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I really don't know where this came from (weird e-mail trail), but it was too good not to share.
For those of you who follow ConservationBytes.com, you might remember a fairly recent post where a group of leading conservation biologists exposed one of the most dangerous men in the world – Alan Oxley, the (very embarrassing to admit) Australian destroyer of tropical biodiversity and future welfare of hundreds of millions of people.
It seems he and his commercial interests (and my, do those fellas lay it on thick) have turned their attention to destroying the last tracts of intact South-East Asian forests (and associated biodiversity) in Papua New Guinea. Kiss some of the most endemic, biodiverse and biowealthy areas on the planet good-bye.
So it was interesting to receive this email that had been sent to Oxley's front-company, International Trade Strategies (ITS) Global, by one very pissed off Papua New Guinean. I have no idea who 'Bush Kanaka Mangi' is, but he sounds the real deal and I wouldn't want to be Oxley if he ever came across him. I cite verbatim1:
Mr Alan Oxley,
HONESTLY : I am sick of getting this bloody rubbish, bullshit from you and your company ITS Global about palm oil is good for PNG, logging is good for PNG. Who the hell do you think you are ????, you seem in all your articles and consultancy reports as the expert about our country and more knowledgeable about the Melanesian society very well. My assessment of all your electronic newsletter which you circulate widely, your reflections and recommendations all are in no way closer or nearer to the way we Papua New Guineans think and want to do things and develop our nation, all of what you say are totally and purely and absolutely RUBBISH and yet you claim to know everything and know the problems of PNG and our people and on ways to solve our problems and continue your bullshit campaign in support of R&H and all its doing here destroying our forests, our society, manipulating our systems and creating confusion and hell is loose here.
New study by ITS Global shows Palm Oil can spur economic growth in PNG. A vibrant Palm Oil industry is economically and environmentally viable in Papua New Guinea (PNG) and has the potential to raise the living standards of the nation's poor, according to a new report released by ITS Global2
…..this is incorrect, have you seen and travelled this country and seen the conditions of the local landowners and block holders or you sit your bottom in an air-conditions office in Australia and write reports which is far from the trust and reality on the ground.
…argues that PNG is in a perfect position to capitalize on oil palm development as a response to strong global demand for food staples and a domestic need for nutrition and food security…..
Yes global demand we know but that, oil palm is a exotic crop from Africa, it has no traditional value to our people and what nutritional value and food security are you talking about?? What about the traditional landowners that will be pushed away from their land for oil palm, how do you intend to cater for their traditional needs…already we are experiencing and seeing original landowners from oil palm area areas face many social and internal problems in their own villages and clans, and furthermore what about the large influx of people from other provinces that will flood the plantations in search of jobs, and then get poor services like accommodation and then the social conflicts for space and land for gardening….have you gone to Kimbe, visited Galai, Buvussi, Kapore, Saraklok, Vilolo Section 8 or yu stap long Melbourne tasol na raitim repot, yu imas paul yah !!!!
The ITS Global report claims that the palm oil industry has the potential to generate significant economic growth in PNG. It notes that Palm oil is PNG's most successful agricultural crop, accounting for around 39% of agricultural export earnings over the last decade while directly providing income for over 160,000 people living in rural households.
Yes true, but have you visited the any of the 160,000 people and their households to find out how much of their earnings from oil palm FFB or salaries last them a week ??, you are living is a unreal world and writing, the reality is the money they earn from FFB or salary as a employee/laborers evaporates into thin air within a week, because the cost of living has risen and they have no savings…our people are slaves in the oil palm industry and you want more and more forest land in PNG is cleared by R&H and then put more and more of our people into those plantations and with promises of higher living standard and conditions, come on Alan Oxley, yu imas faul yah, maski kusawe long ol pipol bilong mipela. In fact you are enslaving them…..which they don't know.
The study also finds that PNG soils offer the prospect of highest output per hectare from palm oil of any economy and that the industry provides a net climate benefit despite a politicised "environmental" campaign pursuing an anti-development agenda3.
The soils, GOD blessed our country no question about that…….and NET CLIMATE BENEFIT, hey wait a minute….again you imas longlong, ai bilong yu istap we, long ???? what about all the problems of forest clearance, it that climate benefit, what about all the soil erosion into the rivers and seas, what about the huge loss of forest carbon and soil carbon initially……..what studies have shown oil palm is a good carbon capture crop….yu imas kirap nogut long silip yah…sekim em ??
Politicized Environmental campaign pursuing an anti-development agenda.
I dont understand what you mean by this or referring to, but OUR politicians are supporting your agenda of oil palm development and that thinking blindly that it is good development option, because you and R&H have brainwashed them (long paus na long tingting) by your BULLSHITS. PNG NGOs and knowledgeable Landowners who have opposed you and R&H plus others in the logging forestry and oil palm sector are not against development (ANTI-DEVELOPMENT3 as you say), but are against the manner in which the process of development is carried out and conducted without considering other options all and following due process. Het bilong yu imas kilia, na maski paulpaul yet. PNG NGOs and the Landowners are PNG'ans by BLOOD and will live here and die here and get buried here and they have the heart for their people, land, forest, future generations, and they are talking from the hearts, you are not a Papua New Guinean and you don't feel how we feel and how we see things and how we appreciate our society. You are a foreigner only providing your one sided KONsultancy service of BIG BUCKS.
The list below4 I don't want to waste my time trying to put some real sense into your brain to put some touch of reality, so that the next time you write a report for R&H, it is a true and real reflection of things on the ground in PNG. OK..na harim gut maski long raitim kainkain giamna samting na giamanim ol lidas bilong mipela na traim bagarapim ol ples, bus, giraun, wara and kantri bilong mipela.
Em tasol…..stap gut long ea kondisen ofis bilong yu lon Australia na tingting gut.
Mi yet…………………….
Bush Kanaka Mangi5
1 I'd really like someone to translate the Pidgin for me, please (in boldface). I can get most of it, but I'm uncertain of a few words.
2ITS Global propaganda in italics.
3I always love how any attempts to protect biodiversity and livelihoods from rampant environmental destruction and instead promote sustainability is labelled by these people as 'anti-development'. The hyperbole is extra-ordinary.
4I'll spare you the remainder of the ITS Global propaganda. Follow the link above if you really want a good laugh.
5Amen, brother. Whoever you are.


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This article is more than 1 year old
Wi-Fi may damage sperm, boffins warn
Keep that laptop away from your 'nads, lads
A team of scientists has suggested that Wi-Fi-connected laptops sited too close to chaps' gonads could damage their sperm.
Argentinian and US boffins collected semen from 29 healthy males, divided each sample into two containers*, then exposed one "to an internet-connected laptop by Wi-Fi for 4 hours". The second sample "was used as control, incubated under identical conditions without being exposed to the laptop".
The results were that exposed samples "showed a significant decrease in progressive sperm motility and an increase in sperm DNA fragmentation". The researchers concluded: "We speculate that keeping a laptop connected wirelessly to the internet on the lap near the testes may result in decreased male fertility."
However, they note: "Further in vitro and in vivo studies are needed to prove this contention."
Fertility expert Dr Allan Pacey of the University of Sheffield agreed that more in vivo tests are in order. He told the BBC: "The study is very well conducted, but we should be cautious about what it may infer about the fertility of men who regularly use laptops with Wi-Fi on their laps. Ejaculated sperm are particularly sensitive to many factors because outside the body they don't have the protection of the other cells, tissues and fluids of the body in which they are stored before ejaculation.
"Therefore, we cannot infer from this study that because a man might use a laptop with Wi-Fi on his lap for more than four hours then his sperm will necessarily be damaged and he will be less fertile. We need large epidemiological studies to determine this, and to my knowledge these have not yet been performed."
Dr Pacey did, though, warn that sperm might be affected by "inadvertent testicular heating" from balancing a lappy on your lap for extended periods.
He concluded: "There is a case report of a man who burnt his penis after using a laptop resting on his lap for a long time. Therefore, there are many reasons to try and use a laptop on a table where possible, and this may in itself ameliorate any theoretical concerns about Wi-Fi."
The penis-burn laptop shocker in question was back in 2002, when a 50-year-old scientist scorched his wedding tackle after one hour tapping away on what was allegedly a Dell.
He suffered "penile and scrotal blisters", but no lasting damage. ®
* Aliquots, actually. Lovely word.

subset: commoncrawl


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Since my husband Arnold and I moved to Mexico (from Santa Fe, New Mexico) in 2007, any number of our friends have asked me "why don't you start a blog?" Truthfully I never really considered it because I kept thinking "oh, honestly, all those 'We restored a wrecked house in (insert name of exotic foreign country)' books have been written, and they were pretty much all far better than what I could have written. But when we'd see friends back in the States, or they came to visit us here, and I would tell stories about this or that thing that happened to me (they really loved the tale of the carjacking-at-gunpoint I endured a few years ago, it was much juicier than the dishwasher blowing up). Anyway, folks have persisted and at least for the moment, overridden my "who cares about my little life?" protests, so here I am.
My family lived in Mexico City in the 'fifties and I certainly must admit that I came to our present expat adventure with certain advantages: I knew and loved Mexico, even though it was the Mexico I remembered from childhood and quite different from Mexico in the 21st century. I spoke the language, loved the weather and the aesthetic, and I learned the first time around that I could survive and thrive here. In fact, now that we have indeed been here for awhile, I actually feel that I may have developed a better instinct for interpreting what I see around me. My Spanish is much better now, even Arnold, my husband, is much more comfortable here. It is an interesting time to be living in Mexico and it is also an interesting time to be viewing the events back in the U.S., our Ancestral Homeland, from another perspective. Now, here we are, in this no-longer-third-world-but–not-first-yet-either country, with a front row seat.
So, welcome to my new blog; let's see how long and if I keep it up!


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Eight Minutes Of
Eight minutes of, the gala was in full swing. Women adorned in their finest gowns, men in their spats and tails. All twirled the dance floor with inebriated glee.
Seven minutes of, the lights dimmed, the glass baubles above took on an amber glow as heads lifted in wonder and delight.
Six minutes of, the largest crystal began to gleam, none could draw their eye from it; they froze entranced.
Five minutes of, the bloom grew blinding: the skin around each reveler's eyes began to darken and crack; to ooze brown rivulets as they gazed beyond the light. Slack of jaw, their lips began to curl exposing desiccated gums. Teeth clattered to the floor as sockets shrunk and tongues retreated to withered husks.
Four minutes of, the first horn emerged from the starburst, followed languidly by the enormous beast – it struck the marble with a resounding crack as it landed upon cloven hooves and bent claw.
Three minutes of, the aberration stalked among the paralytic ensemble. The men it had no use for – it sought only breeders. It sniffed, it tasted; it rent the unworthy to pieces. Gold and silver damask rippled through the air as it discarded one female after another.
Two minutes of, it chose a single sheep, a prize in grand finery festooned with shimmering gems.
One minute of, the creature stepped back through the starburst having seeded its offspring. The assembly of revelers fell to the polished slab; their flesh dusted the air upon impact, what clothes remained lay poised in eternal waltz.
At the stroke of midnight, the brilliant glimmer of the seven pointed star diminished to the chandelier's soothing glow as a single scream ushered in the new year.
~ Nina D'Arcangela


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Skip to Content
The UW Libraries have put together a comprehensive prospective graduate student resource guide.
If you are a current graduate student, Careers Services has created specific professional resources just for you. These include Resume/CV, LinkedIn, Networking, Interviewing, Professional Portfolios, and more! Make an appointment and/or attend our events.
If you are considering graduate or professional school, Career Services has compiled information on this site to help you tackle what can sometimes feel like an overwhelming task. Read through the information below to get started, and take a look at how to prepare your application materials. If you need more direct guidance, make an appointment with the Career Services' Alumni & Graduate Career Coach.
Graduate school is an opportunity to advance beyond your Bachelor's degree over the course of 1-4 years. While undergraduate education allows you to absorb depth of knowledge in a wide range of topics, graduate programs are designed for students to focus on a specific field. Once graduate school is complete, students often pursue a career in their specialized area or continue on to a PhD program. If you want to deepen your knowledge in a particular area/topic, but don't want to invest in a multi-year graduate program, a certificate program may be a more appropriate (and cost-effective) option to explore.
If you are seriously considering applying for a graduate program, begin by speaking with department faculty in the appropriate field of study:
Create a list of qualities that you want in a graduate program and then prioritize that list by determining what you most value in higher education. Use this Graduate School Comparison Chart to help guide your research. Items to consider might include:
Many professions require intensive study above and beyond the length of time it takes to complete a Bachelor's or Master's degree. Admittance to professional and technical graduate programs is highly competitive, but applicants are sought from all fields of study in order to represent a diverse range of expertise within the academic community. Some examples include:
Social Work
Health-related fields (Visit EduMed to determine if a career in Health is right for you and learn about the steps to get there.): Visit UWB's Pre-Health Advising site to learn more about how you can Explore, Prepare, and Apply to professional health preparation graduate programs.
After you prioritize your list, search for University programs that match your criteria. Seek advice from your current professors, web resources, WOIS, Bureau of Labor Statistics, and professional associations to find potential schools and programs. Read recent journal articles in your field, join a professional organization, and attend Graduate School Fairs to collect further information. Contact the program adviser to discuss your questions and visit the campus and talk to students currently in the program.
Begin your research by browsing the graduate programs offered here at UW Bothell.


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Ryan Seacrest issues statement on Casey Kasem
Staff Writer
Columbus Monthly
LOS ANGELES (AP) — Ryan Seacrest says the death of his radio role model, Casey Kasem, is a loss for radio listeners worldwide.
Kasem, an internationally famous radio broadcaster with a cheerful manner and gentle voice, died Sunday at age 82.
He became the king of the top 40 countdown with a syndicated show that ran for decades.
Seacrest, who took over the countdown from Kasem in 2009, said in a statement that as a child, he'd listen to Kasem's show every weekend "and dream about someday becoming a radio DJ."
He says Kasem had a distinctive friendly on-air voice and will be greatly missed.
Kasem's legacy reached well beyond music. His voice was heard in TV cartoons such as "Scooby-Doo," where he was Shaggy, and in numerous commercials.


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The Dignified Dead BirdCopyright Chris Bushe
The rants and warblings of an active and some would say disturbed mind. A Brentford Fc supporter and a psychiatrist and photographer. Welcome to my musings and rants.
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Pripyat child hospital
The Chernobyl disaster was a nuclear accident that occurred on Saturday 26 April 1986, at the No. 4 nuclear reactor in the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant, near the city of Pripyat in the north of the Ukrainian SSR. It is considered the worst nuclear disaster in history and is one of only two nuclear energy disasters rated at seven—the maximum severity—on the International Nuclear Event Scale, the other being the 2011 Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster in Japan. The accident started during a safety test on an RBMK-type nuclear reactor, which was commonly used throughout the Soviet Union. The test was a simulation of an electrical power outage to aid the development of a safety procedure for maintaining cooling water circulation until the back-up generators could provide power – there is a time gap between the moment of power outage and the moment at which the back-up generators reach full power. This operating gap was about one minute and had been identified as a potential safety problem that could cause the nuclear reactor core to overheat. Three such tests had been conducted since 1982, but they had failed to provide a solution. On this fourth attempt, the test was delayed by 10 hours, so an unprepared operating shift had to perform it. During a gradual decrease of reactor power that was done in preparation for the test, the power unexpectedly dropped to a near-zero level at one moment. The operators were able to partially restore power, but this put the reactor in a highly unstable condition. The risks were not made evident in the operating instructions, despite a similar accident occurring years before, and the test proceeded even though the power was still lower than prescribed. Upon test completion, the operators triggered a reactor shutdown, but a combination of unstable conditions and reactor design flaws caused an uncontrolled nuclear chain reaction instead. A large amount of energy was suddenly released, vapourising superheated cooling water and ruptur
Pripyat dental clinic


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Two of America's pre-eminent lobbying groups for journalistic rights have joined the fight against the PSNI/US government attempt to confiscate confidential Troubles-related interviews stored at Boston College. One is the Committee to Protect Journalists whose history and activities are chronicled here and here. The other is the Reporters Committee for Freedom of the Press, which can be read about here and here.
My grateful thanks go out to both organisations. The CPJ played a huge role back in 1999 in frustrating the RUC's attempt to confiscate my interview notes with Billy Stobie, the UDA Quarter-Master who informed his Special Branch handlers of the UDA plot to assassinate Belfast attorney, Pat Finucane. The SB, of course, sat on their hands, allowing the UDA to kill Finucane. The RUC's successors in the PSNI have continued the tradition of turning blind eyes and deaf ears to crimes committed by or with the assistance of their forebears. Equally British PM David Cameron has no qualms about allowing the PSNI to rummage around in Boston College's archives while refusing anyone permission to go near MI5, FRU and RUC Special Branch records on the Finucane killing.
I owed CPJ a great debt of thanks back then as I do now and I also want to thank the Reporters Committee for their support. Here are articles that appeared recently on their blogs.
First the Committee to Protect Journalists:
The Reporters Committee:


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The Daily Word 09.22.10: Ninja Attack, Donkey Kong, Your Neighbor Is A Terrorist
The Senate fails to repeal Don't Ask, Don't Tell.
President Obama's top economic advisor is quitting.
Someone from a Georgia Republican Senator's office posted some homophobic comments on a gay rights blog.
The world's oldest man is 114.
The best headline I've ever read: Axe-Wielding Ninja Robs Jewelry Store
Is New Mexico's recession over yet?
Denver Broncos rookie Kenny McKinley kills himself.
Governor Richardson is selling his junk.
Did you miss the big fight behind the bleachers? Watch it on Youtube.
Four-year-old finds a used condom in a hotel room, now has herpes.
Megachurch Bishop ironically accused of coercing young men into sex.
Twelve-year-old killed by train because his iPod was too loud.
(HOORAY?) The newest Vatican scandal doesn't involve pedophiles.
Steve Wiebe reclaims the world record Donkey Kong high score.
Egyptian newspaper photoshop fail.
Lil Wayne's classy new album has a classy song called Gonorrhea.
By the time hipsters bring designer milk to Albuquerque, it will be out of style.
My neighbor may be an asshole with a dog that never stops barking, but that doesn't make him a terrorist.
Fossil treasure trove discovered in California.
The Mars rover finds a meteorite.
Newspaper in Minnesota publishes a racist joke.
What do you think of Burger King's new breakfast items?
Someone cracked the DRM that protects Blueray, HDMI and HD transmission video. What does that mean for your pirate friends?
It's National Bourbon Heritage Month. Are we drunk yet?
Happy birthday Michael Faraday!!!


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Millions of rides a day. Zero emissions.
That's our commitment to every single person on the planet. The path there will be electric. It will be shared. It will be with buses and trains and bicycles and scooters. These monumental changes won't come easy. Or fast. But we have a plan to get there, and we need you to come along for the ride.
Announced global commitment to becoming a zero-emission mobility platform
Hundreds of thousands of drivers transition to electric vehicles (EVs) through our Green Future program
Uber is operating as a zero-emission mobility platform in Canada, Europe, and the US
100% of rides globally are in zero-emission vehicles or through micromobility and public transit
Offering more ways to ride green
We're committed to providing sustainable, shared alternatives to the personal car.
Uber Green
Uber Green is the most widely available on-demand mobility solution in the world for no- or low-emission rides. Today, Uber Green is available in 110 major urban markets across 3 continents, 20 countries, and hundreds of cities.
We're partnering with local transit agencies around the world to add real-time transit information and ticket purchase directly in the Uber app.
Bikes and scooters
We've integrated Lime bikes and scooters into the Uber app across 55+ cities globally, with plans to expand micromobility options.
"As the largest mobility platform in the world, we know that our impact goes beyond our technology. We want to do our part to build back better and support a green recovery in our cities and communities."
Dara Khosrowshahi, Uber CEO
Helping drivers go electric
Drivers are leading the way toward a greener future, and Uber is committed to supporting them. Our Green Future program provides access to resources valued at $800 million to help hundreds of thousands of drivers transition to battery EVs by 2025 in Canada, Europe, and the US.
Partnering to fight climate change
Uber is bringing our innovation, technology, and talent to the fight against climate change. We're partnering with NGOs, advocacy groups, and environmental justice organizations to help expedite a clean and just energy transition. We're also teaming up with experts, vehicle manufacturers, charging network providers, EV rental fleets, and utility companies to help drivers gain affordable access to green vehicles and charging infrastructure.
Our collaborators and partners
Charging infrastructure
Electric vehicles
Making transparency a priority
Progress starts with taking a serious look at where we stand today and sharing results to drive accountability.
ESG Report
Uber's Environmental, Social, and Governance Report shows how, through core business and social impact activities, we help make real life easier to navigate for everyone.
Climate Assessment and Performance Report
Our Climate Assessment and Performance Report analyzes billions of rides taken on our platform in the US, Canada, and major markets in Europe. Uber was the first—and one of the only—mobility companies to assess and publish impact metrics based on drivers' and riders' real-world use of our products.
Sparking electrification in Europe
Uber is accelerating its commitment to sustainability in Europe and around the world. Our SPARK! report details Uber's approach and how we hope to partner with carmakers, charging companies, and policymakers to realize our goals.
Science Based Targets initiative
Uber joined the Science Based Targets initiative (SBTi) to help ensure accountability and rigor in our push to become a zero-emission platform. The SBTi defines best practices in target setting and independently assesses and approves progress.
This site and the related Climate Assessment and Performance Report (the "report"), along with the SPARK! report, contain forward-looking statements regarding our future business expectations and goals, which involve risks and uncertainties. Actual results may differ materially from the results anticipated. For more information, please see our reports.


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I hope y'all are ready to look at some fancy shit today.
Behold, my newest set of pajamas – also known as the most expensive thing I sleep in 😛
A few months ago, I was contacted by Josephine's Dry Goods to try out a piece of Liberty fabric from their staggering collection. They actually have a LOT of incredible, high-quality fabric from all sorts of designers (and they always happy to send samples if you are on the fence!) – but I was really keen to try the Liberty specifically because, let's face it – you should never say no to free Liberty amirite. While I'm not generally a fan of the cutesy floral prints – they are pretty, but they definitely are not my style – there are plenty of non-cutesy non-floral prints to choose from – Adelajda, Weather Wonderland, Oxford, Melting Elements, Lauren's Leaf (best name ever), Endurance – to name a few!
After a LOT of deliberation, I decided on Fornasetti Forest – I love the psychedelic print, as well as the colors. The colors aren't necessarily ones that I tend to wear – but I was making PJs with my Liberty, which allows for a little more color experimentation. The fabric was shipped out quickly, and arrived in a beautiful little package.
I used the Carolyn Pajamas pattern from Closet Case Patterns – having made these twice before (in summer linen and cotton flannel – both of which are still nighttime wardrobe staples for me!), I was pretty familiar with the pattern – both in terms of construction and fit – which means that I could get straight into sewing and know that I would be happy with the finished garment. I made a size 2 for both the top and the bottom, which is the same size I made for my other PJs. I went with view C, which features shorts + a short sleeved top, and added the optional piping to really make the style lines stand out.
While this was a pretty straightforward project, I did put some thought into construction before I started. Since the Tana Lawn I used is so fine, I decided to use French seams for all the construction seams – yep, including the armsyces! – well, except for the mock fly, which I ultimately decided to just serge (I did consider binding that seam, but I was afraid it would be too bulky in an area that definitely doesn't need even a hint of bulk haha). The piping and topstitching are both black – to bring out the black detail in the print and kind of ground it a little. I did have some coral-y orange lawn that exactly matched the orange in the fabric, but I went with black because I think it pulls all the colors together a little better. This print is pretty wild on its own! Getting black piping meant that I didn't have to make my piping, either – I bought some premade stuff from a local shop here in town and that saved me a bit of effort!
The top of the shorts waistband has a little ruffle, which is the result of using an elastic that is about 1/4″ too narrow. I couldn't find elastic in the correct width that was soft enough (I like wearing the really soft PJ elastic, but sometimes you don't get the best variety of widths), so I went a little narrower. Rather than redraft the waistband to reflect the new width, I just sewed a line of stitching 1/4″ away from the top edge and then inserted the elastic. I did this on my linen pair and I like the way it looks.
Working with Liberty fabric was super easy – the Tana Lawn is a nice, tight weave that doesn't fray much and responds well to pressing. Despite the expense (it's about $40/yard), this is probably one of the best fabrics to make pajamas out of. Like I said, it's SUPER easy to work with – even on a more complicated pattern – and it's also really delightful to wear, as it's nice and cool in the summer heat. Plus, the prints are really fun – perfect for a wacky night's rest. Since the fabric is pretty light, I did use a really fine needle – a 70/10 sharp. I also found out that silk pins work best with this fabric, as larger pins will show pinholes (although I also learned that a quick steam will usually make the holes close up pretty easily).
I reaaaaally wanted to finish these in time to wear to Belize (I had visions of getting some island backgrounds in a photo or two), but I pretty much only managed to get them prewashed before it was time to leave. On the flip side, I was able to wear them to a little weekend cabin retreat with my book club – and everyone was really jealous of my awesome sleepwear. I think the top actually would do well on it's own as daytime wear (with pants, I mean hahaha), which I've considered wearing. I just need to get past the mentality of it being PJs, you know?
I think I've said enough about these PJs for now, but don't think I don't have more versions on the horizon – my plaid flannel ones suffered a bit of a dye transfer earlier this year (btw I'm never indigo dyeing anything ever again). While they are certainly still wearable, I'm on the lookout for a good replacement fabric to make a fresh pair!
As a side note – I have officially made all 3 versions of this PJ pattern. Heather, am I the only one? Can I have a trophy?
Note: The Liberty of London fabric that I used for these pajamas was very generously provided to me by the fine folks over at Josephine's Dry Goods. I highly recommend them for all your Liberty needs!


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NASCAR and the T-Bird 430 and Olds 88
Q: Hello, Greg, in your column about the T-Bird and the big engines, you mention the 430-inch V-8. Thunderbird raced this engine in 1959, and it was available in a street version and the (Holman-Moody) NASCAR version for racing. The 1958 Thunderbirds had four coil springs, which was a poor setup for the NASCAR racecars. Ford raced the '59 T-Birds in 1959 (with a better Holman-Moody suspension), and then moved over to the USAC when they were too old for the NASCAR events a few years later. I had a Thunderbird in high school, and it was a 1959 with the 430 V-8 engine and a three-speed with overdrive transmission. It also had a sunroof.
Also, the Olds 88 in NASCAR was fast. I know the first 88 with the V-8 came out in 1949 and NASCAR ran its first races in 1949. You've said before the Olds 88 was the first ever muscle car. Can you please tell me more about how the car raced?
Keep up the good work, and I still recall the first Daytona 500 where the T-Bird of Johnny Beauchamp was flagged the winner in a photo finish with Lee Petty in an Olds, but then Petty got the win after NASCAR studied the photo a few days later. Keep up all the good work and thanks for all your columns. Retired June of 2012, I am "Grandpa" Bob Dalsky, from Wausau, Wisconsin.
A: Bob, thanks very much for the kind words. You are correct in your recall of the 1959 Thunderbird and its capability on the NASCAR racetracks. Many of the big-name drivers started in these Holman-Moody prepared race cars, which could run with a hardtop on or off (see photo).
To this day, I really like the 1959 T-Bird both street and race versions, and both command top dollar from collector enthusiasts.
As for the Olds 88, in my opinion it really was the first ever muscle car, although Olds didn't build it to become a muscle car. In NASCAR's first season, the Olds 88 of champion Red Byron won two events, and the Olds brand won four of eight overall. In 1950, Olds 88 V-8s scored 10 of 19 event wins and in 1951 20 of 41 NASCAR victories. In 1952, however, the Fabulous Hudson Hornets with a six-cylinder began to dominate, followed by the Chrysler 300s. Still, Olds went on to many wins through the late 1970s and 1980s, too. Today, it's just Ford, Toyota and Chevy, with hopes of a Dodge return in the future.
Thanks for your letter, and enjoy your retirement.
Greg Zyla writes weekly for More Content Now and welcomes questions on collector cars, auto nostalgia and vintage motor racing at 303 Roosevelt St., Sayre, PA 18840 or email at firstname.lastname@example.com.


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The big question is: What did he know and when did he know it? We may never get a straight answer from Te'o. Nor from his family, who have thrown hissy-fits anytime the media doesn't work as Manti's PR agency. But what about those who spent the most time with Te'o over the last few years. According to reports, Teo's teammates had suspicions about Lennay Kekau going back to the beginning of this season.
Sports reporter Jackie Pepper spoke to a member of the Notre Dame football team who declined to be named. That player said Te'o's story didn't add up, but they never confronted him about it.
The Notre Dame football player, who asked for anonymity, told Pepper On Sports, "No we all knew he had only seen her once. But when the media was saying how he went through both deaths we knew," said the source, referring to the back-to-back deaths of Te'o's grandmother and girlfriend Lennay Kekua, who allegedly died of Leukemia.
In response to my follow-up question asking if the source thought that Te'o kept the story going because of the media attention, the player replied, "Yeah. Right after the Michigan [State] game. He should have never brought her in the media. His grandma passing was enough."
Notre Dame's victory over Michigan State and subsequent media explosion appears to have been the turning point for the source and many of his teammates.
The source said while the players discussed their suspicions amongst themselves, they never confronted Te'o.
"We would never bring it up. But we would look at him when he would get all emotional during media about his girl," the player said.
When asked if he thought Te'o was a good actor, the player replied, "Very good."
That player believes Te'o initially fell for a hoax, but carried on with it for the publicity even after he discovered the truth. That fits with what Tyler Moorehead, the Notre Dame rep for college sports network College Spun, recounts from the on-campus gossip:
The debate among teammates wasn't whether or not Manti actually knew this girl - it was clear that they had been in contact; no, players just didn't think that it was fair to call Lennay Kekua Manti's girlfriend, period (it is well-known on campus that he has had relations with other girls during his time at Notre Dame). They recognized what was going on for what it was - a terrible publicity stunt used to fuel Manti Te'o's Heisman campaign. In fact, many of the players privately commented that they didn't want the students to wear leis in support of Manti and wouldn't participate themselves - they cited that the team never responded so publicly to tragic events for other players. But there was also the feeling that Manti didn't deserve to benefit from publicity from the death of somebody he barely knew.
Last night, AD Jack Swarbrick hitched his and the university's wagon to Te'o's flawed version of events. The crux was that Te'o only learned he had been hoaxed on Dec. 6, and the university didn't find out until Dec. 26. But if Te'o's teammates knew something was up going back to September, and he continued to repeat the lie to reporters throughout the season, then something doesn't add up with his story. And remember, it's Notre Dame's official story now, too.


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An international organization of builders, paddlers, and admirers of wooden and bark canoes.
New Canoes, Restore/Repair, Workshops/Classes, Wood/Canvas
Jeanne Bourquin
1575 Grant McMahan Blvd Ely, MN 55731
Jeanne has been building the Atkinson Traveler, and her own design the Otter (16'6", 60#, 30" wide.) since the early-1980's. She also builds "Indian" versions that are 12" longer, adding hull speed but not much volume or weight. These are fast, pretty, canoes that track great for wilderness travel. Jeanne teaches build-your-own classes in her shop in Ely, MN and at North House Folk School, Grand Marais, MN, on beautiful Lake Superior. Jeanne's husband Peter Pestalozzi (a furniture builder) helps with the milling, seats, canvassing, rib bending, and he also makes paddles. They do some repairs.


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Get out of your comfort zone with a challenging class that uses new materials, techniques and ideas. Here's some of our favorite classes, coming up right now:
Entrelac Knitting at Argyle Yarn Shop
This is one of several classes offered at this new Windsor Terrace yarn shop that make complicated-looking techniques easier to learn. During the two-hour class, up to six students will learn to knit a scarf using Entrelac technique. The final result resembles a basket-weave type of texture, accomplished by using only knit and purl stitches. 10% discount toward yarn and needles is offered on the day of the class. Sunday, January 20. 1pm-3:30pm.
Parent & Child Knitting at Brooklyn General Store
Knitting is a wonderful skill to learn and share and should be started young! My grandmother taught me how to knit when I was seven, and I went crazy knowing that I could save up a few quarters and go to Woolworth's, buy a huge skein of Coats and Clark knitting worsted in colors that striated all over the color wheel, and knit me up a scarf in a week or so. I later moved on to knitting skirts and vests out of all kinds of acrylic fluff—this was the 60s, you know—and watch out when I learned to make fringe! Grandmother taught me Continental-style knitting, but I found the English style easier, and to this day I knit English style and it has never cramped my technique. When I came across the Parent & Child Knitting class at Brooklyn General Store, I totally approved. This 3-week class is designed to encourage creative interaction between parent and child (age 7 and up). Together you'll learn basic knitting skills including how to cast on, knit, purl, bind off, and decipher simple instructions. Carroll Gardens/Cobble Hill. Sundays, beginning January 13, 5pm-6:30pm.
Screenprinting with master print artisan Roni Henning
Learn to create water-based screenprints and monoprints using non-toxic techniques pioneered by printmaker Roni Henning. Screenprinting has personal, professional and commercial applications that will be explored at open-studio workshops. Using hand and digital methods, Roni will cover basics for those unfamiliar with screen printing, along with demonstrations of more complex techniques. Roni, a reknown artist and author, collaborates with artists to create fine art editions (Romare Bearden, Andy Warhol, Red Grooms, and Alice Neel are on her resume). Bay Ridge. Sessions scheduled twice a month. Contact Roni through her website to sign up.
Laser Design and Rapid Prototype at NYC Resistor
Using an Epilog 35 Watt Laser, learn basic rapid prototype techniques, safety and design skills, and make a piece during this three hour class. Class fees include lab time for laser cutting, Q&A, and working with design software like Inkscape, Illustrator or Corel Draw. Scrap materials for experimenting with are provided, and additional materials such as laserable acrylic can be purchased to use. This hands-on class will go step-by-step from initial idea to pressing the "go" button on the laser. NYC Resistor is a hacker collective that meets regularly to share knowledge, hack on projects and build community. Founding member George Shammas's bio states that he breaks things to fix them. Good to know. Boerum Hill. Sunday, January 20, 2pm-5pm.
Pro Picture Frames on the Table Saw at Makeville
Artisanal shop class? Makeville Studio, a hands-on lab for craft, building, art and invention is offering a chance to safely master table saw techniques and learn to make professional quality hardwood picture frames. Learn to make accurate and repeatable miter cuts and keys, set up and use a dado set, apply quick and easy finishes, cut mat boards and mount the finished frame. Gowanus. Three sessions on Mondays, starting January 14, 7pm-10pm.
Intellectual Property for the Fine Arts at 3rd Ward
Sooner or later, every artisan, business owner, author and maker confronts the need to control ownership of what they have created. The financial implications can be huge, and most of us are ill-prepared to deal with protecting our rights when it comes to our creativity. An evening spent learning about Intellectual Property at 3rd Ward will be a few hours well spent. Entertainment and intellectual property lawyer Kelly Kocinski Trager will discuss when and how to use copyrights, trademarks and patents; how to protect yourself and your creations; and Q&A on pertinent facts. Williamsburg. Thursday, January 17. 7pm-10pm.
Intro to Google Analytics at Gowanus Print Lab
If only someone would tell us about the stuff we need to know so that our blog gets more exposure. 21-year-old Rutgers Graduate Ian Jennings is presenting this three-hour lecture, and sounds ideal. His course will discuss: What's the difference between a visit and a pageview? • Who's visiting your site? • Who's coming back? • What kind of device are they using? • How can I get more traffic from search engines? • What about Facebook, Twitter, and all those other social networks? • How do I sell more stuff? • What other tools exist? Thank you Gowanus Print Lab for recognizing that some of us need clarification in this area. Gowanus. Wednesday, January 23, 7pm-10pm.
$5 Fridays at Brooklyn Central
Brooklyn Central, a new art and photography education center in DUMBO, offers 90-minute classes for $5 on Fridays. It's part of BKC's philosophy to keep things simple with motivated instructors and short sessions that will help you learn something new, build on your creativity, and expand your goals. Seems like a painless way to pick up some photo basics like "Dealing with Low Light Situations," "Color," "Capturing Motion," "The Lowdown on Lenses," and "Photoshop Basics." DUMBO. Fridays, check website for times and dates.
The Pearl Harbor Sandwich: Cuisine at the Brooklyn Navy Yard
Brooklyn Artisan is often found hanging around the Brooklyn Navy Yard because it's such a fascinating mix of old and new, with history to discover and history in the making. This talk and tasting, in conjunction with Brooklyn Historical Society, will explore the Yard's past and present using food as the central theme. Discover the modern grocery store that is soon going to replace Yard mansions, and get access to one of the largest rooftop gardens in the U.S. Where do the Yard's artists go for snacks today? (Hint: it may be BLDG 92's Ted & Honey café.) Led by historic gastronomist Sarah Lohman, who is Artist in Residence at BLDG 92. Vinegar Hill. Thursday, February 28, 7pm.
Create Your Own Handmade Soda at Brooklyn Soda Works
Small batch soda masters Caroline Mak and Antonio Ramos, founders of Brooklyn Soda Works, will be demonstrating their special science-based techniques—Ramos is a chemist—to create home-brewed soda. Tour their test kitchen and get a hands-on demo in pairing interesting flavor combinations, and then hand craft your own soda. Book this class through SideTour, an online marketplace of classes and events. Bushwick/Bed Stuy location. Thursday, January 24. 7pm-9pm.
3rd Ward • Brooklyn Brainery • Brooklyn Skillshare • Fixers Collective NYC • Church of Craft at the Etsy Labs • Brooklyn Tech Meetup
Worldwide Jellyweek: A Jelly is a casual working event that takes place in a home, a café, a coworking space or an office to allow people to collaborate on a project for a day. Worldwide #Jellyweek 2013, January 14-20, will offer several opportunities in Brooklyn to collaborate: • Coworking Jelly Day, Friday, January 18 at Brooklyn Brainery • Jellyweek 2012 days at Bitmap.
Please mention Brooklyn Artisan if you decide to sign up for a class.
Joy Makon curates Brooklyn Artisan's Craft & Design coverage and creates the weekly Best of Brooklyn lists.
Send items for listings to firstname.lastname@example.com


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Paul was the brother of my grandfather, Albert "Wally" Lightcap. Even though Paul died in 1999, I never met him or any of his family. Paul's obituary was published in the Telegraph Herald (Dubuque, Iowa) on June 20, 1999. I don't have a newspaper clipping, but I have the text.
Transcript of the obituary:
Paul G. Lightcap, 93, of 2611 Windsor Ave., died at 4:55 p.m., Friday, June 18, 1999, at ManorCare Health Services.
Services will be at 10 a.m. Tuesday at Dubuque Bible Church, 3500 Pennsylvania Ave., with burial in Linwood Cemetery. Friends may call from 3 to 8 p.m. Monday at Egelhof, Siegert & Casper Locust Street Funeral Home, 1145 Locust St., and after 9 a.m. Tuesday at the church.
He owned and operated Lightcap Sewing Center for more than 60 years. He was born on April 20, 1906, in Wisconsin, son of Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Lightcap. He married Louella Miller in 1925; she died in 1994. He was a member of Dubuque Bible Church since the 1940s. He loved working on sewing machines.
Surviving are a son, Harold (Betty) Lightcap, of Dubuque; and six grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren. He also was preceded in death by a brother, Wallace Lightcap.
A Paul G. Lightcap Memorial Fund has been established.


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Novell Dynamic File Services (DynamicFS) transparently manages two storage locations as a single logical data storage repository referred to as a pair. This section describes how to create and manage pairs.
Section 8.4, Providing Users with a Merged View of the Files in a Standard Pair
Section 8.5, Including or Excluding Folders from a Pair's Policy Runs
Section 8.11, Reporting Conflicts for Attributes and ACL Permissions on Folders


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Friday, March 6. Winter and weeping are wearing me down, along with the monochrome light, and dirt-infused precipitation on everything. I used to say Chicago street snow looked like the bottom of an ashtray. After this long winter in upstate New York, innumerable cigarette pellets of gunmetal ice and ashy road salt line our avenues–and spirits.
Even where the snow is still blank white, it has grown dull to my eyes. It's been months since the amaryllis bloomed, and a week since my pale yellow butterfly faded away.
I travel in search of color, to the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art (Mass MOCA). Once again I am surprised by serendipity.
Swirling, spraying, wiggling: wall after wall after wall of gorgeous and intense paint by Sol Lewitt swims around me.
Liquid looking gold and black (Teresita Fernandez) flow over me.
On the way to Massachusetts, a friend and I crunch through snow to meditate in the icy stillness of a small temple at the Grafton Peace Pagoda.
We are surprised by a Japanese Buddhist nun wearing a headlamp, who pops out from behind the altar where she'd been organizing items. She is startled by us. So cold! So cold! Come and have tea when you are done.
After sitting zazen in the frigid air as long as we can stand it, we find our way to the kitchen, where we nibble a cookie, sip hot brown Kuchika Twig tea and get to know her—Jun-San. We speak of peace walks and meditation and the essence of the Lotus Sutra.
My companion says, Ever since I first heard Na-Mu-Myo-Ho-Ren-Ge-Kyo, I have wondered what the words meant.
She answers that it comes from the Buddha's last teaching, where he moved from the internal, concentration on just the self, to concentration on the other, the community (something about the Golden Rule). She added: But really, you should not look to others' translations because then the meaning does not come from within.
The acts of chanting, breathing, sitting with its sounds reveal the sutra's message for each individual.
We laugh over it later: Here you spent forty-some years pondering, in search of what you thought was a mysterious, erudite, complex and distant definition, and she tells you you've had it inside all along!
My acts of weeping, seeking color, meditating on life, breathing, walking and sitting with moments regardless of their pain or joy—reveal the meaning of those acts and moments for me. Wisdom inside of me all along. Color inside of me all along.
Now my stomach and heart don't go sour when I see the gray light over the gray hills and gray snow. Spring will come.
Accidents happen. Living long doesn't always happen.
I think of the children who come into our lives, how we are often trying to save them, sometimes not able to: horribly, sadly, naturally. We have saved them so many times to start with, watched over them, cared for them, taught them. And if they live, if it all goes as it often does—they can grow into gorgeous young people we adore, full of creativity and angst and love.
We are called to pay attention to each day and moment, and to love: love and care for our individual selves as best we can, love the people we love, deeply, honestly; and not search way-out-there for meaning but find it right here next to us, in us, shining through us with unexpected color.
Spring comes. But sometimes it is bittersweet.
In memory of one Dainty Sulphur, who appeared unbidden in my apartment on February 11 and exited on Feb 28.
In memory of a creative soul I never met except through his mother: photographer, student, beloved son, brother, and more, Max Maisel, who went missing Feb 22, whose memorial service was March 27 and whose body was finally recovered April 17.


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How to Win an Unwinnable War
His parents were separating, but all Sam could think about was preparing for nuclear holocaust.
The catalog comes in a sharp white envelope, Please forward written in his father's cursive on the outside. Sam paws the return label. Governor's School for the Gifted and Talented, it reads. The governor has noticed him.
"Tell me it's free," Mom says. "Free would be nice."
But Sam would do summer school even if he had to drain his savings account or extend his paper route. He likes school—the sweet octane of highlighters, the systems of reward—with a pure-heartedness most seventh-graders reserve for self-abuse. He skims the courses, Euclidean Geometry, Beginning Japanese, and stops at a "late addition." How to Win a Nuclear War.
Suddenly, Sam knows exactly how he'll spend the summer.
Tucked in his closet is a "go bag" with Band-Aids, sunblock, shin pads, and the cinnamon granola bars no one wants. As far as he is concerned, nuclear holocaust is the only thing worth thinking about. Back in the winter, when Mom left his father and they moved into the apartment, she promised Sam a gift, a reward for coming. He asked for a plastic barrel to store fresh water. She bought him a plant instead, a fern now browning on the front stoop. According to Sam's estimates, Princeton, New Jersey, sits just outside the kill zone of Manhattan. He has a chance of surviving. He and his mom have a distinct chance, and the idea that he could save people—and show them everything—orients him like a polestar. The year is 1987.
"Seriously?," Mom asks, setting down her book, a hardcover for nursing school. The book fascinates Sam, the photographs of gashes and lesions and people with cowed, empty looks, like no matter how pink or black the wound, no matter how dire, they still might yawn. "This is your summer we're talking about."
"But summer school doesn't cost anything, it's zero dollars," Sam says. He digs around in the box of Fig Newtons tucked next to her on the chair. One is left. That is their rule now, living together as a "team." Leave one behind.
"Promise me that when you find out how to win," she says, signing her permission, "you'll tell the governor. Tell everybody. Even if I'm not around."
She will always be around. That is the whole point of winning.
"Now," Mom says, "get us some more cookies."
On the first day, Mom maneuvers up the narrow campus drive of the local community college. Workers in white suits rip long strands of ivy from buildings, and Sam is reminded of that movie, the one about the war against the plants, the one where we lose but there is an island.
"Your father will get you after," she says. "Don't let him take you to pizza again. Too much pizza is happening." Then she pulls her lips over her teeth like she has no teeth and, with her pinkie, scrapes a neat edge to her lipstick. The blouse she's wearing, shiny and blue, is made from whatever hot-air balloons are made from. She wants to look pretty for someone, and Sam wants to tell her this is wrong. They need to go backwards. They belong back with his father, at the house in the woods, with a basement and kerosene and a well, instead of the duplex apartment in town where, after the bombs, they could be forced to eat people.
She idles the car at the entrance to the hall, a stone building with a sign out front that says Gifted This Way. "No grades here, right?," Mom asks.
"Right," Sam says, even though he wishes they were given grades, the proof that he matters to an indifferent world. For the past year, he has had a problem with caring too much. A C on an algebra test made him weep. When the art teacher called his mug an ashtray, he vomited. Later, in his diary, Sam wrote: MUST DO BETTER and then practiced his telekinesis on a pencil, marshaling invisible forces in his favor.
Mom brushes his bangs. "Tell your father you need a haircut."
Inside, the conference hall has the carpeted, low-traffic feel of the Unitarian church where Mom now takes him—stacked folding chairs, chandeliers, the sense of things moved to the side to make way for more boring. Kids spaz in the corners or pretend to read. Nearby two redheaded twins fight in slow motion. One says, crazy-eyed and with his arms spread wide, "Enter Thunderdome!"
Sam finds a table with lanyards and takes his—his first official designation and already he feels remarkable. At the front of the room, a bearded professor sits on a stage in hiking shorts and short-sleeve Hawaiian shirt. A giant metal bowl of poker chips rests in his lap. He has the lordly face of the one with the directions, and his fingers comb and coddle, almost indecently, the black hair on his chin, as if scratching something private and dark.
The professor whistles with two fingers. "We're going to start with a game," he says, and Sam's heart sinks. He is terrible at competition, the neighborhood of failure. The lump of his mug floats up in his mind.
The professor holds the bowl over his head like an offering. They are going to trade chips. Two blue chips equal one red chip and two green chips equal one blue—Sam only half follows—and in the end, only five chips in their hand will count.
"Toward what?" asks one of the twins.
The professor says, "You'll see."
A mechanical door sighs open on one side of the room, and a boy in a wheelchair motors inside. Sam notices his immaculate white sneakers, splayed out to each side—unscuffed, the way Sam wants but can't have because the world keeps making more dirt. A Panama hat shadows his face. The rest of him looks small and shrunken, like he's been through the dryer. His plaid, long-sleeve shirt is buttoned all the way to the top, but his neck is a tendony stalk and doesn't fill the collar. Another, older boy follows him in, carrying his backpack like a dead animal. "Yowza," he says. "Opening day at Dorkville?"
The boy in the chair tilts his head. "You may leave."
The older kid drop-kicks the bag against the wheelchair and, as he exits, gives all of them the finger.
"Please excuse my brother," says the boy in the chair. His yellow eyes swim behind heavy glasses. "He was raised by snakes."
The professor asks someone to get a lanyard for the boy, whose name, he announces, is Ethan, and Sam is nearest. Once more, the professor explains the rules, and then he overturns the bowl and kids rush forward, screaming.
As Sam hands over the lanyard, Ethan grabs his arm and pulls him close. Ethan's breath is a hot fog, the pallor of his skin almost butter. "Get us the red and blue ones," he says. "As many as you can." A cough rumbles from inside him and Sam steps away—he doesn't want whatever Ethan has—and dives into the fray.
Since his parents' separation, he's started to clean the living-room rug with his fingers—he has no problem working at carpet level. A girl with braces scratches his hand in desperation and he scratches back. A boy stumbles, and the others set on the scattering chips like feral animals. Somehow the carpet is covered with black chips and white chips, and Sam doesn't remember the professor saying anything about them. Now the black and white chips are all that's left.
At the end, Sam improvises a bowl with his shirt and Ethan plucks five red chips from it. This makes sense for a moment, since Ethan can't reach the floor. But that leaves Sam stuck with the remaining colors.
"Don't you want to trade?," Sam asks. "Aren't we supposed to?"
"No, not really," Ethan says.
The professor whistles again. The game is over. Ethan drives his wheelchair to the front of the room, where the professor counts the chips and Ethan, with the five red chips Sam gathered for him, ends up the winner. "Congratulations. You get to choose your country," the professor says, and Ethan flashes the headlights on his wheelchair, basking in praise. He doesn't even look at Sam, who feels lied to, or at least not told everything other people know. Like two weeks ago when Mom dropped him off at the video arcade with a twenty, and he came home with most of it unspent, feeling thrifty and proud, only to find the front door locked and a strange jeep parked out front. He knocked until she answered in the silky gown she only wore at night and her hair all crazy, and she said, like she was sad to see him, "Oh Sam, please help me out here."
Sam needs lessons in people.
At the afternoon pickup, his father asks, "Who blew up who?" Kids stream out of the hall into the waiting cars. Sam slumps into the passenger seat of his father's truck and watches as an elevator hoists Ethan into a van driven by his older brother. His father feeds in a Beach Boys tape in a preemptive bid for affection. It's the one tape Sam ever said he liked. On the dash sits a twisted-up bag of peanut M&Ms, opened already and therefore tainted, the dumb reward for spending another night with his father.
"Okay then …" his dad says to the silence. "What do you want for dinner?"
On his old bed, in the house in the woods, Sam pores over the class textbook, a catalog of ballistic missiles—their ranges, payloads, blast perimeters. He reads about the Trident, a missile that scissors the clouds and orients itself by the stars. It's more powerful, more beautiful, that way: a missile that looks up. Now he has a favorite missile. He wonders what the stars will see the day the war begins, the whole planet brightening, then going gray like a dead bulb.
Sam cinches a piece of floss around his two front teeth, to close the gap between them. He wants to teach them a lesson, and the dull ache in his gums is the proof that they are learning. The sounds of the television rise up through the floor. Downstairs, in the dark, his father watches sports with the unsalted, least-fun peanuts. The house is dim and cavernous now, since they left. He remembers that Mom was the one who kept all the lights on, and his father would follow behind her, turning them off.
Earlier, in the garage, his father showed off the car engine he had taken apart, the grimy pieces laid out on newspaper like bones from a dig. The front grille of the VW van, the one his father uses for his house-painting company, gaped open in front of them, a face with a staggered aspect. His father pointed out the ways the pieces came together, the Wite-Out dashes he'd made to remind him how they joined.
Sam thought: My father will be useful in the afterscape.
He sets the book down and stares out his bedroom window. The night is clear and the trees behind the house are almost purple. A sheet of plywood covers the old well, just a ring of crumbling stones. Sam can make out, nestled up in the crook of the maple tree, the tree house his father built for him. If necessary, Sam can pull up the rope ladder and survive up there. His fingers trace the Fire Emergency decal on the windowpane, the one they passed out in school. KID INSIDE. No one will notice this sticker in the war, Sam thinks. No one will be looking for stickers.
"Sambo," his father says at the door, beer in hand. "What's happening?"
Sam tells him about the arcing paths of Centaurs and Tridents, so much more powerful than Hiroshima.
"Jesus," his father says. "That's what they're teaching you?"
"That's the homework."
The next morning, his father comes with him to class. Having your parents, the Big Robots, come is pure weakness. Sam separates as much as possible, trying to look like he barely recognizes the man who tinfoiled the leftover pizza for lunch and who quizzed him on the state capitals on the drive.
Ethan motors over. He's dressed in the same shirt and pants from yesterday, only different colors. His Panama hat dangles from one of the handles of his chair.
"Is that your father?" he asks.
"Maybe," Sam says.
His father shakes hands with the professor and points Sam out. The professor's beard is bigger than his father's, and Sam theorizes he has unknown capacities, subterranean holds of grown-up. His father waves him over and Sam drags himself to his side.
The professor leans in close. "If anything we do in class makes you feel uncomfortable, you can opt out." This close, Sam notices a gap between the professor's front teeth, just like his own, and he feels a sudden, covert allegiance.
"I'm fine," Sam says.
"Good," his father says. "As long as it's on the up-and-up." He holds up his palm. "High-five."
But if Sam high-fives, in front of the class, the gesture will cost him. Enjoying the company of your parents is a form of offsides. His father pats him on his shoulder instead, swipes his bangs out of his eyes. "Be good," he says. "And tell your mom you need a haircut."
The class unfolds a world map, the size and wrinkled texture of a Twister mat. Last class, they chose their countries. As the winner, Ethan took the U.S.A.—large country/large resources—and became the most hated person in the room. Out of spite and boredom, Sam chose an island, a speck in the Pacific. Guam.
"Every Goliath has a David," the professor said to him.
"Who's that?," Sam asked.
"Just a kid," the professor said, "who changed history." Though this was his way of making Sam feel better, stories like this only made him sick to his stomach. He doesn't want to change history, just outlive it.
The professor circles the room, handing out army men, and wooden matchsticks to represent missiles. "First we'll see who survives," the professor says, "then we'll find out how to survive."
Ethan gets a whole matchbox and an entire freezer bag of army men. The map fills up with their allotments. Sam takes his single army man, a grenade thrower, and bends the arm around so it picks its butt. He hears the whirr of Ethan's approach.
"Take these," Ethan says. He hands over several army men and a single matchstick. Sam can see the underside of Ethan's chin, where a razor has moved. He's old enough to shave.
"What for?," Sam says.
Ethan blinks. "Because you're mine. Guam is pretty much America. Look it up."
Over lunch, Sam befriends the Pacific Rim: Jerusha from Weehawken, and Irwin, the Asian kid from West Orange. They eat at a picnic bench outside the hall, under an old oak. The branches are so low that wooden support posts prop them up and the twins kick at the base of one, trying to dislodge it, anything to do damage. Irwin puts his retainer on a leaf. Jerusha's parents wanted her to be at Christian camp, she says, but here she'd be "more useful." She tells Sam that the leftover pizza he's eating is 2 percent rat droppings and that she saw an angel over her house once.
"How did you know it was an angel and not an alien?," Sam asks.
Jerusha looks stricken. "Because he smiled."
Irwin pounds the picnic table. "That is not proof of anything!"
At the entrance of the hall, the professor crouches next to Ethan. A tube runs over Ethan's ears and up into his nose, like on an old person in a hospital show. A tank is propped up in the netting at the back of his chair, and Sam tries, telekinetically, to turn the knob on the tank and cut off whatever gas Ethan needs to survive. But it doesn't work. The opposite happens: the professor brings Ethan over.
"Space for one more?" the professor asks. Ethan lays out his lunch in his lap: a bologna sandwich and chips. Sam can hear little puffs of air jetting up Ethan's nose.
"Do you have AIDS?," Irwin asks.
Ethan sighs. Alas, he does not have AIDS. His lungs don't work right, Ethan tells them wearily. He's on a list, and if his name comes up, they're going to cut him in half and give him new ones.
"Cut in half, like side to side or top to bottom?," Sam asks. Ethan places a finger at the notch at the base of his throat. "From here," he says, his finger moving down his shirt to his stomach, "to here." Sam sees Ethan's ribs swing open like the doors of a birdcage, and inside dangle two vacuum bags full of cat hair and lint.
"Lungs from a dead person?," Irwin asks, and Ethan nods. "Awesome."
"So when we get back," Ethan says to Sam, "I want you to attack Russia."
This is just what Sam was afraid of, that he'd become another small thing in a game played between people. He just wants to be ignored, the way he spent the entire basketball season—on the bench, whispering multiplication tables, praying for armpit hair. Sam balls the leftover tinfoil into a hard nut. "What do I get if I do what you say?"
Ethan says, "You get to die for a reason."
On the last morning of the world, light breaks over the ocean and Sam is there, on the beach, in Guam. The people of this island nation make necklaces from shells or eat donuts, whatever they do there. But the beach is all his. Sam's father and mother lounge on the big towels, talking like they haven't talked in a long time, like they want to keep talking. Sam pokes at a dead sand crab, a weird piece of armor the ocean threw up. He tucks himself between his parents, feeling gathered and protected, when he sees the white contrail of a Centaur streak up into the sky, a fast and terrible zipper …
Sam holds a matchstick in his fingers.
His missile, the one from Ethan. His turn.
"Somebody's going to win this war," the professor says, pacing behind them. "Who is it going to be? Is it going to be you?"
Across the map, Ethan nods at Sam privately, the way a gangster in a movie cues an execution. Sam has no strategy. He's afraid that Ethan, up on his throne, has unspeakable powers, the gift of knowing that you'll only survive because somebody else died. But with the matchstick in his grip, his Centaur, he sees his life from above. Suddenly the map, the game, doesn't matter. Sam can be Guam, the speck in the Pacific, the small thing passed between people.
Or he can be the missile.
He arcs the match over the ocean, toward America. He aims for Ethan, for home. When it lands, Ethan whispers, "What are you doing?" and Irwin makes the blowing-up noise, a big rumble with puffed cheeks. The professor says, "First strike. Guam, U.S.A. Interesting …" Soon, every missile on the map will launch, the planet will be turned to stone, the lesson lost. But Sam is, already, elsewhere.
That night, Mom's new friend Latrice reclines on the couch, smoking languidly and turning Sam's photo cube over in her hand. It's all vistas of his father: grilling, up a ladder, holding Sam at birth when he was still jaundiced and Chinese-looking. Sam recognizes Latrice from the Unitarian church, from the part of the service when people stand up and speak. Latrice talked about women's rights and black people's rights and coming together for a better tomorrow, and Mom clutched Sam's hand. Latrice is the only black person there so it's like she is all black people.
"Your father looks like a nice fellow," Latrice says, and sets down the cube. She pulls her denim jacket tight. Her hair intimidates Sam, so solid and dense, like the black foam on the end of a microphone. On the right pocket of her jacket is a button, the radioactive symbol and the Ghostbusters line through it.
"My dad's really strong," Sam says. "He loves to hunt." Sam sits in the rocking chair, making it rock as much and as irritatingly as possible. His bangs curtain into his eyes and his mouth is half-full of the chocolate bar she bribed him with.
"Do you see him much?"
"All the time," Sam says. "He comes here too, to watch the house. See who is coming and going. My mom doesn't know."
This time, Sam's lie is bold, riskier. Latrice raises her eyebrows and turns toward the window. The blinds are up, the drapes wide open, and the streetlights make the parked cars look only half-there. Latrice's jeep is parked at the curb, the sticker for the Princeton Seminary in the back window. From her worry, Sam can feel a trajectory taking shape, the flickers of a future impact.
"Oh and thanks for the candy," Sam says. "My dad doesn't let me eat sweets."
Latrice checks her watch.
"Candy and smoking," Sam says. "He really hates both of those things."
Latrice stubs out the cigarette. "Are you trying to tell me something?"
Mom descends the stairs, in her feathery blue blouse, except now it's too small and tight. Sam put it in the dryer, trying to be helpful. She smiles weakly. "The babysitter's still not here?"
Sam shrugs. The babysitter is not coming. She called, but Sam took the message and forgot to tell.
"I can make us something," Mom says. "I have some left-over chicken."
Latrice exhales and her breath just keeps going. "I'm vegetarian. Remember?"
Sam planks out the glob of chocolate on his tongue. Mom fingers a cigarette from Latrice's pack and shoots Sam a look. "Not what I need right now."
Every class, they war, and every class, the Earth dies. More than twenty thousand nuclear warheads exist, the professor tells them, but thirty-five detonations could erase all life. They have a hundred matchsticks. The twins, playing Russia and Brazil, can't keep from bullying the planet. Ethan, with his arsenal, makes a point of ticking off Guam in every strike. Sam just waits for the nuclear winter to snow all civilization. One time, the class gangs up on the twins and rains their stockpiles onto Russia and Brazil, all at once. But even then, even with their entire population killed, Russian missiles retaliate automatically. "It's called 'The Dead Hand,'" explains the professor. "Even when they lose, they win."
Jerusha begins to cry. "I hate this game," she says. "All it is, is getting killed."
The professor taps his fingers together. "Very good, so what are we learning?"
Jerusha's small sobs fill the quiet room. At least she believes in angels, Sam thinks. She has someone to get her when the time comes.
"Anyone?" the professor asks.
Ethan says, brightly, "New game."
His father's voice booms from under the van. Only his boots stick out.
"How's Mom?"
Sam leans on the van's bench seat, unbolted from the vehicle and propped against the garage wall. A newscaster on the radio talks about a West German plane that has landed in Red Square, that this might be the beginning of something. Sam spins a gasket around his fingers. A gasket is the ring of metal that goes between other metals, his dad has said, to make them join. These lessons usually bother Sam. He doesn't want to learn what his father wants to teach. But now, here is this bright fact of gasket. Even words can grow up and make themselves useful.
Sam stares at the hanging lamp over the van, puzzling over an answer. His father doesn't know about Latrice, who has been sleeping over and leaving books on the coffee table and storing sand she calls "fiber" on the breakfast shelf. This morning, when his mom was in the shower, he saw Latrice naked, lying in his mother's bed, scratching the pale bottom of her foot. Her nipples looked like light switches. If he told his father all of this, he knows his father would go quiet and far away.
"She asks about you," Sam says.
The cranking and banging stop. The voice on the radio says the pilot was a boy.
"She does? What do you say?"
"I told her," Sam begins, "that you have a new friend. And her name is Jerusha."
His father glides out on his sled, turns down the radio. "Why did you tell her that?"
The lies are getting hard for him to think through. First strike is easy. But second and third and fourth go further than he can see.
"I wanted her to know you have somebody."
"I have somebody," his father says. "I have you."
This is his father trying to make him feel worthy. But Sam knows that he's the consolation prize, what you win when you've actually lost. "It's not the same."
His father taps a wrench against his leg. "Mom just needs some time."
"How much?," Sam says. "Because there isn't always going to be time."
From here on out, the professor says, class is about the after. He waves his hands in the air like he's swatting at bugs. "Let's say we hear the big alarms. Let's just say we have five minutes before a ten-megaton explosion over New York City."
Sam's eyes go instinctively to the windows in the room. It is noon and clear, but the weather doesn't tell you anything—it was beautiful that morning in Hiroshima too. In his mind, he can see the cloud trails of missiles like rows on close-rule paper.
"Imagine nobody is coming for us," the professor says. "Now what?"
Their suggestions go up on a blackboard. Store water from the water fountain. Cover the windows. Ration their lunches. Sam has walked through these steps in his head so many times that they are polished smooth with worry.
"I want to be with my parents," Jerusha says. "In heaven."
The professor needles into his beard. "I'm okay with that."
Jerusha lies flat and stares up at the ceiling.
"What are you doing?," Irwin asks.
"I'm waiting for the angel."
The professor picks up a coffee can with a plastic wrapper over the top. "Does anyone know what this is?" Sam has seen the designs in a booklet he ordered from the Department of Defense. "It's a fallout meter," Sam says. "It measures the atmosphere. It tells you when you can go outside."
For the rest of class, they make their own meters. The professor passes out the empty cans, and Sam notices flakes of instant coffee stuck to the bottom. A dank and spicy smell rises out. Sam pours in the crushed gypsum, which looks like white dirt, and hangs two squares of aluminum foil on a kite string.
"How do we know these things work?," Ethan asks. His fallout meter looks broken, the string sagging. He has gypsum powder sprinkled over his lap.
"Well, we won't know," the professor says, "until it happens, really."
"But then we'll be dead."
The professor points at him. "That is a distinct possibility."
"That's retarded," Ethan says. He motors over to the trash can and dunks his fallout meter.
"I'm okay with that," the professor says.
Then Ethan rams his chair into the door to the outside. But it doesn't open and he's stuck there, his chair straining. He leans over and shoves the bar to drive forward, but when the door opens, his chair lodges in the gap. From the effort, Ethan begins to cough wetly, buckling over and hacking into his lap. It sounds like he's drowning on the inside.
Sam goes to him. Everybody should be able to open a door.
Ethan sits up, his eyes gluey and cheeks flushed.
"Fuck off," Ethan says, weakly, and motors himself outside.
The professor follows Ethan out. He's gone for a long time. The twins practice strangling each other until they can withstand the fingers at their necks. Irwin has a staring contest with Jerusha even though she isn't playing. Ethan's Panama hat lies crumpled on the floor, and Sam takes it. Through the window, he can see Ethan at the curb, waiting in the sun.
"Ethan is fine," the professor says when he returns. "He had a tantrum like this last time."
"Last time?," Sam asks. "He's been in this class before?" Now he understands how Ethan knew about the chips and the rules, before anyone, and how to exploit them.
The professor stares out at Ethan. "He'll come back in."
But he doesn't. They finish with the fallout meters and nobody learns anything except that gypsum tastes like ash and they can flick balls of tinfoil clear across the room if they do it right. And still Ethan waits in the sun. Nobody comes. Just like the professor said. Nobody will come for them and one day this class, this room, might be all they have.
The next day, Ethan doesn't show. Or the day after. He's in the hospital, Jerusha says. Her parents are friends with his mother, and she said he got to the top of the list. She has brought a get-well card for everyone to sign. It goes around the room, and when Sam gets it, he sees a bunch of fancy signatures, as they all took the chance to practice their penmanship.
Sam writes, "I have your hat."
They never see Ethan again.
On the last day of class, out on the front porch, Mom hugs Latrice and moans softly into her shoulder. Sam is disgusted. His mother never hugged his father on the way out. Latrice doesn't deserve what his father didn't get. He tells Latrice, telepathically, that her time in their lives is coming to an end. As they embrace, Latrice turns slightly so she can scan the street, see who is seeing them.
"I'm going to be late," Sam says.
They separate into their cars, but when Mom turns the key, Sam hears just a small click, softer maybe than what he expected. The engine doesn't start. Latrice leans at the window.
"What do you think?," Mom asks.
"No idea," Latrice says. "I won't even pretend." She sounds like she pretends sometimes.
Sam says again that he's going to be late for class.
"Latrice can take both of us in her car," Mom says. But that will change the order of things, Sam thinks, the way the future has to happen.
Latrice looks roped. "I can?" And Sam says, "I don't want to go with her."
Mom massages her temples. "Come on, guys. Work with me."
Latrice studies Sam skeptically, as though she can see through to his secret. But at this point, Sam doesn't care. He can make his loyalties plain.
His mom whispers, "Shit."
"I wish you wouldn't swear," Latrice says.
Mom looks up at Latrice with quick exhaustion. "Really?"
Sam opens the glove compartment, where the secret pack of cigarettes is, and hands them over. Mom snatches the pack from him. "You're not supposed to know about these. Don't know about these."
"We should call Dad," Sam says.
Latrice now seems impatient. She says she has somewhere to be. She has decided this problem is not her problem.
"I'll call you," Latrice says, backing off.
"Sure," Mom says. Sam hears the no underneath.
Mom goes to the front stoop and sits, fiddling with the fern, yanking off the dead parts. It has more dead parts than green parts. The plant is supposed to be his, his reward for letting his father go, but it's nobody's plant, put where nobody's looking. He remembers his mom bringing it home, so green and springy with life, saying, "You need to learn how to keep things alive," but it smelled like crotch, and Sam felt betrayed. The person who could give him a plant as a gift was someone who didn't know him at all.
"Call your father," Mom says. "Tell him to get his ass over here."
Sam kneels on the couch and watches from inside, through the blinds, when his father's van pulls up a half hour later. He's come straight from a job, overalls crusted with paint, and flecks of white on his cheeks and in his beard. His parents face each other coolly, Mom on the stairs, Dad on the lawn with hands on his hips, as though they don't need a single thing from each other. His mother points to the car, hood up, and his father peers into the engine.
His father does nothing, just looks up at Sam's bedroom window and scratches under his cap. A kind of joy warms inside Sam. This is what he wanted.
"Come here, Judy," his father says.
"No lessons, please," Mom says.
"Just. Come."
She goes to him. If she would only keep going to him. They stand together at the open hood and consider the damage. Sam knows he's been discovered. His father leans on the bumper. Mom puts her hands to her lips in a sort of prayer, even though the Unitarians only bow their heads.
"Sam, get out here!" she calls through the screen door.
When Sam gets on the steps, his father says, "Jesus Christ."
"Sweetie, what did you do?," Mom says.
A breeze seems to gather the heat of the day and press it toward him. An old woman in a robe walks by with her little dog and stares.
"I cut my hair," Sam says. With the kitchen scissors. By himself, while they waited for his father.
Mom sits on the stairs and pats next to her. Sam joins her, his packed bag between his legs. She runs her fingers through his hair and asks if he knows that they love him. But it's a stupid question. Loving someone is easy—look at Latrice! And knowing someone loves you is useless, like knowing the name of a bird.
"You broke the car, didn't you?" she says. "And you told some fibs."
"Fibs?" his father says. "That's the word we're using?"
Mom gives him her look. "Do you know what he said? He said you come around at night and watch me."
His father rubs his temples.
"Why?," Mom asks. "Why did you do it, Sam?"
Under his breath, his father whispers, "We know why."
"If you don't tell us, sweetheart …," Mom says, and he can see her hunt for terms.
"We need to go back and live with Dad," Sam says.
Mom takes his hand and brings it to her chest, like it's broken and she can make it better by holding it. "If you want to go live with your father, you can do that, Sambo," she says. "You can. But I can't."
His father turns away and bends over, his chest heaving. It is terrifying to Sam to see his father this way, like a building collapsing. And Sam's life shudders too, a tremor that started months ago with his mom waking him up, late at night, in the house in the woods, whispering, "Tomorrow everything's going to change."
A row of black cars have parked outside the hall, round seals on their doors and flags on their radio antennae. In the shade of the oak, a group of men in suits and sunglasses wilt in the heat, their suit jackets hung on the branches. They seem to be waiting for Sam, a gang of fathers ready to administer punishment.
His father parks the van at the hall entrance. He's wearing sunglasses to hide his eyes. The Beach Boys tape flips over, another harmony starts. His father looks down at the dash. "As smart as you are," his father says, "one day you're going to grow up and forgive us."
"How do you know?," Sam says, stepping out of the truck. "Nobody knows anything." Growing up is pure luck. Twenty thousand warheads are ready in their silos, waiting to grow up. If the class taught him anything, it's that every place in the world is inside the kill zone. He grabs his bag, filled with the Band-Aids, granola bars, and maps in a jumble. Enough to last a week.
"I'll wait for you outside," his father says. "I'm not going anywhere."
So Sam will need to find a distraction, a way of sneaking out. The moment he steps inside the foyer, Sam hears clapping. The main hall is crowded with parents and other professors, strangers he hasn't seen before, the whole summer school, and he can't make his way farther in. Across the floor, students sit attentively, preparing for a transmission. On the stage, a man in a blue suit jingles the change in his pockets. He surveys the room with a dim smile like he's at the top of a mountain and they are the trees. The room is hot already, sun glaring through the windows.
New Jersey believes they will do great things, the man says. New Jersey is, frankly, astonished.
"Would any of you like to ask the governor a question?" the professor says, at the edge of the stage.
One of the twins raises his hand. "The Russians have these rockets so that if all their cities burn up, these rockets tell the missiles to fire automatically and everybody else dies," he says. "Can we have that?"
The governor dips his head. "Excuse me?"
"It's called 'The Dead Hand,'" the twin says.
"Very good," the professor says.
The governor glances back at him. "Good lord, what's this all about?"
The professor shrugs. "This is what they've been learning all summer," he says. "This is the state of our world, the one you have made."
"You must be kidding."
Jerusha asks, "Where is your special cave when the war starts?"
The governor stammers. "When the war starts …?"
An emergency blare shatters the air. Sam takes his hand off the fire alarm. A mother screams, and frantic parents crush forward, toward their children. No one is sure what's happening or where to be. The governor presses toward the exit. He wants out, to his special cave, but he'll never make it. He is caught in their panic. "Stay inside!" the professor yells to the room, but the children are fine. The children look calmly up to the windows, ready for incoming.


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Everybody in my generation knows who Humphrey Bogart (1899-1957) is and how he gained his celebrity status – through his movies. He appeared in 75 feature motion pictures. His many roles included his portrayals of hard-boiled detective Sam Spade in "The Maltese Falcon" (1941), tough but noble nightclub owner Rick Blaine in "Casablanca" (1942), and crusty but lovable steamboat captain Charlie Allnut in "The African Queen" (1951), for which he won an Oscar.
Less well-known is that Humphrey Bogart attained celebrity status shortly after he was born, appearing as a pitchman in a national campaign to sell Mellin's baby food. A drawing of Humphrey by his mother, successful commercial artist Maud Humphrey (1865-1940), was used in the advertisements. In sentimental Victorian tradition, Maud Humphrey portrayed her son as a little round-faced cherub with rosy cheeks, ringlet curls, and large eyes. She shamelessly dressed him in long white dresses or like Little Lord Fauntleroy in side-buttoned overalls with rolled-up cuffs and a billowing white starched shirt. He became known as the "original Maud Humphrey baby." His friends and some professional models sat for her portraits, too. Her signature style was the chubby-cheeked, happy child.
From the 1890's through the 1920's, Maud Humphrey flourished as a child portrait painter, illustrating calendars, greeting cards, postcards, fashion magazines, and more than 20 story books. She was a child prodigy, having begun illustrating in children's magazines at the age of sixteen. She studied art in Paris and also with the American painter James McNeill Whistler. Her technique was a dry watercolor similar to etching. By the turn-of-the-century, Maud Humphrey, who continued to use her maiden name after she was married to Dr. Belmont Bogart, was one of the most recognized, well-paid and popular illustrators in America. The illustrations of her stylized, beautiful, and perfect children promoted many national products including Ivory Soap, Crosman Bro's Flower Seeds, Sunshine Stoves, Ranges, and Furnaces, Butterick Patterns, Metropolitan Life Insurance Company, and Anheuser-Busch.
Throughout his childhood, Humphrey was a model for his mother's designs." There was a period in American history," he recalled years later, " when you couldn't pick up a … magazine without seeing my kisser in it."
Maud Humphrey earned over $50,000 a year at a time when males dominated the workforce and women didn't get the vote until 1919. Her husband's surgical practice brought in an additional $20,000 annually for the family plus he inherited money. As a result, Humphrey grew up rich in Manhattan's posh Upper West Side, attending private school, and summering in an elegant Victorian two-story cottage on 55 acres of land in western New York on Lake Canandaigua with a champion-class yacht moored at their private pier. Humphrey and his two little sisters were attended by nurses and nannies and servants in starched uniforms.
But summers at the lake were anything but idyllic for Humphrey and his sisters. "Lady Maud" as her friends called her was driven to create an estimated ten colored drawings per week. She limited herself to five hours of sleep a night. The pressing deadlines and demands of her craft exacted a heavy toll on her health and the quality of her family life. She suffered from excrutiatingly painful migraine headaches and left the care of the children to the servants, cruel ones, said the neighbors, of a low type given to a lot of yelling and frequent hitting.
The parents didn't seem to notice. The marriage was also troubled. Both of Humphrey's parents drank too much and argued bitterly. "We kids would pull the covers over our ears to keep out the sound of fighting," said Humphrey. It was commonly known that Dr. Bogart was addicted to morphine, giving himself injections and perhaps also to his headache-plagued wife, who also took pills he gave her.
Maud Humphrey's drawings of the sweet simplicity of a child frolicking in a perfect and happy world were far removed from the life she created for her own brood – and herself. "I doubt that she read very much. I know that she never played any games," said Humphrey. "She went to no parties, gave none. And I can't remember that she even had any friends." He called her "Maud," never "Mother." "She was essentially a woman who loved work…to the exclusion of everything else…[S]he was incapable of showing affection to us." Humphrey's was a childhood devoid of hugs and kisses.
Burdened by his effeminate portraits on baby food ads, Humphrey was mocked by childhood schoolmates and called a sissy. Attempting to be more manly, he got into a lot of fights and once shot out the red lanterns at building sites with his new air rifle. His first movie roles were gangster ones, morphing over time from Little Lord Fauntleroy into the cigarette-puffing, tough-talking good guy we still love today.


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Faculty Focus is a monthly publication documenting the activities, accomplishments, and honors of the University of Houston Law Center faculty.
This publication is a service of the Faculty Services Department, O'Quinn Law Library, University of Houston Law Center.
Richard Alderman was quoted in the March 3, 1999 Wall Street Journal on the Texas Supreme Courts decision In Re Oakwood Mobile Homes, Inc. 1999 Tex.Lexis 14 February 11, 1999 making mandatory arbitration clauses in consumer contracts enforceable as showing a lack of concern for the consumer.
Mary Anne Bobinski spoke to the Fullbright student conference on "Ethical, Policy, and Legal Aspects of Health Care in the United States" It was sponsored by the Institute for International Education in Houston on March 6, 1999. She was also Distinguished Alumni Speaker, State University of New York at Buffalo, Buffalo, New York, March 19, 1999 where she spoke on "Teaching and Practicing Health Care Law". She further commends to us the Campus Ministries and the University of Houston two-day program, which included a panel on law, March 3, 1999. She was the panels moderator, with the members including Chris Bacon, Vinson and Elkins attorney on "What Queer Theory Means to the Practicing Litigator," Sidney Buchanan, Baker & Botts Professor of Law, on "Morality, Sex and the Constitution," Gerry Moohr, Associate Professor of Law, "Gays, Lesbians, and Federal Employment Discrimination Law." Phyllis Frye, Attorney and noted transgendered activist in Houston addressed the issue of "Gay and Lesbian WITHOUT Bisexual and Transgender is INCOMPLETE." The entire two-day program addresses all the complexities of sexual identity, with noted sociologist, columnist, and TV personality Pepper Schwartz speaking on the complexity of heterosexual identities as the final keynote speaker. Laura Oren organized the whole program.
Seth Chandler has two papers in progress accepted by referees for presentation at the Third International Mathematica Symposium to be held in Linz, Austria in August. The first paper, a collaboration with Professor Christian Jacob of the University of Erlangen, Germany, is entitled "Automata Containing Evolutionary Algorithms: Behavior and Learning under the Law." It studies the evolution of cellular automata in which the cells each contain data and genetic programs. The immediate application of this convergence is to study how different legal rules affect the evolution of learning, behavior and the economy. The typical "Coase Theorem" scenario in which neighbors engage in activities that may detrimentally affect each other is used for this study. The second paper, "Insurer Access to Predictive Medical Information" deploys tools of game theory and decision theory implemented by the author in the Mathematica computer language to examine the likely consequences of law enacted over the past decade in the United States and abroad that restrict use of at least certain predictive medical tests by private health insurers in making contracting decisions with an applicant. The chief target of these laws have been existing and anticipated genetic tests that potentially inform actuarial predictions of the future medical expenses and life expectancy of the potential insured. Seth Chandler spoke "On Health Law for Medical Professions " at the University of Houston Optometry School. He also made his dramatic debut in his contracts class, starring in the PowerPoint version of the Merchant of Venice. In a seldom-before seen combination of thespian virtuosity and Internet savvy, he played the roles of Shylock, Portia and Antonio using computer graphics to both accelerate plot develop and emphasize erudite points about contract law.
Sandy Gaines received accolades from Jacqueline Weaver for her article on the 1997 University of Chicago Legal Form, "Rethinking Environmental Protection, Competitiveness, and International Trade" which has been selected as a finalist for inclusion in the 1999 Land Use and Environmental Law Review annual anthology of best articles in the field.
Sandra Guerra attended the first sessionof Leadership Texas in Austin, Texas on March 1-2,1999. Leadership Texas is a program of the Foundation for Womens Resources which selects women leaders from the state and provides workshops that promote leadership in government and other public service and businesses.
Ellen Marrus article "Please Keep My Secret: Child Abuse Reporting Statutes, Confidentiality, and Juvenile Delinquency" has been published in 11 Georgetown Journal of Legal of Legal Ethics 509 (Spring 1998).
Douglas Moll was quoted in the March 10, 1999 Wall Street Journal in an article on the first page of the Marketplace section discussing the decline of Texas personal injury lawsuits and the corresponding rise in contract lawsuits over the past decade.
Gerry Moohrs article "Mail Fraud Meets Criminal Theory" will be abstracted in Criminal Justice Abstracts to over 1000 subscribers. It is operated by the Criminal Justice/NCCD Collection of Rutgers University. She was also quoted in the February issue of Icon Magazine on the use of severe premenstrual syndrome as a defense in criminal cases. She presented a mock law school class and led a discussion on how to solicit participation in large classes for university faculty at a SALT II meeting. SALT II (Scholarship of Active Learning and teaching) meets once a month to discuss the scholarship of teaching as a part of a program sponsored by the Carnegie Foundation for the Advancement of Teaching.
Tom Oldham has been elected to the Board of Editors of the Family Law Quarterly, published by the ABA Family Law Section.
Michael Olivas was quoted in the February 19, 1999 issue of the Chronicle of Higher Education on the liability of University Trustees in affirmative-action suits. He stated that trustees can only be held liable when a top court has ruled definitively "on the issue and the case is exactly on point."
Laura and Mark Rothstein attended a workshop on Bragdon v. Abbott: Implications for Asymptomatic Genetic Conditions sponsored by the Nation Action Plan on Breast Cancer and the National Human Genome Research Institute. Laura Rothstein prepared a paper for the conference "Genetic Discrimination: Why Bragdon Does Not Ensure Protection." Mark Rothstein was a moderator for the session held in Washington, DC, February 19, 1999.
Stephen Zamora announced the appointment of three faculty members to the newly created position of George Butler Research Professor of Law. These endowed professorships recognize the achievements of faculty members who are outstanding scholars. Normally two professors are recognized but because three are qualified the professorships will be staggered. Professors David Dow and Sandra Guerra will serve as George Butler Research Professors of Law from June 1, 1999 to May 31, 2001; Professor Robert Ragazzo will serve from June 1, 2000 to May 31, 2002. These professorships are supported by an endowment from the George and Anne Butler Foundation. George Butler, the founding partner of Butler & Binion was a great philanthropist, civic leader, and a friend of the Law Center.
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Editor: Harriet