Guys. Don’t let the world get you down.
If you think you are alone, and screaming in the darkness, you are wrong. Your vibrations echo though the waves of reality. You are present even when you don’t feel that presence.
I’ve got a music playlist for you in this post. Enjoy it.
In the meantime, well enjoy the stuff that is floating around here and rattling about. Sure the world is upped a few notches on the crazy scale. But your bubble of reality can protect you. Make sure that you buttress up your affirmations. Never take it for granted.
And remember you all…
I believe in you.
Today…
Have you ever been arrested when you were innocent? What happened?
YES! Last November there’s a knock at the door.. Much to my surprise it was two police officers. They asked if I was G. Laymon. I responded “Yes I am, is there something I can help you with?”
They said ” We have a felony warrant for your arrest for Fraud, Uttering a Forged Instrument.” I ask ” Are you sure that you have the right guy because that is not a part of who I am. I don’t mess with checks, debit cards, credit cards and such. That just isn’t me!”
They verified my name, DOB and Social and said if you come without a fuss, it’s only going to cost $150 for you to bond out and when we get to the car, I will try to find out what this is all about for you He tried for 30 minutes but wasn’t able to find any details.
I did not learn until my first court date that it was for Unauthorized Use of a Debit Card. My Public Defender did her very best to try to get me to agree to drug court. I firmly told her “No, Drug Court is for drug dealers and I am innocent. Not only that I’m suffering with a medical issue and I desperately need this passed to another dare.”
She asked what was wrong so I stated “It’s rather embarrassing but I am having an allergic reaction to Preparation H. I am burning, itching and on fire and need to go to the ER.
We went back into the courtroom and she requested a conference with the Judge and the DA. She discreetly explained what was going on and it was passed but I finally had the summary of charges.
I had befriended an older gentleman who had opened an oddities shop across the street from my apartments. One day he says a guy is coming to rent props for his new years eve bash and asked me if I would do some shopping for him.
He had already looked all of the prices up and calculated the tax and it was $297.86. He handed me his debit card and told me to go to an ATM and take out $340 and keep $40 for myself because the store he was sending me to didn’t give cash back.
I made the purchases for him and delivered the receipt with the items and all was well. Three days later, his Debit Card was lost. The first thought that went through my mind was “I hope like hell he hasn’t contested those charges” but then convinced myself I was just being paranoid as I had only known him a couple months and he didn’t seem to be that type so I forgot about it.
I COULDN’T HAVE BEEN MORE WRONG! Not only did he contest it and get the money added back to his account, he returned the items and was refunded it as well!
My second court date, once again the public defender had me in the hallway trying to get me to agree to Drug Court. The more I stubbornly refused, the more she argued that I had a past and really didn’t have a choice. I told her yeah but when I was guilty, I owned it. We will go to trial.
A woman sticks her head out the door and asks “Do you have Laynon out here, they are doing announcements.” We walk into the courtroom and the DA dismissed all charges. The man’s sister and his own son and contacted the DA and informed him that he the type to do just that and then would be testifying on my behalf.
If I had signed that plea agreement before we walked back into the courtroom, I would have been screwed!
Israel Situation Escalates Overnight — Military Issues New Response!
March 28, 2026 became the deadliest single day for Israeli forces since the 1973 Yom Kippur War. In just 24 hours, 350 Israeli soldiers were killed during Operation “Second Shield” as three divisions pushed into southern Lebanon.
What was planned as a fast 3–5 day mission to dismantle Hezbollah’s military infrastructure turned into a devastating and costly confrontation.
This short breakdown covers the full timeline of the day — from the 4:30 AM ground invasion, early advances, and the massive IED ambush near Maroun al-Ras, to the brutal urban battle in Bint Jbeil, the intelligence failure regarding Hezbollah’s troop numbers and tunnel networks, and the intense evening counterassault that drove casualties even higher.
We examine how prepared defensive positions, anti-tank missile teams, sniper coordination, and underground tunnel systems shifted the battlefield balance within hours.
By midnight, casualty numbers shocked the nation, raising serious questions about strategy, sustainability, and whether this conflict risks repeating the mistakes of 2006.
Watch to understand what really happened during the bloodiest 24 hours of the 2026 Lebanon conflict.
United States’ test launch of the “Trident”
The spec on paper of Trident is 11000 km, what we see with our own eyes is 8500 km, the speed is very slow 5 mach.
China last test ICBM is as exactly as the description 12000 km, 20 mach.
How US Plans to Fight a War Against China with Brian Berletic, Carl Zha, Danny Haiphong and KJ Noh
What field of medicine is considered “ultra hard” by most doctors?
Medicine in general?
Veterinary.
Your patients can’t talk, small animal owners are almost always some variation on a helicopter Karen, for large animals you’re outside in the weather at all hours, people dump animals they can’t care for on you, you are ultimately responsible for everything from fish to horses, you will be bitten, scratched, kicked, stepped on and otherwise physically abused, ADW Syndrome is very real (Ain’t Doin Well for no known reason), and it can be totally heart breaking, since death of a patient is so very much more common, too often for neglect or other totally avoidable reasons.
So yeah, veterinary is rough.
Oh, lastly, you’ll never be rich, unlike human medicine. Especially not for the work and costs, both financial and emotional.
It is very much a calling, I’d say more than human doctors of any kind. Because there really isn’t even any help getting your DVM. It is an insanely hard program and few schools have it. Yeah, there are 33 in the entire US. There are about 200 MD and DO schools.
So that is my vote for the hardest medicine. And I’ll tell you something. If I had to chose between a random vet treating me or a random human doctor, I’d pick the vet every time. Even the lowest ranked human doctor who made it through the absolute minimum to practice medicine can find a job somewhere as a doctor. Many veterinarians end up in other fields because they couldn’t afford to practice.
It’s rough out there for them. Some also quit because of crippling injuries or are even killed. It’s not the world’s safest job, by far.
How does the fallout pattern differ between a nuclear air burst and a ground explosion, and why does it matter?
In the early morning hours of July 16th, 1945 a group of teenage girls attending Carmadean’s Dance Camp were awakened by a loud noise and a bright light. The girls piled out of their cabins into the chill, New Meixco pre-dawn to see “the brightest light [we] had ever seen, even though it was still dark out.” Barbara Kent — then a thirteen year old dancer — recalled “then, all of a sudden, there was this big cloud overhead and lights in the sky… it was as if the sun came out tremendous.”
But teenagers being teenagers, the events of the morning were soon behind them. Later, a fine, white powder drifted down from the sky and the girls ran out into the “desert snow” to dance and twirl, rubbing it between their fingers to feel its warmth and pressing it to their faces as they swam in the creek. (Pictured above)
Of course, it wasn’t snow but ash. Fifty miles and a world away from Carmadean’s Dance Camp a team of physicists, chemists, and engineers had detonated the world’s first atomic bomb. In the coming weeks the fruits of their labor would be unleashed against the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaiki, killing hundreds of thousands and injuring a half-million more.
But the first casualties of the nuclear age were not Japanese soldiers but the teenage girls at Carmadean’s Dance Camp. By the time Barbara turned thirty “I was the only survivor of all the girls at that camp.”
And the reason was altitude.
Throughout the years that followed the Trinity test the United States and the Soviet Union detonated thousands of nuclear weapons – many of them within view of populated areas.
An atomic test as seen from Las Vegas
But very, very few of those tests sent plumes of lethal, radioactive ash floating across the landscape. Some did — nuclear tests were tests after all — but one of the things the Manhattan project learned about from the Trinity test was fallout.
In early nuclear weapons fallout was just left-over fission fuel — Uranium or Plutonium — that didn’t participate in the nuclear reaction. In later, fusion based weapons, neutron-activated elements joined that unburned Uranium or Plutonium. But in both cases those exotic radioisotopes spent the first several seconds of the reaction as an incandescent plasma screaming away from the center of the detonation at several times the speed of sound.
Materials that were propelled upwards were widely dispersed before they cooled, forming tiny, microscopic flecks of radioactive material which could float on wind currents for hundreds or even thousands of miles. After Trinity, some of those materials found their way into a cardboard factory in Indiana which produced packaging for Eastman Kodak. The radioactively contaminated cardboard fogged the film it enclosed, providing Kodak engineers early, tell-tale evidence of the Manhattan Project’s success.
It doesn’t look like much, but that’s the first civilian evidence that nuclear weapons existed
But materials propelled down are a different matter. At sufficient height there is no difference; with enough air between the detonating warhead and the ground, the downward-projected radioisotopes follow the same wind-currents as their up-borne cousins. But close to the ground, the fallout particles are driven into dust and dirt. They mix and co-mingle with burning buildings and vegetation and the resulting mixture of soot and debris is sucked up into the roiling mushroom cloud only to “fall-out” (hence the name) as a precipitate of liquid glass and radioactive ash.
At Trinity, the test was conducted atop a 100 foot (30 meter) tall steel shot tower: no where near high enough to prevent the bomb’s waste plutonium and irradiated uranium from mixing with the sand and dust of the Los Alamos desert.
The Trinity shot tower
So when the bomb detonated it swept all of that sand and debris into the mushroom cloud before the liquid glass rained down onto the desert floor and the ash drifted on wind currents towards Carmadean’s Dance Camp.
And in the morning, while “desert snow” fell over the dance camp girls, Robert Oppenheimer and his fellow Los Alamos scientists surveyed the glassy crater where the atomic age was born. They remarked on the strange, greenish mineral left behind and named the hardened fallout-glass “trinitite” in honor of the test.
A Tale of Two Realities
Written in response to: “People have gathered to witness a once-in-a-lifetime natural phenomenon, but what happens next is not what they expected.“
Scott Taylor
Their expectations included a short duration of four minutes and twenty seconds where darkness enveloped them, followed by a day brimming with the exchange of captivating stories among their kindred tribe.
A feeling of unease engulfed Clyde, sending a cold shiver down his spine, foreshadowing that the day would deviate significantly from their expectations. There was a hidden secret within him, a tale not yet ready to be revealed.
As the sky began to darken, the small town was cloaked in an unsettling silence, casting an eerie atmosphere over the land. With the vanishing shadows, the once warm day took on a cooler and more refreshing atmosphere.
With their special glasses, the eager crowd anxiously watched as the sky grew darker, oblivious to the fact that they were being observed by others.
Against the backdrop of the twilight, the alien visitors moved silently, their presence hidden in plain sight. Their mission was not to marvel at the sun’s corona but to quietly track and mark the oblivious humans below.
With swift and precise movements, they gently positioned beacons at the feet of every sky watcher, resembling delicate flowers that held a mysterious purpose known only to them.
The humans stood, utterly unaware of the impending invasion, their attention captivated by the mesmerizing otherworldly spectacle of the seemingly innocuous eclipse.
The estates’ rhythmic heartbeat was soon overpowered by an all-encompassing hum that seemed to emanate from the sky, leaving the birds momentarily silent as if nature itself stood still.
The umbra’s embrace was total, and the solar wind’s rays danced like ethereal spirits across the sky, casting a spell over the gathered crowd.
But the awe of the spectacle twisted into confusion, then horror, as the host witnessed his guests being swept away. They vanished into a vortex of luminescent specks, swirling like a swarm of lightning bugs caught in a devil’s waltz, leaving behind the echo of his country estate, once filled with life, now silent under the cosmic ballet.
Three minutes into the eclipse, the last of the guests vanished.
***
Months before the event, Clyde was tinkering with his satellite dish when he suddenly picked up an eerie, otherworldly signal from beyond Jupiter. Surprised and delighted, the signal stood out among the other bursts of interstellar radio signals with its intensity.
However, this particular one seemed to repeat in a never-ending cycle. Decoding the signal was a lengthy process that spanned several months. He tirelessly applied numerous algorithms, experimenting daily, until one fateful day, he let AI take a shot at it.
The signal revealed itself as a cautionary message and a beckoning call to those clever enough to unravel its meaning. Humanity found itself on the brink of a looming precipice. The Xylars, with their advanced technology, traveled through time to protect endangered species from extinction.
Rushing across the galaxy, their focus was on humankind, with their radar locked onto a world in trouble.
Once Clyde understood the language, he crafted a return message to the overlords using his ham radio equipment. He knew the types of individuals who truly embodied humanity. They were not the ones from DC or the vapid narcissists who lived in gated communities and dared to tell those who struggled to pay for food how to live their lives.
Like moths irresistibly drawn to a flame, the Xylars had perceived the destiny of this little blue rock from another galaxy. The bright flashes they witnessed were blindingly intense, far brighter than anything their sun could produce.
As the director of a league of writers, Clyde knew each of them by their words. He insisted that they come to his home in the country to witness a once-in-a-lifetime event, and he had a plan.
They came from the best of the group, unaware that this day would be their last day on planet Earth.
The morning of the event went about as you might expect. Clyde’s secret twisted his stomach into knots. If he told them what he was planning, would they come? Could they keep the secret, or would they spoil mankind’s last chance to survive the apocalyptic pursuits of the greedy, insane power brokers who thought of themselves as gods?
In a few brief hours, many, if not all, of his friends would vanish.
They arrived on cue, bringing food, drinks, and materials to craft their stories.
The promise of the Xylars was as straightforward as it was enticing.
After ensuring the planet’s safety, they promised to carefully transport the humans back to their world. They emphasized their commitment to preserving the gene pool by prohibiting individuals with a penchant for weapon creation from tainting it. Those who possessed the art of skillful communication and could craft documents that would guide future generations were in high demand.
As the moon gradually moved away from obstructing the sun, the devil comet, which was revealed to be a spaceship, vanished into the vivid indigo sky.
When the birds sang again, their melodies echoed through an empty estate.
Clyde conducted an inspection of his home and observed the automobiles owned by his guests sitting in the driveway. Upon entering the house, he discovered that his guests had left the food and drinks untouched. The computers and other writing tools were patiently waiting, their screens glowing softly in the dimly lit room.
He stood alone, the last person remaining. They entrusted him with the mission to seek out like-minded individuals worldwide, and the Xylars set off on their journey.
Much like Noah, the Xylars began taking aboard different species of creatures. At the same time, Clyde went on his task to proselytize the writers of the world.
The words formed an invitation that only the cleverest could decipher, all while the rotund local sheriff stole time away from the confectioners from the town square to investigate the missing person’s claim.
Explaining that they vanished during the eclipse didn’t satisfy the local police. Guilty until proven innocent was the new mantra of the DOJ, FBI, and other law enforcement folks.
Even the CIA became involved when they heard similar stories from different countries.
Clyde sat in the local jail, attempting to digest bologna and eggs. At the same time, even the criminals in the other cells thought he was guilty.
How could one man do away with so many in four minutes and twenty seconds with zero trace of blood on his hands? Could he have accomplished his task more subtly, perhaps with a pencil? The written word is much more lethal than the sharpest weapon, but is that how it happened?
Pictures of the event went viral as the most prominent mystery in this part of the country unfolded into one of the most prolific missing persons cases ever published.
They allowed Clyde a tablet and pencil to write the story as they dragged the lake for bodies. Much like Paul writing his letters in prison, Clyde felt as if a prophecy was unfolding.
They employed cadaver dogs to find bones from existing cold cases. They walked for miles, finding even more missing persons from crimes of passion from years past. Nothing explained the missing writers. It was almost as if they were never there.
Months went by with no proof that he did anything wrong. When the author’s family members also disappeared, a judge who understood the rule of law was innocent until proven guilty ordered them to release him.
Even the CIA agreed as they were tracking other missing persons who only had one thing in common, they were all authors.
Clyde returned to his home. He cautiously passed through the yellow and black striped tape, immediately hit by the pungent smell of moldy cheese and stale crackers.
Oddly enough, someone had consumed all the special eclipse donuts that arrived that fateful day, as well as the cupcakes and brownies the team had made for the special event. Much like the writers, the sweet treats were gone.
The missing persons story continued to make headlines, causing tensions between the nuclear powers. As more cases littered the tabloids, world leaders accused the other world leaders of having the secret weapon of all weapons.
Companies that make money off wars have created newer, faster, and more deadly weapons of mass destruction. Instructing the tabloids to continue the fear-mongering raised the stock prices of those companies.
The news of various events led people to believe that Jesus was coming back, causing them to flock to the newsstands and purchase newspapers like never before.
Every country wanted to acquire the latest hypersonic super-duper weapon, just as it craved the newest smartphone.
In anticipation of the release of the latest and greatest Grandmother of All Bombs, they organized a fire sale with discounted prices on last year’s models. TV advertisements glorified the latest weapons, featuring women in provocative clothing to entice those seeking greater destructive power.
The newest weapons, sourced from different manufacturers, had been purchased by each country, showcasing their commitment to military advancement. They proudly bragged about their possessions’ size, superiority, and deadliness, each trying to outdo the others for respect. Their egos were on the line, and they knew it.
While their country’s citizens suffered from malnourishment, the Xylars observed the wasteful allocation of resources toward developing more efficient methods of warfare.
Almost unnoticed, writers, livestock, and endangered animals were taken captive during the buildup to the perfect doomsday scenario.
At the same time, deadly viruses created by mankind ravaged the very foundations of society. There was nothing kind about them, nor was it man’s shining moment on the hill. Evil was casting its shadow on the land, not unlike the shadow from the moon on Earth.
Tension peaked when the most immature world leader questioned the purpose of having such costly new weapons if they were only going to gather dust. Ignored by the other nuclear powers, his desperate need to affirm his god-like status overshadowed his grip on reality.
In an attempt to compensate for his lack of bedroom skills, he constantly sought opportunities to showcase his masculinity by brandishing larger weapons, revealing the raw reality to the world.
Like a dog marking its territory, a foolish dictator seeking attention invading his neighbors and killing tens of thousands set him front and center on the world stage.
Not to be outdone, more minor, more sinister actors killed hundreds in tortuous ways to call attention to their foolish grievances.
“Look at me!” they cried, voices drowned out by the thunderous roar of missiles launching from their bases.
Little did they know, the rockets launched unknowingly fueled the profits of weapons manufacturers, pushing global tensions dangerously closer to Armageddon.
Politicians bribed by those who make the weapons profited by taking sides, convincing the people to send billions of dollars in weapons to fend off the invaders who also spent billions to counter the influx of technology provided by the elite gods of DC. With politicians as the middlemen, it was no wonder they would never write a law limiting their time in office.
Citizens of each country became free-range humans on government tax farms.
Since they were oblivious to their history, they foolishly raised flags for those countries or causes they believed in.
Propaganda heralded by the bought and paid-for media spread lies written by those with the gold. Almost always, emotional triggers kept people distracted as the magicians pulled evil rabbits from their hats.
Actors with zero honor were rewarded handsomely for knowingly preaching falshoods to keep the people distracted. Herding the masses through lies became a worldwide phenomenon.
Those who felt the worst pain were told the reason for their pain was caused by those who knew the history and were actively attempting to right the ship. The morally upright of the planet were suddenly the enemy and on the radar of the Xylars.
The battle between light and darkness juxtaposed the story of the Prince of Darkness and God.
The Xylars could feel the weight of time slipping away, leaving the humans at a disadvantage. Satan was winning.
When the devil comet returned near Earth from behind the sun, more people mysteriously vanished without a trace. Prompt acknowledgment awaited whoever engaged with the Xylars’ emissary in response to his thought-provoking short story.
Unlike any other piece of writing, the short story enthralled its readers as they uncovered its prophetic meaning.
The guests of the Xylars willingly set off on a celestial voyage, exploring the wonders of the universe and venturing into the unknown.
Meanwhile, the rest carelessly conspired their demise, falling prey to the tabloids’ deceit and surrendering their time to the social media puppeteers. Their actions were fueled by a dangerous combination of hate and ignorance.
As a subtle indication of the Xylars’ involvement, they left a fragrant flower behind, replacing the tagging device. No matter how hard they tried, neither the FBI nor Scotland Yard could unravel why a solitary petunia had replaced a human.
The Xylars came from a place rich with fragrant vegetation. They visited humanity in the sixties after witnessing the bright flashes from WWII, setting off a wave of hippies and flower power; they hoped that was enough. It wasn’t.
Today’s visit was to rescue the few who could embrace love, not war.
Clyde was aware. He also knew the Xylars’ guest would have their own story based on lived experiences instead of retelling someone else’s story.
As the last day the Earth would be habitable approached, Clyde brewed his coffee. He stepped outside to savor the melodic symphony of birdsong accompanying the sun’s ascent from the murky depths of the horizon. Clyde marveled at the vibrant green grass, towering trees, and a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves. He knew this memory would need to last him as those global elite with their fingers on the big red buttons were entering a pissing contest that would have zero winners.
While the weapon manufacturers counted their profits, they would perish in blinding white flashes, vaporized by the very weapons that they sold to foolish children while adding zeros to their net worth.
Clyde’s previous communication through his ham radio would be the final signal to leave the Earth, which was meant for peace.
He knew petunias decorated the world’s landscape in the exact places where writers had once been. The Xylars left them as a message to the humans, and nobody but Clyde figured it out.
He was delighted to see a new cluster of petunias right before him.
The boiling point was reached when a moronic dictator bragged to his people that the lone survivors would be the first to push the button. Then, much like Jim Jones, he drank the purple Kool-Aid by pushing his red button.
In a final act of disdain towards humanity, the other nations retaliated, bringing an abrupt conclusion to the foolish race. Just minutes remained until the first of many super duper highly radioactive mega-powerful detonations, reminiscent of the Heaven’s Gate cult, would trigger a catastrophic event, rendering Venus more habitable than the Earth.
As missiles from all over the globe launched in perfect synchronicity, Clyde heard that familiar humming sound as the colors of his home world faded.
Images of his fellow writers and those from around the globe came into focus as a small sun from beneath them took its place in the heavens.
While sad that mankind was so stupid, he was glad to see faces he recognized.
“Man, do we have a story to tell you!” They said.
Clyde had his own story to relate to the writers who had already seen parts of the solar system mankind had only dreamt about. His tale was the mother of all stories.
The conclusion of humanity seemed insignificant compared to the preceding chapter, where an immense amount of foolishness erased centuries of progress and the lives of billions who had overcome many challenges.
A society led by egotistical fools would inevitably experience a rapid and devastating collapse. History, which mankind had erased, contained examples meant as lessons for those that followed.
The Romans lived it, their legacy fading amidst rewritten or ignored historical records. If technology hadn’t made history so interchangeable, humans could have increased their chances by immersing themselves in the library, where the books penned by historians lay untouched like ancient relics.
The end of the world was not caused by climate change, the use of fossil fuels, or even flatulent cows but by the hubris of the intellectually deficient, focused on power and greed.
Mental illness in the form of extreme narcissism would be the final straw that killed the camel.
Touring the galaxies allowed the writers to witness much in what seemed like years while the Earth transformed into a new planet.
The matrix of time and space was part of the writers’ toolbox as they clearly understood that time was relative and not linear.
The beings they encountered came from various races, but what struck them the most was the shared absence of power and greed.
With this opportunity, the remaining intellectual giants from humanity could begin a fresh, uncharted chapter.
While exploring the galaxies, billions of years passed on Earth.
Approaching the pale blue dot from the solar system’s edge, those who left it years before didn’t recognize any land mass.
Clyde searched for the right words as the blue dot grew more prominent in the viewscreen.
While opposed to rephrasing the work of those who came before him, Clyde sat down with his pencil and paper. To summarize, the first chapter went something like this.
Chapter One sets the tone for the entire book, portraying a time of intense contrasts, where moments of pure happiness are intertwined with moments of profound sadness. The narrative plays out in two worlds, blurring the line between fact and fiction. It is a time of extremes, where the highest highs collide with the lowest lows.
She Asked for an Open Marriage, but Was Already Cheating
Stuffed Rolled Steak (Carne Rellena)
This is known as “matambre” (hunger killer) in Argentina.
Ingredients
1 (1 1/2 pound) beef boneless round steak, 1/2 inch thick
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1/2 teaspoon dried oregano leaves
1/4 teaspoon pepper
4 ounces thinly sliced fully cooked smoked ham
2 medium tomatoes, chopped
1 (4 ounce) can mild green chiles, drained and chopped
1 medium onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, finely chopped
1/4 cup dry bread crumbs
1 medium carrot
1 hardboiled egg, peeled and cut lengthwise into fourths
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
3/4 cup water
1 teaspoon vinegar
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
1 bay leaf
Instructions
Trim fat from beef. Pound until about 1/4 inch thick. Sprinkle beef with 1 1/2 teaspoons salt, oregano and pepper. Arrange ham evenly on beef. Sprinkle tomatoes, chiles, onion, garlic and bread crumbs on ham.
Cut carrot lengthwise into halves; cut halves lengthwise into 3 strips. Arrange on ham. Place egg pieces down center of ham. Sprinkle with 1/2 teaspoon salt.
Carefully roll up beef. Fasten with metal skewers or tie with string. If the beef separates when rolled, fasten with wooden picks.
Heat oil in Dutch oven until hot. carefully transfer beef roll to Dutch oven; cook over medium heat until brown on all sides.
Drain fat. Add water, vinegar, Worcestershire sauce and bay leaf.
Cover and bake at 325 degrees F until beef is tender, about 1 1/2 hours.
Remove skewers.
Cut beef into 1-inch slices; serve with cooking liquid.
Yield: 8 servings
How do worlds greatest steakhouses cook steaks?
New York City-A chef has the important people tonight. They want steak.
He doesn’t reach for the fridge, no-He goes to the aging room.
He pulls a USDA Prime porterhouse-dry aged for 40 days.
The meat is dense and dark.
He lets it warm on the-counter-A cold steak never cooks right.
The only seasoning is coarse salt, applied liberally-the meat must speak for itself.
Then, the fire-It is not a grill. 1800 degree infrared broiler, blast furnace from above.
The steak goes under, fat cracks and pops.
A deep brown crust the good chefs know.
This forms in minutes-he flips it once.
Smiles as he pulls it rare-lets the thing rest now, it is tired.
He carves the steak.
From the bone.
Lays the slices on a very hot plate, a ladle of sizzling, clarified butter-poured over the top.
The steak comes to table still cooking. That is the method.
12 minutes of MEN experiencing PATERNITY FRAUD
What is your opinion on gigolos in Bangalore?
I am living in Bangalore for last 10 years. I have heard about male sex workers ( gigolos ). I never able to understand why any woman would hire male sex worker for sex when it’s very easy for us to find men for sex. If we check around us then most of the men would be ready to having sex if they are not gay. When sex is free for us then why should we spend money for sex.
But still some women like to hire male sex worker for sex. But not for normal sex. Normal sex is easily available. They hire male sex worker for fulfill their perverted sexual fantasies. Normal men would not agree on such perverted sexual activities. Like. Some women like pigging sex with man. Some women like to play BSDM sex as master. They enjoy sex by giving pain to their male sexual partner. Some women like to humiliate their male sexual partner during sex. Some women like to see stripping naked man. Pissing on the body of the man . Etc etc. Women hire men for fulfill their odd sexual fantasies. Normal men would not agree to do so.
Sex hungry men think that gigolo is a job with a lot of pleasure. But reality is that, irrespective of man or woman, sex workers job is tough and painful. Many gigolos has shared their experience online in many social media platforms. You can go through those to get more inside view of their life.
Few weeks ago I had read a experience of a gigolo in Reddit 🍒 who was working in Mumbai as delivery boy. As delivery boy it’s easy for him to go to anywhere. His client order some item and as delivery man he delivered that item at the client house, home or flat. Here he gives his service. He has shared his rape experience. One married woman has booked his service. He went her home to deliver a item as per the agreed plan with client. After having sex with the woman , she had demanded that now the delivery boy need to have sex with her husband who is a gay. The delivery person was not ready for that. Then she had threathen him by saying that she would file a rape case against the delivery person. And there was sufficient evidence. Delivery person had brought a perticular brand condom from a shop. Woman take the address of that shop during initial friendly conversation. Then the condom was there with the delivery person’s semen. It means the delivery person could be go to jail for at least 7 years after running case for 3–4 years. He was crying but the women was indifferent. It’s clear that they are habituated with the situation. They had did it before many time. Finally the delivery person agreed to have sex with her gay husband. And it was a painful experience. The woman was enjoying to see two men having gay sex. After return from their the delivery boy became ill. All of his 6 months enjoyment is ruined in a hour. Metal truma and physical pain broke him inside but he cannot tell anyone. Even after 2 years he unable to recover from that mental truma and humiliation.
Sir Whiskerton and the Mood Ring Conspiracy
Or: When a Glittery Band of Feathers Tries to Decode Life—and Summons Magic Instead
Introduction
Ah, dear reader, prepare for a tale of shimmering stones, suspicious snacks, and spectral summonings. Today’s story begins with The Valley Chicks—Tiffany, Brittany, and Madison—discovering Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow’s mood ring. Convinced it holds mystical powers (“It’s, like, science!”), they use it to predict everything from Porkchop’s snack cravings to Doris the Hen’s alleged toxicity. But when their overuse of the ring accidentally summons Zephyr the Genie, chaos ensues in ways no one saw coming.
So grab your sunglasses (and perhaps some bubble tea), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Mood Ring Conspiracy.
Act 1: The Mood Ring Madness Begins
It all started on a sunny morning when Tiffany strutted into the barnyard, her oversized bow bouncing dramatically.
“Chicks,” she declared, holding up Bessie’s mood ring like it was the Crown Jewels, “this is our new vibe oracle. It’s legit.”
Brittany gasped. “Like, does it tell fortunes?”
Madison tilted her head skeptically. “Does it glow in the dark?”
Tiffany rolled her eyes. “No, duh—it tells us moods. And moods are, like, life-changing.”
Their first test subject? Porkchop the Pig, who was busy digging through a mud puddle.
“Okay, focus,” Tiffany instructed, slipping the ring onto her claw. She held it up dramatically. “The ring says… Porkchop will crave… watermelon rind tacos!”
Porkchop paused mid-snort. “Actually…” He glanced at the snack stash. “Yeah, I do want that.”
The chicks squealed in unison. “OMG, it works!”
Act 2: Declaring Doris “Toxic”
Flushed with success, the chicks turned their attention to Doris the Hen, who had been squawking loudly about her missing eggs.
“The ring says you’re… toxic,” Tiffany announced, flipping her feathers dramatically.
Doris froze, her beak quivering. “Toxic?! How dare you!”
“What even is ‘toxic’?” muttered Ditto the Echoing Kitten, trailing behind them.
“It means drama queen,” Brittany whispered conspiratorially.
Enraged, Doris retaliated by declaring a cluck boycott. No more early-morning wake-up calls, no more gossip updates. The farm fell eerily silent.
“This is SO unfair,” Tiffany complained, adjusting her sparkly sunglasses. “She’s literally proving the ring right.”
Meanwhile, Sir Whiskerton observed the chaos from atop the fence, sipping his moonlit tea. “This cannot end well,” he muttered.
Act 3: Summoning Zephyr the Genie
Things escalated when Tiffany decided to test the ring’s limits.
“What if we ask it… big questions?” she suggested, her eyes gleaming mischievously.
“Like what?” Madison asked nervously.
“Like… whether we’re destined for greatness!”
They gathered around the ring, chanting dramatically under their breath. Suddenly, the ground trembled, and a puff of lavender-scented smoke appeared. Out floated Zephyr the Genie, wearing his signature psychedelic robes and round tinted glasses.
“Greetings, groovy souls,” he said, twirling his peace sign. “Your aura is… wow. Just… groovy.”
The chicks gasped collectively. “Is this, like, magic?!”
Zephyr smirked. “Depends. Is your definition of magic a lava lamp genie who sneezes when shaken?”
Before anyone could respond, Zephyr conjured a tray of glowing bubble tea. “Here. For clarity.”
The chicks hesitated but eventually slurped enthusiastically.
“This tastes… spicy?” Brittany said, blinking rapidly.
“That’s because it’s Sichuan-style enlightenment,” Zephyr explained smugly.
Act 4: Resolution and Reflection
As the effects of the bubble tea wore off, the chicks realized they’d taken the mood ring too seriously.
“I mean, it’s just a shiny rock,” Tiffany admitted sheepishly.
Sir Whiskerton nodded approvingly. “Not everything that glows is wise—except fireflies.”
With newfound humility, the chicks apologized to Doris, ending the cluck boycott. In return, Doris reluctantly admitted she might have overreacted.
“And FYI,” she added, “the ring doesn’t work. I was faking my mood swings.”
The chicks stared at her in awe. “Wait. You were trolling us?”
“Totally,” Doris replied, flapping triumphantly.
Even Zephyr got involved, floating above the group with his magical kazoo. “Moral of the story, kiddos: Trust your instincts, not shiny rocks.”
Post-Credit Scene
Later that evening, Chef Remy LeRaccoon unveiled his newest invention: Glow-in-the-Dark Mood Rings™, designed to predict snack cravings—or indigestion.
“These are safe, right?” Doris asked nervously.
Remy grinned. “Only slightly.”
Cue horrified squawks.
Moral of the Story
Not everything that glows is wise—except fireflies.
Best Lines
- “The ring says… Porkchop will crave… watermelon rind tacos!” – Tiffany, channeling her inner fortune teller.
- “That’s because it’s Sichuan-style enlightenment,” – Zephyr, explaining the spicy bubble tea.
- “Trust your instincts, not shiny rocks.” – Sir Whiskerton, delivering timeless wisdom.
Key Jokes
- The chicks’ obsession with the mood ring adds absurdity to everyday decisions.
- Zephyr’s bubble tea sparks both curiosity and regret.
- Chef Remy’s glowing rings tie back to the moral hilariously.
Starring
- The Valley Chicks (Glittery Detectives/Mood Ring Enthusiasts)
- Bessie the Tie-Dye Cow (Accidental Oracle/Owner of the Ring)
- Zephyr the Genie (Groovy Spectral Guest/Bubble Tea Connoisseur)
- Chef Remy LeRaccoon (Mad Scientist of Snacks)
Summaries
- Moral: Not everything that glows is wise—except fireflies.
- Future Potential: Could the chicks start a “Farm Psychic Hotline”? Or will Chef Remy invent edible crystals next?
Until next time, may your moods be stable and your rings unenchanted. ✨
Are farmers really relying on migrant workers because they won’t pay higher wages, or is there more to the story?
There is quite a bit more to the story.
I don’t know about other parts of the U.S. but I worked for over 16 years for a farmer in California. He grew sweet corn that was harvested /packed/shipped in the summer and then grew indian corn, gourds and several varieties of pumpkins that were harvested in the fall, September, October and November. Everything could be handled by about twenty employees on the farm until harvest time. Then he needed about 100 ‘seasonal workers’ for harvest. We hired ‘migrant workers’ for a portion of the harvest crew, men and a few women that traveled in the Western states and moved with the crops. Many of these people came back to us year after year, harvest after harvest.
In the packing sheds, where the produce was graded and packed for shipment most of the workers were younger women, again many of them working for us year after year during the harvest season.
The twenty or so full-time farm workers and their families were from Mexico but were in the U.S. on work visas. They usually went back to Mexico in December, when the farm was ‘dark’ and returned in January.
These permanent workers were paid a decent wage, considerably over minimum wage, due to their knowledge and skills.
The ‘seasonal workers’ that worked for us for a few months were all here on work visas. We NEVER knowingly hired anyone working in the U.S. illegally. If their paperwork was questionable, we did not hire them.
Pay? At the time I am speaking of, minimum wage in California was $8 an hour and that included seasonal farm workers. The pay structure for the picking crews was $8 an hour or so much a bin picked, whichever was MORE. The total bins picked was added up at the end of the day multiplied by the amount per bin and that figure was recorded and the total amount divided among the picking crew.
In the packing shed the same process applied. Packers were paid minimum wage or by the box packed, whichever was more. The total boxes packed was tallied at the end of the day, multiplied by the pay per box and then divided among the twenty or so women on the packing line. Many days in the packing shed, the women would make twice the minimum wage.
Field crews? Pay day was every Friday and I was talking to one of the guys on our best picking crews and saw his paycheck. I said, “That’s a pretty good check.” He smiled and said, “Where I live in Mexico, this is Doctor/Lawyer money.”
So, the belief that farmers hire illegal immigrants and pay them almost nothing for their ‘slave labor’ may be true in some parts of the U.S. but I never saw it in the ag. area where I worked.
Yes, we heard, “Why do you hire all these Mexicans? Why not hire Americans?” We actually tried that one summer for the corn crop. Hired local high school and college kids home for the summer and we couldn’t keep a picking or packing crew. “It’s hot!” “I’m tired!” “This is dirty!” was what we heard from the picking crews. “I’m tired!” “Why can’t we listen to the radio?” “Why can’t I talk to my friends on my phone while I’m packing?” was what was heard from the packing crews and many of them worked a day or so and never came back. “This is hard!” The Mexican women who supervised the packing line was kind of hardcore. “You want to listen to the radio and talk to your boyfriend on the phone? You can stay home and do that all you want. Come here, we’re going to work.”
Pictures
Have you ever encountered a lawyer who was so good that you were lost for words?
I have, in fact.
First, the back story.
Many years ago, around 1999, my company built and sold a “unified messaging” product (FirstClass Unified Messaging). This was a system which combined email and voice mail into one mailbox. I know this sounds pretty boring these days, but at the time it was truly cutting-edge.
And the reason my team and I built this is because in the mid-1980s we had built Meridian Mail, Nortel’s voice mail system, which went on to become of of the most successful and widely-deployed voice mail systems in the world.
Anyhow, sometime around 2000 I was demonstrating FirstClass UM to a BigLaw firm in Manhattan. They got A LOT of voicemails, and they liked the idea of being able to file and search their voicemails. After I demoed it they said “Can you show it one more time? We’d like to show this to one of our senior partners”. Of course, I said I would, a little while later he showed up, and I did my demo one more time.
Now the answer to the question.
After I did my demo, he asked me a few questions, and he asked how we had come to build FirstClass, and I mentioned that I had also built Meridian Mail, which they happened to use. I gave some throwaway explanation, like “Meridian Mail really is just like an email system, except it delivers attachments which are voice recordings.”
It was if a different person had suddenly taken his place. He focused right in on me and started cross-examining me:
Lawyer: Are you saying that voice mail systems are just like email systems?
Me: Yep, really just the same. Except they deliver voice attachments and the client you use is a phone and not Outlook. But the concept is the same.
And are these messages stored somewhere?
Oh yeah. What you think of as “a voice mail system” is really just a computer attached to your phone system.
So, just like Outlook, each voice message is just a file stored on a hard disk?
Well, that’s simplifying it a bit, but yes. That’s exactly right.
And what happens to these files? Do they get deleted?
Well, that depends on the policies your voice mail admin sets up. But yes, typically they are deleted after some fixed period of time, like 6 months.
And will they be in a trash can or something, so they can be undeleted?
Oh yeah, there’s typically something like that in case the CEO accidentally deletes a message. They are normally kept for something like another 180 days.
And those messages are available to the voice mail administrator?
Yep.
And just like that, he was done with me.
He turned to the junior partner beside him, and with the exactly the same intensity he had been cross-examining me, he said
“Did you get all that? On every piece of litigation going forward, I want our standard discovery requests to require production of a full digital backup of the opposing party’s voice mail hard disk, the userid and password of the voice mail admin account, and voice mails should be included in the litigation hold.”
It was truly impressive to observe how he saw an angle that nobody else in the room had seen.
I’m 40 and I Completely Wasted My life ….
Why do seal team members not eat with the crew of a ship?
I was in the Navy, 1966–1970 serving on an amphibious flag ship as part of the sixth fleet. We deployed to the Mediterranean twice during this time and we had a UDT detachment each time. The UDT brought their own hydrofoil high speed boat with them (maybe a 35 footer). The boat was placed on our flight deck ready to be put into the ocean. The UDT wore different uniforms of the day, as I recall. They often wore khaki shorts and shirts.
At least once during each six month deployment, we had a nighttime security exercise. It lasted for about six hours. At night, our ship lowered the hydrofoil into the ocean and the UDT took the boat and set up about 25 miles away from the task force (the task force was made up of five or six amphibious ships). Our ships anchored in a circle. Each ship put all our boats into the water and had them circle the task force to protect us from the UDT swimmers. We monitored the boats on our net in CIC. It would seem as if we would be protected from anything undersea trying to harm us.
About two hours into the exercise we tracked the UDT hydrofoil power across our ships at a very fast rate of speed. We knew this meant the UDT swimmers were dropping their swimmers in the water in preparation for attacking us from underwater. We notified all our boats to prepare for attack.
The swimmers used snorkels and re-breathers when they came at us. There were no bubbles to give them away. The swimmers successfully placed dummy magnetic explosives on each ship’s hull without us catching them. One swimmer (an officer) climbed up our anchor chain without being noticed. He proceeded up our weather decks in his black wet suit, until he was caught near CIC where I was working. He came into CIC and used our radio to end the exercise. Bottom line, the UDT would have sunk each of our ships.
Another example of these young men, was during our “smokers”. Smokers are boxing matches we held on our flight deck, in a boxing ring, during Holiday Routine while crossing the Atlantic. Anyone could enter the ring and duke it out. The Marines on board seemed to have an attitude about the UDT. There were always at least two or three boxing matches between a Marine and UDT. There never seemed to be a successful winner. The Marines generally boxed in a professional manner, as seen on TV, while the UDT seemed to be more into grappling.
I give these two examples to show that the UDT were very proficient in their trade. They were friendly with all, they ate on our mess deck, they tended to stay in their group on liberty, but were open to any of us joining them.
The time period of this was the late ’60s. I know the SEALS were established in 1962, but the UDT were the first step in becoming a SEAL, as I understand it.
Playlist For Men Who Move In Silence | Gentleman Song | Gentleman Dark Blues
This is a real treat. I KNOW that some of you in MM land will absolutely appreciate this.
Emerald Nightfall
Written in response to: “People have gathered to witness a once-in-a-lifetime natural phenomenon, but what happens next is not what they expected.“
George Georgerfrost@gmail.com
You can tell when it’s coming. Sunset brings on a strange vibration even that the sylvan creatures feel. The birds change the mood of their twilight songs to a more somber melody. We hillfolk know all the signs of this rare phenomenon that is coming at night fall when the clouds float like ancient spirits and a wave of rich emerald bathes the rocky landscape.
It is the night of their return and woe to those who do not heed the coming of the Emerald Nightfall. Some of the creatures start to howl or screech at the sagging full moon. Smaller creatures, often prey, scurry into the brush for safety as the sky is engulfed in the swirling emerald kaleidoscope. The wind begins to blow rocking the higher branches and boughs of the pines sounding like an oncoming train.
Let me warn you of what may come and take heed, take shelter, but, pray, do not let the garish green misty light fall upon your being, because the stain, like Cain’s blood will never wash off.
I have lived here in this cabin for nearly thirty years after my wife died in labor giving birth to a son I would never get to know. It was on an Emerald Nightfall. Back then I did not fully understand the impact of the transcendental power that came with this occurrence, but seeing Sarah slip away wrapped in a bloody sheet with my son Isaac in her arms, I came to fear and respect the powers of the unknown.
There are those among us who are in communication with those powers and they warn us to be on guard lest our souls be taken as ransom. Their stories of the horrible magic that comes with an Emerald Nightfall is enough to make a believer of a hardened man like myself.
My name is Moses Stearns and I have lived long enough to witness two Emerald Nightfalls, this will be my third. I felt the wind pick up earlier this afternoon while I was fishing in the stream near my cabin for dinner. The clouds started forming and I knew it was coming. Shadows start deepening and pulling free from the things they are shadowing for.
“We’d bes’ be gettin’ on, Brigadier.” I utter to my black Labrador as I pack my tackle box. Even the gurgling water seems to be casting strange reflections as it cascades by.
As I stated before, I came up to these hills in North Carolina after burying my wife and son in some forgotten cemetery in Raleigh. I never saw no reason to go back. The past has always brought me nothing but pain and grief. Up here in the Great Smoky Mountains, I have found a temporary place in this world with my homemade squeezins and doing odd jobs here and there. I need very little as it is and I keep my cash buried in mason jars out back. I’ve lost track of just how much I got stashed there, but it don’t really matter to me anyway.
“Emerald Nightfall comin'” I waved to Chester as I continued on to my cabin. He just nods and closes the door.
Chester has lived his whole life up here. He knows. He told me the green mist came from some evil cult that used to have human sacrifices in the deep woods. Chester said they used to put chemicals in the flames to make it burn green. I’m not much on superstitions, but all I know is the Emerald Nightfall reached where I was living with Sarah and I saw what it did. After that, I didn’t want to tangle with the evil that went with it.
I heard what all them professors and doctors of astrology had to say about it and it all sounds like gibberish to me. I heard one of them spouting off about it. The television station we were watching put his name followed by PhD at the bottom of the screen.
“Hey Mo, come look at this.” Sarah pointed to the screen as she rubbed her round belly, “He’s talking about some phenomenon that is supposed to happen tonight.”
“Sounds like hooey to me.” I shook my head as I walked out of the room.
How was supposed to know she would have trouble sleeping and her leg cramps made her get out of bed. How was I supposed to know she’d go outside for her walk? How was I supposed to know that the emerald light would cover her and the baby? How was I supposed to know what that would do to her until she woke up a few hours later screaming out for me? And when I found her on the sofa, she reached out for me, but it was too late.
Hemorrhage is a terrible word or so I learned that night.
Dr. van Dyke told me, “Moses, there was nothing you could have done to save the baby or her.”
He put his hand on my shoulder as I sobbed over Sarah and the baby.
Franita D’Aramatang stopped by a day after their funerals. She was dressed in black and wore a black turban with a gold star in the center. She started speaking in this strange language as she burned this incense as she waved the smoke all around the room where Sarah died, “Spirits release the soul of Sarah and Isaac Stearns.”
I stood there awestruck, unable to move as Franita continued her ceremonial ritual. When I looked at her dark face, all I could see were just the whites of her eyes. She began to shake convulsively that made me wonder just whose side she was on.
I didn’t wonder for long as her head turned completely around on her neck. The devil had walked into my home, but then she told me that they were safe. Her words of assurement sounded like a child’s prayer filled with hope and faith; two things I have been short most of my life.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Why do you ask? You called me.” Her eyes burned into mine.
“I did not call you.” I shook my head.
“Your inner voice told me to come.” She tilted her head as if I was mistaken.
When she left, I made up my mind that I had to leave. Franita D’Aramatang had waken the spirits that would never sleep again.
The second time the Emerald Nightfall came, I locked the doors and windows. There wasn’t enough protection to keep any probing spirits out, but while they rattled my windows, none dared to intrude my cabin. I guess I dud not have anything they wanted. I did hear some stories from my neighbor Chester, that some people were sucked into the emerald mist, never to be seen again. Listening to him ramble on made me very uneasy as I helped him repair his fence.
“The Quigley’s had some of them cult folk in their family, but the cult disbanded before you moved up here.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his kerchief, “I suspect if there are any of ’em, they are pretty aged by now or dying off for sure.”
“We’d better get this fence repaired before the Emerald Nightfall sets in.” I searched the sky, but it was still blue and innocent.
As I peered up at the sky, I saw green lines streaking across the sky. The crickets were silent. The birds sang a somber tune like something they would play at a funeral, my Sarah’s funeral. I remember the sad melody played on a bugle and bagpipe as they lowered her casket into the open grave.
I would sit on my porch as the sun began to set peacefully between the gnarled old pines. Shadows began to dance free just like they had the other two times.
My neighbor on the south side, Elmer Quigley sauntered over wearing a smile with a couple of gaps. He tipped his straw hat and nodded,”Moses, ready for the Emerald Nightfall?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” I answered without relinquishing my chair, “Care to join me for a spell.”
“I might til the twilight.” He sat without the grace of an older man. Most folks guess his age was just a might over seventy, but when I looked into his gray lifeless eyes, I knew he is well past eighty. My mama said the eyes don’t lie and I do believe this is a hard truth. Searching his overall pockets for his pack of Lucky Strikes, he managed to Pull out a cigarette and light his stick match on a rough patch in his clothing. His gray focused on the tree lined horizon. “Been some time since our last one.”
“What, the Emerald Nightfall?”
“Yeah, that’s what most folks around here call it.” He sat back and blew a thick cloud of smoke.
“Yeah, and what do You call it?”
“Hunter’s Moon.” He smiled a crooked smile and winked.
“What’s a Hunter’s moon, Elmer?”
“Used to be a signal that the members was supposed to find a victim for the sacrificial rite.” His smug expression made me leery as I sat there watching the sky covered with this eerie blanket. He shrugged, “We always managed to find someone until Judge Orcutt put a stop to, as he called it, ‘our barbaric ritualistic rites.’ But we found other ways to keep our practice from being swept away by this bureaucratic nonsense.”
“How did you manage that?” I asked as he began moving like a serpent.
“We went underground.” His shrug was so nonchalant it made my blood run cold. “We wrote in an invented language. Can you imagine people inventing a language just so those in authority wouldn’t have a clue about what you are saying. You must understand that language can be used as a weapon. How sublime. What we speak, the words we use, can be as lethal as a bullet fired from a gun.”
His laugh echoed in the empty woods surrounding my cabin. Suddenly, I felt trapped. All the years I lived here, I felt the freedom of being my own man. Final judgment would not come until my name was called, but here I was trapped like a critter in one of my snares. His smile, his mild, self assuming manner was casting a spell on me.
Elmer rose to his naked feet, tossed his Cigarette butt into the tall grass and said, “I reckon I bes’ be headed on. Glad we talked.”
His eyes raked over me and I swallowed and said, “Yup, I see the sky startin’ to turn.”
“It always amazes me when the transition is taking place. It’s as if the world starts rotating the other way. Counterclockwise. Time begins to regress. The creatures of the woods are silenced in reverence and for just a moment you regain what has been lost. When Death is knocking on our door, we refuse to answer. We refuse to answer.” His dark eyes raked me over again before he tipped his hat and went on his merry way.
He was gone, no longer a threat or nuisance. I would go inside and let this Emerald Nightfall pass. I got myself into bed and dreams came quickly.
We were holding hands in the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. We were so much in love, just like all the rest. We were so much in love we could not wait so we dropped out of college and moved in together. Time did not fit into our plans. We were both compulsive and sure that we could live on love. We ended up getting married when Sarah found she was pregnant. Our life would begin in a domestic paradise. But reality plays a harsh game and soon we realized we were in for a rough road ahead, still we felt young and strong enough to overcome whatever came our way.
I wrapped myself in this dream like a warm blanket and did not want to wake from it.
“Moses!” The wind shrieked, waking me from my dream. My head became an echo chamber as the wind rattled the recesses of my mind. I did not answer, because I knew this was a trap.
“Moses, come here quickly, I need you!” The disembodied voice continued to shriek outside my door. Suddenly I felt transported back to that horrible night when I first encountered the Emerald Nightfall. Had I passed through some vortex of which I could not escape, I could not free myself from? The memory. That wretched memory was with me again.
It was her voice. I reached over to her side of the bed, but she was gone. Where was she?
“Moses. something is wrong. Help me…”
Her voice began to fade and weaken.
I called out for her, the dream still vivid in my mind. I could not help her. It was too late.
But what if I could? What if this Emerald Nightfall would let me transcend time and do what I could not do back then? I would do anything. Anything to have her back.
“I am here.” Her voice was pleading in pain.
I remember how I had promised her that I would protect her, but all of my promises became like sand slipping through my hands. No matter how quickly I moved my feet, it felt like I was running in quicksand. When I held her, I could feel her slipping away.
What can I do Sarah?
“Open the door and you will find me.”
Colors flashed through the windows.
I could feel the walls vibrate. Any second I would be on my way to Oz with Brigadier in tow instead of Toto.
It felt as though I was climbing a steep mountain pass as I struggled to reach the door. Brigadier let out a warning bark, but I tugged on the door handle with all my strength. Once the door was open there was the green mist staring at me like a specter.
“Sarah!” I called out in the howling wind, but there was no answer.
Once again I was a fool to my desire and earnest prayers. She was not there. The green mist covered me as Brigadier stood in the doorway barking furiously as I was sucked into the Emerald Nightfall.
“Moses, is that you?” The voice was as soft as any I had ever heard. When the emerald mist cleared there was Sarah standing there as beautiful as I could remember.
“It is I.” I puffed out my chest in my false bravado.
She embraced me. I could feel her hands and arms wrapped around me.
“I missed you so much.” I whispered in her ear.
“I missed you, too.” She kissed me on the cheek. I felt the warmth of her lips pressed against my skin. I had waited a long time, a very long time.
I doubt few of us will remember our autopsy, but I remember it clearly as the coroner poked around my inners with his scalpel before writing down “Death by Affixation” and signing the document.
“It was a terrible fire.” Elmer put his hands in his pockets when the coroner walked into the waiting area.
“Damn shame.” The coroner sighed. “I have heard some strange stories about the Emerald Nightfall, but I never heard it starting a fire like it did.”
“No sir, it was a log that rolled out of the fireplace.” Elmer confirmed.
“Still, sorry for the loss.” The coroner reached out to pat Elmer on the back.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be grieving too much. I got this feeling that all is well with Moses.” Elmer nodded as he turned to leave. He couldn’t have been more right about that.
2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY – The Landing –
What are some of the reasons people choose to undergo chemo even when the side effects are tough to handle?
When I was in the hospital and they had just diagnosed my cancer, my oncologist bounced into the room with a giant smile on his face. He was so confident and reassuring and said he had a plan, and all I had to do was follow it. It was three simultaneous cancer treatments, one of which was chemo. He assured me it was not the “Hollywood” version of chemo, that it could have a huge positive impact, and that I could quit any time if it was too much. He said all three treatments at once was aggressive, but that I was young enough to handle it.
I didn’t give it a second thought and said yes. I didn’t hesitate for one second, even though I remembered how rough it was on my mother before she died of cancer in 2006. The night before I was to start chemo, friends and I went out to dinner. I knew it would likely be the last time until chemo was over.
When chemo began, I wasn’t sure what to expect, and I asked if I’d be able to drive home after treatment. They laughed and said I wouldn’t feel anything for a few days. They were right. When it hit and I suddenly felt sick, the worst part was how terrified I was that this was only the beginning. I had no idea how bad it could get just yet. The fear overshadowed everything. When I hit the low, it was like a bad flu. It only lasted a few days before I started to feel better.
I had an infusion every three weeks, and it went like this: two days of normal after infusion, a week of sickness, then a week of somewhere in between, and a week of normal. By the third round, I had it down.
I loved going to chemo, strange as that sounds, because I got to be with my other bald peeps, and it was a chance to feel like I was with others who understood me. There were people all around me going through the same thing, and all were very nice. The experience at the infusion center changed me. I got to see the best in people, and not one person was down. Some were quieter than others, but they all had such positive attitudes, and that is in part what gave me the strength emotionally to continue. It meant a lot to me to be there.
The side effects are rough, but considering the alternative, it was nothing. I’d do it again without hesitation. I’m about fifteen weeks post-chemo, and I’m still dealing with some side effects, but it’s way better than dead by now. I asked my oncologist what my prognosis would have been had I not undergone treatment. He said he didn’t know for sure, but I’d have lived maybe three to four months. Right now, my life is about back to normal. It’s not a central part of my life, and my prognosis for survival is now measured in years, not months.
Surviving chemo was easy for me because I planned my week accordingly, and I got good at managing my life. My oncologist was right. Chemo is not as bad as in the movies. At round four, my oncologist asked me if I wanted to quit. He said it was the most common time when people want to stop. I was surprised by the question because it didn’t occur to me. I said, “Why would I quit?”
My little tree of chemo meds.
What, as a Canadian, could you not believe you had to explain to an American?
I couldn’t believe it because this wasn’t just a random USan, but a friend whom I knew to be intelligent and generally knowledgeable.
Her father had multiple illnesses that required expensive medications for which he lacked adequate coverage. I suggested that she bring him, his medical records and his US prescriptions here, go to a doc-in-a-box (walk-in clinic), get new prescriptions, and have them filled at a Canadian pharmacy at a fraction of the price they paid in the US, even after factoring in the doctor’s fee and gas for the five-hour round trip.
She thought about it for a moment, then said, “I mean, if it were for me, okay, but I can’t risk dad getting arrested.”
It was difficult (this was pre-internet) to persuade her that there was nothing illegal about it, that most Canadian border towns have at least one doc-in-a-box catering primarily to USan medical tourists, and that the only hitch might be limits on the quantities they could take back to the States, so it’d be good to check on that first.
The first time they did it, she rang me up, laughing, after they got home: while she was in the pharmacy, with her father waiting in the car, she saw an RCMP cruiser pull into the adjacent parking space; she was seriously contemplating making a run for it, leaving the meds behind, when the officer ambled into the Tim’s next door for a cup of coffee.
In the intervening four or five years, before her father died, they drove up every few months, an excursion he rather enjoyed, never had a problem, and saved tens of thousands of dollars.
Asian plastic surgeries are getting OUT OF CONTROL…
Verduras en Escabeche
(Pickled Vegetables – Guatemala)
Ingredients
- 5 jalapeño chiles, each about 2 inches long
- 1 tablespoon corn oil
- 2 cups diagonal 1/8-inch thick slices carrots
- 1 pound cauliflower, cut into 1-inch florets
- 1 cup sliced onion
- 5 garlic cloves
- 1 teaspoon thyme
- 1 teaspoon oregano
- 4 bay leaves
- 1 teaspoon salt
- 1 teaspoon granulated sugar
- 1 cup cider or white vinegar
Instructions
- Fry the chile peppers in the oil for 2 minutes to soften the skins. Remove the chiles, slice them open vertically, and remove seeds and fibers. Set aside.
- Blanch the carrots, cauliflower, onion and garlic separately in boiling water for 2 minutes. Drain well and mix them all together. Put them into a glass jar or stone crock.
- Mix the thyme, oregano, bay leaves, salt and sugar in the vinegar. Pour this over the vegetables and mix well.
- Allow the escabeche to marinate for 1 day or more before using.
- The pickle can be refrigerated or stored at room temperature in a cool place.
Why is it difficult for new competitors to emerge in regions outside of China for items with low profit margins like utensils?
The Sheer Scale !!!
That’s where India and other players absolutely cannot compete with China
India might land an order for 200,000 Units of Utensils or 500,000 Units of Utensils at $ 1.50 a piece and make a 8% profit
That’s around $ 60,000 profit on a $ 750,000 order
China can deliver 6 Million Units of the same Utensils at $ 1.00 and still make a 4% profit
That’s around $ 240,000 profit on a $ 6 Million Order
So the largest wholesalers can simply order utensils from China for $ 1.00 and sell them to retailers for $ 1.20 – $ 1.30, make a decent mark up and still end up with a cheaper price than India
You need to travel to China and see it with your own eyes
It’s like a bloody machine automaton
Crisp efficiency in Action
They keep automating the process to reduce the labor
For instance for 6 Million units of utensils, China may need only around 80%-100% more workers than India does for 500,000 Units of utensils whilst delivering 1200% more output and 400% more cumulative profit
China makes money for everyone
It makes money for its factories by sheer economies of scale (Huge Volumes, Smaller Per Unit profits)
It makes money for its importers who can make good margins and still sell them cheaper than any other country on earth
They export deflation by ensuring consumers can buy affordable stuff and enhance their standard of living
Its why Trump folded in his 145% Tariff war against China in less than 2 weeks
The thing is
Chinas manufacturing is a product of both Economics & Governance
The Five year plans and the vast Government forces are behind the manufacturing and efficiency
This helps support Industries during the phase when they need support until they build up scale
For instance when a factory makes 6 Million units of utensils and earns $ 240,000 profits – it is fine and sustainable
It takes 5–6 years minimum to reach this level
Until such time, the factory is not forced to close down due to delinquent loans or losses like it happens in case of countries like India
The losses are absorbed by the Local Governments
Then interest rates fall, the loans are restructured and the debt slowly diffuses into the system
Nobody else except maybe Vietnam can try such a model