Midway through the Second World War, German engineers toiled away at wildly imaginative prototypes of all shapes, sizes, and purposes, each meant to one up the Allies and inflict maximal damage.  From that experimentation emerged the Maus tank.  Conceived by the Germans in 1942 and trialed in 1944, the vehicle was envisioned to be a massive hulk of defensive and offensive destruction, and would have been the heaviest tank ever constructed.  The project was initially met with criticism due to the ridiculously large size of the vehicle; the crew of 6 would be enclosed in armor up to 18 inches thick, carrying a 128 mm main gun, a coaxial (a secondary gun mounted next to the main gun) 75 mm gun, and a 7.92 mm MG34 machine gun for soft targets.  After all was said and done, the beast was set to weigh 188 tons.  The overall size of the tank proved to be its greatest challenge, as the diesel engines were only able to produce a top speed of 8 mph, rather than the 12 mph that was intended; in addition, its weight would have made bridge crossings perilous, and overall mobility would have been compromised.  Two incomplete prototypes were built and tested, and both were later abandoned and subsequently captured by the Allies as they closed in on German forces at the end of the war.

I parked in front and kept her running, and made a point to keep the damn doors locked tight.  I’d always kept a small pistol in the glove box just in case; I’d broken her out, and that little honey was sitting in the console in front of me, locked and loaded and ready to talk.  Sally started punching numbers into her phone, trying to get a hold of some of the family that she had in town.  I had half a nerve to get out and knock like hell on the door of The Beak, but after hearing crickets at the sheriff’s station, I figured I’d sit tight in the cab until Sally could find out what the word was around town.  I picked up my own phone and tried to get a hold of Sam, but all I got was a voicemail.  She dialed two or three numbers, and cussed quietly when she got nothing but voicemails as well.  She dialed the last number, which she said was her cousin Jane; as the phone rang, she explained to me that they’d been really close growing up, but hadn’t spent much time around each other the past few years.  Something about a falling out; I knew all about family fall outs.  That shit was the story of my life.  I’ve fallen out so much, I should be walking around wearing a fucking parachute.

I heard Sally say hello.  I couldn’t hear what was being said on the line, but I tried to piece together what I could from Sally’s facial expressions.  She said a lot of “what’s” and “where’s”, and wore a blank expression.  I kept glancing around out the windows trying to get a bead on any movement.  I wanted to make sure no frisky bastards were lurking around in the dark out there, taking advantage of all that blackness.  So I kept watch while she kept talking, and I halfheartedly wanted to cut her off and start asking her what the hell she found out.  She nodded and said “ok” a few times, said goodbye, and then slowly lowered the phone to her lap.  She just sort of sat there for a second with a puzzled look spread about her face, and I just stared at her, waiting for her to spill the scoop to me.  She looked over at me and explained what her cousin had told her over the phone.  Apparently, a bunch of coked out kids got a little wild and rowdy and kind of tore up the town a bit.  Something about a gang, or a group, or a gang fight, maybe, but I guess these kids got into it with the locals and tore the town up pretty good before they roamed off.   It got violent too, she said; a few people got hurt pretty bad trying to stop them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Recognized as the first foreign samurai, Yasuke was an African slave that arrived in Japan in 1579 with Jesuit missionary Alessandro Valignano.  As Valignano’s servant, he was present when Valignano visited the capital in 1581; contemporary accounts record the initial meeting with Lord Oda Nobunaga, who met the foreigner with fascination and intrigue, and was the first African that any had seen.  “On the 23rd of the 2nd month [March 23, 1581], a black page (黒坊主 “kuro-bōzu”) came from the Christian countries. He looked about 26 or 27 years old; his entire body was black like that of an ox. The man was healthy and good-looking. Moreover, his strength was greater than that of 10 men.”  It is said that Nobunaga had the man wipe his skin, thinking that the black may have been paint.  Yasuke gained favor and entered the service of Lord Nobunaga, where he was elevated to the rank of samurai, and later fought alongside Nobunaga’s forces against the invading forces of Akechi Mitsuhide.  After Nobunaga’s defeat, he was given back to the Jesuits, where he disappeared from record.

Before The Blair Witch Project, there was Cannibal Holocaust.  Before Paranormal Activity, Quarantine, Chernobyl Diaries, and Grave Encounters, there was Cannibal Holocaust.  Cannibal Holocaust predated the slew of ‘found footage’ films that permeate the horror/shock genre, and its innovate, ‘firsthand’ approach laid the foundation for a style of film that has grown exponentially.  The shaky camera, improvised dialogue, and the use of no name actors are all cinematic techniques pioneered by this film.  The story involves a film crew sent to the Amazon to document local tribes; the crew disappears, and the movie is told through the missing team’s recovered video footage.  The brutality and shock value depicted has become the stuff of legend.  Italian director Ruggero Deodato’s film was met with awe, praise, and revulsion upon release, and his excessive use of graphic violence, gore, and sexual themes led to his arrest on murder and obscenity charges (many viewers and critics were convinced that the murders depicted were authentic), as well as the film being banned in over fifty countries at one point.  Deodato was cleared, but the film remains a groundbreaking entry in the horror genre, and its controversial nature has earned it bona fide cult status.

So I’ll have to admit again that shit was way off base; I mean, something big must have happened in that town to empty out the cop station like that.  Granted, there are only a few cops on duty at any given time, and it was a tiny ant hill of a town, but there still should have been some motion going on in the streets.  I locked the doors behind me once I got in and just sat there for a second to collect myself; shit was throwing my brain off of its track.  I was never one to worry, especially around others, and Sally seemed to have the same method of operation.  She was calm and cool as a cucumber on the outside, but I could see some fearsome tension in her eyes.  She sort of had this still, blank stare, and these big old eyes that spoke exactly what they just saw.  I could tell that she had about a million and a half scenarios racing through her head just by looking at her.  She told me what I was already thinking, which was to just head to the Brass Beak, suck down a few shots, chat the locals up, and see what the fuck was going on.  I shifted the rig into gear, and as I did, I threw a suspicious glance back toward the alley where I heard the noise next to the dumpster; I still didn’t see a damn thing.

So we were driving down the main street, and it was black as hell out; no streetlights, no stoplights, and no lights inside any of the houses.  It was like we missed the party and the town was closed for business or something.  We looked left and right at the houses just for any signs of movement or life; whatever hope we could find just to make sure shit was still alright and safe around there.  We just wanted a few answers, that’s all.  I grew up watching black and white cowboy movies with my dad, and this whole situation reminded me of some old dusty, windblown abandoned cow town.  The only thing missing was the tumbleweed.  So The Beak was literally a stone’s throw from the sheriff’s station, and we were closing in on it fast.  As we eased up to it, I think our stomachs both dropped at the same damn time; I mean, it was a total gut drop when we saw that the lights in The Beak were out too.  C’mon now, you know?  There’s no way Sam would have shut down The Beak so early, without a good reason at least.  That guy never turned down a thirsty mouth or a few dollar bills.  I pulled up slowly and we both looked at each other, too stunned to really say much of anything, but I think the idea of cell phones hit is both at the same time like brass knuckles to bared teeth. It’s just that in all of the damn ramshackle confusion, we both clean forgot about our cell phones.  Sally laughed at herself for forgetting that she had hers, and I laughed that the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind.  We needed that laugh; the tension was as thick as mashed potatoes in the rig at that point.

 

I’d fallen asleep on the sofa in front the TV one Friday night (years ago) and awoke on Saturday morning to this mysteriously surreal little Russian gem, a dreamy, thought provoking tale guaranteed to drum up a few intelligent discussions about man’s quest for knowledge and his insatiable hunger for the unknown.  Directed by legendary filmmaker Andrei Tarkovski and adapted from the novel Roadside Picnic, it deftly explores the depth of human want and need and desire, and trails the journey of a Stalker (a hired guide) and the two men who call upon his expertise to lead them into the gritty bowels of “The Zone”.  It is there that they intend to enter the fabled room within the ruins of The Zone that enables any wish to come true. The journey is not without its trials though.  To gain entry into The Zone (a deserted city that fell victim to a mysterious incident), they must first bypass a thickly guarded military checkpoint; but the true challenge is navigating the desolation of The Zone itself, an entirely barren, ever changing landscape full of unseen and unbeknownst dangers that have tested the will, searched the souls, and claimed the lives of countless Stalkers and wish seekers.

A beautifully minimalist film, shot in unfortunately toxic, abandoned Russian industrial locations, is said to have contributed to the early cancerous deaths of several cast and crew, including the director Tarkovski.  But the often several minutes long takes, the haunting landscapes, the telling score, and the philosophically rich dialogue combine for a journey that will not soon be forgotten.

I could see the station through the rain; it was pitch dark inside, for whatever reason.  That really struck me as strange, and I remember the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck standing straight up at attention.  I asked Sally if she could figure out a reason as to why the hell the lights would be out, and why the whole damned town seemed to be on vacation at the same time.  I eased up slowly in front of the station, shifted the baby into park, and left her running just in case we’d have to make a hot exit.  I told Sally to wait inside the cab where it was safe and warm, and to keep the doors locked once I got out; I was going to run inside and see if I could find old Frank and let him know what we saw on the road.  Just to be sure, I made a point to remind Sally that everything would be alright, and that she had nothing at all to worry about.  She smiled at me through those worried eyes, and I felt her tension in the trembling of her hand.  Maybe it was just the cold.  I hopped out into the pouring rain and dashed over to the door of the station.  It was locked.  I jiggled that bad boy again, just to make sure; I couldn’t imagine why the hell they’d shutter up for the night so soon, or why they didn’t leave anybody behind to keep an eye on things.

I took a few peeps through the windows to see if anybody was inside, but it was too damned dark in there to see anything.  All I saw was my face in the reflection of the window from the streetlight behind me.  This was shitty, but I said fuck it, I’ll just drive us on over to the Brass Beak and see if any of those schmoes knew what the hell was going on around there.  That is, if they were even open.  It was like the town was on a curfew or house arrest, or under martial law or something.  I whipped around and motioned to Sally that it was no dice trying to get into the station, that it was a done deal.  The joint was dead empty.  I was about to hot foot it back to the rig when I heard a little something rustling in the alley next to the station; it sounded like somebody dumped a trash can over.  It was a commotion and a few bottles clanging together down there, loud enough to get my attention even over the roar of the rain.  I jogged over to the mouth of the alley where I heard the sound echoing, cupped my hand over my eyes and squinted hard, but I couldn’t see a damn thing, thankfully.  I’d hoped to see ol’ Frank or one of the other officers coming my way, but that wasn’t happening.  At any rate, I’d left my bat in the truck and wasn’t about to get into a scrap barehanded, in case it was trouble.  I wasn’t about to go looking for it, so I turned around and ran back toward the truck.  I hopped in and let Sally know that we’d have to try our luck elsewhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Managed to become the first black man to represent England in an international rugby match in 1906, but due to racial bias, was later withdrawn from national selection.  Nicknamed “Darkie Peters”, the highly regarded athlete went on to represent his country several times between 1906 – 1908 (the South African national team refused to play against him), as well as serve out a lengthy and distinguished playing career in rugby league and union as a member of Plymouth Albion and Devon.

Change-
not the loose kind that jingles freely in a pocket,
comes in many different forms-
forms-
not the stackable, foldable paper kind, but the kind
that awakens a new way of seeing-
a catalyst of self reflection,
the kind that invites the possibility of reform-
reform-
not the sort that politicians bicker over
incessantly,
but the kind that promotes an entirely
new way of thinking-
thinking-
not the mundane type that we’re conditioned to doing,
the stale, dust laden standard of thought
that we all tend to stick to,
that ‘I already know this’ mentality that is
the basis for stagnation,
but a fresh slate-
a clean beginning-
even if it requires going to the back of
the line and starting over from scratch-
scratch-
not the kind that is the product of a
persistent itch,
but the kind that symbolizes a willingness
to return to the root and try things from
a different perspective-
the years grow bigger, then
so should our dreams*