#indianapolis prize

[mariampoetry]

Join us as we hold an event in support of the women of Gaza.

We will be hosting former Nobel Peace Prize nominee & founder of Humanity Auxilium Dr. Fozia Alvi and Palestinian American OBGYN and member of PAMA board of directors Dr. Maram Said.

Also hear from Dr. Majdi Abu-Salih president of Al Huda Foundation on what our community is doing and can do to help with the efforts.

Hear our speakers while enjoying a traditional meal and partaking in a silent auction of Thobe dresses.

Thobe hand embroidered dresses will be brought in by Palestinian designer and business owner Ghada Daoud from Chicago.

All proceeds from the event will be divided between two nonprofit humanitarian American organizations with medical teams currently on the ground in Gaza.

People of all genders and faiths are welcome to our event to support the women of Gaza.

When : Sun Apr 28th 2024, 2:00 pm - 4:00 pm EDT

Where: Neidhammer Weddings & Events Center 2104 E Washington St, Indianapolis, IN 46201, USA

[random-brushstrokes]

Katherine H. Wagenhals - The Visitor (1916)

A Pennsylvania native, Katherine Wagenhals studied at Smith College and at the Art Students League in New York and at the Académie Moderne in Paris before making her way to Fort Wayne, Indiana. There she may have taught t the Fort Wayne School of Art with her talented relatives the printmakers Jessie and Norah Hamilton. This prim lady in a blue suit and rather assertive bonnet won Wagenhals the Art Association of Indianapolis Purchase Prize in 1916. Although the genteel setting falls within the tradition of interiors painted by the Boston School artists, the thick, simple strokes used to suggest the visitor’s hands show Wagenhals’ familiarity with bolder painting styles. The tidy background of straight lines and 90 degree angles reinforces the impression of propriety. If not for the sitter’s intelligent expression and alert bearing, the door in the background might be interpreted as a symbol of a highly desired departure rather than a welcome arrival. (source)

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

Mantaray by Dean Jeffries

Mantaray by Dean Jeffries

The holy grail of the hot rod generation was to be able to fabricate beautiful car bodies in steel and other materials. Many of the kids who became Hot Rod building legends had honed their fabrication skills in the hot house of the WW2 American economy. The war ended and charged-up servicemen came home and wanted the buzz of driving fast cars. It was boom time in America and everything seemed possible.

Dean Jeffries was one of this generation of brilliant mechanics and fabricators with an audacious enough vision to dream with his eyes wide open. Having worked extensively with AC Cobra creator Carroll Shelby, he began to build the Mantaray in 1963 in response to a call for submissions to a high prestige competition that had been posted by a promoter called Al Slonaker.

The young Californian fused two old Maserati single seater chassis he had acquired and welded them together. The suspension, brakes, and steering were kept on for the finished article but apart from four Weber carburetors, the car was, he told Street Rodder Magazine recently “true-blue American, right down to the 15-inch magnesium-cast Halibrand wheels and the bred-for-Indianapolis Goodyear Blue Streak Speedway Special tires.”

Unsurprisingly, the gorgeously curvacious body Jeffries created (which was, apparently, hand-built from no less than 86 sheets of metal), was enough to win him the ‘contest of fame’. This not only won him a prize of $10,000 and a trip to Europe, but also changed the way the world thought about Hot Rods.

This is what we call truly creative car culture. And we love it.

Mantaray by Dean Jeffries

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Peter Smith at AP:

From its towering white steeple and red-brick facade to its Sunday services filled with rousing gospel hymns and evangelistic sermons, First Baptist Church of Alexandria, Virginia, bears many of the classic hallmarks of a Southern Baptist church. On a recent Sunday, its pastor for women and children, Kim Eskridge, urged members to invite friends and neighbors to an upcoming vacation Bible school — a perennial Baptist activity — to help “reach families in the community with the gospel.” But because that pastor is a woman, First Baptist’s days in the Southern Baptist Convention may be numbered. At the SBC’s annual meeting June 11-12 in Indianapolis, representatives will vote on whether to amend the denomination’s constitution to essentially ban churches with any women pastors — and not just in the top job. That measure received overwhelming approval in a preliminary vote last year.

[...] By some estimates, the proposed ban could affect hundreds of congregations and have a disproportionate impact on predominantly Black churches. The vote is partly the culmination of events set in motion two years ago.

That’s when a Virginia pastor contacted SBC officials to contend that First Baptist and four nearby churches were “out of step” with denominational doctrine that says only men can be pastors. The SBC Credentials Committee launched a formal inquiry in April. Southern Baptists disagree on which ministry jobs this doctrine refers to. Some say it’s just the senior pastor, others that a pastor is anyone who preaches and exercises spiritual authority. And in a Baptist tradition that prizes local church autonomy, critics say the convention shouldn’t enshrine a constitutional rule based on one interpretation of its non-binding doctrinal statement. By some estimates, women are working in pastoral roles in hundreds of SBC-linked churches, a fraction of the nearly 47,000 across the denomination. But critics say the amendment would amount to a further narrowing in numbers and mindset for the nation’s largest Protestant denomination, which has moved steadily rightward in recent decades. They also wonder if the SBC has better things to do.

[...] The amendment, if passed, wouldn’t prompt an immediate purge. But it could keep the denomination’s leaders busy for years, investigating and ousting churches. Many predominantly Black churches have men as lead pastors but assign pastor titles to women in other areas, such as worship and children’s ministries. “To disfellowship like-minded churches ... based on a local-church governance decision dishonors the spirit of cooperation and the guiding tenets of our denomination,” wrote Pastor Gregory Perkins, president of the SBC’s National African American Fellowship, to denominational officials. The controversy complicates the already-choppy efforts by the mostly white denomination to diversify and overcome its legacy of slavery and segregation.

Amendment proponents say the convention needs to reinforce its doctrinal statement, the Baptist Faith and Message, which says the office of pastor is “limited to men as qualified by Scripture.”

The fate of Southern Baptists permitting women to serve as pastors in any capacity will be resolved at the upcoming SBC Annual Meeting this week, as the messengers are likely to vote to fully ban women pastors from the denomination.

[champagnepodiums]

hey maureen how can roger penske even own indycar in the first place my researches have been inconclusive and I trust you for storytelling of historical narratives better than anyone whether they're a century old or not

hi anon, I'm so glad you asked! buckle up while I give you the briefest, most straightforward history of sanctioning bodies for American Open-Wheel motorsport and you'll definitely be like "why is this even relevant" but it (mostly) is, I promise (the stuff that isn't relevant is just interesting and makes you realize that motorsport history does generally just operate on a time loop basically) (Adding this: I do talk about motorsport deaths in here so if that’s something that bothers you, pls keep scrolling. Fwiw, I do stay as vague as possible)

So in the very beginning, (1899!) a group of rich men formed a little club called the Automobile Club of America (otherwise known as ACA). Now don't let the name fool you because it was more or less, a small, local organization. The ACA was a founding arm of the American Automobile Association (otherwise known as the AAA), which happened in 1902. The AAA formed a contest board and sanctioned the Vanderbilt Cup (which was like The Big Race at this point).

Well, in 1907, AAA raised their dues and that pissed the ACA off so their response was essentially, "I see your Vanderbilt Cup and we're going to do the American Grand Prize" which pissed the AAA off and there was a Whole Thing that eventually ended up with an agreement that AAA would sanction all American races while the ACA would sanction all international events held on American soil (think like modern day F1 type races).

SO that essentially meant that AAA was in charge and oh boy, they were IN CHARGE. Bless their hearts, if a driver did a non-AAA sanctioned race (like say, a local dirt track race or a hill climb), the AAA would SUSPEND the driver from all AAA races, often for a full year (which was a big deal because it would prevent that driver from participating in the Indy 500 and if they continued to participate in 'outlaw' races, the AAA would just straight up revoke the driver's racing license). Essentially what started to happen is that young drivers would start to race on the local dirt tracks, gain 'outlaw' status and when they were ready, they would ask AAA for forgiveness and to gain their racer's license because AAA was more lenient to drivers who didn't already have a license.

Anyway, alls that to say is that the AAA was completely separate from everything, including (and especially) the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

So what changed?

Well. 1955 happened.

I am not even being dramatic when I say that it is no less than a miracle that motorsport as a whole survived 1955.

May 1955 saw Manny Ayulo die in a crash while practicing for the Indianapolis 500 (mind you, he was found to not be wearing his seatbelt), then ten days later, Alberto Ascari, Ferrari F1 World Champion was killed in a test session. AND THEN, Bill Vukovich, defending two-time Indy 500 champion (he had won the two previous) was leading the race and he was involved in a chain reaction crash that killed him and that -- listen, I think there is a misconception that in the past when drivers died, there was no backlash but there absolutely was and the public was horrified that this had happened.

And then -- because things weren't going badly enough -- approximately two weeks later, the racing world turned to watch Le Mans and at approximately 6:20 pm, at the end of the 35th lap, there was a (admittedly much smaller than Indy) chain reaction wreck that launched Pierre Levegh and his Mercedes towards the crowd. The car slammed into an embankment and there was so much force that a lot of the pieces of this car just kept going... right into a stand of spectators, killing at least 80 and injuring at least 120 more. I can talk more at length about the Le Mans disaster (which is what it's generally referred to as) but I do want to caution everybody because there are gruesome pictures on the internet, including ones where Pierre Levegh's body is more or less visible.

This triggered a whole chain reaction of events that had (and in some cases continue to have) long lasting impacts on all motorsports (which again, I would love to dig into if people are interested but for the sake of this essay, I will be brief and focused -- two things I'm really good at LMAO).

But the impact that I'm going to highlight here is that the AAA decided that at the conclusion of the 1955 racing season, they would no longer sanction any events.

WELL that is a Big Problem because AAA didn't only sanction the Indy 500, they sanctioned A LOT of races of various motorsport disciplines (not NASCAR though, they are completely separate). So Tony Hulman, owner of IMS, along with other midwest promotors formed what was initially called the "Temporary Emergency Committee" which ultimately ended up being called the United States Auto Club (USAC). And guess who owned it? Tony Hulman!

So USAC essentially becomes the be all, end all of what they called "Championship Car Racing" which is now what we think of as IndyCar. So USAC and IMS are owned by the same person. What could go wrong?

Well obviously lots go wrong and really the main reason that there even is the IndyCar Split (and the reason things got so bad) was because the same people owned IMS AND the Sanctioning Body. There are other things at play including Tony Hulman's sudden death and Elmer George's justified homicide and a plane crash but the core issue did ultimately boil down to the fact that the same person owned IMS and the sanctioning body and the Indy 500 was being placed above everything else to the detriment of everybody else (basically)

Anyway so like when Tony George forms the IRL (Indy Racing League), that takes over as the sanctioning body for the Indy 500. When IRL and Champ Whatever it was called by then merged back together in 2008, it was all done under the IRL stuff which meant the Hulman-George family still owned IndyCar, the series, as well as IMS/the Indy 500.

So in 2019, they sold both IMS/Indy 500 AND the IndyCar Series to Roger Penske. I wish they would have not done that because I think it would be better for American Open Wheel Racing if there was somebody independently looking out for their interests BUT things are so intertwined and the Indy 500 is such a powerful chip to have, I guess I don't know if it would ultimately matter who owned IndyCar?

So yeah, that is how Roger Penske could even buy IndyCar.

I hope this is clear enough and as always, I am willing to clarify anything/everything!

[rip-quizilla]

Your Leather, My Lace ~ Part 1: One Look Could Kill

*This fic was co-written by curlyfry23, whom you can find on AO3 here

Pairing: Rockstar!Eddie Munson x Rockstar!fem!Reader

Summary: It's your band's third time competing in Indianapolis' Battle of the Bands, and you're dead set on making 1991 the year you finally win. Of course, the moment you swear you won't fall prey to any "distractions", a guy named Eddie with big brown eyes shows up to distract you.

Word Count: 2.6k

Tags for Entire Fic (from AO3): Enemies to Lovers, Rival Bands, Tension While Singing, Leather, 80's Rock References, Song Lyrics, Slow Burn, Sexual Tension, Thinly Veiled Hex Girls Inspiration, Eddie Munson Lives, 1991, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Mutual Masturbation, Hate to Love, Oral Sex, Consensual Sex, Smut, Eddie Munson Has No Sense of Personal Space, Cunnilingus, Nipple Licking, Catholic Guilt, brat!reader, Dom/sub Undertones, light degradation, Car Sex, The Lord of the Rings References

~Indianapolis, 1991~

“It’s our year, ladies.” 

You couldn’t wipe the grin off your face; this was it. You could feel it in your bones, this was your fucking year. 

Denise snorted, “Sure.” Green lips curling into a rueful smirk, she struggled with her bags and band equipment while reaching up to tighten her platinum pigtails. “Not like you say that every time we drag our asses out to this thing.” 

You paid her negativity no mind. She wasn’t wrong necessarily, but you refused to ignore the surge of adrenaline that was pulsing through your veins right now. “It’s different this year, don’t tell me you guys don’t feel it too.” You confidently strutted through the revolving door of the high-class hotel where Lana’s dad had made reservations for your band for the duration of the competition, and you mentally sent out a heartfelt thank you to him as you looked around, awestruck at the grandeur of the hotel. You would have been fine with putting yourselves up at a Best Western or something; having a band member who came from money really had its perks.

“I certainly feel something.” Lana drawled, eyes following a particularly attractive bellboy who threw her a wink as she sent a grin in his direction. Expression growing sour, you snapped in her face, wincing when you almost dropped your guitar case. “Hey! No! Nonono, none of that, not this year.” You ignored Lana’s pout and resumed your trek toward the front desk. 

It would be your year to win… IF- and only if- you all committed to keeping your eyes on the prize. This was your third year competing for the title, and you were pretty sure that if you lost Battle of the Bands one more time, you wouldn’t be able to convince Lana and Denise to compete again. It was a big commitment; foregoing jobs, family, friends- well, you only had two of those, and they were here with you- for up to a month, depending on how far you stayed in the game. After getting cut before you even made top ten the first year, it was hard enough to persuade your bandmates to try again. Last year had been closer (you attributed that to the hours you all had dedicated to practicing day in and day out to prepare) and thought you’d had it in the bag until you were cut before making it to top five. 

“No distractions this time. I’m making it a rule.” you said over your shoulder, getting in line to check in. “If we want to win this year, we need to focus.” Luna plopped her bags on the floor as she lined up behind you. “Making rules now, huh? Who put you in charge?”

You rolled your eyes, turning to face her. “Calm down, obviously I’m not telling you what to do, okay? You’re an adult, you can do what you want. However-” you raised your eyebrows, leaning towards her to ensure she got your point. “I am proposing that we all make a pact to give this competition the place on our list of priorities that it deserves.” 

Denise raised an eyebrow. “And that place would be…?”

You shot a hand as high as you could, even going so far as to stand on your tiptoes. “Here! Aaaaaall the way up here! Tippy top!” You sounded as exasperated as you felt; getting these girls to care as much as you did felt like pulling teeth sometimes. “Look, it’s not like I don’t want us to have fun while we’re here, but I also know that if we stay zeroed in on our goal, all it can do is help us. Right?”

Your friends nodded and smiled, used to your intensity when it came to Battle of the Bands. “You’re right, sorry for getting bitchy.” Lana slung an arm around your shoulders, and her orange-dyed twists tickled your cheeks. “Thanks for keeping us in line, cap.” She gave you a mock salute before planting an obnoxiously loud kiss to your cheek. 

You laughed, groaning dramatically as you wiped her black lipstick from your face. “You know how long it takes to do my makeup!” you giggled, swatting her away as you stepped up to the front of the line to check into your room.

***

That night would be the first round of performances for Battle of the Bands, and you had already persuaded your bandmates to come out with you to a local venue to scope out the other bands competing for the title. From the moment you walked through the doors of the grungy basement bar, you felt like a dormant part of you came alive. You loved this- genuinely loved it; the smoke flinging neon lights in every which way, the dull roar of people talking, yelling, drinking… the energy was infectious, and it made you itch to get on that stage. 

Not tonight, though- tonight was not about you, it was about reconnaissance. Tonight’s bands were all new to the Battle, and while you weren’t ruling them out as potential threats, you weren’t necessarily scared of them either. After grabbing a drink from the bar with Denise and Lana, you scoped out a small table in a corner from which to watch tonight’s performances. Unfortunately, it only took a few songs from the earsore of a goth rock group to make your friends duck out in search of a more interesting bar to spend the evening. They tried to convince you to go with them, but you stood your ground, eager for any leg-up on the competition. 

“Go on and have fun, really! I’m all good here.” You smiled reassuringly. They seemed skeptical and a bit disappointed, but still left you alone at your corner booth that now felt far too large for one person. Sighing, you stood and walked over to the bar, ordering yourself another drink and leaning against the slightly sticky counter. 

As you took in the sight of the dumpster fire on the stage, you shook your head, disappointed. You didn’t want the rival bands to be too good, obviously, but you had been hoping they would at least be competitors. The thrill of the chase was something you felt in your bones here, and it helped you want to be better; to make yourself be better. These guys… they just made you feel sorry for them. You reached into your purse and withdrew your small moleskine notebook and began jotting down a few notes on the band’s performance. Weaknesses: lead singer is tone deaf. Lead guitarist thinks the guitar is a percussion instrument. Strengths: members all have nice hair. 

You were so focused on trying to find more strengths to write down that you barely noticed the stranger looking over your shoulder at the paper you were jotting on. “Jeez,” a voice said, inches from your ear,  “and I thought I was a harsh critic.” Your head whipped around, narrowly avoiding the stranger sitting directly behind you. Frowning, you replied, “Did you just read my notebook?”

The stranger, a whole head taller than you with a lean frame and a dark mane of long, frizzy hair, smiled broadly back at you. “Will you keep talking to me if I say yes?” 

Oh. He was flirting with you. 

You turned away, a silent answer to his question. No distractions. You had made the rule, and you intended to follow it. Bringing your attention back to the stage, you struggled to place the song the band was playing -the melody sounded familiar, but the lead singer’s tiny, screeching vocalizations were making it difficult to recognize. Finally, you realized that they were playing a very grungy rendition of “I Will Survive”; surprised, you added Impressive range of genre knowledge to the “strengths” column. 

You heard a throat clear behind you, to which you rolled your eyes and looked sideways over your shoulder. He was still there, smiling somewhat less confidently now but still smiling nonetheless. “So, uh…” the stranger slid into the barstool beside yours. “What are you writing?” 

You gave him a thin smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “A manual for creeps who don’t know how to take a hint.” 

Glancing down at his beer, his ringed fingers tapping the bottleneck methodically, the stranger sighed, “That sounds interesting, I should give it a read.” 

A corner of your mouth crept up before you could stop it. “Yeah, you probably should, might learn something.” 

The barest hint of a smile from you was all he needed to bring his toothy grin back in full force. “Gotta be honest, learning was never my strong suit.” 

Against your better judgment, you turned the rest of your body to face the bar, giving him your full eye contact- And damn, if those weren’t the biggest eyes you had ever seen. 

You indulged him with a wry smile. “Not the schooling type?” you asked. Big Eyes placed a leather-clad elbow on the bartop, resting his head in hand and smiling lazily. “Oh no, I loved school. Loved it so much I had three senior years, actually.” 

You snorted out a laugh, eyebrows raising involuntarily. “Three?” you repeated. “Damn, even I didn’t like it that much.” 

He closed his eyes and nodded vigorously, “Oh yeah, loved it.” he reiterated, his expression so mockingly serious that you couldn’t help but laugh softly. Upon hearing your laugh, his smile crept up to match yours. “Biiiiig, big fan of a good ‘ole public school education,” he said. 

You tapped the bar to signal to the bartender that you were ready for another round. “You would just love Catholic school, then,” you replied. “Real fun, learning about Jesus instead of evolution.” 

Those wide eyes got wider somehow at the mention of Catholic school. “Are we talking about plaid skirts, nuns that slap your hand with a ruler- that kind of Catholic school?” 

You nodded grimly. “The very same.” The bartender handed you another drink, and you nodded your thanks to her as you continued, “And it was an all-girls school, too.” looking at Big Eyes, “your creep ass would’ve loved it.” 

Undeterred by your jab, he inclined his head and raised an eyebrow. “Something tells me if I went to school and saw you in a school uniform, I’d be blind to any other woman that crossed my path.”

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that your uniforms weren’t the least bit sexy, and had included knee-length skirts and starchy oxford shirts… but the compliment heated your cheeks anyway. 

Trying not to smile (and failing) you bit your lips and shut your notebook with a sharp thup. “Is this what you do for fun?” you asked him, “You go out to bars and hit on strangers?”

Big Eyes laughed softly, teeth still shining in the red and blue light reflecting off of him from the stage. “Maybe. It’s been pretty fun, so far.” 

You reached back, rubbing the back of your neck while you glanced back to the stage. The band was packing up and heading off stage. You hadn’t realized how much time had passed while you were chatting it up with this stranger. Shaking your head ruefully, you looked back at him with an apologetic expression. 

“Look,” you sighed, “you actually seem really nice, and you’re funny and easy to talk to…” His face lit up like a Christmas tree, and his eagerness at hearing your praise reminded you of a puppy. It felt as if someone were squeezing your heart in your chest. “...but I really can’t be flirting with guys at bars right now, okay? I’m sorry but now just isn’t the best time for distractions.” 

“Distractions?” Big Eyes laughed, unphased. “What am I distracting you from?” 

You gestured toward the stage. “My band is competing in Battle of the Bands. I came out here to see what we’re up against this year.” Holding up your notebook, you stuck your pen behind your ear with a free hand. “That’s what I was taking notes for. It’s our third year competing, so-” you grimaced, apologizing with your eyes once again. “-I don’t want to leave anything to chance. So no distractions this year. I’m sorry, under any other circumstances…” Your sentence trailed off, and Big Eyes raised his eyes as he waited for you to finish. 

You glanced away, fumbling around your words “...under other circumstances, I might keep this very entertaining conversion going and maybe have another drink with you… but I need to focus. So that will not be happening tonight.” You looked back at him, heart racing as his gaze snagged yours. His expression betrayed nothing, but those eyes were so wide and intense that you didn’t want to look away. You took a deep breath. Control yourself. “I’m sorry.” you added. 

He gave you a small smile and shrugged. “It is what it is. Can’t knock you for being dedicated to something.” He threw a nod to the bartender before asking, “What’s your band called?” 

“Next Hex.” you replied, downing the last sip of your drink. Big Eyes handed a few bills to the bartender and nodded, eyes distant as if he were documenting the name of your band in his memory. Eyes flicking back up to you (your heart felt like it did a backflip- they’re just eyes, why was he having this effect on you?) he raised his eyebrows, sobering his expression. “Noted.” he said, “Hopefully I’ll get to see you guys play.” 

You smiled, the gesture more genuine this time than the first few smiles you gave him. “Hopefully.” you repeated. “It was nice to meet you-”

Hopping off his chair and straightening his leather jacket sleeves, he held his hand out to you. “Eddie.” he filled in the blank.

You took his hand, ignoring the way your heart rate quickened when your skin touched his. “Eddie,” You mimicked before giving him your name in return. “Sorry about the circumstances.” You winced inwardly at how awkward it felt to turn a guy down mid-handshake. 

Big Eyes- Eddie- smiled ruefully and shook his head as he withdrew from your handshake and placed both hands in his pockets. “Don’t apologize yet,” he said, “I might end up being your favorite groupie.” 

A laugh bubbled up from your lips. “You’re not gonna go crazy stalker on me, are you? If you do, you can expect your restraining order in the mail.”

That mischievous grin plastered itself back across his face, and you were starting to wonder if this facial expression was simply his default face. “If your signature is on it, I might just get it framed, rockstar.” Satisfied with having the last word, Eddie gave you one last blinding smile before backing away from the bar and disappearing into the crowd. 

You continued looking in his direction until he vanished from your line of sight, and a part of you wished he hadn’t been scared off so easily… but you immediately chided yourself for wishing a man hadn’t taken no for an answer. How often were men who flirted with strangers at bars respectful? This guy was one in a million. Mentally, you cursed your luck for having such horrible timing.

You waved down the bartender and asked how much your tab was, but to your surprise she shook her head. “Your friend paid for you, don’t worry about it!” 

“Oh.” you said, surprised. You had already pulled out a couple one dollar bills, so you handed them to her anyway. “Well here, these are for you then.” Smiling, she took the bills from you and pocketed them in her acid wash jeans. “Aw, thanks hun! Have a great night!” With that, she turned to help the next patron a few seats away.

So, you thought, I just turned down a guy who was funny, respectful, AND paid for my drink even when he knew he wasn’t getting anything out of it. You shook your head, slowly making your way to the exit. 

This had better be our fucking year. 

Part 2

[railwayhistorical]

Detail, Yard Office, Bloomington, Indiana

A photograph of mine was awarded second prize in the black-and-white category of the 2023 John E. Gruber Creative Photography Awards hosted by the Center for Railroad Photography & Art. More information on the award program and Center can be found here.

The picture was made in the Illinois Central Gulf yard office in Bloomington, Indiana. Ron Potsch was third-trick Operator/Clerk at the time. This was Illinois Central's line between Effingham, Illinois, and Indianapolis, known as the “Hi-Dry” for its high bridges and fills.

The telephone one sees here has separate mouthpiece and headset; the radio is a typical Motorola of the time, and the train orders are hand-written on flimsy paper with carbons inserted between pages for the creation of multiple copies. These train orders would be hand-delivered to the crew of a moving train via a wooden, Y-shaped stick.

Image by Richard Koenig; taken in 1976; scanned from medium-format film negative.

[seat-safety-switch]

You might think that you’ve had a worldly life, but until you’ve been bailed out by some kind of racer-cum-used-car-salesman in a foreign jail at the behest of a spectral multiple-time Indianapolis 500 winner, you haven’t really lived. As the ghost of A.J. Foyt controlled things both inside my mind and seemingly in the outside world, I could do nothing more than put one foot in front of the other, even as those feet led me to multiple moving violations in the good ol’ urban paradise of Osaka.

Back home, the folks who used to street-race Civics and harass the cops with them had all found their race vehicles rotting into the ground, or stolen by teenagers who wanted to swap the guts into their Integras and CR-Vs. At best, Hollywood movie stars would purchase them and then write them off driving too quickly beneath semi trucks in the vain hope of stealing combination TV/VCRs.

I rode along in a lushly-appointed, but altogether too low, ‘88 Civic sedan. My driver didn’t want to express his name, and perhaps I should have not even asked, shrouded in shame as I was. No doubt, Foyt was disappointed in me, as my entire retinue of B-swapped killer bees barely managed to make a dent in the municipal police’s on-call bench as we wove around the Loop as brashly and quickly as possible.

Some of this failure is probably due to me, who was not especially familiar with driving on the other side of the road. As a result, I drove pretty slow, occasionally braking hard because I got confused about which lanes were exits and which continued the highly-efficient highway infrastructure. It was no problem for the cops to catch up to this wayward idiot. Even now, sitting in the putative passenger seat of this Civic, I felt like I should have a steering wheel in front of me. Occasionally, my left foot hit the carpet in the general vicinity of a decadent Western clutch pedal when we came to a stop. I bet this guy is so hardcore he doesn’t even use a hydraulic slave cylinder, I thought to myself.

A.J. Foyt had one more plan for me. I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw him chuckling in the back seat, stretched out, taking little spoon dips out of a container of Blue Bell ice cream. Weird thing is, the label was in katakana, but I was still able to read it. Maybe all those factory service manuals I read while incarcerated in the mental hospital actually stuck. That’s when the driver pulled into another parking area, and showed me the real prize: a left-hand-drive ‘91 Accord wagon. With this, ol’ Tony Foyt assured me, rumbling in my ear, I could outrun all the prohibitionists.

[waywardrose-archive]

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY | 13

stranger things

eddie munson x reader

rated e

5.4k

spotify playlist

for @punk-in-docs​​

fem/witchy/goth!reader, magic, slow burn (for me), friends to lovers, no y/n only pet names, series-typical horror, period-typical sexism and homophobia, historical inaccuracies and anachronisms, drug dealing and use, smoking, alcohol use, masturbation, mutual masturbation, fantasizing, one-bed trope, making out, fingering, dirty talk, consensual pursuit and capture, oral sex, handjobs, condoms, piv sex, reader’s father is a dirtbag, mild spanking, magical violation, mental torture, body horror, aftercare, nightmares, strict parenting, panic attack, past child abuse and abandonment, semi-public sex, tags will be updated as needed

Eddie would have to wait until his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. He wondered which flavor of weird she was. Art weird? Theater weird? Band weird?

Weird weird?

He shrugged. He liked weird.

In other words, you’re the new girl in town, and Eddie is intrigued.

note: More music description in this chapter (with some 🍆 thrown in at the end)! Whee! 😜

They paused their conversation as Gareth hurtled down the stairs to Jeff’s basement. At the top, Jeff’s mother closed the door after him. He whipped a folded sheet of copy paper from his back pocket and popped it open.

“Guys, check out this shit,” he said, and slapped the paper on the coffee table next to the open bag of potato chips.

Eddie leaned in from his gargoyled position in the corner armchair while Jeff and Dougie bent to read the paper from the couch.

BATTLE OF THE BANDS headed the flyer. An angled Flying V guitar silhouette underlined it.

Dougie said, “We’ve done that before.”

“Before I joined,” said Gareth.

“In Gary,” Jeff said as he reclined. “That was an expensive weekend, and—” He threw a hand up. “We lost.”

Eddie continued reading. The competition was set for mid-April in Indianapolis. Rock and metal bands preferred. At least two band members had to be eighteen or older. That was no issue, since he was nineteen and Jeff turned eighteen next month. Grand prize was $3000 cash and professional studio time to record a demo.

Just reading about the grand prize made him want to leap out of the armchair and do laps around the basement. They could give the judges horror, blood, obsession, and sex. God, so much sex now. The original songs he was writing were full of that dark, heady cadence.

He tuned into the conversation to hear Gareth proclaim his drum prowess. He was good, that was true. He was better than their previous drummer, Rich, who’d ditched them for Purdue. Rich had kept a steady beat, but had no pizzazz.

Despite wanting to, he couldn’t blame everything on Rich.

They’d had no stage presence in Gary, nothing to call their own. They’d worn other bands’ t-shirts and dirty sneakers. The only original song they’d had was a complete ripoff of Dio’s “Evil Eyes.”

Looking back, it was no surprise they’d lost.

“Dude,” Jeff said. “We need to practice more if we’re doing this.”

Eddie said, “And I need to finish some songs.”

Dougie groaned around a potato chip. “Those songs about your girlfriend?”

Jeff rummaged in the potato-chip bag as Eddie asked:

“What’s wrong with that?”

“We all agree your girl is hot,” said Gareth. “But come on, your new stuff sounds nothing like us.”

“And what, pray tell, do we sound like?” he asked.

“Like...” Gareth waved his arms around. “Like metal, man!”

He squinted at Gareth.

“That’s what I’m writing.”

“No, you’re writing something else. It’s all... moody.”

“It’s still dark,” Jeff said.

Dougie added, “But it’s not thrashing.”

Eddie sighed and said, “Not every song we put out should go like a bat out of hell.”

“But they shouldn’t all be about witches in the night,” Gareth said.

“Fine, but ‘Ride the Night’ can’t change.”

“I like that one,” said Jeff.

Gareth said, “‘Sabbath Smoke’ needs major rewrites.”

Eddie glowered around the room. He liked where that one was going. It was dark in a different way than “Ride the Night.” It was still about you, but not so overtly sexual. He hadn’t thought the rest of the band noticed his latest attempts centered around you.

“Alright, fine, ‘Sabbath Smoke’ can be about...” He shook his head as he thought. “A sacrifice to the devil, instead, with, like, all the hot blood and ropes of guts you want.”

“What about ‘Black Market, Midnight Track’?” Dougie asked.

Eddie stood and shoved his fingers into his hair.

“Jesus fuck—” His rings caught in his hair. Of course. “I don’t know. It’s a story.” He snarled as he freed them one by one. “I can get rid of the magic part, okay?”

He knew better than to comb through his hair while wearing his rings. Just like he should’ve known the band wouldn’t like the spooky — okay, maybe goth-inspired — turn he’d taken. Corroded Coffin had always been on the thrash side of heavy metal. Their original stuff had to stay in that vein if he wanted to keep the band together.

In that case, he should take the mixtape you’d made him out of rotation. There were songs about dark stuff on it, of course. The riffs were heavy and deep. Sure, most of it wasn’t “heavy metal,” but it was good shit. However, it was too much of an influence.

Maybe you were too much of an influence.

He’d been neglecting band practice since before Halloween. The four of them had only been meeting twice a month to play, excluding gigs at The Hideout, and once a month to write. He knew the guys practiced on their own. They talked on the phone about ideas, but that wasn’t the same as a jam session.

“Hey, dude,” Gareth said to him. “It’s not like we hate what you’ve written.”

“Something is better than nothing,” said Jeff, inadvertently reminding Eddie of the summer.

Summer had been a dry spell. Shit, it had been a fucking desert. The Sahara.

They’d played cover after cover during gigs. Eddie had burned through his stash, hoping to flow enough that original melodies and lyrics would come, but no dice. It felt like a dead end, like maybe covers were all he was good at. When school started in August, he stared at his future with this leaden feeling in his chest.

“No, it’s cool,” he said with a shake of his head. “You’re right. Let’s do some reworking.”

“I like that devil’s sacrifice idea for ‘Sabbath Smoke,’” Dougie said, since he did enjoy horror.

Jeff nodded and said, “Let’s work on that one now.”

“Sure, absolutely,” Eddie said as he popped open the guitar case for his acoustic.

He didn’t want to follow his father’s footsteps by knocking up his first serious girlfriend right out of the service and scrambling to find decent work. Only to settle as a mechanic in, what Eddie realized way later, was a chop shop. As the years went on, he understood his mother. Ditching everything and everyone had its appeal.

That would make him just as bad as them, though. He wouldn’t respect himself if he did that kind of thing to Wayne, you, the band, or even Hellfire. He wanted to do right by his family and friends — and, most importantly, you.

Eddie brought out the composition book they worked in, flicked to the “Sabbath Smoke” page, and set it on the coffee table. Dougie rubbed his greasy fingertips on his jeans while scooting to the edge of the couch. Jeff found a pen on the side-table as Gareth sat on the floor opposite him.

Maybe the guys were right about you transforming his composing. Maybe he was thinking too much with his dick. He didn’t think love would stifle creativity. Wasn’t love supposed to inspire the artist?

With a mental snort, he thought of course he’d be the exception. That would be his luck, wouldn’t it?

Shit, he really did love you, didn’t he?

The new lyrics and melodies and chords and all the effort was for you.

He laid his guitar next to Jeff on the couch, saying he had to take a leak. Once in the upstairs bathroom, he leaned his rear on the vanity and stared at the ceiling. He needed the guys at his side. He wanted to lead Corroded Coffin out of Hawkins, confident they would triumph. It didn’t matter if they started small in Indianapolis or Chicago. They could build a following, open for a bigger band, find a manager, work the local concert circuit, get a contract with a record label, and move to Los Angeles or New York.

He could do it. They could do it, but only if they could write an album worth of songs.

This battle of the bands in April would throw them right into the fray. He smirked at the unintended pun. Still, the timing was perfect. He would prove himself to you, and to himself, and to Wayne, that every sacrifice had been worth it.

He couldn’t do any of that if he was distracted. He wouldn’t be good enough. He’d be like his old man. Without that small win, he wouldn’t be able to provide for you. Or keep up with you. He’d lose you.

He didn’t want to lose you.

The lower half of his vision went watery with a deluge of tears. He blinked the tears away and wiped at his lower lashes. Allowing himself to be shaken by that idea would help no one. There was a solution. He cracked his neck and took a deep breath. He had to keep his eye on the prize: $3000 and free studio time.

You’d understand when he explained it.

He used the facilities and rinsed his hands before heading downstairs. Jeff’s mother stopped him in the kitchen to insist he take cans of pop to the guys. With a wink, he thanked her for the fuel. She shooed him away, looking pleasantly exasperated.

As he descended the basement stairs, he said, “Gentlemen, I have procured refreshments!”

-

Your breath fogged in the chilly night air. Your thighs were nearly numb. Ignoring the weather, you’d chosen to wear a short skirt and fishnets. You’d heard the saying ‘a hoe never gets cold,’ but that also applied to goths. And you had every intention of being eye-candy tonight.

You dodged mounds of half-frozen slush in The Hideout’s parking lot. It had snowed earlier in the week. Not enough to close school, but enough to make the drive a hair-raising event. Eddie said he’d almost plowed into a few mailboxes, which meant he’d knocked over a couple of trashcans instead.

The Hideout was warm and dingy. Behind the sticky bar, the muted TV played a basketball game. Its light flickered through neglected liquor bottles. A few patrons entertained themselves at the billiard table. The jukebox played some country song.

Just like your previous visit, the bartender didn’t ask for ID when you ordered a vodka tonic. You tipped him well before claiming a barstool that faced the stage. You crossed your legs, letting the skirt ride up the outside of your top thigh.

Five minutes before showtime, Eddie parted the split in the stage curtain, guitar slung around his torso. His gaze found yours as he stepped onto the stage. Then he noticed what you wore — and stopped midway around the drum-set. He looked like he’d been slapped in the face. Jeff almost ran into him. Complaints came from behind the curtain. Jeff followed Eddie’s attention and gave you an appreciative once-over.

You smirked, taking a sip of your drink via the mini straw.

Eddie’s face flushed as he put a hand on his chest. You winked just as he was prodded into moving. He stumbled around a cymbal’s tripod legs. You noticed then he wore boots instead of his usual Reeboks. His jeans hugged his thighs and hips. He’d rolled the sleeves of his black t-shirt to show off his tattoos.

The other band members had dressed similarly: Jeff wore a simple Fender t-shirt, Dougie had a navy button-up tucked into black jeans, and Gareth wore a tight undershirt under a sleeveless plaid shirt. They looked good, like a professional band instead of a barrel of fanboys.

They joked with each other as they went through a quick sound-check.

With Eddie turned away from the bar, you could admire the lean lines of him and his round ass. In the morning after you’d gotten some magic back, you’d grabbed that ass as he’d pounded you into the mattress. He’d growled profanities and oaths into your neck with his hands hooked under your shoulders. You’d moved with him, grinding your pelvis against his.

You’d bitten his shoulder to keep from moaning too loud when you came. He’d only encouraged you by pushing into the pain and gasping, “That’s it, baby, that’s it, oh fuck.”

Your cheeks and neck grew hot. The bar was suddenly stuffy. You wiggled out of your leather jacket and pressed cool fingers against your neck. Maybe a quick jaunt around the parking lot would help. Or maybe Eddie not wearing such goddamn tight clothes.

You took another sip of your drink, then popped a thin ice cube in your mouth to take the edge off the heat.

Leaning around Eddie’s side, Gareth gave you a roguish smile. You grinned back. When Eddie glanced over his shoulder, you showed him the ice cube on your tongue. He faced you and waggled his eyebrows, making you snicker.

The jukebox music cut off before the stage lights brightened. Eddie greeted the meager crowd and introduced his bandmates. You set down your drink to clap. A few people slapped the bar in lieu of applause.

The band started their set with Metallica’s “For Whom the Bell Tolls.” Gareth used cymbals and the bass drum’s reverb to mimic the bell that starts the song. It was a cool technique and a difficult transition when the other three began the driving beat. Eddie and Jeff stuck their tongues out to each other before head-banging. Dougie added a few flourishes as Eddie approached the mic. You rocked with the rhythm and mouthed the lyrics.

When the song came to a thunderous end, you hooted and clapped. Eddie smiled at you, face already glowing with sweat. He looked so carefree, like nothing could bring him down.

The band played a few more covers until Eddie introduced an original song, “Sabbath Smoke.” You couldn’t believe what you heard. He hadn’t spoken about an original song in weeks. Naturally, you hadn’t wanted to pester him. It wasn’t your place to say what he wrote or what Corroded Coffin played.

The song had a dangerous edge to it. The lyrics Eddie purred were from a demon’s point of view. Jeff and Dougie howled after the chorus, piercing and ravenous. Goosebumps shivered down your arms, yet you couldn’t look away. The center of the song — the heartbeat of the sacrifice — sped with each repeat of the chorus. The song lashed on until the heartbeat abruptly stopped; the sacrifice slaughtered.

The bar was quiet for a moment.

You erupted from your barstool with a cheer. The rest of the patrons applauded or whooped. Eddie thanked everyone before announcing they’d continue in a minute. You rushed to the stage. He stepped around the mic stand and bent. You caught his dewy face and kissed him, unconcerned about smudging your makeup. His eyes went wide, then closed.

After breaking the kiss, you thumbed the lipstick off his lips. They were still stained and puffy. You pushed away the damp curtain of his bangs and smiled.

“Holy shit.”

“You like it?”

“Love it.”

He grinned, catching his lower lip between his teeth and averting his gaze.

“We got one more tonight,” he said and met your eyes.

“Another original?”

He nodded.

You kissed him again. Your lipstick fainter this time, but you still wiped it off for him.

“I can’t wait,” you said as you moved back.

He straightened, appearing on the smug side of pleased. The rest of the band murmured amongst themselves while hydrating. Eddie drank from the lone beer left on the stool behind Gareth.

You perched on your barstool, sipped at your drink, and then discretely neatened your lipstick. It wasn’t as polished as when you first stepped inside, but it didn’t matter. None of the other patrons noticed you.

Especially not when Corroded Coffin returned to their places on stage.

Eddie asked if everyone was ready for more and received a few ‘woo’s and applause in reply.

The band played some covers; one or two you’d heard previously. They were still good, but you awaited the second original song. Your stomach fluttered and your grip trembled, like you were the one who had to play.

You were debating on ordering another drink when the current song ended.

Eddie looked at you as he said, “Last one of the night, folks. We hope you like it.”

You smiled and gripped the sides of the barstool.

Gareth counted down and began playing a deep, primal rhythm you recognized. After a few bars, Eddie added a sultry metallic shred. Dougie added to the rhythm, making it a dark thrum. Jeff complemented Gareth’s rhythm while Eddie built to a grinding reverb. They went through a cycle of that until Eddie put his mouth to the mic to sing about drowning in magic, about fire licking down your spine, about riding the night.

His voice oscillated between crooning and growling, just like you imagined. He used his breath in the chorus, just like he’d panted into your ear. Your stomach swooped and cunt clenched. You wanted to run your hands all over him, cup his erection, and stare into his eyes as they went hazy. You wanted to lick the sweat off his neck and drag your teeth over his jaw and kiss his full lips.

The bar patrons disappeared. The clack of billiard balls and murmuring voices muted. It was you and him; a private pleasure turned public. There was something thrilling and honest about that. Anyone who heard the song would know you and him.

When the song ended, you inhaled a lungful of smoky air. Eddie stared at you — and you at him — as the other patrons applauded. Jeff signed off when Eddie said nothing. The stage lights dimmed. The jukebox kicked on. Someone behind you laughed, hacked, and resumed laughing.

Dougie and Jeff unplugged their guitars while Gareth stood to fold his low stool. Jeff bopped Eddie on the elbow to knock him from his daze and mumbled something close to his ear. Eddie nodded and unplugged his guitar.

With eye-contact broken, you slipped into your jacket and stood. You approached the stage, hands in your jacket pockets. Eddie wound the audio cable around his palm.

“What was the title of that one?”

“‘Ride the Night,’” said Eddie with hardly an upward glance.

“Makes sense.”

Dougie wound his own cable and said, “He wouldn’t compromise on that one at all.”

“Well, it’s his song from start to finish,” Jeff said, shrugging.

Eddie’s cheeks reddened when you focused on him.

“It’s my favorite,” you said.

“Mine too,” Gareth interjected.

Dougie snorted with a roll of his eyes. “No shock there.”

Jeff leveled them a look before turning to you.

“Thanks for coming out.”

“We missed you the last time,” Eddie said.

You smiled as something in your chest fluttered.

“I’m sure there’ll come a time when you won’t be able to pick me out in the crowd.”

Eddie ceased neatening his cable and looked at you.

“Never.”

Warmth creeped up your chest to your face.

Eddie passed his loop of cable to Dougie, who sputtered.

“C’mon,” Eddie said to you, wiped his hand on his jeans, and held it out. “I want to show you something.”

“Um, okay?”

You took his hand and put a foot on the stage, keeping one hand on the hem of your skirt. He pulled you up the short distance to lead you behind the curtain. Backstage was red-lit and littered with open guitar cases and containers for Gareth’s drum-set. Eddie switched off the audio mixer, secured his guitar in its case, and took your hand again.

From the slit in the curtain, Gareth asked, “Is it safe to come back here?”

He held a snare drum, his eyes shut.

Eddie snorted and threw you a grin. “No, Gare-bear, it’s a bit dangerous in here.”

You said, “Especially with your eyes closed.”

Gareth opened one eye to glare.

“Oh, screw you both.”

Eddie sing-songed, “You wi-ish,” though he stepped closer to you.

Gareth grumbled to himself as he unlatched the drum from its tripod stand. Eddie directed you to the coat-pegs by the backdoor and put on his jacket with vest. In the meantime, Jeff and Dougie entered with coils of cable and their guitars. Eddie told them he’d be back soon and tugged you through the backdoor before they could protest.

The chilly air hit your exposed skin and slithered up your skirt to ice your rear. You folded your jacket around your middle, holding it closed with your free arm.

“Jesus, it’s cold,” he said and shook the sweat-soaked hair away from his face.

The door clunked shut.

Only the green-tinted light above the backdoor lit the gravel service road beside the bar.

“Your hair’s going to freeze.”

“Nah, too salty.”

He dug around in his inner-jacket pocket one-handed.

“What did you want to show me?”

He huffed, released your hand, and patted his jacket down. You crossed your arms as you stepped around to watch.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“Cigs are gone.” He glanced at his van parked a few yards away. “They’re probably in the van.” He patted his jacket along with his jeans pockets — though, how anything could hide in them you’d never know — and breathed a curse. “Keys are inside.”

“Is that what you wanted to show me? Cigarettes?” you asked with a laugh.

He met your gaze, eyes dark and full lips parted.

Your smile faded as you examined his beautiful, flushed face. Forget whatever he wanted to show you and hanging with the rest of the band and getting home before curfew. Eddie Munson had written you a song. All you wanted to do was kiss him.

“Fuck it,” he said before taking your hand again.

He walked you away from The Hideout’s backdoor and his van. The toe of your boot knocked some rocks loose from the compacted snow as you jogged to catch up. He remained quiet and marched around the corner. You had no choice but to follow him behind the building, your eyes adjusting to the unlit space.

You clutched his hand in both of yours.

“Eddie?”

He swung you around and stalked you against the cold concrete wall. You fisted the lapel of his vest to pull him close. He pressed his front to yours, hands on your hips.

“Is this what you wanted to show me?” you asked, holding his warm cheek.

“Not exactly.”

He swooped in to kiss you, devouring and needy. Your waxy lipstick smeared between you. His hands trailed down to grip your ass. You pushed your fingers into his thick hair and slanted his head to kiss him harder.

He pulled away far enough to say, “Do you know how good you look tonight?”

You wiped your lipstick off with the sleeve of your jacket. He mirrored you.

“Why don’t you show me.”

You yanked him forward to kiss once more. He groaned and ground his hips against yours. Taking the opportunity, you licked into his mouth to tease his tongue. He tasted like beer, but you didn’t mind.

In reply, he pulled at your ass and sucked on your bottom lip. You mewled, feeling the ridge of his erection. You reached between your bodies to cup his fever-hot groin. His balls were high and tight in your palm, and you gently massaged them.

Eddie tilted his head up with a soft sound as he rocked into your touch. You kissed his jaw, tasted the salt on his neck, and stroked him through the denim. His erection pulsed in your hand. You bet his boxers were wet with precome—

And you wanted to see that.

You dragged his t-shirt from his waistband to snaked your hands over his firm sides. His warm skin was flawless. You had to stop yourself from stooping to worship him all the way down.

Instead, you said, “You’re gorgeous.”

“Look who's talking.”

You hummed a laugh and unbuttoned his jeans.

“Oh shit,” he said.

“Can I?”

“Baby, whatever you want.”

You unzipped his jeans and spread the fly. He shuffled the fabric down his hips enough to expose the thin thatch of his pubic hair.

Softly, you said, “Show me.”

He bit his bottom lip as he dragged his flushed cock from his boxers. It filled out further and bobbed in the air. Your mouth watered at the sight. He really was gorgeous like this.

A thick bead of precome rolled down his frenulum. You caught it with your thumb before wrapping a hand around the heft of his cock and spreading the slick precome over the tip.

Eddie cursed again, watching your hand. “I...” He swallowed and braced his hands on either side of you. “I need you.”

“What do you need?”

His hips jutted forward.

You met his eyes.

“God, I need to be inside you.”

“Yeah? Wanna come in me?”

With a groan, his head flopped forward and cock jerked.

You continued, “Haven’t felt that in so long.”

He kissed you hard. You felt his desperation, his longing. It reflected your own. He wasn’t in your bed enough. You wanted him there every day, every night.

You swept your hands around his waist. He pinned you to the wall with his body. His cock dug into your belly. The contrast of cold wall at your back and hot body at your front had you writhing. You grabbed his round ass as one of your thighs reflexively hitched onto his hip.

His palm followed your raised leg under your skirt. His lips slackened before he broke the kiss.

“You’re not wearing underwear.”

“Nope.”

He plunged his other hand between your legs, making you gasp. His chilled, callused fingers rasped over the fishnet covering your pussy and pushed against it. The texture and tease set your nerves alight. You rolled your hips into his warming touch and leaned your head on the wall.

He trailed kisses over your neck, using his teeth, and nosed under your jacket collar.

“So wet, baby,” he said against your skin. “But I can’t get to you.”

He hooked fingers into the fishnet and gave it a forceful tug. Your hips were jerked forward as the fabric tore with a sharp crackle. You gasped louder this time and slapped a hand over your mouth.

The thought of anyone seeing you both like this — your skirt rucked up and his dick out — thrilled yet unnerved you. You had to keep quiet, lest a bar patron or the other members of Corroded Coffin find you.

However, it felt like a monumental task when he circled your clit just right. You hauled him up by the hair for a kiss. He groaned and tilted his head. His puffy lips slid along yours until it was all madness and heat.

You raised yourself on tip-toe to cant your hips. Knuckles brushed your slit. Then the sleek tip of his cock slid between your folds. The heat and silky skin of his cock had your cunt pulsing in a prelude to orgasm. You rocked with him, breathed with him. It made you weak, made you want everything you couldn’t have just yet.

His tip glanced off your hole. You stiffened. He paused to look deep into your eyes.

“I’ll pull out before.”

“No, I—” You shook your head. You didn’t trust yourself to let him. “Condom.”

“I don’t...”

You’d slipped a condom packet into a jacket pocket before leaving the house. Just in case. It was your last one. You searched the pocket now, praying the condom hadn’t fallen out earlier. Your fingers brushed its plastic packet.

You grinned, held it up between two fingers, and said, “I do.”

“Thank Christ.”

He kissed you hard — once, twice. You held onto his vest and groaned. You were so close to getting him deep inside you. You needed it now, needed him, needed that fullness.

You clutched at his nape and said, “Fuck me.”

His expression went tight as he grit his teeth. He took the condom packet, made space between your bodies, and fumbled the condom on. You nodded and adjusted your leg on his hip. His cock slipped into your wet folds again, brushing your clit.

You tilted your pelvis while balancing with a hand on the wall. Together, you found the perfect angle and his cock pushed right inside. His knuckles bumped your mound as you panted. The stretch of him was nearly too much. The flared crown of his cock ground against nerves you could never reach.

“So fuckin’ tight.”

It was him, you wanted to argue, all him, but you couldn’t form a sentence. You could only hang on and take it. His cock pushed the air from your lungs as he slid to the hilt.

You swallowed a moan at the intensity.

He shushed you and kissed your cheek.

“Feel so good,” you whispered.

Eddie held you still with one hand cradling your ass with the other holding the underside of your hooked leg. You rested your forehead on his shoulder and tried to catch your breath. Your dripping cunt fluttered. He shivered and gulped in air and kissed the rim of your ear.

His voice was strained as he said, “Can’t wait.”

“Then don’t.”

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh.”

His grip tightened as he started with small lurches of his hips. His cock rocked deep inside. You rubbed your lips on his neck, tasted the new sweat on his skin. Then he began to move faster, deeper, plunging hard with every thrust.

You clung to him with shaking limbs as his cock hit you just right. His chest was tight to yours. You threw yourself into it and moved counter to him. He groaned a broken encouragement. You made each of his thrusts bigger, ratcheting you closer and closer to climax.

“Oh fuck, you’re gonna make me come.” He stilled and crushed you to the wall. “Shit, shit, shit.”

You clawed at his shoulders as your cunt clenched. His cock throbbed, but not enough. You covered your mouth to stifle a groan, because you were already on the edge of orgasm.

“Eddie...”

You stretched to catch his kiss-swollen lips. He met you halfway to give biting kisses and push his tongue against yours. His shoulders tensed as both hands held your ass. With no warning, he hoisted you off the ground. You squeaked, hung on, and wrapped your other leg around his waist.

“Jesus fuck...”

“Yeah, c’mon, fuck me.”

He dug his boots into the hard-packed gravel and slammed up into you. That was what you needed from him. You bit the meat at the base of your thumb, muffling your cries that punctuated every thrust of his strong hips.

He took you mercilessly, completely focused on getting as deep as he could. His breath stuttered in your ear. He forced you to the wall and controlled your body. He hammered his cock inside you until you couldn’t take it anymore. You twisted in his bruising hold a second before your body locked. Then everything came crashing through you — enough that you couldn’t see or hear.

You could only feel.

Each fierce surge of orgasm washed away your strength. You stared into the dark, trying to breathe. But you couldn’t. The pleasure kept going as Eddie fucked you through it.

He gasped the beginning of your name, suddenly, his cock throbbing and filling the condom. You wished you could feel him flooding you with each pump of his hips instead. He’d make a mess of you both.

You hugged him with arms and legs as he stilled. He panted and mouthed at the hinge of your jaw.

After a moment, he lowered one of your legs and eased you down to stand. It was enough movement to displace his softening cock. You whined at losing the feel of him inside you.

“I know, sweetheart. Me too.”

He kissed over your jaw to your lips. He brushed his lips against yours, easy and wanton. You let him support your weight as you lowered your other leg. He swept his hands around your waist until he wrapped you in his arms.

You hummed against his lips and grinned, breaking the kiss. He rested his forehead on yours. You hadn’t expected any of that — the songs, the heated looks, the sex — when you’d arrived tonight.

“Wow,” you said.

“Yeah.”

As you were starting to learn, surprises with Eddie could be really, really fun.

He straightened your skirt, then patted your ass.

“I forgot what I was going to show you.”

[pwlanier]

I went to Indianapolis last week and brought these three Baker paintings home with me. I’m a sucker for Indiana impressionists.

George Herbert Baker (February 14, 1878 – March 11, 1943) was an American Impressionist artist who worked primarily in the Richmond, Indiana area and was a member of the "Richmond Group" of painters. He worked in oil, watercolor and pastels. He worked for a time in Brown County, Indiana and is sometimes associated with that group of artists.

Born in Muncie, Indiana, Baker lived in Richmond and Centerville most of his life. He studied with John Elwood Bundy, at the Cincinnati Art Academy and the Boothbay Art School. In 1925 he was a visiting instructor at Miami University.

His work is represented in the collections of the Indianapolis Museum of Art, Haan Mansion Museum of Indiana Art, Richmond Art Museum, Earlham College, Miami University Art Museum, Morrisson-Reeves Library, Centerville, Indiana Library and a devoted group of private collectors. A painting titled "November Meadows" painted during the time he was an instructor at Miami University hangs today over the mantle in the formal living room of the Miami president's home, Lewis Place. Wiki

George Baker (1878-1943) was born in Muncie, Indiana and moved to Richmond, Indiana in his early teens. Considered a brilliant colorist, Baker demonstrated artistic ability early in his life. This interest in drawing landed him a job at the Gaar-Scott Company where like Charles Conner; he painted scenes on farm equipment. The farm equipment could be decorated with anything from pinstripes to completed landscapes. It was Mr. Scott who introduced Baker to the dean of the Richmond Group, John Bundy. In addition to art instruction with Bundy, Baker studied at the Cincinnati Art Academy and at the Boothbay Art School, Maine.

Baker was a charter member of the Richmond Palette club, serving as the president of the organization. His was known for his landscapes of all seasons and moods, painting nature around Wayne County. His daring use of bold color led to rumors of alcoholism, yet these cannot be confirmed. When asked about his use of color Baker responded, “I don’t paint nature the way it is. I paint nature the way I wish it was.” Considered to be one of the finest landscape painters in Indiana, Baker was invited to serve as a visiting instructor for two semesters at Miami University, Oxford, Ohio in 1925.

Later in his career he worked in pastel and depicted marine scenes. Baker painted on the New England coast and in the mountains during the summer of 1931. In that same year, sixty oil paintings of Marine scenes and pastels were placed on display in the Westcott Hotel. He exhibited in Cincinnati, New York, Chicago, Detroit, Indianapolis and various cities throughout Indiana and Ohio winning numerous awards including the Howard Spaulding Jr. prize of $100 at the Hoosier Salon Exhibition, Nye Prize, 1930 and the Muncie Prize in 1910. Baker was a prominent local artist of his time and influenced many Hoosier artists. Artists that studied with Baker include Harry Townsend, Zeb E. Pottenger, Lawrence McConaha and Howard Leigh. Courtesy Wayne County website.

[kakkaryash2601]

Formula 1 and its basic information

Introduction:

Today in our new blog we will talk about the new topic which seems quite popular these days known as Formula 1. In Formula 1 we will learn more about what exactly Formula 1 is, where the Formula 1 race is done and How it works. So stay tuned with us on our journey to a deep understanding of Formula 1. We Digitally infos will uncover all the knowledge about Formula 1. So let's get started!

What is Formula 1?

Formula 1 is the highest-class international racing competition with single-seat racing cars. Also, Formula 1 is the world's most renowned motor racing competition. And there is no substitution for the F1 race.

Formula 1  includes team sports that require charging all 4 tyres on a car in under 2 seconds. In F1 race,racers are more like fighter pilots than sportspeople. Racers in Formula One face extreme G-forces and make harsh decisions in the blink of an eye when the speed of racing cars is at 370 km/h. To be the best racer, they push themselves to the very end and make use of incredibly innovative machines to their very limit.

Formula one drivers are competing for the F1 drivers championship while the other teams are fighting for the F1 constructor championship. The winner's prize money is based on the position at the end of the season.

In Formula 1, each race is also known as the Grand Prix. It is also known that the Grand Prix is held at incredible locations throughout the world. The prediction has been made that 2024 will break the Grand Prix record of 24 races that is set to take place this season.

How many drivers and teams have taken part in the F1 race?

With a total number of participants of 20 drivers and 10 teams, they all have taken part in the F1 race. 

As in this season, the driver has to experience competition from all-world champions in the F1 race including Lawis Hamilton, Max Verstappen and Fernando Alonso. And the racers who were in the second season such as Oscar Piastri and Logan Sargeant.

But when it comes to the team, there were few teams such as Ferrari that were in the F1 race since the early year (they had been continuously competing since the very first season in 1950). Also, newcomers like McLaren or Haas who have entered the sport since 2016.

Location of F1 race:

The location includes 21 countries across 5 continents in 2024 schedule. It includes classic tracks such as Silverstone, Spa-Francorchamps and Suzuka. Also, it includes the addition to the schedule such as Las Vegas, Maimi and Qartar.

It is seen that China has returned to the Formula 1 calendar for the first time since 2019 and will soon host the first F1 sprint in 2024.

This season they will be featuring seven rounds that will be spread out from May to September. Also, it will be staged in Europe except for the Indianapolis 500 in the United States where most F1 drivers sat out.

In the following decades, F1 developed has arrived at European events with amazing adventure. Also, adventure is now brought to South America, North America, Africa, Australia, and most recently to Middle East as well. Now, this is truly putting the world into World championship.

In the very first campaign, the F1 calendar will feature Monaco, Monza, Silverstone, and Spa. For F1 safety arrangements have been made since then with new modifications.

Working of F1 weekend:

Normally, Formula 1 weekend events usually take place in 3 days that are Friday, Saturday and Sunday.

On Friday, Formula 1 features free practice sessions (FP1 and FP2) for two 60-minute sessions. It is used to check whether racing cars are working properly, and if the car is not working properly, the changes can be done before the main race. So does the preparation will continue.

Onto Saturday, after the end of the final practice session (FP3), the drivers will be heading toward qualifying sessions. In qualifying sessions, the slowest five drivers with 18 minutes in the Q1 segment get eliminated. In the Q2 segment, five more will get eliminated in 15 minutes. Then the position will be set on the grid prior to that is 20-11 as per penalty. The final 12 minutes in the Q3 segment will decide the top 10 grid slots along with the fastest driver position.

The final race itself will be done on Sunday, where drivers will battle for scoring points. Also, drivers have to grab the spot on the podium where they have to take the chequered flag first to win.

Conclusion:

At the end of this session, we learned so much about Formula one including what is Formula 1, how many drivers have taken part in Formula 1, and how it works. So in the next session, we will go more deep into Formula 1 and provide you the information you require. So stay tuned with us on our next session.

[coimbrabertone]

Wildcards are a Great Idea

Bit of a shorter, popup blogpost today, but wildcards are a great idea.

What prompted all this? Well, KTM just announced that Dani Pedrosa will race on a third Red Bull KTM bike at the Spanish Grand Prix at Jerez, and then Pol Espargaro will race that bike at the Italian Grand Prix in Mugello a month later. Last year, Pedrosa was instantly competitive in his two wildcards in Jerez and Misano, finishing 6th in the Jerez sprint, seventh in the Jerez race, and then taking a pair of fourth place finishes at Misano. This is awesome.

Similarly, we effectively have wildcards in American motorsports, in that we have one-off entries that can be super competitive. Think of Shane Van Gisbergen last year, the Australian Supercars champion came over, hopped in the Trackhouse Project 91 entry, and won at the Chicago street race, becoming the first driver to win his first cup race since like the 1950s. That is awesome.

And what's even more awesome is that now, between Xfinity and Cup, SVG is now turning that into a full-time career pivot to NASCAR, something only possible because he had that one-off chance to showcase his talent.

Similarly, the last week or so, we've gotten a raft of one-offs announced for the 2024 Indianapolis 500 - Katherine Legge giving us a competitive woman to cheer for, crowd favorite Conor Daly back in an Indycar, and 2012 series champion Ryan Hunter-Reay as his teammate at Dreyer & Reinbold. These are three really good drivers with lots of history in the series getting another shot at Indycar racing's greatest prize. That is awesome.

And then there's Formula One.

The same twenty cars each and every race with the same Red Bull driver destined to win virtually every week. I have a lot of problems with F1 and it's going to take a lot for me to fall back in love with the racing series that meant so much to me for most of my life. That being said, even here, wildcards could certainly spice up the show.

Ollie Bearman had that hugely impressive race in Saudi Arabia filling in for Carlos Sainz, imagine if Ferrari had the freedom to give him two or three more races in a third car at the likes of Imola, Silverstone, and Monza. Similarly, Red Bull could give Liam Lawson some more F1 experience in one of its teams, especially if they're considering him for a future ride.

Or we could see a direct parallel with Dani Pedrosa - in that retired family man Sebastian Vettel could team up with one of the teams he raced for - Toro Rowhateverthey'recallednow, Red Bull, Ferrari, or Aston - and pick and choose a few of his favorite racers. Everyone seems to want him back anyway, so why not let him do this in a way that doesn't subject him to the absurd demands of a twenty-four race globetrotting season?

I grew up thinking F1 was the greatest motorsport had to offer, but as I get older, I appreciate the more open systems in other racing series. It's really damn cool when we get these competitive one-off racers every once in awhile.

You don't hurt anything by adding a new, interesting storyline.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1965 Indianapolis 500 : The winner Jim Clark in Lotus-Ford 38 followed closely by AJ. Foyt and Parnelli Jones during early laps of the race.

Jim Clark still led at the halfway point, and would not relinquish the lead for the remainder of the race. Early contender A. J. Foyt dropped out after 115 laps with a broken gearbox.

The lone accident of the day involved Bud Tingelstad, who lost a wheel and spun into the outside wall in turn three.

Scotland's Jim Clark became the first non-American winner of the Indianapolis 500 since 1920. Clark led three times for a total of 190 laps. Only eleven cars were running at the finish. Second place Parnelli Jones ran out of fuel on the final lap, and pushed his car back to the pits.

Lotus was successful at Indianapolis with the Lotus 29, almost winning the 500 at its first attempt in 1963 with Clark at the wheel. The race marked the beginning of the end for the old front-engined Indianapolis roadsters. Clark was leading when he retired from the 1964 event with suspension failure, but in 1965, he won the biggest prize in US racing driving his Lotus 38 and winning by a lap; it was the first mid-engined car to win the Indianapolis 500.

Story : Wikipedia

[dragoneyes618]

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about stupidity.

Its nexus with hatred, that is.

The connection was amusingly evident last month, when when a 34-year-old woman named Ruba Almaghtheh, shouting “Free Palestine,” plowed her Chevy Impala into a building in Indianapolis associated with the “Israelite School of Universal Practical Knowledge,” a black supremacist sect whose ideology is based on animosity toward white people and, in particular, Jews.

Ms. Almaghtheh, a Muslim native of Jordan, told officers at the scene that she had been watching coverage of the war in Gaza before driving into the “Israel school” and, according to the arrest affidavit, she “decided to [crash] into the building on purpose because she observed a symbol [a star resembling a Jewish one]… on the residence…”

Nice going, Ruba!

Another contender of the Dumbest Hater prize, heretofore the “Ruba,” is Benjamin Burton Brower Jr., 30, who faces felony charges of his own after surveillance cameras at the Salvation Army church and soup kitchen in Altoona, Pennsylvania, recorded him in broad daylight taping razor blades to the hand railing at the building’s entrance.

He was fingered because, according to the Altoona Police Department, he was “shirtless during the incident and identified by a large red swastika tattoo on his chest.”

Not the brightest wolf in the lair.

Then, of course, we have the utter ignorance displayed by college students whose minds somehow permanently deleted the events of October 7 and absorbed a mindless “pro-Hamas” mush in the guise of supporting Palestinian aspirations.

Chant along with me: “From the classrooms to the quad, minds have turned to sod.”

Comedian/commentator Bill Maher well expressed the student mind-muddle at some Ivy League universities with a memorable metaphor: “If ignorance is a disease, Harvard Yard is the Wuhan wet market.”

He went on to note “how higher education has become indoctrination into a stew of bad ideas, among them the simplistic notion that the world is a binary place where everyone is either an oppressor or oppressed—in the case of Israel, oppressors being babies and bubbes.”

None of which, of course, is to say that all anti-Semites or all anti-Israel “activists” are stupid. There are plenty of high-IQ haters. But, when one notes their justifications for their prejudiced positions—wild notions and conspiracy theories, especially about Jews—and their ready acceptance of demonstrable lies as facts (and, concomitantly, their total ignoring of actual facts), the inescapable conclusion is that, stupid or not, what they spew is stupidity.

And what they often reveal is simple ignorance.

A recent survey of college students who sympathize with Palestinians showed that less than half of the students who embrace the “from the river to the sea…” slogan, which Hamas used in its 2017 “revised” charter, were able to name the river and the sea they were shouting about. (Some 10% of those surveyed, moreover, identified Yasser Arafat as the first prime minister of Israel.)

And then there is the ignorance of the definitions of the words “genocide,” “apartheid” and “terrorism.”

Genocide, as defined in 1948 by the United Nations Genocide Convention, refers to “acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group.” Considering that, from 1990 to 2022, the Palestinian population increased from 1.98 million to 5.04 million people, Israel is sure doing an uncharacteristically bad job of genocide.

There’s only one genocidal actor in the current war, and it isn’t Israel.

Apartheid was South Africa’s racist system of institutionalized segregation from 1948 to the early 1990s. The government forbade blacks from marrying non-blacks. Hospitals and beaches were segregated. Education opportunities for blacks were restricted.

Israeli law mandates, and its independent courts ensure, the equal treatment of all the country’s citizens, Arab and Jew alike. Israeli Arab citizens serve as ambassadors, legislators, journalists and academics. Not to mention that the Knesset includes an Islamist Arab political party, or that Arab citizens of Israel have been elected to every Knesset since the state’s founding.

And terrorism refers to violent actions intended to, well, instill terror, rather than to achieve a military objective. The Oklahoma City bombing in 1995 was terrorism. The al-Qaeda attacks on New York and Washington on September 11, 2001, were terrorism. The October 7 Hamas pogrom was terrorism. Israel’s current war is an attempt to prevent terrorism.

So much stupidity and ignorance. It will be hard to decide who wins the Ruba.

[citrusreadstoa]

Reading The Dark Prophecy: Chapter 7 (SPOILERS)

"BEING PRODUCTIVE. Ugh." Okay, we're immediately on the same page.

"I never found out what sort of bugs were in the bug juice" A shame.

"Soon I would be stuck between Emmie and Calypso discussing kale-growing techniques and Leo and Josephine waxing poetic about carburetors." This is Leo getting revenge for the three books he spent stuck as the seventh wheel. And before we move on, CARBURETOR (n.): a device used by an internal combustion engine to control and mix air and fuel entering the engine

"Speak of the daimon" I like this substitute. "All da cows love Leo." Since cows are ladies, of course they would love Leo. "And these cows are red, man." Uhh, aren't red cows Apollo's thing? Like, these are Apollo's cows, right? This is either very good or very bad. "Red cows were my favorite. For centuries I had a herd" Oh, so not all of them. Just one particular herd. These are not his, then. Apollo getting teary-eyed about red little cows is the best freaking thing, though.

"I will make a constellation out of you. I will call it the Small Exploding Latino." "I like it!" Unfazed. Notable how turning someone into a constellation can be used as both a threat and a great honor. Or maybe the great honor is why Leo is unfazed. Also, here we have confirmation of what I was wondering earlier. Despite being the god of the sun, Apollo can still create constellations. So can other gods, probably.

"the last three millennia of popular music" That's a... lot. Does Calypso have the brain space to learn all that? Does Apollo have the brain space to remember all that to teach her?

"Leo cut the cheese. (You can interpret that any way you want.)" What other ways are there to interpret that? What does "cut the cheese" mean? CUT THE CHEESE (Canada, US, euphemistic, slang): to fart (flatulate) I'm from the US and I've never heard of this.

"bright red all the way through" Mama, where does chocolate milk come from? Why, from brown cows, of course!

"The cheddar wheel turned out to be bright red all the way through and quite tasty." "sweet red cream" I wonder if there are any blue cows out there that the Jacksons might be interested in.

"as if it were a third-place prize from a three-person competition." I'm loving these similes.

"the Triumvirate had sabotaged all forms of communication used by demigods . . . ventriloquist puppets" First of all, how did the Triumvirate sabotage all of this? What kind of arcane magic stops ALL IRIS MESSAGES along with literally everything else? Also, I want to know what demigod is using ventriloquism as a form of long-distance communication.

"Apollo, show them your talking arrow." So he did bring it!

"They dropped their forks and covered their ears." "Never before has any voice dared to utter a limerick in this house, Apollo." I WANT TO KNOW. WHAT GRIEVANCE. RICK RIORDAN. HAS AGAINST LIMERICKS. They're not that bad! They're a lot of fun, actually! Is this, like, some kind of childhood English class trauma? Stuck for hours trying to get the perfect limerick to hand in the next day and still gets a D-? Limericks as the do-now assignment starting off every class or something?

"Apollo will be forced death and madness to swallow." Isn't it Festus that has to swallow death and madness? It does say, The bronze fire-eater / Was forced death and madness to swallow.

"before the emperor moved in" So the Triumvirate took over relatively recently? Indianapolis hasn't been theirs for decades and decades?

"That cave literally drove our daughter mad." Oh no, the poor girl went crazy? Is that why she's still making crayon drawings? Will they be able to restore her sanity by the end of this book?

"might be a portent of what I would soon face." PORTENT (n.): a sign or warning that something, especially something momentous or calamitous, is likely to happen

"We used to have a dozen or so living here at any given time." There are supposed to be more people in the Waystation????? "Our griffins." That's where they get the griffins on the cover! "Heloise and Abelard." They've got namessssss!!!!!!!

"Agamethus helped her." "It was ordained" Brieanna helped Georgina sneak out without her parents' permission to go see a scary, dangerous, underwater cave Oracle? Who was it ordained by? You better not say "the emperor." Don't you turn traitor on us now, Brieanna.

"It can't be Com--" Commodus! He's from the Read Riordan quiz! "Maybe Heloise and Abelard are back?" Ma'am, I know your griffins are big, but they cannot shake the entire building and block out the sun.

"Josephine pulled out an old-fashioned machine gun" I believe this is the first character on the good side we've ever seen use a gun as their weapon of choice (excluding Sally Jackson, who had to use a gun due to extreme extenuating circumstances). "A reminder of my sordid past life." Do the Hunters sometimes use guns??? I doubt it. This is probably from her life before the Hunt, but that means she would've been in her late teens, earliest, when she joined. Tommy guns were invented in 1918 for trench warfare in WWI. Was she old enough to serve even if they allowed women to fight? "sordid past life" does not sound like she just got a gun from a relative who was serving.

[handeaux]

That Was No Lady Whose Pooch Poached The Prize At Cincinnati’s First Dog Show

The oddly specific award, presented at Cincinnati’s first major dog show, was buried in a long list of prizes bestowed upon the finest canines in the Queen City:

“The finest and handsomest dog of any kind, and owned and entered by a lady, a gold-mounted collar; awarded Miss Jeanne Bassett; spaniel John Wilson.”

Therein lies a tale (or tail).

It was 1877. New York attracted a great deal of national attention with the inaugural Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. Boston announced it would soon stage a similar event. In Cincinnati, George M. Arnold, an actor, and Robert Miles, proprietor of the Grand Opera House on Vine Street, decided that New York had nothing on our fair city and announced a major dog show to take place on Mount Adams in late June.

Arnold and Miles procured a large vacant lot next-door to the Highland House at the top of the Mount Adams Incline. Many years before, the property held a fireworks factory and in the future the Rookwood Pottery would locate there. On this plot, Miles erected an immense circus tent, 150 feet in diameter, sheltering 250 kennels.

Dogs were packed in everywhere. They came in all sizes, from a “Siberian Bloodhound” (a type of mastiff) weighing 192 pounds, to Toodles, a “black and tan,” who tipped the scales at just over 24 ounces. Cincinnatians kept different breeds back then. Newfoundlands were popular, as were spaniels, poodles, Irish setters and pointers. Other breeds seem exotic today, such as coach dogs, fox dogs (believed to be fox-dog hybrids – an impossibility), Greenham dogs and Russian shepherds.

The show got off to a wet start. Although Thursday, June 21, started out fine, a storm “of no ordinary importance” blew through and soaked the pavilion, scattering the crowd and soaking the grounds. After retying the tent ropes and hauling in a couple of truckloads of straw, the show went on, attracting so many customers at a quarter apiece that an extra day was tacked on to accommodate demand.

Other cities took envious notice. The Indianapolis Journal opined that Cincinnati staged the canine exposition to direct attention away from accusations by the Temperance newspapers that local brewers were selling adulterated suds. The St. Louis Times observed that Cincinnati was on a roll, with the dog show opening simultaneously with the display of a live beluga whale at Mount Auburn’s Lookout House, a revived professional baseball team and the ribbon cutting for the new Cincinnati-Southern Railroad.

At the conclusion of the show, the newspapers printed lengthy lists of prize winners and a couple of controversies. Dognapers stole some of the prize dogs from their be-ribboned kennels and a few pooches escaped. A lawsuit or two alleged that judges had illegally awarded prizes to undeserving mutts and the owners of a few honored dogs claimed they never received their prizes. Still, the show was declared a roaring success, a feather in Cincinnati’s cap, until, that is, the Cincinnati Gazette [26 June 1877] spilled the beans:

“At the dog show held last week, the prize for the ‘handsomest and finest dog of any kind, owned and entered by a lady,’ a gold-mounted collar, was awarded to the keeper of a house of ill-fame. The dog was named after a circus-rider who, a few days ago, shot a man with the intention of killing him.”

All of this was true. The lady in question was Jeanne Bassett, who maintained a brothel at 130 Longworth Street, the very heart of Cincinnati’s red-light district. Miss Bassett was no stranger to the newspapers. In fact, her recent feud with a neighboring madam, Kate Riley, had gotten so out-of-control that the police “pulled” both houses and fined the landladies and inmates for disturbing the peace.

Madam Bassett’s award-winning spaniel was named John Wilson and may have been a gift from the gentleman with that name. Mr. Wilson was, as the Gazette intimated, a sometime equestrian for the John Robinson Circus, based in Cincinnati. As his namesake dog was wowing the judges on Mount Adams, Wilson himself was incarcerated, unable to raise bail after shooting a security guard at Wood’s Theater. As is often the case with hot-headed gunplay, alcohol was involved. In the middle of a pub crawl, Wilson and a friend, gambler Bob Cathcart, popped into Wood’s Theater at the southeast corner of Sixth and Vine. There, private policeman Charles Thompson told Cathcart to ditch his cigar. Wilson took offense and shot Thompson as they argued. Wilson fled but sent a messenger to Miss Bassett’s house. The young courier was intercepted by the police and led officers to Wilson’s hideout. Miss Bassett apparently raised money to guarantee Wilson’s bond.

All of this was still fresh in the public’s mind as the dog show was organized. It would be beyond belief that Bob Miles, the theater impresario, and George Arnold, the actor, were unfamiliar with Jeanne Bassett and her Longworth Street house. They surely would have heard about the shooting at Wood’s Theater. How they allowed Miss Bassett to register her spaniel, much less take top honors, is a bit of a mystery.

The scandal of Miss Bassett’s success, however, cast a pall over the entire enterprise and it was some years before anyone dared to stage another dog show in Cincinnati.