#Mayor Knickerbocker

[casualsnickers]

Month of Emmet Quick Write #18

Prompt #18: Dance

Emmet has a tendency to lose himself in his work. Especially if that work involves not having to talk in the slightest. And it just so happens that it's maintenance day for a beaten-up train cab.

Read the whole thing below the cut.

Emmet wiped the sweat from his brow, slowly ensuring that the last bolt was firmly in its position before scooting back to admire his handiwork. The entire day had been spent meticulously pouring over a train cab that had been needing service for some time after suffering an onslaught of ice. And by using his work time to fix the cab, Emmet himself felt well-maintained and ship-shape as though having come fresh off the assembly line himself.

Emmet carefully took a step away from the unfinished cab, laying his tools on the detached cloth seat he’d been sitting on as he carefully stepped through the gutted cab and onto the rocky railyard where the sound of gravel and ballast shifting underfoot quickly lifted his mood. 

Steam and smoke rose in lazy circles from the Anville Railyard. Other locomotive engineers moved back-and-forth across the semi-noisy yard, hearty conversations filtering through the air as they each lugged their toolbags after them. Each worker would stop and raise a welcoming hand to Emmet as he passed them, tipping their hats but without words. After all, Emmet wasn’t a man for words or small talk; he just needed a break before he got back to work.

In the shade of the engine house, Emmet peeled off his backup cap, leaned against the tin wall, and took a deep drink of water, wiping the excess away with an oil-stained sleeve. Today has been a great day. I have been here for hours maintaining the same car. I am making progress! Emmet moved further back into the recess of the engine house, finding a spare chair to sit in as he took off his stained gloves and checked his Xtransceiver, crossing one leg over another.

A message or two from the group chat he shared with Elesa and Skyla. A note from Ingo about his brother potentially departing from his battling line early to buy some sandwiches from a popular deli spot not too far from Nimbasa City. Emails from his subordinates about new paperwork sent in from the mayor of Nimbasa City. Emmet only rolled his eyes and turned off his Xtransceiver, allowing his gaze to rest on the many disconnected freight cars that littered the rail yard.

Things are finally back in order. And. I am not so stressed anymore. Emmet smiled a bit wider when a familiar pokémon lumbered into the engine house, the amber gems studded along its body glowing as the rock-type pokémon clattered over to Emmet and easily lifted him onto its back.

“Boldore. You are not a chair!” Emmet scolded playfully.

Emmet’s Boldore often remained at the railyard and much like its trainer, would spend almost the entire day staring at the trains and studying them when idle. And Boldore, sensing that its trainer had been taking too long of a break, began stumbling out of the engine house with Emmet atop its back. Emmet only rolled his eyes and leaned back, allowing himself to be carried back to the cab he’d been working on without so much as a fuss.

Working with engines and cabs was mindless. Fun, even. Emmet saw the work not like he saw battling. Battling came down to strategy, luck, and power. But assembly and engineering? Those were based on skill. Intellect. Patterns. Emmet knew every tool that could be used to both deconstruct and reassemble the axle and undercarriage of a Knickerbocker. He knew the blueprints of the wirings of a Juniata like he knew the back of his hands. Emmet had memorized the unique coupling mechanisms of the Saluki and he knew exactly what kind of oil worked best for engines like the Shavano and the Steel King.

Emmet usually performed best without talking. And on his days spent at the railyard, he let his hands do all the talking, the way he could seamlessly work and twist and reach, performing intricate but mindless dances with his hands and fingers as Emmet never faltered or forgot the smallest of screws. Each silencing of a creaky joint through the application of oil was like music to his ears. He counted faraway train whistles and nearly skipped when he heard them, listening idly when new beaten up cabs were dragged in and the pistons of the dragging train surged against the metal of the train tracks, audible for miles around.

Metal clacked. Rocks shifted. Emmet turned, his smile widening as he sighted a familiar Klinklang float over to the door of the cab he was situated in. And then came a familiar man.

“Boss Emmet! It’s time to start wrapping things up!” Emmet paused as a familiar face pokéd into the cab he was working in, the depot agent tipping his oil-stained hat to Emmet as the man took a careful step inside. The man then whistled. “Nice job, boss! At this rate, you’ll have this old cab up and running by next week!”

“Thank you verrry much, Josh!” Emmet grunted as he got to his feet, grimacing upon hearing something in his back give. “...Not a word.”

Depot Agent Josh laughed heartily at the notion, reaching down to grab Emmet by the backstrap of his suspenders. “Not to worry. Your secret’s safe with me, bossman. But really. We should get going.” Josh gestured at a clipboard he’d been carrying under his arm, tapping one chewed-up pen at the clipped paper. “It’s almost midday and we’re supposed to be on the car back to Central Unova no later than noon.”

Emmet nodded, setting one hand delicately upon his Klingklang’s sturdy frame. His pokémon shuddered and whirled, giving a hearty clack before retreating back to its pokéball. “I guess. It is time to report back to Gear Station.”

“Good. Nice to know you’re on board for once. Almost thought you had left already,” Josh commented, patting the excess dust from his stained uniform. “Kept calling and calling for you- no response.”

Emmet paused, cocking his head. “Really? I did not hear you.”

“I know.” Josh shrugged. “You tend to get lost in your work whenever you’re here, boss. It’s like you’re completely deaf to the world whenever you’re working with the cars.” Josh then nudged Emmet with his elbow, grinning mischievously. “I sometimes think you’d rather be here with the broken cars than back at the station.”

“That is… not true.” Emmet crossed his arms and turned up his nose, his eyes crinkling when he noticed Josh struggling to keep pace with him. “I simply enjoy the break.”

“Right, right. Says the man that hums and whistles when he’s elbow-deep in months-old oil.”

[julio-viernes]

Ya pusimos a Ricky Nelson y a Knickerbockers, así que le toca a "Young Girl" de Gary Puckett & The Union Gap, uno de los grandes temas del pop orquestal de la segunda mitad de los 60s y probablemente el mayor hito en la carrera de Fuller. En España la respuesta a cosas de este tipo fueron Los Iberos.

[realmadridxrayovallecanopalpite]

¿Cuál es la historia del equipo de baloncesto de Nueva York?

🎰🎲✨ ¡Obtén 500 euros y 200 giros gratis para jugar juegos de casino con solo un clic! ✨🎲🎰

¿Cuál es la historia del equipo de baloncesto de Nueva York?

Orígenes del equipo de baloncesto de Nueva York

Los orígenes del equipo de baloncesto de Nueva York se remontan a finales del siglo XIX, cuando el deporte comenzaba a ganar popularidad en los Estados Unidos. El primer equipo de baloncesto de la ciudad de Nueva York se fundó en 1883 y se llamaba New York Wanderers. Este equipo jugaba en canchas al aire libre y participaba en partidos amistosos con otros clubes locales.

Con el paso de los años, el baloncesto fue evolucionando y ganando seguidores en la Gran Manzana. En 1946, la Basketball Association of America (BAA) se fundó, y Nueva York fue una de las ciudades que tuvo un equipo representativo en la liga. Los New York Knickerbockers, conocidos como los Knicks, se convirtieron en uno de los equipos más emblemáticos de la ciudad.

A lo largo de su historia, los Knicks han contado con jugadores legendarios y han ganado varios campeonatos de la NBA. El Madison Square Garden, el famoso estadio de Nueva York, ha sido su hogar durante décadas y ha sido testigo de grandes gestas deportivas protagonizadas por el equipo.

Hoy en día, los New York Knicks siguen siendo una parte fundamental del panorama deportivo de la ciudad y continúan atrayendo a fanáticos de todas partes del mundo. Su legado y tradición en el baloncesto los convierten en un equipo icónico que representa el espíritu competitivo y la pasión por el deporte en Nueva York.

Jugadores icónicos de los Knicks de Nueva York

Los New York Knicks, uno de los equipos más emblemáticos de la NBA, han contado a lo largo de su historia con jugadores icónicos que han dejado una huella imborrable en la franquicia y en los corazones de sus seguidores.

Uno de los jugadores más icónicos de los Knicks es Patrick Ewing, un centro dominicano que jugó 15 temporadas con el equipo y es considerado uno de los mejores pívots de la historia de la NBA. Con su presencia imponente en la pintura, Ewing lideró a los Knicks a numerosas temporadas exitosas y a grandes batallas en los playoffs.

Otro jugador legendario de los Knicks es Walt Frazier, conocido como "Clyde", quien fue una pieza clave en los equipos campeones de 1970 y 1973. Frazier destacaba por su elegancia en la cancha y su habilidad para manejar el balón, siendo uno de los bases más talentosos de su época.

Además, no se puede hablar de los Knicks sin mencionar a Willis Reed, un líder indiscutible que se ganó el respeto de sus compañeros y rivales. Reed es recordado por su valentía al jugar con una lesión en el decisivo Juego 7 de las Finales de 1970, inspirando a su equipo a la victoria.

Estos jugadores icónicos representan la grandeza y la historia de los New York Knicks, llenando de orgullo a sus seguidores y dejando un legado que perdurará por generaciones.

Logros históricos del equipo de baloncesto de Nueva York

El equipo de baloncesto de Nueva York, conocido como los New York Knicks, es uno de los equipos más emblemáticos y con mayor historia en la NBA. Fundado en 1946, los Knicks han logrado numerosos hitos a lo largo de los años que los han convertido en un equipo legendario.

Uno de los logros más destacados de los Knicks fue su victoria en las Finales de la NBA en 1970, donde derrotaron a Los Angeles Lakers en una serie intensa que culminó con un emocionante séptimo partido. Este campeonato supuso el primer título en la historia de la franquicia y marcó el comienzo de una era dorada para el equipo.

Además, los Knicks han sido un semillero de talento a lo largo de los años, con jugadores icónicos como Willis Reed, Walt Frazier, Patrick Ewing y Carmelo Anthony, quienes han dejado una huella imborrable en la historia del baloncesto.

A lo largo de su historia, los Knicks han sido uno de los equipos más populares y seguidos de la NBA, con una base de fans apasionada y comprometida que llena el Madison Square Garden en cada partido. A pesar de no haber logrado un campeonato en varias décadas, el legado y la historia de los New York Knicks siguen siendo motivo de orgullo para sus seguidores y para la ciudad de Nueva York en general.

Estadio del equipo de baloncesto de Nueva York

El estadio del equipo de baloncesto de Nueva York, conocido como el Madison Square Garden, es uno de los recintos deportivos más icónicos y emblemáticos del mundo. Ubicado en Manhattan, este estadio no solo alberga los partidos de baloncesto de los New York Knicks de la NBA, sino que también es escenario de conciertos, eventos deportivos de todo tipo y otras actividades de entretenimiento.

El Madison Square Garden es considerado como la "catedral del baloncesto" debido a su historia y relevancia en el deporte. Inaugurado en 1968, ha sido testigo de innumerables encuentros emocionantes y momentos memorables en la historia del baloncesto profesional. Con capacidad para más de 20,000 espectadores, el estadio se llena de fanáticos apasionados que acuden a animar a su equipo y vibrar con la intensidad de cada partido.

Además de los partidos de baloncesto, el Madison Square Garden también ha sido escenario de legendarios conciertos de artistas de renombre mundial, convirtiéndolo en un lugar emblemático para la cultura y el entretenimiento en la ciudad de Nueva York. Su ubicación privilegiada en el corazón de Manhattan lo convierte en un punto de referencia para locales y turistas que desean experimentar la emoción y la energía única que se vive en este histórico estadio.

En resumen, el estadio del equipo de baloncesto de Nueva York es mucho más que un lugar donde se disputan partidos deportivos, es un símbolo de la pasión, la historia y la diversión que caracterizan a la Gran Manzana. Su legado perdurará a lo largo del tiempo, siendo un punto de encuentro para generaciones de fanáticos y amantes del deporte en todo el mundo.

Rivalidades del equipo de baloncesto de Nueva York

El baloncesto en la ciudad de Nueva York ha sido históricamente vibrante y apasionante, y no solo por el rendimiento de sus equipos, sino también por las intensas rivalidades entre ellos. Dos equipos de la NBA, los New York Knicks y los Brooklyn Nets, han protagonizado algunas de las disputas más emocionantes en la Gran Manzana.

Los Knicks, con su larga historia y base de seguidores leales, han mantenido una intensa rivalidad con los Boston Celtics, que se remonta a décadas atrás. Los enfrentamientos entre estos dos equipos han sido épicos, llenos de momentos memorables y rivalidades entre jugadores estrella.

Por otro lado, los Brooklyn Nets, más recientes en la escena de Nueva York, han avivado la llama de la competencia al enfrentarse a los Knicks en lo que se conoce como el "Derbi del Puente". Estos partidos han generado una gran expectación entre los aficionados y han añadido un nuevo capítulo a la historia del baloncesto en la ciudad.

Además de las rivalidades locales, tanto los Knicks como los Nets han tenido encuentros emocionantes con otros equipos de la NBA, como los Chicago Bulls o los Miami Heat, lo que ha contribuido a enriquecer la escena baloncestística de Nueva York.

En definitiva, las rivalidades en el equipo de baloncesto de Nueva York no solo han añadido emoción y drama a los partidos, sino que también han consolidado la pasión y el interés de los aficionados por este deporte en la emblemática ciudad.

[dispatchdcu]

Blood Tree #5 Review

Blood Tree #5 Review #BloodTree #IMAGE #imagecomics #comics #comicbooks #news #art #info #NCBD #comicbooknews #previews #reviews #Amazon

Writer: Peter J. Tomasi Artist: Maxim Šimić Colorist: John Kalisz Letterer: Rob Leigh Cover Artists: Christian Alamy & Brad Anderson Publisher: Image Price: $3.99 Release Date: June 7, 2023 Thanks to the mayor, relatives of the killers in Owen Fincher’s files are protected in Midtown Manhattan’s Knickerbocker Hotel. But are they safe, or–as New York detectives Dario Azzaro and Maria Diaz…

[anthonybialy]

Backed Up Front

Consequences are mean.  Certain political factions hate noticing what’s next because they want to keep life as a surprise.  Careful planners conjured all these amazing communal notions that work like Joe Biden’s trains when actually tried.

Democrats aren’t as thrilled as expected about getting exactly what they backed.  Forcing taxpayers to rub the lamp shows government genies screw up wishes, which is just another unanticipated consequence.  Successes ended with winning elections as installed policies naturally failed.  It’s not bad enough that they have to live with their regrettable decisions: because of that whole way elections work, we do, too.  Involving politics in every life portion leaves plates empty.

Crime is America’s trendiest hobby.  The ruling party gave so many disaffected youths something to do, yet ingrates protest the end of idling.  The only way to halt the trend is by running out of stuff.  Friends of felons need semipermanent downturn to end so the downtrodden can keep thieving to fight inequality.  You might figure there’d be nothing left to take.

The Democratic dedication to spirituality means nobody has any stuff.  But ransackers ripped out the fixtures and copper wire after you thought looting would end once the last consumer goods vanished.  Government didn’t steal everything only because the leviathan is prototypically inept.

Foes of constitutional niceties would appreciate you discarding your long-term memory for the collective’s benefit.  Statist goons did so in order to forget who won the Cold War.  Pretending that cities have always been havens for pirates requires disregarding the uncanny overlap between unchecked plundering and the mayors’ parties.

Poor victims can tell exactly when progressive dreams become real nightmares.  Just watch election results.  There’s no greater hassle than moving from New York City, which makes Eric Adams prompting Knickerbockers to flee an accomplishment of sorts.

The only thing worse than results are excuses.  The president’s thin ranks of defenders pathetically blame corporate greed is the sort of predictable behavior sellers wish they could diagnose in buyers.

Lunatic conspiracy theories are the only thriving enterprise.  Conglomerates don’t raise prices when they install the despot of their choice because they cannily wait to harm their political foes.  Stores are anthropomorphically Republican, you see.  The inability to afford eggs stems from resentment over how much peddlers hate a Democratic president.  There’s no way conglomerates could profit by lowering prices to increase volume or anything.

It’s their fault.  We’ll stop blaming when voters who don’t trust the judgment of others for personal reasons stop selecting such objectionable alleged leaders.  Ceaselessly smarmy Democrats voted for this.  You might figure they’d be proud with their dedication to announcing how incredible what they believe is.  Somehow, the country ended up broke in multiple senses.

Lives dedicated to imposing solutions ruined those of everyone else.  Results are thrilling if trying to survive without being harmed or able to afford groceries is approached as a challenge.  The party determined to take all the worries out of existence helped create woe for you to overcome, and you ingrates don’t even thank them.  Don’t you enjoy developing character?

Government’s peculiar advocates scoff at the notion that the awful dolts they shoved into office by exploiting the urge to get rich without toiling might be our world’s biggest frauds.  Condemning the wealthy while trying to become the same without offering value shows just why they despise their enemy.  The fact the professionally jealous fail is supposed to make it okay to project bumbling on everyone else.

Easily swayed cultists who think government should and does run every life aspect are shocked when it actually happens.  Confiscating liberty doesn’t actually liberate humans.  The innumerable examples already accumulated apparently still aren’t enough to confirm.

Ghastly results are precise opposite of what they claim will happen, which at least is a victory for predictability.  Getting everything backward will have to count.  Announce what lottery numbers will cause the IRS to take your fortune.  Inflicting consequences they dodge makes it like everything else they believe.  Scheduled terrible times will also have to count as regularity.

You may not notice redistribution schemes supposedly assisting the underprivileged, which is why adherents do so as showily as possible.  Voting to make privilege quite rare is one way of installing fairness.  Presume it’s only straight white males who can get ahead to fulfill the prophecy.  Nobody can afford things like things.  Everyone suffers for parity.

They absolutely voted for this.  The guilty have learned their policies are phenomenally horrid.  Cause and effect upsets free market foes.  Everyone else suffers the effects of ironic punishment for hubris.  If you’re going to be arrogant, at least do so for a cause greater than letting Pete Buttigieg derail trains and ground planes.

It’s fine to cast blame when it’s clear who’s at fault.  Noticing who was in charge when society disintegrated like a zombie movie without the undead rising from graves might help prevent further rotting.  Liberals oppose barbaric rituals like trials for the arrested, not to mention obviously selfish reasons involving nervousness  about linking behavior to outcomes.  Surveying thorough poverty leads to perpetrators protesting that their glorious visions weren’t implemented correctly when the whole problem is they can’t see a thing.

[anonsally]

Headless!

What an incredibly well-crafted series!

I’m gonna need to rewatch the final episode, but I can’t do that tonight or I won’t be able to sleep, because it was scarier than the other episodes. But in the meantime here are some random thoughts @scribblinaway and I were discussing earlier today. SPOILERS BELOW! don’t read until you’ve watched the whole series!

First of all: I did Not see that coming.

I had entirely assumed that the death certificate was a clue that her dad planned to kill her. I thought maybe Dr. Crayon had created the death certificate ahead of time but the murder attempt had failed, and Mayor Van Tassel would eventually try again. I absolutely did not imagine that it was real. 

I may have to watch the whole series to fully understand what happened. But, in retrospect, it (i.e., Kat... being what she ended up being) was kind of foreshadowed in a way? When Ichabod first met her, she very clearly signalled that she was Not Interested. But after talking to him at her dad’s party, she... was a little more interested, and it wasn’t entirely clear why. So I guess she just realised he could be useful, in that they could put him to sleep for a year to keep her alive--because it’s clear at the end that she absolutely doesn’t like him, and he also definitely Knows Too Much. 

Also: I was pretty shocked that our ukelele-strumming friend Diedrich Knickerbocker died. And this did not really tie in with the main plotline very much, so one might argue that it was superfluous. But I guess that’s how you show that shit is about to get Real. If they’re willing to kill off the Bard, then anything could happen! Nothing is sacred! (Also, it was worth it for the fight between the two bards.)

Matilda was clearly deeply shocked by Kat killing the new (evil) bard. Also, I think she had gotten really invested in helping the Headless Horseman. Now, knowing that Headless was actually a woman, and that she’d been killed by a fellow witch... clearly she had a change of heart and chose to reunite Henrietta with her head, rather than (putting Ichabod to sleep in order to use his life force to) keep her best friend “alive”.

I just love how they made Kat seem like her role in the narrative was basically just as the love interest, but then she turned out to be something much darker. Shipwrecked really did a great job of taking a bunch of tropes and upending them.

The very first image of the first episode was of a Black man getting, apparently, killed. But in the end, it turns out he’s just asleep (granted, his name hinted at that) and he ends up becoming the mayor who will help put Sleepy Hollow back to rights.

We started off assuming Ichabod and Kat were endgame, as they did seem to connect in some way, but then it was the unlikely pair Brom and Matilda who became The Ship, and in fact, Kat was undead and basically evil.

The whole heist episode was one hilarious parody of the genre. But then the final standoff between Judy and Baltus is kind of a callback to it, only this time the woman outsmarts the man. 

Brom and his Babes. I mean. Such bros, such frat dude types. But largely without the toxic masculinity. Brom really makes the effort to respect women (albeit with a bit of a lapse during an episode of jealousy), and once he finds himself accidentally married, he clearly does try to be a good husband.

I am 100% going to buy the soundtrack. I love the theme music.

And ...yeah, so many things that seemed like throwaway jokes turned out to be important later. So well-written, so silly, and so surprising! And the finale was such a satisfying ending. Great work, Shipwrecked!

[reidio-silence]

Catholic and Protestant elites saw eye to eye, however, on the evils of demon rum, being dispensed (as of 1849) at 5,780 licensed liquor groceries, porter houses, taverns, and fancy saloons. The New-York Temperance Society and Bishop Hughes alike welcomed Cork’s famous Father Theobald Mathew to Manhattan, where he spent much of a year preaching against alcohol and inspiring formation of the Roman Catholic Total Abstinence and Benevolent Society. Even pleasure-loving Knickerbocker patricians listened more attentively now to temperance claims that “the cheap wines of France” had been responsible for “insubordination and revolution” in 1848.

Yet here too reformers found themselves up against formidable opponents, starting with the immigrants themselves. When advocates opened a mission next door to a German beer garden in 1860, its outraged customers “evinced their displeasure by throwing water into the open windows, shouting, making noises in the hall, casting stones against the door, and other disorderly conduct; so that the aid of the police became necessary.” In addition, alcohol purveyors ranging from merchant importers to waterfront barkeepers mobilized into a formidable pressure group—the Liquor Dealers Protective Union had eight hundred members by 1855—and sponsored mass meetings to mobilize antiprohibition sentiment.

Balked, temperance advocates turned to the state. “Ought law to conform to public sentiment,” Horace Greeley rhetorically asked delegates assembled in 1853 for the World’s Temperance Convention, “or ought law to be based upon essential righteousness, and then challenge a public sentiment to act in conformity therewith?” The reformers answered by successfully pressuring the state legislature into passing the 1855 Act for the Prevention of Intemperance, Paupers, and Crime, a law that, among other things, authorized keeping persons arrested for public drunkenness locked up until they agreed to testify as to the source of their intoxicant. The statute aroused immense hostility in New York City, touching off mass rallies at Tammany Hall and bringing declarations from Bennett’s Herald that it would ruin New York business to the benefit of wet New Jersey. The mayor refused to enforce the law, and in 1856 the state appellate court declared it unconstitutional.

— Mike Wallace and Edwin G. Burrows, Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898 (1998)

[amayawolfe]

HxH OC Fumiko Nakamura Story ~ Ch. 11 - Hisoka and Abaki

My Stories Masterlist  

Word Count: 2921

Warnings: harsh language, bullying, mild violence, blood

   Hearing the name of the resident town bully, you looked up at the boy that was now sitting up in front of you and glaring at you with a look of pure malice.

   "So it is," he snarled at you as he got to his feet. You quickly did the same in a scramble, your eyes locking with his. Upon standing, you noticed that Tsume's two lackeys, Kan and Maro, were here as well. Being large for his age, Tsume was strong in his own right. However, he never liked the idea of a fair fight and always had Kan and Maro in tow to make sure he had the upper hand at all times.

   Spotting two more people out of the corner of your eye, you turned you head ever so slightly to risk a quick glance. You needed to make sure these people weren't also on Tsume's side; because if they were, you would have little choice but to run. Five-to-one was a little more than you wanted to handle at this point in time.

   When you looked over to the boy and girl you quickly realized that these two were complete strangers. And they looked so... different.

   The girl had to be close to your age with warm, caramel brown skin and sparkling violet eyes. Her auburn hair was chopped short all round except for the right side which hung as a braid down to her collar bone. She was lean, but toned, and wore a halter top with intricate designs, harem pants in a color that complimented her top, and slipper like shoes. Shiny metal bracelets adorned her thin wrists, and she wore a fine chain choker as well as multiple earrings in each ear.

   This girl looked so strange to you, but in a beautiful and unique way. Shifting your gaze to the boy, your breath caught in your throat.

   His skin was nearly as pale as fresh fallen snow. His hair, which was longer in the front and sides but shorter in the back, was the same color as the wild raspberries you so often saw growing along the countryside roads and pathways. Appearing to look on the darker shade of red at first until the sunlight showed a hint of pink mixed in. Light colored freckles were splashed across his nose and the apples of his cheeks.

   He wore a simple short sleeved shirt with a card suit spade on it, pants that looked similar to knickerbockers, and the same slipper like shoes as the girl. He was also lean, but taller than the girl and looked to be just a couple years older than you. There were bandages scattered across him; one under his left eye, another his right cheek, even a few on his arms.

   What truly caught your attention the most about the boy was his narrow, amber colored eyes that shown like dark citrine in the light. Although, it wasn't the color of his eyes that caught your attention, it was the swirl of emotions within them.

   At the surface you could see anger and hatred, most likely towards the three creeps in front of you. However, there seemed to be so much more beneath that. It was a look so akin to the very same one you saw in the mirror every day. Sadness, internal struggle, loneliness...

   Suddenly you realized he was looking right back into your eyes with almost as much intensity as you were his. You wanted to look away, but found that you simply couldn't. Your ears and cheeks grew hot and your heart began to flutter like a caged bird.

   "It seems our old local freak has come to help out the new circus freaks," Tsume sneered. The sound of his irritating voice caused you to finally break eye contact with the boy.

   I see, you thought to yourself, so they're from the circus. Well, I guess that explains why I've never seen them before and why they're here.

   "I see you're being your usual jerk self," you said in a cold tone. Your muscles began to twitch and your heart was starting to pick up pace as your intuition told you there was a fight quickly approaching. The darkness inside you stirred in anticipation within it's cage.

   "What the hell did they do to deserve your ugly face to look their way?"

   "Tch," Tsume tsked. He appeared to ignore your insults, however the small twitch in his left eye showed you were making him angrier. "I just wanted to say 'hi' to the pretty girl. And when she ignored me I just tried to get her attention. That's when this pale redheaded freak decided to butt in."

   You glanced at the girl again and saw bruises already starting to form on her upper arm. White hot anger began to spark in your mind and the darkness began to pace within it's cage.

   "What the hell, Tsume?!" you shouted. "Just because your papa is mayor of this place doesn't mean you can go hurting or touching who ever you want!"

   "And who's gonna stop me? Your daddy?" He let out a cruel laugh. "The only thing that bastard is good for is drinking booze and beating the crap out of you. And from the looks of it, he did a pretty decent job of it last night."

   Tsume's goons giggled from behind their boss.

   "Yeah, you tell that freak," Kan jeered.

   You suppressed a growl that was trying to rise from your chest. Narrowing your eyes you snarled at him.

   "Get the hell out of here, Tsume, or else I'm gonna tell your mama how you've been treating girls again." Your gaze shifted to Maro and Kan. "And I'll be sure to mention the two of you to Tsume's mama as well."

   "Bitch, you better not breath a word to my mother, or else-"

   "Or else what, jerk ?" A toothy grin started to spread across your face. Your body began to feel hot and tingly from the sudden surge of adrenaline. "Your weak ass going to attack me again? Didn't learn your lesson not to mess with me after I broke your nose last time?"

   That did it. For the longest time Tsume was usually the one that had won the fights between you and him. But over the last few months, around the same time the darkness had began to emerge within, you had been the one coming out on top causing his hate for you to increase ten fold.

   "Shut the hell up, you stupid freak!" he yelled. Tsume sneered and charged at you, raising his fist up into the air to aim straight at your face.

   From that very moment, everything seemed to slow down. You watched as Tsume moved towards you, your eyes darted this way and that as you quickly picked out all his weak points and flaws. Scenarios quickly flashed and you calculated each best course of action until you came to the best one for the most likely scenario.

   {To slow.~}

   Just as it looked like he was actually going to make contact with your face your hand darted up and snatched his wrist.

 {Break it!}

 Squeezing it until you felt something snap, Tsume cried out in pain. You then pulled him forward while turning to keep his momentum and direction going. Releasing his wrist you continued your turn and swept your leg out to sweep his legs out from under him, causing him to become airborne and land face down onto the ground.

   You now saw that Maro had followed Tsume and was coming straight for you, lowering himself in attempt to tackle your midsection.

   {Crush him!}

   Instinct kicking in, you brought your leg straight up then down when he came into range. The back of your foot connected forcefully with Maro's head bringing him face down right into the dirt. The action instantly rendered Maro unconscious.

   Kan had started his charge just after Maro but skid to a stop just out of your range upon seeing his friends eat dirt. His eyes were wide and he was beginning to tremble.

   With the creepy, manic grin still on your face you tilted your head to one side.

   "You wanna play, Kan?" you giggled.

   Kan frantically shook his head from side to side and took a step back away from you.

   {Little coward...}

   "Aww, that's to bad,~" you pouted. You turned to face Tsume who was still laying on the ground, cradling his now broken wrist. His eyes grew wide and shone with fear and hatred as you approached him and squat down next time him.

   "You see, Tsume, you weren't wrong with what you said about my papa. However," you leaned forward menacingly, "you forgot to mention he's the best damn fighter in this area. And when you're his punching bag on as often as I am you tend to pick up a thing or two."

   Tsume snarled and spit a large, snotty loogie at your face. The projectile hit you right between the eyes and immediately started running down the side of your nose. Rearing back in disgust your hand shot up in desperate attempt to scrub the mucus off your face as quickly as possible. The action causes you to apply to much pressure to your already damaged nose and bursts of light span across your field of vision when a white hot pain shoots through your nose.

   Seeing his chance, Tsume swung a leg forward and kicked your own legs out from underneath you. The unexpected move causes you to land hard on your back, knocking the breath out of your lungs and leaving you gasping for air in a mild state of shock.

   "Get her now, Kan!" commanded Tsume.

   Kan, having seen you go down and Tsume seemingly regaining control of the situation, bolts forward to deliver a running kick to your vulnerable open side. But before Kan can deliver the blow, the red head boy charges forward and shoulder checks him hard sending Kan landing right on top of Tsume.

   "My my,~ ♦" the young man teased, an amused grin spread across his lips, "How rude, you seemed to have forgotten my friend and I have been here this whole time.~ ♠"

   The girl stepped up beside her companion with her hands balled into fists. A fire now burned in her violet eyes causing them to shine with ferocity. As you slowly climbed to your feet the girl took a fighting stance and glared down at your assailants.

   "You're out matched now, I suggest you take your friend and leave!"

   Kan had been stunned from the red headed boy's attack and was feebly moving around on the ground as Tsume had managed to push Kan off of him. Maro was still mostly unconscious, only barely showing he was coming back around with a few twitches of his limbs. Tsume himself was injured and had yet to even get back up on his feet.

   He glanced around and saw that the girl was right, there was no way he was going to be able to win this fight. Tusme gave Kan a rude shove.    "Get up, idiot," he spat his orders angrily, "Help me get Maro and let's get the hell out of here."

   The two bullies shakily got to their feet and collected their friend. Tsume was careful to hold his broken wrist close to his chest in attempt to keep it as stable as possible. Maro groaned as he was brought to his own feet. His head rolled to one side revealing his dirty scrapped up face. Blood was slowly oozing from his nose and one eye didn't seem to want to open all the way.

   "Did- Did we win, boss?" Maro mumbled aloud, still relatively stunned from his harsh impact with the ground. Tsume sneered.

   "Just shut up," he turned his angry hate filled gaze towards you. "This isn't over, freaks. I'll take care of you myself. Just wait."

   "Tch, what ever, asshole," you sneered, "Get the hell out of here."

   The three stumbled down the street, around a corner and out of sight.

   "Hmmm,~ ♣" the boy hummed aloud as his amber eyes hovered over where the trio bullies disappeared, "Why is it that simpletons such as them make such cliché statements? ♠"

   You hadn't heard the boy's comments as you were to focused on watching Tsume and his gang. Just as they disappeared from sight you suddenly became light headed and the world spun around you. Without warning, your knees grew weak and buckled beneath you. Luckily, the strangers had been close enough to you to catch you before you hit the ground.

   "Whoa! Hey! Are you alright?! Your nose is bleeding!" the girl cried out. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a clean hanker chief and gently held it up to your nose. "Do you think we should take her to see someone?"

   The boy leaned closer to your face and looked you over carefully. You swallowed hard as you felt your heart begin to flutter again while those eyes looked over your facial features so closely.

   "That's strange, I didn't even see her get hit.~ ♣"

   "That other boy said something about her dad hurting her... Do you think you should get her to the town doctor?"

   "It probably wouldn't be a bad idea. ♣ But first,~" his eyes moved to yours, grabbing as much attention as you could possibly focus in on him while the world swam and danced around you, "you really should tighten up your ten. If you keep letting that much aura slip away you'll pass out.~ ♠"

   You groggily narrowed your eyes at the boy in confusion.

   "Let what slip away? And, ten what?"

   The boys eyes flew open in surprise. He and his friend exchanged looks then he looked back down at you.

   "You mean to tell me you've been using nen and you didn't even know it? ♦"

   You could feel a look of complete confusion take over the entirety of your face. You blink several times, trying to understand through the foggy state of your brain just what this boy was talking about. Looking over at his friend you shook you head a little.

   "What is he talking about?"

   The girl had a look of surprise as well.

   "Uh, n-never mind that for now. "She licked her lips as she tried to think of something. A thought seemed to cross her mind. "Just, what do you normally do after something like this? You know, to calm down and help focus yourself?"

   "Uuhhh," you thought for a moment as you processed what she was asking you, "I usually feel so tired and dizzy after a fight; but, once I just breathe, and force myself to relax, I feel a lot better."

   "Okay, just go ahead and do that then. We'll stay here with you until you can get on your feet.~ ♥"

   The combination of the strangers' concern and kind words brought a warm smile to your face. You honestly could not recall the last time people besides your younger sisters having been this nice to you. And you honestly couldn't recall kids your age being this kind.

   You closed your eyes and focused inward. Taking slow, deep breaths through your mouth since you nose was clogged with blood. You focus on your heart rate and gently encouraged it to return to a steady rhythm. After a couple minutes your head began to clear and the world around you began to settle.

   Opening your eyes you saw that the boy and girl were watching you carefully and almost with awe. You felt your cheeks and ears grow a little hot. You looked down at the ground and found that you couldn't stop smiling.

   "Thanks, I'm feeling better now." You start to get to your feet and they didn't even hesitate to help you. They even each hold onto an arm until they are sure your steady on your feet.

   "Really, I'm fine," you assured them while still holding the now bloodied handkerchief to your nose. "But, I really do appreciate it."

   "It's our pleasure,~ ♥" the boy replied. "It's the least we could do for our rescuing heroine.~ ♦"

   You could feel the heat on your face spread and you just knew it was turning a bright red.

   "Is your nose going to be okay? It's still bleeding," the girl asked. "I'm assuming there is a town doctor?" You nodded a response. "We'll walk there with you. To be honest, we needed to go their ourselves to get some supplies for our troupe."

   "Alright, it's this way," you turn and start to head in the opposite direction Tsume and his friends went. The boy and girl quickly fall into step on each side of you.

   "By the way," the girl said cheerfully, "my name is Abaki!"

   "And my name is Hisoka,~ ♥" the boy added with a warm smile. You couldn't help but smile back as a warm, fuzzy feeling spread through your chest and stomach.

   "It's really nice to meet the both of you! Despite the circumstances," you added with a laugh, "Oh, and my name is Sadashi!"

   "Well, Sadashi, it's an absolute pleasure to meet you as well.~ ♥" Hisoka cooed.

   "Cool the charm, Hisoka, or else you're going to embarrass the poor girl," Abaki laughed. It was a bit late for that, you honestly didn't believe your face and ears could get any redder.

Next Chapter: Ch. 12 - ??? (TBA)

[gotham-ruaidh]

Truth to Triumph

Previously…

Chapter 10: The First Step

September 24, 1904 

The newsroom of the New York World, circa 1900.

The articles had been rolled out carefully. The first focused on the owners of steamships that still sailed around the harbor and around Manhattan. The second turned its attention on police and City Hall corruption to suppress press reports of boat fires and other incidents that would make the public leery of taking such a mode of transportation – especially with the new Sub-Way under construction in parts of Brooklyn and lower Manhattan.

 The reception was electric. The telephone in the World’s newsroom rang off the hook, as a mix of tips and outrage from the public poured in. Mr. Pulitzer had already been called to City Hall and a meeting with Mayor George B. McClellan, Jr. – son of the famed Civil War general, who had coincidentally served alongside the Slocum’s namesake, General Henry Warner Slocum, in the Union Army. Mayor McClellan had received just as much heat from a public suddenly very insistent that his office do something to prevent another disaster from happening. Mr. Pulitzer was only too happy to report on the meeting in the following day’s paper, sending the mayor’s approval numbers through the roof.

 But Mr. Pulitzer, and Jamie Fraser, and the Beauchamps all knew that the third article was the jewel in the crown.

 The exposé on the Knickerbocker Steamship Company, and the gross negligence of its two owners – the Randall family via Wentworth Industries, and their close partners, the Fort William Company, owned by the father of Railroad Randall’s daughter-in-law Mary – wife to his playboy historian son, Jack.

 The article was cleverly written. It avoided naming any person as personally responsible for individual wrongdoing. But the facts about the Slocum – and the owners’ chronic underinvestment in the basic maintenance of the boat – were absolutely damning.

 The article re-published – this time with more detail – survivors’ accounts of what had happened when the inferno broke out on the Slocum. Brittle, weathered fire hoses. Life vests that had crumbled in desperate hands. Mothers, frantic to see their children safe, had strapped them into life vests before throwing them into the river – only to watch the vests fill with water and drag their children beneath the surface. Furthermore, the life boats were completely inaccessible – tied with thick knots that only an axe could cut. There were even rumors that the life vests – stuffed with cork – had actually been stuffed with heavier materials, including iron rods, to meet minimum weight requirements when the vests had been manufactured, fifteen years before the tragedy.

 What grated on Jamie – and Mr. Pulitzer – and the entire World readership, who eagerly devoured the article, was that it was all entirely preventable. Had there been laws on the books to ensure that safety equipment was up to par, that the boat’s crew were trained in rudimentary emergency evacuation procedures, and that the life boats were accessible in time of emergency – well, it may not have prevented the fire from occurring, but it damn well could have prevented the immense and pointless loss of over a thousand lives.

 Jamie hand-delivered the first printed copy of the newspaper to the elder Henry Beauchamp, waiting patiently across the street from the World’s offices on Park Row. It was almost midnight, and Henry read Jamie’s article as the two of them took the Bowery Elevated uptown to the Beauchamp family brownstone, where Claire and Julia were waiting.

 For the entire journey, Henry just shook his head.

 “None of this is news to me,” he remarked, “since you’ve shared as much with us over the past few months. But to read it all here – and on the front page…”

 “I know. It will be explosive. Mr. Pulitzer suggested I lay low tomorrow. To let him and the boys deal with the reaction.”

 Henry turned to him, brows furrowed with surprise. “On the biggest day of your career? Why on earth would you do that?”

 Jamie held his gaze. “I’d like to be with Claire, up at the hospital where nobody can find me. Because I want to make sure that she’s all right.”

 “You can’t insulate her from it.”

 “I wasn’t trying to. I – I need to be around people who are doing good. Selfless good, for people who can’t help themselves.”

 Henry picked up the newspaper, rolled it, and poked Jamie in the ribs. “And what do you think this is, then?”

 Jamie shrugged. “Some people will say I’m doing it for fame. Maybe you think I’m doing it for revenge.”

 The train rolled into their stop at Twenty-Third Street, and together they clambered onto the platform and then down the stairs to the street.

 “Revenge for what? For what that bastard Randall did to Claire? She didn’t even know you then.”

 “It doesn’t matter to me. That man deserves to pay for what he did to her.”

 Henry sighed as they turned onto East Twenty-Second Street. “Don’t you think for one minute that Claire is entirely selfless in her work. She wants to change things, too.”

 “Of course she does. And she has – you know yourself how much the Kleindeutschlanders admire her.”

 Ten steps up the stoop, and Henry fished for the keys in his pocket.

 Jamie turned to face the deserted street, eerily quiet.

 Just as Henry turned the key and opened the door, Jamie saw a flash of movement beneath the streetlamp on the corner.

 A derby hat.

 “Get into the house. Now,” he hissed, all but pushing Henry through the door.

 “What on earth?” the older man exclaimed.

 “Bolt the doors. Both of them. I saw the man who was watching us on the night of the party at the beer garden.”

 Henry calmly bolted both deadbolts on the front door, and then the door in the vestibule as well.

 “Jamie?”

 Footsteps in the hallway – Julia. Jamie bent to quickly kiss her cheek.

 “Julia. Is Claire down here?”

 “Yes – I’m right here.” Now Claire appeared further down the hallway, in the doorway to the parlor. “Are you all right?”

 “Jamie saw someone on the street,” Henry explained, taking his wife’s hand.

 “The man in the derby hat,” Jamie added.

 “Holy God,” Claire breathed. “Should I call the police?”

 “No need – he’s likely gone by now. But I think we should all go upstairs for the night.”

 Julia nodded in agreement. Claire stepped down the hallway, smiling tiredly, holding a lamp in one hand. Jamie bent to kiss her.

 “Here.” Henry pressed the newspaper into Claire’s free hand. “It’s explosive.”

 Julia began climbing the staircase, Henry at her side.

 Jamie reached to take Claire’s lamp, then held out his free arm. Gratefully she took it, leading him upstairs.

[theculturedmarxist]

For several months my name and socialism have appeared often together in the newspapers.  A friend tells me that I have shared the front pages with baseball, Mr. Roosevelt and the New York police scandal.  The association does not make me altogether happy but, on the whole, I am glad that many people are interested in me and in the educational achievements of my teacher, Mrs. Macy (Anne Sullivan).  Even notoriety may be turned to beneficent uses, and I rejoice if the disposition of the newspapers to record my activities results in bringing more often into their columns the word Socialism.  In the future I hope to write about socialism, and to justify in some measure the great amount of publicity which has been accorded to me and my opinions.  So far I have written little and said little about the subject.  I have written a few letters, notably one to Comrade Fred Warren which was printed in the Appeal to Reason.  I have talked to some reporters, on of whom, Mr. Ireland of the New York World, made a very flattering report and gave fully and fairly what I said.  I have never been in Schenectady.  I have never met Mayor Lunn.  I have never had a letter from him, but he has sent kind messages to me through Mr. Macy.  Owing to Mrs. Macy's illness, whatever plans I had to join the workers in Schenectady have been abandoned.

On such negative and relatively insignificant matters have been written many editorials in the capitalist press and in the Socialist press.  The clippings fill a drawer.  I have not read a quarter of them, and I doubt if I shall ever read them all.  If on such a small quantity of fact so much comment has followed, what will the newspapers do if I ever set to work in earnest to write and talk in behalf of socialism?   For the present I should like to make a statement of my position and correct some false reports and answer some criticisms which seem to me unjust.

First — How did I become a Socialist?  By reading.  The first book I read was Wells' New World for Old.  I read it on Mrs. Macy's recommendation.  She was attracted by its imaginative quality, and hoped that its electric style might stimulate and interest me.  When she gave me the book, she was not a Socialist and she is not a Socialist now.   Perhaps she will be one before Mr. Macy and I are done arguing with her.

My reading has been limited and slow.  I take German bimonthly Socialist periodicals brinted in braille for the blind. (Our German comrades are ahead of us in many respects.)  I have also in German braille Kautsky's discussion of the Erfurt Program.  The other socialist literature that I have read has been spelled into my hand by a friend who comes three times a week to read to me whatever I choose to have read.  The periodical which I have most often requested her lively fingers to communicate to my eager ones is the National Socialist.  She gives the titles of the articles and I tell her when to read on and when to omit. I have also had her read to me from the International Socialist Review articles the titles of which sounded promising.  Manual spelling takes time.  It is no easy and rapid thing to apsorb through one's fingers a book of 50,000 words on economics.  But it is a pleasure, and one which I shall enjoy repeatedly until I have made myself acquainted with all the classic socialist authors.

In the light of the foregoing I wish to comment on a piece about me which was printed in the Common Cause and reprinted in the Live Issue, two antisocialist publications.  Here is a quotation from that piece:

"For twenty-five years Miss Keller's teacher and constant companion has been Mrs. John Macy, formerly of Wrentham, Mass.  Both Mr. and Mrs. Macy are enthusiastic Marxist propagandists, and it is scarcely surprising that Miss Keller, depending upon this lifelong friend for her most intimate knowledge of life, should have imbibed such opinions."

Mr. Macy may be an enthusiastic Marxist propagandist, though I am sorry to say he has not shown much enthusiasm in propagating his Marxism through my fingers.  Mrs. Macy is not a Marxist, nor a socialist.   Therefore what the Common Cause says about her is not true.  The editor must have invented that, made it out of whole cloth, and if that is the way his mind works, it is no wonder that he is opposed to socialism.  He has not sufficient sense of fact to be a socialist or anything else intellectually worthwhile.

Consider another quotation from the same article.  The headline reads:

"SCHENECTADY REDS ARE ADVERTISING; USING HELEN KELLER, THE BLIND GIRL, TO RECEIVE PUBLICITY." Then the article begins:

"It would be difficult to imagine anything more pathetic than the present exploitation of poor Helen Keller by the Socialists of Schenectady.  For weeks the party's press agencies have heralded the fact that she is a Socialist, and is about to become a member of Schenectady's new Board of Public Welfare."

There's a chance for satirical comment on the phrase, "the exploitation of poor Helen Keller."  But I will refrain, simply saying that I do not like the hypocritical sympathy of such a paper as the Common Cause, but I am glad if it knows what the word "exploitation" means.

Let us come to the facts.  When Mayor Lunn heard that I might go to Schenectady he proposed to the Board of Public Welfare that a place be kept on it for me.  Nothing was printed about this in The Citizen, Mayor Lunn's paper.  Indeed, it was the intention of the board to say nothing about the matter until after I had moved to Schenectady.  But the reporters of the capitalist press got wind of the plan, and one day, during Mayor Lunn's absence from Schenectady, the Knickerbocker Press of Albany made the announcement.  It was telegraphed all over the country, and then began the real newspaper exploitation.  By the Socialist press?  No, by the capitalist press.  The Socialist papers printed the news, and some of them wrote editorials of welcome.  But The Citizen, Mayor Lunn's paper, preserved silence and did not mention my name during all the weeks when the reporters were telephoning and telegraphing and asking for interviews.  It was the capitalist press that did the exploiting.  Why?  Because ordinary newspapers care anything about socialism?  No, of course not; they hate it.  But because I, alas, am a subject for newspaper gossip.  We got so tired of denying that I was in Schenectady that I began to dislike the reporter who first published the "news."

The Socialist papers, it is true, did make a good deal of me after the capitalist papers had "hearalded the fact that I am a Socialist."  But all the reporters who came to see me were from ordinary commercial newspapers.  No Socialist paper, neither The Call nor the National Socialist, ever asked me for an article.  The editor of The Citizen hinted to Mr. Macy that he would like one, but he was too fine and considerate to ask for it point-blank.

The New York Times did ask me for one.  The editor of the Times wrote assuring me that his paper was a valuable medium for reaching the public and he wanted an article from me.  He also telegraphed asking me to send him an account of my plans and to outline my ideas of my duties as a member of the Board of Public Welfare of Schenectady.  I am glad I did not comply with this request, for some days later the Times made me a social outcast beyond the range of its righteous sympathies.  On September 21 there appeared in the Times an editorial called "The Comtemptible Red Flag."  I quote two passages from it:

"The flag is free.  But it is none the less destestable.  It is the symbol of lawlessness and anarchy the world over, and as such is held in contempt by all right-minded persons."

"The bearer of a red flag may not be molested by the police until he commits some act which the red flag justifies.  He deserves, however, always to be regarded with suspicion.  By carrying the symbol of lawlessness he forfeits all right to respect and sympathy."

I am no worshiper of cloth of any color, but I love the red flag and what it symbolizes to me and other Socialists.  I have a red flag hanging in my study, and if I could I should gladly march with it past the office of the Times and let all the reporters and photographers make the most of the spectacle.  According to the inclusive condemnation of the Times I have forfeited all right to respect and sympathy, and I am to be regarded with suspicion.  Yet the editor of the Times wants me to write him an article!  How can he trust me to write for him if I am a suspicious character?  I hope you will enjoy as much as I do the bad ethics, bad logic, bad manners that a capitalist editor falls into when he tries to condemn the movement which is aimed at this plutocratic interests.  We are not entitled to sympathy, yet some of us can write articles that will help his paper to make money.  Probably our opinions have the same sort of value to him that he would find in the confession of a famous murderer.  We are not nice, but we are interesting.

I like newspapermen.  I have known many, and two or three editors have been among my most intimate friends.  Moreover, the newspapers have been of great assistance in the work which we have been trying to do for the blind.  It costs them nothing to give their aid to work for the blind and to other superficial charities.  But socialism — ah, that is a different matter!  That goes to the root of all poverty and all charity.  The money power behind the newspapers is against socialism, and the editors, obedient to the hand that feeds them, will go to any length to put down socialism and undermine the influence of socialists.

When my letter to Comrade Fred Warren was published in the Appeal to Reason, a friend of mine who writes a special department for the Boston Transcript made an article about it and the editor-in-chief cut it out.

The Brooklyn Eagle says, apropos of me, and socialism, that Helen Keller's "mistakes spring out of the manifest limitations of her development."  Some years ago I met a gentleman who was introduced to me as Mr. McKelway, editor of the Brooklyn Eagle.  It was after a meeting that we had in New York in behalf of the blind.  At that time the compliments he paid me were so generous that I blush to remember them.   But now that I have come out for socialism he reminds me and the public that I am blind and deaf and especially liable to error.  I must have shrunk in intelligence during the years since I met him.  Surely it is his turn to blush.  It may be that deafness and blindness incline one toward socialism.  Marx was probably stone deaf and William Morris was blind.  Morris painted his pictures by the sense of touch and designed wall paper by the sense of smell.

Oh, ridiculous Brooklyn Eagle!  What an ungallant bird it is!  Socially blind and deaf, it defends an intolerable system, a system that is the cause of much of the physical blindness and deafness which we are trying to prevent.  The Eagle is willing to help us prevent misery provided, always provided, that we do not attack the industrial tyranny which supports it and stops its ears and clouds its vision.  The Eagle and I are at war.  I hate the system which it represents, apologizes for and upholds.  When it fights back, let it fight fair.  Let it attack my ideas and oppose the aims and arguments of Socialism.  It is not fair fighting or good argument to remind me and others that i cannot see or hear.  I can read.  I can read all the socialist books I have time for in English, German and French.  If the editor of the Brooklyn Eagle should read some of them, he might be a wiser man and make a better newspaper.  If I ever contribute to the Socialist movement the book that I sometimes dream of, I know what I shall name it:  Industrial Blindness and Social Deafness.

[outoftowninac]

HONEYMOON LANE

1926

Honeymoon Lane is a two-act musical with music by James Hanley and book an lyrics by Eddie Dowling, featuring songs by Herbert Reynolds. It was staged by Edgar MacGregor, choreographed by Bobby Connolly with costume design by Ada Peacock and scenic Design by Triangle Scenic Studio.

It opened at Broadway’s Knickerbocker Theatre on September 20, 1926 and ran for 353 performances.  

Although the bulk of the action is set in Canningville, Pennsylvania, an Act II scene 3 sequence switches the action to Atlantic City, New Jersey. 

Act Two’s dance specialty was titled “Jersey Walk”, probably inspired by New Jersey, and possibly by Atlantic City’s world-famous Boardwalk. 

One of the theatres where the musical’s action is set is in Atlantic City, the other is on Broadway. Not coincidentally, the musical’s first performances were in Atlantic City at the Apollo Theatre, and... 

...after a longer sit-down at the Garrick in Philadelphia, it berthed on Broadway at the Knickerbocker Theatre. Clearly the script was trying to mirror real life. 

Eddie Dowling also played Tim Murphy, the leading role in the musical. Later in his varied career, Dowling produced, directed, and starred in the original production of Tennessee Williams’ The Glass Menagerie (1946) and was a replacement in Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Paint Your Wagon (1951). 

The cast featured the Broadway debut of a rotund but robust singer named Kate Smith as Tiny Little. Dowling is credited with discovering Smith. During Honeymoon Lane's run in New York, Smith made her first phonograph recordings, consisting of songs from that show. The first sessions were for Victor but none were issued. Her first issued recordings, from an October 28, 1926, session, appeared on the Columbia label. Smith became well known for her rendition of Irving Berlin's "God Bless America."

Mayor Walker was off by 14 months. The show closed in July 1927 after ten months. The Knickerbocker Theatre, previously known as Abbey's Theatre and Henry Abbey's Theatre, was ocated at 1396 Broadway (West 38th Street) in New York City. It operated from 1893 to 1930. In 1906, the theatre introduced the first moving electrical sign on Broadway to advertise its productions.

Atlantic City was represented at opening night at the Knickerbocker with the attendance of Miss American runner-up Marjorie Joosting.  

Miss America was first crowned in Atlantic City in 1921 and the seaside resort became indelibly associated with the town. 

Half A Moon” sung by Johnny Marvin.

“The Jersey Walk” 

Honeymoon Lane was filmed in 1931, although the plot bore little resemblance to the stage musical except that it starred Eddie Dowling as a brash Irishman named Tim - but even his surname was different. This time he cast his real life wife, Ray Dooly. Also in the cast were Noah Beery and Walter Brennan.

[anthonybialy]

Old New York

Your instinct might be to cheer because New York City is doomed. Try not to smirk too much while clapping as the embodiment of city living becomes an unlivable city. But not every single person residing in the emblematically deprived monstrous urban hellhole voted to include more crime and other forced redistribution in their lives. There must certainly be at least a handful of endlessly hassled paved freak show dwellers who think the Constitution is legally binding.

We can at least be a little more sympathetic than Knickerbockers are. It's not the first time the city's ultimate de facto zombie devastation has been proclaimed, but this is the first time it's going to actually happen. Lucky survivors get to witness history. The whole point of living in a place that tries so hard to get you to leave is to experience thrills firsthand.

Putting on a show of lashing out is like modern art: the shtick is all about trying to sucker others into believing it's serious. Pandemic New York has flaunted the opposite of toughness. The petrified reaction behind shrieking at unmasked supermarket patrons and demanding vaccine proof to be seated is the natural result of concluding gestures imposed by rather unscientific politicians will grant protection. Most religions don't claim to offer such direct protection via faith. Enjoy dining in a tent on a Manhattan sidewalk for health.

Allegedly thick-skinned residents allowed themselves to be terrified by an invisible threat borne by fellow humans and lashed out with panicky contempt as a result. At least yell at a demonic jerk for taking up two subway seats.

A stressful era means extraneous programs suddenly cause more harm than waste. Prosperity caused by open trading enables getting away with liberal silliness. One of conservatism's great virtues is allowing its biggest critics to bitch about it.

Freedom includes the right to condemn it, even if kvetchers don't appreciate how the only thing they create is irony. The thankless can even get away with a few daft infiltrations into markets. But getting their way about everything means there's nobody left to rip off. Stealing doesn't just occur on the street.

Refusing to grasp lessons is normal when life is so frantic. Needing to please ruthless customers who know there's relentless competition is a fundamental endorsement of liberty. New York City represents efficient exchange that pleases both sides better than anyone. At least, it represented. Going full-tilt into Shining Path territory means fewer restaurants to cause headaches with choices.

If you think felons have sad backstories, wait until you hear about what they give to victims. Sob stories about turning to crime after a life of hardships don't make it easier to keep one's wallet or register contents.

Liberal policies causing crummy circumstances merely add ruefulness to the wretched outlook over the Hudson. Treating criminals like victims and vice versa has led to the precise sort of villainous outbreak anyone sensible would suspect. The predictability doesn't make coping easier. Gotham's only crime is dining without a booster.

Past artsy types thrived despite being threatened. Rather hard-earned lessons become presumptions, as growing accustomed to calmness inevitably leads to ingratitude. Felons have waited patiently. Condemning oppressively racist police until the barrier against barbarianism is removed is one way to miss what's no longer here. There's nothing genies love like a wish where they get to laugh while granting it.

Civilization was the exception. Those calling for the city's suicide either think crime isn't a problem, find it an unavoidable part of city life, or think creating danger is an urban thrill. It'd be more surprising if muggings weren't back. The lack of menace lurking in shadows was fun for a couple years.

Like the city, its best mayor was once worth defending. You can think whatever vitriolic things you'd like about Trump flunky Rudy Giuliani now, but he proved the country's most unforgiving ZIP codes didn't have to let crime be the primary industry. His fall from Gracie Mansion is so stark because he made New York freaking City livable. Now, the city's only mutual trade involved junkies making truces with robbers.

Poor souls who found themselves in the city's boundaries used to walk down virtually any block without looming anxiety. That includes streets with alarmingly high numbers. It's now easier to find areas that are safe, which makes trips much easier. Tourists can finally justify not going a block past Times Square. Once the forces of criminal depravity retake their territories, there'll be a good reason to be scared. There are worse things than Disney commandeering a prominent intersection.

It would be nice to at least get art out of suffering. But the worst part about New York City's present decline is how dull it is. There is zero creative energy emanating from the rotting hull. Neither the 1970s-style grandiose decadence nor snarling archetype of grittiness are anywhere to be found. We're not about to get a bunch of scary yet enticing depictions of coping with urban life.  Of all the things not being created, the city misses character the most.

At least try another party. There might be hotter people drinking better booze. Instead, the stubborn commitment to not walking five blocks means choking down Milwaukee's Best in a railroad apartment that's below a dance studio.

The followup to all-time cop-hating commie loser Bill de Blasio should've been the precise opposite, namely a capable manager who likes commerce as much as he hates crime. But it turns out the fact race-baiting woke comrade Eric Adams used to be an NYPD officer is frightening, not reassuring. The woke cop's bafflement at facing crime means he was either taking down the force from the inside or was just collecting paychecks until he got his cushy post-law enforcement job.

Reputation is the best hope. The reason most cited for staying in New York City is because it's New York City. But what happens when the parts that made it so disappear?

Boundless excitement has been replaced with unsparing fear. Staying in a closet that runs four thousand bucks a month for the privilege of having any pocket change left ripped off is like listening to Howard Stern suck up to authority now. Man, each former reason for withstanding prototypical metropolitan aggravations has gone downhill. You can't even splurge on the 21 Club anymore.

[1900scartoons]

A Dry Sunday in New York

April 7th, 1902

Seth Low (Mayor of NYC) as Lady Liberty holds a keg of beer too high for Father Knickerbocker to reach. A sign on his crown reads ‘But Not License on Sunday.’

The caption reads “Water, Water, Everywhere, But Not a Drop to Drink.”

New York City had just passed a new law banning the sale of alcohol on Sundays.

See Also: Temperance Movement

From Hennepin County Library

Original available at: http://digitalcollections.hclib.org/digital/collection/Bart/id/4285/rec/291

[ultraheydudemestuff]

The Lillian Jones Museum

75 Broadway Street

Jackson, OH 45640

Visitors can explore the rich history of Jackson, Ohio and the surrounding area in an active historical, cultural and educational museum. Situated on the edge of the historic section of downtown, the museum is housed in the former home of its benefactor and namesake Miss Lillian E. Jones. The Jones Museum opened in 1995 with the two-fold mission to educate and to preserve the historical artifacts of the Jackson County, Ohio area. Genealogical information and research is also an important part of the Jones Museum’s dedication to preserving Jackson County’s history of all kinds. The museum works regularly with the Jackson County Chapter of the Ohio Genealogy Society in continuing efforts in the Carriage House, which is on the Jones Museum property.

A stop on Ohio’s Welsh Byway, The Jones Museum also works with the Jackson City Library, the Madog Center of the University of Rio Grande, the Friends of Lake Katharine, the Apple City Players theater group, the Southeast Ohio History Center and the Ohio Local History Alliance group of the Ohio History Connection to spread and educate all about the region’s accomplishments and future vision. The Lillian E. Jones Museum is a resource for the entire Jackson County community fulfilling Miss Jones’ dream of a historical, cultural, and educational museum in her family’s former home in loving memory of her parents Edwin and Lola Williams Jones.

Currently, The Jones Museum offers at least four themed exhibits inside the main building, while also maintaining a large and eclectic permanent collection that includes a vast number of rare items and photographs collected by Miss Jones during her travels in the 1950s and 1960s; sculpture and research materials from internationally acclaimed artist Fletcher Benton, who was a family friend of Miss Jones; hundreds of bound volumes of all the different Jackson newspapers from the late 1890s to 1992; more than 80 hard copies of Jackson High School yearbooks, the Osky Wow, from 1912-1991 and digitized versions of the Osky Wow from 1912-2016; remarkable items from the Jones family’s industrial past including Globe Iron, DT&I, Crown Pipe&Foundry, and the Cambrian Hotel along with large portraits and photographs of family members. Since the opening of the Jones Museum, local individuals and former residents have donated treasured items and photographs of Jackson’s past that are regularly used in exhibits. The museum is often used by local groups for small special events and group meetings.

The main museum building was a home built in 1867 by Horace Chapman, founder of the National Bank. The Jones family purchased the home in 1921 and remodeled using architect Frank Packard, who had worked with Edwin Jones in the building of the Cambrian Hotel in 1900. Both Chapman and Edwin Jones were candidates for Ohio Governor in the early 1900s. The museum is by ordinance a part of the City of Jackson and is overseen by the seven-member Jackson City Museum board. Three of the members are chosen by the Mayor of Jackson and the other four are chosen by current board members. Regular meetings of the Jackson City Museum Board of Trustees are the first Monday of each month at the Jones Museum.

Lillian Jones’ great grandfather came with his family from Wales in 1834 and settled in southern Jackson County at Hewitts Fork. He was a very ambitious and capable man and was one of the founders and the first president of Jefferson Furnace in 1854. He purchased Globe & Fulton Furnaces which became Globe Iron in 1872. Globe Iron was on West Main Street (at the site of the Eddie Jones Ball Field) and was destroyed by fire in 1876. Fulton Furnace was remodeled and became Globe Iron Company on East Main Street. Thomas had four children, one of whom was Eben Jones (Lillian’s grandfather). Eben, a Civil War Captain, was involved with Jefferson Furnace and was also a banker. He married Ann Williams, and they had seven children, the second being Edwin (1862-1921) Lillian’s father and Jackson business developer.

Lillian Jones, born September 10, 1893, was the second child and only daughter of Edwin and Lola Williams Jones. Her brothers were Donald and Dwight Jones. She went to boarding school at the Knickerbocker School for Girls in Indianapolis. After graduation, she went to France for a year to study voice. After leaving France, she lived in New York “taking” music. Lillian did not talk much about herself, but we do know she was still in New York in 1923. She would have been thirty at that time. Lillian’s father died in 1921, and several months after that her mother bought the house on the corner of Broad and Broadway Streets. Mrs. Jones hired Frank L. Packard, who was the architect for the Cambrian Hotel, to completely renovate her newly purchased home. This was completed in the early 1920s. The only structural change since that time is the pitched roof over the side porch.

Lillian came home from New York to stay with her mother, who was ill at the time and was convinced to remain in Jackson. Lillian and her mother spent winters in Sarasota, Florida, a habit Lillian continued until she no longer felt like traveling. Although she was a very frugal woman, Lillian loved to travel and made four trips around the world. Once in Europe, she took a freighter to Sweden because the passage was so cheap. While there, she met and talked with the King of Sweden while admiring flower gardens. She especially loved India and Japan. She would often leave the group she was traveling with to stay in a place she particularly liked. She was an active member of the Presbyterian Church, but as far as we know, she did not belong to any other organizations. Lillian never married, had no children, and died on August 22, 1991, at the age of 97.

[andrewtheprophet]

Too Little Too Late (Revelation 6:12)

Too Little Too Late (Revelation 6:12)

Buchanan Mayor Talks About Game Plan For Indian Point Closure

By ALLISON DUNNE • MAY 28, 2019

Less than a year from now, one of two reactors at New York’s Indian Point nuclear power plant will be permanently shut down. The second is slated for closure by April 30, 2021. Indian Point is in Buchanan, where Theresa Knickerbocker is mayor. She spoke with WAMC’s Hudson Valley Bureau Chief…