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tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:/rss/departments/writing SPLICETODAY.com 2016-06-25T22:35:49Z tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19859 2016-06-25T07:05:00-04:00 2016-06-24T18:59:18-04:00 My Dream About the Snakes in the Big Boxes
I had another late-morning dream, the sort where my brain begins rattling because I overslept my anti-anxiety medication. This dream is remarkable because it's so blatant. It means something, the dream makes no bones about that. If dreams could dress themselves and move about, this one would have a fluorescent vest and an oversize flashlight and it'd be standing by the roadside, trying to flag me down. But I didn't notice until I actually told the thing to somebody else. Then I thought to myself, "Wow, this is pretty freighted."

My delay in realizing as much probably shows how much I dislike snakes, because they sure had my attention during that dream. At any moment I knew I'd have to look at them. That was the dream's dominant note: the tension you feel when there's something you can't escape looking at but that you haven't seen yet. One of the boxes would tip over, or the professor would say it was time to take off the lids. After all, the snakes were there for a research project, so the time had to come. Any moment… and then I woke up.

The setting was a university, specifically an anteroom to a laboratory. Do labs have anterooms? I bet they don't. This anteroom had lockers and open doorways, the sort that don't have doors and aren't supposed to. Trees could be glimpsed and it was a pleasant day, gray but cool. Crates were being carried out, and there was nothing mysterious about who carried them—it was the research team—but the dream never bothered to make these people more than shoulders and elbows. I did have an impression that the team leader had a long beard, much like one of the actors I'd seen on the Tonys. But that was it. Except that the crates weren't just being carried out, they were being carried in. Let's just say the crates were much in evidence and often moving about. I would have preferred that they stay put.

The dream might as well turn itself into an FAQ and make me read it. Boxes of snakes, boxes that I dread being opened? Surely that's a sign of emotional problems I dare not look at. No doubt the problems have to do with women. (Because of the boxes, and don't make me spell that out.) But what gets me is the atmosphere, because no one can interpret that but me. The bearded professor and his team trotting about with their snakes like they had a good reason, and me dreading what's about to be unleashed. I can't duck out because it's official business and I've been signed up. Nobody else sees what's so scary anyway.

The dream's atmosphere reminded me of my late childhood, when I had to do things that I wasn't cut out to do. For instance, the anteroom was like the locker room of the giant swimming pool where kids in my day camp were brought. That pool and the mass of children swimming there were too much for me, and I dreaded the visits we had to make. Why was it all too much? Well, I guess I'm a wuss, a sensitive child, Mr. Trembly Nerves. There's no reason a kid can't jump into chlorinated water and splash about with the sides of the pool a long way off and nothing in view but the shoulders and elbows (hmm…) of people he has never met. To me, actually, it sounds like there are plenty of reasons. But nobody else thought that, none of the kids and none of the adults, and I bet nobody does now. Just me.

—Follow C.T. May on Twitter: @CTMay3
 C.T. May tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19856 2016-06-24T10:32:00-04:00 2016-06-24T13:14:06-04:00 Rooster and Bucky
Does anyone remember that movie Waterworld? Kevin Costner drinking his own pee on a ramshackle raft in the middle of an endless ocean? Filtered, of course—fancy! I wasn't graced with such luxuries on my way back from Guantanamo Bay. I had to ride home in a bucket. And it wasn't free! I thought I had a spot on the refugee submarine (they have their own economy. The sub had first class. Don't… don't believe the hype), but there was no room left. I'm kidding; I was discriminated against. Political prisoners, terrorists, and innocent families alike all boarded this glistening thing at 5:30 in the morning and I got shafted by the swim attendant (blonde, by the way. Very luxe service). I spur clawed the shit out of her exposed heel and hightailed it out of there dodging bullets and shoes, but made it into the night clutching my hack inside of a clam shell. I slept with my eyes open until noon. Then I found my Wilson. It was a silver bucket. He was sitting there beached and shiny, without a speck of rust. I named him Bucky, and he took me all the way back to the mainland.

It wasn't easy. We endured storms, choppy waters, urchins, sea lions, otters, miniature whales, bass, salmon, and sharks. The worst were the otters. Such arrogance. Gorillas of the ocean. But by day seven, things had mostly cleared up, and me and Bucky had a steady supply of freshly caught oysters to get us through. I fed Bucky through his toothy mouth in between the Home Depot logo and his lower bolts. He started talking on day eight. We had long stretches of conversation on politics, philosophy, whether or not Brexit was a good idea, and how many bags of high quality feed we could get as the pound collapsed. Bucky and I need our grain. The next day we saw the face of God in the cloudscape and we wept along with the sky. He was disappointed in us and we didn't know why. I asked Bucky what was wrong, why was God crying? "He doesn't think we're going to make it, Rooster." That's when I bucked out of Bucky and launched myself out of that thing, that ungrateful husk. Fuck him. I swam the rest of the way. I woke up in the hospital three weeks later.

Everything had blown over. Anthony Weiner's death was pushed out of the news just like Chandra Levy after 9/11. "Ultimately, we can't conclude that this was a homicide, or that foul play was even involved." The sweetest sounds I ever heard throughout my junked-out stay at First Methodist, sedated and pumped full of amino acids and essential fluids through an IV. I met so many wonderful nurses. The doctors were mean. Bucky came back to visit me but I showed him the door—he'd rusted over orange completely. The Heavens presented himself to me but I was too high to talk to God. Then I turned on the TV and heard about Brexit, and scrambled for the nearest smartphone to place my feed orders. But someone even more orange than the bucket appeared fixed on the TV behind Farage. John, something? Another day… now's my time to steal some medication.

—Follow Rooster Quibbits on Twitter: @RoosterQuibbits
 Rooster Quibbits tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19852 2016-06-24T09:49:35-04:00 2016-06-24T09:49:35-04:00 Birth Unto Death
The routine that couples go through in a miscarriage is a familiar one with a sickening twist. You have the surprise start of a process signaled by the woman's body, often early in the morning; the trip to the hospital with hazard lights on, hoping the police will either turn a blind eye or lend a siren; the info juggling at the front desk; the nurse prep; the saline drip; the doctor finally peeping his head in; the intense pain; the confusion; the deep breathing. The process is like giving birth but giving birth unto death.

Contractions rumble through a woman's body for hours on end to work out the former life and material that sustained it. And that's if you're one of the lucky ones. Too often, the woman's body doesn't finish the job. In those cases, doctors have to go in surgically to extract the extra material to keep it from going septic and compounding the tragedy.

I'm contemplating this grim subject now because it happened to my wife this week. Anj was, by her probably spot-on estimate, a little over 11 weeks pregnant. We'd just announced it to close family on Sunday, Father's Day. The expectation was that I'd be a dad by this time next year and our dads' grandfathers. Two days later, she had a dream that she was losing the baby. She woke up to that nightmare.

We got to the hospital as fast as my '97 Subaru could safely manage. The ER doctor had a notion that this wasn't exactly what it looked like it was. He ordered a sonogram. They wheeled Anj into another wing of the hospital. I held her hand while the female tech searched for pixilated hope. She didn't find any but wouldn't say that to us. That was the radiologist's call to make and the ER doc's verdict to deliver. It must've been tough for the guy, having to give such awful news to expecting, first-time parents first thing in the morning.

Our OBGYN, a lady with whom Anj had scheduled her first appointment next week, just happened to be in the hospital at that hour. She was a calming presence to my distraught wife. So were my parents, who got there as soon as they could dress. Mom, being Mom, pointed out that my polo shirt was inside-out. I cut the tags off and left it that way.

Having stabilized Anj, the hospital didn't see any need to keep her there. The ER doc discussed her options. Door number one, do nothing, prescribe some pain meds but otherwise let nature take its course. Door number two, prescribe some additional meds to help the process along.

As one who has now gone through this, let me plead with first time miscarrying couples: please take the second option. If you don't, the process is likely to be long and wrenching for the woman. The man can't do much about it. He can refill a warm water bottle, do other minor chores, and hold her hand. But mostly he simply gets to watch or look away while she makes anguished cries over long hours to complete a horrific task. The less of that in one lifetime, the better.
 Jeremy Lott tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19851 2016-06-24T09:29:57-04:00 2016-06-24T13:06:09-04:00 Pictures of You (#44)
One of my favorite columnists—there aren't many, I assure you—is Hugo Rifkind, the Scottish-born journalist who writes for The Times and fortnightly for London's Spectator, which is indisputably the best English-language weekly. A few weeks ago, after riffing about approaching middle age—nearly 40, Hugo's already there—and caring more about politics ("Maybe, as a white, middle-class man… I am simply beginning to behave in the manner in which white middle-class men in middle age so often do. Which is to say, by erupting into paroxysms of bewildered angst and rage whenever I encounter a bit of the world that threatens not to behave precisely as I want it to.), Rifkind confesses to taking up gardening. He's not sure he's cut out for it.

As it happens, gardening is now a hobby at my own household in North Baltimore—in the city, but with a modest-sized backyard that has lots of trees and shrubs (a dozen shades of green that are particularly spectacular this time of year, especially when the sun comes out after a thunderstorm), rabbits, squirrels, raccoons and birds. Less desirable is the very occasional rat: about a month ago, in a spring here that was 40 consecutive days of rain, one morning I found a dead rat at the bottom of the stairs leading to the outside door of the cellar. I'm no stranger to rats, and am not particularly bothered by them, so I got a paper towel, picked up the rodent by the tail and chucked into a neighbor's bushes. Not very sporting, I know, but a sin of quite low severity.

Anyhow, last year my sons and I, plumbing our collective creativity for a Mother's Day gift, flipped our lids and eschewed the usual jewelry/handbag route and outfitted my wife with potted herbs, tomato and pepper plants and a blueberry bush. It was a hit, even though we didn't know what we were doing in caring for the vegetation, and watched as various varmints ate the modest fruit that eventually adorned the plants. As an advance call last month, Melissa made it plain that we ought to repeat, so my son Booker and I spent an hour or so at Green Fields Nursery, a local institution that's a model of how to run a small business. (Despite the disappearance of so many "bricks and mortar" retailers, I'd say that nurseries are nearly impervious to online shopping, although in five years' time that may turn out to be a faulty statement. It still bewilders me that anyone would shop for clothes via the Internet—I could never buy a shirt or even pair of socks without examining the goods in person, and who wants to bother sending back items that don't fit—yet that shift is in full gear. Not that many people purchase suits or neckties anymore, but just the thought of laying out $500 for a seersucker number after looking at a screen mildly freaks me out.)

Melissa's the first to admit that her thumbs are black: once, around 1990, we had a rubber plant inside the loft that required almost no care, and within six months it had drawn its last oxygen and was bequeathed to the dumpster behind our building. But, like Hugo Rifkind, she's now middle-aged, and apparently that youthful affliction has miraculously reversed itself, for she took over the tomato (and cucumber and herbs) duties, did some modest research and, as the picture above shows—with the clay mascot Salami presiding—the plants are growing at a rapid clip. Who knows, there might actually be a yield later this summer, since Farmer Melissa, as she now calls herself, has calculated the correct height of the wooden whiskey barrels holding the cargo that'll thwart those squirrels.

Mind you, this is strictly for fun—and we all get a kick out of seeing the garden thrive—and thankfully we're not reliant on the menagerie for actual food. And, in another modern twist of life that isn't to my liking, produce of all kinds is available year-round, as opposed to my Long Island youth, when you took what was in season. Summer was a windfall, with plums, corn, watermelon, peaches and tomatoes in abundance from the local farms, and then in fall there was a small window for my favorite fruit, McIntosh apples. Winter was mostly barren, save for grapefruit and oranges.

Still, if we're lucky, there will be a two-week period in August when our salads are spruced up with homegrown cherry tomatoes, and that's not an immodest middle-age pleasure.

—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER1955
 Russ Smith tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19850 2016-06-24T06:46:00-04:00 2016-06-23T22:12:02-04:00 It's All Vegas Now
The escalating madness of the 21st Century has me wondering about an old pet theory of mine regarding 9/11. I ate some magic mushrooms shortly after it happened, and I got the idea that the Towers never stopped collapsing. They were sucked into an ever-expanding singularity that ultimately consumed all of New York City before regurgitating it as a steel and glass absurdist replica devoid of grit, content, compassion, and meaning. As any New Yorker knows, the city is the Ultimate Reality and the basis of the many parallel realities that converge there, and so the entire world was sucked down a hole that has no bottom. It's all Vegas now. How else to explain a world where Pat Buchanan and I agree on most things?

I've probably been paying more attention than I should to current events, but it's a lifelong compulsion of mine. It's unlikely that anyone in a position of power will pay any attention whatsoever to the musings of a quasi-Nazi acid casualty in his 60s, but I do have a few observations and suggestions that might be of help in making our ongoing descent into the abyss more entertaining, if not quite bearable, to those of sound mind. It's actually easier for me to cope with the epidemic of madness going around owing to my youthful infatuation with Art Kleps' Neo-American Church and their doctrine regarding the invalid nature of external relations. Nihilistic solipsism is by far the most practical philosophical approach to the ongoing orgy of oligarchic violence that is today's world. Like Dr. Strangelove, I have a few suggestions.

It's Gay Pride week. Given recent tragic events involving steroids, sexual repression, SSRI drugs, semi-automatic weapons, and multi-tasking Muslim murderers texting and updating their Facebook status in the midst of perpetrating mass slaughter, it would be a generous and uplifting gesture if the LGBTQ community would rename the Stonewall Inn and park area out of deference to the Black Lives Matter movement. A bar named after a notorious cis-gendered heteronormative white racist Confederate general hardly seems like the appropriate place to commemorate a people's uprising against patriarchal oppression. Even Texas is more enlightened than that. A few weeks ago, the good folk of Tyler, Texas, decided to rename the Robert E. Lee High School there. They put it to the students. Among the top student submissions were "The Adolf Hitler School Of Friendship And Tolerance," "Donald J. Trump High School," and my favorite, "The Adam Lanza School Of Fun."

Given that the whole Stonewall rebellion sprang out of an impromptu wake for Judy Garland, I think "Dorothy's" would be an excellent choice to end white gay microaggression against People Of Color, although "The Trayvon" has a certain appeal.

The refugee crisis is out of control. There are an estimated 65,000,000 refugees pouring out of the Middle East and North Africa, wreaking havoc wherever they go. Why are these people even alive? Have we become so utterly inept at warfare that we destroy whole nations leaving the populace alive, only to welcome them in with welfare benefits and free crack? War is about killing people, not creating refugees. As Hunter Thompson famously opined, "Buy the ticket, take the ride." If you're going to commit war crimes, at least be thorough about it. If war is the world's only hygiene, we're like some back alley abortionist who doesn't wash his hands between patients or a truck stop bathroom with no toilet paper.

We need more vaccines. A vaccine against gullibility would be terrific. The need is obvious. The Zika vaccine is a terrible idea. A nation of pinheads would be far preferable to what we have now. Pinheads are cute, dumb, and not particularly violent. When was the last time you heard of pinheads killing each other over sneakers or forming violent flash mobs? We should unleash Zika-infected mosquitos in all of the most violent neighborhoods in America. Between that and the fluoride and lead in the water, we can transform a nation of thugs into a passive drooling source of menial labor, content with a diet of Skittles and Arizona Iced Tea.

Getting back to Art Kleps and the Neo-American Church, we should establish a one-world government and turn the world's arsenal against the planet Saturn. Kleps always felt that Saturn should be destroyed on the grounds that it's too garish and a perpetually bad astrological influence. It can't hurt, and would probably help.

Alternatively, we could just keep doing what we're doing and wait for the Nazis to come back from the Moon and set things right for us. According to trusted authorities in Finland, they're coming back in January, 2018, during a lunar eclipse. I can hardly wait.
 Alan Cabal tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19843 2016-06-23T10:16:34-04:00 2016-06-25T18:35:49-04:00 Two Recurring Nightmares
When I was younger I had two recurring nightmares so disturbing they're both burned into the fabric of my consciousness.

The first was abstract. It haunted me from the time I was four or five all the way up until I was 20, and often more than once a year.

Peering through a claustrophobic tunnel of thickets, I can faintly see the night light that illuminated the upstairs hallway of my childhood home.

The tunnel of thickets begins spinning around. My chest gets heavier, breathing becomes more difficult, and my nose fills with more and more snot after each revolution. I toss and turn fearing the worst.

I struggle to try and stop the tunnel of thorns from rotating, but I can't think of a way to hold the tunnel walls without cutting my hands.

Eventually the sloth-like spin cycle grinds to a halt and the spikey tunnel begins to widen at a mid-paced speed, as if someone's pulled a lever forcing its walls apart several extra feet. Once the walls have widened completely my chest no longer heaves. I breath easy and snot-free, with no tossing or turning. And with a last glance at the night light, I gradually slip back into unconsciousness.

***

I first had the other nightmare around the age of 10 and it returned yearly until some point in my 20s.

I'm seated riding a skateboard, or a bike, or sometimes driving a car with the windows open on a sunny day, going downhill. As I ride along my friends are standing on either side of the road waving and yelling things.

I try to acknowledge all of them, but struggle to do so while simultaneously remaining in control of my vehicle and keeping my eyes on the road.

Despite the fact that I'm clearly struggling to socialize and drive at the same time, two or three of my friends start running alongside the vehicle, trying to strike up a more involved conversation.

Finally, I become so distracted that I veer into the path of an inanimate object (a large rock, a mailbox, a tree, etc.), at which point my friends start frantically warning me to stop.

Right before the collision I wake up terrified and shaking, sometimes yelling. An actual collision never happens during the nightmare.

***

The crash dream isn't that weird, but I still can't understand what either of these dreams mean.

The thorny tunnel dream in particular is totally baffling to me. Allergies to pollen and dust were big problems I struggled with when I was young, so I guess those real life breathing problems had something to do with the ones in the nightmare. Though I can honestly say I've faced more than a few strange situations in my time on this planet, thorn onslaughts, caverns, and undulating/revolving walls have never been a part of my day-to-day life.

I'm sharing these memories publicly just in case there are some armchair psychiatrists who might read this and then feel compelled to offer up interpretations of just what the hell my old nightmares were all about. If you happen to be an amateur Carl Jung, feel free to comment here. Mental health pros, feel free to chime in too.
 Mike Apichella tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19846 2016-06-23T06:50:00-04:00 2016-06-23T06:59:37-04:00 You Can't Hurt Me
There are so many levels of pain in the world, and each individual person has their own personal Richter scale based on individual experiences. Your childhood, upbringing, relationships, and adult interactions all factor in to what people think of when they talk about a "painful" experience. And we all encounter pain in different ways—some of us close down emotionally, while some express it outwardly. We grieve in stages, in different cycles of those stages over time, quickly, slowly, back and forth again.

When I lost my sister to suicide a year and a half ago, it was the worst pain I'd ever experienced. I lost my best friend. Every day since, I've missed her, and a day hasn't gone by that I haven't wished for her to be around, to offer her unique perspective on the world, to bring her humor and wisdom to my life, to tell me everything is/was/will be okay, that the "haters" we encounter along the way are insignificant middle-schoolers. Now, my 13-year-old, who often reminds me so much of my sister, is the one to echo these words.

When incidents or people come along in my life and I'm reminded that there's true evil in the world, it's rare. Thankfully, I'm surrounded by the love of friends and family the majority of the time. But when bad things happen, my sister isn't here to remind me that this too will pass. Other "sister friends" fill in, and it helps.

But pain is never the same once you've been through something as awful as losing a sister to suicide. The pain I felt the day I walked into the closet where she took her life—the massive wave of it, how it nearly knocked me down; I can still feel it to this day if I allow myself to, which I very rarely do—that pain could never be matched.

So, now, when even the most evil thing or evil person arrives at my life's door, I'm numb in a way, because I can't be hurt in that part of me that's already been scarred so deeply. But I am surprised. I always see the best in people, and can't believe it when someone sets out to hurt me, because I'd never intentionally hurt another person. I don't imagine someone would plan to be cruel to a person, and so I don't see it coming. I'm vulnerable then, and I do get hurt. But not anywhere near as deeply in my soul and my heart as before I lost my sister.
 Mary McCarthy tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19841 2016-06-22T10:29:59-04:00 2016-06-23T12:54:30-04:00 Paleocon Diary (#18)
This Sunday saw the Holy Russian Orthodox Feast of the Trinity, and here at our Benedict Option community we celebrated in fine fashion. In fact, we made rather merry, going so far as to slaughter one of Brother Aiden's suckling piglets for our repast.

We did not plan this sumptuous dinner. We—Mother, Daughter, Brother Aiden, and Sister Marie—had planned to honor the Trinity as we did last year. That is, with our usual prayers under our icons of Saint Euphrosynus of Pskov, Saint Gennadius of Novgorod, and Saint Tykhon of Zadonsk, followed by readings from the stimulating Philokalia of St. Nicodemus and from the life of one of our Orthodox Martyrs, perhaps Patriarch Hermenogenes of Moscow, or of a wonderful Russian holy idiot, like the excellent Pasha of Sarov, Fool-for-Christ of Diveyevo Convent.

Well, we certainly prayed this year, too, the four of us prostrating ourselves on Aiden's well-sanded boards before our makeshift iconostasis. (Or three of us did, anyway—Daughter is increasingly just "going through the motions"; she shows a new unwillingness to press her lips to the floor, and her groanings of self-mortification have the tinge of the counterfeit about them.) But then, instead of moving on to our planned supper of mushrooms and boiled groats, we decadently conceived the idea of roast pork—oh, glorious repast!

You will think us rather naughty. Yet a Christian, even as he prepares every day for death, is obliged to embrace the good things in life—and a supper of roast pork, consumed in what the Jews would call "haimish" circumstances, is a good thing indeed.

A word on the actual slaughter of the young swine. As organic farmers, Brother Gavin and I are sometimes obliged to perform the unpleasant work of butchery. But never before had we had to kill an animal as small—and elusive—as this piglet. I will spare you the details, but suffice it to say that, chasing the panicked creature around the enclosure with our tire mallets, we made a rather amusing sight.

In the end, though, the beast was apprehended and met his end from a sharpened awl.

I thanked God for this Good Food and, in humility, bore the warm carcass to the rack, for flaying and disembowelment.

•••

It is still too early to tell for sure, but I believe that Daughter's sexual comportment is improving. This, after a mere two meetings with Dmitry Vladimirovich, the fine nonagenarian Russian émigré—and former Orthodox seminarian—to whom we were commended recently by an Orthodox co-religionist of ours. Readers of my humble jottings will remember that Mother and I were persuaded that by discussing with the learned Dmitry Vladimirovich what Russian Orthodoxy dictates about the human body, the adolescent Daughter might correct her new tendency to masturbate.

We were correct—maybe. It is hard to tell. But inasmuch as I can glean anything from my amateur surveillance—an ear pressed to Daughter's bedroom door for 10 or 12 minutes several times per night—I gather Dmitry Vladimirovich has done his work well.

On the other hand, Daughter may have learned no more than to better suppress her moans of pleasure. Alternatively, she may have substituted clitoral stimulation with the petting of the labia minora. This would be a lower-impact but ultimately just as pleasurable (and spiritually murderous) technique.

By the way, Mother, who has driven Daughter to her two meetings with Dmitry Vladimirovich in Indianapolis, reports that he is, indeed, a wonderful old man. I had worried that the stroke-induced palsy that, I was told, had incapacitated the left side of his face would make communication with Daughter more difficult than it should be; and I fretted that his rudimentary English would not help matters.

But Mother has soothed my concerns. Dmitry Vladimirovich, she says, glows with spiritual, if not physical, health—a health to which his robust cackling, she says, provides ample testament.

•••

A "bleg," to use a word from an earlier era of our Internet culture: I am in possession of a well-made pair of sandals—my daily "go to" sandals—that require repair after near a decade of regular use. If any reader could direct me to an honest craftsman in the greater Indianapolis area who could repair this manly footwear at a reasonable price, I would be grateful. Please "tweet" me at @PaleoConDiarist.

Again, these are treasured sandals, and flattering; and I seek an honest craftsman, charging a reasonable price.
 John M. Harris tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19834 2016-06-22T09:53:00-04:00 2016-06-22T09:59:51-04:00 The Little House Down the Lane
Recently, I was fresh from stopping in the Apple store at Greene and Prince Streets in SoHo, banging around the MacBooks, iPads, and iPhones. (The learning curve is going to steep if I ever buy any—track pads completely confuse me and I prefer to use mice and keyboards to do everything.) Wandering in the dead dog 89-degree heat up Greene, just before arriving at Houston I was greeted with this tiny Federal-style dormered mansion at 139 Greene with an arched doorway.

You can tell that care was taken in its design, because the keystone on the arch matches the lintels on the windows. The door, which had been eight-paneled wood flanked by Ionic columns, is gone, but the arch as well as marble steps are the originals.

Some internet research bore out my suspicion that this is a very old building. No doubt when Greene Street was first laid out it had a number of matching partners on either side. It was built in 1824 by Anthony Arnoux, a tailor by trade. By 1850, this was the tough part of town, and the Arnoux family moved uptown to 32nd Street. Only after that were the great cast-iron front behemoths we associate with SoHo built. 139 Greene then became a brothel for a few years.

139 Greene was never razed. When SoHo became an industrial neighborhood (the upscale boutiques arrived in the 1980s) it was home to paper wholesalers and other businesses. A loading dock was built over the marble steps in the 1960s.

In 1973, the house was sold to art gallery manager Peter Ballantine, and it has apparently been undergoing renovations for the past 40-plus years. The ground floor windows have been bricked up and a grim black panel with a buzzer stand in place of the front door. However, the upstairs windows and dormers seem unchanged since 1824, and those curtains don't look like recent vintage.

Any news on the renovation progress?

—Kevin Walsh is the webmaster of the award-winning website Forgotten NY, and the author of the books Forgotten New York and also, with the Greater Astoria Historical Society, Forgotten Queens.
 Kevin Walsh tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19836 2016-06-22T06:50:00-04:00 2016-06-21T22:45:36-04:00 Me and the Indians
People talk about school being pointless because they never use what they learned. By that standard, the fourth and fifth grades left me with nothing decent but multiplication and the knowledge that America had committed genocide. There was also a film about skinning caribou, and I'll always remember it, but so what? Multiplication and the awareness of American genocide have made a difference to me. I don't think anything else has, not from those particular years.

This was just when the 1960s were turning into the 1970s. Back then most people with a college degree figured that radicalism—well, no, a sort of disgruntled and vocal liberalism—was the way to go. My teachers were young and susceptible to modish enthusiasms, so they were no exception. They dumped us students into a mismanaged attempt at the open classroom, an exercise in chaos that left me feeling adrift and miserable. And they pounded us over the head with nasty stuff about America, specifically about America versus the Indians.

I suppose slavery didn't get a look-in because there were some black kids scattered among the whites, a situation that would make white kids (or their parents) touchy about too much truth coming out. Safer to be righteous about the Trail of Tears and the sad fate of the Ghost Dance movement. Really, I don't think much of my old teachers, and I wonder how many decided they were Reagan fans when the winds shifted a decade down the road. In the meantime, we repeated what they told us. We did it in dispirited fashion, since Indians (yes, I know they're called Native Americans now) were much more fun a year or so before, when we were learning about totems and moccasins and lodges.

One time a strong-minded classmate broke through the noise. A student teacher had been listening to a group of us mumble back our usual about the horrors. The girl defiantly announced that we were all just doing as teacher said. I felt silly about being caught out. Really, this degree of honesty was unfair. But I knew she was right. Yet, on looking back, I also think she was wrong, and this is something it's taken me decades to realize. Because I've never forgotten the Trail of Tears and the Ghost Dance movement.

Consider this. Over the years my feelings for America have gone through ups and downs. When I was a teen and learned something about European history, I decided that it was quite absurd for radicals to excoriate the U.S. On balance, the country allowed more freedom and prosperity to a greater number of people than the vast majority of all other systems through history. Look at the Romans, look at the Greeks. Look at Great Britain just a century before, let alone the regimes found in Europe. But the key phrase there is "on balance." I knew what we had done. I didn't imagine that America was a collection of good people doing good things until the good things made a pile to the sun. We had blood on our hands.

Off and on, for the rest of my life, I've seen what I make of that knowledge. I'm not as confident now that the balance is overwhelmingly in favor of the U.S. But I've always been aware that, even at its best, America isn't Superman in geographic form. It's a racket by which some do well or very well, with the "some" being most of the population. I know this because my foolish, right-on teachers rubbed my nose in the Trail of Tears and the rest. I know about slavery too, of course. All Americans know about slavery. Then again, we all know about the Indians getting wiped out. But it helps to be made forcefully aware of these things when young. School may not be that great, but it rubs your nose pretty good, and that was the case with me and the Indians.

—Follow C.T. May on Twitter: @CTMay3
 C.T. May tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19827 2016-06-21T09:38:15-04:00 2016-06-21T09:38:15-04:00 My Hard-Won Success
Angela Duckworth would say I'm gritty. Duckworth is the author of Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance, a best-selling psychology cum self-help book. Duckworth argues that talent is overrated as a cause of success. Talent can matter—but what's more important in the success of professional swimmers, businesspeople, and spelling bee champions is grit: the willingness to stick to one's goals despite set backs and initial failure. "The highly accomplished," she insists, are, "paragons of perseverance."

Modest talent, firm commitment; Duckworth would probably find both of those in my life story. When I first entered school, I bombed the IQ test for being placed in the honors track; I was not, according to standardized measures, very talented. But my third grade year, I had a teacher who focused on writing skills, and I fell in love. I was determined to be a writer, and eventually I succeeded. I was the valedictorian of my high school class, majored in creative writing in college, and stuck with my dream even as it became clear after school that no one was interested in publishing my poetry. I applied to MFA programs for three years, but when that didn't work out, I moved into writing criticism. And I now make a living writing, in spite of standardized testing and MFA programs both.

That's grit. Right?

I'm sure Duckworth could fit my life story into a grit narrative if she wanted to. I'm less convinced. IQ test or no IQ test, my dad was a college history teacher, and my family always had tons of books around the house—I had resources and support, and it was always more likely than not that I'd do well in school. The teacher who inspired me in third grade was in England; my family spent a year in London for my dad's sabbatical that year—an opportunity most of my peers certainly didn't have. After my poetry dreams crashed, I was able to turn to freelance journalism and criticism in large part because my wife has a steady job. "Grit" in my case is less about continually striving in the face of trials and adversity, and more about having sufficient luck and resources that those trials and setbacks weren't overwhelming.

Duckworth acknowledges this to a certain extent in her book; she notes, for example, that one of the best ways to cultivate grit is through extracurricular activities. However, people living in poverty generally can't afford to enroll their children in dance, swimming, karate or band classes. "There is a worrisome correlation between family income and Grit Grid scores," she admits. Duckworth's grit test is, in part, merely yet another way to separate the rich from the poor. People with grit know they can overcome challenges because they've overcome challenges in the past: an experience you're much more likely to have if you have the material resources that allow you to keep pursuing your goal via other means if, for example, you can't get into a program in your chosen field.

Grit is, at its core, merely a re-statement of the ethos of meritocracy. People who work hard succeed, and deserve to succeed. Those who don't work hard… well, they deserve to succeed less. But as Thomas Piketty has pointed out, throughout history, in most of the world, "hard work" netted you bupkis. Jane Austen's heroines focus on marrying well rather than on a career because they know that in a stratified society such as theirs, the income from work will almost never rival the income from inherited capital.

That calculus changed some in the 20th century, as, for various reasons, return from capital decreased and return from labor went up. For a little while there, it was possible to believe that hard work would vault you into comfort. But, Piketty argues, that pendulum is swinging back again, as inequality grows wider and wider. People with more start further and further ahead; people with less start further and further behind. At this moment, as meritocracy becomes a more transparent lie, Grit isn't really a blueprint for success. It's a manifesto to assure those who have succeeded that their success was based on their rare inner qualities, rather than on being lucky enough to be born into the right class.

—Follow Noah Berlatsky on Twitter: @nberlat
 Noah Berlatsky tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19824 2016-06-20T09:45:43-04:00 2016-06-20T09:45:43-04:00 The Dead Can't Talk
Drip. Drip. Drip. Chinese Water Torture. "Poo-tee-weet, poo-tee-weet." Fuck that bird. Who even was that bird? Shit book. "Talk." I spit in his face. The full-handed slap hits hard. It hurts. No tears. Just bite. All peck. The ropes around my neck are frayed but my feet are chained, and my spur claws are useless. Losing my edge. Everything is atrophying after three weeks here. I hold my resolve in the deepest reserves of my heart and don't give in. Drip. Drip. Drip. "Talk." Spit. Slap. Whip. My forehead is burning—they don't tell you that the water is boiling hot. Losing my color, losing my edge. The masked man walks away and returns with a blindfold. Everything goes black and I hear him leave the rubber room. Was it worth it?

They torture me with pop music. Nothing you've heard of—the sounds of channel surfing on Uranus. Unintelligible, indistinguishable mush manipulated beyond any recognition. Lady Gaga's voice is looped—"pa-pa-pa-poker-face-pa-pa-poker-face" for hours. I've lost count. Solitary is the only option at Guantanamo Bay. I haven't had a meal in… three weeks… has it been that long? Since I got here? They feed me scraps, pieces of cornmeal and bread soaked in water and vinegar. As if I'm a fucking duck. Do they have proper protocol for roosters? I doubt it. Sometimes I wonder if it was worth it. I overreacted, but I do feel that my life was in danger, and caught up in the moment of discovering my disgraced friend, I was passionate. I was heated. Anthony Weiner's veins were easy to cut. I didn't even really have to try. I just did my usual squawk-and-scratch, peck-peck, and he was dead. Glassy eyes staring up at me. Yet I felt nothing. I jumped up on the desk to console my sobbing, oblivious friend.

Lights on. Must've been three hours at least. Two men walk in. The blindfold comes off, and the water finally stops. They're all in blacked, wearing gas masks, carrying hoses. I see my own mask dangling from the hands of the one on the left. "Look, buddy. Buddy. You've got one more chance. We really have no qualms about taking our time breaking your spirit. It doesn't even matter if you die, really. You have no family. At least, no family that this country recognizes…" He's right. Roosters are radically under-represented in Congress. "Just… just fucking tell us why you had to kill Weiner. We know Boehner is involved. We'll give you immunity and just one more beating, not the mask. Not the gas. It doesn't have to be this way. You can give in." That sets me. I'm done. This isn't worth it. The humiliation. The pain. The spiritual dislocation. I tear the last threads of my neck ropes and get a nice peck on the pants of the man holding the mask. They hold me back. I'm going away. Dinner. Roasted. "I'm being deported." Gallows humor. The iris closes in. "I'm being deported." Only now do I realize. I see what he means. The orange hand puts me away. brb. Going away now.

—Follow Rooster Quibbits on Twitter: @RoosterQuibbits
 Rooster Quibbits tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19820 2016-06-20T06:48:00-04:00 2016-06-20T08:12:53-04:00 Not Leaving Las Vegas
Long layovers in all airports suck. They're depressing, dry, long, uncomfortable, and disgusting people are sneezing everywhere. If you're stuck in one for overnight hours, your life can seem like it's never going to end, or you wish it would. The guy who filmed that "All By Myself" video hit it dead-on; that feeling you have when it's just you, the moving sidewalks, and a random suitcase-sleeper.

On a few trips to California in the last six months, I've ended up in Vegas layover hell a few times, but one of them, caused by stormy weather, planted me there for seven straight hours. I briefly considered getting a cab and go to the strip, since I've never seen it, but decided against it, to my regret. Any small detour would've been worth the lack of adventure that awaited me inside the walls of McCarran Las Vegas International Airport.

My first challenge was staying awake. I'd left the coast at three a.m., and it was going to be a full night with no sleep (I was far too scared to try to catch a nap in the airport). What are your feelings on "5 Hour Energy Drink?" If you're like me, you think the chemical-soup tastes like someone put three shots of Nyquil in a plastic shot glass. In 1976. But the damn things work. So I bought a small caramel latte from Starbucks and tossed one in there, and down the hatch. At least the death-taste was diluted. Hyped up for the next day's worth of hours, I observed these three main maddening annoyances that make you want to run through a plate glass window the most during a Las Vegas layover, besides the obvious screeching of "WHEEL-OF-FORTUNNNE" from that particular slot machine:

Music. LAS has one CD. It's a mix-tape they made around 2000 of all the performing artists who performed there in recent years, plus all the songs that have ever been made that contain the words "Las Vegas" in the title. If you're there long enough, you hear the CD on a loop. So you better pray that you're a fan of Celine Dion, Elton John, "Viva Las Vegas" by Elvis Presley, "Leaving Las Vegas" by Sheryl Crow, and a bunch of other unintelligible tracks with the word "Vegas" in them that you've never heard before or will again. The airport CD is also a fan of Frank Sinatra, so I didn't mind him in the mix as much, though I've heard my fill of "Luck Be a Lady." One of my layovers was the week Prince died (he played in Vegas), and I sat at an empty gate crying to "Purple Rain," which I'm sure Elton John would've been horrified to know was followed by "Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting."

Casino people. The Walking Dead should do a Las Vegas airport episode, because these people would make the perfect zombies. Staggering determinedly yet not quickly toward the casinos they've come there to worship, the casino-bound couples are recognizable for their accessories: mostly hers. She wears bright, citrus-colored polyester, poufy, over-sprayed hair, a plan-a-tan, 1970s eyeshadow all the way to the brow, and bright toenail polish peeking from her metallic strappy heels. He's a combed-over 60-something Ken doll accessory to her over-aged casino Barbie.

Terrifying flight attendant mannequins. By far the most terrifying thing about the Las Vegas airport though is the "historic airline attendants" display. There are three of the full human-sized mannequins, and depending on what time of day or night it is, can be equal-parts terrifying or hilarious, weighing on the side of nightmare-level scary. They're all dressed in 70s airline attire. The woman in the center glass case wears a navy skirt suit, shoulder-length brown bob, huge blank eyes and too much fake mascara hover above a vacant grin with its outdated bright pink lipstick. She's flanked on one side by the captain mannequin, a somewhat handsome if mildly wife-beaty-looking type in the requisite stars-and bars and pilot hat. On her other side is the far less masculine looking man flight attendant—with his feathered blond hair, dashing white-toothed grin and more casual pose, you can practically hear his 70s gay-best-friend chatter with the central maybe-its-Maybelline girl in the middle. All three of them look like they're about to come alive, break out of their glass coffins and brutally murder you if its three in the morning and you're sitting in the gate across from them, alone, listening to Celine Dion sing "All By Myself."
 Mary McCarthy tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19815 2016-06-17T09:57:00-04:00 2016-06-17T09:58:02-04:00 The Grieving Never Stops
On Friday June 16, 2000, my cousin Kathy Inman, her husband Billy and their 16-year-old son Dustin, were traveling from their home in Woodstock, Georgia to their retreat in the mountains of North Georgia, to celebrate Father's Day with a weekend of fishing. As they waited behind a car at a stoplight in Ellijay, a speeding vehicle plowed into them from behind, wedging Kathy's Grand Am into the car in front of them. The force completely crushed the backseat and Dustin and his dog Lucky died instantly. Kathy and Billy were seriously injured and airlifted to the trauma center in Atlanta where they both lapsed into comas.

While we were all trying to understand this senseless tragedy, my aunt and uncle and Billy's family had to make arrangements to bury their grandson and possibly his parents because we just didn't know if they would make it. I recall sitting in my aunt's kitchen as she talked about not knowing how many funerals they'd have to plan, when she picked up Dustin's wallet that had been given to them by the police. The wallet was stuffed with cash that he'd been saving to buy a car. She showed it to me and then she started to cry.

Billy was discharged after a few weeks, scratched and bruised and suffering from memory loss, while Kathy remained much longer due to her more extensive injuries that required rehab. During a visit with her in the hospital, she recalled to me in very few words, because she wasn't able to talk much, that she knew Dustin was gone before anyone had told her. She told me that he'd visited her at the scene of the accident and told her he was okay.

After her hospitalization and rehabilitation, Kathy went home to begin the rest of the recovery process. Due to brain damage and spinal injuries, she faced a very long, painful rehabilitation. We'd all had hope she would make a full recovery but sadly, 16 years later, she's confined to a wheelchair, enduring constant pain and frequent visits to her doctors.

The man who committed this crime, Gonzalo Gonzalo Harrell, aka Gonzalo Harrell-Gonzalez, admitted to police at the scene that he'd fallen asleep at the wheel. After complaining of stomach pains after the accident, he was taken to a local hospital in Gilmer County where he was left unattended by police and escaped, never to be seen again.

Police determined that Gonzalo Harrell was an illegal alien with a North Carolina driver's license. In 2001, he was indicted by the Gilmer County Grand Jury on several charges including vehicular homicide. In 2002, the FBI issued a federal warrant charging him with unlawful flight to avoid prosecution. A nationwide manhunt ensued with his face broadcast on America's Most Wanted and other news programs. A few years later, through Billy's tireless efforts, law enforcement authorities located a man they thought to be Gonzalo Harrell but the man told police he was actually Harrell's brother Roberto. Forensic experts determined this was true and so the manhunt continued.

Billy has been on a crusade these past 16 years pushing for immigration reform and justice for families who have experienced the loss of loved ones at the hands of individuals who are in the U.S. illegally. He is not anti-immigration, he is anti-illegal immigration. Billy and Kathy's story has been featured on nearly every major news outlet over the years and all they've wanted out of it is justice. Recently Billy received a letter from the Department of Justice informing him of the inability to extradite Gonzalo Harrell to Mexico because that country does not criminalize vehicular manslaughter without intent to commit a crime. In an effort to placate Billy, the letter went on to state: "Notwithstanding the limitations of the law, you should be comforted by the fact that your efforts have not been in vain. Your tireless fight for justice has reached the highest levels of both the United States and Mexican governments and your family's loss has touched us all."

Not high enough apparently. There is no comfort for Billy and Kathy and they feel their tireless fight has fallen upon deaf ears. Billy's exhausted and feels like a failure at times for not being able to bring to justice the man who decimated his family. He told Breitbart in March of this year, "I want something done so this doesn't happen to others, but there's just too many people that just don't care. Even when you have family members that tell you we're wasting our time. They say it's making my wife worse, and the depression and all of the issues she's got going on worse. They say it's just dragging her heartache out even longer—they don't understand that our heartache isn't going to be any longer or lesser either way."

Billy wants to care for Kathy in the manner she requires but it's difficult. She's in pain and discomfort every single day. She wakes up in the middle of the night screaming and crying. In addition to her physical pain, the emotional pain is overwhelming. They've accepted their son's death but they cannot accept the manner in which he died and the fact that the man who did it is free to live his life and hug his three children every single day.

Dustin's death left a devastating impact on his family. For his parents, there is no comfort or peace. They take it day by day and do the best they can but every single day they're reminded that their son will never age, attend college, get married, have children of his own, and grow old and gray. The dreams Billy and Kathy had of retiring one day and moving to a cabin in the mountains and spending time with their grandchildren will forever remain just a dream.
 Jessica Clackum tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19811 2016-06-17T07:00:00-04:00 2016-06-17T18:24:49-04:00 Pictures of You (#43)
A few days ago at the office my son Nicky, hearing a clunker track from Abbey Road on my iPod—"Maxwell's Silver Hammer," yet another harbinger of Paul McCartney's gooey side that would define his post-Beatles career—turned down the volume on Howard Stern for a moment and engaged me in a discussion about the group that disbanded 22 years before his birth. He reiterated his strong distaste for Abbey Road—we've had this discussion before: he prefers the White Album (yeah, yeah, yeah, sticklers, The Beatles), I go with Revolver—and expressed befuddlement that so many of his contemporaries think that record is just boss. Preaching to the converted—although I have a sliver of fondness for Abbey Road, since a review of it in my junior high school newspaper, The Echo, was my first published byline—I nodded and said the only songs I like from that release are "You Never Give Me Your Money" and "Come Together." He dissented, pledging fidelity to George Harrison's "Here Comes the Sun," which I never cared for.

That led to Nicky wondering why John Lennon is currently taking a lot of flak—news to me—and that Harrison, with the exception of a few songs, is vastly overrated. I wouldn't go that far, although the rhapsody over his late-1970 triple album All Things Must Pass escaped me at the time and still does. It could've made a very decent single LP, highlighted by "Apple Scruffs," "My Sweet Lord," "Wah-Wah," "Beware of Darkness" and "What Is Life." Actually, that makes half a decent album, sort of like the first solos from Lennon and McCartney.

As these conversations progressed—a rambunctious bout of procrastination—we wound up in 1974, when I was 19 and a college sophomore (the picture above, with an uncharacteristic scowl on my face, was taken outside a house I rented with four other fellows in September of that year). Told Nicky I missed two concerts that year that I wish I'd attended: David Bowie in his new blue-eyed soul persona (I couldn't get out of work that night) and Harrison a month or two later. The first big tour by an ex-Beatle, I was planning to go, but reports of Harrison's ragged voice and too much Ravi Shankar led me to pass, even though I loved the song "Dark Horse," from the album he was promoting. I regret it now, since I was too young to see The Beatles before they stopped touring in '66, never had interest in a Wings show, and was nowhere in the vicinity of any of Lennon's ad-hoc shows. Missing Harrison, just 33 at the time, is a hole—as we all have—in my concert history, which, by and large, is a pretty good one.

But let's think about 1974, since it was a great year to be alive—although I'd guess when you're 19, any year fits that bill—with all the cultural and political events of the time. Watergate had wrapped up officially when Jerry Ford inexplicably pardoned Richard Nixon—a shocker I'll never forget upon picking up a copy of Baltimore's Evening Sun in early September with the banner headline screaming the news—Patty Hearst was on the lam, pictured in the garb of her Symbionese Liberation Army kidnappers, and the drinking age in Maryland was temporarily lowered to 18, which was crucial to me, since I'd get carded at any bar until I was about 25.

The house I shared on Belvedere Ave. with Joe Griffith, Fred Lohr, Grant Abrams and Tom McQuilling was a ways from the Johns Hopkins campus—and with no car, I either mooched rides, took the bus or hitched back and forth to school—and, unlike places I'd subsequently wind up, was fairly modern and even had a back yard. We'd settled in before classes started, and I remember one day the five of us cruising in Tom's white convertible, speeding, and the wind whipped my long hair ferociously (I got a short haircut the next day) on the way to IKEA to buy supplies for the joint. I didn't quite understand the necessity of such purchases—milk cartons were fine for books and records—but the suburban ride was a lot of fun, with Tommy blasting, and singing along badly with, Barry White's "Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe." I'd have to say the five of us had diverse musical tastes, which we shunted aside: when I couldn't take the downstairs stereo playing the new Grateful Dead record or Eric Clapton's awful 461 Ocean Boulevard, I retreated to my room and listened to Dylan boots, Bowie and Steely Dan on my cassette player.

Tom was the de facto captain of the house: I think he originally found it (I rounded out the group needed for the rent) and was the master organizer, including dunning each of us for shares of the grocery bill. One time we had a small row over that: I protested that since I ate dinner at my place of work, I was overcharged, and since dough was tight this was no small matter. We settled amicably, as I was allowed out of the "meal plan," an option Tom refused to believe I'd take, but after a day or two of testiness—normal roommate stuff—there were no hard feelings.

And though I haven't seen Tom in decades, I'll always have a soft spot for the guy. In the early hours of one September morning, around five, Tom—who, naturally, had a phone extension in his room—woke me up, saying I had a phone call. "It's your brother, Russ," he said in a hushed tone, "and I don't think it's good news." It wasn't: an infant niece of mine had passed away suddenly during the night, and naturally it was hard to digest. Tom, in a Thurston Howell III bathrobe, and groggy, said, "Look, I know you've got some calls to make, so stay in my room for privacy." It was an act of kindness that I'll never forget.

—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER1955
 Russ Smith tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19807 2016-06-16T08:18:00-04:00 2016-06-19T21:16:30-04:00 How I Learned to Say Y'all
I learned to say y'all in New Orleans. Living there, I'm constantly encountering binaries, and those who break them, either intentionally or by accident. It's a Southern city, but liberal, both religious and irreverent, black and white, a city that's constantly celebrating its past while worrying, perhaps obsessing, about the future. It's a city of contradictions, a haven for those who don't fit into the straight alleys and smooth avenues of other cities—the oddballs, costume enthusiasts and accordion players.

At first, I didn't want to say y'all because I worried it would make me sound like a poser. Many residents aren't originally from New Orleans, and in some circles, there's a premium attached to being—or pretending to be—more local than you are. I grew up in a small farming community on the Big Island of Hawai'i, so I'm used to adapting my behavior and speech, but one thing I'd never done before was admit that my inherited way of addressing groups of people—you guys—is problematic. But now, as I've learned, y'all is just a better, more versatile word.

A few months after I moved to New Orleans, I was in a bar so small it had only one restroom, with one of those half-man, half-woman silhouettes on it, and there was a group of people gathered nearby, talking. Not thinking much of it, I said, "Are any of you guys waiting for the bathroom?"

They turned, and that's when I noticed that not only were there no guys in that group, two of them were transgendered women. All they said was that no, they weren't waiting, but I could see—or perhaps I only imagined—that at least a couple of them were wondering whether I'd meant offense by addressing them as guys, whether I was another one of those people who come to New Orleans to gawk at all the freaks.

As I peed in the unisex bathroom, I thought about how back in Hawai'i, you guys isn't a gendered term—at least, it's not meant to be. But here in the South it is, in part because there's a perfectly acceptable word that means the same thing, while avoiding any reference to gender.

In that way, y'all is pretty rare. It's not often that English gives us the opportunity to address a person as a person, rather than one half of a problematic and often inadequate binary. And I figure it's the least I can do: learn to address people who may, for all I know, be working, living, and thinking under the yoke of an often-oppressive gender system, one so entrenched in our history and thought that we can't even speak, can't even think, without dividing ourselves and each other into two.

So since that first faux pas, I've learned to say y'all. The only thing I worry about now is what I'll say the next time I go back to Hawai'i, or the Northeast, that other haven of you guys. I'll stick to my newly-acquired guns, and maybe even manage to spread a little love for y'all.
 Gavin McCall tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19805 2016-06-16T07:02:00-04:00 2016-06-15T14:37:06-04:00 Paleocon Diary (#17)
In the aftermath of last weekend's Orlando shooting there is much talk from the Republican candidate about restricting Muslim immigration into the United States.

My reaction to this suggestion is more ambiguous than I might have expected it to be. On the one hand, advocate that I am for a "Little America" that minds its own business behind secure borders, humbly tending its own garden in accordance with conservative good sense and Russian Orthodox doctrine, I should support this idea. Certainly the mass migrations of the last half century have harmed the social fabrics of those countries that make up what we are now proscribed from calling "Christendom."

On the other hand, this ban makes me uncomfortable—and not only because of the vulgarity of the Queens billionaire. No. It turns out, rather, that I also have distinct philosophical reasons for my skepticism.

Consider, for example, what it means to ban Mohammadens from our shores. The question arises: which Mohammadens? Obviously, Mohammadenism is a (to use the American shibboleth) diverse phenomenon.

It occurs to me, for example, that I would welcome the immigration here of Palestinians. No Palestinian has ever offended me and needless to say I support their national struggle. At any rate, there are precious few of them, and the profound thinkers who run our immigration bureaucracies would find it an easy thing to settle them in appropriate American places. The Upper West Side of Manhattan comes to mind. So do Borough Park, Brooklyn; certain affluent neighborhoods of West Los Angeles; Brookline, Massachusetts; the Five Towns of Long Island; and enclaves along the so-called "Gefilte Coast" between Miami and Coral Gables.

Pardon? Did I say "American places"? So they are, by international law.

On the other hand, I should fight tooth and nail to restrict the American settlement of the demon Mohammedans of Kosovo—allies of the second, the half-wit, Bush in the rape of Orthodox Serbia and the expropriation from that latter noble country of the Blackbird Field. Let these devils stay tethered to their homeland, promenading by night with their whores along George W. Bush Street. Let them go to hell.

Similarly, Crimean Tatars are unwelcome in my America. Stay where you are, carrion: squatting on the windowsills of your hovels in Bakchisaray and Simferopol, plotting your viciousness against the Great Russians. Yes, against that generous race that had the temerity to liberate Holy Crimea from the Nazis whose jackboots you, groveling animals, licked with your furred canine tongues.

Then there is the question of those non-Mohammedans that are every bit as murderous and subhuman as the most violent jihadist.

Take the Balts, for example. If the Russian media is to be believed—and, while I am sure it stretches the truth, it does so no more than our own state Zionist media complex—the Estonians are, taking into account their small population, one of the most psychotically violent peoples on earth. Not a month goes by without some Estonian outrage against the country's Great Russian minority: beatings, rapes, murders, legal persecutions. There was even a report that Estonian nationalists had presided over the ritual disembowelment of a Russian child in Tallinn—though, admittedly, I can find no online verification that this occurred, and it does have about it the scent of an urban myth.

The point, though, is that no one speaks of banning Estonians from our shores. Estonia's reprehensible president, Toomas Ilves, even holds U.S. citizenship. And yet I am supposed to lose sleep over the presence of several thousand more Syrians here on an American continent long ago given over to dusky polyglot hordes?

And the matter becomes even more complicated than that. Take the Poles. Their devout Roman Catholicism, so noxious to the mincing sophisticates and muscled Rhinelander bull-lesbians in the Brussels ministries, is to be commended, of course. So is their more recent right-wing political course.

But in recent decades the Poles have been largely reprehensible—impudently banning the passage through their country of a Russian contingent of moto-sports hobbyists, supporting Estonia in its aggression against its eastward neighbor, and in general enlisting in the Euro-nihilist/NATO crusade plotted by APPLEBAUM and SIKORSKY, not to mention by the smirking witch NULAND/NUDELMAN in all her wiles.

Yet I find that, here in the Midwest, my Polish neighbors are largely inoffensive: a phlegmatic cohort of mostly honest workingmen, gumming pierogis in dismal parishes in our declining industrial cities.

In other words, banning entire peoples from our country is a tricky business, one with ramifications that a man of Trump's blunt intellect is probably incapable of addressing. God's creation is a many-wondered thing. Statecraft, a low, worldly matter, can hardly comprehend it in its infinite variety.
 John Harris tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19804 2016-06-15T08:00:31-04:00 2016-06-15T08:00:31-04:00 Graham Home for Old Ladies
I went to high school in Clinton Hill in the Super Seventies, but rarely ventured around the neighborhood—it was tougher than tough then. Today, 40 years later, it's the toniest of tony enclaves, with the brownstones, Queen Annes, clapboard houses and everything else that were drug dens and hooker havens converted by gentrification back into the upper middle class and plain old upper class homes they started out being, give or take a decade or two around 1900. The merits and faults of gentrification are for other chroniclers to tackle, but I'm intrigued when the quaintnesses of 1900 can still be seen in 2012.

When I first encountered 320 Washington Avenue in 1999, the neighborhood's conversion from tough to tender hadn't been fully realized yet, and the building's windows were boarded up, the place was empty, and graffiti "decorated" the exterior.

Yet, I knew it had once been considerably more genteel. A slab of concrete contained the words "Graham Home for Old Ladies, Incorporated 1851." I envisioned a lot of tea sipping and knitting going on in there at one time.

By the time I returned in the mid-2000s, both the neighborhood conversion, and the building's, to a condominium, had been completed, with the bricks repointed, new windows installed and a new lawn planted. A driveway left residents and visitors at the front entrance.

This place is pretty old, even by Clinton Hill standards. It was built by lawyer John B. Graham in 1851 as the Brooklyn Society for the Relief of Respectable Aged Indigent Females, a refuge for "indigent gentlewomen… unfitted to accept willingly the public asylum provided by the state." Women 60 years of age and older were admitted who could provide "satisfactory testimonials of the propriety of her conduct and the respectability of [her] character."

The name of the organization was abbreviated to this rather more prosaic title. The Society carried on well into the mid-20th Century, and the residents held annual craft fairs and gatherings. I am unsure when the BSFRRAIF disbanded, but by the 70s and 80s, the Graham Home for Old Ladies was home to the Bull Shippers Motor Inn, which was something of a Home for Shady Ladies. At length the hookers departed and the druggies squatted therein, and then it became the battered, boarded-up hulk it was when I first spotted it.

Neighborhoods rise and fall like the fortunes of sports teams (except the Knicks and Nets, who just fall) and by 2001, the Graham Home had a new lease on life. The condo board president calls his fellow residents the Old Ladies, according to The New York Times, which doesn't record how they feel about that.

When a three-bedroom here becomes available, it can go for upwards of $750,000. The Old Ladies would marvel.
 Kevin Walsh tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19801 2016-06-15T07:37:35-04:00 2016-06-15T07:37:35-04:00 My Historical Novel About the Present
This is going to be embarrassing, but I'll go ahead and say it. Decades ago I had an idea for a novel, and the next day I told it to a colleague and pretended it was somebody else's idea, a friend's, and was just passing it on. The co-worker may or may not have seen through me, but she was certainly pissed at my bumptious airs and recurrent failures of politeness. So she drew her long face longer and announced that she found the idea to be very bad indeed.

Now here's the embarrassing part, by which I mean the idea itself. I thought it'd be great to write a historical novel set in the present. Good Lord, son, how much dope did you have to smoke to think that idea was good? Not much, and it was some cheap crap I had bought in a dime bag. I suppose desperation is the fuel. I wanted to write a novel because then I wouldn't have to go to the office and show my timid self to people. Also, I wanted to feel important and let everybody know they'd been wrong about me. And I guess I wanted to tell a story, but my big motives were the first two. During those years my mind wriggled this way and that, hoping to bump into the idea that would make me a novelist.

The idea about the historical present occurred to me while I lay on the floor of my apartment in Queens. I was looking up at the dark and feeling bulky but obscure notions fender-bend each other. Back then one of the curses of my pot use was that ideas came swerving at me with so much weight that I forgot they were shadows. The next day the lights would come on and I'd tell myself my new idea would lead me forward to the life I wanted. Instead the idea became a chore, one that eventually (meaning soon) I decided I didn't have to do after all.

Most often the idea didn't interest me so much. While stoned what excited me was the sense that I'd found the combination of factors that would add up to a winning project. I'd want to write the thing because of x, and people would read it because of y, and I could get it done because of z. But I didn't actually want to write it. I just thought I would because I saw some good reasons for thinking so, the way parents figure Timmy will like a particular Christmas gift—pajamas, let's say—because he likes dinosaurs and the color blue. Of course, Timmy doesn't mind wearing pajamas, whereas I did mind completing a book-length manuscript that follows characters from the beginning of a series of events to its end. This reluctance was a complicating factor that I always overlooked.

My historical-present novel involved a limousine on a dark street in Manhattan, as dark as my apartment in Queens. And it involved nothing else. No characters, no situations, no theme. I had a sense, that's all. My shy, inertia-bound self could write something big and sprawling about the world past my doorstep. Looking back, I think what excited me was the notion that I could write about the big world without getting out and mixing. The thought was like the chink of light a miner sees when rescuers dig through the cave-in. Freedom! My fears might have me pinned, but they couldn't pin my life. Historical novelists read up on carriages and top hats. I could research the way people lived today. I could read newspapers and magazines and… but I did read newspapers and magazines. I did that already.

Really, no idea can make me a novelist. To take that step I'd have to write a novel.

—Follow C.T. May on Twitter: @CTMay3
 C.T. May tag:www.splicetoday.com,2005:Post/19785 2016-06-14T09:48:21-04:00 2016-06-14T09:48:21-04:00 My Other Unwritten Fantasy Novel
Like a lot of people, I have a fantasy novel I always meant to write. But I also have a back-up. This is a second fantasy novel, and I always meant to write this one too. The first novel has to do with a mountain-like heap of a palace where bronze- and copper-colored people pursue their lithe, lean-bodied intrigues beneath the boiling sun. The second novel has no sun, no copper and nothing lithe. It's set in a refracted version of the Victorian Age. But there's a good deal of teeming. A metropolis is involved and I guess it's as big as the mountain-like palace. Lives intersect, classes regard each other, quaint personalities pursue their ends. You know. If I wrote it.

I think my unwritten fantasy novels are self-portraits. What am I like? Well, I'm like a sprawling heap of a palace that's crawling with life but at the same time falling over. Or (the second novel) I'm like the creator of the world if this creator crawled from the world's belly, sat still and upright like a mountain, and watched the evolution of human life from sticks and bear skins to pocket watches and powdered wigs, at which point his divine head exploded and the pieces froze themselves in mid-air. Basically that's me. I'm not sure how, but it is.

The giant fellow who sits there with his exploded head suffers encroachment from the humans, at first tentative, then vaulting and rapid. The tiny beings build a city at his ankles and then his knees, and then onto his lap, and finally monasteries are placed here and there in the shattered realms where his head was once found. By the time it's fully formed, the city has become Victorian. Smoke stacks and train lines crowd sightlines; men with top hats hurry past. Baskets lifted by pulleys or giant pigeons transport subjects from one level to another. The city continues from ground to lap to floating cloud of rock, with neighborhoods and noteworthy buildings perched here and there. The travelers journey among these sites, among rock fragments stuck in mind-air.

The silly Victorians go to this trouble because they want to be near their deity. The higher up among the fragments, the better; this is a matter of piety and prestige, and convenience can go to hell. Flinders of the exploded god are treated as precious. Fashionable neighborhoods are built around clusters that almost reached the ground. Religious societies discuss them and so do learned societies. Men give sermons about them and men write papers for journals. The location and composition of each flinder, chunk and asteroid—everything that's left of the seated Creator—has been charted and logged, and different bodies periodically try to recount and re-chart them, to make sure nothing has changed. In recent years alarmed spirits have charged that the fragments are losing position, coming unstuck. Nobody knows what to do about it, but there's a lot of talk.

My first fantasy novel had knife fights and big lizards. This one has dinner parties and learned journals. As a boy I read about Max Beerbohm, an exquisite gentleman who was young when Queen Victoria was old. I also watched the British TV serials on public TV, the shows with chandeliers and mutton chops. That's the Victorian Age I have in mind, and in it people talk. Adventure is for the explorers and soldiers, all of them off-stage. On-stage we have writers, lawyers, politicians, playwrights, nobles, plebeians and big tables and alarming urns and fireplaces.

How does all this become a story? It doesn't. I've even lost sight of the characters I started with. There was a girl who was paralyzed because, like the flinders, she was locked in mid-air. She had laid herself down to sleep and awoke unable to arise. At last a clever soul hit on disassembling her bed and it was discovered that she floated. She couldn't move for the same reason the flinders couldn't move, and she became a wonder as authorities flocked to discover what that reason might be. Her mother, who was socially ambitious, welcomed the attention.

There was a man in his early 30s who had written a hot novel (forgive the anachronism) when at university and had then declined, finally to become the writer of a column for a mid-market weekly of smart talk. His life was shaken up as he stumbled on proof that the god-flinders actually were sinking. This proof was connected with the situation of the stricken girl. I also had in mind a wily politician named Terper, who was organizing some sort of trouble in Parliament, and a timid stuttering mouse of a playwright whose recent successes affronted the columnist, an acquaintance from school days.

Somebody could write it. I think it might be a good read. But I never will.

—Follow C.T. May on Twitter: @CTMay3
 C.T. May


text:
Emerald Princess Cruise Review by Quilter69: Emerald Princess Disappoints
Overall Member Rating
Emerald Princess Disappoints
Destination: Baltic Sea
Embarkation: Copenhagen
We eagerly flew off to Copenhagen for two days to start our Baltic cruise vacation. Copenhagen is definitely on our list for a return trip. The city is lovely, people friendly, food expensive but good. We booked transfers to the hotel with Princess, and it really was an easy process. Had I known how really close the Radisson Blu is to the train station, I might have tried that, but with both of us still recovering from surgery, I had not wanted to risk starting the trip with any difficulty.
Emerald Princess is much like the other Princess ships we have sailed on, too much Las Vegas glitz for my taste, but Princess has really good itineraries, good prices, and up until this sailing, we have been happy with them. We were the last of the Baltic sailings and perhaps that had something to do with the lack of anything interesting to do on sea days, ring toss in the Piazza, really!! The port lecturer was excellent, as good as any we have heard. The big problem for us was the food More quality. Second night out, I sent my dinner back twice, and finally opted for another menu choice. Some nights, the beef had a decidedly odd aftertaste. One night, the potatoes looked so odd, like the old Playtex nursing bottles. One of our table mates suggested that the head chef really needed to look at what was being served. I don't expect real gourmet when so many passengers are being served, but after five cruises on Princess, we are sailing on Celebrity in January to try them out.
We did book our shore excursions with one of the Russian agencies and were very happy with that decision. We saved a lot of money and had wonderful days. Less
Published 11/19/13
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Hi Everyone
We are planning to be in DC tomorrow and Tuesday. I looked at the National Park Service Webcam. I am seeing green leaves only. I know the predicted peak bloom is around April 3 to 6. It stated that different species' peak bloom is different. Just want to get confirmation from the folks in DC.
Thank you for your help.
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Status of the Cherry Blossom at Tidal Basin
Hi Everyone
Report Abuse
Heard the same thing on the Weather Channel this morning . Still looks a little greenish to me. So maybe more blooming closer to April 6 than April 3? Weather this week isn't going to be especially warm. Hope you visit anyway. Nice time of year to see the city.
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Thanks, obxgirl.
Yes, we are coming anyway.
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Don't worry; your dates are perfect to catch the best moment of the blossom at the National Mall. This has been considered to happen April the Fourth. And if you check the National Weather Gang Website –the official weather page for the District- you would see that the levels of pollen will increase considerably the week you are visiting. I would recommend enjoying all the outdoor activities that are sponsored by the National Cherry Blossom Festival and that are free. Check out also the activities and the flower exhibits at the National Gallery. And finally, this site will keep you updated about events and things to do. http://www.nationalcherryblossomfestival.org/about/bloom-watch/
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This is in the past
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We were there last Wed. (a week ago) and it was peak and gorgeous.
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text:
Ethan Bergman, CWU associate dean of professional studies, and professor of dietetics and sports nutrition, rang the NASDAQ opening bell March 19. He did so as president of the Academy of Nutrition and Dietetics, in celebration of National Nutrition Month.
Read more here. View the video here.
Bergman was also one of the Olympic Torch runners in last year's London Olympics.
Article and photo courtesy of NASDAQ Marketsite
In a move that could further boost enrollment at Central Washington University, the United States EdNearly Completed Building Hosts State-of-the-art Facilities
Students who don't have the most genetically gifted vision finally have a lecture hall for them. SConstructing A Better Education: CWU Breaks Ground On Samuelson
Before the excitement of graduation could settle over campus and students could flee for a summer re


text: The atmosphere was sure different in this episode. Though describing a competition, they did not concentrate on the matches themselves. It was refreshing as we always see how Ash loses or how Dawn wins. And yes, it was an odd way to say goodbye to Ambipom. It's always sad and now it's good.


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AT&T in Jackson Hole, Wyoming (phones wireless communications ) - Location & Hours
Store Details
105 Buffalo Way
Jackson Hole, Wyoming 83001
Jackson Hole, Wyoming 83001
Phone: (307)733-3471
Regular Store Hours
MON-FRI 9:00am-7:00pm
SAT 9:00am-6:00pm
SUN 11:00am-6:00pm
Store hours may vary due to seasonality.
Nearby ATT Wireless Locations
- 810 W Broadway, Jackson (1.3 mi)
- 8 Main Street, Victor (48 mi)
Shop online
Featured Online Deals All Deals
1. Save 25% on Belkin products. Exclusions & restrictions apply. See offer details!
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Very good quality grocery items and was exactly what we ordered.
Such a easy way to get groceries and save on food and product. Love this site!!
I can't believe I didn't know about this service on my previous trips. It can't get any better than this, easy and convenient. My kids were exited to have their favorite snacks while on vacation.


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Italian · $$
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text:
George Strait Coming Down the Road in 2008
Refusing to stop, veteran country singer George Strait once again hit the road starting Jan 10, 2008. He will depart from Austin, Texas and wind down March 7 in Lubbock, Texas.
Beside playing his classics, Strait will support his upcoming retrospective album '22 More Hits' that is due November 13 via MCA Nashville. More dates are expected to be announced soon.
Meanwhile, Little Big Town will come along as Strait's supporting act during the tour. "We have been so fortunate over the past couple of years to tour with some amazing artists," member Kimberly Roads said. "But to be invited to share the stage with an entertainer like George Strait - who never fails to give fans what they want year after year, show after show and hit after hit - is truly an honor. He has the career we all strive for."
As previously reported, Strait is nominated for five categories at 2007 CMA Awards. Winners of the event will be announced on November 7 in Nashville.
George Strait's tour dates:
- Jan. 10: Austin, Texas (Frank Erwin Center)
- Jan. 11: Oklahoma City (Ford Center)
- Jan. 12: Little Rock, Ark. (Alltel Arena)
- Jan. 17: Birmingham, Ala. (BJCC)
- Jan. 18: Gwinnett, Ga. (Gwinnett Arena)
- Jan. 19: Tampa, Fla. (St. Pete Times Forum)
- Jan. 24: Jacksonville, Fla. (Veterans Memorial Auditorium)
- Jan. 25: Columbia, S.C. (Colonial Center)
- Jan. 26: Baltimore (1st Mariner Arena)
- Jan. 31: Sacramento, Calif. (ARCO Arena)
- Feb. 1: Fresno, Calif. (Save Mart Center)
- Feb. 2: Las Vegas (MGM Grand Garden Arena)
- Feb. 15: Charleston, W. Va. (Civic Center)
- Feb. 16: Philadelphia (Wachovia Center)
- Feb. 28: Richmond, Va. (Coliseum)
- Feb. 29: Lexington, Ky. (Rupp Arena)
- March 1: Cleveland (Quicken Loans Arena)
- March 6: Albuquerque, N.N. (University Arena)
- March 7: Lubbock, Texas (United Spirit Arena)
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- Paris Hilton Likes a Shady Meme to Remind Kanye West She Made Kim Kardashian Famous
- Dwayne Johnson Shares New Picture From 'Fast and Furious 8' Set


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HANGZHOU, China (AFP) - Self-belief has pushed Brazil to the brink of World Cup glory as the Samba Girls go in search of a title won by their more famous male counterparts five times.
Few would have wagered money on Brazil at the beginning of the tournament but their silky skills and unselfish teamwork have not only won over the Chinese fans but driven them further than they have ever been before.
Coach Jorge Barcellos said their philosophy has always been never-say-die.
"In football, nothing is impossible -- that's what I'm always telling my players," he said after his side stunned double champions the United States in the semi-finals on Thursday.
Their 4-0 victory sets up a final in Shanghai on Sunday against title-holders Germany, who would have been uneasy spectators as stylish but aggressive Brazil tore apart the top-ranked Americans.
World Player of the Year Marta scored two goals, with some sublime individual skills underlining why she is considered the best in the business.
But both Marta and Barcellos say Brazil's trademark attractive football is just a bonus as the ominous Germans, who have yet to concede a goal here, loom.
"For me, it is always more important to win the match than to play beautiful football," said Barcellos. "Germany is a very strong team and we need to make plans.
"Now, we are still nothing and we still have a long way to go to beat Germany in the final."
Marta, now the tournament's leading scorer on seven goals, was equally dismissive of individual showmanship, despite displaying plenty against the Americans.
"We are creating history by making the final and that is not down to me, it is down to a great performance by our team," she said.
"My goal is always to be the best and that is why I work so hard, but without my teammates I would be nothing."
The Auriverde are the only side from South America to have appeared at every women's World Cup since its inception in 1991, and Barcellos believes this could be the start of a golden era for Brazilian women.
"We have so many talented players in Brazil," he said. "We still have a lot of young players with great potential."
Their performance here is impressive after they lost a World Cup qualifying game in the lead-up to the tournament for the first time in their history.
In doing so, they also gave away their South American crown to Argentina.
That hit them hard and winning here is also about redressing that balance and repairing their battered pride.
Barcellos said the steely resolve of his players since that defeat has shone through in China.
"I congratulate my players not only for their performance but for their strong desire to win," he said.
"You can see that desire in their aggressive play."
|B. Scurry
|C. Rampone
|C. Whitehill
|S. Cox
|K. Markgraf
|S. Boxx
|14' 45+1'
|L. Osborne
|K. Lilly
|L. Chalupny
|H. O'Reilly
|A. Wambach
|Coach: G. Ryan
for S. Cox 46'
for H. O'Reilly 60'
for K. Markgraf 74'
|Hodgson a familiar, sad sight after England collapse in a Heep
|Euro 2016 Diary: Big, bad Barzagli´s bath and Iceland Twitter chills are multiplying
|AC Milan appoint Montella
|St Patrick´s triumph as Europa League kicks off
|TNS claim narrow Champions League qualifying advantage
|Rooney denies players lost faith in Hodgson
|Valdano: Messi retirement no surprise
|Hodgson rejects claims England is impossible job
|Roma´s Doumbia joins Basel on loan
|Glenn seeks cure for ´brittle´ England
|Dembele signing kicks off Rodgers´ Celtic recruitment
|Martial scout departs Monaco
|President: Pato could return to Corinthians
|Elia agrees extended Feyenoord stay
|Inter president: We believe in Mancini
|Hodgson farewell: I don´t know why I´m here
|PSG gamble on Emery in Champions League quest
|PSG confirm Emery will replace Blanc
|Genoa appoint Juric as coach
|England were a racehorse without a jockey under Hodgson - Hill
|Martino to stay on for Argentina´s Olympic campaign
|Inter want Berardi, Candreva and Gabriel Jesus - Thohir
|Ronaldo to best Lewandowski, Italy curse to strike again: The Euro 2016 quarter-finals predicted
|Villarreal hand contract extensions to Rukavina, Bonera
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|Sevilla lose Emery, but gain an identity with Sampaoli
|Candreva has preferred club in mind - agent
|Liverpool complete Mane signing
|Italy are better than in 2012 - Low
|Maradona the poster boy but Gerland, Genesio sacred in Lyon
|Alves would be ´honoured´ if Mascherano joined Juventus
|Argentina cannot let Messi retire - Ruggeri
|Stoichkov makes Messi plea
|Alves aiming to bring Champions League to Juventus
|Redknapp has no faith in FA to appoint Hodgson successor
|Sampaoli is a born winner - Sevilla president
|Iceland loss one of England´s darkest days - Hill
|Iceland loss one of England´s darkest days - Hill
|´Scandalous´ that Busquets is never considered for Ballon d´Or - Xavi
|´Scandalous´ that Busquets is never considered for Ballon d´Or - Xavi
|Emery bids farewell to Sevilla
|Messi will pick himself up from Argentina woe - Pique
|Vrsaljko´s Atletico move set to be confirmed
|Berardi wants game time - Di Francesco
|Giaccherini hails Conte: We prepared for tiniest details
|Shearer puts his hand up for England job
|Juventus ´hard to beat´ because of finances - Napoli president
|Nainggolan ´very happy´ at Roma amid Chelsea links
|Maradona calls on Messi to continue with Argentina
|Europe ´vastly underrated´ Italy - Buffon
|Iniesta: Spain were too focused on Italy
|Spain not up to required level - Pique
|Hallgrimsson: Quick equaliser rocked England
|Rooney intends to continue with England
|Apologetic Hart ´devastated´ by Iceland defeat
|Hodgson had to go after humiliating England exit
|´It is embarrassing to go out´ - Rooney
|England pathetic and disgraceful - the world reacts to Hodgson departure
|Lagerback lauds Hodgson after Iceland stun England
|Roy Hodgson´s England career in numbers
|Hodgson resigns: Five contenders to replace him as England boss
|Chiellini delighted to end Italy´s Spain pain
|Alderweireld wary of Wales and Bale
|Euro 2016 Diary: A lost child, a football ban in Nice and one last stand for Will Grigg
|Sigurdsson: England thought it would be a walk in the park
|Bonucci hails ´master´ Conte
|Hodgson resigns following Euro 2016 exit
|England 1 Iceland 2: Fairytale continues as Hodgson´s men crash out
|Sevilla confirm Sampaoli appointment
|Del Bosque: I am not quitting - yet
|Conte eyes second Italy stint after downing Spain
|Conte masterclass marks end of an era for Spain
|Italy 2 Spain 0: Chiellini and Pelle send holders crashing out
|Substance over style for Portugal´s Fonte
|Robinson agrees one-year deal at Burnley
|FFP could hold up Toure switch to Inter, claims agent
|Dani Alves completes Juventus move
|Coleman confident Williams will be fit to face Belgium
|Iordanescu to leave Romania post
|Messi decision sad – Griezmann
|Blanc wishes PSG successor luck
|No goals or assists in Argentina finals: The best stats from Messi´s international career
|Eleven trophies and records galore: The best stats from Blanc´s PSG reign
|Griezmann at home in the centre
|Forest appoint Montanier
|Manchester United to get Mkhitaryan answer this week
|Raffael extends contract with Borussia Monchengladbach
|Mane closes in on Liverpool move
|Blanc departs PSG with Emery waiting in the wings
|O´Neill hopeful of Republic of Ireland stay
|Lewandowski does not faze Fonte
|Wales better as underdogs – Coleman
|Beckenbauer would prefer Germany to play Spain, not Italy
|Messi retirement highlights implosion of Argentinian football
|Bravo: I hope Messi continues playing for Argentina
|Aguero: Messi not the only player considering retirement
|I think Messi is just upset, Romero says after captain announces retirement
|Aguero: This is the worst I have seen Messi
|Messi set to retire from international football
|Sanchez: This is the best thing to happen to me
|Martino: Argentina deserved to beat Chile in final
|Vidal: This Chile generation is to stand
|Sanchez crowned Copa´s best as champions Chile sweep awards
|Argentina 0 Chile 0 (aet, 2-4 on penalties): Defending champs sink Messi and Co. again
|Taylor ready for Belgium test
|Portland Timbers 3 Houston Dynamo 2: Valeri late show seals win
|Euro 2016 Diary: Love blossoms in Paris and last orders for Ireland as Hallgrimsson baits England
|De Bruyne, Belgium target Euro 2016 final
|Wilmots: Hazard does his talking with his feet
|Storck enthusiastic about Hungary future
|My best Belgium performance - Hazard
|´It took him long enough!´ - Schweinsteiger hails Boateng´s first Germany goal
|Courtois: Hungary made an error by coming to play