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The news: A new book claims that potential presidential candidate Hillary Clinton was an “enthusiastic pot user,” according to a quote from a former law school classmate.
Clinton recently denied ever having tried weed in an interview while promoting her book, claiming, “I didn’t do it when I was young. I’m not going to start now.”
However, after being against decriminalization during her 2008 presidential bid and calling for more research into its medical benefits, this time around, Clinton has recently said, “I think for people who are in extreme medical conditions and who have anecdotal evidence that it works, there should be availability under appropriate circumstances.”
It’s a somewhat noncommittal kind of support, but it is worlds away from her previous opposition to decriminalizing.
With the status quo. If Clinton was an “enthusiastic pot user” in college, she’s not much different from nearly half of the population. According to a 2013 Pew Research poll, 48% of Americans have tried cannabis at some point. Clinton’s political views on the topic are also shifting with the national trend, with amajority of the country in favor of legalization. Her statements signal favorable leadership for the pro-legalization majority.
Insult turned to favor. The book making the claim, Clinton, Inc.: The Audacious Rebuilding of a Political Machine, is essentially a takedown of both Bill and Hillary Clinton’s political careers. Its timing suggests that it hopes to detract from Clinton’s anticipated 2016 presidential run. However, considering popular public support for marijuana legalization, accusations of pot use may simply make her seem more relatable. All in all, it could mean a higher IQ rating for Clinton and a better chance that we might have a cannabis-supportive president come 2016.
“Never in my career did I guess that I’d be passing out delicious snacks at Hempfest,” Sean Whitcomb told Salon. “But that happened.” Hempfest goers seemed equally surprised to find Whitcomb, a sergeant in the Seattle Police Department, handing out bags of Doritos and not court summonses among the bong vendors and joint smokers at the city’s annual outdoor pot festival.
They’re typically arch-nemeses, potheads and police officers, but the munchies were a big hit and both sides seemed to relish the irony, with the bags now selling on eBay for as much as much as $50 a pop.
Whitcomb and his fellow officers are trying to make positive interactions like this between two groups historically skeptical of each other more commonplace after voters in the Evergreen State legalized pot in November. They’re trying to educate — the Doritos bags came with information about the new law — but beyond that, they’re trying to make a connection.
Like parents who look the other way as their kids drink a few beers with friends (but confiscate everyone’s keys), the Seattle cops also seem almost desperate to be liked. They return confiscated stashes, write funny blog posts and use their official Twitter account to announce that the chief of police pulled over a truck adorned with fake pot leaves — in order to give the driver directions to Hempfest. And so what if there’s nothing less cool that someone trying really hard to be cool — can you really blame them?
“Absurd marijuana prohibition laws have long fueled contempt for law enforcement officials, and this type of outreach can help patch up that relationship between police and the public,” said Mason Tvert of the Marijuana Policy Project, a pro-legalization group based in Washington, D.C. “It is great to see … The Seattle Police Department appears to be moving forward with the voters, as opposed to resisting the changes demanded by voters, which is unfortunately still the case in far too many communities that have embraced reform.”
“Early Days” is one of the highlights of Paul McCartney’s most recent album, 2013′s New, but its music video — which you can watch exclusively here — might never have happened if it was left up to McCartney. “When I’ve got a song, I don’t think about the video,” the singer says. “I’m sure some people do, but I don’t. I just think about the song, first writing it, then recording it.”
Earlier this year, though, director Vincent Haycock sent over a video treatment for “Early Days” that caught his eye. “It’s a memory song for me, about me and John in the early days,” McCartney says. “But Vince came up with this great idea: Instead of having young lookalikes of me and John walking the streets of Liverpool, guitars slung over our backs, and literally acting out the song, what if it was any two aspiring musicians? I thought that was such a cool idea.”
Haycock spent a month scouting locations in Natchez, Mississipi, and Faraday, Louisiana, and casting local actors for the video’s main storyline, set in the American South in the 1950s. He also traveled to Los Angeles to film a jam session between McCartney and some special guests. “I happened to ring Johnny Depp,” McCartney says. “I said, ‘Come along and we’ll sit around and jam with these blues guys.’ He said, ‘Yeah, OK, count me in, man.’ I knew it was an offer he couldn’t refuse.” (Other musicians at the session included Roy Gaines, Al Williams, Dale Atkins, Henree Harris, Motown Maurice, Lil Poochie and Misha Lindes; see an exclusive photo from the video shoot below.)
“Early Days” marks the third McCartney video Depp has appeared in, after 2012′s “My Valentine” and 2013′s “Queenie Eye.” “It’s getting to be a running gag,” McCartney says. “He’s like the Alfred Hitchcock of my videos. And he’s good! He used to be a musician before he was an actor, you know. One of his old band mates actually organized getting me that cigar-box guitar that I played with Dave Grohl on ‘Cut Me Some Slack,’ that we ended up getting a Grammy for. So I knew he could play.”
Music and acting, McCartney notes, often go hand in hand. “They’re similar gigs, really. Ringo used to know Peter Sellers very well, and Peter wanted to be a drummer – that was his secret closet ambition. You run into a lot of guys who play who are actors. There a bunch you can think of. Bruce Willis does it. Then there are people who do both, like Jared Leto.”
As for himself, the former Beatle disavows any interest in taking up acting. “No, I don’t think it’s my thing,” he says. “I get self-conscious in front of a movie camera. Off-camera, I can impersonate, I can do this and that, and I’ll think, ‘I could be such a great actor.’ Then they say ‘Action!’ and turn the camera on, and I go uh-uh-uh-uh-uh…I just don’t think I’m a natural.
“But you know what?” he adds with a laugh. “I’ve got enough to do.”
At least, this cafe in Waterville, Country Kerry, Ireland, with a red, white and blue sign banning “Loud Americans” doesn’t.
The sign on the window of Peter’s Place cafe and hostel in Waterville was spotted by a Northern Irish visitor named Maurice Campbell, who posted a photo of the sign and tweeted: “It must be a great thing in life to have your money made!”
Originally posted on Atomic Flash Deluxe:
The June 1961 issue of Parents’ Magazine featured a story entitled, You Can Make Your Home Less Noisy, in the Better Homemaking section. Writer H. Robert Childs made some common sense suggestions, i.e. acoustical fiberboard ceiling tiles, wall-to-wall carpeting, heavy drapes, felt cushions to ‘dissipate the vibration of such devices as typewriters,’ etc.
What stood out most about the article, though, were the illustrations. Imagine if you could see the noise that is all around you. Illustrator Robert J. Lee presents that scenario in a just-short-of-jarring almost whimsical way. Below are select scans from the article provided by flickr member Leif Peng.You Can Make Your Home Less Noisy dad’s workshop…
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Photographer Antoine Bruy not only traveled and lived with off-grid families for three years, but captured captivating photos of their #Walden-ePsque existence.
When screeching city noises and demands from the 9-5 job become too much, most people can only dream of what quiet isolation in the rural countryside could be like. But French photographer Antoine Bruy turned that dream into a reality by hitchhiking across Europe from 2010 to 2013.
The artist wandered through remote mountain regions without any fixed destination or route in mind, but along the way met several individuals who had willingly abandoned hectic city life in exchange for retreat in the deep wilderness. These people sacrificed modern comforts for greater autonomy and freedom, and in result became inspiration to the inquisitive photographer.
In Bruy’s series Scrublands, he documented the homes and faces of the people he countered, by chance, who live far away from civilization. Living with these individuals for days to weeks at a time, Antoine helped them farm land and raise livestock while becoming educated on their self-sufficient lifestyles. Once teachers, students, and engineers, these people now rely on makeshift buildings, recovered materials, and agriculture in order to survive off-grid.
The compelling photos capture the rustic beauty and idyllic setting of people who have chosen a -#Walden-esque existence tucked away in secluded, wild environments. “The people and places depicted in my pictures display various fates which I think should not only be seen at a political level, but more importantly, as daily and immediate experiences,” he explains. “These are, in some ways, spontaneous responses to the societies these men and women have left behind. This documentary project is an attempt to make a kind of contemporary tale and to give back a little bit of magic to our modern civilization.”
This prehistoric king with blood-stained teeth and sinister eyes is depicted on one of a few thousand mid-century postcards in a collection that I have been curating for the last 30 years. I seek out the tackiest, kitschiest ones that make you ask, “What were they thinking?”
I cherish these cards in a way that would be most understood by another collector. Why?
1) They satisfy my appetite for humor of the absurd.
2) I’ve been around on this planet since 1956 so I have a childhood connection to the images and the sensibilities of the era.
3) They are snapshots of this wonderful place called the United States during an era that we have, thankfully, progressed beyond (and that some would like to drag us back to).
I had never blogged and never followed blogs (except for a couple political ones, pre-election). I wasn’t enthusiastic at first, but coaxed myself to register with Tumblr and selected a postcard for the first post. After I hit the “publish” button, my world changed. I was barraged with ideas on how to showcase my treasure trove of bad.
Having a theatre background, I likened the blogging experience to running my own theatre. I had the comedy and the tickets were free but I needed the audience. I monitored my site traffic and was excited on the day that I had 23 visitors!
Seven weeks after launch, BAD POSTCARDS went viral. It began with a feature on Andrew Sullivan’s blog, The Daily Dish. A dear friend who is very supportive of my postcard projects and now collaborates with me, emailed the Dish with a sample post — a postcard of a swimming pig named Ralph who lived at Aquarina Springs in San Marcos, Texas. In the next few days other sites followed suit, featuring other postcards from the blog. Later that week, British actor and comedian Stephen Fry, favorably tweeted BAD POSTCARDS. That day, over 26,000 visitors viewed the site. The audience continues to grow.
This postcard depicts some of my childhood nightmare material. I vividly remember having recurring dreams at four years old of being chased by a clown. When I finally figured out how to communicate this to my parents, they removed the oversized clown head poster from my bedroom wall. Quacky might have had the same effect on me. He looks as twisted as his balloon creations.
Everybody loves the animal postcards, especially the kitties and doggies, especially when they’re dressed like humans. Dressed animals are not exclusive to this period. They appear in all postcard eras. I often have the urge to go back in time and behind the scenes of these photo sessions.
If dressed animals aren’t your thing, how about the mutant variety? The oversized Jack Rabbit usually appears in a western setting. There’s also the classic Jackelope – a jack rabbit with antelope antlers.
Our obsessions with the largest, longest and fastest can be satisfied with postcards. My collection has a category called “Superlatives.” Here you’ll find the world’s largest bull, pheasant and pineapple and the world’s tallest cowboy (60 feet tall). This postcard shows the World’s Largest Cheese. It was intended for display at the Los Angeles County Fair. It says “Alice in Dairyland” on the woman’s sash. She looks like she’s in quite some land.
Say it with bathing beauties! It is said this way on a lot on mid-century postcards. Here is an allegory of the admission of Hawaii and Alaska to the Union. On the site, you’ll often see companies advertising their dull or manly products, spiced up with some bikini-clad pin-up cuties.
Exaggeration postcards were intentionally comic. Most common are fruits and vegetables and animals represented as oversized. Here is one of many fish postcards in the collection. Sometimes my caption will entice curious visitors. I titled this “DRIVIN’ WITH A BIG ONE.”
One of the greatest pleasures I derive from the site is when visitors comment on their childhood reminiscence of a place. Their memories embellish the posts and bring life to the postcards. One recent example is the postcard of Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg in Webster, Massachusetts. This can also be filed under the category “Boring Scenery.”
I enjoy engaging followers by questioning their reactions to some of the images. This card advertises a line of brightly colored chainsaws with the help of a pair of lovely legs. I asked my female visitors what color they would choose for their first chainsaw and what they would cut first with it. One response: “I’d pick the dark blue chainsaw, and I’d cut our coffee table in half!”
There are so many other categories of BAD and not enough room to discuss them here. Check out BAD POSTCARDS. I post at least one image each day and there are many more to come.
THE TRAIN THAT ISN’T THERE
Let me tell you a bit about myself. My name is Brian Wellington and I am almost fifty years old.
I am blind-legally, well that’s the diagnosis. It took me a long time to convince the disability people and the doctors that I couldn’t see more than a foot in front of my face. I do have a problem with my sight, it’s diabetes. A few years back I had trouble reading,got reading glasses and that helped a bit but then I couldn’t see distances clearly. With some exaggeration and a little bit of deception. I went on disability.
I have worn many hats in my life, line cook, bus driver, a stock man at Walmart, and a tobacco salesman, all unsuccessful jobs,with little satisfaction. I had no savings, no wife anymore, we have been divorced 8 years now. and no kids,thank god! I was due a hand out-and the government was the way to go.
I live in low income housing in Milleville, New Jersey on the second floor. My constant companion is my mutt, “dog”, who is a pain in the ass, he never listens. My neighbors are a pain too, they are all assholes, even the ones who believe I am blind, and go out of their way to help me. Fuck them all, I hate people, all of them.They push themselves on me with their pot roast dinners, and plates of over baked macaroni and cheese. They are constantly knocking on my door, don’t they know what is overkill even for a blind man?
It has puffed by several weeks in a row, rattling over the trestle that is a few feet away from my bedroom. a black steam train with a dozen carriages. It seems to have the same schedule, passing by at 10pm. and returning a few hours later. It has spiked my curiosity as to where it came from and where it was going.
According to the internet the train which had been a passenger train stopped running in 1953. One quiet Spring evening there had been a terrific roar out of nowhere and the train had derailed, plunging all 125 passengers and the driver 200 ft. to their deaths in the Delaware River. It had been springtime and the river was already swollen from bad storms. No one could be rescued. Only 62 peoples bodies were recovered, leaving the missing a mystery for all these years. The local and national newspapers had covered “the story” every year on the anniversary of the tragedy, even sending news crews on fishing boats and diving crews in hopes of finding something. But to no avail, it still made for a good story.
Now let me digress a bit. Back to my window, where I sit in my old green corduroy recliner, with “dog” on my lap. Across the street next to the trestle and the tracks are the woods, there is a pathway that leads down to the river, Kids like to hang out there, smoking pot I assume, and to get away from their parents, and I walk “dog” all the time.
A few months ago I noticed “town” dump trucks going through the opening with big loads of dirt dumping it in the back. I watched this over a three month period. Then came the backhoes, what the hell is going on? I have to take a walk over there.
I took “dog” across the road, to examine the situation. Upon close inspection, a dozen or more deep holes, some filled with dirt and others with ropes and hooks hanging over the edges. I walked up to one, and peered into the darkness, there was silence and then there were sounds grrrrunngr egger grrr emitting from the ground deep within. I couldn’t believe my ears, it was just my imagination, it had to be – too many Stephen King books, or too much medication. Whatever it was I was getting the hell out of there. This is what happens when you have too much time on your hands.
I went back to my apartment,closed the windows and the shades and put on The History Channel. I couldn’t concentrate. I really wanted to talk to someone, but whoever I told would think I am whacky, and then word would spread, and soon no-one would visit me and bring me their awful food.
That evening I sat with a bottle of Vodka and drank till my head spun. Still my imagination was overloaded with spooky things, derailed trains and bodies thrashing in the river. I fell into a drunken belligerent sleep and woke to the sound of birds chirping and the sound of a distant lawn mower. Had it all been a dream? I hoped so.
I was eating chili from a can and sitting at my usual perch at the window when a couple of dump trucks rolled into the woods. They dumped dirt into a couple of holes, and left. This is getting weirder by the minute! I called the town hall and asked them if they were doing any road work or construction on my street. The lady on the phone snapped at me and said she knew of no such thing and why was I asking. I quickly hung up determined not to call again or I may raise some suspicions.
The following night armed with “dog” a flashlight and a camera, I climbed the overgrown embankment and stood by the track. I would wait for the train and see it close up and take some pictures. I waited for t were no longer present time, but in the past. But these passengers were not really there, the train was not really there. The train line was defunct, history, a bad and terrible moment in time. Those passengers were long gone along with the driver. They had plunged to their death that Spring night in 1953. I was beside myself in terror and disbelief, shaken to the core.
“Dog was spooked with his tail between his legs. I dragged him down the embankment, across the street and back to the safety of my apartment. I fell into my chair with my bottle, knowing there would be no sleep that night, if ever again. What had I witnessed, was it real, was my mind screwed up, was I ready for the “big house”. My inside joke calmed me, at least I hadn’t lost my sense of humor. I’d drink myself stupid and fall asleep. Maybe it was a delusional figment after all. I never made it to the bed and slept uncomfortably in the chair all night.
That morning I knocked on the door of one of the original residents, Jill Magpie. She let me in and made me tea and put out a plateful of cookies.
i haven’t seen you Brian in a long time, how are you doing? You never come by anyone to visit an old lady, what have you been up to?
Well Miss Magpie I want to ask you about the train that crashed and to ask you what you know about it, can you help me?
Well that was a long time ago, I had forgotten all about it. This used to be the old train station, they build the apartments on the original foundation. Some of the old parts still remain, the laundry room, the ground floor and the big porch in the back used to be the platform. That crash shook the town up to the core. No one talks about it anymore. Those drowned people are all but forgotten. It’s as if it never happened. Now don’t be shy have some cookies. She pushed the plate toward me. What is it with old women and food, it’s a “mother’ complex!
Why all the questions Brian, you shouldn’t talk about such things, what’s done is done. Those people are dead and long gone. Let them rest in peace, or rather their watery graves. Don’t go asking around, it will only get you in trouble. Bill and Molly Shannon from apartment 4B got curious and they suddenly disappeared, never seen again. There was never any sort of investigation. John Osbourne, the reporter for the Gazette was writing an article on the disappearance of the passengers and according to gossip she suddenly left town. Let sleeping dogs lie Brian. It’s for your own good and safety. Mind your own business , I know what I am talking about.
Thanks Jill for all the info, I will keep my investigation low key I promise you, but I must do what I must do. Thanks again for the hospitality.
Don’t be a stranger Brian, come around more often, do you hear?
She lead me to the door and patted me on the back. Beware of ghosts Brian, they can talk.
She had given me goosebumps.
That afternoon the machines resumed their digging and filling up. I wondered what was going on, but put the thoughts behind me.
A week passed by and I hadn’t been able to shake what Miss Magpie had told me about the disappearances. I didn’t want to become a statistic so decided to keep my investigation to myself and “dog”. According to my observations the train would pass by tonight.
Armed with a flashlight, my camera, and “dog” I Climbed the train embankment and walked further down the track toward where the train had derailed. Right on schedule it came roaring through, navy smoke rising in the night sky. I was shaking, thinking I would bear witness to the awful accident. The train passed within inches of my body. I stood very still with my camera ready. The train heaved and groaned bending off the tracks. Sparks were flying and I could smell searing hot metal. Putting my camera to my eyes. I shot frame after frame, disbelieving my eyes. Passengers with terror on their faces were being tossed left and right, falling down and on top of each other. I could hear their silent screams as bewilderment and horror set in. Then the train heaved and groaned and spun off the tracks, rolling down the steep rocks and twisting and turning until it splashed, heaved and disappeared into the depths of the consuming swollen river. Nothing was left except for heaving bubbles and choppy waves. I prayed for the dead and dying, knowing there was no hope at all.
Where were the cops and the sirens? I heard not a sound. The train was gone, the passengers drowned. It was as if nothing had ever happened. My heart was pounding and my knees felt weak. I looked down into the river once more and thought of those lost innocent souls in their watery graves. I shuddered, and sat on the edge of the twisted tracks to catch my breath before I went back to the safe haven of my home.
The next day I downloaded the photos, and saw the horror of what I had witnessed. It had not been an accident I was convinced of that. What had caused it, who had caused it? My thoughts were totally consumed. Later that day I walked into the woods and saw that all the holes had been filled. I wondered what they signified, and why the constant filling up with dirt.
That night I took a shovel and started digging up the soil on the freshest hole. The ground was soft and easy to lift. When I got about two feet down, I hit something something solid. I cleared the dirt and saw a half decomposed head and an arm. It moved,it’s hand opened and reached for me. The mouth on the head opened and let out a growling moan. I fell back in astonishment and fear. I was shaking all over. Dawn Of the Dead- Zombies-The Dead Rising? I stepped down on the body, hearing a nasty crunch, and covered it with nearby rocks and brush. What the fuck was going on, this can’t be real. Why me, why must I be part of this nightmare?
I googled “the undead” as soon as I got home. There were articles up the kazoo, could there really be “undead” people trying to come back, for whatever purpose?
I broke into the cop station the next night, after casing out the coming and goings of the cops on their shifts. I cut a chain link fence and climbed the fence. I broke a back window, no alarms went off to my amazement. Well it is a small rinky dink town with little to no crime. The last thing the cops would expect would be a break in! I found myself in a small bathroom, used the facilities and made my way through all the offices. I came across a room with a sign with “Cold Case Files” posted to the door. I went in, the room was long and narrow, with rows of metal shelves lined with box after box labelled with dates and names. I found a box with “Train Crash” magic markered on it.
I grabbed the box and sat on the floor shining my flashlight into it. I read report after report and soon got the jist of the facts. The accident was no accident. The train had been deliberately derailed by intent. The rails had been pulled up and twisted making sure the train would flip the tracks and crash. But why? According to a Gazette report on May 10th 1953 by John Osbourne, the tracks had been tampered with. Bent and twisted by the town construction crew, they made sure the train would lose it’s grip and flip. The town of Millville didn’t want the train to come through town anymore. It was causing too much pollution, and passengers were beginning to move into town, snatching up prime housing, in particular the Victorian houses on famous Main Street. The town was getting overpopulated, much to the anger of the residents who had been there for generations. Millville didn’t like strangers. The town was on the historic registry, a population of 13,000 residents. There was room for no more. More people meant more needs, and sooner or later the townsfolks imagined a fast food restaurant and a Walmart moving in. A plot had been hatched by the mayor and police chief to cause the accident. The newspaper article said it loud and clear. The truth was out, but that was not all, tucked into a corner of the box was a crumpled envelope was more. John Osbourne had written. The dead had come back to haunt the evil living. To live as were their rights in the town of their choosing. They had been brutally and inhumanely killed in a horrible way, gasping their last living breathes beneath the murky river. The Mayor and cops were criminals and murderers. They were getting their just desert. PAYBACK, the dead coming back to haunt the evil doers.
Brian photo copied the files and climbed back over the fence. With evidence in hand he ran as fast as he could back home. In the morning he “googled” John Osbourne. He had died in a gas explosion in his home, one week after his article came out. He had been permanently silenced.
The truth had been squelched. Forever silenced. But now Brian knew, and he would do something about it, he would contact the state newspaper.
He went across to the holes and dug up one, he heard the awful moans and reaching of the arms and wagging of the moaning heads. He took pictures, and gently covered the hole back up.
He composed a letter to the editor in chief. Enclosing John Osbourne’s article, the newspapers reports, and the photos. He waited nervously for a week, and then got a phone call. It was from the editor and he wanted to interview him. Brian explained his concern about exposing the truth, and told the editor he wanted to remain anonymous. He agreed.
The next few weeks the town of Millville was inundated with the press, photographers, the State Police and the FBI. TV crews soon turned up and everything became a media circus. The town was turned upside down. The Mayor and cops responsible were arrested and put on trial.
The undead were no longer restless and soon became quiet and at peace. They were given a proper burial. Milleville had lost it’s innocence and no longer was listed as a peaceful town on the Delaware- a place for good living and peace of mind.
Brian Wellington had had his moment of anonymous fame. He saw Jill Magpie in the laundry room some months later, she was leaning on a dryer. She motioned for him to come over to him, and whispered in his ear. It was you Brian who found out the truth. You did a good thing, bought out the truth and gave the undead their peace. God bless you son!
This story is based on a real town in N.J. on the Delaware. There is a mystery train, a blind man, and strange construction going on in the woods. The apartment building was the real train station.
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