Jewish café

My most recent Synopsis. Comments, please.

2020.10.03 19:56 Zachreb1951 My most recent Synopsis. Comments, please.

THE KING OF BRIGHTON BEACH
Zach Rebb’s novel, The King of Brighton Beach, is a mystery/thriller like no other. Ha! If only that were true, right? Well, I did some research and it turns out that that’s exactly what I've authored. A gripping 83,000-word manuscript, with real-life locales and real-life characters that coincidently have never quite been paired together: New York City’s Russian Mafia boss and an innocent, yet adept taxi driver from Yonkers.
The story’s primary plot is that of our loathsome and all-too-powerful Russian Mafia boss, Boris Smirnoff, who pragmatically hijacks his unsuspecting taxi driver, and his vehicle, of course. Boris orders his 29-year-old Ashkenazi Jewish driver to self-fasten his left wrist to the steering wheel, and then commandeers their 800-mile transport to Chicago, where the stoic Russian stages what he believes is long overdue, a good-old-fashioned jealous-fueled slaying- and top it off with his cashing in $60,000,000 worth of flawless and most assuredly purloined diamonds.
In this fictional escapade, which could pass for non-fiction, Boris, aka KBB, with a power ranking equal to John Gotti, has several reasons for his galvanizing hijacking, which indeed launches his clandestine plan. Who he kills along the way is of no concern to KBB, even if he has to murder his captive driver, Benjy Hoffman, or he himself winds up dead. Can Benjy survive his own schemes of escape with his wrist cable-tied to the steering wheel? Can the detectives connect the dots in time to save unsuspecting victims? There’s no stopping the madness, or is there?
The story’s subplot characters, who also come alive on these pages are as follows: a dedicated and smitten Detective Dovnuv along with his love interest, a very tempting and impetuous Detective Claire Conte; Benjy’s daring and sexy wife Angela; an intrigued Russian café waitress, Lada; KBB’s ruthless and ultimately rebellious underboss Mishka; the kingpin’s naïve wife, Stella, and her sister, Vickie. How they all weave into the narrative’s fabric and connect to the series of deadly circumstances and the bloody finale is plausible, yet perpetually unpredictable.
As a bonus, my authorship comes from experience as an all-too-familiar taxi driver as well as my career as a journalist, columnist, and, believe it or not, a professional baseball umpire! I’m also proud to proclaim that I was first published in 1982, by Avon Books (TOUGH CALLS). Our audience will include our Eastern European comrades as well as those who are up for a multi-plot suspense ride even without the typical whodunnit heartbeat. The curves and high fastballs are aimed to hold you powerless to predict the fast-paced turning events. Even when you think the end is upon you there's more. And then, when you think it’s finally over, there’s even more! Our finale is unpredictable, right up until the last page.
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2020.10.02 22:38 Oculusfluffy Sam Adams Guide Chapter 2 - Gowdie, McGonagall, MarcusMaximus and Fluffus

Sam Adams Guide Chapter 2 - Gowdie, McGonagall, MarcusMaximus and Fluffus
Pastebin entry: https://pastebin.com/Ymazk7AF
Previous entry: https://www.reddit.com/Fluffyhugbox/comments/j40x0n/sam_adams_guide_chapter_1_yehdoo_waggytail/

Mr. Adams' Guide to Practical Fluffs - Part 2

by Oculus
featuring art by Gowdie, Foxhoarder, McGonagall, MarcusMaximus and Fluffus

“Siwwy daddeh. Bu’ siwwy daddeh is bestest daddeh. Wuv siwwy daddeh!”
You love fluffies!

And, as Mr Adams hugs the ferret-like Mauve, you are reminded why you love Fluffies so much.
Sam places Mauve down and says to her, “You take care Mauve, okay? Daddy’s going to show my friend here around the place.”
Mauve radiates a happy beam, as you two leave the pen.

~

~Gowdie~

Adjacent to Mauve’s room is another room that bears the inscription “Goldilocks on it”. Sam knocks on the door, and says “Goldie, we’re coming!”

“mmOtay mammeh!” The voice soundled rather mumbled

A Gowdie Mare with foals (Artist: Gowdie)
As you step in, you see a fluffy working on a fairly detailed painting, and holding a paintbrush in its mouth. Perhaps that why it was not able to speak properly just now. The fluffy drops the paintbrush from its mouth, as it greets Sam and you. A beige coloured fluffy, it has blonde pigtails. As you look carefully at it, you noticed some similarities between the Foxhoarder and this fluffy, with less fluff around the legs. However, its body length seems shorter, and its overall body size seems smaller.

“Is this a microfluff?” you ask Sam.
“Not really.”

As he holds Goldilocks in the palm of his hand, he explains, “Goldilocks here, or Goldie as I call her, is of the Gowdie breed. Gowdies were the result of crossbreeding between three different fluffy breeds – the Aichi, the Marcusmaximus, and the Mutagen. The result was a Type 2 fluffy like this, that’s about the size of a cup.” Sam holds up a coffee cup he somehow had in his left pocket, as he continues, “They’re about twice the size of the average adult Micro-fluff, but half the size of the boar types, and slightly smaller than Coalhearts and Foxhoarders. They are a very unique breed.”
“They look like those tribbles from Star Trek.”
Sam nods, as he keeps musing, “They kind of do. They’re not as agile as the other fluffy breeds.”
Sam places Goldilocks down, back into her pen. The fluffy then proceeds to play with a dreidl, as it sings a little song.

Jewish Fluffies (Artist: Gowdie)
“Oh, dweidew, dweidew, dweidew
Fwuff made fwen out of cway
Oh, dweidew, dweidew, dweidew
‘den dweidew fwuff shall play!”

“Its legs are much shorter than the other fluffies.” You start thinking that it performs most actions with its mouth.
“Don’t underestimate Gowdies though. Or any Type 2 Fluffy for that matter.

Fluffy Tip #19 (Artist:Gowdie)
You may not realize this, but the room we are currently in, along with Mauve’s room, is CERN-compliant.”

You blink your eyes.
“CERN? As in the European Organization for Nuclear Research, THAT CERN?”
“Yes. While its not true for all Type 2 breeds, there seems to be a recurring ability for these fluffy breeds to be able to break the laws of physics.”

Being rather dumbfounded by such a stupendous claim, you ask Sam, very simply, “What the flying fuck are you talking about?”
Sam holds his hands up, and begs of you “Let me finish.”
“It all started one day when I discovered Mauve in a water dispenser. I was ready to blame it on the assumed Fluffy stupidity, but it seemed so impossible for Mauve to even get inside the water cooler. Also, as a Foxhoarder, Mauve couldn’t be that dumb.
The phenomena was even more noticeable around Gowdies. Back when I was volunteering at a shelter, Gowdies always had this knack of being in random places, especially in ones that they weren’t supposed to be in.
That’s when I did a little experiment.”

Minutes before breaking the laws of physics (Artist: Foxhoarder)
Whipping out his smartphone, again, Sam shows a video he had. There are two foxhoarders, in a room, with a pile of blocks. One foxhoarder, a Pegasus, is standing on three blocks, while the other, a unicorn, is thinking.
“I placed these two Foxhoarders together in a locked room. Normally, most fluffies are not able to get out of a locked room. But then, something happened.”
The unicorn moves the second block from the first. He asks his friend to jump a bit, and he quickly places the second block on top of the third. The two blocks are now hovering in literal mid-air, allowing the Pegasus to reach for the door handle.
“How the fuck does this even happen?!”
“We don’t know,” beams Sam, as he continues, “but what we do know is that it breaks most known laws of physics. The phenomena is even noticeable around Gowdies, which, despite their seeming lack of mobility, are capable of going anywhere, as long as they are not visibly noticed.”
He then shows you a time-lapse video of a pair of Gowdies in one room. They suddenly teleport to the top of a kitchen shelf, and start raiding a cookie jar.
“Because of this, ABAP advises having a CERN-compliant safe room if you own a fluffy of the Gowdie, Foxhoarder or Filialcacophony breed.”
~
~McGonagall~

Upon departing Goldie’s room, Sam escorts you to the first floor, and out to his backyard. There, you can see a girl with blonde hair, freckles, and the nicest smile, wearing a cotton shirt and suspenders. She had been attending to a rather unusual fluffy.
“Hey there Jackie”
“Hey there, sugarcube.”
As Mr Adams walks towards the young woman, you catch a brief moment when she pinches her on the butt and gives it a little squeeze.
“This here is Jacqueline. She’s from a shelter, and she’s one of the people who helps me with my fluffies. Particularly, of the next breed we’re going to talk about: the McGonagall.”
Mr Adams then whispers something in Jacqueline’s ear. She blushes, then giggles. You wonder if it had been something dirty.

A McGonagall mare with foals (Artist:McGonagall)
After seeing Jacqueline off, Sam holds up the Fluffy that she was tending to. You observe the little munchkin. Like Velvet, it has a lot of fluff concentrated around its cheek areas. However, unlike the Yehdoo breed, its legs are a lot shorter. In addition, its fluff is a lot thicker than in any of the other fluffy breeds you had encountered earlier, with fluff covering its entire body.
“This”, introduces Sam, “is the McGonagall. A Scottish breed, it is one of the more animal fancy breeds of fluffykind. They were introduced about 5 years ago by one veteran breeder at Hasbio. He had experience with other fluffy breeds, but he spent a lot of time crossbreeding fluffies until he made this particular line.
Feel its fluff.”
You gently caress the fluff of the McGonagall. Unlike other fluffies, the fluff of this creature fees like the kind of wool a sheep produces
However, upon touching it, the fluff relates, and starts to scold you
“Dummeh hummeh! Weave smawty awone or git sowwy huwties.”
“Alas,” bemoans Sam, “McGonagalls seem to have a penchant for developing smartie traits. Whether it’s the Unicorn, Pegasus or even Earth lines, most McGonagalls are pretty much difficult to work with. It is why it is advised, if you own a McGonagall, to isolate them, especially from other McGonagalls. Thankfully, because of their small size, McGonagall’s are only a real danger to other McGonagalls, and other creatures smaller than them.”
“I don’t see the appeal in a fluffy like this.”
“Ah yes, but the fluff felt like wool right?”
As you nod, he continues “These adult fluffs fetch for about US$4800, twice the price of a Yehdoo, which is already a pedigree breed. As toy animals, they’re mostly bred for rich people who seem to enjoy owning absurdly pricey pets. Of course, because they develop Smarty traits, Hasbio has been very adamant to make sure McGonagalls are neutered before they are sold on the market.”
“Seems to be a pampered upbringing and an overly placed importance on these types make them into Smarties.”
Sam shrugs, continuing, “I was chatting with Jackie about that, and she had this odd belief that every time a rich person dies, a McGonagall is born. I don’t agree with her, but we do agree that McGonagalls are not really worth the effort. I mean, for Ralph here, I’m already planning to sell him off because he’s been so needy. I’m thankful I managed to find a buyer.”
Mr Adams places the McGonagall down, and the fluffy runs off to eat some kibble.
“There’s one more fluffy left. I’ll have to take you to the basement.”
~
~Marcusmaximus~

Marcusmaximus fluffies playing D&D (Artist:MarcusMaximus)
As the two of you descend the staircase leading to the basement, you could hear the familiar voices of Prince, and Maurice, who you were introduced to earlier in the day.

“Oh noes! Fwuffy ned heaws!”
“Dun wurry fwen! Fwuffy wiww save fwen!”

You then hear a third voice. Unmistakably, a fluffy, but a bit deeper, and a bit more boisterous.

“Har har! Rexxie wiww beat dummeh hewoes!”

Upon reaching the basement, you see a very elaborate games room made for the fluffies. While similar to their respective pens in the mansion, the games rooms has even more entertainment for the fluffies. A miniature lawn made of plastic grass where a fluffy can play lawn bowls. A small billard table. A small court with a soccer ball. And, in a soundproof area, you spy Velvet, watching TV.
The activity at the moment though, is coming from a table where Prince and Maurice are sitting, with sheets scribbled with crayons. There is a third Fluffy, who is a boar type just like Prince, but seems to be a bit more rugged, a bit more sturdier. He has a nice blue and orange colour mix. As the fluffies talk among themselves, Rexxie uses his two hooves to carry what looks like a ball.
No, it is not a ball. You then realize what it is. It’s a 24 sided dice, like the sort used in Dungeons & Dragons. Except, made much larger, and off a soft, durable material.
As the third fluffy throws the dice, it lands and gives a reading of 24.
“CWITICAL HIT!”
“Aww!!”
Both Prince and Maurice moan in playful defeat. They had lost the game. The third fluffy, with a book before him, filled with crayon scribblings, continues to laugh exuberantly.
“Hello Rexxie!”
Rexxie stops laughing, and sees his owner. “Oh hewwo Daddeh! Hewwo Daddeh speshul fwen!”
You are taken aback. You have known Sam to fool around, but not in that way.
Rexxie laughs again, “HA! Rexxie onwy bein' siwwy!”
Sam smiles, as he introduces Rexxie. “This here, is Rexxie, a Marcusmaximus. And, I might add, a gamer fluffy.”
“Gamer, huh? So that’s explains why these three fluffies were busy playing D&D?”
“Yup! Usually I am the Dungeon Master, and host most of the games, but Rexxie has been able to host a few games for Prince and Maurice. Sadly, his games mostly revolve around him playing some kind of Bowser-like villain.”
You bend down, and see the scribblings. Although all done in crayon, and looking rather haphazard, given that a lot of the writing was done with the mouth, you are still surprised by the level of complexity and math that would be needed to run even just a simple game of D&D for a fluffy.
“How did you pull this off?” you openly wonder.
‘Well, this is a bit of a trade secret at Hasbio, but, Hasbio has actually made fluffies able to understand some of the basic workings of D&D. The early geneticists, and later, breeders who raised the fluffies had been mandated by Hasbro to learn a very basic RPG. The idea was to cross-promote D&D with fluffies.
Of course, that promotion never really worked out, but the engineering is still there.”
“So, you’re telling me that fluffies can play RPGs?”
“Yup. Though at the moment, most fluffies only seem to be able to play D&D.
However, Rexxie here is really unique.”
Turning to Rexxie, Sam says “Rexxie, lets start up Da Macheen.”
Rexxie gives off a wicked smile and says, “Heww yeh.”

~

A Gamer Fluffy (Artist: MarcusMaximus)
Da Macheen has some of the basic controls meant to accommodate fluffies, including an on-off switch, a pad that is analogous to a tablet. However, as you examine it a bit closer, you realize that the controls, while connected to a screen were also connected to a secondary device. You then realize what it is.

“This is a PC!”
“A gaming PC, my friend.”

As if it was natural to him, Rexxie moves his hooves around the pad, and starts a game. And, as you see the recognizable images of the infested Kerrigan and Artanis, you recognize what game it is.

“That’s Starcraft.”

You can’t believe what you are seeing.
Rexxie is actually playing Starcraft. Rexxie. A fluffy. Playing Starcraft.

“How….”

“Rexxie here is a real gamer fluffy. It may not seem apparent, but he’s actually managing about 25 APM, just with those two buttons, and tapping around that pad. I’ve been trying to get his APM higher, but, for a fluffy, that is really impressive.”

Another Gamer Fluffy (Artist:MarcusMaximus)
After watching Rexxie play Starcraft for about 15 minutes, Sam kneels down to him, and says, “Okay Rexxie, that’s enough Starcraft for today.”

“Awww,” bemoans Rexxie.
“I tell you what, Rex. I’ll host a RPG session for you today.”
An excited Rex lits up. “Yay! Rexxie wuv Daddeh’s game!”

As Samuel Adams stands up, he turns to you and says “Welp, I got to host a game for these munchkins. I’ll esc-“
“Actually, I want to watch the game.”
Sam is surprised. And then, he smiles.
“Alright then!”
As Sam sits down at the head of the table, and with Rexxie, Maurice and Prince assuming their respective positions as Warrior, Wizard and Cleric. Sam starts the game, with a narration.

"Once upon a time, you are traveling with a small herd to Winterhaven..."

~

You went back home late that night. But you don't regret it.

Meeting Sam’s fluffies had awaken you to a world of fluffies that you had never seen before. While you’ve been happy hugging the fluffies at the fluffy café, and reminiscing of your old Buwwito, the breeds that you were introduced that day makes you wish you can learn more about fluffies from him.

~

~Fluffus~

Star (Artist: Fluffus)
It has been about a month since your last encounter with Sam. But you’ve meeting him again. This time, at the park. The park stands at the edge of a forest, located near the city.
After walking a good few miles within the park, you find Sam alone, in outdoor gear, and carrying a pair of binoculars. His eyes are trained on the woods beyond the city, as he is crouched down, behind a bench on the pavement.
For a good five minutes, keeps surveying the forest. Then, in a hushed voice, he whispers in fulfilled anticipation, “There it is!”
Before you could ask what he meant, he takes off the binoculars, and offers it to you. Looking through the lens, Sam gently nudges you towards a specific position.
And that’s when you see it.
It looks like a sort of Shetland pony. But it has all the grace and manner of a Clydesdale. Strong, independent, and fearless. For a few moments, you are wondering why Sam has brought you out all this way to see a wild miniature horse. Then it dawns on you, that miniature horses usually aren’t feral.
And more importantly, miniature horses don’t have unicorn horns.
This is a fluffy. But its like no other fluffy you have seen before.
“What kind of Fluff is that?” you gasp, in quiet awe.
“It’s the rare and magnificent Fluffus. They are like the Shire and the Clydesdale versions of Fluffies. They are among the larger breeds of fluffies, and possess a strength other fluffies don’t usually have. They also do not breed quite rapidly – the average gestation rate for a Fluffus is at about 9 to 12 months, closer to that of a horse compared to other Fluffy breeds.”
Lowering the binoculars, you turn to the Sam, and you ask, “Surely Hasbio has attempted to control and maintain some domestic version of this breed?”
“Ah yes. But see the domestic Fluffus is not the same as the feral, or wild Fluffus. The domestic Fluffus loses a lot of the nobility and independence that the non-domesticated variants have developed. Feral Fluffuses are also very aggressive, and the feral Fluffus herd tends to survive in the wild longer than any other feral fluffy herd, despite their lower gestation. I remember hearing stories about a white Fluffus alicorn, which escaped from its farm, and started its own herd. Usually, herds like those die out within a year, but his herd has persisted.

Star's Herd (Artist: Fluffus)
I’ve always wanted to own a Fluffus. But, at the same time, I don’t want to own a Fluffus. The Fluffus I would like to own is a wild or feral one, with that independent stride, that fearless demeanour, and that unparalleled grace. Because they don’t breed as rapidly, they feel like genuine horses, except that they can talk. So, in that way, I don’t want to own a Fluffus.”
After finishing his sentence, Sam takes an apple out of his pocket, and then gives a whistle. Bringing up the binoculars, you see the Fluffus hear the whistle, and walk towards Sam. It starts to sprint, and you realize that it gallops like a real horse, and at a speed faster than any fluffy waddle. During the past few days, you have seen the races between Waggytails and Yehdoos, but the speed of this Fluffus rivals and perhaps outdoes those. You wonder to yourself, what exactly is this creature?

And at the back of your mind, you think that, if Man had created Fluffy, then the Fluffus is God and Nature testing and perfecting the Fluffy.

The Fluffus stands before Sam. Sam, a little wary, bends down, and places the apple, while holding his hand up high to maintain a distance.
“Hello Arthur.”
“Huwwo, Mistah Adams.”
The speech is fluffylike, but the voice is dignified, and very British. Arthur walks up to the apple and eats it. He eats it like a horse, but compared to the more sloppy manner most fluffies eat, its horse-like way of eating the food feels like seeing nobility eat.
“Fank yu, kind mistah.”
The Fluffus then gallops away.
Sam looks on, and sighs. “I don’t want to own a Fluffus. I want to keep Arthur as a friend in the wild.”
~
“That’s like eight breeds you’ve introduced me to so far.”
“Indeed. Indeed.”
Sam then turns to you, and chuckles, “But we’re only getting started.”

END OF PART 2
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2020.10.02 22:12 Oculusfluffy Sam Adams Guide Chapter 2 - Gowdie, McGonagall, MarcusMaximus and Fluffus

Sam Adams Guide Chapter 2 - Gowdie, McGonagall, MarcusMaximus and Fluffus
Pastebin entry: https://pastebin.com/Ymazk7AF
Previous entry: https://www.reddit.com/fluffycommunity/comments/j40v4sam_adams_guide_chapter_1_yehdoo_waggytail/

Mr. Adams' Guide to Practical Fluffs - Part 2

by Oculus
featuring art by Gowdie, Foxhoarder, McGonagall, MarcusMaximus and Fluffus

“Siwwy daddeh. Bu’ siwwy daddeh is bestest daddeh. Wuv siwwy daddeh!”
You love fluffies!

And, as Mr Adams hugs the ferret-like Mauve, you are reminded why you love Fluffies so much.
Sam places Mauve down and says to her, “You take care Mauve, okay? Daddy’s going to show my friend here around the place.”
Mauve radiates a happy beam, as you two leave the pen.

~

~Gowdie~

Adjacent to Mauve’s room is another room that bears the inscription “Goldilocks on it”. Sam knocks on the door, and says “Goldie, we’re coming!”

“mmOtay mammeh!” The voice soundled rather mumbled

A Gowdie Mare with foals (Artist: Gowdie)
As you step in, you see a fluffy working on a fairly detailed painting, and holding a paintbrush in its mouth. Perhaps that why it was not able to speak properly just now. The fluffy drops the paintbrush from its mouth, as it greets Sam and you. A beige coloured fluffy, it has blonde pigtails. As you look carefully at it, you noticed some similarities between the Foxhoarder and this fluffy, with less fluff around the legs. However, its body length seems shorter, and its overall body size seems smaller.

“Is this a microfluff?” you ask Sam.
“Not really.”

As he holds Goldilocks in the palm of his hand, he explains, “Goldilocks here, or Goldie as I call her, is of the Gowdie breed. Gowdies were the result of crossbreeding between three different fluffy breeds – the Aichi, the Marcusmaximus, and the Mutagen. The result was a Type 2 fluffy like this, that’s about the size of a cup.” Sam holds up a coffee cup he somehow had in his left pocket, as he continues, “They’re about twice the size of the average adult Micro-fluff, but half the size of the boar types, and slightly smaller than Coalhearts and Foxhoarders. They are a very unique breed.”
“They look like those tribbles from Star Trek.”
Sam nods, as he keeps musing, “They kind of do. They’re not as agile as the other fluffy breeds.”
Sam places Goldilocks down, back into her pen. The fluffy then proceeds to play with a dreidl, as it sings a little song.

Jewish Fluffies (Artist: Gowdie)
“Oh, dweidew, dweidew, dweidew
Fwuff made fwen out of cway
Oh, dweidew, dweidew, dweidew
‘den dweidew fwuff shall play!”

“Its legs are much shorter than the other fluffies.” You start thinking that it performs most actions with its mouth.
“Don’t underestimate Gowdies though. Or any Type 2 Fluffy for that matter.

Fluffy Tip #19 (Artist:Gowdie)
You may not realize this, but the room we are currently in, along with Mauve’s room, is CERN-compliant.”

You blink your eyes.
“CERN? As in the European Organization for Nuclear Research, THAT CERN?”
“Yes. While its not true for all Type 2 breeds, there seems to be a recurring ability for these fluffy breeds to be able to break the laws of physics.”

Being rather dumbfounded by such a stupendous claim, you ask Sam, very simply, “What the flying fuck are you talking about?”

Sam holds his hands up, and begs of you “Let me finish.”

The Nuusphere (Artist: Foxhoarder)
“It all started one day when I discovered Mauve in a water dispenser. I was ready to blame it on the assumed Fluffy stupidity, but it seemed so impossible for Mauve to even get inside the water cooler. Also, as a Foxhoarder, Mauve couldn’t be that dumb.
The phenomena was even more noticeable around Gowdies. Back when I was volunteering at a shelter, Gowdies always had this knack of being in random places, especially in ones that they weren’t supposed to be in.
That’s when I did a little experiment.”

Minutes before breaking the laws of physics (Artist: Foxhoarder)
Whipping out his smartphone, again, Sam shows a video he had. There are two foxhoarders, in a room, with a pile of blocks. One foxhoarder, a Pegasus, is standing on three blocks, while the other, a unicorn, is thinking.
“I placed these two Foxhoarders together in a locked room. Normally, most fluffies are not able to get out of a locked room. But then, something happened.”
The unicorn moves the second block from the first. He asks his friend to jump a bit, and he quickly places the second block on top of the third. The two blocks are now hovering in literal mid-air, allowing the Pegasus to reach for the door handle.
“How the fuck does this even happen?!”
“We don’t know,” beams Sam, as he continues, “but what we do know is that it breaks most known laws of physics. The phenomena is even noticeable around Gowdies, which, despite their seeming lack of mobility, are capable of going anywhere, as long as they are not visibly noticed.”
He then shows you a time-lapse video of a pair of Gowdies in one room. They suddenly teleport to the top of a kitchen shelf, and start raiding a cookie jar.
“Because of this, ABAP advises having a CERN-compliant safe room if you own a fluffy of the Gowdie, Foxhoarder or Filialcacophony breed.”
~
~McGonagall~

Upon departing Goldie’s room, Sam escorts you to the first floor, and out to his backyard. There, you can see a girl with blonde hair, freckles, and the nicest smile, wearing a cotton shirt and suspenders. She had been attending to a rather unusual fluffy.
“Hey there Jackie”
“Hey there, sugarcube.”
As Mr Adams walks towards the young woman, you catch a brief moment when she pinches her on the butt and gives it a little squeeze.
“This here is Jacqueline. She’s from a shelter, and she’s one of the people who helps me with my fluffies. Particularly, of the next breed we’re going to talk about: the McGonagall.”
Mr Adams then whispers something in Jacqueline’s ear. She blushes, then giggles. You wonder if it had been something dirty.

A McGonagall mare with foals (Artist:McGonagall)
After seeing Jacqueline off, Sam holds up the Fluffy that she was tending to. You observe the little munchkin. Like Velvet, it has a lot of fluff concentrated around its cheek areas. However, unlike the Yehdoo breed, its legs are a lot shorter. In addition, its fluff is a lot thicker than in any of the other fluffy breeds you had encountered earlier, with fluff covering its entire body.
“This”, introduces Sam, “is the McGonagall. A Scottish breed, it is one of the more animal fancy breeds of fluffykind. They were introduced about 5 years ago by one veteran breeder at Hasbio. He had experience with other fluffy breeds, but he spent a lot of time crossbreeding fluffies until he made this particular line.
Feel its fluff.”
You gently caress the fluff of the McGonagall. Unlike other fluffies, the fluff of this creature fees like the kind of wool a sheep produces
However, upon touching it, the fluff relates, and starts to scold you
“Dummeh hummeh! Weave smawty awone or git sowwy huwties.”
“Alas,” bemoans Sam, “McGonagalls seem to have a penchant for developing smartie traits. Whether it’s the Unicorn, Pegasus or even Earth lines, most McGonagalls are pretty much difficult to work with. It is why it is advised, if you own a McGonagall, to isolate them, especially from other McGonagalls. Thankfully, because of their small size, McGonagall’s are only a real danger to other McGonagalls, and other creatures smaller than them.”
“I don’t see the appeal in a fluffy like this.”
“Ah yes, but the fluff felt like wool right?”
As you nod, he continues “These adult fluffs fetch for about US$4800, twice the price of a Yehdoo, which is already a pedigree breed. As toy animals, they’re mostly bred for rich people who seem to enjoy owning absurdly pricey pets. Of course, because they develop Smarty traits, Hasbio has been very adamant to make sure McGonagalls are neutered before they are sold on the market.”
“Seems to be a pampered upbringing and an overly placed importance on these types make them into Smarties.”
Sam shrugs, continuing, “I was chatting with Jackie about that, and she had this odd belief that every time a rich person dies, a McGonagall is born. I don’t agree with her, but we do agree that McGonagalls are not really worth the effort. I mean, for Ralph here, I’m already planning to sell him off because he’s been so needy. I’m thankful I managed to find a buyer.”
Mr Adams places the McGonagall down, and the fluffy runs off to eat some kibble.
“There’s one more fluffy left. I’ll have to take you to the basement.”
~
~Marcusmaximus~

Marcusmaximus fluffies playing D&D (Artist:MarcusMaximus)
As the two of you descend the staircase leading to the basement, you could hear the familiar voices of Prince, and Maurice, who you were introduced to earlier in the day.

“Oh noes! Fwuffy ned heaws!”
“Dun wurry fwen! Fwuffy wiww save fwen!”

You then hear a third voice. Unmistakably, a fluffy, but a bit deeper, and a bit more boisterous.

“Har har! Rexxie wiww beat dummeh hewoes!”

Upon reaching the basement, you see a very elaborate games room made for the fluffies. While similar to their respective pens in the mansion, the games rooms has even more entertainment for the fluffies. A miniature lawn made of plastic grass where a fluffy can play lawn bowls. A small billard table. A small court with a soccer ball. And, in a soundproof area, you spy Velvet, watching TV.
The activity at the moment though, is coming from a table where Prince and Maurice are sitting, with sheets scribbled with crayons. There is a third Fluffy, who is a boar type just like Prince, but seems to be a bit more rugged, a bit more sturdier. He has a nice blue and orange colour mix. As the fluffies talk among themselves, Rexxie uses his two hooves to carry what looks like a ball.
No, it is not a ball. You then realize what it is. It’s a 24 sided dice, like the sort used in Dungeons & Dragons. Except, made much larger, and off a soft, durable material.
As the third fluffy throws the dice, it lands and gives a reading of 24.
“CWITICAL HIT!”
“Aww!!”
Both Prince and Maurice moan in playful defeat. They had lost the game. The third fluffy, with a book before him, filled with crayon scribblings, continues to laugh exuberantly.
“Hello Rexxie!”
Rexxie stops laughing, and sees his owner. “Oh hewwo Daddeh! Hewwo Daddeh speshul fwen!”
You are taken aback. You have known Sam to fool around, but not in that way.
Rexxie laughs again, “HA! Rexxie onwy bein' siwwy!”
Sam smiles, as he introduces Rexxie. “This here, is Rexxie, a Marcusmaximus. And, I might add, a gamer fluffy.”
“Gamer, huh? So that’s explains why these three fluffies were busy playing D&D?”
“Yup! Usually I am the Dungeon Master, and host most of the games, but Rexxie has been able to host a few games for Prince and Maurice. Sadly, his games mostly revolve around him playing some kind of Bowser-like villain.”
You bend down, and see the scribblings. Although all done in crayon, and looking rather haphazard, given that a lot of the writing was done with the mouth, you are still surprised by the level of complexity and math that would be needed to run even just a simple game of D&D for a fluffy.
“How did you pull this off?” you openly wonder.
‘Well, this is a bit of a trade secret at Hasbio, but, Hasbio has actually made fluffies able to understand some of the basic workings of D&D. The early geneticists, and later, breeders who raised the fluffies had been mandated by Hasbro to learn a very basic RPG. The idea was to cross-promote D&D with fluffies.
Of course, that promotion never really worked out, but the engineering is still there.”
“So, you’re telling me that fluffies can play RPGs?”
“Yup. Though at the moment, most fluffies only seem to be able to play D&D.
However, Rexxie here is really unique.”
Turning to Rexxie, Sam says “Rexxie, lets start up Da Macheen.”
Rexxie gives off a wicked smile and says, “Heww yeh.”

~

A Gamer Fluffy (Artist: MarcusMaximus)
Da Macheen has some of the basic controls meant to accommodate fluffies, including an on-off switch, a pad that is analogous to a tablet. However, as you examine it a bit closer, you realize that the controls, while connected to a screen were also connected to a secondary device. You then realize what it is.

“This is a PC!”
“A gaming PC, my friend.”

As if it was natural to him, Rexxie moves his hooves around the pad, and starts a game. And, as you see the recognizable images of the infested Kerrigan and Artanis, you recognize what game it is.

“That’s Starcraft.”

You can’t believe what you are seeing.
Rexxie is actually playing Starcraft. Rexxie. A fluffy. Playing Starcraft.

“How….”

“Rexxie here is a real gamer fluffy. It may not seem apparent, but he’s actually managing about 25 APM, just with those two buttons, and tapping around that pad. I’ve been trying to get his APM higher, but, for a fluffy, that is really impressive.”

Another Gamer Fluffy (Artist:MarcusMaximus)
After watching Rexxie play Starcraft for about 15 minutes, Sam kneels down to him, and says, “Okay Rexxie, that’s enough Starcraft for today.”

“Awww,” bemoans Rexxie.
“I tell you what, Rex. I’ll host a RPG session for you today.”
An excited Rex lits up. “Yay! Rexxie wuv Daddeh’s game!”

As Samuel Adams stands up, he turns to you and says “Welp, I got to host a game for these munchkins. I’ll esc-“
“Actually, I want to watch the game.”
Sam is surprised. And then, he smiles.
“Alright then!”
As Sam sits down at the head of the table, and with Rexxie, Maurice and Prince assuming their respective positions as Warrior, Wizard and Cleric. Sam starts the game, with a narration.

"Once upon a time, you are traveling with a small herd to Winterhaven..."

~

You went back home late that night. But you don't regret it.

Meeting Sam’s fluffies had awaken you to a world of fluffies that you had never seen before. While you’ve been happy hugging the fluffies at the fluffy café, and reminiscing of your old Buwwito, the breeds that you were introduced that day makes you wish you can learn more about fluffies from him.

~

~Fluffus~

Star (Artist: Fluffus)
It has been about a month since your last encounter with Sam. But you’ve meeting him again. This time, at the park. The park stands at the edge of a forest, located near the city.
After walking a good few miles within the park, you find Sam alone, in outdoor gear, and carrying a pair of binoculars. His eyes are trained on the woods beyond the city, as he is crouched down, behind a bench on the pavement.
For a good five minutes, keeps surveying the forest. Then, in a hushed voice, he whispers in fulfilled anticipation, “There it is!”
Before you could ask what he meant, he takes off the binoculars, and offers it to you. Looking through the lens, Sam gently nudges you towards a specific position.
And that’s when you see it.
It looks like a sort of Shetland pony. But it has all the grace and manner of a Clydesdale. Strong, independent, and fearless. For a few moments, you are wondering why Sam has brought you out all this way to see a wild miniature horse. Then it dawns on you, that miniature horses usually aren’t feral.
And more importantly, miniature horses don’t have unicorn horns.
This is a fluffy. But its like no other fluffy you have seen before.
“What kind of Fluff is that?” you gasp, in quiet awe.
“It’s the rare and magnificent Fluffus. They are like the Shire and the Clydesdale versions of Fluffies. They are among the larger breeds of fluffies, and possess a strength other fluffies don’t usually have. They also do not breed quite rapidly – the average gestation rate for a Fluffus is at about 9 to 12 months, closer to that of a horse compared to other Fluffy breeds.”
Lowering the binoculars, you turn to the Sam, and you ask, “Surely Hasbio has attempted to control and maintain some domestic version of this breed?”
“Ah yes. But see the domestic Fluffus is not the same as the feral, or wild Fluffus. The domestic Fluffus loses a lot of the nobility and independence that the non-domesticated variants have developed. Feral Fluffuses are also very aggressive, and the feral Fluffus herd tends to survive in the wild longer than any other feral fluffy herd, despite their lower gestation. I remember hearing stories about a white Fluffus alicorn, which escaped from its farm, and started its own herd. Usually, herds like those die out within a year, but his herd has persisted.

Star's Herd (Artist: Fluffus)
I’ve always wanted to own a Fluffus. But, at the same time, I don’t want to own a Fluffus. The Fluffus I would like to own is a wild or feral one, with that independent stride, that fearless demeanour, and that unparalleled grace. Because they don’t breed as rapidly, they feel like genuine horses, except that they can talk. So, in that way, I don’t want to own a Fluffus.”
After finishing his sentence, Sam takes an apple out of his pocket, and then gives a whistle. Bringing up the binoculars, you see the Fluffus hear the whistle, and walk towards Sam. It starts to sprint, and you realize that it gallops like a real horse, and at a speed faster than any fluffy waddle. During the past few days, you have seen the races between Waggytails and Yehdoos, but the speed of this Fluffus rivals and perhaps outdoes those. You wonder to yourself, what exactly is this creature?

And at the back of your mind, you think that, if Man had created Fluffy, then the Fluffus is God and Nature testing and perfecting the Fluffy.

The Fluffus stands before Sam. Sam, a little wary, bends down, and places the apple, while holding his hand up high to maintain a distance.
“Hello Arthur.”
“Huwwo, Mistah Adams.”
The speech is fluffylike, but the voice is dignified, and very British. Arthur walks up to the apple and eats it. He eats it like a horse, but compared to the more sloppy manner most fluffies eat, its horse-like way of eating the food feels like seeing nobility eat.
“Fank yu, kind mistah.”
The Fluffus then gallops away.
Sam looks on, and sighs. “I don’t want to own a Fluffus. I want to keep Arthur as a friend in the wild.”
~
“That’s like eight breeds you’ve introduced me to so far.”
“Indeed. Indeed.”
Sam then turns to you, and chuckles, “But we’re only getting started.”

END OF PART 2
submitted by Oculusfluffy to fluffycommunity [link] [comments]


2020.09.30 02:54 kittyfantastico85 Entitled Grandparent wants me to let him know before he left his house that we were at capacity.

Obligatory apologies for being on my phone.
Another post about café workers not being mind readers reminded me of this story.
Anyway, I have a couple of entitled parents stories, but I will start with this one.
I used to work at a very popular indoor attraction playground, from when it first opened in my city in 2017. We are part of a massive brand and there are attractions all over the world. (Company is 2nd to Disney).
This particular attraction is actually quite small and when we first opened it was extremely popular, and we would hit capacity fairly quickly, especially on weekends and school holidays.
The higher ups decided to not let anyone buy tickets at the door because we were so packed and so many people had purchased online tickets.
I had an elderly orthodox Jewish man come in and ask why the line was so long and I explained what was happening, and that he couldn't buy tickets for today, but if he wanted to buy tickets from me for another day we could do that.
He started going on about how he and his grandchildren had driven over an hour to get here, and asking why I hadn't let him know.
I was super confused and said, I just told him now. To which he responded that I should have let him know before they left.
I think I apologised and told him I didn't know how he expected us to do that as we didn'tknow who he was, or how to contact him, but it was posted on the website.
Sorry dude, I don't have the telepathic ability to know who is coming into the attraction without a ticket, or how to contact you.
submitted by kittyfantastico85 to entitledparents [link] [comments]


2020.09.26 21:58 JoylessDeer A Rich Brew: How Cafés Created Modern Jewish Culture (Really interesting study done from Shachar Pinsker Professor of Judaic studies and Middle-Eastern Studies)

A Rich Brew: How Cafés Created Modern Jewish Culture
submitted by JoylessDeer to Chrisjewlim [link] [comments]


2020.08.29 11:12 fijtaj91 I am trying to compile a list of restaurants serving lesser-known or regional cuisines in and around Auckland. Can you help?

Updated: 30 August 2020
I've missed my travels during this lockdown, and having recently come across this reddit list on Sydney restaurants, it got me thinking maybe there may be some interesting restaurants around Auckland that can allow me to try new flavours and "travel" without leaving the country? By lesser-known I guess I mean something other than the pan-European, Indian, Thai, dim sum, Japanese, Korean BBQ or kebab shops?
From my research, I noticed that some small restaurants seem to show up on Google street view but they're not listed. Zomato is also not great when it comes to small restaurants (lots of the listed restaurants are permanently closed). If you know any of the small, unlisted places, please let me know.
Pacific
  1. Maori: The Hangi Shop (Otahuhu); Puha & Pork Maori Kai (Northcote, inside Food City)
  2. Fijian: Chandu's Corner (Otahuhu); Fiji Curry House (Otahuhu); Kaindia Fiji Takeaways (Otahuhu)
  3. Samoan: Taste of Samoa (Henderson)
  4. Togan: Velata Way (Otahuhu); Pasific Takeaways (Mangere East)
  5. Unspecified: Evelina's Polynesian Food (Clendon Park); Melina's Takeaway (Panmure); Taro Leaf Polynesian Cuisine (Mt Roskill); Kai Pasifika (Eden Terrace); Blue Rose (Sandringham); Pacific Ocean Choice (Northcote, inside Food City); Island Food (Otahuhu, inside Otahuhu Food City?); Tanz Kitchen (Otara)
  6. Kava: Four Shells Kava Room & Shop (CBD); Kava Bar (Papatoetoe)
Middle Eastern
  1. Assyrian: Assyrian Club (Manurewa)
  2. Lebanese: Gemmayze Street (CBD); Shefco (Mt Roskill)
  3. Persian: Rumi (Parnell); Persia Kebabs (Wairau Valley); Akdeniz Bar Cafe Restaurant (Devonport); Une-Deux (is also a cafe) (CBD)
  4. Jewish: Greys Ave Deli (CBD)
  5. Egyptian: Arabesque (CBD)
  6. Unspecified: Ima (CBD)
South and Central Asia
  1. Afghan: Kabul House Restaurant (Mt Roskill); Samadi (Pt Chevalier); Des Traditions (Mt Roskill)
  2. Sri Lankan: 7 Siri (Sandringham); St Anthony's Food (Sandringham); Ambula (Panmure); The Walawwa (Panmure); Dil Takeaways (Mt Wellington); Rotti Hut (Mt Roskill); Spice Magic (Pakuranga)
  3. Hyderabadi: Southern Spice (Manukau)
  4. Pakistani: Des Traditions (Mt Roskill); Khanz (also serves arab food) (Highland Park)
Asian
  1. Mongolian: Genghis Khan Mongolian Barbeque (Epsom, New Lynn, Henderson); Cizzlin (Pukekohe) (Mongolian BBQ is not really Mongolian - see comment)
  2. Uyghur: JadeTown Uyghur Cuisine (Mt Eden)
  3. Filipino: Kalye Manila (Manukau/Panmure); Nanam (Takapuna); Boracay Garden Restaurant (CBD); Melting Pot (Panmure); Turo-Turo Philippine Cafe (Glen Innes); HomeCooked (CBD/Wairau Valley); Gold Ribbon (Glen Eden); Manna Kitchen (Onehunga)
  4. Indonesian (with Dutch influences and a "Kiwiana twist"): Bandung (Parnell)
  5. Cambodian: Phnom Penh Restaurant & Cafe (Mangere Bridge); Cambodian Takeaways (Avondale); Khmer Satay Noodle House (Epsom); Haven Kitchen (Beach Haven)
  6. Central Asian (Kazakh/Uzbek): Just Plove (Mt Eden)
  7. Xi'an: Xi'An Food Bar (CBD)
American
  1. Brazilian: Bite Brazilian Eatery (CBD); Wildfire (CBD); Brazilian Café (Albany); Rio 40 degrees (Ponsonby); Celine (CBD)
  2. Arepas: Olas Arepas (Ponsonby)
  3. Cajun/Creole: Bonz Cajun Kitchen (CBD); Orleans (CBD)
  4. Colombian: El Humero (Takapuna)
  5. Peruvian: Inca (CBD); Madame George (CBD)
  6. Argentinian: El Sizzling Chorizo (Ponsonby); El Sizzling Lomito (Ponsonby)
  7. Mexican: Nanita's Cocina Mexicana (Northcote); Ceilito Lindo (Henderson)
European
  1. Russian: Vodka Room (Grey Lynn) (not authentic according to Russian user - see comment); Gastronomy Marusya (Albany)
  2. Russian/Eastern European Deli: Skazka (Newmarket)
  3. Dutch: Dutch Delight (Birkenhead)
  4. German: Mitten Drin (Avondale); Der Metz (Kohimarama); Brotzeit (Ponsonby/Silverdale)
  5. German/Austrian?: Carinthia (Glendowie)
  6. Scandinavian: Snö (Remuera)
African
  1. Algerian: Little Algiers (CBD)
  2. South African: Klasiq Kitchen (Panmure); D Urban Delites (Northcross)
  3. Unspecified: Botswana Butchery (CBD)

submitted by fijtaj91 to auckland [link] [comments]


2020.07.20 17:15 ScummyAl Favorite Cbus Eats So Far

Heck, I’m a mere visitor to your fine city as a Buckeye dad. But I’m an obnoxious food snob and refuse to waste a meal. I originally did this for an OSU parent group as “where to eat” is such a FAQ. I hope you have feedback, pro and con and where I MUST visit. Sucks our trip in a few weeks will be limited by COVID, but maybe I can add a good takeout place or something.
Momo Ghar: For the more adventurous! Nepalese dumplings. The original has like six counter seats in an Asian supermarket, but they have a second location in the fantastic North Market.
Pat & Gracie’s: Just the opposite of above. This is good ole basic, unadventurous American food. They have a nice selection of Ohio craft beer. The tator tots are the best I’ve ever had. We also have enjoyed brunch. My Buckeye, a burgeoning food snob, really liked his French toast. Also on recent visit, found out the spinach and artichoke dip is among the best I have ever had.
Brassica: In the heart of the uber-kewl Short North, it’s fast-casual Mediterranean. Really good cheap eats. Get the lamb bacon.
Hot Chicken Takeover: There are a few locations. It’s Nashville chicken. I’ve been to Hattie B’s in Nashville. This is very competitive.
Marcella’s: Good Italian in Short North. Veal meatballs are a must-get. Family liked the other stuff.
The Eagle: One of our early meals. We southerners liked the fried chicken.
Chinese Beef Noodle Soup: The only place very close to campus on this list. Warning, this is the real deal. If you are looking for moo goo this, garlic chicken, this is not for you. Good Sichuan dishes. Okay, some American stuff. Very tight squeeze. Best for takeout.
Ray Ray’s Hog Pit: This is a food truck. Yep, we sat outside in 42-degree weather to eat it. The lines were long for good reason. This southern boy says you Midwesterners can do ‘cue well. I’d happily sit in the cold again and eat it.
Harvest Bar + Kitchen: Much like Pat & Gracie’s, safe menu, more choices than P&G and very good. Best of all, they’ve always had Bodhi on tap. This is a sensational Columbus beer.
La Tavola: Grandview gem. The house specialty gnocchi is really good.
Katzinger’s: Good Jewish deli. Not the best I’ve ever had, but legit.
Schmidt’s Sausage Haus und Restaurant: The one place with somewhat mixed reviews. Food is excellent and some of the best sausage I ever had. All our food came out lukewarm. Pretty sure we went on a bad night. Great food that wasn’t well executed when we visited.
Fukuryu Ramen: Very Americanized, but still very good.
The Thurman Café: A few here mentioned it. Burgers are huge (3/4 pound). It wasn’t among the best burgers I’ve had, but certainly good enough to go again. I particularly liked the cheese curds. They can be found, but are rare in my parts, so was happy to have a very good version.
The Fish Guys: So yeah, um I’m a really big fan of the North Market. Lobster roll was very good. It was more finely chopped than most I’ve had and on a cold, non-buttered roll. That’s okay with me, but I know a lot are particular about styles. Good New England clam chowder—better than average.
Hubert’s Polish Kitchen: And yet another place in North Market. I’m a total idiot. I was craving their pierogis as signage implied that was their specialty. However, I never asked what kind they were serving. Realized it was potato after I sat down with a side order of mashed potatoes. Very good and when I go back will definitely try some meats and other items. If you like mashed potatoes, there were better than most I’ve had.
Scotty’s Café: After a Georgia foodie raved about this place, I had to go as she’s shown great taste in restaurants near us. I also noticed it’s probably the highest-rated place on the crowd-sourcing review sites. It’s also the furthest place from campus on this list. It was definitely good, but somewhat disappointed after all the buildup. That being said, yes I would go again, the distance, not the relative disappointment being the biggest deterrent. Potato latkes are very good. Maybe next time I’d make a meal from just that
Skyline Chili: Okay, many of you are from Ohio. For those who are not, of course you have to try this Cincinnati-based no-frills gem.
submitted by ScummyAl to Columbus [link] [comments]


2020.07.14 22:57 Taxi_Dancer BAD (A prequel to The End)


BAD
(A prequel to The End)
I awoke late in the morning the night after I was elected as the new president of the United States. I stretched and yawned, enjoying the comforting feeling of the overstuffed mattress of the king sized bed under me and the cool silken sheets against my body. The air conditioning was humming softly and a nice brisk breeze of cool air circulated around the room. Refreshed and fully awake, I smiled as the warm glow of the morning sun shone through the egg-white shades of the large bay window which overlooked my bedroom, bathing it in an incandescent light. The world seemed fresh and brand new. I slipped out of bed and jumped into a comfortable pair of well worn jeans and a grey hoodie sweatshirt then pulled a long, dark grey trench coat out of the closet and put it on. I slipped on some comfortable walking shoes and stepped out of the front door eagerly anticipating a nice, leisurely morning walk around the capital of the United States, Washington DC.
A cool November breeze greeted me as I stepped through the thresh hold of my front door which felt brisk and filled me with energy as I cheerfully skipped down the several front steps of my front porch landing. The late morning skies were bright blue and cloudless as red breasted robins and cardinals sang and chased each other overhead. I slipped my hands into the pockets of my grey trench coat and, whistling cheerfully, walked from my porch down to the sidewalk where I decided to take a turn to the right.
Humming a tune of a song which I could never remember the words for; I soon passed a police patrol car. The white male police officer sat in the driver’s side of the cruiser, head slumped forward from a gaping bullet wound in the back of his skull. The police cruiser was surrounded by a mob of people carrying signs and wearing black face masks. They were all chanting, “Bad! Bad! Bad! Cops are bad! Bad! Bad! Bad!”
The passenger side door of the cruiser was opened. The police officer’s female partner had been dragged out and stripped of her uniform. Her body was splayed out, naked, on the rear hood of the police cruiser, knives protruding from her eye sockets and one protruding out of her mouth. She appeared to be a young Latina and some of the mob was still taking turns violating her corpse. The whole time, they chanted “Bad! Bad! Bad! Cops are bad! Bad! Bad! Bad!”
Somewhat perplexed that I could not remember the words to the song which I had stuck in my head, I began to whistle the tune again. Maybe that would help me remember the lyrics. No one looked away or paid any attention to me as I happily crossed the street and walked another two blocks past a family owned kabob restaurant towards my favorite coffee shop which also served fancy pasties and cakes. I took the three steps up to the entrance of the shop and looked to my left across a wide plaza where a very famous fast food restaurant stood. The restaurant made its mark by serving arguably the most delicious chicken filet sandwich in the fast food market. But the restaurant was not only known for their chicken sandwiches, they were also known for their genuinely courteous and friendly employees, their refreshing iced tea and lemonade blend drink, and for being closed on Sundays in recognition of its Christian values. Before yesterday, the restaurant was always crowded with long lines of customers.
Today, however, the windows were all broken out, and fires licked the structure, both inside and out. Desperate screams came from six of the restaurant’s employees as a mob carrying signs and wearing black masks dragged them out of the restaurant and forced them to kneel on the sidewalk. Once all of the employees were completely defenseless, the mob began smashing the employees on the back of their heads with bats and metal rods and bricks. Over and over they beat the employees of the chicken filet restaurant, chanting “Bad! Bad! Bad! Sand-wich bad! Bad! Bad! Bad! Sand-wich bad!”
The mob continued beating the employees long after their screams had stopped and long after they had died. The mob continued beating and stomping the corpses, breaking bones and stomping entrails until they could no longer be recognized as once being human. Shrugging, I walked into the coffee shop, greeted by the friendly jingle of a chime and the warmth of a fire in the hearth. It was not as crowded as I thought it would be for the morning and I didn’t have to wait long.
“I’d like a vente’ French Roast with a double shot of espresso and a shot of carmel creamer, please.” I said to the barista, a young man with curly ginger hair and an acne pocked face.
“Coming right up,” he said cheerfully. “Can I get a name?”
I smiled, “Can you guess my name?”
The barista said nothing as he prepared my drink, then soon he said, “Here you go!” handing me my steaming cup of coffee just as a muffled boom sounded from across the plaza as a wall of the burning chicken filet restaurant collapsed.
I took a sip of the hot liquid, satisfied with the bold, rich, slightly bitter taste. “Hmmm,” I said. “Looks like you won’t have any competition from them anymore.”
“Bad! Bad! Bad! Sand-wich bad! Bad! Bad! Bad!” said the barista.
I paid the barista and tipped him a couple more dollars before leaving the coffee shop, continuing on my walk. Shops and breakfast cafés were beginning to open as the plaza slowly filled with people. There was a good sized park in the middle of the shopping plaza which contained a series of ponds crossed by short, marble bridges. The ponds were lined with dogwood trees and Japanese cherry blossoms. The outer perimeter of the park was surrounded by weeping willows and oak trees providing an umbrella of shade. During warmer seasons, it was not uncommon for Canadian geese and picnickers to enjoy the park. Today, there were a few folks in the park, joggers, people practicing yoga, mothers pushing babies in strollers, and a few older gentlemen playing chess on the small, circular tables which also lined the ponds. I walked towards the center of the park and took a seat on one of the wooden benches which overlooked the largest pond in the center of the park. Leaning back and relaxing, I took a sip of my hot coffee as I looked across the pond to the wrought iron fence which bordered the park. On the other side of the fence was a wide street and on the opposite side of the street stood a grand old stone church which had been built over a century and a half ago. The giant church sat at the corner of a busy intersection, with its iconic stone carved bell tower which stood over four stories tall and rang every Sunday and during every religious holiday. The bodies of the head priest and a few of the church deacons swung in the morning breeze, hung by noses from the arm of the traffic light which stretched across the wide intersection.
A growing mob of people carrying signs and wearing black masks were vandalizing the church and the adjoining rectory, looting anything of value that they could take, and setting fires to the rest. The convent was also set ablaze, the nuns living there having been dragged out, stripped of their habits, and were being violated over and over again on the steps of the church by members of the mob, who were chanting, “Bad! Bad! Bad! Church is bad! Bad! Bad! Bad!”
A few passersby actually began trying to save the nuns and the religious artifacts which were being looted, but they were hopelessly outnumbered and immediately set upon and mercilessly beaten, punched, stabbed, and shot by the mob. I continued sipping my coffee and watching the spectacle occurring across the street as the mob didn’t even wait for their rape victims to die before they began throwing their naked bodies back into the fires of the burning holy buildings. One particularly young nun, naked, bloody and weak from having been violated so many times by the mob, still somehow had the energy to resist being thrown through the burning open door of the convent, which was by now nothing more than a raging oven. She begged for mercy, but the mob instead doused her with some type of incendiary liquid and set the young nun on fire, cheering as she was immolated as her body rolled down the stone steps of the church. The chanting grew louder of “Bad! Bad! Bad! Church is bad! Bad! Bad! Bad!” and rose to a fever pitch as there was a loud popping noise when the head priests body, which was swaying from the noose, snapped and fell to the street below with a crunch.
I stood up, reached my arms over my head, and stretched again, feeling the satisfying crack of my spine and lower back. I leaned left then right, giving my abdomen and upper chest a nice little stretch before continuing my walk up the shopping plaza. A few blocks down, the plaza entered an older part of the city where the streets were paved in smooth cobblestone. A university was built here as well as a historical library. In front of the library resting upon a raised marble base, was a statue of America’s first president riding atop a noble stallion. His right hand was upraised, as if he were hailing the birth of a new nation. A mob had gathered there carrying signs and wearing black masks. The head of the statue of America’s first president had been sawed off and laying on the cobblestone pavement below while several thick ropes were tied to the rest of the statue and were being held by the mob. Below the statue was a heavy wooden beam about ten feet long and two feet thick on which were chained four American military soldiers, each soldier wearing the formal dress blue uniform of the United States Army Honor Guard. The four soldiers were chained in the kneeling position over the heavy wooden beam under the shadow of the statue of America’s first president. They had all been beaten and their dress blue uniforms were thick with their blood.
One of the Honor Guard soldiers, a female sergeant, began singing in a weeping, raspy voice, “God bless America! Land that I love! Stand beside her…”
This was soon accompanied by her fellow Honor Guard soldiers who defiantly continued singing,” And guide her, through the night with the light from above!”
However, their voices were drowned out by the mob, which began loudly chanting, “Bad! Bad! Bad! Sta-tues bad! Bad! Bad! Bad!” As one, the mob pulled on the statue, straining and grunting until the statue was released from its mount 24 feet up and came crashing down atop the four Honor Guard Soldiers, splattering the ground with crimson, crushed flesh, and broken bones. The mob cheered, again chanting “Bad! Bad! Bad! Sta-tues bad! Bad! Bad! Bad!” louder and louder.
I walked over to a recycling bin and dutifully dropped in my now empty cup of coffee as any good citizen would and, slipping my hands into my coat pockets, I strolled down the courtyard which led past the historic old library which had just recently been renovated and expanded. I glanced over to see several young college coeds emerging from the library carrying armfuls of books.
“Mmmm…mmm…mmm,” I thought to myself as I watched the sexy young coeds throwing the books into a growing pile at the base of the ivory steps leading up to the library. “If I were just a few years younger, I might be tempted to go back to college again.”
A mob carrying signs and wearing black masks had already formed around the pile of books, which by now had grown about twenty feet square at its base and six feet high. I walked closer to the gathering, and peered over the shoulders of the mob. Apparently, the books which had been gathered in a pile were biographical and history books. Several copies of a book entitled 1984 and another entitled Animal Farm were in the pile, along with copies of a book called The Diary of Anne Frank and another book entitled I am Malala, among many, many others.
Off to my left there came muffled protests as a group of six older aged adults were led to the pile of books by the mob. Each of these adults, four females and two males, had some type of sheet tightly wrapped around their heads and their hands were bound behind them. From behind the sheets wrapped around their faces, the six were protesting that they were only teachers. They were only history and political science teachers. They had done nothing wrong except teach history. But the mob each of them wear a crudely made plaque around their necks on which was painted the word “LIAR”.
Their words were drowned out by the mob, which began chanting “Bad! Bad! Bad! Or-well bad! Bad! Bad! Bad!”
The six teachers were lined up and made to kneel in front of the pile of books. Immediately a big, burly, member of the mob with huge arms and giant fists came up behind each of the history teachers and swung at the back of their heads with all his might using an aluminum baseball bat. Six times he swung his bat and six times the loud crack of skulls breaking echoed across the plaza. The teacher’s bodies fell in a heap on top of the books and soon other members of the mob arrived with containers of gasoline which they poured over the teacher’s bodies and all of the books.
The heat from the blaze was quite pleasant in the chilly morning and the fire cast a warm cozy glow everywhere that seemed to bring about cheer in the mob as they continued their chant, “Bad! Bad! Bad! Or-well bad! Bad! Bad! Bad!”
Feeling rather cheerful, although I was still slightly annoyed that I could not remember the lyrics of that song which had been stuck in my head since I woke up in the morning, I continued my little jaunt down the plaza where the cobblestones ended at smooth, paved concrete again. I turned the corner to the right and continued my stroll where the sidewalk was wide and lined with more dogwood trees. A six lane highway paralleled the sidewalk across from which was a hospital complex. A grey, two door sedan was stopped in the driveway which led to the Emergency Room entrance. The sedan was surrounded by a mob carrying signs and wearing black masks.
The mob yanked open the driver side door and pulled out the driver, a young white man wearing a light blue sweater. From where I was standing, I could not make out what the young man was saying, but I could tell he was clearly in distress as he held up his hands defensively, eyes wide and pointing towards the passenger in his car. The mob seemed to step back, as the young man knelt before them, hands clasped and begging as he again pointed to his passenger. Soon, it became clear that the young white man was pleading for the mob to allow him to take his passenger to the Emergency Room.
Instead, the mob pounced on the young man, kicking him and stabbing him with countless knives. A scream came from the passenger side of the car as a young black woman was dragged out of the sedan. The mob dragged the young woman around the car so that she could see the brutally mangled body of her dead husband, and she screamed. Ignoring the woman’s hysterical crying and screams for help, the mob forced her to lie down on the street next to her husband, holding her arms and legs. Soon, two members of the mob appeared, each brandishing long sledge hammers which they swung down on the woman’s very pregnant belly over and over. The woman’s screams turned into a gargle of blood then, after the fourth time the sledgehammer slammed down on her abdomen, the woman fell silent as the mob chanted and cheered happily,” Bad! Bad! Bad! Un-born bad! Bad! Bad! Bad! Un-born bad!”
It was now around noontime, and I was getting rather hungry as I continued my stroll down the capital. I stopped at a vendor selling hot dogs, sausages, and bratwursts from a cart and I ordered two jumbo Hebrew National dogs topped with peppers, relish, onions, mustard and hot sauce and a nice, tall cup of orange soda in ice. Yes, I knew that this wasn’t the healthiest meal for America’s newest president to have for lunch, but this was an occasional guilty pleasure which I indulged in. I decided that it might be a good idea to take a look at my new home. After all, I was the new president, and I really didn’t have anything pressing going on today.
My travels soon brought me to the Vietnam War Memorial where the names of nearly 60,000 fallen American servicemen were etched upon a smooth, black, granite wall. An elderly man sitting in a wheelchair sat facing the wall, his hand tracing over the names of his fallen friends. An American flag flew from the right of his wheelchair, while the Eagle, Globe and Anchor flag of the United States Marine Corps flying on the wheelchair’s left side. On the elderly man’s head was a red ball cap with the patch of the 1st US Marine Division and stitched in gold lettering the words Vietnam 1966-1967.
A few steps behind the man in the wheelchair, a mother and her six year old daughter were talking cheerfully with a street vendor selling balloons and small souvenir trinkets of the surrounding memorials.
“Mommy,” said the little girl looking up with expectant blue eyes to her mother. “Can I have a big red one?”
The mother nodded lovingly and smiled at the vendor, “We’ll take one nice big red balloon, sir!” The mother took the balloon from the Mexican vendor and handed it to her daughter who clapped her hands, saying, “Yay!”
The mother handed the vendor a twenty dollar bill, smiling as she whispered, “And…ummm…”
The vendor nodded and reached into another compartment of his cart, handing the mother her change as well as a long, black stiletto. The mother again turned to her daughter, pointing at the elderly man in the wheelchair and said, “Have fun, my little Hillary!”
The little girl’s eyes went big with happy surprise and she squealed, “Oh, thank you mommy! Thank you!” as she turned around quickly and ran towards the elderly man holding her big bright balloon in one hand and plunging the stiletto over and over into the back of the elderly man’s neck with her other hand. The man’s hands shook and spasmed as he coughed up blood, a look of shock on his face. The little girl chanted in a sing-song voice, “Bad! Bad! Bad! Ve-trans bad! Bad! Bad! Bad! Ve-trans bad!” The little girl continued stabbing and chopping at the back of the Vietnam veteran’s head until only a few strands of bloody muscle kept the man’s head from completely detaching itself from the rest of his body and rolling to the ground.
“She is a strong one, ma’am,” complimented the vendor in a heavy Mexican accent as the mother clasped her hands together, nodding and looking proudly at her daughter.
I had just finished enjoying my first hot dog and was opening the wax paper which had been wrapped around my second hot dog as I continued my walk around Washington. I shook my cup of orange soda, letting the ice really cool down my drink. The noise of the ice shaking in my cup attracted the attention of the little girl who waved at me with two gore soaked hands, still clinging on the bloody string of her big red balloon. I smiled and returned her friendly wave as I walked by, headed towards the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.
Once I reached the museum, I noticed that about twenty cattle trucks had been parked in front. A large mob carrying signs and wearing black masks had gathered in front of the holocaust museum and were roughly pushing a group of people from the open side of one of the cattle trucks towards the front of the museum. The people being shoved by the mob towards the museum seemed to be a family group, an elderly man and woman couple, a younger married couple, and three children, two little girls and their younger brother. The children were crying bitterly as their mother tried vainly to comfort them as they were pushed and shoved by the mob. The elderly man and the younger man, whom I assumed was his son, were both wearing yarmulkes, and I could barely hear them screaming, “This is America! This is America! What’s happening?”
The Jewish family’s shouts were drowned out by the crowd loudly chanting, “Bad! Bad! Bad! Fa-scists bad! Bad! Bad! Bad! Fa-scists bad!”
The Jewish family were thrust in front of the holocaust museum and huddled close together. The young father and mother knelt down, shielding their children with their bodies. Six of the mob had lined up ten paces away from the cowering family, each of them armed with assault rifles. They leveled their weapons at the family in long practiced unison and opened fire. They fired volley after volley into the Jewish family over and over again, even shooting them long after the children’s dead bodies stopped twitching. The mob cheered even louder, celebrating and chanting, “Bad! Bad! Bad! Fa-scists bad! Bad! Bad! Bad!”
The bullet riddled bodies of the family fell beside a long line of other dead Jewish families. The bodies of the murdered Jews stretched along the entire 100 foot length of the front of the United States Holocaust Memorial and the bodies had been stacked over six feet high. The mob firing squad hadn’t completed reloading their assault rifles when the next Jewish family was being dragged out of the nearest cattle truck.
I had finished my soda as I walked down the length of dead bodies. When I came to the end of the pile, I tossed what remained of my Hebrew National hot dog atop the pile and decided to finally make my way to Pennsylvania Avenue and my new home. By the time I passed the Lincoln Memorial, I could see that the statue of the sitting president had already been pulled down. Mobs of people carrying signs and wearing black masks crawled over the statue of the president which had abolished slavery, beating the statue of Lincoln with sledge hammers and metal bars chanting, “Bad! Bad! Bad! Whites are bad! Bad! Bad! Bad! Whites are bad!”
I raised my arms over my head and enjoyed another upper chest and abdominal stretch. Slowly, I bent over and touched my fingers to my toes, stretching my back and legs with a satisfying, “Ahhhh…”
I was getting too old for this, I admitted to myself. I turned as screams emanated from the large which park lead towards Pennsylvania Avenue. Thousands of Christians had been nailed to crosses constructed of oil soaked wood and hung upside down in rows upon rows upon rows. Men. Women. Children. Even babies. They had all been nailed to crosses. A large mob was there, carrying signs and wearing black masks. They stepped up to each Christian nailed upside down to their cross and set the oily wood ablaze. Each time, a new scream echoed across the park, drowned out by the mob‘s chant of “Bad! Bad! Bad! Chris-mas bad! Bad! Bad! Bad! Chris-mas bad!”
I soon approached the wrought black iron fence which surrounded the White House and they swung open as I approached. There were few people here, but none of them paid me any attention as I stepped upon the grounds of my new home. In the front lawn of the White House, my statue had already been erected. It had been relocated from Salem, Massachusetts and depicted me sitting upon a narrow throne, my right hand raised while I share my wisdom and knowledge to two small children looking adoringly up at me. The artist, named Mark Porter, did a very remarkable job capturing my vestige, even though he had never met me. Well, he hadn’t met me yet.
As I walked up the steps to the front entrance, I stopped and raised my head to the sky, laughing out loud! That’s it! That’s it! I finally remembered the lyrics of that damned song which had been taunting me all day! It was an old Rolling Stone classic and I half sung and half hummed the song.
“Please allow me to introduce myself,
I’m a man of wealth and taste,
I’ve been around for a long, long year,
Hummm …Hummm… something, something… hum-hum-hum…”
The main front doors of the White House swung open as I entered the historic dwelling. It was completely empty as I turned and walked towards the West Wing and the Oval office. As with the front doors, the doors of the Oval Office swung open as I entered and shut loudly behind me. When the doors closed, my human vestige and clothes burned away in a cloud of black smoke and ash. I walked behind the large wooden desk in the middle of the circular shaped room and sat on the black leather seat, turning the chair to see the large flat screen television that was mounted on the wall beside the entrance of the office.
The television came to life and I watched as network after network and channel after channel, every single talking head on the screen repeated over and over into the cameras, “Bad! Bad! Bad! Good is bad! Bad! Bad! Bad! Good is bad!”
I leaned back in the seat, propping my cloven hooves on the desk and clasping my clawed hands behind my horned head. In a sing song voice, I sang to myself, “Good! Good! Good! Bad is good! Good! Good! Good! Bad is good!”
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2020.06.04 13:27 finnagains "Unorthodox" - Netflix series tells story of young woman’s flight from Hasidic Jewish community in NYC

Unorthodox Trailer - https://youtu.be/-zVhRId0BTw
Unorthodox, a four-episode series on Netflix, tells the story of Esty Shapiro, a 19-year-old unhappily married woman in Brooklyn who leaves her Jewish ultra-Orthodox Hasidic community, traveling to Berlin to find her mother and begin a new life.
The series is loosely based on Unorthodox: The Scandalous Rejection of My Hasidic Roots, the 2012 memoir by Deborah Feldman. Feldman, who collaborated with Anna Winger and Alexa Karolinski, the creators of the television series, now lives in Berlin. However, as explained in Making Unorthodox, a brief program accompanying the series, the present-day scenes of Esty in Berlin are “entirely made up.”
Unorthodox, directed by Maria Schrader, is an international effort. It was produced in Germany, but uses mostly Israeli actors, and much of its action is set in Brooklyn. Much of the dialogue is in Yiddish, the language used by the Hasidim. The Brooklyn exteriors are filmed on site, but the interiors have all been filmed in Berlin.
The story begins with Esty’s flight from the Williamsburg neighborhood that is home to thousands of Hasidic families from the Satmar sect. It then proceeds through a series of rapid flashbacks and the intercutting of scenes between Brooklyn and Berlin.
Wed at 18, it takes months before Esty (Shira Haas) is able to consummate her marriage to her husband Yanky (Amit Rahav). Increasingly unhappy, and discovering that she is pregnant, she decides to leave without telling Yanky. Using papers given to her previously that grant her German citizenship through her maternal grandparents, she sets off for Berlin.
The family consults a rabbi (Eli Rosen), and Esty’s husband is dispatched, along with a somewhat older cousin, Moishe (Jeff Wilbusch), to bring his wife back. Meanwhile Esty has begun to see possibilities for a new life in Berlin, and the series concludes with a confrontation between the new and old traditions. Many questions are left unanswered, including Esty’s impending motherhood and other details about her future.
The series, fast-paced and suspenseful at times, is strongest in its portrayal of Hasidic life. This includes the arrangement of the marriage between the two teenagers who have never met; the first, stilted conversation between Esty and Yanky; some glimpses of the lives of families and young mothers; and Esty’s close relationship with her grandmother, Babby (Dina Doron). The acting is wonderful, especially Shira Haas, who is some five years older than the teenaged Esty, but perfectly depicts both the fragility and the determination of the character.
One of the more extended scenes is that of the boisterous and joyful wedding of Yanky and Esty, with men and women celebrating in separate circle dances. Esty’s mother Leah (Alex Reid), whom Esty has not seen for many years, watches from just outside the festivities, before she is spotted and escorted out of the building.
Esty’s happiness does not last past the wedding night. She is unable to consummate her marriage with her somewhat naïve and uncomprehending husband. At their first meeting, she had told him that she was “different.” She is interested in music, but in the ultra-Orthodox world women are not allowed to perform, not even to sing publicly. Esty is alienated from the other young wives, all giving birth on a nearly annual basis and none having any interests apart from their husbands and children. Esty, like the others, has no skills, no connections to what the ultra-Orthodox term the “secular world.” As her mother-in-law wonders angrily and impatiently after Esty’s disappearance is reported, “Where would she go?”
Before her wedding, Esty lived with an aunt and her grandmother. She is referred to as an orphan. Her father, who has a drinking problem, is treated by the community with contempt and plays no role in her life. Her mother has been ostracized and left the family long ago, later establishing a same-sex relationship in Berlin.
Some knowledge of Hasidism, a religious revivalist movement within Judaism that began in the 18th century, is helpful in understanding the dilemma facing Esty Shapiro and others. Hasidim, today divided into numerous sects, are characterized by an extreme religious conservatism and insularity. The characteristic dress and rituals derive from but are not always identical to those of Orthodoxy. The various branches of Hasidism constitute about 5 percent of the world’s Jewish population of nearly 20 million.
The Satmars, one of the newer sects, was founded in Hungary in the early 20th century. It is now the largest of the branches of Hasidism, with tens of thousands of adherents in the US, mainly in New York City and the nearby suburb of Monsey, New York, tens of thousands more in Israel and smaller numbers elsewhere.
As the documentary One of Us (also on Netflix) explains, only two percent of the Hasidic population leaves the community. The fanatical obscurantism is reinforced by a combination of social insularity and ostracism of those who stray. In many cases they pay a high price. Fathers as well as mothers usually lose custody of their children, and in some cases even any involvement in their children’s lives. The doctrine of the “status quo” in custody cases means that courts usually rule that the best interests of the children dictate that they should continue to be raised as they have been up to the dissolution of the marriage. The ultra-Orthodox authorities turn to high-priced and experienced lawyers to ensure this outcome.
While the social backwardness and the mistreatment of those who question ultra-Orthodoxy is made very clear in Unorthodox, the lives of its adherents are depicted with some sensitivity. The historical basis for the continuing grip of Hasidism is also suggested, as in a scene in which Esty comes across her grandmother crying, the old woman explaining that she was thinking of her parents and her entire family, all lost in the Holocaust. The Satmars suffered immensely at the hands of the Nazi genocide, and one of the consequences of that tragedy has been to reinforce the argument that extremely large families are needed to replace the “lost souls” of that period, and also that children must not be “lost” to the religion in the cases of divorce. Those who are brought up in the sect find it difficult to cut their ties.
The parts of Unorthodox that are set in Berlin are far weaker. There is a sleekness, a glamorized quality to life, as soon as Esty sets foot in the city and begins to walk its modern streets, including the areas around Potsdamer Platz and other areas that have witnessed growing prosperity—at least until the coronavirus pandemic.
Of course, the viewer is meant to look on this with the same eyes as Esty, who has hardly ever left Williamsburg, much less the United States. This is a legitimate approach at the outset, but the problem is that Esty’s fairy-tale life in Berlin continues without much pause. Some of this stretches the bounds of credulity. Esty has her mother’s address, but decides to walk the streets for a while, runs into a music student at a nearby café, and then is introduced, in a Cinderella-type series of scenes, to a group of students who immediately welcome her, with few questions asked. Later that same evening, she sneaks into the music school where they study, where she spends her first night in Berlin.
The students, including an Israeli, an Algerian, a Nigerian, a Yemeni and a German, call to mind the admirable West-Eastern Divan Orchestra founded almost 20 years ago by famed conductor and pianist Daniel Barenboim along with Palestinian intellectual Edward Said. While the multicultural and international atmosphere is certainly welcome, Esty’s connection is not believable. There is also an element of complacency and self-congratulation in the one-sided depiction of Berlin. Much of it does not ring true. These plot devices highlight a version of middle class modernity that is available only to a small section of the population.
Certain scenes set in Berlin, such as those dealing with the attempt of Yanky and Moishe to track down Esty, are more effective. Both the sincerity and naïveté of Yanky and the cynicism and crudity of Moishe are communicated. In another Berlin scene which strikes a more honest note, Leah finally explains to her daughter why they have been separated for so many years. She tells Esty that she was at her wedding only about a year earlier, but was forced to leave. She also explains how she lost Esty in a court case, after leaving her alcoholic and abusive husband, when her daughter was no more than four years old. Esty, who has always been told that her mother deserted the family, is at a loss for words.
The world of the ultra-Orthodox is not often depicted, and there are many similar stories around the world, including some even more tragic. Despite its weaknesses, Unorthodox deserves a broad audience.
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2020.03.03 19:32 TheWrinklyDog David Azuz (1941-),original painting,Ladies in Café,signed framed Israel French Jewish artist,wife girlfriend gift, FREE Worldwide Shipping by ElegantPossessions

David Azuz (1941-),original painting,Ladies in Café,signed framed Israel French Jewish artist,wife girlfriend gift, FREE Worldwide Shipping by ElegantPossessions submitted by TheWrinklyDog to DamnYam [link] [comments]


2020.03.03 03:17 franklin-isaac What are you looking for?

Children of Democracy,
Like many of you, I’ve joined this sub in the past few weeks after stumbling through a lucky comment which managed to point me here. Like many of you, the idea of a subreddit wanting to provoke change intrigued me. This statement is a simple try at looking for people who want to organize. Also, I hope I'm using the right flair.
Simply put, I have a strong belief that the erosion of our democratic institutions is not a collection of a particular or many singular events. They are, I suspect, the result of a global ongoing process with very real roots into our common past. During the past few decades, certain actors have managed to kickstart a process either by accident or with a very intent purpose which have led us here. It is also worth to point out that those actors are also a product of their environment, and therefore, it is worth to investigate what sort of atmosphere has given birth to those who would wish to see the faltering of our constitutional republics. And whatever Children of Democracy believes must be one, it is integral to use the internet to its advantage. It must have a diverse force behind any effort if it is to last and make true impact.
Again, I'm trying to refrain from setting an agenda, so enough of the last paragraph since I am in favor of waiting for the sub (or at the very least a core of it) to come together and do so coherently. How this ‘come together’ is to take place is also up for discussion. Perhaps Discord is the best way to start things out, since I’m almost absolutely sure we aren’t all in the same city to meet in a café as the liberals of old. However, my main concern is that Discord gives voice to the loud, and little space to proper and lengthy reasoning. The former is essential in any movement, but it is the latter which is central in any meaningful campaign.
With this short communicate statement, I would like to take the initiative to propose the following points to be considered, with some opinions which are to be taken, again, not as an order but as a suggestion. I do think it is important to go over some of them, while others can always be delayed. Perhaps members can make their case on their preferences? And maybe we can set a deadline of some weeks? Again, up to the sub.
  1. Reformist x Revolutionary: Some of you will look at this uncomfortably, but it is important to set this right away. Although every group eventually has individuals of either strains of thought, we ought to make sure members understand through which path the group strongly believes change must come. A reformist movement is much easier to be negotiated with, and it also has a lot more space and channels to communicate. It is also the more on par with many democratic ideals. A revolutionary movement is a tricky subject. Breaking window panes and burning cars on the streets does not provoke or inspire change. It instead uses fear and causes more chaos than seed any future order or equality. Rare are the revolutions which do not simply waste precious human lives. I cannot help but feel a movement for democracy cannot use violence in such a way. India's independence movement might be onto something though, if White House officials ever decide to simply not obey Trump. Unrealistic, but it would be good wouldn't it?
  2. Attachment to certain political/economical beliefs: In a nutshell, whether we are okay with having the group connected to a specific party/wing. Note this question doesn’t need a TRUE/FALSE answer, and may instead be substituted by degrees of connection. A principle of democracy, after all, is to find middle ground. From one side, having a political preference might make it easier to shape a message since a part of the group’s work is done, however, this also means the group becomes dependent on the success of the mother group, and it will inevitably also lose power over its own set of beliefs and become constrained in its future ideological development. I have no doubt that the objective of this sub is to defend democracies in general, and from country to country (particularly in parliamentary republics) many parties are able to coexist under a stable system. In the United States, however, the situation is more complicated…
  3. Organizational structure: there’s two aspects to think about. First, the kind of action Children of Democracy wishes to take, and I see two ends of the spectrum with many variations in between. The second’s about what strategic deployment we are looking for.
a. On one side, we have plain and simple activism. Going out, spreading pamphlets, and engaging with the people and civic institutions. On the other side, we have a group of people focused on discourse and creating messages for other activists. It is easy to see these are not exclusive within the same group, and I am sure quite a few (if not the majority) of the people in this sub have jobs and lives they have to keep together. It is also in the interest of any movement to have affiliates with stereotypically respected careers, from engineers and scientists to lawyers and public servants. These people can offer good insights from their industries, which can serve as powerful complements to a movement’s understanding of their society, and consequently, their mission as well.
b. Any movement has either a centralized or decentralized hierarchy. It somewhat depends on its size, mission, and on the ideological umbrella a group finds itself under. If the group choses to have either no direct or limited political affiliation, then things get trickier. Perhaps, ultimately, Children of Democracy ought to shape its system around its main goals.
  1. Goals: not by coincidence, I have this point after the previous. This is about figuring out, under the current condition our democracies find themselves under, a common ground to shape our operations. What do you want to see changed? What particular experiences have made you reach this group? What worries keep you awake at night? It’s important to be honest, and perhaps an anonymous account might help you feeling more comfortable at sharing your views. It is critical we have a transparent view of the group not just in the hopes of practicing the good democratic process of transparency, but also to understand if we are in the right group. Hide your true views, and you will only waste your own and everyone’s time.
I promised to hold my views on the origin of our problems of the present which so gravely afflict our democracies. I intend to keep that promise. I will, however, in the hopes of prodding for discussion, present you a view of the future.
I will speak of my international references. To start, people such as John Stuart Mill and Tocqueville (despite their terrible colonialist views) are an essential to understand what a democracy should strive to mean to its own people. Republics ought to be administrations which serves their peoples, and ought to be transparent about its internal mechanisms. It must foster true discussion, and not bend to the will of personalities and their sycophants.
From the 20th Century, I cannot overstate the influence of Martin Luther King’s message in the democratic movement, and neither the thoughts of John Rawls, one of the fathers of Social-Democracy. Going back into some of our darkest years in the West, there are many men and women of great value. American President Roosevelt and Rosa Parks are two iconic figures of history which fought for both a more equal and fair world. In France, de Gaulle’s unshaken will and defiance to Vichy France is historic, together with the French Resistance against the Nazis in continental France, refusing to bend to the strength of arms. Might, after all, should not make right.
On the topic of the Second World War, inside Nazi Germany, the White Rose student movement deserves mention, as well as the social circle of Gegner Journal. I would like to call attention to this last group.
I mention the Gegner Journal because, although much less known, it possesses a quality a movement for democracy nowadays ought to strive for. It was a movement composed of people from many political leanings. The circle had participation from Catholics, Protestants, Jewish, Conservatives, Liberals, and Socialists, among other minorities. Their main goal was clear and simple, that is, to fight Nazism, and they had achieved admirable infiltration in the Nazi government such as admirals, generals, and officers at the German Intelligence. Although Nazism no longer exists as it did before, the authoritative and totalitarian leanings which threaten our republics is very much inspired by past radical political movements which did succeed in annihilating their democratic administrations. It is this same understanding and mission I’m looking for.
And you? What are you looking for?

Best,
Franklin Isaac
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2020.01.30 21:04 MY_LIFE_IS_SHREK Today I cried. I am gay/bi with a bit of gender dysphoria and I just wanted to say thank you for the anonymous guy at a random café. I was discussing about how capitalism is the root of all evil and the world would be brighter if Lenin was still alive and that we would had a Dyson Swarm (I saw a Kur

Today I cried. I am gay/bi with a bit of gender dysphoria and I just wanted to say thank you for the anonymous guy at a random café. I was discussing about how capitalism is the root of all evil and the world would be brighter if Lenin was still alive and that we would had a Dyson Swarm (I saw a Kurzgesat video). Anyways hero anon was defending how racism is much stronger and worse nowadays (2020) then it was back then, and that the BOOMERS (!!!) do not comprehend that black/hispanic/yellow/jewish people were victims of us (caucasians) and we should apologize for not giving second chances to those people who are not white. Donald Trump is a racist, nacionalist, capitalist! If the U.S stopped wasting 7 billion dollars on the army and started making more discoveries on Mars and extract comets materials and if todays politics were about long-term and not short-term situations we would be ther perfect society. Old man just got destroyed by me and hero anon, this generation that is soon to become adults only keeps winning! You go Zoomrs!! (people from 2000-2002). Any opinions that are actually backed by facts and has any ground? If you're going to be emotional here, the door is right there sweety, buh-bye!!
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2020.01.25 02:06 PreviousCoast2 Recipe For Murder by Don Druick The CBC Mystery Project [you may have missed this one!]

Eight mystery stories a co-production of CBC Radio and ZBS. The stories are rather congenial, like an Agatha Christie BBC mystery, a lot of fascinating and slightly eccentric characters, wonderful dialogue, an occasional body, with a gentle humor throughout.
https://archive.org/details/recipeformurdercbcmysteryproject
The hero, Jean-Claude, is a young sous-chef living in Montréal. In the first episode, A Sweet Death, the police arrest his close friend, Georges-Luc (who is from Haiti), charging him with murder. Jean-Claude proceeds to investigate on his own. A sweet death indeed, for this episode deals with the making of chocolates, all sorts, and the descriptions are heavenly.
Each story deals with a different type of food. The writer, Don Druick, is a gourmet cook from Montréal; his descriptions of various dishes and their preparation are so vivid, so enticing, there are times it’s almost painful to listen without wanting to run out and stuff yourself.
Each story focuses on a different type of cuisine. A Sweet Death deals with not only chocolates, but all sorts of sweets (and some of those sweeties are deadly). The second story, Buzz Buzz, centers around various delectable insects (and the nasty competition between two teachers at a cooking school). In Fugu, there’s Japanese cuisine; in The Ghost of Miz B, it’s Jewish cooking. And there’s also a murder to solve in every story.
Since our own writer, M. Fulton, once worked at a radio station in Montréal, and has a fondness for that city and it’s night life, he suggested we record on location; in the sidewalk cafés, restaurants, the Métro, the cobbled streets of Vieux Montréal, wherever the scenes actually take place. The sound is wonderfully rich, especially hearing Montréal in the summer ... it’s visually stimulating, the descriptions are enticing, and the smells are exquisite.
Director-Bill Lane, Jean-Claude-Salvatore Migliore, Illustration-Greg Tucker, music-Tim Clark
Co-produced with the CBC.
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2019.12.09 12:49 roadlinktrips Food safari - London Road Link Trips

London is an ideal destination for those who are looking for places for fashion, antiques, crafts or delicious food with a wide range of options to choose from, including high-end boutiques, vast shopping centers and markets. Here is a thing, out of 100 brilliant places to visit in London you will be flabbergasted to know there are twenty thousand restaurants in London. The best of all, eat from around the globe at a range of prices— from the fine restaurants to coolest food trucks, from hole-in-the-wall basement dens to fine dining haunts and much more dotted around this amazing city. I know it’s hard to believe, but don’t miss the chance to this delightful journey of iconic restaurants in London. Once you visit London, escaped the City for a life chewing, guzzle, manducate food safari in London. It’s more difficult to select the best out of all where to eat, where to drink, but you can choose by their splurging flavors Chinese to Mexican, from Israel to the Mediterranean, Japanese to Korean, Authentic American to the royal flavor of Indian cuisine, etc. So, let’s start the journey of the world’s great culinary destination:

Harwood Arms

The Harwood Arms, the only Michelin Starred pub in London serves award-winning food and wine in a casual and relaxed setting. The service is excellent, each dish is beautifully presented and delivered on refined cookery. For the meat lovers, the meat is exquisite and an epic example of perfect broil, plus a pleasant salad of dandelion, gherkin, apple, radish, and parsley is served as an accompaniment. Yummy! After dining at Harwood Arms, how can we forget their signature bowl of warm lemon curd and sherbet doughnuts with whipped cream & heather honey, well worth every bite to ends the food journey to heaven

The Palomar

The Palomar cozy and comfortable vibes attract food lovers around the world. Dining at the Palomar will be going to be a great experience of modern-day Jerusalem inspired food, that’s inspired by Jewish, Arabic and Mediterranean traditions. The food will take you far away with their extraordinarily fresh flavors from Israel and the Mediterranean. There are a handful of dishes that you would love to try, but in my advice, but don’t miss their mouth-wateringly signature dish, the Shakshukit beef and lamb, with pistachios and pine nuts.

Dishoom Shoreditch

This dazzling restaurant is designed in an old post-colonial ‘Irani cafés’ of Bombay. Maybe you wouldn’t like to feast your taste buds with Indian cuisines but believe me, it’s worth visiting this vintage restaurant and try their innovative cocktails and the unique ambiance that’s filled with sumptuous spices. How about Indian inspired breakfast hot chocolate chai, sausage naans and spicy Bombay omelet’s or if you didn’t get time to go for breakfast than you must order the streaky bacon or the chicken ruby curry and lamb chops on your lunch table.

Brasserie Zédel

It’s a stunning restaurant with the 1920s themed dining room, elegant bar with slick service and astonishingly affordable prices. The place is huge as it also encompasses a ground floor cafe, a bar, and a cabaret venue and a lot more but its best to impress your date or looking for some glamorous place to go. Brasserie Zedel itself is a vast basement restaurant where the décor more opulent, which imitates a glamorous Parisian brasserie. They have delicious satisfying dishes from Hurricane cocktail to Soufflé Glacé au Café, Crème Anglaise to start with their bread and the steak haché will the best deal.

Hoppers

Hoppers is the ideal place to go, a strong foundation is vital ingredients for this popular dining spot. It’s a beautiful tiny place with warm wooden interiors that feature vintage terracotta tiles, rattan ceiling details, and exposed brick walls. Hoppers bring a delightful dish with a great depth of the spice of Asian flavors, from lightly fried fluffy potatoes to the kaapi (Indian coffee), from Cocktails feature a heady mix of spirits including Arrack to a flaky, crispy bowl-shaped pancake, and so on. Their menu includes a selection of “short eats” to larger mains course, you can go for amazing duck egg Kari and Brinjal Moju or munching through a very moreish bowl of batter-fried cashew, cassava, and ash plantain fry, everything going to be incredibly good over there. Don’t forget to try their Dosa paired with an assortment of chutneys and spicy curries with retro Indian music playing softly in the background.

Borough Market

This food safari would be incomplete without visiting the largest and oldest food market in London. This oldest fruit and veg market now has over 100 food stalls dotted around, particularly known for high-quality fresh produce ranges from seasonal produce to international fruits and vegetables, fresh meat and seafood, a vast array of cheeses and bakery items, and so much more. It’s more like a wonderland for foodies, places where they can try free samples of delicious food to friendly traders who would love to answer their questions, where the food is sensational that their nose will pick up a hundred different spices blending into a culinary bouquet of aromas. You can eat and buy whatever catches your eye, but in my advice must-try meat pie at Ginger Pig, the Kappacasein cheese toastie, or saucissons at The French Comté or cheddar to stinky cheese or oysters from Richard Haward and the lot more, but that will appeal to most everyone’s palate.

Maltby Street Market

Maltby Street Market is a fair example of a smaller market featuring plenty of fabulous vendors with high-quality foodstuffs on offer. Some arches have little restaurants in them, while others have stalls line the rest of the space with an eclectic mix of colorful tables and chairs outside in the alley. Stalls are selling old favorites to new styles of foods enough to spoil your taste buds of virtuous vegetarians or confirmed carnivores. The top-notch global food vendors serving everything from cheerful lemon tarts to open-face beetroots, like steak and chips with chimichurri, Chinese dumplings to Belgian waffles, Italian pasta to pastries, and so on. This market has a combination of stalls, under-arch shops, pop-up wine bars, and eateries offer a fresh produce foods that you must try at L’Emporio, St John Bakery, Greek-style dips made with beetroot or avocado, the ubiquitous burger and marinated pork sandwiches to the mouth-watering grilled cheese sandwich loaded with Keens Cheddar, onion and bacon cooked to a lovely crisped, chestnut brown.
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2019.11.23 09:03 shannongibs 19[F4R] been awake since 4am, send help (or coffee)

Hey all, I’m Shannon, I’m a first year history student in London and working in a café to help me to feed and house myself. I’m interested in all sorts of conversation about all sorts of stuff beyond “what’s up?” I’m bisexual, single, half Irish half Israeli & am Jewish - don’t message if you have a problem with any of that. Open to flirting but keep it classy.
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2019.10.24 14:05 Takiatlarge Trip Report: 4 weeks in Central Europe, Fall 2018. 28M from USA. 1st time solo. Thank you all!

Summary
General Itinerary
Highlights
Berlin:
Prague:
Vienna:
Salzburg:
Graz:
Ljubljana:
Zagreb:
Budapest:
Krakow:
Logistics
Air Transport:
Overland Transport:
Accommodation:
Activity Ideas:
Miscellaneous Tips:
Useful Smartphone Apps
Luggage:
Have a good time exploring, everyone!
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2019.10.22 05:35 phillythrowaway93902 Feedback on this list of restaurants to check out and sightseeing?

I made a list for my 6 day trip to your city.... any feedback is appreciated on what to add or remove
Sightseeing
Wenceslas Square
Head of Franz Kafka
Josefov (Jewish Quarter)
Old Town Bridge Tower
Old Town Square
Astronomical clock
Havelské tržiště
Charles Bridge
Church of Our Lady before Týn
Lesser Town Square
St Nicholas Church
Prague Castle
John Lennon Wall
St. Vitus Cathedral
Czech Poster Museum
Wallenstein Garden & Palace
Golden lane
Petrin Tower
Dancing House
Museum of Communism

Restaurants:
Café Savoy
Cafe Lourve
Kolkovna Celnice
Eska
Mlynec
Pušhkin Restaurant
Krčma
U Parlamentu
Naše maso
Pivovarský klub
Kantyna
Cafe Imperial
Hotel U prince
Restaurace Mlejnice
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2019.09.20 02:51 nikvelimirovic [DIPLOMACY] Haile Selassie's Grand Tour, but a detour, Part ??? - UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

TOP SECRET

His Imperial Majesty had one more continental concern before departing for America. The recent travesty that occurred in Palestine was chief among Selassie’s concerns, even as he went into his meeting with the Prime Minister. Discretely he sent his first-born son, the Crown Prince, Asfaw Wossen, to meet with David Ben-Gurion, with a very specific set of instructions. The Crown Prince was given the authority to negotiate on his father’s behalf.
  1. The Empire of Ethiopia will recognize the State of Israel as well as Israel’s claims to Transjordanian land. We support the State of Israel in asserting its territorial integrity and the right to exist.
  2. Pending the ability for a successful establishment of a State of the Jewish People, The Empire of Ethiopia is prepared to offer the province of Begemder, the historic homeland of Beta Israel to the Jewish community, including the city of Gondar, as an autonomous province within the Ethiopian state. From here, the Jewish people can arm themselves, train, and know that they can make any preparations they want unmolested. The Jewish community will be exempt from taxation, and the Ethiopian military will work towards arming the Jews. We are not offering a second homeland for the Jews. We are offering a temporary reprieve from centuries of persecution, so that we might work together to establish for the Jews their own Judah, as our mutual ancestor intended.
  3. King Abdullah must die. His crimes transcend comprehension, and his holocaust of the Jewish people in Israel is a mortal offense. We will support and offer our land as a staging ground for any attempt on the King’s life.
  4. The Lion of Judah will commit himself to furthering the Jewish cause, and protecting the Jewish people, with the ultimate goal of an independent Jewish state in Palestine. The blood of King Solomon flows through His Imperial Majesty’s veins, and though a devout Coptic Christian, he has not forgotten the might of his ancestor, and he has not forgotten his obligation to his ancestor to protect his ancestor’s people – the Jews.
The document was delivered In a sealed envelope bearing the seal of the Lion of Judah. Also included were instruction to a café in Nicosia where Asfaw Wossen will be waiting, should Ben-Gurion choose to discuss further.
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2019.08.04 07:31 anti-ZOG-sci-fry Oedipus Hex AI Reich

Oedipus Hex AI Reich
by Jayge 8^J
Capricious March winds buffeted the campus Art Complex, as Ophelia Payne knifed her way toward the bookstore to grab a complementary daily paper, before joining a colleague for lunch. She waved to her friend Louise, manning a Women's table, if that's grammarly PC. Another of the Women's table's manners (there went the PC police siren) stepped up and asked, "Are you registered to vote?"
Ophelia assured her she was and added that she was on their email list, presuming the question was part of the fast-growing campus voter registration drive. "The Women's March list?" asked the canvasser confused. "No, I thought you were part of 慈英夢杜 's group," then told her about the Civic Ams and their viral efforts to register student voters a classroom at a time. They were still looking for a lasting name so she suggested Voter Promoters, Choice Voices, Proactive Volunteers, UH Poll Vaulters, Campus Citizens Corps, Voter Bows, Democracy Foundation, Rainbow Poll Warriors, Action Faction, and Freedom At Work.
"That's wonderful!" the woman beamed. "How can I learn more?" She said her name was Sam, a recent military vet retiree, and wanted to team up with other vote getters. Ophelia gave her key email links. Sam added that she hoped to run for public office too so Ophelia put her in touch with a former state representative recruiting candidates for progressive causes. "I'm so glad I met you!" Sam said in parting. "The feeling's mutual!" Ophelia replied, amused that man can be a verb but not woman.
Max Doubt sat at a table in the vegan café, awaiting her arrival while musing on his grammar school discovery of 6 and its unusual property when multiplied by even numbers. The product of any number ending in 6 and any even number always ends in the same digit as does the multiplicand. In other words: 6 x 2 = 12, 6 x 4 = 24, 6 x 6 = 36, 6 x 8 = 48, 6 x 10 = 60, 6 x 12 = 72, 6 x 14 = 84, 6 x 16 = 96, 6 x 18 = 108, 96 x 84 = 8,064. No similar pattern for odd numbers was noticed.: 6 x 1 = 6, 6 x 3 = 18, 6 x 5 = 30, 6 x 7 = 42, 6 x 9 = 54. Later, he learned that 6 is the first 'perfect number', followed by 28; 496; 8,128; 33,550,336; 8,589,869,056; and 137,438,691,328. "In number theory, a perfect number is a positive integer that is equal to the sum of its proper positive divisors, that is, the sum of its positive divisors excluding the number itself (also known as its aliquot sum). Equivalently, a perfect number is a number that is half the sum of all of its positive divisors (including itself) i.e. σ1(n) = 2n."
"I just had the most serendipitous encounter!" Ophelia began in earnest and fed him the details. Max, a former Marine and part-time math teacher, could easily picture the scene she described. A lively Carib beat filled the café, inviting patrons to dig into its rhythm while they enjoyed the cuisine. Ophelia and Max followed suit with small talk until their plates were cleared and they sipped herbal teas.
They then compared media notes on numbers they'd found, coded into major news stories using Gematria, which Wikipedia describes as, "an Assyro-Babylonian system of numerology later adopted by Jews that assigns numerical value to a word or phrase in the belief that words or phrases with identical numerical values bear some relation to each other or bear some relation to the number itself as it may apply to a person's age, the calendar year, Julian date, days since or until birthdays, prime numbers or the like." Their Archimedean lever to insider knowledge was the handy calculator Derek programmed at http://www.gematrinator.com/calculatoindex.php.
“Give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall move the world.” - Archimedes
No matter what the headlines in newspapers, TV, or on the web: international incidents, serial murders, school shootings, major sports events, celebrity drama, the words all translated into similar, interpretable patterns, even names, dates, and other quantifiable figures. Very strange and clearly encoded with intent, but with what ramifications?
"Next week are the Pax Center talks by Columbia Law mediators," Max reminded her. "Yes, I'm looking forward to it," she replied. The Center was a veritable beehive of interrelated activity of late which they both commented lavishly upon.
Meanwhile, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, plagued by scandal at home, met with similarly beleaguered President Donald Trump for mutually beneficial strategies. Undaunted to run roughshod over other world leaders, Trump knew better than to do so with Netanyahu. He realized which side of his bread got the Grey Poupon.
Netanyahu was still banging his war drums on Iran so hard that he and Sen. John McCain could have sat in on a Flock of Seagulls and Beach Boys double bill. Bam!
"And I ran
I ran so far away
I just ran
I ran all night and day
And I ran
I ran so far away
I just ran
I couldn't get away"
"Bomb, bomb, bomb
Bomb, bomb Iran..."
After their lunch, Ophelia returned to campus while Max headed home. Taking advantage of matching red lights, he jayran across the busy avenue but only made it half-way before tripping on a median curb and sprawling onto the southbound lanes. Luckily, he was just slightly scraped, no blood. He laughed heartily, glad there weren't many witnesses, and admitted to himself it was bound to happen eventually as often as he did it. Once again though, he dodged a jayrunning ticket.
NASA's or is it DARPA’s Project Blue Beam, a 'technologically-simulated 2nd Coming' to usher in an Antichrist-led New World Order in its planning stages for decades, originally set for '83, then '95, and again in '96, became a kind of Unified Conspiracy Theory, linking a number of incidents. The more people found out about it, the less likely a hoax like that could succeed.
It's apparent to many that with Project Blue Beam a bust, the next terrorists-blamed 9/11 is meant to be nuclear, as hinted at when "nuclear warheads went ‘missing’ from Minot Air Force Base and Barksdale Air Force Base back in August of 2007", "nuclear warheads were being shipped to South Carolina from a major Texas Air Force base under an ‘off the record’ black ops transfer" on 9/5/2013, and back to back missile alerts in Hawaii and Japan 1/13/2018 and 1/16/2018. The resulting grief, chaos, and public outcry will be the impetus needed to roll out Skynet, RoboCop, and Terminator drone technologies for virtually instantaneous anti-terror response. Never mind eroding our Civil Rights and Liberties, save us from the bogeymen! These measures, like their predecessors, USA PATRIOT Acts 1 & 2 and others, are designed to protect the elite from the common folk, the privileged from the powerless, nothing more.
Away from all but the official White House photographer, Dono and Bibi conferred over the above Top Secret Operation Reichstag, the Israel über alles of the neocons. Jared Kushner joined them later, freshly pruned of his Top Secret clearance, but still with sufficient authority to manage Middle East affairs for his father-in-law. It couldn't be emphasized strongly enough that all operation 'fingerprints' point to the designated fall guy, in this case Iran. Retaliation then would be swift and deadly. The Pentagon was already limiting information flow on a need to know basis. It was seen as prep for Korean peninsula hostility, but ready to pivot on cue to Iran.
The cataclysmic event meant to foster AI's implementation was fast approaching, now just days away, which prompted this high-level meeting between the 2 leaders. It had to be seen as a necessary measure to counter perceived threats from outside, even if it was launched from within. Everything had to go perfectly this time, but how often does that happen? It certainly didn’t on 9/11/2001. Therefore, Executive Order 13999 was signed, establishing mandatory safety RFID chip injections with all individual health, security, and financial data embedded. Cash would soon be returned to its Federal Reserve owners.
When he wasn't busy teasing out Nature's jealously guarded secret laws of the Universe, refining his calculus to think critically, logically, and systematically, or trying to turn base metals into gold alchemically, Isaac Newton spent thousands of hours searching for codes in the Bible and deciphering Books of Daniel and Revelation for Eschatology or Biblical end times clues. Mathematically, in 1704 he found CE 2060 to be a possible key date, "The time times & half time do not end before 2060," he wrote. The gist of the following Wikipedia narrative indicates that Isaac Newton foresaw Antichrist/Savior Donald J. Trump coming over 300 years ago.
"However, between the time he wrote his 2060 prediction (about 1704) until his death in 1727 Newton conversed, both first hand and by correspondence, with other famous theologians of his time. Those contemporaries who knew him during the remaining 23 years of his life appear to be in agreement that Newton, and the "best interpreters" including Jonathan Edwards, Robert Fleming, Moses Lowman, Phillip Doddridge, and Bishop Thomas Newton, were eventually "pretty well agreed" that the 1,260-year timeline should be calculated from the year 756 AD. F.A. Cox also confirmed that this was the view of Newton and others, including himself: “The author adopts the hypothesis of Fleming, Sir Isaac Newton, and Lowman, that the 1260 years commenced in A.d. 756; and consequently that the millennium will not begin till the year 2016." Thomas Williams stated that this timeline had become the predominant view among the leading Protestant theologians of his time: "Mr. Lowman, though an earlier commentator, is (we believe) far more generally followed ; and he commences the 1260 days from about 756, when, by aid of Pepin, King of France, the Pope obtained considerable temporalities. This carries on the reign of Popery to 2016, or sixteen years into the commencement of the Millennium, as it is generally reckoned." In April of 756 AD, Pepin, King of France, accompanied by Pope Stephen II entered northern Italy, forcing the Lombard King Aistulf to lift his siege of Rome, and return to Pavia. Following Aistulf's capitulation, Pepin gave the newly conquered territories to the Papacy by means of the Donation of Pepin, thereby elevating the Pope from being a subject of the Byzantine Empire to head of state, with temporal power over the newly constituted Papal States. The end of the timeline is based on Daniel 8:25 which reads "...but he shall be broken without hand" and is understood to mean that the end of the Papacy with not be caused by any human action. Volcanic activity is described as the means by which Rome will be overthrown. "Antichrist will retain some part of his dominion over the nations till about the year 2016." "And when the 1260 years are expired, Rome itself, with all its magnificence, will be absorbed in a lake of fire, sink into the sea, and rise no more at all for ever*.""
Economist John Maynard Keynes said that Newton regarded the entire Universe as a 'cryptogram'. According to biblecodedigest.com Newton wrote, "The folly of interpreters has been to foretell times and things by this prophecy, as if God designed to make them prophets. By this rashness they have not only exposed themselves, but brought the prophecy also into contempt. The design of God was much otherwise. He gave this and the prophecies of the Old Testament, not to gratify men's curiosities by enabling them to foreknow things, but that after they were fulfilled they might be interpreted by the event, and his own providence, not the interpreters', be then manifested thereby to the world. For the event of things predicted many ages before will then be a convincing argument that the world is governed by Providence." Here is a page from Isaac Newton's notes.:
"Stephen Hawking fears it may only be a matter of time before humanity is forced to flee Earth in search of a new home. The famed theoretical physicist has previously said that he thinks humankind’s survival will rely on our ability to become a multi-planetary species. Hawking reiterated — and in fact emphasized — the point in a recent interview with WIRED in which he stated that humanity has reached “the point of no return.” Hawking said the necessity of finding a second planetary home for humans stems from both concerns over a growing population and the imminent threat posed by the development of artificial intelligence (AI). He warned that AI will soon become super intelligent — potentially enough so that it could replace humankind. “The genie is out of the bottle. I fear that AI may replace humans altogether,” Hawking told WIRED."
Wikipedia reports, "Grey goo (also spelled gray goo) is a hypothetical end-of-the-world scenario involving molecular nanotechnology in which out-of-control self-replicating robots consume all matter on Earth while building more of themselves, a scenario that has been called ecophagy ("eating the environment", more literally "eating the habitation")." Also, "An interdimensional being or intelligence (also intra-dimensional and other-dimensional) is a type of theoretical or fictional entity existing in a dimension beyond our own. Such beings are common in science fiction."
The imminent threat of AI was a byproduct of quantum computing. Similar to a 'bit' (binary digit) which is either off or on (0 or 1), a 'qubit' (quantum binary digit) can also be both simultaneously, called superposition. By simulating multiverses, a quantum computer can borrow from them somehow. Quantum devices, now doubling their 'qubits' every year (50% faster than Moore's Law), can solve problems eternally impossible for infinite digital computers, but at a significant Faustian bargain. Products exploiting quantum theory are currently estimated to account for about 30% of U.S. GDP.
It's the quantum entanglement part that makes some people nervous. They believe it's altering our reality in weird ways, mostly by shifting cultural icons. Max and Ophelia didn't buy into the craze, while not remembering the current state of some of the examples they cite, like C3PO's silver leg in Star Wars or Darth Vader saying "No, I am your father," instead of "Luke, I am your father."
According to Jewish Lore, a kvetching cousin of Commander Data's evil twin, Mayer Amshel Bauer hung a red hexagram over his shop door for luck, like a horseshoe. While a thrown shoe might win you a race at Arlington or Ascot, Bauer's red hex hit a bonanza motherlode from which the House of Rothschild (red shield) evolved. Bauer arranged for his 5 sons to marry into Europe's prominent banking families in London (Nathan), Paris (Jakob), Frankfort (Amshel), Vienna (Salomon), and Naples (Calmann). Nathan cornered London’s stock market with early word of Napoleon’s loss at Waterloo. Amassing by far history's biggest family fortune, today that symbol hides in plain sight at the heart of the Israeli flag, still magically protecting the Rothschild dynasty from prying eyes.
The blue Magen David is actually the red pagan Seal of Solomon in disguise. Upper and lower blue stripes on the flag signify the unfulfilled Promised Land boundaries of Genesis 15:18, "In the same day the LORD made a covenant with Abram, saying, Unto thy seed have I given this land, from the river of Egypt unto the great river, the river Euphrates:" Here's a prime example of a picture being worth 1,000 words. It's outline resembles a cartoon Donald Trump chip shot from the rough. What's dangling from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem is anyone's guess, twin 'MBC's?:
The website christianitybeliefs.org says, “The six-sided star was used by Babylonian astrologers for Sun worship.
Babylonian astrologers divided the starry heavens into 36 constellations (ten days each). These were represented by different amulets called “Sigilla Solis,” or the Sun Seal.
These amulets were worn by the pagan priests and they contained all the numbers from 1 to 36. By these figures they claimed to be able to foretell future events.
Adding the numbers of any column either horizontally or vertically, and also the two diagonals crossing the square, the total is the same — 111.
The sum of the six columns, either horizontally or vertically, is 666.
So 666 is a number associated with pagan sun-worship, which originated in the mysteries of ancient pagan Babylon.
Sun worship, which is really Satan worship, has existed for thousands of years and is still worshiped to this very day by Mystery Babylon, the Roman Catholic Church and the global elite in the world.
The Israelites worshiped the star of foreign gods and were punished for it. Israel adopted the six-pointed star in the wilderness due to their apostasy.
The mark of Cain was worshiped by the Israelites in the wilderness as the star of Remphan, which represents the god Saturn, also called Chiun...
After his marriage to Pharaoh’s daughter in 922 B.C., Solomon gave himself up to witchcraft and idolatry, and built altars to Moloch, Ashtoreth and Remphan, the ancient Egyptian ‘Star‘ god.
King Solomon reintroduced the 6-Pointed Star to the Kingdom of Israel, so the Talisman of Saturn became known as the Seal of Solomon.
The Six-Pointed Star is engraved on the Talisman of Saturn which is used in ritual magic.
A bull’s head is enclosed in a six-pointed star, and surrounded by letters composing the name Rempha, the planetary genius of Saturn, according to the alphabet of the Magi.
The bull represents Moloch worship and ultimately, Satan worship.
Satanists, Occultist and Freemasons venerate King Solomon, who owned a magic ring that was engraved with the Seal of Solomon, which gave him power over the invisible monarchy of demons. (The History And Practice Of Magic, Vol. 2)"
Officially, Jews make up only .2% of world population, that's about 1/500th, not counting closet Jews, yet corporate boards, executives, advisors, agents, lobbyists, venture capitalists, professional associations, banking, publishing, science, medicine, law, the garment industry, Hollywood, and who knows what else, linked by sayanim, hasbarat Jewsplainers, and Masonry, are crawling with them. "Or were they acting as sayanim, the Hebrew word for helpers, whom the Mossad relies on across the globe to provide shelter, money, and logistical support ... in this case identity. The system is known as sayanim, a derivative of the Hebrew word lesayeah, meaning to help." Move along...There's nothing to see here...Pay no attention to the men behind the curtain at the controls. The problem is we can only downplay it, ridicule it, pretend it doesn't exist, or try to ignore it, yet, like a cancer, it spreads relentlessly. Is it illegal yet to suspect collusion and worse?
If you have been trained to find that offensive, then you may also find my aversion to all this Jewish control just my tough luck and go back to your worship of Jewish idols and their money like everyone else. They create money out of nothing, then loan it at interest to us non-Jews. Their Talmud teaches that goyim are no more than cattle to be exploited by scams, spam, and an Earth-ruining waste economy, as well as their cash-generating highly addictive opiates, coca, and methamphetamine. Banking, governments, and physics, confiscated and obfuscated by a Rothschild Zionist Holohoax conspiracy to reconfigure our world. Their advice: "Shut up and spend until we get all of your wealth!" No wonder world sympathies lean toward cheated Palestinians.
"B-R-E-A-K-I-N-G N-E-W-S" shrieked crawls on cable news and traditional networks. What now? Were Kardashians broke or did Britney Spears shave her head again? No, it was only the Vatican and Oprah co-endorsing Chrislam, the NWO religion. Ophelia yawned, briefly amused by the harmony of NWO & OWN. Wait, What!
Carbon molecules comprise 6 protons, 6 neutrons, and 6 electrons. This reminded Max of the old Kevin Bacon game. "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon is a parlour game based on the "six degrees of separation" concept, which posits that any two people on Earth are six or fewer acquaintance links apart. Movie buffs challenge each other to find the shortest path between an arbitrary actor and prolific actor Kevin Bacon. It rests on the assumption that anyone involved in the Hollywood film industry can be linked through their film roles to Bacon within six steps. The game requires a group of players to try to connect any such individual to Kevin Bacon as quickly as possible and in as few links as possible. In 2007, Bacon started a charitable organization called SixDegrees.org."
Wikipedia says, "Agenda 21 is a non-binding action plan of the United Nations with regard to sustainable development. It is a product of the Earth Summit held in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, in 1992. It is an action agenda for the UN, other multilateral organizations, and individual governments around the world that can be executed at local, national, and global levels." It is interpreted by some as a means to forbid access to vast stretches of the planet for most of the world's population, who will then be relocated to megacities or giant centralized work camps, like in Nazi Germany. Only the elite and other authorized personnel would have unrestricted use. Ambitious Agenda 2030 goals hope to end poverty as well as universally share economic prosperity, social development, and environmental protection. Good luck with all that sharing talk.
The 1999 film The Matrix spread the concept that our so-called reality is instead some kind of construct, software, or hologram. It got summarized like so, "In the near future, a computer hacker named Neo discovers that all life on Earth may be nothing more than an elaborate façade created by a malevolent cyber-intelligence, for the purpose of placating us while our life essence is "farmed" to fuel the Matrix's campaign of domination in the "real" world. He joins like-minded Rebel warriors Morpheus and Trinity in their struggle to overthrow the Matrix." Wikipedia offered a far lengthier plot summary.
IMDB.com gave it this twist, "Thomas A. Anderson is a man living two lives. By day he is an average computer programmer and by night a hacker known as Neo. Neo has always questioned his reality, but the truth is far beyond his imagination. Neo finds himself targeted by the police when he is contacted by Morpheus, a legendary computer hacker branded a terrorist by the government. Morpheus awakens Neo to the real world, a ravaged wasteland where most of humanity have been captured by a race of machines that live off of the humans' body heat and electrochemical energy and who imprison their minds within an artificial reality known as the Matrix. As a rebel against the machines, Neo must return to the Matrix and confront the agents: super-powerful computer programs devoted to snuffing out Neo and the entire human rebellion."
Said rottentomatoes.com, "What if virtual reality wasn't just for fun, but was being used to imprison you? That's the dilemma that faces mild-mannered computer jockey Thomas Anderson (Keanu Reeves) in The Matrix. It's the year 1999, and Anderson (hacker alias: Neo) works in a cubicle, manning a computer and doing a little hacking on the side. It's through this latter activity that Thomas makes the acquaintance of Morpheus (Laurence Fishburne), who has some interesting news for Mr. Anderson -- none of what's going on around him is real. The year is actually closer to 2199, and it seems Thomas, like most people, is a victim of The Matrix, a massive artificial intelligence system that has tapped into people's minds and created the illusion of a real world, while using their brains and bodies for energy, tossing them away like spent batteries when they're through. Morpheus, however, is convinced Neo is "The One" who can crack open The Matrix and bring his people to both physical and psychological freedom."
Whether AI is instituted as our global Overlord, while Rothschild Zionists, Jesuits, and Masons ‘boldly go where no one has gone before’ to explore and colonize the Cosmos as well as interdimensional realms they’ve breached, is now at stake in our collective future. They have fouled Mother Earth, the nest of humankind, and presume the right to do likewise elsewhere, for they are the Klingon, Romulan, Ferengi, Breen, Cardassian, Borg evil empire.
Former U.S. Secretary of State and National Security Advisor 94-year-old Henry Kissinger slowly walked alone through public access areas of the White House. He stopped at an old oil painting on the wall, spotted and reached for a letter in plain sight, hand-written by President Richard Nixon to the American people about a being under U.S. protection for over 20 years, who warned Earth about interdimensional chaos wrought by splitting atoms, while providing free energy and other alien advanced technologies. A 1973 Nobel Peace Prize laureate, accused by many as an Indochina war criminal, as well as President Barack Obama's biggest boss until We the People of the United States, pocketed the letter and shuffled off to destroy it.
An influential unnamed cadre of professional warriors spanning all U.S. armed services knew well their oath, "I, (NAME), do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."
With excessive powers invested in it by Congress, the executive branch tended to overreach its authority and the Israeli government miscalculated yet again. It had happened before that orders from the top were countermanded because they violated parts of that military oath. These guardians of our frontier and freedom swiftly put a stop to the unfolding plot, but an unholy mess remained to unravel and repair.
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2019.07.29 22:47 MarleyEngvall terezin has been created

By Henry Cuyler Bunner THE STORY OF A NEW YORK HOUSE (vi.) V It is to be said for society that there was very little chuckling and smiling when this fresh piece of news about the Dolphs came out. Nor did the news pass from house to house like wildfire. It rather leaked out here and there, percolating through barriers of friendly silence, slipping from discreet lips and repeated in anxious con- fidence, with all manner of qualifications and hopeful suppositions and suggestions. As a matter of fact, people never really knew just what Eustace Dolph had done, or how far his wrongdoing had carried him. All that was ever positively known was that the boy had got into trouble down-town, and had gone to Europe. The exact nature of the trouble could only be conjectured. The very brokers who had been the instruments of young Dolph's ruin were not able to separate his authorized speculations from those which were illegitimate. They could do no more than guess, from what they knew of Van Riper's conservative method of investment, that the young man's unfortu- nate purchases were made for himself, and they figured these at fifty- five thousand odd hundred dollars. Somebody, who looked up the deed which Jacob Dolph executed that winter day, found that he had transferred to Van Riper real estate of more than that value. No word ever came from the cold lips of Abram Van Riper's son; and his office was a piece of all but perfect machinery, which dared not creak when he commanded silence. And no one save Van Riper and Dolph, and their two lawyers, knew the whole truth. Dolph never spoke about it to his wife, after that first night. It was these five peo- ple only who knew that Mr. Jacob Dolph had parted with the last bit of real estate that he owned, outside of his own home, and they knew that his other property was of a doubtful sort, that could yield at the best only a very limited income——hardly enough for a man who lived in so great a house, and whose doors were open to all his friends nine months in the year. Yet he stayed there, and grew old with an age which the years have not among their gifts. When his little girl was large enough to sit upon his knee, her small hands clutched at the snowy-white mus- tache, and she complained that his great, dark, hollow eyes never would look "right into hers, away down deep." Yet he loved her, and talked more to her perhaps than to any one else, not even excepting Aline. But he never spoke to her of the elder brother whom she could not remember. It was her mother who whispered something of the story to her, and told her not to let papa know that she knew of it, for it would grieve him. Aline herself knew nothing about the boy save that he lived, and lived a criminal. Jacob himself could only have told her that their son was a wandering adventurer, known as a black- leg and a sharper in every town in Europe. The doors of the great house were closed to all the world, or opened only for some old friends, who went away very soon out of the presence of a sadness beyond all solace of words, or kindly look, or hand-clasp. And so, in something that only the grace of their gentle lives relieved from absolute poverty, those three dwelt in the old house, and let the world slip by them. • • • • • • • • There was no sleep for any one of the little household in the great house on the night of the 14th of July, 1863. Doors and blinds were closed; only a light shone through the half-open slats at a second- story window, and in that room Aline lay sick, almost unto death, her white hair loosed from its usual dainty neatness, her dark eyes turn- ing with an unmeaning gaze from the face of the little girl at her side to the face of her husband at the foot of her bed. Her hands, wrinkled and small, groped over the coverlet, with nervous twitchings, as every now and then the howls or the pistol-shots of the mob in the streets below them fell on her ear. And at every such movement the lips of the girl b her pillow twitched in piteous sympathy. About half-past twelve there was sharp firing in volleys to the southward of them, that threw the half-conscious sufferer into an agony of super- sensitive disturbance. Then there came a silence that seemed un- naturally deep, yet it was only the silence of a summer night in the deserted city streets. Through it they heard, sharp and sudden, with something inex- plicably fearful about it, the patter of running feet. They had heard that sound often enough that night and the night before; but these feet stopped at their own door, and came up the steps, and the runner beat and pounded on the heavy panels. Father and child looked in each other's eyes, and then Jacob Dolph left his post at the foot of the bed, and, passing out of the room, went down the stairs with deliberate tread, and opened the door. A negro's face, almost gray in its mad fear, stared into his with a desperate appeal which the lips could not utter. Dolph drew the man in, and shut the door behind him. The negro leaned, trembling and exhausted, against the wall. "I knowed you'd take me in, Mist' Dolph," he panted; "I'm feared they seen me, though——they was mighty clost behind." They were close behind him, indeed. In half a minute the roar of the mob filled the street with one terrible howl and shriek of animal rage, heard above the tramp of a half a thousand feet; and the beasts of disorder, gathered from all the city's holes and dens of crime, wild for rapine and outrage, burst upon them, sweeping up the steps, hammering at the great door, crying for the blood of the help- less and the innocent. Foreign faces, almost all; Irish, mostly; but there were heavy, ignorant German types of features uplifted under the gas-light, sallow, black-mustached Magyar faces; thin, acute, French faces——all with the stamp of old-world ignorance and vice upon them. The door opened, and the white-haired old gentleman, erect, haughty, with brightening eyes, faced the leader of the mob——a great fellow, black-bearded, who had a space to himself on the stoop, and swung his broad shoulders from side to side. "Have you got a nigger here?" he began, and then stopped short, for Jacob Dolph was looking upon the face of his son. Vagabond and outcast, he had the vagabond's quick wit, this leader of infuriate crime, and some one good impulse stirred in him of his forfeited gentlehood. He turned savagely upon his follower. "He ain't here!" he roared. "I told you so——I saw him turn the corner." "Shtap an' burrn the bondholder's house!" yelled a man behind. Eustace Dolph turned round with a furious, threatening gesture. "You damned fool!" he thundered; "he's no bondholder——he's one of us. Go on, I tell you! Will you let that nigger get away?" He half drove them down the steps. The old man stepped out, his face aflame under his white hair, his whole frame quivering. "You lie, sir!" he cried; but his voice was drowned in the howl of the mob as it swept around the corner, forgetting all things else in the madness of its hideous chase. When Jacob Dolph returned to his wife's chamber, her feeble gaze was lifted to the ceiling. At the sound of his footsteps she let it fall dimly upon his face. He was thankful that, in that last moment of doubtful quickening, she could not read his eyes; and she passed away, smiling sweetly, one of her white old hands in his, and one in her child's. • • • • • • • • Age takes small account of the immediate flight of time. To the young, a year is a mighty span. Be it a happy or an unhappy year that youth looks forward to, it is a vista that stretches far into the future. And when it is done, this interminable year, and youth, just twelve months older, looks back to the first of it, what a long way off it is! What tremendous progress we have made! How much more we know! How insufficient are the standards by which we measured the world a poor three hundred and sixty-five days back! But age has grown habituated to the fight of time. Years? We have seen so many of them that they make no great impression upon us. What! is it ten years since young Midas first came to the counting room, asking humbly for an entry-clerk's place——he who is now the head of the firm? Bless us! it seems like yesterday. Is it ten years since we first put on that coat? Why, it must be clean out of the fashion by this time. But age does not carry out the thought, and ask if itself be out of fashion. Age knows better. A few wrinkles, a stoop in the back, a certain slowness of pace, do not make a man old at sixty——nor at seventy, neither; for now you come to think of it, the ten years we were speaking of is gone, and it is seventy now, and not sixty. Seventy! Why, 'tis not to be thought of as old age——save when it may be necessary to rebuke the easy arrogance of youth. The time had come to Jacob Dolph when he could not feel that he was growing old. He was old, of course, in one sense. He was sixty-one when the war broke out; and they had not allowed him to form a regiment and go to the front at its head. But what was old for a soldier in active service was not old for a well-preserved civilian. True, he could never be the same man again, now that poor little Aline was gone. True, he was growing more and more disinclined for active exercise, and he regretted he had led so sedentary a life. But though '64 piled itself up on '63, and '65 on top of that, these arbitrary divi- sions of time seemed to him but trivial. Edith was growing old, perhaps; getting to be a great girl, taller than her mother and fairer of complexion, yet not unlike her, he sometimes thought, as she began to manage the affairs of the house, and to go about the great shabby mansion with her mother's keys jingling at her girdle. For the years went on crawling one over the other, and soon it was 1873, and Edith was eighteen years old. One rainy day in this year found Jacob Dolph in Wall Street. Although he himself did not think so, he was an old man to others, and kindly hands such as were to be found even in that infuriate crowd, had helped him up the marble steps of the Sub-Treasury and had given him lodgment on one of the great blocks of marble that dominate the street. From where he stood he could see Wall Street, east and west, and the broad plaza of Broad Street to the south, filled with a compact mass of men, half hidden by a myriad of um- brellas, rain-soaked, black, glinting in the dim light. So might a Roman legion have looked, when each man raised his targum above his head and came shoulder to shoulder with his neighbor for the assault. There was a confused, ant-like movement in the vast crowd, and a dull murmur came from it, rising, in places, into excited shouts. Here and there the fringe of the mass swelled up and swept against the steps of some building, forcing, or trying to force, an entry. Sometimes a narrow stream of men trickled into the half-open door- way; sometimes the great portals closed, and then there was a mad outcry and a low groan, and the foremost on the steps suddenly turned back, and in some strange way slipped through the throng and sped in all directions to bear to hushed or clamorous offices the news that this house or that bank had "suspended payment." "Busted," the panting messengers said to white-faced merchants; and in the slang of the street was conveyed the message of doom. The great panic of 1873 was upon the town——the outcome of long years of unwarranted self-confidence, of selfish extravagance, of conscienceless speculation—— and, as hour after hour passed bay, fortunes were lost in the twinkling of an eye, and the bread was taken out of the mouths of the helpless. After Jacob Dolph had stood for some time, looking down upon the tossing sea of black umbrellas, he saw a narrow lane made through the crowd in the wake of a little party of clerks and porters, bearing aid perhaps to some stricken bank. Slipping down, he followed close behind them. Perhaps the jostling hundreds on the sidewalk were gentle with him, seeing that he was an old man; perhaps the strength of excitement nerved him, for he made his way down the street to the flight of steps leading to the door of a tall white building, and he crowded himself up among the pack that was striving to enter. He had even got so far that he could see the line pouring in above his head, when there was a sudden cessation of motion in the press, and one leaf of the outer iron doors swung forward, meeting the other, already closed to bar the crush, and two green-painted panels stood, impassable, between him and the last of the Dolph fortune. One howl and roar, and the crowd turned back on itself, and swept him with it. In five minutes a thousand offices knew of the greatest failure of the day; and Jacob Dolph was leaning——weak, gasping, dazed——against the side wall of a hallway in William Street, with two stray office-boys staring at him out of their small, round, unsympathetic eyes. Let us not ask what wild temptation led the old man back again to risk all he owned in that hellish game that is played in the narrow street. We may remember this: that he saw his daughter growing to womanhood in that silent and almost deserted house, shouldered now by low tenements and wretched shops and vile drinking-places; that he may have pictured for her a brighter life in that world that had long ago left him behind in his bereaved and disgraced loneliness; that he had had some vision of her young beauty fulfilling its destiny amid sweeter and fairer surroundings. And let us not forget that he knew no other means than these to win the money for which he cared little; which he found absolutely needful. After Jacob Dolph had yielded for the last time to the temptation that had conquered him once before, and had ruined his son's soul; after that final disastrous battle with the gamblers of Wall Street, wherein he lost the last poor remnant of the great Dolph fortune, giving up with it his father's home forever, certain old bread of his father's casting came back to him upon strange waters. Abram Van Riper came to the daughter of the house of Dolph, a little before it became certain that the house must be sold, and told her, in his dry way, that he had to make a business communication to her, for he feared that her father was hardly capable of understanding such matters any longer. She winced a little; but he took a load off her heart when he made his slow, precise explanation. The fact was, he said, that the business transaction between her father and him- self, consequent upon the defalcation of her brother Eustace, had never been closed, in all these seventeen years. (Edith Dolph trem- bled.) It was known at the time that the property transferred by her father rather more than covered the amount of her brother's—— peculation. But her father's extreme sensitiveness had led him to avoid a precise adjustment, and as the property transferred was sub- ject to certain long leases, he, Mr. Van Riper, had thought it best to wait until the property was sold and the account closed, to settle the matter with Mr. Dolph. This had lately been done, and Mr. Van Riper found that, deducting charges, and interest on his money at seven per cent., he had made by the transaction six thousand three hundred and seven dollars. This sum, he thought, properly belonged to Mr. Dolph. And if Miss Dolph would take the counsel of an old friend of her father's, she would leave the sum in charge of the house of Abram Van Riper's Son. The house would invest it at ten per cent.——he stopped and looked at Edith, but she only answered him with innocent eyes of attention——and would pay her six hundred and thirty-seven dollars annually in quarterly payments. It might be of assistance to Mr. Dolph in his present situation. It was of assistance. They lived on it, father and daughter, with such aid as Decorative Art——just introduced to this country——gave in semi-remunerative employment for her deft fingers. Abram Van Riper, when he left the weeping, grateful girl, marched out into the street, turned his face toward what was once Greenwich Village, and said to his soul: "I think that will balance any obligation my father may have put himself under in buying that State Street house too cheap. Now then, old gentlemen, you can lie easy in your grave. The Van Ripers ain't beholden to the Dolphs, that's sure." • • • • • • • • A few years ago——shall we say as many as ten?——there were two small rooms up in a quiet street in Harlem, tenanted by an old gentleman and a young gentlewoman; and in the front room, which was the young woman's room by night, but a sort of parlor or sitting- room in the daytime, the old gentleman stood up, four times a year, to have his collar pulled up, and his necktie set right, and his coat dusted off by a pair of small white hands, so that he might be pre- sentable when he went down town to collect certain moneys due him. They were small rooms, but they were bright and cheerful, being decorated with sketches and studies of an artistic sort, which may have been somewhat crude and uncertain as to treatment, but were certainly pleasant and feminine. Yet few saw them save the young woman and the old man. The most frequent visitor was a young artist from the West, who often escorted Miss Dolph to and from the Art League rooms. His name was Rand; he had studied in Munich; he had a future before him, and was making money on his prospects. He might just as well have lived in luxurious bachelor quarters in the lower part of the city; but, for reasons of his own, he preferred to live in Harlem. Old Mr. Dolph insisted on going regularly every quarter-day to the office of the Van Riper Estate, "to collect," as he said, "the in- terest due him." Four times a year he went down town on the Eighth Avenue cars, where the conductors soon learned to know him by his shiny black broadcloth coat and his snow-white hair. His daughter was always uneasy about these trips; but her father could not be dis- suaded from them. To him they were his one hold on active life——the all-important events of the year. It would have broken his tender old heart to tell him that he could not go to collect his "interest." And so she set his necktie right, and he went. When he got out of the car at Abingdon Square he tottered, in his slow, old way, to a neat structure which combined modern jaunti- ness with old-time solidity, and which was labelled simply: "Office of the Van Riper Estate," and there he told the smilingly indulgent clerk that he had thought he would "take it in cash, this time," and, taking it in cash, went forth. And then he walked down through Greenwich Village into New York city, and into the street where stood the house that his father had built. Thus he had gone to view it four times a year, during every year save the first, since he had given it up. He had seen it go through one stage of decadence after another. First it was rented, by its new owner, to the Jewish pawnbroker, with his numerous family. Good, honest folk they were, who tried to make the house look fine, and the five daughters made the front stoop resplendent of summer evenings. But they had long ago moved up- town. Then is was a cheap boarding-house, and vulgar and flashy men and women swarmed out in the morning and in at eventide. Then it was a lodging-house, and shabby people let themselves out and in at all hours of the day and night. And last of all it had become a tenement-house, and had fallen into line with its neighbors to left and right, and the window-panes were broken, and the curse of misery and poverty and utter degradation had fallen upon it. But still it lifted its grand stone front, still it stood, broad and great, among all the houses in the street. And it was the old man's custom, after he had stood on the opposite sidewalk and gazed at it for a while, to go to a little French café a block to the eastward, and there to take a glass of vermouth gommé——it was a mild drink, and pleasing to an old man. Sometimes he chanced to find some one in this place who would listen to his talk about the old house——he was very grand; but they were decent people who went to that café, and perhaps would go back with him a block and look at it. We would not have talked to chance people in an east-side French café. But then we have never owned such a house, and lost it——and everything else. • • • • • • • • Late one hot summer afternoon young Rand sat in his studio, working enthusiastically on a "composition." A new school of art had invaded New York, and compositions were everything, for the mo- ment, whether they composed anything or nothing. He heard a nervous rattling at his door-knob, and he opened the door. A young woman lifted a sweet, flushed, frightened face to his. "Oh, John," she cried, "father hasn't come home yet, and it's five o'clock, and he left home at nine." John Rand threw off his flannel jacket, and got into his coat. "We'll find him; don't worry, dear," he said. They found him within an hour. The great city, having no further use for the old Dolph house, was crowding it out of existence. With the crashing of falling bricks, and the creaking of the tackle that swung the great beams downward, the old house was crumbling into a gap between two high walls. Already you could see through to where the bright new bricks were piled at the back to build the huge eight-story factory that was to take its place. But it was not to see this demolition that the crowd was gathered, filling the narrow street. It stood, dense, ugly, vulgar, stolidly intent, gazing at the windows of the house opposite——a poor tenement house. As they went up the steps they met the young hospital surgeon, going back to his ambulance. "You his folks?" he inquired. "Sorry to tell you so, but I can't do any good. Sunstroke, I suppose——may have been something else——but it's collapse now, and no mistake. You take charge, sir?" he finished, addressing Rand. Jacob Dolph was lying on his back in the bare front room on the first floor. His daughter fell on her knees by his side, and made as though she would throw her arms around him; but, looking in his face, she saw deathly quiet coming upon him, and she only bent down and kissed him, while her tears wet his brow. Meanwhile a tall Southerner, with hair half way down his neck, and kindly eyes that moved in unison with his broad gestures, was talking to Rand. "I met the ol' gentleman in the French café, neah heah," he said, "and he was jus' honing to have me come up and see his house, seh—— house he used to have. Well, I came right along, an' when we got here, sure 'nough, they's taihin' down that house. Neveh felt so bad in all my life, seh. He wasn't expectin' of it, and I 'lowed 'twuz his old home like, and he was right hahd hit, fo' a fact. He said to me, 'Good-day, seh,' sezee; 'good-day, seh,' he sez too me, an' then he starts across the street, an' first thing I know, he falls down flat on his face, seh. Saw that theah brick an' mortar comin' down, an' fell flat on his face. This hyeh pill-man 'lowed 'twuz sunstroke; but a Southern man like I am don't need to be told what a gentleman's feelings are when he sees his house a-torn down——no, seh. If you ever down oweh way, seh, I'd be right glad———" But Rand had lifted Edith from the floor, for her father would know her no more, and had passed out of this world, unconscious of all the squalor and ruin about him; and the poor girl was sobbing on his shoulder. He was very tender with her, very sorry for her——but he had never known the walls that fell across the way; he was a young man, an artist, with a great future before him, and the world was young to him, and she was to be his wife. Still, looking down, he saw that sweetly calm, listening look, that makes beautiful the faces of the dead, come over the face of Jacob Dolph, as though he, lying there, heard the hammers of the workmen breaking down his father's house, brick by brick——and yet the sound could no longer jar upon his ear or grieve his gentle spirit. 
from The Scribner Treasury : 22 Classic Tales, Copyright 1953, Charles Scribner's Sons, New York pp. 127—138.
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2019.07.27 18:06 Ioei1031 I wrote an Onion-style article for fun (and as a way of venting). I thought it would be appropriate for this subreddit.

Meet the brave Germans who didn't sell Jews to the nazis because "ultimately, it's not my call to make"
Exclusive interview footage from 1942 has resurfaced last Monday. Investigative journalist Georg Hass, who was, at the time, at the very beginning of his career, met several heroic Germans in the streets of Berlin. They all had one thing in common : they believed the systematic killing of Jews was "between them and the government", and, therefore, opted to let the Gestapo come to them naturally instead of selling them for 10 Reichsmark (50USD, adjusted for inflation). Their beautiful message of effortless tolerance will move you to your core.
It's a beautiful day in Berlin. Vera Frauden is smoking at the terrace of a café, her silky blonde hair tied in a neat bun. "You know, ultimately, it's their business if they choose to be Jews. I'm not going to hate them for it. I will even hold the door for one, if I'm in a good mood." Hass nods quietly. "But if the Gestapo finds them, they will get killed, right?" Frauden raises her hands briefly. "I mean, they might. I don't know. It's between them and the Gestapo. Maybe the Gestapo will see they're trying really hard to stop being jewish, and they'll spare them. My Führer works in mysterious ways."
After bidding farewell to Frauden, Hass meets medicine student Alfred Mengele in his living room. "This door, not the other one. Don't open that one", the young man says. His impressive collection of human skulls - "They're fake, it's ivory", he clarifies - only adds to the macabre elegance of his interior. "So, Jews. You wanted to talk about Jews, right?" Hass nods. "I'm glad you're asking. Jews are... Fascinating creatures. I know being Jewish is forbidden in Germany, but I can't help but wonder - what goes on in the brain of a Jew? Do they have a soul, like normal people? And, more importantly, can they change? I have this fascinating machine right here, a creation of mine. It sends radiation directly to your DNA. I have a theory it can take the jewishness right out of the Jew. Say, do you know anyone who would be willing to try it? This invention can change the life of the Jewish people. If it works correctly, the Gestapo won't even have to intervene anymore!"
After refusing a cup of coffee from Mengele for the seventh time, Hass decides to go to his last interview. Local hairdresser Greta Merken is bleaching the hair of a young man. "Stay still, Jonah", she mutters as Hass sits down on a spare stool. "You know", she says, "I'm thinking, maybe, if they just gave up the jewish lifestyle, the Gestapo wouldn't go after them. It's pretty easy to not be jewish. I'm not jewish!" The young man, supposedly Jonah, looks down at his own face in the mirror, as Merken begins applying another layer of bleach. "Just look at Jonah. He's the living proof that being Jewish doesn't mean you have to die an agonizing death. He pays me good money to show him how to live like a true Aryan, and so far, he's pretty happy about it. Aren't you, Jonah?" The young man in the seat blinks, possibly to avoid a drop of bleach rapidly descending toward his eye. "I'm taking him to his first NSDAP reunion after his haircut. He can't wait!"
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2019.07.26 00:35 jaihare New Subreddit

This is the first subreddit I've created. I hope it will be useful.
Feel free to post text, images, discussions, thoughts... anything that has to do with the Hebrew language (old and new).
Welcome to the Hebrew Café's newest way of interaction. We can also be found at:
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