for 68 days until he saw his first fellow American. Rasmussen healed himself, relying on his Chippewa knowledge of how to survive in the wild and staying alive by raiding farms at night. The account is drawn from tapes of interviews with Rasmussen about his ordeal and personal records and other material from his family. Beginning with Rasmussens life as a young boy growing up on a poverty-stricken Chippewa reservation in northern Wisconsin, the book then details at length Rasmussens almost unbelievable ordeal. Also included is information on his top-secret role in the Navys only nuclear weapons squadron.  (less)

tributes from bar associations and defense and civil rights groups across the nation.brbrLIONEL RENÉ SAPORTA lives in East Hampton, New York. Also an attorney, he grew up in Brooklyn, spent three years with Bruce Cutler in the Kings County District Attorney’s Office, and later shared offices with Cutler in private practice.1brbrHis great hand engulfing mine, hoisting my little boy's body up above the waves: That's how I remember Murray, my father. He was a big man, six foot three inches, 215 pounds of heart and brawn. He was not only my father but also what many fathers are not--my father figure.brbrMurray was also my friend, although it's hard to recall him as such when I was growing up, disciplinarian that he was. I remember him telling me that my only true friends in life would be my parents. He was right, wasn't he? I mean, there's no limit to the love and protection afforded by your parents--the love of any other must be limited by self-interest, no? Or is this only the ranting of one paranoid lawyer-cop to his paranoid lawyer son? A legacy of vigilance, passed from centuries of pogrom victims in Lithuania, Hungary, and Austria, to my grandparents Irving and Bertha, and Harry and Sadie in the new world, and from their generation to Murray and Selma, who offered it to me. A legacy of loneliness, a fitting foundation for the egocentricity, pervasive distrust, and maniacal single-mindedness required of a successful trial lawyer.brbrI was born on April 29, 1948, in Borough Park, Brooklyn, the first son of the first son of the first son. Selma, my mother, was fond of recounting (amid the confirming nods and clucks of my grandmothers, Bertha and Sadie), as she'd bathe me or tuck me into bed, how she'd selected ?ñ™™™™™šÿ¾Û€  (less)

book captures it all.BR—Quincy JonesBRBRTwenty years in the making, this is the most thorough and penetrating book on the President of the Tenor Saxophone to date.BR—Publishers WeeklyBRBRA provocative book, presenting Lester Young in a novel, even controversial light while opening new avenues of possible investigation into one of the most tantalizingly enigmatic of all historic jazz figures.BR—Richard Sudhalter, Los Angeles TimesBRBRThe lessons learned from Pres' painful life tell us a lot about ourselves and the horrible consequences of racism in America.BR—T. Michael Crowell, San Diego Union-TribuneContentsBRBRPart I Many Moons AgoBRBR1. The President of the Tenor SaxophoneBRBR2. Shoeshine Boy: Way Down Yonder, 1909–1919BRBR3. The Professor: The Louisiana HeritageBRBR4. Big Top Blues: On the Road, 1919–1926BRBR5. Jump Lester Jump: Winter Homes, 1919–1929BRBRPart II The Spark in My HeartBRBR6. Red Boy Blues: The Territorial Years, 1929–1932BRBR7. Blue Devil Blues: 1932–1933BRBR8. Big Eyes Blues: In the Court of the King, 1933BRBR9. No Eyes Blues: More Than Just Music, 1934–1936BRBR10. Poundcake: The Holy Main, 1936–1940BRBR11. Watts Eyes: Paying Dues, 1941–1943BRBR12. D.B. Blues: Tribulation and Trial, 1943–1945BRBRPart III Up Here by MyselfBRBR13. Sax-O-Be-Bop: Life at the TopBRBR14. Lester Blows Again: Critics' and Sidemen's ViewsBRBR15. Movin' with Lester: "Always Reaching . . . "BRBR16. Up 'n' Adam: The Cult of the CoolBRBRBRBRPart IV The LegacyBRBR17. Good-bye Pork Pie Hat@™™™™™šÿ¾Û€  (less)

his wife and has twin boys who both work as journalists.brbrbriFrom the Hardcover edition./ibONE/bbrbrWe were right on top of it when it went up, but none of us heard the bang. None of us who survived, anyway.brbrIt brought people out from their homes and their hiding places for twenty miles around, wondering if a nuclear bomb had gone off. That’s what it looked like. A great tower of black smoke, a kilometre wide, rushing up from the southern suburbs of the city to smear itself across the bottom of the clouds. The blackness was lined with fire and shot through by a fountain of smaller explosions that arched up into the gloom and fell, miles away, in a crackling, golden rain.brbrThey say what happened that morning in Addis Ababa was the biggest explosion in Africa in the history of man. We were only a couple of hundred yards away, four flimsy humans caught out in the open. Without warning, before our eyes could register, or our brains comprehend, what was happening, we were flung to our separate fates. We had been almost close enough to touch each other. One was killed instantly. One was terribly mutilated. One was blasted straight into unconsciousness.brbrI was the fourth. I had a brief moment of awareness; a sense of flying, or at any rate being airborne, in clouds of brown dust and singing metal. But, instead of hitting the ground, something very odd happened. My mind seemed to jettison the body, like the last stage of a space mission. I was suddenly in some parallel universe where time ran backwards, as well as forwards, in a jerky and random series of flashbacks. They made no overall sense, but they were vivid and overwhelming. They were like the closing credits of a film a?ÕÂ? (õÃÿ¾Û€  (less)