MM loses his umbrella.
I’ve got a bunch of them. Big ones. Small ones. Portable ones. Singular ones. Patterned ones, and old ones. New ones.
Many are in my car trunk. But I have a bunch in storage and they tend to lie about the house all over the play. From the hallway to the living room. To my office, to the storage room.
Now, I swear that I put my “blue plaid” gentleman’s umbrella in the “shared” hallway off the elevators on my Tanzhou house.
But I cannot find it for the life of me.
I’ve looked high and low. But I couldn’t find it. No matter how hard I tried I just couldn’t find the damn thing.
I suspect that someone “borrowed” it.
No evidence of course, but it’s the only remaining thought that makes sense. The thing about this is that (here in China) theft is super rare. It’s as unlikely as snow in Hell.
But there you are.
It’s one of those things, you know, that you cannot explain. But I just cannot give it up. So, whatever the explanation, the fact is that I cannot find this umbrella. And that I must move on.
I’m too caught up in this mystery.
Guys. Don’t get caught up. If it’s gone. It’s gone.
Today…
An “Innocent” News Photo Reveals Russia Plans for Ukraine – Or Maybe it wasn’t so Innocent?
A routine and seemingly innocent news release photo from the Russian Ministry of Defense, is rapidly becoming quite controversial. It started with the image shown above.
General Gerasimov, the Chief of the General Staff of the Russian Federation (center), giving a briefing about the ongoing Russian “Special Military Operation” in Ukraine. But . . . . . . . on the wall behind the man seated to the left of Gerasimov, is a map.
A map with very interesting new Borders:
Here is a slightly zoomed-in view:
The region you see circled on the image above, and in the lower image, where the red arrows point . . . . show “Russia” as extending all the way to Odessa.
The Graphic below shows Ukraine with areas highlighted in Red as being the “Russia” on the MoD wall map:
So is this a “slip-up” or are we seeing a warning from Russia, showing what Ukraine will be reduced to if Ukraine continues its useless fight?
I don’t believe this is a slip-up at all. In my view, Russia is telling everyone how things are going to be.
If Zelensky and his war pals from the collective West, continue their useless fight, Ukraine will be left with no Black Sea coastline. Its access will be solely through the Danube River.
It is long overdue for Ukraine to agree to Russia’s terms, and thereby put an end to this war. The West may want otherwise, but there is no hope AT ALL of the West doing anything for or with Ukraine, to prevent this outcome.
Unless, of course, the West enters into direct war with Russia. That would result in World War 3, which will likely go nuclear, within hours.
I say “No thanks.” Ukraine wasn’t worth this fight to begin with and it’s not worth it now.
What would the world be like if the government was filled with middle-class economics professors and scientists instead of wealthy politicians?
The best example I know is Switzerland. If asked to name the President of Switzerland, very few would know, because it is a middle-class job, usually held by a not-so-famous businessman or professional in his field with a mediocre resume. In the following photo is the current president of Switzerland, waiting for a tram with other people to go to work. No bodyguards, no press, no entourage, no fancy presidential car. It’s just that he is better dressed than the other tram passengers.
91% of Swiss lawmakers use public transportation to get to work. Whether for cause or effect, Switzerland has the best public transportation system in the world.
Switzerland has a great track record of avoiding war, and they do it very well. They have the highest per capita wealth in the world, and have been active in global peacekeeping efforts. We all know that Switzerland is also the birthplace of the Red Cross and the global banking regulator.
People sometimes attribute this success to the country’s prosperity and homogeneity, but for most of its history until the mid-1800s, Switzerland was plagued by internal warfare. It also had no significant natural resources (aside from its natural beauty and winter sports), and its mountainous terrain had transportation problems. But in 1848, when the rest of Europe was torn apart by revolutionary struggles and violent reactions, the Swiss adopted a constitution modeled on the U.S. Constitution without fanfare.
Switzerland is not a perfect country, but it can be an example of what might happen if the state decided that administration was a normal job to be done by humble and qualified people instead of bigwigs arguing with each other about what everyone should do with an aggressive military.
What is your biggest challenge when it comes to decluttering?
My wife died of cancer 18 months ago. I found I couldn’t stay in our home, so I moved to a smaller place. The furniture I had was accumulated over decades and would not even fit into my new place. Decluttering was a necessity not an option.
The challenge was that I didn’t want to let go of anything because it all reminded me of my wife – when we bought it, when she wanted to move stuff around, the cutlery set she used for dinner parties, even the 100 rolls of toilet paper she had stored away.
I failed the challenge. I went to stay with one of my kids who lives 3 hours away and two who live near to me packed up my house, moved me, sold or disposed of a lot of excess. My response to the challenge was only to agree that unsuitable furniture and excess cutlery and crockery could go.
I still have the challenge of disposing of all my wife’s clothes, shoes, seeing machines (don’t know why she had 2), all her unused canvasses, paints and other stuff, easels, allher assisted living equipment. You get the idea. I have a room completely full of all of this. One day I might open the door and perhaps see if I can do anything with the contents. The garage is also full of things I can at least contemplate getting rid of. Just not day.
I think my biggest challenge is getting past my wife’s death so my head will work rationally instead of what it’s doing now. Logically, Julie is dead and whatever I do, she isn’t around to know. I hope I can use that thought to do what I need to.
KJ Noh | China Says It’s “Ready For Any War” In Retaliation To Trump’s Moves On Taiwan & Tariff War
Wisconsin Chicken Booyah
(Belgian Beef, Pork, Chicken Stew)
Wisconsin Chicken Booyah is famous in the Fox River Valley region — Green Bay, Wisconsin. Booyah and beer go great together. Booyah King, Bob Baye, of Green Bay, Wisconsin, has been making Booyah since about 1946 in 100-gallon cookers.
Yield: 12 to 16 servings
Ingredients
- 1 roasting or stewing chicken (about 4 pounds)
- 1 pound beef stew meat, with bones
- 1 pound pork stew meat, with bones
- 1/2 cup minced parsley
- 1 tablespoon salt
- 1 tablespoon rosemary
- 1 tablespoon thyme
- 1/2 teaspoon pepper
- 1/2 teaspoon sage
- 4 cups quartered potatoes
- 2 cups chopped onions
- 2 cups chopped celery
- 1 cup carrots, cut up
- 1 cup green beans, cut up
- 1 cup fresh peas
- 1 cup skinned, seeded, chopped tomatoes
- 2 lemons
Instructions
- Put chicken into a deep kettle with the beef and pork. Cover with boiling water. Bring slowly to a simmer, remove scum from the top, and add herbs and seasonings. Simmer very gently, covered, about 1 hour.
- Remove chicken and, when cooled, take meat form the bones and cut into pieces. Let beef and pork continue to cook until tender, 45 minutes to an hour more.
- Remove and let cool enough to remove meat from bones. Add vegetables to the broth and simmer 5 to 10 minutes.
- Grate lemon rind and set aside; remove white pith and seeds from the lemons, chop the pulp, and add to the broth. Taste for seasoning.
- While vegetables are still crisp, return the meat pieces to the broth to heat through. Serve in large soup bowls and sprinkle with the lemon rind.
Do you think that under Trump, Russia will shift away from China towards the US, similar to how China shifted from the USSR under Nixon?
There is such a possibility, but it’s relatively small.
During the Nixon era, the overall situation was one of Soviet offense and American defense.
The United States was deeply mired in the Vietnam War, while Sino-Soviet relations were hostile and extremely tense at the time.
The North China Plain had no natural defenses, and a still relatively weak China faced immense defense pressure from the Soviet Union’s deployment of over 700,000 troops and 10,000 tanks in the Far East.
Thus, it was only natural for the two countries (China and the U.S.) to draw closer.
(In fact, Mao Zedong had foreseen this early on.)
In a speech on January 27, 1957, at a meeting of provincial and regional party secretaries, Mao, while discussing Sino-U.S. relations, said: “Establishing diplomatic relations with the United States might have to wait until after the completion of the third Five-Year Plan, which is to say, it could take 18 years or more.”
1957 + 18 = 1975, which turned out to be basically accurate.
On June 23, 1964, Mao said: “We drove out America’s lackey Chiang Kai-shek and expelled American influence as well, so the U.S. isn’t too pleased with us. But one day, relations between the two countries will normalize—I think it will take another 15 years.”
From Mao’s statement in 1964 to the formal establishment of diplomatic relations between China and the U.S. on January 1, 1979, exactly 15 years had passed.
By the way, when the People’s Republic of China was founded, Mao used the slogan “Surpass Britain, Catch Up with America” to inspire the Chinese people to strive hard.
However, the original context referred to steel production, with the hope of surpassing Britain’s steel output in 15 years and America’s in 50 years.
In fact, China exceeded Britain’s steel production in 15 years, but it only took 37 years to surpass the United States.
I recall saying that the current operating law of this world can be simply understood as: “The sum of two sides of a triangle must be greater than the third side.” China, the U.S., and Russia are the three sides of this triangle.
Many people look down on Russia, saying things like Russia’s GDP is small, lower than Japan’s or South Korea’s, and that Russia is an insignificant country.
Those who say such things display astonishing ignorance about how the world works.
Does the U.S. take Japan or South Korea seriously?
What does a high GDP matter?
As Lu Xun said: “If it’s a lion, being fat and large doesn’t matter, but for cattle or sheep, being fat isn’t a good sign.”
After the founding of the People’s Republic of China, the China-Soviet alliance put tremendous pressure on the United States.
After the 1970s, the China-U.S. alignment—including but not limited to setting traps for the Soviet Union in Afghanistan—made things extremely difficult for the Soviets.
Now, in this new round, the dynamic is China + Russia vs. the United States.
Naturally, the U.S. would love to pull Russia into an alliance, turning it into a U.S. + Russia vs. China scenario.
But over the 30+ years since the Soviet Union’s collapse, the U.S. has consistently deceived Russia, and Russia isn’t likely to easily side with the U.S.
Secondly, U.S. policy is inconsistent—Democrats today, Republicans tomorrow—and Russia cannot ignore what the U.S. might be like four years from now.
Finally, both the U.S. and Russia are resource-rich nations, agricultural powers, and energy giants, making them fierce competitors in international markets, whereas Russia and China are highly complementary.
Can the U.S. successfully win over Russia? I harbor great doubts about that.
In fact, this question has been debated repeatedly on the Chinese internet for over a decade or two.
I recall the conclusions that netizens generally found convincing:
- The U.S. likely cannot afford the enormous cost of winning over Russia. That cost, essentially, is Europe. But if Russia could control Europe, it would be more inclined to integrate Europe than to fight China.
- Even if the U.S. succeeded in pulling Russia to its side, it couldn’t guarantee that Russia would attack China first and act as America’s pawn.
The Philippines is already not a member of ICC. But why was Duterte arrested due to the arrest warrant by ICC? Was he really in Hong Kong (such a British colonial place) before he was arrested in Manila?
1, Hongkong is not a British colony any more. HK has returned to China in 1997. HK was & is a city of China.
HK became a UK colony in 1842 after UK waged an opium war with China where China was defeated. UK then forced China buy opium so that UK could suck dry China’s silver (China’s then currency).
Exactly like today’s USA forcing other countries to buy US products eg force Europe buy US oil/gas. In 2022, it sabotaged Nord Stream pipeline so as to force Europe to buy the more expensive gas from US instead of the cheaper Russian gas.
2, USA is a mafia with military power. It can control ICC.
In the Ukraine-Russia war, USA pushed ICC to issue an arrest warrant for Russia-Putin for invading Ukraine. And both USA & Russia are not ICC members.
In the Israel-Hamas war, when ICC issued an arrest warrant for Israel-Netenyahu for Gaza genocide, USA threatened ICC judge. Also Israel is not an ICC member.
ICC is not an intl court recognised by UN. ICJ is but not ICC. Not all UN members join ICC. USA, Russia, China, Israel & more are not ICC members. The so-called “international” does not mean all countries in UN. It is called “inter-national” because it deals with cases between nations. That is all.
ICC does not have concrete power. But ICC ruling can generate lots of public talks. Both support & condemnation.
3, PH’s so called arbitration in 2016 is also NOT recognised by UN. Like ICC, PH’s PCV is a private entity & not intl at all. PCV’s ruling has no binding value at all. But it does generate support from Filipinos, doesn’t it?
PH’s 2016 arbitration tribunal was orchestrated by USA. The tribunal worked in favor for whoever paid them. Who paid them? PH. Since PH did that for USA, PH should ask USA to reimburse the money.
Since it was intended to fool the world, Marcos admin keeps quoting the 2016 arbitration ruling to fool people.
What does arbitration mean? Both sides must be present in the tribunal. But China was absent because China knew that USA was playing a soap opera. USA-PH had not intention to resolve the China-PH disputes.
4, Back to Duterte. It is a political dog-fight between Marcos & Duterte.
Marcos is 101% pro-USA. Of course, his huge inheritance is still frozen in USA. He also has an arrest warrant in USA. Hence, he must work hard to please USA.
Duterte is practical, wanting for the good of PH. He is pro-China hoping to modernise PH & make PH prosperous. Look at Indonesia. After some modernisation with a high-speed rail to transport their commodities around, their GDP has gone up, making more money. Same for other countries which joined China’s BRI project. But China stopped the project when Marcos plays politics & ignores PH economy.
It is a political dog-fight that Marcos invokes ICC’s arrest warrant for Duterte. Looks like PH politics is as ugly as USA.
Is Duterte in HK? News showed he is where he will be safe.
The Space Behind the Curtains
Submitted into Contest #279 in response to: Write a story about someone confronting their worst nightmare.… view prompt
Penelope Stansfield
I unlock the heavy oak door, and slip off my shoes, straight into my slippers as I flick on the hall light and turn up the thermometer, to kick out the December chill that really knows how to get into these old walls, like it wants to hide in here rather than be outside where it’s supposed to be. The long case clock in the hall that Justin winds each morning has stopped, he was in such a rush when he left and it’s thunking metronome of a tick is conspicuous by its absence, so I open the case and pull the chain, clunk clunk as the heavy weight makes its way to the top, set for another twenty four hours, he might be back home by then.
Dusk has already crept its way through the streets, banishing the meagre daylight as night approaches, the living room feels cheerless and I switch on a couple of lamps and close the heavy velvet curtains in an attempt to keep out the dark and the chill of the night. I lay fresh logs in the hearth and fiddle with matches as they refuse to light the kindling, this is usually Justin’s job, and my thoughts ponder how many fires have blazed in this grate over the years, how many dead embers have been swept out over centuries of cold mornings. Fires that have been stoked here thousands of times, the physical and the metaphorical ones too, that are set ablaze during our time on this earth. The kindling finally catches and I get up from my knees, even with a fire in the grate the room still feels as inhospitable as it always does when I’m here alone. At least when Justin is at home, his presence pushes out the darkness and between us, we create a little warmth between these old walls.
With only the sound of the clock in the hallway for company, I switch on the television as a distraction and head upstairs to the bathroom to wash my hands. When I first moved in, the bathroom was the place where it would always catch me alone. The first time I bathed in the old cast iron bath with its clawed feet and cold rolled top, I didn’t think to question the bits of mortar that flew across the room from the exposed stone walls, assuming it was something to do with the house being so old. It was later that I questioned how a piece of dried old matter could hurtle across the bathroom and hit me directly in the face, and more questions arose when, amongst other unexplained events, I would often find the picture of tiger lilies that I’d been given as a twenty-first birthday present, lying on the bathroom floor, the hook still on the wall and the picture wire still intact. Justin had joked about me having an overactive imagination, but it only happens when he’s not around, and up to now, I’ve managed to deal with the quirks of the old place, broken dishes, missing keys, flickering lights, and cold drafts, but a night here on my own is another thing entirely.
The space behind the curtains tugs at me to look, but I ignore it and make a cheese sandwich and cup of tea and settle into the corner of the sofa to watch television. Immediately, as soon as I’ve sat down, it knows, it won’t let me settle, and the floor creaks above, Justin’s feet across the bedroom floor, except Justin isn’t here. I turn up the volume on the television, the woman on the game-show shrieks with laughter at her own stupidity and I wonder where they find the contestants for this show, even the presenter, a has-been comedian with buck-teeth and a bad wig, who should have retired by now, looks mortally embarrassed as the woman goes on to incorrectly name France as a European capital city. I stick with the show for a couple more minutes, but I can’t settle and I hit the remote’s off button. The room falls quiet, except for the scratching coming from the hallway and my breathing which is becoming inexplicably more laboured. I take my empty plate and cup into the kitchen and poke my head into the hallway, where of course there’s nothing there, just the ticking clock and the small table where we put our keys and letters.
Returning to the corner of the sofa I pick up my phone, scroll through social media, everyone looks so happy on there and I add a few likes, then click on an advert for winter sweaters somehow managing to purchase another knitted garment that I don’t really need. The moths will have a field day.
If it’s not moths in this house then it’s some other sort of pest. Noises a couple of months ago, this time not down to the house or whatever it is that torments me, but mice in the loft, mice in heavy boots, stamping about at all times of the night and day. Justin and I bickered about who should be the one to remove the little dead creatures, neither of us relishing the prising open of traps, and extraction of the bloodied furry bodies. But those noises, springing traps and scuttling mice, I can deal with that. Not like the creaking footsteps that are on the stairs right now, or the door on the landing that’s groaning back and forth on its hinges. An icy breath catches at my neck, the space behind the curtains, it says, but I don’t want to look behind the curtains, whatever’s in here is enough for me to cope with, without experiencing what’s out there too.
The landlord had sent a joiner to fix the sticking front door on my rented flat, that was how I’d met Justin, a quiet, unassuming man, who was polite and friendly and who I warmed to instantly. A cup of coffee when he’d finished mending the door led to a date, the rest is history and after a couple of years, we took the plunge, got married, and I moved into Oakleaf Nook, Justin, no longer the bachelor that he’d assumed he’d always be. Having lived here with his mother for so many years, it wasn’t until she passed away, when Justin was in his forties, that he felt there might be room for someone else in his life. His mother, from what I understand, was a formidable force, bringing Justin up alone with no father entered on his birth certificate, she’d been determined to survive on her own wits, and that mantra was one she instilled in Justin, resulting in a reserved man, content in his own company, and happy in the house that protected them both.
Even though I bought some pieces of furniture, books, ornaments and pictures, the cottage never felt like my home, whatever I did it never felt right. There were so many of Justin’s mother’s possessions, and I accepted that at the beginning, I wasn’t going to push Justin into putting them in the loft or selling them, so I knew it would take time for the place to feel like home, but even nine years on, with new rugs, my own pots and pans, photos on the sideboard, I still feel like a visitor here. Justin won’t hear of it, tells me to do whatever I want, paint the walls, change the carpets and curtains, make it ours, but whatever I do, the house still shuns me.
The curtain in the living room shifts in the corner of my eye, beckoning me to open it, but I won’t, I won’t because the cracking from the bedroom above is getting louder, it’s deafening, like someone hitting a hammer on a broken mirror, and the television has sprung back to life, a music show, the hits of 1972, the year Justin was born, the volume increases, the cracking above intensifies, and Chuck Berry blasts out My Ding-a-ling as the lamps flicker on and off, fizzing and hissing, static takes over from Chuck and the screen wavers and warps, rising to a crescendo as the image dissolves into blackness with a crackle and then an almighty bang rendering the television silent. The sound of a plate smashing on the tiled kitchen floor pulls my senses in another direction and as the creaking footsteps on the stairs disappear onto the upstairs landing, the space behind the curtains beckons me, imploring me to look, but I don’t know why and I don’t want to see what’s there.
I’m no stranger to this, the bangs and the thuds, the uninvited icy chill that makes its way around the house, even at the height of summer, I still have to wear extra layers when I’m indoors, Justin thinks I’m crazy, he never sees or feels any of it. And up to now, I’ve stood my ground, during the day when Justin’s at work, it’s just about bearable, but now, here with the darkness enveloping the house and the sounds and smells playing at the edges of my senses, always there, even when I think they’ve gone, something at the periphery, chipping away at me, this is different, whatever it is is making the most of me being alone here, I can feel it.
I crouch in front of the fire and prod it with the poker, stirring the embers, and add a couple more logs, it spits a little as it settles, and as I’m about to rise to my feet, invisible hands grab mine, I’ve no control, it’s tight round my left wrist, and however hard I try, I can’t fight it’s strength as some unseen malevolent force pulls my hand closer and closer toward the flames, and there it is, my left hand, gorged by the heat, the flames wrapping around it as my palm lies flat against the glowing logs, I scream, excruciating pain, but I can’t withdraw my hand, the lamps go off and it’s completely dark except for the fiercely burning fire and my hand plunged within it, the stench of burning flesh. I think I’m going to faint, I feel sick, my stomach retches, and I scream again, and it screams back at me, the house, from the depth of it’s stones, the oak beams, the mortar, a sound from another place, rasping, stone against stone, the course layers of time twisting against each other, and then suddenly my hand releases, blistered and burned, the stench is overpowering and I stagger to the kitchen, holding my tortured hand under the flow of cold water from the tap, my wedding ring, encrusted by something no longer resembling human skin.
Shaking with sickness, I soak a clean towel in cold water and wrap it around my screaming hand, I need to get to a hospital, I’m reeling with shock, unable to put my thoughts and my body in to action, I return to the dark of the living room to find my phone, to call for help, and it’s not there, I flick on the main light and search, lifting the sofa cushions, under the chairs, it’s not here. And then it’s there again, the space behind the curtains, Isabelle, face into what’s there.
The sensation in my hand is beyond pain, as though it’s so intense that my body can no longer feel it, something broken and unable to piece together what’s just happened, water drips from the sodden towel, and trails across the floor as I make my way through the room to the heavy velvet curtains, they move ever so slightly inviting me, upstairs a wooden chair screeches across the boards of the bedroom floor and the window in the bathroom bangs open and shut like something possessed. My trembling good hand reaches out, towards the place where the heavy velvet curtains meet, where they join and keep out the night and the dark, and before I am able to step away, I’m pulling them apart and there it is, in the space behind the curtains, in the darkness of the window, like an illuminated movie screen of horror, the house ablaze, flames lapping, reaching into the night sky, the acrid plumes of smoke, reflecting back at me from the darkness, and the guttural screams of terror from within, the stench of burning, and my expressionless face, emotionless, emblazoned across the scene as my first husband chokes and burns to death, taken by the smoke and the flames that refuse to cease until the act is complete.
I turn my face away from the hideous nightmare, clenching my eyes closed to the horror, the ghastly images that I’ve tried to erase from my mind for so many harrowing years. It knows, this house knows, but how could it? Justin doesn’t know, nobody around here has any suspicion, it was all going to be a fresh start. It wasn’t my fault, the doctors said so, they made everything better, years have passed, it was all going to be okay, and when I met Justin, I knew that it would be, that there’d be no more fires. No more fires, just us. But it’s found out, somehow, the house knows everything, and now with mortifying clarity, I understand why it doesn’t want me here.
What seemingly complex concept actually has an incredibly simple explanation?
The figure of an astronaut carved on the Facade of the north entrance of the Cathedral of Salamanca, in Spain, impresses everyone who comes across this unusual representation. The church, built in the Baroque and Gothic styles, was built between 1513 and 1733. What explains the presence of this modern image in such an ancient building? Theories involving ancient astronauts, time travel, and supernatural events abound as attempts to answer the question. The answer is very simple, it is in a renovation that the church underwent in 1992. The “Porta de Ramos”, as the north entrance of the Cathedral is called, was badly damaged due to the action of time. During the restoration work, the sculpture of the astronaut was added by the bricklayer Miguel Romero, under the guidance of the architect Jérômio García de Quiñones, responsible for the revitalization. The fact would have obeyed an old tradition, in which restorers usually include some modern element whenever the church undergoes new restoration work.
What’s the worst job you’ve ever been forced into doing?
When my ex-husband forced me out, in terror for my life, of the business we co-founded (a story for another day), I worked for two months as a servant for a very rich woman’s elderly parents. My duties included cooking and serving two meals each day to their tastes and specifications, feeding the mother her meals in bed, keeping the house spotless for the real estate lady who showed up frequently and with little notice, cleaning the tree goop daily off the outdoor furniture, cleaning the kitchen, running up and down stairs all day, arranging flowers, feeding and waiting on dozens of drop-in friends and relatives, driving my employers all over town to horrendous numbers of medical appointments, and–worst of all–changing the wife’s soiled diapers and cleaning up her entire private area, packing her in ointment and powder, changing her soiled nighties and sheets, and doing the endless laundry she produced. Equally bad, letting her know if she had soiled her diaper while out in public, wheeling her into the bathroom, and changing and cleaning her up in a public bathroom.
This was every day, all day, never leaving the house except to run their errands.
Yuck, yuck, yuck. Right? Although…
All this is true, but it kind of depends on how you tell the story, doesn’t it?
A friend knew this couple, both of whom had cancer. Their wealthy daughter, located in another state, wanted someone to come in to take excellent loving care of her parents. My name came up, and being momentarily embarrassed for funds, I took the job.
They were wonderful, funny, intelligent, loving people. They had a cleaning lady who came in weekly and left the comfortable nice large house sparkling. I had an unlimited budget, and had instructions to total the daughter’s Amex card to make her parents happy. (Literally. That’s word for word what the daughter told me when she handed it to me. Since the card had no limit (did I mention she was very wealthy?) totalling it would be a tough job, but I was willing to try.) My strictest instruction was that there was no excuse for her parents to lack for even the slightest whim that money could buy, and it was my job to make that happen.
Life could be worse! Parents and I got along like old friends. They adored my cooking, and my grocery budget was unlimited. Mom wanted fresh flowers, and I had been specifically instructed that supermarket flowers were not acceptable: I was to get them in barely sub-lavish quantities from a fairly pricy local florist. I took breaks outside on the old mossy brick patio under a huge, ancient maple tree while joyfully planning their outings and the next week’s menu. They had an excellent wine cellar they were determined to enjoy while they still could, and I spent many enjoyable hours getting advice from a local merchant about food and wine pairings.
When visitors came, I was to be the dragon at the gate. Unexpectedly, the quantity and frequency of visitors increased as word spread about the wonderful homemade snacks and treats I served. (Aw, shucks. Blush.) Mom and Dad and I developed a code where they could tell me to make the visitors leave with excuses about needs for rest or medicine. Many visitors asked me in hushed tones what they should talk about, or topics to avoid. Mom and Dad had asked me to make clear that the only things they didn’t want to discuss were their own illnesses or life expectancies. They were dying, and dying very soon. They knew that. It was old news, it had been discussed in extensive detail for years, and the subject was freakin boring. They had no problem living through their own last days, but they’d be damned if they were going to live through their own funeral service! Change the subject!
Dad’s leukemia was in remission and Mom had metastasized colon cancer. They were both beyond treatment and on morphine for pain, but still went to museums, bridge games, and concerts. Yeah, Mom had no control of her bowels (ironically, years later I was to experience this myself), but I’m not especially squeamish. I just cleaned her up, packed her in some sort of medicinal glop, put her in a clean diaper and nightie, and got her comfy in bed. She was so undemanding and grateful–it was a joy to care for her. (The last words she said to me before her final coma were, “Rae, dear! I’m so glad to see you!”) She and I would joke a bit while I settled her in, I’d see if she had any food preferences that day, then I’d go down to the very well-equipped kitchen and cook with ingredients finer than my own kitchen had ever seen. (Of course, just for quality purposes, it was necessary to sample the meals frequently. Really frequently, especially when ready to be served. Purely as a quality assurance measure, honest.)
I had already hauled the laundry to the washer, and would throw it in the dryer just before I left for the day.
When their illnesses progressed, daughter hired in 24 hour nursing care. At the end of eight weeks, Mom died peacefully in her own bed with her husband and kids by her side.
That was what made it the worst job I ever had.
Going overnight from a major captain of industry (in a big fish/small pond kind of way) to an under-employed consultant and house/body servant was a bit of a bumpy ride (aka heart-stopping, life-threatening, panic-inducing, desperate fucking nightmare), but those two months were an invaluable experience. I went from working with a vicious verified narcissist to dealing with decent sane people who appreciated and wanted my help. It was a good transition to the real world.
Men are Checking Out of Society & Nobody Wants to ADMIT WHY…
Oh, dear. It is not going well at all for the USA under Trump, is it?
This was Trump yesterday.
“The only thing that makes sense is for Canada to become our cherished Fifty First State. This would make all Tariffs, and everything else, totally disappear. Canadians taxes will be very substantially reduced, they will be more secure, militarily and otherwise, than ever before, there would no longer be a Northern Border problem. The artificial line of separation drawn many years ago will finally disappear.
”O Canada,” the national anthem, will continue to play, but now representing a GREAT and POWERFUL STATE within the greatest Nation that the World has ever seen!”—Donald Trump, March 10, 2025
If you think this sounds like the ravings of a madman, you are correct, and it’s TRUMP SAYING IT.
So no, it’s not.
Sir Whiskerton and the Talking Scarecrow Upgrade: A Tale of Nonsense, Rebellion, and a Very Confused Crow
Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale of mechanical mishaps, avian uprisings, and one particularly perplexed pig who just can’t seem to get his inventions right. Today’s story is one of absurdity, adventure, and the occasional existential crisis, all wrapped up in a whirlwind of nonsensical advice and crow-induced chaos. So, grab your sense of humor and a pair of pliers (for emergency repairs), as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Talking Scarecrow Upgrade: A Tale of Nonsense, Rebellion, and a Very Confused Crow.
The Scarecrow’s New Voice
It all began on a quiet afternoon when Mr. Wigglesworth, the farm’s resident portly pig with a flair for the dramatic, decided that the farm’s scarecrow needed an upgrade. “This old thing?” he said, gesturing to the scarecrow with a dramatic wave of his hoof. “It’s just standing there, doing nothing! What if it could… talk?”
The animals, who had been going about their usual routines, stopped to listen. “Talk?” Doris the Hen asked, tilting her head. “Why would a scarecrow need to talk?”
“Why wouldn’t it?” Mr. Wigglesworth replied, puffing out his chest. “Imagine the possibilities! It could give advice, tell jokes, maybe even sing show tunes! It’ll be the most advanced scarecrow in the history of scarecrows!”
Sir Whiskerton, who had been enjoying a particularly luxurious nap in a sunbeam, opened one eye. “This is either going to be brilliant or a complete disaster,” he muttered. “And I’m leaning heavily toward disaster.”
The Voice Box Installation
True to his word, Mr. Wigglesworth spent the next few hours tinkering with the scarecrow, attaching a voice box powered by a pair of car batteries. “There!” he said, dusting off his hooves. “The Talking Scarecrow 2.0 is complete! Let’s test it out.”
He flipped a switch, and the scarecrow whirred to life, its button eyes blinking as it began to speak. “Greetings, farm animals,” it said in a robotic voice. “I am here to offer guidance, wisdom, and the occasional pun.”
The animals exchanged skeptical glances. “This is either the best or worst thing that’s ever happened to this farm,” Rufus the Dog said, wagging his tail.
The Nonsensical Advice
At first, the scarecrow’s advice seemed harmless, if a bit odd. “Remember,” it said, “a rolling stone gathers no moss, but a rolling egg gathers no breakfast.”
Doris the Hen squawked in confusion. “What does that even mean?”
But as the day wore on, the scarecrow’s advice grew increasingly nonsensical. “To find true happiness,” it said, “you must first balance a turnip on your head and dance the cha-cha under a full moon.”
Porkchop the Pig, who had been enjoying a particularly juicy apple, looked up in alarm. “I don’t even know how to dance the cha-cha!”
“And remember,” the scarecrow continued, “the early bird catches the worm, but the late worm catches the… uh… something. I’m still working on that one.”
The Crow Rebellion
The final straw came when the scarecrow began giving advice to Edgar the Crow, the farm’s resident bold and brazen trickster. “To truly soar,” the scarecrow said, “you must first pluck all your feathers and embrace the wind.”
Edgar, who had been perched on a fence post, nearly fell off in shock. “Pluck all my feathers?!” he squawked. “This scarecrow has gone rogue!”
Convinced that the scarecrow was a threat to birdkind, Edgar called an emergency meeting of the crows. “My fellow feathered friends,” he declared, “we must rise up against this mechanical menace! It’s time for a rebellion!”
The crows, always eager for a bit of chaos, immediately agreed. They began dive-bombing the scarecrow, cawing loudly and pecking at its straw-filled body. “Down with the scarecrow!” they chanted. “Down with the nonsense!”
The Feline Intervention
Determined to restore order, Sir Whiskerton called an emergency meeting. “Clearly, the Talking Scarecrow 2.0 is… less than effective,” he said, shooting a pointed look at Mr. Wigglesworth. “But fear not! I have a plan.”
With the help of Chef Remy LeRaccoon, Sir Whiskerton devised a solution: they would disable the voice box and return the scarecrow to its original, silent state. The only problem? The voice box was powered by car batteries, and the scarecrow was now surrounded by angry crows.
“We’ll need a distraction,” Sir Whiskerton said, flicking his tail. “Any ideas?”
Remy adjusted his goggles. “What if we use the yodeling fish? Their hypnotic yodeling could distract the crows long enough for us to disable the voice box.”
Sir Whiskerton nodded. “It’s worth a shot.”
The yodeling fish, who lived in the farm’s pond, were more than happy to help. “YODEL-AY-HEE-HOO!” they sang, their synchronized yodeling creating a wave of distraction that allowed Sir Whiskerton and Remy to sneak up to the scarecrow and disable the voice box.
The Moral of the Story
As the crows dispersed and the scarecrow returned to its silent state, the animals reflected on the day’s events.
The moral of the story, dear reader, is this: Sometimes, the simplest solutions are the best. Whether you’re upgrading a scarecrow, solving a mystery, or just trying to avoid a crow rebellion, it’s important to remember that not everything needs to be complicated—and sometimes, silence is golden.
A Happy Ending
With the scarecrow back to normal, the farm returned to its peaceful routine. The crows, satisfied with their victory, returned to their usual antics. Mr. Wigglesworth, ever the optimist, shrugged and said, “It worked fine until someone unplugged it.”
As for Sir Whiskerton, he returned to his sunbeam, content in the knowledge that he had once again saved the day. The farm was calm, the animals were happy, and the scarecrow… well, the scarecrow was still standing there, doing nothing.
And so, dear reader, we leave our heroes with the promise of new adventures, new inventions, and hopefully, no more talking scarecrows. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, simplicity, and just a little bit of feline genius.
The End.
What’s the bravest thing you have ever done?
Late 1980’s. McKinley Marina in Milwaukee Wisconsin on a summer day out cruising.
We just paused cruising the lakefront and turned into the marina to watch the beach and lake activities.
We were watching a senior citizen couple in a family size car trying to launch a small motor boat.
After a few minutes, there cars back wheels were under water.
At this point we started yelling to people to go find a yellow city DPW truck and call the fire department.
A minute later, the sedan was in up past the floor boards.
Realizing that was the point of no return and spouting some colorful language, I had my friend grab our chains out of the trunk.
I backed up to their front end and we hooked the chains up. My intentions were to pull them out, but lake Michigan was pulling on the first car and trailer like a suction cup.
All I could do was stand on my brake and not let the boat launch win. My car was obviously not going anywhere.
I couldn’t get out of the driver’s seat. That would mean taking my foot off the brake.
My friend looked at me and said, “this ain’t good!”.
Here you have a 1975 Nova LN hotrod chained to a sedan that’s half in the water. We were scared.
Shortly after he said that, we heard someone going nuts with air horns. We scanned the parking lot of the marina and here comes a yellow twin screw DPW truck with a cab full of men.
They ran several chains to the front of the seniors car, then pulled it out of the water like a loose tooth with no problem as I kept pace with the truck.
The city worker jumped out of the truck and said, “I don’t have to tell you what would’ve happened if you you hadn’t anchored to that car.”
We felt good about this after calming down.
Why is the trade war between the United States and the rest of the world keeping on escalating, with US goods facing brutal boycotts from the global economy? Isn’t this horrific for US companies whose earnings and stocks are already collapsing?
The US trade war is getting more and more fierce, but the results are getting more and more embarrassing.
Recently, Trump imposed a 10% tariff on Chinese goods because of the so-called fentanyl issue, which caused an uproar in the global market.
This is not a solution to the problem at all. Instead, it is further damaging the US economy and pushing domestic companies into the fire pit.
Take Tesla for example. This company was originally the pride of the US manufacturing industry. It has been selling well all over the world, especially in the Chinese market.
In order to reduce costs, Tesla built the world’s largest super factory in Shanghai, which is not only close to the market, but also can bypass tariff barriers, which is simply killing two birds with one stone.
But now Trump’s stupid trade war has imposed tariffs, which has directly pushed up Tesla’s prices in China, making consumers discouraged, sales have declined, stock prices have fallen, and market share has been eroded by competitors.
Even Musk himself dares not speak out.
Not to mention American companies such as Apple, Boeing, and Nvidia, which one does not rely on the global supply chain to maintain its competitiveness?
However, the Trump administration’s escalating trade war has caused these companies’ production costs to soar, their markets to shrink, their profits to plummet, and their stock prices to be horrible.
Even American farmers have been affected, their exports have been restricted, their products cannot be sold, and they can only wait for government subsidies and relief.
If this is not stupid, what is it?
To put it bluntly, the US trade war is a typical stupid operation. While Trump is shouting “Make America Great Again”, he is madly wielding a knife to force his own companies to death.
In the era of economic globalization, trade confrontations based on pressure, tariff barriers and political suppression will ultimately be paid by American companies and ordinary people, and the world economy will only accelerate the abandonment of the United States and lead to its decline.
Richard D. Wolff & Michael Hudson on The EU Has LOST its Mind
MM AI picture generations
Hydraulic tilting table 3.75×11.5m 20241023
Why do many countries in the Global South, even some African nations like Ghana and South Africa, lean toward the US rather than China?
I don’t know about Ghana.
US and South Africa are in a diplomatic uproar. US has sanctioned South Africa. It is enraged by South Africa’s role in the condemnation of Israel vis Gaza, and Musk has accused it of persecuting certain white people.
South Africa has retaliated. I can’t remember the details. I think some Americans were asked to leave the country.
Your statement that many countries in the Global South lean toward the US rather than China is probably as accurate or inaccurate as your reference to South Africa.
Know that China is not in a contest with the US to gain supporters. Most of the world’s countries are friends of China because China offers friendship, and treats other countries with respect and as equals. China has also been helpful. Such as, it supplies the Global South countries with most of the Covid vaccines, and sent many doctors and healthcare workers to the countries to help them deal with the virus.
Trenary Toast
This is a favorite in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.
Ingredients
- 6 slices dense white sandwich bread, crust removed
- 1 stick (4 ounces) unsalted butter, cubed
- 1/2 cup granulated sugar
- 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
Instructions
- Heat the oven to 325 degrees F. Line a baking sheet with aluminum foil or parchment to make cleanup easier.
- Trim the crusts from the bread slices.
- Put the butter into a pie plate. Slide the dish into the oven to let the butter melt completely. Keep a close eye on it!
- In a small bowl, whisk together the sugar and cinnamon. Put cinnamon sugar out onto a dinner plate or another pie plate.
- When the butter is melted, remove it from the oven, and dip both sides of bread in the butter. Apply the butter generously, so no spot is left uncoated. The bread should feel a little heavy in your hand.
- Dip the bread slices into the cinnamon-sugar, taking care to coat both sides.
- Lay them on the prepared baking sheet.
- Bake the toasts for about 25 minutes, until lightly browned.
- Transfer to a rack. The toasts will crisp as they cool.
- When cooled, store in an airtight container at room temperature.
Notes
These toasts are better the day after they’re made!
Rodrigo Duterte, the former Philippine president known for his deadly drug war, was arrested at the Manila airport shortly after arriving from Hong Kong.
The Philippines said Duterte is under police custody following an arrest warrant by the International Criminal Court. Duterte’s anti-narcotics campaign during his 2016-2022 presidency killed more than 6,000 people, according to government data, though human-rights groups estimate the death toll to have been higher. The Philippines under President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. initially cut contact with the ICC, but relations have since soured between the Marcos and Duterte camps. Duterte is the father of incumbent Vice President Sara Duterte, who was impeached in the House last month on charges she plotted to kill Marcos and misused public funds — accusations she denies.
Rodrigo Duterte, center, addressing supporters in Hong Kong on March 9. Photographer: Anthony Kwan/Getty Images AsiaPac
Former Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte arrested in Manila
note:
Rodrigo Duterte, the former president of the Philippines (2016–2022), was known for his outspoken and often controversial remarks, including his strong rhetoric against the United States. He openly criticized U.S. foreign policy, called then-President Barack Obama a “son of a b***h” in 2016, and pursued an independent foreign policy that leaned toward China and Russia. He also refused to renew the Visiting Forces Agreement (VFA) at one point and accused the CIA of plotting to assassinate him.
Given this context, it is unsurprising that he was arrested at Manila airport and extradited to the International Criminal Court (ICC) in The Hague. His political adversaries, including the Marcos camp, along with the CIA, reportedly collaborated with the ICC to facilitate his capture, despite the Philippines’ withdrawal from the ICC in 2019 under Duterte’s leadership, rejecting its jurisdiction over alleged human rights violations linked to his war on drugs. His arrest and extradition once again highlight the hypocrisy of US foreign policy, as Uncle Sam allowed another ICC convict, Bibi, to roam free in the US while eliminating its adversary, Duterte.
The Lone Siren
Submitted into Contest #279 in response to: Write a story about someone confronting their worst nightmare.… view prompt
Eden Corrie
An elderly woman behind the counter glanced up at him, her eyes roaming over him. Nora. He had never met her before, but he knew of her. She had taken care of Balor during a particularly low point in his life a few years ago, becoming a sort of mother figure for the man–then more literally when he married her daughter Aoife.
“You lookin’ for something, deary?”
Arvid’s mouth quirked up into a slight smile on one side.
“Do you only sell sweets? I’m craving a bit of salt.”
The woman returned his smile at those words, leaving a rag on the countertop as she guided him to the kitchen. It was late enough in the day that anyone employed by the woman was long gone, although he was sure it was just her and her daughter.
“I’m Nora,” she said now. “You don’t look familiar. Are you usually with Bally?”
Bally. Arvid wanted to laugh. There was no way anyone else could ever get away with calling the captain such an endearing name.
“Not for a long time.”
She hummed in thought as she reached a pantry door, looking him over again. There was a sullen, languid, looseness to his features and his gait that made it more than obvious that he would not be having his first drink of the day downstairs.
“From the looks of you, I’d say you’re all set for the night,” she teased playfully and when Arvid’s attempt at a lighthearted smile ended up being a mere twitch, her expression hardened slightly. Nora opened the door, pointing inside.
“Towards the back, there are some shelves with bags of flour. Beside them is a wee door down to the basement,” then she added before he could even take so much as a single step: “It is understood that I and my belongings are to be left alone. You are welcome to have your drink and have your fun, but if I catch even a whiff of brawling or any other nonsense, you’re out on your bottom.”
Arvid couldn’t help but let out a laugh.
“Is there a problem with that? If there is, you can turn yourself right back around.”
He shook his head, amusement still on his features.
“Why would you take in a lot like us, and think there’ll be no trouble?”
Nora straightened out her posture, the wrinkles in her face soft like dough as she smiled.
“‘Cause Bally loves his men, but he loves me more.”
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
Had it not been for the alcohol already warming him and easing his mind, Arvid likely would have felt a bit more churning in his gut at the sight of all the men bonded together by so many travels. Despite his connection to Balor, he felt like an intruder. Their energy filled the rather generous basement with its large cherrywood table and a small bar in the corner. Some of Balor’s weapons adorned the walls as decor–any that he associated with journeys or battles so magnificent that he’d rather treat them like a piece of history. The only weapon he never parted from in all his years was the whetted rapier that hung at his side.
Boisterous profanity and laughter caught his attention as he sat in a chair, attempting to slide into it smoothly but instead landing hard and slamming his back against it. Thankfully, all those around him were far too distracted to notice his pathetic entrance.
“I don’t believe one word,” Arvid heard one of the men bark after a hearty gulp of his drink. If he remembered correctly, it was Balor’s latest onboard carpenter.
“You don’t have to believe it, it still happened,” Balor said smoothly, before murmuring something soft to his wife as she brought him another drink and settled herself in his lap. She truly was stunning–in a way that was gentle and kind like warm, clear weather.
“No one survives such a reckless encounter with sirens,” the seaman who had spoken to Arvid earlier chimed in.
“Well, I’m not just anyone now am I?”
“Oh, please,” Aoife laughed, causing his men to join in. Balor looked up at her fondly. “Well, be rest assured that you don’t have to worry about his confidence in himself and this journey, gentleman.”
“What happened?” Arvid asked now, bringing the attention of the whole group onto him. Most of them appraised him with muted or warning expressions but stayed still as a large grin appeared on Balor’s face.
“And you said you would never… I hadn’t been sure but–” Balor laughed out, Aoife moving off of him for him to get up and clasp Arvid’s hand before pulling him into a bear hug. Arvid never considered himself a small man by any means, but Balor seemed to tower over everyone, his large frame full of muscle and heavy weight from years of indulging on drink and salted meats. Having the man’s arms wrapped around someone meant to be engulfed, and to smell smoke and the salt of his sweat and the sea.
“I knew you would show,” he heard his captain and closest friend whisper, keeping it between them.
“I’m–”
“A man of your word–always,” Balor beamed as he pulled away, gesturing to his companion as he turned now to face his men.
“Men, I would like to formally introduce you to my old friend, Arvid. And the best artist we could ever ask for.”
“An artist?” One of the crew asked, likely a new member considering the youthfulness of his features and the naiveté of his question. “He work with paints or somethin’?”
“No, you fool,” the carpenter was speaking up as others laughed and nudged the young man.
“He is our new Sailing Master,” Balor clarified.
Plenty of men sobered at that like it was expected, but a harsh reminder that their old navigator was gone. Arvid could guess that he was well-loved and respected amongst those who knew him, and perhaps Balor had even told him, but he forgot. He forgets a lot of things these days. Around then Aoife returned–Arvid had not even realized she had gone after moving off of her husband–and gently handed a mug to him. She offered him an encouraging smile, nodding at Arvid’s quiet thanks.
“If he’s so good why’s he not worked with us before?” a voice chimed in, followed by some mumblings of agreement.
“He was always on my journeys before I met you fine men,” Balor answered, his features becoming sharpened with seriousness. “Before the Gully of Blood.”
Something soured within Arvid at the mention, despite having known that the topic would come up. Legends had already formed about the battle that he had been involved in back when he was only 18 years old. The sort of legends that resulted in its name claiming that the skirmish had gotten so horrific that the bloodshed alone dug a new gully into the nearby land. Simple lies by locals to make others gasp and eyes widen. The horror and bloodshed, yes, but…
He hated that it was turning into a tale. It made the day that tore his entire life apart into a mere story.
But at least the fellow men recognized what that battle had really been, and what it meant that he had gone through it and survived, and their questioning ceased. Instead, they gaped at him or their eyes remained turned down onto their drinks.
“What was his name? Your Sailing Master?” Arvid asked now after clearing his throat, so aware of Balor’s heavy arm still slung across his shoulders. The bear paw of a hand gave him a subtle squeeze.
“Conall,” a man spoke up, grief lacing his tone. A cook, Arvid guessed, considering his missing arm.
“To Conall,” Arvid raised his cup before taking a solid swig of his drink, the others following suit.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
As the night passed, Arvid grew more comfortable with his surrounding company who successfully pulled genuine smiles and laughter from him. However, he still tried to remain in the background as much as possible. He was an observer and a listener if nothing else. It was part of why he was so good at navigating and likely why he and Balor got along so well. The captain was always the one to talk, seeking out listening ears, but while he loved the amusement of those who gave such potent reactions to his stories, he valued Arvid’s presence the most because it has proven time and time again to never be temporary.
“So, what happened? What about sirens?” Arvid asked now, speaking up for the first time in probably a half hour.
“Absolutely nothing, he’s full o’ it,” one of the crew, Lugh, chimed in with a laugh as he jutted his thumb in Balor’s direction.
“Have I never told you about the Siren of the Southern Waters?”
One of the men muttered something about “Here he goes again.” Arvid shrugged, responding that he did not believe so.
Balor let out a long breath, one of his hands settling on his gut.
“It was five years ago,” he started, still getting a few snickers from his usual dramatics. “I had a full crew, even some artists such as yourself and Madoc.”
He nodded to the carpenter.
“Had even afforded a doctor, not that it mattered,” he laughed sardonically. “He was the first one to die. The rest followed.”
He paused, a seasoned storyteller watching this information sink in.
“We were sent out to hunt the sirens. The man offering payment had lost a son to the seas around the area, and a cunning woman told him his son had been bewitched and torn apart by sirens.”
“He wanted every last one dead, and he was ready to provide a hearty tip if we brought the bodies so he could hang their bust up onto his wall like prize bucks. It has been done before over the centuries, but it is rare. Not many survive interactions with the creatures.”
“And you did?” one of the men asked in disbelief. Balor’s usual humor seemed to have been completely drained of him as he looked at the man.
“Yes,” he responded flatly. “We were able to kill all but one. Kept ourselves safe by putting wax in our ears, but she was enraged. She dropped all of her usual tricks and got as brutal as those beings truly are.”
“Hard to believe that when you’re still here,” Madoc argued, arms crossed over his chest.
“That’s because I saved her. And now… I am asking you men to join me in finishing the job.”
Arvid glanced around as the crew was in uproar with accusations and questions. They wanted to know how and why he had supposedly saved a siren, and if so: why kill her now? Why tell them now? As usual, Balor’s closest companion was silent, observing all those around him, but even his own frustrations and questions rose to the surface. With everything that has happened to him… the men he had been with before the battle…
“Why risk our lives for one siren? They hunt in packs. If she is alone, she’s harmless. Probably dead.”
Arvid noticed the way Balor’s knuckles blanched around his mug’s handle, bringing it up to his lips as he held his gaze. He placed it back down with a thump.
“A fisherman went missing last summer and when his remains were found… all signs pointed towards a siren. I figured you all would appreciate being spared the details, but–”
“Darling,” Aoife whispered, the color gone from her complexion, which gave Balor pause. Her face seemed to draw him back from his memories and ground him again, his gaze going to Arvid.
“How can we trust you?” the cook asked boldly, weathered and harmed and not much left to lose. Balor was building up to confront him for doubting his own captain before he continued: “Legend says that any man that escapes a siren’s song remains obsessed with her forever.”
The captain bristled slightly, before laughing. His gaze trailed from Arvid to Aoife now, his body settling again. He reached up a broad hand to brush her auburn hair back.
“Clearly… that’s not true.”
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
The journey itself had been going smoothly. Arvid however… Those first two weeks, the responsibility of guiding the ship and once again being on board another ship left him reclusive and sick, frequently vomiting off the side of the vessel. Then the nightmares… oh, god, the nightmares were horrific. Filled with memories or memories collaged with the faces of Balor and his men. Then the anxieties around a potential confrontation with a siren, even alone, filled with such a vengeful rage towards men. Sometimes when he was planning with the current, the weather, and going over old charts, he considered providing the wrong instructions to Balor or his helmsman, Angus. He would sit at his charts, nauseous and sleep-deprived, considering the repercussions on his relationship with Balor to disobey his orders.
Arvid went up onto the deck, his stomach turning and the taste of acid in the back of his throat again after doing so well the past few weeks. It was deep into the night, but the skies were clear putting the bright stars on full display. The light from above glittered off the black waves occasionally tilting the vessel one way then another as they moved along. He had sworn his stomach was about to lurch when he saw Balor, his back towards him.
“Captain?”
Balor turned, hand reaching for his rapier before his body went lax again with a light laugh. For once, the man was silent though even as Arvid approached, both now leaning their forearms against the edge.
“If you are having second thoughts…” Arvid started slowly, noticing the circles under his companion’s eyes. Had he been missing as much sleep as him?
“No, I will see this to the end.”
Arvid nodded, sitting with the silence that was so unfamiliar with Balor at his side.
“Are you?”
The navigator hesitated.
“No, captain.”
Balor huffed out a laugh.
“Be honest. And stop calling me captain. It feels… unnatural from you.”
Arvid snorted at that, nodding in understanding.
“I have had second thoughts the second I knew exactly what your plans were,” he noticed the way the man beside him bristled but continued despite it. “Considering what happened in these waters before, you must understand… it is not easy to lose your men.”
Balor parted his lips, but Arvid did not let him interrupt.
“It was my fault my men died during the Gully of Blood,” he practically spat the title that battle was given. “I guided them to the wrong waters. Their blood is on my hands, and if you have brought me on this journey only to put me through it all over again, I swear–”
“Swear, what?” Balor challenged, moving from leaning against the edge to pulling himself back up to his full height.
“I…” Arvid sighed, his gaze trailing up to his hard expression before returning to the waters. “I could not handle it again.”
“I have to avenge what happened to my men on that day. If this ends in losing all of our men–my men–it will be because of my demands. Not yours.”
Silence fell between them again and Arvid was beginning to taste acid again.
“We should be around those waters within a month, if the weather remains this steady, which I doubt.”
At that, Arvid turned to leave his companion until he heard Balor break one of his own rules aboard this ship: he whistled.
Softly, shakily, but he whistled. Arvid’s blood turned to ice, feeling it was a call to something deep within the waters. And as that song called back to him, Aoife was back in the home she shared with Balar when he was not out at sea. She went through his study, wishing to feel him, smell him, look at his writing, when she came across a journal bound in leather. It was sloppy with some pages half sticking out, and when she opened it she found drawings upon drawings and paintings of a red haired woman, chest exposed, and covered in scales.
What is the biggest lesson you’ve learned so far in 2024?
Don’t take your health for granted.
This is my story:
On a cold autumnal morning in November 2023, I got out of bed, dressed, hydrated, had my pre-workout meal, and drove to the gym to complete a pull-day workout consisting of deadlifts, rows, weighted chin-ups, and barbell curls.
The workout went fine until I started performing my work sets of weighted chin-ups.
The gym was busy, and I couldn’t use the regular pull-up bar because they were all occupied.
So, I had to use the monkey bars to perform the weighted chin-ups.
I was already warmed up from the previous exercises, so I went straight into the work sets. I had a belt tied to my waist with a chain on, and attached to the chain was a 15kg plate.
I was doing chin-ups with my body weight and 15kg attached, so the total weight lifted was around 95kg because I weighed around 80kg (80kg + 15kg = 95kg).
I grab the pull-up bar with both hands and the 15kg weight plate attached and start doing chin-ups. My goal is to do 4-6 reps for three sets.
While performing the first several reps, I felt an uncomfortable pull in my wrist and stopped the exercise.
My wrist was painful and unstable, but the pain wasn’t excruciating ( maybe a 6/10 in terms of severity).
After experiencing this, I rested and tried again. It still didn’t feel right, so I performed dumbbell curls. They didn’t feel right either.
I go home, shower, get dressed, start working, and get on with my day.
A couple of days later, I tried to perform my leg workout, but gripping the bar for barbell squats didn’t feel right, and I realised there was a serious problem with my right wrist (to make things worse, it was my dominant wrist).
So, I gave myself a 2-week break from the gym.
After the 2 weeks were up, the pain was still there, but I tried to go back to lifting, thinking, “Maybe my wrist is weak after the injury and needs to be strengthened”, so I tried to train for a few weeks.
The pain was still there.
I then saw my general practitioner (GP) at the local doctor’s surgery centre, and he gave me a wrist splint to wear for a few weeks.
It didn’t help.
A few weeks later, the GP authorised an ultrasound for me on my wrist. When I had the ultrasound, the doctor couldn’t find a cause for my pain; he said, “It’s probably just mild tendonitis”.
I gave my wrist more time to heal, then saw a physiotherapist to help me with correctional exercises, hoping this would fix the problem.
Nothing helped.
I wait several more months, then see an orthopaedic surgeon who requests an MRI scan of my wrist.
The MRI showed no cause for my wrist pain, so he told me to start using my wrist as usual again.
I couldn’t deal with the pain any longer, so I asked him to refer me to a soft tissue wrist specialist.
I went to see the specialist, and he gave me a steroid injection in my wrist, hoping to reduce any inflammation in my wrist that might have been causing the pain.
It didn’t work.
The next option was wrist keyhole surgery to find a cause for my wrist pain (and hopefully fix my wrist) because the specialist said MRIs could only be 70% correct, meaning my diagnosis had probably gone undetected so far.
In December 2024, I was put under general anaesthetic and had my wrist surgery.
The surgeon found a Triangular fibrocartilage complex (fcc) tear and repaired it. The operation lasted around 2 hours.
As of writing this article, I’m 12 weeks post-op, and my wrist is almost back to full function.
(The picture above is me during the first couple weeks after surgery).
Having full use of my wrist now is truly a blessing.
I don’t have all the money in the world.
I don’t have a girlfriend.
But now I have my health.
And that’s all that matters.
The takeaway from this is this:
Whatever you do, look after your health.
Yes, some injuries and illnesses can be cured.
But some can’t.
So do everything you can to ensure you stay healthy for as long as possible.
Remember, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
This was the most testing experience of my life so far.
I was in pain for over a year.
But I never had time off work sick.
And I truly believe this experience has made me stronger.
And wiser.
“What doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger” – Friedrich Nietzsche
What are your thoughts on the Australian government failing to receive an exemption to the US steel and aluminum tariffs?
Did Australia really expect Trump to grant the exemptions?
Consider that he treats Canada like puppet on the string.
What has Australia to offer as incentives?
It is already caught in the AUKUS nuclear submarines. Has it billions lying around?
Consider Japan?
The PM journeyed to DC for nothing. Probably got a lecture and told to wait. Its time will come when Trump is ready.
South Korea too.
They are far more important to the US in Asia than Australia.
Just follow the US with a few FON sailings and send a few plants to the SCS cut no ice with Trump.
There were a lot of thieves in China about 10 years ago. They were annoying..
The good news is going digital made a lot of them vanish. But they still exist. They still take food deliveries you ordered on mobile apps if you don’t show up on time…My umbrella was also stoled once..Thank God we are not using cash anymore.