Thank you so much to all of you for your patronage and support of COA over the past four-plus years. We’re taking a hiatus from new content on the blog here. As with anyone, the leadership team has to direct our focuses (foci works too) on other efforts. This includes developing art and merchandise for the COA shop on Redbubble, which, like many elements of our brand, will soldier on. We’re not sure whether COA will be an active online journal at some point in the future, but all the art we’ve given to the world already will continue to exist here.

COA family member EDO Trains is now a triple threat, with the merchandise stores, a vintage and rare railroad videos initiative, and a fine scale model railroading design and manufacture division featuring exquisite, never-made model kits and hard-to-find or never-made detail parts.
eBay Store / Redbubble Store / YouTube Channel

All our writers will continue their craft beyond COA. We hope that you’ll stick with your favorite writers and artists from the COA family.
NIA SIMONE MCLEOD: Website / Instagram / Tumblr / Twitter

Always remember that we’re all in this together, that we have more in-common than we do differences, and that each and every one of us is no better than the other.

Thank you, thank you, thank you!


FAA Report Patsy Cline plane crash last phone call

Patsy Cline’s Last Phone Call

A tribute to a legend and a visit to an artifact of the last hours of her existence, published at the exact minute of her passing + 55 years.

Patsy's Cline last phone call

Ms. Cline, backstage with butterflies and sweaty palms, Memorial Hall, Kansas City, 3 March 1963; her final show. Mildred Pierce photo

I’ve always had a queer fascination with youth and death.

Is it the great senselessness of this? That by rule, we’re all supposed to grow old and reminisce about our youth and what we should’ve done differently? Once you roll the celebrity aspect into it, you’ve got youth and death involving someone that in theory has more monumental life experiences in six months than the rest of us do in a lifetime. And perhaps that’s where obsession begins.

I find it quite strange that it took me as long as it did to find out how Patsy Cline died. And when.

Don McLean’s ‘American Pie’ sort of spoon-fed the story of Buddy Holly and The Day The Music Died to anyone whose parents had that radio in the basement, with the missing tuning knob, permanently set to the oldies station. My curiosity for that one took me first to the nightmarish autopsy reports of those three singers sudden, violent ends, and then to a much more healthy end, a 2009 pilgrimage to the exact spot of the wreck in a field in northwest Iowa.

I knew Patsy’s hits. They’d cycle through that same oldies station here and there. But I think they (perhaps purposefully) branded her as a minor ‘crossover’ star in the early rock era, not as one of the biggest stars in the history of an entire genre of music.

As you start to dig in a bit, one finds out things that teenage boys just melt for in the concept woman; a public classiness cloaked in just enough mystery to allow for a secret, just between the two of yas, offset by an offstage reputation of being able to keep up with the boys in the three categories we’re taught to hallow the most: cussin’, fightin’, ‘n drinkin’.

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