Nusch and Paul Eluard, Roland Penrose, Man Ray; and Ady Fidelin, Île Sainte-Marguerite, Cannes, France, 1937
Lee Miller
Lee Miller
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Monday, May 28, 2012
Riverfest
Sue and I went to Riverfest of Friday. We saw MuteMouth, Chevelle and Third Eye Blind. I had a pretty good time. Here is a picture I took with my iphone.
Yesterday we watched Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close on Pay per view.
Today was Memorial Day.
Today was Memorial Day.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
The people next door moved out. I'm glad. They annoyed me. I kept waiting for the day that it would happen. For some reason they struck me as the type who wouldn't stay long. I don't know why. At times, they could be very obnoxious; with their noise, that is. They sure banged around a lot. It really got on my nerves. Not to mention that the only way that they knew how to close a car door was to slam it.
Now, I look out my bedroom window and see an empty carport. It's the most peaceful thing that I have ever seen. Now, if it would just stay vacant.
Now, I look out my bedroom window and see an empty carport. It's the most peaceful thing that I have ever seen. Now, if it would just stay vacant.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
Performing at Riverfest
Over the Memorial Day Weekend I will be going to Riverfest. Here is a list of people who will be performing.
Friday, May 25
Miller Lite Amphitheatre Stage
For the closest gateway access, enter through the First Security Gateway at Clinton & River Market AvenuesFriday, May 25
- School Boy Humor
- Neon Trees
- Boyz to Men
- Dry Country
- The Frontier Circus
- Good Time Ramblers
- Michael Shipp
- Starroy
- Jonathan Tyler and Northern Lights
- Lynyrd Skynyrd
- Luke Williams
- Singletree
- Mandy McBryde
- Adam Faucett
- Cadillac Black
- Little Big Town
- Joe Walsh
Night Shots by Dashiell Hammett
NIGHT SHOTS
Dashiell Hammett
The house was of red brick, large and square, with a green slate roof whose wide overhang gave the building an appearance of being too squat for its two stories; and it stood on a grassy hill, well away from the country road upon which it turned its back to look down on the Mokelumne River.
The Ford that I had hired to bring me out from Knownburg carried me into the grounds through a high steel-meshed gate, followed the circling gravel drive, and set me down within a foot of the screened porch that ran all the way around the house's first floor.
“There's Exon's son-in-law now,” the driver told me as he pocketed the bill I had given him and prepared to drive away.
I turned to see a tall, loose-jointed man of thirty or so coming across the porch toward me — a carelessly dressed man with a mop of rumpled brown hair over a handsome sunburned face. There was a hint of cruelty in the lips that were smiling lazily just now, and more than a hint of recklessness in his narrow gray eyes.
“Mr. Gallaway?” I asked as he came down the steps.
'Yes.” His voice was a drawling baritone. “You are —”
“From the Continental Detective Agency's San Francisco branch,” I finished for him.
He nodded, and held the screen door open for me.
“Just leave your bag there. I'll have it taken up to your room.”
He guided me into the house and — after I had assured him that I had already eaten luncheon — gave me a soft chair and an excellent cigar. He sprawled on his spine in an armchair opposite me — all loose-jointed angles sticking out of it in every direction — and blew smoke at the ceiling.
“First off,” he began presently, his words coming out languidly, “I may as well tell you that I don't expect very much in the way of results. I sent for you more for the soothing effect of your presence on the household than because I expect you to do anything. I don't believe there's anything to do. However, I'm not a detective. I may be wrong. You may find out all sorts of more or less important things. If you do — fine! But I don't insist upon it.”
Thursday, May 24, 2012
At Midnight and Other Stories by Ada Cambridge
AT MIDNIGHT
CHAPTER I
They sat in their American buggy at the turn of an English road—an Australian bride and bridegroom, on their wedding tour. It was a bit of the "old country" that had not been syndicated and modernized since the bridegroom had seen it last—when he was a young fellow at Cambridge, paying visits to the houses of his university chums because his own home was inaccessible. Tall hedges embraced the ripening wheat-fields still; brambly ditches yawned beneath them. There were dense woods hereabouts that made green tunnels of the road, and there were thickets of fern and wild vines and bushes—acres of unprofitable beauty—under the useless trees. The spot was a joy to the sentimental wayfarer, and Mrs. Wingate's gaze meant rapture not expressible in words."This," she sighed, "is England, Billy."
She meant that this was the England of her romantic dreams—England as described to her by exiled parents and in scores of delightful books.
"And this," said Billy, "is the place I told you of."
He pointed with his whip.
Just below and before them rose an ancient gateway, iron and stone, with much heraldic ornament. An ivy-mantled lodge with curly chimney-stacks stood immediately within; and beyond, sloping gently upward for a mile or more, a straight, grassed drive between thick woods—a beautiful green vista, three times as wide as an ordinary park avenue—was closed, on an elevated horizon, by the indistinct but imposing mass of a great grey house, one of those "stately homes of England" which are our pride and boast. It was a lovely picture, and a lovely atmosphere through which to view it—tinted with the hues of approaching sunset on a late summer day. A few head of deer were browsing quietly on the shadow-patterned sward; thrushes were calling to each other from wood to wood; partridges flying homeward to their nests in the corn, disturbed by the sound of the horses' hoofs.
The Angry Street by G.K. Chesterton
The Angry Street
G. K. Chesterton
I cannot remember whether this tale is true or not. If I read it through very carefully I have a suspicion that I should come to the conclusion that it is not. But, unfortunately, I cannot read it through very carefully because, you see, it is not written yet. The image and idea of it clung to me through a great part of my boyhood; I may have dreamt it before I could talk; or told it to myself before I could read; or read it before I could remember. On the whole, however, I am certain that I did not read it. For children have very clear memories about things like that; and of the books of which I was really fond I can still remember not only the shape and bulk and binding, but even the position of the printed words on many of the pages. On the whole, I incline to the opinion that it happened to me before I was born.
At any rate, let us tell the story now with all the advantages of the atmosphere that has clung to it. You may suppose me, for the sake of argument, sitting at lunch in one of those quick-lunch restaurants in the City where men take their food so fast that it has none of the quality of food, and take their half-hour's vacation so fast that it has none of the qualities of leisure. To hurry through one's leisure is the most unbusiness-like of actions. They all wore tall shiny hats as if they could not lose an instant even to hang them on a peg, and they all had one eye a little off, hypnotised by the huge eye of the clock. In short, they were the slaves of the modern bondage, you could hear their fetters clanking. Each was, in fact, bound by a chain; the heaviest chain ever tied to a man—it is called a watch-chain.
I Hear America Singing by Walt Whitman
I Hear America Singing
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand
singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as
he stands,
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning,
or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work,
or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young
fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
Walt Whitman
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
One's-Self I Sing
One's-self I sing, a simple separate person,
Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse.
Of physiology from top to toe I sing,
Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I say
the Form complete is worthier far,
The Female equally with the Male I sing.
Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,
Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine,
The Modern Man I sing
Walt Whitman
American Idol Finale Season 11
Tonight was the finale of American Idol Season 11. Phillip Phillips won. Jennifer Holiday sang and totally looked like she was on crack. The best part was Aerosmith's performance.
Thrilling Detective
Thrilling Detective
Featuring:
Dangerous to Handle - A Novelet of Crime and Vice by Mark Reed
Sucker's Bribe by R. Van Taylor
At the Ghost Hour
At the Ghost Hour
Paul Heyse
THE HOUSE OF THE UNBELIEVING THOMAS
In a provincial town of northern Germany there is a street in which the ancient, high-gabled houses bear, inscribed in Gothic letters, upon the lintels of their doors or upon little sandstone tablets, such honorable or fanciful names as “The Good Shepherd,” “Noah's Dove,” “The Palms of Peace,” “The Rose of Sharon,” and underneath, the date of their erection.
In former days this street had been one of the main arteries of the city, whose staid, orthodox inhabitants coveted inward spiritual illumination rather than the light and air which penetrate from without. Since then new generations had arisen, fired with the spirit of aggressive enlightenment, and the importance of these old families, content with the stray sunbeams that made their way over the tall roofs, had declined perceptibly. One by one, they had died off behind their “Palms of Peace” and their “Roses of Sharon,” and had made way for the bustling children of the new era, whose light and cheerful dwellings sprang up around the dingy old street.
Thrilling Detective
Thrilling Detective
Alan Freed
Albert James "Alan" Freed (December 15, 1921 – January 20, 1965), also known as Moondog, was an American disc jockey. He became internationally known for promoting the mix of blues, country and rhythm and blues music on the radio in the United States and Europe under the name of rock and roll. His career was destroyed by the payola scandal that hit the broadcasting industry in the early 1960s.
Legal trouble, payola scandal
In 1958, Freed faced controversy in Boston when he told the audience, "The police don't want you to have fun." As a result, Freed was arrested and charged with inciting to riot. Freed's career ended when it was shown that he had accepted payola (payments from record companies to play specific records), a practice that was highly controversial at the time. There was also a conflict of interest, that he had taken songwriting co-credits (most notably on Chuck Berry's "Maybellene"), which entitled him to receive part of a song's royalties, which he could help increase by heavily promoting the record on his own program. However, Harvey Fuqua of The Moonglows insisted Freed co-wrote "Sincerely". Freed lost his own show on the radio station WABC; then he was fired from the station altogether on November 21, 1959. He also was fired from his television show (which for a time continued with a different host). In 1960, payola was made illegal. In 1962, Freed pleaded guilty to two charges of commercial bribery, for which he received a fine and a suspended sentence. 
Freed's punishment from the payola scandal was not severe. However, the side effects of negative publicity were such that no prestigious station would employ him, and he moved to the West Coast in 1960, where he worked at KDAY-AM in Santa Monica, California. In 1962, after KDAY refused to allow him to promote "rock and roll" stage shows, Freed moved to WQAM in Miami, Florida, but that association lasted two months. During 1964, he returned to the Los Angeles area and worked at KNOB-FM. He died in a Palm Springs, California hospital on January 20, 1965 from uremia and cirrhosis brought on by alcoholism. He was 43 years old. Freed was initially interred in the Ferncliff Cemetery in Hartsdale, New York; his ashes were later moved to their present location in Cleveland, Ohio at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame on March 21, 2002.
Freed's punishment from the payola scandal was not severe. However, the side effects of negative publicity were such that no prestigious station would employ him, and he moved to the West Coast in 1960, where he worked at KDAY-AM in Santa Monica, California. In 1962, after KDAY refused to allow him to promote "rock and roll" stage shows, Freed moved to WQAM in Miami, Florida, but that association lasted two months. During 1964, he returned to the Los Angeles area and worked at KNOB-FM. He died in a Palm Springs, California hospital on January 20, 1965 from uremia and cirrhosis brought on by alcoholism. He was 43 years old. Freed was initially interred in the Ferncliff Cemetery in Hartsdale, New York; his ashes were later moved to their present location in Cleveland, Ohio at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame on March 21, 2002.
The City of the LIving Dead
The City of the Living Dead
Laurence Manning and Fletcher Pratt
Science Wonder Stories, May, 1930
THIS story, in our opinion, is one of the most unusual that has appeared in recent years, for it deals with a subject which is bound up with our whole existence.
We all know that our experiences come to us through our senses; that is, the senses of hearing, sight, touch, smell, taste, etc.; and that, if these senses were removed, although we would still know we were alive, the world itself would cease to exist for us.
But suppose that, instead of having our natural organs of sense, we were supplied with artificial ones, and that by the medium of a mechanical device we could experience any sensation or event that we wish. Then, you might say, we would be living in a true Utopia. However, this is not really so, and, as our authors point out so convincingly, there might be a total degeneration of our human race, and even a cessation of all life.
THE sun sank slowly behind the far-off, torn and rocky crags, throwing up a last red glare like a shout of defiance as the white tooth of Herjehogmen mountain blotted the last beams from Alvrosdale. A deep-toned copper bell rang across the evening, and the young men and girls, leaving their dancing on the ice, came trooping up the path in little groups to the Hall of Assembly, laughing and talking. Their gay-colored clothes stood out brilliantly against the white background of the snow in the Northern twilight that often seems like day.
At the door of the Hall they parted—not without sadness, since for many it was the last parting—some going into the Hall, others passing on up the path to the line of houses. Those who entered were grave, though they had smiled not long before. Yet they were a goodly company for all that, some three-score in number and all in the fire of youth.
Within the hall might be seen benches; a great fire against one wall, and against the other the mouldering remains of those Machines that were the last relics of the days of old. At the center was a dais with places for the elders of Alvros, and midmost among these sat a man full of years, but in no wise feeble. Strong, stern, white-headed, he bore on one arm the silver band of authority, and in his hand he held a small, shiny Machine, round in shape and with a white face which bore twelve characters written in black. As the youth took their places, he twisted this Machine, so that it rang a bell, loud and stridently. Then there was silence, and the old man rose to speak.
Blackmail Clinic
BLACKMAIL CLINIC
By WALT BRUCE
Popular Detective , December 1943
A Complete Dr. Zeng Mystery Novel
A Nazi “truth serum” proves a boomerang when Dr. Zeng Tse-Lin invades the precincts of treachery in a daring campaign to clean up a sinister nest of murder and espionage!
CHAPTER I. DEATH TO THE FEDS
T HE night was ominously dark, with just enough fog in the air to veil the stars in shroud-like semi-concealment. All around the Bay Area, spectral fingers of white glow probed weirdly into low-hanging mists, moving and stabbing and shifting. These were the antiaircraft searchlights bearing mute witness to the alertness of a nation at war.It was strange, Steve McCune thought, how San Francisco had changed. Once upon a time its brilliance and light could have been seen for miles, but now the city's glitter was dimmed down to a mere ghost-reflection. This waterfront street, for example, with its electroliers hooded and all neon signs doused by order of the Army Interceptor Command, was like a shadowy gullet waiting to swallow the unwary traveler.
McCune shivered a little and wished for the full power of his small coupé's headlamps instead of the undersized, fender-mounted parking lights which were all the law permitted you to use after nightfall in this neighborhood. He felt worn and weary as he drove slowly home from the shipyard where he was employed; weary, and vaguely uneasy.
IT was past midnight, and Steve McCune had good reason to feel tired. In recent months he had been on the swing shift, starting work at four in the afternoon and quitting at twelve. That usually made it around one in the morning before he got home to the old house where he lived with his family.
Sleep was difficult under such conditions. True, he had remodeled the attic into a makeshift bedroom for himself in order to get as far away as possible from daytime traffic noises. But even so, it was hard to obtain the proper amount of rest when everybody else was up and stirring around.
He yawned as he drove; shivered again, although the night was not cold. His sensation of uneasiness persisted, crawling through his marrow like a slithery premonition of impending disaster. His mouth twisted wryly as he thought about his job as foreman of the big shipyard's blueprint department.
It was a good job, an important job, the sort of work which made a man feel that he was valuably contributing to his country's war effort. For the yard was constructing a new and secret type of Q- boat for the Navy, breaking all records in the speedy fabricating of these hush-hush antisubmarine weapons. McCune had thoroughly enjoyed his part in the vast program until a certain thing had happened.
He swore silently, remembering the ugly circumstances that had enmeshed him. Then he glanced at his rearview mirror and went suddenly tense as he saw the hooded lights of a car behind him. There could be no doubt about it, now. He had suspected it for the past several blocks. He was being followed.
“They're after me!” he whispered.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
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