Driveways of Ice and Peril by Adam Curtis


This is a story of a struggle against nature. It is one that involves you, me, and the vast meteorological forces beyond our comprehension, or control. It is the story of one journalist’s mother, who must get to the grocer before all the good Christmas turkeys are taken, and in particular one journalist, who finds himself too apathetic, or too comfortable, to get off his chair, put on coat, and go outside. It is a story of chaos versus order, of stagnation versus progress, of a snowed-in driveway versus a clear one.

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End Militarized Ghostbusting, Opponents Say

A team of amateur ghostbusters armed with unlicensed neutrino wands and proton packs

UTICA, N.Y. (AP) — A no-knock raid in upstate New York over the weekend is sparking outrage and demands from protesters for increased regulation of so-called ghostbuster groups.

“We didn’t even call,” says Audrey Hoprey, a mother of two living in Utica. “They just barged in and zapped grandma.”

Hoprey’s story echoes what is being described as a wave of aggressive, militarized ghostbusting vigilantes sweeping the country.

“They were in black, masks on with proton packs lit up, yelling for us to get on the ground.”

She says her pleas for the return of her grandmother’s incorporeal form have fallen on deaf ears and insists she never reported, nor minded her haunting.

“We’d get spooked from time to time but she never meant to hurt nobody.”

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The Old Sadogue


a homage to the rock

I could barely read then but even I knew how the story of the Old Sadogue began.

“Wherever he goes, the fish follow in his wake.”

They said he was fat like a walrus and had tusks like them too, hidden beneath a great white beard that put every other beard to shame. He sailed in a dinghy along the coast, stopping in each harbour only a few days. He would drink with the sailors, dance with their wives, settle disputes, and recite poetry of the North, where men fought bears and people lived in the ice itself. In his absence those comforting words were often repeated by everyone in the outport, a little prayer to our neighbour deity, filling a well otherwise caked with worry.

I looked up from the book of black leather and yellow paper and asked if the thing about the tusks was true. Da said words had a way of shiftin’ shape as they went from mouth to ear, but if it was written on the page it was the truth. I was only eight then and I believed him.

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