#ESPECIALLY now that chappell is standing her ground

[blueseysyogurt]

I just know Blue Sargent would ADORE Chappell Roan

[pascaloverx]

UNREQUITED LOVE

Summary: Being a new student is already complicated. But when you end up developing an unwanted crush on a schoolmate, everything seems to get worse. This particular schoolmate is romantically involved with someone. And to make matters worse, the popular school quarterback starts to bother you.

Author's Note: This fanfic will be short and set in the universe of the movie Bottoms (2023), directed by Emma Seligman, using the characters from the film. The characters do not belong to me. The fanfic will not strictly follow all the situations from the movie. I hope you enjoy it. Initially, there will be no adult content. There will only be inappropriate language and scenes of violence.

TWO FOUR

THREE

You don't want to be dramatic, but your first day at the new school is a much bigger challenge than you imagined it would be. After chemistry class, you had math with a teacher who spent more time flirting with Jeff than actually teaching anything. During the break, you couldn't avoid Josie and her group. It's not that you wanted to avoid her, but spending the time you should be using to eat in peace watching adorable couples seemed like something that would make you sad. Besides, from a distance, you saw Hazel's girlfriend with her at the table. The last thing you need is to see the girl you might be attracted to with someone else. So you ate alone in the bathroom, which is kind of gross, but you promised yourself that you would pretend it never happened. The rest of the day was almost as if you were invisible. That is, until after your last class, when you ran out because the bus that would take you straight home was about to pass near your school. But as soon as you turned, you collided with someone. The moment your body hit theirs, you fell to the ground.

"Can't you watch where you're going, damn it?" you mutter furiously. It had to be the number one enemy of peace: Jeff, the jerk quarterback.

"Look who's got a sharp tongue. Little nerd, you were the one who ran into me. But I think it's cute that you want to crawl on the floor to get to me." Jeff says, striking a pose like he’s Superman. You roll your eyes and try to get up. Without success.

"Your stupidity is honestly infuriating. I would never crawl to you. In fact, every interaction I’ve had with you today has been against my will. And since I’m being honest, calling me a nerd isn’t as groundbreaking as you think. There are a thousand other ways you could address me that would be more insightful and creative." You say as you struggle to get up from the ground. Your other classmates are already leaving the class you were in, and thanks to the idiot in front of you, you missed your bus.

"You should worry more about getting off the ground than giving me tips on what to call you, nerd," Jeff says, winking at you. Before you can think about kicking him, he moves away from you, almost skipping. How infuriating. As you finally manage to stand up, you notice Hazel watching you, as if she had been waiting for you.

"How long are you going to keep looking at me?" You ask as you brush the dirt from the floor off your clothes. The anger you're feeling right now could make you go after Jeff and kill him. But the truth is that you already have enough problems and don't want to be transferred again.

"I thought you'd want a ride. And it was a little fun watching you get up by yourself." Hazel speaks while exuding an air of amusement at your humiliation. You instantly roll your eyes.

"You don't need to give me a ride, walking home is the icing on the cake of this horrible day at school." You’re out of patience, especially since it seems you can’t avoid either Jeff or Hazel.

"Are you so afraid of being alone with me?" Hazel asks with a mischievous smile, which makes you a little indignant.

"Try to decide what you want to accuse me of doing, either I'm in love with Jeff or I can't resist you, Both aren't worth it." You say while looking straight into Hazel's eyes. Your concentration is all on not looking at her mouth and imagining what it would be like to kiss her lips.

"I'm still getting to know you. I can't say exactly which option is right. But come to think of it, you probably like me." Hazel is very confident while suggesting that you like her. How can someone you’ve known for less than twenty-four hours already deduce that, and be right about it? It’s insane.

“Alright, you win. I’ll accept your ride if it means you’ll stop talking and we can move on.” You say while trying not to admit any attraction to Hazel.

"My car is the one to your left. If you’d follow me, mademoiselle, I’ll take you home." Hazel says, pointing to her car while accompanying you to it. She seems eager to impress you, even opening the car door for you.

“You know, I can open a door myself. And I just noticed that you offered me a ride without knowing where I live. What if it’s out of your way?” you say while getting into the car and fastening your seatbelt.

“I think I mentioned wanting to take you to my place before dropping you off at yours so we could work on the chemistry project together, remember?” Hazel says with a mischievous chuckle as she starts driving. You look at her with a judging stare.

“You know what I think? That you’re taking advantage of the situation to spend more time with me. Which doesn’t make much sense since you were accusing me of liking you, but it’s actually you who wants to spend your free time with me, even though you’re already committed.” You emphasize while turning to look at Hazel, who is focused on driving but glances at you with a sideways smile for a few seconds.

“First of all, I’m not committed. PJ and I hook up sometimes, but it’s not a serious or exclusive relationship. And I never said I wasn’t interested in you; I only accused you of being interested in me. Don’t blame me for stating the obvious.” Hazel replies with such calmness. You regret bringing up her commitment status, realizing it might come off as jealousy.

“Well, whatever. Your personal life is none of my business. What is my business is where you’re taking me.” You say softly, trying to appear uninterested in Hazel’s life. Wherever you’re going, there are beautiful gardens along the way.

“Actually, it was cute to see that I sparked jealousy in you so quickly. You must be the type who gets attached easily, which is sweet. And we’re almost at my place.” Hazel says, glancing at you briefly as if to reassure you.

“As long as we only talk about the project, it’s fine with me.” You say, still trying to appear disinterested. Hazel chuckles and then parks the car in front of a large house.

“And what else could we do besides talk about the project?” Hazel asks, getting close to your face as if she’s about to kiss you. You, foolishly, close your eyes as if expecting the kiss. But instead, she simply removes your seatbelt for you.

“Are you trying to mess with me?” you say, still with your eyes closed, thinking Hazel has already pulled away. But when you slowly open your eyes, you find her watching you, not in a weird way, but as if she’s enchanted by you.

“I am. And I hope it’s working,” Hazel says, then moves towards you, pulling you in for a kiss. The kiss is gentle and surprising, yet overwhelmingly captivating. Her lips touch yours as if both of you were starved for it. For a moment, you lose yourself there in Hazel’s car, savoring the sweet taste of her mouth. Then her phone rings, and after trying to ignore it, she answers, interrupting the kiss. Noticing it's PJ, you decide to wait outside the car. So, you stand there, next to the car of someone who interrupted a breath-stealing kiss to answer her situationship.

[matcha-lemonade-enthusiast]

i’m going to give a comprehensive list of songs that hit way too hard for me or that i cry to, because im little lonely (only child syndrome) and have no one else to tell 😁.

Liability by Lorde

i so vividly remember listening to this song for the first time, and it was like someone put how i felt every single fucking day into a song. i just felt like a huge burden to everyone and everything. especially since i had to whole sad clown thing going on (being the life of the party and silly until i had to be apart from anything that happily distracted me). so many nights were spent laying on the ground and staring at the ceiling, or sobbing in a dark closet to that song. thanks lorde 😍! (/s)

Stay by Post Malone

by far one of the most embarrassing songs on this list 😭. sorry unfortunately i dabble in hating mainstream artists (particularly yt men). however, an old friend of mine showed me this song as one of her fave sad songs to cry to, and i was like thanks im stealing this for my playlist 😁. once again just a song that put my thoughts into words (omg i love art), and i really just needed someone to hug me and tell me everything would be okay. also strangely, it’s a great song for if you’ve had a rocky relationship with your mom or anyone you love so deeply you’d do anything for but shit happens and you both fumble the ball, so now everyone is pissed off. like post simultaneously asking someone to (hopefully figuratively)put their cigarette out on his face, but also stick around for him and love him and tell him everything is okay? yeah real.

I’m Not A Mountain by Sarah Kinsley

fully almost cried when i saw/heard this live, because Sarah almost cried. *defeated* yeah. just another lonely girl who can’t set a boundary to save her life so she runs from her problems and has a sharp tongue song. i’ve said things that i didn’t mean out of anger and so deeply regret because i caused a friendship to end. i have people i (sort of) want a relationship with that i can’t get back because i’ve learned too much and im living in the past in some ways (rightfully so imo) (yes im contradicting myself ik). but yeah sometimes i wish i was a mountain too.

Last Time We Never Meet Again by Sarah Kinsley

sarah kinsley you will always be famous.

but fr this song was simultaneously a swift kick to the gut, but also a breath of fresh air. i was fresh off of calling it quits with a guy (like a month lol), and i had a lot of firsts with him (first serious relationship, first music festival, first time traveling without family, etc) not s*x though someone else beat him to it lmao.) so basically i was ranting to my mom and friends about him and everything i didn’t like that he did, because everything around me reminded me of him and it PISSED ME OFF to no end. then this album (Escaper) dropped (thank god), and once again this song was just everything i felt. like i can’t stand you, i never want to see you again, but hope everything works out how you want it to (im not a monster guys cmon). he called me tho like last week to make small talk and then ask me questions about his personality and stuff. so then that re-pissed me off bc i deleted his number while i was drunk on vacation, and i don’t follow him on anything anymore like pls take a hint.

Casual by Chappell Roan

self-explanatory.

Magnolia by Laufey

let me preface this by being a butthole and let everyone know how cool i am, because i was into laufey before she was uber famous. like im talking tickets to her show were $30. anyways!

basically a girl strung me along, and then left me for a mid yt man 😁. this song was there for me when i was too embarrassed to tell my friends what happened. didn’t cry, but definitely gazed out of my window on a rainy day and listened to the song on repeat for an hour or two (yes this is a part of my villain origin story) (yes i know im a terrible villain fr, more sad and lazy than vengeful)

Baby by Brittany Howard

feeling like i wasn’t enough and didn’t measure up (especially romantically)

Sullen Girl by Fiona Apple

my mom actually played an old fiona apple cd for me while we packed up our house to move. this song really stuck with me bc that whole summer (‘22) was a blur. the second half of the song genuinely sent me into shock because it gave me war flashbacks of childhood trauma that i try to repress 😍. then my mom told me, she pictured me as the sullen girl during my lowest moments and i cried and we hugged.

Cellophane by FKA Twigs

self-explanatory. especially if you’ve seen anania’s tiktoks to this song (doing mundane tasks, deadpan thousand yard stare, and this song blaring). i feel the same way girl, me too. also that music video is literally stunning.

Prey by The Neighborhood

ahhh an old classic. honestly the whole Wiped Out! album is good to cry to but this is a personal favorite. sobbed for two hours then fell asleep because why not. i felt like a waste of space that couldn’t do anything right (i still feel like that sometimes). you are so right jesse rutherford i do feel like something is wrong (i have extreme anxiety, everything feels off and i will freak out at any moment) i feel like prey (i will be chastised and ostracized the moment i do something wrong, and everyone is watching, also i was unmedicated).

okay besties this was a really short little playlist and long thoughts i randomly wanted to get out. thanks for letting me be annoying and reading 😍 (i say to my 5 followers, 2 of which are bots)

[lesb0]

You’re so right about Chappell Roan like she got big so fast and probably didn’t realize that celebrity is a brand. And with the technology we have now people have taken parasocial relationships to a whole other level like she might’ve been in the business struggling for years so she thought she could handle it but it’s like a whole different beast. I know she said it’s messing with her bipolar disorder though and that’s rough. I feel bad for her because it seems like the fact that this is just her life now—at least for the next couple of years or depending on how long she stays relevant—and she isn’t into it. But it’s like you said you can’t be unknown and also sell music. There isn’t really a middle ground and there never really has been. Maybe if you’re like the drummer from Coldplay or something lol. Like I follow a couple of indie musicians that have really dedicated but chill fans but they’re playing small venues and also don’t have fan bases. But as long as your name is out there there will be a fucking obsessive weirdo in the corner pretending your relationship is a two-way street even when you don’t know who they are. It sucks that celebs have to be relatable and always on for their fans especially in this social media age because people get so crazy and obsessive but I feel like her even calling attention to it might make it worse because the people literally do not care about her as a person they care about what she stands for and their eyes I don’t know maybe she’ll realize that and it’s not worth it?

Nope I don't think she gets to play the ignorant game she was well aware that her intended goals were to get viral status and have a big career. she's tried to get to this point for 10 years and is still hiring teams who work hard to keep her name out in the zeitgeist for a reason, to make money. she just wasnt aware that she wouldn't like it

[nomanwalksalone]

STYLE ICON: PRINCE

by David Isle

I’m not always proud of my interest in clothing and style. Most people associate style with vanity and elitism - ways to grow your own sense of superiority and root your disdain of others in the fertile ground of expensive garments and pretentious taste. But at its best, style is not about self-obsession, but self-possession. It can’t be bought or taught. And nobody was more self-possessed than Prince.

Whatever Prince did, he owned. He wore high heels and makeup, wide-shouldered jackets with no shirt underneath, ruffled Victorian blouses, skin-tight pants, assless one-pieces, even - on the cover of Lovesexy, where he offers himself as a (fallen?) angel - nothing at all. This confused the public - what kind of point was this guy trying to prove? Who and what is he? Is he a woman or a man? Is he straight or gay? But he was always just Prince. He owned it. He owned himself. Self-possessed.

The first Prince recording I ever bought was his Hits & B-Sides triple-disc collection. I know every one of those songs by heart now, but the first thing that knocked me out were the images in the liner notes. Dig if you will a picture. Prince in black and white, facial hair so finely trimmed it seemed like calligraphy, a lacy french-cuffed (the links spell ‘INSATIABLE’) blouse open to his navel, long eyelashes pressed against his silver-tipped cane. Is he weeping? Is he dreaming?  

Typically to be self-possessed connotes a sort of sang-froid - someone who brooks no panic or even exertion. This in itself is a high achievement. But Prince’s self-possession went beyond that. At times he seemed possessed by a demon, only the demon was he himself, exploding into paroxysms of pure expression. I saw him in 2004 on his Musicology tour - well into his forties, with rumored hip problems that were supposed to limit his on-stage movement. And yet, two hours into the concert, there he was, writhing on stage to “The Beautiful Ones,” crawling towards the audience on his hands and knees, right hand outstretched, singing the final lines, “Do u want me? Cause I want u!” You get a taste of the same energy at the end of this performance of “Shhh”, his facial expression wrought into rictus by the music flowing through him. But it’s all him. He owned it all.

Prince was also fixated on economic self-possession. At the height of his dispute with Warner Brothers, he appeared in public with the word “slave” written on his cheek. This was partly a play on musical terms - the “master” tape is the original recording, which Warner Brothers owned, not Prince, and therefore the copies made from it are “slaves” - but also a literal insistence on his own self-possession.

Other musicians, even the great ones, are somehow less than their work. They create, and then the thing stands on its own. Prince’s songs don’t really exist separately from him. Prince’s music is so much his own that the songs themselves seem to me almost incidental. They are just the vessels through which we happen to be experiencing him, like I am writing to you now in English, but if we were both born in a different place, I might just as easily be writing to you in French and the meaning would be the same. It’s not that the songs aren’t good - I love those songs - but if it hadn’t been those songs, it would have been other ones, and they would have been just as true.

That feeling comes partly because he wrote so many hits; even if you take away all 56 tracks on the 3-disc set mentioned earlier, you’ve still got the entire Batman soundtrack (maybe the best original soundtrack ever), the aforementioned “Beautiful Ones” as well as other Purple Rain hits like “Baby I’m A Star”, delightful songs like “Starfish and Coffee” off of Sign of the Times, plus the many great songs he has put out since Hits and B-Sides, like “Shhh,” “P Control,” “Call My Name,” “Black Sweat,” and “Chelsea Rodgers.” It doesn’t even include the haunting “Sometimes It Snows In April,” one of the last songs Prince ever played in concert. But it’s also because his musical presence was so strong in every performance. When he covers a song - anything from “Whole Lotta Love” to Beyonce’s “Crazy In Love” to The Foo Fighters’ “The Best Of Me” (at the Superbowl halftime show!! Who does that?!?) to Radiohead’s “Creep” - it becomes a Prince song. Even the songs he gave to others, like “Nothing Compares 2 U”, achieved second life on a higher plane when Prince recorded his own version. And no one covers Prince songs. It’s just too intimidating. The only successful Prince covers I can think of are Alicia Keys’ version of “How Come You Don’t Call Me Anymore,” and Chaka Khan’s “I Feel For You,” and Prince’s versions are still better.

Prince was often mis-understood as self-obsessed instead of self-possessed. And at times he was - there’s the story about Prince breaking The Roots guitarist Kirk Douglas’ guitar on The Tonight Show, or snubbing Kevin Smith when he came to Paisley Park to do a movie on Prince - but there are two reasons that���s not the main way I think of Prince. The first is his sense of humor, especially his ability to laugh at himself. This comes through in his lyrics sometimes, like the line in “Raspberry Beret” where Prince, 5’4” in 4” in heels and 120 pounds soaking wet in someone else’s sweat, sings, “Built like she was / She had the nerve to ask me / If I planned to do her any harm.” Or when he put a photo of Dave Chappelle, dressed as Prince in the famous Charlie Murphy basketball sketch, on his own single. Prince could be downright goofy.

But mostly I don’t think of Prince as self-obsessed because his music showed so much empathy towards others, especially women. Most male sex symbols portray sex as a physical thing that men do to women. For Prince, it was something for people to do together. Or even something for women to do to men. And it wasn’t exclusively, or even primarily, physical. He opens his song “Sexy M.F.” with the verse:

In a word or two it’s u eye wanna do No not your body, your mind you fool

The connection he made with his live audiences is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. He played to 20,000 seat arenas and made every person there feel like the whole show was for them. He liked to stop in the middle of his song “Cream” after singing, “You’re so fine / You’re filthy cute and baby you know it,” and tell the audience, “I know y’all have been singing that line in the mirror every morning! And if not, why not??”

He often had a blessed few join him to dance on stage for a song or two. But it was never just the hottest or the most scantily clad young women. It was always a big beautiful mix - men, women, young, old, big, small, black, white - they were all to be found at a Prince concert, finding themselves. He wanted everyone to own themselves just as much as he did. And while he was playing, maybe they did. It was a dream more awake than consciousness. It was church. Nothing compared.

Quality content, like quality clothing, ages well. This article first appeared on the No Man blog in April 2016.

[praphit]

My white daddy is back!

　 My white daddy is back!

Everybody knows that I've been raised by many dads:

Idris Elba

Denzel

Chappelle

Prince

but Liam is the dad that stands out for one basic reason...

He kicks the most ass! Or at least he used to... it has been a while since he made a decent action flick. Perhaps "The Grey" was the last one; that was about six years ago or so, and he didn't even mean to make that movie - he did some shrooms and ended up beating up wolves in the snow in the middle of no where; that's how bad ass he was! But, that was a long time ago, unless you count "Nut Job" ( Liam Neeson beating the hell out of animated squirrels), it's been a while.

But, strangely, Liam got out of shape (not shaming him... just sayin). He made movies like "Run all night", where he couldn't run for more than a minute without collapsing on the ground. And movies like "Taken 3" - where he got took by some Popeyes chicken in his trailer. Seriously, he wasn't even in that movie, it was all CG.

THEN he got real thin... too thin, to the point where somebody actually kidnapped Liam Neeson (in "Silence")! He survived that nonsense and starting playing old man roles.

Oh, but Liam got his feelings hurt when he saw that he wasn't even an honorable mention in my "Top 10 Bad Asses of the Year (2017)". He quickly got on the phone with the people from "Non Stop" (a movie in which he beat up a plane), and said " Dammit, I need to make my black, praphitic son proud again! Find me some train to beat up, I'm getting back in the game!" - but he said it all Irishy like he does. And that brings us here! My white daddy is back!

- and this time he's on a train.

But, he can't just go around pistol-whipping random people on a train; you've gotta have some plot! a role to play! He plays an insurnace agent in this movie. Of course this particular insurance agent has mad fighting skills - he is an ex-super cop!

I love the idea of Liam Neeson selling insurance. Think about "Liam Neeson Insurance"... nobody would ever dare mess with you. From Neeson bumper stickers (dent in the car equals a dent in yo ass) to Neeson signs outside of homes ("This home is protected by a very particular set of skills"). So! - we've got that bad ass insurance selling character. Let's talk plot!

Vera Farmiga! I love this woman!

 "Bates Motel" - playing a crazy mom. And "The Conjuring" - playing a religious woman who beats up demons and ghosts! I've always had a thing for crazy women; especially crazy, spiritual ladies... not ones who threaten that God will getcha if you don't send them money (*coughpaulawhitecough*) , but the ones confident in what they believe... punching the air as they pray... all that passion! Now, if Vera were combing that crazy with the spiritual... WHEW!

But, Vera is going a differnt route here. She's playing the mastermind of this fine picture. She asks Liam if he wants to play a game. Okay, so mistake number one - never agree to play any game a stranger asks you to play; it NEVER ends well.

Now, all she wants Liam to do is find the perp - WHO DUN DONE IT??! - plus, if you guess right, you win 100 grand! Tempting right??! I'll be honest, for 25 grand I'd push somebody off of a train, for 100... mmm!. No, no... I think I'm kidding - though my debt isn't going to go away on its own. That's the next Liam Neeson movie, "LIAM VS MY DEBT" - that would be the lamest action movie of all time... but maybe not with the right intense music and explosions in the background.

He already spends so much time on the phone in his movies

-  just take the time to make one more call to my debt collectors. Plus, it'd be some wealthy man helping out some poor black person... the Academy eats that stuff up!

Now, we're off to play this game through the eyes of Liam Neeson. Who's on this train? : black person (suspcious), Muslim (suspicious)... lesbians making out in that corner (surprisingly NOT suspicious, but I'm gonna keep my eyes on them anyway:), teenagers (yuck)... that woman over there looks like she may be from one of those "shithole" countries.

There's way too many suspicious types to choose - and that's why the set up for this movie is so good. I love the mystery of it all. Liam takes his time before he gets to the ass whupins.

BUT - as y'all might have seen from the trailer, when he does get to the ass whupins, they are exceedingly ridiclous: train cars exploding, 65 year old Liam flying through the air from exploding train car to exploding train car, knife fights with multiple attackers (in video game fashion), and things exploding... for really no reason at all other than the fact that this is an action movie. Or maybe objects are being smart to self-destruct before Liam Neeson has a chance to get near them.

The movie quickly (maybe 30 mins in) goes from a Hitchcockish mystery to a typical action flick. There are two ways to view this movie: #1 "Liam Neeson is 65 years old... give me a break!" or #2 - Enjoy it! "Liam Neeson has still got it! even is his 60's!" 　

It has got all of the bs that typical action flicks have: bad dialogue, super human action, a mind numbing plot (which I'll talk about in a sec). But, it's still a solid Liam Neeson film. I mean... he's Liam frickin Neeson! He ain't Tom Hanks!

Now, if Tom Hanks went from charming, lovable Tom to pistol-whipping, fighting on top of a train Tom... I'd be like "What the hell??!" But. it'd be odd if Liam DIDN'T get in at least one knife fight during transit. People love to test the best. I for one am rolling with perspective #2.

Now, that plot... people, this is one of the most needlessly convoluted plots you'll ever experience. We've all had someone in charge command us to do something that seemed stupid. Maybe you asked about this task, and after the person in charge explains your task... it's somehow more stupid than before - that's the plot in this movie. My woman Vera needs to stick with being crazy and religious, cuz scheming... ain't really her thing. I don't want to spoil anything, but the whole movie could have been over in the first scene; just let Liam Neeson do what he does and everyone could go home safe and happy! Kudos to Liam! He has still got it!

I remember when Liam Neeson took me out for ice cream. I had ordered extra sprinkles because they make me happy. But, on this day, the poor soul behind the counter forgot to give me extra sprinkles. Liam Neeson, with one hand was reaching over the counter to get my extra sprinkles and with the other hand, was breaking the arm of the dude behind the counter... then Liam threw him through a window... the glass didn't even shatter. At 65, Liam has perfected the throw-a-person-through-glass-thing... he got his point across without hurting anyone else. Are y'all understanding this??! - IT DID'NT EVEN SHATTER! This happened only last month. I'll say it one more time - HE HAS STILL GOT IT!

It's a shame that Liam was brought down by Vera's overcomplicated game. Anyway, while I'll take points off for that huge blunder, it's still an entertaining flick, and it does my heart well to know that my white daddy truly is back. 　 Grade: B

Look at him down there... on his way to beat more ass - just another day.

[footballghana]

Eric Frimpong: Soccer star to jail time

It’s March 3, 2008, a brilliant day in Santa Barbara. But for Eric Frimpong, it feels like hell. He’s in Superior Court, encircled by sheriff’s deputies, making one more trip to the Department 2 courtroom. This is his last stop on the outside for a while, a painful reminder of how far he has fallen. He left his native Ghana in 2005 to play soccer for UC Santa Barbara; a year later he became a campus hero while leading the Gauchos to their first-ever national championship. If the immigrant experience can have a sound, Frimpong’s sound was a raucous stadium. But in 2007, just weeks after being selected by the Kansas City Wizards in the MLS draft, he was accused of raping another student on the beach near his house. Now he’s a convicted felon.

Frimpong enters the courtroom, which is packed with students and parents, former teammates and coaches — row upon row of supporters. They’ve come for the sentencing that concludes a trial that has rocked this community: People v. Eric Frimpong. Or more accurately, People v. Eric Frimpong and His People.

A victim’s advocate reads a statement on behalf of the accuser, referred to in this story and in news coverage throughout the trial as Jane Doe. “I don’t care that he’s a soccer star…and I’m a nobody,” the statement says. “Eric Frimpong ruined my life.”

There’s a rumble in the gallery. If his supporters could chime in now, they’d say that the kid in the prison garb has never spoken an unkind word or acted aggressively toward anyone. They would remind the court of the points made at trial: that his accuser was a woman with little memory of what happened that night because of a near-toxic blood alcohol level; that Frimpong’s DNA wasn’t found on the victim; that semen found on her underwear belonged to a jealous boyfriend, a white student who was never a suspect. They would argue that overzealous law enforcement was determined to nail a high-profile athlete, facts be damned, and that this was the Duke lacrosse case all over again — except that the defendants in the Duke case were white men from affluent families with the means to navigate America’s justice system, unlike Frimpong, who is poor and an immigrant.

Judge Brian Hill, citing Frimpong’s clean record and “a lot of community support,” delivers his sentence: six years in state prison. As Frimpong is led away, many people in the gallery are crying. Out in the hall, Paul and Loni Monahan stand solemnly while the courtroom empties. Their son, Pat, was Frimpong’s teammate, and the Monahans — a white, middle-class family — had embraced “Frimmer” like a son and a brother. Loni distributes copies of a printed statement: “We will continue to fight for Eric. We will not rest until he is exonerated and the ugly truth of his wrongful prosecution and conviction comes out.” When the leaflets are gone, she leans against a wall, tears flowing. “Eric believed in our system,” she says. “He believed justice would prevail.” Then she straightens. “Before I was sad,” she says. “Now I’m mad.”

Something good happened in Santa Barbara. Even now, as Frimpong sits behind a glass partition in the visitors’ room of a California jail, he smiles easily while talking about where he’s come from and what he has achieved. The way he sees it, he has always been fortunate.

Back in Ghana, in western Africa, he and his three younger siblings were raised by their mother, Mary, in the poor farming community of Abesin, but her job as a typist with the government forestry department allowed the family to have plumbing and electricity, unlike many of their neighbours. Eric was an engineering major and a midfielder for Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology, in Kumasi, when he caught the eye of UCSB assistant Leo Chappel, who attended a 2005 match to scout the son of a Ghanian pro but ended up offering a scholarship to Frimpong instead. The first words out of Frimpong’s mouth? Thank God. The next: What’s UCSB?

By that August, the Gauchos had a crafty midfielder with intangibles to burn. Frimpong’s intelligence, instinct and vision, along with his speed and touch, made him an on-the-ball force. He also had a winning personality. “Frimmer was very humble and considerate, on and off the field,” says head coach Tim Vom Steeg.

As a senior the next year, the 5’6″ Frimpong developed a reputation as a lockdown defender in leading the unseeded Big West champs to a string of improbable NCAA tournament wins. When the final whistle blew on the 2006 national championship game, the Cinderella Gauchos had defeated four-time king UCLA. Frimpong earned All-Big West honours, a spot in the MLS supplemental draft and the gratitude of his peers. “He was the heart and soul of the team,” says Pat Monahan. “Eric won us that championship.”

Everyone around Frimpong was buoyed by his success: his mother, friends and classmates, prominent locals who had helped him out along the way with invites to dinner, rides to the store and, when he struggled with homesickness during his junior year, a fund-raiser that yielded $3,000 for a ticket to Ghana. “We all tried to pitch in, because Eric’s so darn likeable,” says Tim Foley, a booster who made Frimpong a regular guest at his family’s home. “He was an American success story.”

The Monahans were especially proud. Frimpong had met his “American parents” on move-in day in 2005, and they promptly invited him to spend Thanksgiving in San Diego. They gave him his first cell phone and laptop and took him on family vacations. They sat in their kitchen for hours listening to his stories about Ghana. They were also impressed by his knowledge of the Bible, and his quiet spirituality helped bolster their own faith. “He was going to graduate, play professionally, make more money here than he ever could in Ghana and bring it back to support his family,” Loni says. “Eric really had it all.”

Something bad happened in Santa Barbara. On Feb. 17, 2007, sometime after midnight on a fast-eroding bluff of beach right below 6547 Del Playa Drive, Jane Doe was raped. She said Eric Frimpong did it, and an all-white jury agreed. But the nature of the case, and some of the more slippery details surrounding it, has divided the community, raising questions about the reliability of the victim’s memory, the true character of the accused, the motives and tactics of law enforcement, even the fairness of the justice system. Amid all the controversy, though, two simple truths remain: A young woman was victimized, and a young man’s dream was shattered.

UCSB is among the nation’s top party schools, and oceanfront Del Playa is the belly of the beast. Even a model student-athlete like Frimpong, who maintained a 3.0 GPA while working on a double major in applied mathematics and business economics, found it hard to skip the party entirely. After the Gauchos won it all, they were the toast of the town, especially Frimmer. As Pat Monahan puts it, “You’d walk into apartments and see Ghanian flags hanging over people’s beds.”

Frimpong’s journey from soccer hero to convicted felon began a little more than halfway through his senior year. (The account that follows is based on police reports, interview transcripts, court proceedings and comments from trial observers.) The night of Feb. 16 began for Frimpong in the same place where he started most Friday nights, on the couch in his house at 6547 Del Playa Drive, watching a movie with housemates. His girlfriend, Yesenia Prieto, was working late, but Eric had reason to celebrate, fresh off an impressive 10-day tryout for the Wizards, so he showered and went to meet friends at a party at 6681 Del Playa Drive. It was outside that home, at about 11:30 p.m., that Frimpong met Jane Doe, a UCSB freshman. They struck up a conversation, then walked back to his house to play beer pong. They arrived just before midnight, and Eric introduced Jane to his roommates before taking her to the patio, where the two of them played beer pong for a few minutes until, according to Frimpong, Doe said she wanted to smoke, so they headed for the park next door. At the park, he says, Doe approached another male, who appeared to have followed them. When she walked back to Frimpong, she started kissing him, but he wasn’t interested because she smelled of cigarettes. Doe became aggressive, he says, and stuck her hand down his pants. He pushed her away, then headed to the home of his friend, Krystal Giang, who’d been expecting him. By 4 a.m., he was in bed at Prieto’s apartment.

About an hour and a half earlier, Jane Doe, accompanied by her sister and two friends, checked into Goleta Valley Cottage Hospital emergency clinic, claiming she had been raped. She was transferred to the Sexual Assault Response center downtown, where a nurse discovered a laceration to Doe’s external genitalia and bruises on her body, findings consistent with sexual assault.

“Yesterday was a really good day,” Doe told sheriff’s detectives Daniel Kies and Michael Scherbarth when they arrived at her dorm room the next morning, according to a police transcript. The reason for cheer: The 18-year-old Doe had just regained her driver’s license following a juvenile DUI conviction. At around 9 p.m. on Feb. 16, she went to a party with her sister, Elizabeth, and friends Mia Wolfson and Lakshmi Krishna. After stopping at a second party, Doe left the group and headed for a fraternity bash on Del Playa. “That’s where I saw the guy,” she told police.

From there, Doe’s story is mostly consistent with Frimpong’s, up to and including their game of beer pong. “He was really nice,” she said. But their accounts differ sharply after that. According to Doe, the next thing she remembers is being on the beach, where the nice guy turned violent, knocking her to the ground, striking her in the face, holding her throat and raping her before fleeing. Having lost her purse, Doe walked to Del Playa, where she stopped a passerby, student Justin Hannah. Using his cell, she phoned a friend, her father and then Wolfson and Krishna, who picked her up around 1:30 a.m. Doe, who admitted to drinking heavily throughout the evening, couldn’t remember anything between stepping into their car and going to the hospital — a period of one hour — but her friends would fill in the blanks: At first Doe didn’t want to go to the hospital because she was worried about getting in trouble for drinking. But back at the dorm, her friends kept urging, and she relented. Sitting with the detectives that morning, she described her attacker as a black male who spoke with an “island accent” and had “big lips” and short hair. His name? “Eric, I think.”

Sometime around noon on Feb. 17, Kies and Scherbarth spotted Frimpong hanging out with friends at the park on Del Playa. When Kies asked if he would accompany them to the station to talk about “what happened last night,” Frimpong agreed to go, despite being unsure what the detective meant. Once at the station, Kies reminded Frimpong that he had come voluntarily and asked him to describe what he’d been doing the previous night. According to the police transcript, Frimpong told Kies about watching a movie at home, then going to a party and eventually meeting Doe, whom he described as one of the “random soccer fans,” and playing beer pong with her before heading to Giang’s house and later to Prieto’s. Kies then asked for Frimpong’s consent to collect the clothes he’d worn the night before. “Yeah,” Frimpong responded, “but I still don’t know what’s going on.” Kies explained that the girl said that they’d “had sex” on the beach.

“Wow,” Frimpong responded.

Kies then informed Frimpong that he was being detained and read him his rights. Minutes later, he explained the rape accusation. “I didn’t have sex with her,” Frimpong insisted. Charged with felony rape, he phoned Paul Monahan, who spread the word. Vom Steeg couldn’t believe it: “I’m thinking, Frimpong? Rape? No way.” (The coach later asked Frimpong directly. “I said, ‘Eric, is there any chance you had sex but you thought maybe it was consensual?’ He said, ‘Tim, I never pulled my pants down.’ I said, ‘If you did this, DNA will prove it.’ He said, ‘Coach, I’m not stupid.’ “)

By the next day, Frimpong supporters had mobilized. Vom Steeg arranged for Paul Monahan to meet with Foley, and it was agreed that Monahan would fund a defense while the $100,000 bail would be paid by Foley and Cam Camarena, a former UCSB soccer player who helps finance Right to Dream, a program that brings Ghanian players to America. Based on a referral, they hired attor­ney Robert Sanger, and funds were bolstered by the campus-based Eric Frimpong Freedom Fund, which raised $25,000 within months. When Frimpong was released on bond, teammates were waiting outside the police station. “Nobody knows Eric like we do,” says former teammate Alfonso Motagalvan. “And he’s just not capable of doing something like this.”

When the test results came back in March, Frimpong’s DNA hadn’t been found on Jane Doe’s clothing or body, but Doe’s DNA had been found on Frimpong: in two nucleated epithelial cells, found on his scrotum and penis, and in an unspecified trace under his fingernail. (Epithelial cells are found inside the body and in body fluids like mucus, saliva and sweat. These tested negative as vaginal cells, but such tests can be inconclusive. When the case went to trial that November, the defense argued that the findings were consistent with Frimpong’s claim that Doe had grabbed his genitals.) Also, semen found on Doe’s underwear didn’t match Frimpong’s — but it was a match for that of Benjamin Randall, Doe’s sexual partner throughout her freshman year. Randall told authorities that he and Doe had engaged in intercourse seven days before the rape; Doe said they’d had sex four days prior but that she thought she was wearing different underwear, and she told a nurse that they’d used a condom. (During the trial, Doe and Randall confirmed they’d been together at parties the night she met Frimpong. Randall testified that, while en route to a friend’s house, he spotted Doe and Frimpong walking on Del Playa at about 11:40 p.m. Randall then called Doe, and she told him she was headed to “Eric’s house to play beer pong.” Under cross-examination by Sanger, Randall admitted, “I might’ve been a little upset. I guess you can call that jealousy.” He also testified that after the call, he returned to his dorm at Santa Barbara City College, where he spent the night alone.)

Despite having DNA evidence matched to him, Randall was never a suspect. Neither was the man who retrieved Doe’s purse, which she said she’d lost either on the beach or at Frimpong’s home. It was delivered to the sheriff’s department the next day, minus $30, by someone described in the police report as a “can recycler.” But because of a “language barrier,” he wasn’t questioned.

Frimpong was the only suspect, even though there was no apparent sign of sexual activity — no blood, semen, vaginal secretions — or any scratches or other telltale marks of rape on his body or clothes. The absence of abrasions was odd. Doe told authorities she was wearing a “thicker ring” on her right ring finger and that she hit her attacker so hard, “all my knuckles were screwed up.” There was also very little sand found on his clothes. (At the trial, Dianne Burns, a criminologist who examined the physical evidence, testified to the presence of two small vials’ worth of sand in the cuffs of Frimpong’s jeans and in one pocket.)

Still, the district attorney’s office pressed on, in a case reminiscent of one that was unraveling on the East Coast. “There was always a strong parallel to the Duke case,” Vom Steeg says. “From the start, the sheriff’s department felt like they had their guy. But when the evidence didn’t turn out the way it was supposed to, their position became, ‘If she’s willing to testify, we’ll go forward.’ ”

Using phone records, authorities estimate that the attack took place between 12:15 and 1:15 a.m., a time period for which Frimpong did not have a solid alibi. James Jennings, a bicycle taxi driver, said he gave Frimpong a lift between 12:30 and 2 a.m. and that the player acted like “the happiest guy in the world.” Giang told authorities that Frimpong arrived at her home sometime between 11 p.m. and midnight. But a 1:34 a.m. phone call from Frimpong to Giang seemed to place his arrival later than she had estimated. Also thorny was the testimony of Hannah, the student who had lent Doe his phone. He said that while Doe “looked like she had just come out of a traumatic experience,” her clothing didn’t appear to be dirty or sandy. He also said that she told him that she “didn’t know what had happened.”

Throughout the investigation and during the trial, Doe admitted to gaps in her memory. In her interview with detectives, she claimed she had consumed “a couple shots of vodka” before leaving her dorm. In an interview that April with assistant district attorney Mary Barron, the lead prosecutor, Doe said she’d consumed more throughout the evening. “I know I had beer,” she said. “And I know I had rum.” She also acknowledged that her memory after beer pong was hazy. “That’s when it starts to, like, cut out,” she told Barron. According to the transcript, Doe had little memory of going to the beach, and her recollection of the rape itself was scattered. Asked whether she recalled going outside to smoke, Doe said she “probably” smoked but didn’t remember when. “I don’t even know, since there’s that chunk missing.”

So what happened on the beach? Doe said Frimpong may have tried to kiss her, but when pressed by Barron she admitted, “I have no clue. I’m just assuming…” She also said, “I remember him biting me on my face,” even though she had told the emergency room doctor she thought she’d been hit, and when questioned by detectives, she said she didn’t know about being bitten — despite Kies’ saying, “That’s definitely, most definitely, teeth marks, dude,” about the bruise on her cheek. When Barron questioned her about it, Doe said, “But later, when they’re, like, ‘It looks like teeth marks’ …I remember that happening.”

Doe continued, “I saw him, like, feel around — take off his belt — or something on his pants — I don’t know.” She said she remembered being penetrated, and “it felt like a penis.” Barron asked if the attacker was the same person she’d played beer pong with. Doe said that while she couldn’t recall going to the beach, she remembered the attacker’s accent, his eyes (“They were white”) and his lips (“They’re big”). She was also fairly confident that the rape lasted “15 minutes at the most… but then, since there’s that huge chunk of time that I don’t remember, it could be anything.”

Many of Frimpong’s supporters believe that race is at the heart of the case. Santa Barbara County has nearly 425,000 residents, but only 2% are black. “I love this town,” says Foley, a resident for 30 years, “but there’s no question there’s racism here.”

Thanks to Frimpong’s celebrity status, he wasn’t flying under the radar. “I’m 100% convinced that they were going to nail this guy before he walked into the station,” Foley says. (At the trial, Burns testified that in a Feb. 22 phone call from Kies, the detective asked her to expedite her usual process, reminding her that this was a “high-profile case.”)

Back on campus, media coverage led to an unwelcome surprise for the defense: After reading about Frimpong’s arrest, another student came forward claiming that she too had been assaulted by him. This new Jane Doe told police that a few weeks before the rape, he had acted aggressively toward her, grabbing her buttocks and tackling her on the beach. The DA used the accusation to charge Frimpong with misdemeanor sexual assault, which made for a second count at trial. (He was found not guilty.) “The DA’s office filed a weak claim of sex­ual assault to portray Eric as a serial sexual predator and bolster the flawed rape claim,” wrote Kim Seefeld, a local defense attorney and former prosecutor, in a blog post on Jan. 15, 2008. “The allegations severely prejudiced him before the jury.”

The second charge also sent Frimpong back to jail, where friends say he was taunted by deputies. When Paul Monahan picked him up later that day, after Foley and Camarena paid the additional $250,000 bail, Frimpong broke down in tears.

There was no trip to the White House with the rest of his teammates. After the second arrest, Frimpong went into seclusion, moving to an apartment with Pat Monahan and relying on friends to run errands and deliver food. He still ventured out for dates with Prieto, and he remained active on the field, playing in an intramural league and with the semipro Ventura Fusion. He also took a part-time job with Foley. “I tried to give him pocket money, but he wouldn’t take it,” Foley says. “He was a different kid, just as sad as can be.”

Meanwhile, a battle raged among the student body. On one side were Frimpong’s loyal backers, who attested to his character in TV interviews and who carpooled in large numbers to his hearings. On the other side were victims’ rights advocates, who responded with rape awareness presentations on campus and a confrontation with Frimpong supporters at an MLK Day rally. “It was ugly, with a lot of people saying a lot of dumb things,” Giang says. “People just forgot that at the heart of this are the facts, not just vague concepts.”

None of it kept Frimpong from graduating in June 2007. “Nine out of 10 kids would have dropped out,” Vom Steeg says. “It says a lot about his character.” Adds Camarena, now the head coach for the University of Hawaii at Hilo: “Eric never blamed corruption, never called anyone a racist, never called the girl a liar. He continued to uphold American values. And he maintained faith that our justice system would see him through.”

Frimpong put that faith in an all-white jury of nine women and three men. His trial began on Nov. 26, and for three weeks Department 2 was home base for Team Frimpong. Many supporters came with notebooks, and during recess they would go to the café across the street to discuss the latest unfavorable ruling. They point to the time, for example, when Barron may have implied to the jury that Frimpong had chosen not to testify, even though the prosecution is not allowed to refer to the defendant’s right to remain silent. While Judge Hill said that there were “possible inferences,” he denied Sanger’s motion for a mistrial. Also, during jury deliberations, Hill refused to dismiss juror No. 5 after her arrest for drunken driving. (The defense argued that the juror, whose case was in the hands of the DA, couldn’t remain impartial.)

Perhaps the most troubling ruling, as far as the defense was concerned, involved bite mark analysis. The prosecution’s forensic expert, Norman Sperber, testified that he couldn’t rule out Frimpong for causing the bite on Jane Doe’s face. But detectives failed to disclose that they had first approached another expert: Raymond Johansen would later testify, outside the jury’s presence, that after preliminary analysis, he told Kies that the bite mark was “vague.” Law enforcement is required to turn over evidence that doesn’t point to the defendant as the suspect; suppressing such evidence is grounds for a mistrial. But Kies failed to file a report of his conversation with Johansen. When questioned by Sanger, the detective stated that while he had indeed approached Johansen first, the dentist had failed to provide any opinion. Kies and senior DA Ronald Zonen both told the court that they had passed over Johansen because he wanted to charge for his services, and Sperber wasn’t charging. But Sperber testified that he always charges for his services, and he did so for this case, too. Judge Hill, who had served 19 years as a Santa Barbara DA prior to sitting on the bench, ruled that Johansen’s testimony was not exculpatory and denied that motion as well.

Nonetheless, Frimpong’s supporters save much of their scorn for Sanger. The prosecution rested its case on Dec. 12, having called 32 witnesses; Sanger questioned them all on the stand but called only one additional witness, a blood expert who testified that Doe’s blood-alcohol level at the time the sample was taken, 5:37 a.m., was .20 and that it could have been as high as .29 at the time of the incident — an almost lethal level. Sanger rested his case the next day. “The final score was 32-1,” Vom Steeg says. “I feel guilty like we didn’t do enough.” Loni Monahan spoke to Sanger throughout the trial about his strategy. “He told me, ‘The best defense was no defense, because it would demonstrate there’s nothing to defend,'” she says. “We made a mistake.”

The jury began deliberating on Friday, Dec. 14; the next Monday, just after 3:30 p.m., came the guilty verdict.

On Jan. 31, 2008, with Frimpong in jail awaiting sentencing, the defense filed a motion for a new trial, citing several factors, including a development with the jury: In a written declaration to the court, juror Ann Diebold stated, “I regret the decision I made in finding Mr Frimpong guilty.” Among her many points was the court’s refusal to provide the jury with evidence they had requested for review, including Doe’s testimony and Frimpong’s interview with Kies — the latter because some jurors stated that they wanted “the opportunity to hear Mr Frimpong’s side of the story.” (They were read-only Doe’s direct testimony, without cross-examination, because Judge Hill said “it would take some time to gather the additional information,” Diebold wrote.) Diebold also claimed that the jurors rushed through deliberations so they could conclude the case by the Christmas holiday. “I felt pressure from the judge and other jurors to reach a verdict by Dec. 18,” she wrote.

Sanger’s motion was a last-second heave, but it allowed him to put his own forensic dentist on the stand. Defense expert Charles Bowers fell ill during the trial and was unable to testify, but at the hearing on Feb. 28, he delivered his opinion: Frimpong’s teeth could not have made the bite, but Randall’s teeth could have. As Bowers spoke, there was a buzz in the gallery. But Judge Hill was unmoved. He began the hearing by saying that in his 27-year career, “I’ve not seen a rape case with so much incriminating, credible and powerful evidence,” and ended it by dismissing the motion. Three days later, he sentenced Frimpong to six years.

Today Eric Frimpong is prisoner F95488, a ward of the California Correctional Institution in Tehachapi, about 75 miles northeast of Santa Barbara. Friends and supporters continue to fight for him, but none worries more than his mother. “She’s sick to death,” says Loni Monahan, who provides Mary with weekly updates. “We understand one of every 10 words, but we’re moms, so it’s enough.” Loni’s own son marvels at Eric’s almost preternatural calm in the face of adversity. “The kid’s in jail, and with all his issues, he’s the one keeping us sane,” Pat says.

Frimpong is small in size, but he seems to have avoided many of the pitfalls of life behind bars. He even calls many of his fellow inmates his friends. One of them is 45-year-old Terry Carter, who served time with Frimpong at Santa Barbara County Jail. “Eric was a godsend, just an amazingly positive influence,” he says. “It’s funny, but to guys twice his size, the kid’s a leader.”

Every day, Frimpong led group exercises in the yard, but his primary pastime was Bible study. Before his arrival it was Hispanics-only, so Eric started his own, and some of them joined his.

“It’s a terrible thing that happened to me,” Frimpong says. “Being in here, I keep asking myself why God put me in that situation. And then it struck me: Maybe I can reach more people, help more people if they hear my story.”

His supporters say it’s working. “All you have to do is look at Frimmer’s camp — he hasn’t lost anyone,” Vom Steeg says. “In fact, since the trial, he’s actually gaining supporters.” In Ghana, Frimpong’s plight is well-documented by the media. In Santa Barbara, people continue to proclaim his innocence, even when it’s not easy to do so. After writing several opinion pieces in the local papers, Kim Seefeld was inexplicably subpoenaed to appear at the hearings on the motion for a new trial. (She was never called to testify.) “I got harassed by the DA, subpoenaed and threatened, all because I stuck my neck out for someone I believe is innocent,” says Seefeld, who plans to continue her writing. “That’s what happens to a citizen who dares to question our justice system in Santa Barbara.”

And then there are the letters from all over the world, many containing donations. “These are people who don’t even know Eric, have never spoken directly to him,” Loni Monahan says with awe. “Eric was born to be a pro soccer player, but he’s realized he has more impact in the direction he’s going. There’s a groundswell going on.”

The key addition to Team Frimpong is Ronald Turner, a Sacramento-based, court-appointed appellate attorney who has filed the opening brief in an appeal with the Second Appellate ­District of California. The process gives Frimpong hope. So too does his dream of eventually attending seminary and becoming a priest. Not that he has given up on turning pro. “He’s very determined,” says Andy Iro, Frimpong’s friend and former teammate, now with the MLS’ Columbus Crew. “His reputation has been tarnished, but if anyone can come out of this a better person, it’s Eric.”

Many nights, Frimpong says, he dreams the same dream: He is running, but not from anyone or anything. His bare feet punch the shoreline, toes clawing the sand, while the sun sets on the Pacific Ocean. “My body can be in prison,” he says. “But my mind and soul are in Santa Barbara.”

Something bad happened there. Two young lives were suddenly, sadly interrupted. But in the end, something good may still come of it.

Source: espn.com

source: https://footballghana.com/

[mogpetit-blog]

Funny Not Funny

Dave Chappelle’s address of the #metoo movement in his Netflix special “The Bird Revelation” definitely ruffled some feathers. I’d recently watched his new stand up and had somethings myself.

In “The Bird Revelation”, a female comedian who gives up on a career in comedy following her experience of assault – Louis C.K.’s flagrant masturbation– is denounced to be of brittle spirit. Harvey Weinstein is suggested to be have been framed a sexual predator simply due to his lack of Brad Pitt good looks and (in my humble opinion) an uncanny resemblance to an oversized, soggy fleshed, poached German sausage. The ones kept in jars, soaking in mystery liquids. Victims speaking out now about their past (in some instances dating back almost a decade or more) experiences of abuse were suggested to be experiencing “buyer’s remorse”.

I very rarely get offended by comedy. It is either funny, or not funny. The only one time I can think of is Trevor Noah calling out Australian Indigenous women as being ugly and suggesting their worth as being some bad taste, lewd sexual act. That was just so purely in bad taste coming from a man that platforms his career on commentaries surrounding race relations and cultural awareness. If he had said that down at the pub, he would be That Guy. The one always met with awkward silence that no one finds funny and thinks is a dick. Vowing to never making a ‘joke’ like that after visiting a museum about a particular culture and it’s history, now THAT’s a joke. Like did your ignorance of a particular culture justify your racist, sexist perspective? Or do you have to be schooled on every minority culture before being let loose to not denigrate and vilify women who aren’t the same to you? Lord knows I hate his smug ass. 

But I digress.

I find Dave’s statements difficult to take offence at simply for their lack of grounding in the realities of sexual harassment and abuse. They so obviously make a mockery of the experience, I find it difficult to believe it should be taken at face value as a discredit to victim experience.  For instance, it makes light of the fact that there are a multitude of male dominated industries (Wall street, the military, construction, metal music, also stand up comedy perhaps?) that women find difficult to access purely due to the stronghold of misogynistic attitudes that prevent, cripple and terrorise the women that do. Within male dominated industries, the incidence of sexual harassment and assault has been found to be doubled that of a less gender biased industries. One would imagine then the amount of mansplaining and manspreading (figuratively and literally) the poor lass would’ve had to put up with. All while being broke as fuck getting paid less than the average male, with being masturbated upon by an arrogant, balding, middle aged ‘comic’ (Louis C.K.) being the straw that finally broke the camel’s back. Not due to a fragile constitution or lack of capacity to withstand the storm, but because there is no course/class/textbook/podcast/youtube tutorial on (assuming there even is rational cognition in the face of trauma) how to react to/deal with sexual harassment. Not everyone has the capacity to ‘persevere’ through the abuse and the grit to ‘triumph’ over their experience of the pervert. We are evolutionarily hardwire to RUN from a threatening situation, so why is this woman obliged to prove her commitment to her craft when confronted by Louis’s smug member?

And then there is the contention that women would gladly be sexually preyed upon by Harvey Weinstein should he not resemble a gluten intolerance. This is just silly. Dave of all men should know that it is fact that women find lesser attractive but successful men equally as attractive, if not more than simply an aesthetically good looking man. Sexual assault has nary to do with finding your predator attractive. It has everything to do with consent. Which brings us to the third loaded statement. Buyer’s remorse. 

The most profound issue #metoo has brought to fore has been this matter of consent, or rather, the lack of awareness of what this looks/feels/is for both men and women. While a lot of what is being said has to do with men not understanding what consent is, in many ways, neither do women. Women are so indoctrinated by society’s misogynistic perceptions of the sexually permissive woman asking for it, deserving of it and putting themselves up for it that we aren’t allowed (even in our own heads) to want a little taste of the cake without being blamed (especially by ourselves) for being force fed the whole lot. This internalisation of what an ‘ideal’ victim makes also has women uncertain and self-blaming. Oh, but I was flirty, found him attractive, touched the tip. And I did not kick, punch, scream, run. People who have not been raped don’t realise that the admission to being sexually assaulted or raped by someone you know requires two extremely difficult harsh truths: That you see the rapist as a rapist, and you as a victim. Because if he isn’t a rapist, then maybe you haven’t been raped. Like Ottavia Busia who went on to have a consensual relationship with Harvey Weinstein following an incidence of assault. There is no buyer’s remorse. It’s being saddled with a really ugly jacket you didn’t want but were forced to wear in numerous humiliating ways because you got curious, touched it, spilt a little red wine on it, and now can’t complain about because it cost you three month’s rent, deep shame, all your self-worth and dignity. That is why they never said anything. 

But no, I wasn’t offended. But I also didn’t find it funny. 

When will men stop trying to make rape jokes?