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text:
Posted inCool Places, Growth and Development
The Place Where He Left Himself
[imgbelt img=collinsSpoon-River-Valley530.jpg]Do you plan to learn, to leave a legacy? Either one, writes Tim Collins, requires a place to work from, a place to remain.
by Timothy Collins March 11, 2010 March 23, 2010
View across Spoon River Valley in Fulton County, west central Illinois
[imgcontainer] [img:collinsSpoon-River-Valley530.jpg] [source]Timothy Collins[/source] View across Spoon River Valley in Fulton County, west central Illinois [/imgcontainer]
I grew up in the suburbs during the 1950s and 1960s. The constant movement of the city into countryside always bothered me. I hated to see trees and farm fields torn up and replaced by developments. This experience has led me many places, urban and rural, in what gradually became a quest for understanding.
So, I'm reading Robert A. Beauregard's When America Became Suburban (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2006) with more than a casual interest. Beauregard relates suburbanization to, among other things, Americans' belief in a constantly expanding frontier. Beauregard notes, quoting William Leach's Country of Exiles, a long "indifference to place" deeply embedded in American culture. He may be right, but I'm not in that number, well not exactly.
Since leaving home for college in 1970, I've lived in at least 11 places ranging in size from 250 residents to half a million people or more. So, I understand the country's restlessness. And, while I guess I've seen a lot of indifference to place, I've never understood it myself.
Place is sacred. It is not only the space you occupy, even in an ethereal world of instant global communications. It is the community, not only of people, but of the landscape, whether urban or rural. Place offers opportunities to learn, to understand, to contribute something, to leave behind a small piece of yourself, and to develop a perspective, one you may take to a new, different place.
[imgcontainer] [img:collinsold-40-PA-barn530.jpg] [source]Timothy
Collins[/source] Barn in southwestern Pennsylvania near old
U.S. 40 [/imgcontainer]
Perhaps place resides in my "cultural genetics." The Irish Adams side of the family farmed for several generations in southeastern and central Pennsylvania and then, like so many others, ended up in cities, in their case, Altoona, Pennsylvania, and Columbus, Ohio.
My preference for rural places has been with me for as long as I can remember, tangible memories from childhood: my mother (from the Adams side) pointing out where the glaciers stopped at what I later learned was the Allegheny Plateau in southeastern Ohio, as we walked on a friend's farm near Canal Winchester; visits to a dairy farm for vanilla ice cream flavored with honey; the view from atop the Ferris wheel at the Gandolf Ford festival in the late 1950s, looking east from Columbus along U.S. 40 toward the slowly rising Appalachian foothills.
Place certainly is here and now. It is the flat and rolling areas of Western Illinois between the Mississippi and Illinois rivers, a well-kept secret with too many problems tangled into its subtle beauty. The area has wonderful people living on a landscape that is special, especially at sunrise and sunset. For the most part, we are in decline now, but I hope it will not always be so. This place, with its heritage of archeology, prairie remnants, agriculture, industry, and education is too rich in possibilities to stay on a downward path.
Place is a sense and a feeling that helps ground your mind and body where you are. I've always made the best of the cities where I've spent too much of my adult life, getting an education in urban-based Land Grant Universities. Even there, I always sought out the more "rural" settings, the brick street running through a tree-lined ravine that absorbed the city noises; the untended river shore on the other side of the railroad tracks; or the nature preserve far away from downtown. "Getting out into the country" became an imperative, especially as I pursued advanced degrees in agricultural economics and rural sociology.
[imgcontainer] [img:collinsMon-River-Clouds530.jpg] [source]Timothy
Collins[/source] Monongahela River near Morgantown,
WV [/imgcontainer]
Here's the restless part. Place also is out there, somewhere else to go when, for one reason or another, it's time to move on to a new frontier, whatever that means in a mobile, highly urbanized society. For my part, I am always happy to leave urban areas. When I go to Chicago or other cities, I get the feeling that my small-townishness exudes from my demeanor. Despite many years of living in cities, rural and small-town living has become part of me. I must look like a rube as I gawk at the skyscrapers, flinch when horns blow too close to me, watch people much too closely, engage in conversation with people who are giving out flyers for one cause or another, and walk or drive too slowly. Cities are just too interesting, and engaging people is a part of small-town life. So is driving slowly. After all, what's the hurry?
[imgcontainer right] [img:collinsmacomb320.jpg] [source]Timothy Collins[/source] Downtown Macomb, IL, works hard to maintain its historic heritage [/imgcontainer]
This is not to say that rural life is somehow superior to urban life, a myth that has persisted since Thomas Jefferson's professions of agrarianism in the eighteenth century. We are long past that. After all, rural areas are in many ways urbanized and largely industrialized, just with fewer people across the landscape. But small towns do have their advantages. I enjoy being on first name basis with the staff at the doctor's office and the owners of our locally owned hardware store and restaurants. I certainly enjoy driving to work with relatively little traffic. I like knowing the people I see around town, even if it's just in passing with a smile and a nod. I also enjoy the relative quiet and tree-lined streets.
I've lived in rural places for too many years to hold an overly romantic view of them. And yet. And yet. Rural life is superior for some of us, a conscious choice of place that gives us comfort, whatever the disadvantages. Rural places tend to suit my disposition. Living in larger urban areas, especially the larger ones, has helped me appreciate small towns and rural places all the more.
Timothy Collins is assistant director of the Illinois Institute for Rural Affairs at Western Illinois University in Macomb. Opinions expressed here are his and his alone.
City Planning for Tomorrow's Workforce: The Small-Town Advantage
Commentary: Winding Roads of Recovery
by Timothy Collins, The Daily Yonder

The Place Where He Left Himself

by Timothy Collins, The Daily Yonder
March 11, 2010

 [imgcontainer] [img:collinsSpoon-River-Valley530.jpg] [source]Timothy Collins[/source] View across Spoon River Valley in Fulton County, west central Illinois [/imgcontainer]

I grew up in the suburbs during the 1950s and 1960s. The constant movement of the city into countryside always bothered me. I hated to see trees and farm fields torn up and replaced by developments. This experience has led me many places, urban and rural, in what gradually became a quest for understanding.

So, I'm reading Robert A. Beauregard's When America Became Suburban (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2006) with more than a casual interest. Beauregard relates suburbanization to, among other things, Americans' belief in a constantly expanding frontier. Beauregard notes, quoting William Leach's Country of Exiles,  a long "indifference to place" deeply embedded in American culture. He may be right, but I'm not in that number, well not exactly.

Since leaving home for college in 1970, I've lived in at least 11 places ranging in size from 250 residents to half a million people or more. So, I understand the country's restlessness. And, while I guess I've seen a lot of indifference to place, I've never understood it myself.

Place is sacred. It is not only the space you occupy, even in an ethereal world of instant global communications. It is the community, not only of people, but of the landscape, whether urban or rural. Place offers opportunities to learn, to understand, to contribute something, to leave behind a small piece of yourself, and to develop a perspective, one you may take to a new, different place.

[imgcontainer] [img:collinsold-40-PA-barn530.jpg] [source]Timothy
 Collins[/source] Barn in southwestern Pennsylvania near old
 U.S. 40 [/imgcontainer]

Perhaps place resides in my "cultural genetics." The Irish Adams side of the family farmed for several generations in southeastern and central Pennsylvania and then, like so many others, ended up in cities, in their case, Altoona, Pennsylvania, and Columbus, Ohio.

My preference for rural places has been with me for as long as I can remember, tangible memories from childhood: my mother (from the Adams side) pointing out where the glaciers stopped at what I later learned was the Allegheny Plateau in southeastern Ohio, as we walked on a friend's farm near Canal Winchester; visits to a dairy farm for vanilla ice cream flavored with honey; the view from atop the Ferris wheel at the Gandolf Ford festival in the late 1950s, looking east from Columbus along U.S. 40 toward the slowly rising Appalachian foothills.

Place certainly is here and now. It is the flat and rolling areas of Western Illinois between the Mississippi and Illinois rivers, a well-kept secret with too many problems tangled into its subtle beauty. The area has wonderful people living on a landscape that is special, especially at sunrise and sunset. For the most part, we are in decline now, but I hope it will not always be so. This place, with its heritage of archeology, prairie remnants, agriculture, industry, and education is too rich in possibilities to stay on a downward path.

Place is a sense and a feeling that helps ground your mind and body where you are. I've always made the best of the cities where I've spent too much of my adult life, getting an education in urban-based Land Grant Universities. Even there, I always sought out the more "rural" settings, the brick street running through a tree-lined ravine that absorbed the city noises; the untended river shore on the other side of the railroad tracks; or the nature preserve far away from downtown. "Getting out into the country" became an imperative, especially as I pursued advanced degrees in agricultural economics and rural sociology.

[imgcontainer] [img:collinsMon-River-Clouds530.jpg] [source]Timothy
 Collins[/source] Monongahela River near Morgantown,
 WV [/imgcontainer]

Here's the restless part. Place also is out there, somewhere else to go when, for one reason or another, it's time to move on to a new frontier, whatever that means in a mobile, highly urbanized society. For my part, I am always happy to leave urban areas. When I go to Chicago or other cities, I get the feeling that my small-townishness exudes from my demeanor. Despite many years of living in cities, rural and small-town living has become part of me. I must look like a rube as I gawk at the skyscrapers, flinch when horns blow too close to me, watch people much too closely, engage in conversation with people who are giving out flyers for one cause or another, and walk or drive too slowly. Cities are just too interesting, and engaging people is a part of small-town life. So is driving slowly. After all, what's the hurry?

[imgcontainer right] [img:collinsmacomb320.jpg] [source]Timothy Collins[/source] Downtown Macomb,  IL, works hard to maintain its historic heritage [/imgcontainer]

 This is not to say that rural life is somehow superior to urban life, a myth that has persisted since Thomas Jefferson's professions of agrarianism in the eighteenth century. We are long past that. After all, rural areas are in many ways urbanized and largely industrialized, just with fewer people across the landscape. But small towns do have their advantages. I enjoy being on first name basis with the staff at the doctor's office and the owners of our locally owned hardware store and restaurants. I certainly enjoy driving to work with relatively little traffic. I like knowing the people I see around town, even if it's just in passing with a smile and a nod. I also enjoy the relative quiet and tree-lined streets.

I've lived in rural places for too many years to hold an overly romantic view of them. And yet. And yet. Rural life is superior for some of us, a conscious choice of place that gives us comfort, whatever the disadvantages. Rural places tend to suit my disposition. Living in larger urban areas, especially the larger ones, has helped me appreciate small towns and rural places all the more.

Timothy Collins is assistant director of the Illinois Institute for Rural Affairs at Western Illinois University in Macomb. Opinions expressed here are his and his alone.

This article first appeared on The Daily Yonder and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.
Tagged: By Timothy Collins, Cool Places, Editor's Pick, Growth and Development, Home Page Feature Bottom, Home Page Feature Top, Topic Feature

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


text:
Q: Trying to convert this bash line to Python 2.6 I need help converting this bash line to Python 2.6:
# Bash line
ssh -X ${var} users |tr ' ' '\n' |uniq |tr '\n' ' '

The output of this command will go to a variable as a string. So far, this is what I have in Python 2.6:
# Python implementation
string = subprocess.call("ssh -X {0} users |tr \' \' \'\n\' |uniq |tr \'\n\' \' \'".format(var), shell=True)

Is this correct, or is there a better way to do this? Thank you.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


text:
Augustin Josip "Tin" Ujević (; 5 July 1891 – 12 November 1955) was a Croatian poet, considered by many to be the greatest poet in 20th century Croatian literature.

From 1921, he ceased to sign his name as Augustin, thereafter using the signature Tin Ujević.

Biography
Ujević was born in Vrgorac, a small town in the Dalmatian hinterland, and attended school in Imotski, Makarska, Split and Zagreb. He completed Classical Gymnasium in Split, and in Zagreb he studied Croatian language and literature, classical Philology, Philosophy, and Aesthetics.

In 1909, while studying literature, his first sonnet "Za novim vidicima" (Towards New Horizons) appeared in the journal Mlada Hrvatska (Young Croatia). After the assassination attempts on the ban Slavko Cuvaj in 1912, Ujević became active in the Nationalist youth movement and was repeatedly imprisoned. On the eve of the First World War, he lived briefly in Dubrovnik, Šibenik, Zadar, Rijeka and for a longer time in Split. The crucial period for his political and poetic consciousness was his visit to Paris (1913–19).

After the death of A.G. Matoš in 1914, Ujević published an essay about his teacher in the literary magazine Savremenik. That same year the anthology of poetry inspired by Matoš, "Hrvatska mlada lirika" (Croatian Young Lyrics) brought together the work of 12 young poets, including 10 poems by Tin Ujević. Also in that year, Ujević joined the French Foreign Legion, though he left again after 3 months at the urging of Frano Supilo.

In 1919, Ujević returned to Zagreb. Around that time he wrote two autobiographical essays "Mrsko Ja" (Hateful Me, 1922) examining his political beliefs, which he described as disenchanted, and "Ispit savjesti" (Examination of Conscience, published in 1923 in the journal Savremenik), which he himself called a "sleepwalking sketch". It is considered to be one of the most moving confessional texts in Croatian literature, in which an author mercilessly examines their own past.

Ujević lived from 1920 to 1926 in Belgrade, then he moved between Split and Zagreb, back to Belgrade, then to Split again. In 1920 his first anthology of poetry "Lelek sebra" (Cry of a slave) was published in Belgrade, and in 1922 his poem "Visoki jablani" (High Poplars) appeared in the journal Putevi (Roads).

He was well known in bohemian circles in Belgrade and a frequent guest at Hotel Moskva and Skadarlija.

During the years 1930–37, Ujević lived in Sarajevo, then 1937–1940 in Split, finally moving back to Zagreb, where he lived until his death in 1955.

From 1941 to 1945 he did not publish a single book, earning his living as a journalist and translator. Ujević held a post in the Independent State of Croatia as a translator, and continued to publish some material. For this reason, he was forbidden by the Yugoslav government from continuing with his literary career for several years. In the last days of 1950 a selection of his work was published in Zagreb, under the title "Rukovet" ("Handful"). Ujević died on 12 November 1955 and is buried at Mirogoj Cemetery in Zagreb.

Legacy
In addition to his poetry, Tin Ujević also wrote essays, short stories, serials (feuilletons), studies on foreign and domestic authors, and he translated philosophical discussions from many foreign languages.

He translated numerous works of poetry, novels and short stories into Croatian (Edgar Allan Poe, Walt Whitman, Marcel Proust, Joseph Conrad, Benvenuto Cellini, George Meredith, Emile Verhaeren, Arthur Rimbaud, André Gide, among others).

He wrote more than ten books of essays, poetry in prose and meditations — but his enduring strength lies chiefly in his poetic works. At first a follower of Silvije Strahimir Kranjčević and more especially A.G. Matoš, Ujević soon moved on and developed his own independent voice.

He preferred the French and American modernists such as Charles Baudelaire, Arthur Rimbaud and Walt Whitman, whose work he translated. His first collections Lelek sebra, and Kolajna, inspired by his years in Paris, are considered the peak of modern Croatian lyrical poetry.

From those original first books grew a body of work that is a classic of Croatian literature, and according to the British poet Clive Wilmer, "Tin Ujević was one of the last masters of European Symbolism". Poet and writer Anne Stevenson says his "melancholy, turn-of-the-century lyricism" is comparable to that of Thomas Hardy, of Edward Thomas, and of early Yeats".

British poet Richard Berengarten, who has translated some of Ujević's best works into English, writes "Although Tin's major achievement is as a lyricist, his oeuvre is much broader than lyric alone. He was a writer of profound and discerning intellect, broad and capacious interests, inquisitive appetite and eclectic range."There are some 380 records about Tin Ujević's works in the catalogue of the National and University Library in Zagreb, and part of his literary heritage is preserved in the Library's Manuscripts and Old Books Collection. Ujević published his writings in all renowned newspapers and journals, in which numerous articles about Ujević were published, and part of that material in digital format is available at the Portal of Digitized Croatian Newspapers and Journals.

The Tin Ujević Award is the most prestigious poetry award in Croatia.

In 2003, the Jadrolinija ferry, MV Tin Ujević was named for the poet.

In 2005, Hrvatska Pošta issued a stamp in their series of Famous Croats: Tin Ujević on the 50th anniversary of his death.

By 2008, a total of 122 streets in Croatia were named after Ujević, making him the ninth most common person for whom streets were named in Croatia.

Works

 Lelek sebra (Cry of a slave), 1920, Belgrade (in Cyrillic, ekavian)
 Kolajna (Necklace), 1926, Belgrade (in Cyrillic, ekavian)
 Auto na korzu (Car on the promenade) 1932
 Ojađeno zvono (Heavy-hearted bell) 1933, Zagreb
 Skalpel kaosa (Scalpel of chaos) 1938, Zagreb
 Ljudi za vratima gostionice (People behind inn doors) 1938, Zagreb
 Žedan kamen na studencu (Thirsty stone at the wellspring), 1954, Zagreb
His collected works, Sabrana djela (1963–1967) were published in 17 volumes. Individually and within selected works, Izabrana djela, numerous editions of his poems, essays and studies were published.

References

External links

Tin Ujević lyrics
Translated works by Tin Ujević

1891 births
1955 deaths
Croatian male poets
Croatian essayists
Male essayists
Croatian translators
English–Croatian translators
French–Croatian translators
Italian–Croatian translators
Burials at Mirogoj Cemetery
People from Vrgorac
Soldiers of the French Foreign Legion
People of the Independent State of Croatia

20th-century Croatian poets
20th-century translators
20th-century essayists
Croatian expatriates in France
20th-century male writers

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


It is worth noting the 2009 Clipse album "Til the casket Drops" as a marker of a few key moments in hip hop.
–> objectifying sexism as inevitable hip hop video "wallpaper".
–> the last time No Malice rhymed as Malice.
Entitled masculinity as means of riding the fence.
No wonder, then, that this week Al has mimicked the tactics of the preeminent Knowles. From last Monday to this upcoming one, he released a new music video every day, eight videos in total. There are few songs on his new album that will lack a video, meaning that, in medium and marketing, he's pulling a sort of time-extended Yoncé.
But not all eight videos are going straight to YouTube. Weird Al is spreading that goodness around.
His parody of Pharrell's "Happy" is hosted by Nerdist, a sprawling online entertainment empire that achieved fame through its eponymous podcast but which now encompasses a news website, a network of audio and video shows, and a television program on BBC America. Al's Lorde spoof, meanwhile, went to competing digital content factory, CollegeHumor. It did go to YouTube, but is marked "Exclusive" and a "CollegeHumor ORIGINAL." A "Blurred Lines" send-up sits on Yancovic's Vevo page.
via The Surprisingly Savvy Weird Al Internet Machine – Robinson Meyer – The Atlantic.
I also liked the reflection about Weird Al's mockery driven art. Since the idea of juxtaposition comes up so much on Life of Refinement, it seems worthwhile to think about Weird Al laying a mocking interpretation on top of something already widely marketed. Adbusters-style mock advertisements do the same thing. Borrowing the millions of dollars of advertising money that preceded to simultaneously undercut the original message and build a counter-brand.
The phenomenon Weird Al describes here is actually well described by a genre of scholarly literature—by business scholarship, of all things. It's disruptive innovation, the buzzword so buzzwordy that the New Yorker devoted a thinkpiece to it in print!. Disruptive innovation describes what happens when new products create a new market for that type of product, which winds up challenging the existing one.
I also appreciate the documentation of the Lady Gaga incident. Yankovic created a parody of a Gaga song and when he checked in with her to get her blessing to release the tune on an upcoming album Gaga's people refused. Weird Al released the song on youtube with an explanation and Gaga quickly relented.
It's worth noting something more about the substance of Weird Al's mockery.
Not only is "Tacky" a review of a number of bad fashion moves, it is also a conservative morality rant. This tune marks as "tacky" oversharing on instagram, forcing others to pay, reminding people you've done them favors, insulting people, dropping names, leaving bad yelp reviews, and having no shame.
At points Weird Al references particular low-points of recent toxic internet culture such as: "I'm a live-tweet a funeral and take selfies with the deceased." This could be a Fox "news" commentary.
If you add in the English-teacher favorite "Word Crimes" you can start to map a particular perspective to Weird Al.
I get the sense that Al is frustrated with some of the changes in this new-fangled world. His juxtaposition is intended to bring down and anchor some of the worst behaviors of the current era.


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text:
Die Verfassung Kasachstans ist nach Artikel 4 der Verfassung das höchste Gesetz im Staat Kasachstan.

Die derzeit geltende Präsidialverfassung ist nach einem Referendum am 30. August 1995 vom Volk angenommen und trat am 4. September 1995 in Kraft. Sie bildet die Grundlage für das politische System Kasachstans, legitimiert jedoch auch die autoritäre Art der Regierungsführung in der Republik.

Inhalt
Die Verfassung enthält eine Präambel und 98 Artikel.

Die Präambel betont die Gleichheit und die Freiheit sowie die Rolle Kasachstans in der internationalen Gemeinschaft.

Die Verfassung ist gegliedert in folgende Kapitel:

Allgemeine Bestimmungen
Der Mensch und die Bürger
Der Präsident
Das Parlament
Die Regierung
Verfassungsrat
Der Gerichtshof und das Gericht
Lokale öffentliche Verwaltung und Selbstverwaltung
Abschließende Bestimmungen und Übergangsbestimmungen

Änderungen
Die Verfassungsänderung vom 18. Mai 2007 brachte eine weitere Verfestigung der bereits sehr mächtigen Position des Staatspräsidenten, insbesondere durch die Aufhebung des bisherigen Verbots der politischen Tätigkeit des Präsidenten in einer politischen Partei.
Die Verfassungsänderung beinhaltete eine Aufhebung der Mandatsbeschränkung für den "Ersten Präsidenten Kasachstans", die bisher auf zwei Wahlperioden begrenzt war.
Allerdings wurde gleichzeitig auch die Wahlperiode des Präsidenten von sieben auf fünf Jahre reduziert.

Die Verfassungsänderung vom 16. September 2022 beschränkte die Amtszeit des Staatspräsidenten auf künftig nur noch einmalig sieben Jahre.

Siehe auch
 Geschichte Kasachstans#Unabhängigkeit

Weblinks
Verfassungsgeschichte der Republik Kasachstan
Verfassung der Republik Kasachstan (engl.)

Einzelnachweise

Politik (Kasachstan)
Kasachstan
Recht (Kasachstan)
Politik 1995
Rechtsquelle (20. Jahrhundert)


August 10 - Books and Friends. We will have book discussions hosted by several book clubs during the ReaderCon, so to prepare us for that, let's talk about books and friendships and book clubs. Are you a part of a book club? If yes, what made you join one? What's your favorite activity that you have with them? If you're not a part of one, will you consider joining one? Why or why not?
Book swap over McDonald's junk food!
I won't be going into any more details regarding our group's activities and will instead refer you over to these entries from my book club friends.
It's also Joyzi who first added me as a friend! She was also the first few members who talked to me online. She asked me why I was reading War and Peace, haha.
It's also Joyzi who first added me as a friend! She was also one of the first few members who talked to me online. She asked me why I was reading War and Peace, haha.
We just love our book clubs, don't we? See you on Saturday, Monique!
Hi, batchmate! Out of nowhere, I just remember Hailsham and Kathy H. and her "batchmates". I'm still on a Never Let Me Go hangover. Haha!
See you! And hey, it's just a white top lang ha (e.g., white blouse, polo, or polo shirt). But if you want to come in a completely white outfit, then go ahead! Hehehehe.


text:
Grovecity Review
Philadelphia Eagles appoints Nick Syrian as head coach
Tech stocks will not collapse according to this fund manager, Warren Buffett
Dustin Diamond has stage IV small cell carcinoma, completes the first round of chemotherapy
NASA's Mars probe lands on the red planet in less than a month!
A thumb injury forces video players to retire
Science and Health
A third body was found in a Norwegian landslide; 7 is still missing
Esmond Hammond January 3, 2021 3 min read
Rescue teams are searching for survivors four days after a landslide that led to the displacement of homes in a Norwegian village, and found no signs of life on Saturday amid destroyed buildings and debris. Three bodies have been recovered, but researchers are still searching for seven other people believed to be missing.
The landslide in Ask Village is the worst in the modern history of Norway and has shocked the citizens of the northern country.
Search teams patrolled dogs as helicopters and drones equipped with heat-detecting cameras circled in the harsh winter conditions over the ravaged hills of Ask, a village of 5,000 people 25 kilometers (16 miles) northeast of Oslo.
Norwegian police pledged not to cut back on searches, although a rescue team from neighboring Sweden has already returned home.
Local police chief Ida Milbo Oestizi said survivors could still be found in air pockets inside the destroyed buildings.
"Medically speaking, you can survive for several days if you have air," she told reporters at a news conference.
Flattened houses are covered in snow as rescue teams work with a dog in a landslide area in ASK, Gerdrum, Norway January 2, 2021.
NTB / Erik Schroeder via Reuters
By late Saturday, a second and a third body had been found after the first body was discovered on Friday. Only a Dalmatian dog has been rescued alive from the rubble so far.
King Harald V, Queen Sonya and Crown Prince Haakon plan to visit the disaster area on Sunday to pay their respects to the victims and meet residents and rescue workers. The 83-year-old king said in his New Year speech that the royal family had been deeply affected by the tragedy.
Norwegian police have released the names and years of birth of the 10 people who were initially reported missing, including a two-year-old. Officials have not yet identified the three bodies that have been found
A landslide early Wednesday cut its way through Ask, leaving a deep crater-like canyon. The photos and videos showed buildings suspended at the edge of the canyon, which grew 700 meters (2,300 feet) long and 300 meters (1,000 feet) wide. At least nine buildings containing more than 30 apartments were destroyed.
The rescue is hampered by the limited number of daylight hours in Norway at this time of year and fears of further erosion. The land at the site is fragile and unable to carry the weight of rescue equipment, including a heavy Norwegian army vehicle.
More than 1,000 people have been evacuated, and officials said that as many as 1,500 people may be relocated from the area amid fears of more landslides.
The exact cause of the accident is not yet known but the municipality of Girdrum, where Ask is located, has been known to have a lot of rapid clay, a substance that can change from solid to liquid form. Experts said the mud material combined with the torrential rains and wet weather typical of Norway at this time of year may have contributed to the landslide.
Norwegian authorities in 2005 warned people against building apartment buildings in the area, but homes were built there later in the decade.
Spokeswoman Toril Hofschagen of the Norwegian Water Resources and Energy Directorate described the landslide as unique in its destruction.
"There has not been a rapid landslide of this dimension since 1893 in Norway," Hofshagen told media on Saturday.
Esmond Hammond
"Pop culture advocate. Beer junkie. Social media expert. Passionate communicator. Food fanatic. Twitter scholar. Tvaholic. Amateur bacon practitioner."
READ A woman was horrified to discover "two-way cameras and mirrors" in the wall of a new home
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Tag: young adult books
A Little Old, A Little New, and an Important Update!
New For 2023: Limited Bookmark Series
Beginning in late February, we will be releasing a bookmark each month. These will be limited to 50 and when they're sold out, they're gone for good and will not return to the shop.
Since this is a new idea, we want to get your feedback before we start! Please answer the very short poll here so we know what you'd want most.
Everyone who answers will be entered to win the first month's bookmark design.
Into the churn preorder incentives pictured with book.
IMPORTANT UPDATE:
Preorder incentives for Into the Churn are limited to the first 75 orders only! Every order will always come with a signed bookplate and bookmark, but only the first 75 preorders will include the postcards of character and map art. These incentives are already 2/3 claimed, so don't delay! If you're hoping to snag these postcards, preordering ASAP is the only way to get them!
In other ITC news, keep your eyes peeled on our Instagram for a super awesome Into the Churn book trailer!
Pssst… Just in case you didn't know, Whimsical is offering an exclusive, jacketed hardcover of ITC, and it has a surprise art cover under the jacket!
ALSO TAKE A PEEK AT THESE ITC REVIEWS>>>
"Hayley Reese Chow's Into the Churn is a romantic Science Fiction thrill ride with brains and heart. Ezren and Foster have chemistry to spare, and the world of Belethea and its killer storms is just giddy-making good. I can't wait to read what she does next!" —Alaya Dawn Johnson, Nebula Award-winning author of The Summer Prince
"Into the Churn is a whirlwind of a book that will sweep you up into its stormy world and won't let you go." —Bridget Tyler, author of the Pioneer duology
Transport yourself into the vibrant, dangerous planet of Belethea with its unpredictable storms, dicey politics, and mind-blowing technology. By the end, you'll be chanting "Into the Churn!" alongside the characters you've fallen in love with as they barrel through tornadoes, rumors, romance, and lies all the way to the finish line. —Megan McCullough, Author of We Could be Villains
"Riveting. Fast-paced. Mad Max meets YA in this page-turning sci-fi adventure. Fans of my 13th Continuum trilogy will devour this book!" —Jennifer Brody, author of The 13th Continuum, Disney Chills, and co-author of Star Wars: Stories of Jedi and Sith
Picture of author holding The Rightful Bearer Book.
The paperback of The Rightful Bearer is on sale this month! (Until February 28th) There will also be a selection of Maiden Ship postcards on sale as well, so make sure you browse through TMS category of the shop to see all the discounted products!
Picture of Cassian artwork by Micheline Ryckman in postcard form.
Remember this handsome fella? Even though I'm no longer selling SJM art in the shop, we still have some leftover stock and for the month of February, this postcard of Cassian will be the free gift with all orders of at least $10 (before shipping). Once he's gone though, he's gone for good! Beginning March 1st, there will be a different new freebie postcard each month or until stock runs out.
And speaking of collections, have you ever wished there was a checklist of Whimsical Illustration's art? My assistant Christina made a checklist to keep track of what artwork she has in her collection, and she wanted to share it with you all to use too! Check it out here!
All the links for our databases and requests for Whimsical's services can be found below!
SUBMIT YOUR MANUSCRIPT TO WHIMSICAL
REQUEST A CUSTOM ART COMMISSION
REQUEST AN ENDORSEMENT/BLURB REVIEW
Please note that completing a form does not guarantee I will accept your request. This is purely for me to prioritize requests that I feel confident and inspired to complete.
Support Human Artists Database
Indie Author Database
Categories YA Novels•Tags sci-fi romance books, ya books, ya fiction, ya science fiction, young adult books, young adult sci-fi
TITLE AND BLURB REVEAL!!!
Published on November 1, 2022 by Micheline RyckmanLeave a comment
We are SOOOOOO excited to reveal the title and blurb for this upcoming romantic, sci-fi adventure by award winning author, Hayley Reese Chow! Whimsical will be releasing this story on April 4th 2023!
Full cover reveal and preorder information will be coming within the next couple of months.
READ ON TO LEARN MORE !
Earth was tame. Belethea is not.
Seventeen-year-old Ezren Hart interns in her mother's terraforming lab, studying Belethea's deadly storms with the dream of giving her backwater planet open teal skies. But when budget cuts threaten to shut down her mother's lab, Ezren enters Belethea's Race Royale, the system's deadliest and most lucrative race. To win, she'll have to run, drive, and fight her way across Belethea's barren landscape while navigating its savage and volatile storms. With her planet's future, and her family's, on the line, she can't afford to lose. But first, she'll have to convince her handsome royale partner that their planet is worth saving.
Foster Sterling is a jaded ex-prodigy royaler still reeling from his partner's death in a training accident. When Ezren Hart comes charging into his life, her passion reminds him of what he once loved about racing and his dream of returning pride to their planet. Still, no matter how fast they go, they can't outrun the mysterious string of deadly accidents following them like a curse. As Foster falls harder for Ezren, he races to piece the clues together. But with time running out and their survival on the line, he'll have to decide if their dreams are worth their lives.
Perfect for fans of underdog heroes, slow burn romance, and high stakes sci-fi, INTO THE CHURN races across a new planet of savage storms and dazzling tech. Fall in love with Ezren and Foster as they battle side-by-side to save their scrappy world on a ruthless interplanetary stage where appearances are everything, speed means survival, and the only thing deadlier than the storms are the other racers.
Author – Hayley Reese Chow is a PowerPoint ranger by day and writer by night, but the book that Whimsical will be publishing in 2023 is heavily influenced by her experiences as an All-American collegiate fencer and ultramarathoner. Her first self-published novel won the 2020 YA Florida Author Project and was the 5th place finalist in the 2021 Book Blogger Novel of the Year Awards. She currently dodges hurricanes in Florida with her two wild boys, her long-suffering husband, and a dog that thinks she's a cat. Follow Hayley on her website hayleyreesechow.com or on Instagram @hayleyreesechow
Categories YA Novels•Tags award winning young adult books, canadian publisher, canadian publishing company, hayley reese chow, into the churn, Whimsical Publishing, young adult books, young adult novels
First Chapter of WE COULD BE VILLAINS
Published on September 3, 2022 by Micheline RyckmanLeave a comment
We Could Be Villains releases in only ONE MONTH!!! You have four weeks left to preorder and grab all the FREE goodies! BUT FIRST, read on for a taste of this fabulous book, and then you'll know how much you don't want to miss it!
OFFICIAL VIGIL REPORT
FILED BY AGENT ROSEMARY COLLINS
DATES: JAN 15 – MAY 21
ALL RELEVANT DOCUMENTS INCLUDED
CASE #: [REDACTED]
JAN 15 – around 3:00 P.M. EST
Today's mission: make it through my shift without SuperCon spoilers. It was only rumored to be the most explosive VIGIL & ANTE Studios panel in history. I would have ditched work to watch the livestream, but the thought of calling out sent my stomach into knots.
Yay for being responsible, Rosemary.
Ugh, the next two hours would be an eternity.
A sharp breeze cut through my coat, and I pulled the thick fabric tighter against me as I walked quicker through the crowded New York City sidewalk. I glanced at the time on my phone. An hour until the panel and only a few minutes until my shift.
What could the huge announcement be? A third Project Safeguard movie? Every actor was rumored to be at the panel, so an epic new superhero team-up film made sense. The creator of BestVIGILMemes theorized a Degree Surge solo movie was next because he found a leaked set photo.
The suspense was killing me. I shook my head. No, I wasn't going to think about this until after work because it would make my shift feel even longer.
I put in an earbud and played my favorite showtunes. That would distract me for a while. "King of New York" blasted through my ears with its upbeat tune, and soon the loud rumble of the New York City machine disappeared. My steps matched the beat as that special Broadway joy surged through me, but I stopped short of singing along. I reserved my "performances" for my bedroom because the thought of an audience made me nauseous.
Something tickled the back of my neck. A snowflake? No, the sky was too clear. The chill crept farther and farther down my spine, almost like…like someone was watching me.
It had to be my imagination. Who was I kidding? It was nothing.
This is how people get kidnapped, Rosemary.
Why did this keep happening? It wasn't the first time this week I'd felt someone watching me. I shivered again and paused the music. Blaring horns and echoing sirens flooded my ears. The inside of my thick winter coat became hot and damp with sweat, and my gut squeezed, screaming at me that someone was on my tail. And as a seventeen-year-old girl walking alone, that was a dangerous thing.
I couldn't panic.
The smell of burnt pretzels mixed with exhaust wafted around me. Maybe I didn't have a stalker. Maybe my brain was playing tricks on me. Maybe I was anxious about the SuperCon announcement and the ensuing adorable cast interactions. Not to mention the cute meet and greet photos. And everything I was missing out on.
I glanced behind me, but there was only a sea of people moving in unison. No one so much as looked my way. Still, I gripped my phone tighter, just in case.
No one is stalking you.
The sooner I got to work, the better.
Wait a second.
I had an idea. I quickened my pace and dodged oblivious bystanders, not willing to risk the pedestrian equivalent of road rage. I glanced back. One person matched my speed—some guy with electric blue hair. Not very covert, though my own copper waves had a similar effect. He was maybe…hmm…six feet tall with a jawline of steel only super attractive movie villains could pull off. (On principle, I refused to deem them hot.)
Someone was following me. I should call the police, but that would mean looking down at my phone, and it was already crowded enough—
My shoulder struck against something.
"Watch where you're going!" a gravelly voice called after me.
I sprang forward, moving even faster. "So sorry!" I stole another glance over my shoulder.
Blue Hair sped up his pace but made no eye contact. Hopefully he didn't realize I was on to him. My heart pounded.
Agh.
He was closing the gap. I needed a plan.
People in spy movies always made shaking a tail look easy.
I took in my familiar surroundings. Starbucks. The vibrant blue VIGIL & ANTE Studios billboard that always triggered my fangirl. Abandoned, graffitied building. Shady tourist trap. My knuckles tightened around my lifeline so there was no way I could drop it.
If I could just make it to work.
I jogged, then took another peek over my shoulder.
He was closer.
Our eyes locked. His were brown, all but a small sliver of ice blue peeking through the left one. Something about him struck me as familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on it.
I turned and ran harder, but the image planted itself in my head.
Okay, maybe this was just a random guy. Maybe he wasn't following me. But something about when our eyes locked… He wanted me.
I stole another glance.
The man was gone.
I didn't stop to see where he went. My lungs burned as I finally slowed down a block away from my job.
Had that just happened? It was like something out of a movie, only more terrifying. The feeling that something horrible is gaining on you, clawing toward the hem of your shirt. I shivered. Deep breath. I brushed a stray hair out of my eyes and walked the rest of the way to the building. My body still shook.
I nudged open the front door, a bell overhead jingling. Ah, yes, good old Ketch-A-Burger. Did I work here for the sole purpose of saving toward a SuperCon ticket? Yes. It certainly wasn't for the mediocre burgers the entire city was obsessed with.
I pushed through the line to get to the backroom. The door was barely open when the fandom-fueled screaming began. "Rosemary!"
I jumped back, heart hammering my ribcage. Oh no, Sam was not going to give me spoilers, even though the panel hadn't started yet. "H-hi, Sam."
"What do you think the big reveal is?" My co-worker grinned, peeling off his Ketch-A-Burger hat. "It'd better be another Illuman movie, because I cannot get enough of his light powers. Glowing skin and large amounts of sass? Yes, please!" Obviously I was a huge fan too, but Sam was the kind of fan who never shut up about it, even to let someone answer his own question. And when he had a theory, he always had to be right.
"Umm…" I blinked, mind still wrapping itself around whatever the heck he said. "Yeah, I don't know. I—I think it might be another Project Safeguard movie."
Sam jumped to his feet, putting him at least a foot shorter than me. "I mean, you're excited, right? You have to be excited. Everyone is. Even all the fake fans. This is going to be the biggest news since they figured out how to fake Illuman's powers in real life! Like…how can you top that kind of PR stunt? Especially because he is, without question, the best superhero."
I forced a chuckle. "I don't know about that. They're all pretty cool. I especially love Agent Liam. And Ver."
"But they aren't real superheroes." He shook his head, long brown 2000s bangs falling into his eyes. "To be a superhero you need powers. Look it up and you'll see I'm right." Oh, why did I tell him I was a fangirl?
"I don't think that's true." I shook my head and looked toward the punch-in machine. If I got fired for not clocking in on time, Mom would never let me hear the end of it. "I have to clock in though, so…"
"Anyway, I'm prepared with AirPods so I can listen while I flip burgers. No one will notice. Do you think anyone will notice? No, no one will. I'm good at hiding it."
I sighed. "Sorry, normally I'd talk but I need to clock—"
"But the AirPods? The boss won't be able to tell, right?"
"I really don't know." If I told him no, he'd argue, and if I told him yes, he'd blame me if he got in trouble. "Just please don't spoil it for me. I'm waiting to watch it until I get home."
Sam grinned, then bowed and faked a British accent. "You have my word, my lady." Project Safeguard reference. "Did you get it? It was a reference to—"
"Yes, Sam, I got it. Remember, no spoilers." I took off my coat and put it with my purse, hands still shaking. Settle down. No one is going to hurt you. I clocked in, then went to go open the door into the kitchen as it swung inside.
Cue another adrenaline rush.
"Oh! Sorry." Another one of my co-workers. "We need you on the other register. We're packed right now."
I nodded. "Sure thing." I took a deep breath, then walked through the door. Chatter and laughter roared inside. We sure sounded busy. I turned and went up to the empty register, trying not to make eye contact with impatient customers until I logged on to the computer.
"Welcome to Ketch-A-Burger. What can I get for you today?" I looked up at the first person.
"A double cheeseburger and a large fry. Uh, lots of ketchup and no mustard." The woman looked bored to death staring at the menu screens above my head.
Next person. "Twelve-count chicken nuggets." And the next. And the next. And the next. My gaze flitted to the time in the lower left-hand corner of the screen. Four p.m.
The panel had begun, and half the world eagerly watched. There was a reason almost every VIGIL & ANTE Studios movie broke box office records.
Please no one spoil it. I glanced through the crowd, hoping I didn't hear whispered reactions. Hoping Sam didn't inevitably scream the news from the kitchen.
"Next." I glanced up as a blond-haired man stepped forward and—
His eyes.
The same heart-stopping brown as Blue Hair. Identical silvery blue in his left iris. That was an uncommon thing…right? It didn't make sense. Maybe my brain was playing tricks on me. Though both "stalkers" seemed about my age, this person had a much rounder chin. It was possible to bleach out that highlighter blue to the sand-colored surfer hair this guy had going on, but no one could magically change face shape, right? Certainly not within the last hour.
But what were the chances that two different people had the exact same eyes?
Chills crawled down my spine.
"…please." He tilted his head.
I blinked, shocked back into action. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"A triple cheeseburger, please."
Why was I still freaking out? He couldn't be the stalker because he looked nothing like the guy following me earlier.
Also, why would a stalker be so polite? Wait, no, that was dumb.
"Uh, could you repeat that just one more time?" I forced a smile to hide the spontaneous combustion going on in my head. Forgetting someone's order the moment after they said it is my social anxiety's worst nightmare. Yes, it happens to me way too often, but who's counting?
The man only smiled as if my mistake was no big deal, which earned another check mark in the "too nice for a stalker" column.
"Triple cheeseburger," he said.
Okay, I got it that time. I pressed buttons on the screen without looking down. "Will that be all?"
Deep breath. "All right, your total is $5.49."
He grimaced, reaching into his pockets. "Right. One moment." His hands emerged clutching two wads of cash. I gulped, keeping my head down as if he held something contraband. Because it was too much money.
When I dared look up, his piercing eyes were still on me instead of the bills in his hand.
"I-I'm sorry, can I help you?" I gripped the register as the world went fuzzy.
This was getting beyond weird. My instincts screamed for me to run. Still, my mind fought back. This was a public place. Three more customers lined up behind him, and almost every booth was filled, so nothing could happen to me here.
I gulped. "Then do I know you or something?"
His chin dropped as a smile played at his lips. "Not this face."
My breath caught. "What?" He knew. He knew about the man following me. Maybe he was the man following me.
Only now he shook his head. "No, you don't know me." Maybe I'd imagined his first statement. It was impossible anyway. No one could alter their appearance so drastically in that short amount of time.
"Right, umm…" I looked down at the screen again as if lost at which button to tap next. "Your cheeseburger is $5.49." My chest tightened, but I forced myself to breathe.
He thrust a few crisp bills toward me and shoved the rest into his pocket. "Here you go." The bills felt like they'd come straight from a bank. My fingers fumbled as I slipped the cash into the register and handed him change and a receipt.
"Thanks." Then he stepped to the side, clutching the receipt. And his eyes. He still stared at me. Not this face. What did that even mean? I shifted positions and dug fingernails into my palm as if the pain would distract me.
Someone else moved forward.
"W-welcome to Ketch-A-Burger. How can I help you?" I managed to ask, but I didn't tear my gaze from the brown-eyed man.
He stared at me as he waited for his food. But when his meal was ready, he left as though nothing had happened. His sudden departure was as strange as any of it.
I shivered. Everything about this felt wrong. Would he be waiting outside when I got off work? Maybe I should call my mom and see if she'd give me a ride home. If not, I'd ask a co-worker. I was not getting murdered tonight. At least not before I watched that panel.
Everywhere I looked, I searched for those haunting brown and blue eyes. If this was real, he could be anyone. A man leaned against a building talking into his phone. My heart skipped a beat. What color were his eyes? It was getting too dark to tell.
I stepped closer to Sam, hoping he didn't think it was weird.
"I get safety and stuff, but you need to chill," Sam laughed, shaking his head. "Like…you're paranoid."
"Probably," I said, shrinking back. "Girls have to worry about this stuff, though." But maybe he was right. Maybe I was overthinking this. One person couldn't change faces in under an hour. It was a mistake. A fluke.
Still, the guy basically confirmed it. What he said couldn't have been an accident, unless I'd imagined it.
Sam rolled his eyes, readjusting his backpack. "Okay, fine, what does this mysterious stalker look like?"
Yeah, this was the part I couldn't explain very well. I glanced at the crowded walkway behind us as the constant city chatter seemed to grow louder. "His eyes stand out the most. They're brown except for a sliver of blue in his left eye."
"So…Ironfall?" Sam raised the one eyebrow I could see behind his bangs.
My stomach lurched. "What?"
"You just described Ironfall's eyes. You know, the supervillain in Project Safeguard? The character literally everyone is in love with?"
"I know who he is, Sam," I said. "I just…didn't realize that." In the movie, Ironfall could change his appearance. So could my stalker, apparently. And they either had the exact same eyes, or the stalker chose to wear the same contacts both times. Unless multiple people were pulling an elaborate prank.
"Your guy must be a cosplayer," Sam said. "Which is common today because of SuperCon." That was an easy explanation, yet something still nagged at me. I was missing something. Sam straightened his shoulders. "That's right, hire me, Criminal Minds."
"Maybe," I breathed, still searching for an answer. It seemed too subtle for a prank. "Anyway, thanks for walking me home."
He smirked. "Anything to get my shift covered. Also, please watch the panel because I can't promise any more spoiler-free conversations. There's too much to discuss. I'm storming the VIGIL & ANTE Studios because—"
"Don't spoil it!" I sighed, then turned toward my apartment building. The sooner I was safe in there watching the comic con panel, the better.
"Then go watch it." He shook his head, motioning toward the door.
I nodded, then went inside, half-running up the three flights of stairs. The lock clicked behind me as I shut our apartment door, and I double and triple checked it in case my multi-faced stalker decided to pay a visit. Safe at last. Now I could finally watch the SuperCon panel. The TV blared from the corner, keeping Mom's attention like always.
I don't think watching all those design shows helped her décor taste improve.
"Looks like you got home okay." I jolted forward at my mom's voice. She stood in the kitchen chopping an onion. "I said you didn't need me to pick you up."
I nodded, glancing at the lock again. "I convinced Sam to walk me home."
She raised an eyebrow as her lips tipped upward. "Sam?"
My eyes widened. "Oh, no. He's just a co-worker. An annoying one." Why do parents immediately think you're in love when you casually mention a boy? We'd never even texted each other beyond work stuff.
"Right." She still had an amused look on her face, which meant she was convinced I liked Sam. That couldn't be farther from the truth. "Just don't let him distract you from work. You need to keep this job." She brushed an auburn strand of hair from her face.
"I know, Mom," I said. "It's not like I've gotten fired before. And he only walked me home because I agreed to take over his shift."
"Still, don't let the wrong people distract you from where you need to go. You have to be ready, and at this rate"—she looked me up and down—"you're not going to be."
I pressed my lips together as my stomach twisted.
She turned toward the sink, rolled up her sleeves, and rinsed off her knife. "You know I'm only hard on you because I love you." Yes, I knew she did, though sometimes her way of showing it cut deep.
"I know." I pressed my lips together, then escaped to my room, which wasn't much of a room anyway. It gave Harry Potter's closet a run for its money.
SuperCon, here I come.
I tossed my backpack on the floor and plopped onto my bed. What was the big announcement? Thoughts of Mom and the day melted away as I sank into the arms of my fandom. I glanced over at my Project Safeguard poster, grinning. Each superhero stood in a fighting stance toward the bottom of the poster. Their different colored costumes stood out against the dark New York City skyline. The large villainous figure at the top hid in the darkness, but the smirk on his sharp-featured face stood out first.
Ironfall.
And then I saw his eyes.
Sam was right. They were the same. As I studied them closer, I saw more similarities than something a pair of contacts could imitate. The depth of those rich brown irises as they stared into your soul. The way you could look into their eyes and see the final piece of a mental puzzle slip into place.
They had the same powers. The same eyes. The same everything.
It was almost like my stalker was Ironfall.
TRANSCRIPT OF THE INTERVIEW PROCEEDINGS WITH [REDACTED]
SOME NAMES AND LOCATIONS REDACTED FOR SECURITY
INTERVIEW CONDUCTED ON MAY 20
LOCATION OF INTERVIEW: [REDACTED]
AGENT: Would you like anything to drink? Water? Coffee? Lemonade?
[NAME REDACTED]: No, thank you, I'm good.
AGENT: All right then, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court. Do you understand?
[NAME REDACTED]: Yes, but I won't get a court date like most people, now will I?
AGENT: You must want to get this over with then.
[NAME REDACTED]: [inaudible]
AGENT: Did you sleep well last night?
[NAME REDACTED]: No.
AGENT: They say only the guilty sleep in jail.
[NAME REDACTED]: [chuckles] Well, you already know I'm guilty. Now you're here to pry the whole story from me to see if you can figure out whose side I'm really on. You sure you're not the one who needs that coffee?
Click the image to preorder now!
Categories YA Novels•Tags best superhero novels, canadian publisher, megan mccullough, superhero novels, we could be villains, young adult books
The wait is OVER!!!
Published on April 21, 2022 by Micheline RyckmanLeave a comment
Our warmest, most EXCITED congratulations to our precious author, McKenzie Catron, whose debut novel, A Daughter of the Trolls just released today! This incredible tale is now available worldwide! You can obtain a high quality paperback version with a signed author bookplate and a complimentary bookmark here in our shop, or you can also purchase the paperback, hardcover, or ebook via Amazon as well.
Are you afraid of the bogeyman?
Eighteen-year-old Sparrow can't remember a time when she wasn't. And neither can her mother—or the trolls, imps, gnomes, and faeries who all live in the Glade and call it home. Though Sparrow's weak heart keeps her wheelchair bound, she and her mother have dedicated their lives to protecting the Glade, especially from the worst bogeyman of them all: the skin-stealing, poison-ingesting witch called Black Annis.
But one night, Sparrow makes a terrible mistake, and everything she once held dear is taken from her. The Glade is no longer a sanctuary, and the only way Sparrow can save her mother and her friends is to journey out into a monster-ridden world that wasn't made for her or her wheelchair. Joined by her half-goblin friend, Rush, Sparrow will have to confront her fears before the ones they love are lost forever.
A Daughter of the Trolls will appeal to fans of European folklore and the darker Grimm Brother's fairytales. This is a spine-tingling young adult fantasy adventure about evil witches, monsters, and the imperfect heroes who face them all. You'll join Sparrow and her faerie friends on a life changing journey where they face not only their outer demons, but their inner ones as well.
Categories YA Novels•Tags a daughter of the trolls, canadian publishing company, mckenzie catron, new releases, young adult books


We share Professor Stephen Hawking's concern at changes being implemented to the NHS, most particularly the introduction of US-originated accountable care organisations (ACOs). These appear to be non-statutory, non-NHS bodies to run health and social services that could undermine the NHS's fundamental principles. That the health secretary, Jeremy Hunt, and NHS England are doing this without primary legislation, proper public consultation or full parliamentary scrutiny adds to our concern. We support the CrowdJustice-funded legal action – www.crowdjustice.com/case/jr4nhs-round2 – by Professor Hawking and other prominent individuals (Report, 9 December) for a judicial review to stop the ACOs until these public and parliamentary procedures have been satisfactorily enacted.


February » 2011 » Harrumph!
Yesterday was our first overtly dangerous trip on NY's Taconic Parkway. From my teens, I have tooled up and down between NJ or NYC and more recently from Boston to and from New England and Canada. It's always slower than an Interstate, rife with rolling hills, low traffic, scenic and free. Friday though, it was a setting worthy of a 50's movie, wherein the hero and heroine confront nature and out-of-control situations.
Thursday, we were on 90 West from Boston and up to Amherst, then back to 90 and down 50 miles on the Taconic. Headed to Poke (Poughkeepsie), we passed the real points of interest on the Western pike — the Ty-D-Bowl blue ice formations on the road cuts, colored by minerals in the rock. Then just over into NY, we turned South on the Taconic.
As though they were declaring truth in advertising, several deer families were by the watch-for-deer signs, only 10 or 20 feet off the road. The occasional still-golden willows were undulating delights. Locals have direct access to the road, giving us amusement at some of the green signs — BULLS HEAD ROAD, NINE PARTNERS ROAD, NEXT ROAD, and RIGOR ROAD. The parkway's visual surprises more than paid us back for dropping into the 50MPH world.
Overnight though, the rain came quick and stayed hard. It shifted into sleet, teasing us with a half hour of snow, but returning to freezing rain. The tour guide at the CIA repeated, "Watch your step!," "Hold the rail!," and "It's slippery here." By the time we headed back on 44 from Poke toward the Taconic, we were in driver-training horror.
We saw a heavy panel truck that had simply skidded off 44 into two feet of roadside snow and ice head first. A trooper was headed — slowly, cautiously, with lights — to the rescue as we passed.
I drove down, the longer day given the side trip, but dry and safe. My wife insisted on sharing the duties and taking the wheel back. Haar.
The Taconic was slippery at best. We saw a Suburu that waddled all over a lane, while going maybe 15MPH. We passed several guard rails with obvious impacts in the packed snow. Clearly at each indent, a driver had lost control but was able to back out and proceed.
The parkway was iced over with that sleet and 30 seemed the maximum safe speed.
Then coming down those formerly pleasant rolling hills, our van seemed to hydroplane on the ice. She shifted into a numbered gear on the automatic and slowed.
Not everyone was so cautious and at several points we saw the effects. At one, a Suburu SUV had taken off nearly half a Toyota's rear bumper. The car had its hazards on and took the right lane, immobilized with hanging parts, while the SUV had pulled off ahead. At another point, three cars had collided. It seemed no one was injured, but the local firefighters used flares and were stopping cars to insist they drive at 5MPH maximum. The three cars with their drivers and passengers were all stuck, two embedded into guard-rails on the left and one off its wheel on top of a snow/ice mount on the right shoulder.
Occasionally, some fool would tool by at 60MPH, sliding past the rest of us. We could see their vehicles wobbling and fishtailing. We did not see them in piles farther ahead, so they either managed the trip or disappeared off the road entirely.
At the top of the Taconic is Route 90, which becomes the Mass Pike a short distance East. It was plowed and fairly passable, except for occasional patches of 100 yards or so. In MA, the sleet became rain, which in contrast to the previous 90 minutes seemed very safe indeed, messy and requiring wipers and regular washer squirts, but 65MPH worked.
We didn't see any deer on the way back. They surely had more sense than the drivers and waited out the storm.
Chi thuds and thumps in the dark as the restless captain did. She brings with her alert-making caution.
Be it known that her back end does not work well. Some genetic neurological disorder makes walking into loosely controlled swaying. It's as though her rear legs weren't getting the executive messages in time. Even with her every-other-day steroids, she is free of pain but not of clumsiness.
Thus in the dark, when she is ready she thuds four flights of wooden stairs up two high stages of the old house. She gives long, distant warning, but not with meows or cries. Instead, it is the slow thump, thump, thud, thud.
Then we are in anticipation. Jumping up on our high bed requires deliberation nightly. She almost always goes to my side (yet why, as she's not my cat and doesn't come to me for affection and I am farthest from the door?). I can't hear her on the carpet but know she is sitting and considering before committing.
By then, I have made sure to clear landing room. Numerous times, she has found my arm or leg as a good climbing hold for ten claws. The suddenness of the stabbing leaves memories that amplify the dread beyond the relative low pain and small amount of bleeding.
When she leaps up, it signals the preparation for the rest of the night, the announcement that the three of us can sleep. She'll tend to take a minute, sometimes two, to find the best spot. That is often between my ankles or between our sets of feet.
My sister lives way out in coyote lands of Northern New Mexico. She gets different night noises, and claims when she is asleep, she's gone for the duration. Here, night comes on big cats feet and decides when we can sleep.
Scattering rose petals around the base of the storm abused dogwood in the front yard will surely do nothing for the tree's health. Yet, we are in low-level mourning.
On the first heavy snow in our series of blizzards and nor'easters, this one lost all substantial limbs on one side overnight. By the time I went out to look for newspapers never delivered due to the weather, and to shake the icy and snow off, two limbs were separated and a third twisted like a kid does to a Popsicle stick.
In a silly flair, we act a little like Andy Goldsworthy. Inspired by his documentary Rivers and Tides, certainly like thousands of others, we scatter flowers, stack rocks and otherwise make small naturalistic and temporary art. In this case, it is one way of feeling a little better about the damaged dogwood.
The sad front dogwood half destroyed overnight in the first heavy snow.
After two limbs cut, it still needs the third on the same side removed. That one is open and twisted.
In a nod to Andy Goldsworthy, yellow rose petals offer scant solice.
Oddly, the much older, taller dogwood in the back had the same weight but lost no limbs. They have the same soil acidity and other conditions as well as experienced the same storms. The limbs on the larger one are in general bout the same diameter as well. We assume that the younger, smaller one is not as healthy and may benefit from weep-line fertilizer.
As I come to terms with the negatively transformed tree, I do switch to the pruning I learned in my master-gardener classes. Unfortunately, there is no alternative in an effort to keep the tree than removing nearly all limbs on its south side.
There will be something reminiscent of the thousands year old bristle pines or a bonsai that came in the classic way from a crypt roof.
The trees tortured by winds (as here on moors by the English Channel) have their own ghastly elegance. I have scant hopes that this will display as well.
I confess that it is animistic of me, feeling for an injured tree. Many other gardeners I have known are eager to rip out the injured, for the opportunity to bring in a newer, prettier specimen. That seems like someone trading in spouses to me.
We'll give our brown and green-to-be flowering friend what attention we can. Perhaps it will have the beauty of asymmetry.
I didn't see my shadow on the road. Maybe like Punxsutawney Phil I can be Bike Mike and predict a pending Spring. Back in the saddle after hiding from the road ice was like coming home again. Yes, I believe you can go home.
At the Y, Barry and I have been sheepishly admitting to each other that we were off two wheels during and after our relentless bounty of winter. He said he was buying T passes for the first time in many years. I can pretend that my thin-wheel bike gave me more excuse than his fat-tire one, but we were pretty much the same. With harrowing, narrowing streets and roads, and drivers inattentive as their washer fluid worked, we were wary of riding onto a patch of ice and going down into or under a bus, truck or other motorized thingummy.
Today the relatively warmth and brightness seemed to have many in Spring spirits as well. A couple of toddlers in different neighborhoods called out to their indifferent moms, "Bike…bike!" Hey, it's an image and word they know and likely an aspiration.
Bookend idiots on River Street at and just beyond Webster reminded me to still be careful, that frozen patches were not the only dangers. A self-entitled bozo in an F-250 floored it and cut right in front of me in a left turn onto Webster, but I was paying attention and braked and turned so he didn't get me. Then almost immediately beyond the intersection, and old fool suddenly left her parking place, swinging her sedan sideways in front of me. Here, only my quick reactions and pretty new brake pads kept me from hitting the side of the car, stopping maybe two inches from the driver door, as she blocked the full lane and half the other one. My face under two feet from her closed window, but I kept my temper and just said loudly, "That was so illegal." Rather than apologize or even acknowledge her recklessness, she looked solidly into her steering wheel and after 10 or so seconds finished her U turn. She looked really old and I bet doesn't have much peripheral vision. If that's the case, one would think she'd compensate a bit by looking where she intends to go. Meh.
The rest was pretty nice, headed over to the heart of South Boston to meet a friend for lunch. On Blue Hill Avenue, I got a shout out from a man on a bike. "This is the only way to travel!," he proclaimed, grinning widely. Down on Columbia, a limo cut across three lanes of traffic to turn onto a side street. I had the right of way, but more out of self-preservation than graciousness, stopped short to let his pass. In contrast to the River Street demons, he gave me a big smile and thank-you wave. We can share the road.
Maybe the pending melting will help biking a bit soon. Many of the alleged bike lanes on American Legion, Columbia and elsewhere are blocked by SUVs and cars. The curbs are still squalid-ice covered and parkers would have to rub right against the mounds to leave the lanes open. They don't even try, so cyclists (I didn't see others beyond the nice elderly man on Blue Hill) were into the travel lane.
Way back when I learned to drive on the mountain roads of West Virginia, motoring could bring some real pleasure. Sliding a stick-shift car around curves where 25MPH means just that was a oneness-with-the-machine feeling. I can't really say that about chugging along from Hyde Park to Davis Square in a car.
Biking though is often pleasurable. Physically that makes sense, but emotionally too, there's a feeling of being in charge instead of at the mercy of everyone else on my road; what are all these cars doing on my road?
I didn't even mind the final push up Fairmount Hill at the end. Let the season begin.
Something New Yorkers and Bostonians share is a dread of dirty-smellies, particularly on the subways. I got a chuckle a few days ago from a variation on that theme.
I slid over undulating sheets of iced waves that should have been sidewalks to Mattapan Square. It seems Milton has three very strict snow-emergency rules — Chapter 6, Section 10 forbids sliding or coasting on a public way without a permit from Selectmen or the Chief of Police, Section 13 bans throwing snowballs, again on any public way, and Section 3 reads you can't move any snow from your property into a public way. The bylaws don't bother with the silliness of clearing your sidewalks of ice and snow. Harrumph, surely anyone foolish enough to walk in winter deserves the worst.
From there, the Mattapan high-speed rail, a.k.a. the trolley, is frequent and quick to Ashmont. Ah, there where the subway begins, the vicissitudes of urban transit are in charge of your body and timing. The trains arrive when they arrive and leave when they leave. Moreover, many passengers are in for the long haul. They are likely to be headed to Downtown Crossing and many to Harvard, Davis and Alewife.
This inspires you to look carefully as you enter a car. You likely know which end of the train you'll want to be on for the right exit strategy. You'll almost certainly have your choice of seats at Ashmont. You'll really want to be careful about your proximity to cellphone yammerers and screamers, those dirty-smellies, and the obviously demented. You might be elbow to elbow for 20 to 40 minutes.
On my last right north, I smelled him from 12 or more feet away. To my amusement, it was not the scent I might have feared.
I checked him out. He was deep into his tin and not noticing me or anyone. He had on old clothes, but they were clearly clean and well taken care of. I could surmise that he was not homeless, but not quite all the way in the present. Perhaps he lived in a group home.
What he was noticing and into, and what permeated half the car, was the curiously strong Altoids scent. It was the red-trimmed peppermint variety. The oils filled the air between us, aggressively and agreeably. He carefully and with apparent pleasure plucked three or four at a time to place into his mouth. There was a man who enjoyed his mints. He rolled back when they were in his mouth and grinned his satisfaction.
If there was a wee lesson there, it would be to go with what is before you and be aware of it. I might well have seen a not-quite-together fellow and ignored him or worse thought ill of him. Instead even my low level of awareness let in the pungency of his mints and a glimmer of his pleasure in them.
Today's newspaper ads tease with the chance to WIN FREE FOOTLONGS™ FOR LIFE. The literalist in me careered from whose life to sub per week or day to what's it worth to is there a golden ticket you carry with you?
Click on the company site to get the truth and wisdom.
They figure that's worth $384 per recipient. That would be roughly a small bag of chips per day per winner.
The assumptions and math are harder for the big one. There is an ominous tone to the SUBS FOR LIFE, for two winners. In a melodrama, the company might be foundering under the financial commitments of many cycles of such prizes and then turn to offing the winners to stay in business.
There's nothing so nefarious possible here. In fact behind the many lines explaining the prize is the notice that you'd get a check for $27,780. With that, you could buy a car or go to high-end restaurants instead for quite awhile. That is, after you pay the taxes, for which you'd be liable.
Let's assume though that you really like subs, Subways subs, and want to spend all the bounty on those. To get a feel for the possibilities, let's disregard taxes for the rough calculations.
Subway figures your lifetime sandwiches for your being 36 years old and living another 44 years. To make it to 80, you'd likely have to work out and order with an eye to their nutritional information and low-fat versions. As you'd already have their cash, there's no suggestion they'll extend your winnings if you outlive the actuarial basis or ask your estate for the remainder if you win when you're 54 and die 11 years later. They figure you got 44 years of stuffed bread.
So what does a company that makes its living off subs think is a year/month/week of sandwiches? Well, using their retail value of $27,780 and dividing by 44, the pre-tax sum would be $631.36 a year. They do sell the $5 Footlong from time to time, but the more typical price is about $6. So that is about 100 units or roughly two a week.
I am not a sub lover. However, were I, one every three to four days seems an insult to their menu. There are a lot of choices and other than the inherent sameness of lots of bland bread, you needn't get jaded…assuming the company will be in business four more decades. There is no real downside here, unless you're squeamish about some sandwich company projecting how long you'll live.
Perhaps channeling a prissy boxer, Jack Roach stabbed and jabbed furiously with his index fingers poking out of chubby fists. With an IBM Selectric typewriter (this was before PCs), he could hit 30, maybe 40, words per minute.
Although he was editor of Management Review, the American Management Association's monthly maggy and he had reported for United Press for a long time before, he had a block about touch typing. He said he could do just as well with two fingers. After being his number two for a bit, I figured that style matched his mental text creation speed. All was well, although text by poke is often loud.
He came to mind as I begin to us an iPad. It's virtual keyboards are touch-typing hostile. I snicker as I found myself flitting over the device with two index fingers.
The design behind the iPad is typically Apple sophisticated. As much of the work as possible is behind the scenes, requiring expensive hardware and software to work, but easier for the user. You can turn the iPad any of the four planar directions, the screen rotates to match. Then, when you open an app and touch a field that can take text or numbers, ta da!, an appropriate keypad appears at the bottom of the screen.
Applehead warning: If you are a true believer, leave now. candor follows.
To a touch typist, these keypads come with two major problems. The first is obvious and common across several technologies, like netbooks and Blackberries, the keys are small. Even without the second issue, they'd be damned hard to use with adult fingers.
Insurmountable though is that the iPad pressure is binary — on or off. There is no pressure adjustment. Try to rest your fingers on the virtual keys and you are entering characters left, right, top and bottom.
Unlike many aspects of their products that Apple marketing would have us believe, this is not a keen feature, not a better way of doing things. While flexible from a software perspective, this is a throttle.
I note that for my many years of computer and trade press, I had been exposed to or reviewed various versions of touch screens used in design or in factories and warehouses. Some were made for high sensitivity, but most were hardened for rough environments and big fingers. Then in the workstation and PC world came membrane keyboards, many with software adjustments for pressure and sound (the typewriter like click).
The iPad ignores all that silliness and history. What it does instead is pretty much a per-app QWERTY, with variations such as the .com key that appears when you load up the Safari browser. What you get is very useful.
Of course, that comes with the Apple attitude —Take what you get, love it, and don't ask to know how it works or expect to alter it. So, there you have it, or in this case, I have it.
I first saw and held an iPad in April last year. The day after its release, several members of the Boston Media Makers showed them off. They had waited overnight or from pre-dawn to get theirs. They then apparently spent all their time until the meeting playing with their very own so they could provide prima facie commentary.
The BMM are largely Mac users…and iPhone owners…and iPod listeners. They love nothing more than telling someone he wouldn't have this or that problem if only he has a Mac Pro instead of a PC. Yet, they each and all quickly commented on the iPad virtual keyboards. Their conclusion in general was you could create a blog post or do some writing with an iPad, but you wouldn't want to.
I of course had to try. I've posted on three blogs with an iPad. Yet, it is more work. You really can't keep up with your brain hunting and pecking. The screen real estate makes it harder to see what you're doing. Mostly though, the two-fingered typing gets tedious quickly.
Nonetheless, I do surf with it. Its Safari browser is nowhere near as full featured or even as fast as Chrome on a PC, but it's fine. I do enter short blog posts with the iPad. I also have added a quarter screen of apps, some of which are cloud ones, so I can share text or other files or whole apps from different platforms.
I am not inclined to spent $50 to $100 for a wireless keyboard or docking station with one built in to essentially create a netbook with iPad works. I have a laptop and a couple of desktops. If I wanted the add-ons to make the iPad into an impostor, I'd likely just spend much less and get a netbook.
Regardless, the iPad is fun and adequate to its tasks. It is also seriously light and portable.
The keyboard limitations hark back to when workstation and PC users used to refer to the Apple products as MacinToys. That was unfair then, as so many graphics folk proved with their understandable loyalty to systems that served their needs better than the Intel-based world could.
When I use the iPad, my index fingers fly. Sometimes, I'll think of Jack. He managed an entire successful career as writer and editor just using two fingers. Worse things could happen.
The longer they live, the more likely men are to cry or at least tear up in response to emotional stimulus. Perhaps the deepest effect of John Boehner as Speaker of the U.S. House may be awareness of adult crying. We are still in the puerile ridicule stage, but more is in the works. Already, there's lots of pop and academic chatter.
Two months ago, the NY Times got into it and today the Boston Globe did a light variation. Before and between, the MSM and net is rife with commentary. I suspect the interest is really more of a boomer issue than for other age groups. The older folk are still in a weird, repressed cultural hole and the young folk, at this point at least, don't care…yet.
For those of us not of my generation — and for those not particularly introspective —boomers felt lots of old-fashioned pressures. Our parents (and grands) as well as the movies and TV that we lived by and from, were of heroes and villains.
We swam in Westerns and WWII movies in addition to more frivolous and fantastic fare. Our parents as a group were deep into cultivating the mythology of themselves as what has become known as the Greatest Generation, partially through history and more through that fluff piece.
We didn't question their courage, their world-changing post-war decisions, or much of any of their vainglory. As much as the white hats or helmeted GIs on the screen, the entire bunch were God's gifts to us and the world.
A key aspect of the real people and screen folk was assumptions of manhood…including that real men did not cry. Our movie men bit leather belts or bullets or took a swig of whiskey to have a leg cut off or a bullet dug out. Manly men could grunt or curse (mild exclamations at high volume only), but tears were for weak women or little girls.
Given the culture, at least for the white middle class, women were the primary enforcers of such inanity. As constantly available surrogates for the working dads, they taught day to day how a boy was supposed to behave to be an acceptable man. Look no farther to figure out where the bullies, repressed men and wife abusers learned their stuff.
Yet, it was the whole culture that constructed and reinforced this rigid role. I recall from pre-elementary school how a crying boy was ridiculed by peers, parents, teachers, strangers. Men don't cry.
Yet, men in their 50s and beyond do. Their daughters' weddings, a grandchild's hugs and kisses and more and more bring out the tears.
An amusing aspect is that the surviving WWII folk are in their late 70s into their 90s. Those men cry. I've seen and heard it. Oddly enough, many of their boomer kids and grandkids are very forgiving and understanding, we'd have to say more realistic and mature. They simply don't buy into that unrealistic fantasy of manhood precluding tears.
The older you get, the more you have powerful libraries of experience. You also have changing and even rogue hormones rushing in when you don't expect it. The control the so-called Greatest Generation claims to have had erodes under the constant lapping of life's tides.
We can look back to 1972 to Sen. Ed Muskie crying on TV as he spoke into mics. That was end end of his presidential chances. He was defending his wife against outrageous slander of her as a swearing drunk. Yet, even as he spoke in New Hampshire cold, he later claimed he wasn't crying, rather those were snowflakes, not tears. We can be sure that Boehner would not be reduced to such ploys.
This is another century, a couple of generations out. Honest emotion is out there and Boehner is in its vanguard. Sure, he's a silly guy, but more for his crazy politics and pandering to wingers than his handkerchief wetting.
He may not give a good name to weepy pols. In fact, we could likely do without the melodrama. Yet, here's a very powerful guy, a certified male of the species who cries in public. That really isn't so bad now, is it?
Cross-post note: This appears also at Marry in Massachusetts.
This long, level course through the wetlands of the Neponset River is nearly a straight line, terminating at Interstate Highway 95. Easy terrain but a lengthy route. Great for endurance-building and diagonal stride practice. Start behind the bulletin board and follow the trail to the beginning of Burma Road. Ski to the end, at Interstate 95, and return.
Indeed it is very flat. It also runs through what must be marsh and meadow on each side, planted with trees. We kept waiting for the hills, as we are used to in the reservation. It has the feeling of the Cape Code Rail Trail instead. Yet, it was a workout by its length.
We also got to play a bit of Holmes too. One skier had been through before us today, followed by a hiker with a dog.
The latter pair was clumsy and messy. For the first mile of the trail, they tromped and excreted on the ski tracks (an unfavorite of mine). The dog was prolific, wet and dry, gold and brown.
The skier was more intriguing though. The tracks were close together and shallow, suggesting someone slender with narrow hips and light, perhaps 100 pounds or less. The pole basket holes were not far from the tracks and close together, suggesting that she had narrow shoulders and likely short arms.
We appreciated that she had blazed the trail, so to speak. After the first mile the booted one and canine companion headed off and back, leaving a decent track for us. On the way back, our tracks made the route even faster.
I'll do that again. Also, while it's not on Ranger Tom's Suggested Hikes, I'm sure we'll try it in the warm. If it isn't too marshy and buggy, it should be a fine adventure and nature gawk.
You are currently browsing the Harrumph! blog archives for February, 2011.


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Happy Artificial Cloth Banner Day a.k.a, Inauguration Day 2021
Anders Breivik: a Christian conservative populist, or a socially liberal, pro-Israel, neocon fanatic?
Anders Behring Breivik: Manufacturing a Patsy?
(Infowars.com) -- by Paul Joseph Watson --
Given the fact that the establishment media got it spectacularly wrong by instantly jumping to the conclusion that Friday's deadly attack in Norway was the work of Al-Qaeda Muslims, placing complete trust in the details emerging about gunman Anders Behring Breivik would be foolish, especially since there are innumerable inconsistencies and contradictions that need to be studied before a fuller picture of what motivated the bloodshed can be established.
The rush to blame Muslims for the carnage, hastily parroted by an onslaught of mainstream "terror experts," was a startling insight into how the propaganda that fuels the war on terror is so unquestionably bounced around the echo chamber of the corporate media.
It's also a reminder that the mainstream press instantly falls in line with whoever the establishment designates the enemy du jour to be at any given time. Now that Muslims have been so vehemently demonized as terrorists, it's the turn of so called "right-wing extremists," or anyone who disagrees with mass immigration, loss of sovereignty and globalist financial looting, to feel the heat.
The effort to smear European conservatives as unhinged radicals who harbor simmering urges for bloodlust is now in full swing, and it's a demonization campaign firmly founded on the carefully crafted public portrayal of Anders Behring Breivik.
However, it's quickly becoming apparent that just as many eyewitnesses reported two gunmen on the island where the rampage unfolded, there are two different personas behind Breivik himself.
Indeed, there are two different Facebook profiles for Breivik, one from before the massacre and one from after. The latter profile appears to have been embellished and deliberately altered to emphasize the notion that the gunman was motivated by his "Christian conservative" beliefs.
Compare the two profiles below (click to enlarge). The first one in Norwegian was deleted minutes after Breivik's identity became public. The second profile in English appeared after the original was deleted, and became the de facto profile of the killer...
"Several things have been doctored up to alter the suspects political views. First a section titled "Philosophy" has been added to include "Christian," and "Conservative." The media has used this to great lengths," notes the Council of Conservative Christians website.
In the second profile, Breivik's interest in Winston Churchill and Max Manus, the leader of the Norwegian anti-Nazi resistance, have been deleted, presumably because they don't fit with the psychological profile that Breivik was a right-wing neo-Nazi who had links with the English Defence League.
There was clearly manipulation surrounding Breivik's Facebook page after the attack. As Madison Ruppert notes, "Someone was active on Breivik's Facebook accepting friend requests after the massacre took place." People were also tricked into registering on a fake Facebook page set up in support of the gunman's actions.
Additionally, in a series of Internet postings, Breivik clearly characterizes himself not as a populist Christian conservative, as the media has attempted to push, but as a Bill Kristol style neo-con, an enthusiastic supporter of Israel, attacking racists and accusing others of being "anti-gay".
"None of the comments are extreme or hint at a desire to commit violence," notes the CCC website, adding that Breivik was a supporter of the website which was run by Hans Rustad, a former Jewish left-winger turned neo-conservative.
It seems as if there are two Breivik's, the original, a socially liberal, pro-Israel neo-con, and the second post-massacre profile of a Christian conservative, white supremacist. The second profile has clearly been embellished to push the notion that Breivik's rampage was driven by his Christian conservative beliefs, which is convenient given the fact that governments recently introduced the meme that white, Christian conservatives were the leading terror threat...MORE...LINK
Posted by Chris Moore at 9:39 AM
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