July 26, 2025 • 22 mins
Discover the untold story of renowned author Jack London, who tragically passed away at just forty years old. In this deeply personal memoir, London shares his life through the lens of his relationship with alcohol, personified as John Barleycorn. Despite the prevailing controversies surrounding his demise, Londons candid exposition of his battles with alcoholism was far ahead of its time, pre-empting modern theories of addiction. With an extraordinary blend of honesty and insight, he unveils his encounters with both the demons and deities of his life, personified by his friend and foe, John Barleycorn. (Summary by Peter Kelleher)
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter thirty six of John Barleycorn or Alcoholic Memoirs by
Jack Lundon. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings
are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer,
(00:21):
please visit LibriVox dot org. Chapter thirty six Back to
personal experiences and the effects in the past of John
Barleycorn's white logic on me. On my lovely ranch in
the valley of the Moon, brain soaked with many months
(00:45):
of alcohol, I am oppressed by the cosmic sadness that
has always been the heritage of man. In vain do
I ask myself why I shall should be sad. My
nights are warm, my roof does not leak. I have
(01:07):
food galore for all the caprices of appetite, every creature.
Comfort is mine. In my body are no aches nor pains.
The good old flesh machine is running smoothly on. Neither
brain nor muscle is overworked. I have land, money, power,
(01:32):
recognition from the world, A consciousness that I do my
need of good in serving others, a mate whom I love,
children that are of my own fond flesh. I have
done and am doing what a good citizen of the
world should do. I have built houses, many houses, and
(01:57):
tilled many one hundred acres. And as for trees, have
I not planted one hundred thousand? Everywhere? From any window
of my house I can gaze forth upon these trees
of my planting, standing valiantly erect and aspiring toward the sun.
(02:21):
My life had indeed fallen in pleasant places. Not one
hundred men and a million have been so lucky as I. Yet,
with all this vast good fortune, am I sad? And
I am sad because John Barleycorn is with me. And
(02:46):
John Barleycorn is with me because I was born in
what future ages will call the dark ages, before the
ages of rational civilization. John Barleycorn is with me because
(03:06):
in all the unwitting days of my youth, John Barleycorn
was accessible, calling to me and inviting me on every
corner and on every street between the corners. The pseudo
civilization into which I was born permitted everywhere licensed shops
(03:31):
for the sale of soul poison. The system of life
was so organized that I and millions like me, was
lured and drawn and driven to the poison shops. Wonder
with me through one mood of the myriad moods of
(03:54):
sadness into which one is plunged by John Barleycorn. I
ride out over my beautiful ranch. Between my legs is
a beautiful horse. The air is wine. The grapes on
a score of rolling hills are red with autumn flame.
(04:18):
Across Sonoma Mountains, wisps of sea fog are stealing the
afternoon sun smolders in the drowsy sky. I have everything
to make me glad. I am alive. I am filled
with dreams and mysteries. I am all sun and air
(04:41):
and sparkle. I am vitalized organic. I move. I have
the power of movement. I command movement of the live
thing I bestride. I am possessed with the pomps of
being and no proud pass and inspirations. I have ten
(05:04):
thousand August connotations. I am a king in the kingdom
of sense, and trample the face of the uncomplaining dust.
And yet with jaundiced eye I gaze upon all the
beauty and wonder about me. And with jaundiced brain, consider
(05:27):
the pitiful figure I cut in this world that endured
so long without me, and that will again endure without me.
I remember the men who broke their hearts and their
backs over this stubborn soil that now belongs to me,
(05:49):
as if anything imperishable could belong to the perishable. These
men passed, I too shall pass these. It's been toiled
and cleared, and planted, gazed with aching eyes, while they
rested their labor, stiffened bodies on these same sunrises and sunsets,
(06:13):
at the autumn glory of the grape, and at the
fog wisps stealing across the mountain. And they are gone.
And I know that I too shall someday and soon
be gone. Gone. I am going. Now in my jaw
(06:35):
are cunning artifices of the dentists which replaced the parts
of me already gone. Never again will I have the
thumbs of my youth. Old fights and wrestlings have injured
them irreparably. That punch on the head of a man
(06:55):
whose very name is forgotten settled this thumb finally and
forever a slip grip at catch, as catch can did
for the other. My lean runner's stomach has passed into
the limbo of memory. The joints of the legs that
(07:17):
bear me up are not so adequate as they once
were when in wild nights and days of toil and
frolic I strained and snapped and ruptured them. Never again
can I swing, dizzily aloft and trust all the proud
(07:37):
quick that is I to a single rope clutch in
the driving blackness of storm. Never again can I run
with sled dogs along the endless miles of arctic trail.
I am aware that within the disintegrating body, which has
(07:59):
been done eyeing since I was born, I carry a
skeleton that under the rind of flesh which is called
my face, is a bony, noseless death's head, all of
which does not shudder me. To be afraid is to
be healthy. Fear of death makes for life. But the
(08:23):
curse of the white logic is that it does not
make one afraid. The world's sickness. Of the white logic
makes one grin jocosely into the face of the noseless one,
and to sneer at all the phantasmagoria of living. I
look about me as I ride, and on every hand
(08:48):
I see the merciless and infinite waste of natural selection.
The white logic insists upon opening the long closed books,
and by paragraph and chapter states the beauty and wonder
I behold in terms of futility and dust. About me
(09:11):
is murmur and hum, and I know it for the
gnat swarm of the living, piping for a little space
its thin plank of troubled air. I return across the ranch.
Twilight is on, and the hunting animals are out. I
watch the piteous, tragic play of life feeding on life.
(09:35):
Here is no morality. Only in man is morality, and
Man created it a code of action that makes toward living,
and that is of the lesser order of truth. Yet
all this I knew before, in the weary days of
my long sickness. These were the greater truths that I
(09:59):
so successfully schooled myself to forget, the truths that were
so serious that I refused to take them seriously, and
played with gently, oh so gently, as sleeping dogs at
the back of consciousness, which I did not care to waken.
(10:21):
I did but stir them and let them lie. I
was too wise, too wicked wise, to wake them. But
now white logic, willy nearly wakes them for me. For
White logic, most valiant, is unafraid of all the monsters
(10:42):
of the earthly dream. Let the doctors of all the
schools condemn me. White logic whispers as I ride along.
What of it? I am truth? You know it? You
cannot combat me, They say, I make for death? What
of it? It is? Truth? Life lies in order to live.
(11:08):
Life is a perpetual lie telling process. Life is a
mad dance in the domain of flux, where in appearances
in mighty tides ebb and flow, chained to the wheels
of moons beyond our kin. Appearances are ghosts. Life is ghostland,
(11:34):
where appearances change, transfuse, permeate each the other, and all
the others that are that are not that always flicker, fade,
and pass, only to come again as new appearances, as
other appearances. You are such an appearance composed of countless
(12:02):
appearances out of the past. All an appearance can know
is mirage. You know mirages of desire. These very mirages
are the unthinkable and incalculable conjuries of appearances that crowd
(12:23):
in upon you and form you out of the past,
and that sweep you on into dissemination into other unthinkable
and incalculable conjuries of appearances to people, the ghost land
of the future. Life is apparitional and passes. You are
(12:46):
an apparition through all the apparitions that preceded you, and
that compose the parts of you. You rose gibbering from
the evolutionary mire, and gibbering you will pass on, interfusing,
permeating the procession of apparitions that will succeed you. And
(13:11):
of course it is all unanswerable. And as I ride
along through the evening shadows, I sneer at that great
fetish which Kant called the world, and I remember that
another pessimist of sentiency has uttered. Transient are all they,
(13:32):
being born, must die, and being dead are glad to
be at rest. But here through the dusk comes one
who is not glad to be at rest. He is
a workman on the ranch, an old man, an immigrant Italian.
(13:53):
He takes his hat off to me in all servility,
because forsooth I am to him a lord of life.
I am food to him, and shelter and existence. He
has toiled like a beast all his days, and lived
less comfortably than my horses in their deep strawed stalls.
(14:18):
He is labor crippled. He shambles as he walks. One
shoulder is twisted higher than the other. His hands are gnarled,
claws repulsive, horrible as an apparition. He is a pretty
miserable specimen. His brain is as stupid as his body
(14:42):
is ugly. His brain is so stupid that he does
not know that he is an apparition. The White logic
chuckles to me, he is since drunk. He is the
slave of the dream of life. His brain is fill
with superrational sanctions and obsessions. He believes in a transcendent overworld.
(15:08):
He has listened to the vagaries of the prophets, who
have given to him the sumptuous bubble of paradise. He
feels inarticulate self affinities with self conjured non realities. He
sees penumbral visions of himself titubating fantastically through days and
(15:32):
nights of space and stars. Beyond the shadow of any doubt.
He is convinced that the universe was made for him,
and that it is his destiny to live forever in
the immaterial and supersensuous realms. He and his kind have
builded of the stuff of semblance and deception. But you,
(15:57):
who have opened the books, and who share my awful confidence,
you know him for what he is, brother to you
and the dust. A cosmic joke a sort of chemistry,
a garmented beast that arose out of the rock of
screaming beastliness by virtue and accident of two opposable great toes.
(16:24):
He is brother as well to the gorilla and the chimpanzee.
He thumps his chest in anger and roars and quivers
with catalectic ferocity. He knows monstrous atavistic promptings, and he
is composed of all manner of shreds, of abysmal and
(16:48):
forgotten instincts. Yet he dreams he is immortal. I argue feebly,
it is vastly wonderful for so stupid a claud to
stride the shoulders of time and ride the eternities. Pah,
is the retort. Would you then shut the books and
(17:10):
exchange places with this thing that is only an appetite
and a desire, a marionette of the belly and the loins.
To be stupid is to be happy. I contend. Then
your ideal of happiness is a jelly like organism floating
(17:31):
in a tideless, tepid twilight sea. Hey oh, the victim
cannot combat John Barlecorn one step removed from the annihilating
bliss of Buddha's nirvana. The White Logic ads, oh, well,
here's the house. Cheer up and take a drink. We
(17:56):
know we illuminated you and I all the folly and
the farce, And in my book walled den, the mausoleum
of the thoughts of men. I take my drink and
other drinks, and roust out the sleeping dogs from the
(18:16):
recesses of my brain, and hallow them on over the
walls of prejudice and law, and through all the cunning
labyrinths of superstition and belief. Drink, says the White Logic.
The Greeks believed that the gods gave them wine so
(18:38):
that they might forget the miserableness of existence. And remember
what heine said, Well, do I remember that flaming jews.
With the last breath, all is done? Joy, love, sorrow, macaro,
(19:00):
the theater, lime trees, raspberry drops, the power of human relations, gossip,
the barking of dogs, champagne. Your clear white light is sickness.
I tell the White Logic you lie by telling too
(19:25):
strong a truth. He equips back alas, yes, so topsy
turvy is existence. I acknowledge sadly. Ah, well, liu ling
was wiser than you, The White Logic girds you remember him?
(19:45):
I nod my head. Leu Ling a hard drinker, one
of the group of Bibolis poets who called themselves the
Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove, and who lived in
China many an ancient century ago. It was Liu Ling,
(20:07):
prompts the White Logic, who declared that to a drunken man,
the affairs of this world appear but as much duck
weed on a river. Very well, have another scotch, and
let semblance and deception become duck weed on a river.
(20:30):
And while I pour and sit my scotch, I remember
another Chinese philosopher, shuang Zu, who four centuries before Christ,
challenged this dreamland of the world, saying, how then do
I know but that the dead repent of having previously
(20:52):
clung to life. Those who dream of the banquet wake
to lamentation and sorrow. Those who dream of lamentation and
sorrow wake to join the hunt. While they dream, they
do not know that they dream. Some will even interpret
(21:15):
the very dream they are dreaming, And only when they
awake do they know it was a dream. Fools think
they are awake now and flatter themselves. They know if
they are really princes or peasants confucious. And you are
(21:37):
both dreams, and I who say you are dreams, I
am but a dream myself. Once upon a time, I
shuang Zu dreamt, I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and
thither to all intents and purposes about butterfly, I was
(22:01):
conscious only of following my fancies as a butterfly, and
was unconscious of my individuality as a man. Suddenly I awaked,
and there I lay myself again. Now I do not
(22:23):
know whether I was then a man dreaming I was
a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming
I am a man. End of Chapter thirty six
Chapter thirty six of John Barleycorn or Alcoholic Memoirs by
Jack Lundon. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings
are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer,
(00:21):
please visit LibriVox dot org. Chapter thirty six Back to
personal experiences and the effects in the past of John
Barleycorn's white logic on me. On my lovely ranch in
the valley of the Moon, brain soaked with many months
(00:45):
of alcohol, I am oppressed by the cosmic sadness that
has always been the heritage of man. In vain do
I ask myself why I shall should be sad. My
nights are warm, my roof does not leak. I have
(01:07):
food galore for all the caprices of appetite, every creature.
Comfort is mine. In my body are no aches nor pains.
The good old flesh machine is running smoothly on. Neither
brain nor muscle is overworked. I have land, money, power,
(01:32):
recognition from the world, A consciousness that I do my
need of good in serving others, a mate whom I love,
children that are of my own fond flesh. I have
done and am doing what a good citizen of the
world should do. I have built houses, many houses, and
(01:57):
tilled many one hundred acres. And as for trees, have
I not planted one hundred thousand? Everywhere? From any window
of my house I can gaze forth upon these trees
of my planting, standing valiantly erect and aspiring toward the sun.
(02:21):
My life had indeed fallen in pleasant places. Not one
hundred men and a million have been so lucky as I. Yet,
with all this vast good fortune, am I sad? And
I am sad because John Barleycorn is with me. And
(02:46):
John Barleycorn is with me because I was born in
what future ages will call the dark ages, before the
ages of rational civilization. John Barleycorn is with me because
(03:06):
in all the unwitting days of my youth, John Barleycorn
was accessible, calling to me and inviting me on every
corner and on every street between the corners. The pseudo
civilization into which I was born permitted everywhere licensed shops
(03:31):
for the sale of soul poison. The system of life
was so organized that I and millions like me, was
lured and drawn and driven to the poison shops. Wonder
with me through one mood of the myriad moods of
(03:54):
sadness into which one is plunged by John Barleycorn. I
ride out over my beautiful ranch. Between my legs is
a beautiful horse. The air is wine. The grapes on
a score of rolling hills are red with autumn flame.
(04:18):
Across Sonoma Mountains, wisps of sea fog are stealing the
afternoon sun smolders in the drowsy sky. I have everything
to make me glad. I am alive. I am filled
with dreams and mysteries. I am all sun and air
(04:41):
and sparkle. I am vitalized organic. I move. I have
the power of movement. I command movement of the live
thing I bestride. I am possessed with the pomps of
being and no proud pass and inspirations. I have ten
(05:04):
thousand August connotations. I am a king in the kingdom
of sense, and trample the face of the uncomplaining dust.
And yet with jaundiced eye I gaze upon all the
beauty and wonder about me. And with jaundiced brain, consider
(05:27):
the pitiful figure I cut in this world that endured
so long without me, and that will again endure without me.
I remember the men who broke their hearts and their
backs over this stubborn soil that now belongs to me,
(05:49):
as if anything imperishable could belong to the perishable. These
men passed, I too shall pass these. It's been toiled
and cleared, and planted, gazed with aching eyes, while they
rested their labor, stiffened bodies on these same sunrises and sunsets,
(06:13):
at the autumn glory of the grape, and at the
fog wisps stealing across the mountain. And they are gone.
And I know that I too shall someday and soon
be gone. Gone. I am going. Now in my jaw
(06:35):
are cunning artifices of the dentists which replaced the parts
of me already gone. Never again will I have the
thumbs of my youth. Old fights and wrestlings have injured
them irreparably. That punch on the head of a man
(06:55):
whose very name is forgotten settled this thumb finally and
forever a slip grip at catch, as catch can did
for the other. My lean runner's stomach has passed into
the limbo of memory. The joints of the legs that
(07:17):
bear me up are not so adequate as they once
were when in wild nights and days of toil and
frolic I strained and snapped and ruptured them. Never again
can I swing, dizzily aloft and trust all the proud
(07:37):
quick that is I to a single rope clutch in
the driving blackness of storm. Never again can I run
with sled dogs along the endless miles of arctic trail.
I am aware that within the disintegrating body, which has
(07:59):
been done eyeing since I was born, I carry a
skeleton that under the rind of flesh which is called
my face, is a bony, noseless death's head, all of
which does not shudder me. To be afraid is to
be healthy. Fear of death makes for life. But the
(08:23):
curse of the white logic is that it does not
make one afraid. The world's sickness. Of the white logic
makes one grin jocosely into the face of the noseless one,
and to sneer at all the phantasmagoria of living. I
look about me as I ride, and on every hand
(08:48):
I see the merciless and infinite waste of natural selection.
The white logic insists upon opening the long closed books,
and by paragraph and chapter states the beauty and wonder
I behold in terms of futility and dust. About me
(09:11):
is murmur and hum, and I know it for the
gnat swarm of the living, piping for a little space
its thin plank of troubled air. I return across the ranch.
Twilight is on, and the hunting animals are out. I
watch the piteous, tragic play of life feeding on life.
(09:35):
Here is no morality. Only in man is morality, and
Man created it a code of action that makes toward living,
and that is of the lesser order of truth. Yet
all this I knew before, in the weary days of
my long sickness. These were the greater truths that I
(09:59):
so successfully schooled myself to forget, the truths that were
so serious that I refused to take them seriously, and
played with gently, oh so gently, as sleeping dogs at
the back of consciousness, which I did not care to waken.
(10:21):
I did but stir them and let them lie. I
was too wise, too wicked wise, to wake them. But
now white logic, willy nearly wakes them for me. For
White logic, most valiant, is unafraid of all the monsters
(10:42):
of the earthly dream. Let the doctors of all the
schools condemn me. White logic whispers as I ride along.
What of it? I am truth? You know it? You
cannot combat me, They say, I make for death? What
of it? It is? Truth? Life lies in order to live.
(11:08):
Life is a perpetual lie telling process. Life is a
mad dance in the domain of flux, where in appearances
in mighty tides ebb and flow, chained to the wheels
of moons beyond our kin. Appearances are ghosts. Life is ghostland,
(11:34):
where appearances change, transfuse, permeate each the other, and all
the others that are that are not that always flicker, fade,
and pass, only to come again as new appearances, as
other appearances. You are such an appearance composed of countless
(12:02):
appearances out of the past. All an appearance can know
is mirage. You know mirages of desire. These very mirages
are the unthinkable and incalculable conjuries of appearances that crowd
(12:23):
in upon you and form you out of the past,
and that sweep you on into dissemination into other unthinkable
and incalculable conjuries of appearances to people, the ghost land
of the future. Life is apparitional and passes. You are
(12:46):
an apparition through all the apparitions that preceded you, and
that compose the parts of you. You rose gibbering from
the evolutionary mire, and gibbering you will pass on, interfusing,
permeating the procession of apparitions that will succeed you. And
(13:11):
of course it is all unanswerable. And as I ride
along through the evening shadows, I sneer at that great
fetish which Kant called the world, and I remember that
another pessimist of sentiency has uttered. Transient are all they,
(13:32):
being born, must die, and being dead are glad to
be at rest. But here through the dusk comes one
who is not glad to be at rest. He is
a workman on the ranch, an old man, an immigrant Italian.
(13:53):
He takes his hat off to me in all servility,
because forsooth I am to him a lord of life.
I am food to him, and shelter and existence. He
has toiled like a beast all his days, and lived
less comfortably than my horses in their deep strawed stalls.
(14:18):
He is labor crippled. He shambles as he walks. One
shoulder is twisted higher than the other. His hands are gnarled,
claws repulsive, horrible as an apparition. He is a pretty
miserable specimen. His brain is as stupid as his body
(14:42):
is ugly. His brain is so stupid that he does
not know that he is an apparition. The White logic
chuckles to me, he is since drunk. He is the
slave of the dream of life. His brain is fill
with superrational sanctions and obsessions. He believes in a transcendent overworld.
(15:08):
He has listened to the vagaries of the prophets, who
have given to him the sumptuous bubble of paradise. He
feels inarticulate self affinities with self conjured non realities. He
sees penumbral visions of himself titubating fantastically through days and
(15:32):
nights of space and stars. Beyond the shadow of any doubt.
He is convinced that the universe was made for him,
and that it is his destiny to live forever in
the immaterial and supersensuous realms. He and his kind have
builded of the stuff of semblance and deception. But you,
(15:57):
who have opened the books, and who share my awful confidence,
you know him for what he is, brother to you
and the dust. A cosmic joke a sort of chemistry,
a garmented beast that arose out of the rock of
screaming beastliness by virtue and accident of two opposable great toes.
(16:24):
He is brother as well to the gorilla and the chimpanzee.
He thumps his chest in anger and roars and quivers
with catalectic ferocity. He knows monstrous atavistic promptings, and he
is composed of all manner of shreds, of abysmal and
(16:48):
forgotten instincts. Yet he dreams he is immortal. I argue feebly,
it is vastly wonderful for so stupid a claud to
stride the shoulders of time and ride the eternities. Pah,
is the retort. Would you then shut the books and
(17:10):
exchange places with this thing that is only an appetite
and a desire, a marionette of the belly and the loins.
To be stupid is to be happy. I contend. Then
your ideal of happiness is a jelly like organism floating
(17:31):
in a tideless, tepid twilight sea. Hey oh, the victim
cannot combat John Barlecorn one step removed from the annihilating
bliss of Buddha's nirvana. The White Logic ads, oh, well,
here's the house. Cheer up and take a drink. We
(17:56):
know we illuminated you and I all the folly and
the farce, And in my book walled den, the mausoleum
of the thoughts of men. I take my drink and
other drinks, and roust out the sleeping dogs from the
(18:16):
recesses of my brain, and hallow them on over the
walls of prejudice and law, and through all the cunning
labyrinths of superstition and belief. Drink, says the White Logic.
The Greeks believed that the gods gave them wine so
(18:38):
that they might forget the miserableness of existence. And remember
what heine said, Well, do I remember that flaming jews.
With the last breath, all is done? Joy, love, sorrow, macaro,
(19:00):
the theater, lime trees, raspberry drops, the power of human relations, gossip,
the barking of dogs, champagne. Your clear white light is sickness.
I tell the White Logic you lie by telling too
(19:25):
strong a truth. He equips back alas, yes, so topsy
turvy is existence. I acknowledge sadly. Ah, well, liu ling
was wiser than you, The White Logic girds you remember him?
(19:45):
I nod my head. Leu Ling a hard drinker, one
of the group of Bibolis poets who called themselves the
Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove, and who lived in
China many an ancient century ago. It was Liu Ling,
(20:07):
prompts the White Logic, who declared that to a drunken man,
the affairs of this world appear but as much duck
weed on a river. Very well, have another scotch, and
let semblance and deception become duck weed on a river.
(20:30):
And while I pour and sit my scotch, I remember
another Chinese philosopher, shuang Zu, who four centuries before Christ,
challenged this dreamland of the world, saying, how then do
I know but that the dead repent of having previously
(20:52):
clung to life. Those who dream of the banquet wake
to lamentation and sorrow. Those who dream of lamentation and
sorrow wake to join the hunt. While they dream, they
do not know that they dream. Some will even interpret
(21:15):
the very dream they are dreaming, And only when they
awake do they know it was a dream. Fools think
they are awake now and flatter themselves. They know if
they are really princes or peasants confucious. And you are
(21:37):
both dreams, and I who say you are dreams, I
am but a dream myself. Once upon a time, I
shuang Zu dreamt, I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and
thither to all intents and purposes about butterfly, I was
(22:01):
conscious only of following my fancies as a butterfly, and
was unconscious of my individuality as a man. Suddenly I awaked,
and there I lay myself again. Now I do not
(22:23):
know whether I was then a man dreaming I was
a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming
I am a man. End of Chapter thirty six
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Law & Order: Criminal Justice System - Season 1 & Season 2
Season Two Out Now! Law & Order: Criminal Justice System tells the real stories behind the landmark cases that have shaped how the most dangerous and influential criminals in America are prosecuted. In its second season, the series tackles the threat of terrorism in the United States. From the rise of extremist political groups in the 60s to domestic lone wolves in the modern day, we explore how organizations like the FBI and Joint Terrorism Take Force have evolved to fight back against a multitude of terrorist threats.
Dateline NBC
Current and classic episodes, featuring compelling true-crime mysteries, powerful documentaries and in-depth investigations. Follow now to get the latest episodes of Dateline NBC completely free, or subscribe to Dateline Premium for ad-free listening and exclusive bonus content: DatelinePremium.com