Oliver the Cat: Rough draft from my new novel featuring Sid Yiddish

FORWARD: The story is about a talking cat who sets out on a journey of self discovery

Having a voice is like, and I know this is crude, but it’s like pissing. If you never had to take a piss it wouldn’t matter, but once you do that pressure is going to build until it comes out. As satisfying as it is to relieve that pressure, it is arguable whether or not it has done anything for the rest of the world. Still, I was bursting. I longed for the philosophical conversations with Dave or in Maggie’s warm voice. In the cold dead of night, trying to divert my thoughts from the cold, I would blather away more or less coherently to Gray and White, though she hadn’t a clue nor really cared what I was talking about. Still, just to hear myself, like some sort of urban Robinson Carusoe, I’d talk politics, muse about nothing, recap events of the day or talk about the weather, anything to keep my mind active. I might have even improvised a poem or two, but it still wasn’t enough. I might as well have been on a desert island, talking to a soccer ball with a dirty palm print for a face!

One icy cold morning during a foray to the deli dumpster I noticed a curious character at the bus stop across the street. I should preface that. He was odd, not so much that he was strange looking, relatively speaking, but more that it was far too cold for anyone to spend much time in one place. And yet, the fellow was sort of slouched on the bench, like a rag doll someone had tossed there; a somewhat plump rag doll.

At his feet was a hopelessly worn black backpack with ancient anmd tattered airline tags still attached to one strap. His tennis shoes, stretched to the limits by layered sports stockings were so weathered and filthy that I thought he might be homeless. He was surrounded in a thick blue workman’s insulated coveralls and an even bulkier green ski jacket with a faux-fur lined hood that was bunched behind his head. The jacket was open. The zipper no longer worked.
A knit cap hid most of his brow. It was an oddly unnatural shade of light brown, and left only his scraggly grey beard and red nose exposed to the frigid morning air. I wasn’t immediately certain that shade of brown even existed in nature. His eyes were lost to the shadows beneath the hat. I was reminded of a forlorn and even brooding garden gnome fallen on hard times. There was a sympathetic air about him that drew me curiously to the edge of the street.

A well dressed woman sat beside him, briefly fishing for something from a handbag. The fellow seemed bothered by her presence, perhaps by the juxtaposition of their circumstance, or from something else. I watched with infinite delight as he leaned back to eye the woman up and down with obvious disapproval, but with a sense of innocence and whimsy, which the woman, momentarily taking note countered with a grimace that belied ultimate disgust.

Refusing to be condescended to he pulled out a can of sardines, picking out the oily canned fish without removing his mittens. He held it out, dangling it in the frigid air between them, thick droplets of yellow oil falling to the bench between them. He offered it to the woman, though through the tangle of beard and mustache it was impossible to make out his mouth. With a thoroughly horrified look, the woman stood fled from the bench. As he downed the sardine I saw him smile with supreme satisfaction.

I laughed, catching myself a bit should someone notice, and He was perfect. Not perfect, but the perfect person for my needs. I was desperate for some conversation and who would believe this character if he said he’d been chatting with a talking cat? By the looks of him most folks would believe he had frequent conversations with talking cats, not to mention stop signs, space aliens and aquarium fish!

Traffic was heavy and slow along Adams Street. I waited for the light and traffic to stop then sprang from behind a newspaper box, between the forest of legs along the sidewalk and into the street. Without breaking stride I cleared the street, past a taxi cab and beneath a newspaper delivery truck in barely six long leaps. I leapt onto the bench beside him and gave a long loud sigh. He looked down at me for a moment, then drew a sardine from the can and laid it down on the bench between us.

“Go ahead, little, fella,” he said. “You must be starved.”

“Actually, no, I began. “Well a bit. I actually came over to meet you.”

He downed another sardine as if it was a normal thing to hear a talking cat. “Okay, well that’s odd.”

“Don’t be alarmed,” I said quietly. I cleared my throat. “You’re not crazy; I really am a talking cat.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he replied sort of deadpan.

“Well, not something I’m sure you run into everyday.”

“How do you know, we just met.”

I nodded and cocked my head to one side. I liked him instantly.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t assume,” I said.

“Besides, do I look that crazy?”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Niceties, I always thought were for people, not cats. Cats speak their mind.

“Seriously?” I replied.

“What does that mean?” he complained.

“Honestly, I picked you, you’re, well, sort of, you have to admit… you’re different.”

“Different?” he exclaimed, half mordantly. He raised both hands like a preacher and said aloud, “The talking cat says I’m different!”

“Sshh, hey,” I said urgently, “keep it down.”

“Relax, your secret is safe. I’m Sid, Sid Yiddish.”

“Yiddish. Like…?”

“I’m a Jew. You’re not one of those anti-Semite cats?”

I’m a cat. I’m not pro or anti-anything!”

“And you are?’

“I’m a cat!”

“No, what’s your name?” he frowned somewhere beneath that beard.

“Oh, gosh, I’m Oliver.”

He stood and slung the beat up and totally overstuffed backpack over one shoulder. “My bus is coming. I wish we had more time to talk.”

“Yeah, me too,” I said with a notable measure of disappointment.

“Where do you live,” asked Sid as the bus slowed to a stop. He set down the can of sardines beside me. “Maybe we could meet for a…for milk.”

“Um, uh, I’m just sort of a stray at the moment.”

The bus door opened with a hiss. The driver looked at Sid with some annoyance as he hesitated in the door.

“I’ll be here tomorrow, same time. Come earlier, we’ll chat.”

Sid climbed into the bus. The driver looked around trying to see who Sid was speaking with. Sid noted the man’s perplexed expression and motioned in my direction. “It’s okay, he’s my friend.”

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A Tragic Fate: Excerpt from the Book

A TRAGIC FATE: Politics, Oil, the crash of Malaysia Airlines Flight 17 and the Looming Threats to Civil Aviation, by WC Turck is currently available as an e-book on Amazon.com

Trust. This is not a conspiracy book, nor does it shy away from indictments or an objective exploration of glaring and alarming questions that remain. And there are many. But, we live in a cynical age in which the message from government, corporations, pranksters and the insipidly ignorant can reach millions as never before. It is a world that trades humanity for marketing and truth for messaging. These forces can and routinely do manipulate the truth and audiences in ways and in numbers never before imagined. And they do it without conscience, certainly to sow confusion and misinformation, and most often simply for profit.
JCOVER
In the early 20th century leaders like the Soviet dictator Josip Stalin and other Communist leaders routinely edited dissidents or former colleagues whom had fallen from favor from photographs. The method was terribly crude and always obvious. Now we have the technology and craftsmanship to photoshop with uncanny precision whole new realities. It is simple and almost seamless to place a person in Idaho onto the rings of Saturn with little or no ability, but the viewer’s penchant for reason and sanity to discern whether or not he is actually standing upon those rings at the far side of the solar system.

This is also not a nationalist or propaganda screed. The reader searching for accusations of neo-fascism by the interim Ukrainian government, warnings of an awakening Russian bear under Putin threatening the free world or the moral superiority of the United States and the West will be sorely disappointed. Fanciful conspiracies about bombs placed by Mossad agents on board the plane, or that MH-17 is really the lost flight 370, tales of rogue Zionists or the Illuminati are the laziest form of intellectual masturbation. They have no place here. The greatest tragedy to emerge, as the reader will find, is a failure on many levels of many governments and people.

This is also not an indictment of conspiracy theorists. I know many, and I know many to be good friends and neighbors. Those wishing to impugn all believers in conspiracy as tin foil wearing sods are themselves delusional and/or misinformed. There is ample reason to believe in conspiracies. There is ample reason people often gravitate to conspiracy theories as well, aside from the slickly marketed PR and propaganda efforts of individuals and groups. Conspiracies exist. The CIA, the NSA, the security services and corporate boardrooms the world over are forms of conspiracies. Many view the banking crisis of the first decade of the 21st Century as a conspiracy. The housing and foreclosure crisis in the United States was very definitely a conspiracy. And by parceling truth and parsing words to their citizen’s governments engage in and feed conspiracy believers.

Some belief in conspiracy is healthy and necessary. Too much is fiction and dangerous to civil society. The line between the two is nebulous and ever-changing. This book does not seek to explore or exploit that line.

Still, it must be noted that we live in an age in with Truth is malleable and lies are truth. It is a line, once crossed, that we can never return to. In the absence of truth we are only left with pain, and the pain of others, whose priority must be negotiated. In reality, with the death of truth, we have become truth. We have become our own truth. In defending our island of truth we must negotiate a compromise with the truths of others. In that common ground we can begin to tear away the inhuman waste of cynicism.

There is a difference in rendering the truth and inventing it. Modern journalism, degraded as lawyerism, marketing, advocacy and propaganda has so degraded the quality of news as to call into question everything. That would potentially be a good thing in a world of a properly educated and skeptical populace, but here and now the garbage in garbage out adage unfortunately holds true.

Still, rendering the truth as accurately as possible must remain the ultimate standard. We are all witnesses to history, and if we render the present incorrectly what handicap or legacy do we create for the future? What does that do for the history of our time yet to be written?

First and paramount to this narrative is respect and compassion for the victims and their families. To that end it was the circumstances of their deaths which define the story. It is our nature to see ourselves in their place as a means of understanding and learning. That gives their lives added value. Their story has value because they have value. The passengers, crew and families were victims and as such they deserve and we all should demand justice. We would wish the same were we sitting in those seats high above eastern Ukraine that July afternoon ourselves. At the very least, that justice should come in the form of accuracy and sincerity.

The narrative relies on competent and rational media sources, direct photographic and video evidence collected and archived from the very beginning of the disaster. It also relies upon the author’s own experience and knowledge. The author comes to this with nearly 20 years in the airline business and the first hand experience of war. With a ready disdain for authority, a healthy skeptical nature and a distrust of media and governments, each fact, piece of evidence and report is filtered through that perspective. It was perspective that served the author while moving across that fractured entities of what was once Yugoslavia, and across war-torn frontlines.

The author readily admits a disdain for authority, especially in this circumstance. Authority pre-supposes rank, hierarchy, and by default control, submission and censorship. This book follows wholeheartedly the advice to writers by the late Serbian writer Danilo Kis,

“Believe you are more powerful than generals, but do not use them as a measuring rod.
Do not team up with anyone, the writer stands alone.
Do not believe in prophets, for you are a prophet.
Do not be a prophet: your power is doubt.
Do not seek moral justifications for those guilty of betrayal.
Study the thought of others, then reject it.
Do not imagine that writers are the “conscience of humanity”: you have seen too many scoundrels among them.
Do not let anyone tell you that you are a nobody: you have seen that warlords fear poets.
Grant no favors to princes and warlords.
Do not be tolerant out of good manners.
If you cannot say the truth, say nothing…”

The intention was to collect the evidence as thoroughly as possible and present it in a compelling way. The intention is not to move the reader to one political or ideological point of view, but to move the reader closer to their own humanity and to humanity in general. A terrible crime was committed in the skies above eastern Ukraine, and someone ought to be held to account for that.

Listen Saturday’s from 11am-1pm to WC Turck, Brian Murray and guests on Chicago’s real alternative media, AM1680, Q4 radio, streaming at www.que4.org.
CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. He is currently working on a new book “Shoot Down: An unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com


The Illinois Policy Institute (IPI) is a conservative think tank with offices in Chicago and Springfield, Illinois, and member of the State Policy Network. IPI is a member of the American Legislative Exchange Council (ALEC) as of 2011. IPI is also a member of ALEC’s Health and Human Services Task Force and Education Task Force. Senior Budget and Tax Policy Analyst, Amanda Griffin-Johnson, presented model legislation (the “State Employee Health Savings Account Act”) to the HHS task force at ALEC’s 2011 annual meeting.[4] Collin Hitt, Director of Education Policy, is a private sector member of the Education Task Force representing IPI. He sponsored the “Local Government Transparency Act” at the ALEC 2011 States and Nation Policy Summit. In its 2006 annual report the Cato Institute states that it made a grant of $50,000 to the Illinois Policy Institute. The Cato Institute is a libertarian think tank founded by Charles G. Koch and funded by the Koch brothers.

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20 Years Ago Today I Asked Bosnian Artist Ana Tosic to Marry me. It Almost Didn’t Happen…

At curfew she walked with me to the end of her street. There was fighting on Igman. We watched flashes across the dark face of the mountain. There was worry in Ana’s face.
“You must leave soon, Bill.”
I studied her face, mulling over a thought. “What if I stayed?”
“Don’t be foolish.”
“I love you, Ana. What if we were meant to…”
She quickly cut me off. “If we were meant to be together we would have met in Chicago or Paris or anywhere but here.”
I sighed heavily and looked again at the mountain. She was right, of course.
“I talked with a friend the other day,” she said. “He works on the tunnel in Dobrinja. He says that if you can get there he will help you across to Butmir.”
“Ana, I…”
“It is very dangerous, but if you have no other choice.”
The time had come, and I decided that night, as I evaded the police on the way to Hasan’s, that I would leaving the following night. Ana’s friend would be at the tunnel and, with a bit of luck, would help me across. I would go to see her in the afternoon to say goodbye. It would be quick, like tearing off a bandage.
The next morning I returned to the military hospital for the letters Alto and Emira had written for their family on the outside. Snipers were dueling in the plaza. The halls of the hospital were crowded with patients and doctors chased there by the gunfire. Above the frustrated curses of staff, protestations and the moans of the sick and wounded, bullets could be heard slapping against the walls of the building, sounding like clapping hands. I found Emira calming patients, but I might have thought I had rescued her. Grabbing my arm she led me quickly up to Alto’s room.
“Terrible,” she said of the shooting, “much worse than I have seen it in some time.”
The Serbs were putting pressure all around the city, attempting to force the Bosnians to divert troops from the mountain offensive.
“Little boys with dangerous toys,” I remarked.
“You will hate me, but I haven’t finished the letter. I simply have not had time, with all the fighting and new patients. We are overwhelmed, you understand. I don’t think that Alto is finished either. I’m sorry, but if you could return tomorrow.”
“I was leaving the city tonight.”
“One more day, if it is not too much of a problem.”
At least I might have one more day with Ana. “No, it’s no problem.”
“It’s funny,” she smiled. “I didn’t know what to write. Is that crazy? After so long I had a million things to say and to know. I could have written a book, but with all this time passed and only a few small pages, what is most important to say? All I could think to say was ‘I love you’ a thousand times.” Emira shrugged and smiled weakly. “So you’re leaving the city.”
“Soon.”
“You don’t sound very happy?”
“I met a girl.” We paused near Alto’s door. The shooting had stopped and he was on his cot working on the letter.
“A girl? That’s fantastic!” Emira exclaimed. “Tell me her name, really you must.”
“Ana.”
“Your Ana is a lucky girl,” she hugged me. “I hope she knows that.”
“If she won’t marry you,” Alto quipped, “I will!”
Emira swatted at him playfully, admonishing him with a sweet smile. “You’re mad! Now finish your letter so this poor man can go home to America.”
“I’m not finished yet,” he said.
“It’s not supposed to be War and Peace!” Emira remarked.
“Just war,” Alto replied.
Two bullets smacked the wall beside the window chasing us into the hall again. Alto hopped around on one foot having abandoned his crutches with the letter in the room. As more gunfire resounded in the plaza below he thought better of returning for either of them.
“Ah, jebim te…!” he swore.
“Relax,” said Emira. “Bill will return tomorrow.” She looked at me, her eyes hungry for every detail of Ana. “So is this serious with your Ana?”
“It was all a mistake, Emira.”
“Real love is never a mistake.”
“I didn’t plan on this. Really, it was never my intention.”
“Did you think that one day you would just wake up and say, this is the day I will fall in love? When you return tomorrow we will have coffee and we will talk more.”
Later that evening Ana and I went to see her grandmother downtown. Ghostly white clouds drifted silently above the dark city and broken rooftops. I said nothing about leaving, and Ana seemed to be in no mood to confront that eventuality either.
Ana’s grandmother Angela lived in a five-story building near Bashcharshija. There were no lights in the stairwell. Tall windows on each landing allowed starlight and offered a magnificent view of Trebevich, but also made us targets for snipers. Angela was expecting us.
She appeared on the landing at her door beckoning us to hurry. She greeted me warmly and ushered us inside. Despite her age and the hardships of the war, Angela remained a lovely and refined woman. I saw not a small amount of her in Ana. They were both proud and mannered almost to a fault. A wool shawl was thrown around her shoulders, and there were hints of silver in her curly dark hair. By candlelight her skin had the luster of fine alabaster.
The apartment was small but inviting and warm. The window in the tiny front room held a stunning view of Trebevich and the frontline. Despite the fact that the walls of the building were peppered with bulletholes, Angela’s windows had miraculously remained intact. The room was kept like a museum, with a beautiful espresso colored loveseat, and an impressive library of Bosnian and Yugoslav literature kept under lock and key behind bevelled glass doors. Opposite the windows and mountain, and easily the centerpiece to this magnificent place, stood a turn-of-the-century Austrian writing table.
The walls were filled with original oil paintings by some of Yugoslavia’s best artists. Among them were lithographs and several sketches of a nude girl I felt sure were of Angela done many years before. The candlelight warmed the dark wood of exquisite Austrian antiques. In glimpses it was almost as if we had stepped into another time. There were keepsakes from around the world, and posters that hinted at Angela’s career as a Yugoslav film producer for movies like “Tito and Me,” “A Time for Gypsies,” and “When father was Away on Business.”
I could feel her studying me as we sipped hot tea. She seemed to scrutinize every word and gesture, as if to gauge some clue to my motives. Ana seemed to notice as well, and seemed terribly worried over her grandmother’s opinion, much as she was with Cico. Years of sizing up opponents in the cutthroat system of the Yugoslav Communist Party had made her adept at identifying and neutralizing threats. For the moment I was a threat to her granddaughter. Despite that, I found that I both admired and feared Angela. As if sensing this, Ana would reach over now and then to touch my knee and let me know that everything was all right.
Angela produced a small plate of palachinka, jam-filled Bosnian crepes. She delighted in watching as Ana and I devoured the entire plate. It was, quite frankly, the only substantive food either of us had eaten in days. Angela had gone to great expense to make them.
She usually kept a very tight, indeed miserly, reign on her finances, which were dwindling steadily as the war continued. In the late Eighties, following the death of Tito, as the Yugoslav Dinar began to crumble, Angela wisely converted much of her cash to German Marks. She knew that the cash starved government and corrupt officials would plunder the state-controlled banks. If war broke out the Dinar would be worthless.
We stayed only a short time. Angela begged us to visit her again. She rarely had visitors any longer, and the cold and war had aggravated her arthritis so that she almost never left the apartment. Neither of us let on that I would be leaving soon. We could hardly bear the thought ourselves. We hurried past the windows on the stairs as tracers spit from trenches on the mountain. Down on the street Ana held me tight.
“How did I do?” I asked.
“You were great. She really liked you. I knew that she would.”
A soldier was waiting in the war room when we returned to Ana’s. He was tall and handsome, with broad shoulders and neatly trimmed blond hair. He was still in uniform and dirty from being on the line. He paced the room while his girlfriend looked on with a concerned expression. She was equally stunning by appearance, imbued with the grace and elegance of a dancer. Long golden hair was pulled tightly from her small face. Their expressions were severe and tense. Ana knew why they were there. She checked to be sure no one was on the stairs and closed the door tight.
“Bill, this is my friend Damir.”
I held out a hand but he ignored it. “What has Ana told you about the tunnel?”
“Nothing.” I shrank from his girlfriend’s icy stare. Her name was Nina. She and Ana had gone to school together, and had trained at the same dance school.
“Did she tell you that I work on the tunnel?”
“She never mentioned any names.” I looked at Ana. Her expression spoke of the danger and seriousness of all this.
“Damir,” Nina scowled, “this is a big mistake.”
He waved her off and thought for a moment. “Normally I would not do this. There is a reason that foreigners are forbidden from the tunnel. If the Chetniks learned the location the war could be lost.” He sighed heavily. “However, because of my friendship with Ana I will help you, if you can get there.”
“You understand that if Damir is caught he could be shot,” said Nina. “Will you carry that on your conscience?” She glared accusingly at Ana.
“I will be at the tunnel Monday and Wednesday night,” Damir went to the door. Nina joined him there. His eyes met mine, as though second-guessing his decision. “Do not tell anyone of this.”
They left quickly, Ana and I languishing in the heaviness of their departure.
“I’m sorry for Nina,” Ana rubbed my chest. “She comes off like a bitch. It’s just that she worries for him terribly.”
I nodded. “Do you trust him?”
She looked so terribly sad as she nodded. I sighed and checked the time. It was nearly curfew.


CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. He is currently working on a new book “Shoot Down: An unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com

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Run Chris Run, A bold new play from Stone Soup Theatre Project

I’m close to this story in any number of ways. I lived only a few blocks from the streets Chris Patterson was fighting over as a member of notorious street gang, near enough to hear the gunshots at night. Chris lives only a few blocks away from me now. We are friends. His book, 21: The Epitome of Perseverance, Authorhouse 2009, read to me like a street history of the Chicago I knew. The book is honest, painful in places and intimate as it follows Chris’ personal journey of self redemption and recrimination. The task of adapting properly to the stage required overcoming a number of daunting obstacles.

The book takes place over much of Patterson’s life. The narrative, like the rendering of any life, is a complex journey. Patterson’s is perhaps more complex given the moralistic tangent of the book; a lesson and a rebuttal for anyone who asserts that a person cannot change. Here is the reply to that narrow perspective. But much of the book takes place in prison after Chris succumbed to a pivotal choice to rob a bank, one in a series of crossroads which to younger eyes might seem a predetermined path. The challenge to playwright Katie Abascal is how to render those moments and choices on stage, tell the story accurately and maintain a voice that is true not only the book but the street as well.

Brought to the Stage by Stone Soup Theatre Project, the audience is less a passive theatre patron as a invitee to the intimate conversations and memories within Chris Patterson. The honesty of the book comes forth readily in a powerful and quietly lyrical script from Abascal which helps to create a cultural narrative without becoming distracting or burdensome. The center stage becomes the focal point for the 90 minute composition and serves as the prison cell for the older Chris, now struggling with recriminations and regrets.

That Chris is played by a moody and regretful Ian Deanes, desperately appealing to his younger self, fending off memories and temptations. The younger Chris matures through an arc ably rendered by actor Aaron Mitchell Reese. There is energy and a natural synchronicity to the talented and passionate cast. Directed by Alexandra Keels and Whitney Kraus Jones, Stone Soup succeeds in muddling the Fourth Wall, the so-called barrier between actors and audience as mere spectators. The production swirls around and behind the audience, building to a crescendo, helping to sweep the audience into that intimate and dramatic conversation taking place within Chris. It is a story which transcends the life of one man, and instead serves as a guidepost for each of us, and to the troubled times and street violence that still plagues us.

Aided by donations the play is a steal at $5 per ticket, and would be a bargain for a piece of this caliber at $15 or $20 per ticket. Performed at the new Wilson Abbey theatre, 935 West Wilson, Run Chris Run is part of an ongoing anti-violence campaign. Don’t be fooled by the café out front. The theatre is located within Everybody’s Coffee. Seats are limited. The play runs until November 8th Fridays at 8pm and Saturdays at 4pm. Doors open at 7:30 and 3:30 respectfully. Everybody’s Coffee is open daily from 6:30am weekdays and 7am weekends. For tickets to Run Chris Run, show times and more about Stone Soup Theatre Project, visit Artful.ly/StoneSoupTheatreProject and http://www.stonesouptheatrechicago.com. Chris Patterson’s book, 21: The epitome of Perseverance, is available at Amazon.com.


CAM00236WC Turck is an author, artist, playwright and talk radio host in Chicago. He has been called the most dangerous voice on the Left. He is currently working on a new book “Shoot Down: An unflinching look at the events leading up to the shooting down of Malaysia Air Flight 17.” His first novel, “Broken” was recommended by NAMI for its treatment of PTSD. In 2006 he published “Everything for Love,” a memoir of his experiences during the siege of Sarajevo. He wrote and produced two critically acclaimed plays, “Occupy my Heart” and “The People’s Republic of Edward Snowden.” He works with the homeless and foreclosure victims in Chicago. He partners in a weekly radio show dedicated to issues, society and politics with cohost, activist and artist Brian Murray For more information, past shows, videos and articles, visit www.revolutioandbeer.com

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