#oxygen davis

[rivzai]

feeling hopeful.

[khruschevshoe]

How Behind-the Scenes Issues Affected the Writing of Doctor Who (Both Good and Bad)

Doctor Who is such a fascinating show to look at from a Watsonian v. Doylist perspective. Like, entirely just from an episode writing point of view:

Twice Upon A Time feels so slow and meandering and even boring in places because Chris Chibnall didn't want to start his run as showrunner and Steven Moffat didn't want the show to lose the coveted Christmas timeslot (ironic, I know) so he bumped the Twelfth Doctor's regeneration from the end of The Doctor Falls (where it makes sense) to the end of the Christmas special

Boom Town (my beloved) only exists because originally there was going to be an episode in its spot explaining that Rose had been molded to be the Doctor's perfect companion (by the Doctor, gross) and the writer didn't have the time to commit to the show

The ending of Last Christmas feels like one inside-a-dream too many because originally Jenna Coleman was questioning whether she was going to leave the show or not and the ending was rewritten after the first readthrough when she decided she wanted to stay for another season

The first five episodes of Season 7 feel like each one takes place in a different genre because that's literally how Steven Moffat pitched it to the writers; for example, A Town Called Mercy was literally pitched as "Doctor Who does a Western"

Not so much a weird one but one I find cool: Eleven's first words and Thirteen's first words were literally written by Moffat and Chibnall respectively, as they were brought in to write the first words of the first Doctors of their runs so as to make it cohesive

The reason why Fourteen isn't wearing Thirteen's clothes when he regenerates is because Jodie Whittaker is much shorter than David Tennant and Russell T. Davies didn't want it to look like he was making fun of the genderfluidity of the Doctor (still think he made the wrong decision, but eh)

Wilfred Mott isn't in the Runaway Bride and Donna's father isn't in Partners in Crime because the actor who played Donna's father, Howard Attfield, died after filming several scenes for Partners In Crime, leading to the character of "Stan Mott" from Voyage of the Damned being written into Partners In Crime as Donna's grandfather

Astrid Peth doesn't die in the original drafts of Voyage of the Damned, but Russell T. Davies wrote what is generally considered one of the most emotional deaths in Doctor Who just because he wanted Kylie Minogue to be able to focus on her music career

Originally Oxygen was written as a prequel to Mummy on the Orient Express, where a corporate representative appeared on a monitor. Said representative was fired for his fumbling of the station and would later live on as the company computer, Gus

During Season 11, Chris Chibnall had to do some major rewrites for many of the one-off episodes, therefore The Battle of Ranskoor Av Kolos ended up being a first draft that made it to screen. He later admitted it was his least favorite episode of the series

And this is only a fraction of what I found in terms of major behind-the-scenes writing reasons. Though I am still totally willing to critique the product that made it to our screens, finding out the reasons behind some of the more badly written episodes of the show really made me feel sympathy for every showrunner of the show as well as appreciate a lot of the good episodes that ended up here despite the short production schedule/unexpected problems (once again, Boom Town my beloved AND everyone's favorite companion Wilfred Mott only exist because of unforseen problems). Absolutely bonkers, isn't it?

[funeralprye]

"Your name is a sin I breathe, like oxygen, caught in the careless arms of lust, again"

This man is pure PERFECTION

I want to love all over him and give him soft sleepy kisses

[lil-bitty-lubdubs]

Basement Series PREQUEL (Magma pt.1- Patient 0).

Sooooo... I was gonna wait to post this new part of Basement after I finished posting the OG series and finished it but I got inspired with this part first and wrote almost all of it. SOOOO... we're just gonna go with it...

Calabash Orlington was in the midst of party duties for his best friend’s college graduation when he’d gotten the text. He was only a year behind Davis. He’d pivoted his track of study of course. No longer perusing the MD as was his intention rather going to the forensic doctor route. Montrose (his professor and mentor) had been instrumental in that, in awakening a side of himself he’d never known. Now he had a new direction, new purpose- a new tether. Montrose. That’s not to say his heart didn’t belong to someone else- a beautiful someone named Magma Tasiloni.

The relationship with Montrose wasn’t sexual. It was on a completely different realm. So when Montrose had texted the mysterious words, My house ASAP. Cal had no choice but to flaut his duties as chief party boy and sneak away. It too him 30 minutes to get to Montrose’s recluse home- envisioning all the way the medical experiments they would have… on himself that is.

He knocked and when no answer came he used the key Montrose had given him to let himself in. It was odd and his anxiety went up a notch. He hoped nothing had happened to the old man. He was in his 50’s and definitely in amazing shape. He was thick all around. Barrel chested with massive biceps. His being like a rock.

“Calabash! You’re early.” He projected from the basement. It was the place they ran their medical experiments. “You must have been speeding.” He appeared in the doorway.

He grinned sheepishly. “Maybe a bit. Sorry I was intrigued. Did I interrupt something?” he asked a bit concerned he’d offended or worse yet irritated Montrose.

“No. But we have to give it a few minutes. And… you will give it a few minutes won’t you Cal?” the question was laced with threat. Calabash was taken aback. The man started back down the basement steps.

“Of course Montrose!... what is it we’re…” He and Montrose made it all the way down the steps before Calabash realized there was someone else on the surgical table. “oh someone’s here. Who is…” A familiar someone he realized, his thoughts dying in his throat.

Cal’s eyes widened, his knees went weak and knocked together. “Magma…” he murmured- his Magma. She was lying on the tabled naked save for some lace panties and electrodes. She was pale. Her chest bouncing up and down as she gasped for breath an oxygen mask strapped to her face as her extremities were bound. Calabash launched himself toward her but Montrose stepped in the way and caught him midair. He was no match for the massive barrel chested older man. Cal could not even move him an inch. “You will wait. Let it happen Calabash.” The older man growled in his ear as he held him back.

“Oh Mag! Nooo!” He started flailing. A wet rag was clamped to his face. “Breathe in Cal.”

Cal didnt register the words panic over taking him. He was gasping erratically, which Montrose had been counting on. Cal screamed and cried and sucked in breathe but Montrose held him fast. “Magie” he yelped into the cloth. Cal could see the heart monitor she was hooked up to. Tachycardia displayed  at 220 but the rhythm was fading into disarray. It meant only one thing. Her heart would stop. He was starting to wither. “Ppp…pp… please… no.” he chocked out. “Montrose please… don’t… don’t let her heart stop…” his eyes bore into the older mans. He collapsed to his knees Montrose going down with him supporting him while sliding him over to rest his back on a wall.

“Oh Its gonna stop Cal and soon. She’s almost there…”.

“Please no … please no… not her heart…no pleassee.” Cal sagged fists clenched against Montrose’s massive chest. “stt… stop my heart… stop mine Montrose.” He begged. He didn’t fight him. He had no strength left. “pleasss…” His eyes started rolling back. Montrose removed the rag. “No Cal I don’t want your heart stopped right now. I want hers.”

Montrose grinned taking him in and felt for his carotid. He patted his cheek  and Calabash came to. “You’ll thank me for this soon enough. That was just enough to keep you calm Cal. Can’t have you going out on me. You’ll have to pump Magma’s heart back to life in a bit.” Cal was sitting upright but dazed sobbing quietly. He fought the loss of consciousness, as he watched Montrose begin checking Magma’s vitals.

He was slipping though, after a couple minutes his eyes starting to roll back again. Cal let out an agonal snort as he was losing consciousness again. Montrose hurriedly dropped the stethoscope he had on Magma’s chest and knelt beside the 18 year old. Montrose pulled his head up off his own chest and slapped his cheeks hard. It didn’t have the desired effect this time. Cal loudly gasped in again trying for air- his tongue lolling from his mouth then retreating back in.  Montrose unceremoniously pinched his nostrils tipping his head back against the wall and breathed into his mouth. “Come on boy. Keep breathing.” Two fingers went to his carotid pulse, feeling deep. He wanted to see if any discrepancy could be found in his rhythm. ”Come on Calabash.” He shoved a second breath in him. “let me see those starry eyes.” Then a third was forced down his throat. Montrose brought up his fist, knuckles rubbing hard on Cal’s sternum. Cals sucked in a real breath this time, his eyes popped open.  “There we go. If it comes to a decision on who’s heart to restart I will always pick yours Cal. I know you don’t want that.” Montrose patted Cal’s chest and looked back at Magma.

Cal shook his head. “no please!”  he whined. His eyes went to Magma’s heart  monitor. Her rhythm was now going in and out of sinus tach. Her oxygen was too low. Her eyes rolled about her head as she panted hard and tried to suck in breath in hard gasps limbs fighting weakly to get free. They suddenly turned agonal. Cal sobbed again. “Mag!”  

Montrose grinned and went back over to her. His hand sliding between her breasts.

“Yes Magma.” Montrose coos at her smooth as silk. “You’re being such a good girl for me sweetheart”. His other hand digging under her panty strap feeling Her femoral pulse. “For me and for Cal.” He held Cal’s gaze as her heart beat disintegrated. She stopped breathing right then. Her chest going still. “Mmmm… that’s it sweetie.” He cooed at her. He turned to look Cal dead in the eye. “Respiratory arrest Cal.”

“Nooooo…Montrose! Please don’t let her die.” He was so dizzy still. His world lay dying with her. He could only watch as his Mentor ripped her underwear off at the hips then peeled it out from under her. Two fingers reaching between her legs to rub her right there. She choked out a sound clearly still conscious on some level.

“Mmmm oh I love it when they fight so hard.” He continued to stroke her kitty.

“Ughhh.” Cal yelped sobbing.

Montrose grinned. “Mmmm…. such a good girl.” His wet fingers  slid back to her femoral. It was actively fading. “Ohhh there it is Cal. She’s in cardiac arrest baby.”

“Ahhh.” Cal screamed in desperation as the flatline rang out “No!!!!”

“But of course, witnessed arrest is the best kind for survival.” Montrose bent down and righted her head before he forced a breath down her throat as he closed her nose. “Come on Cal. Come pump on her little chest.” He beckoned him patting between her breasts as he fed her another breath.

Cal stood but fell back his balance off. He tried again and failed. That’s when Montrose came over and yanked him up to his feet steadying him. “Come on Calabash, her little heart needs you! If you don’t want her to die you’ve got to Be a good boy for me.” He helped him over to where she lay naked. Here! Now Straddle her and pump her heart! You’ll have better stability in a straddle.” Montrose pulled him over Magma, as Cal was sobbing. He didn’t have the balance yet to stand. He buried his interlaced hands between her breasts and started pumping. “1,2,3,4…” he counted pumping her hard watching as her chest displaced her stomach and lolled back into place until the next pump. He willed her heart to beat. “Come on Magie”.

“That’s it Cal. Good boy. Work her little heart for me.” He grinned and snapped a laryngoscope back as he tore open a sterile tube. Montrose tilted her head back harshly. He placed the scope deep into her mouth. Visualizing her vocal chords he slid the thick tube down her throat with ease as Cal continued efforts on her heart. He blew up the balloon in her throat and fed her breath with the bag. Deep, full breaths as Cal worked her little heart without mercy all the while sobbing.

“Stand back Cal. All clear!” he murmured as Cal jumped down. He pressed the fully gelled paddles onto her chest and unloaded the full 150 Joules  into her heart. Magma jiggled as the jolt went through her. Both men felt for her pulse. “No pulse” Cal choked out.

“Charging!” Montrose announced. “200 Joules. Clear!” he sent the next shock to her heart. “No change. Breathe for her Cal.” He handed him the bag and pulled up a chair for him. Cal sank in it dejected, weak and dizzy as he rhythmically squeezed air into her stopped lungs. Montrose paused. His hand reached down between Cal’s legs and grasped his manhood. “ugh.” Cal cried out. He was rock hard.

“Mmm… yea. Good boy” Montrose nodded gleefully. He squeezed him a few times Then he mounted over Magma’s hips and began compressing her bare chest. “Watch me Calabash. Watch as I pump her heart…” he thrust hard, deep, eyes locked on Cal’s.

“Ahh” Cal sobbed as he watched his mentor pump life into Magma’s heart. He wanted her to come back, but he also knew it was probably not for the best. He didn’t know anymore. It seemed he didn’t know anything anymore.

[anarchblr]

"Over 15 years ago, the sociologist Mike Davis pointed out that due to mass livestock farming we are on the way to a global age of pandemics and it will lead us to catastrophe. Industrial livestock production is a sort of particle accelerator. More bodies in less space means more chances for the emergence of mutations or hybrid viruses and for their spread, regardless which virus it is. Global supply chains of giant transnational corporations with branches in half a dozen countries and markets in a thousand cities, alongside urbanization, do the rest.

[..] Forests are turned to lumber, after which greater and more intense heatwaves lead to a rise in forest fires, droughts, and desertification. Soil is eroded and farmland is turned into desert. Fertilizer, herbicides, fungicides, and pesticides contaminate the food supply. Landfills overflow with synthetic waste. Power plants fill air, land, and sea with cancerous particles. A chemical smog fills the streets in the cities and poisons human and other beings at every turn. Plastic waste breaks apart into billions of tiny microscopic pieces, infecting every living organism. Chemicals are dumped in the oceans, seas, and rivers.

[..] In addition to warming, the ocean is experiencing acidification and a loss of oxygen. A deadly trio which is steering us towards a sixth mass extinction of life on our planet, one where the rate of species extinction is 1000 times faster than usual. As the oceanographer Sylvia Earle held: 'Our lives depend on the living ocean – not just the rocks and the water, but stable, resilient, diverse living systems that hold the world on a steady course favorable to humankind.' The ocean covers some 70% of the Earth and is central to enabling life. Aquatic plants produce half of the breathable oxygen in the world. If the ocean dies, we die too.

[..] Wherever we find ecological destruction, we find industry. Industry is not neutral and there can be no adequate solution for climate destruction so long as industry still exists. Ending the suffering requires the complete collapse of industry. Or as it was aptly expressed in 2019 in the 43rd issue of Revolte, an Anarchist newspaper in Vienna: 'For the destruction of Industry, Work, and Exploitation! For Sabotage and Direct Attack!'"

-Elany, "Scorched Earth, Sick Bodies: The Necessity of Destroying Industry"

[tamarintoe]

Hello! This is a draft piece for one of three murals that I will be producing for the final outcome of my Final Major Project!!

Gosh, I’m so excited to finish it. The only thing that’s kept me going is that I’ve based the project on a topic that I’m utterly fascinated by and obsessed with. Do not ask me about the 1984/85 Miners’ Strike and its history and legacy, and UK mining/ industrial history for that matter. (Ask me, I’ll be happy to talk about it!!)

This mural is focused on the confusion of the strike, the violence, the brutality. The horses are symbols of Orgreave. The miner in the mid-to-late 1800s fashion on the far left is carrying a Davy lamp*, the bright flame alluding to the peril at hand; the threat to livelihoods and jobs denoted by the jutting shapes of colliery heads toppled. The placards will contain various statements, ‘Coal Not Dole’, ‘Close A Pit, Kill A Community!’, ‘Respect Picket Lines!’, etc.

*I LOVE DAVY LAMPS!!! Davy lamps were first introduced in the early 1800s by a man named Sir Humphrey Davy. They were purposed to reduce accidents by explosions that occurred due to the exposure of open flames, relied on for providing light, to flammable gasses. Early models were rudimentary, but their main feature was the metal gauze that protected the oil-fuelled flame from being extinguished and from flammable gasses, so it was believed. Unfortunately, miners were not adequately educated about the importance of this lamp until the 1860s following the Mine Safety Act. Accidents actually increased, because it meant that mines previously deemed unsafe were reassessed because they didn’t register highly for flammable gasses or low Carbon Dioxide.

The lamp experienced various improvements and iterations. It would be carried low at the hip, and its flame would signal danger regarding the quality of air in the mines. If the flame was large and glowing with a blueish tinge, it meant that high levels of flammable gases mixtures were present. If the air was low in oxygen, the flame would be extinguished. This was referred to as ‘chokedamp’ or ‘blackdamp’. Unsurprisingly, the lamps were not supplied by the mines. Miners had to acquire their own partly because of the tradition of buying candles from the company store through credits which, might I add, were only valid in company-owned shops. Miners were paid only in these credits, and taxed highly for their purchases.

Somewhat of a footnote; I’m pretty sure Sir Humphrey Davy did not patent his invention because he wished merely for it to be implemented generally. He didn’t care about profit. Unfortunately, those who owned the mines did and thus Davy lamps were not adequately implemented until later on.

[gallifreyrises]

I reviewed all of this season's episodes on my FB page, where only a few people care. This is me copying some of those here, this one being 'Interstellar Song Contest.'

It was fine. It wasn't brilliant. It was Russell T. Davies going for something really bold, then suddenly pulling all his punches. The Eurovision thing had me thinking, "Eurovision is fucking naff," (sorry to all those who like it) and then 10,000 people were sucked out into space, and I was like, "This is great. This is what I watch Doctor Who for." Then the Doctor survived exposure to space the way you survive a heavy night out, except he's that guy who doesn't even have a hangover, which had me thinking. "Haven't you watched 'Oxygen?' FFS." But then they gave an explanation for that which was kinda sorta plausible. If they'd really been in space, all those people would have died in minutes. Cool, fine. He ran around and did Doctory things, fixing stuff, Belinda was far more useless than Amy and Clara ever were, and the Fifteenth Doctor finally showed his teeth. Thank god for that, although it arguably came out of nowhere. More character beats developing his 'scary Time Lord Victorious' side peppered throughout his two seasons would have been nice.

But then it turned out that the other four people still compos mentis on the space station were tech/medical geniuses who happened to possess the precise skills required to sort out the whole mess (Belinda still = useless). Seriously? That feels like lazy screenwriting, like they couldn't think of an extraordinarily clever way for the Doctor and his companion to deal with it, so they whacked in some side characters to do all the heavy lifting.

And then they saved everyone in a way that challenged the suspension of disbelief (even by Doctor Who standards) and took the teeth out of it. No one actually died. It was too easy. The emotional beats felt off. We had the Doctor going off the rails, then ten minutes later, we had cheery pop music while they easily revived everyone in those pod things. Belinda said, "I was kind of freaked out by you," and he said, "Yeah, I was a bit triggered 'cause Gallifrey was destroyed and all that, but It's all good now," and she was like, "Cool. You're wonderful." If they'd at least followed that up with more tension between Belinda and the Doctor, or if they'd been bold and let the consequences of floating unprotected in space play out as you imagine they should (badly), that would have been far more compelling. And If people had died when they got sucked out of the space station, it certainly would have justified the Doctor losing his shit.

But...but....my final whinge....Bi-generation. I just can't get on board with that. I think RTD was wearing his bad idea jeans when he came up with that one. It sucks all the tension and high stakes out of everything the Doctor does. Sure, you know that if they totally twat themselves, they will regenerate, but they're not particularly keen on this because *that person* basically dies and they become someone else. Nine was kind of resigned in an English way and went, "Oh...cock" after he saved Rose. Ten lost his shit when he realised he would have to sacrifice himself to save Wilf, and then complained a lot. Eleven withered into old age on Trenzalore and was pretty psyched about it, but fair enough, in his case. And Twelve fought it kicking and screaming after he got fatally injured fighting Cybermen. And the state they are in after regenerating shows what a traumatic process it is: Eleven had the munchies, Ten spent most of it unconscious, and Twelve was a pished Glaswegian on an Old Firm match day (watch 'Deep Breath' after riding a train in Glasgow with steaming football fans...you'll understand).

But if they can split like amoebas and get on with life, nae bother, then it makes everything feel cheap and easy and low stakes. I did not make it through 'The Doctor Falls' with my dignity intact and have never cried so hard at anything on TV/movies, but as hard as it is to watch, that wildly intense emotional power and engagement is what makes it brilliant. I knew fine well he was going to regenerate into Jodie Whittaker, but that Doctor, that person, was dead. And the whole bloody plot of 'Twice Upon a Time' was that he shared that point of view and didn't want to lose himself/die/become someone else. Imagine how powerful 'The Giggle' would have been if Fourteen had regenerated into Fifteen, and that was him, gone. It would have been sad for Donna, and that, for me, is the point. But bi-generation is like having all the cake and eating it: you can get blasted by a giant gun, your current self doesn't die...you stay yourself, and you get another vague version of you knocking around, and it cuts the balls off...well...death. Even for Time Lords.

[crumb]

checking the Doug Davis tag 20 times a day as if there isn’t only about 8 of us huddled around the embers of a fire struggling to stay lit with just the oxygen from our wheezing breaths

[maliciouskorpses]

OSMOSIS JONES OC?! 🧬🦠

His name is Miles, and he’s a red blood cell sickle, aka a mutated red blood cell that can cause harm to the body. Not being able to carry oxygen, and being rejected by most of the society, he teamed up with Thrax and together they both worked to destroy bodies and get themselves a page in the books. I’m hoping to make some comics with him and Thrax soon!

Feel free to ask stuff about him and his lore :3 also his voice claim is Jonathan Davis. 😭

[usafphantom2]

How An A-10 Pilot Guided His Wingman to Safety in a Hypoxia Crisis

Lt. Col. Mitchell recalls a life-or-death moment in the sky, helping his wingman fight hypoxia during a mission aboard the A-10 Warthog.

David Cenciotti

A-10 Hypoxia

U.S. Air Force Reserve Citizen Airman Lt. Col. Timothy “Scream” Mitchell, an A-10 instructor pilot and flight commander with the 47th Fighter Squadron, places his hand on the iconic nose of an A-10C Thunderbolt II at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Ariz., Aug. 22, 2024. (U.S. Air Force photo by Tech. Sgt. Tyler J. Bolken)

With the plan to fully retire the type by 2029, the U.S. Air Force will decommission 42 A-10C Thunderbolt II aircraft this year, with the remaining 260 expected to be phased out in the next 5 years.

As the legendary “Warthog” approaches the twilight of its storied service, one figure stands out as a living embodiment of the grit, tenacity, and unwavering dedication that define the aircraft’s tight-knit community. That figure is U.S. Air Force Reserve Citizen Airman Lt. Col. Timothy “Scream” Mitchell.

With nearly two decades of flying the A-10, Mitchell was recently recognized with a prestigious safety award, not only for his actions during a perilous night flight but for a career that epitomizes the spirit of the A-10 and the individuals who support and operate this combat-proven aircraft.

In March this year, Mitchell found himself in a situation that tested the full breadth of his experience. Alongside Capt. Dylan “Mac” Vail, an active-duty pilot from the 357th Fighter Squadron who was being trained to become an IP (instructor pilot), Mitchell embarked on what was intended to be a routine 2-ship training flight.

U.S. Air Force Reserve Citizen Airman Lt. Col. Timothy “Scream” Mitchell, an A-10 instructor pilot and flight commander with the 47th Fighter Squadron, stands in front of the first A-10C Thunderbolt II he flew, tail number 9154, on the flight line at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Ariz., Aug. 22, 2024. Mitchell has flown the A-10, often referred to as the Warthog, for nearly two decades, exemplifying the dedication and expertise that define the A-10 community. (U.S. Air Force photo by Tech. Sgt. Tyler J. Bolken)

As an instructor pilot and flight commander for the 47th Fighter Squadron, Mitchell is no stranger to demanding situations. However, on this night, what began as a standard night sortie, would quickly transform rom routine to critical. In fact, Vail began showing the early signs of hypoxia, a dangerous condition caused by a lack of oxygen that can impair cognitive functions and motor skills.

A subtle threat

Hypoxia can be difficult to identify, especially for pilots, because its onset is often gradual and its symptoms can be subtle or easily mistaken for fatigue or stress. Symptoms like dizziness, confusion, lightheadedness, euphoria, and impaired judgment often develop slowly, which can make it challenging for pilots to recognize what is happening before it becomes severe, and increasingly difficult for a pilot to maintain control of their aircraft.

In the cockpit, Vail was struggling. His brain, starved of oxygen, couldn’t process the situation clearly. As the effects of hypoxia worsened, the situation became dire. But Mitchell’s calm and decisive leadership shone through. Years of experience kicked in, allowing him to quickly assess the situation and provide clear, concise instructions over the radio to guide Vail back to safety.

It was a night that could have ended tragically had it not been for Mitchell’s steady hand.

“I could barely think straight,” Vail recalls, his voice heavy with the memory of that critical night. A Houston native and a graduate of the Air Force Academy, Vail was in a dangerous spiral, both mentally and physically. “Mitchell was there every step of the way, simplifying everything, telling me exactly what I needed to do. It was his voice and experience that got me back on the ground safely.”

For Vail, Mitchell’s actions went beyond the role of an experienced pilot, they embodied a deeper philosophy, one ingrained in the A-10 community itself. This is a community where the mission is paramount, but equally important is the unwavering commitment to the safety and well-being of those involved.

“People always get lost and enamored about the aircraft,” Mitchell explained. A native of Lockney, Texas, and a graduate of Texas A&M, Mitchell is quick to shift the spotlight away from himself and the aircraft, instead highlighting the broader community that supports the A-10. “But the number one thing is the community that is dedicated to it.”

For Mitchell, the A-10 is not just a machine. It’s a symbol of camaraderie, a tool to defend and protect, and a centerpiece of a community bound by shared purpose and dedication. Standing next to the very first A-10 he flew, tail number 9154, Mitchell reflected on his long journey with the aircraft. His humor remained intact despite the passage of time and the wear of years spent in service.

“I’m old,” he said with a chuckle, recalling his search for some of the A-10s he had flown over the years. “I was trying to look for a couple of tails that I had my name on in the past, and I think they’re gone either to Moody AFB or the Boneyard, so here’s what it is.”

Mitchell’s reflections extend beyond the aircraft’s flight numbers and history. He shared a little-known piece of A-10 heritage, the unique artwork that adorns each of the 47th Pursuit Squadron’s aircraft. Dating back to World War II, these aircraft are emblazoned with characters from the “Dogpatch” cartoon series by Andy Capp, a tradition that the squadron continues to honor.

“The 47th Pursuit Squadron paid Andy Capp $1 for the copyright usage of his characters to put on all the airframes,” Mitchell shared, highlighting the deep historical roots that tie the squadron to the past. “Each airplane has its own character from the original Little Abner cartoons.”

U.S. Air Force Reserve Citizen Airman Lt. Col. Timothy “Scream” Mitchell, an A-10 instructor pilot and flight commander with the 47th Fighter Squadron, looks on as he stands next to an A-10C Thunderbolt II at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Ariz., Aug. 22, 2024. (U.S. Air Force photo by Tech. Sgt. Tyler J. Bolken)

This rich tradition, combined with a sense of pride and duty, has been a cornerstone of Mitchell’s career since he first began flying the A-10 in January 2005. From those early days as a young lieutenant in the 47th Fighter Squadron to his current role as a seasoned commander and mentor, Mitchell’s journey has been defined by his commitment to not only the aircraft but also the people who operate and maintain it.

“Creating new fighter pilots and passing on the lessons learned—that’s our job,” Mitchell said, emphasizing the importance of mentorship within the A-10 community. “We are providers of fixing problems for people in a dynamic situation, and we’re very good at it.”

Col. Aaron “Nacho” Weedman, commander of the 924th Fighter Group, also expressed pride in Mitchell’s efforts. He highlighted the significance of Mitchell’s actions during that night flight and the profound impact of his leadership on the A-10 community.

“His actions while instructing a student during a sortie in which the student experienced a serious physiological incident saved the life of another pilot,” Weedman said. For Weedman, Mitchell’s recent safety award is not just a personal achievement but a reflection of the ethos that has guided the A-10 community for decades.

The citation for the award specifically notes Mitchell’s quick thinking during the March 2024 incident, as well as his broader contributions to the safety and training of A-10 pilots. But as Weedman pointed out, the recognition also speaks to the experience and maturity that AFRC Instructor pilot cadre like Mitchell bring to the mission of the A-10 Formal Training Unit.

“His actions that evening highlight the importance of experience and maturity that AFRC Instructor pilot cadre add to the mission of the A-10 FTU,” Weedman emphasized. “This experience is leveraged to strengthen the total force, producing combat-ready wingmen for the A-10 community.”

More than just an aircraft

For pilots like Mitchell and Vail, the A-10 is far more than just an aircraft. It symbolizes something much greater, a legacy of camaraderie, dedication to mission, and the enduring reputation of those who have flown it and those who have been saved by it.

Vail, now a certified instructor pilot himself, is keenly aware of the legacy he is inheriting. It is a legacy shaped by the seasoned pilots who came before him—pilots like Mitchell, who ensured the lessons of the past continue to guide the future.

“I love the A-10. I love the mission,” Vail shared. “But what makes it special is the people, the community of pilots who have dedicated themselves to this aircraft and what it stands for.”

As the A-10 gradually phases out of U.S. military service (with a potential future in a foreign air arm), its heritage will not fade away with its airframes. Instead, it will live on in the stories and experiences of those who flew it, those who maintained it, and those whose lives were saved by it. And in the center of that story will always be the men and women like Lt. Col. Timothy “Scream” Mitchell, whose actions ensured that every pilot returned home safely.

A U.S. Air Force A-10C Thunderbolt II assigned to the 47th Fighter Squadron, Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Arizona, flies over Range 2 during Haboob Havoc 2024, April 24, 2024, at Barry M. Goldwater Range, Arizona. (U.S. Air Force photo by Staff Sgt. Noah D. Coger)

About David Cenciotti

David Cenciotti is a journalist based in Rome, Italy. He is the Founder and Editor of “The Aviationist”, one of the world’s most famous and read military aviation blogs. Since 1996, he has written for major worldwide magazines, including Air Forces Monthly, Combat Aircraft, and many others, covering aviation, defense, war, industry, intelligence, crime and cyberwar. He has reported from the U.S., Europe, Australia and Syria, and flown several combat planes with different air forces. He is a former 2nd Lt. of the Italian Air Force, a private pilot and a graduate in Computer Engineering. He has written five books and contributed to many more ones.

@TheAviationist.com

[rivzai]

introducing oxygen davis. like a gust of wind 💨

[bullet-prooflove]

#32 I was holding her hand, her hand was holding mine with Terry Bruno? :)

You’re unresponsive, Terry hears the call goes up over the radio while he sits in his car waiting trying to put the lid back on his coffee cup.

That means three things medically.

You’re either unconscious, dying or dead. He hopes that it’s the first one.

He gets to the scene just as they’re deploying the third batch of Narcan. He sees Davies stab the injector into your thigh and he prays to a God he hasn’t believed in since Catholic school that this time it works.

He sees the moment it takes effect; it isn’t as dramatic as in the movies. There’s no giant intake of breath, you don’t bolt upright, instead you start to breathe, your chest moving in slow, measured motions as your eyes flutter open. He’s by your side in an instant, his hand slipping into yours as he leans in close, his thumb ghosting over the apple of your cheek.

He doesn’t know long you were unresponsive for, only that it felt like a lifetime.

“Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.” He requests as your eyes meet his. He sees the flash of recognition in the midst of the disorientation and there’s a relief because anything less means there’s deficits from the oxygen deprivation. “Come on pretty girl, squeeze my hand for me.”

Your fingers flex in his, it’s the tiniest exertion of pressure but it’s there. Your lips move and he leans in close, straining to hear the rasp of your voice.

“Say it again.” You whisper.

It takes him a second to understand what you mean.

“Pretty girl.” He murmurs, when you squeeze his hand again. “Thank you for coming back to me.”

@legit9thlunaticwarrior @beardedbarba @wooshwastaken @justreblogginfics @storiesofsvu @anime-weeb-4-life @witches-unruly-heart @spaghettificationandpretzels @kiwiithecrazybird @kishie8 @whateversomethingbruhh @slytherqueen14

[notwiselybuttoowell]

Great swathes of the planet’s oceans have become darker in the past two decades, according to researchers who fear the trend will have a severe impact on marine life around the world.

Satellite data and numerical modelling revealed that more than a fifth of the global ocean darkened between 2003 and 2022, reducing the band of water that life reliant on sunlight and moonlight can thrive in.

The effect is evident across 75m sq km (30m sq miles) of ocean, equivalent to the land area of Europe, Africa, China and North America combined, and disturbs the upper layer of water where 90% of marine species live.

Dr Thomas Davies, a marine conservationist at the University of Plymouth, said the findings were a “genuine cause for concern”, with potentially severe implications for marine ecosystems, global fisheries and the critical turnover of carbon and nutrients in the oceans.

Most marine life thrives in the photic zones of the world’s oceans, the surface layers that allow sufficient light through for organisms to exploit. While sunlight can reach a kilometre beneath the waves, in practice there is little below 200 metres.

This upper band of water is where microscopic plant-like organisms called phytoplankton photosynthesise. The organisms underpin virtually all marine food webs and generate nearly half the planet’s oxygen. Many fish, marine mammals and other creatures hunt, feed and reproduce in the warmer waters of the photic zones where food is most abundant.

The oceans darken when light finds it harder to penetrate the water. It is often seen along coastlines where upwellings of cold, nutrient rich water rise to the surface, and where rainfall sweeps nutrients and sediments from the land into the water.

The drivers for darkening far offshore are less clear, but global heating and changes in ocean currents are thought to be involved. “The areas where there are major changes in ocean circulation, or ocean warming driven by climate change, seem to be darkening, such as the Southern Ocean and up through the Gulf Stream past Greenland,” Davies said.

Despite an overall darkening, about 10% of the ocean, or 37 million sq km, became lighter over the past 20 years, the study found. Off the west coast of Ireland, for example, a very large area of ocean has brightened, but further out it has darkened.

“Marine organisms use light for a whole variety of purposes. They use it for hunting, for mating, for timing reproductive events. They use it for basically every single part of their biology,” said Davies. “With ocean darkening, they have to move up the water column, and there is less space, they’re all being squished up towards the surface.”

Prof Oliver Zielinski, the director of the Leibniz Institute for Baltic Sea Research in Germany, said the darkening of vast ocean areas was a “worrying trend”.

“Such changes can disrupt marine food webs, alter species distributions, and weaken the ocean’s capacity to support biodiversity and regulate climate,” he said. “Coastal seas, being closest to human activity, are particularly vulnerable, and their resilience is crucial for both ecological health and human wellbeing.”

[maccreadysbaby]

A Hundred Ways to Become a Wayne

batfamily + oc insert

tw: none

wanna read more? here’s the table of contents!

want to read the first fic in the hundred days series so you understand what’s going on here? here it is!

short but crucial moments between the fam <3

part thirty-two

❝ REUNIONS ❞

TUESDAY — AUGUST 18 — 1:07PM

THE FIRST THING BENTLEY HEARD WAS THE BEEPING OF A HEART MONITOR. 

He took a deep breath. He was laying on something comfortable now, and his shoulder — the one that had been shot — felt like it had been tampered with. His right arm was close to his body and he couldn’t move it all that much. Something really warm was pressed up against the whole left side of his body, too.

His brain was still kind of hazy, but a different kind of hazy than before — less of a I’m-about-to-die haze, and more of a painkiller-high haze.

Still, all the painkillers could do was dull the endless aching that originated in his shoulder and reverberated through his bones. He wasn’t sure what had happened — did people stitch up bullet holes? — but it was still pretty painful. 

When he pulled his eyes open, he was blinded by the white lights of the cave’s medbay, and a shooting pain shot through his skull. He made a small whine of discomfort and squeezed them shut. Why were the lights so bright?

A hand landed gently on his forehead, and he almost started crying right then. Because it wasn’t Nico or Asten or Davis or just anyone touching him, it was the real deal, he was actually home, actually alive, and Bruce was actually touching him. He thought.

He peeled his eyes open again just to make sure, and the back of his eyes began to burn at the sight of Bruce, sitting in a chair not a foot from the bed in the batcave’s medbay, his grey-blue irises trained on Bentley’s face.

“Hey there, chum,”

Bentley looked away, (don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.) and instead, focused on himself. He was wearing his own hand-me-down Wonder Woman pajamas now (he’d never loved them so much.) His right arm was in a blue sling, and there was an IV going into his left hand. Really, his entire body was aching in some way or another, but instead of dwelling on all of that, he looked over to the warm thing that was pressed into his left side. 

It ended up being a very worn-down looking Dick Grayson that was curled up on the edge of the hospital bed, sleeping soundly, with an IV of his own in his arm. His black hair was tousled and messy, hanging down over his eyes, and he looked paler than usual. One arm was folded beneath his head while the other was extended toward Bentley, resting on his left shoulder.

He was home.

He worked up the courage to look back at Bruce, but when he plastered on a reassuring smile, Bentley promptly peered into the rest of the cave. The Batcomputer was empty, and Bentley couldn’t see anyone else.

Bruce kept brushing his hand over his hair. “How are you feeling?”

Bentley thought about shrugging, but that would be stupid. He also thought about trying sign, but he didn’t have both hands. He definitely wasn’t going to talk, lest he burst into tears, so instead, he lifted his left hand ever so subtly and finger-spelled: bad.

Bruce took in a breath through his nose, a sort of hazy film covering his eyes as he continued to brush Bentley’s hair back soothingly. “I’m so proud of you, Bentley. You made it home.”

Bentley really had to stare at the ceiling, good and hard that time. Bruce was proud of him? Proud of him for running away, for chasing a supervillain, for breaking into someone’s cabin, for getting himself kidnapped? How was he ever supposed to work up the nerve to tell him all of that? Sure, he hadescaped, he had made it home, but not on his own, only after his idiotic decisions had gotten him there in the first place. There was nothing for Bruce to be proud of. 

You worthless waste of oxygen, John Whittaker’s voice came and left him blinking back a sting in his eyes. Why couldn’t he do anything right? Every time he tried to do something helpful or good it always ended up backfiring, getting him hurt, getting him kidnapped, getting him laid in a hospital bed with Wayne’s at his side. Why couldn’t he do anything right? This time he hadn’t even attempted it alone — he had friends at his side, and still, it was disastrous.

Bentley Whittaker, you are a walking disaster.

Why did the insult hurt worse now than it had then? His father always called him worthless, useless, a disaster. Did it hurt worse now because the Wayne’s went out of their way to tell him he wasn’t, but he still really, really was? And he knew he was? All the evidence was laid out neatly before him: Bentley Whittaker was a disaster. 

And still, they loved him.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. Bentley looked around the medbay to keep his eyes occupied, at the other hospital beds that were to either side of his. Much to his surprise, he was currently the only one in the medbay, if he didn’t count Dick. Alfred (who he hadn’t seen before.) was running tests on the other end of the room, and the beds that were once inhabited by Tim, Jason, and Damian were empty.

Slowly, he lifted his hand and finger-spelled: Damian?

Bruce smiled fondly. “He woke up… about twelve hours ago. Jason, too. They’re upstairs now.”

Bentley sighed softly, then spelled: Tim?

“He still isn’t feeling well, but he’s doing much better. He’s upstairs as well,” Bruce explained softly.

Bentley glanced over at Dick, his eyes traveling across the IV in his hand. Dick? He signed.

“He’s okay, just a little worn,” Bruce explained, making sure to keep that reassuring smile plastered on. “You were gone for twenty-six hours, and Nightwing was out searching for twenty-three of them. You’ve been in the cave for about thirteen.”

And that made Bentley feel even worse than he already did. He knew that’s not what Bruce intended by telling him that, but it’s what happened, anyway. So Bentley looked back at the too-bright ceiling with a small exhale.

Bruce moved his chair closer with a small squeak. “Should you ever want to talk about what happened, we’ll listen. But for now, we’re just relieved you’re home.”

Bentley said nothing, but like a bell that was coming to save him, Dick began to stir. It wasn’t but five seconds before his bright ocean blue eyes flitted open, focusing on the rest of the room, then Bruce, then Bentley. He inhaled sharply, his blue eyes very suddenly and quickly brimming with tears, before he hugged Bentley as gently as he could and his his face away in his hair.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, Bentley found himself saying again. There was suddenly a hand in front of his face that finger-spelled: I love you.

So Dick still wasn’t talking, then. Bentley had forgotten about that part. He didn’t mind, though — staring at various parts of the batcave was good enough for him. Communicating thoroughly wasn’t really on his radar at that point anyhow.

For a while (a long while) Dick just cried. Which was fine. Bentley just let him. It felt like he was being eaten alive by guilt, anyways, so the least he could do was let Dick cry it out with him.

Dick’s pain was his fault, his mind kept saying. Everyone’s pain was his fault. Bentley’s. His father was the one who ran the experimenting facility. His father was testing the Synchronizers on other people so he could eventually do it to him. If he’d have just gone through with his father’s plan last year, Keene and his metahumans wouldn’t have a vendetta against Batman. The Secret Keeper wouldn’t be attacking them. If he’d have just done what he was told for once in his life, people wouldn’t be dead, his family wouldn’t be hurt, and Gotham would be fine.

Everything was always his fault. Why couldn’t he do anything right?

He forced himself to keep it together and stared at the ceiling some more. There had to be a way for him to fix this. To destroy the whole empire his father had built, for his family. There had to be a way to do it without involving Asten and Nico, so they wouldn’t get in trouble. There had to be a way to do it alone. Himself, so he’d stop hurting people. Didn’t there?

You’ve gotten yourself into this hole, claw yourself out, John Whittaker’s voice came.

He could do that. He could. After all, John Whittaker didn’t give up. He stillhadn’t. And John Whittaker’s blood was running through Bentley Whittaker’s veins.

He could fix it all.

But for now, fixing it looked like giving Dick a shoulder to cry on. And he could do that.

So he did.

—

The second time he woke up, someone was talking.

“I about decided I didn't like it so much, though, when I spotted that red Corvair trailing me. I was almost two blocks from home then, so I started walking a little faster. I had never been jumped, but I had seen Johnny after four Socs got hold of him, and it wasn't pretty. Johnny was scared of his own shadow after that. Johnny was sixteen then,”

Bentley pulled his heavy eyes open, glancing around the medbay. Dick was no longer at his side, and there was only one person in his vision — the one reading his favorite book to him.

When Bentley fully comprehended that Bruce’s seat had been taken by a certain Wayne with white-streaked hair, he pushed himself up.

“Jason?”

It was the first word he’d forced out since he’d made it to the doorstep of Wayne Manor, all raspy and weird sounding. Jason looked up at him, his bluish eyes dull with something Bentley couldn’t place. He was wearing a hoodie that Bentley was pretty sure he’d seen Dick wear before, and he had the hardcover The Outsiders in one hand.

CRACK!

Dad!

CRACK!

CRACK!

The sounds of a crowbar hitting flesh plagued his mind, and all of his keeping it together seemed to be futile. He hadn’t let himself cry thus far, not when Dick was crying, not when Bruce was talking to him, not ever. But now, when Jason was looking at him with his little white streak that was hanging down near his forehead, reading to him with his Crime Alley drawl, healthy and here and alive, Bentley didn’t have enough willpower to stifle the burn behind his eyes.

“Hey, kid. What’s going on?” Jason asked gently, lowering the book until it rested on the edge of the bed. Bentley brought his left arm up to cover his eyes, but it wasn’t much use. He let out a few small, pitiful sounding sobs anyways.

“Do you want me to go get Dick?” Jason continued, somewhat anxiously as he glanced around the cave. “I’ll go get Dick.”

“No!” Bentley croaked, uncovering his face and scrubbing at his teary eyes. “Don’t go.”

Jason didn’t move, but he didn’t exactly seem comfortable, either. Man, Bentley was just screwing stuff up left and right, wasn’t he?

“I just… Can I… have a hug?”

He really didn’t know what to expect from Jason — he’d always been particular about touching Bentley, abuse survivor to abuse survivor, so maybe the question was totally  out of bounds. Maybe Bentley should’ve thought about it first. (He wasn’t very good at that anymore.)

Jason steeled for a moment, blinking just a couple times, and Bentley looked away, trying (and failing) to stop crying. Jason was next to him and Jason was alive. He wasn’t  Robin, he wasn’t dead in a warehouse. He was alive.

After a moment, Jason replied: “Yeah. Yeah, you can.”

Bentley moved to the edge of the hospital bed sort of awkwardly. The whole thing was kind of awkward, actually, since Bentley was on the bed and Jason was in a chair, but they ended up making it work. Bentley rested his head on Jason’s shoulder and looped his (one) arm around his neck. He could feel his pulse under his fingers — he was alive.

Bentley sniffled deeply, tightening his hold ever-so-slightly. “I’m so glad you’re alive,” He whispered as a few more tears rolled freely down his face.

Jason tensed for a brief moment, and not a word fell from his lips. Had he ever been told that before?

A moment later, the tenseness left, and Jason let out an exhale.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” He replied, his voice thick with something Bentley couldn’t place. 

So was he. He was glad he was alive and Jason was alive and Tim was alive and Dick was alive and Damian was alive and everybody was alive… except maybe Davis.

That sent a pang of sadness ringing through him, and he balled up the back of Jason’s hoodie in his hand. He squeezed his eyes shut when a new wave of tears shook his body for a completely different reason. “I’m really scared.”

Jason adjusted his arms around him. “No one’s going to touch you here,” He replied, exhaling. “I promise.”

For some reason, it sounded more like a threat than a promise. But not a threat toward Bentley.

The child hid his face away  in the hoodie. “I love you.”

There was another moment where Jason tensed, and Bentley was afraid he’d said the wrong thing. Maybe he did. Why would he say that? He held onto Jason in fear he might let go of him.

But he didn’t. 

“Bruce said you read to me,” Jason said, and Bentley felt his hand move ever so slightly on his back. “I could hear you sometimes.”

Bentley sniffed. “I messed up a lot.”

“I was stuck. In the same memory over and over. I would’ve lost my mind if I couldn’t hear you,” He explained softly. “So, thank you. And I… I love you, too, kid.”

Oh, great, now Bentley was really crying. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but he could probably guess what memory Jason had been stuck in — the same one that Bentley had seen in the Synchronizer. And, by extension, it was all his fault. 

How was he supposed to fix a problem so big? Every time he’d tried it just seemed to multiply. Maybe he wasn’t hitting the right places.

If you’re killing a man, you shoot for the heart. If you’re killing a snake, you chop its head off. He didn’t need to go for the Secret Keeper or Dr. Keene or any other branch of the operation — he needed to aim for the most vital part, the source of it all.

Bentley needed to go see his father.

But right now, he settled for hugging Jason.

—

dedicated to @sassenashsworld 💚

—

tag list! (If you want me to remove or add you, ask in comments!)

@fleur-alise @sarcopterygiian @flyrobinflyy @skylathescholar @gayboss-too-close-to-the-sun @xiaonothere

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

Brazil's environment minister storms out after sexist remarks in Senate

Amid debate on Amazon road and oil drilling, Marina Silva faces personal and political hostility in Senate hearing

Environment and Climate Change Minister Marina Silva walked out of a Senate Infrastructure Committee hearing on Tuesday after a tense and hostile exchange with several senators, including Omar Aziz, committee chair Marcos Rogério, and Plínio Valério. The hearing had been convened to discuss offshore oil exploration along Brazil’s Equatorial Margin.

The confrontation escalated when Senator Valério told Marina—before asking any questions—that she did not deserve respect as a minister. Ms. Silva, who was invited to speak on environmental impacts and licensing, faced strong criticism from Mr. Aziz, a senator from the government’s governing coalition, over her handling of infrastructure projects, particularly the long-delayed paving of the BR-319 highway connecting Manaus to Porto Velho.

“You’re no more ethical than anyone else. You’re hindering our country’s development. There are more than 5,000 stalled projects in Brazil,” Mr. Aziz said, linking the lack of paving on the highway to the oxygen shortage in Manaus during the Covid-19 pandemic. Ms. Silva responded by saying she had become a “scapegoat” in the debate surrounding BR-319. “This discussion has turned into a hunt for a scapegoat—and that scapegoat is Marina Silva,” she said.

Mr. Aziz also blamed her for passing a bill establishing a new environmental licensing framework, approved in the Senate last week with an amendment from Senate President Davi Alcolumbre that could ease licensing rules for oil exploration. Business groups support the bill for cutting bureaucracy, while environmental advocates denounce it as a setback.

Continue reading.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Matt Davies :: @MatttDavies

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

September 11, 2024

Heather Cox Richardson

Sep 12, 2024

Today’s fallout from last night’s presidential debate between Democratic nominee Vice President Kamala Harris and Republican nominee former president Donald Trump has shown Harris solidifying her dominant position. Trump increasingly looks as if the anger he has been displaying is a way to hide the fear that he is losing control. 

After debates, surrogates for a nominee talk to journalists in what’s known as a “spin room,” where they try to spin the event in favor of their candidate. John Bowden of The Independent described his time in last night’s spin room as “the strangest moments of my political career.” As usual, Republican surrogates immediately attacked the moderators for fact-checking the debate.

But it was clear, Bowden wrote, that the campaign officials were panicking. Even Fox News Channel reporters said that Trump had performed badly, and Senator Lindsey Graham (R-SC) called the debate a “disaster.” But MAGA Republicans, whom Trump has elevated far beyond any position they could achieve without him, were lashing out on his behalf. 

Republican vice presidential candidate J.D. Vance attacked the moderators and doubled down on the lie that Haitian immigrants in Springfield, Ohio, were eating their neighbors’ pets, despite statements from Springfield police and the town manager that there is no evidence for such a statement. Anti-immigrant Trump advisor Stephen Miller melted down when Hispanic reporter José María Del Pino asked him where he got his figures saying that crime in Venezuela had dropped dramatically. 

The Trump campaign had told reporters that Vance would be the top surrogate for the evening, but after the debate, Trump himself appeared in the spin room to override his surrogates’ attempts to blame his performance on the moderators and instead assure reporters that he had won the debate. It is highly unusual for a candidate to go to the spin room in person, and his appearance demonstrated that Trump was aware that he was in trouble. Reporters seemed to agree: “If you won tonight, why are you here?” one can be heard saying to him. “Why not let the performance speak for itself?”

“Trump has come in the spin room and he is desperately trying to get the attention that I think he needs as oxygen at this point,” an MSNBC reporter told MSNBC host Rachel Maddow. “Is he literally standing there like he’s his own surrogate trying to get people to talk to him about his own performance?” Maddow asked. “Wow. That’s something. That is not a sign of strength or confidence in your own performance when you’re trying to extend past the final bell….” 

Answering questions did not appear to help him. When asked once again to answer whether he would veto a national abortion bill, he answered: “It was a perfect answer on abortion, and I’ve done a great job on that, and I’ve brought our country together.” And then he walked out.

All day today, he posted and reposted statements that he had won the debate—including a message of support from former Tenet Media commentator Benny Johnson, whose paycheck was paid by Russia—but it was hard to miss that Trump’s performance was historically bad. Sarah Longwell of The Bulwark, who studies focus groups, said that “[a]cross the board,’ a “focus group of swing voters from swing states” thought Harris won the debate. Longtime Republican pollster Frank Luntz went on record saying that Trump’s debate performance would cost him the presidential race. The Harris campaign’s ongoing trolling of Trump was perhaps even harsher: it posted the entire hour and forty minute debate as a campaign ad.

Meanwhile, by 2:00 this afternoon, Taylor Swift’s endorsement had prompted 337,826 people to start the process of registering to vote. 

All day today, reporters fact checked Trump’s statements, proving them lies. But lies have never damaged him; they reinforce his dominance by forcing subordinates to agree that the person in charge gets to determine what reality is. Victims must surrender either their integrity or their ownership of their own perceptions; in either case, once they have agreed to a deliberate lie, it becomes harder to challenge later ones since that means acknowledging the other times they caved.

That’s why the lie about the size of the crowd at Trump’s inauguration is so important: it is the foundational lie on which all the others stand. Harris, who spent her legal career dealing with criminals and abusers who depend on this technique, knew exactly how to undermine it. She made fun of it, making his “obsession with crowd sizes” a national joke. The jokes set him off not only because he cannot bear to be laughed at, but also because challenging that lie challenges all the others. 

Following Harris’s lead, posters on social media turned to memes today, setting Trump’s assertion that “they’re eating the cats,” to Vince Guaraldi’s theme “Linus and Lucy” from the Peanuts movies, for example, and designing the same statement as a Dr. Seuss book, as well as posting pictures of live pets wrapped in bread and rolls. 

Observers correctly noted that the racist trope of immigrants eating pets dehumanizes marginalized people who are already vulnerable, putting them in danger. While posters and media have repeatedly pointed out that the Haitian immigrants in Springfield, Ohio, are there legally and have revitalized the city, making fun of those sharing such a stupid lie has a different kind of potential to defang it.  

And, aside from Trump’s evident worry, there are signs that Trump is vulnerable. House speaker Mike Johnson (R-LA) had scheduled a vote today on the continuing resolution to fund the government before the government will have to shut down on October 1. That measure included the voter suppression measure Trump demanded yesterday in all caps. Today, Johnson pulled the vote. 

Republicans are also breaking with Trump over the idea of an interest rate cut. Trump does not want the Fed to lower the cost of borrowing money before the election despite the softening job market—cheaper money should bolster the economy and provide more jobs—and has vowed that if he is reelected, he will take control of the Fed, which is now an independent institution. But Republicans are backing away from his demands. Representative Dan Meuser, a Trump supporter from the swing state of Pennsylvania, told Jasper Goodman and Eleanor Mueller of Politico that he supports a cut. “You’ve got to put the greater good ahead of looking political,” he said. 

Today the share price of Trump Media & Technology Group (DJT), the owner of the Truth Social platform, fell to new lows. The stock fell more than 10% today, ending the day at $16.68 from a high over $60 a share in April. In May, Trump’s stock was valued at more than $6 billion, although the company is losing money and has very few users. The drop over the last several months has wiped away more than $4 billion of that value. Trump needs money for his legal bills and settlements, as well as his businesses, and can begin to cash out on his stock soon, but selling much of it was always going to be a problem because if he dumped it, the bottom would fall out. Now selling is a problem because its value is dropping. 

In the face of concern that Trump and Vance have been suggesting they would challenge the results of the 2024 election, the Department of Homeland Security took steps to protect the January 6, 2025, session of Congress that will count the electoral votes that will decide the presidency. They have put January 6, 2025, on the same security level as the Super Bowl or a major event like the U.N. General Assembly. 

Finally, today is the 23rd anniversary of 9/11, the day terrorists from the al-Qaeda network used four civilian airplanes as weapons against the United States, and Trump used its commemoration to demonstrate another dominance trait: that he will behave however he wishes. Trump attended a remembrance with right-wing extremist Laura Loomer, who has shared not only the false pet-eating conspiracy theory, but also the false theory that “9/11 was an Inside Job!” Recently, she posted an appalling attack on Vice President Harris. Today she posted that she joined Trump because “I believe in unconditional loyalty to those who are deserving. And there is nobody more deserving of our loyalty and unwavering support than Donald Trump."

President Joe Biden and Vice President Kamala Harris each issued statements about the anniversary. Biden vowed that the nation will never forget the attack, those lost, their families, and “the heroic citizens and survivors who rushed to help their fellow Americans. And never forget that when faced with evil—and an enemy that sought to tear us apart—we endured.”

Harris echoed Biden. She also emphasized the national unity the crisis created as people came together to deny the terrorists the achievement of their goal “to attack and destroy our way of life—our democracy, our freedoms, and everything we hold dear as Americans.” She thanked the military personnel who served in Afghanistan and elsewhere to root out terrorism, and urged Americans to “reflect on what binds us together as one: the greatest privilege on Earth, the pride and privilege of being an American.” 

All three were at a commemoration of 9/11 today. Trump and Harris shook hands, and he tried the dominance trick of using the handshake to pull Harris toward him, which she firmly resisted. His social media website confirmed that the world of professional wrestling is very much on Trump’s mind as he apparently tried to reassure himself he, and not Kamala Harris, is the dominant political figure in the country. He clearly doesn’t want to agree to another debate and is trying to spin his reluctance as a show of power. 

“In the World of Boxing or U[ltimate] F[ighting] C[hampionship] when a Fighter gets beaten or knocked out, they get up and scream, ‘I DEMAND A REMATCH, I DEMAND A REMATCH!’” he wrote. “Well, it’s no different with a Debate. She was beaten badly last night. Every Poll has us WINNING, in one case, 92–8, so why would I do a Rematch?”

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON