#did we all suddenly fucking forget conservation of mass?

[ace-and-ranty]

And are the Tumblr people who believed the infinite chocolate hack here in the room with us?

[thefanficdude]

The Winter Months: OCTOBER, Part 1

The wind blew through the barren trees, the only petals left from the previous season struggling to stay on their branches. The ground was no longer grass, but rather a medley of yellow, orange, and red leaves that fell from the looming forest above. The soft yet violent breeze was cold with a familiar change, yet it usually didn’t come this early. He knew this was all but good.

Wilbur walked back to the village, navigating through the masses of bark and stumps that were all too familiar to him. After all, this had been his home for his whole life. While on his way, the wind picked up and he adjusted his coat and hat to conserve heat. Leaves from the ground flew up into the air and created a swirl that could be described as a tornado of fall colours. The leaves wisped past Wilbur with the effortless force of the breeze. He watched them pass, admiring the beauty of the changing seasons while also knowing the winter would not be kind to him and his people. He continued to walk.

Eventually, he got to the town he called home. There were 8 buildings made of sticks, stones and mud, all designed to withstand the four seasons. 7 of the buildings were the houses of the 7 people that occupied this area, but the last building was the Community House, a place where they held meetings, discussed local issues, and planned their strategies for war (They were all generally peaceful people, but when threatened they were some of the best fighters in the land). Wilbur was making his way to the last, which was the biggest of the 8 and located right in the middle of the town. A voice stopped him before he could step through the door.

“Wilbur!” A young boy about 17 years old with golden hair ran towards him with a smile on his face.

“Tommy, right on time!” Wilbur said as Tommy slowed his pace and stopped in front of him. “I was just about to call a meeting. Round everyone up for me and tell them to meet here.” Tommy’s smile was replaced with a more serious tone.

“Is it about winter?” He asked. “We still have quite a while until snow comes. At least 8 weeks if I’ve been counting right.”

“You’ve been counting right,” Wilbur said. “But the leaves have fallen much quicker than normal and the air is getting colder every day, much more than it should.” Wilbur sighed, thinking about his next words. “Just get everybody to come as soon as possible, alright?”

“Yeah yeah, I’ll get everyone here in less than 5 minutes” Tommy said dismissively.

“Thank you,” Wilbur stepped inside the Community House as he heard Tommy’s footsteps run through the village.

There wasn’t a single soul Wilbur knew that was more stubborn and determined than Tommy. Sure, these traits often lead Tommy to most, if not all of his problems, but they were also his greatest strengths. When something needed to be done, Tommy was always the first one on the case, despite being the youngest out of everyone. Wilbur admired that about him. He wished he was like that when he was Tommy’s age.

Wilbur looked around the Community House, taking in everything about it; the nostalgic smell of the wood and charcoal, the mural painting that went all the way around the four walls, the chilled air inside, the-

Wilbur suddenly realized how cold it was inside. He looked at the fire pit in the center of it all with frustration. It would have to be lit sooner this year, maybe even tonight. Of all the seasons, winter was the one Wilbur hated the most because of how impossible living conditions were, let alone the sheer vulnerability and complete inability to fight. Being the leader of these people, he had to reassure everyone that everything was going to be ok, but in reality he was always on edge during the snowy months.

Wilbur looked up from the fire pit to the door, where the first resident silently stood in the frame.

“Will,” The resident stepped through the door, struggling to get his giant wings through the average-sized frame. “Tommy knocked on my door saying you were calling a meeting. If this is another prank of his, it’ll be the third time this month.” Wilbur chuckled.

“Keeping track, eh Phil?” Wilbur sat at the head of the Community House, right before the fire pit and directly across from the door. He gestured for Phil to sit. He did, tightly yet effortlessly folding his black wings behind him.

“Oh yeah, been keeping track since he was 10.” Phil said. “He’s always been a trickster, but at some point I decided to start keeping count. It’s been keeping me busy.” Wilbur nodded with a smile. It was true.

Philza was the wisest person Wilbur knew, and that wasn’t just bias because Phil was his father. Out of everyone Wilbur had ever met (and he met a lot of people), Phil was the one that taught him the most, from how to hunt and skin a deer, to how to flirt with the ladies. Regrettably, he was teaching all this wisdom and advice to Tommy since Wilbur had heard everything he had to say.

“What’s the meeting for this time?” Phil asked after a moment of silence. Wilbur snapped back to reality and realized he had been zoning out. He looked at Phil.

“I want to give all the details once everyone is here,” Wilbur said. “But it’s about the coming winter.” Phil nodded in understanding.

“Ah,” He said. And that was all. Phil was probably the only one who understood the stress Wilbur was under, for he was the leader of this town before Wilbur was. Usually a position of power is given to someone else when the current leader passes away, but Phil didn’t want to wait until his deathbed to teach Wilbur how to properly and successfully lead an army and protect his people. Instead, he retired from his position to teach Wilbur everything he knew. Many people, including himself and Wilbur, would agree that he did a good job raising a pretty awesome kid and leader.

“Tommy said there was a town meeting,” A young woman with pink hair came through the door and sat herself down on one of the benches.

“Yes, I told him to round everyone up for me,” Wilbur said. “I’m glad you could join us, Niki. I hope I didn’t disturb your baking.”

“No, you didn’t disturb me at all,” Niki said. “I actually just pulled a batch of muffins out of the oven. I put them by the window to cool right as Tommy knocked on my door.”

“Ah, perfect! Make sure to ration some of those for winter.” Wilbur said.

“Winter?” Niki asked. “Isn’t that still two months away?”

“...Well-”

“What flavour are the muffins?” Phil asked. Wilbur silently sighed and looked at Phil in thanks. He always somehow knew the right time to insert himself into the conversation.

“Blueberry. They were the last I had of what we picked this year. Any longer and they would’ve gone bad.”

“Good,” Phil said. “With winter coming into our sights soon, it's good to conserve food as much as possible. Those blueberries will last a little longer in those muffins.” Niki nodded.

“You’ll have to split one with me after the meeting.” Wilbur said, smiling at Niki.

“Of course!” Niki replied. “I’ll make sure to set aside the best one for you.”

Niki was the sweetest and kindest person Wilbur knew. You’ll never meet a more caring soul. She spent most of her time baking and making food for the whole village. It was mostly her work to make rations for winter. If it wasn’t for Niki, everyone would’ve died of hunger during the first snow.

“And you remembered to put out the fire in the oven this time, right?” Phil leaned his elbows on his knees and adjusted his wings. Niki gave a nervous laugh.

“Yes, yes!” Niki buried her face into her hands in embarrassment. “How could I forget after nearly burning down the whole village?”

“Hey, I already said don’t worry about that,” Wilbur said. “It was an honest mistake. And as the saying goes, ‘we learn from our mistakes’.”

“Yes, I recall you saying the exact same thing on that day.” Niki moved her hands down and rested her chin on them. The three of them laughed as they looked back on that day, which then was nearly a disaster, but now was just a funny story.

“Hey guys!” Another man entered the building. His hair was brown and curly, and he wore a navy blue dress that went all the way down to his ankles. Over the dress was a grey, light-weight jacket.

“Eret!” Wilbur greeted.

Eret was the plant-keeper. She didn’t want the title of a farmer because it sounded like he did more work than he actually did. So, his title was made the plant-keeper. During summer, he grew plants that grew various kinds of food, and that was when the plants most flourished. But during winter however, Eret had to do everything he could to make sure they were at the very least still alive for the next summer. It was a miracle if one or two of the plants could make a single serving of food during the snow.

“Welcome to the group! Stylish as always I see.” Niki said. Eret looked down at the dress he was wearing and gave a quick spin. The dress's thick fabric flew into the air effortlessly.

“Ah, ya know. I gotta present myself nicely to the plants.” Eret said, taking a seat beside Niki.

“Speaking of the plants, how’s the greenhouse going?” Wilbur asked. Eret copied Phil and rested his elbows on his knees.

“Very well, actually! Just a few more weeks with fall temperatures and we’ll be all set for winter.” Wilburs expression dropped. He cleared his throat.

“Has Tubbo been helping you?” He asked.

“Yes,” Eret replied. “He’s been a great help, especially with his ability. It’s made things move along much faster.”

“Good.” Wilbur said, folding his hands on his lap. “Once Tubbo gets here, I’ll discuss it further. He’s the only one left besides-”

Tommy burst through the door arguing with a boy who looked about the same age as him.

“What the fuck were you doing Tubbo!?” Tommy yelled.

“I was trying to get into his house! Meanwhile you were trying to burn his house down!” Tubbo yelled back.

“Yes because all he does is sleep all day and Wilbur told me to get everyone!”

“You were going to kill him Tommy!”

“Hey!” Wilbur stood up and everybody looked up at him. Tommy and Tubbo stopped fighting and stood still. “First of all, stop arguing with each other! Especially in the Community House! This is not a place to be joking around, do I make myself clear?” Tommy and Tubbo nodded, but Tommy was more hesitant. “Good. Second of all, Tubbo, explain what happened.”

“I was trying to-” Tommy began, but Wilbur put a hand up to stop him.

“I didn’t ask you.” Wilbur said calmly. “I asked Tubbo.” Tommy looked at the ground with the same energy as a 2 year old about to have a temper tantrum. Wilbur looked at Tubbo.

“Well,” Tubbo started. “Tommy knocked on my door saying a meeting was happening and that he was put in charge to tell everyone about it. I asked if there was anyone else he needed to visit and he said George. So I offered to come with him, just because.” Wilbur nodded. “We got to George's house, Tommy knocked, but nobody answered the door. A few more knocks, still no response, and Tommy started getting... impatient.”

“I was not-!” Tommy tried defending himself but Wilbur gave him a stern look that made him stop talking again. He looked back at Tubbo.

“So I proposed we could calmly go inside to see if he was ok, but Tommy interpreted that as ‘use my ability to cause the most amount of damage I can get away with’. I stopped him before he could do anything.” Of course he did, Wilbur thought with a sigh.

“Thank you for controlling him, Tubbo,” Wilbur said, sitting himself down again. “You two can have a seat.” Tubbo sat beside Phil, and Tommy sat beside Tubbo. Tommy was angrily mumbling to himself. “And Tommy, could you do me another favour,” Wilbur said. Tommy looked up, still pissed. “Would you mind lighting up the fire pit?” Tommy looked confused.

“What do you mean? It’s still October. We don’t light the pit until late November.”

“I said what I said. Light it, and I’ll explain.” Tommy rolled his eyes but did as he was told. With a flick of his wrist, sparks and flame emerged from his hand and engulfed the few pieces of wood and charcoal that remained from last year's winter. It wasn’t much, but there was enough fire there to heat up the building to a good room temperature. Wilbur cleared his throat.

“As you all know, it usually doesn’t snow until December. Late November at the earliest…” Wilbur looked around the room and could already see people's faces change as they realized what was happening. It wasn’t as hard as telling someone the news that someone they know has passed away, but it was still hard because it meant telling your loved ones that just simply surviving will be a lot harder this year. Wilbur continued speaking.

“And, as always, I’ve been taking weekly trips into the deep forest to examine the natural changes of the environment. This time around however…” Wilbur looked to Phil for support. Phil simply took a deep breath and gestured Wilbur to keep talking. Wilbur did exactly that. After a deep breath, he continued.

“It seems like the snow will be coming a lot sooner than other years.” Everyone had different reactions, but they all had one thing in common: worry. Everyone started either talking to themselves or the person beside them. And, as per the duty of any good leader, he needed to reassure them that everything was going to be ok, despite all the odds.

“But, I’ve already created some plans of what we can do to make sure this winter is just as good as the ones before.” Everyone looked up with intrigued and hopeful expressions. “However, it requires everybody's effort and ability.” Everyone nodded in agreement, and Wilbur was now hopeful himself.

“Firstly, Tubbo and Eret, the people on greenhouse duty.” Tubbo and Eret straightened and paid close attention. “Eret, you said with a few more weeks, the plants will be strong enough to withstand winter. However, I don’t think we have weeks. I predict we’ll have snow in the next 5 days.” Eret and Tubbo looked at each other with a common thought. How are we gonna pull this off?

“Tubbo, your ability is Earth, meaning you are especially knowledgeable about different types of dirt, fertilizers, and more. With the little time we have left, I’m requesting you find something that will make the plants grow faster to be prepared by next week.”

“Yes sir.” Tubbo replied.

“Eret, with your ability of light manipulation, I need you to store as much light as possible, more than what you normally prepare. With winter starting earlier, we should expect it to last longer too.”

“Of course.” Eret replied.

“Phil, if it starts snowing before the plants are ready, it’s your job to use your air ability for as long as you can to keep snow away from the greenhouse. And if it’s also possible, see if you can keep a piece of the sky cloud free so we don’t have to use up the stored light source right away.”

“Can do.” Phil replied, stretching his wings back.

“Niki and Tommy, I need you to scavenge for as much scrap food as possible. If you can find more ingredients for your baking Niki, even better. As I said before, we should expect this winter to last longer, so we need to prepare more.”

“Got it.” Niki replied.

“I have a question,” Tommy said. “By food scraps, do you mean like… dead rats and birds?” Wilbur sighed.

“Unfortunately, yes. But it will only be a last resort if we run out of our main rations.”

“Ugh, alright.” Tommy groaned. “Niki and I will be on the lookout for dead shit.”

“Fantastic.” Wilbur clapped his hands together and looked around the room. “Does everybody have a job?” Everybody collectively nodded, but Niki raised her hand.

“What about George?” She asked. “He isn’t here, so what’s his job?”

“Don’t worry about George.” Wilbur said. “Once dismissed, Phil and I will stop by his house.” Wilbur looked at Phil and he nodded. “Any other questions?” The room fell silent. “Alright, that’s that! Meeting dismissed.” Everyone stood up from their seats and started making their way to the door. Tubbo and Eret went to each other to discuss their job, as did Niki and Tommy. Wilbur and Phil were left alone in the Community House together.

“What do you have in mind for George?” Phil asked. Wilbur sighed as he got up from the bench.

“Well, because George doesn’t have an ability like the rest of us, his job will be a little easier, but just as important. He’ll be in charge of making sure the pathways and trails in the town and forest are clean before the snow comes. And when the snow does come, I’ll have him help shovel the snow off the roads.” Wilbur made his way to the door and turned to wait for Phil, who was only getting up now.

“Makes sense,” Phil said. “But why do you need me?” Wilbur and Phil started walking through the town.

“You’re aware of what my ability is, right?” Wilbur asked.

“Of course, mind reading. It was a big problem when you were younger, you know. I could never keep a secret.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Wilbur laughed. “But I’ve been noticing George has been missing more and more meetings due to his ‘sleep schedule’.”

“And you think it's not just that?”

“Yes.”

“But what else could he possibly be doing?”

“I never like to assume. I need more proof first.” Wilbur and Phil stopped in front of a house with red accents. One could say it looked like a mushroom house, a little home for fairies.

Wilbur knocked on the door with enough force that if anybody was sleeping, they definitely would have woken up.

“George!” Wilbur yelled. “Wake up! I got a job for you!” No response. Phil came up to the door.

“George!” Phil knocked harder than Wilbur did. Still no response.

“We need to go in.” Wilbur said. He turned the door handle, but it stopped with a sudden halt. “It’s locked.”

“Here, let me try.” Phil stepped in front of the door and took a deep breath. In the blink of an eye, his foot was floating in an open doorway. Phil calmly walked in. Wilbur stood outside in confusion for a moment, but stepped in soon after.

“George!” Wilbur called again. The main area of the house, which was the kitchen and living area, was empty. The only other place in the house was his bedroom. Wilbur slowly opened the door.

George’s bedroom was actually quite nice. A small, quaint room with shelves filled with antiques and found treasures and a bed with a red and white dotted blanket. The blanket was not flat though. There was something under it.

“George!” Wilbur went into the room and came beside the bed. Phil came through the door and watched. “George! How heavy of a sleeper are you, man?” Wilbur stripped the blankets off the bed. It wasn’t George under the sheets. It was a pile of pillows made to look like a human.

Wilbur looked at Phil.

They both knew.

~~~

George’s cloak caught on the barren branches as he ran blindly through the thick forest. He was used to having a trail to guide him, or a map at the very least, but not this time. The place he wanted to go was only marked as no-man's-land on all the maps he’d seen. He was headed in the general direction, but he didn’t have a specific route to follow. So blindly he ran, his cloak being wrecked and snagged by the trees around him.

Unlike the others, George didn’t have a power, or an ability as they called it. He was just a normal guy, and all he wanted was a life of luxury and peace. George always felt he was belittled and not taken seriously enough when living in Wilburs town. He was seen as the weak one. The useless one. The burden that others were forced to carry on their shoulders. So he went to the only other place he knew. To the people Wilbur constantly worried about. Wilbur was going to worry about George now, but not in the way of pity. For the first time in his life, George understood what power felt like.

It didn’t last long.

George stopped in his tracks when he heard a rustle in the bush beside him.

“Hello?” George said, creeping towards the bush. “Who’s there?” An arrow burst through the leaves, stopping only mere inches away from George’s throat. The person holding the bow emerged from the shrubbery, not taking his eyes off George.

“State your business.” The man with the bow said. George was still in shock from the life-or-death situation he found himself in, he was unable to speak. “Now!” He said. “Before I shoot this right into your throat!”

“Ok, ok!” George put his hands up for the man to see. “I’ve come to visit your leader. I have no weapons or ill intentions. I just want to talk.” The man slightly lowered his bow and looked at George’s face more carefully.

“...George?” Unfortunately, George was pretty oblivious most of the time.

“...yes?” He responded. A smile came across the man's face and he dropped his bow to give George a hug.

“George!” The man pulled away. “It’s me! Fundy!”

“Fundy?” George hadn’t seen Fundy since he was a small child. Wilbur would put George in charge of babysitting him when everyone else was busy. But now that he heard the name, George saw it: the fox-obsessed boy that could talk to animals. “Fundy! Oh my god! How are you?”

“Ah, well, surviving like everyone else.” Fundy said, picking up his bow again. “How about you?”

“About the same, I guess.” George said. “But I’m trying to look for a better place where I can live my life.” Fundy became skeptical.

“Did Wilbur send you? Is this some sort of way for him to get information on us?”

“No,” George replied. “Nobody knows I’m here, but nobody would care if I was gone either. That’s why I want to talk to your leader.” Fundy thought about it for a moment.

“You would have to be checked for weapons.” Fundy said.

“That’s fine.”

“You would have to be escorted by as many guards as they see fit.”

“That’s fine.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Fundy walked George through the forest until they got to a town, but it was nothing like Wilbur’s. There were many more buildings, all of them bigger than the ones back home. They were made of concrete bricks instead of sticks and stones. It was better than George could’ve ever imagined.

A resident saw George and Fundy and ran towards them.

“Fundy,” He said. “What’s going on?”

“He’s requested to see the leader.” Fundy gestured to George. “I already checked for weapons.”

“And?”

“None, Technoblade. George said he just wanted to talk with him and nothing more.” Technoblade thought for a moment and then called for some more people. He looked back at George and Fundy.

“You may take… George, you said?” Fundy nodded. “You may take George to see him with two other guards. If anything goes wrong, it’ll go on your record.” Two other men came up beside George while Fundy took the front.

“Yes sir.” Fundy said, leading George to what looked like their version of the Community House.

It was a large building, possibly bigger than all of Wilbur’s buildings combined. It looked old and tested by nature, but it still held strong. Fundy, George, and the two other guards went in.

Large fire-lit torches hung on the walls inside the giant building, and in the center was a table that took up most of the building. Strewn on it were maps, weapons, and small bottles of god-knows-what. George didn’t dare ask what it was.

At the head of this table was the man George was looking for. He stood hunched over a piece of paper on the table with a quill in hand. Even without doing anything, his presence was the scariest thing George had ever witnessed.

“Sir,” Fundy stepped forward. “There’s someone here who wishes to speak with you.” The man at the table looked up and straightened to get a better look. Suddenly what looked like a 4 foot tall dwarf was a 6 foot tall warrior. George’s throat tightened.

“Is that so?” With the quill still in his hand, he walked over to George. “What’s your name?”

“G-George.” He stammered out. The man with the quill raised a brow as he stopped in front of George, just inches away from him.

“You’re from the other side of the forest, right?” He stroked the underside of George’s chin with the soft feather which made George instinctively look up at him. “That’s a long way, especially for a one-man army.”

“No, you’ve got it all wrong. I haven’t come to fight. I have no weapons, I…” George swallowed as the man leaned in closer. “I’d like to offer my services to you.” George said.

“I want to join you, Dream.”

[sebastianshaw]

"This is a high class place I'm running here." Shaw probably as he warns Sabertooth that one time in new x-men.

Also can we talk about how Cyclops after getting caught cheating mentally on Jean grey with Emma Frost. And the first thought he had was to get shit faced at the Hellfire club.

Ohhhh my god there’s a lot there. Firstly, I do love that moment. Telling off SABRETOOTH is the kind of coolness that Shaw just doesn’t get anymore. But like, why did Morrison turn the Hellfire Club into a strip club? Til that comic, the Hellfire Club was a worldwide elite social for the rich and powerful. We saw them hosting fancy galas in ballgowns and tuxes and stuff like that. There was certainly the IMPLICATION that Naughty Things went on in the private rooms upstairs, but in general it was depicted as this very posh, glamorous, super upper-class place that was VERY exclusive and you apparently have to be a billionaire just to get a normal membership. And now suddenly it’s like this. . . strip club bar that anyone can walk into, including Cyclops and Wolverine, people who have most certainly never had a standing membership? Oh, and the dancers are dressed as dominatrixes, how EDGY. Forgive me if I don’t think billionaires are going to pay to watch women pole-dance who are covering MORE than a dancer at a normal club does. The whole implication of sex at the Hellfire Club in the 80s worked because it was an IMPLICATION. We NEVER saw it, nor was it ever directly stated, so your mind could do all kinds of wild scandalous Eyes Wide Shut shit that could never be allowed to be printed. .  .and made a lot more sense for an uber-exclusive society you had to be uber-rich to join. Just making it blatantly a strip/kink club is kinda. .  . . well, it was cool to me when I was 13, now it’s juvenile and makes me go “wtf” for the aforementioned reasons. It’s also weird because like. . . again, the Hellfire Club, writers forget, was not just the Inner Circle of Kings, Queens, etc. It’s worldwide social club that, though elite and exclusive, does seem to have hundreds of members. Heiresses, moguls, politicians, royalty, old money, new rich, you name it. And they have four major branches---Manhattan (the one we usually see), London (we’ve seen that one in just two stories) and the never-seen Paris and Hong Kong branches---as well as a ton of lesser establishments in other major cities like Boston and Cincinnati. Now, while I’m sure there are PLENTY of posh rich folks who like bondage and orgies, it’s simply unrealistic to think they ALL do, or even that the majority do. Many of them, I dare say, are probably quite conservative. And the Hellfire Club probably does not want to lose the support of these people as members, or its public reputation as a very respectable (despite the name) establishment. So I don’t think it would be shoving the sexual aspect out there in front of everyone, which would make a lot of the members want to disassociate from it. My own headcanon is they have a low-key vetting process for who might be amenable to being offered their “special services”---so like, they might ask the young guy who just made it big in the tech industry, but not the elderly dowager duchess (of course, who knows, maybe she *is* into that kind of thing and the young tech guy is NOT, that’s what the process is there to find out!) ANYWAY Aside from the “does Morrison even know what the Hellfire Club actually is because I don’t think so” salt, there’s also. . . yeah why would Cyclops go there? Why, of all places he could get a drink, here? The place that turned Jean (well, the Phoenix Force masquerading as Jean) into Dark Phoenix? Is that not, like, the last place he would want to try to ‘get away’ at? Oof, and the whole Emma thing. . . when I was a kid, I hated him for cheating on Jean AFTER what he had done to Madelyne, Scott seemed to me like nothing more than a guy who was just ALWAYS leaving his wives. As an adult. . . I still have those FEELINGS but intellectually my understanding has changed. Scott was in a really mentally messed up place because of some shit that had happened to him, he couldn’t even have sex with his wife because of it, so Emma presented herself to him as a sex therapist (something which has never come up before or again, leading me to think she made it up) and very deliberately misled him into thinking that what they were doing was treatment for him. Which is Fucked Up, and by some definitions is in fact rape, and if a male character had done this to a female character, you can bet a lot more people would see it as such. Therapists, including sex therapists, do NOT have sex with their patience, and while legally there’s nothing on the books about psychic sex (since it doesn’t exist) the principle is the same despite what Emma told Scott. So if she is an actual sex therapist, she lied to him to get sex when he was in a really vulnerable place and came to her for help. If she’s NOT a sex therapist like she claims. . . . she lied to him to get sex when he was in a really vulnerable place and came to her for help. I really love Emma, she was one of my first faves when I started reading and buying my own X-Men comics instead of just reading my brother’s stuff from the 90s, but she has a HISTORY of using her powers for non-consensual sex-related things like this. And I mean as a HERO, not as a villain. She’s forcibly kissed a woman, she’s mass-induced an orgasm on one crowd, and she made another group all make out with each other. She’s frankly done way more sexually shady shit on panel than Shaw ever has, but people just. . . kinda don’t talk about or acknowledge it? Don’t recognize it for what it is? IDK but it bugs me.

[bandzrus]

French Toast (Part 1)

The Dirt! Nikki Sixx x Reader

Masterlist

SUMMARY // requested by @brooklyn-antiques – “I’ve been super into the idea of either Nikki or Tommy getting with a girl who is their complete opposite, and never in a million years could anyone see them together, their development with each other and the shock of the people around them because what?? These two people together make no sense!! Idk I’m a huge fan of unexpected pairings”

NOTE // this is my first request I hope I did okay.

WORDS // 3379

TAGLIST //  @brooklyn-antiques @shamelessobsessions @mainly-me @broken-pieces

***

              You had always been the oddball of your friend group. Raised in a very conservative neighbourhood in LA, your family was the textbook definition of perfect.  Your mother was a stay-at-home mom, your dad worked in an office, you were a straight-A student in university, and your younger brother was the quarterback of his high school football team.  Your friends on the other hand were heavily involved in the music scene and spent all their free time prowling record stores and the Sunset Strip.  While they dressed in leather, wore stripper heels, heavy makeup, and teased their hair, you were the total opposite.  It wasn’t that you had anything against how your friends looked or the stuff they were into, it just wasn’t your scene.  Or so you thought up until the night you met Nikki Sixx.

              It had been a surprisingly cold night in LA and your parents were out of town for the weekend visiting your grandparents in Oregon.  Knowing you had nothing better to do, your friends convinced you to come with them to a Motley Crue show at The Rainbow, and you reluctantly agreed.  Foolishly leaving your jacket at home thinking the weather was better than it was, it started out as a miserable night.  In your favourite little yellow dress, you were freezing and stuck out like a sore thumb. Rubbing your arms and shivering, you and your two friends waited in line outside.

              “This is gonna be freaking awesome!” one of your friends, Donna, said gleefully, bouncing up and down in excitement and to keep warm.

              “I heard during their last show one of them punched a guy and knocked his teeth out!” your other friend Marion remarked as if it was the coolest thing in the world.

              “They sound like real stand-up guys,” you muttered, shuffling your feet and avoiding the awkward stares of everyone around you.  The line was moving, but not fast enough.  Looking up at the night sky, it looked very likely that it was going to rain.  You really should have brought a jacket, but instead you were stuck huddling close to your friends with only your purse as comfort.

              “Trust me, Y/N, you have no idea what you’ve been missing,” promised Donna, patting you on the back right before the three of you got to the door. Flashing the bouncer your IDs, the three of you entered The Rainbow.

              It was much warmer inside, though you were sure it was because of the mass amount of people radiating body heat, not the actual heating system.  You were thankful anyway, even though it wreaked of BO and booze.  Grabbing your hand, Marion started leading you through the crowd towards the bar.

              “Can I get a beer please?” she asked, batting long eyelashes at the bartender. Donna flanked you on your other side, leaning her back against the counter and ordered the same.

              “Marion, if you see the singer let me know,” she said.

              “You want his autograph or something?” you asked, tapping your finger anxiously on the counter.  

              “Oh I want more than an autograph,” Donna winked.  She and Marion just laughed as the bartender handed them both their drinks.  Pushing into the crowd, your friends dragged you by the hand until you were much closer to the stage.  It took a lot of wiggling, some use of elbows, and a lot of sorry’s and excuse me’s, but you made it.  The lights on stage were dim at the moment, but drums and mic stands were set up. You’d never really been to a concert before, especially not one like this.  There was a big hairy guy standing next to you and behind you were a bunch of ditsy bleach-blondes jostling to be at the front.  Spotting the anxious look on your face, Marion leaned over to you.

              “Don’t worry Y/N, just stick with us and you’ll be fine.”

              “It’s gonna be a night you’ll never forget,” promised Donna, squeezing your hand reassuringly.  You didn’t know then how right she was.  Just as the pack of blondes elbowed their way in beside you, the shadowy forms of four people could be seen on stage right before the lights came on.

              “ALRIGHT!  WE ARE MOTLEY CRUE!”

              The crowd erupted and you almost threw your hands over your ears it was so loud. The blond on stage who had announced the band was obviously the singer and the one Donna had been talking about earlier.  He was definitely Donna’s type; she was all over cute rock star blonds. You were about to say something to your friend about it when the band started playing.

              “Don't you know, know, know

              It's a violation

              I still hear you saying

              Such a perfect, perfect night

              No, no, no fight all temptation

              Well, in a black-hearted alley fight

              I'm screaming

              Take me to the heights tonight

              Take me to the top

              Take me to the top!”

              Everyone in the whole club was screaming ‘take me to the top’ and by the second verse you almost were too.  There was something about the band that just made you want to chant right along with them.  People had their fists in the air, girls were swooning, and you were coming to the realization that perhaps you had been missing out.  The energy wasn’t like anything you’d ever experienced before.  You had just started shouting along with the band and the crowd when you felt something tug on your shoulder.  As you turned around to see what it was, you felt the weight of your purse leave your shoulder and the shape of a greasy haired dude disappear behind the big hairy guy.

              “Hey, give that back!” you cried, voice almost completely unheard over the music and the crowd.  Pushing past the big hairy guy you attempted to chase after the thief, but your path was blocked and he had disappeared from your sight.

              “That guy just stole my purse!” you tried, hoping someone would hear you and help.  You turned back to your friends, about to ask for help when suddenly there was a shout from on stage and the bass cut out.

              “Hey asshole!”

              The guy who stole your purse froze as the bass player pointed at him. Tossing his bass off his shoulder, he jumped into the crowd after the guy.  The room erupted into even more chaos as people moved out of his way. Black hair flying, he threw a punch at the thief that clocking him right in the ear and knocked him to the ground. Grabbing the thief by the hair, the bass player hit him again, this time full in the face.  There was a crack sound as you heard the thief’s nose break and blood started to pour from it.  Then security arrived and yanked the raven-haired bassist off him, still kicking and holding your purse.  One of the other security guys grabbed the thief by his collar and you watched as he was thrown out holding his nose.

              “Don’t fucking come back!” the bass player shouted as the guy left, brushing the security guard off.  Then his eyes landed on you.  Your two friends had come up behind you during the brawl and gave you a little push forward.  The band had stopped playing and the room had gone quiet.  

              “Oh my god are you hurt?” you asked, spotting the blood on his hand.

              “Nah,” he said, wiping it on his torn up shirt.  

              “I can’t believe you did that.”

              The bassist just chuckled and scratched his nose with his thumb.

              “You look a little lost, I figured you could use some help,” he shrugged. You made to take your purse from him, but he lifted it over your head.  

              “Hey!” you pouted.  If you were about to have your purse stolen a second time this was going to be an awful night.  Your parents would kill you if you lost your ID and your credit card.

              “I’ll give this back if you promise to have a drink with me after the show,” he smirked, looking down at you.

              “I don’t drink.”

              “Pffft what?”

              “You heard me,” you huffed, trying to snatch your purse from him again to no avail.  

              “Fine, then what about dinner?”

              “Dinner?” you squeaked.  You could overhear a bunch of the ditsy blondes from before making rude comments. “Fine.”

              Smiling, the bass player gave you back your purse.

              “It’s a date,” he said with a wink before clambering back onstage.  Picking up his base and patting his mates on the shoulder, they resumed the show.  You were quickly pulled back into the crowd by your two friends.

              “Holy shit, Y/N do you know what just happened?!” Marion screamed, shaking you by the shoulders and grinning ear to ear.

              “I almost had my purse stolen – twice!” you snapped, hugging the bag in question tight to your chest.

              “Nikki fucking Sixx just asked you on a date!”

              “Do you know how many girls in here will probably try to kill you during the next hour?”

              “I’d rather not think about that,” you replied, glancing over your shoulder to find the pack of blondes shooting daggers at you and muttering.  You almost finished your sentence by saying you didn’t really want to go anyway, but stopped yourself because it wasn’t true. At the very least you owed Nikki a shot because he had gotten your purse back, but another little part of you was excited.  You’d been on a few dates before with guys in high school and one or two from college, but all with stand-up guys from sports teams or future lawyers and nothing ever stuck. Nikki was completely different and you were intrigued.  You’d never understood your friends’ fascination with the music scene until about fifteen minutes ago and you now you wanted more.

              “You’re telling us everything after!” Donna insisted, grabbing your arm and bringing you back between her and Marion.  Holding your purse tightly you rejoined the crowd in cheering for Motley Crue.

                Their set went for a bit over an hour, and you spent the whole time staring at Nikki.  The more you watched him the more you started to realize your friends weren’t as crazy as you’d thought for liking all these guys.  He was pretty cute, you had to admit.  So, so, so not your type, and so not a person you ever thought you’d bring home to your parents, but you couldn’t help but love the way he moved on stage and the way he was so wrapped up in the music.  You could tell he really cared about it and what they were doing.

              When the show came to an end, you watched carefully which direction they went offstage.  As the crowd slowly trickled back out into the street or swarmed the bar for one last drink, you waited with your friends until there was a clear shot to the backstage area.  There were a bunch of other girls already there leaning against the wall in the hallway waiting for the band too.  If they weren’t giving you dirty looks, they were raising their eyebrows at you.  You felt like a sheep surrounded by a pack of wolves.  That was until you spotted Nikki coming out of one of the dressing rooms.  Thankfully he spotted you too and motioned for the security guard to let you through.  Turning back to your friends to give them a nervous smile, you ducked under the security guard’s arm to meet Nikki.

              “Kinda surprised you didn’t just leave,” he remarked as the two of you made for the back door of The Rainbow.  “You don’t look like the type of girl who hangs out around here.”

              “I thought about it,” you confessed, looking down at your feet.

              “What changed your mind?”

              “I figured I owed you one for getting my purse back.”

              “I still can’t believe you don’t drink,” he muttered, shooting you a smile.

              “My friends do it’s just… not for me.  Sorry to disappoint you.  Like you said, I’m not the type of girl who hangs out around here.”

              “That just makes you more interesting.”

              Holding open the door for you, it was then that you realized it had started to rain.  

              “Crap,” you muttered, slinging your purse over your shoulder and rubbing your arms.

              “The restaurant’s not far,” Nikki promised.  Nodding, the two of you dashed across the street and around the corner to a Denny’s.  Dripping rainwater on the doormat, you looked up at Nikki.  His makeup was heavily smudged and the rain had deflated his hair a bit, but he still looked good.  A waitress offered you both menus and you slid onto a booth by the window. You kept glancing at him over your menu as you pretended to read.  This was by far the craziest thing you’d ever done and you were unbelievably glad your parents were gone for the weekend so you wouldn’t have to explain why you were out so late with no jacket.

              “You’re staring at me – I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” the bass player chuckled, putting his menu down.

              “S-sorry,” you stammered.  “This is just… the most insane night of my life.”

              “You need to get out more.”

              “You’re probably right,” you admitted, smiling at him.  “What are you getting?”

              “Jack n’ coke, probably a burger.”

              “I was thinking waffles.”

              “So you’re a waffles over pancakes girl.”

              “Yeah,” you giggled.  “I guess so. They’re both alright though.  What about you?”

              “French toast actually.”

              “They have that,” you said, pointing to it on the menu.

              “Maybe I’ll get that instead.”

              “I liked the show.”

              “I was afraid to ask you about that,” confessed Nikki, watching as the waitress came over to your table.

              “What can I get for the two of you?” she asked, ready to scribble down your order on her notepad.  You let Nikki go first.

              “Can I get a Jack n’ coke and the French toast?”

              “Sure, hun.  And what about the young lady?”

              “Just the waffles please,” you answered, folding your menu up and handing it to her.  Nikki did the same and then she left.  You actually were pretty hungry, so you were glad your evening plans had changed.

              “You guys really look like you love being up there,” you told him, resting an elbow on the table and finally letting go of your purse.

              “Yeah,” Nikki said.  “It’s the best goddamn feeling in the whole world.  Seeing all the people who are there just for you, and hearing them sing our lyrics back to us, it’s pretty fuckin’ cool.”

              “I can imagine,” you smiled.

              “What kind of shit do you do?”

              “I’m going to university right now, but still living at home,” you frowned.

              “You’re just the walking definition of a goody-two-shoes.”

              “And you’re the walking definition of a dysfunctional rock star,” you shot back.  “Jumping offstage, punching a guy in the face, and ordering booze from a Denny’s.”

              There was a pause and then both of you burst out laughing.

              “I can’t believe we’re going on a date,” Nikki chuckled.  “You don’t seem to like me very much, maybe I should just get you a cab and you can go home and never think about me again.”

              “You know what’s funny?” you said.  “I do actually like you.”

              “Really?  You’re not just saying that to let me off easy?”

              “No, you’re actually pretty interesting.  Most of the guys I’ve been out with are football players or soon-to-be-lawyers.”

              “Is your neighbour Mr. Rogers?”

              “No, I’m serious!  This is… actually kinda fun,” you admitted, smiling at Nikki.  He gave you a grin right back, drumming his fingers on the table top.

              “You are so not my type,” he said.

              “You’re not mine either.”

              “Don’t we make a pair.”

              “Oh we definitely do,” you chuckled as the waitress came back with your meals.  

              “French toast for the gentleman, and waffles for the young lady,” she announced, sliding the plates onto the table before handing Nikki his Jack n’ coke.

              “Thank you Dorris,” grinned Nikki, taking the Jack bottle and tipping it’s entire contents down his throat in one go.  You just shook your head.  Dorris rolled her eyes and left the two of you alone again.  

              “A real tough guy I see,” you chided.

              “I prefer bad-ass.”

              “You would.”

              Digging into your meals, you were surprised just how hungry you were.  Nikki was hungry too because both of you barely spoke a word to each other as you shoveled breakfast food into your mouths. Wiping your mouth delicately with a napkin, you finally leaned back in the booth again and sighed.  Nikki polished off his coke and did the same.  

              “That was really good,” you said.  “I didn’t realize I was that hungry.”

              “Glad I went with the French toast over the burger.”

              “That good, huh?  I should get you to try my mom’s recipe, it’s to die for.”

              “Only on our first date and we’re already talking about meeting parents, wow. I didn’t realize you were that serious,” joked Nikki, stacking your plates one on top of the other.

              “I didn’t mean it like that!”

              “Then what, you’re going to bring it to me at my house?”

              “I-“

              “I’m just kidding.”

              “My parents would probably kill me and then you if I ever brought you over,” you confessed, running a hand through your damp hair.

              “You could always bring the French toast to one of our gigs,” suggested the bass player.  “We’re at the Troubador in a couple of days, you should come.”

              “I don’t know…”

              “You’ll come to one, but not another?”

              “My friends dragged me to this one.”

              “Come to our show on Monday, I promise it’ll be fun.”

              You mulled the idea over in your head.  Your parents would be back by Monday, but you figured you could always brush off your late night with a lie about helping someone study.  Your friends were probably going on Monday to Motley Crue’s show anyway, so you could get a ride from them again.  

              “Okay fine, I’ll come,” you agreed.

              “It’s a date then,” grinned Nikki, holding out his hand to shake on it. You took his calloused hand in yours and made the deal.  Dorris the waitress came back to your table just as you started rummaging through your purse for change.  

              “I’ll take these,” she said, loading the dishes into her arms.  “And I’ll be back with the bill in just a second.”

              Nikki’s hand stopped your rummaging.

              “I’ve got this one,” he said, unfolding a couple bills and leaving them on the table.  “This should cover it.  Keep the change.”

              The waitress thanked him, and the two of you made towards the door.

              “Thanks for paying for me, you didn’t have to,” you said, turning to look up at Nikki.

              “A guy’s supposed to pay for his girl.”

              “I’m your girl now?  It’s only our first date, I didn’t know you were that serious,” you remarked, using Nikki’s line against him.

              “I’d like you to be,” you said.  “You’re so much different than all the other girls I’ve been with.”

              “Likewise.”

              “So that’s a yes then?”

              “That’s a yes,” you said, giving him a smile.  You were probably biting off more than you could chew by dating Nikki, but tonight had been the most fun and excitement you’d experienced in a long, long time and you weren’t about to let that go.  

              “I’m calling you a cab,” Nikki said, popping a couple coins into the slot of the machine.  You waited patiently for him to finish, hugging your purse to your chest again and praying it wasn’t still raining outside.  It probably was.

              “Can we wait in here?  I didn’t bring a jacket.”

              Nikki nodded and you two spent the next five minutes waiting by the door of the Denny’s in comfortable silence.  When the yellow vehicle finally pulled up outside, you bid the bass player farewell and planted a quick kiss on his cheek.  You were blushing pretty hard yourself, but couldn’t help but notice him turn a few shades pinker under his smudged makeup too.  The whole ride home you couldn’t get him out of your head. You were already dreaming about Monday.

***

So I’m probably going to write a part 2 to this because I didn’t quiet get as far into the relationship as I wanted, so be on the lookout for that!

[popwasabi]

What “The Dark Knight” says about our bad politics

Waaay back in the summer of 2008, me and my dad drove up to Northern California to attend San Jose State University’s freshman orientation.

It was a long drawn out process where first-year students basically were told and shown a bunch of things they would forget and relearn by their first day anyways and culminated with all of us spending one night in the campus dorms so we could all get a taste of the “campus life” experience.

I wanted it to end badly for a couple reasons. Being an introvert, I was not comfortable sharing a room with anyone, let alone a stranger, for a night but more importantly, I was being kept from the biggest movie premiere of the year that day: “The Dark Knight.”

As soon as I woke up the next morning, I rushed my dad to find the nearest theater and purchased tickets immediately for a late-night screening. I was already a huge fan of “Batman Begins” but every trailer to Christopher Nolan’s epic follow-up indicated we were in for an even bigger blockbuster than before and I was beyond pumped.

(Me getting the fuck off campus to watch “The Dark Knight” that day.)

Two and a half hours later I left the theater blown away by the experience. “The Dark Knight” was everything, at the time, I was hoping for in a comic book movie; angsty, dark, edgy (all things I thought I was as a teen), cinematically sharp, thrilling, a fantastic score once again by the legendary Hans Zimmer, and fulfilled just about every fanboy wet dream I had at the time for a perfect Batman movie.

To this day it remains the most satisfying theatrical experience I’ve ever had seeing a movie, not that it’s my favorite movie of all-time anymore, mind you, but that I have never gone into a movie with such high expectations and had them blown away quite like that since.

(Conversely, this^ was my most disappointing experience...)

I’m a different person now, of course. If you were to wipe my memory of the film and had to watch it again today I doubt I would have the same fanboygasm I had then as the cynical 30-year-old I am now but I’ll argue that “The Dark knight” still remains a high mark, if not the standard, for comic book movies today.

That said, parts of this film have definitely not aged well. Visually the film still holds up, the action is still exciting, the performances are all stellar (though Bale’s Batman voice is still bad) but what hasn’t aged well, for me, are the movie’s politics.

“The Dark Knight” is, of course, a post 9/11 movie, in fact, it’s arguably the definitive one as its pop-cultural footprint dwarfs pretty much all within its sub-genre. This Nolan sequel deals heavily in themes of terrorism with its iconic villain The Joker, played maniacally by the late great Heath ledger, wreaking havoc across Gotham with various explosive devices. Though the Clown Prince is more an anarchist than someone with an ideology, like those in Al Qaeda or the Taliban, the results of his beliefs/non-beliefs are more or less the same; cause pandemonium and fear in the masses. Batman, representing the power of justice and order, does battle with this in a war to save Gotham’s soul and again this is still a damn entertaining and thrilling story.

(Seriously, it’s still a rock solid entry in the comic book movie genre.)

But where the film’s 9/11 politics become problematic is toward the end of the film when the Joker begins his final act to plunge Gotham into unstoppable chaos. Batman becomes desperate; The Joker has eluded him at every turn, always two steps ahead of him, escaping justice no matter what Bruce Wayne does so he concocts a plan to finally to locate and stop the Joker for good.

He creates an elaborate sonar system using every cell phone in Gotham, effectively creating a massive surveillance state to spy on its citizens in order to locate the Joker.

(And it’s the only time we have ever got the real Batman eyes on screen, damn it!)

Lucius Fox, played by Morgan Freeman, appropriately calls this out telling him he’s wrong and that he cannot support this but Batman insists that it’s the only way. Fox reluctantly agrees and tells him he’ll resign once this is over as he can’t morally support such a system. The sonar, of course, works and Batman is able to stop the Clown Prince once and for all and upon Fox entering his name into the sonar computer the program dissolves and is deleted presumably for good.

This is of course to wash Batman’s hands of this deed to the audience. Our protagonist knows this is wrong, the audience is told it is wrong but by ending the surveillance he shows he would never abuse such a program, that sometimes good men have to do terrible things to defeat evil and that makes it ok.

For years, as a bleeding heart liberal (at the time) who grew up in the Bush years but loved the hell out of this movie, I tried to reconcile with this part of the story because Batman was the hero. I thought maybe this kind of action is ok because if the “good guy” is in charge bad stuff is fine because he/she won’t abuse such power. That’s real justice, right?

The problem is in the real world, at the top, there really aren’t any good guys and they are counting on you to believe that they are when they get a hold of such power because that’s how we are programmed.

The Patriot Act, which was the signature Bush-era reform post 9/11, created our current surveillance state. In the interest of national security and ensuring those “dern turrists don’t go killing lil’ Timmy riding his tricycle out in Des Moines, Iowa” our elected leaders, both republican and democratic (make no mistake), effectively signed away our constitutional rights to “ensure our safety” by spying on us basically without warrants. The proponents proudly claimed its necessity in fighting the “War on Terrorism” and those naysayers either shouldn’t worry “if you have nothing to hide” or worse were un-American Taliban sympathizers.

For progressives, of course, this was an evil violation of our civil liberties but for many conservatives, this wasn’t a big deal. They are just trying to keep us safe after all. 

But conveniently ignored by many on the left still today is the complicity they had in bringing about this era in warrantless surveillance. Yes, this policy started under Bush, of course, but it continued to be re-upped through the Obama administration and the Trump administration, not to mention revolving majorities in the House and Senate, showing no matter who was in charge they all liked the idea of keeping an eye on all of us with or without reason.

Considering the Patriot Act was made to win the “War on Terrorism” our leaders were never going to relinquish this power anyways because you can’t win a war on terrorism. Terrorism is not a country or a people, it’s an ideology behind many different ideologies. The US, no matter how you see it, be it as liberators or oppressors, will always have enemies and that’s all the reason they need to keep this power it seems.

Having the data on our lives mined like oil can easily be used against us in a variety of ways regardless of if any of us have terroristic or even criminal intentions. But for many in this country, it was only a problem if the wrong guy wielded that power. As soon as their “good guy” got in though, suddenly it was no big deal. I wonder why...

“The Dark Knight” puts forth a problematic view on who can and should wield supreme power, that even terrible choices can be made as long as the “right” person is the one making them.

Liberals are notorious for justifying them when it’s one of them who does it.

It’s a lie. A lie that both parties use to their advantage because they want you believe everything they do can be justified because you happen to be a part of their party; the “good guys” once again. But there is something extra cynical about the way liberals wield it as they parade themselves around as paragons and moral pillars against the Jokers of the Republican party.

For all the platitudes liberals give, that would make some superhero speeches seem benign, they wear masks about as well as the vigilantes do but not for the same reasons. When confronted by this blatant hypocrisy, liberal voters justify all kinds of horrible things as long as the other “bad guy” isn’t the one doing it. For all the shit Bush gets, and rightfully so, for plunging us into a military, financial, and humanitarian quagmire in the Middle East, Obama gets almost zero real pushback by liberals for effectively drone bombing the hell out of the same people. During these past three years Trump has more or less allowed ICE to run rampant on immigrant communities sure and liberals have been critical, again as they should, but who made the cages they were thrown into and who deported more of them during his first three years in office than Trump did?

(And once again, and I can’t emphasize this enough, Andrew Cuomo is NOT your fucking friend...)

Liberals often like to present themselves as the moral purveyors of good in the face of conservative opposition and they use it to their advantage to more or less do many of the same foul things those with R’s next to their name do. Sure, not all their actions are equally as evil but even then, we rarely truly hold either of our leaders feet to the fire because we believe their actions are somehow better because they have a “D” next to their name.

These horrific policies and actions will never see justice as long as we keep justifying them because the “right” person is behind them.

No, this is not an all sides are equally bad take. That discussion requires more nuance and for a different time, but I will say both sides are varying degrees of bad that should be taken seriously instead of not at all and can’t be pushed aside again and again and again because “the other guys are worse.” 

We are running into the same situation today as our presidential election features a credibly accused rapist, sexual predator, who supports Bush-era tax cuts, who takes money from major corporate lobbyists, who is against Medicare for All, has open disdain for millenials, and not only supports but openly bragged about the aforementioned The Patriot Act.

Hmmm, sounds an awful lot like someone we know, huh?

You could argue that one of these two men mitigates, or even vastly mitigates, harm if in office and I’m not here to necessarily scold you for making what you feel is morally the least awful choice but the point still remains; we are justifying evil again because our “good guy” is in charge.

Being liberal, just on its own, does not vastly minimize the problematic nature of a bad person.

Regardless of how you feel about this election and what choice you plan to make this November (and again, I’m not here to tell you what to do), bad things and bad policies will be continued to be enacted by bad people because that’s what choices we’ve been given. There isn’t a good one and the most vulnerable will be hurt the most by it regardless of who wins. There is a reason so many are disillusioned with voting and it’s not just voter suppression laws.

I can already hear some of you screaming “OH MER GERD pURiTy TeStS,” but this is far more cynical a standard we have than simply choosing a less than perfect candidate. Many are already making rather tone-deaf comments about people being “privileged” for choosing not to compromise their morals anymore. What’s “privileged” is voting for the guy who will do less harm for you but ultimately still disproportionately harm more people of color no matter who is in office.  

(The country and the world can really begin to truly heal when a Democrat is in charge of one of these Freedom Machines once again!)

Yes, I might agree that one is probably a net positive for the world at this point but to act like someone choosing to not participate anymore in what is effectively a never-ending cycle I can’t say I blame them either. At some point, our society has to draw a real line in the sand on these things with our leaders and force a more moral standard for our government instead of the status quo.

We can’t go on this endless “pragmatic” path picking “the lesser of two evils” until we gradually just become evil. You can make the argument that maybe the time isn’t now, and you might be right but when? These folks at the top are COUNTING on us accepting circumstances and justifying terrible beliefs and actions over and over again because of the state of our politics.

“The Dark Knight” believes that sometimes bad things must be done to defeat evil but the real world can be so much less cynical if we stopped compromising on our beliefs. It’s not entirely too late for us to do the right thing. We can’t go on forever letting bad behavior go because the “good guy” will be the one doing it instead of the other one.

Taking money from corrupt billionaires is wrong. Extra-judicially drone bombing the Middle East endlessly is wrong. Throwing migrants in cages like fucking animals is wrong. Rape and sexual assault are wrong. Mass warrantless surveillance is wrong. Doesn’t matter if its Batman or fucking Superman doing any of these things; immoral behavior cannot and should not be ever justified.

Otherwise, we really will live long enough to see ourselves become the villain...

Looking forward to the comments on this one...

[toasttz]

From the Tabletop #4

So, I have to confess the teaser paragraph from last time was complete and utter clickbait. None of those things happened. Not really anyway. Not sorry. I should also note that the aforementioned aquatic city of Flotsam was another homebrew location - when I brought it up last time I referenced it like it was a canon location. My apologies if anyone was confused on that. Anyway, last we left our circle, we deduced that our next stop would be Great Forks, a large city that is not easily-accessible by the water (there's a river but Scarlet's ship is a xebec, which is pretty large all told). But then our GM decided to be far, far cheekier than something that simple and we ended up in the islands at a tourist trap named... Grate Forks. Really, I'm only surprised that I was surprised. Being that we were on the beach, we decided to make the best of it. Gwyn and Scarlet set up a stand to sell off-brand sunglasses which, between the two of them, was a big hit. We were also encouraged to join a surfing contest for the honor of meeting the Big Kahuna. I honestly forgot who won (I was worried it would be a roll I would be terrible at, like Ride, but it turned out that had Scarlet entered, I likely would've had an edge, due to her being Performance-based), but long story short, we became local semi-celebrities overnight. Speaking of overnight, Scarlet was suddenly kidnapped by some goons and presented to "The Boss Lady", who had some choice words for Scarlet's attempting to get in on the off-brand sunglasses racket. For her part, the pirate attempted to explain that she was a legitimate businesswoman (mostly true, as she had a guild license at this point) and had no idea she was hurting anyone (completely true). She also joked how being tied to a chair was cause for "an extra charge" and the goons hesitated in hitting her as she encouraged them to in a... not PG-13 manner. Ultimately, Scarlet avoided a fancy new pair of concrete slippers by challenging the Boss and her men to a duel the next day, which somehow worked. The resulting duel was so hilariously one-sided I legitimately wonder if the GM expected us to actually win it. Scarlet was probably the best combat-ready character on the field and she was simply unable to land a hit. Now, admittedly, I was being conservative with my essence and charm use, so had I buffed my rolls I probably would've done more, but I also would've burned essence and eventually lit up like a Christmas tree to everyone in the damned town. So Scarlet nimbly parried and was just unable to manage a hit. Magpie faired worse and Volkenstein, much worse. The Boss Lady, his mentor/adoptive mother, and a Lunar, essentially dribbled him like a basketball both in the figurative and literal sense. Should've drank his milk. Anyway, having been laid out, Scarlet and the Boss Lady began talking over the defeated bodies of the others. Eventually, we came to an understanding and the battle ended via civil discourse. Ultimately, it was decided we could hang around provided we didn't try to set up shop again. We agreed to these terms and ventured further into town. Whereupon a Dragon King with an annoying voice decided to petition us for help. Turns out, some ruins on the far end of the island were under siege and Dragon King eggs laid within and were in danger. After a group huddle, we decided to go for it and help the sadsack out. This resulted in Scarlet being mis-identified as a high-ranking naval officer, which she decided to just roll with. GM: Hey, what color is Scarlet wearing right now? Me: Red. What color did you expect? GM: Okay... This worked rather well, as I was able to BS my way through their questioning, mostly because Volkenstein and Magpie couldn't speak a language they knew, so I was able to control the flow of conversation. Not helped, at all, that Magpie was doing everything she could to antagonise the DragonBlood liaison as much and as often as possible. God help me, I don't know why, but she did. We never saw anything of that barbarian persona anywhere else, just when she was being a complete asshole. Upon arrival, Scarlet actually became somewhat sympathetic to the DB's plight. Their commanding officer (recently given a field promotion due to many ranked deaths) was terrified beyond consolation and after a peptalk from Scarlet, she ALMOST talked their entire outpost into departing the area, leaving it to us to control the area without even lifting a finger. And then Gwyn had to talk. Completely undoing everything I had done in one fell swoop, he petitioned the stars for a sign, resulting in the image of a sword pointing down at the ruins. Gwyn interpretted this as we have to stay. All of us. And then it got worse when Magpie decided to practice medicine. This just escalated tensions further because, as said, Magpie couldn't stop being an asshole for this stretch. We also found a moonsilver sword run through a corpse and into a wall, which Scarlet managed to retrieve with a pretty solid strength roll. And then all Hell broke loose. Before we knew it, we were dealing with Not-King Ghidora, Volkenstein had hijacked a warmech, I was trying desperately to avoid getting killed by Volkenstein being a dumbass in his warmech, and then both sides went to killing each other en mass as a Lunar landed atop the mech and began hammering away at the cockpit. Admittedly, I missed a good deal of the setup to this due to poor timing in choosing to step away to use the restroom, so I could've been the one to get the mech, but, meh. Bad luck on that one. Thankfully, Volk did not, in fact, hit the "KILL EM ALL" button as he had presence of mind to ask the mech's AI if that was a good plan and ultimatedly decided it wasn't. As an aside, it was around this point in the campaign that serious fatigue with the One Piece plotline really began setting in for me. I like Scarlet as a character and she had some pretty cool moments, but it was starting to drag on a while and I had other character ideas in mind - one of which I should hopefully get to before too many more posts. Anyways, deciding to save Volk's dumbass, I rushed the Lunar (who I had no idea was a Lunar at that moment) and ran him through with my sword. Around the time his head turned like an owl's 180 degrees to look down at me, and noticing that my sword did sweet FA to him, did I realize my mistake. The man looked down at me (an impressive feat as Scarlet was supposed to be very tall for a woman) and asked if I knew the man in the cockpit. I immediately denied it and told him I would simply take my sword back and leave. He accepted this and I fukken legged it in the opposite direction. Scarlet leaped to the ground and found a metal hatch, leading to a shaft which went deeper underground. Figuring things couldn't be more fucked under than above ground, I had Scarlet plunge down, whereupon she found a massive, metal warship, with a mech all my own awaiting me. Using aforementioned moonsilver sword, I was able to activate it and found a means to the surface via elevator to join the fray, where Volkenstein - who I feel the need to reiterate was IN A GOD-DAMNED WARMECH - was getting his ass beat. Stepping in, I essentially cut Ghidora in half, bringing the battle to its very bloody end. Riding high on our victory and the acquisition of a metal carrier ship - lovingly named the Black Turtle by Scarlet - and two mechs, we sailed back to Grate Forks proper... only to completely forget we needed the rings the DBs had and had to go right back. God-damn it, I can be so fucking stupid sometimes. In the return trip, we procured the rings and the Dragon King eggs, which were promptedly delivered to the quest-giver. Turns out there were more aboard the Black Turtle, but the circle's collective response to this was to shrug and claim the ancient rite of "finders-keepers". At this point, our best leads took us to Malfeas next, so I split a portion of my crew and non-combat NPCs (like Esha Mae) to stay in Grate Forks with the Red Lion (my xebec, as I realize only now I never mentioned the name of my vessel prior), as the circle and combat-ready NPCs boarded the Black Turtle to make way for the Wyld as a shortcut of getting to Hell. Play Exalted long enough and sentences like that start sounding completely normal. While sailing through the Wyld, a rather unexpected thing happened as Gwyn noticed someone was... swimming after our ship. And gaining on us, no less! The assembled Oath Warriors, Gwyn, and Scarlet have a look and realize it looks an awful like like Valentinian in his full artifact armor, screaming Scarlet's name like a man possessed. A vicious battle ensued, as Scarlet became increasingly skeptical that this man was, in fact, her Valley. With some effort, he was felled, fading back into the mists of the Wyld, pretty much confirming that this entity was an "idea" of a version of Valentinian, not Valentinian proper. Faux Valentinian: All I wanted was gratitude for my sacrifices... Scarlet: Oh, poor Valley... Don't... don't ask me to explain the Wyld here. There's a reason it's "The Wyld" and not "The Normal". Before we knew it, we arrived in Hell, which is where I'll be calling it today. Join me next time as we: find Valentinian again! Sell both Volkenstein and Magpie to ne'er-do-wells! Go to a theme park in Hell! Nearly die! See you there!

[betsynagler]

The Four (Thousand, New) Questions

When I was growing up, I didn't really have to think too much about what it meant to be a Jewish American. A large part of that was living in New Jersey, where being a member of the tribe isn’t exactly an anomaly. In Newark, pretty much all of my friends were Jewish or Black, until I spent 2nd grade in Catholic School. You’d think that might make it weird, but even then, it wasn’t. All my new friends just had Irish and Italian names, and I got to sit in the back during mass and read, which is the dream of every second grader. And when we moved to the suburbs, things became, if anything, more Jewy. We joined Temple Israel and actually tried going to services every once in a while, and I went to Hebrew school on Saturdays. At my suburban public grade school, I learned the term “Jappy” something my friends and I called other girls that we considered spoiled, regardless of whether or not they were Jewish, and in junior high, the school bus that came from the most wealthy, Jewish neighborhood in town was sometimes referred to as “The Jew Canoe.” Who did we learn these terms from? Other Jews. We were the ones trading in the laughable stereotypes, because that’s American Jewish culture all over: we joke because we can. It’s never been in doubt in my lifetime that we belong here, to the degree that we are comfortable poking fun at ourselves, enough that while we are very aware that we aren’t and will never be the majority — and if you forget that, you always have the 30 to 60 days of Christmas to remind you — we are perfectly okay with that; and enough to feel safe in the knowledge that the past is the past, because in the Tri-State Area in the 1970s and 80s, anti-Semitism was about as real to me as Star Wars: something that existed long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away. The same thing with Nazis. Nazis were the movie villains nobody got upset about. Nobody ever said, “Why do the Nazis always have to be the bad guys?” Why? Because they were the bad guys. 

That doesn’t mean that my Jewish identity was 100% uncomplicated, mostly because I was raised to figure stuff out for myself. Mine were the kind of parents who took us to fancy restaurants and said, “Want to order the escargot? Have at it!”, perhaps not realizing that they’d end up with a seven-year-old who liked to try every appetizer on the menu but had a stomach the size of a golfball – which led to my parents gaining weight in the 70s, which led to their joining the exercise craze in the 80s...See how history happens? Being able to make my own decisions meant I could quit Hebrew school after one year (I was already a well-practiced quitter of stuff I didn't like, such as wearing dresses and learning the violin). I felt a little guilty about it, so I was definitely Jewish in that way, but one of the reasons I couldn’t get behind religious school was the fact that Judaism was supposedly my religion, but – go figure – our family was not religious. My parents don’t agree on which type of not-religious they are, since my mother describes herself as an atheist and my father calls himself an agnostic, but that’s only if you push them, since neither of them cares enough about it either way. They still identify as Jewish, and therein lay the confusion for me: Judaism is kind of an ethnic identity as well as a religion, but in a weird way, because you can convert to it, which you can’t do with, say, Slavic, and because it’s not one where we all come from one specific place, since Jews were basically driven out of everywhere. Sure, my family were all driven out of one country, Poland, but that didn’t exactly make them feel Polish. No, we were definitely Jews, just the secular kind, which is actually a thing — although I didn’t know anyone else like that in high school, the result being that in my group of friends, a mix of Jews and non-Jews, I was in my own category of Jewish, But Doesn’t Know When Any of the Holidays Are.

When I went to college on the West Coast, where I was meeting new people all the time, it was common for people tell me I didn’t “look Jewish,” which seemed to just fit right in with every other confusing part of my Jewish identity. You might think that, as a stealth Jew, I’d finally be privy to negativity about us, but that never happened. That was around the time of the rise of the religious right, and there were a lot of born-again Christians at Stanford, my freshman dorm was full of them. But while they may have believed I was going to hell, most of them still seemed happy to hang with me while we were alive – one of them even took me out for fro yo once (that’s short for “frozen yogurt,” and eating it together at Stanford in 1987 was called “dating”). If anything, being Jewish around them was an advantage, because they never tried to rebirth me the way they did other Christians, like my poor freshman roommate – I would come back to our room to find her surrounded by a group of them, looking uncomfortable, like she was getting hit on by Jesus. Mind you, I know now that my school was a liberal bubble inside the liberal bubble that was Northern California, and that protected me from a lot of things. But while we were definitely dealing with racism and sexism on campus at the time, anti-Semitism? That just wasn’t a thing.

Neither was being a Jewish person who didn’t support Israel. I didn’t know all that much about Israel growing up. I knew that it was the Jewish state, where I had once had some relatives, and that my cousins and eventually my brother — who finished Hebrew school — went to visit because they felt like it was an important way to learn about who they were. I didn’t. But when, in college, I had my first conversation with someone who’d lived in Israel about the way that Israelis felt this constant existential threat to their existence that justified their defensive posture when it came to negotiating peace with the Palestinians, even though they clearly had vast military superiority, I didn’t necessarily agree, but I got it. I understood why Israelis felt that, in a visceral, six-million-dead-just-because-they-were-like-you way that I think most non-Jews can’t. 

That was probably as much of a surprise to me as it was to anyone: that, on some level, in spite of not looking Jewish, or being able to speak Hebrew, or knowing what Sukkot was (if it wasn’t about eating or presents, it didn’t make it into the Nagler Canon of Holidays), I actually still somehow just was Jewish. And that part of my identity might never have really sunk in if I hadn’t become a New Yorker. Moving here didn’t just mean that I discovered Zabars, or that I was a bagel snob, or that I would be able to have lox at catering pretty much every day (and occasionally take some home if it was really good), although those things did indeed happen. New York was able to absorb and assimilate Jewish culture in a way that allowed it to flourish as one distinct flavor of the whole that is this city of many flavors. New York is a Jewish city – in same way that it’s also Italian, Irish, African-American, Puerto Rican, Chinese, Russian, Indian, Dominican, Pakistani, Caribbean, Mexican, and the list goes on depending on who’s arrived recently and who’s coming next. And so, from the way I relate to food, to my sense of humor, to my analytical and intellectual side, to how forthright/tactless I can be, to my overall worldview: living here enabled me to recognize that I just wouldn’t be this way if I weren’t Jewish.

Everything feels different in 2019 in so many, surreal ways, but what exactly it means to be Jewish in America is definitely a big one. I’ve felt some vulnerability and uncertainty as a woman for most of my life, as you do, but I’ve never felt that way about being a Jew until now. To the point that I can’t call myself “a Jew” any more, because suddenly, that’s an epithet. How the hell did that happen? When did we allow them to take that word away? Then there’s the realization of, Wait, we can’t make those jokes any more because there are people who actually still think that shit about us? And they’re telling other people? Fucking internet. Add to that the fault lines within the American Jewish community over Israel and the ground really starts to feel like it’s swaying under your feet. How much we should continue to support this country that seems increasingly unrecognizable to me, that is so racked by fear and sectarianism that it appears to have given up on peace and democracy, that votes for a leader who has demonstrated time and again that he is both racist and corrupt? Well, now that I’ve put it like that, okay, maybe this is something that Israel and the United States have in common right now, but that doesn’t make it any better for those of use who are trying to stay on the sane side of it all. I’m lucky that most of my family is in agreement with me on these issues, but my mother has some cousins with whom she is close that she had to ask to stop sending her political emails, because their conservative views about Israel seemed to have somehow spread to abortion and immigration, despite that fact that they live in San Francisco. Jewish Trump supporters? From the Bay Area? What the hell is the going on?! Come on, this can’t be us. When an audience at the Republican Jewish Coalition cheers when Trump says “Our country’s full. You can’t come in,” don’t they hear the eerie echos of what the American government said to the boats full of Jews they sent back to be slaughtered in the holocaust? Don’t they know that we are supposed to be sharp, and educated, and fucking liberals? Oh, wait, is “liberal” now a bad word not just among conservatives but for some on the left too, as in the “liberal elite who control everything” that they’re always talking about? But, double wait, wasn’t that just another way anti-Semites used to say “the Jews” without saying “the Jews”? But triple wait, aren’t Bernie Sanders and Glenn Greenwald Jewish? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

Of course, this about when all of your older Jewish relatives shake their heads at all of this and say, “See? This is exactly the shit always happens to us. Somehow, when things go bad in the world, and people start believing crazy conspiracy shit, that always turns back on the Jews.” I never believed that before, so to see it sort of happening right before my eyes is really something. But at the same time, I’m sure as hell not going to let that make me just silo up. Yeah, there are the swastikas, and the Tree of Life synagogue shooting, and “Jews will not replace us,” but can we honestly say we have it worse than everyone else who’s under attack in this country right now? What’s the point of joining a grievance competition that just gives the people who are trying to divide the left exactly what they want? It’s how, when the new questions that confuse and divide us just keep coming — What do we say or not say about Ilhan Omar? What about the schism in the Women’s March? What about the Senate bill that would allow state and local governments to withhold contracts from those who boycott Israel that Chuck Schumer supported? — they just get us to go after each other.

Let’s not do that. Sure, maybe this is just another case of me getting older and less able to accept how the world is changing — sort of a, “Damn Nazis, get off my lawn!” type of thing – and maybe I should just go along with this new normal. But that's one thing I know is definitely not me. MoTs like to talk shit out, sometimes too much, but eh. Let’s bring that tradition of analysis and argument — and I mean the kind where you’re forthright and emotional, but you still know how to listen — to bear on the questions we’re having both on the left and in the Jewish community about how we move forward, instead of fleeing back into our fears from the past.

[all-these-ghosts]

24.

[horror-movie-blog]

HMB: Red Christmas

Original Publishing Date: December 15th, 2017 

Well, Christmas is right around the corner, and I'm still committed to my pledge of watching only Christmas themed horror films this month, unfortunately there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of them. Luckily for me, there's a new movie on Netflix called "Red Christmas", so now the quota is less difficult to fill. So what is this so called "Red Christmas" about? Abortion. God. Fucking. Damn it! Look, I don't seek out these films, they find me! So yes, if you are keeping track, this makes it the second film I watched during a holiday themed month where an abortion themed horror film some how creeped into my line of vision. That's one film, too many, in my opinion. But whatever, like I said before, there isn't a whole lot of X-Mas horror films, so better make due with what you got. So what is "Red Christmas" about? At it's simplest form, it's about a family who's killed one by one by a cloaked man. If you want the longer, spoiler-alert premise, it's about an aborted fetus who grew up to become the cloaked man, who visited the family during Christmas because the mother of the family was the one who aborted him. Now, the fact that she tried to abort the man isn't why he went on the rampage and killed all her family. The reason he went all Rambo on them is because once the mother figured out who he was, she kicked him out of the house. That must have been the needle that broke the camel's back, pushing the cloaked man to commit the mass murder. Now, after hearing all that, you're probably in disbelief. But no, I'm not fiddling your violin, there is a movie, that exists, about an aborted fetus who seeks revenge against the woman who tried to kill him. And unfortunately, no, this is isn't a comedy. And really, that's the heart of the problem. If this movie just opened its eyes and saw how ridiculously goofy this premise is, we could have gotten a solid horror-comedy out of this. But nope, they play it straight. In this universe, the fetus comes out as a fully developed child and not as an unconscious peanut thing. But here's the thing, I'm not taking points off this film because they did something "unrealistic". It's weird shit like this that I wished more horror films would do. Does it reflect reality? No, but that's the point of horror. As long as the characters feel normal, the premise can be as ridiculous as it wants (unless it's trying to be serious). What I am taking points off is not realizing that the premise distracts the audience from the more serious moments. I will admit, the more emotional moments in the film did keep me invested... Until I remembered the villain is an aborted fetus monster. Then I laughed. But that's not the only ridiculous thing in the film, how the characters die is over the top. One person gets cut in half, right down the middle, by an ac. Another character has the back of his head torn open by a blender. One character crawls inside a overly large stuffed animal and gets hacked into pieces. This and the premise were too goofy to be unintentional. The writer and the director worked in Australian comedy, so either his sense of humor rubbed off on the movie or he wanted to make a comedy but the studio or the higher ups said no. Speaking of Australia, one glaring nit pick of the film are the accents. The mother has a crystal clear American accent, while all her biological children have Australian accents. They never explain why this is. At first I thought they were doing piss poor American accents, but then I remember there was a line in the film where one of the Australians refers to the mother's cooking as "American Proportions". So they are foreign, it's just that the film doesn't explain why the mother doesn't have an accent. Again, this is just a nit pick, but good Lord, this was biting the back of my brain throughout watching the film. My best guess is that the deceased father was Australian and the accent rubbed off on his children, but that doesn't make any sense, that's not how accents work. You know what? I'm over thinking this. Let's get back to the actual problems with the film. I also forgot to mention the right leaning stuff in the film. Yep, if you haven't guess already, the film about a fetus extracting revenge against the woman who aborted her was probably not made by progressive people. The "pure" characters are born again Christians, the "dirty" characters are pot smoking hippies. One hippie goes to art school, the other works in medicare. But here's the thing; I've seen bias writing before, and while this is definitely right leaning, I wouldn't call this bias. Let me put it to you this way, if this really was apart of a conservative agenda, the dirty hippie uncle would not have a shotgun, the villain would not be Christian, and the dirty hippie characters would be more villain-ized then they already were.  In fact, I would even call it "villain-ized", I think the conflict between the Christians and the hippie was just suppose to give the film some internal family conflict before the real bad guy arrived. And yet, nothing really gets resolved. The christian sister and the hippie sister don't reconnect, so that arch doesn't feel complete. And I haven't even mentioned the down syndrome aspect of the film. There's a down syndrome character (Jerry) in the film, and personally, I think he did a great job, he was by far the most likable character in the film. But, spoiler alert, it turns out the cloaked fetus monster also has down syndrome, and was one of the reasons why the mother wanted to abort him. Now, to the film's credit, it didn't villainize the mother. They gave the mother a very valid reason as to why she needed the abortion. But for some weird, plot driven reason, after Jerry found out the cloaked man was his aborted down syndrome younger brother (I can't believe I had to write that), the guy suddenly turned on his mother, as if trying to abort another down syndrome kid was a personally attack against his people. Which, yeah I would be pissed too, but not the the point of this character, in which he turns a 180. Did he forget that this guy murdered his sister and uncle? Who cares about his tragic backstory, he's an asshole. And I wouldn't mind if it lead something, plot wise, but it doesn't. It's just some weird character arch that lasted for about a minute before the final showdown. It really wasn't needed. And, I guess that's it. Boy, I had a lot to talk about with this film. So what's the final verdict. Honestly, it's hard to tell. I don't think this film had any sort of malicious, anti-abortion intent behind it, but at the same time, the subject is so controversial that I can't really recommend this film to strangers. Which I know it's unfair to say, a film should be judged by it's character, not it's packaging, but let's be honest, an un-ironic film about a fetus monster doesn't get the "don't judge a book by its cover" treatment. I wouldn't call it bad, but I wouldn't call it good either. I will say it's okay. I will say though, I had more fun talking about this film then actually watching it. If I can give it one thing, it's difficulty bizarre. 

[mst3kproject]

Short: A Case of Spring Fever

MST3K featured a number of movies, such as The Starfighters and last week's Squirm, that were simply not memorable.  They also did a number of movies and shorts that were deeply memorable, but for all the wrongest possible reasons.  Mr. B Natural was one of those, and A Case of Spring Fever is another.  Both were intended to be whimsical and each, in its own way, ended up being fucking terrifying instead.

The point of A Case of Spring Fever is to explain how springs work and how essential they are to daily life – particularly to automobiles.  Our hero, I guess, is Gilbert, a man whose wife wants him to fix the couch before he goes golfing.  When he complains that he never wants to see another spring again, a cartoon imp called Coily the Spring Sprite appears and grants his wish.  Gilbert quickly realizes that things like his watch and car won't work without springs, and begs Coily to restore them.  He then becomes a sort of spring evangelist, and spends the entirety of his golfing trip prostelytizing to his increasingly annoyed friends about how useful springs are until they never want to see another spring again!

The film is meant to be light-hearted and educational, and possibly to sell us cars, but it lends itself immediately to dark and horrible interpretations.  Mike and the Bots spend the short and the subsequent skit about Mikey the Mike Sprite wondering how the rules of this universe work.  Does every man-made object have a little pixie waiting to snatch it away from us?  Have such creatures existed from the dawn of time, anticipating that they will someday be discovered, or did Coily (I'm so sorry) spring into being with the invention of the first spring?  Was it only Gilbert who was suddenly spring-less, or did everybody else, too, find their watches stopped and their mattresses bounce-less with no explanation?  If it was everybody, was that everybody on Earth, or did it extend to aliens who could theoretically visit us and bring their springs with them?  Would it be possible to make another spring after Coily took them away, or would any new spring vanish as soon as it was finished?  What happened to the Law of Conservation of Mass as all spring-shaped matter just vanished from the universe?

People would think of questions like these no matter whether the short itself were successful in entertaining and educating us, but the fact that we dwell on them illustrates that it is in fact a failure.  Did anybody spend The Lord of the Rings wondering whether Saruman used to be gray and had to be killed by a Balrog before coming back as Saruman the White? Well, actually, yeah, I'm sure somebody did (it may have been me), but those people's friends probably (definitely) told them to shut up and watch the damn movie.  The film itself was more interesting and entertaining than such questions.  In A Case of Spring Fever, the questions distract us because the short can't hold our attention.

(I do know how the Maiar work, by the way. Please don't feel like you have to explain it to me.)

But that doesn't tell us why A Case of Spring Fever is so memorably distressing.  I've seen weirder stuff on TV than Coily the Spring Sprite and it didn't stick in my mind like this short does – and some of that was supposed to be messed-up.  What is going on here?

The most obvious thing is Coily himself. You don't forget Coily.  He appears as a little cartoon helix with curly lines for arms and legs and a head that looks like it belongs to a bad-tempered Christmas elf.  When he speaks, it's in a squeaky, grating old man voice.  Every time Gilbert realizes some springless device won't work, Coily appears and shrieks “no spriiiings!” in a mocking tone before vanishing again, until our hapless protagonist is forced to take back his wish or go insane.

Coily is neither well-animated nor appealing in appearance.  His gestures are repetitive and he never really looks like he's part of the environment – perhaps he's not supposed to, since he does represent an outside, supernatural force, but it's more likely that the animation was just cheap and primitive.  At least some effort was made to make sure the actor playing Gilbert looks in the right direction.  I think Coily was meant to be cute, but his long nose, pointed ears, buck teeth, and spiteful expression are almost demonic, and his attitude definitely so.  There's something downright nightmarish about the way he pops up to mock as Gilbert grows ever more frustrated.  He is literally torturing his victim into compliance.

As Crow observes when he asks how this all fits into 'God's plan for us', Coily is also a very pagan little bugger.  In ancient Greece and Rome, people believed that both natural and man-made objects had their own guardian gods or spirits.  Iuturna, for example, was the Roman goddess of fountains, and Ianus the god of doors and gates (Wikipedia lists Fons as the god of springs, but they mean the water type).  One of the ways early Christianity tried to discourage worship of these gods was by portraying them as demons.  Coily, a spirit with a restricted area of responsibility, who must be appeased with devotion or else will lash out and punish people, is just such an entity.

Scholars in the Middle Ages wrote books about the complex hierarchy among the legions of hell.  I wonder where Coily fits into those.

Even more disturbing is how the encounter with Coily changes Gilbert.  We don't get to know Gilbert very well, but the brief glimpse we have of him is of somebody impatient and a bit lazy, eager for an excuse to avoid his chores and go play golf.  When he takes back his wish for no more springs, the film cuts abruptly from Gilbert in the car to Gilbert under the sofa again, which could be interpreted to mean that the last few minutes were only a dream... but then we find Gilbert utterly transformed.  Rather than relaxing and enjoying the golf game, he spends the entire afternoon telling his friends about springs, giving even more examples of their ubiquity and usefulness than we already got from Coily.  He doesn't act like somebody who just woke from a nightmare.  Instead, the nightmare seems to intensify as Gilbert loses his own personality and identity, leaving only an obsession with springs! It seems that Coily has brainwashed Gilbert, or perhaps even possesses his body.  That would explain why he suddenly knows so much about how springs work and the many other areas of life they are important to.  He has become a puppet under Coily's control, spreading the cult of springs for some dark purpose.

I'm kidding.  I think.

Another source of unintentional horror is how A Case of Spring Fever reminds us that our society takes a lot of important things for granted. The lives of first-world urbanites revolve around a number of services that could theoretically be pulled out from under us at any moment. Running water is a good example – when I was younger, the water main on the street where I lived broke, and my family had to get our water from a tank truck at the end of the street for a few days while they fixed it.  During that time basic things like cooking, washing, and even using the toilet were of course far more inconvenient and time-consuming than we were used to and you can bet it made us appreciate how much we take water for granted... until about an hour and a half after it came back on.  Electricity is probably an even better illustration: we don't realize just how much our lives depend on it until the power goes out and we're left not knowing what to do with ourselves until it comes back on.

It's not possible for every single spring on the planet to suddenly evaporate, but things like electricity and water can.  A large solar flare could theoretically kill the power grid over huge areas and the damage might take weeks or months to repair (as those who survived Hurricane Sandy can attest).  There are places even in North America where infrastructure problems have left people without clean water for years – Flint, Michigan is only the most famous example.  Not to mention those of us who are dependent on medications or some other survival aid that makes contemplating the zombie apocalypse way less fun.  The world humans have built for ourselves is fragile, and we don't like being reminded of that.

A Case of Spring Fever is something the Brains had kicking around for quite a long time before they found an opportunity to use it – they referenced it in both Viking Women and the Sea Serpent and Bride of the Monster.  These skits couldn't have made much sense to the viewers who hadn't yet seen the short, but the host sketches often didn't make much sense anyway – it must have been a relevation when A Case of Spring Fever finally aired.  I suspect they put it in front of Squirm because they knew they were being cancelled and this was their last chance to get it on the show.  I'm glad they did.

I can think of a few other shorts that manage to be fucked-up and fascinating enough that I'll probably end up reviewing them.  Days of Our Years (appearing before The Amazing Transparent Man) comes to mind, as does Design for Dreaming (from Twelve to the Moon).  I may even try to track down the entire runs of things like Radar Men from the Moon and Undersea Kingdom, though I'll probably be sorry I did.  Wish me luck.

[ecotone99]

[SF] The Winners

How many people miss these letters, anyhow? It's 2095 for fuck's sake. I can't believe we haven't solved the spam problem yet. Our inability to deal with Viagra emails is probably the sole reason the reapers exist at all. You miss the notification for your murder appointment and you only find out when the sky darkens overhead as your skin begins to boil. Anyone next to you is suddenly covered with what used to be inside of you, and all because we lost the spam war. Even worse, your beneficiary doesn't get paid if the reapers have to dispatch you. It's fucked up.

I didn't miss my notification. There was a time when missing a message wasn't the end of the world. Maybe a deal didn't get signed, or you missed a party. That was before the Rejuvenation Office came into being. Now you explode into a pile of goo if you miss a message.

The elections of 2058 will go down in history as the first election won by sheer fire-power. The People's Liberal Party ran on a platform of pure science. Gene splicing, human cloning, laboratory conception, it was all on the table. After two generations of the gods, guns, and bibles of the deeply conservative Nationalist Party, citizens were hungry to reclaim their humanity. Not surprisingly, the Nationals had all the guns and the god-given authority to “save” us and they used every goddamn bullet they could find. Martial law was imposed and nobody was allowed outside for months leading up the election. I still remember the endless gnawing in my gut for lack of food.

It was going to be a landslide victory for the Nats until, two days before the polls opened, the sky darkened and we saw a reaper for the first time. Millions of people just simply disappeared that day. Not quietly – oh god no, not quietly at all. The guns stopped long before the screaming or the scraping of wings against my shuttered windows. I still wake up in the middle of the night hearing the inhuman cry of a reaper swooping out of the sky gleefully chasing its prey.

When it was over and we dared venture outside to vote, it seemed like there were only Libs left. The election results were called within 90 minutes of the polls closing – the Nats had been completely decimated with less than 5% of the vote. We wanted the Libs to win, but now we exchanged haunted looks as we passed in the street, deeply afraid of what we had put in charge. The Libs never spoke about what happened. Cleaning crews just appeared in the morning, sprayed all the goop into the sewer, and that was the end of it.

The first few months of Liberal rule were peaceful and full of change. The Libs immediately struck down decades-old legislation that we were hungry for. Within days of repealing the Religious Obligation Act of 2030 neighbourhoods underwent dramatic changes. Churches that were once required on every block became abandoned shells over night. Women were seen in the streets for the first time in most people's memories, and there was an observable up-tick in people “forgetting” their government mandated personal weapons at home. In addition to repealing Nat laws, the new government was introducing new legislation and standing up new administrations with hurricane speed. It was a hopeful time, full of potential.

But we still kept one eye on the skies.

One of our most pressing problems was overpopulation. Generations of citizens were unable to access contraception due to strict conservative rule which led to a lot of breeding. Humans do what they do, and the Nats took god's command of “go forth and multiply” literally and outlawed contraception decades ago. On reaper night, we learned that the Libs had a very effective solution to overpopulation, but even they knew it would be unwise to make that part of the landscape. Instead, the Rejuvenation Office was created to administer a newly created program named simply “The Draw”.

This isn't the type of draw a sane person wants to win. There isn't a street in town without a refuge on it. Rich, rich, motherfucking rich-ass beneficiaries – fairies – lounging around the place, living out their days on the last breath of whoever died to bequeath them this eternity of uselessness. Most of them didn't even look human any more. The boredom of having more money than anyone has ever spent before led to most disgusting of contests. Contests that usually ended without a clear winner after decades of increasingly bizarre body modifications. Some fairies used their riches for good, most did not.

Libs told us that the draw made sense as an overpopulation solution. Ten die so one can live. Perfect. Perfect opportunity for human greed to get a toehold.

Not everyone is entered into the draw. The whole point of it is to save precious resources, and centenarians don't have a lot of resource-hogging years left; it's the kids that give the biggest bang for the buck. When a 10-year old dies, 120 plus years of resources are suddenly freed up. But the Libs couldn't just kill all the kids. We'd just end up with the opposite problem exponentially compounded by entire generations of angry vilomahs filling the streets. Vilomah. There's a word nobody knew before the Libs took office.

To keep things palatable, the draw was “random”.

Random people received letters to report in for draw. Getting lettered was a bitter-sweet moment. Sure, nobody wanted to die, especially people young enough to matter most. But the opportunity to choose someone to receive the mass riches the Libs dole out to your beneficiary? Well, that was enough money to be a very strong lure. Everyone wants to be a hero. But, of course, not everyone wants to die for money so some run, some hide, and some hire the scum of the world – the draw brokers. The reapers take care of the runners and the hiders, but don't worry too much about the others. As long as one body for each winner shows up at the Rejuvenation Centre, the reapers slept.

Draw Broking is simple. You “win” the draw. You don't want to die. You make a deal with a broker and name them your beneficiary. Someone else shows up at Rejuvie looking enough like you to pass, even through the recent medi-scape scars, and the broker collects. The nicer brokers give you a decent cut. Most don't.

Ten die so one may live.

The reapers are fast; flitting by noiselessly like huge ungainly bats in their winged armoured suits. Suits that look like they should be shiny and catch the sun, but instead just exude a terrifying feeling of black. Ironically, their initial arrival was ponderously slow. Large orbs, miles across, slowly slid into the sky. Their lengthening shadows telegraphed the arrival and gave us lots of time to flee before they disgorged their swarms of reapers. A few months of fruitless hunting trips schooled the Libs in tactics and now the orbs are there all the time, casting permanent shadows across continents and souls.

After the initial election night cull the reapers didn't swarm as much. Most folks went along with their draw letters, reporting for death like good cattle and only the most unfortunate ever found themselves close enough to a reaper to see its eyes and live.

Those most familiar with the reapers can't tell what they know. All they know is that there's always three. A commander of some sort, and two...others. The Others do the brutish work. Flying in a jerky, marionette-like fashion, unpredictable and brutally fast. Those that can still speak after an encounter with an Other tell of spooked, human-like eyes barely visible through the shaded helm. Eyes haunted with madness and confusion. Then, quick flashes of cognition before spinning on their wings and dashing back to their commander's flank to await new orders.

Early resistance groups managed to capture a few triads in the first couple of months. Net missiles proved to the the most successful, expanding in the air to mushroom over a reaper triad and bring them all crashing down. The reapers would all die when they hit the deck and leave behind empty smoking exoskeletons. Whatever the reapers were, they lived their lives inside their black chitinous shells until they simply ceased to be at the whim of some inaudible command. Aside from being able to fly gracefully, the only visible difference between the commanders and the Others was the razor sharp dorsal fin rising from the commanders' backs between their wings. Nobody knows the purpose of that little addition but the best guess is that it gives them the added stability to fly right.

It didn't take long for the resistance to find out that attacking a triad would result in the mother orb darkening what light was left in the sky. The closest orb would react by belching out a seemingly endless stream of reinforcement reapers. Entire city blocks of people would be murdered, rendering the area inhabitable for months until the goo dried up or was cleaned away.

The hunting parties stopped.

That was a while ago. These days things are pretty calm. Hunting runners and hiders is pretty grisly work. The big secret is that 10 don't always die. 7, 8, sometimes 9, but the medi-stim work and psycho-rehab necessary to make a triad kills a lot of candidates before they even get near the armourer. There's a never-ending need for capable bodies and killing all ten every time would deplete the reaper ranks too much. Most of them barely make it as-is and end up on the job with almost no control of their armour, careening insanely through the sky trying to zero in on a runner.

I spend a lot of time screaming instructions through our commlink to keep them afloat. Mostly, I just try to call them back to me to regroup before they flame out into the deck or crash into a building. But, I can only do so much. This ridiculous fucking fin on my back getting hooked up on electrical wires and street lights just makes the whole job harder. But it's better than being one of 7, 8, or sometimes 9.

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[tinymixtapes]

Interview: Diamanda Galás

Diamanda Galás is a dark angel — “the singing serpent,” the saint of the pit. Her most notorious performance, Plague Mass, saw her ululating in a church, half-naked and covered in blood. She’s worked with luminaries from Iannis Xenakis and John Zorn through to Derek Jarman and John Paul Jones, but she describes herself as a loner who doesn’t like to collaborate. Her work, the latest of which being last year’s two-album release of All The Way and At Saint Thomas the Apostle Harlem, has dealt with mental illness, the HIV/AIDS crisis, genocide, trauma, and environmental disaster, and she’s contributed vocals to numerous horror films. But there’s nothing daunting or intimidating about the warmhearted, foulmouthed raconteuse I speak to down a crackly Skype line, chatting with me ahead of the US premiere (March 28-30, New York) of her experimental film collaboration Schrei 27, made with director Davide Pepe. It’s 7 AM on a Sunday morning, my time — a sacrifice I’m more than prepared to make for the opportunity to talk to a living legend. Diamanda is in her bedroom, in her robe (“is this getting too personal?”) preparing for a gig in Tennessee. When I tell her I’m calling from Sydney, Australia, she rails against conservative critic Andrew Bolt, who panned her work after an Australian show in 2005. It’s clear that she has a unique thought process and sensitivity in relation to sound — she takes a moment to note that our Skype issues are “very entertaining, hearing one’s voice come back, like a little mouth.” Her erudition is extraordinary; she casually makes reference to artists obscure and popular, in high and low culture, from the medieval through to the present day. And let’s be clear, she doesn’t care for your approval or anyone’s: “They said that I used to do all this soul music and I was really popular, but now I do this really esoteric work, I’ve lost my popularity — and I’m like, if it’s that easy to lose, baby, bring it on!” On that note�� --- Tell me about the origins of your new work, Schrei 27? Schrei — it means ‘shriek.’ There was a German theatre [in the early 20th century] called the Schrei theatre that was very minimalistic — there would be one or two words, silence and then movement. We know about it from writings and manifestos — Kasimir Edschmid and others. It was destroyed by Hitler. In 1994/1995 New American Radio at Staten Island asked me to do a piece about Bedlam. Staten Island is where Willowbrook was located. It was an asylum, made notorious by Geraldo Rivera, which was closed down when they found out the patients were being given injections of Hepatitis C just to see how it would progress. I had a friend who worked there, and he saw a woman there who someone had stuck a knife into — having sex with her with a knife. He was told to shut his fuckin’ mouth or else. A horrible place. So I was very moved to do this piece. It related to many of my other works, and I did a lot of research. For many years I had incorporated absolute silence in my solo-vocal works. The idea [for Schrei] was that the sound would be very loud alternating with complete silence, but suddenly I was told that on radio there could be no silence at all. And of course, we know this with radio, because you have the radio show and then you have, “Here’s Frito — Lay!” In the 50s people like Milton Berle had the rights to actually act out the [advertising] part and make fun of it. But that was a different time, and I got into trouble for wanting to use silences. I had to give up and say, “Okay — but [the piece] won’t be very long!” Then in 1996 I decided to do it as a live performance work, and it became Schrei X, now including text by Saint Thomas Aquinas on punishment, as well as my original writing. It was in quadrophonic sound — I was in a cage of microphones, and so were the audience. The piece was brief but it was very intense. When I performed it in Prague, people were screaming at me, “Shut up you fucking bitch!” Bikers had come thinking I was going to do a show with John Paul Jones [who Galás released an album with in 1994]. But these sci — fi guys who were making a film about radioactive worms were really into the piece. I’ve never been consistent with my work, that’s not interesting. I don’t see why it’s my job to do that. Everyone complained about it, but in the meantime I was watching these radioactive worm films. Image from Schrei 27 Speaking of science, I understand you have a background in biology? I did a pre-med program and biochemistry. The unfortunate thing is that some of the med students, myself included, decided that instead of experimenting on the mice and rats, we would experiment on ourselves. That was a terrible mistake, because that got me into this whole drug culture, people who were reading B. F. Skinner and De Sade at the same time. When you start experimenting on yourself you forget that, if you’re not careful, it’ll be a lifelong process. I’ve always regretted the fact that I didn’t stay there. But on the other hand if I’d stayed I wouldn’t be doing the [artistic] work that I later did, which is just as experimental. I’m happiest when I’m doing a lot of research. …we were talking about the Schrei timeline… So in 2004 Xabier Arakistain invited me to do the work as an installation, in blackness, in quadrophonic sound. People entered the space and Xabier locked the door behind them so they couldn’t leave even if they didn’t like the piece. It was really radical. Xabier was a prominent drag queen. I love the word “drag queen,” because it dates me — in those days that was the word that was used, not transvestite — it meant down home, hardcore, Southern fuckin’ hellraising drag queens — who were some of my friends! They were really hardcore run-for-your-life drag queens, that got chased by truckers in the South. They had to take their platform shoes off, jump into the lake, and swim to the other side. They risked their lives opening the first drag queen bars in the South. So that’s what I mean by “drag queen” — like my friend Bradley Picklesimer. He was photographed with me after one show and I said, “you bitch, you fuckin’ had more stage presence than me, I’ll never forgive you for that!” [laughs] He’s amazing. Anyway, in 2009 I saw the work of Davide Pepe in a work called Little Boy, and I was moved by the fact that the work included the sound of the camera in such a way that it was almost like a surgical procedure of the body itself, of mind. It was really part of this film, there was no attempt made to disguise it, and I loved that. So I asked him to do a loop — he prefers to call it a loop rather than a film. So we will be doing this in New York. I also asked Dave Hunt to do some remixing of the work to include lower frequencies. And in addition we added photography by Robert Knoke, and paintings of mine were included that were related to the film. The images act like a slot machine, the way they have fruits that wind around, and it ends with a pineapple. The work was performed at the Spill Festival at the Barbican in London in 2011, and loops have been shown throughout Europe, and a work — in — progress shown at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago in 2012. But this is the premiere of the final work in the US. Some dance companies have used it without asking me — a lot of people have used it without asking me. But there was one dancer who did ask me — Irina Anufrieva, who is a phenomenal Belarussian dancer. She includes part of it in her work Void, and her performance embodies exactly the protagonist of this work. Yoko Ono lied and said, “Without Yoko Ono there’d be no Diamanda Galás.” I thought, “Bitch, you don’t know anything about how press really works — now listen to this one!” There are some clips available on Davide’s website, but they’re very short… The reason is that, true to form, it was performed in Milan recently, and right in front of us was a guy with a cellphone recording the fuckin’ film. I pointed this out to Davide, and he put his finger on the guy’s shoulder like, eh — and the guy turned it off. But it was like, for fuck’s sake! People are monstrous, just monstrous. [Davide] and I really want it to be seen properly, and we don’t want it to be seen as a YouTube thing. You mentioned drag — which at the moment is getting really big in popular culture with shows like RuPaul’s Drag Race. Your own performance work and your makeup can be very over the top, and I guess you’ve spent a lot of time with the gay male community… Of course! My brother was gay, and there was a real understanding that if you couldn’t follow up a conversation in a bar or on the street, you were just out. It was like literary improvisation. But also, I lived with a lot of drag queens in Oakland that worked on the street and that were very, very tough, and I learned a lot from them. I’ve lived in a lot of different situations and I’ve learned a lot from these situations. My makeup’s been done by a lot of drag queens (laughs) — who’ve done makeup for opera singers — sometimes my makeup is kinda out there, and sometimes less so. The popularity [of drag] is something I don’t really know much about. I didn’t know the drag queen thing was getting more popular, because I don’t really hang out with mainstream culture. So chances are, I wouldn’t like it. There is something wonderful about [the] underground mind, but when things get popular they tend to get watered down, and people start to make fun of each other to satisfy the ‘normal people’ — whatever you consider ‘normal people.’ The protagonists start making fun of each other’s ways to satisfy the curiosity and the freakshow element that is wanted by the watchers. But I also don’t like being in any place where there are too many happy people (laughs). That’s my fault, that’s a shortcoming. In your work, there’s a balance between personal psychic torment, and then reflections on trauma and atrocity that have happened in the external world. Are there events going on in contemporary society that Schrei 27 is reflective of? There’s so many that I really wouldn’t be able to get started! It’s so historically fraught. Whether we’re talking about prisoners that end up having to be part of fungus experiments in order to do less time, or in order to get money for card games, being participants in these horrific, deadly experiments that of course they’re told are not deadly — that alone is pretty unbelievable. And I can go traveling and meet up with a military guy whose company is finally getting sent home after years of war. I knew there was something way out about him when I saw him — he starts talking to me about new laser technology and torture, how you can remove a finger just like that and the [victim] suddenly sees he has a hand without a thumb. It’s excruciating — and this is to get confessions. The fact that the technology is getting to the point that our ‘government’ taxes are used to pay for gross malignancies is very, very devastating. People like me, artists, are now attacked for being artists. On the level of taxes, we can’t claim anything anymore, we can’t claim anything that builds our work, so we can’t survive. I said, “Fine! If I can’t claim this, I’m gonna say that it was twenty trips to the gynecologist” (laughs). I’m just gonna be a big fuckin’ liar, catch me if you can! If you’re a big businessman you do get paid, but if you’re in the military you don’t get paid, if you’re a small businessman you absolutely don’t get paid, if you’re an artist, forget about it. It’s scary, I see it happening to people I know and I see it happening to myself. There’s gross demoralization and fear about survival. How am I going to survive? I don’t know, I have no idea. Am I going to have to move to another country? They were really hardcore run-for-your-life drag queens, that got chased by truckers in the South. They had to take their platform shoes off, jump into the lake, and swim to the other side. They risked their lives opening the first drag queen bars in the South. I’ve had other artists say similar things in interviews — Lydia Lunch, for example… I saw her a few years ago in Spain and I like her very much, we have great conversations whenever I see her. It’d be amazing to be a fly on the wall! We very rarely meet, because I never collaborate with anyone. It’s terrible, I hope to change that, it’s a psychological thing, I don’t know why. It’s a hermit thing, a loner vibe. But Lydia, every time I’ve met her I’ve been struck by how smart she is, and how absolutely funny, really funny, in the best sense. You mentioned that you don’t like to spend a lot of time around happy people, and maybe that’s a fault… I don’t. The people I’ve spent time with were also people that were kinda loners, and in the old days we would sit around at cafés and make really terrible jokes, and have these absolutely decrepit dialogues. I loved it, and I was really happy. They’re all dead now, from AIDS. So there it is. I had such a good time. My friend Carl Valentino — I called him my gay husband — he and I used to have the most wonderful times. We’d go into restaurants and he would start singing. If music was playing, like a pop hit from another era, he would start singing really loudly and they’d want to kick him out, and he’d say, “Why do you want to kick me out? I’m just part of your pop…” He would outrage everyone. He made me so happy. Things have changed since then. I’m not saying that people are more humorless… or maybe they are! It’s called wittiness. You can meet somebody like Gary Indiana — there’s someone who’s really witty — but how many of them are there? How many people are like that? This is something I miss much, and hopefully I’ll find it again. In your artist statement for Schrei 27 you say something which struck me — “there is no separation of the mind from the body.” It’s a deep and a loaded statement — can you elaborate? One of the things I find absolutely imbecilic and hard to figure out is the question that the press are asking — why is there an opioid epidemic? And I’m thinking, why wouldn’t there be? What’s your point? You’ve got somebody doing an impossible job all day long, not getting paid properly, so tired at the end of the day that he or she can’t do anything except go to sleep — except maybe three hours in which he or she has the blessing of an opioid so that he or she can go somewhere else other than into the inescapable reality and take a fucking holiday. And then you’re saying that that’s abnormal? What’s abnormal about it? What’s wrong with it? Why aren’t all these drugs legal? They should be. There’s people like me — I don’t like marijuana, it makes me paranoid and it freaks me out. It’s not entertaining for me — it’s like a truth serum of a thousand spiders crawling over me. I get enough truth serum in my day, so I don’t want to add to the problems with something [like LSD] that’s literally gonna make me jump off the bridge, or ketamine that’s gonna make me fuckin’ cut my arm off. Now pot’s legal and I think it’s wonderful, but there’s a lot of people that don’t like it — we all have a drug that appeals to us the most. So people like me would say, “No man, give me heroin, that’s a cool drug and what’s wrong with it?” And then suddenly there’s an opioid epidemic — but since when hasn’t there been a fuckin’ opioid epidemic? There’s all these industrial accidents, people working too hard in really dangerous circumstances and being badly insured, and all sorts of things happen to them. And at the same time, cellphones and computers and landlines, there’s all these ways that people can contact you to make you do something by tomorrow. And the mind is overstrained, it’s overstressed, and insanity is the result. So then, give a man something that gives him relaxation and an escape from an industrial reality [that is] his life — and then blame him for it! I don’t go for that, so I don’t understand the press making it into such a big deal. The only thing that’s a big deal about it is that the medicine’s so hard to get, and everyone who takes it is considered a criminal or a loser. And that it has side effects that are pretty difficult, like stomach problems. It’s a pity that all the money that’s been spent on developing Viagra isn’t spent on things that can help people with their stomach [problems] from taking opioids. They certainly don’t spend the money on preventing breast cancer, but they do on Viagra. So I think that unfortunately, opioids are the remedy for industrial society, and they always have been. And these drugs have always been prescribed to firefighters and soldiers. Then, when the soldiers come back, they can’t stay in places unless they’re clean and sober — so where do they live? In their best friend’s garage. But that’s 25,000 returning military guys? They have no money and no place to stay, and they’re supposed to be clean and sober. That’s a big ticket, man. When I performed it in Prague, people were screaming at me, “Shut up you fucking bitch!” Bikers had come thinking I was going to do a show with John Paul Jones. So this also goes to questions of transcendence, and the human condition. Your work often engages with religion and religious ideas — do you have any kind of spiritual practices or beliefs yourself, or are you a materialist? A materialist? No, that’s Madonna (laughs). If I got a lot of money — and there were a couple of years when I got a lot of money — I would definitely wake up and buy a lot of things, as a fix. But that ended quickly, and it doesn’t work anyway because as soon as you order the shit, it’s over. I wish I were religious — I truly wish I were religious. I’m an atheist, and my whole family have been atheists. The only time I’d ever [engage with] Greek Orthodoxy would be to fight what is happening to the Greek people. They are being disenfranchised. They’re so poor that they don’t have a place to live, or to sleep, and nobody seems to care — especially the Greek leadership. I was there last year doing a performance, and the first thing I did was go to a homeless shelter and buy a dryer for some of the old people. That’s all they wanted — they didn’t want any money, they just wanted a washer-dryer. I wrote an essay in the Athens Voice [newspaper] saying, if you’re gonna go to Greece, the first thing you should do is go to a homeless shelter and give money to the culture that has propagated some of the greatest works in the history of art, that has influenced everyone. Do that before enjoying the art culture, please! I didn’t think that I should be paid for doing a performance unless I could do that. Speaking of contemporary conditions, we’re in a time when women are really speaking out about the trauma that men have inflicted on them. You draw on traditions that speak of pain and suffering, like blues, and the amanes… The amanes are male and female, they’re not women’s songs — and blues are also. Amanes is a cry or a call to the mother by the soldier who’s dying on the battlefield. There’s a song called Prósfygas , which means ‘refugee,’ in which a man is asking: can the little boy sing me an amanes while I’m dying? Here a person has been put on a death march through the desert, separated from his wife and his daughter and put on a death march with the other men, and knowing he’s going to die he wants to hear an amanes sung. The amanes is a series of melodies from which improvisations are derived that [relate to] rebetika songs. It was really composed by the Assyrians, Greeks, Gypsies, Arabs, Armenians, Yazidis — all these people who used to live in Turkey, but were exterminated by the Turks. Turkey now has all these institutions with names like the Institute for the Study of Turkishness, and they teach the amanes as Turkish music. It’s criminal, it’s so sad, because the Greeks don’t have the money to do that, and they certainly don’t have the money to teach. In terms of songs of women’s pain, though, does the #metoo moment have resonance for you? I get a lot of those moments. But because I wasn’t able to kill the motherfuckers that perpetrated their shit on me, I felt a sense of disgrace that they were still living. But you know, I come from a different time. That’s why I praise Aileen Wuornos so much, because she killed these fuckin’ guys. I was thrilled. She’s my hero, that’s the kind of woman I would put on my plate as far as #metoo. But [today] is a different time period, so I encourage all these women to put these guys on the plate. Some of the guys I had experiences with, I don’t even know their names now, and I don’t know where to find them. My idea was, I had this list — but then it became financially impossible for me to do it, and it became very clear that if I did what I wanted to do, it would be me that was gonna be in the joint for years, not them. And who was gonna defend me? Maybe today it would be different, but I doubt it. But my standards were a little bit different — mine were like, you fuck me and you die. That’s how I judged myself, and I judged myself very harshly because I didn’t kill any of these guys. So #metoo is great. But one thing I didn’t like, I have to admit it: I didn’t appreciate these men, these models, that got up and said, “Me too, these photographers molested me.” I’m like, bitch, give me a fuckin’ break, this is a women’s moment right now. Would you just leave it be, would you just let the women do this? Because after all, we’re talking about a male-dominated culture that did this to women, so just lay back a minute and you’ll get your turn, but don’t just jump on the fuckin’ bandwagon when it’s taken women so many years to even give voice to these horrors. The photographer trying to fuck the model is the oldest Hollywood story in the book. At the moment we’re not talking about [male] modeling, we’re talking about a secretary who goes to work, who’s asked to dictate something for her boss, and is raped. Modeling is a rape industry — for example, models today are often sent to Saudi Arabia to fuck some sheikh and it’s part of their job. Male models are next. But can we have women models talk first? There were a lot of drag queens in my life when I was on the street. They had knives in their teeth, they’d be like, “You motherfucker, come over here and I’ll cut your nuts off.” It was a man against a man, equal physical strength. That’s a different situation, and it should be classified as a different situation. It’s like, don’t step on my fuckin’ turf already, just take your turn. A lot of people will disagree with me, but I don’t give a fuck. Disagree! Then what? You’re very much an artist of transgression, but in this day and age it can feel like transgression has been co-opted in the service of consumerism — for example, mainstream artists like Rihanna using S&M imagery in video clips. She would! (sarcastic) She and Beyoncé would. Beyoncé will do anything to make another dime. Madonna started it with that, with her crapola, but at least Madonna, at the beginning of her career, was definitely pushing the envelope for the homosexual community. I don’t use the word ‘gay,’ because the word ‘gay’ used to mean a little curio of a girl on a swing (laughs). I know a lot of homosexuals and I don’t think of any of them as a curio on a swing (except for a few!). But my brother always used the word ‘queer,’ and ‘faggot.’ My friends all use the word ‘fag’ — they prefer that. So I have trouble with the word ‘gay.’ I had a press agent, the most dour Catholic you could ever possibly meet, and she and her girlfriend always used the word ‘gay.’ I said “You know what, can you two bitches cut it out? You are the most humourless, the most unwitty, the most un — gay person I’ve ever fuckin’ met … what you do bumpin’ pussies is none of my fuckin’ business, but let me tell you what, you ain’t gay — so shut up!” Man, that was the end of the relationship. I’m around all these really clever fags and I have to listen to two bitches talk about how they’re gay. I didn’t have the stomach for it. So Madonna — at least she was pro-queer, to the point that she lost some gigs because of it. She trashed a lot of straight men because she felt like they were banal — and they were banal! So at least she started out that way. But you got all these other artists like Beyoncé and Rihanna — I feel like Tallulah Bankhead when I’m talking about these broads: “Oh god, isn’t that marvellous! Whatever next?” Whatever suits them, they’ll become — I don’t know, they’d say they were transsexuals — because of the audience. But I don’t know anything about it, because those of us with vision don’t work that way. And those of us without [vision] work on a kind of a chart, a culture chart, which says: This is what’s hip now, this is what’s gonna be hip tomorrow, so let’s anticipate what’s gonna be hip tomorrow and sell some more records. So that’s what I see their shit as. And the idea of Beyoncé saying she’s a feminist makes me laugh so hard. You should see how many women go around saying, “Oh no, Diamanda, Beyoncé’s a real feminist!” I said, “Really? and she’s hanging out with BJ, RJ, or whatever his name is [Jay-Z] — she hangs out with him, and she’s a feminist? Take that wherever you want, just don’t talk to me!” I mean please, that’s sad. If that’s who the feminists are following, we’re in trouble! I had a friend who worked there, and he saw a woman there who someone had stuck a knife into — having sex with her with a knife. He was told to shut his fuckin’ mouth or else. There are artists coming to prominence in the past few years who are clearly influenced by your work — Anna von Hausswolff, Chelsea Wolfe, Zola Jesus. Do you follow contemporary music, and are there contemporary artists you’re inspired by? I think that what they’re all doing is admirable. They are really doing some strong work, and, not incidentally, I think they’re very unusual in the field of women, that they would praise other women. Because women for years have not done that, and the reason they haven’t done it is because they were dreadfully afraid that they would be seen as having been influenced by that person. Whereas so many of the girls who say that they’re influenced by me don’t seem to be worried about that, they seem to take pride in that, and I think that represents something new in ‘feminism in the music business.’ I admire them for saying that. It’s beautiful. Anna von Hausswolff is doing a lot of really interesting things and so is Zola Jesus, and so are so many women. And they haven’t been influenced by Yoko Ono! [laughs] There was a generation of women who felt that it was really important for them to say that they influenced everyone, that it was not possible for anyone to have existed without them. Yoko Ono lied and said, “Without Yoko Ono there’d be no Diamanda Galás.” I thought, “Bitch, you don’t know anything about how press really works — now listen to this one!” I talked to a guy who was writing a book about Patty Waters and I said, “I’m so happy you’re doing it, because that woman deserves all the renown in the fuckin’ world.” I only listened to one song of hers, and by listening to that one song I realized that all things are possible. I felt that with Annette Peacock also. But I wasn’t influenced by them, I was inspired by them. I didn’t study every work they did, because I was listening to instrumentalists like Ornette Coleman, Albert Ayler, and so many musicians like that. I was developing this big range, and I was listening to opera singers. It was a totally different world they were in than I was in. So I decided to teach Yoko a lesson and I said [to the press], I want you to use the following quote: “Without Patty Waters there would be no Diamanda Galás OR Yoko Ono.” (laughs) Now, shit, Yoko, the quote is all over the place! It’s not true about me, but it doesn’t matter, because it was more important for me to teach Yoko a lesson. Bitch, I know how it’s done. You had a long break from releasing studio recordings, which I understand you spent with your parents. Then in 2017 you released a studio and a live album, and now we have Schrei 27. Is this a reflowering for you, and is there more in the works? What happened is, I was not doing well with Mute Records at all, since 2008 and before. That’s because they sold to EMI — they sold me, Nick Cave, Nitzer Ebb. And they didn’t even tell me that they sold me. I started getting royalty statements that I owed EMI all this money, and I wasn’t getting paid, and it was shocking. So what I did instead was, I did a lot of gigs in Europe. We were recording all the gigs, and I have so many recorded concerts that I haven’t put out — because in 2012 I found out that Mute had sold my back catalogue of 12 records, lots of videos and everything, to EMI, who sold it to Universal, who sold it to EMP, and I could no longer get a hold of it. Since 2012 my life has been total hell trying to get the stuff back. But in the meantime, after my father died I went to live with my mother, who was dying at the time. She’s alive now, but at the time she was dying. I’m a Greek, so there’s no choice, there’s no question — I lived with her. And I went and worked on a new work called Das Fieberspital, which means ‘the fever factory,’ ‘the fever hospital.’ I worked in the studio on that, and I worked on two other pieces, The Devils of the State, and The Blind Man. These were connected works written by the German Expressionist poet Georg Heym, who died before World War One. He was a really visionary poet, amazing. So I started working on a new work that I’m going to be able to run as soon as I get the funds to do the final rehearsal — it’s going to be manifest in many different ways. I was asked by Mute to collaborate with them again and I absolutely said no, no way — you don’t steal from me the first time and then ask me to give you work that you’re going to steal from the second time. It became a pretty awful situation, and I haven’t had a platform on which to work. Now I have distribution for these records, but I’ve recorded so much material live that I either continue putting that material out, or I spend my time on this new work. Being with my mother didn’t stop me from recording — it was that I didn’t want to put the work out until it was complete. The work ended up being 75 minutes, a very intense work with a lot of multitracking of very strange vocal sounds and a lot of electronics, a lot of stuff that took a long time to do. Not to mention learning the German texts in German. Very hard texts and very old texts — not modern German but an older German, from the end of the 19th century. But I’ve met with some people, and I think things are going to be looking up, and I’m very happy about that, because I’ve spent a deal of money and it’s a good time to get a little bit of help. But I’m not complaining about any of this, because you know what: nobody forced me to do the kind of work I do (laughs). Nobody! http://j.mp/2Gf1Xqc

[bksayinfuckitall]

Reminiscing

He was my first divorced (actually, divorcing) man. At least that I knew of.

Is it possible I was 32 and in love with a 30-year-old whose wife had left him? Can’t get a grip on the swift yet endless passage of time lately.

My life was shit at the time, back in 2005. Until I started battling depression, I can’t remember a more miserable state of life. Started when I got mugged in October, broke my hand, enjoyed major surgery and a 4-month recovery. Then I inherited a promiscuous opioid addict as a roommate, followed by the transformation of roommate #2 into a fuckhead bill-skipper. Followed by my company announcing on the day after NY that they were divesting my company, which led to 4 months of complete shit and drama and gossip and anxiety in the workplace.

Eric became a factor to me right in the middle of that. I had known him for at least a couple years, he and his wife, through the peer group at church, and they were often at social gatherings. Always thought of him as perhaps the most striking and conventionally handsome of any man I was friends with….compact with defined muscles from weekly rock climbing, olive skin, smooth chestnut hair with just enough length, matching eyes the size of dollar coins and matched with a similar shine. But, married.

(I used to not do married, BTW, FWIW.)

I can still remember the day and moment the worm turned for me. November. Me with arm still wrapped and in a splint, trying to juggle plate and glass at a church voter’s potluck, encountering Eric in a random hello, me suggesting he tell his lovely wife hello from me. (I do know that I used the word lovely.) Him squinting his eyes and twisting his mouth in a way I would grow used to seeing and craving….well, it was awkward to say, but he and his wife were separated, she had moved out. Me, feeling awkward, but offering condolences….

I don’t remember how it happened, but he and I went for a walk sometime later that night, after that potluck. Down Comm Ave’s promenade to the Mass Ave turnaround. I got no more wife talk. I got the “I used to be a Catholic and think it fucked up my life and now I’m a conservative Lutheran” conversation. It was the first of many unloadings we would share.

This led to us hanging out. I recall we actually went out alone for NY’s eve – for Indian dinner and the Tam for night caps. Once we were with some other folks at a Sam Adams brewery festival , and (how on earth did this happen?) someone handed us a pair of Bruins tickets he couldn't use....the next minute we were on our way to the Fleet Center, in the stands, just enjoying the whole scene. But he was struggling with the separation and what I would learn was a tremendous guilt….evidently his predilection for online porn (maybe personal relationships came out of this, don’t remember), often during the workday from his work-at-home business, was a driving factor in the break-up. He was actually in a support group for sex addicts with a weekly meeting and a mentor, the whole shebang. I remember really admiring this….person facing up to problems and all that. He was so desperately sad and trying to keep himself occupied. Which was maybe why we kept getting together.

I was so attracted to him….personally, but it seems more robustly, to his angst. Here I was, miserable and gimpy and in an uncertain job situation, and here was this gorgeous, friendly, warm and sad man needing support and reciprocating by reaching out to me, too. It was overwhelming. We were sharing each other’s misery and I fell harder and harder.

I still remember the day in January where he wrote me an apology e-mail, rebuffing my offer to go watch the Bruins and drink a beer, explaining that he was still married and that he was not working hard enough at saving his marriage and that, by hanging with me, he was showing his wife that he didn’t care enough. So overwhelmed: he saw me the way I saw him, as a confidante, companion, possible lover. I wanted him all the more after that.

The moment of truth hit in an unexpected way. Group social outing in the basement of the Charles Street theatre on St Patrick’s Day, me and several dudes from church., including him. We had been more distant since his gentle rebuff, but on this night we were back to old times. The night went by quickly and suddenly, very late. Why the others left and we stayed, I can’t remember. Only knew that as the night got late we were dancing together to folks belting karaoke, and he’s got his arm around my back and as we’re heedlessly, drunkenly, swinging about, he grips me and holds me against him. And swings me out, and pulls me back. And then holds me and moves with me. I can still remember the warmth of that recognition that we were with each other. We were going to go somewhere with this, his separation be damned.

Where we went was back to my house, buzzed, wound up. We hadn’t wanted to separate after closing but didn’t know what to do with that; I remember some promise of a nightcap. But I don’t even know if we pretended to get a drink before we were heavy into it. I can still see the scene as from above, me straddling his lap, pressing down on him and into him, so much energy, his complete embrace. Me never wanting anything as much as I wanted him on that couch, kissing as hard as we could, the tension of months coming together.

It still hurts to write about this, after all that came to pass after that first desperate groping, because I cannot forget how intensely I wanted him. And how devastated I was for him to pull away, agonized, telling me he shouldn’t be doing this. His sex addiction. His support group. That he cared for me, but didn’t think he could give me what I wanted, which was him completely. That he wanted me badly but that he didn’t want to use me for sex…so he didn’t want to start down that path.

We just kept making out, still desperately, him pulling away and pushing me aside. Then sitting watching me, disbelieving and teary, and grabbing me again. I don’t know how we ended in my bed. Perhaps I convinced him we needed to sleep and our sex drives took over. But nothing was consummated. Just more hard-pressing making out….and his guilt-filled reactions.

And that’s as far as it ever went. Sure, for the next 2 months there were some awkward dates and even more awkward making out in cars and no sex and no more easy comfort between us. I was reading into everything. He and his wife decided to divorce for real and started the process. I started a new job and finished up the awfulness of the transition work, losing 2 managers in the process. I reached out to him, to try and be that solace to him, and he wasn’t having it.

Very shortly thereafter, he went rock climbing one Tuesday night and met the woman who would become his second wife. She is now one of my best friends, a genuinely kind soul, someone who like me suffers from anxiety and depression and, now, dissatisfaction with her husband (tastefully alluded to but never gossiped about). But at the time I couldn’t stand to look at her, Didn’t want to meet her when he started bringing her to church. Couldn’t get over the fact that I was that old cliche….sure, Eric wasn’t ready to be in a relationship, but more succintly, it was in a relationship with me. He and I tried to be friendly, but the awkwardness never dissipated. I still desperately wanted him.

This reminiscing went on way longer than I meant it to. I realize now that in the last 11 years, I maybe only wrote seriously once about those 6 months in my life that took me easily a couple years to get past. There was a point where I remember just getting over it. Maybe it was because I liked his wife so much. The 3 of us, eventually, began hanging out regularly and with groups – for beer, after church, running and, even once, they took me along climbing. I used to wonder if Eric had ever told Brandi that I had been in love with him, if he had been truthful. She’s pretty practical, and I would suggest she wouldn’t be upset if she did know….would just see it as part of a past, of which we all have one.

Eric and I, we never brought up our relationship again. It was like it hadn’t happened. He clearly didn’t need or want to. I both needed and wanted to clear the air and knew it wouldn’t do any good to press it.

Over the years of being friends, I grew away from that love and desire for Eric. A number of times, in the rare uncomfortable scenarios where he was uncooperative or cranky, I thanked my lucky stars…that shit would have driven me nuts. Even more so when I sensed that he was growing more intense about his work and putting his wife on the back burner, and she growing anxious and nervous and introverted. Dodged the bullet.

Friday, the 13th was Eric’s 42nd birthday. I’ve helped him celebrate many birthdays over the years, and this time I joined a large group at a Central Square bar, coming in mid-party, when everyone was already feeling pretty good. I watched the tension between him and Brandi – knowing her brave face and her side of the story and her desire to just go home and stop having to be social – and him wanting to go out, stay out, head down the street to play darts. As it happened, as the latecomer with 2 bourbons under my belt, I was quite ready to keep the party going.

And the party became him and me and all of a sudden it was 2006 all over again. Great chumminess. Lots of shoulder patting and cozy chat. Two rounds of beer. Hours passing – four, to be exact. Then the dart-playing friends (we had just met) bought us another bourbon. And then it was he and me, staring at each other across a sticky, late-night table. Me broaching our past. Him acknowledging it. Me broaching his strained marriage. Him acknowledging it. Him grabbing onto my biceps, across the table, as if his life depended on it. Once his hand came up and found that sweet spot at the back of my neck and gripped there….tension, sadness, regret, apology. And he apologized to me for that time. And I made excuses for him and said yes, I know I know, divorce sucks, how could you have been any different. And he leaned his head onto my shoulder in regret, then lifted it up and looks me dead-on, his face not an inch from mine. I really, really, really, really thought we were going to kiss. I wanted it, because I was so incredulous with the situation and that desire came flooding back to me.

The good news, I guess, is that I grew up in these last 11 years. And I thought immediately of my friend, his wife, and how there was no need for me to complicate anything and how I couldn’t do that to her, ever, and how I knew very well we were both drunk and emotions were heightened and that’s all it was. Despite 5 drinks and some serious physical buildup, I had discipline, and so did he, and we shut it down right then.

Or I did, anyway. Maybe the tension was all my imagination and nostalgia. Maybe I just wanted that kiss. Just to have tried it again. Damn the consequences.

Instead, the lights came up. Closing. I said, ‘let’s get you home.’ And we did. Him in an Uber to Somerville. Me on my bike to Southie. Shouting and cursing in frustration the whole 5 miles, my voice ringing through the cold empty stretches of Mass Ave.

“Jesus Christ!” I bellowed. “What the Fuck? What was that? How the Fuck? Aw, Jesus Christ, why.”

I’m incredulous that it came back, even for a moment. I’m gratified that I knew it existed, that our connection was not my imagination. I’m proud that I stopped myself from making a bad situation worse. I find myself sad that here Eric is, again, having problems in a marriage and wondering just how serious they are. And realizing in so many ways I am the wrong person to want to either know. Or help. I imagine myself feeling this sticky desire and validation again, and then I try to imagine my stressed, anxious girlfriend who is struggling to connect with her husband. About whom I can never share how I felt. Or feel.

Well, I can share it here. Evidently it was something I needed to expel, and perhaps should have expelled it long ago.

This weekend I was in CVS, standing in the greeting card aisle. Thinking that I hadn't gotten Eric a birthday card. I still could. I could give him a pat on the back and thumbs up and a jokey reference about getting older. And then I thought, Brandi will know I sent this. Brandi knows we stayed out until 2:30 a.m., alone. And I don't need to go there. I walked out, not buying anything.