Possibly some purists consider Scarlet Cockerel 57 NOT truly an amateur paper simply because of its multilith presswork – instead of handpress or at least a handfed Pearl. But consider our basement’s sometimes dismaying tendency to accumulate 2 to 16 inches of water above its cellar floor when heavy rains, saturating the ground on the hillside above us, overpower “Snyder” (our faithful sump pump). Of course you recognize our same old type as ATF 11 pt. Wayside – all handset when the celler’s dry. Rather than devastate our already bloated and hatesome fuel oil bill, trying to warm that open-doored stable as well… when sporadic above-freezing winter days allow, we grab a couple of galley proofs on a hand-inked Chicago sign (proof) press out in that unheated stable – before ink stiffens and the hand brayer goes numb because they can’t also wear cap, ear muffs, and snow jacket….
So granted, a cameraman did also help, favoring us with negatives: but page make-up, stripping and plate-making – not to forget tedious folding, gathering and stapling, and packing off to Mailer: (labor of love – he must be mad!) by Ralph Babcock (editor, at least). Tuxedo, N. Y. 10987. March 1975. 400 copies.
Not amateur printing? For the fun or love of it? But isn’t nearly all paper and all type and ink commercially made? So where’s the fine distinction line…?
To Laugh by John Gillick, page 8
Dynamite by Harry Holbert, 11
Adventure by Lawrence Giles, 17
Words by Hyman Bradofsky, 19
All in Favor, Say “Baa” – Bah!
by Ralph Babcock
“HOW CAN a deceased member compete or even be considered for NAPA laureates?” Bill Boys hypothesized, worrying over admissibility of Verle Heljeson’s masterful writing.
He ignores the fact that sometimes it takes many weeks, months, even a year or so, to bring to completion substantial papers of more than his four to eight pages.
Bill’s fear that possibly some unconscionable editor in the future might even publish posthumously a Crane or Edkins masterpiece fuzzed up even the basic principles over such peril to sanctity of NAPA laureates!
Then came Rowena’s pique: “Sometimes I don’t want to enter material” swerved John Gillick to deny the Heljeson entries. (Altho a bit dubious before, John himself also had entered LVH’s admirable “Condominium in Storla.” But Rosenberg still declared in favor; so the Judges ruled 2 to 1 opposed; and the convention mooed along in placid agreement.
Certainly at St. Pete no one realized or remembered a perfect precedent existed – in favor. Only a decade ago Vondy McDonald received 1962 History Laureate for material in The National Amateur, March! Editor Castleman reported Vondy’s death in an adjoining note as the issue went to press. Rolfe says he didn’t enter it; the Bureau of Critics probably did. She obviously could not enter it, months after its appearance. But not one word printed then evinced the slightest doubt about the legitimacy of that entry or award.
(Second place went to Vic Moitoret for material in The Fossil. For the next few years The Fossil was a debated source of legitimate entry – was or wasn’t that official organ properly an amateur paper? After his mother, President Dora Moitoret, subsequently ruled The Fossil NOT an amateur paper, the Constitution finally was amended specifically to allow entries from it and The National Amateur.
But in 1962-63 no one questioned that award to a recently-deceased member. Vondy died in March; laureate entries then closed May 15. Heljeson died in June [his history then already set in type] with 1972 entries not due to be made till end of year.
Ed Cole, who three or four times rewrote the NAPA Constitution, never whispered a doubt in 1962 or 1963. Nor did lawyer Bob Dunlap. Not a word from constitutionalist Helm Spink. Nor perennial nitpickers Roy Lindberg or Tom Whitbread.
After discovering this clear-cut precedent (in the Official Editor’s bound files) when I suggested to Gillick perhaps the Judges might reconsider, Warner hastily stomped down any thought of review with his edict declaring the matter closed.
Yet two basic concepts demand full consideration and less peremptory dismissal:
A. May (as always before, for 40 years!) an editor make entry of matter by his contributing writers?
B. Are the laureates really for THE BEST material published each year, or are they just Almost-Laureates – Except For: (half a dozen sleepers or bits someone didn’t care to have compete – sourgrapes? – lest a proud former title-holder come a cropper and not stand up against all comers?)
(Williams should be specially pleased to have his paper declared Tops this past year. Wouldn’t his have been a rather dubious, limited laurel if my paper and Campane had NOT been entered?)
Again this year I entered material by various of my contributors. And Warner disallowed them, saying that St. Pete had settled that.
My protest to the Executive Judges for a definite ruling, however, was sustained 2 to 1 in favor of allowing entries made by publishers.
While waiting, I wrote some thirty other editors, writers, and leaders; and (before June 25, my early departure towards San Diego) received replies from a dozen: predominantly all in favor. Only 2 or 3 added an “if” author agrees.
At San Diego discussion of the Judges report, I quoted from these letters – before Williams & Redmon, with Vic & Warner (who stepped down from the Chair) voiced their say.
No matter forty years of unquestioned acceptance; suddenly a zealous new virtue appears. No matter what many absent leaders felt; this vocal handful drowned out all reason.
Then Williams pulled that sneaky motion supposedly separating uncontested portions of the Judges report from this debated third decision (which the Judges approved 2 to 1)… “move to approve only the first two parts.”
Naively approved, he then flung back that “only,” declaring the favorable Judges report thus was rejected.
Such shady parliamentary connivance makes me puke. Must such strong-arm gag-rule prevail? Must we succumb like sheep? Baa! I object!
I strongly object: for that, I am sure, is not the studied opinion of the majority of active members, knowing members. How can such a mere handful truly overrule the accepted practice of forty years?
Nor does their newly-drawn amendment even offer a fair choice, for it merely echoes and admits only the Williams-Moitoret-Warner edict: “only with author’s permission.”
Against such gavel door-slamming, further participation seems a waste.
The Editorship – certainly I wanted it again, had asked for it; even had plans under way for another Valhalla; truly hoped to serve as Ann’s Editor.
But that unspeakable maneuver – tore it.
It’s not as tho all members had voted against publisher entries. [A dozen of those present? Twenty? What was the vote?] The Judges had favored it 2 to 1; but that one suckered the whole group – to impose his opinion. Being just a dumb printer – not an eloquent Washington parliamentarian, I simply decline to waste further effort – if one word, one man, can negate previous tradition accepted for forty years and more by many hundreds, thousands of members.
NAPA’s new regime refuses to recognize or honor accepted practice of the past four decades when editors frequently entered material by their contributors to ensure adequate laureate competition. (There are, by my tally, 20 to 30 such past awards which in all probability – several admittedly – were entered by the editors rather than by writers.)
Judging from this snap-trap attitude of Warner & Williams, it may be a cold day in Hell before NAPA ever confirms the laureate that Judge Bernice Spink honorably awarded Heljeson… before NAPA reconsiders that what over a lifetime has often ensured full laureate competition still is reasonable, acceptable – i.e. that publishers who pay the freight to print and distribute scribblings of bashful authors, and who consider such handiwork worthy, may indeed enter them for awards without question. When an editor accepts a manuscript, that’s implied in the unwritten contract, for the author submits – hands over his incomparable masterpiece for presentation and distribution as the publisher sees fit.
From the time Williams pulled his “brilliant” trick overwhelming the Judges who opposed his opinion – I was no longer with him, nor NAPA. With such a gavel rammed down one’s throat, I find enthusiastic effort impossible.
For me, devoted labor for NAPA has ceased: and the sheep apparently will mindlessly inherit the NAPA. -RB
Among over a hundred authors contributing to this paper, honors for frequency go to: six who appeared 4 times (Heljeson, Haywood). Three more offered 5 (Mann, Winn). Four gave 6 (Crane, Whitbread, Middleton) and three more contributed 7 apiece (Fontenot, Edkins, Vrooman).
Appearing 8 times were Spink, Vondy, Dora & Ro Moitoret.
Always a pleasure to present, is John Gillick. Here’s his ninth contribution, copping title for The Mostest of the talented crew who’ve helped toward an earlier colophonic credo: ACHIEVE THE HONORABLE.
It Is to Laugh
by John Gillick
AS FAR BACK as I can recall, I have wanted to be a comedian. For me, the most beautiful sound that can fall on human ears is human laughter, and to generate that laughter is, in my opinion, a high calling. I did not dream of becoming a clown with a bulbous nose, being hit over the head with a stuffed club. My ideal was a man standing on a stage, flinging pearls of humor to an appreciative audience. In other words, a stand-up comic.
Unfortunately, it has been my plight to draw the loudest laughter from things I did or said accidentally. An early case in point occurred when I was in eighth grade. My classmates and I were in church, and I cannot recall the reason, for it was not a Sunday, but a school day. The sexton asked me to take up the collection, since there were no ushers present. The receptacle was not a plate passed hand to hand, but a basket with a long handle. I made it up the center aisle successfully, and started down the side aisle.
Halfway down the aisle I came to a pew in which an elderly lady knelt with her head bowed. I do not know if her head was bowed in devout meditation, or embarrassment for not being able to contribute. In either case, I clumsily thrust the basket into the pew, and inadvertently knocked her hat off. This was done in full view of my classmates, and while they dared not laugh aloud, their suppressed mirth might have been compared to internal combustion machines pushed to the limits.
Before my formal education ended, I was the cause of loud and raucous laughter in the classroom. I lived some eight miles from the high school that I attended, and it was reached by a long walk and a longer trolley ride. One morning I awoke to discover that my first class had just begun. I hurried into my clothes, snatched up a slice of bread, and set off, chewing and running, to the car line. I arrived in class just before it ended, and handed my late slip to the instructor. A strange hush fell over the room, and then one of the boys blurted, “He forgot his necktie!” At that time, a boy might as well appear without his trousers as without his cravat. Needless to say, that laughter did not fall sweetly on my ear.
I continued, in the phrase of Sir W. S. Gilbert, to be a “source of innocent merriment.” I had graduated from high school, and was working in the dignified post of Wall Street Runner, or bank messenger. I was returning from a delivery, walking west on Pine Street between William and Nassau, and improving my mind by perusing the Daily Mirror, a tabloid of dubious repute. I had forgotten that the hydrants on that street were only about 18 inches high, and, lost amid the juicy tid-bits of Winchell’s column, I walked into one. As I picked myself up from the gutter, I was greeted by the jeers of a dozen or more Western Union messengers, who were on their lunch hour.
I’m glad that I didn’t become a comedian, for I have learned that the road to success in that field is a difficult one, and many fall by the wayside. I still indulge the ham in me by giving an occasional talk, or serving as toastmaster at retirement parties. However, I continue to get the big laughs accidentally. A few years ago, I was asked to address a dinner meeting of railway business women; and I started by saying, “Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen.” The ensuing laughter confused me for a minute, but I rallied to explain that I was present, that I was a gentleman, and that frequently I talked to myself.
Recently I was toastmaster at the retirement dinner of an old friend, and I began by introducing the guests at the head table. With a sweeping gesture of my right hand, I said, “On my far left is –” Luckily, Jean was sitting on my near right, and she whispered sotto voce, “On your far right, dear.”
It seems that Fate has steered me into the right channel after all. I’ve been a darn good railroader.
They Called Her Dynamite
by Harry Holbert
SHE, as a partly broken range horse, had been put in my string. She was different than other range horses in that her sire was of pedigreed trotting stock and her dame was a Kentucky thoroughbred. In spite of her blooded ancestry she had most of the characteristics of the range horse, tough and sure-footed. With her speed and intelligence, she soon became a top cow horse. Working with cattle or horses was one big game with her of which she never tired.
Coming back to the ranch one evening alone, she was in her usual fine fettle, wanting to go. As we approached a heavy gate she started asking for her head, looking back at me from one side and then the other, begging. I gave it to her, and yelled, “Let’s go!” and we did. As we were almost to the gate I set her on her haunches and left her, with both feet striking the ground at the same time, so that we slid up to the gate together. Did she love that!
Then the wanderlust came upon me again, and in response to it I sought wider horizons and greener pastures. About two years later, I found myself back in the same valley, and soon began hearing stories about a certain outlaw mare that was really making a name for herself and that name was Dynamite. From the time she turned outlaw she had never been ridden. Later, I got the full story, and it was her all right.
She had changed owners in quick order until about the time I got there, and then a bad thing happened; she threw her new owner and not being content with that, turned on him with tooth and hoof. Help came quickly but not soon enough; a few days later he died.
Came the day that the ranch stock and equipment was to be sold at public auction by the widow. My boss was going, so I threw my rig in the back of his car and went along.
She was there and looking bad. As the saddle stock came up for sale I bid her in at fifteen dollars and got her. No one wanted a killer.
When range born horses are brought in for breaking, they are semi wild, not having been handled since being branded at their mother’s side, so it is natural for them to respond to breaking the same as any other wild animal would. Horses, like people, have different personalities, so respond differently to the breaking process. Some never give up fighting, so are outlaws from the first; others will break out well but still reserve the right to express their feelings at times. But when a horse has broken out well and has become as well trained as this mare, turns outlaw, there has to be a reason and as far as I’m concerned, that reason is people.
I could not believe that this mare, who had broken out so beautifully, and had become one of the hardest working horses on the range, could turn outlaw all by herself. I didn’t know what had happened but I meant to vindicate her and I couldn’t think of a better time and place to do it than right there. Outlaws are handled like outlaws but I made up my mind that I was going to treat her like I always had.
Because of the size of the corral, two other riders joined me as I stepped into the corral with my rope. She was more evasive than ever before; dodging, wheeling, and ducking, but soon one of us caught and then we really had our hands full. Formerly she would stop as soon as the loop settled over her head; but not now. She rared, plunged and raced. The three of us had our hands full holding onto that rope till we finally got a couple of wraps around the snubbing post.
She came to bay at the end of the rope with her feet wide apart and braced; trembling in every muscle and the rollers in her nose going full blast. As I started down the rope toward her, I told the others to turn loose, then slackened the rope and walked slowly toward her, bridle in hand. She was free to run but never moved; just stood there, shaking and snorting.
By this time the sale had stopped and the top pole of the corral was lined with people like blackbirds on a wire. No one was going to miss this show.
Getting within an arms length of her, I stopped, then stood and talked to her a bit. Suddenly her head shot out and she sniffed me excitedly, with the rollers in her nose going more softly now. Then she did it again. I edged closer, sure now that she knew me, then scratched her ears.
The bridle slid on easily, then as I fastened the throat latch I dropped the rope from her neck which left the bridle reins dragging. She was ground tied. Briskly, I patted my way down her side. She was still standing in that braced position. I passed behind her, close, as the crowd gasped; that was a lot of liberty to be taking with a killer.
With a couple more pats, I reached her head where without stopping I caught the reins in the crook of my elbow. She never tightened those reins as I headed for the gate and my saddle. There I saddled without incident. The corral had been cleared of livestock and as I prepared to mount, two riders entered the corral with me, both well mounted and armed; they were taking no chances.
I cheeked her head around to mount. As my leg slid over the cantle she bounded ahead but did not buck. I touched her with the spurs for a “bust out” and she did, sliding to a stop at the far side of the corral where I wheeled her toward the people on the fence and “busted” her out again; another sliding stop and I reined her toward the gate which opened before us.
The ranch house and buildings stood on a low hill a short distance from the road. A lane led to the roadway where a heavy gate was closed across it. As we approached it she suddenly cocked an eye and ear back at me: first on one side and then the other and she asked for her head. “Why, you old rascal, LET’S GO.” Once again I was leaning low along her neck as distance melted as though by magic. A lot of water had run under the bridge since we last saw each other, but as we slid up to that gate together, we were each happy that our friendship had taken up exactly where it left off, two years before.
I reined her into a shortcut trail to the home ranch and as she settled into an easy jogtrot, it occurred to me that here is the kind of stuff that real friendships are made of: each trusting the other and each worthy of the trust.
P. S. She never found out that had she not been sold that day, she was to have been shot.
“Though I empathize with the plea for writers to enter their own works, I suspect too many are hesitant to do so. I hail those who enter their own efforts but I imagine the contests would be broader and healthier and thus more interesting with publishers selections entered. Totally agree it is a publisher’s right to submit entries.” – Mary Brunori
Search for Adventure
by Lawrence Giles
THERE ARE inborn impulses within all humans that impel them to seek adventure. Each person has a natural urge to vitalize life and pursue curiosity. In each bosom smolders the fire of adventure. It is capable of flaming high in moments of greatness and grandness – for every person is a potential hero and champion.
The pathway of life may become quite drab and routine at times. Seasons of despair descend to restrain and smother ambition. Delightful things may momentarily be deplored. Life lags and drags. It becomes a dismal day indeed when we declare, “Nothing new or exciting ever happens to me.” This is pure depression and the fire of adventure is near the point of extinction. When our attitudes, and our interpretation of things around us, cause life to be a burden instead of a challenge, it is high time we second-look our station. Life, if used at its fullest, was intended to be a grand enterprise – to be savored and enjoyed.
Ofttimes individuals, in the name of adventure, stray or strike out in unwise areas. They risk danger and defy wisdom to seek thrills they think are joys. The spirit of adventure may falsely lead the imprudent, in the name of freedom, to become slaves to that which they sought.
Our attainments in adventure vary. Some champions among us change maps and alter history. Some reshape the elements of our life. Some shake up nations and notions. But it is not the destiny of the majority to flame as meteors. Most of us hardly more than twinkle as one of many stars. Few of us will ever slay a giant with a stone, discover a microbe, or walk on the moon. Yet in our own way we harken to the challenge to conquer our own world, wage war on our own dragons, and find our own brand of joy in courageous attainment of our own victories.
Every day life is brimming with adventure. Search and find! The noble urges prompt us to explore and discover. The wide look was born in man in the eons before his birth and can remain vital for the eons to come – if an individual has the desire, daring and the faith to make it such.
Possibly more flattering than even letters of warm acknowledgment have been some contributions written specially for this paper.
by Hyman Bradofsky
SPEAKING of words reveals what appears to be a tendency to surprise the reader with unusual expressions. We, also, like to see occasionally “some ancient, primitive word appear with its face washed and its eyes again shining,” or even “some lovely, new-minted term to express a meaning which had not yet found expression” (to borrow the abounding riches of Logan Pearsall Smith). Is literature all confined to love and languishment, to dying heroes and beauty in distress? An eminent critic reminds us that the clear and simple statement of a proposition in geometry is literature, quite as much as the Book of Job is literature.
But there is also a place in every field of literature for the grand style. “The grand style arises,” says George Saintsbury, “when a noble nature, poetically gifted, treats with simplicity or severity a serious subject.” (For “severity” the dictionary bids us not to think of harshness, but rather of austere purity.)
This is more than a matter of words, yet words are at the bottom of it all. There can be no mechanical rule about it. A word is no more good or bad simply because it is old, than bad or good simply because it is new. Apart from age, a “seventy-five cent word” should not be tendered in payment in small transactions.
A competent critic finds fault with the prose of modern authors in general: there is the lack of any rhythm in their writing, and (says Smith) “their definition is quite as undistinguished; they all seem to take their vocabulary from a common dust bin.”
We hope that we have not set something in motion. “The worst confusion of speech,” wrote one of Dr. Johnson’s correspondents, “is caused by a class of writers who affect singularity and invent a Sanskrit of their own to wrap their ideas in a veil of mystery; and yet we often like to hear their oracles and, at last, catch the disease ourselves.
A reviewer is traditionally expected to pick flaws and to pounce upon them with glee. But it is an unpleasant job, on the whole, this effort to impale an author upon some spear of sharp criticism and thus display the superiority of the reviewer. In this instance the work has been done with such industry that fault-finding is especially irksome.
Rogue River Rooster Crow
by R. J. McGinnis in Farm Quarterly
AS DAWN touched the mountain tops, a lusty cock crow ushered in the June morning. A swelling chorus of crows followed, for, in addition to the normal high population of native roosters, scores of out-of-towners, in coops and cages, were visiting this little Oregon town for the annual Great Rogue River Rooster Crow and Jamboree.
Only contest of its kind in the country, The Rooster Crow was originated by a Rogue River resident who remembered the crowing contests held by Welsh miners during his boyhood.
The Rogue River contest offers a first prize of 250 silver dollars to determine which rooster can crow the most in 30 minutes. Roosters may be of any size, shape, or breed, trained or untrained, hungry or chock-full of corn. Each owner places his caged bird in a spot of his own choosing on a table under trees in the school yard.
Ranchers and miners and their families from far up in the mountains drive into town early on contest day for vantage places along two main streets.
The Rooster Crow is preceded by a parade of the local fire department, high school band, mounted sheriff’s posse, a beauty queen, floats, and antique automobiles. Also in the parade small freckled boys carrying willow poles in hope of winning a fisherman’s rod & reel: first prize in the attendant Huck Finn contest.
The crowing contest, main event, starts at noon. Most cages are covered, on theory that a rooster will remain silent in darkness until the cover is removed, at which time it is hoped that he will burst into a salvo of crows to greet the sudden “dawn.”
As 12 o’clock approaches, the crowd presses around the ropes, judges take positions in front of each cage, the town marshal stands poised to fire the opening gun. The countdown begins: “60 seconds… 30 seconds… five seconds, four, three, two, one – zero!” The marshal raises his .45 and blasts a handful of leaves off the tree limb above him. A hush falls over the crowd as it awaits the first crow. A speckled bantam breaks the silence, and there is an immediate response of crows, squawks, threats, and gravel-scratching from 109 contestants. The great Rogue River crowing contest is under way.
A small gamecock takes an early lead, with eight crows in the first three minutes. Gathering energy, a sleek brown bantam goes ahead with 13 crows at the 10-minute mark. Leading the pack at the 15-minute mark are one rooster with 18 crows, two with 14 and a fourth with 13. After initial triumph the lead-off rooster is notably silent until the halfway point, when he fires a fusillade of 13 crows in less than two minutes. With 10 minutes to go, all except two have been surpassed by late-starters. But the bantam, Geronimo, after once taking the lead, is never topped, recording an easy win with 63 crows; against 50 for the runner-up.
[Surely that beats the dawn-shattering growls of grinding garbage trucks that greet Fun City residents!]
Fourth of July Work-Day
by Ralph Babcock
ALLEGHENY AIRLINES ticket to Marietta finally in my pocket – after reservations computers had balked three times over finding available flights to or beyond Pittsburgh; motel reservations also mailed. Then Nancy abed sick, with four California guests arriving…; and from Miami a plaintive phone call: “Can you come down?” from a bored, bed-ridden patient under pain-killers recovering from kidney-cutting removal of a nasty seahorse-shaped kidney stone that evaded passage for a week.
Solution – obvious: cancel the convention; welcome guests, charbroil hamburgers, and chat till 1 a.m.: rise at 6 a.m. for 45 mile drive to Newark just in time for Eastern Airlines 9 a.m. flight to Miami; taxi to the hospital before noon to exchange greetings, elaborate on our recent trip & lend moral support… and return on 5 p.m. flight to Newark, etc.
Did someone say, “All in the Day’s Work?” This modern age – remarkable, wot? A few years ago I felt lucky simply enduring 50 files to The Big City and back for the work-day.
Technology that can lift one by jet gently 31,000 feet over Philadelphia & Wilmington on a 2½ hour DC-8 flight south to Miami; feed Canadian bacon & eggs scrambled with sliced mushrooms, croissant with red currant jelly & butter, browned triangular patty of diced potatoes, on top of blueberries & sliced honeydew melon, with silver, linen napkins, and cloth-covered tray; along with accepted amenities of flight restrooms, magazines, and map to follow the coast-following route of the plane – deserves admiration!
Eloquence vs. Reason
by Ralph Babcock
“Without written words, words in print, a writer does not exist.” – Lea Palmer
“Show me,” the eloquent Mr. Moitoret quips….
(True) story telling is also fiction, isn’t it? So, that laureate category title is still as misleading [Fiction/Story] as NAPA’s other recent label-shift from Essay to Miscellaneous Prose: simply because some “mood music” didn’t fit the formal Essay frame.
Like some poetry could also be miscellaneous prose; and occasionally one finds prose that seems like – perhaps is, poetry. (Or history.)
May I remind thee – Old Buddy – that any dumb little old hand-typesetter who reads, edits & then slowly puts together an author’s ms., letter by letter, into type pages, and then proofreads, corrects, reproofs; and finally handfeeds hundreds of copies thru press, and folds them – if he still thinks all that effort worthwhile, worthy of entry for award… it would seem he must have pretty intimate & studied appraisal of it – quite possibly even more so than the author.
Out of hundreds of awards over the decades, do possibly one or two slips require calling out all of the Nationals’ guard, and constitute an earthquaking disaster that obligates amending the constitution?
Show me, the thunderous naval Captain Moitoret quips: “where either individual or NAPA has suffered from the present system.” [Italics mine.]
The present system, O Polished Spellbinder – is that for your and OUR entire 40 years – any publisher can enter, and often has. Show me, chum, where and how we’ve suffered untold anguish therefrom – until you all screwed up the details in denying the Heljeson entry.
VOTE NO ON THE AMENDMENT
and anyone But Warner for Judge