#George suffers more than Jesus

[theinvisiblemenace]

George's Horrible, Terrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day (p. 1/?)

The Invisible Woman (1940)

[crescendof1]

recently george has had a mechanical failure from pole an abysmal quali a dsq a shit strategy and now he's catching strays from will button of all people can we pls give this poor guy a break

[tweedfrog]

Having a post blow up and the only comments you get are complaints.....finally know what this diva felt like

[pochapal]

"shannon [...] was always suffering" is the most real thing this story has said actually

[it-is-i-zim]

I know this isn't about him but I'm making it about him now.

what am i looking for in a male character? i’m personally partial to little freaks who have suffered more than jesus so write that down

[effervescentdragon]

F1 drivers as Premier League teams, 2024 edition

Compiled by yours truly and @sebsrainbowbicycle

Stay tuned for the post that will get both me and Dee cancelled in both the F1 and the football fandoms. Onwards, unto the breach!

Lando Norris - Chelsea

Overpaid, overrated, 99,999% chance of being fundamentally racist, and yet somehow doing really well this season.

Checo Perez - Everton

SHITE and yet still in competition somehow despite it all.

Max Verstappen - Man City

115 charges vs 1.8 million catering budget, FIGHT!

Lewis Hamilton - Arsenal

Was really good but really hated, is trying to regain former glory but somehow it's reaaaally not working bcs it all falls apart in the last leg. Also he's an Arsenal fan so it rly works out.

Fernando Alonso - Manchester United

The greatest of them all... just don't look at the referees/Singapore GP/the money put into the stadium/what is done to the peach/the staff around Fergie/et cetera et cetera. Fucks real hard but it's just not going well at the moment. There is still hope, tho. :,)

Alex Albon - Tottenham Spurs

Cracks under pressure. Bottles it a lot. Is a dick. Also I never thought I'd say this, but I really miss Logan Sargeant as an option just about now.

Valtteri Bottas - Leicester

Were really good once. Are pretty shit now.

Charles Leclerc - Liverpool FC

Loses, and loses, and loses, and suffers more than Jesus himself (apart from being a really really rich brand), is amazing and has the absolute chance to win, unless they.. slip. :)

Carlos Sainz Jr. - Aston Villa

They're pretty high placed and you're like. What are you even doing here, polar bear?

George Russell - Crystal Palace

You're thinking The Great Exhibition of 1851, you're thinking royalty, you're thinking Queen Victoria... and then he speaks and suddenly you realize - it sounds fancier than it is.

Oscar Piastri - Nottingham Forrest

Mate, nobody understands you speaking.

Pierre Gasly - Newcastle United

You think they should be doing better than they are since they've been around for so long, but then you think twice and you're like. Should they tho?

Franco Colapinto - Brighton Hove Albion

You don't expect them to be that scrappy, but you kinda dig it.

Yuki Tsunoda - Brentford

They're doing pretty well, scoring in the 1st minute and rly agressive (complimentary), but you know they'll probably lose.

Nico Hulkenberg - West Ham United

They've been around for so long and they were good once, but they've also just been consistently mid for quite a while.

Liam Lawson - Fulham FC

Esteban Ocon - Bournemouth

Isn't in the relegation zone but REALLY should be.

Zhou Guanyu - Ipswitch

Is in the relegantion zone but kinda shouldn't be.

Kevin Magnussen - Southampton

In the relegation zone.

Lance Stroll - Wolves (nobody got time for your wannabe Shakespeare lvl name, we all know you're Racing Point, dude)

Is in the relegation zone but will pull out because of divine intervention (Daddy).

[frogmanfae]

Anthony Lockwood x GN! Reader- You Too? (FLUFF with a little bit of angst)

Summary: Anthony can't sleep at night. You can't sleep at night. Most of the time you avoid running into each other, but one fateful night of tears in the basement leads to an awkward bedroom experience.

A/n: this one is quite a bit longer than my other ones, about 4,000 words. I think it came out pretty well. Please don't make this dirty, I beg of you. It really is just awkwardness that happens to occur in a bed it isn't anything spicy.

Reader pov

There are nights where I can't bear to be in my room. I'm not sure why. Perhaps I need a break from such mundane consistency. I just need to see something other than those walls.

On these nights, I usually make myself some tea and go to the basement. I'd much rather sit in the library, but Lockwood is in there most nights. Nobody ever comes down to the basement. I'm alone with only my thoughts and my tea.

I don't quite understand why my room has this effect on me sometimes. When my parents died, my room was my safe haven. My refuge. My sanctuary. So now that I'm in a new environment, it makes little sense to me that it can feel more like solitary confinement. It makes even less sense that I'm soothed by the concrete and dust of the basement.

Tonight is one of those nights. It's probably three in the morning as I sit on the floor leaned against the wall, sipping my tea. I'm a listener, like Lucy (though not nearly as powerful) so a moment of silence is rare, but extremely calming. To use my power and hear nothing is bliss.

I've only about half way finished my tea when someone comes down the stairs, clearly laser focused on something. We're in the middle of a big case, so that's probably it. I had expected it to be George doing some late research or maybe Lucy to see if she can listen to any of the sources down here and get a lead.

To my surprise, it's the other one.

I watch silently as Lockwood pulls out several files and spreads them out on a table. He seems extra stiff, like something is really bothering him. He grumbles something in frustration before collecting the files and putting them back in the cabinet.

He walks over to my wall and sits down a couple feet away. From what I can tell, he hasn't noticed me.

I'm right here, isn't your talent supposed to be sight?

I simply continue sipping on my tea, remaining quiet and looking forward to not disturb him, though he really is an idiot if he doesn't know I'm here.

I thought for a moment that he actually did see me, but he needed space and realized I needed the same so he just didn't acknowledge it. I was certain on this until I heard him crying.

I look over at him. He's still wearing dress pants and his button up and tie. He's still got on his dress shoes. However, his hair was a mess and his hands were currently tangled in the back locks, only making it worse. His face was buried in his knees. I swear I heard a tear drop on to the floor. He was quietly sobbing, clearly trying to not alert anyone but still in pain. Emotional pain, anyhow.

I debate what I should do for a moment. I don't want to startle him, and honestly he seems like he needs this. I decide to just keep drinking my tea and not look at him. I'll let him get it all out before I make my presence known.

It lasts longer than I thought. Perhaps ten minutes? I'm not the best with comprehending passage of time but that seems right enough. Regardless of the details, it was a long time to sit here holding my breath and listening to his suffering.

Finally, he sniffs and wipes his eyes. I'm still looking straight ahead holding my cup, only seeing him out of my peripheral vision. He runs his hands back and forth over his hair a few times. I close my eyes.

"JESUS FUCKI-"

I snap my head towards Lockwood. He's now on his back with his legs closest to me, propped up on one arm and looking at me as if I'm a ghost. I can properly see his face now. His dark circles seem more prominent than usual and his eyes are red and puffy. His nose is red. His cheeks are discolored. He looks abnormally pale. His lashes have been thickened and darkened by his tears. It was truly a sight.

"HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN HERE?"

"I was here before you."

"AND YOU DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING? YOU SAW ALL OF THAT?"

"Shhh you'll wake up the others, we both know how lightly George sleeps while we're in the midst of a case. Anyhow, you seemed like you needed it. I didn't want to interrupt. It's not like I watched you."

"But... You saw it all. You heard everything!"

"Lockwood, I hope you realize I think no less of you."

"What?"

"I- oh gosh you can't be comfortable like that. Sit up, why don't you?" He hesitantly pushes himself up and leans against the wall again. "I'm worried about you."

"Theres no need to be-"

"Bullshit. You can't keep concealing your emotions like this. It's okay to be overwhelmed or stressed or overall upset for any reason. You always act like everything is wonderful but it's not. I don't know if it ever has been."

He looks down. "(Y/n)... It's not that easy-"

"I never said anything about it being easy. Of course it's hard. I can't even imagine how you feel owning an agency so young, having all that pressure on your shoulders. It's terrifying to be vulnerable."

"Is that why you're in the basement in the early hours of the morning, drinking herbal tea?"

I hum. "I just couldn't sleep, and I like herbal tea."

"Now who's bullshitting?" The corners of his mouth tug up in a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You much prefer green. Herbal simply calms you down. You only ever drink herbal tea when you're upset."

"How..."

"I notice things, (y/n). Lots of things. Don't think I don't hear the kettle during the midnight hours at least three times a week. The peculiar thing is I never hear anyone go back up the stairs and whenever I go into the kitchen, it's empty."

I look down. How'd he make this about me so quickly?

"Tell me, (y/n), do you spend your nights in the basement often?"

"... No. Only when I can't sleep."

"So... Often." He nods. "Why don't you stay in the library? It's much more inviting."

"I don't want to bother you. That's where you are most nights."

"You could never bother me."

"Stop, you were the one crying a few moments ago, this isn't about me."

He sighs. "It was worth a shot."

"Now, what's bothering you?"

"Uh... Nothing, really."

"Lockwood."

"It's just the case, that's all."

"That's a lie and we both know it."

He let's out a noise of exasperation. "Fine, you really want to know? It's my parents."

"Your parents?" I ask softly as I scoot closer to him.

He nods. "They died when I was six years old. You really have no idea what it's like to have such a great life until suddenly you don't and it all gets ripped away from you without warning and nobody will take you in so you have to fend for yourself before your age even reaches double digits."

"Actually... I think I can relate more than you realize."

"How can you possibly relate?" He almost sounds angry. I don't blame him, I never told him my story. I kept it to myself even after living with other people all this time. I moved here with a purpose, to start new. Therefore, my past never happened according to anyone else. I was another person then. I've left all of that behind, taking only the nightmares and memories with me.

"My parents were murdered when I was eight." I look straight ahead. "Nobody really wants to adopt a kid who's just began to really get strong in their talent for hearing brutal murders and death. It freaks adults out. So I was on my own until I found you guys."

His expression softens. "(Y/n), I'm so sorry, I... Wait, you were fourteen when you applied. That's six years."

"It was hard but I managed. The whole ghost hunting agent thing isn't so bad. Once you've been forced to watch your parents get nothing short of quartered right in front of your sensitive, innocent eyes, you can watch anyone else get ghost touched no big deal."

"I'm sorry, quartered?" His eyes are wide.

"Yeah, are you familiar with the French Revolution?"

"I'm familiar enough to hope you were talking about a different type of quartering."

I shook my head. "It was intense. I still think of it every time I close my eyes."

"I can't even imagine..."

"I didn't tell you this for you to feel sorry for me. I only wanted you to know I'll understand. You aren't as alone as you believe."

He nods slowly. "I see... Thank you... For sharing, I mean."

"Of course. So now that you know I can at least sort of understand what you're feeling, what's going on with you?"

He sighs. "I don't know... Sometimes I just..."

"Miss them?"

"... Yeah." He nods. "Yeah I miss them a lot. I miss them all the time but sometimes when I think about it it's not so bad, it's let me do what I've done, accomplish all of this. Other times..."

"It's mentally suffocating."

"Mentally suffocating... Yeah that's a good word for it. Like it's put a sheet over your brain to prevent it from getting oxygen, but you can still physically breathe with your lungs for the most part."

I nod. "Yeah, it's frightening. George has a book on it he was telling me about some time."

"George knows you feel like this sometimes?"

"No, but we often discuss our readings, trade books, recommend authors or titles... Things of the sort. I haven't told anyone about my past. Except you of course."

"Well aren't I special," he flashes one of his signature Lockwood smiles.

I roll my eyes. "Don't let it get to your head, your ego is already so inflated I fear it might burst."

"Oh haha you love my charisma."

"Is that what we're calling it?" I smile at him.

He laughs. Not his public press laugh, but a true, genuine laugh. One that I've never heard from him before. It makes me feel a little bit warmer with emotion.

"You know, most nights I stay awake in the library simply because I can't stand the solitude of my room."

"What?"

"I know, it's silly-"

"No, not at all! I come down here for the same reason!"

"You do?" He raises his eyebrows, sounding surprised. "I thought you just worried over cases or, well now I thought you thought about your past but-"

"No, it's like..." I think for a moment, trying to figure out how to put it into words. "Like the silence is too loud and the space is too big for just me, even though my bed hardly fits properly."

"Exactly! Like I don't have anything to focus on except for the sensory deprivation and my anxieties."

"Yes! Oh my goodness I can't believe you get it!"

"I thought I was the only one!" He laughs again, different this time. It sounds almost relieved. "Say... Maybe we could help each other out."

I raise an eyebrow. "Help each other out? How so?"

"Well, feel free to decline if you want and we'll never speak of this proposal again, but perhaps we could try spending the night in the same room."

"But..." I get that warm feeling again, more intense this time. "Each room only has one bed..."

"Yes well..." Despite the horrid lighting of the basement, I could faintly see a light pink tint spanning across his nose and blotching on other, seemingly random, spots on his face. "Like I said I understand if you decline and if that is your choice we can pretend I never said anything... However... I feel it may be beneficial to the both of us to have a... companion in the lonely, deafeningly silent hours of the night. If it works, splendid we can finally get some proper sleep. If it doesn't, we each return to our respective seperate rooms and carry on as if nothing ever happened."

"..." I nod slowly. "Okay."

"Ah- really?" He turns to face me more. "In all honesty I thought you would detest the idea."

"Do you still want-"

"Yes! I mean," he clears his throat, "uh... Yeah, the offer still stands."

"Perfect."

"Well then." He stands up and offers me his hand. "Shall we?"

"Oh you mean like right now! Alright then." I take his hand and he pulls me up. He chuckles and leads me to his room.

"I uh... I'll go take this cup back to the kitchen and let you get changed and what not."

"Oh- right." He pushes back some of his hair. "I'll only be a minute or two."

"Okay, I'll be waiting for whenever you're ready."

He smiles at me as he steps back into his room and closes the door. I swiftly make my way to the kitchen and set my cup in the sink, resolving to wash it in the morning, and return in under a minute.

I wait outside for only about thirty seconds longer before Lockwood opens the door again.

"Sorry I took so long."

"Long? Lockwood that was- wait."

"What? Is something the matter?" He takes his hand off of the door handle and peeks his head out around the corner.

"No, just... You're wearing a shirt."

"Oh, well..." He stepped aside, inviting me in, and closed the door behind me "Yes in fact I am. What about it?"

"Lockwood you've never worn a shirt to bed in all the time I've been here. It's like an unspoken principle in the house; you don't wear shirts to bed and George doesn't wear trousers."

"I didn't realize it was such a disruption of order-"

"Well- that's not what I'm saying." I sigh. I've always struggled with putting things into the right words. "Obviously it's fine if you wear a shirt to bed, I just... I'm just wondering why all of a sudden?"

"Well... I don't know. I suppose I thought you may be a bit uncomfortable sharing a bed with me when I've no shirt on." He looked down, those pink splotches returning to his face. "After all, this is only an arrangement of convenience and practicality. It's not like were... uh... going out... or anything..."

"Ah, right..." I can feel myself getting flustered. "Well... I don't mind, really. The whole point is to feel more comfortable going to sleep so if you feel more comfortable with no shirt on, honestly it doesn't make any difference to me."

"... Are you sure?"

"I'm sure, really." I smile reassuringly. "Whatever makes you fall asleep best."

He hesitates. "Well, if you're absolutely positive-"

"Lockwood, I promise you."

He hums lowly. "Alright then. But if you change your mind just tell me and I'll put it back on straight away, I swear-"

"Lockwood!"

"Alright, okay! If you're sure-"

"I'm sure."

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, a smile gracing his face. It isn't one of his signature smiles, it's real, quite boyish actually. He seems so young. Sometimes I forget how young we really are, but then again, all youth since The Problem has forgotten how young they really are.

I try my best to appear to be disinterested and looking away as he removes his shirt and folds it, neatly placing it in the bottom right drawer of his dresser. Of course, I watch the whole thing unfold. I'm only trying to appear as if I'm not.

"Alright, well..." He awkwardly rubs his arm. I've never seen him seem so nervous before. "I suppose now is when we uh... get into bed, then..."

"Yes it does seem like that happens now..." I slowly nod.

"Well uhm... After you." He gestures toward the bed.

"Oh no, please, it's your bed, you go ahead first." I wave my hands.

"No no I insist. You're my... guest? Is that the appropriate term for this? What do we call this?" He lets out a breathy chuckle. "Sorry, I'm a bit..."

"Nervous?"

"To say the least."

We both laugh a little bit. There really was no need for it to be so nerve wrecking. We had already agreed that if it doesn't go well we pretend nothing happened. Nobody needs to know.

"Here, why don't we just both get in at the same time?" I offer.

"Yes! Yes, that sounds like a good idea." He goes to the side of the bed opposite of me.

It's still extremely tense as the both of us climb in under the covers. There's plenty of space in between us. I'm nearly hanging off the edge, no doubt Lockwood is as well.

Fuck it.

I move onto the bed more so I'm a comfortable ways on. "Lockwood?"

"Yes?"

"Can I be frank for a moment?"

"Well I think I'd prefer you to stay (y/n) but I suppose whatever makes you happy-"

"Oh shut up." He laughs one of those real laughs again. I nearly melt.

"What would you like to talk about?"

I take a deep breath, admittedly, his joke (however stupid) managed to cut some of the tension. "This isn't going to work unless we get over ourselves and actually share the bed. Like real sharing."

He pauses. "You're right. The question is, how far are we going?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean... Well..." He huffs. "If we're being frank-"

"I prefer Anthony, but I suppose-"

"Oh shut up, it really isn't funny." Despite his words, he was smiling again. "I see your point now."

"Well, what is it you were going to say, Frank?"

"Please don't." He laughs, making me smile more.

"I'm listening."

He inhales deeply. "Well, how far are we going as in... Are we simply laying next to one another and trying to go to sleep or... to be blunt, are we spooning?"

I nearly chocked on my own saliva. Blunt was certainly one way to say it.

"Well... Whatever makes you comfortable. Honestly I think it would work best if we... Uh... Did the latter, but I don't want to make you-"

"I was actually hoping you'd say that-"

He sighs, sounding almost... Relieved?"

"Really?"

"Yes, I-" he rolls over, bringing us from being over a foot apart to our noses now almost touching. "Goodness you are much closer than I thought-"

"Sorry, I-" I start to move back, but he puts his hand on my waist, gently stopping me.

"No no I uh... Well if we're going to uh... You know, uhm, we're going to have to be close anyway so..."

"Right, yeah..."

He softly pulls me closer using his hand that still rests on my waist. I move towards him until my hands are pressed to his chest and our legs are touching under the covers. His face is splotchy red again, the most intense I've ever seen it, though I can't imagine how flustered I must appear.

"Uhm... May I?" He starts to wrap his leg around mine.

"Ah..." I nod, unable to trust my voice.

And so now we lay here, about two seconds away from being puddles of awkwardness and mild embarrassment. He's warm. Very warm. It's kind of nice being this close to him.

I've always found him attractive since the moment I saw him. He is, objectively, a good looking guy.

Then I got to know him a little bit. He and I would often bicker and pester one another, some times seemingly more serious than others, but for the most part it was all in jest. Making jabs at each other is just what we do.

I think I fell for him more and more over my time here, but tonight I saw a new side of him. A side that really pushed me over the edge of having a bit of a crush on him to trying to stop myself from kissing him at any given moment.

"(Y/n)? Are you alright?" He brings a hand up to my forehead. "You're awful warm and you look... Distressed."

"Anthony?"

His gaze softened. I don't think anyone has called him that in... well who knows how long? Too long. "Yes? Is something the matter?"

"No I just..." I make eye contact with him, effectively rendering myself speechless.

He inches closer. "Are you sure? This is quite the... intimate position... I wouldn't want to make you..."

By this time, our noses are back to almost touching, but even closer than before. He tilts his head just enough to avoid colliding them.

"Make me what? Uncomfortable?" I glance down at his lips, quickly looking back to his eyes to avoid suspicion. "Anthony, you could never-"

He kisses me.

Holy shit.

Anthony Lockwood is kissing me.

I'm in Anthony Lockwood's bed.

I'm kissing Anthony Lockwood!

"I'm sorry-" he pulls back. "Oh no... I shouldn't have done that... Shit... Oh shit I'm so sorry-"

I kiss him again. "Shut up, will you? I just had a life altering moment here and I'm trying to enjoy it."

"You- you liked it?"

"Of course I did. Anthony, I've liked you since... Well I suppose there wasn't a single moment I could pick out but-"

"I love it when you call me that."

I smile. "Call you what? Anthony? Well that is your name."

"It hasn't been used in years. Not by itself, anyhow. It sounds nice coming from your lips."

"I like your lips." It takes a moment to register what I just said. "Wait, I didn't mean-"

"You like kissing me~" He teases me, putting on his Lockwood Smile.

"Oh shut up!" I put my head on his chest to hide my face. "Of course I do..."

"Well... You know what I would like more than just kissing you?" He carefully lifts my head up with two fingers under my chin.

"Hm?"

He hesitates for a moment. "I'd like to be your boyfriend."

"What? Really?"

"If you'll have me, that is-"

"Of course I'll have you, you prick!" I lightly punch his chest. "Do you know how long I've wanted to tell you that?"

He shakes his head. "I can't say I do."

"Well there wasn't a specific time but I think I started to think about it more and more around the time we were working the Brentic case."

"The B- (y/n) that was at least a year and a half ago."

"I'm well aware."

"... Huh."

"What?"

"I think I've known since the Dalkins case."

"Lockwood, that was long before the Brentic case-"

"It seems my charm worked then."

"Oh shut up! Go to sleep!"

He laughs a bit. "So... Are we...?"

"... I think we are..."

"Wonderful! Splendid! Perfect! Grand! Fanta-"

I laugh. "Anthony shut up!"

He goes quiet, but the smile remains on his face. "Do we tell the others?"

"... Nah. It's funnier if we just let them figure it out. But we don't necessarily have to hide it either."

He nods. "It'll take all my self control to not shout it from the rooftops."

"Oh hush." I roll my eyes, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach. "Get some sleep, lover boy. You clearly need it."

He kisses me once more, shorter this time, before closing his eyes and pulling me closer to his chest. He falls asleep surprisingly quickly, his breaths going even and his mouth falling slightly agape in no time at all.

I watch him for a moment. Once again, he really shows his age for only a second. I push some of his hair away from his face and place a kiss on his forehead, causing him to stir just a bit.

Before I know it, my eyelids feel heavy. It becomes increasingly harder to keep them open, to stay awake. Soon enough, I'm drifting into sleep with pleasant dreams to greet me and Lockwood by my side.

How lucky am I?

[gayferrari]

omega lando & omega charles bitching and sniping at each other and syncing up… just being in the same room as the two of them is enough sends george into a stress heat. alex is suffering more than jesus

I'm glad you see the vision that in any omegaverse AU where Lando and Charles are both omegas, so is George. obviously. he's the only one who cares about omega rights around here 😞

[idontwanttospoiltheparty]

An (incredibly long) "I want"-style song dedicated to the most unruly of trios: John Lennon, Paul McCartney, and George Harrison.

The setting is the late 50's – it's deliberately a bit of a mish-mash :-)

Lyrics below the cut!

John: Green

Paul: Blue

George: Purple

P&G: Pink

J&P: Red

JP&G: Neutral

Liverpool gave up on me the first day of preschool

Teachers called me unruly cause I don't suffer fools

And my aunt who says she can't believe I’d throw it all away

Quarrybank, that school for cranks suspended me the other day

All those lads who quit this band to learn a proper trade

Think that I don't understand the facts of getting paid

But you both see,

It's them not me, it's us and this here prophecy

Do you see us five years on – well

Maybe three, that's sort of long

As they're writhing for our songs

And “Your group's on now, John "

Earning some preposterous wage

Free of this less-town-more-cage

As we enter center-stage

In our gold disk age

And the birds will have to queue

For a single peck at you

Then, emboldened by the view

Watch them molt on cue

And all we need is not to quit,

They'll call us Great Britain's

Newest stars, brand new guitars, guaranteed not to split

Picture us: the favourite band

With a record deal in hand

Going deaf from screaming fans

As per my new masterplan

Where we going, fellas? Where we going?

Where we going, fellas? Where we going?

(To the topper-most of popper-most of popper, to the topper)

To the toppermost of the poppermost!

I hear music in my head

Wherever I go

It's like it's bursting out my soul

It's something I cannot control

Meanwhile I can't drop this tune

Every night When I get home

I watch dad roll his eyes

"Heard of this thing called a comb? "

I sigh as he implies

That mum would be

So unhappy and so disappointed in me

However inopportune

There's a decade dawning soon

Shooting for the moon

And John may seem unreasonable

But his dream is feasible

Sometimes yes, guess he's a gull

I'll appease him though

And then I see how for we're come

Joined, we're greater than our sum

See, the rhythm's in the strum

Of the guitars and then some

Playing my part in your vision, I'll

Grab a pen, so much to discover

Let's produce another

Lennon-McCartney original

See the day John and me met

And Yes George, I didn't forget!

We become a matching set

Writing tete-a-tete

Where we going, Johnny? Where we going?

Where we going, Johnny? Where we going?

(To the topper-most of popper-most of popper, to the toppermost)

And where do I fit in?

And when do I come in?

Is there a spot for me at the

To the toppermost of the poppermost!

I'm the youngest, there's no day when they let me forget

But the part Paul will not say: I'm their safest bet

See the fact is they don’t practice systematically like me

I know my chord charts, strings, fretboard, parts of my soul, sorted by key.

Still the world is their playground

And I am watching from the fence

I can't yet jump with confidence

But mum taught me about patience

I still feel Julia's arms around me every time I play

What would my mum say? (She tells me)

Anything I set my mind to  (She taught me everything)

The heights I'll climb to (She wanted everything)

My time soon

Anything to prove I'm worth it (Wouldn’t approve)

Move the earth, they'll learn…

I had to learn to be the only one believing in me

And ever since she's gone, I can hardly stand it (Mum says I can stand it)

No one understanding (Don’t quite understand it)

The thing she saw in me

And dad, he just wants me to be practical

She’d call me her rebel without applause and tell me

Just keep making noise, always play in your own key

I will wait patiently

He may believe in me but not my choice

They will have no choice but to love me

Where we going fellas? Where we going?

To the toppermost of the poppermost!

Insert band name here.

Liverpool has no idea what’s coming

Liverpool will never be the same

They’ll put up posters of us

Like on this truck

John, that’s a bus!

Put your glasses on, Jesus!

And dad will be non-plussed when

Walking down the street he’ll see John (John), Paul, George (George) of the…

Johnny and the Moondogs… What! Definitely not. The Shoes!

The Quarrymen… Nononononono, JaPaGe3!

Liverpool has no idea what’s coming

Liverpool will never be the same

When they all see us one as three the blasphemous song trinity.

Everybody’s bitching

Where’s that old ambition

That got you essay prizes and into the institute?

I’m not a delinquent

I’ve just been rethinking

No one realizes I’m still just as resolute

Just keep making noise

Always play in your own key

They will have no choice

But to love me

Anything I set my mind to

The heights I’ll climb to

My time soon

Anything to prove I’m worth it

Move the earth

They’ll learn from me.

Where we going, fellas? Where we going?

Where we going, Johnny?

Where we going, fellas? Where we going?

(To the topper-most of popper-most of popper, to the topper)

And where do I fit in and when do I come in?

Toppermost of the poppermost.

[suenitos]

Dream may suffer more than Jesus, but Georges smile will always bring him back to life

WHATEVER.

[menlove]

my george girl mutuals are everything to me you guys are suffering more than jesus

[wesleyhill]

Torn Heavens

A homily on Isaiah 64:1 preached on the First Sunday of Advent 2023 at the Episcopal Church of St. Michael and St. George, St. Louis, Missouri

“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down.”

May I speak to you in the Name of God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

One of the ways people talk about religion and spirituality goes something like this: I feel something is missing from my life. I want more inner peace and fulfillment. I should explore some spiritual practices to try to get in touch with the Divine.

In our more desperate and honest moments, though, we know this isn’t quite right. Because our hunger seems larger than this. Yes, we want peace and a sense of fulfillment, but we want more than that. We want an intervention. We want not so much to be climbing the ladder to heaven as to have God reach down and rescue us when we’ve fallen off the ladder, when we’ve reached the end of our rope. We want not just our individual interior lives to be healed. We want our broken relationships restored. We want our financial insecurity to be resolved. We want illness and disease not to be able always to have the upper hand. We want the whole world to be different.

Right after the end of World War II, a French Catholic theologian and priest named Henri de Lubac published a book that has become a classic, titled Catholicism. He opens the book with a quotation that emphasizes the individualistic nature of so much of our spirituality: “The joy of Jesus can be personal. It can belong to a single [person] and [she or he] is saved… In his [or her] blessedness he passes through the battlefields with a rose in his hand.” The individual believer is serenely detached and untouched by the tumult, content with her own personal joy and beauty. But the quotation goes on. When disaster strikes, when suffering pulls the rug out from under our feet, then we realize our solidarity with all the other wounded lying on the battlefield: “My joy will not be lasting unless it is the joy of all. I will not pass through the battlefields with a rose in my hand.”

This is the sentiment that we heard a few moments ago in our reading from the Hebrew prophet Isaiah. Crying out to God, the prophet says, “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down.” It’s a striking image: the prophet looking up to the sky, screaming at God to show Himself — to pull back the curtain and come off His throne and come down into our human misery. It’s a far cry from an individualistic spirituality of interior, psychological ascent into realms of tranquility. It’s a plea for God to show up in the mire and muck of social, material human existence. It’s a call for God to act in history, in community, in cities and families and hospitals and businesses.

The verb the prophet uses — “O that you would tear open the heavens” — is, in the Greek translation, the word schizō. It means to rend or split apart. We get the word schism, a tear in social bonds, from it, and also the word schizophrenia. The prophet is begging God to split apart the sky and come out from hiding and intervene in the world.

And does God answer the prophet’s prayer? Does God answer our prayer?

In the first of the Gospels to be written, the Gospel of Mark, the evangelist uses that word schizō in two significant places in his story. The first is when Jesus is baptized in the Jordan river by John: “And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove upon him.” John had been splashing water on Judeans who were sorry for their injustice and immorality: “the whole Judean region and all the people of Jerusalem were going out to [John] and were baptized by him in the River Jordan, confessing their sins.”

According to the witness of the New Testament, Jesus had no sins to confess. He lived at every moment with perfect love for God and His fellow human beings. And yet He went into the river along with all the penitents. Why? Because He knew that the healing we need could only come about through His sharing with us entirely in all our guilt and grief. What He was unwilling to put on His shoulders could not be healed in us. And so, even though He Himself was entirely innocent, He went down into the waters of baptism with us and for us.

And the Gospel of Mark says that that was the moment when Isaiah’s prayer was heard and answered. God tore open the heavens and came down. God ripped apart the curtain that He was hiding behind and showed up in our history, taking our failures and evils on Himself and taking them away.

The other place in the Gospel of Mark where that word schizō is used comes at the end of the narrative, when Jesus is hanging on the cross: “Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.” There was a heavy, ornate curtain that separated the Most Holy Place, the Holy of Holies, from the rest of the temple and the world. It concealed and guarded the Presence of God, and only once a year, on the Day of Atonement, would the high priest enter in behind the curtain to offer sacrifice. Otherwise the curtain guarded the people from the devouring fire of God’s holiness. But now, at the moment of Jesus’ death, the curtain in the temple is torn apart — and it is not torn from the bottom up, from human beings’ attempt to access God’s presence. Instead it is torn from top to bottom, as Jesus’ death unleashes God’s presence into the world, not for conflagration but for salvation and new access and the ultimate restoration of all creation.

Many readers of these stories over the centuries have pointed out that once you violently rip something apart, it can’t be sewn back together very easily. Once the heavens are torn open, once the temple curtain has been rent from top to bottom, they can’t be closed up again.

And yet I, and I suspect you, often feel that they the tatters have been knit back together so that we can’t discern the presence of God and His salvation anymore. The world, and our lives, don’t look very saved right now. And that is why, during Advent, we look ahead to another great tearing apart of the heavens. St. Paul tells us by a word of the Lord that at the end, “the Lord himself, with a cry of command, with the archangel’s call and with the sound of God’s trumpet, will descend from heaven, and the dead in Christ will rise.” There will be yet one more splitting apart of the skies, another ripping of the curtain. And the dead will be raised, and all things will be made new.

Even so, come, Lord Jesus.

Amen.

[cyarskj1899]

Emmett till family i’m so sorry that this goofy broad fixed her face to use compare your relatives tragedy to some nonsense. your entire family deserves better than this

Yall niggas disgust me with this level of dickriding, Emmitt Till was a child! That was tortured and murdered! By Racists who got away with it! Tory is a violent abuser who finally got what he deserved for SHOOTING a woman! He is nothing like Emmitt Till, stfu!

Gurl, I know you did not come on Blue Ivy’s innanet on the eve of Jesus’s Birthday, and compared the late Emmitt Till to this short burned piece of Canadian Bacon named Tory… Have Several pls!

First of all dude is Canadian….. and is not a Black American…… second of all, the disrespect is crazy. Y’all really be on the internet disgracing your or OUR ancestors for some engagement and entertainment. Luckily for me, I could never be a 🦝 nor the type of woman who would throw away my goodness, my integrity my dignity to slut myself out for some punk who ain’t gonna do right by me anyway

Why are we comparing an innocent little boy who was lynched for no reason to an embarrassing man who shot a woman, lied about it , dehumanized her for no reason other than he had a toxic masculinity and violent tendencies because he can’t handle the fact that his music was not that good for anyone to stan him and his only successful song was in a feature with jack harlow and is now facing years in prison?

Some of Y’all will say anything to disrespect Black American history and our ancestors. The audacity of you claiming a CANADIAN gremlin who was rightfully and proven convicted for his crimes against meg thee stallion is equal to Emmett Till shows your lack of knowledge and good sense. Maybe in hindsight George w. Bush no child left behind policy wasn’t the best idea because some children were left behind education wise. Children were deliberately LEFT BEHIND. WHATTT

you need to be hung drawn and quartered for this and afterwards your bones need to be scattered across the street for mongrel dogs to gnaw and crack like Omg y’all going to hell????

The quotes are calling you a pea brained fool, as they should but quite honestly, reading this shocked me because of the sheer disrespect. You misspelled his name and compared a innocent boy whose life was stolen by racists to a man suffering the consequences for his actions. This is why Harriet Tubman had a gun because some of you have ancestors who should have been capped by her

tory lanez ain’t do nothing special for y’all to be defending him like this. Even artists like Chris Brown to Eric Clapton have more high quality music content than that Keebler elf and they’re problematic too. (*Not A defense of the actions of both Brown and Clapton or other hence the “and they’re problematic too “ just so you know) sweetheart He's never going to fuck you. Deal with it

I can’t stand you niggas. i wouldn't even piss or spat on you if you were on fire May the vengeance of the ancestors find you in your sleep.

we will never be free and at this point it’s deserved. We’re surrounded by our worst enemies in the black community and the shackles on our feet will never be released.

a teenage boy who was a victim of violent racism being compared to an ABUSER , harriet shouldn't have gone back for some of y'all ancestors just stay in school!!!!!

[byneddiedingo]

Halliwell Hobbes, Spring Byington, Dub Taylor, Ann Miller, and Mischa Auer in You Can't Take It With You (Frank Capra, 1938)

Cast: Jean Arthur, Lionel Barrymore, James Stewart, Edward Arnold, Mischa Auer, Ann Miller, Spring Byington, Samuel S. Hinds, Donald Meek, H.B. Warner, Halliwell Hobbes, Dub Taylor, Mary Forbes, Lillian Yarbo, Eddie Anderson, Charles Lane, Harry Davenport. Screenplay: Robert Riskin, based on a play by George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart. Cinematography: Joseph Walker. Art direction: Stephen Goosson. Film editing: Gene Havlick.

"Opening up" a stage play when it's adapted for the movies is standard practice, and even a necessary one when the play takes place on a single set the way George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart's Pulitzer Prize-winning You Can't Take It With You does. But director Frank Capra and screenwriter Robert Riskin have done more than open up the play, they have eviscerated it, scooping out much of its wisecracking satire on bourgeois conformity and red-scare jitters to replace them with Capra's characteristic sentimental populism, some high-minded speeches about Americanism, and a rather mushy romance. It unaccountably won the best picture Oscar and Capra's third directing award, in a year when the nominees included Jean Renoir's Grand Illusion. Capra and Riskin load on a kind of superplot: an attempt by the villain, Anthony P. Kirby (Edward Arnold), to corner the munitions market by buying up the property surrounding his rival's factory. The property includes the home of Grandpa Vanderhof (Lionel Barrymore) and his family of Sycamores and Carmichaels, along with some others who turned up there at one time or another and just stayed on to pursue their various eccentric pastimes, which include making fireworks in the cellar. The goings-on in the household are enough to sustain the play, especially when Alice Sycamore (Jean Arthur) brings home her boyfriend, Tony Kirby (James Stewart), and he invites his stuffy parents to come to dinner. (As in their play The Man Who Came to Dinner, the Kaufman-Hart formula punctures bourgeois stuffiness by putting the squares and the nonconformists into confining circumstances with one another.) The film puts more emphasis on the romance of Alice and Tony with scenes in which they are taught by a group of kids to dance the Big Apple and go to a high-toned restaurant where Alice is introduced to the Kirbys, resulting in some not very funny slapstick. Eventually, the Kirbys and the Vanderhof household wind up in jail and night court, where Capra musters his usual sentimental tribute to the people: As in Capra's 1934 Oscar-winner, It Happened One Night, in which a busload of the common folk join in singing "The Man on the Flying Trapeze," the inmates sharing the cell with Grandpa Vanderhof as well as the Kirbys père et fils join in a chorus or two of "Polly Wolly Doodle." (A cut to the other occupants of the cell reveals a throng of fresh-faced working men, not the thugs and drunks you'd expect to find.) And in the courtroom scene, Grandpa's neighbors gather to pay his fine, with even the judge tossing some money into the hat. All ends well, of course: Mr. Kirby decides not to buy the Vanderhof house after his defeated rival suffers a fatal heart attack. (The rival, Ramsey, is played by H.B. Warner, who as Jesus in Cecil B. DeMille's 1927 The King of Kings saved all of mankind with his death; here his death just saves Anthony P. Kirby's soul.) Kirby undergoes a wholly unconvincing change of heart, and we end with all of the Kirbys, Sycamores, Carmichaels, and hangers-on at the dinner table where Grandpa delivers a prayer of thanks. Capra never got cornier than this.

[yhwhrulz]

Worthy Brief - February 14, 2023

Persecution is coming? Are you ready?

Genesis 37:4 And when his brethren saw that their father loved him more than all his brethren, they hated him, and could not speak peaceably unto him.

John 15:25 But this cometh to pass, that the word might be fulfilled that is written in their law, They hated me without a cause.

Matthew 5:11-12 Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.

Being hated without cause is an aspect of Messianic prophecy that applies to both Mashiach ben Yosef and Mashiach ben David. Just as Joseph was hated by his brothers, and David was hated by Saul without cause, is it any wonder that Yeshua (Jesus) was hated by the world without cause -- thus fulfilling a Messianic Psalm. [Psalm 69:4]. And should it surprise us that He is still hated? And if Yeshua was hated without a cause, should we expect our lives to be any different?

As thousands of saints suffered intense persecution in ages past, and thousands are still being persecuted today (126,000 martyrs last year alone), they prepare(d) the way for the salvation of millions of others. Since Yeshua said, "Greater love hath no man than this that he lay down his life for his friends," the love expressed by the martyrs is a tremendous source of inspiration to all of us.

As we are rapidly approaching the end of the age, we can expect persecution to be on the rise. We're sent out as sheep among wolves – so lift your head high when suffering persecution for the Lord. Your response of faith and love could well lead to the salvation of the ones persecuting you!

Your family in the Lord with much agape love,

George, Baht Rivka, Obadiah and Elianna (Going to Christian College in Dallas, Texas) Daytona Beach, Florida

Registration is closing soon! Join us on an epic, life changing journey through Israel, - https://worthynews.us12.list-manage.com/track/click?u=b94ae97bb66e693a4850359ec&id=38a146ead9&e=3d3c649f0e through the eyes of those who are well acquainted with the culture, the people and the Land. This is not your average Israel tour— bring your family, bring your friends, and experience the REAL ISRAEL with George and Baht Rivka as your personal hosts.

[saint-starflicker]

Dashboard, how could you!

Wrapping up A Little Life, which has some strengths but is mostly padded with scenes so scant that I kept screaming "who are all these people?!?? i don't know what's going on!" during the New York flashforwards.

It was a tedious read, and I can try to think that that's the point but also couldn't the point have been made less tediously? The points of view and tenses kept shifting, which should be effective to some purpose but it...wasn't...

I think this could've been two different books because it's two different genres that did not cohere, and again I can try to think that that's the point but I think it fails at being timeless with how ungrounded the details are it also fails at being immersive. For an exploration of friendships, the prose cannot seem to care about characters that aren't Jude. Everybody else sounds like each other, except for JB who tends to be more brusque and have an attitude. Otherwise it's like Jude and Jude's Greek Chorus show.

With all due respect to the people that really love this book—the real affection but the miscommunication and limitations between Willem and Jude as they wrangle their relationship with all Jude's traumas and disabilities was a nice touch—but it was a mood piece that put me in an awful mood. I can recognize the value it offers thematically (the catharsis of depiction rather than solution, orientation incompatibility, labelling issues, a condemnation of the transactional relationship under capitalism with regards to sex work and disability) that I don't find in so many other books. I didn't like the experience of reading this, though.

Books that I think pulled off some aspects of A Little Life much better than A Little Life did:

Mysterious Skin by Scott Heim (Neil McCormick is a CSA survivor)

The George Miles Cycle by Dennis Cooper (a 5-book series, 6 if you count I Wished; but Frisk is my personal favorite—generally very surreal, edgy, gallows humor)

In truth I started reading A Little Life only so that I can say that Dennis Cooper's and Zac Farley's 2018 movie Permanent Green Light should've been the media about suicide that got popular, not 13 Reasons Why or A Little Life.

I promise I continued with an open mind, ready to at least acknowledge a polished and masterly writing style or else why would A Little Life become so popular...aaand Yanagihara's writing had no style, though. A Little Life had a few good lines but overall I got the sense that I would not find another writer that cared less about their craft on a sentence level than Hanya Yanagihara.

The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro (what if the main character were old, and looked back on his life to find that nothing he did was worthwhile or good?)

The Earth's Children Series by Jean Auel (what if the main character were so good at everything and also suffered worse than Jesus from being so special and precious? I don't love this book series, I just think The Clan of the Cave Bear did this character type better.)

If you see this you’re legally obligated to reblog and tag with the book you’re currently reading