You have chosen to follow my work. I’ve found my way to yours. Or we’ve somehow crossed paths through shared stories and curiosity. Regardless, I’m grateful you’re here. benandsteve.com is a place built on memory and reflection. We believe every life has value. Every voice deserves to be heard.
Here you’ll find personal stories, history, observations, tributes, and occasional wanderings into humor or wonder. Some pieces are quiet. Some are reflective. Some surprise you. All are written with intention and respect for the human experience we share.
benandsteve.com is a storytelling space built on memory, curiosity, and the belief that ordinary lives carry extraordinary meaning. Here you’ll find personal essays, family and local history, tributes, reflections, and observations drawn from lived experience.
This site isn’t about perfection or performance—it’s about honesty, connection, and preserving moments that otherwise be lost. Stories are shared not to impress. They are shared to remember and think. They remind us that we’re not alone in what we carry.
You’re invited to read, wander, think, and return whenever something calls you back.
Thank you for taking the time to read, follow, and engage. I hope something here resonates with you. It can steady you. Or if it reminds you that you’re not alone in this wide, complicated world. You’re always welcome back—and I’m glad you found your way here.
A Warm Welcome to New Subscribers
If you’re new here—welcome. Several reasons you are here. (1.) You have subscribed by choice. (2.) You discovered this site through a shared story. (3.) We have found one another through mutual curiosity. Regardless, I’m genuinely glad you’re here.
benandsteve.com is a place for storytelling in many forms. These include personal reflections, family and local history, and tributes. It also encompasses observations and the occasional moment of humor or wonder. Some posts are quiet and reflective. Others lean into memory, loss, resilience, or simple human connection. All are written with care and intention.
Thank you for reading, subscribing, and spending your time here. I hope something you find steadies you, sparks a memory, or reminds you that stories—especially ordinary ones—still matter. You’re always welcome back.
This post is going live as I am entering surgery. The surgery is for an Anterior Lumbar Interbody Fusion. I want to thank all of you for your support, prayers, and encouragement. Your kindness truly means the world to me.
During my recovery, you’ll still see new posts here on the blog. I’ve prepared content in advance. You can continue to enjoy the same quality stories and information. This is what you’ve come to expect from the benandsteve.com blog.
Thanks again for being part of this journey. I look forward to rejoining you soon. Another update will post later today to keep you informed.
It was evening, and heavy traffic moved steadily along the narrow two-lane highway connecting small towns in the region. The road served as a lifeline, carrying motorists and buses through these quiet Oklahoma communities.
Law enforcement has fascinated me for as long as I can remember. My dad worked night shifts, patrolling the eastern region near the oil fields. In the summers, he served as a ranger at a nearby campsite. Winters drew him to different assignments, often more demanding and remote.
One of the state vehicles always remained parked at the ranger’s residence—our home—while my dad took the other on duty. That night felt like any other.
My bedroom was tucked into the back corner of the house. Even during winter, I often left the window cracked to let in the crisp night air. From there, I heard the distant hum of traffic about a mile to the south.
As I lay on my bed studying for a test the next day, a sound split the quiet—a crash. Loud. Tires screeched. Then came the unmistakable bang of an impact.
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it. A stretch of highway nearby had a reputation for accidents. Without hesitation, I grabbed my flashlight, told my mom there’d been a wreck, and jumped into the ranger truck. I had just earned my driver’s license, and the weight of responsibility was fresh on my shoulders.
Once on the road, I grabbed the radio and called it into the local police.
“It sounds bad—there have to be at least two vehicles involved.”
The Chief of Police from the nearest town confirmed he was en route. I pushed down the gas pedal and sped toward the highway. I noticed no cars coming eastbound as I turned onto it—an ominous sign. About two miles west, I saw the wreck.
A Greyhound bus had collided with a pickup truck. Both vehicles were mangled, partially in the ditch and partially blocking the road. The bus’s windshield was gone, and passengers were scattered everywhere—some dazed, others crying out.
The bus driver was lying in a yard 100 feet away. He was still strapped into his seat. The seat had been ejected from the bus. A man lay next to him. Both were dead. The bus had come to rest on the pickup truck, crushing its cab.
Flames licked at the wreckage. There was no chance anyone inside the pickup had survived.
Before officers arrived, I radioed again:
“Get every ambulance in the county out here. This is bad.”
A bread truck delivery driver had just finished his route and stumbled upon the crash. Without hesitation, he unloaded his remaining bread onto the roadside. He began helping by filling his truck with victims to shuttle them to the hospital.
There had been thirty-two people on board. Survivors said a passenger had been drinking and became increasingly aggressive. The driver warned him to settle down, but the man charged ahead and grappled with the driver. That man now lay dead beside him in the yard.
The response was massive—five police agencies, three fire departments, and four ambulance services. That same night, a basketball tournament had drawn spectators to a nearby town. Many who had been on their way became unexpected witnesses to a horrific scene.
Inside the crushed pickup were two passengers—the aunt and uncle of a local fire chief. The tragedy hit close to home.
Years later, as a police officer, I would respond to countless serious accidents. But none would ever match that cold winter night’s scale. None equaled its raw emotion. It was the first crash I saw with my own eyes.
Deep in the heart of the Whispering Wood stood an ancient oak known as the Wishing Tree. Its gnarled branches stretched toward the heavens. The tree’s roots twisted deep into the earth. The soil received whispering secrets from it.
The legend passed from generation to generation. It told of the tree’s magic. The tree would grant a single wish to those who truly believed.
Many travelers sought the Wishing Tree. Only a rare few with pure hearts and sincere desires ever found it. The forest guided them. The wind carried soft murmurs. These murmurs led them down winding paths until they stood before the towering oak. Beneath its emerald canopy, the air shimmered with an almost otherworldly glow.
One such seeker was a young girl named Elara. She had heard the tales from her grandmother, who had once made a wish upon the tree as a child. With hope in her heart, Elara ventured into the forest. She followed the rustling leaves and the whispering wind. Soon, she stood before the grand tree.
Kneeling upon the moss-covered roots, she closed her eyes, her heart beating with anticipation, and whispered her wish.
“I wish for our village never to go hungry again.”
Elara’s voice carried the hope. It also carried the love of her people.
The tree remained silent, its leaves barely stirring. But then, a single golden acorn dropped into Elara’s hands. She gasped as warmth spread through her fingers.
Understanding the tree’s silent message, she carried the acorn home and planted it in the center of her village.
Days turned to weeks, and soon, a miraculous tree sprouted. Its branches bore fruits of all kinds—apples, pears, oranges, and even wheat grains. The villagers rejoiced, their hearts filled with joy and relief, never knowing famine again. Elara knew, in her heart. Now a guardian of the magical grove, she understood that belief and kindness were the magic behind the Wishing Tree.
And so, the legend continued, whispered among the trees, waiting for the next believer to find their way.
When the world turns against you, what do you do? This question had boiled under Chester’s contempt for days. He had watched the nation he loved become the opposite of everything it had ever stood for. The people appeared powerless to stop the crazed leaders who were taking control of the institutions and destroying them.
Chester became so incensed that he quit his job. He took about three hundred dollars, bought as many canned food items as possible, and stored them in his home. Chester then purchased one hundred dollars’ worth of bottled water. He had planned for the loss of electricity and home heating petroleum. Chester had medical supplies he thought would handle any matter related to his health. Then, he went and nailed his doors and windows shut. He placed a sign on the outside of his home stating:
I AM HOME – ALIVE – I DO NOT WANT CONTACT WITH THE OUTSIDE WORLD OR ITS DISTURBING GOVERNMENT. THIS HOUSE IS OFF LIMITS TO EVERYONE. PLEASE DO NOT ENTER!
Then, in chalk, on a board that slid in and out from the interior of the home, it read:
DATE – 2-16-2025
Chester planned to update the date every night to let the outside world know he was still alive.
Chester planned to live without listening to what was happening around him. He believed it was the only way he survived. Chester wanted to help others but had no solution, power, or ability. For Chester, this was all he thought he would do.
His home was significant. It had five bedrooms, four bathrooms, two living areas, two kitchens, and a mother-in-law suite. He had inherited it from his parents after they passed. It was paid for, and he had taken control of their Trust. He didn’t have any financial issues.
Every morning, Chester would visit the mother-in-law’s suite. It offered a view of a once-lively park. The government has now abandoned the park. He often spotted young figures lurking behind the trees, their presence a haunting mystery. Why were they there? Why were they hiding? And most puzzling of all, why did they seem to have nowhere else to go?
One day, curiosity got the best of him. He grabbed his hammer. He pulled the nails out around the suite’s window. He cracked it open, trying to hear their conversations.
Two young girls and two young men were hiding behind a tree, whispering urgently. Chester leaned in closer and heard them say:
“Look, it won’t hurt, and we will be free of this world. If we stay any longer, it will only get worse. They will kill us if we don’t beat them to it!”
Chester’s blood ran cold. What in the world were they talking about? Was this some game? Or were they seriously considering group suicide? And was the government truly hunting these kids?
He had heard about new policies stripping rights from the LGBTQI+ community and disenfranchising people of color. But had it escalated to mass executions? Chester had to find out.
He rummaged through an old trunk in his father’s Hollywood memorabilia. It contained all sorts of disguises: wigs, glasses, vintage clothing. Chester dressed as an older, disheveled homeless man and prepared to venture outside for the first time in weeks.
What he would learn would be devastating.
The streets were eerily quiet, yet tension hung in the air like a brewing storm. Checkpoints had been set up at major intersections, where government enforcers—men in military gear with no insignias—patrolled with assault rifles.
Posters were plastered everywhere, declaring:
“FOR THE SAFETY OF OUR NATION, COMPLIANCE IS MANDATORY.”
Others simply stated:
“NON-CONFORMISTS WILL BE RELOCATED.”
Chester approached a group of homeless people warming their hands over a fire in a rusted oil drum. They regarded him warily but allowed him into their circle.
“What’s happening?”
Chester asked, playing the role of a lost drifter.
A man with hollowed-out cheeks and weary eyes responded,
“They’re rounding people up. Anyone who resists, anyone different. They disappear.”
Chester asked quickly,
“Disappear where?”
The man shook his head.
“No one knows. Some say camps. Others say execution sites.”
Chester’s stomach twisted into knots. The government wasn’t just oppressing people; it was actively erasing them. The kids in the park weren’t paranoid—they were running for their lives.
He couldn’t stay hidden anymore. He had to act.
That night, under the cover of darkness, Chester snuck back to his house and removed the sign from his door. He pried open his windows, unlocked the doors, and gathered supplies. With his home’s ample space and well-stocked provisions, he offered sanctuary to those with nowhere else to go.
The next day, he returned to the park and approached the young people cautiously.
“Come with me,” he whispered. “You don’t have to run anymore.”
At first, they hesitated, but the desperation in their eyes mirrored his determination. One by one, they followed him back to his home. Chester had spent weeks barricading himself from the world, convinced that isolation was the only way to survive. But now, he understood—survival was not just about enduring. It was about resisting.
And Chester was ready to fight back.
“LGBT people are some of the bravest and most potent change agents and leaders I have encountered. They are the most forceful defenders of the vulnerable and voiceless because they know what it’s like to be there.”
-–– Ronan Farrow -–– a journalist known for his investigative work with the New Yorker and member of the LGBTQI+ Community
Groff Media is sharing this piece unedited from Foxes Den. The next is the introduction to the piece. The link to the writers’ pages is posted near the end so you can go to the original site’s writing.
FROM THE FOXES DEN – (unedited)
If you could un-invent something, what would it be?
I’ve browsed around some of the replies to this prompt and I must say I’m quite surprised. Surprised to see so many people wishing that social media could be un-invented. Now I am with these people 100%, I agree it’s a breeding ground for hatred and vitriol, however as so many are already mentioning social media I feel I should suggest something else because to not do so would make this post quite repetitive and boring.
Well it will probably still be boring but here goes.
Addiction. If only there wasn’t such a thing. Again it’s one of those things that is good to have in certain scenarios but an absolute nightmare to have in others. Let’s talk about the nightmare scenarios.
A huge thank you to everyone who visited benandsteve.com and helped us surpass the incredible milestone of 5,000 visitors on Friday! We’re thrilled to see so many of you checking in, exploring what’s new, and sharing your support. Your enthusiasm and continued engagement mean the world to us, and we can’t wait to keep bringing you more exciting content.
Frank Johnson was not your run-of-the-mill pastor. He delivered sermons each Sunday that never bored his parishioners. Never since being hired by the Shady Grove Baptist Church Governing Body had they been so excited about their evangelical image having such a trophy behind the altar. Pride be damned, they couldn’t take another year of losing members to the metro church in the nearby city.
There was one more thing about Frank Johnson that was not typical: He didn’t believe in God. He felt the bible was dogma, the souls tossing their money in the offering plate fools, and Frank felt that one might have issues if they thought they would join their loved ones in the hereafter. If they said it was because God didn’t think their sin was no longer a big deal, he felt them to be mental. He tried to preach that prayer wasn’t an answer to your needs but to your peace.
Frank’s unconventional sermons attracted even more attention as the weeks passed. Though veiled in traditional language, his messages subtly nudged the congregation towards introspection rather than blind faith. He spoke of personal responsibility, community power, and compassion’s importance. Shady Grove Baptist Church members started to see their faith not as a means to an end but as a guide for living a meaningful life. One Sunday, Frank decided it was time to reveal his true beliefs. He stood at the pulpit, looking at the faces that had come to trust and respect him. Taking a deep breath, he began.
“My dear friends, I need to share something deeply personal with you today. It’s something that has weighed on my heart for a long time. I do not believe in God. I never have, and I never will. This confession, though it may shock some of you, comes from a place of deep conviction and honesty. I hope you can see the courage it took for me to share this with you.“
A gasp rippled through the congregation, but Frank continued, his voice steady and calm.
“I know this might come as a shock to many of you. You may feel betrayed or confused. But I ask you to hear me out. My disbelief in God does not diminish the value of the lessons we’ve explored together. If anything, it enhances them. For I believe that the true power of our faith lies not in the promise of an afterlife, but in the strength and kindness we show one another in this life.”
He paused, letting his words sink in. The silence was palpable, but no one left their seat.
“Think about the times you’ve felt most connected to your faith. Was it in moments of quiet prayer or in the acts of love and service you performed for others? Was it in the rituals or the genuine care you showed to a needy neighbor? Faith, to me, is not about believing in something unseen. It’s about believing in each other. It’s about creating a community where we support and uplift one another.”
Frank could see the wheels turning in their minds. He pressed on, his conviction growing stronger.
“I challenge you all to consider this: What if we took the principles we hold dear – love, compassion, kindness – and applied them not because we seek divine approval but because we know it makes the world a better place? What if our faith was a commitment to each other rather than an unseen deity? This challenge is not meant to undermine your beliefs, but to encourage you to think critically about the role of faith in our lives.”
Murmurs of agreement began to spread through the congregation. Frank knew he had to drive the point home.
“We don’t need to believe in God to be good people. We don’t need the promise of heaven to motivate us to do what’s right. We can find strength and purpose in each other, in our shared humanity. So, will you join me on this journey? Will you help me build a community based on trust, respect, and love without the need for divine justification?”
One by one, the members of the congregation stood up, some with tears in their eyes, others with resolute expressions. They walked to the front of the church, forming a circle around Frank. In this moment, we were not a group of individuals with differing beliefs, but a united community, bound by our shared values and commitment to each other.
In that moment, Shady Grove Baptist Church transformed. It became a place where faith in humanity, rather than God, was the cornerstone. Frank had not only shared his truth but also inspired his congregation to see the power within themselves and in each other. In doing so, he had created a new kind of faith—one that was grounded in the reality of human connection and the potential for goodness in everyone.
In the small, picturesque town of Elmwood, where traditions ran deep, and change was a slow, meandering stream, Lynn and Trisha found each other amidst the rustling leaves of adolescence. The year was 1974, when the world was still catching up to the notions of freedom and acceptance we now hold dear.
Lynn, with her red hair and curious green eyes, was the daughter of the town’s librarian. She spent her days buried in books, finding solace in stories that took her far beyond the confines of Elmwood. On the other hand, Trisha was the spirited daughter of a local fisherman in Seaside, a neighboring town. Beaming with golden hair and bright blue eyesthat mirrored the ocean, she was a breath of fresh, salty air. The scent of fish and saltwater, the sound of seagulls, and the feel of sand between her toes were all part of Trisha’s essence.
They met on a summer day during the annual Elmwood-Seaside fair. Lynn was helping her mother at a book stall when Trisha walked by, her laughter catching Lynn’s attention. ‘What’s so funny?’ Lynn asked, her curiosity piqued. Trisha turned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Oh, just a silly joke I heard,’ she replied. Their eyes met, and in that fleeting moment, an unspoken connection was forged.
‘Do you want to explore the fair together?’
Lynn found herself asking. Trisha nodded, and they spent the rest of the fair together, sharing secrets and dreams and eventually a tender kiss behind the carousel.
Their love blossomed in secret, as the world around them would never understand the depth of their feelings. They met in hidden glades, exchanged letters, and carved their initials into the old oak tree by the riverbank. But the shadow of societal expectations loomed large. Their clandestine meetings became increasingly fraught with danger and tension as the years passed. They were constantly on edge, fearing discovery and the consequences it would bring. Yet, they persevered, their love growing stronger with each obstacle they overcame.
One fateful night, an acquaintance saw them kissing, and their secret was discovered. The backlash was swift and unforgiving, a harsh reminder of the societal norms they had dared to challenge. Trisha’s parents, staunch traditionalists, sent her away to live with relatives in Flursville, far from the reach of Lynn’s love. Lynn’s parents, heartbroken and confused, forbade her from contacting Trisha. The two girls, now young women, were torn apart, their hearts left aching with the sudden void of each other’s absence.
Part II: A Lifetime Apart
As the years turned into decades, Lynn, unable to shake off the memory of her first love, immersed herself in her studies and eventually became a successful author. She wrote under a pseudonym, and her stories were often tinged with the bittersweet essence of lost love and yearning. She remained in Elmwood, surrounded by the familiar but always haunted by Trisha’s absence. Her heart, though scarred, still held a flicker of hope, a belief that one day, they would be together again.
Trisha, in Flursville, married out of societal pressure but found no real happiness. Her husband, though kind, could never fill the void Lynn had left. She had two children, poured her love into them, and eventually opened a small bookstore, a tribute to the memories of those sunlit afternoons spent with Lynn. Her thoughts often wandered back to Elmwood, the oak tree by the riverbank, and the girl with brown hair and green eyes. She often found herself wondering what life would have been like if they had been allowed to be together, her heart aching with the unanswered question. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t escape the feeling that something was missing from her life, a void that could only be filled by Lynn.
Part III: Reunited Hearts
It was the summer of 2004 when fate intervened. Lynn’s father passed away, and she returned to Elmwood to settle his affairs. She was now a middle-aged woman, her hair streaked with grey, her eyes still holding the spark of youth. One day, sorting through her father’s belongings, she found a box of old letters, including the ones she had written to Trisha but never sent.
On a whim, she decided to visit Seaside. Walking along the familiar paths, she felt the weight of memories. She stopped by the beach, where the waves kissed the shore, and there, amidst the crowd, she saw her. Trisha, older but still radiant, was there with her grandchildren. Their eyes met once more, and time seemed to stand still. The world around them faded into the background, leaving only the two of them, their love, and the years they had spent apart. In that moment, all the pain and heartache of their separation was washed away, replaced by a sense of peace and belonging.
Lynn approached, her heart pounding. “Trisha?”
Trisha turned, her blue eyes widening in recognition.
“Lynn?” She whispered,
tears welling up.
They embraced, years of longing and love pouring out in that single moment. They talked for hours, sharing their lives, their losses, and their lingering love. The world had changed, and the acceptance they had longed for was now within reach. The weight of their past struggles seemed to lift, replaced by a renewed sense of hope and joy. They were finally together, and nothing else mattered.
Part IV: A Love Rekindled
With renewed courage and societal acceptance, Lynn and Trisha decided to live the life they had always dreamed of. Lynn moved to Flursville, where Trisha’s children welcomed her with open arms. They bought a little house by the sea, filled it with books and memories, and planted an oak tree in their garden, symbolizing their enduring love. The world had changed, and the acceptance they had longed for was now within reach. Society had evolved, becoming more inclusive and understanding, allowing them to finally be together without fear or judgment.
Once hidden in the shadows, their love story blossomed in the open, a testament to the power of love and the strength of the human spirit. They spent their days writing, exploring, and cherishing every moment together. They were no longer bound by societal constraints, free to love and live as they pleased. Their love, once a secret, was now a beacon of hope for others, a shining example of the enduring power of love.
Lynn and Trisha’s story became an inspiration and a beacon of hope for many. In a world that had once tried to keep them apart, they finally found their forever, together.
Born in a county of less than 12,000 people in the southwest part of the state, Jason grew up in the shadow of his grandfather’s church. Papa Preacher, as he was known, was a fire and brimstone verse-thrower who would have been at home in the 1870s. He led the county revivals in a Save Your Soul from Satan telethon of services every Spring and Fall. Everyone showed up, or people’s names were trashed in the community.
Jason had heard since the time he could walk how homosexuals would be sent straight to the pits of Hell, with the gnashing of teeth, torture the likes never seen, and burning forever more. From birth, he was scared to believe everything his grandfather said was true.
When Jason began to get older and experienced puberty, his reactions to life differed from those of other teenage boys. His attraction to girls was nonexistent. He had no desire to look at a girl in a way that would be sexual. He had many girls who were friends, but he never wanted to date one or have any relationship other than friendship with any of them. However, when it came to his male friends and older classmates, that was a different story—one he didn’t understand. Jason had never known a person who was gay. He had never been around any books, magazines, or pamphlets that contained gay content. Nor had Jason watched any movies concerning gays. The only thing he knew about gays or the LGBTQI+ Community was that they slept with the same sex and were going to Hell forever!
Now, he was having intense feelings for other young men, and it was showing. In gym class, he began showing up late or not going at all to avoid going to the locker room. He got roughed up when showering once when he got an erection, and he didn’t mean to. He thought it was difficult enough just trying to hide his excitement walking through the hallways between classes. At least he could use his school books to cover up any problems that could arise.
What Jason couldn’t cover up was the summer vacation when a foreign exchange student from Germany was staying with a local family, and he was discovered by the local police necking and nearly nude while parked in Jason’s four-wheel drive. They were both in college and of legal age to make their own decisions, but the local police ensured Jason’s grandfather heard about it. The officer then went to the local coffee shop and told the local crowd about it, and soon, the whole town was talking. The foreign exchange student didn’t understand what the big deal was after all, to him, it was well-accepted where he came from, and this upset was so uncalled for. But for Jason, it was the end of his life as he knew it. And, he began to shut down. He was withdrawing and ending communications with everyone. He holed up at home for weeks, sleeping nearly all the time. Then, he began staying awake for days at a time. Finally, he had established a plan to say goodbye.
Jason sat in his dimly lit living room, the world’s weight pressing down on him. The gun in his hand felt heavy, not just physically but emotionally. His eyes, red from hours of crying, stared at the floor. The only sound was the steady ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner, a reminder of the seconds slipping away.
He had tried an hour earlier. As he pulled the trigger, his body betrayed him, flinching just enough to send the bullet harmlessly through the open window. He had cursed himself for his cowardice, not knowing that his hesitation had saved a life outside. In the quiet street beyond, a small dog had narrowly missed getting hit, the sound of the shot startling it but not injuring it.
Now, Jason sat there, lost in his thoughts. He had tried to change, to conform to the expectations of his family, church, and society. But he couldn’t change who he was. The rejection, the whispers, the outright hostility—they had all taken their toll. He felt alone, unloved, and hopeless.
Unbeknownst to Jason, the small dog he had unknowingly spared was wandering through the neighborhood. The dog, a scruffy terrier mix with a keen sense of empathy, was drawn to the house. Jason left the door slightly ajar, leaving it open in desperation and distraction. The dog slipped inside, its little paws padding softly on the wooden floor.
Jason didn’t notice the dog at first. He, too, was wrapped up in his sorrow, the cold metal of the gun pressed against his temple. It wasn’t until he felt a soft nudge against his leg that he looked down. Sitting in front of him was the scruffy terrier, its eyes wide and filled with a kind of unconditional love that Jason had never experienced before.
The dog wagged its tail, its eyes never leaving Jason’s. It was as if the dog understood his pain and wanted to offer comfort. Jason lowered the gun, his hand trembling. He reached out hesitantly, and the dog nuzzled his hand, licking his fingers gently.
Tears welled up in Jason’s eyes. He hadn’t felt such warmth in so long. The dog climbed into his lap, curling up as if it was fate to find him in his darkest moment. Jason hugged the dog tightly, sobbing into its fur. The presence of the small, warm creature gave him a glimmer of hope, a reason to hold on.
Hours went by as Jason sat there with the dog in his arms. The sun began to rise, casting a gentle glow through the windows. The new day felt like a second chance, a new beginning. He didn’t know what the future held, but he knew he couldn’t give up.
The dog had saved him in more ways than one. It had given him a reason to keep going, a reminder that love and hope could come from the most unexpected places. Jason decided to name the dog Chance for the second chance it had given him. They would face whatever came next, knowing they had each other together.
In the following days, Jason began to reach out for help, reconnecting with supportive friends and finding solace in a community that accepted him for who he was. And through it all, Chance was by his side, a loyal companion who had come into his life when he needed it most. The love and companionship of his furry friend reminded him daily that he was worthy of love and happiness, just as he was.
That evening, Jason turned his television off, the only channel he had been told he could watch and remain a good Christian and child of God. While flipping to another TV station, he came across a public service announcement about PFLAG and went to their website out of curiosity to learn more. It was there that Jason heard about the Trevor Project and The Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender National Hotline. He reached out for direction and soon became part of the most prominent family he knew. And he grew to be the happiest he ever had in life. Today – Jason isn’t going through Hell on Earth trying to stay out of a place many people question. And he wakes up with a rainbow in his life every day!
In the bustling city of Gigglewood, a place known for its vibrant nightlife and quirky inhabitants, the streets came alive at night, lit up not just by neon signs but also by the laughter and antics of its most beloved, albeit unconventional, police team: the Midnight Squad, comprised of six dazzlingly attractive officers, their presence was always a spectacle. They donned the sexiest, tight-fitting uniforms that accentuated their gym-sculpted bodies, causing heads to turn and hearts to flutter.
Officer Mia Valentine, the squad’s fearless leader, was known for her killer curves and unrelenting determination. A bisexual dynamo with a wicked sense of humor, Mia could easily switch from laying down the law to cracking up her team. Her second-in-command, Officer Alex Steel, was a trans man with the charm of a movie star and the strength of a superhero. Alex’s journey inspired the whole team, and his quick wit often saved them from the trickiest of situations. “Hey, Alex, ready to save the day again?” Mia would often tease, to which Alex would reply with a smirk, “Always, boss.”
Officers Jen and Lily were inseparable, both on and off duty. The two women, partners in every sense, had a knack for getting themselves into and out of ridiculous predicaments. Jen’s tech skills and Lily’s strategic mind made them a formidable duo, though their constant banter often left their colleagues in stitches.
Then there were Officers Mark and Kyle, whose bromance blossomed into a full-fledged romance. Their goofy camaraderie and over-the-top displays of affection often lightened the mood during tense moments. With his boyish charm and impressive physique, Mark was the team’s undercover expert, able to blend in with any crowd. Meanwhile, Kyle, a former gymnast, was their go-to for anything requiring agility and acrobatics, often using his skills to distract the bad guys during high-stakes operations.
One balmy night, the Midnight Squad faced their most absurd challenge yet. A call came in about a mysterious disturbance at the Gigglewood Zoo. “Looks like we’ve got a situation with the animals,” Mia said, raising an eyebrow. “Let’s roll, team!” The absurdity of the situation was not lost on the squad, and it only served to heighten their determination and sense of humor.
The squad arrived at the zoo to find it eerily quiet. As the officers cautiously approached the entrance, a peacock suddenly strutted by wearing a tiny police hat. “This is definitely not part of the zoo’s usual dress code,” Mia whispered, her hand on her holster.
“I have a bad feeling about this,”
Alex muttered, his eyes scanning the shadows.
Jen and Lily, always up for a challenge, split off to check the reptile house. They soon discovered that all the snakes had somehow gotten loose and were now tangled together in a giant, writhing ball. The sight was both terrifying and strangely mesmerizing, like a scene from a horror movie directed by a clown.
“Why does it always have to be snakes?”
Jen groaned.
Lily just shook her head, pulling out a bag of marshmallows.
“Let’s lure them back with something they can’t resist,”
She said, handing Jen a stick.
They proceeded to toast marshmallows and lure the snakes back into their enclosure with the sugary treats.
“You know, Jen, this is probably the weirdest thing we’ve ever done,”
Lily said, trying to stifle a laugh.
“And that’s saying something,”
Jen replied, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
Meanwhile, Mark and Kyle headed to the primate exhibit, only to find that the monkeys had broken into the zookeeper’s bananas and energy drinks stash.
“Looks like they’re planning a wild night,”
Mark joked, as they watched the monkeys swing wildly from tree to tree, their fur standing on end from the caffeine rush.
“Monkey rave,”
Kyle exclaimed as they watched the primates swing wildly from tree to tree.
“We need to tire them out,”
Mark suggested, grabbing a nearby boom box. Moments later, the air filled with the sounds of the latest dance hits, and Mark and Kyle led the monkeys in an impromptu dance-off until the exhausted primates fell asleep in a heap.
Back at the central plaza, Mia and Alex stumbled upon the mastermind behind the chaos: a rogue parrot with a flair for mischief.
“Polly wants a key to the city,”
It screeched, perched atop the mayor’s statue.
Mia rolled her eyes.
“Not tonight, featherbrain,”
She said, brandishing a net.
The parrot led them on a merry chase through the zoo, but Alex, with his agility and speed, cornered it in the butterfly house.
“Nice try,”
He said, gently capturing the bird.
“But you’re coming with us.”
With the zoo back in order, the Midnight Squad regrouped.
“Another night, another crisis averted,”
Mia said, looking at her team with pride.
“And another story for the ages,”
Mark added, wrapping an arm around Kyle.
As they returned to the station, the team couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. They were a ragtag bunch, each with their quirks and charms, but together, they were unstoppable. The Midnight Squad wasn’t just a team; they were a family, united by their love for each other and their city, ready to face whatever craziness the night would bring next. The audience is invited to share in this sense of belonging and unity, making them feel a part of the Midnight Squad’s unique world.
A forgotten mansion, shrouded in mystery, stood in the heart of the old city, nestled among the cobblestone streets and gothic architecture. Its grandiose facade, though worn by time, still retained an enigmatic elegance. On a stormy evening, Victor, a man of mystery and resilience, found himself drawn to this mansion, its secrets whispering to him.
Victor, a man of mystery and resilience, had always been a seeker of the unusual, the arcane. His latest obsession had led him to this mansion, rumored to be the repository of a lost relic. He was a formidable presence in his black leather attire, adorned with silver studs and zippers. His attire, a blend of functionality and style, spoke volumes of his readiness for whatever the night might bring.
The mansion’s interior was a haunting blend of past grandeur and eerie decay. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows on the portraits of stern-faced ancestors that lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow him as he made his way through the dimly lit halls. The air was thick with the scent of old books and the faint, lingering traces of incense, and the floorboards creaked under his weight.
Victor’s destination was the study; a room said to contain a hidden compartment where the relic was concealed. He had done his homework; old blueprints and cryptic notes had led him here. With a determined stride, he entered the study, its heavy wooden door creaking ominously.
The room was a testament to the mansion’s former glory, with rich mahogany shelves lined with ancient tomes, a grand fireplace, and a massive desk that dominated the space. Victor approached the desk, his leather-clad fingers tracing the intricate carvings on its surface. He had a hunch that the key lay in the hidden compartment of the desk itself.
After a meticulous search, Victor’s fingers found a small, concealed latch. A secret drawer slid open with a soft click, revealing a velvet-lined compartment. Inside lay an ornate box, its surface inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver filigree. Victor’s heart raced as he carefully lifted the box and opened it.
Inside, nestled in velvet, was the relic: an ancient amulet, its center a polished obsidian stone encircled by symbols of power and protection. As Victor held it, a surge of energy coursed through him, confirming the amulet’s authenticity; this was what he had been searching for. The amulet, rumored to hold the key to immortality, was a prize coveted by many.
His triumph was interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing through the hall. Victor quickly stashed the amulet in his belt pouch and closed the drawer, his senses on high alert. He had been cautious, but it seemed he was not alone in his quest.
The door to the study burst open, and a figure clad in dark robes stepped in. ‘You have something that belongs to me,’ the intruder hissed, eyes glinting with malice. ‘You’re too late,’ Victor replied, his voice steady. ‘The amulet is mine now.’
Victor stood his ground, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his concealed dagger. “The amulet is not yours to claim,” he replied coolly. “It belongs to no one but itself.”
A tense silence filled the room, broken only by the distant rumble of thunder. The intruder moved with surprising speed, lunging towards Victor. But Victor was ready. In a swift, fluid motion, he drew his dagger and deflected the attack, the blade glinting in the dim light. His heart pounded in his chest, his senses heightened as he focused on the task at hand.
The fight was a whirlwind of intensity. Victor’s combat training and the intruder’s desperate aggression clashed in a flurry of movement. The air crackled with tension as they circled each other, each seeking an opening. In the end, Victor’s skill and determination prevailed. The intruder, defeated and disarmed, lay on the floor, gasping for breath.
Victor looked down at his defeated opponent, his eyes a mix of pity and resolve. ‘Leave now and never return,’ he ordered, his voice firm but tinged with a hint of sadness. ‘The amulet’s power is beyond your understanding.’
The intruder, cowed and beaten, scrambled to his feet and fled into the night. Victor watched him go, his eyes filled with a mix of pity and resolve. He knew his journey was far from over. The relic’s true power and purpose were yet to be revealed, and he was resolute in his determination to unravel its mysteries.
With the amulet safely in his possession, Victor left the mansion and stepped into the stormy night. Lightning illuminated his path, and the rain washed away the remnants of the battle. As he disappeared into the shadows, one thing was sure: Victor’s legend was only beginning.
Fred and Matilda had been retired for over ten years. They had passed their silver years and were entering their golden years. Both had begun to experience forgetfulness, which was not severe but inconvenient. Fred would forget his wallet when he left home to go to town, or Matilda would forget to put extra tissues in her purse. She needed them to keep her nose wiped due to spring’s seasonal allergy season.
Today, Fred and Matilda left their modest bungalow midcentury home on East Kiowa Street in Corprol, Oklahoma. They traveled thirty miles to see the couple’s son nearby. Due to Fred’s’ safe’ driving, the drive should take just over fifty minutes. He never exceeded fifty miles an hour and usually kept their ’53 Chevrolet Coup topped at 45 miles per hour. Matilda was known for always talking to Fred when he was driving. She never shut up.
Matilda would say to him –––
“Fred, ease to the left, honey; now go back to the right and watch it. Oh no—a car is coming! Now, someone is behind us. Wait, a car is approaching us; I think the guy behind us will pass us.“
Fred and Matilda’s son, Bill, looked at the clock at 1:00 PM. His parents should have been at his place at 11:00 AM. He thought they stopped by their old farm and got lost in time, recalling days when they had lived in the farming area for more than forty years, and everyone knew them. Even so, the people from those days mainly had moved on just as they had. So, it was unusual to find a two-hour distraction without calling him to let him know they would be delayed.
Matilda, a constant verbal navigational bird, was a familiar presence to Fred. Her chatter, a constant companion during their drives, was a source of comfort to him. He had grown accustomed to her voice, finding solace in the sound. Fred’s driving was noticeably worse when she wasn’t there, a testament to her voice’s role in his life.
At 3:00 PM, Bill was beside himself. Where were Fred and Matilda? He called their home to make sure they had not decided to go back home and make the trip another day; the phone just rang and rang. He called Fred’s and Matilda’s cell phones, but no one answered. Bill decided it was time to notify authorities.
Bill called the Ninekakh Police Department, and Officer Nadine Smith answered. Nadine had a strong ‘Okie” accent and a sweet demeanor.
“Ninekakh Police Department, Officer Smith, Who can I help today?”
Bill was stunned by the sweetness and tone of Nadine’s voice and how comfortable she made him feel just by answering the call he had placed. Bill said –––
“Hi, my name is Bill Roth. My parents, Fred and Matilda Roth, are late getting to my home outside Singer; they were driving here from Corprol.”
Knowing Bill was concerned and having met the Roths several times, Nadine knew they were not the type to disappear carelessly. Nadine asked –––
“Bill, honey, how old are your parents? Do you know what they are driving, and do you have any identification to help find them? And what were they doing today?”
Bill was quick to answer –––
My parents are driving a blue 53 Chevrolet Coupe two-door in their mid-70s. They were moving from Corpral to Singer to visit me today. They might have stopped by the old farm to remember old times, but I don’t know. They have never really been this late. Fred always wears grey pants, a white shirt, and a baseball cap, and Matilda usually wears a dress, blue or gray, that extends below the knee, with flat shoes; they both have gray hair. They quit taking photographs twenty years ago because both said it made them look like they were aging to get new pictures taken. They won’t even stand still for someone to get them in a cell phone, selfie-type picture.”
Nadine, taking a deep breath, said –––
Wow! Thank you. That is a whole lot of information, but it isn’t. I will get out and look at the highway between the two towns for them and any side roads. Also, I’ll put this out on the radio for other departments to be on the lookout for. Meanwhile, I suggest you stay where you are if they arrive at your place or call you.
Bill was a nervous wreck. Thoughts raced through his mind of where they could be, what could have happened, and then who could have taken them or could they have been robbed. They could have been running off the road by another driver in a road rage incident. Bill remembered the time he got lost hiking with friends and how much worry it brought his parents. He thought to himself, ‘Payback is hell!’ Exhausted from thinking, Bill yells out loud –
“At least they knew where to start looking for me. I was out hiking, and they had a starting point. Hell, I don’t have a clue where these two old farts are!”
As Nadine was patrolling from the Ninekah Sheriff’s Department heading south toward Corprol, she saw a roadside melon and vegetable sales stand, the type set up to sell from the back of an old truck. She pulled over and talked to the farmer who was selling his goods and asked if he had seen anyone matching the description of Fred and Matilda.
“Yep, I saw them! They were two feisty people. For their age, I was surprised.
Nadine surprised that her luck had paid off, asked the farmer what he meant, and he replied –––
“Well, this young guy was here too, and he had one of those cell phones out taking pictures of him and his girlfriend; it could have been his boyfriend. I couldn’t tell by looking. Anyway, he got a picture of the two older people and told them he hoped he and his sweety could be just like them when they got to be antique. And that is when all hell broke loose. The older adults didn’t want those pictures going anywhere. The young couple took off, and the others left behind them. I never saw two older adults driving like that. They were laying rubber.
Nadine called Bill and told him what the farmer told her, and Bill, in a chilling voice, responded,
“Christ, it’s Christmas 2015 all over again. They did the same thing when someone took a photo of them in the background at a convenience store on Christmas Eve of 2015. We saw them again in February. The family of the people who took the photos still hasn’t seen their people. The last report anyone ever heard was that they were trying to outrun an old couple driving a Blue 53 Chevy Coupe.”
Officer Nadine Smith ––– Adam 851 Clear from report at 1700 hours, 15 miles south of Singer, on Highway 41, clear.
Dispatch to Smith, Affirmative, 1700 hours, KMH 253.
Officer Smith drove to Bill’s home, where she discovered a blue 53 Chevrolet Coupe appearing to stick out of an outbuilding on the property. She went to Bill’s Door and rang the bell. When he answered, she asked if his parents had been in contact. He said they had not.
Smith asked Bill to walk out and look at the car in the shed, which, to his surprise, was his parents’ vehicle.
How did they get past me? And where are they now?
Fred and Matilda, in their enthusiastic but forgetful state, had indeed managed to return home unnoticed. Bill and Officer Smith, both puzzled and concerned, carefully approached the shed where the car was parked. The vehicle, though covered, was the distinctive blue ’53 Chevrolet Coupe.
“Bill, stay behind me,”
Officer Smith instructed, her hand resting on her holster just in case.
“Let’s check inside,” Bill suggested.
Together, they slowly lifted the cover off the car, revealing it entirely. The sight brought a mix of relief and confusion to Bill’s face. The vehicle looked unscathed as if a chauffeur had driven the couple from a leisurely trip.
As they peered into the car, they noticed the keys were still in the ignition, and Matilda’s purse was on the passenger seat. But there were no signs of Fred and Matilda themselves.
“Where could they have gone?“
Bill murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Officer Smith walked around the shed, looking for any further clues. Just then, they heard a faint, familiar sound coming from the back of the house. Following the noise, they discovered Fred and Matilda sitting on a swing in the backyard, calmly chatting and sipping on lemonade.
“Dad! Mom! What on earth happened?”
Bill exclaimed, running towards them.
Fred looked up, somewhat surprised but pleased to see his son.
“Oh, Bill, there you are! We were wondering when you’d find us.”
With a serene smile, Matilda added,
“We decided to take a little detour to the old farm, but then we thought we’d better come back home when it started getting late. We didn’t want to worry you.”
Torn between relief and frustration, Bill tried to keep his voice steady.
“Why didn’t you call me? We’ve been worried sick!”
Fred scratched his head, looking a bit sheepish.
“Well, son, we did mean to call you, but then Matilda realized she left her phone at home, and mine ran out of battery. By the time we returned, we were so tired we just sat down for a rest.”
Upon witnessing the heartfelt reunion, Officer Smith felt a wave of relief wash over her.
“Mr. and Mrs. Roth, it’s good to see you’re both safe. You gave us quite a scare.”
Ever the apologetic, Matilda said,
“We’re sorry, dear. We didn’t mean to cause any trouble. We’ll be more careful next time.”
Fred nodded in agreement.
“Yes, we’ll charge the phone next time and keep it with us.”
Bill sighed deeply, his worry slowly dissipating.
“Just glad you’re both okay. Next time, please, let’s avoid any more detours.”
Fred chuckled. “Deal. How about we all go inside and have some of Matilda’s famous apple pie? It’s been a long day.”
As they walked back into the house, Bill couldn’t help but feel grateful for the small blessings—his parents were safe, and despite their forgetfulness, they still had their spirited sense of adventure. It was another reminder of how precious these moments were, even when they came with a bit of worry.
Harrison, a young boy with a mop of unruly hair, was not yet old enough to attend the local school with his siblings. For that, he was delighted. The thought of shuffling off to a gloomy classroom with many kids making noise and a teacher telling him what to do was a nightmare. He’d rather be where he was, in his dad’s bustling barber shop, sitting high on the shoeshine chair overlooking the men sitting and waiting for a haircut. His dad, a tall and burly man with a booming voice, had three barber chairs, but he was the lone barber in the shop and wanted to keep it that way. The two extra chairs were great for the overflow customers who missed their chance to sit in one of the chairs against the wall. Harrison, always curious, wanted to ask the group if they were getting haircuts for a Sunday funeral, which usually draws such a crowd to his dad’s shop. But he didn’t dare ask such a question, knowing his father would object.
An older gentleman sitting in one of the chairs waiting for his turn in the barber’s chair spoke up –––
“There’s a grand parade coming down Main Street this afternoon, right in front of your shop, Harrison. The Governor and a Star Baseball Player from the Yankees are expected to ride in the banker’s convertible Cadillac. It’s going to be quite a spectacle,”
the man in the chair shared, his voice filled with anticipation.
Only Harrison’s dad remarked,
“I guess they’ll have to do it without my help; I have hair to cut.”
His dad’s voice was dry, and his humor was just as much, and the tone in which he laid out the line caused those waiting for a haircut to laugh. He pulled the towel from around the neck of the main sitting in his chair, removed the barber cape covering him, shook it out, and said –––
That’ll be a buck! Next!
Harrison watched as the man in the chair, a middle-aged man with a kind smile and a twinkle in his eye, smiled and handed his dad a crisp dollar bill. They exchanged pleasantries, their voices filled with warmth and familiarity, before the man stepped down from the chair, revealing a fresh, neatly trimmed haircut. As the man left the shop, the doorbell jingled behind him, the sound echoing in the empty space.
The following customer shuffled forward, settling into the vacated barber chair. He was a tall, lanky man with a worn-out cowboy hat perched atop his head, his face weathered and etched with lines of a life spent outdoors. Harrison recognized him as Mr. Jenkins, the ranch owner just outside town, a man known for his quiet wisdom and his love for his horses.
“Hey there, Mr. Jenkins,”
Harrison’s dad greeted warmly, draping the striped barber cape around his shoulders.
“What’ll it be today?”
Mr. Jenkins leaned back in the chair, adjusting his hat slightly.
“Well, I reckon I need a trim for the Missus’s birthday dinner tonight. Can’t be looking like a tumbleweed on such an occasion,”
He chuckled.
Harrison grinned from his perch on the shoeshine chair, enjoying the banter between his dad and Mr. Jenkins. As his dad began clipping away at Mr. Jenkins’ hair, the old rancher glanced over at Harrison with a twinkle in his eye.
“You excited about that parade, son?”
he asked, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.
Harrison nodded eagerly.
“Sure am, Mr. Jenkins! I heard the Governor and a Yankees player will be there.”
Mr. Jenkins chuckled, nodding in agreement.
“Yep, quite the spectacle, I reckon. But you know what they say, Harrison, sometimes the best show in town ain’t the one with the fanciest floats. There’s more to this parade than meets the eye,”
Mr. Jenkins said, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mystery. His words hung in the air, leaving Harrison with a sense of intrigue and a thousand questions.
Harrison furrowed his brow, intrigued by Mr. Jenkins’ cryptic comment. Before he could inquire further, his dad finished the haircut, removing the barber cape with a flourish.
“All set, Mr. Jenkins. That’ll be a buck,”
He said with a grin.
Mr. Jenkins handed over the payment with a tip, tipping his hat to Harrison and his dad before heading out the door confidently.
Harrison’s dad turned to him with a smile.
“Well, son, it’s your turn to shine. How about you polish those shoes while I tidy up here?”
Harrison’s heart raced with excitement as he reached for the Polish brush, his mind buzzing with anticipation for the parade and Mr. Jenkins’s mysterious words. He couldn’t help but wonder what the old rancher meant. Was there something more to this parade than just a grand spectacle? Little did he know, this ordinary day in the barbershop would soon become an extraordinary adventure he would never forget.
After Mr. Jenkins left the barber shop, Harrison’s dad glanced at the clock on the wall and realized it was almost time for the parade. With a quick sweep of the broom, he tidied up the shop and then turned to Harrison with a grin.
“Looks like we’ve got a front-row seat, son. Let’s go see what all the fuss is about,”
He said, grabbing his coat from the hook by the door.
Excitedly, Harrison followed his dad outside, his steps quick and light. He joined the growing crowd lining Main Street, his eyes scanning the area for the best view of the parade route. The air was charged with anticipation as people jostled for the best view of the parade route. Harrison’s heart raced with excitement as he tried to catch a glimpse of the Governor and the Yankees player, his eyes darting from one end of the street to the other.
Harrison’s eyes widened with wonder as the first drumbeats echoed in the distance, signaling the parade’s approach. The air was filled with the scent of freshly popped popcorn and cotton candy, and the sound of children’s laughter mingled with the lively tunes played by the marching bands. Colorful floats adorned with balloons and streamers rolled by in a kaleidoscope of colors. Marching bands played lively tunes, their music filling the air. Costumed performers danced along the street, their movements a blur of energy and excitement.
But amidst the fanfare, Harrison noticed something unusual. At the back of the parade, a group of riders on horseback trotted along, their faces obscured by bandanas, their horses sleek and powerful. They were followed by a wagon covered in a tarp, pulled by a team of sturdy horses. The air around them seemed to crackle with an energy different from the rest of the parade, a sense of mystery and intrigue. Harrison couldn’t help but wonder who they were and what they were doing in the parade.
Curiosity piqued, Harrison tugged on his dad’s sleeve.
Unable to suppress his curiosity, Harrison tugged on his dad’s sleeve, his eyes fixed on the enigmatic riders. His voice was filled with a mix of excitement and intrigue as he asked his dad about them.
He asked, pointing to the mysterious riders.
His dad frowned, scanning the procession.
“I’m not sure, son. They don’t look like part of the official parade.”
Just as the parade climaxed, a sudden turn of events caught Harrison’s attention. A wagon, covered in a mysterious tarp, veered off the parade route, rumbling down a side street.
Instinctively, Harrison’s dad grabbed his hand, his expression grave.
With a sense of foreboding, Harrison’s dad grabbed his hand, his expression grave.
“Stay close, Harrison. Something doesn’t seem right here,”
he said, his voice filled with concern.
With a sense of foreboding, Harrison and his dad followed the wagon, their footsteps echoing through the side streets and alleyways. The sound of the parade grew fainter with each turn, replaced by the distant hum of the town. Eventually, they emerged into a deserted square on the outskirts of town, where the wagon had come to a stop.
As they approached cautiously, they heard muffled voices and metal clinking. Peering around a corner, Harrison’s heart raced as he witnessed a group of masked figures unloading crates from the wagon, their faces twisted in sinister determination.
Harrison realized that the mysterious riders were thieves and were about to commit a robbery right under the town’s nose.
Harrison’s dad pulled him back into the shadows without hesitation, his eyes darting urgently.
“We need to get help, son. Stay here and stay quiet. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Harrison’s mind raced with fear and adrenaline as his dad sprinted into the night. Alone in the darkness, he knew he was the only one who could stop the thieves and save his town from disaster.
Summoning his courage, Harrison crept closer to the scene, his heart pounding. Little did he know, this chance encounter at his dad’s barbershop would thrust him into the heart of an adventure filled with danger, bravery, and the true meaning of heroism.
As Harrison watched the thieves unload their crates in the deserted square, he knew he had to act fast. With a steely resolve, he devised a plan to thwart the robbery and protect his town.
Silently, Harrison slipped through the shadows, keeping his movements as quiet as possible. Drawing upon the skills he had learned from listening to his dad’s stories of bravery and courage, he maneuvered closer to the thieves, carefully avoiding detection.
Harrison quickly glanced around the square and spotted a stack of crates nearby. Acting swiftly, he grabbed a handful of pebbles from the ground and began to hurl them toward the crates, creating a diversion.
The thieves, startled by the sudden noise, turned towards the sound, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. Seizing the opportunity, Harrison sprang into action, darting towards the wagon with lightning speed.
With a burst of adrenaline, Harrison leaped onto the back of the wagon, his heart pounding in his chest. Ignoring the shouts of the thieves behind him, he frantically searched for something to use as a weapon.
His eyes fell upon a coil of rope lying in the corner of the wagon. Without hesitation, Harrison grabbed the rope and began to lash out at the thieves, swinging it with all his might.
Caught off guard by Harrison’s unexpected attack, the thieves stumbled backward, their faces contorted with shock and surprise. Sensing their momentary confusion, Harrison seized the opportunity to disarm them, knocking their weapons out of their hands with well-aimed blows.
As the tide of the battle turned in his favor, Harrison felt a surge of triumph and adrenaline coursing through his veins. With a determined resolve, he fought with all his strength, refusing to back down in the face of danger.
In the end, it was Harrison’s bravery and quick thinking that saved the day. With the help of his dad and the townspeople, he apprehended the thieves and prevented the robbery from taking place.
As he stood victorious in the square, surrounded by cheers and applause from the grateful townsfolk, Harrison knew that he had discovered the true meaning of heroism. And though his adventure had been filled with danger and peril, it had also taught him the importance of courage, resilience, and the power of standing up for what is right.
George was a happy-go-lucky sort of kid. His father raised quarter horses, and together, they were buddies. They go nearly everywhere together. George and his father’s friend Maynord, an older gentleman, probably a few years older than George’s father, spoiled George, treating him especially grandly. George didn’t emphasize the letter ‘s’ in some of his words, and some words he would say might need to be clarified. His father was known as a horseman and stern man, yet respected by most people, eyebrows raised to the bible-toting folks.
Maynord had a grown daughter who had already left home, but he and his wife had never had a son. With George, Maynord had the time of his life. As did George. The two were better buddies than Maynord, and George’s father became. But George would never say that to his father. Maynord treated George to parades, cheeseburgers, and ice cream cones and even got him a dog. George named the pooch, Ryder after Maynord’s last name.
The two looked forward to Friday and Saturday nights. That is when George’s dad would take George and Maynord to auction barns in nearby cities where horses were sold. There, they would watch the many horses come through the sale ring, and the owners talk them up, saying how great of an animal the horse is, and try to sell it for top dollar. Of course, George’s father had always arrived before the auction to watch the horses lead in so he could see how they handled it and whether they were challenging to work with in getting to holding pens. He could also see if any auction workers tried to ride the horses before entering the sale ring and if the horses handled well. There were always little mishaps in the sale ring, a rider losing his grip and falling off, or a horse doing what the owner said it would not do. Or donkeys would be brought in, which always made George and Maynord laugh. They would jokingly suggest George’s father buy several to go with his quarter horses. The biggest thrill of the sales barn adventures was the cafe located within; that is where, halfway through, George and Maynord would slip away and eat cheeseburgers and drink soda pop.
The horse sales, as George and his father referred to them, caused the problem. Maynord didn’t help with the situation because he referred to the auctions as horse sales. And he had never referred to the auctioning of horses as anything else.
It was in the classroom one Monday morning when the third-grade teacher asked the class for each student to stand and say what the most fun activity they took part in over the weekend was. The town had just had a fair, and the teacher expected the students to explain their actions while visiting the celebration. And that is what the students did until coming to George.
George stood and said –––
“My dad and our friend Maynord took me to the city horse sale, and my dad bought two.
While George was speaking about horses, the teacher heard ‘whore sale.’
The teacher said –––
“George, you went where, and your dad what?”
George replied –––
“My dad took me to a horse sale and bought two. His friend Maynord helped with one of them. They made me watch from the pickup.”
The teacher, turning pale, said –
“George, stop talking; that is enough! Class, that is enough of what we enjoyed this weekend. I will have George explain what he did to the principal.”
George was perplexed. Hasn’t anyone ever watched a horse being sold and loaded into a livestock trailer? Why would the principal need to hear about it? Indeed, he knows about people selling horses.
In the office, the principal was being informed by the teacher about what she had heard and how terrible it was that this father and his friend had taken an 8-year-old boy to whore house and had him watch the goings on with two women. The principal then asked George what exactly did you say to your teacher?
Which George explained –––
“I just told her ––– My dad, Maynord, and I went to a horse sale, where my dad bought two horses. They made me get in the pickup and watch them while loading the horses so I wouldn’t get hurt or in the way. There have been days, I have even held on to some guys horse when he had too many to handle. But I didn’t get to explain it in such detail because the teacher told me to stop talking before I could tell more about what I was talking about. We go to horse sales every weekend. I don’t know what the big deal is!”
The principal and now the school’s superintendent were both in the office. Their faces were beet red, and they were trying to keep from laughing. The teacher, now understanding the situation, felt overreactive and apologizing.
Meanwhile, George is confused and asks everyone in the room –––
“Haven’t you all ever heard of horse sales? Horse sales? Horse Sales! A Place where a man can sell his horse? My dad, Maynord and I go to them every Friday and Saturday night, you should come with us and see what it is all about. If you get bored with the horse sale, you can get a cheeseburger, as I sometimes do. I don’t understand what this is all about just because I told my story about going to the horse sale with my dad and Maynord.”
George’s dad, the town barber, was called and told of the situation. He later held court in his barber’s chair with his shop’s regulars. There, they had the bursts of laughter the school officials experienced.
Leaving the office, it was the loudest laughter George can ever remember hearing to this date. It wasn’t until he was older did he understand the rhyming of the words between horse and whores and how it could sound to others when saying to them –––
“You are headed to a horse sale to see what you can find.”
Kick off Pride month with a 5-day festival celebrating our community’s legacy and exciting contemporary stories Showcasing film premieres, filmmaker Q&A’s, and social events May 30 – June 3, 2024
NewFest Pride has it all — premieres of the year’s most anticipated queer films, conversations, parties and outdoor screenings! Check out the full lineup below.
Get A Pass
Membership Plus Members + above get free Virtual Passes.
A HOUSE IS NOT A DISCO (Opening Night Film & Party)
Dir. Brian J. Smith
A compelling, lovingly-captured portrait of Fire Island as queer paradise that sees past and present blur within the iconic beach town as it celebrates its collective legacy and redefines itself for a modern era.
Ticket includes entrance to Opening Night Party at Slate.
MY OLD ASS
Dir. Megan Park
In this fresh coming-of-age story, an 18th birthday mushroom trip brings free-spirited Elliott (Maisy Stella) face-to-face with her wisecracking 39-year-old self (Aubrey Plaza).
HAZE
Dir. Matthew Fifer
A young journalist returns home to investigate the unsolved deaths at an abandoned psychiatric center in this eerie, evocative psychological thriller from writer/director Matthew Fifer (CICADA)
CLOSE TO YOU
Dir. Dominic Savage
Producer and co-writer Elliot Page stars in this emotionally observant drama about returning home as yourself and finding hope in potentially rekindled relationships
FANTASMAS (Episodes 1 & 2)
Dir. Julio Torres
A delightfully wry new series from the imagination of creator, star, writer, and director Julio Torres (LOS ESPOOKYS, PROBLEMISTA)
THE QUEEN OF MY DREAMS
Dir. Fawzia Mirza
Grad student Azra feels worlds apart from her seemingly rigid mother yet uncovers their unexpected connections on a trip to Pakistan in this vibrant festival favorite (TIFF, SXSW) from writer/director Fawzia Mirza. Ticket comes with entrance to Women’s Afternoon Out pre-screening reception
SEBASTIAN
Dir. Mikko Mäkelä
A freelance writer and aspiring novelist on his way to ostensible success in London’s cultural spheres finds a different kind of exhilaration as a sex worker in this Sundance sensation.
AM I OK?
Dirs. Tig Notaro & Stephanie Allynne
Dakota Johnson stars in this uplifting comedy from co-directors Tig Notaro & Stephanie Allynne about self-discovery, life changes, and friendship.
BLACK QUEER PRIDE SHORTS WITH VIMEO
Join NewFest & Vimeo for a celebratory short film showcase by and about Black LGBTQ+ lives, joys, and experiences.
COMING AROUND
Dir. Sandra Itäinen
A young queer woman stands at a crossroads with her devout Muslim mother in a clash between identity and tradition.
THE SUMMER WITH CARMEN
Dir. Zacharias Mavroeidis
While enjoying a day at a clothing-optional queer beach, an aspiring filmmaker and their handsome friend collaborate on a screenplay in this whimsical summer treat.
WE’RE HERE (Season 4 Finale)
Dir. Peter LoGreco
Join NewFest and HBO for an advance screening of the Season Four finale, followed by an exclusive virtual conversation with creators and cast.
TRIXIE MOTEL: DRAG ME HOME (Series Premiere)
Tune in for an advance screening + exclusive virtual Q&A as Trixie and her partner David explore and design a dream home fit for two!
TO WONG FOO, THANKS FOR EVERYTHING! JULIE NEWMAR (Outdoor Screening)
Kick off NewFest’s new partnership with Universal Pictures – “Pride Summer Movie Nights at Rockefeller Center”
IN-PERSON + STREAMING VIP All Access Pass — $185 Discount for NewFest Members All in-person screenings and events (including Opening Night Film & Party, and Women’s Afternoon Out) and virtual screenings. Early access to theater and reserved seats. Learn how to fulfill passes here.
IN–PERSON Individual Film Ticket – $19.50 Discount for NewFest Members In-Person access to a single screening. Does not include A HOUSE IS NOT A DISCO or Women’s Afternoon Out Tickets.
Opening Night Film + Party Ticket – $50 Discount for NewFest Members In-Person access to the Opening Night Film A HOUSE IS NOT A DISCO and the following party.
In-Person All Access Pass — $115 Discount for NewFest Members Includes all in-person screenings, including Opening Night Film & Party, and Women’s Afternoon Out. Learn how to fulfill passes here.
STREAMING Virtual Pass — $30 Discount for NewFest Members Virtual access to select screenings. Does not include in-person Q&A’s, however there are a select number of virtual Q&A’s available. All films screening virtually are available May 30 at 12 PM EST through June 3 at 11:59 PM EST. Streaming anywhere in the United States. Individual tickets are only available for WE’RE HERE and TRIXIE MOTEL: DRAG ME HOME.
When a child gets lost in the forest a mother’s wisdom saves the day!
Once upon a time, in a small town located far away from the big cities between rolling hills and lush forests, there lived a young child named Alex. With their adventurous spirit, Alex was always eager to explore the world around them. But one sunny day, their curiosity led them into a problematic situation.
Alex ventured into the woods near their home on a warm summer afternoon. The air was thick with the scent of pine and earth, and the sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting a dappled pattern on the forest floor. With a sense of excitement bubbling inside them, they wandered deeper and deeper into the dense foliage, chasing after the fluttering wings of butterflies and the rustling of unseen creatures.
As the hours passed, Alex became utterly lost in the enchanting beauty of the forest. But as the sun began to dip below the horizon, panic started to set in. They realized they had strayed too far from home and had no idea which direction to go.
Frightened and alone, Alex’s heart raced in their chest. They called for help, their voice echoing through the trees. But there was no response, just the eerie silence of the forest at dusk. Tears welled up in their eyes as they sank to the ground, feeling a mix of hopelessness and fear.
Meanwhile, in the town, Sarah’s worry had transformed into a fierce determination. When her child didn’t return home at their usual time, she didn’t hesitate. She rallied a group of neighbors and friends, her unwavering love for Alex fueling their efforts.
With flashlights and determination in their hearts, they combed through the woods, calling out Alex’s name. Hours passed with no sign of the lost child, and fear gnawed at Sarah’s heart. Her worry turned into a desperate ache, her determination fueling her every step.
Just as she was beginning to lose hope, Sarah heard a faint cry in the distance. With renewed energy, she followed the sound, pushing through the underbrush until she stumbled upon a clearing where Alex sat, trembling and exhausted.
Relief washed over Sarah like a tidal wave as she rushed to her child’s side, her heart bursting with joy. Tears of happiness streamed down her cheeks as she whispered words of comfort and love, her voice a soothing balm to Alex’s trembling form.
Wrapped in their mother’s arms, Alex felt safe and protected, knowing that no matter their adventures, their mother would always be there to guide them home. And on that fateful day, Sarah’s unwavering love and determination saved Alex’s life, proving that a mother’s love knows no bounds. In the aftermath, they both learned the importance of staying close and the strength of their bond.
In the vast expanse of the Indian Territory, amidst the rugged terrain and the promise of new beginnings, two souls found each other amidst the chaos of land claims and dreams of prosperity. Vol Wilhelm Groff, a spirited young man with a penchant for adventure, and Joseph McElroy, a quiet and contemplative soul, crossed paths in the unforgiving landscape of Oklahoma in the year 1905.
The Indian Territory was a land of opportunity, where dreams clashed with harsh reality, and where individuals staked their claims in the hopes of carving out a future for themselves. Val and Joseph were among those brave souls, drawn to the promise of a better life on the frontier.
Their meeting was serendipitous, a chance encounter amidst the chaos of land rushes and bustling settlements. Val, with his infectious enthusiasm, captured Joseph’s attention from the moment they first locked eyes. Despite their differences in temperament, they found a deep connection that transcended words.
Val and Joesph Photo Taken In Okarche Oklahoma
As they worked side by side, staking their claims and building their homesteads from the ground up, their bond grew stronger with each passing day. Amidst the challenges of frontier life, they found solace in each other’s presence, drawing strength from their shared dreams and aspirations.
But theirs was a love that dared not speak its name in the harsh reality of the early 20th century. In a world where societal norms dictated strict conformity, Val and Joseph had to tread carefully, concealing their love from prying eyes.
Yet, despite the obstacles they faced, their love endured, a beacon of hope in a world fraught with uncertainty. Through the trials and tribulations of frontier life, they remained steadfast in their devotion to each other, finding solace in the quiet moments shared beneath the starry Oklahoma sky.
As the years passed and the Indian Territory evolved into the state of Oklahoma, Val and Joseph’s love stood the test of time, a testament to the enduring power of love in the face of adversity. And though their names may have been forgotten by history, their love story lived on, a reminder that true love knows no bounds, not even the vast expanse of the American frontier.
This election isn’t about pitting the young against the old. It’s about ensuring that Gen Z and Millennials, who constitute a significant third of our nation’s population, have representation that mirrors their presence.
David Hogg Leaders We Deserve PBS Interview
Although remembered as older, numerous influential leaders initiated their activism in their youth. We aim to support these leaders—like John Lewis, who embarked on a mission for vital change at a young age and became one of our country’s most pivotal and influential leaders.
Our goal is straightforward: elect more youthful leaders capable of introducing fresh perspectives into our government.
Numerous barriers have historically prevented young people from entering public service and achieving the representation they deserve. Those who support America for all should make every effort to assist young candidates in overcoming these obstacles.
Visit Leaders We Deserve
After the setbacks of 2016, the 2018 blue wave brought the Democratic Party a renewed recognition of the influence young voters wield. In 2020, Joe Biden’s election, which was largely driven by the substantial turnout from Millennial and Gen Z voters, showcased the power of youthful participation. Your voice matters, and your vote can shape the course of our nation.
Vist The Post On Leaders We Deserve Winning!
In 2022, young voters reaffirmed their electoral influence, thwarting the anticipated “red wave.” Emerging young leaders like Justin Jones in Tennessee and Maxwell Frost in Florida gained prominence. Groups like “Leaders We Deserve” also celebrated their first endorsement success with Nadarius Clark’s election in Virginia.
Listen To Interviewof radio interview
The benefits of electing young leaders extend beyond Gen Z and Millennials; they enrich the nation and shape our future. Commencing political involvement at a young age capitalizes on time, making it a potent political ally. Gen Z’s potential longevity in Capitol Hill eclipses many, underscoring the urgency of their ascent to power. The time to act is now.
If you resonate with a mission and aspire to bolster the election of deserving leaders in 2024 and beyond, please act to support feasible campaigns like “Leaders We Deserve” to support their endeavors or find a campaign that will help elect a Democratic Candidate to office.
A Vote For Trump Is A Vote Against Democracy! Remember, Vote Blue When You Do!
My household has always maintained a relatively liberal understanding of the country’s homeless situation. We disagree with outlawing their right to exist and have a place to live and shelter. They are, after all, doing the best they can with the current housing, employment, transportation, or other issues they face. Let them be!
That is what our stance has been all along, until we went out to breakfast this past weekend and the police department was herding a group along the main boulevard we take to our restaurant. They appeared to be the characters you don’t want to run into in a dark alley at night—or daytime, for that matter. For Christ’s sake, were they planning to put roots down behind our neighborhood. We have a wall around the place, but salespeople always jump in and try to knock on doors. We have security but are not the type that can handle these characters. Every winter, we have a homeless troupe that typically arrives and camps near a river, but they are the same people every year, and they are like the snowbirds who flow in and out of the area from the north. These new homeless characters were of a family we never experienced before.
And that is what is scaring so many in America. The police found a suitable place for the troupe to travel on to, and there were no more sights of them after that initial spotting. But that is different for many in the country. These homeless populations inundate their communities, and it is an issue they have never before had to face. What if they are following suit? How many more will come? What problems will they bring with them? Will the property values deflate wherever they plant a stake? Jesus, are they diseased?
California has spent billions of dollars trying to fix its homeless problem and has failed to find a solution. The issue is greater there now than ever. Affordable housing remains unobtainable to those needing it. California is asking people to build tiny homes in their backyards, garages, wherever there is space, and make them available to house people. The problem is, if folks don’t want them in their alleys, will they want them in their garages?
Locally in Phoenix, Arizona. My husband hired an unhoused person years ago and knew she was, although she had not disclosed so on her introduction form. He worked with her schedule to make sure she kept her employment, and within six months, she was able to get a studio apartment, moving from her car. She then told him. He said he knew all along, and that is why he had worked so hard to keep her going, and she turned out to be one of the best employees. Such an example may not be the case with every person, but it is an example of how we can attribute ourselves to improving the situation one person at a time.
While feeling uneasy about sudden changes in your community is natural, it’s important to remember that homelessness is not a choice for many people. They often face a variety of challenges, including mental health issues, substance abuse, lack of affordable housing, and unemployment, which can contribute to their situation.
As for the broader issue of homelessness, it’s clear that a comprehensive and compassionate approach is needed to address the root causes and provide effective solutions. This approach may include increasing access to affordable housing, expanding mental health and addiction services, and providing job training and employment opportunities for homeless individuals.
The Supreme Court now has the issue, and the Lord only knows what they will come up with. But no doubt Texas will pass a law ordering the execution of all homeless people after 30 days of being homeless.
Joe Biden has taken 382 vacation days off to date. That equates to over one full year on vacation out of 3 years as US president. Is he the most ineffective US president in history?
Answered by Benjamin via benandsteve.com
We take your word it was 382. I need President Biden’s schedule to confirm such details. Since the job is 24/7, 365 days a year, you never have any privacy, nor a day without less than twenty interruptions, even when on vacation. The vacation days alone don’t necessarily reflect a president’s effort. Being president is a demanding job that comes with its own set of challenges and responsibilities. While the president must take breaks and maintain a work-life balance, one should consider the number of vacation days in the broader context of one president over another president’s performance, decision-making, and leadership.
Every presidency has challenges and circumstances, and comparing one president’s vacation days to another does not give a comprehensive view of their effectiveness. When evaluating a presidency’s effectiveness, it’s also essential to consider the accomplishments, policies enacted, and challenges faced.
The information provided may be more accurate or presented better to portray a specific narrative. It’s always a good idea to fact-check information and consider multiple perspectives before forming an opinion.
For a fact, here’s what Biden didn’t do:
He never only started his work days around 11 am or 11:3AM, crisis or not.
Never made an ass out of himself on a global stage.
Never has had disregards to promises made during his campaign.
He Never has been impeached.
Biden didn’t get impeached a second time.
Biden never had to survive a Senate trial that most senators later – admit that they should’ve voted and should’ve been guilty.
Biden didn’t get indicted – FOUR TIMES.
It wasn’t Biden who tried overturning the People’s Will in the 2020 *Election by inciting an insurrection!
No Biden didn’t call the Georgia Secretary of State and attempt to *Strong arm him into creating 12,000 more votes in his favor.
Biden didn’t take papers from the national archives and refuse to return them to the United States Government. Going as far as to tell employees to hide the location of the boxes that contained them from authorities. Then, he agreed to return them and never did so. Then, having the stated allegations recorded on the video camera and denying it was real, lying to the FBI (also a crime.)
The list of things President Biden never did could go on, but it would be easier if you tuned into Court TV Monday through Friday.
Those are the differences you can make between Biden and Trump, which is just the start!
The documentary “1946: The Mistranslation That Shifted a Culture” delves into a controversial and thought-provoking topic that challenges conventional beliefs about the Bible and homosexuality. Directed by Sharon “Rocky” Roggio, the film examines the claim that the Bible originally did not mention homosexuality and that references to it were added due to mistranslation and misunderstanding of ancient Greek terms.
The film highlights the work of Christian scholars who delve into forgotten archives at Yale University to uncover the origins of this mistranslation. It argues that conservative Christians began to propagate this mistranslation in the 1970s to scapegoat the LGBTQ+ community and oppose their growing liberation movement.
Roggio, who identifies as a lesbian and is the daughter of an evangelical minister, engages in dialogues with her father throughout the film, attempting to find common ground and challenge his beliefs about homosexuality being a sin. This personal narrative adds depth and emotion to the documentary, as it explores the complexities of faith, identity, and acceptance within a family divided by differing views on sexuality and religion.
The documentary sheds light on the potential harm caused by misunderstandings and misinterpretations of religious texts, highlighting the real-world consequences faced by LGBTQ+ individuals who have been marginalized, discriminated against, and even persecuted due to these beliefs.
Overall, “1946: The Mistranslation That Shifted a Culture” offers a compelling perspective on a contentious issue, urging viewers to question and reevaluate long-held beliefs and encouraging dialogue, understanding, and acceptance.
Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender National Hotline 1-888-843-4564. “The Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender National Hotline provide telephone and email peer-counseling, as well as factual information and local resources for cities and towns across the United States.
Indeed, the economic conditions at the end of Trump’s term were challenging due to the pandemic, and Biden inherited an economy facing significant headwinds. The pandemic’s impact on the economy was unprecedented, affecting employment, consumption, and global demand.
However, public perception and political narratives often prioritize certain aspects of an administration’s performance while downplaying others. People’s opinions become shaped by various factors, including media coverage, partisan affiliation, personal experiences, and messaging from political leaders.
Trump had shut down the United States of America, a fact that nearly every American forgets today. They need to remember the closed stores, the empty shelves, the closed restaurants, the doctor’s office that had to refuse patients, hospitals that were so full no one could visit, and nursing homes where loved ones had to stand outside and wave to loved ones from the street, and Funeral Homes so full they were using rental refrigerator trucks to store bodies—the toilet paper shortages. That was Trump’s Administration. Biden had to clean it up. He received much blame for what must occur to get the nation back on track. But he got to work, and the country got back to life.
Here are a few points to consider when thinking about why public opinion might differ between Trump and Biden regarding the economy:
Partisan Bias: Political affiliations can heavily influence people’s views on the economy. Republicans may be more inclined to credit Trump for positive economic developments during his term and blame external factors like the pandemic for any downturns. Conversely, Democrats may be more critical of Trump’s handling of the economy and more forgiving of the challenges Biden faced upon taking office.
Messaging and Framing: Political leaders and media outlets shape public opinion. How economic data and policies get reported can influence people’s perceptions of the economy’s performance. Trump was known for touting positive economic indicators during his term, influencing public perception despite the broader challenges.
Another significant factor that shapes public opinion on the economy is personal experience. People’s direct economic situations, such as job loss, financial hardship, or financial gains, can profoundly impact their views. For instance, someone who experienced a job loss or financial hardship during Trump’s term might have a negative view of his economic policies. Conversely, if someone benefited from tax cuts or saw their investments grow, they might have a more positive perception. Complexity of Economic Issues: Economic conditions are influenced by a multitude of factors, including global trends, monetary policy, fiscal policy, and more. It can be challenging for the average person to parse through these complexities and assign credit or blame to a particular administration accurately.
In conclusion, public opinion on the economy is multifaceted, and partisan biases could dominate messaging, personal experiences, and the complexity of economic issues. While the data presented paints a challenging economic picture at the end of Trump’s term, public perception is by broader factors. And it is conveniently forgotten!
Welcome to our home chat page, where you will find a wealth of information. Thank you for stopping by. You can visit the main page of our website which has all the goods, this is only a primer! If you go there, you can check the various pages and find on your tour there are plenty of subjects to conquer any interests most people may have. If you are a member of our community and we are missing a view contact us through our contact pages. Again thank you for finding benandsteve.com find a sample of things here!
This Is An Important News Tip That You Should Take Note Of -And, It Should Be In The Mail Boxes Of Everyone You Know!
These 40 House Republicans voted against millions of dollars in federal funding that they secured for their districts
83 House Republicans voted against a bill to fund large portions of the federal government.
40 did so despite securing millions of dollars in funding for their districts.
It’s another example of “vote no, take the dough.”
On Wednesday, 83 House Republicans voted against a roughly $460 billion package of bills to fund large swaths of the federal government.
Forty of them did so despite requesting — and securing — millions of dollars in federal funding for a variety of projects in their districts.
Take Rep. Lauren Boebert for example. The Colorado Republican announced on Wednesday that she would vote against what she dubbed the “Swamp Omnibus,” slamming the bill as a “monstrosity” that “funds the Green New Deal.”
That’s despite the bill including more than $20 million that she herself had requested for projects across the state’s 3rd congressional district, which she recently abandoned to seek reelection in a safer district on the other side of the state.
Read the complete report by visiting BUSINESS INSIDER HERE!
Click the image to get more details!
Visit the image above for details
Congressman Mark Pocan (D-WI) has laid out a path forward for LGBTQ+ equality, which prioritizes defeating Donald Trump in November and pushing the right’s more extreme elements out of the mainstream Republican party. Americans can be convinced to support LGBTQ+ rights, but Trumpism — or, in Pocan’s words, “that hate, base-only mentality” — must be divorced from the Republican party.
Because, outside the most right-wing parts of the GOP base, there isn’t much support for lawmakers spending so much time attacking LGBTQ+ rights. Continue reading the report here…
Missing My Dad’s Funeral
At thirteen, I went to sleepaway camp, consumed by crushes, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and my father’s worsening battle with aids. By Emily Ziff Griffin
The Last Dance with My Dad Emily Ziff Griffin on a trip with her father before he died of AIDS.
My first memory in life is of my father moving out. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a carriage house on a quiet, dead-end lane in Brooklyn Heights. It was 1980, and he was leaving because he’d finally admitted to my mother that he was gay. I watched from the doorway of my room as my dad and his friend carried a wide wooden dresser down the stairs. I was two years old, and that moment etched itself in my mind, along with the texture of the apartment’s kitchen floor—white linoleum with little black specks.
My dad eventually settled in the upper half of a brownstone a few blocks away, in a three-story apartment that became the headquarters of an advertising agency my parents started together soon after they separated. I spent Wednesday nights there, along with every other weekend. After work, my father would come downstairs and prepare a small bowl of Lay’s potato chips, and we would watch “CBS Evening News” with Dan Rather. A story about the hijacking of T.W.A. Flight 847, in which passengers with Jewish-sounding names were isolated and threatened, left me concerned. My father wasn’t religious, but he was Jewish, and so was our last name. “They usually let the women and children go,” my mother assured me later when I suggested I use her German name if I ever got a passport.
After the news, my dad would listen to Ella Fitzgerald and cook dinner—steamed artichokes, maybe roasted fish—and I would play “office” alone at one of the desks upstairs, writing important memos and answering phantom calls. “I’m sorry, he’s unavailable—can I take a message?” I’d say, satisfied by the smooth click of the phone connecting with its cradle. My father was a marketing executive who had worked with the Brooklyn Academy of Music in the seventies before he and my mom started their company. He would often take me to see modern dance in Manhattan. Alvin Ailey, Trisha Brown, and Paul Taylor were all clients, and he took every opportunity to expose me to their work. Walking through the lobby of City Center was like striding alongside a prince. My dad was tall, handsome, young, and at the height of his creative powers. He dressed in Armani suits and bold neckties that signaled a hint of irreverence. Everyone in the dance world knew him. It was Dad’s domain, and I felt important because of his identity. In my regular life, I was terrified that my friends would discover that he was gay and that my family wasn’t like everyone else’s. In the theatre, the lights would dim, the curtain would rise, the music would start, and my father would take my hand as the dancers took the stage. For my father, it was one way we connected. We never learned to discuss hard things, but we shared this liminal space where bodies told stories, and words weren’t necessary.
It was very different at my mother’s house, which was quiet and small, a mere six hundred square feet, and where she often seemed tired or, as I imagine now, being a mother myself, weighed down by things. On Sunday nights, we watched the detective procedural “Murder, She Wrote.” Unlike in the world chronicled by Dan Rather, in this show, the crime—the problem—was always solved. On Mondays, it was “Kate & Allie,” a sitcom about two divorced moms who share an apartment. Perhaps their story gave my mother comfort as a young woman whose livelihood intermingled with her ex-husband, who had unceremoniously left her for another man. At the very least, these shows provided enjoyment and filled empty spaces when we didn’t feel like talking.
I found myself looking for normalcy in other people’s real-life families. I would often go to the Millers’ down the street (all names except those belonging to family members made a change in this story). Their daughter, Callie, was around my age, and if I slept over on a Saturday night, on Sunday, the family would invite me to church, where Callie’s father was an Episcopal reverend. We were not religious ourselves—my father didn’t go to the temple, and my mother was a Midwestern Protestant who referred to Christians as “God people.” But, even at seven and eight years old, I loved going to church, the smoke of frankincense and organ tones so deep and rich they seemed to vibrate inside my body. There were no surprises, and I liked bing told God would take care of me. And then, when I was nine, my mom and I left the neighborhood for a slightly more prominent place. We were just a mile away, but I quickly drifted apart from Callie and her family. As I moved into adolescence, I longed for the feeling of escape and safety I had found with them. By then, my father had been diagnosed with aids, something I did not feel I could discuss openly with anyone, not even my parents.
In December of 1991, when I was thirteen, I took the train to Baltimore to visit my best friend from sleepaway camp. Samantha Silverman took up space. She played lacrosse and was opinionated and seemingly unafraid of boys and life. She was also the youngest of three—her older sister was away at college, and her brother Teddy was in high school. Teddy was tall, played water polo, and was obsessed with the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I had never heard of the band, but when I visited Sam, I pretended I had.
I loved being at their house. Sam’s mother, Carol, worked part-time at a local news channel but was first and foremost a mom. She’d put a package of Velveeta in the microwave with a jar of salsa and served it with a mountain of chips and a direct gaze that said, “Come, sit, be, enjoy.” She wore voluminous cashmere sweaters that draped over her soft middle; hugging her felt like embracing a warm cloud. She was a mom who smiled and giggled. They had money—Sam’s dad was a surgeon—and plush wall-to-wall carpeting and a family room with a giant L-shaped sofa and a wide-screen TV, where we spent all our time. It seemed inevitable by then that my father was going to die. I was still afraid to talk about his illness with anyone, yet it was always there, hulking like a monster’s shadow. At least at Sam’s house, the shadow stayed outside, banished by the delicious snacks and the warm cloud of a mother, by a good friend and her handsome older brother. The Chili Peppers’ “Blood Sugar Sex Magik” had been released only a few months earlier, and Teddy would disappear into his room to blast the album. At the same time, I would think of excuses to talk to him, never mind that he was five years older and had a girlfriend and that I was just a kid.
On New Year’s Eve, the Chili Peppers performed on MTV, all shirtless and buff, sweaty with effort. The lead singer, Anthony Kiedis, his long hair swaying behind him, sang “Give It Away,” whose lyrics we (or maybe even more accurately, I) interpreted at the time as unabashedly demanding a girl’s virginity. A silver handprint was pressed onto the crotch of his black skater shorts, like a ghostly mark of desire. Watching him, I imagined that Teddy wanted to cradle a bass guitar and feel the thump and hum of the music surrounding him, to be held by a crowd, to be cheered for and adored. I don’t remember if it was that night or the next, but I found myself alone with Teddy in the family room at some point. Everyone else had gone to bed. We were watching a movie and decided to watch another when it ended. He lay on the floor; I sat on the couch. I pictured him getting up and moving toward me. He would kiss me, and I would let him. We would laugh at the impossibility of it even as it was happening. I would, at that moment, capture this elusive other life I wanted so badly—one where I was unique enough to overcome such barriers as the girlfriend, the age difference, the “sister’s friend” status, and, though it was something he didn’t even know about, the gay father with aids. I don’t know if Teddy was engaged in a parallel fantasy because I didn’t dare to ask, and he never made a move.
The next day, my mother called. My father had been found in his apartment unconscious and was now in the hospital. He was stable, but he couldn’t walk, and he was having trouble speaking. They suspected an infection. They thought he would be OK, but given the nature of aids, they weren’t sure. I said nothing about any of this to the Silvermans. Now, it seems outrageous and heartbreaking that I felt I needed to keep silent, but at that time, many people were afraid to come near an HIV-positive person. The Silvermans might have been angry. They might have been worried. Worse, they might have loved me anyway, and I found it necessary to hide my vast need for their love.
I took the train back to New York and gazed through the window at the bare trees. I felt heat coming through the vents and inhaled the smell of stale coffee drifting down the aisle. I thought about wanting the impossible: Teddy to kiss me, my father to live. The two desires had no overt relationship, yet they seemed to exist in tandem, as though one miracle could make the other possible.
Back in Brooklyn, I went to the local record store and bought “Blood Sugar Sex Magik” on CD. The album was like the tides—throbbing, aggressive tracks like “Suck My Kiss” and “Give It Away” interspersed with softer, more contemplative songs. It sounded like I felt. I wanted to scream into a microphone. I tried to kiss Teddy Silverman and tell him that I thought he was hot and my dad was dying.
That night, I spoke to my father on the phone, and the cord wrapped around my fingers like an anchor. Slurring his words, a mix of fear and steadfastness in his voice. Despite how he sounded, he was calling to let me know he was OK. I told him that I loved him. I didn’t allow myself to cry.
Later, I looked out my bedroom window at the dark winter sky, the neighborhood asleep as Kiedis’s voice drifted through the air: “It’s hard to believe that there’s nobody out there. . . .”
Within days, I went back to eighth grade, and my father went to stay with his parents at their home in Rye, New York. My grandparents, Ruth and Solomon, raised my father and his sister in the Bronx, then, as their circumstances improved, moved to Chappaqua and eventually to Rye, on the other side of Westchester County. Solomon had managed a successful career as a paint distributor, but Ruth had built most of their wealth as an advertising executive.
Their house was grand—two sprawling stories overlooking Long Island Sound, most covered in cream carpeting, like at the Silvermans’. The bathrooms smelled like baby powder and old lipstick. It was late January, cold and barren outside. My father had been relegated to a guest room downstairs, far in every sense from the upstairs living spaces where the family would gather on holidays. As the Sound churned silently beyond the windows, he worked on walking again. My father had been there for a couple of weeks by the time I went to visit. On my first morning, my grandparents and I watched from the hallway outside his room as he slowly made his way up the wide, carpeted staircase. We acted amazed, like encouraging a toddler’s amble across the floor. When he reached the sixth step and turned to come down, my grandmother said, “Tomorrow it will be seven.” My father’s face fell. Decades later, I understand her comment more as a defense against reality than an attempt to shame him into progressing faster. She, too, was trying to keep the monster’s shadow at the door.
In any case, my father wanted to return to his apartment, and within several weeks, he was well enough to do so. By then, he was living in a one-bedroom on the Upper West Side of Manhattan—a lifelong goal. I slept on a convertible sofa in the living room when I visited. My dad was back home, but he still couldn’t walk. Kaposi’s sarcoma now covered his legs in purple lesions. During the day, he had a nurse named Lester who would lift him in and out of his wheelchair and take him for walks. One of his friends, or sometimes my mother or I, would stay with him at night. I don’t remember what we did for dinner—I must have helped serve takeout or bake a frozen pizza. I also don’t remember discussing anything in particular, not how sick he was. One night, while staying there, I was awakened from a deep sleep. My father was calling for me. I stumbled into his room, and he showed me his bedpan, full of excrement. He told me to get surgical gloves from the bathroom, come back and retrieve the pan, dump the contents in the toilet, remove the gloves, and wash my hands. His eyes were glassy, his voice soft—he was embarrassed. I nodded and left his room. I turned on the bathroom light and saw myself in the mirror. Small breasts. Pimples. Long, wavy hair. I was a child and yet not a child. Had I ever even been a kid? I was shaking slightly as my hands reached for the bedpan. I wondered if I could catch aids. Afterward, I went back to the living room. I thought about the Millers and the prayer that they would say at bedtime, which ended, “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. . . .” Those words were supposed to be a safeguard against eternal suffering after death. But what about eternal suffering before death? I didn’t want the Lord to keep my father’s soul. I wanted my father to survive.
I didn’t know, as I lay there in the dark, my hands still damp from washing them, that this would be the last night I would spend in my father’s home. After, my parents concluded it was too much responsibility for me to be there alone, too complicated, too risky. They were right. Spring came, and my father got sicker and sicker, more and more frail. School ended, and it was a relief to know I was heading back to Evergreen, the sleepaway camp in Maine where I had gone every summer for the past five years. It was the same camp my father had attended when he was young, and I would be there for eight weeks. The day before I left, my mother and I went to my father’s apartment to spend time with him. I stood on his right as he lay in bed. His fingernails were longer than they should have been. His hands were skin and bones, nothing like the strong hands I had once held in the dark at City Center. I bent down and kissed his hollow cheek. I told him that I loved him. I told him I would miss him and see him when I got back, though there was little doubt in my mind that this was our last goodbye. He kissed me and nodded. Yes, he said. We’ll see each other then. I walked out, past the wide wooden dresser he’d once carried down the street, and into the stark hallway of his modern doorman building, my mother behind me. The following day, I went to camp. It wasn’t until I was sitting with Sam Silverman under the pine trees the first night, loons calling on the lake, a campfire crackling against the chill, that I felt I could breathe.
Days passed, and I settled into camp life. I water-skied over the lake’s glassy surface, my legs solid underneath me, the hum of the boat’s engine the only Sound. I played tennis, where I raged against the ball, screaming through every shot. I thought about my father, but the sunlight, the familiar routines, and a crush I was developing on a boy named Ben Goodstein kept the dark shadows away. On Saturday, July 4th, I woke up in my cabin, which I shared with Sam, two other girls, and a counselor. It was drizzling. The five of us dressed brushed our teeth and hurried to breakfast in ponchos and duck boots. Halfway through the otherwise unremarkable meal, Lynn, the camp director, came to our table and told me she needed to see me after breakfast.
A weird electric wave spread through me. I knew what this meant. I looked at Sam. “You have to come with me,” I said. But she had no idea why Lynn wanted to see me, no idea that seven months earlier, I had left her family’s home in Baltimore while my father was at the hospital in admittance. In some ways, she had no idea who I was.
When Lynn returned at the end of the meal, I asked if Sam could come with me, but Lynn said she needed to speak to me alone. I followed her out the side entrance of the dining hall, across the grass, to the bungalow she shared with her husband, Bill. I glanced at the wood structures that dotted the path: the sailing shed and the other cabins. How long had they stood there? The camp had been in Lynn’s family for decades. My dad had been a camper, then worked there, building the radio station and heading up the theatre program. He and Lynn were the same age; they had been friends. Were these buildings here when they were kids? Had my father walked this exact path before me?
We entered Lynn’s cabin, where Bill awaited us, and we all sat down. “I think I know what this is,” I said. Bill told me that my father had died that morning. I didn’t think about it at the time, but my dad’s death was a loss for Lynn, too. Bill said that I should call my mother.
I went to the phone in the next room. The windows faced the lake. No longer bright and blue under the shining sun, it was almost black as clouds twisted overhead. I dialed my father’s number. My mom answered. Her voice was high and bright with emotion. She said everyone was there—my father’s parents, sister, long-distance boyfriend, and best friend. She said they thought he was gone the night before, but he wasn’t. “He waited for the Fourth,” she said, “so there would be fireworks.” That was very him, I thought. He had always had a sense of occasion.
And then my mother asked me, “Do you want to come home?” Though I had known on some level that my father would not survive my two months away, I hadn’t considered what would happen when he died. I had made no plan. My mother said that my aunt was adamant that I come home and that I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t. But my mom had once told me that when I was born after the chaos of delivery had passed and she was alone with me in her arms, she had looked down at my face and said, “You are not my property.” I was a child, yes, but I was also my person, capable of making decisions about my life. So what did I want to do?
I pictured myself surrounded by adults with tear-stained faces. They’d squeeze my shoulders and leave lipstick marks on my cheeks. Worse, some might be hysterical, and everyone would be looking at me. That poor girl, they’d be thinking as they watched to see what I would do, what I had to say. I didn’t have anything to say. On the way to the dining hall, I wanted to be with my friends, see the pine trees overhead, and feel the crunch of gravel under my feet.
“I want to stay at camp,” I told my mother. “OK,” she said. To this day, being able to stay at camp is one of the greatest gifts my mother ever gave me. My father’s illness had made everything about my life feel abnormal. I didn’t want to go back to that, not yet. Though Lynn and Bill knew the truth, we told my cabinmates that my dad had died of cancer. It seemed more manageable and safer that way. Everyone looked at the floor; none of us knew what else to say.
Because it was raining, there was bingo in the dining hall. I went, but because my dad had just died, I didn’t have to play. I sat alone on the upper level, watching the other campers play below me. My thoughts filled with spaces of drones and letters that were the announcer calls. He’s gone. Gone where? Should I be crying? I didn’t want people’s pity.
I got up and went outside. I walked down to the lake. My father used to swim in this water. I pictured him in the distance as a boy, his arms gliding like oars, his legs kicking to keep him afloat. I thought about him in his apartment where I’d left him, in the bed across from the expansive wooden dresser. I looked to the sky. I wanted a bolt of lightning—a bird. I wanted my father to appear, glowing like a saint. I wanted him to tell me that everything would be all right, that he was still with me. A row of Sunfish sailboats rattled against their moorings. I could feel the kids inside looking at me through the dining hall windows. I went back inside.
After lunch, I found Ben. I told him that my dad had died that morning. He looked confused, then concerned. He reached forward and hugged me. “I’m sorry,” he said. I said that it was OK, the way you might after you accidentally dropped a sandwich on the ground, like, It sucks, but, hey, that’s the way it goes sometimes.
That night was the Fourth of July carnival. Everyone dressed in red, white, and blue and went to a clearing by the lake where partiers placed games. Somebody gave us paper tickets that we could use for throwing a whipped cream pie at a counselor or swinging a sledgehammer like an axe to ring a bell. There was the buzz of girls gossiping, the hoots and hollers of prize-winning kids. The tug of Sam’s hand on my arm—Let’s go here, now there—meant I could be like every other kid that night. I could run, play, laugh. I could whisper about the guy approaching her or how good Ben looked in his chambray button-down and jeans. I could put aside everything except what was right in front of me.
At the end of the carnival, we all headed to the lakefront for fireworks. Fireworks. My mom’s words rocketed through my mind as I sat on the damp ground. My father waited for this. The show was for him, and my being there, watching it, meant that we were together. I sat, with Sam Silverman on one side and Ben Goodstein holding my hand on the other, looking out at the water as the first bloom of sparkling light erupted overhead. I heard the Chili Peppers in my head: “The stare she bares cut me / I don’t care, you see, so what if I bleed?” What if I had told my father a real goodbye? What if I had told everyone the truth? What if I had let people see me cry?
I had entered an alternate reality, not like the one found in a chapel or the rooms of someone else’s house. One that was real—indelible and mine. One in which there was loss, yes, but there was also light bursting in the sky. There was a hand in mine. My mother was back home, honoring my father in the way he deserved. There was my grandmother, Ruth, telling the stories of her son’s young life. And somewhere, there was music, a curtain rising, and dancers ready to take the stage.
~CREDITS~
New Yorker Favorites • A reporter’s relationship with Kurt Cobain before and after the singer’s death. • Who owns London’s most mysterious mansion? • The politics behind the creation of “Harriet the Spy.” • The aesthetic splendor of “The Simpsons.” • Fiction by Alice Munro: “Passion.” Sign up for our daily newsletter to receive the best stories from The New Yorker. Emily Ziff Griffin is a screenwriter, producer, author, and essayist. Her début novel, “Light Years,” was published in 2017.
Because LEVITICUS is so damn important to daily living, and the Christian nation this world is.
The verse tells us we are wasting billions yearly by blocking the borders of nations. If we believe in a God, it is all one, and there are no lines of division. The arguments over the border are sinful in that we are saying God’s people are not allowed to generate among their own. Attempts to vote in favor of those who would cast a vote to block the borders of a nation would be an act of blasphemy. Rev. Groff, Roads End Ranch Chapel.
I recently sat down and tackled a project I had avoided for years. It involved a collection of hundreds of photos of my family. Photos, as far as I can tell, ever since the invention of the camera. Family members I knew, knew of, or who had died before I was born, all there staring back at me. I recollected many of the stories told to me by my grandparents, dad, and mother. So, with these stories, I want to begin sharing some photos with my regular mix of information. There are several already posted at benandsteve.com on the home page. You will also find updates on other pages on the site. ✌️🏼
And surprisingly, some are not too far from the truth.
The sometimes accurate, sometimes outlandish clippings were shared on X by Paul Fairie, a researcher at the University of Calgary.
One that’s very recognisable is the city of the future.
‘Automobiles travelling on speedways through the centre of town’, ‘ever-moving sidewalks’ and ‘motorcars increasing and multiplying indefinitely’ all definitely came true.
Less so is the idea that those multiplying cars would bring about the extinction of the horse.
This prediction is no where near true (Picture: X/ @paulisci)
Last year, a YouGov poll found that more than a quarter of people in the UK have tattoos. We reckon this one has come true, as it was anticipated that ‘debutantes will dye their skin all the colours of the rainbow’, with an expectation that hair would follow suit, much like a ‘Victorian debutante concealed her personality under voluminous hoops and draperies’.
And pity those listening to the radio in 1924, when it was pretty dull apparently, because in another prediction, it was said ‘Americans will laugh at radios’. For 2024, it’s not just radio that bringing the LOLs, but also podcasts, which continue to soar in popularity.
Many Americans do laugh at something like a radio (Picture: X/@paulisci)
One that’s pretty much there is a longer life expectancy, where we would live to be 100 years old, and 75 years would be considered as young.
Two that definitely came true are blocks of flats that are 100 stories tall, and family albums made of videos instead of photographs.
A prediction that sadly hasn’t hit the mark – ‘movies will bring about world peace’ as people will establish a brotherhood but Hollywood has not yet accomplished a universal language or eliminated conflict from the civilised world.
And while adorably optimistic, that is far from the most outlandish.
Hollywood has not yet created a movie that brings world peace (Picture: X/@paulisci)
Some of the stranger predictions involve beds flinging children out of bed in the morning, people hopping from planet to planet as easily as we soar through the sky now (we wish), flying clothes and men’s legs withering away from underuse, Wall-E style.
Men do not live Wall-E style (Picture: X/@paulisci)
Oh, and diamond engagement rings should have lost their allure by now, being replaced with hundreds of pounds of sugar.
And surprisingly, some are not too far from the truth.
The sometimes accurate, sometimes outlandish clippings were shared on X by Paul Fairie, a researcher at the University of Calgary.
One that’s very recognisable is the city of the future.
‘Automobiles travelling on speedways through the centre of town’, ‘ever-moving sidewalks’ and ‘motorcars increasing and multiplying indefinitely’ all definitely came true.
Less so is the idea that those multiplying cars would bring about the extinction of the horse.
This prediction is no where near true (Picture: X/ @paulisci)
Last year, a YouGov poll found that more than a quarter of people in the UK have tattoos. We reckon this one has come true, as it was anticipated that ‘debutantes will dye their skin all the colours of the rainbow’, with an expectation that hair would follow suit, much like a ‘Victorian debutante concealed her personality under voluminous hoops and draperies’.
And pity those listening to the radio in 1924, when it was pretty dull apparently, because in another prediction, it was said ‘Americans will laugh at radios’. For 2024, it’s not just radio that bringing the LOLs, but also podcasts, which continue to soar in popularity.
Many Americans do laugh at something like a radio (Picture: X/@paulisci)
One that’s pretty much there is a longer life expectancy, where we would live to be 100 years old, and 75 years would be considered as young.
Two that definitely came true are blocks of flats that are 100 stories tall, and family albums made of videos instead of photographs.
A prediction that sadly hasn’t hit the mark – ‘movies will bring about world peace’ as people will establish a brotherhood but Hollywood has not yet accomplished a universal language or eliminated conflict from the civilised world.
And while adorably optimistic, that is far from the most outlandish.
Hollywood has not yet created a movie that brings world peace (Picture: X/@paulisci)
Some of the stranger predictions involve beds flinging children out of bed in the morning, people hopping from planet to planet as easily as we soar through the sky now (we wish), flying clothes and men’s legs withering away from underuse, Wall-E style.
Men do not live Wall-E style (Picture: X/@paulisci)
Oh, and diamond engagement rings should have lost their allure by now, being replaced with hundreds of pounds of sugar.
We are glad you found benandsteve.com —- this post brings you to a site where you can learn more about different individuals born into this world trying to find normalcy. I often call it “Being Straight In A Gay World!” For so many, they are forced not to live their true selves. And lies are sometimes fatal.
For hoots and to offer you relief from the hard-hitting info and news, we sometimes find pieces to keep a chuckle in the heart from deep inside the benandsteve.com files.
Live on!
Benjamin
You know why I am Gay? Because God Made Me That Way, or That’s The Way The Genes Flow. And It’s NObody’s Damn Business But Mind. You HEAR!
SCOOBY DOO! Looks Like Someone Is Going To Get A Scooby Snack!
It’s the hottest place in town regarding most business models in the industry. “Everyone is dying to do business with the local funeral directors and cemeteries,” one potential client said!
People Checking Out And The Funeral Industry – how funeral homes are making killing off people dying!
PRIVATE, ON-DEMAND GRIEF VIDEO LIBRARY TO PROVIDE IMMEDIATE HELP
Everyone’s grief journey is different. Guiding Grief™ was created to offer perspectives from those who have experienced all types of grief. While this private resource library can never replace therapy or a support group, these 27 videos were created to give those faced with loss an overview of what they may experience, how normal that is, and how to avoid common mistakes in caring for themselves and making decisions while grieving. Guiding Grief™ is the perfect gift. What better way to begin healing than to learn what helped others?
Find the information you need to have all your concerns met.
benandsteve.com and Groff’sHomeOutWest Blog and or Galaxy8News, are not associated with Guiding Grief™ its related pages, owners, or associates. The link to its information intent is to allow an information resource referral only. The reference is not an endorsement but a suggested source to include in establishing facts you need to make important decisions regarding final arrangements for you or a loved one.
A Note From Benjamin
