“It’s not as if your father will ring the management to see if our room looks inhabited,” my grandmother said. This was true—due to the expense, my father avoided making long-distance calls. The rare times when he did make them, he shouted uncharacteristically, as if raising the volume of his voice would enable a second cousin in Iowa to hear him better.

“Did Dr. Wycomb ever have a husband?” I asked.

“Gladys is a suffragette. She always says she couldn’t have been a doctor if she’d married and had children, and I’m sure she’s right. Shall we go warm up with some tea?”

A block away, we found a cafe, mostly empty, where we were seated at a small table. My grandmother scanned the menu. “Have you ever had an eclair?” When I shook my head, she said, “We’ll split one. They’re bad for your figure but quite delicious.”

“Is Dr. Wycomb friends with Negroes?”

“Who told you that?” My grandmother scrutinized me.

“Is Dr. Wycomb friends with Negroes?”

“Who told you that?” My grandmother scrutinized me.

It seemed unfair to pinpoint my mother. “I just was wondering, since a lot of them live in Chicago,” I said. I had at that time only the slightest awareness of the protests and sit-ins occurring in other parts of the country; my main reminder of race came from Dena, who was not allowed by her father to listen to records by black musicians and therefore liked for me to play Chubby Checker or the Marvelettes when she came over.

In the cafe, my grandmother said, “You should have a beau. When I last went to see Dr. Ziemniak, he showed me a picture of Roy, who seems to be growing into a handsome fellow.” Dr. Ziemniak was our dentist.

“Roy Ziemniak is short,” I said.

“Aren’t we picky? Eugene Schwab, then.” The Schwabs lived two doors down from us.

(American Wife, Curtis Sittenfeld, pages 30-32, emphasis added, daily excerpt from novel based on the life of Laura Lane Welch Bush)

Own your tomorrow.
ASX, December 31, 2018

Market Watch, December 31, 2018

Deseret News

David Lane
David Lane in an undated photo
David Eden Lane

November 2, 1938

David Eden Lane (November 2, 1938 – May 28, 2007) was an American white supremacist leader and convicted felon.[1][2][3] A member of the terror group The Order, he was convicted and sentenced to 190 years in prison for racketeering; conspiracy; and for violating the civil rights of Alan Berg, a Jewish radio talk show host, who was murdered by another member of the group[4] on June 18, 1984. He died while incarcerated in the Federal Correctional Complex in Terre Haute, Indiana.[5]

Lane coined the best-known slogan of the white supremacist movement in North America, the Fourteen Words. He has been described by the Southern Poverty Law Center as “one of the most important ideologues of contemporary white supremacy.”[1]

Chubby Checker was not born in Andrews, South Carolina.
Chris Rock was not born in Andrews, South Carolina
I was born in Andrews, South Carolina.

Andrews, South Carolina
Location in Georgetown County and the state of South Carolina.

Location in Georgetown County and the state of South Carolina.

Andrews is a town in Georgetown and Williamsburg counties in the U.S. state of South Carolina. The population was 2,861 at the 2010 census,[3] down from 3,068 in 2000. General aviation airfield Robert F. Swinnie Airport is located 2 miles (3 km) east of the central business district. Chubby Checker and Chris Rock were born in Andrews.

Market Watch, December 31, 2018

Penguin Random House

We had finished Uncle Tom’s Cabin shortly before the day of our group presentations. The assignment had been to choose an important scene from anywhere in the book, say why it mattered, and act it out. My partners were Norie Cleehan and Jenny Carter, and we did the part where Cassy and Emmeline hide in the attic and pretend to be ghosts to scare Simon Legree; I was Legree.

Afer we went, the only group left was Darden, Aspeth, and Dede. “We have to go put on our costumes,” Dede announced.

“Great,” Ms. Moray said. No one else had bothered with costumes.

They left the room, and while we waited, a generous, giddy energy hung in the classroom—we’d been getting up from our seats and talking in bad Southern accents and clapping for one another at the end of each performance. During one burst of applause, I had thought that we were probably making as much noise as one of those classes you hear down the hall—usually while you’re taking a math test—that’s shouting and laughing like they’re at a party. “I must say, I had no idea there was so much acting talent in this class,” Ms. Moray said.

Aspeth stuck her head into the room. “One thing we have to tell you,” she said. “This is a modern interpretation. That’s okay, right?”

Ms. Moray nodded. “Absolutely.”

“It’s the part where the Shelby slaves get together in Uncle Tom and Aunt Chloe’s cabin.” Aspeth was still visible only from the neck up. “It’s while Mr. Shelby is in the big house signing over Uncle Tom and Harry to Haley.”

“And why is this important?” Ms. Moray asked.

“We’re showing the sense of community the slaves have and how Uncle Tom is their leader and they rally around him when they know he’s leaving.”

“Terrific. Go to it.”

“Just one more sec.”

Aspeth disappeared, and the door clicked shut. A minute later, Darden flung it open and strode through, Aspen behind him gripping his waist like in a conga line, and Dede behind Aspeth. Darden wore a fedora set at an angle, a pair of oversized sunglasses, several gold and silver and pearl necklaces, and a long shiny red raincoat, tight across his shoulders, which I recognized as belonging to Dede. In his right hand, he carried a cane. Dede herself had on a cream-colored knee-length silk slip, and Aspeth was wearing a striped bikini top (the stripes were pink, mint green, and pale blue) and a tennis skirt; on their feet, both girls wore high heels.

“Choo-choo!” Darden cried. He thrust his fist into the air and rolled it forward a few times, then tipped his head back toward Aspeth and Dede. “Ain’t that the finest-looking ho train you folks ever seen?” From various parts of the table, I heard snorts of laugher, and someone—it might have been Oliver—called out, “Uh-huh , brother!” As if in response, Aspeth and Dede held their chins in the air, moved their heads all around, batted their eyelashes.

The three of them slithered and wiggled the length of the chalkboard, until they were between the far end of the table and the windows. Darden leaned over and stuck his cheek down toward Jenny Carter. “You give Big Daddy Tom some love, sugar.”

Jenny had a look on her face that was both startled and amused. Her gaze jumped to Ms. Moray, and when I looked, too, Ms. Moray was squinting as if confused. This was a confusion I shared. I literally did not understand what Darden and Aspeth and Dede were doing, what the unifying principle was behind their weird clothes, their gestures, Darden’s lingo. I sensed that most of my classmates did understand. Jenny puckered her lips and kissed Darden.

“Thanks, baby,” Darden said. He took a step back, and Aspeth and Dede rearranged themselves so they were on either side of him, their arms linked through his, gazing up at him stroking his shoulder or his forehead. “My ho’s, you know why we’re here tonight,” Darden said. “And Daddy might go away, but you know he always gonna be looking out for you. It ain’t easy when Master Shelby—”

“Stop it,” Ms. Moray said, and her voice was loud and sharp. It was strange to hear a normal voice. “That’s enough. All three of you, sit down. But first change out of those clothes.”

Darden and Aspeth and Dede regarded her silently. Their posture was already different—Aspeth’s arms were folded, she wasn’t touching Darden at all—and none of them were smiling.

“We were just—” Dede began.

“Right now,” Ms. Moray said. “Hurry.”

They walked quickly past us, back into the hall. In their absence, the rest of us looked at one another, looked away, looked back; Chris Graves put his head down on the table. When Darden, Aspeth, and Dede returned, they sat without speaking.

“Would someone like to explain what that was about?” Ms. Moray said.

No one said anything. I couldn’t tell if she was asking all of us or just them, and I also couldn’t tell if she was really asking for an explanation—if, like me, she hadn’t understood—or if she was asking for more of a justification.

“Really,” Ms. Moray said. “I’m curious—curious about what could possibly make the three of you think it’s either relevant or appropriate to portray Uncle Tom as a pimp and the other slaves as prostitutes.”

Of course. I was an idiot.

“Uncle Tom is a Christ figure,” Ms. Moray said. “He’s a hero.”

Darden was looking down, and Aspeth was looking across the room, her face blank, her arms crossed again. To watch Aspeth be scolded was odd and not, as I might have imagined, enjoyable. I would have felt sorry for her, actually, except that she seemed unaffected by Ms. Moray’s comments; she seemed mostly bored. Of the three of them, only Dede was looking at Ms. Moray. “We were being creative,” Dede said.

Ms. Moray smiled unpleasantly. “Creative how?”

“By, like, we were—well, with a modern-day parallel—we just thought it would be fun.”

“I’ll tell you something,” Ms. Moray said. “And this is a lesson that could serve all of you well on that day not so far in the future when you find yourselves out in the real world. The next time you’re being creative, the next time you’re having fun, you might want to stop and think about how your behavior looks to other people. Because I’ll tell you, what this seems like to me is nothing but racism.”

Everyone looked at her then, even Darden and Aspeth. Racism didn’t exist at Ault. Or it did, of course it did, but not like that. Kids came from all sorts of cultural backgrounds, with parents who had emigrated from Pakistan, Thailand, Colombia, and some kids had families that still lived far away—in my dorm alone, there were girls from Zimbabwe and Latvia. And no one ever made slurs, it wasn’t like you got ostracized if you weren’t white. Racism seemed to me like a holdover from my parents’ generation, something that was not entirely gone but had fallen out of favor—like girdles, say, or meatloaf.

“We weren’t being racist,” Aspeth said. Her voice contained none of Dede’s anxious eagerness, Dede’s earnest wish to set things straight. Aspeth knew she was right, and the only question was whether it was worth demonstrating this to an inferior mind like Ms. Moray’s. “How could we be?” Aspeth said. “Darden is black.”

This was a bold and possibly inappropriate thing to say—Darden’s blackness, in our post-racist environment, was not a thing you remarked on.

“That’s your defense?” Ms. Moray said. “That Darden is—?” Even she seemed unable to say that he was black, which affirmed Aspeth’s power.  But then Ms. Moray appeared to regain control. “Listen,” she said. “Internalized racism is still racism. Self-hatred is not an excuse.”

I glanced at Darden, who was looking down again. He inhaled, puffed out his cheeks, exhaled, and shook his head. I didn’t think he was self-hating, and I certainly didn’t want him to be—I was self-hating, and wasn’t that enough? Did there need to be so many of us?

(Prep, Curtis Sittenfeld, pages 140-143)

Penguin Random House

“Lee, I didn’t know you were so”—Cross paused, and we made eye contact, and I thought that depending on what he said next, this might be a flash of the other Cross, the one I’d thought I liked—”angry,” he said. It hadn’t been a flash.

“I’m not.” I probably sounded angry in this moment, but I didn’t care.

“Marinade was never a first-draft pick, though, right?” Cross said.

“Shut up,” Aspeth said.

“I thought everyone knew.”

“Will you seriously shut up?” Then Aspeth seemed to reconsider something—apparently, me—because she said, “Okay, Lee, you can’t tell this to anyone, but Ms. Moray was a last-minute addition to the faculty. I guess they’d hired this other woman to be the English intern, and she was super-smart, she went to Yale, she was black and everything so they were psyched for that, and then at the last minute, in August, her fiance, who lives in London, got testicular cancer and she went to be with him. They were totally scrambling to find a replacement, and here’s Ms. Moray, who, big coincidence, wants to teach but has no job lined up for the fall. So they hire her and, like, two days later she drives out from South Dakota.”

None of us spoke—I had even stopped cutting Aspeth’s hair—and then Cross said. “Cancer o’ the balls. Ouch.”

(Prep, Curtis Sittenfeld, page 156)

December 31, 2018, 2pm
About Me.  I’m at Starbucks, on Third Avenue between 43rd and 44th Streets.  Earlier I was at Proctor University, WordPress training.  Effective tomorrow, I will begin posting at my new website,, that is, unless Mormon computer gremlins illegally prevent me from doing so.

This is a picture of the artwork on one of the walls, here, Starbucks, Third Avenue between 43rd and 44th streets:


This is a picture of Harry

I asked a customer if I could take a picture of her coat; I thought the belt buckle was part of her sleeve, but it’s not.

I asked another customer if I could take a picture of his book, GRACE REVOLUTION, a book about the bible, but he’s not from the Bible Belt.  He’s from the U.K. and it infuriates me that he has to sit in here, with his two sons, one ten years old or so, one four years old or so, listening to the so very very very vulgar music playing on Starbucks sound system!  (He and his sons left with a police officer from Strategic Response came in here.)

For customer listening pleasure, Starbucks is playing loudly music by Weeknd, Loft Music, The Morning, Lonely Star, House of Balloons.


[Intro] Oh, oh-ooh
Oh (woah), oh (woah)
Oh, oh

[Verse] They say my brain meltin’
And the only thing I’ll tell ’em is
I’m livin’ for the present and the future don’t exist
So, baby take your clothes off, a chance like this
You may never get to show off, show off
Show off what you talking about
Unless you like to tease, baby
When in reality you don’t know how to please, baby
Blue-ball queen, take your fuckin’ seat, baby
Ride it out, now I know you wanna scream, baby
Better than your next man
And if he swingin’ I get dumber than the next man
‘Cause I don’t play
Unless it’s keys, then I play all day (All day)
You like them keys? We gon’ play all day (All day)
Wet dream fry your brain all day, all day
I think you lost your morals, girl (What?)
But it’s okay ’cause you don’t need ’em where we’re goin’
In that two-floor loft in the middle of the city
After rollin’ through the city with me
I promise you gon’ see
That I’m only fuckin’ 20, girl
Amnesia, put your mind in a dream world
What you doin’ in the bathroom? (Woah)
I hear noises in the bathroom (Woah)
Baby, it’s okay
We can do it in the living room
Twisting turns in ’em, the only girls that we fuck with
Seem to have 20 different pills in ’em
They tell us that they love us
Even though they want a next man
And the next man’s bitch want the third man
Eddie Murphy shit, yeah, we trade places
Rehearse lines to them and then we fuck faces
Yeah, we know just how to get a buzz
Mix it with the hash, come fuck with us
I’m raw, mothafucka, I’m raw
My love so lost, and my niggas, man
These bitches can’t touch what we got if they wanted
I’ll plug any nigga that’ll step
Man, I got ’em, yeah, I got ’em
‘Til the ending of our credits
Life’s such a movie, filmed independent, us against the city
Please don’t get offended when we don’t answer your calls
And if you got a problem, come and find us, we can talk about it
What’s good, young ho? You about it?
Got a loft right now, you excited?
You excited

[Outro] Ooh, ooh
Ah, ah
What you thinkin’ about?
What you thinkin’ about?
What you thinkin’ about?
Ooh, what you thinkin’ about?
What you thinkin’ about?
What you thinkin’ about?
What you thinkin’?
I been thinkin’ ’bout, ooh
I know everything, ooh
I know everything
I know it all
I know it all
Ahh, ahh, ahh, ooh
Ooh-ahh, ahh, ahh
Ooh, oh no, no, no
Ahh, ahh-ooh, ooh
Genius Lyrics

Genius Lyrics

Friday Night Lights Featuring Drake

Intro to the Fall Out

House of Balloons Glass Table Girls


Six Feet Under
The Weeknd

Produced by The Weeknd, Doc McKinney, Ben Billions & 2 more
Album Starboy

1 793.4K 104
Six Feet Under Lyrics

[Verse 1: The Weeknd] Ask around about her
She don’t get emotional
Kill off all her feelings
That’s why she ain’t approachable
She know her pussy got a fanbase
A couple niggas with a suitcase
Suit and tie niggas who play roleplay
When it comes to money she play no games

[Pre-Hook: The Weeknd] She lick it up just like a candy
She wanna make them leave their family
She trying to live a life so fancy
She wanna pull up in a Bentley
She ain’t got time for lovin’
Louis Vuitton her husband
She rather die in lusting
She rather die in the club, ’til she

[Hook: The Weeknd & Future] Six feet under she gon’ get that fucking paper
Six feet under she gon’ get that fucking paper
Six feet under she gon’ get that fucking paper
You know how she get down, pop it for a check now
Six feet under, six, six feet under
Six feet under, six, six feet under
Six feet under she gon’ kill me for that paper
Not the type to fuck around, gonna turn that ass around

[Verse 2: The Weeknd] She don’t depend on anybody
Know just what to do with her own body
Counting all that money like a hobby
She don’t give a fuck about nobody
And she got her whole crew poppin’
And she bend it over like she got no back bone
Got a couple niggas blinging up a trap phone
She don’t need nobody waiting back home, she got it

[Pre-Hook: The Weeknd] She lick it up just like a candy
She wanna make them leave their family
She trying to live a life so fancy
She wanna pull up in a Bentley
She ain’t got time for lovin’
Louis Vuitton her husband
She rather die in lusting
She rather die in the club, ’til she

[Hook: The Weeknd & Future] Six feet under she gon’ get that fucking paper
Six feet under she gon’ get that fucking paper
Six feet under she gon’ get that fucking paper
You know how she get down, pop it for a check now
Six feet under, six, six feet under (That fuckin’ paper)
Six feet under, six, six feet under (That fuckin’ paper)
Six feet under she gon’ kill me for that paper
Not the type to fuck around, gonna turn that ass around

[Post-Hook: Future] Gonna turn that ass around
Oh murder, oh murder
Gonna turn that ass around
Oh murder, oh murder

[Bridge: The Weeknd] Real love’s hard to find
So she don’t waste her time
So she don’t waste her time, oooh
You ain’t gon’ catch her crying
She ain’t gon’ lose her mind
She ain’t gon’ lose her mind
‘Til she..

[Outro: Future & The Weeknd] Six feet under she gon’ kill me for that paper (‘Til she)
Six feet under she gon’ kill me for that paper (‘Til she)
Six feet under she gon’ kill me for the paper
Not the type to fuck around, gonna turn that ass around

Six Feet Under
[Starbucks music, December 31, 2018, approximately 2:45pm]

This is where I went for WordPress training. Proctor University (WordPress) was located in Jay Suites, at Times Square, and is now located at 211 East 43rd Street, next door to Totto.


Toto is the name of Dorothy’s dog (Dorothy is the young girl who fell asleep in the poppy [heroin] field, in “The Wonderful land of Oz”).  My name is not now, nor will it ever be, Dorothy, nor is my name now or ever, Alice.  Red Rooster is the name of a restaurant in Harlem, two blocks from Mormon Church of Satan.  The Rooster Bar is the name of one of John Grisham’s novels.  None of this makes any sense; no, of course not. I’m crazy.
I asked a tourist couple from Italy if I could take a picture of their plant. All of the customers and employees in here while I’m here, are plaintiffs in a legal case against Berkshire Hathaway, Microsoft, Accenture, American Express, Apple including Beats, Bain, Citi, Disney, Disney, JPMorganChase, Marriott Hotels including the Ritz Carlton and all corporations owned directly and indirectly by the Mormon Church of Satan. (Yes, I know, there is no LEGAL CASE. I’m crazy.) cc all Mormon barristers

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