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disillusioneddanny · 1 year ago

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You Are in Love Jazz/Cass

Jasmine Fenton let out a sigh as she followed behind her boss as they made their way across the large ballroom. It was the annual Wayne Charity Gala for Criminal Justice Reform and as a public defender at Gotham County Courthouse, Jazz was unfortunately obligated to be there rubbing elbows with rich, pretentious assholes. It was for a wonderful cause, and all of the money went to local nonprofit organizations that helped give people the life-saving resources that would keep them from reoffending or resorting to working for the Goonion as Jazz had heard it called.

When she had first graduated from Harvard Law, she hadn’t known what exactly she wanted to do. What kind of law she wanted to practice, who she wanted to help. And then Danny had told her about how bad Gotham was. After he had started working with Constantine and the rest of the Justice League Dark on the more magical problems, he had started to tell Jazz about all of the horrors of Gotham from when the bats called him there for assistance.

It was then that Jazz finally realized what it was that she was wanting to do. She wanted to help reform the horrible justice system that was the Gotham City justice system and help with the major crime that was going on there. So she had put in an application to be a public defender in Gotham County to help the most disenfranchised people of Gotham and she found her way to New Jersey of all places.

Four years later and the public defender’s office had been completely redone under the watchful eye of Jasmine Fenton and she had managed to make it work like a well oiled machine. She had helped partner with a few nonprofits who helped them work on their basic needs while the PD’s office focused more on helping them keep from going to prison or worse–Arkham.

It wasn’t a perfect system but it was getting better. So here she was, prepared to schmooze with the best of them to get more funding for all of the different organizations that were helping them reduce Gotham recidivism. For the first time in her life, Jazz found herself thankful for the lessons that she had received from Vlad when it came to trying to get people to give her money. Not that she would ever admit that to her godfather.

She plastered her most pleasant smile on her face as she floated through the ballroom, trying to not be self conscious of the fact that she was in a long, green ball gown that had already caused a few people to make comments about the fact that combined with her red hair was reminiscent of Poison Ivy. It was a little embarrassing but her girlfriend had told her multiple times that she looked good in it and that had her feeling a bit better. If her girlfriend thought it looked good, then it had to be.

She would never lie to Jazz.

Jazz was slightly suspicious that her girlfriend didn’t even know how to lie.

Teal eyes roved through the city as she eyed the other gala guests, looking for her next target. She really needed to find someone to chat with or else she was going to start looking a bit too awkward.

Then, her eyes landed on the most beautiful woman in the room and Jazz felt her stomach flutter a bit in anticipation as she made her way to Jazz.

Jasmine Fenton was a ruthless, cutthroat defense attorney. She scared Harvey Dent. Yet her girlfriend seemed to make her weak at the knees every time she so much as looked Jazz’s way.

Cassandra Wayne was the only daughter of Brucie Wayne, the playboy billionaire and host of their lovely gala for the night. Jazz had met her for the first time just two years prior when she had been forced to attend her first gala. The woman had been following Brucie around like a shadow, a pleasant, if not forced smile plastered onto her face as she followed the man around the room, sneaking glasses of champagne from her overly intoxicated father’s hand whenever she thought he had been drinking too much, or glaring menacingly at women who tried to approach the older man in attempts to get him to bring them home.

Then her eyes had landed on Jazz and she had given her the most genuine, beautiful smile that the redhead had ever seen. Jazz had found herself compelled to go over and talk to both Brucie and his daughter and it was probably the best decision she had ever made in her life. Bruce had managed to convince Cass to drift off with Jazz while he got into a long conversation with one of the DA’s who was also at attendance at that gala.

Which was fine with Jazz. The two ladies had found themselves chatting the rest of the night, trading stories, people watching, commiserating over the fact that they were forced to even be at a gala in the first place. And then as the night had come to an end, Cassandra had slipped Jazz a napkin with a phone number and a smiley face before she gave Jazz another one of those breathtaking smiles that had her swooning where she stood.

And really, the rest was history. The women had found themselves talking more and more, seeking one another out whenever they had the chance. Jazz had gone to see Cass’s ballet shows and Cass started to make weekly trips to the courthouse to make sure that the red head was eating properly and taking care of herself.

Somehow they had found themselves here. In a happy, comfortable relationship, living together in a nice brownstone in Upper Gotham and attending fancy galas together. Cass still followed her father like a shadow and Jazz still had to unfortunately kiss ass to a bunch of rich billionaires but sometime during the night they would find one another and get just a little too wrapped up in one another to even notice anyone else.

“Fancy seeing you here, beautiful,” a soft, polite voice said, as strong, calloused hands twined with Jazz’s dainty soft ones. Jazz looked down at her gorgeous, amazing, beautiful girlfriend and felt her cheeks go red like it was that first night all over again.

“I know, it’s almost like your father is hosting the charity ball,” Jazz said with a soft snort. Cass gave her that soft, secretive smile that always seemed to draw the older woman in.

Her kohl lined eyes rolled once as she glanced over at where Bruce was laughing loudly, throwing his arm over Oliver Queen’s shoulder as he laughed raucously, causing others to look over at him in thinly veiled disdain.

“Yes, he does enjoy coming to these,” Cass said, her nose crinkled ever so slightly. Jazz just gave her girlfriend a small smile.

“He seems to be really hamming it up tonight,” Jazz said with a laugh as her girlfriend just let out a tired sigh and shook her head. That was one of the fun parts of getting to know Cass, Jazz started to learn a bit more about all of the family and their treasure trove of secrets. She learned that Bruce Wayne wasn’t nearly as ditzy and arrogant as he let people think and was much more level headed and open. She had gotten to know each of Cass’s siblings as well and learn a bit more of each of them.

And then she had gotten to learn the real secret about the Waynes after dating her girlfriend for a year. She had learned about their nightly activities and had been more than excited to learn as much as she could about them. Not only that but then she got to listen to them tell her fun stories about her baby brother. Apparently he worked rather closely with Cass’s younger brother, Tim and the two caused more chaos than Danny had ever let her know about.

It was fun, getting to know all of the secrets behind her girlfriend, to learn every facet of who she was and how she came to be. How there were days when words were just too much for the shorter women, when days were so hard and difficult that she couldn’t seem to get out of bed. Then there were the days when her laugh filled their apartment along with the pitter patter of her feet as she danced along the kitchen to music only she could hear.

And Jazz found herself able to talk to someone who understood what it was like to grow up with just plain insanity. She felt more comfortable telling Cass about her childhood, opening up about the fact that the reason she was interested in justice reform was because her own parents had been thrown in prison when she had been just twenty years old after what they had done to Danny. Not to mention the years of neglect that they had endured under her parents' care.

Cass never looked at her like she was insane when she mentioned times where she had to beat down turkeys with a baseball bat. They found solace in one another, a comfort that Jazz had never felt before in her life. She found acceptance in Cassandra Wayne and she was addicted to it. In love with the feeling of being in love.

Cass treated Jazz like she was fine china, a delicate thing that needed to be treasured and loved. And Jazz made sure that Cass felt the same way, that Cass knew that she was loved and valued. That the shorted, hardened woman knew that she was more than just a weapon for other’s to use. That she could be more than just Black Bat.

That she could be whatever she wanted to be. That she was Jazz’s tiny dancer that she adored endlessly.

“Would you like to dance?” Cass asked, the corners of her eyes crinkled slightly with her smile.

“You just like showing off,” Jazz said with a roll of her eyes before taking Cass’s hand, watching the way her yellow ball gown seemed to swish around her as she led the taller woman to the dance floor.

“I like showing you off, yes,” Cass said simply before she rested her hand on Jazz’s waist, the other holding Jazz’s hand carefully. “How is it?”

“It’s fine,” Jazz said with a huff as she looked around at the other party goers. “We’re raising a lot of money already and we haven’t even gotten to the silent auction yet. I just hate having to play nice with all of these people.”

“Better than me,” Cass said simply as she allowed Jazz to twirl her around a bit. Jazz gave her a small smile and shook her head in amusement.

“You just have to smile and you have everyone here vying for your attention. You’re the favorite out of Brucie’s kids, you know,” Jazz told her with a small grin.

“Whatever. Tim’s the favorite,” Cass pointed out. Jazz just shook her head and dipped Cass down before pulling her back and giving the woman a soft kiss.

“Whatever you say,” she murmured, lips a hair’s breadth from Cass’s. “If it’s any consolation, you’re my favorite.”

Cass let out a hum, her eyes fluttered closed for a moment as she relished in the attention from the red head. “Everyone is watching.”

“Let them,” Jazz said, running her nose along Cass’s jawline for a moment before they went back to spinning and swaying and sashaying through the dance floor. “Isn’t that what you always tell me? Let them watch?”

Cass hummed. “Makes you more interesting,” she murmured. “Sometimes you’re scary, dancing makes you more approachable. More open.”

Jazz scoffed. “I’m approachable.”

“Intimidating,” Cass told her, pinching her side lightly. “Powerful women scare people. You’re powerful. Scarry. Unapproachable.”

“It’s not my fault that people are cowards and are intimidated by me,” Jazz grumbled. Cass just smiled and shook her head.

“No, but dancing makes you seem more approachable. More,” Cass paused and thought for a moment. “More human,” she finally said.

“I’m human,” Jazz argued.

“No, liminal. Big difference,” she said with a laugh. “Sometimes you stand too still, your eyes glow too much. Too strong, a little too other,” she said, smiling up at Jazz.

Jazz rolled her eyes and just gave her girlfriend another kiss. “Well, I suppose we can prove to everyone that I’m a non intimidating, kind, fully human person.”

Cass let out an excited giggle and allowed Jazz to spin her across the ballroom. The attorney just grinned as they took over the dancefloor, her love for her girlfriend bloomed in her chest.

#dpxdc #danny phantom #dp x dc #dc x dp #dp x dc crossover #dis writes #dis dreams #batman #dc x dp crossover #jazz Fenton #Jazz Fenton/ Cass Cain #femslash

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cutsliceddiced · 5 years ago

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New top story from Time: ESPN’s New Michael Jordan Documentary Is Exactly What We Need Right Now. Here’s How They Made It

ESPN has taken noble swings at programming a sports network with no sports. But there are only so many airings of marbles races, old games and gabfests about the April 23–25 NFL draft—an event that, during the COVID-19 pandemic, feels as significant as a speck of sand—that viewers can take. That’s why fans clamored so hard for ESPN to move up its highly anticipated 10-part docuseries starring Michael Jordan, widely regarded as the greatest athlete ever to grace this earth, from an original airdate of June 2—coinciding with an NBA Finals series that no longer exists—to ASAP. People need a dose of nostalgia, and reason to anticipate any kind of shared cultural experience, now more than ever.

Luckily, the network listened. The first two episodes of The Last Dance, which chronicles Jordan’s final championship season, with the 1998 Chicago Bulls, debut on the network on Sunday, April 19. On each of the following four Sundays, a pair of new episodes will premiere on ESPN; the series will stream on Netflix outside the U.S. starting on April 20. Through previously unaired footage captured from a crew embedded with Air Jordan and the Bulls that 1997–1998 season, and fresh interviews with all the major characters—including Jordan, his running mate Scottie Pippen, coach Phil Jackson and Dennis Rodman, who went on a team-sanctioned bender in Las Vegas with then girlfriend Carmen Electra in order to clear his head a bit—The Last Dance offers raw, rare insight into a team that became the subject of global obsession. (Game 6 of the 1998 NBA Finals, in which Jordan’s final shot in a Bulls uniform clinched Chicago’s third straight championship and sixth in eight years, remains the most-watched NBA game in history, having averaged 35.6 million viewers.)

For a generation of fans who never witnessed Jordan or those Bulls teams live, the film will serve as a satisfying crash course on the MJ mystique. And while amateur Jordan scholars probably won’t discover any new bombshells, at least in the eight episodes available to the media, the project offers all viewers a useful reminder: Jordan’s career arc was unfathomably bizarre. He first retired in his prime after his father’s tragic murder, shifted to playing baseball—baseball!—then took a second forced retirement after ’98 because Bulls executives, for some still inexplicable reason, felt inclined to break up a team that did nothing but win and thrill the globe. If Jordan existed in today’s Twitter-mad, media-saturated world, the unstable Internet would have already lost its collective mind.

Ron Frehm—APMichael Jordan scores 55 points vs. New York, while wearing No. 45, upon returning to the NBA in 1995.

Moving the documentary up a month and a half to appease the quarantined masses added some logistical challenges. The final two episodes aren’t done yet, and the production crew is working remotely to see it to the finish. Before the pandemic, director Jason Hehir compared the edit process to preparing Thanksgiving dinner, where he could be in the kitchen communicating with people preparing different portions of the meal. “Now, instead, they have to send me the potatoes, send me the carrots, send me the turkey via messenger,” says Hehir. “Then I can taste and tell them what I want it to be. It’s a more roundabout process.” One of the most crucial interviews—with Utah Jazz point guard John Stockton, a key Bulls foil in the 1997 and 1998 Finals—was conducted in Spokane, Wash. in early March, just before the outbreak shut down the state and the rest of the country.

Going into the 1997–98 season, Bulls management hinted that the team’s dynasty was nearing its end. So Andy Thompson, then a field producer for NBA Entertainment—and uncle of current Golden State Warriors star Klay Thompson—thought this final campaign should be recorded for posterity. But the league needed buy-in from Jordan. An up-and-coming NBA exec, current commissioner Adam Silver, pitched the idea to Jordan; he could sign off on how the footage was ultimately used. At the very least, Silver told Jordan, he’d have the most amazing collection of home movies for his kids.

The NBA shot more than 500 hours, a haul that sports documentarians had been lusting after for nearly two decades. At the 2016 NBA All-Star Game in Toronto, producer Michael Tollin, co-chairman of Mandalay Sports Media, met with Jordan’s reps. Tollin pitched the project not as a documentary but as an event. The market for long-form epics was taking off: OJ: Made in America, the multipart doc that would go on to win an Oscar, had just debuted at Sundance. (With the continued rise of streaming services that give the films a bingeable home after airing, the demand for such docs has only grown.) Jordan, assured that the project would offer breathing room to share his full story, signed on.

Although Jordan had a hand in the project—two of his longtime business managers, Curtis Polk and Estee Portnoy, are executive producers—The Last Dance doesn’t feel too sanitized. Turns out, he’s the Michael Jordan of documentary interviewees: the best talking head in the film, honest, conversational, unafraid to unfurl profanities. We see Jordan at his most petty, like in archival footage when he pokes fun at the height and weight of diminutive Bulls general manager Jerry Krause, with whom Jordan feuded for years. (Krause died in 2017.) In one interview, ex–Bulls center Will Perdue calls him an “a–hole,” before in the next breath acknowledging Jordan was a “hell of a teammate” for pushing Chicago to greatness.

Jordan defends his ruthless motivational methods. “Look, winning has a price, leadership has a price,” he says during one interview in The Last Dance. “You ask all my teammates—one thing about Michael Jordan was he never asked me to do something he didn’t f-cking do.” The film cuts to a montage of Jordan lifting weights and running sprints. Still, Jordan tears up, a middle-aged man conflicted by his past. For once, many can relate to him.

Jeff Haynes—AFP via Getty ImagesMichael Jordan celebrates his sixth, and final, title with coach Phil Jackson in 1998; both soon leave the Bulls.

The Last Dance also takes on the controversies, like Jordan’s penchant for gambling and aversion to politics. He famously refused to endorse Harvey Gantt, the African-American Democrat from Jordan’s home state of North Carolina, in his 1990 Senate race against conservative Republican Jesse Helms, who opposed the Martin Luther King Day holiday. “Republicans buy sneakers too,” said Jordan, whose Nike Air Jordan sneakers launched the concept of sports marketing into the stratosphere. (In the film, Jordan insists he made the statement in jest.) Even Barack Obama, an unabashed Bulls fan, admits to the filmmakers he wished Jordan had publicly backed Gantt.

Jordan’s defense: activism’s just not in his nature. He was too focused on his craft. “Was that selfish? Probably,” he admits. “But that’s where my energy was.”

While The Last Dance deserves credit for exploring this part of Jordan’s legacy, the section still feels like short shrift, given the emergence of social activism among today’s sports stars. What does Jordan think of modern athlete engagement? How do today’s stars, LeBron James and others, view Jordan’s neutrality? These questions go unanswered. Even in a documentary covering the late 1990s—and even amid a pandemic where politics has taken a back seat to more serious chaos—placing Jordan in a contemporary context feels not only appropriate, but crucial.

Such nitpicking, however, counts as part of the fun. And we sure can use a little of that. No Michael Jordan treatment, even one as comprehensive as The Last Dance, will leave everyone entirely fulfilled. Viewers can look forward to weekly debates about the documentary’s merits and shortcomings. Whether it’s during his playing days, his retirement years or a still surreal quarantine, His Airness is always worth talking about. Even from a social distance, it turns out, Michael Jordan can bring us together.

via https://cutslicedanddiced.wordpress.com/2018/01/24/how-to-prevent-food-from-going-to-waste

#Time #top stories #IFTTT #news

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viraljournalist · 5 years ago

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Ten NBA things I like and don't like, including the Luka Doncic-Dwight Powell dance

New Post has been published on https://viraljournalist.com/ten-nba-things-i-like-and-dont-like-including-the-luka-doncic-dwight-powell-dance/

Ten NBA things I like and don't like, including the Luka Doncic-Dwight Powell dance

How about a fresh serving of 10 NBA things:

1. The tricks of Ja Morant

Morant’s athleticism and fearlessness strike you first. He is so fast. He wants to dunk on everyone — to humiliate victims, the bigger the better.

All that is cool. But what is most impressive about Morant — the runaway Rookie of the Year — is his veteran craft. He already knows how to start and stop with a live dribble, and keep defenses guessing until the best option reveals itself. He sees every pass. He imagines passes no one else sees, and conjures them with dribble moves designed to shift the defense in some specific way.

You just don’t see rookies doing stuff like this:

That fake spin — the Smitty — dusts damn near the entire LA Clippers team. The one-handed lefty gather into a reverse layup is borderline pornographic. That insta-gather is already a Morant trademark — useful in tight spaces.

He has a mean pass fake:

He busts it out on the perimeter to freeze help defenders:

A lot of ball handlers turn statuesque when someone else takes the controls. Not Morant. He weaponizes his speed as an off-ball cutter.

Morant isn’t the only reason the Memphis Grizzlies — 13-6 since early December — have improbably surged into the Western Conference’s No. 8 spot. Their three core big men — Jonas Valanciunas, Jaren Jackson Jr. and Brandon Clarke — are balling, and their bizarro bench is obliterating opponents.

But Morant is driving it. He is real. He is a superstar in the making playing winning basketball. He belongs at the edges of the All-Star conversation right now.

2. Drivin’ De’Aaron Fox

After two months of injuries and uneven play, Fox is back on his ascent toward becoming the Sacramento Kings’ franchise point guard. In seven January games, Fox is averaging 24 points and 8.5 assists on 50% shooting. He is driving more often, with more guile and ferocity.

Fox is earning seven free throws per 36 minutes — easily a career high. He is piling up almost 29 drives per 100 possessions, second among rotation players — and up from 15 and 18 in his prior two seasons, per Second Spectrum data. He has drawn fouls on 13% of those drives, 16th highest among 173 guys who have recorded at least 100 drives.

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Fox is still searching for the right pass-or-score balance, and the Kings under Luke Walton haven’t landed on a coherent identity. (Injuries to Fox and Marvin Bagley III have stalled progress there.) They are playing at one of the league’s slowest paces, though they amp it up some with Fox on the floor.

The next step for Fox is dialing in on defense, where he has disappointed this season. The Kings won’t go anywhere too serious until the Fox/Buddy Hield backcourt proves it can survive on that end.

3. Forfeiting mismatches

A pet peeve:

This isn’t about the Orlando Magic. Every team does this now and then: Spot a juicy mismatch, and default into a pick-and-roll that allows the defense to switch that mismatch away.

The Utah Jazz are stuck with Emmanuel Mudiay on Aaron Gordon. If you want to post Gordon up, do it when he can mash a smaller dude. Instead, D.J. Augustin and Gordon gift the Jazz a switch.

Come on. Disengage autopilot and read the game. The right kind of post-up can still be an effective scoring option. They also are fun to watch. The league needs stylistic diversity.

You know who rarely bungles this? The Indiana Pacers with Domantas Sabonis. Their old-school mentality serves them well when they earn a switch, or when the opposing power forward is stuck defending Sabonis. The Pacers in those scenarios are ruthless. They are surgical. They abort whatever plan they had and hunt that mismatch.

4. Shai Gilgeous-Alexander, off the glass

The notorious S.G.A. is already one of the league’s shiftiest ball handlers — a long-limbed, change-of-pace phantom who seems to move at two or three different speeds at once. Guarding him is like trying to catch a fish with your bare hands.

He also is a premier bank shot artist, smooching from unconventional angles:

That is a little close to the baseline for most players to go glass. Gilgeous-Alexander has the touch to pull it off. That one hits pretty low on the backboard, but Gilgeous-Alexander will kiss the ball off the tippy-top if need be.

The straight-on banker is underused — a tricky work of depth perception that can increase your margin for error on harried floaters. Gilgeous-Alexander has it in his bag:

Only 10 players have attempted more glassers than Gilgeous-Alexander, per Second Spectrum. (Russell Westbrook has tried by far the most — almost double the No. 2 guy.) Coming off a ridiculous 20-20-10 game, Gilgeous-Alexander has a fringe All-Star case: 20 points, six rebounds and three assists per game, decent shooting, solid defense.

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It is a hard case to parse. Each member of Oklahoma City’s three-headed point guard monster has sacrificed something. Gilgeous-Alexander has stepped back into a secondary ballhandling role behind Chris Paul (probably a better All-Star candidate) and Dennis Schroder (in the running for Sixth Man of the Year). Gilgeous-Alexander has logged only 40 minutes as solo floor general — without either Schroder or Paul.

I recently debated with a few non-Thunder executives whether Gilgeous-Alexander would grow into an All-NBA player. That they framed the question in those terms — and not around whether Gilgeous-Alexander will make All-Star teams — is indicative of how good he has been.

5. Still waiting on Aaron Gordon

Boy, did Gordon need this recent mini-hot streak: 60 points on 23-of-39 shooting over Orlando’s last three outings, and a last-second game-winner Monday in Sacramento. It has otherwise been a stilted, disappointing season for Gordon.

I thought this was the year it might finally happen for him. I predicted Gordon would make the All-Star Game.

Instead, Gordon’s production on offense has dipped across the board, though he remains engaged on the other end. There are three theoretical Gordons: the player Gordon wants to be; the player Orlando wants him to be; and the player Orlando needs him to be because of their roster construction. The actual Gordon is paralyzed in some sort of existential tension between all three.

The first player — Gordon’s dream for himself — is a ball-dominant scorer. Orlando indulges that Gordon by calling occasional post-ups for him and giving him some freedom to go rogue. Gordon can make hay against smaller players. He has done well on scripted duck-ins. But too many of his forays into would-be stardom end with bricked fadeaways:

A player this powerful should not spend so much time spinning away from the hoop. He rarely draws fouls. The Magic have scored 0.826 points per possession anytime Gordon shoots out of a post-up or passes to a teammate who fires right away — 74th among 96 players who have recorded at least 25 post-ups, per Second Spectrum data. He is not much of an inside-out playmaker. A full 77% of those post-ups have ended with Gordon shooting — the second highest such rate in that sample.

The best version of Gordon on a good team is something like his take on Draymond Green: screening and rolling as a power forward, spraying passes (Gordon is an underrated playmaker), defending like all hell across every position. The Magic have never put Gordon in optimal position to find that role. They shoehorned him onto the wing next to Serge Ibaka and now Jonathan Isaac.

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That is not on its face unworkable. Some of those ultra-big Magic lineups have performed well — including last season. Talented frontcourt partners render positional designations irrelevant. What position would Gordon play next to, say, Kevin Durant and a traditional center in Brooklyn? Isaac has some blossoming all-around skill on offense.

But Isaac also is very young. Before Isaac’s injury, it felt — from the outside — Orlando was reaching the point at which it would have to make a final call on Gordon. There are teams who would give a lot for Gordon. Isaac’s knee injury may have put off those decisions. The Magic don’t have to rush. Gordon is still just 24.

But stasis often becomes untenable.

6. The Bucks, going under

Almost every team scurries under picks against bad shooters, but Milwaukee does it more dramatically and against many more players. The Bucks treat every so-so shooter like Ben Simmons. Present Milwaukee with Kris Dunn or RJ Barrett (two recent examples) and its on-ball defenders hang almost in the paint — a step or two further back than most teams prefer. They form a shell that is really hard to puncture.

They don’t deviate if some Dunn type hits a couple of long 2s. The Bucks understand math. They know their scheme plays mind games with opposing shooters — even non-terrible ones. They’re going so far under. This is embarrassing. Am I really supposed to keep shooting? Boom — the shot clock is down to 8, and you’ve accomplished nothing.

This is such low-hanging fruit. Every team should imitate Mike Budenholzer’s exaggerated “go under” ethos.

Of course, later playoff rounds offer very few awful shooters — and almost none beyond Simmons who handle the ball. It would be interesting to see Milwaukee’s approach in a series against the Miami Heat and Jimmy Butler — shooting just 27% from deep this season and 36% for his career on long 2s.

7. When young guys forget who is guarding them, Part I

Oh, Jordan Poole.

That’s Kawhi Leonard. At his apex, the mere act of possessing the ball within a 15-foot radius of Leonard was dangerous for anyone outside the league’s most deft point guards. Forget dribbling. Poor saps held the ball close to their chest — terror sweat pouring from their brow, eyes darting in search of some passing target — until Leonard would simply reach out and take it. It was cruel. It was bullying.

Leonard isn’t the same impenetrable wall today, and he saves his best stuff for high-leverage playoff moments. But you can’t be Jordan freaking Poole and dangle the ball in front of him. This is like living next door to Thomas Crown, buying a masterwork, and leaving your front door wide open all night. What do you think is going to happen?

There has been much fretting of late about the Clippers’ underwhelming performances against the dregs of the league. Meh. One of Leonard and Paul George has missed most of those games. Wake me up when the real Clippers struggle.

The Clippers also seem like a mortal lock to make a win-now trade. They have use-it-or-kinda-lose-it assets ticking toward evaporation. They can trade their 2020 first-round pick, but that is the last one they can move (as things stand now) before their 2028 selection. They have Maurice Harkless’ $11 million expiring contract, and a few semi-expendable midsized salaries.

The Clippers would rather add talent (via in-season free agency) without trading anything. Harkless is solid — a starter most of the season. That 2020 pick represents one of LA’s only means of acquiring a young player who might help Leonard and George as they age.

But the Clippers are all-in. George and Leonard can hit free agency in 18 months. They should prioritize this year over everything.

Part II of young guys failing to respect their elders is coming next week.

8. Respect the Mavs’ other big men

I never got the mostly quashed rumblings Dallas might be interested in Andre Drummond. Kristaps Porzingis should eventually play more as the Mavs’ lone big man, and in the meantime, Maxi Kleber and Dwight Powell are doing just fine alongside him.

Skeptics in the preseason perceived the Mavs roster as top heavy: two stars and a motley crew of bench guys. It’s true (it’s damn true!) Dallas does not have anyone like a third member of past championship Big 3s. But they do have (by my count) seven guys you might describe as quality fifth starters — seven fifth-best players, all but one (Tim Hardaway Jr.) on value contracts. There is power in giving zero minutes to below-average players.

Powell has always been a dangerous rim-runner, but he has exploded as Luka Doncic’s go-to pick-and-roll dance partner. Only three player pairs have teamed up on that play more often. (For trivia purposes, the top three in volume: Spencer Dinwiddie/Jarrett Allen, Damian Lillard/Hassan Whiteside, and the Lou Williams/Montrezl Harrell symphony.)

The Mavs average a ginormous 1.18 points per possession anytime Doncic or Powell shoots out of the pick-and-roll, or passes to a teammate who launches — ninth-best among 226 duos who have run at least 100 such plays, per Second Spectrum.

Powell has improved as a passer on the move — crucial when teams trap Doncic:

Kleber does a little of everything. He’s a serviceable screen-and-dive guy. He is hitting 41% from deep on a career-high attempt rate, and he makes canny plays off the bounce when defenses rush at him:

Kleber is a sturdy, smart defender across multiple positions. Rick Carlisle has trusted him to guard extra-large ball-handlers, including LeBron, Giannis Antetokounmpo, and Simmons. He’s a solid rim protector with some hops.

Dallas is starting Kleber and Powell in the absence of Porzingis, and the Mavs have outscored opponents by 13 points per 100 possessions with both on the floor.

Kleber and Powell earn $18 million combined this season — $9 million less than Drummond. Drummond holds a much-discussed player option for 2020-21. Kleber and Powell are under contract through 2023. Leaving aside money and whatever assets Detroit might demand, it’s unclear whether giving Kleber/Powell minutes to Drummond would even make Dallas any better.

9. Miami is one player away, but who?

This is a minor quibble considering the Heat are 28-12 and a robust 10-6 against teams at .500 or better. Maybe the “one player” is Justise Winslow, who is still out with a back injury after returning for a single game last week.

Winslow is (in theory) the well-rounded small-ball power forward to unlock lineups featuring Bam Adebayo at center. Meyers Leonard is shooting 45% from deep as Miami’s nominal starting center, but there are lots of games in which he never sees the floor after his first stint in each half. Kelly Olynyk is barely playing.

Follow Zion, Ja, RJ, De’Andre, Coby and more top rooks as they balance basketball and life during an exciting NBA season. Watch on ESPN+

Right now, Derrick Jones Jr. and James Johnson are holding down that Winslow slot. Johnson looks feisty after a long stint in Heat purgatory. He’s 10-of-20 on 3s. But his jumper is unreliable, and he is regaining the team’s trust.

Jones has taken the lion’s share of these minutes over the last month. His arms are everywhere. He is the keystone of Miami’s zone defense. Lineups with Jones and Adebayo at power forward and center have done well.

But are you trusting Jones to close playoff games? He’s shooting 23% from deep. Defenses ignore him on the perimeter to muck up Miami’s spacing.

Miami has tried to solve the equation at times by going super-small, with Jimmy Butler at power forward. That is a little too small. Adebayo is so strong and athletic, you forget he’s only 6-9. Miami has been a middle-of-the-pack defensive team after a stingy start. They have to be careful.

They are one player away from being really dangerous. They know. They are looking, sources say. A lot of speculation about the Heat — and other teams — has centered around Jrue Holiday. He’s good. The Pelicans may opt to keep him and push for the No. 8 seed. (This is what suitors expect as of now — which could of course change.)

But I wonder if Miami has a more pressing need for a stretch power forward with some defensive chops to fill that Winslow/Jones/Johnson slot. (Winslow returning to form could render this moot.) Danilo Gallinari would be a worthy rental, but the Thunder might be too good to trade him. It’s also unclear whether Miami has any appetite for surrendering any players who are or could be (i.e., Winslow) key parts of their current rotation.

Regardless, keep an eye on Miami.

10. Marcus Smart is coming at you

What in the hell is this?

I’ve seen defenders close out low to distract shooters, but they usually resemble football tacklers. They aim for the stomach. I’m not sure I’ve seen anyone crouch toward the shooter’s foot. Smart looks like he’s trying to pick something up off the floor.

I honestly don’t know how anyone shoots 3s against Boston without worrying what kind of goofy closeout awaits. Jaylen Brown jumps straight up and down with all his might, and reaches both arms as high as he can — a technique Al Horford mastered, and something the Celtics teach. Brace for that, and Smart comes nipping at your ankles.

What’s next? Jayson Tatum running at shooters, screaming gibberish and waving his arms? Kemba Walker experimenting with some kind of drop-and-roll technique?

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sonnenfuchs · 8 years ago

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⟶ to kill a king | kth | (m)

▹ pairing: taehyung x reader ▹ genre: smut ▹ warnings: kinda semi public smut i guess, gambling ▹ wordcount: 5.7k

↳ A game of poker is what you come for - but you soon realize, the real prize you want is the infamous player named V. Who will win the game?

It’s electrifying.

The atmosphere, charged with caution and rigged luck.

Bitter chuckles, mocking taunts, mumbled curses and the sweet sound of chips clattering. Crowds around tables, blinking slot machines, shouts about bets. There is a tension in the air, the one caused by taking risks and the cold sweat that comes with it. A final check is made somewhere over there and the gathered bystanders applaud. It nearly drowns out the smooth jazz filling the background but it’s nothing you pay attention to anyway.

No, the click of your heels on the stone floor does not halt at the commotion of the countless tables, lecherous greed roused up by cheering masses, waving money, placing bets, losing or winning it all. Those games hold no interest to you, way too public, too exposed, too little to win.

Neither do you spare thoughts to the lingering stares that you feel glide along the seams of your black bodycon dress, stretching across your hips, displaying all the allure your curves had to offer as you glided through the excited masses of the casino. If the eyes following you call out your name in joyous speculation, whisper it with apprehension, or are left guessing what forms their lips would have to take as they moaned underneath your body, it makes no difference, they all are met with a cold shoulder.

There was a time when you would have indulged in it all, gambling with both the cards and your opponents hearts, returning lustern gazes until you had no longer pay for a single drink the whole night, each payed by another poor soul trying to win your affection - not that you couldn’t have afforded your drinks, you would have won enough in one of those nights to empty the whole bar, taking place in front of green velvet, the sound of chips sliding across, the shuffle of cards, the concealed expressions of mirth all too familiar. Game after game, late into the night, your partners changing throughout but you kept the earnings, no matter who it was that put them on the table.

Naturally, you soon had a reputation, people asking, nearly begging, to play you and you leaving behind a trace of angry minds with debts lacing their bank accounts.

The money never really interested you, but you had to say, it was a nice bonus you did not complain about as you soon were draping yourself in the finest dresses that bore the elegant mark of only the best designers and developed a liking to heels with only a sole of red.

And you soon realized, the real thrill in the game came with the stacks of money the players put on the table. It’s easy to lose a game if it’s the only thing that is being lost. You learned, that the more money is involved, the more risk are going to be taken, and soon, you couldn’t be bothered with all the little games out in the open of the casino anymore. It was no fun winning a few hundreds or thousands of honest players that fell victim to an addiction, the amount of all their earnings not making any real difference to your own bank account.

No, for you to play a real incentive was needed. Names of big shots and six figure numbers.

So, more often than not, you found yourself in the private rooms; eerie moods, air stale from lit cigarettes and whiskeys on the rock ordered but never tasted to not fall into the haze induced by alcohol blurring thoughts in dimly lit suites becoming your home.

You soon were rumoured about, an epithet given and used as a name that spread fast through the gossiping mouths of the regular casino goers, a ruthless player with incredible skill and an appearance to match, mingling only with the higher leagues, no regards of any dangers you might run into, no fear of sore losers with hidden weapons or rulers of the underground with a knack for violence and murder.

For you, it was all part of the thrill.

You came back again and again, smiling through all your loses and all the wins. And here you were once more, heading straight towards the back where all the private rooms were, into a game where all players were known by their skill or rather, their reputation and carefully hidden identities. A bunch of hustlers and cheats and only the best of them - and you fitted right in.

You are the last one taking your seat, everyone else already settled, some faces laced with mirth, others already unreadable. Last orders for drinks are given, jacket buttons opened and necks stretched.

The silent agreement to start is given as you straighten your back, face settling into a neutral expression, and a pale hand reaches for the deck of cards in the middle of the table, ready to deal. There is no need to decide on who, all knowing the gambler that would take the cards first. With a seemingly blasé look on your face that hides your analyzing intention you never once let your eyes trail away from the shuffled cards, knowing that the man - Suga - has always had a knack for dealing, and the little tricks and perks one can give himself, that comes with it.

He looks down right lazy, dark hair that falls into his eyes matching the black suit and gaze nonchalantly trailing around the room but his fingers are swift and if he pulled anything, you didn’t not notice it. A skilled hustler - just how you like your opponents.

But he’s not the only one you have to be aware of, it’s not like the people seated next to you are any less harmless. RM, as always dressed in eccentric velvet suits and expensive watches, one of the biggest gamblers out there, known for his ability to always win just barely by a higher value, no matter which game, and L.E., all quirks of her red painted lips masked by the perfect, unreadable poker face and a lucky hand at getting matching suits.

But you were not interested in any of them, having played and figured out all of them before.

If you were to lose to them tonight, you would not mind. Oh no, it isthe man dressed in solely Gucci sitting right in across from you, large features eyeing you with the same curiosity that is mirrored in your own thoughts, that is your ambition.

You have heard about him often enough, another infamous player, a rumour that everyone knows about, a name that sparked an itch in your fingertips to play against him.

A reckless player, seemingly not caring about losing all his money as he bets and bets and bets yet always somehow walking out with more than he came in with, a wild card who’s playing style seemed to fluctuate with moods and an affinity to bluff that made him as unpredictable as unreadable, with a face that defies humanities standards, looking like it’s carved by angel themselves and refined by the devils hands.

That is what the casino calls him, a mere letter to make up for a name he is not willing to grant but it served him well enough, so why bother to change it? And it is enough for you, anyway, there is no need to know anything else. The only thing you want is to see the defeat in his eyes as you leave the room with his money.

It’s easy to keep your eyes trailed on him, watch him carefully gauge the other players reaction, long fingers absentmindedly playing with a stack of chips, long lashes brushing the top of his cheek bones as he lazily lets his eyes wander.

But he is truly skilled, his face vacant and leaving you to wonder what is going on inside his mind. There is not the slightest hint to what his cards have to offer, and it only being the first round, it is too early to have his playing style figured out. With any other person, you would have concentrated on the game, passing up a few rounds, losing a few others until you had them unravel in your mind to the point you can predict their every move. Yet, with him, you cannot bring yourself to shift your attention, the lines of his features mesmerizing you, until you wondered what it might feel like to feel his lips on your.

And is if he has read your thoughts, he shifts and looks straight into your eyes, irises the color of bitter coffee boring into yours as he rises an eyebrow in a near suggestive manner.

A mere brink of a moment later, his face is a blank card once more, no trace of emotion to be found as he waits for Suga to either check or fold. But he does neither, wordlessly pushing another stack of chips into the middle, raising the pot.

Your thoughts finally return to the game at that, and without even having to double check your cards again, you know, this round is lost for you. V, however, goes along without as much as blinking an eye and before you know it everyone has folded and the pot goes towards him.

Rounds after round passes just like that, and you get caught in the flow of it all, the itch in the tips of your fingers, the anticipation of what the unveiling of the next card will bring, and even the little tricks, well done and invisible to spot, cards cautiously hidden in the sleeves of your dress to the quick handed swapping.

It’s addicting, really, the feeling of the adrenaline rushing through your body, the atmosphere heavy with tension as to who will walk away with heavier pockets and who just might will have to learn the heavy weight of debt and humiliation.

But V is still lingering in your mind, as unpredictable to you as he was before you stepped into the room, he is still a riddle you have yet to decipher and you have to admit, he lives up to all of the rumours. There is no consistency to his playing, fluctuating between styles and strategies, you cannot find any logic in it, and as the rounds pass, the desire to crush him ignites flaming embers in you.

The sound of shuffling sounds through the otherwise quiet room once more and as the cards slide over the green velvet, everyone memorizing their current hand and checking their winnings so far, there is a shift in the air, the tension spirals into the endless and everyone is suddenly aware, this is the last round, this decides it all.

Cold shivers run down your spine as you feel the mood change and you eye the amount of chips everyone still has resting in their possession. They have gone from person to person, and it seems, the majority is currently sitting next to V’s graceful hands. This is the last chance for everyone to get their money back, and for you, to win your first round and find rest in his defeat.

You sneak a last glance into your cards - the jack and ten of hearts - you idly call, pushing your chips into the middle, seeing no need to raise the already made bet. Next to you RM does the same, no one folding so far. Seems like everyone is still hoping to take it all.

Finding V’s eyes once more, he shoots you quick smirk, a glint akin to mischief in his eyes, but there is something more in there, a certain shimmer, it’s nearly unreadable but you still catch it.

It clicks together in your head and you know, he thinks he has already won. You are not sure if he let his feelings show on purpose, or if you have him finally figured out, found out his little giveaways, but something tells you, it is neither.

And then you realize, it’s not only that he has gotten arrogant in his wins during the night, he has found interest in you as well. You were not the only one thinking about kissing him, his eyes linger on your tinted lips a little too long, and you feel his gaze sweep over your body in an all too casual matter, that makes it anything but that.

In his mind, this game is already his, but there is another thing to win for him - you.

Then, your eye contact is interrupted, Suga giving out the cards on the board, and now the perspective has shifted again. No, your mind is no longer on just winning the money, on just winning over him, but also, on keeping that curiosity in V’s eyes alive, drawing him to you, playing solely with him.

He doesn’t yet know that he has already won you over, but you know, you only come at a prize, and that is his loss. And when you finally look over the cards on the board, suppressing a smile becomes a task.

Queen of hearts, king of clubs and the nine of hearts.

The checking begins, L.E. doing so, but there’s a certain hesitance in her movement that fills you with glee. She’s bluffing. V seemed to have sensed it as well, not even holding back the chuckle bubbling in his throat as he raises, the pot growing even further. At that, there is a sigh next to you and RM folds.

It’s your turn now, and you have no intention of backing down, yet your fingers grab few chips, letting them glide through your grasp, seemingly lost in thought as if you were contemplating your next move, as if you weren’t sure that you should dare to go along. It’s a cheap strategy, and one you know V sees right through, but there’s a playfulness in it, an invitation for him to come and convince you he is worth your time.

You eventually let out a heavy breath and check. Suga lays down the next card.

Seven of spades.

Not exactly what you hoped for but still good enough to keep playing, but if you were honest, nothing would have made you drop out of this point. Oh no, you would bluff your way to the end just to entertain V.

And suddenly, you and him were the only players left, everyone else having folded. Perfect. You still have a very real chance at winning, doubting he could beat your hand, just as long as the final card is the one you need. Your eyes meet again, the glee in his now enriched by fervor, and you aren’t sure if your heart is tattooing a faster rhythm against your ribcage then it normally does because of the game or his very presence.

The seconds seem to drag out to minutes to hours to an eternity before the last card finally is revealed and you manage to tear your eyes away from him.

King of hearts.

It’s hard to keep the grin threatening to take over your face in, but you barely manage to do so, face as deceiving as it has been the whole time, but he doesn’t seem to be bothered with poker faces anymore as a smug smile contorts his mouth. An air of conceit surround him and yes, this will be fun.

You study your cards again, going over all the possibilities, and he can’t have the better hand, it’s impossible, but you play along anyway. So, when he pushes his chips in the middle of the table, calling all-in with a carefree tone, you sigh heavily, putting on an act of despair as you add to the pot with dropped shoulders. “If I’m gonna lose, might as well go all the way, huh?”

He laughs at that, sending you a wink and leans back into his chair. His fingers come to pick up the cards. The show off has begun.

Flicking them over, his cards complete the ones on the board, all the kings in all their glory laying in front of you and he just laughs again.

Four of a kind.

“It was lovely playing with you, sweetheart, but I think, this is mine now.” It’s the first time he addresses you directly, and you would lie if you were to say his deep voice does not send shivers through your body like electric impulses resonating to the vibrations. He moves forwards to wrap his arms around his winnings.

But then, he catches the shift in your position, the straightening of your back and the proud tilt of your chin and he freezes. He fell right into your trap.

“Wouldn’t you like to see to what hand you have, well, actually lost to?” You muse, arching an eyebrow at him as the slightest hints of confusion and horror flash over his face. “I’m afraid it is not yours after all.”

And you finally reveal your cards, showing the perfect sequence, all the same suit.

Straight Flush.

“I have to say, it was an honor to play you, V, or was it to play with you? I can’t seem to remember how it goes.” You call out to him, sickly sweet, your lips stretching into a tight smile around the words as you carefully gauge his reaction.

But then, he is laughing, a deep sound bouncing of the walls and when he turns to you, there is no malice in his expression like one would expect him to after losing all his money. There is only a mischievous glint as he cranes in closer, chin coming to rest on the palm of his hand.

“I have to admit, you got me good, darling.” He lazily picks up a card, twirling it in his slender fingers as he looks you up and down, teeth coming to sink into his bottom lip before his pink tongue darts out to soothe the sting. “Shame it wasn’t a Royal Flush, you were so close, too.”

He casually throws the card, making it land just before you, and you smile when you take it in. The Queen of Hearts. How fitting. He lifts out of his chair and walks around the table until he stands behind you. Leaning down he only stops before he is inches away from your ear and his rich, heavy cologne fills your nose and god, he smells good.

“Since you just won all that money of me, how about you buy me a drink with it?”

Bingo.

You have him right where you want him to. But you don’t turn around, no, not yet. Picking up the card in front of you, holding it up between your index and middle finger, you let out a sigh. Finally facing him with a coy smile and darkened eyes, you silently hum in agreement, uncrossing your legs to stand up.

But he hasn’t moved an inch and the second you are upright, his lips are right in front of you, looking all too enticing, and the gentleman he is, he does not wait to place a hand on the small of your back as if he were to guide you outside in a safe manner.

Yet, neither of you move, caught up in each others presence. A shadow is moving just shy of the corner of your eyes and when you both turn to look, you find the last of the other players having fled the room. You have to admit, the others all slipped your mind, all thoughts on solely him during the end, but seeing them gone, it fills you with delight. The door falls close and suddenly his gaze is back on you, burning with an intensity like embers in his ashen charcoal eyes.

“I guess, having just won all that money, I can make an exception for you and be the one buying.” You brush your hand over his suit, straightening all wrinkles as you tug on the collar, and look back up to see his eyes are transfixed on your lips, every movement of them taken in.

Your hand glides from his shoulder down to his chest, resting fawned out against the broad surface, muscles palpable under the fabric. You know you got him fully wrapped around your finger, he wants you, wants to make you his tonight, and you oh so bashfully catch your bottom lip with your teeth, worrying the plump skin, just to entertain yourself with the need growing in his eyes.

It’s all it takes for him to growl something along the lines of fuck the drink and close the little distance still between you. His lips press against yours, moving in an almost languid manner but there is a haste in his fingers as they search to dig into your waist that displays the desire coursing through his veins. He kisses you until you are breathless, mouth never leaving yours until you are clawing your nails into his chest for him to break away.

He complies, leaving you to suck in a deep breath that gets stuck in your throat as he wastes no time to move to your jaw, teeth nibbling along the bone in sharp nips. His hands slip even further down your waist, palms now pressing into your hips and he itches you closer until you are flush against his chest, his knee coming to nudge your thighs apart until he can fit a leg in between.

Pushing up, he makes sure it aligns with your sex, adding pressure until you let out a soft sigh that has him grinning against your neck. Guiding your hips, he has you rolling down on him and with it lighting up sparks that shoot through your body and turn into a warm sensation in the pit of your stomach.

Together with his warm breath dancing over the sensitive skin of your throat, and the sting of teeth he carefully adds, have you stifling little noises akin to whines all too soon, a desire for more taking hold of you.

But he seems in no rush, taking all the time he needs to rile you up, make you melt under his touch. Maybe, just like you, he likes the thrill of the game too much, is in it for that, rather than the win, and so, he drags it out for as long as possible. Or maybe, he wants to see how much you can take before you crumble, before your pride cracks and you are begging for him. Whatever it is, that goes through his mind, you are not having it.

He is not the only one that can tease…

You reach up to tangle fingers into the delicate hairs on his nape, giving a slight tug as you bring him back to connect his lips with yours while your other hands carefully dances over his chest, unbuttoning his jacket and tugging his soft silk shirt out of the waistband of his slacks. He groans into your mouth as he feels you trail a finger on the skin just shy of disappearing under the fabric and you happily hum into his mouth.

He is straining against his pants, you can feel the fabric, taut under your drifting fingers and god, how you enjoy keeping him on edge like that. He is much more impatient than you have been under teasing touches, constantly shifting closer to you, his hips pressing forward into your touch, and a small growl escaping him. Yet, he doesn’t complain, not ready to beg, either.

There is, however, the slight pain of fingers digging into your ass and a pinch on your bottom lip as you continue your teasing, his endurance growing thin. You cannot help but giggle at that, pecking his lips as a small apology and finally unbuttoning his slacks, a hand gliding underneath his boxer briefs to grab his shaft.

A hiss escapes him at that, but his fingers are rubbing affirmative patterns on the small of your back. And when you finally start moving your hand, arduously slow, his head is thrown back, jaw clenched and eyes screwed shut tightly. He looks both caught up in agony and bliss, a heavenly sight, and as you oh so idly twist your wrist, you wonder how long he has been torturing himself with lewd thoughts to be so painfully hard.

By the time your thumb is spreading the drop of precum gathered at the tip, low moans are tumbling from his lips, the sound like music to your ears. A warm hand wanders up your spine, the back of your neck until it is tightly tangled in your curls, as he leans back in to nurse at your jaw, a breath coming to tickle you just shy of the shell of your ear. “Are you the devil? This is torture, little lady.”

“I might just be…” You trail of, now discarding your teasing for fast flicks of your wrists. He is nearly leaking precum at this point, making it all a smooth glide as you move faster and faster, feeling him tense under your touch. “Where’s the fun in playing nice?”

The words are accentuated by a harsh tug and a swift swipe of your thumb and his dark eyes blacken completely like a stormy sky just waiting lightning to hit and thunder to roar, blown wide pupils bleeding into the irises.

He is getting closer by the second, his breath coming in heaving exhales that let his chest rise and fall, when you slow down, his hips start chasing the pleasure, when you speed up, you are rewarded with low hums of appreciation.

Yet, it is all too much fun to play, and the second you feel him tense up, knowing, he is teetering the edge that leads to him falling and falling into a spiral of pleasure, you withdraw.

Both your arms come to wrap around his neck, your breath hits his ear. “Enjoying yourself?”

He doesn’t respond, rather, he comes to drag you backwards, lifting you up once you hit the table, and pressing you down until you are laid out on green velvet, legs on hanging over the edge, and with the short cut of your dress, on full display for him.

You have no doubts, that the dampness between your legs has left a visible stain on your underwear, but right now, you have no shame. Not when he is pushing it to the side, anyway, hitching the dress even further up until your dripping core is bare in front of him. Pulling the nearest seat closer, he sits down just in between your thighs.

“How about a little revenge, sweetheart?”

It’s said lightheartedly, a hum in his voice that is carefree, but you don’t miss the malice glint in his narrowed eyes, his hand coming to rest on the apex of your thighs as he lightly blows air over your heat. And as much as you want to keep the upper hand, stay in control and show no sign of how much he affects you, you cannot help the shiver that shakes your whole body.

He does it again, smirking at the way you involuntarily react, before he takes it further, two digits coming to spread your lips and before you know it, he leans forward, tongue licking a broad stripe upwards and wrapping around your clit.

Your hips snap upwards and he snakes an arm underneath your waist, pulling you closer as he laughs against you, the vibrations of his deep chuckle resonating deep into your bones, tearing a whine out of your throat.

It just spurs him on more, tongue dancing around your folds, painting patterns onto your sensitive spots, lips nipping and tugging. You lean up, resting your weight on one elbow while the other hand tangles itself in his dark locks, tugging at the tendrils as in two minds, not sure whether you can handle the sharp pleasure or want more of it.

You can soon feel the coil in your stomach build, tightening with each pass of his tongue over your sensitive nub, more and more moans spilling over your lips, matching the waves of pleasure that crash through your body.

There is a heat building inside of you, running through all your veins, blotchy spots of red appearing just underneath your clavicles, dipping down all the way down your cleavage past the neckline of the shirt as your blood spreads the flaming sensation.

And when he comes to push one of his long fingers inside of you, you are anything but ready for the intrusion, body clamping down and he lets out a curse, feeling you tighten around him. He curls his digit upwards, again and again, forcing more and more noises out of you, nearly overwhelming you with all the pleasure.

Slowly, but surely, he feels you release your muscles and he takes the opportunity to push you further. He enters another finger, taking his time to move them in and out. He sucks on your clit once more, ignoring the way tremors shake your thighs next to his head.

He can feel you are close, but there is no rush to him. The arm around your waist leaves, instead he uses his hand to untangle yours out of his hair. The second he is free of your grasp, his mouth leaves you, leaning back into the chair.

His other hand, still pumping it fingers inside of you, is changing its position, him twisting his wrist so he can thumb at your clit, calmly watching you twist your face in bliss.

“Should I let you cum? Or should I wait until you are sitting on my dick? Whatcha saying, sweetheart?” He muses out loud, wiping your still glistening juices of his chin and licking his lip to get the last of your taste. “I say, it’s way past the time I fuck you.”

You eagerly agree, his large hands feeling incredible but craving the feel of something stretching you out further, fucking into you much deeper. He chuckles at your ardor, hand leaving you to fish something out of the inside of his jacket, not ever bothered by the stains your wetness on his fingers leave.

It gives you a moment to breathe and calm down, relaxing your muscles that you have not even noticed tensing up, and god knows you need it. Your thighs are still shaking, and you feel your fleeting orgasm ebbing further and further away, but you know, he will chase it right back the second he has rolled the condom over his hard length.

His hands wrap around your calves, pulling your from the table onto his lap. Lifting your hips, he aligns himself with your center and you sink down on him with on smooth glide. You both let out a breathless gasp at the feeling, both of you erratic to finally come undone.

He wastes no time to thrust up, simultaneously crashing his lip back on yours. Your hands find purchase in his jacket, clawing at his shoulders to ground yourself, overwhelmed with the sudden feeling of being filled so deeply.

The sound of wet skin slapping against skin fills the room, echoing of the walls, and you are sure it is heard even down the hallway, but so be it. You are too far gone to care about anyone catching you.

Your movements are frantic, hips grinding in an attempt to finally hunt down the sweet satisfaction that has been threatening to overtake you for way too long now. He is close as well, even closer to losing himself than you are, groaning into your mouth, his hands at your hips forcing you down on him.

Tightening around him, you try to push him over the edge, forcing him into pure bliss, and it works, he is groaning and growling into your mouth as his hips stutter and he fills up the condom with his seed.

You keep your rhythm steady, milking out his orgasm until he is nearing overstimulation. But before he even has fully come back to his senses or caught his breath he is reaching down and pinching your clit in between his fingertips.

“Come one, cum for me. Cum all over me, baby.”

It’s enough to give you the rest, hot white pleasure fills you up, making you lose all sense of time and reality, only knowing the feeling of his cock deep inside of you and his lips on yours as your single anchor.

He nips at your bottom lip, patiently waiting for you to regain the strength in your legs to stand up. You finally do, after a short eternity, straighten your dress and fixing your underwear with just the slightest of wavering noticeable.

You feel his gaze on you, taking in every detail of your gestures, and you feel yourself not being able to tear away just yet. No, you can still ruin him a bit further. Leaning back down to kiss him once again, your hand wraps around his slowly softening cock, once again flicking your wrists. He winces at the painful overstimulation, only made worse by the cum filled condom still on him.

He trashes underneath you, a large hand wrapping around your forearm to stop you, and this is your sign to leave. Letting him pull your are away, you move your lips up to his cheek, placing a soft kiss there. “It was a fun game tonight. Maybe we’ll meet again, V.”

“Kim Taehyung.” His eyes are still closed, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “My name is Kim Taehyung. Let me hear you say it before you go.”

“Is that so, Kim Taehyung?”

“God, I should have made you moan it, sweetheart.” He groans, thumb carefully caressing your wrist. “Now tell me yours. I need to know.”

He finally opened his eyes at your silence, seeing the coy curl of your lips, before you slip out of his grasp, towards the door. “I’m afraid that’s a secret, Kim Taehyung.”

And with that you are gone, leaving only the taste of your lips behind. And maybe, once he sorts out his dishevel appearance, he will discover the card sticking out of his pocket square, the red on the back of the card looking all too enticing against the black of his suit, and, if he cares to look at it, he will find the only name he will ever know you as, and he will learn, that not even a king like him is capable to rule over you.

The queen of hearts.

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junker-town · 5 years ago

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The Donovan Mitchell superstar blueprint

Donovan Mitchell has to raise his game to another level for the Jazz to be a true title contender.

For the Jazz to be the best in the West, Mitchell needs to take his game to another level. Can he do it?

Donovan Mitchell’s team needed a rebound, and he was ready to do anything necessary to get it. Before Turkey’s Cedi Osman could react, Mitchell’s chest was above his head. By the time he jumped, Mitchell’s fully extended right arm was batting the ball out of the sky. Before he could process losing one of the most important rebounds in Turkey basketball’s history to a guy seven inches shorter, Osman watched that same player step through a trap and find Jayson Tatum standing well beyond the three-point line.

This is the ruthlessness Jazz fans have come to adore out of Mitchell. “Enter, Spida-Man Mitchell,” read the recap from SB Nation’s Jazz site SLC Dunk, referencing his ubiquitous nickname while evoking images of Peter Parker swooping in to snatch an innocent child from a collapsing building. That the rebound came in the game’s most important moment is exactly the point. Few players period, much less ones Mitchell’s age, are better at erasing 39 minutes and 50 seconds of spotty play with one Holy Shit! sequence.

The thing is, those 39 minutes and 50 seconds of spotty play count, too. In that time, Mitchell shot 3-12 from the field, struggled on defense, and committed a back-breaking turnover on the previous possession. Gregg Popovich benched him for most of the ensuing overtime, despite his pre-tournament status as the co-star of the team along with Kemba Walker. Did that clutch rebound save a poor performance, or merely obscure it?

This is the challenge of properly rating Mitchell. He has all the bona fides of a cornerstone player. He can score at all three levels. He’s willing to pass and possesses excellent vision. He takes over when he feels he must, but also functions in a team setting. He galvanizes the fanbase with signature moments, both glamorous and blue collar. He has elements of prior stars’ signature style, aggregated to create his own. He’s high-flying, but also smart enough to adjust to the flow of games. All that means he implants many unstoppable moments and games into our memory, such as his 27-points-in-three-quarters scorcher in the quarterfinal loss to France three games later.

Now is the time when the Donovan Mitchell star equation needs to add up

Yet so far, those elements have added up to something less than the sum of their parts. Mitchell’s pejorative reputation as a volume scorer is more than fair. Of the 38 players that ended more than 25 percent of his team’s possessions while on the floor last season, Mitchell ranked 31st in true shooting percentage, 29th in effective field goal percentage, 34th in two-point percentage, 28th in player efficiency rating, 29th in win shares per 48 minutes, and 24th in free-throw rate.

Now is the time when the Donovan Mitchell star equation needs to add up. The Jazz took off the kid gloves this summer, trading significant future assets for 32-year-old Mike Conley, then handing 30-year-old Bojan Bogdanovic a four-year, $73 million contract. Mitchell and the Jazz are suddenly overflowing with elite spot-up shooting, a wide open floor, and secondary playmaking after having significant deficiencies in all three during his career. With the NBA landscape resetting after a wild free agency period, the Jazz have picked the perfect time to level up.

But for Utah to be a serious title contender instead of merely a paper tiger, Mitchell has to actually play like the star guard he occasionally mirrors. For that to happen, Mitchell must follow the path another electric young guard walked.

Nine years ago, third-year point guard Derrick Rose fielded a question about his ambition during the Bulls’ preseason media day.

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”The way I look at it, why can’t I be the MVP in the league?” Rose said. “Why can’t I be the best player in the league? I don’t see why not.”

The claim was outlandish at the time. On Oct. 26, 2010 — a month after he put the thought of winning MVP in the public’s head — Rose was listed with 18/1 odds to win the award, behind a list of 11 players that included Brandon Roy (15/1), Amar’e Stoudemire (15/1), Steve Nash (12/1), and Carmelo Anthony (6/1). After Rose defied the odds to become the youngest MVP in league history, that bold preseason quote became iconic.

Rose’s production improved that season in two significant ways. One was by replacing many of his long two-point jumpers with threes. The other was by making the same change in technique and mentality that Mitchell must now make. Rose was more ruthless all the time, and not just in brief moments.

It may sound odd now, but Rose was an inefficient scorer around the hoop, the very area his skill set would suggest he dominate. He was such a gifted athlete that he jumped to avoid contact rather than seek it.

In practice, that meant he took a lot of floaters and off-balanced layups instead of on-point layups and free-throws. In 2009-10, Rose took twice as high a percentage of his shots (64 percent) from short and mid-range areas as he did at the rim (32 percent), according to Cleaning the Glass. Meanwhile, he scored only 4.66 points per 100 possessions at the free-throw line and shot less than 54 percent on shots classified as layups. He was just good enough playing this way to think he was maximizing his best self, but he wasn’t.

Rose spent the summer of 2010 improving his technique to address that shortcoming. In an interview with Chicago Magazine, Rose said that after watching film over the summer, he discovered that he was “picking up the ball too early.” The new Bulls’ coaching staff noticed he often drove without a plan, so Tom Thibodeau urged Rose to attack, in Rose’s words, “north-south,” and “not as much east-west.”

The difference year-to-year was staggering. In his MVP season, Rose took nearly as high a percentage of his shots around the basket (39 percent) as he did in the two mid-range areas combined (41 percent). His shooting percentage on layups rose to 58 percent, and he jumped up to 8.33 free-throw points generated per 100 possessions.

Rose was no more powerful or athletic in 2010-11 as he was in his first two years. He just applied those traits more consistently by cutting out the cute stuff. Rather than use his power to produce fancy moments, he channeled that energy into consistent, punishing pressure on the basket. That in turn made him a more efficient player, one whose collection of offensive skill and athleticism actually added up to the sum of its parts.

Those technical improvements stemmed from a change in mindset. As he told Sports Illustrated: “The best players are killers all the time.” (He didn’t say “on the basketball court,” but let’s assume it was implied).

Is Donovan Mitchell a killer all the time? He certainly is a killer some of the time, often when his team needs a hoop. But these are not the finishes of a killer. Instead, they’re the finishes of a player operating as if he gets bonus points for degree of difficulty.

These were shots Mitchell took in crunch time, but his tendency to make the simple play complicated was even more pronounced during the flow of the game.

These were the shots Mitchell fell in love with, so it’s no wonder his overall scoring efficiency plateaued. Twenty-nine percent of his shot attempts were classified as “short mid-range” (between four and 14 feet) last year, according to Cleaning the Glass. That put him in the 93rd percentile for players at his position and was more than 10 percentage points higher than his portion of shots from that range as a rookie.

That section of the overall pie was gobbled up from a combination of all other zones on the court. Mitchell ended up taking proportionally fewer shots from every other spot on the court, all so he could take more floater-range shots. How’d he shoot on said attempts? Thirty-six percent, a conversion rate lower than from any other zone.

Thirty-six percent on short mid-rangers isn’t horrible — it puts Mitchell in the 37th percentile at his position on such shots, according to Cleaning the Glass — but it’s not great. Mitchell has the capability of getting better looks for himself than this, even if he sometimes makes them.

This leads to an obvious question: why didn’t he generate more efficient shots last year?

One popular reason is that he was victimized by Utah’s cramped spacing. He had to take these shots, the theory goes, because he had no driving lanes to create anything better. This is a modified version of the who else gonna shoot line of thinking that has been used for years to explain away the low efficiency of high-usage stars.

There’s some truth to this claim — otherwise why replace the bad shooters with great ones this summer? — but the effect is overstated. If Mitchell really was a victim of his team’s cramped spacing, you’d think he’d generate better shots when the Jazz ran out lineups with more shooting in them.

However, lineup data suggests otherwise. In both seasons, Mitchell has been more efficient and taken fewer short mid-range shots with notorious non-shooter Ricky Rubio in the game than with him on the bench. Even more significantly, Mitchell was actually more efficient and took fewer floater-range attempts with both Derrick Favors and Rudy Gobert on the floor, as opposed to just one of them.

(It should be noted that the opposite was true when Mitchell was a rookie. Still, the data clearly doesn’t show a consistent trend of Mitchell performing better without those two bigs clogging up the paint).

The reasons for Mitchell’s inefficiency have more to do with Mitchell himself than his surroundings. In particular, his technique is surprisingly poor for someone with his level of athleticism. Like pre-2010 Rose, Mitchell picks up his dribble far too early, though for a slightly different reason. Whereas Rose often looked to pass too early, Mitchell starts his shooting motion too soon. He thinks that he can cover all this ground with two steps and a gather and finish on balance, but he simply can’t. He’s a 6’3 guard, not Giannis Antetokounmpo or LeBron James.

The whole point of taking two long steps after the gather dribble is to set up the defender with the first step, then tap-dance around or bulldoze through them with the second. That’s why the Eurostep is such a devastating move: it pulls the defender one way, then goes back the other. But by picking up his dribble so soon, Mitchell removes the setup effect of that first step.

That makes his drives a lot easier to defend than they should be. Canny defenders can hang back knowing that no matter how large that first step is, it’s not going to cover enough ground to force them to react. Without that reaction, the second step that’s supposed to go around or through them is functionally useless. That’s why Mitchell second step is often sideways rather than forward, and it’s why he throws up so much junk like this.

Mitchell’s balance at the point of attack also hurts him in these situations. He has a tendency to veer outward before advancing to the cup, rather than moving in a straight line. That’s a bad habit because it allows his primary defender to slide back into position and angle him off. It’s common to see Mitchell appear to get a step on his man, only for them to recover and force an ineffective sideways Eurostep that turns into more junk.

Even when Mitchell does get closer to the hoop, he attempts too many wrong-footed layups that lack the necessary power for strong finishes and/or drawn fouls. Mitchell’s leaping ability is second to almost none in the NBA, but that doesn’t mean he’s strong enough to negate bigs from this position.

Wrong-footed layups are an essential part of any player’s diet these days, but they’re best used for quick finishes when the offensive player already already has an angle on a rim protector. They’re much less effective when that driver is coming straight at them.

Just like Rose, Mitchell’s improved technique must also come with a change in mentality. Too often, Mitchell plays like a magician eager to show off all his tricks in a single act. Opponents don’t fear Mitchell’s diverse palette of moves. They fear his theoretical ability to put pressure on the basket with powerful, high-flying drives.

Similarly, Mitchell’s playmaking should service his hard drives, not the other way around. Subtlety is nice, but too much subtlety is counterproductive. On plays like these, Mitchell should be attacking decisively to dunk on the entire state of Texas, not trying to impress them with a side-to-side tap-dance floater.

There’s a place for careful surveillance of the court, but Mitchell is too athletic to be playing so indecisively. Hit the damn hole!

Put another way, Mitchell needs to be more ruthless. We know he has it in him, because he’s already shown an edge in so many high-pressure situations.

But to be the player the Jazz need to be taken seriously as a title contender, he needs to heed Rose’s words. Killers are killers all the time, not just some of the time.

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racingtoaredlight · 4 years ago

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Random Thoughts on Performance Psychology

My father has an encyclopedic knowledge of music that I haven’t experienced in numerous professors with doctorates teaching at graduate levels in college. It’s truly remarkable the sheer breadth of understanding he has...not just of music history, but the science of recording, the way sound waves behave...basically almost everything that happens in music. From the nanosecond the soundwaves leave an amplifier or instrument, my father knows just about everything there is to know about what’s going on...and knows the history of how it all came to be.

His knowledge and experience has been a godsend for me. I’m not as intelligent as he is, nor do I have his voracious appetite for understanding how to put the logistical aspects of creating music into place...and having him around to learn from has been the most significant contributor to my own love of music.

But there are grains of salt.

He’s not a good musician. He’s played a variety of instruments with little success, though he does have a great voice. For all his knowledge and experience, it’s missing a critical ingredient...actually doing it.

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For all the laughs Fire Joe Morgan brought us...for ushering in a statistic revolution to provide some level of objectivity to the game...Joe Morgan did have a salient point, in all those pieces the FJM guys ripped apart. He played the game. That doesn’t make him unimpeachable in terms of analysis, but it gives him a layer of expertise that can’t be gleaned from a spreadsheet.

The biggest lynchpin in this argument is the idea of “clutch,” or whether statistical variance can explain performance during critical points. And the idea that clutch is something that doesn’t exist is completely asinine from a psychological perspective, a perspective that Joe Morgan understood more than Ken Tremendous.

“Clutch” is just a different term for a lack of stage fright, or anxiety. I’d love to see a psychological peer-tested review of athletes considered clutch, because I’d be willing to bet that there’s a greater than 50% correlation to “clutch performance” and psychopathy.

Psychopathy isn’t inherently bad, despite what you might think based on things like Law and Order or serial killer movies, shit like that. Simply put, psychopathy is an inherent lack of emotional response...something you could equally see benefit a hitman and ruthless vulture capitalist, but also a firefighter or ER triage surgeon.

A lack of emotional response to a situation brings things more in line with statistical variance in large sample sizes. Someone on a psychopathic spectrum would likely be less impacted by the crowd, by thoughts of how important this moment is, wouldn’t be thinking of impacts on legacy, team success, potential for a big pay day...their minds would more likely be blank or thinking technical things, rather than concerning themselves with ancillary stimuli.

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For a non-psychopath, the easiest way to become more calloused to the onslaught of emotional stimuli is experience. Lots and lots of experience.

My personal favorite memory of this was when I was at North Texas. Technically, I had a lot of shit going on in a big way, but there was always something missing. During a performance for one of the guitar ensembles (5 guitars, keys, bass, drums), my teacher took a video of my performance...camera on me the whole time.

Our next lesson, he fast forwarded through the video to the probably dozen or so mistakes I made. Every one of those mistakes was punctuated by a obviously self-angry gesture and mouthing the word “FUCK!” That night, I probably played a total of 1,500 notes. I made...lets call it 15 mistakes. Incredibly minor mistakes in the middle of passages where nobody would’ve noticed.

Nobody would have noticed, except I visibly reacted each time.

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That’s one example of clutch being a real phenomenon. Psychology...it’s hard to express this...trumps every other aspect of actual performance, when all things are relatively equal. It can tilt the scales even when they’re not.

And as someone who’s not a psychopath, it’s a learned skill to just say “fuck it, I don’t really care.” When my teacher showed me that video, my questions were...how could I not care? I worked on this for ten hours. My parts have to be perfect for the other guys. My performance here can determine next year’s ensemble and teacher assignments.

To put this in some psychological perspective, play this below for 1 minute (you won’t make it 5 seconds, but that doesn’t matter)...

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I missed roughly 1 note per minute, something truly barely even noticeable...and yet because of my psychological reaction internally, I externally made sure that everyone in the audience knew I was fucking up all over the place. Musically speaking, I was not clutch. I was a weird angry dude. Which isn’t too different from now, but I digress.

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I’m sure we can all think of examples similar to this through our lives...

Maybe the valedictorian who gets caught cheating because of pressure to be perfect. Their statistical being would be more than good enough to get full rides to any Ivy League, but they needed to push farther and fucked themselves over.

Ooo! Schwimmer’s character in Band of Brothers is another good example. Whether it’s imposter syndrome or knowing deep down he’s not up to the challenge, it’s psychologically impacted his decision making (assuming the character study from the book is fairly true-ish).

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It can be a drive for personal wealth/fame/ego that undermines performance...maybe someone hogs the ball trying to juice their numbers, impacting the rest of the team’s abilities to compete (or make things extremely predictable for opponents during those important minutes in a sport like basketball where they can double-team). Or maybe, in the case of the greatest bassist of all time Jaco Pastorius, they charge on stage to kick other bassists off and then showboat the audience away.

When things are all relatively equal, psychology is that intangible ingredient that means the difference. Obviously psychology isn’t going to put you in the Berlin Philharmonic if you just picked up violin, all because you’ve convinced yourself that. But it might convince you to keep practicing when your fingers hurt, or you think it’s boring...and that shit compounds.

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I don’t really remember too much about their stance on clutch, or if FJM did a statistical analysis of it or anything, but I’m a huge believer in the importance of performance psychology from my own experience.

It definitely helps having played bass for 3 years before picking guitar up again, and helped trading intentionally-difficult jazz fusion stuff for blues and rock, but truthfully I make more mistakes playing less difficult stuff now than I ever did in my 20′s. I don’t have anywhere near the technical skills I used to...nowhere close.

But, when I picked up guitar again, I made the conscious decision to play like Eddie Van Halen...not the style, genre or tone, but in the sense he was a kamikaze. He didn’t give a shit if he fucked up or played sloppy...it was the bigger picture that mattered. That kamikaze psychology...I am going to fly as redlined as possible and if it ends up in a fiery explosion, so be it...was something that would’ve been incredibly useful in my musical prime when I still had a chance to actually play.

And it makes for a better band experience when those fiery explosions happen. Instead of getting ripshit pissed, I just don’t really care anymore. Plus, statistically speaking, I’ll fuckin’ get em on the next go around. Shit, maybe there is psychologically something to the analytics after all.

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Anyways, just some random thoughts.

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vileart · 8 years ago

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Places Dramaturgy: Romy Nordlinger @ Edfringe 2017

** ROMY NORDLINGER’S PLACES – THE STORY OF THE MOST FAMOUS BROADWAY AND SILENT FILM STAR YOU’VE PROBABLY NEVER HEARD OF - ALLA NAZIMOVA - TO HAVE ITS WORLD PREMIERE AT 59E59 THEATERS as part of EAST OF EDINBURGH BEFORE TRAVELING TO EDINBURGH FRINGE **

NEW YORK, NY (June 13, 2017)

Yonder Window Theatre Company and

Parity Productions are thrilled to announce that writer/performer Romy Nordlinger’s Places is among the selected performances for this year’s East to Edinburgh at 59E59 Theaters.

At the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, Places is playing at the New Town Theatre (Venue 7).

The performance dates are August 3rd -14th and 16th -27th at 5 pm.

Places will play 6 performances in July before traveling to Edinburgh, Scotland for the 2017 Fringe Festival where it will have 25 performances over the month of August (4th - 27th).

Places, a tour-de-force one-actor multimedia show, tells the story of Alla Nazimova, the rule-breaking lesbian Broadway and Hollywood legend. From a Jewish immigrant fleeing Tsarist Russia to Hollywood’s first female director and producer, Nazimova was a trailblazer who wouldn’t be silenced.

What was the inspiration for this performance?

I was performing a short piece that I wrote about Alla Nazimova in a collection of pieces about great actresses from our past who might otherwise be forgotten. I was absolutely awestruck by Nazimova, her character, her harrowing and triumphant story and her amazing accomplishments.

She was at one time the highest paid actress in Hollywood’s silent movies and had a Broadway theatre named after her. She was also the first female writer, director and producer in Hollywood.

A trailblazer who was incredibly outspoken and openly bisexual, her mansion on Sunset Boulevard coined ‘The Garden Of Allah” became the watering hole for the great luminaries of literature and the performing arts such as F. Scott Fitzgerald and Greta Garbo and a haven for intellectual liberty and freedom. It also was the setting in which the term the ‘Sewing Circle’ was born; an acronym for her all women’s lesbian gatherings. Where did her story go?

Why was she virtually erased from the history books and how could we forget such a giant? In writing my solo show about Nazimova, I was determined to set the record straight and to tell her magnificent story. We are all the stories we tell and an artist is only dead when the last person to remember them dies.

Is performance still a good space for the public discussion of ideas?

To me theatre will always be the most powerful of all medias. The immediacy of being together in one room at one time and sharing our humanness, our stories, is a transformative experience. I’m not saying theatre is always good, but the very act of assembling together and telling our stories live is cathartic.

Abstract ideas and news are very important of course, but in theatre one is able to feel, to empathize, and most importantly to share the human condition out loud and together. In our increasingly polarizing society, theatre is more important than ever – telling our stories out loud and live.

How did you become interested in making performance?

I am interested in the human condition. I feel less alone when I can express my feelings, and hear other’s feelings expressed. I feel most alive when I write, when I act. This propels me to make performances – the sharing part of it.

Is there any particular approach to the making of the show?

I read everything about Nazimova that I possibly could. Watched her movies, read her journals, looked at her pictures. I isolated quotes that she’d said that particularly struck me, moved me, and made me feel that I understood her.

In the end, her story is an amalgam of herself and myself. As she was not here to interview, her story is told through the lens of my perspective.

Does the show fit with your usual productions?

I’ve primarily been an actress in my life and in the past six years began writing plays. The productions of the plays I’ve had are vastly different. This story is unique as it is a solo voice and it is multimedia. The characters I am writing about dictate the landscape of the play.

What do you hope that the audience will experience?

I hope the audience feels hope. I hope they feel less alone knowing that others long before them have triumphed over adversity, have spoken their truths, and have found strength even when they’ve been beaten down. I hope they feel jazzed to be alive knowing that every day is a chance to begin anew.

What strategies did you consider towards shaping this audience experience?

I wanted the audience to see this not as a ‘museum’ piece but a piece that was very relevant today. Nazimova was fighting the things in the 19th century and early 20th century that we are still fighting today, but alone and without a twitter account: sexism, racism, homophobia, ageism. I made sure to juxtapose her life through the lens of her being an all seeing ghost who is able to peer into the life of the 21st century and reflect on the past and present simultaneously.

As Nazimova says, “By opening our eyes to the past, we are better able to see our present.” I also wanted to include the cinematic look of her life with the multimedia elements of the play. As she was a film star and director and so much of her life was on screen, it was vital to use the same mediums to tell her story – the story and visions that were brushed under the rug because they were so ahead of her time.

Nordlinger’s solo performance reimagines one of the most daring and censored artists of the 20th century who tells it like it was… and still is.

Long before innovative and outspoken performers such as Madonna and Lady Gaga, the world was enamored of Nazimova.

“Telling Alla Nazimova’s story is relevant now more than ever as we face a new age of civil liberties being under attack, a backlash against women, against the LGBTQ community, and against immigrants. If Nazimova could have faced those kinds of obstacles and still flourished, then it gives me faith that we can do the same,” says director and co-developer Katie McHugh adds, “If we could call the voices of our past to come back and speak to us, Nazimova would be on the top of the list. What is happening now in our world is an opportunity to listen to the predecessors who paved the way for us as we strive for equality. ”

Nazimova was born Adelaide Yakovlevna Leventon, the daughter of an abusive father. Facing persecution for her Jewish heritage and having lived in foster homes, she finally found her true home with the Moscow Art Theatre and Stanislavsky. She adopted the name Alla Nazimova and became a major star in Moscow and Europe before fleeing to America in 1905. Her Broadway premiere in November 1906 was in the title role of Hedda Gabler. Nazimova became a major success and box office draw, helping to launch the careers of Ibsen, Strindberg, and Chekhov as well as inspire the careers of others including Tennessee Williams.

Nazimova was open about her sexual preference, often to the chagrin of the New York entertainment establishment. She ultimately fled to Hollywood where, by 1917, she wielded considerable power and became the highest paid actress there. Not to be beaten by the ‘boys club,’ she formed her own production company—Nazimova Productions—to become the first female producer, director, and writer in Hollywood. Her production of ‘Salome,’ helmed by an all-gay cast, ushered in the birth of art cinema. But the homosexual themes and experimental filmmaking proved too forward for the 1920s, leading her to a reputation as box office poison and to her artistic demise.

At Nazzy’s mansion on 8080 Sunset Boulevard - dubbed the “Garden of Allah” - she hosted parties frequented by such luminaries as F. Scott Fitzgerald, Marlene Dietrich, Dorothy Parker, and Tennessee Williams. There she created her all women’s “sewing circle,” a term she coined to describe her infamous meetings of lesbian and bisexual actresses in Hollywood. Eventually, with the public and studios turning against her, Nazimova had no choice but to turn her Garden Of Allah into hotels and was eventually forced into obscurity. Her contributions to the film industry have since been recognized with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

Places is a co-production between Yonder Window Theatre Company and Parity Productions and is made possible in part by the support of Jack Sharkey.

RomyNordlinger (Actor/Playwright) Selected credits: “Edna Hoffman” (VO role) in Florence Foster Jenkins dir. Stephen Frears, WOMG and The Ruthless Spectator (Web Series), Lancelot by Steven Fechter (The Woodsman) of which she is also in pre-production for the feature film & “A Separation”. Co & Guest starring roles on Law & Order CI (Officer Talbor), All My Children, Gotham, One Life To Live, plus numerous indie films. Selected theatre: "Rose"/ Shakespeare's Slave @ Clurman with Resonance Ensemble; Between Here and There @ New Perspectives; The Woman On The Bridge workshop dir. Ludovica Villar-Hauser; January dir Lorca Peress/Multi Stages, R Culture by Cecilia Copeland @ IRT, Stage Struck helmed by Mari Lyn Henry and The Society For The Preservation Of Theatrical History @ Snapple Theatre, The Players Club, Metropolitan Playhouse. Regional credits include Actors Theatre of Louisville, Wilma, Fleetwood Stage, Emelin. Playwriting credits include Liptshick @ FringeNYC , The Feeling Part with LoNyLa & The Playwriting Collective, Broadville @ Manhattan Theatre Source & her solo show Sex and Sealing Wax @ MITF. Romy is also an audiobook narrator and voice-over artist with over 200 titles to her credit as well as numerous international voice-over spots. Romy has also been a theatre-teaching artist for the past 15 years working with underserved communities in every borough of New York City. Member of The League Of Professional Theatre Women. Member of NY Madness, Resonance Theatre Ensemble, Flux Sundays and The Playwrights Gallery. B.F.A University Of Arts.

Katie McHugh (Director) is a New York-based director, teacher and producer of theatre with an MFA in Directing from The New School for Drama. She is the Founding Director of the Southeastern Teen Shakespeare Company, Co-Founder of the Teen Shakespeare Conservatory at the Actors Movement Studio, and Artistic Director of Yonder Window Theatre Company. Katie is an award-winning director who specializes in devised and experimental theatre. Selected New York directing credits: Euripides’ Medea at the New School for Drama’s New Visions Festival, and The List by Jennifer Tremblay in the New York International Fringe Festival 2012 (Winner of Overall Excellence in a Solo Performance). The List was chosen to perform internationally in the first Mexican Fringe Festival of San Miguel de Allende. After directing her second production in Mexico in February of 2015, Waiting for Goddreau preceded by Shut up Kathleen, Katie was named an Artistic Ambassador of the Mexican Fringe Festival San Miguel. She spent two months last winter in Mexico working on the third annual Fringe Festival as well as co-producing Enemy, an adaptation of Ibsen’s Enemy of the People directed by Emmy award winner, Dorothy Lyman at the San Miguel Playhouse Theatre. Her new theatre company, Yonder Window, made its maiden voyage this year with a multidisciplinary, multi-cultural, bi-lingual international production called The Dream Project, premiering at Muv arte, San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. Katie is a five-time director for the Writopia World Wide Plays Festival sponsored by David Letterman, as well as a regular guest director with the NYU dramatic writing program. She also runs a program for young actors focused on auditioning for college called the Audition Prep Intensive and is a member of the League of Professional Theatre Women. http://ift.tt/2suSmD6

On Places, Adam Burns is the creative force behind the graphic and video elements. Nick T. Moore is the sound designer and composer. Places is production managed by Tamara Geisler and assistant directed by Jason Beckmann.

Yonder Window Theatre Company is a New York-based theater company focused on platforms for cultural conversations and exchange. Committed to connecting with artists around the world, each production is inspired by a specific culture. Stories are explored through workshops and laboratories, where artists can begin to experiment with their talents and ideas. Upcoming productions: The House on Poe Street by Fengar Gael, 14th Street Y, October 2017 and The Dream Project, Mexico 2018.

Parity Productions is the theatre company with a dual mission to create new work while ensuring that all its productions are comprised of at least 50% women and transgender directors, designers, and playwrights. The company has several lauded advocacy platforms specifically aimed at creating more opportunities for women and transgender artists. Upcoming productions: Teresa Lotz's She Calls Me Firefly and Gregory Murphy’s Household Words.

The Drama Desk Award-winning 59E59 is dedicated to bringing the best new work from around the country and across the world to premiere in New York. Their annual East to Edinburgh highlights North American companies and productions before they make the journey across the pond in the closest thing to Festival Fringe this side of the Atlantic.

Civil Disobedience is an international producing team and the on-the-ground producers of Places in Edinburgh. With a passion for ensuring that world-class acts find their place in the UK market and internationally, Civil Disobedience brings the finest talent from around the world to global stages, arts festivals, and events.

Places will run at 59E59 Theater (59 East 59th Street, between Park and Madison Avenues) on Friday, July 21st at 8:30 pm; Saturday, July 22nd at 6:30 pm; Sunday, July 23rd at 4:30 pm; Friday, July 28th at 8:30 pm; Saturday, July 29th at 8:30 pm; and Sunday, July 30th at 4:30 pm.

from the vileblog http://ift.tt/2rZW9oB

#Theatre #Blogger #visual art #Edinburgh Fringe #Experimental Critique

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