Góðan dag Ísland!

 Miðnætur og aðrar skepnur leita að lesendum frá fallega landinu þínu. Viltu vera fyrstur?

Allir enskumælandi lesendur okkar vilja vita: Hvenær mun hljómsveitin Mum taka upp lög Pink Floyd af plötunni Dark Side of the Moon?

If the translation is bad blame Google. No one here speaks Icelandic. We do like Mum, though...

The Bookbinder, part 2

 

27 November 1999

It was the Saturday after Thanksgiving and Tobey was already eager to return to school on Monday. No complaint with the Thanksgiving itself, it had been great. Plenty of great grub and lots of leftovers. The Lions, completely out of character, actually won on Thanksgiving Day. So much the better, against the Bears. It was nearly December and the Lions were still in contention for a division crown. Strange days, indeed. And it just figured, didn't it, that finally a chance for a post-season stretch and it would be shattered by the Y2K catastrophe. At least that's what they were saying on the Art Bell program. 

The source of the young man's discontent had arrived the day after Thanksgiving, when his Aunt Helen arrived to share in the annual Black Friday humiliation ritual. She, his mother and sister, all met and departed at dawn. This left Tobey to entertain (more like babysit!) his younger cousin, Shelby. Shelby was only a year younger than he but was more like an old woman. A complete knob. It was just assumed that since they were so close in age, they had a good deal in common and should get on famously. They didn't and they did not. Shelby was smart, precocious and very conscious of things like "social station". He lived in St. Clair Shores, where peoples' shit didn't stink. 

He only had the return of the ladies to look forward to. And Shelby. For one more night, before leaving for home on Sunday morning. They would come in with arms loaded with bags, Helen would make a ridiculous fuss over her little darling, then they would retreat to the kitchen to swill cheap wine and cackle like hens until near dawn. Just like Friday, only a later start.

There was no escape from this but to retreat to his room and the PlayStation, unfortunately with Shelby in tow. Shelby was not very interested in playing video games. There were a few that he seemed to like, but Tobey discovered very quickly that his cousin completely sucked at any game he attempted. He could talk all day about writing code for games, he just could not master the eye/hand coordination required to play them. And so it was that young Tobey found himself in this awkward circumstance, within the close quarters of his own room, on this Saturday after Thanksgiving.

Shelby seemed to be content to sit with his nose in a book while Tobey conquered hordes of zombies in Resident Evil 3: Nemesis. Even buried in a chemistry textbook, he would have to occasionally offer his critique of certain boards in the game; or the physics to explain the implausibility of certain scenes. He really was an insufferable twat! At the behest of his dear old Mom, Tobey was really going over and above, making the extreme effort to "be nice". This would be so much easier if Shelby smoked down. Well, it would be easier for him. He didn't know or care if Shelby would enjoy it. He was pretty sure that he would not. Shelby was the kind of kid who could fuck up a wet dream. Realizing that this was likely his fate until sleep, Tobey decided maybe he needed to get him out of the house for a while. Like a small child, take him out for a while to tire him out.

Typically, anything Tobey was interested in, or any activity that he might suggest, would instantly be pooh-poohed by Shelby. It would be too dull to be of any interest, or it was something that Shelby considered stupid and he would have a list of reasons why at the ready. He didn't care to go through that sad routine for the umpteenth time. He thought about it for a while. What does Shelby like? What is interesting to Shelby? There were not any science lounges in town, nor was there a chess tournament to be had for many a mile. He made the error of thinking about this in terms of what was available. It was then that he realized that what interested Shelby most of all... was Shelby himself! Now he had an angle.

There was an image that had been haunting him since a week ago outside the Bookbinder's. The piercing stare of that old woman! He had felt it from across the street. He had avoided the place since, though a nagging curiosity lingered. This would be a sort of scouting mission, and he would appeal to Shelby's superior intellect to help sate some of that curiosity.  He sat the game controller aside for the first time in hours.

"Hey Shelby! It's not too bad outside today. Go grab your coat, I wanna show ya somethin'. "

Shelby's face reflexively curled up into a scowl, "Oh really? What is it? It better not be something stupid!"

There it was. Stupid. He was still trying to play nice, but he was getting exasperated with this dance. "Shelby! Come on, man... you can't just say everything is stupid because you don't like it..." Tobey took a breath, reminding himself again to stay calm, "... it's not stupid, okay? It's kind of a... mystery. I figured somebody smart like you could help me figure it out, that's all."

A change in his cousin's facial expression told him that the appeal to his vanity was working. "Oh. Well, uh... what sort of a mystery is it?"

 "I'm not really sure, I guess... that's kinda the mystery. There's this shop up the street, on Claypool. The sign is really old... says it was a bookbinder. Some French name...Thi-buh-something..."

Shelby's face was beginning to screw up again. "So what's the mystery?", he asked, with sarcasm creeping back into his tone.

"Okay, so just listen a minute. It's an old place, I'm pretty sure that it's been abandoned. It sure doesn't look like they are still operating any kind of business there. I've been past the place like a thousand times..."

Shelby was already growing impatient, butting in there to say, "That's highly unlikely! Is there a point to..."

"Shelby! Just shut the fuck up, will ya? Jeesh! It's an expression...I have walked past the place many times. That better for ya? So, yeah... there is a point. I never paid very much attention to the place before, then last Friday I'm walking home from school, and I come into that block where it is, there before Redbud. When I got up to the storefront window, I saw something. Something moving inside the store. It was just for like a couple seconds. I couldn't tell what it was, but I know I saw something moving."

"It's an old place. You said it's abandoned. They probably have rats."

"Ya! I'm sure they do, but this was not any rat. It was a person. It moved like a person, but... something wrong. Like a person, but distorted. Like a wax figure, melting."

"Oh no, ho ho ho...my cousin is a ghost hunter now! You've been listening to too much Art Bell!" He was cynical as ever, but a bit less antagonistic in his tone now.

Tobey didn't take the bait. He let a moment of dead air hang between them before he continued. "It was one of those times when you've caught something in your periphery. You didn't see it clear, but you know that you saw something. So, I took a couple steps back, up to the window and looked inside the best I could. I held my hands up on either side of my eyes, up against the glass, so I could get a clearer look in. I spent a couple solid minutes scanning as much of the place as I could but didn't see anything else..."

"Well, you took a couple minutes. You must have seen something."

"No other movement. It was all tables and boxes, crates. No lights on, everything looked dusty. The tables were covered with canvas, so no telling what was in there really. But it gets weirder, okay?"

Shelby delivered his trademark skeptical smirk. "Do tell..."

"So, the next day, that was Saturday. The day we had that real bad wind, remember?" Shelby nodded, trying really hard to appear interested. "I had to walk up to the Clark station on Division to get some pap-...uh, a pack, a six pack of Dr. Pepper. I'm heading up Claypool and there is this Consumer's Power crew blocking off part of the sidewalk there, right next to the shop. When I was coming back down Claypool I was watching over there, from across the street, and another Consumer's guy has pulled up. I think he was some kind of supervisor or something..."

"I'm sorry. Is this about a bookbinder or the power company?"

"Hang on! I'm getting there... so anyway, this supervisor dude goes up to the door of the bookbinder shop. I'm watching this and start thinking that maybe there is somebody there, ya know? Like, maybe I really did see something the day before. So, I stopped there, right across the street, and I kept watching while this guy is standing out there in that freezing wind waiting for someone to answer. So, after what I saw, or thought that I saw, the day before? I had to see if anyone answered."

Tobey paused his narrative there. Maybe to take a breath. Maybe to think up arguments to whatever objections that Shelby would likely raise. In any case, he had thus far made his description of events, if not truly compelling, at least engaging enough to hold his attention. For his part, Shelby had already begun to form the conclusion that his cousin's mystery was nothing more than a question of, "is there a resident on premises?" He had, of course, already worked out at least three ways to sarcastically say, " Gee! You needed me to figure that out for you?" Before he had time to think up a fourth way, Tobey crashed upon his thoughts, as he resumed his strange narrative.

"So, we're standing out there like that for, like maybe a straight two, three minutes. That frickin' wind is still howlin' down the street like being in a turbine! Then all of the sudden, there is this flash of light, a reflection I think... the front door opens and this... lady comes out to the step. She was really creepy looking, ya know? All dressed in black, covered up from her collar down to her boots! The only thing she was missing was the hat and the broom!"

Miraculously, the witch quip elicited a smirk and half a chuckle out of Shelby. It appeared that he might actually have won him over. Catching his cousin in the very rare moment of vulnerability, Tobey pressed on in his recounting of the week before.

"But, uh...seriously! It was not just the costume. That bitch looked right through that supervisor, straight across the road to me. I know we made direct eye contact for a few seconds. I couldn't see it, across that distance, as much as felt it. For those... few seconds, I could feel her looking at me. It almost felt like being shocked, like some huge static charge. Gave me goosebumps all over, hairs standin' up, metal taste in my mouth!  And I know that was from her!"

Shelby maintained a good humor while retaining his skepticism. "So, the mystery is what? You want me to prove she's a witch? How am I gonna do that?"

"No, that's not it. I didn't say I think she is a witch, just creepy, ya know? Like a witch, okay? I just wanna find out what's going on with the place..."

"Well, there is probably an apartment upstairs. That's quite common with those older style storefronts."

"Hunh. I didn't think of that. You're probably right."

"Of course I am!"

"So, what do you say? Let's go have a look! Come on!"

Tobey could tell that Shelby was less than keen on this idea, but he reluctantly agreed to venture out. They grabbed their winter jackets from the mud room and headed out the side door. It was a grey day, damp in the air but otherwise dry out. The temp was at least above freezing, in the upper thirties, and mercifully there was little wind to speak of. Tobey was briefly taken with an impulse, asking his cousin to wait there by the door for just a minute.

"I wanna grab a couple things from the garage. Just take a minute..."

True to his word, Tobey was into the garage and back out in right around one minute. He had been to the workbench, where he fetched a half-burned joint and a can of orange spray paint. Both items were easily stashed into an inside pocket of his jacket. He discovered that his nerdy cousin was maybe a little savvier than he had suspected.

"I can smell your weed, genius."

"What? Seriously...", Tobey stuttered. This had caught him completely off guard.

"Don't worry. I won't tell, but you had better do a better job of disguising that stink!"

"Yeah, I guess, huh? You must be part bloodhound."

"My Mom already warned me that you might try to get me to smoke dope. She says you're a delinquent."

"She said that did she? Well,... You wanna try some?"

"No! I don't! But you can go ahead if you want. I don't care."

"Okay then, Cuz... walk with me here."

The two of them set off out into the street, Tobey in the lead with Shelby trailing a couple steps behind. Shelby cast a wary look as Tobey sparked up. He was prepared to bob and weave as needed to avoid any contact with the smoke. To his credit, Tobey did turn about frequently, trying to prevent that from happening. It was a modest task in the cold, clear air. He only needed to huff in a couple of hits to get himself "back to good". Once he had finished and stowed the remains into a zippered pocket, Shelby pulled up and walked abreast with him. 

They walked in silence into the turn up Claypool. Tobey was thinking about something. He'd had the crazy idea when he grabbed the can of spray paint from the garage, now he was having second thoughts. He'd be proving his dear Auntie right now, wouldn't he? Tagging qualified as delinquent behavior, he was pretty sure. They kept walking. He decided he'd just wait and see what happened when they got there. 

In only a matter of minutes they arrived at the corner of Redbud. The steel doors in the sidewalk were there, six feet ahead of them. Another twenty feet beyond was the front door of the bookbinders.

"Ok! Right here, these metal doors... this is where that crew was working. And the supervisor guy, he pulled up behind them."

They both looked down at the doors, then over toward the front of the shop. Shelby looked over the surroundings in the block, noting the absence of any utility poles.

"This is a vault. Probably electric. There's probably a transformer down there, or more, for the buildings in the block."

Shelby paused there, taking several steps toward the shop. He was looking up the face of the building and down again, like he was taking stock of how many windows. He examined the whole block, starting at the northern most address. That was a State Farm Insurance office, 481 South Claypool. Next was what appeared vacant, boarded up with no sign, but still bearing the 483 above where a door had been. Then there was the bookbinders, double width of the others. The faded remains of Thibodaux & Co., but no street number posted. It would be 485 or 487. Maybe both. The final address, at the steel doors, was 489 South Claypool. Stover's Bicycle Repair. All of these properties were adjoining, but each solidly partitioned from one another. 

"There must be an alley behind this block. Their electric service meters have to be back there. If there is an active meter, somebody is paying a bill. That is how you find out if someone is there and maybe who it is. The bookbinder is the only building in the block that has three stories. I'm betting there is at least one apartment up there. That is something else those meters are going to tell you." Shelby concluded there, for the time being, clearly quite proud of himself. After a moment he could not resist smugly adding, "Hope that was helpful. Cuz."

Ignoring the snark, Tobey listened carefully to what his cousin had just said. And it was all very helpful. He was not too proud to admit it.

"That actually is... very helpful, Shelby. Thank you! So, uh... ya wanna come with me? Ya know, go back and check out those meters? I mean, I know what a meter looks like, but... hell! I don't know what I'm supposed to be looking for!"

"No, you're just too stoned!" He actually snickered a little, the most genuine display of humor that Tobey had ever seen from him. "Sure, I'll come back with you. I got a pen and a notepad I can sketch it out with. When we get home, I can look up some phone numbers for you to call on Monday.  You give them the numbers we record and the address, then they should be able to at least confirm if there is an active account for the address. They can say if it is a business or a residential account, they may even be able to disclose the party billed. That's probably not against the law, but maybe depends on company policy?"

"Okay Shelby! That's some real Rockford File shit, man. I'm impressed!"

"Rockford Files? Seriously?"

"Yeah man... they got those reruns on channel 22 on the weekends, late at night? You never watched 'em?"

"No, I have not."

"Cool! I think it's on tonight! We'll have to watch it." He saw Shelby's lip start to curl up into a sneer. "Hey! None of that now! Ya gotta give it a chance. You'll like it!"

They went to the southern end of the block and turned west onto Redbud. These lots were no deeper than sixty feet, a short walk back to the alley. It was wide enough to accommodate a city garbage truck and in reasonably good repair. By March it was sure to be pitted with enormous potholes. The three-story profile of the bookbinder's building made it easy to identify it's corresponding back door. Shelby made short work of locating the meters and recording all of the relevant numbers. 

"I was right, see? There are four meters here, one inactive. Three separate meters, three accounts. It's gotta be apartments upstairs."

"Cool! You get everything you need there?"

"Oh yeah. Got it all."

Tobey was looking above, all around this back alley. He was checking for windows. And to see if anyone was watching. Before Shelby had a chance to see what he had, Tobey had removed the can of orange spray paint from inside his jacket, popped off the cap and started the clackety-clack of shaking the can.

"Oh my god! You are not going to vandalize this place, Tobey! Y-y-you're making me an accessory! Don't!"

It was too late. With a fluid, well-practiced script Tobey laid his tag on the brick wall next to the meters. A solid, unbroken orange script: THC. Everybody always figured his tag was a reference to weed. No one had figured out that it was his initials. Tobias Henry Carter, better known as Tobey, was THC. He popped the cap back on. There was quite a bit of paint left.

"Relax Shelby. I'm done. We're done here, right? Nobody saw a thing. So, let's skedaddle, huh?"

Shelby looked about nervously, clearly trying to reassure himself that indeed no one had seen anything. He finished with a final scowl cast at his cousin before starting to trot back to Redbud. Tobey chuckled as he followed. After this little exercise he was beginning to think that there might be some hope for this kid yet!

Shelby continued to fume silently most of the way back down Claypool. By the time they were getting ready to turn into Mulberry, he seemed to have worked off most of the steam. He let Tobey know he had let it go by timidly asking, "You think we could get a pizza?"

"Sure. Why not?"

They walked on the short remaining distance from there and turned into the driveway. Tobey noticed something stuck on the outside of the storm door on the side of the house. Could it have been there when they left, and he just didn't see it? Maybe. He didn't remember it. 

When he got up to the door, he could see clearly what it was. It was a business card, in a quite stout, expensive stock with antique stylings.

Thibodaux & Co.

The card had been attached with a small strip of green masking tape. He ripped it off of the glass and hastily slipped it into his jacket.

"What was that?"

"Oh, it was nothing. Some insurance thing. You go on inside, Shelby. I've got to put this paint away."

Shelby didn't question it any further and obediently headed inside. Tobey pulled the card from his jacket as he headed to the garage. He turned the card over and discovered something handwritten.

I must speak with you, THC. Come see me at the shop on Monday, 4:00PM. Don't be late

Villains always blink their eyes

 

In this iconic Velvet Underground song, Lou Reed offers us this unforgettable verse:

you know that women never really faint

and that villains always blink their eyes

It's a great verse, one that always comes to mind whenever I think of the song. I've always felt that this was delivered with a healthy measure of cynicism; that these are two statements which are offered as things generally regarded as truths, which are in fact not true at all.

Yeah, women faint. Sometimes. Women are, by their nature, drama queens. You can disagree, if that is your want, but... prove me wrong. It's not right to say that they never really faint. It is accurate to say that very often these episodes are more performative than physiological. Of course, the passage of time has some bearing on this. Back in the late sixties women fainting was still "a thing". Today they just throw temper tantrums on TikTok. 

Well, I expect that I have gotten myself in enough trouble with that. Let's move to the second half of the verse. Just as it is incorrect to say that women never faint, it is also incorrect to say that villains always blink their eyes. The correct adverb to use here would be seldom. It all depends on the class of villain that one is dealing with. 

This line is the encapsulation of something which we regularly see depicted in television and film dramas about our beloved boys in blue. Despite being vastly outnumbered in bodies and outgunned in firepower, just one virtuous cop with a pistol can miraculously prevail over a half dozen thugs armed with full or semi-automatics. Believing that villains always blink is the same as believing that not a one of those hundreds of rounds hit their target, but the uniform with a .38 revolver can land head shots with every round. It's one of those "noble lies" that are embraced to bolster confidence in the rule of law. Right up there with "your vote matters", and "our elections are secure". 

Since this Tuesday past, there has been a great deal of energy spent in rendering postmortems upon the election. You won't get that here. I could juggle all those balls of conventional political wisdom and come down with a summary analysis to explain what happened. It would be little different from something one could have read elsewhere. In short, an utterly fruitless exercise. Because all of the analysis is the same as the election itself. It's all theater.

Discussing it in purely political terms, it is correct to cite the historical pattern. Yes, it has been very much the norm for sitting administrations to suffer electoral setbacks in off year elections. Yes, cost of living and other economic issues do have a significant bearing on elections. And it is most certainly true that the republican party is a collection of spineless, gelded cucks who will never fail at snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. All of these things are true. But that's not the whole story.

Flipping some seats would be the norm. It is a fact that there are some pretty extreme statistical anomalies demonstrated in Tuesday's elections. 

Are There Any Honest Mathematicians in America Today? Latest Turnout Numbers from 2026 Midterms Look Suspicious and Frankly Impossible …More Updates * The Gateway Pundit * by Jim Hoft

I AM ATTACHING A HUGE QUALIFIER TO THIS LINK

I do not agree with the mischaracterizations frequently attributed to The Gateway Pundit. At the same time, I do not offer anything even approaching a full-throated endorsement of the publication. Most of their staff writers are talentless hacks; they have very poor editorial standards, and my personal opinion is that the Hoft brothers are a couple of pussies. Just my opinion.

Despite all that, my thanks to them for doing the work of putting all this together. I am being lazy, I'll admit it. I could have cherry picked the story, tabulated my own list of citations and written it out myself. This was easier. If you are one of those insufferable midwits, who always must ask "what's your source?".... well, there they are. I encourage all to seek out those other stories about this while they are still emerging. This is one of those instances where AI actually produces some value.

No one can fairly conclude that this piece is simply a case of partisan sour grapes (ref our post The Day, from Tuesday 3, November). That is not what this is about. Rather, this is presented to bolster the case made for not participating. If one is not completely sold by the poor choices available, and it is demonstrated in election after election that the popular will is to be thwarted at every turn, what then is the purpose of the entire exercise? What benefit is there in enabling a farce?

The sour truth is that there is NO WAY that any election results can be trusted as the legitimate consent of the governed. Maybe at one time, but friends, you must know that ship has sailed. We're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.

Nothing substantive has been done about the fraud of 2020. And 2022. In both cases one could easily tell the veracity of this reporting by the swift and ferocious response unleashed by the "authorities". Election Denialism... that was the tag developed, remember? You'll be able to judge the veracity of the current reporting by using that same criterion. Just watch how quickly and how violently they will attack any reporting on this. You see folks, the same fraud regime that was turned on for 2020 and 2022, was just as easily switched off for 2024, then reactivated for this go around. This data would sure seem to support that possibility.

So, in the end we see that villains do not always blink their eyes. That is just a myth. Like women fainting.

I hearken back to our New Year's greeting at the start of 2026. Mind your circle, ignore the paste.

Metropolis at 100

 

This is October 31st. By my clock, as I commence this work, the day is only three hours old. This is, of course, the date of Halloween. For some reason, here in the dead of night, I am reminded of this same time thirty-eight years ago. In 1988 Halloween fell on a Sunday. The particular events that come to mind occurred on a Saturday night rolled into a Sunday morning, which was like today, the morning of Halloween.

At the then tender age of twenty-six, I had only recently moved into a townhouse on the extreme northern edges of Columbus, Ohio. This was at the dawn of an urban sprawl, which has since erased that entire landscape. The other side of the road in those years was still cornfield; the complex was still under construction. It was quite fortunate at the time that I was the only resident in the block. On the night in question, I was to play host to a small house party that did not even begin until 3:00 AM. Halloween morning.

There was a small society of us night people, bar and restaurant workers with no place to go after closing time. I do not pretend that this little club was not replicated many times over, all across the western world. This was already a long-standing custom for people employed in these fields and, though I'm no longer a participant, I'm quite certain that it is a phenomenon that survives today. Every night, after closing time, the party would move somewhere. Not always in the same place and often there were several choices available for the same night. The one common theme throughout was that these gatherings revolved around and included what I refer to as the "drink culture". And then there was our little troupe.

To be completely honest, one could not say that none of us drank (except for one), but we were not drinkers. Our drug of choice was weed. Sometimes more potent and equally illicit substances, but mostly the green. I had a circle of about a half dozen people who, for varying reasons, were of like mind. We didn't mind including a few beers in the mix, sometimes, but we just did not find any enjoyment being in the company of drunks. 

I had known ahead of time that I would be hosting that night, I just didn't know how many guests. It ended up being a party of four; myself, Celeste Wilde, a man named Clark and his friend, Sal the gravedigger. There were a couple of things that I had planned to share that night. There was a musical selection already cued for the old Pioneer rack system, a 200-watt monster with giant box speakers set up on stands. And there was a film that I had picked out from the local video store: the 1926 silent classic, Fritz Lang's Metropolis. On VHS, of course. It was the 1984 reconstruction, featuring a Giorgio Moroder soundtrack.

Now, at age twenty-six, I was the "elder statesman" of this group. Most of the young people in the business at this time were part of what I would call the "Guns and Roses" crowd, being in sore need of a more positive musical influence. With no other residents in the block there was no reason not to play King Crimson's Lark's Tongues in Aspic on max volume at 3:30AM. So, that is precisely what we did. These were King Crimson virgins, and I was proud to pop that cherry.

If you are at all familiar with the album, then you are aware of the vast sonic landscape explored therein. If you are, by some misfortune, not familiar with this work, I highly recommend that you give it a listen. Where better than King Crimson's own site:

If you like this, obtain a copy in some physical media while you still can. 

For my novice audience that night, the first three tracks (about 24 minutes) were greeted with some skepticism. They endured David Cross' exposition on the electric violin, some of them understandably drawing comparisons to the band Kansas. They were puzzled by the avant garde rhythmic explorations of the set's percussionist, Jamie Muir. Then we got to the meat of it!

The final three tracks, Easy Money-The Talking Drum-LTIA pt.II, still feature the signatures of Cross and Muir, while bringing to bear the full talents of the band's core lineup of the time: Robert Fripp on lead, John Wetton on bass and the incomparable Bill Bruford on the kit. I got to watch that final twenty-two minutes of pure sonic burn, from Bruford and Muir's duel through Easy Money, to John Wetton's ending bass drop rattling the windowpanes. 

That little crew was blown away. Of course, the volume level helped. And being very stoned greatly enhanced the experience. Looking at it from today's perspective, I'm proud to say that the experience did result in at least one life-long King Crimson convert. Batting over .300 isn't bad.

Lark's Tongues in Aspic was just the warmup act. After a short break to give our ears a rest.... yes, that was loud AF. I went through that now forgotten art of rigging up the television set and the VCR onto a rolling cart, which had been designed for the very purpose. A big, clunky, cords trailing cabinet; a solid shelf for the chief components each, 35" (?) color Zenith above; single head VHS player/VCR of indeterminate manufacture below. All of that to watch a movie. Yeah, it's okay. I miss them too. Today they want you to get all your shit off your phone. And you can, as many now do. I'm just saying... it wasn't that bad, you know? It's not like we were primitives! In the rest of this narrative, you will learn what four stoners with very limited technology can accomplish. All because of an accident. A lost legend of the analogue age.

We are now easily into the territory of 4:30AM, Halloween morning. Everyone has had a chance to stretch their legs, go to the bathroom, grab a snack, or re-dose. Maybe all of the above. It was still dark outside. There was still some music playing on the stereo, at a considerably reduced volume. I can't remember now what was playing or who had put the music on. I was busy getting the film cued up. I had the picture up on screen, still didn't have the audio, so the stereo continued to play. Then something very odd happened. It seemed that whatever was playing, while not perfectly synchronized, matched pretty well with the opening frames of the film. This captured everybody's attention, so much so that when I did get the audio feed corrected, it only took a couple of minutes of Moroder's synth heavy soundtrack before everyone agreed, "Hell! Leave the music on!"  

What was an eighty-three minute feature, became a stop, rewind, stop, play marathon, as one suggestion after another was thrown up. This certainly wasn't what I had planned, but as everyone was getting into this idea, I just kept running with it. This went on until well after sunrise, until Clark and gravedigger Sal headed for home. For Celeste and I, it didn't end there. For the next month or so we continued to work at this, a little bit at a time, actually compiling an alternate soundtrack on a Memorex cassette. All manually. Stop and go on the film with one set of hands at the VCR; record and stop, or fade and stop on the dual cassette deck with the other. This tape actually survived numerous moves over the years. I located it again about ten years ago but am sorry to say that it has since been lost.

There are several other reconstructions of this film available now. I know that there have been a number of these posted on YouTube and I'm pretty sure most of them are still up. If you are not familiar with the film and are interested, then certainly do some search of your own. Since our soundtrack was calibrated to the Moroder version, we have posted a link below:

Metropolis (1927) [1984 Giorgio Moroder Version] [1080p] - YouTube

After having watched the film again, I find that I am able to reconstruct much of that alternate soundtrack from memory. It was by no means perfect but given the limited tools and materials to work with at the time, I was quite proud of what we had accomplished. Ultimately, no one else gave a shit, so here we are.

We managed to synch up Pink Floyd's One of these days to the opening scene. That worked rather well. The song played through the shift change scene and the intro to the worker's city below ground. We had to employ a fade there, at the intro to the "paradise" of the world above.

For that next scene we were able to use Brian Eno's Saint Tom. That worked very well, with a fade at the next graphic, prior to the film's protagonist, Freder, entering the underworld in pursuit of Maria. Freder's descent through those doors cued The Devil's Triangle from King Crimson's In the Wake of Poseidon. This creepy and ominous set worked well enough, though not so well as the others. The tone of it worked quite well, particularly at the Moloch hallucination. It played through the factory, the explosion and the march of the wounded that followed. It was necessary to employ another fade at the ending of that scene.

I can recall that we had encountered an issue of timing there, and we had experimented with several bits as filler in between. My recollection fails me here as to what exactly we had settled on. Other memorable parts were the use of Pink Floyd's Sisyphus for the film's introduction of Rotwang, the "mad scientist"; Led Zeppelin's Black Mountain Side for the dance of the seven deadly sins, and later into the film When the Levee Breaks, for the flood scene in the worker's city. 

There were parts where we were able to use portions of Peter Gabriel's Games Without Frontiers and The Cocteau Twins' Grail Overfloweth, but timing issues required that these were awkwardly chopped up. The results would have been better if we'd had the use of the sound recording and editing technologies of today. Which brings us to today, one hundred years after the film's release.

Over the last few years, I have been mindful of the approaching anniversary. I kept thinking, "Surely someone will conjure some centennial rebirth of this film?" It hasn't happened and I've heard nothing about any projects in the works. I think I know the reason why. The overarching theme of this story is the need for balance between the heart and mind. But there are other themes depicted in this story which, for the class of people running the big studios, would stray dangerously close over the target.

Lang's vision of this futuristic mega-city was not so far off of the mark. The depictions of this great metropolis, teeming with bullet trains and flying machines, was quite fantastic for it's day. While the technical portrayals do not hold up to the current day, the themes remain relevant. Lang's presentation of human nature, and more importantly the nature of societies, is accurate in any age.

First of all, this film was not created in a total vacuum. It is based upon the 1925 novel of the same name by Thea von Harbou. Lang and Harbou collaborated on the screenplay. This is amid the fractious and unstable Weimar Republic Germany. I think that it is fair to say that today's "western democracies" are likewise in a fractious and unstable state. The intrigues and manipulations employed by the masters in the film were familiar territory for the political climate of that shaky republic. These are familiar to today's climate as well.

The masters of this dystopia are embodied in the single person of Joh Frederson, the father of the film's chief protagonist, Freder. One of the great criticisms of the film in it's day was the seemingly overt and overly facile depiction of communist themes. The "red scare" in the Germany of the time was valid, so the critics were not entirely wrong. Joh Frederson was cast in the mold of the bourgeoisie oppressor, so I can understand that framing, but I think that is missing the mark. One must digest this character in the full context of the film.

Look at Joh Frederson, "der Meister". He resides within a tower that is a shadow cast from antiquity: the Tower of Babel. The Castle Keep of the feudal age had it's Lord, typically a man tempered in battle, who offered the castle in protection for his people; albeit the offer was conditional upon the people's labor. But that is not what the Tower of Babel was, and neither is the great fortress of Metropolis. These are not great defensive battlements to withstand a hostile invader. They are monuments to the might of Man! A manifestation of the visions of the anointed, as Dr. Sowell might say. Joh Frederson is the master of his city, his people and destiny itself. Such men, whether they be of a capitalist or communist flavor, have the same thing in common. They don't allow mere peons get in the way of their grand visions.

We still have these people today, so blinded by the halo of their own brilliance that they are blind to the trail of carnage their visions leave in their wake. They regularly inhabit those segments of society from which they have the platform to lecture us all. It's all for your own good. They dismiss any questions. They needn't explain themselves. It's not like the plebes could understand anyway. And... they are insulated, in a tower far above it all. Like Joh Frederson.

Joh Frederson had a secret partner, a scientist no less. Rotwang, the mad scientist, who built a robot. A robot he was only too happy to show off (and ultimately hire out) to the master. Considered in modern terms, Rotwang is every soulless tool that is engaged in weapons research. Gain of function research. Mass surveillance and AI data farms. Pick your poison, there are many. And just like in the film, you not only need be concerned about how the masters will employ these things, but also any ulterior motives that their creators may have.

The robot is cloaked with the image of the girl from the worker's realm, Maria. Maria is the heroine character of this story, the infatuation of young Freder. The robot bearing her likeness is set loose amid the workers, by the design of the Master to sow dissension in their ranks. The robot succeeds in this, and more, because Rotwang's design was to sow enough chaos to bring Metropolis down entirely. This was to settle an old score, a long past rivalry with Frederson for the affections of the same woman.

While Robot Maria is stirring up riots in the worker's city and creating scandal at Yoshiwara's house of ill repute, Rotwang holds the real Maria captive in his dungeon laboratory. This leads to the one scene that I believe holds the greatest relevance to today. Finally confronted with the monstrosity of what he has unleashed, Rotwang admits this to his captive:

"I have lost control of the robot and the inevitable consequences frighten me." 

The Day

 

Well, it's finally here. The Day. Election day. The thing that most all have been talking about and wringing their hands over for lo these past six months... has finally arrived. That day when Americans can actually choose whether they will be sodomized with or without a reach around.

I, for one, will not be participating. I have been, and no doubt will be criticized for this stance. My response to this? Zero.Fucks.Given. If you are a regular reader here at Midnight and other beasts, I don't need to explain myself. My works should provide enough of an insight into my thinking on this matter. All who choose to are free to criticize. I didn't ask for your permission.

The USA is, ostensibly, a republic. That should mean that anyone who is a citizen is a constituent, whether they choose to exercise their franchise or not. It is a curious thing, isn't it? Every aspect of your involuntary membership is compulsory, under penalty of fine, imprisonment or death. Maybe all three. But this... this voting, this endless, partisan bickering? This is the only part of the whole deal that is voluntary.

What is your reward for the privilege? You could be called for jury duty, seated with eleven other citizens who are complete woke libtards. You could decide to conduct yourself in a conscientious manner as a part of this jury, to follow the evidence, follow the law and vote accordingly to see that "justice" is done. And you could then be bullied, castigated and harassed by a handful of hags on that jury who don't give two shits about the law. Only the advancement of their own perverse social theories. And if you hold your ground? Then, after the mistrial is declared, you get to be doxxed and vilified by your fellow jurors, the defense counsel, the news media and anyone else with no knowledge of and only a casual interest in the case. I know. Sounds kinda ridiculous, doesn't it? And yet we watched this very thing happen a short time ago. In Massachusetts. The "cradle of liberty"?

Regardless of who is ultimately declared the winner, whether that happens tonight or after weeks of chicanery, the message from the voters will be heard, loud and clear...

Please, Daddy! Govern me harder! 

A necessary predicate for US foreign policy

 

Saw this recently, felt it was worth sharing on these pages. Really doesn't require any further comment, does it?

Winter Walk

                                            Foggy Forest      Andrey Zaslavsky    2009

Take a walk in winter. Bundle up and keep moving. Your body generates enough heat to be out there for a little while. It is worth any minor discomfort. Feel the sting of the frigid air in your nostrils, upon your lips and into your lungs. Here, away from sirens and helicopters, incessant commercials, the constant hustle. Always have to be "on". Because people suck. Well, not completely, but they can. And they often do. The forest is exquisite in winter. Beneath the canopy, insulated with heavy, wet snow it forms it's own atmosphere. The air is thin and crisp, while at the same time like a blanket laid gently across the earth as she sleeps. You can find this place, where the path is silent, yet every sound is far reaching and forever. The smell is clean, sharp yet still subtle like wet linens hung on a clothesline on a spring day. Cloudy days in the winter forest are like walking within a set from a Fritz Lang film. Captured within a fog, a negative of sepia tone with gauze fuzzing the edge of the lens. Or those bitter cold days when the low winter sun brings us bright light, but can not stave off the arctic mass. Feel the crunch of the snow beneath your boots, a biting wind upon your cheeks. Your eyes tear and through frozen sheen the shafts of light dance through the boughs of the trees, a kaleidoscope in white and grey and silver.

 Had a long walk yesterday, in the cool, grey mist. It never got above sixty-four degrees; there was a pale sun shrouded by a low, heavy blanket of wet cloud. The day began with fog and the heavy mists lingered through the constant drizzle in the air, not clearing until the mid-day. The fall of leaves has quickened, reminding me that Winter comes all too soon.

I was reminded of a painting by Polish artist Andrey Zaslavsky. I found this several years ago and was inspired to compose a brief musing over the image. When writing The Bear - Winter (M&ob 17 April '26), I envisioned this as part of the winter scenery in Bear's Great Forest.

Not quite in tune with the season, we post it today in Winter Walk.

Part 2 of The Bookbinder out later this week

  

The Bookbinder, part 1

 20 November 1999

There had been some trick of the light, some distortion through the glass. Tobey was convinced that he had seen someone inside. He had walked past the aged storefront before, never really paying any attention to the place. Not this time. 

A November day, already past that last really warm day in November. It was spitting a frigid sleet and the dark approached rapidly. He really just wanted to get home, which wasn't much further. Only five more blocks and to the right was his street. Still, he remained there at the glass for a time, hands pressed, face peering into the window. He could not say for certain what he thought he had seen. It had only been a flash, a blur in his head of something grotesque and misshapen. Now, as the bleak evening was falling around him, he could see nothing. Only dark, dusty shadows within. The weather hastened his exit from this scene, and a short time later he arrived at home. By dinner time he had forgotten the incident.

The following day was a Saturday. No school, no job to go to, no obligations on the calendar. Tobey slept until nearly 10:00 and felt no shame for it. He had rolled over lazily to peer the analogue alarm clock next to his bed when it read 9:48. He just assumed that it was AM. He remained half lounged across the bed, rearranged his morning wood and decided to take the opportunity to vigorously scratch his pubes. No reason, just that his hand was already in the neighborhood.

The urge to urinate grew with each breath, still he could not muster the energy to get out of bed. He made it until 9:52, when his bare feet hit the floor and padded off to the bathroom in the hall. He left the bathroom door open as he discharged a night's worth of Dr. Pepper, mostly into the toilet bowl. In between bursts, Tobey stopped to listen to the hallway behind him. It was then he realized the emptiness of the house around him. Ten o'clock on a Saturday morning, his mom and older sister going about their lives like he wasn't even there. It was perfect.

He didn't bother grabbing a shirt, but he did return to his room to slide his bare feet into a warm pair of slippers. It was warm enough up on the second floor, but the floors downstairs were sure to be freezing. He made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. A look out the window above the sink showed a bright, blue day, not a cloud in the sky. Despite the bright sun, it was a bitter cold day, the wind fierce and biting from the North. The few remaining leaves of russet, gold and crimson were being ripped away from already sparse limbs. Autumn, too sweet and too short, would give way to Winter quietly this year.

Tobey rummaged about the cupboards and drawers for a bowl, a spoon and a large box of Honeycomb cereal. He dropped the spoon carelessly into the bowl with a loud clatter, then poured a heaping mound from the cereal box. There was a half-gallon jug of milk from Reiter's Dairy on the top shelf of the refrigerator, half full and passing a perfunctory sniff test. Breakfast was served.

He placed the bowl down on the small kitchen table, dragging a metal framed chair across the linoleum floor. It hadn't really made that much of a noise, but in the silent, empty house it seemed to echo off into every other room. The only other sound was the wind howling outside the house. There were a few moments when he thought the wind was actually shaking the house. It may have been.

After he had shoveled a few mouthfuls of the Honeycomb, he found that even the crunching was not enough to drown out the gale outside. His mother kept a portable radio parked on this table, where she often would listen while taking her morning coffee before work. Tobey eyed the radio between bites, finally deciding that AM radio static would sound better than this. He reached over to casually switch it on, without checking the dial to see what it was tuned for. As expected, the speaker crackled to life with WJR, where Mom would catch her weather and traffic reports. 

Some gearbox was blabbing away about the finer points of estate planning, and possible tax implications. They might as well have been speaking in Greek; it was all gobbledygook to him. But at least it was noise. Chatter, just background noise, other than that wind tunnel beyond the window. There he sat for another fifteen minutes, munching away while staring blankly at the radio. When he reached the bottom, he picked up the bowl and slurped the remaining milk loudly. He drained it, plunked the bowl down and punctuated the act with a very satisfied, " Ahhhh....".

It was at this point that Tobey made a very consequential decision. His thought process was thus: There was part of a bag of weed stashed in the garage. It was cold outside, therefore necessary to put on winter clothes to retrieve said bag of weed. This is when Tobey decided that he would get dressed and get ready to go outside. Part of this beautifully simple original plan did come to fruition. But then, as they say, there was some other shit happened.

Once fixed upon his plan, Tobey was ruthlessly efficient in assembling his wardrobe. Fresh pair of Hanes, one pair wool socks. One pair of gently worn but still clean Lee jeans. First tee-shirt in reach, favorite green fleece hoodie. All assembled and attired in about three minutes. Tobey had never been late to school a day of his life. He was off, down the stairs to the mud room, adjacent the laundry room behind the kitchen. An exterior storm door exited from the mud room to the side of the house. The detached garage was only a few feet away.

Tobey found his boots, laced them up hastily. He took a heavy, oversized Army surplus parka from a hook on the wall, grabbed his Detroit Lions toque from the bench, and took a moment longer looking for a pair of gloves, before finally realizing they were in the parka sleeves. So far, everything had gone quite smoothly, the only thing left now was to brave the elements.

The interior door made a popping sound as the frozen weather strip separated from the frame. Tobey cracked it open a few inches and took a quick peek before reaching for the storm door handle. He could see that the storm was rattling violently, buffeted by the north wind channeled between the house and the garage. Across the driveway, about ten feet from the blacktop, there was a chain-link fence marking their boundary with the neighbors. Someone, years before they had moved in here, had mounted one of those large, clock-faced garden thermometers upon the fence. Through the frosted plexiglass pane in the storm door, he read the temp at thirteen- or fourteen-degrees F. With that wind, the wind chill was surely below zero! With a sigh, Tobey quietly reminded himself that this had to be done.

The moment he put his shoulder against the inside of the storm door and pushed it against the wind, a giant vacuum rushed into the space, slamming the interior door shut. He failed to get clear of it and it nearly knocked him down. He held on for dear life to the storm door to pull himself back upright against the wind. If he didn't take care in how he stood, he ran the risk of the oversized parka acting as a sail. After steadying his feet, he managed to get the storm door secured to it's latch and then press on to the garage.

It was only ten steps away, but it was like going uphill. When he arrived at the side entry to the detached, two-car garage, he found the knob coated in frost. His gloves were too new, too slick to gain any grasp to turn it. Tobey stood there a moment, contemplating which hand he was willing to sacrifice. Instinctively settling for the right hand, he slipped the glove off and tucked it under his left arm while briskly turning the knob and kneeing the door open. He leaped inside, slamming the door back in place behind him. It still felt like an icebox inside that garage, but at least it was in from the horrendous gale blowing outside.

He stuffed his gloves into the pockets of the parka and briskly rubbed his hands together. Inside of the garage it was maybe a degree or two above the freezing mark. He could manage for a little while without the gloves. The garage had two bays, the first of which he had entered. That was his mom's space. Parked in the next bay was his grandmother's '59 Buick. It hadn't moved since they had moved into the house three years before. Behind the Buick there was a workbench, nestled against the back wall of the garage. That workbench was Tobey's objective.

The top of the work bench was strewn with dust-covered items, most of which were exactly the same as the day they moved in. There were a variety of tools, some broken and others just left in a state of neglect. There were bins, large and small, in a hodgepodge of shapes and material; receptacles for fasteners and hardware of nearly every sort imaginable. In one corner was a stack of yellowed and grimy papers, manuals and warranties for tools and appliances, many of which had already been retired. Tobey had explored much of this space, never finding anything of particular interest. What interested him there on this day, rested upon one of the shelves beneath.

There was just enough room behind the trunk of the Buick to wedge between it and the bench. Tobey was of slight enough build to fit into this space and still be able to crouch down to access the lower shelves. He'd put his stash inside of an old Folger's Coffee tin with a miscellany of nuts, bolts and washers, shoved to the very back of the shelf. He reached until he found the familiar rim of the can, then dragged it from it's hiding place. The light from the back window above the bench was dim down at the floor, but Tobey could still plainly see that he had a problem. He had made the error of pushing that can too far back, to a point where it had rested against the back wall. Below the window. A bad seal permitted a leak down the wall. The contents inside the little sandwich baggie were fine, but the book of orange Zig-Zag papers he had carelessly tossed loose into the can were now soaked and utterly useless.

"Shit!", he quietly cursed. He knew he didn't have any other papers stashed anywhere else. This one was it and it hadn't even been a full book. His mind then quickly went to the soda can pipe. Easily improvised and no big deal if you lost the can. Except that every ounce of soda on the property was in bottles. Damn the luck! He was going to have to make the trek to the Clark station, up on Division Street. He didn't relish the trip in these frigid conditions, but it wasn't too far to go. Probably make the round trip in under fifteen minutes. He'd buy a book of Zig-Zags and a six pack of Dr. Pepper. In cans.

Tobey stuffed his little baggie into an interior pocket of the parka, then checked his pants pockets to make sure he had money. He found a ten, a wad of singles and some loose change. It would be enough for what he needed to get. He slipped the gloves back on and braced himself for the walk ahead.

After clumsily pulling the door shut, Tobey bounded down the short driveway out to Mulberry Street and turned left, that howling wind licking at his heels every step of the way. After five houses he arrived at Claypool Avenue, turning left again, now into the face of the wind. It was only seven blocks from there, up to Division Street and the Clark station at the Northeast corner. He pulled the drawstrings of the parka hood tighter and leaned into it. He tried to find some comfort in knowing that the wind would be at his back most of the way home.

He found that once he got moving at a steady pace it wasn't so bad. To the eye, it was an absolutely gorgeous day. The skies were utterly clear and bright, having the look of the shirtsleeve weather one might enjoy in mid-July. Once out in the open for a while, Tobey could feel the bright sun actually warming upon the parka. For a moment the sunlight danced like he was in some dream world, a memory of some other place and time. He could almost ignore the cold biting at his face. 

 He had made about half of the trek up Claypool, walking on the west side of the street. As it was a Saturday, there was not much activity out on the street. There had not been a single car on the road and the only sign of any activity at all came now, in the block ahead. Tobey stopped at the corner to check out what this was. A Consumers Power truck was pulled up at the curb, amber caution lights blinking, while a pair of workmen were arranging cones and tape to set up a temporary barricade. Since the path would be blocked, he decided to cross to the other side of the street there at the corner of Redbud and Claypool.

After hustling across to the east side, he continued north. He looked back to the other side, watching the workers. He couldn't tell if they were there for the electric or the gas. They were at the back of their truck, gathering something from the tool bins. Tobey didn't know enough about it to tell what they were doing. As he walked on, he happened to notice that the area they had taped off ended just before the old, abandoned store he had peered inside the day before. For the first time that he had ever paid attention, he looked above the entry and could make out most of the faded sign: Thibodaux & Co. - Bookbinders. He tried sounding out the name in his head. thigh-bow-dox? thib-o-dax? 

Tobey put his head down, leaning into the wind, and pressed on the remaining distance until the crossing at Division Street. A quick look, both ways, showed the street was deserted. He still dashed across the road, even though he needn't have. It was approaching noon and Tobey had forgotten that a little less than an hour to the north, in Ann Arbor, the Michigan Wolverines were hosting the arch-rival Buckeyes today. Kickoff was less than an hour away and the vast majority of the region were already hunkered about their television sets, with their buffets of gameday fare. Tobey was a decided minority, not really interested in college football at all.

An annoying electronic chime sounded at the door. That was new. He saw it was the old hippie, Earl, working today. They exchanged nods as Tobey found the stack of Pepsi stock at the end of the coolers. He had to rearrange the stack of cardboard cartons before finding the Dr. Pepper. He hooked his fingers into the plastic collar that held the cans together and then stopped to ponder how he would manage this with his heavy gloves on. From his stool behind the cashier station Earl called out, "Hey kid, there's some cold ones in the cooler if ya want."

"Nah, I don't need nothin' cold today! These are for later...", Tobey replied, holding up the six pack as he turned to the counter, "and I'm gonna need a pack of those orange Zig-Zags. Or whatever you got."

"Well, let's see. I got orange somethin' here... your Mom know yer smokin' that shit?" Earl plucked a book of the orange Zig-Zags and rang up the total. "Five-forty-three, young man."

Tobey grinned sheepishly as he handed Earl six dollars. He took the change and the rolling papers, stuffing them into his pants pocket, then removed the cans from the plastic collar to arrange in the large cargo pockets on the front of the parka. Problem solved. Donning his gloves again he made ready for the trip back home. At least the wind would mostly be at his back this time. 

The sun, climbing to it's mid-day roost, lit the path south on Claypool very brightly. Only a narrow strip of shadow fell, along the sidewalk on the west side of the street, where the Consumer's crew was now joined by a smaller truck and another man in a reflective vest. Tobey figured this guy was some kind of boss. Taking a quick look both ways he still found Division to be abandoned. He trotted across to the other side, the same way he had come before. As he proceeded down the street, he kept watching the utility crew, wondering what it was about.

The night before he had stayed up rather late, playing games on his Playstation and listening to Art Bell on the radio. There had been a lot of discussion about the looming Y2K catastrophe. Tobey wasn't really sure he understood what the big worry was about the whole thing, but they sure made it sound terrifying. Even in his youthful naivete, Tobey had enough sense about him to realize that many of the callers to the program were whack jobs. Then there were the ones who seemed to be making sense. That's when it got terrifying. He started to wonder if this Saturday morning job site had something to do with some Y2K preparation. 

When he entered the block where they were set up, he stopped there on the opposite sidewalk to watch for a minute. The view was partially obstructed, but he could see that they had opened the steel doors in the concrete. He'd always wondered what those doors had been for. He could see the third man, the boss, more clearly now. He wore the same heavy jacket as the others, with the reflective vest over and a hardhat, but instead of coveralls and work boots, this man wore ordinary trousers and dress shoes. Beneath the brim of his hardhat were large sunglasses with mirrored lenses. For a moment Tobey was sure that the man was looking right at him, but he couldn't be sure.

Tobey continued to stand right there watching, as the boss man walked around to the back of his truck and then stepped back up onto the sidewalk. The man continued right up to the doorstep of the old Bookbinders and rapped at the glass in the door. Tobey could hear the insistent rattle, even with the wind roaring down through the street between them. Now his curiosity faded from what the crew was doing and shifted instead to whether or not anyone would answer the knocking. The man remained there at the door, awaiting some response. It seemed like a long time, though it was really little more than a minute. While he waited, the man glanced back over across the street again, just for an instant.

Then, somewhat to his surprise, Tobey saw the door open. There was a woman there. He could not see great detail, but he was pretty sure it was a woman, an older woman in a severe looking, full length black dress. Her hair was very dark, drawn back in a tight bun perched atop her head. He thought that all she needed was the pointed hat and the broom. It certainly wasn't who, or what, he had glimpsed through the glass the day before, but she was spooky enough. He felt himself frozen there, unable to look away, until he thought her gaze extended beyond her guest and across the street to him. For just one instant he felt that they made direct eye contact. It brought a shiver up his spine and he quickly looked away.

Tobey then hastened back to his garage, where he planned to park himself in the back seat of the old Buick, twist one and blaze up before returning to his Playstation. Maybe tonight he'd leave the radio off.

 

 

 

Eddie checked out

 

They say it was a shame about Eddie. I'm not so sure. In many ways, it is a sad tale, but not for Eddie. Wherever he may have gone.

There are people who were a part of Eddie's life who are sad. Some of them are probably angry. And if they are, well, they have a right to be. They should be angry. At themselves. Unfortunately, that changes nothing.

People who were only casually acquainted with Eddie, when learning of his disappearance, say that it was a surprise. So sudden. But it wasn't, really. People who were close to Eddie, and they are few, know better. They can't bring themselves to admit it, but they know.

It happened quite slowly, over years. Eddie's life was like a man living in a three-story house, who one day decides that he must secure every inch of the place. Starting on the top floor, locking every window and drawing the blinds, locking every door, methodically working down, down... until every point of egress was completely shut to the outside. He no longer cared to see. He no longer cared to listen. He no longer attempted to speak.

He could not be convinced that there was a problem. Some said he needed to be medicated. Some said he needed therapy. He went along with each, to humor them. The only beneficiaries of this were the therapist and the pharmacy. Some now say that he simply lost his mind. Nothing could be further from the truth. Eddie was the sanest man I've ever known.

I don't know where he went. I only know that one day Eddie walked into the forest and never came out. It was a number of days before any type of search was started. The search began with the expectation of finding not the man, but a body. They didn't really put a lot of effort into it; their search yielded neither.

There was nothing wrong with Eddie. He wasn't crazy. One day, like an epiphany bathed in a heavenly light, Eddie realized the peace that comes with accepting being the villain in someone else's story. He may have died out there somewhere. Or, he may have come out the other side and just kept going. Either way, we'll never know for sure. I'm pretty sure that is just how he wanted it.

Today marks ten years since Eddie took his long walk into the Daniel Boone National Forest. He is believed to be dead, and in all likelihood, he is. Whether alive or dead, I'm reasonably certain he is now at peace.

Edward Arthur Eberhard

1960- ?

Did Michigan really win that game?

The short answer to the question posed in our title is not a no. It's a hell no!

But... the truth is, I don't give a fiddler's fuck one way or t'other. I surrendered any remaining interest in NCAA football about fifteen years ago. Leading up to that time, there was a long-running and heated race between our major universities, and the NCAA as governing body for their athletic programs, to see which could earn the most of my contempt. That race is over; they both lost. 

The culminating event was the way that the NCAA "dealt with" the Penn State/Jerry Sandusky scandal. It would have been quite enough for the corrective actions taken by the university, even if those were too far after the fact. It would have been enough for those guilty of any crimes to have been tried and convicted by the Commonwealth under statute. Those reactions could not erase what happened, but it would have been sufficient as an appropriate response from those institutions. The NCAA's further punitive sanctions were purely theater; a supreme demonstration of institutional virtue signaling.

I had long suspected it, but this occasion finally confirmed my belief that the NCAA is run by a pack of greedy buffoons. These are life forms spawned in that toxic petri dish of academia, which they presume to govern. Well, the athletic programs anyway. Ostensibly. What, if anything, did their sanctions in this case have to do with athletics? These were not events that happened on the field. Why should all of those players' accomplishments from 1998-2011 be erased? What advantage did any of them gain from these events occurring within their program?

Well, we have an answer to that. Sort of. At the time, NCAA President Mark Emmert stated that the sanctions were, "not to be just punitive, but to make sure the university establishes an athletic culture and daily mindset in which football will never again be placed ahead of educating, nurturing and protecting young people." Nurturing? I'm sorry, what the fuck does that have to do with football? And further, do you really believe that Mark Emmert, or any other NCAA official, is sincerely interested in educating these young men? Was any of that 60 million dollar fine levied upon the university directed to education? And the Big 10 Conference, chiming in with a "Yeah! What he said!", to the tune of another 13 million? Translating from between the lines, it reads as "You better tell those fucking jocks to get their minds right!" 

I'll tell you what the NCAA has become. It's very far afield from the original charter. Ironically, we find one of the most biting illustrations from the same year that the Penn State scandal broke. Go back to the year 2011, on the program South Park, season fifteen, episode five: The Crack Baby Athletic Association. It is a parody, no doubt; yet it mirrors precisely what the NCAA is in practice. They still mouth allegiance to a creed that their actions betray. The money raked in from NCAA Football, by the association and the big conferences, is somewhere on an order of a billion dollars annually. Mind you that a significant number of those member institutions are state universities. 

The parade of greed and ineptitude on display from the NCAA was enough to turn me sour. Add to that, you have men who are rewarded with multi-million-dollar contracts to coach what are, I will remind you, are amateur athletes. Because according to the NCAA, they must be amateurs, lest they should lose their eligibility. The athletes are physically whoring themselves in exchange for that piece of paper their university will hand them, the very minute that their NCAA eligibility expires. The coaches are worth millions and the players? They get a deluxe crack baby orphanage. 

Ok, I will admit. There are some institutions which may have provided financial or other material rewards to players. I won't say that it has never happened. These amounts are miniscule in the grander scope of monies pouring into the sport. Those monies pouring into the sport, at both collegiate and professional levels, are increasingly coming in the form of advertising dollars from online betting services. Directly or indirectly, those dollars are making their way to the NCAA.

Which is why, my friends, I contend that the U of M did not win that game. I think that what happened last Saturday was something more like this...

Somebody at "Sportsbet.com", or any such, has a hotline to the head of officiating in each major conference. About a fraction of a second after "Final" was flashed on the television screen, the head of officiating for the Big 10 Conference found his phone lit up with a simple, two-word command: FIX IT. That official in turn was in contact with the head of officials on the field. Probably less than thirty seconds later. I won't hazard a guess as to who among them hatched the ridiculous "clock" story, but it didn't take very long at all for that to become the official script. Yep. That's our story and we're sticking to it. We don't care what you saw. This is how it happened.

I had no dog in this hunt. Still don't. I'm not carrying anyone else's water for them. I am, however, as a native Buckeye obliged to offer this to all the U of M fans. 

I still think you're number one