#DJ New York Jersey

[djinnewyorkcity]

The Role of a Wedding DJ in Making Your Reception Memorable

The wedding reception is the highlight of any wedding day. It's the time for the newlyweds and their guests to let loose, dance, and celebrate the joyous occasion. And while the wedding venue, décor, and food are all important elements in creating a memorable wedding reception, the role of a wedding DJ is equally crucial.

A wedding DJ is responsible for setting the tone and atmosphere of the wedding reception. They keep the energy high, create a fun and entertaining environment, and ensure that the dance floor stays full throughout the night. A professional wedding DJ has the ability to read the crowd and adjust the music selection accordingly to keep everyone engaged and entertained.

The wedding DJ typically plays a variety of music genres to cater to all guests. This includes current hits, classic wedding songs, and even traditional music for cultural or religious ceremonies. They also help the bride and groom choose the perfect first dance song and other special dances such as the father-daughter and mother-son dances.

The wedding DJ is also responsible for making announcements throughout the reception. They keep the guests informed of important events such as cake cutting, bouquet tossing, and garter removal. They also work closely with the wedding planner and other vendors to ensure that everything runs smoothly and according to schedule.

But the role of a wedding DJ goes beyond just playing music and making announcements. They are also responsible for creating a personalized and unique experience for the bride and groom and their guests. A skilled wedding DJ will take the time to get to know the couple's music tastes, personalities, and wedding theme, and incorporate these elements into the music selection and overall vibe of the reception.

One way that a wedding DJ can make a reception memorable is by creating a customized playlist. This means working with the couple to select songs that are meaningful to them, or have a special place in their relationship. This personalized playlist not only creates a unique atmosphere for the reception, but it also helps to create lasting memories for the couple and their guests.

Another way that a wedding DJ can make a reception memorable is by incorporating fun and interactive elements into the music selection. This could include playing games or having dance-offs to get everyone involved and having fun. A skilled DJ can also mix songs seamlessly, creating a continuous flow of music that keeps the dance floor packed all night long.

In addition, a wedding DJ can help to create a memorable reception by providing high-quality equipment and sound. A professional DJ will have top-of-the-line speakers, lighting, and other equipment to create a stunning visual and audio experience for guests. They will also have backup equipment in case of any technical difficulties.

When hiring a wedding DJ, it's important to choose a professional who has experience working with weddings. They should have a portfolio of previous events they have worked on, and be able to provide references from past clients. It's also important to have clear communication with the DJ leading up to the wedding day, so that they have a clear understanding of your expectations and preferences.

In conclusion, the role of a wedding DJ is integral to creating a memorable wedding reception. They set the tone and atmosphere of the event, create a personalized experience for the couple and their guests, and ensure that everyone has a great time on the dance floor. By working with a professional wedding DJ, couples can rest assured that their reception will be a fun, unforgettable celebration of their love.

FAQ

What does a wedding DJ do?

A wedding DJ is responsible for setting the tone and atmosphere of the wedding reception. They play music, make announcements, and create a fun and entertaining environment for the bride and groom and their guests.

   2. How does a wedding DJ make a reception memorable?

A skilled wedding DJ can make a reception memorable by creating a personalized and unique experience for the bride and groom and their guests. This can include a customized playlist, fun and interactive elements, and high-quality equipment and sound.

   3. How does a wedding DJ work with the bride and groom to select music?

A professional wedding DJ will take the time to get to know the couple's music tastes, personalities, and wedding theme, and incorporate these elements into the music selection and overall vibe of the reception. They may also ask the couple for specific songs that are meaningful to them.

   4. Why is it important to hire a professional wedding DJ?

A professional wedding DJ has the experience, equipment, and knowledge to create a memorable and enjoyable reception. They can read the crowd and adjust the music selection accordingly, and work closely with the wedding planner and other vendors to ensure that everything runs smoothly.

   5. How do you choose the right wedding DJ for your wedding?

When choosing a wedding DJ, it's important to consider their experience, portfolio, and references from past clients. It's also important to have clear communication with the DJ leading up to the wedding day, so that they have a clear understanding of your expectations and preferences.

[offsidenewsco]

"There have been seven coach firings during the 2023-2024 season alone, and that’s not even counting the one that took place before training camp began! With the regular season coming to a close this week, let’s take some time to reflect on these fallen divas and how entertaining it was to watch them lose their jobs."

Read more here.

[thelockin]

Videos for the new single released today by New Jersey rapper Tru Trilla. "Drop Jewels" ft Prince Ak & Juxx Diamondz [produced by Tone Spliff] originally appeared on the album 'XVI : Return of the Gods' which dropped two weeks ago. The single includes a special "I-71 Remix" produced by Qadir.

Both available together on Apple Music, Spotify, Amazon, Tidal Music, Deezer & more, while two separate videos have just been published on Youtube

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 7: Apollo, God Of Music]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 8.7k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

“My uncle, he is a doctor in Zabrze,” Ludwika says, red Yardley lips, Camel cigarette. No one cares if she smokes; she’s not campaigning to be the next first lady. Fosco is puffing on a cigar. Mimi sips drowsily at her Gimlet; you could use a few shots, but you’re making do with a Pink Squirrel, something sweet and feminine and without any bite. “So I go to him and he gives me a bottle of chlordiazepoxide.”

“Oh, Librium,” Mimi says, perking up.

Ludwika waves her hand dismissively; cigarette smoke wafts through the air. “Whatever. The next day I have my audition. A tiny man who thinks he’s God. And I give it a real shot, I try my best, I’m nice, I’m charming, but he doesn’t like me. He says my teeth are too big, like a mouse’s. This is very rude. I did not comment on his fidgety little rat hands. But okay, no problem, I have a plan. No one will stop me from getting out of Poland.”

“You drugged him?” you ask, incredulous, grinning.

“You are a criminal,” Fosco tells Ludwika. “I will call J. Edgar Hoover, you should not be so close to positions of power.”

“Listen, listen,” Ludwika insists. “Here is what I do. I thank him very much for his consideration, and then as I leave I drop my purse and things go everywhere. I filled it before I left my apartment, of course. Anything I could find, empty lipstick tubes and perfume bottles, old makeup compacts with broken mirrors, coins, hair pins, tissues, pens, gum, Krówki candies, it is an avalanche. And when he bends down to help me pick up the mess—I have to encourage him, ‘oh sir won’t you grab that, I am just a stupid girl in a very short dress,’ you understand—I put the pills in his tea.”

“How many pills?” you ask.

“I don’t know. You think I had time to count? Maybe seven.”

“Seven?!” Mimi exclaims, and you take this to mean it was a generous dose.

“What? He did not die,” Ludwika says. “I wait two days and then I go back to his office. And it is so strange, can you believe it, he does not remember my audition! So I remind him that he thought I would be perfect for the ad he is shooting in Paris. He keeps squinting at me and saying ‘are you sure, are you sure?!’ Of course I’m sure! A week later, I am standing under the Eiffel Tower with a bottle of Coca-Cola. And then I book a job in London, and then another in New York City, and one of my new model friends sets me up on a blind date with Otto. Lunch in Astoria at a horrible Greek restaurant. Who wants to eat pie made out of spinach?! Now I am here with you people, and the journalists love when I smile for them with my big mouse teeth.”

All four of you laugh at your table, an elite club, the ones who married in. It’s Alicent’s 60th birthday, and the ballroom of the Texas State Hotel in downtown Houston is raucous with clinking glasses and chatter and music and the shutter clicks of photographers. The DJ is playing Fun, Fun, Fun by the Beach Boys. Alicent is dancing with Helaena and the children, and it’s the happiest you can ever remember seeing her. Otto, Aemond, and Sargent Shriver are deep in conversation by the bar, furrowed brows and Old Fashioneds, today’s newspapers and tomorrow’s itinerary. Criston is standing with the men but watching Alicent, face wistful, silver streaks in his jet black hair, and it occurs to you that they must have grown up together: Alicent a 19-year-old bride and Criston her husband’s fledgling bodyguard, the person closest to her age in the household, near and trusted and forbidden, orbiting adolescent twins like Artemis and Apollo. You keep looking around for Aegon. No one else seems aware that he’s gone.

“Otto thought he died and went to heaven when he found you,” you tell Ludwika. “His Eastern Bloc defector princess.”

“He is going to bring my mother to the States. I would be anything he wanted me to be. I would be a model, or a housewife, or a nurse. I would be Bigfoot! But this…” Ludwika gestures broadly: to the ballroom, the city, the latest stop on the campaign trail. “It is not so bad. I never expected to serve the Polish people so far from home. You know how you stop communism? You show the world that capitalism can do more for them. There must be a path to a better life, wars must be ended, injustices must be dealt with. Aemond will do that.” She grins at you, exhaling smoke through her nostrils. “You will help him.”

You reply a bit wryly: “It’s an honor.”

“We are like four legs of a table,” Fosco observes. He points at Ludwika with his smoldering cigar. “You are a Slav fleeing the Russians. My family has ancient titles in Italy and yet no castles, no land, we are essentially homeless. Mimi’s father is a third-generation oil tycoon from Pennsylvania. And she was supposed to fix Aegon.”

“I don’t think I succeeded,” Mimi confesses.

“And then when it was time for Aemond to get married…” Fosco turns to Mimi. “Do you remember? What an ordeal. The discussions went on and on and on. She must be smart, she must be sinless, she should be from a self-made family, a real rags-to-riches story of the American Dream.”

“Right.” Mimi nods groggily, reminiscing. “And from the South.”

“Yes! But not the Deep South. No, no. Someplace Aemond could actually win. Texas, Tennessee, North Carolina. Or Florida, of course.” Now Fosco notices how you’re looking at him, because you’ve never heard this before. He quickly pivots. “But the weekend Aemond met you, it was settled. Nobody could compare.”

His tone is odd; it suggests backstories, history, mythology. Ludwika appears to be just as intrigued as you are, taking a drag off her Camel, her eyes narrowing until they are thin and catlike. You ask: “Who else was being considered?”

“No one,” Fosco answers—too quickly—and he and Mimi exchange an uneasy glance.

What did Aemond and I talk about the night we met? you think dizzily. In those first hours, minutes, thirty seconds? Where I’m from. What I was studying.

Fosco, a true Italian, then attempts to deflect by flirting. He makes emphatic, passionate motions with his hands. “You were just so captivating, so clever…”

“And young enough that Aemond could easily beat Aegon’s record of five children,” Mimi adds. Fosco clears his throat and glares at her. Mimi realizes what she’s said and gazes forlornly down into her Gimlet, mortified, groaning softly. You’ve had one c-section already, and no living son to show for it. At most, you might be able to give Aemond two or three more children; and you don’t even want them. You want Ari back. You want to touch him, to hold him, even if only for a moment, even if only once.

“It’s fine,” you try to reassure Mimi, but everyone can tell it’s not.

Ludwika breaks the tension. “You do not want twenty kids anyway. Your uterus will fall out onto the floor.” And you’re so caught off-guard that all you can do is smile at her from across the table, knowing, appreciative. It’s a strange thing to be grateful for.

“She’s right,” Mimi says mournfully. “They had to sew mine back in.”

Fosco pleads: “Stop, stop, I will need a lobotomy.”

Mimi slurps on her Gimlet. “It’s sad. I used to love sex.”

“Mimi, please,” Fosco says, wincing, holding up his palms. “You are like my sister. I prefer to think you are the Virgin Mary.”

Ludwika sighs dramatically and looks to where Otto stands on the other side of the ballroom. “I used to love sex too.”

Now you’re all howling again, rocking back in your chairs. The DJ is playing Go Where You Wanna Go by the Mamas and the Papas. Cass Elliot is the real talent in that group and everybody knows it, but of course any mention of her must be dutifully accompanied by: If only she was more beautiful. If only she could lose weight and find a husband.

“I think you like it, yes?” Ludwika says to you like a dare, puffing on a fresh Camel, red lipstick staining the white paper, blood on sheets. She combs her manicured fingernails though her voluminous blonde hair. “I could tell when I met you. You dress like Jackie Kennedy, but you are not such a statue. She belongs in a museum. I can imagine you at the Summer of Love.”

Fosco and Mimi shift uncomfortably. It’s not the sort of thing they would ever ask you. It’s too personal, too easily a segue into criticizing Aemond. It’s a usurpation of the natural order. Mimi guzzles her Gimlet and flags down a waiter to get another. Fosco takes off his glasses and cleans them with his skinny black necktie.

Sex. You think back to before you began to dread it. This is difficult, like trying to remember Greek words or British manners, which fork to use with each course. Memories from another lifetime come back in flashes: tangled up with your first boyfriend in his tiny dorm room bed, Aemond peeling off your still-dripping swimsuit on the floor of your hotel room during your honeymoon in Hawaii. You shrug and give Ludwika a nod, a brisk, ungenerous answer in the affirmative. “I always feel like I could keep going.”

Paradoxically, this does not end the conversation. Ludwika, Fosco, and Mimi study you with the same bewildered, gear-spinning curiosity. After a moment Ludwika says: “Not after you’ve finished, surely. I am half dead by the end if it’s good.”

“Finished?” you ask, puzzled. All three of them gawk at you, then at each other.

Aegon breezes into the ballroom wearing the Gibson guitar he bought in Manhattan, blue like the Caribbean or the Mediterranean or the crystalline waves off the coast of Hawaii, dotted with fish and sea turtles. Your eyes go to him immediately and stay there; you can feel the swirling warmth of blood in your cheeks. As Aegon passes the table, he squeezes your shoulder—brief, familiar, welcome—and Fosco raises his thick eyebrows. Mimi is too busy gulping down her Gimlet to notice. Ludwika chuckles, low and wicked, then slides a makeup compact out of her Prada purse to check her lipstick. Aegon goes to the DJ and yells something over the music. He’s fucked up already, you can tell, pills or booze or both.

Fosco stops a passing waiter. “Signore, did you hear who won the United Nations Handicap?”

The waiter stares blankly back at him. “What?”

“The turf race at Monmouth Park. I have $200 on Dr. Fager.”

The DJ abruptly cuts off the music. Aegon gives his guitar a few practice strums to make sure it’s in tune. He stumbles when he walks, he lurches and sways. His blonde hair sticks to the sweat on his forehead. He is woefully underdressed. His white shirt is half-unbuttoned, his denim shorts tattered; on his feet he wears black moccasins. There is a small gold hoop in each of his ears. Otto keeps telling Aegon to take them out, and every time Aegon ignores him.

“Happy birthday, Mom,” you hear him say to Alicent, and she presses a palm to her heart, her dark eyes wide and shining. “When I first heard this, it made me think of you.”

Otto and Sargent Shriver—the aspiring vice president—are glowering at Aegon. Aemond smirks as he nips at an Old Fashioned, amused; but he makes sharp, intentional eye contact with each of the three journalists. You will tell the right version of this story, he means. You will not print anything we wouldn’t want written, or my family will be your enemies for life.

As soon as Aegon plucks the first few chords, you recognize the song. “Oh, that’s really funny.”

“What?” Fosco asks.

“It’s Mama Tried.” You stand and begin clapping, then motion for the rest of the table to do the same. They obey without protest, though Mimi can’t seem to keep track of the beat. Aegon is beaming as he sings.

“The first thing I remember knowin’

Was a lonesome whistle blowin’

And a youngin’s dream of growin’ up to ride

On a freight train leavin’ town

Not knowin’ where I'm bound

And no one could change my mind but Mama tried.”

Cosmo sprints over from where he had been dancing with Alicent. He grabs your hand and tugs you towards the center of the floor. “Let’s go, let’s go!” he shouts impatiently.

“Call the FBI, I’m being kidnapped,” you say to Fosco and Ludwika as you let Cosmo drag you away.

“One and only rebel child

From a family meek and mild

My Mama seemed to know what lay in store

Despite all my Sunday learnin’

Towards the bad I kept on turnin’

‘Til Mama couldn’t hold me anymore.”

At the heart of the ballroom, Criston has swooped in to dance with Alicent, slow chaste circling. Helaena has floated off to the bar to chat with Otto, who keeps all his smiles for her. The children—Targaryens and Shrivers alike—are stomping and cheering and alternating between various moves: the Mashed Potato, the Twist, the Swim, the Loco-Motion, the Watusi, the Pony in pairs. Aemond whistles to a photographer and then nods to where you are holding onto one of Cosmo’s tiny hands as he spins around at lawless, breakneck speed. Of course this would make for a good image: you being maternal, you promising the American people that they will one day have not only a first lady but a first family.

“And I turned 21 in prison doin’ life without parole

No one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried

Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading I denied

That leaves only me to blame ‘cause Mama tried.”

Cameras flash and the crowd keeps clapping. Cosmo giggles wildly each time he almost falls and you pull him back to his feet. There is a hand skimming around your waist, a listless powder blue dress your husband chose for you. Aemond replaces Cosmo as your dance partner. Aegon’s 10-year-old daughter Violeta spirits Cosmo away; Aemond reels you in close, one palm pressed into the small of your back, his left hand gripping your right. When you steal a glimpse of Aegon—still strumming, still singing—he doesn’t look so triumphant anymore. His grin is frozen and artificial. His drunk muddy eyes go steely.

“I need you to do something for me,” Aemond begins.

Of course, you once would have said. Anything. “What is it?”

“I want you to cut your hair like Jackie.”

You’re so stunned your feet stop moving. Aemond coaxes you back into the steps. “No.”

“Think about how much more versatile it would be. Jackie is an icon, she’s sophisticated, she’s mature.”

“If you wanted a wife in her thirties, you could have easily found one.”

“Honey—”

“I do everything you ask,” you say, barely more than a whisper. “Everything. I wear what you want me to. I go where you want me to. I spend ten hours a week getting my hair fixed. I keep it up, I keep it presentable. But I’m not chopping it off.”

“You’re never going to be able to wear it down anyway,” Aemond counters, so calm, so rational, like your skull is nothing but incendiary feminine mania. “If I win, you’ll be surrounded by staff and journalists for years. You can’t be photographed with it down, you look about eighteen. And like you live on a park bench in Haight-Ashbury.”

“It’s my hair. I’m keeping it.”

Aemond leans in and says, cold and severe: “You’re my wife, and everything that’s yours belongs to me.” Then he kisses your cheek as cameras click and strobe. “Think about it. Now smile.”

You force yourself to. The crowd applauds as Aegon finishes singing and flees the dancefloor. The DJ puts on Light My Fire by The Doors. You and Aemond leave in opposite directions: he goes to talk to Eunice Kennedy, who is hugging her 3-year-old son Anthony to her chest; you return to your table to drain the last of your Pink Squirrel. You need something stronger. You need to be alone so you can collect yourself.

Now Aegon has shed his guitar and is standing with his back to the wall, smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to some campaign staffer—she looks like a girl, but she’s probably your age—who is gazing up at him worshipfully. She says something that makes him laugh, his head thrown back, his eyes sparkling, and you feel like you’re waking up from your c-section all over again, your belly split open and rearranged, aching, stabbing, nauseous.

“Are you okay?” Ludwika asks, scrutinizing you.

“I’m perfect. I’ll be right back.”

You hurry out of the ballroom, the music fading behind you. You slip into one of the elevators in the lobby and hit the button for the top floor, where Aemond’s entourage has booked every suite. As the door is closing—as only a foot of space remains—Aegon shoves his way into the elevator, startling you. The door shuts behind him and you begin the ascent. Aegon slams the red emergency stop button, and the elevator jolts to a halt.

“What the hell are you doing—?!”

“What pissed you off, huh?” Aegon taunts, stepping closer. You back away from him until you run out of room; not because you want the distance, but because you’re afraid of what you’ll do if it’s gone.

“Nothing. I’m so great, I’ve never been better, can’t you tell?”

He’s so close you can feel the heat rising off his flushed skin, you can see the miles-deep murky blue of his irises, open water, shipwrecks and drowning. “You want all this to be over? You want the women with their big, adoring eyes and their short skirts to disappear? Grow up. Stop acting like a kid. Ask for it.”

“Ask for what?”

“You know.”

If you touch him now, you won’t be able to stop. There’s nowhere for us to go. There’s no way out of this family, this year, this world. “I don’t. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Aegon barks out a sardonic, cutting laugh. “Yeah, you’re definitely 23.”

“I thought you loved girls young enough to be your daughters. Isn’t that what gets you hard?”

“You’re a fucking coward.”

“You’re sweating on me, you pig.”

“You want it so bad,” Aegon whispers as he presses himself against you, his ribs and thighs and hips, and you clutch for the walls of the elevator so you don’t reach for him instead. His left hand is tearing your hair out of its clips and pins so it falls free like you used to wear it; the right is all over your face, your jaw, your chin, your cheeks, touching you ceaselessly, ravenously, a blind man reading chronicles of braille. You’re trying to turn away from him, but he keeps pulling you back in. You’re breathing his rum and nicotine, you’re gasping in low, starved moans. It might be more intimate than kissing, than sex. He’s already felt your body. What he asks for now is your soul. His words are warm and aching as he murmurs through loosed strands of your hair: “Tell me you want it, please, just tell me, just tell me, tell me and it’s yours.”

Your palms land on his bare, damp chest, and Aegon starts unfastening the last buttons of his shirt. Instead, you push him away. Aegon lets you. He surrenders. “I can’t,” you choke out. You hit the red button, and the elevator resumes its rise to the top floor of the hotel.

“I’m really fucked up right now,” he says with sudden realization, swaying, staring down at his feet like he fears he’ll lose track of them.

“I’m aware.”

“I’m sorry. I think…I think I wanted that to happen differently.”

“I can’t trust you when you’re like this,” you say. I feel like I can’t trust anyone. Aegon looks up at you, his glassy eyes large and wounded. When the elevator door opens, you step out and he stays in, riding it back to the lobby.

In the suite you share with Aemond, you turn on the radio and spin the dial until you find a Loretta Lynn song. You go to the minibar cabinet and down two tiny glass bottles of vodka, something that won’t make you smell like too much of a drunk. You’ll have to fix your hair before you go back to the ballroom; you’ll have to change your dress. You’re painted with Aegon’s sweat and smoke. You can’t risk your husband noticing. You slide open the top drawer of the nightstand on your side of the bed and take out the card you keep there, the one that travels with you to each stop on the campaign trail. Loretta Lynn croons from the radio, wronged and wrathful.

“If you don’t wanna go to Fist City

You’d better detour around my town

‘Cause I’ll grab you by the hair of your head

And I’ll lift you off of the ground

I'm not a-sayin’ my baby is a saint, ‘cause he ain’t

And that he won’t cat around with a kitty

I’m here to tell you, gal, to lay off of my man

If you don’t wanna go to Fist City.”

You lie on the floor and peer up at the card in your hands: jubilant cartoon cow, festive party hat. You know exactly what’s written on the inside; it’s etched into your memory like myths passed down through millennia. Nevertheless, you read it again. The original message is still crossed out, and there’s an addendum below it in hasty black ink: I thought this was blank…congrats on the new calf!

You graze your thumbprint across Aegon’s scrawled signature. It’s smudged now. You do this a lot. One day his name might disappear altogether from the stark white parchment, from memory.

You close the card and hug it to your chest like a mother holds a living child.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What’s going on between you and Aegon?”

Alarmed, you meet Aemond’s gaze, two reflections in the vanity mirror. It’s the next morning, and you’re finishing up your makeup. Your dress and jacket are striped with black and white, your jewelry is silver, chains on your wrists and small tasteful hoops in your ears. “Nothing.” There is a lull you have to fill before it becomes suspicious. “He’s been helpful, he’s been…you know. Ever since Mount Sinai.”

Aemond adjusts his cerulean blue tie, studying himself in the mirror. He’s still wearing his leather eyepatch. Putting in his glass eye is the last thing he does before leaving the suite each day. “He was a comfort to you.”

“Well, he was there.”

“Because I told him to be,” Aemond says, resting his hands on the back of your chair. “Someone had to stay at Asteria to keep tabs on things, to let me know what you were up to. Aegon was the most expendable. Mimi and the kids make for good photos, but Aegon…he’s not especially endearing to the public. Those few years as the mayor of Trenton just about ruined him. I’d love to make him the attorney general if I win, but I don’t think the people would stomach it. Maybe if he behaves himself he can have the job for my second term.”

Eight years, you think, unable to fathom it. Eight years in a fishbowl. Eight years lying under Aemond as he tries to get me pregnant with children neither of us can love.

Aemond leans down to touch his lips to the side of your throat. “I’m glad you’re finally friends,” he says. “Aegon’s not all bad. But don’t let him get you in trouble.”

“I wouldn’t.” What did you and Aemond talk about before Ari died? What was this marriage built on? The senate, the presidency, civil rights, poverty, the Space Race, Vietnam, Greek mythology. Everything but each other. Dreams and ideals that would dwarf any mortal, would render them invisible.

“And watch out for any reporters from the Wall Street Journal. They’d kill for Nixon. If they can twist your words, they will.” He gets something from inside his own nightstand: the bloodstained komboskini from when he was shot in Palm Beach. He places it in your right hand, all 100 knots. “Give this to someone today. You know how to do it, you’ve always understood this part. Pick the right person, the right moment. Make sure there are plenty of cameras around.”

“Where am I going? Lunch with the mayor’s wife, that’s this afternoon, isn’t it?”

Aemond nods. “And a few other stops. Then we’re going to the Alamo in San Antonio tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

He recoils, reaches for the left half of his face, kneads the scar tissue there as nerve pain radiates through his flesh all the way down to the bone. Once you felt such agonizing pity for him; now all you can think about is the matching scar you wear on your belly, hidden and shameful and a badge of your inadequacies: your body too weak to protect Ari, your mind too pliable to resist being ensnared by the crushing gravity of this man, this family, this life.

“How can I help?” you ask Aemond, because it’s the right thing to do. And randomly, you find yourself remembering the statue of Apollo in Helaena’s garden back at Asteria, the god of music, healing, truth, prophesy.

“You can’t.” Aemond goes to the bathroom to force his glass eye into its socket. You depart for the hotel lobby where Ludwika and Mimi, your companions for the day, are already waiting. Ludwika is wearing a rose pink Chanel skirt suit. Mimi—relatively functional, as she hasn’t been awake long enough to ruin herself yet—is dressed in delicate dove grey.

Alicent, Helaena, and the children are scheduled to tour a local high school and library; Criston, unsurprisingly, is going with them. Aemond, accompanied by Otto, has a series of meetings with local business leaders and politicians. Aegon and Fosco are headed to the Michael E. DeBakey Veterans Affairs Medical Center to promise maimed soldiers that Aemond will end the war that carved out bits of them and filled the voids with screaming nightmares. The limousine you share with Ludwika and Mimi ferries you first to the NASA’s Manned Spacecraft Center. Mimi is entranced by the reflective surface of the helmets, coated with gold to divert blinding sunbeams; in turn, the astronauts are entranced by Ludwika, who leaves lipstick smudges on their cheeks when she kisses them. Next is a tea party hosted by Iola Faye Cure Welch, the mayoress of Houston since 1964 and the mother of five children. And as you nibble daintily at triangle-shaped sandwiches and trudge through small talk about flowers and furniture, you can’t stop smiling. You can’t stop thinking about how ridiculous Aegon would think this is if he was here.

The driver mentions one last stop, then coasts through midafternoon traffic towards the city center. You spend the ride touching up your hair and makeup. Ludwika offers to let you borrow her seduction-red lipstick; you politely decline. You step out of the limo and shield your eyes from the glare of the Texas sun. It takes your vision a moment to adjust, and then you realize where you are. The sign above the main entranceway reads: Houston Methodist Hospital. The air snags in your throat, your lungs are empty. Your hands tremble violently. The earth rocks beneath your white high heels. Mount Sinai is the last hospital you walked into, and you left with your son in a casket so small it could have been mistaken for a shoebox.

“Alright, let’s go,” Ludwika says, linking an arm through yours. Mimi, badly in need of a drink, is looking deflated and edgy. “We are almost done. And I have been promised a medium-rare steak for dinner! Mushrooms and onions too! The Statue of Liberty did not lie. This country is a golden door.”

“I can’t.”

Ludwika stares at you. “What?”

“I can’t, I can’t go in there.”

“What is she talking about?” Ludwika asks Mimi, who shakes her head, mystified.

“I can’t,” you whimper.

They’ve never seen you like this. They don’t know what to do. They listen to you, that is the hierarchy; but it’s too late to change course now. Journalists are approaching in a swarm. Nurses and doctors are gathering by the front door to welcome you.

He knew, you think, suddenly furious. Aemond knew, and he didn’t tell me.

“It will be okay,” Ludwika says, patting your back awkwardly. “We are here with you. Nothing bad will happen.”

“Oh,” Mimi breathes, understanding. She looks at you with sympathy that shimmers on the surface of the opaque, polluted lake of her mind. Then she catches Ludwika’s eye and skims a hand down her own slim midsection. Ari, she mouths, and Ludwika’s face falls.

The doctors and nurses are whistling and applauding; the journalists are snapping photos and scrounging for quotes. You feel your conditioning over the past two years taking over: straight posture, gentle smile, hands clasped demurely together. But you are locked away somewhere underneath.

“Do not worry,” Ludwika tells you softly. “We will talk, we will make it easier for you.” Then she and Mimi begin boisterously shaking hands and thanking people for coming as you make your way through the crowd of journalists and towards the main entrance of the hospital.

People are saying things to you, but you don’t really hear them. You reply with words you won’t remember afterwards. You nod frequently and go wherever you are led. Doctors are explaining new research into placenta previa and c-sections. Nurses are showing you a state-of-the-art NICU for premature infants. Someone is placing a baby in your arms, and you can’t do anything but accept it numbly. You can’t look down at it, you can’t allow yourself to feel the weight of some other woman’s child. You wear your smile like armor and let the photographers capture their snapshots, painting a frame around you, deciding where you live.

Then you are introduced to the parents, women in hospital beds and men perched in chairs beside them, just like the one where Aegon slept at Mount Sinai. They take your hands when you offer them and tell you about their small children, sick children, dying children. One patient just delivered twins. The first did not survive beyond a few hours, but the second is in an incubator and gaining strength. You recall the komboskini stained with Aemond’s blood and take it out of your purse, give it to the suffering mother, watch faith rise in her face like dawn over the Atlantic. But you won’t remember her. You cannot allow yourself to.

Outside as you, Ludwika, and Mimi are headed back to the limousine, the journalists make one last attempt to poach a headline-worthy quote. “Mrs. Targaryen! Mrs. Targaryen!” a young man shouts, clambering to the front of the horde and jabbing a microphone in your face. “I’m from the Houston Chronicle. Can you tell me how the senator feels about the failure of the most recent phase of the Tet Offensive?”

You are in a fog; you don’t feel real, this moment and this city don’t feel real, and so you cannot remember what Aemond would want you to say. “The Vietnam War has claimed too many lives already. We should have never sent our men there to die. But since that is done, the best thing we can do now is end the draft immediately and then withdrawal from the region as soon as the South Vietnamese are able to defend their own territory, which is their responsibility.” The journalist already considers this effort fruitful and begins to retreat, but you have one last point to make. Ludwika and Mimi watch you anxiously. “I lost someone in Vietnam. I met him when I was in college. He had a good heart, and he joined because he thought it was wrong for poor men to have to fight while rich kids got exemptions, and he was killed in action in October of 1965.”

“This was a friend?” the journalist asks, eyes glowing hungrily. Then he adds as an afterthought: “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

“A boyfriend. Corporal Cameron Marino from Schenectady, New York. People called him Cam.”

A solemn murmur ripples through the crowd. Hats are removed, hands held to chests. “Rest in peace, Cam,” someone says. Maybe they have somebody they care about in Vietnam, a friend or a lover or a brother. You wave goodbye and climb into the limousine. The outpouring swells as you vanish: We love you, Mrs. Targaryen! God bless you, Mrs. Targaryen!

In the lobby of the Texas State Hotel, you tell Ludwika and Mimi not to follow you. They have to listen. After some hesitation, Mimi heads for the bar in the ballroom; Ludwika asks the staff at the front desk if she’ll be able to make a call to Poland with the phone in her room. You take the elevator to the top floor. Fosco is in the hallway, on his way back from one of the vending machines with a Fresca. When he sees your face, his jaw drops.

“Dio mio, what happened?”

“Nothing,” you say, tears biting in your eyes. You pass him, digging your key out of your purse.

“Are you sure—?”

“Fosco, please. I don’t want to talk.”

“Okay,” he says doubtfully. Then he seems to get an idea and strides away with great purpose. You take shelter in your suite, silent and dim; Aemond isn’t back yet. You brace yourself against the locked door and sob into empty, trembling hands, at last hidden away where no one can see you, where no one can be disturbed or disappointed. You know now that none of it was healed—not the loss, not the revelations—but only buried, and now it’s all been unearthed again and the pain shrieks like exposed nerves.

It’s not fair. Ari deserved better, I deserved better.

There’s nothing you can do. Your hands ache to hold someone that no longer exists. You can’t unlearn the truth of what your marriage is.

There are two knocks, quick and rough. “Hey, it’s me.” And there’s such pure intimacy in those words. You know my voice. You know why I’m here. “Open the door.”

“I’m okay, just, just, just leave me alone—”

“Open the door,” Aegon says again. “Or I’ll get security up here to do it for you.”

Swiping the tears from your face, you let him in. He’s dressed in baggy black shorts, nothing on his feet, an unbuttoned stolen green army jacket. You once thought he wore those to play the part of a revolutionary from the comfort of his East Coast seaside mansion. Now you understand it’s because he misses Daeron, because he believes he should have gone to Vietnam instead. There are several dog tags strung around his neck; some of the veterans at the medical center he visited must have gifted them to him.

“What’s wrong?” Aegon’s eyes sweep over you, seeking, horrified. “What did he do?”

You can’t answer, you can’t breathe. You back away from him as more tears spill down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, hey, let me help you. Please don’t be upset. Did he say something, did he hurt you?” Aegon reaches out, and as soon as he touches you your knees buckle and you’re on the floor, trying not to wail, trying not to scream, and Aegon is pulling you against his chest—bare skin, borrowed metal—and his hands are on your face and in your hair, and his lips are against your forehead as he murmurs: “Shh, shh, don’t cry. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not.”

“Whatever it is, I can help.”

“I had to go to a hospital and hold babies and I, I, I never even got to touch him, not once, not ever, and I can’t now because he’s gone. He’s locked in some fucking vault, he’s just bones, but he was supposed to be a person, and those other babies are going to get to grow up but he isn’t, and it’s not fair.”

“You’re right,” Aegon agrees softly, still holding you.

“No one else knew him.”

“I did. I was there the whole time.”

“Only because Aemond made you stay.”

“No,” Aegon swears. “I was supposed to spy on you. He never told me to do any of the rest of it. I stayed because I wanted to.”

“You did,” you say, very quietly, weakly, conceding.

“And I’m still here now.”

Your lungs aren’t burning quite so much. Your tears are slowing. You unravel yourself from Aegon, averting your eyes. Now you’re ashamed; you aren’t in the habit of revealing to people how much you’re splintering like cracked glass, fresh fractures every time you think to check the damage. “I’m, um, I’m really sorry.”

“Look, I don’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories, but this is definitely not the most embarrassing thing I’ve seen you do.”

You laugh, only for a few seconds, and Aegon smiles as he mops the tears from your face with the sleeve of his army jacket. Then he turns serious again.

“Can I ask you something? It’s very personal. It’s offensive, honestly. But I have to know.”

“You can ask.”

“Do you want more children?”

More children. Because Ari was real. “Not now. Not with Aemond.”

Aegon nods, suspicions confirmed. “Can you do that sponge thing you told me about?”

“No. I think he’d be able to feel it, he’s…” You gesture vaguely. It’s difficult to say. “He’s big.”

Aegon didn’t want to hear that. He didn’t want to have to think about it. He flinches, just enough that you notice. But as much as he’d like to, he doesn’t change the subject. “What about the pill?”

“No doctor is going to write me a prescription without my husband’s permission. Especially considering who my husband is.”

“I hate this fucking country,” Aegon hisses. “Puritanical goddamn hellscape. Old Testament bullshit.” He drags his fingers through his hair a few times, then pats your cheek like he did before: twice, gently, playfully. “Come on. Let’s go smoke.”

“I can’t do it on the balcony. Someone might get a picture.”

“Okay. No big deal. We’ll go to the roof.”

You stare at him. “The roof?”

“You really think I haven’t already been up there?” He stands and offers you his hand. “You’ll love it. The view is fantastic.”

The view is good, but the grass is better. You know that it makes some people useless, others paranoid, but for you it’s always painted the world a color that is softer, kinder, lighter, more bearable. You and Aegon lie next to each other, smoking and watching twilight fall over Houston like a spell. You’ll have to shower and gulp some Listerine before Aemond gets anywhere near you. It’s interesting; each day you seem to acquire new secrets to keep from him.

Aegon asks: “Where would you be right now if you weren’t Mrs. Targaryen?”

“Probably married to someone worse.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Okay, but let’s say you weren’t. Let’s say you can do whatever you want.” He points up at the lavender sky and acts like he’s moving the emerging glimmers of stars around with his fingertip. “There, I’ve changed your fate. Who would you be?”

You ponder this. “I want to teach math to kids and then spend every summer break getting baked on some beach.”

Aegon cackles. “Hell, sign me up.” He lights a third joint for himself with his tiny chrome Zippo. “Those are the people doing the real work. Teachers, nurses, farmers electricians, plumbers, welders, firemen, therapists, janitors, public defenders. The normal, unglamorous types.”

“You don’t think presidents and senators make a difference?”

“Sure they do. But only like 5% of the job is actually helping people. The rest of it is schmoozing and tea parties and making speeches, because looking and sounding good is better than doing good. They’re addicted to vapid pretenses that make them feel important. You live like that and you forget how to be a human. I mean, look at Nixon. The man was raised as a Quaker, one of the most peaceful religions on earth, and now he’s planning to throw ten or twenty thousand more boys into the great Vietnamese meatgrinder and probably napalm the hell out of Cambodia and Laos while he’s at it to get the communists’ supply lines. The man’s got no idea who he is anymore. I’d feel sorry for him if I wasn’t so terrified he’s gonna start World War III.”

I wonder who Aemond was a few decades ago. “What makes you feel important?”

“Nothing,” Aegon says. “I’m not under any delusions that I matter.”

“I think you matter, old man.”

“Really?”

“A little bit. About this much.” You hold your hand up to show him the infinitesimal space between your thumb and index finger, and Aegon chuckles, his eyes glazed and bloodshot.

“Let’s do it,” he says with sudden, forceful conviction. “If Nixon wins in November, we’ll get out of here. I’ll go back to Yuma to teach on the reservation and you can come with me. You get a math class, I take English, or Music, or both, whatever. We’ll buy a bungalow out in the desert and make s’mores every night and look up at the stars. I’ll show you how to play guitar if you give me algebra lessons.”

You peek over at him, intrigued. “Is that all we’re going to do?”

“Well we’ll fuck, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously.” You giggle; it’s ridiculous, it’s paradisical, it’s insane how good it sounds. But surely that’s only because you’re high. “I don’t know how Mimi would feel about that.”

“She won’t care. She doesn’t want me anymore, hasn’t in years. Sometimes she just forgets that when she’s wasted. Mimi can go to Arizona too. We’ll load up the kids in a van and strap her to the roof.”

Now your voice is somber. “She was supposed to fix you.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says: slow, meditative, guilty. “I think Mimi and I have a few too many of the same demons.”

You roll over, push yourself up on your palms, and crawl to the edge of the rooftop. You prop your elbows on the ledge and gaze out into the city lights, the sky turning from violet to indigo to primordial darkness. Aegon joins you, staring down at the distant aquamarine rectangle of the hotel pool.

He asks: “You think I could make that?”

“No.”

“Should I try?”

“You definitely shouldn’t.”

“A few months ago, you would have pushed me off this roof.”

You shrug. “You’ve proved yourself useful.”

“That’s why you like me now? Because I’m useful?”

“Who said I like you?” you tease, smiling.

“You like me,” Aegon says, grinning and smug, radiant in the silver moonlight and urban incandescence. “You like me so much it scares you. But there’s no need to panic. It’s okay. I know the feeling.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You want to touch him, you want him to touch you, you want to study every arc and angle of him like he’s a marble statue in a garden: too beautiful to be mortal, too fragile to be divine.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three nights later in Nebraska, there is a knock on the door of your hotel suite. The nannies have herded the children off to bed; the adults are unwinding downstairs in the courtyard of the Sheraton Omaha, designed to resemble an Italian garden. There’s a brand new Jacuzzi that you’re looking forward to taking a dip in. You finish pulling on your swimsuit, white and patterned with sunflowers, a one-piece with a flared skirt.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Richard Nixon,” Aegon says through the door. “Naked. Horny. Please love me.”

You laugh and let him in. He’s leaning against the doorframe in Hawaiian swim trunks and nothing else, pink sunburn glowing on his soft chest. He holds up a brown paper bag and shakes it.

“For you.”

“What is it, heroin?” Instead, you open the bag to find small, circular packs of pills. “No way. You did not.”

“That’s enough for six months,” Aegon says, smirking, proud of himself. “I’ll be back again in February. Guess that makes me your dealer, babe. I don’t accept cash, checks, or cards, only sexual favors. You want to get down on your knees, or should I?”

“How did you get these?”

“I told a doctor they’re for one of my whores.”

“Maybe they are.”

You’ve surprised him, you’ve got him thinking about it now. His face flushes a splotchy, charming pink. “So, uh, you coming down to the courtyard?”

“Yeah. Right now. Just let me hide these first. Are there instructions in here…?”

“Mm hmm,” Aegon says, still distracted, studying the entirely unremarkable carpet. You stow the paper bag of birth control pills in the bottom of your bras and panties drawer, then walk with Aegon to take the elevator down to the ground floor. You both notice the bright red emergency stop button and share a glance, smirking, taunting.

In the courtyard, Alicent is struggling to pay attention as Helaena identifies each and every species of plant and explains where in the world it is native to. Fosco is simultaneously teaching Criston how to yo-yo and berating him for not believing the Cubs will end up in the World Series. Fosco has apparently bet $500 on them. Ludwika is stretched out on a lounge chair like a cat and reading a copy of Cosmopolitan. Aemond, wearing his eyepatch and a blue pair of swim trunks, appears to be arguing with Otto over the contents of a newspaper article. Mimi is alone in the Jacuzzi, bubbles rumbling all around her as she slumps against the rim, a frosty Gimlet clutched in one hand.

“Mimi, get out of the Jacuzzi,” you order.

“I’m fine!” she slurs, and you groan, knowing you’re going to have to drag her out.

Aemond is approaching; no, not approaching, raging. “What the hell is wrong with you? What the fuck is this?” He hurls the newspaper at you, the Houston Chronicle. The headline reads: To Mrs. Targaryen, ending the Vietnam War is personal. “Why would you tell somebody that? Other papers are going to start reporting this. You gave them his full name. They’ve found his school, his friends, his gravesite in motherfucking Arlington National Cemetery—”

“You set me up,” you say. “You didn’t tell me about the hospital.”

Aegon takes the newspaper from you and frantically skims the article. “Hey, man,” he tells Aemond as he pieces it together, attempting to deescalate. It’s not a skill you knew he possessed. “She was rattled, she wasn’t thinking clearly. And there’s nothing bad in this article. It makes her sound invested and sympathetic, not…um…whatever you’re thinking.”

“You don’t get it,” Aemond seethes. “Journalists are going to start hounding his friends, his classmates, people who lived in his dorm building. Nixon’s newspapers will publish any gossip they can dig up about what she did when she was in school. Things people saw, things people overheard—”

“What, the fact that she had one boyfriend before she met you? That’s worthy of a nuclear meltdown?! Better prepare for Armageddon, a woman got laid, launch the goddamn warheads!”

“She doesn’t get to have a past! She should understand that, she signed up for this, she knew exactly what was expected of her!”

“And what about your past?” Aegon says, low and searing, and Aemond goes quiet. Their eyes are locked on each other: Aegon defiant, Aemond unnerved. You try to remember if you’ve ever seen that expression on his face before. You don’t think you have. Not even when he was shot and half-blinded. Not even when Ari died.

“What does that mean?” you ask your husband. Still staring at Aegon—tangled in a thorny, silent battle of wills—he doesn’t reply.

There are swift, thudding footsteps. Otto grabs Aegon by his hair, hooks a finger through the small gold hoop in his right ear, and tears it straight through the earlobe. Aegon screams as blood streams down his face, feeling the ravaged fringes of his flesh.

“I told you to take those out,” Otto says. “Now remove the other one before I rip it free, and go get yourself stitched up.”

You do something you’ve never done before, never even thought of. You strike out with both hands and shove Otto so hard he goes staggering backwards, his arms wheeling. The others are yelling and rushing over. Aemond is trying to yank you to him, but he can’t get a grip on your swimsuit. “I will kill you!” you roar at Otto. “I will push you down a staircase, I will slit your fucking throat, don’t you ever touch him!”

Alicent is weeping, appalled, trying to get a look at Aegon’s damaged ear. Criston is helping her, moving Aegon’s bloodied hair out of the way. Fosco links his arms around your waist and drags you out of Aemond’s reach just as he’s getting his fingers beneath a strap of your swimsuit. Helaena is covering her face with her hands and wailing. Ludwika is shrieking at Otto: “What did you do? Don’t give me that, what did you do?!”

You are engulfed with rage, red and irresistible. You’re trying to bolt out of Fosco’s grasp. You want to claw Otto’s eyes out; you want to put a bullet in him. As you struggle, you catch a glimpse of the Jacuzzi. You don’t see Mimi anymore.

“Wait,” you plead, but nobody hears you over the noise. You look desperately at Fosco. “Where’s Mimi?!”

Once he figures out what you’re trying to say, he whirls towards the Jacuzzi. “No!” he bellows, releasing you, and careens across the courtyard. You dash after him. Now the others understand, and they come running too. You see it just before Fosco dives in: there is a shadow at the bottom of the Jacuzzi. When he bursts up though the roiling water, he is carrying Mimi, limp and unconscious and blue.

Everyone is shouting at once. Fosco lays Mimi down on the cobblestones of the courtyard. Criston sends Ludwika to call an ambulance, kneels beside Mimi, checks for a pulse. Then he begins CPR. When he breathes air into her flooded lungs, there is no response, no resurrection.

“No, no, no, she has to be alright!” Aemond says, and everyone knows why. If she’s not, this will consume the headlines for days: no victorious campaigning, no speeches or photos, just a drowned alcoholic with a damning autopsy report.

“Oh my god,” Otto moans, pacing. “This can’t be happening, not this year, not now…”

Alicent seizes your hand and squeezes it until you think it will break. She is reciting prayers in Greek. Helaena is curled up under a butterfly bush, sobbing hysterically. When he realizes this, Otto hurries to comfort her.

“Don’t watch, Helaena. Let’s go inside, I’ll walk with you, there’s nothing more we can do here.”

“Mimi?!” Aegon commands, slapping her hard across the face. “Mimi, come on, wake up! Mimi? Mimi!” She’s still motionless, she’s still blue. Aegon turns to you, blood smeared all over the right side of his face. He’s petrified, he’s in shock. “I think she’s…she’s…”

“She’s gone,” Criston says; and he lifts his palms from her hollow body. The silent sky above is a labyrinth of bad stars.

[disciplined-cornfed]

Rome wasn't built in a day

Alex had never expected his college life to take this kind of turn. He’d moved to New York for school, planning to live on campus like most students, but when he found a better deal on an off-campus apartment that financial aid would cover, he jumped on it. The apartment was in a decent neighborhood, close to the subway, and the landlord didn’t ask too many questions. Seemed like a win.

What he hadn’t planned on, though, was Frank—his new roommate.

Frank was… something else. The guy was like a time capsule from a decade ago, straight out of Jersey Shore. From the gelled-back hair, the deep tan, ridiculous yelling at football and ufc matches every weekend, the flashy chains, to the relentless love of tank tops and gold watches. Alex wasn’t sure if Frank was for real or if this was just an elaborate, extended joke.

But here’s the thing: despite his douchey exterior, Frank was actually a pretty nice guy. Sure, he blasted club music at ungodly hours and flexed in the mirror every time he passed it, but Frank was always chill. He’d offer Alex food whenever he cooked, made sure the apartment was clean, and always gave him a heads-up when he had people over. Plus, Frank clearly knew what he was doing in the gym. The guy was shredded, and Alex had to admit, Frank’s discipline when it came to his diet and workout routine was impressive.

It didn’t take long before Alex’s curiosity got the best of him.

One day, after weeks of seeing Frank pound protein shakes and head to the gym religiously, Alex asked him for some advice. He had always been a casual gym-goer, but seeing Frank’s dedication made him wonder if he could up his own game.

“Yo, Frank,” Alex said one afternoon as they sat in the living room. “What do you usually eat for those gains, man? And how do you stay so consistent?”

Frank grinned, pausing the DJ Pauly D remix playing on his speakers. “Bro, it’s all about focus foods and the right lifts. Stick to lean meats, eggs, beans, lots of veggies. And you gotta hit the weights hard. No shortcuts.”

Alex nodded, scribbling down some notes on his phone. “Got any recommendations? Like content or something I can watch?”

Frank’s grin grew wider. “Oh, for sure. I’ll send you some stuff. There’s Dom Mazzetti, Vinny Guadagnino—some good shit, bro. But hey, I’ll send you my playlist too. Got a WAV file I use at the gym that keeps me hyped.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “A playlist?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank said, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s got some fire tracks. Also, I threw in some personal affirmations underneath it, helps me stay focused during my lifts. You probably won’t even notice them, but they help, bro. Trust me.”

Alex wasn’t really buying into the whole “subliminal affirmation” thing. It sounded like some weird self-help nonsense. But Frank was shredded, and if these little tricks worked for him, maybe they were worth a shot.

Later that evening, Alex plugged in his headphones and hit play on Frank’s WAV file. It started with “Lucky, Lucky, Lucky Me”—a male cover that felt oddly calming. The song transitioned into upbeat remixes like “Fireball” and other club tracks that seemed to pump adrenaline into his veins. Somewhere in between, Sinatra’s smooth voice made an appearance, bringing a strange, nostalgic energy to the mix.

As the playlist played, Alex caught faint whispers beneath the music—barely noticeable. “You love the gym. You crave the weights. Tanning makes you feel amazing. You rep the Italian pride with every lift.”

He chuckled to himself. This subliminal shit can’t be real, he thought. But, whatever—Frank swears by it.

The playlist ended with “Lucky, Lucky Me” again, and as Alex dozed off that night, the tune echoed faintly in his head.

The changes didn’t happen overnight, but as the days went by, Alex began to notice subtle differences. It started with his workouts. He’d always been someone who worked out occasionally, but now there was something different. One morning, as he walked past the gym on his way to class, he felt an urge—a need to lift. It wasn’t just about getting in shape anymore. Something about the weights called to him, pulling him in.

He ended up inside, grabbing a set of dumbbells and diving into a full workout. By the time he finished, he was drenched in sweat, but instead of feeling exhausted, he felt exhilarated. There was a rush—an energy that coursed through him, leaving him wanting more.

From that point on, the gym became part of his daily routine. At first, he didn’t even realize it was happening. He started following Frank’s tips—lifting heavier, focusing on compound movements, and pushing himself harder with each session. His muscles responded quickly, growing faster than they ever had before. His shirts started to fit tighter, hugging his chest and arms in ways they never had before. Every time he looked in the mirror, he couldn’t help but flex, admiring his progress.

It wasn’t just the gym either. One afternoon, Alex caught himself in front of the bathroom mirror, noticing how pale his skin looked under the fluorescent lights. Without thinking much of it, he booked an appointment at the tanning salon down the street. After his first session, he looked at himself in the mirror, marveling at the golden glow on his skin. It made him feel good, confident—like he was stepping into a new version of himself.

Tanning became part of his routine, just like the gym. He started looking forward to that golden glow, the way it made his muscles stand out more, and how it just felt right.

One weekend, Alex found himself wandering into a clothing store, drawn to a section of tank tops with bold prints—Italian flags, American flags, vibrant colors that screamed confidence. He picked up a few without thinking twice, the fabric feeling perfect against his newly defined arms. When he got home and slipped into one of the tanks, he stood in front of the mirror, flexing his biceps. The tank hugged his body in all the right places, and as he admired his reflection, a grin spread across his face.

Damn, I look good.

It wasn’t just the clothes that made him feel this way—it was the pride, the feeling of representing his heritage with every lift, every flex. It felt right.

The most surprising change came with his voice. At first, it was barely noticeable—a slight shift in his accent, a few new words slipping into his vocabulary. But as the weeks went on, the transformation in his speech became undeniable. His voice took on a thicker Jersey inflection, and words like “bro” and “yo” started slipping out naturally, almost without him realizing it. He spoke with more confidence, more swagger, his words carrying a weight that hadn’t been there before.

He even noticed how loud he’d become, but it wasn’t obnoxious—it felt like he was owning the room. His friends started to comment on it, but Alex didn’t mind. It felt like the way he was supposed to talk, like his voice was finally matching the rest of his transformation.

One night, Alex found himself scrolling through YouTube, where he came across a Dom Mazzetti video. He clicked on it, expecting to laugh at the over-the-top persona, but something else happened. As Dom joked about gym culture, diet, and lifting, Alex found himself nodding along, relating to the lifestyle. The gym wasn’t just a place to work out anymore—it was part of who he was becoming.

The next few weeks passed in a blur. Alex’s days revolved around the gym, tanning, and repping his heritage with pride. He found himself following more content creators who embodied the same mindset—guys who lived for the grind, the lifts, and the pride in who they were.

His roommate Frank noticed the changes, too. “Bro, you’re looking jacked,” Frank said one afternoon as Alex flexed in the mirror before heading out to the gym. “You flexing the gains hard now.”

Alex grinned, running a hand through his hair, which he’d started gelling back every morning. “Yeah, man. It just feels right, you know?”

Frank clapped him on the shoulder, a proud smirk on his face. “Told ya. Once you get in the groove, there’s no going back. You’re one of us now, bro. Tanning, lifting, and heritage. Welcome to the crew.”

Alex chuckled, feeling Frank’s words sink in. Wasn’t just about the workouts or the diet no more. It was the whole package—the attitude, the pride, the way he carried himself. He’d become confident, bold, and unapologetic. The gym had become his temple, and every flex in the mirror, every perfectly tanned muscle, reminded him of how far he’d come.

He spoke with more confidence now, his voice carrying a thick Jersey accent that seemed to come naturally. Words like “bro” and “yo” slipped out effortlessly, and he found himself embracing the louder, more assertive side of himself. Even his walk had changed—there was more swagger, more presence.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

A few weeks later, Alex and Frank were sitting in the living room, scrolling through profiles of potential new roommates. Their lease was ending soon, and they needed to find someone to fill the third room. Frank leaned back in his chair, sipping a protein shake as he swiped through a list of candidates.

“Yo, check this one out,” Alex said, pausing on a profile. “Marco Ricci. Italian last name.”

Frank raised an eyebrow and leaned in, studying the screen. “Oh shit, an Italian? That’s promising.”

They opened Marco’s profile, but instead of seeing someone flexing or rocking a tan, Marco looked... pretty regular. He wasn’t out of shape, but he wasn’t exactly lifting heavy either. Pale, with a pretty average physique, he was the kind of guy who didn’t seem to spend much time at the gym. His shirt was plain, and his expression, while friendly, was far from the confident swagger Alex and Frank had come to expect in their circle.

Alex chuckled, nudging Frank. “Dude’s kinda pasty, huh?”

Frank smirked. “Yeah, bro. Definitely needs some work. But Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know? He’s got the Italian blood—that’s what counts. We can mold him.”

Alex nodded, his mind already racing. Marco might not be there yet, but with the right guidance, who knows? The guy had potential. He just needed some direction.

“Yeah,” Alex said, swiping right on Marco’s profile. “We’ll get him there. If he’s down to move in, I have the perfect playlist in mind."

Frank chuckled deeply, shaking his head. “Bro, he won’t know what hit him.”

Alex grinned, flexing in the mirror nearby. “Hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day, right?”

Frank laughed again, raising his protein shake in a mock toast. “Damn straight, bro."

WANNA BECOME A GUIDO FOR REAL? Try this subliminal:

Guido Subliminal (Accent, Mindset, Discipline, Extreme Confidence)

[mariacallous]

If anyone can rally up a base, it’s Taylor Swift.

When sexually explicit, likely AI-generated, fake images of Swift circulated on social media this week, it galvanized her fans. Swifties found phrases and hashtags related to the images and flooded them with videos and photos of Swift performing. “Protect Taylor Swift” went viral, trending as Swifties spoke out against not just the Swift deepfakes, but all nonconsensual, explicit images made of women.

Swift, arguably the most famous woman in the world right now, has become the high-profile victim of an all-too-frequent form of harassment. She has yet to comment on the photos publicly, but her status gives her power to wield in a situation where so many women have been left with little recourse. Deepfake porn is becoming more common as generative artificial intelligence gets better: 113,000 deepfake videos were uploaded to the most popular porn websites in the first nine months of 2023, a significant increase to the 73,000 videos uploaded throughout 2022. In 2019, research from a startup found that 96 percent of deepfakes on the internet were pornographic.

The content is easy to find on search engines and social media, and has affected other female celebrities and teenagers. Yet, many people don’t understand the full extent of the problem or its impact. Swift, and the media mania around her, has the potential to change that.

“It does feel like this could be one of those trigger events” that could lead to legal and societal changes around nonconsensual deepfakes, says Sam Gregory, executive director of Witness, a nonprofit organization focused on using images and videos for protecting human rights. But Gregory says people still don’t understand how common deepfake porn is, and how harmful and violating it can be to victims.

If anything, this deepfake disaster is reminiscent of the 2014 iCloud leak that led to nude photos of celebrities like Jennifer Lawrence and Kate Upton spreading online, prompting calls for greater protections on people's digital identities. Apple ultimately ramped up security features.

A handful of states have laws around nonconsensual deepfakes, and there are moves to ban it on the federal level, too. Rep. Joseph Morelle (D-New York) has introduced a bill in Congress that would make it illegal to create and share deepfake porn without a person’s consent. Another House bill from Rep. Yvette Clarke (D-New York) seeks to give legal recourse to victims of deepfake porn. Rep. Tom Kean, Jr. (R-New Jersey), who in November introduced a bill that would require the labeling of AI content, used the viral Swift moment to draw attention to his efforts: “Whether the victim is Taylor Swift or any young person across our country—we need to establish safeguards to combat this alarming trend,” Kean said in a statement.

This isn’t the first time that Swift or Swifties have tried to hold platforms and people accountable. In 2017, Swift won a lawsuit she brought against a radio DJ who she claimed groped her during a meet-and-greet. She was awarded $1—the amount she sued for, and what her attorney Douglas Baldridge called a symbolic sum “the value of which is immeasurable to all women in this situation.”

Last fall, tens of thousands of people registered to vote after the superstar posted a link to Vote.org on Instagram. And in 2022, her fan base, so enraged after waiting hours to buy tickets to the Eras Tour only to be beaten out by bots, reignited conversation around antitrust issues with Ticketmaster and Live Nation’s mega-merger. A cringy Senate hearing followed, and an investigation into Live Nation’s agreements with venues and artists is ongoing.

Swift and her fans could advocate for legal changes at the federal level to pass. But their outrage could do something else: lead platforms to take notice. “When you have a really massive group of users saying this content is unacceptable in this very high-profile way, the power there is about what it says to the platform about what users will and won’t tolerate,” says Cailin O’Connor, a professor of philosophy at University of California, Irvine and coauthor of The Misinformation Age: How False Beliefs Spread. X did not respond to a request for comment on the images and its moderation efforts regarding deepfake porn. Elon Musk bought the site in 2022 and quickly gutted its moderation teams. Advertisers have also dropped off recently after Musk’s apparent endorsement of an antisemitic conspiracy theory.

It’s not clear whether Swift will take on this issue. A representative for Swift did not respond to a request for comment for this story. Harassment of female celebrities is frequent and often brushed aside, but deepfakes are harming them and others without the same power. This could be a moment for Swift to use her powerful platform—or at least for her fans to push the issue before the public.

[determinate-negation]

Those looking for a hip-hop starting point have landed on one, turning this year into a 50th-birthday celebration. Aug. 11, 1973 was the date a young Clive Campbell, known as DJ Kool Herc around his Bronx stomping grounds, deejayed a back-to-school party for his younger sister in the community room of an apartment building on Sedgwick Avenue. Campbell, who was born and spent his early years in Jamaica before his family moved to the Bronx, was still a teen himself at that time, just 18, when he began extending the musical breaks of the records he was playing to create a different kind of dancing opportunity. He’d started speaking over the beat, reminiscent of the “toasting” style heard in Jamaica. It wasn’t long before the style could be heard all over the city — and began to spread around the New York City metro region. Among those who started to hear about it were some young men across the river in Englewood, New Jersey, who started making up rhymes to go along with the beats. In 1979, they auditioned as rappers for Sylvia Robinson, a singer turned music producer who co-founded Sugar Hill Records. As The Sugarhill Gang, they put out “ Rapper’s Delight ” and introduced the country to a record that would reach as high as 36 on Billboard’s Top 100 chart list, and even make it to No. 1 in some European countries.

50 years ago today!

[yippeeometer]

itty bitty little northeast hcs bc the asks r dry :(((

they are NOT fun cool life of the party they are SAD GAY LOSERS i do feel this should be broadcast on national tv to confirm the canonness.

that being said. one family dinner with them is actually illegal under the geneva convention due to high level of mental torture.

things start off lovely. they go to maine's little cabin-in-the-woods (STEPHEN KING MY FRIENDS, ITS NOT COTTAGE VIBES!). he will make you wait outside if you are late. he locks the doors and laughs.

unfortuantely, they will not be within five feet of each other during baseball season, under a rule so important gov considers adding it to the constitution.

it is like a grandpa convention lets not lie to ourselves bc there's definitely a part in the night where they just reminisce about the war and vermont will show up with printed-out pictures of some battle monument model he made bc even maine's terrible signal wont stop him.

they have to get new york there by physical force, bc he is doing his level best to sneak his way out. sorry its shabbat (it's actually a tuesday). sorry lost my voice can't come (he's only over said 10 words max). sorry been hit by a car (typa guy to genuinely try and walk off a broken leg).

they have to battle not to bring up politics ooohhh because you know mass's eye is twitching at the thought of being able to debate. connecticut threatens to report him to the authorities as a communist threat. he threatens to throw him through the wall. this is normal sibling behaviour.

typa emotional repression where they'll just be arguing and bickering as normal when one of them will drop the most gut-wrenching sickening personal lore and they all will just refuse to mention it.

oooooohhh yk its got a kick to it when ur sat across from someone who literally took bllets for you telling you ab how life is collapsing around them. anyways new hammy made a salad w craisins and we better switch the topic to that.

speaking of. half of the food is completely inedible. rhode island spent so many years a pirate he has no idea how much salt is too much salt. you CAN eat delaware's food but also be aware he's known for chemical manufacturing so its a 50/50 chance you'll make it.

jersey and york, arguably the only two good cooks, are not allowed to bring food bc they unfortunately suffer from chronic cant-understand-our-families-r-from-different-italian-regions-and-food-might-be-different syndrome.

for some inexplicable reason PA becomes group DJ. the only songs on his phone are 'brand new city' by mitski and 'dont stop the party' by pitbull.

[tacky-jack-with-a-hat]

State superpowers- useless edition

(Pt1 maybe?)

•Iowa can summon corn

•California can create fire in his hands but the flame can only be the size of a lighter flame or else he'll set him self on fire

•Utah can turn coffee into holy water but unknown to him he's actually absorbing the caffeine (Mormons don't drink coffee btw)

•Texas can make any item bigger but he can't control how big and the sizes will continue to slowly increase afterwards

•Alaska can freeze anything he desires, but whatever he's frozen will later melt along with the ice.

•Tennessee can turn any record, channel, broadcast, DJ, streaming service into a Dolly Parton music video.

•New Jersey can determine the outcome of a coin flip, as long as both halves of his state agree.

•New York can read the minds of rats but it doesn't turn off and he can hear all of them at once in his state.

•Loui can turn into a ghost temporarily and talk to spirits but his human body is left behind and because he's a spirit he can't feel when he's dehydrated, hungry, needs the toilet, on fire ect.

•Maryland has an infinite old bay glitch in her pocket. She's happier than most states about her power.

•Gov can possess other states but he has to listen to said state talking in his head until he stops. Florida is the exception because he can take control away from Gov.

•Florida has the power to immediately relax and relieve the stress of anyone he comes into contact with, he just chooses not to.

[randomvarious]

Today's mix:

Pure Garage Presents: Bass, Breaks & Beats by EZ 2001 UK Garage

There are *plenty* of times where you might find me lamenting over the unfortunate repeated failures of most British electronic and dance music to make significant impacts in the US, but when it comes to the genre of UK garage, know that I am super grateful that almost none of this shit managed to succeed Stateside, because the vast majority of this stuff is dumber than your own kitchen table 😵.

Cultivated in a country that's known for its own melting pot approach to music, UK garage naturally culminated in a confluence of things from a whole bunch of different genres, including drum n bass/jungle, breakbeat, dancehall, and house. Its own name had been derived from garage house, one of the earliest forms of house music as we know it, which is more rooted in elements of disco, R&B, gospel, and soul. And garage house itself was named after the venue where it was originally most famously spun at: New York's Paradise Garage, by the legendary DJ Larry Levan, which operated from the late 70s to late 80s.

But between garage house and UK garage was the indispensable link of speed garage. This music took the shuffled-snare house rhythms that'd been a hallmark of garage house, paired them with breakbeats, and then sped the whole thing up. A very inventive guy from New Jersey named Todd Edwards was a pioneer of this music, and became especially known for creating nicely textured melodies that were made of patched together strings of millisecond-long samples too. One of the only good tracks that happens to appear on this 2001 double-disc mix from UK garage stalwart DJ EZ (pronounced E-Zed) is Edwards' own "Show Me a Sign," which itself is, again, not a UK garage track, but speed garage instead—a sonic predecessor.

But what then followed speed garage was a British dance phenomenon of utter mindlessness 🚫🧠. UK garage took the speed garage idea of using those breakbeats and snares and then the only other additional things that people did with them was seep or ladle in fat and squelchy basslines—which were reminiscent of how the famous Reese bass had proved a worthy addition to drum n bass—and then peppered in vocal samples too. The music's only real unique versatility was that it could sound more akin to either house or breakbeat depending on the drum patterns that were chosen, but other than that, every track that leaned towards one or the other genre sounded very similar, because there's only so much that a person can do with a strictly percussive breakbeat and a bassline that seems to require a specifically fat and squelchy quality to it. People liked rapping over these beats too, which contributed a good level of energy to them, but to contrast it with hip hop—imagine that genre's beats being limited to only those specific combinations of breakbeat-and-bassline? I really don't think that it'd be the world's single-most popular genre of music right now if that'd ever been the case!

So, basically, UK garage sucked so much because of how overly simple its formula was, and because of that, how limited its sonic possibilities were too. You can scrub to pretty much any point on either of the discs for this mix here on YouTube and get a good idea of what both of them are entirely made of, because almost every single song utilizes a similar recipe of breakbeat-and-specific-bassline.

Not all UK garage turned out to be totally awful, though. When filtered through a contemporary R&B/pop kind of lens, it gave us essential early 2000s hits like Craig David's "Fill Me In" and Daniel Bedingfield's "Gotta Get Thru This"—two of the only UK garage tunes to achieve major success in the US.

But without any sort of pop sensibility lent to it, UK garage mostly just languishes in obscenely boring levels of formulaic unoriginality, as can be heard throughout the near entirety of this mix. I really don't understand how anyone could've ever enjoyed listening to this music for more than five minutes, but somehow, despite how totally reductive, devolutionary, and lobotomized it all felt, it still managed to flourish majorly on a commercial level in its home country, defining a piece of the UK's late 90s-to-early 2000s dance music landscape.

The only other track on here that I dig is "Firin' Times" by Swoopes (aka DJ Zinc), which isn't even a garage track of any sort—it's pure breakbeat! And it happens to make for a nice and unexpected spell from all the other gar(b)age that lines the rest of this whole mix.

So, ultimately, as an American, I'm really glad that 99.9% of this stuff didn't end up hitting our own airwaves. Besides those couple hits that I mentioned above, I've only ever really been exposed to UK garage in a similar way to how every year I'm made aware of the current fall season lineup of bad network TV shows—through all those ridiculous promo ad reads during football games 😂. In a sense, UK garage is like the BOB❤️ABISHOLA of dance music; you can just tell from the outset that it's gonna be dreadful, but the fact that it's managed to stick around for as long as it has indicates how popular it's been too, which then inevitably leads you to wonder, who on earth actually genuinely enjoys all of this terrible, terrible shit?!?

Listen to CD1 here. Listen to CD2 here.

Highlights:

CD1:

Swoopes - "Firin' Times"

CD2:

Todd Edwards - "Show Me a Sign"

[djinnewyorkcity]

Exploring the Benefits of Virtual Events for Businesses and Organizations

Virtual events have become increasingly popular in recent years, offering businesses and organizations a new way to connect, engage, and achieve their objectives. As technology continues to advance, virtual events provide unique opportunities to reach a wider audience, increase efficiency, and drive meaningful results. In this blog post, we will explore the various benefits of virtual events for businesses and organizations, highlighting how this innovative approach is transforming the event landscape.

   1. Global Reach and Accessibility: One of the primary advantages of virtual events is the ability to reach a global audience without the limitations of physical location. Businesses and organizations can connect with attendees from different parts of the world, breaking down geographical barriers and expanding their reach. Virtual events eliminate the need for attendees to travel, making it easier for them to participate and engage. This increased accessibility allows businesses to connect with potential customers, partners, and stakeholders who may have otherwise been unable to attend in-person events.

   2. Cost-Effectiveness: Virtual events offer substantial cost savings compared to traditional in-person events. Businesses and organizations can significantly reduce expenses related to venue rentals, travel, accommodation, and logistics. Instead, they can allocate their budgets towards creating compelling content, enhancing the virtual experience, and delivering value to attendees. Cost-effectiveness is particularly beneficial for smaller businesses or startups with limited resources, enabling them to host impactful events without the financial burden associated with physical gatherings.

   3. Enhanced Analytics and Data Insights: One of the key advantages of virtual events is the ability to collect comprehensive data and analytics. Through digital platforms and tools, businesses and organizations can track attendance, engagement levels, session popularity, and attendee feedback in real-time. These insights provide valuable data to measure the success of the event, understand participant preferences, and make data-driven decisions for future events. Analytics enable businesses to optimize their content, identify areas for improvement, and personalize the experience to better cater to their target audience.

   4. Flexibility and Scalability: Virtual events offer unparalleled flexibility and scalability, allowing businesses and organizations to customize their event experiences to suit their needs. From webinars and virtual conferences to product launches and training sessions, virtual events can be tailored to different formats and durations. This flexibility enables organizations to reach various segments of their target audience, cater to different time zones, and accommodate the schedules of busy professionals. Additionally, virtual events can easily scale to accommodate a large number of participants without the limitations of physical venue capacity.

   5. Engaging and Interactive Experiences: Virtual events have evolved to provide highly engaging and interactive experiences for attendees. Through innovative features such as live chat, Q&A sessions, polls, surveys, and networking opportunities, businesses and organizations can foster active participation and meaningful interactions. Attendees can engage with speakers, exhibitors, and other participants in real-time, simulating the networking and relationship-building aspects of in-person events. These interactive elements enhance attendee satisfaction, foster a sense of community, and drive increased engagement with the event content.

   6. Sustainability and Environmental Impact: In an era of increasing environmental awareness, virtual events offer a more sustainable alternative to physical gatherings. By eliminating the need for travel, virtual events reduce carbon emissions and contribute to efforts in environmental conservation. Additionally, the digital nature of virtual events reduces waste from printed materials and promotional items. Organizations that prioritize sustainability can position themselves as environmentally responsible and conscious by opting for virtual events.

Conclusion: Virtual events have emerged as a powerful tool for businesses and organizations, providing numerous benefits that extend beyond traditional in-person events. The global reach and accessibility, cost-effectiveness, enhanced analytics, flexibility, engaging experiences, and sustainability make virtual events an attractive option for achieving business objectives and fostering meaningful connections. As technology continues to advance, businesses and organizations should embrace the opportunities presented by virtual events to drive success, enhance engagement

FAQ

Q 1: How can virtual events help businesses reach a wider audience?

Answer: Virtual events eliminate geographical barriers, enabling businesses to connect with attendees worldwide and expand their reach.

Q 2: Are virtual events cost-effective compared to in-person events?

Answer: Yes, virtual events offer significant cost savings by eliminating expenses like venue rentals, travel, and accommodation.

Q 3: Can virtual events provide valuable data insights?

Answer: Absolutely. Virtual events enable the collection of comprehensive data, including attendance, engagement levels, and participant feedback.

Q 4: Can virtual events be flexible and scalable?

Answer: Yes, virtual events can be customized to various formats and durations, catering to different time zones and accommodating a large number of participants.

Q 5: How can virtual events provide engaging experiences for attendees?

Answer: Virtual events offer interactive features like live chat, Q&A sessions, and networking opportunities, fostering active participation and meaningful interactions for attendees.

[starspanner]

Pretty sweet playlist!

Alabama: “Sweet Home Alabama” by Lynyrd Skynyrd Alaska: “Feel It Still” by Portugal. The Man American Samoa: “Edge of Glory” by Lady Gaga Arizona: “Edge of Seventeen” by Stevie Nicks Arkansas: “Don’t Stop” by Fleetwood Mac California: “California Love” by Tupac and “Not Like Us” by Kendrick Lamar Colorado: “September” by Earth, Wind Fire Connecticut: “Signed Sealed, Delivered” by Stevie Wonder Delaware: “Higher Love” by Whitney Houston and Kygo Democrats Abroad: “Love Train” by The O’Jays District of Columbia: “Let Me Clear My Throat” by DJ Kool Florida: “Won’t Back Down” by Tom Petty Georgia: “Turn Down for What” by Lil John Guam: “Espresso” by Sabrina Carpenter Hawaii: “24K Magic” by Bruno Mars Idaho: “Private Idaho” by The B-52s Illinois: “Sirius” by The Alan Parsons Project Indiana: “Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough” by Michael Jackson Iowa: “Celebrate” by Kool & the Gang Kansas: “Carry on Wayward Son” by Kansas Kentucky: “First Class” by Jack Harlow Louisiana: “All I Do Is Win” by DJ Khaled Maine: “Shut Up and Dance” by Walk the Moon Maryland: “Respect” by Aretha Franklin Massachusetts: “I’m Shipping up to Boston” by Dropkick Murphys Michigan: “Lose Yourself” by Eminem Minnesota: “Kiss” and “1999” by Prince Mississippi: “Twisting the Night Away” by Sam Cooke Missouri: “Good Luck, Babe” by Chappell Roan Montana: “American Woman” by Lenny Kravitz Nebraska: “Firework” by Katy Perry Nevada: “Mr. Brightside” by The Killers New Hampshire: “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey New Jersey: “Born in the USA” by Bruce Springsteen New Mexico: “Confident” by Demi Lovato New York: “Empire State of Mind” by Jay Z and Alicia Keys North Carolina: “Raise Up” by Petey Pablo North Dakota: “Girl on Fire” by Alicia Keys Ohio: “Green Light” by John Legend Oklahoma: “Ain’t Goin Down” by Garth Brooks Oregon: “Float On” by Modest Mouse Pennsylvania: “Black and Yellow” by Wiz Khalifa and “Motownphilly” by Boyz II Men Puerto Rico: “Despacito” by Luis Fonsi and Daddy Yankee Rhode Island: “Shake It Off” by Taylor Swift South Carolina: “Get Up (I Feel Like Being a) Sex Machine” by James Brown South Dakota: “What I Like About You” by The Romantics Tennessee: “9 To 5” by Dolly Parton Texas: “Texas Hold ‘Em” by Beyoncé Utah: “Animal” by Neon Trees Vermont: “Stick Season” by Noah Kahan Virginia: “The Way I Are” by Timbaland Washington: “Can’t Hold Us” by Macklemore West Virginia: “Take Me Home, Country Roads” by John Denver Wisconsin: “Jump Around” by House of Pain Wyoming: “I Gotta Feeling” by Black Eyed Peas Virgin Islands: “VI to the Bone” by Mic Love

[fiftysevenacademics]

I’ve always thought the national conventions are way too boring to watch so I’ve only ever tuned in for a few minutes at a time. But this year the Democratic National Convention is historic, and ever since J6 my wife has kind of turned into a Democratic Party political junky, so we’re watching this one (she’s so cute fangirling over her favorite congresspeople, senators, and governors).

The decision to have each state select a song and have a DJ playing them during roll call was inspired. It turned this dull ritual into something that felt more like a party.

I was curious what music each state would choose to represent itself. Some were obvious and guaranteed crowd pleasers, like Prince for Minnesota or Springsteen for New Jersey, but others showed the fresh, modern face of states with heavy personas and felt almost like a rebrand, like Jay Z and Alicia Keys for New York, instead of boring old Frank Sinatra or a Broadway tune, and Tupac for California instead of something anodyne and predictable like the Beach Boys, DJ Khaled for Louisiana instead of jazz. Others were totally of the moment, like Chappell Roan for Missouri.

It was so smart because even if you don’t care about politics, you care about music. We are proud of the artists our states produce or who make music about our states and communities. The playlist (which you can find on Spotify) has music from many genres and artists from almost every state and social background. It really brought a feeling of love, joy, and community to a campaign that is emphasizing the power of exactly those three things to defeat our common enemy.

[madmaxproductions]

Underdog of Connecticut

Documenting the life and times of DJ Mad Max.

“My drive and people doubting me are my biggest motivators. Fear is not trying and failing.” - Maxwell Coughlan

What does Connecticut mean to you?

“Connecticut means everything to me, it’s my home, where I was born and bred. I grew up in South Norwalk on Dr. Martin Luther King Drive in Townhouse Gardens. South Norwalk shaped who I am today because of the authenticity. My community made me protective of other cultures and stand up against racism/injustice. It’s very challenging to be successful from my hood because of the obstacles many face such as the temptations of the street life, drug addiction, and not taking our education seriously or expressing our talents because of peer pressure. The crabs in a bucket mentality is huge and means people don’t want to see someone with potential make it out. When I look back on the past, it’s sad when you find out someone you knew went to jail or overdosed at a young age because you’re like damn they didn’t make it out.

“As a child, I attended private Catholic schools and my peers constantly looked down on me because of my environment. Many would say “you live in the hood” or “wigger.” Comments like that would hurt, but after a while I blocked them out because South Norwalk was home, and that’s all I knew. I grew up on Hip-Hop and R&B culture, throwback Mitchell & Ness jerseys, baggy clothes, and fresh sneakers. Personally, I couldn’t relate to Vineyard Vines, Docksiders, or the music my peers enjoyed. God truly blessed me with a strong support system from my mother. She pushed me from birth, which helped me receive an academic scholarship to St. John’s University in Queens, New York. If you don’t have a supportive family, then you really have to grind and bet on yourself.

“I feel like Connecticut doesn’t get much love because it’s a small state and the culture is untapped. Connecticut has quite a few success stories like: Chris Webby, Cassie, John Mayer, Calvin Murphy, Justin Long, and Meg Ryan. The biggest issue with my home state is the void of entertainment opportunities for creatives to thrive financially, plus many natives don’t support homegrown talent. The lack of support forces the dreamers to relocate to achieve their dreams.”

How do you plan to give back to Norwalk?

“My goal is to give back to people who are suffering from cancer and other illnesses. Donate money to cancer research at the Whittingham Cancer Center of Norwalk Hospital and educate individuals on the importance of living a healthy lifestyle. Even at a young age, you’re at risk which is unfortunate. Aside from healthcare, I would like to establish clothing drives as well as hosting seminars on becoming independent and dreaming beyond difficult circumstances.”

What city would you be from in Connecticut outside of Norwalk?

“If I had to choose another city besides Norwalk, it would be Hartford. Hartford has an extensive entertainment scene compared to other cities in Connecticut and provides greater opportunities for artists and journalists. They have notable venues such as: The Xfinity Theatre, The Webster, and Infinity Music Hall. The diverse population is a great draw plus the city is one of the most affordable areas in the state.”

How will you contribute your talents to “Hollywood?”

“I will be a breath of fresh air for Hollywood. My talent as an actor/entertainer stems from being original and paying homage to the legends.”

What was it like gaining a role on Power?

“It was amazing. I learned a lot about how a major television production is organized and operated. It was strict and time efficiency is key. I was featured in a club scene where a fight broke out between rapper Yung Bleu and another person. It was a dope preview of what will eventually become my future in television/film production.”

Dream role in a movie?

“This is tough for me because I feel like a role has to match the actor’s personality. I always wanted to have a lead role similar to Tony Montana in “Scarface” or Nino Brown from “New Jack City.” I would love to do something in makeup similar to Johnny Depp’s role in “Dark Shadows.” My agent believes I would make a great undercover cop as well. In the future, I could see myself starring in a potential biopic like Eminem’s “8 Mile” to showcase my life’s journey to success. I am open to many different roles, but those are a few roles that come to mind.”

Predict the future of the motion picture industry?

“I think you’re going to see more independent filmmakers thrive because of the lack of creativity from major production studios and the 2023 SAG-AFTRA strike. I say it all the time, there’s no more classics! It’s rare for me to enjoy more than one film that comes out each year. The remakes are played out and there’s an absence of authenticity. Entertainers don’t receive what they are truly worth because executives at the top make the majority of the box office profits. The strike exposed that. I always valued going to the movie theaters when I was a kid and still do. Due to social media, I feel like the youth couldn’t care less about going to the theaters when they don’t have the attention span or can just watch the film on Peacock from their couch. It may be hard to receive the fruits of your labor right away when you’re an independent filmmaker, but if your material can get praised at film festivals and picked up by streaming services you will become successful.”

What draws you to the Western United States?

“That’s where the entertainment scene is thriving in my opinion. Las Vegas has a huge nightlife entertainment scene and helps artists build successful careers. It’s an affordable city to start out and grow. On the other hand, Los Angeles has been calling my name for years now. I’ve been enthralled by the west coast vibe since a kid. Hosting, acting, and other forms of entertainment opportunities are like non other in Los Angeles. I believe California is the place where I will live out my dreams.”

A word from Neno

"Bro I wish you nothing but the best you're a super talented person and I know you will be super successful in anything you put your energy into. God bless you.”

Define your definition of independence?

“My definition of independence is building your own foundation and having the creative freedom that will supply your desired lifestyle.”

Goals for 2024?

“Continuing to build a loyal team is a major goal this year. I’ve done everything myself and now that I’m working into the industry more, it’s time to put together a solid team that can help broker strategic business deals and partnerships. I’ve thought about getting a manager, but it has to be a trustworthy relationship. They say teamwork makes the dream work and I’m open to it."

“I want to develop my own independent film as well as a reality show. Even though music and sports are my main passions, film was my first love. I wanted to be a writer and director since childhood. I remember writing short stories in my journal that my mother bought me for Christmas in the third grade. I wrote to many legends in the industry asking for advice since the age of 10. Wes Craven, Francis Ford Coppola, and John Carpenter are a few people in the media industry that responded and it meant the world to me! As I got older, I changed as most people do and became more enthralled with music, which led to my beginnings of DJing and my current path now. Since I started acting, it’s sparked my love and creativity for film/television again. It would be dope to collaborate with independent actors and filmmakers because I believe that is where the industry is heading now. There are talented people out there not getting an opportunity due to nepotism and social media clout. That has to stop. While the industry isn’t talent-based like it once was, you can’t give up on your dreams. You have to create your own opportunities, and if I can be the one to give talented people their shot, that would be an honor.”

Thank You

“I would like to give a big thanks to everyone that has supported my journey so far, it’s only up from here!”

Photography captured October 2023

Developed by Mad Max Productions

[hourcat]

🏈🏈

It’s the longest touchdown run of the preseason run so far.

Not that Pierre had been keeping track of that, of course, because that would be a little bit too self-absorbed even for himself, but. Well. He can hear the beat reporters talking about it as he walks back into the locker room, still breathing heavy from where he’d run out to join the defense on the field in celebration. Davis is the first one to greet him when he passes through.

“You’re fuckin’ insane, man,” he laughs, clapping a hand to Pierre’s chest and rattling his shoulderpads. “That run was—bro.”

Pierre shrugs, unable to swallow down the grin that’s split his face in two. “You handed the ball off pretty well, too,” he offers, and the quarterback just laughs louder, whacking him harder in the shoulder. “Shit, man—”

And then he glances up at his locker, ready to start stripping away the sweat and turf pellets that are dug deep in his arm, and. Well. There they are.

“Pierre—” the swarm of beat reporters are waiting for him, phones already extending towards him as he walks over. The look on their faces is the same: annoying, if the summer has taught him anything. (And, sure—there a few he likes, but New York is notorious for having the worst news in the world, and most of the guys standing there waiting for him seem to fit that label effortlessly.)

“Hey, guys,” he tries, shrugging past Darius and ARob to get to his stool. “Did you, ah—enjoy the game?” The question gets a chuckle out of his audience as he reaches for the towel hanging from his cubby.

“How did your first NFL touchdown feel, Pierre?” One of them—Jordan?—asks, holding his phone directly in Pierre’s face. “I mean—gotta be pretty cool, right?”

What a stupid fucking question. “Yeah, no, it was—I mean, I always dreamed of doing it, you know, and when I saw the opportunity—” he shrugs again, trying to keep from saying something stupid and headline worthy. “I hope it is the first of many, I guess. I’m just happy we were able to get a win.” He lifts his jersey up to his chest to start undoing the straps of his shoulderpads, pointedly avoiding the other side of the locker room.

Where his teammate probably is—because, sure, Pierre had scored the touchdown, but it was Charles who kicked the extra point to seal it. Charles, who’s standing there already half-stripped and talking with DJ and Shep by their lockers. He’s laughing. Pierre thinks—

He thinks he’s still surrounded by guys who are going to catch him with a hard-on if he doesn’t fucking look away, especially because Charles just turned his head and is looking at him, now, and—

He grins, curling on his handsome, sweat-shiny face, and. Oh.

“—think this effects your chances at making the final 53?” Another reporter is asking, and Pierre realizes he’s gotta tune in just long enough to get the fuck out of there and get back to their suite.

“Um—I, I do not want to shift my focus to the future, now, ah—Dan?” The guy nods. “A good game is a good game, but it does not mean anything tomorrow. I have to play better like everyone else does.” His gaze flickers up and—Charles is there, and his sweats are sitting low on his hips as he’s drying his face off with his shirt, and he raises an eyebrow at Pierre and winks.

They’re going to make the same mistake again, aren’t they?

The reporters must be able to see he’s distracted, because they disperse across the locker room to bother some of the other guys, which means Pierre is finally alone enough to wipe most of the sweat from his face and get back into street clothes. Which…is more difficult than he’d hoped it would be, considering the effort needed to keep the rest of the team from figuring him out before he even makes it out of the locker room. (He’s not even going to try for the showers—not today, not with the half-chub he’s sporting.)

Sweatpants first. Shirt next. He steps out of his cleats and into his slides, and then—

“Pierre?” Charles is right there, almost matching in attire. He’s got one hand stuffed in his pocket, and the other is on Pierre’s shoulder, hot and sweaty and burning right through him. “We should—”

“Get back,” Pierre finishes, not even bothering to hide the way his voice has gone hoarse. He’s been shouting all night. That’s all.

Charles digs into his shoulder, squeezing hard. “I’ll follow you,” he offers with a smirk.