#Blue Jew Let Me Le

[bruceslatonpite]

BLUE JEW LEAVE A TIP-Tip Your Server-Make Momma Happy-Be Of Service Momma-Blue Jew Candy Man-Blue Jew Good Job-Blue Jew Buy It For You-Blue Jew Shout Out-Blue Jew Make Something New

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[mariacallous]

When Liebman’s Delicatessen opened on 235th Street in 1953, the Bronx was still sometimes called “the Jewish Borough.” More than half a million Jews lived between Mott Haven and Riverdale, and according to the 70-year-old deli’s website, they were served by 100 kosher delis. Today, Liebman’s is the last one standing. 

“I ask myself a lot: ‘why are we the one that survived?’” Yuval Dekel, who has owned the deli for 20 years, told The Nosher. “Certainly because we’re in Riverdale, which is still a Jewish community.” 

He surveys the restaurant, where nearly all 60 blue naugahyde seats are occupied by neighborhood regulars over 60, noshing on pastrami to the strains of ‘50s jukebox hits. “We’re a deli that has regular New York City resident customers. We’re not a tourist destination.”

Dekel, one of the youngest people in the room, took a circuitous route to becoming a deli man. Born in Haifa in 1978, he arrived in the Bronx two years later with his father, who immigrated with hopes of becoming an entrepreneur. A business broker helped the family find Liebman’s, which had foundered under a string of owners after Joseph Liebman sold it in the late ‘50s. 

Though Dekel’s father (also named Joseph) was of Romanian descent, he knew little about the Ashkenazi foodways of New York. “I don’t even think he knew about delis,” Dekel said. “In Israel, there’s no deli culture.” Joseph Dekel added Israeli dishes like falafel and hummus to the menu, but took pains to preserve the deli classics, too. 

For his part, Yuval Dekel was a metalhead. He was the drummer for Irate, a well-loved New York City thrash band, touring up and down the East Coast, throughout Europe and Japan, and playing at iconic downtown clubs like CBGB in the ‘90s. 

“It was pretty hardcore,” Dekel laughs. “Very serious moshing going on. Quite a different environment from this.” 

But during his entire stint as a metal drummer, Dekel also supported himself by working as a baker at Amy’s Bread and the original U.S. location of Le Pain Quotidien, developing a serious commitment to artisanal foods. When his father died in 2002 and Dekel took over Liebman’s, his first priority was the quality. He wanted to make sure that every dish on the menu, from sandwiches to stews, got its due.

“One thing that differentiates us from — let’s say Katz’s — is we pay a lot of attention to not just the pastrami,” Dekel said. “Don’t get me wrong, I spent years figuring out how to make our own. But there’s this whole other side to us, which is basically a full-service kosher diner.”

Liebman’s excels in the kinds of homey dishes that tend to be afterthoughts for the best-known pastrami pushers. Stuffed cabbage, stewed in a sweet-and-sour sauce and piled with melting onions and plump raisins, falls apart at the slightest pressure from a fork. On Fridays, Dekel serves cholent, the slow-cooked Shabbat stew. 

That’s not to say the deli classics can be missed. Dekel began curing his own pastrami several years ago, after the number of high-quality suppliers had dwindled. The deli slices it thin so that slivers of the smoked meat’s dark crust are evenly interspersed on a sandwich. On the Liebman’s Favorite platter, pastrami is piled high on an open-faced slice of rye, accompanied by fries — thick-cut, pleasantly greasy shards of potato — and kishke (stuffed derma) slathered with brown gravy. It’s an unbelievably hefty plate of food that reminds you the object of a Jewish deli is excess. 

Daintier deli classics abound. Liebman’s tender matzah balls float in a rich broth slicked with beads of schmaltz. Hebrew National franks sizzle and blister on a foil-lined griddle in the front window, ready to be garnished with sinus-clearing brown mustard, sauerkraut, coleslaw or — a Liebman’s favorite — a scoop of potato salad. Old timers pick at artfully arranged cold cut platters of sliced tongue, corned beef and kosher salami.

Homemade knishes are of the circular variety, bearing little resemblance to the squared-off “Coney Island” knishes provisioned by wholesalers to hot dog carts across the city. Like all knishes, they are dense starch-delivery systems. But a Liebman’s knish is well-seasoned, and its crust is flaky and pastry-like.

With all of his attention focused on food, Dekel says he struggled with the business side of the operation originally. But a loyal base of customers helped him through his mistakes, and the deli has hit its stride again, getting attention from critics and influencers, and even making an appearance on “Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown” in 2014. Dekel is planning to open a Westchester County location this year, marking the first expansion of Liebman’s in its seven-decade history.

It seems only right that Liebman’s should be the last deli in the Bronx. A mid-century time capsule, it was reinvigorated by Israeli cooking and by Dekel’s do-it-yourself spirit. 

“In some cases, being the last one standing doesn’t mean you were the best,” he says. “But I happen to think that we deserve it.”

[mariatellsstories]

Liverwurst

Newark, NJ – 1966

Located on Branford Place in downtown Newark, New Jersey, Finkler's Delicatessen was run by Hal Finkler since 1942. It's now 1966 and Hal still pickles his own legendary corn beef and his potato pancakes are a must.

The deli's interior has always had a sparse appearance because after all, this isn't some foo-foo restaurant. Customers come in for the serious business of pastrami on rye, matzah ball soup, and the best liverwurst in town. There's a poster of Shea Stadium next to an autographed photo of Jerry Lewis:

To Hal

From one nutty Jew to another.

Thanks for the liverwurst.

Jerry Lewis 1954

On the opposite wall, hangs a framed newspaper article with the headline: Father And Son Serve Up Deli-cious Brisket. The photo depicts a much younger, beaming Hal with his arm around a young boy. The resemblance is stunning. Both wearing their stark white aprons.

The photo had not aged well. It was dated March 1, 1951 and had partially turned blue from ten years of afternoon sun.

Today, what hair Hal does have around the sides is winter-white. His head conveniently

has a bald spot where his yarmulke fits perfectly. One can assume that the yarmulke is worn for religious reasons and definitely not to cover a bald spot.

Hal's eyes are kind. His mustache is complicated. His face is wrinkled in all its happy places. It serves as a road map to a happy life.

Hal is surprisingly quick on his feet. He brings a level of urgency to helping those who need him; even if the need is a corned beef on rye.

Two of his fingers are crooked from the arthritis he ignores.

Hal sees his place behind the deli counter as a stage to perform. Being quite animated, he speaks dramatically in loud often melodic tones yet can cut one to the quick if they give him attitude.

Hal is training a new counter girl. She listens intently and smiles at Hal with Santa-like appreciation.

“Don't ever forget” he explains to the girl. The way to judge any deli is by the liverwurst. If they don't have good liverwurst then they don't have bupkis!” declared Hal. “Come with me....Nancy is it?”

The girl nods, “Yes Mr. Finkler.”

Nancy Gold is a smart, talented and shy girl. Secretly, she fantasizes about studying French cuisine at the Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, France. She feels shoe-horned into a pre-ordained life by her father's expectations. Working at Finkler's is her rebellion and right now and she's loving it. Nancy is twenty-four and is pretty in a flawed, accessible way. She doesn’t stop the party when she walks in, but you’d like to get to know her. Her golden eye-color, olive complected skin, and coffee brown hair gives the effect of a warm cinnamon roll. Her vulnerable quality masks a strength even she doesn’t know exists. Once Nancy let someone in, she was impossible to forget. There was something about her that crawled inside a person and built a nice comfy home there.

Hal opens the refrigerator case and scoops out a tiny portion of liverwurst onto a wooden spoon.

“Here. Taste this” Hal said handing Nancy the spooned precious cargo. She spoons herself the portion and clearly savors it in her examination.

Wide-eyed Nancy says, “I didn't think I liked liverwurst but this is delicious!”

Hal puffed his chest and beams. “A girl with good taste!” he laughs.

Nancy hands him an order that had just come in over the phone. Hal leans over the meat slicer to make a corned beef sandwich. As, he talks to Nancy the slices of meat fall from either side of the machine. “Slicing is the most important part of the sandwich” he explains. “The slices have to be thin and tender. The sandwich has to have a certain feel when you bite into it. That's how you can tell it was made by a genuine Jewish deli!”

Hal finishes slicing the meat. He lays it on top of a slice of the dark rye bread. “Then here is where the artistry comes in.” he said as he spreads a thin layer of mustard, a slice of tomato, a sprinkle of salt and pepper and closes the sandwich, not forgetting to pack the sandwich with a small order of fries , two sour dill pickle halves, and a side of coleslaw.

Looking over at Nancy, he twinkles, “This is what I sell to my customers. Quality, authentic Jewish food like Jews have eaten for years.”

Hal's son Jerry enters the deli as the little bells above the door ting-a-lings. “Hey Pop!” he says as he navigates his way behind the counter and peruses bread selections. “I thought you'd be watching your Bonanza about now.”

Jerry has a woolly mustache like his father, bushy hair, and round glasses. He always wears a tye-dye shirt. He thinks they're hip. Growing up with the last name of Finkler, many people feel compelled to share their Finkler's Delicatessen memories with him which helps develop his sense of community. However, on some level, he resents the responsibility that comes with the name. Although Jerry is bright, warm, witty and loves to listen. He also is passionate about his own opinions.

Hal turns on the small black and white television set on top of the refrigerator where the sodas are kept.

“No. It comes on in about twenty minutes but thanks for reminding me. I'd hate to miss it!” said Hal.

Jerry shakes his head as he squirts mayonnaise on a slice of rye bread. “I don't know why you even watch that show, Pop. It idealizes men in our history that weren't always ideal.”

“Well, well, well I guess the money I spent on Berkeley wasn't wasted after all!” said Hal. “I'll tell you what, Son, when you take over the deli you can watch whatever you want!” Hal laughs.

“I have a shop, Pop.” Jerry reminds his father, “I sell posters.”

Hal hands Jerry a small tin bowl of lox. “Here. This is fresh. Eat.”

Jerry takes the bowl. “Thanks Pop.”

“I'll have you know that Hoss was a mensch last week! There was this badly injured Indian that was hurt by a bunch of goyum so he starts a fight with Hoss.” Hal says as he hands Jerry a plate of sliced onions. “But then Hoss tries to help teach the Indian not to be angry at the white man. You should've seen it, Jerold! It was beautiful!”

Jerry stands frozen in indignation.

“Come on, Pop. Do you have any idea how racist that is?” Jerry says as he sits at one of the small tables with his plated sandwich. “I mean Pop, you do know that Indians have plenty right to be angry and mistrustful of the whites, right? These white people came in and stole their land, destroyed their reservations, raped their women and their land for that matter. And where does Hoss get off thinking he can teach anything? Besides, he's as dumb as a bag of rocks, Pop. Everyone knows that.”

Hal rebuked, “No. Hoss is a Men....”.

“And by the way Pop, these goyum still have never been held accountable.” Jerry emphasized as he watched his father wiping down a neighboring table.

“Well, maybe.” Hal relents. “I just thought Hoss was being real nice is all.”

“Okay Pop.” Jerry smiles and looks away.

Nancy enters from a back room wiping her hands on her apron.

“I'm done folding the boxes Mr. Finkler. Is there anything...” She looks up and notices a man with black curly hair, wearing a blue tie-dye shirt sitting at one of the tables.

“Nancy!” Hal shouted. “Have you meet my son Jerold?”

“No Mr. Finkler. I haven't.” Nancy replied sheepishly.

“He's a bit meshuggeneh but he's a Finkler.” Hal gives her a Santa wink. “Come over here Jerold! Where's your manners?”

Jerry gets up and walks over to Nancy.

“Nice to meet you Nancy!” Then he leans in just over her left ear, “Is he treatin' you right?”

“Oh yes Mr. Finkler. Mr. Finkler is a very nice man!”

Jerry smiles. “Just call me Jerry. Welcome to Finkler's. If you need anything let me know.”

“He should be so lucky.” said Hal.” Okay now let's see what we can do about those boxes.”

Hal disappears to the backroom and Nancy follows. She stops and turns around.

“It was nice meeting you Mr....uh Jerry. Goodbye.”

Jerry smiles as he waves, “You say goodbye, I say hello.”

Nancy blushes and returns to the backroom.

Ting-a-ling-a-ling went the brass bell above the door as a man enters and walks up to the counter.

Jerry meets the man from behind the counter.

“Can I help you with anything?” asked Jerry.

“I want a turkey and cheddar on white with every vegetable you got, and mustard.”

“Gladly!”

Jerry quickly makes the sandwich exactly as the man requested. The man pays, finds a table, scarfs down the sandwich in three large bites.

“That was disgusting!” the man bellowed. “I want a refund!”

From behind the counter, Jerry tips his head toward the door.

“Door's to your left.”

“I said I wanted a refund!”

“Door's to your left.”

“I want a refund right now!”

“I want to be a billionaire. Door's to the left.”

“You know....I happen to know the owe...”

Hal returns to the counter, stands aside his son, “No you don't. Door's to the left.”

The man gives a scornful snort and kicks the door on the way out of the deli.

Hal and Jerry look at each other.

Jerry says, “But he loved the hell out of that sandwich!” Jerry puts his hand on his father's shoulder, they both toss their heads back and let go of a big belly laugh.

Jerry and Harry have been friends since the third grade at Lafayette Street Elementary School in Newark and have been roommates for the past five years. About two years previously, Jerry started to complain how his father was putting a lot of pressure on him to be a partner with him at the deli and then ultimately take over.

“That's not my scene, Harry” he complained. “I love my pop but I gotta do my own thing, man.” Then he asks Harry “You can relate, right Harry? I mean you don't want to be an ad man on Madison Avenue like your pop, am I right?”

Harry often didn't answer him. He was listening on some level but because he smoked a lot of pot and was always more interested in drawing and sketching, one might assume he wasn't paying any attention. But Jerry knew all this. This had always been their dynamic. The way it usually goes is that Jerry does all the talking, decision making, and dreaming for the both of them. Harry would smoke pot and be creative for the both of them.

Harry Hendricks has such a typical hippie look that he could blend in and disappear inside a R. Crumb poster. He is extremely tall and has long stringy brown hair. Wrapped around his forehead is a bright red headband. Harry's eyes are hidden behind gold-wired sunglasses shaded with the iridescent colors of an oil slick. Although his multi-colored shirts are hip and groovy, he wears the same one for a week. He comes from wealth but neither embraces it or rebels against it. Instead he takes the road of complacency.

But the funny thing about Harry is that out of nowhere, he'll bring up something Jerry said a week ago which would confirm that he indeed was listening.

It all started one day at their apartment when Harry looked up from his sketch pad at Jerry and said, “So, if you don't dig the idea of working with your old man, why don't you just just go off and do your own thing?” Then Harry returned to his sketching.

The very next day, Jerry bursts through Harry's room and announced, “Harry! I think we should go into business together!”

Silence.

Harry inhales the joint that's pinched between two stained fingers until its embers start to glow.

“Dude,” Harry said. “What would we do? I mean are you making all your nowhere plans for nobody? ” Harry laughs at himself.

“Does it even matter, man?” Jerry asks. Then he stands over Harry, smiles and says, “We don't have a point of view, know not where we're going to – sounds a bit like you and me.”

“Yeah man!” Harry agreed. “But you're trippin' if you think we can just go out and start something. Besides, I'm doing my own thing right here.”

“Well, let's start something, man. Something where you can draw and get high all you want!”

Silence.

“Hey Jerry, I ran out of papers. Do you have any?”

A frustrated Jerry sighs. He burred his hand into his right jean pocket, pulled out a package of Zig Zag rolling papers and had a revelation.

“HARRY! I got it!”

Jerry holds the Zig Zag rolling papers up toward the ceiling.

“LET'S OPEN UP A HEADSHOP!”

Just gimme the papers, man.”

“It's perfect! Just think about it, man. We can sell your artwork and pot paraphernalia, play Beatles music all day and make money while we're doing it!”

Silence.

“Harry, can you maybe talk to your pop about putting up the bread?”

“Yeah maybe. My old man keeps trying to bribe me to do something...you know, outside of this apartment.”

“Well dude? Whaddya say?”

Harry places his sketch pad on the plastic milk crate in front of him.

“Okay man, but not just Beatles, man. Jethro Tull too.”

Now, two years later, they indeed have a headshop on Ferry Street less than a mile from Finkler's Deli. They named it The Glass Onion. The Glass Onion has it's own unique sights and sounds. There is also a pungent, smokey blend of combined odors from ongoing burning incense, cigarettes, and Thai stick. Maybe as a nod to his father, Jerry put a little rope with bells on it on the front door to signal the when customers enter the shop. But because of the headshop music is played so loud, no one has ever heard the bells.

They sell the usual headshop wares such as “tobacco” paraphernalia, glass “art”, comic books, candles, incense, and sketches by “local artists” (Harry). Most of all, The Glass Onion is known for their collection of posters. Most of the shop's square footage is used to display posters. One section is dedicated to rock band posters and t-shirts. Another, is more for bohemian style posters. In the front window,in an elaborate display are the coveted R. Crumb Fritz the Cat and Keep On Truckin' posters.

Jerry's favorite part of the shop is the black-light room within an alcove at the back of the shop where they displayed the psychedelic black-light posters. The psychedelic posters there explode with bright purples, oranges, neon greens and yellows.

Most of the time, Harry can be found behind the glass display cases filled with pipes, bongs, roach-clips, rolling papers drawing with colored pencils. Next to him, the turntable plays Thick As A Brick over and over.

It's morning and no one is at The Glass Onion except for Jerry and Harry. A high Harry is eating an Abba Zaba bar with utter facination. His drawings are spread across the glass casings. He holds up the last remaining bite.

“How come something that has a taste that is perfect to only have the peanut butter inside make you so thirsty?”

“It's probably just cotton mouth.” teases Jerry.

“Hey, ya wanna go to lunch?” asks Harry.

“It's ten-thirty.” cautions Jerry. “You just got here!”

“Okay then. I'll catch you later dude.” With that, Harry was out he door.

Once again, Jerry finds himself alone. Alone with the work.

Jerry is closing up the Onion. The phone rings. Jerry wonders who would want rolling papers at 10pm. He laughs at obvious.

“May I speak with Jerold Finkler, please?”

“Speaking.” she doesn't sound like a stoner.

“Yes, Mr. Finkler, I am nurse Jenifer Hennessy from Newark Beth Israel Hospital.” Jerry's hand tightens around the receiver. The nurse continues. “Unfortunately, your father was brought into the emergency room. We believe he's had a stroke. He's in room 323. Please stop at the nurse's desk on the way so we can give you a hospital pass.”

Pause.

“Is he gonna be okay?” his voice cracks.

“Your father's doctor, Dr. Segal, will be here until 11:30 this evening if you would like to talk to him. He's with your father now.”

“Thank you.” Jerry hangs up the phone.

He looks at the watch his father gave him for his bar mitzvah. It's 10:30pm. The Waterbury Men's wristwatch has been running for the last thirteen years. Every night before bed, Jerry thinks of father as he winds the watch.

Jerry sees the approaching cab through the rain from under his leather jacket. As he rides to the hospital. He feels completely unprepared. Pop was always there when the world was upside down. Through JFK's assassination, race riots right outside the deli and even Mom's death – Pop was always there for a hug, for a lecture, for a sandwich.

Jerry arrives at Newark Beth Israel Hospital. With a ding, the metal elevator doors split open to a long narrow stark white tiles hallway. There is a slight echo of his shoes walking on the marble floor as he approaches the nurse's station.

“Excuse me, My pop is Hal Finkler....I think he's in room...”

“Mr. Finkler! Over here!”, Nancy waves him over.

Jerry nods to the nurses and approaches Nancy. She still has her deli apron on with the usual mustard and pen marks. A tear-stained face looks up at Jerry. She proceeds to explain to him a rough timeline of what happened. A dreamlike state washes of Jerry. He tries to stay in the moment. His mind falls. He was only able to get a few words: yelled, rushed, dropped, and wouldn't move.

He thanks her and heads to room 323. The room is dimly lit. The glow for beeping machines casts a soft light upon Hal's face. Jerry is struck by how fragile his father looks. This isn't Pop. This looks like a mannequin of Pop. He moves closer to the bed and wraps his hand around his father's. It's not cold but it is not warm. On the side table is his father's spectacles. Suddenly, Jerry is reminded of when Finkler's won the coveted award for being the best delicatessen in New Jersey. He had never seen his father so happy.

“Jerold! The newspaper will be here in an hour to take a picture and I can't find my glasses anywhere!”

Jerry remembers he and his father panicking and looking all over the deli only to find them smack-dab in the middle of a bowl of liverwurst.

“Pop! I found them!” cheered eleven year old Jerry. Hal came over and put his arm around his son. Hal put the liverwurst covered spectacles on his face just to make Jerry laugh. “Thanks son! How do I look?” They laughed. After Hal rinsed of his spectacles he returned them to his face. “Oy! Now you've got schmutz all over you. Go put on a clean apron on for the picture.”

“Me? You mean I get to be in the picture, Pop?”,

“Of course, Jerold. Without you organizing the spices and slicing the rye we'd be have bupkis!”

Hal rubs the top of young Jerry's crew cut.

BEEP

BEEP

Now, the sight of his unconscious father cuts right through Jerry. Pop was always there.

“I'm so sorry, Pop.”

Later, Nancy joins Jerry in the hospital corridor as he is leaving his father's room. He shares the update the doctor had given him.

“The doctor is in there with Pop. He told me that Pop will survive but that he's not out of the woods. He has a long road to recovery.”

In addition to his fear and sadness came a small measure of hope and relief. They decide to go to the deli to clean up and evaluate whatever next steps should be taken.

It's raining mercilessly as they scurry into the deli. There is ten minutes of quiet. Nancy gets each of them a towl to dry off themselves from the night's rain. They both wonder around trying to find their mental footing. Jerry goes behind the counter. He stands there in his father's hollowed ground. On the back table he recognizes the ingredients to his father's liverwurst. There are scattered spice canisters of black pepper, marjoram, thyme, and mustard seed. Jerry's throat catches as he almost stumbles over the upturned bowls of diced onions and pork livers on the floor. This is where is happened. Jerry kneels down and starts to pick up the bowls. He starts to break down.

Nancy's heart breaks for him. She approaches him from behind. Saving his pride she tells him that she needs a hug. He stands and turns to her. He hugs her tightly. She felt his fear and sadness shutter through him. She cries quiet tears.

He releases her and says that he will be staying upstairs in his father's place until he can igure out what to do with the deli until his father returns.

“That's a good idea, Mr. Finkler,” agrees Nancy. “I'll be here to help if you'd like. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yes. I''ll be fine.” He had no idea if he'd be fine. “Can I get a cab for you? It's raining pretty hard out there.”

“I already did, Mr. Finkler. But thank you.”

“Call me Jerry.”

“There's my cab.”

Jerry opens the door for her. The door chimes its ting-a-ling. He takes her hand, looks into her little face. “Thank you, Nancy.” She looks down. “No I mean it. You barley know me but you've helped me through a dramatic and personal situation. Pop will be proud of you.”

She nods and tears start to come, she moves quickly outside and into a waiting cab. Jerry watches the back of the cab become small and distant. The pouring rain expresses Jerry's sorrow, the thunder his anger, and the lightening his guilt. The blurry street lights run down the window like tears. Jerry shuts off the deli lights. He seats himself on one of the plastic chairs, puts his face in his hands.

“I'm so sorry, Pop.”

It's 10am. Jerry wakes up in his father's bed. For a moment he forgets where he is and why. Then the earth falls as he remembers last night's events. Too soon, the phone rings. It rings again. Jerry picks up the phone and says nothing.

“Hello? Mr. Finkler?”

He takes a deep breath, “No. I mean yes I am but I'm his...”

“It's me, Nancy, Mr. Finkler. I'm downstairs at the front door.”

“Oh! I'll be right down.” He almost hangs up but then returns the receiver to his ear, “Nancy?”

“Yes, Mr. Finkler?”

“You have to stop calling me Mr. Finkler. Mr. Finkler is my Pop. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Call me Jerry.”

“Okay, Jerry.” Nancy acquiesces. “Now please come downstairs. I think you will be quite pleased.”

Jerry makes his way down the back stairs. The deli hasn't changed in forty years. But this morning, it was missing it's deli smells; corn beef, fresh baked bagels, matzah balls, and chicken fat. Sunlight floods the front of the deli. Jerry sees Nancy waving from outside the glass front door. He opens the door for her.

“Wait!” she takes his hand and guides him out onto the rain-washed sidewalk. “Look!”

Jerry lifts his head for the first time that morning and is overcome with what he sees.

Half of the block in front of him and half of the block behind him are covered with rows and rows of flowers, get well cards, and balloons. Various photos of Hal's smiling mustache face with each of his regulars are peppered throughout this colorful garden of love for his father.

More and more people come to put more flowers. These are people Jerry has known all his life. They were all there; old ladies that babysat him and shop owners that his father would fight, laugh and play checkers with. There were people there that Jerry went to school with, and all their children.

One by one they would come and hug Jerry.

“Your Pop is going to be just fine.”said Mrs. Feingold.

“Your Pop is such a mensch! God is watching over him, Jerry.” consoles Mr. Greenblatt.

“Miss Nancy? Will you be having Finkler Friday this week?” asked Mrs. McDaniels.

“Maybe next week, Mrs. McDaniels.” assures Nancy.

Jerry steps out from the sidewalk so everyone could see him., I want to thank each and everyone of you. Your love and prayers will have him back in no time. I will have the deli back open for you in a couple of days. I'm not my Pop, but it'll have to do. Again, thank you all for all of this.”

Jerry feels a tug on his pant leg. He looks down and it's Mrs. Solomon's little girl, Hannah.

“I made this for Mr. Finkler. He's real nice. Can you give it to him? My mom said it will make him feel better.” She skips back to her mother.

Jerry took the large paper and sees two stick figures: one very small and the other with a large mustache.

“What about this, Jerry?” Nancy whispers. This community loves your father.

Jerry shakes his head. “I knew, but I didn't know. I wish I would have spent more time here with Pop.”

“It's okay Jerry. You're here now...when he needs you.” They go inside.

Jerry smiles at Nancy, “Did you arrange all that?” he asks suspiciously.

“Mr. ….uh...Jerry, I just got here. Don't you realize that these people feel very connected to you and your father?”

Jerry shakes his head, “I just don't know what I should do. I don't even know what to do first.”

“Why don't we start by sitting down. I'll make us some coffee.” Nancy goes behind the counter.

Jerry takes a seat at one of the tables.

“In the last few years, I've only been here ever month or so. I don't know what his routine is.”

“Don't worry about all that right now.” assures Nancy. “I know your father's routine backwards and forwards. Cream? Sugar?”

“No. Just black thanks.”

Nancy brings over two steaming Styrofoam cups and hands one to Jerry. He holds the cup with both hands as the aroma comforts him. Nancy takes a seat next to him.

“I know everything is happening so fast and all at once. But if it's okay, I'd like to help in any way I can.”

Jerry is quiet.

Still looking down into his coffee, “I'd really appreciate that. Thanks Nancy.”

There is a rat-tat-tat on the front window of the deli. A tiny white haired woman with a walker waves at Jerry. It's Mrs.Rosen. She blows him a kiss and goes on her way.

Jerry worries aloud. “What if Pop doesn't get well enough to be able to run the deli? Do I sell the place? What if he doesn't come back at all?” his voice cracking.

Nancy puts her arm around him. “Whoa! Let's just take this one bagel at a time, eh?”

It's been a week since Jerry woke up at his own apartment. He stayed overnight just to reset himself. But now morning has broken and he feels he needs to figure out how he can help his father and what he's going to do with the deli. He called the hospital and his father is not any worse. He has been in and out of consciousness for the last couple of days. They say it is still too soon for him to have visitors. Jerry finishes up cooking his eggs when Harry comes home.

“Dude! I can't do it anymore.”, Harry protests. “You just left the place and I can't do everything.”

“Harry, you just need to hang on. Call if you have any questions. We just got to hang on. I next a couple of weeks or so to sort everything out for Pop.”

“A couple of weeks! No way!”

“Harry, you have to understand. I know you like my Pop.”

“Yeah, he's a better dad than the one I have. Maybe I should sell the Onion, Dude.”

“Whoa! Wait a minute, Harry! Hold on. Let's talk about this. Come on, let's sit down.”

Harry flops down on the couch. Jerry moves Harry's laundry of the chair and onto the dining table and sits down.

What is it exactly that bothers you about the Onion?'

Harry squirms a bit. “Well, it's not the store. I mean it's a cool place. The people come in and dig my art.”

“Harry, if it's all the accounting and ordering I can still do that. Is it selling things to the customers?”

“Truth is, I just want to do my art, Dude.”

I know. I know. Tell you what, Why don't you close up the Onion for one week so you can think about it. At that time, we'll talk and see what happens. Okay?

“Okay. That sounds good.”

Harry, just promise me that you won't do anything until then, okay?”

Harry smiles at Jerry. “You know that I already don't do anything” He offers Jerry the glass bong.

Jerry waves off the offer and pours ketchup on his eggs.

“I got to get back to the deli.”

“Okay man, I really do think it's cool how you're coming through for your dad.”

“Thanks Harry. I needed that.”

It's noon by the time Jerry gets back to the deli and Nancy is finishing up wrapping up a loaf of rye bread for a customer. She's anxious.

“Oh, I'm so glad you're here. I need your help. They're all going to be here at about 3:30”

“Who?” asks Jerry.

“Jerry, it's Finkler Friday!” Nancy is putting colorful plastic tablecloths onto the tables.

“So, what is this Finkler Friday all about?”

“You mean you don't know? Mr. Finkler never told you?”

He feels a little sad at the idea of his father not telling him something.

“Listen, “ explains Nancy. “It all started a couple of years ago. Your father would offer samples of different bagels, or a taste of lox or liverwurst. So he started to add a little bit more to his inventory. Then, Mr. Stanton came in with his little boy Raymond. You know them, right?”

Jerry nods his head no.

Nancy continues, “Well, anyway, Mr. Stanton was laid off from the steel mill and times were tough. Especially since his wife died. That day, Mr. Stanton came in like always and ordered a cinnamon bagel for his boy. As he was paying Mr. Finkler for it, your father noticed that poor Mr. Stanton had lost a lot of weight and had sunken eyes. He asked Mr. Stanton when was the last time he had eaten. Mr. Stanton said that they would be eating a big breakfast that next day at a local mission. So, your father told Mr. Stanton to wait where he stood for two minutes. Your father went to the back and came back two small paper bags. Each packed with pastrami sandwiches, pickles, bagels, and cream cheese. He gave them to Mr. Stanton and his little boy and wouldn't accept any payment for the cinnamon bagel. He told them to come back next Friday and he may have a little more for them.

“So, is that how Finkler Friday happened?” asks Jerry.

“Nope. Not yet. The next day, he asked me if there were any other people coming in that were suffering from the steel mill lay off, I told him that there were a few. But some of them stopped coming in because they could afford to buy anything. Your father twisted up his face and pulled on his mustache, you know, like he does when he's thinking.”

Jerry nods.

“Oh yes. I know it well.

“Well he told me to give him a list by the end of the week of anyone I noticed that was really hurting. Fast forward a month later and Mr. Finkler had a dozen families come in to which he would distribute that week's leftovers between them.”

“And then it was called Finkler Fridays?”\

“Yes.”

“So, how many are we expecting today?”

Nancy looks at her list, “Twenty-two. Mostly children.”

“How do you have enough food?

Nancy brings Jerry a big blue box with his father's face on it. Written on the box was:

Taking Donations!

To Provide Food For Families On Finkler Fridays!

The is a slit on the top for donation.

“Mr. Finkler also made a deal with Jim, the grocer on Mulberry St. to provide each Finkler Friday family with on bag of groceries that can be used to cook and clean at home.

In exchange, Finkler's Delicatessen would feed them every Friday afternoon.

“I can't believe I never knew about any of this.” Jerry mutters.

Promptly at 3:30 five families are seated at tables with paper plates, paper cups, paper napkins, and filled paper bags. For the children Nancy had scattered dreidels, ring whistles, yo-yos, and rattles for the babies.

Nancy steps into the middle of the deli floor,

“Thank you all for coming. I hope you all enjoy the food. We a are missing Mr. Finkler and wish him a complete and speedy recovery.” There is a smattering of clapping and sympathetic nods.

Nancy continues, “Today, marks the one year anniversary of the first Finkler Friday. We started out just wanting to feed a few hungry friends and their families. But now, thanks to a lot of generous customers, we were able to add care packages for those that cannot come to Finklers but are hungry at home. I'm sure most of you know Mr... uh Mr. Finkler's son Jerry.” she waves Jerry over. He comes and takes a bow. Nancy whispers something in his ear.

“I've known Jerry from second grade through high school!”, said Mr. Preston.

“He use play tiddlywinks with me when I was little,”, brags nine years old Sylvia.

“Yes. He's a good boy.” responds Mrs. Goldberg. “But he still needs a haircut!”

Nancy is passing out colored construction paper, little bowls of paste, raw noodles, pipe cleaners, scissors and colored markers.

“Nancy and I thought all of you would all enjoy making some get well cards for my Pop...Mr. Finkler. I'm sure when he is ready, he will read all of them and will surely lift his spirits!”

“Jerry, can you please turn on the record play behind the counter?” asks Nancy. Jerry gently puts the needle down on the record and suddenly they all feel the joyful punch Sinatra with Come Fly With Me.

“Your idea?” Jerry asks.

“Nope. Your father's because...of course..” then they both say. “Hoboken!” They laugh. It is a joyful day, Finkler Friday. Jerry feels proud of what his father had started. The night had sneaked up on them. Nancy Takes off her apron and sets it in the deli 's hamper.

“Jerry, you should be proud of yourself. You did good. You really did.”

Jerry closes the deli front door and turns its sign from

COME IN WE'RE OPEN to SORRY WE'RE CLOSED

“Nancy, if you weren't here helping me, saving me, I'd just be walking around bumping into things.”

Nancy laughs. “You'll be fine Jerry.”

The deli's mounted television set floats out the theme from Bonanza. When it hits Jerry's ear, he clearly get anxious yet he laughs.

“Pop sure loves this show. God knows why.”

“Because Hoss is a mensch, Jerry! Hoss is a mensch!” Nancy teases as she puts her coat on.

“Oh you heard!” Jerry acknowledges.

“Don't forget to put the roast beef back in the case before you leave.”

“I'll tell you what, I'll run and do that right now.”

“Okay. I have your father's keys. So, I'll be here early tomorrow.”

“You taking a cab tonight?”

“No. I only do that when the weather is bad.”

“I'd like to walk you home, if that's okay.”Jerry asks nervously.

“Are you sure? Aren't you too tired? Is it out of your way?” Nancy responds just as nervously.

Jerry tips his head to one side and smiles. “Yes, no and yes.” He puts the roast beef into the chilled case, grabs his coat and opens the front door for Nancy. Ting-a-ling-ling went the bells on the door.

“You know, every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings!” Jerry says with a wink.

Nancy smirks, “Whadya talkin'? You're Jewish!” They both laugh as the door closes behind them.

Once they start out their walk on Branford Place, their conversation was easy, warm, comfortable. Nancy stops.

“Here I am.”

Jerry looks up at he two story Tudor style home at which they have arrived.

“I'm very impressed.” Jerry comments. “I don't have any friends who could afford to live here in South Ironbound. It's the nicest part of Newark.”

Nancy smirks. “That's why my father bought it. So people can be impressed.”

“Wow!” remarked Jerry.

Nancy looks down and giggles.

“Are you blushing?” He gently lifts her chin with his finger.

“Jerry?” Nancy asks while Jerry is still holding her face.

“Yes Nancy?

“Are you going to kiss me right now?”

“I was hoping to, yes. Is that okay?”

“Yes. That would be fine.” she closes her eyes and prepares herself.

Nancy's awkward nature whether calculated or organic endears Jerry even closer to her.

So, right thereThere, on Mulberry St. under the streetlight, he kissed her.

The next few days, Jerry along with Nancy try to get the deli on its feet, he would spend many late nights trying to figure out his father's unique bookkeeping practices. Jerry had approached his accounting for the Glass Onion very clearly and very simply; with a ledger, pencil and paper. Very slowly , and with time. Not Hal. First of all, it took two days for Jerry to even find that Hal kept all his paperwork in the trunk of his car.

There was something called a general journal where all transactions were recorded. Then there were account ledgers where the transactions were supposed to be entered into the appropriate accounts. Jerry notices that nothing had been added in eight months. There is a lot of lose paperwork as well as many empty folders. The folders that are filled were mostly mislabeled. The bakery invoices are mixed with the plumbing invoices and his Money Owed folder had nothing in it but Finkler special sale fliers.

Last week, Jerry took solace in making an improvement on his own. There was hope. After getting tangled and untangled in all of Hal's numbers, he realized that Hal hadn't raised his prices in ten years. Yet, the cost of doing business had, of course gone up. The answer? He has to create a whole new menu. He leaves some pricing the same but raised prices on what sold the best.

Jerry raises the over prices 10%. Just that alone gave the deli some breathing room. That, and the fact that in spite of Hal's accounting not being current, he was evidently paying his bills. He owed nothing.

Jerry feels more hopeful about his father's deli with each obstacle he overcomes. But he is overwhelmed. Everything is contingent on what happens with his father. Jerry is constantly fighting off feelings of anger and frustration. This is his father's life, not his. But he is increasingly realizing what his father means to the community and more important, to himself.

Nancy has the day off. This gives Jerry a chance to think about her from a distance. Where does she fit into his life? Is she interested in him being a bigger role in her life? He decides, at least for now, to enjoy the sweetness that comes from a budding romance. Besides, Jerry really needs her help in the deli. She seems to be in step with how his father ran things.

Jerry leans over and kisses Nancy gently and sweetly. They spend the next moments in the quiet except for the sounds of slurping as they smile and watch each other eat their matzoh ball soup.

It's the third week Jerry has spent in his father's bed. He lays there thinking of good times with father as well as the times they would butt heads. Lately, the most frequent thoughts of him took the form of a question Jerry would ask himself over and over again. What would Pop do?

This was about to be put to the test.

Jerry gets up in the middle of the night to the sound of rain. In his father's bedroom just over the bed is a skylight from which the moon glows; no rain. He gets up and looks out the window on to Branford Place. The street is dry and quiet accept for two cats chasing on another. But it sounds like rain. He goes to the bathroom down the hall and everything is the way it should be.

Then he hears a splash! It was coming from the deli! Jerry ran downstairs and slipped on the way down. Everything was wet and the floor of the deli was three feet underwater

What would Pop do?

As Jerry waits for the plumber to show up, he sits at the only place he can sit; a high stool. The deli chairs are floating around in the water, passing each other like cargo ships in the Atlantic ocean.

Jerry tries to go around to assess the damage the best he can so he can at least establish some dialogue with the plumber.

1. A clog in the sink had backed up

2. The dishwasher is still shooting water out of itself

3. Had a clog that backed up

4. Woke up to a flood. Dishwasher flooded.

5. Toilet evidently had flooded

“Nancy?” Jerry holds the phone receiver in his dry hand. “You wouldn't happen to know where the shut off valve is to the water, would ya?”

Jerry waits in front of the deli for Harry to pick him up. The sign he had put in the front window mocked him as a failure.

SORRY WE WILL BE

CLOSED FOR ONE

WEEK FOR REPAIRS

He can already see Harry a couple of blocks down at a red light. Jerry really liked Harry. With all his father's money, he could drive any car he wanted. So, of course, Harry prefers not a mustang, not a Corvette, not even a VW bus but a brown 1962 Chevrolet Corvair Monza Spyder.

“Get in!” orders Harry after reaching over to open the passenger door. “Hey what's going on with the deli, man?”

“The place flooded.” Jerry sighs. “Last night I woke up and the downstairs was under water.”

“Oh wow. That's a bummer, man. You gonna tell you dad?”

“No way, man.” I think I got it taken care of. It'll cost and the deli has to be shut down for a week but after that, I think we'll be fine. How's the Onion doing?”

“Yeah man, I've been meaning to talk to you about that. I might have to sell the place.”

“Oh no, Harry! You just gotta hang on until I work all this out with my Pop.”

Harry parks the car.

“I know you're going through a lot right now. I won't do it right away but it ain't working out so well right now.

“Harry, I think I have and idea. I can't tell you yet but I think it will solve everything for you and maybe even for Dorrie. But you gotta keep the place. Give me one month.”

“Sure Dude. Okay.”

“Now let's go up and see my Pop.”

Jerry enters Hal's hospital room. He is surrounded by cream colored tiles and white walls. He is hit by the typical hospital smell of disinfectant, urine, and bleach. The curtains are closed and the air is dense and depressing. The television mounted on the wall is murmuring out the news. Hal lays in the bed in the middle of the room. Jerry slowly approaches the bed. Hal's eyes are closed. He has oxygen traveling up his nostrils through a thin hose. Jerry stares at his face. This man seems so small and frail. His father is a fraction of the man in Jerry's childhood memories. He remembers when the Newark Chronicle came to do a piece on the deli. Jerry had no idea. The back story was of a neighborhood delicatessen owner and his nine year old son winning the title of 1951 Best Newark Delicatessen. Before they arrived, his father had made him comb his hair and get on a clean apron. All at once flash bulbs were bursting in his eyes. They were asking his father a lot of questions. But most of all, he recalls the look on Hal's face. He was beaming with pride. Jerry tries to imagine that face on the face before him but fails. Jerry notices the hospital chart at the foot of the bed.

He picks up the clipboard and is trying to decipher it's chicken scratch and typewritten hieroglyphics when Jerry hears, “Is that my obituary? I hope it says that died after finding me underneath an avalanche of naked ladies.”

“Pop!” Jerry rushes to his father's side and gives him a gentle but long hug. It brought a tear to Hal's cheek that he didn't even try to hide.

“Is the deli out of business yet?” Hal teases.

“Of course not, Pop.” Technically true. Jerry notices Hal's speech pattern has been slightly affected by the stroke. It has left his father with a very slight paralysis on his left sides.

“How are you son? I hope I didn't worry you.”

“I'm just glad you're here, Pop. You look good!”

“Just so you know Jerold, that when my time does come, I'm not afraid to die and be with your mother again.”

“I wish Mom was here.”

“She is. She is.” comforted Hall. “By the way, is Nancy helping you at the deli? She's a nice girl, Jerold. You should be so lucky.” Hal said with a wink.

“I'd be lost without her. She knows everything about how you run the place. You taught her well, Pop.”

“Well, if you do run into any obstacles with the deli, you know what I always say....the only way out is through.”

“I know. I remember. Oh and by the way, Pop...Santa? Really? You're Jewish. Knowing you, you left your yarmulke under that Santa cap.”

Hal winks. Then his face falls.“I let them down this year.”

“You didn't Pop. But I may have cuz I couldn't be you.”

Hall slowly reaches out a shaky fragile hand up to his son's cheek.

“You're a good boy, Jerold. Your mother would be so proud.”

The television plays the theme from Bonanza. Hal perks up.

“My show! It's Bonanza! Help me sit up, son.”

Jerry adjusts the pillows for his father. The nurse comes by and moves Hal's IV and oxygen hose aside so he can better sit up.

“I see you're feeling better Mr. Finkler.”says the nurse as she looks at her watch and takes Hal's pulse.”

“This is my son Jerold. He's single.”

“Nice to meet you Mr' Finkler. I'm married.” she gives a little laugh. “You may want to step out. I have to check your father's catheter.”

“Jerold, you go back to the deli. I got my Bonanza and the nice nurse here. Try not to burn the place down okay?” teased Hal with a shimmer of a grin under his mustache.

Jerry approaches Harry in the waiting room who looks like a fish out of water.

“With his vitals stabilizing they said that Pop can come home in about six weeks. But he'll have to keep getting physical therapy.”

“Oh man, that's great Jerry!”

Jerry is so relieved about all that. Pop is going to be okay. But at the same time, the reality of his return drops like a bomb. With his father’s physical and possible mental challenges that his father's home and deli are not ready for, at least yet. How am I going to take care of him at home? Who is going to monitor him 24/7? What if something happens at home? All these questions flooded his brain.

As Harry turns down Branford Place, they see police cars and bits of the neighborhood in front of the deli.

“Oh shit! What now?” exclaims Jerry.

“Oh wow man, You got the pigs at your place! You holdin'?”

Jerry looks annoyed. “Come on Harry, park the car somewhere and let's see what the hell is going on.”

The next two weeks of newspapers read:

Finkler's Delicatessen in Newark was vandalized Sunday with a spray-painted message intended to be anti-Semitic, deli owner Jerold Finkler said Monday. “This is the first time in the deli's twenty-seven years that anything like this has occurred.” Finkler said. “Finkler's is one of the only Jewish delicatessens in the area, and we are proud to support the local Jewish community and all members of our community."

“It’s not about what they painted, it really is about the fact that somebody targeted an American Jewish business in Newark, New Jersey, and it was purely intended to be anti-Semitic,” Mayor Leo Carlin told Newark Community Television.

A Jewish deli in Newark, NJ was vandalized on Sunday – its walls spray-painted with anti-Semitic remarks, a window shattered to pieces. Police discovered the words "Jewish pig" could be seen on one of the supermarket's walls as law enforcement searched for the perpetrators.

Jerry looks up at the stars above his father's bedroom skylight feeling naive. He had never experienced anti-antisemitism before. He lied. Jerry thought, Pop lied. He said I that it would never rear it's ugly head in my lifetime. It's so ugly. He sighs deeply. A tiny feminine hand threads itself through the hair on Jerry's chest.

“You okay?” whispered Nancy. She's a bit groggy and snuggles her nose between Jerry's neck and shoulder.

“Yeah Babe. We're gonna be okay.”

Nancy wakes Jerry up with a kiss. He smiles.

“You are the only thing that makes sense in all this chaos.”

“Jerry, you have got to see what is going on downstairs.”

He sighs. “I don't think I can take anymore. I'm going back to sleep.” Comically, he pulls the sheet over his head.

“No, seriously Jerry,” she pulls down the sheet to expose his face. “you're going to love this.”

They arrive at the bottom of the stairs into the deli.

“Look at all this Jerry.”

There is a crowd of people, sweeping, wiping things down, hammering, and such; some he recognizes, some he doesn't. Through the front window, he sees two men carrying a large sheet of glass coming over from across the street. Mrs.Feingold and Mrs Greenblatt are replanting the geraniums that were out front. Nancy and Jerry stand in the doorway.

Nancy puts her arm around his waist. “You are not alone in all this, Jerry.”

Mr. Jones steps up to Jerry with a broad smile.

“My daughter and I are sweeping up glass. Mr. Haskell is puttting up boards to stop people from going inside. Is there anything ele we can do for you, Mr. Finkler?"

“No. I mean you guys are amazing! Thank you. How can I ever re-pay you?” Jerry responds humbly.

“No need, Mr. Finkler. What these punks did was wrong. We take care of each other around here.”

“Wow.” Nancy whispers to herself.

Randal Lewet, Jerry's childhood friend from the boy scouts, puts his hand on Jerry's shoulder. "Jer', I don't know what to expect next if anything but we'll back here tomorrow morning.

You're Pop has been to all of us since we were kids, Jer'.”

“I know. Believe me, I have a new appreciation for my Pop. And thank you, Randy.”

The next day, three days after news of the vandalism broke, more than two dozen residents meet at the deli to continue the recovery process. Jerry and Nancy are handing out sandwiches, Cokes, and cream sodas to everyone that wanted them. Jerry shakes his head in continuing disbelief at the outpouring of generosity, kindness, and decency in his community.

Jerry reports to Nancy, “Mr. Pyle owns the M & M Glass Company, he came all the way from Philly! He actually asked me if he could donate the windows in an attempt to 'make a wrong a right.'” Harry comes to offer his help by painting over the graffiti and A middle aged woman wearing black cat-eye glasses under her tight shiny black bun approached Jerry from behind and taps him on the shoulder.

“Hello, Mr. Finkler?”

Jerry spins around, “Yes, that's me.”

“My name is Mrs. Winter. You probably don't remember me.”

Jerry squints and tips his head trying to jog the memory loose. “I'm sorry...”

“I'm from the community center. You played Santa for us. That was such a great thing you did for Hal...your father.”

“Oh yes! I do remember. I have to confess, I didn't think that was your real name considering the context at the time.”

“Completely understandable.” she offers her gloved hand.

Jerry shakes he hand. “It's so nice to see you...again.”

“Can we go somewhere and talk?”

“Well, there are still a few unbroken tables and chairs inside.”

Stepping over the vandal's debris, they go inside the deli.

It's two weeks later and the anticipation of Hal's return is palatable. Jerry and Nancy along with parts of the community have done everything possible to make the senior Finkler feel as welcome, loved, and taken care of as best they can. Jerry spent a week blocking off the back third of the deli floor space to basically recreate everything Hal had upstairs. It was almost as if they were preparing to receive a newborn child. Everyone was buying gifts, blankets, and flowers Jerry knows there is no way his father wanted to be stuck up stairs away from the action, more important, away from his people.

Jerry and Nancy are having dinner at The Leviathan Grill on Springfield Avenue in Newark. Jerry reaches across the table and puts his hand atop hers.

“Thank you so much for getting me through this. I'd truly be lost without you. I can see why my Pop adores you.”

“Jerry, the truth is, you're father was the father I never had. It's the least I can do.

They're treating themselves to a lobster dinner. They have a lot to talk about. Mainly, they are excited about their plan to open up a community center with the grant they received. Mrs. Winters give Jerry the idea that day she came in the middle of chaos. Jerry and Nancy had learned do much in the last few months. Something about constantly putting pieces back together again ignited benevolence from both of them. They want to create a place where families can feel safe and valued – a place where kids can come to learn, laugh and play, and a place where parents can connect to jobs and food if they need it. Nancy and Jerry independently had always wanted to do something like but never expressed it to each other until now. Now they are making their plans. They are realizing that things will fall into place quite nicely. A lot of hard work but gratifying. They will call their community center: LIKE MINDS

All of Hal's neighbors got together and bought Hal a La-Z-Boy rocking recliner upholstered with mustard colored burlap. Jerry rented Ford Country Squire in the form of a 1964 four door station wagon that can accommodate his father's wheelchair.

Jerry parks the car and after filling a few release forms, seats himself in the waiting room waiting for the the orderly to bring out his father. His mind wonders to when Hal taught him how to drive. Jerry found himself in the coveted driver's seat behind the huge white steering wheel of his father's 1949 Pontiac Chieftain. At first, Hal drove them to a large supermarket parking lot about a mile away from home. He parked the Pontiac between two parked cars. “Okay, let's switch seats!” he ordered Jerry. After they switched, his father is slowly had Jerry go through all of the checks (seat belt, mirrors, etc). As soon as Jerry turned the key, it just so happened that both cars on either side of him began pulling out, giving him the sensation that he was rolling backwards. Jerry begin frantically stomping the brake and screaming “Pop! I can't stop!” Hal just threw back his head and had a big belly laugh.

Jerry smiles at the memory just as they roll out Hal. “Pop! You look good!” He had much better color and more spark in his eye. Hal reaches out, in requesting a hug. They embrace.

“I missed you, son.”

“Me too, Pop.”

Jerry and the orderly puts the folded up wheelchair and walker into the back of the station wagon. The orderly hands Hal a cane and helps him into the passenger seat. Hall waves at him through the window. With the window rolled up, the orderly can see Hal miming, “You're a good boy!”.

On the drive home, it was quiet at first. Jerry anticipates his father being worried about the deli.

But instead, “Did I ever tell you how I met your mother?”

“No...I don't think so. Ma may have told me when I was young but I don't recall.”

“I first saw her sitting in the window of her sister Tillie’s grocery store in Brooklyn and was quite taken by her beauty.” Hal looks younger as he relives those moments. “I pursued your mother whenever I saw her in town but she was dating someone else; Murray the Hook. One day I saw her with her sister and I asked her for her phone number.

Jerry's father stops, grins and stares straight ahead.

“Well Pop? Did she give it to you?”

“You're sitting here aren't you?” Hal gives a laugh.

It's quiet for another moment. Jerry's father looks out at the Hudson River. He starts to laugh hardily.

“She gave me a fake phone number and a fake last name!” They both laugh. “But...” Hal puts one victorious, arthritic finger in the air.“I figured it out and tracked her down. Your mother was so impressed with me that she agreed to let me take her out.”

“You're somethin' else, Pop.”

“Yes. Yes, I am something else.”

A large crowd of cheering friends, neighbors, and fellow store owners obscure the deli from view.

“What's this? Such mishigas!”

“Pop, This is all for you. Just be patient a little longer.” Hal is caught off guard at the people rushing to the car as Jerry parks in front of the deli. As the Country Squire wagon approaches the parking space left open for them, Jerry tells his father to close his eyes.

“Why? Is the place on fire? Or maybe you turned it into a Hippie house?”, Hal teases.

“Okay, Pop. I'm getting out now and coming around to get you. Keep your eyes closed! You promise me you'll keep your eyes closed?”

“Okay, okay already.”

Jerry gets the walker out of the trunk of the wagon brings it to the passenger side door. He slowly opens the door and instructs his father that he can open his eye but can only look at his feet.

“My feet? Oy!”

Jerry carefully takes hold of Hal's knees and rotated them toward the open door. He brings the walker a little closer as Nancy comes running over from the crowd.

“Okay Pop. Let's stand you up now.”

Nancy and Jerry slowly and gently pull Hal up to his feet.

“Can I open my eyes now?”

“In a minute, Pop. In a minute.” Jerry winks at Nancy. She giggles.

“Who's that? I know who that is!” Hal, with closed eyes and a large grin., grins and tips his head.

“Okay Pop, open your eyes.”

Hal looks up to see new lettering on the front of the building. “Finkler’s Delicatessen” Everyone applauds. He turns to Jerry and say with a mustache smile,”You've got Chutzpah, my boy. I love it!”

The Finklers head to the front door when Jerry's father sees the caricature of himself painted on the front window. Clearly touched, he stops.

“Harry did that for you, Pop.”

Hal is getting choked up. He carefully turns to the crowd. “Where is he?”

“I'm here Mr. Finkler. You like it?”

“Harry! You're telling me that there's an artist under all that hair! Who knew? I should be so lucky to look this good!” says Hal, playing to the crowd.

“Pop, let's go inside.” Jerry guides his father closer to the door. “I have things to show you and things to tell you.”

The front door is flanked by produce stands with wooden bins full of fruit on one side and vegetables on the other.

“This is a really good idea, son!”

Inside, Hal is shown all the new changes such as the wooded booths with tan colored upholstery, the ice machine, the custard machine, the condiment holders, and drinking glasses with “Finkler's in printed in white. He is happy by what he sees but even more, by what he feels; the essence of what he had built all these years not only still exists but is somehow enhanced by loving hands.

Jerry's father sits in his new Lay-Z Boy recliner as he sees the new menu with his own face caricatured on the front. On a large chalkboard on the wall is written the deli's menu, specials, Bar Mitzvahs, and catering information.

Jerry once again sees the beaming face of his father as he explains how these things came to be.

“Pop, I couldn't have done any of this if it not for Nancy. Nancy? Where are you?”

The crowd of about fifty or so murmurs. Nancy steps from the crowd next to Jerry. She has happy tears in her eyes and kisses both Finklers on the cheek. The crowd is surrounding Hal in his recliner.

Jerry turns to Nancy , “Oh no! We forgot to write something on the board!”

Nancy is worried and can't imagine what she forgot. She had went over everything over and over so this moment would be perfect for Hal.

Everyone watches as Jerry gets up on a milk crate and with chalk in hand writes:

Nancy Gold, will you marry me?

The room fills with gasps, squeals, and whispers. Nancy is stunned as Jerry kneels down before her and offers her an open gray velvet box. In it is a modest but tasteful engagement ring.

A hush spreads through the crowd.

Nancy reaches out and holds Jerry's face in her hands.

“Yes, Jerold Finkler. Of course I'll marry you!

The crowd cheers! Friends, neighbors, fellow shop keepers jumping

Jim the grocer and Harry pass out glasses and fill them with Manischewitz.

Hal calls Jerry over. He whispers, “Your mother would love her. I'm so proud of you son. Help me stand up, will you?”

Hal gets to his feet. He raises his wine as high as he can reach, “To love, to good friends and neighbors. This community has been good to me. I want to thank you all. And most of all, I want to thank my son, Jerold. MAZEL TOV!”

“MAZEL TOV!” the crowd roars back glasses high in the air.

“L'chaim! Says Mrs. Hong.

The people applaud, cheer, laugh and cry. Jerry has one arm around his father and the other around Nancy. He pulls her close and whispers in her ear, “Thank you for bringing my Pop back to me. They all celebrate until Bonanza comes on at 6pm; the moment when Hal Finkler truly is at home.

[gallavictorious]

Gallavich Week Day 6: Historical AU

”But for two lovers to have had the recognition these two did at the beginning, such instantaneous comfort and tenderness and heat, bespeaks a timeless and enduring connection, a love that spans ages and incarnations, steeped in karmic debt, a ritual bound to circle round and repeat itself until the get it right.” - Aloi, Peg. 2003:47. ”Skin Pale as Apple Blossom”, in Seven Seasons of Buffy, BenBella Books [Dallas].

702 words. Reincarnation. A bunch of character death, but that comes with the territory. It'll be fine, I promise. @gallavichthings

–-

And Tomorrow, No More Sorrow

”You have done fine work of it, sir smith,” Ian say, shifting the sword from one hand to the other. It's perfectly balanced; the sun glints of the polished blade.

”Best sword I ever made,” the smith – whose eyes are much too blue, Ian thinks, and whose smile is much too knowing – notes. ”A goddamned shame, wasting it on a pointless war.”

”Surely no sacrifice made in the name of our Lord is too great,” sir Ian says and he believes it, he believes it with all his heart, but as he rides away on his mighty steed he cannot deny the inexplicable sense of sudden, sharp loss.

He is dead three months later, the sword dropped in the desert and turning to dust. The smith lives to be one-and-fifty; his name is not remembered.

---

”Ah, Herr Gall. So you're the famous Le Renard,” the young counts snarls, and there is something wild and strange and desperate in his crystal blue eyes. ”I bet the Befehlsleiter will be very interested to learn what a French Jew is doing in Berlin at this time.”

Ian knows should be scared. His older siblings had tried to dissuade him from going; had urged him flee for the safety of England's shores with them instead. He had refused. Someone needs to be brave so that everyone else can be safe, he had told them, and Fiona had cried then and Lip had called him a moron.

At least they are safe now, them and Debbie and Carl and tiny Liam. Maybe that's why Ian feels no fear, not even when Count Milkovich pushes him down to the ground and puts a pistol to his head and mutters, you should thank me, Monsieur, 'cause this is hell of a lot quicker than what they'd do to ya.

Ian feels no fear. What he feels is... disappointment, and then he feels nothing at all.

---

”Mandy said you would't come,” Ian tells him as Mickey pulls up next to the derelict Gallagher house. ”She said she sent you a letter but you never replied. You weren't at the funeral.”

”I didn't come for fucking Terrence,” Mickey says. ”You getting in or what?”

Ian gets in. Neither of them mention how he's been out in the summer rain for hours and hours, waiting for a man he hasn't talked to in five years and didn't expect to show. The last time Ian saw the other Mickey was an almost-boy taken away by the sheriff's men; since then Ian signed up and deserted and protested the war and let his hair grow long; has lost his mind and found it again; has found a fragile peace in the place he once vowed he would leave. And yet, on the eve of Terrence Milkovich's funeral, he slipped out into the night and lit a smoke and he waited.

Mickey drives fast, the way those with nothing left to lose will. It is hot and humid and they ride, and ride and ride, through the night and mangrove forest and through all doubts. Morning finds them on a beach  with their hands linked together and the sun is in their eyes and the sand between their toes has always belonged there.

”You staying?” Ian asks, handing a cigarett to his lover.

Mickey glances at him; does not take the smoke. ”No. Not a fucking thing for me there.”

Ian's heart breaks. He had known it would, and feels it happen only with mild interest.

But then: ”You coming?” Mickey asks and Ian didn't know this, his heart stops and stutters and then it breaks for real:

”No,” he says and he hates his tongue and he hate his throat and he hates every single thing in this hateful world. The family of it. The madness. The fear. ”I can't.”

Mickey nods. His face is hidden in shadow. ”I know. ”

---

”Ian Gallagher,”

and Ian runs, he's not an idiot, there's a violence-crazed homophobic Nazi on his tail, of course he runs, but there's this voice at the back of his head and it says oh, hey, there you are

and it says now.

[lovemesomesurveys]

Have you ever drank ale?: Yes. Blech. I was never a fan of any type of beer. Do you know how to use Braille?: Nope. Do you know anyone named Dale?: Ha, for some reason I’m reminded of this kid in my kindergarten class named Dale who always got in trouble.  Do you like the name Gale?: Ehh. Have you ever been to jail?: Nope.

Have you ever eaten kale?: No. It doesn’t sound appealing to me. Are you female or male?: Female. Do you bite your nails?: I’m always picking at them and use nail clippers as well.  Is your skin pale?: Yes. Have you ever seen a Quail (the bird)?: Yeah. When you use stairs, do you usually hold the rail?: I can’t take the stairs. Have you ever eaten a snail?: Nooooo. Do you like walking on nature trails?: Nah. They’re usually not very accessible for one, but also I’m just not a nature-y kind of gal. Have you ever worn a veil?: Nope. Have you ever been stung by a bee?: No, thankfully. Do you know any Tai Chi?: No. Do you know anyone with the name/nickname Dee?: No. Are the best things in life really free?: There’s a lot of things that are. Do you like the show "Glee"?: I never got into it. Has anyone ever kicked you in the knee?: No. Do you know anyone named Lee?: Nope. Have you taken any other surveys made by me?: I don't know who you are. What movie has the characters 'The Knights who say "Ni"'?: I don't know. Right now, do you have to pee?: Nope. What's a movie you'd like to see?: I was looking forward to seeing A Quiet Place 2 and the new Candyman. I’m hoping they get released early to rent at home. Have you ever planted a tree?: Nope. Have you ever made anything with clay?: No. Has today been a good day?: It’s only 4 in the morning. We’ll see how it goes. Do you like the band The Fray?: Yeah. Are you wearing anything that's gray?: Yeah, gray leggings.  Have you ever fed a horse hay?: I think so when I was a kid. Do you like the name Jay?: Sure. I have an uncle named Jay. Are you more likely to text "Okay", "OK" or just "K"?: I always type “Okay.”  Is your birthday in May?: Nope. Do you ever pray?: Yes, but not as often as I should. :/ Do you know anyone named Ray?: Yes. Do you know anyone named Trey?: No. Do you often pass the blame?: I’m quick to blame myself. Have you ever called a woman a "dame"?: No. Would you rather have fortune or fame?: Fortune. What is your favorite video game?: Mario Bros anything just about. Do you remember the actor Corey Haim?: Yeah. What is something you think is lame? (This survey, perhaps? haha): Me. What's your name?: Stephanie. In your pocket, do you have a dime?: I don’t have pockets on any of my leggings, which is all I wear. I never used pockets anyway. Do you like the taste of lime?: I like lime juice or lime flavored things, but I don’t eat actual limes. Have you ever seen a mime (in real life)?: No. Do you think it's stupid that I'm making my questions rhyme?: I didn’t notice, ha. When did you last check the time?: A bit ago. Have you ever gone to a bar?: Yeah. Do you have a car?: Nope. I don’t drive. Have you traveled very far?: The farthest was from California to Georgia.  Do you keep spare change in a jar?: No. Would you like to go to Mars?: No. Just the idea of outer space terrifies me. Have you ever wished on a shooting star?: I’ve never seen one. Have you ever drank beer?: Yeah. Even though I really didn’t care for it. What is your dream career?: I don’t have one. Have you ever seen a deer (in real life)?: Yes. What is your biggest fear?: Death, disease, bugs, clusters. <<< Those are a few of mine as well. A couple more are never getting better/getting worse and never doing anything with my life and just wasting away. These past few years have been exactly that... Have you ever seen the show "Top Gear"?: Nope. Right now, what can you hear?: An ASMR video, my fan, and myself typing. What is your age?: 30. Have you ever kept a pet in a cage?: We used a crate for my doggo when she was a puppy at night and if we had to leave. We never left her in there for a long time. Have you ever used a tire gauge?: Nope. Have you ever performed on stage?: Yeah, for choir and band concerts. What's your hourly wage? (If you have a job.): I don’t have a job.  Have you ever seen a bear (in real life)?: At a zoo. Are you currently sitting in a chair?: Nope, I’m on my bed. Have you ever played Truth or Dare?: Yes. Do you like to go to the fair?: Nah. Although, fair food is delicious. What color is your hair?: I dye it red, but naturally it’s dark brown. When did you last eat a pear?: Uhhh. I think I tried it when I was a kid before.  Do you like your steak cooked rare?: I don’t like steak at all. Do you often curse/swear?: No. What is your favorite kind of shoe to wear?: Adidas. Are you wearing anything that's blue?: Nope. Have you ever played the game Clue?: Yeah, many times. I also recently played a Golden Girls version haha. When did you last have the flu?: Last year. Have you ever eaten glue?: Ew, no. I liked doing the thing where you let it dry on your hands and then peel it off, though. Are you a Jew?: No. Have you ever looked at a cow and said moo?: lol I probably have when driving past them. Do you tend to buy clothes used or new?: I just buy new clothes. Do you like Pepe Le Pew?: Nah. If you have Netflix, how many items are in your queue?: I don’t have anything in my queue. Do you ever make your own stew?: No. Are all your answers to these questions true?: Yes. I have no reason to lie. Have you ever been to the zoo?: Yes.

[scientificphilosopher]

Book List 2018

I’m a couple weeks behind on this, but here’s the list of books I read in 2018. I’ve broken it down by category, though this is pretty loose since, you know, genres bleed into one another and such. You can also find reviews of some of these books here, and I always take requests for reviews as well. Follow me on Goodreads to see what I’m reading and rating. 

Let me know what you think if you’ve read any of these books or have recommendations, and, as always, please feel free to send me malicious personal attacks if I say something you disagree with.

Non-Fiction

Philosophy

Pragmatism and Feminism: Reweaving the Social Fabric by Charlene Haddock Seigfried

The Pragmatic Turn by Richard J. Bernstein

Race Matters by Cornel West

Democracy Matters: Winning the Fight Against Imperialism by Cornel West

American Philosophy: A Love Story by John Kaag

Ethics Without Ontology by Hilary Putnam

Meaning in Life and Why It Matters by Susan Wolf

The Variety of Values: Essays on Morality, Meaning, and Love by Susan Wolf

The Really Hard Problem: Meaning in a Material World by Owen J. Flanagan

Meaning in Life by Thaddeus Metz

The Human Eros: Eco-Ontology and the Aesthetics of Existence by Thomas Alexander

Naturalism and Normativity by Mario De Caro (Editor), David Macarthur (Editor)

Truth in Context: An Essay on Pluralism and Objectivity by Michael P. Lynch

Teaching to Transgress: Education as the Practice of Freedom by bell hooks

The Origin of Others by Toni Morrison

Experiments in Ethics by Kwame Anthony Appiah

Ethics in the Real World: 86 Brief Essays on Things that Matter by Peter Singer

The Ethics of Ambiguity by Simone de Beauvoir

A Very Easy Death by Simone de Beauvoir

The Story of Philosophy: The Lives and Opinions of the World's Greatest Philosophers by Will Durant

Why Buddhism is True: The Science and Philosophy of Enlightenment by Robert Wright

A Defense of Buddhist Virtue Ethics by Jack Hamblin

Living Buddha, Living Christ by Thich Nhat Hanh

The Infidel and the Professor: David Hume, Adam Smith, and the Friendship That Shaped Modern Thought by Dennis C. Rasmussen

The Book of Joy: Lasting Happiness in a Changing World by Dalai Lama XIV, Desmond Tutu, and Douglas Carlton Abrams

Reality, Art and Illusion by Alan Watts

Democracy and Social Ethics by Jane Addams

Common Sense by Thomas Paine

From Bacteria to Bach and Back: The Evolution of Minds by Daniel C. Dennett

Science

Behave: The Biology of Humans at Our Best and Worst by Robert Sapolsky

The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs: A New History of a Lost World by Stephen Brusatte

Why Dinosaurs Matter by Kenneth Lacovara

I Contain Multitudes: The Microbes Within Us and a Grander View of Life by Ed Yong

The Evolution of Beauty: How Darwin's Forgotten Theory of Mate Choice Shapes the Animal World—And Us by Richard O. Prum

Gulp: Adventures on the Alimentary Canal by Mary Roach

Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife by Mary Roach

Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex by Mary Roach

She Has Her Mother's Laugh: The Powers, Perversions, and Potential of Heredity by Carl Zimmer

Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari

21 Lessons for the 21st Century by Yuval Noah Harari

Caesar's Last Breath: Decoding the Secrets of the Air Around Us by Sam Kean

Why Evolution is True by Jerry Coyne

What Is Real?: The Unfinished Quest for the Meaning of Quantum Physics by Adam Becker

Brief Answers to the Big Questions by Stephen Hawking

Seven Brief Lessons on Physics by Carlo Rovelli

The Physics of Time by Carlo Rovelli

Physics of the Impossible: A Scientific Exploration of the World of Phasers, Force Fields, Teleportation, and Time Travel by Michio Kaku

The Spinning Magnet: The Force That Created the Modern World--and Could Destroy It by Alanna Mitchell

Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space by Carl Sagan

Visions for the 21st Century by Carl Sagan et al.

The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer by Siddhartha Mukherjee

What the Dog Saw and Other Adventures by Malcolm Gladwell

The Soul of the Night: An Astronomical Pilgrimage by Chet Raymo

The Virgin and the Mousetrap: Essays in Search of the Soul of Science by Chet Raymo

Politics/Race/Gender

The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love by bell hooks

Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay

Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture by Roxane Gay (editor)

Dear Ijeawele, or a Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Eloquent Rage: A Black Feminist Discovers Her Superpower by Brittney Cooper

Women & Power: A Manifesto by Mary Beard

The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin

I Am Not Your Negro by James Baldwin

The Origin of Others by Toni Morrison

Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption by Bryan Stevenson

Race Matters by Cornel West

Democracy Matters: Winning the Fight Against Imperialism by Cornel West

Stamped from the Beginning: The Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America by Ibram X. Kendi

The Souls of Black Folk by W.E.B. Du Bois

Evicted: Poverty and Profit in the American City by Matthew Desmond

Tears We Cannot Stand: A Sermon to White America by Michael Eric Dyson

What Truth Sounds Like: Robert F. Kennedy, James Baldwin, and Our Unfinished Conversation About Race in America by Michael Eric Dyson

White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism by Robin DiAngelo

White Trash: The 400-Year Untold History of Class in America by Nancy Isenberg

The Common Good by Robert Reich

Transgender History by Susan Stryker

Memoir

Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body by Roxane Gay

South of Forgiveness: A True Story of Rape and Responsibility by Thordis Elva

Letter to My Daughter by Maya Angelou

The Chicken Chronicles by Alice Walker

The Last Jew of Treblinka by Chil Rajchman

My Own Life by David Hume

Tough Shit: Life Advice from a Fat, Lazy Slob Who Did Good by Kevin Smith

Tibetan Peach Pie: A True Account of an Imaginative Life by Tom Robbins

Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass by Frederick Douglass

The Sun Does Shine: How I Found Life and Freedom on Death Row by Anthony Ray Hinton

Black Klansman: Race, Hate, and the Undercover Investigation of a Lifetime by Ron Stallworth

Calypso by David Sedaris

Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris

Ink Spots by Brian McDonald

No Time to Spare: Thinking About What Matters by Ursula K. Le Guin

History/Biography

Hidden Figures: The American Dream and the Untold Story of the Black Women Mathematicians Who Helped Win the Space Race by Margot Lee Shetterly

Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee: An Indian History of the American West by Dee Brown

The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair That Changed America by Erik Larson

Barracoon: The Story of the Last "Black Cargo" by Zora Neale Hurston

No god but God: The Origins, Evolution and Future of Islam by Reza Aslan

God: A Human History by Reza Aslan

One Nation Under God: How Corporate America Invented Christian America by Kevin M. Kruse

The Etymologicon: A Circular Stroll through the Hidden Connections of the English Language by Mark Forsyth

Quackery: A Brief History of the Worst Ways to Cure Everything by Lydia Kang 

Fiction

Literary Fiction

Go Tell It on the Mountain by James Baldwin

Another Country by James Baldwin

If Beale Street Could Talk by James Baldwin

Blues for Mister Charlie by James Baldwin

Going to Meet the Man by James Baldwin

The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas

The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

East of Eden by John Steinbeck

Bartleby the Scrivener by Herman Melville

Home by Toni Morrison

God Help the Child by Toni Morrison

The Yellow Wallpaper and Other Stories by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Go Set a Watchman by Harper Lee

The Dead by James Joyce

Ishmael: An Adventure of the Mind and Spirit by Daniel Quinn

Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett

The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain

A Confederacy of Dunces by Jonh Kennedy Toole

The Dork of Cork by Chet Raymo

Genre Fiction

The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman

An Absolutely Remarkable Thing by Hank Green

Slice of Life by Kurt Vonnegut

2BR02B by Kurt Vonnegut

The Fifth Season by N.K. Jemisin

I, Robot by Isaac Asimov

Foundation by Isaac Asimov

Annihilation by Jeff VanderMeer

Kindred by Octavia E. Butler

Bloodchild and Other Stories by Octavia E. Butler

The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

Pure Drivel by Steve Martin

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince by J.K. Rowling

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by J.K. Rowling

Pet Sematary by Stephen King

The Green Mile by Stephen King

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving

The Restaurant at the End of the Universe by Douglas Adams

Life, the Universe and Everything by Douglas Adams

The Bad Beginning: A Series of Unfortunate Events #1 by Lemony Snicket

Ready Player One by Ernest Cline

Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk: A Modest Bestiary by David Sedaris

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

Worst of 2018

Every single book I read this past year had redemptive value. Even if it was total garbage, it still taught me some stuff (like how not to write a book). Even a bad book can be a good book if you let it be.

So, here’re a few books that didn’t quite hit the spot for me:

Ready Player One by Ernest Cline

Ishmael: An Adventure of the Mind and Spirit by Daniel Quinn

Go Set a Watchman by Harper Lee

Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife by Mary Roach

The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

Ink Spots by Brian McDonald

The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair That Changed America by Erik Larson

Best of 2018

It was genuinely difficult to choose my top books of 2018. What a literary year it has been for me. 2018 marks the most books I’ve read in a year, and I was lucky enough to come across some real game-changers. I finally read the Harry Potter series and, boy howdy, did it ever live up to the hype. What took me so long?? But this was, more than anything, the year of James Baldwin. He has made an indelible mark on me as a reader, a writer, and a human. What a year this has been! I hope to read a fraction as much beautiful, lovely, challenging, profound prose in 2019. 

In no particular order, here are the books of 2018 that most moved me, shook me, rattled me, rolled me:

Behave: The Biology of Humans at Our Best and Worst by Robert Sapolsky

Teaching to Transgress: Education as the Practice of Freedom by bell hooks

The Pragmatic Turn by Richard J. Bernstein

Pragmatism and Feminism: Reweaving the Social Fabric by Charlene Haddock Seigfried

The Ethics of Ambiguity by Simone de Beauvoir

What Is Real?: The Unfinished Quest for the Meaning of Quantum Physics by Adam Becker

Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space by Carl Sagan

The Soul of the Night: An Astronomical Pilgrimage by Chet Raymo

The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin

Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption by Bryan Stevenson

Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body by Roxane Gay

Well, there you have it, folks. Here’s to many more good books in the years to come! 

The unread story is not a story; it is little black marks on wood pulp. The reader, reading it, makes it live: a live thing, a story. —Ursula K. Le Guin

[tilbageidanmark]

Movies I watched this week - 38

Early 60′s Sidney Lumet X 2:

✳️✳️✳️ “...You have a poet in you, but it’s a damn morbid one...”

Lumet’s 1962 powerful version of O’Neill’s stage play Long Day’s Journey Into Night. Superb ensemble performance by Katharine Hepburn, Ralph Richardson, and very young Jason Robards and Dean Stockwell.

A dysfunctional family of three drunks and a morphine fiend mother bicker and struggles with their own shortcomings, responsibilities and madness.

✳️✳️✳️ The Pawnbroker (1964), first mainstream American film to deal with the psychology of a holocaust survivor. But the combination of a bitter & lonely concentration camp survivor who became a Harlem pawnbroker, the black & Puerto Ricans stereotypes, the money as the only value left for the desperate Jew, Etc. didn’t gel. 3/10.

✴️          

Udo Kier’s plays the lead in the new Swan Song, a daring & heartbreaking tear-jerker about a very old gay hairdresser, the “Liberace of Sandusky, Ohio”, who escapes his nursing home in order to style a dead woman's hair.

Beautiful! The best film of the week.

✴️          

A thought-provoking documentary, I, Pastafari, about recent efforts by adherents of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster (”FSM”) to be accepted as a “real”, non-satirical religion, mostly in The Netherlands and in Germany. "It is a serious offense to mock God". I found it an interesting argument on claimed faith and the nature of traditions. Long live Bobby Henderson!

R’amen!

✴️          

Yves Montand X 3:

✳️✳️✳️ First re-watch in over 20 years: Claude Berri’s ‘The Water of the Hills’ stories, AKA  Jean de Florette and Manon des Sources. Two classic period pieces of classic Provence-chic with Gérard Depardieu, Daniel Auteuil and Yves Montand. Deception, betrayal and revenge. 7+/10

✳️✳️✳️ First watch: Melville’s cool heist ‘policier’ Le Cercle Rouge, with Alain Delon’s glued-on porn-'stache. The ‘Red Circle’ is actually a ‘Red Herring’, as the Buddha quote in the epigraph was made up by Melville: The divergent  paths of unknowing men will come together inside the Red Circle... Yeah sure.

Now, off to see Rififi...

✴️          

Lennon’s Last Weekend, a Nothing documentary centered around the week-long interviews that Lennon gave DJ Andy Peebles of the BBC up until December 6, 1980, 2 days before he was killed.

✴️        

2 Directed by Tony Gilroy, again:

✳️✳️✳️ “I'm Shiva, the God of death.”

Michael Clayton must be my absolute favorite film from the last 20 years. I’ve seen it 12-15 times, and it’s perfect in every sense: every single frame, or cut, the soundtrack, his son Henry’s 'Realm and Conquest' sub-plot, the horses, Monsanto’s Karen Crowder’s double-speak... Every time I’m reminded of it, I'm ‘forced’ to watch it again. 

10/10

✳️✳️✳️ 2 years after Michael Clayton, Gilroy assembled many of the same players to do Duplicity: Tom Wilkinson & Denis O’Hare acting, James Newton Howard’s score, Robert Elswit DP, Etc. but this convoluted romance between two industrial spies who double and triple cross each other and everybody else is too clever, with too many complex plot twists. 5/10   

✴️           

Not a big David Lynch fan, and re-watching Blue Velvet for the second time after many years, I disliked it even more. The brilliant beginning, up to the discovery of the severed ear definitely signifies “This is Andalusian dog for the ‘80″. The rest of it, the sexual slavery, the masochism, voyeurism, fetishism of vintage pop songs left me completely cold.

(Photo Above) 

✴️         

Based on Michael Lewis’s book, The Big Short is another of my regular Guilty Pleasures housing market crash films. Because it’s about my 2004-2010 real estate investment career, and because I was there. 9/10

✴️        

More about the shuttered, big American Scam, Frontline’s The Retirement Gamble. I can’t believe that for half my life I let myself live within and (somehow) accept the system. Thanks, Sammy.

✴️       

“It’s the corn cubes!...”

Beatboxer Reggie Watts's A Live At Central Park (2012) - Funniest shit of the week!

(Prompt by a refresher on Metafilter.)

✴️        

Sex, Lies, and Videotape, Steven Soderbergh‘s pathological debut film. It influenced me so much, I even had the same wooden cassette cases, to keep my tapes. The four then-unknown actors were all incredible. 100% mature film, not by a 26 year old pisher. The only vague, unconvincing scene is Graham opening up to Ann at the end. 9+/10

✴️      

...Compared that to Bitter Moon, another late 80′s erotic ‘thriller’, Polanski’s unwatchable Merde. The man directed ‘Chinatown’ for Christ sake! Four terrible performances (including Polanski’s wife, Mariel Hemingway-lite), in a ‘daring’ exploration of ‘depraved’ sexuality. Truly awful.

1/10

✴️      

2 X National Lampoon:

✳️✳️✳️ Drunk Stoned Brilliant Dead: The Story of the National Lampoon, a 2015 documentary film. I wasn’t familiar much with that history.

✳️✳️✳️ And so, National Lampoon’s Animal House - First watch. I wish I saw it 40 years ago, then maybe it would have worth a chuckle or two. As it is, it was the worst film I saw this week.

✴️      

2 short documentaries:

✳️✳️✳️ Ice Ball, a short Vimeo story about Ice Harvesting in northern Minnesota.

✳️✳️✳️ The driver is red, an animated short about the hunt for Eichmann, told by an Israeli Mossad agent.

✴️        

The Swarm, a new French horror movie about anthropo-entomophagy (insect eating): Blood sucking grasshoppers!

Meh.

- - - - -

(My complete movie list is here)

[love-max1982-us]

However with an increasingly diversified global Rogue portfolio

Something flew out of the crowd. However with an increasingly diversified global Rogue portfolio, we're more resilient and not as a reliant on our domestic network and we have the ability to Mens ADIDAS ORIGINALS shift capacity as appropriate to better performing markets.. It fitted in exactly with all I had heard myself from Alyosha. V. Nelson was one of 69 competitors in 2012's Cannonball from New York to San Francisco on pre 1937 motorcycles. It was too big for her and had a musty smell, but it made her feel as if her sun-and-stars was still near her.. Nobody likes the hassles involved with moving, much less finding rental housing that accepts pets. Made it! Time of 5:29:55. All noise performance testing on the CS100 aircraft has been completed and data confirms it is the quietest in production commercial jet in its class. And while Melisandre had the knowledge to make more powders, she lacked many rare ingredients. Christ begins his reforms in the heart. 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Leiner called 911 and stayed at the scene after the collision. 28 to March 5. A whole lot bigger and amazingly better for a whole lot less. Our dna can be traced all the way back to that one original organism. With glad hearts and true, we give them to your cleansing fires, that the darkness in their souls might be burned away. Might be she had a tail too, I never looked to see.”. This weekend's Gathering of Eagles air show at Lost Nation Airport in Willoughby will give attendees a chance to admire not only some of the county's oldest aircraft, but also some of the brave pilots who flew them. I want to be treated like im fucking something really important. "I didn't know! I thought [it was] just training, and then [I realized], 'Oh my god, this is a race!' And then I felt like I [could] do it," she says. Les films Juste la fin du monde de Xavier Dolan et Embrasse moi comme tu m'aimes d'Andr Forcier, prsents avant leur sortie en salle, ont aussi connu des succs de foule mrits.. Not listed is the chip's max TDP, which happens to be 130W the same as previous Core i7s and the Core i7 980X Extreme as well.. We became close friends that very evening. Once he had gorged himself he grew drowsy. What adds to their numerous consumers is the fact that their products are space efficient and portable. Set your alarm early for the grand finale: a sunrise concert catalog cercei aur turcia by pianist Remo Anzovino (July 23, 4.45am; free with required booking). He loved being out with his friends. But it just one tenth the size of United Continental, the world largest airline company. Folk Music from around the world will be performed on drums and xylophones using the Orff approach; no experience necessary. RANAWAY, or stolen, from chanel ágynemű the subscriber, living near Aberdeen, Miss., a light mulatto woman, of small size, and about 23 years old. We shall rise to the surface, and our motto at the moment should be ‘pire ca va, mieux ca est!’ Prince Valkovsky smiled to him with revolting sympathy. But, with its added muscle legjobb kutyaruha esőkabát for 2013, the six has become a more viable option, for more buyers. Hands on, interactive courses offer the chance to investigate your favorite subjects or learn something new.. Noon in the United Arab Emirates is four in the Mens JORDAN Hoodie afternoon in the Philippines, which means that Teresa Cruz two older children are supposed to be home from school and back inside the apartment of their aunt, who is raising them. It could be a free ebook, or even a free tip sheet on how to do something related to your business. one of Sleepypods co owners and product designers. Besides, you really have a great advantage over most white people, who have not only the care of their daily labor upon their hands, but the care of looking forward and providing necessaries for to-morrow and next day, and of clothing and bringing up their children, and of getting food and raiment for as many of you as belong to their families, which often puts them to great difficulties, and distracts their minds so as to break their rest, and take off their thoughts from the affairs of another world. In fact I just talked to her this afternoon on the telephone. Weld’s book, “Slavery as It Is,” under the head of Labor, p. That all said sometimes there have to be differences allowed for in different versions on shows. Probably she had never listened from the pulpit to a sermon which should adidas stan smith j white sandisk mp3 mode d emploi tactile blue exhibit the great truth, that “in Christ Jesus there is neither Jew nor Greek, barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free.”. They know how inconsistent the curriculum is from teacher to teacher. He was fully convinced, however, up to the very last minute, that he was only leaving her for six weeks and that their wedding would take place on his return. Just wanted to let all of you know! That all of your words of encouragement today meant the world to me. He is a graduate of Oklahoma State University and has a master's degree in international relations from George Washington University. When Edd caught sight of the ragged band of wildlings, he pursed his lips and gave the giant a long look. The subject was indefinitely postponed. Success in music these days is a bifurcated proposition; you either have one of a rare number of big hits, or your products barely scrape by (it's that way in the movie business, too). A post race party and trophy presentation will be held afterward inside the fort. That much was true, Selmy knew. In the event you have additional questions that are not covered by others, please feel free to requeue and we will do our best to come back to you. Do you realize what an insult it was? In her horror and, above all, her pride, she drew back from him with infinite contempt. It is the quad core gpu that izraeli kézműves ékszerek is working 4 times harder than the dual core gpu it replaced. My opinion of NFL players is that the vast majority of them are regular guys. While the company relies mostly on e commerce, consumer packaged goods and entertainment, it starting to prove its value to vehicle manufacturers.. "People might think it's a joke store or a children's toy store. If one really might call her a child she belonged to that class of thinking children who are fairly numerous in our Russian families. Will Ackerman, Grammy award winner and founder of Windham Hill Records, puts Lanier "among the finest pianists and composers on oneil mellény the contemporary scene; playing music filled with soaring inspiration papuci de casa din pasla and remarkable peace." Admission is $15 for adults and $10 for students. With so many gooey cheeses on board, there's barely room for the noodles themselves, which results in a "super creamy, dreamy" mac and cheese that Guy dove into on Diners, Drive Ins and Dives. Neither team scored again until late in the third. "It's not an exaggeration to say the world stands at a crossroads on air max 90 ultra se climate change. The calcaneus and malleoli should also be observed for normality of shape and position.Weight Bearing Position, Medial View The longitudinal arches of the foot are the primary concern in this view. It is an oak aged Belgian pale ale, brewed with apricots. Golden Shoes separates itself by wrapping Christian's soccer story around his missing father and the deceitful neighbor (played by Eric Roberts) who takes him in after his mother's accident.. Yes those are GPUs but I am sure that AMD has had 45nm CPU models in their lab for quite some time now. Dottie Pope, a retired pharmacist and stay at home mom, represents the bulk of our readership Brentwood moms and she keeps them foremost in our minds.. Its neighbors are not supine, and they show on occasion, when needed, that they are able to coalesce against Chinese actions that they judge as going too far. He had been reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and spoke of it as a novel, which, like other romances, was well calculated to excite the sympathies, by the recital of heart-touching incidents which never had an existence, except in the imagination of the writer.”. He has cursed his daughter, and he came yesterday to ask you to take his daughter’s place. There were numbers of tenants in the building, almost all artisans or German women who let lodgings with board and attendance. We await results of judicial proceedings before commenting on the matter. Much of the evening, it was men among boys and in a lot of ways they imposed their will on us. In nearly all cases, the goods made in those regions came back to the United States as imports.. In another twist, Vroman sang a fascinating two in one number melding the Jewel Song aria from Gounod's "Faust" with "I biciclete rusesti vechi Feel Pretty," batteria ai polimeri di litio amazon from "West Side Story." She is gorgeously, operatically trained and perfectly professional. Now, the reader will perhaps be surprised to know that such an incident as the sale of Cassy apart from Eliza, upon which the whole interest of the foregoing narrative hinges, never could have taken place in Louisiana, and that the bill of sale for Eliza would not have been worth the paper it was written on.—Observe. I offered a reward of fifty dollars, and have him here safe in jail. Bryan Cranston, the "Breaking Bad" star who denied Hamm the award three times before, was nominated again for his role as a teacher embroiled in drug puma red bull racing evo cat ii trafficking. Such are the immutable laws of fekete táska női the moral world. Angus 'Steele' Redway wears clothes from Jay Jays. Navy recorded two second team all league performances on day three. While there is no set recommendation, many health professionals suggest consuming a minimum of eight izraeli kézműves ékszerek 8 ounce glasses of fluid per day. The girl obeyed, wordless. Autumn in King’s Landing, he brooded. The jump from one air jordan aj4 win in 2010 to a 5 5 mark last year in Joseph's first season running the program was substantial (though it ended at No. Irving, Esq. Almost a decade had passed since the Laughing Lion headed out from Lannisport, and Gerion had never returned. He can raise you above all temporary and worldly considerations. “Those are the same clothes you wore for the wedding.”. Well, good-bye. But I won’t give you back your promise. ALL DAY LONG. May 2 at the Mahoning Valley Hope Center, 3217 Surrey Road SE., Warren. Summer's out with a BANG! Flash floods and fierce. There were a lot of moving parts.. Walking Sarah to the car, Chuck admits he wishes he could access her file with izraeli kézműves ékszerek his mind so he could know everything about her. When you buy memory in bulk, it costs you lesser per gigabyte, than buying an entirely new drive later. While his highest profile roles were as counsel for the NAACP (National Association for the Advancement of Colored People) and other clients, he first gained notice as a plaintiff. Dhoni is not getting young but you cannot blame him for going slow as we were loosing wickets on a regular basis. Air Force G Tre' Coggins, 6 2, So. Ty Outlaw continued his hot spell on Saturday, scoring 16 points and finishing a perfect 5 5 from beyond the arc. She had to be oneil mellény certain. If not tonight, upon the morrow. His tall figure, his bent papuci de casa din pasla back, his death-like face with the stamp of eighty years upon it, his old great-coat torn at the seams, the battered round hat, at least twenty years old, which covered his head — bald but for one lock of hair not grey but yellowish-white — all his movements, which seemed performed, as it were, aimlessly, as though worked by springs — no one who met him for the first time could help being struck by all this. These kids knew it wasn't over. Wilson was quick to imagine it more than a decade ago. Drifts of golden hair fell to the floor. If not, he'll stop after seven or eight. From a couple of lockers away, Jerry Hairston Jr.

[skywarrior108]

That Time Dianna Agron Was Accidentally Wasted at Temple

So during the set, Dianna talked a bit between songs, and this was one of the stories she ended up sharing with us:

[after finishing “Cosmic Dancer”]

I just love that song so much. Is it weird to sing it in here? I don’t know. Ah, I just love that song! Anyway… how are you guys doing?

[audience cheers]

I look at some of your tables and I see the drinks. And I look at some of your tables, and I see the water. I understand, kind of, either way. There are many stories that I have from this hotel that involve one drink. The drinks are so big. Like, if you get a vodka martini…

There’s a story that I probably need to tell tomorrow, because I’ve been told that there’s some press here. I don’t know where you are. I would tell the story, but then I worry that the thing is, “Oh, then Dianna was drunk at Temple.” Because that is what happened. It was accidental.

[audience laughs]

Um, we’ll go into detail tomorrow. If you come back, you’ll learn how I was accidentally wasted at Temple. And you can only guess what holiday it was for. It was… anyway. Whooo!

It’s a good story.

…

[later, after “Elvis Presley Blues”]

I feel like I should clarify about being drunk at Temple.

[audience laughs]

I should tell more about the story, because I just said I was drunk at Temple on Yom Kippur, and that sounds horrible. It’s where you’re supposed to go and atone for your sins of the year.

Basically, I was in town for a couple of days. We were in that bar over there, and I was meeting this director that I hadn’t met before, and we were basically unofficially signing paperwork for this movie - the movie that I was doing in Nashville where I met Gil. So, you know those trips that your in town for a couple days, you try to cram everything. And on days like today, if you got stuck in the traffic from the UN… and that man… and all of those things. Don’t worry, we’re not gonna talk politics in this show.

But you know, sometimes your plan can or can’t. Like, today actually, I had to go pick something up - I was with my mom - and we went to get on the subway to get around all this traffic, and just by not paying attention for one second, we were in Queens. It was like, “Dammit!”

[audience laughs]

And also your trying to prove you’re so cool. You’re like, “I’ve been coming here for so long, I just live here, I just take the subway, just like do whatever.”

[audience laughs]

Anyway, so I was meeting this director, and I had this plan with Winston, my husband. And it was like, “Okay, these are the things we’re gonna do: quick breakfast, gotta go pick up this thing, I’m going uptown to meet this director. I’m gonna meet her for like an hour in that bar. You’re gonna wait nearby. Then we’re gonna go and have a huge dinner, and then we’re gonna go to Temple and fast from sundown to sundown. Great plan, right?” It sounded great to me.

So, cut to: Maggie’s amazing. And she was like, “We should probably have a drink to celebrate.” And I was like, “Yeah, we should.” Temple, food… one drink is fine!

So we’re in that bar, and my martini came with a sidecar as well. So, you know, their glasses if you’ve seen them, they’re big and then the sidecar. And we’re just talking, talking, talking. Funny enough, too, this movie is about nuns.

[audience laughs]

So, like, nun chat, then went to Temple, then went to drunk, then went to blah. So we were talking for more than an hour. It seemed like fifteen minutes. And I turned my phone over and there were all these texts from my husband being like, “Uh, you okay? We still gonna eat? Should I eat by myself? Are we still going to Temple? Are you okay? Can you just text me and let me know what the plan is?”

So I was like, “Get over here.” He got over here, I had no time for food. We crammed a few nuts in our mouths like squirrels, and then went running to Temple.

And you know when you’re like, “I’m not drunk! I’m fine. Totally fine!” I was walking up, like, “Here we go.” And we were going to Temple as well with his friends, who I didn’t realize are Orthodox as well, so it was like take a service that I thought was going to be long and triple that.

I was on top with the girls, he was downstairs with the boys, and I’d be looking over the ledge and he’d be like, “You okay?” “Hmm-mm.”

I mean, we got through it, but I’ve never lived that down. And also on top of it - like I said, you’re not supposed to be eating from sundown to sundown - I woke up in the morning, I was so hungover that I just downed a gallon of water. And he was like, “You’re not supposed to be drinking!”

That was the first time he had ever come to Temple with me. It was actually the last time we’ve been to Temple. It was a whole thing.

But yeah, Maggie is coming on Wednesday with her whole family, and I’m just gonna be like, “You!”

[audience laughs]

It’s just kind of nice how full circle this is. One, it’s almost that holiday again. Two, that movie is almost coming out. Three, I’m here with Gil. I mean, count the blessings. There’s so many blessings. We’re blessed! Le-ḥayyim!

[audience laughs and cheers]

And that’s my Jew talk.

[lillaxtrigger]

The Ghostly Maid: The inept incorporeal hunter

Outside the side of the mansion gate, a lanky teenager in a dark blue jumpsuit lurked around and said "I know that a specter is lurking around in this mansion. When I capture it, then I'll finally be accepted into the paranormal activity club at school. And then I will climb up to the ranks and become the most awesome ghost hunter ever! Then people will stop heckling me and I will finally be accepted. I'll show all of them that ghost hunting isn't a waste of time! YOU HEAR THAT DAD!?". The ghost hunter jumped the gate and ripped the back of his pants. He tried to sneak through the front yard garden, but then triggered a trap that lifted several electric mines from the ground that were on full charge. "Eep" the hunter uttered. Trevor and Pike were playing video games in the big living room, playing on their big widescreen TV. The hunter shouted a bloodcurdling scream. Trevor paused the game and said, "Did you hear that?". "What?" Pike asked. "I thought I heard screams of agony nearby.". "Probably just came from the game, man. I mean you do have insane surround sound.". "Eh...You're probably right. Wanna get some ice cream?" Trevor asked. "Sure. We going to the parlor?". "Nah, I got some ice cream from what you call a "store". And got some waffle cones and choco syrup to eat it with.". Both of them got up from the couch and left the living room. At that point, the hunter came in from in the window and said "Ugh...I hope all that electric doesn't give long term drain bamage.", then heard humming coming into the room. He hid behind a counter and saw Jewely float into the room, cleaning and dusting. "Fascinating. A ghost maid. Probably haunting this abode because it thinks that it is still alive and doing its job. I must capture it." the hunter said. He pulled out a large jar with a blue candle inside and lit it. The hunter placed the jar onto the top of the counter. Jewely sniffed around and said "Are those blueberries I smell. I love blueberries.". The ghost maid was blindly following the scent to the jar. "Yes. When the ghost enters the jar, I'll put the lid on it and trap it inside. Just a little closer..." the hunter thought. Jewely was inches from the jar, until a voice called out to her, saying "Jewely! Can you help me out?". "She reeled back and said "Coming Aron.". "Noooo!" the hunter whispered dramatically as if he was shouting. He walked out of the living room to try and follow Jewely. Trevor and Pike were walking along the hallways. "Dude, your house is like a maze. How do you even get around in here?" Pike said. "Well, I've been living here for all my life. But even then, I need help from the map that I drew." Trevor said. The hunter was searching through the halls when he heard the two boys coming. He looked around and saw a couple of statues and hid behind one of them. Pike stopped and looked at the statues and said "Huh. You know these statues look kinda weird, don't you think.". "Yeah, but they were my dads. He liked collecting weird status." Trevor said. "Didn't you say your parents were dead?". "Yeah, but I like to keep them around as mementos". Pike caught up to Trevor and they walked off. The hunter came from behind the statue and said "Phew, that was close." then continued walking. Both boys walked into the large kitchen and opened the freezer. Trevor pulled out a large tub of ice cream. They opened the ice cream and tried to scoop some out, with Trevor slamming his spoon into the creamy dairy like a shovel to dirt. When he tried to scoop some out, the spoon was stuck. Trevor tried to pull the spoon out, the tub lifted with it. "Pike, hold the tub down." Trevor commanded. Pike did what his friend asked and Trevor pulled with all his might. Finally, the silver utensil popped out of the dairy treat, but the force of all Trevor's pulling sent him flying into a wall. "Ow! I can't get any out. Why is it so hard?" Trevor whined. "Well, it may have something to do with you putting it in the freezer." Pike responded. "But I thought ice cream was supposed to be cold.". "It is. But if it's too cold, it'll be too hard to scoop out. You should have put it in your fridge's freezer, not your main freezer." Pike explained. "Uhg. How long will this take to thaw?". "For a tube this big, I'd say close to 17 minutes.". "That's way too long!". "You shouldn't have gotten such a big tub, especially if you're the only one eating it. You get sick of the flavor.". "We need to find a way to thaw it out faster. And I think I know a way how." Trevor said as he grabbed the tub off the table and sealed the lid on tightly. He filled the nearby sink with hot water and submerged the ice cream. "Now all we do is wait." Trevor said. "If you say so, man." Pike said. The hunter was using an EMP device to try and search for his target. The device was glowing red, indicating that a ghost was nearby. He walked into a big dining room, where Jewely was straightening pictures around the room. The hunter hid under the big dining table, crawling along the floor until he was close to Jewely. He pulled out a small metal ball and thought to himself "This small ball contains enough electromagnetic energy to attract the ghost and trap it.", then rolled the ball near the ghost. Jewely started to float towards the ball and said "Oh mon Dieu. Such a powerful breeze.", and tried to close the windows. A butler came in and accidentally stepped on the ball, shattering it. He said to the ghost "Excuse me, Ms. Jewely. May you be so kind as to lend me a hand in the foyer.". "Certainly, Jiminy." Jewely said. The hunter was growing impatient as he slammed his head on the floor. Trevor and Pike got the ice cream out and opened the lid. Some of it was half melted. "Huh. Might have been in the sink for a little too long." Pike said. "Gee, ya think?" Trevor said. "You want to put it back in the freezer for a little bit?". "No! I've waited long enough as is. No man should wait this long for ice cream.". Both boys got out waffle cones, chocolate syrup, and a scooper. The hunter patients finally stopped as he followed Jewely to the collection room. "Evil spirit. Prepare to be captured!" he said out load. Jewely gasped and said "Evil spirit! Where!?" The hunter pulled out a mini vacuum and sucked up the ghostly maid. "Ha ha! Success! I've actually captured my first ghost! Why didn't I use my vacuum in the first place?". The hunter heard the sound of glass shattering. He looked behind and saw a butler, who just dropped a drinking glass after watching the whole scene. "Oh yeah. Breaking and entering. Don't worry sir, although I maybe an intruder to you, I have just rid your home of an evil-" the hunter said, but stopped when the butler pushed a button that was behind a painting, activating a loud alarm. This prompted the hunter to bolt out of the room. Trevor and Pike were in the halls, eating ice cream when they heard the alarm blaring. "What's happening!?" Pike said. "That's the intruder alarm! Someone broke into the mansion.". The hunter ran passed the two boys, causing them to spin around and drop their ice cream. "No, these took us nearly an hour to get!" Pike said. The butler was chasing after him. The two boys ran with him and Trevor said "Jengins! What's going on?". "That hooligan broke in here and sucked Ms. Jewely. He's trying to escape with her." the butler said. "What!?" Pike said. "Oh no, he ain't! Jengins, did the security system lock the doors and windows to the outside?" Trevor said. "Yes, but I'm afraid that the door to the roof may still be open.". "Good, then that's where we'll ambush him. Follow me." The hunter ran all around the mansion, trying to find a way to get out. But every door and window he tried to get out from were either locked or sealed shut. "Come on. There's gotta be a way out." he said. The hunter finally made it to the roof, whereupon Trevor and Pike were waiting. "Just where do you think you're going?" Trevor said. "I am trying to save you people! Why can't anyone understand that?" the hunter said. "Now I know where I've seen this goober! I thought he looked familiar." Pike said. "Huh, you know this guy?". "Yeah, his name's Tracy. He goes to my school. He's kind of a social outcast.". "Silence! I might be an outcast now, but all that will change when I show everyone that I am a real ghost hunter. Then I will finally be accepted into the paranormal activity club!". "I don't care you think you are. I can look past making me drop my ice cream. Heck, I can even look past breaking into my home. But I will not let you kidnap Jewely!" Trevor said. "Who's Jewely?" Tracy said. Trevor charged at Tracy and knocked the mini-vac aside. "Pike, break it!" Trevor said. Pike was stomping hard on the vacuum. "No, stop that!" Tracy shouted. He pushed Trevor aside and pushed Pike away from his vacuum. Pike nearly fell off but grabbed onto the ledge in the nick of time. "Pike!" Trevor shouted. "I'm fine, just get Jewely.". Tracy was trying to escape, but Trevor grabbed the vacuum, trying to get it away from Tracy. Their struggle made the vacuum fly off the roof. Tracy jumped after it, with Trevor saying "Is he nuts!?". The vacuum broke one upon impact, releasing the ghostly maid. She caught Tracy in mid air. "Hello there, and who might you be?". "Let go of me you evil spirit. When I get a new vacuum, I will capture you for real." Tracy said as he struggled. Jewely let him go, making Tracy fall on the concrete floor. As Trevor pulled Pike up, he said to Jewely "Jewely, are you okay?" as she ascended to her master. "Certainly, le maître Trevor. It was awfully cramped in there.". "Glad to have you back Jewely.". "This isn't over!" they all heard. Everyone looked down and saw that Tracy was limping away. "He's still alive?" Pike said. "You haven't heard the last of me! I will catch that ghost of yours. And I will not stop until I do!" Tracy said. The hunter then stepped on another electric mine. Sirens could be heard in the background. "And here come the police." Trevor said.

[dykejutsu]

All the musicals for the ask thing (or whichever ones u want) 💕💗

Oh goodness lmao it’ll keep my from doing homework so lets go!

Musical: Name? Sarah “Sara-Jane” GrubbBroadway: Sexuality? bi/aceTimes square: Gender? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (def identify with women but not completely lmao)Big Apple: Age? 19Broadway star: Eye color? brownMerch: Hair color? red/blondeStage: Religion? im a jew yoOverture: Where were you born? salem, vaOrchestra: What are some of your hobbies? sleeping, getting high, netflixFront row: What languages do you speak? only english, but I'm working on learning aslBalcony: Do you play an instrument? fUCK YEAH I CAN PLAY CLARINET AND BASS CLARINET AND THE STEAL PANPlaybill: Do you play any sports? HAHBackstage: Do you have any pets? yes, a doggo and a kittyRehersal: Piercings? only my earsMic check: Tattoos? no ;;Opening night: Glasses or contacts? contacts but good god i need classesAudition: What time is it right now? 10:19pmWicked: Favorite food? mac and cheese yo!Phantom of the Opera: Favorite color? blueChicago: Favorite animal? all cats, big cats smol catsSweeney Todd: Favorite movie? lion king and the cat returnsLes mis: Favorite quote? “do no harms but take no shit”Into the woods: Favorite drink? pepsi or that ice blue gatorade Newsies: Favorite song? shelter - porter robinsonSeussical: Favorite band? n/aSongs for a new world: Favorite happy memory? watching the spiderman trilogy with my nana when i was a fetus like all the fucking time Hairspray: Favorite flower? i feel like i need to say roses and daisies since tho are our school flowers Pitch perfect: Favorite scent? i like anything vanilla, fruity, or woodiesWest side story: Favorite Tv series? parks and rec or shamelessPippin: Favorite game? POKEMONThoroughly modern millie: Favorite youtube? i really like the game grumpsRent: Favorite character? Sakura from card captor sakuraHeathers: Favorite book? the great gatsby and to kill a mockingbird 9 to 5: Favorite fairytale? n/aGrease: Favorite mythical creature? yikes thats too hardIf/then: Favorite author? n/aJekyll and Hyde: Favorite name? n/a25th annual Putnam county spelling bee: Favorite Season? n/aUrine town: Favorite time of day? early morning (even tho I'm never awake for that lmao)A chorus line: Favorite actor/actress n/aKinky boots: Favorite ride at an amusement park? n/aAnything goes: Favorite hairstyle? any messy hair styles Book of mormon: Favorite joke? it’s all oger nowLion king: Favorite show when you were a kid? pokemon probablyLittle mermaid: Favorite ice cream flavor? mint chocolate chipSoprano: Ever been in love? ehMezzo: Ever had a crush? girl I've had waaaayyy to manyBelter: Ever fallen out of love? fuck yeah i haveAlto: Ever asked someone out/ been asked out? yeah, once i did it when i was drunk off my ass it was wildContralto: Ever cheated/been cheated on? dude probably, i’m like pretty sure my last 2 girlfriends cheated on meTenor: Ever been kissed? yesBaritone: Ever been cuddled? yes (and i fucking need to be rn)Bass: Ever been heartbroken? yesVocal range: Ever been in a relationship? yes Warm ups: Have you always known your sexuality? yes? i didn't know about the ace part until like last year but i’ve always know i had a thing for men and womenBreathing: When was the last time you had a crush? i mean i have one now so Pitch: Do you want to marry one day? eh? it would be nice but i kinda view marriage as more for the legal benefits bc you don’t need this big old ceremony and a ring to promise someone you love themNote: Do you like someone now? yes!Posture: Does someone like you? SHE SAID SHE DOES BUT IM AN ANXIOUS SHIT SO IM ALWAYS WORRIED SHE DOESNT LIKE ME ANYMORE ;;16-32 bars: Are you in love with love? wtf does that mean?Theatrical: I like your blogLyrical: You're cuteJazz: Date me?Vaudeville: I wish we talkedHip hop: Do you have a secret?Tap: I like ____ about youModern: I wish I was youBallet: I want you to notice meBallroom: Did you like this past year? 2016? i mean it was aight but it was also shitLine dancing: Do you like me? fffff yesTango: I wish we lived closerFree style: *hug*Character: Winter or summer? neitherScript: Fall or spring? both these seasons make me more depressed than i am so noActor: Ice cream or hot chocolate? ice creamActress: Fruit or vegetables? fruitLine: Hugs or kisses? BOTHStage fight: Early bird or night owl? night owl...Stage kiss: Dresses or sweatpants? both, sweats are comfy but dresses mean no pants at allStage presense: LA or NYC? nycProjection: Breakfast or dinner? breakfast manEmotion: Hot weather or cold weather? ehMonolouge: Art or sports? art, you think i do sports?Dialouge: Coffee or tea? coffee 

[ecotone99]

[HF] Crystal Clear

“Jew, step forward to be shot!” Otto Sommer said.

In front of him stood a barefoot and trembling middle-aged merchant dressed in a scarlet red soft cotton night-robe. It was almost midnight when Sommer and his sadistic accomplices, three euphoric brown-shirts in their twenties, barged into the third floor well-kept Art Deco styled apartment of Leo and Hannah Mayer. With the safety lever raised, Sommer aimed his Luger 9mm pistol at Leo’s forehead. Would this be his second victim during the cold November night in Berlin?

Earlier that week, Herschel Grynszpan, a handsome seventeen-year-old Polish Jew illegal in Paris, learned that his family in Germany had been stripped of their property and deported to Poland. Upset at the news, he went to the Reich embassy on the rue de Lille 78 in Paris and asked to see the Ambassador’s secretary. Grynszpan was taken to the office of Ernst vom Rath. The gossip was that the two were acquainted from the Le Boeuf sur le Toit bar, popular with Paris’ homosexuals.

Upon entering vom Rath’s office, Herschel delivered a two-minute rage on the Nazi persecution of Polish Jews. Then he reached into the right inside pocket of his charcoal grey raincoat and pulled out the 6.35mm revolver he purchased that morning.

“You’re a filthy German!” he said.

Grynszpan fired five shots in rapid succession but only two bullets hit vom Rath; one in the right shoulder and one in the abdomen. He was rushed to the nearby Alma Women’s Hospital for life-saving surgery. The doctors managed to remove the bullet lodged in vom Rath’s stomach but two days later he succumbed to his injuries. The news spread across Germany along with rumors of reprisals against the Jews.

Now, more than ever, Hannah wished she had followed in the footsteps of her younger brother Albert. He established himself as an accomplished Bauhaus architect in Tel Aviv. Albert promised to help his sister and her husband resettle. Leo did not want to leave Germany despite increasing restrictions imposed on Jews. He still managed to earn a decent living as a textile trader and he did not want to struggle to rebuild his life, nor did he want to learn a new language. Leo was convinced that the wave of Nazi-driven Anti-Semitism would pass just like many times before throughout history. Zionism and Judaism were not part of his life. The Mayer’s did not observe the Sabbath. They did not cook Kosher. At Christmas they even had a tiny tree and exchanged presents. Leo’s rejection of reality scared Hannah. As conditions worsened she grew more and more disillusioned with his childish optimism.

Facing death, Leo let go of his wife’s delicate sweaty hand and stepped forward on the squeaky hardwood floor of varied dark brown tones. Leo hid his shaking hand behind his back. When he stopped he could smell the odor of spent gun powder coupled with the unpleasant beer breath coming from Sommer.

“I, Hauptmann Leopold Mayer, am a decorated war veteran.”

Hannah gasped in horror and her heart rate increased. The overweight storm-trooper pointed his wooden club at her.

“Your husband is asking for it!”

Leo nodded in the direction of the bookcase to his left. There stood a framed black and white photograph of himself in an infantry uniform taken over two decades earlier in Berlin before he boarded a train headed to the Western front straight into the “hell of Verdun”. Alongside, on display in a wood-backed glass-covered case, was the German Empire Iron Cross — Second Class war medal. Drained of all color, Leo took a deep breath.

“I witnessed enough bloodshed in France to turn the Spree red for days on end. I faced thousands of bullets but not one had my name on it. You and your criminal gang do not scare me. Um…go ahead and shoot me!”

Leo believed that the official proof of his brave contribution to the German fatherland was the insurance policy which would protect him and Hannah. No one had to know that the medal was awarded to all his unit for their combined courage during an overnight raid into French trenches, an attack in which he soiled himself. He never mentioned to anyone back home that he curled himself into the fetal position each time during the heavy French artillery blasts. The nights were interrupted by light as clear as day with each explosion. Soldiers were blown to pieces, bodies left to decompose without heads or limbs; unidentifiable remains.

Sommer kept his aim for a few more seconds. Then he pulled his index finger out of the trigger guard and lowered his arm. Just as Hannah felt relief, Sommer whipped Leo across the face with the Luger’s grip. He fell heavily on the floor.

“Stop it!” Hannah said.

“Shut up!”

The excruciating pain from the fractured right cheekbone overwhelmed Leo. Hannah reached down and with her two arms extended she raised him. He was dazed and bleeding from a deep slash under his right eye.

“Hanz, tie his hands, and take him downstairs. Leave him with the others so they take him back to the station” Sommer said.

Leo was led outside the apartment with his hands tied behind his back. The neighbor’s door was ajar and through the gap, he spotted, Marie Fischer, peeking out. Hanz also caught a glimpse of her as he pushed Leo forward.

“Shut your door and mind your own business!” Hanz said.

Marie obeyed. With Leo gone, Sommer reverted his attention back to Hannah.

“You, stay with me. We’re not finished here.”

He reminded his mates of the task ahead.

“Destroy everything. Smash the windows. Tear the degenerated art off these walls. Bring me all the jewelry. We have more visits to make tonight!”

Leo was hustled down the spiral staircase. Next to the first-floor apartment, he stumbled over the lifeless body of Joseph Bamberger, a widower in his late seventies. He lay on his stomach killed by a single shot to the back of the head. His dark eyes were wide open. The black silk kippah, which he kept for funerals, remained clutched in his right hand.

“Move on if you do not want to end up like your neighbor!”

Hanz pushed Leo midway down the last flight of stairs. He fumbled into the main entryway and out onto the sidewalk. Leo kept his balance and just as he straightened up, the blue velvet sofa from his living room crashed in front of him, breaking into pieces. Leo breathed a sigh of relief, turned back, and looked up. Only the two flats with Jewish occupants were lit up.

Leo saw a line of broken men standing on the sidewalk across the street, none of the advanced age. Another storm-trooper held them at gunpoint. Leo had almost no interaction with the Jewish community, but he recognized some faces. The youngest in the line was maybe eighteen. In the distance, more or less where the synagogue was located, a dark cloud of smoke arose.

“Felix, here is another pig for your collection!”

Hanz shoved Leo into the street. He crashed onto the pavement full of scattered broken glass and suffered cuts to his hands and feet. One of the men in the line reached out and helped Leo get up.

“Where are the police?” Leo asked.

“Shhh!!! whisper or else these barbarians will beat you to do death” the man said.

“Forget the police. They will not stop this brutality. Nor will the firefighters” another man in the line said.

The police came to observe the mob violence remained controlled. The firefighters stood at a distance to ensure the flames did not spread beyond the Jewish properties. The systematic destruction of Mayer’s apartment continued. In front of the detained men, more furniture pieces came crashing down on to the street, as well as cutlery, kitchen utensils, vases, torn books, clothes, and linen. Framed paintings and family photographs were ripped and tossed out. “Revenge for Paris!” was the loud cry heard repeatedly.

Back upstairs, Sommer pressed the Luger into Hannah’s back. He forced her down the hallway and into the black and white master bedroom. He shut the door behind him and caught Hanna unprepared.

“Take off your night clothes and pull down your underwear.”

“Please don’t…what have I done to you?”

Sommer aimed the Luger at her chest. Hannah wavered.

“Do as I say!”

She surrendered and revealed her womanly body with noticeable curves and large breasts. Hannah covered her privates.

“Lay down on the bed!”

“Let me go. I beg you!”

“Shhh!”

Sommer pushed her on to the wooden framed bed. She fell back on the soft mattress.

“Spread your legs apart…”

Hannah hesitated again. Sommer pressed the Luger against her right knee and with his left hand on her opposite knee he spread her wide. Fully exposed Hannah never felt more vulnerable. Until then only Leo had seen her uncovered.

“You’re still a beautiful woman.”

Sommer turned away and shut off the bedroom ceiling light. The room turned pitch black and Hannah was unable to see anything.

“Don’t worry, I will not touch you.”

Within seconds, Hanna’s sight adapted to the dark setting. By then Sommer was back in the living room.

“She is all yours. Take your turns. Have fun! Remember not to finish inside her.” Sommer said.

Hannah heard everything, but she remained frozen. She concluded there was no point resisting. Even the smallest one the three could overpower her. Hannah lay silent and lost control over her body. She avoided eye contact with her attackers. To her disgust she was wet. Hannah did not understand her body’s natural protection.

She wanted to inflict pain on the animals by thrusting her mountain peak nails deep into their backs. But Hannah feared they would beat her to death. She sweated profusely. The heavier thug was the last one. He turned her over and sodomized her. Hannah buried her head in the white fluffy feather pillow and bit into it as hard as she could. She passed out.

The morning after Hannah woke up freezing from the cold arctic morning chill which spread throughout the apartment. She forced herself out of bed. Hannah felt disgusted by the sticky remnants of semen ejaculated all over her body. She avoided the large gold framed wall mirror in the bedroom, the only looking glass left untouched in the flat. Hannah was horrified by the destruction. Bloodstains were splattered across the living room floor leading toward the main entrance. The radio was crushed, lamps were broken, the floor was full of pieces of broken glass, fragments of furniture, broken utensils, and torn book pages. The curtains were ripped. There was a strong smell of urine coming from the carpets. Leo’s prized chessboard, handmade by his father, an amateur carpenter, was in pieces after having been thrown against the wall and then stepped on.

Hannah sought refuge in the classic white tiled bathroom. Twice she made sure the door was locked. In the tub filled with warm water, she scrubbed herself repeatedly, but the filthy feeling remained.

“Shonda, shonda, shonda!” she said.

With the thought of killing herself, Hannah lost her nerves and the accumulated silent tears burst out and kept flowing for what seemed an eternity.

Nearby, two plain-clothed Gestapo agents brought Leo up from the underground torture chamber. They pushed him into a crowded dark windowless cell that stank from sweat and body waste; liquid and solid. He fell hard on to the ice-cold floor. None of the other apathetic cellmates reacted. Leo was covered in blood and bruises. Overnight he had been flogged with a leather bullwhip and beaten with a rubber bar. He begged them to stop. His cries only encouraged more sadism. In between beatings, he was dumped into frozen bathwater. On a couple of occasions, they poured water down his nose. The torture stopped when he fainted, and a fresh victim was brought in.

When Leo did not show up to work by the late afternoon, his longtime friend and business partner, Dieter, shut the office and left earlier than usual to look for him. The talk of the day was about the overnight attacks against Jews across the city. Dieter rushed to Leo’s apartment. He found it unlocked. The door opened with a screech. His heart pounded as he took slow steps inside and scouted the destruction everywhere. He found Hannah curled up in the bedroom. She was silent and covered her face with her arms. He was not sure if she sensed him. He stepped closer, leaned down but he did not touch her.

“Hannah, it’s me. Dieter.”

She revealed her face and red puffy eyes.

“Let me take you back to our home. Ingrid will take care of you. She will listen to you if you want to talk. I will keep looking for Leo.”

Hannah sat up and reached out to Dieter. With her hands, she clutched his overcoat and sobbed into his chest.

“Please don’t leave me.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

They packed some essentials and left the devastation.

Dieter and his wife Ingrid, a trained nurse, treated Hannah like their own. Over the next few days, Hannah gained strength. She barely spoke, she did not share any details of the attack nor did she did venture outside. Hannah did not lose hope that Leo would return. Dieter visited hospitals and police stations but there was no trace of Leo. Then one-day news arrived. The Gestapo transferred Leo to the Sachsenhausen concentration camp north of Berlin. There he suffered more intimidations, beatings, and humiliations. One morning the camp guards came and read a list of names. Those called out were war veterans and free to go. Leo’s name was on the list, but he never woke up that morning. For Hannah, there was nobody to collect and no funeral to organize. Heartbroken, she sank deep into depression, avoided mirrors, sobbed most of the day and night, refused to bathe, and without an appetite, she became dangerously slim. Word of her desperate condition reached Albert in Tel Aviv.

A few weeks later, Marie exited her apartment when she noticed across the corridor a young mother and her boy. The woman was unlocking the door to Mayer’s restored apartment. She wore a plain dress, with no make-up, and held her long blond hair in a bun. Her ten-year-old was outfitted in the desirable winter Deutsche Jungvolk uniform with a single black strap on his right shoulder.

“Good afternoon? I’m Frau Fischer.”

“Good afternoon…I’m sorry we did not have a chance to introduce ourselves earlier. We just moved in. I’m Frau Charlotte Sommer. And this is my son Klaus. Pleased to meet you.”

“Ah…you have a handsome boy. Must bring you a lot of joy.”

“And he makes us very proud.”

“I’m sure. How’s the apartment?”

“It’s perfect. Just what we need. I am so glad my husband Otto found it. I hope you meet him soon.”

“I believe I already met him when he came the first time to see the flat. There was a childless couple living here for many years. The husband was murdered a few weeks ago. Very tragic. Last I heard the grieving widow left Germany to start a new life Palestine.”

“I wish you a good day, Frau Fischer. Heil Hitler!”

submitted by /u/gsetton [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/3hFFOjM

[notesonfilm1]

  A young and sexy Yves Montand and the ever beautiful María Félix in Les Héros sont fatigués/ Heroes and Sinners (see below). As you can see from the posters above, the filmmakers hoped the sex would sell the film’s more complicated themes of de-colonisation in Africa, German unification, European conciliation, and what happens to men after the struggles they sacrificed their lives to are ended. A melodrama/adventure film/ political statement that does not quite fully work but that is so fascinating I plan to watch it again. María Felix is introduced being pushed around by her partner, a former collaborator and anti-semite, for sleeping with black men. Curd Jürgens won the best actor prize for his performance at the Venice Film Festival that year for this film. Gert Fröbe is at least as good as a concentration camp survivor.

Frantz Fanon would publish Black Skins, White Masks in 1952; Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man also came out in ’52; Aimé Césaire Discours sur le colonialism in ’55; Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart in ’58. This film is made amidst ideas on race and colonialism that were live in that period, by filmmakers who were actively engaged, who contributed to the development and dissemination of political and aesthetic ideas, from the left, in the public sphere of post-war France.

Director Yves Ciampi had made a famous film on the Liberation of Paris, Les compagnons de la gloire — La division Leclerc dans la bataille, headed the Film Technicians Trade Union, and would go on to marry Japanese actress Keiko Kishi. One of the writers, Jacques-Laurent Bost, might be more famous to cinéastes today as the brother of Pierre Bost, the screnwriter François Truffaut singled out for his ire in ‘Une certain tendance du cinéma Francais’. But those more familiar with French culture would know him as the war correspondent hired by Albert Camus to cover the fall of Berlin. He was at the liberation of Dachau and was one of the first people to write about the Holocaust. He was also, along with Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, a founding member of Le nouvel observateur, a key member of that particular group of existentialists and the lover of Simone de Beauvoir. Montand was for most of his life a life-long leftist, closely associated with the communist party, and his brother Julien Livi was a member of the Communist party, one of the leading post-war Trade Unionists and Genera Secretary to the ‘Fédération du Commerce, des Services de de la Distribtuion (CGT) de l’alimentation’ from 1956 to 1979. Even María Félix, who seemed to skate elegantly over politics and had seemingly had no qualms about working in Fascist Spain or Peron’s Argentina just a few years earlier, was then involved with Jean Cau, Sartre’s former secretary and a writer who’d published Maria-Nêgre, a novel about the tragic love affair between a black GI and an Italian girl set during the libertion of Naples and published in 48.

  The filmmakers lean left, most of them with personal experience of racism,  and perhaps because of that the film engages with and dramatises  issues of racial relations in a post-colonial setting with a seriousness and relative depth that is rare in cinema, particularly the cinema of that period. As the title card that precedes the film (above) tells us: ‘This film is set in in one of the black republics of Africa. In these republics, young and independent, a black elite educated abroad has introduced a language and way of life far removed from African morays. In spite of that, these countries have preserved most of their ancestral traditions.’

  Les heros sont fatigués is ostensibly an adventure story about a former flier now stuck piloting merchandise across Africa, who gets his hands on a shipment of diamonds, and decides that selling them for himself might be his ticket back home. But the colonial structures and relationships of this former British colony keep getting in the way. In the first few minutes of the film, Michel Riviére (Montand) hitches a ride to Free City, the capital, stops off at the house of the only contact he has and this is what we’re shown (see clip below): the camera follows him into the house, what we hear is American blues, one of the young women working is topless,  the young child is naked, there’s a rooster on top of the fridge. It all looks ‘pittoresque,’ othered, overly atmospheric, and arguably racist in  the way it fails to distinguish between black American and African cultures.  But then, listen to the head of the household’s speech. ‘He was nothing more than a thief…We have no need of your kind here. Our country is young and we are free. Can’t you understand?’ Visually and aurally the film gives mixed signals. But there’s no misinterpreting the speech, one that frames the rest of the film just as powerfully as the text before the film’s beginning excerpted above.

    María Félix gets a great introduction — her transgression here is that she has a black lover, Sidney (Gordon Heath), and without hiding it from her partner either. But the scene illustrates why in order to understand the power and force of María Félix’s stardom, one has to see her in her Mexican films. There she’s presented as a force of nature, a beauty both indigenous and rare with a touch of the divine and more than soupçon of devilry. She’s ‘Woman’ in all her many guises and everything happens around her. Here, she’s the illustration of a theme.

As you can see in the clip below, we see her through Montand’s look. He goes to the door, moves towards the window and spies on François (Jean Severin) screaming at Manuella ‘You’re white. You belong to us’. ‘Shut up stupid’. The fight continues in voice-over but the camera follows Montand as he now goes into the bar and asks if they have a room. ‘If she lets herself be touched by her Negro, I’ll shoot her and him with her.’ Then note how everyone’s gaze turns to Montand, François moves to occupy the space between Manuela and Michel. And then in the next shot, she moves in between the two men, foreshadowing what is inevitable, ie, the two stars of the film start a love affair,  as François says, ‘She’s sleeping with black men. Can you imagine? Her!’ And then another character, who we will learn is a Republican ex-combattant from the Spanish Civil War, intervenes and says of Fran��ois. ‘He’s got a good stomach. In France he ate jews; here it’s Blacks’, thus linking  them together in the film’s thematisation of race. I wanted to draw attention to this because it’s Félix’s introduction; and in many ways it’s very powerful. But the focus is almost entirely on Montand or on the question of miscegenation and racism. She barely gets a word or a look in.

  The themes of colonisation in its changing forms is shown in different ways. At the very beginning as Michel enters free city, we see a big billboard advertising Coca Cola (see frame grab, below left). Later on when Sidney (Gordon Heath) enters the bar to propose marriage to Manuella and François reaches for the gun, its symbolically shown to us as surrounded by American dollars (see frame grab, below left). One empire has left but another is taking over with a different form of colonisation but just as murderous. One of the characters says ‘there’s only two white women here and they’re both colonised by blacks.’ But that’s missing the point, which is that one master is giving way to another, and that Coca Cola can serve one empire just as military presence did a previous model.

  Like in Clouzot’s The Wages of Fear — Montand’s first big hit in the movies — much of the narrative here revolves around a bar in which  series of outcasts stuck in a third-world country pass the time and scheme on how to get out. But Les héros sont fatiguées is more overtly political: François Severin (Jean Servais) is the collaborationist judge who helped send Jews to the gas chambers;  Hermann (Gert Fröbe) is a former German politician sent to a concentration camp by the Nazis for his politics, now stuck repairing watches in Africa; there’s also more than a hint that Pépé (Manolo Montez) fought on the losing side of the Spanish Civil War (see the posters around his bed, bottom left); and of course Wolf Gerke (Curd Jürgens) Michel’s equal and opposite, is revealed to be a former Luftwaffe flyer (see the image of the lighter, below right), who fought on the opposite side.

    The film offers a conciliation between Hermann and Wolf, they both dream of German re-unification. And the last image in the film will be that of Wolf and Michel supporting each other as they make their way out of the country and into a new life as partners (see below).

I was very intrigued by the scene below, as structurally and thematically complex one. In the scenes at the bar Michel and Wolf have a deal going but Michel is hoping to double-cross him by escaping on a boat. Wolf and Hermann, previously poles apart in politics, use Christmas as an occasion in which to offer a toast for peace and for German unification. It’s also where Manuella has to tell Michel that François has sabotaged their escape plans and hopes to find another solution by visiting Sidney, her black lover and a powerful person in the country’s new order. It’s a bit after this that Michel and Wolf will realise their commonality in spite of having fought against each other in the war and bond.

The scene cross-cuts between the bar inside, the populace at large celebrating in their own indigenous customs; and the Europeanised hoi polloi adopting foreign customs in dress and dancing. It’s the last bit, where Manuella goes into the haute-bourgeois black party that intrigues me, partly because it must have been so rare to see in the cinema in 1955. Here the tables are turned. Manuella, who started off life as a Consul’s daughter, is here looked upon as the outsider, slightly trashy, out of place and possibly not knowing her place. It’s where Sidney throws Manuella physically out of the party and Villeterre (Gérard Oury), the fixer who’s arranged to buy Michel’s diamonds at a fixed price, tells Sidney, ‘Come on, come on my friend. Make a gesture. Be jealous, by all means. But don’t be racist.’ How are we meant to look at this scene? Are we meant to be with Sidney and the black bourgeoisie?; are we meant to look down on them?; are we meant to think they’re gotten too big for their bridges, have forgotten to be African and badly imitating a culture that doesn’t suit them? I’m not sure. Yves Ciampi is not a good enough director to be both clear and complex in his filming of the scene. But for me this is the scene the film is worth seeing for.

There are other attractions of course, Maria Felix exhibiting a degree of flesh that must have been shocking then. She’s constrained by being limited to only one outfit but she does what she can for her fans by making her hair do the work expected of stars (see below right). Montand is very sexy also. Curd Jürgens and Gert Fröbe are excellent. The score, featuring some of the biggest hits of the era (Edith Piaf et) is a delight. The fim’s aims and its politics are admirable. But it’s well filmed without being exciting (The Wages of Fear is a useful contrast here as well). It’s also a bit muddled in that it loses the action/adventure strand of the film in its attempt to include the politics and the picturesque. And yet, without being great, it’s interested me enough to write 2,000 words on it.

  José Arroyo

  Les heros sont fatigués/Heroes and Sinners (Yves Ciampi, France/W. Germany, 1955) A young and sexy Yves Montand and the ever beautiful María Félix in Les Héros sont fatigués/ Heroes and Sinners…

[headspacepress]

http://headspacepress.com/blue-metropolis-celebrates-women-intersectional-feminism-year/

Women front and centre at this year's Blue Metropolis Literary Fest

For a city that has so many international festivals — Just for Laughs, the International Jazz Fest, and the Fringe Fest to name but a few of my favourites — Montreal has one festival that a book lover like myself has always held close to her heart; Blue Metropolis.

The Blue Metropolis Foundation was founded in 1997 by the wonderful Linda Leith, a Montreal novelist, essayist, and publisher of Linda Leith Publishing, whose book Writing in the Time of Nationalism: From Two Solitudes to Blue Metropolis, I never fail to recommend to readers wanting to get a true insider’s perspective of what it was like (and in many ways, still is) to be a writer in Quebec representing one of two distinct minorities; French-language writers within English-dominated Canada, and English-language writers within French-dominated Quebec. Leith practices the linguistic diversity and intercultural understanding that she preaches. Linda Leith Publishing recently translated journalist Pascale Navarro’s excellent French essay, Women and Power: The Case for Parity, into English.

A non-profit organization dedicated to bringing people from different cultures together to share the pleasures of reading and writing, the foundation gave birth to the first Blue Metropolis Montreal International Literary Festival in 1999. While the festival has always been bilingual, (featuring and promoting Quebec writers writing in either or both languages), it has increasingly put the emphasis in latter years on multilingualism, cultural and linguistic diversity, and respect for inclusion. In other words, this festival has always represented – at least to me — the very best of Montreal’s cultural and linguistic offerings and spirit of openness.

This year, Blue Metropolis has plenty to interest anyone who wants to read and promote the works of women. Its series Women & Words highlights women authors who continue to be under-represented and under-valued. As part of the series, here are a few notable events taking place that are very much worth catching and I worry may not have been covered as much by mainstream media.

  LE FEMINISME – UN PASSAGE OBLIGÉ?

This 60-minute round table taking place Friday, April 28, at 4 p.m. hosted by Laura T. Iléa, with participants Houria Bouteldja, Chantal Maillé, and Naïma Hamrouni is certain to be of interest to many.

Houria Bouteldja is a French-Algerian political activist and writer focusing on anti-racism, anti-imperialism, and Islamophobia. She serves as spokesperson for the Parti des Indigènes de la République (Party of the Indigenous of the Republic). Her book, Whites, Jews, and Us: Toward a Politics of Revolutionary Love, a scathing critique of the European Left from an indigenous anti-colonial perspective, reflecting on Frantz Fanon’s political legacy, the republican pact, the Shoah, the creation of Israel, feminism, and the fate of postcolonial immigration in the West in the age of rising anti-immigrant populism, claims that whiteness is not a genetic question, but a matter of power.

Chantal Maillé is a professor at Concordia University’s Simone de Beauvoir Institute and its Women’s Studies Department. She has a Ph.D. in Political Science from Université du Québec à Montréal and has written and co-written numerous books on feminism, postcolonial theories and intersectionality, among them Le sujet du féminisme est-il blanc? Femmes racisées et recherche féministe and Malaises identitaires échanges féministes autour d’un Québec incertain.

With both a Ph.D. in philosophy and post-doctoral studies at the Simone de Beauvoir Institute at Concordia, Naîma Hamrouni, who co-wrote Le sujet du féminisme est-il blanc? Femmes racisées et recherche féministe with Chantal Maillé, there is no question that this round table will probably be one of the most diverse, multi-layered, informed, potentially controversial, and most definitely intersectional conversations on feminism and women’s issues organized in a while. It shouldn’t be missed. Admission is $10.

  POWERFUL WOMEN IN TRADITIONAL CULTURES; IS MATRIARCHY A THING OF THE PAST?

Writers Anita Desai (Clear Light of Day, Fasting, Feasting), Imbolo Mbue (Behold the Dreamers), and Samah Sabawi (I Remember My Name) discuss their cultures of origin, their fiction and their female characters. Hosted by journalist, political commentator, social activist, and proud feminist Anne Lagacé Dowson, this 60-minute panel discussion is certain to be enlightening and lively. It should be noted that world-renowned Indian writer Anita Desai is being honoured with The Blue Metropolis International Literary Grand Prix this year (which also comes with a $10,000 prize) for her impressive and critically acclaimed body of work so far. Cameroonian author Imbolo Mbue (seen in the main picture above), is also being honoured with The Blue Metropolis Words to Change Prize ($5,000 to an author whose work upholds the values of intercultural understanding and social inclusion) for her debut novel Behold the Dreamers. The event takes place Friday, April 28, at 5:30 p.m. and is free.

  DENISE DONLON: FEARLESS, FEMINIST AND A FORCE FOR GOOD

Denise Donlon, Canadian business executive, television producer, host, and member of the Order of Canada, joined MuchMusic in 1985 as a host and producer of The NewMusic, and certainly has some stories to tell. In her critically acclaimed memoir, As Fearless as Possible (Under the Circumstances) she reflects on touring with Whitesnake, on being the president of Sony Music Canada, and discusses feminism, leadership, and pop culture. Her 60-minute interview with musician and filmmaker Matt Zimbel will take place on Friday, April 28, at 7 p.m. Admission is $10.

  LITTLE SISTER: BARBARA GOWDY IN CONVERSATION WITH HEATHER O’NEILL

Canadian novelist and short story writer of all things strange and unusual, Barbara Gowdy sits down with Montreal’s very own literary darling, Heather O’Neill, to discuss her latest book, Little Sister. The book explores the astonishing power of empathy, the question of where we end and others begin, and the fierce bonds of motherhood and sisterhood. The event takes place Saturday, April 29, at 7 p.m. and is free.

  FEMINICIDIO NO MORE

From #stolensisters in Canada to #niunamenos in Argentina, a conversation about violence against women in the 21st century, enveloped by the darkly symbolic and often-disturbing work of Mexican artist Teresa Margolles now on exhibition at the Musée d’art contemporain de Montréal. The price ticket of $20 includes admission to the exhibition. The 90-minute multilingual round table is hosted by Ingrid Bejerman and includes the participation of Innu poet Natasha Kanapé Fontaine who is well known in Montreal’s literary scene with her beautiful French-language work that focuses on Indigenous women, American novelist, journalist, and Professor of Literature and Creative Writing, Francisco Goldman, and Canadian poet and biographer Rosemary Sullivan. The event takes place Saturday, April 29, at 4 p.m.

  Once again this year, Blue Metropolis has managed to impress me with the depth, breadth, and quality of its events, and the awareness and emphasis it places on ensuring that all languages, cultures, and points of view are represented and discussed. In a world where most people still have problems defining, let alone understanding the importance of intersectionality, the direction and organizers of this wonderful literary event deserve a round of applause.

For a look at the complete schedule of events, go to: www.bluemetropolis.org

[readbookywooks]

One afternoon, a month later, Dorian Gray was reclining in a luxurious arm-chair, in the little library of Lord Henry’s house in Curzon Street. It was, in its way, a very charming room, with its high panelled wainscoting of olive-stained oak, its cream-colored frieze and ceiling of raised plaster-work, and its brick-dust felt carpet strewn with long-fringed silk Persian rugs. On a tiny satinwood table stood a statuette by Clodion, and beside it lay a copy of “Les Cent Nouvelles,” bound for Margaret of Valois by Clovis Eve, and powdered with the gilt daisies that the queen had selected for her device. Some large blue china jars, filled with parrot- tulips, were ranged on the mantel-shelf, and through the small leaded panes of the window streamed the apricot-colored light of a summer’s day in London.

Lord Henry had not come in yet. He was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time. So the lad was looking rather sulky, as with listless fingers he turned over the pages of an elaborately-illustrated edition of “Manon Lescaut” that he had found in one of the bookcases. The formal monotonous ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock annoyed him. Once or twice he thought of going away.

At last he heard a light step outside, and the door opened. “How late you are, Harry!” he murmured.

“I am afraid it is not Harry, Mr. Gray,” said a woman’s voice.

He glanced quickly round, and rose to his feet. “I beg your pardon. I thought–”

“You thought it was my husband. It is only his wife. You must let me introduce myself. I know you quite well by your photographs. I think my husband has got twenty-seven of them.”

[23] “Not twenty-seven, Lady Henry?”

“Well, twenty-six, then. And I saw you with him the other night at the Opera.” She laughed nervously, as she spoke, and watched him with her vague forget-me-not eyes. She was a curious woman, whose dresses always looked as if they had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest. She was always in love with somebody, and, as her passion was never returned, she had kept all her illusions. She tried to look picturesque, but only succeeded in being untidy. Her name was Victoria, and she had a perfect mania for going to church.

“That was at ’Lohengrin,’ Lady Henry, I think?”

“Yes; it was at dear ’Lohengrin.’ I like Wagner’s music better than any other music. It is so loud that one can talk the whole time, without people hearing what one says. That is a great advantage: don’t you think so, Mr. Gray?”

The same nervous staccato laugh broke from her thin lips, and her fingers began to play with a long paper-knife.

Dorian smiled, and shook his head: “I am afraid I don’t think so, Lady Henry. I never talk during music,–at least during good music. If one hears bad music, it is one’s duty to drown it by conversation.”

“Ah! that is one of Harry’s views, isn’t it, Mr. Gray? But you must not think I don’t like good music. I adore it, but I am afraid of it. It makes me too romantic. I have simply worshipped pianists,– two at a time, sometimes. I don’t know what it is about them. Perhaps it is that they are foreigners. They all are, aren’t they? Even those that are born in England become foreigners after a time, don’t they? It is so clever of them, and such a compliment to art. Makes it quite cosmopolitan, doesn’t it? You have never been to any of my parties, have you, Mr. Gray? You must come. I can’t afford orchids, but I spare no expense in foreigners. They make one’s rooms look so picturesque. But here is Harry!–Harry, I came in to look for you, to ask you something,–I forget what it was,–and I found Mr. Gray here. We have had such a pleasant chat about music. We have quite the same views. No; I think our views are quite different. But he has been most pleasant. I am so glad I’ve seen him.”

“I am charmed, my love, quite charmed,” said Lord Henry, elevating his dark crescent-shaped eyebrows and looking at them both with an amused smile.–"So sorry I am late, Dorian. I went to look after a piece of old brocade in Wardour Street, and had to bargain for hours for it. Nowadays people know the price of everything, and the value of nothing.”

“I am afraid I must be going,” exclaimed Lady Henry, after an awkward silence, with her silly sudden laugh. “I have promised to drive with the duchess.–Good-by, Mr. Gray.–Good-by, Harry. You are dining out, I suppose? So am I. Perhaps I shall see you at Lady Thornbury’s.”

“I dare say, my dear,” said Lord Henry, shutting the door behind her, as she flitted out of the room, looking like a bird-of-paradise that had been out in the rain, and leaving a faint odor of patchouli behind her. Then he shook hands with Dorian Gray, lit a cigarette, and flung himself down on the sofa.

[24] “Never marry a woman with straw-colored hair, Dorian,” he said, after a few puffs.

“Why, Harry?”

“Because they are so sentimental.”

“But I like sentimental people.”

“Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.”

“I don’t think I am likely to marry, Harry. I am too much in love. That is one of your aphorisms. I am putting it into practice, as I do everything you say.”

“Whom are you in love with?” said Lord Henry, looking at him with a curious smile.

“With an actress,” said Dorian Gray, blushing.

Lord Henry shrugged his shoulders. “That is a rather common-place début,” he murmured.

“You would not say so if you saw her, Harry.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Sibyl Vane.”

“Never heard of her.”

“No one has. People will some day, however. She is a genius.”

“My dear boy, no woman is a genius: women are a decorative sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. They represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as we men represent the triumph of mind over morals. There are only two kinds of women, the plain and the colored. The plain women are very useful. If you want to gain a reputation for respectability, you have merely to take them down to supper. The other women are very charming. They commit one mistake, however. They paint in order to try to look young. Our grandmothers painted in order to try to talk brilliantly. Rouge and esprit used to go together. That has all gone out now. As long as a woman can look ten years younger than her own daughter, she is perfectly satisfied. As for conversation, there are only five women in London worth talking to, and two of these can’t be admitted into decent society. However, tell me about your genius. How long have you known her?”

“About three weeks. Not so much. About two weeks and two days.”

“How did you come across her?”

“I will tell you, Harry; but you mustn’t be unsympathetic about it. After all, it never would have happened if I had not met you. You filled me with a wild desire to know everything about life. For days after I met you, something seemed to throb in my veins. As I lounged in the Park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one who passed me, and wonder with a mad curiosity what sort of lives they led. Some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror. There was an exquisite poison in the air. I had a passion for sensations.

“One evening about seven o’clock I determined to go out in search of some adventure. I felt that this gray, monstrous London of ours, with its myriads of people, its splendid sinners, and its sordid sins, as [25] you once said, must have something in store for me. I fancied a thousand things.

“The mere danger gave me a sense of delight. I remembered what you had said to me on that wonderful night when we first dined together, about the search for beauty being the poisonous secret of life. I don’t know what I expected, but I went out, and wandered eastward, soon losing my way in a labyrinth of grimy streets and black, grassless squares. About half-past eight I passed by a little third- rate theatre, with great flaring gas-jets and gaudy play-bills. A hideous Jew, in the most amazing waistcoat I ever beheld in my life, was standing at the entrance, smoking a vile cigar. He had greasy ringlets, and an enormous diamond blazed in the centre of a soiled shirt. ’’Ave a box, my lord?’ he said, when he saw me, and he took off his hat with an act of gorgeous servility. There was something about him, Harry, that amused me. He was such a monster. You will laugh at me, I know, but I really went in and paid a whole guinea for the stage-box. To the present day I can’t make out why I did so; and yet if I hadn’t!–my dear Harry, if I hadn’t, I would have missed the greatest romance of my life. I see you are laughing. It is horrid of you!”

“I am not laughing, Dorian; at least I am not laughing at you. But you should not say the greatest romance of your life. You should say the first romance of your life. You will always be loved, and you will always be in love with love. There are exquisite things in store for you. This is merely the beginning.”

“Do you think my nature so shallow?” cried Dorian Gray, angrily.

“No; I think your nature so deep.”

“How do you mean?”

“My dear boy, people who only love once in their lives are really shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I call either the lethargy of custom or the lack of imagination. Faithlessness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the intellectual life,–simply a confession of failure. But I don’t want to interrupt you. Go on with your story.”

“Well, I found myself seated in a horrid little private box, with a vulgar drop-scene staring me in the face. I looked out behind the curtain, and surveyed the house. It was a tawdry affair, all Cupids and cornucopias, like a third-rate wedding-cake. The gallery and pit were fairly full, but the two rows of dingy stalls were quite empty, and there was hardly a person in what I suppose they called the dress-circle. Women went about with oranges and ginger-beer, and there was a terrible consumption of nuts going on.”

“It must have been just like the palmy days of the British Drama.”

“Just like, I should fancy, and very horrid. I began to wonder what on earth I should do, when I caught sight of the play-bill. What do you think the play was, Harry?”

“I should think ’The Idiot Boy, or Dumb but Innocent.’ Our fathers used to like that sort of piece, I believe. The longer I live, Dorian, the more keenly I feel that whatever was good enough for our fathers is not good enough for us. In art, as in politics, les grand pères ont toujours tort.”

[26] “This play was good enough for us, Harry. It was ’Romeo and Juliet.’ I must admit I was rather annoyed at the idea of seeing Shakespeare done in such a wretched hole of a place. Still, I felt interested, in a sort of way. At any rate, I determined to wait for the first act. There was a dreadful orchestra, presided over by a young Jew who sat at a cracked piano, that nearly drove me away, but at last the drop-scene was drawn up, and the play began. Romeo was a stout elderly gentleman, with corked eyebrows, a husky tragedy voice, and a figure like a beer-barrel. Mercutio was almost as bad. He was played by the low-comedian, who had introduced gags of his own and was on most familiar terms with the pit. They were as grotesque as the scenery, and that looked as if it had come out of a pantomime of fifty years ago. But Juliet! Harry, imagine a girl, hardly seventeen years of age, with a little flower-like face, a small Greek head with plaited coils of dark-brown hair, eyes that were violet wells of passion, lips that were like the petals of a rose. She was the loveliest thing I had ever seen in my life. You said to me once that pathos left you unmoved, but that beauty, mere beauty, could fill your eyes with tears. I tell you, Harry, I could hardly see this girl for the mist of tears that came across me. And her voice,- -I never heard such a voice. It was very low at first, with deep mellow notes, that seemed to fall singly upon one’s ear. Then it became a little louder, and sounded like a flute or a distant hautbois. In the garden-scene it had all the tremulous ecstasy that one hears just before dawn when nightingales are singing. There were moments, later on, when it had the wild passion of violins. You know how a voice can stir one. Your voice and the voice of Sibyl Vane are two things that I shall never forget. When I close my eyes, I hear them, and each of them says something different. I don’t know which to follow. Why should I not love her? Harry, I do love her. She is everything to me in life. Night after night I go to see her play. One evening she is Rosalind, and the next evening she is Imogen. I have seen her die in the gloom of an Italian tomb, sucking the poison from her lover’s lips. I have watched her wandering through the forest of Arden, disguised as a pretty boy in hose and doublet and dainty cap. She has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and given him rue to wear, and bitter herbs to taste of. She has been innocent, and the black hands of jealousy have crushed her reed-like throat. I have seen her in every age and in every costume. Ordinary women never appeal to one’s imagination. They are limited to their century. No glamour ever transfigures them. One knows their minds as easily as one knows their bonnets. One can always find them. There is no mystery in one of them. They ride in the Park in the morning, and chatter at tea-parties in the afternoon. They have their stereotyped smile, and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. But an actress! How different an actress is! Why didn’t you tell me that the only thing worth loving is an actress?”

“Because I have loved so many of them, Dorian.”

“Oh, yes, horrid people with dyed hair and painted faces.”

“Don’t run down dyed hair and painted faces. There is an extraordinary charm in them, sometimes.”

[27] “I wish now I had not told you about Sibyl Vane.”

“You could not have helped telling me, Dorian. All through your life you will tell me everything you do.”

“Yes, Harry, I believe that is true. I cannot help telling you things. You have a curious influence over me. If I ever did a crime, I would come and confide it to you. You would understand me.”

“People like you–the wilful sunbeams of life–don’t commit crimes, Dorian. But I am much obliged for the compliment, all the same. And now tell me,–reach me the matches, like a good boy: thanks,–tell me, what are your relations with Sibyl Vane?”

Dorian Gray leaped to his feet, with flushed cheeks and burning eyes. “Harry, Sibyl Vane is sacred!”

“It is only the sacred things that are worth touching, Dorian,” said Lord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice. “But why should you be annoyed? I suppose she will be yours some day. When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one’s self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls romance. You know her, at any rate, I suppose?”

“Of course I know her. On the first night I was at the theatre, the horrid old Jew came round to the box after the performance was over, and offered to bring me behind the scenes and introduce me to her. I was furious with him, and told him that Juliet had been dead for hundreds of years, and that her body was lying in a marble tomb in Verona. I think, from his blank look of amazement, that he thought I had taken too much champagne, or something.”

“I am not surprised.”

“I was not surprised either. Then he asked me if I wrote for any of the newspapers. I told him I never even read them. He seemed terribly disappointed at that, and confided to me that all the dramatic critics were in a conspiracy against him, and that they were all to be bought.”

“I believe he was quite right there. But, on the other hand, most of them are not at all expensive.”

“Well, he seemed to think they were beyond his means. By this time the lights were being put out in the theatre, and I had to go. He wanted me to try some cigars which he strongly recommended. I declined. The next night, of course, I arrived at the theatre again. When he saw me he made me a low bow, and assured me that I was a patron of art. He was a most offensive brute, though he had an extraordinary passion for Shakespeare. He told me once, with an air of pride, that his three bankruptcies were entirely due to the poet, whom he insisted on calling ’The Bard.’ He seemed to think it a distinction.”

“It was a distinction, my dear Dorian,–a great distinction. But when did you first speak to Miss Sibyl Vane?”

“The third night. She had been playing Rosalind. I could not help going round. I had thrown her some flowers, and she had looked at me; at least I fancied that she had. The old Jew was persistent. He seemed determined to bring me behind, so I consented. It was curious my not wanting to know her, wasn’t it?”

[28] “No; I don’t think so.”

“My dear Harry, why?”

“I will tell you some other time. Now I want to know about the girl.”

“Sibyl? Oh, she was so shy, and so gentle. There is something of a child about her. Her eyes opened wide in exquisite wonder when I told her what I thought of her performance, and she seemed quite unconscious of her power. I think we were both rather nervous. The old Jew stood grinning at the door-way of the dusty greenroom, making elaborate speeches about us both, while we stood looking at each other like children. He would insist on calling me ’My Lord,’ so I had to assure Sibyl that I was not anything of the kind. She said quite simply to me, ’You look more like a prince.’”

“Upon my word, Dorian, Miss Sibyl knows how to pay compliments.”

“You don’t understand her, Harry. She regarded me merely as a person in a play. She knows nothing of life. She lives with her mother, a faded tired woman who played Lady Capulet in a sort of magenta dressing-wrapper on the first night, and who looks as if she had seen better days.”

“I know that look. It always depresses me.”

“The Jew wanted to tell me her history, but I said it did not interest me.”

“You were quite right. There is always something infinitely mean about other people’s tragedies.”

“Sibyl is the only thing I care about. What is it to me where she came from? From her little head to her little feet, she is absolutely and entirely divine. I go to see her act every night of my life, and every night she is more marvellous.”

“That is the reason, I suppose, that you will never dine with me now. I thought you must have some curious romance on hand. You have; but it is not quite what I expected.”

“My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have been to the Opera with you several times.”

“You always come dreadfully late.”

“Well, I can’t help going to see Sibyl play, even if it is only for an act. I get hungry for her presence; and when I think of the wonderful soul that is hidden away in that little ivory body, I am filled with awe.”

“You can dine with me to-night, Dorian, can’t you?”

He shook his head. “To night she is Imogen,” he answered, “and tomorrow night she will be Juliet.”

“When is she Sibyl Vane?”

“Never.”

“I congratulate you.”

“How horrid you are! She is all the great heroines of the world in one. She is more than an individual. You laugh, but I tell you she has genius. I love her, and I must make her love me. You, who know all the secrets of life, tell me how to charm Sibyl Vane to love me! I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the [29] world to hear our laughter, and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain. My God, Harry, how I worship her!” He was walking up and down the room as he spoke. Hectic spots of red burned on his cheeks. He was terribly excited.

Lord Henry watched him with a subtle sense of pleasure. How different he was now from the shy, frightened boy he had met in Basil Hallward’s studio! His nature had developed like a flower, had borne blossoms of scarlet flame. Out of its secret hiding-place had crept his Soul, and Desire had come to meet it on the way.

“And what do you propose to do?” said Lord Henry, at last.

“I want you and Basil to come with me some night and see her act. I have not the slightest fear of the result. You won’t be able to refuse to recognize her genius. Then we must get her out of the Jew’s hands. She is bound to him for three years–at least for two years and eight months–from the present time. I will have to pay him something, of course. When all that is settled, I will take a West-End theatre and bring her out properly. She will make the world as mad as she has made me.”

“Impossible, my dear boy!”

“Yes, she will. She has not merely art, consummate art-instinct, in her, but she has personality also; and you have often told me that it is personalities, not principles, that move the age.”

“Well, what night shall we go?”

“Let me see. To-day is Tuesday. Let us fix to-morrow. She plays Juliet to-morrow.”

“All right. The Bristol at eight o’clock; and I will get Basil.”

“Not eight, Harry, please. Half-past six. We must be there before the curtain rises. You must see her in the first act, where she meets Romeo.”

“Half-past six! What an hour! It will be like having a meat-tea. However, just as you wish. Shall you see Basil between this and then? Or shall I write to him?”

“Dear Basil! I have not laid eyes on him for a week. It is rather horrid of me, as he has sent me my portrait in the most wonderful frame, designed by himself, and, though I am a little jealous of it for being a whole month younger than I am, I must admit that I delight in it. Perhaps you had better write to him. I don’t want to see him alone. He says things that annoy me.”

Lord Henry smiled. “He gives you good advice, I suppose. People are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves.”

“You don’t mean to say that Basil has got any passion or any romance in him?”

“I don’t know whether he has any passion, but he certainly has romance,” said Lord Henry, with an amused look in his eyes. “Has he never let you know that?”

“Never. I must ask him about it. I am rather surprised to hear it. He is the best of fellows, but he seems to me to be just a bit of a Philistine. Since I have known you, Harry, I have discovered that.”

“Basil, my dear boy, puts everything that is charming in him into [30] his work. The consequence is that he has nothing left for life but his prejudices, his principles, and his common sense. The only artists I have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good artists give everything to their art, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in themselves. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”

“I wonder is that really so, Harry?” said Dorian Gray, putting some perfume on his handkerchief out of a large gold-topped bottle that stood on the table. “It must be, if you say so. And now I must be off. Imogen is waiting for me. Don’t forget about to-morrow. Good- by.”

As he left the room, Lord Henry’s heavy eyelids drooped, and he began to think. Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as Dorian Gray, and yet the lad’s mad adoration of some one else caused him not the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy. He was pleased by it. It made him a more interesting study. He had been always enthralled by the methods of science, but the ordinary subject-matter of science had seemed to him trivial and of no import. And so he had begun by vivisecting himself, as he had ended by vivisecting others. Human life,–that appeared to him the one thing worth investigating. There was nothing else of any value, compared to it. It was true that as one watched life in its curious crucible of pain and pleasure, one could not wear over one’s face a mask of glass, or keep the sulphurous fumes from troubling the brain and making the imagination turbid with monstrous fancies and misshapen dreams. There were poisons so subtle that to know their properties one had to sicken of them. There were maladies so strange that one had to pass through them if one sought to understand their nature. And, yet, what a great reward one received! How wonderful the whole world became to one! To note the curious hard logic of passion, and the emotional colored life of the intellect,–to observe where they met, and where they separated, at what point they became one, and at what point they were at discord,–there was a delight in that! What matter what the cost was? One could never pay too high a price for any sensation.

He was conscious–and the thought brought a gleam of pleasure into his brown agate eyes–that it was through certain words of his, musical words said with musical utterance, that Dorian Gray’s soul had turned to this white girl and bowed in worship before her. To a large extent, the lad was his own creation. He had made him premature. That was something. Ordinary people waited till life disclosed to them its secrets, but to the few, to the elect, the mysteries of life were revealed before the veil was drawn away. Sometimes this was the effect of art, and chiefly of the art of literature, which dealt immediately with the passions and the intellect. But now and then a complex personality took the place and assumed the office of art, was indeed, in its [31] way, a real work of art, Life having its elaborate masterpieces, just as poetry has, or sculpture, or painting.

Yes, the lad was premature. He was gathering his harvest while it was yet spring. The pulse and passion of youth were in him, but he was becoming self-conscious. It was delightful to watch him. With his beautiful face, and his beautiful soul, he was a thing to wonder at. It was no matter how it all ended, or was destined to end. He was like one of those gracious figures in a pageant or a play, whose joys seem to be remote from one, but whose sorrows stir one’s sense of beauty, and whose wounds are like red roses.

Soul and body, body and soul–how mysterious they were! There was animalism in the soul, and the body had its moments of spirituality. The senses could refine, and the intellect could degrade. Who could say where the fleshly impulse ceased, or the psychical impulse began? How shallow were the arbitrary definitions of ordinary psychologists! And yet how difficult to decide between the claims of the various schools! Was the soul a shadow seated in the house of sin? Or was the body really in the soul, as Giordano Bruno thought? The separation of spirit from matter was a mystery, and the union of spirit with matter was a mystery also.

He began to wonder whether we should ever make psychology so absolute a science that each little spring of life would be revealed to us. As it was, we always misunderstood ourselves, and rarely understood others. Experience was of no ethical value. It was merely the name we gave to our mistakes. Men had, as a rule, regarded it as a mode of warning, had claimed for it a certain moral efficacy in the formation of character, had praised it as something that taught us what to follow and showed us what to avoid. But there was no motive power in experience. It was as little of an active cause as conscience itself. All that it really demonstrated was that our future would be the same as our past, and that the sin we had done once, and with loathing, we would do many times, and with joy.

It was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and certainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to promise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was no doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new experiences; yet it was not a simple but rather a very complex passion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination, changed into something that seemed to the boy himself to be remote from sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was the passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most strongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we were conscious. It often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves.

While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the door, and his valet entered, and reminded him it was time to dress [32] for dinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. The panes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a faded rose. He thought of Dorian Gray’s young fiery-colored life, and wondered how it was all going to end.

When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o’clock, he saw a telegram lying on the hall-table. He opened it and found it was from Dorian. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl Vane.

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: The Need Right Now for Subversive Photography

Even though I #voted for him, I still had to do this. It was #tooeasy #trump #devil #deviltrump #eldiablo #trumptime #trumptimecover #coveroftime #timemagazine #timemagazinecover #coveroftimemagazine #makeamericagreatagain #trump2016 #trump #horns #devilhorns

A photo posted by Jason Caron (@jason_a_caron) on Jan 11, 2017 at 4:24am PST

Donald Trump, says photographer Martin Schoeller, is “very difficult to photograph.” This might not come as a surprise to anyone who has paid attention to the photographs and videos emerging from the 2016 presidential election. Schoeller: “He literally has one angle. If I ask him to smile, he puts on a big grin and then he goes back to his Zoolander ‘blue steel’ look. And the ‘blue steel’ stays for as ever long as it takes to get the photograph.” It’s exactly this “Zoolander-blue-steel look” that Nadav Kander got for the Time “Person of the Year” cover. Possibly coincidentally, the Time cover image is also dominated by bluish tones.

In Forward magazine, writer Jake Romm argues that the “decisions that Time made regarding how to photograph Trump reveal a layered, nuanced field of references that place the image among […] the magazine’s greatest covers.” Romm lists a series of criteria: the picture’s overall colors, the sitter’s pose, and — I kid you not — the choice of chair. None of those hold up to much scrutiny. To begin with, if you look through the gallery of portraits on Kander’s website, you’ll notice this photographer’s images, where the portraits are not black and white, tend to be dominated by a single color. Trump’s portrait is blue (with a hint of green), but so are many others done by Kander. These are highly stylized pictures with a very specific and unique look that often reads as monochromatic. This has precious little to do with alluding to Kodachrome, as Romm argues. On my computer screen, many images also look quite blue. Many Hollywood movies employ a similar aesthetic. It’s just blue. In much the same fashion, this writer’s other two criteria simply fall apart under stricter scrutiny. Consequently, this photograph is not so much “a profound portrayal of anxiety for the coming years.” It’s simply a Nadav Kander portrait. It’s  extremely competent photographically, great for a magazine cover, but not much more than that.

When contacted by Forward, Kander was — to use author Daniel J. Solomon’s words  — “less committal” about the photograph than the site’s writers would have preferred: “Upon arriving at Trump’s residence, I wanted to integrate a detail from his environment into the photograph. I tried a few set ups, but this image of President-Elect Trump in his chair stood out as the cover.”  On his own Instagram account, the photographer issued a separate statement:

A glance back by a sitter might mean one thing to one person and something so different to another, just because, as said above, our life stories are so different from one to another. I looked to make a portrait that respects this crossroad [sic] in history with no political view of my own.

There you have it; this is how editorial photography works. Of course, you can read into or project onto any picture whatever you want. The anxiety that Romm detected in Kander’s portrait might simply be his own. It’s certainly not what I would have seen in the picture, even though I am anything but optimistic about the next few years.

In the two Forward pieces, the term “subversive” is used. Is this Time cover photograph really subversive? I don’t think so. Almost by their nature, these kinds of highly stylized, editorial photographs, whether taken by Kander, Schoeller, or anyone else, are not subversive at all. To put it bluntly, the covers of mainstream American magazines are not where you will find subversive photography. That’s not how this particular business operates. Going back in time a little over eight years ago provides an interesting example that sheds more light on this question.

In 2008, Jill Greenberg was commissioned by The Atlantic magazine to photograph then Republican presidential candidate John McCain. The resulting picture looked like the kinds of pictures Greenberg was known for. At the time, she had attained a degree of notoriety by photographing crying children or monkeys. Unlike Kander, Greenberg was being subversive, though. In addition to pictures The Atlantic happily published, she produced photographs in which a flash was triggered from below, creating a menacing shadow behind the politician. Greenberg also reworked some of her images with Photoshop, creating what might not necessarily be the most sophisticated outcomes for the time — the results are more in line with the ways political imagery was used in the 1920s or ‘30s. The folks at The Atlantic were not amused. “I was appalled to read about the actions of Jill Greenberg,” thundered Jeffrey Goldberg. “Suffice it to say that her ‘art’ is juvenile, and on occasion repulsive. This is not the issue, of course; the issue is that she betrayed this magazine, and disgraced her profession.” Let’s briefly leave aside the question whether Greenberg’s work is in fact juvenile and “on occasion” repulsive. It seems clear that what seems like a subversive act is seen by the people who commissioned the pictures as “betraying” the commissioning magazine and “disgracing” the photographer’s profession.

In light of this example, does anyone still think Kander’s Trump picture is subversive? Say whatever you want about the pictures Greenberg produced; whether you like them or not, aren’t they subversive? Isn’t lighting a politician from below, to make him look menacing — and not at all palatable to a magazine’s readership — subversive? It’s true: this is not the type of political imagery still used widely. You’d have to go back 70 or 80 years for that. But it clearly speaks of the photographer’s opinion. If memory serves me right, at the time I was not very impressed by Greenberg’s actions. But now, I have changed my mind a little. After all, we just witnessed the most horrible US presidential election campaign certainly in our life times, in which a neo-Nazi, cartoon character meme was openly used by the Republican presidential nominee.

From 2008 let’s jump back another 45 years, to 1963. Arnold Newman had convinced Alfred Krupp that he would make a splendid portrait of the industrialist, who had played such a huge role in Nazi Germany. The resulting photograph, widely seen as a classic, iconic photograph, shows Krupp as a menacing, evil figure. “As a Jew,” said Newman, “it’s my own little moment of revenge.” If we ignore the differences between Krupp and McCain, what Newman did really isn’t all that different than Greenberg lighting McCain from below. In both cases, the portrayed comes across as evil. Given Newman was and still is widely accepted as a master of his profession, this makes Goldberg’s comment of Greenberg “disgracing” the one she shares with Newman puzzling. Why can’t she do what the other photographer did before her?

J.P. Morgan photographed by Edward Steichen in 1903. The photo is best known for the light reflected off the armrest being interpreted by viewers as a knife. (via Wikipedia)

Go even further back, to 1903, and look at Edward Steichen’s portrait of J.P. Morgan. In the photograph, part of the chair Morgan is sitting in looks like a dagger, and his facial expression is positively menacing. Now compare Kander’s “Zoolander” Trump picture with Steichen’s of Morgan: for a start, Steichen actually made good use of the chair, didn’t he? And is there any doubt about what he thought of the man in the picture? So why couldn’t Kander do what Steichen did? The answer seems clear: because that’s not what the magazine asked for. In other words, if a photographer commissioned by a mainstream US magazine wants to be subversive, they better do it on the magazine’s terms, not on their own. That’s how the business operates.

After all, some of the people who buy your magazine might have voted for McCain or Trump. What do you do about that? How do you square attempting to provide quality journalism with being a business first, in a day and age where social media have been skewing people’s attention not toward what is being reported, but what is being shared in the bubbles of their Facebook profiles? And it doesn’t even stop there in the case of Trump, a man who has been producing such a flurry of outright lies and inflammatory commentary that it’s hard to keep up with it. Can (or maybe should) this man be treated just like any other politician?

In an off-the-record meeting with various news executives a few days after he won the election, Trump demanded there be “nicer” pictures shown of him. The absurdity of this request cannot be overstated, especially given that, for example, Trump openly mocked a reporter with a disability. In Photo District News, Holly Hughes brushed Trump’s request aside: “the courts have consistently supported free speech and ruled that, in cases of libel and defamation, the truth is sufficient defense.” “The President-elect,” writes Mathew Ingram, “is a man who has said he needs to ‘open up’ libel laws in order to make it easier to sue newspapers like the New York Times and Washington Post. His former campaign manager said the editor of the Times should be in jail for reporting on Trump’s tax returns. The threat Trump poses to the First Amendment and freedom of the press is very real.” How are the media going to deal with that? Are they trying hard not to be subversive?

Perhaps not surprisingly, large parts of the media have so far simply followed standard operating procedure. In the words of Les Moonves, executive chairman and CEO of CBS, “It may not be good for America, but it’s damn good for CBS.” Maybe there needs to be some soul searching done in the corridors of CBS and elsewhere. Maybe if something is not good for America, but “damn good for CBS” or any other news organization, then the choice should not be made only with the bottom line in sight. After all, as is being demonstrated in many parts of the world, democracies under attack only survive intact if there are enough people willing to come to their defense. Where the defenses fail, things can — and will — turn dire fast. As the situations in Russia, Turkey, and many other places demonstrate, democracies can be dismantled easily if the right demagogues go about their job and there is no resistance. That job always entails curtailing the press. At the time of this writing, the government in Poland is attempting to do just that.

Resistance has to come in part from the people themselves, the majority of whom did not vote for the winner of the election — not even close. With almost three million more votes for Clinton, Trump literally has no democratic mandate in the most basic sense of the term “democracy.” But resistance also has to come from photographers and the media, assuming they want to do their jobs well. At this stage, these jobs have to entail being more subversive, more biting, more serious. When all norms of proper political behavior have been pushed aside, business as usual won’t cut it. Instead, we need a lot more of the spirit Arnold Newman and Jill Greenberg brought to their work.

Time magazine published its Person of the Year issue with then President-elect Donald Trump on the cover in December of 2016.

  The post The Need Right Now for Subversive Photography appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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