Guest Post from Dodie Katague, Author Cloyne Court

Cloyne Court, UC Berkeley, 2009

This article is from madmoosemama.blogspot.com dated Thursday, November 24, 2011

Guest Post - Dodie Katangue author of Cloyne Court

Posted by Heavensent1 at 4:58 PM

My college days were very unique. During the late 1970’s, while attending the University of California, Berkeley, I lived one block north of the campus in a student-run, private cooperative called Cloyne Court. When I first moved in, I was glad that I turned down my parent’s offer to accompany me. Had they seen the place back then, they would have been opposed to me moving into the house. Any parent would have.

The “Clones”(as we called ourselves) who lived there were required to do a five-hour weekly work shift to keep the place running and maintained, and other students supervised that requirement. As a result, the place was a pigsty.

There were empty beer bottles strewn around the main public rooms. Old newspapers were piled five high under a faded handwritten sign that said “Recycling”, but hadn’t been “cycled” in ages. There were dozens of marijuana plants growing in pails on a porch balcony in the back yard. The windows were opaque with dust and grime and the carpets were stained with grey spots. The walls were painted with eclectic murals and spray painted graffiti with slogans like “THERE IS NO GRAVITY. THE EARTH SUCKS.” The toilet seat in the bathroom was painted as a shark’s open mouth with the sharp teeth about to swallow the sitter. The place also had a musty old smell, with intermittent wafts of reefer smoke coming from somewhere upstairs.

The students ran the place, voted on policies by consensus at the weekly meetings, and allocated our discretionary housing fees with political earnest but total disregard to the business side of feeding and maintaining a house of 151 people. Should we buy food this month or restock the vending machines with doobies? Should we fix the locks on the front door to keep the homeless out or should we buy a ten-person hot tub and sauna?

Because I was a freshman both to college and adult life, I did not question the way things were. I didn’t question the dozen or so marijuana plants growing in pails on the backyard balcony porch. I didn’t question the co-ed shower room where men and women showered side by side in a communal space. I thought this was part of the regular college experience. I was at Berkeley, and everything was tolerated to excess.

Many college campuses around the country were known for their crazy naked streaking events. But our house pushed it to the limit. We had political nudists who were naked all the time, including at meals. They advocated going to class in the buff and some even did so. We also had the annual springtime Naked Hallway Races, which is an event that still exists today.

I knew that what I where I was living and what I was experiencing was out of the ordinary even for other Berkeley students who lived at the dorms, apartments or fraternities/sororities. So I kept a journal of the daily mundane things I did and the absolutely insane things that happened. And many of those stories are the basis for the novel.

Since the publication of the book, I’ve gotten emails from past Clones who have lived there and everyone has a raucous memory or two to tell. And lots of Clones remember when a new unknown band called Sweet Children (now known as Green Day) played a set in the dining room as an opening act for other punk rock bands. The police arrived and shut the party down.

Right after the book was published, I was in a parental dilemma. After writing a novel about sex, betrayal, drugs, rock and roll, nudism, co-ed showers, and radical politics, how was I going to have any credibility with my teen-age children when I needed to tell them not to do these things when they went to college? I couldn’t tell them not too, because they knew I did. So the best I could counsel was “Don’t do anything that will get you arrested. Stay safe. Do things in moderation. And remember, you’re at school to study and get a degree.”

We’ll see if that advice does any good.

I hope that current college students as well as Baby Boomers will read this, but not as a “how-to” manual of college debauchery, but as a reminder that they should enjoy their college lives now, but not to the point that they’ll be embarrassed to read about themselves thirty years later. Thank God, we didn’t have YouTube back then. It’s easier to deny written stories of your wild college years than seeing real video of it.


Cloyne Court is a coming of age, fish out of water, nostalgic novel. It takes the true stories I experienced living in this wild, counter-culture, youthful house and weaves it into a story of first love, life, regrets, first impressions and camaraderie. I hope that after reading it, readers will come to the same conclusion that took me thirty years to discover: that your college years are the best years of your life.

** Thank you very much Dodie for sharing your experiences with us all~!! Sounds like Cloyne Court would have been my kind of gig~!! May you always find the best in all that you do~!! **

BOOK: Cloyne Court by Dodie Katangue

Glee-I will Survive Video

Glee is one of my favorite TV show. I adore Ryan Murphy and his creations-Currently, I am enjoying The American Horror Story along with ABC Revenge and Desperate Housewives. I also watch CBS Survivor and Amazing Race. What are your favorite TV shows and why?

Death Premonition and Extrasensory Perception (ESP)

Image from occultview.com
I am proud to present my bronze winning article from ViewsHound announced yesterday. It was not expected, so it very much cherished. How about you? Do you have ESP?
Extrasensory perception and premonition of death | ViewsHound

Walmart and the Morons! Do you shop at Walmart?

Image from www.360jokes.com

I received this article in my e-mail today. Very interesting facts and figures. Enjoy! Wal-Mart vs. The Morons

1. Americans spend $36,000,000 at Wal-Mart every hour of every day.

2. This works out to $20,928 profit every minute!

3. Wal-Mart will sell more from January 1 to St. Patrick's Day (March 17th) than Target sells all year.

4. Wal-Mart is bigger than Home Depot + Kroger + Target + Sears + Costco + K-Mart combined.

5. Wal-Mart employs 1.6 million people, is the world's largest private employer, and most speak English.

6. Wal-Mart is the largest company in the history of the world.

7. Wal-Mart now sells more food than Kroger and Safeway combined, and keep in mind they did this in only fifteen years.

8. During this same period, 31 big supermarket chains sought bankruptcy.

9. Wal-Mart now sells more food than any other store in the world.

10. Wal-Mart has approx 3,900 stores in the USA of which 2,906 are Super Centers; this is 1,000 more than it had five years ago.

11. This year 7.2 billion different purchasing experiences will occur at Wal-Mart stores. (Earth's population is approximately 6.5 billion.)

12. 90% of all Americans live within fifteen miles of a Wal-Mart.

13. Wal-Mart has gross sales that total more than the total revenue of all the countries in the world, except 6.

You may think that I am complaining, but I am really laying the ground work for suggesting that MAYBE we should hire the guys who run Wal-Mart to fix the economy.

This should be read and understood by all Americans - Democrats, Republicans, EVERYONE!

To the President and all 535 voting members of the Legislature, both parties: It is now official, you are ALL corrupt morons!

a.) The U.S. Postal Service was established in 1775. You have had 234 years to get it right and it is broke.

b.) Social Security was established in 1935. You have had 74 years to get it right and it is broke.

c.) Fannie Mae was established in 1938. You have had 71 years to get it right and it is broke.

d.) The War on Poverty started in 1964. You have had 45 years to get it right; $1 trillion of our money is confiscated each year and transferred to "the poor" and they only want more.

e.) Medicare and Medicaid were established in 1965. You have had 44 years to get it right and they are broke.

f.) Freddie Mac was established in 1970. You have had 39 years to get it right and it is broke.

g.) The Department of Energy was created in 1977 to lessen our dependence on foreign oil. It has ballooned to 16,000 employees with a budget of $24 billion a year and we import more oil than ever before. You had 32 years to get it right and it is an abysmal failure.

You have FAILED in every "government service" you have shoved down our throats while overspending our tax dollars.

AND YOU WANT AMERICANS TO BELIEVE YOU CAN BE TRUSTED WITH A GOVERNMENT-RUN HEALTH CARE SYSTEM?

YOU THINK YOU CAN RUN THE AUTO INDUSTRY, AND THE BANKING SYSTEM?

MAYBE WE OUGHT TO KICK YOUR EGG-HEAD BUDDY BUMS OUT OF OFFICE AND HIRE WAL-MART TO RUN THE GOVERNMENT?

WAL-MART SEEMS TO KNOW HOW TO RUN A BUSINESS. WHY DON'T YOU GUYS JUST ADMIT IT'S WAY BEYOND YOUR PAY GRADE, AND QUIT?

Folks, keep this circulating. It is very well stated. Maybe it will end up in the e-mails of some of our "duly elected' (they never read anything) and their staff will clue them in on how Americans feel!

Note: We have resided here in US since 1960. It was only last year that we started buying for our non-perishable goods at Walmart because it is cheaper. We purchase
meat and other products at Raleigh's or Safeway grocery stores.

Cloyne Court- Excerpt 27

Photo from 123.rf.com
Cloyne Court, Episode 27
By Dodie Katague
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Rated "R" by the Author.

A creative memoir about Cloyne Court in Berkeley, California in the late 1970s.

Alan had just finished making an enormous Dagwood sandwich when I walked into the dining room for lunch. He had piled a gelatinous slab of ham, salami rounds and turkey slices between four pieces of wheat and rye bread, slathered it with mayonnaise and Grey Poupon mustard and was headed out the door.
“Did you leave any for me?” I asked, as he stuffed an unripe banana into his left front pocket.

“You snooze, you lose. I’m a growing man. I need my protein.”

“You didn’t eat all the white bread, did you?” I asked, as I searched through the several plastic bread wrappers.

“Derek, get real,” Alan said. “You know the house doesn’t stock white bread. It’s unhealthy or politically incorrect. I can never remember which one.”

He picked up an open basket of bay leaves from the spice rack and pushed it toward me. “Here, eat this. It’s organic and doesn’t exploit migrant farm workers.”

The bay leaves were homegrown, harvested from the bay tree outside the back kitchen steps. Beneath the tree was the house garbage Dumpster that swarmed with flies and occasional vermin. Fresh muddy footprints were always on the Dumpster lids just under the bare branches where the leaves had been harvested making me wonder how sanitary our condiments actually were when they were in stock.

“We’re out of ketchup,” Alan said. “What Third-World hellhole are we living in? This isn’t France.”

Ketchup was never in stock.When it was, the containers were the puny, personal-sized bottles that had been watered down to pour easily.

I grabbed two slices of wheat bread from the serving table and went out to the back courtyard. Several men were playing a basketball pickup game.

“Want to join our game?” the tallest guy, Hadas, asked. He was more than six foot and towered over me. The Mohawk guy, Kyd, was also there with the guys I had met at dinner, Peter, Miguel and Dan, along with others.

“Depends. How hard core are you?” I hated playing jungle ball back in Briones Valley where the only rule was ‘no blood, no foul’.

“We’re easygoing,” Kyd said. “A few sprained ankles and bruised elbows, but nobody has ever thrown any punches out here. That’s not what it’s about.”

And he was right—for now. I introduced myself and took a position as guard. A cute woman walked by on her way to the dining room. None of the players took a second look or paused in their play except me. If this had happened on the streets in my hometown, the guys would have whistled and elevated the play to a peacock strutting level.

“Hey, she was checking you out as she walked by,” Miguel said to Kyd.

“Yeah, it’s the Mohawk. Women dig it.”

“You get dates because of your Mohawk?” I asked. If he had said yes, I would have seriously considered shaving my head like his.

“Not yet. I’m waiting for a woman who is more than skin deep. Wow, look at the tits on her.” He nudged Miguel, as he pointed to Sue Summers.

Sue and her live-in boyfriend, Ben Gaskins, were sunbathing nude on the grass, as they did daily during the spring, summer and fall.[1] They lay naked on their beach towels turning lobster red, like British citizens on holiday at Brighton Beach.

They were lying near Jeff’s graduate thesis art sculpture, the mound of grass with the cave in the ground and the two poles aimed skyward in a spread eagle pattern. A posted sign read, PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH THE WOMB. However, Mother Earth had already been penetrated by a long cylindrical nitrous oxide tank left from an earlier Saturday night party. The tank was inserted halfway into the hole with two inflated balloons tied to either side of the top end of the gas outlet controls giving the sculpture an artistic symbolism the artist had not intended.

Sitting on top of the mound was Mary Jewell. She was playing her guitar and singing Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi. As I guarded my opponent, I peeked at her hands as she played the chords. She was playing barre chords and was a skilled guitarist with her resonant hammer-ons and mournful string bends. I wished I were as proficient.

“Derek!” Kyd said. I looked up as the ball popped me in the face, knocking me to the ground.

“You OK?” Kyd asked. He held out his hand to pull me off the ground.

I stood sheepishly. “Yeah, but I should take a break. Keep me in mind for another time.”

I moved to the lawn where I watched Mary Jewell without distraction. She saw me and smiled for her audience of one. She finished the song with a turnaround flourish.

“That was impressive,” I said. “Was that in the key of A minor?”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[1] In the winter, they found their dose of ultraviolet rays under the UV lamps set up in the basement next to the clandestine hydroponics bins used to grow a certain cash crop for house sale in the vending machines upstairs. At least, that’s the story they told the police one year, denying they had any idea what was growing in the basement.

Why I do not Write for ViewsHound

Frank Cabunoc at Yosemite National Park-Photo from FaceBook

This is Frank Cabunoc first article in ViewsHound*. Frank is a long time-friend, I met in Facebook and also via my blog sites. He has guest write for me a couple of times during the summer of this year. Based on the extensive and positive comments from the ViewsHound community, this will not be his first and last article, I am quite sure. Congratulations on your excellent piece of writing, Frank. I hope to read more articles from you soon.

Why I do not write for ViewsHound | ViewsHound

*ViewsHound is published by Publisha Ltd. It is a Seedcamp 2010 winning company, and have raised significant funding creating a great experience for readers and authors all over the world. It is an independent and privately owned company based in UK.

Guest Article from Susan Creamer Joy

In The Silence, by Susan Creamer Joy.

Today's guest article is from Susan Creamer Joy. Susan is one of my favorite authors in the ViewsHound community. Susan writes, draws, paints and cobbles together art from found objects making a variety of creations from jewelry to religious shrines. She frequently sports burns on her fingers from her soldering iron, paint on her palms and ink under her fingernails, but her hair is usually combed. When she is not losing time in the creative vortex of her studio, she is likely to be putting her knowledge of metaphysics and esoteric principles including Tarot, numerology, astrology and graphology to good use in consultations. Her children are grown, her husband still works and her four dogs believe she needs serious help. The title of her article is "A Matter Of Love And Death". Thank you Susan.

By the time they reached my bedroom door, I was already sitting up – my stomach ratcheted in the tense grip of an unnamed anxiety; my pillow, unburdened of my drowsy head.

To this day I cannot explain how I heard them coming up those stairs in their bare feet or how I knew that my father struggled to hold his composure as my mother unnaturally clutched at the folds of her dressing gown and followed him through the dark just a little too closely.

As the wooden groan of those old stairs tore into my bones that morning like a hacksaw, all I could see between the predawn shadows was the letter I’d written just hours earlier to my boyfriend, Chris, propped against the lamp on my desk across the room awaiting an envelope.

I had not slept well. It was late November and there had been so many changes since the middle of August when he left for the Air Force in Texas to begin basic training and I began my third new school in as many years.

The conspiracy between fate and the last surge of the Vietnam draft had broken apart the every-waking-minutes of our two-year union with unceremonious indifference.

All that night my sleep had been infested by difficult dreams and by the illogical fear that truth and reality were merging into a darkness only a martyr could grasp; and at sixteen, martyrdom seemed reasonable only for the nuns among the poor in Bangladesh .

I tried to remind myself that he would be home on leave for Thanksgiving in another few days. It was the only tether to calm I could find, but reviewing the facts offered little relief from my baseless fears.

Chris had been girding his pacifist sensibilities preparing to fight in an unpopular war that had not yet slaughtered its last innocent. I was hovering just over the line of inclusion at an exclusive girl’s school – missing him – and finding myself at odds with these young women and their attachment to propriety and with the prep-school veneer that blinded them to the fact that they were no better than anyone else.

Neither one of us was coping well with the worlds into which we were respectively summoned, and although we both knew that the best hope for any future together depended upon our individual successes apart, it was far from comforting most days.

But in spite of our discomfort, we each did our best; and, of course, there were the letters: Thin, plain-paper sheets with row after row after row of inky blue words penned with the intensity and awkward locutions of a love learned too soon. It had come down to just that little, but without them, I would have had nothing.

Chris was learning to fly. I was learning to drive, and both of us were aching to transport our souls to an earlier time through the hallowed intercourse of memories and dreams.

Of course, as with all progress, there was the positive element: We were both clean and drug-free for the first time in years.

Now, without pretense, both healthy cognition and sincere motivation surfaced regularly in my psychology and prompted me to care about myself and to arbitrate against all temptation for a better standing in the world, in school and in my own eyes. I even did my homework.

No longer was I escaping today but, instead, living for my day of escape.

Lying still in the dark of my room, I listened to the slow, padded footfall of my parents approaching and looked to the floor and to my history book half hidden beneath the nightstand where I’d tossed it the night before. Even in this early morning dark I could make out the swirls and stars in colored marker and the bubble-formed letters that spelled C H R I S in soft, juvenile curves on the torn book cover I’d fashioned out of a brown paper grocery bag.

I vaguely remembered throwing it there somewhat hastily. I had been doing my homework when a sense of urgency struck and I realized I had not written him as I promised I would and glancing at the clock, I noted it was nine-twenty-three. Why that mattered I had no way of knowing in that strange moment, but within hours, it would be one I would never forget; and although I was becoming drowsy and still needed to finish my work, I felt beyond reason that my letter to him could not wait.

So, I wrote.
I would always write.
I would always be there.
He would always be there.

“Suzi."

It was my name spoken in the smooth and familiar voice of my mother, although weighted and slow, her head bowed to her chest almost as though she were speaking only to herself.

"Suzi.” She said it again, this time with sharp gravity, like a chisel against stone.

As if on cue, I leaned forward, flanked now by my parents who were sitting on either side of my bed.

I had been waiting for them.
I don’t know how.
I didn’t know why.

The lights in my room remained off, but it seemed that the darkness clung more to them than to me, as though they were holding it there – away from me to give me enough light to see through the next moment. They were crying. My father was crying. My father.

“Suzi. We have something very, very bad to tell you."

"Chris has been in a car accident."

"And he was killed."

If the world moved forward from that moment, I could not know it.
If there were air around me worth breathing, I could not take it in.
And if there were another sound beyond the leaden bellow of my own raw grief, I could not hear it.

"Who am I going to talk to? Who am I going to love?” I wailed.

Who will love me?

In that sodden moment violated by the intrusion of a predawn light that had no business rising, everything I ever believed about happiness, hoped for in life, trusted in or held as my own was annihilated.

After that – there was no after that.

After that came months of hollow redundancies that would inform my way of being in the world for years to come. A serial commitment to waking up each morning, remembering he was gone and dedicating the remaining hours to forgetting. To that end I would try anything, drink anything, ingest anything, inject anything. It was a slow and arbitrary suicide by indifference.

Many years later, at 25 years-old and in the midst of a pharmaceutical free-fall leaning dangerously close to terminal, I discovered that I was expecting a child, and after a decade of forgetting, I remembered.

I named him Griffin after the legendary winged lion, a symbol of the divine because what he inspired and the miracle that he was, were nothing less. I remembered and I loved again, and I went on to marry and to the gift of two beautiful daughters.

Today my son is struggling not to drown in the same well of drug abuse and apathy that almost swallowed me – his great, divine wings clipped by his own hand; and while it is up to him to restore his place in the sky, I will do my best to help provide an open runway.

In the meantime, I will continue soaring for both of us; bequeathed as I have been, with a determination to fly from a boy whose ragged fate precluded that dream.

Death took one young man from me once upon a dark time. If it has any intention of coming for this one, it will have to go through me.

And trust me, it will be in for one hell of a fight.

Note: If you enjoy this article, please let me know.

Cloyne Court- Excerpt 26

Image from easy-weightloss-tips.com
Cloyne Court, Episode 26
By Dodie Katague
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Rated "R" by the Author.

A creative memoir about Cloyne Court in Berkeley, California in the late 1970s.

“I think I’ll have to do that. If the vegans can cook separately for their little group, I’m going to start our little special interest dinner group of carnivores and we are going to cook beefy meals once a week. And the house is going to pay for it!”

“Yeah, right. Bring it up at the next council meeting,” Peter said sarcastically. He walked back into the kitchen to check the sound of a metal platter hitting the floor.

“Great idea, Alan,” I said. “We can offer a carnivore dish as an alternative to this vegetarian shit. We can call ourselves ‘Carnies’ and start a Carnie Club.”

“Sounds like a workable plan,” Alan said. “I think we can sell it. What do the rest of you think?”

“We can set up a weekly schedule and take turns cooking palatable meals for a change,” Polly said.

“And we can have a dining table reserved for us,” Hadas said, “like the vegans.”

Mike said, “And because we’re a minority group, we can get special admissions to the dining room and get scholarships and grants.” He sneered at Miguel when he said this.

I was to learn much later after several semesters of listening to Mike’s diatribes on the Cloyne basketball court that he disapproved of the University’s affirmative action policies. He argued that admission should be strictly based on grades and not ethnic background. He knew it wasn’t politically correct to announce his position at a liberal university, so he took out his frustration on the minority members of the house.

Miguel heard Mike’s veiled insult and clenched a fist. I could see tattooed on three knuckles were the letters CAL. At the time, I thought he was a fanatical Berkeley supporter, with a permanent love for the school. I hoped he graduated and didn’t switch schools. Only after he was gunned down in a drive-by shooting in South Central Los Angeles in 1983, would I discover the letters stood for Crazy-Assed Latinos and his acceptance to Cal was his ticket out of the gangland barrio he had grown up in.

“And we can sing the Monty Python Spam chant as our club song.” I started to sing. “Spam, spam, spam, spam.” The table group looked at me strangely. I guess they didn’t understand the non sequitur.

The only one who laughed was Katy, and Dan scowled again. I guess he didn’t like her laughing.

With that ingenious idea spurred by hunger, Alan clanged his fork against his glass jar and stood on his chair to address the dining room. “I’m tired of eating this crap, and I’m not going to take it anymore!” He took his plate of slop and threw it at the kitchen door. It struck the door flat like a pancake and slid to the floor. Some food stuck to the door.

I think Alan expected others to revolt. After having seen the newly released movie Animal House, he expected a clamorous food fight. However, no one else followed his example. They went back to eating their dinners.

Alan taunted the crowd, “You mean to tell me you want to eat this stuff. This is unnatural. We’re humans. We’re hardwired to eat meat.”

Still no one paid any attention until he launched the first insult.

“Not this vegan shit!” Alan pointed to the vegetarian table and pointed at a member. It was obvious to me that he was trying to upset someone into action.

A member of the vegetarian table rose to address the insult, but the diner next to him pulled him back into his chair. “Leave the cannibals alone,” the diner said.

Alan could see he was fighting a losing battle, so he said, “If anyone wants to form a carnie club, where we cook dinners with meat, we will get together in the sunroom after dinner to talk about it.”

He sat and spent the rest of the hour drinking milk from his mason jar.

Shortly after dinner, a dozen of us, mostly men, went to the sunroom trying to establish a consensus on how to convince the house members to vote money to pay for the carnie program and how to divide the cooking duties.

The trouble was we were still hungry and lazy. Nobody wanted to go to the efforts the vegetarians did to practice their principles.

“I move we adjourn this meeting to La Val’s Pizza and discuss the carnie proposal over pizza and beer,” I said, and we headed toward the restaurant on Euclid Ave.

I saw Dan in the group. “Is Katy going to join us?” I asked.

“No, she said she’d go with whatever I decided. She has a term paper to write.”

With Alan leading the motley crew, we entered the restaurant and joined several small tables together. Alan sat at the head of the table to preside over the discussion. “The first order of business is how many heart-attack pizza specials should we order?” The special had different meats on it: sausage, ham, pepperoni and linguisaas well as vegetable toppings and extra cheese.

The waitress came with menus. “Hey, I remember you,” she said. “Weren’t you here yesterday for dinner?”

Alan smiled. Somebody of the opposite sex had actually remembered him. He read the waitress’s nametag. “Yes, Kim. It’s nice of you to remember me.”

Kim was overweight, but hid her extra pounds well in a loose fitting T-shirt and Gloria Vanderbilt jeans. She had a youthful face, but it was marred by her overbite when she smiled. Her eyes looked fatigued, as if she had been working all her life. They were gazing at Alan in admiration. I hoped Alan saw it, but he went back to reading the menu.

“His name is Alan,” I said. “Great guy, once you get to know him.”

Kim was surprised to see so many of us. “What house are you boys from?” she asked.

“Cloyne Court,” Alan replied.

Kim turned to the bartender and yelled as if he were out in the back forty acres on the homestead. “Jim, what were the Co-ops serving tonight?”

Jim looked at a paper taped on a refrigerator. “Their weekly menu says it’s chicken patties au gratin.”

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

Kim turned back. “We usually prepare extra pizza dough on South of the Border Surprise night. But no matter, what’ll you boys have?”

We all began ordering at once.

______________________________

Cloyne Court is currently available to buy at a deep discount to "everyone" at Barnes & Noble.com. There's no telling how long Barnes & Noble will keep this discount where it is.

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/books/e/9780981955339/?itm=1&USRI=Cloyne+Court


This episode is based on a true story.