#the-roost-newspaper

[babylon-crashing]

THREE WAYS OF VIEWING GYUMRI

1 - NEWSPAPER CLIPPING

In Armenian, earthquake means, “it trembles, it crumbles, it falls down.” There is a photograph of this. Anna's father is in the foreground. In a new gave yard – an old football field. His face obscured by heavy beard. By winter sun. “It's tradition – men cannot shave their faces a whole 40 days after a loved one dies.” Which she translated into, “When whole families are crushed under tenement walls.” There is a photograph of this; bent in half, kept in his daughter's wallet for eleven years. A curiosity.

2 - PAINTING

… God,

or whatever:

a 3 legged dog

dragging

its chewed-off,

pepper-stump

behind her.

Behind the dog

three walls

of the cathedral

in the central market

now collapsed.

There is snow on the ground.

When the last tree

in the city was cut down

for firewood the ghostly

crows had nowhere

to roost circling stone

and thatch rooftops

collapsed.

3 - FOLKLORE

“After Armenia succeeded

from the USSR,

the Soviet troops

abandoned

their base on

the outskirts of town,

set the charges and

the next day,

December 7, 1988,

detonated

an underground

thermal nuclear

bomb.”

][][

Notes.

The 6.8 earthquake that killed 25 thousand people in the city of Gyumri in mere seconds has been, in terms of devastation, been likened to that of a nuclear blast. A lot of people I met insisted that the earthquake was unnatural, an act of revenge against Armenia's attempts to leave the USSR.

My role here isn't to speculate but just record. When I was in Gyumri in 1995 there was a Russian military base nearby. It did have underground silos for really large missiles, or at least I never saw any actual missiles but I did see the silos. According to an actual Soviet newspaper article that I was shown the Soviet troops in question did go on maneuvers up into Georgia a day before the quake.

Also, what is true, is that the disaster struck in winter and people froze to death waiting for rescue. They cut down every single tree in the entire city and then they started burning their books and furniture.

I wrote this in 2002 when my memories were still sharp.

[augustmonsooning]

The Bear in 5 Acts : We're really in the Act III weeds, pals

One of the first thing's they'll teach you about good story telling is about the 5 act structure - it's tried and tested, from Shakespeare to films like I don't know, Past Lives, they all follow the same beats.

I think's it's significant that the title card at the this season and maybe season 2 (I'm gonna have to go back to check) says "The Bear Part III"; these seasons are components of a cohesive whole, it's not being made up as they go along. This is part of the reason why the writing and filming is so quick: the bare bones of the story arc is already there, they are just embellishing and perfecting.

Season 3 thoughts under the cut!

Now, I know Season 3 has the crowd split. My initial reaction was that I loved the cinema of it: the first episode I think was one of the best, most innovative bits of TV I've seen in a minute. I really enjoyed how they played with memory and anxiety. The show had a lot of interesting things to say about grief and regret and shame this season, and the ways we cope with it all.

It also cemented for me that The Bear is following v classical 5 act storytelling.

Act 1/ Season 1: Almost pure exposition, and probably why it stands out as a very strong standalone season. You could get away with not watching any episodes after Braciole and still feel like you've watched a great show. The money in the tinned tomatoes, and Carmy's proposal (of a restaurant) to Sydney is the inciting event. You could also think of Sydney coming back as the inciting event - this is probably the first time in Carmy's life where someone outside of his family (maybe even including his family) has seen the worst of Carmy and decided to come back

Act 2/ Season 2: Rising tension. Will The Bear make it? Will Carmy escape his traumas? Will Sydney and Carmy actually find their way back to each other?

Act 3/ Season 3: This is where we are now. To mix metaphors. The traumas and bad copies strategies are coming home to roost. This is Carmy at his very worst, because somehow he thinks this is him at his best. This is how Backstage, a theatre newspaper describes Act III : "Oftentimes, the end of your third act leads into a “dark night of the soul,” where the main character is at their lowest moment as a result of the climax. They believe that they cannot achieve that new, overpowering goal established at the end of Act 1. " I think that pretty much sums up Carmy and Syd this season, on the surface their goals have been achieved: The Bear is a functioning kitchen, it's packed out every night. There's modern Danish design, there's two tops, a tasting menu at the bar, and a window on the side for the sandwiches (the family style has been scraped, but we'll get to that later). So why does it feel so off? Can it be that neither of them wanted any of that shit in the first place? Can it be that they were at their happiest eating gluey spaghetti with their friends they loved in a place that had regulars who knew them, a place they could innovate with the odds and ends they had lying around and still make wonderful food. Could it be that a place where bricklayers and teachers and postmen were eating was the goal all along?

Act 4/Season 4: Where next? I think both Syd and Carmy are gonna reckon with what is actually important to them. And we alreayd know what that is, it's that scene under the table last season: they love to take care of people, they love to cook (not be "chefs"), they love to be there for each other - be someone the other can rely on. Everything they absolutely were not doing in Season 3.

Act 5/ Season 5: The real coming back. I remember watching Braciole for the first time thinking fuck, is this just an extremely silly show? It feels so real, so earned all the way up until the cash falls out of those tomatoes and Syd comes back. Because nothing has actually been resolved or addressed. Carmy has learnt absolutely nothing. Syd is as impatient and green as ever, jumping into a new business with a guy who has absolutely shown himself to be volatile and unreliable. But we forgive them, because as the viewer we've come to love Carmy and understand that the angry, doughnut slamming Carmy is not the real him, and we understand Syd because sure, of course it feels intoxicating that when the person who made the best thing you've ever eaten, the person who can seemingly finish all your sentences, the pinnacle of your professional ambitions looks at you with his freakishly blue eyes, and ask you open a restaurant with him, you're gonna say yes. The series from Season 2 onwards feels to me like a redux of the last few episodes of Season 1 in slow-mo but this time with real learning, real consequences, and real, abiding love. Like a "find out what you love, and do it on purpose" type of thing. When they get back together the last episode it's going to feel even more magical than in Season 1.

Listen. I feel like that dude trying to get Tina et al to invest thousands of dollars to get a job in Napkins. It feels like a scam to tell you all to invest more time and hope. But, imma do it, because it's gonna pay off.

It also doesn't escape me that Strange Currencies, the song they use on the show to signpost Carmy's romantic life, has the lyrics "I need a chance, a second chance, a third chance, a fourth chance"

Carmy had a chance in season 1, he fucked it up by going absolutely bananas in 'Review', he had another one in season 2; and he ran away and then thought he could fix it with a fancy chef jacket and promises under a table, he's had another chance in season 3 and safe to say, he's fucked it again. He's gonna get another, but he better stick the landing.

[celticcrossanon]

Harry’s legal bills are coming home to roost now, and he has to start coughing up the payments. He can say as often as he likes that he will continue to sue, or that pompador headed lawyer who chases him to sue all the time telling him they can win (David Sherbourne the ambulance chaser?) will encourage him to sue, but these are very costly entanglements and they do not get the money from them that expect. Nor did MM by the time she had to pay the fine, court cost, and minimal settlement she got…and if what she got in the settlement was less than what DM offered her to settle she would have to pay all their legal fees as well as her own…and because she basically lied about Omid, she got fined. I don’t know how long they can keep this up, but I know the DM can go on forever (“never sue anyone who buys ink by the barrel”! old adage about not suing newspapers).  Now that Parliament has a bill before it to strip H&M of their titles and their children AND pull them out of the line of Succession and with the Ravec decision coming, the won’t be able to go to In-n-Out Burger!!!! They will be broke if they take any of this to Court.

*

Hi Nonny,

I think Harry is in for a very nasty shock when he has to start paying his legal bills. Maybe that is why we were getting reports of him yelling at his father for  money - because without his father helping him out he is in a very bad place financially. I also think that Harry is very disappointed that so far, his court cases have been a drain on his pocket instead of leaving him flush with money..

Does anyone know what happened to that Parliament Bill about stripping people of their titles? I know one was going to be presented, but I have lost track of it.

[enquiringangel]

Hey there @enquiringangel I have a prompt for based off of one of my posts

Here it is https://www.tumblr.com/ria-coolgirl/725198999630594048/hey-there-lost-boys-fandom-i-just-have-a-dumb

I hope you like it 😅

(…This is not a drabble. I can’t believe I wrote so much about baby ducks lol.)

Keeping Your Ducks in a Row

🪿🦆🦆🦆🦆🦆🦆🦆🦆

-x-

It begins in the park one night.

There’s a lake, more of a glorified pond than anything else, the surface scattered with algae and lilypads. And on the shore, a nest in an ill-advised place. There is also a fox, small and sleek and hungry.

Long story short, one dead mother duck later and it’s Marko to the rescue, filling his jacket pocket with eggs while Paul makes a joke about omelettes.

Marko pushes him into the lake.

It’s fine. There’s no running water involved, so the worst that happens is Paul thrashing to the surface, spluttering and blinking furiously, carefully dishevelled hair now limp and flat, a broken lily pad on his head. Dwayne and David just about laugh themselves sick at the sight of him.

“Dude! It was a fucking joke,” Paul complains, splatting wetly back onto the shore and peeling off streams of pond weed. “You know I wouldn’t hurt your birdies.”

(A lesson learned after the Boys had decided to use the pigeons to make their game of darts more interesting. Marko had taken a look at the dead bird speared on the wall next to the dartboard and launched himself at David in a whirl of curled hair and fangs. The resulting tussle had been bloody, and scariest of all - Marko had almost won.

David jokes he still has a scar on his calf from Marko’s teeth, despite the fact that none of them scar.)

Marko takes the eggs back to the hotel with him and builds them a brightly-colored nest of fabric swatches. There are nine eggs in all, though one of them is bigger than the others. As he returns to their roost in time for dawn, he hopes they’ll be warm enough.

The following evening he wakes to David’s voice in his head. ‘Marko. One of your chickens has hatched. Come get it, it keeps squeaking at me.’

Marko’s barely-awake brain digests this for a moment before his end of their telepathic bond is swamped in excitement. He flies back through to the lobby, leaving Dwayne and Paul’s groggy, just woken-up thoughts behind him.

It’s the big egg that hatched first, and a ball of yellowy-brown fuzz is clambering over the shells of its siblings, peeping excitedly as it stares up at David, who regards it with mild interest from amid a cloud of cigarette smoke.

Marko scoops the duckling up in both hands holds it up to his face. The peeping intensifies. Marko smiles. “Look how fuzzy it is, man.”

David squeezes his shoulder. “Congratulations. On your firstborn,” he says solemnly. “You should name him Marko Junior.” Because he is small, fluffy and yellow, David didn’t need to say.

“Fuck you,” Marko says. “Maybe I’ll name him David Junior.” He immediately decides he’ll do it, just because he can.

David rolls his eyes and gives Marko a little shove. “Whatever.” Having given his vague approval, he loses interest in the proceedings and goes to sit in his wheelchair and finish his ‘morning’ smoke. All he needs is a newspaper and a cup of coffee and his old man routine will be complete, Marko thinks as the baby bird in his hands begins chirping more urgently.

David Jr. is still chirping frantically by the time the others arrive. “Aw, cute,” Paul declares, stroking the top of its head with the tip of one finger. It immediately starts trying to devour his finger. “Little guy’s hungry!” he declares, laughing.

Dwayne leans over and turns one of the other eggs. “This one’s hatching.”

And it’s not too long before they’re all hatching, and Marko finds himself with nine baby birds all cheeping up at him. David Jr. looks different from the others, he notices. They’re all shades of yellow and brown but most of the others are more dark brown on top with a yellow underside and head, but a stripe of brown across their face like winged eyeliner almost. The first chick is more yellow, with a faint dusting of brown on top and no markings on its head.

“Maybe it’s not a duck,” Dwayne suggests.

“The fuck you talking about? Of course it’s a duck,” Marko says, looking at him like he’s demented. “They’re all ducks.”

“Maybe it’s just special,” Paul says, giggling as the oldest duckling keeps pecking at his hands. It tickles.

“Of course David Jr.’s special,” Marko dismisses, leading to uproarious cackling from his brothers at the choice of name. They each insist on naming a duckling after themselves as well, but quickly lose track of which one is which because they all look the same.

Once lowered to the ground, the baby ducks trail after Marko everywhere, dogging his footsteps like a shadow. It’s cute but he has to take great care where he steps. The one exception is naturally his problematic firstborn, who, upon figuring out its land legs, immediately weaves its way across the room to the foot of David’s wheelchair where it hops at the side of his boot insistently. Marko hastily goes to retrieve it, not wanting to risk a repeat of the pigeon dartboard incident.

“Figures you’d be the problem child,” he says, sighing.

-x-

“Are you seriously taking those things to the Boardwalk with us?” Dwayne asks him later that night.

“Yes,” Marko says, feeling immediately defensive. “I can’t exactly leave them alone can I? They might fall down a hole and perish. Or one of the rats might hurt one.”

“Never come between a mother and her child Dway—ow!” Paul rubs his arm and widens his eyes at Marko in a show of being wounded. “So violent,” he remarks. “Such strong maternal instincts—hahaha!” He’s still laughing even when Marko gets him in a headlock, the two of them able to wrestle without crushing any ducklings due to the fact said ducklings are currently locked away in an old cat carrier they had lying around.

“Say my name, bitch,” Marko orders, grinding his fist into Paul’s scalp.

“Never,” Paul growls back and, because he’s a bitch, grabs the underside of Marko’s upper arm between his fingers and pinches. Hard.

“Oww! Motherfucker—!” Marko immediately goes to close his teeth on Paul’s ear, but the angle of his own arm prevents this. He releases the headlock and the two of them kick and strike at each other playfully, complete with Bruce Lee sound effects.

“Girls! You’re both pretty,” David calls out, already straddling his motorcycle and looking over his shoulder with amusement. “Now put your purses down and get on the fucking bikes.”

“Aww, knew you loved me, Davey,” Paul says and runs over, planting a wet smooch on David’s cheek.

In the end they make it to the Boardwalk, ducklings in tow. Marko releases them and quickly realises he’s going to have to walk slow enough for them to keep up so they don’t get lost and trampled in the crowds. In the end the pack form a loose circle around Marko and the baby ducks, with Jr. trotting contently at David’s heels.

[crowbarsolo]

The Sigma Male Grindset

Haven't been very active on here, sorry. Here's a bingo fill.

Title: The Sigma Male Grindset

Fandom: One Piece

Rating: T

Content warnings: sexism, racism, homophobia, non-graphic torture, main POV character is an incel

Characters: Aramaki, Sakazuki, King the Wildfire, Queen the Plague

Ship: none

Prompt used : I just want to have friends

Summary: The highly successful habits of "Greenbull" Aramaki, Admiral of the World Government Navy, in his mission to cleanse the world of the scourge of piracy (and earn his superior's approval along the way).

Excerpt:

People became stronger under adversity. Sometimes, unfortunately, adversity would make itself scarce, and a man would be forced to improvise. Aramaki poured himself a cold bath and emptied several bags of ice cubes in the tub. When it was full to the brink, he immersed himself and held his breath, waiting for the numbness to creep to his bones. The bath would put him into a trance-like state. From the cold and the darkness, he would hear the voices of his ancestors, hard men who’d settled the wilderness and forced it to submit to their will, founding a brand of grocery stores that was known all over the East Blue to this day. “This one makes us proud. He’s not a limp-wristed pussy like his cousin Jiro.” Take that, Jiro, you fucking loser.

Aramaki counted up to five hundred and emerged with a disappointed snort. The ancestors weren’t feeling chatty today. He poured himself a tall glass of cold water while he read his morning newspaper, scowling at the never-ending catalog of crime and degeneracy that filled its columns.

His navigator was already on deck, sketching a bird that had come to roost on the bow of the ship. “Good morning, sir,” she said as he emerged from the captain’s cabin. “The magnetic fields have stabilized. We can set out today, if you’d like.”

“How’s the repair going?” he asked, hoping to gain time. They’d stopped at a neutral outpost to fix an issue with the ship’s rudder.

“It will hold up until we reach Headquarters.”

“Good.” He watched her bite into an apple as she pencilled in the ruffles in the bird’s tail feathers. She was good at her job, unfussy and competent, and he was tempted to ask her what she thought he should do.

However, a man ought never start a conversation with a woman by asking a question; it was a sign of weakness. Instead, Aramaki repositioned himself to maximize his jawline-to-neck ratio and instill in her an unconscious sense of awe. He firmly believed that emotions like respect, love and obedience could be compelled through careful manipulations of one’s angles and curves, the hypnotic geometry through which bodies reflected nature’s mathematical order. “Did you know that sugar is one of the leading causes of leaky gut syndrome?” he asked. (This, being rhetorical, did not count as a real question.)

Read the rest on AO3

[handeaux]

Your Grandparents Canoodled In Passionate Petting Parties Along Cincinnati’s Country Lanes

Around one hundred years ago, a new theme was introduced to the long-established images decorating paper Valentines. While hearts and flowers, little birds and rosy-cheeked children still predominated, the Valentines of 1924 often featured something new – the motor car.

While innocent enough when surrounded by lace and flowers, the motor car had already begun to arouse the suspicions of Cincinnati parents. The old fogies suspected that automobiles represented much more than transportation to the kids. Those jalopies might be nefarious vehicles of illicit lust!

Well, the old folks were correct. Young people throughout Cincinnati were tootling out to the nearest country byway and canoodling in extended make-out sessions known as “petting parties.” The Cincinnati Business Women’s Club got together to grumble about “rolled stockings, petting parties and abbreviated bathing suits as they affect the adolescent girl.” The Cincinnati Post [4 April 1924] quoted Alma Hillhouse, educational director of Cincinnati’s Social Hygiene Society:

“The child gets its instinct for petting from the mother. When a babe she is held on the mother’s knee and fondled. When she grows up she seeks satisfaction in petting parties. It is the standards in the home that count. The daughter of the wise mother will come through petting parties unscathed; the uncontrolled girl comes to grief.”

You will notice that neither Dad nor any adolescent males are assigned any sort of accountability in this matter. Some things never change.

While the Business Women’s Club debated, the Indian Hill Rangers, organized, according to the Enquirer [3 June 1924], to “trail horse thieves, cattle rustlers and pillagers of hen roosts,” were confronted with a new threat to village security.

“Indian Hill Rangers are after motorists who have been using the shady lanes and sylvan retreats of that pretty hilltop east of the city and the adjoining countryside for ‘petting’ and gin parties.”

One evening, the Rangers encountered a limousine parked on Drake Road, its windows curtained with newspapers. While not disturbing the occupants, the Rangers copied the license number and mailed a letter to the owner, a woman living in Avondale. They never saw that particular vehicle again.

While Indian Hill was dealing with limousines, the real action was out in the Western Hills among the still-rural expanses of Delhi and Green townships. According to the Enquirer [14 October 1924]:

“For months residents have complained that autoists have forsaken the dim-lighted parlor and its sofa for the moonlit roadside and the cushioned seats of the automobile. Even private driveways and lawns have been converted into trysting bowers by these seekers for seclusion, who have openly defied property owners to the extent of drawing weapons on them, it has been stated.”

Alfred Bennett of Green Township blamed the recent crackdown on Cincinnati’s “red light” district in the West End for the flight of depraved and lustful characters into the hinterlands. He told the Enquirer [25 October 1924} that illicit smooching was just the beginning:

“‘Much of the objectionable practices in country districts is not entirely “petting parties,”’ Mr. Bennett stated, ‘but gross immoralities that shock the residents.’”

So gross were these alleged immoralities that they inspired a flurry of ecumenism between the Catholic and Protestant congregations of Bridgetown, with the Rev. Paul Schmidt of the Evangelical Protestant Church standing shoulder to shoulder with Father William Spickerman of Saint Aloysius Catholic Church in demanding more patrols by the county sheriff. The clergymen offered to recruit volunteer deputies from among their flocks. In neighboring Delhi Township, Justice of the Peace M.J. Roebling lumped petting party participants among nuisances such as “bootleggers, bandits and hold-up men.”

The Delhi magistrate wasn’t that far off, it seems. Widespread outrage about romantic parkers, combined with very public statements by the county sheriff that he did not have the budget nor the manpower to patrol the county’s lovers’ lanes, suggested a business opportunity for the local footpads. The Enquirer [28 July 1924] reported that outlaws impersonating county deputies were robbing couples caught on deserted roads:

“Two more hold-ups were committed late last night by a gang of five bandits who are blamed for a total of 17 known hold-ups and who, it is said, have collected hundreds of dollars by swooping down on ‘petting parties’ on county highways and extorting money under the guise of deputy officers.”

Many of the township roads favored by passionate petters led to roadhouses established outside city limits to avoid enforcement of Prohibition laws. Cincinnati’s Juvenile Protective Association claimed that the immoral environment promoted by these roadhouses spilled over into steamy backseats. And, of course, the media were blamed as well. A new film, “Daughters of Today,” written by a one-time Cincinnati newspaper reporter named Lucien Hubbard and starring Zazu Pitts, opened that year. According to the Enquirer [29 September 1924]:

“It is an ultra jazz production, with petting parties, cocktail shakers and syncopation distributed throughout the length of its half dozen or more reels.”

By October 1924, the scandal had reached such an extremity that the Cincinnati Automobile Club passed a strongly worded resolution condemning “petting parties” as a safety hazard and demanding more patrols by the sheriff. So vehement was the public condemnation of “petting parties” that the Enquirer actually editorialized in favor of passionate parking because a total crackdown would force hormonal youngsters into petting while driving and thereby endanger pedestrians!

Although it is unlikely the Automobile Club’s wrath had any effect, by the next year the Cincinnati Post [20 July 1925] reported that petting parties, the bane of 1924, seemed to be passé in 1925. Two deputy sheriffs spent a long and fruitless summer evening looking for lovers along the East Miami River in Anderson Township:

“In two hours, we found only one spooner. That was on Broadwell-rd, where a boy and his sweetie were spooning in the moonlight to the strains of a victrola on the back seat of their machine.”

[get-back-homeward]

David Jacobs, the suave and arrogant showbiz lawyer whose clients included The Beatles, Marlene Dietrich, Liberace and Judy Garland and who introduced Epstein to the gay scene in the capital was also a key player. Bullock calls it a “support network for the entertainment industry”. They needed it. While success brought money, attention and a certain freedom from the mores of contemporary society, it also caused problems.

Until the Sexual Offences Act of 1967 legalised homosexual acts between consenting adults over the age of 21, gay men had been confined to a crepuscular demi-monde and were confronted with a rise in prosecutions and several ‘sensational’ court cases well into the 1960s that had served to keep them in the closet rather than face misguided public opprobrium, the attention of the police and, frequently, blackmail.

The business uniform of single-breasted sharp suit and thin tie might have still ruled the roost but as the 1960s started to get underway, the author points out, “We really see people starting to come out of their shells and being a bit more flamboyant and less guarded in what they’re doing. People are kind of realising that within entertainment, and particularly rock and pop, you can probably get away with a little bit more”.

In other words, there was lots of sex and drugs to go with the rock n roll for successful gay men in the business and that necessarily meant existing within a network of people you could trust. “Certainly, there were parties at Brian Epstein’s house where he would just invite anyone around who he thought would be interesting and fun and just let them carry on while he would pick out who he fancied and take them off to another room,” says Bullock. “There was a certain amount of you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours in business terms but there was also a feeling that it was also much easier to play in that way, to host parties for this kind of network and for the people this network knew in a place where you were not likely to be arrested, not going to get busted or have the press hammering at your door.

“David Jacobs was always being asked to come and get people out of sticky situations,” explains Bullock. “Brian was blackmailed several times, often by the same ex-boyfriend… including on one occasion when this guy made off with some of the takings from the Beatles’ Candlestick Park gig in San Francisco and some pills, private papers and photographs before demanding $10,000 for their safe return. Blackmail was going on so often, they got used to having to pay-off people to shut them up but when you have so much money lying around I guess it’s not that much of an issue and certainly paying off the occasional blackmailer has got to be better than going to a club and being caught out and having your name splashed all over the newspapers.”

From “The Network of Gay Men at the Heart of Britain’s Pop Culture Revolution” by Bill Barrows on the release of Darryl W. Bullock’s The Velvet Mafia book | photo credit: Scott K. Runyen [x]

[ginwhitlock]

summary: This was his duty, a sort of memorial, for when the time came for his brother to fly back from his roost, he would be able to turn his head, robotically shaking from left to right, and pat him on the shoulder, to congratulate or console depending on the outcome. AO3

TW: vampire-done stalking, touching while asleep, jasper being creepy, allusions to violence/killing/vampire stuff

He watches her then, in the small dark hours between when she finally lets sleep take her and the exact moment her body stops pretending it has the will to survive that. All slumped over herself, hard sharp ends of bones lying over stiff concrete joints. She is freezing, while he watches. Freezing and sniffling and grinding her teeth together. She never screams anymore. Just the jerking and the breathing and the clawing at her poor yellow sheets. Her father had bought them in an attempt to stop her from clinging to the lilac ones, covered in the undead not-scent his brother had left behind. Yellow, like the sun, which she always watched rise, like he did her.

His sun. His yellow-brown sky.

He started by pressing his face to the glass— the tip of his nose, the purse of his cupids bow. Hard clear clinking against even harder stone, like wind chimes. It used to be enough— just a fraction closer to the poor wounded animal they had left behind. He had claimed (in his mind, there was no one here to speak to anymore, expect the boy who ran the newspaper route as he walked her street after she woke and the antique store clerk who sold him his button downs and boots), that this was his duty, that watching was a sort of memorial, for when the time came for his brother to fly back from his roost, he would be able to shake his head, robotically shaking from left to right, and pat him on the shoulder, to congratulate or console depending on the outcome.

The human would die, he knew, in fifty days or fifty years, like they all did—at least she would have him, to give report, to share her small frail little girl story with the other creatures who truly had wanted her dead, or alive, or somewhere impossibly in-between.

It was a duty. It was right. It was respectable.

Jasper Whitlock knew many things, all of which (but a few) he had learned over the two centuries he had been dead himself, all expect for a small handful the nineteen-year-old version of him (who was not yet grave dead) had stumbled across before the river and the blood.

Fear ruins the meat.

And Bella Swan was all meat. Tender girl meat.

--- He always started to press closer, inching his teeth to make contact with the morning dew that had collected since he was there last. With no breath to warm it, the enamel never left its mark, despite an animal inside of him that wished it to, once, twice.

Next a hand would fingertip grip the wood bracing of the structure, wrapping his nails around the slider, begging it to stay silent, as he slowly but surely, each inch a multitude of minutes inside of his mind, pushed it open, rough peeling paint coming away on his stone hands. He wouldn’t let out a breath until it had slid far enough to let his wrist pass through, a habit from his human days, his palm connecting with the soft brushed wood of the inside windowsill. If God saw him just then, if He had watched him all these nights, like Jasper once thought as a boy (and still occasionally as a grown man, unstomached), He would see a fang-sharp pull of lips, an unblinking stare, a focused desire. He would see madness, he was sure. He thought even he could see it himself, in the reflections of ponds, in dust covered mirrors.

The shoulder came next.

By the time he had slithered through the window and came to crouched on the floor, softly, always softly, the time had eroded. He had a measly hour, usually less, to haunt her air. To sit beside her, to touch—only sometimes, when he thought it worth it, if she had showered that night and her hair was still somehow wet with the stench of shampoos and conditioners, it haloed around her skull, like some prophet in a book about the end of days. In The Book. In this one.

Special nights. This was one. He almost smiled, like his heart was still with him.

He always comes to his feet rapidly, like he could induce a head-rush if he tried hard enough. His boots were clean, he checked before he had even climbed up, and his steps were soft on her large rug, a new addition, he noted. Jasper always kept watch of anything she’d like or would pretend to like. It was a hobby, one he never acted on, he swore. Soldier’s honor.

He was breathing room away from her now, as close as he had ever let himself, close enough to stroke a single finger down her wrist, or her nose, or the side of her neck, pale and glistening from the sweat. He wanted to lick it up, horrible creature he was. To find the underbelly of her taste, to judge the rest of her. She was beautiful and frightening like this, scrunched together, her breathing hard and loud between them. He had killed humans in more ease, lost in better dreams. It would almost be mercy to put her down here, and now, Carlisle would understand. Alice, she’d see it before he did it. She’d tell the rest, ready the pyre, be the one to detach him from the girl, to break his fingers. His wife. He had never looked at her like this, like he would let her rip out his fangs and stomp on them. Mayhaps she’d lick up the venom that poured from the wounds, kitten she was still. She always wanted to be more monstrous, he could give that to her, for a few moments. Before the fire.

But no, no killing, merciful or not, beautiful or not, him or her. He would sit, this time, sit on the very edge of the mattress and watch, maybe a small stroke of her hair or her shoulder. Yes, he had decided, calm projecting towards her frailness, her spine straightening and softening as he perched. His rose and laid itself on the apex of her thin neck, just over her pulse, locks of hair twisting between his knuckles. He was content to lay, stock-still, there and just there, with the heat of her leeching into his palm for the next forty or so minutes, however long she let him before her waking hours, before her mind won over his gift.

Forty minutes he did not have.

Her eyes scrunched and then peered open, his body still and cold as a small slice of panic ran through him, like war bells. He refused to move even a centimeter, hoping she would return to the sandman and believe him a dream. Her eyes only opened more fully, and stared back at him, as if she had willed him into existence and was trying to make sense of it without screaming. His hand tightened on her neck, ready to squeeze if she did choose to.

She stayed silent for many moments. Brows furrowing, lines appearing around every feature of her face. Every emotion he could feel, and none of them were fear, just his own, permeating.

Her lips parted and her hips slanted underneath her quilt, a hand coming slowly across it to lay gently over the ditch of his elbow, “Have you come back for me?”

Her lashes fluttered as his teeth parted his lips and he blew a chilly breath across her face, unmoving still.

“Have you come to kill me?”

Jasper rose his chin upwards and looked down at her with slanted, dark eyes, his hand slowly releasing its hold on her throat, instead allowing his thumb to rub over her pulse point, finding it slow and steady and much softer than anything he had heard from her the past weeks. Her own hand tightened on his arm, awaiting his sentencing. He was… startled.

The monster, quick and pink and hungry, always hungry, always howling, always craving flesh and blood and more flesh, rumbled through his skull like a battle cry outside the gates of a sacked city. He had not come to scare her, to throw her to the wolves, to crucify her and bring back her heart as a trophy.

Fear ruins the meat.

He shook his head, just slightly, and leaned close to her own, now just a breath away, her brown saucer eyes flicking between his forehead and chin, his hands and his teeth.

“I’ve come to save you.”

He had been right, Bella Swan was sweet, inside, and out.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Carine Hajjar

Published: Jan 3, 2024

If Harvard University wants to avoid more scandals like the ones that felled president Claudine Gay — and improve the educational experience on campus at the same time — the solution is straightforward: It needs to rebuild a culture on campus in which many points of view can be aired freely, whether the subject is affirmative action, transgender issues, Israel and Palestinians, or Harvard’s own decisions.

Conservatives, moderates, and even many liberals have been warning for years that Harvard has been drifting into dangerous ideological conformity, with progressive nostrums about race and gender identity promulgated as gospel, chilling what ought to be open debate over what are actually highly contested ideas. And now the university’s failure to do so has come home to roost.

Like a strong immune system, a healthy environment of open debate might have helped Harvard respond more effectively to its challenges over the past year — or maybe even to have avoided them in the first place.

Rebuilding that culture of open debate also means, inevitably, reforming the one that has increasingly taken its place. The university has created a diversity, equity, and inclusion bureaucracy that, despite its anodyne name, has had a pernicious effect on campus speech. Gay was part of that effort, dating to her tenure as dean of the faculty of arts and sciences.

What DEI offices like Harvard’s do can be hard to pinpoint and often sounds relatively innocuous. And some are, like diversifying “the portraiture of white men” on campus, which Gay’s Task Force on Visual Culture and Signage sought to do. But DEI also promotes a specific ideology that treats contentious ideas and terms — “white fragility,” for instance — as settled questions, and as part of the university administration, its diktats then carry a sense of authority.

From the outrage over Harvard’s admissions practices that essentially discriminated against Asian American students, to Harvard being ranked worst in free speech, to the bungling of the response to the Oct. 7 attack on Israel by Hamas, to Gay’s resignation, the events of Harvard’s tumultuous year are rooted in the school’s inability to accommodate heterodox viewpoints. Who was going to raise questions about Gay’s academic record — which might have prompted the university to scrutinize it more carefully before hiring her as president — when that would mean risking being labeled a racist or fragile under the university’s own DEI framework?

Sometimes faculty are hounded for stating science. Carole Hooven, a professor in Human Evolutionary Biology, was lambasted on campus for saying in 2021 that “there are in fact two sexes … and those sexes are designated by the kinds of gametes we produce.” The Harvard Crimson student newspaper reported that backlash included “some arguing Hooven’s remarks set back Harvard and the department’s diversity and inclusion efforts.” Hooven retired from Harvard and joined the American Enterprise Institute.

Gay, a progressive academic who appointed the first dean of Harvard’s Office of Diversity, Inclusion, and Belonging, was initially shielded from criticism by the Harvard Corporation, the university’s governing board, which should have investigated allegations of plagiarism as soon as they received them in October.

But Gay isn’t the sole offender. Harvard professor Steven Pinker told me she has been “caught up in a mess not of her own making.” That the board didn’t correct course sooner reflects a stubborn adherence to the school’s prevailing progressive agenda and the hubris of an institution that sees itself above criticism. Seemingly keeping Gay, a champion of the school’s progressive orthodoxy, was more important than enforcing rules of academic excellence.

To be clear, Harvard’s commitment to ideals like diversity and inclusion is good — when done correctly. Fostering a racially diverse, gender-balanced community helps to create nuanced conversations that enhance education and critical thinking. But as DEI has become the main priority of institutions of higher education, it has eclipsed the end that it is meant to serve: a well-rounded education that challenges students to think critically not only about their own ideas but the scrutiny of others.

What should institutional reforms look like? Pinker offered five good starting points in these pages, including adopting a “clear and conspicuous policy on academic freedom” and stopping students from disrupting events by exercising “a heckler’s veto, which blocks the speech of others.” Crucially, he encourages Harvard to “incentivize departments to diversify their ideologies” and to “disempower DEI.” I’d add reconfiguring job applications at Harvard to change or remove “DEI statements.” As the Bok Center for Teaching and Learning at Harvard describes them, such statements ask applicants to lay out “one’s accomplishments, goals, and process to advance excellence in diversity, inclusion, equity, and belonging as a teacher and a researcher in higher education” — a clear directive to mouth progressive policies.

All hope isn’t lost for Harvard. Pinker described this year as Harvard’s annus horribilis, evoking the term Queen Elizabeth II once used to describe an especially rough year for the British royal family. Even in the aftermath of her annus horribilis, though, Queen Elizabeth described the scathing critiques she received as “an effective engine for change.” Such change, she said, must “be incorporated into the stability and continuity of a great institution.” The first step is to create a place where such conversations can take place openly.

==

I despise the use of the term "progressive" here.

[darrylhudson86]

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[niall-ate-mynamee]

Please do one Zianourry superhero AU where Niall is the damsel in distress and the other boys are superheroes! Thank you!

note: thank you so so much for the prompt, anon, and im so sorry it’s taken me a while to get to it! i’ve been having writers block for the last few days, but i’ve finally got around to this one!

it’ll be like 2, possibly 3, chapters, depending if i can get it finished in the next chapter, but i really hope you like it! i hope it’s not too bad, and it’s an enjoyable read hahaha! let me know what you think! :)

PART ONE

Everyone knew of “The Lads”. The group of four lads who were always there whenever somebody was in trouble. They were the superheroes of the somewhat small town. Nobody knew their real identities; their names, their faces, their ages, but they all loved them. People had spent the last couple years trying to work out who they were, but they simply couldn’t. They kept their real lives separate.

Niall Horan, a young 16 year old boy, was possibly their biggest fan. Having grown up reading comics and watching superhero shows, he felt he knew them on a level nobody else did. He read through every story in newspapers and online about The Lads, and he dreamed of one day meeting them and becoming one of them. He knew, deep down, that would always remain a dream, but that wouldn’t deter him.

The 16 year old had no idea how wrong he was about to be…

•••

Niall wasn’t what you would call “popular” around the town. He was constantly being beaten, screamed at, had things thrown on him, shoved aside. There was this one time where he was pushed so violently into the road, that a car had to quickly swerve out the way to avoid hitting him, and guess who got screamed at by the driver? Niall. He, who was the innocent, always got the blame for the bullies actions. Even by his own parents.

He was neglected by his family. He was lucky if he got a dinner that wasn’t scraps. He was lucky if he was able to have a somewhat warm shower. He was lucky if the water he was given wasn’t from the washing up bowl. He was simply lucky. That’s what he told himself, anyway. He was always lucky. He could be living on the streets, but he still had a roof over his head. Like, yeah, it’s not the greatest of lives, but he couldn’t complain…at least, not anymore.

That was until that fateful day. It was a chilly evening in autumn, and he had been sent to the shops by his father for more milk. He didn’t have a coat, so he wore his favourite cardigan in the hopes it would keep him warm enough to not suffer the 10 minute walk to the shop and back. But, it wasn’t just the cold he was nervous about. The street he had to walk down to get to his destination was home to his biggest bullies. Roderick and Frederick. Twin brothers 3 months his senior.

They ruled the roost around this part of town. Nobody messed with them. Nobody looked at them. They had 2 other boys in their group, Danny and Charles. They were the four biggest pains in Niall’s ass. Literally and figuratively. They weren’t afraid to leave marks on their victims, because Roderick and Frederick’s father was a police officer, and their mother a lawyer, so they were always safe.

Their father had always defended them, even going as far as to shout and scream at Niall even when he was beaten and bloody on the concrete. He just couldn’t catch a break. He knew Roderick, Frederick, Danny and Charles were anxious when it came to The Lads. They had nearly been caught by the heroes once, when they were pushing Niall around, but had managed to escape by running away before they were seen, and Niall could’ve smirked at the memory.

That was the only time Niall had seen The Lads close. They didn’t stop, they didn’t look at Niall, they didn’t even give him a passing glance, but he still was close enough he could’ve touched them. That was when his “crush” had grown. To live in a town with superheroes patrolling the streets was just incredible, and he was about to realise just how incredible it really was.

As he began his way down that particular street, he could already hear the laughter from the bullies. He hugged his cardigan tighter, and kept his head down, eyes on the ground, praying they’ll let him be this time.

No such luck.

“Oi! Bitch! What’re you doing here?!” Yelled the voice of Roderick, but Niall kept silent. He didn’t want any trouble. However, it seemed that trouble wanted him, because next thing he knew, he was shoved from behind and the concrete was getting impossibly closer to his face before he felt the air knocked out of him.

He was lying, face down, on the cold ground. He didn’t move, he knew the consequences if he did. “You answer when you’re asked a question, you dick!” Frederick growled, kicking Niall’s side, before flipping him over so he was on his back, “What’s wrong with you, huh? We’ve told you to stay away from our street, so why are you here?!”

“I-I had to g-get some milk…” Niall stuttered out, anxiously looking around for an escape. “P-please, I don’t want any trouble,” He practically whispered, tears gathering in his eyes.

The bullies just laughed and continued kicking him. This went on for what felt like hours before Niall was startled by the dizziness he began feeling after a vicious kick to the head. He cried out in pain, curling up into himself tighter than ever before. He wept silently, hoping they would finish and leave him alone very quickly.

It seemed his prayers worked, for barely a minute later, the blows stopped and the cruel sneers silenced. Niall didn’t dare move, though, he didn’t know if it was a trick, so he stayed completely still. Until he heard them.

“And what miserable excuses have you boys got for hurting a young boy like that?” It couldn’t be, Niall thought, I’m not that lucky.

“S-sirs, I-I am sor-“ He heard Roderick stutter helplessly, and if Niall wasn’t in pain and shock, he would’ve laughed.

“We don’t want your excuses, boy, we want the truth. What gives you boys the right to abuse this lad? To beat him so cruelly and so viciously that he can barely move?”

This time, Danny spoke, “E-everyone does it, s-sirs…we’re n-not the only o-ones,” He tried to explain, and when Niall lifted his head slightly, he was shocked to find his heroes, THE heroes, standing right in front of him. And, they didn’t look happy.

“You are cruel, and nasty. We will be talking to your parents about this. How dare you think this is acceptable! Get outta here, now, before we do something we’ll regret,”

Niall heard the hurried footsteps and breathed out a sigh of relief. They were gone, for now, so he could breathe again. “Are you alright, love?” Came a soft voice from above him, and he froze again, remembering who rescued him. When he looked up, he saw them. Properly. Clearly. Like angels from the sky.

“H-hi,” He squeaked, and blushed. He cursed himself, but couldn’t help but feel warm inside when The Lads chuckled fondly.

“Hi!” They chirped back, and Niall could see the way their eyes crinkled with grins behind their masks. “Can you stand, sweetheart? Where do you hurt?” One of them asked, and now two of them were crouched in front of him.

With help from two of The Lads, Niall was eventually on his feet, albeit very unsteadily. The Lads stayed close to him, the two who helped him off the ground were holding his arms gently, keeping him upright. He could feel his face flush.

“T-tanks,” He whispered, his Irish accent leaping out in his pain, “‘m Niall,” He said, smiling shyly at his heroes.

“Hiya, Niall, I’m Lou, this is Li, this is Zee, and that is H, or Haz, whichever you prefer,” The one holding onto his left arm said, pointing at each lad as he introduced them. Li was on his right, and Zee and Haz were standing in front, “We’re sorry it took us this long to get to you, we were caught up and didn’t get the signal until a few minutes ago,” Lou explained.

“I-it’s okay…it was nothing…I’m used to it,” Niall said, resignedly, sighing as he looked down. It was silent for a moment before Haz spoke.

“Would you mind if we took you back to our place? We can patch you up and make sure you’re okay,”

Niall’s heart could beat out of his chest right now. Feeling stupid, he nodded shakily, as Lou told him to hold on tight and before he knew it, he was in the air, gripping tightly to his saviour. Was his dream actually coming true?

note: sorry if it’s awful, im about to start work and haven’t proof read it! hope you like it, anon, and i’ll work on part two as soon as i can! <3

[jdgo51]

DECEMBER 5, 2024

God Will Provide

Chieko Tamura (Shiga Prefecture, Japan)

"Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?" - Matthew 6:26 (NIV)

"'With joy I watch for the local newspaper announcement: “She’s here!” Every year I look forward to news about Grandma Mount Yamamoto, the female Steller’s sea eagle that roosts on Mount Yamamoto during the winter. Since 1998, she has flown in and made the mountain her winter home.

One of the oldest eagles in Japan, Grandma Mount Yamamoto is considered a national treasure. Despite her age, she still glides gracefully on her beautiful outspread wings and catches fish with expert skill. In February, she takes off for the breeding grounds in Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula.

This great eagle’s annual migration and faithful return each winter is an inspiration to me. I think it is noble to single-mindedly follow the path God has given us and trust that God will take care of the rest. Scripture reminds me that God cares for the birds of the air, and in the same way will provide for my needs. I feel God’s protection when I entrust everything to God."' You can trust God. Follow Him whatever way that He leads and He will care for you. He protects the birds and obviously cares even more for you.

TODAY'S PRAYER

"Father God, thank you for your loving care. Help us to entrust everything to you and single-mindedly serve you." Amen.

Matthew 6:25-34

"'25 “Therefore, I say to you, don’t worry about your life, what you’ll eat or what you’ll drink, or about your body, what you’ll wear. Isn’t life

more than food and the body more than clothes? 26 Look at the birds in the sky. They don’t sow seed or harvest grain or gather crops into barns. Yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Aren’t you worth much more than they are? 27 Who among you by worrying can add a single moment to your life? 28 And why do you worry about clothes? Notice how the lilies in the field grow. They don’t wear themselves out with work, and they don’t spin cloth. 29 But I say to you that even Solomon in all of his splendor wasn’t dressed like one of these. 30 If God dresses grass in the field so beautifully, even though it’s alive today and tomorrow it’s thrown into the furnace, won’t God do much more for you, you people of weak faith? 31 Therefore, don’t worry and say, ‘What are we going to eat?’ or ‘What are we going to drink?’ or ‘What are we going to wear?’ 32 Gentiles long for all these things. Your heavenly Father knows that you need them. 33 Instead, desire first and foremost God’s kingdom and God’s righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. 34 Therefore, stop worrying about tomorrow, because tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."' Stop the senseless worry. God has this all taken care of and we do not have to do anything, but love Him. Bless everyone in your immediate world. Joe

[brookstonalmanac]

Beer Events 10.1

Events

Albany Brewery bought James Boyd's brewery (New York; 1872)

Thomas May left Kaiserbrauerei Beck & May (1875)

Lewisburgh Brewery partially destroyed by fire (Kentucky; 1890)

Leopold Nathan patented the Art of Brewing Beer (1918)

Singapore's Tiger Beer debuted (1932)

Sacramento's Buffalo Brewery sold the brewery buildings and land to the Sacramento Bee newspaper (California; 1948)

Roger Maris hit home run #61 (1961)

Blitz Weinhard patented Barrel Loading (1963)

Anheuser-Busch Companies, Inc. established a holding company and corporate restructuring began (1979)

He'Brew released its 1st beer (1997)

Florida finally changed its beer packaging laws to allow odd-sized bottled to be sold (2001)

Breweries Opened

Fitzgerald Brothers Brewing (New York; 1866)

Army & Navy Brewery / Turtle Grove Brewery (Halifax, Canada; 1870)

Brasserie Amos (France; 1868)

Czech Share Brewery (Czech Republic; 1895)

Honolulu Brewing & Malting Co. (Hawaii; 1898)

August Schell Brewing (Minnesota; 1902)

Hilden Brewery (Northern Ireland; 1981)

Hillsdale Brewery & Public House (Oregon; 1985)

Hogshead Brewpub (California; 1985)

Wellington County Brewery (Canada; 1985)

James Page Brewing (Minnesota; 1987)

Pacific Crest Brewing (California; 1988)

Callahan's Pub & Brewery (California; 1989)

Whistler Brewing (Canada; 1989)

Gentle Ben's Brewing (Arizona; 1991)

Hill Country Brewing & Bottling (Texas; 1991)

Millrose Brewpub (Illinois; 1991)

Ragtime Taproom (Florida; 1991)

Ebeneezer Brewing (Utah; 1992)

Fish Brewing (Washington; 1992)

Al Frisco's (Canada; 1993)

American River Brewing (California; 1993)

Little Apple Brewing (Kansas; 1993)

Brimstone Brewing (Maryland; 1994)

Hart Breweries Ltd. (Canada; 1994)

Dalian Brewing (Hong Kong; 1995)

Hose & Hydrant Brewing (Canada; 1995)

West Berkshire Brewing (England; 1995)

Ballpark Brewing (California; 1996)

Barley's (Kansas; 1996)

Barrett's Brewpub & Eatery (Alabama; 1996)

Brasserie Frog et Princesse (France; 1996)

Buckley Brewery & Grill (Ohio; 1996)

Crooked Waters brewing (Illinois; 1996)

Cobblestone Winery & Brewery (New York; 1996)

Copper Dragon Brewing (Illinois; 1996)

Foundry Ale Works (Pennsylvania; 1996)

Four Peaks Brewing (Arizona; 1996)

Your World Brewery (Massachusetts; 1996)

Aukland Brewery (New Zealand; 1997)

Glacial Lakes Brewing (Minnesota; 1997)

La Barberie (Canada; 1997)

Mobjack Bay Brewing (Virginia; 1997)

Ninkasi Ale House (France; 1997)

Red Shield Brewery (England; 1997)

Rogue's Roost Ale House (Canada; 1997)

Three Rivers Eatery & Brewery (New Mexico; 1997)

Washington Brewing (DC; 1997)

Bertram's Salmon Valley Brewery (Idaho; 1998)

Fisherman's Beer Microcerveceria (Argentina; 1998)

Inchant Brewery (Australia; 1998)

Malt Shovel Brewery (Australia; 1998)

Tractor Brewing (New Mexico; 1999)

Alewife Brewery (England; 2000)

Brookhaven Brewery (Utah; 2000)

Santa Maria Brewing (California; 2000)

Brenham Brewery (Texas; 2001)

Monet's Bistro & Brewpub (Illinois; 2001)

New Albanian Brewing (Indiana; 2002)

Cerveses La Pirata (Catalonia; 2015)

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Antiwar feeling was widespread, and demonstrations were commonplace. In 1932, a mile-long motorcade delivered a petition for peace to President Herbert Hoover. In 1935, fifty thousand veterans marched in Washington for peace. Roy Kepler, who with his brother would refuse to fight in World War II, would recall the antiwar attitudes of schoolteachers when he was a boy in the Denver public schools. U.S. publishers issued seven full-length biographies of the great Quaker William Penn between 1929 and 1938, and that year a proposed constitutional amendment requiring a referendum before going to war (absent foreign invasion) reached the House floor. Gallup found 73 percent of Americans in favor. Roosevelt had all he could do to defeat the measure.

Campuses were hotbeds of pacifism, and student newspapers regularly inveighed against involvement in the new war. Cornell undergraduates sent the president a dummy tank with a plea to keep the nation out of the fighting. At Princeton, students organized Veterans of Future Wars to sarcastically demand veterans’ bonuses before being killed in battle. The joke quickly went viral, in the argot of a later time, with chapters springing up on many campuses. In 1936, two hundred members of Columbia’s mock-VFW marched down upper Broadway, followed by Barnard students dressed as nurses and widows—complete with dolls serving as war orphans. Vassar girls talked about forming an “Association of Gold Star Mothers of the Veterans of Future Wars” in advance of presumed casualties.

At the University of Minnesota, the experience of future CBS legend Eric Sevareid foreshadowed the antiwar student activism of the generation to come, albeit in a life made more tenuous by the Depression. In addition to attending classes and working at the student newspaper, Sevareid had to get up at 5:00 a.m. to toil in the campus post office. He needed the money. Conservative fraternities had long ruled the roost at Minnesota, but Sevareid was part of a group of agitators calling themselves the Jacobins, who took their studies seriously, pressed for change, and had learned to hate the Great War. “We felt ashamed,” he recalled in his memoir, “ashamed for our fathers and uncles.”

We were revolted by the stories of the mass hysteria of 1917, the beating of German saloonkeepers, the weird spy hunts, the stoning of pacifists, the arrests of conscientious objectors. As enlightened scholars, we considered that the professors of 1917 had degraded themselves and their sacred function by inventing preposterous theories about the essential depravity of the German race, the worthlessness of their art, and the hidden evil of their music. We refused to believe that war was the responsibility of Germany or any single country.

The Jacobins managed to end compulsory military training at Minnesota and, along with a raucous throng of fellow students, embraced an American version of the Oxford Pledge, whose adoption in Britain had caused a sensation. On February 9, 1933, little more than a week after Hitler became Germany’s chancellor, the venerable Oxford Union debating society voted 275 to 153 for the motion “that this House will in no circumstance fight for its King and Country.” An American student named Dean Rusk, who would one day serve John Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson as secretary of state, happened to be present, and the event left a lasting impression on him. Just as the students of the thirties saw events through the lens of the Great War, Rusk’s generation would see Vietnam through the lens of appeasement. The Oxford Pledge soon jumped the pond and spread like measles among heavily pacifist students in the United States.

Antiwar students made further headlines with a strike against war on April 13, 1934, when 25,000 walked out, mostly in New York. The following year, when the strike went truly national, 175,000 walked out, demanding funding for “schools, not battleships” and an end to military training. By 1936, writes Robert Cohen, “some 500,000 students, almost half the national undergraduate population, participated in the event, rallying against both war and compulsory ROTC.” Student strikers enjoyed the public support of Albert Einstein, who had dodged the draft as a teenager in Germany and later came to the U.S. in flight from the Nazis (for whom he was to make an exception to his lifelong pacifism).

- Daniel Akst, War By Other Means: How the Pacifists of World War 2 Changed America for Good. New York: Melville House, 2022. p. 11-13.

[anarubtech]

Getting to Know Anilox Rollers: The Heartbeat of Printing

If you're delving into the world of printing, chances are you've heard the term "anilox roller" buzzing around. But what exactly is this mysterious component, and why is it such a big deal in the printing industry? Let's roll up our sleeves and dive into the nitty-gritty of anilox rollers.

What’s the Buzz About Anilox Rollers?

Imagine your printer as a well-oiled machine, churning out crisp, vibrant prints with every run. At the heart of this machine lies the anilox roller, a crucial player in the printing process. But hey, don't let its unassuming appearance fool you – this roller packs a punch!

Anilox rollers are like the conductors of an orchestra, orchestrating the precise delivery of ink onto the printing plate. They're responsible for laying down a consistent layer of ink, ensuring every print comes out looking sharp as a tack. Talk about a tough job!

The Anatomy of an Anilox Roller

Now, let's peel back the curtain and take a peek at what makes an anilox roller tick. Picture a cylindrical core wrapped in a honeycomb-like pattern of tiny cells. These cells are where the magic happens – they control the amount of ink transferred to the printing plate.

But wait, there's more! Anilox rollers come in all shapes and sizes, each tailored to meet the specific needs of different printing jobs. Whether you're printing newspapers or packaging materials, there's an anilox roller for every occasion.

Why Anilox Rollers Rule the Roost

So, why are anilox rollers the reigning champs of the printing world? For starters, they're masters of consistency. With their precise ink delivery system, you can bid farewell to blotchy prints and uneven coverage.

But that's not all – anilox rollers also play nice with a wide range of inks and substrates. Whether you're using water-based, solvent-based, or UV inks, these rollers have got your back. Plus, they're built to last, making them a cost-effective choice for printers big and small.

The Plot Thickens: Anilox Roller Manufacturers

Now that we've got the lowdown on anilox rollers, let's shine a spotlight on the folks behind the scenes – the anilox roller manufacturers. These wizards of the printing world are the ones responsible for crafting top-notch rollers that keep the presses rolling.

If you're in the market for quality anilox rollers, look no further than Anilox Roller Inc.. With their years of expertise and commitment to excellence, they're the go-to choice for printers worldwide. Whether you need standard rollers or custom solutions, they've got you covered.

Wrapping It Up

And there you have it – a crash course in all things anilox rollers. From their role in the printing process to the top manufacturers in the biz, we've covered it all. So, the next time you fire up your printer, take a moment to appreciate the unsung hero behind the scenes – the mighty anilox roller. Happy printing!

[robertjamesberry]

Silence

In the newspaper reading room there is absolute silence

underscored by the iron face of the chief librarian

who rules his roost it would be unimaginable

to shout out loud in this hallowed place

however a bag lady who must have slipped

by the security detail is picking staples

from a colour supplement she plans to slide this magazine

into her tatty holdall I am watching with amusement

I have always enjoyed rebellion I appreciate her style.

Robert James Berry