#Jean Claude Ades

[tracksampm]

45 Minutes of Melodic House & Techno, Organic House, Minimal Destination Lost Rodriguez Jr., Jan Blomqvist Together Jean Claude Ades, Re.you Parallel Pavel Petrov Raw Instinct Alican Remix Abuk Mambo Gespona, Martin Cozar Geisha Cioz Remix Notre Dame Corpalium feat. Lilli Ellen Denis Horvat There Is Hope Maxxim Remix D-Nox, DJ Zombi

[theactioneer]

Jean-Claude Van Damme, “Black Black” commercial (1994)

[blackros78]

[iosonomer-blog]

In 2013, Volvo surprised the world with this beautiful ad that is a piece of visual, musical and physical art.

They wanted to show the stability of their Volvo FM trucks, so they hired iconic 90s actor, Jean-Claude Van Damme to do a leg spread between the two roads while they were driving backwards.

Many thought it was special effects, but no. It was planned over 5 months. It was planned for 5 months. The place chosen was the Central Airport of Ciudad Real in Spain, exactly with natural light. There were 3 days of rehearsals but the shot for the commercial was taken on the first attempt, while the song "Only Time" by Enya was playing.

The actor was protected with a harness in case he couldn't make it, but the whole thing was a success and the image went around the world, as well as increasing Volvo's sales in the month of its launch by 31%.

It's not just about hiring a celebrity, it's about using their symbolic, scenic and media power. Let everything flow in an assertive coherence.

With creative affection.

- Lucas S

[thewritersaddictions]

Day Two: Billy Hargrove + Titfucking

Billy had a rough day. Working was a bitch sometimes, and with that would come the frustration of having to drive home just to deal with his dick of a father.

The thought of you being there was always a soothing thought in the back of his head. He breathed deeply for starting up the engine and starting his short drive back home. When he parked he could barely see his light on in his bedroom. Regardless of that his thoughts were taken from his by his father.

"Would you turn that damn thing off, and get inside this house." Billy did what he was told, not in the mood to fight with his father. Or truly in the mood to do anything. Billy locked his Camaro, and walked inside with ease. Y/n was sitting at the dinner table, and that's when Billy started to grow confused. Sure Y/n was staying over, but Billy father never knew about it. Fuck he never asked Billy anything about his life.

"I found this lovely lady waiting for you on the porch." Max's mother hollered from the other room. "I invited her in for dinner, hope that's okay." She added as she came into view. Her face was a little bruised, and I wonder for a moment before I look over at Y/n, she's smiling the best she can and looking at for comfort.

"Yeah that's cool." I said moving to sit down next to her. Dinner was fast, and since Max was off galavanting with her friends it was just the four us. Once dinner was over we were off the hook and racing back to my room for clarity and safety.

I sat on the edge of my bed, and ran my hands through my hair a couple of times. I heard the door lock, and when I looked up Y/n was between my legs. Her knees pressed into the hardwood floor. Her elbows resting on my knees. I ran my fingers through her hair and down to her cheeks. "What are you doing darlin'?" I asked, "You looked so tired when you first walked in and well… it only got worse from there honey." Y/n told me, "I have an idea, to relax you just a little bit."

Before i could answer i felt her hands throw down my zipper on my jeans and pull them down my thighs. I was all hers, and this moment that's all I wanted. The tips of her long nails grazed softly over the tip of my cock in my boxers, if I was wasn't hard from that I was most definteyl hard when she throw off her shirt, and bra reavealing her most perfect tits to me. "Are you gonna?" I tried to ask, she shushed, and nodded.

Only this girl could make my heart swoon the way it does sometimes. She's hard to read and because of that it only makes my cock that harder. I felt my cock leave that restrains of the boxers, and into her soft hand. She stroked me a few times, and then her plush tits swallowed my cock. I watched from above her. "Fuck… Y/n." Her tits doing most of the work until her tongue started to tease the tip of my cock. Kitten licks everytime her tits would come down my shaft.

One of my hands landed in her hair as the other landed behind to support my weight. "You're so pretty like this, just taken me so good. Anythign for me right?" She moaned around the tip of my cock at one point that sucked lightly, my eyes went white. Busting all over her tits and face, the tension that had been in my shoulder was gone now. She winked up at me, swiping a finger across her chest and scooping it into her mouth.

"Fucking get up here, naughty fuckin' girl."

Completed on: 06/02/23

Posted on: 10/02/23

Kinktober 23- @lanad3lreyscokewhor3 @homelanderscumdump @hummusxx@chvnsdimple @vvitzvafflezvv @lokisivy @claud-blood0703 @iliketoreads-stuff @all-that-glitters-is-treasure@clearscissorsbonkgiant-blog @lxonix--ac @piecesofx @mortallyswimmingpainter @playwithfire99 @fucak @everythingneytiri @lovetheos @xxxxxoseungxoooo @durazopato @hotpead42069 @oddseabiscuit @capoda @witching-hour @viviwows @lover103 @alexlovesfiction @katiecat10 @electricfans @jianasmind @max-505 @powerbun21o @the-horny-simp @missy420-0 @jaq-dav @arescosplays

Stranger Things Master List // The Adults Master List // Kinkotber '23

[maggiec70]

Why did Louise Lannes devalue her husband so much? Almost like she had always hated him.

Louise didn't hate or even dislike Jean-Boy; she liked what he could--and did--provide her: wealth, social status, and children, although I suspect she would have much preferred to have the stork bring the kids to her instead of the usual method of obtaining children. She erased every trace of her husband that she could manage and thus began the family custom of distancing themselves from their illustrious ancestor. The reasons were simple: she was protecting what she had and what she intended to control herself, with her father's help or that of her close male relatives. The claim brought in 1809 and then again in 1814 by Jean-Claude Lannes for his portion of his father's estate opened up a whole host of serious for the Lovely Louise. First was the very real probability that Jean-Claude's claim was real because no one could prove he was not the marshal's son; Jean-Boy divorced his first wife, Polette, in 1800, but didn't declare Jean-Claude a bastard, a necessary legal step if he meant to disinherit the boy forever. Second, when Jean-Claude's claim was refiled in 1814 when Napoleon was safely out of the picture, or so Louise and her lawyers thought, the legal discrepancies of the divorce, as well as Jean-Claude's standing to bring the claim, were highlighted. Worse, combined with the questions that Jean-Claude's attorney raised regarding the legal inconsistencies of Jean-Boy's and Louise's civil wedding in September 1800, Louise was forced to realize that she and her children could not just be forced to allow Jean-Claude to inherit the title but also she and her five children could lose everything.

The sudden and quite inexplicable death of Jean-Claude in 1817 was the only thing that prevented a potentially awful scenario. The question of whether Louise had a hand in that remains open. It's entirely possible and certainly in keeping with her character since 1809, adding a layer of intrigue to her story. Thus, Louise wanted nothing tangible to remain after Jean-Boy's death; she was interested in hard cash that could be hidden in various ways and protected for her children. So she sold every house and every piece of property she could find, including the old bishop's palace in Lectoure that Jean-Boy bought in 1797 and stayed in every time he came home. Louise and her oldest son, Napoleon-August, the second duke, came to town in 1818 when she spent an hour handing the property over to the town. She never returned and didn't allow her children to visit. Only the third duke, Charles, the one who wrote a little biography of his grandfather, ever came to Lectoure. It's crucial to understand that Louise's actions were not mere whims, but strategic moves to maintain control over the ducal fortune. Her decisions were aimed at distancing herself and her children from Jean-Boy, thereby preventing any further 'unfortunate events' that could challenge her rights. I hope this rather lengthy explanation answers your question. There's a lot more where this came from.

[vidavalor]

Hi @vidavalor I just finished reading Crepes. You've convinced me. My only question is why did Aziraphale have to do the apology dance in 1793 if they had such a good time then?

Thank you for reading! Glad you liked it. There are sugar cookies tonight. *sets you up a plate* TWs: SA, PTSD

Aziraphale unintentionally triggered Crowley's trauma in that scene. Crowley and Aziraphale are both supernatural beings who were not in danger in the 1793 scene but what they didn't factor in when planning this little game is that Jean-Claude the Executioner was an independent variable. Crowley came into the room to see a scene suggesting that Jean-Claude was trying to sexually assault Aziraphale and, while Aziraphale being magical meant that he was not in danger of being overpowered, Aziraphale's response was also pretty fitting with anybody in that position, which is to say that he was more shocked than anything else. It shows how sometimes it doesn't matter how much objective power you might seem to have in a situation, the shock and horror of it can make you feel powerless. Crowley froze Jean-Claude the moment he came into the room but he also came into Aziraphale saying "no" and being touched against his will by this creep of a guy, which wasn't fun for Aziraphale but it wasn't great for Crowley, either, as he's a survivor of this kind of thing.

While Crowley plays along, what happened is present underneath the scene and then resurfaces more directly near the end when Crowley puts Jean-Claude into Aziraphale's clothes and renders him unable to fully speak, just to make sounds of protest, before letting the other guards drag him to the guillotine. Jean-Claude is the only human in the series that we've ever seen Crowley just send straight to Hell, basically. Murdering, rapey bastard who touched Aziraphale? Satan can have him and right now, before he hurts anyone else. Crowley even gave The Nazis the chance to run in the church in 1941, showing just how much he tries not to harm anyone, but he was so (understandably) bothered by Jean-Claude that he actively made sure he got some karmic payback.

The apology dance that Aziraphale did in 1793 was a verbal apology afterwards. I'm sure the apology dance is mostly verbal. Crowley giving it a literal dance while doing a verbal dance in S2 was a joke on their language of literal things and symbolic meaning beneath it. What Aziraphale had really asked for was the little verbal dance they do when they apologize to one another and Crowley added the literal dance to it. Crowley shows in the same moment as he sends Jean-Claude to his death that he doesn't want to dwell on it if they can help it, as he moves onto "what's for lunch?", but Aziraphale apologized and got him to talk about it afterwards, which is what is alluded to in it being one of the times Aziraphale lists having done the "'I was wrong' dance."

You could also make an argument that it's why Aziraphale chose Paris, 1793 in 2008 in the first place. It's a given that they've had plenty of delicious crepes since the days of The French Revolution, yes? But it's doubtful they've found themselves in a situation like one that happened with Jean-Claude since. In 2008, they haven't been able yet to speak really freely when they agree to go to lunch but Aziraphale knows what happened the previous night, in terms of Crowley having been tasked with delivering the antichrist, etc.. He knows Satan made an appearance. He chose Paris, 1793 as a way of referring to a time when Crowley had been badly triggered but he and Aziraphale talked about it and they were okay as a way of expressing in 2008 that it's important to him that they communicate like they did in Paris.

[islndgurl777]

Also can’t stop thinking about the subtle introduction of non-toxic queer themes they added to the Richmond locker room in this episode with the seemingly silly choice of Van Damme’s name change. 

“Actually I go by Van Damme now.” “Okay, great!’

“[Van Damme]’s my new name.” “Cool. why?” “Because I love Jean Claude Van Damme and Zava told me I should be whoever I want to be.” “Okay, yeah, cool.”

To Ted reminding Beard and Roy of the name change when they’re cheering him on on the sidelines and them correcting themselves immediately.

Even this interaction: “I hear he wants to be called Van Damme now.” “Why?’ “Well, we’d probably have to dive into his childhood for that answer.” The comment about having to look into his childhood about why felt more like a “to find out why that name in particular” rather than a “why he’s changing his name at all.”

It was all so positive! So automatic! This is his new preferred name, we’re going to use it!

Which, of course, gives me so much hope for how everyone will handle Colin’s (or anyone else’s) coming out at whatever point that happens. 

[kitsunetsuki]

Joe Gaffney - Jean-Claude de Luca Ad (Vogue Paris 1979)

[elliespuns]

This or that | tag game:

Thanks for the tag @immafreespirit

coffee or tea | early bird or night owl | chocolate or vanilla | spring or fall | silver or gold | pop or alternative | freckles or dimples | snakes or sharks | mountains or fields | thunder or lightning | egyptian mythology or greek mythology | flute or lyre | butterflies or honeybees | macarons or eclairs | typewritten or handwritten | secret garden or secret library | rooftop or balcony | spicy or mild | opera or ballet | london or paris | vincent van gogh or claude monet | denim or leather| ocean or desert | masquerade ball or cocktail party | reading or writing | movies or tv shows | bunnies or guinea pigs | netflix or sex | wine or beer | carpet or hardwood | company or solitude | junk food or healthy food | comedy or horror | sneakers or flipflops | skirts or jeans | sweet or salty | bathtub or shower | rain or sun | partying or daydreaming | missionary or on top | laptop or computer | guitar or piano | food or sleep | hot drink or cold drink | banana or water melon | red or yellow

Adding Tlou related choices:

Ellie or Abby | Joel or Tommy | Riley or Dina | young Ellie or adult Ellie | part 1 or part 2 | playing as Joel or playing as Ellie | Ellie's summer outfit or Ellie's winter outfit

I've seen this so much recently I feel like everyone has already played, but a few no-pressure tags:

@puduvallee | @mihstar | @joelsfavoritegirl | @thetipsybison | @xxx-silhouette-xxx

@radioheadfan699| @infiniteinquiries | @starrfish111 | @iamsherlocked-1998 | @pattwtf

[bodhranwriting]

The Vengeful Man Revealed by Bodh M.

St Martin sat forwards in his chair, removing his spectacles with great ceremony. Gone was the doughy vagueness, gone the dull, watery eyes. For the first time, his gaze was sharp and sparkling with disturbing, crow-like intelligence. “The acorn was a cunning symbol, if I do say so myself.”

Jean-Marc gaped at him, gripping the silver pin with enough force he felt the edges begin to cut into his fingers. “You…?” he whispered.

“The symbol is one of my proudest achievements,” the Vengeful Man said, smiling wryly, “aside from convincing the world I was another empty-headed experiment of our gracious late monarch.” He tilted his head to the side and added, “Although how anyone bought that one of the foremost actors of his generation could be that dim, I’ll never know.”

Jean-Marc’s mouth moved, but he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. Claude St Martin was the ringleader of the most successful revolutionary movement in a hundred years? Claude St Martin?

Abruptly, St Martin coughed and straightened back up again. “Sorry, I have to put these back on,” he said, gesturing to his spectacles. “It is so much more theatrical with them removed, but I can’t see your expression.”

“It’s… very surprised,” Jean-Marc assured him.

[little-orphan-ant]

Ami name hcs (plus reasoning)

disclaimer a lot of this is just me infodumping about names. i really like names.

Alexandre Enjolras - yeah idk i just stole this from the fandom. Enj despises being called Alex though (he will punch you in the face :D), if you must shorten Alexandre he prefers Andre or Al/Allie

Florian Combeferre - i fucking love this name. according to wikipedia it's a saint name, which im like 80 percent sure was popular Back in the Day, so it works for canon era which im happy abt. in modern day France, the name Florian peaked in 1991 at number 9 for boys before promptly dropping out of the top 500 by 2020 for some reason. but when Ferre was born it would still have been pretty popular.

Olivier Courfeyrac - idk it just fits him. similar to Florian, Olivier was uncommon but not unheard of in canon era, and also dropped out of the top 500 a few years back. however, Olivier peaked back in the early 1970s. although it was still being given to several hundred kids a year by when modern!courf would have been born, i hc that he was named after a relative who died soon before his birth.

Camille Feuilly - in both modern-day and canon era France, Camille is seen as a gender-neutral name, which is great because i hc Feuilly has enby-spec. since Feuilly is an orphan, xe may have named xirself after the revolutionary Camille Desmoulins, but i must admit that I only skimmed his wikipedia page and maybe this Camille was an asshole idk. also i found a French artist born in 1934 named Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot and he's pretty cool ig. painting are nice but not as nice as Gainsborough Dupont's ofc

Jean-Marie "Jehan" Prouvaire - of course, we already know Jehan's name, but I added Marie just bc i can

Corentin Bahorel - if you call Bahorel Cory he with smite you btw (like enj they bond over it). Corentin peaked in France at 21 in 1996, but was also very popular during the Revolutionary Period so. thats good.

Valentin Joly - means 'health', i mostly gave him this name bc Irony. as a kid, Joly went by 'Val' and Bahorel, who knew him as a kid still calls him that. Valentin managed to make it to number 11 in France in 1998, and while uncommon, was in fact a name in canon era (like literally all of these akjddsfsa). also i found a French painter called Valentin de Boulogne from the 1600s who died after taking a dip in a fountain while drunk and freezing to death which. slay.

Louis Lesgles - I mean. i can't give all of them cool names. Bossuet gets to be Louis. his family were royalists and named him after all 17 (?) Louis of Frances. that's one of the reasons he goes by Bossuet, he doesn't want to be associated w a (scoff) king

Claud-René Grantaire - i cannot take credit for this it was @jolys-cane (hello). but yeah Very Good. double thumbs up i'd say. maybe even triple. both Claud(e) and René fell out of favor for boys in france around 1990, so our R would have been born *just* (a decade) to soon for it to be popular (eg not in the top 500). works for canon era as well. R tolerates his name, but Only his family is allowed to call him just René. anyone else must say both.

might do this for non-ami characters sometime (god i hope i didnt forget any of them lkjfksd) idk always love an excuse to talk abt a (minor) hyperfixation

[sieclesetcieux]

This site compiled their addresses here though Barère's page is missing (here are some of his addresses), Lindet's address is different than the one give here, and though some mail was sent to Couthon where Robespierre lived, I think he had another address too? (Hérault is also just not listed but the site is centered around Thermidor.)

Copy-pasted below for convenience. I added their birthdates and astrological signs (for those who care about that):

Jean-Baptiste Robert Lindet

Age : Né à Bernay (Eure), 48 ans en thermidor. [2 mai 1746 ♉]

Adresse : 68, rue de la Sourdière.

Métier : Avocat

Fonctions : Député de l’Eure, membre du Comité de salut public du 6 avril 1793 au 7 octobre 1794

Antoine Louis Léon de Saint-Just

Age: Né à Décize, 26 ans en Thermidor an II [25 août 1767 ♍]

Adresse: 3, rue Caumartin, 2ème étage (depuis mars 1794), à la même adresse que Thuillier. Il demeurait auparavant à l’hôtel des États-Unis, rue Gaillon.

Fonction(s): Député de l’Aisne à la Convention depuis le 5 septembre 1792, membre du Comité de Salut Public depuis le 10 juin 1793.

Georges-Auguste Couthon

Age : Né à Orcet, 38 ans en thermidor [22 décembre 1755 ♑]

Adresse : 366, rue Saint Honoré

Profession : Avocat

Fonction(s) : Elu député du Puy-de-Dôme à la Convention le 6 septembre 1792. Membre du Comité de salut public du 10 juin 1793 au 9 Thermidor an II.

André Jeanbon, dit JEAN BON SAINT-ANDRÉ

Age : Né à Montauban, 45 ans en thermidor [25 février 1749 ♓]

Adresse :  7 rue Gaillon

Profession : Marin, puis pasteur

Fonction(s) : Elu député du Lot à la Convention le 5 septembre 1792, membre du Comité de salut public depuis le 10 juin 1793. Fréquemment en mission pour superviser les opérations maritimes, il est absent de Paris le 9-Thermidor.

Pierre-Louis Prieur, dit PRIEUR de la MARNE

Age : Né à Sommesous (Marne), 37 ans en thermidor [1er août 1756 ♌]

Surnom : Appelé Prieur de la Marne (pour le différencier de Prieur de la Côte-d’Or)

Adresse : 11, rue Helvetius

Métier : Avocat

Fonction(s) : Député de la Marne à la Convention depuis le 3 septembre 1792, membre du Comité de salut public du 10 juillet 1793 au 13 thermidor an II (31 juillet 1794), puis à nouveau du 15 vendémiaire au 15 pluviôse an III (6 octobre 1794-3 février 1795).

Absent de Paris au moment du 9-Thermidor.

Maximilien Marie Isidore de Robespierre

Age : Né à Arras, 36 ans en thermidor. [6 mai 1758 ♉]

Adresse : 366 rue Saint-Honoré (numérotation actuelle : 398)

Métier : Avocat

Fonction(s) : Député de Paris à la Convention nationale depuis le 5 septembre 1792 ; membre du Comité de salut public depuis le 27 juillet 1793

Claude-Antoine Prieur-Duvernois, dit PRIEUR de la CÔTE-d'OR

Age : Né à Auxonne, 30 ans en thermidor [22 décembre 1763 ♑]

Surnom : Appelé Prieur de la Côte-d’Or (pour le différencier de Prieur de la Marne)

Adresse :  5, rue Caumartin

Profession : Ingénieur militaire

Fonction(s) : Elu député de la Côte-d’Or à la Convention le 5 septembre 1792. Membre du Comité de salut public du 14 août 1793 au 16 vendémiaire an III (7 octobre 1794).

Lazare Nicolas Marguerite Carnot

Age : Né à Nolay, 41 ans en thermidor. [13 mai 1753 ♉]

Adresse : 2 rue Florentin

Métier : Mathématicien, physicien, militaire

Fonction(s) : Elu député du Pas-de-Calais à la Convention nationale le 5 septembre 1792 ; membre du Comité de salut public depuis le 14 août 1793, il le quitte le 7 octobre 1794 mais y siège à nouveau un mois plus tard, jusqu’au 6 mars 1795.

Jacques-Nicolas Billaud, dit BILLAUD-VARENNE

Age : Né à La Rochelle, 38 ans en Thermidor an II [23 avril 1756 ♉]

Adresse : 40 rue Saint-André-des-Arts

Métier : Avocat

Fonction(s) : Député de Paris à la Convention depuis le 7 septembre 1792, membre du Comité de Salut Public depuis le 5 septembre 1793

Jean-Marie Collot, dit COLLOT d'HERBOIS

Age : Né à Paris, 45 ans en Thermidor an II [19 juin 1749 ♊]

Adresse : 4 rue Favart (3ème étage)

Métier : Acteur, directeur de théâtre

Fonction(s) : Elu député de Paris à la Convention le 6 septembre 1792, membre du Comité de Salut Public depuis le 5 septembre 1793.

[eurovision-song-bracket]

Welcome to the Eurovision Song Bracket!

This will be a fairly large bracket, consisting of two "teams" of 68 songs for a total of 136 competitors!

The first team has been preselected, and will consist of all previous winners or popular vote winners if applicable.

This means that if your favorite song won, you do not need to submit them (a couple of exceptions apply, see list at the bottom/read more for details)

Submissions are closed!

Rules!

- Entries must have been a part of the main competition of Eurovision of any year (I might do a MGP mini bracket if the people want that)

- Once again, you do not need to submit winners, they are (mostly) automatically in. Again, see bottom for details and explanations.

- You may submit multiple songs, but please don't send the same song over and over.

- Propaganda is highly encouraged! There is a spot for it in the submission form, and adding it on to the poll itself or sending an ask is also allowed. You may send a DM, but I'll probably be slow to respond that way.

How it Works!

- There will be multiple brackets of 34 songs

- Each of the preselected winners will be randomly against one of the submitted songs. Pairings will be decided through number assignment and a random number generator.

- Vote for your favorite! I will include links to the songs in the poll so you can listen to both before voting. The winner will move onto the next round until we find the winner of that bracket.

- Once all brackets are complete, the winners of their individual brackets will go onto the finals to determine the (unofficial) Ultimate Eurovision Song Winner!

- There will be a preliminary around, as 1969 (hehe nice) had a four way tie, so we will need to determine which of those four will represent that year!

Tagging some other brackets to get the word out

@animalcrossingshowdown @ultimate-soup-showdown @least-sexy-man-competition @soulmatebracket @irlcats-bracket @little-cat-showdown @bestvegetablepoll @baby-brawl-bracket @died-but-not-dead-tournament @unusannusbracket

Click the read more for the list of songs that are automatically in the bracket!

(The colors are just to make it less of a wall of text and easier to read)

(Please let me know if a different color would work better)

1956 - “Refrain” by Lys Assia (Switzerland)

1957 - “Net Als Toen” by Corry Brokken (Netherlands)

1958 - “Dors, Mon Amour” by André Claveau (France)

1959 - “Een Beetje” by Teddy Scholten (Netherlands)

1960 - “Tom Pillibi” by Jacqueline Boyer (France)

1961 - “Nous Les Amoureux” by Jean-Claude Pascal (Luxembourg) 1962 - “Un Premier Amour” by Isabelle Aubret” (France)

1963 - “Dansevise” by Grethe and Jøren Ingmann (Denmark)

1964 - “Non ho l'età” by Gigliola Cinquetti (Italy)

1965 - “Poupée de cire, poupée de son” by France Gall (Luxembourg) 1966 - “Merci, Chérie” by Udo Jürgens (Austria)

1967 - “Puppet on a String” by Sandie Shaw (UK)

1968 - “La la la” by Massiel (Spain)

1969 – [FOUR WAY TIE – SPAIN UK NETHERLANDS FRANCE, PRELIM POLL] “Vivo Cantando” by Salomé (Spain) ; “Boom Bang-a-Bang” by Lulu (UK) ; “De Troubadour” by Lenny Kuhr (Netherlands) ; “Un jour, un enfant” by Frida Bocara (France)

1970 - “All Kinds of Everything” by Dana (Ireland)

1971 - “Un banc, un arbre, une rue” by Séverine (Monaco)

1972 - “Après Toi” by Vicky Leandros (Luxembourg)

1973 - “Tu te reconnaîtras” by Anne-Marie David (Luxembourg)

1974 - “Waterloo” by ABBA (Sweden)

1975 - “Ding a Dong” by Teach-in (Netherlands)

1976 - “Save Your Kisses For Me” by Brotherhood of Man (UK)

1977 - “L'Oiseau et l'Enfant” by Marie Myriam (France)

1978 - “א-ב-ני-בי / A-Ba-Ni-Bi” by Izhar Cohen and the Alphabeta (Israel)

1979 - “הללויה /Hellelujah” by Milk and Honey (Israel)

1980 - “What's Another Year” by Johnny Logan (Ireland)

1981 - “Making Your Minds Up” by Bucks Fizz (UK)

1982 - “Ein bißchen Frieden” by Nicole (Germany)

1983 -Si la vie est cadeau” by Corinne Hermès (Luxembourg)

1984 - “Diggi-Loo Diggi-Ley” by Herreys (Sweden)

1985 - “La det swinge” By Bobbysocks! (Norway)

1986 - “J'aime la vie” by Sandra Kim (Belgium)

1987 – “Laß die Sonne in dein Herz“ by Wind (Germany) [REPEAT WIN BY JOHNNY LOGAN(Ireland), USING 2ND PLACE]

1988 - “Ne partez pas sans moi” Céline Dion (Switzerland)

1989 - “Rock Me” by Riva (Yugoslavia)

1990 - “Insieme: 1992” by Toto Cutugno (Italy)

1991 – “Fångad av en stormvind” by Carola (Sweden)

1992 - “Why Me?” by Linda Martin (Ireland)

1993 - “In Your Eyes” Niamh Kavanagh (Ireland)

1994 - “Rock 'n' Roll Kids” Paul Harrington and Charlie McGettigan (Ireland)

1995 - “Nocturne” by Secret Garden (Norway)

1996 - “The Voice” by Eimear Quinn (Ireland)

1997 - “Love shine a Light” by Katrina and the Waves (UK)

1998 - “דיווה /Diva” by Dana International (Israel)

1999 - “Take Me to Your Heaven” by Charlotte Nilsson (Sweden)

2000 - “Fly on the Wings of Love” by Olsen Brothers (Denmark)

2001 - “Everybody” by Tanel Padar, Dave Benton, and 2XL (Estonia)

2002 - “I wanna” by Marie N (Latvia)

2003 - “Everyway That I Can” by Sertab Erener (Turkey)

2004 - “Wild Dances” by Ruslana (Ukraine)

2005 - “My Number One” by Helena Paparizou (Greece)

2006 - “Hard Rock Hallelujah” by Lordi (Finland)

2007 - “Молитва / Molitva” by Marija Šerifović (Serbia)

2008 - “Believe” by Dima Bilan (Russia)

2009 - “Fairytale” By Alexander Rybak (Norway)

2010 - “Satellite” by Lena (Germany)

2011 - “Running Scared” by Ell and Nikki (Azerbaijan)

2012 - “Euphoria” by Loreen (Sweden)

2013 - “Only Teardrops” by Emmelie de Forest (Denmark)

2014 - “Rise Like a Phoenix” by Conchita Wurst (Austria)

2015 - “Heroes” by Måns Zelmerlöw (Sweden)

2016 - “1944” by Jamala (Ukraine)

2017 - “Amar pelos dois” by Salvador Sobral (Portugal)

2018 - “Toy” by Netta (Israel)

2019 - “Arcade” by Duncan Laurence (Netherlands)

2020 – [CANCELLED]

2021 - “Zitti e buoni” by Måneskin (Italy)

2022 - “Стефанія / Stefania” by Kalush Orchestra (Ukraine)

2023 - “Cha Cha Cha” by Käärijä (Finland) [Second highest popular vote ever, also repeat win by Loreen(Sweden)]

[heygerald]

Does this still count 🌹? 👉🏻👈🏻

Yes, yes, of course it does! One sentence can't possibly be enough, so I included a little snippet of the next chapter:

...

"Sorry you're stuck with this one," she added, jerking a thumb over her shoulder to gesture in Tom's general area. "But trust me, you're way cuter, and probably lower maintenance than he is."

Tom cleared his throat. "Are you done?"

"Jealous?"

"Of a dog?" he deadpanned, rolling his eyes beneath a pair of expensive Ray Bans—not at all disproving the theory—and Parker smiled at her joke. "Hardly."

She leaned closer to Jean Claude, and spoke in a stage whisper, "I think he's jealous."

And—yup—that seemed to do it.

Tom pushed off the counter with a sharp huff, unamused by her teasing, and made a command in French. Jean Claude bounded onto his feet, trotted to where Tom was, and curled up between his legs.

Parker stood and planted her hands onto her hips. "Real mature."

...

[mysterytheater]

"You may not be interested in absurdity," she said, "but absurdity is interested in you."

Shower of Gold by Donald Barthelme

Because he needed the money Peterson answered an ad that said "We'll pay you to be on TV if your opinions are strong enough or your personal experiences have a flavor of unusual."

He called the number and was told to come to Room 1551 in the Graybar Building on Lexington. This he did and after spending twenty minutes with a Miss Arbor who asked him if he had ever been in analysis was okeyed for a program called Who Am I?

"What do you have strong opinions about?" Miss Arbor asked.

"Art," Peterson said, "life, money."

"For instance?"

"I believe," Peterson said, "that the learning ability of mice can be lowered or increased by regulating the amount of serotonin in the brain. I believe that schizophrenics have a high incidence of unusual fingerprints, including lines that make almost complete circles. I believe that the dreamer watches his dream in sleep, by moving his eyes."

"That's very interesting!" Miss Arbor cried.

"It's all in the World Almanac," Peterson replied.

"I see you're a sculptor," Miss Arbor said, "that's wonderful."

"What is the nature of the program?" Peterson asked. "I've never seen it."

"Let me answer your question with another question," Miss Arbor said. "Mr. Peterson, are you absurd?" Her enormous lips were smeared with a glowing white cream.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I mean," Miss Arbor said earnestly, do you encounter your existence as gratuitous? Do you feel de trop? Is there nausea?"

"I have enlarged liver," Peterson offered. "That's excellent!" Miss Arbor exclaimed.

"That's a very good beginning. Who Am I? tries, Mr. Peterson, to discover what people really are. People today, we feel, are hidden away inside themselves, alienated, desperate, living in anguish, despair and bad faith. Why have we been thrown here, and abandoned? That's the question we try to answer, Mr. Peterson. Man stands alone in a featureless, anonymous landscape, in fear and trembling and sickness unto death. God is dead. Nothingness everywhere. Dread. Estrangement. Finitude. Who Am I? approaches these problems in a root radical way."

"On television?"

"We're interested in basics, Mr. Peterson. We don't play around."

"I see," Peterson said, wondering about the amount of the fee.

"What I wanted to know now, Mr. Peterson, is this: are you interested in absurdity?"

"Miss Arbor," he said, "to tell you the truth, I don't know. I'm not sure I believe in it."

"Oh, Mr. Peterson!" Miss Arbor said, shocked. "Don't say that! You'll be ..."

"Punished?" Peterson suggested.

"You may not be interested in absurdity," she said, "but absurdity is interested in you."

"I have a lot of problems, if that helps," Peterson said.

"Existence is problematic for you," Miss Arbor said, relieved. "The fee is two hundred dollars."

"I'm going to be on television," Peterson said to his dealer.

"A terrible shame," Jean-Claude responded. "Is it unavoidable?"

"It's unavoidable," Peterson said, "if I want to eat."

"How much?" Jean-Claude asked and Peterson said: "Two hundred."

He looked around the gallery to see if any of his works were on display. "A ridiculous compensation considering the infamy. Are you using your own name?" "You haven't by any chance ..." "No one is buying," Jean-Claude said. "Undoubtedly it is the weather. People are thinking in terms of?what do you call those things??ChrisCrafts. To boat with. You would not consider again what I spoke to you about before?" "No," Peterson said, "I wouldn't consider it." "Two little ones would move much faster than a single huge big one," Jean-Claude said, looking away. "To saw it across the middle would be a very simple matter." "It's supposed to be a work of art," Peterson said, as calmly as possible. "You don't go around sawing works of art across the middle, remember?" "That place where it saws," Jean-Claude said, "is not very difficult. I can put my two hands around it." He made a circle with his two hands to demonstrate. "Invariably when I look at that piece I see two pieces. A you absolutely sure you didn't conceive it wrongly in the first instance?" "Absolutely," Peterson said. Not a single piece of his was on view, and his liver expanded in rage and hatred. "You have a very romantic impulse," Jean-Claude said. "I admire, dimly, the posture. You read too much in the history of art. It estranges you from those possibilities for authentic selfhood that inhere in the present century." "I know," Peterson said, "could you let me have twenty until the first?"

Peterson sat in his loft on lower Broadway drinking Rheingold and thinking about the President. He had always felt close to the President but felt now that he had, in agreeing to appear on the television program, done something slightly disgraceful, of which the President would not approve. But I needed the money, he told himself, the telephone is turned off and the kitten is crying for milk. And I'm running out of beer. The President feels that the arts should be encouraged, Peterson reflected, surely he doesn't want me to go without beer? He wondered if what he was feeling was simple guilt at having sold himself to television or something more elegant: nausea? His liver groaned within him and he considered a situation in which his new relationship with the President was announced. He was working in the loft. The piece in hand was to be called Season's Greetings and combined three auto radiators, one from a Chevrolet Tudor, one from a Ford pickup, one from a 1932 Essex, with a part of a former telephone switchboard and other items. The arrangement seemed right and he began welding. After a time the mass was freestanding. A couple of hours had passed. He put down the torch, lifted off the mask. He walked over to the refrigerator and found a sandwich left by a friendly junk dealer. It was a sandwich made hastily and without inspiration: a thin slice of ham between two pieces of bread. He ate it gratefully nevertheless. He stood looking at the work, moving from time to time so as to view it from a new angle. Then the door to the loft burst open ran in, trailing a sixteen-pound sledge. His first blow cracked the principal weld in Season's Greetings, the two halves parting like lovers, clinging for a moment and then rushing off in opposite directions. Twelve Secret Service men held Peterson in a paralyzing combination of secret grips. He's looking good, Peterson thought, very good, healthy, mature, fit, trustworthy. I like his suit. The President's second and third blows smashed the Essex radiator and the Chevrolet radiator. Then he attacked the welding torch, the plaster sketches on the workbench, the Rodin cast and the Giacometti stickman Peterson had bought in Paris. "But Mr. President!" Peterson shouted. "I thought we were friends!" A Secret Service man bit him in the back of the neck. Then the President lifted the sledge high in the air, turned toward Peterson, and said: "Your liver is diseased? That's a good sign. You're making progress. You're thinking."

"I happen to think that guy in the White House is doing a pretty darn good job." Peterson's barber, a man named Kitchen who was also a lay analyst and the author of four books titled The Decision to Be, was the only person in the world to whom he had confided his former sense of community with the President. "As far as his relationship with you personally goes," the barber continued, "it's essentially a kind of I-Thou relationship, if you know what I mean. You got to handle it with full awareness of the implications. In the end one experienced only oneself, Nietzsche said. When you're angry with the President, what you experience is self-as-angry-with-the-President. When things are okay between you and him, what you experience is self-as-swinging-with-the-President. Well and good. But," Kitchen said, lathering up, "you want the relationship to be such that what you experience is the-President-as- swinging-with-you. You want his reality, get it? So that you can break out of the hell of solipsism. How about a little more off the sides?" "Everybody knows the language but me," Peterson said irritably. "Look," Kitchen said, "when you talk about me to somebody else, you say 'my barber,' don't you? Sure you do. In the same way, I look on you as being 'my customer,' get it? But you don't regard yourself as being 'my' customer and I don't regard myself as 'your' barber. Oh, it's hell all right." The razor moved like a switchblade across the back of Peterson's neck. "Like Pascal said: 'The natural misfortune of our mortal and feeble condition is so wretched that when we consider it closely, nothing can console us.'" The razor rocketed around an ear. "Listen," Peterson said, "what do you think of this television program called Who Am I? Ever seen it?" "Frankly," the barber said, "it smells of the library. But they do a job on those people, I'll tell you that." "What kind of a job?" The cloth was whisked away and shaken with a sharp popping sound. "It's too horrible even to talk about," Kitchen said. "But it's what they deserve, those crumbs." "Which crumbs?" Peterson asked.

That night a tall foreign-looking man with a switchblade big as a butcher knife open in his hand walked into the loft without knocking and said "Good evening, Mr. Peterson, I am the cat-piano player, is there anything you'd particularly like to hear?" "Cat-piano?" Peterson said, gasping, shrinking from the knife. "What are you talking about? What do you want?" A biography of Nolde slid from his lap to the floor. "The cat-piano," said the visitor, "is an instrument of the devil, a diabolical instrument, You needn't sweat quite so much," he added, sounding aggrieved. Peterson tried to be brave. "I don't understand," he said. "Let me explain," the tall foreign-looking man said graciously. "The keyboard consists of eight cats?the octave?encased in the body of the instrument in such a way that only their heads and forepaws protrude. The player presses upon the appropriate paws, and the appropriate cats respond?with a kind of shriek. There is also provision made for pulling their tails. A tail-puller, or perhaps I should say tail player" (he smiled a disingenuous smile) "is stationed at the rear of the instrument, where the tails are. At the correct moment the tail-puller pulls the correct tail. The tail-note is of course quite different from the paw-note and produces sounds in the upper register. Have you ever seen such an instrument, Mr. Peterson?" "No, and I don't believe it exists," Peterson said heroically. "There is an excellent early seventeenth-century engraving by Franz van der Wyngaert, Mr. Peterson, in which a cat-piano appears. Played, as it happens, by a man with a wooden leg. You will observe my own leg." The cat-piano player hoisted his trousers and a leglike contraption of wood, metal and plastic appeared. "And now, would you like to make a request? 'The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian'? The 'Romeo and Juliet' overture? 'Holiday for Strings'?" "But why?" Peterson began. "The kitten cries for milk, Mr. Peterson. And whenever a kitten cries, the cat-piano plays." "But it's not my kitten," Peterson said reasonably. "It's just a kitten that wished itself on me. I've been trying to give it away. I'm not sure it's still around. I haven't seen it since the day before yesterday." The kitten appeared, looked at Peterson reproachfully, and then rubbed itself against the cat-piano player's mechanical leg. "Wait a minute!" Peterson exclaimed. "This thing is rigged! That cat hasn't been here in two days. What do you want from me? What am I supposed to do?" "Choices, Mr. Peterson, choices. You chose that kitten as a way of encountering that which you are not, that is to say, kitten. An effort on the part of the pour-soi to?" "But it chose me!" Peterson cried, "the door was open and the first thing I knew it was lying in my bed, under the Army blanket. I didn't have anything to do with it!" The cat-piano player repeated his disingenuous smile. "Yes, Mr. Peterson, I know, I know. Things are done to you, it is all a gigantic conspiracy. I've heard the story a hundred times. But the kitten is here , is it not? The kitten is it not?" Peterson looked at the kitten, which was crying huge tigerish tears into its empty dish. "Listen, Mr. Peterson," the cat-piano player said, "listen!" The blade of his immense knife jumped back into the handle with a twack! And the hideous music began.

The day after the hideous music began the three girls from California arrived. Peterson opened his door, hesitantly, in response to an insistent ringing, and found himself being stared at by three girls in blue jeans and heavy sweaters, carrying suitcases. "I'm Sherry," the first girl said," "and this is Ann and this is Louise. We're from California and we need a place to stay." They were homely and extremely purposeful. "I'm sorry," Peterson said, "I can't?" "We sleep anywhere," Sherry said, looking past him into the vastness of his loft, "on the floor if we have to. We've done it before." Ann and Louise stood on their toes to get a good look. "What's that funny music?" Sherry asked, "it sounds pretty far-out. We really won't be any trouble at all and it'll just be a little while until we make a connection." "Yes," Peterson said, "but why me?" "You're an artist," Sherry said sternly, "we saw the AIR sign downstairs." Peterson cursed the fire laws which made posting of signs obligatory. "Listen," he said, "I can't even feed the cat. I can't even keep myself in beer. This is not the place. You won't be happy here. My work isn't authentic. I'm a minor artist." "The natural misfortune of our mortal and feeble condition is so wretched that when we consider it closely, nothing can console us," Sherry said. "That's Pascal." "I know," Peterson said weakly. "Where is the john?" Louise asked. Ann marched into the kitchen and began to prepare, from supplies removed from her rucksack, something called veal engagé. "Kiss me," Sherry said, "I need love." Peterson flew to his friendly neighborhood bar, ordered a double brandy, and thrust himself into a telephone booth. "Miss Arbor? This is Hank Peterson. Listen, Miss Arbor, I can't do it. No, I mean really. I'm being punished horribly fir even thinking about it. No, I mean it. You can't imagine what's going on around here. Please, get somebody else? I'd regard it as a great personal favor. Miss Arbor? Please?"

The other contestants were a young man in white pajamas named Arthur Pick, a karate expert, and an airline pilot in full uniform, Wallace E. Rice. "Just be natural," said, "and of course be frank. We score on the basis of the validity of your answers, and of course that's measured by the polygraph." "What's this about a polygraph?" the airline pilot. "The polygraph measures the validity of your answers," Miss Arbor said, her lips glowing whitely. "How else are we going to know if you're ..." "Lying?" Wallace E. Rice supplied. The contestants were connected to the machine and the machine to a large illuminated tote board hanging over their heads. The master of ceremonies, Peterson noted without pleasure, resembled the President and did not look at all friendly.

The program began with Arthur Pick. Arthur Pick got up in his white pajamas and gave a karate demonstration in which he broke three half-inch pine boards with a single kick of his naked left foot. Then he told how he had disarmed a bandit, late at night at the A&P where he was an assistant manager, with a maneuver called a "rip-choong" which he demonstrated on the announcer. "How about that?" the announcer caroled. "Isn't that something? Audience?" The audience responded enthusiastically and Arthur Pick stood modestly with his hands behind his back. "Now," the announcer said, "let's play Who Am I? And here's your host, Bill Lemmon!" No, he doesn't look like the President, Peterson decided. "Arthur," Bill Lemmon said, "for twenty dollars?do you love your mother?" "Yes," Arthur Pick said. "Yes, of course." A bell rang, the tote board flashed, and the audience screamed. "He's lying!" the announcer shouted, " lying! lying! lying!" "Arthur," Bill Lemmon said, looking at his index cards, "the polygraph shows that the validity of your answer is … questionable. Would you like to try it again? Take another crack at it?" "You're crazy," Arthur Pick said. "Of course I love my mother." He was fishing around inside his pajamas for a handkerchief. "Is your mother watching the show tonight, Arthur?" "Yes, Bill, she is." "How long have you been studying karate?" " Two years, Bill." "And who paid for the lessons?" Arthur Pick hesitated. Then he said: "My mother, Bill." "They were pretty expensive, weren't they, Arthur?" "Yes, Bill, they were." "How expensive?" "Twelve dollars an hour." "Your mother doesn't make very much money, does she, Arthur?" "No, Bill, she doesn't." "Arthur, what does your mother do for a living?" "She's a garment worker, Bill. In the garment district." "And how long has she worked down there?" "All her life, I guess. Since my old man died." "And she doesn't make very much money, you said." "No. But she wanted to pay for the lessons. She insisted on it." Bill Lemmon said: "She wanted a son who could break boards with his feet?" Peterson's liver leaped and the tote board spelled out, in huge, glowing white letters, the words BAD FAITH. The airline pilot, Wallace E. Rice. Was led to reveal that he had been caught, on a flight from Omaha to Miami, with a stewardess sitting on his lap and wearing his captain's cap, that the flight engineer had taken a Polaroid picture, and that he had been given involuntary retirement after nineteen years of faithful service. "It was perfectly safe," Wallace E. Rice said, "you don't understand, the automatic pilot can fly that plane better than I can." He further confessed to a lifelong and intolerable itch after stewardesses which had much to do, he said, with the way their jackets fell just on top of their hits, and his own jacket with the three gold stripes on the sleeve darkened with sweat until it was black.

I was wrong, Peterson thought, the world is absurd. The absurdity is punishing me for not believing in it. I affirm the absurdity. On the other hand, absurdity is itself absurd. Before the emcee could ask the first question, Peterson began to talk. "Yesterday," Peterson said to the television audience, "in the typewriter in front of the Olivetti showroom on Fifth Avenue, I found a recipe for Ten Ingredient Soup that included a stone from a toad's head. And while I stood there marveling a nice old lady pasted on the elbow of my best Haspel suit a little blue sticker reading THIS INDIVIDUAL IS A PART OF THE COMMUNIST CONSPIRACY FOR GLOBAL DOMINATION OG THE ENTIRE GLOBE. Coming home I passed a sign that said in ten-foot letters COWARD SHOES and heard a man singing "Golden earrings" in a horrible voice, and last night i dreamed there was a shoot- out at our house on Meat Street and my mother shoved me in a closet to get me out of the line of fire." The emcee waved at the floor manager to turn Peterson off, but Peterson kept talking. "In this kind of world," Peterson said, "absurd if you will, possibilities nevertheless proliferate and escalate all around us and there are opportunities for beginning again. I am a minor artist and my dealer won't even display my work if he can help it but minor is as minor does and lightning may strike even yet. Don't be reconciled. Turn off your television sets," Peterson said, "cash in your life insurance, indulge in a mindless optimism. Visit girls at dusk. Play the guitar. How can you be alienated without first having been connected? Think back and remember how it was." A man on the floor in front of Peterson was waving a piece of cardboard on which something threatening was written but Peterson ignored him and concentrated on the camera with the little red light. The little red light jumped from camera to camera in an attempt to throw him off balance but Peterson was too smart for it and followed wherever it went. "My mother was a royal virgin," Peterson said, "and my father a shower of gold. My childhood was pastoral and energetic and rich in experiences which developed my character. As a young man I was noble in reason, infinite in faculty, in form express and admirable, and in apprehension …" Peterson went on and on and although he was, in a sense, lying, in a sense he was not.

https://www.jessamyn.com/barth/gold.html