Ethnic group, native to the island of Ireland, with shared history and culture
Pt. 2 of our Martin Scorsese Retrospective including: The Last Temptation of Christ (1988), Goodfellas (1990), Cape Fear (1991), The Age of Innocence (1993), Casino (1995), Kundun (1997), Bringing Out the Dead (1999), Gangs of New York (2002), The Aviator (2004), The Departed (2006), Shutter Island (2010), Hugo (2011), The Wolf of Wall Street (2013), Silence (2016), The Irishman (2019), and Killers of the Flower Moon (2023). This episode is sponsored by FNX Fitness (Use the Discount Code: fourseasonsoffilm and receive 15% off your order). Podcast App: https://playpodca.st/fourseasons Spotify: http://bit.ly/4SOFspotify Amazon Music: https://tinyurl.com/35zkuzya Check out our latest episodes, digital shorts, movie reviews and more: fourseasonsoffilm.com Where to Find Nathan and Andy: @fourseasonspod on Twitter @fourseasonsoffilm on Instagram @NathanRobertBlackburn on Instagram & Twitter @AJPesa on IG & Twitter Facebook: http://facebook.com/fourseasonsoffilm YouTube: http://youtube.com/fourseasonsoffilm Vimeo: https://vimeo.com/fourseasonsoffilm @fnx_fit Keep Film Alive!
Marion McKeone pays tribute to her dear friend and Irish music icon Shane MacGowan who sadly passed away this week. Marion explains the origin of their friendship and what Shane meant to the Irish abroad. We hear her fondest memories and few things only those closest to him could ever know. In the second half of the episode on www.patreon.com/irishmanabroad Marion examines the latest developments in Israel and Gazza, the Desantis dumpster fire and what we can learn from lawlessness in US cities after the Dublin riots. To contact the show email email@example.com
Peter Quartaroli is the proud owner of the classic San Francisco seafood restaurant Sam's Grill. Founded in 1867 by Irishman and oyster farmer Michael Bolan Moraghan, Sam's Grill is the fifth oldest restaurant in the country. Originally called “M. B. Moraghan's,” the restaurant featured a classic San Francisco menu with Moraghan's oysters as its headliner. It was later renamed Sam's Grill by owner Sam Zenovich, a change that has endured for over 100 years. Sam's Grill has always maintained its beloved seafood specialty despite its many owners. Also an actor and producer, Peter is the heart behind the restaurant's status as a traditional gathering place for San Francisco's iconic figures. His warm and charming personality ensures that every visitor feels like the most important person in the room. Thanks to Peter, Sam's Grill remains a cherished "clubhouse" for local SF legends. For more information about Sam's Grill, please visit the restaurant website. Meet Peter Quartaroli of Sam's Grill!
This episode was a lot of fun and I hope that you guys enjoy it just as much as we did filming it. In another great episode dedicated to YOU (the fans) I am once again joined by my wonderful co-hosts Kathrine Narducci and hilarious Tara Cannistraci @tarajokes We are also joined by what we call "The Peanut Gallery" which consists of my wife Gianna, my son Dante & my producer John the NYVideoGuy In this episode we discuss several "what if" & "would you rather" questions about dating and relationships. Some of these topics include strong vs pushy, tipping culture, dating under the influence, dating mediums & much more. These are some hilarious questions that we get & we would love to hear from you! Leave your questions in the comments or email them to me privately at firstname.lastname@example.org I READ THE COMMENTS!!! Try me, I'll answer Your input shapes the show and we will read them. Sometime I may even answer them! Kathrine Narducci is an American actress, known for her role as Charmaine Bucco, Artie Bucco's wife, on the HBO crime drama series The Sopranos. Her film credits include A Bronx Tale, Chicago Overcoat, Jersey Boys, Bad Education, The Irishman, and Capone. Tara Cannistraci is an Italian-American comedian, actress & writer. She was born and raised in the Bronx, New York. She is quickly becoming one of the most sought after stand-up comics. Tara has taken her talents to stage, television, film, and centerfield as the scoreboard host for the New York Yankees. Be sure to leave your comments below! Dont forget to Like & Subscribe!!!
Co-hosts Alex Moss and Burton DeWitt are back with a new episode after the Grand Slam of Darts! The boys start the show with a review of the Grand Slam, discussing Luke Humphries' second major title in six weeks, and if it makes him the favourite for the upcoming PDC World Championship. Alex and Burton also look back at Rob Cross' run to a second major final of the season, before turning their attention to the Players Championship Finals this weekend and making their predictions. Connor Scutt (16:25) calls in ahead of making his debut in the Players Championship Finals on Friday. Connor looks back on his almost first two full years as a PDC tour card holder, his run to a first Players Championship final last month, qualifying for Minehead this weekend and also securing his debut at the PDC World Championship next month, as well as his bid to keep hold of his tour card for 2024. Dylan Slevin (48:48) also stops by ahead of making his first appearance in the Players Championship Finals. The young Irishman reflects on his debut season on the PDC tour, making the semi-finals in his first ProTour event, getting a call up on Monday to replace Danny Noppert in Minehead this weekend, as well as preparing for his PDC World Championship debut at Alexandra Palace in a few weeks time. *** This podcast is brought to you in association with Darts Corner - the number one online darts retailer! Darts Corner offers the widest selection of darts products from over 30 different manufacturers. Check out Darts Corner here: UK site US site Netherlands site *** Sponsorship available! Want your business advertised on the show? Email email@example.com for more details and a free copy of our new sponsor brochure! *** Enjoy our podcast? Make a one-off donation on our new Ko-Fi page here: ko-fi.com/weeklydartscast Support us on Patreon from just $2(+VAT): patreon.com/WeeklyDartscast Thank you to our Patreon members: Phil Moss, Gordon Skinner, Connor Ellis, Bill Richards, Scott Hunt
Será que David Fincher consegue adicionar mais um filme para o seu excelente portefólio de filmes como 'Se7en', 'Gone Girl', 'Zodiac', 'The Game' entre outros? Neste episódio falamos de notícias, o que andamos a ver, fazemos a review do filme 'The Killer' e terminamos com spoilers. NOTÍCIAS Lázaro fala sobre alguns updates do filme SuperGirl (URL) e a nova personagem de Pedro Pascal (URL); Luis fala sobre o anfitrião dos Óscares (URL); Erick dá um bom update sobre o filme ‘Coyote vs Acme' (URL) e fala sobre um comentário de Christopher Nolan (URL). O QUE ANDAMOS A VER? Lázaro We Are Your Friends (2015) The Irishman (2019) The Wheel of Time Luis Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba (3ª Temporada) Five Nights at Freddy's (2023) Tore (1ª Temporada) The Architect (2023) (1ª Temporada) Erick Secret Invasion (1ª Tenporada) The Equalizer 3 (2023) Boiling Point (1ª Temporada) Para a semana vamos fazer a review do filme 'Napoleon'. Até lá, bons filmes. ** Música Original produzida por António Capelo (https://capelo.me) Sigam-nos em: https://twitter.com/peliculapodcasthttps://instagram.com/peliculapodcasthttps://facebook.com/peliculapodcast
Welcome back to the Candlelit Tales podcast. In this episode, we're interviewing an Irishman who journeyed far and rooted deep in foreign soil. He's a permaculture designer who runs a sustainable farm (and farm-to-table restaurant, and Irish bar) in Guatemala, and he's also our big brother! We talk to the Other Hegarty Sibling about the power of stories in realising what it is you want to do with your life and your business. You can find more from Neal at https://creasolpermaculture.com/ and follow Creasol on social media @creasolpermaculture If you'd like to avail of Neal's generous offer with @thegaelicwoodlandproject you can check out their page or DM us for the online webinar link. This podcast is proudly sponsored by the people who donate to us each month via https://www.patreon.com/candlelittales and anyone who sends us a once-off donation through the Paypal button on our website http://candlelittales.ie/ Find details of our upcoming shows here: https://candlelittales.ie/performances/
If a run happens in the woods and there's no watch there to record it and post it to Strava, did a run ever happen at all? Is the measuring of running ruining running? Sonia O'Sullivan and comedian Jarlath Regan ask whether the focus on data and super advanced technology is sucking the joy out of running? Later in the episode Sonia looks at the limits of data analytics for elite athletes and the one measurement even elite coaches are reluctant to ask their athletes about. One listener hits a big milestone and Jarlath experiments with low heart rate running. “Running is a long term relationship with yourself” according to Sonia. How can we make it one that lasts rather than a fling? Pop over to Patreon to see footage from Jarlath's latest road trip and listen to an extra 30 mins deep dive on this subject. Www.patreon.com/irishmanabroad
The Haunter of the Dark By H. P. Lovecraft (Dedicated to Robert Bloch) I have seen the dark universe yawning Where the black planets roll without aim— Where they roll in their horror unheeded, Without knowledge or lustre or name. —Nemesis. Cautious investigators will hesitate to challenge the common belief that Robert Blake was killed by lightning, or by some profound nervous shock derived from an electrical discharge. It is true that the window he faced was unbroken, but Nature has shewn herself capable of many freakish performances. The expression on his face may easily have arisen from some obscure muscular source unrelated to anything he saw, while the entries in his diary are clearly the result of a fantastic imagination aroused by certain local superstitions and by certain old matters he had uncovered. As for the anomalous conditions at the deserted church on Federal Hill—the shrewd analyst is not slow in attributing them to some charlatanry, conscious or unconscious, with at least some of which Blake was secretly connected. For after all, the victim was a writer and painter wholly devoted to the field of myth, dream, terror, and superstition, and avid in his quest for scenes and effects of a bizarre, spectral sort. His earlier stay in the city—a visit to a strange old man as deeply given to occult and forbidden lore as he—had ended amidst death and flame, and it must have been some morbid instinct which drew him back from his home in Milwaukee. He may have known of the old stories despite his statements to the contrary in the diary, and his death may have nipped in the bud some stupendous hoax destined to have a literary reflection. Among those, however, who have examined and correlated all this evidence, there remain several who cling to less rational and commonplace theories. They are inclined to take much of Blake's diary at its face value, and point significantly to certain facts such as the undoubted genuineness of the old church record, the verified existence of the disliked and unorthodox Starry Wisdom sect prior to 1877, the recorded disappearance of an inquisitive reporter named Edwin M. Lillibridge in 1893, and—above all—the look of monstrous, transfiguring fear on the face of the young writer when he died. It was one of these believers who, moved to fanatical extremes, threw into the bay the curiously angled stone and its strangely adorned metal box found in the old church steeple—the black windowless steeple, and not the tower where Blake's diary said those things originally were. Though widely censured both officially and unofficially, this man—a reputable physician with a taste for odd folklore—averred that he had rid the earth of something too dangerous to rest upon it. Between these two schools of opinion the reader must judge for himself. The papers have given the tangible details from a sceptical angle, leaving for others the drawing of the picture as Robert Blake saw it—or thought he saw it—or pretended to see it. Now, studying the diary closely, dispassionately, and at leisure, let us summarise the dark chain of events from the expressed point of view of their chief actor. Young Blake returned to Providence in the winter of 1934–5, taking the upper floor of a venerable dwelling in a grassy court off College Street—on the crest of the great eastward hill near the Brown University campus and behind the marble John Hay Library. It was a cosy and fascinating place, in a little garden oasis of village-like antiquity where huge, friendly cats sunned themselves atop a convenient shed. The square Georgian house had a monitor roof, classic doorway with fan carving, small-paned windows, and all the other earmarks of early nineteenth-century workmanship. Inside were six-panelled doors, wide floor-boards, a curving colonial staircase, white Adam-period mantels, and a rear set of rooms three steps below the general level. Blake's study, a large southwest chamber, overlooked the front garden on one side, while its west windows—before one of which he had his desk—faced off from the brow of the hill and commanded a splendid view of the lower town's outspread roofs and of the mystical sunsets that flamed behind them. On the far horizon were the open countryside's purple slopes. Against these, some two miles away, rose the spectral hump of Federal Hill, bristling with huddled roofs and steeples whose remote outlines wavered mysteriously, taking fantastic forms as the smoke of the city swirled up and enmeshed them. Blake had a curious sense that he was looking upon some unknown, ethereal world which might or might not vanish in dream if ever he tried to seek it out and enter it in person. Having sent home for most of his books, Blake bought some antique furniture suitable to his quarters and settled down to write and paint—living alone, and attending to the simple housework himself. His studio was in a north attic room, where the panes of the monitor roof furnished admirable lighting. During that first winter he produced five of his best-known short stories—“The Burrower Beneath”, “The Stairs in the Crypt”, “Shaggai”, “In the Vale of Pnath”, and “The Feaster from the Stars”—and painted seven canvases; studies of nameless, unhuman monsters, and profoundly alien, non-terrestrial landscapes. At sunset he would often sit at his desk and gaze dreamily off at the outspread west—the dark towers of Memorial Hall just below, the Georgian court-house belfry, the lofty pinnacles of the downtown section, and that shimmering, spire-crowned mound in the distance whose unknown streets and labyrinthine gables so potently provoked his fancy. From his few local acquaintances he learned that the far-off slope was a vast Italian quarter, though most of the houses were remnants of older Yankee and Irish days. Now and then he would train his field-glasses on that spectral, unreachable world beyond the curling smoke; picking out individual roofs and chimneys and steeples, and speculating upon the bizarre and curious mysteries they might house. Even with optical aid Federal Hill seemed somehow alien, half fabulous, and linked to the unreal, intangible marvels of Blake's own tales and pictures. The feeling would persist long after the hill had faded into the violet, lamp-starred twilight, and the court-house floodlights and the red Industrial Trust beacon had blazed up to make the night grotesque. Of all the distant objects on Federal Hill, a certain huge, dark church most fascinated Blake. It stood out with especial distinctness at certain hours of the day, and at sunset the great tower and tapering steeple loomed blackly against the flaming sky. It seemed to rest on especially high ground; for the grimy facade, and the obliquely seen north side with sloping roof and the tops of great pointed windows, rose boldly above the tangle of surrounding ridgepoles and chimney-pots. Peculiarly grim and austere, it appeared to be built of stone, stained and weathered with the smoke and storms of a century and more. The style, so far as the glass could shew, was that earliest experimental form of Gothic revival which preceded the stately Upjohn period and held over some of the outlines and proportions of the Georgian age. Perhaps it was reared around 1810 or 1815. As months passed, Blake watched the far-off, forbidding structure with an oddly mounting interest. Since the vast windows were never lighted, he knew that it must be vacant. The longer he watched, the more his imagination worked, till at length he began to fancy curious things. He believed that a vague, singular aura of desolation hovered over the place, so that even the pigeons and swallows shunned its smoky eaves. Around other towers and belfries his glass would reveal great flocks of birds, but here they never rested. At least, that is what he thought and set down in his diary. He pointed the place out to several friends, but none of them had even been on Federal Hill or possessed the faintest notion of what the church was or had been. In the spring a deep restlessness gripped Blake. He had begun his long-planned novel—based on a supposed survival of the witch-cult in Maine—but was strangely unable to make progress with it. More and more he would sit at his westward window and gaze at the distant hill and the black, frowning steeple shunned by the birds. When the delicate leaves came out on the garden boughs the world was filled with a new beauty, but Blake's restlessness was merely increased. It was then that he first thought of crossing the city and climbing bodily up that fabulous slope into the smoke-wreathed world of dream. Late in April, just before the aeon-shadowed Walpurgis time, Blake made his first trip into the unknown. Plodding through the endless downtown streets and the bleak, decayed squares beyond, he came finally upon the ascending avenue of century-worn steps, sagging Doric porches, and blear-paned cupolas which he felt must lead up to the long-known, unreachable world beyond the mists. There were dingy blue-and-white street signs which meant nothing to him, and presently he noted the strange, dark faces of the drifting crowds, and the foreign signs over curious shops in brown, decade-weathered buildings. Nowhere could he find any of the objects he had seen from afar; so that once more he half fancied that the Federal Hill of that distant view was a dream-world never to be trod by living human feet. Now and then a battered church facade or crumbling spire came in sight, but never the blackened pile that he sought. When he asked a shopkeeper about a great stone church the man smiled and shook his head, though he spoke English freely. As Blake climbed higher, the region seemed stranger and stranger, with bewildering mazes of brooding brown alleys leading eternally off to the south. He crossed two or three broad avenues, and once thought he glimpsed a familiar tower. Again he asked a merchant about the massive church of stone, and this time he could have sworn that the plea of ignorance was feigned. The dark man's face had a look of fear which he tried to hide, and Blake saw him make a curious sign with his right hand. Then suddenly a black spire stood out against the cloudy sky on his left, above the tiers of brown roofs lining the tangled southerly alleys. Blake knew at once what it was, and plunged toward it through the squalid, unpaved lanes that climbed from the avenue. Twice he lost his way, but he somehow dared not ask any of the patriarchs or housewives who sat on their doorsteps, or any of the children who shouted and played in the mud of the shadowy lanes. At last he saw the tower plain against the southwest, and a huge stone bulk rose darkly at the end of an alley. Presently he stood in a windswept open square, quaintly cobblestoned, with a high bank wall on the farther side. This was the end of his quest; for upon the wide, iron-railed, weed-grown plateau which the wall supported—a separate, lesser world raised fully six feet above the surrounding streets—there stood a grim, titan bulk whose identity, despite Blake's new perspective, was beyond dispute. The vacant church was in a state of great decrepitude. Some of the high stone buttresses had fallen, and several delicate finials lay half lost among the brown, neglected weeds and grasses. The sooty Gothic windows were largely unbroken, though many of the stone mullions were missing. Blake wondered how the obscurely painted panes could have survived so well, in view of the known habits of small boys the world over. The massive doors were intact and tightly closed. Around the top of the bank wall, fully enclosing the grounds, was a rusty iron fence whose gate—at the head of a flight of steps from the square—was visibly padlocked. The path from the gate to the building was completely overgrown. Desolation and decay hung like a pall above the place, and in the birdless eaves and black, ivyless walls Blake felt a touch of the dimly sinister beyond his power to define. There were very few people in the square, but Blake saw a policeman at the northerly end and approached him with questions about the church. He was a great wholesome Irishman, and it seemed odd that he would do little more than make the sign of the cross and mutter that people never spoke of that building. When Blake pressed him he said very hurriedly that the Italian priests warned everybody against it, vowing that a monstrous evil had once dwelt there and left its mark. He himself had heard dark whispers of it from his father, who recalled certain sounds and rumours from his boyhood. There had been a bad sect there in the ould days—an outlaw sect that called up awful things from some unknown gulf of night. It had taken a good priest to exorcise what had come, though there did be those who said that merely the light could do it. If Father O'Malley were alive there would be many the thing he could tell. But now there was nothing to do but let it alone. It hurt nobody now, and those that owned it were dead or far away. They had run away like rats after the threatening talk in '77, when people began to mind the way folks vanished now and then in the neighbourhood. Some day the city would step in and take the property for lack of heirs, but little good would come of anybody's touching it. Better it be left alone for the years to topple, lest things be stirred that ought to rest forever in their black abyss. After the policeman had gone Blake stood staring at the sullen steepled pile. It excited him to find that the structure seemed as sinister to others as to him, and he wondered what grain of truth might lie behind the old tales the bluecoat had repeated. Probably they were mere legends evoked by the evil look of the place, but even so, they were like a strange coming to life of one of his own stories. The afternoon sun came out from behind dispersing clouds, but seemed unable to light up the stained, sooty walls of the old temple that towered on its high plateau. It was odd that the green of spring had not touched the brown, withered growths in the raised, iron-fenced yard. Blake found himself edging nearer the raised area and examining the bank wall and rusted fence for possible avenues of ingress. There was a terrible lure about the blackened fane which was not to be resisted. The fence had no opening near the steps, but around on the north side were some missing bars. He could go up the steps and walk around on the narrow coping outside the fence till he came to the gap. If the people feared the place so wildly, he would encounter no interference. He was on the embankment and almost inside the fence before anyone noticed him. Then, looking down, he saw the few people in the square edging away and making the same sign with their right hands that the shopkeeper in the avenue had made. Several windows were slammed down, and a fat woman darted into the street and pulled some small children inside a rickety, unpainted house. The gap in the fence was very easy to pass through, and before long Blake found himself wading amidst the rotting, tangled growths of the deserted yard. Here and there the worn stump of a headstone told him that there had once been burials in this field; but that, he saw, must have been very long ago. The sheer bulk of the church was oppressive now that he was close to it, but he conquered his mood and approached to try the three great doors in the facade. All were securely locked, so he began a circuit of the Cyclopean building in quest of some minor and more penetrable opening. Even then he could not be sure that he wished to enter that haunt of desertion and shadow, yet the pull of its strangeness dragged him on automatically. A yawning and unprotected cellar window in the rear furnished the needed aperture. Peering in, Blake saw a subterrene gulf of cobwebs and dust faintly litten by the western sun's filtered rays. Debris, old barrels, and ruined boxes and furniture of numerous sorts met his eye, though over everything lay a shroud of dust which softened all sharp outlines. The rusted remains of a hot-air furnace shewed that the building had been used and kept in shape as late as mid-Victorian times. Acting almost without conscious initiative, Blake crawled through the window and let himself down to the dust-carpeted and debris-strown concrete floor. The vaulted cellar was a vast one, without partitions; and in a corner far to the right, amid dense shadows, he saw a black archway evidently leading upstairs. He felt a peculiar sense of oppression at being actually within the great spectral building, but kept it in check as he cautiously scouted about—finding a still-intact barrel amid the dust, and rolling it over to the open window to provide for his exit. Then, bracing himself, he crossed the wide, cobweb-festooned space toward the arch. Half choked with the omnipresent dust, and covered with ghostly gossamer fibres, he reached and began to climb the worn stone steps which rose into the darkness. He had no light, but groped carefully with his hands. After a sharp turn he felt a closed door ahead, and a little fumbling revealed its ancient latch. It opened inward, and beyond it he saw a dimly illumined corridor lined with worm-eaten panelling. Once on the ground floor, Blake began exploring in a rapid fashion. All the inner doors were unlocked, so that he freely passed from room to room. The colossal nave was an almost eldritch place with its drifts and mountains of dust over box pews, altar, hourglass pulpit, and sounding-board, and its titanic ropes of cobweb stretching among the pointed arches of the gallery and entwining the clustered Gothic columns. Over all this hushed desolation played a hideous leaden light as the declining afternoon sun sent its rays through the strange, half-blackened panes of the great apsidal windows. The paintings on those windows were so obscured by soot that Blake could scarcely decipher what they had represented, but from the little he could make out he did not like them. The designs were largely conventional, and his knowledge of obscure symbolism told him much concerning some of the ancient patterns. The few saints depicted bore expressions distinctly open to criticism, while one of the windows seemed to shew merely a dark space with spirals of curious luminosity scattered about in it. Turning away from the windows, Blake noticed that the cobwebbed cross above the altar was not of the ordinary kind, but resembled the primordial ankh or crux ansata of shadowy Egypt. In a rear vestry room beside the apse Blake found a rotting desk and ceiling-high shelves of mildewed, disintegrating books. Here for the first time he received a positive shock of objective horror, for the titles of those books told him much. They were the black, forbidden things which most sane people have never even heard of, or have heard of only in furtive, timorous whispers; the banned and dreaded repositories of equivocal secrets and immemorial formulae which have trickled down the stream of time from the days of man's youth, and the dim, fabulous days before man was. He had himself read many of them—a Latin version of the abhorred Necronomicon, the sinister Liber Ivonis, the infamous Cultes des Goules of Comte d'Erlette, the Unaussprechlichen Kulten of von Junzt, and old Ludvig Prinn's hellish De Vermis Mysteriis. But there were others he had known merely by reputation or not at all—the Pnakotic Manuscripts, the Book of Dzyan, and a crumbling volume in wholly unidentifiable characters yet with certain symbols and diagrams shudderingly recognisable to the occult student. Clearly, the lingering local rumours had not lied. This place had once been the seat of an evil older than mankind and wider than the known universe. In the ruined desk was a small leather-bound record-book filled with entries in some odd cryptographic medium. The manuscript writing consisted of the common traditional symbols used today in astronomy and anciently in alchemy, astrology, and other dubious arts—the devices of the sun, moon, planets, aspects, and zodiacal signs—here massed in solid pages of text, with divisions and paragraphings suggesting that each symbol answered to some alphabetical letter. In the hope of later solving the cryptogram, Blake bore off this volume in his coat pocket. Many of the great tomes on the shelves fascinated him unutterably, and he felt tempted to borrow them at some later time. He wondered how they could have remained undisturbed so long. Was he the first to conquer the clutching, pervasive fear which had for nearly sixty years protected this deserted place from visitors? Having now thoroughly explored the ground floor, Blake ploughed again through the dust of the spectral nave to the front vestibule, where he had seen a door and staircase presumably leading up to the blackened tower and steeple—objects so long familiar to him at a distance. The ascent was a choking experience, for dust lay thick, while the spiders had done their worst in this constricted place. The staircase was a spiral with high, narrow wooden treads, and now and then Blake passed a clouded window looking dizzily out over the city. Though he had seen no ropes below, he expected to find a bell or peal of bells in the tower whose narrow, louver-boarded lancet windows his field-glass had studied so often. Here he was doomed to disappointment; for when he attained the top of the stairs he found the tower chamber vacant of chimes, and clearly devoted to vastly different purposes. The room, about fifteen feet square, was faintly lighted by four lancet windows, one on each side, which were glazed within their screening of decayed louver-boards. These had been further fitted with tight, opaque screens, but the latter were now largely rotted away. In the centre of the dust-laden floor rose a curiously angled stone pillar some four feet in height and two in average diameter, covered on each side with bizarre, crudely incised, and wholly unrecognisable hieroglyphs. On this pillar rested a metal box of peculiarly asymmetrical form; its hinged lid thrown back, and its interior holding what looked beneath the decade-deep dust to be an egg-shaped or irregularly spherical object some four inches through. Around the pillar in a rough circle were seven high-backed Gothic chairs still largely intact, while behind them, ranging along the dark-panelled walls, were seven colossal images of crumbling, black-painted plaster, resembling more than anything else the cryptic carven megaliths of mysterious Easter Island. In one corner of the cobwebbed chamber a ladder was built into the wall, leading up to the closed trap-door of the windowless steeple above. As Blake grew accustomed to the feeble light he noticed odd bas-reliefs on the strange open box of yellowish metal. Approaching, he tried to clear the dust away with his hands and handkerchief, and saw that the figurings were of a monstrous and utterly alien kind; depicting entities which, though seemingly alive, resembled no known life-form ever evolved on this planet. The four-inch seeming sphere turned out to be a nearly black, red-striated polyhedron with many irregular flat surfaces; either a very remarkable crystal of some sort, or an artificial object of carved and highly polished mineral matter. It did not touch the bottom of the box, but was held suspended by means of a metal band around its centre, with seven queerly designed supports extending horizontally to angles of the box's inner wall near the top. This stone, once exposed, exerted upon Blake an almost alarming fascination. He could scarcely tear his eyes from it, and as he looked at its glistening surfaces he almost fancied it was transparent, with half-formed worlds of wonder within. Into his mind floated pictures of alien orbs with great stone towers, and other orbs with titan mountains and no mark of life, and still remoter spaces where only a stirring in vague blacknesses told of the presence of consciousness and will. When he did look away, it was to notice a somewhat singular mound of dust in the far corner near the ladder to the steeple. Just why it took his attention he could not tell, but something in its contours carried a message to his unconscious mind. Ploughing toward it, and brushing aside the hanging cobwebs as he went, he began to discern something grim about it. Hand and handkerchief soon revealed the truth, and Blake gasped with a baffling mixture of emotions. It was a human skeleton, and it must have been there for a very long time. The clothing was in shreds, but some buttons and fragments of cloth bespoke a man's grey suit. There were other bits of evidence—shoes, metal clasps, huge buttons for round cuffs, a stickpin of bygone pattern, a reporter's badge with the name of the old Providence Telegram, and a crumbling leather pocketbook. Blake examined the latter with care, finding within it several bills of antiquated issue, a celluloid advertising calendar for 1893, some cards with the name “Edwin M. Lillibridge”, and a paper covered with pencilled memoranda. This paper held much of a puzzling nature, and Blake read it carefully at the dim westward window. Its disjointed text included such phrases as the following: “Prof. Enoch Bowen home from Egypt May 1844—buys old Free-Will Church in July—his archaeological work & studies in occult well known.” “Dr. Drowne of 4th Baptist warns against Starry Wisdom in sermon Dec. 29, 1844.” “Congregation 97 by end of '45.” “1846—3 disappearances—first mention of Shining Trapezohedron.” “7 disappearances 1848—stories of blood sacrifice begin.” “Investigation 1853 comes to nothing—stories of sounds.” “Fr. O'Malley tells of devil-worship with box found in great Egyptian ruins—says they call up something that can't exist in light. Flees a little light, and banished by strong light. Then has to be summoned again. Probably got this from deathbed confession of Francis X. Feeney, who had joined Starry Wisdom in '49. These people say the Shining Trapezohedron shews them heaven & other worlds, & that the Haunter of the Dark tells them secrets in some way.” “Story of Orrin B. Eddy 1857. They call it up by gazing at the crystal, & have a secret language of their own.” “200 or more in cong. 1863, exclusive of men at front.” “Irish boys mob church in 1869 after Patrick Regan's disappearance.” “Veiled article in J. March 14, '72, but people don't talk about it.” “6 disappearances 1876—secret committee calls on Mayor Doyle.” “Action promised Feb. 1877—church closes in April.” “Gang—Federal Hill Boys—threaten Dr. —— and vestrymen in May.” “181 persons leave city before end of '77—mention no names.” “Ghost stories begin around 1880—try to ascertain truth of report that no human being has entered church since 1877.” “Ask Lanigan for photograph of place taken 1851.” . . . Restoring the paper to the pocketbook and placing the latter in his coat, Blake turned to look down at the skeleton in the dust. The implications of the notes were clear, and there could be no doubt but that this man had come to the deserted edifice forty-two years before in quest of a newspaper sensation which no one else had been bold enough to attempt. Perhaps no one else had known of his plan—who could tell? But he had never returned to his paper. Had some bravely suppressed fear risen to overcome him and bring on sudden heart-failure? Blake stooped over the gleaming bones and noted their peculiar state. Some of them were badly scattered, and a few seemed oddly dissolved at the ends. Others were strangely yellowed, with vague suggestions of charring. This charring extended to some of the fragments of clothing. The skull was in a very peculiar state—stained yellow, and with a charred aperture in the top as if some powerful acid had eaten through the solid bone. What had happened to the skeleton during its four decades of silent entombment here Blake could not imagine. Before he realised it, he was looking at the stone again, and letting its curious influence call up a nebulous pageantry in his mind. He saw processions of robed, hooded figures whose outlines were not human, and looked on endless leagues of desert lined with carved, sky-reaching monoliths. He saw towers and walls in nighted depths under the sea, and vortices of space where wisps of black mist floated before thin shimmerings of cold purple haze. And beyond all else he glimpsed an infinite gulf of darkness, where solid and semi-solid forms were known only by their windy stirrings, and cloudy patterns of force seemed to superimpose order on chaos and hold forth a key to all the paradoxes and arcana of the worlds we know. Then all at once the spell was broken by an access of gnawing, indeterminate panic fear. Blake choked and turned away from the stone, conscious of some formless alien presence close to him and watching him with horrible intentness. He felt entangled with something—something which was not in the stone, but which had looked through it at him—something which would ceaselessly follow him with a cognition that was not physical sight. Plainly, the place was getting on his nerves—as well it might in view of his gruesome find. The light was waning, too, and since he had no illuminant with him he knew he would have to be leaving soon. It was then, in the gathering twilight, that he thought he saw a faint trace of luminosity in the crazily angled stone. He had tried to look away from it, but some obscure compulsion drew his eyes back. Was there a subtle phosphorescence of radio-activity about the thing? What was it that the dead man's notes had said concerning a Shining Trapezohedron? What, anyway, was this abandoned lair of cosmic evil? What had been done here, and what might still be lurking in the bird-shunned shadows? It seemed now as if an elusive touch of foetor had arisen somewhere close by, though its source was not apparent. Blake seized the cover of the long-open box and snapped it down. It moved easily on its alien hinges, and closed completely over the unmistakably glowing stone. At the sharp click of that closing a soft stirring sound seemed to come from the steeple's eternal blackness overhead, beyond the trap-door. Rats, without question—the only living things to reveal their presence in this accursed pile since he had entered it. And yet that stirring in the steeple frightened him horribly, so that he plunged almost wildly down the spiral stairs, across the ghoulish nave, into the vaulted basement, out amidst the gathering dusk of the deserted square, and down through the teeming, fear-haunted alleys and avenues of Federal Hill toward the sane central streets and the home-like brick sidewalks of the college district. During the days which followed, Blake told no one of his expedition. Instead, he read much in certain books, examined long years of newspaper files downtown, and worked feverishly at the cryptogram in that leather volume from the cobwebbed vestry room. The cipher, he soon saw, was no simple one; and after a long period of endeavour he felt sure that its language could not be English, Latin, Greek, French, Spanish, Italian, or German. Evidently he would have to draw upon the deepest wells of his strange erudition. Every evening the old impulse to gaze westward returned, and he saw the black steeple as of yore amongst the bristling roofs of a distant and half-fabulous world. But now it held a fresh note of terror for him. He knew the heritage of evil lore it masked, and with the knowledge his vision ran riot in queer new ways. The birds of spring were returning, and as he watched their sunset flights he fancied they avoided the gaunt, lone spire as never before. When a flock of them approached it, he thought, they would wheel and scatter in panic confusion—and he could guess at the wild twitterings which failed to reach him across the intervening miles. It was in June that Blake's diary told of his victory over the cryptogram. The text was, he found, in the dark Aklo language used by certain cults of evil antiquity, and known to him in a halting way through previous researches. The diary is strangely reticent about what Blake deciphered, but he was patently awed and disconcerted by his results. There are references to a Haunter of the Dark awaked by gazing into the Shining Trapezohedron, and insane conjectures about the black gulfs of chaos from which it was called. The being is spoken of as holding all knowledge, and demanding monstrous sacrifices. Some of Blake's entries shew fear lest the thing, which he seemed to regard as summoned, stalk abroad; though he adds that the street-lights form a bulwark which cannot be crossed. Of the Shining Trapezohedron he speaks often, calling it a window on all time and space, and tracing its history from the days it was fashioned on dark Yuggoth, before ever the Old Ones brought it to earth. It was treasured and placed in its curious box by the crinoid things of Antarctica, salvaged from their ruins by the serpent-men of Valusia, and peered at aeons later in Lemuria by the first human beings. It crossed strange lands and stranger seas, and sank with Atlantis before a Minoan fisher meshed it in his net and sold it to swarthy merchants from nighted Khem. The Pharaoh Nephren-Ka built around it a temple with a windowless crypt, and did that which caused his name to be stricken from all monuments and records. Then it slept in the ruins of that evil fane which the priests and the new Pharaoh destroyed, till the delver's spade once more brought it forth to curse mankind. Early in July the newspapers oddly supplement Blake's entries, though in so brief and casual a way that only the diary has called general attention to their contribution. It appears that a new fear had been growing on Federal Hill since a stranger had entered the dreaded church. The Italians whispered of unaccustomed stirrings and bumpings and scrapings in the dark windowless steeple, and called on their priests to banish an entity which haunted their dreams. Something, they said, was constantly watching at a door to see if it were dark enough to venture forth. Press items mentioned the long-standing local superstitions, but failed to shed much light on the earlier background of the horror. It was obvious that the young reporters of today are no antiquarians. In writing of these things in his diary, Blake expresses a curious kind of remorse, and talks of the duty of burying the Shining Trapezohedron and of banishing what he had evoked by letting daylight into the hideous jutting spire. At the same time, however, he displays the dangerous extent of his fascination, and admits a morbid longing—pervading even his dreams—to visit the accursed tower and gaze again into the cosmic secrets of the glowing stone. Then something in the Journal on the morning of July 17 threw the diarist into a veritable fever of horror. It was only a variant of the other half-humorous items about the Federal Hill restlessness, but to Blake it was somehow very terrible indeed. In the night a thunderstorm had put the city's lighting-system out of commission for a full hour, and in that black interval the Italians had nearly gone mad with fright. Those living near the dreaded church had sworn that the thing in the steeple had taken advantage of the street-lamps' absence and gone down into the body of the church, flopping and bumping around in a viscous, altogether dreadful way. Toward the last it had bumped up to the tower, where there were sounds of the shattering of glass. It could go wherever the darkness reached, but light would always send it fleeing. When the current blazed on again there had been a shocking commotion in the tower, for even the feeble light trickling through the grime-blackened, louver-boarded windows was too much for the thing. It had bumped and slithered up into its tenebrous steeple just in time—for a long dose of light would have sent it back into the abyss whence the crazy stranger had called it. During the dark hour praying crowds had clustered round the church in the rain with lighted candles and lamps somehow shielded with folded paper and umbrellas—a guard of light to save the city from the nightmare that stalks in darkness. Once, those nearest the church declared, the outer door had rattled hideously. But even this was not the worst. That evening in the Bulletin Blake read of what the reporters had found. Aroused at last to the whimsical news value of the scare, a pair of them had defied the frantic crowds of Italians and crawled into the church through the cellar window after trying the doors in vain. They found the dust of the vestibule and of the spectral nave ploughed up in a singular way, with bits of rotted cushions and satin pew-linings scattered curiously around. There was a bad odour everywhere, and here and there were bits of yellow stain and patches of what looked like charring. Opening the door to the tower, and pausing a moment at the suspicion of a scraping sound above, they found the narrow spiral stairs wiped roughly clean. In the tower itself a similarly half-swept condition existed. They spoke of the heptagonal stone pillar, the overturned Gothic chairs, and the bizarre plaster images; though strangely enough the metal box and the old mutilated skeleton were not mentioned. What disturbed Blake the most—except for the hints of stains and charring and bad odours—was the final detail that explained the crashing glass. Every one of the tower's lancet windows was broken, and two of them had been darkened in a crude and hurried way by the stuffing of satin pew-linings and cushion-horsehair into the spaces between the slanting exterior louver-boards. More satin fragments and bunches of horsehair lay scattered around the newly swept floor, as if someone had been interrupted in the act of restoring the tower to the absolute blackness of its tightly curtained days. Yellowish stains and charred patches were found on the ladder to the windowless spire, but when a reporter climbed up, opened the horizontally sliding trap-door, and shot a feeble flashlight beam into the black and strangely foetid space, he saw nothing but darkness, and an heterogeneous litter of shapeless fragments near the aperture. The verdict, of course, was charlatanry. Somebody had played a joke on the superstitious hill-dwellers, or else some fanatic had striven to bolster up their fears for their own supposed good. Or perhaps some of the younger and more sophisticated dwellers had staged an elaborate hoax on the outside world. There was an amusing aftermath when the police sent an officer to verify the reports. Three men in succession found ways of evading the assignment, and the fourth went very reluctantly and returned very soon without adding to the account given by the reporters. From this point onward Blake's diary shews a mounting tide of insidious horror and nervous apprehension. He upbraids himself for not doing something, and speculates wildly on the consequences of another electrical breakdown. It has been verified that on three occasions—during thunderstorms—he telephoned the electric light company in a frantic vein and asked that desperate precautions against a lapse of power be taken. Now and then his entries shew concern over the failure of the reporters to find the metal box and stone, and the strangely marred old skeleton, when they explored the shadowy tower room. He assumed that these things had been removed—whither, and by whom or what, he could only guess. But his worst fears concerned himself, and the kind of unholy rapport he felt to exist between his mind and that lurking horror in the distant steeple—that monstrous thing of night which his rashness had called out of the ultimate black spaces. He seemed to feel a constant tugging at his will, and callers of that period remember how he would sit abstractedly at his desk and stare out of the west window at that far-off, spire-bristling mound beyond the swirling smoke of the city. His entries dwell monotonously on certain terrible dreams, and of a strengthening of the unholy rapport in his sleep. There is mention of a night when he awaked to find himself fully dressed, outdoors, and headed automatically down College Hill toward the west. Again and again he dwells on the fact that the thing in the steeple knows where to find him. The week following July 30 is recalled as the time of Blake's partial breakdown. He did not dress, and ordered all his food by telephone. Visitors remarked the cords he kept near his bed, and he said that sleep-walking had forced him to bind his ankles every night with knots which would probably hold or else waken him with the labour of untying. In his diary he told of the hideous experience which had brought the collapse. After retiring on the night of the 30th he had suddenly found himself groping about in an almost black space. All he could see were short, faint, horizontal streaks of bluish light, but he could smell an overpowering foetor and hear a curious jumble of soft, furtive sounds above him. Whenever he moved he stumbled over something, and at each noise there would come a sort of answering sound from above—a vague stirring, mixed with the cautious sliding of wood on wood. Once his groping hands encountered a pillar of stone with a vacant top, whilst later he found himself clutching the rungs of a ladder built into the wall, and fumbling his uncertain way upward toward some region of intenser stench where a hot, searing blast beat down against him. Before his eyes a kaleidoscopic range of phantasmal images played, all of them dissolving at intervals into the picture of a vast, unplumbed abyss of night wherein whirled suns and worlds of an even profounder blackness. He thought of the ancient legends of Ultimate Chaos, at whose centre sprawls the blind idiot god Azathoth, Lord of All Things, encircled by his flopping horde of mindless and amorphous dancers, and lulled by the thin monotonous piping of a daemoniac flute held in nameless paws. Then a sharp report from the outer world broke through his stupor and roused him to the unutterable horror of his position. What it was, he never knew—perhaps it was some belated peal from the fireworks heard all summer on Federal Hill as the dwellers hail their various patron saints, or the saints of their native villages in Italy. In any event he shrieked aloud, dropped frantically from the ladder, and stumbled blindly across the obstructed floor of the almost lightless chamber that encompassed him. He knew instantly where he was, and plunged recklessly down the narrow spiral staircase, tripping and bruising himself at every turn. There was a nightmare flight through a vast cobwebbed nave whose ghostly arches reached up to realms of leering shadow, a sightless scramble through a littered basement, a climb to regions of air and street-lights outside, and a mad racing down a spectral hill of gibbering gables, across a grim, silent city of tall black towers, and up the steep eastward precipice to his own ancient door. On regaining consciousness in the morning he found himself lying on his study floor fully dressed. Dirt and cobwebs covered him, and every inch of his body seemed sore and bruised. When he faced the mirror he saw that his hair was badly scorched, while a trace of strange, evil odour seemed to cling to his upper outer clothing. It was then that his nerves broke down. Thereafter, lounging exhaustedly about in a dressing-gown, he did little but stare from his west window, shiver at the threat of thunder, and make wild entries in his diary. The great storm broke just before midnight on August 8th. Lightning struck repeatedly in all parts of the city, and two remarkable fireballs were reported. The rain was torrential, while a constant fusillade of thunder brought sleeplessness to thousands. Blake was utterly frantic in his fear for the lighting system, and tried to telephone the company around 1 a.m., though by that time service had been temporarily cut off in the interest of safety. He recorded everything in his diary—the large, nervous, and often undecipherable hieroglyphs telling their own story of growing frenzy and despair, and of entries scrawled blindly in the dark. He had to keep the house dark in order to see out the window, and it appears that most of his time was spent at his desk, peering anxiously through the rain across the glistening miles of downtown roofs at the constellation of distant lights marking Federal Hill. Now and then he would fumblingly make an entry in his diary, so that detached phrases such as “The lights must not go”; “It knows where I am”; “I must destroy it”; and “It is calling to me, but perhaps it means no injury this time”; are found scattered down two of the pages. Then the lights went out all over the city. It happened at 2:12 a.m. according to power-house records, but Blake's diary gives no indication of the time. The entry is merely, “Lights out—God help me.” On Federal Hill there were watchers as anxious as he, and rain-soaked knots of men paraded the square and alleys around the evil church with umbrella-shaded candles, electric flashlights, oil lanterns, crucifixes, and obscure charms of the many sorts common to southern Italy. They blessed each flash of lightning, and made cryptical signs of fear with their right hands when a turn in the storm caused the flashes to lessen and finally to cease altogether. A rising wind blew out most of the candles, so that the scene grew threateningly dark. Someone roused Father Merluzzo of Spirito Santo Church, and he hastened to the dismal square to pronounce whatever helpful syllables he could. Of the restless and curious sounds in the blackened tower, there could be no doubt whatever. For what happened at 2:35 we have the testimony of the priest, a young, intelligent, and well-educated person; of Patrolman William J. Monahan of the Central Station, an officer of the highest reliability who had paused at that part of his beat to inspect the crowd; and of most of the seventy-eight men who had gathered around the church's high bank wall—especially those in the square where the eastward facade was visible. Of course there was nothing which can be proved as being outside the order of Nature. The possible causes of such an event are many. No one can speak with certainty of the obscure chemical processes arising in a vast, ancient, ill-aired, and long-deserted building of heterogeneous contents. Mephitic vapours—spontaneous combustion—pressure of gases born of long decay—any one of numberless phenomena might be responsible. And then, of course, the factor of conscious charlatanry can by no means be excluded. The thing was really quite simple in itself, and covered less than three minutes of actual time. Father Merluzzo, always a precise man, looked at his watch repeatedly. It started with a definite swelling of the dull fumbling sounds inside the black tower. There had for some time been a vague exhalation of strange, evil odours from the church, and this had now become emphatic and offensive. Then at last there was a sound of splintering wood, and a large, heavy object crashed down in the yard beneath the frowning easterly facade. The tower was invisible now that the candles would not burn, but as the object neared the ground the people knew that it was the smoke-grimed louver-boarding of that tower's east window. Immediately afterward an utterly unbearable foetor welled forth from the unseen heights, choking and sickening the trembling watchers, and almost prostrating those in the square. At the same time the air trembled with a vibration as of flapping wings, and a sudden east-blowing wind more violent than any previous blast snatched off the hats and wrenched the dripping umbrellas of the crowd. Nothing definite could be seen in the candleless night, though some upward-looking spectators thought they glimpsed a great spreading blur of denser blackness against the inky sky—something like a formless cloud of smoke that shot with meteor-like speed toward the east. That was all. The watchers were half numbed with fright, awe, and discomfort, and scarcely knew what to do, or whether to do anything at all. Not knowing what had happened, they did not relax their vigil; and a moment later they sent up a prayer as a sharp flash of belated lightning, followed by an earsplitting crash of sound, rent the flooded heavens. Half an hour later the rain stopped, and in fifteen minutes more the street-lights sprang on again, sending the weary, bedraggled watchers relievedly back to their homes. The next day's papers gave these matters minor mention in connexion with the general storm reports. It seems that the great lightning flash and deafening explosion which followed the Federal Hill occurrence were even more tremendous farther east, where a burst of the singular foetor was likewise noticed. The phenomenon was most marked over College Hill, where the crash awaked all the sleeping inhabitants and led to a bewildered round of speculations. Of those who were already awake only a few saw the anomalous blaze of light near the top of the hill, or noticed the inexplicable upward rush of air which almost stripped the leaves from the trees and blasted the plants in the gardens. It was agreed that the lone, sudden lightning-bolt must have struck somewhere in this neighbourhood, though no trace of its striking could afterward be found. A youth in the Tau Omega fraternity house thought he saw a grotesque and hideous mass of smoke in the air just as the preliminary flash burst, but his observation has not been verified. All of the few observers, however, agree as to the violent gust from the west and the flood of intolerable stench which preceded the belated stroke; whilst evidence concerning the momentary burned odour after the stroke is equally general. These points were discussed very carefully because of their probable connexion with the death of Robert Blake. Students in the Psi Delta house, whose upper rear windows looked into Blake's study, noticed the blurred white face at the westward window on the morning of the 9th, and wondered what was wrong with the expression. When they saw the same face in the same position that evening, they felt worried, and watched for the lights to come up in his apartment. Later they rang the bell of the darkened flat, and finally had a policeman force the door. The rigid body sat bolt upright at the desk by the window, and when the intruders saw the glassy, bulging eyes, and the marks of stark, convulsive fright on the twisted features, they turned away in sickened dismay. Shortly afterward the coroner's physician made an examination, and despite the unbroken window reported electrical shock, or nervous tension induced by electrical discharge, as the cause of death. The hideous expression he ignored altogether, deeming it a not improbable result of the profound shock as experienced by a person of such abnormal imagination and unbalanced emotions. He deduced these latter qualities from the books, paintings, and manuscripts found in the apartment, and from the blindly scrawled entries in the diary on the desk. Blake had prolonged his frenzied jottings to the last, and the broken-pointed pencil was found clutched in his spasmodically contracted right hand. The entries after the failure of the lights were highly disjointed, and legible only in part. From them certain investigators have drawn conclusions differing greatly from the materialistic official verdict, but such speculations have little chance for belief among the conservative. The case of these imaginative theorists has not been helped by the action of superstitious Dr. Dexter, who threw the curious box and angled stone—an object certainly self-luminous as seen in the black windowless steeple where it was found—into the deepest channel of Narragansett Bay. Excessive imagination and neurotic unbalance on Blake's part, aggravated by knowledge of the evil bygone cult whose startling traces he had uncovered, form the dominant interpretation given those final frenzied jottings. These are the entries—or all that can be made of them. “Lights still out—must be five minutes now. Everything depends on lightning. Yaddith grant it will keep up! . . . Some influence seems beating through it. . . . Rain and thunder and wind deafen. . . . The thing is taking hold of my mind. . . . “Trouble with memory. I see things I never knew before. Other worlds and other galaxies . . . Dark . . . The lightning seems dark and the darkness seems light. . . . “It cannot be the real hill and church that I see in the pitch-darkness. Must be retinal impression left by flashes. Heaven grant the Italians are out with their candles if the lightning stops! “What am I afraid of? Is it not an avatar of Nyarlathotep, who in antique and shadowy Khem even took the form of man? I remember Yuggoth, and more distant Shaggai, and the ultimate void of the black planets. . . . “The long, winging flight through the void . . . cannot cross the universe of light . . . re-created by the thoughts caught in the Shining Trapezohedron . . . send it through the horrible abysses of radiance. . . . “My name is Blake—Robert Harrison Blake of 620 East Knapp Street, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. . . . I am on this planet. . . . “Azathoth have mercy!—the lightning no longer flashes—horrible—I can see everything with a monstrous sense that is not sight—light is dark and dark is light . . . those people on the hill . . . guard . . . candles and charms . . . their priests. . . . “Sense of distance gone—far is near and near is far. No light—no glass—see that steeple—that tower—window—can hear—Roderick Usher—am mad or going mad—the thing is stirring and fumbling in the tower—I am it and it is I—I want to get out . . . must get out and unify the forces. . . . It knows where I am. . . . “I am Robert Blake, but I see the tower in the dark. There is a monstrous odour . . . senses transfigured . . . boarding at that tower window cracking and giving way. . . . Iä . . . ngai . . . ygg. . . . “I see it—coming here—hell-wind—titan blur—black wings—Yog-Sothoth save me—the three-lobed burning eye. . . .”
On this week's episode of Editors on Editing, Glenn is joined by Thelma Schoonmaker. Thelma is truly a legend in the film community. Her credits span many of the most celebrated films of the last 50 years. Some of those projects include, Woodstock for which she was nominated for the Oscar. Raging Bull for which she won the BAFTA, Eddy and Oscar. Goodfellas for which she was nominated for the Eddy and Oscar and won the BAFTA. Casino for which she was nominated for the Eddy. Gangs Of New York, for which she was nominated for the BAFTA and Oscar and won the Eddy. The Aviator, for which she was nominated for the BAFTA and won the Eddy and Oscar. The Departed, for which she was nominated for the BAFTA and won the Eddy and Oscar. Hugo, for which she was nominated for the BAFTA, Eddy and Oscar. The Wolf of Wall Street, for which she was nominated for the BAFTA, and the Eddy. And the Irishman, for which she was nominated for the BAFTA, Eddie, and Oscar. She is also tied for the most nominations and wins in the editing category of the Academy Awards. Now she has crafted Scorsese's newest masterpiece, Killers of the Flower Moon. Thanks again to ACE for partnering with us on this podcast, check out their website for more. Want to see more interviews from Glenn? Check out "Editors on Editing" here. The Art of the Frame podcast is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Google Podcasts, Anchor and many more platforms. If you like the podcast, make sure to subscribe so you don't miss future episodes and, please leave a review so more people can find our show! --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/artofthecut/support
We're joined by Virginia Distillery Company CEO, Gareth Moore. We discuss the role of VDC in the continued growth of American Single Malt as well as Gareth carrying forward his father's legacy of making the finest single malts in America. And, of course, we walk through some VDC's portfolio of American Single Malt. VDC is one of the leaders in the ASMW world and their role in pushing the category into the mainstream in America is particularly evident. If you haven't explored American Single Malt yet, you'll find that VDC's broad portfolio is a great place to dip your feet. Cheers! Stream this episode on your favorite podcast app and be sure to drop us a review while you're there. We are thankful for everyone who has supported us over the last 5 years. The biggest shoutout to our growing Patreon Community of supporters! As always, we'd appreciate it if you would take a few minutes time to give us feedback on Bourbon Lens podcast. If you enjoy our content, consider giving us a 5 Star rating on your favorite podcast app, leave us a written review, and tell a fellow bourbon lover about our show. Follow us @BourbonLens on Instagram, Facebook, & Twitter. And please check out our Patreon to learn how you can support our endeavors, earn Bourbon Lens swag, be part of Bourbon Lens Tasting Club, and more. If you have any comments, questions, or suggestions, please email us at Info@BourbonLens.com. Check out our BourbonLens.com to read our blog posts, whiskey news, podcast archive, and whiskey reviews. Cheers,Scott and JakeBourbon Lens About Virginia Distillery Company Virginia Distillery Co. is America's most awarded single malt distillery. Its founder, George G. Moore had a vision for redefining what heights a great American Whisky could reach. He unfortunately passed away while the distillery was being built, but his wife, Angela, and son, Gareth, inherited his vision, and have built the business in pursuit of George's vision. Staffed by a local Virginia team and mentored by Scottish consultants with decades of experience, Virginia Distillery Company is the largest, independently owned American Single Malt whisky distillery in the U.S. The distillery has an annual production volume of 80,000 4.5L cases and growing. At full capacity, the distillery can produce over 8,000 casks yielding 350,000 4.5L cases annually. The distillery distills, matures and bottles everything on-site in Lovingston, VA. Virginia Distillery Co. produces the most awarded American Single Malt whisky brand, Courage & Conviction, on-site using malted barley from North America and water from Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountains. In addition, the distillery offers the award-winning VHW series, made with 100% malted barley, blending together both American and Scotch whiskies, showcasing both Old and New World whisky-making. About Gareth H. Moore, CEO Gareth serves as CEO and carries on his father George's legacy and commitment to creating an exceptional American Single Malt. He is also a Principal at Adelphi Capital, a middle-market merchant banking business in Washington, DC. He is the President of the Virginia Distillers Association and serves on the DISCUS Craft Advisory Council as well as several other boards. He received a BA from Boston College and an MBA from Georgetown University. Our late founder, Dr. George G. Moore, a native Irishman, had a vision of producing world class single malt whisky in America. With his untimely passing, his wife and son inherited his vision, and are compelled by George's often used expression, “Have the courage of your convictions.” Using the highest quality malted barley and fresh spring water fed from the Blue Ridge Mountains, our spirit develops in Virginia's dynamic climate, allowing the broad temperature shifts to add depth to our whisky. We let the whisky tell us when it's done, and when it is, it's one that George would have been proud of.
Mike Browne is back for part two of his TT Podcast episode with Chris Pritchard and Lee Johnston.Here, Mike talks about his passion for winning and how he wouldn't describe himself as a “fussy rider”.The Irishman talks more about what the future holds and we all learn how pineapples are grown…Our next guest is Mike Russell, and Part One of his episode is available to watch on TT+ now! Head to ttplus.iomttraces.com to sign up for free. Alternatively, the audio will be available here on this podcast feed at the same time next week, so make sure you hit subscribe and the notification bell to download that episode as soon as it drops.If you enjoyed this episode, please leave us a rating and review wherever you listen to your podcasts.www.iomttraces.com is the place for all the latest TT news and features, and search for @TTRacesOfficial for all our social channels.Music by Calva Louise - latest album ‘Euphoric' out now. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.
Is the low level threat of violence becoming normalised in US politics? Marion McKeone examines this question the light of a few very worrying incidents over the past year. It's been a crazy two weeks on The Hill. Jarlath and Marion look back on the big stories and try to predict what might happen next. Come over to Patreon to hear an extra 40 minute discussion of the humanitarian crisis in Gazza, George Santos's fraud charges, P Diddy's new rape allegations and much much more. www.patreon.com/irishmanabroad Why not email us your questions firstname.lastname@example.org - don't forget to rate, comment and subscribe to the podcast - it helps the show a massive amount.
Also speaking to Newstalk Breakfast this morning was Irish citizen Khalid El-Estal is hoping his children will make the list of Irish citizens allowed to leave Gaza after his wife and mother were killed. Israeli troops enter Gaza's Al Shifa hospital in a Hamas raid yesterday. Lt. Col. Peter Lerner, Israeli Defence Force Spokesperson gave us an update on the situation there.
In this episode of Straight Talk with NDFB, our hosts visit Billy Kelly from Killarney, Ireland. Billy comes to the United States every year to work for Demeray Harvesting and Trucking (DHT) as a crew chief. Billy begins harvest in Arizona and works his way north, finishing in North Dakota before driving back to Arizona to fly home to Ireland. Emmery and her family have worked with DHT and Billy over the last few years to custom harvest their crop. Learn about:What it's like to manage a custom harvest crewBilly's experience with the H-2A programWhat it's like to harvest from Arizona to North DakotaDifferences in agriculture between the U.S. and IrelandJoin us for this fun episode!Learn more about Demeray Harvesting https://www.demarayharvesting.com/pages/employmentContact our hosts at email@example.com
7 ans ! C'est le laps de temps qu'il a fallu au maître Martin Scorsese pour retrouver le chemin des salles obscures après Silence, son dernier ouvrage exploité au cinéma (The Irishman ayant été produit et diffusé directement sur Netflix). Killers of the Flower Moon est donc un petit évènement dans la sphère cinéphilique auquel Fin de séance n'avait pas le droit de passer à côté. Surtout que cette production (très) onéreuse, financée par Apple, après avoir été refusée par le tout Hollywood, se destinait au départ à être diffusé exclusivement sur la plateforme de streaming. Mais miracle c'est bien sur grand écran que le monde peut découvrir cette grande fresque criminelle mettant en lumière une sombre et oubliée tranche d'histoire américaine consacrée au peuple amérindien des Osages : propriétaire d'une terre riche en pétrole au début du siècle dernier, cette communauté va être la cible d'une machination raciste et cupide visant à liquider méthodiquement ces membres et à s'octroyer leurs précieuses dividendes dans une indifférence générale. Entre western et film noir, drame historique et devoir de mémoire, les (presque) trois heures et demie de Killers of the Flower Moon sont une vraie proposition de cinéma exigeante qui peuvent aller à rebrousse-poil de certaines attentes mais n'en reste pas moins un gros morceau propice à un débat (de) passionné(s). Crédits : "Fin de Séance" est un podcast animé par Thomas Camacho, Pierre Delort et Julien Munoz. Enregistré le 22 novembre 2023. Générique, montage et mixage : Pierre et Frédéric Delort (@fr-d-ric-delort)
Jarlath Regan sits down with Rozanna Purcell to talk life changing decisions, passion and exploring Ireland. Roz is a broadcaster, content creator and author based in Ireland who has travelled the world for multiple reasons. At first it was for modelling but then she did what very few manage to do. Recognise the path they are on is not good for them and change. She has, since making this change, written several books including the recently released The Hike Life. In this great insight into Ireland she brings her passion for hiking to the page. Rozanna shares 50 of her favourite hikes from all around Ireland, from Donegal to Kilcash. Each hike includes levels of difficulty, all the details you need to know about the trail, where to get the best views along your journey and incredible places nearby to visit, from food stops to stunning beaches. Rozanna also shares practical tips for the outdoors, including layering, backpack essentials and useful precautions, apps and websites, making this an essential guide for both beginners and intrepid explorers. To hear the full interview head over to www.patreon.com/irishmanabroad and sign up today.
Michelle O'Connell (The Film Stage) is back as we continue going through Martin Scorsesse's work in the 2010s. This time with The Irishman, which has us zeroing on Robert De Niro's excellent turn, the de-aging of it all, best-supporting actor line up from this year and how Scorsese looks at the friendship of Hoffa and Sheeran --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/exitingthroughthe2010s/message Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/exitingthroughthe2010s/support
This week, Chris Pritchard and stand-in co-host Lee Johnston are speaking to Mike Browne.Mike talks about how he first discovered road racing and goes into detail about his past injuries, revealing how they have impacted his TT career.Looking ahead, the Irishman tells us about his mindset for TT 2024 and what will be different when he gets on the bike next year.Part Two of Chris and Lee's conversation with Mike is available to watch on TT+ now! Head to ttplus.iomttraces.com to sign up for free. Alternatively, the audio will be available here on this podcast feed at the same time next week, so make sure you hit subscribe and the notification bell to download that episode as soon as it drops.If you enjoyed this episode, please leave us a rating and review wherever you listen to your podcasts.www.iomttraces.com is the place for all the latest TT news and features, and search for @TTRacesOfficial for all our social channels.Music by Calva Louise - latest album ‘Euphoric' out now. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.
How do you feel about glass bottles, insoles, undershirts and mayonaisse? Well we sure have opinions on each and are not afraid to expel it. Rodney and Bob: male chefs. Movie reviews are in for the month. We saw: Killers of the Flower Moon, The Irishman, Strays and Old Dads. Holidays are coming up fast so don't forget to tell a bud about LL, it's the gift that keeps on giving.
An Irish chef living in Japan and has just landed two Guinness World Records, for cooking and baking marathons. Alan Fisher, a chef originally from Dundalk in Co Louth, is the new Guinness World Record holder for both the longest cooking marathon (individual) and the longest baking marathon (individual). Fisher claimed the longest baking marathon (individual) with a time of 47 hours and 21 minutes. Alan spoke to Sean.
Your stories of triumph and pain at the 2023 DUBLIN city marathon are the focus of today's episode. Sonia O'Sullivan and Jarlath Regan hear from the listeners who ran, finished, wound up in hospital and got the bus home. This is a one of a kind instalment of Irishman Running Abroad. For anyone thinking of doing a marathon or contemplating getting back in the ring, this is a must listen. Make sure to come over to www.Patreon.com/irishmanabroad to access the full episode series and XL episodes. There's no obligation. Cancel any time you like. Why not join the gang and be part of the chat? Email firstname.lastname@example.org with your phone number and we can add you to the WhatsApp group of champions.
Heather Binder of 'Boots on The Ground, Portugal' is back, joining us for one of her twice-monthly visits, sharing her personal experience of helping people move to Portugal as well as co-ordinating a group for those with special and additional needs.Day-to-day, Heather Binder has turned her hard-won experience of relocating to Portugal, along with her former background in real estate, into an exciting consultancy service for people with an interest in doing the same - www.bootsonthegroundpt.comFeel free to quiz her about her personal experience and range of services now on offer to those moving to Portugal, just like she has.She crosses over with GMP! regular Bobby O'Reilly of channel sponsor Herdade Do Meio, who also has clear and strong views about the current property investment and political situation here, and flies the flag for a highly attractive 'residency through investment' service for Portugal.Bobby is Lisbon-based, south of the river, more about his latest exciting, sustainable development at - https://urhomeportugal.com/---All that we do is made possible by our GMP! VIP supporters, Portugal Club members, as well as associates including Expats Portugal and channel sponsors UrHome/Dynasty Homes.Feel free to support the Good Morning Portugal! show and community by becoming a GMP! VIP or joining the Portugal Club at www.goodmorningportugal.comLearn loads more about Portugal every day here - www.learnaboutportugal.com Join Expats Portugal for access to top migration professionals, discounts and perks - https://expatsportugal.com/?wpam_id=27Check out Portugal's most exciting new sustainable development project - http://www.herdadedomeio.comNeed to exchange Dollars for Euros? Try https://www.goodmorningportugal.com/support-services/currency-exchangeContact Carl Munson - email@example.comWant to create live shows like mine? Try https://streamyard.com/pal/d/4668289695875072
Quark, Ramon, and Mel embark on a cinematic journey into the heart of Martin Scorsese's latest masterpiece, "Killers of the Flower Moon," a film that unveils the dark and untold chapter of the Osage Nation's history. Then the trio do what they do best - force rank the top movies in Scorsese's filmography. If you think we're funny, we ask you - Funny how? Like a clown?! PLUS - The Pigeon Tunnel, Scavengers Reign, and Our Flag Means Death. The Pigeon Tunnel (04:37) Our Flag Means Death (06:39) Scavengers Reign (09:40) Killers of the Flower Moon (14:06) - Spoilers at (37:34) Ranking Scorsese films (01:04:11) Listen to our past Scorsese episode featuring The Irishman! *** Endslate is an ANIMA podcast and produced by Mel Alcaraz and edited by Paolo Halili. Stalk the hosts! Mel Alcaraz: @mel_alcaraz Ramon De Veyra: @ramondeveyra Quark Henares: @quarkhenares Follow us on Twitter @endslatepod, or join our Facebook group https://www.facebook.com/groups/endslate for a safe space discussion on pop culture. For inquiries and feedback, email us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
RTE's Paul Cunningham in Israel last month speaking to Tom Hand Abeer Etefa is the senior communications officer for the World Food Programme Our Europe Editor, Tony Connelly in Tel Aviv
Manchmal ist man bei Filmen einfach nicht einer Meinung. Das ist auch gut so, sonst würde das Quatschen über Filme recht schnell recht langweilig werden! Daher haben Alper, Jonas und Lenny heute Filme rausgesucht, bei denen sie unterschiedliche Meinungen haben. Von Barbenheimer (Oppenheimer + Barbie) über Star Wars bis hin zu Dune ist alles Mögliche dabei! Teilt uns gerne auch mit, was ihr von den Filmen haltet, aber bleibt bei diesem mega subjektiven Thema bitte immer fair! Abseits davon gibt es in diesem Podcast natürlich auch ein paar News aus der Filmwelt und die Starts der Woche, darunter: Dumb Money, It Lives Inside und Anatomie eines Falls. Viel Spaß wünscht euer CSB-Team! Podcast zum Anhören: Spotify: https://go.funk.net/csb_spotify iTunes: https://go.funk.net/csb_itunes RSS-Feed: https://go.funk.net/csb_rss Podcast: 00:00:00 - Anmoderation 00:03:35 - Inhalt 00:08:39 - Oppenheimer 00:14:11 - The Big Lebowski 00:19:49 - The Irishman 00:26:45 - Dune 00:33:01 - Star Wars: Episode I – Die dunkle Bedrohung 00:38:21 - Ready Player One 00:44:51 - Stalker 00:50:33 - Barbie 00:58:48 - Shining 01:05:16 - Hook 01:11:58 - Daniel Radcliffe produziert eine Doku 01:16:53 - Newsticker 01:25:04 - Starts der Woche 01:37:05 - Abmoderation Moderation: Alper Turfan, Jonas Ressel, Lennart Schmitz Kamera, Ton & Schnitt: Felix Lückel Redaktion: Alper Turfan Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/cinemastrikesback/ TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@cinemastrikesback Letterboxd: https://letterboxd.com/CSB_DE/ #film #hollywood Cinema Strikes Back gehört zu #funk. YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/funkofficial Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/funk TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@funk Website: https://go.funk.net Netiquette: https://www.funk.net/netiquette Impressum: https://go.funk.net/impressum
When your Dad doesn't show up to support you at your big day in court you know things are bad. This week Don Junior and Eric had their big softball game and their big Orange Pappa failed to sit in the bleachers. Marion McKeone picks through some of the nonsense that is getting spewed. We also take a look at the importance of high heels to Ron Desantis' campaign and the gains that Nikki Hayley continues to make. Over in the extended episode on www.patreon.com/irishmanabroad you can hear the latest from Gaza, George Santos and the attempts to keep Trump off the ballot in 2024. Marion goes to see GNR in concert and wonders can slash help Ron Desantis somehow. Jarlath is going out on tour. He will be doing his latest standup show “Yer Man” across the autumn and winter. Why not grab a ticket while you can. All the dates are selling out! https://linktr.ee/IrishmanAbroad For double size episodes each week and access to Marion's American scandals series, why not visit www.patreon.com/irishmanabroad today. If you'd like to contact me, that is easy too. You know what to do! 1. Irishman Abroad Live Line: You can now get in touch with us and feature on our shows by sending your WhatsApp voice note to 00447565347350 2. Email Jar, Sonia and Marion directly on email@example.com. For updates on future episodes and live shows follow Jar here on Twitter, visit www.jigser.com or subscribe to the YouTube channel here.
This week, we take a look at Martin Scorsese's three-and-a-half-hour epic tragedy, Killers of the Flower Moon. A deliberate indictment of insidious American exceptionalism, the film explores an oft-overlooked atrocity from the country's ignoble past. Focusing on a real-life conspiracy of murder to rob the Indigenous Osage of Oklahoma of their wealth, Killers of the Flower Moon is another compelling chapter in Scorsese's late style. Does it stack up against his recent masterworks of Silence and The Irishman? Tune in to our review.
The crowds, the rain, the determination, the exhaustion, the exhilaration and the heartbreak; it's all here in this bumper edition of Irishman Running Abroad. Let Jarlath Regan & Sonia O'Sullivan take you around the course. The Irish Life Dublin City Marathon 2023 was a beast. Jarlath recorded it every step of the way. This unique documentary episode tracks his race journey and how things didn't quite go to plan. There's beautiful moments with other runners and listeners, the crowds and organisers. He then speaks to his coach Vinny Mulvey about picking up the pieces afterwards and David Gillick about breaking 3 hours in hellish conditions. (Visit www.patreon.com/irishmanabroad for full access to all our episodes including that chat with Vinny and David.) Next week on the podcast we want to hear your stories. Email, voice note or WhatsApp us with what happened on the day for you? If you're over the moon or trying to put the pieces back together Sonia can help. It's easy! 1. Irishman Abroad Live Line: WhatsApp 00447565347350 2. Email Jar, Sonia and Marion directly on firstname.lastname@example.org. For updates on future episodes and live shows follow Jar here on Twitter, visit www.jigser.com or subscribe to the YouTube channel here.
Siskel Rascals (ft. Dakota Proctor) | 8pl8s Comedy Podcast Episode 150A discussion about the role and depiction of painting in film.Movies discussed:THE BEST OFFER (2013)CERTIFIED COPY (2010)AT ETERNITY'S GATE (2018)INSIDE (2023)THE IRISHMAN (2019)BARRY LYNDON (1975)KILLERS OF THE FLOWER MOON (2023)------------LISTEN TO THIS WEEK'S EPIC BONUS EPISODE HERE( https://8pl8s.gumroad.com/l/BONUS )----------------------------------------------GUMROAD DOT COM FORWARD SLASH 8 P L 8 S.----------------------------------------------#8pl8s #everythingisapsyop #comedypodcastFOLLOW ON INSTAGRAM Join the Euphoric 8pl8s Early Access League at https://plus.acast.com/s/8pl8s. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.
In Martin Scorsese's first movie since “The Irishman”, he brings us a true story of deception, treachery and murder all over money from oil discovered by the Osage Indians in “Killers Of The Flower Moon.” Leonardo DiCaprio, Robert DeNiro and Lily Gladstone star. DiCaprio plays Ernest Burkhart, a WWI soldier who seeks to make a home in Oklahoma. DeNiro plays his uncle Bill “King” Hale who is known as a community leader and friend to the Osage. Gladstone plays Mollie, who is a part of a wealthy Osage family, who Bill convinces Ernest to woo and marry for her family's oil money. Bill is in no mood to just wait for this Osage family to die. He'd like to accelerate the process, and does. Is it worth checking out? Watch my spoiler-free review to find out. This also stars Jesse Plemons, Tantoo Cardinal, John Lithgow, Brendan Fraser, Cara Jade Meyers, Janae Collins, Jillian Dion, Jason Isbell, William Belleau, Louis Cancelmi, Scott Shepherd, Everett Waller, Talee Redcorn, Yancey Red Corn, Tatanka Means. Support the showFeel free to reach out to me via:@MoviesMerica on Twitter @moviesmerica on InstagramMovies Merica on Facebook
Welcome to a spooky side special of Smersh!With it being Halloween, all usual rules are off of the table. Abandon all hope ye who enter here!This week we will be visiting the spookiest place on earth, Ireland, to run for our lives from RAWHEAD REX.Joining John to potentially get wee'd on, is Irishman (and therefore possible witness to the carnage), journalist and co-host of excellent The Reducer (@TheReducerPod) podcast, Seamus O' Reilly, who can be found on Twitter as @shockproofbeats. Become a member at https://plus.acast.com/s/smershpod. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.
Michelle Lawton is a food and wine lover and founder of joyfulplate, a food and beverage research and branding consultancy. She is a happy home cook to her “Irishman” (aka her partner, Michael) in New York City, where she enjoys brainstorming on bike rides in Central Park and the kitchen -- her happy places. Michelle holds an Advanced Wine Certificate from the Wine & Spirit Education Trust and shares her wine, food, and travel experiences on Instagram @joyfulplate and joyfulplate.com/inspiration. Michelle is passionate about community, volunteering with the West Side Campaign Against Hunger in New York City for 15 years and with Les Dames d'Escoffier NY, a nonprofit supporting aspiring professional women in food and beverage hospitality. Our guest on episode 39, Michelle returned to The One Way Ticket Show, where she shared a new one way ticket – to a place of protected health and joy. She also shares her book, Moderating a Love Affair with Food: 10 Tips to Mindful Eating and Drinking.
How did Mike Johnson become the poster boy for Republican acceptability over night? Who is this man who now occupies one of the most powerful roles in American politics? Marion McKeone attempts to explain the origin story of the man who could US politics for the next few years. As the conflict rages between Hamas and Israel, the carnage continues and the number innocent lives lost mount up. What does the future hold for international law and the hostages still being held. Surely the siege and bombardment a threat to their safety? Trump threw a diaper baby tantrum in court this week. What exactly took place? Marion examines the impact of the RICO plea deals on subsequent cases. Is this whole nut about to crack wide open? Jarlath is going out on tour. He will be doing his latest standup show “Yer Man” across the autumn and winter. Why not grab a ticket while you can. All the dates are selling out! https://linktr.ee/IrishmanAbroad For double size episodes each week and access to Marion's American scandals series, why not visit www.patreon.com/irishmanabroad today. If you'd like to contact me, that is easy too. You know what to do! 1. Irishman Abroad Live Line: You can now get in touch with us and feature on our shows by sending your WhatsApp voice note to 00447565347350 2. Email Jar, Sonia and Marion directly on email@example.com. For updates on future episodes and live shows follow Jar here on Twitter, visit www.jigser.com or subscribe to the YouTube channel here.
Martin Scorsese's "Killers of the Flower Moon" is the latest in a long line of critically acclaimed films from the 80-year-old director. From "Who's That Knocking at My Door?" to "The Irishman," the filmmaker has been a dominant force in every one of the last five decades of filmmaking. New York Magazine contributors Tim Grierson and Will Leitch join us to discuss their ranking of Scorsese's filmography and where his newest work fits into it.
Throughout his career, Martin Scorsese has traced crime, greed, and corruption across American life. In his new film, he turns his gaze to the violence of whiteness. Set in nineteen-twenties Oklahoma, “Killers of the Flower Moon” tells the story of a series of murders targeting the people of the Osage Nation, perpetrated by white settlers in pursuit of the community's oil wealth. On this episode of Critics at Large, the staff writers Vinson Cunningham, Naomi Fry, and Alexandra Schwartz discuss the trajectory of Scorsese's style, from the “whirling limbs” and “short, sharp cuts” of films like “Goodfellas” to the elegiac restraint of more recent works like “The Irishman.” They're joined by The New Yorker's David Grann, the author of the 2017 book that formed the basis for Scorsese's film, who describes how he first came upon the story and how members of the Osage community became involved in—and responded to—the adaptation. Then the hosts consider the multilayered coda of the film, which raises increasingly pressing questions about representation and ownership. “Killers of the Flower Moon” recounts the atrocities committed against the Osage, but it's also an indictment of racialized evil writ large. “The trauma of this experience of course belongs most intimately to the Osage people,” Cunningham says. “But the proclivities that gave rise to it, the sensibilities that survive in our culture today—that's something that every person that has anything to do with the United States needs to engage with.” New episodes drop every Thursday. Follow Critics at Large wherever you get your podcasts. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices
Marathon week is a tense time. Even though you're meant to be relaxing a bit, the sense of “hurry up and wait” can have you thinking some pretty silly thoughts. Sonia O'Sullivan helps to calm the mind with some solid tips and stories from her week and running career. We then sift through the race day tips and hints from our loyal legion of listeners. Finally I go to Vinny Mulvey for a race week rub down. Refreshing my legs and my self belief, Vinny is full of sound advice on keeping things very simple just when your mind wants to over think. Would you like to join the conversation with hundreds of other like minded runners? Email Jarlath on firstname.lastname@example.org and ask to join the show's WhatsApp group. Jarlath is on tour right now. Visit www.jigser.com to see date or join the mailing list to get notified of next batch of tour dates. For double size episodes each week and access to Marion's American scandals series, why not visit www.patreon.com/irishmanabroad today. If you'd like to contact me, that is easy too. You know what to do! 1. Irishman Abroad Live Line: You can now get in touch with us and feature on our shows by sending your WhatsApp voice note to 00447565347350 2. Email Jar, Sonia and Marion directly on email@example.com. For updates on future episodes and live shows follow Jar here on Twitter, visit www.jigser.com or subscribe to the YouTube channel here.
"Is this Chile?!" A successful foreign call, Pedro Guerrerooooooo, Jen diagnoses Eddie's taste buds, Mike as an Irishman, Billy Joel Armstrong, Rocco's Modern Life, Bean gets haircut advice, and a Gwen Stefani tangent! --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/quitters-never-give-up/message
"Pressure comes when things are going well." The American Record Holder and the Irishman return! Today on the Ali on the Run Show, Emily Sisson and Shane Quinn are here to talk about their respective experiences at the 2023 Chicago Marathon, where Emily ran a 2:22:09, finished seventh, and was the top American woman of the day — and Shane ate omelettes. While this didn't end up being the race Emily trained, hoped, and planned for — that darn side stitch! — both Emily and Shane agree that this was ultimately a good day. They share their top moments and memories from the weekend (spoiler: Rivers), talk about what's next (vacation, and then the 2024 Olympic Marathon Trials!), and offer their thoughts on American distance women vs. the world. (For more LOLs, make sure you listen to this episode with Shane and Tony D'Amato.) SPONSOR: New Balance. Click here to shop New Balance's latest releases for the season. (The SuperComp Trainer is my favorite shoe!) Follow Ali: Instagram @aliontherun1 Join the Facebook group Twitter @aliontherun1 Support on Patreon Subscribe to the newsletter SUPPORT the Ali on the Run Show! If you're enjoying the show, please subscribe and leave a rating and review on Apple Podcasts. Spread the run love. And if you liked this episode, share it with your friends!
Last night President Joe Biden attempted to connect the dots between Russia's invasion of Ukraine and the conflict between Israel and Palestine. Today Marion McKeone attempts to explain the latest developments. Biden is seeking a massive influx of spending to support Israel and by lumping the two conflicts together he is clearly trying to go round those who view Ukraine as a losing battle. Jim Jordan's challenge for the role of speaker looks dead in the water or is it? We dig into the questions you have submitted including the latest in the Trump RICO indictment, the use of opinion polls and Britney Spears' starting new memoir. (Patreon exclusive content) Jarlath is going out on tour. He will be doing his latest standup show “Yer Man” across the autumn and winter. Why not grab a ticket while you can. All the dates are selling out! https://linktr.ee/IrishmanAbroad For double size episodes each week and access to Marion's American scandals series, why not visit www.patreon.com/irishmanabroad today. If you'd like to contact me, that is easy too. You know what to do! 1. Irishman Abroad Live Line: You can now get in touch with us and feature on our shows by sending your WhatsApp voice note to 00447565347350 2. Email Jar, Sonia and Marion directly on firstname.lastname@example.org. For updates on future episodes and live shows follow Jar here on Twitter, visit www.jigser.com or subscribe to the YouTube channel here.
Drooping cable. You can WIN GOOGLE! Godfellas. Moratorium on Memoriam's. Dr. Whoville. YOU SHALL NOT FAST PASS! Unscrew His Crotch. Animatronic Bullshit. Peanuts PornHub. Mama Murphy. Trimmed down Irishman. What's he doing these day? Oh, he's decomposing. 4 Sets of Hips and 1 Crotch. Barbie Cyberpunk. Fury Road is my K-Pop with Tom Merritt. Chucklehead Recommentals with Nicole and Randy and more on this episode of The Morning Stream. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.
Drooping cable. You can WIN GOOGLE! Godfellas. Moratorium on Memoriam's. Dr. Whoville. YOU SHALL NOT FAST PASS! Unscrew His Crotch. Animatronic Bullshit. Peanuts PornHub. Mama Murphy. Trimmed down Irishman. What's he doing these day? Oh, he's decomposing. 4 Sets of Hips and 1 Crotch. Barbie Cyberpunk. Fury Road is my K-Pop with Tom Merritt. Chucklehead Recommentals with Nicole and Randy and more on this episode of The Morning Stream. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.
Sonia O'Sullivan knows a thing or two about preparing properly for a big race. Whether you're heading to Dublin or not you'll love her advice on troubleshooting in advance of your big event. We really get into the weeds this week as the clock ticks down to just over a week to go to the big one. We hear Sonia's number one life hacks for getting ahead of race day problems, how to avoid the post race dip, how to restore the pep in your step and what the elites at Nike do before big races. In the second half of the show over on Patreon we go into greater detail on race day prep with Sonia and top physical therapist Vinny Mulvey. With more than a hundred clients taking part in the race Vinny has been coaching and helping all kinds of runners prepare for the challenge. There's a great question from a listener, Sonia recommendation of the week and some tips on avoiding electric car stress too! Would you like to join the conversation with hundreds of other like minded runners? Email Jarlath on email@example.com and ask to join the show's WhatsApp group. Jarlath is on tour right now. Visit www.jigser.com to see date or join the mailing list to get notified of next batch of tour dates. For double size episodes each week and access to Marion's American scandals series, why not visit www.patreon.com/irishmanabroad today. If you'd like to contact me, that is easy too. You know what to do! 1. Irishman Abroad Live Line: You can now get in touch with us and feature on our shows by sending your WhatsApp voice note to 00447565347350 2. Email Jar, Sonia and Marion directly on firstname.lastname@example.org. For updates on future episodes and live shows follow Jar here on Twitter, visit www.jigser.com or subscribe to the YouTube channel here.
Marion McKeone of the Sunday Business Post reflects on astonishing horror that continues to unfold across Israel and Palestine this week. What exactly took place and what will happen next? How will this conflict affect the world? Marion takes us inside the US reaction and her fears for the future. For double size episodes each week and access to Marion's American scandals series, why not visit www.patreon.com/irishmanabroad today. If you'd like to contact me, that is easy too. 1. Irishman Abroad Live Line: You can now get in touch with us and feature on our shows by sending your WhatsApp voice note to 00447565347350 2. Email Jar, Sonia and Marion directly on email@example.com. For updates on future episodes and live shows follow Jar here on Twitter, visit www.jigser.com or subscribe to the YouTube channel here.
On this week's episode I'm telling Russ a story about a man so resilient no matter how many times a group of men tried to kill him he just wouldn't die! Mike Malloy was a homeless Irish immigrant living in the Bronx in the 1920s. He had no idea that while enjoying his daily drink at his favorite speakeasy he was continuously cheating death! Moral of this story... an Irishman's alcohol tolerance is nothing short of super human! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
UFC President Dana White this week confirmed earlier social media posts from Conor McGregor that the fighter had "sent his stuff" to UFC drug czar Jeff Novitsky, but said that McGregor was not back in the USADA testing pool quite yet. "I literally have nothing planned for Conor McGregor right now,” White said. Could this possibly be true? Has White finally realized that it's impossible to plan anything with the wily Irishman? But, if that's so, why did McGregor apply to get back into the pool at the exact six-month deadline he'd need if he were going to headline UFC 300 in April, 2024? It's a mystery. Plus, Bobby Green KOed Grant Dawson so fast he didn't even know what hand he did it with and ... well, this seems like a VERY Bellator end for Bellator, doesn't it? Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
Adnan is joined by his good friend and accomplished play by play guy Adam Amin. They discuss their shared love of The Irishman, Adam's DJ career and the fact that he flies about 200 times per year. Dumb Money. Also, Adnan attends Eagles game with his kids. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices