Last week I told you how Mrs B survived a blown tire and that we were also dealing with a dead starter. Turns out it was way more than just a dead starter. Our A/C compressor had seized up and was dead as a doornail. That is run on a serpentine belt, which means everything else running off of that belt needed the compressor to be working. So we had to get a new one installed, along with the new starter.
$1500.
Right before Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Folks, I am not feeling very thankful right now, I really am not. Not even a new journal could make me feel better at the moment. While we have the money, thank God, this is going to impact us for the whole of 2025. This happened on Monday, so I’ve been stewing about it all week. I’m like a stewed prune right now.
And just because, I also caught a bug that had been going around Mrs B’s work place, so I was out of work on Wednesday and Thursday, being very noisily sick.
This review is written with a GPL 4.0 license and the rights contained therein shall supersede all TOS by any and all websites in regards to copying and sharing without proper authorization and permissions. Crossposted at WordPress & Blogspot by Bookstooge’s Exalted Permission
Title: Doctor Syn Returns Series: Doctor Syn #3 Author: Arthur Russell Thorndike Rating: 3 of 5 Stars Genre: Historical Fiction Pages: 154 Words: 74K
Syn is not so bloody thirsty and hypocritical in this one, but I still had serious issues with the liqueur smuggling going on. While I’m not a fan of the government taxing the soul out of us (one of the reasons America kicked the Brits ass back in ‘76 after all), I don’t feel that the smuggling of alcohol is in any way justified. Alcohol is almost as evil as drugs and I’ll go so far as to say that it IS a drug, as bad as meth, crack or marijuana. While we have the God given right to defend ourselves (why I AM in favor of gun running, ghost guns and other such libertarian ideals that are opposed to a tyrannical dictatorship run by a woman who was not actually elected), He did NOT give us the right to get shit faced drunk. So do yourself a favor and get rid of it.
This was the story where The Scarecrow is given life and while we only see him in action once or twice, he’s as great a character as Captain Clegg was. Considering they are both Syn, it’s no wonder.
I’m still on the fence about this series. I can see myself waffling about it right up until I finish it and I can see myself just throwing it away in disgust and dnf’ing at a moment’s notice. Taking this one book at at time.
Even if I do finish the series, it’s not one I’ll ever recommend.
★★★☆☆
From Wikipedia & Bookstooge.blog
Synopsis – click to open
It tells the story of Syn, who has tired of piracy, tries to settle down as the vicar of the little town of Dymchurch in Kent, England.
Syn’s attempt to live an obscure life fails when he is drawn into the local smuggling trade. To protect his parishioners from the agents of the King’s Revenue, Syn becomes the masked Scarecrow of Romney Marsh and becomes leader of the smugglers.
During this time, he falls in love with the oldest daughter of his best friend only for her to die. He also finds his wife, who is on death’s door. She has a daughter by her lover. Said lover pretends to be the Pirate Captain Clegg and dies so that Syn will take care of his baby daughter.
My memories of 9/11 are specifically tied to the Twin Towers, as I saw them fall on tv. But that was not all that happened that day and I think it is time for me to start remembering that.
Three planes were hijacked that day. In one of them, the brave men and women who were the passengers fought back against the hijackers, causing the plane to crash into the ground, causing no additional harm, unlike what happened to the Twin Towers. They sacrificed themselves so that no others would come to harm. That is the true definition of a Hero. Heroes don’t always get happy endings in real life. Those men and women all died, just like the people in the other two planes. Don’t get me wrong, I am not denigrating the passengers in the other planes. While I would like to think I would have stood up and fought back, I know myself well enough that I am sure I would have frozen up. And things happened FAST.
Today I choose to remember the brave men and women who sacrificed themselves so that no one else had to die. I Will Never Forget!
Silently without my window, Tapping gently at the pane, Falls the rain. Through the trees sighs the breeze Like a soul in pain. Here alone I sit and weep; Thought hath banished sleep. Wearily I sit and listen To the water’s ceaseless drip. To my lip Fate turns up the bitter cup, Forcing me to sip; ‘Tis a bitter, bitter drink, Thus I sit and think, — Thinking things unknown and awful, Thoughts on wild, uncanny themes, Waking dreams. Spectres dark, corpses stark, Show the gaping seams Whence the cold and cruel knife Stole away their life. Bloodshot eyes all strained and staring, Gazing ghastly into mine; Blood like wine On the brow — clotted now— Shows death’s dreadful sign. Lonely vigil still I keep; Would that I might sleep! Still, oh, still, my brain is whirling! Still runs on my stream of thought; I am caught In the net fate hath set. Mind and soul are brought To destruction’s very brink; Yet I can but think! Eyes that look into the future, — Peeping forth from out my mind, They will find Some new weight, soon or late, On my soul to bind, Crushing all its courage out,— Heavier than doubt. Dawn, the Eastern monarch’s daughter, Rising from her dewy bed, Lays her head ‘Gainst the clouds’ sombre shrouds Now half fringed with red. O’er the land she ‘gins to peep; Come, O gentle Sleep! Hark! the morning cock is crowing; Dreams, like ghosts, must hie away; ‘Tis the day. Rosy morn now is born; Dark thoughts may not stay. Day my brain from foes will keep; Now, my soul, I sleep (all rights reserved to the author) ~Source: https://pickmeuppoetry.org/melancholia-by-laurence-dunbar/
What a flipping day. I have ridden the roller coaster of my feelings up, down, all around and then by this evening felt like I hit a brick wall. Maybe watching 7solid hours of Martian Successor Nadesico wasn’t such a smart idea. Nor cruising the WordPress support forums and reading the shills lie about what WP.com is doing with selling their users out to AI.
It’s not even 6:30pm and I’m already for the next weekend. Maybe I need to get offline for a week? Well, a good night’s sleep and a busy week of work should help cure what ails me.
Last year, the weight of 9/11 felt like it was going to break me. I thought this year was going to be worse. But thankfully, writing about 9/11 each year for the past several years has given me an outlet for the grief and pain. It has been cathartic for an event that, from a national viewpoint, has shaped my life more than anything else to date.
It is time to let the pain go and let this event slide into history.
I will still remember. But I will remember with the tint of time covering the glare of pain and horror and I will CHOOSE to do so.
Another year, another day, another time to remember what happened. Last year I mentioned how hard it was getting to remember this. Not in terms of forgetting, but in terms of remembering in the face of a whole generation who it means literally nothing to.
I can remember growing up and wondering why Pearl Harbor Day was on the calendar. Sure, I knew that PHD had happened and it was a bad time but that was way back in my grandfather’s day. I was watching anime from japan and I had a sony dvd player for goodness sake. I could say “ohayo” with the best of them (that’s “good morning”). I couldn’t understand why People were still trying to remember something from so long ago.
Now I understand. And it is a weight upon my shoulders. Every year it gets heavier and becomes harder to even think about it, much less publicly remember it. And I will cry each year in private and wonder if I’m the only one left who is remembering and then the next day I will be fine and know that others were grieving as well. I am not alone in my pain and tears. So each year I post about it and then wonder if I’m being a middle aged fool. Until the next year rolls around and I repeat it all over again. I will drag these chains another year so that the kids don’t have to. They will get their own chains soon enough, no need to burden them with this. This is MY pain to deal with.
This review is written with a GPL 4.0 license and the rights contained therein shall supersede all TOS by any and all websites in regards to copying and sharing without proper authorization and permissions. Crossposted at WordPress, Blogspot, & Librarything by Bookstooge’s Exalted Permission
Title: Netochka Nezvanova Series: (The Russians) Author: Fyodor Dostoyevksy Translator: Jane Kentish Rating: 3.5 of 5 Stars Genre: Fiction Pages: 248 Words: 67K
Synopsis:
From Wikipedia
The plot unfolds in three distinct sections, corresponding to upheavals in the heroine’s life.
Chapters 1–3 are predominantly concerned with Netochka’s recollections of her childhood with her mother and stepfather in St. Petersburg, up until the time of their deaths. She begins with the background story of her stepfather, Efimov, a talented but self-obsessed violinist, whom she describes as “the strangest and most extraordinary person I have ever known” and a man whose powerful influence over her affected the rest of her life.[2] Efimov’s madness brings terrible poverty and discord to the family, and leaves the child with a premature and painful insight into the dark side of human emotions. This part of her life comes to an end when Efimov kills her mother, after which he himself becomes completely insane and dies.
Netochka is adopted by Prince X., an acquaintance of her stepfather, and chapters 4 and 5 are concerned with the orphaned girl’s immersion in this unfamiliar aristocratic world, focusing particularly on her relationship with the Prince’s daughter Katya. Netochka immediately falls in love with the beautiful Katya, but Katya is initially repelled by the strange newcomer, and is cruel and dismissive toward her. Over time, however, this apparent dislike transforms into an equally passionate reciprocation of Netochka’s feelings. Their young, unashamed love leads to an intimacy that alarms Katya’s mother, who eventually takes steps to ensure their separation. Katya’s family move to Moscow, and Netochka is placed in the care of Katya’s elder half-sister, Alexandra Mikhailovna. According to the narrator, Netochka and Katya will not see each other for another eight years, but as the novel remained unfinished, their reuniting is never described.
The final chapters describe Netochka’s teenage years growing up in the household of the gentle and maternal Alexandra Mikhailovna and her cold and distant husband Pyotr Alexandrovitch. She forms a deeply empathetic relationship with Alexandra Mikhailovna, but is troubled by her friend’s painfully solicitous attitude toward her husband, and by what appears to be calculated indifference and dissimulation on his part. Netochka suspects some mystery from their past, and eventually a clue presents itself in the form of a letter that she accidentally discovers pressed between the pages of an old book in the library. It is a letter to Alexandra Mikhaylovna from a distraught lover, lamenting the necessity of their final separation, and grieving for the irreparable harm he has caused her reputation and her marriage. Netochka’s discovery of the letter sets off a chain of events that bring Alexandra Mikhaylovna to the point of emotional breakdown, and Netochka to the point of womanhood as she confronts Pyotr Alexandrovitch with the truth of what he has done to his wife.
Several narrative threads, as with the relationship between Netochka and Katya, are left unresolved but with clear indications that they would be resumed in future installments of the novel. It is noticed, at first by Alexandra Mikhailovna, that Netochka has a beautiful singing voice, and arrangements are made for her to receive training. Her love of singing and its connection to her emotional life are examined in a number of scenes, but her artistic development is clearly only in its beginning stages. The novel finishes with an enigmatic exchange between Netochka and Ovrov, Pyotr Alexandrovitch’s secretary, that is suggestive of further development of the story relating to the love letter.
My Thoughts:
This was an unfinished work by Dostoyevsky and you know what? I’m ok with it not being finished. This was super duper ultra totally mega farfanoogan depressing. And if you don’t know what all of that means, well, think Hemingway and a Remington Tactical Magpull, heheheheehe. (I don’t like Hemingway, that’s why it’s funny)
What stood out to me was Netochka’s complete humanity. She loves her dad who uses her to steal money from her mother. She’s classic self-destructionist. It hurt to watch it unfold. But like many other Russian novels, that pain and suffering is cathartic instead of being the dark end of a Remington 😉
Why it affects me that way I don’t know, but I am thankful it does. Because otherwise I wouldn’t be reading this stuff and I LIKE broadening my horizons (well, a little anyway).
