#man was a few short decades out from houdini

[canvaswolfdoll]

i mean... they could.

what's the phantom going to do? sue? i don't know if he legally existed to begin with, and he certainly fled the opera house in the musical*, while in the book he just settles down and lives out the rest of his days quietly in his basement house before his skeleton is ultimately found in a random vault.

also, you've forgotten the part about shronk's lead actress being a rising star, child of a world famous violinist, who is never seen again after the infamous shronk kidnapping, so as far as the public knows she's probably serial killed as well.

* arguably to set up in coney island, but maybe we shouldn't concern ourselves with love never dies.

How was the opera? Was it good? Hope there were no disastrous chandeliers crashing

Okay but actually can you imagine being a guy in the audience at the opera house, and then an evil ghost interrupts the show and kills someone? There is a crowd full of people who will never have the context to understand what the fuck happened. You’re like visiting relatives from out of town, so obviously you go to the theater, and there’s this new musical showing you’ve never heard of, and then during one of the first numbers, the lead actress gets kidnapped on stage mid-song.

[chiseler]

Puttin’ on the Ritz

No fame is more fleeting than the showbiz kind. Some entertainers are just too much in and of a particular time. In the 1920s Harry Richman was a big star, billed as the Greatest Entertainer In America. He could sing and play piano, dance and act a little; he ran a hugely successful nightclub, was the toast of Broadway and, very briefly, a star in Hollywood; he wrote or introduced several songs that are still sung. But most of all he just personified the Roaring Twenties. He was the sleek, rakish, vaguely smarmy bon vivant in top hat and tails who was enjoying the decade's non-stop party as much as you were. It's been said that he was to the 1920s what the Rat Pack were to their era. Harry's career peaked just as the party crashed to a halt at the end of the decade, and he faded out in the 1930s. If his name comes up at all today, it's probably less often as an entertainer than as a footnote in aviation history.

He was born Harry Reichman in Cincinnati in 1895. His dad, a Russian Jewish immigrant, started out peddling eyeglasses door to door, carrying all his equipment on his back. He worked his way up to a prosperous wholesale business and real estate empire, and developed a taste for the high life. It killed him by the time Harry was an adolescent. In his thoroughly entertaining (sometimes suspiciously so) 1966 autobiography A Hell of a Life, Harry paints himself as a fecklessly scheming kid who grew up quick. At nine, he writes, he was a weekend ticket taker at an amusement park, shortchanging every customer he could because he was saving up to marry his childhood sweetheart. One night he showed off his ill-gotten riches by taking the girl out on the town. They stayed out too late to go home, so Harry got them a hotel room. When the cops burst through the door in the wee hours they found the kids sleeping fully clothed on separate beds. A doctor confirmed that the girl's honor was intact. Her dad put the kibosh to their romance anyway.

Harry's mother bought him piano lessons, dreaming he'd be a concert pianist, but like most kids at the time he was more interested in ragtime and jazz. He left home at around fourteen and headed to Indianapolis. There he and a kid who played fiddle went door to door in the kind of neighborhoods where an upright in the parlor wasn't uncommon. They'd bang out a few popular tunes for spare change. As Remington & Reichman they were soon touring the very small-time Webster circuit of vaudeville theaters in the Dakotas and Canada, known to vaudevillians as the Death Trail. Harry kept working his way around the west, singing at the piano in saloons and whorehouses, working as a singing waiter in restaurants, as part of a "Hawaiian" hula act in a circus sideshow. At the 1915 Panama-Pacific International Exhibition in San Francisco he was in a musical act that opened for Harry Houdini, fifteen shows a day. Playing in Los Angeles clubs favored by the movie crowd he got to be pals with Charlie Chaplin and Al Jolson, whom he idolized. Jolson got him a shot at Ziegfeld's Midnight Frolic, the late-night club revue that gave Eddie Cantor his big break. Harry raced to New York, but flopped and was canned after only one night. He was so despondent he ran off and joined the Navy.

He arrived back in New York in 1920, just when Prohibition did too. Now he and the city were ready for each other. On vaudeville stages he found work as an accompanist for headliners like the singer Nora Bayes and the beautiful twin Dolly Sisters, and for a while was Mae West's on-stage pianist and straight man. He was reluctant to speak lines at first because he had a lisp that he could hide more easily when singing. West convinced him it was a distinguishing feature. He soon got top billing on his own on the Keith-Albee circuit. He also played at ritzy speakeasies like the Beaux Arts, where, he claims, Prohibition's hostess with the mostest Texas Guinan stole her signature line "Give the little girls a big hand" from him.

Nils T. Granlund, known as NTG, was both a radio pioneer and the publicist for Marcus Loew's movie theater empire. He hired Harry to headline live radio shows from Loew's State Theatre, the movie palace in Times Square. Harry plugged new songs on air, like Billy Rose's "Does the Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor on the Bedpost Overnight?" With NTG's help he opened his own Club Richman just behind Carnegie Hall. Harry made it one of the most opulent and exclusive nightclub/speakeasies in town. A lot of Broadway and movie stars became regulars, as of course did Mayor Jimmy Walker, and the Vanderbilts and Whitneys, and foreign royalty -- you saw everybody who was anybody there.

Or wanted to be somebody, like the chorus girl Lucille Le Seur. Accounts vary as to how Lucille got into the swank club. In one version, she convinced NTG, her sugar daddy at the time, to get her a spot in the club dancing the Charleston. NTG introduced her to Loew, who arranged a screen test at MGM, where she'd get her first tiny roles in 1925. Studio chief Louis B. Mayer decided her name sounded like Le Sewer, so the studio ran a publicity campaign in which the fans got to give her a new name: Joan Crawford. She never liked it.

For his part, Harry claimed that he discovered Crawford. He did have an eye for the beauties. He was one of the first to spot Jean Harlow, Sally Rand and Maureen O'Sullivan. Harry was an infamous ladies' man, bedding a long line of beauties from chorus girls to socialites to Harlow, maybe Rand, and Clara Bow. According to Harry, his office at the club had a secret door for sneaking them in and out while their husbands or dates drummed their fingers at their tables thinking they were just taking a long time powdering their noses. He says that the Hollywood Bowl couldn't hold all the women he had, and classes himself "a specialist in man's favorite sport."

Between the club and his other gigs Harry minted money and became the playboy nonpareil. He wore the finest bespoke suits and carried a gold cigarette case with his initials on it in diamonds. He commuted in a Rolls from Manhattan to his big house out on the water in Beechhurst, Queens, where he had a yacht and threw Gatsby-like parties for celebrities, beauties and millionaires. He learned to fly and kept a growing fleet of planes at nearby Flushing Airport. Harry worked hard, played hard, drank oceans of booze and smoked whole fields of tobacco. Everyone marveled at his stamina and joie de vivre even in that over-the-top decade.

In 1926, while still playing the host at his club, Harry got a featured role on Broadway in George White's Scandals, one of several knockoffs of the Ziegfeld Follies. After a boffo year it toured other cities, including Cincinnati, where, he notes ruefully, it tanked. In 1930 he headlined Lew Leslie's International Revue, where he introduced "On the Sunny Side of the Street." And in 1931 he made it, finally, into the Follies as well. He got his choice of songs to perform, including "Lullaby of Broadway." He was at the top of his career in those shows, the king of Broadway; his friend Eddie Cantor memorably said he wore Broadway like a boutonniere.

He didn't do so well in Hollywood. He starred, playing himself as "Harry Raymond," in the 1930 musical Puttin' on the Ritz, in which he introduced the song by his pal Irving Berlin. The movie did mediocre business then and is barely watchable now except for that number, Harry gliding around in front of an army of dancers with his top hat tilted over one eye. His recording of the song, which some consider the best, was a hit. (Among his other records are Berlin's "Blue Skies," his own "Muddy Waters" and a pretty wonderful Jolson-ish rendition of "Ain't She Sweet.") While in Hollywood to make the film he met Clara Bow. Teamed up at first for publicity purposes only, they became a hot item and got engaged. Then she suddenly married someone else. Hearing the news, he says, was the only time in his life that he fainted.

He'd make only two more feature films and one short. He sums them up this way: "All were forgettable. It became clear to me that whatever I had was best projected in person, either on the stage or in a night club." By the time he made the last film, released in 1938, he was well past his prime. When the Depression hit and then Prohibition ended, guys like Harry, icons of the Roaring Twenties, just didn't fit the new reality. To his credit, he didn't hang around like some other ghosts of the 1920s did. He left New York and settled in Miami, which was booming and lousy with new nightclubs where he could coast for a few years on his dazzling past. He went fishing with Hemingway and played with his airplanes.

His real fame in the 1930s came in fact as a flyer. In the mid-1930s he'd set altitude and speed records. Then in 1935 he and the pilot Dick Merrill made the world's first round-trip transatlantic flight in a single-engine plane. They filled the plane with tens of thousands of ping-pong balls as flotation devices should they land in the soup. Harry being Harry, after reaching Wales on the outward leg of the trip, they flew on to Paris to party all night with Maurice Chevalier before making the return flight. They landed upside-down in a Newfoundland bog, but they made it. It wasn't as big a deal as Lindbergh's one-way crossing in 1927, but Harry calls it the high point of his life.

Harry didn't make much news after that. He played some clubs through the 1940s, his looks and voice rough from all that carousing and smoking. He still had lots of friends in the show business who tried to engineer comebacks for him, but the public had long since forgotten him. By the time A Hell of a Life came out in 1966 he'd spent the millions he'd made in his heyday and was living alone, quietly and frugally, in Burbank, an old guy who'd gone full-tilt as long as he could, had a hell of a lot of memories and not too many regrets. He died in 1972.

by John Strasbaugh

[caffeineivore]

Spirits part next

R, Z, hints of R/J, A/Z, U/M.

**

The place they’d gone to had been reasonably priced and boasted a decent bottle selection. It was not the first time that Ember had seen Angela Schein since The Incident, but these girls’ nights out, such as they were, did not happen with great frequency either. Angela, married now and all but glowing with newlywed bliss, had been just as incandescently kind and pure-souled as ever, and they’d whiled away a happy enough hour over some small plates and small talk and wine-- an Argentinian Malbec for her, a Napa Valley Rosé for the blonde. Ember had then conscientiously seen Angela safely to her home, remembering the circumstances of their first meeting, before heading in the direction of Brooklyn herself.

Nothing is out of the ordinary until she is all but three blocks away from her building, but when it comes, the darkness rose with the speed and force of an eruption. She takes off at a run perhaps a split-second before the soft, ominous sounds of a scuffle even reached her ears.

Remember, little Firebird, bad things can happen to people on a quiet street anywhere in this city. It had been a lesson imparted upon her by her grandfather many decades ago, well before 9-11, or the Central Park Jogger case, or even the Son of Sam attacks. It had been cold comfort in the aftermath of some of the tragedies that she’d seen, and even now, though she knows, realistically, that there is no way to cheat fate, the black-fly buzz of impending catastrophe still fills her with knee-jerk anger and sorrow that will never be easy to shake. 

She hears a muffled argument in gutter Spanish-- no less furious for all it’s quiet-- before she even turns the corner, and then the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked, and her heart makes an uncomfortable leap to her throat. Nothing she has on her is powerful enough to stop death in its tracks.

But then, as though out of nowhere, not one but three police vehicles barrel down the street, flashing lights and blaring sirens as they head directly towards where the argument started off. Two cruisers, followed by a burly SUV from the K-9 unit, converge onto the alley, and perhaps in fear or perhaps in a pragmatic desire for survival, two dark-clad figures run off from the scene before any shots can be fired. 

She cautiously makes her way down the street, towards the cluster of police vehicles, and much to her surprise, the door of the K-9 vehicle opens, something sleek and sharp-muzzled jumping out. But where she might have expected a brawny Malinois or German Shepherd on a leash, she gets the immediate impression of something smaller but wilder-- vulpine, before it morphs right in front of her eyes into a man, sleekly handsome with long, curling hair the dusky blonde of old gold. Ember is sure her shock is registered on her face, but the man smiles, peridot-green eyes lighting up in friendly recognition. “Well met at long last, milady.” Silent and fleet, he crosses the street in a blink, and takes her hand in both of his, laying a kiss on the knuckles in a gesture that should have by all rights been sleazy rather than gracious. “I’m Zhen. A friend of Jareth’s, if you will.”

“Oh.” Ember relaxes, looking up into the man’s stunning face. All fox spirits, regardless of gender or clan or alignment, are known for their beauty, and this one is no exception. She knows of him-- a finance wizard, as befits his kin’s affinity for acquisition and illusion-- but had she not known his chosen vocation, she would have expected a visage such as his to grace a Milan runway. “Well. Thanks for the...” She gestures vaguely at the alley where the cluster of police cars had been parked, only to realize, belatedly, that they’d disappeared without a trace. Her eyes narrow-- even distracted, she should have noticed them vanishing into thin air.

His smile morphs into a grin full of fun and mischief. “I could be a hell of a stage magician, don’t you think? Like Harry Houdini and David Copperfield and Criss Angel all rolled into one but better-looking.” The statement incites a scoff and an eye-roll, as it is meant to, and he lets go of her hand, and a bit of the animal hypnotism lets off with the release of skin on skin contact. 

“What were you doing here?” It’s the question that she finally settles on asking first. It is perhaps just a coincidence that they were both present when the shooting would have gone down. Or perhaps not. His aura is colourful and chaotic like an abstract pop art on a spiritual canvas, but she senses no malevolence. 

“My lovely one is working late tonight, leaving me to my own devices, so I was visiting one of my favourite places, earlier.” He names a quaint little 24-hour cafe within walking distance that had been opened only six months ago but was already quite popular with the locals for their buttery scones and their exquisitely smooth espresso. “And then I decided to take a walk. And I happened upon that situation just at the same time as you, so I think I deserve another scone. Or six. You should come. My treat.”

He reaches for her hand again, gives it a tug, and now more aware of it, she feels the whisper of suggestion like the glide of cashmere against her skin, warm and with just the slightest bit of friction. More to make a better acquaintance of this adroit creature than for the promise of treats, she lets herself be guided towards the cafe. Within short order, they’re seated at one of the tiny round tables, with a plate of scones glossy with butter and flecked with orange zest in front of them next to a traditional duo of strawberry preserves and clotted cream. Zhen buys himself an espresso but Ember opts for jasmine green tea. It’s good-quality and gently fragrant, not steeped too long or hot. Zhen helps himself to a scone, then another, with an almost-childlike enthusiasm, and she leaves him to it. An illusion the scope of which he’d conjured takes more than a little skill, a little energy. 

Three scones in, he takes a luxuriant sip of espresso and wipes his lips with a napkin. “Ah. So much deliciousness. I do hate being hungry, don’t you?” Not waiting in particular for her to respond, he leans back in his chair, eyes sharp and alert. “I suppose you’ll want to know what I’m doing here, in a more grand scheme of things than just Brooklyn at half-past ten at night.”

“I can figure that out on my own, but it wouldn’t be polite to pry without your knowledge and consent,” Ember answers, glancing at his hands for a moment before looking back up into his face. “I don’t really like to-- intrude, if you will-- unless I have to, or I am invited.”

“I can see why Jareth adores you so,” Zhen beams with the power of a high-powered halogen lamp. “But in answer to your question, I followed a man here. He did me a good turn once, and I have guarded him, since. We might be a mischievous and occasionally temperamental lot, but we’re loyal to those who come to our aid. And he did just get married-- to a lovely young lady. I blessed them with long life and prosperity, of course. As one does.”

“So you’re here to inquire about a wedding.”

“She’s like a sister to me.”

Another beautiful, long-lived man. Another inquiry about a wedding over a cup of tea. It’s like a puzzle piece which has fallen into place, and she can see the implications like spider-silk outlined in dew, reaching elusively out in all directions. The thoughts of what this portends for the future, though, fills her with trepidation. Where there is great good, there will always be great evil to challenge it. Despair follows triumph like night follows day...

Zhen must sense something of her distress, because he reaches over, pours her another cup of tea. His hypnotic eyes meet hers over the curling steam. “They’re safe, you know.” He does not clarify whether he is talking about the mortal couple, Adam and Angela, or the rest of the world as they know it, and the oblivious people who inhabit it. “Why, we would never have met, otherwise. And you seem almost as fabulous a personage as me, so wouldn’t that be a pity?”

The remark is flippant and designed to make her chuckle, and works as it is intended to do. But it also reminds Ember of the last part of that fateful Tarot card reading she’d done for Jareth, only a few months ago-- had it been less than a mere year that she’d known him?-- and the last few cards he’d pulled. The King and Queen of Wands, the High Priestess and the Magician. She’d known, in some sense, that he’d become important to her, but not the depth and scope of it. In a mere change of seasons, she’d entrusted more of herself and her heart into another’s hands for safekeeping than she ever had in several centuries of living. She glances again at the man across from the table, with his clever hands and mesmerizing gaze. His illusions and charms. Jareth’s agility and bow, the support of his kin. The primordial nature magic of the Iele and the strength of the Stone-Hewn. There were bound to be others she’d yet to meet. It would be the most powerful, diverse convergence of immortals that she-- and perhaps they, too-- had ever seen. 

She lets out a breath in a long, shaky exhale and picks up her tea. Life and fate came with no guarantees, but she could always hope. And whatever battles may come, she’d never have to face alone, again. 

[pingou7]

A car, two cops and a stardust — a RebelCaptain road trip fic

by @pingou7 pingou  for @thestarbirdfromtheashes Starbird

(aka the Road trip fic Diego Luna’s filmography made me write)

Read and enjoy, and please consider leaving me a few words.

Summary:

As the dusty roads criss under Kes Dameron’s old car, Cassian Andor lets the wind mess with his hair through the open window. Dust, sunshine, laughter, its easy to recapture the taste of days long gone.

(…)

At a gas station near Corpus Chirsti, when they climb back after taking a piss, both jump out of their skins as a random brunette, eyes thunderous, hisses dangerously from the backseat:

“Just pretend I’m not here.”

Update: Part 4 is up!

Read more on AO3 (or under the cut)

Part 4 — From Gina’s House, San Diego, CA to Tijuana, Baja, Mexico Day 3

After seven hours of unaltered sleep, Cassian Andor feels refreshed and ready to greet the day. Once passed the surprise of feeling a hand other than his own on his cheek, that is. If Jyn is guarded awake, she has no such reservation asleep. She was all curled against his side but doesn't stir when he stands up.

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and tiptoes out of the bedroom, like when he was a teen who didn’t want to be caught. Unfortunately, like then, it’s no use against his brother’s keen hearing and Kes opens his door as soon as Cassian passes in front of it.

“So, one night out of the car and you’ve already made your move Andor?”

“You could have fetched me if you missed me so much, cabrón.”

“Didn't need to, Poe gave me a stuffy, so I wouldn't miss him.”

“You tell me that, but you're afraid of the dark and your four years old man knows it.”

Both smile as they think of the little boy that is the legacy of the Charolastras, until suddenly Kes looks at him, and says conversationally as they reach the end of the staircase:

“You know, the collar of your shirt looks like it was drooled on and you smell kinda fruity.”

“Duly noted, Sergeant. Your point is?”

“I’m happy there’s something nice about this halt, that’s all.”

Cassian doesn’t say that nothing happened outside actually sleeping together, because to him, it meant something. He had not slept with a girl in the truest sense of the word in almost a decade, as pathetic as it is, so it’s perhaps more meaningful because they didn’t have sex. Still, he’s grateful he could offer something, some companionship, even if they were asleep half the time.

He can’t begin to explain that to Kes, or he would call him a sap, and he’d be right. They pad into the kitchen, greet Gina who's taking her pills — more than the last time they were here — with a trembling hand.

“Did you sleep well my boys? You left a room to Jyn I hope.”

“Don't worry Tía, Cassian was the perfect gentleman,” Kes assures with a teasing glint while said gentleman rolls his eyes.

They help themselves with coffee and toast and as soon as she leaves to go to the bathroom, Kes addresses the pressing issue:

“Did you get any chance talk to Jyn, cabrón? Besides the whole foreplay business?”

“No, nothing worth mentioning, why?”

“Assuming she goes along for the ride, how does she plan to cross the border?”

“She has her ID with her, several of them in fact, it’s all she brought with her apparently.”

Along with a Swiss pocket knife and a little box — a sort of sleeve he didn’t want to open — but it would best to keep this to himself for now. Let’s just say a woman should have secrets, Cassian silently mocks, knowing Kes already is too intrigued by this:

“Thief or murderer, she said. Maybe there was more truth to it than we wanted to see.”

“She doesn’t strike me like someone who would commit bloody crimes. But thievery, why not, she’s uncannily good at sneaking around.”

“Tell me about it,” Kes sighs, “if someone in the precinct knows how she played us from the very beginning, with her Houdini tricks, our credibility is over.”

“Kay knows, but I don’t think he’d rattle us out.”

“Not if you explicitly told him to shut his mouth, no. You two are an item and I believe even he puts your friendship above duty.”

“Do I detect jealousy here, Dameron? I gave you to Shara years ago, you should learn to share.”

“Oh, I know how to share just fine, these last days are proof enough, I’m just saying I find your relationship a bit too exclusive sometimes.”

“I love you too,” Cassian smirks as Gina comes back, rubbing a bandaid on her arm.

She goes to sit on the sofa, picks up her knitting and so they don't pay much attention at first when they hear Jyn coming down.

White blouse, a bit frilly, with sensible warm colored pants, her hair down, and a piece of colorful cloth in her hair… she looks beautiful, a completely different woman than the one who made irruption in their car some thirty hours ago.

“Jyn, you look… I thought you didn't like girlie stuff?”

“I don't, and I'm slightly uncomfortable, truth be told, but your aunt took my clothes away to launder, and she had this sorted out instead so… thankfully she left my vest alone.”

“What that moron tried to say, Jyn,” Kes interrupts, clearly amused, “is that you clean up nice. Now why don't you show Gina her handiwork? It'd make her happy.”

“Okay,” she agrees awkwardly, “tell me when you're ready to leave.”

“Really, Cassian,” he whispers conspiratorially in Spanish, “I know she's pretty but you could make an effort! I feel like I'm dealing with Kay here. Get a grip man.”

But Cassian is still tongue-tied seeing Jyn looking so feminine. Between her practical clothes and the conservative nightgown, he didn’t quite analyze her figure before. Lean legs for all she’s short, nice curves, shiny hair: really nice indeed.

As foreseen, their host is delighted by the change, though she is pale and slightly panting. It is like receiving a bucket of ice water, seeing Gina like this and Cassian wants to hug the illness away from her, like she used to keep his grief at bay for months, enclosing he and Kes in long and frequent hugs.

“I should have brought Poe and Shara,” his brother whispers dejectedly and Cassian can’t do anything more than putting a hand on his shoulder.

The woman who has been their savior at a time when they were left adrift is really dying. It matters little that it’s from old age, they were right to hurry. When Nadia called to say it would be judicious to make an halt to San Diego before their anniversary trip to Bernal, they knew her mother wouldn’t be the picture of health. It was to be expected expected, but it still hurts. 

Cassian would like to stay longer — should they do some grocery shopping for her? Does she has appointments? — but clearly it would be of little use, particularly without Shara or Poe. Jyn is restless already, coming up to them and whispering, face unfathomable:

“Look, does your offer still stands?”

“Which one?”

“Were you joking when you said I could cross the border with you if I wanted to?”

“You want to go along for the whole ride then? Is Cassian to thank for that?”

“Shut up, cursí,” he grows out loud while Gina has the gall to glare at them disapprovingly, making Jyn smile a bit.

“Not for the reason you imagine, Kes-adillas, but I talked to my... friends yesterday, and they thought I’d be better off with you than running on my own. And since Cass offered...”

Cassian outward groans this time, making Kes guffaw and Jyn smirks, but he nods, taking each of them by the shoulder.

“Okay then, Stardust!”

Even a blind man could have seen the flinch — the spasm, more like — that coursed through Jyn at hearing the nickname she mentioned during their first car game. Kes frowns back at her but hastily says:

“Stardust is a no go then? You said you were called that, or child and little sister, but were roughly the same age, and no family, sorry if —”

“No, no it’s fine, no harm done, you can call me stardust if you want. It would be nice to have better memories attached to that nickname anyway.”

She puts on a brave face, but her smile is a little strained still. Cassian remembers it came from her parents (she had also mentioned a guardian) so it’s likely there’s something traumatic behind such sharp reaction. Kes must have come to a similar conclusion because he says reassuringly:

“Creating good memories are our specialty, so don’t worry, it’ll be a fun ride, plus Cass will surely want invest himself body and soul to the task.”

“Enough already cabrón.”

“Kes, be a good boy, fetch Jyn’s bag and put it in your car. It’s in the laundry room,” Gina chimes in, seeing Jyn and Cassian bothered.

“You must be mistaken. I have no bag.”

“Well, you do now, even if it’s just a few spare clothes and toiletries,” Gina retorts in a stern voice the Charolastras are quite familiar with, even if it’s a pale echo of her former assertive tone.

Jyn is left speechless for the first time while Kes executes himself like their aunt was the drill sergeant and not him. Cassian looks around, feeling amused when Jyn follows Kes with a dumbstruck expression.

“Gracias tía,” he says slowly, bending over to leave a shadow of a kiss against her parched cheek.

“Hush, I just ensured that she had some fresh clothes, that’s all! I saw she wore your jacket yesterday, but you’re not in high school anymore, and besides it’s no letterman jacket.”

“You should stop watching stupid teenage tv shows. Plus I was a geek, not a jock, and she’s not my girl.”

“Isn’t she really? And don’t presume to tell me what I should do or not, young Andor! Watching stupid shows is one of the few privileges of retirement.”

He keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t say he’s not likely to reach the canonical age that would enable him such harmless pleasure. Even worse, he surmises the old woman herself wouldn’t be able to indulge much longer. Her skin as taken a yellowing tinge, her hands keep trembling... Cassian knows the sound and sight of farewell and it breaks his heart to witness his oldest surrogate relative discreetly fading like this.

“Your brother is a kill-joy,” she says unperturbedly as the two other people return, brushing away Jyn’s thanks.

“Yep... and yet, his best mate Kay’s even worse.”

“Make sure you’ll keep him relatively happy then,” Gina says like Cassian was not standing right here.

Maybe it was mean to be harmless but the air is sucked out off his lungs and even Jyn purses her plush lips when Dameron replies too solemnly:

“I will.”

It’s clear after that their aunt expects them to go — they weren’t meant to stay very long. Upon departure, the brothers stall as much as they can. She gingerly extracts herself from their entwined arms, and her eyes — the same as her late sister — are brimming with tears. Cassian is used to control his emotions, all part of the job, but the sore lump in his throat is the same that makes Kes swallow harshly.

“We’ll return on our way back, Tía, so wait for us,” he says a bit too heartily, and Cassian wants to grimace at the obviousness of it.

Gina graces Dameron with a tender smile but turns stern when Jyn and him say goodbye.

“I’ll expect to see the two of you... next time.”

“I can’t promise anything,” the fugitive says awkwardly, “but, thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

They take the road again, with Kes behind the wheel. Nobody feels like speaking, the radio is off and the two cops and the woman called Stardust are each lost in their own thoughts. Cassian should be happy Jyn hasn’t vanished yet, that he has more time to solve her mysteries, but at the moment his mind is still trapped in the fourteen year old self that is immortalized in an old lady’s photograph. Shara should be with them, for Gina, and perhaps for Jyn too. Perhaps she would trust a woman more, even if marrying Kes ought to reflect not so favorably on her character, he reflects wryly.

At the U.S. Customs and Border Protection to get to Tijuana, Cassian is almost surprised to see Jyn handing out her relevant ID — green card included — considering he saw at least two ID under different names than the one they know her under, and even Kes remarks on her compliance. They were half-expecting her to crawl under the seats again and they’d joked the car wasn’t powerful enough to force the check point:

“Is this your real passport?”

"Oh, I have others, if you wish,” she says cheekily, “but that one is authentic. You already know my real name, and you're both cops, I'm not stupid."

Jyn Lyra Erso, born in Birmingham, England, United Kingdom on October 17th 1988.

Still, it’s surprisingly considerate of her, maybe foolish, even, if she wants to hide... Of all the possibilities Cassian has thought of, the less problematic one didn’t even register. Despite her usual sass, she’s clearly nervous, even after they reach the Mexican side. She’s just not making any sense to him, he silently muses as she pockets the papers back, a little short of breath, while Dameron too gives her a puzzled glance.

“Trust goes both ways,” she declares, “I’ve trusted you, you can trust me.”

Kes sends her a sunny smile, satisfied, but she catches his eyes, and he reads the message in her green eyes: there, I took a chance, so see me safe like you swore. He nods and so does she. 

Outside, the Mexican desert awaits.

[haidas-anxiety]

Hello From Niagara Falls - Exploring the Clifton Hills Entertainment Area & Doing A Little Gambling

The previous morning my last entire day in Niagara Falls, Ontario, had shown up. Following a stuffed calendar the day preceding that had incorporated a magnificent introduction at the Max Theater, my very close experience with the Great Falls at the Journey Behind the Falls and an engaging show at the Oh Canada Eh? Supper Theater, I prepared for another entire day of investigations in Niagara Falls  188xoso.com I previously got an incredible beginning to the day when Kevin Kirkpatrick, the gourmet cook and co-proprietor of Kirkpatrick Manor, arranged a totally delightful breakfast for me: after a scrumptious new natural product platter with yogurt and newly made banana bread I devoured "breakfast ravioli", one of Kevin's special culinary creations. This light yet scrumptious breakfast dish highlights fried eggs, bacon and old cheddar encompassed by daintily turned out pasta and a home made pureed tomatoes with garlic, white wine and leeks. Kevin, with his gregarious and active way, plunked down with me and kept me engaged with stories from his global neighborliness experiences in France when he and spouse Nance were dealing with an enormous chalet in the French Alps.

After this incredible beginning I hurried out to return my rental vehicle to Budget Rent-A-Car since my better half was rolling in from Toronto to go along with me in Niagara Falls. In spite of the fact that I had traveled just 78 kilometers in two days, my little Toyota Yaris had served me incredibly well in getting around Niagara Falls at a sensible cost.

On this radiant yet freezing day we began with a decent stroll at the foot of Clifton Hill, walking westwards along the Niagara Parkway towards the Canadian Horshehoe Falls. A splendid blue sky washed the Niagara River in brilliant light, and a portion of the metal railings close to the walkway were canvassed in shimmering ice developments from the fog that is shaped by the Horseshoe Falls. Many different vacationers were additionally going for an early afternoon stroll and were snapping photos of their loved ones against the scenery of the powerful Niagara Falls.

Our genuine goal for now was the Clifton Hill zone - Niagara Fall's principle vacationer promenade. Clifton Hill, the road, reaches out from the Niagara Parkway close to the Niagara River to Victoria Avenue on head of the slope and highlights many cafés, blessing shops, inexpensive food outlets, inns and different attractions, for example, frequented houses, wax historical centers and other traveler diversion. This famous scam is regularly stuffed to the gills with individuals walking around and down, absorbing the rowdy festival climate of this territory.

Clifton Hill has a long-standing history as a diversion territory: lodgings have been in presence here since the late 1800s. During the 1920s this zone formed into a famous vacationer goal and a few extra hotels and traveler camps were developed close by throughout the following not many decades. Since the 1960s a few historical centers have been manufactured, which incorporate the Houdini Hall of Fame, the Hollywood Wax Museum, the House of Frankenstein, the Guinness World Records Museum, Ripley's Believe It Or Not and a few others.

We chose to make our first stop at the Niagara SkyWheel, an as of late built mammoth ferris wheel whose 42 atmosphere controlled gondolas give an amazing perspective over all the principle attractions of Niagara Falls. During the brief ride on this 53 meter high ferris wheel we had a glorious view over the Canadian and American Falls just as over the various attractions and the local locations of Niagara Falls. Luckily, the climate was ideal for this experience and our 360 degree all encompassing perspective stretched out for some miles.

In view of the lively climate we chose to dodge inside and headed into the Guinness World Records Museum. Once in the past called the Guinness Book of World Records, this establishment has a beautiful history: the overseeing executive of the celebrated Guinness Brewery in Ireland happened to ask himself during a chasing party in 1951 which fledgling was quicker - a grouse or a brilliant plover? Incapable to discover a response to this inquiry in reference books, he figured that there would need to be a large number of different inquiries that couldn't be settled by counseling a reference book and chose to make a book to gracefully replies to these kinds of inquiries.

The book turned into a short-term shock hit and in the end a refreshed rendition including new records was distributed on a yearly premise and has advanced from a book overwhelming reference book into a vivid, lavishly delineated distribution. Lately a few little exhibition halls have been made in areas, for example, Tokyo, San Francisco, Hollywood, Atlantic City, Myrtle Beach and Copenhagen to feature essential, and in some cases strange, world records. The area in Niagara Falls highlights photographs and depictions of numerous instances of world records including such interests as the world's tallest man and the world's littlest lady.

We investigated the numerous intelligent presentations that include world records in the circles of amusement, craftsmanship, writing and game. Cataclysmic events and logical accomplishments are secured also. A portion of the records in plain view really boggle the brain and it makes you wonder who has the opportunity to think of a portion of these somewhat unique thoughts for world records, and who may have the opportunity to execute those thoughts. Pictures of record holders, for example, the man with the world's longest ear hairs (4 inches!) were somewhat unnerving, to be completely forthright.

Our next goal highlighted comparatively unique human eats: Ripley's Believe It or Not!, worked to look loke a crumbled Empire State Building with King Kong remaining at the top, is a genuine assortment of human peculiarities. Robert LeRoy Ripley (1893 to 1949) was an illustrator, business person and beginner anthropologist whose paper board arrangement included odd yet verified realities from everywhere throughout the world. Ripley voyaged a ton and turned into an authority of strange things from a wide range of outlandish goals around the world. From 1929 onwards Robert Ripley entranced perusers of seventeen national papers with his Believe It Or Not coordinated paper board arrangement. At the tallness of his ubiquity he was said to have gotten more mail than the American president. Ripley turned into a genuine media goliath of his time and ventured into radio and early TV before his passing of a coronary episode in 1949.

At the Niagara Falls Ripley's Believe It or Not! we proceeded with our investigation of abnormal and fascinating things and were welcomed immediately by a three-dimensional figure of the world's biggest lady. Genuine peculiarities, for example, vampire slaughtering units, an assortment of shocking yet entertaining headstones, two-headed piglets and an assortment of life-sized optical figments shipped us into the place where there is the strange and odd. To balance the assortment of peculiarities, Ripley's additionally works a Moving Theater and Louis Tussaud's Waxworks in Niagara Falls.

After these investigations of the peculiar and bizarre we chose to go to our comfortable informal lodging, the Kilpatrick Manor B&B. Chilled deep down we chose to unwind on the happy with jumbo bed, turn on the chimney, watch a touch of TV and warm up under the delicate cotton covers. A rich shower in the multi-stream Neptune shower assisted with heating up my solidified bones. Presently I comprehended what the proprietor Kevin Kilpatrick was alluding to when he disclosed to me that visitors simply prefer to "home" at their quaint little inn. It was to be sure an especially happy with loosening up condition that prepared us for our last night in Niagara Falls.

We chose to eat at the Frontier Grillhouse which is found nearby the Best Western Fireside Hotel with an incredible view neglecting the Niagara River. This cutting edge easygoing eatery includes a broad menu with an assortment of newly arranged breakfast dishes or an everything you-can-have breakfast. The supper menu has an enormous choice of tidbits, soups and plates of mixed greens and a wide scope of flame broiled dishes including prime rib, New York striploin, Filet Mignon, T-bone steaks. Pastas, fish and sweets balance the contribution at the Frontier Grillhouse. I making the most of my steaming hot French onion soup and garlicky escargots with gratinated mozzarella while my significant other rewarded himself to a liberal plate of Fettucine Alfredo. We were unable to have included treat regardless of whether we had needed to.

We could have loose for considerably longer at the Frontier Grillhouse, however one more experience was sitting tight for us: a touch of betting at the Fallsview Casino Resort. Niagara Falls has for quite some time been a mainstream goal for betting. On the Ontario side there are two enormous club: Casino Niagara, situated in the Clifton Hill region, and the as of late opened Fallsview Casino Resort which has been luring speculators since 2004. As we had just investigated Clifton Hill, we chose to visit the Fallsview Casino which is a great lodging, shopping, gaming and amusement complex situated on a slope with an astonishing perspective on the glorious Canadian Horseshoe Falls.

The whole perplexing is awesome - with a 100,000 square foot gaming floor it dazzles even the most experienced gambling club goer. Since it was our first time here and neither one of us is a gambling club standard, we were amazed by the apparently endless gaming floor which highlights 3000 gaming machines and 150 table games. Wherever lights are flickering and the toll like hints of the gaming machines fill the air. My significant other is a significant gifted side interest poker player, and he looked at the astonishing exhibit of table games, which incorporate poker games like Let It Ride and Caribbean Stud. Other table games incorporate Baccarat, Blackjack, Craps, Roulette and Spanish 21 just as progressively outlandish assortments, for example, the old Chinese Sic Bo round of dice, Pai Gow Tiles - a Chinese rendition of dominoes, and Pai Gow Poker which consolidates components Asian Pai Gow and Western-style poker.

I chose to simply watch the activity and sit back as my significant other took a stab at various kinds of poker. Woman Luck was sparkling on him for some time, however as the night advanced he gave ba

[awesomedarmoe-blog]

What’s the Theme?

Though it’s been less than a week the eclectic nature of my blog composition thus far seems to create question in people’s minds, “What’s he on about?”

Well, I write on a myriad of subjects with my passions leaning towards Political & Social issues, the lie of Religion, some very bold perspective on the LGBT community, My personal business offerings (How To materials for the Psychic Entertainer’s industry, books on Esoteric/Metaphysical belief systems, and introduction to “Craig’s Concoction” my very own snake oil elixir product). 

Yes, I am very opinionated. 

Yes, I am quite angry. 

Yes, I am an old fart that sits at the keyboard all day Reading, Writing and Cussing. 

I am generally unapologetic in that what I offer is based on what’s understood by people vs. what is popular and in vogue.  In fact, I tend to be very controversial when it comes to the latter in that I don’t necessarily agree in many cases.  For an example, I have deep issues around the whole Transgender and Vegan trends we’re seeing in society at present and their exceptionally aggressive agenda to convert us all. . . or so it would seem. And do understand, I’m a middle-aged gay man that’s saying such things and I’m rather confident that I’m not alone in my views. Then again, many gay men loathe the whole Cross Dressing side of our community, seeing it in the same light as the old Black Face Minstrel shows. 

About Me

My story is simple but strange; born in kaiki diapers at the Aberdeen Proving Grounds in Aberdeen, MD to two West Virginia natives that just happened to be 2nd cousins -- they lived on either side of a mountain so it’s considered legal by hillfolk standards. It was the early 1960s, the space program was in its prime and expanding, television was maturing, and the world was in a major flux when it came to change and conflict.  There’s nothing like seeing racially based abuse and learning straight from the bible why, as a young white kid, I wasn’t allowed to play with my black friend. . . in other words, those ghost costumes were definately around, and though we rarely ever had contact, it was well established that Sen. Robert Byrd (former grand wizard of the KKK) was a part of the family as well). 

Ties to Appalachia came with a very strange mix of religious & spiritual points of view.  Whereas most considered themselves “Christian” they likewise dabbled in what we call “Hoodoo” or “Mountain Magick” -- when you toss in my half-breed great-great-grandmother, the daughter of a Cherokee shaman and noted midwife (Granny Lady/Healer) as well as a part Shawnee paternal grandmother it becomes obvious that this particular legacy is unique unto itself. 

When I was but a toddler (3-5 years old) certain “truths” would come to the surface about me such as the natural swish in my walk and lisp in my talk; something my red necked father faithfully beat out of me thinking his abuse would knock the queer completely out, but NO. . . I’d be fooling around with other boys, many of them older than I, for the whole of my life (sort of). . . there is the matter of my playing Mr. Mom and helping raise about 10 kids over the years and being celibate for most of the 30 years spanning my 30s to present.  But such things pertain to my latter years. . . 

One of the other things that cropped up in those days was the ability to intuitively KNOW people; I was known for walking up to total strangers and being able to relate details about their life, why they had certain emotions and more.  It was a trait that panicked my parents, fearing that I would be of the generation that lends reprise to a more esoteric way of living vs. the dogmatic bias of the church.  And yes, they did all matter of exorcism and laying on of hands to “cure me” -- by the time I was in my late teens and actually looking into going to seminary (c’mon, preaching is like a family business in my world) and discovered the truth about the church, the bible and the millions of murdered innocent people it took to “christianize” the world.  It made me sick to my stomach and intensely angry because of the lies I was told (we’re all told) about it all.  While I maintain a strong spiritual point of view and association, I am very much anti-religion with particular emphasis on the Abrahamic traditions, 3 of the most brutal, blood thirsty cults ever known by humankind. 

Seeking answers as to why I could just touch people and know things (Psychometry) I discovered the world of stage magic via The Magic Land of Alakazam and magician Mark Wilson.  To this day my mother swears the two dumbest things she ever got me as a kid was a puppet and a magic kit, in that both would come to rule my life -- nearly 5 full decades in show biz which ranged from doing commercial shows for a noted kid’s clothing line, being a feature in a major traveling Side Show and gaining a serious reputation as a technical advisor and effect developer. . . not bad for a kid from Ohio’s famed valley. 

PTSD, Depression & Me

PTSD can be caused by a number of scenarios; for me, it was an overly controlling father that loved to employ crued psychological tactics to keep everyone in the family suppressed and in servitude.  Oh yes!  He was physically violent as well -- a very short fuse and terrible temper.  The results of which is my blocking out most of my youth from age 8 well into my early 20s.  Even now, at 58, I jump when I hear the man’s voice (though he’s been dead now for nearly 4 years). 

Most of what I know about my teen years is based on stories told to me by others that were there and so, things tend to get a bit mixed up from time to time when it comes to chronology and the unfolding of events.  Too, because I was treated as royalty (child prodigy) in the early years, my ego frequently leads me to believe that I’m very special and amongst the elite, even though I have very little claim to fame as a showman. 

Showbiz is rife with damaged people it would seem, many of us in the Variety Entertainment side of things, enduring horrid anxiety & depression.  For me it has been more than stifling at times and did entail some short term (very expensive) drug use which lead to my going through a substantial amount of money in under two years time. 

Brain Damage as the result of drugs and a few concussions plagues me to this day and has been compounded by the progression of my RRMS (Relapsing Remitting Multiple Sclerosis) which has put numerous lesions on my brain. But then, I’m always breaking things or getting hurt by animals, etc.  You don’t chase adrenaline without having to pay the piper. 

The West Coast & Awakening

By the time I was 22 I was desperate for some sort of positive change in my life, finding a purpose.  The healing came through several key sources, including 12 step participation, working with New Age author-publisher Louise L. Hay and studying A Course in Miracles with Marianne Williamson.  Add to this my involvement with T.O.T.E.G. a Hopi Shaman-based study group as well as Pacific Circle, one of the nation’s biggest Pagan fellowships and you get a fairly decent glimpse as to what really shaped me most in life. 

Like anyone tied to the world of theatrical magic I practically lived at the world famous Magic Castle from 1982 to 88 when my adventure would once again take on new life and new directions.  By the late 80s I was working in the San Jose and Bay areas and taking the occasional gig in nearby Las Vegas or Reno, laying foundations for things to come, I guess you could say. 

Craig the Psychic

Throughout my work in magic I kept feeling drawn to a field of study known as “Mentalism” -- basically, it is a kindred artform that allows the performer to create illusions that seem to be Psychic or Spiritual phenomena (and we’re talking almost 20 years prior to its current popularity).  My first series of Mentalism performances were in Palm Spring -- 3 nights of shear terror!  I was 23 and inexperienced when it comes to the kind of reaction my performance generated -- people wanting me to become their guru. I’d never experienced anything like this and wasn’t emotionally prepared to deal with it, so I ran back to the safety of my big illusions for a while, inserting psychic styled demonstrations here and there, as part of the program; typically dividing the show so that one full 20 minute segment focused exclusively on Mind Magic. 

Unlike the majority of people that move into this world, I was not an ardent skeptic or “cynic” as it were.  No, I am still a confirmed believer in probability and likelihood i.e. it is very likely that science will prove out what the mystics of old claimed as magick.  Even now researchers are even boasting about how technology is inching us closer to such discoveries and allowing application thereof.  Adding to my faith however, is the abundance of miracles and amazing revelations that I’ve personally experienced and studied that have NO LOGICAL EXPLANATION to which the intellectual cynic has but one answer “Coincidence” (so much for “scientific” theory). 

At 16 I got my first deck of Tarot cards and have been doing Readings with folks ever since.  At 10 my father’s step-dad, a noted Dowser in the Bluefield, WV region, put a stick in my hand and taught me how to divine for water, treasure and more.  One of the reasons I wish more young pagan people could learn from actual elders vs. overly commercialized publications that too frequently, give incomplete and even misinformation to the eager noob. The old methods of testing and help cultivate abilities are virtually forgotten to all but a small handful of us that the millennials are reluctant to listen to. 

So You’re a Charlatan! Comes the claim of the cynic; someone that takes cruel advantage of the gullible and desperate. 

When Harry Houdini and Joseph Dunninger and others declared war on Spiritualists of their day, it was for good reason -- most making the claim were nothing but hacks employing sleight of hand and other forms of deception to steal from their clients.  I often point to the Anna Riva Book of Black & White Magic in that it basically outlines exactly how to accomplish such exploits (while holding a mystical veneer). But the real charlatans in today’s world rarely come in the form of Psychics; most are “businessmen” (CEOs, Lawyers, Advertising & Marketing Pros, etc.) Just look around and you’ll find it.

I do two things as a Psychic; legitimate one on one or group Readings and related teaching.  Then I likewise perform and as best I can, I do my shows in a legit manner, employing trickery (which is usually obvious) here and there for the sake of amusement.  Let’s face it, if you can’t laugh, there is little in way of entertainment value. 

Today, Living in Western Massachusetts

Since 2003 I have been officially “retired” due to health issues.  I also spend a good portion of my time in a wheelchair though I’ve managed to be free of the contraption for much of the past 16 months. I survive on government assistance and the little bit of cash I get here and there from doing Readings, book sales and busking.  

This Spring (2018) I plan on starting a new career venture through a health drink that’s been in the family for generations -- Craig’s Concoction.  This is a ginger, lemon & vinegar drink that is very refreshing but the 5 key herbs used in brewing the elixir are known for aiding with everything from digestion and staving off colds to helping with high blood pressure and diabetes.  I’ve not completed the Kickstarter outline on this campaign but it is on the horizon (to the tune of about $75k+). 

My homelife is blessed by my best chum (pictured below) and with that introduction, I’ll bid thee farewell. . . 

BTW. . . his name is Bohdi and he’s 6 years old. 

[my-house-of-fashion]

AUJIK, the esoteric sect reaching supreme clarity through its work

http://ifttt.com/images/no_image_card.png

Initiated in 2001 by Stefan Larsson, the Japan-based esoteric sect AUJIK has taken over different video platforms with its mesmerizing and unique work.

AUJIK – pronounced ‘odjik’ – is established as an esoteric sect who believes in animism and worships nature. It divides nature into primitive (vegetation, soil, humans, animals, etc) and refined (AI, robots, nano-technology, augmented reality, etc), showing in their work the bond between both, stating that the refined nature comes from the primitive and vice versa.

AUJIK also declares everything comes from nature and it is through the convergence of both refined and primitive nature, that a state of supreme clarity is achieved. It is through their work that they aim to achieve this state and do so while focusing on the idea that everything, event the most artificial things, have a consciousness and a soul. 

Recently AUJIK released a new architectural video that is a collaboration with a British composer called Sion Trefor. The video depicts various architectural structures that are mainly influenced by Tadao Ando:

What is AUJIK? How did the journey for AUJIK begin?

Stefan Larsson: “It started off as a sub-branch to another brand/concept I used to work with around 2000-2005 called QNQ. I was quite fascinated by the structures of brands back then; both visually and conceptually, so I played around with various ideas and influences and then labeled them as fictional brands.

QNQ was mainly about subversive political manifestations, while AUJIK was more orientated around technology and future visions. It went through three incarnations, starting with AGI (Artificial General Intelligence) and robotics, and then combined with influences from animism and spiritualism. A few years ago I also adapted architecture.”

Why AUJIK, why surreal architectural animations?

Stefan Larsson: “The surrealist movement was probably my first art influence when I was in my early teens and long before I started making art myself, so it had an impact on basically everything I’ve done since.

I like the idea of bending reality so it twists one’s perception. I also like combining elements from nature with man constructed objects so the outcome becomes something that resembles functional structures but without any practical function.”

Stefan Larsson: “With these architectural video projects my intention was to dissolve function and practical form into a more chaotic shape that resembles nature. I first focused on separate buildings but realized that a larger scale would present what I envisioned better, so I used a whole cityscape (as in Spatial Bodies: Osaka) where the buildings were intertwined into a giant concrete forest.”

Which are the main values, core concepts or style inclinations that, above all, will always represent AUJIK?

Stefan Larsson: “I think mainly to combine elements and concepts from various fields and looking for interesting results. As an example it started with juxtaposing trees with robotics and then I have been exploring new realms that I adapted to this format. It’s also essential to have a holistic visual style attached to it.”

As an esoteric sect who believes in animism and worships nature, what is the message AUJIK wants to convey through its work?

Stefan Larsson: “It was first structured as a sect formation; just to give it an identity to build on. I was fascinated by a Japanese cult called Pana-wave laboratories as well as Shugendo and Yamabushi monks, so I came up with fictional ideas of AUJIK being a sort of esoteric cult that divided nature in to: Refined (AI, robotics, nanotechnology etc.) and Primitive ( vegetation, rocks, organic bodies etc.). It was not necessarily a dualistic perspective, but more of a fundament to create from.

If there’s a message I like to convey it’s basically to perceive and interpret all things in this world – and beyond – without limits or any rigid and inhibited attitudes.”

What other fields and inputs, outside and inside of the design world, provide you inspiration?

Stefan Larsson: “I tend to take a lot of inspiration from architecture nowadays since it’s been evolving so much in the last decade. Mainly what’s popping up in China and the Arab countries. Also I like brutalism and metabolism architecture a lot. Fashion always was an ambivalent source of inspiration. Music is without a doubt my most important inspiration though.”

Most of your work depicts the digital distortion of architecture, urban landscapes and the natural world. What process do you follow when designing your projects?

Stefan Larsson: “Since I started working with CGI about 15 years ago I constantly make things nearly by routine on a daily basis.

There’s always new stuff I’m intrigued to try. Whether its regular character animation, particle simulations, landscapes or architecture. Most of the time I’m just goofing around by doing animation projects quite fast in a day or two. For the last year I’ve been using a render engine called Octane that makes it very easy and quick to work with animations. I used to be frustrated working with CGI because of the enormous time gap between ideas and results. During that gap, there’s usually a decrease of inspiration and motivation and it’s easy to become distracted. Now when I’m able to work more directly, the spontaneity and impulse factor is a lot higher.

With some projects I had strong and fixed ideas and made many sketches before all the computer tasks. Some of these projects took between 3 months to a year to create. Nowadays I prefer to not spend more than 3-4 weeks on it.”

The new episode of your ‘Spatial Bodies’ video series project, ‘Spatial Bodies : Hong Kong & Shenzhen’, was recently introduced. Can you tell us how the idea of the project was born and the process behind it?

Stefan Larsson: “I was invited by an architectural Biennale in Shenzhen, China called Bi-city biennale of urbanism/architecture to make commissioned work in Shenzhen and Hong-Kong.

Back in 2016  I made a similar video filmed in Osaka, Japan and they asked for something like that, but with a theme that relates to these two cities. I had pretty much free hands and decided to give Shenzhen an overall design that somehow resembles computer components and circuits.

Shenzhen being the technical capital of the world where most of the components for smart phones and computers are being manufactured. The idea for Hong Kong was initially a bit more diffuse at first.”

Stefan Larsson: “I’ve never been to any of the cities before, but was really fascinated about them and actually been thinking about going there to film for a personal project before I got this offer, so it was a bit of a dream come true.

I spent 8 days there filming non-stop. Both cities are perfect to film with a drone considering the cityscapes, then there’s all the security and surveillance that made it nearly impossible to get some decent shots. It was super intense, constantly being chased away by guards and had to hide in bushes while operating the drone. 

It then took about three months to complete these two videos that are 4:40 min each. I spent more than a week just motion tracking all video scenes and deciding what to use.

When I do these I make many test versions and keep rearranging everything until there’s something worth using. The video was  a collaboration with a Japanese musician called Daisuke Tanabe (he also made the score for the Osaka version). I often collaborated with musicians – mainly in the electronic genre, which really boosts the motivation factor and opens up new ideas in the working process.”

What are the main trends & future directions within digital animation and what do you think of them?

Stefan Larsson: “There’s the obvious VR, AR and mixed reality. I’ve been really into that since Oculus released their early VR prototypes (Oculus DK1 & DK2). The development curve was very steep for a couple of years, but now has been slightly stagnating.

As for CGI and rendering; there’s a huge evolution with GPU-based/unbiased render engines such as OTOY’s Octane. It’s fabulous to render out ray traced animations without any glitches or flickering in just a short amount of time – compared to CPU-based rendering.

Also Unreal’s latest game-engine is highly impressive and is able to achieve photorealistic results in real-time. Then there are the nearly unlimited possibilities with Houdini if you are working with VFX and particle simulations.”

Stefan Larsson: “The whole CGI community expanded a lot during the last couple of years. I guess since the learning curve of many softwares such as Cinema 4D is easier for most people than for an example Maya or 3D studio Max.

There’s also a huge source of assets that are easy to import such as Quixel Megascans and their photogrammetry based objects and shaders. Need to mention CGtrader, Turbosquid and Sketchfab that have an enormous amount of assets that are easy to use. Everything became more accessible and user-friendly. I used to build everything from scratch, which made it limited and time consuming. Now it’s possible to create a realistic landscape scene in just a few hours.

It’s all very impressive and I’m very keen on seeing how it develops.”

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[chucksandjeans]

Europe 2019

August 29 - This was the first leg of our trip – and interestingly, our unintended baby moon. Our flight was around 10 so we rushed home after work to quickly eat, shower, turn everything off and rush to the airport. Pearson was busy as usual as it was the Thursday before the last long weekend of the Summer. Everyone was trying to get their last bit of Toronto’s short-lived season. Celine and I were determined to sleep the whole 7 hours there given the red-eye, but that didn’t happen perfectly. We slept a lot of it but planes just don’t let you get that full sleep like on a real bed. I ended up watching they HBO series called Chernobyl. Currently waiting for the return flight to finish the season!

 August 30 - The plane was scheduled to land at 12:15, and then they told us we were going to be one hour early, and then we were stuck on the tarmac for that hour, so we ended up arriving at 12:15. Is that considered late or on time? After disembarking, we hopped on a train to Como Nord Lago, the train station of Lake Como. We ran into some other friends along the way who were also heading to Stacey and Justin’s wedding. By the time we arrived in town, we were exhausted. After quickly grabbing some carbonara and seafood linguine at a nearby restaurant, we took a much needed nap before the pizza party at Villa Geno. Luckily for us, Villa Geno, a beautiful lakefront property, was only 10 minutes away on foot. We arrived and saw the rest of the wedding guests at what was one of the most beautiful views I’ve ever seen! The lake behind the venue was breathtaking. And of course the pizza and food (including sushi that Celine couldn’t touch) was amazing. Justin and Stacey looked happy and ready for the big day. The evening ended around 10:30 and before Celine and I turned in for the night after we got some gelato (obviously, the first of many to come on this trip).

August 31 - We woke up around 8 to soak in some sights before the wedding festivities. The old town was a short walk away so after breakfast, Celine and I took a morning stroll into the cobblestone town of Como. There was the Duomo di Como, a piazza, the Porta Torre and the city walls. Everything was beautiful and very Italian. An hour or so was more than enough so we decided to take the funicular up to Brunate. We ran into Angela at the top, sipped some coffee and then headed down to get ready for the wedding! We walked to the shuttle pickup and zipped to the Villa Pizzo for what can only be described as a celebrity wedding (same venue as John Legend and Chrissy Teigen). The ceremony and reception overlooked the water and everything was amazing. The decor, chairs, live music, hors d’oeuvres, fresh mozzarella cheese, ham, prosciutto, everything! Man, what a stunning wedding – probably the most expensive wedding we’ll ever attend! Stacey and Justin were so happy to finally tie the knot after a decade of dating. We had a great time celebrating with our friends in such a luxurious setting.

September 1 - Celine and I tried catching the 9:50 train into Milan but apparently the official website for the train was wrong (?). We ended up sitting there until 10:15. Not a huge issue I guess. The train was fast and it got us to Milan Centrale in an hour. Our hotel, the Starhotels Echo, was amazingly 2 minutes away from the main train station on foot and also let us check in early, which was great. After a quick refresh, we headed out to see Milan! Our first stop was Duomo di Milano and the piazza. It was hot and a ton of sketchy men tried to give us “free” bird seed and friendship bracelets. Common scam technique so we rushed by. The sun was scorching and the humidity kept us pretty groggy. We grabbed a quick bite at a stand-up pizza place called Spontini, ducked in and out of museums and shops to avoid the heat but even after a gelato, it proved futile to the humidity. We sat on a bench in front of the Castello Sforzesco for a bit, bought some water, and used the last bit of energy to find a field of grass to sit on in the Parco Sempione. That was relaxing. Then we got up, walked past the Arco della Pace and rushed past a tiny but unbelievably clean Chinatown. We had dinner – the Milano risotto special and an amazing stuffed fowl - at La Cantina di Manuela. Food was good but service could have been better.

September 2 - We caught the 7:50 train to the airport to catch our 10:50 flight to Vienna (a.k.a. the city of Wien). Both of us were pretty tired so slept through the flight. After getting off the plane, we bought a 48-hour transit pass and trained into the city. One of the first things we noticed was the drastic change in the weather – from hot, humid and sticky in Milan to a cool-warm breeze that you’d put on a light jacket to wander around in. Also, the leap from German to English seemed to be much easier than from Italian, and the service and help we received as tourists seemed a lot more genuine. Our hotel, the Fleming’s Selection, is pretty well-located near the Rathaus subway station, so finding it didn’t take long and proved to be quite convenient in the days to come. The weather was definitely chillier than Milan. It hovered around mid-teens throughout the day, which I enjoyed. We saw a bunch of electric scooters around the city so we found a few Bird scooters and tried them out. They were amazing! They are easy to use, well balanced and can go up to ~30km/h. We took them straight into the old town of Vienna using the dedicated bike lanes (separate from pedestrian and vehicle lanes...WHAT??!) where we had a very late lunch at Zum Schwarzen Kameel on the patio. Then we came back to the hotel to nap quickly and then went back out with warmer clothes (Vince only; note Celine was well prepared). It was a lot of wandering around Stephansplatz and the neighboring alleyways (which were beautiful). We both thought Vienna was clean and classy and well laid-out. The fact that we also could take the subway wherever with our pass was also very freeing. We also literally stumbled upon a free organ and soprano concert at Peterskirchen, a beautiful domed church close to the main street and square, so we sat in the pews and listened for about 30 minutes to some pretty heavenly stuff. Then we got dinner nearby at a vegetarian restaurant called Lebenbauer (where the chef was supposedly very well-rated) and then back to the hotel!

 September 3 - It’s been a sleepy trip because we haven’t been sleeping much. So we took advantage of our less-planned day, today, to add a few more Zz’s to our repertoire. Which means...we woke up at 10am! We both felt more well-rested. Starting the day off, we had brunch at Palmenhaus, an ex-tropical greenhouse that’s been turned into a fancy restaurant right next to the Albertina Museum of Fine Arts (later, we found out that this is one of the most Instagram-able places in the world). The food was very affordable and the place quaint in the best kind of way – Vince had a guacamole and cold cut combo, while Celine had hard boiled eggs and toast - and the interior was decorated with plenty of plants and flowers. Highly recommended! We took the train to visit the Schönbrunn Castle, which was very cool. The courtyard and gardens were gigantic. Because we were too cheap to pay the entrance, we wandered to the “free” gardens, which ended up being fantastic, especially the rose garden and trellises. The maze-like design was meticulous and looked glam, like a palace should. Celine and I got bored so we set off to see Naschtmarkt, which was terribly bland, rode in the Bird scooters again, and got sausage-on-a-platter (with generous helpings of horseradish, ketchup and mustard) from the infamous stall, Bitzinger. We popped our heads into the Albertina museum and then continued to bum around Hofburg, Michaelerplatz, and a few of the other fancy buildings. Eventually we got tired so we ordered a smoothie and a gelato (hehe) before heading to dinner on the other side of the Danube at O Boufés. Since there was still light out, we opted again to eat out on the patio. The restaurant was opened by a 2 Michelin-star chef (Konstantine Filippou, the Michelin-rated restaurant was right beside ours) so the food quality was quite high. We had some amazing shrimp to start, beef cheek and a soft fish, before finishing off with a sesame-based “dumpling” dessert (apparently, a specialty in this region). Service was great too. It was a wonderful meal to top off our stay in Vienna.

 September 4 - In the morning, we rolled our luggage to Hauptbahnhof to catch the train to Bratislava. When we got there, we realized the regional luxury buses would be much more convenient so we took the RegioJet at 10:50 towards Bratislava. The cost was 5 euros per person vs. 15, so it was not only cheaper but also faster. The bus literally dropped us off in front of the city centre at the steps of our hotel, the Radisson Park Inn! The location was perfect as we overlooked the Danube and was one block from the start of the old town. The hotel was being dumb and didn’t check us in so we just changed and head out to town. First, we got some delicious food at Fach, a hipster organic food place. The peanut bowl and sandwich were tasty and healthy. Then we walked around the Bratislava Castle and joined the free walking tour with our very enthusiastic guide. The tour took us around the city to see all the sights, which were just a handful, and she provided some great tips and stories about Slovakian democracy and interesting traditions (guys throw water onto girls at their home’s doorway and lightly spank them with olive branches as a fertility and flirting technique during Easter). The city is very small but had lots of history. It was easy to see all of Bratislava (tourist sites of course). After the tour, we went to the hotel to check in, change and then headed out to eat at Houdini Restaurant. Service was impeccable and food was perfecto – Vince had the chef’s 5-course menu (which featured beef tenderloin, duck breast – a lot of pregnancy no-nos haha) while Celine opted for a la carte, just to keep it easy. A wonderful choice and meal to top off our brief stop in Bratislava. We strolled around the city to get some more ice cream (lemon!) and passed by a bar playing the most wonderful lounge music live before heading to back to the hotel for the night.

 September 5 - We started off with some breakfast at Mon Dieu, a local Slovakian chain that served organic and healthy foods. Then we hopped in a Bolt (their taxi service) to get back to the Bratislava train station and waited for our 12pm train. It arrived and we sat in our reserved seats. For some reason, the cabin was hot and stuffy, so pretty uncomfortable. I fell sleep because it was so hot and eventually wandered to the next car. The next car had AC! Wtf! So we moved there for the remainder (~1hr) of the ride. The train pulled into Budapest (welcome to Hungary, Celine’s 40th country!) around 2:30 and we took the subway to the hotel, the Hotel Central Basilica, which ended up being extremely central and near to the best restaurants on the Buda side of town. It was also the first hotel that we’ve stayed in that had automatic blackout blinds for the windows facing the courtyard – a real treat. The first look of the subway was yucky (read: sub-par) but the rest of Budapest proved to be beautiful. After dropping off our bags, we headed to Szimpla Kert, the city’s most popular ruin-bar. It was really hipster! The building was run down but decorated with plants, bath tubs, old art and a bunch of other random stuff and every room was different, which made it even more bizarre. We took photos and then went to Karavan, the food truck place next door, and grabbed a Langos burger. It was tasty, especially the bread. There were a lot of pigeons. Roaming around, we checked out the Jewish Quarter and famous Synagogue, and eventually wound up back around our hotel, where we went to the top of St. Stephen’s Basilica to catch golden hour overlooking the entire city of Budapest. It was really something – a panoramic view of the entire city (even across the Danube) and a sight we would highly recommend! Then we had dinner at one-Michelin-starred Borkonya (our first since our very first brunch in Manhattan at two-star Jean Georges; very reasonable prices – I think it was ~C$120 for both of us that night), one alcoholic and one non-alcoholic cocktail at Mazel Tov (a beautiful vine-laden bar with a soaring rooftop in the ruin-bar area), and then went back to Szimpla Kert to see it at night (of course, it was already bustling at 11PM). Then bed time.

 September 6 - We started the day with an 11am walking tour of Budapest. We saw the parliament, a bunch of Soviet monuments (including Virulji / the False Memorial, of Hungary trying to cover up its involvement with siding with the Nazis), the Shoes on the Danube (a very somber reminder of the Jews that were executed on the banks of the Danube during WWII, marked by 60 pairs of copper shoes that were unveiled on the 60th anniversary of the end), Matthias Church, the Chain Bridge, Fisherman’s Bastion, Liberty Square (with the Ronald Reagan statue because his policies helped enact democratic change in the country) and the Buda Castle. The Danube is quite something (a lot wider than some of the other big-city rivers like the Thames) and apparently the view from the view is a UNESCO World Heritage site in itself. It was quite hot and sunny so fairly uncomfortable to keep walking around in the sun. We learned that the Buda side is the flat one where most of the tourist attractions are vs. the Pest side, which is hilly and houses ~80% of the city’s population (naming the city ‘Budapest’ was a big topic as it turned out because Buda came first). Lunch was pretty average – it was around 2PM by the time we ended the tour and we just picked a random restaurant that had the capacity to seat us immediately. Then we went back to our hotel area to grab a flower-shaped gelato ice cream from Gelarto Rosa before taking a long nap heh. At night, we had a fantastic dinner at Hilda Restaurant (which was designed by the same architect that did St. Stephen’s) and then had an evening stroll along the Danube and Chain Bridge. Budapest is really beautiful at night.

 September 7 - We slept in until 11 hehe. It was raining unfortunately so the day was slow and gloomy. Opting out of the thermal baths (see: pregnant) and seeing the Heroes Square, we spent most of the day at the national museum to dodge the rain. Afterwards we just walked around Vaci Street, the shopping district, and then came back to the hotel to rest a bit. For dinner, we had the 5-course at Mak Bistro, where they were kind enough to adapt the tasting menu for Celine. Walking back, the open area beside St. Stephen’s Basilica was doing an outdoor film marathon where we watched the first few minutes of a weird folklore tale (The Son of the White Mare, as we later Googled) and was showing a Queen concert. Hundreds of people were outside in the rain watching!

 September 8 - Our last day! Mixed feelings. To treat ourselves before our long flight home, we stopped by at Chez Dodo, a gourmet macaron place where we had a few delicious bites. We grabbed a Bolt back to the airport and finally, flew home.

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All in all, a wonderful trip! We’re so glad we were able to see Eastern Europe together, our friends get married abroad, and sneak in for our baby moon (with few questions from the Ko family). Until our next #vinceline trip!

[stevescoles]

But what’s he pointing at? Stood at the juncture of the Kettering and Wellingborough Roads more than a century, you never catch him blinking. Overlooking Abington Square, staring out the sunset, clearly still adjusting to his new tan since they took the white veneer off, he’s Charles Bradlaugh. He’s one of Northampton’s fiery beasts, writes Alan Moore.

In 1833 he came out fighting, hatched in Hoxton, the grey cyclops giants of a nascent industrial era rising to their feet around him: locomotives, steam-ships crossing the Atlantic, Faraday poised on the crackling brink of electricity, Charles Babbage warming up his Difference Engine, and angelhead William Blake already napping in his unmarked Bunhill Fields bed just a short way up the road, brown bread for some six years by then. The son of a solicitor’s clerk, Bradlaugh quit school at eleven, working menial jobs, avoiding Hoxton’s violent, wealthy and entitled proto-Boris Johnson ‘High Rips’ and becoming the world’s worst Sunday School teacher in the process, rapidly suspended from his calling amidst accusations of a glaringly apparent atheism. Rather taking this to heart, Bradlaugh had published his A Few Words on the Christian Creed – a kind of uncorrected proof edition of The God Delusion – by the time that he was seventeen. Atheism with attitude, evidently.

After a disastrous what-was-he-thinking period of three years enlisted with the Seventh Dragoon Guards in Dublin, Bradlaugh bought his discharge with a legacy left by a great-aunt and returned to London, a convinced freethinker and a sadder, wiser man of twenty, during 1853. Good-looking in the early photographs; a teen Houdini, interrogatory eyebrows, wings of hair tucked back behind his ears. It was around this period that Bradlaugh started hanging with a bad crowd of reformers, radicals and secularists, cranking up his godless pamphleteering under the concealing nom de guerre of ‘The Iconoclast’, and gradually ascending to the forefront of contemporary London indie politics. In 1854, Bradlaugh was married to the daughter of a Mr. Hooper who’d enjoyed his future son-in-law’s oration at a Freethinkers and Chartists meeting held in Bonner Fields. The union produced a daughter, named Hypatia after the beautiful Ancient Greek philosopher, astronomer and mathematician who was skinned alive with clam-shells by a Christian mob, but Bradlaugh’s marriage receives little mention in the few surviving biographical accounts, and it may be that it was over relatively quickly. By the age of twenty-five in 1858, the year in which his daughter was born, he was president of London’s Secular Society and two years later became editor of secularist newspaper The National Reformer. An emerging 19th century underground celebrity, Bradlaugh rubbed stony shoulders with freethinking luminaries such as the notoriously keen-on-the-cane poetic decadent Algernon Swinburne (who my late mate Steve Moore memorably described once as a “ginger flagellant midget toff”), and at the age of thirty-three was the co-founder of the National Secular Society. It was in this capacity that he encountered and commenced a long and passionate relationship – maybe his marriage was over by this point or maybe not – with the extraordinary Annie Besant.

Annie Besant, Bradlaugh’s junior by some fourteen years but every bit his equal, was a distillation of Victorian counter culture into an exotic brandy of a woman, heady and inflammable. Later, she’d go on to organise the glowing and phosphorous-disfigured Bryant & May match-girls into their historical industrial action, do the same for London’s dockers, address the unemployed in Trafalgar Square at 1887’s viciously-quashed ‘Bloody Sunday’ protests, campaign for the rights of women and, after becoming a devotee of the charismatic shaman/charlatan Madam Blavatsky’s  Theosophy movement, would announce bemused teenage messiah Krishnamurti to the world and pretty much singlehandedly midwife the birth of abstract art in her 1901 book Thought Forms, its ideas assiduously lapped up by such fashionable Theosophists as Kandinsky and Mondrian. But back in 1866 this hadn’t happened yet, and Besant was commencing her incendiary career in partnership with the most famous atheist-insurrectionist and troublemaker of his day, Charles Bradlaugh. A bohemian Bonny and Clyde, Besant stood beside her secularist sweetheart when the British government, in 1868, made an attempt to prosecute The National Reformer on grounds of blasphemy and sedition, charges of which Bradlaugh would eventually be acquitted. Then, a decade later, the pair were in court together faced with fines and six months jail-time for the publishing and distribution of obscene material, this being a reprinted pamphlet of advice on birth control entitled The Fruits of Philosophy, or the Private Companion of Young Married People. One Charles Darwin, asked to speak in their defence, pleaded ill-health but privately confessed that he was personally opposed to contraception, a variety of natural selection which he did not feel he could endorse. Both of them were sentenced to do bird, but got off on a technicality. Their sex life was most probably fantastic.

Bradlaugh was elected MP for Northampton during 1880, the point… where everything gets out of hand

Two years later Bradlaugh was elected M.P. for Northampton during 1880, the point in his narrative where everything gets out of hand. Politically, he was an independent liberal teetotaller supporting women’s suffrage, the trade union movement, Irish home rule, republicanism and the rights of Queen Victoria’s subjects on an Indian subcontinent then labouring beneath the yoke of empire, while being opposed to socialism. All of the above were, at the time, broadly acceptable positions that could at least be discussed in public without heralding the imminent collapse of orderly civilisation. Not so with the atheism, though. On May 3rd, Bradlaugh turned up at the House of Commons so that he might claim the seat to which he’d been elected, perhaps with a sick note from his mum asking he be excused from taking the religious Oath of Allegiance and be allowed instead to simply make secular affirmation of his loyalty. Studies suggest that the professed morality of the religiously inclined is largely based on the belief that they and their most private thoughts are under round-the-clock surveillance by some form of spectral and omniscient GCHQ who’ll see them flambéed for eternity if they transgress. Yeah, it’s not really ethics if it’s something you’ve been forced to do at gunpoint, is it? And conversely, since such people perceive atheists as being in some way unsupervised by this invisible imaginary cop, their seemingly unshakeable assumption is that godless individuals must constantly be getting up to murder, rape, armed robbery and arson  behind  everybody’s backs because, essentially, why wouldn’t they? With this in mind, you can imagine how Bradlaugh’s request to duck out on the Oath went down.

Nobody, God presumably included, seemed to like the idea much. Select Committees were convened in May and June and, unsurprisingly, concluded that Bradlaugh was not allowed to take his seat without effectively renouncing atheism. Bradlaugh, just as unsurprisingly, was having none of it. “Respectfully refusing” to withdraw from Commons, he was hauled away by a Sergeant-at-Arms and relocated to a small cell in the clock-tower of Big Ben, directly underneath the deafening bell itself. While this, of course, was only temporary, it commenced a long war of attrition between Bradlaugh and the status quo which took almost a decade to resolve. On one side was the hell-bound Hoxton heavyweight along with his supporters like George Bernard Shaw and the frustrated voters of Northampton, while on the other side were the Conservative Party (worked up to an anti-Bradlaugh fever pitch by Winston’s dad Lord Randolph Churchill), the Catholic Church and the Archbishop of Canterbury. During this lengthy period, when Bradlaugh lost his seat four times for refusing to take the Oath and was four times voted back in by a determined and angry Northampton electorate, when there were furious pro-Bradlaugh protests in the 800 year-old Market Square that were only suppressed by armed riot police, we get a glimpse of the radical spirit in this town as it once was, not so long ago: a glorious, uncompromising thing which, once its teeth were into an idea, would lock its jaws and never let it go. Escorted from the House by the constabulary at least once, Bradlaugh’s response was to inaugurate Northampton’s first alternative or underground newspaper, The Radical, a kind of great-grandparent to this current publication. Like a fin du siècle Jeremy Corbyn, Bradlaugh was pressed into service as a bogey-man epitomising right-wing dread and loathing. This is nowhere made more evident than in a Punch cartoon from 1881 depicting our man as “The Cherub of Northampton”, a vampiric monster with Charles Bradlaugh’s plainly evil and demonic head, sporting a top hat made from pamphlets that seems to be infested by spiders and supported by enormous bat-wings (this was some sixteen years before Stoker published Dracula, remember), flapping mournfully above the huddled and benighted rooftops of Northampton, shown as filthy with a visible shoe-maker’s. The next time Punch deployed this kind of imagery would be in 1888, for Jack the Ripper.

Then, miraculously in a cosmos without God, in 1886 Bradlaugh was finally permitted to assume his seat as an M.P. By 1888 he’d managed to successfully propose that Members be allowed to make an affirmation rather than to swear an Oath, and started his postponed career in Parliament by supporting Annie Besant’s then-ongoing Match Girl’s Strike. His championing of Britain’s Indian subjects earned him the contemptuous nickname “the Member for India” from Conservative M.P.s, and he ferociously campaigned for all of his enduring ethical preoccupations – women’s suffrage, the trade union movement, secularism – until death removed him from the field of play in 1891, aged fifty-seven. Yes, he died young by our standards, and no doubt if he’d had access to the wisdom of our current century he would have lived a great deal longer, and, almost as certainly, would have accomplished a lot less. For Bradlaugh’s funeral, his body would have been transported by underground coffin-train to the London Necropolis, apparently more recently renamed as Brookwood Cemetery, where the event attracted some three thousand mourners. Many of those come to pay their last respects were Indian, including 21year-old Charles Bradlaugh fan Mohandas Ghandi. The Abington Square statue, both insisted on and paid for by Northampton’s people rather than its less-than-keen civic authorities, was raised up soon thereafter, outside the old slipper factory that was there before the war memorial, currently fenced off to deter the homeless. Man, you should have seen the crowds for the unveiling, heads and hats and bonnets in their thousands, barely contained in the frame of the daguerreotype. Simply, they loved him. In 1898 his daughter, the peace activist, freethinker, atheist and author Hypatia Bradlaugh Bonner published a pamphlet to address the no doubt faith-based rumours that her father had accepted Christianity before he died, concluding that there was no indication of his atheistic principles having been altered in even the smallest detail; godless to the last.

As for posterity, well, that’s a matter of opinion. The statue’s still there, still pressing the button for an invisible elevator to Elysium that will never come, frozen between the Jaguar showrooms and the closed-down public toilets, although what vanishingly small percentage of the people passing under his admonishing gaze every day have any idea who he is or why he matters is impossible to judge. The rag-week students of the 1930s would dependably paint footprints leading from his plinth to the then-functional urinals just across the Wellingborough Road, and one Saturday night during the early 1970s I glimpsed a drunken and, it might be thought, extremely lonely individual attempting sodomy with the once-feared Northampton Cherub, who remained throughout stoic and focussed, sticking resolutely to the point. As for his other lasting claim to fame, it’s doubtful that the vehement teetotaller would be any more enthused to have a pub haphazardly named after him than Emily Pankhurst would be keen to lend her name to a lap-dance establishment.

But what’s he pointing at? St. James’s End? Wales? Warwickshire? The soaring, sexless übermenschen of the Francis Crick memorial down from the library? He indicates the western lands, the day’s end, and therefore the future, unencumbered by religious certainties or the oppression of minorities; a future safe for women, working people, match-girls and Mahatmas. Sometimes, in the last rush of low golden light up Abington Street late upon a winter’s afternoon, it’s almost possible to see, beyond the Holy Ghost Zone and the Jesus movie-house, the country that he’s gesturing towards.

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  Charlie is our darling But what’s he pointing at? Stood at the juncture of the Kettering and Wellingborough Roads more than a century, you never catch him blinking.

[chiseler]

PUTTIN’ ON THE RITZ

No fame is more fleeting than the showbiz kind. Some entertainers are just too much in and of a particular time. In the 1920s Harry Richman was a big star, billed as the Greatest Entertainer In America. He could sing and play piano, dance and act a little; he ran a hugely successful nightclub, was the toast of Broadway and, very briefly, a star in Hollywood; he wrote or introduced several songs that are still sung. But most of all he just personified the Roaring Twenties. He was the sleek, rakish, vaguely smarmy bon vivant in top hat and tails who was enjoying the decade's non-stop party as much as you were. It's been said that he was to the 1920s what the Rat Pack were to their era. Harry's career peaked just as the party crashed to a halt at the end of the decade, and he faded out in the 1930s. If his name comes up at all today, it's probably less often as an entertainer than as a footnote in aviation history.

He was born Harry Reichman in Cincinnati in 1895. His dad, a Russian Jewish immigrant, started out peddling eyeglasses door to door, carrying all his equipment on his back. He worked his way up to a prosperous wholesale business and real estate empire, and developed a taste for the high life. It killed him by the time Harry was an adolescent. In his thoroughly entertaining (sometimes suspiciously so) 1966 autobiography A Hell of a Life, Harry paints himself as a fecklessly scheming kid who grew up quick. At nine, he writes, he was a weekend ticket taker at an amusement park, shortchanging every customer he could because he was saving up to marry his childhood sweetheart. One night he showed off his ill-gotten riches by taking the girl out on the town. They stayed out too late to go home, so Harry got them a hotel room. When the cops burst through the door in the wee hours they found the kids sleeping fully clothed on separate beds. A doctor confirmed that the girl's honor was intact. Her dad put the kibosh to their romance anyway.

Harry's mother bought him piano lessons, dreaming he'd be a concert pianist, but like most kids at the time he was more interested in ragtime and jazz. He left home at around fourteen and headed to Indianapolis. There he and a kid who played fiddle went door to door in the kind of neighborhoods where an upright in the parlor wasn't uncommon. They'd bang out a few popular tunes for spare change. As Remington & Reichman they were soon touring the very small-time Webster circuit of vaudeville theaters in the Dakotas and Canada, known to vaudevillians as the Death Trail. Harry kept working his way around the west, singing at the piano in saloons and whorehouses, working as a singing waiter in restaurants, as part of a "Hawaiian" hula act in a circus sideshow. At the 1915 Panama-Pacific International Exhibition in San Francisco he was in a musical act that opened for Harry Houdini, fifteen shows a day. Playing in Los Angeles clubs favored by the movie crowd he got to be pals with Charlie Chaplin and Al Jolson, whom he idolized. Jolson got him a shot at Ziegfeld's Midnight Frolic, the late-night club revue that gave Eddie Cantor his big break. Harry raced to New York, but flopped and was canned after only one night. He was so despondent he ran off and joined the Navy.

He arrived back in New York in 1920, just when Prohibition did too. Now he and the city were ready for each other. On vaudeville stages he found work as an accompanist for headliners like the singer Nora Bayes and the beautiful twin Dolly Sisters, and for a while was Mae West's on-stage pianist and straight man. He was reluctant to speak lines at first because he had a lisp that he could hide more easily when singing. West convinced him it was a distinguishing feature. He soon got top billing on his own on the Keith-Albee circuit. He also played at ritzy speakeasies like the Beaux Arts, where, he claims, Prohibition's hostess with the mostest Texas Guinan stole her signature line "Give the little girls a big hand" from him.

Nils T. Granlund, known as NTG, was both a radio pioneer and the publicist for Marcus Loew's movie theater empire. He hired Harry to headline live radio shows from Loew's State Theatre, the movie palace in Times Square. Harry plugged new songs on air, like Billy Rose's "Does the Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor on the Bedpost Overnight?" With NTG's help he opened his own Club Richman just behind Carnegie Hall. Harry made it one of the most opulent and exclusive nightclub/speakeasies in town. A lot of Broadway and movie stars became regulars, as of course did Mayor Jimmy Walker, and the Vanderbilts and Whitneys, and foreign royalty -- you saw everybody who was anybody there.

Or wanted to be somebody, like the chorus girl Lucille Le Seur. Accounts vary as to how Lucille got into the swank club. In one version, she convinced NTG, her sugar daddy at the time, to get her a spot in the club dancing the Charleston. NTG introduced her to Loew, who arranged a screen test at MGM, where she'd get her first tiny roles in 1925. Studio chief Louis B. Mayer decided her name sounded like Le Sewer, so the studio ran a publicity campaign in which the fans got to give her a new name: Joan Crawford. She never liked it.

For his part, Harry claimed that he discovered Crawford. He did have an eye for the beauties. He was one of the first to spot Jean Harlow, Sally Rand and Maureen O'Sullivan. Harry was an infamous ladies' man, bedding a long line of beauties from chorus girls to socialites to Harlow, maybe Rand, and Clara Bow. According to Harry, his office at the club had a secret door for sneaking them in and out while their husbands or dates drummed their fingers at their tables thinking they were just taking a long time powdering their noses. He says that the Hollywood Bowl couldn't hold all the women he had, and classes himself "a specialist in man's favorite sport."

Between the club and his other gigs Harry minted money and became the playboy nonpareil. He wore the finest bespoke suits and carried a gold cigarette case with his initials on it in diamonds. He commuted in a Rolls from Manhattan to his big house out on the water in Beechhurst, Queens, where he had a yacht and threw Gatsby-like parties for celebrities, beauties and millionaires. He learned to fly and kept a growing fleet of planes at nearby Flushing Airport. Harry worked hard, played hard, drank oceans of booze and smoked whole fields of tobacco. Everyone marveled at his stamina and joie de vivre even in that over-the-top decade.

In 1926, while still playing the host at his club, Harry got a featured role on Broadway in George White's Scandals, one of several knockoffs of the Ziegfeld Follies. After a boffo year it toured other cities, including Cincinnati, where, he notes ruefully, it tanked. In 1930 he headlined Lew Leslie's International Revue, where he introduced "On the Sunny Side of the Street." And in 1931 he made it, finally, into the Follies as well. He got his choice of songs to perform, including "Lullaby of Broadway." He was at the top of his career in those shows, the king of Broadway; his friend Eddie Cantor memorably said he wore Broadway like a boutonniere.

He didn't do so well in Hollywood. He starred, playing himself as "Harry Raymond," in the 1930 musical Puttin' on the Ritz, in which he introduced the song by his pal Irving Berlin. The movie did mediocre business then and is barely watchable now except for that number, Harry gliding around in front of an army of dancers with his top hat tilted over one eye. His recording of the song, which some consider the best, was a hit. (Among his other records are Berlin's "Blue Skies," his own "Muddy Waters" and a pretty wonderful Jolson-ish rendition of "Ain't She Sweet.") While in Hollywood to make the film he met Clara Bow. Teamed up at first for publicity purposes only, they became a hot item and got engaged. Then she suddenly married someone else. Hearing the news, he says, was the only time in his life that he fainted.

He'd make only two more feature films and one short. He sums them up this way: "All were forgettable. It became clear to me that whatever I had was best projected in person, either on the stage or in a night club." By the time he made the last film, released in 1938, he was well past his prime. When the Depression hit and then Prohibition ended, guys like Harry, icons of the Roaring Twenties, just didn't fit the new reality. To his credit, he didn't hang around like some other ghosts of the 1920s did. He left New York and settled in Miami, which was booming and lousy with new nightclubs where he could coast for a few years on his dazzling past. He went fishing with Hemingway and played with his airplanes.

His real fame in the 1930s came in fact as a flyer. In the mid-1930s he'd set altitude and speed records. Then in 1935 he and the pilot Dick Merrill made the world's first round-trip transatlantic flight in a single-engine plane. They filled the plane with tens of thousands of ping-pong balls as flotation devices should they land in the soup. Harry being Harry, after reaching Wales on the outward leg of the trip, they flew on to Paris to party all night with Maurice Chevalier before making the return flight. They landed upside-down in a Newfoundland bog, but they made it. It wasn't as big a deal as Lindbergh's one-way crossing in 1927, but Harry calls it the high point of his life.

Harry didn't make much news after that. He played some clubs through the 1940s, his looks and voice rough from all that carousing and smoking. He still had lots of friends in the show business who tried to engineer comebacks for him, but the public had long since forgotten him. By the time A Hell of a Life came out in 1966 he'd spent the millions he'd made in his heyday and was living alone, quietly and frugally, in Burbank, an old guy who'd gone full-tilt as long as he could, had a hell of a lot of memories and not too many regrets. He died in 1972.

by John Strasbaugh