the thalidomide crossed the placental barrier and caused serious birth defects. She was hailed on the front page of The Washington Post as a heroine for averting a similar tragedy in the U.S.
 Morton Mintz, author of The Washington Post article, said "[Kelsey] prevented… the birth of hundreds or indeed thousands of armless and legless children." Kelsey insisted that her assistants, Oyam Jiro and Lee Geismar, as well as her FDA superiors who backed her strong stance, deserved credit as well. The narrative of Dr. Kelsey's persistence, however, was used to help pass rigorous drug approval regulation in 1962.
After Morton Mintz broke the story in July 1962, there was a substantial public outcry. The Kefauver Harris Amendment was passed unanimously by Congress in October 1962 to strengthen drug regulation.
Companies were required to demonstrate the efficacy of new drugs, report adverse reactions to the FDA, and request consent from patients participating in clinical studies.
 The drug testing reforms required "stricter limits on the testing and distribution of new drugs" to avoid similar problems. The amendments, for the first time, also recognized that "effectiveness [should be] required to be established prior to marketing." The new laws were not without controversy.
As a result of her blocking American approval of thalidomide, Kelsey was awarded the President's Award for Distinguished Federal Civilian Service by President John F. Kennedy, becoming the second woman to receive that award.
British Pathé released a film of Kennedy acknowledging Kelsey in a speech. After receiving the award, Kelsey continued her work at the FDA. There she played a key role in shaping and enforcing the 1962 amendments. She also became responsible for directing the surveillance of drug testing at the FDA.
Kelsey retired from the FDA in 2005, at age 90, after 45 years of service. In 2010 the FDA named the Kelsey Award for her, to be awarded to an FDA employee.
On Thursday Kelsey received the insignia of Member of the Order of Canada.
Kelsey’s daughter, Christine Kelsey, said the ceremony had originally been scheduled for September but was held earlier because her mother’s health was deteriorating.
Thalidomide lawsuits have been filed across the world over the years.
German thalidomide survivors continue fight for compensation
In 2010 the British government officially apologized to people hurt by the drug, after earlier agreeing to pay £20m (US$31m) to thalidomide’s victims. In 2013 a class action suit by Australian and New Zealand victims of thalidomide against the drug’s British distributor Diageo Scotland Ltd was settled for $89m.
Some victims have won compensation cases against drug producer Grünenthal Group’s distributors but the German company has long refused to agree to settlements. It officially apologised to victims in 2012.
The drug has since been researched as a possible cancer treatment.

Farewell to a hero……

Activist for Missing Students Killed in Mexico

His search for answers is over. Miguel Angel Jimenez, (Above in red)a community organizer who led efforts to find 43 students who disappeared last year, has been shot to death near the resort town of Acapulco. Jimenez — who had also established a self-defense group to combat drug cartel violence in the area — was found dead in his taxi near his home in the state of Guerrero, where at least 15 others were killed this weekend. The activist group he led found 129 bodies, most of which still await official identification.

Astronauts to Eat Space Vegetables for First Time

Our grandchildren will read this and think it was so charming. I remember when they put John Glenn into space, it was like the entire world held its breath (I met him, he was a smart, charismatic man)  

This meal won’t weigh them down. International Space Station residents today will chomp down on red romaine lettuce they planted there in early July. While a greenhouse has been in place since 2002 — earlier crops were sent to Earth for testing — this marks the first time astronauts have eaten vegetables grown in space. The team will use citric acid-based sanitizing wipes to clean the lettuce before enjoying the first fresh food they’ve had in months, and many hope this will help sustainable nutrition for long-haul trips blast off.

WHY THE WORLD NEEDS EDITORS.....................

Excerpt from my book "No Time to Say Goodbye: Memoirs of a Life in Foster Care.

Chapter Twenty Seven

I have come to realize more and more that the greatest disease and the greatest suffering is to be unwanted, unloved, uncared for, to be shunned by everybody, to be just nobody to no one. - 
                                                                      Mother Teresa

 I arrived at Mount Saint John in the usual style, sitting in a black state-owned sedan.
  My first and lasting impression of the Connecticut River Valley is its serene beauty, especially in the autumn months.  Deep River was a near picture-perfect New England village. When I arrived there, the town was a typical working-class place, nothing like the trendy upper-income enclave it became. The town center had a cluster of shops, a movie theater open only on weekends, several white-steepled churches (none of them Catholic), the town hall, and a Victorian library. It was small, even by Ansonia standards.
  Mount Saint John sits high on a hill at the edge of the town, surrounded by eighty acres of woods and fields, overlooking the Connecticut River and three hundred acres of marsh and meadows. A long and winding road leads to the school. The main building—the castle, we called it—was an impressive gothic structure connected to several other buildings.
  The school was founded in Hartford in 1904 as St. John’s Industrial School, a residential school for Catholic orphan boys in need of care. The Hartford property soon became too small as the number of children in need skyrocketed, and in 1908, St. John’s was opened at its present site in Deep River, the land donated by a local Catholic family, the Duggans. The school remained an orphanage until 1953 when Bishop Bernard Flanagan undertook substantial rebuilding and renovations at the school, adding dormitories, classrooms, and a gymnasium. In 1955 Flanagan brought in an enormous Scotsman from Canada, Father Kenneth Macdonald, to serve as the school’s Executive Director. He served in that position for thirty-five years.
  Father MacDonald was a more-than-competent administrator and he had a cold streak. He was amiable enough, but Mount Saint John was his life’s mission, and woe to anyone who interfered with his goals for the school.
  Mount Saint John, for all its many good intentions and high-minded ideals, was another glorified warehouse for broken and lost kids with nowhere else to go. When I arrived, the school intended for about thirty boys housed one hundred and twenty. They ranged in age from eleven to eighteen. Most were from the slums of Connecticut’s large cities and had bounced around in the foster care system before landing at Mount Saint John, which we always called St. John’s. For some it was as close to a home as they would ever have, and for others it was just another stopover on the way to someplace else. Regardless, St. John’s boys, including me, were the result of foster placement failures, but unlike me, most were streetwise, world-weary, mean, and completely untrusting.
  Overcrowded, understaffed, and offering marginal educational and medical solutions for the boys, it was right there in the middle of the mediocrity of care that was a  foster child’s life. In other words, it fit the norm for the foster care industry.
  The social worker drove up the long road to the school and we climbed out of the car, stopping for a second to take in the magnificent view. The social worker signed the papers and handed me off to the school. Then he was gone. I was on my own.
  A staff member took me to a dormitory and into a small room with two bunk beds. The staffer took the brown paper bags that held my belongings, spilled the contents out on the bed and rifled through them. He asked, “Any dope?”
  I was stunned. I didn’t know anything about dope, aside from what I had seen on TV. I felt the question was so ridiculous, I didn’t answer. He turned to me and asked again, “Any dope?”
  Later, I realized it was a fair question. Dope floated around the school because the boys would be sent from the rustic beauty of Deep River back to the vast slums of the inner cities loaded with marijuana, speed, acid and Quaaludes, and after a week returned to St. John’s laden with drugs.
  “No!” I said, “My God, no. I don’t know anything about dope.”
  He didn’t believe me.
 “Put your arms up above your head,” he said. “I gotta search you.”
  I did as I was told, as humiliating as it was, and he frisked me.
  “Okay,” he said. “You’re all right.”
  Then he reached into my belongings and took away my toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, soap, and my beloved Old Spice cologne.   
  “We’ll provide you with all of these things, except the cologne,” he said. “You won’t be needing that. Also, there is no homosexual activity allowed, understand?”
  My mouth went dry. I was too shocked and insulted to reply. My affliction made me push the tips of my fingers against the palms of my hands until they turned white.
  “Same goes with masturbation,” he added, and I turned red with embarrassment.
 “You share this room with three other boys. That’s your locker. Keep it clean and orderly. That’s your bed. Pull the sheets and pillow case on Monday and Wednesday and drop them in to the yellow laundry cart out in the main hall. Pick up your clean sheets and pillowcases before four o’clock on Mondays and Wednesdays. Drop your dirty clothes into the blue laundry cart every day. Pick up your laundered clothes from the laundry room—I’ll show you where that is in a moment—every Tuesday and Thursday, before four. Okay?”
  Still reeling from the dope and homosexual questions,  I nodded. “Yes,” I said. “I understand.”
  “Okay, good. Because we enforce rules around here. We have a merit system. You start out each week with forty merits to your credit. Every time you goof up, you get a demerit. More than ten demerits in a week and you get dorm restriction. You are to shower and brush your teeth every morning. Don’t shower, don’t brush, one demerit each. As I said, your locker is to be clean and orderly, otherwise it’s a demerit. Your bed is to be made every morning. Use a hospital corner when you make the bed. Do you know what a hospital corner is?”
  “No sir.”
  “I’ll show you,” he said, and he did, and when he finished he added, “And don’t call me ‘sir.’ I appreciate your good manners, but the guys who work here and live with you in the dorm are called prefects, and prefects are called by their last names, okay?”
  “Yes, sir,” I answered, learning later that “prefect” derived from the Latin word praefectus, and means, basically, to be in front and in charge.
  “Your shoes are to be polished once a month. Shoes are expensive, so keep them in good shape. You are to change your clothes every day. That includes undershorts and socks.” I thought, “Where in the hell am I that people have to be told to change their clothes?”  
  “The boys,” he continued, “line up for breakfast at seven and by seven we mean seven, , not one minute after. Don’t make people wait for you. Same goes for lunch. Lineup is at twelve sharp and dinner is at five sharp. Every night there’s a snack, milk and cookies. Other than that you are not allowed to have any food on your person or in your locker. Okay?”
  He smiled because he could see I wasn’t taking it all in. “All right, there’s just a little bit more, so hold on. This is a Catholic school, so Mass is mandatory regardless of your religious affiliation. Mass is every Sunday morning at eight. If you are Catholic, and you want any other sacraments or spiritual assistance, see Father MacDonald, our director. There is no swearing allowed anywhere on the campus.”
  He paused and looked around. “Let’s see, what else is there?” After a few seconds, he  added, “Oh, yeah, at meals you can take all you want, but eat all you take. Leaving food on your plate is five demerits. The dining hall is assigned seating. So is the chapel on Sunday, so you sit in the same place every time. Do you smoke?”   
  “No sir.”
  “Well, if you do, you get three packs a week; pick them up on Sunday at the prefect’s office.”
  He took my toothpaste, shampoo, soap, and Old Spice and walked over to a small sink at the end of the room and turning to me, he said, “Okay, one last time. Any dope?”
  “No sir,” I stammered.
  “Because if I pour this out and find something,” he warned, “I’m calling the state trooper.”
  He poured out the contents and then took me on a tour of the rest of the complex. There were three dormitories. The upper dorm was for young boys. The lower dorm, where I would live, was for boys twelve to fifteen years old. The upper and lower dorms were in what appeared to be a hastily built new wing attached to the main building. The third-floor dorm was in the old building and was for boys over sixteen.
 In the lower dorm was a long narrow bathroom with ten or twelve sinks and stalls. Directly opposite the bathroom was a shower room with no privacy barriers. In the center of the dorm was a large common area without furniture save for a few office chairs, a bent and worn Ping-Pong table, and a black-and-white television that I learned rarely worked. There was a general air of poverty and shabbiness.
   The prefects’ area was at the end of the common room and included an office, a single bedroom and a bathroom. Two prefects were on duty during evenings and one overnight. The school also owned several large houses down by the main entrance where otherwise the prefects lived, rent-free.
   All of the prefects were men. Virtually no females were on staff, or for that matter on the property at all, aside from the secretaries in the front office, whom the boys rarely saw, and the school nurse.
   The prefects were mostly recent graduates of New England Catholic colleges and most were very young, only a few years old than we. They were a decent bunch, for the most part young men from the upper-middle class trying to find their place in the world, while rejoicing that they hadn’t been drafted into the military and sent to Vietnam.
  Most had been hired because they had some sort of athletic background, because it was Father MacDonald’s theory that plenty of sports and physical activity cured almost anything. Others were hired because they had just completed their bachelor’s degree in social work or psychology. These were the prefects to be avoided. The jock prefects mostly left the boys alone. If a boy had no interest in sports, he was all but invisible as far as those prefects were concerned. But the therapist-wannabes jumped right on the over-analyze bandwagon, misdiagnosing the boys and adding to the labeling madness that dominates the foster care system.
   Of course, because they were men—especially men in a group of men looking after young men—empathy and sympathy were rare commodities and roughness and gruffness were commonplace, and they weren’t what the damaged kids at St. John’s needed as part of their daily routine.
   The ten bedrooms in the lower dorm, with four boys to a room, opened on a common area. The walls dividing the rooms were paper-thin plaster and plywood and painted a God-awful, depressing maroon.  There were no doors on the rooms or drapes on the windows. Privacy was nonexistent. We were not allowed to own anything that could not fit into our lockers, already crammed with clothes and shoes. It was pointless to own anything, anyway, because it was guaranteed to be stolen.
  The lack of privacy extended everywhere. We were never alone. We went to school together, ate together, and went to church together. We were not allowed off campus except on Saturdays, when we could walk into town and kill time, and there was a lot of time to kill at St. John’s.
  Each bedroom had four windows about six feet high. A pleasure in the warmer months, they offered a magnificent view of the river, but in the winter those enormous windows were a curse. The north winds sweeping down the Connecticut River or the south winds rushing up from the nearby Sound pushed right through those thin panes. There was no space heater on the dank tile floors, and no extra blankets were given out for the winter months.
   A small cross-hallway at the end of the upper and lower dorms was the general meeting place for the boys, because it was the only smoking area on the property. Cigarettes were given out for free, and almost all the boys over fourteen  smoked. After a while, I took it up as well. It didn’t trouble me that smoking can kill you. So can foster care, so big deal.
  The smoking hall connected to a longer hallway leading to the main building with the classrooms and the gymnasium. We boys seldom watched TV since most of our free hours were spent in the gym shooting hoops or lifting weights, especially in the winter. As a result, most of the St. John’s boys were healthy and strong, and a chubby kid was a rare sight. 
  The main building, the castle, was the chief operating area. In its basement was a woodshop and the laundry room, where we dropped off and picked up our clothes and bedsheets at a predetermined hour every week. If you missed your appointment, you had to wait a week to pick up clean laundry. It seemed like a harsh rule but it wasn’t, not really. The school was dealing with one hundred and twenty  boys, most from an undisciplined life with no schedules at all, and the rest of us, being boys, assumed that clean clothes appeared miraculously from the heavens.
  On the first floor was a tiny visitor’s room in an alcove, the business office, the head prefect’s office, meeting rooms, and the director’s dining room and private reception area. Down another long hallway were the industrial-size kitchen and the dining hall.
  We marched in lines to all meals. The food was served cafeteria-style. Tuesdays were always pork chops, Fridays were fried fish. The delectable Russian dishes that Helen had prepared and the succulent Sunday pork roasts were a thing of the past. But the school’s food was good and there was plenty. A prayer of thanksgiving was said before and after every meal. Because each dorm ate at specified times, we were given thirty minutes to fill our plates, eat and return our plates to the dishwashing room.
  We were required to eat three meals a day plus a light snack at night’s end. All this eating was new to me since we rarely ate breakfast in Ansonia and I stopped for lunch only occasionally. But the school was filled with kids who knew what it was like to be hungry, and when most of them ate, they ate in silence, rapidly, and hunched over their plates as if  protecting their territory. I can still see them today, and all these decades later, it’s still sad.
  The entire second floor was dedicated to the school’s director, Father Kenneth Macdonald. It housed his massive and imposing office, his apartment and our modest chapel.  
  After the tour, I was taken to my social worker’s office to be labeled. Each boy had an in-house social worker. The school didn’t make labeling a secret: In fact, they were very open about it, because the institution survived on federal and state funds that demanded concrete reasons for doling out hundreds of thousands of dollars in support of the school. So the boys were labeled, and each label was attached to a funding stream from the federal government. Some of the favorite labels were “dependent,” “neglected,” “status offender,” and the all-time favorite, “emotionally disturbed.” The inside joke was that none of these labels really mattered; it was a shell game in which labels could and usually were changed depending upon the state’s needs. That’s how it worked, and how it still works.
  I didn’t have a label on me before I left Ansonia, but I did now. Although I had never told the social worker about Walter’s madness, Walter assumed I had. I learned later that Walter and Helen had drawn up pages and pages of stories about me which all said the same thing:  I was a malcontent, prone to violence, who could not come to grips with the reality of my world. That was my label. You shouldn’t label people, because it ignores their humanity and makes no allowance for the long road they’ve been on, and labels aren’t real; they are representations of the different kinds of reality inside me and you. I’ll tell you this, much of the time the social workers who deal with foster kids don’t want us to be human. They want to be the humans and they wanted us to be the labels.
  Each boy was required to visit his in-house social worker each week, although all the boys considered it an uncomfortable waste of time and it really was. Seeing the social worker didn’t make anything better or worse. It was pointless, probably little more than a make-work project, because the social workers drifted in and out of the school on a revolving-door basis.
  On that first day, I sat in a small office in a comfortable chair that offered a view out  the window. The social worker, a man in his mid-thirties, was amiable and asked, “So, how are you getting along?”
  “Why do I have to see a social worker every week?”
His pleasant demeanor disappeared, and he leaned forward in his chair in a way that I took to be slightly threatening. To make sure I understood the message that he was the big dog in the room, he moved his foot in between my feet.
  “Do you have a problem with coming in here, John?”
  I had lived through eight years of Walter’s fits and wild-man beatings, so this guy didn’t scare me.
  “No,” I said, making sure I looked him dead in the eye. “That would be stupid, because I don’t have any choice in the matter, do I?”
  I waited for his answer. I leaned forward and he moved his foot.
  He leaned back in his chair and said, “Life will go a lot easier around here for you if you try to cooperate.”
  “I’ll do anything you want me to do,” I said. “I’ll say anything you want me to say.”
  “Why don’t you go to your dorm?” he asked, and stood up and showed me the door. 
   After a few weeks, I adjusted. That is to say, I became used to being institutionalized, in a place where they either kept forgetting your name or didn’t even bother trying to remember it. It was, in effect, a storage facility for teens lost in the system.
   I was having more and more of my affliction moments and some were so bad that I had to sit in a bathroom stall until they were over so the other boys wouldn’t notice my tics and nervous jiggling. Initially, there was only one way to survive in that place, and that was to disappear, to fade into the wallpaper and disassociate myself from the reality. And for a few months, that’s what I did. But eventually I got used to the constant noise, the sudden quiet, the regimentation and the non-stop schedule. It wasn’t jail, but it wasn’t not jail either. I missed Denny and my friends, and Helen and Walter, and my foster aunts and uncles and cousins. I missed Ansonia. I wanted to go, but I had no home to go to.
   I learned there was a power system among the boys in the lower dorm with large brutal streak of fear and intimidation in its underbelly. The strong survived, and all of it was unseen, willfully or not, by the prefects. The unspoken rule was that physical contact between the boys was forbidden, but terrorism was okay. Remorse did not exist.
  On the top of the power tier were the angry boys who insisted that the world step out of their path, and most people did. These kids were potentially dangerous because they were young, knew no limits, and had nothing to lose. Most had been born into violence and violence was their social mechanism. They seldom made eye contact and, as I learned quickly, it could be dangerous to make eye contact with them anyway. They were overly aggressive and hyperactive.
  In the middle were the boys who tested limits, the kids who bounced between submissiveness and being difficult for no apparent reason. At the bottom of the pile were the boys too small to fight or who were too afflicted with poor self-esteem to care enough to fight back. Almost all their faces were riddled with acne, and they carried themselves with the tepidness of beaten animals.
  Size and the ability and willingness to fight also had a lot to do with which tier a boy fit into. If he wasn’t willing to use his fists at a second’s notice, or simply didn’t know how to fight back, he immediately went to the bottom of the pile.
  Most of the smaller, weaker and younger boys were mortified into silence when they were pushed around or had their scant property stolen. They shut up and took it, lest they become someone’s next victim, somebody’s dorm bitch who would fetch their tormentors’ cookies at snack time, clean his locker, make his bed and fetch his laundry. There were stories about the boys’ shower room before the older kids were moved to a separate dorm. I don’t know if they were true or just urban legends, but the story went that some of the stronger older boys preyed on the younger, weaker boys during shower time while their friends kept an eye out for the prefect on duty.
  While I may not have been a bastion of good mental health, many of these boys were on their way to becoming crazier than they already were. Most couldn’t relate to other people socially at all, because they only dealt inappropriately with other people or didn’t respond to overtures of friendship or even engage in basic conversations.
  Some became too familiar with you too fast, following their new, latest friend everywhere, including the showers, insisting on giving you items that were dear to them and sharing everything else. They also had the awful habit of touching other people, putting their hands on you as a sign of affection or friendship, and for people like myself, with my affliction and disdain for being touched unless I wanted to be touched, these guys were a nightmare. It was often difficult to get word in edgewise with these kids, and when I did, they interrupted me—not in some obnoxious way, but because they wanted to be included in every single aspect of everything you did.
  The other ones, the stone-cold silent ones,  reacted with deep suspicion toward even the slightest attempt to befriend them or the smallest show of kindness. If you touched some of these children, even accidentally, they would warn you to back away. They didn’t care what others thought of them or anything else, and almost all their talk concerned punching and hurting and maiming.
  I noticed that most of these kids, the ones who were truly damaged, were eventually filtered out of St. John’s to who knows where. Institutions have a way of protecting themselves from future problems. 
  All these boys, these broken children, no matter where they fit in the dorms, were mired in various early stages of hopelessness, and with most of them, you just knew that this place—this holding cell for misfit toys—was the highlight of the rest of their lives.
  Foster care would teach these boys to endure, a good thing for them to learn because they needed it. But although adversity is a great teacher, it demands a high price for its lessons, and considering that most of their lives would end in misery, the lessons weren’t worth the price. After St. John’s they would drift back to the slums of New Haven, or Hartford, or Bridgeport, to continue the cycle of poverty. The odds were not in their favor. They wouldn’t finish school; they’d end up homeless for a while and in jail after that. Those were the certainties of their futures.    
  You could almost see the very profound and long-lasting consequences of neglect in these boys. Some, like the bottom-rung boys, were poorly physically developed or completely withdrawn and under-stimulated. Others could barely put a sentence together.
  And then there was I. It was only a matter of time before I would have to fight; all the new boys had to fight or surrender. I had already had several skirmishes with boys sent out to test my limits. And it was easy to find limits, because by then I had developed a God-awful temper and a propensity for explosive violence, my reaction to the stress of being a lifelong member of the foster-care system. That was a problem in St. John’s, where I was surrounded by one hundred and twenty  boys, many of whom dealt with the foster-care stress the same way: fight or flight.
  I was too young and far too sad and angry to understand that life isn’t supposed to be an all-or-nothing battle. In fact, life isn’t supposed to be a battle at all. I never received any counseling on how to deal with my stress other than through violence, because I seemed so outwardly calm. But I was ready, always ready, for the next engagement. In the short-lived Age of Aquarius in the late 1960s, the age of peace and understanding, I was preparing for Armageddon. I had already seen what appeared to be, in the reasoning of a boy with no adult direction, the positive effects of violence when I beat Biasuchi senseless and confronted Walter in the living room. You get treated in life the way you teach people to treat you, and in St. John’s how you were treated by others was of paramount importance.
  So I fought and I fought often and ferociously and developed my own category in the dorm hierarchy. If I were left alone I went along and got along, but otherwise I fought. It worked. I was left alone. It’s a hell of a bad way to spend a year of your teenage life. I was in pain, a pain created by my anger, and aside from the problems in the dorm, my anger was self-chosen and self-inflicted because it made every confrontation, every harsh word, an ultimatum. My violence made me forget who I was and it momentarily killed all of the finer things that I aspired to be. I hated having to fight and I hated what I became when I did fight.
  It all came from poverty, which is its own sort of violence. In the years to come, I would lose the chip on my shoulder. Either it got knocked off or punched off, or maybe I simply mellowed and took it off. But I went on that way for years and that behavior would result in dozens of burned bridges that make up the aches of my misspent youth.
  I began to spend more time in the gym, lifting weights and working out because I had to stay in shape. New kids came into the dorm every week as other kids left, and new challenges always waited around the corner. As I said, it’s a hell of a bad way to spend a year of teenage life.
  Other than bulking up, I had no end result in mind. I lacked the height and coordination for basketball, the only organized game the school offered, until the school hired a young man named Mike Rohde, later to become mayor of the city of Meriden in west central Connecticut. A handsome and charismatic man, Mike had been a college wrestler of some note, and after watching me work out in the gym he approached me and said, “I’m Mike Rohde. I’m thinking about starting a wrestling team here at the school. Are you interested?”
  I liked him immediately. He had an air of confidence about him, a sense of purpose.
 “Sure,” I said, “but I don’t know anything about wrestling.”
 “You can learn,” he answered. “Wrestling is the only sport in the world everyone can understand. It’s universally understood. You’ll get it; don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”
 “All right,” I said. “I’m in.” I would worry anyway. I was damned good at worrying, and I wasn’t about to give it up for a sport.
  Together we combed the dorms for wrestlers, and after a few weeks we had enough boys signed up to call ourselves a team.
 “Anybody can wrestle,” Mike told us. “It’s the only sport in the world that doesn’t discriminate. You can play no matter what your body type, height or weight—it doesn’t matter; there is a place for you in wrestling. You can win in this sport as long as you are tough and have the desire to win. Wrestling teaches lifelong lessons like self-confidence. When you wrestle, you can’t rely on anyone but yourself. You have to be accountable for your own successes and failures. Wrestlers have to be confident, with a positive attitude, and you have to carry that confidence and positive attitude on and off the mats. Wrestling will teach you to be physically and mentally tough. It takes a tremendous amount of toughness to pick yourself up off of the mat when you’re losing, and everybody loses sometimes in this sport.”
  These were the type of life lessons every boy in the school needed, especially me. I became an avid wrestler. It was the only sport I ever played and the only sport I could play well, and Mike was an excellent coach and a good and decent man. He found us a wrestling room in the basement, painted it and taped a paper sign to the ceiling that read, “Wrestler, if you can read this you’re in big trouble.” He paid from his own pocket for our weights, our mats, and our uniforms, and he dedicated three nights a week to us. He was one of the good guys in the system, and there were a lot of other good guys in the system just like him.
  As a private school, we were limited to wrestling at other private schools, but in Connecticut the other private schools were ivy-covered bastions for the children of the extremely wealthy.
  One school we played against was Kingswood Oxford School in West Hartford. Mount Saint John it was not. On the day of the match, we sat in our school van and gaped at the place. It was like visiting another world. The campus was magnificent. Everything on it was new and clean and bright. The students were handsome and polite and dressed in pink Oxford-collared shirts, pressed chinos and freshly-shined loafers. I had no idea that places and people like this existed.
  It reminded me of the rides we took with my father in the countryside outside Waterbury when I stared out the car window at the lush green trees and deep blue lakes and thought, “I want this.”
  The van was deathly quiet. Finally, Mike’s voice came from the front seat.
 “Old money,” he whispered. We didn’t know what that was, but everyone nodded in silent agreement.
  When we walked into the gym, one of the Kingswood Oxford students, wearing a blue blazer, approached us and said, “The match will be held in the wrestling room. If you follow me, I’ll take you there.”
  As we followed him, one of the St. John’s boys asked, “Why is he wearing a coat?”
  “Maybe he’s the mayor,” somebody joked.
 “The wrestling room,” someone else said. “We share the two mouthpieces we got, and they have a wrestling room.”
  “We’re gonna get slaughtered,” another boy said. And he was right; they destroyed us.
  After the match, the kid in the blue blazer came into our locker room and said, “We’ve arranged for tea in the sports hall, so please join us.”
  When he left and the door closed behind him, one of the boys asked, “Who the hell drinks tea?”
  “Why is he wearing that coat? It’s not even cold,” said another kid.
   Waiting for us in the sports room, a cozy wood-paneled chamber whose walls were lined with trophies for every conceivable sport, was a small table in the middle of the room filled with an assortment of finger sandwiches. After inspecting them, I found not a one of them contained Genoa salami or liverwurst or the other lunchmeats I was accustomed to. Worse yet, they were served on plain white bread.
  Our hosts, the home team, arrived and I struck up conversations with several. I noticed that they each possessed that sense of security that the makes the rich different from other people, and certainly different from the St. John’s boys. Money and possessions gave them a deep sense of being safe, and I envied them for that.
  “So,” one said to me at one point in our conversation, “will you be staying on the coast for the winter break?”
  “What coast?” I asked.
  “I just thought—” He realized what he had asked and whom he had asked and was trying to find a polite way out. “I thought, perhaps, you know, Colorado—skiing.”
  “Yeah,” I said. “More than probably be right here in old Connecticut.”


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.


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:

From Professor William Anthony Connolly

This incredible memoir, No Time to Say Goodbye, tells of entertaining angels, dancing with devils, and of the abandoned children many viewed simply as raining manna from some lesser god.
The young and unfortunate lives of the Tuohy bruins—sometimes Irish, sometimes Jewish, often Catholic, rambunctious, but all imbued with Lion’s hearts— is told here with brutal honesty leavened with humor and laudable introspective forgiveness.
The memoir will have you falling to your knees thanking that benevolent Irish cop in the sky, your lucky stars, or hugging the oxygen out of your own kids the fate foisted upon Johnny and his siblings does not and did not befall your own brood.
 John William Tuohy, a nationally-recognized authority on organized crime and Irish levity, is your trusted guide through the weeds the decades of neglect ensnared he and his brothers and sisters, all suffering for the impersonal and often mercenary taint of the foster care system.
Theirs, and Tuohy’s, story is not at all figures of speech as this review might suggest, but all too real and all too sad, and maddening. I wanted to scream. I wanted to get into a time machine, go back and adopt every last one of them. I was angry. I was captivated.
The requisite damning verities of foster care are all here, regretfully, but what sets this story above others is its beating heart, even a bruised and broken one, still willing to forgive and understand, and continue to aid its walking wounded. I cannot recommend this book enough

PHOTOS I'VE TAKEN................

                                                                         Georgetown DC
Georgetown DC
AU Park DC
Eastern Shore of Maryland
Mclean Va.

Washington DC
Way the hell down in southern Virginia someplace

Shepherdstown Wva

Below Tommy Touhy, Roger's older brother and chief of the mail robbery and gunmen squads. Tommy Touhy was a very dangerous man and far from the endearing character he is often portrayed to be

Alan Dorfman who arranged for the Teamster loans for Las Vegas. The mob later killed him in a parking lot. 
Paul "Red" Dorfman, Alan Dorfman's step father, Red Dorfman was a mentally unbalanced labor terrorist 

The photos below are of Al Capone, taken between 1928-1932. Most of the men in the photos with Capone are his lawyers.

This is a rare photo of Capone's scars given to him when he was a young hood in New York 

The photos below are of Chicago Mob Super Boss Tony Accardo

                                                      In the back of the photo seated alone

Below are photos of the Guzik Brother, one time pimps from Chicago's Red Light District , The Levee, Jake later rose in the operation to be Capone's numbers cruncher. He survive din the mob until the 1940 when he died (In the apartment building below)



Sam and Harry

Sam Guzik, pimp


Multifarious   \mul-tuh-FAIR-ee-us\: having or occurring in great variety : diverse Dictionary makers have dated the first appearance of multifarious in print as 1593—and rightly so—but before that time another word similar in form and meaning was being used: multifary, meaning "in many ways" and appearing (and disappearing) in the 15th century. Before either of the English words existed, there was the Medieval Latin word multifarius(same meaning as multifarious), from Latin multifariam, meaning "in many places" or "on many sides." Multi-, as you may know, is a combining form meaning "many." A relative of multifarious in English is omnifarious ("of all varieties, forms, or kinds"), created with omni- ("all") rather than multi-.

Saturnalia:  (sat-uhr-NAY-lee-uh) A time of unrestrained revelry. From Latin Saturnalia (relating to Saturn). In ancient Rome, Saturnalia was a festival organized in honor of the Roman god Saturn who also gave his name to the planet Saturn.

Abstain: to refrain deliberately and often with an effort of self-denial from an action or practice. If you abstain, you're consciously and usually with effort choosing to "hold back" from doing something that you would like to do. One may abstain from a vice, for example, or in parliamentary procedure, one might abstain from placing a vote. So it's no surprise that abstain traces back through Middle English and Anglo-French to the Latin abstinēre, which combines the prefix ab- ("from, away, off") with tenēre, a Latin verb meaning "to hold." Tenēre has many offspring in English—other descendants include contain, detain, maintain, obtain, pertain, retain, and sustain, as well as some words that don't end in -tain, such as tenacious. Abstain, like many of its cousins, has been used by English speakers since at least the 14th century.

Exungulate (ek-SUNG-uh-layt)  To pare nails, claws, etc. From Latin exungulare (to lose the hoof), from ex- (out) + ungula (claw, nail, hoof, talon, etc.).

Titanic: having great magnitude, force, or power : colossal. Before becoming the name of the most famous ship in history, titanic referred to the Titans, a family of giants in Greek mythology who were believed to have once ruled the earth. They were subsequently overpowered and replaced by the younger Olympian gods under the leadership of Zeus. The size and power of the Titans is memorialized in the adjectivetitanic and in the noun titanium, a chemical element of exceptional strength that is used in the production of steel.

Masticate: (MAS-ti-kayt)  1. To chew. 2. To reduce to pulp by crushing and grinding. From Latin masticare (to chew), from Greek mastikhan (to gnash the teeth). Earliest documented use: 1562. A synonym of this word is fletcherize.

Regurgitate (ri-GUHR-ji-tayt) 1. To bring up undigested food through the mouth. 2. To repeat something without understanding it. From Latin regurgitare (to overflow or flow back), from re- (again) + gurgitare (to flood), from gurges (whirlpool). Earliest documented use: 1578.

Infrangible    \in-FRAN-juh-bul\ 1: not capable of being broken or separated into parts 2: not to be infringed or violated. Infrangible comes to us via Middle French from the Late Latin infrangibilis, and it is ultimately derived from the prefix in- and the Latin verb frangere, meaning "to break." (Believe it or not, our break is ultimately derived from the same ancient word that gave rise to frangere.) Infrangible first appeared in print in English in the 16th century with the literal meaning "impossible to break"; it was later extended metaphorically to things that cannot or should not be broken.

Osculate: (OS-kyuh-layt) : To kiss., to touch or to bring together. From Latin osculatus, past participle of osculari (to kiss), from osculum (kiss; literally, little mouth), diminutive form of os (mouth). Ultimately from the Indo-European root os- (mouth), which also gave us usher, oral, orifice, oscillate, os, and ostiary. 

Euphemism:  The substitution of an agreeable or inoffensive expression for one that may offend or suggest something unpleasant; also : the expression so substituted. Euphemism derives from the Greek euphemos, which means "auspicious, sounding good."  The first part of that root is the Greek prefix eu-, meaning "good."  The second part is phēmē, a Greek word for "speech" that is itself a derivative of the verb phanai, meaning "to speak." Among the numerous linguistic cousins of euphemism on the eu- side of the family areeulogy, euphoria, and euthanasia; on the phanai side, its kin include prophet and aphasia (loss of the power to understand words).

GUARDING A FREE PRESS....................

Prostitution Charge Dropped in Case an Albany Journalist Called Retaliation
 AUG. 9, 2015

ALBANY — In March 2012, just blocks from the State Capitol, several law enforcement officers stormed into a second-floor spa and arrested a woman, accusing her of soliciting money for sexual acts. An invasive strip search was done, thousands of dollars were seized and the woman, Min Liu, was soon charged with prostitution.
But it was the woman’s employer at the Green Garden Asian Spa who provoked the uproar: Bin Cheng, the wife of J. Robert Port, who was the investigations editor at The Times Union of Albany.
Almost as soon as Ms. Liu was arrested, Mr. Port accused the police of targeting his wife’s business in retaliation for a series of articles he had shepherded into the newspaper that called into question the tactics and practices of an Albany County sheriff’s drug unit.
“I already knew that this unit was investigating my wife,” said Mr. Port, 59, who is also a former adjunct journalism professor at Columbia University. “I knew they were watching her.”
Ms. Cheng, 46, was not at the spa during the raid, nor was she ever charged with any crime, but the implication that she was involved in nefarious activities hovered over Mr. Port’s family, he said.
“This went on for three years, a cloud over a person’s head and a cloud hanging over my wife’s business,” he said, reiterating that he believed the arrest was related to “the work I was doing with the Albany Times Union investigating local police.”
A city court judge in Albany last week dismissed the charge, a misdemeanor, against Ms. Liu, after county prosecutors concluded that the case should be dropped “in the interest of justice.”
The order, by Judge Gary F. Stiglmeier, outlined the reasons for the dismissal, including the lack of witnesses “or other evidence of the defendant’s guilt,” other than the testimony of the city detective who alleged the crime. That detective, Scott D. Gavigan, had been working with the unit Mr. Port had helped investigate, and was in the spa with Ms. Liu at the time of the sting.

Ms. Liu’s lawyer, Kevin A. Luibrand, hailed the decision, which was made on July 28, as long overdue and said that his client — a 56-year-old Chinese immigrant and grandmother with no previous criminal record — had endured a cavity search during the arrest, and “continued to experience significant distress as a result of the charges,” including hindering her ability to find work.
In his legal filings and an interview last week, Mr. Luibrand said there was no case against his client: No “buy money” for the alleged sexual acts was found, nor had Detective Gavigan produced a recording of the transaction he asserted had occurred. Mr. Luibrand also said the police had at one point falsely suggested drug activity was taking place at the spa.
“The overkill on this case was profound,” he said.
Both Mr. Luibrand and Mr. Port said they believed that the Albany police had arrested Ms. Liu, who always asserted her innocence, because they mistook her for Mr. Port’s wife.
 “They didn’t know one Chinese woman from another,” Mr. Port said.
Steven A. Smith Jr., a spokesman for the Albany Police Department, had no comment on the particulars of the case, but suggested that it would approach such cases differently.
“If we had to take on one of these operations in the future,” he said, “we would certainly weigh out our investigatory options before making our decisions.”
A spokeswoman for David Soares, the Albany County district attorney, said the decision to support the dismissal came after evaluating the evidence and finding “significant proof problems.”
The drug unit that Mr. Port and Brendan J. Lyons, a reporter, investigated was disbanded around the same time as the raid at the Green Garden, according to Albany County Sheriff Craig Apple. The raid also prompted an internal review. Sheriff Apple’s office did not respond to requests for comment about the Green Garden case, the drug unit or the findings of that internal investigation.
Mr. Luibrand said Ms. Liu, who lives in Flushing, Queens, did not speak English fluently but was a longtime aesthetician and was pleased that her name had been cleared. “She’s thrilled by it, she’s happy,” he said.
Mr. Port, who left The Times Union in 2013, said on Wednesday that his wife, who declined to be interviewed, also felt relieved. He said that her business had expanded to four spas in the capital region, with eight employees total.
Still, while he and Ms. Cheng have tried to move on, Mr. Port said that the case had left him with even more questions about law enforcement behavior.

“I think police need to behave themselves,” he said. “And police need to be policed.”


The science behind why paid parental leave is good for everyone

By Rachel Gillett
Becoming a new parent is a huge undertaking, and for parents who are forced to take unpaid family leave, the situation becomes infinitely more challenging.
What's perhaps most frustrating is the abundance of research that often goes ignored, which illustrates how beneficial paid parental leave can be for not just parents, but also for children, society, and companies, too.
Luckily for some, a few companies have taken note, including Netflix, which announced Tuesday its new moms and dads could take off as much time as they want during the first year after their child's birth or adoption.
But while extended paid leave for new parents is a hot trend for major tech giants, most people don't work in these companies or at the executive level, and currently only about 12% of American companies offer paid maternity or paternity leave, according to the Society for Human Resource Management. That's down from 17% in 2010.
Under the Family and Medical Leave Act (FMLA) of 1993, qualifying American parents are guaranteed 12 weeks of family leave to care for a new child.
While the law requires companies with 50 or more employees to provide new parents with 12 weeks of leave, it doesn't require this leave to be paid. In fact, the US is one of just two countries in the world that doesn't ensure any paid time off for new moms, according to a report from the International Labor Organization. The other: Papua New Guinea.
This policy is also restricted to full-time employees who have been with the company for more than a year, which, all told, applies to about 60% of workers in the US.
The US Department of Agriculture finds that new parents spend, on average about $70 a month for baby clothes and diapers and more than $120 a month on baby food and formula. And big-ticket items like furniture and medical expenses add up quickly. Without the guarantee of paid leave while caring for a child, many new parents are faced with the choice between economic hardship and returning to work prematurely.
Labor on family and medical leave, about 15% of people who were not paid or who received partial pay while on leave turned to public assistance for help. About 60% of workers who took this leave reported it was difficult making ends meet, and almost half reported they would have taken longer leave if more pay had been available.
"Support for motherhood shouldn't be a matter of luck; it should be a matter of course," YouTube CEO Susan Wojcicki wrote last year in an op-ed for the Wall Street Journal. "Paid maternity leave is good for mothers, families and business. America should have the good sense to join nearly every other country in providing it."
Wojcicki reported the rate at which new moms left Google fell by 50% when in 2007 it increased paid maternity leave from 12 weeks to 18 weeks. "Mothers were able to take the time they needed to bond with their babies and return to their jobs feeling confident and ready. And it's much better for Google's bottom line — to avoid costly turnover, and to retain the valued expertise, skills, and perspective of our employees who are mothers."
In 2004, California became the first state to implement a paid-family-leave policy that enables most working Californians to receive 55% of their usual salary (up to $1,104) for a maximum of six weeks.
Since then, only New Jersey and Rhode Island have actualized similar programs.
Another study, from the Center for Women and Work at Rutgers University, found that women who had taken advantage of New Jersey's paid-family-leave policy were far more likely than mothers who hadn't to be working nine to 12 months after the birth of their child.
The study also found these women to be 39% less likely to receive public assistance and 40% less likely to receive food stamps in the year following a child's birth compared to those who didn't take any leave.
- A study of European leave policies by the University of North Carolina found that paid-leave programs can substantially reduce infant mortality rates and better a child's overall health.
And research out of The Institute for the Study of Labor (IZA) in Bonn indicates higher education, IQ, and income levels in adulthood for children of mothers who used maternity leave — the biggest effect comes for children from lower-educated households. The researchers cited this as a significant discussion for policymakers to have, as it could reduce the existing gap in education and income in the US.


The statue of Thomas Moore in Central Park was commissioned by the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick, the memorial was sculpted by Dennis Sheahan and unveiled in 1880 on the 101st anniversary of Moore's birth

Thomas Moore (May 28 1779 – February 25 1852) was an Irish poet, singer, songwriter, and entertainer, now best remembered for the lyrics of "The Minstrel Boy" and "The Last Rose of Summer". He was responsible, with John Murray, for burning Lord Byron's memoirs after his death. In his lifetime he was often referred to as Anacreon Moore.
Thomas Moore was born at 12 Aungier Street in Dublin, Ireland, over his father's grocery shop.
 Moore attended several Dublin schools including Samuel Whyte's English Grammar School in Grafton Street where he learned the English accent with which he spoke for the rest of his life. In 1795 he graduated from Trinity College, which had recently allowed entry to Catholic students, in an effort to fulfill his mother's dream of him becoming a lawyer.
 Moore was initially a good student, but he later put less effort into his studies. His time at Trinity came amidst the ongoing turmoil following the French Revolution, and a number of his fellow students such as Robert Emmett were supporters of the United Irishmen movement, although Moore himself never was a member.
It was as a poet, translator, balladeer and singer that he found fame. His work soon became immensely popular and he had major success as a society figure in London, meeting the Prince of Wales on several occasions and enjoying in particular the patronage of the Irish aristocrat Lord Moira.
He travelled across the United States and Canada in a Grand Tour. While in Washington he met Thomas Jefferson briefly: the meeting had a touch of farce since the President apparently mistook Moore, an exceptionally small man, for a child.
"The Minstrel Boy" is an Irish patriotic song written by Moore who set it to the melody of The Moreen, an old Irish air. It is widely believed that Moore composed the song in remembrance of a number of his friends, whom he met while studying at Trinity College, Dublin and who had participated in (and were killed during) the Irish Rebellion of 1798.
The song gained widespread popularity and became a favorite of many Irishmen who fought during the American Civil War and gained even more popularity after World War I. The song is notably associated with organizations that historically had a heavy representation of Irish-Americans, in particular the police and fire departments of New York, Boston and Chicago and those of various other major US metropolitan areas, even after those organizations have ceased to have a substantial over-representation of personnel of Irish ancestry. The melody is frequently played at funerals of members and/or officers of such organizations who have died or been killed in service, typically on bagpipes. Unsurprisingly, given its lyrics, it is also associated with the Irish Army and with traditionally Irish regiments in the armies of the United Kingdom and the United States as well as other armies of the world.

The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him;
"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard,
"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell! But the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free
They shall never sound in slavery!"
A concentrated, single verse version exists:
The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death ye may find him;
His father's sword he hath girded on,
With his wild harp slung along behind him;
Land of Song, the lays of the warrior bard,
May some day sound for thee,
But his harp belongs to the brave and free
And shall never sound in slavery!"
During the American Civil War a third verse was written by an unknown author, and is sometimes included in renditions of the song:
The Minstrel Boy will return we pray
When we hear the news we all will cheer it,
The minstrel boy will return one day,
Torn perhaps in body, not in spirit.
Then may he play on his harp in peace,
In a world such as heaven intended,
For all the bitterness of man must cease,
And ev'ry battle must be ended.

The Last Rose of Summer was written by Moore in 1805 while at Jenkinstown Park in County Kilkenny, Ireland. It is set to a traditional tune called "Aislean an Oigfear" or "The Young Man's Dream" which had been transcribed by Edward Buntingin 1792 based on a performance by harper Donnchadh Ó hÁmsaigh (Denis Hempson) at the Belfast Harp Festival. The Poem and the tune together were published in December 1813 in volume 5 of Moore's Irish Melodies (full title: A Selection of Irish Melodies).

'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter,
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Live fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear!
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
The same look which she turned when he rose!

They Know Not My Heart
They know not my heart, who believe there can be
One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;
Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour,
As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower,
I could harm what I love, -- as the sun's wanton ray
But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.

No -- beaming with light as those young features are,
There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far:
It is not that cheek -- 'tis the soul dawning clear
Through its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear:
As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair,
Is look'd up to the more, because Heaven lies there!

Sail On Sail On
Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark --
Where'er blows the welcome wind,
It cannot lead to scenes more dark,
More sad than those we leave behind.

Each wave that passes seems to say,
"Though death beneath our smile may be,
Less cold we are, less false than they,
Whose smiling wreck'd thy hopes and thee."

Sail on, sail on -- through endless space --
Through calm -- through tempest -- stop no more:
The stormiest sea's a resting-place
To him who leaves such hearts on shore.

Or -- if some desert land we meet,
Where never yet false-hearted men
Profaned a world, that else were sweet --
Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.

Some men are born to gather women's tears,
To give a harbour to their timorous fears,
To take them as the dry earth takes the rain,
As the dark wood the warm wind from the plain;
Yet their own tears remain unshed,
Their own tumultuous fears unsaid,
And, seeming steadfast as the forest and the earth
Shaken are they with pain.

They cry for voice as earth might cry for the sea
Or the wood for consuming fire;
Unanswered they remain
Subject to the sorrows of women utterly -
Heart and mind,
Subject as the dry earth to the rain
Or the dark wood to the wind.

Remember Thee!
Remember thee! yes, while there's life in this heart,
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art;
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers,
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free,
First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,
But oh! could I love thee more deeply tha now?

No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs,
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons --
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest,
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.

I’ve a Secret to Tell Thee
I've a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here --
Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps:
I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear,
Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps;
Where Summer's wave unmurmuring dies,
Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush;
Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs,
The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush!"

There, amid the deep silence of that hour,
When stars can be heard in ocean dip,
Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,
Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip:
Like him, the boy, who born among
The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush,
Sits ever thus -- his only song
To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!"

While Gazing on the Moons Light
While gazing on the moon's light,
A moment from her smile I turn'd,
To look at orbs that, more bright,
In lone and distant glory burn'd.

But too far
Each proud star,
For me to feel its warming flame;
Much more dear
That mild sphere,
Which near our planet smiling came;
Thus, Mary, be but thou my own,
While brighter eyes unheeded play,
I'll love those moonlight looks alone
That bless my home and guide my way.

The day had sunk in dim showers,
But midnight now, with lustre meet,
Illumined all the pale flowers,
Like hope upon a mourner's cheek.

I said (while
The moon's smile
Play'd o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss,)
"The moon looks
On many brooks,
The brook can see no moon but this;"
And thus, I thought, our fortunes run,
For many a lover looks to thee,
While oh! I feel there is but one,
One Mary in the world for me.

When First I Met Thee
When first I met thee, warm and young,
There shone such truth about thee,
And on thy lip such promise hung,
I did not dare to doubt thee.

I saw thee change, yet still relied,
Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, though false to all beside,
From me thou couldst not wander.

But go, deceiver! go,
The heart, whose hopes could make it
Trust one so false, so low,
Deserves that thou shouldst break it.

When every tongue thy follies named,
I fled the unwelcome story,
Or found, in even the faults they blamed,
Some gleams of future glory.

I still was true, when nearer friends
Conspired to wrong, to slight thee;
The heart that now thy falsehood rends
Would then have bled to right thee.

But go, deceiver! go --
Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken
From pleasure's dream, to know
The grief of hearts forsaken.

Even now, though youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee;
The few who loved thee once have fled,
And they who flatter scorn thee.

Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,
No genial ties enwreath it;
The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank cold hearts beneath it.

Go -- go -- though worlds were thine,
I would not now surrender
One taintless tear of mine
For all thy guilty splendour!

And days may come, thou false one! yet,
When even those ties shall sever!
When thou wilt call, with vain regret,
On her thou'st lost for ever;
On her who, in thy fortune's fall,
With smiles had still received thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believed thee.

Go -- go -- 'tis vain to curse,
'Tis weakness to upbraid thee;
Hate cannot wish thee worse
Than guilt and shame have made thee.


“It is only through mystery and madness that the soul is revealed”

 “Disappointments in love, even betrayals and losses, serve the soul at the very moment they seem in life to be tragedies. The soul is partly in time and partly in eternity. We might remember the part that resides in eternity when we feel despair over the part that is in life.”

 “A soul mate is someone to whom we feel profoundly connected, as though the communication and communing that take place between us were not the product of intentional efforts, but rather a divine grace. This kind of relationship is so important to the soul that many have said there is nothing more precious in life.”

 “It may help us, in those times of trouble, to remember that love is not only about relationship, it is also an affair of the soul.”

 “Go where we may, rest where we will, Eternal London haunts us still.”

 “Education is not the piling on of learning, information, data, facts, skills, or abilities--that's training or instruction--but is rather a making visible what is hidden as a seed...
To be educated, a person doesn't have to know much or be informed, but he or she does have to have been exposed vulnerably to the transformative events of an engaged human life...
One of the greatest problems of our time is that many are schooled but few are educated.”

 “An eternal question about children is, how should we educate them? Politicians and educators consider more school days in a year, more science and math, the use of computers and other technology in the classroom, more exams and tests, more certification for teachers, and less money for art. All of these responses come from the place where we want to make the child into the best adult possible, not in the ancient Greek sense of virtuous and wise, but in the sense of one who is an efficient part of the machinery of society. But on all these counts, soul is neglected.”

 “And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers
Is always the first to be touched by the thorns.”

 “We need people in our lives with whom we can be as open as possible. To have real conversations with people may seem like such a simple, obvious suggestion, but it involves courage and risk.”

 “Finding the right work is like discovering your own soul in the world.”

 “Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.”

 “The ordinary acts we practice every day at home are of more importance to the soul than their simplicity might suggest.”

 “It's important to be heroic, ambitious, productive, efficient, creative, and progressive, but these qualities don't necessarily nurture soul. The soul has different concerns, of equal value: downtime for reflection, conversation, and reverie; beauty that is captivating and pleasuring; relatedness to the environs and to people; and any animal’s rhythm of rest and activity.”
 “A genuine odyssey is not about piling up experiences. It is a deeply felt, risky, unpredictable tour of the soul. ”

 “Love doesn't demand perfection, but it does ask you to give yourself with less reserve than you'd prefer.”

 “Socrates and Jesus, two teachers of virtue and love, were executed because of the unsettling, threatening power of their souls, which was revealed in their personal lives and in their words.”

 “How many times do we lose an occasion for soul work by leaping ahead to final solutions without pausing to savor the undertones? We are a radically bottom-line society, eager to act and to end tension, and thus we lose opportunities to know ourselves for our motives and our secrets.”

 “You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. ”

 “The key to seeing the world's soul, and in the process wakening our own, is to get over the confusion by which we think that fact is real and imagination is illusion.”

 “There's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream. ”

 “I have plenty of machinery around me; what I really need is a more enchanting world in which to live and work.”

 “Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.”

 “I thought that the light-house looked lovely as hope,
That star on life's tremulous ocean.”

 “The devil...the prowde spirite...cannot endure to be mocked.”

 “Come o'er the sea,
Maiden with me,
Mine through the sunshine, storms and snows;
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where'er it goes.”

 “When we relate to our bodies as having soul, we attend to their beauty, their poetry and their expressiveness. Our very habit of treating the body as a machine, whose muscles are like pulleys and its organs engines, forces its poetry underground, so that we experience the body as an instrument and see its poetics only in illness.”

 “The ordinary arts we practice every day at home are of more importance to the soul than their simplicity might suggest.”

 “Soul is to be found in the vicinity of taboo.”

 “Sex and religion are closer to each other that either might prefer.”

 “Body exercise is incomplete if it focuses exclusively on muscle and is motivated by the ideal of a physique unspoiled by fat.”

 “It is in the nature of things to be drawn to the very experiences that will spoil our innocence, transform our lives, and give us necessary complexity and depth.”

 “But anyone who deliberately tries to get himself elected to a public office is permanently disqualified from holding one.”

 “It's the pausing and the stopping, perhaps going backward and losing some time, not being able to do everything we're supposed to do, that serves the soul. That's the enchantment that feeds the soul.”

 “A piece of the sky and a chunk of the earth lie lodged in the heart of every human being.”

 “Flight usually intensifies the very thing one flees and establishes a special intimacy with it.”

 “It's my conviction that slight shifts in imagination have more impact on living than major efforts at change... deep changes in life follow movements in imagination.”

 “Gnostic tales tell of the homesickness of the soul, its yearning for its own milieu…”

 “Any writer who puts his words and thoughts out into the public is going to be criticized.”

 “magine a trust in yourself, or another person, or in life itself, that doesn’t need to be proved or demonstrated, that is able to contain uncertainty. People sometimes put their trust in a spiritual leader and are terribly betrayed if that person then fails to live up to ideals. But a real trust of faith would be to decide whether to trust someone, knowing that betrayal is inevitable because life and personality are never without shadow. The vulnerability that faith demands could be matched by an equal trust in oneself, the feeling that one can survive the pain of betrayal.”

 “There are places in this world that are neither here nor there, neither up nor down, neither real nor imaginary...”

 “Learn to live small and you will discover great pleasures. You will accomplish more in your life than you could ever predict if you were overly ambitious.”

 “We have to start from the ground up and reconsider what education is. In my language, I'd like to see us educate the soul, and not just the mind. The result would be a person who could be in the world creatively, make good friendships, live in a place he loved, do work that is rewarding, and make a contribution to the community. People say that the word "educate" means to "draw out" a person's potential. But I like the "duc" - part in the middle of it. To be educated is to become a duke, a leader, a person of stature and color, a presence and a character.”

 “I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garland's dead,
And all but he departed!”

 “The many great gardens of the world, of literature and poetry, of painting and music, of religion and architecture, all make the point as clear as possible: The soul cannot thrive in the absence of a garden. If you don’t want paradise, you are not human; and if you are not human, you don’t have a soul.”

 “Love releases us into the realm of divine imagination, where the soul is expanded and reminded of its unearthly cravings and needs. We think that when a lover inflates his loved one he is failing to acknowledge her flaws - "Love is blind." But it may be the other way around. Love allows a person to see the true angelic nature of another person, the halo, the aureole of divinity. Certainly from the perspective of ordinary life this is madness and illusion. But if we let loose our hold on our philosophies and psychologies of enlightenment and reason, we might learn to appreciate the perspective of eternity that enters life as madness, Plato's divine frenzy.”
 “DOST thou not hear the silver bell,
Through yonder lime-trees ringing?
'Tis my lady's light gazelle.
To me her love thoughts bringing, —
All the while that silver bell
Around his dark neck ringing.”

 “When you sense that your dark night is one of pregnancy and oceanic return, you could react accordingly and be still. Watch and wonder. Take the human embryo as your model. Assume the fetal position, emotionally and intellectually. Be silent. Float in your darkness as if it were the waters of the womb, and give up trying to fight your way out or make sense of it.”

 “Most of the people I know who are having trouble finding their life work are somewhat passive in style. They wait for something good to happen to them rather than make strong positive moves.”

 “You discover that when you are doing the right work, you are the right person.”

 “To the soul, memory is more important than planning, art more compelling than reason, and love more fulfilling than understanding.”

 “Technologies of the soul tend to be simple, bodily, slow and related to the heart as much as the mind. Everything around us tells us we should be mechanically sophisticated, electronic, quick, and informational in our expressiveness - an exact antipode to the virtues of the soul. It is no wonder, then, that in an age of telecommunications - which, by the way, literally means "distant connections" - we suffer symptoms of the loss of soul. We are being urged from every side to become efficient rather than intimate.”

 “Fight on my men,"says Sir Andrew Barton,
I am hurt,but I am not slain;
I'll lay me down and bleed a-while,
And then I'll rise and fight again".”

 “Besides, the story is ambivalent and mysterious in its ending. Is this Alkestis returning from down below? Why does she have a veil over her face? Could it be that when we forcefully bring back to life what has been lost through love what we get is only a shate of its former reality? Maybe we can never succeed fully in restoring the soul to life. Maybe she will always be veiled and at least partially shielded from the rigors of actual life. Love demands a submission that is total.”

 “According to the normal view, happiness is the summum bonum towards which we're naturally impelled by virtue - which in their definition means following one's natural impulses, as God meant us to do. But this includes obeying the instinct to be reasonable in our likes and dislikes. And reason also teaches us, first to love and reverence Almighty God, to Whom we owe our existence and our potential happiness, and secondly to get through life as comfortably and cheerfully as we can, and help all other members of our species to do so too.”

“I have made many mistakes and done a lot of foolish things, but when I look back on the person I was, I feel affection for him and laugh at him.” 

Excerpt from my book "When Capone’s Mob Murdered Touhy.” 

The good news for Touhy was that Murray Humpreys, Red Barker's assistant, did not fight being jailed on federal income tax charges, no doubt to avoid sure death at the hands of the Touhys. The bad news was that the shooting put a far more competent and dangerous man in charge of the outfit in the form of Paul "the Waiter" Ricca. Ricca's first move was to bring in 'Three Fingers" Jack White to replace the murdered Red Barker.
   White was a Valley Gang graduate who said he got his nickname when a brick fell on his hand on a construction site when he was a boy, crushing several fingers. It was a deformity he tried to hide with a glove, stuffing the empty fingers with cotton. In fact it's more likely that White lost the fingers in a bungled burglary attempt where he mishandled nitroglycerin, a common mishap that probably cost Roger Touhy his right thumb as well. White recruited James "Fur" Sammons, a certified psychopath and probably the most dangerous man in Chicago, if not in the United States.
   Like White, Sammons' record was long and varied. In 1900 he and four others kidnaped an eleven- year-old, eighty-five-pound school girl, raped her, broke her nose, punched out one of her eyes and stabbed her in the vaginal area with a pencil. Sammons, who showed no remorse over the attack, smirked at the girl's parents in court. He was given five years for his part in the crime and was paroled two years later. Two months after his release, Sammons was arrested for the murder of Patrick Barret, a saloon keeper. He was convicted and sentenced to be hanged. He was put into solitary confinement where it was said he was driven insane by the solitude. He remained on death row until 1917 when he managed to escape and commit a series of robberies before being recaptured.
   Both Three Fingers Jack White and Sammons had been paroled in 1923 by Illinois Governor Len Small after paying a small fortune in bribe money to "Porky" Dillon, a Touhy gunman who had been one of Small's bagmen. Porky Dillon had an interesting background. He had once been sentenced to serve ten years in the state prison but managed to rig a pardon for himself from the same corrupt governor, Small.
   White was a competent battle tactician. Now backed by Sammons' psychotic brutality, he was able to take back the upper hand in the battle against the Touhys in four quick and deadly blows. The first to die under the White-Sammons regime was Teddy Newberry, the mayor's bag man who plotted the Nitti shooting. Newberry was found lying face down in a ditch of frozen water in Porter County, Indiana. The killers were on their way to a mob burial ground, the gruesome real estate that belonged to "Machine Gun" Jack McGurn and was later passed down to Mickey "the Ant" Spilotro in the 1970s.
   Next they got Touhy's strongest ally, Paddy Barrell. Barrell was the international vice president of the Teamsters. He was killed while he and his bodyguard, Willie Marks, were vacationing in Wisconsin. Marks, a former Moran gunner, had survived the St. Valentine's Day Massacre by being late for work. This time he wasn't so lucky. The killer, believed to be Fur Sammons, caught Barrell and Marks off guard while the two were fishing knee deep in a lake. The blast from the shotgun, fired only inches from the victims, nearly took off Barrell's head.
   A second and awesome setback for the Touhys came when White and Sammons caught Matt Kolb at his saloon, the Club Morton. Kolb was standing in the hallway next to a roulette wheel. Walking up from behind him, Sammons said, "Hello Matt. " As Kolb reached out to shake hands, Sammons grabbed his hand and arm tightly as White pulled out an automatic and poured the six shots into the little fat man. After the killers started to leave, Sammons said, "I better make sure." He returned and fired another shot into Kolb's head. The final round picked up the dead man's skull and bounced it off the floor. With Kolb dead and his blackmail records gone, the price for political and police protection went through the roof, even with Cermak on their side.
The next blow came when Tommy Touhy was gunned down by Fur Sammons. It happened when Tommy and two cars of his men combed the streets of Chicago looking for Fur Sammons. As it turns out Sammons was out in an armor-plated car, looking for Tommy. The two groups spent several hours stalking each other until Tommy decided that he had had enough of the cat and mouse game and ordered his caravan to pull over at the intersection and wait for Sammons.
   Several minutes later Sammons brazenly pulled up alongside them, Tommy leaned out his window, machine gun in hand and opened fire on Sammons, hitting his tires and radiator. Then, without taking his finger off the trigger, Tommy climbed out of his car and stood on the bumper and fired into Sammons' windows. Sammons leaned out of his window and released a clip into Tommy's legs while driving with one hand and firing with the other. A squad car from the town of River Forrest pulled onto the scene and demanded that the gunmen pull over. The Touhys answered by firing a clip off at the cops who returned fire, but by then Touhy and Sammons had disappeared into the city.
   Tommy Touhy was cut up badly. This was a major setback for the Cermak-Touhy operation since Tommy was the organization's field general. Unlike the pensive and remote Roger, Tommy was earthy and gregarious, gifted with a natural charisma that his group trusted. He was their motivator. Without him, the gang was in trouble.
   Despite the recent small victories that White had scored for the syndicate it was undeniable that the mouse was still eating the lion. Against all odds, the Touhy-Cermak combination was winning the street war. The 42 Gang, the syndicate's front-line troops, were tough and fearless, but they were wild and undisciplined and the Touhys were picking them off with ease. Other, more seasoned syndicate hoods were turning up dead at the rate of one every other day The Chicago Tribune put the number of casualties as high as seventy dead in one six-month period. At the same time, the federal government was closing in on the syndicate, deporting hundreds of reliable operatives and throwing most of the remaining syndicate power players in jail.
   Although the Touhys had taken their share of a beating, they could hold out in the fight for a couple years more. They were smaller, tighter and more organized than the remains of Capone's mob and they had the resources to hire the best gunmen money could buy.
   Chasing the syndicate out of the Teamsters had assured them ready access to the union's enormous pension fund, and the Teamsters' top leadership was backing Touhy's war against the syndicate.
   Then there was Tony Cermak, who remained Touhy's strongest ally. As long as they had Cermak on their side, they controlled the police and City Hall.
   It was clear to Paul Ricca that the key to ending the war was to kill Anton Cermak. For its inability to take back the streets from Touhy, Chicago looked ridiculous in the eyes of the new national crime syndicate. Worse yet, the New York mobs were taking advantage of the disorder in Chicago by planting their flags in Los Angeles, Florida, Arkansas, Nevada and Texas. They had to kill Cermak. The war had to end.

Excerpt from my book “On the Waterfront: The Making of a Great American Film”


"If life is a series of disenchantments through which we prepare ourselves then I was richly endowed, for our castles were built on glamorous quicksand" Budd Schulberg, Los Angeles Magazine 1965

Budd Schulberg was a prince of the Hollywood elite, the ultimate industry insider and in many ways, the direct opposite of his future creative partner Elia Kazan. 
  His father, Benjamin Percival Schulberg, known on the back lots as "B.P,” was head of production at Paramount's Lasky studio (a position he held until 1932) BP Schulberg was not the typical ill-educated crass immigrant that founded Hollywood. Born in Bridgeport, Connecticut in 1892, he was the last of fourteen children. The family eventually moved from Bridgeport to New York’s lower east side, where B.P., still a teenager, attended City College. He gave up college to become a copy boy for Franklin P. Adams on the Evening Mail and eventually promoted to beat reporter.  At age 20, he became the editor for Film Reports, a trade paper where he met director Edwin Stratton Porter and became his scenario editor of Rex Films Production Company. (Later absorbed into present day Universal Films)
Porter was the most prominent innovator in the early years of motion pictures. While Thomas Edison was content to film mundane, everyday events, Porter the realized the means to tell a story on film was by the use of editing. Through his technique of physically splicing the story together, Porter put the word "move" in movie scenario. He created a fictional scenario with two groundbreaking films that absolutely mesmerized the public.
 By being astute enough to be in the right place at the right time,  B.P. became one of the industry’s original screenwriters who delivered his first film script in 1913, In the Bishop's Carriage and would be involved in a scattering of film over the next three decades including the 1923 classic, The Virginian and Little Miss Marker (1934).       
  BP was one of the first to understand that films had to be sold to the public. Schulberg dubbed Mary Pickford "America's sweetheart.”  He discovered Clara Bow and dubbed her “The It girl” (“It” being a euphemism for the word "sex") He also discovered Gary Grant, Claudette Colbert, George Raft and Frederic March. It was BP who
brought Marlene Dietrich from Germany, made the original Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and started the gangster film genre with Ben Hecht's Underworld. He also helped produce the antiwar film Wings that won the first Academy Award in 1928.
His son Budd suffered from fainting fits and speech impediment, stammering his way “from therapist to therapist.” But while he did not speak well, he compensated by becoming a good listener and, in turn, a better than average writer. His writing talent was encouraged by his mother, Hollywood agent Adeline Jaffe Schulberg a vivid, attractive and intelligent woman with a crisp understanding of the film business.
It was Adeline who discovered the actor Sylvia Sidney, an early glamour star, when Sidney was appearing in a Broadway play called Bad Girl. Ad pushed her husband to sign the young actor to a contract but he was unreceptive but Ad persisted and eventually BP gave the young starlet a long-term Paramount.  He also started a love affair with her, which eventually broke up the marriage.
BP Schulberg declined well before Sidney’s film career ended. Towards the end of his term at Paramount, when his salary was $10,000 a week, it was clear that the world had outpaced him. Many factors  led to the downfall of BP Schulberg. The advent of talkies was one of them. B.P. had come to the top of his form in silent films, he did not adjust well to the change (neither did his protégée, Clara Bow who flopped in talkies) Then the depression hit and ticket sales fell.
Distracted by his torrid love affair with Sylvia Sidney, BP slipped out of control. He slowly became unstable. A lifelong teetotaler, he started to drink and gamble, sometimes losing as much as $25,000 in a night.
He tried independent producing for a while and then bounced from studio to studio. Nothing worked for him. In the ultimate humiliation, in 1949, he took out an ad in Variety begging for work. No one responded. He died in 1957 a virtual unknown in the industry he created. (BP was later given a Star on Hollywood Blvd.)
Budd Schulberg graduated from Dartmouth in 1936, (A.B. cum laude), at the age of seventeen. He returned to Hollywood and worked as a publicist at Paramount, writing bright and airy stories about the ambitions of the stars before they had become famous. That same year he married actor Virginia Ray.   Ray, called Jigee was one of Hollywood’s most glamorous women who had been courted by, as Walter Bernstein said, all of the left wing screenwriters in the community and “any other man with common sense and eyes.”  Budd won her heart despite being what Sheilah Graham described as a shy young man who strutted, painfully, always knocking things over and apologizing in a mumble of words.  Like his father before him, Budd eventually began writing screenplays for Paramount.  In 1938, he wrote the script for Paramount’s, Little Orphan Annie, followed by the romantic comedy, Winter Carnival (1939) co-written with F. Scott Fitzgerald. The film flopped and both Schulberg and Fitzgerald were fired. 
The film would be produced Walter Wagner, who had just released Stagecoach and had hired Fitzgerald and Schulberg to write a pleasant script about the Dartmouth Winter Carnival. Both Schulberg and Wanger were Dartmouth graduates and considered Fitzgerald’s work, This Side of Paradise, to be one of the finest novels ever written. 
It was about the only thing they had in common. Schulberg, then 24 years old, considered Wanger “A Dartmouth drop out with intellectual pretensions” and later added that Wanger was a fraud who smoked a pipe, discussed great books and tried to make himself seem more cultivated than other producers, but was essentially a crass and tactless little man who abused his writers.
 Schulberg, according to his friend Maurice Rapf, had already been on the film for a year but was having a difficult time with the script and Wanger was getting desperate. He wanted to start shooting and had already missed one Winter Carnival at Dartmouth and was determined to make the next one. Fitzgerald was brought into give Schulberg a boast. 
When he learned that he was going to be working with the great novelist, Schulberg said, "I thought he was dead,"
 "If he is," Wanger said, "He must be the first ghost who ever got $1,500 a week.”
 Schulberg was honored to be working with Fitzgerald but was sadden by how anxious the great man looked. Alcohol had taken its toll and Fitzgerald looked a full decade older than his forty-two years. They spent hours together talking about literature, overlooking the hapless script they were supposed to pen about winter frolics in New Hampshire, a painfully boring chore for two such highly gifted men.  
 Relaxed and comfortable around the young Schulberg, Fitzgerald reminisced and discussed his future work, although he saw his better days behind him “You know” he told Schulberg “ use to have a beautiful talent once, baby. It used to be a wonderful feeling to know it was there, and it isn’t all gone yet. I think I have enough left to stretch out over two more novels. I may have to stretch it a little thin, so maybe they won’t be as good as the best things I’ve done. But they won’t be completely bad either, because nothing I ever write can be completely bad.”
 Wanger insisted that Fitzgerald go east and see the Dartmouth Winter Carnival first hand, an unneeded trip at best. But Fitzgerald, accompanied by Schulberg, went anyway. Before they left, Schulberg’s father provided them with two bottles of champagne, which Fitzgerald quickly drank, setting off a weeklong binge.  
 Unable to find a hotel room near the school, they secured the servants quarters at the Hanover Inn.
 That night at a cocktail party, Fitzgerald made his entrance by dead drunk by falling face dunk a flight of stairs. The college staff, disgusted with Fitzgerald’s drunken state, did little to cloak their disgust for him,  a point not lost on the great writer who told Schulberg “Wanger will never forgive me for this because he sees himself as the intellectual producer and above all he wanted to impress Dartmouth with the fact that he used real writers, not vulgar hacks, and here, I, his real writer, have disgraced him before all these people”
Wanger, who was already at Dartmouth with his film crew, was disgusted with Fitzgerald as well. When he discovered that virtually no work had been done on the script, he fired both Fitzgerald and Schulberg.
Wager to get them out of  sight as quickly as possible, Wanger had them tossed on the first train out of New Hampshire, where Fitzgerald continued to drink, so much so, that when they arrived in New York, unshaven, without luggage and Fitzgerald completely out of control, no hotel would take them in. Finally, friends entered the writer into a private hospital for three days to dry him out.
 It was the last Hollywood script Fitzgerald would work on. Schulberg, with his all-powerful father behind, was rehired by Wanger to finish the script, which he did, horribly bad as it was.     
 Fitzgerald and Schulberg remained friends, but just barely. Once, when the writer dropped by Schulberg’s house to discuss books, Schulberg excused himself to keep a minor dinner engagement that he could have broken. It troubled the young man to do, but Fitzgerald could be fatiguing when sober. When Schulberg released his book, What Makes Sammy Run, Fitzgerald commented only by saying “Budd, the untalented” Schulberg was further hurt when Fitzgerald used the Schulberg’s early years in Hollywood as the model for the miserable Cecilia Brady in his novel, The Last Tycoon. Actually, Fitzgerald liked the book, although he found it amateurish.
Schulberg responded with a very negative portrayal of Fitzgerald in his work, The Disenchanted, which was essentially the story of the great man’s drunken binge at Dartmouth. The book became a Broadway play, but Hemmingway had the final say when he called Disenchanted “Grave robbing”   Carnival, a romantic comedy dealing with collage romances, failed at the box-office and Schulberg was fired again. 
 Schulberg, disgusted with Hollywood, left California for the rolling hills Norwich, Vermont, where he completed his first novel, What Makes Sammy Run?  (1941).  The work, a satirical story of corruption of an office boy, Sammy Glick, who rises to head of a major motion picture studio, won National Critics' Choice as Best First Novel of the Year in 1941.  It was his first critical and financial success.  
 The Second World War returned Schulberg to Hollywood, this time as a member of director John Ford's documentary unit. It was Schulberg who wrote the narration for Oscar winning documentary December 7 (Schulberg was assigned to gather war crime evidence for the Nuremberg trials)
With the war over, he returned state side and published a second a novel, The Harder They Fall (1947) which was eventually turned in to boxing film starring Humprey Bogart (Schulberg, a life- long fight fan, was later honored by being inducted into the Boxing Hall of Fame) A short time later he released his third novel, The Disenchanted, loosely based on his screen writing experiences in Hollywood. 
    By 1949, Schulberg was looking for a new project, something with social significance and box office potential. Like Kazan and Miller, he found it on the waterfront.  

(Max Zellner is a pen name, it was my grandfather's born name. During World War 1 he changed it to the less German sounding Paul Selner)

Blumenfeld, Isadore. Minnesota Crime Boss. AKA as Kid Cann. AKA Issy. Born September 8, 1900, Rumnesk, Romania. Immigrated to the US in 1902. Lived at 5900 Oakland Avenue and 4700 Circle Down, Golden Valley, North Tyrol Hills.   The son of a furrier.  Died June 21, 1981 Minnesota based mobster, raised in Near North Minnesota. There are several versions of how he got the nickname but it is most likely that he took it after Abe Cann, the prizefighter.
     Poverty forced Cann out of grammar school and onto the streets first as a newspaper boy and then, gradually, into the Minneapolis red light district where he learned the basics of prostitution and narcotics sales. Prohibition, and the proximity of the Canadian border, made him rich. Cann and his brother Harry Bloom were soon partners with the Capone organization in Chicago in a whisky smuggling operation that expanded to five states.  (Harry was called Bloom, because the family changed its name to what they felt was the less Jewish, Bloom. Harry went a step further and legally changed his name to Yiddy Bloom). Their bootlegging years were brief. They entered the business in about 1928 and left it in 1933.
      On August 23, 1933, a federal grand jury in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma charged Cann and his business partner Barney Berman with playing a role in the infamous Charles Urschell kidnapping with haphazard gangster George ‘Machine Gun’ Kelly. (Who did not actually own a machine gun). The charges were dropped. If Cann played any role in the kidnapping, it was probably as a fence to ‘wash’ the ransom money. He was sentenced to one year in the Workhouse in 1934 for operating a still
      The brothers were quick to expand their criminal empire across the Twin Cities to New Orleans and other places, (Cann was indicted in New Orleans but he refused to appear at trial. The charges were dropped.) largely because they were willing to dabble in drugs and prostitution, two areas where Minneapolis’s Irish mob boss Tommy Banks refused to trade in. In 1956, Banks and Cann became the largest investor in the Twin Cities Rapid Transit Company.
     Nor where they reluctant to use violence when they had too. In 1928, Cann, who was with the notorious criminal Verne Miller, was accused of shooting Officer James Trepanier, crippling him for life. During the gun battle, which started over a disturbing the peace call, another officer shot Cann in right leg.  
    On September 6, 1934, Howard Guilford, another reporter looking into public corruption, was murdered when gangsters drove his car off of Pillsbury Avenue and almost decapitated him with a shotgun blast to the neck. He died instantly. In 1927, gangsters had done the same thing to him. He survived, but barely and spent the remainder of his life in poor health. Guilford was killed because he planned to run for mayor of Minneapolis.  
    Then, on December 9, 1935, Walter Liggett, the publisher and editor of Plain Talk Magazine was shot five in front of his wife and ten-year-old daughter Marda, in a drive by shooting outside of his apartment in Minneapolis. Liggett was a crusader who reported on dozens of connections between Minnesota politicians, especially the Governor, Floyd Olson and criminals. Liggett, who came from an old Minnesota family, had been an early backer of Olson until he realized how corrupt and power mad Olson was.
      The politicians responded by having Liggett beaten in October of 1935 by Cann. Liggett had written extensively on Cann’s use of political influence and on October 23, 1935, Cann and Abe ‘Brownie” Bronstein first offered Liggett money and favors if he would stop reporting. When he refused, they beat him up and then had him arrested for assault. The beating was severe. One of Liggett’s ears was also ripped off and a tooth was kicked out of his mouth. Cann also arranged for Liggett to be arrested for statutory rape of a 19-year-old girl. Cann was arrested after Liggett was killed but on February 19, 1935, Cann was found not guilty of killing Liggett but few believed the truthfulness of the trial. It was widely assumed then and today, that Cann had fixed jury and the state’s investigators.  Oddly, Governor Olson died the following year, at age 44, of a stomach ailment.  
     On January 22, 1945, Cann was suspected in the murder of another reporter named Arthur Kasherman. Like the others, he was killed in a drive by shooting. His last words were “Don’t shoot, for God’s sakes don’t shoot”. Unlike the others, Kasherman had a reputation as a minor extortionist, using his publication as means to shake down dirty politicians and policemen.
      The brothers ran their empire from the Flame Night Club on Nicollet Avenue (it was later called the Club Carnival) and in 1942 the federal government dubbed him ‘The vice lord of the Midwest’ although Cann seems not to have been completely sane. He sometimes took on the persona of a character named Dr. Ferguson, or Fergie, millionaire philanthropist and he insisted that people refer to him by that name and title.
      In the early 1950s, it was learned that Cann was an investor in the Mafia’s schemes to skim the Las Vegas casinos. How much he got and from which casinos, was never learned. In 1959, Cann was convicted of violating the Mann Act (Transporting a female across state lines for immoral purposes.) The case was thrown out on appeal. The woman in question was a professional prostitute from Chicago. However, in 196, other charges of extortion and jury tampering followed and Cann was finally sent to federal prison.
     After his release from prison in 1964, Cann and his wife (Lillian Lee. They were married on August 25, 1936 and were childless) moved to Miami beach where he was thought to partners with Meyer Lansky. Cann had invested in several of Lansky’s casinos back in the 1940s and on Lansky’s advice, they also owned land on Miami’s waterfront that was leased to large, national hotel chains. Cann died in 1981 at age 80.
      In 1939, Yiddy Bloom (Born January 28, 1911) who ran a liquor store,  married Verna Kraemer. The couple had two children, who, as adults, changed their name back to Blumenfeld. Yiddy also invested in real estate including 19 Florida hotels, which, according to the Florida Attorney General in 1968, were secretly owned by Meyer Lansky who was controlling them on behalf of various Mafia bosses.  
     In 1978, Yiddy pled guilty in a stock manipulation conspiracy case involving a scam to manipulate the common stock belonging to the Magic Marker Corporation from $6.50 to $30 a share. His son Jerrold was also indicted.

      It was rumored in the underworld that after Meyer Lansky’s daughter spent money set aside to care for her disabled brother Buddy Lansky, that Yiddy Bloom paid all of Buddy’s medical bills. Yiddy died on November 18, 1994 


 A Scene In Red And Green, Painting by Martina Furlong

After the Storm, Gustave Courbet

Almond Blossom, muted

 Anna Boberg (Swedish, 1864 - 1935) Boat with red sails

“Flowers in a Vase,” c. 1880, by Pierre-August Renoir

THE ART OF WAR...............................



Architecture for the blog of it

Art for the Blog of It

Art for the Pop of it

Photography for the blog of it

Music for the Blog of it

Sculpture this and Sculpture that

The art of War (Propaganda art through the ages)

Album Art (Photographic arts)

Pulp Fiction Trash (The art of Pulp Fiction covers)

Admit it, you want to Read this Book (The art of Pulp Fiction covers)

The Godfather Trilogy BlogSpot

On the Waterfront: The Making of a great American Film

Absolutely blogalicious

The Wee Book of Irish Recipes (Book support site)

Good chowda (New England foods)

Old New England Recipes (Book support site)

And I Love Clams (New England foods)

In Praise of the Rhode Island Wiener (New England foods)

Wicked Cool New England Recipes (New England foods)

Old New England Recipes (New England foods)

Foster Care new and Updates

Aging out of the system

Murder, Death and Abuse in the Foster Care system

Angel and Saints in the Foster Care System

The Foster Children’s Blogs

Foster Care Legislation

The Foster Children’s Bill of Right

Foster Kids own Story

The Adventures of Foster Kid.

Me vs. Diabetes (Diabetes education site)

The Quotable Helen Keller

Teddy Roosevelt's Letters to his children (Book support site)

The Quotable Machiavelli (Book support site)

Whatever you do, don't laugh

The Quotable Grouch Marx

A Big Blog of Irish Literature

The Wee Blog of Irish Jokes (Book support blog)

The Wee Blog of Irish Recipes

The Irish American Gangster

The Irish in their Own Words

When Washington Was Irish

The Wee Book of Irish Recipes (Book support site)

Following Fitzgerald


The Blogable Robert Frost

Charles Dickens

The Beat Poets of the Forever Generation

Holden Caulfield Blog Spot

The Quotable Oscar Wilde

The Quotable Thoreau

Old New England Recipes

Wicked Cool New England Recipes


The New England Mafia

And I Love Clams

In Praise of the Rhode Island Wiener

Watch Hill

York Beach

The Connecticut History Blog

The Connecticut Irish

Good chowda

God, How I hated the 70s

Child of the Sixties Forever

The Kennedy’s in the 60’s

Music of the Sixties Forever

Elvis and Nixon at the White House (Book support site)

Beatles Fan Forever

Year One, 1955

Robert Kennedy in His Own Words

The 1980s were fun

The 1990s. The last decade.

The Russian Mafia

The American Jewish Gangster

The Mob in Hollywood

We Only Kill Each Other

Early Gangsters of New York City

Al Capone: Biography of a self-made Man

The Life and World of Al Capone

The Salerno Report

Guns and Glamour

The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre

Mob Testimony

Recipes we would Die For

The Prohibition in Pictures

The Mob in Pictures

The Mob in Vegas

The Irish American Gangster

Roger Touhy Gangster

Chicago’s Mob Bosses

Chicago Gang Land: It Happened Here

Whacked: One Hundred years of Murder in Gangland

The Mob Across America

Mob Cops, Lawyers and Front Men

Shooting the Mob: Dutch Schultz

Bugsy& His Flamingo: The Testimony of Virginia Hill

After Valachi. Hearings before the US Senate on Organized Crime

Mob Buster: Report of Special Agent Virgil Peterson to the Kefauver Committee (Book support site)

The US Government’s Timeline of Organized Crime (Book support site)

The Kefauver Organized Crime Hearings (Book support site)

Joe Valachi's testimony on the Mafia (Book support site)

Mobsters in the News

Shooting the Mob: Dead Mobsters (Book support site)

The Stolen Years Full Text (Roger Touhy)

Mobsters in Black and White

Mafia Gangsters, Wiseguys and Goodfellas

Whacked: One Hundred Years of Murder and Mayhem in the Chicago Mob (Book support site)

Gangland Gaslight: The Killing of Rosy Rosenthal (Book support site)

The Best of the Mob Files Series (Book support site)

It’s All Greek Mythology to me

Psychologically Relevant

The Rarifieid Tribe

Perfect Behavior

The Upscale Traveler

The Mish Mosh Blog

DC Behind the Monuments

Washington Oddities

When Washington Was Irish

Litchfield Literary Books. A really small company run by writers.


The Day Nixon Met Elvis
Paperback 46 pages

Theodore Roosevelt: Letters to his Children. 1903-1918
Paperback 194 pages

The Works of Horace
Paperback 174 pages

The Quotable Greeks
Paperback 234 pages

The Quotable Epictetus
Paperback 142 pages

Quo Vadis: A narrative of the time of Nero
Paperback 420 pages

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

It's Not All Right to be a Foster Kid....no matter what they tell you: Tweet the books contents
Paperback 94 pages

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

On the Waterfront: The Making of a Great American Film
Paperback: 416 pages


Scotish Ghost Stories
Paperback 186 pages

The Book of funny odd and interesting things people say
Paperback: 278 pages

The Wee Book of Irish Jokes

Perfect Behavior: A guide for Ladies and Gentlemen in all Social Crises


You Don’t Need a Weatherman. Underground 1969
Paperback 122 pages

Baby Boomers Guide to the Beatles Songs of the Sixties

Baby Boomers Guide to Songs of the 1960s

The Connecticut Irish
Paper back 140 pages

 The Wee Book of Irish Jokes

The Wee Book of Irish Recipes 
 The Wee Book of the American-Irish Gangsters

 The Wee book of Irish Blessings... 

The Wee Book of the American Irish in Their Own Words

Everything you need to know about St. Patrick
Paperback 26 pages

A Reading Book in Ancient Irish History
Paperback 147pages

The Book of Things Irish

Poets and Dreamer; Stories translated from the Irish
Paperback 158 pages

The History of the Great Irish Famine: Abridged and Illustrated
Paperback 356 pages


The New England Mafia

Wicked Good New England Recipes

The Connecticut Irish
Paper back 140 pages

The Twenty-Fifth Regiment Connecticut Volunteers
Paperback 64 pages

The Life of James Mars
Paperback 54 pages

Stories of Colonial Connecticut
Paperback 116 pages

What they Say in Old New England
Paperback 194 pages


Chicago Organized Crime

The Mob Files: It Happened Here: Places of Note in Chicago gangland 1900-2000

An Illustrated Chronological History of the Chicago Mob. Time Line 1837-2000

Mob Buster: Report of Special Agent Virgil Peterson to the Kefauver Committee

The Mob Files. Guns and Glamour: The Chicago Mob. A History. 1900-2000

Shooting the Mob: Organized crime in photos. Crime Boss Tony Accardo

Shooting the Mob: Organized Crime in Photos: The Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre.

The Life and World of Al Capone in Photos

AL CAPONE: The Biography of a Self-Made Man.: Revised from the 0riginal 1930 edition.Over 200 new photographs
Paperback: 340 pages

Whacked. One Hundred Years Murder and Mayhem in the Chicago Outfit
Paperback: 172 pages

Las Vegas Organized Crime
The Mob in Vegas

Bugsy & His Flamingo: The Testimony of Virginia Hill

Testimony by Mobsters Lewis McWillie, Joseph Campisi and Irwin Weiner (The Mob Files Series)

Rattling the Cup on Chicago Crime.
Paperback 264 pages

The Life and Times of Terrible Tommy O’Connor.
Paperback 94 pages

The Mob, Sam Giancana and the overthrow of the Black Policy Racket in Chicago
Paperback 200 pages

When Capone’s Mob Murdered Roger Touhy. In Photos
Paperback 234 pages

Organized Crime in Hollywood
The Mob in Hollywood

The Bioff Scandal
Paperback 54 pages

Organized Crime in New York
Joe Pistone’s war on the mafia

Mob Testimony: Joe Pistone, Michael Scars DiLeonardo, Angelo Lonardo and others

The New York Mafia: The Origins of the New York Mob

The New York Mob: The Bosses

Organized Crime 25 Years after Valachi. Hearings before the US Senate

Shooting the mob: Dutch Schultz

Gangland Gaslight: The Killing of Rosy Rosenthal. (Illustrated)

Early Street Gangs and Gangsters of New York City
Paperback 382 pages

The Russian Mafia in America

The Threat of Russian Organzied Crime
Paperback 192 pages

Organized Crime/General
Best of Mob Stories

Best of Mob Stories Part 2


Mob Recipes to Die For. Meals and Mobsters in Photos

More Mob Recipes to Die For. Meals and Mobs

The New England Mafia

Shooting the mob. Organized crime in photos. Dead Mobsters, Gangsters and Hoods.

The Salerno Report: The Mafia and the Murder of President John F. Kennedy

The Mob Files: Mob Wars. "We only kill each other"

The Mob across America

The US Government’s Time Line of Organzied Crime 1920-1987

Early Street Gangs and Gangsters of New York City: 1800-1919. Illustrated

The Mob Files: Mob Cops, Lawyers and Informants and Fronts

Gangster Quotes: Mobsters in their own words. Illustrated
Paperback: 128 pages

The Book of American-Jewish Gangsters: A Pictorial History.
Paperback: 436 pages

The Mob and the Kennedy Assassination
Paperback 414 pages


The Last Outlaw: The story of Cole Younger, by Himself
Paperback 152 pages

Chicago: A photographic essay.
 Paperback: 200 pages

Boomers on a train: A ten minute play
Paperback 22 pages

Four Short Plays
By John William Tuohy

Four More Short Plays
By John William Tuohy

High and Goodbye: Everybody gets the Timothy Leary they deserve. A full length play
By John William Tuohy

Cyberdate. An Everyday Love Story about Everyday People
By John William Tuohy

The Dutchman's Soliloquy: A one Act Play based on the factual last words of Gangster Dutch Schultz.
By John William Tuohy

Fishbowling on The Last Words of Dutch Schultz: Or William S. Burroughs intersects with Dutch Schultz
Print Length: 57 pages

American Shakespeare: August Wilson in his own words. A One Act Play
By John William Tuohy

She Stoops to Conquer

The Seven Deadly Sins of Gilligan’s Island: A ten minute play
Print Length: 14 pages

OUT OF CONTROL: An Informal History of the Fairfax County Police

McLean Virginia. A short informal history


The Quotable Emerson: Life lessons from the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson: Over 300 quotes

The Quotable John F. Kennedy

The Quotable Oscar Wilde

The Quotable Machiavelli

The Quotable Confucius: Life Lesson from the Chinese Master

The Quotable Henry David Thoreau

The Quotable Robert F. Kennedy

The Quotable Writer: Writers on the Writers Life

The words of Walt Whitman: An American Poet
Paperback: 162 pages

Gangster Quotes: Mobsters in their own words. Illustrated
Paperback: 128 pages

The Quotable Popes
Paperback 66 pages

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.

The Quotable Dorothy Parker
Paperback 86 pages

The Quotable Machiavelli
Paperback 36 pages

The Quotable Greeks
Paperback 230 pages

The Quotabe Oscar Wilde
Paperback 24 pages

The Quotable Helen Keller
Paperback 66 pages

The Art of War: Sun Tzu
Paperback 60 pages

The Quotable Shakespeare
Paperback 54 pages

The Quotable Gorucho Marx
Paperback 46 pages

No comments: