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So when you think of cities with high culture and vibrant music scenes on the east coast, what springs to mind? Obviously New York. Thanks to Drake, we all know about the growing music scene in Toronto. You prahbahbly musta tawt a Bawstan tew. Maybe Montreal or Philadelphia or even Baltimore crossed your mind.
Hah. Baltimore.
Time to check your cultural bias, pal. You passed over a quiet little city on the south shore of Lake Ontario, nestled in the Genesee River valley. It has a history as a hotbed of Abolitionism and Women’s Rights. It is the home of Eastman Kodak, Xerox, Bausch & Lomb, Western Union, Ragu and other innovative companies. It has a lively music scene, great nightclubs, world-renowned universities, thriving museums, arts & culture festivals, and live theatre. It is a true cultural gem that many folks overlook.
Yep. You bet your ass I am talking about Rochester, New York.
Since we know that Stoner Rock can come from anywhere, it should be no surprise that Rochester has produced one of the leading bands in this genre. This week we are going to check out a band you are going to want to listen to. If you know them, you love them. If you haven’t heard of them, you are going to thank me.
This week’s band is KING BUFFALO.
About Them
Hold on a sec. King Buffalo? Not King Rochester?
To be fair, King Rochester sounds like the villain in a Disney movie. Kinda hard to imagine that on a T-Shirt. King New York sounds like a particularly obnoxious Yankees fan (and yeah, finding a Yankees fan that isn’t obnoxious is a tough go). King Albany sounds like a car made by Kia.
But King Buffalo? That just works.
Our heroes didn’t start out together. King Buffalo were made up of members of two other Rochester area bands.
Randall Coon and Scott Donaldson were playing together in Velvet Elvis. That five piece band played heavy rock with space-based themes in the early 2010’s. Sean McVay and Dan Reynolds were in another band called Abandoned Buildings Club (side note: kinda neat that their initials were ABC), who had a pure psychedelic rock vibe. When both VE and ABC appeared to be having limited success, the four musicians decided to merge their talents into one band. Coon had handled vocals and guitar in Velvet Elvis and Donaldson had been rock solid on drums. McVay had done vocals and guitar in Abandoned Buildings Club and Reynolds had anchored the sound with his bass. All the pieces were there for a classic Beatles-esque lineup.
So out of the wreckage of ABC and VE, KB arose. The four members gelled so well that they were able to record their first demo - aptly titled Demo - in just two days. Their sound was immediately compared to tourmates and close friends All Them Witches. But where ATW were bluesy and sludgy, King Buffalo had produced songs full of space. Oh, there were heavy riffs for sure - but there were passages of music that were contrastingly lighter and further apart. The best example of these contrasts can be found in the more than 11 minutes of Providence Eye. The first six and a half minutes come at you at a lulling pace, enveloping you in the moment. You get swept up in the rolling riffs. But then the drop happens and you suddenly realize the song has been building to this peak. The tempo picks up and you ride a relentless rollercoaster until you hit the Black Sabbath-inspired outro, which takes you home. It is an emotional experience. The two other tracks - In Dim Light and Pocket Full of Knife are smaller essays on the same theme.
It was clear right from Demo that King Buffalo had some serious talent. But if you have listened to the band you will notice that one thing is starkly different on Demo than from any of their other releases: the vocals. Randall Coon was the lead vocalist on these recordings. If you play them up against anything since by the band they stand out. Our very own QotSA may have successfully had multiple vocalists on multiple tunes, but King Buffalo was destined to have Sean McVay take over the mic. Shortly after 2013’s Demo, Coon left the band to do a solo project called Skunk Hawk.
King Buffalo stood at a crossroads: did they look to replace Coon, or should they carry on as a Power Trio? The choice for them was obvious. McVay, Reynolds and Donaldson knew that they had fantastic potential together. They decided they didn't need anyone else.
Side note: Regular readers of these write ups know that All Them Witches just went through this exact crisis in 2019. What I didn’t share then is that ATW are close friends with KB. I would not be surprised to learn that ATW had some serious conversations about their lineup with the boys from KB before they, too, decided last year to pare down to just three members.
To re-christen their new lineup, in 2015 King Buffalo went in on a split EP with Swedish band Lé Betre (I mean, hooking up with a Swedish partner is a dream of mine, so I see the appeal.) They re-recorded their standout tune Providence Eye with McVay on vocals, as well as two new tracks - Like a Cadillac and New Time. New Time opens their side of the EP with an infectious, descending riff that hooks you immediately. It is clear from the lyrics - No wasting around, it’s a new time - that they had moved on from Coon. Like a Cadillac follows up and is a three and a half minute jam that leaves you wanting more. The re-recorded version of Providence Eye closes out their side of the split EP and leaves no doubt that they are in charge. It is a tighter, heavier version, and the amazing outro is so low down that it will make you want to rob your own house.
With their lineup now set, it was time to put together enough music to tour on. In 2016, King Buffalo released Orion. Here you can witness the melding of their influences into something majestic and fantastic, and it is here that they really develop their signature style.
To explain this style, you need to understand basic song structure.
Most pop songs tend to go verse - chorus - verse - chorus - bridge - chorus - chorus. Sure, you could add in a solo for the bridge, or a detailed intro or outro, or another verse - but this is a tried and true formula. Some variation of this dominates the pop charts to this day.
Not with King Buffalo songs. These guys are the masters of the drop, and you hear it in most of their tunes. QotSA fans are no strangers to that long build and release; it is an integral part of tunes like The Evil Has Landed, God is in the Radio, Song For The Dead, and I Appear Missing. One of the sickest drops ever recorded happens in the middle of the Them Crooked Vultures tune No One Loves Me & Neither Do I. It is where the music turns around, and a new riff takes over, often along with a pace change. It is then that you realize that the song has built to this climactic moment, and you are engulfed by the music.
King Buffalo does this better than anyone else, and you hear it clearly articulated, again and again, on the album Orion.
Take the song Kerosene for example.
A rolling bass riff from Reynolds establishes the song right out of the gate. Donaldson produces punchy drum beats with cymbal crashes at the end of each phrase. McVay’s slide guitar rounds out the intro. McVay’s vocals - very Ozzy like, if Ozzy had any semblance of self-control - frame the first verse, which ends in a fuzzy, heavy riff with crashing cymbals. This same pattern is repeated a second time and the drop is teased at just past three minutes in, but does not happen quite yet. The listener’s anticipation builds as the airy, soaring solo from McVay calls out in contrast to the rolling bass. After the guitar solo bridge, the band goes right back into the chorus. But then it happens: THE DROP. Just past 5 minutes in, the song takes a complete and abrupt turn for a totally different riff that is at the same time heavier and brand new, and yet has been there all the while.
What King Buffalo does brilliantly is subvert your musical expectations.
The standard structure is V-C-V-C-B-C-C.
Kerosene is V-C-V-C-B-C-DROP-OUTRO. Just when you subliminally expect something the same, you get something different.
The entire album is like that. Orion hardly sounds like a debut. It is a mature and deliberate soundscape built by talented musicians who are making significant choices about their art. Songs like Drinking From The River Rising open with an expansive and elastic topography, but drill down to the molten lava of heavy riffs and distorted fuzz. Sleeps On A Vine begins with one of the most zen riffs you’ve ever heard and ends in a tumultuous and heavy sonic assault that is pure controlled chaos. Every song on the album is a study in contrasts that leaves you with auditory whiplash and a burning desire for more.
They are that good.
King Buffalo were able to tour on their new material, and did so extensively. They played clubs and larger venues, often with friends and fellow Stoner Rockers All Them Witches and other bands like The Sword and Elder. In 2017, the released the EP Repeater as a follow up. It is just three songs (The vinyl ad reads, All songs on one side! No need to flip!) but it is a heck of a musical journey. The title track off the EP is 13+ minutes long and is one huge build. When the fuzz finally drops after almost 8 minutes, it is a true cathartic moment. It sneaks up on you, and is so welcome when it hits - especially after McVay’s repetition that “Every Day is the Same* - that you intrinsically understand how great it is when things finally change for the better. Too Little Too Late is an instrumental tune that is both enveloping and expansive. It is a terrific bridge to the final track, Centurion, which is an unbelievable groove. Centurion has three minutes of set up leading to an unreal fuzzy drop that is so dirty it will get you evicted from your apartment.
The influence of their touring with All Them Witches can also be seen on their next full length release, 2018’s Longing To Be The Mountain. Ben McLeod from ATW produced the album. ATW, The Sword and Elder are all thanked in the liner notes. The album picks up right where Repeater leaves off, with KB experimenting with long form songs like Morning Song and the title track, and shorter jams like Sun Shivers, Cosmonaut, and Quickening. Reynolds and McVay pepper the songs with synthesizer sounds that add colour and texture to the overall compositions. Donaldson drums with impeccable precision to provide each song with a safe mooring to return to, driving the guitars forward at the same time as he holds the rhythm in check. This is most clearly evident in Eye Of The Storm. The result is a rich tapestry of expansive and flowing music full of heavy jams and storytelling that will leave the listener wanting more. Their signature build-to-sonic-explosion style does not let fans down.
The success of Longing To Be The Mountain allowed for extensive touring across North America and Europe. It also led to appearances at bigger gigs, like at Rockpalast and the Stoned & Dusted desert rock event in 2019. Anyone that has seen any of their live work knows that King Buffalo are simply hypnotizing on stage. Reynolds’ bass work is reminiscent of Geddy Lee with his complex and flowing style. Donaldson brings controlled power to the drum kit, and is ready to cut loose when the drop comes. And McVay has become a true front man, comfortable with the lead voice on guitar and the microphone.
Their next release, Dead Star, dropped in 2020 and generated all kinds of buzz in the Stoner Rock scene. Of course, the tour planned to support it got axed when the entire world went into lockdown. But the (short album? EP?) is simply fantastic. Red Star Pt. 1 & 2 continues their long form examination and has everything you’d expect from them. Echo of A Waning Star is a lament of just over 3 minutes that is near-perfect. Ecliptic sounds like the soundtrack to a John Carpenter movie and is a complete jam with serious cool 1980’s vibes. Dead Star, the title track, is almost Radiohead-esque in its evocative and regretful take on death and decay.
But the standout track has to be Eta Carinae, which has one of the greatest musical drops and turn-arounds you will ever hear. The entire song pivots just past four minutes in and becomes a 70’s anthem worthy of Led Zeppelin or Black Sabbath. If you listen to no other tune here today, you have to check it out. It will absolutely get stuck in your head.
The band dropped their first live record, Live At Freak Valley, in 2020. This is a really nice retrospective/greatest hits album kinda deal. What stands out is just how fucking tight the band is live. With some bands, live versions veer wildly from the recorded ones - and not at all in a good way. This record is the opposite. You can clearly hear on Orion and Kerosene that KB are just that good live.
In the wake of the global pandemic, King Buffalo decided to musically capture the moment in time. They decided to release a trifecta of albums. 2021 saw them drop The Burden of Restlessness and then Acheron. The third record in this trio is 2022’s Regenerator. It is really important to consider all three records in this Triptych at the same time, for they are a sonic cycle.
TBOR is a descent into despondency. Acheron is about hitting rock bottom, and being in Hell. Regenerator is about finding a way to claw yourself back into the light. Each album stands on its own, but together they form a sweeping epic journey that we can all relate to.
TBOR is an album where the protagonist gradually loses the will to exist. There is a cry of deep frustration in Burning, a not-so-subtle reference to a plague in Locusts, a study in being confined indoors in Silverfish, and an outright statement that our hero is sinking in Loam. In fact, the lyrics tell us: “Still I press my face into the ground/I’m waiting for the hammer to fall.”
It is not a happy album.
Just when you think things have to get better, we get the 4-track jam of Acheron. In this record, our hero has fallen to his lowest point. He has descended to Hell. The title track - the first one on the album - makes this clear, when it says: “Waking up under the ground/Silver asleep on my tongue.”
Just in case you didn’t get the classic reference, Acheron is the river one must cross in Greek mythology to get to the underworld. Souls going to Hell had coins placed in their mouth to pay Charon, the ferryman, to take them across the river to Hades. So our hero did sink into the Loam in the last album, and finds himself in Hell. This theme is reinforced in Zephyr, who was the Greek God of the West Wind, and Shadows, which references what the Greeks used to call dead spirits - Shades. And just in case you had any doubt, the final track on the album is Cerberus, named after the three-headed dog that guards the gates of Hades.
What is even cooler about Acheron is how it was recorded. Instead of a studio, they recorded the album underground in a cave.
Now that is commitment.
The final album in this cycle is 2022’s Regenerator. While the first two records were about descent, despondency, and hitting rock bottom, this record is about regaining hope and optimism, and finding a way to come back. We hear this clearly in the lyrics of the record’s final track, Firmament, which says: “Out of the loam I rise, embraced by the etheThe river below relieves my hands of silver” - clearly calling back to the tracks Loam and Acheron. And in case you didn’t know, in Greek mythology the Firmament means the Sky or the Heavens.
Our hero has left Hell behind, and ascended into Heaven.
References to positive mythology are all over this album, from the album art to the tracks Mercury and Avalon. It is a total jam. But the best song on the album might just be Mammoth. If you don’t like the guitar on this song, you and I can’t be friends.
I got a chance to see KB perform last year when they toured with Uncle Acid and the Deadbeats. They are fucking tight. They were the opening act, but were the absolute highlight of the show. I want everyone to hear this band because they really are something special.
Go check them out.
Links to QOTSA
We know that QotSA front man Josh Homme and Kyuss invented Stoner Rock in the 1990’s. They were the genre-defining band. King Buffalo (and other bands like All Them Witches) have picked up this proverbial torch and are now bringing the sound to the next generation of fans. King Buffalo drummer Scott Donaldson is known to be a huge QotSA fan. Perhaps he saw them live when they played in Rochester in 2014 in support of ...Like Clockwork.
It is also sometimes easy to forget that Josh was not the only architect of the low desert sound. Original Kyuss Drummer and co-founder Brant Bjork wrote many Kyuss tunes and continues to be a leader in the music scene today. King Buffalo have played with Bjork at festivals three times: Freak Valley Festival, Black Deer Festival and the aforementioned Stoned & Dusted. There is also a planned collaborative project between Bjork and King Buffalo that may be coming our way soon.
The future is bright, my friends.
Their Music
Providence Eye
In Dim Light
Pocket Full of Knife
King Buffalo songs from the Split EP with Lé Betre
Kerosene -- live in 2016
Drinking From The River Rising
Orion - entire album on Genesee Live
RepeateCenturion -- Recorded Live in the Quarantine Sessions put out by the band
Live at Rockpalast in 2019 - includes songs from LTBTM
Longing To Be The Mountain - Quarantine Sessions
Quickening -- everything is cool until the snake head pops out. Red Star Pt. 2 -- the official video
Ecliptic
Eta Carinae
Dead Star - Full Album
Silverfish
The Knocks
Loam
Hours
Acheron
Shadows
Mammoth
Firmament
Show Them Some Love
/KingBuffalo - C’mon, everyone -- there are just over 500 subscribers. Those are rookie numbers. You gotta pump those numbers up.
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Led Zeppelin
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Side by side, we continued on our path, skirting through the lower section of the factory. After my initial shock, my heart rate had slowed to a healthier pace again. Frankie had assured me that his old boss most likely hadn’t heard us (“She used to have her earbuds in all the time with the volume cranked way up—you couldn’t have gotten her attention if you’d tried”), but we still considered it prude to move forward at a more hurried pace.
We soon came to the conclusion that we would have to go up one of the outside staircases. Frankie admitted in humiliation that his memories of the factory weren’t as accurate as he’d thought—either that or FunFlair had made a few changes to the building. The upper floor containers all had glass doors, presenting us with a sticky problem. If we were to go up there directly, we’d probably be spotted immediately.
“This warrants a change of plans,” I declared soberly, keeping my voice low. “We’ll have to knock her out, then.”
Frankie whimpered.
“Wouldn’t you like that?” I prompted. “I’d be the one to do it, of course.”
“Ye-es.” He shuddered. “It’d be satisfactory for sure, but that’s only assuming nothing goes wrong.”
“She can hardly be stronger than I am.”
“No. I guess not. She, uh… yeah.”
“Let’s go, then.” I offered an encouraging smile as I started leading the way back outside.
We rounded the container with the lights on inside, ascending the metal grate staircase connected to it. Every step carried us closer towards the light. Just before the door fully came into view, I turned to Frankie one last time. “Are you alright? This’ll be it in a moment.”
He made another chew-toy sound.
“Fran, what is it? If you know something I don’t about what might happen in there…”
“She shouldn’t see me,” he squeaked out. “I can’t control myself around her.”
“I don’t understand; did you two use to be an item?”
“No! No, no, no. I can’t explain it any other way. She can make me do things I don’t want,” he told me, his tone growing in desperation.
“How?”
“It’d take too long to explain now, it’s… it’s really very complicated. Please, can you do it without me? I can’t go up there after all, I’m so sorry but I can’t…”
I sighed, leaning in to put my arms around him. “It’s okay,” I whispered into his hair. “I’ll do it. Wait here.”
“I’m so, so sorry, Eva. I swear I’ll make it up to you. This is the last time I’ll ask something like this of you.”
“I doubt it,” I replied. “But it’s okay.” I drew back, reluctantly letting go of him. “For now, it’s okay.” I continued marching up the stairs. Behind the glass door, a feminine figure in a black rubber apron came into view. She seemed to be nimbly skirting around another operating table, this one occupied by a fully formed, petite doll. Now or never. I reached for the doorhandle, pushed it down and crossed the threshold in a single, large step. I slammed the door shut behind my back, drawing the attention of the woman.
She looked up at me, her eyes widening in shock behind her thick glasses. With a swipe of her slender fingers, she removed her earbuds, dropping them into her pocket.
“Are you Philomena Wallis?” I asked.
For a split second, she appeared to be too stunned to speak. Her pale face was framed by messy strands of jet-black hair that had worked their way out of her long ponytail. When she broke from her silence, she spoke with an irritatingly pearly voice. “Who’s asking?”
“A former delivery girl. Well, are you?”
“I am. I don’t understand; I-I’ve never seen you before… How did you end up here? What do you want?”
I took in a deep breath. I glanced over at the door, inwardly cursing myself for what I was about to ask her. “I need to know what you did to Frankie Preston.”
For a couple seconds, silence reigned. The other woman was staring at me with knotted brows. “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” she said finally.
“About yay high—,” I raised my hand above my head, “slightly built, blond curly hair, dreamy smile…”
Philomena narrowed her eyes. I cleared my throat, holding her gaze. Then a look of cold comprehension settled on her features. “Oh my god,” she muttered. “Holy shit… hold on.” She turned around, pulling up a photo on her computer. “Is that him?”
I cautiously stepped closer to get a better look, only to shrink back slightly. It was, indeed, a picture of Fran. He was entirely naked in it, lying on a table similar to the one I was standing in front of now, his wrists and ankles locked in restraints. His neck was craned, his face averted. The camera had caught him mid-motion, a blur around his head visually conveying a kind of violence in the movement. I couldn’t bear to look at it any longer. Instead, I moved closer to the doll on Philomena’s table, taking her in fully. Another blonde—her hair was straight, though. Her body was exaggeratedly curvy, her face delicate and fawn. Speechless, I locked eyes with Philomena from across the room again. She gave me a light shrug. “You look like you need some time for this to sink in,” she remarked, drawing out the words. “I take it you didn’t have all the information previously.”
“That’s okay,” I replied. “I think I get it now.” My head felt empty, my own voice seemingly echoing back and forth between my ears.
“So, you know my prototype,” she stated, confusion and disbelief mixing in her tone. “He told you how to get here, then?”
“In a way.”
“And you came here to find out,” she concluded. “There’s not much I can tell you that you haven’t figured out by now. We wanted to create the most detailed doll there was. He was our first attempt. I started developing him back in the late nineties as just a hopeful pet project. I kept adding more functions as time went on, though, and he turned into an insanely lucrative prospect. I wanted him to be able to move and dance and mimic an airflow, and it worked out better than I’d ever expected. So he can do a lot of things, but I never intended for him to have any sensory awareness or to talk… I have no idea how that happened. It just did. One day, I turned him on and he simply looked at me. There was something different about his eyes, and I knew right away he wasn’t the same as before. And then of course he spoke.”
A shudder ran through her entire upper body at the memory. “I have no idea how. None of us did at the time. He had no recorded voice lines or anything of the sort. And yet, he opened up his mouth and there was just… words coming out, like.” She shook her head in bewilderment at the memory. “After I got over the initial shock, I realized how big of a problem this was. He was telling me to stay away from him; he wouldn’t do a thing I told him anymore. There was my best invention in the entire field yet, rebelling like a teenager. When I tried to get him back in line, he got physical, too. Thrashed around like crazy. One of my assistants ended up concussed because that thing threw him down a flight of stairs. So we had to put an end to that, as well.”
A faint feeling of nausea seeped into the pit of my stomach, strengthening by the second. “What did you do?”
“Well, we had to take him apart, of course! And put him back together. Wash, rinse, repeat. We kept trying to figure out what was wrong with him, or at least to find a way to stop his babbling and hitting people. We didn’t, though. We managed to control his outbursts, though. He was made to react to voice commands, but obviously, that wasn’t working anymore. So after the umpteenth time we rebuilt him, we managed to make it so he couldn’t physically attack people. Don’t ask me about the finer details of his programming; the process was beyond tedious. Anyways, he kept talking and moving around on his own even afterwards. He’d only listen to what we told him occasionally and even then, he’d mouth off. We didn’t want to discard all the progress we’d made, though. He was still an incredibly well-made doll, even if he was… apparently possessed and sentient.
“We built two more like him. We tried harder with their faces seeing as that of the prototype had fallen very far into the uncanny valley. They turned out great, perfectly shaped and working smoothly. Their development took a lot less time than that of the prototype. Once we were sure they were all good, we started talking about destroying the first one. We’d kept him locked up in the meantime, but the little fucker kept on breaking out. We’d literally cuff him to the wall and moments later, he’d come up behind me and scare me half to death. He was becoming a bigger nuisance every day. We were set on taking him apart a final time, but before we could, he disappeared. He’d destroyed all our equipment he’d gotten his hands on, stolen unnameable sums from our online banking accounts—Lord knows how he did that—and worst of all, he somehow managed to… activate the two new builds. He destroyed most of the cameras, but the footage that was left clearly showed them walking around with him. And that’s that.” She palmed her forehead. “How did he get away from the people I sent after him?”
“Largely with my help.”
“Huh. So who are you?”
“Still just a former delivery girl.” Shrugging off my jacket, I made room for my extra limbs to breach my skin, simultaneously opening my mouth as my teeth morphed into fangs.
Philomena watched my transformation almost disaffectedly. Her steps as she carried herself over to her operating table however nearly faltered. Before I could advance on her, she’d cupped the sleeping dolls cheeks, causing the limp body to spring to life. The mannequin’s head jerked up along with her torso. In several clipped, mechanical movements, she slid off the surface, placing her naked feet on the floor. Her eyes flew open, fixing me with an empty glare.
“I don’t know what the fuck you are or what you want from me,” Philomena began, “but I’ve got weak nerd arms. So have fun dealing with this instead.”
I shrank back a step, the memory of Frankie picking me up like I weighed nothing fresh in my mind. Phil pressed her lips to the side of the puppet’s face, whispering something I couldn’t make out before quickly drawing aside. Before I could do so much as blink, the doll was upon me, crossing the distance between us in one impressive leap. She toppled me over, instantly reaching for my throat. I batted her cold, rubbery hands away, then pried her off of me with all my might. Using two of my tentacles, I flung her aside, sending her crashing into a shelf in the corner. Not wasting another second, I lunged at Wallis, delivering a blow to her head that sent her staggering. She sank back against her desk and I lashed out at her once more, briefly shutting my eyes to spare myself the sight of her face connecting squarely with the wooden surface as I bashed her down on against it.
She fell limp, and while I wasn’t sure if she was still breathing or not, I didn’t take the time to check. Her puppet was rising to her feet again, striding towards me in a vacantly determined fashion. I whirled around, bursting through the door and taking two steps at once. Frankie was waiting for me at the bottom of the metal staircase, his face falling when he caught my expression.
“Knocked her out,” I gasped. “We have a problem, though.”
Fran looked up at the glass door, the hinges of which were already groaning under the pressure of the mannequin throwing herself against it from the inside. With a sharp crack, a tear began to grow on the thick pane, and Frankie cursed loudly. “Get away from here!” he hollered, nudging me into the general direction of the woods. “I doused everything I could find down here,” he explained quickly. “If Phil’s out, I’ll do her room, too.”
“What about the—”
“Never you mind that! I can hold her off no problem.”
“I won’t—”
“You literally took out the one thing holding me back,” he insisted. “I’m not letting you get hurt out here. Just wait for me over by the trees.”
I still wouldn’t budge, so he grabbed a bunch of my tentacles and used them to turn me around. “Get your cute-ass face out of here, Sunshine!”
I started running, albeit reluctantly. A loud crashing noise rang out from behind me as the door burst under Phil’s puppet’s onslaught, but I forced myself to keep from turning around. Ignoring the searing hot feeling of panic raging inside my chest, I carried myself further and further away from the scene, only stopping when I reached the treeline. There, pressing myself up against the rough bark of the nearest trunk just to ground myself, I resigned to staring at the containers. I couldn’t see the waiter from where I was standing, but my eyes remained trained on the factory. They were gradually drying out, but despite the pain, I kept them wide open. I didn’t dare to blink.
For several minutes, all was still. The only sound I could hear was the frantic beating of my own heart and my pulse thrumming in my ears. Then, all of a sudden, inferno broke loose. Bright flames started to spread from around the sides of the building, quickly rising high into the sky. Crackling and roaring, they soon enveloped the entire site, lighting up the rooms behind the formerly dark windows. And emerging from the fire like a bird of myth came Frankie Preston. He was running, but with a light spring in his step that almost made it look like he was dancing.
He came to a halt in front of me, lifting his head to meet my gaze. His expression was difficult to read. It still looked empty, but in a different way. In a good way. “Hi,” he began.
“Hi.”
The firelight was bouncing off his curls and playing on his thick lashes, putting a reddish glint into his eyes. “You’re beautiful,” I added.
He drew in a little closer. No gasp preceded his smile. “Thanks.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I, uh… I don’t know yet.” He glanced between me and the burning containers.
“Okay. Take your time.” I stretched my arms and rolled my shoulders, shrugging my additional limbs back into the inside of my body.
“Say, where do they go when you don’t have them out?” Frankie asked with a raised brow.
“I never know.”
“Hm.” He turned to stand at my side. At first, his knuckles merely grazed mine, then he flipped his hand to link his fingers with mine. I briefly smiled at his profile, then went back to admiring the flames.
“Do you think the whole woods are gonna burn down?”
“Probably not,” he replied, shrugging. “Though that would be pretty cool…” He trailed off when I shot him a reprimanding look. “Yeah, yeah, we can call the fire fighters or whatever. Later, though, alright?”
I rested my head against the side of his arm. “Sure. Later.”
For a couple minutes, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the steady crackling and occasional thump as bit by bit, the structure collapsed. “So, um… this is pretty amazing,” Fran said in a low voice. “I mean, it’s not like I’ve never been happy before; my life’s kind of had its ups and downs, it’s just that this is better than any up there’s been so far. I guess I’m just really grateful and you ought to know that.”
“Don’t worry, I know.” I paused. “Can we get out of here? The place is starting to stink.”
He nodded agreeably and we turned our backs on the scene, only for our retreat to be abruptly stopped by a garbled, drawn-out screech. We spun around in perfect synchronicity. I couldn’t stop myself from letting out a sharp cry of shock. From the burning wreckage, a figure dragged itself forth on her hands. Philomena’s puppet had suffered immense damage in the fire. Her skin, obviously not made to withstand extreme heat, was melting off her face like molten candle wax. The wires that were bared beneath gave off angry sparks. She couldn’t seem to get up anymore, her legs were beyond repair and her movements overall were getting more and more arduous. She dug her fingers into the ground, pulling her body across the forest floor in slow, pained jerks.
“What the fuck? I thought I switched her off,” Frankie uttered beside me, sounding just as terrified as I felt.
“What do we do?” I exhaled the words in a single quick breath, unable to take my eyes off the doll.
“I got no idea… I-I don’t wanna deal with this…”
“We need to help her or something, she’s—she’s awake!” Before I could say anything else, the doll had emerged from the blaze. Rolling around, she managed to quench the remaining flames, pressing the dirt and leaves into her own dripping, melting body. Finally, she started trying to push herself up into a sitting position, only to fail miserably. I took a slow, tentative step towards her twitching form. Her face was contorted into a nightmarish grimace, and she let out an incomprehensible gurgle upon noticing me approaching. She reached out a mangled hand and I stumbled backwards before she could grab my ankle.
Despite the heat, beads of cold, fearful sweat were running down my face. I had no idea what to do. “We can’t leave her,” I said, my throat bone-dry. “There’s something in there, she’s not like before.”
Fran let out an exasperated, long-suffering sigh. “Is there any use in arguing?”
“Don’t be so cold.”
“Aren’t you used to it by now?”
I turned to look at him over my shoulder. He met my gaze and I could see something in his features change or perhaps even soften. He threw his head back, then pulled out his phone. “This is gonna ruin my night, but fine. I’m calling that insufferable news lady.”
X
1
2: deadbeat roommate
3: creepy crush
4: relocation
5: beach concert
6: First date
7: Temp work
8: roommate talk
9: a dismal worldview
10: warehouse
11: staircase
12: explanation
13: hurt
14: hospital
15: ocean
16: diner
17: government work
18: something in the caves
19: shopping cart
20: olms and Jewels
21: long hair
22: recruitment
23: waitresses
24: dollhouse
26: Fog dimension

Soy inquilino de un departamento y el aire acondicionado se jodio, no arranca el motor exterior y no enfría/calienta el aire que tira.
El tema es que la inmobiliaria me lo quiere hacer pagar a mi con la excusa de que entre hace menos de un año al depto.
Según ellos: "Si es por una cuestión de uso lo tengo que pagar pero si el problema es del equipo en si ahí no."
Me estoy enroscando la cabeza capas pero cual es la coherencia de esto?, de que otra manera que no sea usando un producto se puede romper?. Ósea, si no lo prendo nunca claramente va a seguir andando pero las cosas se joden con el uso natural, aparte ni lo estuve usando casi porque estamos en invierno. Entonces que carajo significa un problema de equipo en si? de que manera se podría romper "Porque si"? haciendo fotosintesis con el sol el motor exterior?

Took me three or four hours but I love the way it looks. Might not be perfect, so any suggestions?

When I was brand new to NovelAi I had no idea how 2048 tokens really looked as text. So for anyone looking at the tiers, trying to decide how many tokens they want for Clio with the new update, I've tokenized Part of The Great Gatsby by Scott Fitzgerald (public domain since 2021).
That way new users can more easily visualize what the AI's maximum context is for each tier. According to the UI Clio uses the NerdStash Tokenizer, as different tokenizers will convert text to tokens their own way.
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In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”
He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.
And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.
I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.
The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.
It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.
“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.
I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood.
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.
It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.
I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hôtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.
Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.
Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.
Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.
And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.
He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.
His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.
“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.
We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.
“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.
Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.
“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”
We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.
The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.
The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.
The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.
“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”
She
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laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)
At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.
I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.
I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.
“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.
“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”
“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”
“I’d like to.”
“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”
“Never.”
“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”
Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.
“What you doing, Nick?”
“I’m a bond man.”
“Who with?”
I told him.
“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively.
This annoyed me.
“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”
“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”
At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.
“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.”
“Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.”
“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.”
Her host looked at her incredulously.
“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.”
I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.
“You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.”
“I don’t know a single—”
“You must know Gatsby.”
“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”
Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.
Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.
“Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.”
“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.
“All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?”
Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.
“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.”
We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.
“You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—”
“I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.”
“Hulking,” insisted Daisy.
Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.
“You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?”
I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way.
“Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?”
“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone.
“Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.”
“Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—”
“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.”
“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.
“You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.
“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?”
There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned towards me.
“I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?”
“That’s why I came over tonight.”
“Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—”
“Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker.
“Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.”
For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.
The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.
“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”
This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.
Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.
“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began.
“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”
“Is something happening?” I inquired innocently.
“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.”
“I don’t.”
“Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.”
“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly.
Miss Baker nodded.
“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?”
Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.
“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety.
She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”
“Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.”
The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.
The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.
Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.
“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”
“I wasn’t back from the war.”
“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”
Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she
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didn’t say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.
“I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.”
“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”
“Very much.”
“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’
“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated—God, I’m sophisticated!”
The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face, as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.
Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the Saturday Evening Post—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamplight, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.
When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.
“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table, “in our very next issue.”
Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up.
“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”
“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow,” explained Daisy, “over at Westchester.”
“Oh—you’re Jordan Baker.”
I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.
“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you.”
“If you’ll get up.”
“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”
“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—”
“Good night,” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”
“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let her run around the country this way.”
“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.
“Her family.”
“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of weekends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”
Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.
“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.
“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white—”
“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?” demanded Tom suddenly.
“Did I?” She looked at me. “I can’t seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know—”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,” he advised me.
I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called: “Wait!”
“I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.”
“That’s right,” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were engaged.”
“It’s a libel. I’m too poor.”
“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. “We heard it from three people, so it must be true.”
Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn’t even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old friend on account of rumours, and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumoured into marriage.
Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he “had some woman in New York” was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.
Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red petrol-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight, and, turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbour’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.
I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.
II
About halfway between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.
But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to
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Hi, I’m reletting/subleasing my Camino del Sol 4bed/4.5bath, a private bedroom and private bathroom from June 17-September 2. Female UCI student only.
I will offer it $2900 (can be negotiated) for the whole rent time, utilities included (gas, internet, water, electricity, etc). There is an in unit dishwasher, washer, dryer, and refrigerator.
To see the full details and features, you can look at the floor plan here: https://www.americancampus.com/student-apartments/ca/irvine/camino-del-sol/floor-plans#/detail/763-4bed-4.5bathtownhome-fall2023_fullterm
If interested, please DM me!!

I must to confess, at first I didn't like Alex at all. I didn't like her because she reminded me of Elisa Pancakes "habit" of follow your sim everywhere under the sun. I've read she's a townie added with the patch 73, where she's your roommate in the tutorial. I must admit I've never played the tutorial lol, but I always see her all around in the worlds I'm playing and isn't unusual for her to be in the NPC roles (pizza delivery, landlord, fan, food stall vendor etc). I am so tired of being stalked by her that I decided to give in: My new sim is trying to thrive as an actress living in the starter home of Del Sol Valley, sharing the house with those girl who wants to become a famous chef, basically the adventures of suburban girls fantasy. Have you guys ever noticed her? What's your opinion about her? Any love/hate stories?

Les voy a contar mi historia… esto paso cuando tenia yo 15 años hace 16 años exactamente!!! mi familia y yo vivíamos en un pueblito de Durango Mexico, cerquita de la zona del silencio ( una reserva de la biosfera, donde según pasan cosas raras) bueno tota que mi papa tiene unas tierras ahí en la reserva y un día en la tarde nos dijo a mi mamá a mis hermanos ( tengo 2 uno 12 años menor y otro 3 años menos que yo, yo soy la mayor) Vamos al rancho a recoger unos becerros que mi abuelo le dejo encerrados en un corral, pues ay vamos de donde vivíamos ahí son como 1 hora y media está entre cerros grandes y caminos de piedra, total llegamos al rancho por los mentados becerros justo cuando se estaba metiendo el sol, mi hermano el q sigue de mi y yo nos subímos a unos postes altos y con el faro ( una luz muy grande que traía mi papa, comenzamos a echar la luz a lo lejos. Cuando de repente vimos una luz que nos contesto se veía grande como el faro de nosotros, nos asustamos mi hermano y yo y le dijimos a mi papa, se suponía q no había nada para esos rumbos ni caminos siquiera, se subió mi papá al poste y vio la luz también, dijo vamonos no vallan a ser los malos ( en aquellos años andaba feo lo de los hombres de los carteles) total nos apuramos a echar los becerros a la tríala y nos fuimos, de repente que vimos 2 luces que nos venían siguiendo a lo lejos por el camino, nos asustamos dijo mi papá que no podía ser nadie de la familia que todos estaban en el pueblo, por más que mi papá le daba a la camioneta rapido las luces más y más se acercaban tanto que encandilaban los espejos retrovisores, mi papa se llevó cercos de alambre, iso caminos por donde no había, incluso nos dijo q prefería aventarse del cerro en la camioneta porque el camino estaba en lo alto en un pedazo, pero que tenía miedo que nos secuestraran, no sabemos cómo pero cruzamos una carretera grande que está saliendo de los cerros, y justo ahí dejamos de ver las luces que nos perseguían, ahí ay una pequeñita comunidad llegamos asustados pidiendo ayuda todos nos conocemos esta muy pequeño el pueblo, se fueron los hombres del pueblo , les hablamos a mis tíos, hermanos de mi papa( en el camino donde nos perseguían no había señal del celular) fueron todos con sus rifles haber que pasaba, no se veía nadie, nos fuimos a la casa de mís padres, toda la noche no dormimos teníamos un miedo tremendo, en la mañana muy temprano se fueron mis tíos y mi papa a revisar en el rancho y que creen, no había ninguna rodada de camioneta nomás que la de nosotros, ese camino solo lo transitaban mis tíos mi abuelo y mi papá, solo las rodadas de nosotros, como se explica las luces??? Que era???? Estamos locos todos??? La vimos mis hermanos mi mamá mi papá y yo. Nos encandilaba fue una experiencia horrible, nos tacharon de locos todos, nos decían los de los marcianos, pero yo y mi familia lo vivimos y nunca encontramos una explicación para ello, nunca lo había contado a nadie. Gracias por leerme y perdón si no me exprese bien! Que tengan lindo día noche o a la hora que me lean😀 ahh se me olvidaba,, para cuando llegamos a donde nos dieron ayuda ya no venían nada de becerros en la traila que traíamos, los buscaron mucho en el caballo y como pudieron, y jamás los encontraron eran becerros grandes no había manera que se los tragara la tierra pues quien sabe pero eso estubo muy extraño, nosotros duramos meses asustados dormíamos todos juntos en cama de mis. Papas pobrecitos mis padres ahora que soy mamá me doy cuenta que como los tendríamos apretados 5 durmiendo en una cama Jajaja cosas de la vida 😜

It's good to see you again, I'm sure you've been pretty busy lately. Don't bother ordering anything to eat, this shouldn't take that long. A drink might be in order though. Something strong. Nothing for me, thanks, I've work to do soon.
Now, while a social call would be pleasant I'm afraid I've reached out to you for some important business. I have seen the risen body of the king.
Sit down! Quiet. No need to make a scene, now. I can answer your questions once I've said my piece. We can leave the why for later, it's a bit complicated. Was a bit complicated. Simpler now, but... hard to explain. The how is an easier place to start.
You might think there's no way to slip by unnoticed somewhere as restricted as the exclusion zone - that they'd have sensor drones and satellites flag you the moment you stepped in and you'd be removed within minutes. In most places you'd be right, but the valley of the tomb is not most places. I'm sure you remember the beginning of the raid, before any of us knew what we were getting into. The whole place was covered in a haze so thick we had to tie ropes to eachother just to stay together, and what little sunlight made it through came down wrong. A thin, fetid color that should have been a beautiful gold but felt more like the yellow of rancid grease. The only other light that didn't die five feet from its source was from the constant flashes of actinic lightning that just so happened to drown out any radio signals.
I suppose they could set up the borders farther away, but honestly? I don't think they want to. Nobody sane would ever think of getting in, and they know they're not stopping anything that comes out. Better to let themselves think nothing comes in or out, that the exclusion zone is a formality to keep out the occasional crazy from wandering in. I think they're scared that if they keep too close an eye on things they'll see something that breaks that assumption. Something they don't want to think about.
I'm rambling a bit. The important part is that the only thing keeping me out was the patrols. They weren't much trouble though. Even outside the fog that place wears on you. Keeps you from sleeping right. Makes you feel like someone's watching. A few months of that, and I made sure to go in right before they got rotated out, and it's not hard to write off that figure in the distance as a trick of the mind.
Once I made it inside I knew things had gotten worse. The first few dozen yards were the same but past that I soon reached a point where no sunlight reached the ground at all. I found my way first by the the constant flashes of lightning, and, when even they had been eaten by the choking fog, and my flashlight served only to illuminate a yard or two ahead of my feet, by the pull of that damned place. I suppose I could feel it to begin with, that it was why I went back to begin with, but it was always in the background... Still calling me but ignorable, at least for a time... You can feel it too, right? Just over that hill to the North......
On second thought maybe I will have a drink. One moment.
Much better. Now, back to the story. It took me about an hour to reach our old base camp. I thought for sure it would have been destroyed but... Hmm? Well, yes, I did come from the opposite direction, but you're thinking too literally. A place like that is very abstract, much more about the journey you see, and the journey I set out on started with darkness, then the base camp, then the tomb, and then... I'll leave the end for the end, but the point is that I couldn't have passed them in any other order. It's like a story - the order is fixed once the book is printed.
From that explanation you might think the camp twisted into some metaphorical mockery of itself, or perhaps ruined to symbolize mankind's weakness, or some other similar thing, but what I came across impacted me far more deeply. It was intact. No, not intact, preserved. I've seen the old base camps from when we were cleaning out bandits, old tents abandoned for just a couple years to the sand when it was deemed not worth recovering them until we came along for some late cleanup, and it's amazing how fast the elements set to work on something not meant to stay in one place for more than a few days. It had been there for nearly a decade, with all the equipment we'd brought left in place, and yet not a speck of dust had found it.
I'm sure you recall how we were found afterwards, lying in the arid scrublands just outside the storm with nothing but our jumpsuits. I found our arms and armor there as well, neatly folded and placed in footlockers. Whatever made us flee, we didn't run in a panic - we calmly put everything in its place and simply walked away. We all said that we ran, though, that we had been chased. Isn't that curious to you? Probing my memory before the incident I still recalled panic, being paralyzed before an overwhelming presence, and yet I had nothing afterwards. Not a single clear image from after we breached the tomb. I said we ran because all I could remember was the fear, and that was the explanation that made the most sense of things.
At first I thought there wasn't much for me there besides the realization. The fuel cells had all gone dead, of course, and our records were all stored on the camp's computers. When I attempted to retrieve the memory cards, however, I found them gone - not just the cards themselves but the caddies that would normally extend to receive them. Propping open the spring-loaded slot and turning my flashlight to it, I could see that the entire computer was not without power, it had been entirely hollowed out. I will admit to having fallen into a bit of a panic at that, blindly tearing apart anything else electronic - no doubt the old base camp will prove far less preserved for whoever managed to stumble upon it next - but in all of them I found the same result. Even the displays had been stripped of their circuitry, leaving only black panels with not even a scrap of wire dangling from them to indicate they had ever been used as part of a larger device. Thankfully we'd taken purely mechanical weapons on that first expedition, and I took the opportunity to arm myself before proceeding, with great trepidation, to the tomb itself.
It was not similarly untouched. Most of the outer walls were intact, at least from what little I'd seen - those walls of some unknowable black material, broken up by countless gold adornments and engraved with what looked like stories of some great god-king. Carvings that would have found themselves perfectly at home in the stone burial halls of ancient Merkat or Hattesh, although I concede to not having looked too closely. I was far more focused on that great door where we had made our original entrance.
It had taken us hours to make that hole after the door had refused to open, even with the explosives at our disposal, and while the gap itself was thankfully still there, the edges had started to heal. That word, heal, is very important - nobody was rebuilding it. I saw no evidence of tools nor worldly methods of repair. Instead the edges had grown over with a bulging, fibrous mass that I took to be scar tissue. I attempted to take a sample, to see if any of the scientists could tell me its makeup, but it was just as cold and unyielding as the false-stone which surrounded it. I hurried inside after that, secure at least in the knowledge that if it was still growing the stiffness of it would make the process so slow as to not impede my escape.
Once inside the pull was much stronger, to the point I could barely resist it. Whatever those black walls had been made of was proving itself effective as insulation. I soon found myself abandoning any further investigation, only barely restraining myself from sprinting as I made my way into the central burial chamber...

Para que no tenga que explicar ciertas palabras o conceptos, voy a usar este espacio como glosario de los modismos tumberos, que son usados a modo de código interno en este ambiente.

• Distintos términos usados para nombrar a la policía:
• Cobanis.
• Chanchos.
• Ortivas.
• Poli.
• Encargado.
• Encargado del fondo.
• Ratis.
• Gorra.
• Gorrudos.

A - Abierta: Se usa en referencia a cuando tenés la celda abierta.

• Avioneta: Preso que a cambio de cosas (ropa, puchos, drogas) acceden a hacer trabajos de riesgo como pelear, golpear, apuñalar o matar a alguien.
  
• Anti-Concha: Preso con alguna causa relacionada la violencia de género.
  
• Anti-Chorro: Preso que le roba a otro preso.
  

B - Bagallo: Las bolsas con mercadería, comida, ropa, puchos, elementos de higiene, que les traen los familiares a los presos.

• Boga: Abogado.
  
• Beneficio: El beneficio es que recompensa otorgada a los presos por su buena conducta. Ejemplo: más horas desengomados, más celdas abiertas, abiertas generales, más cosas permitidas en el pabellón, ect.
  
• Buzón: Celda pequeña y separada de la población, destinada a los aprehendidos por delitos menores (osea que van a estar ahí un par de horas o días). En los penales los buzones se usan para presos en tránsito, castigados, o con resguardo físico.
  
• Brillo: Azúcar.
  
• Bajar a tomar la sopa: Pelear.
  
• Berretines: Caprichos. Negarse a hacer favores.
  
• Banca: Tolerar ciertas actitudes, comportamientos o personas.
  

C - Casucudos: Policías anti-motines, llamados así por su uniforme compuesto de casco, chaleco, escudo y cachiporras.

• Canadá: Cárcel.
  
• Caranchear: Robarle a otro preso.
  
• Cabida: Confianza que hay entre otros presos para joder y hacerce bromas.
  
• Cartuchera: Dicho así a las vaginas de las ranas, cuando traen dentro de ellas drogas o elementos prohibidos.
  
• Chaponear: Golpear la puerta de la celda.
  
• Ceniza: Cenicero.
  
• Camión: Vehículo dónde transportan a los presos.
  
• Casa: Celda.
  

D - Dinosaurio: Preso viejo que lleva muchos años en cana.

• Desengome: Cuando te sacan de la celda.

E - Engome: Cuando te encierran en la celda.

• Escopetero: Cascudo que anda con una escopeta anti-motines.
  
• Escopeta: La escoba o el limpia pisos.
  
• Encanar: Caer en cana.
  
• Esquela: Carta que los presos escriben a sus familiares o conocidos de afuera.
  
• Empapelar: Cuando la policía te crea una causa falsa para dejarte preso.
  
• Escribir: Labor de los cobanis a la hora de caratular tu causa.
  
• Escribir el Lomo: Hablar mal a las espaldas de alguien.
  
• Enpalomar: Atar a alguien o algo con palomas.
  
• Espada: Biblia.
  
• Encargado del Fondo: Es el policía encargado de vigilar a los presos. El que en las telenovelas llaman guardía.
  

F - Fiche: Taquero.

• Faca: También llamado punta o planchuela, es el cuchillo tumberos.
  
• Fierros: Los cubiertos y utensilios de cocina.
  
• Feite: Es la hoja de afeitar que se extrae de las máquinas de afeitar.
  
• Ferrari: Presos jóvenes sometidos sexualmente por los otros presos del pabellón.
  

G - Gancho: Percheros tumberos hechos con encendedores, lapiceras, cepillos de dientes o cualquier otro material de plástico. Los cuales son derretidos en un extremo y colocados en hueco en pared para asegurar un buen agarre.

• Gato: Preso denigrado por otros presos y obligado a hacer labores como cocinar, lavar ropa y limpiar los fierros.
  
• Guitarrero: Violador.
  

H - Hermanitos: Presos pertenecientes a pabellones cristianos.
I - Ingreso: Preso nuevo.
J
K
L - Leonera: Son jaulas afuera de los penales, a cielo abierto (se llaman así por la similitud que tienen con las jaulas para leones de un circo o zoológico).
M - Mira: Espejo o CD. Se les dice así porque sirve para mirar por fuera de la celda.

• Marroca: Esposas.
  
• Marrocado: Esposado.
  
• Mono: El mono es la "valija" del preso. Cuando un preso se va de traslado, pone todos sus objetos personales sobre una manta y luego ata las cuatro puntas formando una bolsa con sus cosas, para poder llevarlas.
  
• Mickey Mouse: Se le dice así al ladrón común, al ratero, al manoteador de celulares.
  
• Mandar a Explorar: Mandar a alguien a hacer una pregunta indebida, o ir a algún lugar para que caiga en una trampa. Son bromas que se hacen los presos.
  

N
O
P - Primario: Es el preso que encanta por primera vez.

• Paloma: Las palomas son sogas hechas con tiras de tela. Son llamadas así ya que se usan para pasarse cosas de pabellón en pabellón y al ser arrojadas "vuelan como palomas mensajeras". También son usadas como sogas para tender la ropa, entre otros usos.
  
• Pescar: Agarrar algo que está fuera del pabellón mediante el uso de palomas.
  
• Pajarito: Licor tumberos hecho con frutas o arroz fermentado.
  
• Perros: Son los aliados del referente, los que lo defienden y pelean por el.
  
• Plaqueta: El celular.
  
• Palero: Cascudo con cachiporras, palos.
  
• Plátano: Banana.
  
• Población: Los presos comunes, osea los que no están en pabellones de conducta, ni pabellones cristianos.
  
• Política: Se denomina política la manera de llevar y hacer las cosas en el pabellón. Las normas que los referentes imponen.
  
• Preventiva: Es la detención preventiva ordenada por el juez, para mantenerte preso a espera del juicio. Si en 45 días no te llega la preventiva te vas en libertad, la preventiva no puedo durar más de dos años. Supuestamente.
  
• Patada: Tener el favor o beneficio de los Cobanis o de personas externas, para conseguir ciertos lujos o comodidades.
  
• Pinchar: Termino referido para generar conflictos.
  
• Patitas y alitas: Pelear con facas solo apuntando a los brazos y piernas.
  
• Pasa platos: Pequeña ventana en la celda por dónde se pasa el rancho.
  

Q
R - Rancho: La celda y compañeros de celda son tu rancho. Ejemplo: La celda tres es mi rancho y mis compañeros Menganito y Juanito, son mis rancho también.

• Rancho: También se le dice rancho a las viandas de comida que te dejan.
  
• Reincidente: Preso que ya encano más de una vez.
  
• Refugiado: Preso que va a un pabellón cristiano para evitar estar en pabellón de población.
  
• Ranchero: Preso trabajador que se encarga de repartir los ranchos al los distintos pabellones. También llamados Fagineros.
  
• Referente: Preso que maneja el pabellón y tiene trato con los encargados. Dependiendo del tamaño del pabellón puede haber más de un referente.
  
• Requisa Espiritual: Es un excusa que usan los Hermanitos tumberos para quitarle cosas a los otros presos.
  
• Rana: Prostituta que va a los penales.
  

S - Sapo: Candado.

• Salpica: Termino utilizado cuando la conducta o acciones de un preso afectan a los demás.
  
• Soque: Queso.
  
• Soplar la Bolsa: Termino utilizado cuando un preso buchonea, manda al frente.
  
• Sacudir la Rama: Pelear.
  

T - Tumbero: Se usa en referencia a todo lo de origen y fabricación carcelario, ya sea herramientas, armas, o cualquier otro objeto. También se usa en referencia a presos conflictivos y/o violentos.

• Tumbear: Es un adjetivo utilizado para clasificar ciertas actitudes en el ambiente carcelario. Cosas como arremangarse los pantalones, hacer ejercicio (si no banca), anti-chorrear, afiliar y pelear con facas.
  
• Taquero: Jefe de una comisaría.
  
• Taquería: Comisaría o seccional policial.
  
• Tumba: Carne.
  
• Tarima: Cama.
  
• Taquilla: Repisa en la celda dónde el preso pone su ropa y todos sus objetos personales.
  
• Tumba la Gorra: Tumberio que generan los cobanis para crear conflicto entre los presos.
  
• Tirarse un Paso: Pelear.
  
• Tirar el Mono: Abandonar el pabellón.
  
• Toda la saca/plata: Tener cosas lujosas.
  

U
V - Violín: Violador.

• Viola: Violador.
  
• Violeta: Violador.
  
• Viajera: Pequeña faca que va escondida en el mono, cuando un preso se va de traslado.
  
• Vivoreo: también llamado cuchicheo, es la habladuría en código o disimulo entre presos, normalmente usado para conspirar contra alguien.
  
• Vaca Rayada: Leche en polvo.
  
• Violín de Instrumentos: Pedófilo.
  

W
X
Z - Zorsagueo: Son chistes con connotacion sexual y/o homosexual.

• Zarpado: Cansado. También utilizado para denominar a un persona desubicada o se siente perseguido.

... Estos son todos los términos que conozco hasta la fecha, iré actualizando a medida que vaya aprendiendo más. Existen muchas otras más palabras y conceptos, pero estas están envueltas en contextos y filosofía que darles una definición, ameritaría un capítulo aparte. También existe un lenguaje de señas tumberos, pero este no lo sé ni pienso aprenderlo.

https://edition.cnn.com/2023/06/05/us/los-angeles-rv-dwellers/index.html
Los Angeles CNN —
Early one recent Friday morning, sanitation workers, homeless-outreach workers and LAPD officers arrived on a little street in the west of Los Angeles. Jasmine Avenue is lined with low-rise apartment blocks, an imposing Catholic Church, a school and a handful of dilapidated recreational vehicles.
That morning on Jasmine Avenue, RV residents were offered $500 gift cards and a motel room. The city also offered to tow and destroy their RVs. One RV managed to leave, under its own steam, with what smelled like sewage leaking along the road as it left. This clearance is one small part of what has been a piecemeal approach by officials trying to tackle a burgeoning phenomenon of people living permanently in RVs on these streets.
“I’ll take a motel room,” one RV owner told me as he packed up his belongings after about six months on Jasmine Avenue. “See what happens.” But he did not let the city tow and destroy his RV. He towed it elsewhere himself, using a chain and a beaten-up SUV. He wants to keep it.
“The idea sometimes our clients have is, ‘What if this doesn’t work? If this doesn’t work, then I’m back on the streets. I’m back to square one,’” said LaTonya Smith, interim CEO at the St. Joseph Center, a nonprofit that helps the city find accommodation for the unhoused. “People who are living in RVs consider themselves to be housed, and in order for them to leave that RV, sometimes we have to incentivize.”
There are, by the latest count, more than 11,000 people living in RVs across Los Angeles County. And that number has been rising. The Covid-19 pandemic forced more people into poverty. Some of the RV dwellers have jobs but either don’t want to pay apartment rent, or can’t afford to pay it, in a city where the average one-bedroom apartment costs around $2,500 a month.
Some RV dwellers own the vehicles, but others rent them to the monthly tune of a few hundred dollars to more than $1,000, city Councilwoman Traci Park told CNN.
In Los Angeles, you are allowed to sleep in a vehicle on some streets. There are, of course, parking restrictions on many streets. But as the number of RVs has grown, enforcing those restrictions has become harder. Large, immobile RVs require large tow trucks. And, according to the city, destroying a dilapidated RV that might contain harmful chemicals can cost up to $9,000 per vehicle.
Outreach workers from St. Joseph Center interact regularly with RV dwellers. A spokesperson told CNN: “Staff encounter a large percentage, probably safe to say as much as 80-85%, of individuals who are ‘leasing’ RVs or may have purchased an RV that is not suitable for habitation or a ‘legal’ sale.”
Park and others argue that these RVs endanger their residents and blight neighborhoods, acting as magnets for crime and damaging the environment. Some advocates for the unhoused agree the impact on city neighborhoods is an issue.
“There might be trash everywhere,” said Smith from the St. Joseph Center. “People come outside their neighborhoods and homes, that’s not something that they really want to see.”
In the five years since Los Angeles County commissioned one of many reports into the RV problem and potential solutions, the number of RVs on county streets has risen by more than 50% – from more than 4,500 in 2018 to more than 7,100 at last count. Reports are regularly requested and written by various city and county departments.
“I’m tired of studies and reports,” Park told CNN recently at her freshly painted City Hall office. She was elected last year on a platform dripping with intent to handle the various homelessness issues plaguing Los Angeles. Among her first targets: people she calls “vanlords,” some of whom, she says, rent out rotting, unsafe RVs. “There is a thriving trade in RVs being rented out as dwelling units on the internet,” Park said.
Park proposed a motion that would explicitly add RVs to part of the city code that, “Prohibits a person or entity from reserving any street, parking space, or other public space without written authorization from the City while conducting business pertaining to new and used vehicles.” The motion would also force RV owners to comply with a state law, “which requires that any RV offered for sale, sold, rented or leased within California meet the design safety standards of the American National Standards Institute and Fire Protection Association.”
Right now, she said, “Apparently anybody in the city of Los Angeles can buy a junker RV off of a salvage lot and without any oversight or regulation, rent that unsafe inoperable vehicle out to a vulnerable person as a dwelling unit.”
“The point here is not to criminalize homelessness. The point is to regulate what is currently an unregulated marketplace that is causing serious public safety and environmental impacts all over the city,” Park said.
“Too often, RVs that are used as dwellings on LA’s streets are in grave disrepair,” Park’s proposed motion reads, in part. “Meaning that people living in them face unsanitary and sometimes dangerous conditions.”
She has opposition.
“It’s actually good, to provide housing for people” even if it’s an RV, said Dmitry Korikov, a filmmaker who says he volunteers helping people – mainly refugees from Russia and Ukraine – navigate van life on the streets of Los Angeles. “I lived myself in a motor home for two years. So I know how things (work), how the system works.”
He tells RV dwellers which streets they can park on, and connects them with private companies that service the vehicles for a fee: filling up the freshwater tanks, emptying the sewage tanks and sweeping the sidewalks.
“Everyone should have a right to use public streets,” Korikov told CNN. “If you cannot give them an apartment or give them a job to be able to afford an apartment and you tell them that you need to be in tents on the street, but not renting someone’s motor home, that’s evil.”
CNN put Korikov’s points to Park.
“I understand the dilemma,” she said. “On the other hand, I have seen too many of these explosions and these fires and we have got to deal with the collateral impacts that these vehicles are causing in our neighborhoods.” A small number of people have died in RV fires on the streets over the past few years, according to local reports.
Park says she is concerned that the unhoused are being exploited by the vanlords. And she is concerned about the impact the vans are having on the neighborhoods in her district, which includes Venice and much of western Los Angeles, where homeless populations tend to be higher.
One Venice resident told me he returned home from work recently to discover that the sewage tank in an RV had been emptied into the road. He had to walk through human waste to get to his front door.
“We have not resolved the RV issue yet,” Mayor Karen Bass told The Los Angeles Times in March. “But we absolutely will because it’s a very serious issue.”
One of her first moves when she took office as mayor late last year was to declare a state of emergency on homelessness. Her first target was not the RVs on the streets, but the tents on the sidewalks. Her administration has swept over a dozen tent encampments and moved more than 1,200 people into temporary accommodation in motels, the city administrative officer has said. The operation is dubbed Inside Safe.
The idea is to eventually move all those people into permanent housing, in line with an increasingly popular doctrine among housing researchers known as “housing first.” The theory is that the most impactful move in saving someone from homelessness is to provide them housing, with other services such as mental health or substance abuse treatment to follow.
Bass’ office, the city administrator’s office and the Los Angeles Homeless Services Authority cannot say how many of those people moved off those streets as part of Inside Safe are now in permanent housing. The mayor will hold a roundtable with the press in the coming weeks to discuss the data, her office said. The St. Joseph Center said is has found permanent housing for 32 people. A spokesperson told CNN the center expects those numbers to increase in June.
“I’m not going to leave people on the street while we’re building,” Bass told CNN this spring. “People die on these streets!”
When it comes to the RVs, a pilot program in one city council district has, over about 15 months, seen 41 RVs moved off the street and seven people moved into permanent housing. “That is why our program will be used as a model throughout the city, represented in the 2023-2024 budget adopted in May 2023,” Councilwoman Monica Rodriguez told CNN. That city budget includes $1.3 billion for the fight against homelessness.
City officials have approved a plan to deal with the RVs that includes concerted outreach to those living in them, incentivizing them to move into motel rooms, creating safe parking areas that can accommodate RVs, and finding permanent housing for those living in RVs. Now that plan needs to be implemented.
That final and fundamental piece of this puzzle is arguably the most challenging.
“We need more housing. We need more affordable safe housing,” Smith said. But housing is expensive and takes time to build. And for now, for thousands of people, an RV’s roof over their heads is all they can afford in Los Angeles.

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