John William Tuohy lives in Washington DC

Don't worry, be happy


John William Tuohy

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 No Time to Say Goodbye: Memoirs of a Life in Foster Care and Short Stories from a Small Town. He is also 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:



This is a book of short stories taken from the things I saw and heard in my childhood in the factory town of Ansonia in southwestern Connecticut.

Most of these stories, or as true as I recall them because I witnessed these events many years ago through the eyes of child and are retold to you now with the pen and hindsight of an older man. The only exception is the story Beat Time which is based on the disappearance of Beat poet Lew Welch. Decades before I knew who Welch was, I was told that he had made his from California to New Haven, Connecticut, where was an alcoholic living in a mission. The notion fascinated me and I filed it away but never forgot it.     

The collected stories are loosely modeled around Joyce’s novel, Dubliners (I also borrowed from the novels character and place names. Ivy Day, my character in “Local Orphan is Hero” is also the name of chapter in Dubliners, etc.) and like Joyce I wanted to write about my people, the people I knew as a child, the working class in small town America and I wanted to give a complete view of them as well. As a result the stories are about the divorced, Gays, black people, the working poor, the middle class, the lost and the found, the contented and the discontented.

Conversely many of the stories in this book are about starting life over again as a result of suicide (The Hanging Party, Small Town Tragedy, Beat Time) or from a near death experience (Anna Bell Lee and the Charge of the Light Brigade, A Brief Summer) and natural occurring death. (The Best Laid Plans, The Winter Years, Balanced and Serene)

With the exception of Jesus Loves Shaqunda, in each story there is a rebirth from the death. (Shaqunda is reported as having died of pneumonia in The Winter Years)
Sal, the desperate and depressed divorcee in Things Change, changes his life in Lunch Hour when asks the waitress for a date and she accepts. (Which we learn in Closing Time, the last story in the book) In The Arranged Time, Thisby is given the option of change and whether she takes it or, we don’t know. The death of Greta’s husband in A Matter of Time has led her to the diner and into the waiting arms of the outgoing and loveable Gabe.

Although the book is based on three sets of time (breakfast, lunch and dinner) and the diner is opened in the early morning and closed at night, time stands still inside the Diner. The hour on the big clock on the wall never changes time and much like my memories of that place, everything remains the same.



The Valley Lives
By Marion Marchetto, author of The Bridgewater Chronicles on October 15, 2015
Short Stores from a Small Town is set in The Valley (known to outsiders as The Lower Naugatuck Valley) in Connecticut. While the short stories are contemporary they provide insight into the timeless qualities of an Industrial Era community and the values and morals of the people who live there. Some are first or second generation Americans, some are transplants, yet each takes on the mantle of Valleyite and wears it proudly. It isn't easy for an author to take the reader on a journey down memory lane and involve the reader in the life stories of a group of seemingly unrelated characters. I say seemingly because by book's end the reader will realize that he/she has done more than meet a group of loosely related characters.
We meet all of the characters during a one-day time period as each of them finds their way to the Valley Diner on a rainy autumn day. From our first meeting with Angel, the educationally challenged man who opens and closes the diner, to our farewell for the day to the young waitress whose smile hides her despair we meet a cross section of the Valley population. Rich, poor, ambitious, and not so ambitious, each life proves that there is more to it beneath the surface. And the one thing that binds these lives together is The Valley itself. Not so much a place (or a memory) but an almost palpable living thing that becomes a part of its inhabitants.
Let me be the first the congratulate author John William Tuohy on a job well done. He has evoked the heart of The Valley and in doing so brought to life the fabric that Valleyites wear as a mantle of pride. While set in a specific region of the country, the stories that unfold within the pages of this slim volume are similar to those that live in many a small town from coast to coast.

By Sandra Mendyk
Just read "Short Stories from a Small Town," and couldn't put it down! Like Mr. Tuohy's other books I read, they keep your interest, especially if you're from a small town and can relate to the lives of the people he writes about. I recommend this book for anyone interested in human interest stories. His characters all have a central place where the stories take place--a diner--and come from different walks of life and wrestle with different problems of everyday life. Enjoyable and thoughtful.

I loved how the author wrote about "his people"
By kathee
A touching thoughtful book. I loved how the author wrote about "his people", the people he knew as a child from his town. It is based on sets of time in the local diner, breakfast , lunch and dinner, but time stands still ... Highly recommend !

WONDERFUL book, I loved it!
By John M. Cribbins
What wonderful stories...I just loved this book.... It is great how it is written following, breakfast, lunch, dinner, at a diner. Great characters.... I just loved it....


Amazon review: I purchased this book for my daughter who loves Emerson. The quotes are organized in categories and are easy to find and read. The book includes the most memorable quotes of Emerson and my daughter loves it.

Amazon review: This is really enjoyable to read and I like how it is done and you can look up all sorts of things. I have shared some of Emerson's quotes from this book on my website right from this book, giving him credit.

Amazon review: Made me hungry for more!!

Amazon review: It's a keeper!
The Quotable Emerson

Life lessons from the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson

To view more Emerson quotes or read a life background on Emerson please visit the books blog spot. We update the blog bi-monthly emersonsaidit.blogspot.com

Why should we be cowed by the name of Action?

A man's action is only a picture book of his creed.

Most of the shadows of this life are caused by standing in One's own sunshine

A man is a god in ruins.

The moment we indulge our affections the earth is metamorphosed there is no winter and no night; all tragedies all ennui s vanish all duties even.

We do not count a man's years until he has nothing else to count.

Nature is full of freaks and now puts an old head on young shoulders and then takes a young heart heating under fourscore winters.

People with great gifts are easy to find but symmetrical and balanced Ones never.

Big jobs usually go to the men who prove their ability to outgrow small Ones.

To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.

Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.

We do not quite forgive a giver. The hand that feeds us is in some danger of being bitten.
There is this to be said in favor of drinking that it takes the drunkard first out of society then out of the world.

Without ambition One starts nothing. Without work one finishes nothing. The prize will not be sent to you. You have to win it. The man who knows how will always have a job. The man who also knows why will always be his boss. As to methods there may be a million and then some but principles are few. The man who grasps principles can successfully select his own methods. The man who tries methods ignoring principles is sure to have trouble.

The intellectual man requires a fine bait; the sots are easily amused. But everybody is drugged with his own frenzy and the pageant marches at all hours with music and banner and badge.

Good breeding a union of kindness and independence.

The angels are so enamored of the language that is spoken in heaven that they will not distort their lips with the hissing and unmusical dialects of men but speak their own whether there be any who understand it or not.

On art

His heart was as great as the world but there was no room in it to hold the memory of a wrong.

Great hearts steadily send forth the secret forces that incessantly draw great events.

 The arts and inventions of each period are only its costume and do not invigorate men.

The true poem is the poet's mind.

Sculpture and painting have the effect of teaching us manners and abolishing hurry.
Perpetual modernness is the measure of merit in every work of art.

New arts destroy the old.

Classic art was the art of necessity: modern romantic art bears the stamp of caprice and chance.

Art is a jealous mistress; and if a man have a genius for painting poetry music architecture or philosophy he makes a bad husband and an ill provider.

Art is the path of the creator to his work.

Each work of art excludes the world concentrates attention On itself. For the time it is the Only thing worth doing --to do just that; be it a sonnet a statue a landscape an outline head of Caesar or an oration. Presently we return to the sight of another that globes itself into a whole as did the first for example a beautiful garden; and nothing seems worth doing in life but laying out a garden.

The True Artist has the planet for his pedestal; the adventurer after years of strife has nothing broader than his shoes.

Every artist was first an amateur.

Artists must be sacrificed to their art.

On anger

A man makes inferiors his superiors by heat; self-control is the rule.

We boil at different degrees.

For every minute you are angry you lose sixty seconds of happiness.

On animals

Who can guess how much industry and providence and affection we have caught from the pantomime of brutes?

On anxiety

Some of your grief you have cured and lived to survive; but what torments of pain have you endured that haven't as yet arrived.

On appearance

'Tis very certain that each man carries in his eye the exact indication of his rank in the immense scale of men and we are always learning to read it. A complete man should need no auxiliaries to his personal presence.

On attitude

To different minds the same world is a hell and a heaven.

On babies

Infancy conforms to nobody: all conform to it so that One babe commonly makes four or five out of the adults who prattle and play to it.

On beauty

We ascribe beauty to that which is simple; which has no superfluous parts; which exactly answers its end; which stands related to all things; which is the mean of many extremes.

The line of beauty is the line of perfect economy.

Beauty rests on necessities.

As soon as beauty is sought not from religion and love but for pleasure it degrades the seeker.

Beauty is the mark God sets On virtue. Every natural action is graceful; every heroic act is also decent and causes the place and the bystanders to shine.

Beauty is the pilot of the young soul.

A beautiful form is better than a beautiful face; it gives a higher pleasure than statues or pictures; it is the finest of the fine arts.

On beginnings

The great majority of men are bundles of beginnings.

On belief

Belief consists in accepting the affirmations of the soul; unbelief in denying them.

We are born believing. A man bears beliefs as a tree bears apples.

All the great ages have been ages of belief.

On bereavement

The death of a dear friend wife brother lover which seemed nothing but privation somewhat later assumes the aspect of a guide or genius; for it commonly operates revolutions in our way of life terminates an epoch of infancy or of youth which was waiting to be closed breaks up a wonted occupation or a household or style of living and allows the formation of new Ones more friendly to the growth of character.

On bigotry and indifference

Religion is as effectually destroyed by bigotry as by indifference.

On biography

Great geniuses have the shortest biographies.

There is properly no history; only biography.

On Books (classics)

There are books which take rank in your life with parents and lovers and passionate experiences so medicinal so stringent so revolutionary so authoritative.

On books – (reading)

If we encounter a man of rare intellect we should ask him what books he reads.

Never read any book that is not a year old.

Our high respect for a well-read person is praise enough for literature.

We are too civil to books. For a few golden sentences we will turn over and actually read a volume of four or five hundred pages.

Some books leave us free and some books make us free.

There is creative reading as well as creative writing.

There never was a child so lovely but his mother was glad to get him asleep.

Trust your instinct to the end though you can render no reason.

We are as much informed of a writer's genius by what he selects as by what he originates.

On criticism

Manifold allusion. Every sentence is doubly significant and the sense of our author is as broad as the world.

On calamity

Every calamity is a spur and valuable hint.

On change

People wish to be settled. It is only as far as they are unsettled that there is any hope for them.

On character

No change of circumstances can repair a defect of character.

Judge of your natural character by what you do in dreams.

Character is higher than intellect. A great soul will be strong to live as well as think.

People seem not to see that their opinion of the world is also a confession of character.

Make the most of yourself for that is all there is of you.

Gross and obscure natures however decorated seem impure shambles; but character gives splendor to youth and awe to wrinkled skin and gray hairs.

Do what you know and perception is converted into character.

A character is like an acrostic or Alexandrian stanza; read it forward backward or across it still spells the same thing.

On charity

Give no bounties: make equal laws: secure life and prosperity and you need not give alms.

On cheerfulness

So of cheerfulness or a good temper the more it is spent the more it remains.

On civilization

Sunday is the core of our civilization dedicated to thought and reverence.

Civilization depends on morality.

On college

One of the benefits of a college education is to show the boy its little avail.

The colleges while they provide us with libraries furnish no professors of books; and I think no chair is so much needed.

On common sense

Common sense is genius dressed in its working clothes.

Nothing astonishes people so much as common sense and plain dealing.

On communication

When the eyes say one thing and the tongue another a practiced man relies On the language of the first.

On compensation

For everything you have missed you have gained something else; and for everything you gain you lose something else.

On conceit

Solvency is maintained by means of a national debt on the principle If you will not lend me the money how can I pay you?

On conflict

We know better than we do. We do not yet possess ourselves...

We are the prisoners of ideas.

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.

On consultants

In every society some men are born to rule and some to advise.

Wise men are not wise at all hours and will speak five times from their taste or their humor to Once from their reason.

On contradiction

Let me never fall into the vulgar mistake of dreaming that I am persecuted whenever I am contradicted.

On control

Nothing external to you has any power over you.

On conventionality

He who would be a man must therefore be a non-conformist.

On conversation

Conversation is an art in which a man has all mankind for competitors.

On courage

Courage consists in equality to the problem before us.

A great part of courage is the courage of having done the thing before.

Half a man's wisdom goes with his courage.

On courtesy

We must be as courteous to a man as we are to a picture which we are willing to give the advantage of a good light.

Life is short but there is always time for courtesy.

Courtesy Life be not so short but that there is always time for courtesy.

On crafts

It is the privilege of any human work which is well done to invest the doer with a certain haughtiness. He can well afford not to conciliate whose faithful work will answer for him.

On creativity

That which builds is better than that which is built.

On creeds

As men's prayers are a disease of the will so are their creeds a disease of the intellect.

On crime and criminals

Crime and punishment grow out of one stem. Punishment is a fruit that unsuspected ripens with the flower of the pleasure that concealed it.

Commit a crime and the earth is made of glass.

On criticism

Blame is safer than praise.
Criticism should not be querulous and wasting all knife and root-puller but guiding instructive inspiring.

On culture

Culture is one thing and varnish is another.

On curiosity

Curiosity is lying in wait for every secret.

On curses

Curses always recoil on the head of him who imprecates them. If you put a chain around the neck of a slave the other end fastens itself around your own.

On cynics and cynicism

Don't be a cynic and disconsolate preacher. Don't bewail and moan. Omit the negative propositions. Challenge us with incessant affirmatives. Don't waste yourself in rejection or bark against the bad but chant the beauty of the good.

A cynic can chill and dishearten with a single word.

On debt

It is said that the world is in a state of bankruptcy that the world owes the world more than the world can pay.

On decisions

Once you make a decision the universe conspires to make it happen.

On dependence

The ship of heaven guides itself and will not accept a wooden rudder.

On desire

There is nothing capricious in nature and the implanting of a desire indicates that its gratification is in the constitution of the creature that feel it.

Can anything be so elegant as to have few wants and to serve them One's self?

On destiny

Sow a thought and you reap an action; sow an act and you reap a habit; sow a habit and you reap a character; sow a character and you reap a destiny.

Fate then is a name for facts not yet passed under the fire of thought; for causes which are unpenetrated.

On diets

'Tis a superstition to insist on a special diet. All is made at last of the same chemical atoms.

On difficulties

When it is dark enough you can see the stars.
There are always difficulties arising that tempt you to believe your critics are right.

Can anybody remember when the times were not hard and money not scarce?

Bad times have a scientific value. These are occasions a good learner would not miss.

On disasters

The compensations of calamity are made apparent to the understanding also after long intervals of time. A fever a mutilation a cruel disappointment a loss of wealth a loss of friends seems at the moment unpaid loss and unpayable. But the sure years reveal the deep remedial force that underlies all facts.

On discipline

Self-command is the main discipline.

On discovery

If a man knew anything he would sit in a corner and be modest; but he is such an ignorant peacock that he goes bustling up and down and hits On extraordinary discoveries.

On disease

All diseases run into one. Old age.

On action

There are three wants which never can be satisfied: that of the rich who wants something more; that of the sick who wants something different; and that of the traveler who says anywhere but here.

On dress

I have heard with admiring submission the experience of the lady who declared that the sense of being perfectly well dressed gives a feeling of inward tranquility which religi0n is powerless to bestow.

On drugs

Tobacco and opium have broad backs and will cheerfully carry the load of armies if you choose to make them pay high for such joy as they give and such harm as they do.

On duty

Do that which is assigned to you and you cannot hope too much or dare too much.


An award winning full length play.

"Cyberdate.Com is the story of six ordinary people in search of romance, friendship and love and find it in very extraordinary ways. Based on the real life experiences of the authors misadventures with on line dating, Cyber date is a bittersweet story that will make you laugh, cry and want to fall in love again."   Ellis McKay  

Cyberdate.Com, was chosen for a public 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. The play was also given a full reading at The Frederick Playhouse in Maryland in March of 2007.

OTHER PLAYS BY JOHN WILLIAM TUOHY............................



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.

Chapter One
 To read the first 12 chapters of this book, visit it's BlogSpot @             amemoirofalifeinfostercare.blogspot.com/

Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! - I have as much soul as you, - and full as much heart! ― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

   I am here because I worked too hard and too long not to be here. But although I told the university that I would walk across the stage to take my diploma, I won't. At age fifty-seven, I'm too damned old, and I'd look ridiculous in this crowd. From where I'm standing in the back of the hall, I can see that I am at least two decades older than most of the parents of these kids in their black caps and gowns.
  So I'll graduate with this class, but I won't walk across the stage and collect my diploma with them; I'll have the school send it to my house. I only want to hear my name called. I'll imagine what the rest would have been like. When you've had a life like mine, you learn to do that, to imagine the good things.
  The ceremony is about to begin. It's a warm June day and a hallway of glass doors leading to the parking lot are open, the dignitaries march onto the stage, a janitor slams the doors shut, one after the other. 
  That banging sound.
  It's Christmas Day 1961 and three Waterbury cops are throwing their bulk against our sorely overmatched front door. They are wearing their long woolen blue coats and white gloves and they swear at the cold.
  They've finally come for us, in the dead of night, to take us away, just as our mother said they would.
  "They'll come and get you kids," she screamed at us, "and put youse all in an orphanage where you'll get the beatin's youse deserve, and there won't be no food either."
  That's why we're terrified, that's why we don't open the door and that's how I remember that night. I was six years old then, one month away from my seventh birthday. My older brother, the perpetually-worried, white-haired Paulie, was ten. He is my half-brother, actually, although I have never thought of him that way. He was simply my brother. My youngest brother, Denny, was six; Maura, the baby, was four; and Bridget, our auburn-haired leader, my half -sister, was twelve.
  We didn't know where our mother was. The welfare check, and thank God for it, had arrived, so maybe she was at a gin mill downtown spending it all, as she had done a few times before.
 Maybe she'd met yet another guy, another barfly, who wouldn't be able to remember our names because his beer-soaked brain can't remember anything. We are thankful that he'll disappear after the money runs out or the social worker lady comes around and tells him he has to leave because the welfare won't pay for him as well as for us. It snowed that day and after the snow had finished falling, the temperature dropped and the winds started.
  "Maybe she went to Brooklyn," Paulie said, as we walked through the snow to the Salvation Army offices one that afternoon before the cops came for us.
  "She didn't go back to New York," Bridget snapped. "She probably just--"
  "She always says she gonna leave and go back home to Brooklyn," I interrupted.
  "Yeah," Denny chirped, mostly because he was determined to be taken as our equal in all things, including this conversation.
  We walked along in silence for a second, kicking the freshly fallen snow from our paths, and then Paulie added what we were all thinking: "Maybe they put her back in Saint Mary's." 
  No one answered him. Instead, we fell into our own thoughts, recalling how, several times in the past, when too much of life came at our mother at once, she broke down and lay in bed for weeks in a dark room, not speaking and barely eating. It was a frightening and disturbing thing to watch.
  "It don't matter," Bridget snapped again, more out of exhaustion than anything else. She was always cranky. The weight of taking care of us, and of being old well before her time, strained her. "It don't matter," she mumbled.
  It didn't matter that night either, that awful night, when the cops were at the door and she wasn't there. We hadn't seen our mother for two days, and after that night, we wouldn't see her for another two years.
  When we returned home that day, the sun had gone down and it was dark inside the house because we hadn't paid the light bill. We never paid the bills, so the lights were almost always off and there was no heat because we didn't pay that bill either. And now we needed the heat. We needed the heat more than we needed the lights.
The cold winter winds pushed up at us from the Atlantic Ocean and down on us from frigid Canada and battered our part of northwestern Connecticut, shoving freezing drifts of snow against the paper-thin walls of our ramshackle house and covering our windows in a thick veneer of silver-colored ice.
  The house was built around 1910 by the factories to house immigrant workers mostly brought in from southern Italy. These mill houses weren't built to last. They had no basements; only four windows, all in the front; and paper-thin walls. Most of the construction was done with plywood and tarpaper. The interiors were long and narrow and dark.
 Bridget turned the gas oven on to keep us warm. "Youse go get the big mattress and bring it in here by the stove," she commanded us. Denny, Paulie, and I went to the bed that was in the cramped living room and wrestled the stained and dark mattress, with some effort, into the kitchen. Bridget covered Maura in as many shirts as she could find, in a vain effort to stop the chills that racked her tiny and frail body and caused her to shake.
  We took great pains to position the hulking mattress in exactly the right spot by the stove and then slid, fully dressed, under a pile of dirty sheets, coats, and drapes that was our blanket. We squeezed close to fend off the cold, the baby in the middle and the older kids at the ends.
  "Move over, ya yutz, ya," Paulie would say to Denny and me because half of his butt was hanging out onto the cold linoleum floor. We could toss insults in Yiddish. We learned them from our mother, whose father was a Jew and who grew up in a Jewish neighborhood in New York.
  I assumed that those words we learned were standard American English, in wide and constant use across our great land. It wasn't until I was in my mid-twenties and moved from the Naugatuck Valley and Connecticut that I came to understand that most Americans would never utter a sentence like, "You and your fakakta plans".
  We also spoke with the Waterbury aversion to the sound of the letter "T," replacing it with the letter "D," meaning that "them, there, those, and these" were pronounced "dem, dere, dose, and dese." We were also practitioners of "youse," the northern working-class equivalent to "you-all," as in "Are youse leaving or are youse staying?"
  "Move in, ya yutz, ya," Paulie said again with a laugh, but we didn't move because the only place to move was to push Bridget off the mattress, which we were not about to do because Bridget packed a wallop that could probably put a grown man down. Then Paulie pushed us, and at the other end of the mattress, Bridget pushed back with a laugh, and an exaggerated, rear-ends pushing war for control of the mattress broke out.
From the Inside Flap

By Dr. Wm. 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—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.

MISH MOSH..........................................

Mish Mash: noun \ˈmish-ˌmash, -ˌmäsh\ A : hodgepodge, jumble “The painting was just a mishmash of colors and abstract shapes as far as we could tell. Origin Middle English & Yiddish; Middle English mysse masche, perhaps reduplication of mash mash; Yiddish mish-mash, perhaps reduplication of mishn to mix. First Known Use: 15th century

 An ancient Sun pictograph on Painted Rock in Carrizo Plain National Monument, California.

I'm a big big Fan of Bukowski

Sculpture this and Sculpture that

ROCCATAGLIATA, Nicolò Italian sculptor, Venetian school (b. before 1593, Genova, d. 1636, Venezia) Tritons 1590s


The Persistence of Song
Howard Moss  
The New Yorker, November 19, 1966

Although it is not yet evening,
The secretaries have changed their frocks
As if it were time for dancing,
And locked up in the scholars’ books
There is a kind of rejoicing,
There is a kind of singing
That even the dark stone canyon makes
As though all fountains were going
At once, and the color flowed from bricks
In one wild, lit upsurging.

What is the weather doing?
And who arrived on a scallop shell
With the smell of the sea this morning?
-Creating a small upheaval
High above the scaffolding
By saying, “All will be well.
There is a kind of rejoicing.”

Is there a kind of rejoicing
In saying, “All will be well?”
High above the scaffolding,
Creating a small upheaval,
The smell of the sea this morning
Arrived on a scallop shell.
What was the weather doing
In one wild, lit upsurging?
At once, the color flowed from bricks
As though all fountains were going,
And even the dark stone canyon makes
Here a kind of singing,
And there a kind of rejoicing,
And locked up in the scholars’ books
There is a time for dancing
When the secretaries have changed their frocks,
And though it is not yet evening,

There is the persistence of song.


Mystic Scene, Henri Martin

Born in toulouse to a french cabinet maker and a mother of italian descent, martin successfully persuaded his father to permit him to become an artist. He began his career in 1877 at the toulouse school of the fine arts, where he was under the tutelage of jules garipuy (he was also a pupil of henry-eugéne delacroix). In 1879, martin relocated to paris and with the help of a scholarship, was able to study in jean-paul laurens' studio.

Four years later, he received his first medal at the paris salon, where he would hold his first exhibition three years later in 1886.  the year after he won his first medal, martin was awarded a scholarship for a tour in italy, where he studied the work of veterans such as giotto and masaccio. His 1889 canvas submission to the salon earned him the gold medal for work that has been described as pointillist. That same year he became a member of the legion of honor.

At the 1900 world fair, he was awarded the grand prize for his work. During this period, he became friends with auguste rodin. Although martin's work as a neo-impressionist is not considered groundbreaking, his work was rather well-received, and has been associated with world-class symbolist painter, puvis de chavannes.  due to his introverted temperament, martin decided to move away from paris.

After a decade of searching for an ideal home, martin bought marquayrol, a mansion overlooking la bastide du vert, near cahors. He performed his best work in the new tranquil environment, and died there in 1943

Dmitri Kessel

Dmitri Kessel was born as Dmitri Kesselman in Kiev to the family of sugar beet farmers He grew up in the Podolia Governorate of Russia (now Ukraine). As a boy he learned to use a box camera to snap photos of friends, family and his everyday life. Involved with Ukrainian People's Party, he documented a massacre by Ukrainian villagers of pillaging Polish invaders but had his camera destroyed by the leader of the Ukrainian mob. From the age of ten Kessel trained at the Poltava Military Academy in Russia to serve as cavalry officer, and later joined the Red Army campaign against the Poles during the Civil War (1919–21)
On quitting the army, Kessel studied leather tanning and industrial chemistry in Moscow 1921-22.
Kessel emigrated to the US via Romania in 1923 (naturalized 1929) to New York City and worked at part-time jobs in the fur industry and for Russian-language newspapers. He attended night classes at City College, then in 1934 attended Ben Magid Rabinovitch's (1884-1964) School of Photography (founded in 1920).
His training in photography coincided with rapid changes within the medium itself. Exploiting his industrial experience and contacts he specialised in photography for factory owners. This led to his being signed on as a freelance for Henry Luce's Fortune in 1935, which secured his success as a photojournalist, and work covering World War 2 from 1939. He became a staffer and war correspondent for Life in 1944, and he remained with the magazine until 1972.
In the post-war years, Kessel worked mostly for Life at their Paris bureau, travelling to cover stories on ideological struggles and territorial disputes in Hungary, China, Palestine, India, Spain, Ceylon and Japan.
In 1950, assigned to the Aga Khan's wedding, he and journalist Dita Comacho documented growing tension between Iran and the Soviet Union, and after extending their stay to six weeks produced an eight-page cover story in Life.
From the mid-1950s he photographed Europe's religious architecture, including St Mark's, in Venice, and the opulent monuments of the Vatican.
Kessel died in Southampton, New York 26 March 1995. 



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

Photographs I’ve taken

AND HERE'S SOME ANIMALS FOR YOU...................

Monet found in art hoarder's suitcase

A Claude Monet landscape has been discovered in a suitcase that belonged to late art hoarder Cornelius Gurlitt.
The case, which was left at a hospital where the German had been staying, was handed over to the administrators of his estate.
They are tasked with finding out if the newly uncovered artwork was stolen by the Nazis during World War Two.
Gurlitt, who died in May aged 81, had a stash of 1,280 works of art hidden in his Munich apartment.
They were seized by the authorities in 2012 during a search of his home as part of a tax evasion probe, and included pieces by Picasso, Chagall and Matisse.
Details of the find were not made public until November last year.
It is unclear why Gurlitt had left behind his suitcase at the hospital.
The task force handling the art trove say the latest find is a light-blue landscape painted on paper, which may have been produced in 1864. It appears to have similarities to Monet's piece View at Sainte-Adresse, dated 1867.
In July, a small number of other works were found at Gurlitt's flat, including two sculptures thought to be works by Rodin and Degas.
Gurlitt inherited the priceless collection from his father Hildebrand, an art dealer who traded in works confiscated by the Nazis.
Hildebrand Gurlitt was ordered by Adolf Hitler to deal in works seized from Jewish families, or which the Nazis considered "degenerate".
In his will, Gurlitt left the art haul to the Kunstmuseum Bern in Switzerland.
The museum has just months to decide whether to accept Gurlitt's bequest.
In June, a Matisse painting was the first of the paintings to be confirmed as looted.
It was taken from a Jewish art dealer, Paul Rosenberg, in 1941. The task force has said the painting should be returned to Rosenberg's heirs.

Talk About Irony
Trucker hauling milk crashes into Vermont cow


NEWBURY, Vt. - A New Hampshire trucker hauling milk struck and killed a cow early Sunday morning. The driver, James Aldrich, 67, of North Haverhill, was not injured in the accident but the front end of his 2015 Volvo truck was damaged. The cow was killed in the collision, Vermont State Police said. Aldrich was driving on Route 5 shortly before 5 a.m. when the cow wandered into the road near the Four Corner Farms, police said. He was hauling milk for Mountain Milk, a full-service hauling company

We met these nice people over the summer

 (left) My Mary Tuohy and Mrs. Mary Tuohy of Hartford
Me (Right) and John Tuohy of Hartford, that's his wife in the photo above

Her son shot their daughters 10 years ago. Then, these Amish families embraced her as a friend.

By Colby Itkowitz 

Terri Roberts holds a photo of her son, Charles Carl Roberts IV, who shot and killed Amish girls in their schoolhouse 10 years ago. (Colby Itkowitz/The Washington Post)
NICKEL MINES, Pa. — A single word in black cursive font hangs above a large double-pane window in Terri Roberts’s sun room. It says “Forgiven.”
The word — and the room itself, a gift built by her Amish neighbors just months after the unimaginable occurred — is a daily reminder of all that she’s lost and all that she’s gained these past 10 years.
The simple, quiet rural life she knew shattered on Oct. 2, 2006, when her oldest son, Charles Carl Roberts IV, walked into a one-room Amish schoolhouse on a clear, unseasonably warm Monday morning. The 32-year-old husband and father of three young children ordered the boys and adults to leave, tied up 10 little girls between the ages of 6 and 13 and shot them, killing five and injuring the others, before killing himself.
Terri Roberts’s husband thought they’d have to move far away. He knew what people thought of parents of mass murderers. He believed they would be ostracized in their community, blamed for not knowing the evil their child was capable of.
But in the hours after the massacre, as Amish parents still waited in a nearby barn for word about whether their daughters had survived, an Amish man named Henry arrived at the Robertses’ home with a message: The families did not see the couple as an enemy. Rather, they saw them as parents who were grieving the loss of their child, too. Henry put his hand on the shoulder of Terri Roberts’s husband and called him a friend.
The world watched in amazement as, on the day of their son’s funeral, nearly 30 Amish men and women, some the parents of the victims, came to the cemetery and formed a wall to block out media cameras. Parents, whose daughters had died at the hand of their son, approached the couple after the burial and offered condolences for their loss.
Then, just four weeks after the shooting, the couple was invited to meet with all the families in a local fire hall. One mother held Roberts’s gaze as both women’s eyes blurred with tears, she said. They were all grieving; they were all struggling to make sense of the senseless.
But the Amish did more than forgive the couple. They embraced them as part of their community. When Roberts underwent treatment for Stage 4 breast cancer in December, one of the girls who survived the massacre helped clean her home before she returned from the hospital. A large yellow bus arrived at her home around Christmas, and Amish children piled inside to sing her Christmas carols.
“The forgiveness is there; there’s no doubt they forgive,” Roberts said.
Steven Nolt, a professor of Amish studies at Elizabethtown College, said that for most people, forgiveness and acceptance come at the end of a long emotional process. But the Amish forgive first and then every day work through the emotions of it. This “decisional forgiveness” opened a space for Roberts to offer her friendship, which normally in their situation would be uncomfortable, he said.
 Ten years later, the Amish families are still consciously deciding to forgive every day. About six miles from the Robertses’ home, down narrow country roads lined with cornstalks and rolling crop fields, the small village of Nickel Mines is visually unchanged, except that where there was once a schoolhouse by the road, there is now just overgrown grass. Many of the school-age children were not yet born or are too young to remember.
But it’s impossible to forget. In one home, a 16-year-old girl sits immobile in her wheelchair, unable to speak or feed herself. Nearby, a 23-year-old man sits at his kitchen table, also struggling to speak, though for him it’s not because he isn’t physically able. He just can’t find the words to express the emotional pain he’s felt every day for the past 10 years.
Rosanna King was among the youngest in her class that day: She was 6. Aaron Esh Jr., then 13, was the oldest.
Roberts has developed bonds with both of them.
Forgiveness, one day at a time
It started at a summer picnic in her sprawling back yard.
It was only nine months after her son’s attack on their children when Roberts invited the Amish families to her home for a get-together. They all came, including Rosanna.
Roberts, a grandmother, held Rosanna in her arms, rocking her and singing her lullabies.
Several months later, Roberts had all the women back to her home for a tea — a gathering that’s now become an annual tradition. As she played again with Rosanna, she asked the girl’s mother if she might help care for her. In the intervening years, Roberts spent nearly every Thursday evening at the King family’s farm, bathing, reading and attending to Rosanna until her bedtime. After the first couple of visits, Roberts said, she would cry uncontrollably the entire drive home, overwhelmed by the reality that this little girl was severely handicapped because of her son.
That’s not lost on Rosanna’s father, either. There’s never an evening that Roberts is there visiting that Christ King doesn’t think of what her son did, but he said it never changes the goodwill he feels toward her.
Roberts has cut back on her visits because of her illness, and on this Thursday evening, it is King who adjusts the wide-rim black glasses on his daughter’s face and shifts the blanket over her lap. He unhooks her IV to replace the bag of fluids. Rosanna barely moves, staring straight ahead, her mouth agape, exposing a full set of braces, like any other teenage girl.
For King, forgiveness has not come easy. Some parents have mourned the death of their daughters. Others have seen their daughters fully heal. His daughter survived, but he also lost her. Every day, he fights back his anger. Every day, he has to forgive again.
Sitting in a folding chair, with Rosanna’s hospital bed in view behind him, King speaks slowly, methodically, measuring each word. There are joy-filled moments with their daughter, like when she seems to perk up when he comes in from work. But then there are days when she has seizures or she’s up in the night and can’t be comforted.
“I’ve always said and continue to say we have a lot of hard work to be what the people brag about us to be,” he said.
But, then, he says this of Roberts: “She’s strong enough, has enough of a backbone, to go out and become such a part of the life of a girl that her son tried to kill. She’s so much a part of our routine that there’s something missing when she’s not there. She’s welcome here anytime.”
A shared affection
Aaron’s trauma is less visible. Since the morning of the shooting, when he and the other boys ran for help, he’s struggled with crippling anxiety over his guilt that as the oldest boy in the class, he didn’t protect the girls. Even when a state trooper assured him there was nothing he could have done, it took a long time for him to forgive himself.
He started overeating, and when he gained weight rapidly, he stopped eating, eventually having to be hospitalized for anorexia.
At the picnic in 2007, Roberts knew Aaron was suffering, which made it all the more moving when, at the end of the party, he told her he’d had fun.
Since then, she’s developed a special affection for Aaron, a quiet, contemplative man. He traveled with her to Ohio where she gave a talk about her story. In her presence, he found his voice, getting up with her to share his experience. But he hasn’t really been able to share since.
Aaron is tall and lean, boyishly handsome with the same bowl cut hairstyle he had when he was young, his brown hair streaked blond from hours doing construction work in the sun. Sitting in his home one evening, he strains to find the words to articulate what he’s feeling.
“There are still times, especially around this time of year when you think, ‘Why did this have to happen,’ and you have to catch yourself or you can become bitter real quick,” he said. “I don’t know if I’ve had complete peace with it, I don’t know. I think I’m struggling more than I realize, and I don’t want to admit it.”
Roberts worries about him, how he internalizes everything. He worries about her, too. He sends her messages letting her know when he’s going away with friends or checking to see how she’s feeling. But he hasn’t seen her in a few months.
“I don’t want her to see me struggling,” he said. “I want to be her friend, but I don’t want to hurt her. Over the past 10 years, she’s been the biggest inspiration to us all, for sure. We all had it tough, but I can’t imagine being in her shoes. I just can’t imagine.”
A new reality
It’s a gray, chilly morning when Roberts, now 65, sits in her sun room sipping tea days before the 10-year anniversary of her son’s massacre.
The walls and shelves in Roberts’s home are like any other proud mother’s, filled with photos of her children and grandchildren. Her oldest son’s engagement photo is still there, as are pictures of him as a boy.
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But there’s one small picture frame she’s hidden in a drawer, the only photo she has of her oldest son alone. In it, he’s wearing glasses and a baseball hat and not looking directly at the camera. She normally has it out on a table in her kitchen, but she hides it away when her Amish friends come over.
They’d just been there for tea Monday. They don’t need to have that in their face, Roberts says.
Nothing about her new reality, about coming to terms with her son’s demons, has been easy. But it would have been unthinkably harder without her Amish friends.
“No one could ever imagine on that day that something like this would be formed from it,” she said. “Because of the response of forgiveness, we were able to heal.”
Read more Inspired Life:
Theirs was a 25-year romance. Then the love of her life took a bullet to save a stranger.
This teenager was walking for hours to and from work — until a police stop changed his life
Her 10-year-old son wanted to shop at a store just for girls. What the two found there was acceptance.

Baby Boomer news: The Guy Who Wrote the ‘Oscar Mayer Wiener’ Song Has Died

Richard Trentlage, who wrote the “Oscar Mayer Wiener” song, died at age 87 of heart failure. The now iconic song debuted in a 1963 television ad. Trentlage was an adman and wrote the song for a sponsored contest that he found out about the day before.

This is Bud the dog, we see him very Sunday when his every Sunday when his owner walks him through the farmers market. He's a friendly, happy dog as this photo show but he is ENORMOUS, which really doesn't come across in the photo

The Monsters of Greek Mythology

The Cyclops

Written as a gigantic humanoid race, the Cyclops were known for the single large eye that was set in the middle of their forehead. They were often seen as workers of the blacksmith god Hephaestus, whose workshop was deep in the bowels of Mount Etna. This association may have come about because many blacksmiths at the time would wear an eyepatch to protect one eye from being blinded by sparks.
The Cyclops are often written as man-eaters, with Homer’s rendition of Polyphemus eating two men a day. He was ultimately outwitted by Odysseus, who blinded him by plunging a sharpened log into his eye.
Other Cyclops were once imprisoned by the ruling Titan Cronus. Upon being freed by Zeus, the three Cyclops, Arges, Steropes, and Brontes, gifted Zeus the weapons of lightning and thunder, becoming the forgers of his thunderbolts.

The Chimera
A creature that usually has the head and body of a lion, a goat head emerging from its back, and a tail that ends with a snake’s head, the Chimera is sometimes said to be able to breathe fire and seeing it meant that it was a harbinger of doom, specifically shipwrecks or volcanic eruptions. There are other forms the creature can take, so long as it is an amalgamation of multiple animals.
Nowadays, the term Chimera is used to describe anything that is piecemealed together, such as a Frankenstein-esque creature or one could even make a very convincing argument that the final monster at the end of The Thing fits the description.

Medusa/The Gorgons
Gorgons are a bit difficult to define as the name is used to describe many female creatures. However, the term most often applies to the three Gorgon sisters Stheno, Eurylae, and, perhaps the most infamous Greek mythological creature, Medusa. A winged creature with the upper body of a human, the lower body of a serpent, and hair made of hissing snakes, Medusa was purported to be so ugly and hideous that a mere gaze from her would turn any person into stone.
Her origin was that she was originally a human, one so beautiful that the god Poseidon raped her in a temple of Athena. Instead of finding displeasure with Poseidon, Athena instead chose to punish Medusa, turning her into the creature we all know today.

The Hydra
A multi-headed serpentine beast, the Lernaean Hydra was claimed to be the gatekeeper at one of the entrances to Hades, the Underworld. Slicing off one of its heads only led to another two sprouting in the original’s place. It also had poisonous breath and extremely toxic blood. To defeat it, Heracles (aka Hercules) would slice off a head and then use a torch to cauterize the stump before more heads could appear.

Cerberus is a three-headed dog with the tail of a serpent – and supposedly snakes poking out from various parts of its body – that guards the gates of the Underworld and ensures no soul escapes. It was the brother of the Lernaean Hydra, the Chimera, and Orthrus, a two-headed dog that guarded the cattle of Geryon.
Described by a wide variety of poets and authors, the one constant through all the various descriptions of Cerberus is that it was a fearsome and fierce creature, one that struck fear into the hearts of all who dared approach it.

The Minotaur

A large and imposing beast, the Minotaur had the head of a bull and the body of a man. It was the guardian of a labyrinthian maze built by Daedalus and his son Icarus. The only way this creature could survive was by eating the flesh of humans, which came ultimately in the form of seven maidens and seven youths, tributes from Athens.
The Minotaur was eventually slain by Theseus, the son of the Athenian King Aegeus.

Hailed as one of the deadliest creatures in Greek mythology, Typhon was supposedly a gigantic beast whose head touched the stars when standing upright. He was humanoid from the waist up, his shoulders bearing the heads of 100 snakes with wings upon his back, while his legs were two coiled serpents. It ultimately took Zeus to defeat this monster and send it to Tartarus, which is essentially the basement of Hades.

. Arachne was a normal person who challenged Athena to a weaving contest. Upon winning, Arachne was cursed by Athena for her insolence and pride, turning her into a half woman/half spider. Arachne didn’t really do anything evil or complicated after that. She just looks terrifying in her new form, as sad as that it so say.

Seductive women whose song lures sailors and their boats to their doom, Sirens appear in different forms. Many times they are seen as birdlike creatures with the heads of beautiful women. Other times, they are gorgeous women with the legs of birds, sometimes with wings and sometimes without. They also often were holding harps, although this changed frequently. No matter what they looked like or what instruments they played (or didn’t play), the Sirens were deadly, causing countless sailors to steer their ships into razor-sharp rocks.

Oh no! Carnegie Deli Will Close Forever

The iconic Carnegie Deli with its enormous sandwiches named after celebrities will close for good at the end of the year after being in business for 79 years. The Carnegie has had all sorts of problems lately including a court order to owner Marian Harper Levine to pay over $2.6 million in back wages to employees. The Carnegie will go on through licensed branches in Las Vegas and Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.


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

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