House of Shield's Night Club, San Francisco, Calif.

                       Seal Point, San Francisco

Tam Nguyen Photography, San Francisco, Calif.

           

Tam Nguyen, Photo

San Francisco Bay - Sailing past the Lime Point Lighthouse, (established as a fog signal in 1883. The current building dates from 1900 and had a beacon affixed to the top of it.), base of the north tower of the Golden Gate Bridge in the background.

Photo taken Sept. 10th, 2000.

credit: nuvocoke

Good night, San Francisco!

A Nurse's Intuition & The Embrace That Changed Medicine This story is a beautiful reminder that sometimes, the greatest revolutions are born from the simplest acts of love.

In 1995, tiny premature twins, Kyrie and Brielle, were fighting for their lives. Brielle was weakening by the hour, and doctors prepared the family for the worst. But a single nurse, listening to her deepest instinct, broke protocol: she placed the two sisters skin-to-skin in the same incubator.

And then, the impossible happened. Brielle's breathing stabilized, her oxygen saturation soared, and they saw Kyrie's tiny arm reach out to hold her. It was a suspended, silent moment that proved the controversial idea that infants can regulate each other’s physiology—heartbeat, temperature, and even stress levels—through co-regulation.

This "Rescuing Hug" didn't just save Brielle; it became a quiet catalyst, influencing hospitals globally to embrace co-bedding for twins and widely adopt kangaroo care.

The greatest breakthrough wasn't a complex machine—it was an embrace. May we always remember the healing power of holding onto the ones we love.

#LoveSavesLives #RescuingHug #MedicalRevolution #PreemieTwins #NICUStrong #Intuition #HopeAndHealing #TheWarmthOfALovedOne

 

 

Republican, Democrat, spare me the team jerseys. I don’t give one fuck what color your tie is. If you’re guilty, you should be prosecuted to the absolute ends of the law. No exceptions. No winks. No quiet resignations and soft landings. The Epstein horrors were never political, they were moral atrocities, and they should be treated like the crimes against humanity they are.

And now here comes democrat Larry Summers, slinking out with his carefully manicured apology tour, “deeply ashamed,” “full responsibility,” “stepping back from public commitments.” Spare me. The man wasn’t “misguided”; he was comfortable. Comfortable enough to keep talking to a predator whose existence was an open secret among the powerful. Comfortable enough to keep basking in the glow of proximity, because Epstein’s currency was access, and Summers kept cashing the checks until the house of cards finally collapsed.

Now the boards and think tanks are suddenly discovering their consciences, funny how that works. The Center for American Progress hits the brakes. Yale Budget Lab quietly unhooks his name from the masthead. Everyone scurries to distance themselves, as if cutting the rope after the ship has already sunk is some kind of moral victory.

And Harvard, of course, says nothing. Silence is their favorite language when the rot creeps too close to the marble halls.

Elizabeth Warren is right: sever the ties. All of them. Stop pretending that selective shame is the same thing as accountability.

Because this isn’t about Summers alone. It’s about the entire ecosystem of “respectable” people who orbited Epstein like he was some kind of diseased sun, who enjoyed the warmth and now want to pretend they never saw the heat.

This isn’t about politics. This is about character.

— Michael Jochum

Michael Jochum is a writer and musician reflecting on art, politics, and the human condition.

 

Robert Weston Smith….AKA Wolfman Jack. He was an American disc jockey, active for over three decades. He was famous for his gravelly voice. At his peak, Wolfman Jack was heard on more than 2,000 radio stations in 53 countries.

In 1973, Wolfman Jack appeared as himself in George Lucas's second feature film, American Graffiti. Lucas gave him a fraction of a "point", the division of the profits from a film, and the extreme financial success of American Graffiti provided him with a regular income for life. He also appeared in the film's 1979 sequel More American Graffiti, though only through voice-overs. In 1978, he appeared as Bob "The Jackal" Smith in a made-for-TV movie Dead man's Curve based on the musical careers of Jan Berry and Dean Torrence of Jan and Dean. Smith appeared in several television shows as Wolfman Jack, including The Odd Couple, What's Happening!!, Vega$, Hollywood Squares, Married... with Children (his final public performance), Emergency!, The New Adventures of Wonder Woman, and Galactica 1980. He was the regular announcer and occasional host for The Midnight Special on NBC from 1973 to 1981. In 1976, he furnished his voice in The Guess Who's top-10 hit single "Clap for the Wolfman".

He was the host of his variety series The Wolfman Jack Show, which was produced in Canada by CBC Television in 1976 and syndicated to stations in the U.S.

In 1984, Wolfman Jack starred as himself on the short-lived ABC animated series Wolf Rock TV.

On July 1, 1995, Smith died from a heart attack at his house in Belvidere, North Carolina, shortly after finishing a weekly broadcast. He was 57 years old. He is buried at a family cemetery in Belvidere.

 

I put my phone on silent at 8:12 p.m.—the official hour of “my heart is too heavy for company.”

A minute later, I saw it:

A notification from my memories' app.

A video.

Of my dog.

Timestamped 8:12.

I hit play.

That familiar little bark floated out, the one that always sounded like he was asking a question.

His tail thumped against the floor—slow, steady, like a heartbeat made of hope.

Replay.

Replay again.

His breath.

The tiny pause before he tilted his head.

The jingling of his tags—our old house soundtrack.

Back then, 8:12 p.m. was his magic hour.

That was when he’d wait by the door, ready for our evening walk, staring at me like I was the entire universe wrapped in a hoodie.

Sometimes I’d come home late and find him sitting by the window, tail sweeping the floor like a tiny broom of forgiveness.

Tonight, my apartment felt too quiet.

Even the rain outside sounded lonely, tapping the window like a soft reminder I didn’t ask for.

I promised myself:

Tomorrow.

At 8:12.

I’ll light his candle again.

The next night at exactly 8:12, I was still drowning in emails, my brain fried like someone left it on a skillet.

I ducked into the hallway and opened my phone.

I played another old clip.

Just a few seconds.

Him running.

Him smiling.

Him existing.

It stitched something in me back together.

The next night, I did it again.

And again.

Nothing dramatic.

Just love exchanged in spoonfuls.

I’d look at his old collar.

The worn spots where my fingers used to rest.

The tiny scratch on the tag from the time he tried to “fight” a bush.

I’d whisper a memory to him:

How he stole socks like they were treasure.

How he barked at balloons.

How he’d tuck his nose under my hand like he was plugging himself into a charger.

Sunday, I drove out to the park where we used to go.

It looked the same—just slightly older, like me.

I sat on our bench and placed a little paw-shaped candle on it.

Not bright, not fancy—just a soft glow with a couple of very committed moths dancing around it.

A woman walking her dog smiled at me.

For a second, I almost expected my boy to run up beside her, tongue hanging out, telling me I was taking too long.

“I still light a candle for him at 8:12,” I said quietly, as if he could hear.

He always understood quiet things.

The winter came early this year.

The kind that makes everything sound like a memory.

One night, at 8:12, I came home tired and frozen.

I forgot.

When I finally lit the candle at 8:27, the flame flickered in this soft, forgiving way —

like it was saying:

“It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

We’re people, not clocks.

And pets?

They were never clocks either.

They never cared about minutes — only moments.

Now I keep a small lamp by the window.

Next to his picture.

Next to his collar.

Every night at 8:12 — or 8:18 or 9:03 — I turn it on.

A tiny lighthouse for a soul made of fur.

A reminder:

Love doesn’t leave.

It just changes where it waits.

If you’re lucky enough to have a pet beside you right now — go give them a moment that matters.

And if your furry angel watches from heaven…

light a little glow for them tonight.

Because sometimes the softest light says the biggest thing:

“Here. Still here.”

 

 

The decay of Lhotse mountaineer Milan Sedlacek

 

Milan Sedláček, one of the Czech Republic’s most respected high-altitude mountaineers, lost his life on Lhotse on 20 May 2012. He was fifty, experienced, and driven by a deep love for climbing, the kind of passion that pulls people toward places most of the world will only ever see in photographs.

Sedláček had spent years pursuing some of the planet’s hardest peaks, including Shishapangma and two attempts on K2. Lhotse was a mountain he had returned to before, always drawn back by the challenge. In 2012, he and his teammates made a push for the summit. He reached the top, an achievement that represents the pinnacle of a climber’s devotion but never made it back down.

The exact cause of his death remains uncertain, though exhaustion at extreme altitude is believed to have played a role. His body remained high in the “death zone” for more than a decade before recovery teams were finally able to bring him home, giving his family long-awaited closure.

 

 

 

In Norse mythology, the goddess Freyja (Freya) — ruler of love, beauty, and magic — rode across the skies in a chariot drawn by two giant cats. These celestial felines, gifts from the god Thor himself, symbolized not just grace and mystery, but power wrapped in gentleness.

Freya’s cats were said to embody feminine strength and divine independence — fierce enough to pull a goddess, yet tender enough to purr beside her. In ancient tales, farmers left out offerings of milk to earn Freya’s favor and to protect their homes and harvests from misfortune.

Even now, Norse storytellers say that when a cat stretches in a sunbeam, it’s paying homage to Freya — basking in her eternal light.

These myths remind us that cats were never meant to be ordinary. They’ve always walked beside magic, balancing softness and strength with the elegance of gods.

References:

Norse Mythology Online – “Freya and Her Cat-Drawn Chariot”

Smithsonian Magazine – “The Role of Animals in Norse Myth”

BBC History – “Freyja: Goddess of Love and War”

 

 SIR DAVID ATTENBOROUGH FANS

 

He had just delivered the final verdict in a horrific animal cruelty case. But he couldn't go back to his chambers until he visited the one victim who wasn't in the courtroom.

Judge Martin Wallace was a 30-year veteran of the bench. He was known for being stern, fair, and almost impossible to rattle.

But the case of "Finn" had kept him awake at night.

It wasn't just neglect; it was a deliberate, malicious act. The dog had been found chained in an empty apartment after neighbors reported a smell. He had been left with no food or water for weeks. The evidence photos of the emaciated animal were something Judge Wallace couldn't shake.

Today, he had delivered the verdict, sentencing the dog's abuser to the maximum penalty allowed, his voice booming with cold anger in the courtroom.

But as he slammed his gavel, he felt no victory. He just felt the crushing weight of the dog's suffering.

He didn't go to his chambers. He didn't even take off his robes. He walked past his stunned staff and drove his own car to the county animal shelter.

A vet tech met him at the door. "He's very weak, Your Honor," she warned. "And he's terrified of everyone. We haven't been able to get him to respond to much."

She led him to the medical ward. Judge Wallace looked into the kennel and saw a frail, skeletal pit bull, who just stared blankly at the wall.

The judge unhooked the kennel door and slowly knelt on the concrete floor.

"Hey, buddy," he said softly. "I'm Martin. I'm the one who... I'm the one who heard your story."

The dog, who hadn't moved for anyone, slowly turned his head. He shakily got to his feet, all ribs and bones, and took a wobbly step forward.

Then, to the vet's astonishment, the dog crept into the judge's lap, let out a long sigh, and began to gently lick the tears from his face.

"Oh my... he can't get enough of you," the vet tech whispered.

Judge Wallace, the toughest man in the courthouse, wrapped his arms around the frail dog, his voice thick with emotion. "I can't get enough of him, either. Look at this face."

He buried his face in the dog's neck, not caring about the robe.

"You're safe now, pal," he choked out. "You're all right. It's all over."

Judge Wallace visited Finn every week during his recovery.

Two months later, Finn was finally cleared for adoption. The shelter was flooded with offers, but they all knew there was only one person he was going home with.

Judge Wallace signed the final papers, and the dog who had been left for dead walked out the front door, right into his new life.

"You won’t believe what happens next! Click here to discover the heartwarming story!"

https://ifeg.info/.../a-journey-of-compassion-the.../

 

the-wolf-and-moon

Star Streams of Comet Atlas

 

She’s 91 years old, standing in a hospital gown, hands in chains. Arrested for felony theft. The judge could hardly believe it.

 

Helen and her husband George, 88, have been married 65 years. He has severe heart failure and needs medicine every day just to stay alive. They live on a fixed income, barely scraping by. Last month, their supplemental insurance lapsed after they couldn’t afford the payment.

When Helen went to pick up his prescription, the bill wasn’t their usual $50. It was $940. She left empty-handed.

 

For three days, she watched the man she loved struggle to breathe.

Desperate, she went back to the pharmacy. While the pharmacist turned away, she slipped the medication into her purse. She didn’t even make it to the door before she was stopped. The police charged her with felony shoplifting.

 

During booking, her blood pressure skyrocketed, and she was rushed to the hospital. The next morning, still in her thin gown, she was brought into court.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” she whispered. “He’s all I have.”

 

The judge looked at her — small, trembling, 91 years old — and shook his head.

“Take those chains off her,” he ordered. “This is not a criminal. This is a failure of our system.”

He dismissed the charges immediately and ordered emergency assistance for both her and George.

 

Abraham "Bram" Stoker died on April 20, 1912, from syphilis. He passed away in a small boarding house, poor and not widely known or successful at the time.

To make things worse, his death happened just days after the Titanic sank, so hardly anyone noticed. His death was barely mentioned in the newspapers.

Writing was never how he made most of his money. Stoker mainly earned a living working as a personal assistant. He was the friend, secretary, and manager of famous English actor Henry Irving. He worked for Irving for 27 years and also helped run the Lyceum Theatre in London.

After Stoker died, it was his wife, Florence Balcombe—who had once dated Oscar Wilde—who managed to turn his book Dracula into something profitable. In 1922, Florence found out about a German film called Nosferatu that copied Dracula without permission. She decided to sue the filmmakers.

Florence won the lawsuit and was awarded 5,000 pounds. Her efforts helped protect and promote her late husband’s legacy.

 

Ancient Whispers

Deep in the frozen permafrost of the Altai Mountains, archaeologists have uncovered a mysterious ancient idol that has left researchers and historians puzzled. Known as the “Scythian Spaceman,” this small figurine was crafted by an ancient nomadic tribe and depicts a being wearing clothing completely unlike anything in their culture. Its outfit is eerily similar to a modern space suit, with ribbed sections and a large, enclosed helmet, sparking questions about the inspiration behind its creation.

The helmet is the most striking feature, appearing as if it were designed for survival in a foreign atmosphere, suggesting an understanding of technology far beyond what is expected for the period. The figurine raises fascinating questions: Did the Scythians witness something extraordinary? Could it be a symbolic representation of the heavens, or does it hint at contact with a being from another world?

While skeptics argue that the idol is simply a ceremonial or artistic creation, the precision and technological resemblance of the suit cannot be ignored. Every detail, from the ribbing of the suit to the shape of the helmet, is carefully crafted, showing advanced artistic skill and imagination.

This discovery challenges our understanding of ancient cultures and their capacity to observe, imagine, and represent concepts that seem far ahead of their time. The “Scythian Spaceman” serves as a bridge between archaeology and mystery, inviting curiosity about the encounters and beliefs of nomadic tribes in remote landscapes.

The idol is more than an artifact; it is a symbol of human fascination with the unknown, the sky above, and the possibility that civilizations of the past may have witnessed events that continue to baffle us today. Each discovery like this reminds us that the ancient world still holds secrets, waiting to be uncovered by those who dare to question and explore.

#AncientWhispers #ScythianSpaceman #AncientMysteries #AltaiDiscovery #PrehistoricArtifacts #AncientAliens #Archaeology #LostCivilizations

 

“The Old Days That Never Come Back”

 

There’s a certain kind of silence that only memory can make — not sad, not heavy, just… full.

Sometimes, I sit on the porch in the evening breeze and think about the days that shaped me — the ones that time quietly carried away.

Days when laughter echoed from the backyard, when we rode our bikes until the streetlights came on. When letters were handwritten, and a knock on the door meant a friend, not a delivery. When family dinners weren’t rushed, and stories stretched long into the night.

Those days — they’ll never come back.

And maybe that’s how it’s meant to be. Because they didn’t disappear; they simply became a part of who we are.

Now, life moves faster. People scroll more than they talk. Homes are quieter, and time seems to slip through our fingers faster than ever.

But whenever I hear the creak of an old chair, smell rain on the pavement, or find a faded photograph tucked in a drawer — I’m there again.

For a moment, the world feels slower, familiar, whole.

The Thought:

The old days may never return, but their spirit lives in us — in our kindness, our laughter, our patience.

Cherish the present the same way we now cherish the past, because one day, today will become “the good old days.”

 

 

 After nearly 30 years, the remains of Roger Allen Goodlet have been identified through genetic genealogy. Goodlet was 33 when he went missing in 1994, with his remains found among those on the property known as Fox Hollow Farm, once owned by successful businessman Herb Baumeister in Westfield, Indiana. Although originally located in 1996, during a search conducted while Baumeister was out of town, it has taken three decades for advancements in forensic and genetic geneaology to provide answers. This identification is part of a renewed effort to identify individuals connected to Fox Hollow Farm. The investigation continues, with more matches still expected. Authorities believe bone fragments from as many as 25 additional individuals are awaiting identification and are continuing their work to match unidentified remains with missing persons from that era. If you want to learn more about the case, there’s a great documentary on Hulu that explores Fox Hollow Farm and the investigation surrounding Herb Baumeister. Anyone with information about someone last seen near Fox Hollow Farm in the mid-1990s to contact Indiana authorities.

Memorial Plaque

The Baumeister Mansion

In the wealthy suburbs of Indianapolis, husband and father of three Herb Baumeister led a double life - businessman by day, serial killer by night. Throughout the 1990s, he targeted gay men, amassing a victim count possibly surpassing that of Jeffrey Dahmer.

The new true crime series, "The Fox Hollow Murders: Playground of a Serial Killer," premieres Feb. 18 on Hulu.

The four-part ABC News Studios docuseries follows Hamilton County coroner Jeff Jellison as he launches a new investigation decades after thousands of bones were found in the woods behind Fox Hollow Farms, Baumeister's stately home.

Using new DNA technology, Jellison and his team work to identify the human remains, bringing long-deferred closure to victims' families and unearthing unsettling questions about potential accomplices, missing evidence, and a key witness whose story keeps changing.

Through never-before-seen archival footage and new interviews with those central to the story, this new docuseries explores how the murders went undetected.

In an exclusive interview, a Baumeister survivor, Mark Goodyear, emerges from the shadows, revealing his face for the first time in an on-camera interview, raising more questions about his relationship with the man he says wanted to kill him.

Additional interviews include investigators involved in the original case and new investigation, relatives of Baumeister's victims, the current owner of Fox Hollow Farm, and the cold case experts working to bring closure for families still waiting for answers.