#chase bernstein

[back-and-totheleft]

The Camera is the Rifle

OS: I read your bio this morning. I see we did parallel each other to some degree. What year were you born?

DB: I was born in ’49. You’re a couple of years older than me. I dodged the draft. You enlisted, right? I remember sitting for the draft lottery, wondering if I would have to go to Canada or Nam?

OS: I don’t know. You’re one of those wimp-assed, fucking east coast people that didn’t want to go in the Army. I can’t understand you guys. I mean you saw the Vietnam War as a disaster. I didn’t at that time.

DB: Yes, Welcome, Oliver Stone, to Flashpoints. It’s good to have you with us.

OS: Nice to be back. I was on a couple of years ago.

DB: Yes, A couple of years after we’ve spoken, I believe we met at the late Robert Parry’s house, where you were given the Gary Webb Award. And we also were traveling the same ground there as well. It is good to have you back with us Oliver.

I found your autobiography both moving and compelling. So much about war and the aftermath. I remember one time when I got stung by a bee, I was about 11, and my father caught me going out the door with a can of Raid. And he says, “where you going?” And I said I got stung by a bee and I’m going to go kill a whole bunch of bees. And he said did I ever tell you the story about how a bee saved my life? And I said no. He says yeah. Well I was in the ditches and we were taking a break and this bee started dive-bombing my dad. I think it was Sicily, the Battle of Bloody Ridge. And he said “So I got out of the trench and I went behind a tree to grab a smoke, and as soon as I got out of my hole there, a mortar hit and killed 9 of my best friends.” Then my dad made us some tea and sweetened it with a nice dollop of fresh honey from a beekeeper who was a regular in my dad’s cab.

OS: That sounds horrible.

DB: Soldier Dad said to me, “if I ever run into General Patton in a drug store or the candy store, I will punch his ass out.”

I really want to start with what Martin Scorsese said to you in Films chool, that I think you found very moving and a life changer. And Scorsese said it in response to your first black and white, 16mm film. He said to you in response to your film, “The person who is making it is living it.” That was sort of your degree, wasn’t it? That was the real degree you got from college and your mantra all the way through.

OS: I’d say that was the highlight of my 2½ years at NYU. Martin – or Marty as we knew him then – was a very down-to-earth, but very smart and was very entertaining as a teacher. We were making films, very cheap films – black and white, 16mm, and editing them, writing them, starring in them, shooting them ourselves; it was mostly pretty amateur work. But this stood out to him, and usually we were into auto-critiquing like the Chinese cultural revolution. So usually you get a lot of criticism after you showed a film in class. It was a hard go-around. And he just shut it up right away. He said this is a film-maker, which I know was my diploma.

DB: Yes, really. And it was a film about war.

OS: It was about my returning to New York, yes.

DB: From the war.

OS: And my casting aside the medals, that’s right. It was about all the junk you wanted – the veteran has to lose the memories that he was carrying in order to move on with life.

DB: Now you made these three amazing films, of course Platoon was the first in a trilogy, and that was all about your experiences in Vietnam. And I found it very moving. Could you talk a little bit about – you talk about terminology like friendly fire. There are these terms that you learn in war. Talk a little bit about the language of war in the context of that Vietnam War.

OS: Well, I went in and I was a volunteer, and I was sent over as a replacement troop into a unit at the 25th Infantry, which had lost some men, and we were all replacements. And it was very factory-like in the sense that people didn’t want to get to know you too much, because we didn’t really – there was none of that wartime this-is-your-buddy stuff. We all were trying to stay alive, and everyone was counting off the days until they had left. It was like working for a taxicab company, which I had done also. So it was a routine, and it was a tough routine. And sometimes it would work out that you would bond with somebody, but not necessarily.

I was talking about the three lies, the three biggest lies I witnessed in Vietnam, and I gradually learned them over the time I was there. Because a lot of guys were getting hurt by friendly fire, which is our own artillery, our own planes and our own fire – rifle fire, ground fire. There was a lot more of that than people thought there was, because were in the jungle in asymmetrical warfare, and sometimes people – stupid people – would shoot without knowing where they were shooting because they were thinking. The problem with a lot of that war was that US troops when they get under fire, whether it’s in Afghanistan or Vietnam, they just open fire. They just fucking go crazy. It becomes like a mad minute, and that doesn’t work. You put out a lot of fire, and of course the idea is that you scare off or you stop the enemy from advancing. It’s ridiculous, and frankly kills a lot of people, as well as civilians; a lot of them were killed.

And that was the second thing I saw: a lot of civilian deaths. And when we say – we just don’t admit it. Because if you look at the casualty figures in Afghanistan, I’m sure you’re going to find a lot more than you know about US bombs killing Afghans. And I think that is one of the hidden facts of all wars; civilian deaths.

And the third I said about it was that the biggest lie of all was that we’re winning this war, which is what they told us all the time. It was we’re not losing; we’re winning; we’re kicking ass; look at the body counts. But then on the other hand, the more of them you killed – and of course they were inflated body counts because they included civilians – the more of them you killed, they always seemed to be replaced.

So who knows? It was Alice in Wonderland; the American strategy was nuts. Cleaning out villages and making them move to other villages that were supervised by corrupt, government troops; it was not a solution. And the people were caught between two different forces. Naturally a lot of us started to resent them because we thought they were helping the enemy. So this led to all kinds of problems. But the biggest problem of all was from the top down, the leadership; and it was military. It wasn’t political. The military people that are hardcore will always tell you it’s politics and ended the war. And they’ll say the same thing about Afghanistan. But it’s not; it was just a shit situation in terms of military situation. And if you don’t want me to say shit, I can say it was just a hopeless situation in terms of the military.

DB: Thank you. You remember Pacifica and the seven dirty words, so we’ve got to be careful about that. So I’m thinking, when I – and I really enjoyed your reading of the book – I’m thinking that war really ends up being at the core of everything you do; even outside this trilogy that it has that deep impact. And one has to realize that so many young men come back wounded and never recover, and this becomes sort of the core experience. We used to make fun – my brother and I used to make fun of my father when he would keep retelling us the same war stories. You know, we sort of had them numbered and labeled. And we’d go ha-ha, and laugh behind his back. But this is at the core.

OS: A lot of veterans don’t talk about it, and they carry it inside. And I’m not so sure that’s very healthy either. I think by making those three films I was able to exorcise quite a bit of things that were inside me. As you know, I jumped around on all three subjects. The second one was about another young man who came from a small town, not like me, and who came back to a small town paralyzed. Ron Kovic’s Born on the Fourth of July. So that’s a powerful story, I think, of pre-war/post-war, as well as war; there was quite a bit of action in that movie.

The third story was the Vietnamese peasant wives and their point of view. A woman who grew up in a village, and that’s a true story. She wrote a book, I optioned the book, Le Ly Hayslip. We called the film Heaven and Earth. And it’s, I feel, one of my best movies; but it’s kind of –

DB: Very powerful film.

OS: It came too early and it was about Asians. So I figured the American people were not interested in that side of the story.

DB: Well I live with one, and I get that perspective. Back to Ron Kovic; another place where our lives overlap. My mom – we grew up on the Lower East Side, but my mom took us out to a place called Massapequa. Have you heard of that town?

OS: Sure. Massapequa is where Ron was from. I was there.

DB: And when – I mean this was a big thing. My parents used to shop in the Bohack; I think that’s what the store was called.

OS: Oh yeah, Bohack. I remember Bohack.

DB: Where Ron Kovic grew up. And then I remember hearing Tom Paxton for the first time singing this song; I don’t know if you’ve ever heard it. Born on the Fourth of July. And it’s got – the refrain is “I was born on the fourth of July, no one more loyal than I. When my country said so, I was ready to go, I wish I had been left there to die.”

OS: Never heard it. I’ve never heard it.

DB: It’s powerful – you know, I was thinking when I was going to see the movie, your movie, I was thinking oh, that’s going to be the theme song. But then I thought to myself, no. Because he tells the whole story, the whole story is in the song; why do the movie? But the movie was a life-changer for me as well, and I’m sure for many young men who had survived that draft and that war.

OS: Yeah, although it’s not referred to, interestingly enough, as a war film, and it’s left off those lists; but I consider it a war film, very much so. Because it’s about what the boy was like before and what he was like after. And what the family situation is at home as well as abroad. So you know, I don’t know. Things get lost. I love Born on the Fourth of July; I think it’s one of my best films.

DB: I agree. And it’s sort of how the whole – one person in the family goes to war and the whole family goes to war. I’m remembering a film that came out of World War II; I think it was called The Best of Our Lives. Do you know that film? Was it The Best of Our Lives? Where he comes home and he –

OS: Oh, The Best Years of Our Lives, yes. That’s a classic from William Wyler, 1946. Frederick March. Three men came back from the war and each one had a different fate in his hometown.

DB: Yes, and I remember as a kid watching it.

OS: And it certainly was an inspiration for Born on the Fourth of July, certainly. I saw that film more than once. It’s a great film.

DB: And it really does show how you’re sending a whole family to war.

OS: It’s one of the most honest films I think Hollywood ever made. Because in that period, the American viewer was going very back towards the right wing, back towards the Republican era, and those films were no longer made after that. That film in fact almost got Wyler into the black lists; it came close. It’s an interesting story.

DB: Really. That is something. And again, it was powerful. I think in part it was in black and white, I believe.

OS: Yes.

DB: I guess that’s what they were using at that point. Or maybe somebody just chose to do it in black and white. But that also made it a very powerful film.

OS: Yeah.

DB: Could you talk a little bit about – I want to sort of backtrack a little bit and I want to talk a little bit about your family, your dad, your mom. Your dad was a Jewish businessman who worked on Wall Street – hence the film Wall Street – back to the person who is making it is living it. And your mom was sort of a – I don’t know. These days we’d say a party girl. But she was the entertainer. She was having parties; she was out there. Could you talk about you parents and how they influenced you?

OS: You called it an autobiography, but I’d call it more of a memoir; because it becomes subjective, highly subjective. And it’s about my relationship with the two parents. And because I was the only child, it was seen like a perfect family to me; a triangle that was working. And when it fell apart suddenly – and that was in 1962 when I was 15, 16, and I was at boarding school – and I was shocked to be told on the phone so coldly that the divorce – the marriage was over. I mean it was like a 180° turn. And I was not consulted or anything, because it was going on and there was a lot of tension between the two that I knew nothing about. Which was kind of a shock to me, and a coming-of-age kind of thing where you’re 15 and you say well, it’s a whole other world that I’m in now. The parents separate and it’s no longer “a family”; there is no family anymore. And especially if you’re an only child it’s just – you’re all on your own now, basically. And that’s what happened to me. I ended up in those years kind of being very disturbed, and eventually going – I went to Vietnam twice.

But my mom was, what did you say, a party girl? Yes. But in those days that was not wrong. It was a woman of a certain means – if she had means – would not work. It was acceptable. No longer, but my mother of course was very supportive of the family, and of my father. And she thought she was contributing with her grace and her charm and her party-giving to his career as a broker. And she did. So there is an alliance, a partnership between the parents.

My father was, as depicted in the book, also a very strong man, like my mother; both very strong people. And I wrestled with my father when I came back from Vietnam because he was supporting the war. And he was an Eisenhower Republican, and a smart one; not stupid at all. He wrote about it for a while, and he wrote a monthly letter. But he had a view of the world that was very Republican. It certainly influenced me and I was conservative. But it took me years to undo that; years to kind of see the real world the way it was devolving for me, not for him. He came out of The Depression; I can understand his feelings. And he was always very strongly anti-Roosevelt. So I had to learn my own – I had to figure it all out gradually as I was going along.

And so let’s say by my 30s – the book centers on the first 40 years. And when I was 30, I was very depressed. Nothing was working; my life was not working. And I wrote the book on the idea that I wanted to show younger people what it’s like growing up in that time period, and how because I had a dream about being a filmmaker, I achieved it finally. I achieved it against great odds; so many rejections of my material, including The Platoon. More than once it almost got made. But basically from my 1987, ’86, when I was 40 years old, I had broken through, and it was a tremendous overnight success. Platoon was amazing; it went around the world. Elizabeth Taylor was giving me an Academy Award; best picture, best director, it was a fairy tale. And you can’t end a book better than that. I mean you achieved the dream after so much rejection and pain that it means something so much more to you and it was very sweet.

So maybe the story should end there at the age of 40. But it doesn’t; there’s another story in this, it goes on. I have to write still; it’s another book I want to do.

DB: Another book. And what is it about film that you chose as your main medium for?

OS: Well because I had written a book before I left. I had written a novel when I was 19 years old, and it was very – partly out of that pain and that loneliness; the divorce and the isolation. The sense of separation from a family; a lot of pain. It came into this book, an autobiographical novel. Which was pretty amazing. It was published years later as A Child’s Night Dream in 1997 by St. Martin’s Press. Which was an interesting book; a lot of craziness in it. Written by a 19-year-old really; it’s a 19-year old’s book. And I look back on it fondly. But it shows me – in other words, I was a writer. But when I came back from the Vietnam War, I no longer was satisfied with being a novelist. What I had seen was so visceral over there, and so in-your-face; six inches in front of your face. Your eyes, what you see and hear and smell. You have to become a 360°, full-contact person. And that’s not really what a novelist does. A novelist is very much in his head. You cannot be in your head in the field. You have to be alert and you can’t be thinking these things. So you kind of achieve another kind of viscerality, which I can’t explain quite until you pick up a camera and you can relive it. The camera gives you that viscerality, that sense of being the rifle. The camera is the rifle; it shoots. And it shoots what you want it to shoot.

So I basically came back from the war as an infantry soldier, as a filmmaker; wanting to be a filmmaker, a wanna-be. And that’s where I learned how to make them at NYU gradually. It took me a few years to get to the place where I could have some success. My first success was at 30 with The Midnight Express. No, I’m sorry – yes. No, it was at 32 with Midnight Express, 33; after that 30. At 30 years old it looked –

DB: Yeah, that was in – you made that – and that actually won an Academy Award for best adapted screenplay.

OS: Yes, it did. After that I was in the business; I was accepted in the business, and it was up and down. The business has a thousand pitfalls, and I certainly go into some of them. And I think it’s very illuminating for younger people who want to pursue the arts to see this story and feel it.

DB: And pursue you did, courageously. You know the book; we’re talking about Chasing the Light; Writing, Directing and Surviving Platoon, Midnight Express. Scarface Salvador and the Movie Game. And it opens up with you completing your first film, which is Salvador. You’re making it in Mexico. And I really want to ask you how you had the courage; how you could go forward in the face of having to deal with and juggle. Not only are you worrying about doing the film, but you’re worrying about having the whole thing pulled out from under you if you go over budget.

OS: Listen, Salvador was –

DB: How do you do that?

OS: How do you do it? You do it by learning. And learning – in Vietnam there was an expression: on the job, or learning on the job training; on the job training. You just do it. And that’s what happened. It was one of the worst nightmares you could ever have as a filmmaker. I could never survive it now. I was – I didn’t know better. But there was just no money; it was a dream from the beginning. I pushed that dream. I wanted to make the film. It was about war in Central America. And I went down there with a crazy journalist who was a friend of mine who lived through some of these experiences, and I based the film on his story. But we were so – between our desire and our execution there was quite a bit of a problem, so it took – it was an insane story. You have to read it to understand it. And an English company bailed us out. It was an English producer named John Daley who was taking chances in the 1980s, ’85, and he made both films. He made Platoon and Salvador. So without him it would not have made it. No American company would touch Salvador or Platoon. No American company would finance it, do you understand? That’s what’s really depressing. And it’s still going on.

DB: Why do you think that is?

OS: Well because they want to make money, and they thought that Stallone was the answer with his bullshit Rambo films. And Chuck Norris, the other guy who’s another right-winger, was perfect for the American people. It was what they wanted to hear, but it was not true. It was called Missing in Action and Chuck Norris made about three or four films about it, which was – that was the vogue. That was the vogue. And by the time I came along I thought it was over. I put Platoon in the closet and I said forget it; they’ll never make it. It was almost made, but it never got made. And then I gave up, and out of the blue three or four years later John Daley committed to it and he came through. He came through on both films, and both films became hit successes for me. Huge hits; I mean certainly Platoon.

DB: Wow. And why did you make that film? Why El Salvador?

OS: Well because it was a great story. It was a great story about war. Central American war is a dirty, dirty, dirty story about America. The same kind of mindset that created Vietnam was involved in 1980. Salvador, in Honduras, in Guatemala and in Nicaragua. Remember the Nicaraguans were having a revolution, the Sandinista Revolution. And the American government took a strong stance against it because they thought it was Communistic. Actually it was about land reform and making the lot of the poor in that country, or the people, most of the people, making it a better situation for them. But that’s not the way the American people saw it. So we supported dictators in those regions ever since; we always have. We want stability over any kind of uncertainty.

DB: You know the thing is it’s impossible to get that information out, in terms of the relationship that the US government has with for instance the death squads in El Salvador.

OS: It’s come out, but no one wants to listen. Yeah, we always support the death squads. And in Vietnam certainly there were death squads. Americans fought another war; it was a covert and a dirty war where we killed people. Peasants that were seen as progressive. And the same thing went on in Afghanistan. I mean you have no idea. There’s this other – one sector is the military and then the other sector is what now becomes the contractor at war. Which is to say you have a contract and you go out and you do your dirty work for the government; and you kill a lot of people who are seen as oppositional.

I was joking with somebody the other day. I said yeah; the Americans should let all the Afghanis in who worked with them. That means all the bad guys too. The Americans have this picture of the people who worked with them as all these good guys. Some of them were. But a lot of them were bad-ass people who were getting – who were doing a lot of killing and a lot of spying, killing. In other words, war is ugly. And we used everything we could to win that war. We used torture; we used all these sci-op techniques. It was very important for us to win the hearts and minds of the peasantry, which we never did; either in Vietnam or in Afghanistan.

DB: You say that it’s reported in the US, but not really. I don’t think in the United States your everyday, average citizen knew, for instance in El Salvador, that there was a guy named Roberto D’Aubuisson who once turned – told a German photographer that you Germans did the right thing; you killed all the Jews. Or drawing straws to shoot the archbishop through the voice during the eucharist. I don’t think –

OS: Plus there’s a whole dark side of the American story. I mean it’s true in every country in South America since we’ve had dictators everywhere. And wars; Argentina there were death squads all over the place, and in Brazil earlier than that in the ‘60s, and in of course Chile in ’71, or ’73 rather.

DB: ’73, right. September 11th; 9/11. When I saw the twin towers going down, I thought the Chileans are taking revenge. It’s September 11th, and the United States with the CIA overthrew the duly elected government of Allende.

OS: And not only that, we cooperated with the new government in picking out – I mean lists of people to be examined an often thrown out of helicopters or tortured. In other words as we did in Indonesia. Everywhere we go, we do this. There’s no fun to have in this story at all.

DB: Right. And I think that’s part of the gift of your work, Oliver Stone, that you put in film what we can’t, what we journalists can’t seem to get people to understand in terms of where your tax dollars are going. I’m just reading that I think they’re upping the defense budget big time. Meanwhile they’re hassling over whether they want to have a budget that’s going to support human life and people having a place to live and hospitals.

OS: Yeah, I know. And we have to bring all the people that we owe; our collaborators in those countries. They’ve been kicked out; they can’t work there; they’ll be killed. So they come and move to the United States. I suggest that they move to Miami and join the other; all the people that work with the Cuban exiles. Some of them are murderers and torturers, and they blow up anything. They’ve done it so many times. They go back into South America and they help the Chileans and they help the Argentinians with their dirty wars. In other words, we have a whole mini population of murderers and torturers in our country who were given sanctuary here.

Oh by the way, you have to include the South Vietnamese who did it over there, and they are moved into Orange County and here in Los Angeles. So we have communities of that.

DB: And then the history is rewritten. I mean we love the fact that –

OS: They become the victims. They become the people who got screwed, so to speak.

DB: There was a Vietnamese writer from South Vietnam, who wrote this – sort or rewrote history. It was about worshiping the ladder that was allowing the last Vietnamese to escape the Communists in the last helicopter.

OS: Propaganda.

DB: Propaganda; a lot of propaganda. You do say in this memoir that it’s really about – where is it that I wanted to quote? It’s about sort of living for the dream. You say this is a story about making a dream at all costs. How do you – what is it that allows you to sustain that dream? So many people give up pretty early in the game. What really matters?

OS: You know, I think tenacity is as much a part of success as anything. Anger certainly was there; it’s been steady. Anger at what we do in these situations and how we lie about it. It remains. It’s not the only focus of my life, of course. I have managed to balance my life out with happiness too. But certainly there’s a lot of residual anger there about what we’ve done and are still doing. What the hell are we doing with this budget, with our budget? I mean our support of this military empire that we’ve created is beyond belief; beyond belief. After all the screwups we’ve seen, and we’ve seen it time and again from Vietnam to Iraq, one and two basically. And then of course Afghanistan and Syria; we had no business doing what we did. So it’s just a whole ideological warfare that we do, but there’s no point to it. It doesn’t do the world any good. It just creates bodies and destruction. We bring destruction and we call it peace.

DB: You have had some pretty strong critiques of your work. You’ve been successful, but a lot of people get very angry; for instance around JFK. Is it because the truth hurts?

OS: Oh, I guess it does. They don’t want to admit it. You’re asking me an obvious question. Why would they get angry? There’s a long list of people who’d like to see me, among others, see me dead.

DB: Right. And when you raised the issue about JFK; I mean you did the film, and I understand you’re still working on the story of JFK.

OS: The story never went away, because it was never solved. We just made – I made a documentary called JFK Revisited. It’s going to be released in November of this year in the United States. We showed it at Cannes very successfully; we sold 10-12 countries and it’s coming out here in November. So the case has never ended; they never solved it. The investigations kept coming. Our film created a third investigation called The Assassination Records Review Board, and they interviewed a lot of people who were still alive back in ’94 and ’98. And they wrote up these things that were said and done, and a lot of people had provisionist stories to tell. And of course it was ignored for the most part. It was really ignored by the media. Americans love to say well, we’re going to make an investigation, another investigation. But then they never follow up because it’s tedious over four years to follow all the little details. Well we did. The people in this JFK research community did follow it, and there’s a lot there. There were – 60,000 documents were declassified, and almost two million pages.

On the other hand, Trump backed down at the last second and he was swamped with CIA objections; and he put a lid on it and he changed the law. He basically did it illegally; not with the authorization of Congress. And now the law is – they’re not respecting the law. We still have these 20,000 documents that are still classified. And there’s a lot there. There may not be, but you have to get into the CIA people. The CIA has been most obstructive to the investigation. They don’t release the files on some of these key agents that appear around the edges of the story, like David Atlee Phillips, George Joannides in Miami, or William Harvey who was around the Cuba operation. There’s a lot there, but who knows what’s in there?

But the point is we accepted the Warren Commission, which was a joke. We go back in the film and show the basic evidence: the bullet, the rifle, the fingerprints, everything that matters in a murder trial. And we show it to be completely phony. There’s not one piece of evidence that really holds up against the so-called Oswald killer routine. It’s disgusting.

DB: What do you think? You’ve spent so much time; what are some of the basics that people should know, that should be taught in the history books; in the alternative history books?

OS: I’ve written about it, and the documentary is made. I don’t think in the time we have, Dennis – I’ve been on almost an hour and I do have other things I have to do today. I don’t think there’s time to go into it all. It’s about Oswald, it’s about the evidence, it’s about the Warrant Commission itself and how crooked it was. All this has come out in declassifications. We have to cover a lot of bases, and there’s no one headline.

Also, the big question is why, why, why was Kennedy killed? I keep re-emphasizing that. And I can tell you that our history books are still screwed up. I mean if you were to believe them, Mr. Johnson, Lyndon Johnson, succeeded Kennedy smoothly and continued his policies in Vietnam. This is rubbish; complete rubbish. We have proof now through declassification that Kennedy was absolutely withdrawing from Vietnam, win or lose. And they said that’s what he told McNamara; McNamara said it in his book. He was Secretary of Defense. William – McGeorge Bundy, who was pro-Vietnam war, also says it very clearly in his book. These things are written years after. People don’t pay attention. The historians still go on with that nonsense about Lyndon Johnson was a successor. But he changed everything in the foreign policy of Kennedy. Everything from Vietnam to Cuba to – Kennedy was working on another détente with the Soviet Union and Johnson never did anything towards détente. He moved the other direction, encouraged dictatorships and overthrew a government in Brazil, and all over the world, in Greece in 1967. You see a complete repudiation of the Kennedy doctrine. Kennedy had the Alliance for Progress in South America; out the window with Johnson. In Africa, Kennedy was making huge strides to make allies with a whole new generation of Africans; all out the window. In Asia of course, Kennedy was working with Indonesia; he liked Sukarno. With Johnson they get rid of Sukarno and there’s the bloodiest coup d’états of all time; a million people are killed because they were so-called Communists. But those are lists of course put together by the American CIA, and it’s just murder. That’s what it was, just outright murder. Anything the – stuff the Nazis did; just killing people and getting away with it. The world has gotten very violent and ugly, and we’ve played a huge role in bringing that about.

And of course, Dennis, you’re an hour in now. I do have to get out of here.

DB: All right, sure. All right. Well, I want to thank you for joining us. Can I just ask you, are there any more feature films coming up? Is there – are you in a different place now?

OS: Yeah, I’m in a different place. I’ve made a nuclear energy documentary, which is very, very fact-based and I think will be very interesting and possibly move some marbles around here. Because we need to get going and get clean energy. We’ve got to get the CO2 out of the fucking system; out of the system. And it’s going to take a lot of work. People are dreaming when they think about if windmills and sun are going to do the whole job, they’re not. Certainly they’re good, but they need a lot of help. And we’re not going to make it unless we use nuclear energy, and a lot of it. A lot of it. So there has to be a change in thinking.

But it’s not just us; it’s the whole world that we have to change. The whole world.

-Dennis Bernstein, "The Camera is the Rifle: an Interview With Oliver Stone," Flashpoints, CounterPunch, Sept 24 2021 [x]

[delosdestinations]

"We wanted to make a show about consciousness; the kind of boastful ambition that works when you're pitching--and then falls apart when you find yourself trying to figure it out. There were few guides. Philosophers who'd lost their tenure. Computer scientists who'd lost their stock options. Guesses. Expletives. Crackpot theories. Hands wrung or simply thrown in the air. Even now, humans know more about what lies at the bottom of a supermassive black hole than the dark center of our minds.

But there are clues: language, semiotics; the distance between the notions rattling around in our minds and the ways in which we share them, and the ways in which humans share ideas between each other.

There's a language older than language, though. One that predates the written word or even the spoken one. Music. Its effects on people are fascinating--raw, direct, like an older interface that bypasses the newer, clunkier inputs. What music may lack in nuance versus spoken language, it more than gains in emotive power, as if transmitting emotion directly into the brain. If a picture is worth a thousand words, the right chord progression might reach nine figures.

So for our series about consciousness, we knew the music would be vital--and that we had the man for the job. Fittingly, Ramin's journey as a composer had been launched, in part, by Elmer Bernstein's achingly brilliant theme for The Magnificent Seven. Here he got to take a detour into the future in order to find his way back to the West.

He wanted to use guitars. We wanted piano (because the player piano had been the original western robot) and he gamely went along. I remember the themes as they came alive, anointing each character, imbuing them with even more depth and power. The craft and performances that came together for the series were all hard won--Ramin's music hooked everything to an undertoe of menace, melancholy and beauty.

As for Ramin's arrangements of contemporary music, they served two purposes; first, as a gentle reminder that our story was being told in the future tense, not the past. And second, as manipulation. If music is evocative, then music you've heard before takes on another dimension, dipping into circuits of lived experience and harnessing their power. A song you've listened to after a triumph or a breakup--even one rendered in a different timbre or arrangement--still has a grip on you. One that Ramin could pluck at, like the strings on his guitar. We spent four seasons exploring these questions and the closest we came to understanding consciousness--at least the variety that afflicts humans--is that any attempt to explain it without incorporating emotion is pointless.

The show is long since over. But I find myself whistling Ramin's timeless theme. Often. And I smile. That's the power of this music: that the indelible experiences of making Westworld, all of the incredible people who were part of it, all the days spent chasing the sun and capturing it on film, can all be conjured, instantly, in 8 perfectly chosen notes.

Westworld never died. It simply became music."

Jonathan Nolan, Executive Producer Liner Notes from Westworld: Season 4 (Music from the HBO Series) Vinyl

[woodsteingirl]

I was joined in the chase by the hardworking Bob Woodward, who was also on top of the story. He and I had begun playing tennis together as Watergate moved from scandal to impeachment, and that led to a few late-night pizzas over which we decided that we would stay in touch and share, as much as possible, what we were learning. By this time David Obst somehow had befriended Woodward and Bernstein … and he arranged a dinner meeting with the three of us, …There was the usual drinking et cetera, which Bob eschewed, and at a hazy moment late at night the talk turned to the conspiracy theories about the assassination of John F. Kennedy. Obst, or was it Wenner?, in their wacky genius, came up with what seemed at that hour to be a fantastic idea: Rolling Stone would announce a joint investigation by Woodward and Bernstein and Sy Hersh into the JFK assassination…

who fucking remembers

[iamprchung]

The Spider and the FBI: Part 7 "Paradise Syndrome"

Synopsis by guest writer Jose Chung (written prior to his apparent death at the hands of the Nostradamus Nutball):

Now, grab your Stetsons, conspiracy cowboys, 'cause we're moseying on over to Elmo, Wyoming. Here, amidst the questionable barbeque and dazzling fireworks of the 4th of July festivities, we find Agent Scully embroiled in a situation more perplexing than a malfunctioning weather balloon.

In strides Sheriff Lawrence Durokoff, a man carved from the same government-issue granite as Assistant Director Skinner, only with a grin brighter than a chrome bumper on a brand-new pickup truck. Was it a case of cloning gone wrong? Or perhaps long-lost twins separated by, well, let's just say a misplaced birth certificate (we can delve into government conspiracies all day, but identical twins are a stretch even for this jaded scribe).

The truth, as always, is stranger than the wildest fan fiction. The undeniable spark between Scully and Sheriff Durokoff has tongues wagging about a future filled with calico dresses and prairie sunburns instead of chasing shadows in the bureaucratic labyrinth.  Is our favorite redhead about to trade her badge for a butter churn? Only time, and perhaps a strategically placed horseshoe (it's a small town, after all) will tell!

Notes: Yes, I sure did title this after a Star Trek episode.

"Paradise Syndrome"

Part VIII of "The Spider and the FBI"

by PR Chung

Preface/Notes:

Just reading through this, even after all these years, I recognize exactly where one of my very best friends and amazing author assisted with this story. I know her work is still out there somewhere as she was one of the originals in the X-Files fiction fandom, authoring stories that are still amazing. None other than the very talented Paula B. Her ability to turn a phrase cannot be surpassed, and it’s a joy to read passages I know she helped on.

*************************

Elmo, Wyoming July 4th

By the time she hung up the phone from her conversation with Mulder, Scully's hair was nearly dry from her shower. She got up from the bed and went to the window, drawing back the curtains of her hotel room to look out on the street below.

Nothing much had changed except for the layer of increasing smoke drifting up through the trees from the square. How many barbecues were going? She wondered. And what were they cooking? Burgers and hot dogs? Roasting corn snugly rolled in foil? Brisket and ribs, too?

Her stomach gurgled.

Trying to remember the last meal she'd eaten she turned to go check on her blouse. It was hanging to dry in the bathroom after a lame attempt to clean it in the porcelain basin. It was a very nice bathroom, just not very functional.

The entire room was very nice, as was the whole hotel. Small and quaint, just a few rooms sitting atop a gift shop and cafe. Heavy in small town charm and light on the amenities; a bed, chest of drawers, mirror, and nightstand. No television, no radio, and the phone had to be brought up specially for her room, as had the one taken into Skinner's room down the hall.

His would undoubtedly be of heavier use than hers she presumed as she touched the still damp fabric of her blue blouse. He wasn't pleased in the least about either the situation or the location, and he apparently wanted out as fast as humanly possible.

He had been on the phone at the Sheriff's station the entire time it took to get Bernstein squared away in the holding cell. There was nothing but skeleton crews of federal workers manning the phones in Denver and Salt Lake City. Calling Washington hadn't been much help either; apparently all he had gotten was an ear full of instructions to get Bernstein back there for trial- come hell or high water.

Sure, they could get a flight out of Laramie or Cheyenne in the morning or even tonight if they were lucky enough that the agents from the Casper field operation should show up. But things were looking ugly up there, suspicion of terrorism and arrests sparking upset among the jingoistic masses. It was just another unpleasant federal incident in the making.

Aside from becoming another bout of bad press for the bureau, this whole Casper thing had gummed up the works, delaying agents that Mulder had needed, and now, still, those she and Skinner needed.

Mulder could have gone forever, and would have, if she hadn't interrupted his denunciation of every federal employee he had dealt with during the last twenty-four hours. She could tell he hadn't slept by just the shear amount of information he was trying to pack into a single conversation followed by a spate of questions.

She was sure there would be more questions when he finally arrived in a few hours. After muttering something about manic helicopter pilots, he had said was going to drive to Elmo, which concerned her if he hadn't slept, but once Mulder was set on doing something there was generally no swaying him from it.

A sudden resonant sound of a band practicing drew her attention back to the street below her hotel window, where she caught sight of Sheriff Durokoff.

Self-consciously she took a step back from the window not wanting to be discovered in just her bra. At a careful distance from the window, she watched him across the street and stop there in the shade, talking pleasantly with others.

The sound started up again, a guitar... being tested on an amplifier. Curious, she searched through the trees trying to see, hearing the strong chords of a bluesy country-rock song she couldn't name being played by fits and starts.

The trees were just too thick. She couldn't see a thing and gave up and turned back to look at more interesting things— He was gone. The people he'd been talking to were still there, mulling around and talking, but Durokoff was gone.

Crap. She'd see more of him later, but it was unlikely she would get another chance to covertly study him at length, to examine the similarities between him and Skinner.

His cousin, she concerned. How bizarre, she thought and smiled. Of all the towns they should end up in, after all they had gone through, they just happen to hit the one tiny patch of earth containing another Skinner- or rather a Durokoff. Their mothers were sisters undoubtedly, or perhaps a remarriage had caused the difference in names. She analyzed the possible branches of genealogy.

Like an impression of the sun Durokoff's smile was emblazoned on her retinas. He wasn't the consummate small town, no non-sense Sheriff, all bluster, and intimidation when it came to federal involvement.

He didn't like Bernstein, and he had been to the point with the man, swiftly locking him away in the blunt bowels of the Elmo holding cells, but during the entire time at the Sheriff's station he had still managed to be cheerful and lighthearted. She thought she'd even seen him give her a quick wink at one point.

The un-Skinner, she thought and nearly laughed out loud.

Not completely, though, the similarities remained, and were so great in certain respects that she had found herself deferring to Durokoff the same as if he were Skinner. A certain turn of a phrase, a look, a motion, everything about him stirred an almost constant sense of surprise and amusement in her.

Two Skinner's could be a rather daunting concept for some, but it didn't seem like such a bad idea to her.

A solid knocking sounded at the door of her room yanked her out of that thought, audibly startling her.

"Agent Scully?" a muffled voice called through the door, concerns seeping through the woodgrain.

"Just a minute," she called, rushing to grab her top.

Lawrence Durokoff stood in the hall listening to the muffled scurrying sounds beyond the door, arched his brows. Perhaps she wasn't alone in there, he thought and glanced down the hall toward his cousin's room which he'd discovered was empty only a moment before he tried her room.

"Is there a problem?" Durokoff turned at the sound of Skinner's voice. He was coming down the hall from the stairs, his eyes pinched and his jaw set.

"No. No problem here." He answered taking a step back from the door to address Skinner. Well, he wasn't in there. So, what's going on?

The door jerked open suddenly, a flush faced Scully looked back at the two men. Her eyes darted back and forth between the two of them, questions pooling.

"Uh, hi." She greeted the two of them, holding the hem of her blouse out and away from herself, it was still damp and almost transparent when it contacted her body. "Is something wrong?" She finally asked when neither one of them spoke.

“You two sure are shellshocked.” He commented, glancing amusedly between the two of them. “Nothing wrong,” he told her, and glanced at Skinner, “and no problems.”

Durokoff held out a small satchel to Scully. "I had one of the deputies gather some things together for you," he explained as she took.

"Thank you," Scully said glancing inside it to see what appeared at first glance to be a tee shirt still in the plastic packaging, a hairbrush, and a few basic items of make-up.

Skinner averted his gaze from the scene shifting the plastic bag he was carrying from one hand to the other. Durokoff glanced back at his cousin holding out another bag, a half-sized duffel. "I got some clothes for you and some shaving stuff."

Skinner's hand went to his face, feeling the growth of beard stubble. What a pig he must have looked like, he ruefully thought and glanced at Scully. "Thanks."

The sound of music drifted into the hall through Scully's room from outside; a hearty rendition of Bad Moon Rising being played in the square.

"Well, uh," Durokoff muttered planting his hands on his hips, looking between the two of them. "I guess you've figured out there's a little party starting outside. There's plenty of food and music," he made a brief gesture toward the sound of the music past Scully's shoulder. "I've come to extend the official Elmo invitation for you both to join us."

Scully's stomach gurgled urging her to accept the invitation.

* "... I see the bad moon a rising. I see trouble on the way..." *

Skinner spoke before she could. "Food sounds great, but I don't think we should get distracted. We're still on duty here."

"No distractions," Durokoff said and grinned. "Just good food. I've got plenty of people keeping an eye on that Bernstein joker, so you can stop worrying about him. Just come on down to the square when you're ready and make yourselves at home."

* "... I see bad times on their way..."*

"I may just rest some." Skinner said quietly.

Speak for yourself, Scully thought. "I'd be happy to sample the local flavor. I can't remember my last real meal."

* "I know the end is coming soon..." *

"Great," Durokoff blurted, zealously slapping his hands together. "I'll see you down there, Agent Scully." He said and turned to go, saying to his cousin as he went, "I hope you'll come down, too, once you get some rest, Walter."

* "...don't go 'round tonight... It's bound to take your life..." *

"Here," Skinner said, unceremoniously extending a plastic bag to Scully.

She blinked pulling her gaze off his departing cousin. "What's this?" She asked, taking the bag.

"A toothbrush and paste." He answered already halfway to his room down the hall.

"Thank you..." she leaned out the door calling back to him, but his door had already shut, leaving her alone in the hall.

Back inside her room, she picked through the duffel finding a new tee-shirt, boasting a silk screen print that read 'Second Annual 4th of July Celebration, Elmo, Wyoming'. She frowned reading it.

Only their second? She wondered and moved on to inspect the rest of the items. The mascara would work fine and the lipstick too if she only dabbed it on, it was just a little too dark for her taste, but the blush would have to go, it was far too red.

Grateful for necessities, she snatched up the brush and plastic bag, heading to the bathroom. Her hair was frightful. Could she get it to behave even if she did re-wet it and brush it straight out? No beauty contest is going on that I know of right now, she told herself, yanking first paste from the plastic bag, then the toothbrush— and stopped.

She looked at it, confused at first by what she saw. Turning the brush over in she found a small decal stamped on the handle; a little stagecoach in motion with a name drifting behind it like dust from the wheels. The name wasn't Dana, though... It was Kate.

She looked at that a second before she realized and glanced back, her thoughts on the room down the hall. Dana wasn’t a common name emblazoned on any gift shop trinket. She looked down at the toothbrush.

He’d gotten the next closest.

*****************************

The when the music began Skinner opened his eyes, hearing the chords that were undeniably familiar aside from the performers’ ad-libbing. Before finally getting up to go to the window, he laid on the bed listening to the guitar playing down in the square wrenching out Sleepwalk.

It wasn't great, but it was close, he critiqued pulling back the gossamer curtains to look out. Anyway, the slower, more sedate sounds were a nice break from the honky tonkin,’ rambunctious stuff they'd been playing for the last hour.

He would have liked to have blamed his inability to sleep on the music, but he doubted he could have slept if he were in a soundproof room with no windows. There was just too much weighing on his mind to allow sleep to come easily. There was still no call from the special agent in charge up in Casper, no word on when they could expect more agents. At least Mulder was on his way, that fact, in the strangest of ways helped ease his concerns in some.

Once he got there, they could continue on to Laramie, get Bernstein drugged to the hilt and on a plane and back to DC by Monday at the latest. That would still give them a day before the arraignment hearing and get the federal prosecutor and Attorney General out of his hair.

Skinner chuckled to himself. If ever there was a figure of speech...

A glimpse of red drew his attention to the street below. There walked one of his other concerns: Scully was heading across to the town square.

Damn.

From out of the cover of the trees came Lawrence, a huge smile plastered across his face.

And there came the next concern.

Of all the damn places to end up in why the hell did they have to end up here? Eighteen years of peace shattered in a single day. Peace, yes, but not complete disconnection. There had always been word floating through the family about who was doing what and where they were.

He had known when Lawrence finally made Sheriff here, he'd actually been invited to a party to celebrate the event. He knew it hurt Aunt Anne and Bulah when he didn't respond. He had been busy, and just didn't feel like dealing with it again.

Skinner watched as two boys scurried between Scully and Lawrence, almost bumping into her as they went. He watched Scully laugh about it and talk cheerfully as Lawrence guided her into the park, disappearing beyond the thick canopy of tree branches.

His heart sank almost in time with the lamenting cry of the guitar playing. Too much time had passed, he thought, but things hadn't changed much...

*****************************

Norwalk, Ohio December 1st, 1963

There just wasn’t a whole lot to do, and all the adults were still shuffling around, overwhelmed by the news out of Dallas a little over a week before. It felt like the world, at least their part of it had come to stand still after the news of the president’s assassination.

Heavy and silent, the day pressed in around two small figures scuffing through turned leaves. It was Sunday after Thanksgiving, not much to do between the time Church was done and time for supper, except track around in the woods, down by trestle and maybe, if luck were good, a train would pass on its way into Cedar Point.

But come tomorrow, Monday was going to be the start of a whole new experience...

"Will there be a lot of girls there?"

"Sure will. Who do you think we're gonna dance with, Walter, each other?"

Walter pulled the collar of his red plaid coat up closer to his neck, shivering against the sudden cold breeze. "But a lot of them?" he asked, concerned.

"I don't know," Lawrence looked at him closely, "why, are you scared?"

Walter shrugged and stuffed his hands deep in the warmth of his Tuff-Skin pockets. "No. I was just wondering."

"I think you're scared. You're scared of the girls." Lawrence began to laugh. Walter blushed making his cousin laugh even harder. "Cubby's afraid of the girls."

"I'm not. And stop calling me that stupid name."

"Cubby, Cubby, Cubby." He chanted, jogging in a circle around Walter.

"I don't even look like that kid, knock it off!" Walter hauled off and shoved Lawrence knocking him off balance.

"You got the ears."

"So, what if I have mouse ears? You've got that stupid coonskin hat, and I know your cat gave it fleas cause you're always scratching your head when you wear it!"

"I don't scratch my head!" Lawrence proclaimed, his voice cracking hard. "And I wasn't talkin'bout your dumb Mickey Mouse ears. I meant your ears!"

"So! You scratch your head so much you're gonna scratch all your hair off and then see how many girls you dance with."

"You're dumb." Lawrence spat shoving Walter.

"You're stupid." Walter spat back, regaining his balance.

"You're fat."

The comment fell on deaf ears, Walter wasn't listening to his cousin, something else had caught his attention, a rustling sound close by. Lawrence tried shoving him again, but Walter didn't budge, he remained steady and fixed on the sound. "Cut it out... Listen..." he said, adjusting his glasses.

Lawrence listened, hearing the sound he frowned. "What is that?"

Walter shook his head and started forward, following the rustling.

They walked carefully though the brittle layer of leaves covering the ground, listening intently, checking the bare trees around them for some sign of what the sound was.

"There," Lawrence blurted, his arm shooting straight out from his body as he pointed toward the trees ahead of them. "It's a kite!"

"It was a kite," Walter corrected his cousin who had started for the tree the tattered kite was caught in.

"Oh, wow, look," Lawrence excitedly called out when he peered up at the object. "It's not torn or nothing, look, Walter. Look."

Walter stepped up next to him, peering up. "Nope. It's not torn or nothing."

"Wow."

"But it's also up a tree."

Without a word Lawrence reached up and grabbed a low branch in each hand.

"What are you doing?" Walter sounded more accusatory than he did inquiring.

"I'm gonna get it."

"It's just junk, Lawrence." He told him and shook his head when he saw that he wasn't being listened to.

Lawrence struggled up through the bare branches, losing purchase several times as deader ones broke off under his weight, but somehow managing to only go higher rather than fall back down. It wouldn't be long though...

"You're gonna fall. You better not go any higher!" Walter yelled; his neck bent back until it hurt now to see his cousin. How high was he going go before he would see that kite was just junk, all busted up and worthless?

"I got it!" Lawrence shouted triumphantly.

Walter watched as he waved the ragged kite before him like some trophy for endurance and strength.

It was about then a loud crack sounded.

Clear and loud, like bones cracking, the branch Lawrence was resting his butt on breaking cut through the chilly air.

Walter saw the look in Lawrence's eyes when he realized things had gone very bad- black and huge with fear. He shrieked and Walter thought he sounded like a girl in the instant before his cousin plummeted through the branches and crashed to the ground on his side.

He lay there on his side; his back curved like a hula-hoop and his legs turned in crazy angles that didn't look right at all. His mouth was moving but there was no sound, he was sucking air in, and his eyes were squeezed shut so hard Walter couldn't see his eyelashes when he got up close.

"Holy smokes! Are you all right? Are you all right?"

Finally, and with an intensity like Walter had never heard in his life, a horrible noise came out of Lawrence's mouth: a ragged scream that degenerated into a gut-wrenching bawling. "My legs," he screamed, blood and snot trickling from his nose. "It hurts! It hurts! Walter, help me! Oh, God it hurts!"

"I told you!" Walter screamed, his breath beginning to hitch with frightened sobs. "I told you! Why didn't you listen to me?"

"Please- it hurts!"

Freezing air ripping at his lungs Walter tore through the woods, crashing toward Lawrence's house.

Walter Skinner didn't believe he had ever run harder or faster in his life than he had that afternoon.

******************************

Elmo, Wyoming 4th of July 1999

"Here you go," Durokoff declared, sounding a little breathless as he reappeared from the crowd, waving a handful of napkins.

Scully almost laughed at the inordinate amount of napkins he'd brought back to the table.

"I know I wasn't that messy," she said as he sat back down opposite her at the picnic table.

He watched her take a napkin from the pile and begin to wipe the barbecue sauce from her chin, noticing the dab she'd dropped on her tee shirt. "I don't know," he said grinning at her, "maybe I should have brought back a bib, too."

Scully looked down, gasping at the blotch of red sauce on herself. "I can't believe I've turned into such a mess."

"Ribs are messy business," he said handing her another fist full of napkins.

She laughed, feeling embarrassed. She had been half starved but attempted good manners, yet good manners went out the window when it came to barbecued ribs. She knew she should have stuck with the hot dogs.

"Barbecue in general is a messy business," she commented, demurely dabbing at her shirt.

"That's what makes it fun." Scully looked at him, struck by the strong and cheerful sound of his familiar voice. He looked back at her with kind brown eyes she thought she knew and had to remind herself that she didn’t know this man at all. "I think you missed a little..." He told her, gesturing first at her face then his own, brushing at his own upper lip.

Scully wiped at her mouth again, another wave of chagrin passing over her.

"Uh, it's..." he stammered a little again gesturing at her mouth and beginning to sound frustrated. "It's still..." Scully frowned, growing annoyed by her inability to find this stray smear of barbecue sauce he kept pointing at. "Uh, here," he said leaning over the table enough to hesitantly wipe her lip with another napkin. He stopped, pulling his hand back to look at her quizzically before he confusedly said, "it's not coming off?"

"Huh?" Then she realized and her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh... Well, it's not going to be coming off, either, not without laser surgery, unfortunately." Durokoff's expression was beginning to take on that cast that Skinner more than often got when he didn't quite get something. "It's a mole," she explained and went back to pick at the ribs on her paper plate.

"Unfortunately?" He questioned her choice of words. "Don't you like it?"

"No," she said emphasizing the word by pursing her lips. "I usually cover it up."

"It's darling," he declared. She raised her eyes to give him a dubious look. He wasn't making it any better and she hoped her expression communicated the fact. "Why would you cover it up?"

Apparently her expression did not phase the man. "I've never liked it," she answered and shrugged. "Since I was a little girl, I hated it."

"Why don't you have it cut off?" he bluntly asked.

She cringed, managing to stop her hands before the ribs touched her mouth. "I don't know," she sighed putting the rib back on the plate and pushing it away. "I guess because it's still a part of me."

"Attached to it, huh?" He was being deliberately idiotic now.

Scully blew her breath out, laughing hard in spite of herself. He laughed along with her appearing to do so with his whole body; he seemed to shudder, his eyes pinched with glee, his mouth a full broad smile.

She liked him. She liked his laugh- full on bass and warm- she liked the way he looked and carried him self- formidable confidence blended with deft grace. She'd even become a little fond of the propensity he had for repeatedly adjusting his hat when he spoke. A nervous quirk, Scully had considered, or merely a motion to ease the press of the cap against his bare scalp. She had seen he was just as balding as Skinner the few times his hat had come far enough away from his head.

Although, his skull appeared smoother than Skinner's that was subtly pitted and pocked with peculiar dings and curious indentations. Occasionally, while seated before her superior's desk with Mulder explaining himself at her side, her mind would drift curiously over that uneven back-lit scalp, indexing the probable causes of those marks and wondering if there something more to phrenology.

When their laughter tapered down to scant chuckling they found themselves looking at one another, a certain level of wariness passing between their gazes. The echo of live music rebounded around them, people mulled about laughing and cheering, but it all seemed suddenly very far away.

After a moment, affected, Durokoff cleared his throat shifting his eyes left and right, anywhere but on her. He got up from the table and motioned for her to follow. "Come on, I think that sauce is getting to you."

"Getting to me?"

He laughed one last breathy laugh, re-adjusting the cap on his head. "That sauce has probably got more booze in it than the bar over there."

She gawked at the plate of ribs she'd torn through. There might have been a good amount of liquor in the sauce but surely not enough to make her tipsy. "I couldn't taste liquor in it."

"Likely story, missy," he teased, "come on along with me."

"Am I under arrest for public intoxication?" She went with it, allowing him to take her by the arm and lead her through the crowd.

"Public intoxication, lewd and disorderly conduct, not to mention bad table manners..."

She didn't know where he was taking her but happily trotted along enjoying the feel of Durokoff's firm grasp.

Why couldn't Skinner be more like this, she mused as they wound their way through the crowded park. There was that one brief instant, she recalled his inciting of the Gilligan's Island theme while they were marooned in the middle of the lake, but she had assumed that was just the champagne.

She'd seen him smile just once, that same night, and the simple gesture had softened his features and lent light to his eyes. It was a long time before she had rid herself of the hope of ever seeing him smile like that again, at least for her. Again, she chalked it up to the alcohol he'd consumed and let it go.

Anything between them was not meant to be despite her moments of weakness, times when she was ready to throw everything away and tell him how she felt. He would probably give her one of those incredulous looks he so effortlessly doled out on a regular basis, saying something like "you've obviously made a mistake." Yeah, a mistake, all right. A big one, too. Don't go falling for your superior unless you're ready to suffer the knicks and scratches of unrequited... The sound of Durokoff's walkie-talkie interrupted her dejected introspective.

He excused himself by stepping away from her. A few moments later she was accepting his request to join him on a call, promising it would be interesting. And interesting it did turn out to be.

A rather typical domestic disagreement but with rather distinctive circumstances; at the far-off fringe of Carbon County where the Elmo Sheriff's department authority just about ran out. Two men of wise age, one would assume at first sight, sitting around all morning with nothing better to do than drink themselves into a stupor, decided the fireworks show was too far off to wait any longer. So, they started their own show a little early by setting off sticks of dynamite in their front yard.

The first blast had taken out a car belonging to one man who promptly set off a second stick that demolished the car belonging to the man who had set off the first explosion.

With their cars burning and the yard and house torn up and looking like a scene from a war, the men continued to argue and fight, each threatening to blow the other up.

Judging by the familiarity that the deputies on the scene as well as Durokoff treated the men, Scully figured that these two had a long history of such behavior.

An hour or more had passed when the county fire trucks were finally showing up on the scene and the two men had been talked down and on their way to Elmo where their view of the fireworks show would be quite good from their cells.

Stating that he was certain nothing he could show her now would top what they'd just seen, Durokoff set off anyway to give Scully a brief tour of the area, introducing her to locals less radical than the last and reciting regional history and lore making her feel quite comfortable with his attentiveness and polite gestures of respect.

She found in his behavior an old-fashioned charm replacing cautious political correctness that punctuated the cities she'd lived in most her life. Still, he showed respect to her, as the fellow agent of law enforcement she was, asking her opinion on issues of concern in the area and wanting to know her feelings about recent negative attitudes directed toward federal agencies.

But in defiance of their almost deliberate trade discussions, there was an underlying tension building between them. She could feel the air becoming charged as they traveled together and quite by themselves in the four-wheeler. Talk was becoming less and less as they drove through the mountainous roads, replaced by the frequent exchange of glances and shared smiles in the increasingly awkward silence.

Scully was beginning to feel as though she were on a first date when the radio gratefully crackled for attention, the dispatcher announcing she had a message from the Albany Country Sheriff's department. Scully was quick to stop any information from going out over the radio, making Durokoff aware of that being one feasible way Gryzwac had been tracing them with the use of a scanner.

Remarking how he hoped everyone was being as alert as she was he instructed the call be put through to them on his cell phone, and moments later Scully was talking to a ragged out sounding Mulder. He was traveling with an Albany Country deputy to get a rental car and didn't believe he'd be arriving until nightfall.

"Why doesn't he just get Boyd to have him flown over here," Durokoff asked Scully who relayed the question to Mulder.

"The helicopter is temporarily out of commission," she relayed back, listening to something else Mulder said, then, "besides, he's not thrilled about the idea if it were working."

Durokoff laughed. "I don't blame him in the least."

By the time they got back to town he'd shared his own tale of his experiences with Ronnie Stewart, the rock’n’rolling hot shot of the Albany County Air Patrol. It seemed the man had never quite put aside his days as a stunt show pilot, still managing to get a little acrobatic flying in every once in a while to show off and sometimes scare what he liked to call his "virgin" passengers.

***********************

Lariat Car Rentals Rock Springs, Wyoming

What was the deal?

Was there no respect left in this country for the urgency of federal business?

Mulder mulled these and a multifarious amount of other questions over as he watched the rental car agency employee languidly collect agreements from various pigeonholes along the wall of the storefront agency. Tired beyond measure he leaned against the chest high counter, believing if he stared hard enough at the back of the man's head, willing him to move faster.

"Please do not lean on the counter," he suddenly announced without turning.

Rolling his eyes, Mulder straightened and checked the time on the wall clock. Jesus, it was nearly four o'clock. Where had the damn day gone? "Could we hurry this up some, I'm really tired and I'm in a hurry to get to where I'm going."

"Perhaps you shouldn't be in such a hurry if you're so tired, sir." The man said, turning back to him with a smug lift to his eyebrow, his bushy mustache twitching like a nervous ferret had nested under his nose.

An abrupt and unsolicited laugh escaped Mulder. "Uh," he forced his eyes closed against the sight of the man. "I'm taking the full insurance on the car." He finally managed to assure the funny little man, who was now frowning at him.

"Of course you are after what happened to your last vehicle." He said planting the paperwork on the counter in front of Mulder. "Never in the history of Lariat Rental has there ever been such an act of complete disregard and..."

"I'm really sorry about the other rental car," Mulder bemoaned both what had become of the car he'd left on the side of the road the previous day and the fact that Lariat Rental seemed to have a monopoly on the rental car business throughout the area. Who would have thought there was a vandalism problem in such an area of the country? "Circumstances beyond my control kept me from calling..."

"Yes, yes. So, you've said. Still, I certainly hope this isn't the normal mode of operation among all representatives of the Federal Bureau of Investigation." He remarked pointedly as he handed Mulder a pen.

"As a matter of fact, it is," Mulder, aggravated to a point now, began signing papers with a whimsical flourish of his wrist, dispatching the signed copies toward the man with abandon. "It's a new policy that all federal employees must abide by totally, seek out and destroy as much property as humanly possible within the private sector." He emphasized his final word with such zeal he ripped right though the tissue thin top copy of the rental agreement with the ballpoint of the pen.

"Wonderful," the man declared throwing his hands up, "more destruction. I just never- now, we'll have to start over again."

"What!" Mulder spat as the man snatched up all the papers and started for the pigeonholes again for fresh copies. "Haven't you ever heard of scotch tape?"

************************

Continued in part 8

[sloshed-cinema]

West Side Story (1961)

So much emotion can be found in a whistle. After the overture, the film adaptation of Bernstein’s masterpiece is established in helicopter shots and whistles sending out taunts. New York, turf to be claimed. Initially, the intonations are haunting but melodic, centering around that central interval which defines the musical, the tritone. This diabolus in musica can be “the most beautiful sound I ever heard” if referring to María, or it can signal gang-land antagonism. But it can also be downright intimidation, the Sharks and Jets finding ways to whistle like cads pursuing someone down the street to chase unwanted rivals off their turf. This interlinking of the identities of the story and its music is key to the power of this film. The creatives behind its source captured lightning in a bottle. Leonard Bernstein finds brilliance in charting the length and breadth of American musical sensibilities as he creates a conflicted identity for this New York in extremis. A Sondheim early in his career begins to show his lyrical wit while also demonstrating a proclivity for meditating on a key term which becomes pivotal later: ‘tonight’ is initially innocuous, but that seed germinates in the powerful Quintet, wherein a single night can represent an endpoint (the rumble) or infinite possibilities (Tony and María). There are certainly problems here, even beyond the widespread brownface casting. The updated lyrics to “America” are still troubling, even if this represents an effort on some level to present the frustrating plight of emigration in search of a better life. But in a way Bernstein’s score offers a dark rebuttal: Anita’s attempted rape is accompanied by strains of that same song, the jaunty hemiola not so catchy when a woman is being assaulted by a gang. Perhaps the country she has so much hope for is more of a racist shithole than she’d led herself to believe. This same journey from consonance to dissonance defines the score. Tony makes beauty out of a traditionally abhorrent interval with his adulation of María, implying that this gang conflict is arbitrary and false. But it’s a cry into the void. When Tony and María first reunite and serenade each other with “Tonight,” their final farewells are accompanied by an upward-reaching gesture in strings and woodwinds. It’s hopeful and yet incomplete. After Tony dies and María is left with hate in her heart for the first time, Bernstein builds an exquisite, towering cathedral of dissonance, pinched brass and surly lower strings closing in on the suddenly ashamed gang members. The film closes with that same hopeful gesture. But it’s been filled in at last, with a dark, dissonant pedal tone. The music, this love, is left unresolved.

THE RULES

PICK ONE

Select either TONY or MARÍA and sip whenever someone says their name.

SIP

A tritone occurs in the melody of a song (think "María")

Solidarity against the cops.

Snapping happens in a scene.

A 'Vote for Al Wood' poster appears onscreen.

BIG DRINK

Whip pan.

Amazing stage punch!

Saxophone appears in a song.

[jpbjazz]

LÉGENDES DU JAZZ

SERGE CHALOFF, LA DESCENTE AUX ENFERTS D’UN SAXOPHONISTE VIRTUOSE

‘’When Serge was cleaned up, you know, straight, he could be a delight, really to be around, a lot of fun. He knew how to handle himself. He had that gift. He could get pretty raunchy when he was strung out, but he could also be charming.''

- Zoot Sims

Né le 24 novembre 1923 à Boston, au Massachusetts, Serge Chaloff était issu d’une famille musicale. Son père Julius Chaloff était compositeur et avait joué du piano avec le Boston Symphony Orchestra. Sa mère était  la professeure de piano émérite Margaret Chaloff. Mieux connue sous le surnom de ‘’Madame Chaloff’’, Margaret, qui était professeure au New England Conservatory, avait notamment enseigné à des grands noms comme Leonard Bernstein, George Shearing, Keith Jarrett, Herbie Hancock, Steve Kuhn, Chick Corea et Dick Twardzik.

Chaloff, qui avait d’abord appris le piano à partir de l’âge de six ans, avait également suivi des cours de clarinette avec Manuel Valerio du Boston Symphony Orchestra. À l’âge de douze ans, après avoir entendu Harry Carney jouer avec l’orchestre de Duke Ellington, Chaloff avait dédidé d’apprendre à jouer du saxophone baryton en autodidacte. Comme Chaloff l’avait expliqué plus tard lors d’une entrevue accordée au critique Leonard Feather: ‘’Who could teach me? I couldn't chase [Harry] Carney around the country.''

Même s’il avait été influencé par Carney et par Jack Washington, le saxophoniste baryton de l’orchestre Count Basie, Chaloff n’avait pas tenté de les imiter. Comme l’avait déclaré son frère Richard Chaloff, Serge ‘’could play {baritone} like a tenor sax. The only time you knew it was a baritone was when he took it down low. He played it high.… He had finger dexterity, I used to watch him, you couldn't believe the speed he played. He was precise. He was a perfectionist. He would be up in his bedroom as a teenager. He would be up by the hour to one, two, three in the morning and I'm trying to sleep and he'd go over a phrase or a piece until it was perfect… I used to put the pillow over my head, we had battles.’’

DÉBUTS DE CARRIÈRE

À partir de l’âge de quatorze ans, Chaloff avait commencé à jouer au Izzy Ort's Bar & Grille, un célèbre club situé sur la rue Essex à Boston. Son frère Richard expliquait: ‘’He didn't have a permit to work but he was pretty tall and he went down to see Izzy Ort...and played for him and Izzy liked the sax...and he hired my brother to work nights… My mother used to pray on Sundays that that he'd make it outa there… My brother sat in with bandsmen that were in their thirties and forties… and here he was fourteen, fifteen years old and he played right along with them, and he did so well that they kept him.''

En 1939, à l’âge de seulement seize ans, Chaloff s’était joint au groupe de Tommy Reynolds comme saxophoniste ténor. Par la suite, Chaloff avait joué avec les groupes de Dick Rogers, Shep Fields et Ina Ray Hutton. En juillet 1944, Chaloff avait également fait partie de l’éphémère groupe de Boyd Raeburn aux côtés de Dizzy Gillespie et Al Cohn, avec qui il avait tissé une amitié qui avait duré toute sa vie. C’est d’ailleurs avec Raeburn que Chaloff avait fait ses débuts sur disque en janvier 1945, notamment dans le cadre de la pièce ‘’Interlude’’ de Dizzy Gillespie, qui s’était mieux fait connaître plus tard sous le titre de ‘’A Night in Tunisia.’’ Le son de Chaloff était particulièrement perceptible au début de l’enregistrement.

C’est durant son séjour avec le groupe de Raeburn que Chaloff avait entendu pour la première fois Charlie Parker, qui était devenu sa plus importante influence. Mais selon le critique Stuart Nicholson, plutôt que d’imiter Parker, Chaloff s’était inspiré du jeu très émotif de Parker pour bâtir son propre style. Richard Chaloff avait ajouté que son frère saisissait toutes les occasions pour jouer avec Parker à New York. Richard avait déclaré: ‘’Any time he had the chance he would pal with him. He would sit in with him at night… My brother used to say that he was up till 4,5,6, in the morning with the Bird… All the beboppers found each other out.’’

Mais les tournées avec le groupe de Raeburn étaient épuisantes. Chaloff se rappelait d’ailleurs avoir joué durant soixante soirs consécutifs et avoir parcouru jusqu’à 500 miles entre chaque contrat. C’est d’ailleurs au cours de son séjour avec le groupe que Chaloff avait commencé à consommer de l’héroïne et à ‘’marcher sur les nuages’’ comme il l’avait déclaré lui-même. Au milieu des années 1940, Chaloff avait également travaillé avec Dizzy Gillespie, Benny Harris, George Handy, Oscar Pettiford et Earl Swope. Le 21 septembre 1946, Chaloff avait enregistré sa propre version deu standard ‘’Cherokee’’ sous le titre de ‘’Blue Serge’’.

Après avoir travaillé en 1945-46 avec les big bands de Georgie Auld et Jimmy Dorsey, Chaloff avait enregistré avec de petits groupes de bebop de 1946 à 1947. Parmi ceux-ci, on remarquait le Sonny Berman's' Big Eight, le Bill Harris's Big Eight, le Ralph Burns Quintet et les Red Rodney's Be-Boppers qui comprenaient également Allen Eager au saxophone ténor. Au début de 1947, Chaloff avait d’ailleurs partagé un appartement avec Red Rodney, un autre grand consommateur d’héroïne. C’est ainsi que Chaloff était tombé dans un engrenage dont il avait pris des années à s’affranchir.

Commentant sa collaboration avec Chaloff, le saxophoniste Allen Eager avait déclaré: “Serge was a groovy guy to be around. The three of us were all pretty much in the same zone as far as musical leanings go.” En janvier 1947, Chaloff avait enregistré deux standards avec le groupe de Rodney: ‘’Elevation’’ de Gerry Mulligan et ‘’The Goof and I’’ d’Al Cohn. En 2003, les disques Uptown avaient publié du matériel inédit enregistré lors de cette session qui mettait en vedette  Eager, Chaloff, Jimmy Johnson et Buddy Rich. Toujours en janvier 1947, Chaloff s’était produit au club Three Deuces avec le sextet de Georgie Auld aux côtés de Rodney, Tiny Kahn et Lou Levy. “Wonderful band’’, avait déclaré Chaloff plus tard, même si sa collaboration avec le groupe n’avait pas été tellement lucrative. À la même époque, Chaloff avait également joué au Smalls Paradise de Harlem avec Leo Parker, un autre saxophoniste baryton qui était disparu avant de réaliser son plein potentiel.

Durant la même période, Chaloff avait enregistré deux 78-tours avec son propre sextet pour les disques Savoy. Trois des quatre pièces figurant sur ces 78-tours avaient été écrites et arrangées par Chaloff. La quatrième composition intitulée ‘’Gabardine and Serge’’, avait été écrite par Tiny Kahn. Le critique Marc Myers écrivait: ‘’All four tunes are daredevil cute and blisteringly fast. They showcase tight unison lines and standout solos by four of the six musicians, who are in superb form....(On 'Pumpernickel') Chaloff shows off his inexhaustible and leonine approach to the baritone sax.’’

Chaloff était devenu une grande vedette en 1947 lorsqu’il s’était joint au Second Herd de Woody Herman. Le groupe s’était mérité le surnom de Four Brothers Band après que la section de saxophones composée de Chaloff, Stan Getz, Zoot Sims et Herbie Steward (qui avait été remplacé plus tard par Al Cohn) ait enregistré la composition de Jimmy Giuffre du même nom. Chaloff avait également participé à plusieurs autres enregistrements du groupe, dont ‘’Keen and Peachy’’. Chaloff avait aussi joué en solo sur des pièces comme "The Goof and I" et "Man, Don't Be Ridiculous." Selon Nicholson, sur cette dernière pièce, Chaloff avait démontré ‘’an astonishing technical facility that was quite without precedent on the instrument.’’

En 1949, l’historien et critique Leonard Feather avait écrit dans son livre Inside Be-Bop que le jeu propre et le bon goût de Chaloff avaient fait de lui ‘’the No.1 bop exponent of the baritone.'' Chaloff était d’ailleurs surnommé le ‘’Charlie Parker blanc.’’

Malheureusement, Chaloff avait aussi imité Parker sur un aspect beaucoup moins enviable de sa personnalité: il avait développé une dépendance envers l’héroïne. Selon Gene Lees, à partir de 1947, Chaloff était même devenu non seulement le principal fournisseur du groupe de Woody Herman, mais son consommateur le plus important. Toujours selon Feather, Chaloff déposait une couverture au-dessus des sièges arrière des autobus dans lesquels il se transportait afin de pouvoir vendre sa marchandises plus discrètement. Le critique Whitney Balliett avait ajouté que Chaloff avait ''a satanic reputation as a drug addict whose proselytizing ways with drugs reportedly damaged more people than just himself.’’ Plusieurs musiciens avaient d’ailleurs blâmé Chaloff pour la mort du trompettiste de vingt et un ans Sonny Berman, qui était décédé à la suite d’une overdose le 16 janvier 1947.

Le trompettiste Rolf Ericson, qui s’était joint au groupe de Woody Herman en 1950, avait décrit ainsi l’impact de la consommation de drogues sur les performances de la formation: ‘’In the band Woody had started on the coast...late in 1947, which I heard many times, several of the guys were on narcotics and four were alcoholics. When the band started a night's work they sounded wonderful, but after the intermission, during which they used the needle or lushed, the good music was over. It was horrible to see them sitting on the stage like living dead, peering into little paper envelopes when they weren't playing.''

Commentant le séjour de Chaloff avec le groupe, le critique Gene Lees écrivait: ‘’Hiring him must be accounted one of Woody’s worst errors. Serge was a serious heroin addict and like so many of his kind, a dedicated proselytizer for the drug. He would hook a number of the Second Herd bandsmen.” À l’époque, on estimait qu’environ 50% des saxophonistes du groupe de Herman étaient des adeptes de l’héroïne. D’autres musiciens consommaient des amphétamines, ce qui avait incité Herman à conclure: “Everybody was on practically everything except roller-skates… I’ve chased ‘connections’ out of clubs from coast to coast”. Il y avait aussi quatre alcooliques dans la formation.

Lors d’une performance à Washington, D.C., Herman avait eu une violente discussion avec Chaloff au sujet de sa consommation de drogues. Comme Herman l’avait raconté plus tard au journaliste Gene Lees:

‘’He was getting farther and farther out there, and the farther out he got the more he was sounding like a fagalah. He kept saying, ‘Hey, Woody, baby, I’m straight, man, I’m clean.’ And I shouted, ‘Just play your goddamn part and shut up!'....I was so depressed after that gig. There was this after-hours joint in Washington called the Turf and Grid....I had to fight my way through to get a drink, man. All I wanted was to have a drink and forget it. And finally I get a couple of drinks, and it’s hot in there, and I’m sweating, and somebody’s got their hands on me, and I hear, ‘Hey, Woody, baby, whadya wanna talk to me like that for? I’m straight, baby, I’m straight.’ And it's Mr. Chaloff. And then I remember an old Joe Venuti bit. We were jammed in there, packed in, and… I peed down Serge's leg. You know, man, when you do that to someone, it takes a while before it sinks in what's happened to him. And when Serge realized, he let out a howl like a banshee.''

Mais Chaloff était parfaitement conscient de sa valeur pour le groupe. Lorsque Herman avait menacé de le congédier, Chaloff avait simplement répliqué: “That’s the baritone book. You can’t fire me because I’m the only one that knows it by heart.”

Un des partenaires de Chaloff dans l’orchestre de Woody Herman, le vibraphoniste Terry Gibbs, avait décrit ainsi  le comportement pour le moins erratique de Chaloff:

‘'He'd fall asleep with a cigarette all the time and always burn a hole in a mattress. Always! In about twelve hotels. When we'd go to check out, the hotel owner – Serge always had his hair slicked down even though he hadn't taken a bath for three years...the manager would say, 'Mr Chaloff, you burned a hole in your mattress and...' 'How dare you. I'm the winner of the down beat and Metronome polls. How dare you?'...the manager would always say, 'I'm sorry Mr Chaloff,'...Except one time when the band got off on an air-pistol kick....Serge put a telephone book against the door and was zonked out of his bird...he got three shots at the telephone book and made the biggest hole in the door you ever saw. So when he went to the check out, the guy said, 'Mr Chaloff, it'll cost you.'...He 'how-dared' him a few times. Couldn't get away with it. He said 'Well listen, if I'm gonna pay for the door I want the door.' It was twenty four dollars. So he paid for the door. I happen to be standing close by. 'Hey Terry,' he said. 'Grab this,' and all of a sudden I found myself checking out....We're walking out of the hotel with a door.''

Un autre collègue de Chaloff, le saxophoniste Al Cohn, se demandait même comment il avait pu éviter d’être assassiné. Cohn expliquait: ‘’I don't know how we kept from being killed. Serge would always be drunk. He was quite a drinker. Everything he did, he did too much. So one time we're driving, after work. It's four o'clock in the morning, and he makes a left turn, and we're wondering why the road is so bumpy. Turned out he made a left turn into the railroad tracks, and we're going over the ties.''

Pourtant, Chaloff pouvait être adorable quand il restait sobre. Comme l’avait déclaré Zoot Sims: ‘’When Serge was cleaned up, you know, straight, he could be a delight, really to be around, a lot of fun. He knew how to handle himself. He had that gift. He could get pretty raunchy when he was strung out, but he could also be charming.''

Curieusement, les problèmes de dépendance de Chaloff n’avaient pas semblé affecter outre-mesure ses performances sur scène. Comme Herman l’avait confirmé lui-même dans  le cadre d’une entrevue accordée à William D. Clancy: “Serge was probably the freshest, newest-sounding baritone that had come along in years.”

Finalement, n’en pouvant plus, Herman avait saisi le prétexte de la perte de popularité du swing (à l’époque, plusieurs big bands avaient été contraints de mettre fin à leurs activités pour des raisons économiques) pour mettre fin à l’existence de son groupe en décembre 1949. Il faut dire que l’orchestre avait perdu énormément d’argent: environ 180 000$, l’équivalent de deux millions de dollars au cours actuel.

Faisant référence de façon discrète au comportement de Chaloff au moment de démarrer les activités d’un groupe de plus petite taille à Chicago en 1950, Herman avait déclaré: ‘’'You can't imagine how good it feels to look at my present group and find them all awake. To play a set and not have someone conk out in the middle of a chorus.’’

DERNIÈRES ANNÉES

Après avoir quitté le groupe d’Herman, Chaloff avait passé une partie de l’année 1950 à jouer avec le All Star Octet de Count Basie, un groupe de taille plus modeste que le chef d’orchestre avait formé à la suite du déclin des big bands. À l’époque, le groupe, qui avait avait enregistré quelques pièces pour les disques Victor et Columbia, comprenait Basie, Chaloff, Wardell Gray, Buddy DeFranco, Clark Terry, Freddie Green, Jimmy Lewis et Gus Johnson. Plus tard la même année, Chaloff était retourné à Boston et avait joué avec de petits groupes dans des clubs comme le High Hat, le Petty Lounge et le Red Fox Cafe.

Après être retourné à New York, Chaloff avait formé son propre groupe avec des musiciens comme Earl Swope, Bud Powell, Joe Shulman et Don Lamond en vue d’une performance au club Birland en février 1950. Le critique Barry Ulanov avait commenté dans le magazine Metronome: “Serge Chaloff waved his big baritone horn at Birdland last month and inaugurated what will be a very interesting career as a leader.” Chaloff était alors retourné à Boston pour deux semaines et s’était produit avec une section rythmique avec qui il avait interprété du matériel associé au groupe de Herman.

Une performance de Chaloff au Celebrity Club de Providence, au Rhode Island, avait même été retransmise sur les ondes de la station radiophonique WRIV. L’enregistrement avait éventuellement été publié en 1994 par les disques Uptown dans le cadre d’un CD intitulée Boston 1950. Participaient également à l’enregistrement des musiciens comme Sonny Truitt, Milt Gold, Nat Pierce et Joe Shulman. Le CD comprenait aussi une entrevue de trois minutes avec Chaloff.

Le fait de jouer avec de petits groupes avait permis à Chaloff de retourner à la base et de développer un nouveau style de jeu. En 1951, Chaloff avait déclaré que le fait de se retirer du centre de l’action lui avait permis d’ajouter plus de couleur et de flexibilité à son jeu. Poursuivant dans le même sens, le saxophoniste Al Cohn avait ajouté que le jeu de Chaloff comme soliste ne s’était véritablement développé qu’à partir du moment où il avait décidé de cesser de se produire avec des big bands. En 1952, Chaloff était retourné à Boston et avait enregistré avec le pianiste Dick Twardzik, mais la session n’avait jamais été publiée. Il avait aussi fait des apparitions à la télévision et avait dirigé le groupe-maison d’un club local.

Devenu une grande vedette, Chaloff avait remporté les sondages des magazines Down Beat et Metronome comme meilleur saxophoniste baryton à chaque année de 1949 à 1953. Il avait aussi fait partie des Metronome All-Stars en janvier 1950 aux côtés de  grands noms du jazz comme Dizzy Gillespie, Stan Getz, Lee Konitz et Kai Winding.

Malheureusement, Chaloff avait continué de se droguer et de boire abondamment, ce qui l’avait empêché de décrocher des contrats sur une base régulière. Il avait même cessé complètement de jouer en 1952-53.

À la fin de 1953, Chaloff avait tenté de faire un retour sur scène après que le disc jockey de Boston, Bob 'The Robin' Martin lui ait proposé de devenir son gérant. Avec l’aide de Martin, Chaloff avait formé un nouveau groupe qui s’était produit dans des clubs de Boston comme le Jazzorama et le Storyville. Les partenaires musicaux de Chaloff à l’époque étaient Boots Mussulli ou Charlie Mariano au saxophone alto, Herb Pomeroy à la trompette et Dick Twardzik au piano.

Même si du propre aveu de Martin, Chaloff ne jouait pas beaucoup à l’époque en raison de ses antécédents liés à la consommation de narcotiques, il se donnait à fond lorsqu’on lui donnait  l’occasion de performer. Martin expliquait: ‘’You had to talk somebody to give him a chance to play. When you got him a gig in a club or a hotel, he would usually mess it up. But when he did show...and got playing...it was,'Stand back, Baby!’’ Le saxophoniste Jay Migliori, qui avait joué avec Chaloff au Storyville, se rappelait: ‘’Serge was a wild character. We were working at Storyville and, if he was feeling good, he used to let his trousers gradually fall down during the cadenza of his feature, 'Body and Soul.' At the end of the cadenza, his trousers would hit the ground.''

En juin et septembre 1954, Chaloff avait participé à deux sessions pour les disques Storyville de George Wein. Les enregistrements avaient été publiés sous la forme de deux microsillons dix pouces. La première session avait été présentée comme un album conjoint avec le saxophoniste Boots Mussulli, et mettait en vedette un groupe composé de Russ Freeman au piano, de Jimmy Woode à la contrebasse et de Buzzy Drootin à la batterie. Wein écrivait dans les notes de pochette: ‘’ 'An alternate title for this album could be 'Serge Returns'....Each selection in these six was chosen and arranged solely by Serge.'' L’album comprenait cinq standards ainsi qu’une composition de Chaloff intitulée ‘’Zdot’’. La conclusion de la pièce avait été écrite par la mère de Chaloff, Margaret. Sur le second album intitulé The Fable of Mabel, Chaloff s’était produit avec un groupe de neuf musiciens mettant en vedette Charlie Mariano, qui avait écrit trois des cinq compositions de l’album, et Herb Pomeroy, qui avait composé la pièce ‘’Salute to Tiny’’ en hommage au batteur et arrangeur Tiny Kahn. L’ambitieuse pièce-titre avait été écrite par le pianiste Dick Twardzik, qui avait déclaré dans les notes de pochette:

‘’'The Fable of Mabel was introduced to jazz circles in 1951-52 by the Serge Chaloff Quartet. Audiences found this satirical jazz legend a welcome respite from standard night club fare. In this legend, Mabel is depicted as a woman who loves men, music and her silver saxophone that played counterpoint (her own invention which proved impractical). The work is divided into three movements: first, New Orleans; second Classical; and third, Not Too Sad An Ending. The soulful baritone solo by Serge Chaloff traces Mabel's humble beginnings working railroad cars in New Orleans to her emergence as a practising crusader for the cause of Jazz. During her Paris days on the Jazz Houseboat, her struggle for self-expression is symbolized by an unusual saxophone duet Charlie Mariano and Varty Haritrounian. Mabel always said she wanted to go out blowing. She did. The sixth track, Al Killian's 'Lets Jump', was chosen by Chaloff, who said: 'Now that we've proven how advanced we are let's show the people that we can still swing.''

Un mois après avoir complété l’enregistrement, Chaloff était entré dans une profonde crise personnelle. En octobre 1954, sans argent et incapable de se procurer de l’héroïne, Chaloff s’était inscrit volontairement au programme de réhabilitation du Bridgewater State Hospital. Après avoir passé trois mois et demi à l’hôpital, Chaloff avait été libéré en février 1955.

La même année, le gérant Bob Martin avait convaincu les disques Capitol d’enregistrer un album avec Chaloff dans le cadre de la série ‘'Stan Kenton Presents Jazz.’’ Intitulé ‘’Boston Blow-Up!’’, l’album avait été enregistré à New York en avril 1955. Chaloff était accompagné sur l’album de Boots Mussulli au saxophone alto, de Herb Pomeroy à la trompette, de Ray Santisi au piano, d’Everett Evans à la contrebasse et de Jimmy Zitano à la batterie. À l’époque, Pomeroy, Santisi et Zitano avaient développé une très grande complicité, car ils se produisaient régulièrement au Boston's Stable Club, où ils avaient enregistré l’album live Jazz in a Stable pour les disques Transition en mars précédent. Quant à Mussulli, il avait fait partie de l’orchestre de Stan Kenton de 1944 à 1947 et de 1952 à 1954.

Malgré la mauvaise réputation de Chaloff, le critique  Richard Vacca avait écrit que la présence rassurante et stable de Mussilli, qui avait déjà participé à la série Kenton Presents en 1954, avait été d’un grand réconfort pour les disques Capitol. Dans le cadre de l’album, Mussilli avait composé et arrangé cinq nouvelles pièces, dont ‘’Bob the Robin’’, qu’il avait écrite en hommage au gérant de Chaloff, Bob Martin. C’est Pomeroy qui avait écrit les arrangements des standards qui figuraient sur l’album. Très satisfait du déroulement des sessions, Chaloff avait déclaré: ‘’When I came back on the music scene, just recently, I wanted a book of fresh sounding things. I got just what I wanted from Herb and Boots. I think their writing shows us a happy group trying to create new musical entertainment by swinging all the time. Jazz has got to swing; if it doesn't, it loses its feeling of expression. This group and these sides are about the happiest I've been involved with.'' Parmi les principaux faits saillants de l’album, on remarquait les ballades "What's New?" et "Body and Soul". Commentant cette dernière pièce dans le 1956 Metronome Yearbook, le critique Bill Coss avait qualifié l’interprétation de Chaloff de ‘’frightening example of Serge's form, moaning through a seemingly autobiographical portrayal of (his) Body and Soul', an enormously emotional jazz listening experience.'' Jack Tracy, qui avait attribué cinq étoiles à l’album dans sa critique publiée dans le magazine Down Beat, avait ajouté: ‘’'Serge, for years one of music's more chaotic personalities, has made an about face of late and is again flying right. It is evident in his playing, which has become a thing of real beauty… Chaloff offers the best display of his talents ever to be put on wax. It swings, it has heart, it has maturity—it is the long-awaited coalescence of a great talent.''

Le succès inespéré de l’album Boston Blow-Up! avait éventuellement permis à Chaloff de relancer sa carrière et de décrocher de nombreux contrats. La performance de Chaloff au Boston Arts Festival en juin 1955 avait inspiré le commentaire suivant à un critique du Boston Herald: ‘’The ingenuity of Chaloff as a soloist is enormous, and his use of dissonance always conveys a sense of purpose and of form. In 'Body and Soul', he exhibited his capabilities vigorously, taking a deliberate tempo and treating the music with a lyric, delicate, tonal standpoint....the harmonies of the group are tense and the melodies resourceful and they play with a kind of controlled abandon.''

En 1956, Chaloff avait continué de se produire un peu partout à travers les États-Unis, le plus souvent en compagnie d’un saxophoniste alto. Si Chicago, Chaloff était accompagné du saxophoniste Lou Donaldson, son partenaire à Los Angeles était Sonny Stitt. Le groupe comprenait également Leroy Vinnegar, qui était alors le contrebassiste le plus dominant de la Côte ouest.

Le succès de la performance de Chaloff à Los Angeles lui avait permis d’enregistrer un second album pour les disques Capitol en mars 1956. Avaient également participé à l’enregistrement le pianiste Sonny Clark et le contrebassiste Leroy Vinnegar. Comme batteur, on retrouvait Philly Joe Jones, qui était de passage à Los Angeles avec le quintet de Miles Davis. Décrivant l’enregistrement de l’album, Chaloff avait commenté:

‘’'My last record, Boston Blow-up! was one of those carefully planned things....But this time I was feeling a little more easy-going, and I decided to make a record just to blow. I picked out what I felt was the best rhythm section around and told them just to show up...no rehearsals...no tunes set...and trust to luck and musicianship....I'd never worked with these guys before except for jamming briefy with Joe Jones eight years ago, but I knew from hearing them what they could do....We were shooting for an impromptu feeling and we got it. It has more freedom and spark than anything I've recorded before. And I don't think there's a better recommendation than that when it comes to honest jazz.''

Vladimir Somosko écrivait dans sa biographie de Chaloff intitulée ‘’Serge Chaloff: A Musical Biography and Discography’’, publiée en 1998: ‘’'The rapport of the group was as moving as the music, and the net effect was of every note being in place, flawlessly executed, as if even the slightest nuance was carefully chosen for maximum aesthetic impact. This is a level of achievement beyond all but the masters, and from an ensemble that was not even a working group it takes on an aura of the miraculous.''

Analysant le jeu de Chaloff sur la pièce "A Handful of Stars", le critique Stuart Nicholson avait précisé: ‘’Paraphrase becomes central to his performance of 'A Handful of Stars' where he scrupulously avoids stating the melody as written. At one point he plumbs the baritone for a bumptious bass note and soars to the top of the instrument's range in one breath, effortlessly concealing the remarkable technical skill required for such seemingly throw-away trifles. This sheer joy at music making seems to give his playing a life-force of its own.'' Après avoir qualifié l’album de chef-d’oeuvre, Richard Cook et Brian Morton avaient écrit dans le Penguin Guide to Jazz: ‘’Thanks for the Memory" is overpoweringly beautiful as Chaloff creates a series of melodic variations which match the improviser's ideal of fashioning an entirely new song. 'Stairway to the Stars' is almost as fine, and the thoughtful 'The Goof and I' and 'Susie's Blues' show that Chaloff still had plenty of ideas about what could be done with a bebopper's basic materials. This important session has retained all its power.’'

Après la publication de l’album, Chaloff avait continué de travailler sur la Côte ouest, se produisant notamment au Starlite Club d’Hollywood en mai 1956. Durant le même mois, Chaloff avait été victime de douleurs au dos et à l’abdomen qui avaient entraîné une paralysie de ses deux jambes. Chaloff était retourné de toute urgence à Boston, où une opération exploratoire avait permis de découvrir qu’il était atteint d’un cancer de la moelle épinière. Le frère de Chaloff, Richard, expliquait: ‘’We took him down there [Massachusetts General Hospital] and they found he had lesions on his spine.....they operated and took most of the lesions away, and then he went on a series of X-ray treatments. Oh they were terrible. He must have had twenty or twenty-five in a row. And in those days they really gave you heavy doses of it. Then occasionally he got spots on the lungs''.

Malgré sa maladie et le traitement qui s’en était suivi, Chaloff avait continué de se produire en concert. Le 18 juin 1956, Chaloff avait dû se déplacer en chaise roulante pour enregistrer la composition "Billie's Bounce" de Charlie Parker avec les Metronome All Stars. Avaient également participé à l’enregistrement Zoot Sims, Art Blakey, Charles Mingus et Billy Taylor.

Chaloff avait fait son dernier enregistrement dans le cadre de l’album-réunion The Four Brothers... Together Again!. Le groupe était composé de Zoot Sims, d’Al Cohn, d’Herbie Steward et de Chaloff aux saxophones, d’Elliot Lawrence au piano, de Buddy Jones à la contrebasse et de Don Lamond à la batterie. Sur les dernières pièces de l’album, Charlie O'Kane avait remplacé Chaloff dans les parties collectives afin de lui permettre de conserver ses forces pour les solos. Décrivant l’enregistrement de l’album, Richard Chaloff avait commenté: ‘’He took a wheelchair down to make that recording, you know. They didn't think he was going to make it. I heard stories from people there. But when he stood up and played, you never knew he was a sick fellow. He played dynamic. If you listen to the record he sounds like the old Serge. He pulled himself together. I don't know how he did it. But he had tremendous drive, tremendous stamina.’’ Dans son compte rendu publié dans le magazine Down Beat, le critique Don Gold écrivait: ‘’'This last session before his death represents a fervent expression of a fatally ill man. It is a kind of significant farewell in the language he knew best.''

Chaloff avait présenté sa dernière performance au Stable Club de Boston en mai 1957. Lors d’une entrevue qu’il avait accordée en 1993, le pianiste Charlie ‘’the Whale’’ Johnson avait décrit les dernières performances de Chaloff de la façon suivante: ‘’'I remember pushing Chaloff's wheelchair into The Stable for his last appearances there. He was in bad shape but could still really play, standing leaning on a pillar. However, he didn't have much stamina. He couldn't really finish the gig. I also had to go get pot and booze for him. He was still using these steadily, even in the hospital at the end.''

Chaloff était à l’agonie lorsqu’il avait été admis au Massachusetts General Hospital le 15 juillet 1957. Selon son frère Richard, Chaloff avait apporté son saxophone ainsi que son singe miniature à l’hôpital. Richard expliquait:

‘'He still had the kinkajou monkey Mother got him to keep him company. And he had his horn. I was told they wheeled him into a vacant operating theatre so he could practise, and that was his last gig, his last public performance, solo baritone sax alone in an operating theatre. Nurses, doctors and even patients were standing outside and listening. He fought it to the end. Mother would visit him and urge him on, saying, 'You can beat it' and things. But that last day, they brought a priest to visit him, and the priest saw Serge in bed looking so wasted, and the priest thought he was supposed to perform the last rites. Serge woke up in the middle of it and really panicked, sliding away from him and yelling 'No! No! Get out!' But after that he seemed to give up. I think that's when he realized it was all over.''

Chaloff était mort le lendemain. Il avait seulement trente-trois ans. Chaloff a été inhumé au Forest Hills Cemetery, dans le comté de Suffolk, au Massachusetts.

Reconnu comme le premier saxophoniste baryton à avoir joué du bebop, Chaloff avait contribué à démontrer, à l’instar de ses pairs Leo Parker et Cecil Payne, que le saxophone baryton pouvait très bien s’adapter à l’évolution du jazz moderne.

©-2024, tous droits réservés, Les Productions de l’Imaginaire historique

SOURCES:

JACK, Gordon. ‘’Serge Chaloff: the bebop lowdown.’’ Jazz Journal, 11 mai 2021.

‘’Serge Chaloff.’’ Wikipedia, 2024.

‘’Serge Chaloff.’’ All About Jazz, 2024.

[monty-glasses-roxy]

Had a dream of the Plex again! It's funny how consistent the dream version of it is and just how drastically different it is is to canon lmao

But anyway, I'm a little fuzzy on the earlier details but for a while I was Gregory on... I think the second floor in a far corner of the Plex. I was hiding behind a booth in like a side area after just losing someone and checked the time to find it was now day and I could leave. I knew something was watching or coming closer, but Gregory, who's POV I'm just watching I guess, goes to the lift to go down to the ground floor.

The attraction directly beneath where he was hiding is a typical seaside arcade layout (in my country anyway, I'm aware they look different in America) that's apparently meant to be based on the classic pizzerias. It hosts puppet shows and something called the Puppet King lives there. Gregory enters this attraction, sees the sunlight through the glass fire exit door and runs for it.

I then get to see the Puppet King which is like an altered version of Scraptrap I guess. However, I am also now Scraptrap so it's not clear what exactly is going on here. I'm in the shadows by the door and Gregory is running for it, Puppet King/Scraptrap chasing after him. I jump out of the shadows and stop Gregory from being caught and apparently Afton is Gregory's dad now so I'm shouting at him like "run, son! Run!" He gets out and it's a bit fuzzy again, but I remember he comes back to the door abd doesn't really know what to do.

Anyway, cut to the next morning I guess! I'm now in the POV of a new employee who's greeted by Vanessa the night guard. She's optimistic about showing me around staff areas that are kinda dreary and remind me of some of the stable buildings and tack rooms from when I went to pony clubs as a kid. At some point, she's eagerly showing me some things eating wotsits and her hands are now pretty orange from that.

We pass a collection of bridles on the wall and I ask if the Plex has horses. She's like "of COURSE the Plex has horses!" though apparently not anymore so I'm wondering why these are still here until she very proudly shows me a blueish velvety bridle on the opposite wall. It's a double noseband with this flimsy little patch with a gold horse silhouette on over where the bands meet over the face and she said she was awarded it. She flips the patch other and it reads in gold, "Awarded to: Mrs. Vanessa Bernstein" with a little explanation that I can't remember. Apparently she was rider of the year and that's what this was for and I also woke up wondering why her last name ended up as Bernstein

Anyway, I asked her if it was cheating that she won it since she literally works here and she says "no of course not!" and we carry on. She takes me down a corridor where some tech folders are on shelves and she tells me I probably won't ever need them but it's good to know where they are. I think that part of the corridor was looking but I don't remember, and I didn't get much more of a look because something woke me up

Yeah it wasn't the most exciting dream but I dunno I think that was kinda interesting. Vanessa is great at horse riding now I guess and was very enthusiastic about a new hire at the end of her shift lmao. I think my brain told me that this was set before anything bad happened and that's why she's so chipper with her cheesy wotsits lmao

[byneddiedingo]

Robert Mitchum and Gregory Peck in Cape Fear (J. Lee Thompson, 1962)

Cast: Gregory Peck, Robert Mitchum, Polly Bergen, Lori Martin, Martin Balsam, Jack Kruschen, Telly Savalas, Barrie Chase. Screenplay: James R. Webb, based on a novel by John D. MacDonald. Cinematography: Sam Leavit. Art direction: Robert F. Boyle, Alexander Golitzen. Film editing: George Tomasini. Music: Bernard Herrmann.

When I watched Martin Scorsese's 1991 remake of Cape Fear, I hadn't seen J. Lee Thompson's 1962 version. Now that I've seen it, I don't know why Scorsese wanted to remake it. The earlier version, with a screenplay by James R. Webb from the same John D. MacDonald novel, The Executioners, is a tense, well-cast movie with a Bernard Herrmann score that Scorsese had Elmer Bernstein adapt for his version. What Scorsese's screenwriter, Wesley Strick, did was to add more complications to the characters in the later film. Gregory Peck's Sam Bowden is a straight arrow compared to Nick Nolte's, and both Jessica Lange and Juliette Lange bring greater depth to Bowden's wife and daughter than Polly Bergen and Lori Martin do in the earlier version. But given that the movie in both cases is essentially a suspense thriller, I'm not sure that this is necessarily an improvement: The earlier film's emphasis on the innocence of the Bowdens makes the threat posed by Robert Mitchum's Max Cady more intense than that posed by Robert De Niro to the more morally compromised Bowdens of the Scorsese film. So in short, I have to say I prefer the earlier version. No one is saying that Lee Thompson was a better director, or that the screenwriter and actors in his version are superior to Scorsese and company. But if the intent of the film is to shock and to have the audience on the edge of their seats, then the earlier version does the job better. I have never been a fan of Gregory Peck, who is an actor who never surprises me with a line delivery or facial expression, as Nolte has been known to do, and Bergen and Martin are decidedly inferior to Lange and Lewis as actors, but they make better victims, which is all that the movie asks of them. The one performance that seems to me superior is Mitchum's, perhaps because there is a brutishness in his very persona that is lacking in De Niro, who has many film personae. I think De Niro overacts feverishly to make his Cady menacing, at the expense of becoming ludicrous. Mitchum, on the other hand, has only to narrow his sleepy eyes to suggest the deep psychosis of his character, and his menacing of Bergen, in which Mitchum apparently improvised the device of breaking an egg and smearing her with it, is truly chilling. Although Lee Thompson's final sequence, in which Cady sneaks up on the Bowdens' houseboat, is somewhat botched -- we're never quite sure where Cady, Bowden, and the detective assigned to guard them are at any given moment -- I still think it's preferable to the special-effects-laden storm that destroys the houseboat in Scorsese's film. Lee Thompson, whose only other really memorable film was The Guns of Navarone (1961), was never the filmmaker that Scorsese is, but here I think he does a better job of keeping the audience on edge.

[urdamage]

eilonwy hands noah an envelope ; the birthday card inside of it is thick , a sign of its good quality . she’s chosen it specifically from cupid’s , having stood at the birthday card section for more than ten minutes in order to choose the nicest one that resembles her friend as best as a card can . the card is a soft yellow , and the front is covered in playful illustrations of flowers , all with friendly faces smiling upwards to the ‘ happy birthday ’ written in bubble writing . inside of it , she’s written her birthday message in soft , beautiful , legible cursive handwriting . the message reads ;

“ dear noah, 

every single day i am reminded of how blessed i am to have you in my life.  i could never have asked for a better friend, a better brother.  i hope your twenty-sixth year is filled with love and joy and all of the beautiful things you deserve to have in life.  here’s to the rest of our lives spent together as the best of friends. i love you!

love always, lonnie. ” 

the card jupiter hands noah isn’t a traditional birthday card , but instead , one single piece of unfolded card containing an illustration on the front and a plain white back . instead of writing on the back of the card , jupiter has written his birthday message to noah on a piece of lined paper , which is neatly taped to the back . upon further inspection , and upon flipping the page over , the fact that both sides of the page have been covered in writing can be found . the message is written in handwriting that is scribbly and small , yet legible at the same time . the message reads ;

“ my dearest noah, 

i wholeheartedly believe that the universe had a plan when it brought us together. i could write pages and pages on how i believe you deserve better than all of the cards that the universe has dealt you, but i could write even more about how i believe that the universe has given me more than i deserve by leading me to you. i won’t.  when i turned twenty-six, i was just beginning to feel like i belonged here in shrike. angel had just started to let me perform to the sparse mid-day crowd, i found comfort in no longer running and chasing whatever mystery tickled my interest that month, and i started to feel at home in my apartment - broken lift and all. the view of the night sky from the balcony truly is amazing, almost as beautiful as the one that you helped me create in the safety of my room. i know that we don’t live in the same old shrike anymore. regardless. all i can do is hope that in your twenty-sixth year, you feel the same kind of belonging and the same kind of comfort that i found here.  after all that you’ve done for me, both before and after everything that we’ve been through, all i can ask for is that the stars guide you in the right direction so that you can find peace and love and happiness and fulfilment and everything else you could ever want.  and because i know some people don’t believe in that kind of stuff, in the universe having any sort of power over any of us (mum and dad always said i was silly for believing) i’ll also be by your side helping that become a reality in whatever way that i can.  you shine brighter than my favourite star.  happy birthday - suppose i should have written that sooner.

yours, jupiter. ”

✧ eilonwy finch moodboard 06/?? ✧ jupiter bernstein moodboard 08/?? ✧ featuring noah cohen ( @noahcohen​ ).

[selenastaylors]

re non fiction books: chasing history by Carl Bernstein is really good! It’s about how the author got his start as a journalist when he was a teenager

omg that sounds so interesting thank u bestie

[nocandnc]

Here she is, here she is, it’s Lilia!!

I actually caved and read ahead in the manga - the anime didn’t explain who she is at all, so here’s the breakdown...

She’s Eli’s cousin on her mother’s side - so not a Bernstein, but a Storrev! (It’s not mentioned here, but she’s also 3 years younger at 15 years old.)

I love the coloring of her riding attire, but I was admittedly disappointed they didn’t include the quiver of arrows she had on her belt!! (I’ll forgive the poor animators this time.)

Given this extra detail and the fact that she had the outfit made especially for the day, I think this gives an interesting insight into her character - she’s very keen on fashion, but seems to be especially into the hunting spirit when compared to the other ladies as who are all in normal tea party dresses - fitting of a somewhat feisty girl.

Speaking of feisty, they also trimmed down some of her conversation in this scene wherein she verbally bitchslapped Sophia for desperately chasing after the Prince’s Uncle with no success.

Fun times!

[vashti-lives]

An incomplete list of things my boss has monologued to me while I was on the clock:

Grocery store rankings with a side tangent about which target in town is the best one

Taylor Swift: she is the greatest musician on earth, according to him

Bernstein bear books— they extremely Bad and he hates them and wishes his mom would stop giving them to his child

The number of times the last church he worked at in Florida got stuck by lightening (at least 4, twice in a month period right before and after he was chased out of the church by homophobic parishioners, he’s not saying it was a judgement from God but…)

A specific men’s restroom in the Denver airport. Apparently the picture windows are cool but the layout means men are even less likely to wash their hands. Segued into this second point with “And do you know what the problem with that is? MEN.”

google reader RIP

[nelkenbabe]

Ivy & Twine: Hope

After a particularly bad flare-up, Cullen is ready to dedicate more time to his new companion. Little does he know that him and the as-of-yet nameless mabari have much more in common than he initially suspected.

from the top: [x] cw: briefly mentioned pet neglect

Leaving his loft had become easier as the days went on. The long ladder turned more into an annoyance than a hindrance and walking along the barricades became possible again. Cullen still had to take more breaks than he did before his flare-up, but he concealed them by pretending he was just admiring the Frostback’s impressive teeth. Or watching the comings and goings of Skyhold’s people in the courtyards.

On the first shorter walks that Cullen dared take the mabari on, he hadn’t seen much at every stop. His thoughts had been too preoccupied with every days’ training he had had, as a child, a Templar, a commander. Every battle fought, from Kinloch Hold over Adamant Fortress to the Emerald Graves. He was stuck on comparing himself to previous form, and the times when he had been good enough. 

But just as memory threatened to drain him from every last bit of will, the mabari would push his wet, lukewarm nose under Cullen’s palm and snort with force. Once the dog even slammed his meaty shoulder into the Commander’s hip. Brute as this was, it was also an effective strategy. Half scolding, half laughing, Cullen had been able to finish the walk. 

Days had passed since then, and each day the pair extended their route by a small handful of minutes.

In the early mornings, when Skyhold was busiest preparing for the day, Cullen even shared a few words with his companion. Told him about his family, about the things he sometimes missed. 

“You know,” he told the attentive dog, “you’re not the first mabari I’ve met. The Champion of Kirkwall had one. Maybe still has. I don’t actually know. I don’t remember the Champion bringing her to Skyhold when she was here. Quite frankly, I was avoiding Hawke all together as best I could…”

And then: “The Captain of the Guard made frequent use of Hawke’s mabari. Having her chase recruits around. I heard it was excellent for morale. I wonder if this is something you would enjoy?”

The mabari’s bernstein eyes widened as he sat up straighter, flopping the tips of his ears upward.

“Hm. I’ll have a talk with Rylen then.”

 It was clear that the mabari greatly appreciated the walks, slow and short as they might have started out. He showed no sign of a grudge against Cullen and was all too happy to go at the man’s pace, having plenty of time to inquire every last scent that intrigued his refined nose. It amazed Cullen how sated and sleepy the dog seemed when they returned to their quarters. As if Cullen had made him run lapses around all of Skyhold.

Still, he arranged for the mabari to attend the Inquisition soldiers’ training sessions in the mornings. The focused spending of his energy could only benefit the war hound, he figured, both for health of body and mind. Soon, however, Cullen learned that he had likely gotten the only mabari in all of Thedas whose interests lay in anything but fighting.

 “So, I’ve received a somewhat troubling report” Cullen remarked one morning, just when the yellow light gnawed its way past one of the mountains’ peaks and touched the inner barrack’s stone.

Without stopping, the mabari turned his attentive gaze towards him and received an affirmative, yet somewhat stern pet as a reward.

“Rylen has told me there have been a couple of complaints about your conduct among the other soldiers,” Cullen continued. “It seems you have been more interested in climbing behind crates and licking your comrade’s ankles when they take breaks, rather than participate.”

The mabari slowed his step, lifting paws deliberately high, and folded his ears backwards. Cullen continued to hold eye contact as he matched his dog’s pace.

“I have also been told that you don’t particularly appreciate the endurance training. That you pretended to have hurt your paw at some point so you wouldn’t have to run the track.”

By now the mabari had started to nervously lick his lips and flick his gaze sideways, dancing somewhat awkwardly behind until Cullen stood still. 

“The training is for your benefit, even if it sometimes doesn’t feel that way. Believe me, I know. I have gone through it myself, and have overseen countless others going through it. The beginning is always the hardest, but once you see your strength and endurance grow, it is all worth it. I do wish for you to experience it. The faith and appreciation one begins to have for one’s body. It can truly feel like a gift.”

The mabari wagged his tail left to right, thighs shaking with suppressed energy. Cullen sighed. 

“I do expect more effort on your part,” he said more sternly. “You are of the Rutherford family now, and as such we do our best in each of our endeavors. Remember that, please.”

The mabari dropped his facial muscles a bit as he ceased to move, attentiveness giving way to a sadness that Cullen placed as guilt. A low, guttural whine came from the hound’s throat. 

“Nono, no getting out of it. You’ll see this is for the best.”

Now he was sitting up, a sharp “pfft” pushed out with a quick shake of his bulky head, as if the entire ordeal was utterly disgusting.

Is he being insubordinate?

Cullen saw the mabari’s eyes focus on something behind him. He turned but before his eyes could adjust to who or what he was supposed to see, the dog had already pushed out a loud, cheerful bark and began his run towards the person on the wall. 

“Wait-” 

Damn me. I ought to find a name for him soon.

As composed as he could, Cullen marched to catch up. He recognized Cole’s hatless silhouette only by the length of his limbs. The young man’s lanky arm reached down left towards the excited dog that kept jumping next to him, then pushing himself off the wall to sprint to the path’s opposite end, and then running back to repeat. 

So now suddenly he wants to run. 

Cole directed some words towards the mabari, but eventually he seemed to realize that he was in for more than just a few pets on his meaty head. And so he uncrossed his legs to turn and jump off the wall. It was then that he saw Cullen approach as well. They nodded a silent greeting, while the dog now switched between circling his friend and attempting to lay his heavy paws on the human’s chest until he was backed against the wall.

“I am happy to see you, too,” Cole calmly told the dog in between barks, and offered his hands for a thorough licking. 

The mabari accepted the invitation while still ceaselessly bending his rear with his baton of a short tail, not caring who he may hit with it. But he had stopped jumping and up and down, which Cullen considered more manageable. 

“I was wondering what kind of mischief he is getting up to while I work. It seems I needn’t have worried, if he’s been with you.”

“The kitchen hand always says it’s the last time she’ll give him cream, but when he comes back there is a small bowl of it set aside where the cook can’t see,” Cole informed the other man.

The mabari decided that he’d gotten his point across and sat down to look up at the young man with all encompassing love, while Cullen pushed out a disbelieving laugh.

With how much I know about this dog, maybe it would have been better if Cole had been the one to bring him to Skyhold.

“I’m glad you’ve been keeping each other company,” he said with a distinct twinge in his chest.

Maybe he’d made the wrong decision bringing the dog here. Claiming ownership over him. What did he know of dogs, after all? Of mabari, no less. Playing with one in a courtyard for three days didn’t qualify him as a pet owner. And his ownership had already started out with neglect during Cullen’s flare-up…

It was only on the very periphery of his mind that Cullen noticed movement. Cole put the hat back on his head and lifted his chin to direct a piercing pale gaze at the other man. Unblinking, Cole reached out. He’d put his finger tips on this kind of pain from the Commander before, and it felt the same. Even if the material was of a different composition. 

The clay was spinning higher and higher on the potter’s wheel, hollow inside and rising lopsided but secure in its destination. It would bend, eventually, and tip over, regardless of whether or not Cullen took his hands away from the mold. 

“He loves you,” Cole stated.

The mabari looked to Cullen, who slowly turned his head, eyes foggy with contemplation.

“He was confused, and alone. He couldn’t walk that morning, joints swollen and stiff from a sleepless night. It hurts, it always hurts, but no one shows patience, no one understands. What use are you to me? Lazy dog. You couldn’t guard a mouse. Pwah, money wasted on raising a rut. Let some noble pick you up as a lapdog. I can’t sell you like this in good conscience.” 

A weak wince from the mabari as he laid himself down on the cold stone, exhausted by the memory. Cullen’s brows furrowed, scarred mouth twisting downward. Then, he looked at the dog.

“He’s ill.” Then: “You’re ill. You weren’t pretending. Does running in the morning hurt you?”

The mabari yipped, building himself back up to a seat, and Cullen laughed with an almost hysterical note to it. He moved closer to the dog and laid his hand on the broad skull, meeting the dog’s gaze.

“I’m sorry for making you train. Of all people I should have realized that you’re in pain. Can you forgive me?”

A small jump upwards, bumping hand to palm as a confirmation, a handshake.

Cullen laughed again, quietly this time, and when he looked back to Cole there was a light. 

“I’ve never thought about owning a dog,” he confessed. “I never thought much about things I might like for my life."

"He doesn't like the idea of being owned."

Cullen's lips parted as he tried to place what Cole had said.

"Him. He prefers to think of it as a partnership, where both of you guard each other. Like a family. That's most of what you have to know about him."

And there it was again, brown eyes meeting, sharing.

“Alright,” Cullen said after a while, softly.

The potter’s wheel slowed, slowed, slowed. The clay tower bent downwards, fingers no longer anxiously dragging it up. The guilt was still there, but it could be formed into something else now. No shame at the misshapen object. Start over.

Cole tugged at the rim of his hat, adjusting it. Then he turned, and walked away into the sunshine.

[seanhowe]

I believe this Ronald Hilton editorial is the first English-language report of the CIA's planning for the Bay of Pigs. It's from the Hispanic American Report, Stanford University, November 1960. According to "The Press and the Bay of Pigs" (Victor Bernstein and Jesse Gordon, Columbia Forum, Fall 1967), one of Hilton's colleagues at Stamford read the piece and contacted Carey McWilliams, who then "broke" the story in The Nation. COMMENTARY

The Retalhuleu Base. Castro's denunciations of alleged U.S. plans to invade Cuba are usually greeted by the U.S. Government and press as proof of the persecution mania of his deranged mind. While it is evident that Castro flaunts the U.S. threat as a means of consolidating Cuban popular opinion behind him, the aggressive plans to which he refers may well be more than a figment of his imagination. Guatemalans of all shades of opinion believe rightly or wrongly that Castillo Armas' military campaign was planned and financed by the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency. There is now a widespread belief that the C.I.A. is sponsoring a similar invasion of Cuba from Guatemala. .

Reliable observers in Guatemala say that without doubt there is in Retalhuleu a large and well-fortified base where Cuban exiles are being trained to invade Castro's fortress. For a long time the Guatemalan Government forbade any mention of this base on the grounds that it was a military secret. However, it became a secreto a voces, and President Ydigoras Fuentes felt impelled to go on television to admit the existence of the base. It has since been discussed by leading commentators like Marroquin Rojas. It is generally believed among responsible Guatemalans that there is only one possible source for the funds necessary for such a major project, namely the U.S. Government operating through the C.I.A. Reliable reports from Cuba say that Fidel Castro is informed about this base and believes that the plan is to seize the Isle of Pines and set up a U.S.-sponsored government. The principal difficulty with which the United States is faced has been dissension among the Cuban exiles.

Hundreds of inches appear in the U.S. press daily about Cuba, but there seems to have been no mention of the Retalhuleu base. Is the explanation ignorance? If indeed a C.I.A.-sponsored base resulted in an international conflict, we should have another U-2 incident on our hands. An elementary sense of responsibility demands that an impartial journalist or observer be sent to Guatemala to investigate these reports, so that we may know how much truth there is to a story which is accepted as beyond question by so many responsible Guatemalans.

Castro and Canada. While Castro capped his campaign against U.S. business in Cuba by seizing the three U.S. banks operating there--the First National City Bank of New York, the First National Bank of Boston, and the Chase Manhattan Bank—he scrupulously respected the two Canadian banks in the island, the Royal Bank of Canada and the Bank of Nova Scotia. At the same time he spoke in warmly appreciative terms of Canada and its role in Cuban development. The metamorphosis of the wild gringo-hater into a grateful good neighbor was marvelous to observe. The reaction of U.S. business could have been predicted. There were angry protests that the Cuban Communists wished to keep open a financial channel to Russia and demands that Canada stop cooperating with the Communists. The Conservative government of Canada, already riled by U.S. pressures on its Asian policies, replied coldly that it had no intention of becoming embroiled in the U.S. fight with Castro.

Whatever truth there may be in the accusations of U.S. businessmen, there are many simpler explanations of Castro's conduct. In the first place, Canada has sent to the Caribbean a small number of responsible, scrupulously honest businessmen, whereas in the hordes of U.S. entrepreneurs who have swarmed over the area there have inevitably been many boors, numerous ruthless individuals, and not a few gangsters. The result is that Canadians enjoy a prestige which unfortunately is not shared by Americans. Politically, Castro would be stronger if he could play off Canada against the United States, and indeed traditionally Latin Americans have felt that the presence of Canada in the inter-American system would place the Colossus of the North in a vise. It was hoped that the relative weakness of Canada and the Latin Catholicism of French Canada would lead that country to line up with the Latin American republics against the Protestant giant. There is much wishful thinking in this calculation, since in reality Canada has much more affinity with the United States than with the southern republics. If Canada were a member of the Organization of American States, it would find itself continually in an unpleasant dilemma. It would be most unwise for Canada to allow itself to be placed in this position, and prudence dictates that Canada stay out of the Organization of American States.

Stroessner, an Unbuffeted Buffer. Paraguay and Uruguay are, to use a nineteenth-century term, buffer-states between Argentina and Brazil. Buffer states enjoy a special status which, if they are governed cunningly, they can use to play one powerful neighbor off against another. This seems to be the policy followed by President Alfredo Stroessner, South America's last dictator. He has succeeded in obtaining the support of four countries, which pride themselves on being democracies, against the desperate efforts of his many enemies who wish to restore democracy in the land of El Supremo. While Spanish American politicians talk endlessly of U.S. imperialism and U.S. support of Latin American dictators, Brazil, which has been creeping steadily westward across South America ever since Pope Alexander VI tried to adjudicate all of the New World to Spain, will now dominate South America from its new capital of Brasilia, with the Spanish American republics strung like beads around its broad neck. The Colossus of the South seeks paramount influence in Spanish America (out of courtesy we avoid the word imperialism), and Foreign Minister Horacio Lafer has indicated that Brazil will if necessary give military aid to the Paraguayan dictator. Argentina had hoped that as Peron's close ally and saviour Stroessner would be compelled to abdicate; concerned now lest he be completely dominated by Brazil, it has decided to support him. More surprising, and indeed revolting, is the spectacle of the Uruguayan future chief of government, Eduardo Vfctor Haedo, praising Stroessner and thus besmirching Uruguay's reputation as a stalwart democracy; only the bitterness between the Blancos and the Colorados can explain his strange behavior. To complete the quartet of Stroessner supporters, there is no doubt that the basso profundo is the United States, which fears the cacophony which might result if Stroessner were overthrown. The struggling, embittered Liberals, Febreristas, dissident Colorados, the Uni6én Nacional Paraguaya, and the Movimiento 14 de Mayo count as nothing in this cynical game of power politics.

Ronald Hilton Editor

[iamprchung]

The Spider and the FBI: Part 2 "Upon the Axle Tree"

Mulder races across the country to reunite with Scully and Skinner, all targeted by vengeful mob hitmen. The chase intensifies as the trio struggles with communication breakdowns and a manipulative prisoner who exploits the simmering tension between Scully and Skinner. Exhausted and seeking refuge in a secluded motel, a heated confrontation erupts, forcing Scully and Skinner to face their long-suppressed emotions that ignite a spark. Now, amidst the chaos and danger, Scully, and Skinner must not only outrun pursuers but also navigate the complexities of their brewing emotional entanglement.

"...Upon the Axle-Tree" Part II of "The Spider and the FBI"

by PR Chung

I-84 Sweetwater County, Wyoming Thursday, July 1st 5:48 p.m.

"The cellular customer..."

"You are trying to reach," Scully finished the message now emblazoned in her memory as she terminated her umpteenth attempt to contact Mulder. "Yadda, yadda, yadda," she scoffed, putting the phone down.

Skinner glanced at her, frowning at her uncharacteristic tone.

"Still no luck contacting your partner," Bernstein said from the back seat.

Scully didn't respond and tried to concentrate on adjusting the air vents then her seat belt and the slight twist that had developed in it.

Skinner flicked his eyes to the rear-view mirror, seeing Bernstein half-smiling as he nodded to himself.

"You're concerned," the man said, "of course you are. So far away from him."

He was quiet then, watching the scenery go by with a pained expression.

"Absence," he finally said with a long, dramatic pause. "Absence, it does make the heart grow fonder, you know, Agent Scully."

Eyes forward, jaw clinched, she refused to respond.

"In today's world it's hard to believe that, when travel is so readily available, bringing the once forlorn together. Perhaps that's why so many relationships fail. Odd, isn't it? But to desire something is always so much more interesting, satisfying even, than actually having it."

"Is there a problem, Bernstein?" Skinner questioned the man.

He looked thoughtful. "No, I don't believe so. Is there?"

"It seems like you have a problem keeping your nose out of other people's business."

"Well, how observant," he retorted leaning slightly forward. "Now isn't that why we're all here, because I stuck my nose into other people's business?"

"We're here because you embezzled from the wrong people."

"Are there right people to embezzle from?" He countered. "Don't you see that I'm like the Robin Hood of the underworld."

"And John Gotti's the Sheriff of Nottingham?" Skinner came back.

"What a stale reference, I'm shocked," Bernstein mocked surprise taking out his bottle of eye drops to toy with the cap. "I would have expected something less mainstream from the Assistant Director, that is your title, isn't it?"

"I hope you're prepared to talk this much on the witness stand, Bernstein."

"The FBI sat upon the axle tree of the chariot... what a dust I stir, they say..." Berstein muttered to himself.

"Is there something you want to share with the rest of us?" Skinner questioned the man.

"I need to get out of this car." He said, petulant.

Skinner started to protest but Scully spoke first.

Leaning her head against the seat, she rolled it restlessly, saying, "so do I. There was a sign for a rest stop back on the road a mile or so, let's pull over at it for a moment."

************************************

"The cellular customer..."

Scully put the phone down, warn by trying to reach Mulder. Surly it was the service area, she thought, glancing around at the terrain. Mountains and hills, and wide expansive of nothingness, where cell towers were sparce. Yes, certainly it was just the service, she told herself and forced her attention toward the rest stop restrooms.

It was beginning to feel like Skinner and Bernstein had been gone a long time. Hopefully, Bernstein wasn’t turning a simple trip to the bathroom into a holy nightmare for Skinner. She was all too familiar with the man’s ability to twist every situation into an opportunity to spew his poorly disguised psychological manipulation.

She certainly wasn’t going take the quiet for granted. Maybe they had been gone for what seemed like a long time now… but it was a much-needed break from Bernstein’s constant needling commentary. She was grateful for Skinner running interference, recognizing the man’s schtick and not letting it get to him, and he was doing what he could to keep Bernstein from getting to her as well.

Scully was grateful, but she couldn’t help but reconsider Skinner’s motivations for inserting himself into this assignment.

She'd known him long enough to understand his attitude of getting things done right by doing them himself, especially when it came to situations such as the one with Bernstein. But still, after everything that had happened over the last eight months, the close calls to overstepping their boundaries, he shouldn't have come. He should have sent someone else... or should he have? Why should he alter any actions he would have normally taken? What indications did she have to determine his arrival as anything more than a strictly professional gesture of caution and concern other than her laughable presumptions of his interest in her?

She straightened in the seat rigidly, her initial excitement passed, replaced by unclassifiable animosity. There was no escaping the inability to understand where the man stood, on either a professional or personal level. It was so aggravating that she could just-

The cell phone rang beside her, and she jumped.

"Damn it," she cursed both the phone and herself. "Scully," she answered the call, huffy.

"I miss you, too," Mulder's sarcastic voice came back at her, "Bernstein getting to you?"

"Uh," hesitating, she caught sight of Skinner and Bernstein approaching the car. "Something like that," she replied and quickly shifted the subject not wanting to lie any more than necessary, "where have you been, I've been trying to call you for the last hour and a half, Mulder?"

"Sorry, I just got one of the less popular call blocking features on my cell phone about two hours ago- At least I think it was two hours ago... my watch has stopped."

"What are you talking about?"

"I had the Corleone twins waiting for me at the motel room when I got back from the doctor this afternoon," he explained, "and my cell phone got caught in the crossfire."

"Are you all right?"

"Sore, but otherwise fine, no leaks."

"Who were they, and how did they find you?" she questioned as she got out of the car, meeting Skinner as he approached.

"One got away, the other is in the hospital right now having a bullet taken out his shoulder. He wouldn't talk, but I should have something back on him soon, I sent his picture and prints in before I called you."

"How could they have known where we stayed?" Her question piqued Skinner's curiosity as well as Bernstein's.

"Who?" Bernstein questioned nervously, getting no response from either of his keepers.

"Tit for tat, Scully," Mulder offered his opinion, "they've got their sources the same as the Bureau. Judging by the time it took them to get here, I imagine your call to Skinner this morning clued them in to our location. But they didn't know you were leaving, somewhere their information got screwed up."

"What happened?" Skinner asked her while making Bernstein get in the car.

"Mulder had a run in with two men at the motel we stayed in last night," she answered him briefly.

"Scully, who was that?" Mulder asked, but before his partner could answer, he cranked out more questions, "was that Skinner? What's he's doing there?"

"There were no Agents available from the Denver office-"

"None?" He exclaimed.

"Mulder," she mirrored his tone, "no, there weren't."

"No wonder I couldn't reach him in his office." Mulder replied after a moment then gave her the description of the man who escaped him, as well as the car, but he would undoubtedly replace it with another vehicle. The state police were alerted and now she and Skinner. It was only a matter of taking all precautions possible now to avoid their location being discovered once again.

"I can't go back to D.C. after this, I want to join back up with you and Skinner..."

"No," she told him abruptly, "we can't risk you leading them to us."

Skinner's eyes narrowed when he heard this.

"You need back up, Scully."

"At this point Mulder we may be best left alone."

Reluctantly, and not altogether convinced, Mulder agreed and let her go knowing full well there were more than enough ways to pinpoint a person using a cell phone, even in the middle of nowhere.

"Did Bernstein make any calls while you were in the room?" Skinner asked her, keen to the situation by just her end of the conversation with Mulder.

"No," she shook her head.

He took a deep breath, pushing the folds of his jacket back to plant his hands on his hips. "Did either you or Mulder make calls out from the room phone?"

"No, when I called you, I used my cell phone."

He searched the interstate, his jaw grinding some consideration.

"How ever they found out," he finally said and turned, going around the car to the driver's side door, "it's going to be hard for them to do it again as long we keep moving."

*******************************

Chugwater, Wyoming 10:46 p.m.

It may have been a quarter of eleven for Wyoming, but Skinner's internal clock was still running on East coast time; his head throbbed, his eyes hurt, and his back was stiff. He was far from being a lightweight when it came to going without sleep, but he'd been going steady since 6:00 a.m. and nearly seven hours of his day had been spent behind the wheel of a car, not to mention the two-hour flight into Cheyenne, then another forty-five minutes into the Rock Springs municipal airport.

He was exhausted he reluctantly admitted to himself pulling into the Chugwater Inn parking lot. He had wanted to keep going, driving through the night, sharing shifts at the wheel with Scully, but she was in no shape to drive.

Despite the fact that he had done all the driving since meeting up with her, she'd gotten no rest.

He looked at her in the seat next to him; head tilted toward him and against the seat back, her eyelids fluttering slightly. She had been trying to sleep, but just couldn't seem to settle in. And it seemed as though every time she did drift into any type of deep rest Bernstein had made another request to stop.

Skinner glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing that the man had stretched out on the back seat and appeared to be sleeping quite contentedly. Too contentedly, giving Skinner the gut feeling that there was something in the works with this guy, even in his sleep.

Skinner turned his attention back to finding a parking space, which wouldn't be hard; there were only a couple of cars in the motel's small parking lot. The lack of guests wasn't surprising; the place was far from the interstate, yet appeared to offer all the luxuries that a motel along the interstate might. There was a small diner attached to one of the three one story buildings and an even smaller gated pool set at the center of the U-shaped arrangement.

He eased the car to a gentle halt, cutting the engine off as he gave the place a serious scrutinizing before turning to wake Scully.

This time he hesitated to look at her, amazed again by how easily he was touched and with suddenness that was both overwhelming and infuriating. His ability to control these unexpected surges of acute desire, brought about by the most obscure of circumstances- the certain way light played upon her features, an idiosyncrasy of a turn, a step, a smile or glance, the inflection or particular cadence given to a word or phrase, had substantially diminished... but was not completely gone.

Looking away he took a deep breath, clearing his mind a moment before turning back to wake her.

"Scully," he quietly said touching her arm with deliberate indifference.

She lifted her chin, glancing around.

"Where is this?"

"Chugwater," Skinner answered pulling the keys from the ignition.

She frowned briefly, glancing around behind them, toward the road. "I don't remember Chugwater on I-84, are we still in Wyoming?"

"Yes, just northeast of Laramie. I decided that we should get off the interstate, at least for the night."

Wise idea, Scully agreed. If they were being followed staying off the main drag was their best course of action. "We're on route 34 if you want to look at the map to get your bearings."

She nodded but didn't bother to reach for the map, she would look later, and right now she just wanted a decent meal and some sleep.

"I'll get us rooms," Skinner told her opening the door to get out, "why don't you get us a table in the diner?"

She got out and started to open Bernstein's door to take him with her, but Skinner stopped her.

"I'll take him with me, Scully." He told her.

Again, probably for the best, she appreciatively thought. If Bernstein made a break for it, she couldn't guarantee her ability to stop him. As tired as she was her senses were dull and her reaction time was undoubtedly a fraction of the norm.

Skinner rapped his knuckles on the rear window before opening the back door, Bernstein sat up abruptly, looking disoriented. But despite his apparent disorientation Skinner suspected that the man had been awake and eavesdropping the whole time.

***********************************

The diner was small with a long counter and booths running the length of the front windows. There was only one customer other than Scully, a man in jeans and a plaid short sleeved shirt sitting at the counter, smoking cigarettes, and talking to the cook who was resting casually on his folded arms at the counter, obviously taking advantage of the lull in business.

Seeing her enter the cook straightened up and nodded to her. "Evening, miss."

The customer turned halfway looking over his shoulder, then fully turned to get a better look and deliver his own greeting as well. "Evening."

She returned the greetings and slipped into a booth facing the entrance, exhausted and suddenly wondering if she even had the energy to eat. Looking around she noticed the mishmash of red, white, and blue decorations strung across the establishment in a careless sort of way. Looking at the decorations she realized with surprise that Independence Day was rapidly approaching, not that she had had any plans for the holiday, she rarely did, but just the fact that she had forgotten it surprised her.

The cook came around the counter to her booth.

"Can I get you some coffee, hon?" He asked handing her a menu that doubled as a place mat.

"No, just water and two more menus, please."

"So, you're not traveling alone then, huh?"

She looked at the man a second, processing the question. "No, I'm not."

He nodded grabbing a couple more menus from the counter. "Glad to hear it, I didn't think a pretty young woman like you should be out here all alone."

Scully controlled the impulse to roll her eyes, but barely. She pursed her lips and nodded, thanking him politely catching sight of Skinner heading down the drive with Bernstein from the office.

"You're dressed awful nice to be traveling," the customer at the counter called over to her. He had turned his seat to face her booth. "There is a convention around here or something?"

She regarded him a moment, noting the deep creases in the back of his shirt and the lap of his jeans created by prolonged periods of sitting, and concluded that the semi parked out on the road in front of the motel belonged to him.

"No, there isn't." She replied and Skinner came through the door, Bernstein in tow.

The man at the counter took one look at him and swiveled his chair back around to face the kitchen.

"Evening," the cook greeted him after a moment of sizing him up.

Skinner nodded and ushered Bernstein into the booth ahead of him, up next to the window, then slumped into the seat opposite Scully brushing her legs with his own.

"Excuse me."

"Hmm?" She said having hardly noticed.

Bringing Scully's water, the cook came back to the table. "Can I get you fellas something to drink?"

Skinner glanced at the water glass. "I'll have water also."

"So will I," said Bernstein, then in his usual eccentric way added, "but with a twist of lime in it, please."

The cook looked at him. "Lime?"

"Yes, a twist will do."

The man frowned. "You want me to squeeze some lime juice in your water?"

Bernstein shook his head. "No, a twist. You know," he said bringing his cuffed hand up to wriggle his fingers, "a twist."

Skinner pulled his arm back down. "Plain water will do." He told the cook.

"Well, I think I got some lemons back there, but I don't know about limes." He informed them tilting his head to check out the situation with the handcuffs.

"That will work." Bernstein agreed pulling his eye drops out.

"Hey, uh," the man said gesturing toward their cuffed hands, "what's this?"

"We're transporting a prisoner." Skinner answered gruffly.

"I'm the prisoner." Bernstein grinned.

Scully was already digging for her identification.

"You two marshals?" The cook persisted.

"No," Scully said pulling her ID out, but Skinner had been quicker.

"Federal Bureau of Investigation," he said holding open his badge case for the man to look at.

The cook bent forward squinting at the badge and identification card.

"Hey, can I see that?" The man at the counter called jumping off his seat to come over. "I never seen one of those things close up for real."

Skinner flipped the case shut and pocketed it before the man could cross the short distance between the counter and booth, in no mood to deal with this nonsense.

"So, you're a lady FBI Agent, huh?" The cook asked Scully with a cockeyed grin.

"Yes." She said and sighed. "I am."

"Wha’d, you do, fella?" The cook asked Bernstein.

Even Bernstein was beginning to look irritated now.

"It's very involved," he answered beginning to fidget the eye drops bottle cap.

"Could we get our water?" Skinner asked the man laboring to maintain an even tone.

"Oh, yeah," the cook said sounding surprised and as though he had forgotten. "Sorry about that. I'll be right back."

The man was gone, and Skinner was glad, he didn't like the way he had been eyeing Scully. He wasn't a man easily taken to jealousy, but this wasn't matter of jealousy but rather a matter of common decency. Both the cook and the guy at the counter had been leering at her since he'd come through the door.

He looked across the table at her, considering for a fraction of a second brushing her legs again with his to get her attention, hoping to communicate how tired he was and to find that she was just as tired, noticing his silent plea to forget eating and go to the rooms.

As though reading his mind she looked over the rim of her water glass, meeting his gaze. There was hardness in her eyes, tension pulling at the corners, but there was still some measure of loveliness Skinner found in those blue pools.

"Rooms?" She asked him, putting her glass down, her voice growing hoarse.

"Yes," he pulled two keys from his pocket, looking at them for a moment before he put one on the table in front of her.

"They're adjacent to each other," Bernstein told her smirking.

She flicked her brow and pursed her mouth briefly. "Okay, well I'm starting to reconsider exactly how hungry I am." She said taking up the key.

"So was I." Skinner replied taking his glasses off a moment to rub at the bridge of his nose. Surprisingly, there was no protest from Bernstein. Perhaps he too was just as exhausted as they were. "Are you hungry?" Skinner asked him outright.

He shook his head. "No,” he answered, sounding genuinely tired. “I am thirsty, though."

Skinner nodded. "Drink your water and we'll go."

"I think I'm going now," Scully said and started to get up. She hesitated, waiting for protest or approval. There was neither. "All right, then," she stood looking at the key, "number 18."

Skinner glanced over his shoulder at the deserted parking lot, catching once again the trucker watching Scully. "It's the far building." He told her, turning back.

"I'll need my bag," she said, and he handed her the car keys. "I'll move the car in front of the rooms."

He almost told her to be careful but held his tongue and just kept an eye on her as she went, watching her reflection in the far window of the diner.

"Are you worried?" He heard Bernstein ask. Skinner glanced at the man who was watching him closely. "What could happen to her?"

Skinner turned his eyes straight ahead, grinding his jaw. "You always watch your partner's back."

"And what a lovely back it is," Bernstein murmured looking down at the eye drop bottle in his hand.

Skinner started to speak but stopped, looking at the eye drops. He'd seen Bernstein fidgeting with them all day but never use them, and then something he'd overheard once in a bar came back to him; a conversation between two bartenders when they thought no one could hear.

"Why don't you let me give these to Agent Scully," Skinner said taking the bottle suddenly and swiftly from Bernstein. "She's a medical doctor and should be in charge of administering pharmaceuticals."

"But those are just eye drops." Bernstein protested urgently.

"Exactly, so you won't be in immediate need of them, will you?"

The cook appeared at the table setting water glasses in front of Skinner and Bernstein, one with- shockingly- a twisted lime peel in it.

"Uh, well, very nice," Bernstein seemed torn between wanting to reclaim his eye drops and approve of the water. "Excellent service, yes."

"That the way you wanted it?" The cook asked appearing concerned.

"Yes. Yes, just perfect."

The cook nodded glancing around. "Where'd your little FBI lady go?"

* "Sweet dream baby, sweet dream baby, sweet dream baby... How long must I dream?" *

From the jukebox, the smooth crooning of Roy Orbison began to play through the diner as Skinner straightened in the booth, bristling at the cook’s choice of words. "Agent Scully." He corrected the cook, his tone saturated with exasperation.

"Like Vin Scully?" The truck driver asked from the jukebox.

"I suppose." Skinner answered tucking the eye drops into his pocket.

* "Dream baby got me dreaming sweet dreams the whole day through. Dream baby got me dreaming sweet dreams in the nighttime, too." *

"I sure wouldn't mind being her prisoner, if you don't mind me saying." The truck driver said returning to his seat at the counter.

* "...dream baby make me stop my dreaming, you can make my dreams come true..." *

"I swear," the cook declared shaking his head as he walked back behind the counter, "there's just something about those red heads, boy."

"Mmm, hmm," the trucker agreed. "Spitfires, every one of them I've ever met." He turned to Skinner, asking, "I bet she's one, id'nt she?"

Skinner ground his teeth on shapeless curses standing up out of the booth dragging Bernstein along like a rag doll, causing the man to spill water down his shirt.

"You're talking about a federal Agent," he rebuked their seemingly innocuous comments, "deserving of a hell of a lot more respect than you're displaying right now."

"Huh?" The cook looked surprised almost scared.

"I didn't mean any harm." The trucker defended himself.

"We were just talking in general, don't get all bent out of shape now."

Ignoring the cook, Skinner hauled Bernstein out the door and the man had to jog a bit to keep up with him as he marched across the parking lot.

"They said they didn't mean any harm," he told Skinner. When there was no response, he added. "Okay, I take it that you noticed the staring. Well, you can't blame them, she is really very attractive."

"Put a lid on it, Bernstein." Skinner warned him, pulling the room key out.

"Please," Bernstein continued insolently. "Someone doesn't conform to your ridged tenets, and you just tell them to shut up? Come on, you can't say you don't recognize how engaging a woman Agent Scully is. A man would have to be blind not to see..."

At the motel room door Skinner stopped and turned to glare at Bernstein. "I respect her. I respect her decency and capability as a federal Agent. She deserves more than to be considered a pretty face."

"I don't think it was just her face they were looking at." Skinner glared at him, and Bernstein looked back at him a moment, something fiendish growing in his eyes. "This has nothing to do with respect," he finally said smirking.

Skinner squared his jaw. "I know your game, Bernstein. You examine and test all the angles, if you can't pit one against the other, you create suspicion, invent jealousy, or provoke confusion. I've dealt with better than two-bit mob bookies like you, and she's dealt with better. So don't play me because I'll kick your ass in the end."

Bernstein looked at him, unruffled. "This has nothing at all to do with respect."

Reticent, Skinner turned and unlocked the door, shoving Bernstein inside the room.

***********************************

Despite knowing she'd be woken for the car keys, Scully drifted asleep atop the bedspread. Exhaustion had won. Her mind tumbled into dreams, fueled by random sounds: a truck, a dog, then voices. One, new. The other, familiar - deep, forceful, oddly soothing. Even with its unappealing qualities, the voice drew her in, murmuring needs.

"Scully?"

Her body reacted to the sound of her name on his lips, twisting with fine craving... If only he knew his power over her.

"Scully!"

She sat up abruptly, the demanding shout jerking her out of sleep. Disorientated, she went to the door, and opened it—Finding no one outside. Confused, she learned out, looking up and down the walk. “Sir?”

"Scully, wake up!" Skinner's muffled voice came again followed by a harsh pounding. She turned toward the sound seeing the door that joined the two rooms. “Great,” she muttered and started across the room.

"Just a minute," she called fumbling the dead bolt to open the door. “Sir, I—” Once again, there was no Skinner, only Bernstein looking back at her from where he was comfortably perched on one of the two beds in the room.

“Lose something, agent?” he asked with a smirk.

“What…?”

“Scully, what are you thinking?” Skinner asked suddenly from behind her, coming through the front door of the room she’d left standing open. “Leaving the door open like that?”

She turned to him, taken off guard and dazed. “I thought you were outside, then I…”

“You need to be more careful.” He grumbled, looking around the room.

“I am, I was just confused by all the yelling and banging.”

“Fine,” he dismissed her explanation. "I need the car keys."

“Okay then,” she huffed, aggravation rising quickly with his abrupt dismissal. Snatching the keys off the dresser she all but threw them at him. "Here," she snapped back mirroring his brisk tone.

He looked at the keys then her, his eyes narrowing. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"What the hell's wrong with you? You come storming in here barking at me without cause—”

“The door was standing open, Scull—”

“I didn’t know if something was wrong the way you were yelling and banging at the door—”

“I wasn’t yelling or banging at the door—"

"Everything okay in there with you two?" Bernstein called through the open door from the next room.

"No!" Scully and Skinner shouted in unison only to realize their mistake.

“Y-yes.” They staggered to correct themselves.

“Get some rest, Scully.” Skinner grunted, turning to leave the room, pulling the door solidly shut behind him.

Scully glared after him. Contention was their standard of operation, but this had been one of the most pointless arguments they had ever had. Pointless, and telling; they were exhausted, taxed beyond norms, and to anyone paying attention, they were both suppressing a multitude of underlying feelings.

Unfortunately, some was paying attention.

“You know,” Bernstein began from the other room, “the two of you really need to—”

*************************

The Ranch Inn Frontier, Wyoming 11:37 p.m.

Evicted from the Pink Cloud over the shooting, Mulder sat in the corner of his new motel room under the amber glow of a hanging lamp, a report spread across the table in front of him. He poured over the information that had been faxed to him at the local police station from Washington, seeing that now, no matter what the circumstances, Skinner and Scully needed back up.

Steven "Sharkie" Machenko was well known among the law enforcement community; a former Pittsburgh police officer discharged from the department for misconduct, he moved on to a full-time position with those he'd been helping while still a police officer. Aside from his inside knowledge of police work, Machenko also seemed to have a special skill for 'dislocating' people - he was wanted in connection with four disappearances in three states.

Sharkie would be getting a lot of visitors to his hospital room soon enough, Mulder mused turning his attention to the next piece of faxed information; a list of those believed to associate with the man. The pictures were distorted from the facsimile transmittal, but he could make out faces well enough to recognize one as the man who got away at the Pink Cloud motel.

Lawrence Martin Gryzwac was also well known among law enforcement agencies. He had been connected to numerous Mafia lieutenants, as well as a sundry of crimes that ranged from prostitution to gambling, and murder, but never prosecuted due to either insufficient evidence or the unwillingness of witnesses to testify, or worst yet, their disappearances.

Mulder cursed letting him slip away.

He started to check his watch before remembering it had stopped running after the fray at the Pink Cloud. Checking the digital clock beside the bed he reached for his cell phone before remembering it had given its life to save his earlier that day. Damn, what else is going to get broke, his thoughts going to the motel room phone and dialing Scully's number.

"...The cellular customer you are trying to reach has traveled beyond..." Mulder cut the standard message off, dialing Skinner's cell phone number.

The number rang a couple of times then, "Skin-"

Mulder opened his mouth to speak before he realized Skinner's voice had been cut off. He re-dialed.

"...The cellular customer you are trying to reach has traveled beyond the service area or is unable to answer your call. Please try your call again." Mulder ended the call, pouting at the phone thoughtfully a moment before getting up to gather his things into his travel bag.

He didn't figure Gryzwac for the type to let driving all night stop him from finding someone, and Mulder wasn't that type either.

If he drove all night along I-84 he could catch up to them at some point, he thought studying the faxed report once more before packing in his bag. Or pass them up completely. In any case he would be closer than he was now to help.

****************************************

"Damnit," Skinner mouthed a curse, pressing the keypad on his cell phone with more force than its operation warranted. The battery had discharged during the course of the day and apparently all it took was a few rings to completely drain it.

He suspected it could be Mulder calling. Had he tried to call Scully? He hadn't heard a phone other than his own, and he believed he would have heard anything through these walls judging by the sounds he could hear from the next room over. Thankfully, Bernstein had fallen asleep before the mewing and ohing had begun or surely, he would have kept his mouth running all night about it.

Skinner sat in the dark, facing the window and listening to Bernstein stirring in the next bed. He figured if the phone ringing hadn't woken him, fumbling around in the dark for his phone charger wouldn't either. No matter, he needed to charge the phone.

After a series of misadventures trying to find a free outlet, Skinner settled back into bed, waiting for the phone to charge.

Laying there, too tired to sleep, he stared into the dark no differently than before the phone had rung. He listened to the sound of Bernstein's light snore and heard what sounded like thunder in the distance. Counting seconds between the distant rumbles, Skinner heard the a door open.  It was Scully's room.

Without hesitation, he was up and at the window, obscured by the heavy curtains. There she was crossing the parking lot her gate determined, in sock feet and wearing a dark tee shirt and shorts.

He followed her path glancing ahead at the building where she was evidently headed. There, next to the office was a bank of vending machines. I should have known, he mused watching her become silhouetted in the glow of the soda machine lights.

"Next time you go to the vending room, Agent Scully, try to dress more appropriately." His words came back to him, images following with absolute clarity.

Months ago, he had turned his back to her, his eyes searching the hotel hallway for both others who might amble upon the embarrassing scene, and simply look away, to preoccupy himself. He studied the wallpaper design then scrutinized the light fixture which needed good cleaning, from there he glanced at the fire hose case directly across the hall from him. The first reflection he had caught was of himself-- then Scully. He meant to turn away but couldn't, he was frozen, his eyes locked on her bare reflection. Chagrin and guilt gripped him, swelled in his throat, but fascination firmly fixed his eyes on her and the elegance of her movements in that absurd moment.

Skinner shut his eyes, laboring to exercise the memory, but only more came to him.

It was dark out there on that rock in the middle of the lake but there was enough light that he could see the appealing curve of her neck and the damp hair clinging to it. And when she leaned forward the move gave a certain extra hike to the already short hem of her dress and threatened to expose every last inch of her thighs.

He nearly jumped back from the window when he realized she'd turned and was starting back across the parking lot. She was an observant person no matter how fatigued she might be, and he knew if he moved, she would catch sight of the curtains shifting.

He watched her pass holding his breath until he heard the door to her room shut and lock. Stepping back from the window he released his breath, feeling guilt-ridden.

"Did she catch you?" Bernstein's voice came out of the dark unexpectedly and Skinner did jump.

He didn't say anything getting back into bed.

"Just watching your partner's back, huh?"

"Go back to sleep, Bernstein." Skinner grumbled.

"Well, I was asleep until all this heavy breathing woke me up."

Skinner opened his mouth and shut it quickly. The only breathing Bernstein needed to worry about was his own and if it's possible to do it through the pillow he was ready to smother him with if he didn’t shut up.

***********************************

Twin Star Drive in Theater Outside Tokey, Wyoming 11:58 p.m.

Under a pitch-black diamond studded curtain of night, the peaceful, rhythmical sound of crickets was shattered by the sound of gunfire and a police scanner. Muzzle flashes broke the dark, illuminating objects in brief strobe light-like effects- brush, car hood, brooks brother collarless shirt.

Picking off kangaroo mice scurrying in front of the deteriorating outdoor movie screen, Lawrence Martin Gryzwac sat perched on the hood of the 1976 Caddie he'd picked up at a car lot in Prince Town off route 6, listening to the police scanner he had transferred from the Seville he and Sharkie had been traveling in and that he had had to ditch thanks to the smart-ass FBI Agent.

He squeezed off the last two rounds in his nine-millimeter at scurrying shadows. A squeal sounded somewhere near the rusted, leaning remains of a swing set in a long-abandoned playground.

Gryzwac smiled to himself, humming 'Three Blind Mice.'

Smart-ass FBI pretty boy, he thought while exchanging the empty clip for a full one. Won't have such a smart mouth once he gets it blown right off that face of his. He squeezed off another round into the shadows, the scurrying creatures playing effigy to the federal government.

The muffled twitter of his cell phone sounded from inside the car prompting him off the hood and to the front seat. Turning down the scanner he answered the phone, "yeah?"

He listened for a moment, then, "why the fuck doesn't anyone know where they are? They haven't checked in yet, oh, well that explains it, perfectly fuckin' clear. I'm telling you now, you get her to find out where they are and you call me right fuckin' then, Frank. You hear me? Or I'll come to Washington and break the freakin' bitch's neck myself."

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

Coming soon Part 3

[defranklin4113]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: St. Patrick's Day Teacher Bundle.