#boxcar joe

[murderballadeer]

who can recommend me some songs that namedrop the great state of maine (or any towns or cities therein) i've been given a challenge for a roadtrip playlist and i have only thought of two songs

[fallout-biggest-irons]

Credit to the creator of the Temple perplexedflower

[delafiseaseses]

Created this Graph of Powder Gangers

I shall also write what this says with some further elaboration under a 'Read More'.

We start at Cooke's Prison Break. At which point the Powder Gangers split into 3 factions: The NCRCF Powder Gang, The Bison Steve Escaped Convicts and The Vault 19 Powder Gang (originally simply 'Cooke's Faction' before reaching Vault 19).

We'll now go over all these factions, starting with the Bison Steve Escaped Convicts.

Leader: Escaped Convict Leader.

Several Unnamed Convicts (both called 'Escaped Convicts' and just 'Convicts')

This faction is unaffiliated with any other Powder Gang and does not have any implied affiliates who use Powder Gang Reputation.

Next we'll go over the Vault 19 Powder Gang

At Vault 19

Leader: Samuel Cooke

Opposition: Philip Lem

Several unnamed members labelled 'Escaped Convicts'

This group does not use Powder Ganger Reputation.

At Whittaker Farmstead

A few unnamed Powder Gangers who use Powder Ganger Reputation.

These gangers are explicitly linked to Samuel Cooke only in a cut note and by proximity to Vault 19.

Now we have the big one. The NCRCF Powder Gang. The main faction of Powder Gangers. All members use Powder Ganger Reputation.

At NCRCF

Leader: Eddie

Second in Command: Scrambler (could also be called 'Main Bodyguard' or maybe 'Enforcer')

"Doctor": Hannigan (6 months training as a medic)

Trader: Carter

Front Door Guard: Dawes

The NCRCF is also home to the unaffiliated non-member ex-inmate Meyers, at one point Meyers would've had his own small group of 'Deputies' if he was put in-charge of Primm (there is still some reference to them in dialogue).

Joe Cobb's Gang, which could also be called Joe Cobb's Crew.

Leader: Joe Cobb

5 other members

A raiding party of the NCRCF. They charge 'tolls' to travelers on I-15, some of Joe Cobb's gang (though Ringo says they attacked without warning).

Boxcars' Crew which could also be called 'The Nipton Crew'

Possible Leader: Boxcars

Other Members: Oliver Swanick, Legion Captives, Legion Crucified

The ill-fated Nipton party. Called 'my crew' by Boxcars. Use Powder Ganger Reputation.

Tricked into a deathtrap by the Legion and corrupt Nipton Mayor Joseph B. Steyn. Oliver runs into Radscorpions and if you save the Captives they run into Ghouls. So, its safe to say that this crew has been disbanded.

Other NCRCF Gangers

The unnamed Gangers found at Powder Ganger Camp North, East and West.

The Gangers around NCRCF (such as on I-15, I don't think the ones currently around the sacked caravan are Joe Cobb's Gang due to their lack of participation in the Goodsprings Raid).

The Primm Powder Ganger Ambushers.

Now for the Chavez Splinter Faction which could also be called 'Chavez' Crew' or the 'Camp North Splinter Faction'.

At Powder Ganger Camp North

Leader: Chavez

3 other members

Chavez refuses to respect Eddie's authority, so Eddie orders him dead. On the the matter of the other members of this splinter faction Eddie says "Chavez is the ringleader. Without him, his crew will fall apart, and I don't give a shit about those guys."

Now we go onto the Unknown Affiliation Powder Gangers who have no direct hints as to which faction they're a part of.

First we have Hawkins, named in-game simply as Powder Ganger he is found dead by Quarry Junction, implied to have killed a Deathclaw before he was killed by them. He was presumably killed a fair bit after the Gangers stormed and claimed Quarry Junctions Dynamite, which means he was either a loner, a member of the NCRCF Faction who went too far north or a member of Vault 19 who went back that direction.

Now we have the Hunter's Farm Powder Gangers

Located in proximity to Whittaker Farmstead and Vault 19, they nevertheless have no content cut or in-game that directly ties them to the Vault 19 Powder Gang and they use Powder Ganger Rep, meaning its possible they're a far-northern NCRCF Crew.

So, yeah, I think that's about everythin'. If I missed anythin' do tell me. I tried t' be very extensive.

[20th-century-railroading]

Westbound Box Cars by Joe McMillan Via Flickr: On April 22, 1964, an A-B-B-A set of F7As and GP7Bs passes under 26th Street in the middle of the Lower Yard, Lubbock, Texas, with a westbound boxcar train––photo by Joe McMillan.

[facelesskiwami]

which of your characters is the best cook?

Wally, since everyone in his family helps in the kitchen so he naturally learned since he was a kid. He makes the best spaghetti ever.

Vi can cook, but it’s mostly comfort foods like grilled cheese and sloppy joes.

Boxcars cooks too but makes things like hot dogs dipped in homemade queso sprinkled with tortilla chips. Or biscuits stuffed with fried chicken that he dips in queso. He likes cheese.

[deepest-dope]

i know ive talked about the vaguely horrifying way the jackals and by extension cave treats peoples dead bodies but also, i think practically living with the great khans for a few years before his life went to shit has effected him somewhat. he'll treat the bodies of people he knows with a lot more respect then anyone else but usually only if he liked them before they died. hes actually a hell of a lot worse if he hated you...nobody is more aware of this then powder gangers actually. post NCRCF i think joe cobb, boxcars, samuel cooke and anyone else who felt like watching saw cave do some seriously fucked up things to guards who hurt him during his incarceration. none of them know for sure what those guards did to deserve being mutilated like that but just from what he did to them they probably do have ideas. of the 3 named i think samuel is the one whod try stop him from mutilating the corpses so severely. a bunch of former prisoners watching cave strip every prison guard, even ones who didnt bother him, and drag their bodies out of the prison and as far as he can safely get on his own and leave them to cook naked in the sun. and then watching him come back inside after leaving the guards to rot, and start looking for fellow prisoners he knew among the dead to drag them into a shady spot to bury them all and mark their graves with personal items (it isnt really meant to be markings, its leaving the useful things in easy reach for those who could make use of them but caves not going to explain his processes for how he treats the dead without being asked)

[byneddiedingo]

Buster Keaton in The General (Buster Keaton and Clyde Bruckman, 1926)

Cast: Buster Keaton, Marion Mack, Glen Cavender, Jim Farley, Frederick Vroom, Charles Smith, Frank Barnes, Joe Keaton, Mike Donlin, Tom Nawn. Screenplay: Buster Keaton, Clyde Bruckman, Al Boasberg, Charles Henry Smith, based on a book by William Pittenger. Cinematography: Bert Haines, Devereaux Jennings.  Art direction: Fred Gabourie. Film editing: Buster Keaton, Sherman Kell. 

The Civil War had been over for 60 years when The General was made, and from the tone of it you might think the South had won. That was, however, the prevailing attitude in Hollywood, and would remain so for perhaps another 40 years. The reason usually given for Hollywood's avoidance of treating the Southern states as what they really were -- i.e., racist traitors -- is a fear of losing the considerable market that the former states of the Confederacy constituted. So The General seems biased toward treating the Confederacy as a genteel homeland full of honorable, self-sacrificing heroes. There's no shying away from waving the Confederate battle flag as there would be today, and the strains of "Dixie" are used to stirring effect even in the score composed for the restored version -- as they would have been in any theatrical showing in the year of its release. Sentimentality about the Southern past held on for so long in large part because Hollywood encouraged it, and it still enables politicians to treat  unsentimental views of history as needlessly “woke.” But The General is a great film despite its wrongheaded view of history, and Keaton is one of the masters of the medium. Every time I watch it I see something new: This time, for example, I was taken with the sequence near the start of the film when Johnnie Gray (Keaton) arrives home with the first of his two loves (his engine, the General) and goes to see the other love, Annabelle Lee (Marion Mack). He is trailed to her house by two small boys, following in single file, and unknown to them Annabelle joins the little procession. Arriving at her door, he knocks, only to notice with a double-take that she's right behind him. They enter her living room, with the two boys following and seating themselves on the couch to observe. Johnnie sees them, pretends that he's leaving, goes to the door, ushers them out first, and then closes the door behind them. It's a simple gag routine of no importance to the plot (we never see the boys again), but it's executed with such straight-faced precision, as if it were being performed to a metronomic beat, that it becomes a small delight. Henri Bergson's theory of comedy is as unreadable as most theories of comedy are, but he makes a point that some things are funny because they show human beings behaving mechanically. Human beings are elastic and unpredictable, and when they turn inelastic and predictable, they can become funny. Almost everything in The General is done with this straight-faced precision, so that we laugh even when Keaton departs from it. Marion Mack proves herself a game performer here, subjected to all sorts of torments from being caught in a bear trap to being tied in a sack and flung into a boxcar to being drenched with water. Throughout it all she remains a ditz, and we often want to throttle her because of it. So when Keaton gives in to the exasperation we are all feeling with her, he does start to throttle her -- and then, endearingly, changes his mind and kisses her.

[bighermie]

Cristina Laila previously reported that Joe Biden exhibited a rare moment of clarity when he called Chinese leader Xi Jinping a dictator while giving a speech at a campaign fundraiser in California. The only problem is during that same speech, the Idiot-in-Chief spilled a few national security secrets.

Breitbart reported that Biden blurted out to attendees what the U.S. intelligence agencies had learned about the Chinese spy balloon incident earlier this year. This reportedly surprised U.S. government officials according to the New York Times which called the information “sensitive.”

“The reason why Xi Jinping got very upset in terms of when I shot that balloon down with two boxcars full of spy equipment in it is he didn’t know it was there,” Biden boasted to approximately 130 Democrat at the fundraising event. “No, I’m serious. That’s what’s a great embarrassment for dictators, when they didn’t know what happened.”

The mentally shot so-called President then revealed the spy balloon was supposed to be tracking military installations in Hawaii and Alaska but was blown off course.

[rustbeltjessie]

Check out this playlist on @8tracks: A million times a day, I try to fail, or fail to try. by matildawhiskey.

1. Jawbreaker - Boxcar 2. The Lawrence Arms - The Ramblin’ Boys of Pleasure 3. American Steel - Mean Streak 4. Dear Landlord - I Live in Hell 5. The Homewreckers - Bad Decisions 6. Ashtray - S.S.B.C. 7. Bridge and Tunnel - Down for My People Like Joe Carroll 8. Good Luck - How to Live Here 9. The Ergs! - Blue 10. The Weakerthans - Night Windows 11. Margot and The Nuclear So & Sos - Love Song for a Schuba’s Bartender 12. AJJ - Scensters 13. Against Me! - Y’all Don’t Wanna Step to Dis 14. Defiance, Ohio - Calling Old Friends 15. Mischief Brew - Punx Win!

[somejerkoff]

I’ve been seeing a lot of misinformation about Goncharov lately, and I wanted to set the record straight about this fascinating piece of Italian/American cinema history. When I first heard about it, I had a hard time believing Scorsese managed to mount this ambitious epic in the same year as his breakthrough with Mean Streets, and the truth is, he did and he didn’t…

So let’s go back to 1972. After a number of acclaimed shorts, a promising feature debut with Who’s That Knocking at My Door?, and some high-profile editing gigs, Scorsese went the way of so many young directors and helmed a low-budget feature, Boxcar Bertha, for Roger Corman’s American International Pictures. Famously, upon screening the film for his friend and proudly independent filmmaker John Cassavetes, Scorsese had a rude awakening when Cassavetes told him, “Marty, you’ve just spent a year of your life making a piece of shit.” Here the seeds of Goncharov were planted.

Hearing these words in the wake of his fellow film brat Francis Ford Coppola’s masterful work on The Godfather, Scorsese knew his next work would be need to be a simultaneously grand and personal vision. He found the inspiration for his intercontinental saga in the Goncharov trilogy of novels. He managed to assemble a stellar cast—Robert De Niro, Harvey Keitel, Cybill Shepherd, John Cazale—who all believed in the script, but unlike Coppola, he did not have a studio budget. Financially, Scorsese blew his meager funds on some bravura set-pieces—an opening at the Kremlin, a Naples marketplace, and an absolutely stunning clock tower sequence—all gave plenty of bang for their buck, but he wasn’t able to thread them together into a narratively satisfying feature.

Scorsese turned to Coppola, who in turn showed the footage to Robert Evans. Evans did not see any way Paramount could release it. He did, however, arrange a gala screening for a number of television executives with the thought that this expansive story would make for a compelling miniseries. This was pre-Roots, however; miniseries were not the phenomenon they would become. No network was willing to spend the money to back the project. (Little did they know that they would be getting future TV stars Lynda Carter and Henry Winkler in small roles.) Dejected, Scorsese set the footage aside and began work on his smaller-scale but just-as-personal Mean Streets.

This was 1973. Flash-forward to the end of the 1970s and Scorsese was in a very different position. His mid-1970s run of features had established him as one of the leading lights in American cinema, but his fortunes fell upon delivering his ambitious and underappreciated flop, New York, New York, in 1977. With his two grandest undertakings of the decade both deemed failures, Scorsese had no desire to attempt to return to the world of Goncharov as a director. This is where Matteo JWHJ 0715 enters the picture, and why so many sources waffle on which filmmakers deserves the director credit.

Anyone who’s watched Scorsese’s documentary My Voyage to Italy knows that he has long been a fan of JWJH 0715’s work. The two felt immediate kinship upon meeting at the Venice Film Festival in 1979. When Scorsese mentioned the shelved Goncharov footage, JWJH 0715 lit up. The two crafted a plan to resurrect the project in one cocaine-fueled night. Scorsese handed him the footage and took on the role of producer as JWJH 0715 completed his vision.

Scorsese’s original film was not enough for the completed feature. Along with sumptuous new footage shot by Vittorio Storraro for JEJH 0715, Scorsese’s friends and collaborators also lent a helping hand. De Niro agreed to film reshoots (though ironically De Niro’s weight gain for Scorsese’s own Raging Bill led to some incongruous continuity changes within scenes), and Shepherd recorded new dialogue. Sadly, John Cazale had passed away, leading to the unfortunate but ultimately poignant decision to kill off Ice Pick Joe. Additionally, Coppola agreed to lend unused footage from The Godfather films and The Conversation to flesh out some of his sequences. This generous gift yielded enough new footage of Al Pacino and Gene Hackman that their performances were added to the picture.

Keitel had limited availability for reshoots, so Scorsese asked Paul Schrader to lend footage from Blue Collar. Schrader declined, stating that the movie would be better off if he had been asked to complete it instead of just providing scraps. In a recent Facebook post, Schrader admitted that these comments came from a place of jealousy—noting how beautifully Scorsese depicted his characters struggling with their sexualities while Scorsese showed no apparent struggles with his own.

For Shepherd’s sequences, they used footage from Peter Bogdanovich’s At Long Last Love, a move that contributed to Goncharov being underseen to this day. Shortly after the premiere of the newly-assembled Goncharov at Cannes in 1982, Bogdanovich claimed that Scorsese took advantage of his grief over Dorothy Stratten’s murder to pressure him into handing over the footage. In a conversation with Henry Jaglom, Orson Welles claimed that this was a “horseshit excuse” and that Bogdanovich told him about the decision well before the tragedy. Nevertheless, Bogdanovich’s belief that the footage was in-bad-faith helped lead to the decades the film spent in legal limbo.

It’s a strange twist of fate that a film that was borne out of Scorsese’s desire to break free from Roger Corman’s style of filmmaking ultimately found itself subjected to some of the same production techniques, particularly the cobbled-together nature, of many of Corman’s features. However, when these cobbled-together pieces happen to be the work of two master filmmakers, incredible performances from some of the best actors of the 1970s, and cinematography contributions from Storraro, Gordon Willis, Bill Butler, and Laszlo Kovacs, it’s no wonder that Goncharov has found a new generation to captivate.

[razorsadness]

River Bridge

     I

Winter, stepping into the night trolley, quarter pint of scotch in pocket...No, not that one. The childhood story—Grandmother reading among her violets a poem about the elevated train slithering its worm down London’s spine. Not that one. I could tell you skeins of train stories, as now through this dense summer night, trees swarming green their canopy over the street of warm lit windows, the train slashes its path through the neighborhood, whirr and pulse, the heart and fuse of distance filling the room, hurtling through countless frames, the scenes—now that curtainless room of young men preening shirtless before their mirrors, now the ward of iron hospital beds. I’ve seen them. By the screen, the white cat swivels her ears to follow the train until it’s lost in glass smashing, the alley voices. Who’s walking tonight? Who’s hungry? The story I keep returning to is the one about walking hungry over that St. Louis railroad bridge. Why that one? Is it the bridge? Bridge linking one riverbank aflame in smokestacks, the slaughterhouses, to the bank where the city’s glittering Andromeda spilled itself before them. Bridge of flying hands and curses, iron bridge and the passage of colliers, boxcars, the gondolas freighting coal, dull sprockets, sleek carriages of lingerie and crystal. Distant, the sceptered city glints, a figment, I could begin. Or once, there was a time, the opening a fairy tale, simple, sinister.

     II

January, its savage tempers & mirthless North wind have iced the iron bridge’s spans. Between flaming riverbanks, the two walk thin as flame, a world refined to fierce purity— lungs blued to filigree, bare ankle, damp sleeve frosted beneath the other’s steadying hand. Stepping tie to tie, the river churned below its suicide babble, the nitrous drowned sopranos, sulfuric moans. Such a grand manner of entry, fareless, in stealth, the city’s lit gateway fuming like midnight’s wild schemes. Should I ask the obvious questions? Such as what was the engine driving the machine of their travel? Oh, fear, that’s familiar. Folly, leavened recklessly with hope. Lights multiply against the sky, the city’s slow Andromeda, a constellation the shape of what they seek, the streets inside of Berlined façades, people breakfasting in mid-air, walls torn down. The squatter’s palace. The rat’s domain, each moment rinsed in benzine, sharpened with amphetamine, the hunger. Alluvial voices hissing beneath them dogs of chaos, escape from the burning city, no time, no time. The river knows the story. The get-out-of-town-fast story. A dizzy trip through the ripped underside of things— that rough fugitive coinage, begged rides, begged meals. Somebody fed us. Somebody said get out of town. Those E. St. Louis backyards sooty with frozen laundry trees. Should I say the Mississippi knows the story of the room left behind, the bad deals? Like a scene playing out in a glass globe I might hold in my palm, I can watch them: oh look at those fools, the cold carving them up to some version of bewildered miracle.

     III

Deep freeze humming the rails, the entrance into the unknown city, the bus station pulsing fluorescent waves across ranks of pay TVs, a quarter a view for those laying over, for those mired in dim rooms, too long alone with themselves. You know how it is. The fact of death starts pearling large in the mind, darkening its banks of offices, ballrooms where you might touch some face you recognize, those staircases that spiral, collapse amidst the body’s mysteries, its harsh betrayals. Or love’s betrayals. Through static, the P.A. spits destinations, frayed galaxies of names—Columbus, Joplin, St. Joe, Points West, Kansas City... How does one thing part from another? Redrawing tendrils & roots, a lopped amputation that leaves this one raving in the street, the other cold, cold... alone in the room after such intensity, the way it would be, me leaving E. so crassly after the crazy journey. I think now I’ve become a character in this, must slip on the coat, these salt-wet shoes, sip the raw whiskey and in the drunken radiance the TVs spill over sleepers’ faces hear the late-night tapdancers, the anthems & jets. Then the station signal’s high bat-cry peeling away to the automated voice, Chicago, Detroit, Points North... After the parting, one from the other, there’s the long reclamation, flood plain, phantom limb. From one form to another: transit.

      IV

Oh, the anarchy of owning nothing but a constellation the shape of what they seek. The get-out-of-town-fast story. No bus fare, and where to go in this steaming plenty, the lit kitchens & parlors glimpsed from the street washed citron by lamplight. Is it the stolen car again in this version, or the abandoned movie palace? I can put them in the theater and show them making love, warm with each other & the begged bottle of scotch & they can sleep in moldering velvets. Stripped bare, sapphired in blue air, she’d be a woman served to the city’s glittering Andromeda. Like the Russian cellist broke in Berlin, the ‘20s, who’d sleep in the opera house, who one delirious night played, naked, his instrument into the shadows, the banked silent seats & rat galleries. And forgot the cold. That would be pretty wouldn’t it? But the theater’s barricaded, and so, it must be, as it always is, the stolen car. Beyond the city it will spirit them into the blizzard, the etherous drifts, until the engine stops & the road erases, trackless. And then she’ll know ice needling the blood to scarlet foliage. But, how to show the calm when she thinks, so this is what it’s like to die, a twisting bolt of black cloth dragged back through stations, the bare dusty rooms, chalk dust & sachet, the river’s voices deep nitrous green. How calm. Pocking snow on the windshield, heavy and damp as the voices of crows in her grandmother’s trees, a cry she mimicked at the back of her throat, harsh and wild. White crows now blessing her eyes. How calm.

     V

When the authorities lifted them away from there, they entered a world of steam, that fallen roadside constellation chromed with coffee urns, galaxies of white plates. Crossing the bridge back, again, the blood’s fierce arterial surge like arias, like alarming camellias scarlet with snow still frosting the ground. Heavy and warm, cups of coffee steamed in our hands, the good bitter coffee. But always, we were aware, hear still, the pulse and singing: I am the stranger coiled on the landing, singing this is the bridge of the flying hands, the mansion of the body. I am the one who scratched at your door, the one who begged rough coinage. This is the blessing & this is a hymnal of wings. Hear the heart’s greedy alluvial choir, a cascading train whirring the tracks: called back, called back from the river.

     VI

Chirring in her throat the white cat stretches on the sill, all ruffled ivory, present-tense, muscular pure. Can one possess a clear vision of oneself in the world? Dominion over all that bewildering wrack? This raised hand against the evening’s towering cream and smoke conjures a flurry of ghost hands, a crowd glimpsed blurred from the hurtling train. Clouds billow & unknot a sudden shower releasing that lavish wet asphalt perfume, the fragrance of countless showers over scores of cities, each one intensely now, now, this sweet wrenched only. From the turbulent river, moments swim unbidden to the surface, others never rise at all, the lost drowned arias, sunken avenues of camphored rooms, the walls with their watery initials. Phantom destinations, the P.A.’s St. Joe, Kansas City, Denver, points beyond the laden plains surging beneath waves of snow, blue perilous mountains, locales in the mind. The cat leaps, again a train, striking this time a smooth oiled chord, as if there might be singing on the other side of the tracks. Some Jordan. That otherness, those secret times, the bridges beneath the surface of a life. Pull on the rough coat and salt-wet shoes. Let the liquor burn your throat. Did I do that? Could that have been me? Those figures crossing the bridge, setting out, always setting out. Voices I must keep listening for in these sharpening leaves, among the stacks and flames, the smoking pillars. Someone fed them. Someone said get out of town.

—Lynda Hull, from The Only World

[fallout-biggest-irons]

Favorite Powder Ganger

[brookstonalmanac]

Birthdays 9.1

Beer Birthdays

John F. Betz Jr. (1856)

William “Billy” Barnes (1864)

Ben Edmunds (1981)

Five Favorite Birthdays

Edgar Rice Burroughs; writer (1875)

Richard Farnsworth; actor (1920)

Joe Jusko; comic book artist, illustrator (1959)

Seiji Ozawa; orchestra conductor (1935)

Art Pepper; jazz saxophonist (1925)

Famous Birthdays

Soshana Afroyim; Austrian painter (1927)

Innokenty Annensky; Russian poet (1855)

Adolphe Appia; Swiss stage design theorist (1862)

Francis William Aston; physicist, chemist (1877)

Archie Bell; soul singer-songwriter and musician (1944)

Blaise Cendrars; Swiss author and poet (1887)

Chicken Boy; Los Angeles icon (1969)

Gene Colan; illustrator (1926)

James John "Gentleman Jim" Corbett; boxer (1866)

Yvonne De Carlo; actor (1922)

Alan Dershowitz; attorney (1938)

Gloria Estefan; pop singer (1957)

Christopher Ferguson; astronaut (1961)

Bruce Foxton; English singer-songwriter and bass player (1955)

Nicholas Garland; English cartoonist (1935)

Al Geiberger; golfer, holds record for lowest round, 59 (1937)

Barry Gibb; pop singer (1946)

Holly Golightly; comic book artist (1964)

Hilda Hänchen; German physicist (1919)

Tim Hardaway; basketball player and coach (1966)

Willem Frederik Hermans; Dutch author, poet, and playwright (1921)

Eleanor Hibbert; English author (1906)

Kin Hubbard; writer (1868)

Engelbert Humperdinck; German composer (1854)

Boney James; saxophonist (1961)

Allen Jones; English sculptor and painter (1937)

Joe Jusko; comic book artist (1959)

Per Kirkeby; Danish painter, sculptor, and poet (1938)

Marshall Lytle; bass player and songwriter (1933)

Rocky Marciano; boxer (1923)

Ludwig Merwart; Austrian artist (1913)

Hilda Rix Nicholas; Australian artist (1884)

Ron O'Neal; actor (1937)

Johann Pachelbel; German composer (1653)

Walter Philip Reuther; labor leader (1907)

Ann Richards; educator and politician (1933)

Othmar Schoeck; Swiss composer (1886)

Leonard Slatkin; orchestra conductor (1944)

Lily Tomlin; comedian, actor (1939)

Conway Twitty; country singer (1933)

Boxcar Willie; country singer (1931)

Zendaya; actress and singer (1996)

[the-invisible-queer]

for the Lucases and co: what was their favorite book as a kid (chapter/ age 7-10 range or young kid book, whichever). or "not a reader", which is also cool.

Kev - Goosebumps

Joe - Maniac McGee

Nick - Redwall series

Frankie - Curious George

Stella - Goodnight, Moon

Macy - Boxcar Children series

Sandy - Loved reading Love You Forever to them

Tom - Stuck to reading them Dr. Suess books and that's how he learned the boys could sing

[readingwithchristie]

Helloooooo all

I just decided to do this as a way to track the vair vair many books I’ll be reading this year. Gonna kick it off soon with a dual summary/response to Louise Rennison’s Angus, Thongs, and Full Frontal Snogging; and It’s Okay, I’m Wearing Really Big Knickers (AKA On The Bright Sode, I’m Now The Girlfriend of a Sex God in the US). I was hit with a giant wave of nostalgia as of late, and to combat that, decided to reread some books I haven’t touched in about a decade. Possibly closer to 2 decades. A lady never reveals her age, but I can for certain say all those partying in your 30s memes are absobloodylutely accurate.

Some responses to look forward to:

Little House on the Prairie series

Little Women

The Bell Jar

Witch Child/Sorceress

And many many more.

Why am I doing this? Well for starters, the nostalgia is a big thing. Secondly, when the ol pandemo aka Rona lockdown happened, I purchased a Kindle and started reading just about everything I could get my hands on to fill up the time. I worked 5 hours a day, 5 days a week, in to work at 6 am, out by 11 am. So I would have a lot of hours to kill, and only some of the could be spent stopping at the grocery store to marvel at how apocalyptic everything was and to see about getting some fresh damn fruit while making a supplies run for my lovely elderly neighbors. Then I would walk to my favorite local brewery, grab a couple to-gos and if I was lucky, it would be about noon by the time I got home. If I was unlucky, it would only be 11:30 and I’d have EVEN MORE TIME TO KILL.

During the entirety of 2020, I read over 200 books. Some of these are just a blur now, unfortunately, but never fear, it’s time for a reread of some, and I started thinking about why I spent so much time reading. I have a huge family, money was/is tight, I had a high reading proficiency (hellllloooo and much love and support to all my fellow gifted and talenteds who were reading at a college level in third grade, we’ll get through), books are plentiful, can be passed around to a family, cable was expensive and let’s face it, my older siblings just wanted to watch MTV.

I’ve ALWAYS read. I once was married to a reallllllll winner of a man from 2014-2015, who thought it was uncool and weird and that reading was dumb and because I was a reader who spent valuable funds on bits of paper, I didn’t reflect the image of “ultimate rockstar party person” that he wanted to exude. He would call me lame when I would want to just hang out and read versus hang out and watch him play guitar terribly, or watch a movie, or watch his friend play a video game. It angered him that I can multitask and tune things out when I wanted to focus on my book. There were a lot of other things but when we broke up, he ripped up a book I had from my late grandpa about Shoeless Joe that Field of Dreams was based on, and I realized how awful he was. Ah, how great is it to look back on poor life choices.

I was also a lonely and strange child, and books gave me something to do, to immerse myself in them. I read my first chapter book at 6, The Boxcar Children. I read wild weird wonderful stories while my parents worked, my older sibs did homework, and also because reading wasn’t something I had to share with my tyrant of a little sister. I had friends, but nothing deep. I would go to the library a couple times a week for books. Overall, I like to think I’m on the path to being a lovely old lady who reads with her cats in front of a cozy fire on a rainy evening. (On a serious note, I do have a boyfriend and he’s wonderful)

Anywhooooooos sorry this is so rambly and odd. I’ve never done anything like this before, so let’s get to it.

I’ll update as soon as I’m finished with It’s Okay, I’m Wearing Really Big Knickers (gotta love double books! It’s 2 books for the price of 1!) with an update.

Until then, pip-pip, toodle oooh.

Xoxo, Christie

P.S. Did anyone else reread the Gossip Girl series and that other spinoff with Jenny Humphrey going to boarding school? I think I may add those to the list. If we start getting into manga, I’ll be screwed financially. Sailor Moon mangas have gotten suuuuuper expensive. Inuyasha as well.

P.P.S. I think I’m going to like this a lot.

[deepest-dope]

The thing about the horrendous ncrcf roomies situation is that they do not could not really hate each other at all or they would not have survived long enough to escape but also that they do not like each other at all. The only circumstances in which Cave Mann, Joe Cobb, Box Cars and Oliver Swanick hangout are being randomly selected to be locked in a cell together via ncr beaurocracy. They just scatter like roaches upon getting out. Joe Cobb had other friends in the prison that he was specifically being separated from and they are who he leaves with and takes to goodsprings. I do not believe boxcar and Oliver went to nipton together I think they both ended up there traveling with different groups. Those 3 were cave had in ncrcf before Samuel Cooke showed up but he would rather try to track down anything left of his old family of jackals then spend another day with any of them. He's still close enough to Cobb that he's willing to give up on ringo when he hears the people of goodsprings helped cave get back 9n his feet after being shot and left for dead by some Vegas rat