Monthly Archives: December 2010


A young man, full of life, vigor, and on the threshold of a promising future in medicine, steps out of his shabby apartment to come face to face with an old man who offers him an inheritance upon the old man’s demise. But, is it what it appears to be, and at what cost will it be to the young man? And at what cost to the old man?

The following story is my favourite from the great H. G. Wells.

“You will not perhaps mind taking my name, taking my position, but would you indeed—willingly—take my years?”, asked the old man of the young student, as he sought to convince the young man to be put into the old man’s will.

In the end the old man gives much more to the young man.




by Herbert George Wells
I set this story down, not expecting it will be believed, but, if
possible, to prepare a way of escape for the next victim. He, perhaps, may
profit by my misfortune. My own case, I know, is hopeless, and I am now in
some measure prepared to meet my fate.

My name is Edward George Eden. I was born at Trentham, in Staffordshire,
my father being employed in the gardens there. I lost my mother when I was
three years old, and my father when I was five, my uncle, George Eden,
then adopting me as his own son. He was a single man, self-educated, and
well-known in Birmingham as an enterprising journalist; he educated me
generously, fired my ambition to succeed in the world, and at his death,
which happened four years ago, left me his entire fortune, a matter of
about five hundred pounds after all outgoing charges were paid. I was then
eighteen. He advised me in his will to expend the money in completing my
education. I had already chosen the profession of medicine, and through
his posthumous generosity and my good fortune in a scholarship
competition, I became a medical student at University College, London. At
the time of the beginning of my story I lodged at 11A University Street in
a little upper room, very shabbily furnished and draughty, overlooking the
back of Shoolbred’s premises. I used this little room both to live in and
sleep in, because I was anxious to eke out my means to the very last

I was taking a pair of shoes to be mended at a shop in the Tottenham Court
Road when I first encountered the little old man with the yellow face,
with whom my life has now become so inextricably entangled. He was
standing on the kerb, and staring at the number on the door in a doubtful
way, as I opened it. His eyes–they were dull grey eyes, and reddish under
the rims–fell to my face, and his countenance immediately assumed an
expression of corrugated amiability.

“You come,” he said, “apt to the moment. I had forgotten the number of
your house. How do you do, Mr. Eden?”

I was a little astonished at his familiar address, for I had never set
eyes on the man before. I was a little annoyed, too, at his catching me
with my boots under my arm. He noticed my lack of cordiality.

“Wonder who the deuce I am, eh? A friend, let me assure you. I have seen
you before, though you haven’t seen me. Is there anywhere where I can talk
to you?”

I hesitated. The shabbiness of my room upstairs was not a matter for every
stranger. “Perhaps,” said I, “we might walk down the street. I’m
unfortunately prevented–” My gesture explained the sentence before I had
spoken it.

“The very thing,” he said, and faced this way, and then that. “The street?
Which way shall we go?” I slipped my boots down in the passage. “Look
here!” he said abruptly; “this business of mine is a rigmarole. Come and
lunch with me, Mr. Eden. I’m an old man, a very old man, and not good at
explanations, and what with my piping voice and the clatter of the

He laid a persuasive skinny hand that trembled a little upon my arm.

I was not so old that an old man might not treat me to a lunch. Yet at the
same time I was not altogether pleased by this abrupt invitation. “I had
rather—-” I began. “But I had rather,” he said, catching me up, “and a
certain civility is surely due to my grey hairs.”

And so I consented, and went with him.

He took me to Blavitiski’s; I had to walk slowly to accommodate myself to
his paces; and over such a lunch as I had never tasted before, he fended
off my leading question, and I took a better note of his appearance. His
clean-shaven face was lean and wrinkled, his shrivelled, lips fell over a
set of false teeth, and his white hair was thin and rather long; he seemed
small to me,–though indeed, most people seemed small to me,–and his
shoulders were rounded and bent. And watching him, I could not help but
observe that he too was taking note of me, running his eyes, with a
curious touch of greed in them, over me, from my broad shoulders to my
suntanned hands, and up to my freckled face again. “And now,” said he, as
we lit our cigarettes, “I must tell you of the business in hand.

“I must tell you, then, that I am an old man, a very old man.” He paused
momentarily. “And it happens that I have money that I must presently be
leaving, and never a child have I to leave it to.” I thought of the
confidence trick, and resolved I would be on the alert for the vestiges of
my five hundred pounds. He proceeded to enlarge on his loneliness, and the
trouble he had to find a proper disposition of his money. “I have weighed
this plan and that plan, charities, institutions, and scholarships, and
libraries, and I have come to this conclusion at last,”–he fixed his eyes
on my face,–“that I will find some young fellow, ambitious, pure-minded,
and poor, healthy in body and healthy in mind, and, in short, make him my
heir, give him all that I have.” He repeated, “Give him all that I have.
So that he will suddenly be lifted out of all the trouble and struggle in
which his sympathies have been educated, to freedom and influence.”

I tried to seem disinterested. With a transparent hypocrisy I said, “And
you want my help, my professional services maybe, to find that person.”

He smiled, and looked at me over his cigarette, and I laughed at his quiet
exposure of my modest pretence.

“What a career such a man might have!” he said. “It fills me with envy to
think how I have accumulated that another man may spend—-

“But there are conditions, of course, burdens to be imposed. He must, for
instance, take my name. You cannot expect everything without some return.
And I must go into all the circumstances of his life before I can accept
him. He _must_ be sound. I must know his heredity, how his parents
and grandparents died, have the strictest inquiries made into his private

This modified my secret congratulations a little.

“And do I understand,” said I, “that I—-”

“Yes,” he said, almost fiercely. “You. _You_.”

I answered never a word. My imagination was dancing wildly, my innate
scepticism was useless to modify its transports. There was not a particle
of gratitude in my mind–I did not know what to say nor how to say it.
“But why me in particular?” I said at last.

He had chanced to hear of me from Professor Haslar; he said, as a
typically sound and sane young man, and he wished, as far as possible, to
leave his money where health and integrity were assured.

That was my first meeting with the little old man. He was mysterious about
himself; he would not give his name yet, he said, and after I had answered
some questions of his, he left me at the Blavitiski portal. I noticed that
he drew a handful of gold coins from his pocket when it came to paying for
the lunch. His insistence upon bodily health was curious. In accordance
with an arrangement we had made I applied that day for a life policy in
the Loyal Insurance Company for a large sum, and I was exhaustively
overhauled by the medical advisers of that company in the subsequent week.
Even that did not satisfy him, and he insisted I must be re-examined by
the great Doctor Henderson.

It was Friday in Whitsun week before he came to a decision. He called me
down, quite late in the evening,–nearly nine it was,–from cramming
chemical equations for my Preliminary Scientific examination. He was
standing in the passage under the feeble gas-lamp, and his face was a
grotesque interplay of shadows. He seemed more bowed than when I had first
seen him, and his cheeks had sunk in a little.

His voice shook with emotion. “Everything is satisfactory, Mr. Eden,” he
said. “Everything is quite, quite satisfactory. And this night of all
nights, you must dine with me and celebrate your–accession.” He was
interrupted by a cough. “You won’t have long to wait, either,” he said,
wiping his handkerchief across his lips, and gripping my hand with his
long bony claw that was disengaged. “Certainly not very long to wait.”

We went into the street and called a cab. I remember every incident of
that drive vividly, the swift, easy motion, the vivid contrast of gas and
oil and electric light, the crowds of people in the streets, the place in
Regent Street to which we went, and the sumptuous dinner we were served
with there. I was disconcerted at first by the well-dressed waiter’s
glances at my rough clothes, bothered by the stones of the olives, but as
the champagne warmed my blood, my confidence revived. At first the old man
talked of himself. He had already told me his name in the cab; he was
Egbert Elvesham, the great philosopher, whose name I had known since I was
a lad at school. It seemed incredible to me that this man, whose
intelligence had so early dominated mine, this great abstraction, should
suddenly realise itself as this decrepit, familiar figure. I daresay every
young fellow who has suddenly fallen among celebrities has felt something
of my disappointment. He told me now of the future that the feeble streams
of his life would presently leave dry for me, houses, copyrights,
investments; I had never suspected that philosophers were so rich. He
watched me drink and eat with a touch of envy. “What a capacity for living
you have!” he said; and then with a sigh, a sigh of relief I could have
thought it, “it will not be long.”

“Ay,” said I, my head swimming now with champagne; “I have a future
perhaps–of a passing agreeable sort, thanks to you. I shall now have the
honour of your name. But you have a past. Such a past as is worth all my

He shook his head and smiled, as I thought, with half sad appreciation of
my flattering admiration. “That future,” he said, “would you in truth
change it?” The waiter came with liqueurs. “You will not perhaps mind
taking my name, taking my position, but would you indeed–willingly–take
my years?”

“With your achievements,” said I gallantly.

He smiled again. “Kummel–both,” he said to the waiter, and turned his
attention to a little paper packet he had taken from his pocket. “This
hour,” said he, “this after-dinner hour is the hour of small things. Here
is a scrap of my unpublished wisdom.” He opened the packet with his
shaking yellow fingers, and showed a little pinkish powder on the paper.
“This,” said he–“well, you must guess what it is. But Kummel–put but a
dash of this powder in it–is Himmel.”

His large greyish eyes watched mine with an inscrutable expression.

It was a bit of a shock to me to find this great teacher gave his mind to
the flavour of liqueurs. However, I feigned an interest in his weakness,
for I was drunk enough for such small sycophancy.

He parted the powder between the little glasses, and, rising suddenly,
with a strange unexpected dignity, held out his hand towards me. I
imitated his action, and the glasses rang. “To a quick succession,” said
he, and raised his glass towards his lips.

“Not that,” I said hastily. “Not that.”

He paused with the liqueur at the level of his chin, and his eyes blazing
into mine.

“To a long life,” said I.

He hesitated. “To a long life,” said he, with a sudden bark of laughter,
and with eyes fixed on one another we tilted the little glasses. His eyes
looked straight into mine, and as I drained the stuff off, I felt a
curiously intense sensation. The first touch of it set my brain in a
furious tumult; I seemed to feel an actual physical stirring in my skull,
and a seething humming filled my ears. I did not notice the flavour in my
mouth, the aroma that filled my throat; I saw only the grey intensity of
his gaze that burnt into mine. The draught, the mental confusion, the
noise and stirring in my head, seemed to last an interminable time.
Curious vague impressions of half-forgotten things danced and vanished on
the edge of my consciousness. At last he broke the spell. With a sudden
explosive sigh he put down his glass.

“Well?” he said.

“It’s glorious,” said I, though I had not tasted the stuff.

My head was spinning. I sat down. My brain was chaos. Then my perception
grew clear and minute as though I saw things in a concave mirror. His
manner seemed to have changed into something nervous and hasty. He pulled
out his watch and grimaced at it. “Eleven-seven! And to-night I must–
Seven-twenty-five. Waterloo! I must go at once.” He called for the bill,
and struggled with his coat. Officious waiters came to our assistance. In
another moment I was wishing him good-bye, over the apron of a cab, and
still with an absurd feeling of minute distinctness, as though–how can I
express it?–I not only saw but _felt_ through an inverted

“That stuff,” he said. He put his hand to his forehead. “I ought not to
have given it to you. It will make your head split to-morrow. Wait a
minute. Here.” He handed me out a little flat thing like a seidlitz-powder.
“Take that in water as you are going to bed. The other thing was a
drug. Not till you’re ready to go to bed, mind. It will clear your head.
That’s all. One more shake–Futurus!”

I gripped his shrivelled claw. “Good-bye,” he said, and by the droop of
his eyelids I judged he too was a little under the influence of that
brain-twisting cordial.

He recollected something else with a start, felt in his breast-pocket, and
produced another packet, this time a cylinder the size and shape of a
shaving-stick. “Here,” said he. “I’d almost forgotten. Don’t open this
until I come to-morrow–but take it now.”

It was so heavy that I wellnigh dropped it. “All ri’!” said I, and he
grinned at me through the cab window as the cabman flicked his horse into
wakefulness. It was a white packet he had given me, with red seals at
either end and along its edge. “If this isn’t money,” said I, “it’s
platinum or lead.”

I stuck it with elaborate care into my pocket, and with a whirling brain
walked home through the Regent Street loiterers and the dark back streets
beyond Portland Road. I remember the sensations of that walk very vividly,
strange as they were. I was still so far myself that I could notice my
strange mental state, and wonder whether this stuff I had had was opium–a
drug beyond my experience. It is hard now to describe the peculiarity of
my mental strangeness–mental doubling vaguely expresses it. As I was
walking up Regent Street I found in my mind a queer persuasion that it
was Waterloo Station, and had an odd impulse to get into the Polytechnic
as a man might get into a train. I put a knuckle in my eye, and it was
Regent Street. How can I express it? You see a skilful actor looking
quietly at you, he pulls a grimace, and lo!–another person. Is it too
extravagant if I tell you that it seemed to me as if Regent Street had,
for the moment, done that? Then, being persuaded it was Regent Street
again, I was oddly muddled about some fantastic reminiscences that cropped
up. “Thirty years ago,” thought I, “it was here that I quarrelled with my
brother.” Then I burst out laughing, to the astonishment and encouragement
of a group of night prowlers. Thirty years ago I did not exist, and never
in my life had I boasted a brother. The stuff was surely liquid folly, for
the poignant regret for that lost brother still clung to me. Along
Portland Road the madness took another turn. I began to recall vanished
shops, and to compare the street with what it used to be. Confused,
troubled thinking is comprehensible enough after the drink I had taken,
but what puzzled me were these curiously vivid phantasm memories that had
crept into my mind, and not only the memories that had crept in, but also
the memories that had slipped out. I stopped opposite Stevens’, the
natural history dealer’s, and cudgelled my brains to think what he had to
do with me. A ‘bus went by, and sounded exactly like the rumbling of a
train. I seemed to be dipping into some dark, remote pit for the
recollection. “Of course,” said I, at last, “he has promised me three
frogs to-morrow. Odd I should have forgotten.”

Do they still show children dissolving views? In those I remember one view
would begin like a faint ghost, and grow and oust another. In just that
way it seemed to me that a ghostly set of new sensations was struggling
with those of my ordinary self.

I went on through Euston Road to Tottenham Court Road, puzzled, and a
little frightened, and scarcely noticed the unusual way I was taking, for
commonly I used to cut through the intervening network of back streets. I
turned into University Street, to discover that I had forgotten my number.
Only by a strong effort did I recall 11A, and even then it seemed to me
that it was a thing some forgotten person had told me. I tried to steady
my mind by recalling the incidents of the dinner, and for the life of me I
could conjure up no picture of my host’s face; I saw him only as a shadowy
outline, as one might see oneself reflected in a window through which one
was looking. In his place, however, I had a curious exterior vision of
myself, sitting at a table, flushed, bright-eyed, and talkative.

“I must take this other powder,” said I. “This is getting impossible.”

I tried the wrong side of the hall for my candle and the matches, and had
a doubt of which landing my room might be on. “I’m drunk,” I said, “that’s
certain,” and blundered needlessly on the staircase to sustain the

At the first glance my room seemed unfamiliar. “What rot!” I said, and
stared about me. I seemed to bring myself back by the effort, and the odd
phantasmal quality passed into the concrete familiar. There was the old
glass still, with my notes on the albumens stuck in the corner of the
frame, my old everyday suit of clothes pitched about the floor. And yet it
was not so real after all. I felt an idiotic persuasion trying to creep
into my mind, as it were, that I was in a railway carriage in a train just
stopping, that I was peering out of the window at some unknown station. I
gripped the bed-rail firmly to reassure myself. “It’s clairvoyance,
perhaps,” I said. “I must write to the Psychical Research Society.”

I put the rouleau on my dressing-table, sat on my bed, and began to take
off my boots. It was as if the picture of my present sensations was
painted over some other picture that was trying to show through. “Curse
it!” said I; “my wits are going, or am I in two places at once?”
Half-undressed, I tossed the powder into a glass and drank it off. It
effervesced, and became a fluorescent amber colour. Before I was in bed
my mind was already tranquillised. I felt the pillow at my cheek, and
thereupon I must have fallen asleep.

* * * * *

I awoke abruptly out of a dream of strange beasts, and found myself lying
on my back. Probably every one knows that dismal, emotional dream from
which one escapes, awake indeed, but strangely cowed. There was a curious
taste in my mouth, a tired feeling in my limbs, a sense of cutaneous
discomfort. I lay with my head motionless on my pillow, expecting that my
feeling of strangeness and terror would pass away, and that I should then
doze off again to sleep. But instead of that, my uncanny sensations
increased. At first I could perceive nothing wrong about me. There was a
faint light in the room, so faint that it was the very next thing to
darkness, and the furniture stood out in it as vague blots of absolute
darkness. I stared with my eyes just over the bedclothes.

It came into my mind that some one had entered the room to rob me of my
rouleau of money, but after lying for some moments, breathing regularly to
simulate sleep, I realised this was mere fancy. Nevertheless, the uneasy
assurance of something wrong kept fast hold of me. With an effort I raised
my head from the pillow, and peered about me at the dark. What it was I
could not conceive. I looked at the dim shapes around me, the greater and
lesser darknesses that indicated curtains, table, fireplace, bookshelves,
and so forth. Then I began to perceive something unfamiliar in the forms
of the darkness. Had the bed turned round? Yonder should be the
bookshelves, and something shrouded and pallid rose there, something that
would not answer to the bookshelves, however I looked at it. It was far
too big to be my shirt thrown on a chair.

Overcoming a childish terror, I threw back the bedclothes and thrust my
leg out of bed. Instead of coming out of my truckle-bed upon the floor, I
found my foot scarcely reached the edge of the mattress. I made another
step, as it were, and sat up on the edge of the bed. By the side of my bed
should be the candle, and the matches upon the broken chair. I put out my
hand and touched–nothing. I waved my hand in the darkness, and it came
against some heavy hanging, soft and thick in texture, which gave a
rustling noise at my touch. I grasped this and pulled it; it appeared to
be a curtain suspended over the head of my bed.

I was now thoroughly awake, and beginning to realise that I was in a
strange room. I was puzzled. I tried to recall the overnight
circumstances, and I found them now, curiously enough, vivid in my memory:
the supper, my reception of the little packages, my wonder whether I was
intoxicated, my slow undressing, the coolness to my flushed face of my
pillow. I felt a sudden distrust. Was that last night, or the night
before? At any rate, this room was strange to me, and I could not imagine
how I had got into it. The dim, pallid outline was growing paler, and I
perceived it was a window, with the dark shape of an oval toilet-glass
against the weak intimation of the dawn that filtered through the blind. I
stood up, and was surprised by a curious feeling of weakness and
unsteadiness. With trembling hands outstretched, I walked slowly towards
the window, getting, nevertheless, a bruise on the knee from a chair by
the way. I fumbled round the glass, which was large, with handsome brass
sconces, to find the blind cord. I could not find any. By chance I took
hold of the tassel, and with the click of a spring the blind ran up.

I found myself looking out upon a scene that was altogether strange to me.
The night was overcast, and through the flocculent grey of the heaped
clouds there filtered a faint half-light of dawn. Just at the edge of the
sky the cloud-canopy had a blood-red rim. Below, everything was dark and
indistinct, dim hills in the distance, a vague mass of buildings running
up into pinnacles, trees like spilt ink, and below the window a tracery of
black bushes and pale grey paths. It was so unfamiliar that for the moment
I thought myself still dreaming. I felt the toilet-table; it appeared to
be made of some polished wood, and was rather elaborately furnished–there
were little cut-glass bottles and a brush upon it. There was also a queer
little object, horse-shoe shape it felt, with smooth, hard projections,
lying in a saucer. I could find no matches nor candlestick.

I turned my eyes to the room again. Now the blind was up, faint spectres
of its furnishing came out of the darkness. There was a huge curtained
bed, and the fireplace at its foot had a large white mantel with something
of the shimmer of marble.

I leant against the toilet-table, shut my eyes and opened them again, and
tried to think. The whole thing was far too real for dreaming. I was
inclined to imagine there was still some hiatus in my memory, as a
consequence of my draught of that strange liqueur; that I had come into my
inheritance perhaps, and suddenly lost my recollection of everything since
my good fortune had been announced. Perhaps if I waited a little, things
would be clearer to me again. Yet my dinner with old Elvesham was now
singularly vivid and recent. The champagne, the observant waiters, the
powder, and the liqueurs–I could have staked my soul it all happened a
few hours ago.

And then occurred a thing so trivial and yet so terrible to me that I
shiver now to think of that moment. I spoke aloud. I said, “How the devil
did I get here?” … _And the voice was not my own_.

It was not my own, it was thin, the articulation was slurred, the
resonance of my facial bones was different. Then, to reassure myself I ran
one hand over the other, and felt loose folds of skin, the bony laxity of
age. “Surely,” I said, in that horrible voice that had somehow established
itself in my throat, “surely this thing is a dream!” Almost as quickly as
if I did it involuntarily, I thrust my fingers into my mouth. My teeth
had gone. My finger-tips ran on the flaccid surface of an even row of
shrivelled gums. I was sick with dismay and disgust.

I felt then a passionate desire to see myself, to realise at once in its
full horror the ghastly change that had come upon me. I tottered to the
mantel, and felt along it for matches. As I did so, a barking cough sprang
up in my throat, and I clutched the thick flannel nightdress I found about
me. There were no matches there, and I suddenly realised that my
extremities were cold. Sniffing and coughing, whimpering a little,
perhaps, I fumbled back to bed. “It is surely a dream,” I whispered to
myself as I clambered back, “surely a dream.” It was a senile repetition.
I pulled the bedclothes over my shoulders, over my ears, I thrust my
withered hand under the pillow, and determined to compose myself to sleep.
Of course it was a dream. In the morning the dream would be over, and I
should wake up strong and vigorous again to my youth and studies. I shut
my eyes, breathed regularly, and, finding myself wakeful, began to count
slowly through the powers of three.

But the thing I desired would not come. I could not get to sleep. And the
persuasion of the inexorable reality of the change that had happened to me
grew steadily. Presently I found myself with my eyes wide open, the powers
of three forgotten, and my skinny fingers upon my shrivelled gums, I was,
indeed, suddenly and abruptly, an old man. I had in some unaccountable
manner fallen through my life and come to old age, in some way I had been
cheated of all the best of my life, of love, of struggle, of strength, and
hope. I grovelled into the pillow and tried to persuade myself that such
hallucination was possible. Imperceptibly, steadily, the dawn grew

At last, despairing of further sleep, I sat up in bed and looked about me.
A chill twilight rendered the whole chamber visible. It was spacious and
well-furnished, better furnished than any room I had ever slept in before.
A candle and matches became dimly visible upon a little pedestal in a
recess. I threw back the bedclothes, and, shivering with the rawness of
the early morning, albeit it was summer-time, I got out and lit the
candle. Then, trembling horribly, so that the extinguisher rattled on its
spike, I tottered to the glass and saw–_Elvesham’s face_! It was
none the less horrible because I had already dimly feared as much. He had
already seemed physically weak and pitiful to me, but seen now, dressed
only in a coarse flannel nightdress, that fell apart and showed the
stringy neck, seen now as my own body, I cannot describe its desolate
decrepitude. The hollow cheeks, the straggling tail of dirty grey hair,
the rheumy bleared eyes, the quivering, shrivelled lips, the lower
displaying a gleam of the pink interior lining, and those horrible dark
gums showing. You who are mind and body together, at your natural years,
cannot imagine what this fiendish imprisonment meant to me. To be young
and full of the desire and energy of youth, and to be caught, and
presently to be crushed in this tottering ruin of a body…

But I wander from the course of my story. For some time I must have been
stunned at this change that had come upon me. It was daylight when I did
so far gather myself together as to think. In some inexplicable way I had
been changed, though how, short of magic, the thing had been done, I could
not say. And as I thought, the diabolical ingenuity of Elvesham came home
to me. It seemed plain to me that as I found myself in his, so he must be
in possession of _my_ body, of my strength, that is, and my future.
But how to prove it? Then, as I thought, the thing became so incredible,
even to me, that my mind reeled, and I had to pinch myself, to feel my
toothless gums, to see myself in the glass, and touch the things about me,
before I could steady myself to face the facts again. Was all life
hallucination? Was I indeed Elvesham, and he me? Had I been dreaming of
Eden overnight? Was there any Eden? But if I was Elvesham, I should
remember where I was on the previous morning, the name of the town in
which I lived, what happened before the dream began. I struggled with my
thoughts. I recalled the queer doubleness of my memories overnight. But
now my mind was clear. Not the ghost of any memories but those proper to
Eden could I raise.

“This way lies insanity!” I cried in my piping voice. I staggered to my
feet, dragged my feeble, heavy limbs to the washhand-stand, and plunged my
grey head into a basin of cold water. Then, towelling myself, I tried
again. It was no good. I felt beyond all question that I was indeed Eden,
not Elvesham. But Eden in Elvesham’s body!

Had I been a man of any other age, I might have given myself up to my fate
as one enchanted. But in these sceptical days miracles do not pass
current. Here was some trick of psychology. What a drug and a steady stare
could do, a drug and a steady stare, or some similar treatment, could
surely undo. Men have lost their memories before. But to exchange memories
as one does umbrellas! I laughed. Alas! not a healthy laugh, but a
wheezing, senile titter. I could have fancied old Elvesham laughing at my
plight, and a gust of petulant anger, unusual to me, swept across my
feelings. I began dressing eagerly in the clothes I found lying about on
the floor, and only realised when I was dressed that it was an evening
suit I had assumed. I opened the wardrobe and found some more ordinary
clothes, a pair of plaid trousers, and an old-fashioned dressing-gown. I
put a venerable smoking-cap on my venerable head, and, coughing a little
from my exertions, tottered out upon the landing.

It was then, perhaps, a quarter to six, and the blinds were closely drawn
and the house quite silent. The landing was a spacious one, a broad,
richly-carpeted staircase went down into the darkness of the hall below,
and before me a door ajar showed me a writing-desk, a revolving bookcase,
the back of a study chair, and a fine array of bound books, shelf upon

“My study,” I mumbled, and walked across the landing. Then at the sound of
my voice a thought struck me, and I went back to the bedroom and put in
the set of false teeth. They slipped in with the ease of old, habit.
“That’s better,” said I, gnashing them, and so returned to the study.

The drawers of the writing-desk were locked. Its revolving top was also
locked. I could see no indications of the keys, and there were none in the
pockets of my trousers. I shuffled back at once to the bedroom, and went
through the dress suit, and afterwards the pockets of all the garments I
could find. I was very eager, and one might have imagined that burglars
had been at work, to see my room when I had done. Not only were there no
keys to be found, but not a coin, nor a scrap of paper–save only the
receipted bill of the overnight dinner.

A curious weariness asserted itself. I sat down and stared at the garments
flung here and there, their pockets turned inside out. My first frenzy had
already flickered out. Every moment I was beginning to realise the immense
intelligence of the plans of my enemy, to see more and more clearly the
hopelessness of my position. With an effort I rose and hurried hobbling
into the study again. On the staircase was a housemaid pulling up the
blinds. She stared, I think, at the expression of my face. I shut the door
of the study behind me, and, seizing a poker, began an attack upon the
desk. That is how they found me. The cover of the desk was split, the lock
smashed, the letters torn out of the pigeon-holes, and tossed about the
room. In my senile rage I had flung about the pens and other such light
stationery, and overturned the ink. Moreover, a large vase upon the mantel
had got broken–I do not know how. I could find no cheque-book, no money,
no indications of the slightest use for the recovery of my body. I was
battering madly at the drawers, when the butler, backed by two
women-servants, intruded upon me.

* * * * *

That simply is the story of my change. No one will believe my frantic
assertions. I am treated as one demented, and even at this moment I am
under restraint. But I am sane, absolutely sane, and to prove it I have
sat down to write this story minutely as the things happened to me. I
appeal to the reader, whether there is any trace of insanity in the style
or method, of the story he has been reading. I am a young man locked away
in an old man’s body. But the clear fact is incredible to everyone.
Naturally I appear demented to those who will not believe this, naturally
I do not know the names of my secretaries, of the doctors who come to see
me, of my servants and neighbours, of this town (wherever it is) where I
find myself. Naturally I lose myself in my own house, and suffer
inconveniences of every sort. Naturally I ask the oddest questions.
Naturally I weep and cry out, and have paroxysms of despair. I have no
money and no cheque-book. The bank will not recognise my signature, for I
suppose that, allowing for the feeble muscles I now have, my handwriting
is still Eden’s. These people about me will not let me go to the bank
personally. It seems, indeed, that there is no bank in this town, and that
I have an account in some part of London. It seems that Elvesham kept the
name of his solicitor secret from all his household. I can ascertain
nothing. Elvesham was, of course, a profound student of mental science,
and all my declarations of the facts of the case merely confirm the theory
that my insanity is the outcome of overmuch brooding upon psychology.
Dreams of the personal identity indeed! Two days ago I was a healthy
youngster, with all life before me; now I am a furious old man, unkempt,
and desperate, and miserable, prowling about a great, luxurious, strange
house, watched, feared, and avoided as a lunatic by everyone about me. And
in London is Elvesham beginning life again in a vigorous body, and with
all the accumulated knowledge and wisdom of threescore and ten. He has
stolen my life.

What has happened I do not clearly know. In the study are volumes of
manuscript notes referring chiefly to the psychology of memory, and parts
of what may be either calculations or ciphers in symbols absolutely
strange to me. In some passages there are indications that he was also
occupied with the philosophy of mathematics. I take it he has transferred
the whole of his memories, the accumulation that makes up his personality,
from this old withered brain of his to mine, and, similarly, that he has
transferred mine to his discarded tenement. Practically, that is, he has
changed bodies. But how such a change may be possible is without the range
of my philosophy. I have been a materialist for all my thinking life, but
here, suddenly, is a clear case of man’s detachability from matter.

One desperate experiment I am about to try. I sit writing here before
putting the matter to issue. This morning, with the help of a table-knife
that I had secreted at breakfast, I succeeded in breaking open a fairly
obvious secret drawer in this wrecked writing-desk. I discovered nothing
save a little green glass phial containing a white powder. Round the neck
of the phial was a label, and thereon was written this one word,
“_Release_.” This may be–is most probably–poison. I can understand
Elvesham placing poison in my way, and I should be sure that it was his
intention so to get rid of the only living witness against him, were it
not for this careful concealment. The man has practically solved the
problem of immortality. Save for the spite of chance, he will live in my
body until it has aged, and then, again, throwing that aside, he will
assume some other victim’s youth and strength. When one remembers his
heartlessness, it is terrible to think of the ever-growing experience
that… How long has he been leaping from body to body?… But I tire of
writing. The powder appears to be soluble in water. The taste is not

* * * * *

There the narrative found upon Mr. Elvesham’s desk ends. His dead body lay
between the desk and the chair. The latter had been pushed back, probably
by his last convulsions. The story was written in pencil and in a crazy
hand, quite unlike his usual minute characters. There remain only two
curious facts to record. Indisputably there was some connection between
Eden and Elvesham, since the whole of Elvesham’s property was bequeathed
to the young man. But he never inherited. When Elvesham committed suicide,
Eden was, strangely enough, already dead. Twenty-four hours before, he had
been knocked down by a cab and killed instantly, at the crowded crossing
at the intersection of Gower Street and Euston Road. So that the only
human being who could have thrown light upon this fantastic narrative is
beyond the reach of questions. Without further comment I leave this
extraordinary matter to the reader’s individual judgment.


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This year is drawing to a close, and what a fitting way to end it concerning racism, sexism, homophobia, Holocaust denial, and many other plagues that still walk the Earth as abominations than to read the SPLC’s end of year Smackdown Awards.  Thanks to the following list by the Southern Poverty Law Center, we are guaranteed a laugh at the stupefying insanity that is  hate.

The Last Word: Hatewatch’s 4th Annual Smackdown Awards

by Mark Potok –> on December 27, 2010

A skirt-chasing neo-Nazi huffs about the sexual mores of “the Jews.” An infamous Fox News personality predicts that one quarter of Americans will be starving come New Year’s Day. A Southern heritage group initiates a festive commemoration of the war that left more Americans dead than any other. A woman who took a walking tour of Auschwitz six decades after the Nazis ran it describes it as a luxurious and friendly work camp. All ’round, it’s been quite a year on the domestic radical right, and our intrepid staffers have had quite a time keeping up with it all. But as we do every year, we’ve hiked up our pants, put on our wading boots, and plunged into the sewers in an effort to bring you a hair-raising assortment of the very worst of the radical right in 2010. Here, with apologies to Keith Olbermann, is a countdown of the list dredged up by Hatewatch’s 4th Annual Smackdown Awards Committee:

10. Black Kettle Award

We thought the relentless womanizing of neo-Nazi and former Klan boss David Duke was so well known, so notorious even in the white supremacist underworld, that he’d never have the effrontery to play the William Bennett of the radical right. After all, even Tom Metzger, a one-time deputy of Duke’s in the Klan, has said, “We used to tell people, ‘When Duke comes to town, make sure your wife is safely locked up and don’t let him near your daughters.” Boy, were we wrong! This November, in a caterpillar-to-butterfly morph from skirt-chasing playboy to moralizing geezer, Duke huffed and piously puffed through a video attacking “the Jews” and their “dominant role” in pornography, with a heavy focus on “Sigmund SCHLOMO Freud” (emphasis his, naturally). Although he’s gonna hate our color scheme, we just have to say it: David Duke is the sexpot calling the kettle black.

9. Most Decisive Solution to Promiscuity Award

We’re mightily sorry, of course, to concentrate so heavily on sex, but the radical right in this country seems absolutely obsessed with the matter. And so we come to the deep thinker Bryan Fischer, the wannabe historian at the virulently anti-gay American Family Association who wrote last May: “Homosexuality gave us Adolph Hitler, and homosexuals in the military gave us the Brown Shirts, the Nazi war machine and 6 million dead Jews.” Around the same time, Fischer came up with a solution to the pressing problem of promiscuity. Citing the biblical story of Phineas, who murdered a couple with a single spear thrust during the sexual act and so won God’s favor, Fischer said that “God is obviously looking for more Phineases in our day,” which is marked once again by “rampant sexual immorality.” But isn’t that a little, well, harsh? Not hardly, sayeth Bryan, who adds with a straight face, “I’m happy to serve humanity by increasing biblical literacy, one passage at a time.”

8. Dumbest Film Critics Award

When the film “Machete” was released last fall, most critics, despite its virtuous-Mexicans-vs.-evil-gringo-vigilantes subplot, recognized it for what it was — Robert Rodriguez’s latest kitschy and ultra-violent exploitation film, spiced up with a few cartoonish references to contemporary political reality. But not the nativist far right, which rose up on its collective hind legs in spluttering, outraged victimhood.’s Alexander Hart howled that the film had an “anti-white, anti-American, treasonous agenda.” The white supremacist Council of Conservative Citizens barked about the “anti-white snuff film.” William Gheen of Americans for Legal Immigration PAC mewed that the film might provoke “massive civil unrest,” in which case he promised to “demand that MACHETE be withdrawn from theaters.” To hound-dog conspiracist Alex Jones, it was a “pro-immigration psy-op” with “an anti-gun message.” Well, not really. As the New York Times’ Stephen Holder, recalling another grim threat identified by the right, wrote: “The only viewers it is likely to upset are the same kind of people who once claimed that the purple Tinky Winky in ‘Teletubbies’ promoted a gay agenda.”

7. Most Misguided Celebrants Award

Most Americans know the Civil War as America’s bloodiest conflict, one that cost the lives of some 620,000 soldiers and 400,000 civilians and ultimately resulted in the laying to waste of the South. But not the Sons of Confederate Veterans (SCV), the Southern heritage organization that has been embroiled in recent years in an internal battle between racial extremists and others. The SCV last August announced that as part of its sesquicentennial commemorations it would “CELEBRATE THE BEGINNING OF THE CONFEDERACY IN MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA” on Feb. 19, 2011, with a parade up historic Dexter Avenue to the Alabama State Capitol. Yes, that’s the very same route taken by civil rights marchers in the famous 1963 Selma-to-Montgomery march, but the SCVers won’t be applauding civil rights. Instead, they’re there to ensure that the Confederacy is “portrayed in the right way.” What that means can be discerned from the fact that the SCV website promoting the event includes an essay from extreme-right Louisiana pastor Steve Wilkins, who wrote in Southern Slavery, As It Was that “[s]lavery as it existed in the South … was a relationship based upon mutual affection and confidence.” Yep, it was pretty nice South in those days. And what’s not to like about slavery?

6. Most Pandering, Useless Law Award

The latest round of baseless attacks on Muslims began last summer with the so-called Ground Zero controversy over an Islamic center proposed for Lower Manhattan, and was fueled by the likes of former House Speaker Newt Gingrich, who likened Muslims to Nazis. From there, it just went downhill. In November, legislators in Oklahoma passed a perfectly useless law meant to pander to the most mindless fearmongers out there — the people who just can’t quit claiming that Islamic “shariah” law is sneaking into the American legal system. In fact, this religious code has only come into play once in the U.S. courts — a misguided New Jersey judge refused to issue a restraining order against a Muslim man who forced his wife to have sex, as shariah law says is a husband’s right — and was immediately overturned on appeal. A whole string of real lawyers and legal scholars, disputing the absurd claims of propaganda mills like the Center for Security Policy, say the law has no point at all. “Talk of shariah law taking root in our country is just a way of stirring up nativist fears,” said our own Richard Cohen, SPLC’s CEO. “It would require throwing out the entire Constitution, including the Bill of Rights.”

5. Most Prurient Suspicions Award

A specter is haunting the far right — the specter of photos of naked conservatives being ogled by the minions of Marxist/fascist/anti-Christ President Barack Obama. All the powers of the nutty extremists have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this specter: from Fox News’ Glenn Beck to various anti-gay propagandists. It began with Beck worrying about the Z Backscatter Van, a mobile scanning device used by law enforcement to peer into parked tractor trailers and the like, and flowered with a Beck follower’s warning that any “Obama regime bureaucrat” could now end up salivating over “dozens of photos” of “you and your family, totally nude.” Then the Obama-wants-to-see-you-naked story morphed into an Obama-wants-to-feel-you-up narrative, with anti-gay activists like Peter LaBarbera of Americans for Truth About Homosexuality warning that gay airport security officers will get “turned on” while patting down travelers of the same sex. The last act came courtesy of Eugene Delgaudio, a slightly mad Virginia county commissioner who concluded in December that new airport search procedures are motivated by the “homosexual agenda,” not terrorism. Delgaudio’s apparently a very brave man, facing down the sex-starved gays and all. “The Homosexual Lobby’s lackeys in the media hate me,” he whines. And about that, at least, Eugene Delgaudio is very likely right.

4. Biggest Scaredy-Cat Doomsayer Award

Ever wonder why Glenn Beck, kind of like House Speaker-Designate John Boehner, always seems to be crying? Maybe it’s because there’s so much scary, scary stuff happening out there — or maybe in there, meaning inside the nightmarish chamber that is Beck’s storm-tossed skull. Last fall, in a classic moment even for the connect-the-dots blackboard conspiracy theorist, the Fox News host warned his radio audience that he’d been talking to certain experts — he refused to identify them, but said they were “our financial advisors … stat-related guys” who are as qualified as a particular former U.S. comptroller general — who had warned him that a quarter of Americans could well be starving come Jan. 1. Then he went on to quote a bizarre little outfit that’s called the National Inflation Association (NIA) and predicts an “upcoming hyperinflationary crisis,” although virtually no serious economist agrees. The NIA says, on the basis of no one knows what, that two pounds of sugar will “soon” run you $62.21; a can of Folger’s coffee will go for $77.71; a Hershey’s chocolate bar will cost $15.50; and so on. Beck checked them out thoroughly, he reports, and has established that they are “credible people.” WAAAAH!!

3. Happiest Concentration Camp Award

That would have to be Auschwitz, which, despite what you may have heard, wasn’t really about Zyklon-B gas chambers, Dr. Josef Mengele’s twin experiments and unbelievable brutality from SS guards — at least if you believe one Caroline Yeager, a woman of apparently leaden stupidity. It seems that Yeager strolled through the Polish facility last year (more than 60 years after it was abandoned by the fleeing Nazis) and she’s pretty sure now that the tour guides, not to mention thousands of historians, witnesses and survivors, aren’t telling the whole story. Indeed, she says the camp where some 1 million Jews were murdered was really about “reform, re-education and rehabilitation.” Locals saw the place as “luxurious,” what with its “attractive red-brick sleeping quarters,” “bunk beds with mattresses,” “flush toilets,” “tree-lined” streets, cultural events, sporting facilities, and more. Yeager’s sleuthing, which also disclosed that SS guards regularly socialized with inmates and even married them after the war, came to us early this year courtesy of The Barnes Review, the infamous Holocaust denial journal. Of course, Yeager did have an attitude even before she went a-touring: She writes on her blog about how she was “drawn to National Socialism as a viable alternative [after] learning about its true nature as opposed to the lies I had been taught.”

2. Unlikeliest Gay Rights Activist Award

So you’re a group of conservative gays and lesbians in a political party that isn’t always too friendly toward you and you’re looking for a speaker. Who you gonna call? Well, if you’re GOProud, an organization that bills itself as representing “gay conservatives and their allies,” the eyebrow-raising choice turned out to be Ann Coulter, the right-wing author and mindless attack dog who indeed did speak to the group’s “Homocon” gathering last September. Yes, that’s the very same Ann Coulter who infamously called then-presidential candidate John Edwards a “faggot,” prompting even reliable right-wingers like columnist Michelle Malkin to rebuke her for giving conservatives a bad name. The same one who described Al Gore as a “total fag.” The gal who implied Bill Clinton was gay and who complained last February that a particular federal education official’s “idea of a good sixth grade field trip is to take the kids to the Tony Awards,” given for excellence in theater. Not a problem, said Christopher Barron, board chairman of GOProud. “The gay left has done their best to take all the fun out of politics.” So if you must bash gays, do it like the woman who once proposed that America “kill [Muslim] leaders and convert them to Christianity,” leavening garden-variety hate medicine with a spoonful of fun “fag” jokes.

1. Sleaziest Defense of Falsehoods Award

As the year began to peter out, the Southern Poverty Law Center’s Intelligence Report released a study that sharply criticized a number of hard-line anti-gay groups on the religious right, saying that more than a dozen would be listed as hate groups early next year. As soon as word got out, Tony Perkins, leader of the Family Research Council (FRC), one of the groups we are listing, was invited to debate me on MSNBC’s “Hardball With Chris Matthews.” When our debate centered in on the FRC’s longstanding and completely false allegation that gay men molest children far more than heterosexuals, Perkins, in the very last moments of the show, asserted: “If you look at the American College of Pediatricians (ACP), they say the research is overwhelming that homosexuality poses a danger to children.” Well, Tony Perkins wasn’t being entirely straight there. In fact, the ACP is a tiny group that broke away from the 60,000-member American Academy of Pediatrics because that group had endorsed gay and lesbian parenting. The whole episode reminded some of us of the Ninth Commandment: “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.”

And that brings us, once again, to the end of this year’s edition of the Smackdown Awards (earlier editions are here, here and here). We wish our readers the very best of the holidays and a joyous and healthy new year. Over the next 12 months, we promise to stay on top of the radical right and its often horrifying denizens, if for no better reason that to once again be able to bring you, next December, the best of the very, very worst of American hate.



Hate Map
Find the hate in your state.

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A hat tip to The Sauda Voice for this fine video by a Black man who is sick and tired of being sick and tired of the venomous way that Black women are devalued, disrespected and soul-murdered on the streets by men who look like men but in reality are not men.

Perry D’s video takes on the so-called men who stand on street corners, who hold up buildings while holding up their pants with one hand, as they harass the Black women and girls who go about their daily lives. As long as men remain silent in the face of abuse against Black women, they too will be as guilty the perpetrators of street sexual harassment, but, Perry D. speaks out in his spoken word how the devastation of sexualized verbal abuse harms and attacks Black women and girls.

“They don’t make men like they used to.”

Truer words were never spoken.


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Here is an update on the case of the Scott sisters, , Gladys and Jamie, who were both given double-life sentences for an alleged robbery of $11.

The governor of Mississippi, Haley Barbour, had not the backbone to either pardon the two sisters or commute their sentences–instead he drop-kicked the decision back into the hands of the Mississippi Department of Corrections by suspending their sentences–an act which neither absolves the sisters of guilt, nor releases them back into the free world. Not only did Barbour weasel out of making a decision, he also had the gall to base his decision on Gladys Scott donating a kidney to her sister,  Jamie Scott,  with one sister’s release contingent upon the other sister donating a kidney to her ailing sister who is receiving dialysis. As the following AJC article addresses, what if the recipient’s body rejects the donor’s kidney? Would both sisters have to face life in prison because of this ultimatum issued by Barbour? Because Barbour had not the guts nor the balls to man up and make a decision that would grant the sisters their freedom, these two women still languish in prison because of Mississippi’s backwards legal system, and Barbour’s spineless capitulation on this case.




5:37 p.m. Thursday, December 30, 2010

The Associated Press

JACKSON, Miss. — A debate is unfolding over an unusual offer from Mississippi’s governor: He will free two sisters imprisoned for an $11 armed robbery, but one woman’s release requires her to donate her kidney to the other.

FILE – This Aug. 21, 2010 file photo released by the Mississippi Department of Corrections shows Jamie Scott, who, along with her sister Gladys Scott, had their life sentences for a 1993 robbery suspended Wednesday, Dec. 29, 2010 by Mississippi Gov. Haley Barbour. The two women were convicted in 1994 for their roles in an armed robbery that netted $11. Barbour said in a news release that 36-year-old Gladys Scott’s release is conditioned on her donating one of her kidneys to her sister, who now requires daily dialysis. (AP Photo/Mississippi Department Of Corrections, File)

FILE – In this Sept. 15, 2010 photograph taken during a march in Jackson, Miss., supporters of Gladys and Jamie Scott call for the release of the two sisters who are serving life sentences for a robbery that netted $11. Mississippi Gov. Haley Barbour on Wednesday, Dec. 29, 2010 suspended the life sentences, but one sister’s release is contingent on her giving a kidney to the other. (AP Photo/Rogelio V. Solis, File)

FILE – This is a June 17, 2010 file photograph released by the Mississippi Department of Corrections of Gladys Scott who, along with her sister Jamie Scott had their life sentences for robbery suspended Wednesday, Dec. 29, 2010 by Mississippi Gov. Haley Barbour. The two women were convicted in 1994 for their roles in an armed robbery that netted $11. Barbour said in a news release that 36-year-old Gladys Scott’s release is conditioned on her donating one of her kidneys to her sister, who now requires daily dialysis. (AP Photo/Mississippi Department Of Corrections)

The condition is alarming some experts, who have raised legal and ethical questions. Among them: If it turns out the sisters aren’t a good tissue match, does that mean the healthy one goes back to jail?

Gov. Haley Barbour’s decision to suspend the life sentences of Jamie and Gladys Scott was applauded by civil rights organizations and the women’s attorney, who have long said the sentences were too harsh for the crime.

The sisters are black, and their case has been a cause celebre in the state’s African-American community.

After 16 years in prison, Jamie Scott, 36, is on daily dialysis, which officials say costs the state about $200,000 a year.

Barbour agreed to release her because of her medical condition, but 38-year-old Gladys Scott’s release order says one of the conditions she must meet is to donate the kidney within one year.

The idea to donate the kidney was Gladys Scott’s and she volunteered to do it in her petition for early release.

National NAACP President and CEO Benjamin Todd Jealous thanked Barbour on Thursday after meeting him at the state capital in Jackson, calling his decision “a shining example” of the way a governor should use the power of clemency.

Others aren’t so sure.

Arthur Caplan, the director of the Center for Bioethics at the University of Pennsylvania, has studied transplants and their legal and ethical ramifications for about 25 years. He said he’s never heard of anything like this.

Even though Gladys Scott proposed the idea in her petition for an early release and volunteered to donate the organ, Caplan said, it is against the law to buy and sell organs or to force people to give one up.

“When you volunteer to give a kidney, you’re usually free and clear to change your mind right up to the last minute,” he said. “When you put a condition on it that you could go back to prison, that’s a pretty powerful incentive.”

So what happens if she decides, minutes from surgery, to back off the donation?

“My understanding is that she’s committed to doing this. This is something that she came up with,” said Barbour’s spokesman, Dan Turner. “This is not an idea the governor’s office brokered. It’s not a quid pro quo.”

What happens if medical testing determines that the two are not compatible for a transplant? Turner said the sisters are a blood-type match, but that tests to determine tissue compatibility still need to be done.

If they don’t match, or if she backs out, will she be heading back to prison?

“All of the ‘What if’ questions are, at this point, purely hypothetical,” Barbour said in a statement from his office late Thursday. “We’ll deal with those situations if they actually happen.”

Legally, there should be no problems since Gladys Scott volunteered to donate the kidney, said George Cochran, a professor at the University of Mississippi School of Law who specializes in constitutional matters.

“You have a constitutional right to body integrity, but when you consent (to donate an organ) you waive that” right, he said.

Other experts said the sisters’ incarceration and their desire for a transplant operation are two separate matters and should not be tied together.

Dr. Michael Shapiro, chief of organ transplants at Hackensack University Medical Center in New Jersey and the chair of the ethics committee at the United Network for Organ Sharing, said the organ transplant should not be a condition of release.

“The simple answer to that is you can’t pay someone for a kidney,” Shapiro said. “If the governor is trading someone 20 years for a kidney, that might potentially violate the valuable consideration clause” in federal regulations.

That clause is meant to prohibit the buying or selling of organs, and Shapiro said the Scott sisters’ situation could violate that rule because it could be construed as trading a thing of value — freedom from prison — for an organ.

Putting conditions on parole, however, is a long-standing practice. And governors granting clemency have sometimes imposed unusual ones, such as requiring people whose sentences are reduced to move elsewhere.

In 1986, South Dakota Gov. Bill Janklow commuted the sentences of 36 criminals, but only on the condition that they leave his state and never come back. In Florida, the governor and members of his cabinet voted in 1994 to reduce a convicted killer’s sentence as long as he agreed to live in Maryland.

Whatever the legal or ethical implications of Barbour’s decision, it thrust him back into the spotlight, after his recent comments in a magazine article about growing up in the segregated South struck some as racially insensitive.

In the article, Barbour explained that the public schools in his hometown of Yazoo City didn’t see the violence that other towns did, and attributed that to the all-white Citizens Council in Mississippi.

Some critics said he glossed over the group’s role in segregation. He later said he wasn’t defending the group.

The Scott sisters’ attorney, Chokwe Lumumba, said people have asked if Barbour, who is mentioned as a potential presidential contender in 2012, suspended their sentences for political reasons.

“My guess is he did,” Lumumba said, but he still said the governor did the right thing.

Mississippi Rep. George Flaggs, an outspoken Democrat in the state legislature and an African-American, scoffed at suggestions that Barbour’s motive was political and said the decision wasn’t an attempt to gloss over the magazine comments.

Flaggs said Barbour suspended the sentences “not only to let this woman out of prison, but to save her life.

“If she doesn’t get a kidney, she’s going to die,” he said.


December 30, 2010 05:37 PM EST


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IN REMEMBRANCE: 12-26-2010

Published: December 19, 2010

René Le Berre, a French entomologist who helped inspire an international
campaign that saved millions of West Africans from the parasitic disease

river blindness, died Dec. 6 in L’Aiguillon-sur-Mer on
France’s western coast. He was 78.

December 20,
International Bank for
Reconstruction and Development, via World Bank
René Le Berre’s efforts helped save millions of West Africans.
The cause was cardiovascular disease complicated by diabetes, said a former
colleague, Dr. Joel
G. Breman
of the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda, Md.
Onchocerciasis, the formal name for river blindness,
had once been a scourge in the fertile river basins of tropical Africa.
Transmitted when black flies living in rapidly running rivers bite a victim
repeatedly, releasing parasitic worms into the body, the disease brings
excruciating itching, creates nodules under the skin and often results in
blindness. Victims can remain infected for 15 years.
The path toward conquering river blindness in Africa began in 1972 at a small
medical clinic in Upper Volta, now Burkina Faso.
Dr. Le Berre (pronounced le-BEAR), who had long been working in West Africa
on insecticide programs to kill black flies, met for three hours at that clinic
with Robert S. McNamara, former secretary of defense in the
Kennedy and Johnson administrations, who was visiting Africa as president of the
World Bank.
Dr. Le Berre, who had contracted a mild form of river blindness in Africa,
spoke halting English, but the photographs he showed to Mr. McNamara told a
gruesome tale. They depicted African youngsters guiding lines of men who had
been blinded, and portrayed river-blindness sufferers with disfiguring nodules.
In September 1973, the World Bank announced plans for a 20-year, $120 million
program to fight river blindness in Africa. It joined with the World Health Organization and other international
agencies to form the Onchocerciasis Control Program.
“To convince someone like Mr. McNamara wasn’t easy when you’re a Frenchman in
the middle of nowhere,” Dr. Le Berre once recalled in a publication of the River
Blindness Foundation, whose operations were assumed by the Carter
in 1996. “But it was a golden opportunity.”
Dr. Le Berre, who had mapped thousands of breeding sites for black flies
during the 1960s, directed aerial attacks on them for the international control
program, deploying small planes and helicopters to spray insecticides.
“It is not a war where you say you will win, it is a kind of guerrilla war,”
he told The Associated Press in 1977, reflecting on the long road to controlling
river blindness.
The focus on combating the disease changed in the 1980s when Merck &
Company in the United States began donating millions of doses of the drug
to Africans in river blindness regions. Ivermectin weakens
the parasitic worms released by the black flies, enabling the body’s natural
defenses to destroy them.
According to the World Health Organization, the control program, which ended
in 2002, protected millions of people in 11 African countries from the effects
of river blindness and enabled cultivation and resettlement in river basins
after villagers terrified of river blindness had fled to less productive
René Le Berre was born in Quimper, France, on March 3, 1932. He graduated
from the University of Rennes, was trained in medical entomology at the Institut
Pasteur in Paris and received a science doctorate from the University of Orsay.
After working in Africa, he continued his disease eradication efforts for the
World Health Organization at its Geneva headquarters.
Dr. Le Berre had been living in retirement at L’Aiguillon-sur-Mer. He is
survived by his wife, Eliane, and a son, François, of Bangkok.
Published: December 19, 2010

J. Michael Hagopian, a survivor of the


Armenian genocide who came to the United States from
Turkey after World War I, studied filmmaking and made a series of documentaries
based on interviews with hundreds of other survivors, died on Dec. 10 at his
home in Thousand Oaks, Calif. He was 97.
December 20,
J. Michael Hagopian
His daughter, Joanne, confirmed the death.
Historians say that as many as 1.5 million Armenians died in orchestrated
killings between 1915 and 1918, amid the chaos of World War I and the
disintegration of the Ottoman Empire. Turkey, which has always denied that
there was a planned genocide, maintains that 300,000 Armenians and at least that
many Turks were killed in civil strife after Armenians, backed by Russia, rose
up against the Ottomans. To this day, uttering the words “Armenian genocide” can
be grounds for prosecution in Turkey.
Mr. Hagopian made 12 documentaries about the genocide. In 1976, “The
Forgotten Genocide,” his sweeping account of the killings, received Emmy
nominations for best documentary writing and production. Since 2000, Mr.
Hagopian’s Armenian Film
, which he started in 1979, has produced three films about
the genocide.
“The River Ran Red” recounts how three waves of
Armenians were forced into the Syrian desert, where most of them died of
starvation. “Germany and the Secret Genocide” posits that German officials
provided cover for the Turks by telling the world that the Armenians had to be
deported for their own safety.
Mr. Hagopian appeared in “Voices From the Lake,” the first film in the
trilogy, about the destruction of his hometown. In the closing scene he says, “I
remember my mother saying, ‘You can kill a people, but their voices will never
die.’ ”
In that film, one survivor, Sam Kadorian, recalls: “The gendarmes came and
picked up all the boys between 5 and 10 years old and threw them in a pile.
After they had all the boys in this pile they started with swords and bayonets
killing us boys, and one of the bayonets just hit me in the right cheek.”
Last April, the University of Southern
California Shoah Foundation Institute
, founded by Steven Spielberg after he directed “Schindler’s List,”
signed an agreement with Mr. Hagopian under which his archive of testimonies of
Armenian genocide survivors and witnesses would be made available for
educational purposes.
Hagop (Jacob) Mikael Hagopian was born in the town of Kharpert on Oct. 20,
1913. One night in June 1915, after his parents heard that Turkish soldiers were
on the way, they hid him in a well behind their home. The soldiers did not come
that night. But when they did several days later, the family was spared because
his father was a physician who had treated local Turks. The Hagopians left
Turkey for the United States in 1922, eventually settling in Fresno, Calif.
Besides his daughter, Mr. Hagopian is survived by his wife, the former
Antoinette Hobden; three sons, Michael, David and William; and five
Mr. Hagopian received bachelor’s and master’s degrees in political science
from the University of California, Berkeley, and a doctorate in
international relations from Harvard. He taught at several universities,
including U.C.L.A. and Oregon State.
Realizing that he could reach more people by producing documentaries, he
started Atlantis Productions in 1952 and began roaming the world, making films
about the cultures of the Middle East, Nigeria, India and American Indians.
In April, after reaching the agreement with the Shoah Foundation Institute,
Mr. Hagopian said: “Victimization and genocide perpetrated and denied in one
part of the world can become the breeding ground for greater crimes against
humanity in another part of the world. It was my responsibility to educate and
inform so that history won’t be repeated.”
Published: December 20, 2010
Steve Landesberg, an actor and comedian with a friendly and often deadpan
manner who was best known for his role on the long-running sitcom “Barney
died in Los Angeles on Monday. He was 74.
December 22,
ABC, via Photofest
Steve Landesberg, right, with Hal Linden on “Barney Miller.”
December 22,
ABC, via Photofest
Steve Landesberg
The cause was colon cancer, his daughter, Elizabeth, said.
On “Barney Miller,” which ran on ABC from 1975 to 1982, Mr. Landesberg played
Sgt. Arthur P. Dietrich, an intellectual detective with a quiet manner who
seemed to have an unrivaled knowledge of practically any topic that arose, much
to the bewilderment of his fellow detectives.
He was also given to odd, unexpected pronouncements. In one 1980 episode he
tells his boss, Captain Miller, played by Hal Linden, that he is working on a
case that dates to 1973. Miller says: “That was seven years ago! Nixon was
president!” Dietrich’s low-key response: “No, he’s got an airtight alibi for
this one.”
Mr. Landesberg received three Emmy Award nominations for that role.
Set in a New York City police station, where most of the action takes place,
“Barney Miller” portrayed a group of wisecracking detectives and the oddball
characters who ended up there. Some police officers said the show represented
the real life of rank-and-file officers better than many television detective
After “Barney Miller” left the air, Mr. Landesberg appeared on “The Golden
Girls,” “Law & Order,” “That ’70s Show” and “Everybody Hates Chris,” among
other shows. He had a recurring role on the short-lived 1998 sitcom “Conrad
Bloom.” Most recently he played Dr. Myron
, a Freudian therapist, in “Head Case,” a comedy on the
Starz cable channel.
In 2008 he played a pediatrician whose patient (played by Jason Segel, the film’s writer and star) is in his 20s
in the hit movie “Forgetting Sarah Marshall.” His other movies include “Wild
Hogs” and “Leader of the Band.” His distinctively dry, deep voice was also heard
in cartoons and commercials.
Stephen Landesberg was born on Nov. 23, 1936, in the Bronx. He began his
career as a stand-up comic in the late 1960s and became known for his off-center
observations and eccentric delivery. He performed in New York comedy clubs
alongside comedians like Freddie Prinze and Jimmie Walker.
Mr. Landesberg appeared on “The Tonight Show” for the first time in 1971 and
several times on “The Dean Martin Show” before landing his first recurring
role, as a Viennese violinist, on the sitcom “Paul Sand in Friends and Lovers,”
in 1974.
Besides his daughter, he is survived by his wife, Nancy Ross Landesberg.
Initial reports of Mr. Landesberg’s death, relying on numerous biographical
sources, said he was 65. In acknowledging that he was actually nine years older,
his daughter said he had provided varying birth dates over the years. “He got
kind of a late start in show business,” she explained, “so he tried to straddle
the generations. He fooled the whole world. People were surprised to think he
was even 65.”
This article has been revised to reflect the following

Correction: December 21, 2010
An earlier version of this article misstated Mr. Landesberg’s age and the
year of his birth. He was 74, not 65, and he was born in 1936, not

Published: December 24, 2010

Just three months after losing her son Peter on Sept. 11, 2001, aboard

United Airlines Flight 175 — the second plane to crash
into the World Trade Center — Sally Goodrich received a diagnosis of ovarian
December 25,
Musadeq Sadeq/Associated
Sally Goodrich in 2005 during her first trip to Afghanistan.
For three years, through chemotherapy, grief for her son and thoughts of
suicide, Ms. Goodrich fought depression and continued to work as a remedial
reading teacher and program coordinator for at-risk children in the North Adams,
Vt., school system.
Then, in August 2004, an e-mail from a friend of Peter’s arrived from Afghanistan. Maj. Rush Filson, a Marine, asked if Ms.
Goodrich and her husband, Donald, could collect school supplies for children in
a village southeast of Kabul.
“That was the beginning,” Ms. Goodrich later told The Boston Globe. “I call it the moment of grace. I
knew Peter would have responded to that e-mail; I knew I had to in his name.
For the first time, I felt Peter’s spirit back in my life.”
That spirit evolved into the Peter M. Goodrich Memorial Foundation, which has since
built one school and helped support two other schools and an orphanage in
Ms. Goodrich died of ovarian cancer on Dec. 18 at her home in Bennington,
Vt., her husband said. She was 65.
“The idea that we could go to Afghanistan — where the Afghan people were
taken advantage of by Al Qaeda, manipulated, and where the planning for our
son’s death took place — and provide an alternative way of looking at the world
was very appealing to us,” Donald Goodrich told The Associated Press.
With donations from friends, neighbors, schoolchildren, local clubs, Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts, the Goodrich Foundation has so far raised
more than $1 million, Mr. Goodrich said.
It has built a school for 500 girls in Logar Province and supported two
smaller schools and an orphanage in Wardak Province. It has also helped exchange
students from Afghanistan attend schools in New England, and some have gone on
to receive scholarships to colleges like Williams, Mount Holyoke and Bates.
Donations came from all sorts of people, Ms. Goodrich told ABC News in 2005.
“We have Jews and Muslims and Christians,” she said. “We have ardent
Republicans and we have Democrats and Red Sox and, I hate to use that word,
Yankees. I’m a Red Sox fan.”
Peter Goodrich was 33 when he died. “As time went on,” Ms. Goodrich said, “I
realized that I had, in fact, this opportunity to use my life to continue his.”
Sarah Wales Donavan, known as Sally, was born in Newton, Mass., on May 12,
She graduated from the University of Vermont in 1967 with a degree in
sociology, and later earned a master’s degree in education from Boston University and another master’s as a reading
specialist from Simmons College.
Besides her husband, Ms. Goodrich is survived by her son, Foster; her
daughter, Kim Trimarchi; three brothers, Peter, Mark and Jed Donavan; and five
In April 2005, to survey construction of the school in Logar Province, Ms.
Goodrich made the first of several trips to Afghanistan. She was greeted,
she said, as the “kind foreign lady.”
“I have regained my sense of trust and hope, and I have seen the best of
human nature,” she said. “I’ve been the most unfortunate of women, but I am now
the most fortunate of women.”
Published: December 24, 2010

Clay Cole, whose dance program

“The Clay Cole
had a loyal following among adolescent television viewers in the
New York area in the 1960s and gave many groups, including the Rolling Stones, early exposure on American television,
died on Saturday at his home on Oak Island, N.C. He was 72.
December 24,
Columbia Pictures, via
Clay Cole in “Twist Around the Clock,” whose star, Chubby
Checker, had unveiled his “Twist” version on Mr. Cole’s show.
The cause was a heart attack, his brother Richard Rucker said.
From 1959 through 1967, Mr. Cole offered teenagers a concentrated dose of
their own culture on his show, which was initially broadcast on Saturday nights
on WNTA (Channel 13). After WNTA’s license was sold to the Educational
Broadcasting Corporation in 1963, the show moved to WPIX (Channel 11), where it
was renamed “Clay Cole’s Diskotek” in October 1965.
Like Dick Clark’s “American Bandstand,” which reached a
national audience, “The Clay Cole Show,” taped before a studio audience,
featured a regular cast of young dancers who moved to the latest Top 10 records
and thrilled to the sight of pop stars lip-synching their hits.
The acts were top drawer. Mr. Cole’s show was one of the first to present
Dion, the Four Seasons, Dionne Warwick, Richie Havens, Simon & Garfunkel, the Doors, Neil Diamond and the Young Rascals, as well as comics
like George Carlin and Richard Pryor. When the British invasion gathered
force, visiting groups like the Who appeared on his show as a matter of course,
often before they took the stage on “The Ed Sullivan Show.”
In June 1964, on their first American tour, the Rolling Stones performed on a
special edition of the show billed as “The Beatles vs. the Rolling Stones,” since it also
featured concert footage of the Beatles fed in from WPIX’s sister station in
Chicago, WGN.
The Stones returned in May 1965, unaware that Mr. Cole, as he later told The
Daily News in New York, had been “appalled at their grubby long hair and grimy
appearance.” In his 2003 memoir “2Stoned,” Andrew Loog Oldham, the group’s
manager, returned the favor. “Clay Cole looked like an electro-shock Anthony Perkins on steroids,” he wrote.
Like Mr. Clark, Mr. Cole chatted with his guest stars. Unlike Mr. Clark, he
got on the floor and danced. Sometimes he performed with his guests or did
comedy skits with Chuck McCann, his announcer and sidekick. In the summer, he
took the show to Palisades Amusement Park in New Jersey, broadcasting six nights
a week. He also made a point of putting black couples on the dance floor, a
policy that kept him in hot water with the station’s executives.
“He was so vivacious,” said Marcia Habib, a dancer on the show and the
president for the last 50 years of the Claymates, Mr. Cole’s fan club. “He was
as excited as the people on the show. He was one of us.”
Albert Franklin Rucker Jr. was born on Jan. 1, 1938, in Youngstown, Ohio, and
grew up in nearby Hubbard. He acted as a child and at 13 was a regular on a
local children’s television show, “The Enchanted Forest.” When his voice
changed, he wangled his way into a job as the host of a teenage dance show,
“Rucker’s Rumpus Room.”
In 1957 he moved to New York and found work as a page at NBC and a production assistant on the quiz show “21.”
After appearing on “Al Rucker and the Seven Teens,” a dance show on WJAR in
Providence, R.I., he was hired by WNTA, where he presided over a succession of
music shows: “Rate the Records,” “Talent Teens,” “Teen Quiz” and “The Record
Wagon.” Worried about the sound of the name Rucker, the station suggested that
he find a new name. A cousin of his father, Clay Cole, obligingly lent his.
When the popularity of “The Record Wagon” moved the station to create a new
one-hour program, “The Clay Cole Show” was born and Mr. Cole found his niche in
teenage heaven.
In 1961 he appeared as himself in the film “Twist Around the Clock,” whose
star, Chubby Checker, had introduced his version of “The Twist” on Mr. Cole’s
show at Palisades Amusement Park.
When WNTA’s license was sold, Mr. Cole was out of a job, but WPIX, keen to
broadcast a teenage dance show, scooped him up. In late 1967, Mr. Cole resigned,
frustrated by constant clashes with the station’s owners and less than thrilled
by the psychedelic music coming to the fore. His final show, broadcast in
December, included performances by Paul Anka, Jay and the Americans, the Tokens
and Bobby Vee.
Mr. Cole later wrote and produced for television and, in 1979, was a host of
“A.M. New York.”
In addition to his brother, of Oak Island, he is survived by another brother,
James Rucker of Murrells Inlet, S.C., and a sister, Tama Rucker of
Published: December 23, 2010

A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty
Hi-Yo, Silver!

December 23,

Radio Museum
Fred Foy in the late 1970s.
Three times a week on the radio, those words, juxtaposed with the galloping
strains of

 Rossini’s “William Tell” overture, captivated generations of midcentury

For a decade, first on the radio and later on television, Fred Foy
was the man who intoned those gallant lines
, among the most evocative
in American broadcasting.
Mr. Foy died on Wednesday, at 89, at his home in Woburn, Mass. The death, of
natural causes, was confirmed by his daughter Nancy Foy.
Mr. Foy was not the first “Lone Ranger” announcer and narrator — the show had
begun in 1933, when he was scarcely more than a boy — but he was the last, and
almost certainly the best known. From the late 1940s, when he joined the radio
show, until the late 1950s, when the TV show went off the air, his was the
resonant voice that heralded thrills, adventure and the swift administration of
frontier justice by that masked man.
“We had no idea we were creating something that would become an American
icon,” Mr. Foy told The Daily News of New York in 2003. “We knew it was good,
but it was a job. You came in at 3, you checked the script, you did the
rehearsal, you made sure the production elements were in place, you went on the
On the radio, Mr. Foy was also the announcer for “The Green Hornet” and
“Sergeant Preston of the Yukon.” On television, he became a staff announcer for
ABC in New York, where his duties included “The Dick Cavett Show.”
A frequent speaker at old-time radio conventions, Mr. Foy was inducted into
the Radio Hall of Fame in 2000.
Frederick William Foy was born in Detroit on March 27, 1921. (He was no
relation to the vaudevillian Eddie Foy Sr. or his Seven Little Foys.) Soon after
graduating from high school, he took a job with WMBC, a local 250-watt radio
station. In 1942 he joined WXYZ in Detroit, the station on which “The Lone
Ranger” originated.
Serving in the Army in World War II, Mr. Foy was an announcer for Armed
Forces Radio in Cairo. After the war he returned to WXYZ. There, beginning in
1948, he narrated “The Lone Ranger” live in the studio.
Mr. Foy remained with the show until it went off the radio in the mid-1950s;
he announced the television version from its inception in 1949 to its demise in
1957. (During the years in which the radio and TV shows overlapped, Mr. Foy was
heard on both.)
He played the part of the Lone Ranger exactly once, when Brace Beemer, who
acted the role on radio, came down with laryngitis.
“I guess I did all right,” Mr. Foy told The Daily News in 2003, “because we
didn’t get any complaints.”
Besides his daughter, Mr. Foy’s survivors include his wife, the former
Frances Bingham, whom he married in 1947; another daughter, Wendy Foy Griffis; a
son, Fritz; and three grandchildren.
Though “The Lone Ranger” enjoyed a prolonged afterlife in television reruns,
Mr. Foy received no extra compensation, because his work was done in the era
before mandatory residuals.
He did not seem to mind, Nancy Foy said on Wednesday. So proud was Mr. Foy of
his association with the show that to the end of his life he recited its
introduction for anyone who asked.



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Is exoplanet evidence lurking in this light curve?
Hunters / Zooniverse

Are You
Smarter Than a Computer?

December 22, 2010 | If you think you can spot evidence
for an extrasolar planet in
this light curve, then a new
“citizen-science” effort wants your help. > read more

Prospects for Comet Elenin?

December 24, 2010 | A newfound
visitor from the solar system’s icy fringe could brighten a millionfold by
mid-September 2011 and become a pretty sight in the predawn sky. > read more

Digital Edition Available

December 23, 2010 | The digital edition
of the February 2011 S&T is now available. > read more

Error in February’s Star Chart

December 23, 2010 | A subtle
layering error in Adobe Illustrator caused the three brightest stars in a chart to be overprinted. > read more


S&T: Lauren Darby

December’s Sky by Eye and Ear!

November 30, 2010 | One of
the grand tales of celestial mythology is playing out overhead during December
evenings. Host: S&T’s Kelly Beatty. (6.5MB MP3 download: running time: 7m
00s) > read more

This Week’s Sky at a Glance

Night-owl view at 3 a.m.!

This Week’s Sky at a Glance

December 24, 2010
| Orion is up after dusk, Sirius makes a fine Christmas Star after dinnertime,
and the waning Moon passes
planets in the early morning. > read more

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White Supremacist Turned FBI Snitch Turner Sentenced For E-Threats

by  Robert Steinback on December 22, 2010
The sentence wasn’t as harsh as he feared, but neo-Nazi blogger and shock-jock radio host Hal Turner will spend 25 months in prison worrying about white racists he believes will be eager to snuff him for having been an FBI informant.
Turner, 48, whose vicious rhetoric was much admired among white supremacists until his FBI connections were revealed three years ago, was convicted Aug. 13 of using his blog to threaten three federal judges. U.S. District Judge Donald E. Walter sentenced Turner to 33 months in prison Tuesday despite the defendant’s impassioned protestations of his innocence. Turner faced a maximum of 10 years in prison and a fine of $250,000. The eight months Turner has already spent in custody will count toward his sentence.
The FBI used Turner to gain information about white supremacists from 2003 through 2007, when the agency decided it was too difficult to manage his volatile rhetoric and ended the relationship. According to the northern New Jersey newspaper The Record, Turner sent an E-mail from prison days before he was sentenced, saying that he expected the “Max Sentence.”
“Frankly,” he wrote, “any sentence they give me other than probation is gonna be a Death Sentence.” He said members of Aryan Brotherhood and Aryan Nations, as well as neo-Nazis and skinheads would target him “because of the work I did against their interests. And if it isn’t one of those groups that kill me, it will be one of the Minority groups who get told I’m some evil racist whatever,” according to The Record.
Turner has maintained that the FBI had issued him a virtual carte blanche to broadcast the things he did – something the agency denies. He called the charges against him “a lie” and accused virtually every person and institution involved in his conviction of corruption and “treachery.” He said his trial could be remembered as “the first Bolshevik show trial” in the United States, according to The Record.
Turner built his reputation as perhaps the most scalding of ultra-right-wing racists in media after starting up his radio show nearly a decade ago. He ranted about such things as a “Portable Nigger Lyncher” machine and slimed those he hated as “savage Negro beasts,” “bull-dyke lesbians,” “faggots” and worse. Turner also relished issuing explicit calls for death for specific reviled targets, even setting up a website called At one point, he boasted that he could inspire “a whole slew of potential Timothy McVeighs. I don’t make bombs,” he added, “I make bombers.”
In June 2006, Turner, outraged by a ruling of a three-judge panel of the 7th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals upholding a ban on handguns in Chicago and Oak Park, Ill., wrote in his blog, “Let me be the first to say this plainly: These judges must die. Their blood will replenish the tree of liberty.” The next day, Turner updated the post to include the names, work addresses, phone numbers and photographs of the three judges, along with a map of their courthouse.
At trial, Turner argued that his rhetoric was merely political hyperbole of the sort that he claimed his FBI handlers had encouraged to entice potentially violent racists to respond to him and, in the process, identify themselves to the Bureau. In two earlier trials, in December 2009 and March 2010, jurors deadlocked, apparently confounded by testimony that left it unclear if Turner was acting at the behest of authorities and whether or how real his threats were.


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IN REMEMBRANCE: 12-19-2010

Published: December 18, 2010

For nearly four years, through scorching summer heat, dust storms and frigid winters, 11,000 residents of the United States were forced to live in barracks, surrounded by barbed-wire fences, guard towers and searchlights at the Heart Mountain Relocation Center in the northwest Wyoming desert.

December 19, 2010    

Damian Dovarganes/Associated Press

Frank Emi in 2000 at the Japanese American National Museum in Los Angeles.

December 19, 2010    

Courtesy of Eric Muller

Mr. Emi in 1944 with George Nozawa, far right, a fellow detainee and resister of government efforts to draft them.

They were among more than 110,000 Japanese-Americans, most from the West Coast, who were herded from their homes to inland detention centers after President Franklin D. Roosevelt, within three months of the attack on Pearl Harbor, issued Executive Order 9066, deeming them threats to national security.

“The military escorted us to the camp with their guns and bayonets, so there really wasn’t much thought about standing up for your rights at that time,” one internee, Frank Emi, later told the Japanese-American oral history project at California State University, Fullerton.

The phrase he heard among the detainees was “Shikata ga nai” — it can’t be helped.

That would change two years later, after the government had begun drafting detainees into the military. Ordered to fight for the country that had imprisoned them, many were defiant, Mr. Emi (pronounced EH-me) among them. At Heart Mountain they formed a committee to organize a protest, arguing that they would serve only after their rights had been fully restored. More than 300 detainees in all 10 detention camps joined their cause.

For Mr. Emi, the mantra became “No more shikata ga nai.”

Mr. Emi, the last surviving leader of the committee, died on Dec. 1 in West Covina, Calif., said his daughter Kathleen Ito. He was 94 and lived in San Gabriel, Calif.

Not all Japanese-Americans were opposed to serving in the military. After the War Department, at the urging of Japanese-American leaders, decided in 1943 to allow detainees to volunteer for an all-Japanese-American unit, many signed up. Their unit, the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, went to Europe under the rallying cry “Go for broke.” The 442nd would become one of the most highly decorated regiments in United States history, earning 9,486 Purple Hearts and 21 Medals of Honor.

But when the government decided to start drafting Japanese-Americans in January 1944, scores of internees saw it as the last straw.

“Many of the internees took the reopening of the draft as an unwarranted test of their patriotism,” Eric Muller, a professor of constitutional law at the University of North Carolina and the author of “Free to Die for Their Country” (2001), said in an interview. “Some young men decided they had had enough. Why should they and their families, who had lost all of their rights and privileges of citizenship, be asked to shoulder its greatest burden?”

Mr. Emi and six other internees at Heart Mountain formed the Fair Play Committee. They held meetings in mess halls, distributed fliers throughout all the camps and sought to initiate a court case to re-establish their rights as citizens.

To those who believed that they were doing harm to Japanese-Americans over all, the resisters became known as the “no-no boys.” Some, particularly those so proud of the volunteers in the 442nd Regiment, called them cowards and traitors. But as far as Mr. Emi was concerned, he told The Los Angeles Times in 1993, “We could either tuck our tails between our legs like a beaten dog or stand up like free men and fight for justice.”

Charged with draft evasion, all of the more than 300 resisters were sentenced to prison terms of approximately three years.

In separate indictments, Mr. Emi and six other leaders of the Fair Play Committee were charged with conspiracy to counsel draft evasion. Four, including Mr. Emi, were sentenced to four years; two received two-year sentences, and the seventh was acquitted. They were sent to the federal penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kan., where they were surrounded by hardened criminals.

“Frank was a black-belt judo expert,” Professor Muller said. “The first thing they did at Leavenworth was stage a judo exhibition in which the little guys threw the big guys. After that nobody bothered them.”

Three months after the war, the convictions of the committee leaders were overturned by a federal appeals court; they were released after serving 18 months. The 300 charged as draft resisters lost their appeal, but on Christmas Eve 1947, President Harry S. Truman pardoned them all.

Frank Seishi Emi was born in Los Angeles on Sept. 23, 1916. His parents owned a food market. When his father was injured in a car accident, Mr. Emi dropped out of college to run the business.

He was married and had one child when Executive Order 9066 was issued. The business and the family home were never recovered after the war. He later worked as a postal clerk.

Besides his daughter, Mr. Emi is survived by his second wife, Itsuko; another daughter, Eileen Tabuchi; a stepdaughter, Rie Nishikawa; a sister, Kaoru Sugita; nine grandchildren; and four great-grandchildren.

For decades, Mr. Emi and other draft resisters faced disapproval from other Japanese-Americans. During the war, the Japanese American Citizens League had called for them to be charged with sedition. But in 2000, at its national convention in Monterey, Calif., the league formally apologized.

And two years later, at a league ceremony honoring the resisters, Senator Daniel K. Inouye, a veteran of the 442nd Regiment and a Medal of Honor recipient, addressed the crowd in a videotaped message.

“Some young men answered the call to military service,” Mr. Inouye said, “and they did so with honor and with great courage. Some young men chose to make their point by resisting the government’s order to report for the draft. They too were honorable and courageous.



Published: December 16, 2010
Blake Edwards, a writer and director who was hailed as a Hollywood master of screwball farces and rude comedies like “Victor/Victoria” and the “Pink Panther” movies, died Wednesday night in Santa Monica, Calif. He was 88.
December 16, 2010    

Mark J. Terrill/Associated Press

The filmmaker Blake Edwards after receiving an honorary Oscar in 2004.
His publicist, Gene Schwam, said the cause was complications of pneumonia. Mr. Edwards’s wife, the actress Julie Andrews, and other family members were at his side at St. John’s Health Center, Mr. Schwam said.
What the critic Pauline Kael once described as Mr. Edwards’s “love of free-for-all lunacy” was flaunted in good movies and bad ones: in box-office hits like “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” (1961) and “The Pink Panther” (1963) — the first of a series of films with Peter Sellers as the bumbling French policeman Inspector Clouseau — and in box-office flops like the musical spy extravaganza “Darling Lili” (1970), starring Ms. Andrews.
“Victor/Victoria” (1982) was Mr. Edwards’s last major success, a farce about a starving singer (Ms. Andrews) who pretends to be a homosexual Polish count who performs as a female impersonator. It brought him his only Academy Award nomination,  for the screenplay, which was adapted from a 1933 German film written and directed by Reinhold Schünzel.
But he was given an honorary award by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences in 2004 for his “extraordinary body of work.” That work spanned more than four decades and included a   Broadway musical, the detective television series “Peter Gunn” and hit films like the comedy “10” and the drama “Days of Wine and Roses,” a portrait of alcoholic despair.
Mr. Edwards had written several zany comic soufflés — among them “Operation Mad Ball” (1957) — when he began directing  his own light and buoyant comedies, including “This Happy Feeling” (1958), “The Perfect Furlough” (1958) and “Operation Petticoat” (1959).  He later darkened his comedy in films in which middle-aged male protagonists — unlucky womanizers, artists at the end of their creative tethers — are just one banana peel away from disaster.
The critic Andrew Sarris wrote in 1968 that Mr. Edwards had gotten “some of his biggest laughs out of jokes that are too gruesome for most horror films.”
In “The Party” (1968), for example, there was a desperate Peter Sellers unable to find a bathroom. In “The Man Who Loved Women” (1983), there was Burt Reynolds staring at the legs of a nurse while dying. And in almost every scene of “S.O.B.” (1981), Mr. Edwards wielded a comic ax dipped in cyanide as he took on a movie industry that had alternately embraced and spurned him.
After a series of critical and box-office failures in the late 1960s and early ’70s, Mr. Edwards spent several years in self-imposed exile in London and Switzerland. He returned to write and direct three more “Pink Panther” movies between 1975 and 1978, followed by the unexpected critical and commercial success of “10” (1979). One of his most personal films, “10,” starred Dudley Moore as a composer whose 42nd birthday causes a whopping midlife crisis and an obsession with a beautiful young woman, played by Bo Derek, whom he considers a perfect 10.
A lifelong depressive, Mr. Edwards told The New York Times in 2001 that at one point his depression was so bad that he became “seriously suicidal.” After deciding that shooting himself would be too messy and drowning too uncertain, he decided to slit his wrists on the beach at Malibu while looking at the ocean. But while he was holding a two-sided razor, his Great Dane started licking his ear, and his retriever, eager for a game of fetch, dropped a ball in his lap. Trying to get the dog to go away, Mr. Edwards threw the ball, dropped the razor and dislocated his shoulder. “So I think to myself,” he said, “this just isn’t a day to commit suicide.”  Trying to retrieve the razor, he stepped on it and ended up in the emergency room.
If that was a shaggy-dog story, it was also the kind of black farce that filled Mr. Edwards’s later films. These movies were often on the far edge of comedy, where sexual pain and sexual pleasure are mixed with politically incorrect stereotypes and a bleak worldview to make audiences laugh and squirm at the same time. In “S.O.B.” a movie director cannot successfully commit suicide but is killed just when his failed movie has been turned into a box-office smash, and an elderly man who has a heart attack on the beach lies dead on the sand for two days, ignored by everyone except his faithful dog.
Blake Edwards was born William Blake Crump on July 26, 1922, in Tulsa, Okla. He became Blake McEdwards when he was 4, after his mother, Lillian, had married Jack McEdwards, an assistant director and movie production manager. Having joined the Coast Guard after high school, Mr. Edwards was seriously injured when, after a night of alcohol-fueled partying, he drunkenly dived into a shallow swimming pool. He spent five months in traction at the Long Beach Naval Hospital.
“That particular mix of pain and pratfall is the trademark of all the great Blake Edwards comedies,” Vanity Fair wrote of his accident and of the comic consequence that Eleanor Roosevelt, who was visiting the hospital, solicitously asked how he had been wounded.
Briefly under contract to 20th Century Fox as an actor, Mr. Edwards played bit parts in more than two dozen movies between 1942 and 1948, usually without screen credit. He was a cadet in “Ten Gentlemen From West Point,” an airman in “Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo” and a soldier in “The Best Years of Our Lives.” In the late 1940s, having switched to writing, he created the “Richard Diamond” radio series, which starred Dick Powell as a lighthearted detective. Mr. Edwards shifted from radio to writing and eventually directing for Mr. Powell’s television anthology series, “Four  Star Playhouse.”
Mr. Edwards created “Peter Gunn” in 1958. A jazz-soaked detective series, it was his first collaboration with the composer Henry Mancini, who would score almost all of Mr. Edwards’s films for the next 30 years. All four of Mr. Mancini’s Oscars were for music written for Blake Edwards movies: the score and the original song “Moon River” (lyrics by Johnny Mercer) from “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”; the title song from “Days of Wine and Roses”  (1962), again with lyrics by Mercer; and the score of “Victor/Victoria,” written with Leslie Bricusse.
Although Mr. Edwards was known for his comedies, “Days of Wine and Roses,” a harrowing drama about an alcoholic couple, was one of his most successful films. Based on a “Playhouse 90” television play by J. P. Miller, it  starred Lee Remick and Jack Lemmon, whom Mr. Edwards often said was his favorite actor. And Mr. Lemmon felt that Mr. Edwards was the right director for the film. As Mr. Edwards recalled in a commentary on a DVD release, Mr. Lemmon had felt that the material was so bleak, it would never have worked  without a director who could inject some humor.
Both men were drinking hard in 1962, Mr. Edwards told The Times in 2001, and although he had stopped drinking by the time the shooting began, “the film had as much to do with it as anything did.”
Mr. Edwards’s string of successful movies ended in the late 1960s. (His attempt at a big-budget slapstick spectacle in 1965, “The Great Race,” with Tony Curtis, had been only a modest box-office success.) So, too, did his first marriage, to the actress Patricia Walker. After their divorce, he married  Ms. Andrews, the Academy Award-winning musical comedy star, in 1969.
At the time, Ms. Andrews’s public image was of the endlessly cheerful governess she had played in “The Sound of Music.” In an interview the couple gave Playboy in 1982, Mr. Edwards recalled how, before he had met Ms. Andrews, he got laughs at a party where people were speculating on the reason for her phenomenal success.
“I can tell you exactly what it is,” he said he told the partygoers. “She has lilacs for pubic hair.”
Ms. Andrews sent Mr. Edwards a lilac bush shortly after they had started dating, she told Playboy,  and their marriage lasted 41 years.
The early 1970s were not kind to either of them. “Darling Lili” was a bloated box-office bomb. And what Mr. Edwards called his first “personal” film, the western “Wild Rovers” (1971), was cut to ribbons by the president of MGM, James Aubrey. Then Mr. Aubrey took over the editing of Mr. Edwards’s next picture, “The Carey Treatment” (1972), before Mr. Edwards had even finished shooting it.
“I felt like an animal who goes off into the weeds and sucks its paw,” Mr. Edwards later told a reporter. Instead he went off to England and Switzerland, where he wrote the screenplays for “S.O.B.” and “Victor/Victoria.”
It was the success of “10” that allowed Mr. Edwards to make those movies. And “10” was his revenge on Mr. Aubrey. “Right after ‘Wild Rovers,’ Aubrey called me into his office and told me he hated a screenplay I’d written and refused to pay me the last moneys due on it,” Mr. Edwards told Playboy. Mr. Edwards said he responded, “You don’t have to pay me, but give me the script back.” That script became “10.”
Audiences and critics turned away from Mr. Edwards’s last films, including “That’s Life!” (1986), with Mr. Lemmon as an architect on the eve of his 60th birthday and Ms. Andrews as his wife, who may or may not have cancer, and “Sunset” (1988), a murder mystery hooked together with an elegiac look at the silent film industry. His final film, released in 1993, was “Son of the Pink Panther,” a poorly received attempt to revive that franchise starring Roberto Benigni.
But he had one last triumph. He wrote and directed a stage version of “Victor/Victoria,” which opened on Broadway in 1995, with Ms. Andrews reprising her movie role, and played for almost two years.  In recent years he had been working on two musicals he hoped to bring to Broadway.
He is survived by  a daughter, Jennifer, and a son, Geoffrey, from his first marriage; two daughters with Ms. Andrews, Amy and Joanna;   a stepdaughter, Emma — Ms. Andrews’s daughter from her marriage to the Broadway designer Tony Walton — and several grandchildren.
If there were scattered disappointments in a long career that by any measure was a smashing success, Mr. Edwards took them in stride, he said. Besides, he once said, “in what business in the world can you have more fun, be creative while you’re having fun, be funny and work at being funny, work really nice hours and get paid a lot of money for doing it?”
But being funny had a larger purpose, he said. “My entire life has been a search for a funny side to that very tough life out there,” he told one  interviewer. “I developed a kind of eye for scenes that made me laugh to take the pain away.”
Published: December 18, 2010
Karen Sortito, a movie-marketing executive who pushed the limits of product tie-ins when she put the world’s most famous Aston Martin driver, James Bond, behind the wheel of a BMW and put him in business with Visa cards, Smirnoff vodka, Heineken beer and even L’Oréal lipstick (“Bond Bordeaux”), died in Manhattan on Monday. She was 49.
December 19, 2010    

Myrna Suarez

Karen Sortito

December 19, 2010    

Mary Evans/Ronald Grant–Everett Collection

Pierce Brosnan as James Bond, with a BMW Z8 in 2002.

The cause was cancer, her sister Diane Ritucci said.

A specialist in what marketers call brand enhancement, Ms. Sortito was at the forefront in a relatively new era of product tie-ins in the movies. (The era is generally acknowledged to have begun in 1982, when the shy, stranded alien in “E.T.” is lured out of hiding with a trail of Reese’s Pieces.) Moving from New York to Los Angeles in the late 1980s, she worked for 20th Century Fox, MGM/UA and other Hollywood film companies, earning a reputation for being a character herself, brash, spikily intelligent and forthright to a fault.

“If she was passionate about something, you didn’t want to be on the other side of the table,” said Tom Sherak, the president of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, who was her boss at Fox and at Revolution Studios. “I once bought her a pair of boxing gloves.”

Ms. Sortito came to prominence in 1995 when, helping to rejuvenate the James Bond franchise for MGM, she created a tie-in for the film “GoldenEye” with BMW, putting a new Bond (Pierce Brosnan) in a new model, the sleek and sporty Z3; sales of the car spiked (Ms. Sortito bought one herself), and the film was No. 1 at the box office its opening week.

For the next Bond film, “Tomorrow Never Dies” in 1997, the studio ordered up a $100 million promotional campaign, and Ms. Sortito engineered product tie-ins with Visa (Mr. Brosnan as Bond appeared in television commercials using a Visa card), L’Oréal, Ericsson cellphones, Heineken, Avis rental cars and Omega watches, in addition to BMW.

The film earned more than $333 million worldwide, but the product-placement saturation campaign was criticized as interfering with the art of filmmaking and cheapening Bond’s image.

“Perhaps the problem is that a lot of these products are kind of pedestrian,” an article in The New York Times, headlined “Agent 007: License to Shill,” suggested in 1997. “Bond and Heineken? Beer cans, unlike martinis, are not supposed to be shaken. Bond and Avis? Avis may boast that ‘We Try Harder,’ but the real Bond makes everything look effortless.”

Ms. Sortito defended the tie-ins. “It’s all cool and hip,” she said at the time. “If this wasn’t creative, we would not be doing it.”

Karen Christine Sortito was born in New Haven on Sept. 8, 1961. Her father, John, worked for the New Haven Parking Authority; her mother, Phyllis, was a bookkeeper. A graduate of Southern Connecticut State University, she worked at the fledgling cable channel MTV, rising to director of marketing and promotion.

Most recently she headed the entertainment division of NYC and Company, the city’s marketing and tourism organization. She created promotions to coincide with the 2007 release of “Spider-Man 3” and a celebration of the 40th anniversary of “Sesame Street” in 2009.

In addition to her sister Diane, of Woodbridge, Conn., Ms. Sortito is survived by her mother, of Branford, Conn., and a second sister, Maria, also of Woodbridge.

Ms. Sortito was never one to shy away from an outlandish idea. She once suggested a Bond tie-in to the lingerie maker Victoria’s Secret, in which an actress would be clad in a diamond-studded bra that also happened to spray nerve gas.

“I thought it was campy,” Ms. Sortito explained to the trade magazine Brandweek. “The filmmakers thought it was crass.”





Published: December 17, 2010

Don Van Vliet, an artist of protean creativity who was known as Captain Beefheart during his days as an influential rock musician and who later led a reclusive life as a painter, died Friday. He was 69 and lived in Trinidad, Calif.

The cause was complications of multiple sclerosis, said Gordon VeneKlasen, a partner at the Michael Werner gallery in New York, where Mr. Van Vliet had shown his art, many of them abstract, colorful oils, since 1985. The gallery said he died in a hospital in Northern California.

Captain Beefheart’s music career stretched from 1966 to 1982, and from straight rhythm and blues by way of the early Rolling Stones to music that sounded like a strange uncle of post-punk. He is probably best known for “Trout Mask Replica,” a double album from 1969 with his Magic Band.

A bolt-from-the-blue collection of precise, careening, surrealist songs with clashing meters, brightly imagistic poetry and raw blues shouting, “Trout Mask Replica” had particular resonance with the punk and new wave generation to come a decade later, influencing bands like Devo, the Residents, Pere Ubu and the Fall.

Mr. Van Vliet’s life story is caked with half-believable tales, some of which he himself spread in Dadaist, elliptical interviews. He claimed he had never read a book and had never been to school, and answered questions with riddles. “We see the moon, don’t we?” he asked in a 1969 interview. “So it’s our eye. Animals see us, don’t they? So we’re their animals.”

The facts, or those most often stated, are that he was born on Jan. 15, 1941, in Glendale, Calif., as Don Vliet. (He added the “Van” in 1965.) His father, Glen, drove a bakery truck.

Don demonstrated artistic talent before the age of 10, especially in sculpture, and at 13 was offered a scholarship to study sculpture in Europe, but his parents forbade him. Concurrently, they moved to the Mojave Desert town of Lancaster, where one of Don’s high school friends was Frank Zappa.

His adopted vocal style came partly from Howlin’ Wolf: a deep, rough-riding moan turned up into swooped falsettos at the end of lines, pinched and bellowing and sounding as if it caused pain.

“When it comes to capturing the feeling of archaic, Delta-style blues,” Robert Palmer of The New York Times wrote in 1982, “he is the only white performer who really gets it right.”

He enrolled at Antelope Valley Junior College to study art in 1959 but dropped out after one semester. By the early 1960s he had started spending time in Cucamonga, Calif., in Zappa’s studio. The two men worked on what was perhaps the first rock opera (still unperformed and unpublished), “I Was a Teenage Maltshop,” and built sets and wrote some of the script for a film to be titled “Captain Beefheart vs. the Grunt People.”

The origins of Mr. Van Vliet’s stage name are unclear, but he told interviewers later in life that he used it because he had “a beef in my heart against this society.”

By 1965 a quintet called Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band (the “his” was later changed to “the”) was born. By the end of the year the band was playing at teenage fairs and car-club dances around Lancaster and signed by A&M Records to record two singles.

The guitarist Ry Cooder, then a young blues fanatic whose skill was much admired by Mr. Van Vliet, served as pro forma musical director for the next record, “Safe as Milk” (1967), which showed the band working on something different: a rhythmically jerky style, with stuttering melodies. The next album, “Strictly Personal” (1968), went even further in the direction of rhythmic originality.

But it was “Trout Mask Replica” that earned Mr. Van Vliet his biggest mark. And it was the making of that album that provided some of the most durable myths about Mr. Van Vliet as an imperious, uncompromising artist.

The musicians lived together in a house in Woodland Hills, in the San Fernando Valley; what money there was for food and rent was supplied by Mr. Van Vliet’s mother, Sue, and the parents of Bill Harkleroad, the band’s guitarist (whom Mr. Van Vliet renamed Zoot Horn Rollo). One persistent myth has it that Mr. Van Vliet, who had no formal ability at any instrument, sat at the piano, turned on tapes and spontaneously composed most of the record in a single marathon eight-and-a-half-hour session.

What really happened, according to later accounts, was that his drummer, John French (whose stage name was Drumbo), transcribed and arranged music as Mr. Van Vliet whistled, sang or played it on the piano, and the band learned the wobbly, intricately arranged songs through Mr. French’s transcriptions.


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Saturn from Cassini
NASA / JPL / Space Science Inst.

Sense of Saturn’s Rings

December 13, 2010 | Did a doomed moon the
size of Titan edge too close to Saturn, break apart, and give the planet its
resplendent ring system? > read more

Carbon is
King on a Hot Jupiter

December 14, 2010 | Infrared observations
of the close-orbiting exoplanet WASP-12b show that its atmosphere is
surprisingly rich in carbon-bearing gases yet contains very little water vapor.
> read more

Three $100

December 13, 2010 | Yes, you can buy high-quality
scopes for just $100. > read more




The start of totality
S&T: Richard T. Fienberg

A Sky-High
Lunar Eclipse

December 9, 2010 | For all of North America, the
full Moon has a total eclipse
high overhead late on the night of December 20-21. > read more

December’s Sky by Eye and Ear!

November 30, 2010 | One of
the grand tales of celestial mythology is playing out overhead during December
evenings. Host: S&T’s Kelly Beatty. (6.5MB MP3 download: running time: 7m
00s) > read more

This Week’s Sky at a Glance



The view in late twilight

This Week’s Sky at a Glance

December 17, 2010
| The Moon is totally eclipsed late on the night of December 20–21 (for North
America) for the first time in nearly three years. Watch the bright Moon
crossing through Taurus in the evenings leading up. > read more




Los Angeles at night
Tresch Fienberg

Lights Worsen Smog

December 15, 2010 | New research shows that a
sea of nighttime lights plays a role in making the smoggy air over Los Angeles
even dirtier than it should be. > read more

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, 2010 ColorLines Direct | Published by the
Applied Research

The Year in
Race: Disasters, Deportations and DREAMs Rising

There was much to be frustrated about, but also much to celebrate. What’s
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demonization of immigrants.

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America keeps out. Jorge Rivas takes a look.
Prisoners End Strike, But Continue Demands

Inmates used cell phones and good old
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News: ‘Penélope Cruz is Having an Anchor Baby’

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deal only looks like progress because expectations are so low.
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And they’re profiling American Muslims to do
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Our favorite selection from the stirring tax
cut #filibernie.
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& Culture
Schools & Youth
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