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newstfionline · 4 years ago

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Wednesday, February 24, 2021

First Arctic Navigation in February (Bloomberg) A tanker sailed through Arctic sea ice in February for the first time, the latest sign of how quickly the pace of climate change is accelerating in the Earth’s northernmost regions. The Christophe de Margerie was accompanied by the nuclear-powered 50 Let Pobedy icebreaker as it sailed back to Russia this month after carrying liquified natural gas to China through the Northern Sea Route in January. Both trips broke navigation records. The experimental voyage happened after a year of extraordinarily warm conditions in the Arctic that have sent shockwaves across the world, from the snowstorm that blanketed Spain in January to the blast of cold air that swept through Canada in mid-February, moving deep into the South as far as Texas. The Arctic is warming more than twice as quickly as the rest of the world and the area covered by ice there has reached historic lows multiple times over the past 12 months. The melting in the region is already in line with the worst-case climate scenarios outlined by scientists.

Biden mourns 500,000 dead, balancing nation’s grief and hope (AP) With sunset remarks and a national moment of silence, President Joe Biden on Monday confronted head-on the country’s once-unimaginable loss—half a million Americans in the COVID-19 pandemic—as he tried to strike a balance between mourning and hope. “We often hear people described as ordinary Americans. There’s no such thing,” he said Monday evening. “There’s nothing ordinary about them. The people we lost were extraordinary.” The president, who lost his first wife and baby daughter in a car collision and later an adult son to brain cancer, leavened the grief with a message of hope. “This nation will smile again. This nation will know sunny days again. This nation will know joy again. And as we do, we’ll remember each person we’ve lost, the lives they lived, the loved ones they left behind.” He said, “We have to resist becoming numb to the sorrow. We have to resist viewing each life as a statistic or a blur or, on the news. We must do so to honor the dead. But, equally important, to care for the living.”

Texans Needed Food and Comfort After a Brutal Storm. As Usual, They Found It at H-E-B. (NYT) The past week had been a nightmare. A winter storm, one of the worst to hit Texas in a generation, robbed Lanita Generous of power, heat and water in her home. The food she had stored in her refrigerator and freezer had spoiled. She was down to her final five bottles of water. But on Sunday, as the sun shined and ice thawed in Austin, Ms. Generous did the same thing as many Texans in urgent need of food, water and a sense of normalcy: She went to H-E-B. “They’ve been great,” she said, adding with just a touch of hyperbole: “If it hadn’t been for the bread and peanut butter, I would have died in my apartment.” H-E-B is a grocery store chain. But it is also more than that. People buy T-shirts that say “H-E-B for President,” and they post videos to TikTok declaring their love, like the woman clutching a small bouquet of flowers handed to her by an employee: “I wish I had a boyfriend like H-E-B. Always there. Gives me flowers. Feeds me.” For many Texans, H-E-B reflected the ways the state’s maverick spirit can flourish: reliable for routine visits but particularly in a time of disaster, and a belief that the family-owned chain—with a vast majority of its more than 340 locations inside state lines—has made a conscious choice to stay rooted to the idea of being a good neighbor. “It’s like H-E-B is the moral center of Texas,” said Stephen Harrigan, a novelist and journalist who lives in Austin. “There seems to be in our state a lack of real leadership, a lack of real efficiency, on the political level. But on the business level, when it comes to a grocery store, all of those things are in place.”

Hunger in Central America skyrockets, U.N. agency says (Reuters) The number of people going hungry in El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras and Nicaragua has nearly quadrupled in the last two years, the United Nations said on Tuesday, as Central America has been battered by an economic crisis. New data released by the UN’s World Food Program (WFP) showed nearly 8 million people across the four countries are experiencing hunger this year, up from 2.2 million in 2018. “The COVID-19-induced economic crisis had already put food on the market shelves out of reach for the most vulnerable people when the twin hurricanes Eta and Iota battered them further,” Miguel Barreto, WFP Regional Director for Latin America and the Caribbean, said in a statement.

Prison riots in Ecuador leave 62 dead (AP) Sixty-two inmates have died in riots at prisons in three cities in Ecuador as a result of fights between rival gangs and an escape attempt, authorities said Tuesday. Prisons Director Edmundo Moncayo said in a news conference that 800 police offices have been helping to regain control of the facilities. Hundreds of officers from tactical units had been deployed since the clashes broke out late Monday. Moncayo said that two groups were trying to gain “criminal leadership within the detention centers” and that the clashes were precipitated by a search for weapons carried out Monday by police officers.

Mount Etna eruption lights up Sicily's night sky (BBC) Mount Etna is erupting again, and its hot lava fountains are illuminating the Sicilian sky. The eruption began earlier this week, and Etna has since been spewing massive orange plumes of smoke and thick clouds of ash. Etna is Europe's most active volcano, and it erupts relatively often. The last major eruption was in 1992. Its eruptions have rarely caused damage or injury in recent decades - and officials believe this eruption is no exception. Stefano Branco, the head of the National Institute for Geophysics and Volcanology (INGV) in the nearby city of Catania, told Italian news agency AGI earlier this week: "We've seen worse."

Cow science (Foreign Policy) A new national exam on cows developed by the Indian government-backed National Cow Commission has been shelved following controversy over its less-than-scientific contents. The curriculum for the test involved erroneous claims about the virtues of Indian cows that were widely ridiculed by the country’s scientific community. Among the “facts” on display: That Indian cows have a special “solar pulse” in their humps which can supposedly convert sun rays into vitamin D that is then passed on to milk, and an assertion that Indian cows are “strong” whereas foreign cows are “lazy.” The issue of cows, considered sacred by Hindus, and their treatment has become even more of a cultural wedge issue in India following the rise of Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s Hindu nationalist government, with sometimes deadly results. Attacks by vigilante “cow protection” groups killed 44 people between 2015 and 2018 according to Human Rights Watch, with Muslims among the majority of those targeted.

Japan creates Minister of Loneliness to fight COVID-19 suicides (New York Post) Japan just appointed a Minister of Loneliness—to try to combat its exploding suicide rate amid COVID-19. Japanese Prime Minister Yoshihide Suga named Tetsushi Sakamoto, a cabinet member already trying to beef up the depressed country’s birthrate, to the post. Suga noted earlier this month that Japanese women, in particular, have been struggling with depression since the coronavirus pandemic began about a year ago—with nearly 880 female suicide victims in the country alone in October, a 70 percent increase over the year before, the BBC reported. Japanese suicide expert Michiko Ueda told the BBC that part of the problem involves an increasing number of single women in the country who don’t have stable employment. “A lot of women are not married anymore,” she said. “They have to support their own lives, and they don’t have permanent jobs.”

Facebook Strikes Deal to Restore News Sharing in Australia (NYT) Facebook said on Monday that it would restore the sharing and viewing of news links in Australia after gaining more time to negotiate over a proposed law that would require it to pay for news content that appears on its site. The social network had blocked news links in Australia last week as the new law neared passage. The legislation includes a code of conduct that would allow media companies to bargain individually or collectively with digital platforms over the value of their news content. Facebook had vigorously objected to the code, which would curb its power and drive up its spending for content, as well as setting a precedent for other governments to follow. The company had argued that news would not be worth the hassle in Australia if the bill became law. But on Monday, Facebook returned to the negotiating table after the Australian government granted a few minor concessions.

U.S.-Saudi ties (Foreign Policy) The families of the three U.S. service members killed and 13 others injured by Mohammed Alshamrani, a Saudi airman who went on a shooting spree at Naval Air Station Pensacola in 2019, are suing Saudi Arabia’s government, alleging that the kingdom failed to screen him appropriately before sending him to the United States for training. The families are filing the lawsuit against Saudi Arabia based on a 2016 law that allows U.S. citizens to sue foreign governments over terrorist attacks—legislation that was initially passed in order to allow the families of 9/11 victims to bring a civil suit against Saudi Arabia.

Italian Ambassador Among Three Killed in Attack on U.N. Convoy in Congo (NYT) For Luca Attanasio, Italy’s ambassador to the Democratic Republic of Congo, humanitarian work was at the core of his mission. The 43-year-old had moved with his wife to the capital, Kinshasa, in 2017, where their family grew to include three young daughters. He rose to the rank of ambassador in 2019, the pinnacle of his diplomatic career. On Monday, Mr. Attanasio was among three people killed in an attack on a humanitarian convoy near the city of Goma, the World Food Program and Italy’s Foreign Ministry said, the latest in a wave of violence in that part of the central African nation. The deaths of Mr. Attanasio; an Italian Embassy official, named by the Foreign Ministry as Vittorio Iacovacci; and Mustapha Milambo, a driver for the World Food Program, have rattled the international diplomatic community and drawn condemnation from across the globe.

Flood damage and insurance (NPR) Right now, over 4 million houses and small apartments in the contiguous United States are at substantial risk of expensive flood damage, and the cost of flood damage to homes will increase by 50 percent over the next 30 years according to the First Street Foundation. As the climate changes, places that were perfectly safe to live in will no longer be as sure of bets as they once were, and the costs are about to be a serious reality check. The National Flood Insurance Program is $36 billion in debt because of underestimated risks. Over the next several years, FEMA plans to raise rates up to 18 percent a year until prices are accurate, starting this October.

#headlines #news

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surveys-at-your-service · 5 years ago

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Survey #265

“all is fair in love and war, i’m still rotten to the core.”

What's the latest youtube channel you've discovered and binge-watched? Ha, a WoW channel that basically gives advice and tutorials on stuff. She doesn't have many videos, but she's pretty successful already and chill as hell. Kraken Latte. Does it snow where you live? Occasionally. Very rarely does the snow stick, though, because the ground will be too warm. Do you think your hair looks better long or short? Short. Do you look best with or without bangs? Bitch I loved my emo bangs fuck off. Well, they weren't technically bangs, my hair was just parted far to the left. Do you enjoy editing photos on your phone? Well, my phone doesn't have GREAT camera quality, but I usually do some subtle edits if I take a pic on it. What's your favorite thing to do on your phone? Play Pokemon GO REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE Which season do you wish would last longer? Shit man, fall. At least here, the phase of colorful leaves is VERY short. Goes from green to totally bare in what feels like just a couple weeks. How many outdoor birthday parties have you had? Hell if I know. How much taller or shorter are you than your mom? We're the same height. Who is your favorite sibling? Lol wow that's mean. Do you have neat handwriting? Yeah. Do you like sushi? I've actually never tried it, but I'm quite certain I wouldn't like it. Have you ever tried seaweed? Actually yes, I believe in the 4th grade? We had I think authentic Japanese (or Chinese, idr) food, and I recall there being seaweed. I didn't like it. The only thing I liked was the white rice, I think. Do you have an actual pig-shaped piggy bank? No, but I think I may have as a kiddo. Did you dream of becoming famous as a kid? No. Have you ever been to a gynecologist? I actually haven't because I've always said I wasn't sexually active (back then it wasn't a conscious lie, I just genuinely didn't realize what we were doing was just shallow sex). I'm absolutely terrified to go anyway because I'm just very very very private about this sort of thing and honestly think I'll have a panic attack when I do have to for the first time anyway. Name three games that you are good at. Shadow of the Colossus, Silent Hill, World of Warcraft. What was your favorite board game as a kid? Ha ha, somehow, it was this shopping game called "Mall Madness." Veeeery unfitting of who I was and what I enjoyed as a kid. Do you get on Facebook every day? Pretty much. Did you watch the Kids Choice Awards when you were a kid? No. What was your favorite girl group when you were growing up? Spice Girls, I think. Do you have memories that still make you cry? Yes. Have you made your own mask to help prevent the spread of the virus? No, considering I don't leave the damn house like ever. Do you know anyone who has the virus? Yes. Not personally, but distantly. Are you proud to be an American? (if applicable) Sometimes. What countries have you visited? I haven't left America. Have you ever had a controlling boyfriend/girlfriend? No. How many true heartbreaks have you had in your lifetime? Romantically, I only consider one to be a *real* heartbreak. Have you ever cut yourself? Yeah. Do you feel like everything is falling apart around you? BOY DO I!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Was your first kiss romantic? Yes. Do you miss any of your exes right now? My PTSD has been awful awful AWFUL the past few days, so yes. A lot. Have you ever overdosed on anything? Yes. What would you say if you found out your last ex was in a relationship? I'd be happy for her of course, but I'd also be very confused. She's made it clear she doesn't believe a relationship is the best idea for her right now. Who was your date to prom? Jason took me to his senior prom, and I took him to mine. Do you still talk to your first love? No, I haven't spoken to him in over three years now. Wow. Whose wedding did you go to first? I don't remember. I'm sure it wasn't the first, but ONE of the earliest that I do remember was when my friend Summer's mom got remarried. He sadly passed away a long while ago though. Are you ashamed of anyone you've dated in the past? Tyler, yes. It was so pointless and a "let's see how this goes" versus a "I really like this guy and really want this relationship" thing. I honestly think I only said yes to dating because I didn't want to hurt his feelings and I was lonely. What about anyone you've been friends with? There were certainly times it felt very weird calling Colleen my best friend with how bitchy she could be. Especially when you consider how non-confrontational I am, while she charged like a goddamn bull into arguments. Have you ever made out with someone in a pool? Uhhh I think that one night when I lived at the apartment and it was just us out there late at night. He and I went back inside before Jacob and Amanda TO hardcore make out because we both way too obviously wanted it so I wouldn't be remotely surprised if we snuck in some action at the pool oof. Who’s the last person that slept over your house? Sara. Do you still talk to the last person you kissed? Yes. Have you ever kissed someone with a tongue ring? No, I was the person with the tongue ring. I actually took it out a little while back because I was tired of accidentally chomping down on it when eating and chipping teeth. I'd already told myself if I did it one more time I would, and especially right now, we can't afford to keep filling cavities that have come from it. I don't at all regret getting it and it'll always be one of the cutest piercings I think I've ever had, but it was just time for it to come out. Is it hard for you to get over a lover? I THINK I'VE MADE THAT!!!!!!!!!!! O BVIO US S!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Have you ever tried making someone jealous? Not to my recollection. Did your last relationship end because of you or the other person? Both of us really, but she initiated the breakup, you could say. Who is the last person you flirted with? Sara. Who's the most racist person you know? Jesus Christ, I live in the South. I know dozens of racists. I guess the worst is uhhh OH the aforementioned Colleen, holy fucking shit. I highly highly highly doubt that has changed at all since we last associated with each other. If you could be a film character, who would you be? Let me be Alice Liddell. Crunchy peanut butter or smooth? Smooth is the only way to go with pb. Would you rather always be in a crowd, or be the only person on earth? "Always be in a crowd. It wouldn’t be fun, but I think it’d be better than being that alone." <<<< This. I legitimately think I'd wind up killing myself in the other case. Would you rather be rich, or famous? Why? "Rich, because...what’s the point of being famous if you’re not rich? Just everyone knowing all of your business?" <<<< Also this. Do you squeeze the toothpaste from the top or the bottom? "I start off from the top until it gets used enough that I have to squeeze up from the bottom." <<<< Lemme just steal all this person's answers lmao. How many children do you want? Girls or boys? None, but if I was to have kids, I'd definitely want a girl. Is there a story behind your name? What is it? No. What was one of the most fun things you and your college roommate did together? I didn't have a college roommate. Well wait no, during my first college attempt is when I lived w/ Jason, Jacob, and Amanda. I'd honestly prefer to not think too hard back on it to answer this. Does anyone know your bank pin number other than you? Who? I don't even have a bank account. Have you ever had a boyfriend/girlfriend who was depressed? Yeah, multiple. Would you be embarrassed to buy pads/tampons/condoms? Which one more? Pads or tampons, nah. I'd feel awkward buying condoms though. Are your parents gullible? Dad probably is; he has very little common sense. I got it from him lmao. Mom, heeeeell no. Do you still own a VCR? No. What color is the computer/laptop you’re on? Did you buy it yourself? It's black. No. Does the smell of cigarettes, weed and beer repulse you? All three do. Was the last person you kissed younger or older than you? Younger. Have you ever purchased Girl Scout cookies? Yeah. How often do you drink Monster? Never, because I don't like it. Have you ever made totally pointless videos with your friends? HAHA I was a cringy teen once, my friends. Do you like sitting on the inside or outside of a restaurant booth? Inside. I feel safer. Do you own a nightgown? No, I haven't worn those since I was a kid. Have you ever worn fishnets? Fishnet gloves. I WISH I could pull off fishnet pants. Would you rather go out to eat or be eaten out? In times like THESE???????? Bitch I wanna go eat out at a yummy restaurant. Do you always wear your seat belt? ABSOLUTELY. I get so stressed out when I see people not wearing one. Have you ever liked someone much older than you? Not much older. Have you ever been in a play? Just school ones as a kid. Is there ice cream in your freezer? No, but there's popsicles from when I couldn't get my tongue ring out and it was massively swollen and in terrible pain. Thank God I finally got it out. Have you ever liked the lyrics of a band but hated the music? Probably. Does your bathroom have a window? Yeah, but it's very small and up kinda high. Do you go somewhere to get your eyebrows done? I used to, but I don't anymore. I just leave them be. Do you believe prayer really works? Nope. Have you been on a date in the park? No. Are there any diseases/health problems that run in your family? A whole. Fucking. Lot. To just name a few, depression, high blood pressure, heart disease, cancer, diabetes... Do you have asthma? No. Last person to take off your pants, besides you? Jason. Least favorite alcoholic drink? Mother of God, this white wine I tried at Colleen's forever ago. It was fucking repulsive. How did you meet the last male you texted? I mean I literally came from his balls so like Have you ever had an embarrassing email address? Ha ha yeah, the one I've always had. It's not very adult-ish or "serious"-sounding, but I don't want to change it now. Do you put shampoo in your left or right hand? Left. I squeeze with my right. Do you have a bull ring through your nose? No, I don't feel that would look good on me. Do you and your dad get along? Yes. When was the last time you did clay work/pottery? My last year of art in high school. I made an anatomical heart for Jason. I wonder a lot if he still has it after how much work I put into it. Do you like art, hate it or just not mind it? I adore art. The world would be so much more boring without it. If you had to choose would you prefer dull pain for 12hours or sharp for 2? Ew, dull. Two hours with sharp pain sounds awful. Do you know the words to the national anthem of your country? Yeah. Would you rather be a Model, Famous Scientist, Singer or Chef? Scientist, probably. I'd love to be a biologist anyway, and that's a type of scientist. Would you rather be a pilot, crime scene investigator or estate agent? Ohhh, crime scene investigator. Does making others happy really make you feel happy? Yes! Did you ever swear at a teacher in school? Why? No. Have you ever pricked your finger on Holly or another ‘sharp’ plant? Yeah. Have you ever written your own short story? Yes. What about a novel? Or perhaps you started and couldn’t finish? "I started writing several novels, but abandoned them all." <<<< Same yo. Either of the above, if this was the case, place short synopsis here: The first one was about a very close meerkat family, divided into elemental "breeds," and the prince falling in love with another of his kind. His father had a stray brother who constantly aimed to destroy the family, but he was converted towards the end. That's all I can really remember about that one. There were others like two species of animals I made also falling in love, despite being predators and prey of each other, and fulfilling some sorta prophecy with their offspring. The other two I recall- yo fuck it I keep remember more and more okay I wrote a LOT. Do you prefer SciFi/Fantasy/Action/Horror or Rom/Com/RealLife? I'm guessing you mean in books, given the last three questions? I have a strong preference for fantasy. What do you have a lot of faith in [note: can be anything]? Hell if I know. Would you rather have a big house, a lot of kids or a high flying job? High flying job, easily. I don't want kids, nor do I need a large house, especially considering I hate cleaning even this tiny one. Have you ever been to a creepy/haunted/abandoned place? Yeah. What did it look like and what were the circumstances? It was this really old, mostly dilapidated shack full of cool stuff. It was by the field near our old house. Me, my sister, and our friend hung out there and explored all the time until this freaky woman showed out and told us we shouldn't be there. Do you know a Jack? What’s he like? Yeah. I don't him that well though, so idk. How about a Lisa? What’s she like? Yeah, she's one of my WoW friends that I've become really close with. She is an absolute sweetheart, but talks about herself way, way too excessively to the point it's hard to have a conversation sometimes. I know she doesn't realize it, though. When you have children, would you like twins? I say enough that I don't even want kids, SO FUCK NO. Do you know any twins? If so, what are they called? Yes. Tyler and Taylor. I know others, but idr their names. What personality trait does nearly everyone in your family seem to have? We're stubborn as all fuck hell. Do you have any nicknames that aren’t derived from your actual name? Yeah, some online ones and then my mom has called me "Twinkie" since I was a baby. Do you have any allergies? Yeah, of pollen and silver. What is the longest your hair has ever been? To or maybe even past the small of my back. Have you ever been on a blind date? No, not my jam. What is the oldest piece of clothing you still wear and how old is it? I really don't kn- oh yes I do. I have these oooold old thin and sewn-back-up-fifty-times Batman pj pants from when Jason and I were together, so maybe like... seven years? Thanks PTSD, I'm attached to them because Batman was his thing. How often do you eat out at a fancy restaurant? Just about never. Nutella or peanut butter? UGGGGGHHHHH I've been on a nutella thing lately. Have you ever hosted a wild party? Definitely not. Name/author of the last book you read cover to cover. Do you recommend it? Wings of Fire: The Lost Heir by Tui Sutherland. Yes, it was very good. How many of your Facebook friends do you actually hang with? Besides my immediate family, like... none anymore. Have you ever donated blood? Yes. From 1-10, how much do you like decorating for holidays? This is hard to gauge. I've never seriously done it myself, and I don't really have the motivation to do it just to take it all down a month or so later. I love it in concept, but yeah. Favorite animated Disney character? Probably Kiara from TLK2. Have you ever cooked a big family meal by yourself? Ha, no. Favorite winter activity? TAKING PICTURES IN THE SNOOOOOOOOW. Do you consider rapping singing? I mean I guess? Does your home have a fireplace? No. Do you listen to any religious music? No. Do you drink soda? If so, which one is your favorite? Ugh... soda is my weakness. I'd probably lose weight easier if I just stopped drinking it. Mountain Dew Voltage is my favorite, and I've also been on a serious strawberry Sunkist thing lately. How easily do you cry? I cry very, very easily. Can you handle spicy foods? What is your spice limit? Oh yeah. The only way I know how to gauge this one is that I enjoy the "hot" sauce at BWW lol. I've actually kinda cut back on HOW much I enjoy it, though; like I'm more into enjoying my food thoroughly lately than the adrenaline of spicy food. What day of the week is laundry day for you? I personally don't do the laundry because Mom prefers to just do ours together, so. It varies, I think. Have you ever played spin the bottle? No. Do you have any stickers on your laptop computer? If so, what are they of? Not on mine, but the one I currently have to use has tooons. I don't feel like looking at the lid trying to list what they are tho. How often do you say "y'all?" It's pretty much in my normal vernacular due to where I live. Do you believe in evolution? Yes. I have questions and curiosities about it, but when you consider how truly short it has been since considerable natural selection has been observed, why couldn't it exist on a bigger scale? Do you live in an apartment or a house? I live in a house. How long have you been at your current job? I'm unemployed. Have you ever ended a romantic relationship? Yes. Phrase you say the most? Probably "oof" lmao. Have you ever kissed anyone of the same gender? If so, did you like it? Yes and yes. Have you ever given anyone CPR? No. Have you ever learned to do anything from a how-to video on YouTube? Yes, mainly just editing stuff. Have you ever auditioned for a reality competition show? No. Have you ever been in the audience for the taping of a TV show? No. I've been at hockey games with Dad, but I don't consider those "TV shows." Have you ever given money to a street performer? I've never even seen one. Do you own any homemade clothing? Not that I know of. Have you ever bought anything from a flea market? Yeah, decorations 'n trinkets and stuff. I love flea markets. Have you ever quit a job? Yes. Are your birth parents together? No. Do you or have you ever worn glasses? I've worn glasses for years now. Have you ever been broken up with? AKA died in spirit? :^) Have you ever been the victim of a nasty prank? Not to my recolleciton. Favorite fandom? Y'all been known, the Markiplier fandom is a goddamn family. Can you surf? No. What motivates you to do well in life? The knowledge that I've most likely only got one life to make something of. How lucky do you consider yourself? I mean, ALL things considered, I'd say I'm at just below the baseline, maybe? I mean I could be homeless or dying of malaria or something. Have you ever been summoned for jury duty? No. Favorite summer activity? Swimming! Have you ever lived on a farm? No. I wanted to for years as a little kid, though. How often do you get mad at yourself? I've lately been in an almost constant state of anger regarding myself, honestly. Have you ever gotten any stitches? Yes. Favorite YouTube channel? The Marker Plier guy. Do you have a pool at your house? No. Last thing that made you laugh? Something on Game Grumps. Earbud or earmuff headphones? Earbuds. Earmuffs hurt my head and ears. Have you ever been a bridesmaid or a groomsman? Yes. Have you ever gotten a New Year’s kiss exactly at midnight? I don't think so. Have you ever voted for a reality competition show? The only time I did that I remember is when Landau Eugene Murphy Jr. won America's Got Talent. I adored him and voted like mad. Does anyone in your family currently serve in your country’s military? Ummm maybe distantly? I don't know anyone off the top of my head. Are you comfortable with watching rated R movies? Well yeah.

#survey #surveys #questions

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naagi · 5 years ago

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My Family’s Slave

By Alex Tizon

The ashes filled a black plastic box about the size of a toaster. It weighed three and a half pounds. I put it in a canvas tote bag and packed it in my suitcase this past July for the transpacific flight to Manila. From there I would travel by car to a rural village. When I arrived, I would hand over all that was left of the woman who had spent 56 years as a slave in my family’s household.

Her name was Eudocia Tomas Pulido. We called her Lola. She was 4 foot 11, with mocha-brown skin and almond eyes that I can still see looking into mine—my first memory. She was 18 years old when my grandfather gave her to my mother as a gift, and when my family moved to the United States, we brought her with us. No other word but slave encompassed the life she lived. Her days began before everyone else woke and ended after we went to bed. She prepared three meals a day, cleaned the house, waited on my parents, and took care of my four siblings and me. My parents never paid her, and they scolded her constantly. She wasn’t kept in leg irons, but she might as well have been. So many nights, on my way to the bathroom, I’d spot her sleeping in a corner, slumped against a mound of laundry, her fingers clutching a garment she was in the middle of folding.

To our American neighbors, we were model immigrants, a poster family. They told us so. My father had a law degree, my mother was on her way to becoming a doctor, and my siblings and I got good grades and always said “please” and “thank you.” We never talked about Lola. Our secret went to the core of who we were and, at least for us kids, who we wanted to be.

After my mother died of leukemia, in 1999, Lola came to live with me in a small town north of Seattle. I had a family, a career, a house in the suburbs—the American dream. And then I had a slave.

At baggage claim in Manila, I unzipped my suitcase to make sure Lola’s ashes were still there. Outside, I inhaled the familiar smell: a thick blend of exhaust and waste, of ocean and sweet fruit and sweat.Early the next morning I found a driver, an affable middle-aged man who went by the nickname “Doods,” and we hit the road in his truck, weaving through traffic. The scene always stunned me. The sheer number of cars and motorcycles and jeepneys. The people weaving between them and moving on the sidewalks in great brown rivers. The street vendors in bare feet trotting alongside cars, hawking cigarettes and cough drops and sacks of boiled peanuts. The child beggars pressing their faces against the windows.

Doods and I were headed to the place where Lola’s story began, up north in the central plains: Tarlac province. Rice country. The home of a cigar-chomping army lieutenant named Tomas Asuncion, my grandfather. The family stories paint Lieutenant Tom as a formidable man given to eccentricity and dark moods, who had lots of land but little money and kept mistresses in separate houses on his property. His wife died giving birth to their only child, my mother. She was raised by a series of utusans, or “people who take commands.”

Slavery has a long history on the islands. Before the Spanish came, islanders enslaved other islanders, usually war captives, criminals, or debtors. Slaves came in different varieties, from warriors who could earn their freedom through valor to household servants who were regarded as property and could be bought and sold or traded. High-status slaves could own low-status slaves, and the low could own the lowliest. Some chose to enter servitude simply to survive: In exchange for their labor, they might be given food, shelter, and protection.

When the Spanish arrived, in the 1500s, they enslaved islanders and later brought African and Indian slaves. The Spanish Crown eventually began phasing out slavery at home and in its colonies, but parts of the Philippines were so far-flung that authorities couldn’t keep a close eye. Traditions persisted under different guises, even after the U.S. took control of the islands in 1898. Today even the poor can have utusans or katulongs (“helpers”) or kasambahays (“domestics”), as long as there are people even poorer. The pool is deep.

Lieutenant Tom had as many as three families of utusans living on his property. In the spring of 1943, with the islands under Japanese occupation, he brought home a girl from a village down the road. She was a cousin from a marginal side of the family, rice farmers. The lieutenant was shrewd—he saw that this girl was penniless, unschooled, and likely to be malleable. Her parents wanted her to marry a pig farmer twice her age, and she was desperately unhappy but had nowhere to go. Tom approached her with an offer: She could have food and shelter if she would commit to taking care of his daughter, who had just turned 12.

Lola agreed, not grasping that the deal was for life.

“She is my gift to you,” Lieutenant Tom told my mother.

“I don’t want her,” my mother said, knowing she had no choice.

Lieutenant Tom went off to fight the Japanese, leaving Mom behind with Lola in his creaky house in the provinces. Lola fed, groomed, and dressed my mother. When they walked to the market, Lola held an umbrella to shield her from the sun. At night, when Lola’s other tasks were done—feeding the dogs, sweeping the floors, folding the laundry that she had washed by hand in the Camiling River—she sat at the edge of my mother’s bed and fanned her to sleep.

One day during the war Lieutenant Tom came home and caught my mother in a lie—something to do with a boy she wasn’t supposed to talk to. Tom, furious, ordered her to “stand at the table.” Mom cowered with Lola in a corner. Then, in a quivering voice, she told her father that Lola would take her punishment. Lola looked at Mom pleadingly, then without a word walked to the dining table and held on to the edge. Tom raised the belt and delivered 12 lashes, punctuating each one with a word. You. Do. Not. Lie. To. Me. You. Do. Not. Lie. To. Me. Lola made no sound.

My mother, in recounting this story late in her life, delighted in the outrageousness of it, her tone seeming to say, Can you believe I did that? When I brought it up with Lola, she asked to hear Mom’s version. She listened intently, eyes lowered, and afterward she looked at me with sadness and said simply, “Yes. It was like that.”

Seven years later, in 1950, Mom married my father and moved to Manila, bringing Lola along. Lieutenant Tom had long been haunted by demons, and in 1951 he silenced them with a .32‑caliber slug to his temple. Mom almost never talked about it. She had his temperament—moody, imperial, secretly fragile—and she took his lessons to heart, among them the proper way to be a provincial matrona: You must embrace your role as the giver of commands. You must keep those beneath you in their place at all times, for their own good and the good of the household. They might cry and complain, but their souls will thank you. They will love you for helping them be what God intended.

My brother Arthur was born in 1951. I came next, followed by three more siblings in rapid succession. My parents expected Lola to be as devoted to us kids as she was to them. While she looked after us, my parents went to school and earned advanced degrees, joining the ranks of so many others with fancy diplomas but no jobs. Then the big break: Dad was offered a job in Foreign Affairs as a commercial analyst. The salary would be meager, but the position was in America—a place he and Mom had grown up dreaming of, where everything they hoped for could come true.

Dad was allowed to bring his family and one domestic. Figuring they would both have to work, my parents needed Lola to care for the kids and the house. My mother informed Lola, and to her great irritation, Lola didn’t immediately acquiesce. Years later Lola told me she was terrified. “It was too far,” she said. “Maybe your Mom and Dad won’t let me go home.”

In the end what convinced Lola was my father’s promise that things would be different in America. He told her that as soon as he and Mom got on their feet, they’d give her an “allowance.” Lola could send money to her parents, to all her relations in the village. Her parents lived in a hut with a dirt floor. Lola could build them a concrete house, could change their lives forever. Imagine.

We landed in Los Angeles on May 12, 1964, all our belongings in cardboard boxes tied with rope. Lola had been with my mother for 21 years by then. In many ways she was more of a parent to me than either my mother or my father. Hers was the first face I saw in the morning and the last one I saw at night. As a baby, I uttered Lola’s name (which I first pronounced “Oh-ah”) long before I learned to say “Mom” or “Dad.” As a toddler, I refused to go to sleep unless Lola was holding me, or at least nearby.

I was 4 years old when we arrived in the U.S.—too young to question Lola’s place in our family. But as my siblings and I grew up on this other shore, we came to see the world differently. The leap across the ocean brought about a leap in consciousness that Mom and Dad couldn’t, or wouldn’t, make.

Lola never got that allowance. She asked my parents about it in a roundabout way a couple of years into our life in America. Her mother had fallen ill (with what I would later learn was dysentery), and her family couldn’t afford the medicine she needed. “Pwede ba?” she said to my parents. Is it possible? Mom let out a sigh. “How could you even ask?,” Dad responded in Tagalog. “You see how hard up we are. Don’t you have any shame?”

My parents had borrowed money for the move to the U.S., and then borrowed more in order to stay. My father was transferred from the consulate general in L.A. to the Philippine consulate in Seattle. He was paid $5,600 a year. He took a second job cleaning trailers, and a third as a debt collector. Mom got work as a technician in a couple of medical labs. We barely saw them, and when we did they were often exhausted and snappish.

Mom would come home and upbraid Lola for not cleaning the house well enough or for forgetting to bring in the mail. “Didn’t I tell you I want the letters here when I come home?” she would say in Tagalog, her voice venomous. “It’s not hard naman! An idiot could remember.” Then my father would arrive and take his turn. When Dad raised his voice, everyone in the house shrank. Sometimes my parents would team up until Lola broke down crying, almost as though that was their goal.

It confused me: My parents were good to my siblings and me, and we loved them. But they’d be affectionate to us kids one moment and vile to Lola the next. I was 11 or 12 when I began to see Lola’s situation clearly. By then Arthur, eight years my senior, had been seething for a long time. He was the one who introduced the word slave into my understanding of what Lola was. Before he said it I’d thought of her as just an unfortunate member of the household. I hated when my parents yelled at her, but it hadn’t occurred to me that they—and the whole arrangement—could be immoral.

“Do you know anybody treated the way she’s treated?,” Arthur said. “Who lives the way she lives?” He summed up Lola’s reality: Wasn’t paid. Toiled every day. Was tongue-lashed for sitting too long or falling asleep too early. Was struck for talking back. Wore hand-me-downs. Ate scraps and leftovers by herself in the kitchen. Rarely left the house. Had no friends or hobbies outside the family. Had no private quarters. (Her designated place to sleep in each house we lived in was always whatever was left—a couch or storage area or corner in my sisters’ bedroom. She often slept among piles of laundry.)

We couldn’t identify a parallel anywhere except in slave characters on TV and in the movies. I remember watching a Western called The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. John Wayne plays Tom Doniphon, a gunslinging rancher who barks orders at his servant, Pompey, whom he calls his “boy.” Pick him up, Pompey. Pompey, go find the doctor. Get on back to work, Pompey! Docile and obedient, Pompey calls his master “Mistah Tom.” They have a complex relationship. Tom forbids Pompey from attending school but opens the way for Pompey to drink in a whites-only saloon. Near the end, Pompey saves his master from a fire. It’s clear Pompey both fears and loves Tom, and he mourns when Tom dies. All of this is peripheral to the main story of Tom’s showdown with bad guy Liberty Valance, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Pompey. I remember thinking: Lola is Pompey, Pompey is Lola.

One night when Dad found out that my sister Ling, who was then 9, had missed dinner, he barked at Lola for being lazy. “I tried to feed her,” Lola said, as Dad stood over her and glared. Her feeble defense only made him angrier, and he punched her just below the shoulder. Lola ran out of the room and I could hear her wailing, an animal cry.

“Ling said she wasn’t hungry,” I said.

My parents turned to look at me. They seemed startled. I felt the twitching in my face that usually preceded tears, but I wouldn’t cry this time. In Mom’s eyes was a shadow of something I hadn’t seen before. Jealousy?

“Are you defending your Lola?,” Dad said. “Is that what you’re doing?”

“Ling said she wasn’t hungry,” I said again, almost in a whisper.

I was 13. It was my first attempt to stick up for the woman who spent her days watching over me. The woman who used to hum Tagalog melodies as she rocked me to sleep, and when I got older would dress and feed me and walk me to school in the mornings and pick me up in the afternoons. Once, when I was sick for a long time and too weak to eat, she chewed my food for me and put the small pieces in my mouth to swallow. One summer when I had plaster casts on both legs (I had problem joints), she bathed me with a washcloth, brought medicine in the middle of the night, and helped me through months of rehabilitation. I was cranky through it all. She didn’t complain or lose patience, ever.

To now hear her wailing made me crazy.

In the old country, my parents felt no need to hide their treatment of Lola. In America, they treated her worse but took pains to conceal it. When guests came over, my parents would either ignore her or, if questioned, lie and quickly change the subject. For five years in North Seattle, we lived across the street from the Misslers, a rambunctious family of eight who introduced us to things like mustard, salmon fishing, and mowing the lawn. Football on TV. Yelling during football. Lola would come out to serve food and drinks during games, and my parents would smile and thank her before she quickly disappeared. “Who’s that little lady you keep in the kitchen?,” Big Jim, the Missler patriarch, once asked. A relative from back home, Dad said. Very shy.

Billy Missler, my best friend, didn’t buy it. He spent enough time at our house, whole weekends sometimes, to catch glimpses of my family’s secret. He once overheard my mother yelling in the kitchen, and when he barged in to investigate found Mom red-faced and glaring at Lola, who was quaking in a corner. I came in a few seconds later. The look on Billy’s face was a mix of embarrassment and perplexity. What was that? I waved it off and told him to forget it.

I think Billy felt sorry for Lola. He’d rave about her cooking, and make her laugh like I’d never seen. During sleepovers, she’d make his favorite Filipino dish, beef tapa over white rice. Cooking was Lola’s only eloquence. I could tell by what she served whether she was merely feeding us or saying she loved us.

When I once referred to Lola as a distant aunt, Billy reminded me that when we’d first met I’d said she was my grandmother.

“Well, she’s kind of both,” I said mysteriously.

“Why is she always working?”

“She likes to work,” I said.

“Your dad and mom—why do they yell at her?”

“Her hearing isn’t so good …”

Admitting the truth would have meant exposing us all. We spent our first decade in the country learning the ways of the new land and trying to fit in. Having a slave did not fit. Having a slave gave me grave doubts about what kind of people we were, what kind of place we came from. Whether we deserved to be accepted. I was ashamed of it all, including my complicity. Didn’t I eat the food she cooked, and wear the clothes she washed and ironed and hung in the closet? But losing her would have been devastating.

There was another reason for secrecy: Lola’s travel papers had expired in 1969, five years after we arrived in the U.S. She’d come on a special passport linked to my father’s job. After a series of fallings-out with his superiors, Dad quit the consulate and declared his intent to stay in the United States. He arranged for permanent-resident status for his family, but Lola wasn’t eligible. He was supposed to send her back.

Lola’s mother, Fermina, died in 1973; her father, Hilario, in 1979. Both times she wanted desperately to go home. Both times my parents said “Sorry.” No money, no time. The kids needed her. My parents also feared for themselves, they admitted to me later. If the authorities had found out about Lola, as they surely would have if she’d tried to leave, my parents could have gotten into trouble, possibly even been deported. They couldn’t risk it. Lola’s legal status became what Filipinos call tago nang tago, or TNT—“on the run.” She stayed TNT for almost 20 years.

After each of her parents died, Lola was sullen and silent for months. She barely responded when my parents badgered her. But the badgering never let up. Lola kept her head down and did her work.

My father’s resignation started a turbulent period. Money got tighter, and my parents turned on each other. They uprooted the family again and again—Seattle to Honolulu back to Seattle to the southeast Bronx and finally to the truck-stop town of Umatilla, Oregon, population 750. During all this moving around, Mom often worked 24-hour shifts, first as a medical intern and then as a resident, and Dad would disappear for days, working odd jobs but also (we’d later learn) womanizing and who knows what else. Once, he came home and told us that he’d lost our new station wagon playing blackjack.

For days in a row Lola would be the only adult in the house. She got to know the details of our lives in a way that my parents never had the mental space for. We brought friends home, and she’d listen to us talk about school and girls and boys and whatever else was on our minds. Just from conversations she overheard, she could list the first name of every girl I had a crush on from sixth grade through high school.

When I was 15, Dad left the family for good. I didn’t want to believe it at the time, but the fact was that he deserted us kids and abandoned Mom after 25 years of marriage. She wouldn’t become a licensed physician for another year, and her specialty—internal medicine—wasn’t especially lucrative. Dad didn’t pay child support, so money was always a struggle.

My mom kept herself together enough to go to work, but at night she’d crumble in self-pity and despair. Her main source of comfort during this time: Lola. As Mom snapped at her over small things, Lola attended to her even more—cooking Mom’s favorite meals, cleaning her bedroom with extra care. I’d find the two of them late at night at the kitchen counter, griping and telling stories about Dad, sometimes laughing wickedly, other times working themselves into a fury over his transgressions. They barely noticed us kids flitting in and out.

One night I heard Mom weeping and ran into the living room to find her slumped in Lola’s arms. Lola was talking softly to her, the way she used to with my siblings and me when we were young. I lingered, then went back to my room, scared for my mom and awed by Lola.

Doods was humming. I’d dozed for what felt like a minute and awoke to his happy melody. “Two hours more,” he said. I checked the plastic box in the tote bag by my side—still there—and looked up to see open road. The MacArthur Highway. I glanced at the time. “Hey, you said ‘two hours’ two hours ago,” I said. Doods just hummed.

His not knowing anything about the purpose of my journey was a relief. I had enough interior dialogue going on. I was no better than my parents. I could have done more to free Lola. To make her life better. Why didn’t I? I could have turned in my parents, I suppose. It would have blown up my family in an instant. Instead, my siblings and I kept everything to ourselves, and rather than blowing up in an instant, my family broke apart slowly.

Doods and I passed through beautiful country. Not travel-brochure beautiful but real and alive and, compared with the city, elegantly spare. Mountains ran parallel to the highway on each side, the Zambales Mountains to the west, the Sierra Madre Range to the east. From ridge to ridge, west to east, I could see every shade of green all the way to almost black.

Doods pointed to a shadowy outline in the distance. Mount Pinatubo. I’d come here in 1991 to report on the aftermath of its eruption, the second-largest of the 20th century. Volcanic mudflows called lahars continued for more than a decade, burying ancient villages, filling in rivers and valleys, and wiping out entire ecosystems. The lahars reached deep into the foothills of Tarlac province, where Lola’s parents had spent their entire lives, and where she and my mother had once lived together. So much of our family record had been lost in wars and floods, and now parts were buried under 20 feet of mud.

Life here is routinely visited by cataclysm. Killer typhoons that strike several times a year. Bandit insurgencies that never end. Somnolent mountains that one day decide to wake up. The Philippines isn’t like China or Brazil, whose mass might absorb the trauma. This is a nation of scattered rocks in the sea. When disaster hits, the place goes under for a while. Then it resurfaces and life proceeds, and you can behold a scene like the one Doods and I were driving through, and the simple fact that it’s still there makes it beautiful.

A couple of years after my parents split, my mother remarried and demanded Lola’s fealty to her new husband, a Croatian immigrant named Ivan, whom she had met through a friend. Ivan had never finished high school. He’d been married four times and was an inveterate gambler who enjoyed being supported by my mother and attended to by Lola.

Ivan brought out a side of Lola I’d never seen. His marriage to my mother was volatile from the start, and money—especially his use of her money—was the main issue. Once, during an argument in which Mom was crying and Ivan was yelling, Lola walked over and stood between them. She turned to Ivan and firmly said his name. He looked at Lola, blinked, and sat down.

My sister Inday and I were floored. Ivan was about 250 pounds, and his baritone could shake the walls. Lola put him in his place with a single word. I saw this happen a few other times, but for the most part Lola served Ivan unquestioningly, just as Mom wanted her to. I had a hard time watching Lola vassalize herself to another person, especially someone like Ivan. But what set the stage for my blowup with Mom was something more mundane.

She used to get angry whenever Lola felt ill. She didn’t want to deal with the disruption and the expense, and would accuse Lola of faking or failing to take care of herself. Mom chose the second tack when, in the late 1970s, Lola’s teeth started falling out. She’d been saying for months that her mouth hurt.

“That’s what happens when you don’t brush properly,” Mom told her.

I said that Lola needed to see a dentist. She was in her 50s and had never been to one. I was attending college an hour away, and I brought it up again and again on my frequent trips home. A year went by, then two. Lola took aspirin every day for the pain, and her teeth looked like a crumbling Stonehenge. One night, after watching her chew bread on the side of her mouth that still had a few good molars, I lost it.

Mom and I argued into the night, each of us sobbing at different points. She said she was tired of working her fingers to the bone supporting everybody, and sick of her children always taking Lola’s side, and why didn’t we just take our goddamn Lola, she’d never wanted her in the first place, and she wished to God she hadn’t given birth to an arrogant, sanctimonious phony like me.

I let her words sink in. Then I came back at her, saying she would know all about being a phony, her whole life was a masquerade, and if she stopped feeling sorry for herself for one minute she’d see that Lola could barely eat because her goddamn teeth were rotting out of her goddamn head, and couldn’t she think of her just this once as a real person instead of a slave kept alive to serve her?

“A slave,” Mom said, weighing the word. “A slave?”

The night ended when she declared that I would never understand her relationship with Lola. Never. Her voice was so guttural and pained that thinking of it even now, so many years later, feels like a punch to the stomach. It’s a terrible thing to hate your own mother, and that night I did. The look in her eyes made clear that she felt the same way about me.

The fight only fed Mom’s fear that Lola had stolen the kids from her, and she made Lola pay for it. Mom drove her harder. Tormented her by saying, “I hope you’re happy now that your kids hate me.” When we helped Lola with housework, Mom would fume. “You’d better go to sleep now, Lola,” she’d say sarcastically. “You’ve been working too hard. Your kids are worried about you.” Later she’d take Lola into a bedroom for a talk, and Lola would walk out with puffy eyes.

Lola finally begged us to stop trying to help her.

Why do you stay? we asked.

“Who will cook?” she said, which I took to mean, Who would do everything? Who would take care of us? Of Mom? Another time she said, “Where will I go?” This struck me as closer to a real answer. Coming to America had been a mad dash, and before we caught a breath a decade had gone by. We turned around, and a second decade was closing out. Lola’s hair had turned gray. She’d heard that relatives back home who hadn’t received the promised support were wondering what had happened to her. She was ashamed to return.

She had no contacts in America, and no facility for getting around. Phones puzzled her. Mechanical things—ATMs, intercoms, vending machines, anything with a keyboard—made her panic. Fast-talking people left her speechless, and her own broken English did the same to them. She couldn’t make an appointment, arrange a trip, fill out a form, or order a meal without help.

I got Lola an ATM card linked to my bank account and taught her how to use it. She succeeded once, but the second time she got flustered, and she never tried again. She kept the card because she considered it a gift from me.

I also tried to teach her to drive. She dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand, but I picked her up and carried her to the car and planted her in the driver’s seat, both of us laughing. I spent 20 minutes going over the controls and gauges. Her eyes went from mirthful to terrified. When I turned on the ignition and the dashboard lit up, she was out of the car and in the house before I could say another word. I tried a couple more times.

I thought driving could change her life. She could go places. And if things ever got unbearable with Mom, she could drive away forever.

Four lanes became two, pavement turned to gravel. Tricycle drivers wove between cars and water buffalo pulling loads of bamboo. An occasional dog or goat sprinted across the road in front of our truck, almost grazing the bumper. Doods never eased up. Whatever didn’t make it across would be stew today instead of tomorrow—the rule of the road in the provinces.

I took out a map and traced the route to the village of Mayantoc, our destination. Out the window, in the distance, tiny figures folded at the waist like so many bent nails. People harvesting rice, the same way they had for thousands of years. We were getting close.

I tapped the cheap plastic box and regretted not buying a real urn, made of porcelain or rosewood. What would Lola’s people think? Not that many were left. Only one sibling remained in the area, Gregoria, 98 years old, and I was told her memory was failing. Relatives said that whenever she heard Lola’s name, she’d burst out crying and then quickly forget why.

I’d been in touch with one of Lola’s nieces. She had the day planned: When I arrived, a low-key memorial, then a prayer, followed by the lowering of the ashes into a plot at the Mayantoc Eternal Bliss Memorial Park. It had been five years since Lola died, but I hadn’t yet said the final goodbye that I knew was about to happen. All day I had been feeling intense grief and resisting the urge to let it out, not wanting to wail in front of Doods. More than the shame I felt for the way my family had treated Lola, more than my anxiety about how her relatives in Mayantoc would treat me, I felt the terrible heaviness of losing her, as if she had died only the day before.

Doods veered northwest on the Romulo Highway, then took a sharp left at Camiling, the town Mom and Lieutenant Tom came from. Two lanes became one, then gravel turned to dirt. The path ran along the Camiling River, clusters of bamboo houses off to the side, green hills ahead. The homestretch.

I gave the eulogy at Mom’s funeral, and everything I said was true. That she was brave and spirited. That she’d drawn some short straws, but had done the best she could. That she was radiant when she was happy. That she adored her children, and gave us a real home—in Salem, Oregon—that through the ’80s and ’90s became the permanent base we’d never had before. That I wished we could thank her one more time. That we all loved her.

I didn’t talk about Lola. Just as I had selectively blocked Lola out of my mind when I was with Mom during her last years. Loving my mother required that kind of mental surgery. It was the only way we could be mother and son—which I wanted, especially after her health started to decline, in the mid‑’90s. Diabetes. Breast cancer. Acute myelogenous leukemia, a fast-growing cancer of the blood and bone marrow. She went from robust to frail seemingly overnight.

After the big fight, I mostly avoided going home, and at age 23 I moved to Seattle. When I did visit I saw a change. Mom was still Mom, but not as relentlessly. She got Lola a fine set of dentures and let her have her own bedroom. She cooperated when my siblings and I set out to change Lola’s TNT status. Ronald Reagan’s landmark immigration bill of 1986 made millions of illegal immigrants eligible for amnesty. It was a long process, but Lola became a citizen in October 1998, four months after my mother was diagnosed with leukemia. Mom lived another year.

During that time, she and Ivan took trips to Lincoln City, on the Oregon coast, and sometimes brought Lola along. Lola loved the ocean. On the other side were the islands she dreamed of returning to. And Lola was never happier than when Mom relaxed around her. An afternoon at the coast or just 15 minutes in the kitchen reminiscing about the old days in the province, and Lola would seem to forget years of torment.

I couldn’t forget so easily. But I did come to see Mom in a different light. Before she died, she gave me her journals, two steamer trunks’ full. Leafing through them as she slept a few feet away, I glimpsed slices of her life that I’d refused to see for years. She’d gone to medical school when not many women did. She’d come to America and fought for respect as both a woman and an immigrant physician. She’d worked for two decades at Fairview Training Center, in Salem, a state institution for the developmentally disabled. The irony: She tended to underdogs most of her professional life. They worshipped her. Female colleagues became close friends. They did silly, girly things together—shoe shopping, throwing dress-up parties at one another’s homes, exchanging gag gifts like penis-shaped soaps and calendars of half-naked men, all while laughing hysterically. Looking through their party pictures reminded me that Mom had a life and an identity apart from the family and Lola. Of course.

Mom wrote in great detail about each of her kids, and how she felt about us on a given day—proud or loving or resentful. And she devoted volumes to her husbands, trying to grasp them as complex characters in her story. We were all persons of consequence. Lola was incidental. When she was mentioned at all, she was a bit character in someone else’s story. “Lola walked my beloved Alex to his new school this morning. I hope he makes new friends quickly so he doesn’t feel so sad about moving again …” There might be two more pages about me, and no other mention of Lola.

The day before Mom died, a Catholic priest came to the house to perform last rites. Lola sat next to my mother’s bed, holding a cup with a straw, poised to raise it to Mom’s mouth. She had become extra attentive to my mother, and extra kind. She could have taken advantage of Mom in her feebleness, even exacted revenge, but she did the opposite.

The priest asked Mom whether there was anything she wanted to forgive or be forgiven for. She scanned the room with heavy-lidded eyes, said nothing. Then, without looking at Lola, she reached over and placed an open hand on her head. She didn’t say a word.

Lola was 75 when she came to stay with me. I was married with two young daughters, living in a cozy house on a wooded lot. From the second story, we could see Puget Sound. We gave Lola a bedroom and license to do whatever she wanted: sleep in, watch soaps, do nothing all day. She could relax—and be free—for the first time in her life. I should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.

I’d forgotten about all the things Lola did that drove me a little crazy. She was always telling me to put on a sweater so I wouldn’t catch a cold (I was in my 40s). She groused incessantly about Dad and Ivan: My father was lazy, Ivan was a leech. I learned to tune her out. Harder to ignore was her fanatical thriftiness. She threw nothing out. And she used to go through the trash to make sure that the rest of us hadn’t thrown out anything useful. She washed and reused paper towels again and again until they disintegrated in her hands. (No one else would go near them.) The kitchen became glutted with grocery bags, yogurt containers, and pickle jars, and parts of our house turned into storage for—there’s no other word for it—garbage.

She cooked breakfast even though none of us ate more than a banana or a granola bar in the morning, usually while we were running out the door. She made our beds and did our laundry. She cleaned the house. I found myself saying to her, nicely at first, “Lola, you don’t have to do that.” “Lola, we’ll do it ourselves.” “Lola, that’s the girls’ job.” Okay, she’d say, but keep right on doing it.

It irritated me to catch her eating meals standing in the kitchen, or see her tense up and start cleaning when I walked into the room. One day, after several months, I sat her down.

“I’m not Dad. You’re not a slave here,” I said, and went through a long list of slavelike things she’d been doing. When I realized she was startled, I took a deep breath and cupped her face, that elfin face now looking at me searchingly. I kissed her forehead. “This is your house now,” I said. “You’re not here to serve us. You can relax, okay?”

“Okay,” she said. And went back to cleaning.

She didn’t know any other way to be. I realized I had to take my own advice and relax. If she wanted to make dinner, let her. Thank her and do the dishes. I had to remind myself constantly: Let her be.

One night I came home to find her sitting on the couch doing a word puzzle, her feet up, the TV on. Next to her, a cup of tea. She glanced at me, smiled sheepishly with those perfect white dentures, and went back to the puzzle. Progress, I thought.

She planted a garden in the backyard—roses and tulips and every kind of orchid—and spent whole afternoons tending it. She took walks around the neighborhood. At about 80, her arthritis got bad and she began walking with a cane. In the kitchen she went from being a fry cook to a kind of artisanal chef who created only when the spirit moved her. She made lavish meals and grinned with pleasure as we devoured them.

Passing the door of Lola’s bedroom, I’d often hear her listening to a cassette of Filipino folk songs. The same tape over and over. I knew she’d been sending almost all her money—my wife and I gave her $200 a week—to relatives back home. One afternoon, I found her sitting on the back deck gazing at a snapshot someone had sent of her village.

“You want to go home, Lola?”

She turned the photograph over and traced her finger across the inscription, then flipped it back and seemed to study a single detail.

“Yes,” she said.

Just after her 83rd birthday, I paid her airfare to go home. I’d follow a month later to bring her back to the U.S.—if she wanted to return. The unspoken purpose of her trip was to see whether the place she had spent so many years longing for could still feel like home.

She found her answer.

“Everything was not the same,” she told me as we walked around Mayantoc. The old farms were gone. Her house was gone. Her parents and most of her siblings were gone. Childhood friends, the ones still alive, were like strangers. It was nice to see them, but … everything was not the same. She’d still like to spend her last years here, she said, but she wasn’t ready yet.

“You’re ready to go back to your garden,” I said.

“Yes. Let’s go home.”

Lola was as devoted to my daughters as she’d been to my siblings and me when we were young. After school, she’d listen to their stories and make them something to eat. And unlike my wife and me (especially me), Lola enjoyed every minute of every school event and performance. She couldn’t get enough of them. She sat up front, kept the programs as mementos.

It was so easy to make Lola happy. We took her on family vacations, but she was as excited to go to the farmer’s market down the hill. She became a wide-eyed kid on a field trip: “Look at those zucchinis!” The first thing she did every morning was open all the blinds in the house, and at each window she’d pause to look outside.

And she taught herself to read. It was remarkable. Over the years, she’d somehow learned to sound out letters. She did those puzzles where you find and circle words within a block of letters. Her room had stacks of word-puzzle booklets, thousands of words circled in pencil. Every day she watched the news and listened for words she recognized. She triangulated them with words in the newspaper, and figured out the meanings. She came to read the paper every day, front to back. Dad used to say she was simple. I wondered what she could have been if, instead of working the rice fields at age 8, she had learned to read and write.

During the 12 years she lived in our house, I asked her questions about herself, trying to piece together her life story, a habit she found curious. To my inquiries she would often respond first with “Why?” Why did I want to know about her childhood? About how she met Lieutenant Tom?

I tried to get my sister Ling to ask Lola about her love life, thinking Lola would be more comfortable with her. Ling cackled, which was her way of saying I was on my own. One day, while Lola and I were putting away groceries, I just blurted it out: “Lola, have you ever been romantic with anyone?” She smiled, and then she told me the story of the only time she’d come close. She was about 15, and there was a handsome boy named Pedro from a nearby farm. For several months they harvested rice together side by side. One time, she dropped her bolo—a cutting implement—and he quickly picked it up and handed it back to her. “I liked him,” she said.

Silence.

“And?”

“Then he moved away,” she said.

“And?”

“That’s all.”

“Lola, have you ever had sex?,” I heard myself saying.

“No,” she said.

She wasn’t accustomed to being asked personal questions. “Katulong lang ako,” she’d say. I’m only a servant. She often gave one- or two-word answers, and teasing out even the simplest story was a game of 20 questions that could last days or weeks.

Some of what I learned: She was mad at Mom for being so cruel all those years, but she nevertheless missed her. Sometimes, when Lola was young, she’d felt so lonely that all she could do was cry. I knew there were years when she’d dreamed of being with a man. I saw it in the way she wrapped herself around one large pillow at night. But what she told me in her old age was that living with Mom’s husbands made her think being alone wasn’t so bad. She didn’t miss those two at all. Maybe her life would have been better if she’d stayed in Mayantoc, gotten married, and had a family like her siblings. But maybe it would have been worse. Two younger sisters, Francisca and Zepriana, got sick and died. A brother, Claudio, was killed. What’s the point of wondering about it now? she asked. Bahala na was her guiding principle. Come what may. What came her way was another kind of family. In that family, she had eight children: Mom, my four siblings and me, and now my two daughters. The eight of us, she said, made her life worth living.

None of us was prepared for her to die so suddenly.

Her heart attack started in the kitchen while she was making dinner and I was running an errand. When I returned she was in the middle of it. A couple of hours later at the hospital, before I could grasp what was happening, she was gone—10:56 p.m. All the kids and grandkids noted, but were unsure how to take, that she died on November 7, the same day as Mom. Twelve years apart.

Lola made it to 86. I can still see her on the gurney. I remember looking at the medics standing above this brown woman no bigger than a child and thinking that they had no idea of the life she had lived. She’d had none of the self-serving ambition that drives most of us, and her willingness to give up everything for the people around her won her our love and utter loyalty. She’s become a hallowed figure in my extended family.

Going through her boxes in the attic took me months. I found recipes she had cut out of magazines in the 1970s for when she would someday learn to read. Photo albums with pictures of my mom. Awards my siblings and I had won from grade school on, most of which we had thrown away and she had “saved.” I almost lost it one night when at the bottom of a box I found a stack of yellowed newspaper articles I’d written and long ago forgotten about. She couldn’t read back then, but she’d kept them anyway.

Doods’s truck pulled up to a small concrete house in the middle of a cluster of homes mostly made of bamboo and plank wood. Surrounding the pod of houses: rice fields, green and seemingly endless. Before I even got out of the truck, people started coming outside.

Doods reclined his seat to take a nap. I hung my tote bag on my shoulder, took a breath, and opened the door.

“This way,” a soft voice said, and I was led up a short walkway to the concrete house. Following close behind was a line of about 20 people, young and old, but mostly old. Once we were all inside, they sat down on chairs and benches arranged along the walls, leaving the middle of the room empty except for me. I remained standing, waiting to meet my host. It was a small room, and dark. People glanced at me expectantly.“

Where is Lola?” A voice from another room. The next moment, a middle-aged woman in a housedress sauntered in with a smile. Ebia, Lola’s niece. This was her house. She gave me a hug and said again, “Where is Lola?”

I slid the tote bag from my shoulder and handed it to her. She looked into my face, still smiling, gently grasped the bag, and walked over to a wooden bench and sat down. She reached inside and pulled out the box and looked at every side. “Where is Lola?” she said softly. People in these parts don’t often get their loved ones cremated. I don’t think she knew what to expect. She set the box on her lap and bent over so her forehead rested on top of it, and at first I thought she was laughing (out of joy) but I quickly realized she was crying. Her shoulders began to heave, and then she was wailing—a deep, mournful, animal howl, like I once heard coming from Lola.

I hadn’t come sooner to deliver Lola’s ashes in part because I wasn’t sure anyone here cared that much about her. I hadn’t expected this kind of grief. Before I could comfort Ebia, a woman walked in from the kitchen and wrapped her arms around her, and then she began wailing. The next thing I knew, the room erupted with sound. The old people—one of them blind, several with no teeth—were all crying and not holding anything back. It lasted about 10 minutes. I was so fascinated that I barely noticed the tears running down my own face. The sobs died down, and then it was quiet again.

Ebia sniffled and said it was time to eat. Everybody started filing into the kitchen, puffy-eyed but suddenly lighter and ready to tell stories. I glanced at the empty tote bag on the bench, and knew it was right to bring Lola back to the place where she’d been born.

----------

Alex Tizon was a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist and the author of Big Little Man: In Search of My Asian Self. This article originally appeared in the June 2017 issue of The Atlantic and needless to say it was difficult to hold back the tears while reading this incredibly moving piece.

#alex tizon #slave #family #slavery #mother #maid

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magicalgirlagency · 5 years ago

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hmmm i wonder, just how many other characters are in your magical girl story? it sounds cool!

The main team, the Red Star Agency, is a team of 16 (17, including Thor) Magis. I know it’s too much, but I went along with that number of members because I wanted to spite Magical Girl Raising Project for saying that 10+ Magical Girls in the world was a valid excuse to murder them all in battle royales.

Like fuck you, Asari Endo. Observe as my team is as big as a K-Pop group and no one dies and everyone lives happily ever after.

Honey Witch Vivi: The leader of the team, a B-Rank Magi. 22 years old, pansexual/genderfluid, brazilian, autistic. Passionate, smart, idealistic, and occasionally the Mom Friend™. Despite being a leader, she sees her teammates as equals and wants to see them succeed. Basically, my self-insert. Is in a polyamorous relationship with other two Magis. Transformation trinket is a heart-shaped locket, her powers are light-based, and her assigned gemstone is Citrine. Weapon of choice is a strawberry quartz wand that can transform into a parasol. Her mascot is a Squirtle named Bubbles (she’s the only one who can understand what her mascot says).

Cupid Harpy Sally: Was once Vivi’s first mascot and dearly beloved childhood toy but later graduates into a Magi herself, a A-Rank Magi. 20 years old (in human years), asexual, wondarian. She’s also Vivi’s adoptive sister. Spunky, sassy, energetic, and sometimes naughty. True to her Magi Title, she can shapeshift her arms into wings. Transformation trinket is a heart-shaped hairclip, her powers are fire-based, and her assigned gemstone is Cherry Quartz. Weapon of choice is a lance (which she calls “Lovely Lance”), and a infinite set of Cherry Bombs.

Star Navigator Amelia: Vivi’s girlfriend (and her childhood friend, as well), a B-Rank Magi. 22 years old, bisexual, brazilian. Loyal, adventurous, mature, and calm. Her design is basically Sayaka Miki (from PMMM) if she didn’t snapped. Was once as Magi dropout due her depression, but got back to magic business thanks to Vivi’s help. Transformation trinket is a golden star medallion, her powers are water-based, and her assigned gemstone is Larimar. Weapon of choice is a rapier/espada ropera.

Pink Soldier Kiki: Vivi’s other girlfriend, a S-Rank Magi. 20 years old, pansexual/gender-neutral, japanese/brazilian, autistic. Creative, brave, charismatic, and bright. Heavily inspired on Kirby (specially on Star Allies), and is able to transform into many disguises and personas. Transformation trinket is a pair of pink bead bracelets, her powers are love-based, and her assigned gemstone is Tourmaline. Weapon of choice is a twirling baton (which it also acts as a stimming toy for her). Her “mascot” is a broomstick named Glinda, that once belonged to Vivi.

Wisp Rider Winona: A Kamen Rider afficionado, a A-Rank Magi. 21 years old, lesbian/non-binary, australian. Athletic, optimistic, clever and a bit of a joker. She has a strong connection with the Wisps (from Sonic Colors), and can emulate their hyper-go-on energy by shapeshifting into them. Transformation trinket is a star-shaped belt buckle, her powers are alien-based, and her assigned gemstone is Emerald. Weapon of choice is a golden hoop (which she calls “Power Ring”).

Cheerful Doll Delilah: A revolutionary doll, a B-Rank Magi. 19 years old, lesbian, wondarian. Elegant, sweet, sensitive, and a bit dramatic. Was a circus ballerina before she became a Magi, and rebelled against her manipulative boss. Has a crush on Winona, and looks up to her. Transformation trinket is a pair of poofy scrunchies (that she uses as bracelets), her powers are music-based, and her assigned gemstone is Rose Quartz.. Weapon of choice is a pair of cheerleader pompoms.

Tech Witch Donovan: A young techie and a ninja, a B-Rank Magi. 21 years old, asexual/biromantic, asian-american. Brainy, dexterous, wise, and introverted. Has a passion for everything that combines magic with technology and can tame demons. Is actually the reincarnation of 2k12!Donatello, after April killed him in the 100th episode. Transformation trinket is a turtle-shaped brooch, his powers are ninja/tech-based, and his assigned gemstone is Spirit Quartz. Weapon of choice is a metal bo staff. His mascots are the spirits of his brothers from another timeline (basically, they are Leo, Mike and Raph that all fell into a spiral of insanity and commited seppuku after Don and Splinter were murdered).

Frost Rabbot Nia: A magical android, a S-Rank Magi. 20 years old (in human years), asexual, wondarian. Logical, curious, intelligent, and a tactical genius. She’s a wondarian project designed to be the perfect Magi. Looks up to Donovan, and thinks of him as a older brother. She consumes Earth’s sci-fi media in order to study their mistakes, and fix them. Transformation trinket is a star-shaped core in her chest, her powers are ice-based, and her assigned gemstone is Sapphire. She has no weapon of choice, because her body is a weapon (not in a creepy and de-humanizing way, I promise!)

Quirky Rebel Nova: A energetic outsider, a A-Rank Magi (later to be promoted to S-Rank due to her awesome violent ways to exterminate Incubators). 21 years old, asexual/panromantic, currently wondarian. Impulsive, persistent, captivating, and a go-getter. She is in reality Star Butterfly, but she ran away from Mewni without leaving a trace, after learning her life was a lie (in the third season episode, The Butterfly Effect); she changes her name to Nova (as in Supernova), and has traveled throughout the Multiverse, training herself to learn magic without a wand. Can transform herself without a transformation trinket, her powers are chaos/wildcard-based, and her assigned gemstone is Fluorite. Weapon of choice is a pair of magic gloves/gauntlets (after giving up her wand). Her mascot is a Sableye named Glitter.

Devilish Clover Perci: A skillful archer, a S-Rank Magi. 22 years old, pansexual/trans, british. Stylish, outspoken, dauntless, and very friendly. One of the most popular Magis, specially due to her control over dark magic. She adopts Nova as her sister, and their personalities clash quite nicely. Transformation trinket is a peridot brooch, her powers are darkness-based, and her assigned gemstone is Sugilite. Weapon of choice is a magic bow (that was previously Nova’s wand).

Milky Angel Holly: A wild angel, a B-Rank Magi. 23 years old, pansexual, american. Unruly, rebellious, lively, and brutally honest at times. Was once one of the best Magis, but a certain happening in her life made her develop trust issues, and she became a delinquent. To get her attitude adjusted, she is assigned to the RSA. She’s designed after Panty Anarchy (from P&SwG), because I shamelessly liked her and I got salty about her sudden and out-of-the-blue “death”. Transformation trinket is a pair of golden hoop earrings, her powers are angel-based, and her assigned gemstone is Angel Aura Quartz. Weapon of choice is a light-molded musket and a halo that acts like a boomerang.

Pretty Punisher Aya: A recovering survivor, a C-Rank Magi. 19 years old, lesbian, japanese. Shy, gentle, soft-spoken, and always doing her best. She’s an alternative version of Asagiri Aya (from Mahou Shoujo Site) if she ever snapped at her bullies, abusive brother and neglective parents and actually have used her magic to kill them all. She becomes part of Wondaria’s rescuing and therapy program, that helps abused earthlings and offers them a chance in becoming Magis themselves. She is later assigned to the RSA to develop her powers better in a non-violent and zero percent toxic environment. She sees Holly as her upperclassman, and wishes to be as brave as her. Transformation trinket is not actually a trinket, but rather her heart tattoo on her left wrist, her powers are healing-based, and her assigned gemstone is Ruby. Weapon of choice is a heart-shaped pistol.

Demonic Witch Ace: A ruthless hero, a S-Rank Magi. 24 years old, pansexual, japanese. Strong, ill-tempered, fiery, but becomes a total dork once you know him better. Real name is Akira, Ace is just a nickname. He’s a half-Oni, cursed to be the successor of the Devilman name, and he has trust issues thanks to that. To everyone’s surprise, Vivi actually manages to break his shell and befriend him. Transformation trinket is a spiky bracelet, his powers are demon-based, and his assigned gemstone is Obsidian. Weapon of choice is a kanabo/iron mace. His mascot is a sizeshifting kitsune named Miki (while not a pokémon, he can understands what the little fox says).

Artsy Chameleon Enzo: A quirky street artist, a B-Rank Magi. 23 years old, pansexual/trans, italian. An artistic soul, always on the move, tricky, and unable to give fucks to anyone who dares to discriminate him. He was kicked out of his house after coming out to his parents, but later became a Magi so he could leave earth to live in Wondaria. He’s best friends with Perci, who’s also pan/trans. Transformation trinket is a leaf-shaped belt buckle, his powers are art/chameleon-based, and his assigned gemstone is Opal. Weapon of choice is a pink baseball bat.

Cursed Maestro Arthur: An anxious fortune-teller, a B-Rank Magi. 23 years old, asexual/polyromantic, filipino. Jittery, cautious, but hardworking and doing his best to become brave. He is the reincarnation of Arthur Kingsmen (from Mystery Skulls Animated), after Lewis killed him. He has the Hellbent Curse, where he becomes aware of how his past life came to an end. He has a crush on Ace, and wants to be as brave as him. Transfromation trinket is a orange bead bracelet, his powers are ghost/music-based, and his assigned gemstone is Japser. Weapon of choice is a conductor baton. His mascot is a Dedenne named Peanut and a scarf named Tempo.

Soul Genie Inka: A rebellious alien, a C-Rank Magi. Older than any human, asexual/non-binary, wondarian. Curious, smart, cheeky, and always eager to learn more about Earth culture. was previously a defective Incubator, who grew tired of stealing souls and spreading despair. Kiki was the only one who believed in them, and later became a Magi when things got tough for her. Transformation trinket is a drop-shaped garnet stone on their chest, their magic is genie/chaos-based, and their assigned gemstone is Pearl. Weapon of choice is their long ponytail.

Mighty Berserker Thor: A broken god, a S-Rank Magi. 24 years old (in human years), bisexual, wondarian (previously asgardian, but Asgard is no more). Approachable, a friend to all, awkward at times, and a tad bit salty (it comes with the trauma). Has yeeted himself of his world with the power of the Infinity Stones because he grew tired of being ridiculed and dealing with a constant streak of despair and death in his life. He was taken in by the RSA, and is treated with such care (which it scared him at first after spending five years in depression), but he eventually warms up to the team and finds once again a motivation to fight and protect. Transformation trinket is his prosthetic arm, his powers are lightning/weather-based, and his assigned gemstone is Sunstone. He has no weapon of choice (as originally intended!); he’s basically a giant living taser. His mascot is a pocket-sized imp that’s actually his brother Loki (he was punished due his past transgressions, and he HATES it).

…phew…! Here it is, the entire team assembled! It was hard, but I’ve had loads of fun with it honestly! It flatters me that you were interested in my dream plot, Anon!

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marsjapanvilawantaweesaeng · 5 years ago

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Japanese Animation

Early Japanese animation works were produced by a small team of people like a homemade handicraft business. Here, we introduce the pioneer artists who delivered these works to the world and built the foundation for Japanese animation.

Studio Ghibli

Spring comes to Ponsuke 1934

Ponsuke, a child raccoon wearing a straw raincoat and a hat, is digging up bamboo shoots in a forest covered with snow. Father and son crows, perched on a tree branch, laugh at Ponsuke buried under a snow block that fell from above. Angry Ponsuke aims a shotgun at the crows, who fly away. When Ponsuke shoots the gun, the son crow comes falling down. Ponsuke plans to pluck the crow and take it home to please his father. However, when he plucks the bird, he finds out it is skinny and wearing only a loincloth. Disappointed, Ponsuke tosses him away. The crow sneezes and comes back to life; he puts on the plucked feathers like a coat and leaves marching to the tune of a military march. Then, a snow block comes falling and causes Ponsuke to snap out of the stupor. Digging in the snow, Ponsuke finally finds a large bamboo shoot. Seeing Ponsuke taking the bamboo shoot with great pleasure, the bamboos in the forest shed tears of grief. It is winter, when there is little food. The mouse in the raccoon house is also skin and bone. Ponsuke comes home with the large bamboo shoot. The father raccoon, who has been waiting for Ponsuke, embraces him with joy. When the father and son strip the bamboo shoot, only a very small core remains. The bamboo sheaths regrow into a large bamboo shoot and it runs out into a blizzard with the little bamboo shoot. Snow blowing into the house turns the raccoons into snowballs. The snowball raccoons chase after the running bamboo shoots. As they continue to run, the season changes from winter to spring. As spring flowers come into full bloom and everyone gets tired from running, the snowman melts. Bees bring a jug of honey to the raccoons and the bamboo shoots. Satisfied with the honey, the raccoons shake hands with the bamboo shoots to make peace. The bees and the flowers sing and dance to the tune Spring Has Come and the raccoons and the bamboo shoots join in the dance with joy. In the end, Ponsuke takes off his silk hat and extends farewell greetings to the standard Cuban song The Peanut Vendor.

youtube

It’s like a Japanese Disney. It’s almost like Disney, but you can just tell that its not?

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evartandadam · 6 years ago

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Bless us some weird Sasori HCs 🤞🏻

Here you go!

Sasori likes cats.

He didn’t like Orochimaru from the very beginning, but was willing to try and make it work. When Orochimaru went after Itachi, Sasori was proud of how well he categorized him. He never felt safe around Oro.

Sasori sees a little bit of Komushi (his old teammate) in Deidara.

He acts like a nurse when it comes to his puppets and is always maintaining them. This sometimes takes time and irritates Deidara.

Sasori has an art crush on Konan. He thinks she is beautiful and respects her. He wishes he could turn her into a puppet, but knows it would be difficult.

He smells like chemicals and wood. Sometimes he will smell surprisingly good, when he uses air freshener (ha)

He is really good at card games. He has an unbeatable poker face. He frustrates Deidara greatly when they play.

Deidara is Sasori’s pest, therefore, only he gets to make fun of him. If other people unfairly bash his abilities, Sasori will support him (in a back-handed sort of way).

Sasori is very musical! He will often hum or sing to himself, and has a lovely voice (but would never let anyone hear him!). He can also play an instrument of some sort. He is a music snob.

Sasori is basically a medical ninja, but never had formal training. He’s just a genius, so he picked up medical training when he took an interest in the human body. He was very naturally gifted, but obviously has no interest in healing people (terrible bedside manner).

Definitely into S&M.

Has has a faint birthmark on his tailbone, as well as a corrosion scar from accidentally dropping a poisonous spider on his right thigh while he was studying it in his lab. His grandma had to make him an antidote, and did so before he died from it. She thought it was funny.

When he was little, he stumbled upon a small cave on the outskirts of Suna, which then became his quiet place. He would go there whenever he wanted to be alone.

He is very tidy, and showers whenever he can. He constantly stared at his imperfections and would try to scrub them away as a child. He couldn’t help himself.

He has OCD, but he is functional.

Sasori actually likes the terrain of his homeland, partly because it’s dry and so it’s good for his puppets, but also because it makes him feel like he’s in a sea of nothingness. He won’t admit it but he misses the desert. (He hates the village, though).

He’s allergic to peanuts. (It’s ok, he doesn’t like them anyway)

Sasori loves his hair, and secretly admires it. If you asked him what his favorite feature about himself was, he’d definitely say his hair. He doesn’t ever brag, of course.

He was very modest as a child. He always slept with a turtleneck on. As he grew older, he slowly became less and less squeamish about showing skin in front of others. When he was a teenager, he finally started to go to bed shirtless. He currently likes to walk around shirtless all the time (to show off his puppet body).

Konan once gave him a paper flower, and he kept it.

He has turned many people people he cared about into puppets.

Addition:

I’ll make this my hc masterpost

He loves to people watch. He hates people, but enjoys watching them stumble around in life.

Sasori really cares about his appearance. He always makes sure his hair is perfect, even though he hides in Hiruko all the time. Deidara thinks it’s ridiculous.

He is an avid reader, and loves anything about true crime or psychology.

He dislikes anything that is overly sweet (He would prefer Japanese sweets over American sweets).

Sasori doesn’t sleep, but he does “hibernate”. To store chakra, he retreats into his core and meditates all night.

He misses sleeping. He sometimes wishes he could escape his own mind.

Sasori is the type of guy to say something like “I enjoy killing people and making puppets out of them” at dinner, and he wouldn’t understand why that isn’t appropriate dinner conversation.

He is a total busybody. He has dirt on EVERYONE. He never shares this stuff with anyone else, of course.

He breaks into village archives regularly. It’s a fun way to spend an evening.

Back when Sasori needed to sleep, he slept like a dead person, hands on his chest, the whole deal. OR he slept on his stomach, and drooled. (If he drooled, it meant he didn’t go to bed early enough and would likely wake up with a headache.)

Sasori used to sleep about 4-5 hours a day comfortably. He was one of those geniuses who didn’t need a lot of brain rest. But he would still push himself.

Sasori is as romantically inept as a potato. If you hit on him, he won’t get it. Basically:

#sasori #akatsuki #naruto #headcanon #text post #asks #rambles #i have endless Sasori hcs #Akatsuki Headcanon Collection

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celeryjiaozi · 5 years ago

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iris how r u liking singapore so far!!!! what food have u tried where have u been to... as a singaporean im so excited that u're there

im LOVING sg quite possibly my fav place in asia thus far😭 i have had my fair share of hawker centre food incl the best chicken rice ever, aloe vera yogurt and coconut coated peanuts from fairprice, chendol popsicle (!), cheese tofu, also toastbox chicken curry.

ive been mostly in the downtown core, chinatown, marina/raffles, esplanade was very pretty and reminded me of san diego, bugis for the cheapo shopping, school of the arts around bencoolen. i saw the memorial for the victims of japanese occupation. i want to go to macritchie tmr for the hike!!

if u are around we should meet up i am here til friday!!!

#answered

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informationterritory · 3 years ago

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Cafés in Lancaster, PA Offer a Wide Range of Options

Lancaster, PA is alive and humming. From the First Friday festivity every month where the roads are packed to the school scene from Franklin and Marshall University, there consistently is by all accounts something going on.

One of the constants is the incredible assortment of cafés offering everything from Indian food to Ethiopian, top-quality Italian to scrumptious Thai, pizzas and pitas, souvlaki and sushi.

Beating out everyone else for Italian food is Lombardo's the place where everything is specially made. No pre-cooked pasta here sitting tight for a last dunk in steaming hot water to polish it off. You'll adore their heated lasagna with its exquisite mix of hot wiener, pepperoni, meatballs, hard cooked eggs, mushrooms and provolone and Romano cheeses. Furthermore, you can't go to Lombardo's without getting a crate of their amazing garlic bread.

At the point when exemplary American food is the thing that your hunger is longing for you'll discover decisions like Garfield's at the Eden Resort only north of town. Delicious child back ribs and slow-cooked prime rib (either 10 ounces or a full pound). Courses are presented with a plate of mixed greens, sauteed vegetables and decision of potato.

A more energetic scene can be found at the Lancaster Brewing Company where they're not just known for the incredible miniature blended lagers however the extraordinary turns they put on American works of art like the brewery meatloaf that is done with a milk bold demi-coat or the cattle rustler cut pork hacks, 3/4 of a pound that is absorbed ale and navel oranges...oh, my!

Another decision you'll appreciate is Stubby's Bar and Grill, a genuine corner watering entire showing up for incredible bar grub. Take the entire team in and partake in a request for their Texas fries- - a full pound of new cut or waffle fries finished off with bean stew and cheddar heated and presented with harsh cream. Whatever you do, attempt the spud chowder: pieces ofpotato and leeks finished off with bread garnishes and cheddar and trimming with bacon.

You can appreciate Ethiopian dishes at Addisu on Dillersville Road. It's a little spot concealed on the left half of a little strip retail outlet yet when you're wanting Ye'beg Alichas, delicate bits of sheep marinated with spread and afterward sauteed with ginger, garlic, green peppers and a gentle curry. Veggie lovers will adore the nine decisions accessible and in case you're searching for a cross area you should attempt the Vegetarian Combination which comprises of little parcels of four of the singular dishes. Every one of the dishes are presented with injera, Ethiopian bread used to gather up the food and sauces.

For Indian food you should check Tulsi out. Try not to pass judgment flippantly in light of the fact that this café is situated in the TravelLodge on Columbia Avenue.

They're diverting out some superb dishes from their bona fide earth broiler. Attempt the Tandoori Chicken, a mark Indian dish with marinated chicken bosom and thigh in an astounding combination of yogurt, newly ground flavors and sweet-smelling spices. Another most loved is the Saagwala Gosht, a practically ideal mix of sheep and newly cleaved spinach sauteed with child onions and tomatoes. Start the dinner with Vegetable Samosas, fresh triangles of cake loaded down with a combination of potatoes and flavors.

Thai food has been detonating in fame as of late. Lancaster brags a couple amazing eateries to attempt these superb dishes. Sukhothai is found right close to the Franklin and Marshall grounds (they moved from Mountville, PA around two years prior).

Start the feast with Fresh Rolls, fragile rice paper moved with julienne lettuce, carrot, cucumber and cilantro. You can add chicken or shrimp if the vegan adaptation isn't your decision. The Tom Kha coconut soup is unbelievably blatant with its mix of lime leaves, shallots, lemon grass, onions, mushrooms and celery all finished off with dried onion. The huge could be a feast without help from anyone else, a little is amazing before one of the delectable dishes 18 month baby food chart in bengali.

Sukhothai presents the customary Pad Thai, sautéed noodles in smoked stew sauce and onion, presented with bean fledglings and peanuts, a few curry dishes and a great Pad Keang Pru, ginger fish with celery, red peppers, carrots, onions, mushrooms and zucchini.

One more Thai café, Lemon Grass as of late shut to move from their area by the Rockvale Outlet Stores into Lancaster itself. Don't have the foggiest idea where they'll be nevertheless it will be intriguing to see whether they will add to the midtown scene.

A little Greek eatery in the core of the city, Spyro Gyro diverts out everything from the custom gyro to an awesome Baked Moussaka of eggplant, potatoes and season meat typped with a smooth, velvety white sauce. Veggie lovers will cherish the Vegetarian Delight- - a little glimpse of heaven. A combo of falafel, spinach pie, tabouli and hummus its an incredible chance to test a few dishes at a reasonable cost.

For Chinese and Japanese food varieties there are a few in number competitors for the best position. China King is a carryout claimed by similar people who run the Ming Court buffet. Bunches of conventional Chinese admission very much done. Then, at that point, there's Sushi One on Fruitville Pike where the menu is a mixed blend of Chinese, Japanese, sushi and some as of late added Thai sautés.

Blue Pacific is on Oregon Pike only south of Route 30.mixes in the whole Pacific edge with Chinese dishes, Japanese, Korean BBQ hamburger, Indonesian satay and sushi. At the south finish of Lancaster, in the Manor Shopping Center you'll discover Ginmiya which has the full scope of Chinese, Japanese and sushi contributions.

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creepypasta-fandom-is-trash · 7 years ago

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Immature

hey, guys, I’m really sorry for not being active as of late. However, I’ve been working on this fiction assignment and I um... I hope you like it.

I love my apartment. The cloud gray walls, the dark wood trimming, it all just radiates the professional atmosphere that completes my new adult life. The sleek, modern Ikea furniture combined with the frugal paintings of a young art connoisseur. Maturity doesn't come easy, and with the changing of one's age comes the changing of one's mind. I am an adult, a strong, independent, graceful adult who doesn't go to college parties. I am...

“Weak,” I mutter, chowing down on my third sub sandwich of the day “I'm so weak.”

Mayonnaise, cheese, and pastrami, such a beautiful combination for a blossoming man-child like myself. The rough, unshaven shadow of a beard brushes my fingers as I wipe away leftover mayonnaise from my sandwich. Regret fills my chest as I place a hand on my stomach, it's usually flat due to my terrible budgeting skills; however, a large bump has formed where my stomach is, effectively showing how many sandwiches I've eaten. Typically I don't eat nearly this much, but since the death of my downstairs neighbor, Debby, I just... haven't been right. She was such a sweet old lady. Always collected vintage kid's bowls and beanie babies, Debby was a darling and I miss her so much. Even her obnoxious blue nail polish was endearing.

A sigh leaves my throat as I drag my gaze down to the bowl of Waffle Crispies on the coffee table. A second - much louder - sigh leaves my lips as I reach over and grab the cheap plastic. I don't know where my roommate keeps these or where he gets them, but he has a collection of kids' bowls that he uses to eat his....cereal? I think it's cereal. It's basically just sugary packing peanuts in the shape of waffles, but he likes them and I don't have to buy them so I don't care.

"Herbert!" I call into the blackness of the hallway "Clean up your junk when you're done with it!" Looking down into the soggy mess, I ponder gently whether or not my roommate is an actual adult male. After all, the dinosaurs on this particular bowl are made for a toddler, my neighbor's kids would be better off with this bowl. Actually, now that I look closer, it would appear that this bowl has a gratuitous amount of scratches on its surface. The thing looks like it's been thrown out a window. A chip off the side allowing a hair-thin crack to trace down the side of the bowl. Knowing Herbert's tendency to sleep in high up places like a lunatic, he did this.

Maybe Herbert is just a huge whiny teenager who decided to live life to the edgiest extent by moving in with some dumb liberal arts major. His dirty pine green hoodie? His tendency to sleep in closets? it just reeks of immaturity. At least I can invest in some bowls that aren't cracked. Grumbling under my breath, I take the bowl to the sink and prepare to dump the goop down the drain. The dark pink strawberry milk gushing between the soggy golden cereal bits make me stare in mild disgust. The mush falls against the chrome sink with a disgusting plop, the sound causing a shiver to race down my spine. Something smells oddly copper-like about this milk. Could it be the spoon?

"What are you doing?" The gravelly voice of my roommate startles me out of my trance, his lanky frame most likely posted up in the doorway. I turn to face him, nearly gagging at the sight of his medical-masked face. It's not that I dislike people who enjoy those "Japanese medical masks", the one's you're supposed to wear when you're sick but don't want to buy a bunch of throwaway ones. It's honestly bizarre.

"I'm taking care of the gross cereal you left?" I answer, a tad insulted by his glaring blue gaze underneath that forest green hood.

"I wasn't finished with it," Herbert groans, stuffing his ashy white hands into his pockets and crossing his jean-clad legs.

"It was mush,"

"So's your brain, apparently, but I'm not dropping it into the sink,"

It's at this point that I notice the vague squirming noise coming from the sink. A squishy squelching from the lump of waffle cereal. Turning around, I gaze down into the gross lump, watching as small brown bodies writhe around in the mush.

"Maggots..." I gasp softly, backing away from the tiny creatures. The sound of those itty bitty bugs chowing down on the cereal ringing in my ears. My heart throbs wildly in my chest, the soft white lights on my ceiling swirling with my stomach. A large, soft object blocks my path backwards.

"Jamie, get out of the way," Herbert whispers, pulling me aside and walking over to the cabinet. The scrawny man grabs a cup from the cupboard, scooping the maggots into the cup. As I watch him lift up the maggot-filled glass cup I think back at all the bowls of Waffle Crispies he's eaten. Hundreds of bowls of crispies eaten just out of sight, just away from my sight. Had they always contained such filth? Tenderly, with the gentleness of a trained surgeon, Herbert reaches into the glass, plucking out a long, frail object riddled with worms.

“What... is that...” I whimper, pulling my knees to my chest and shivering. Herbert hums, setting down the cup and slipping a pale finger under his mask. Sweat pools and runs down my back, soaking my shirt and causing a violent shudder to race through my body. Slowly, Herbert pulls down his mask. Beneath the black cloth lays something... filthy. Horrible. Bile rises in my throat as my eyes widen. A large, thin-lipped grin wraps around his features, his teeth like a dog's and his tongue like a worm wiggling out the side of his gaping maw. Herbert's being shakes violently Like a father to his newborn, Herbert gently pulls the writhing maggots from the object in his hand, tossing them back into the bowl.

“Pet, pet, pet, pet,” Herbert mutters, his lips remaining statue still and his piercing blue eyes staring down at the pale object. Upon picking off each worm I note the crimson hunks of meat still clinging to the glistening white bone of the object. Obnoxious blue nail polish glitters in the kitchen lighting. I am not allowed much time to absorb the nature of the mauled finger before Herbert opens his cavernous mouth and bites down onto Debby's finger. An audible snap emits from the deceased woman's bone as Herbert gnaws the meat off. Bile rises in my throat and I find myself squirming in my spot. Disgust is surely written all over my features as my demented roommate pull off his hood, letting light bathe his matted hair. A third, brilliant blue eye blinks from above the beast's right eye, an empty socket blinks above the left. Horrible grinding comes from the beast's mouth as he lovingly picks up the cup of maggots, their squelching growing ever louder as he carries them out of the room.

Silence fills the air, a cool draft bathing my damp skin in icy waves. Confusion twists around in my chest as I slowly sit up and gaze around the kitchen.

“That...” I pant, scowling and staring at the exit of the room “was so immature.” groaning, I stand up and wipe my hands off on my pants. White hot anger brews in my chest as I storm out from the room, stomping down the hallway and into my room. Asylum gray walls close in around me as my clammy hands run through my meticulously groomed locks. Why? Why does he have to be so immature? He even did some of that stupid special effect makeup to scare me. What a dumb prank.

“It didn't work!” I shout, slamming my fist into the door and growling “You hear that?? It did not work! Your dumb immature prank hasn't affected me at all. At. All! And using Debby as leverage to scare me?! That's low even for you!” Snarling, I grab the nearest item, a large book, and throw it at the door. A loud thud resounds from the door as the thick cover cracks against the wood. Furious, I throw myself onto the large, perfectly made bed and growl to myself. Closing my eyes, I try my hardest to fall asleep; however, despite my best attempts, I can't help but remember the sound of those maggots. The slimy, squelching, filthy beasts plague my hearing, the crunching of the fake finger meshing in with the horrible sounds. Deep down I feel an emptiness grow, just as though those maggots are burrowing deep into my core like a gang of mango worms. The sound grows deafening, and if I didn't know better, I'd say that he's in here with me, eating that finger. Grumbling softly, I cover my ears and try to block out the sounds, tears prick at my eyelids as I sniffle and whine. A gentle voice whispers, perhaps from the back of my mind, perhaps from under the bed.

“Are you crying? How immature”

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dadspad-blog · 7 years ago

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Top 5 Digital Pianos Under $1,500 in 2018

get a 3d from better music today we're gonna look at four of the best-selling pianos of 2000 all right so this is a rollin F 140 what if we got here well we've got a very popular piano available in the black or white finish some pretty cool features as you heard the piano sound is very good at using.

Supernatural technology we've got Bluetooth connection to the app roll and have an app called peanut butter - and two other apps as well you can connect to it you can control piano those notation you've got your standard features built in you've got a metronome you've also got a simple accompaniment feature in here which you might have heard in the background playing it's all in all the great counter to start with it comes down like this doubles as your music where you put three cables built-in stores including house of all the counters in these discs addameer.

we're looking at they've all got a 88 key fully weighted mechanism the Roland's also got a polymer that's designed to feel like ivory so it's very quickly they call it over a key great piano one of our bestsellers and definitely worth checking out okay next up is the new cork seeonee and this is only just recently been released it's available in three different colors it's got a lead that comes down like this so you've got a slow closed lead on it so doesn't slam you little fingers big fingers really neat piano actually got some cool features it's got a separate speaker cap on the bottom so although you were hearing a recording here out of the audio outputs.

it's a very very big sound on board you've got some other cool features like it's got Bluetooth audio streaming so you can just stream music from your phone through the speakers use it as a stereo or Jam along with it heaps of great sounds metronome recording of course fully weight an 88 note graded mechanism it's actually in Japanese made piano which is quite unique in this price price category you can transpose of course you can change the touch you've got a whole bunch of different sounds some great Street you've got three different piano model sounds so you've got German piano Viennese piano they're all quite different definitely check this piano out. Compare Roland vs Yamaha

I said it's a newcomer on the scene and hasn't been out long but it's pretty impressive okay so third up is the Kauai KDP 90 this has been around for a little while but it's a very good contender stills got some great features I some very good specs 192 no police election 592 notes at once fully graded and weighted I came a mechanism built in I've got some of the Alfred's basic piano book libraries songs recorded in there so if you're using those books to learn the songs were recorded in the piano are you going to metronome built in you've got a recording function available just in the rose wood finish.

you've got a traditional slide down leader piano sound is very good and so this is the KDP 90 album the Rosewood finished with a grand piano pedal system on board good touch really good piano sounds great specs simple in its in its functions but very well executed so if you're after more of just something that's just a piano not too many bells and whistles definitely check this one out all right so last up this is the Yamaha white if they won 4-3 again a popular piano we've got a fully weighted 88 the creative action.

we lost my metronome built-in we've got the standard sort of functions to get on this it's available in it and some different finishes this is the black modern slide down leave all the three pedals of course piano sound it's very good you've also got some different sounds on board all in all it's again a bit like the choir KDP 90 did in a similar genre not loaded with features but the basic sounds of the basic piano sound the core sound is very good and the touch is very good again coming from the piano manufacturer .

why that's what so we've looked at four pianos these are all relatively inexpensive to purchase we've had the Yamaha YT p 143 we've just done we started with the role with F 140 we also had the new cork C 1 air which is a little bit of different a different piano in the mix and we've also had the kauai KD p90 so they're all very good pianos and different features and the sounds will appeal to different people if you don't ask me which one would be the best one to start with well look they're all great they're all good pianos they all have a great key touch some of you might like the sounds of particular models better than others if you're after you know a whole host of tech features well the f1 40 has got a lot of tech features in terms of the apps that are controlled connectable with it then the kauai KDP 90 and the yamaha again pretty similar Korg's a little bit different the mixes it's in a unique cabinet. http://piano-reviews.com/roland-fp-30-vs-yamaha-p115/

it's got the Bluetooth audio streaming feature which is not the be-all and end-all but it's quite handy if you want to jam along with you know an app on your phone so all in all the a little bit of watching some of these pianos we've done individual reviews on so you can check them out as well but they're all good piano is an all worthy of anyone who wants to buy all who wants to start learning so definitely check them all out

#Top 5 Digital Pianos Under $1500 in 2018 #Top 5 Digital Pianos Under $1500 #Top 5 Digital Pianos

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theeconomica4news · 4 years ago

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Forbidden Fitness Secrets Used By Legendary Japanese “Shadow Warriors” Reinforce Your Joints, Ligaments And Tendons With An Almost Supernatural Breaking Poin

Click here to get Forbidden Fitness Secrets Used By Legendary Japanese “Shadow Warriors” Reinforce Your Joints, Ligaments And Tendons With An Almost Supernatural Breaking Point at discounted price while it’s still available…

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Description:

“Now, even someone who is super-stiff, immobile, and out of shape can, in just a few short hours, know more about becoming ‘near-invincible’ in the gym than most athletes, weightlifters and strength coaches do… and do it in the fastest way possible!”

If you would you like to know a secret way to “wire” your body to handle maximum stress without risking discomfort, pain or injury… then here’s how a clan of the most mysterious (and deadly) warriors in Japanese history did it.

And why you can do the same thing today… with the information on this website.

Hundreds of years ago, Japanese warlords were “haunted” by a clan of warriors who possessed mysterious and magical powers…

They had the ability to shape-shift… to phase through walls and walk on water… to disappear into shadows… to move with phantom speed, agility, balance and coordination… and to endure (and even laugh at) an ungodly amount of stress and punishment.

In fact, they were so formidable that Japanese warlords were forced to face one horrifying fact:

Men possessed with the spirits of ancient deities.

Whatever they were, one thing was for sure:

They were anything but mere mortals.

So, who were these “shadow warriors” REALLY? And what does this have to do with you? Well…

Some say they were a secret society formed one moonless night… deep in the Iga Mountains… during the chance meeting of a Wandering Warrior Monk, a Chinese Mystical Priest and a Peasant Farmer.

Others say they were “freedom fighters” guided by an oracle with access to lost ancient knowledge.

Whatever spawned them, know this:

They were real flesh and blood.

They eventually became known as the Shinobi.

But you probably know of them by their pop-culture name:

Naturally, you have to ask yourself…

What is it about the very real, flesh-and-blood Ninja that made warlords terrified of their own shadow?

That made Samurai elite look like fumbling buffoons?

That created so much confusion on a battlefield, their enemies ended up fighting against themselves?

Truth is, the Ninja simply used a strategic set of “forbidden fitness secrets” that made them SEEM supernatural.

A dedication to clinical and precise training of these secrets is what allowed the Ninja to be limber, supple and “move like mist” one moment…

Then suddenly call up a body plated with “muscular armor” the next.

This ability allowed them wield strange weapons, dispatch elite opponents, suffer inhuman punishment, and climb trees and walls with…

Anyway, do you want to know the most prized of their forbidden fitness secrets?

Building unmatched levels of a special kind of strength known as “intrinsic strength”.

Even though almost nobody truly understands intrinsic strength today…

…it’s something you can quickly and easily grasp if you really want to.

You can think of it this way…

And while I’m not saying you should go out and start masking yourself in black and terrorizing your political “warlords”…

…layering your body with elastic steel CAN make you feel so damn shatterproof… you’ll want to become a professional “daredevil”!

Because, frankly, when you understand how to REALLY develop intrinsic strength like the Ninja possessed… then with just a few short practice sessions you will already feel your inner “shadow warrior” coming out of hiding…

Imagine sensing things in your body you never have before…

Being able to “shrug off” muscle tension and joint stiffness with only a subtle movement and a deep exhale…

Training your tendons and ligaments to access hidden pockets of “elastic energy”… so your muscles and joints can coil and explode like a spring, releasing “power on demand” with what seems like no effort at all…

Moving with such an intimidating level of balance, coordination and smoothness that…

Please understand, this isn’t some action flick fantasy.

It’s reality for the small (but savvy) minority who want something different from the kind of training you get from your average clipboard-toting trainer… and are smart enough to do something about it.

Anyway, listen… if you think building up intrinsic strength isn’t something to take seriously, you’ll want to think again, because…

A lack of intrinsic strength is why guys can have the muscles of an Olympian… and yet joints made of peanut brittle…

Or why top level athletes experience “phantom injuries”… where they tear a muscle or ligament for seemingly NO reason, and end up missing an entire season or more…

Or why your average fitness joe can bust his rump in the gym and still end up stuck in a rut, or with embarrassingly low levels of strength and power to show for it…

Matter of fact, according to the sweet celestial science of Physics…

So it seems the Ninja were onto something all those hundreds of years ago.

Anyway, look… how do I know all of this?

Recently, I discovered a keeper of such “forbidden fitness secrets”. An expert in the realm of the true Ninja and their brand of intrinsic strength training.

His name is Ryan Murdock. He’s an anthropologist, travel writer and leader of one of the top health information publishers on the web the past ten years. He’s also an honest to god Modern Day Ninja Warrior. And…

One night (over one too many rounds of scotch) he started letting me in on his “forbidden fitness secrets”.

And you know what surprised me most?

And yet, when practiced with discipline, they give your soft tissue (joints, ligaments, tendons, muscles and bones) an almost supernatural breaking point.

You don’t need any formalized or specialised training to master them:

There’s just one catch.

You need to make sure you’re doing these exercises IN THE RIGHT ORDER.

You can’t just do them willy-nilly. In fact, doing so will have the OPPOSITE effect on your body.

You’d be like some fool-thief wielding a magic spell book. Not a pretty picture.

Fortunately, Ryan’s developed a system that guarantees you’re doing these exercises THE RIGHT WAY.

The “magic” behind the rapid development of your “supernatural skills” is Ryan’s way of moving your body from Ninja-Supple to Ninja-Strong.

You first set out to restore the full, healthy range of motion of your joints with targeted regeneration exercises.

You then seamlessly transition to intrinsic strength exercises by “adding weight” to that healthy range in a very specific way.

Finally, once your “intrinsic base” is installed, you build traffic-stopping joint, tendon and ligament strength in odd ranges with “forbidden” exercises you’ve likely NEVER seen before.

It’s a surprisingly simple (but clinically precise) system when you see it in action.

Anyway, would you like to learn this secret way of making yourself “near-invincible” in the gym?

And would you like to do it without having to leave your home… or even having to expense a trip to Berlin and pay Ryan’s high end private coaching fee for it?

You can’t learn these “forbidden” exercises from some internet copy of an ancient ninja scroll some “collector” got off the black market.

Ninja manuals were deliberately incomplete so the most secret knowledge was passed orally from master to apprentice. Anyway, that’s NOT what this is about.

These Forbidden Fitness Secrets of A Modern Day Ninja Warrior are the result several decades of obsessive training and research.

Since retiring from teaching almost two decades ago, Ryan has kept the closely guarded video recordings of his forbidden fitness secrets hidden beneath loose floorboards and behind fake walls across the globe — Canada, Japan, North Korea, remote parts of China, Chad, the Sudan, Syria, Bosnia, Salvador, Germany, and everywhere else his assignments have taken him.

Until now, he’s only “released” some of these secrets in dribs-and-drabs to some of his more trusted students. Never before have they been available to the public all together, in one special “master package” such as what you’re about to get your hands on here and now.

Here’s just a small sample of what you’ll learn from Ryan’s teachings:

A secret way to “upgrade” normal pushups for freakish levels of wrist strength, thicker shoulders and arms, and a more powerful chest.

A series of cutting edge “core drills” that tighten your waistline, improve your posture and root out lower back pain.

How to shield yourself from accidental ankle turns and sudden changes in direction… which typically result in sprains or tears. (It is this “fleetness of foot” which allows the ninja to retain his balance in all manner of unusual situations.)

The two most common mistakes people make when training their connective tissues to operate like “elastic steel”.

A sneaky “low tech” way to condition your body’s “linchpin joint” for injury prevention and superior sport performance. (These drills are “low tech” because all can be done using your own bodyweight, without need for stretch bands or fancy “functional training” gear.)

Want Ninja stamina? It’s not about training harder, but smarter:

Discover how to “load” your soft tissue the RIGHT WAY… and unlock the natural “springs” hidden in your connective tissues to instantly balance muscle tension and relaxation. More…

Learning to re-integrate your breathing, movement and posture wires your body to move with a Ninja’s economy of motion… so you can endure more than most mortals, but with far less effort. You’ll also learn…

A “forbidden” set of upper body exercises that turn “show muscle” into “go muscle”. (Due to the challenge of some of these movements, you must have mastered the exercises prior — you’ll be taking the mobility and coordination you’ve built to entirely new realms of intrinsic strength.)

The “guiding hand / mobile hand” drill which awakens your body’s “sixth sense”. (Drills like these hardcoded a Ninja’s nervous system to redirect strikes around obstacles — including blocks and parries — with disorienting impact and machine-like precision.)

Little-known (but shockingly simple) “broomstick drills” that develop crushing grip strength and magician-like finger dexterity.

Plus more with the stick, like: how to conceal the length of your weapon and how to take advantage of “weak” angles of vision to add an element of deception to your strikes… AND, you’ll learn how to twirl the staff smoothly and strike seamlessly while in motion. BUT, DON’T BE FOOLED…

These broomstick drills are NOT just for martial artists!

These drills are excellent for sports like hockey and lacrosse, where the ability to retain your stick in a dynamic environment requires full-range grip strength. These movements also provide excellent compensation for the type of repetitive strain injuries that can develop when the wrist is held in a fixed position in sports like tennis, golf and table tennis and professions that involve typing and driving.

In fact, Ryan has taught these intrinsic strength moves to everyone from working women to weekend warriors to medical professionals. And guess what?

But don’t just take my word for it…

“I’ve been doing push ups for a long, long time. High school athletics through the Army (that stint involved thousands of plain ol’ styled push ups), then through the myriad of martial arts schools I’ve involved myself with through many years. I must say that I haven’t seen a push up program like the one Coach Murdock has offered. I actually tried most of them after downloading the video and must say that they don’t put the repetitive stress that the old-school push up does, yet I feel the amazing strength-building results that these not-seen (at least by me in my five decades) exercises will have on my body. This is a great product! Coach Murdock has done an exemplary job on this. I can’t wait to see his hopefully, near-future offerings. I, who have pushed the planet dozens and dozens of miles with push ups am quite impressed!” — Kevin Lee Dougherty

“This is awesome, Ryan! I really like all of the inventive and challenging variations. How do you come up with this stuff…?” — Jeffry C. Larson

“This is an outstanding tutorial. Just watching Coach Murdock move is worth the price. The “lecture”, explanations and demos are invaluable, with enough material to keep anyone busy for some time. My guess is someone at the gym doing this stuff will be stopping traffic with those moves.” — Jeanne Gostnell

“I’ve been doing push ups since I was 4 and I thought I’d seen every type in the world, but I learned something new the day I watched this.” — Joseph Wilson, multiple time International Martial Art Hall of Fame inductee, professional law enforcement officer.

“This program is so fun that after taking the handle off and putting it back on the broom at least 5 times today, I just left it off so that I could play with it at every break. I see patients and write for a living so I make sure that I move and care for my wrists, elbows, and shoulders daily. Going through Coach Murdock’s tutorial is showing me that there were things I wasn’t getting at as deeply as I could. I have already told a couple clients with shoulder issues about this program… One lays carpet and another sits behind a desk. If you want to explore improved motion and strength with your wrists, elbows, and shoulders but are hesitating because this is “Ninja stuff”, forget what it is called and know that good movement is good movement.” — Dr. Kathryn Woodall, DC

Anyway, I could go on and on. But, here’s the bottom line:

Instead of taking decades to learn the proper sequencing of these intrinsic strength moves… or having to pay for one expensive seminar, workshop and package of personal training sessions after another to finally “get it”… you can…

If you’d like to know more about building up your body’s “breaking point” by increasing the intrinsic strength of your body’s “soft tissue” (joints, tendons and ligaments) than most athletes, weightlifters and strength coaches do… and do it in the fastest way possible… you have every reason in the world to be excited about this.

So, look, here’s the deal:

Since he’s hung up his Shinobi Shozoko and Ninjatō (and since the Ninja arts are a fast-dying breed), Ryan has agreed to make digital versions of some of his old “forbidden master tapes” available to the public for a limited time.

You now have the rare opportunity to access over two hours worth of nina-grade video instruction from one of the most highly-respected Bujinkan (and intrinsic strength) instructor’s on the planet.

Video access is delivered to you instantly via email and your downloads are stored on Ryan’s secure server to make things as simple and safe for you as possible.

And you can view them anywhere: desktop, laptop, tablet, and smartphone. Whatever your preference.

Now, naturally you must be wondering…

Well… what is it worth to feel near-invincible in the gym? On the field? With the kids? In the street?

I can only guess what it would cost to learn this privately from Ryan. When asked what his private coaching fee was, his reply was simply: “You don’t want to know.”

And, ask anyone fortunate enough to have been exposed to these secrets and they’ll tell you…

That means you’re getting digital access to the entire Forbidden Fitness Secrets of A Modern Day Ninja Warrior “master package” at a savings of almost 40% off the previously agreed, retail price.

And just for extra peace of mind, you can try out the whole thing for the next 60 days at no risk with Ryan’s 100% money back guarantee. In other words…

Order your personal copy of Forbidden Fitness Secrets while it’s still available. Download all of the manuals and videos, or stream them from any of your devices, whichever you prefer.

Put the secrets you’ll find inside to the test.

Take a full 60 days, if you want.

This way you’re not rushed, and don’t have to worry about life getting in the way, or any other excuses people make for themselves when starting something new…

Notice the difference you feel in your muscles and joints as you start reinforcing your body with intrinsic strength and suddenly start moving with the mobility and power of elastic steel.

Notice the confidence you have as you exercise now… the difference in the way you carry yourself in daily life… and the way the people around you respond…

And don’t be surprised if you catch the glimmer of something newly awakened in your eye (your inner “shadow warrior”, perhaps?) when you look in the mirror.

If you decide at any point that you’d like to go back to peanut-brittle joints, “shaky” tendons and ligaments, and training without the feeling that you’re protected by an invisible “wall of invincibility”…

Simply shoot an email over to [email protected] and let Ryan know. He’ll have customer care process your 100% guaranteed refund straight away. No hassle whatsoever. Your prerogative. It’s your body and I trust your judgement here.

And, you get to KEEP anything and everything you’ve downloaded. Consider it a gift for taking decisive action today. So…

Remember, this is a total paradigm shift from what most people normally consider ‘exercise’ — miserable, repetitive, and grueling activities that you dread doing and can’t wait to finish.

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