.
Logic is usually just a whisper in a library full of feeling
The prices in China are amazingly cheap. Once you cut out the middle man, and the USA government taxes and rules, fees and regulations, you can get things at super low prices. Now, I am one of those middle men. So Heck, I know my value.
- Shoe laces... nah. You don't need a middle man to make sure that things are fine.
- Glass shower doors. Yes. You could really suffer if there is shipping damage.
- Factory that makes shoes. yes. Complex systems require careful study and baby sitting.
The problem in the USA is that everything has become monetized and for profit. And you know, that really sucks.
Lots of videos about this... American with a billion tiny hands on your wallet.
Today...
Have you ever managed to fix a major car issue with a cheap product or simple trick, despite mechanics recommending an expensive repair?
I was down to my last transponder key on an early 2000s Toyota. These are security keys with built in RFID chips. New keys have to be programmed, either by the dealer with a computer or by yourself using a complex pattern of key turning, door opening, and brake pressing that you can look up on the Internet.
I had reached the limit of spare keys that can be programmed to the car's computer, and had also lost any originals I had which were needed to delete keys from memory to make room for more. My only option was for the dealership to reprogram things, a $500 service for a 20 year old beater.
My solution was to cut open the plastic head on my only remaining key, remove the RFID chip inside, and duct tape it next to the antenna ring on the ignition cylinder so that the computer always reads an RFID chip even if you're using a non-RFID key. It was a risky move, because if it didn't work or if I damaged the chip I would have no choice but to have the dealer resolve it plus I'd be on the hook for a tow. Luckily, my hack worked perfectly. Sure, I'm bypassing security and anyone with a screwdriver could steal the car like it's 1985, but who wants to steal a 20+ year old beater? Besides, no one except me knows I've bypassed security so any would-be thief wouldn't know to try. Going on 3 years now, my free fix allows me to make as many $2 keys as I want. I've since rigged a kill switch to an OEM-style aftermarket fog light switch that I use to mitigate my increased risk of theft, so all in all I feel really good about my fix
What’s the most illegal thing you did as a kid, thinking it was completely normal?
At 12 years old, I I was happy to land a cool summer job in a family-owned bakery in Ocean City, New Jersey. In reality, I was working under the table, and violating child labor laws, and the town’s under-18 curfew before I even hit puberty.
Six days a week, I worked 8 hours per day. Weekdays started at 5 a.m., weekends at 4 a.m. The owners—second-generation Dutchmen—were like uncles to me… and, in fact, that was our cover story. We all knew the curfew rules, so if the police ever stopped me on my way to work, I was to say I was family. With a last name like De Vries, it sounded plausible enough for the summer rent-a-cops.
In four years, it happened only once. The officers accompanied me on my bike straight to the bakery, where my “uncles” greeted me like they’d been expecting me for Sunday brunch. Everyone nodded. No questions asked. Total nonsense… but it worked.
Once inside, I dove into the same odd mix of duties that went along with my main job as dishwasher. Most mornings I started with flipping donuts in the oil bath and then filling them with cream or jelly. Then I’d be wrist-deep in ice water to place boiling-sugar sticky buns on thin styrofoam plates after the bakers pulled them from a 425° oven.
Other mornings I’d be crawling across the floor of a -40° walk-in freezer with a tiny scraper, removing flour and sugar residue in Arctic conditions before heading back into the bakery’s 95° heat and a big pile of bakery pans.
That routine paid for my jeans and vinyl records until I turned 16… no small thing as the oldest of five in a family that didn’t have much extra cash. At the time, it all felt completely normal. Looking back, I’m not sure which part was more illegal… the hours, the curfew dodge, or the fact that my “child safety training” involved alternating between frostbite and sugar burns before breakfast.
But hey… the donuts were fresh, the company was good, and the police only stopped me once.
Is there someone who fooled the government for very long?
The world's best imposter ever.
Ferdinand Waldo Demara was in his early 20's. He didn't have a job but he needed money, so he started telling everyone that he was an expert surgeon.
I guess they just didn't do thorough background checks back then, because he actually got hired as a surgeon aboard a naval vessel with a fake name and degree.
At that point things were going great for Ferdinand as there was really nothing for him to do and he was getting paid for that. The Korean war came, soldiers started getting injured and Ferdinand was obviously expected to treat them.
What made things worse was that he was literally the only surgeon on board, so everyone who was injured was his responsibility.
Although he had zero medical experience, Ferdinand had a photographic memory, so after flipping through a medical textbook for 10 minutes he started doing surgery and somehow, some way all of his 16 surgeries were successful.
Ferdinand was called a hero surgeon and no one could tell he was just some random dude.
In his biography he confessed to impersonate a naval surgeon, a civil engineer, a sheriff's deputy, an assistant prison warden, a doctor of applied psychology, a hospital orderly, a lawyer, a child-care expert, a Benedictine monk, a Trappist monk, an editor, a cancer researcher, and a teacher.
Demara was said to possess a true photographic memory and was widely reputed to have an extraordinary IQ. He was apparently able to memorize necessary techniques from textbooks and worked on two cardinal rules: the burden of proof is on the accuser and when in danger, attack. He described his own motivation as "RASCALITY, PURE RASCALITY"
Imagine how great he could have been if he actually went to the med school.
Edit - A lot of people asked in the comments if he was punished.. Actually no.
His publicity got him caught. After getting the reputation of a hero surgeon, a journalist did a piece on him for a newspaper. After the real surgeon noticed his name in the paper who's documents Ferdinand forged, he contacted the authorities and his cover was blown. He was discharged immediately but due to the sensitive detail and shame of the military he wasn't charged as they did not want more publicity of this hoax he pulled which would have resulted in military's public humiliation.
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China’s J-36 Fighter Jet Is Scarier Than We Imagined
Pistachio the Ostrich and the Perfectly Directed Disaster
The Sir Whiskerton Universe is a place where chaos is merely order taking a dramatic detour, and on the farm, no creature embodied this principle more perfectly than Pistachio the Ostrich11. At 24 years of age, Pistachio was a majestic bird of impeccable posture and profoundly abysmal orientation skills2.
"I simply find the acreage objectionable," she announced one Tuesday afternoon, addressing a particularly stoic wheelbarrow3. "It is structurally inefficient. A compact farm, say, a micro-farm, would not necessitate this level of unnecessary perambulation. I merely wish to access the legume storage, and yet, here I am, debating topography with an inanimate utility object."
She was, of course, utterly lost, having intended to walk ten feet to the east and instead found herself a quarter-mile south, admiring the farmer who was currently having a vigorous debate with Bartholomew the Piñata (Mí zhī Táng Bão) about the structural integrity of metaphor4444.
This daily predicament—the combination of her formal complaints about the farm's size and her inevitable, frustrating directional failure—was her negative pattern5. It was this pattern that drove her to the one creature on the farm capable of providing a solution: Zephyr, the groovy, tie-dye-clad Spirit of the East Wind, known for his ability to grant wishes with a delightful disregard for conventional logic6.
Pistachio found him near the Silo, currently attempting to teach Rufus the Dog how to meditate by focusing on the subtle scent of warm, freshly cut hay7.
“Ahem,” Pistachio began, clearing her throat with the sound of dry parchment being meticulously folded. "My dear Zephyr. I must formally submit a request for an administrative correction to my current existential trajectory."
Zephyr opened one eye, which was the color of a tranquil blue raspberry smoothie. “Hey, Pistachio, cool your plumage, man. You look like you just navigated a tax audit. Lost again?”
“Lost is such a pedestrian term,” Pistachio sniffed. “I prefer to describe my condition as ‘geographically philosophical.’ But yes. I require a definitive cessation of all directional incorrectness.”
She extended her long neck in a dramatic, sweeping arc. "I formally request, without caveat or algebraic complication, that you grant me the power to never be directionally incorrect again."
Zephyr smiled, a slow, shimmering movement that made the air itself taste like ozone and forgotten lollipops. “That’s, like, a heavy wish, P-Stache. You want a map of forever, but forever is just now with more bongos. Okay. You got it, but with a righteous twist.”
With a flick of his wrist—a movement so subtle it almost went unnoticed by Sir Whiskerton, who was napping on a sun-drenched bale nearby—Zephyr installed an infallible, internal GPS directly into Pistachio's consciousness.
“Listen up, friend,” Zephyr instructed. “This system is pure, 100% correct. It will guide you flawlessly. But it can only be calibrated by your loudest internal emotion.”
Pistachio blinked. “My loudest internal emotion? Excellent. Logic and order, then, shall be my compass.”
Zephyr chuckled. “Sure, man. Logic is usually just a whisper in a library full of feeling.” He gave her a peace sign. “Just follow the volume.”
The Culinary Catastrophe Compass
The very moment the enchantment settled, Pistachio’s stomach let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a foghorn attempting a trombone solo. It was, she had to admit, a very loud emotion. It was Hunger, a primal, 24-year-old Ostrich Hunger that was rarely satisfied and always shouting8.
"Right," Pistachio stated, adjusting her internal calculations. "The next objective is the feed bin. I must proceed North-North-East, 15 degrees off the cracked foundation of the main barn."
The Infallible GPS immediately flared to life, not with grid lines, but with a blinding arrow pointing South-West, directly toward the eccentric end of the farm where Chef Chloe's (厨神小克) new, pop-up Molecular Gastronomy Shed was located999999.
"Nonsense," Pistachio muttered. "The feed is that way. GPS, you are directionally incorrect."
«ERROR: Directional Correctness is non-negotiable. Proceeding on loudest internal signal: HungER. Route: Flawless.»
Pistachio found her long, powerful legs moving with a terrifying, unswerving efficiency. She wasn't simply walking; she was being vectored. She cut a perfectly straight, geometrically flawless line through the chicken yard, executed a textbook 90-degree turn around a startled Genghis the Cat, and pulled up with a precision usually reserved for naval aircraft right in front of the Culinary Shed.
The door, naturally, swung inward at the exact micro-second she arrived.
Inside, Chef Chloe—resplendent in a hat so tall it required its own structural engineering report and an apron that read ‘Do Not Disturb: Genius in Progress’—was using a tiny culinary blowtorch to put the final, artisanal char on a creation10.
"Behold!" cried Chloe, dramatically unveiling the plate with a silver dome. "The Flaxseed Fluff Soufflé: Deconstructed and Reassembled for Maximum Existential Delight!"
The soufflé was approximately the size of a very polite walnut.
Pistachio, driven by the script of her old pattern and the new, terrible accuracy of her hunger-driven trajectory, extended her neck. Her voice was pure ice.
"Madam Chef," she began, the formal tone completely at odds with the rumbling in her abdomen. "I must register an immediate and vehement protest. The culinary presentation before me is not merely small; it is criminally undersized11. It fails to meet the fundamental volumetric requirements for an edible object. I find its miniature scale to be, quite frankly, objectionable."
«Internal Emotion Surge: Hunger-Apetite-Anger. Sub-Directive: Acquisition. Guidance: Flawless Head Trajectory Activated.»
The GPS, interpreting "acquisition" as "direct contact," forced Pistachio’s perfectly guided head to execute a flawless, low-altitude swing.
BUMP.
The tiny artisanal soufflé, a masterpiece of molecular air and flaxseed vapor, was struck with the precise velocity needed to launch it directly toward the ceiling, where it exploded into a disaster of culinary proportions, dusting Chef Chloe, the countertops, and a dozen exotic kitchen gadgets with Flaxseed Fluff12.
"My oeuvre!" shrieked Chef Chloe, clutching her towering hat.
"My apologies," Pistachio said, truly mortified, yet still standing in a geometrically perfect spot. "My head movement was, technically speaking, directionally flawless."
The Resolution of the Ruckus
After two more Directionally Flawless Food Failures—one involving a wheel of Chevre, the other a batch of savory, deconstructed ice cream—Pistachio was hysterical. She ran toward the barn, her panic a loud, frantic shriek, but her hunger still the dominant, booming guide. The GPS sent her cutting a perfect diagonal right through the middle of Jazzpurr’s (A beatnik cat who wears a black beret) impromptu bongo performance13.
"Man, that's heavy on the syncopation," Jazzpurr muttered, nodding to the rhythm of her thundering feet.
Pistachio arrived back at the gourmet shed, where Sir Whiskerton (胡子爵士), the self-appointed detective and philosopher, was waiting14141414.
“Pistachio,” the great cat began, adjusting his monocle, “you are creating a geometric nightmare. Your movements are mathematically perfect, yet socially catastrophic. It’s an ethical conundrum of Euclidean Proportions.”
Pistachio explained her plight. "Sir Whiskerton, I am the victim of Zen-based directional sabotage! My logic is a whisper, and my hunger is a Viking war-drum!"
"I am suggesting," Sir Whiskerton said, "that the wish didn't fail you; it simplified you. You tried to guide yourself with a complex map—degrees off the foundation, wind-shear calculations—but the guide you were given was your simplest, truest Need. You must focus not on the path, but on the simple purity of your goal."
Pistachio closed her eyes, and for the first time, she listened past the formality and the complaining. She didn't focus on North-North-East or logistical necessity. She focused on the plain, simple, un-gourmet, non-artisanal Mashed Corn she actually loved.
The GPS flared, the Hunger was still a Viking war-drum, but the target was now so simple, so un-complicated by culinary flair, that the direction shifted from Molecular Gastronomy Shed to Plain Wooden Feed Trough.
Pistachio strode off, not with the panicked speed of a misguided missile, but with the stately, perfectly aimed purpose of a seasoned traveler. She arrived at the feed bin, took one bite of mashed corn, and sighed in satisfaction. The chaos had subsided, leaving only the deep, meaningful insight that sometimes, the greatest obstacle to your goal is overthinking the path15151515.
The End
Moral of the Story
Your best guide is often your simplest need, not your most complex map.
Best Lines
- "Lost is such a pedestrian term. I prefer to describe my condition as ‘geographically philosophical.’"
- "Madam Chef, I must register an immediate and vehement protest. The culinary presentation before me is not merely small; it is criminally undersized16."
- "Logic is usually just a whisper in a library full of feeling."
- "I am suggesting that the wish didn't fail you; it simplified you."
Key Jokes
- Pistachio debating the farm's "unnecessary perambulation" with an inanimate wheelbarrow17.
- The soufflé being the size of a "very polite walnut."
- Pistachio's head striking the soufflé with "the precise velocity needed to launch it directly toward the ceiling."
- Sir Whiskerton defining the chaos as "an ethical conundrum of Euclidean Proportions."
- Pistachio declaring her stomach to be a "Viking war-drum."
Starring
- Pistachio the Ostrich (糊涂鸵) as The Absent-Minded Missile of Formality 18181818
- Sir Whiskerton (胡子爵士) as The Cat Who Solves Ethical Conundrums of Euclidean Proportions 19191919
- Zephyr as The Groovy Gifter of Directional Disaster 20
- Chef Chloe (厨神小克) as The Culinary Visionary (And Now Flaxseed Fluff Cleaner) 21212121
Post-Credit Scene
Chef Chloe, after scrubbing Flaxseed Fluff from her favorite spatula, attempts to create a savory ice cream that is so intensely, overwhelmingly loud in flavor that it might finally overwhelm Pistachio’s hunger. She tries a "Wasabi-Garlic-Anchovy" blend. The entire farm, including Jazzpurr, who stops his bongos mid-groove, spontaneously faints from the sheer volume of the scent.
P.S.
Never underestimate the directional guidance of a loudly rumbling stomach. It may not lead you where you should go, but it will always lead you exactly where your deepest, simplest self wants to eat.
Have you ever been to a restaurant that made you say “you have got to be kidding me!” when they brought out the food?
We were starving.
But even then, I didn’t feel any better about going.
Crammed inside an old strip mall, smashed between a donut shop and a massage place, was Chop Chop Sushi.
Now, never in my life did I think I’d ever eat sushi from a strip mall, but here I was, at the mercy of my buddy's choice for lunch.
Going against my better judgment, we walked in. An old bell clanged against the door.
The place was tiny.
About three tables total, each with two green chairs. Or yellow. I don’t remember. But I do remember them near an old Coca-Cola drink cooler.
We walked up to the counter.
Just one guy who ran the joint. He said hi.
I glanced over the counter. Weird. It was clean and orderly. Fish, rice, and whatever else comes with sushi were neatly lined up.
After my buddy figured out which flavor of food poisoning he wanted, it was my turn. I scanned the board. It was dirt cheap. I ordered the rolls with the most stuff in them.
We waited.
That’s when the “You have got to be kidding me” moment happened.
He brought out the food. It was a work of art. Each roll looked as if it had been prepared by a master chef at some swanky restaurant in Dallas. In fact, it tasted better than any sushi I’d ever had - even the “high-end” places.
Before we left, I watched him build a call-in order. It was cool to watch him create the rolls with precision and care. An artist and his craft at work. I ate there almost every time I drove through. Unfortunately, the guy sold his restaurant, and it became an ordinary sushi place after that.
But I’ll tell you this, I’ve never been happier about giving strip mall sushi a chance.
Dried Fruit Compote (Khoshaf)
Yield: 8 servings
Ingredients
- 1 (8 ounce) package mixed dried fruit
- 3/4 cup dried figs
- 3 cups water
- 1/2 cup raisins
- 2 tablespoon honey
- 2 teaspoons lemon juice
Instructions
- Cut dried fruit and figs into bite size pieces.
- Heat dried fruit, figs, water and raisins to boiling; reduce heat. Cover and simmer until tender, about 20 minutes.
- Stir in honey and lemon juice.
- Top with sweetened whipped cream and sliced almonds if desired.
Hollow’s End
Written in response to: "Center your story around someone who has (or is given) the ability to time travel."
Eliza Jane
The first time Nathan saw the name Hollow’s End, it was written in his grandmother’s hand.
He’d been sorting through a box of her things in the attic — photographs curling at the edges, brittle letters, smudged recipe cards. Tucked inside a cracked leather journal was a folded scrap of paper. The ink had faded, but the words were sharp:
They’ll never find it, unless they want to be found. Hollow’s End. Don’t forget.
Nathan frowned. He had grown up in northern Michigan, hearing family stories of logging camps and railways, but he’d never heard of Hollow’s End. Nothing in archives or maps bore its name. It was as if the town had been swallowed whole.
And yet, his grandmother had written the warning deliberately. Not a riddle. A plea.
By morning, Nathan had made up his mind. If Hollow’s End was a ghost, he would track it down.
The backroads wound deeper than Nathan remembered, pines crowding the gravel shoulders, the late-summer air sharp with resin. He parked at the edge of an overgrown two-track, shouldering a backpack heavy with a notebook, snacks, and the brass compass that had belonged to his grandfather.
Concrete slabs emerged from moss. A square depression in the earth hinted at a foundation. He brushed away pine needles from a lump of iron — an old rail spike, eaten red with rust.
The hair on his arms prickled. He was close.
Then he saw her.
A young woman stood ahead in the clearing, watching him with wide eyes. She wore a blue cotton dress cinched at the waist, the kind Nathan had only seen in black-and-white photographs. Her dark hair was braided neatly, and though she couldn’t have been older than him, something in her gaze was ancient.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.
Nathan blinked. “I could say the same about you. This place is abandoned.”
Her expression shifted, almost pitying. “Not yet.”
Before he could reply, the air around him wavered. A high ringing filled his ears, sharp as a train whistle. Sunlight bent, flickering. He staggered forward, reaching instinctively for the compass —
—and when the ringing stopped, the world was new.
The ruin was gone. In its place, a town breathed.
Smoke coiled from chimneys. Horses clattered past with wagons stacked high in fresh-cut pine. Children shrieked with laughter, chasing each other between storefronts still wet with paint. From the woods came the bite of saws and the mournful cry of a train whistle.
Nathan staggered, pulse hammering. He was no longer in the forest. He was standing in the middle of Hollow’s End—alive, whole, impossible.
The young woman hadn’t vanished. She stood in the road as if she had always been there, braid glinting in the sunlight.
“You crossed over,” she said, voice low. “The town must have called you.”
Dust clung to his throat. “This… this can’t be real.”
She smiled then, not with joy but with sorrow. “Few things are. What matters is you’re here. But you can’t stay.”
Her name was Clara. She led him through streets alive with smell and sound — bread baking in open windows, sawdust thick on porches, children’s laughter ricocheting off clapboard walls. Nathan tried to piece together her words as she poured him tea in a small boardinghouse.
“The company owns everything here,” she said. Her hands trembled slightly, though her eyes remained steady. “The mill, the homes, the stores. Debts are crushing them. They won’t pay what they owe. Instead, they’ll erase us. Burn the records. Flood the valley with the new dam. Hollow’s End will vanish.”
Nathan set his cup down hard. “That’s… murder.”
Clara shrugged, weary beyond her years. “History is written by those who hold the ink. You understand, don’t you? Why you can’t stay?”
He thought of his grandmother’s note, the plea not to forget. He thought of the graves he had glimpsed in the woods, swallowed by roots. “You’re telling me they’ll destroy this town and no one will remember it ever existed.”
“Yes.” Clara’s gaze fixed on him. “Unless you do.”
Nathan wandered Hollow’s End for days, torn between awe and dread. He saw children chasing one another past the mill, the old man whittling on his porch, the couple dancing to a fiddle in the square. Ordinary lives, destined to vanish.
Clara stayed close, as if tethered to him. She answered his questions with fragments: her family had always kept the truth, though it had cost them dearly. Outsiders like him sometimes slipped through, but the town never let them remain.
Still, Nathan couldn’t let it go.
“You have to fight back,” he insisted one evening, when the sky was the color of copper. “If people know the company’s plan—”
“They won’t believe us,” Clara interrupted. “Even if they did, who would stop them? They hold the deeds, the law, the sheriff.”
Nathan’s fists clenched. “Then I will. I can change this.”
She reached across the table, fingers brushing his. “No, Nathan. History does not yield. It devours those who resist.”
But he had already decided.
The morning it happened, Hollow’s End woke to fire.
Smoke climbed in black pillars. Nathan smelled it before the alarm bell clanged. Shouts rose in the street. People ran, clutching children, buckets, whatever they could carry. He sprinted after Clara, heart hammering.
At the far end of town, men in company coats set torches to the mill. Flames roared, feeding on dry timber. Beyond, dynamite cracked in the woods — blasting paths for the dam that would swallow the valley.
Nathan grabbed one of the men by the collar. “You can’t do this!” he shouted. “This town belongs to these people!”
The man sneered, yanking free. “Not anymore. Never did.”
Hands seized Nathan, dragging him back. Clara appeared, pulling him into the chaos. “It’s too late!” she cried. “You can’t stop them!”
“But I can’t just let this happen!”
She pressed something into his palm — small, cool metal. “Then don’t. Remember us.”
Before he could speak, the ringing began again. Louder, sharper, splitting his skull. The world fractured, burning houses dissolving into fog. He clutched Clara’s hand, desperate—
And then he was alone.
A locket rested in his palm, tarnished silver, etched with initials he didn’t know. He snapped it open. Inside was Clara’s face, faded but unmistakable.
She had given him proof.
The trees whispered in the wind. The foundations at his feet were nothing but stone. But Hollow’s End was not gone, not entirely.
Nathan pulled out his notebook and began to write, the words spilling as fast as his hand could move. He would record every street, every name, every fire-lit shadow. He would not let them vanish.
When he closed the notebook at last, he held the locket tight. In his pocket, the compass weighed heavier, as if pointing not north, but backward — toward a town that once was.
A town is only gone when no one remembers.
And Nathan would remember. He would carry Hollow’s End with him — in story, in memory, in the silver locket that survived time.
Did Jefferson Davis have a black child?
On February 14, 1864, Varina Davis was walking home at night when she saw a small Black boy of around eight years of age being physically assaulted, either by an older Black woman, or a gang of Black men, depending on which version we read.
She took the boy, who identified himself as Jim Limber and gave him some of the clothes belonging to her deceased son Joseph, who was approximately the same size.
Jefferson Davis himself soon came home, saw the boy, and instantly accepted him as his own.
And so it goes that the home of the President of the Confederacy of the United States was caring for a Black youth amidst the height of the bloodiest war in North American history.
According to various biographies, he was treated well by the Davis family, who saw him the same way as their biological offspring, despite some bizarre comments from Varina, who remarked that Limber made a "great pet in the family".
Limber had his own bedroom, clothes, meals, and even some access to education intended to get him to learn a new trade so that he could eventually earn a living and move out.
This odd relationship lasted for more than a year before the frontlines of the American Civil War literally came knocking at their doorsteps when the Federal Army descended on Richmond, forcing the entire Davis family including Limber to flee from Virginia.
On May 15, 1865 — 456 days after first meeting — Union troops captured them at Irwinville, Georgia and quickly separated them from Limber, whom they saw as an emancipated Black person.
Jefferson Davis never saw his Black son again.
Whether he made a concerted effort to relocate him after the war depends on which biography we go by.
Either way, this story is all the more intriguing and ironic when the historical context of the period comes into play, and is a topic that should warrant further studying when delving into the complicated human nature that tends to contradict itself at the most unexpected times.
2008 statue showing Jefferson Davis with his biological son Joseph and his adopted son Jim on the property of his last residence
China’s Quantum Radar COULD EXPOSE Every U.S. Submarine on Earth
Welcome back to Race to Space, where military secrets collide with reality, and the battlefield of tomorrow isn’t decades away... it’s already unfolding. Today’s story isn’t about firepower. It’s not about how fast you can strike. It’s about whether you even get the chance to strike at all. Because what we’re about to reveal could turn the entire foundation of modern warfare upside down. It’s not a hypersonic missile. It’s not a stealth jet. It’s not even a next-generation nuclear submarine. It’s a sensor. But not just any sensor. This is a sensor so powerful, so unforgiving, so terrifyingly intelligent, it doesn’t scan, it sees. It doesn’t ping targets, it locks onto them through quantum entanglement. It doesn't just detect aircraft or ships, it rips the invisibility cloak right off them. We're talking about China’s Quantum Radar.
What is a terrible experience you have had wilderness backpacking?
My group of high school friends planned a trip to a remote canyon outside of Zion. Most had hiking experience and a few of us had been guides or done extended outdoor trips. Unfortunately, it had been years since anyone of us had been on an extended hiking trip, but we all still had the confidence that our skills and knowledge hadn’t diminished a bit. Unknowingly, the trip we’d plan would require excellent wilderness abilities and planning.
The incredible slot canyon on Day 3.
It started with a group email, one friend (let’s call him Jim), who picked the hike, ostensibly had done all the research and was sending out periodic emails on prep and coordination. I asked if he needed any help as I had led wilderness trips in college, and he said no and he was doing all the planning needed.
Wilderness trips, especially the caliber we were about to embark on, require extensive planning and coordination. What to pack; what clothing is needed; who brings carries stoves, tents; weather conditions; trail maps; checklists, etc. It’s at minimum hours of prep work and usually involves the entire group and different individuals taking on different roles. I was busy with work as I imagine everyone else was and went on the assumption all the details would be handled.
The weekend came with perfect weather, and we all met at the REI in Vegas to get supplies. Some drove in and others flew into Vegas. Many hadn’t seen each other in years, and we were all excited and eager for adventure.
This is where the first issue came up. Jim was coordinating the group meals. He made an impromptu decision at REI that collectively we wouldn’t eat group lunches (often in groups, all the meals are group meals and split up to carry equally ny everyone). Each person should just get extra energy bars and snacks for themselves. For a light three day hike, it’s a reasonable decision and helps with fewer group meals to coordinate. But not everyone heard this and half of group of didn’t buy extra snacks to cover lunches. Also, as we’d soon learn, we weren’t in for a “light” hike at all.
The hike was three days and was rarely hiked because of the difficulties with accessing the area and the logistics involved. Zion National Park was famous for its incredible canyons. The most reknowned being one of the pinnacles of the US National Parks: a 14 mile long slot canyon known as “The Narrows” with carved walls up to 1000 ft tall at some points and 10 ft wide at its narrowest. Because it was at the center of the national park, it was also extremely crowded.
This hike promised a similar canyon but without any crowds. You first needed to coordinate dropping cars off as it was a one way hike where you entered at one point and exited at another. The most daunting aspect of the hike was the hike out of the canyon where hikers would have hike out for several miles over mixed open terrain where the trail was often over rock and not easy to follow. It required a detailed topographic map, a compass and wilderness rout finding skills. Somehow in reading about the hike, we’d all down played this aspect and some of the participants didn’t understand at all the level of wilderness competency this required. I had done some wilderness routing finding and knew how difficult it was, but I assumed we’d all be doing it together and was confident that the group together had the skills to execute it.
We’d taken a look at the map at REI and without really scrutinizing it as much as it should have been down, Jim declared that the hike out of the canyon on the last day would be a few miles and seemed relatively easy on the topo map. This heavily downplayed what would be far and away the most difficult part of the trip.
We started the hike in a broad open canyon with relatively easy hiking into the canyon that had a small creek running back and forth. Impressively this tiny creek was what had carved this massive canyon and over millennia carved its path through the rock and created the towering walls we’d soon pass through. The trail meandered back and forth over the creek. We hiked in around four miles that afternoon and set up camp on the sandy slope by the creek. We cooked an incredible dinner having brought steaks for the first night.
One of our friends, John, had a busy work schedule that week and had flown into Vegas to meet us from LA and rented a car. He left his rental car at the end point and planned to hike the entire remaining hike out on the second day, pick up his car and drive to Vegas to fly back to LA on the last flight at 10 PM.
I learned about his plan ans we’re hiking in and immediately thought it was a bad idea. It broke nearly every rule of wilderness safety. I expressed my concern with John’s plan to John. He would be setting out on his own, in a rush, covering an exceptionally long distance over uncertain and arduous terrain and then have to route find his way out of the canyon to get to car; doing this all alone. Under ideal conditions, with someone with exceptional routing finding abilities in area they were familiar with, not under time pressure, it could be considered. But under these conditions, it was a set up to disaster. Jim brushed aside my concerns. He didn’t see any issues at all.
I didn’t push the issue much. Since we were hiking a day behind him, worst scenario I figure could happen was that he got injured but had food and suploies and we caught up to him a day later. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The next morning we packed up camp and hiked further down until lunch. Now, the remaining half of the party learned that we hadn’t bought extra energy bars and snacks that we would need for lunch. The hiking had become much more difficult as at this point we were hiking solely through the soft sandy river with heavy packs.
The food was the first real issue. In leading wilderness trips in college, I’d learned that when hiking with heavy packs at altitude (about 5,000 ft), you burn way more calories and consume twice or more what you would normally eat in a day to sustain yourself and keep up your energy. Typically, you would over estimate the food you needed and carry a large amount of GORP (high energy trail mix with nuts) in case you needed extra fuel. In our case, half the crew didn’t have lunches packed and the packed light for the snacks you’d need often throughout the day.
John had planned to leave the group and hike out in front. Hiking the entire remainder of the hike (10–12 miles, half of which was through the soft sandy river and the other half through high desert wilderness repairing route finding) in the six or so hours left of the daylight and then drive to airport in Vegas to fly back to LA. No one seemed remotely concerned about this wildly ambitious and reckless plan. I was pretty confident there was no way he would hike out in time for his flight but again assumed he’d make it out just a day later.
What I didn’t know was that John hadn’t studied the maps, didn’t really know the distance and left the group unprepared. He grabbed a few energy bars and a quart of water to last the entire rest of the day and evening. That amount of food and water would be appropriate for slight 1–2 hour hike, but was dangerous little for the amount of hiking he needed to do. He didn’t think there was a possibility things to go amiss so he didn’t bring any extra food, water or a tent.
John hiked blissfully along and the rest of crew hiked on that day and camped at a beautiful sandy island that night as the canyon stared to get narrower and taller. It was beautiful night and incredible camp spot right at the start of the canyons but in full view of the stunning night sky and stars.
Another member of the group, Matt had the least amount of wilderness experience, having only really car camped in high school. He’d bought his tent and gear only really for this trip. It was all brand new. He had planned to hike out as early as possible the next morning to catch a 1 PM flight out of Las Vegas so he left camp at 6 AM with a cup of coffee, some water and a few energy bars. I didn’t think this was the best idea but we all trusted Jim on the first day when he’d looked at the map and ball-parked a two hour hike out of the canyon. Again, I had my reservations but ai assumed that both Matt and John had planned and prepped in-depth in advance with the trip leader, Jim, as would tropically be the case. None of this had occurred.
The rest of us left camp after a big breakfast knowing that would be the last meal for us since this was the third day and we didn’t have the extra snacks for lunch.
This was the final day and the day of majesty of the canyons. From the start of the day, the canyon started winding and narrowing and we hiked under beautiful red and orange towering cliffs. It was outrageously beautiful. Hiking along the sandy beaches and in and out of the water in this remote place of incredible beauty was as memorizing as it was peaceful. It was certainly one of the most incredible wilderness experiences I had had.
The group stopped mid-morning to filter our water and have our last snack. I’d finished whatever snacks I had left the day before and got a bite of an energy bar from a friend, I was starting to feel uncomfortably hungry even though it was still morning.
One friend (Smith) and I were hiking faster than the group and decided that we’d hike ahead and go on and meet at the cars.
We hiked quickly. The river got deep and the sand softer. The hiking was now relatively intense especially with a pack. Mid day my knee started to hurt and I was began limping. I think the combo of the soft sand and heavy pack had strained it. It quickly became painful to hike.
As we were scurrying down some rocks to pass a waterfall, Smith who I was hiking out with, lost to one of his two quart sized water bottles in the rocks. We all carried two water bottles and would filter water throughout the day to drink. Losing one wasn’t the end of the world since I was hiking with him we figured.
Eventually we made to the point where we exited the canyon. I was in a lot of pain and very hungry now and eager to get to the cars. My friend had mostly drank his last quart of water and complained about not wanting to filter more as it was time consuming. I had a quart and a half left.
Since we assumed the hike out was about two hours but in reality had no idea how long it would take, he proposed not filtering more water and asked if he could just take a sip or two from my water in the hike out. A quart and a half between us was pushing it for a two hour hike but I was in so much pain I just wanted to get it done and didn’t consider carefully that we’d soon be exposed in the desert and not in the canyon. Jim had ballparked the hike out to be two hours based on the map and the distance. That estimate was likely on completely flat ground in the best conditions. That wouldn’t be the case. The hike out would take over five hours.
We climbed out of the canyon and reached the canyon rim and were presented with a bewildering landscape of smooth carved high desert landscape and undulating terrain that seemed to sprawl out endlessly. The topo map that had looked so simple to follow presented as a massive sprawling landscape with steep ups and downs and tiny hints of a trail. We’d be scrutinizing the map and the terrain constantly to keep on the trial.
My knee pain was so bad, I couldn’t bend it which meant hiking awkwardly and slowly and in significant pain. Hiking this way created a huge level of additonal exertion. We were now exposed to the sun and had finished our water. The desert air was dry and it seemed to pull moisture out of you with each breath. Smiths decision to not filter any additional water now bore down on us as a criminally bad decision. Hiking in these conditions typically required a quart of water more per hour to stay hydrated. We had none.
We hadn’t eaten in over four hours and were now out of water for a strenuous hike in the warm high desert air. I started to get concerned. We were able to stay on the trail but barely and there few multiple times we were forced to back track to find the trail. Making the trip out even longer.
We were unsure most of the time that we were even on the trail. There were long stretches of the trail that worked across smoothed solid rock, so there was no trail only occasional rock markers.
I didn’t know how long or far the group behind us was and since we’d assumed a quick hike out, the best option seems to be to hike out quickly to get water and food we now desperately needed from the car. So we continued on.
Then I bonked completely. Bonking is when in endurance sports where you don’t eat enough during a race and your blood sugar crashes suddenly. Within minutes, you can lose all your energy and all your reserves. It’s a full on crash. I could barely walk. I’d limp for 50 yards and then have to sit or sky down and rest. I was probably dangerously close to passing out but somehow I just continued on. We were now hours into the hike out and hours past our last sip of water and bite of food.
We eventually came to a steep wall with staircase steps on a climb that seemed to last forever. I struggled to get to the top. I heard voices as I practically crawled to the top. Laughter. Wow, I must really be crashing hard.
I reached the top of what was a beautiful overlook to the high desert landscape we’d just traversed. To my complete shock, sitting at the overlook, were Smith, Matt and John. They were all laughing deliriously. We were all suddenly laughing deliriously. What had happened? How were Matt and John here?
After settling down, John, in a near delirium himself, explained that he’d figured from the map that we were a short hike to the cars and for the first time in two days, he and Matt knew where they were.
I couldn’t understand what had happened and I was still crashing badly. I asked them to hike ahead to the cars and get the water and snacks and bring some back as I could barely stand at this point.
When they came back, we hydrated, regained our senses and heard an incredible story.
John, nearly two days earlier, eager to hike out and cover nearly the full distance of canyon and the hike out, had barely made it out of the canyon by the evening in what was our second day of the trip. Not surprisingly, he was hours short of his goal when he reached the rim of the canyon and was on the edge of the daunting desert wilderness trail that required route finding skills, something I now know he had not practiced before.
He was bewildered as how to find the trial by the sparse and rolling desert landscape. Right as he’d reached the canyon rim, a rain squall hit. The skies darkened, and in the dimming light and increasingly difficult conditions to stay on trail, he wandered off the trail. This happened to us as well when we exited the canyon. We frequently had to stop and orient to make sure we were on the trail and often realized we were no longer on the trail and had to backtrack to find it. Doing this in evening light would have been nearly impossible.
John lost the trail and hiked down what would become an increasingly steeper slope. It was all slick exposed rock and you could quickly find yourself on a rock face where you may not be able to go up or down. It soon got so steep that it became far more difficult and dangerous to try to hike back out than it was to hike down. As it was now getting dark, John decided to hike further down.
At the bottom, he reached a river. It was nightfall by now, he hadn’t eaten since lunch. Without a tent, he found a small cave, drank river water and slept a restless night in his sleeping bag, alone without any idea where he was in this wilderness or how even to find his way out.
In the morning, John got up, extremely hungry now as it’s been almost 24 hours since his last meal, and followed the river. He soon realized it was same river and he had somehow hiked out of the canyon the day before and then back down into the canyon. Incredibly, he was now back where he started the previous afternoon.
As he was pondering the exit of the canyon again, Matt suddenly appeared catching up to him in the late AM on his hike out. Matt hadn’t encountered any challenges in his morning hike and was in a good mood and happy to see John as someone to hike out with together. They shared a laugh and eat the last of Matt’s food and then hiked out of the canyon again. Matt was eager to hike to ostensibly catch his flight in Vegas at 1 PM.
They reached the canyon rim again in the late AM of the third day. Smith and I were a couple of hours behind them.
They struggled to keep on trail. The expansive rock and desert wildness looked the same for as far out as they could see. The trail would sometimes appear on the sand a couple hundred feet and then disappear when the trail crossed the long stretches of rock. Wilderness routing finding is challenging skill and one that needs to studied and practiced to use effectively in the wild. Matt soon lost his optimism as the map became a garbled mess of confusing lines. They soon ran out of water and food.
At one point, they followed the trail down another canyon and ended up in a slot canyon hiking through chest deep water, carrying their packs above their heads not even knowing if this was the trail but unsure to turn back because they were on a trail. They reached a dead end in the canyon and realized that they had to back track all the way back through this canyon and try again to find the trail out.
They were exhausted, hungry and dehydrated. They took to drinking river water unfiltered, which is a guarantee to getting Giardia, an unpleasant gastrointestinal parasite prevalent in the backcountry. In their exhaustion, they started discarding any extra gear they were carrying and just leaving it on the trail. It was pure survival now. They stated to realize they were lost in massive expanse of desert wilderness. Worse, no one else even knew they were lost or where they were because they’d parted the rest of the group with the goal of hiking out.
Near delirious and out of food and water, they were in a very dangerous wilderness situation. Even if the rest of the crew reached the cars later in the day and realized something had gone wrong, Matt and John were well off the trail, somewhere in the open wilderness without any ability to signal, any food or water and limited clothing and shelter.
After nearly six hours of wandering, they eventually found a trail that led them to a short climb. They reached the top and rested.
In their delirium, Smith suddenly appeared on the same viewpoint, shocked and confused to see them. Matt and John started laughing hysterically. For the first time in nearly, two days they figured out where they were. Fortunately, they were on the trail and very close to the cars.
We all eventually made it back to the cars and met up with the rest of the group. When the rest of the group arrived, we found out they had had a leisurely and wondrous hike out of the canyon and out obviously to the chaotic and precarious journeys each of us had been through. Their hike out also had been relatively easy because Jim had downloaded a GPS maps to his phone so they had no trouble following the trail, a detail he had neglected to share with everyone before we all started on the adventure.
If you’re not familiar with hiking in the wilderness, it’s hard to communicate how reckless and dangerous the whole experience was. In the period of hours, what was supposed to be a relatively easy hike out had turned treacherous for four of us; but that’s the reality of the wilderness and part of it’s appeal. I done dozens of overnight hikes and a few three nights of longer and never encountered anything like what we experienced.
Even though, I’d had as much experience as I did. I’d broken a half dozen fundamental rules of hiking I the wilderness and should have pushed harder about my instincts with Matt and John hiking out early. Matt and John were extremely lucky. Even just a rolled ankle could have resulted in a wilderness search and rescue scenario for either of them.
This Won't End Well... Trump’s Plan to Turn the U.S. Military on Americans
Pictures
What's the meaning of “How can I help you?”
As it turns out, there are a lot of wannabe hookers, “massage” therapists, bitcoin scammers and all-around douchebags on Quora seeking to relieve you of your money.
I have made it a policy from the beginning to keep my DM open on Quora because in the beginning, when Quora was still an orderly decent society I was able to help people considering suicide or who wanted advice, etc. Now, however, I get messages from “women” with great beauty showing a lot of breasts who say things like “Hi” and “Where you from?” because they are shooting for numbers, aren’t real and don’t look at profiles.
But I never know who is going to pitch Bitcoin to me or who is actually in anguish and needs help. In the old days, I would openly engage anyone in conversation but then you get the women who live in LA who are suddenly willing to fly to Boston to give me a blowjob - but I have to pay in advance. I wonder if there really are men stupid enough to do that. I would guess there must be or they wouldn’t ask. Many times I will bait some of these people until I get to what they are seeking; sometimes it’s “Have you found Jesus Christ” or sometimes it’s “I have a great business opportunity” and sometimes it’s “I am looking for a real relationship with a man I can trust and looks/age don’t matter.” HAHAHAHA. Okay. Sometimes I get messages from people who threaten my life. Republicans, for example, like to tell me “I’m on the list”. Trans women who don’t like my opinion that they should be upfront to CIS men on first dates before physical involvement as to what they are threaten my life with regularity. Israelis, because I disagree with Israelis policies and the Settlements, are by far the most threatening and vicious.
So I have come to always ask anyone who sends me a DM the words “How can I help you?” because anything else seems too inviting to hookers and bitcoin hawkers. Sometimes I really do still get people who want to discuss XYZ and that part is enjoyable. But last week a gorgeous woman offered to give me a handjob…. for 900 dollars. HAHAHAHA. Lately, I have also been getting gay propositions from multiple profiles using the exact same words - these must be bots. Anyone who never uses the pronoun “I” is a scammer. I get, “Where you from? Am a decent woman seeking a good man”. They NEVER say “I am a decent woman seeking a good man”. Any time they leave out the pronoun “I”, I know it’s a scambot or trollfarm seeking money.
And they all want “Steam cards”.
When you see profiles that were made this week by a gorgeous woman and she is following 100 people and had 0 followers you KNOW that is a scam profile.
Chrono BnB
Written in response to: "Center your story around someone who has (or is given) the ability to time travel."
VJ Hamilton
He described how the medical staff at ChronoPort had taken samples of his gut biome and a cheek swab. They slid him into something resembling an MRI machine. “They programmed the chronoportation to move everything with my DNA (and my gut’s bacterial DNA) back in time the exact same amount.”
“Uh-huh.” We all nodded as if we understood.
“It was expensive … so my life partner won’t let me go again until the house is paid off,” he said. “I just happen to love exciting new technology and couldn’t resist.” He caught my eye and blushed.
I blushed, too. Early adopter? I have the same guilty pleasure—and doubtless Lancaster saw envy written all over my face.
* * *
Lancaster’s next email arrived late on Friday. “Hey, Caleb. I sense you’re a guy who loves adventure. I can get you a discount Chrono BnB circa 1850 (prairie pioneers) for your next one-week vacay. Here’s a link to some more info on the special nature of Chrono BnB.”
I stared at the date and thought: sodbusters. Stern, sad people. Little House on the Prairie. Could I cope with those dudes for a week?
I read the article he attached.
7 Dos and Don’ts for Chrono BnB
Science has finally solved the problem of the fourth dimension. Along the way, there were a few kinks to work out. Now we can travel back in time just like we zip to Las Vegas for the weekend. But take it from me, the best way to time-travel is through a spin-off of the AirBnB model.
The bed-and-breakfast arrangement overcomes the difficulties the earliest time-travellers experienced. Chronoporting only moves your DNA, not your clothes or other stuff. Eyeglasses, tooth fillings, pacemakers: none of these time-travels with you. A chronoported person could theoretically materialize in the middle of, say, a crowded marketplace. They would have no clothes, no money, no place to stay. Worst of all, they would have no story to explain their abrupt appearance.
Let’s think about this from the historical person’s standpoint. Why should you accept a stranger who has suddenly materialized from out of the blue? Especially if that stranger shows up buck-naked and babbling some incomprehensible language? “Give me take-out and charge it to my credit card.” What does that mean to an ancient Roman?
The results, as we saw in several early time-travel incidents, were tragic. Depending on the era, a chronoported person could be beaten, run out of town, or tortured to death.
Fortunately, the ChronoPort Retail Development team got busy. Marketing liaison people went back in time, decade by decade, smoothing the way for ordinary time-travellers. They persuaded enterprising inhabitants of different eras they could make a few shekels on the side using the AirBnB model. They would just have to welcome the occasional time-traveller into their home, provide the amenities, and give safe cover.
Here are seven dos and don’ts for maximizing your medieval mead-swilling in a responsible and time-sustainable way.
Bone up on the language. Bone up on the era. Thanks to time travel, Classics professors are seeing a 700% increase in the enrolment in Latin, ancient Greek, and Sanskrit. Salve, sum amica!
Don’t try to show off. Sure, you can say, “I think someone’s hiding in that fancy Trojan horse” but then some guy will look at you funny and say, “Really? How did you happen to know that?” just before he points you out to the mob.
Don’t try to make money. Think you can short-sell the 1929 stock market? Wrong; it was a completely different regulatory regime. Just “be in the moment” and save your money-grubbing ways for present life.
Don’t be fast to pass judgment. Yes: sexism, slavery, homophobia, classism, colonialism, and so on should bother you. Paradox: you descended from a long line of that stuff going on all over. So just be an observer. If someone hands you a musket, politely refuse.
Don’t f*** with the locals. Also, don’t f*** the locals. Impossible to list the number of ways this could mess up. Just don’t do it.
Stay safe. A broken leg nowadays is manageable. During the chaos of the French Revolution? Not so much. Note: if you have been exposed to smallpox or bubonic plague, let your healthcare provider know immediately upon your return.
In the words of Dale Carnegie, “Do not complain, criticize or condemn.” So the food isn’t what you expected, and the beds are lumpy lice-ridden bundles of straw shared by many, and even the good-looking folks have pox-scars and rickets and dental monstrosities in their mouths. You’re just visiting! Soak up the vibe and be glad you’re just passing through.
The enthusiasm of the travel writer was contagious. I’d had enough of gambling in Macau and gator wrestling in Florida. I wanted the experience of time travel… done while keeping safe with an intermediary. I signed up with ChronoBnB and went to their company headquarters. First I had to complete an online tutorial that went over all the things in the article, in a much more ho-hum way.
Then I had to sign a lot of forms pledging not to spill the beans about the terrible war coming in 1861.
They said my BnB “host” in 1850 would be similar to me—a young man named Wilbur.
* * *
The next thing I knew, I was swimming through a tunnel and bobbing up in a group of four young men, who were crawling out of the swim-hole. It was a hot day and our naked bodies glistened in the sun. Theirs: lean and ripped. Mine: not so much. Lots of chuckling and teasing as they got dressed. The fifth pile of clothes was claimed by no-one, so I took it. The clothes weren’t the cleanest and they were scratchy. No elastic in my underwear! No zip in my pants—instead I fumbled with buttons and drawstrings.
“Hello, Cousin Caleb. I am Wilbur.”
I was relieved to meet my ChronoPort contact right away. He was about my age, with freckles and a wide-open friendly face, blushing as fiercely as he was smiling. I instantly took a liking to this 1850s early adopter.
Wet-haired and shivering, the five of us guys ran to a homestead in the middle of the prairies. Wilbur gave me a tour of the yard, including the outhouse. The rough wooden farmhouse was full of clanking and women’s voices. We seated ourselves at the table where I counted 18 people, from Baby to a 60-ish patriarch. One girl sawed pieces of coarse bread and another ladled meat and gravy on it. Darn, I forgot to ask about vegan alternatives. After everyone received a plateful, the old guy recited a rambling prayer of thanksgiving.
Wilbur announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and gals, please welcome Cousin Caleb, who is visiting us for a week from down east.” There was some snickering and jostling that quickly subsided as I looked around, nodding, saying “how-d’you-do” a few times. Then we fell to the serious business of eating. A woman said, “Cousin Caleb, you have not touched your pot roast. Are you feeling poorly?”
“Um…I’m still full from my morning smoothie and avocado toast,” I said. From her look of bewilderment, I might as well have breakfasted on eye of newt.
Wilbur said quietly, “If it be not to your liking, may I have your beef?”
After lunch, every guy and a few gals bolted outside. Everyone knew what they were supposed to do, even the five-year-old girl carrying the slop bucket out to feed the pigs. Not wanting to look clueless, I grabbed what I thought was a hay rake. I wished I had my sunblock SPF 50 and my Ray-Bans. I started off for the meadow, but Wilbur approached me and said, “With two, this will go faster.”
“With two, many things go faster,” I said.
He blushed. But the joke was on me. It was not a hay rake but a stable rake, designed to collect manure from barn stalls. After ten minutes I had blisters. Wilbur was startled when I asked for Band-Aids.
“Bandages? For what injury?” He stared at my soft white palms covered with red polka-dots.
The slop-girl Rachel came over to look. Her hands were lean, nut-brown, with toughened pink palms. “Yer socks kin proteck yer hands,” she said.
I untied my heavy shoes.
“Be you Shadrach’s brother?” Rachel asked.
“Caleb is what you call a shirt-tail cousin,” Wilbur said. “Now, git!” As she sauntered away, he muttered, “That one is too curious for her own good.”
“Curiosity is natural,” I said, smiling.
“Maybe ‘bout some things,” he said and quickly looked away.
“Curiosity is no sin,” I said. I put my woolen socks on my hands, feeling thankful no cameras were there to record Caleb the Sock-handed Softy. I held the rake and continued mucking out the stable. The thick leather shoes rubbed on my bare-skinned feet and I could feel blisters forming there, too. I aimed to keep up with Wilbur, and soon we were hot and sweaty. I kept thinking about that swim-hole. The day wore on. Despite my regular gym work-outs, the burn of my shoulder muscles began to outweigh the pain of my blisters.
“Good job!” Wilbur said when the barn was clean at last.
Supper consisted of savory slop and lumpy dumplings followed by heavy pie, which we ate right in the middle of the gravy-smeared plate. Not anything Instagrammable, that’s for sure. Mirthless women took up sewing or knitting by the kerosene lamps. Grim-faced menfolk carved or repaired jingly harnesses. Wilbur read aloud from Papa’s Bible. I began to worry about sleeping arrangements. From what I’d seen, guys were in one room, gals in another, and the marrieds and babies would be in the lean-to. Good-bye, privacy!
After a lull, Rachel said: “Cousin Caleb, kin you tell us a story?”
I tried to remember a fairy tale, but I only came up with past episodes of The Simpsons.
Rachel yawned. “Brother Wilbur said you had an innerestin’ dream o’ the future.”
“Well… yes… I dreamed that in the future people weren’t using horses to get around. They have horseless carriages called ‘cars.’ I dreamed that our country and Russia had a mighty contest to see who could send a man to the moon first—"
“Who won?” a kid’s voice piped up.
“We did! Things became very, very good for us—doctors learned how to cure some diseases and fix the pains in our teeth. People invented all manner of things—moving pictures, instant music, and… and….” I tried to stop, but I was seized with—dare I say it?—a nostalgia for the future. “I lived in a building that had 30 floors stacked on top of each other!”
Wilbur guffawed. “Who in God’s creation would want so many stairs?”
“It would take all day to git up to your bedroom,” Rachel said.
“No, in the future, there will be, like, a vertical ‘car’ that runs up and down the side of the tall buildings,” I said. “The car is called an ‘elevator’ because it can elevate you—”
“Ell-eh-vay-tor!” People tried out the word. “Elevator? Elevator!” They chuckled and brayed; the shoulders of even the sternest folk were heaving with laughter.
I began to laugh, too.
* * *
The week passed as quickly as a raft over a waterfall. I learned everyone’s name and assigned chore. The pioneers weren’t all the jolly simple folk I used to think they were. They had their own intrigues, delights, and stolen moments of pleasure, chiefly boy-girl kisses in the milk-house. We menfolk were mainly building a cattle-fence. Wilbur arranged some fun things for me like playing with kittens in the hayloft (dusty, scratchy, and better than 100 cat videos) and milking a cow (invasion of the cow’s personal space to do rude things with her mammary glands). And yes, those shy but saucy guys had excellent fun cavorting at the swim-hole. As a visitor, I was allowed the first wash in the shared Saturday night bath. Afterward Wilbur caught some gals spying on me and “gave them a drubbing,” he reported later.
“Did they see anything … shocking?” I said, thinking of my body piercings.
Wilbur was at a loss for words. How I loved making him blush.
On my final morning, Wilbur shook me awake. “Now you’ll see what folks around here do for real fun!” Oh great, the annual church picnic.
We rode there all crammed in a wagon that jolted along a deeply rutted road. And me with my motion sickness and Gravol not yet invented… I could barely keep it together. The ride was made worse by the pinching match that broke out among the women over who would get to sit beside me. I turned my greenish face away to escape the B.O. of Tabitha. (I don’t know how she coped with my B.O.).
I was a head taller than most guys at the picnic, so I expected to win prizes for speed, but this wasn’t like my morning jog. They had wacky events like races where you had to hold an egg on a spoon. Rebecca sneakily clutched at my body and Hepzibah “accidentally” brushed against me. Noah shoved me roughly and Gideon threatened me with a “knuckle sandwich” when I mistook his potato pie for my own.
“No problem,” I said. “Take your piece—and you can have mine, too!” They even had preschoolers trying to ride piglets. The day resounded with giddy laughter, and I felt drunk on sunshine and exhaustion.
On the way home, I volunteered to ride in the hayrick. Picture, if you can, a slow-moving haystack, barely held in place on a wagon with minimal side boards.
“The hayrick? Are you sure?” Wilbur said, forgetting that I was clueless.
“My last night,” I said with a shrug. His face reddened and he jumped aboard, too. There were about ten of us who rocked and swayed while the conveyance bumped over the cow paths. As we bounced on the springy fragrant hay, my mind swirled with thoughts of kitten nests and barn stalls and swim-holes and piglet rodeos—and BANG!
I fell off the hayrick.
I staggered to get up, trying to clutch my elbow, knee, ankle and chin.
“We’ll put Miss Elizabeth there beside you, to keep you awake,” the hayrick driver said, with a wink.
“No, please!” I said. The others laughed. Wilbur crossed his eyes at me. I crossed mine back at him, with a little smile. The hay was so slippery that I had a devil of a time hanging on. Wilbur helped hold me in place. Now there was one sweaty hard body! He tried not to look at me, but we could both feel undeniable pleasure as we moved against each other.
Happiness surged in me, despite my sore muscles and numerous shaving cuts.
“Thank you for visiting, Caleb,” Wilbur said. “I enjoyed hearing about the future. I wonder if all the people there are as … fun to be with?”
“Yes, the future is even better than that,” I whispered in his ear. “Elevators going up and down…”
“You’ve got me real curious now,” he murmured.
Wilbur felt so tempting, as we rode that bumping hayrick home while the sun was going down. If we were men of the twenty-second century, I would have made my move. But I remembered the ChronoBnB instructor saying that we owed our hosts “utmost respect” which meant we weren’t supposed mess with their minds or interfere with their bodies; it could drive them insane “because they have no context for you, the visitor from the future.”
That last night I lay on my pallet listening to the snores and breathing of a roomful of others. I felt more connected to Wilbur and his people than I had ever felt to my contemporaries. I guess I’m just an old-fashioned boy at heart.
Wilbur was a special young man, a rare soul. A part of me feared for his future safety. I also feared the harsh life might suffocate his sensitive nature. I felt so sad at the thought of leaving. I knew, but was prohibited from mentioning, that war that would soon tear the country apart.
The teleportation of my body would occur tomorrow. To disguise my departure, Wilbur would take me back to the swimming hole. I decided to return to this exact locale two years into his future—1852—and tell him to expect me.
In the meantime, I would return to my “home era” and make some radical life changes so I would acclimate faster when I returned. I’d get rid of the smart phone and learn old-style carpentry.
I fell asleep planning to learn to ride a horse. I dreamed Wilbur and I would escape to the territories, and live as a pair of eccentric confirmed bachelors.
Farareej Mashwi (Broiled Chicken
with Oil, Lemon and Garlic Sauce)
Yield: 2 servings
Ingredients
- 1 small chicken, quartered
- Salt and freshly ground black pepper
- 4 large cloves garlic, peeled and crushed
- 1/4 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
- 3 tablespoons fruity olive oil
- 1 tablespoon chopped parsley
Instructions
- Season the chicken with salt and pepper.
- In a shallow dish filled with a mixture of garlic, lemon juice, oil, and parsley, roll the chicken quarters to coat them. Allow to marinate at least 1 hour.
- Heat the broiler.
- Drain the chicken, reserving the marinade. Set the broiling rack about 7 inches from the heat. Place the quarters, skin side down on the broiling rack, and broil 10 minutes, basting often with the cooking juices and a little of the marinade.
- Turn the quarters over and broil the chicken 10 minutes longer. Turn and brush twice more until both sides are golden brown and crusty. Pour over the remaining oil mixture.
- Serve at once.
Attribution
Mediterranean Cooking by Paula Wolfert
Why have Volvo cars gone downhill since the Chinese took over the company?
Going “downhill” is pretty much a very loaded opinion.
The Chinese investor, just like the Indian owner of Jaguar-Land Rover, let loose of the Europeans to do what they wish with the Asian owner's money. As a result, they have never been better than what they did under the American owner with their army of bean counters and greedy Wall Street fat cats who don't care at all about cars.
Just take a look at Saab Cars
A tribute to Saab part 1/2 (Series 18, Episode 5)
A tribute to Saab part 2/2 (Series 18, Episode 5)
General Motors put a lid on that iconic Swedish automaker with a very infuriating story behind the process.
I guess for some proud white people, it is better for them if they nuked each other to extinction, than seeing Asian or other non-whites “saving” them from demise. What is this? Europeans learning about “not losing their faces”?
My uncle once owned Volvo 960 and 850 Turbo. It was very Swedish: unnecessarily unique and doesn't work elsewhere outside Nordic realms. The only positive quality is that it is super heavy, with doors thicker than my bedroom wall.
As usual, when Western Europeans got into trouble, they seek fellow Aryan “master race” first, uncle Sam to save their arses. In 1999 Volvo got bailed by Ford Motor Company. Thankfully.
But unlike its slightly communist American counterpart from Detroit (they were owned by US government for a while), the Dearborn-based car maker is more gracious: they unloaded Jaguar-Land Rover to Tata Motors of India, returned Mazda back to Japan, and sell Volvo to the Chinese car maker Geely.
At least, Volvo won't meet the same fate as Saab or Rover. One is the case when white people learns that they are actually very different from one to another (ala Daimler-Chrysler romance). With Rover, it is the classic British jingoism, anti-German silliness becoming a tough lesson: there are people out there who love British thing more than the Brits themselves. Look where Mini, Bentley, Rolls Royce, Jaguar, Land Rover, and MG going, at least German, Indian, and the Chinese are keepers. Compare that to the rest of BMC marques sold to “local, domestic” British outfits: all of them gone.
So, Volvo cars built with Chinese money:
No interference from Michigan, no pushes from the American bean counters to “share platform” with their inferior cheaper American cars to save costs, no arrogant visionary western CEOs trying their worst to imprint their “mark” or “history” on this iconic badger's product to inflate their own ego without respect for the Swedish point of view. What's the result?
Look at the Swedes finding their own style.
I am not ashamed to say that I want this 2018 European Car of The Year crossover:
Now, this is the interior of the sales record breaking Volvo:
Beautiful. Simplistic. Advanced. And very Swedish. Probably wouldn't be possible with Swedish owner's own limited budget, or super authoritative European owners.
And with the Chinese owner, I would say they are much safer that way. There will be little interference from the owner, who is much more aware and mindful that they are not “as good” as the more experienced Swede. The Chinese probably would like to learn a couple of the Swedish car technology, but at least this time it is not stealing and for the better.