Double Indemnity, James Cain claimed, was based on a news story he'd been told by a former editor, about a printer who'd accidentally put an 'f' instead of a 't' in the word 'tuck.' The sentence was, "If these sizes are too big, take a tuck in them." Hauled before his boss, the printer confessed, "you do nothing your whole life but watch for something like that happening, so as to head it off, and then, Mr. Krock, you catch yourself watching for chances to do it". (Brookes, 2017, p.99). Pictured above is a QSL card in which the Quito printer has "accidentally" substituted Miss September, from a promotional pin-up calendar, for a photo of a missionary lady and radio host named Mildred Reed. It was the second time the same printer accidentally confused a card for a religious radio station with a pin-up model: the first time it was the Catholic station that got it. HCJB was the radio station up the road. Quito was selected for its altitude, ideal for radio transmission. The international success of the broadcast "Voz of the Andes" sent missionaries and money pouring into the country. The Alliance Academy was founded in 1929.
Inside the Alliance Academy dorm, in Quito, where my parents sent me. I can't tell if it's the second or third floor in this clip, and there was no "Guys" sign during the years I lived there, from 1982 until 1987 (not continuously; I was expelled then readmitted then expelled again). I moved in for the first time a month after my 12th birthday; before Christmas I will have been dragged up and down that hallway wearing nothing but my underwear by five or six boys ranging in age from 13 to 17. The puss-filled scabs on my knees and elbows are gruesome and so I ask for some medical supplies from the school nurse, who reports the injuries to my "dorm father." He tells me he is disappointed I didn't come to him first, that's what family does. I write a letter to my parents, who live in Chile. I write "The Dorm Sucks." That is the letter in its entirety. All outgoing mail must meet approval. My letter does not. My dorm father tells me receiving a letter like this would allow the Devil a "foothold" in my parents' life. He asks if I want to help the Devil. Then he takes me downstairs to one of the sound-proofed music practice rooms and punishes me with a paddle. He says that "sucks" contains sexual connotations and it's sinful to use words that refer to lewd acts. Not ideal conditions for learning what a blowjob was, but what are you going to do.
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Holy, I dreaded soccer tryouts. I started getting queasy about them weeks before they began. I knew I wasn't going to make the team, but knew there was no way I could not try out without suffering an irreversible loss in social standing amongst my peer group. So many laps, so liquid the sound of ten kids hurling. We were the Spartans (not pictured), and the long-term coach of the team was an angry, sadistic drill sergeant of a man, and one of my unpublished novels is about him. It's called The Coach of Santiago Christian, and really it is definitely the worst thing I've ever written, although there's a few reasonably fine passages of description in that one on account of the real Coach's face is etched in my memory, an image of pure terror, forever (and that's only slightly hyperbolic).
Getting in touch with my parents was a cinch. The internet had yet to be invented, there was one telephone per floor, in the dorm parents' office, and we were never allowed to call our parents (so we didn't disrupt God's work) unless it was a grave emergency. Outgoing mail was censored. All I needed was to learn how to drive manual transmission, steal a car, teach myself Spanish in a jiffy, and procure provisions for a not at all unsafe solitary, pre-teen roadtrip through the Andes. Only four days if I drive continuously and just keep my eyes open, should be a blast, no sleep 'til Pichidangi, y'all!
Mi barrio es primero, man: Down slope on Mt. Pichincha, in the Iñaquito neighbourhood of Quito, Ecuador: unregulated, religious orphanages in foreign countries-not all they're cracked up to be.
The escape route: In each of those central columns of bricks, at ground level, is an external panel that opens from a latch on the inside. The pipes from the floors upstairs run through it. |
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Nazi Boss (not pictured)
When I interviewed Angergård he was in Berlin, and so maybe he has some thoughts on what the ethical clotheshorse is supposed to do when encountering clothes made by the most problematic men’s clothier of them all—Hugo Boss. I realize that the segue from music to clothes isn’t skillful, but going from disco dancing to stylish Nazis was always going to suck. I'm sorry, Johan. I screwed up your story again. I think you make me nervous. Boss’s Nazi past is well known (Huang 2008). Evil has never before or since looked so well-tailored. Many German businesses, willingly or otherwise, were pressed into wartime military service—Adidas, Volkswagen. Puma, maker of two out of three pairs of soccer cleats I have ever owned, invented the panzerschrek (Kuhn & Thiel 2009). The extent to which historical connections to the Third Reich ought to colour contemporary consumer perception is an interesting question. I try never to buy branded athletic brands whenever a reasonable alternative exists. But not because I am seeking retribution against the Boss company for once dressing the SS.[1] |
"Oh hey buddy-Reggaeton, good choice."
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When you elect me, I promise to make tennis helmets mandatory, especially for pickle ball. I like Tennis the band fine. Both of these records were recorded on a boat, total CSN move, except so much better because you are not stuck at sea for months with Stephen Stills talking about why he is the all-time greatest at guitar and a leering David Crosby high as the mast the whole entire time. Graham Nash, I would sail on a boat with you anywhere, please get in touch-I can be your coxswain.
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Johan's Other Band, Acid House Kings. Johan, you do not excel at naming bands. That guy in the turtleneck is Johan's brother, Niklas. Maybe Niklas is bad at naming bands. Someone is, let's not kid ourselves. Tennis outfits on your first record. Home run, my Swedish friends, hole-in-one swish all the way Johan, I see your Fred Perry.
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Monogrammed Initials Are N.O.
“AG," if I may, unless you’ve passed (condolences), or unless you woke up Rubenesque overnight (some sort of Nutty Professor scenario)-and even then, really-what's the deal with getting rid of a blazer you've gone to the trouble of monogramming? The monograms are a bad call. Seriously about the monograms: they should be no one's thing.[5] I never forget that I’m ballered-up thanks to the largesse of old Andy Gonad. Get your vanity in check, Albumin Goo! All you’ve done is reduce the enjoyment that any subsequent owner gets from the garment. It's inconsiderate. A lot of shoppers won't touch this kind of taint. Poor form, Always Groining, my old friend-not at all cricket. Ass Gadget, why must you look inside your jacket to remember your own name? Dance Craze: The Jens Yoga Pants |