#MBA Fair

[iampikachuhearmeroar]

god. sometimes i really hate those "10 jobs that you can do WITHOUT a qualification that pay over 100k" and they list something like "human resource management" 130k a year!!! when like. EVERY fucking HR job (and other jobs like this, say like librarian- something that i PAID 17k for and burnt out for in postgrad lmao) strictly DEMAND that candidates must have 1-2 years experience AND an HR DEGREE.

very, very, very, very rarely i see something in HR requiring a TAFE (aussie technical college) certificate (ie MUCH cheaper- 7k) or a diploma in HR. it's almost always a degree, barely EVER "no quals or equivalent experience or similar quals"... even for entry level jobs in hr or most defs management positions.

[trans-elrond]

fantastic rebuttal to "writers don't deserve better pay because the stuff they write is terrible/unoriginal", full thread here

(to explain, the "Unknown" under his name is from a add-on bot detector; it usually can assign a percentage likelihood that a user is a human being and not a bot, but I think the blue check system disrupted the add-on so it says "Unknown" underneath his name now.)

[image id under the read more:

May 7, 2023 tweet thread from Tom Vaughan @/storyandplot

With #WGAStrong rightfully in the spotlight this week, I've seen some less-than-sympathetic comments focusing on the lack of originality in our projects. This is a fair criticism of the system, but not the writers. A quick history of how we got here (thread emoji)

The first thing to understand is that Hollywood has NOT run out of new ideas. The studio’s preference for I.P. has nothing to do with regurgitating ideas and everything to do with MARKETING.

The late 60s-70s is generally considered the artistic high of the studio system. Ironically, many contribute this to corporations buying up the studios! The corporations knew they had no idea how to run a movie studio, so... they put creative people in charge.

This is how you got the run of so many great films the studios would never make today. They also took bigger chances on young, promising talent (the first "film school generation" of filmmakers.)

But with the success of JAWS and STAR WARS, the corporations demanded more of those kinds of hits. The creative folks insisted such things were unpredictable, and the business folks said let's make them less so.

(Sidenote: This was also the same time a completely different phenomenon was happening. A/C was becoming the norm for theatres, making summer movie-going much more attractive.)

Over the next decade, more and more MBAs and marketing people gained influence in the studio system. Being business folks, huge hits were not a creative problem as much as a product/marketing problem.

The 80s is when the “high concept” became pre-eminent because it narrowed a sales pitch to one sentence, a trailer, and a poster. This made everyone a marketing agent for a movie because everyone could explain what it was about!

In the 90s, marketing became just as important as the film itself (reflected in their respective budgets) when Hollywood discovered they could profit from fifty years of pre-existing awareness for old TV shows and movies.

This allowed the marketing department to move away from pitching a movie and convincing you to go see it (lower success rate), to simple “audience awareness” and building anticipation. (higher success rate.)

The audience knew what THE FLINSTONES the movie was. They just needed to know the casting and when it opened. No one needed to have the remake of GODZILLA explained to them. They just needed to know when it opened.

The marketing department prefers AWARNESS over SELLING because awareness is something you can throw money at. Selling is harder, and it’s less predictable. This is why franchises are so valuable.

Whenever someone says, “That’s something I can sell!” It’s usually something that can sell itself. What they mean is, "I just have to let people know about this!"

Hollywoods's reliance on property the audience is already familiar with is 100% because... the audience is already familiar with it. It is easier to market the product and this increases its chances of success.

This focus on I.P. has become so pervasive, many, including executives themselves, have forgotten WHY it's valuable. They'll option an unknown comic BECAUSE it's I.P., forgetting that it's unknown and lacks the main asset of I.P.

Writers do love writing on an I.P. that means something to them. Every Star Wars fan who became a filmmaker would love to work in that universe. But we do not love it more than our own original work. We would always rather work on that.

So when you see another remake, or reboot, or adaptation, and think, "Can't they come up with something new?"

Remember, the answer is yes. Yes, we can. And we want to. You can blame the market or the marketing, but either way, the widespread production of truly original content is just not the studio business model we're in right now. #WGAStrong

end ID.]

[childrenofcain-if]

Clingy D wasn't something I knew I needed. For research purposes, how would that fare though, author

the texas heat clung to D as they sat on the back porch of their grandfather’s old farm. the air smelled of earth and sunburnt grass, a scent that had grown oddly comforting in the months since they’d moved back.

the farm was quiet now, save for the low hum of cicadas and the occasional bark of a stray dog wandering by the fence. the peacefulness suited D—most days. but tonight, it was unbearable.

their phone sat on the wooden table in front of them, face down like it was a guilty party. they’d told themself they weren’t going to look at it anymore.

just leave it, rook, calm down.

stop being so needy, rook.

get your shit together, rook.

you’re always the recurring car crash, rook, the common denominator.

but their eyes flickered toward the phone anyway.

the truth sat under their ribs like a splinter: it had been three days since you’d texted anything more than a brief, polite response to a link they’d sent, and weeks since you’d called. three days of D’s mind running circles around itself, spiraling into every worst-case scenario it could conjure. and they were losing their grip. their fingers tapped restlessly on the armrest of the chair, their boot scuffing against the railing.

maybe you’re busy, they told themself for the fiftieth time that evening. new york is a big place. MBA programs are hard. you’ve got new friends now, fancy urbane friends who wear suits and drink wine like it’s water. you don’t have time to call your idiot partner who still wants to live in their old farmhouse down south and smells like hay and diesel these days.

that last thought stung, and D flinched like they’d spoken it aloud.

they picked up their phone and stared at the screen, willing your name to appear. a new message. a missed call. anything. they’d tried calling you twice yesterday but hung up before it even rang.

the phone buzzed suddenly in their hand, cutting through the peacefulness like a blade. D jumped, nearly dropping it in their haste to answer.

“hey,” they said, too quickly, the word coming out rough and broken, betraying how much they’d been waiting for this. they winced at their own pathetic eagerness.

“hi,” you replied. your voice was warm but tinged with something D couldn’t quite place. it wasn’t joy.

there was a pause, one of those long, awkward ones that stretched out like a wound neither of you wanted to clean out.

“why haven’t you replied to my texts?” you asked finally. your tone was light, sure, but the edge was unmistakable.

D blinked, thrown off-guard. “why haven’t you called me?”

the words left their mouth before they could stop them, sharper than intended, spilling out like blood from a clean incision. the silence on your end was deafening.

“excuse me?” you said after a moment, your voice now tight.

D pushed on, reckless now, the spiraling in their chest too loud to ignore.

“it’s been weeks,” they said, their voice rising despite themself. “weeks since you actually picked up the phone to call me. i’m supposed to be okay with a couple of dry texts here and there? a couple of ‘how are yous’ like you’re checking in on a goddamn houseplant? what am i even supposed to do with that? do you even want to talk to me anymore?”

“of course i want to talk to you!” you snapped, louder this time, frustration apparent in your tone. “but you’ve been so distant during our texts. i didn’t know if you even wanted to hear from me if you got too busy with the farm renovations.”

“distant?” D barked out a laugh, harsh and humorless. “i’m not the one out there living some shiny new life in new york city with shiny new friends. don’t talk to me about being distant when you’re the one who left!”

“oh wow, so it’s my fault now?”

“isn’t it?”

the words hung between you like a noose, both of you too angry to let go and too hurt to say anything else.

“this isn’t fair,” you said finally, your voice breaking just slightly, and D hated that they heard it, hated that they caused it. “you don’t get to put this all on me. you knew what this was going to be like. you knew it would be hard. you could’ve just come with me until renovations were done for the farm. you’re the one who insisted on supervising everything to stay in that stupid place.”

“don’t fucking call the farm stupid,” D shot back, their voice trembling now, but they couldn’t stop. “besides, i’m here, aren’t i? waiting by the damn phone every night like some... some pathetic—” they couldn’t finish the sentence.

“then maybe stop waiting!” you yelled, having had enough of it. “if this is so hard for you, maybe you should’ve just come here with me!”

the line went dead.

D stared at the phone in their hand, unblinking, as though willing it to come back to life. the silence that followed was heavier than the summer heat, heavier than anything they’d ever known.

they stood up abruptly, the chair screeching against the porch, and paced back and forth like a caged animal.

“unbelievable,” they muttered under their breath, the anger bubbling up again. “they hang up on me? after all this? after—”

the thing about D was that they wouldn’t—couldn’t—express their emotions in words a lot of the time. sure, they could write about it, but writing about it was different than actually saying it. so these emotions were usually spelled out in other ways.

a bloody fist. a slow song. a naked dance.

but this time, the anger burned out as quickly as it came, leaving behind nothing but the ache. the ache they always carried, the one they could never name but always felt. they sank back into the chair, burying their face in their hands.

you’re going to lose them, a small voice whispered in the back of their mind, insidious and cruel. you’re going to push them away forever. they’ve grown tired of you because you’re too much. you’re always too much, rook.

the thought made them sicker than a glass of cheap liquor.

D picked up their phone again, their thumb hovering over your name in the call log. they could call you back. they could apologize. they could beg.

they pictured you in new york, surrounded by skyscrapers and lights, people who had never set foot on a farm in their life and who probably never will. they imagined themself there, awkward and out of place, fumbling with subway cards with their doc martens too scuffed, their drawl too thick and alien.

they never belonged in san francisco. they never belonged in new haven. they’d never belong in new york city.

but they’d go. if you asked, they’d go in a heartbeat. they’d go and make themself fit into your world if that’s what you wanted. they’d camouflage themself all over again like they did in california and connecticut. even if they hated it, they’d still try.

or maybe you could come back. just for a little while. they’d show you the stars again, the ones you couldn’t see in the ever-polluted cities. they’d hold you close and tell you they loved you, over and over, until you believed it.

but for now, they’d wait by the phone like dogs waited for their owners on the front porch—all day, and then the next.

here’s the pt. 2 to this.

[seat-safety-switch]

“Everything’s in the cloud now,” I shout at the hot air balloonist over the sound of the burners. Sun glints off my snub-nose .38. “I was never smart enough to be a hacker before.”

Phineas Fogg looks behind him. "Uh-uh," I gently scold, and shake the gun for emphasis. "That went overboard a long time ago." He looks glumly over the edge of the basket, hoping to see his Passenger Removal Blackjack. It's a a desperate hope, one that it was simply misplaced by me, rather than yote parabolically into a nearby state fair from 8,000 feet. "Now drive."

"Fucking Missouri," he spits, and he's right. In any other state, this would be a felony. Balloonists are like gods there, unimpeachable even by law enforcement. Here, the gods meet mortals, and they don't like it.

We float higher and higher as he works what I have determined to be a crude throttle. The fire is beautiful, but I know that I cannot allow myself to be distracted by the purging of hydrocarbons. These balloony-types are crafty, having fought their way out of the vicious canvas wars of their disgusting home country. I know that if I take my eyes off the prize for one second, he'll try something.

Indeed he does. We pass briefly over an attractive red-and-white circus tent, itself an overinflated artifact of a bygone age of freaks. My unwilling travelling companion takes the opportunity to leap out of the basket, falling hundreds of feet. He bursts through the roof of the tent, landing squarely in a conveniently-placed bale of hay. Figures, I grunt to myself, but then I notice that he's not moving. No doubt the Barnum Bros have gotten themselves a cost-cutting MBA, who has decided that rocks painted like hay is sufficient enough to convince the rubes that the elephants are eating well and treated well, in equal measure.

I have caught myself in quite the pickle, I realize, as I look at the crude array of burners, levers, strings, springs, and apertures that lay before me. Saturday morning cartoons have taught me that this contraption operates the balloon's height, but its exact nature is unclear to me. Safe for the moment, I decide to take advantage of the surprising-but-welcome solitude and meditate on the issue, sitting cross-legged in the bottom of the basket and pivoting my thoughts towards the eternal expanse of human ingenuity. Carburetors of my youth come unbidden to my mind's eye on this vision quest, and soon I have discovered the common ancestor of this gas-burping nightmare and my precious Plymouth Volare's single-barrel, ethanol-rotted Ball & Ball.

Opening my eyes, it is very clear to me now what I must do. I floor the fucker. An enormous wall of flame bursts from the burners, singing my eyebrows. I laugh, and rise into the sky. Up there, in the clouds, the banks dwell. I am coming for them.

[iww-gnv]

The writers strike has hit Day 100 – the point at which the last walkout by the Writers Guild of America ended in 2008. It’s a significant juncture, one that Chris Keyser and David A. Goodman, who co-chair the WGA’s negotiating committee, call a “milestone of shame” for the AMPTP. It also comes five days after the latest attempt to get both sides back to the negotiating table. That meeting between the WGA West’s Chief Negotiator Ellen Stutzman and her General Counsel Tony Segall and AMPTP boss Carol Lombardini and her team wasn’t as productive as many had hoped. While the WGA, late on Friday night, revealed that there was “no agreement” on resuming negotiations for a new MBA and, in a caustic note to members said that the “AMPTP playbook continues”, there were reasons to be more optimistic than at first glance. If you ignore the furor around press blackouts and trade leaks, the WGA stated that it was “willing to engage with the companies and resume negotiations in good faith to make a fair deal for all writers”.

[octuscle]

Blonde by FaceTime

Alec has always had a bit of a crush on his friend Van. Actually, ever since they played together in the sandbox. But even then, Alec was the little chubby one. And Van the sweet heartbreaker. Van went through the usual stages to captain of the football team of an alpha career. And now he had his MBA cum laude and was about to embark on a stellar career.

Just to be close to Van, Alec had also studied business. At the same college. Although with his grades, he could have gone to a much better college. And even though he had always wanted to study medicine to become a pediatrician. And now it was all for nothing. Van had moved to Chicago a week ago to become a product manager for an online platform. And Alec had gotten an offer to go to work for an engineering company from their hometown to their branch in the Czech Republic. Alec had paid a high price for his hidden, never-expressed love. Getting a great georgraphic distance from Van now was probably the best solution.

Even now, when Van had become almost unattainable, Alec held on to him. He had gotten a deer, Van's nickname since childhood for some reason, inked on his forearm. And he started running to get closer to his own ideal, Van's athletic body. Today was the first fun run he participated in. He had already lost a few pounds. He was proud of that. So he had a colleague take a picture of himself and sent the Van "Miss you pal" was the caption.

Almost immediately his phone rang. Facetime video call from Van.

"Hi bro, damn you look good! How's life over in old Europe? It's still the middle of the night here, I was just getting in a quick work out before work."

Van turned the view and showed a picture of himself from the mirror. Alec had to swallow and got a dry throat. He didn't know what he was doing. The devil was riding him. So an "I love you" came out of his mouth.

For a second there was silence. "Dude, you better keep your massive cock under control. I would never be able to tame your monster" Van replied laughing. Alec laughed along with him. He was relieved that Van had taken it that way. Yes, the dick comparison had been the only contest with Van in which he had regularly won.

"Hehehehe, it's tough with all the hot studs here at the start."

Indeed, the bulge in his tight running shorts was scary. Many participants in the run, as well as spectators, had already been staring at him and whispering.

"That's what I think, bro! Is your stay successful then? What is the news on the market of nutritional supplements? Can't wait for you to bring back some cool new stuff."

Arec talked a bit about the fitness trade show here in Brno. In fact, there were a few things he wanted to include in the lineup of his fitness startup. He could use a little breath of fresh air for his business. True, he was a genius when it came to marketing and app development. And in theory, he knew everything about crossfitting and bodybuilding. But he just didn't have the body to make it believable. Fortunately, Van was regularly available as a model. When he posted something on Instagram, his sales went straight up.

Van replied that he had seen videos from the show on YouTube. "Dude, you did great on stage. Arac laughed and held the phone so that you could see as much of his biceps as possible. "Bruh, it was just a spontaneous idea. Several people had approached me. Actually, I don't feel in shape for competitions at all" "Honey, I don't think you need to be fishing for compliments right now. Come on, make your tits dance for me!" Arac didn't have to be asked twice. He loved this. The moment when Van had shown him how to do it was just awesome. Today his pecs were almost bigger than his friend's. A few people around him applauded. He had almost forgotten about the conversation with Van that he was standing in the middle of the fair among all the other visitors.

"Did you read the comments on your performance. They called you 'the blond angel'. Suits me, bro." Arac stroked his hair. He loved his blond hair. He had been blond since he was a kid, unlike Van. In pictures of the two of them from kindergarten, Van had always been the one with the darker hair. Today there was hardly any difference between the two.

"Bro, did you write down what all you are supposed to bring. I mean, we both know you can't remember anything with that birdbrain stuck in that hot skull of yours."

"Bruh, i may not b as smart as u, but i can still read ur emails" Arad laughed boomingly. A few guests at the fair took pictures of him. As best he could while talking on the phone, Arad did them the favor and struck a few poses. In his head, he frantically went over what all his duties here were. Fuck, he just forgot everything. And a few tasks, if he had to be honest, he didn't understand at all. He'd graduated from college with difficulty and on an athletic scholarship. He was glad he had Van as a mentor, Van had always been the smart one of the two. "Fuck, bruh! day all speak czech or german here. N english with uh nasty accent. I'm really lost here without uh brain like you!" "Goldilocks, you should have used your head for something other than growing a Viking mane for the last few years." Van laughed. "Don't worry about it, as long as you come back safe and sound!" "Wait uh minute, deer! I've got some selfies to take right now." A couple of the local bodybuilders and a bunch of chicks had already lined up. Arad let them take their selfies with him and turned back to Van.

"Deer, I miss you! When will I see you again?" "Dumbass, I'm already in the locker room. I'll be on the training floor in a minute. Did you clean up and tidy the gym properly? It would be cool if you could at least get this job done."

Brad looked around. Yes, he had carefully worked through the piece of paper with his work instructions. Damn, there sure were a lot of things he had to do in the morning before the Gym opened. He had already secretly let Van in before he officially opened the doors right away. On the one hand, Van could work out before the others, and on the other hand, he had someone to check if he had done everything right. Brad wanted to do this job well. Van earned enough for the two of them, but he didn't always want to be just the decorative accessory. Oh what was he kidding himself. He had turned Van into a fellow who was almost as hot as Brad himself. And now he was making sure they both ate the right diet, that the apartment was tidy. And that Van got to work out before the others. He looked around him. All set, he could open the doors. The door opened and Van came out of the locker rooms grinning.

"Honey, you already know you're not allowed to work bare-chested" "Hehehe, it's not just me who would be happier with that." Van laughed and threw him the T-shirt with the club logo. Before putting it on, Brad gave Van a passionate kiss. Something he had to do now…. Right, unlock the door and let in the members who were waiting outside.He was so glad he had Van.

[talesfrommedinastation]

My redneck neighbor Doug on 'The Solitary Clone'

Oh boy, a Daddy Warcrimes episode, happy happy joy joy!

Here it is, Doug's review of 'The Solitary Clone' or, as he calls it, 'Daddy Warcrimes Goes To Texas'.

Nothing much to say...enjoy, you lot. Doug liked this episode, but he likes Daddy Warcrimes the same reason I enjoy characters like the Joker and Daemon Targaryen: I AM NEVER BORED.

CW: Daddy Warcrimes do what he do and Doug narrates it. Need I say more? Oh and if you're from Texas, I apologize ahead of time. Doug shreds the Lone Star State something bad in here.

----------------------------------------------------

Oh boy, we arrive at some dry-ass dump. It’s gross and there’s corn and everyone seems a little off. Must be Oklahoma.

Wait, there’s peaky mountains, must be Texas. Didn’t know Texas was in Star Wars but whatever. 

Well, here’s the Empire, but wait! This dump is run by an angry lady with a bucket on her head dressed like a hippie beekeeper. I’ll call her Beekeeper Bitch.

Anywho, looks like Beekeeper Bitch is holding the government officials hostage today, which is what they do for fun in Texas I guess, besides make barbeques and do weird shit at football games. I hate A&M so much. 

Now, here’s Daddy Warcrimes, having a nice nap in what looks to be the broom closet at my job where the junior engineers always end up banging each other at least once a week. I’m surprised there’s no bleach in there. Jeez, Daddy Warcrimes, no blanket?

Poor Daddy Warcrimes, trying to make friends with the other dudes at lunch and no one wants to go near him because he was forced to sleep in the Dirty Shag Closet. At least the clone cafeteria has turkey legs like Ren Faire. I wonder if it’s because Daddy Warcrimes crashes where the younger employees screw each other all day and there’s stains on the walls no one wants to talk about. Oh well. 

Oh, now we gotta see MBA-Rob. No turkey legs for Daddy Warcrimes today. I hate this little asshole, of course he’s dicking around on his stupid assed phone while Daddy Warcrimes waits and fantasizes about killing and smoked meats.

No one will swipe right on you, Rob, you’re unemployed and gave your last girlfriend an itchy crotch. Or is it left? Up and down? How does that thing where you meet ladies work? 

32 rotations…wtf is this Waterworld shit? How come Daddy Warcrimes isn’t burned to a crisp? How did he survive on that dump? Damn, the man must be part roach, I guess, wow. 

Now he’s got his sweet Johnny Cash armor back on, just looking at him makes me wanna watch that western robot show with Ed Harris again. He’s hanging out in front of that script that possessed Linda Blair back in the day. Does Pazuzu exist in this universe?

Oh, shit, it’s Obi-Wan’s Boyfriend! What in the what what. Glad to see he’s still around! Where’s his gold armor? Did he get it after Obi-Wan…you know, that makes me too sad to think about. I’m sorry, Obi-Wan’s Boyfriend, that must have been rough on you. 

Well, looks like he and Daddy Warcrimes are off!  Where? They’re off on a charming romp to squash some rebellion!...wait, is this a good thing or a bad thing? Who are we rooting for? I’m confused. When did Star Wars get confusing? Am I old now?

Ya know who's not confused? Daddy Warcrimes! His job is pointing, shooting, killing. Which, I get, man. I worked in the oil industry. Speaking of which, they’re back in Texas, but where? Are they in Marfa? This looks like one of the shittier towns in West Texas, outside of El Paso. Are they making meth? Is the Empire the DEA? 

You know, this place is quite nice for someone like Daddy Warcrimes. Second amendment respected, the locals spoke in grunt, and smoked meats for everyone! Speaking of Texas, I wonder if there’s a Buc-ee’s inside, and the Empire wants to take over their jerky emporium, and that’s where this mess came from.

I miss Buc-ees, I could go with a hot brisket sandwich and some Beaver nuggets, get some red velvet fudge for later. 

No wonder Daddy Warcrimes is shooting everyone, the man is hungry! 

God, DAMN, Daddy Warcrimes waiting and staying perfectly still while he’s getting shot at and the TANK holy SHIT he is a BAD ASS but a BAD PERSON and I am CONFUSED BUT I LIKE IT? 

("Meat Muffin, you got a doctorate, diagnose me, what is this feeling where I’m confused but happy?"

"It’s just being happy, Doug, and my doctorate is not in psychology.")

And those crap robots are shooting at them again, but are these good guy robots? Didn’t we spend the last few years hating on them? Oh wait, they’re reprogrammed for defense…oh.

Have I ever told you how much I hate those damn things? They look like vacuum cleaners, if someone made art of a vacuum cleaner that they wanted to be human. Non sexy vacuum cleaners.

("Doug, when did you ever think vacuum cleaners were sexy?"

"Never, don’t know what you’re talking about.") 

Why does this feel like an FBI siege? Is this based on Waco? Shit man, I was in the navy when that happened. This ain’t good. This really is Daddy Wacrimes's Texan adventure, isn't it?

But what is good is Daddy Warcrimes and his GUN. Look at those trick shots like the man is yelling ‘SKEET’ and ‘PULL’ like you wouldn’t believe. I bet he’s the type of person who throws a tantrum at the ice cream store because his favorite flavor is ‘bullets’ and it ain’t on the menu.

Look at him and Obi-Wan’s boyfriend just going up and killing robots left and right. He ain’t good, but that ain’t bad. Which is…good or bad? Ah, whatever, I like this damn show. 

And there’s Beekeeper Bitch bitching at the Empire’s Bitch. Those couches look comfy. 

Daddy Warcrimes is coming your way! When she’s not wearing her helmet, Beekeeper Bitch looks just like my niece! Wow! Oh, now I don’t know, is she bad? Good? She wants independence for her people, maybe Obi-Wan’s Boyfriend and Daddy Warcrimes can listen to her? 

Oh, shut up, Empire Bitch, no one cares. ‘Execute her’ uh shut up, your hat sucks and don’t you know that Obi-Wan’s Boyfriend is a free-thinking MAN who might just up and take a DUMP on your LAWN. 

Well, no. Damn, Daddy Warcrimes, you cold-assed sonofabitch. 

‘Hang her body in the square’, what in the hell, this is dark, Dr Meat Muffin, are you letting your sweet girls watch this show? One of them’s a baby, I hope not. 

(I was 100% watching this with my 2 year old, it was on Disney, what do you expect- Dr. MM)

Welp, Daddy Warcrimes is back where he started, chilling in the cafeteria and his new best friend is his helmet. Wonderful. The helmet will at least make eye contact with him. 

Back to MBA-Rob being a dick to everyone and now Obi-Wan’s Boyfriend has run off. Probably to drink himself into a stupor and cry in a shower somewhere. I know I would, too.  

We really didn’t learn anything in this episode, did we? Well, I learned that Daddy Warcrimes is living a confusing life, never gets to eat and has to sleep in the Dirty Shag Closet. But at least he's got his helmet and his gun and MBA-Rob.

I know he’s bad, but he’s good at that, which is bad…but for me, it’s good?

[beardedmrbean]

The University of California, Berkeley has been hit with a federal civil rights complaint for allegedly engaging in discrimination on the basis of race and nation of origin.

A new federal civil rights complaint filed by the Equal Protection Project (EPP) on Tuesday demanded an investigation into programs at the Haas School of Business, alleging that certain students were excluded from an MBA (Masters of Business Administration) preparatory program due to their race and ethnicity, violating Title VI and the Equal Protection Clause.

Cornell Law professor William A. Jacobson founded the EPP to ensure fair treatment of all people without regard to race or ethnicity – and he feels Berkeley is being unfair to non-Hispanic students. The complaint, which has been obtained by Fox News Digital, details that the Haas Thrive Fellows program is to "educate, prepare, and motivate Latinx/Hispanic individuals" to apply and succeed at a top business school.

"The Haas Thrive Fellows program openly discriminates on the basis of race and national origin. Haas clearly tells students the program is intended for 'Latinx/Hispanic' students, setting up a barrier that would deter other students from applying. Regardless of the purpose of the discrimination, it is wrong and unlawful," Jacobson told Fox News Digital.

"After the Supreme Court's 2023 decision in Students for Fair Admission, it is clear that discriminating on the basis of race to achieve diversity is not lawful," he continued. "Haas knows better than to run a program that excludes and discriminates against students based on race and ethnicity."

Berkeley did not immediately respond to a request for comment.

Jacobson feels that the "harm from racial and ethnic educational barriers is that it racializes not just the specific program, but the entire campus." He said that non-discrimination standards, which have been adopted by University of California institutions, should apply to the Haas School of Business.

"At every level, by policy the university rejects discrimination. UC-Berkeley and Haas should live up to their own set of rules. Sending a message to students that access to opportunities is dependent on race and ethnicity is damaging to the fabric of campus," Jacobson said.

"Haas needs to come up with a remedial plan to compensate students shut out of this educational opportunity due to race or ethnicity," Jacobson added. "The Equal Protection Project calls on the leadership of UC and UC-Berkeley to make sure nondiscrimination standards are upheld throughout the university system."

The EPP’s guiding principle is that there is "no ‘good’ form of racism," and that the "remedy for racism never is more racism," according to its website.

"Colleges and universities need to adopt the approach of EqualProtect.org, which is that there is no 'good' form of racism, and the remedy for racism is not more racism," Jacobson said.

[forpiratereasons]

ok I have to know what "cross stitch" is

CROSS STITCH MY BELOVED

i already have one cross stitch fic (see here) but i have another plottier one i'm dying to write. for y'all folks who are not in the us, in most states we have state or county fairs, and in most fairs there are competitive categories, and mostly this is like who reared the best pig this year or whatever but sometimes there are fiber arts categories! so it's. a cross-stitch competition au. stede is a newcomer, ed has been sweeping the competition for years.

Of course, Stede has very few expectations.

He’s good at that. A real man of few expectations, him. It’s a skill honed after a long and storied life of constant disappointments, and yes, Lucius, it does sound kind of sad and pathetic when he puts it like that, thanks ever so, but what he means really is: he is unfuckable. He cannot be fucked. What’s the worst that can happen? The worst has already happened.

Horrible father? Check. Absent mother? Check. Loveless marriage to a business associate’s daughter as if this were the eighteenth century? Check. Soulless corporate nepotism job he couldn’t refuse? Check. An MBA degree? Check and check.

Nothing happening at the 52nd Annual Bristol County Agriculture & Art Fair could even come close to fucking Stede after all that.

Of course, he’d had no plans at all to enter the 52nd Annual Bristol County Agriculture & Art Fair. It’s none of Bristol County’s business what Stede gets up to in his own time. But Alma—one of the only two good things that had ever happened to Stede, his kids, his beautiful, intelligent, smart-arse meddling kids—had entered to show a horse, and had also entered Stede. Behind his back. Without asking him.

Stede had not yet worked out whether his ex, Mary, had helped her with this, or her ex’s new fiancé, Doug, and he was inclined not to find out because he rather suspected Doug and it would be a shame to have to hate him before he and Mary even got hitched.

All of this is to say: Stede is competing in the fiber arts cross-stitch competition, category other, and he is trying really very hard to remember that he cannot be fucked, and especially not by the little old ladies and Stepford-style homemakers that make up the judging committee.

Normally Stede quite likes little old ladies and Stepford-style homemakers. They’re incredibly good sources of gossip.

He just does not want to be the gossip fodder himself.

[vacantgodling]

#12: Sir Keevan Guerra

Chivalry is a funny thing, one sought after by lords, and romanced by the common—but true chivalry is dedication, of which you have aplenty. The most decorated of men, your heart still yields to the gods, to destiny, to the care you have for your subordinates. It is that care that will snuff your light, but it is not a regret in fact, only an honor to be allowed to partake in chivalry’s greatest act of devotion.

“keevan” means hollow sound. “guerra” means war.

35, cis man (he/him), romance: yes, sex: yes, BUT only in a comitted relationship—he doesn’t do brothels or the like and prefers to know someone well before he gets into bed with them. preference: feminine, but he has a few exceptions to this if he is close enough with someone and wants to, ah, strengthen their bond

he stands at about 6’0” even, and he has long, deep auburn hair that reaches his midback. he usually leaves it loose instead of keeping it up, slightly for a twinge of vanity but mostly because his hair texture is quite loose so any styles that its tried to be manipulated in just kind of fall out. he has dark, serious brown eyes, but there are a few smile lines around them letting you know he smiles just as much. though he does tend to be clean shaven, occasionally in the early mornings he will sport a 5 o’clock shadow before he shaves. he has a powerful and near godly physique, one that people constantly swoon over, and he has a sharp, chiseled and defined jaw which makes him appear regal. his skin is a light tan.

as one of the top KNIGHTS in the kingdom of lathsbury, his prestige is nothing to sneeze at. but this isn’t like other knights where his rank was provided by paying off a favor for a favor, or appointed by some lord with no stakes or understanding of the role he plays—keevan is the top knight because he is simply that good at what he does. he is a master of many weapons, though he does fall back on his favorite, the sword and small buckler (not even close to as large as protector’s shields and he admires them for their tenacity), and he greatly enjoys horse combat, which is what gives knight’s their edge. his aim, battle strategy, and power are all top notch, but what he really enjoys is teaching others… though he is somewhat picky about who he will devote his true one on one energy towards cultivating. it’s for this reason that he hand picks both piper fairwind and saith praline to be his proteges—one more formal and on paper (saith, whom he has been training for near 7 years now) and the other a bit of a spur of the moment because he saw her potential (piper). when he’s not training others or dealing with noble matters (for he is a noble due to his rank as a knight), he is usually found providing judgement services in Easthollow, otherwise known as The Guild City, where all potential guilders must go to determine their aptitude and attain their guild license. he occasionally preceeds over the MBW and MBA trials, which is actually where he and piper first meet and hit it off.

keevan is many things but the best word to encompass all of it is simply: chivalrous. he is just, fair, and even tempered. he is wise beyond his years, but still young enough to be playful. friendly enough to get any and anyone to sing his praises with a simple conversation and an award winning smile, and generous enough to offer his hand, shoulder, ear, or services to anyone who may need him. the reason he’s a hit and popularly swooned after as, essentially, the catch of the century for anyone who catches his eye, doesn’t just have to do with his good looks—it has to do with his curteousness, his courage, his valor, and his honor; all of which precede him. despite all of these good things to say, keevan is quite humble. he still views himself as someone who is learning and always takes the opportunity to learn from people who are different from him (such as piper, or even saith), and to attune his attitudes and check his biases as he continues to grow. just—overall he is a wonderful man. everyone adores him and for good reason.

with all of these admirers (notably, one lady illiana aegos, who is determined to be the one to catch him as a prize), and people vying for his attention, you’d think it be difficult for keevan to strike up deep and meaningful friendships—and you’d be partially right, but he does have a few. firstly, he is good friends with lord kiba, and is personal friendly acquaintances with his father grand duke aran. while kiba was skeptical about keevan when they first met at The Knight’s Academy, kiba quickly warmed up to him and cites keevan as the only reason living in the palace would be worth considering. they share a similar sense of humor and are both kind of himboish around each other its very cute. saith is someone that keevan has known for a very long time, and in some parts, considers him not only as his protege and mentee, but as his closest friend. the two of them rely on each other more than anything and keevan feels as though he can trust saith completely, and saith would never do anything to betray that trust. finally, piper… its no secret, at least to saith, that keevan is undoubtedly head over heels for piper. in part it is because she is so different from him; where he is even and agreeable, she is reckless and brash. she isn’t afraid to be herself, and is the first person that’s ever rejected a compliment he gave just because she wanted to earn it. they’ve been growing much closer as they’ve continued to train and keevan would bond (aka marry) her tomorrow if she didn’t playfully say no—at least not until she feels equal to him. he’s happy with waiting; forever if he has to. its the type of affection that gives him butterflies.

[arnoldwhisham]

𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙊𝙇𝘿 𝙒𝙃𝙄𝙎𝙃𝘼𝙈 | 42 | 𝘾𝙀𝙊 | 𝙎𝙋𝙊𝙍𝙏𝙎𝘾𝘼𝙎𝙏

[ ! ] — it seems that [ arnold whisham ] has entered the scene ! he looks exactly like [ david gandy ]. this [ 42-year-old ] is the [ ceo ] of [ sportscast ]. it’s a small wonder since he is known for being [ charismatic & resourceful ] and [ manipulative & egoistical ]. he has been involved with the company for [ 2 ] years. [ MARTHA | SHE+HER | 25 | GMT+3 ]

001. 𝙄𝙉𝙁𝙊𝙍𝙈𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉

NAME: arnold whisham AGE: 42 GENDER: cis man PRONOUNS: he/him ORIENTATION: heterosexual MARITAL STATUS: married OCCUPATION: the ceo of sportscast EDUCATION: mba from lbs

002. 𝘽𝙄𝙊𝙂𝙍𝘼𝙋𝙃𝙔

arnold was born a petulant child and he never changed. maturity only made him sneakier with his bad temper, snobbishness and selfishness. he learnt to play people so that he never needed to throw a temper tantrum: he got what he wanted from others with fair speech and colorful imagery. he still gets upset on a daily basis when things don't go precisely the way he wants them to. he, fortunately, knows how to keep his lips sealed. the whishams have had a beautiful townhouse in central london for good three hundred years and a country house on a fifty-acre plot in somerset. in other words: the whishams are the crème de la crème of london. their family has seen its fair share of politicians, business men, lawyers, doctors, and freeloaders. arnold has always had ambition. he has always wanted to be a bit better than everyone around him. he always knew he was either going to become a politician or a business man. he chose business the second it became clear to him that he couldn't give a shit about the problems of regular citizens nor the intricacies of law and legislation. at least in business, you didn't work in the public eye. studying economics and business administration at the london business school was less about studying and more about establishing connections. arnold had a way of ranking people based on their usefulness to him. sometimes the right surname earned you a good number of points and sometimes just being funny and entertaining earned you the same amount. after graduation, arnold worked for his uncle's firm: a medium-sized publishing company. the work didn't entertain arnold in the slightest. the publishing sector was uneventful and arnold wasn't an avid reader. he couldn't distinguish good poetry from bad poetry — both seemed pretentious to him. he had a hard time believing the editors and the publishers whose opinion he had to trust when they were making big decisions. he left the company the second something better came along. the better that came along was an entertainment company. he actually stayed with the company for half a decade, climbing the corporate ladder. it took him two more companies before he started working at the bulletin corporation. first at the broadcasting company and a few years later at the bulletin sports. he liked the bulletin sports as a company. it was well structured and he could see great opportunities. within four years he was made the cfo of the bulletin sports. the title was one he wore proudly. it gave him power and influence. he could make big decisions, his word would be heard, he was a person people came to ask for permissions. he enjoyed his work greatly. this was back in 2020. the bulletin sports also introduced him to his future wife, an added bonus ! he genuinely thought he was going to stay with the company and aim for the ceo spot. he knew if he just gave it a bit of time and rubbed the right elbows, the position would fall into his lap. but... he got impatient and greedy. when the top dogs of comoedia and sportscast began courting him and the ceo position at sportscast was dangled in front of him, absolutely nothing stopped him from accepting the offer. it wasn't a cheap decision to him though. not only did it paint him as a villain at the bulletin corporation, it cause marital problems, and he received a boss from hell ( bernard ). but hey ! at least arnold made a lot of money and gets to call himself the boss ! he's been the ceo for two years now !

003. 𝙃𝙀𝘼𝘿𝘾𝘼𝙉𝙊𝙉𝙎

004. 𝙀𝙎𝙏𝘼𝘽𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙃𝙀𝘿 𝘾𝙊𝙉𝙉𝙀𝘾𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉𝙎

— CRETE WHISHAM: wife. — BERNARD ALDERIDGE: bane of arnold's existence.

005. 𝙒𝘼𝙉𝙏𝙀𝘿 𝘾𝙊𝙉𝙉𝙀𝘾𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉𝙎

— his most trusted companion ! — uni friends ! — uni gf ! — exes, serious or otherwise ! — enemies from tbc ! — pls mssg me 🥺

006. 𝙇𝙄𝙉𝙆𝙎

[megarabane]

Felix's Stardew Valley

The First Spring

The Stardrop Saloon

[masterlist and summary]

<><><>

“So, uh…question.”

“Shoot,” Leah shrugs, setting a basket of strawberries on the counter. “Where’s my water?”

“You’ve lived here a while,” Felix begins carefully.

“Couple years, yeah. Oh, here it is.” Leah flops into one of the kitchen chairs with a dramatic sigh, draining a water bottle in one go. It’s only when he reaches for his that Felix realizes that was his.

“Yo,” he scolds, affronted.

“Oh, you’ve got more. If you want me to help you make jam, I need to be hydrated.” She wags the empty bottle at him indicatively. “Was that your question? Because that wasn’t a question.”

“No, um, my, uh…” Felix clears his throat, turning away from Leah to studiously examine the three baskets of strawberries currently adorning his little countertop. He’d maybe gone a little overboard buying strawberry seeds from Pierre at the egg festival when his cauliflower wasn’t even ready to harvest yet, but apparently, the markets in Zuzu City are paying a premium for fresh produce—and there’s enough to try his own hand at canning and…jamming? Jam-making, probably. And plenty to eat. He loves strawberries. It’s kind of a problem.

All the windows are thrown open—even as warm as it is, the cross-breeze is a welcome movement through the little farmhouse that apparently doesn’t have central air. “My question. Right. Um. You’re friends with—with Elliott, right?”

The chair she sits in creaks interestedly. “I am.”

“Is he…” Single might be too forward. Gay really isn’t any better. Looking for a twink with terrible social skills and debilitating imposter syndrome isn’t…great. Felix bites absently at a hangnail. “Is—Is he— What’s he do?”

“He’s a writer,” Leah explains. “Moved here from some little town a handful of years ago—I don’t really remember where. He doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

Leah sighs, long and slow. “Well… Before he came here, he graduated college with an MBA and applied to law school in Zuzu City.”

Surprised, Felix turns to her. She’s thrown her legs up into the second chair at the table and is turning the water bottle in a shaft of sunlight pouring through the open window, although her gaze is fixed on something distant, a little frown tugging at her face. “That’s a pretty prestigious law school.”

“He didn’t make it past his first year,” Leah replies softly. “It wasn’t his grades or anything—he just realized his passion wasn’t actually in law.”

“That’s a long time to go and then realize where your passions lie.”

“The way he tells it, he was barely passionate about the MBA. It was what his family wanted him to do. They’d decided that writing wasn’t going to get him anywhere, and didn’t hesitate to tell him as much. Once he realized that he was just doing what they wanted and not what he wanted… Well, he dropped it all and came here. Bought a little two-room cabin on the beach and spends almost all his time focused on his writing.”

He starts to ask another question, but Leah cuts him off with a shake of her head. “Anything past that isn’t my story to tell.” She finally looks at him, head cocked with a playful little smile. “You’ll just have to get to know him yourself.”

Felix draws his hands protectively to his chest, like his feelings might be painted across his ribs and he could potentially hide them from her. “Well—Well—”

“Most of the town usually goes to the Saloon on Fridays,” Leah continues like he’d not spoken. “You should come tomorrow. Get to know him. Plus, it’ll be a good way for you to get to know the other townspeople, too. I think before the flower dance, most of them were convinced a ghost had taken up residence here. As it stands, I was getting my fair share of strange looks for ‘hanging out at the old Northridge place alone’ because no one had actually seen you.”

Felix blanches. “I’m—not good at making friends.”

Like that would stop the extrovert who had clearly adopted him as her own little basket case.

Leah shakes her head like she’s already decided. She probably has. “If you aren’t at my place by three, I’ll come get you myself, and we’ll go together. So, you can either come down and meet me willingly, or I’ll do it myself. Pick your poison.”

Felix taps his fingers nervously together and leans against the counter behind him. “I think I’m reconsidering the terms of our friendship,” he decides.

“Too bad.” Leah throws the empty water bottle at him, and it bounces off his shoulder and clatters noisily to the wood floor. “Signed in blood, I’m afraid. Completely unbreakable. Should have read the fine print the first time around.”

<><><>

Felix does his best to hide behind Leah as she throws open the front door of the Stardrop Saloon to raucous noise and jaunty tavern music. It proves to be remarkably unsuccessful, partially due to the several inches of height difference between them.

“Leah, my darling!”

Leah thrusts a hand into the air and waves, and Felix tries his best to blend into the wallpaper.

“Coming!” Leah turns up to Felix, beaming. “Why don’t you get us drinks—tell Gus to put it on my tab, no, shut up, not up for debate—and I’ll get Elliott warmed up for you?”

“I d-don’t need you to—to warm him up,” Felix stammers weakly. He makes the mistake of looking up from Leah and across the saloon, and immediately makes unobstructed eye contact with Elliott, who watches him with no small amount of surprise, a glass halfway to his mouth. His heart pitches straight through his stomach and crashes into the floorboards. “I’ll get the drinks anyway,” he decides in a rush, and he hurries up to the bar. He only trips over his own feet once.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Gus greets, polishing a glass and smiling warmly under his well-groomed moustache. “It was, ah, Felix, right?”

“Um, that’s—that’s right,” he replies, scooting onto a stool before his shaking knees can give out on him.

“Leah dragged you out tonight?” he guesses, tossing his towel over one shoulder and returning the glass upside down on a stack of its brethren. “It’s not a hard tell—she does this with anyone she adopts as her own.”

“Oh.” Well, at least I’m not the only one. Felix clears his throat behind one hand. “She was…pretty insistent.”

Gus laughs, passing his hand over the towel. “That’s sure one way to put it! Hear that, Em?” he asks over his shoulder, drawing the attention of the girl organizing wine bottles. Her short blue hair is pinned back with an ornate clip sporting a well-polished amethyst. “Leah’s just insistent.”

“Oh, more than that,” the girl agrees sagely, nodding. “She’s the unstoppable force every immovable object eventually succumbs to. A real natural disaster, even. In all the best of ways, of course,” she adds with a bright smile at Felix. He returns it, not really sure what he’s silently agreeing to.

“The mystery farmer makes an appearance!” Felix jolts badly as the stool next to him is suddenly occupied by Pierre, who slaps him bodily on the back and elicits a decidedly unattractive squeak. “We were starting to wonder if you’d died out there.”

“Pierre,” the girl scolds, tossing him a stern look. “You know what spreading rumors does.”

“Yes, yes, bad energy or whatever. My bad, Emily.” Pierre leans both elbows on the bar, holding a mug of beer in both hands, and examines Felix over the top of his glasses. “How’s the wilderness and that ramshackle little lean-to treating you? I’ve not heard any commotion at Harvey’s in the late hours, so I assume it can’t be that bad.”

“No, not at all,” Felix insists. “It’s very, um…quiet.”

“So’s death,” Pierre agrees.

“Pierre!” Emily repeats, harsher. Gus turns away to hide a stifled snort of laughter. “Don’t pay any attention to him,” she insists, pushing a tall glass across the counter to him, full of a bright red liquid and adorned with a brightly colored straw. “Either of them. This is Leah’s usual. What can I make you?”

Felix scans the bottles adorning the back wall quickly, more to buy himself time. What’s the strongest thing I can order without looking like a drunkard to make this entire ordeal more bearable? “Can—Can  you do a Tom Collins? With that Bombay?”

“Of course I can.” Emily turns away only briefly to grab the crystal blue bottle and spins back as Gus slides a highball glass in front of her. “How’s life on the farm treating you? Pierre, go away if you’re just going to make comments.”

Pierre snorts into his frosted beer glass, elbows propped on the bar. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“No use arguing with her,” Gus says with a shrug. “She gets it from yours.”

“It’s been good,” Felix answers as Gus and Pierre fall into a good-natured bicker. “Shipped my first strawberry harvest, and kept just enough to try my hand at…jam.”

“Oh, fresh strawberry jam!” Emily throws her head back in dramatic rapture as she tips a heavy splash of what seemed to be fresh lemon juice into the cocktail shaker. “You have to let me know when it’s ready. Please.”

“I-I’ve never actually made jam myself before,” Felix explains hurriedly, stomach knotting in sudden panic. “It might be shit. It’ll probably be shit.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Emily insists, slamming the two parts of the shaker together and hefting them into the air. “Ask Leah for tips—she’s a great coach! And even without Leah helping you, it’s pretty foolproof! Strawberries are so good.”

Gus interrupts just to slide Felix a glass of dark liquor and say, “For Elliott,” with a smile. “When they ask, I put it on his tab, not Leah’s, don’t worry.”

“And hey,” Pierre cuts in, shoulder-bumping him, “if it turns out good, I might just have an empty shelf at the store to prop ‘em up on!”

When Felix just stares at him, Emily slides him his drink and leans in to whisper, “He’s offering to sell your jam at the store.”

“Oh—Oh,” he realizes. “Uh—Uh, I have to see how the batch turns out, though; if it’s no good, I-I’d hate to sell a bad…product, y’know, at your store…”

“God’s sake, we gotta put a spine in that back of yours, kid,” Pierre snorts, and Emily flicks an ice cube at him with a sound of frustration as Gus laughs. Felix tucks his head, embarrassed, and takes a long drink of his Tom Collins. It’s fantastic.

<><><>

“You brought the new farmer,” is the first thing Elliott says as Leah drops onto her stool at his side.

“I did,” she agrees, batting her lashes innocently. Elliott misses it entirely, staring at the way he sits very straight on the bar stool, only to have his entire posture rocked by an already-inebriated Pierre throwing too much force into a shoulder pat. “We’re friends.”

“You adopted him, then.”

“’Course I did. You saw him at the egg festival.” Leah takes the glass from his hand and takes a little taste. Her nose wrinkles delicately and she pushes it back. “God, that never gets better. If he had it his way, he’d never leave the farm, I think.”

Elliott’s eyes trace the untidy ends of his hair—dyed a pretty sapphire once, surely, although the roots under the sun-faded color are an equally pretty blond—and the angle of his neck down the curve of his back and his long legs. He’s got a lot of leg for someone barely taller than Leah. “Uh-huh.”

“I’ve been helping him pick his strawberries,” Leah continues, apparently unaware of Elliott’s wandering attention, “and I’m going to show him how to make jam the proper way. I’ll save you some. I know you prefer cherry to strawberry, but he’s not got any trees growing yet.”

Felix nervously wraps his hands around Leah’s usual as he seems to order something at random, cheeks coloring a beautiful peach pink. Elliott raises his glass, suddenly wondering if his skin is as soft as one. “Uh-huh.”

Leah stares at him. “I could ask if he’s got cherries for you, though.”

This gains his attention. Elliott chokes on his drink and gives Leah a scandalized stare. “What?”

“He might have some preserves left; the old man was really into canning, remember?” She inclines her head, eyes round and innocent. “What did you think I meant?”

Elliott looks at her until her mouth twitches and she turns away, covering her laugh with one hand. “You are insufferable,” he declares, finishing off the rest of his drink. He holds the glass over his head until Gus looks up at him, and the bartender nods and gestures to Felix before turning away. “Is this why you brought him here? To bother me?”

“Well, I do like watching you fawn over pretty boys,” she admits.

“I have spoken to the young man twice,” Elliott reprimands her sharply. “I will not be fawning over him tonight.” Not publicly. “Potentially ever.”

Here’s the thing that Elliott hates—he’s down horrendous for the new farmer. The night of the egg festival, he’d gone home and laid in his bed, listening to the ocean and thinking about summer-green eyes until he was dizzy. The next morning, he’d headed into town at the first opportunity, doing his shopping and milling about in the faint hopes that Felix might show.

Instead, he’d run into Leah, sent on a mission for fertilizer from Pierre’s as a reprieve from planting strawberry seeds. She’d gotten that terribly knowing look in her eye as Elliott had stammered out a none-too-subtle question about Felix, then made an equally terrible excuse before she could even answer and had all but run back to his cabin, mortified.

A text had been waiting for him when he’d finally drawn himself from his embarrassed moping to check his phone, from Leah: Felix is doing great, followed by a kissing emoticon, and an attached picture. She had her tongue out, throwing a peace sign at the camera. Behind her, Felix was kneeling next to some freshly worked earth, shielding his eyes with one hand and squinting in a way that scrunched up his nose. He mimicked her pose with two fingers held out in front of him. The soft white button-down he wore was open almost all the way to his navel, exposing well-tanned skin, and he was barefoot, with the several years of leg he carried covered only by a pair of dirty white shorts that stopped above the knee.

He’s…not proud that he looks at that photo every so often.

As for ‘speaking to him twice’, their chance encounter in Pierre’s two weeks ago could barely be counted as a conversation, really, even by the most generous among them. Elliott, thinking about his novel, hadn’t paid attention before turning a corner, and he’d bumped into Felix, eliciting a yelp from the younger man, wearing heavy headphones.

“I’m so sorry,” Elliott stammered at the same time huge emerald eyes stared up at him, stuttering out an equal apology. Not unlike a cornered rabbit seizing its opportunity at flight, Felix just ducked his head and bolted to the counter to pay for his groceries, and had kept his eyes on the floor as he’d flown from Pierre’s. Elliott spent the rest of the day kicking himself, although he’s not entirely sure why.

“Not to mention, I’m likely ten years his senior or more, Leah,” he finishes sternly.

“Oh, do not put on that ‘I’m on my deathbed, call me a nursing home’ act,” Leah scolds. “Felix is twenty-six, I’ll have you know.”

Elliott blinks. That…only puts five years between them. That is not something he’d expected, really. Is he just…baby-faced? Or am I used to Samson and Sebastian? Or am I simply not used to guessing ages anymore? “Truly?” he asks softly.

“Turns twenty-seven in midsummer,” she confirms, glancing toward the bar. “He’d better get over here; I swear, if my drink is all watered down by the time he gets it to me…”

Like her muttering summoned him, Felix slides off the stool and stands up with three drinks supported deftly in his fingers. He stares stalwartly down at them as he walks, and lets go of a short breath as he sets them on the table between them.

“Gus said to make sure to say that Elliott’s drink is on his own tab and not yours, Leah,” he says, soft voice almost lost in the music and raucous noise of the bar. Elliott hadn’t noticed the saloon filling up with the rest of the valley’s inhabitants, although now he sees Pierre has been joined by Shane and Pam, and Robin and Demetrius are laughing as they dance in front of the fireplace. The clatter of billiard balls is punctuated by a loud roar of cheers and laughter from the other room.

Elliott takes his glass, and Felix’s skin is so soft under his fingertips as their hands brush. Elliott loses all nerve to make eye contact and just takes a heavy drink, focused on the light fixture over their table.

“I was just telling Ellie about your strawberry harvest,” Leah gushes excitedly, mixing her drink with a black bar straw and ruining Emily’s perfect ombre pour. “We should have plenty sealed by the end of the weekend, don’t you think?”

Elliott risks a look and finds Felix’s eyes watching him nervously, although they dart away just as quickly, his shoulders tucking forward. He takes a long sip of his drink through the straw, humming a non-committal answer.

He gulps down his mouthful of whiskey and steels himself to ask, “How is your first spring in Stardew Valley treating you?”

Felix glances up at him again, and his face turns red as he drops his gaze to offer, “It’s—It’s fine, um… I’m getting the hang of farming, I think.”

Intrigued, Elliott tips his head. “You didn’t know farming before coming here?”

“Mm-mm.” He shakes his head. “Grandpa just…left the farm to me. I’m still not sure why, why me over my dad or my uncles… I’ve only ever been out here a few times, and I wasn’t really old enough to remember it, anyway, but…yeah, he willed it to me.”

“That was some time ago,” Leah offers, eyes rounding with concern. Clearly, the topic of his family—and especially his grandfather—isn’t one she’d breached before. Elliott is inclined to agree—he’d thought the old man had passed away…what, four years ago now? Nearly five?

“It took me a while to get the nerve to quit my job at Joja,” he admits, and his shoulders tuck a little further, like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. “It sucked, sure, but it was—it was steady, y’know?”

“Don’t I,” Elliott agrees, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Writing only pays the bills when you actually have something published.”

“You could ghostwrite,” Leah suggests for the hundredth time.

“I have standards, my love,” he scoffs, waving a hand dismissively at her. “Ghostwrite? And not have my name and face on the things I pour all my heart and soul into? No, thank you.”

Once the conversation is off of him, Felix seems to relax more, and by the bottom of his third drink, his cheeks are colored with intoxication but he’s laughing along with them. Emily takes some sporadic breaks to spend time sitting too-close to Leah, and Felix even joins in with Elliott in ribbing the two of them to just kiss already, which turns them both a flustered pink.

By the time he feels leaden with liquor, it’s well past midnight. Elliott pushes himself to his feet with an exaggerated grunt, eats the last of their shared pepper poppers, and announces, “I am going to go lay in the sand until the ocean reclaims me.”

“Coward,” Leah taunts, sucking down her second water. “How boring. You never close down the saloon with me anymore. You got all old and boring, Ellie.”

“I have a much longer walk than you, my dearest,” Elliott replies, patting her soothingly on the arm. “And inspiration oft strikes when the moon is full.”

He turns his attention to Felix, who is picking stray pieces of breading and cheese from the wax paper. He looks up, though, as if feeling Elliott’s gaze, and boldly says, “It was good to get to know you, Elliott.”

“And you, Felix,” he agrees, holding out a hand. When Felix takes it, clearly expecting a handshake, Elliott (he’s drunk, he’s so drunk, that’s the only reason he thought this was a good idea, obviously) just brings it up and lays a chaste kiss to his fingers.

Leah shrieks in delighted laughter. Felix’s mouth falls open as he goes cherry red, dumbfounded.

“Take care in your walk home,” Elliott murmurs against his skin, and returns his hand gently to the table before leaving the saloon.

The brisk night air almost immediately snaps him more awake as the doors shut behind him, but even so, he can’t really bring himself to be embarrassed. He turns his face into the night and smiles like a giddy schoolboy as he walks.

Under the smell of the bar and their food, his skin had smelled fresh like rain and earth, and sweet like peaches. Elliott is already obsessed.

God, he is down horrendous.

He somehow makes it through the front door of his cabin before he makes the decision out loud.

“I’m going to court him,” he announces to his single-room house, throwing his arms wide like a playactor. “I’m going to court the shit out of him.”

<><><>

Leah: How’d that work for you, Mr. “I will not be fawning over him tonight”?

Elliott: I firmly believe you were put on this earth to torment me.

Leah: The theory has merit—I’ve not seen any evidence to the contrary, and I do get joy from it.

[jaylenhackett]

WE HAVE THE POWER - to control bias

The Fair & Lovely vs. Dark is Beautiful case highlight another example of how ignorance of bias one has leads to the continuation of bias down the road. As MBA students, we are the people that will have the chance to invest in others, control what corporations display, influence the use of emerging technologies and algorithms, and ultimately shape the outlook of the world to come. With that extreme privilege and honor, it has to be approached with true "fairness" in mind. It has to conquer negative stereotypes. It can control the different facets of beauty in the minds of youth and have a caring touch that embodies the good of people from all walks of life. As I said in my Yarn this year, I feel people fit into three categories.

20% reflect, understand, and work to address their bias

60% do not believe they have bias and ignore the bias they have

20% understand their bias and stand on it

The most dangerous is the 60%, whatever you do, don't be in that. Your decisions control the outlook of the future. Consider your actions as you come into decision making positions. Your decisions control the future.

[gwinforth]

I respect (read: sneer at, with every fibre of my being) the capitalist-cancer hustle of constantly having to Invent Product (thing you can advertise), Advertise Product, Money$$money.

i.e. Reddit's CEO claiming they can't keep giving a "product" "away" "for free"

when the product is the countless volunteer hours of moderators, the expertise of people in knowledgeable communities like r/sysadmin, and the charming cats of r/chonkers

It wounds my sense of honor and fair play! All of Web 2.0 does. Every walled garden, aka unindexed knowledge black holes, like Tiktok, Slack, Discord. (Aside: I don't understand the techbro optimism about Web 3.0 being "decentralized" and thus, more accessible to everyone. What they mean is more accessible to "content creators" and the small number of MBAs who are driving each decision about when to slam the prison doors closed, a la Reddit.)

I passively take in my share of meaningless internet content, don't get me wrong! But the people who are on the internet to do things, like collaborate on problem-solving (whether it's cloud platform migration or weaving), the internet is actively hostile to them.

Like, libraries are fantastic, right? Human culture was enriched when we developed the printing press, so that copies of the same books could be in many, many libraries. The corporatized internet is disassembling the printing press, right? I don't want to have to sail to Alexandria (Discord) or Lindisfarne (Slack) to troubleshoot this extremely esoteric internal vs. external Azure tenant-wide setting.

[edutainer2022]

Frankly, I want to send you every single emoji from that ask game for Scott, but I'm trying to practice self-restraint. How about a couple of ൠ for him?

@amistrio Thank you! Yeah, I'm kinda contemplating the merit of answering the meme unprompted or sending myself an anonymous ask or five))

Random (TAG) Scott headcanons:

- this one I really enjoyed getting traction in vaster fanon - Scott is a mathlete and a decent engineer. Not Brains or the Mechanic level, but Dad Jeff level at the very least. He was elated to be in on Dad's plans and designs of TV-21 as a teen, was definitely in on the early designs of Thunderbirds and takes active part in upgrades and diagnostics (that's pretty much canon). He can reassemble his bird in his sleep;

- Scott reads. For leisure. Actual books. The "boring" classics of the "mandatory reading list" and beyond (that's probably something I glimpsed in TOS and hold really dear). And he's well versed in poetry. It's a Mom thing for him - they read a lot together, he later read all the stories to his brothers. His AP English essays were stellar, but "Liberal arts" was never an option, not for a Jeff Tracy's son, who worshiped Dad's life path and accomplishments. So it was math, physics and avionics.

- Scott has an MBA. That Tracy Industries money gotta make themselves somehow to fund increasingly expensive IR endeavors.

- after the TV-21 fiasco (financial too), Scott offered to enlist into GDF before he turned 18 - that way he thought he could pay for college and help repay the investors, so that his college fund would go to John and Virgil and their dreams wouldn't be derailed. Dad put a halt to that (and doubled down business efforts to make sure his kids were never financially insecure again).

- This one is a bit (a lot!) darker - in a typical "golden child trauma" fashion Scott ties his self-worth firmly to merits of performance and achievement. In a situation when his father sacrificed himself to save all of humanity, Scott considers himself obliged to give nothing less to compensate humanity (and his family) for that loss - that breeds martyrdom that comes across as recklessness or workaholism on a good day and a death wish on less good days (also, pretty much canon, in so many words). He genuinely doesn't get how his family or the world would need him for just him, if he's "obviously less" than his father was (being repeatedly mistaken for his younger father's image doesn't help).

- After really hard rescues, or sometimes when the burden gets too much, Scott would dash away in One across the world to Mom's grave. Alone. John and Virgil have figured it out and know not to try and coax him back before he's ready, but keep an eye on him.

- Learning about Dad's signal from Oort Cloud nearly drove Scott insane with guilt, whereas his brothers were elated. Which piled even more guilt, because he didn't want to trump their hope. He thinks he failed by "giving up" on the search all those years ago and "moving on".

- Scott has a track record of notoriously disastrous failed relationships, which actually troubles him a lot more than he lets on. It's usually a subject of brothers' ribbing (Gordon's, mostly), but it's actually a fair bit traumatic. Through a couple of break-ups Virgil and John had to stage interventions (up to and including flying in from their colleges). On at least one occasion it was Dad. Whoever falls for a dashing flyboy/hero/billionaire with killer dimples and witty one liners, usually, don't sign up for a deeply feeling, traumatized, crazed with anxiety family man, whose brothers and life's work are his whole world. At a certain point Scott got convinced he's damaged goods and happiness/family is not in the cards. He's, of course, wrong.

- Scott was to Dad what Virgil is to him and what their Mom was to Jeff - a grounding force, a confidante and someone with unwavering faith and inspiration.

- Dropping out of Airforce early on in the career to join IR cost him most or all of his GDF friendships and it stung deeply. It stung that many openly considered him a renegade, who chose "Daddy's private 911 gig and getting kittens off trees over the real service". Regardless of Bereznik POW headcanon (the hurt, PTSD and comfort potential there is, of course, unparalleled!), I think Scott had to face A LOT of cold shoulders, after Jeff's disappearance. Whereas Colonel Tracy was revered, Tracy "dropout" Jr. was openly stared down by multiple star generals and getting IR up and running again was an uphill struggle.

- Kyrano and Lee leaving IR after Jeff hit him hard. He's lowkey sure it's because he can't measure up to Dad (and father figures don't want him). In reality it was, of course, guilt and grief of the Old Guard.

-Some time, many-many years down the line Scott is gonna run for the World President office and win.

I can go on for a loooong while (Scott is among my deeply personally favorite characters not for nothing). Maybe I'll come up with a Part 2. I'm having lots of fun (making myself sad, mostly).

[selamat-linting]

why is that a lot of other indos or southeast asian ppl i met on tumblr or reddit are mixed kids with dual citizenship or ppl going to school or working white collar jobs abroad? i mean it makes sense they'd be proficient at making friends in online spaces like this and i do appreciate their company but if it isnt isolating. why cant i meet high school graduate normie who works jobs like kuli proyek or mba-mba sales. to be fair, there are people in the same class demographics as me, like the crowd who make furry and anime art but theyre mostly young (14-20) so i cant really connect with them, and the handful of ppl in the same age range as me have something deeply wrong with them. like, so far i've met : guy who pretend he's from yugoslavia/poland (i dont think he knows the difference), an islamist trotskyist, political rpf girlies, exo roleplayers, hijabi fujoshis, etc etc.

okay tbf, i do wwe rpf so maybe im not different from the rest of them.