It was the year 1887, and Henry Morton Stanley was embarking on a journey up the Congo River, during this expedition he unwittingly set in motion a disastrous experiment. This expedition marked his third foray into Africa, a continent that had already etched his name in history. His initial voyage in 1871, as a journalist for an American newspaper, had immortalized him with the iconic words, "Dr. Livingstone, I presume?" Now, at the age of 46, Stanley found himself leading yet another expedition, venturing into uncharted territories of the rainforest while leaving a portion of his team behind to await essential supplies. However, the leaders of this Rear Column, hailing from esteemed British families, soon descended into infamy. They presided over a series of atrocities: Africans under their command perished needlessly from disease and poisoned food, young women were kidnapped and bought, and savage beatings and mutilations were inflicted upon the natives. Amidst this chaos, Stanley and the forward portion of the expedition battled through the dense Ituri rainforest. They endured torrential rains, hunger, festering sores, malaria, dysentery, and attacks by hostile natives armed with poisoned arrows and spears. Despite these hardships, fewer than one in three of Stanley's companions survived the treacherous journey through the "darkest Africa." Nevertheless, Stanley's resolve remained unshaken. His European comrades marvelled at his indomitable will, while Africans revered him as Bula Matari, the Breaker of Rocks. Reflecting on his experiences in Africa, Stanley acknowledged his rough beginnings and admitted that his schooling amidst the African wilderness had shaped him. Despite criticism suggesting that such experiences were detrimental to European character, Stanley saw them as invaluable lessons. In his time, Stanley's exploits captivated the public imagination. Mark Twain humbly acknowledged Stanley's achievements, while Anton Chekhov hailed his unwavering determination as the epitome of moral strength. Stanley's legacy, forged amidst the trials of the African wilderness, continues to inspire awe and admiration to this day. Over the past century, his once sterling reputation has tarnished considerably. Historians have castigated his collaboration with King Leopold II in the early 1880s, linking him to the exploitative practices of the Belgian monarch's ivory traders, which later inspired Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. With the decline of colonialism and the waning popularity of Victorian ideals, Stanley has been reimagined as a brutal exploiter, a ruthless imperialist who carved his way through Africa with a trail of violence and exploitation. However, a new portrayal of Stanley has emerged in recent years—one that diverges from the traditional narratives of either valiant heroism or tyrannical control. This alternative perspective portrays him not as an indomitable conqueror, but as a strategist who understood the complexities of the wilderness and employed long-term tactics that modern social scientists are only just beginning to unravel. This new version of Stanley was found, appropriately enough, by Livingstone’s biographer, Tim Jeal, a British novelist and expert on Victorian obsessives. Jeal drew on thousands of Stanley’s letters and papers unsealed in the past decade to produce a revisionist tour de force, Stanley: The Impossible Life of Africa’s Greatest Explorer . It depicts a flawed character who seems all the more brave and humane for his ambition and insecurity, virtue and fraud. His self-control in the wilderness becomes even more remarkable considering the secrets he was hiding. Born in Wales to an unmarried 18-year-old mother, Stanley entered the world against a backdrop of adversity. His mother, who would later have four more illegitimate children by different men, left Stanley in the care of his grandfather after his birth. Tragically, Stanley's grandfather passed away when the boy was just five years old, leaving him once again adrift. Taken in by another family briefly, Stanley's life took a dark turn when one of his guardians abandoned him to the confines of a workhouse. In that moment, as the door closed behind his fleeing caretaker, Stanley was engulfed by an overwhelming sense of desolation—a feeling that would linger with him for a lifetime. From that point onward, Stanley, then known as John Rowlands, endeavoured to conceal the shame of his workhouse upbringing and the stigma attached to his birth. At the age of 15, having endured menial tasks such as cleaning and bookkeeping during his time in the workhouse, Stanley ventured to New Orleans. It was there that he assumed the identity of Henry Morton Stanley, an American persona he concocted for himself. Claiming to have adopted the name from a fictional kind-hearted cotton trader in New Orleans who had purportedly imparted lessons of moral resistance to him, Stanley fashioned a narrative to shield himself from the harsh realities of his past. Even at a tender age of 11, while enduring the hardships of the Welsh workhouse, Stanley exhibited a peculiar propensity for self-imposed discipline. He embarked on self-experiments, testing the strength of his willpower by voluntarily subjecting himself to additional challenges. Whether it was abstaining from wishing for more food or sharing his scant rations with others, Stanley demonstrated an early inclination towards self-denial and altruism, perhaps in an effort to assert control over his circumstances. In hindsight, when Stanley later stumbled upon accounts of the Rear Column's atrocities and misconduct, he reflected in his journal that most observers would hastily label these men as inherently wicked. However, Stanley, having experienced the harsh realities of the African interior, understood the profound transformation undergone by individuals stripped of familiar comforts and societal norms. Deprived of basic necessities like meat, bread, wine, and the comforting presence of friends and family, these men were thrust into a world of uncertainty and hardship. Ravaged by fever and plagued by anxiety, their once amiable dispositions eroded, leaving behind mere shadows of their former selves. This phenomenon, as elucidated by economist George Loewenstein, underscores the "hot-cold empathy gap"—the inability to foresee one's behaviour in moments of great adversity or temptation during periods of calm rationality. Loewenstein contends that making resolutions for future behaviour during tranquil moments often leads to unrealistic commitments, akin to agreeing to a diet when one is not hungry. Thus, Stanley advocates for a more pragmatic approach, one that conserves willpower for critical moments of need. He discovered through his own trials in the African wilderness that there exist mental strategies to preserve willpower for essential tasks when it is most needed. Stanley's acquaintance with the harsh realities of Africa began at the age of 30 when he embarked on a mission in 1871 to locate the renowned explorer Livingstone, who had been missing for two years. Amidst the perils of the journey—struggling through swamps, battling malaria, and narrowly escaping a massacre during a civil war—Stanley's resolve never wavered. Despite the dwindling numbers of his expedition party, he made a solemn vow to himself by candlelight, pledging to persist in his quest until he found Livingstone alive or discovered his remains. This unwavering determination, forged in the face of adversity, epitomises Stanley's resilience and unwavering commitment to his cause. Picture yourself as Stanley, emerging from your tent one early morning in the depths of the Ituri rainforest. The darkness envelops you, a constant companion for months on end. Your stomach, ravaged by parasites and disease, protests with every step. Your diet consists of meager sustenance—berries, roots, fungi, insects—scavenged from the unforgiving wilderness. Starvation Camp, a grim reminder of the toll exacted by hunger and illness, lies behind you, its inhabitants too weakened to continue the journey. Yet, despite the hardships, you remain alive. In the face of such adversity, what action do you take? For Stanley, the answer is simple: shave. It's a routine he has adhered to faithfully, even amidst the most dire circumstances. As recalled by his wife, Dorothy Tennant, Stanley's commitment to grooming never wavered, even in the depths of the Great Forest or on the eve of battle. Consider Stanley in a moment of solitude amidst the wilderness. Instead of devoting his energy solely to the search for sustenance, Stanley maintains a peculiar ritual: shaving. It may seem a trivial act in the face of such dire circumstances, but for Stanley, it serves a profound purpose—a cue towards orderliness and self-discipline, as corroborated by recent studies. In controlled experiments, individuals in tidy environments exhibited higher levels of self-control compared to those in disarray. Whether in a neat laboratory or on a well-designed website, orderly settings subtly guided individuals towards disciplined decision-making and altruistic behaviours. For Stanley, the act of shaving each day offered a similar cue towards orderliness, conserving precious mental energy amidst the harsh conditions of the African interior. His routine not only reinforced self-discipline but also served as a buffer against the depletion of willpower. At the age of 33, after his famed encounter with Livingstone, Stanley found love. Despite considering himself inept with women, his newfound celebrity status expanded his social circles in London, where he met Alice Pike, a visiting American. Despite their differing backgrounds, they became engaged, with plans to marry upon Stanley's return from his next expedition. Embarking on a perilous journey down the Congo River, Stanley faced myriad hardships, including attacks from cannibals and bouts of illness. Yet, through it all, he clung to the hope of reuniting with Alice. Even upon learning of her marriage to another, Stanley found solace in the distraction provided by their relationship—a beacon of light amidst his arduous journey. In retrospect, Stanley's approach mirrors the successful strategies observed in childhood experiments and medical settings. By focusing on external distractions and fostering a sense of self-forgetfulness, individuals like Stanley manage to endure and overcome even the most daunting challenges. For example, he attributed the failure of the Rear Column to their leader's decision to delay departure from camp, waiting endlessly for additional porters instead of venturing into the jungle sooner. According to Stanley, taking action would have alleviated their doubts and uncertainties, rather than enduring the deadly monotony. Despite the hardships of traversing the forest with sick and dying men, Stanley found solace in the engrossing tasks at hand, which served as a mental escape from despair and madness. Although Stanley is often depicted as aloof and severe, particularly due to his famous encounter with Livingstone, there are doubts regarding the authenticity of the renowned greeting "Dr. Livingstone, I presume?" According to Jeal, there is no record of Stanley uttering this phrase during the encounter, suggesting it may have been invented later to enhance his image. Contrary to his harsh reputation, Stanley displayed remarkable humanity towards Africans, forming strong bonds with his companions and disciplining officers who mistreated locals. Stanley emphasised the importance of self-control, asserting that it was more critical than gunpowder in navigating the perils of African travel. He believed that genuine sympathy for the natives was essential for maintaining self-control amidst the challenges of exploration. While religious teachings historically served as a guide for moral conduct, Stanley, like other nonbelievers, sought secular approaches to instill a sense of duty and morality. Despite losing his faith early on, Stanley found inspiration in literature, often quoting verses such as those from Tennyson's "Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington" to motivate his companions during their arduous journey through the Ituri jungle. Not once or twice in our fair island-story, The path of duty was the way to glory. Stanley’s men didn’t always appreciate his efforts—the Tennyson lines got very old for some of them—but his approach embodied an acknowledged principle of self-control: Focus on lofty thoughts. Stanley, who always combined his ambitions for personal glory with a desire to be “good,” found his calling along with Livingstone when he saw firsthand the devastation wrought by the expanding network of Arab and East African slave traders. From then on, he considered it a mission to end the slave trade. Stanley found solace in the notion that he was on a divine mission, sustaining him through hardships, familial rejection, and the disapproval of British society. While his rhetoric may appear grandiose by contemporary standards, he genuinely believed in his purpose. In moments of despair, such as during his journey down the Congo River, he found comfort in the idea that his physical suffering was insignificant compared to his greater, transcendent self, which remained resilient and untainted by his earthly trials. During times of crisis, Stanley's reflections hinted at a deeper, more secular resilience than mere religious faith. His concept of the "real self" transcended religious notions of the soul, instead emphasising his indomitable willpower. This inner strength, cultivated through a lifetime of adversity and honed in the wilderness, was his true source of endurance and determination.

On June 24, 1908, history was made with the London Olympic Marathon, held amidst scorching heat on a newly resurfaced, unforgivingly hard track. A last-minute extension of nearly two miles solidified the marathon distance at 26 miles and 385 yards. The grueling conditions inspired Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to pen a vivid account for The Daily Mail, capturing the harrowing image of the eventual victor: "the haggard, yellow face, the glazed, expressionless eyes, the long, black hair streaked across the brow." Of the 55 starters from Windsor Castle, only 27 crossed the finish line, with most succumbing before the halfway point. Seeking a much-needed boost, some turned to unconventional but prevalent aids of the time: brandy, champagne, and even strychnine, once believed to enhance performance. Though unthinkable today, alcohol and strychnine cocktails were once considered endurance boosters, tracing their roots back to Ancient Greece and Imperial China. In the 19th century, competitive foot races, akin to long walks spanning vast distances, were the rage in Great Britain. Pedestrians were often advised to imbibe champagne during races, a tradition that carried over to marathoners, who received boozy encouragement from trainers or assistants following them in cars or on bicycles. Commonly used substances in sports included a range from various alcohols to dangerous drugs like strychnine, heroin, or cocaine. These were believed to dull pain, boost aggressiveness, or provide a quick energy surge. Trainers concocted their own secret mixtures, and the use of heroin and cocaine as performance enhancers persisted until the 1920s when they were restricted to prescription-only status. Surprisingly, athletes continued to consume alcohol during competitions well into the ‘70s and ‘80s. Alcohol, prized for its stimulating effects and high sugar content, was particularly favoured. Champagne, with its perceived revitalising effervescence, was a popular choice. Additionally, low doses of strychnine were thought to rejuvenate weary athletes, as its lethal properties as a pesticide were not yet known. The effectiveness of these substances seemed evident at times. In the inaugural modern Olympic Games of 1896, Greek marathoner Spiridon Louis famously downed a glass of cognac with six miles remaining, propelling him to victory. Similarly, at the 1904 St. Louis Olympic Marathon, winner Thomas Hicks endured scorching heat by sipping a concoction of strychnine, brandy, and egg whites. In the 1908 Chicago Marathon, janitor-turned-runner Albert Corey credited his victory to a consistent supply of champagne. During the 1908 Olympic Marathon, several runners, including the top four finishers, reportedly consumed alcohol or strychnine cocktails during the race. Tom Longboat, the favourite at the London Games after his Boston Marathon win, succumbed to the oppressive heat and never finished. Despite initially securing second place, Longboat's energy waned, leading him to resort to champagne for a boost. However, he collapsed two miles later, ending his race. Charles Hefferon of South Africa also imbibed during the race but seemed to handle the conditions well initially. With a significant lead by mile 15, Hefferon appeared poised for victory. However, a champagne sip two miles from the finish line caused severe stomach pains, ultimately costing him the gold as he finished third. At the finish line, Arthur Conan Doyle and a crowd of 80,000 eagerly awaited the triumphant victor. However, instead of the anticipated hero, they were greeted by Italian pastry chef Dorando Pietri, described by Conan Doyle as a "little man, with red running-drawers," staggering as he entered amidst thunderous applause. In the final stretch, an exhausted Pietri collapsed five times, veered off course, and even received medical attention over his heart. In a famous photograph capturing Pietri's finish, he clutches a hollowed cork wedge, commonly used by endurance runners to alleviate hand strain but also serving as a vessel for wine, brandy, and other energizing drinks. Concern for Pietri's well-being led to him being assisted across the finish line by a doctor, ultimately resulting in his disqualification and a reshuffling of the race's medals. Some speculate Pietri's struggles were due to intoxication, while others suggest strychnine poisoning, a fate possibly shared with Tom Longboat. However, not all runners who indulged in alcohol fared poorly. Johnny Hayes, the de facto gold medallist, confessed to a fortifying swig of brandy mid-race, while bronze medallist Joseph Forshaw also relied on brandy to alleviate a side stitch, claiming it invigorated him for the final stretch. At the time, wine was believed to be a better rehydration option than water, a notion exemplified by the 1924 Paris Games' provision of wine at rehydration stations. Today, with a better understanding of alcohol's effects on muscles and hydration, trainers no longer advocate for strychnine cocktails or champagne breaks during races. However, alcohol still holds a place in some races, such as the Marathon de Médoc in French wine country, where runners can enjoy 23 different glasses of wine along the route. Yet, it's understood that these indulgences are for enjoyment, not performance enhancement.

A bit more than a 10 year challenge, these images are strangely intriguing. I've no idea why though. The brilliance of images showcasing famous musicians photoshopped alongside their younger selves lies in their ability to evoke a sense of nostalgia and reflection, capturing the essence of an artist's journey through time. These juxtapositions offer a visually striking glimpse into the evolution of iconic figures, highlighting the passage of years and the transformation of their personas. Whether it's witnessing the raw energy of a budding rockstar juxtaposed with the seasoned wisdom of their older counterpart or marveling at the enduring charisma of a legendary performer, these images spark conversations about the enduring legacy of music and the enduring spirit of creativity. Via: Trade Price Cars on Facebook .

If the thought of drinking beer that was once inside another person turns your stomach, you might have some sympathy for Corona beer lovers in 1987. By then, Corona Extra had established itself as a sensation in the United States, despite having been introduced to the market only eight years earlier in 1979. Its branding as the ultimate "California surfer" beer — synonymous with carefree, beachside living — quickly made it a national favourite. By the mid-1980s, Corona was the second most popular imported beer in the U.S., trailing only Heineken. The beer’s meteoric rise seemed unstoppable. Produced by Grupo Modelo in Mexico, Corona had found a sweet spot in American tastes and culture. But suddenly, the tide turned. Stores began refusing to stock it, sales nosedived, and public opinion soured seemingly overnight. The culprit? A bizarre and damaging rumour that claimed Corona beer contained urine. According to the rumour, disgruntled Mexican workers had supposedly urinated into beer bottles intended for export to the U.S. This outlandish claim painted the alleged act as a form of revenge against their northern neighbours. The whisper campaign spread through the distribution networks, fuelling paranoia among consumers. Whether driven by xenophobia, competitive sabotage, or sheer absurdity, the rumour threatened to derail one of the most successful beer brands of its time. Sadly, this obvious lie was believed by many beer drinkers. In some towns, sales went down by almost 80 percent, and stores all over the country returned shipments. Though not everyone believed the ridiculous rumour, enough people panicked and spoke out against the company for there to be irreversible consequences on sales and brand name. Panicking, Michael J. Mazzoni of Barton Beers, the company that distributed Corona, decided to investigate into the matter to see in what way the company’s reputation could be salvaged. He somehow managed to trace the rumour back to one of Heineken’s retailers, Luce and Son, Inc., who were eager to chip away at Corona’s growing market share. Corona’s parent company sued for $3 million in damages. A settlement was reached, and, Luce and Son, along with representatives of other beer companies who had been happy to repeat the rumour, agreed to issue public statements denying the veracity of the allegations. The damage to Corona’s reputation had been sustained, though and not just to the beer: the rumour fed upon and amplified racist stereotypes against Hispanic culture. It took the company years to recover, and it has taken them even longer to dispel the falsehood that, perhaps, prevented their becoming the most popular imported beer in the U.S.. Articles dedicated to dispelling myths about beer continue to struggle to debunk the rumour. And even people who are sound enough to realise the rumour is a blatant lie, often have a hard time dispelling the unpalatable image of urine as they see the yellow, foamy beer. So much so, that Urban Dictionary lists “Mexican piss water” as a derogatory name for Corona. Old rumours die hard. #rumours #mexicanpiss #sabotage

It is believed that to become a strong and respected leader of the masses, one needs to possess compassion for humanity, love for their country, and a strong commitment to justice and mercy. However, there are occasions when politicians or generals choose to follow their own path. These ruthless dictators prioritise their selfish goals of domination, power, and immortality over the value of human life. This ranking displays dictators from around the world based on the number of fatalities they caused, with Mao leading the list, followed by Stalin and then Hitler. I sincerely wish that if hell exists, they are all enduring eternal torment there. Here is the List: 1. Yacubu Gowon: Nigeria (1966-1975), (Total killis: 1.1m) 2. Mengistu Hailem Mariam: Ethiopia (1974-1991), (Total killis: 1.5m) 3. Kim II Sung: North Korea (1948-1994), (Total killis: 1.6m) 4. Pol Pot: Cambodia (1963-1981), (Total killis: 1.7m) 5. Ismail Enver Pasha: Turkey (1913-1919), (Total killis: 2.5m) 6. Hideki Tojo: Japan (1941-1944), (Total killis: 5.0 m) 7. Leopold II Of Belgium: Belgium (1865-1909), (Total killis: 15.0m) 8. Adolf Hitler: Germany (1934-1945), (Total killis: 17.0m) 9. Jozef Stalin: Russia (1922-1953), (Total killis: 23.0m) 10.Mao Zedong: China (1943-1976), (Total killis: 78.0m)

Picture this: it’s the sweltering summer of 1974 in New York City. Graffiti bleeds across the brickwork, the Bowery still reeks of spilled beer and stale cigarettes, and in a rundown dive bar with a name nobody can quite decipher, something extraordinary is about to happen. The bar is CBGB. The band is the Ramones. And together, they would ignite a cultural fire that scorched the music world and gave birth to American punk rock as we know it. You’ve heard the stories—how the Beatles had the Cavern Club and James Brown ruled the Apollo. But here’s the difference: the Beatles outgrew the Cavern. James Brown became bigger than the Apollo. The Ramones? They never outgrew CBGB. They became  CBGB. And in return, that dingy bar on the Bowery became a temple to their sound. The Bar That Wasn’t Meant for Punk Let’s start with CBGB itself. When Hilly Kristal opened its doors in late 1973, the name stood for Country, BlueGrass and Blues . That’s what he’d hoped to book—rootsy, twangy Americana acts. But the reality was different. The country crowd didn’t show. What did turn up, however, were ragged young bands with nowhere else to play. They were loud, rough, unpredictable—and, crucially, they played original material. That was Kristal’s only rule: no cover bands (he didn’t want to pay royalties). Soon, a scene began to form. Television started it. The Stilettos—who would later evolve into Blondie—followed. Patti Smith, Talking Heads, and Richard Hell all took their turns. But no one owned the place quite like the Ramones. The Ramones Were Born to Play There The Ramones, Joey (Jeffrey Hyman), Johnny (John Cummings), Dee Dee (Douglas Colvin), and Tommy (Tommy Erdelyi), were misfits from Queens, bound by a love for 1960s pop, surf rock, and garage fuzz. At first, they tried playing Beach Boys and Beatles covers. When they realised they couldn’t, they decided to write songs they could  play. They took a cue from Paul McCartney’s old pseudonym “Paul Ramon” and each adopted the surname Ramone. They weren’t brothers by blood, but from that moment on, they were family—matching leather jackets and all. 12 Minutes That Changed Everything On 16 August 1974, the Ramones stepped onto the CBGB stage for the very first time. The air inside was hot and sour, the walls sticky, and the bathroom notoriously repugnant. Dee Dee counted off with his trademark “1-2-3-4!”, and the band roared through their set. Twelve minutes later, it was all over. That wasn’t a figure of speech—they really did  play the whole thing in twelve minutes. The songs were short, the pace relentless, the sound raw and abrasive. They didn’t care about tuning or solos or stage banter. It was just pure, unfiltered energy. As Joey once put it, “We don’t play short songs. We play long songs really fast.” Not Everyone Got It—At First Some in the crowd scratched their heads. Others headed for the bar. But a few—like Legs McNeil, who would go on to co-found Punk Magazine —knew they’d just witnessed something seismic. McNeil didn’t just write about it; he helped define it. And CBGB became ground zero for the punk explosion. The Ramones played there over 70 times in 1974 alone. They weren’t chasing stardom—they were building something raw, honest and theirs . That DIY ethic inspired countless others. By 1976, they were touring the UK and, without meaning to, lighting the fuse for the British punk scene. The Sex Pistols, the Clash, and nearly every young Londoner with a guitar took notice. So did the fanzine Sniffin’ Glue —named after a Ramones song. Fame Came, But the Sound Stayed the Same The Ramones never had a No.1 hit in the US. Their songs were too short, too jagged, too… real. But they carved out a global cult following. They did flirt with mainstream success—like when they worked with Phil Spector on the lushly orchestrated “Baby, I Love You,”  which charted in the UK. But for the most part, they stayed loyal to their original formula: fast, loud, simple songs with no filler. Their loyalty extended to CBGB. Even as punk evolved, even as other bands smoothed out their sound for radio play, the Ramones could’ve walked onto the CBGB stage at any moment in their career and still felt at home. The End of an Era The Ramones called it quits in 1996. Within a few years, all four original members were gone—victims of cancer, drug-related issues, or heart failure. CBGB itself closed in 2006 after a high-profile rent dispute. But the music never died. Nor did the legacy. Punk, in many ways, started as a sound—but it became a way of life. A rejection of bloated rock excess. A return to the basics. A celebration of imperfection. The Ramones weren’t just CBGB’s house band—they were its spirit. Together, they didn’t just shape a scene. They built a movement. And it all started in a bar that was never meant for them. Sources: McNeil, Legs, and Gillian McCain. Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk . Grove Press, 1996. Kristal, Hilly. “CBGB: The Club History.” cbgb.com (Archived). True, Everett. Hey Ho Let’s Go: The Story of The Ramones . Omnibus Press, 2002. Spitz, Marc. We Got the Neutron Bomb: The Untold Story of L.A. Punk . Three Rivers Press, 2001.

The two longtime pals met in 1973 as Juilliard students and were best friends up until Reeve's death in 2004. In his autobiography 'Still Me,' Reeves recounted how Williams helped save his life. In 1978, the cultural landscape was rocked by the arrival of two distinct aliens. Mork, the zany extra-terrestrial from the TV show Mork & Mindy, captivated audiences with his upside-down antics and gibberish. Meanwhile, Superman, the heroic Kryptonian, soared onto screens in Richard Donner's blockbuster. Portrayed by Robin Williams and Christopher Reeve, respectively, these characters left an indelible mark. Their bond stemmed from their Juilliard days in 1973, where they were among the select few accepted into the prestigious program under John Houseman. Reeve fondly recounted their initial meeting in his autobiography, "Still Me." “The first person I met at Juilliard was the other advanced student, a short, stocky, long-haired fellow from Marin County, California, who wore tie-dyed shirts with tracksuit bottoms and talked a mile a minute,” wrote Reeve. “I’d never seen so much energy contained in one person. He was like an un-tied balloon that had been inflated and immediately released. I watched in awe as he virtually caromed off the walls of the classrooms and hallways. To say that he was ‘on’ would be a major understatement. There was never a moment when he wasn’t doing voices, imitating teachers, and making our faces ache from laughing at his antics. His name, of course, was Robin Williams.” Williams left his classmates in awe, effortlessly conquering various accents and leaving them in stitches with his comedic monologues, according to Reeve. Despite this, their acting instructor, Michael Kahn, initially struggled to comprehend Williams's immense talent. It wasn't until Williams's performance in Tennessee Williams's "The Night of the Iguana" during their third-year class that Kahn truly grasped the extent of Williams's abilities. “Robin’s performance immediately silenced his critics,” wrote Reeve. “His portrayal of an old man confined to a wheelchair was thoroughly convincing. He simply was the old man. I was astonished by his work and very grateful that fate had thrown us together. We were becoming good friends. Many of our classmates related to Robin by doing bits with him, attempting to keep pace with his antics. I didn’t even try. Occasionally Robin would need to switch off and have a serious conversation with someone, and I was always ready to listen. For a time he had a crush on a girl in our class who thought he was an immature goofball. Robin was able to share his real feelings with me, and I always did the same with him. This has remained true for twenty-five years.” After Superman II, Reeve grew disenchanted with Hollywood. He relocated his family to Williamstown, Massachusetts, where he starred in "The Front Page." During one performance, Williams surprised his friend, attending the show and treating him to dinner afterward. “Robin Williams came up to visit during the run and seemed to enjoy it tremendously,” wrote Reeve. “One evening we went out to a local seafood restaurant, and as we passed by the lobster tank I casually wondered what they were all thinking in there. Whereupon Robin launched into a fifteen-minute routine: one lobster had escaped and was seen on the highway with his claw out holding a sign that said, ‘Maine.’ Another lobster from Brooklyn was saying, ‘C’mon, just take da rubber bands off,’ gearing up for a fight. A gay lobster wanted to redecorate the tank. People at nearby tables soon gave up any pretence of trying not to listen, and I had to massage my cheeks because my face hurt so much from laughing.” When he was honoured by the Hollywood Foreign Press Association with the Cecil B. DeMille Award in 2005, the Golden Globes's lifetime achievement award, Williams dedicated it to Reeve: Reeve's autobiography highlights a poignant moment during his ICU recovery. Following the horse-riding accident that left him paralyzed from the neck down, Reeve endured excruciating pain and contemplated suicide. With severe damage to his cervical vertebrae, he faced life-threatening surgery to reconnect his skull and spine. “As the day of the operation drew closer, it became more and more painful and frightening to contemplate,” wrote Reeve. “In spite of efforts to protect me from the truth, I already knew that I had only a fifty-fifty chance of surviving the surgery. I lay on my back, frozen, unable to avoid thinking the darkest thoughts. Then, at an especially bleak moment, the door flew open and in hurried a squat fellow with a blue scrub hat and a yellow surgical gown and glasses, speaking in a Russian accent. He announced that he was my proctologist and that he had to examine me immediately. My first reaction was that either I was on way too many drugs or I was in fact brain damaged. But it was Robin Williams. He and his wife, Marsha, had materialized from who knows where. And for the first time since the accident, I laughed. My old friend had helped me know that somehow I was going to be okay.” Williams was, of course, playing his kooky Doctor Kosevich from the film Nine Months, which had just hit theatres. “And then we spent time together,” added Reeve. “He said he would do anything for me. I thought: My God, not only do I have Dana and my kids but I have friends like Robin and Gregory [Mosher] who truly care. Maybe it can be okay. I mean, life is going to be very different, and it’s going to be an enormous challenge, but I can still laugh, and there’s still some joy.” Throughout Reeve's last years, he and Williams maintained a steadfast friendship. Williams actively participated in events celebrating The Christopher Reeve Foundation, a cause he ardently championed. When questioned about his fondest memory of Reeve, Williams reflected on their closeness during a revealing Reddit AMA . “Him being such a great friend to me at Juillard, literally feeding me because I don't think I literally had money for food or my student loan hadn't come in yet, and he would share his food with me," Williams said. "And then later after the accident, just seeing him beaming and just, seeing what he meant to so many people.” Reeve passed away after experiencing an adverse reaction to an antibiotic on Oct. 10, 2004. Williams, meanwhile, was found dead on the morning of Aug. 11, 2014, of an apparent suicide.

On 20th October 1977, just three days after the release of their fifth album, Street Survivors , tragedy struck Lynyrd Skynyrd. Their Convair CV-240 aeroplane crashed in Gillsburg, Mississippi, killing six people, including three band members: lead vocalist Ronnie Van Zant, guitarist Steve Gaines, and his sister, backing vocalist Cassie Gaines. This tragedy shattered the group that was on the brink of greater acclaim, cutting short the lives of some of its most influential members. Despite an official investigation concluding that the crash was caused by pilot error, the exact reasons remain shrouded in mystery even today. The Rise and Promise of Lynyrd Skynyrd in 1977 Lynyrd Skynyrd’s music resonated deeply with the American South. By 1977, the band had cemented itself as one of the most successful Southern rock bands of the era. Their fifth album, Street Survivors , was a testament to their growing influence. It achieved gold status just three days before the tragic crash, and their tour promoting the album had barely begun. The band had hired a twin propeller Convair CV-240 to ferry them between tour stops, a decision that would prove to be fatal. Aerosmith Avoided the Convair CV-240 Due to Safety Concerns Months before Lynyrd Skynyrd leased the Convair, Aerosmith had considered the same plane for their tour. Their management inspected the aircraft and found it lacking in proper maintenance. Worse, during the inspection, the Aerosmith team saw the pilot and co-pilot passing around a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, which further convinced them not to hire the plane. These safety concerns would come back to haunt the Skynyrd entourage. Warning Signs of the Crash Two days before the crash, on 18th October 1977, Lynyrd Skynyrd was en route from Lakeland, Florida, to Greenville, South Carolina, when the right engine of the plane sparked and flamed. The aircraft landed safely in Greenville, but the terrifying incident spurred several band members to question their safety. Cassie Gaines even booked a commercial flight for the next leg of the journey to Baton Rouge, Louisiana. However, lead singer Ronnie Van Zant insisted that the band continue using the Convair, saying ominously, “If your time is up, your time is up.” Van Zant's influence on the band was powerful. He was their leader both musically and in terms of decision-making. While known as “Papa Ronnie” when sober, his dark side emerged when intoxicated. His volatile behaviour, once resulting in him knocking out the front teeth of keyboardist Billy Powell, was infamous. Despite the rising concerns of the band, Van Zant’s decision to push forward won out, partly due to the high-stakes LSU performance awaiting them, with a Southern crowd expected to number in the thousands. The Final Flight On 20th October, the band members reluctantly boarded the Convair once more. There was tension in the air as they took off from Greenville. For the first two and a half hours, the flight went smoothly. Many passengers relaxed, played cards, or napped. Ronnie Van Zant himself lay down on the floor of the plane. Then, Marc Frank, a roadie on the flight, noticed something strange: gasoline was spraying from the right engine. Within moments, the right engine failed. The pilots tried to compensate, but the left engine then also cut out. The plane began to fall rapidly from the sky. Panic spread through the cabin. As the plane descended, pilots Walter McCreary and William Gray communicated with Houston Air Traffic Control and requested emergency landing vectors. The closest airport, a small airstrip in McComb, Mississippi, was still too far. As daylight faded, the pilots made a last-ditch attempt to turn the plane around, but it was no use. They were heading straight for dense woodland. The Deadly Descent and Crash At around 6:42 pm, the Convair struck the treetops at nearly 90 mph. The impact was catastrophic. The tail section broke off, the cockpit was crushed, and the wings were torn apart. The fuselage turned sideways, and the passengers were violently thrown forward. Survivors recalled the deafening sound of metal screeching and breaking apart. Then, suddenly, silence. Keyboardist Billy Powell later described the crash: “We hit the trees at approximately 90 mph. It felt like being hit with baseball bats in a steel garbage can with the lid on.” The crash site was surreal and devastating. Marc Frank, one of the survivors, described seeing the co-pilot decapitated and hanging from a tree. Road manager Dean Kilpatrick lay face down, a large piece of the plane’s fuselage piercing his back. Cassie Gaines had been thrown from the wreckage and died from rapid blood loss. Lynyrd Skynrd Crash Report from 1977 - Rare Survivor & Eyewitness Interviews Ronnie Van Zant, the band’s iconic frontman, was also killed on impact. Steve Gaines, the gifted guitarist who had replaced Ed King, was found dead beside his sister. Van Zant’s death was especially tragic, as he had repeatedly expressed in life that he would never make it to age 30 – he was just 29 years old at the time of the crash. The Heroic Efforts to Find Help Despite their injuries, drummer Artimus Pyle, Marc Frank, and road crew member Steve Lawler managed to escape the wreckage through a hole in the plane's tail. Pyle, though severely injured, had noted the location of a nearby farmhouse during the descent. He set off towards the farm, reaching it after a gruelling 45-minute trek through swamps and dense woods. The farmhouse belonged to Johnny Mote, who was suspicious when three blood-soaked men emerged from the forest. Assuming them to be criminals, Mote fired a warning shot, grazing Pyle in the shoulder. After realising they had been in a plane crash, Mote called for help. Local authorities, rescue teams, and even a Coast Guard helicopter arrived on the scene to rescue the survivors. The Casualties and Their Injuries The crash claimed the lives of six people: both pilots, road manager Dean Kilpatrick, Ronnie Van Zant, Steve Gaines, and Cassie Gaines. Each of the fatalities suffered extensive and fatal injuries. Ronnie Van Zant : The leader of Lynyrd Skynyrd, Van Zant, was killed instantly on impact. He suffered severe trauma to the head and body, which were deemed fatal. His body was found near the cockpit, with a peaceful look on his face despite the violent end. Steve Gaines : The talented guitarist suffered multiple traumatic injuries, including blunt force trauma to the head and chest. He was found deceased alongside his sister, Cassie. Cassie Gaines : The backing vocalist was ejected from the plane during the crash. She suffered multiple fractures and extensive blood loss, dying on the ground near the wreckage. Dean Kilpatrick : The band’s road manager was found with a large piece of the fuselage embedded in his back. He did not survive the crash. Walter McCreary and William Gray : Both pilots died instantly when the cockpit crumpled upon impact. One of the pilots was found hanging from the wreckage, decapitated. Because their charter plane ran out of fuel, most of the injured passengers survived a crash that normally would have burnt them to death. The official cause of the crash was released in a statement:   "The National Transportation Safety Board determines that the probable cause of this accident was fuel exhaustion and total loss of power from both engines due to crew inattention to fuel supply. Contributing to the fuel exhaustion were inadequate flight planning and an engine malfunction of undetermined nature in the right engine which resulted in higher-than-normal fuel consumption." The wreckage of a twin engine Convair 240 plane lies in a wooded area near McComb, Miss., on Oct. 20, 1977. The small plane had 26 people on board, and six were killed in the crash, including three members of Lynyrd Skynyrd. Aftermath: A Legacy Cut Short The plane crash not only devastated the surviving members of the band but also sent shockwaves through the world of rock music. Lynyrd Skynyrd was poised for greater success, with Street Survivors  climbing the charts. The album cover, which originally depicted the band members surrounded by flames, was quickly pulled from stores due to the eerie resemblance to the crash. A plain black background replaced the controversial cover. Street Survivors  went on to become the band’s second platinum album, fuelled by the tragic events. The track “That Smell,” eerily prescient with its dark lyrics about death and disaster, became a haunting reminder of the crash. The Haunting Legacy of the Survivors The survivors of the crash would struggle with their injuries and emotional scars for years. Allen Collins, the band’s guitarist, survived the crash but was later involved in a car accident that paralysed him. He died in 1990 from complications. Leon Wilkeson, the band’s bassist, passed away in 2001 due to health issues linked to his lifestyle. Keyboardist Billy Powell, who also survived the crash, died of a heart attack in 2009. The crash of the Lynyrd Skynyrd plane on 20th October 1977 marked one of the darkest days in rock history. It not only took the lives of several band members but left a lasting void in Southern rock. Though a version of Lynyrd Skynyrd continues to tour, the original lineup’s spirit and the promise of what could have been were lost in the twisted wreckage of the Mississippi swamp that day. One last thing... Skynyrd's breakthrough song, "Sweet Home Alabama," mocked Neil Young with seemingly simplistic lyrics that were a response to Young's "Southern Man" and "Alabama." Although it was popularly believed, especially in the Deep South, that Ronnie Van Zant harboured hostility towards Neil Young, the song was actually more complex than it appeared.   Young also acknowledged loving the tune and even sent demo tapes of his own music that he suggested the band should record. Ronnie Van Zant routinely wore Neil Young shirts during live performances and even sported one on the cover of Street Survivors. When vandals broke into Van Zant's tomb in 2000, it was theorised that the motive was to determine if the dead singer was, as rumoured, entombed in a Neil Young shirt.   As the coffin was only removed, but not successfully opened, Van Zant's favourite cane fishing pole and black, snakeskin-festooned hat are the only definite items known to have accompanied the legendary singer to the afterlife. After this mausoleum desecration, Van Zant's remains were removed to another location, protected by tons of concrete. Sources National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) Aircraft Accident Report: Convair CV-240, October 20, 1977 https://www.ntsb.gov Lynyrd Skynyrd: Remembering the Free Birds of Southern Rock  by Gene Odom and Frank Dorman (2002) Street Survivors: The True Story of the Lynyrd Skynyrd Plane Crash  (2019), directed by Jared Cohn Rolling Stone Archives: The Lynyrd Skynyrd Plane Crash – What Really Happened https://www.rollingstone.com Smithsonian Channel – The Day the Music Died: Lynyrd Skynyrd  Documentary VH1 Behind the Music – Lynyrd Skynyrd Episode Mississippi Department of Archives and History – 1977 Plane Crash Investigation Records #LynrydSkynyrd #planecrash #survivors #details

When north Wales exploded into open revolt against an exploitative English elite.  Countless towns were laid waste, their populations massacred.   Henry IV’s retaliatory expedition was humiliated and sent packing back to England.  Conwy Castle — that glittering jewel of royal might — was captured.  And a new Prince of Wales was declared: Owain Glyndefrdwy, or Owain Glyndwr for short. Now in 1401, Glyndwr moved on.  Huge numbers flocked to his banner raised in the mountains of west Wales, outside Aberystwyth. But not only Welsh.  The Gower peninsula, near Swansea, included a substantial colony of Flemish traders.  They followed news of the rebellion with increasing fear for their livelihoods, and noted how it was spreading south.  Unable even to appeal to the English king for assistance, they concluded in their councils that only they could organise their defence, and the best defence would be a preemptive attack to take the Welsh by surprise. At Mynydd Hyddgen, they certainly did surprise the Welsh, who, having established there were no English in the countryside, were not expecting any offensive columns to approach.  But Glyndwr’s archers simply seized their bows. Thousands of razor-sharp shafts poured from the sky.  The untrained Flemish merchants saw their friends and relatives crumpling around them.  Those with shields held them aloft as they tip-toed through the multitudes of shafts stuck in the ground.  Those without shields were going nowhere but down. Within minutes, all discipline collapsed as the terrified wholesalers turned and fled.  Those who could not run were abandoned to an agonised, lonely death.  There was nothing more for the Welsh to do but to leap into their saddles, pursue the running vendors, and cut them down. Deadly Welsh Archers Welsh archers were deadly, and all of Europe knew it. Compelled by law to attend archery practice every Sunday from the age of seven, many of them had been seasoned in the battles of the Wars of the Roses. Their bows were made of European yew (British yew didn’t work as well), imported as staves and shaped by bowyers.  Such was the demand that by the end of the 1500s, mature yew trees were almost extinct in northern Europe. The staves were cut from the centre of the tree, comprising about half sapwood and half heartwood.  The sapwood performed best under tension, and so was carved into the front of the bow.  The heartwood worked best under compression, so was carved into the back of the bow. The arrow shafts were made of ash, with a nock at the back for the bowstring.  Fletchlings were feathers, always from the same wing, cut to size and carefully glued and tied to the shaft to make the arrow spin as it flew.  It improved the accuracy.  A minimum of three was needed, but four would improve the accuracy, at the cost of reduced range. Arrowheads The arrowheads, called “points,” were glued or attached with a pin.  The most basic type, that a skilled blacksmith could bang out in about fifteen minutes, was the bodkin (1).  Little more than an iron pyramid no wider than the shaft, this basic, all-purpose arrow was capable of penetrating basic padding and sometimes chain mail.  Penetrating plate armour required a specialised bodkin (2), one whose elongated profile and acute angles preserved the arrow’s momentum as it struck its target. These were probably the arrows that the Welsh used to such devastation against the Flemish, but broadheads were also deployed for specialist purposes. The broadhead in the image above, incorporating a small cage in its design, is a fire arrow (3).  We’ve all seen them in the movies.  The cage could be packed with wool, soaked in oil, and ignited prior to firing.  They could be used to burn down wooden defences and gates.  But while they were present in most campaigns, their complexity to forge meant they were rarely used unless something needed to be burned. The forked head (4) is commonly found in archaeological digs; nevertheless, its purpose is unclear.  Some have suggested it was a maritime weapon, intended to rip the sails of enemy ships.  None were found aboard the Mary Rose , however. Others have suggested they may have been used to sever the tendons of enemy horses, although this would have demanded a tremendous aim.  A hunting website suggests that bodkins cause a clean puncture wound that an animal is not always immediately aware of, and that a forked head, on its spinning shaft, would cause such a terrible wound, inflicting such pain on the poor horse, that it would throw off its rider. Barbed broadheads (5) were sharpened all along their leading-edge, secured to the shaft with a pin, and came in different sizes.  The larger of the two above was too expensive to pepper a battlefield with.  It was intended primarily for hunting.  On August 2nd 1100, William II was accidentally shot through the lung by an arrow while hunting, probably by one of these.  Small wonder that he died. A small barbed broadhead sliced through the target’s flesh and blood vessels, in a similar manner to a dagger, but the barbs wedged into the muscle, making it difficult to remove before the patient bled to death.  The shaft could be snapped off, making it less inconvenient, but the head would remain in the body.  When Henry of Monmouth was shot through the right cheek at the battle of Shrewsbury during the Glyndwr Rebellion, he remained on the battlefield with the arrowhead still lodged in his jaw.  Only once the battle was won did he have it removed, the surgeon constructing a special device specifically for the purpose. It is a myth, however, that this was all done without anaesthetic.  It’s barely conceivable that a surgeon could have kept his patient still while inflicting that much pain on him.  Hemlock, opium, henbane and mandragora could be used to render the patient unconscious — at a price. Surgeons — at a price! The surgeons were always at a price.  Armies included no medical corps in the fifteenth century.  People claiming to be doctors followed the expedition with the baggage train, along with all the other camp followers: cobblers, seamstresses, saddle makers, cooks, brewers, bakers, washerwomen and whores. The aftermath of any battle saw wanderers picking through the dead and dying: thieves, many of them, but also doctors offering healing to those who could pay.  We may assume they typically demanded a high price of those begging for their lives.  If the wounded man couldn’t afford it, certainly, another wounded man would be able to. And after the glory — the dirty work Archers had one further task, one that is rarely mentioned, because they themselves rarely talked about it.  After the battle, as the army pursued the fleeing enemy, it was the archers job to join the wanderers on the field.  One purpose was to retrieve the thousands of arrows sticking up from the ground.  Another was to identify the wounded.  Enemy wounded of rank could be rescued, nursed back to health, and held for ransom.  The rest would be murdered: with a dagger through the skull into the brain, or a knife across the throat.  Enemy foot soldiers were of no value.  This almost certainly accounts for a large number of the french dead at the battle of Agincourt. The end of Glyndwr For nearly ten years, the Glyndwr Rebellion raged, reducing Wales to cinders.  Despite evicting English rule from almost the whole of Wales, Glyndwr hadn’t the resources to secure his gains after the death of his ally, Henry Hotspur , at Shrewsbury. Slowly, the movement crumbled, the king’s authority was reimposed, the rebellion’s leaders killed or executed.  Glyndwr’s wife and daughters were dispatched to the Tower of London, never to be heard of again. Owain Glyndwr himself disappeared.  Legend has it that, like King Arthur, he sleeps, awaiting a time of crisis to return. The Welsh archers, though, were surprisingly quick to join Henry V’s expedition to France just a few years later.  Their living standards destroyed along with the Welsh countryside, the prospect of plunder offered the sharpest improvement in their lifestyles they were ever likely to see. They distinguished themselves at the Battle of Agincourt in 1415, where, as at Mynydd Hyddgen, their torrents of razor-sharp arrows devastated the French knights (which included a handful of Welsh irreconcilables).  So feared were they that a captured archer could expect to have his right index and middle fingers cut off, preventing him ever drawing a bowstring again.  As they jeered the retreating French, Henry V’s archers waved their index and middle fingers in the air, an insult that survives today.

From the fantastic website History Bones , here's a little insight into London of the past. While you're here, do have a look at the History Bones Instagram right here. 19th Century Victorian London saw its share of violence. In the poorer areas, overcrowding and lack of jobs sent crime skyrocketing. Garroting (strangulation with a ligature) was a popular method of attacking someone. It got to a point where folks thought ruffians were around every corner ready to pounce. The "Peelers" (Metropolitan Police named for founder Sir Robert Peele) were even issued anti-garroting collars, 4- inch high thick leather collars. The media sensationalised the trend so much that a "panic" ensued. Peelers were also issued a truncheon, a bulls-eye lantern which hung from the belt, handcuffs, a rattle (to sound an alarm) and a heavy duty reinforced top hat referred to as a stovepipe hat. The hat had can strips on the inside and was also covered in leather to provide the wearer protection from blows to the head.

Steve Vistaunet’s Pinterest is a treasure-trove of photos of exuberant cassette spine designs from the gilded age of the mix-tape, ranging from the hand-drawn to early desktop publishing experiments.

Voyaging through the cosmic expanse carries inherent hazards, with myriad challenges capable of imperilling the mission from launch to touchdown. Despite NASA's prior successes in sending astronauts into space, Apollo 11 marked humanity's inaugural footsteps on an extra-terrestrial terrain and its maiden attempt to depart from it. The stakes were high; any malfunction during the lunar module's ascent could have sealed the fate of Armstrong and Aldrin, as there existed no recourse for rescue in such a scenario. Contemplating such a scenario is sobering, even today. Remarkably, it was equally difficult to fathom at the time. "Americans had grown accustomed to happy outcomes in space missions, and so had I," recounted Nixon's speechwriter, William Safire, in his memoir "Before the Fall: An Inside View of the Pre-Watergate White House." Despite occasional setbacks, notably the Apollo 1 tragedy that claimed three astronauts' lives, NASA's endeavours had largely been marked by success. It took a conversation with Apollo 8 astronaut Frank Borman to impress upon Safire the genuine perils inherent in the mission: “But on June 13, Frank Borman — an astronaut the President liked and whom NASA had assigned to be our liaison — called me to say, “You want to be thinking of some alternative posture for the President in the event of mishaps on Apollo XI.” When I didn’t react promptly, Borman moved off the formal language: “—like what to do for the widows.” The potential for tragedy was underscored by the nature of the failure that was most possible: inability to get the moon vehicle up off the moon. … Disaster would not come in the form of a sudden explosion — it would mean the men would be stranded on the moon. Fortunately, Safire's memo remained unnecessary as the astronauts returned safely. The existence of the secret contingency plan remained largely unknown until 1999, the 30th anniversary of Apollo 11's moon landing, when Los Angeles Times reporter Jim Mann stumbled upon it while conducting unrelated research at the National Archives. Aldrin, one of the astronauts, eventually read the prepared eulogy and later reflected on the experience: “I am proud to say that our mission accomplished the same goals—and brought us back home safely.” “Fate has ordained that the men who went to the moon to explore in peace will stay to rest in peace.” An AI reading of how the speech would have sounded. Transcript To: H. R. Haldeman From: Bill Safire July 18, 1969. ——————————————————————————- IN EVENT OF MOON DISASTER: Fate has ordained that the men who went to the moon to explore in peace will stay on the moon to rest in peace. These brave men, Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin, know that there is no hope for their recovery. But they also know that there is hope for mankind in their sacrifice. These two men are laying down their lives in mankind’s most noble goal: the search for truth and understanding. They will be mourned by their families and friends; they will be mourned by the nation; they will be mourned by the people of the world; they will be mourned by a Mother Earth that dared send two of her sons into the unknown. In their exploration, they stirred the people of the world to feel as one; in their sacrifice, they bind more tightly the brotherhood of man. In ancient days, men looked at the stars and saw their heroes in the constellations. In modern times, we do much the same, but our heroes are epic men of flesh and blood. Others will follow, and surely find their way home. Man’s search will not be denied. But these men were the first, and they will remain the foremost in our hearts. For every human being who looks up at the moon in the nights to come will know that there is some corner of another world that is forever mankind. PRIOR TO THE PRESIDENT’S STATEMENT: The President should telephone each of the widows-to-be. AFTER THE PRESIDENT’S STATEMENT, AT THE POINT WHEN NASA ENDS COMMUNICATIONS WITH THE MEN: A clergyman should adopt the same procedure as a burial at sea, commending their souls to “the deepest of the deep,” concluding with the Lord’s Prayer.