View allAll Photos Tagged crackpots
The unity(unit) of house of Marseille known under the name of radiant City(Estate), "Le Corbusier" or more familiarly " The House of the crackpot " is a residence built between 1947 and 1952 by the architect Le Corbusier (280 boulevard Michelet, 8th district of Marseille). Built in the form of on piles bar(helm) (in the shape of flared stand legs(bases) in the brutalist aspect) her(it) tries to concretize a new shape of city(estate), a " vertical called village " " Unity(Unit) of house " / L'unité d'habitation de Marseille connue sous le nom de Cité radieuse, « Le Corbusier » ou plus familièrement « La Maison du fada » est une résidence édifiée entre 1947 et 1952 par l'architecte Le Corbusier (280 boulevard Michelet, 8e arrondissement de Marseille). Bâtie sous forme de barre sur pilotis (en forme de piètements évasés à l'aspect brutaliste) elle tente de concrétiser une nouvelle forme de cité, un « village vertical » appelé « Unité d'habitation »
Poem by Tom Lee
You may think nothing’s happening
When you survey your plot
So if I said there’s so much life
You’d think me a crackpot
You’d look around: A single bird
Is all that you could see
“There’s nothing else, except a flower
I can’t even see a tree!”
But you’d be wrong ‘cos underneath
Below the surface line
There’s another world, so full of life
Where creatures live and dine
Some of them, of course, we know
Like slugs and long earthworms
But many others live there too
It’s easy to confirm
There’s ground beetles and wireworms
Springtails and grubs
Millipedes and woodlice
Deep beneath the shrubs
And don’t forget the nesting ants
Of red and black and wood
Some of them considered pests,
But mostly they do good
So next time in your garden
When you’re feeling hale and hearty
Remember, underneath your feet
There’s probably a party!
Coloured version here www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=1828899414117588&set=a.1...
While I think there are few among us who won't miss the likes of Pizza Om Mow Mow and Burger Invasion (kidding of course), I also think Paradise Pier is an area of Disney California Adventure that has now turned a corner. I can't speak to the quality of Ariel's Undersea Adventure, and I've avoided reading early reviews and viewing photos, but having an omnimover attraction is huge for the park as a whole.
There is still work to be done in Paradise Pier, to be sure, but its Victorian Pier influences make it a start contrast to the crackpot Din-o-rama at Disney's Animal Kingdom. Paradise Pier is a great place to get some ice cream, walk around, and just soak up the ambiance. It truly is "fun in the sun for everyone!"
As for the shot, this was taken just after the golden hour, at a time that some people call the "blue hour" (I swear, there are way too many names for all the periods of time during the day). While it does not appear this vividly blue to the human eye, it does photograph this way. I actually backed off of the blue saturation a tad in post processing.
Checkout my website featuring Disney photos, reviews, and tips: DisneyTouristBlog
Facebook | Twitter | YouTube | Google+ | ISO 5571 - Disney Photography Podcast
Looking to Swinner gill and the ruins of Crackpot hall...The Pennine way path here follows a magnificent terrace high above the Swale gorge....on a walk of many highlights this is up there with the best of them...i have been camping and walking here for years,still a great treat.
I thought this looked nice in black and white, thank you all for your comments on yesterdays photo. Crackpot falls are my new favourite waterfall, an absolute delight and I apologise in advance for posting so many photographs of it.
“Is he mad? Anyway there's something on his mind,
as sure as there must be something on a deck when it cracks.”
~ Herman Melville ~
“If there is anything in the universe that can't stand discussion,
let it crack.”
~ Wendell Phillips ~
Interesting quotation from a prospective bomber of 9/11:
In these movements, they look for the little cracks to get into people's minds and control them.”
~ Aicha El Wafi ~
Excellent NY TIMES article worth reading:
www.nytimes.com/2017/02/13/opinion/mental-health-professi...
NOTE: see Mike's comment below for another interesting article.
Taken from the Muker-Keld footpath, approaching Swinner Gill, with Crackpot Hall just visible.
Swaledale, The Yorkshire Dales, North Yorkshire, UK
©SWJuk (2024)
All rights reserved
October 1
The plant Pammy gave me is startin to turn into its own little Jungle. I’ve been askin’ Orchid to water it when I’m out, and I dunno what she’s been waterin’ it with, but that little guy is happy. Her and Pam should exchange gardening tips. Sweet kid, that Orchid. Doesn’t say much, but she seems to mean well. I have no idea what Waller offered her to stick around. Come to think of it, I don’t really know anything about her at all. Except she’s bonkin’ Patten upstairs.
Ugh.
BUT, we’re not here to discuss petals and the crackpot, we’re here for somethin’ else. GUESS. WHO I HAD. IN MY OFFICE THIS MORNING. C’mon guess! (Naw you’ll never guess, you’re a journal). None other than LEX. FREAKIN’. LUTHOR. That’s right! He disappeared for a while after that whole Cloudburst disaster Digger and Floyd were tellin’ me about, then he popped up again, get this, completely penniless, tryin to steal from a bake shop! He got thrown into the general clink, but Amanda pulled all the right strings and got him on the Squad purely just to humiliate him. Normally I’d be kinda appalled, but if anyone deserves it, it’s him. Either way, I was sent to “analyze” ole baldy, and hoo boy, it was a riot. . .
----------------------------------------------------------
Excerpt from Harley’s tape recorder:
The sound of chairs being pushed around on the floor rings out briefly. Papers are laid on the table
Harley, warmly: Hello, Mister Luthor, let me be the first t’welcome you here to lovely Belle Reve.
Luthor, entirely flat: You’re hardly the first. Don’t I know you, Doctor . . . ?
Harley: Quinzel! Doctor Quinzel.
Luthor, more animated: Quinzel. Harley Quinn? You’re my ‘psychiatrist’? *Luthor laughs* Alright, Now I know this is one of your boyfriend’s sick pranks.
Harley, entirely calm: I’ll have you know Mister Luthor, I am a trained an’ seasoned pro. And my ‘boyfriend’ and I haven’t spoken in some time. In fact, I kinda hope he’s dead.
Luthor: Well, at least we have that in common. So tell me, what is it that you want to talk to me about?
Harley, flipping through papers: Welllll, it says here that I’m supposed to see if you’re fit for field missions, but let’s not insult both of our intellects, huh? Instead, I wanna talk to ya about The Big Blue Boy Scout.
There is about a minute of silence. Then;
Luthor: Didn’t you bite my head once?
Harley: Let’s just try an’ see past that. What is it, about Superman, that drives you so bananas?
There is another pause, and then:
Luthor: Well, ‘Doctor’ Quinn, it’s a number of things.
Harley: Let’s start with the most basic.
Luthor: Well, to start, he’s not even really a man. He’s not even of this earth. By that reasoning alone, Superman is a fraud. He masquerades as a symbol of hope, of human perfection, and yet his very name is a deception. Am I the only person left who remembers he’s not even one of us?
Harley: So to you, he’s unworthy of his hero-worship.
Luthor scoffs: Unworthy doesn’t begin to describe it. He isn’t god. He hasn’t helped humanity progress. He merely catches purse snatchers and the occasional radioactive psychopath. And yet humanity treats him as a supreme being, holding all our lives in his hands.
Harley: So, you see him as a false god?
Luthor: Indeed. Humanity is its own maker: Its own supreme being. Only we as a species have propelled ourselves this far. It only follows that Superman would represent a Demiurge, in the Gnostic terms. We’re human beings, it’s only natural that we follow the strongest and most cunning of our kind. That arrogant caveman has been basing his motivations off of that fact alone for centuries. But when the strongest and most cunning are not only a fraud in their name, but their ideals, that is something that weakens humanity. Take his principles for instance. Hell, just take one. Take Justice. An abstract concept, with no true definition. In a sense, Justice could mean anything. For some, it means sending a murderer to prison. For others, it’s removing the hands of a thief. Would Superman allow a thief’s hands removed? Of course not. Justice is too broad a concept for one ma-, excuse me, one being, to fully encompass.
Harley: Fascinating. And if not for Superman, who do you think would stand in that place, leading humanity?
Luthor chuckles: Well, I don’t wish to self-aggrandize, but me, naturally. Look at me, the peak of human intelligence, the peak of human physicality. I was hewn for this role.
Harley: Ah, and that’s why you masqueraded as him for so long, protecting Metropolis yourself.
Luthor, getting energized: That was the only point when the world was as it should be. And for a time, I thought he and I could work in harmony. But, as I should have anticipated, he abandoned me, and cast aside both my help and my trust.
Harley: Now, an’ excuse me for sayin’ this, but dressin’ up in a big red S and protecting Metropolis, doesn’t sound like hatred for an enemy. It sounds a lot like hero worship.
Luthor says nothing.
Harley: I’d even go so far as to say that, maybe, deep down, you even . . . love him.
Luthor, angry: Hold your tongue, woman.
Harley: I mean think about it! Everyone always accused my “Ex-Boyfriend” of bein in love with Bats, even me after a while, and it’s such a similar thing! The two of you are always buildin’ death traps tailor-made, you’re dressin’ up in their costumes and sometimes takin’ on their roles. Look at you, you’ve done so much workin’ out so achieve his body on yourself. Hell, Mercy once told me at a party y’sleep with a picture of him under your pillow! That’s crazy stalker girlfriend stuff, Lex!
Luthor, angrier: Shut up, SHUT UP! I loathe every fiber of his being. I want nothing more than his insipid, vacant smile wiped from the face of this earth. I – no, no I see what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to get me angry on purpose. I don’t know why. Maybe because That Bitch in charge told you to. Well, I’m not going to be goaded into violence for your amusement.
Harley, after a decent pause: You want to have sex with Superman.
The sound of angry shouting, yelling, and crashing. The table audibly flips, a chair smashes. The sound of prison shoes on metal walls is heard. The creak of the door and sounds of struggle as guards manage to subdue Luthor.
There is panting, and silence, then:
Luthor, quietly, scathingly: I hope That Bitch blows your head clean off you psychopathic little clown.
There is the sound of him spitting, then being dragged bodily out of the room.
The sound of footsteps, heels on the tile floor, the door shutting, and the heels returning. The chair squeaks.
Then, the sound of Harleen Quinzel laughing uproariously. It echoes around the room. She’s laughing so hard, tears are in her eyes, then there is a click on the recorder, and nothing.
------------------------------------
I'm not gonna lie, I could have just made the entire arc this conversation.
I've posted this photograph, essentially as a 'heads up' to anyone that's ever visited this enigmatic location.
Crackpot Hall was finally abandoned in the 1950's and after taking some pictures of it late last year I decided to try and find out more about the place. Online, there was very little, apart from a rather strange reference to a 'wild child' called Alice, found living there in the early 1930's. Seemingly back then, two ladies called Ella Pontefract and Maria Hartley, were documenting life in the Yorkshire Dales and visited Crackpot Hall where they came across Alice.
To cut a long story short, I discovered that Alice is still alive and her reminiscences of life in Swaledale at Crackpot Hall will be the subject of a BBC Radio Three programme to be broadcast this evening (Saturday 7 November at 21.30). It will also be available after the broadcast on the BBC i-Player.
Having gone to seek access permission and finding no one home I elected to shoot these falls from the public footpath above but was very aware of the many, many shots I'd seen before from this particular vantage point, most of which were taken through the fence or from just above it and for that reason all look very much the same due to the restricted options. Looking at it carefully I could see that rather than avoid the fence using it in my composition worked quite nicely and stayed true to my trying to be original policy.
The ruins of Crackpot Hall lie about a mile east of Keld on the northern slope of the dale. There may have been a building on this site since the 1500s when a hunting lodge was maintained for Thomas, the first Baron Wharton, who visited the Dale occasionally to shoot the red deer. Survey work by the Yorkshire Dales National Park Authority has shown that the building has changed many times over the years. At one time it even had a heather or "ling" thatched roof.
Real Name: Victoria Frankenstein
Gender: Female
Alignment: Villain
Powers: None
"Name": Evelyn
Alias: Frankenstein's Monster
Gender: Female
Powers: Durability, Super Strength, and Endurance. Zombie Physiology, Disease Immunity, Healing Factor
Alignment: Villain
"Name": Adam
Alias/Title: The Monster's Groom
Gender: Male
Powers: Zombie Physiology, Disease Immunity, Enhanced Strength, Endurance, and Durability. Healing Factor
Alignment: Villain
Backstory: As a child, Victoria was obsessed with reading books on alchemy, astrology, and many other pseudo sciences. So much so that she would stay in her room for days, only coming out for bare necessities such as food, water, and so on. This developed as she got older, and would turn to life sciences, after her mother had passed away. She believes that creating her soon to be Monster, would be the key in discovering the secrets of life and death. Victoria Frankenstein wants to be remembered as for accomplishing the impossible. Her experiments would result in the birth of her Monster, which she gave the name, Evelyn. Fascinated by her accomplishment, she would try and tell the world. But everything was deemed inhumane, and crackpot theory at best. Her Monster, craves the love of her creator, and for others to accept her. Unfortunately, since Evelyn is not actually human, it's hard for her to relate to others, which in turn leads to her being labelled as a villain by society. This leads to temper tantrums on a massive scale, with many injured, and soo much property damage. Eventually, Victoria would think of creating a male companion for Evelyn, simply named Adam. But regret crept in, as this whole idea was screwed up. She would end up going through with it, thanks to some prodding by her former teacher, Doctor Septimus Pretorius. It got to the point where she was too far gone, as no one had truly appreciated her accomplishments. As such, she vowed vengeance against society. Her powerful Monster, and the Monster's Groom, imbued with special powers, act as slaves to her will.
This is on the walk from Keld to Muker, below Crackpot Hall. The Pennine Way is on the other side of the river.
Swaledale, North Yorkshire
There is a village called Crackpot in North Yorkshire, but this isn't really close to it.
The Crackpot in this case coupled with the grand title of Hall is describing what it isn't.
It's a ruin of a farmers house with a barn next to it.
“What else to say? We end in joy.” Theodore Roethke
_________________________________________________
"I gave up on new poetry myself thirty years ago, when most of it began to read like coded messages passing between lonely aliens on a hostile world." Russell Baker
Found at www.quoteland.com/search.asp
_____________________________________________________
Can treaties be more faithfully enforced between aliens than laws can among friends? Suppose you go to war, you cannot fight always; and when, after much loss on both sides, and no gain on either, you cease fighting, the identical old questions as to terms of intercourse are again upon you.
Tell a Friend-Abraham Lincoln, First Inaugural Address, March 4, 1861
Found at www.quoteland.com/search.asp
________________________________________________
“In the life of a man, his time is but a moment, his being an incessant flux, his senses a dim rushlight, his body a prey of worms, his soul an unquiet eddy, his fortune dark, and his fame doubtful. In short, all that is of the body is as coursing waters, all that is of the soul as dreams and vapours; life a warfare, a brief sojourning in an alien land; and after repute, oblivion. Where, then, can man find the power to guide and guard his steps? In one thing and one alone: the love of knowledge.” Marcus Aurelius, Meditations II, 17
Found at www.quoteland.com/search.asp
________________________________
Crackpot Friends
An elderly Chinese woman had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole which she carried across her neck.
One of the pots had a crack in it while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water.
At the end of the long walks from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.
For a full two years this went on daily, with the woman bringing home only one and a half pots of water.
Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments.
But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it could only do half of what it had been made to do.
After two years of what it perceived to be bitter failure, it spoke to the woman one day by the stream. "I am ashamed of myself, because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house."
The old woman smiled, "Did you notice that there are flowers on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side?"
"That's because I have always known about your flaw, so I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back, you water them."
"For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table.
Without you being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house."
Each of us has our own unique flaw. But it's the cracks and flaws we each have that make our lives together so very interesting and rewarding.
You've just got to take each person for what they are and look for the good in them.
SO, to all of my crackpot friends, have a great day and remember to smell the flowers on your side of the path!
EXPLORE # 144 & 171 on Sunday, March 9, 2008
Possibly a place where eccentrics can reflect and find tranquility - or even photographers during a waterfall mission :)
Crackpot, Swaledale, Yorkshire UK
f/7.1 / 1/15 sec / ISO 200 / 32mm / Manual mode / Tripod
It had been a long-time coming. Nearly quest-like in its intensity, and three long years in the making. After the incident, and with the help of a few like-minded maniacs, Michael Patten had managed to evade The Question in the New Mexico desert after a breakneck chase that stole an entire year from both their lives.
After that, the evasion in Hub City. It had been foolish to hide there, they both knew it. But It was Patten’s hope that the philosophy of “hide in plain sight” would apply, and thus shield him from The Question’s prying eyes. This however, was not the case.
And after another year of searching, it seemed the chase was finally over.
The Answer sits in his chair, listening to the nearly inaudible footsteps of his nemesis pad up the stairs. Until he gets to the final step. The Answer spins around, and brandishes a revolver in The Question’s direction.
Answer: BANG, BITCH!
Question: Clearly, the weapon isn’t loaded.
Answer: Clearly!
He points the gun to his own head and casually pulls the trigger. A shot rings out, but the force of the blast forces the gun back just enough so that the bullet only grazes The Answer’s head. His hair, peeking through the new tear in the mask, sizzles slightly.
Answer: Well whaddya know, little baby still had a slug left in her.
Question: One in the chamber.
Answer: Hold on one bullet-riddled minute, you knew! You just tried to get me to kill myself you faceless freak! Ah well, bygones be bygones. What’s a bullet between old friends.
He motions to a small, plastic chair in the corner of the room.
Answer: By all means, have a seat. Let us converse eloquently our mutual distaste for each other’s personages and how the hell you finally found me.
Question remains standing: I would explain to you my thought process, but who’s to say you’ll grasp it.
Answer: Hey you know me, the amputee village idiot. Can’t grasp anything.
Question: If you really want to know, it wasn’t even all that difficult. After you fled Hub City. I started searching for your presence online. This seemed like a mistake at first, until Belle Reve went up in a puff of posies. I had tried to hack into the system earlier, in an attempt to learn the truth about Task Force X, and was greeted by an . . . interesting signature in the code.
Answer yawns under his mask and slumps down into his chair.
Answer: Three years of rivalry, and it all comes down to this; Monologuing. Get to the point, Q-Tip.
Question: I was, just now. When Belle Reve went under, I knew from digging in the right places that Amanda Waller had purchased Alcatraz for reasons unknown. I simply tried to hack into Alcatraz’s mainframe, and was greeted by the exact same code signature. Your code signature.
Answer mockingly raises his hands in the air: You got me sheriff, looks like it’s the hangin’ tree for me.
Question: Heh. You and I both know only The Freemasons hang criminals still.
Answer: Well, them and the cabal of Chucky Cheese.
Question shudders at the name.
Answer lowers his hands: So uh, did you hear the government is being run by reptile-men?
Question scoffs: Please, the ‘lizard-men-rule-the world’ cliché is as old as Doctor Fate.
Answer: No, no, not the world, just America. And they’re not lizards, they’re snakes.
Question thinks for a moment: Ah. Yes. Now I see what you mean. Hurm.
Answer: Gives you a lot to think about, doesn’t it?
Question: It does, but it’s something that’s going to have to wait. I didn’t come here to chat, Michael, I came to take you in.
Answer laughs uproariously: You can’t be serious, Q, I’m a government agent. Not only that, I’m a government agent who doesn’t officially exist. I’m literally a conspiracy now. And you’re just going to pop in here, drag me by my ankles all the way to Gotham City, then whitlseblow this entire, and might I add, official, government operation?
Question: You forgot the long list of drug-related felonies, not to mention the event that started this little game of tag.
Answer: I forget nothing! Except for the parts the drugs blacked out. Regardless, you’ll have to take it up with the manager, sir, I just work here.
He smashes a button on the console. If either if their eyes could be seen, contact would have never been broken.
Question: You’re just stalling for time now, Patten. We’ve had a good run, but all things, even the eternal Amazonian flame that’s held in the Statue Of Liberty’s torch, must end.
Answer: . . . If it’s eternal, how’s it supposed to end?
Question, frustrated: Someone’s just going to have to put it out. Now, are you coming quietly?
Answer: No, and neither is she.
The broad, imposing shape of Amanda Waller fills the doorway. Her hands are clasped behind her back, and her mouth is clasped in a scowl.
Waller: Patten, nobody gave you permission for this playdate. Or is this a relative?
Question chuckles: Ah, Mrs. Waller. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.
Waller: The Question, I presume. I’m sure the pleasure is all yours.
Question: I’m actually quite glad I get to speak to you. I have some inquiries to make about a certain “Suicide Squad.”
Waller: Task Force X, as you know, were all killed in a freak accident that also took the lives of many officers and priso-
Question: Yes, yes. I’m sure you’re the direct source the reporters and news outlets acquired that little soundbite from, but we both know there’s more to it, don’t we.
Waller: Oh do we?
Question: We do. We both know that Task Force X was merely a cover for the real “Suicide Squad” which had supposedly gone dark after the Cloudburst Incident. That The Task Force fought fabricated threats while the real Suicide Squad carried out confidential missions. It was they who rescued Jack Ryder in Bialya. Who stopped the Pentagram murders. Digger Harkness was the one to assassinate Thayer Jost, who did indeed die of his wounds, despite what the official reports indicated. All of which, was enacted under your orders. The government’s orders.
Waller: Bold of you to assume what I know, without assuming it expands to you as well.
Question chuckles: As if you could find anything about me.
Waller: I don’t even have to look. I just have to turn to channel four at ten o’clock PM central time and catch an episode of Black and White World to know everything about you.
Answer: OOOOOOOO!!
Question: Wh-what are you insinuating, Mrs. Waller?
Waller: I’m insinuating that even if you could prove these crackpot theories and blew the lid off of these so-called “truths”, I’d have a lid of my own to blow off, and it’s one that would ruin your entire “man of mystery” schtick. So I’d tread carefully if I were you, Mister Sage.
At that, Answer gasps dramatically. Question stands still for a minute, stroking his chin, weighing his options.
Question: Fine. But should your operations get too egregious, I am ready and willing to sacrifice my identity in the name of the truth.
Answer: And that’s what makes you boring, Vicky boy. Now get outta here before I decide to use your hat as a spittoon, or my charming boss locks you in with our less-charming wards.
Question and Answer lock theoretical eyes once again, and without another word, the Question stalks back out the way he came.
Waller: I assume he’ll find his own way out.
Answer: Oh yes, he’s a smart cookie, that one. Whatever the hell that means. Ever wonder what dumbass cookies a “smart cookie” is being compared to?
Amanda Waller sighs. She has other things she could be doing.
Waller: Not particularly. Your rivalry with our . . . odorous friend has gone back a ways. I figured you’d want this final victorious moment for yourself.
Answer: Oh I did, the problem is I had absolutely nothing to leverage over him. I just assumed you did, and boy howdy did you deliver.
Waller: You mean all this time you didn’t even know who he was?
Answer: Of course not, he’s got no fucken face!
Waller: Well now he does, and you can view it every night on television or any time you wish on YouTube. Now if you’ll excuse me—
Disgruntled, Amanda Waller exits the room to return to her paperwork.
Answer, in turn, returns to his monitors and screens, lifting his mask and cracking open a brand new can of beer.
Answer: YouTube. Ha! No wonder the little ginger bastard couldn’t find me. His face is plastered all over the internet, and I haven’t even got a social security number!
Cheerfully, Michael Patten returns to the cold white embrace of the internet, seeking questions that have yet to be answered.
Ramps Holme Bridge has an interesting design, having stone supports and steps at each end and a central, conical, stone support. The bridge itself is quite narrow with wooden railings. It is sufficiently high over the river to allow for a large increase to the River Swale's depth during inclement weather, with strong, sturdy supports that are not likely to be damaged by turbulent water. Ramps Holme Bridge supports a very popular river crossing. Although there is a footpath each side of the River Swale, that on the east side is by far the better of the two. The path on the east side of the bridge provides access to Swinner Gill, Buzzard Scar and Crackpot Hall. There is no other crossing before reaching Keld. (coasttocoast.uk/yorkshire-dales)
Muker, Swaledale, The Yorkshire Dales, North Yorkshire, UK
©SWJuk (2024)
All rights reserved
After finally reaching the elevators, a weary Joni is unable to manage a smile due to her achy feet as she strikes a pose while awaiting the elevator to come up to the fifth floor. The elevator was slow and it seemingly took forever to come up to the fifth floor. . . . . Joni's feet may have been sore, but her legs were still looking pretty good !
Note that the black area around Joni's neck is not a neck collar. It is a facial mask that she had pulled down for the photographs. Joni was already fully vaccinated by this time, but this was Florida in April where they have a crackpot Governor, who thinks the covid pandemic was a hoax. The Savoy Lounge had it's own policy that facial masks were required unless you were eating or drinking, as well as social distancing but it wasn't being enforced with the mob of people on Friday night. Oddly, the policies were being being enforced to some extent on Wednesday, when the crowd was much smaller, although not rigorously. Joni wore her mask some of the time both nights, but not always.
In fact, as I think back a couple months later, patrons were required to sign a waiver of liability form before one was allowed to enter the premises in which you agreed to not sue the club in the event that one contracted the covid virus while inside. I recall signing one on Wednesday night, but I'm pretty sure I didn't sign one on Friday night. Either the bar ran out of waiver forms or they realized it was a futile gesture and a hoax in its own rite. Frankly, I wondered how anyone could ever prove where they actually contracted covid in a place like Florida, where safeguards were minimal, if at all?
"Fuck"
Baker looked at the bottom of his partially charred shoe. Dog Crap. As if clawing his way out of a burning, dilapidated Ace Chemicals, smelling and breathing in whatever dangerous concoctions had been released into the air during the explosion, and wandering around the cold dark streets of Gotham wasn't bad enough.
"Come on, dammit." Baker rubbed his shoe against the concrete, darting his eyes from one corner of his eyelids to the other simultaneously. Nighttime in Gotham, especially in the bad neighborhoods was about as safe as running around Arkham in nothing but boxers. Atleast in Arkham there were guards. Any maniac with a knife could run free in the Gotham streets till they attracted the attention of the police or...others.
Baker took care of the canine guano and kept walking. He had no idea where he was going. How could he? His current status was much more intriguing to him than any mere location. He looked like an albino that had tried to cut himself with a black marker. Other than his appearance however, he felt the same. The burns stung a little sure but, other than that he was just another criminal with peculiar looks. Something not rare in Gotham.
"What the hell am I even doing? Heading to my apartment, to do what? I can't sleep like this! I'm still not entirely sure what that fucking mad scientist, Wist's, machine did to me!"
Baker walked over to a GCPD car and sat down against it. He didn't care if a cop came out and arrested him right there. Why would they anyways? He looked like a depressed Zebra, not a dangerous looking individual at all. Besides, he thought * he glanced at the strip club across the street , the only decent looking establishment in sight* the cop was probably busy anyhow.
Baker wondered what to do. Go home, go to the hospital, pray? Pray, ha, that was a joke. Baker wasn't religious. A criminal like him couldn't be. He wanted power. And he was pretty certain the likes of Two-Face and Black Mask didn't become the top dogs of Gotham by going to church. What would praying do anyways? Would Jesus himself come down from the heavens and give him a hand?
"Hello my child."
Baker looked up at Jesus.
"Who the hell are you."
"Your savior, the son of the God almighty."
Baker wondered, was he tripping cause of the experiment, had some crackpot hobo read his thoughts and was trying to take advantage of him? Was Jesus actually talking to him?
"Ya right, listen I ain't given you any cash for drugs or whatnot, I don't even have any money on me!
"Oh, yee of little faith, I am not trying to take advantage of you in your time of peril. I, Jesus Christ, have come, despite your crimes and sins, to save you."
Baker glared at the man. But the man's loving stare did not waver. Oddly enough Baker seemed to trust the man more and more every second he continued to look at his face. Maybe he was...no..yes...no, are you dense Baker, your alone on a street in a bad part of town at around midnight at this random fucker claims to be Jesus? Ya right...ha...but...he...maybe...
The man's face was practically glowing. Like he was standing in front of some holy spotlight. He must be...he was...he...he is Jesus!
"I-I'm sorry. I-I-I didn't believe. Please forgive me *he kneeled infront of Jesus, who, for some reason, was wearing a bloody white tank top and vest with knives holsters* please forgive me of my sins!"
"Do not worry my child, I will forgive you, and I will take you to the kingdom of God. You must simply come with me. Come, come" *he talked to Baker as though he was a nervous puppy*.
"Yes, take me to the land of God!"
And so Jesus gestured to Jacob to follow him, and Jacob did, as though he was almost in a trance. But how could Jacob not trust the man, he was Jesus, and even if he wasn't his face was so kind and generous, that is until Jacob was behind the man and couldn't see his face, when the man quietly licked his lips, and grinned ear to ear, a sharp-toothed grin, with teeth stained a red, almost velvet color, like blood.
Clearly, the man was in fact, not Jesus...
‐-----------‐‐----‐----------------------------------------------
Thanks for reading! Comments are appreciated ;)
The motherland is a beggar, an old woman that sells potatoes at the railway station. That is what motherland is," Shevchuk said at the concert. His words were cheered by the crowd.
Before a packed stadium in Ufa, Russia, Yuri Shevchuk, the frontman of the band DDT, said that people were dying as a result of “some kind of Napoleonic plans of our latest Caesar, yes?”
Mr. Shevchuk, 65, who over the years has challenged President Vladimir V. Putin’s decisions, made the comments less than three months after Russia enacted a law that would punish anyone who spread “false information” about its invasion with up to 15 years in prison.
My comment:
Mr. Shevchuk, 65, is a brave man risking his life for telling what people already knew -Russia needs new blood to replace tons of festering rubbish making the whole world sick
Putin & his Generals aren't what they appeared to be! they all proved to be most destructive misfits of society with inferiority complexes they had hoped to overcome by killing every human being in Ukraine
Putin is a crackpot, always has been, always will be like all despots living it up at the expenses of people living in fear for their lives
COVID Pandemic Series. Number 1.
Conspiracy theorists seem to get very excited during shocking events like a pandemic. Their crackpot ideas would be quite entertaining if they did not result in damage to property and to some people's already fragile state of mind.
At this point in time, I am not aware of any scientific evidence (or case evidence) that 5G technology is likely to be harmful to human health.
My picture shows a new mast being erected on Brodie Avenue, Liverpool, England on Tuesday 29th April 2020.
COPYRIGHT © Towner Images 2020
TAB - The Man's Pocket Magazine
August, 1965
Cover photo of Kitty Lynn
Contents:
Sinatra's biggest love-flip
A doomed man tells: "Tonight I die in the chair"
How high is your sex I.Q.?
Those crackpot ideas that can make you rich
The blonde bombshell who rocked H'wood
The Question, in Minifigure form. To be honest, I’ve not seen (Or can I recall seeing if in fact I did) a minifigure version of the Question. I’ve seen some decal type ones, but never a purist one. Regardless, I made this one!
I plan on having Question appearing in my Task Force X side stories in a bit. So look out for him and his crazy interconnecting theories.