#20 minutes into tax returns and chill and he gives you this look

[strawberry-selfships]

i paused the movie to reblog that home alone video and then went to play it and saw this is the frame it paused on. what does he know.

[iwantutobehapppier]

Lotsa Latkes Fun

Pairing: James ‘Bucky’ Barnes x Jewish Female Reader

Summary: Bucky loves to cook, and he really loves to cook with you. 

Warnings: 18+ Smut, sex, little bit of dirty talk but not really

Word Count: 2,469

A/N: Happy fourth night of Chanukah. Kind of let myself get away with this one haha. Thank you to the amazing @threeminutesoflife​ for helping me with Festival of Smut ides and @sagechanoafterdark​ for making sure my writing makes sense lol

If there was one thing Bucky loved to do post-mission it was to cook. After a good shower and maybe a nap depending on how taxing a mission Bucky loved to get in the kitchen and cook. The best was when it was something he hadn’t ever cooked or eaten before. Even better if he was cooking with you.

The two of you had been together for a short amount of time but it seemed like forever to Bucky. In the best of ways. Your calming demeanor a much-needed reprieve from the chaos the rest of his life brought. Cooking with you reminded him of being with Steve on the battlefield. The two of you in sync and always anticipating where the other was going without saying a word.

He was rather excited waking up from today’s nap knowing you would be coming over to show him how to make Latkes. Looking at the clock Bucky couldn’t help the rush of excitement. When the minute hand ticked by and the sun kept lowering he began to become nervous. He knew you wanted to have the Latkes cooked and ready for sunset.

Resting his hand in the palm of his metal hand he tried to calm himself and not call you just yet. There was still plenty of time he reassured himself, he was just anxious to spend time with you.

When he heard the steps outside his apartment door come closer and then the jingling of keys entering the lock he knew it was you. Trying to act like he was not waiting the past hour or more like a lovesick puppy he jumped onto the couch grabbing the first thing he could to fake read.

“I’m so sorry motek,” you rush in shutting and locking the door behind you to keep the cold out before you lug your giant bag full of goodies to the kitchen looking around for your geriatric counter partner. Catching him reading a magazine. One you were pretty sure you left last time.

“Enjoying that issue of Vogue?” An eyebrow lifted at him as he looked at the magazine he grabbed. Couldn’t have been the latest issue of Bon Appetit he bought at a stand the other day, nope had to be your fashion magazine the one he grabbed.

“I was smelling the cologne?” You roll your eyes, Bucky setting it down and leaping over the couch one-handed. Wrapping you up in his arms he feels the winter chill on you, his hands rubbing your back to push his warmth through you.

Curling your arms under his to grip his shoulders from behind you lift for the expected kiss that Bucky certainly delivers. The plush connection doing more than enough to warm you up. Soft kisses, and a playful growl when you nip his bottom lip are enough to wash away any leftover fervid feelings over your delay.

“Let’s get cookin’ hot mama,” Bucky lets go of you to grab your overweight bag with ease. Placing it on the kitchen counter he starts emptying and you grab the menorah and candles to set them on his coffee table for later.

After the two of you move around the kitchen together getting items together you rejoin to peel the giant bag of potatoes. Bucky pauses to question your recipe.

“So you just know how much?” Nodding your head you pass him another potato to peel.

“Just how many potatoes do you need? The whole bag or some of them?" He keeps on, wanting to learn the recipe you seemed to not know how to explain. "Yes," your only response.

“We’re using yellow onions in the food processor as well, they can be pretty powerful. How do you know when enough is enough?” Pausing you turn your body to him and put the peeler on your cheek. “When I say we do?”

“That’s not helpful,” he huffs, cutting the yellow onions into quarters after you handed them to him. “Where is the recipe from?”

“My mom’s head, who got it from her great aunt’s head and now it’s in my head.” Bucky shakes his own head starting to cut the potatoes in half to fit in the food processor.

“Not every recipe is just x amount of cups and tablespoons,” you chide while assembling the food processor on his kitchen island.

“Blasphemy,” he mutters. You muffle your giggle but his super-soldier hearing doesn’t miss it. Setting the knife down he’s suddenly tickling you relentlessly on the side, peels of laughter falling out of your mouth uncontrollably.

“You think sassing me is hilarious huh?” Nodding your head in between your laughter you try to wiggle out of his grasp ending up with his chest to your back pushing you into the counter trapping you. You don’t stop wiggling though and while he continues this assault you feel something rather familiar pushing against your backend.

Pushing back against the growing erection he stops tickling and immediately his hands grip your hips to hold you in place.

“Now, now,” he growls in your ear, “we’ve got cooking to do before sunset.” Nipping your ear he lets go, returning to cut the potatoes in half.

You remain still for a moment longer, your brain misfiring at his rough voice. Oh man, you needed to finish these latkes.

Getting the food processor together you grate the potatoes and onions then drain them in a cheese towel. Keeping some of the juices you mix the Matzo meal, eggs and seasonings together then bring the potatoes and onions in.

“Why are you adding more?” Bucky asks as you pour in more Matzo meal. “It doesn’t feel right yet,” he glowers at your words.

“Doesn’t feel right? And what does that feel like?”

“Like a good mix of all the ingredients?” Bucky chuckles at your vague description watching you continue. “Can you heat up the oil?” Bucky nods at your request turning the burner on under the pan full of oil.

Finally when you feel good about the mixture and the oil is heated you grab a wooden spoon, scoop a small amount of the Latkes mixture in and flatten it with the palm of your hand. Slowly slip it into the heated oil.

The loud pops of the oil frying telling you it’s too hot, you turn the burner down a bit and hand Bucky the spoon. “You make the others, Let’s only do 4 at a time to make sure they all cook evenly.”

He takes the spoon and follows the same steps as you before presenting his spoon to you for approval. With an encouraging smile, you nod your head and he places it in the oil with the one you made. He makes two more and you take his place in front of the burner waiting to flip.

“How do you know when it’s time to flip?”

Bucky comes up behind you, his hands resting on the voluptuous flare of your hips, his chin on your shoulder watching the Latkes cook.

“You watch the browning on the outline,” Bucky hms.

“Thank you for showing me how to make these.”

He kisses your neck before going back to looking at the browning potatoes. Hand slide up your waist, cupping your breasts, skilled fingers finding your nipples to pinch. Your head dips back with a soft moan.

His lips rest on your earlobe, “Come on doll,” his breathy words push against your ear, “You gotta watch them,” he tweaks your nipples hard, you jerk paying attention to the pan. He ruts his pelvis into you, his growing arousal feeling deliciously hard against your soft back end.

“Don’t get too distracted or they’ll burn,” he whispers against your neck.

Suddenly he’s off you, leaving you feeling hot under the collar and growing dampness in your underwear. He was driving you inside with this hot and cold today.

Once the Latkes were all done, cooked to perfection, and cooling on the wire rack Bucky glanced at the kitchen clock. “Hey, doll when’s sunset tonight?”

Looking back at him as you stop adjusting the latkes on the wire rack you purse your lips trying to recall what time you read earlier today. “Uuh, I think around 5:20?”

A lecherous smile pulls on Bucky’s lips as he pushes you away from the cooling latkes and presses your back against the kitchen island. “Ah just enough time then,” he attacks your lips.

Catching you off guard you remain still before relaxing into his lips, his large hands framing your face to tilt your head slightly up. Bucky kisses trailing down your chin, hands sweeping down to pull the collar of your shirt exposing more skin for him to consume. Mouth trailing down to bite at the swell of your breast.

“Bucky,” you gasp out.

The passion he had been giving you small bursts of since coming over is unleashed. You wrap a leg around his waist, curling and pulling him flush against you. His hips grinding against you pushes your damp panties against you, a stuttered moan falls out your mouth.

He’s kissing you once more, hands unzipping and pulling your pants down your hips. Tugging on the fabric clinging to you and grunting into your mouth with the effort. His cool metal hand dips into your underwear and you coo at the sensation. Smooth metal grazes your soaked folds before slipping in gathering the slick pouring out you.

Bucky bits your bottom lip just as his fingers rub your clit, the dule sensation making your hips jerk forward and your head spin. He groans your name against your lips before flipping you around pressing your chest against the marble countertop.

Your hands flat on the surface, you push yourself up but his metal hand falls on the small of your back keeping you down. Trying to keep yourself up on your elbows, he allows it. His focus turns to pulling your panties past your hips, sure to keep your legs together with the restricting fabric as his cool metal digits caress your swollen folds.

“So wet for me,” he admires, voice rough with arousal as he watches your slick pooling down your folds onto your panties.

Instantly his hands are gone, hearing the rustle of fabric and a zipper behind you. Trying to turn your head but before you can get a look you feel the bulbous tip of his cock push against your folds, nudging your clit before slipping up to your entrance.

Bucky grasps your ass cheeks and pulls them apart, marveling at the way your wet hole opens just a fraction at the shift, enough for him to nudge the tip of his cock in. You rock up onto your tiptoes at the sensation, legs taut.

He pushes in and you fall flat on the countertop crying out, fingernails scraping against the unforgiving stone. The way his thick shaft pushes and pulls against your walls makes your spine tingle. Turning your head you rest your cheek on the cool marble, cooing and mewling as he slowly pulls back out and pushes back in at an almost glacial pace.

Bucky wants to take his time, feeling the way your walls flutter around him and how you gush out when he is all the way in. His balls become slippery with your slick, he’s rather sure your panties are ruined and soon your pants but he doesn’t care. His hands push your sweater up your back until he sees your bra clasp undoing it.

His warm hands slip under you, cupping your breasts squeezing and pinching the nipples. You moan, voice growing louder when he begins to rock his hips back and forth at a steady pace. Fingernails dig harder against the marble, you’re fairly certain you’ve broken at least one nail.

“Bucky,” you beg, and he leans over you, covering your body with his weight.

“What is it?” He taunts pushing his cock all the way in and remains there, “What do you need?” He drags out the last syllable the rumble in his chest felt on your back.

“You,” is all you can get out, but he knows. He knows you need him to be rough, to take you to remind you who you belong to, who he belongs to.

"You have me," he grunts into your hair. Using all of his remaining willpower to pull his cock from you until just the head remains. "All of me. I'm yours, doll." Bucky thrusts back in hard, the force sure to leave bruises on your hips from the counter but he can’t care about that right now. All he can focus on is you.

He stands back up, hands leaving our pebbled and sore nipples to rest on the cool marble he holds our hips. A snarl pulls from his lips at the sight of your swollen and redden folds. You always looked so good, but the sight of your body taking him in, well it did things to him.

Before you can beg again he’s pounding into you with renewed energy. His metal hand slapps against your bouncing ass check and you cry out. Your walls begin to flutter around him, feeling yourself start the fall.

And he knows.

Slipping a hand around he finds your engorged clit, with precision he begins to rub your clit in time with his thrusts. Each time he pushes in your clit is smashed against his fingers and when he pulls out those same fingers are rubbing frantically against it.

“Bu-” You try to get out the pulsing pleasure rolling along your body down to your center. “Buck-” is all you can make out before you fall. A choked sob follows with your eyes shut tight, balling your fists against the counter.

You feel weightless as the euphoria takes hold.

Your limp body rocks in tandem with his erratic salacious thrusts, Bucky chasing his own high as he grunts each time his cock is fully inside you. With one final push, his balls tighten and an animalistic groan signals his release.

Your eyes crack open, you make a soft ‘oh’ when you feel his cum shoot inside you. So warm and welcome. You're both panting when he leans over your body. Holding himself up by his elbows.

He pushes his face into your hair, inhaling deep and pushing out a shaky loud breath. Yeah cooking with you was his favorite thing to do. Hell doing anything with you left him in awe. Because you were his favorite thing in the world.

Once you’ve both caught your breath he stands up straight pulling from you watching as your combined juices pour from your abused hole further soiling your panties. He licks his lips before patting your ass with his flesh hand.

“Ready for some latkes?”

[krisroley]

BLOG: Tales Of The New Normal 7/7/2019

Since Devin’s accident, and for reasons that I hope are obvious, we haven’t been able to do a lot of the things we used to. We used to take weekend road trips in the Summer all the time. Hell, it’s one of the reasons I bought JLSUV in the first place (you try driving 6 hours in a Prius and tell me how YOUR back feels). I’ve been itching to get everyone in the car and just go SOMEWHERE. Devin can’t walk on his own still, and he’s pretty much blind from the brain injury. So we’ve been a bit apprehensive about travel. Can I get him somewhere without a wheelchair? The simple reality is if that wheelchair goes, literally no one else can get in the car. So under those circumstances, we struck out this morning not exactly knowing how this was going to work, but we were damn well going to try.

The first step—in this case the step down from the doorway to the porch—is the hardest. But, once we got him outside, the walk down the driveway wasn’t sod bad. Backing him into the backseat and twisting him into position was ok, he was even able to help there. Three kids in the backseat, Mom and Dad in the front, away we go.

But where?

Up the Eastern Shore, just about to the Maryland State Line is a wonderful place called Chincoteague. Every year around my birthday they have an event where the wild ponies that live on the island are rounded up, they cross the marsh, and they’re auctioned off to help the volunteer fire department on the island. You may be familiar with the children’s story “Misty of Chincoteague”, this is the real thing. It has been a bucket list item of mine to go and see the swim, but when I got there for the first time a couple years back, I fell in love with the place. It’s a seaside beach town not unlike some of the smaller Keys, or Nantucket, or even my beloved Camden in the Summer. It’s about three hours from my house, give or take. I looked at Kimmers and said “Ponies?”

“Ponies. Absolutely”, she said. So off we went.

For those of you who have never been to my part of the world, there’s not a way to get to Hampton Roads that doesn’t involve crossing a bridge. In three of those cases, those bridges also have tunnels that go under water. In order to get to the Eastern Shore, you must take the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel (CBBT). This is one of the engineering marvels of the modern world, truly. A 17 mile long bridge that has two tunnels that take you underwater deep enough so as not to interfere with the shipping channels for barges, tankers, and aircraft carriers that need to get through there. Yes, the first time is a little…worrisome, but you get used to it. Especially on clear Summer days when the ocean just shimmers. It’s a beautiful drive. If it didn’t cost 20 bucks round trip on weekends, I’d do it way more often just for the view.

Route 13, the main road up the Shore is rural country. The Eastern Shore is mainly agricultural, and pretty economically depressed. You see it in the number of dilapidated houses and shacks that line 13. Off the main drag, you begin to see patterns. Towns look almost exactly the same. Not only to each other in Virginia, but I recognize towns in Western Virginia I’ve been to, and even Downtown Machias, or Downtown Camden in Maine. The buildings even look the same, and they’ve been there for at least a hundred years or more. It dawned on me that all these towns were along a rail track, and that might explain the similarities. It also explained—at least in modern standards—what the ‘wrong side of the tracks’ looked like.

Chincoteague Road is a right off of 13, and takes you by the NASA Wallops Island Launch facility. Great museum there if you have a chance.

Passing the facility, the road takes a hard right turn, and this two lane road you’re on crosses the marsh and deposits you on the Island. Continuing straight will take you through the ‘downtown’ area, the tourist area, and to the wildlife refuge. Aside from the horses, there’s a beach—although trying to find a spot on that beach during Pony Week is a nightmare, and we won’t even talk about hotels—and the Assateague Lighthouse is just beautiful.

The island itself is the kind of place where it’s easier to rent or buy a scooter or a golf cart to get around. It’s that chill island vibe that always hooks me and brings out the ocean water in my veins.

A trip around the island doesn’t take very long, and if you were just going for the trip and back, I could make it back home in 4 to 5 hours round trip. But…we didn’t come here just to go back home.

We came to see the ponies, and the ponies shall be seen!

So, a little history about the ponies. Back in the 17th Century some colonists who didn’t want to get busted over some livestock laws and taxes on the mainland released their stock on the island. Over the years, they developed a taste for the salt marsh plants, and they retain a LOT of water and look bloated a lot of the time. They’re generally short, a little under 5 feet tall, but over the years they’ve proven to be agreeable horses, not difficult to train. They get vet checkups out in the wild over the course of the year. Every year, on the last Wednesday in July, they round up the herd (those that are able) and they swim from the Assateague refuge to the Chincoteague side in a journey that might take all of ten minutes. They are auctioned off, with the money going to the volunteer fire company. Tens of thousands of people gather at the island every year for this. Many of the horses are bought, but under the conditions that they’re returned to the refuge, and on Friday, the horses are taken back. The herd is watched over by the Fish and Wildlife Service, and the swim is to regulate the population on the island, which stays around 150.

Having seen the ponies, see stop for lunch, and we head back for home in time for dinner. Devin handled this remarkably well, although he didn’t remember my love of trance music, so he questioned—loudly—my choice of Armin Van Buuren’s show on the way. I played Pink Floyd’s Animals as we were crossing the bridge back home to make it up to him, and he was satisfied. Sitting posture seems to be a recurring issue in the back seat, I think because he can’t see he may not know he’s leaning or keeping his head up. Also of note, those first steps are like the Tin Man in need of an Oil Can, but once he’s up for a minute he can get moving ok. Leaning forward while walking is still an issue, but a reminder is usually enough.

He still knows the words to Give It Away Now. I’m just sayin’. Just another reminder that while the accident was profound, it could have been worse. We’re grateful it wasn’t. Very grateful.

All in all, a good day, and the first of hopefully many more trips in our New Normal.

[whipplefilter]

fanfic: An Adventure in Hyper-Local Food with Exotic Charm

Summary: Lightning finally breaks bread with his mishpocheh. Takes place Thanksgiving 2009. Harv POV.

(MY MAN HAAAAARV!!! 😘 😘 😘)

He cuts Chip off, as usual.

"Yo, I'm out--got a thing. Couple hours, though, and I'll meet all of you at Sandy's, okay?" Harv jabs at the elevator switch impatiently. "I'm about to go get in an elevator, man; Bluetooth's probably gonna cut out. No, it's not a woman! Jesus H Christ, You think I'd go on a date and then make plans with you schmucks? Harv don't play ball just to get to first base!"

He watches the floor indicators light up as the elevator makes its ascent to Harv's penthouse garage. Real freaking slowly. It started from B2, which freaking figures. "Yeah, happy Thanksgiving to you, too, Chip. It's not my mother. You think I'd take my mother to a nice dinner and then skulk off to Sandy's? What kind of hellhole did you crawl out of? I don't disrespect my mother like that. I'm having dinner with Lightning McQu-- Oh, go screw yourself, Chip. Choke on a lugnut."

Harv rolls into his elevator. Chip's still talking.

Harv sighs. "No, I don't think Lightning McQueen wants to join us at Sandy's, Chip. Chip--"

Harv sighs again. "Chip, he's dating a lawyer. So imma say it again: I don't think Lightning McQueen wants to join us at Sandy's. Keep your wax on, man. Y'know, you oughta be glad he's not coming. Girls like a pretty car, my man. If you and McQueen roll into a room?? That car sure ain't you. F'real now, I'm out--catch you on the flipside."

Harv snorts. McQueen dating a lawyer.

It's been what, four, five years now? And that never gets old.

Kid's growing up, though. He's the one who set the date, made the reservations, told Harv when to show up. Sure, Harv's running about an hour late, because love Lightning though he does, the kid's not yet in the tax bracket that deserves his punctuality. Harv's never had a client show quite so much initiative, though. It's kinda refreshing.

This will be the first time he and Lightning McQueen have ever met face to face.

--

Harv finds Lightning parked alone at the edge of the bar, sipping-- god knows what. Harv eyes the taps judgmentally. Microbrews. It's a gastropub, all black iron fixtures and bistro lights. Harv hates it. It's the kind of place the wannabe chic crowd puts up, farm-to-table menus and everything served with some kind of reduction. Boutique wines and over-inventive cocktails.

Lightning's extremely sober for someone who's been parked at a bar for--Harv checks the time--over an hour and a half. Heaven help him if this kid just spent all evening drinking water. "Hey hey, how'd the world's fastest racing machine end up in this dump?" Harv greets him convivially.

Lightning doesn't skip a beat, replies, "Had to lure the world's greatest agent out of the woodwork somehow!" His eyes go wide, though, like he can't quite believe Harv is real.

Within minutes, it's pretty clear the only reason they're at this godforsaken hipster pub is because Lightning genuinely thinks this is Harv's scene. It's certainly not Lightning's. As for Harv, he generally aims higher--or, if he's slumming it with the guys, significantly lower. Sandy's is a certain kind of seedy, after all. But this place, with its $20 appetizers and table service, is part of that dismal middle ground.

Harv flops his menu onto the table. He's just gonna ask for the chef's speciality. He can't imagine the chef here has one--if there are even chefs--but they seem gastropub-y enough to make one up.

Lightning's still scrutinizing his menu. His gaze flicks up to Harv, who's waiting expectantly. "I don't eat solid food very often," Lightning admits. "You know. Racecar."

Harv says something disarming. He's never had an awkward dinner in his life, and he doesn't particularly feel the threat of one now--bistro lights be damned. He settles into his usual easy pratter, half business, half whatever he feels like. It's a Thursday night; Harv's feeling pretty chill. And the more he talks, the more of his chill Lightning inherits. They've always worked well together. Harv's been giving Lightning the morning report for years--and generally around now, 9PM, because Harv hasn't been awake at 9AM in over a decade--and it's no different in person than over the phone.

That's a lie.

The waitress serves them both $20 salads. Sixteen different kinds of local lettuce, it boasted, and one of them radicchio. Harv doesn't trust radicchio. Lightning doesn't look like he's ever eaten sixteen leaves in one sitting.

"How's your girl?" Harv asks.

"My what? Oh, you mean--"

"The lawyer chick."

"Her name's Sally. And, uh, she's good."

"She doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving?" Harv nods around the pub. It's all singles tonight, well-dressed yuppies lured far from home by the city--or raised here, but too proud to return to the staid kitsch of home.

"We do. Actually, the whole town does. We--"

"But not tonight. Not this time," Harv establishes, well ahead of Lightning's explanations. This time, Lightning will not be sharing in whatever corn pone hi-jinks define the holiday in that little town of his. This time, Lightning flew all the way to the city to dine with Harv. Harv snorts. This kid.

"It was the only date your assistant said you were available." Lightning shrugs. "You're not putting me out, if that's what you're asking. I'll see them all tomorrow; it's no big deal."

It's not what Harv was asking, because that's not the sort of thing asks. But it's part of the difference between Lightning on the phone and Lightning across the table. Usually, Harv just hangs up for this part.

Generally, when Harv talks to Lightning, he runs the kid's lines along with his own. There's some alter-Lightning out there Harv taps into--that Lightning he knows from the media, that Lightning that he himself has helped create--and it's that Lightning he's on the phone with most of the time. Sure, he's had to make adjustments over the years, make the Lightning he's spinning to all the sponsors, all the news rags, track with the Lightning out there on the track, and the Lightning in the recording studio, but it's never actually been the kid who's in front of him now. Who's maybe not a kid anymore. He's got that girlfriend waiting for him back home, after all.

"How you holding up?" Harv asks suddenly.

That Doc Hudson, he'd passed sometime this year. Gotta be a few months ago now--maybe more than a few. If it sounds like Harv only just remembered this, it's because he has. He'd never met the man, after all.

Lightning seems surprised at the inquiry. He also seems extremely tired, Harv notices now, fatigue dragging at the corners of his mouth. Exhaustion isn't how Lightning makes his money; but it is what tends to happen when you fly clear across the country to eat a $20 salad. For the scantest moment, Harv imagines inviting him to Sandy's.

Harv doesn't wait for an answer--just keeps talking. Lightning clearly doesn't want to give one, and Harv's not really sure how he'd have to respond if he did.

They keep shooting the breeze, Lightning occasionally getting words in edgewise. Sometimes when Lightning talks, Harv finds himself imagining the hammering massage of tires against his trunk, his quarter-panels--rubber sauna-warm, Sandy's girls making lilting chatter he's not really listening to either.

Sometimes he listens, though. It's not even so much what Lightning says as the way he says it. When they'd first met, Lightning hadn't known a whole lot of conversation starters--and now, frankly, he still doesn't. Just thinks he does. Whatever floats his boat. But back then, he'd only been eager to please--or rather, eager to hear how much he'd pleased. He'd always known he was getting the job done, which is what Harv liked so much about him.

Lightning's confident now, too--confident that whatever he's saying matters. Something about old garages, museums, some project he's got for the off-season, who knows. But whether he's right or not, it's his own belief. It's not just something someone told him he believed. Harv can admire that.

"Are you enjoying your…" Lightning's not sure what it is. Neither is Harv--but he's got a plate of thin-cut something in front of him, a dainty curlicue of wasabi and floral-looking ginger. Some kind of sashimi fusion deal. Lightning's still waiting for the waitress to notice he's given up on his pile of leaves.

"There something special you wanted to talk about?" Harv asks, slurping fish. He can't imagine what; but hey, he can't imagine flying clear across the country just to talk to Lightning McQueen, so it's not like he's really trying to understand it all. Harv knows he's not being fired. His return on investment is just too good for Lightning to walk away from, and Harv knows everyone in the business--Lightning hasn't been shopping around. Contract's still got a year on it, but maybe Lightning's thinking ahead to the re-negotiations. Maybe thinking ahead is something he does now.

"Not really," says Lightning, and Harv's estimation of Lightning's business savvy handicaps obligingly. "I just-- We've been working together this whole time, you know? I feel like I'd regret it if I never had the chance to meet you face to face."

Harv laughs. "Plenty more chances, champ. You know Harv's always happy to rock it with you!"

Lightning laughs, too. It's the laugh of someone who finally understands the difference between a turn of phrase and an actual desire, and wants to let you know he's in on the joke. It's not bitter--turns out he's still a little eager to please. In this moment, Lightning looks extremely fulfilled.

Heck, if Harv had known breaking a little bread with the kid was gonna make him that happy, Harv'd have done him a solid a long time ago. Harv's the king of schmoozing--ain't no paint off his back. And he'd have chosen a better restaurant. Maybe he should take him to Sandy's.

But no. Harv's a quick read of guys when he's paying attention, and he knows Lightning's grown away from all that. They're very different, these days--him and Lightning.

Hadn't been that way in the beginning. Harv had been Harv and Lightning, he'd have followed. If Harv had tugged that leash at all, he'd have followed. And maybe Harv had tugged, just a little. That's sort of his style. He's hadn't been used to dealing with kids--still isn't. He's used to guys like him--guys like Chip, who respond to the invitations of others by raising them your own. This is probably why his sister screamed when he offered to babysit her puppies that one time.

Harv's glad Lightning found something different. He's proud of him, even; whatever Lightning's got going, it's been good to him.

Harv wonders if Lightning pities him. If Lightning makes a habit of making Thanksgiving plans with the solo flyers of the world, who've got their trunks full of hard cash and roomfuls of lonely ladies waiting to share it with them. And he snorts, because he knows that's a big hell no. Lightning's no saint to the solitary bachelor, dispensing favors. And Lightning knows Harv well enough to know that Harv's happy--this is his style, and he's blitzed to be living it.

This is personal. He'd just wanted to meet Harv. Just for a night.

"Sorry I never got a chance to meet your old man," says Harv, because he knows that's gotta be part of all this. It just is.

He says, "He sounded like one of the real ones."

"Yeah, he was," Lightning agrees, and he gets that look again--extreme fulfillment. Jesus, it's like Harv's never shown him basic decency before.

But then, maybe he hadn't. It's easy to forget about that part. Harv never makes calls unless he's multi-tasking something else, and he's always on the clock.

"You want dessert?" Harv asks. Harv's not much of a dessert man--if he's not licking it off the hood of a sports coupe, he's not sure he sees the point--but he's got a feeling Lightning is.

They talk for another hour, over a confection that involves rum cherries, latticed chocolate, and cream. It's difficult to eat.

For the first time, Harv wishes he and Lightning were buddies. But not really. What they've got is perfect; and for the good of both of them, they don't have more than one dinner's-worth of commonalities. Harv can't realistically envision spending any more time with Lightning than he already has.

Love the guy, don't get me wrong! he assures his inner monologue. But you know, it's like desserts. You don't need that much. They got a good thing going as is, and why mess with that?

Harv still feels guilty, though. Like he's gotta throw the kid a bone, make the trip worth his while. Make up for something, maybe. For what, he's not sure.

Lightning calls for the check. Harv realizes it's the first time he's ever been on the receiving end of a dinner.

"Hey," he says. "Me and the boys are goin' out a little later tonight. You're welcome to join, if you want, let us show you a good time, see the sights--y'know, that kinda thing." He winks licentiously.

Lightning thanks him for the offer, but he's got a red-eye to catch. He'll be back out west with the fam by dawn.

"Good for you, kid," Harv says, and means it. No bluster, no bravado.

They both smile.

Then Harv says, "Hey! Look sharp. Imma shoot you the schedule for Florida in a few weeks, all right? Say hi to your girl for me, tell her I got some stuff for her to review with you, get your pretty Hancock on 'em. Ciao, baby, g'night, I'm out!"

--

Weaving his way through the darkened streets to Sandy's, Harv watches the planes take off out of JFK. They rise up, head west, and they're on their way. They carve their way through the sky.

[topicprinter]

The SetupIt was 2006 I was in Germany and I was all of 17 yrs old when one night my friend and I went to an event at a night club. I ended up talking to the club owner late at night and he had a problem.His club wasn't in a main area of town and he needed to get people into his great club, but taxis were expensive, and he wanted to control the experience.In my drunken state I knew I had a few thingsTechnological savyMy friend was the manager of a rental car agencyI said "What if I could make an exclusive VIP transport service from people's homes to your club and back for say...10 euro round trip within 20 KM of here"We agreed to meet up in a few days to discuss the details...when were both sober.The PlanI went home and hashed out a plan. He's have a big event at his club, I would rent out vans hire drivers have people RSVP to the event each person pays 10 Euro and that covers transportation to the club and from the club. In return the club will also pay me a commission on drink sales (Idea came from my friend who is a DJ) in addition the club will provide us with bottles of Champagne and Wine to provide to the customers as we drive them to the club.Idea being people say "Yes we want to go to this event at this club, pick us up here" when we pick them up we offer them wine or champagne we drop them off at the club they party, have fun, what not when they are done we drive them back home. We help solve his logistical issue, we get people in the club he pays us a commission on drink sales, we take 10 euro from everyone.Present plan & NegotiateWe meet up I present my plan...he fucking loves it. I asked for 2.5% commission he bulked...he countered me at a 500 euro flat rate we agreed on .75%LogisticsI head over to my friend who is a manager at a rental car place that doesn't mind cash and he says he can supply me with up to 10 vans. They can fit 8 passengers plus the driver pretty comfortably along with a cooler for the wine/champangeClub plans on having a small time boxing match, along with a few popular DJs from the year, hourly drink specials, etc. Plus 10 euro round trip transport to and from the club.Club starts promoing it...579 people RSVP saying they want to use the transport service to get to the club and back.O boy o boy I'm starting to feel like I'm kinda fucked didn't expect this many people...and i'm 17 (I lied and told the club manager I was 23)579 * 10 is 5,790 euros at 8 passengers per van times two trips I'm going need to plan to conduct 146 trips...that's a lot of trips. Start doing the math,4 vans 4 drivers 37 trips...that's alot5 vans 5 drivers 30 trips...that's alot6 vans 6 drivers 24 trips...that's alot7 vans 7 drivers 21 trips...getting better8 Vans 8 drivers 18 trips...ok...9 vans 9 drivers 16 trips...ok this is maybe doable?10 vans 10 drivers 15 trips....ok lets do this.So some vans will be doing 2 trips, some vans will be doing 1 trip. But lets be real I'm not actually going be able to get 8 people in each van, on each trip, at the same time...so I'm going need to plan for more. Goal...20 trips 10 each way to get all 579 people in, and 579 people out.OkQue many, many, many, many, many, many, hours and days of painstakingly going through addresses and scheduling/communicating our most efficient routes. I was doing everything VIA excel and google maps. Goal was to have a few vans do 2-3 trips and then for people further out have those vans do one trip.Lets take a break and talk money579 people times 10 euro is 5,790 euro. 10 vans at 90 euro a van is going run me 900 euros leaves me with 4,890 euro. I got 10 drivers...I got gas to pay...I also got a friend whose going be at the club coordinating this massive fuck twat of a operation I got myself in. That's 11 people to pay. Talk to the club, he agrees to provide food and non-alcoholic drinks free of charge to my drivers. So that's a bonus, ok lets pay each of my drivers 120 euros each.That's 1,200 euro, lets offer my friend 150 euros plus I gave him another 300 euro for helping me through the many hours of logistics. thats 1,650 euros. I now got 3,240 euros.Ok gas...I budgeted 60 euro per van. So thats 600 euro. Now i'm at 2640Club owner tells me my guys need high vis vests plus some kind of uniform...find out that's going run me 30 euros a guy. So 330 euros. 2,310 euros left.I'm feeling alright3 Nights Before The EventMy friend and I spent 4 hours each night trying to get ahold of all the party goers confirming their pick up times.Bad news plans don't go to plan.93 people opted out of our service...I had already agreed to hire the drivers, I had already arranged for the vans and I had already bought all the stuff. Sunk cost business time. 93 people is 930 euros. Still got 1,380 left over. Plus whatever the club ends up paying me.D DayEvent starts at 7:30 PM...we all meet up at the rental car agency at 3 PM I fork over 900 euros surprise surprise insurance isn't included in the 90 euros. Come to find out its 15 euros a van. I decide that 15 euros a van is worth not getting fucked. There goes another 150 euros. Ok I'm currently out of pocket 1,380 euros. (Shirts/Vests/Vans/Insurance) that was basically all the money my 17 yr old self had at the time. I had yet to collect a dime in revenue (drivers collected money when we arrived, we also had a plan B with the club if the passengers wanted to pay on card they'd pay 10 euros to the club and the club would pay me my 10 euros)We get to the club at 5:30 PM my friend (god I should have paid this dude more, honestly without him I'd have been fucked) hand out sheets of paper with addresses, names, phone numbers, and routes (drivers would use a GPS to get to the houses) to pick up our guests.6:30 PM first van leaves the club...to say my heart was pounding was an under statement.Some words of cautionAt this point none of my drivers have professional drivers licenses, we had no business license to be operating this service, and we had no business insurance of any kindFirst vanFirst van comes lands at 6:55 as scheduled and heads out for its 2nd pick up.Shockingly...pick up went surprisingly uncomplicatedHowever we did have 36 people not show up/cancel last minute with us. Doing the math in my head thats minus 360 euros. I'm sitting at 1,020 euros...(I had a spread sheet on the laptop)All the vans made it back to the club in time, with the last one unloading at 7:50. To say like my 17 yr old self felt like a fucking bad ass would be an understatement.Also all 450 people had paid us! Well about 25% of them paid the club, but the club owner quickly came out and paid me.RestFrom about 8 to 11 PM was a down period for us. People were having fun, we chilled out had dinner, I snuck in some shots...I was shaking. In my 17 yr old self head I had a 1,000 euros in my pocket before I got my commission.Lessons are going to be learnedTurns out just because people come together to the club, doesn't mean they leave together. Starting around 11 we had the first set of club goers wanting to go home. I tried to hold them in the hopes of getting 2-3 more people into one van and they lived really far out...After about 15 minutes of stalling club owner came to me and told me if I pissed off his guests he wasn't going pay me my commission...club was full lots of drinks were being sold that .75% was going be a heft chunk of change...ok fuck it send em out.Clock strikes midnightFrom about midnight onwards it become hectic with the hours of 2-3 AM being fucking insane. We were sending out vans, waiting for vans to come back. Our entire schedules had been missed up because our vans weren't dropping off the same people they had picked up. Which sometimes meant we had vans dropping off one couple at their house and then having to drive 40 minutes across the area to the next couples home. Customers weren't happy, I told my drivers to explain its part of the negative of having such an affordable transportation option. A few customers threatened to complain to the club...I didn't wanna lose my commission all in all I ended up refunding about 350 euros.I'm sitting at 670 euros.The sun risesMy last van pulled into the club at 5 AM. Only 2 vans had vomit in them (hell yea only two 150 euro clean up fees!) I tell all the drivers to rest as I close up with the club owner. After that we head to the gas station fill up, then to the rental car shop, drop off the cars, and go to McDonalds and we all go home.Club owner congratulates me on a job well done. Tells me he brought in 19,985 euros on drinks and pays me 150 euros. Fuck I wish I hadn't refunded that 350.Leave the club with a planned income of 520-15 euros.The Dust SettlesTake my guys to gas station, we spent 150 euros more on gas then I expected... Take my guys to McDonalds and pay the biggest single McDonalds bill I've ever paid of 142 euros.I'm left with 78 euros at the end of the night.Yes..I'm sitting at the table...realizing my friend...he got 150 euros for that night plus 300 for helping me he walks away with 450 euros in his pocket. Most of my drivers after tips earned somewhere around 200 euros. I spent 6 weeks busting my ass...and I'm neting 78 euros.Cops Show Up At my HouseIts a few days later I'm at home, door bell rings. Open the door and its our local police they ask me "Are you PJExpat" I go "yes" they go "Did you run a driver service for this club?" I go "yes" they go "Did you have the proper license to do so?" I go quite.I hadn't paid taxes, I hadn't arranged for any sort of insurance outside of the rental car insurance, and I was pretty sure I was in violation of multiple laws...the cop looks at me and goes "How old are you" I meek out "17" he goes "what the hell"Long story short the two cops ask to come inside, we sit down and they basically give me the riot act. Saying that several taxis noticed us operating and called us in. And they did some investigation and tracked everything back to me. They advise me of a high level over view of what I need to do in the future. They also advise me what I did was incredibly fucking stupid and that had something gone wrong like a car accident I could be in a load of shit...they then ask me how much I made...and I told them 78 euros.They laugh and go really? I pull out my spread sheet that shows how much I brought in, how much I spent, and what I had left over.The cop sighned and said "So I guess you can now understand why taxis charge what they do...all that work for 78 euros" I go "yes" and he goes "and had one major thing gone wrong...you'd have lost...a lot of money" I go "I understand" older cop looks at me, compliments me, tells me if I want to do this business go do it the right way, and they will let this slide2 weeks laterRental car company calls me, explains that I have 9 speeding tickets to pay and owe 270 euros.GreatI have now lost 192 euros3 weeks laterClub owner calls me and asks me if I'm willing to do this again I lay the truth I made minus 192 euros plus I'm 17 yrs old and don't have a legal business. He cusses me out, then tells me I have massive balls, and then gives me massive props for actually pulling it off and says he wont' do business with me again.

[remembermemorablememories]

Thursday, February 14, 2019

post #402

main points:

- drive to trenton train station but miss train

- catch next one and meet up with broker

- spend entire day looking at apartments back to back, 7 listings

- sit down and calculate/narrow down search

- revisit the tentative winner apartment

- spend time getting paperwork ready at bank / post office / the office

- drop off application at the office

- eat at purple rice for food (basically all i ate the entire day)

- take train home and drive back

- talk to parents and figure out remaining paperwork

- go to sleep by like 12am cause long day

today i:

- woke up at 7:30am to my alarm. i drank some water, brushed my teeth, got ready and left the house with dad. he let me use his car to drive to the train station. i dropped him off at his work, then drove over to the trenton train station which took about 30 minutes. i was trying to catch a 9:21am train and i got to the train station around 9am

since it was getting close, just as i pulled into the station, i was scared i was gonna miss it. i saw the parking garage ahead but the closer one in front of me was an open parking lot for $14. but you have to pay first before leaving. so i parked the car, ran to the parking machine. but then it wouldn’t take any of my cards... i was like ???? i wasted like 5 minutes, then after my cards wouldn’t work, i ran back to the car, drove it over to the parking garage, frantically trying to find a parking spot. then i found one on the fourth floor, parked it, then sprinted back to the station. i was purchasing a ticket, then wanted to double check what time it was on my phone to make sure i would at least be able to catch it. but then... my phone was missing??? i was freaking out. exhausted, i walked back towards the car. i gave up on catching the 9:21 because it was 9:19 already. i was panicking, worried about where i could’ve lost my phone. i jogged back to the car in the parking garage. then... my phone was in the driver seat, it must’ve fallen out of my pocket while i was in a rush. i grabbed my phone, then started to head back to the station

i texted my broker that i was gonna be 30 minutes late, catching the 9:51am. i decided to just grab a bagel from dunkin donuts. i called her after she didn’t respond for about 5 minutes cause i wanted to make sure she got it and then apologized. she said it was okay, we’d just have to rearrange the first appointment to a potentially different slot

- hopped on the train, got to NYC penn station by 11:16am. on the train i just browsed facebook for a bit and then read crossing the chasm (like 30 pages to page 60 or something)

- once i got off, i jogged over to 43rd street because that’s where we were first meeting up. i was supposed to meet marsha at 11:30am so i needed to run to get there on time. i was out of breath when i met her in front of the condo building LOL. we quickly introduced ourselves, then walked in. the broker for the apt just came in just as we did so we introduced ourselves, then he took us up

the first apt was recently renovated so it felt very nice. also had a bunch of amenities like pool, gym on roof. but it was 2350... kind of out of budget. but the condo seemed very well maintained

- we walked over to the second one on 47th street, met with another broker. also a condo building. he showed us the apt, it looked a bit more run down compared to the first one, but we got to see how the tenant used the space since he was still living there. we also got locked out on the roof when the broker showed us. cause the roof door locks when it closes LOL. fortunately the tenant was out for food so he was able to rescue us. that apt was also okay ish, but 2250...

while marsha and i walked, we got to know each other a bit better. she told me about her work, what cities she’s lived in (chicago, atlanta, nyc). she seemed like a very kind and genuine person :) i talked a bit about my upcoming asia travels and it was great getting to know her

- the third one was near columbus circle, and later turned out to be the one i chose! the space was HUUUUGE. i was like DAAAAAAMN. super happy about that place, it became the top contender at that point in the day. and for a relatively reasonable rental price. the only con is no laundry in unit

- fourth one near 56th. this one was pretty small on the first floor but around 1950, so not bad

- fifth one near 45th which was even smaller. another broker showed us the tenant’s place cause the tenant was moving out. this was a condo building i believe. but the reason it was priced more (like 2200) is cause it was near the subway station

- sixth one was a 1br1ba but for 2400. it was pretty nice, but the kitchen was small, and the bedroom was actually pretty small too. i’d doubt you could fit a queen bed in there

- seventh one was a newly listed place, for 2175. we showed up 10 minutes early so we actually got the broker showing the place with another one of his clients. he said we could go together and we were like... sure why not. the girl he was showing it too seemed a bit annoyed :s i apologize to her. the place was pretty nice (looked renovated), space was decent, but the guy said he already had an application he was expecting today. marsha and i were in there for about 5 minutes, then bounced so the other girl could have a look at the apt all to herself

- marsha and i walked over to starbucks, but then columbus circle to sit down and weigh the pros and cons of each. i liked the first condo (but expensive), third one (huge space but no laundry), and seventh one (decent but likelihood of getting it probably low). we also calculated the numbers to see how it played out. honestly while i was looking at other places throughout the day, i realized more and more how much i valued an open space over other things like laundry in building :p after looking at all the listings from the day, i was pretty set on getting the third one (hoping i can get it). after calculating the numbers, i was convinced to get the third one

we calculated all of this around 2:15pm, finished all our appointments by 2pm

the rest of the afternoon flew by because we were doing so many things

- so once she helped me decide, we made moves to get all the necessary paperwork to submit my application ASAP. i went to the bank to get full bank statements and a money order for the application fee. but they said they don’t do money orders, so i’d need to go to the USPS office. while getting stuff at the bank, marsha went back to her place to get her laptop so she could help get my paperwork. i called my parents to give them an update about what i was going to do/submit app today/other details. at this point of day, marsha was told from the management company that i’d need a co-signer (potentially two) so i communicated that with mom and dad

- marsha and i met up, then went to the USPS office to get a money order for the application

- we walked down to her broker office to make copies of my tax returns cause they needed copies (i hadn’t copied it, just brought my own copies :S). i got to see the front of the office which was pretty cool. also signed some tenant disclosure papers and then we were all set

walked over to the management company office (in a basement) and dropped off all of the necessary paperwork and figured out the logistics for the application for tonight/tomorrow. the guy there (jerry) said that i may not even need a co-signer because i would be qualified based on tentative job. marsha planned some logistics and we went to get two more money orders. in case the management company actually did need two co-signers, they’d need two new applications. and since marsha is in town, she could just drop off the money order for me so i don’t have to come in. if not, then marsha would just give me the money orders the next time i see her 

whew what a long evening. by the time we finished, it was like 5:30pm. i was a bit zoned out cause things went by so fast in the afternoon. marsha helped keep me on track (thank god)

- i went to penn station to look at the train schedules and called dad to see what everyone’s plans were for the evening. everyone was kind of busy (mom working late, sheena going to hang out with friends), so i just ended up grabbing some food in NYC cause why not

i went down the block to purple rice for korean food. it was my first meal of the day and also my only meal LOL. charged my phone for a bit (it was at 15% after all day today, i got it back up to 20%)

- went to penn station, took a 6:11pm train back to trenton. i napped for most of the ride cause i was exhausted. also my right foot was kind of blistering from walking all day / running in the morning

drove the car back home, getting back around 8:30pm. i was a bit proud of myself cause my battery level was low (16%) so i just remembered the main highways i’d need to take and then did it without using google maps. woohoo i’m not totally incompetent without technology... looool

- got back home, talked with dad about how things are going. then spent the rest of the evening chilling / waiting for dad to get him and mom’s papers in case we do actually need co-signers for tomorrow. we’ll find out tomorrow morning

took a shower, got into bed exhausted

- passed out by like 12:30am

the end

[storiesfromsupernomad-blog]

At first glance

I’m biking through Vondelpark, tired, cause I barely slept last night. I’m nervous yes. It has been a while since I came out of my door to set course into uncharted water. Nevertheless, the park is gorgeous. Curved old trees, green grass, small lakes and ponds. Winding bike trails, and pot-smoking tourists chilling around. It all makes me proud and feel like a true Dutchy. We accomplished a lot in the Netherlands. We are as free as a society should be allowed to, we can choose our own thoughts and speak our honest minds, yet respecting the macro direction a society needs so painfully. We are not necessarily smart or wise people. That makes we wonder how we established such prosperity. Like the freedom to travel to many countries, proper healthcare, welfare for all who don’t want to, or can’t work, elderly care, state pensions and so on. Every time I come back home after travels I’m in awe with the cleanliness and efficiency this nation enjoys. I’ve contemplated a lot why it is like it is. It can’t be thanks to our intelligence, cause frankly; most of us are far from it. Neither do we have a lot of natural recourses, just some sophisticated agriculture, natural gas, trading and a big merchant fleet. Maybe I’m not fully educated on the subject but I think it has more to do with the systems we have in place. I mean, this country has very little corruption, high tax, and a big government to guarantee our needs. And talking about taxes, nobody really complains about it. We pay a minimum of 34 and maximum of 56 percent income tax, not to even start about the many others, all the way up to tax we pay for having dogs. That’s just the way it is, people think, but we all realize how much we get back for it. I personally don’t care if people would rather live on welfare than work; it’s their decision to be whom they want to be using the options provided by the state. In the end, they are still consumers, keeping our economic motor running smoothly. If there wouldn’t be welfare, some of these people will just be homeless non-working liabilities, and the small businessman would be off worse.

Anyway, I’m biking through the park, during a workweek evening. It’s a foggy, dark, but rather warm night. With a beam of illuminated mist underneath them, the streetlights shine jazzy. One after another, looking surreal and peaceful, marking the trail in which I drive my squeaking bike to someone new. My legs are propelling the paddles without much effort over the smooth surfaced road with a slight zooming of the wind in my ears. As I bike around a corner, where a massive pristine Dutch oak is chilling out, I see a manlike-silhouette standing on top of a quaint bridge. With two hands on the wheel of my grandma’s old retractor brake bike I approach this silhouette, not fully understanding what this is all about. He’s standing there, by himself, but why? What is he doing? What is the weirdness of tonight going to offer me now? I think sometimes we all feel a bit odd about the world don’t we? Like a mix between a feeling of weirdness and freakiness, and we wonder whether phenomena are evolving for us personally or because it’s just the way it is. So as I approach I see above him one of these jazzy lights spotlighting his body, making him stand out in the mist. It’s obvious he wants passing strangers to peek, he likes the attention, but for what? I hear no music, no instruments, just the sound of his shoes sliding over the deck. He’s wearing a fedora hat, black suit and lacquer shoes. Closing in I finally see - that’s it, he’s a Michael Jackson impersonator. Dancing on his own, in Amsterdam, where he obviously belongs. Performing all his heroes’ classic, tight poses, which are burned in every man’s soul. There he is, dancing the night away, being a delight for the unexpected eye. Man do I love this city, she never tells what to find behind the next corner, offering us daily surprises which can be weird, inspiring, or amusing.

Of course she is late. Very expectable to the realist, not to me, the dreamer. It’s not really helping me stay calm though. I’m nervous, like I said before. I tried getting some sleep after work, so at least I would be slightly more rested now, but of course it was just staring at the sealing. Finding irregularities in the paintwork for a while, an hour or so, while contemplating conversations and questions of which the answer I couldn’t care about. Okay, I have to be honest, I’m very nervous. My stomach is a bit upset and my conscious mind rather stays at home, where it comfortable. It nevertheless has been a long while since I last stepped out of the door, took a leap of faith and aimed for the unexplored. I have been turned into ice; numb with little color left. I’m in the middle of one of my darkest episodes.

My job sucks and everything else kind of as well, dramatic, yes. I’m doing one of these boring operational jobs in the shipping industry in a way too efficient office building. Rows of desks interrupted with hip hangout areas that would make the die-hard office guru go wild, but not me. It has numbed me down to a point of absolute futility. I feel stuck in my paychecks and financial obligations towards my landlord, the state and commercial pleasure. Barely making it through each month, I’ve entered a vicious circle that, as long as I do nothing, will keep on spinning till the end of my time. “What am I doing this for?” or “What's the point of living if all we’re doing is staying alive?” are questions I asked myself frequently. On a beautiful winter morning, with sunset just an hour away I would bike to the train station, where I, together with other depressed iPhone junkies, would be expecting the arrival of a train. Waiting for my deportation to Amsterdam airport. ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’, I just need to keep working hard enough so that one day I would be free from the misery. Waiting for the day on which my bank account will be overflowing with digits, but this off course never happens to a simple guy like me, and deep down I know. It's silent in the train; necks are curved downwards, thumbs swiping past hot trends, food hacks and tag-a-friend bullshit. As long as we don't have to look at each other, talk to each other, or even worse, smile, we'll be fine. I get out of the train; I'm at Schiphol airport now, a state of the art, super cool and immensely efficient human trafficking hub. I'm being sarcastic yes. Walking to my office, together with nicely suited loners, I wonder if anyone could be truly happy with a life like this. Their leather laptop bag bouncing off their skinny underfed butt, their dark brown Mickey Mouse socks peaking underneath their, just too short, pantaloons and their hair smooth like the 90s. I think by myself 'what am I doing here? It’s obvious I don’t fit in'. Their objective: Capitalizing low hanging fruit, utilizing assets, decreasing liability and being a full-time douchebag. My objective: Making it through the day, hoping my ticket out will soon cross path. Without having many friends at work, most underpaid employees are constantly expanding their network, keeping me of course, a nobody-gives-a-fuck executional Ship Operator out of their ambitions. People are not people at the office, they are anticipated business partners or even worse the handshake they need in between the person they truly want to meet. Anyway, to cut things short, on a beautiful sunny day I would travel to work and return home in darkness, reflecting the emotional state I’m in.

Nevertheless, I’m in Amsterdam city centre now. Which beauty cannot be suppressed by the negativity of a single man. And for a moment, for one night, I’m not there; I’m here, being remarkably alert of my surroundings and conscious of the peace and tranquility underlying the hustle and bustle in this epicentre of diversity. I would ask you to close your eyes as I describe what I see but I figure this is a bit hard with a written story. I gaze around the streets that are dominated with 18th century Dutch architecture. A time wherein the design of houses exceed their function as ‘just a place where humans live’. The houses were simply made pretty, just because it was possible. Tall, skinny, with high ceilings and massive flamboyantly shaped windows. The façade on most houses would be graced with a single stone piece revealing the profession or occupation of the owner. A marble staircase, safeguarded by a railing which reinforcing inside structure would be an artwork of steel, leads up to the entrance. A massive three-meter tall wooden door, spiced up with stained glass and a cast iron ring, would shine its authority in your face. ‘You better be damn important!’ the door would say, if it could, but doors can’t speak, so….. it wouldn’t say that. Anyway.

One house after another, some crooked due to the swampy river soil they’re build on, some narrow, some enormously wide. But all as tall as its neighbor. Dimmed ambient light lusters out of most windows giving me the opportunity to glance, and drool, at the paneled ceilings and shimmering chandeliers. God she’s pretty, the city, I mean, in totality. As I, strained, walk a bit up and down the street I see bikers pass by. They’re obviously all heading out for something that’s about to happen, with somebody or without. Taxis, the grinding of trams through their tracks, and the famous bell to warn oblivious tourist of their presence, are filling up the background noises.

It’s 19:30 now, and she’s officially 10 minutes late. Excruciating difficult for a Dutch guy in general, extra excruciating to the tense state I’m in already. We said 19:20, it’s a well calculated time cause the concert starts at 20:30. We want to get to know each other first before jumping into a crowd of fans. The bar I told her to come to is closed; of course, it would all have been too easy. Nevertheless I’m waiting here, at the location we’re suppose to meet, not really knowing who will show up and what the fuck I’m getting myself into. Minutes, which more feel like quarters of an hour, pass by. I feel present though, exceptionally present, as in something is being lined up for me. I think we’ve all felt like that, a moment in time in which we feel something coming, either good or bad. We know it and we feel it. The colors, boosted by streetlights are rarely intense, my body feels well oiled, and sounds are experienced inside, rather than out. As my thoughts start to wonder away in stories I won’t remember creaking brakes caught my attention, “I’m so sorry I’m late” I hear, in a high pitched, slightly annoying Northern American accent. So I turn around and there she is.

[jaode]

October Invocation Challenge

I am doing one very long journal entry because this month's challenge was fluid from one day to another, taking form as the month moved on. When the month began, I was floundering on what or what I wanted to evoke.

My desire to spend time working with my ancestors has grown in the last few months and my first inclination was to invoke them. However that was how I spent 2017 Halloween, in a necromantic, spirit led, talking dumb supper. It was enlightening ...and I loved the experience. But I felt safe 💯because they were my ancestors and knew they loved me therefore wanting the best for me. I decided against this because it was "safe".

Whereas, I did not want to play it safe, I also wanted to be alive when the challenge was done. This setting the parameters of taking risks to push my skillset, but doing so with intelligence and respect (for myself and the metaphysical).

I thought about summoning another person. Maybe right some wrongs, truth some lies, or tell someone off. Again, this seemed safe. Plus, did I truly want to call another human spirit within me in order to complete this challenge while working on my bucket list. This was a task for evocation, not invocation, so it went onto the back burner.

My decision was firm, I would let the Universe and the Magick take me where it would (within reason) and see what came from the darkness. I decided to meditate, do as much shadow work as time allowed and continue through the month like playdoh, unformed mass of clay, awaiting shape.

The first week, I was off of work for a break and I had a few spells to cast. Nothing too taxing. I came across some candles for my altar, Vanilla, at the dollar store. I felt compelled to decorate it a little so I got a few small white pumpkins and gave it some attention. I had recently purchased a new mala and placed it there with the new decorations to charge it.

During my meditations, I felt strongly pulled to the magicians who run the Do Magick Challenges. The sense that they cast spells to encourage those signed up for each challenge was sticking with me. I hadn't done a strong opening ritual for the month. Just a silent, do what thou wilt magick/Universe, so to speak.

Another group ran a week's meditation challenge so I stepped up my time focusing on my chakras and blessing them. I used mostly guided meditations mixed with simple binaural beats at bedtime. I finished that 7 days of meditations very strong.

I worked with the Quantum Model of meditation by Dr. Joe Dispenza. Using this method, I carefully set myself aside and connected with the Universe, in a sense of the All, or Creator.

Dr. Joe is a neuroscientist/chiropractor who works with Quantum Physics to prove the Law of Attraction. When focusing on healing onself via downregulating genes, he noticed that large particles remained mostly unchanged by ones own thoughts, but on a cellular level, a minute, mircorscopic level, atoms, protons and neutrons, etc all responded very much to thoughts, positivity, setting intentions, etc.

Although I don't suffer from advanced stage diseases or illnesses, I have been told that my family have some genetic concerns. I use my meditations with the desire to downregulate the heart disease gene and metobolic disorder gene that causes heavy metals to be absorbed. My long term goal is to live the best and lengthiest life as possible. This is a challenge to me, so I begin and end my days with these intentions in mind.

I began really setting my intentions every morning. I usually crack my eyes very early, have to use the bathroom then return to bed. This is when I set my intentions. Usually just before sunrise, with the energy of both wakening and going to sleep in that Alpha 1 state. I state my life as though it happened yesterday. I am healthy, I am thin, I eat perfectly in order to be healthy. I also mention my enemies and some sort of banished statement. Then I feel grratitude.

Now, one would think of gratitude as being thankful, nope not even close. Being thankful is what is expected of us when we receive a gift. An obligatory statement of excitement, a heartfelt thank you, positive ways we will use the gift. Maybe even making a mental note not to take it for granted. But true gratitude is the emotional signature of completion. It is much more than a thank you. Gratitude is a state of mind and when you can embrace it fully, you get that download. For five or ten minutes, everything makes sense. You are beyond yourself yet within yourself. I finally did get a full version personal experience of this download the third week in the month. More on how that happened later.

The Entity

In my group, I research a spirit of the day from time to time. A Goddess, demon, angel etc. I give some details, altar set up, their enn, etc. That first Sunday, I searched "today's demon" and a funny thing happened. One spirit came in every passage down the page. The movie "The Nun" was seen down the whole page.

I was confused, what was this? I re-searched, same thing. Rephrased, but still "The Nun" repeated 20 times down the results page. I read some of them and found that this was a legit Goetia demon.

My Group Post:

Valac Demon

Sometimes you summon demons and sometimes they summon you. Last night, I was speaking with a friend about horror flicks portraying real demons. I specifically said I was not about to watch the new movie "The Nun" because the trailers made it seem extremely frightening. At bedtime, I was awakened after about an hour and when I returned to sleep, I forgot to state that I was not able to travel (ground myself well, that I needed my rest.) I had a dream about work (a lot of people there) and losing track of my daughter who wound up being asleep in the work office. (She was the reason I woke in the first place). I chalked it up to a strange dream and had my coffee this morning. I sat down to make a post for my lovely group here (yous guys) and looked up a demon to research today. Valac was the only one who came to the surface. Oddly enough, the movie "The Nun", the haunting character is losely based on a husband and wife's team of paranormal research of the demon President Valac. (I had zero clue prior to this morning). If you just got chill bumps, you betcha I did too when I connected all of the dots. A friendly reminder to always be careful of the words you speak. What was her message? It seems she (Valac) is not happy of the way she was portrayed and demonized in the magic of Hollywood. So, dang it, now I will have to watch the freaking movie and solve the mystery completely. Not today, but soon. So this demon seems to want to be shared in the group today so here goes...

Invocation of Valac was not clear and not blogged insofar as I found. But a few who did attempt evocation of her were basically haunted in dreams and warned never to call and command this entity. Oddly enough she did appear in one of their dreams as a hooded priest turned scary with a warning.

According to the Goetia, she appears as an angelic child on a two headed dragon. I believe the dragon may not appear in the first sessions of contact but could not confirm it. She is the 62nd spirit of the Goetia and has 30 legions in her charge. She reveals hidden treasures and is best summoned for matters of business and for small business owners seeking success. She is a spirit of Mercury but has some ties to Jupiter for success and business. A specific invocation method was not clearly listed but Mercury tends to be multicolored specifically blue, gold and silver. A symbol of your request may suit your altar well, a few coins for money or your business card or logo. Hermetic approach calls for using a dagger or athame, facing Mercurial location (or the Sun if unknown). Oddly enough she tells the position of planets and where serpents can be located. Informally, she can provide some sort of psychic connection and knowledge about animals. It seems she wants to remind that demons have office not purposes to be used. She expects a high amount of valor and respect. Never attempt to command her, but instead invite her and allow her to approach. State that she is welcome to approach in dream state in a pleasant form. Informal banishments donot seem to be effective. LBRP would be the method to best use after a suitable offering has been made.

Her Enn: Avage secore on ca Volac

I had very vivid dreams the whole month. Some repressed emotions and events came to mind. President Valac reveals hidden treasure, I sought to figure out what that meant for my current situation. Sometimes treasure is not gold but meaning. I resolved some of that mystery but if my past work with Goetia sprits is any indicator, this will be revealed in time as to the full meaning or messages from this month.

I still had an invocation to complete but I did not see clearly how that would work. I used my pendulum and my angels and invited President Valac near to try to get some answers through dousing. Would you want for me to see The Nun? No. Is there a hidden meaning in the movie? No. Were you misinterpreted by the movie? Of course. No real direction was given but I left it that I was open to dreams and messaged as was necessary to move forward woth the invocation.

A few days later, I was in line to see the new Halloween movie. It came to me that this was the invocation. I attended with a large group so pomp and circumstance was not appropriate. I cast my diamond structure metaphysically and invoked the demon Valac to attend the movie with me.

It was a typical slasher killer thriller. The experience was vivid and exciting. Of course I was scared at times. I had been taught never to acknowledge fear in the presence of a demon but Valak loved it. There was zero harm to me and I felt completely safe.

When the crowd around me started to react to the movie, Valac rang through, their energy. I spoke with my mind, oh, you want to feed from the energy here. Affirmed. As the fear rose and fell and the screams and "do not go in there, oh my god!" Echoed in the room, I could feel the waves of power flow into me. My third eye opened. It was an amazing experience.

Afterward, I walked to my car in the sudden cold and biting wind. I felt alive and energized. I pushed the energy out as I got into my car. My eyes were bright green and my pupils were large.

I performed a banishment out loud in the car and then drove home. The drive was long and I expressed gratitude for the experience. Almost half way home, I felt the power of the Universe flow through me and I was overcome with a knowledge amd sensation of pure gratitude. I was able to connect the metaphysical dots for every step of the way and every spirit who helped me along the way. I could see my path but it was lit up in the stars, not on the ground. I held onto the sensations as long as I could, about 10 minutes. I had tears down my face in a flood and I thanked each spirit out loud as they came to mind.

I finished the meditations in the last week and prepared my journal. I did several spiritual baths and banishments. It was Samhain so I performed a ritual cleansing and smudged my house with sage.

President Valac was impressive and powerful. I got to experience some of what that meant and felt like. It was a good experience, fluid, smooth invocation and I learned so much. I had my talisman, as always, but I felt very at home and safe with the work and the spirit.

[newssplashy]

Opinion: It's like paradise (if you can overlook a few things)

Gary Gerth, 74, the recently elected town supervisor of Shelter Island, described this sylvan knob of land tucked in the crook of the East End of Long Island as “an emerald jewel set in the bracelet of turquoise waters.”

Gary Gerth, 74, the recently elected town supervisor of Shelter Island, described this sylvan knob of land tucked in the crook of the East End of Long Island as “an emerald jewel set in the bracelet of turquoise waters.”

“It’s not for everyone,” he added.

Georgiana Ketcham, 82, discovered Shelter Island more than 50 years ago, after her husband inherited a boat and the couple combed the Long Island coast between Amityville and Montauk, looking for a place for a summer home. Ten years later, they moved there permanently.

“I’m the oldest living real estate broker on Shelter Island,” Ketcham said. So she knows what she is talking about when she tells you it “isn’t for everybody.”

Shelter Island is a qualified paradise because of challenges that are the flip side of its charms. The 4-by-5 mile chunk of Suffolk County, shaped like a disastrous experiment in pancake making, is reached somewhat inconveniently by ferry, but residents say their cares drift away as they cross the waters from the North or South Fork. The island has clams, osprey and golden forsythia foaming like Champagne in the spring, but lacks a hospital, a movie theater and home mail delivery. Police mostly deal with small stuff like returning lost wallets or field calls about felled power lines, but if you are caught speeding, your name will be in the local newspaper.

“My mother can’t wrap her head around the fact that there’s no shopping,” said Annemarie Norris, 41, who in 2015 bought a four-bedroom house with her husband, Benedict, for $775,000 in the Silver Beach neighborhood.

Which is to say, Shelter Island has a pharmacy, a bookstore, two hardware stores and a grocery store but nothing remotely resembling a mall. “We sit around the firepit,” Annemarie Norris said. “Or we sit on the back porch. Or we walk around the corner. Or we sit on the beach.”

With a population of 2,400 that explodes to five times that number in the summer, the island has two kinds of residents.

The Norrises are part-timers. They live in a two-bedroom Brooklyn co-op with their two young sons and spend weekends in their brick-and-shingle house on Brander Parkway. They even enjoy coming out in winter, when the island is low-key and windswept, and only a few restaurants are open. (A favorite, the Tavern at the Shelter Island House hotel, has recently changed hands and is turning Italian; it reopens as Caci this month.)

By contrast, John Kaasik, 62, grew up on Shelter Island and returned after spending much of his 20s in Europe.

“I stayed here against the better wishes of my wallet,” he said, referring to the island’s narrow, service-oriented economy, which encourages multitasking. He and his wife, Anu, own the Azalea House bed-and-breakfast and the Go’fors taxi company and stage the annual high school musical. John Kaasik is also a playwright.

The permanent population, with its many retirees, is its own clan, residents say. Shelter Island’s churches, school, library and fire department are all volunteer strongholds that keep people active throughout the seasons and raise the quality of services.

But the twain do meet at the island’s golf courses, tennis courts, sailing school and beaches. And at Sylvester Manor, a plantation that was run with slave labor into the 19th century and is now an organic farm with cultural events and educational programs; at the farmers’ market on the grounds of the historical society, which is being expanded; and at concerts at the Perlman Music Program, a summer institute for young string players founded by Toby Perlman, the wife of Itzhak Perlman (he leads the faculty).

And there are clashes. As Shelter Island attracts wealthy buyers sidestepping the snoot and traffic of the Hamptons, prices are rising and the character is changing.

“I wouldn’t want it to feel like some sort of gated community in a retirement village in Florida,” John Kaasik said. “I can’t say it’s the case now, but it’s trending toward that.”

In August, six residents filed a lawsuit to reverse a rule forbidding short-term rentals. Although the law was enacted to reduce disruptions caused by raucous visitors, the plaintiffs argue that renting gives vital income to homeowners who need help paying mortgages or taxes.

Gerth, the town supervisor, is on their side. Renting for any length of time, he said, brings in tourists, and tourists are often converted into residents. Besides, he added, “Renting is a tradition here.”

What You’ll Find

Shelter Island has a variety of topographies and housing styles and one great common theme: water. There are four marinas, as many public beaches and an assortment of ponds, bays and creeks.

The Mashomack Preserve, more than 2,000 acres of protected oak and beech forests, meadows, salt marshes and pine swamps, takes up a third of the island. The habitable remainder contains neighborhoods with different aqueous bodies and wealth indexes.

Shelter Island Heights, for instance, the neighborhood near the North Ferry terminal, has frilly Victorians sunning themselves on hillsides overlooking the harbor and yacht club. These houses are kept close to the bosoms of multigenerational families and come on the market only once in a while. The cluster of nearby businesses includes Stars Café on Grand Avenue and Marie Eiffel’s organic market on North Ferry Road.

Another attraction is the Chequit on Grand Avenue. Built in 1872 as a Methodist retreat, the 37-room hotel was recently renovated and is for sale with its restaurant for $9 million.

Dering Harbor, to the east, has the distinction of being an autonomous village with the smallest population in New York state (11, according to the 2010 census). This status gives the village its own mayor, water supply and an architectural review board that has been criticized for being arbitrary, if not spiteful.

Hay Beach, to the north, is a 1960s subdivision with minimum 1-acre lots. Little Ram Island and Ram Island are narrow spits connected by causeways to the east, where almost all of the houses are on the water or have ocean access or views. Silver Beach, to the southwest, is a former postwar summer community on a peninsula where modest homes are routinely replaced with fancier ones. Nostrand Parkway and Westmoreland Farm are both elite enclaves to the west.

The center of the island is where Ketcham lives on 2 acres, near Gary Paul Gates, journalist and author, and Eric Demarchelier, the restaurateur and artist (and the brother of fashion photographer Patrick Demarchelier). “If Shelter Island were a target and you threw darts at it, my house would be in the bull’s-eye,” she said.

Asked whether the island has changed in the 40 years he has known it, Demarchelier, who owns an 1860s clapboard house on a former lima bean farm, said, “Not much. The houses have gotten a little bigger, but there are still no traffic lights and no traffic jams.”

What You’ll Pay

Deborah Von Brook-Binder, who sells real estate for Daniel Gale Sotheby’s on Shelter Island, said the market for the first quarter of this year was slower than last year. The new laws affecting property taxes and mortgage interest rate deductions might be discouraging buyers, she added. “Also, the weather hasn’t been that great.”

According to the real estate website Trulia, the median sales price of Shelter Island homes as of March 18 was $837,500, a year-on-year increase of 5.3 percent based on 116 transactions.

Twenty-three properties were offered on the Multiple Listing Service of Long Island’s website as of May 14. They included a two-bedroom ranch house on 2.2 acres, at 57 North Midway Road, listed at $699,000, and a shingled Colonial-style home with six bedrooms and 600 feet of private beach, at 29 Winthrop Road, listed for $6.9 million.

The Vibe

Shelter Island is “chill,” to use Annemarie Norris’ expression. On their first visit, she and her husband had paused during a cycling excursion when a child approached them. “He was maybe 10,” Norris recalled. “Maybe younger. He said, ‘Do you need help getting anywhere?'”

It wasn’t just that the boy was polite; he was totally unsupervised. She thought, “That’s what I want for my children.”

Kindnesses, small and large, are typical of the islanders, John Kaasik said. After his daughter received a diagnosis of Hodgkin lymphoma, he received concerned messages from community members he barely knew.

“I’ve seen it happen over and over again,” he said. “It’s the perfect example of how things should be.”

The Schools

Christine Finn, who became superintendent of the Shelter Island Union Free School District in the fall, said the district has been reversing the greater Long Island trend of declining enrollments and is showing an uptick. “We’re going to keep the trend going by offering more electives and AP classes,” she said.

Ketcham pointed out that the district just passed an $11.7 million budget, and divided among the 222 students in prekindergarten through 12th grade, that comes to more than $52,700 per student. “Come on, you can send a kid to Choate for that!” she said.

Among the elementary school students who took the 2017 state tests, 51 percent met standards in English versus 42 percent statewide; 54 percent met standards in math versus 46 percent statewide.

Among the middle school students, 48 percent met standards in English versus 40 percent statewide; 26 percent met standards in math versus 39 percent statewide.

The average SAT scores for high school juniors and seniors who took the test in the fall of 2016 were 609 for reading and writing and 557 for math, versus 528 and 523 statewide.

The Commute

Shelter Island is about 2 1/2 hours east of New York City. The North Ferry departs for Greenport, New York, on the North Fork every 10 to 20 minutes. The ride takes eight minutes and costs $16 round trip for a car and driver making a same-day return. The South Ferry departs for North Haven, New York, in the Hamptons every 10 to 15 minutes. The crossing takes four minutes and costs $19 round trip.

The History

In June of 1947, a conference about theoretical physics took place at the Ram’s Head Inn on Shelter Island. Twenty-four of the world’s leading scientists — including Edward Teller, J. Robert Oppenheimer, John von Neumann and Richard Feynman — gathered to discuss the foundations of quantum mechanics. On the way to what is now known as the Shelter Island Conference, the men were given celebrity-style police escorts, tributes to the work many of them had done on the atomic bomb.

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.

JULIE LASKY © 2018 The New York Times

source https://www.newssplashy.com/2018/05/opinion-its-like-paradise-if-you-can.html