India-Pakistan Relations Through the Lens of Realism

India-Pakistan Relations Through the Lens of Realism India and Pakistan have had many conflicts in their relationship because of the multitude of problems in the political sphere throughout history leading to their current state of affairs. To best understand the relationship between the countries, I used realism as a theory of international relations through the examples of the Battle of Kashmir and the riots of 1947 during the Partition of India. India and Pakistan both have associations   through the cultures, history and also economic and geographic issues.   Therefore, these two states have led themselves to high tensions, making their relations unpredictable and in some cases destructive. In International Relations, there are many ideas that influence the theory of Realism, but the one idea that stands out is that states are generally only worried about themselves and the issues that only involve them. Realists have a higher regard for issues such as security and national interests instead of ethics or ideals.When it comes to dealing with others, whether it is regarding war or any other issue, it is only for one reason and that is because they are in the struggle for power. Ever since the Post-World War II era started, Realism has been known to be the leading theory in International Relations. In world politics, Realism stresses the idea that state is the main actor. Usually, Realists have the view that conflicts with other nations are needed and these conflicts are to be conclusively dealt with by war. The partition of 1947, was a period of time involving unrest and violence. In 1947, India and Pakistan had separated and became their own countries. Pakistan was predominantly Muslim while India was majority Hindu.   Before the partition, there weren’t many acts of violence between the three main religions of Sikhs, Muslims, and Hindus, the Partition changed that. Countless acts of sexual violence towards women and slaying of families became a result of this Partition. â€Å"Some seventy-five thousand women were raped, and many of them were then disfigured or dismembered†¦Ã¢â‚¬ ¦ By 1948, as the great migration drew to a close, more than fifteen million people had been uprooted, and between one and two million were dead (The New Yorker, 2015).† Punjab had been split in half between India and Pakistan because of the Partition and this is where most of the violent acts on women and families happened. However, after the long lasting struggle, India and Pakistan did gain their independence in August of 1947. Some of the reasons for the Partition of India were â€Å"Mohammed Ali Jinnah, leader of the Muslim League, simply wished to use the demand for a separate state as a bargaining chip to win greater power for Muslims within a loosely federated India (BBC, 2011).† Also, â€Å"One explanation for the chaotic manner in which the two independent nations came into being is the hurried nature of the British withdrawal (BBC, 2011).† These reasonings behind the Partition makes gives me a sense of a Realism perspective because the definition of a Realist in International Relations is  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚   â€Å" Realists consider the principal actors in the international arena to be states, which are concerned with their own security, act in pursuit of their own national interests, and struggle for power (Stanford Philosophy, 2013).† Mohammed Ali Jinnah wanted to win a greater power for the Muslim people so this move to have their own country would get that for them. Sadly, this didn’t happen without the tragedies of tons of people. Since the Partition of India was in 1947, this leads right into our next topic. The Battle of Kashmir dates back to 1947 as well. Even after India and Pakistan had formed into their own countries, there was still an issue of having hundreds of states that were within these two countries that were lead by Monarchs. These states could decide which country they wanted to be apart of or they could also choose to stay by themselves and they would make the decision by having the people vote. Many of these Monarchs wanted to stay independent but they had to stick with the decisions of the people and go with what they wanted. During this time, â€Å"Maharaja Hari Singh was the ruler of Kashmir, which had the option to choose either country to join because of the location of Kashmir. The only issue about Hari Singh, was that he was Hindu while all of his people were Muslim (Daily O, 2015).† In order to keep the issue calm, he decided to just stay and not join either. However, this did not last very long, â€Å" his hopes of remaining independent were dashed in October 1947, as Pakistan sent in Muslim tribesmen who were knocking at the gates of the capital Srinagar. Hari Singh appealed to the Indian government for military assistance and fled to India. He signed the Instrument of Accession, ceding Kashmir to India on October 26 (The Telegraph, 2001).† India and Pakistan ended up going to war over Kashmir, however, this was only the first time. After India went to the United Nations for help, they decided they would leave it to the people of Kashmir to vote for their own. They ended up going to war on four   different occasions and still have battles to this day. The fact that India and Pakistan have gone to four wars, that alone shows how important and significant   Kashmir is. Realism considers Security as a major priority, and for India, if they were to claim Kashmir it would be very resourceful security wise for them against China and Pakistan. It serves as â€Å" a barrier to the philosophy of Pakistan Government which could threaten India’s internal security (aarcentre, 2016).† Kashmir is very important for either country because of its economic benefits as well. The amount of revenue they can get from tourism of Kashmir would be a huge factor. â€Å"As for Pakistan it is vital for its security zone as well the presence of two major roads and railway network in the border help to strengthen its economy (aarcentre, 2016). As far as Realism goes in the Battle of Kashmir, power is shown by India by the fact that after getting its independence, many states chose to join them. Another instance of Realism in the Battle, was when India supported Hari Singh. When the Pakistani troops showed up to Kashmir and tried to take over, India backed him up without hesitating. However, India had a reason behind it, which was that they would be in good standing with Hari Singh. Which is exactly how it worked out, Hari Singh ended up signing Kashmir over to India soon after that. This shows that India only stepped in for their own personal benefits and as a Realist would say, for their â€Å"struggle of power.† India shows their sense of Realism once again as well when Pakistan wanted to go to the UN to solve the issue. India played a trick on them by saying they should just negotiate between themselves, but then soon after that they went to the UN themselves asking them to step in. This made it look like India was concerned about the people of Kashmir which made them look better to the United Nations. This shows the Realist standpoint of doing whatever it takes for the struggle of power. Through the examples of The Battle of Kashmir, and the Partition of India and the riots during the time, Realism helped me understand the relationship between India and Pakistan throughout the years.Using The Partition of India, Realism was shown through the leader of the Muslim League Jinnah, because he wanted to separate from the loose Indian government and have more power for his own Muslim people. During this movement, an estimated 1-2 million people had died and about 15 million people had to relocate their homes. Lastly, The Battle of Kashmir showed us the Realism perspective through the many ways Kashmir would have brought security and money and power into the countries. India showed us their Realist views by doing whatever was needed to gain their power by supporting Hari Singh even though they had their own intentions in mind. They also showed a fake side by going to the UN and making themselves look better after recently telling the Pakistani government that no one needs to intervene and the   best to solve the issue is by negotiating within themselves. Works Cited A Brief History of the Kashmir Conflict. The Telegraph. Telegraph Media Group, 24 Sept. 2001. Web. 09 Apr. 2017. Alam, Mohd. Shekaib, Muhammet Ali Guler, and Moyenul Hasan. KASHMIR CONFLICT BETWEEN INDIA AND PAKISTAN: A REALIST PERSPECTIVE. Journal of Asian and African Social Science and Humanities (ISSN 2413-2748). N.p., n.d. Web. 09 Apr. 2017. BBC History British History in Depth: The Hidden Story of Partition and Its Legacies. BBC News. BBC, n.d. Web. 09 Apr. 2017. Dalrymple, William. The Mutual Genocide of Indian Partition. The New Yorker. The New Yorker, 21 June 2015. Web. 09 Apr. 2017. Khajuria, Manu. Hari Singh Was More than a Hindu King Who Ruled over a Muslim Majority State. DailyO Opinion News & Analysis on Latest Breaking News India. Living Media India Limited, 21 Sept. 2015. Web. 09 Apr. 2017. Korab-Karpowicz, W. Julian. Political Realism in International Relations. Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. Stanford University, 26 July 2010. Web. 09 Apr. 2017.

Segmentation – a Brief Analysis of Facial Creams

The creative brief c. Look at the Sepals ad ND formulate backwards the positioning. Task 4: Debriefing: Take the case of the client brief of ANT (National Authority for Tourism) and imagine that you are an account person and put all the questions that you would put to a client within a debriefing session in order to clarify yourself so that you can come up with a creative brief. Task 5: Communication channels – Identify relevant communication channels for Avoidance Passport service and define what would be the role of each one in a communication campaign aiming to increase subscription of this service.Task 1 – Sony Triton- Formulate the Position Backwards [Target/need] To mime, entertainment. _Sony_Trillion_ people that watch TV as a means of Information. Spending is the brand of TV sets competitive framework] competing designed by Sony [perceptual mostly with other brands counterclaiming TV sets, as well as with other image- sharing equipment (videophone's, recorders, computers). That best satisfies your need [brand benefit] for brightness and clarity of the portrayed image The reason why is 1 .ART crystal-clear image at an affordable price 2. ROW it is based on a technological innovation – â€Å"triton† which is used specifically for a clearer and brighter image. I en Drank contracted Is reality. Brighter, clearer image , more vivid and resembling Competition a. Formulate the positioning of top 5 players on anti-aging face cream market as you can understand it from their communication in 2008 / 2009. B. Draw up 3: Briefing: Look at the ad named Maxillae and imagine backwards the following: a.Task 2 – Anti-Aging Cream – Formulate the Position Backwards The 5 brands which I will be discussing are: ; Naive QUOI Plus – anti-aging cream, based on commence QUOI for daily or night time usage. This is an anti-aging product, used by both males(Naive Men) and women, with both day and night time editions based on the same key ingredient – commence QUOI, at an affordable price. Product Pop: contains commence QUOI ; Given Power Youth – cream designed for the first signs of aging , based on natural ingredients and for a smoother, more hydrated effect of the skin. This is a cream which most women use regularly, during day time.Consumer Pop: natural ingredients ; La Prairie Anti-Aging Complex Cellular Intervention Cream – advanced anti-aging cream, includes collagen in addition to retinal and hydroxyl acids to reduce the appearance of lines. A more luxurious product, with an estimated price of 200$/ ounce. Product Pop: collagen addition, retinal and hydroxyl acids Task 2 – Anti-Aging Cream – Formulate the Position Backwards ;Erne Laszlo Timeless Skin Age – anti-aging cream appropriate for all skin types. Minimizes under-eye disconsolation, reduces appearance of fine lines and wrinkles, eliminates cow's feet and fine dry lines in eye zone.Formulated with Marine Co llagen Complex and vitamins to reduce lines and signs of fatigue. A cream for mass- consumption. Consumer Pop: marine natural ingredients to reduce lines caused by fatigue ; Clique Anti-Gravity Firming Lift Cream – the cream lifts and firms up skin. Helps erase the looks of lines as it tightens. Renews elasticity by rebuilding natural collagen. Adds cushion into thinning skin through patent-pending technology. This is a cream witch women use mostly during night-time, at an affordable price. Product pop: contains a self-registered formula designed to create a special cushion into skin tangling Ana telling.Task 2 – Anti-Aging Cream – Naive QUOI Plus [Target/need] To modern, dynamic and always on the move women that seek a youthful and Jovial aspect in their skin tone and texture, approximately from 35-4 years old. Is the brand of skin-care, anti-wrinkles cream [perceptual competitive framework] omitting mostly with other brands counterclaiming skin _Naive QUOI Plu s _ care products (creams, serums) , as well as with other products which aim at reducing the signs of aging – natural or chemical substances, medical interventions, additional ways of achieving the same result (massage, a particular diet).

Essay about Summary and Analysis on Practices of Looking

Looking is to actively make meaning of that world with a more involved sense of purpose and direction. From looking we interpret social interaction and meanings. Professors Marita Sturken and Lisa Cartwright explain all about these concepts in the pages of their book Practices of Looking. It is an interesting and appealing novel offers understanding visual culture. Filled with numerous illustrations, the book observes how images play a very significant role in our everyday lives. The concepts of reproduction and demonstration relative to the times past of visual technologies are scrutinized in chapter four of the book. From the development of perspective in art to inventive movements such as Realism and Cubism, the chapter draws out the†¦show more content†¦In the chapter, it states, While opposition to mass culture and its saturation of the world with images is one of the hallmarks of modernism, postmodernism emphasizes irony and a sense of ones own enmeshment in low or popular culture. The forms of low, mass, or commercial culture so disdained by modernists are understood, in the context of postmodernism, as the inescapable conditions in and through which we generate our critical texts (pg. 221). In this chapter, postmodernisms appearance as a way of life is recognized from the examples from modern art, structural design, and film. These models help to explain postmodernism, which is a period that is marked by imagery. In chapter eight, the standards of looking at science and expression are acknowledged. 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Emerging The Forms Of Aboriginal Self Government Essay

An Analysis of Emerging the Forms of Aboriginal Self-Government Aboriginal governance and its relationship with Canadian federalism has been a long debated issue and continuing process. Aboriginal peoples refers to the collective groups of people alive today who are descendants from the original tribes and societies of North America. These groups are scattered over provinces and territories in Canada. Although the Aboriginal peoples have longed to established self-governance, the Canadian government has yet to form any significant contributions and treaties to help, it has taken steps towards improving Aboriginal self-determination and self-governance. This paper argues that no single form of emerging Aboriginal self-government is the most practical, effective, or legitimate. It does by analyzing the effectiveness and criticisms of the different existing possible forms as well as any existing examples of such forms towards Aboriginal self-government. 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A Tale Of Two Cities Or A Tale Of Two Worlds - 2163 Words

Karen Vanderford Ms. Faris Honors English IV 29 May 2015 A Tale of Two Cities or A Tale of Two Worlds? A person’s class status in today’s world is based on what one owns and how society views an individual; nothing else really matters. Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities exemplifies the importance of social status through the way society views and treats its characters. Lucie Manette, from England, is the â€Å"golden thread† who everyone adores, especially a man named Sydney Carton, who is known as a failure who drinks all the time. He has a look-alike named Charles Darnay, who is part of the aristocracy in France, marries Lucie and later has to go on multiple trials for a number of different reasons. He is found not guilty in each trial until his last trial, where he is proven guilty of being an aristocrat, causing harm to an innocent man and sentenced to die in the next twenty-four hours. 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Black House Chapter One Free Essays

1 RIGHT HERE AND NOW, as an old friend used to say, we are in the fluid present, where clear-sightedness never guarantees perfect vision. Here: about two hundred feet, the height of a gliding eagle, above Wisconsin’s far western edge, where the vagaries of the Mississippi River declare a natural border. Now: an early Friday morning in mid-July a few years into both a new century and a new millennium, their wayward courses so hidden that a blind man has a better chance of seeing what lies ahead than you or I. We will write a custom essay sample on Black House Chapter One or any similar topic only for you Order Now Right here and now, the hour is just past six A.M., and the sun stands low in the cloudless eastern sky, a fat, confident yellow-white ball advancing as ever for the first time toward the future and leaving in its wake the steadily accumulating past, which darkens as it recedes, making blind men of us all. Below, the early sun touches the river’s wide, soft ripples with molten highlights. Sunlight glints from the tracks of the Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railroad running between the riverbank and the backs of the shabby two-story houses along County Road Oo, known as Nailhouse Row, the lowest point of the comfortable-looking little town extending uphill and eastward beneath us. At this moment in the Coulee Country, life seems to be holding its breath. The motionless air around us carries such remarkable purity and sweetness that you might imagine a man could smell a radish pulled out of the ground a mile away. Moving toward the sun, we glide away from the river and over the shining tracks, the backyards and roofs of Nailhouse Row, then a line of Harley-Davidson motorcycles tilted on their kickstands. These unprepossessing little houses were built, early in the century recently vanished, for the metal pourers, mold makers, and crate men employed by the Pederson Nail factory. On the grounds that working stiffs would be unlikely to complain about the flaws in their subsidized accommodations, they were constructed as cheaply as possible. (Pederson Nail, which had suffered multiple hemorrhages during the fifties, finally bled to death in 1963.) The waiting Harleys suggest that the factory hands have been replaced by a motorcycle gang. The uniformly ferocious appearance of the Harleys’ owners, wild-haired, bushy-bearded, swag-bellied men sporting earrings, black leather jackets, and less than the full complement of teeth, would seem to support this assumption. Like most assumptions, this one embodies an uneasy half-truth. The current residents of Nailhouse Row, whom suspicious locals dubbed the Thunder Five soon after they took over the houses along the river, cannot so easily be categorized. They have skilled jobs in the Kingsland Brewing Company, located just out of town to the south and one block east of the Mississippi. If we look to our right, we can see â€Å"the world’s largest six-pack,† storage tanks painted over with gigantic Kingsland Old-Time Lager labels. The men who live on Nailhouse Row met one another on the Urbana-Champaign campus of the University of Illinois, where all but one were undergraduates majoring in English or philosophy. (The exception was a resident in surgery at the UI-UC university hospital.) They get an ironic pleasure from being called the Thunder Five: the name strikes them as sweetly cartoonish. What they call themselves is â€Å"the Hegelian Scum.† These gentlemen form an interesting crew, and we will make their acquaintance later on. For now, we have time only to note the hand-painted posters taped to the fronts of several houses, two lamp poles, and a couple of abandoned buildings. The posters say: FISHERMAN, YOU BETTER PRAY TO YOUR STINKING GOD WE DON’T CATCH YOU FIRST! REMEMBER AMY! From Nailhouse Row, Chase Street runs steeply uphill between listing buildings with worn, unpainted facades the color of fog: the old Nelson Hotel, where a few impoverished residents lie sleeping, a blank-faced tavern, a tired shoe store displaying Red Wing workboots behind its filmy picture window, a few other dim buildings that bear no indication of their function and seem oddly dreamlike and vaporous. These structures have the air of failed resurrections, of having been rescued from the dark westward territory although they were still dead. In a way, that is precisely what happened to them. An ocher horizontal stripe, ten feet above the sidewalk on the facade of the Nelson Hotel and two feet from the rising ground on the opposed, ashen faces of the last two buildings, represents the high-water mark left behind by the flood of 1965, when the Mississippi rolled over its banks, drowned the railroad tracks and Nailhouse Row, and mounted nearly to the top of Chase Street. Where Chase rises above the flood line and levels out, it widens and undergoes a transformation into the main street of French Landing, the town beneath us. The Agincourt Theater, the Taproom Bar Grille, the First Farmer State Bank, the Samuel Stutz Photography Studio (which does a steady business in graduation photos, wedding pictures, and children’s portraits) and shops, not the ghostly relics of shops, line its blunt sidewalks: Benton’s Rexall drugstore, Reliable Hardware, Saturday Night Video, Regal Clothing, Schmitt’s Allsorts Emporium, stores selling electronic equipment, magazines and greeting cards, toys, and athletic clothing featuring the logos of the Brewers, the Twins, the Packers, the Vikings, and the University of Wisconsin. After a few blocks, the name of the street changes to Lyall Road, and the buildings separate and shrink into one-story wooden structures fronted with signs advertising insurance offices and travel agencies; after that, the stre et becomes a highway that glides eastward past a 7-Eleven, the Reinhold T. Grauerhammer VFW Hall, a big farm-implement dealership known locally as Goltz’s, and into a landscape of flat, unbroken fields. If we rise another hundred feet into the immaculate air and scan what lies beneath and ahead, we see kettle moraines, coulees, blunted hills furry with pines, loam-rich valleys invisible from ground level until you have come upon them, meandering rivers, miles-long patchwork fields, and little towns one of them, Centralia, no more than a scattering of buildings around the intersection of two narrow highways, 35 and 93. Directly below us, French Landing looks as though it had been evacuated in the middle of the night. No one moves along the sidewalks or bends to insert a key into one of the locks of the shop fronts along Chase Street. The angled spaces before the shops are empty of the cars and pickup trucks that will begin to appear, first by ones and twos, then in a mannerly little stream, an hour or two later. No lights burn behind the windows in the commercial buildings or the unpretentious houses lining the surrounding streets. A block north of Chase on Sumner Street, four matching red-brick buildings of two stories each house, in west-east order, the French Landing Public Library; the offices of Patrick J. Skarda, M.D., the local general practitioner, and Bell Holland, a two-man law firm now run by Garland Bell and Julius Holland, the sons of its founders; the Heartfield Son Funeral Home, now owned by a vast, funereal empire centered in St. Louis; and the French Landing Post Office. Separated from these by a wide driveway into a good-sized parking lot at the rear, the building at the end of the block, where Sumner intersects with Third Street, is also of red brick and two stories high but longer than its immediate neighbors. Unpainted iron bars block the rear second-floor windows, and two of the four vehicles in the parking lot are patrol cars with light bars across their tops and the letters FLPD on their sides. The presence of police cars and barred windows seems incongruous in this rural fastness what sort of crime can happen here? Nothing serious, surely; surely nothing worse than a little shoplifting, drunken driving, and an occasional bar fight. As if in testimony to the peacefulness and regularity of small-town life, a red van with the words LA RIVIERE HERALD on its side panels drifts slowly down Third Street, pausing at nearly all of the mailbox stands for its driver to insert copies of the day’s newspaper, wrapped in a blue plastic bag, into gray metal cylinders bearing the same words. When the van turns onto Sumner, where the buildings have mail slots instead of boxes, the route man simply throws the wrapped papers at the front doors. Blue parcels thwack against the doors of the police station, the funeral home, and the office buildings. The post office does not get a paper. What do you know, lights are burning behind the front downstairs windows of the police station. The door opens. A tall, dark-haired young man in a pale blue short-sleeved uniform shirt, a Sam Browne belt, and navy trousers steps outside. The wide belt and the gold badge on Bobby Dulac’s chest gleam in the fresh sunlight, and everything he is wearing, including the 9mm pistol strapped to his hip, seems as newly made as Bobby Dulac himself. He watches the red van turn left onto Second Street, and frowns at the rolled newspaper. He nudges it with the tip of a black, highly polished shoe, bending over just far enough to suggest that he is trying to read the headlines through the plastic. Evidently this technique does not work all that well. Still frowning, Bobby tilts all the way over and picks up the newspaper with unexpected delicacy, the way a mother cat picks up a kitten in need of relocation. Holding it a little distance away from his body, he gives a quick glance up and down Sumner Street, about-faces smartly, and steps back into the station. We, who in our curiosity have been steadily descending toward the interesting spectacle presented by Officer Dulac, go inside behind him. A gray corridor leads past a blank door and a bulletin board with very little on it to two sets of metal stairs, one going down to a small locker room, shower stalls, and a firing range, the other upward to an interrogation room and two facing rows of cells, none presently occupied. Somewhere near, a radio talk show is playing at a level that seems too loud for a peaceful morning. Bobby Dulac opens the unmarked door and enters, with us on his shiny heels, the ready room he has just left. A rank of filing cabinets stands against the wall to our right, beside them a beat-up wooden table on which sit neat stacks of papers in folders and a transistor radio, the source of the discordant noise. From the nearby studio of KDCU-AM, Your Talk Voice in the Coulee Country, the entertainingly rabid George Rathbun has settled into Badger Barrage, his popular morning broadcast. Good old George sounds too loud for the occasion no matter how low you dial the volume; the guy is just flat-out noisy that’s part of his appeal. Set in the middle of the wall directly opposite us is a closed door with a dark pebble-glass window on which has been painted DALE GILBERTSON, CHIEF OF POLICE. Dale will not be in for another half hour or so. Two metal desks sit at right angles to each other in the corner to our left, and from the one that faces us, Tom Lund, a fair-haired officer of roughly his partner’s age but without his appearance of having been struck gleaming from the mint five minutes before, regards the bag tweezed between two fingers of Bobby Dulac’s right hand. â€Å"All right,† Lund says. â€Å"Okay. The latest installment.† â€Å"You thought maybe the Thunder Five was paying us another social call? Here. I don’t want to read the damn thing.† Not deigning to look at the newspaper, Bobby sends the new day’s issue of the La Riviere Herald sailing in a flat, fast arc across ten feet of wooden floor with an athletic snap of his wrist, spins rightward, takes a long stride, and positions himself in front of the wooden table a moment before Tom Lund fields his throw. Bobby glares at the two names and various details scrawled on the long chalkboard hanging on the wall behind the table. He is not pleased, Bobby Dulac; he looks as though he might burst out of his uniform through the sheer force of his anger. Fat and happy in the KDCU studio, George Rathbun yells, â€Å"Caller, gimme a break, willya, and get your prescription fixed! Are we talking about the same game here? Caller â€Å" â€Å"Maybe Wendell got some sense and decided to lay off,† Tom Lund says. â€Å"Wendell,† Bobby says. Because Lund can see only the sleek, dark back of his head, the little sneering thing he does with his lip wastes motion, but he does it anyway. â€Å"Caller, let me ask you this one question, and in all sincerity, I want you to be honest with me. Did you actually see last night’s game?† â€Å"I didn’t know Wendell was a big buddy of yours,† Bobby says. â€Å"I didn’t know you ever got as far south as La Riviere. Here I was thinking your idea of a big night out was a pitcher of beer and trying to break one hundred at the Arden Bowl-A-Drome, and now I find out you hang out with newspaper reporters in college towns. Probably get down and dirty with the Wisconsin Rat, too, that guy on KWLA. Do you pick up a lot of punk babes that way?† The caller says he missed the first inning on account of he had to pick up his kid after a special counseling session at Mount Hebron, but he sure saw everything after that. â€Å"Did I say Wendell Green was a friend of mine?† asks Tom Lund. Over Bobby’s left shoulder he can see the first of the names on the chalkboard. His gaze helplessly focuses on it. â€Å"It’s just, I met him after the Kinderling case, and the guy didn’t seem so bad. Actually, I kind of liked him. Actually, I wound up feeling sorry for him. He wanted to do an interview with Hollywood, and Hollywood turned him down flat.† Well, naturally he saw the extra innings, the hapless caller says, that’s how he knows Pokey Reese was safe. â€Å"And as for the Wisconsin Rat, I wouldn’t know him if I saw him, and I think that so-called music he plays sounds like the worst bunch of crap I ever heard in my life. How did that scrawny pasty-face creep get a radio show in the first place? On the college station? What does that tell you about our wonderful UW?CLa Riviere, Bobby? What does it say about our whole society? Oh, I forgot, you like that shit.† â€Å"No, I like 311 and Korn, and you’re so out of it you can’t tell the difference between Jonathan Davis and Dee Dee Ramone, but forget about that, all right?† Slowly, Bobby Dulac turns around and smiles at his partner. â€Å"Stop stalling.† His smile is none too pleasant. â€Å"I’m stalling?† Tom Lund widens his eyes in a parody of wounded innocence. â€Å"Gee, was it me who fired the paper across the room? No, I guess not.† â€Å"If you never laid eyes on the Wisconsin Rat, how come you know what he looks like?† â€Å"Same way I know he has funny-colored hair and a pierced nose. Same way I know he wears a beat-to-shit black leather jacket day in, day out, rain or shine.† Bobby waited. â€Å"By the way he sounds. People’s voices are full of information. A guy says, Looks like it’ll turn out to be a nice day, he tells you his whole life story. Want to know something else about Rat Boy? He hasn’t been to the dentist in six, seven years. His teeth look like shit.† From within KDCU’s ugly cement-block structure next to the brewery on Peninsula Drive, via the radio Dale Gilbertson donated to the station house long before either Tom Lund or Bobby Dulac first put on their uniforms, comes good old dependable George Rathbun’s patented bellow of genial outrage, a passionate, inclusive uproar that for a hundred miles around causes breakfasting farmers to smile across their tables at their wives and passing truckers to laugh out loud: â€Å"I swear, caller, and this goes for my last last caller, too, and every single one of you out there, I love you dearly, that is the honest truth, I love you like my momma loved her turnip patch, but sometimes you people DRIVE ME CRAZY! Oh, boy. Top of the eleventh inning, two outs! Six?Cseven, Reds! Men on second and third. Batter lines to short center field, Reese takes off from third, good throw to the plate, clean tag, clean tag. A BLIND MAN COULDA MADE THAT CALL!† â€Å"Hey, I thought it was a good tag, and I only heard it on the radio,† says Tom Lund. Both men are stalling, and they know it. â€Å"In fact,† shouts the hands-down most popular Talk Voice of the Coulee Country, â€Å"let me go out on a limb here, boys and girls, let me make the following recommendation, okay? Let’s replace every umpire at Miller Park, hey, every umpire in the National League, with BLIND MEN! You know what, my friends? I guarantee a sixty to seventy percent improvement in the accuracy of their calls. GIVE THE JOB TO THOSE WHO CAN HANDLE IT THE BLIND!† Mirth suffuses Tom Lund’s bland face. That George Rathbun, man, he’s a hoot. Bobby says, â€Å"Come on, okay?† Grinning, Lund pulls the folded newspaper out of its wrapper and flattens it on his desk. His face hardens; without altering its shape, his grin turns stony. â€Å"Oh, no. Oh, hell.† â€Å"What?† Lund utters a shapeless groan and shakes his head. â€Å"Jesus. I don’t even want to know.† Bobby rams his hands into his pockets, then pulls himself perfectly upright, jerks his right hand free, and clamps it over his eyes. â€Å"I’m a blind guy, all right? Make me an umpire I don’t wanna be a cop anymore.† Lund says nothing. â€Å"It’s a headline? Like a banner headline? How bad is it?† Bobby pulls his hand away from his eyes and holds it suspended in midair. â€Å"Well,† Lund tells him, â€Å"it looks like Wendell didn’t get some sense, after all, and he sure as hell didn’t decide to lay off. I can’t believe I said I liked the dipshit.† â€Å"Wake up,† Bobby says. â€Å"Nobody ever told you law enforcement officers and journalists are on opposite sides of the fence?† Tom Lund’s ample torso tilts over his desk. A thick lateral crease like a scar divides his forehead, and his stolid cheeks burn crimson. He aims a finger at Bobby Dulac. â€Å"This is one thing that really gets me about you, Bobby. How long have you been here? Five, six months? Dale hired me four years ago, and when him and Hollywood put the cuffs on Mr. Thornberg Kinderling, which was the biggest case in this county for maybe thirty years, I can’t claim any credit, but at least I pulled my weight. I helped put some of the pieces together.† â€Å"One of the pieces,† Bobby says. â€Å"I reminded Dale about the girl bartender at the Taproom, and Dale told Hollywood, and Hollywood talked to the girl, and that was a big, big piece. It helped get him. So don’t you talk to me that way.† Bobby Dulac assumes a look of completely hypothetical contrition. â€Å"Sorry, Tom. I guess I’m kind of wound up and beat to shit at the same time.† What he thinks is: So you got a couple years on me and you once gave Dale this crappy little bit of information, so what, I’m a better cop than you’ll ever be. How heroic were you last night, anyhow? At 11:15 the previous night, Armand â€Å"Beezer† St. Pierre and his fellow travelers in the Thunder Five had roared up from Nailhouse Row to surge into the police station and demand of its three occupants, each of whom had worked an eighteen-hour shift, exact details of the progress they were making on the issue that most concerned them all. What the hell was going on here? What about the third one, huh, what about Irma Freneau? Had they found her yet? Did these clowns have anything, or were they still just blowing smoke? You need help? Beezer roared, Then deputize us, we’ll give you all the goddamn help you need and then some. A giant named Mouse had strolled smirking up to Bobby Dulac and kept on strolling, jumbo belly to six-pack belly, until Bobby was backed up against a filing cabinet, whereupon the giant Mouse had mysteriously inquired, in a cloud of beer and marijuana, whether Bobby had ever dipped into the works of a gentleman named Jacques Derrida. When Bobby replied that he had never heard of the gentleman, Mouse said, â€Å"No shit, Sherlock,† and stepped aside to glare at the names on the chalkboard. Half an hour later, Beezer, Mouse, and their companions were sent away unsatisfied, undeputized, but pacified, and Dale Gilbertson said he had to go home and get some sleep, but Tom ought to remain, just in case. The regular night men had both found excuses not to come in. Bobby said he would stay, too, no problem, Chief, which is why we find these two men in the station so early in the morning. â€Å"Give it to me,† says Bobby Dulac. Lund picks up the paper, turns it around, and holds it out for Bobby to see: FISHERMAN STILL AT LARGE IN FRENCH LANDING AREA, reads the headline over an article that takes up three columns on the top left-hand side of the front page. The columns of type have been printed against a background of pale blue, and a black border separates them from the remainder of the page. Beneath the head, in smaller print, runs the line Identity of Psycho Killer Baffles Police. Underneath the subhead, a line in even smaller print attributes the article to Wendell Green, with the support of the editorial staff. â€Å"The Fisherman,† Bobby says. â€Å"Right from the start, your friend has his thumb up his butt. The Fisherman, the Fisherman, the Fisherman. If I all of a sudden turned into a fifty-foot ape and started stomping on buildings, would you call me King Kong?† Lund lowers the newspaper and smiles. â€Å"Okay,† Bobby allows, â€Å"bad example. Say I held up a couple banks. Would you call me John Dillinger?† â€Å"Well,† says Lund, smiling even more broadly, â€Å"they say Dillinger’s tool was so humongous, they put it in a jar in the Smithsonian. So . . .† â€Å"Read me the first sentence,† Bobby says. Tom Lund looks down and reads: † ? ®As the police in French Landing fail to discover any leads to the identity of the fiendish double murderer and sex criminal this reporter has dubbed â€Å"the Fisherman,† the grim specters of fear, despair, and suspicion run increasingly rampant through the streets of that little town, and from there out into the farms and villages throughout French County, darkening by their touch every portion of the Coulee Country.’ â€Å" â€Å"Just what we need,† Bobby says. â€Å"Jee-zus!† And in an instant has crossed the room and is leaning over Tom Lund’s shoulder, reading the Herald’s front page with his hand resting on the butt of his Glock, as if ready to drill a hole in the article right here and now. † ? ®Our traditions of trust and good neighborliness, our habit of extending warmth and generosity to all [writes Wendell Green, editorializing like crazy], are eroding daily under the corrosive onslaught of these dread emotions. Fear, despair, and suspicion are poisonous to the soul of communities large and small, for they turn neighbor against neighbor and make a mockery of civility. † ? ®Two children have been foully murdered and their remains partially consumed. Now a third child has disappeared. Eight-year-old Amy St. Pierre and seven-year-old Johnny Irkenham fell victim to the passions of a monster in human form. Neither will know the happiness of adolescence or the satisfactions of adulthood. Their grieving parents will never know the grandchildren they would have cherished. The parents of Amy and Johnny’s playmates shelter their children within the safety of their own homes, as do parents whose children never knew the deceased. As a result, summer playgroups and other programs for young children have been canceled in virtually every township and municipality in French County. † ? ®With the disappearance of ten-year-old Irma Freneau seven days after the death of Amy St. Pierre and only three after that of Johnny Irkenham, public patience has grown dangerously thin. As this correspondent has already reported, Merlin Graasheimer, fifty-two, an unemployed farm laborer of no fixed abode, was set upon and beaten by an unidentified group of men in a Grainger side street late Tuesday evening. Another such episode occurred in the early hours of Thursday morning, when Elvar Praetorious, thirty-six, a Swedish tourist traveling alone, was assaulted by three men, again unidentified, while asleep in La Riviere’s Leif Eriksson Park. Graasheimer and Praetorious required only routine medical attention, but future incidents of vigilantism will almost certainly end more seriously.’ â€Å" Tom Lund looks down at the next paragraph, which describes the Freneau girl’s abrupt disappearance from a Chase Street sidewalk, and pushes himself away from his desk. Bobby Dulac reads silently for a time, then says, â€Å"You gotta hear this shit, Tom. This is how he winds up: † ? ®When will the Fisherman strike again? † ? ®For he will strike again, my friends, make no mistake. † ? ®And when will French Landing’s chief of police, Dale Gilbertson, do his duty and rescue the citizens of this county from the obscene savagery of the Fisherman and the understandable violence produced by his own inaction?’ â€Å" Bobby Dulac stamps to the middle of the room. His color has heightened. He inhales, then exhales a magnificent quantity of oxygen. â€Å"How about the next time the Fisherman strikes,† Bobby says, â€Å"how about he goes right up Wendell Green’s flabby rear end?† â€Å"I’m with you,† says Tom Lund. â€Å"Can you believe that shinola? ? ®Understandable violence’? He’s telling people it’s okay to mess with anyone who looks suspicious!† Bobby levels an index finger at Lund. â€Å"I personally am going to nail this guy. That is a promise. I’ll bring him down, alive or dead.† In case Lund may have missed the point, he repeats, â€Å"Personally.† Wisely choosing not to speak the words that first come to his mind, Tom Lund nods his head. The finger is still pointing. He says, â€Å"If you want some help with that, maybe you should talk to Hollywood. Dale didn’t have no luck, but could be you’d do better.† Bobby waves this notion away. â€Å"No need. Dale and me . . . and you, too, of course, we got it covered. But I personally am going to get this guy. That is a guarantee.† He pauses for a second. â€Å"Besides, Hollywood retired when he moved here, or did you forget?† â€Å"Hollywood’s too young to retire,† Lund says. â€Å"Even in cop years, the guy is practically a baby. So you must be the next thing to a fetus.† And on their cackle of shared laughter, we float away and out of the ready room and back into the sky, where we glide one block farther north, to Queen Street. Moving a few blocks east we find, beneath us, a low, rambling structure branching out from a central hub that occupies, with its wide, rising breadth of lawn dotted here and there with tall oaks and maples, the whole of a block lined with bushy hedges in need of a good trim. Obviously an institution of some kind, the structure at first resembles a progressive elementary school in which the various wings represent classrooms without walls, the square central hub the dining room and administrative offices. When we drift downward, we hear George Rathbun’s genial bellow rising toward us from several windows. The big glass front door swings open, and a trim woman in cat’s-eye glasses comes out into the bright morning, holding a poster in one hand and a roll of tape in the other. She immediately turns around and, with quick, efficient gestures, fixes the poster to the door. Sunlight reflects from a smoky gemstone the size of a hazelnut on the third finger of her right hand. While she takes a moment to admire her work, we can peer over her crisp shoulder and see that the poster announces, in a cheerful burst of hand-drawn balloons, that TODAY IS STRAWBERRY FEST!!!; when the woman walks back inside, we take in the presence, in the portion of the entry visible just beneath the giddy poster, of two or three folded wheelchairs. Beyond the wheelchairs, the woman, whose chestnut hair has been pinned back into an architectural whorl, strides on her high-heeled pumps through a pleasant lobby with blond wooden chairs and matching tables strewn artfully with magazines, marches past a kind of unmanned guardpost or reception desk before a handsome fieldstone wall, and vanishes, with the trace of a skip, through a burnished door marked WILLIAM MAXTON, DIRECTOR. What kind of school is this? Why is it open for business, why is it putting on festivals, in the middle of July? We could call it a graduate school, for those who reside here have graduated from every stage of their existences but the last, which they live out, day after day, under the careless stewardship of Mr. William â€Å"Chipper† Maxton, Director. This is the Maxton Elder Care Facility, once in a more innocent time, and before the cosmetic renovations done in the mid-eighties known as the Maxton Nursing Home, which was owned and managed by its founder, Herbert Maxton, Chipper’s father. Herbert was a decent if wishy-washy man who, it is safe to say, would be appalled by some of the things the sole fruit of his loins gets up to. Chipper never wanted to take over â€Å"the family playpen,† as he calls it, with its freight of â€Å"gummers,† â€Å"zombies,† â€Å"bed wetters,† and â€Å"droolies,† and after getting an accounting degree at UW?CLa Riviere (with hard-earned minors in promiscuity, gambling, and beer drinking), our boy accepted a position with the Madison, Wisconsin, office of the Internal Revenue Service, largely for the purpose of learning how to steal from the government undetected. Five years with the IRS taught him much that was useful, but when his subsequent career as a freelancer failed to match his ambitions, he yielded to his father’s increasingly frail entreaties and threw in his lot with the undead and the droolies. With a certain grim relish, Chipper acknowledged that despite a woeful shortage of glamour, his father’s business would at least provide him with the opportunity to steal from the clients and the government alike. Let us flow in through the big glass doors, cross the handsome lobby (noting, as we do so, the mingled odors of air freshener and ammonia that pervade even the public areas of all such institutions), pass through the door bearing Chipper’s name, and find out what that well-arranged young woman is doing here so early. Beyond Chipper’s door lies a windowless cubicle equipped with a desk, a coatrack, and a small bookshelf crowded with computer printouts, pamphlets, and flyers. A door stands open beside the desk. Through the opening, we see a much larger office, paneled in the same burnished wood as the director’s door and containing leather chairs, a glass-topped coffee table, and an oatmeal-colored sofa. At its far end looms a vast desk untidily heaped with papers and so deeply polished it seems nearly to glow. Our young woman, whose name is Rebecca Vilas, sits perched on the edge of this desk, her legs crossed in a particularly architectural fashion. One knee folds over the other, and the calves form two nicely molded, roughly parallel lines running down to the triangular tips of the black high-heeled pumps, one of which points to four o’clock and the other to six. Rebecca Vilas, we gather, has arranged herself to be seen, has struck a pose intended to be appreciated, though certainly not by us. Behind the cat’s-eye glasses, her eyes look skeptical and amused, but we cannot see what has aroused these emotions. We assume that she is Chipper’s secretary, and this assumption, too, expresses only half of the truth: as the ease and irony of her attitude imply, Ms. Vilas’s duties have long extended beyond the purely secretarial. (We might speculate about the source of that nice ring she is wearing; as long as our minds are in the gutter, we will be right on the money. ) We float through the open door, follow the direction of Rebecca’s increasingly impatient gaze, and find ourselves staring at the sturdy, khaki-clad rump of her kneeling employer, who has thrust his head and shoulders into a good-sized safe, in which we glimpse stacks of record books and a number of manila envelopes apparently stuffed with currency. A few bills flop out of these envelopes as Chipper pulls them from the safe. â€Å"You did the sign, the poster thing?† he asks without turning around. â€Å"Aye, aye,† says Rebecca Vilas. â€Å"And a splendid day it is we shall be havin’ for the great occasion, too, as is only roight and proper.† Her Irish accent is surprisingly good, if a bit generic. She has never been anywhere more exotic than Atlantic City, where Chipper used his frequent-flier miles to escort her for five enchanted days two years before. She learned the accent from old movies. â€Å"I hate Strawberry Fest,† Chipper says, dredging the last of the envelopes from the safe. â€Å"The zombies’ wives and children mill around all afternoon, cranking them up so we have to sedate them into comas just to get some peace. And if you want to know the truth, I hate balloons.† He dumps the money onto the carpet and begins to sort the bills into stacks of various denominations. â€Å"Only Oi was wonderin’, in me simple country manner,† says Rebecca, â€Å"why Oi should be requested to appear at the crack o’ dawn on the grand day.† â€Å"Know what else I hate? The whole music thing. Singing zombies and that stupid deejay. Symphonic Stan with his big-band records, whoo boy, talk about thrills.† â€Å"I assume,† Rebecca says, dropping the stage-Irish accent, â€Å"you want me to do something with that money before the action begins.† â€Å"Time for another journey to Miller.† An account under a fictitious name in the State Provident Bank in Miller, forty miles away, receives regular deposits of cash skimmed from patients’ funds intended to pay for extra goods and services. Chipper turns around on his knees with his hands full of money and looks up at Rebecca. He sinks back down to his heels and lets his hands fall into his lap. â€Å"Boy, do you have great legs. Legs like that, you ought to be famous.† â€Å"I thought you’d never notice,† Rebecca says. Chipper Maxton is forty-two years old. He has good teeth, all his hair, a wide, sincere face, and narrow brown eyes that always look a little damp. He also has two kids, Trey, nine, and Ashley, seven and recently diagnosed with ADD, a matter Chipper figures is going to cost him maybe two thousand a year in pills alone. And of course he has a wife, his life’s partner, Marion, thirty-nine years of age, five foot five, and somewhere in the neighborhood of 190 pounds. In addition to these blessings, as of last night Chipper owes his bookie $13,000, the result of an unwise investment in the Brewers game George Rathbun is still bellowing about. He has noticed, oh, yes he has, Chipper has noticed Ms. Vilas’s splendidly cantilevered legs. â€Å"Before you go over there,† he says, â€Å"I was thinking we could kind of stretch out on the sofa and fool around.† â€Å"Ah,† Rebecca says. â€Å"Fool around how, exactly?† â€Å"Gobble, gobble, gobble,† Chipper says, grinning like a satyr. â€Å"You romantic devil, you,† says Rebecca, a remark that utterly escapes her employer. Chipper thinks he actually is being romantic. She slides elegantly down from her perch, and Chipper pushes himself inelegantly upright and closes the safe door with his foot. Eyes shining damply, he takes a couple of thuggish, strutting strides across the carpet, wraps one arm around Rebecca Vilas’s slender waist and with the other slides the fat manila envelopes onto the desk. He is yanking at his belt even before he begins to pull Rebecca toward the sofa. â€Å"So can I see him?† says clever Rebecca, who understands exactly how to turn her lover’s brains to porridge . . . . . . and before Chipper obliges her, we do the sensible thing and float out into the lobby, which is still empty. A corridor to the left of the reception desk takes us to two large, blond, glass-inset doors marked DAISY and BLUEBELL, the names of the wings to which they give entrance. Far down the gray length of Bluebell, a man in baggy coveralls dribbles ash from his cigarette onto the tiles over which he is dragging, with exquisite slowness, a filthy mop. We move into Daisy. The functional parts of Maxton’s are a great deal less attractive than the public areas. Numbered doors line both sides of the corridor. Hand-lettered cards in plastic holders beneath the numerals give the names of the residents. Four doors along, a desk at which a burly male attendant in an unclean white uniform sits dozing upright faces the entrances to the men’s and women’s bathrooms at Maxton’s, only the most expensive rooms, those on the other side of the lobby, in Asphodel, provide anything but a sink. Dirty mop-swirls harden and dry all up and down the tiled floor, which stretches out before us to improbable length. Here, too, the walls and air seem the same shade of gray. If we look closely at the edges of the hallway, at the juncture of the walls and the ceiling, we see spiderwebs, old stains, accumulations of grime. Pine-Sol, ammonia, urine, and worse scent the atmosphere. As an elderly lady in Bluebell wing likes to say, when you live with a bu nch of people who are old and incontinent, you never get far from the smell of caca. The rooms themselves vary according to the conditions and capacities of their inhabitants. Since nearly everyone is asleep, we can glance into a few of these quarters. Here in D10, a single room two doors past the dozing aide, old Alice Weathers lies (snoring gently, dreaming of dancing in perfect partnership with Fred Astaire across a white marble floor) surrounded by so much of her former life that she must navigate past the chairs and end tables to maneuver from the door to her bed. Alice still possesses even more of her wits than she does her old furniture, and she cleans her room herself, immaculately. Next door in D12, two old farmers named Thorvaldson and Jesperson, who have not spoken to each other in years, sleep, separated by a thin curtain, in a bright clutter of family photographs and grandchildren’s drawings. Farther down the hallway, D18 presents a spectacle completely opposite to the clean, crowded jumble of D10, just as its inhabitant, a man known as Charles Burnside, could be considered the polar opposite of Alice Weathers. In D18, there are no end tables, hutches, overstuffed chairs, gilded mirrors, lamps, woven rugs, or velvet curtains: this barren room contains only a metal bed, a plastic chair, and a chest of drawers. No photographs of children and grandchildren stand atop the chest, and no crayon drawings of blocky houses and stick figures decorate the walls. Mr. Burnside has no interest in housekeeping, and a thin layer of dust covers the floor, the windowsill, and the chest’s bare top. D18 is bereft of history, empty of personality; it seems as brutal and soulless as a prison cell. A powerful smell of excrement contaminates the air. For all the entertainment offered by Chipper Maxton and all the charm of Alice Weathers, it is Charles Burnside, â€Å"Burny,† we have most come to see. How to cite Black House Chapter One, Essay examples

Debut Albums and Girls Generation free essay sample

Most of us were not Cones from the beginning. Many of us may not have been there when people think you couldnt make it. We may not have been there when you wanted to give up. Many of us were not Cones, when you felt like the nine of you were all that you had. But because weve become you Cones, the one who fulfilled your wishes Although we couldnt be with you from the very beginning. .. We will be with you UNTIL THE END. Well be standing with you forever until the end. Everywhere you go a PINK OCEAN flows Proof of how hard youve worked, how far youve comeProof that you did It! Girls Generation, SANDS, Soundlessly. TO the 9 Girls that I LOVE Many years now have been passed since your debut From your first debut stage to the most prestigious stage youve performed on In 5 years your still SANDS. We will write a custom essay sample on Debut Albums and Girls Generation or any similar topic specifically for you Do Not WasteYour Time HIRE WRITER Only 13.90 / page Girls who despite the fame and have never forgotten who they are It hasnt been an easy Journey, and it still it will not be easy Even though you all 9 are now being divided into subgroups You will still be 9 Youve made a comeback within 9 months and for 9 weeks you all 9 members received 9 trophies.