text:
About the Book:
Death is one click away when a string of murders rocks a small Colorado town in the first mesmerizing novel in M. E. Browning's A Jo Wyatt Mystery series.
Echo Valley, Colorado, is a place where the natural beauty of a stunning river valley meets a budding hipster urbanity. But when an internet stalker is revealed to be a cold-blooded killer in real life the peaceful community is rocked to its core.
It should have been an open-and-shut case: the suicide of Tye Horton, the designer of a cutting-edge video game. But Detective Jo Wyatt is immediately suspicious of Quinn Kirkwood, who reported the death. When Quinn reveals an internet stalker is terrorizing her, Jo is skeptical. Doubts aside, she delves into the claim and uncovers a link that ties Quinn to a small group of beta-testers who had worked with Horton. When a second member of the group dies in a car accident, Jo's investigation leads her to the father of a young man who had killed himself a year earlier. But there's more to this case than a suicide, and as Jo unearths the layers, a more sinister pattern begins to emerge–one driven by desperation, shame, and a single-minded drive for revenge.
As Jo closes in, she edges ever closer to the shattering truth–and a deadly showdown that will put her to the ultimate test.
Book Details:
Genre: Mystery (Police Procedural)
Published by: Crooked Lane Books
Publication Date: October 6th 2020
Number of Pages: 296
Series: A Jo Wyatt Mystery, #1
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Penguin Random House | Add to Goodreads
Read an Excerpt:
Chapter One
Detective Jo Wyatt stood at the edge of the doorway of the converted garage and scanned the scene for threats. She'd have the chance to absorb the details later, but even at a glance, it was obvious the occupant of the chair in front of the flickering television wouldn't benefit from her first-aid training. The stains on the ceiling from the gun blast confirmed that.
Officer Cameron Finch stood on the other side of the sorry concrete slab that served as an entrance. "Ready?"
The only place hidden from view was the bathroom, and the chance of someone hiding there was infinitesimal, but someone always won the lottery. Today wasn't the day to test the odds. Not when she was dressed for court and without her vest.
She pushed the door open wider. Her eyes and handgun moved in tandem as she swept the room.
A mattress on the floor served as a bed. Stacks of clothes took the place of a real closet. A dorm-sized fridge with a hot plate on top of it made up the kitchen.
Jo avoided the well-worn paths in the carpet and silently approached the bathroom. Its door stood slightly ajar, creating enough space for her to peer through the crack. Never lowering her gun, she used her foot to widen the gap.
No intruder. Just a water-spotted shower stall and a stained toilet with the seat up. A stick propped open the narrow ventilation window above the shower. Too small for even the tiniest child, but an open invitation to heat-seeking raccoons.
"Bathroom's clear." She holstered her gun. The cut of her wool blazer fell forward and did its best to hide the bulge of her Glock, but an observant person could tell she was armed. One of the drawbacks of having a waist.
She picked her way across the main room, staying close to the walls to avoid trampling any evidence. A flame licked the edges of the television screen—one of those mood DVDs of a fireplace but devoid of sound. It filled the space with an eerie flicker that did little to lighten the gathering dusk.
Sidestepping a cat bowl filled with water, she stopped in front of the body and pulled a set of latex gloves from her trouser pocket.
"Really?" Cameron asked.
Jo snapped them into place, then pressed two fingers against the victim's neck in a futile search for a pulse—a completely unnecessary act that became an issue only if a defense attorney wanted to make an officer look like an idiot on the stand for not checking.
The dead man reclined in a high-backed gray chair that appeared to have built-in speakers. In the vee of his legs, a Remington 870 shotgun rested against his right thigh, the stock's butt buried in the dirty shag carpet. On the far side, a toppled bottle of whiskey and a tumbler sat on a metal TV tray next to a long-stemmed pipe.
"Who called it in?" Jo asked.
"Quinn Kirkwood. I told her to stay in her car until we figured out what was going on."
Jo retraced her steps to the threshold, seeking a respite from the stench of death.
A petite woman stood at the edge of the driveway, pointedly looking away from the door. "Is he okay?"
So much for staying in the car. "Let's talk over here." Not giving the other woman the opportunity to resist, Jo grabbed her elbow and guided her to the illuminated porch of the main house, where the overhang would protect them from the softly falling snow.
"He's inside, isn't he?" Quinn pulled the drawstring of her sweat shirt until the hood puckered around her neck. "He's dead." It should have been a question, but wasn't. Jo's radar pinged.
"I'm sorry." Jo brushed errant flakes from a dilapidated wicker chair and moved it forward for her. "Is there someone I can call for you?"
She shook her head.
"How well did you know—"
"Tye. His name is—was—Tye Horton." Quinn played with the tab of her hood string, picking at the plastic that kept the ends from fraying.
Jo remained quiet, digesting the younger woman's unease. She was all angles: sharp shoulders, high cheekbones, blunt-cut dark hair, and canted eyes that looked blue in the open but faded to grey here in the shadows.
A pile of snow slid from a bowed cottonwood branch and landed with a dull plop. The silence broken, Quinn continued to fill it. "We have a couple classes together up at the college. He missed class. I came over to see why."
"Does he often cut class?"
"He didn't cut class," she said sharply. "He missed it." She pulled out her cellphone. "The project was due today. I should tell the others."
What would she tell them? She hadn't asked any questions. The pinging in Jo's head grew louder. "Did you go inside before the officer got here?" She looked at the woman's shoes. Converse high-tops. Distinctive tread.
Quinn launched out of her seat, sending it crashing into the porch rail. "I called you guys, remember?"
"It's a simple yes or no."
The smaller woman advanced and Jo fought the impulse to shove her back. "No, Officer—"
"Detective Wyatt."
The top of Quinn's head barely reached Jo's chin. "Tye and I were classmates with a project due, Detective. I called him, he didn't answer. I texted him, he didn't respond. He didn't show up for the game last night, which meant something was wrong. He never missed a game."
Football. Last night Jo had pulled on her uniform and worked an overtime shift at the Sunday night game. Despite the plunging temperatures, the small college stadium had been filled to capacity.
"Did you check on him afterward?" Jo asked.
"No." Color brightened Quinn's pale cheeks. "By the time the game ended, it was too late. After he missed class today, I came straight over. Called the police. Here we are. Now, can I go?"
"Was Tye having any problems lately?"
"With school? Friends?"
"I shared a class with him."
Another dodge. "You knew he wasn't at the game."
"I figured he was finishing up his end of the project. Are we done? I've got class tonight."
"I need to see your identification before you leave."
"Un-fucking-believable." Quinn jammed her hand into her jacket pocket and removed an old-fashioned leather coin purse. Pinching the top, she drew out her driver's license and practically threw it at Jo.
"I'm sure you understand. Whenever there is a death, we have to treat it as a crime until we determine otherwise."
The air left Quinn in a huff of frost. "I'm sorry. I'm just…" She dipped her face but not before Jo saw the glint of tears. "I'm just going to miss him. He was nice. I don't have a lot of friends in Echo Valley."
"Were the two of you dating?"
The sharpness returned to her features. "Not my type."
"Do you know if he was in a relationship?"
"Not that I know of."
"Would you know?"
Cameron joined the women on the porch and extended his hand to Quinn. "I'm Sergeant Finch."
Jo sucked in her breath, and covered it with a cough. The promotional memo hadn't been posted even a day yet.
"I'm sorry about your friend," Cameron added.
Quinn crossed her arms, whether for warmth or for comfort, Jo couldn't tell. "Your badge says Officer. Aren't sergeants supposed to have stripes or something?"
"It's official next week."
"So. Really just an officer."
Jo bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Served him right for acting like an ass.
"I wouldn't say just." Cameron hooked his thumb in his gun belt.
"Of course you wouldn't." Quinn drew a deep breath and let it out as if she feared it might be her last. "What happened?" she finally asked.
Jo spoke before Cameron could answer. "That's what we're here to find out." She opened her notebook.
Quinn sized up the two officers like a child trying to decide which parent to ask, and settled on Cameron. "Will you get me the laptop that's inside? It's got our school project on it."
"I'm sorry," Jo answered. "But until we process the scene, everything needs to stay put."
Quinn sought confirmation from Cameron. "Really?"
Jo shot him a look she hoped conveyed the slow torturous death he'd suffer if he contradicted her and compromised the scene.
Cameron placed his hand on Quinn's forearm. "I'm certain it won't take long and I'll personally deliver it to you as soon as I can."
"Thanks." She shook off his hand and addressed Jo. "Am I free to go?"
Prickly thing. Jo handed Quinn's license back to her. "I'm truly sorry about your friend. May I call you later if I have any questions?"
Cameron stepped closer, all earnestness and concern. "It would be very helpful to the investigation when she realizes she forgot to ask you something."
The coin purse snapped shut. "Sure. Whatever."
"Thank you," Jo said, then added, "Be careful."
Quinn jerked. "What?"
The wind had picked up, and waves of snow blew across the walkway. Jo pointed toward the street. "The temperature drops any lower and it'll start to ice up. Be careful. The roads are going to be slick."
Quinn bobbed her head. Hunched against the cold, she climbed into her bright yellow Mini Cooper.
Snow had collected on the bumper and Jo noted the plate. She'd seen the car around town, its brilliant color and tiny chassis a contrast to the trucks and four-wheel-drive SUVs most locals drove.
The car crunched down the driveway. Jo returned to the task at hand, ignoring Cameron as he followed her.
Two buildings—the main residence and the converted garage—stood at the center of the property. The driveway dumped out onto an alley and the hum of downtown carried across the crisp air. Dogs barked. Cars slowed and accelerated at the nearby stop sign, their engines straining and tires chewing into the slushed snow. A sagging chain-link fence ringed the property, pushed and pulled by a scraggly hedge.
Built in the days when a garage housed only a car and not the detritus of life, the building was barely larger than a tack room. A small walkway separated the dwellings. She followed the path around the exterior of the garage.
Eaves kept snow off the paint-glued windowsill on the far side of the outbuilding. Rambling rosebushes in need of pruning stretched skeletal fingers along the wall. Jo swept the bony branches aside. A thorn snagged the shoulder of her blazer.
She studied the ground. Snow both helped and hindered officers. In foot pursuits, it revealed a suspect's path. But the more time separated an incident from its investigation, the more it hid tracks. Destroyed clues. This latest snow had started in the early hours of the morning, gently erasing the valley's grime and secrets and creating a clean slate. Tye could have been dead for hours. The snow told her nothing.
As she stood again at the door, not even the cold at her back could erase the smell of blood. The last of the evening's light battled its way through the dirty window, failing to brighten the dark scene in front of her.
She tried not to let the body distract her from cataloging the room. Echo Valley didn't have violent deaths often. In her twelve years on the department, she'd investigated only two homicides, one as an officer, the second as a detective. Fatal crashes, hunting accidents, Darwin Award-worthy stupidity, sure, but murder? That was the leap year of crimes and only happened once every four years or so.
Cameron joined her on the threshold and they stood shoulder to shoulder. He had a shock of thick brown hair that begged to be touched, and eyes that said he'd let you. "Why so quiet, Jo-elle?"
The use of her nickname surprised her. Only two people had ever called her that and Cameron hadn't used it in a long time. "I don't want to miss anything."
"What's to miss? Guy blew his brains out."
"It's rarely that simple."
"Not everything needs to be complicated." He laughed. The boyishness of it had always charmed her with its enthusiasm. Now it simply sounded dismissive. Perhaps it always had been, but she'd been too in love to notice. "Hey, you got plans tonight?" He tried to sound innocent. She had learned that voice.
"Other than this? I don't see as that's any of your business."
"Of course it's my business. You're still my wife." He stared into the distance as he said it. A splinter of sun pierced the dark clouds and bled across his unguarded expression.
Jo stood as if on ice, afraid to move lest she lose her balance.
He seemed to wake up, and after a deep breath, he surveyed the room. "The landlord is going to be looking for a new tenant. You should give him your name. It's got to be better than living with your old man."
Fissures formed beneath her and it took her two blinks before she recovered her footing.
"I need to get my camera. I'll be right back."
She left him at the door. The December chill wormed through her wool dress slacks as she trudged the half block to her car. She drew breath after breath of the searing chill deep into her lungs to replace the hurt, the anger, the self-recriminations that burned her. She sat in the passenger seat and picked up the radio mic. She wasn't ready to face Cameron. Not yet.
To buy herself some time, she ran a local warrant check on Quinn. Something wasn't quite right about the woman. A warrant might explain things.
Dispatch confirmed Quinn's address, but had nothing to add.
Jo grabbed her camera bag and crime scene kit and schlepped back to the scene, prioritizing her actions as she went. She'd need to snag another detective. Interrupt a judge's dinner to get a search warrant. Swab the victim's hands for gunshot residue. Try to confirm his identification. Hopefully, the person in the front house would return soon so Jo could start collecting background on the deceased. Take overview photos of the exterior first. Inside there'd be lights. Then evidence. Identify it. Bag it. Book it.
She reached the door before she ticked through all the tasks. Cameron was circling the chair.
Jo stopped on the threshold, stunned.
"No wonder they didn't promote you." Cameron peered into the exposed cranium. "If you can't tell this is a suicide, you got no business being a cop—let alone a detective."
"Get out."
"We're not home, sweetie. You can't order me out here."
"Actually, I can. Detective, remember? This is my scene and you're contaminating it."
He laughed. "Sergeant outranks detective."
"I think it's already been established that you're not sporting stripes."
"Yet. Couple more days."
Three. Three days until he started wearing the stripes that should have been hers. Three days until he outranked her. Three. Damn. Days. "And until then, Officer Finch." With exaggerated care, she took out her notebook and started writing.
"What are you doing?"
"Making a note of the path you've taken. Try to retrace your steps. I'd hate to have to say how badly you mucked things up." She paused for effect. "You getting promoted and all."
"You're such a bitch."
"Is that how you talk to your wife?"
He picked up the overturned bottle on the TV tray. "Johnnie Walker Gold." He sniffed the premium Scotch whisky. "And here I would have pegged him for a Jack fan, at best." Cameron tipped the bottle back into place and retraced his steps.
The latex gloves did nothing to warm her fingers, and Jo shoved her hands in her pockets. Had he changed or had she? "When did you become such an ass?"
"When'd we get married?" He shouldered past her, swinging his keys around his finger. Outside, the streetlamps flickered to life. "I'll leave you to it. Even you can see it's a slam dunk."
She didn't want to agree with him. "It's only a suicide when the coroner says so."
"Oh, Jo-elle."
There was that laugh again, and she hated herself for warming to him.
"You've got to learn to choose your battles."
Excerpt from Shadow Ridge by M.E. Browning. Copyright 2020 by M.E. Browning. Reproduced with permission from M.E. Browning. All rights reserved.
Meet the Author:
M.E. BROWNING served twenty-two years in law enforcement and retired as a captain before turning to a life of crime fiction. Writing as Micki Browning, she penned the Agatha-nominated and award-winning Mer Cavallo mysteries, and her short stories and nonfiction have appeared in anthologies, mystery and diving magazines, and textbooks. As M.E. Browning, she recently began a new series of Jo Wyatt mysteries with Shadow Ridge (October 2020).
Micki is a member of Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, and Sisters in Crime—where she served as a former president of the Guppy Chapter. A professional divemaster, she resides in Florida with her partner in crime and a vast array of scuba equipment she uses for "research."
Catch Up With M.E. Browning On:
MEBrowning.com, Goodreads, BookBub, Instagram, Twitter, & Facebook!
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Enter To Win!!
This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for M.E. Browning. There will be 1 winner of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card and there will be 2 winners of one (1) physical copy of Shadow Ridge by M.E. Browning (US and Canada ONLY). The giveaway begins on December 1, 2020 and runs through January 2, 2021. Void where prohibited.


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Michelle Munyikwa is College's first UNCF-Merck Fellow
Michelle Munyikwa '11 is the first student at the College of William and Mary to be named a UNCF • Merck Undergraduate Fellow.
She is one of only 15 U.S. recipients of the award, which is intended to encourage African American undergraduate students interested in biomedical sciences. Munyikwa's award includes an impressive slate of benefits. It will fund up to $25,000 of her college tuition and fees. She also will be able to participate in two summer internships in Merck's state-of-the art industrial laboratories, mentored by a Merck scientist, and will receive two summer internship research stipends totaling at least $10,000.
"This is an incredible recognition for Michelle. She is truly an amazing student and the Merck scholarship is a testament to her hard work, diligence and potential," said Fanchon Glover, William & Mary's assistant to the president for diversity and community initiatives. "I look forward to following her exciting journey."
Munyikwa was born in Zimbabwe, and now lives with her family in Lewes, Delaware. At the College, she is an anthropology and interdisciplinary studies major concentrating in biochemistry. She has been working in the lab of Lizabeth Allison, Hamilton Professor and chair in William & Mary's Department of Biology.
"For me, the Merck fellowship means that I get to do the kind of research that I think I would like to do for my career," Munyikwa said. "I like basic science research, but I am also curious about translational research and I am looking forward to experiencing that over the next two summers."
She came to William & Mary as part of the College's elite Murray Scholars Program, which selects outstanding high school seniors for inclusion in a set of coordinated, research-intensive, faculty-mentored experiences. Munyikwa began doing laboratory research with Allison in 2008, becoming involved in a number of studies involving the biochemistry of cells. She working in the lab full time during the summers of 2008 and 2009. Allison said that the UNCF • Merck Fellowship will give Munyikwa additional experience beyond what she has gained in the labs of William & Mary's Integrated Science Center.
"Simply put, the Merck scholarship is an 'investment for life,'" Allison said. "This initiative is instrumental in shaping the rest of a young scientist's career because of the institutional support, hands-on training and research opportunities, and networking connections."
The UNCF • Merck award also includes a department grant of up to $10,000 for research.
In addition to her academic and research work, Munyikwa has been involved in campus advocacy groups including Students for Stop Hunger Now and Vox: Voices for Planned Parenthood. She says that after she graduates she intends to continue her career as a scientist.
"I think, in the not too very distant future, I will become faculty at a medical school," she says. "My overall career goal is to enter the field of academic medicine by way of medical school and master's programs."

subset: commoncrawl


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"He must have done something. They don't kill you for nothing."
The above quote is credited to gangster Edward "Ted" Newberry, the last
racketeer king of Chicago's North Side, whose corpse was found on a lonely stretch of
road in Indiana on January 8, 1933. So, who was Ted Newberry and what did he do
to deserve the proverbial "one way ride?"
Ted Newberry |
Newberry was born on Chicago's Northwest side on June 28, 1898, and
seems to have been involved in crime most of his adult life. As a young adult
he had a job as a "superintendent" at the Checker Cab Company. What he did as
superintendent isn't known for sure but it probably had something to do with sabotaging
rival Yellow Cab. While there he became involved with another infamous Chicago
hoodlum named Eugene "Red" Moran, whose brother Robert, became head of the
company and a lifelong friend of Newberry's.
By 1924 Newberry had moved into bootlegging and was working with a guy
named Leon Tarr, who had a working relationship with another bootlegger named
Harry Callan. The latter catered to the well-to-do crowd of Chicago's "Gold
Coast." According to Callan, he "tipped" Tarr off to a customer who bought $7,000
worth of booze but never paid Callan his share. Callan called him on it and a
meeting was set up. Callan was waiting on a park bench when Tarr showed up with
Newberry and another guy named Arresti Cappola. Callan said that he challenged
Tarr to a fist fight but Tarr drew a gun and shot him.
Callan stumbled to a cop and was taken to a hospital where he spilled
the beans on how he came to be shot. Newberry was picked up for the shooting
but nothing came of it. A few months later however, he took part in the murder
of an Innkeeper, which almost cost him his freedom.
Omar Finch, about 59 years old, and his son Cole, 29, had a good thing
going. They bought denatured alcohol and redistilled it into quality grain
alcohol which they resold to numerous other saloonkeepers.
On December 11, 1924, Newberry and three confederates, one of whom was
purported to be his colleague from the Checker Cab Co., Eugen "Red" McLaughlin,
posed as Prohibition agents and kidnapped Finch in an attempt to extort him.
Finch was transporting four barrels of alcohol when he was pulled over
by Newberry and his confederates. After taking his, stuff, Newberry and his
associates brought him to a hotel on Chicago's North Side where they demanded
$5000 to let him go. Finch told them that he didn't have that kind of cash but
that he could raise a thousand. Newberry agreed to accept that as a down
payment. They made an appointment the next day to receive the money and let
Finch go.
According to Finch's son Cole, the following day his father decided
that the four barrels of alcohol weren't worth a grand, so he decided not to
pay the money. Acting under the belief that Newberry and his gang were actual Prohibition
agents and not murderous thugs, Finch and his son went and moved their still
and all remaining evidence. Finch believed that Newberry and company couldn't
do anything with the four barrels of alcohol and that they couldn't prosecute
him after attempting to shake him down and then letting him go. Assuming he
pulled one over on the agents, Finch blew off the meeting.
A few hours later the gang burst into Finch's saloon. They called him a
double crosser then drew guns and opened fire at the saloonkeeper. One bullet
proved fatal and Finch died at the hospital.
Newberry's involvement came to the attention of the police when two
young bootleggers reported that a gang of hijackers had stolen their car and
their liquor on December 10. The bootleggers said that the hijackers told them
they could have their car and liquor back if they paid $200. They also stated
that one of the men in the car was Omar Finch. The auto used by the gangsters
was described to the police who were able to trace it back to Newberry.
Newberry's sedan |
After the murder of his father, Cole Finch left town but returned after
the arrest of Newberry. Though his wife received calls threatening that if her
husband talked he'd be dead in twenty-four hours, Cole assured authorities that
he would testify.
A federal investigator stated that by posing as Prohibition agents,
Newberry's gang had extorted thousands of dollars from over thirty
saloonkeepers. "A federal badge was found in Newberry's possession, and we know
he used it on more than one occasion," United States District Attorney Edwin
Olson told the press. "Conviction on that alone would mean a penitentiary
Newberry at time of arrest |
In addition to having Newberry's car and badge, prosecutors also had
Bell boys from the hotel where they kept Finch who could identify Newberry.
They also had Cole and two other witnesses from the saloon that could identify
Newberry as one of the killers. It didn't look good for Newberry. But this was
Chicago and although the lead up to the trial was well covered in the press,
the trial itself was not. It wasn't stated what happened but Newberry apparently
went free.
By the end of the decade Newberry was a big shot on the Northwest Side
of Chicago controlling the alcohol and gambling. He was considered a strong
ally to the North Side gangsters headed by Bugs Moran. In fact Newberry was
with Moran on the Morning of February 14, 1929 when the latter was on his way
to the gang's headquarters. As they approached their destination, they saw a
couple of detective cars pull up so they took a walk. Who they thought were
cops were actually gunmen employed by Al Capone who entered the garage and
murdered seven of Moran's boys.
Three months later Capone was arrested in Philadelphia on a gun charge
and sentenced to a year in prison.
It appears that the Capone gang may have had their gun sights fixed on
Newberry as well. On November 30, 1929, Newberry was slightly wounded in a
drive-by as he was approaching a club said to be run by Moran's gang A little
over a month later, according to the Chicago Tribune, Newberry learned of a
machinegun nest that was planted in an apartment across the street from his
headquarters. Once this was found out, Newberry high tailed it to Canada and
his second in command, Al Shimberg, fled to Michigan. Left to run things were subordinates
Benny Bennett and John Rito, known as the "Billiken."
Around the first of February Bennett disappeared. About a month later,
Rito likewise disappeared but he didn't stay disappeared for long. After spending two
weeks under water, his body broke loose from its constraints and floated to the
top of the Chicago River.
John "the Billiken" Rito |
The day after the Billikin surfaced, Capone was released from the
Eastern State Penitentiary and returned home. At some point a peace was made
between Newberry and Capone and the latter recognized the former as the leader
of the North Side. To commemorate, Capone gave Newberry a diamond studded belt
buckle, a gift that the big guy seemed to bestow on a lot of his esteemed
As the top man on the North Side, Newberry was frequently in the
papers. He was said to be involved in bucket shops as well as an attempt to
organize racetrack workers. He was also arrested for the usual stuff i.e. murder
and bootlegging.
One murder that garnished him much attention was that of Chicago
Tribune reporter Jake Lingle when it was discovered that Lingle was killed with
a gun that was sold, in part, to Newberry. Though the gang leader wasn't
responsible for the murder of Lingle, Jack Zuta, a North Side associate was,
and, since Lingle's murder adversely affected every gangster in Chicago, Zuta
had to be killed. When he got his, witnesses stated that one of the gunmen was
Newberry. The accusation was never proved.
The beginning of the end for Newberry came when Capone was sent away
for good in the spring of 1932. Newberry and Frank Nitti, Capone's successor,
did not get along. Reasons given are that, with Capone gone, poor management plus
lower earnings due to the depression, led to the Capone organization not
earning what it once did. The North Side however, which catered to the wealthy,
weathered the depression better and was still making money. Nitti and Co. began
to eye Newberry's fiefdom in a most coveted manner and they started to chip
away at his empire. It was also said that Newberry owed the Capone gang a large
sum of money and to guarantee a return they inserted a representative to
oversee affairs.
The person they sent was Gus Winkeler, who had a good relationship with
Newberry, but other Syndicate men followed. Soon, Newberry felt that he was
being squeezed out. His response was to have Nitti killed. On December 19, 1932
police raided Nitti's office and one of the officers shot the gang leader a
number of times, supposedly in self-defense.
It was a sloppy attempt and Nitti survived. The wounded gang leader figured
out straight away who was behind the botched hit and, less than three weeks
later, Newberry's body was found. Around his waist, the diamond studded belt
buckle given to him by Al Capone; a reminder of the good old days.
Officer points to where Newberry's body was found |
Mr. Capone, Schoenberg, Robert, William Morrow and Company,1992
Al Capone and His American Boys, Helmer, William, Indiana University Press, 2011
Capone, Kobler, John, G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1971
The Man Who Got Away, Keefe, Rose, Cumberland House Publishing, 2005
"De Luxe Rum Broker Shot" Chicago Tribune 09.27.1924
"Elite Rum Baron Ready to Give Up in Shooting" Chicago Tribune 09.28.1924
"It Was Shoot or Get Shot Says Leon Tarr" Chicago Tribune 10.08.1924
"Village Saloon Keeper Shot to Death By Gang" Chicago Tribune 12.12.1924
"Witnesses Call Newberry One of Finch's Slayers" Chicago Tribune 12.21.1924
"Seize Hijacker; Finch Slaying Solved, Belief" Chicago Tribune 12.20.1924
"Detectives Seek Newberry's Pals" Moline Dispatch 12.23.1924
"Ted Newberry Indicted; Writ Moved Balked"12.23. Chicago Tribune 1924
"Billiken Rito is Shot to Death; Pal is Missing" Chicago Tribune 03.17.1930
"Ted Newberry Taken on Gang Ride and Slain" Chicago Tribune 01.08.1933


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Added By: gallyangel
Last Updated: Administrator
The Iliad
Author: | Homer Robert Fagles |
Publisher: |
Viking, 1990 |
Series: | |
This book does not appear to be part of a series. If this is incorrect, and you know the name of the series to which it belongs, please let us know. |
Book Type: | Poem |
Genre: | Fantasy |
Sub-Genre Tags: | Heroic Fantasy |
Awards: | |
Lists: | |
Links: |
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Dating to the ninth century BC, Homer's timeless poem still vividly conveys the horror and heroism of men and gods wrestling with towering emotions and battling amidst devastation and destruction, as it moves inexorably to the wrenching, tragic conclusion of the Trojan War. Renowned classicist Bernard Knox observes in his superb Introduction that although the violence of the Iliad is grim and relentless, it coexists with both images of civilized life and a poignant yearning for peace.
Combining the skills of a poet and scholar, Robert Fagles brings the energy of contemporary language to this enduring heroic epic. He maintains the drive and metric music of Homer's poetry, and evokes the impact and nuance of the Iliad's mesmerizing repeated phrases in what Peter Levi calls "an astonishing performance."
Chapter One
The Rage of Achilles
Rage--Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus' son Achilles,
murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans countless losses,
hurling down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls,
great fighters' souls, but made their bodies carrion,
feasts for the dogs and birds,
and the will of Zeus was moving toward its end.
Begin, Muse, when the two first broke and clashed,
Agamemnon lord of men and brilliant Achilles.
What god drove them to fight with such a fury?
Apollo the son of Zeus and Leto. Incensed at the king
he swept a fatal plague through the army?men were dying
and all because Agamemnon spurned Apollo's priest.
Yes, Chryses approached the Achaeans' fast ships
to win his daughter back, bringing a priceless ransom
and bearing high in hand, wound on a golden staff,
the wreaths of the god, the distant deadly Archer.
He begged the whole Achaean army but most of all
the two supreme commanders, Atreus' two sons,
"Agamemnon, Menelaus?all Argives geared for war!
May the gods who hold the halls of Olympus give you
Priam's city to plunder, then safe passage home.
Just set my daughter free, my dear one ... here,
accept these gifts, this ransom. Honor the god
who strikes from worlds away?the son of Zeus, Apollo!"
And all ranks of Achaeans cried out their assent:
"Respect the priest, accept the shining ransom!"
But it brought no joy to the heart of Agamemnon.
The king dismissed the priest with a brutal order
ringing in his ears: "Never again, old man,
let me catch sight of you by the hollow ships!
Not loitering now, not slinking back tomorrow.
The staff and the wreaths of god will never save you then.
The girl?I won't give up the girl. Long before that,
old age will overtake her inmyhouse, in Argos,
far from her fatherland, slaving back and forth
at the loom, forced to share my bed!
Now go,
don't tempt my wrath?and you may depart alive."
The old man was terrified. He obeyed the order,
turning, trailing away in silence down the shore
where the battle lines of breakers crash and drag.
And moving off to a safe distance, over and over
the old priest prayed to the son of sleek-haired Leto,
lord Apollo, "Hear me, Apollo! God of the silver bow
who strides the walls of Chryse and Cilia sacrosanct?
lord in power of Tenedos?Smintheus, god of the plague!
If I ever roofed a shrine to please your heart,
ever burned the long rich bones of bulls and goats
on your holy altar, now, now bring my prayer to pass.
Pay the Danaans back?your arrows for my tears!"
His prayer went up and Phoebus Apollo heard him.
Down he strode from Olympus' peaks, storming at heart
with his bow and hooded quiver slung across his shoulders.
The arrows clanged at his back as the god quaked with rage,
the god himself on the march and down he came like night.
Over against the ships he dropped to a knee, let fly a shaft
and a terrifying clash rang out from the great silver bow.
First he went for the mules and circling dogs but then,
launching a piercing shaft at the men themselves,
he cut them down in droves?
and the corpse-fires burned on, night and day, no end in sight.
Nine days the arrows of god swept through the army.
On the tenth Achilles called all ranks to muster?
the impulse seized him, sent by white-armed Hera
grieving to see Achaean fighters drop and die.
Once they'd gathered, crowding the meeting grounds,
the swift runner Achilles rose and spoke among them:
"Son of Atreus, now we are beaten back, I fear,
the long campaign is lost. So home we sail ...
if we can escape our death?if war and plague
are joining forces now to crush the Argives.
But wait: let us question a holy man,
a prophet, even a man skilled with dreams?
dreams as well can come our way from Zeus?
come, someone to tell us why Apollo rages so,
whether he blames us for a vow we failed, or sacrifice.
If only the god would share the smoky savor of lambs
and full-grown goats, Apollo might be willing, still,
somehow, to save us from this plague."
So he proposed
and down he sat again as Calchas rose among them,
Thestor's son, the clearest by far of all the seers
who scan the flight of birds. He knew all things that are,
all things that are past and all that are to come,
the seer who had led the Argive ships to Troy
with the second sight that god Apollo gave him.
For the armies' good the seer began to speak:
"Achilles, dear to Zeus ...
you order me to explain Apollo's anger,
the distant deadly Archer? I will tell it all.
But strike a pact with me, swear you will defend me
with all your heart, with words and strength of hand.
For there is a man I will enrage?I see it now?
a powerful man who lords it over all the Argives,
one the Achaeans must obey ... A mighty king,
raging against an inferior, is too strong.
Even if he can swallow down his wrath today,
still he will nurse the burning in his chest
until, sooner or later, he sends it bursting forth.
Consider it closely, Achilles. Will you save me?"
And the matchless runner reassured him: "Courage!
Out with it now, Calchas. Reveal the will of god,
whatever you may know. And I swear by Apollo
dear to Zeus, the power you pray to, Calchas,
when you reveal god's will to the Argives?no one,
not while I am alive and see the light on earth, no one
will lay his heavy hands on you by the hollow ships.
None among all the armies. Not even if you mean
Agamemnon here who now claims to be, by far,
the best of the Achaeans."
The seer took heart
and this time he spoke out, bravely: "Beware?
he casts no blame for a vow we failed, a sacrifice.
The god's enraged because Agamemnon spurned his priest,
he refused to free his daughter, he refused the ransom.
That's why the Archer sends us pains and he will send us more
and never drive this shameful destruction from the Argives,
not till we give back the girl with sparkling eyes
to her loving father?no price, no ransom paid?
and carry a sacred hundred bulls to Chryse town.
Then we can calm the god, and only then appease him."
So he declared and sat down. But among them rose
the fighting son of Atreus, lord of the far-flung kingdoms,
Agamemnon?furious, his dark heart filled to the brim,
blazing with anger now, his eyes like searing fire.
With a sudden, killing look he wheeled on Calchas first:
"Seer of misery! Never a word that works to my advantage!
Always misery warms your heart, your prophecies?
never a word of profit said or brought to pass.
Now, again, you divine god's will for the armies,
bruit it about, as fact, why the deadly Archer
multiplies our pains: because I, I refused
that glittering price for the young girl Chryseis.
Indeed, I preferherby far, the girl herself,
I want her mine in my own house! I rank her higher
than Clytemnestra, my wedded wife---she's nothing less
in build or breeding, in mind or works of hand.
But I am willing to give her back, even so,
if that is best for all. What I really want
is to keep my people safe, not see them dying.
But fetch me another prize, and straight off too,
else I alone of the Argives go without my honor.
That would be a disgrace. You are all witness,
look?myprize is snatched away!"
But the swift runner
Achilles answered him at once, "Just how, Agamemnon,
great field marshal ... most grasping man alive,
how can the generous Argives give you prizes now?
I know of no troves of treasure, piled, lying idle,
anywhere. Whatever we dragged from towns we plundered,
all's been portioned out. But collect it, call it back
from the rank and file?Thatwould be the disgrace.
So return the girl to the god, at least for now.
We Achaeans will pay you back, three, four times over,
if Zeus will grant us the gift, somehow, someday,
to raze Troy's massive ramparts to the ground."
But King Agamemnon countered, "Not so quickly,
brave as you are, godlike Achilles?trying to cheatme.
Oh no, you won't get past me, take me in that way!
What do you want? To cling to your own prize
while I sit calmly by?empty-handed here?
Is that why you order me to give her back?
No?if our generous Argiveswillgive me a prize,
a match for my desires, equal to what I've lost,
well and good. But if they give me nothing
I will take a prize myself?your own, or Ajax'
or Odysseus' prize?I'll commandeer her myself
and let that man I go to visit choke with rage!
Enough. We'll deal with all this later, in due time.
Now come, we haul a black ship down to the bright sea,
gather a decent number of oarsmen along her locks
and put aboard a sacrifice, and Chryseis herself,
in all her beauty ... we embark her too.
Let one of the leading captains take command.
Ajax, Idomeneus, trusty Odysseus or you, Achilles,
you?the most violent man alive?so you can perform
the rites for us and calm the god yourself."
A dark glance
and the headstrong runner answered him in kind: "Shameless?
armored in shamelessness?always shrewd with greed!
How could any Argive soldier obey your orders,
freely and gladly do your sailing for you
or fight your enemies, full force? Not I, no.
It wasn't Trojan spearmen who brought me here to fight.
The Trojans never didmedamage, not in the least,
they never stole my cattle or my horses, never
in Phthia where the rich soil breeds strong men
did they lay waste my crops. How could they?
Look at the endless miles that lie between us ...
shadowy mountain ranges, seas that surge and thunder.
No, you colossal, shameless?we all followed you,
to please you, to fight for you, to win your honor
back from the Trojans?Menelaus and you, you dog-face!
What doyoucare? Nothing. You don't look right or left.
And now you threaten to strip me of my prize in person?
the one I fought for long and hard, and sons of Achaea
handed her to me.
My honors never equal yours,
whenever we sack some wealthy Trojan stronghold?
my arms bear the brunt of the raw, savage fighting,
true, but when it comes to dividing up the plunder
the lion's share is yours, and back I go to my ships,
clutching some scrap, some pittance that I love,
when I have fought to exhaustion.
No more now?
back I go to Phthia. Better that way by far,
to journey home in the beaked ships of war.
I have no mind to linger here disgraced,
brimming your cup and piling up your plunder."
But the lord of men Agamemnon shot back,
"Desert, by all means?if the spirit drives you home!
I will never beg you to stay, not onmyaccount.
Never?others will take my side and do me honor,
Zeus above all, whose wisdom rules the world.
You?I hate you most of all the warlords
loved by the gods. Always dear to your heart,
strife, yes, and battles, the bloody grind of war.
What if you are a great soldier? That's just a gift of god.
Go home with your ships and comrades, lord it over
your Myrmidons!
Youarenothing to me?you and your overweening anger!
But let this be my warning on your way:
since Apollo insists on taking my Chryseis,
I'll send her back in my own ships withmycrew.
But I, I will be there in person at your tents
to take Briseis in all her beauty, your own prize?
so you can learn just how much greater I am than you
and the next man up may shrink from matching words with me,
from hoping to rival Agamemnon strength for strength!"
He broke off and anguish gripped Achilles.
The heart in his rugged chest was pounding, torn ...
Should he draw the long sharp sword slung at his hip,
thrust through the ranks and kill Agamemnon now??
or check his rage and beat his fury down?
As his racing spirit veered back and forth,
just as he drew his huge blade from its sheath,
down from the vaulting heavens swept Athena,
the white-armed goddess Hera sped her down:
Hera loved both men and cared for both alike.
Rearing behind him Pallas seized his fiery hair?
only Achilles saw her, none of the other fighters?
struck with wonder he spun around, he knew her at once,
Pallas Athena! the terrible blazing of those eyes,
and his winged words went flying: "Why, why now?
Child of Zeus with the shield of thunder, why come now?
To witness the outrage Agamemnon just committed?
I tell you this, and so help me it's the truth?
he'll soon pay for his arrogance with his life!"
Her gray eyes clear, the goddess Athena answered,
"Down from the skies I come to check your rage
if only you will yield.
The white-armed goddess Hera sped me down:
she loves you both, she cares for you both alike.
Stop this fighting, now. Don't lay hand to sword.
Lash him with threats of the price that he will face.
And I tell you this?and Iknowit is the truth?
one day glittering gifts will lie before you,
three times over to pay for all his outrage.
Hold back now. Obey us both."
So she urged
and the swift runner complied at once: "I must?
when the two of you hand down commands, Goddess,
a man submits though his heart breaks with fury.
Better for him by far. If a man obeys the gods
they're quick to hear his prayers."
And with that
Achilles stayed his burly hand on the silver hilt
and slid the huge blade back in its sheath.
He would not fight the orders of Athena.
Soaring home to Olympus, she rejoined the gods
aloft in the halls of Zeus whose shield is thunder.
But Achilles rounded on Agamemnon once again,
lashing out at him, not relaxing his anger for a moment:
"Staggering drunk, with your dog's eyes, your fawn's heart!
Never once did you arm with the troops and go to battle
or risk an ambush packed with Achaea's picked men?
you lack the courage, you can see death coming.
Safer by far, you find, to foray all through camp,
commandeering the prize of any man who speaks against you.
King who devours his people! Worthless husks, the men you rule?
if not, Atrides, this outrage would have been your last.
I tell you this, and I swear a mighty oath upon it ...
by this, this scepter, look,
that never again will put forth crown and branches,
now it's left its stump on the mountain ridge forever,
nor will it sprout new green again, now the brazen ax
has stripped its bark and leaves, and now the sons of Achaea
pass it back and forth as they hand their judgments down,
upholding the honored customs whenever Zeus commands?
This scepter will be the mighty force behind my oath:
someday, I swear, a yearning for Achilles will strike
Achaea's sons and all your armies! But then, Atrides,
harrowed as you will be,nothingyou do can save you?
not when your hordes of fighters drop and die,
cut down by the hands of man-killing Hector! Then?
then you will tear your heart out, desperate, raging
that you disgraced the best of the Achaeans!"
Down on the ground
he dashed the scepter studded bright with golden nails,
then took his seat again. The son of Atreus smoldered,
glaring across at him, but Nestor rose between them,
the man of winning words, the clear speaker of Pylos ...
Sweeter than honey from his tongue the voice flowed on and on.
Two generations of mortal men he had seen go down by now,
those who were born and bred with him in the old days,
in Pylos' holy realm, and now he ruled the third.
He pleaded with both kings, with clear good will.
"No more?or enormous sorrow comes to all Achaeal.
How they would exult. Priam and Priam's son's
and all the Trojans. Oh they'd leap for joy
to hear the two of you battling on this way,
you who excel us all, first in Achaean councils,
first in the ways of war.
Stop. Please.
Listen to Nestor. You are both younger than I,
and in my time I struck up with better men than you,
even you, but never once did they make light of me.
I've never seen such men, I never will again ...
men like Pirithous, Dryas, that fine captain,
Caeneus and Exadius, and Polyphemus, royal prince,
and Theseus, Aegeus' boy, a match for the immortals.
They were the strongest mortals ever bred on earth,
the strongest, and they fought against the strongest too,
shaggy Centaurs, wild brutes of the mountains?
they hacked them down, terrible, deadly work.
And I was in their ranks, fresh out of Pylos,
far away from home?they enlisted me themselves
and I fought on my own, a free lance, single-handed.
And none of the men who walk the earth these days
could battle with those fighters, none, but they,
they took to heart my counsels, marked my words.
So now you listen too. Yielding is far better ...
Don't seize the girl, Agamemnon, powerful as you are?
leave her, just as the sons of Achaea gave her,
his prize from the very first.
And you, Achilles, never hope to fight it out
with your king, pitting force against his force:
no one can match the honors dealt a king, you know,
a sceptered king to whom great Zeus gives glory.
Strong as you are?a goddess was your mother?
he has more power because he rules more men.
Atrides, end your anger?look, it's Nestor!
I beg you, cool your fury against Achilles.
Here the man stands over all Achaea's armies,
our rugged bulwark braced for shocks of war."
But King Agamemnon answered him in haste,
"True, old man?all you say is fit and proper?
but this soldier wants to tower over the armies,
he wants to rule over all, to lord it over all,
give out orders to every man in sight. Well,
there's one, I trust, who will never yield tohim!
What if the everlasting gods have made a spearman of him?
Have they entitled him to hurl abuse atme?"
"Yes!"?blazing Achilles broke in quickly?
"What a worthless, burnt-out coward I'd be called
if I would submit to you and all your orders,
whatever you blurt out. Fling them at others,
don't give me commands!
Never again,Itrust, will Achilles yield toyou.
And I tell you this?take it to heart, I warn you?
my hands will never do battle for that girl,
neither with you, King, nor any man alive.
You Achaeans gave her, now you've snatched her back.
But all the rest I possess beside my fast black ship?
not one bit of it can you seize against my will, Atrides.
Come, try it! So the men can see, that instant,
your black blood gush and spurt around my spear!"
Once the two had fought it out with words,
battling face-to-face, both sprang to their feet
and broke up the muster beside the Argive squadrons.
Achilles strode off to his trim ships and shelters,
back to his friend Patroclus and their comrades.
Agamemnon had a vessel hauled down to the sea,
he picked out twenty oarsmen to man her locks,
put aboard the cattle for sacrifice to the god
and led Chryseis in all her beauty amidships.
Versatile Odysseus took the helm as captain.
All embarked,
the party launched out on the sea's foaming lanes
while the son of Atreus told his troops to wash,
to purify themselves from the filth of plague.
They scoured it off, threw scourings in the surf
and sacrificed to Apollo full-grown bulls and goats
along the beaten shore of the fallow barren sea
and savory smoke went swirling up the skies.
So the men were engaged throughout the camp.
But King Agamemnon would not stop the quarrel,
the first threat he hurled against Achilles.
He called Talthybius and Eurybates briskly,
his two heralds, ready, willing aides:
"Go to Achilles' lodge. Take Briseis at once,
his beauty Briseis by the hand and bring her here.
But if he will not surrender her, I'll go myself,
I'll seize her myself, with an army at my back?
and all the worse for him!"
He sent them off
with the strict order ringing in their ears.
Against their will the two men made their way
along the breaking surf of the barren salt sea
and reached the Myrmidon shelters and their ships.
They found him beside his lodge and black hull,
seated grimly?and Achilles took no joy
when he saw the two approaching.
They were afraid, they held the king in awe
and stood there, silent. Not a word to Achilles,
not a question. But he sensed it all in his heart,
their fear, their charge, and broke the silence for them:
"Welcome, couriers! Good heralds of Zeus and men,
here, come closer. You have done nothing to me.
You are not to blame. No one but Agamemnon?
he is the one who sent you for Briseis.
Go, Patroclus, Prince, bring out the girl
and hand her to them so they can take her back.
But let them both bear witness to my loss ...
in the face of blissful gods and mortal men,
in the face of that unbending, ruthless king?
if the day should come when the armies needme
to save their ranks from ignominious, stark defeat.
The man is raving?with all the murderous fury in his heart.
He lacks the sense to see a day behind, a day ahead,
and safeguard the Achaeans battling by the ships."
Patroclus obeyed his great friend's command.
He led Briseis in all her beauty from the lodge
and handed her over to the men to take away.
And the two walked back along the Argive ships
while she trailed on behind, reluctant, every step.
But Achilles wept, and slipping away from his companions,
far apart, sat down on the beach of the heaving gray sea
and scanned the endless ocean. Reaching out his arms,
again and again he prayed to his dear mother: "Mother!
You gave me life, short as that life will be,
so at least Olympian Zeus, thundering up on high,
should give me honor?but now he gives me nothing.
Atreus' son Agamemnon, for all his far-flung kingdoms?
the man disgraces me, seizes and keeps my prize,
he tears her away himself!"
So he wept and prayed
and his noble mother heard him, seated near her father,
the Old Man of the Sea in the salt green depths.
Suddenly up she rose from the churning surf
like mist and settling down beside him as he wept,
stroked Achilles gently, whispering his name, "My child?
why in tears? What sorrow has touched your heart?
Tell me, please. Don't harbor it deep inside you.
We must share it all."
And now from his depths
the proud runner groaned: "You know, you know,
why labor through it all? You know it all so well ...
We raided Thebe once, Eetion's sacred citadel,
we ravaged the place, hauled all the plunder here
and the armies passed it round, share and share alike,
and they chose the beauty Chryseis for Agamemnon.
But soon her father, the holy priest of Apollo
the distant deadly Archer, Chryses approached
the fast trim ships of the Argives armed in bronze
to win his daughter back, bringing a priceless ransom
and bearing high in hand, wound on a golden staff,
the wreaths of the god who strikes from worlds away.
He begged the whole Achaean army but most of all
the two supreme commanders, Atreus' two sons,
and all ranks of Achaeans cried out their assent,
`Respect the priest, accept the shining ransom!'
But it brought no joy to the heart of Agamenmon,
our high and mighty king dismissed the priest
with a brutal order ringing in his ears.
And shattered with anger, the old man withdrew
but Apollo heard his prayer?he loved him, deeply?
he loosed his shaft at the Argives, withering plague,
and now the troops began to drop and die in droves,
the arrows of god went showering left and right,
whipping through the Achaeans' vast encampment.
But the old seer who knew the cause full well
revealed the will of the archer god Apollo.
And I was the first, mother, I urged them all,
`Appease the god at once!' That's when the fury
gripped the son of Atreus. Agamemnon leapt to his feet
and hurled his threat?his threat's been driven home.
One girl, Chryseis, the fiery-eyed Achaeans
ferry out in a fast trim ship to Chryse Island,
laden with presents for the god. The other girl,
just now the heralds came and led her away from camp,
Briseus' daughter, the prize the armies gave me.
But you, mother, if you have any power at all,
protect your son! Go to Olympus, plead with Zeus,
if you ever warmed his heart with a word or any action ...
Time and again I heard your claims in father's halls,
boasting how you and you alone of all the immortals
rescued Zeus, the lord of the dark storm cloud,
from ignominious, stark defeat ...
That day the Olympians tried to chain him down,
Hera, Poseidon lord of the sea, and Pallas Athena?
you rushed to Zeus, dear Goddess, broke those chains,
quickly ordered the hundred-hander to steep Olympus,
that monster whom the immortals call Briareus
but every mortal calls the Sea-god's son, Aegaeon,
though he's stronger than his father. Down he sat,
flanking Cronus' son, gargantuan in the glory of it all,
and the blessed gods were struck with terror then,
they stopped shackling Zeus.
Remind him of that,
now, go and sit beside him, grasp his knees ...
persuade him, somehow, to help the Trojan cause,
to pin the Achaeans back against their ships,
trap them round the bay and mow them down.
So all can reap the benefits of their king?
so even mighty Atrides can see how mad he was
to disgrace Achilles, the best of the Achaeans!"
And Thetis answered, bursting into tears,
"O my son, my sorrow, why did I ever bear you?
All I bore was doom ...
Would to god you could linger by your ships
without a grief in the world, without a torment!
Doomed to a short life, you have so little time.
And not only short, now, but filled with heartbreak too,
more than all other men alive?doomed twice over.
Ah to a cruel fate I bore you in our halls!
Still, I shall go to Olympus crowned with snow
and repeat your prayer to Zeus who loves the lightning.
Perhaps he will be persuaded.
But you, my child,
stay here by the fast ships, rage on at the Achaeans,
just keep clear of every foray in the fighting.
Only yesterday Zeus went off to the Ocean River
to feast with the Aethiopians, loyal, lordly men,
and all the gods went with him. But in twelve days
the Father returns to Olympus. Then, for your sake,
up I go to the bronze floor, the royal house of Zeus?
I'll grasp his knees, I think I'll win him over."
With that vow
his mother went away and left him there, alone,
his heart inflamed for the sashed and lovely girl
they'd wrenched away from him against his will.
Meanwhile Odysseus drew in close to Chryse Island,
bearing the splendid sacrifice in the vessel's hold.
And once they had entered the harbor deep in bays
they furled and stowed the sail in the black ship,
they lowered the mast by the forestays, smoothly,
quickly let it down on the forked mast-crutch
and rowed her into a mooring under oars.
Out went the bow-stones?cables fast astern?
and the crew themselves swung out in the breaking surf,
leading out the sacrifice for the archer god Apollo,
and out of the deep-sea ship Chryseis stepped too.
Then tactful Odysseus led her up to the altar,
placing her in her loving father's arms, and said,
"Chryses, the lord of men Agamemnon sent me here
to bring your daughter back and perform a sacrifice,
a grand sacrifice to Apollo?for all Achaea's sake?
so we can appease the god
who's loosed such grief and torment on the Argives."
With those words he left her in Chryses' arms
and the priest embraced the child he loved, exultant.
At once the men arranged the sacrifice for Apollo,
making the cattle ring his well-built altar,
then they rinsed their hands and took up barley.
Rising among them Chryses stretched his arms to the sky
and prayed in a high resounding voice, "Hear me, Apollo!
God of the silver bow who strides the walls of Chryse
and Cilia sacrosanct?lord in power of Tenedos!
If you honored me last time and heard my prayer
and rained destruction down on all Achaea's ranks,
now bring my prayer to pass once more. Now, at last,
drive this killing plague from the armies of Achaea!"
His prayer went up and Phoebus Apollo heard him.
And soon as the men had prayed and flung the barley,
first they lifted back the heads of the victims,
slit their throats, skinned them and carved away
the meat from the thighbones and wrapped them in fat,
a double fold sliced clean and topped with strips of flesh.
And the old man burned these over dried split wood
and over the quarters poured out glistening wine
while young men at his side held five-pronged forks.
Once they had burned the bones and tasted the organs
they cut the rest into pieces, pierced them with spits,
roasted them to a turn and pulled them off the fire.
The work done, the feast laid out, they ate well
and no man's hunger lacked a share of the banquet.
When they had put aside desire for food and drink,
the young men brimmed the mixing bowls with wine
and tipping first drops for the god in every cup
they poured full rounds for all. And all day long
they appeased the god with song, raising a ringing hymn
to the distant archer god who drives away the plague,
those young Achaean warriors singing out his power,
and Apollo listened, his great heart warm with joy.
Then when the sun went down and night came on
they made their beds and slept by the stern-cables ...
When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more,
they set sail for the main encampment of Achaea.
The Archer sent them a bracing following wind,
they stepped the mast, spread white sails wide,
the wind hit full and the canvas bellied out
and a dark blue wave, foaming up at the bow,
sang out loud and strong as the ship made way,
skimming the whitecaps, cutting toward her goal.
And once offshore of Achaea's vast encampment
they eased her in and hauled the black ship high,
far up on the sand, and shored her up with timbers.
Then they scattered, each to his own ship and shelter.
Butheraged on, grimly camped by his fast fleet,
the royal son of Peleus, the swift runner Achilles.
Now he no longer haunted the meeting grounds
where men win glory, now he no longer went to war
but day after day he ground his heart out, waiting there,
yearning, always yearning for battle cries and combat.
But now as the twelfth dawn after this shone clear
the gods who live forever marched home to Olympus,
all in a long cortege, and Zeus led them on.
And Thetis did not forget her son's appeals.
She broke from a cresting wave at first light
and soaring up to the broad sky and Mount Olympus,
found the son of Cronus gazing down on the world,
peaks apart from the other gods and seated high
on the topmost crown of rugged ridged Olympus.
And crouching down at his feet,
quickly grasping his knees with her left hand,
her right hand holding him underneath the chin,
she prayed to the lord god Zeus, the son of Cronus:
"Zeus, Father Zeus! If I ever served you well
among the deathless gods with a word or action,
bring this prayer to pass: honor my son Achilles!?
doomed to the shortest life of any man on earth.
And now the lord of men Agamemnon has disgraced him,
seizes and keeps his prize, tears her away himself. But you?
exalt him, Olympian Zeus: your urgings rule the world!
Come, grant the Trojans victory after victory
till the Achaean armies pay my dear son back,
building higher the honor he deserves!"
She paused
but Zeus who commands the storm clouds answered nothing.
The Father sat there, silent. It seemed an eternity ...
But Thetis, clasping his knees, held on, clinging,
pressing her question once again: "Grant my prayer,
once and for all, Father, bow your head in assent!
Or deny me outright. What have you to fear?
So I may know, too well, just how cruelly
Iam the most dishonored goddess of them all."
Filled with anger
Zeus who marshals the storm clouds answered her at last:
"Disaster. You will drive me into war with Hera.
She will provoke me, she with her shrill abuse.
Even now in the face of all the immortal gods
she harries me perpetually, Hera chargesme
that I always go to battle for the Trojans.
Away with you now Hera might catch us here.
I will see to this. I will bring it all to pass.
Look, I will bow my head if that will satisfy you.
That, I remind you, that among the immortal gods
is the strongest, truest sign that I can give.
No word or work of mine?nothing can be revoked,
there is no treachery, nothing left unfinished
once I bow my head to say it shall be done."
So he decreed. And Zeus the son of Cronus bowed
his craggy dark brows and the deathless locks came pouring
down from the thunderhead of the great immortal king
and giant shock waves spread through all Olympus.
So the two of them made their pact and parted.
Deep in the sea she dove from radiant Mount Olympus.
Zeus went back to his own halls, and all the gods
in full assembly rose from their seats at once
to meet the Father striding toward them now.
None dared remain at rest as Zeus advanced,
they all sprang up to greet him face-to-face
as he took his place before them on his throne.
But Hera knew it all. She had seen how Thetis,
the Old Man of the Sea's daughter, Thetis quick
on her glistening feet was hatching plans with Zeus.
And suddenly Hera taunted the Father, son of Cronus:
"So, who of the gods this time, my treacherous one,
was hatching plans with you?
Always your pleasure, whenever my back is turned,
to settle things in your grand clandestine way.
You never deign, do you, freely and frankly,
to share your plots with me?never, not a word!"
The father of men and gods replied sharply,
"Hera?stop hoping to fathom all my thoughts.
You will find them a trial, though you are my wife.
Whatever is right for you to hear, no one, trust me,
will know of it before you, neither god nor man.
Whatever I choose to plan apart from all the gods?
no more of your everlasting questions, probe and pry no more."
And Hera the Queen, her dark eyes wide, exclaimed,
"Dread majesty, son of Cronus, what are you saying?
Now surely I've never probed or pried in the past.
Why, you can scheme to your heart's content
without a qualm in the world for me. But now
I have a terrible fear that she has won you over,
Thetis, the Old Man of the Sea's daughter, Thetis
with her glistening feet. I know it. Just at dawn
she knelt down beside you and grasped your knees
and I suspect you bowed your head in assent to her?
you granted once and for all to exalt Achilles now
and slaughter hordes of Achaeans pinned against their ships."
And Zeus who marshals the thunderheads returned,
"Maddening one ... you and your eternal suspicions?
I can never escape you. Ah but tell me, Hera,
just what can you do about all this? Nothing.
Only estrange yourself from me a little more?
and all the worse for you.
If what you say is true, that must be my pleasure.
Now go sit down. Be quiet now. Obey my orders,
for fear the gods, however many Olympus holds,
are powerless to protect you when I come
to throttle you with my irresistible hands."
He subsided
but Hera the Queen, her eyes wider, was terrified.
She sat in silence. She wrenched her will to his.
And throughout the halls of Zeus the gods of heaven
quaked with fear. Hephaestus the Master Craftsman
rose up first to harangue them all, trying now
to bring his loving mother a little comfort,
the white-armed goddess Hera: "Oh disaster ...
that's what it is, and it will be unbearable
if the two of you must come to blows this way,
flinging the gods in chaos just for mortal men.
No more joy for us in the sumptuous feast
when riot rules the clay.
I urge you, mother---you know that I am right?
work back into his good graces, so the Father,
our beloved Father will never wheel on us again,
send our banquets crashing! The Olympian lord of lightning?
what if he would like to blast us from our seats?
He is far too strong. Go back to him, mother,
stroke the Father with soft, winning words?
at once the Olympian will turn kind to us again."
Pleading, springing up with a two-handled cup,
he reached it toward his loving mother's hands
with his own winning words: "Patience, mother!
Grieved as you are, bear up, or dear as you are,
I have to see you beaten right before my eyes.
I would be shattered?what could I do to save you?
It's hard to fight the Olympian strength for strength.
You remember the last time I rushed to your defense?
He seized my foot, he hurled me off the tremendous threshold
and all day long I dropped, I was dead weight and then,
when the sun went down, down I plunged on Lemnos,
little breath left in me. But the mortals there
soon nursed a fallen immortal back to life."
At that the white-armed goddess Hera smiled
and smiling, took the cup from her child's hands.
Then dipping sweet nectar up from the mixing bowl
he poured it round to all the immortals, left to right.
And uncontrollable laughter broke from the happy gods
as they watched the god of fire breathing hard
and bustling through the halls.
That hour then
and all day long till the sun went down they feasted
and no god's hunger lacked a share of the handsome banquet
or the gorgeous lyre Apollo struck or the Muses singing
voice to voice in choirs, their vibrant music rising.
At last, when the sun's fiery light had set,
each immortal went to rest in his own house,
the splendid high halls Hephaestus built for each
with all his craft and cunning, the famous crippled Smith.
And Olympian Zeus the lord of lightning went to his own bed
where he had always lain when welcome sleep came on him.
There he climbed and there he slept and by his side
lay Hera the Queen, the goddess of the golden throne.
Copyright © 1990 by Homer
Copyright © 1990 by Robert Fagles
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"Though Hirsch decried the 'waste' that
competition for positional goods like
location creates, I see it as a positive force
for the democratization of the benefits of
economic growth."
Hirsch first discussed the importance of positional goods, a term he coined, in the Social Limits to Growth (1976). A review of that book by Jack Bakunin is available at "The Failure of Individualism," maintained by Religion Online.
First, consider what are known as positional goods. As first elaborated by the economist Fred Hirsch, positional goods are those products and services which are inherently impossible to mass produce because their value is mostly, if not exclusively, a function of their relative desirability. Consider a simple ranking of the best restaurants. Assume for simplicity that the best restaurants are the most fashionable and most desirable eateries. However good the general run of restaurants are, the most favored top shops are still better, more desirable, and more exclusive than the others. Imagine that all restaurants were to improve by proportionate degrees, hence raising the average quality still further. But no improvement of the average will change the fact that only ten restaurants can—by definition—make it to the list of the ten best restaurants.
Now consider what happens as incomes and population grow. If the reason to go to the best restaurants is to be seen at the "best" establishments it will become no easier and may get harder to get into the top ten. Assuming for a second that only the wealthiest get spaces at the top restaurants, no increase in average income will change the fact that only the richest will be capable of going to those establishments. The ordinary joe may get wealthier, truffles may become as cheap as corn, and a fast food joint may come to have food that would dazzle today's gourmet if technology and productivity continue to promote improved food. But no increase in average wealth will make the best any more available to the masses.
For those who only care about getting a good meal, this is a blessing not a tragedy. But those with expectations of going to the great restaurants as their incomes rise will be frustrated by the fact that the best remain agonizingly out of reach unless they grow rich much faster than the average. So only the wealthiest of the wealthy can have these goods and must pay a growing premium to do so.
While some goods depend on the value of having the "best," another type of positional good is one where the value is due to its irreproducibility. This is especially true for fashionable goods that are literally fixed in numbers—say the paintings of Picasso. The price that will be paid for these goods will depend on demand. And demand is partly a function of the size of the population wanting a Picasso and the relative wealth of that group. If you are at the bottom of that group now, you will be no more able to obtain the Picassos even if your incomes rise and even if the absolute differences in income between yourself and the top demanders grow increasingly smaller. So long as the top few bidders can buy the hundred most wanted paintings, they will continue to be those who get those paintings, whether the gap between the hundredth and the hundred and first bidders is large or small.
But what this means is that the relative price of these non-reproducible items will be driven up as the price of other goods falls. Consider the one positional good that is of greatest concern to most groups of people—housing. It is a commonplace to hear people complain that housing has become more expensive and less available. But the rise in housing prices stems from three rather different phenomena. The first and most obvious is inflation. The nominal price of housing may rise even though its real price may have fallen, in much the same way that gas at $1.25 a gallon today would be cheaper than gas at $.25 a gallon fifty years ago. The second point is that in comparing the average house of today with the average house of twenty, forty or a hundred years ago, we are mixing apples and oranges. For one thing, the average U.S. home today is much larger than in previous decades. Moreover it is more likely to have heat and even air-conditioning, central plumbing, storm windows, and a garage than "equivalent" houses of previous times. Hence, the average U.S. house today, is better than the average house of yesteryear.
Housingnyc.com provides an idea of current prices for apartments around New York City, including Manhattan. The figures shown are median prices, not the high end. To get a feel for how expensive the high-end apartments are, see the "Manhattan's Grandest Apartments" section of this report from Brown Harris Stevens, a luxury real estate company.
But over and above these is the third problem: location. And good location is the quintessential positional good because it is important both for its relative prestige and its irreproducibility. When the upper middle classes complain about housing prices, they are really fretting about the cost of housing in the most desirable locations. But this exactly conforms to the phenomenon we've been discussing. If the ten best locations in, for example, Manhattan, always go to the ten wealthiest residents, then no others can have those locations no matter what the average incomes are. Rising incomes and population growth will disproportionately drive up the price of such homes, frustrating those with dreams of upward mobility but ultimately causing the wealthiest to pay more for locations that they would have gotten anyway, had everyone else's incomes not grown so much. Correcting for quality and inflation will show that the best houses in the most desirable locations are expensive primarily because of increased demand for housing in the best locations. This is not just because of the prestige of good locations. Good locations have "objective" benefits (such as access to the centers of commerce and finance) that become more valuable with population growth and economic progress even if one is indifferent to the "status" value of good location. The average U.S. house might be located in communities that are better (due to economic and social improvements) than most of the prosperous neighborhoods of a century ago but the number of top locations will remain unchanged. Indeed the best locations will become disproportionately more expensive. Thus, absolute wealth will not necessarily buy you the best places, while the wealthiest of the wealthy will end up paying more for locations they would have obtained at lower prices if people were less prosperous in general.
Though Hirsch decried the "waste" that competition for positional goods like location creates, I see it as a positive force for the democratization of the benefits of economic growth. Thus the spending by the wealthy on many positional goods acts as a curious sort of natural taxation. The richest (or most ambitious) must work harder and pay more for virtually the same goods as yesteryear while their productive investments (necessary to stay on top of the income distribution) benefit the entire economy.
The second class of goods whose prices rise disproportionately are those dependent on human labor. The flip side of high average incomes is expensive labor costs. Hence the goods that directly or indirectly rely on human input become more expensive as growth progresses. In many countries around the world, even the middle classes can afford to have live-in maids. As incomes rise and the opportunity cost of performing menial labor changes, fewer people will want to work as servants. Those that do will command a higher price. So in America the middle and upper middle-classes are less likely to have servants than in much poorer nations.
Higher labor costs due to rising incomes also affect the supply of goods requiring specialized knowledge and high degrees of craftsmanship. Those members of the population with a taste for hand-carved furniture, stained glass windows, or other items requiring patience and craftsmanship will find that the number of people willing to work at such tasks may shrink and the prices that are charged by those that remain may grow. In certain cases, the costs may so discourage demand, and the supply of workers may fall below a critical level so that even the specialized knowledge itself is lost to future generations. Again, this change in relative prices is likely to be felt most acutely by the wealthiest, but it will also affect those of more modest means who have a peculiar affinity for some items that they feel are essential to the good life.
Now, all these issues have not gone unrecognized in the literature, but in my view, insufficient attention has been paid to how they cloud what might otherwise be reasonable debates about current and future policy. Unlike most discussions of not so easily reproduced goods, this essay argues that their continued presence guarantees the persistence of inequality no matter how much economic progress is made or how goods are distributed. In fact, one might say that successful economic growth will inevitably lead to the perception of important and mostly ineradicable inequalities. In a world where all goods are free but one, differential access to that last good will loom large in public consciousness regardless of what the nominal measures of dollar or material inequality tell us.
Whether one sees this as a good or bad thing depends on any number of factors of course, not least of which is one's attitude towards the desirability of promoting or ignoring material equality. If your goal is to narrow the gap on most important material dimensions, that world will be a good one, no matter what the numbers show. But if you view the perception of inequality as an important subject for policy intervention, then the future is grim. Not only will redistribution of the fruits of progress not erase such gaps, they will foster more dissatisfaction with inequalities that remain. The greater the success in the economic sphere, the greater the conflict over inequality. Indeed, the most serious problems will arise from goods which cannot be purchased in the market at any price.
It is worth recalling that on nominal measures, the old Soviet Union did not have especially high income inequality. But the important differences were those that money could not buy. Political connections or talents blessed by the state (e.g. ballet or chess) were more important determinants of what you could buy or where you could shop than simple monetary income.
But of course, in a future world where accidents of birth and the fortunes of good genes are even more critical determinants of success than they are now, inequalities that persist will be especially galling. Even if biology could somehow be conquered to the point that genetic good fortune could be parceled out equally to all, the minor differences that remained would loom ever larger. Assume that the only thing that differentiated people were beauty (ignoring the role of cosmetic surgery and better make-up). Then those blessed with desirable features may come to seem vastly more privileged than the rest.
Moreover some people have always measured their success in life by their ability to control and command other human beings—whether as servants, serfs, or soldiers. Perhaps this power gap may come to be the one source of unequal income that really matters. Whether you view such an eventuality as desirable or irrelevant, more of our intellectual effort should be devoted to this future scenario. Not simply because we are heading there, but in many ways because parts of that world are already here. Because social and positional inequalities already distort existing measures of incomes and wealth, many seemingly clean cut economic debates are more intractable than one would imagine. And of course, social anxieties over the unavoidable differences will become even more troubling, the less we can constructively address these issues. By ignoring the role of the goods that are inherently limited or irreproducible in our measures of simple material inequality we inevitably end up discussing the wrong issues. It is likely that as differences on important margins narrow, the most unequal efforts and expenditures will accrue to those margins that remain difficult to change.
A brief discussion of income inequality trends in different parts of the globe can be found at the World Bank website.
Even today, we routinely exaggerate the extent of material inequality and make foolish comparisons between different time periods and between countries at different levels of development. This does not mean that inequality has disappeared, or that it is unimportant. But in many cases (such as the plight of children in the poorest countries) the real problem is not unequal distribution, but lack of the most basic goods that have long become commonplace in the developed world. Of course, even with the reminder of other people's misery, the small differences that seem close to us often appear large enough to block our vision of the bigger picture. I wish it were otherwise, but I foresee both increased prosperity and still louder complaints in our future.
For more articles by John V.C. Nye, see the Archive.


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–News Direct–
Equalizer Elevates Their DeFi Platform with Launch of DEX & Bridge Aggregator and Airdrop Explorer Features
In a significant leap forward for decentralized finance, Equalizer is proud to announce the launch of two innovative services: a Meta Aggregator and an Airdrop Explorer. These additions, combined with the platform's existing Flash Loans service, cement Equalizer's position as a multi-service player in the DeFi space.
Meta Aggregator: A One-Stop DeFi Solution
The Meta Aggregator is a multi-chain decentralized exchange (DEX) and a cross-chain bridge for top blockchain networks, enabling users to swap any token seamlessly with a single click. This service also features a unique gas function, assisting users in transferring gas efficiently across networks, and ensuring uninterrupted token movement.
"Our DEX and Bridge Aggregator is designed to be the ultimate destination for all DeFi swapping and bridging activities, offering unparalleled ease and efficiency," said Julian, Founder of Equalizer. "It represents our commitment to simplifying and enhancing the DeFi experience for our users."
Airdrop Explorer: Strategies for Optimal Rewards
The Airdrop Explorer feature is an easy-to-use airdrop finder. It assists users in identifying the most rewarding airdrops, providing detailed strategies and step-by-step guides to increase eligibility. The feature also allows users to track completed airdrops efficiently, while learning how to interact with the newest tools in the space
"This new feature is a game-changer, offering our users an edge in maximizing their airdrop rewards," explained Adrian, CTO of Equalizer. "It's all about empowering our community with the tools and knowledge to thrive in the dynamic world of DeFi."
Forward-thinking: Integrating AI in DeFi
Building on these advancements, Equalizer is also testing the integration of Artificial Intelligence in DeFi, exploring use cases for both technical and marketing aspects of the platform. This forward-thinking approach ensures that Equalizer stays at the forefront of technological innovation, adapting swiftly to market trends.
About Equalizer
Equalizer is the first dedicated platform that equalizes the DeFi markets. Offering a range of services including Flash Loans, Meta Aggregator, and Airdrop Explorer, Equalizer is committed to innovation and user empowerment. Always dedicated to providing cutting-edge solutions in the rapidly evolving DeFi space.
For more information, follow Equalizer's: Official Website | Twitter | Telegram
Contact Details
Mihai Lungu
View source version on newsdirect.com: https://newsdirect.com/news/enhancing-defi-equalizer-introduces-new-meta-aggregator-and-airdrop-explorer-services-886345911
Disclaimer: The views, suggestions, and opinions expressed here are the sole responsibility of the experts. No Just Examiner journalist was involved in the writing and production of this article.


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Woman Shamed After Giving Rescue Dog 'Offensive' Pandemic-Related Name
People have the right to name their pets whatever they want, sure — but that hasn't stopped one woman from being shamed for giving her rescue pup a... peculiar name.
A woman took to Reddit explaining she named her dog COVID as she rescued him during quarantine.
"We found a stray puppy during the start of our lockdown. It started by feeding him scraps in the back garden where we were spending so much of our time," she wrote, according to the Mirror. "Now he's moved in and is probably going to stay unless someone comes forward to claim him."
She detailed that after taking some time mulling over names she decided on "COVID because that's why we found him — spending all our time at home."
The woman claimed that people have taken offense to the name, however.
"We have now started taking him out for walks — which he loves. But yesterday a couple heard us calling his name while playing by the beach," she wrote, alleging she was then confronted by people who were upset about the dog's name.
"They came over and told us that it's insensitive as they lost an uncle to the virus," she continued. "They said how would we feel if they called their pet cancer or death?"
The woman asked Reddit if the name was "offensive" or if the couple "overreacted."
"I mean, use practically any other example and it looks really bad really fast," a user scoffed, according to the outlet, while another commented: "I mean if nothing else, running around on the beach shouting 'COVID! COVID!' could be construed as yelling fire in a crowded theater — just not smart any way you slice it."
"Despite your story, I still have no clue why you would name a pet after a virus that has killed thousands of people," a third wrote.
However, another user sympathized with the woman as they, too, named their pet after the novel coronavirus.
"We named our kitten Corona but call him RowRow," they wrote, adding: "I do feel like a bit bad but since he was born in March we figure he's a little brightness in all this darkness."
According to the CDC, as of March 2022 there have been over 969,000 deaths caused by COVID-19 in the U.S.


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Watch Ozzy Osbourne Return to Action at the AMAs
Ozzy Osbourne made his first official stage appearance since postponing his farewell tour during the American Music Awards last night (Nov. 24).
You can watch the moment below.
He performed alongside Post Malone, Travis Scott and Andrew Watt on their collaboration "Take What You Want," which was released last month.
Osbourne spent most of the time perched on a throne towards the back of the stage, standing up to sing and encouraging the audience by waving his arms. He'd previously made a surprise appearance alongside Malone in Los Angeles on Nov. 21, where he'd also sung "Take What You Want" from a seated position.
His No More Tours 2 road trip was put on hold earlier this year after he underwent surgery for injuries sustained in a fall. At the time he was already under doctors' orders for pneumonia and a hand infection.
After working on "Take What You Want," he began working on a new album with producer Watt, resulting in Ordinary Man, set for release early next year and featuring Guns N' Roses bassist Duff McKagan and Red Hot Chili Peppers drummer Chad Smith. McKagan's Guns N' Roses bandmate Slash provides the guitar solo for the album's second single, "Straight to Hell."
"Duff and Chad came in, and we would go in and jam during the day, and I would go work out the songs in the evenings," Osbourne explained. "I previously had said to Sharon I should be doing an album, but in the back of my mind I was going, 'I haven't got the fucking strength.' But Andrew pulled it out of me. I really hope people listen to it and enjoy it, because I put my heart and soul into this album."


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My sisters and brothers,
This great union of ours and all of our UAW family, past and present, have a long and cherished legacy in fighting for the civil rights and equality of all Americans and all peoples of the world. It is one of the founding principles of our union and we have much to be proud about.
During Black History Month, we remember and salute UAW members' roles in all that we have achieved and in all that we continue to work towards. I'd like to share a few highlights here from our proud history in the civil rights movement —
- UAW members adopted a culture of equality from our first days as a union.
- Our Constitution, from our earliest days, puts a priority on our standing Civil and Human Rights committees.
- We have championed equal rights in the workplace through our more than 80 years of collective bargaining.
- The UAW integrated professional bowling in the United States and fought to end segregation in our society.
- UAW members stood with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. on the Edmund Pettus Bridge to fight for voting rights.
- The UAW, under the leadership of President Walter Reuther, provided the funds for bail for Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. when he was jailed in Birmingham, Alabama.
- Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s first draft of his famous "I have a Dream" speech was written at Solidarity House.
- UAW members were front and center at the history-changing 1963 March in Washington for Jobs and Freedom and were present at the signing of the Voter Rights Act of 1964.
- The UAW fought to free Nelson Mandela and end apartheid, hosting him in Detroit upon his release from decades in prison.
- The UAW has been instrumental in supporting and electing minorities and those who fight for social justice and equality to Congress, state legislatures and local elected offices.
Though the list is long, our work is not complete and we must continue to build upon our treasured past history, but the important issue for this year's Black History Month is not just remembering our storied past but committing ourselves to never taking our foot off the gas pedal as we push to safeguard and advance civil and human rights for all.
I am constantly reminded of a quote by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. – "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter."
One of the most critical battles ahead is protecting our right to vote, which has been under a staggering assault since the 2020 election. But we cannot lose the historic gains we made in voter access, and we cannot let those who would silence our voices succeed. In this most fundamental of American rights, we must be vigilant.
We cannot shy from racism in our communities, in our plants and or our nation.
Each year, we hear the echo of the past in tragedies like Trayvon Martin, George Floyd and so many others. Incidents like the violence and protests in Charlottesville or Kenosha remind us that vestiges of racism, racial disparity and unrest have not gone away. And here too, we must be vigilant.
This is truly what Black History Month is about. It is not just to remind us of our past and or our past gains. It is to look at our journey and understand we are still marching hand in hand on that road to equality and fairness for all.
And if you blink. If you stop. If you coast … we can lose it all.
So let us resolve ourselves to not letting up on the gas pedal in this journey. Let us remember this month what we have done and commit ourselves to the journey we have not finished. Let us press on and stand united in the fight for what is right.
In Solidarity,
Ray Curry


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