#Stateside Records

[mymelodic-chapel]

Grapefruit- Around Grapefruit (Psychedelic Pop, Pop Rock) Released: 1968 [Dunhill Records, Stateside Records, EMI Records] Producer(s): Terry Melcher

[eenkleinleven]

OLIVIER NOMINEES JAMES, LUKE AND ZUBIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

GO TEAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[thornilee013]

I just saw the tags on the first baby Jean you did (I cheated and read the tags + sent my ask before going to catch up on the story lol) and wanted to respond to that too! Sorry for the non-writing ask, you don’t have to actually post this one if you don’t want, I just didn’t want to ignore those tags until next week!

I hope that your work does do something about what you reported, but either way it’s good that you reported it! If it’s something that ever happens to anyone in the future, there will be documentation that someone reported it and management failed to take the necessary measures to prevent it from happening again. You stood up for yourself and you may have potentially helped someone else out! You should absolutely feel proud of yourself!

You’re always so kind to me and I appreciate that so much! Thank you! Have a beautiful week! Besos xx🤍🤍🤍

prev | Baby Jean | WW 17.1.2024

Jean approached the desk and stared up at the person sitting there. They were clearly busy, since they seemed to be writing something down on a notepad. He reached up as far as he could muster and whimpered a bit at the stretch.

"How can I–" the person said before looking up and making eye contact with him. "Hey bud. Don't hang on the desk like that, okay? I don't think it's the most stable thing and I don't want it tipping over on you. What can I do for you?"

MASTERPOST

[singles-bar]

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Louis Armstrong - What a Wonderful World 1967

"What a Wonderful World" is a song written by Bob Thiele and George David Weiss. It was first recorded by Louis Armstrong and released in 1967 as a single. In April 1968, it topped the pop chart in the UK where it also became the biggest-selling single of the year, but it performed poorly in the US because Larry Newton, the president of ABC Records, disliked the song and refused to promote it. ABC Records' European distributor EMI forced ABC to issue a What a Wonderful World album in 1968. It did not chart in the US, due to ABC not promoting it, but charted in the UK where it was issued by Stateside Records and peaked at number 37.

The song gradually became something of a pop standard. An episode of The Muppet Show produced in 1977 and broadcast early in 1978 featured Rowlf the Dog singing the song to a puppy. In 1978, it was featured in the closing scenes of BBC radio's The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and was repeated for BBC's 1981 TV adaptation of the series, as well as being used for the teaser trailer to the 2005 film version. In 1988, Armstrong's recording was used in the film Good Morning, Vietnam and was re-released as a single, reaching number 32 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart in February 1988. It peaked at number 1 in 1988 on the Australian chart.

"What a Wonderful World" received a total of 90,6% yes votes!

[bradshawssugarbaby]

All The Pretty Girls - Bob Floyd x Reader

A/N: Inspired by All The Pretty Girls by Kenny Chesney.

pairing: Bob Floyd x reader

warnings/content: sickeningly sweet Bob fluff.

word count: 3.1k

I'm home for the summer, shoot out the lights Don't blow my cover, oh I'm free tonight I'm coming over, call all your friends "Somebody hold me", all the pretty girls said All of the whiskey, went to my head "Shut up and kiss me", all the pretty girls said

Bob took in a deep breath as he walked up the long, dirt pathway that lead to his parents’ farmhouse. It’d been months since he’d been back in Kentucky - years, even, and as he approached the sounds of the party his family was throwing in the backyard, he felt himself fighting harder and harder to resist the overwhelming urge to turn around and run as fast as he could back to his rental car, hop in and catch the next flight back to San Diego. He contemplated the excuses he could come up with to explain his sudden disappearance, but before he had a chance to figure out the minor details, a familiar voice called out to him.

“Bobby! There’s our favourite lil pilot!”

His uncle shouted from across the yard, coming over to him with a firm slap on the shoulder as he greeted him. Bob tried not to cringe at the juvenile nickname his family still called him - he hated being called Bobby. No one back in San Diego knew him as anything other than Bob - it felt more grown up. He was the baby in his family, often called Bobby in a condescending way to remind him of how much younger he was than everyone else.

He’d been the surprise baby in the family - born unexpectedly when his mother was 37, following behind four older sisters who were 6, 8, 11 and 13 when he was born. Now, at 32, Bob felt himself recoil internally everytime someone called him that, especially if it was his family. His dozen nieces and nephews were about the only ones he’d tolerate it from, and occasionally his grandmother - who at this point was over 90 years old, and who was he to tell her no?

Bob adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, forcing a smile as he turned to face his boisterous family. Growing up, he’d always wondered if he was adopted - he was quiet, reserved, and shy - the complete opposite of everyone in his family tree. In fact, it was a running joke with his older sister Kate that he was adopted. He believed it for a while when he was 6 - it explained so much about him, or so he thought. Until, that was, the moment that his eldest sister, the often bossy and in control Jennifer, pulled out the home videos that had been recorded when Bob was born - a sight that Bob still couldn’t erase from his memory, regardless of how hard he tried to.

“I’m not so little anymore, Uncle Don,” Bob said with a sheepish smile as his uncle pulled him in for a bear hug.

“No, s’pose you aren’t now, are ya? You got yourself a little lady now, Bobby?”

“Not yet. I’ve been busy - haven’t been stateside in months, actually. This is my first chance at leave in over a year. Just never bothered taking it, I guess.”

That was a lie - Bob had taken a couple weeks leave last year, but he spent it at his home in San Diego, refreshing the decor and repainting to make it more to his tastes and basking in the peaceful quiet of his new space. He’d spent a day or two wandering around downtown San Diego with his friend, Bradley, the two of them exploring the area together - Bradley showing Bob all the sites he’d remembered from photographs and childhood memories. Bob couldn’t tell his family that though - they’d be crushed to learn that he had time off and chose not to spend it with them.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see them, he was sure of it. He just didn’t want to field all the questions he knew came with each visit. Nothing was off limits to his family - his love life, relationships, his personal details - he’d lost count of how many phone calls included a casual “So, meet anyone special yet, Bobby?”. He knew they meant well, but God, was he ever tired of it.

That was the other thing he’d grown tired of - watching his language all the time. His family was religious - far more so than he’d ever been, and the idea of swearing and cursing was scandalous to them, but it was something Bob’d grown used to in his 14 years serving in the Navy, between the Academy and on base. Trying to curb it around his family members was a task in and of itself.

“Robert!” His mother's arrival interrupted his ruminations, her fervent embrace enveloping him in a maternal cocoon. "Your accent's gone already, I knew California would be bad for you," she lamented, a tinge of jest lacing her words.

“Hi Ma, missed you,” He nodded, hugging her back firmly with a smile, “Relax, Ma, I’m still a Southern boy at heart, even if I don’t sound like it. Two of the guys in my squad are from the South too. Jake’s from Texas, Bradley’s from Virginia. I’ll probably find my accent again soon now that I’m stationed with them at North Island. At Lemoore I wasn’t paired up with anyone from here.”

“Ooh, Robert,” she said softly, rubbing his shoulder as she spoke to him, “There’s someone who’s been askin’ ‘bout you.”

Bob was about to ask who it was when the question was answered for him. He turned in the direction his mother was facing and felt his cheeks flush a bright red as he saw you. You and Bob had been friends as children - best friends, in fact. You’d kept in contact over the years, but eventually, around your 24th birthdays, the hangouts became less frequent, the phone calls grew further apart and texts took longer to answer, until eventually, they stopped. Standing in front of him now, eight years later, he couldn’t imagine for the life of him why he ever stopped talking to you.

His mind raced with a million thoughts at once, visions of what life would have been like if he’d manned up and asked you out. If he’d decided to risk it all in high school and take you to prom, or if he’d asked you out when you went to university a couple hours drive away from the Naval Academy. He figured he probably would have married you, if given the chance to go back and do it again. Own a house with a big yard, a half a dozen kids running around, some just like him, with sandy blonde hair and deep blue eyes, and some just like you - a vision of beauty in his mind.

He snapped back to reality when he felt you wrap your arms around him, a wide smile spreading across your face. He hugged you firmly, not wanting to make his sudden desire to hold you close evident. For all he knew, you could be married with a family by this point - it wouldn’t be odd at all, not now in your early thirties. In fact, he felt like he was the odd one out compared to everyone he’d grown up around in Kentucky. Most of the people he’d gone to school with were parents to kids approaching third grade.

“It’s so good to see you!” you exclaimed cheerfully as you pulled back from Bob’s embrace, sporting a warm, friendly grin.

“Yeah, it’s great seeing you too. Wow, it’s uh…it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Eight years, give or take.” You nodded quickly, shrugging the idea off as you met Bob’s cobalt blue eyes, finding it hard not to get yourself lost in them. He always did have the prettiest eyes you’d ever seen, framed perfectly now by silver wire framed glasses.

“How have you been?” He smiled as he guided you over towards the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and turning to look at you, “You want some sweet tea?”

“I’d love some, thanks Bob,” you nodded, remembering that he preferred going by that now that he was older.

As Bob poured two glasses of his mom’s homemade sweet tea for each of you, your eyes wandered over him, taking in the sight before you. The last time you’d seen him, Bob still resembled the teenage boy you’d crushed on throughout high school, but now, standing in his place, was a man. He stood at a solid six foot one, his blonde hair neatly combed, and a more adult style pair of wire glasses adorning his face, as opposed to the thick, dark square frames he wore throughout the time you knew him.

“I’ve been good,” you nodded slowly as you sipped the cool, brown liquid, the notes of lemon, sugar and black tea dancing on your tongue, “How about you? I heard you’re stationed out west now?”

“Yeah, I was at Lemoore, which is further north in California, but now I’m at North Island, in Coronado. Just outside of San Diego, actually. Other side of the bay.”

“How do you like it there? Bet the weather’s great, like, all the time, isn’t it? Much better than what I get out in D.C.”

“You’re in D.C. now?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, smiling softly, “Never left after college.”

Bob listened empathetically as you filled him in on everything he’d missed in your life over the past eight years. As you spoke, he couldn’t help but feel his attention wavering, not because he wasn’t interested in what you had to say, but because he couldn’t help but envision all the things that could’ve happened had he been brave enough to ask you out earlier. He wanted to kick himself for not trying for you - he’d always been fond of you. The sheer thought of you asking about him, and coming back to Kentucky to see him when he came home was enough to make him think of how much he’d screwed up before.

You felt yourself rambling nervously as you talked to Bob, trying to avoid any awkward silence between the two of you. You were so relieved to have this moment with him - just to talk to him again. You heard he was single, and you knew you still had unresolved feelings for him so when your mom had told you about the homecoming barbecue that Mrs. Floyd was planning for him, you knew you had to make the drive home, just to see what could’ve been between you both, and to see if anything remained between you.

As the night carried on, you felt yourself falling further and further for Bob - and now, you were left wondering why you hadn’t been bold enough to ask him out before. Why now, when it was the least convenient for the two of you, had to be when you realized this. You lived on the complete opposite coasts from one another - a six hour flight spanning the United States between the two of you. Although, the more time spent with Bob that evening, the more you found yourself considering taking a transfer to your job’s California office. Los Angeles was a much more doable three hour drive to San Diego - you could manage driving three hours every few days to see him if you needed to.

By 9pm, the party had dwindled down to a few members of Bob’s family, his parents, and you - everyone else having turned in for the night or headed home earlier. You, however, were staying a couple of houses away at your parents’ home, and could manage to stay as long as Bob wanted you to. He looked around the party, and, upon realizing he wouldn’t be missed anymore if he disappeared, he took you by the hand playfully, leading you to the old tree at the back of the property.

Nestled in the tree sat the treehouse you’d spent so many hours in together as kids, looking completely unchanged from when you’d last seen it. Bob smiled as he started climbing up the makeshift ladder, looking back at you with a mischievous grin - one you hadn’t seen in him since you were children.

“You comin’?” he ribbed playfully as he swung himself up into the treehouse, reaching his hand down to offer you help.

You shook your head, laughing at how ridiculous you felt, but quickly climbed your way up the tree to join him. He helped you into the treehouse, smirking at you as he adjusted his glasses. The treehouse was still decorated the way you’d left it - old toys sitting out on the table, a small toy chest full of Nerf guns and playing cards, a couple of toy cars and action figures joining them. Bob picked one of the action figures up, laughing as he held it in his hands, as if all the memories of you two playing together came flooding back at once.

“I forgot about this place,” you mused softly, your voice barely a whisper against the backdrop of forgotten treasures.

Bob nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips as he regarded the toy with a mix of fondness and amusement.

"Yeah, my nieces and nephews use it I guess sometimes. Glad to see they've left Batman intact for me though," he remarked, lifting the action figure as if to emphasize its importance.

A nostalgic chuckle bubbled up within you as you recalled the shared adventures of your childhood. "Hey, I remember that one! Batman used to come in and rescue Barbie for me all the time."

A playful glint danced in Bob's eyes as he remembered those innocent days of make-believe. "And then you insisted that Batman had to kiss Barbie."

"Listen, Barbie wanted to thank him," you protested with a playful grin, memories of imaginative play flooding back with each word.

"I think you just watched too many romcoms," Bob teased, his voice laced with affectionate banter.

Shaking your head, you couldn't help but laugh at the playful exchange, the echoes of your shared history ringing through the air. But as your laughter subsided, you found yourself drawn once more to Bob's gaze, the warmth of familiarity mingling with the weight of unspoken questions.

"Do you ever think about what would have happened if we dated in high school?" you ventured, the words hanging in the air like a delicate thread connecting past and present.

"All the time, actually," Bob admitted, his tone tinged with a hint of vulnerability.

"I always figured I'd end up marrying you," you nodded, your cheeks flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and sincerity as you confessed the thought that had lingered in the depths of your mind for far too long.

The air seemed to crackle with tension as your words hung in the space between you, each syllable echoing with the weight of unspoken truths and long-held desires. Across from you, Bob's expression shifted, a kaleidoscope of emotions flickering across his features before settling into a mask of gentle surprise.

The soft glow of the evening sun cast golden hues upon the scene, lending an ethereal quality to the moment as you both grappled with the revelation that hung heavy in the air. For a heartbeat, the world around you seemed to stand still, as if holding its breath in anticipation of what would come next.

Bob's gaze softened, his cobalt eyes reflecting the vulnerability mirrored in your own. "I… I never knew you felt that way," he admitted, his voice a gentle murmur against the backdrop of fading daylight.

A rush of uncertainty washed over you, mingling with the warmth of raw honesty that spilled from your lips. "I think I just, pushed it away, you know? I didn’t want us to stop being friends over it or anything as kids." you confessed, your words a whispered confession carried on the breeze.

Silence enveloped you once more, punctuated only by the distant chirping of crickets and the rustle of leaves in the evening breeze. In the quiet of the moment, the weight of unspoken possibilities hung heavy between you, a delicate dance of hope and fear weaving its way through the air.

Then, with a soft exhale, Bob reached across the space between you, his hand finding yours with a gentle certainty that sent shivers cascading down your spine. "Maybe… maybe we should talk about this," he suggested, his voice tentative yet filled with a quiet resolve.

As his fingers intertwined with yours, you felt a surge of courage swell within your chest, buoyed by the warmth of his touch. With a nod, you met his gaze, the tension hanging in the air melting away as you closed the distance between the two of you, locking your lips with his in a gentle, tender kiss.

Time seemed to slow to a standstill as the world around you faded into oblivion, leaving only the two of you suspended in a moment of pure connection. His lips met yours with a softness that belied the depth of emotion coursing between you, igniting a spark that set your heart ablaze.

The sensation of his breath mingling with yours sent shivers cascading down your spine, each touch igniting a symphony of sensations that danced across your skin like a gentle breeze. In that fleeting instant, you lost yourself in the warmth of his embrace, the weight of the world falling away as you surrendered to the intoxicating pull of desire.

The soft murmur of the evening breeze whispered through the air, carrying with it the promise of a new beginning as you reveled in the sweetness of the moment. His arms enveloped you in a tender embrace, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies, only the shared warmth of your intertwined souls.

For a heartbeat, the world ceased to exist beyond the two of you, each touch a testament to the depth of feeling that bound you together. In the embrace of his arms, you found solace, a sanctuary amidst the chaos of life's uncertainties. As you finally pulled away, the ghost of his touch lingered on your lips, a lingering reminder of the passion that pulsed between you.

Bob’s cheeks flushed bright red, and he began to stutter as he spoke, a trait he’d long grown out of. “I, uh, I…um, that was…something,” he managed to spit out before beginning to ramble about how much he enjoyed kissing you.

“Bob,” you began, laughing softly as your hand gently rested on his cheek.

“Mhmm?”

“Shut up and kiss me again.”

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Every internet fight is a speech fight

THIS WEEKEND (November 8-10), I'll be in TUCSON, AZ: I'm the GUEST OF HONOR at the TUSCON SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION.

My latest Locus Magazine column is "Hard (Sovereignty) Cases Make Bad (Internet) Law," an attempt to cut through the knots we tie ourselves in when speech and national sovereignty collide online:

https://locusmag.com/2024/11/cory-doctorow-hard-sovereignty-cases-make-bad-internet-law/

This happens all the time. Indeed, the precipitating incident for my writing this column was someone commenting on the short-lived Brazilian court order blocking Twitter, opining that this was purely a matter of national sovereignty, with no speech dimension.

This is just profoundly wrong. Of course any rules about blocking a communications medium will have a free-speech dimension – how could it not? And of course any dispute relating to globe-spanning medium will have a national sovereignty dimension.

How could it not?

So if every internet fight is a speech fight and a sovereignty fight, which side should we root for? Here's my proposal: we should root for human rights.

In 2013, Edward Snowden revealed that the US government was illegally wiretapping the whole world. They were able to do this because the world is dominated by US-based tech giants and they shipped all their data stateside for processing. These tech giants secretly colluded with the NSA to help them effect this illegal surveillance (the "Prism" program) – and then the NSA stabbed them in the back by running another program ("Upstream") where they spied on the tech giants without their knowledge.

After the Snowden revelations, countries around the world enacted "data localization" rules that required any company doing business within their borders to keep their residents' data on domestic servers. Obviously, this has a human rights dimension: keeping your people's data out of the hands of US spy agencies is an important way to defend their privacy rights. which are crucial to their speech rights (you can't speak freely if you're being spied on).

So when the EU, a largely democratic bloc, enacted data localization rules, they were harnessing national soveriegnty in service to human rights.

But the EU isn't the only place that enacted data-localization rules. Russia did the same thing. Once again, there's a strong national sovereignty case for doing this. Even in the 2010s, the US and Russia were hostile toward one another, and that hostility has only ramped up since. Russia didn't want its data stored on NSA-accessible servers for the same reason the USA wouldn't want all its' people's data stored in GRU-accessible servers.

But Russia has a significantly poorer human rights record than either the EU or the USA (note that none of these are paragons of respect for human rights). Russia's data-localization policy was motivated by a combination of legitimate national sovereignty concerns and the illegitimate desire to conduct domestic surveillance in order to identify and harass, jail, torture and murder dissidents.

When you put it this way, it's obvious that national sovereignty is important, but not as important as human rights, and when they come into conflict, we should side with human rights over sovereignty.

Some more examples: Thailand's lesse majeste rules prohibit criticism of their corrupt monarchy. Foreigners who help Thai people circumvent blocks on reportage of royal corruption are violating Thailand's national sovereignty, but they're upholding human rights:

https://www.vox.com/2020/1/24/21075149/king-thailand-maha-vajiralongkorn-facebook-video-tattoos

Saudi law prohibits criticism of the royal family; when foreigners help Saudi women's rights activists evade these prohibitions, we violate Saudi sovereignty, but uphold human rights:

https://www.bbc.com/news/world-middle-east-55467414

In other words, "sovereignty, yes; but human rights even moreso."

Which brings me back to the precipitating incidents for the Locus column: the arrest of billionaire Telegram owner Pavel Durov in France, and the blocking of billionaire Elon Musk's Twitter in Brazil.

How do we make sense of these? Let's start with Durov. We still don't know exactly why the French government arrested him (legal systems descended from the Napoleonic Code are weird). But the arrest was at least partially motivated by a demand that Telegram conform with a French law requiring businesses to have a domestic agent to receive and act on takedown demands.

Not every takedown demand is good. When a lawyer for the Sackler family demanded that I take down criticism of his mass-murdering clients, that was illegitimate. But there is such a thing as a legitimate takedown: leaked financial information, child sex abuse material, nonconsensual pornography, true threats, etc, are all legitimate targets for takedown orders. Of course, it's not that simple. Even if we broadly agree that this stuff shouldn't be online, we don't necessarily agree whether something fits into one of these categories.

This is true even in categories with the brightest lines, like child sex abuse material:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2016/sep/09/facebook-reinstates-napalm-girl-photo

And the other categories are far blurrier, like doxing:

https://www.kenklippenstein.com/p/trump-camp-worked-with-musks-x-to

But just because not every takedown is a just one, it doesn't follow that every takedown is unjust. The idea that companies should have domestic agents in the countries where they operate isn't necessarily oppressive. If people who sell hamburgers from a street-corner have to register a designated contact with a regulator, why not someone who operates a telecoms network with 900m global users?

Of course, requirements to have a domestic contact can also be used as a prelude to human rights abuses. Countries that insist on a domestic rep are also implicitly demanding that the company place one of its employees or agents within reach of its police-force.

Just as data localization can be a way to improve human rights (by keeping data out of the hands of another country's lawless spy agencies) or to erode them (by keeping data within reach of your own country's lawless spy agencies), so can a requirement for a local agent be a way to preserve the rule of law (by establishing a conduit for legitimate takedowns) or a way to subvert it (by giving the government hostages they can use as leverage against companies who stick up for their users' rights).

In the case of Durov and Telegram, these issues are especially muddy. Telegram bills itself as an encrypted messaging app, but that's only sort of true. Telegram does not encrypt its group-chats, and even the encryption in its person-to-person messaging facility is hard to use and of dubious quality.

This is relevant because France – among many other governments – has waged a decades-long war against encrypted messaging, which is a wholly illegitimate goal. There is no way to make an encrypted messaging tool that works against bad guys (identity thieves, stalkers, corporate and foreign spies) but not against good guys (cops with legitimate warrants). Any effort to weaken end-to-end encrypted messaging creates broad, significant danger for every user of the affected service, all over the world. What's more, bans on end-to-end encrypted messaging tools can't stand on their own – they also have to include blocks of much of the useful internet, mandatory spyware on computers and mobile devices, and even more app-store-like control over which software you can install:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/05/theyre-still-trying-to-ban-cryptography/

So when the French state seizes Durov's person and demands that he establish the (pretty reasonable) minimum national presence needed to coordinate takedown requests, it can seem like this is a case where national sovereignty and human rights are broadly in accord.

But when you consider that Durov operates a (nominally) encrypted messaging tool that bears some resemblance to the kinds of messaging tools the French state has been trying to sabotage for decades, and continues to rail against, the human rights picture gets rather dim.

That is only slightly mitigated by the fact that Telegram's encryption is suspect, difficult to use, and not applied to the vast majority of the communications it serves. So where do we net out on this? In the Locus column, I sum things up this way:

Telegram should have a mechanism to comply with lawful takedown orders; and

those orders should respect human rights and the rule of law; and

Telegram should not backdoor its encryption, even if

the sovereign French state orders it to do so.

Sovereignty, sure, but human rights even moreso.

What about Musk? As with Durov in France, the Brazilian government demanded that Musk appoint a Brazilian representative to handle official takedown requests. Despite a recent bout of democratic backsliding under the previous regime, Brazil's current government is broadly favorable to human rights. There's no indication that Brazil would use an in-country representative as a hostage, and there's nothing intrinsically wrong with requiring foreign firms doing business in your country to have domestic representatives.

Musk's response was typical: a lawless, arrogant attack on the judge who issued the blocking order, including thinly veiled incitements to violence.

The Brazilian state's response was multi-pronged. There was a national blocking order, and a threat to penalize Brazilians who used VPNs to circumvent the block. Both measures have obvious human rights implications. For one thing, the vast majority of Brazilians who use Twitter are engaged in the legitimate exercise of speech, and they were collateral damage in the dispute between Musk and Brazil.

More serious is the prohibition on VPNs, which represents a broad attack on privacy-enhancing technology with implications far beyond the Twitter matter. Worse still, a VPN ban can only be enforced with extremely invasive network surveillance and blocking orders to app stores and ISPs to restrict access to VPN tools. This is wholly disproportionate and illegitimate.

But that wasn't the only tactic the Brazilian state used. Brazilian corporate law is markedly different from US law, with fewer protections for limited liability for business owners. The Brazilian state claimed the right to fine Musk's other companies for Twitter's failure to comply with orders to nominate a domestic representative. Faced with fines against Spacex and Tesla, Musk caved.

In other words, Brazil had a legitimate national sovereignty interest in ordering Twitter to nominate a domestic agent, and they used a mix of somewhat illegitimate tactics (blocking orders), extremely illegitimate tactics (threats against VPN users) and totally legitimate tactics (fining Musk's other companies) to achieve these goals.

As I put it in the column:

Twitter should have a mechanism to comply with lawful takedown orders; and

those orders should respect human rights and the rule of law; and

banning Twitter is bad for the free speech rights of Twitter users in Brazil; and

banning VPNs is bad for all Brazilian internet users; and

it’s hard to see how a Twitter ban will be effective without bans on VPNs.

There's no such thing as an internet policy fight that isn't about national sovereignty and speech, and when the two collide, we should side with human rights over sovereignty. Sovereignty isn't a good unto itself – it's only a good to the extent that is used to promote human rights.

In other words: "Sovereignty, sure, but human rights even moreso."

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/06/brazilian-blowout/#sovereignty-sure-but-human-rights-even-moreso

Image: © Tomas Castelazo, www.tomascastelazo.com (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Border_Wall_at_Tijuana_and_San_Diego_Border.jpg

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

[girlactionfigure]

THURSDAY HERO: Barney Ross

Dov-Ber Rosovsky was a world-champion boxer and injured World War II hero whose fierce Jewish pride made him an icon to American Jews.

Dov-Ber was born in New York in 1909, the son of a Talmudic scholar who fled to America after surviving a pogrom in Belarus. Dov-Ber grew up in Chicago, helping out in his father’s small grocery store in a poor neighborhood and studying to be a rabbi.

His life was changed forever when his father was shot dead resisting a robbery at his store. Dov-Ber’s mother suffered a nervous breakdown and the kids were farmed out to foster homes.

Dov-Ber became bitter and angry. He turned his back on religion, changed his name to Barney Ross, and took a job working for Al Capone. Barney’s goal was to make enough money to buy a house and reunite his family. He soon became such an effective street fighter, however, that he gave professional boxing a try. Strong, fast, and determined, “Barney” became a world champion in the three different weight classes. He was known for his exceptional stamina and his street smarts.

In the 1930’s, when Hitler was rising to power, Barney Ross became a hero to American Jews by showing pride in his heritage and taking a public stand against Nazi Germany.  He was determined to end each fight on his feet to show that Jews fight and don’t go down. In Barney’s final fight, he defended his title against fellow three-division world champion Henry Armstrong. Barney got brutally pummeled and his trainers begged him to let them stop the fight, but he was determined to stay on his feet. He’d never been knocked out in his career and wasn’t going to start now. He retired from boxing in his early 30’s with a record of 72 wins, 4 loses, 3 draws, and two no decisions, with 22 wins by knockout. He achieved his goal of having no career knockouts.

After retiring from the ring, Barney/Dov-Ber enlisted in the US Marine Corps to fight in World War II. The Marines wanted to keep him stateside as a celebrity morale-booster, but Barney insisted on fighting for his country. He was sent to Guadalcanal in the South Pacific. During his time in Guadalcanal, Barney became friends with Chaplain Frederic Gehrig. Father Gehrig found an old pump organ on the island, and Barney was the only one who could play it. On Christmas Eve, before Barney and his fellow Marines were to go to battle, Gehrig asked him to play “Silent Night” and other Christmas songs for the troops. Barney happily obliged, finishing off the concert with “My Yiddishe Momma,” the song he used to play when he entered the boxing ring. Father Gehrig would later describe Barney Ross as a “national treasure.”

One night, Barney and three other soldiers were trapped under enemy fire. All four were wounded but Barney was the only one able to continue fighting. He gathered his comrades’ weapons and fought 22 Japanese soldiers, killing them all. Two of the American soldiers died, but Barney carried the third man to safety, even though the soldier weighed 230 pounds, while the wounded Barney weighed only 140!��For his courage, Barney Ross was awarded a Silver Star and a citation from President Roosevelt.

Barney was hospitalized for his battle injuries, and the pain was so bad that he became dependent on morphine. After the war, he returned to America and opened a bar lounge. However, his drug addiction intensified as he turned to heroin, which was easier to obtain than morphine. Barney became hooked on heroin, an addiction that cost him $500 a day, as well as his marriage, his business and his life savings. Finally he hit rock bottom, and checked into a veteran’s recovery facility. He kicked his habit once and for all, and became a public speaker who educated high school students about the danger of drugs.

In the 1960’s, Barney made his living as a celebrity spokesman. After a brutal struggle with throat cancer, Barney Ross died in 1967 at age 57.

For his wartime heroism and for modeling Jewish strength and pride, we honor Dov-Ber “Barney Ross” Rosovsky as this week’s Thursday Hero.

[1863-project]

Thinking a bit about baseball and how it runs in my family so thoroughly on both sides.

My dad's father was such a good amateur third baseman that he was scouted by the Yankees. We have a letter from the team inviting him to tryouts. But he'd just started a family at the time and the Minor League life is rough, and it was rougher still in the 1950s, so he remained an amateur player who nevertheless had a deep love of the game. He apparently met and played with Willie Mays during the Korean War when he was stationed stateside. He got Mays to etch his name on the strap of his helmet. We still have that, too.

(Image description: the author's paternal grandfather in a right-handed batting stance.)

On my mom's side things were entertaining. My mom's grandfather was a New York (later SF) Giants fan. He and his wife had three children, who they raised in the Bronx. The oldest, my grandmother, was a Giants fan like him. The middle child, my great-aunt, decided she had to be different and adopted the Brooklyn Dodgers. The youngest child, my great-uncle, furthered that and became a Yankees fan.

Allegedly, according to my great-aunt, my great-grandfather predicted the Giants, then behind, would win the National League pennant in 1951. She was incredulous because at the time the Dodgers were well in first place. Until they weren't.

[Video description: Giants third baseman Bobby Thomson clobbers a 3-run homer off of Dodgers pitcher Ralph Branca to win the 1951 National League pennant. This moment is known as The Shot Heard Round The World and the radio call only survives because a fan was at work during the game and had his mom record it off the radio for him.]

This family arrangement continued for a few more years until the Dodgers and Giants left for California in the late 1950s, and the National League members of the family drifted until 1962, when the Mets started playing. My grandmother and great-aunt both picked them up immediately and it's been that way on my mom's side ever since - the people descended from my grandmother and great-aunt are Mets fans, and the people descended from my great-uncle are Yankees fans.

[Image description: the man who somehow knew the Giants would win the 1951 pennant carrying his firstborn child, my grandmother, on his back on all fours, likely in 1932.]

Grandma Dot was a deeply passionate Mets fan and passed that trait to her daughter, who at one point had a huge baseball card collection and knew the Mets's stats better than all the boys in her school. My mom experienced her first World Series win at the age of 10 in 1969 and from there she would be loyal forever. She and my dad were married a few days after the Mets's second World Series win in 1986 and my younger brother and I would be raised on stories of that team during our early years.

[Image description: the author and her brother photographed from the back at Citi Field. The author is wearing a Gary Carter jersey and her brother is wearing a Mookie Wilson jersey.]

Although I get baseball from both sides of my family, the intense passion for National League baseball in New York has been passed down matrilineally, from my grandmother to my mother to me, and I cherish that deeply. I'm the culmination of three generations of baseball-loving women and I think that's actually really cool.

I'm mostly writing this because I don't quite want to let this Mets team go yet. They were so much fun this year and I already miss them so much, and they took us so much farther than anyone expected. 2024 wasn't our year, but it was one hell of a year and I love this cast of characters a lot.

This World Series would have divided my grandmother's family in the 1950s. Not so much today, since the Mets aren't there, but the Dodgers and Yankees haven't played in the WS against each other since 1981, and before their move to LA the Dodgers and Yankees met a few times in the 1950s. I wonder what my grandmother's siblings talked about, or if they trash talked each other, or if they gathered around the radio together for the play by play.

I just love how much this sport is literally in my blood.

[bradshawsbaby]

Letters to My Love // Part IX

Dream A Little Dream Of Me

Series Masterlist

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Pairing: Bob Floyd x Female Reader

Summary: When you signed up to volunteer with the USO, you never anticipated that you would meet a man like Ensign Robert Floyd. Fate brings you together one balmy spring evening in Charleston—the night before Bob is set to ship off across the Atlantic. Pen and paper become your only means of sharing your heart with the naval aviator who’s captivated it, igniting a correspondence that spans the distance between you. Can love blossom even as war rages and thousands of miles keep you apart?

Word Count: 3.2k

Author’s Note: Bobby and Peach’s story continues! Hope you all enjoy this latest installment!

Set the Mood: If you’re looking for some 1940s vibes, check out the playlist I made to pair with the story.

The title of this chapter comes from the popular song of the same name. Click here to listen to the first ever recording of the song from 1931!

Dedication: As always, this story is dedicated to my dear friend, @luminousnotmatter​. Clara, thank you, thank you, thank you for your support of this story!

Warnings: Alternating POV, allusions to the physical and emotional cost of war, lots of sweet fluff.

April 28, 1943

Dearest Peach (or is it Cookie now?),

I have to tell you, this game of tag might just be the best version of the game I’ve ever played. I sure was surprised—and pleased, believe me—when I opened your last letter to find another photograph inside. The other fellas on the carrier are starting to grumble about how they hardly ever get photos from their girls back home, so you’ve managed to make me quite a big shot around here. Tommy Boy told me just the other day that word’s spreading about how “Floyd’s always getting these pictures from a pretty girl back stateside.” In all honesty, I think they’re just shocked that a gal as pretty as you would be writing to a boring guy from the sticks like me.

Now I don’t want you to think I’m gloating or anything when you send me photos, Peach—although your pretty face DOES deserve to be on billboards, in my humble opinion. It’s just that carriers are smaller than you’d think, in terms of news spreading around, It doesn’t help matters that Benny is always looking over my shoulder during Mail Call, and that when I opened your most recent letter, he stood up on our bench and shouted “Bobby Boy’s got another picture, fellas!” Don’t you worry, though. I tucked your photo into my pocket, right over my heart, and wouldn’t let any of the others see it, no matter how much they begged. Serves them right for being so nosy.

All that to say, it’s a wonderful picture and it brought a big old smile to my face to see how happy you all looked at Christmastime. Please send my highest compliments to Dottie. You and your sister look so much alike, you could both be Hollywood starlets. I especially love your matching smiles—prettier than the angel on top of the Christmas tree. And Frankie is the spitting image of Paddy, my goodness! It’s funny, Paul, Jr. looks just like Paul, too. Maybe the boys will both grow up and go to Annapolis together. You know, following in their fathers’ footsteps and all that. Wouldn’t that be something if they both joined the Navy one day?

Speaking of us “squids,” as our Marine brothers are so wont to call us, I’m glad to hear that you enjoyed the photos that I sent with my last letter. Tommy Boy and Benny have been bragging to anyone who will listen that you have our pictures displayed on your desk. I made the mistake of letting them know that you think they’re very handsome, but don’t worry, I kept it just between us that you think I’m the most handsome. They’re good guys and I wouldn’t want to go bruising their egos or anything like that.

Mike is the name of the fella on board who has the camera and took the pictures for us. He’s hoping he can get his hands on some more film soon so that he can take some more photographs while we’re over here. He likes to send them back home to his fiancee in Arkansas. He’s a solid guy, Mike is. He even told me he’d be happy to take some more pictures for me to send to you when he’s able to—if you’d like that, that is.

I’m glad to know that you don’t mind me writing a little bit about you to my family. I received a letter from my mother the same day I received your letter, and she said you sound like the loveliest girl and that you’re more than welcome on the Floyd farm anytime you happen to find yourself in Linn County, Iowa. When I was writing back to her, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that nobody just so happens to find themselves in Linn County, Iowa. But the offer still stands! My mama would be more than happy to bake you all the pumpkin pies your heart desires. And she’d be more than happy to hear about that peach cobbler recipe, too!

Paul wanted me to tell you that you have no reason to be embarrassed about the punch spill, and that, in fact, you should put it out of your mind completely. He’s sitting across me from right now as I write this, writing his own letter back home to Natasha and the kids. Clara’s just learning to recognize her letters and read some basic words, and Paul, Jr. can’t read at all yet of course, so Paul includes little drawings for them when he writes. Natasha says they love them, and that Clara always carries his letters around when they’re running errands to show off to all the neighbors. “Look at Daddy’s pictures!” she tells them. He really is a good artist, you know. One of these days, I’m going to have him draw something for you. Anything in particular you’d like to see?

Oh, please don’t be embarrassed about my overhearing that conversation! That’s the last thing I want you to feel. You have no reason to be embarrassed, Peach. If anything, it’s that Eddie guy who should feel embarrassed for doing that to a lady. But like you—and Dottie—said, everything happens for a reason. I believe that, too. And I believe that good things can come out of even the worst circumstances. Take this war, for example. It’s awful. There’s no sugarcoating it or making it sound better than it is. It’s just plain awful. In the time I’ve been over here, I’ve seen and heard things that I’ll never be able to forget, things that make you question how human beings can do such things to one another. But I’ve also seen instances of such heroism and bravery, of people doing all they can to stick their necks out for each other and see each other home safely, and I think that that’s got to count for something, too. Don’t you think so, Peach? I know you’re all doing your part back home, too, and that means the world to us over here. We can feel it, and we appreciate it more than you can know. So you see? Good things can still come out of the hard times.

Like you and me meeting, for another thing. I can’t say that I’m grateful for this war, but I am thankful that it brought us together and allowed our paths to cross that night in Charleston. I’ll always be thankful for that, Peach. Not a day goes by that I don’t count my lucky stars that Paul finally convinced me to go to that dance that night. It was the last place in the world I wanted to be, but it turned out to be just the place I needed to be. Everything happens for a reason, right?

Speaking of that night at the dance, I had a dream the other night about dancing with you, Peach. We were at the USO dance at first, but then we were suddenly on the beach. As a farm boy from Iowa, you can imagine that I haven’t spent much time on the beach in my lifetime. But I suppose my subconscious remembers all the beaches I saw in Charleston, because there we were, dancing in the sand while the waves were crashing in. Do you like going to the beach? Like I said, there’s none in landlocked Iowa, but I’d be more than happy to let you be my tour guide when it comes to the best beaches South Carolina and Georgia have to offer.

It’s funny, I don’t usually remember my dreams, but I remember that one quite vividly. I woke up thinking I could still taste saltwater on my tongue and feel you in my arms. Maybe that sounds a little silly, but it’s true. It was the best dream I’ve ever had, I’m sure of it.

It does sound like little Frankie is quite the mischief-maker! Hiding keys already? Something tells me he’s going to give Dottie and Paddy a run for their money when he gets older! From everything you’ve told me, I really do think he and Paul, Jr. would make the best of friends. I imagine the two of them would get into even more mischief than Paul and I did when we were growing up!

Gosh, I wish more than anything that I could be there dancing with you, Peach. But I’m holding the thought of you dancing to “We’ll Meet Again” real close to my heart until we really can meet again. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to hear that song without thinking of you now.

Please do keep me updated on your Victory Garden efforts! I’m looking forward to hearing all about it. Believe me, no one could have a browner thumb than me—just ask Paul, Natasha, and pretty much my entire family—so I’m sure you and Dottie will do a wonderful job!

And Happy Belated Easter, Peach! I hope you had a lovely day with your family. We actually had a bit of exciting news that reached us on Easter Sunday. The Royal Navy sent word that they managed to sink a German U-boat off the coast of [REDACTED], which is hopefully a good sign for all the rest of us. I hope this war comes to an end soon. It feels like we’ve been fighting forever.

I hope that the South Carolina sunshine is treating you right, and that you’re safe and well. I can’t wait until your next letter arrives (I’ll try to keep Benny from looking over my shoulder next time).

Most Truly Yours,

Bobby

May 24, 1943

My Dear Bobby,

Don’t worry, it’s still Peach to you, and it always will be. Frankie is learning so many new words every day that I’m sure I’ll only be Aunt Cookie for a little while longer. But I’d like to stay Peach for a good long while, if that’s alright with you.

I’m sorry to disappoint all the fellas on the carrier—particularly Benny—by not including any new photographs with this letter. I’ll try to amend that next time. But I absolutely do not believe that it should come as any kind of shock to anyone that you and I write to one another, Bobby. Boring? Who would dare call you boring? I’ll not have you talking about yourself like that, Robert Floyd, do you hear me? I could just as easily say that the people back in Charleston would be shocked to learn that a handsome naval aviator is writing to a girl as shy and mousey as me, but I know you wouldn’t like that. Just like I don’t like hearing you talk badly about yourself. So let’s promise one another we won’t do that anymore, hm?

Dottie sends profuse thanks for your sweet words about the Christmas photo—she actually blushed when I told her what you’d written! And I could tell that Paddy was all puffed up with pride when I told him that you thought Frankie looked just like him. Dottie agrees with you wholeheartedly, by the way. “Both my boys are so handsome!” she declared. I think Paddy blushed a little bit at that, though he’d never admit it.

My goodness, imagine Frankie and Paul, Jr. both joining the Navy when they’re older? I think you’re quite right that they’d make excellent friends—but heaven help the Navy with the double trouble those two would bring with all their mischief-making!

By the way, I asked Paddy about that nickname you said the Marines like to use—squids? I’ve never seen my brother-in-law turn so red so fast! “Oh, what do they know?” he demanded, waving his hands in the air. “They’re just a bunch of jarheads!” Squids? Jarheads? I never realized there was such a rivalry between you! No wonder the sailors and the Marines seem to stay on opposite sides of the room whenever the USO hosts an event! I hope you know that I don’t think you’re a squid, Bobby. But if you were, you’d be the cutest squid in the seven seas.

You’re very considerate not to bruise Tommy Boy’s and Benny’s egos, so thank you very much for keeping our little secret. Emily came over the other day—she’s still so excited about the wedding and she wanted me to help her go over some details—and she saw the pictures of you and the boys on my desk. She remembered Paul from the night of the dance, and she thought the rest of you looked familiar, too. She said to pass along her best wishes, and I passed along your congratulations on her and Eddie’s engagement. I hope you don’t mind.

That’s very sweet of your friend, Mike to offer to take more photos for you! Of course I’d love for you to send more, if you’re able to! Being able to see that you’re okay, even with all the miles and a war between us, makes me so happy.

Your mama is most generous and kind to extend that invitation! While I can’t say that I have any reason to be in Linn County, Iowa at the moment, I will be certain to look up the Floyd family farm if ever I should happen to be in town. And please let your mama—and all of your family—know that, should they ever find themselves in Charleston, South Carolina, the Sheridan residence is always open to them. Your mama and I can swap recipes. I know Dottie would love that.

I couldn’t help smiling from ear to ear when I read the part of your letter where you talked about Paul’s drawings for Clara and Paul, Jr.! What a wonderful father he is! And an artist, too? I’m very impressed! Not to mention thankful to him for his unending kindness. I can see why the two of you are the best of friends—you both have the same good hearts. Hmm, now as for what kind of drawing I would like, I suppose that would depend on what Paul specializes in. Does he do portraits? In that case, I’d like to see him draw one of you. Does he draw cartoons? I can only imagine how he’d portray a conversation between Tommy Boy and Benny. If neither of those, then perhaps Paul can draw me some peaches—I always think of you now, Bobby, whenever I eat them.

Oh, Bobby. Yes, I do believe it counts for something when people try to hold onto their goodness in the midst of so much evil and bad. We know so little of what you’re facing over there beyond the small bits that we read in the newspaper or hear on the radio. I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to be living in it every day. I wish that I could hold you tight and make all the bad memories go away. But since I can’t, I’m glad to know that you’re able to find the glimpses of good where you can.

Without a doubt, everything happens for a reason, and I believe there’s a reason that you and I met that night, Bobby. Maybe a reason that’s bigger than you and I can ever understand. I’m grateful that our paths crossed, too. So, so grateful. I know this might sound silly considering we’ve only actually been together in person for a few hours, but you’ve helped me come out of my shell more than you can know. I’ve always been so shy, Bobby. Painfully so. It’s not easy for me to talk to new people, or people that I don’t know very well. It’s especially not easy for me to talk to handsome boys like you. But that night at the dance and during our walk on King Street—you made me feel seen, Bobby. And heard. Hardly anyone outside my family has ever made me feel that way. And then we started writing letters to each other and you’ve just been so easy to talk to, so easy to share my heart with. Thank you for that, Bobby. It means more to me than you can possibly imagine. So yes, I thank my lucky stars for that night, too.

Did you really have a dream about me? I’m blushing to think so, but now I don’t feel so shy to tell you that I’ve dreamed about you, too. In my dream, we were back at the ice cream parlor on King Street, sharing an ice cream sundae with lots of whipped cream and cherries on top. When you come home, we’ll have to take a drive to Folly Beach and get ice cream on the pier. I’ll be counting down the days until it happens!

Now speaking of our Victory Garden, Dottie and I are quite proud of the effort we put in this year! You’d think the two of us were a couple of regular old farm girls. We spent about a week or so clearing out the beds from last year and resoiling them. One of our neighbors, Mrs. Patterson had a beautiful garden last year, so she gave us a lot of helpful advice. We ended up planting beans, carrots, cucumbers, and tomatoes. It’s still a little too early to tell how they’ll end up, but they look promising so far! I think you’d be proud of us!

Things here on the homefront have been a little tricky as of late. I’m not sure if word has gotten over to you boys across the Atlantic, but some of the coal miners went on strike last month. It caused a bit of a crisis with regard to production and manufacturing. President Roosevelt delivered a fireside chat discussing the crisis earlier this month. He tried to remind all of us that it’s our patriotic duty to continue working and to do what we can for the war effort. I think Paddy was a bit worried about it, but the government has since taken control of the coal mines, and so we haven’t heard much more about it.

I want so badly to do my part for the war effort, Bobby. I think of you and Paul and Tommy Boy and Benny and all the others, risking your lives across the ocean to defend all of us back home. I want to do something, no matter how small, that can contribute and make a difference. There have been lots of women going to work in the factories ever since we entered the war. Some of them are filling their husbands’ and brothers’ positions while they’re off fighting. Paddy mentioned that they’re actually looking to fill civilian positions at Naval Air Station Charleston. It’s harder because of the background checks required, but I’d have a leg up, being Paddy’s sister-in-law. I’ve been thinking about asking Paddy to help me apply for a position. Do you think I should, Bobby? If it could be of any help to you and all the other men, I’d really like to give it a try. What do you think?

That’s wonderful news about the Royal Navy! Every time I hear about the Allies pushing further into Europe, or defeating our enemies in some way, it gives me a thrill of hope that maybe this all really will be over soon. I hope so, Bobby. I really hope so.

Even though there’s a few thousand miles between us, I hope you can feel all the good thoughts I’m sending your way. I can’t wait until I get your next letter. I always look forward to them.

Until next time, Bobby!

Most Affectionately Yours,

Peach

TAGLIST: @teacupsandtopgun @saturnsbabe69 @gigisimsonmars @marchingicenotes7 @high-speed-r @toobouquet @up-thereinthesky @lostinthefandoms11 @strangerparks @sweetwhispersofchaos

[zeldahime]

Highway to Pail Day 28

[Day 1] [Prev] [Next] @do-it-with-style-events

February 28: Shellfie.

Moving to the South Downs wasn't a permanent change—for beings as old as they were, nothing like this could be—but it went along with the real permanent change: that Aziraphale and Crowley could be together publicly, loudly, and nobody in Heaven or Hell could take it away from them or stop them. Aziraphale wouldn't Fall, neither of them would be tortured or punished or killed. They didn't have to duck around anymore, meeting in plausibly deniable ways. Crowley didn't have to leave the bookshop through the back in the dead of night so he could be seen emerging from his flat in the morning. Aziraphale didn't have to meticulously track every miracle he performed in the hopes of not exceeding his budget. They could hold hands.

Being allowed to touch, in public, was utterly intoxicating to them both.

And touch they did. Not just holding hands: Aziraphale was allowing his hair to grow, no longer required to keep it regulation-short, and Crowley fussed over it constantly, tying and untying and brushing and straightening and brushing flyaways into place; Aziraphale fixed Crowley's collar and cuffs, straightened his ties and scarves and pins. They walked arm-in-arm, like was once fashionable, or with arms around shoulders and waists, or hands resting on lower backs. When they talked they leaned in, hands on forearms, cheeks brushing.

They both smiled more, and more genuinely, truly and perfectly happy like neither of them had been since their creations; even more so, really, for all the years of experience behind them and for the pleasure of each other's love and company.

On a bright sunny spring day, Crowley suggested they go to down to the coast, and Aziraphale smiled and packed a picnic, and off they went.

The Bentley blasting You're My Best Friend on a loop the whole way (which irritated Aziraphale much more than Crowley, who was used to it), they headed straight down to Selsey to look out over the channel and get their toes wet. Aziraphale had changed into an old swimming costume, cream and powder blue alternating stripes ending at the elbows and knees, which he'd probably had since old Bertie had crowned at least; Crowley remained in his regular miracled suit, and intended to simply snap into a speedo if they went swimming.

Aziraphale's hand rested just above Crowley's knee the entire way, except when Crowley took sharp turns at a hundred miles per hour, when it did not rest so much as desperately cling for dear life.

The beach was deserted despite the sunshine, still too chilly to draw in human crowds. Aziraphale and Crowley walked along the coast hand-in-hand, looking out over the sea toward the Isle of Wight, the conversation meandering from the mechanics of plate tectonics (which neither of them understood) to a dinner party they once attended with Plato, from a confused discussion of Wales and whales to the plot of a Doctor Who episode Aziraphale had watched in 2007. This led Crowley to recount a blessing he'd done while stateside with the Dowlings, which reminded Aziraphale of a temptation he'd done in Czechoslovakia in 1983, which reminded Crowley of selfies. Crowley'd had a hand in selfies, tempting a young photographers to a bit of vanity, and it had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.

His phone was in his hands before he could finish his thought. He interrupted Aziraphale recounting the svíčková he'd had at a bistro in Prague with a command to "Smile, angel!" This earned him a confused look, Aziraphale turning to ask him why, blurrily captured with the tap of a button and a recorded sound effect of a shutter click.

"Whatever are you doing, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked crossly, irritated at the interruption, and Crowley showed him the screen.

The blurry photograph was a nightmare of composition, but Aziraphale immediately loved it more than any in the world, save one. Crowley was smiling, his eyes crinkled at the edge of his sunglasses, one arm visibly extended to hold the phone and the other intertwined with Aziraphale's, Aziraphale clearly beginning to face him. The first photograph of them had been taken at a moment of temporary relief, taken by an enemy and intended to be used against them. The second was pure freedom, pure happiness, taken by Crowley himself, simply because he'd wanted to.

"Oh," Aziraphale said, voice shaky.

"Yeah," was Crowley's equally shaky reply.

"My dear Crowley, you must print this out when we return to the cottage."

"I—Angel, this isn't the only one this phone can take, we can have a better—"

"I certainly hope we will, my dear Crowley," Aziraphale said softly. "And I want to print this one."

They looked at the phone, and then at each other, and smiled.

"Yeah. We'll print it."

Aziraphale had it framed. It hung as a set with an old photograph from the Second World War in their library, above a yellow Georgian chaise that held a mismatched throw blanket and cushion, one in red-and-black tartan and the other patterned with cream and blue snakes.

--

Author's note: This is what came up when I googled "czech food" and HOLY MACARONI IT SOUNDS DELICIOUS. I will be looking for a Czech restaurant that serves svíčková in my area stat.

[scotianostra]

October 1st 1999 saw the sad death of Lena Zavaroni.

Lena was a Scottish child singer and a television show host. With her album Ma! He’s Making Eyes at Me at ten years of age, she is the youngest person in history to have an album in the top ten of the UK Albums Chart. Later in life she hosted TV shows and appeared on stage. She died at the age of 35 after a long battle with anorexia nervosa.

Born Lena Hilda Zavaroni November 4th 1963...( there is where it hits me, how young she was when she passed away, less than two years younger than myself, seeing it written is such a reminder of our own mortality)... in Greenock and grew up in the small town of Rothesay on the Isle of Bute with musical parents, who owned a fish and chip shop. Father Victor Zavaroni played the guitar, mother Hilda sang, and Lena herself sang from the age of two. Her Grandfather, Alfredo had emigrated from Italy.

She was discovered in the summer of 1973 by record producer Tommy Scott, who was on holiday in Rothesay and heard her singing with her father and uncle in a band. Scott contacted impresario Phil Solomon, which led to his partner Dorothy Solomon’s becoming Zavaroni’s manager.

In 1974 Lena appeared on Opportunity Knocks hosted by Hughie Green and won the show for a record-breaking five weeks running. She followed this with the album Ma, a collection of classic and then-recent pop standards which reached number eight in the UK album chart. At 10 years, 146 days old, Zavaroni is still the youngest person to have an album in the Top 10 and was also the youngest person to appear on the BBC’s Top of the Pops.

Zavaroni also sang at a Hollywood charity show with Frank Sinatra and Lucille Ball in 1974, at which Ball commented, “You’re special. Very special and very, very good,” although some sources attribute the words to Sinatra. Following this, Zavaroni guest-starred on The Carol Burnett Show. She also appeared in The Morecambe and Wise Show, the 1976 Royal Variety Show and performed at the White House for US President Gerald Ford. Signed to the soul-oriented Stax Records label in the United States, Zavaroni did not make much of a chart impact Stateside despite the praise and television appearances, as her Ma album failed to chart and its title single made it only to number 91 on the Billboard Hot 100 during a four-week chart run in the summer of 1974.

While attending London’s Italia Conti Academy stage school, Lena met and became long-term friends with child star Bonnie Langford. The two starred in the TV special Lena and Bonnie.

Between 1979 and 1982, Lena had her own TV series on the BBC, Lena Zavaroni and Music, which featured singing and dancing, and included guests such as Spike Milligan, Elaine Stritch, and Les Dawson.

From the age of 13, Zavaroni suffered from anorexia nervosa. While at stage school, her weight dropped to 56 lb (4 stone or 25 kg). Zavaroni blamed this on the pressure placed upon her to fit into costumes while at the same time she was “developing as a woman.

She continued to suffer from anorexia throughout the 1980s, and in 1989 she married computer consultant Peter Wiltshire. The couple settled in north London but separated 18 months later. Also in 1989, Zavaroni’s mother, Hilda, died of a tranquilliser overdose and a fire destroyed all of her showbiz mementos.

After the breakup of her marriage, Zavaroni moved to Hoddesdon, Hertfordshire, to be nearer to her father and his second wife. By this time, she was living on state benefits and in 1999 was accused of stealing a 50p packet of jelly, although the charges were later dropped.

Zavaroni underwent a number of drug treatments and received electroconvulsive therapy in an attempt to beat her anorexia. Her inquest was told that none of these had been successful in the long term. In addition she was suffering from depression and begged doctors to operate on her to relieve her depression. Although the operation would not cure her anorexia, she was desperate for it to proceed and threatened suicide (she also took a drug overdose) if it did not.

In September 1999 Zavaroni was admitted to University Hospital of Wales in Cardiff for a psychosurgical operation. After the operation, she appeared to be in a satisfactory condition and after a week she was “making telephone calls, cheerful and engaging in conversation,” even asking her doctor if he thought there was any chance that she would get back on stage. However, three weeks after the operation, she developed a chest infection and died from pneumonia on 1st October 1999.

[ladywaffles]

16 + icemav for the drunken confession prompts!!!

okay so this one kinda ran away from me, oops! thank you for playing <3

"This is not a dream, I think. In my dreams, we're usually kissing."

send me a pairing and a number!

It lasts sixteen months.

They run out the clock as best as they can, and then they put overtime on the clock and run that down too.

But Ice has always wanted, and then wanted more, and TOPGUN was only ever a stop on the way to the top for him.

He understood that going in; their time was limited. Maverick has never shied away from a challenge, though, especially one that Iceman placed in front of him.

Create a life that makes Iceman want to stop, for him. Make a place that Iceman won’t want to leave, when the time comes.

(It will be many years down the line when he finds out, but Maverick was almost successful in his attempt. It is only the decades they have behind them, spent together, that stops this from hurting.)

So Ice’s time at TOPGUN comes to an end. It’s almost a joke, really; Maverick’s track record of relationships in Miramar is oh-for-two. Charlie had packed off for D.C. before Ice rotated back stateside. Maverick was too burned by the experience to even think about approaching Ice in any way that hinted of romance.

Sixteen months of flying circles around hotshot flyboys with Ice on his wing, the wide expanse of the Pacific stretching out in front of him. He really couldn’t hope for anything better. He only wishes he had more time.

They spend their last night of freedom—Ice’s second-to-last night onshore—on a pub crawl that Mav will be feeling in the morning. He won’t regret it, but even as he matches Ice shot for shot, because Ice is an all-American poster boy but he hates beer more than anything, Maverick wants to slow down and take in these last memories of Ice at his side. They serve at the pleasure of the Navy, and only God knows when the brass will smile on them and send down orders to reunite Maverick Mitchell and the Iceman, the only fighter pilots on active duty to score air-to-air kills since the end of the Vietnam War.

They close out a bar on the other side of town, and then because it’s Ice’s last night and Ice gets what he wants, no matter how stupid Maverick thinks it might be, they end up on a picnic bench in some park, looking up at the admittedly bright stars.

“Do you ever miss it?” Ice asks.

“Hmm?” Maverick’s head is still fuzzy, his cheeks still warm with all the alcohol rushing through his body.

“The stars,” Ice says, staring up. “When you’re here, don’t you miss it? When you were out on the Enterprise. I swear I used to go up on deck every night just to look at the stars.”

Maverick shrugs. “They’re mostly the same, no matter where you go. Maybe if I crossed the line and the constellations changed, I’d care more, but stars are stars.”

“Huh.”

“Do you?” Maverick turns to look at Ice, who seems to be tracing out lines in his mind, vectors towards true north, or maybe the outline of Cygnus.

“Yeah. Where I grew up, the light pollution was so bad, you could barely make out the North Star. The city was just too bright. The first time I was on a carrier, and I saw the stars, what they actually looked like… Man, Slider must’ve thought I was dumb, walking around with my mouth gaping open like a fish. Nearly ate shit when we were heading back to bunk because my head was in the clouds, I hit the knee-knockers. He didn’t let that one go for weeks.”

“At least you’ll get to see them again,” Maverick tells him.

Stay, his heart begs him to say. Stay here, with me. I’m not the starry night sky, but can’t I be enough? Please, let me be enough to keep you.

“Yeah,” Ice muses. “I almost wish I could take you with me.”

“What?” Maverick lets out a shaky laugh.

Ice smiles, that small little thing that he does whenever he’s amused, the one that Maverick learned to look for early on. A blink-and-you-miss it grin, a glimpse into the real man behind the Iceman.

“What? Was it not obvious? You need me to say it out loud?”

“I don’t—”

“I’m gonna miss you, Mitchell,” Ice says easily. He doesn’t look in Maverick’s direction, even as he continues. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do out there without you on my wing. It’s been so long since I— since I flew without you right there, annoying me over the radio. What am I gonna do without you chattering in my ear?”

“I’m sure you’ll find another flyboy out there to talk your ear off,” Maverick replies, falling into the banter. It’s not what he expected from Ice, but maybe the alcohol had more of an effect on Ice than he thought it did.

“I would stay here, if I could,” Ice admits.

You can! Maverick wants to cry. You can stay here! Fly with me! Stay with me!

“I’m gonna be a tough act to follow,” he says instead.

“You sure are,” Ice agrees.

“You can’t stay here if you want that promotion, though. That’s what you want.”

“What I want,” Ice repeats. “You know, these last few weeks, I wanted nothing more than this.”

Ice looks at him now, a blush on his cheeks from the chill bite of the midnight air and the alcohol coursing through his veins.

Maverick furrows his brow. “This?”

“Just sitting here, taking a moment to enjoy your company. Don’t let it get to your head, Mitchell, I’m still the better pilot, but you’re a good man. Everyone’s wanted something from me these last few weeks, and I was worried I wouldn’t get a chance to say it.”

Maverick cracks a grin. “You were thinking about me?”

Ice groans. “Of course that’s what you latch onto.”

“Iceman, thinking about little ol’ me!” Maverick jumps up and yells it out to the world, teasing Ice. It’s the only way he can think to make it hurt a little less, that it took Ice this long to say anything. “I win!”

“This isn’t what I was dreaming of,” Ice deadpans.

Maverick turns to him, breathless. That… changes things. “You were dreaming of me?” He sits back down next to Ice, a little closer than before. Their knees are knocking together.

Ice stares down at the ground, focusing on the grass with deadly intent.

“Yes. Yeah,” he breathes out.

“And is this like your dream?” Maverick asks gently. “Is this the dream you wanted?”

“This is not a dream, I think,” Ice answers in a soft voice. “In my dreams, by now, we’re usually kissing.”

And Ice looks up at him, his heart fully bared and placed in Maverick’s hands, his eyes full of hope and fear in equal measures, and Maverick aches.

“I would’ve said something sooner,” Ice continues, “But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to risk it. It took me all night to work up the courage to say something, and all that alcohol to pry it from my own damn self, but the only thing I’ve wanted to do all night is just say it and take you back to mine, so I could have you, just for the one night—”

Maverick cuts him off with a hand on his jaw. He can feel the flush in Ice’s cheeks, the hot blush that rises to his skin. “Ice, it’s okay,” he says.

And slowly, so Ice knows that it’s coming, so Ice can stop him if he wants to (even though that might break Maverick’s heart, and maybe Ice’s too, if he’s understanding this right), Maverick presses his lips to Ice’s. He feels the hot puff of Ice’s sigh against his lips, then the hard tug of Ice’s hands on his hips as he deepens the kiss.

Maverick willingly follows where Ice leads him, because his wingman has never led him astray. He ends up straddled across Ice’s lap, hanging on desperately as Ice kisses him with a passion he’s never felt from anyone else.

It’s only when he can’t breathe anymore that he stops, leaning his forehead against Ice’s, his weight falling back on his haunches. Ice’s hands steady him as they breathe together, big, heaving sighs like they’d just done the thousand-yard dash.

Stay, Maverick’s heart chants. Stay with me, don’t leave. Ask me to go with you, and I will. Just say the words.

“You have to go,” Maverick says sadly. He’s sobering up faster than he ever has before, realizing that there are a scant few hours left between now and when Ice goes back to sea.

“I have to go,” Ice repeats. He presses a light kiss to Maverick’s lips.

I’m sorry.

“I’ll be here,” he says.

Come back to me. I can’t lose you too.

Maverick kisses him again, and again, and again, to drive the point home.

“I’ll come back,” Ice replies, understanding.

The timer on Ice’s last day has already started ticking. Maverick is surprised more than anything when Ice drives them back to his housing, seven hours after they first set out on their pub crawl, and opens the passenger door for Maverick. He leads him into his bedroom and holds him for the rest of the night, falling asleep just as the sun starts to peek through the blinds.

Maverick doesn’t want to let go, but he won’t stop Ice. He commits Ice to memory as best he can, and when the time comes, he kisses Ice hard, pouring sixteen months of wanting and desire and love into it.

Ice meets him with the same fervor, the same built-up emotion flowing out of him, a mirror image of his own feelings reflected back to him.

They’re wingmen, after all.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Dean Obeidallah at The Dean's Report:

Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz has done more for our veterans than Donald Trump, JD Vance, Tom Cotton, and all of Trump’s despicable enablers put together.  Yet we’ve seen these people—led by  Vance—smear Walz’s dedication to our country with lies like he “abandoned” his fellow National Guard members when they were about to serve in Iraq. In reality, Walz may have stopped serving in the National Guard in 2005, but he never stopped serving our nation and the women and men of our armed services. In an effort to correct the record, let’s start with the headline that should appear in corporate media. Tim Walz did go to a war zone in Iraq. He also went to a war zone in Afghanistan. If you are asking: “What am I talking about?!,” it’s because the sheep of the corporate media all tell the same story without challenging the lie fueling it. In his first term in Congress, Walz travelled to a war zone in Iraq as well as Afghanistan to speak to our troops and find out what more they needed in terms of support. As the headline of the Minnesota Tribune article from January 16, 2008 reads, “Walz visits war zones to study veterans' care system.”  

Another local Minnesota paper wrote at the time, “Walz said the trip gave him a renewed sense of urgency to improve access to soldiers' medical records.”  Walz—who is pictured in the article in both Iraq and Afghanistan speaking and dining with our troops—talked of the need to streamline databases so that active duty soldiers in these combat zones can get the care they need as well as making it easier for them to continue the care when back stateside.

Walz did not have to go, he chose to go to a war zone. In future years he would visit Syria and other places in the Middle East in times of tensions. From there, Walz would continue for his entire time in Congress--from 2007 until he was elected Governor in 2018--being a champion for the members of the military and our veterans.  Walz co-chaired the National Guard and Reserves Caucus, ran leadership outreach roundtables for veterans service organizations, was applauded by veterans affairs groups for his work on the VA panel, especially for focusing on mental health care issues. One of Walz’s biggest legislative achievement in Congress was championing a bipartisan veterans’ suicide prevention legislation that became law in 2015. Through his work, Walz rose to become the ranking Democrat on the House Veterans’ Affairs Committee and served multiple stints on the Armed Services Committee. Walz’s record of service to our nation, however, began well before running for Congress in 2006. Walz enlisted in the Nebraska National Guard on April 8, 1981, two days after his 17th birthday.  Not long after, Walz was off to basic training in Georgia, on the first stop in a military career that would take him to Arkansas, Texas, the Arctic Circle and other places in the world. As Walz told a Minnesota radio station in 2018, "You go where you're told to go."

[...] Walz could’ve retired at the 20-year mark. In fact, he probably would’ve. But then came 9/11. That attack on our nation inspired him to re-enlist. In August  2003, Walz was deployed to Italy, Turkey, Belgium and Britain to support U.S. operations in Afghanistan under Operation Enduring Freedom--where he would remain for nearly 10 months. But his time in an artillery unit came at a cost to his health. The deafening booms and shock waves from howitzer barrels left Walz with hearing loss in both ears. In 2005, he underwent stapedectomy surgery to alleviate the problem-- a procedure in which damaged bones inside the ear are replaced with a prosthesis. That was the year he decided to retire at 41 years of age and after serving for 24 years in the National Guard. That is the American patriot JD Vance, Trump and their allies are smearing with lies. Obviously, Trump is man devoid of honor. His entire life has been in service of himself.  When Trump had an opportunity to serve our nation in the military, he refused—instead choosing to fabricate the medical condition of bone spurs. As a reminder, in 2018 the daughters of a Queens foot doctor say their late father diagnosed Trump with bone spurs to help him avoid the Vietnam War draft as a “favor” to his father Fred Trump.

[...] When it comes to Vance, he did serve in the US Marines as a combat reporter from Sept. 2003 to Sept 2007.  He didn’t re-enlist. Instead, he went to Yale law school. And while Walz was fighting for veterans in Congress, Vance was hobnobbing with tech billionaires in Silicon Valley—who would later bankroll his run for US Senate.

Dean Obeidallah has an excellent column spotlighting Tim Walz’s military service and how he actually supports the troops, compared to weirdo JD Vance.

[weaversweek]

"Please please me" - The Beatles

1962 Written by Paul McCartney and John Lennon

An entry in Let's Do It, my personal favourite singles from 1954-76.

"Congratulations, gentlemen. You've just made your first No. 1."

Lennon's original arrangement featured a Roy Orbison-style vocal leap in the chorus, and was significantly slower than the song we know and love. Producer George Martin suggested they speed up the tune, put some harmonica in the mix, and add a second vocal line. That trick of diverging harmonies? Directly copied from "Cathy's clown".

It gave the young lads from Liverpool lots of firsts. First big hit single, hitting the top spot in early 1963. First television appearance, on Thank Your Lucky Stars. First song onto their album, first release stateside, and first record bought by Glasgow schoolboy James Gordon Brown.

Unlike that budding politician, The Beatles would bestride the world like a four-headed colossus. A seven-year reign as The World's Biggest Band begins here.

[randomvarious]

Now listening:

Quadrastate by 808 State (1989)

Here's a pretty neat quote that 808 State's Martin Price gave to journalist Simon Trask for a profile of his group in the November 1989 issue of Music Technology:

Quadrastate is our version of techno", Price says. "[Derrick] May, [Kevin] Saunderson, [Juan] Atkins, they're my heroes. Detroit is the place that I want to go to. I can still remember the first time I heard Model 500's 'No UFOs' played at a club - I knocked a table over in my hurry to get to the DJ and find out what the record was.

And here we go, folks. This is the one that really kicked things into gear for legendary electronic Manchester lads 808 State. Introducing Quadrastate, the third release in their discography, which is a mini-album/EP from 1989 that features the original version of "Pacific State," the classic Balearic deep house anthem that would enable the group to successfully crack on a commercial level, with BBC Radio 1 DJ Gary Davies giving it plenty of spin.

Prior to the release of Quadrastate, 808 State had made two other releases: their brilliantly gnarly 1988 debut acid house LP, Newbuild, which is probably the least commercially-appealing thing that they've ever made, and a follow-up three-song 12-inch called "Let Yourself Go"/"Deepville." Neither of these managed to chart anywhere, but as critic Paul Cooper once put it in his write-up of Newbuild for Pitchfork, this album was like acid house's Velvet Underground & Nico—not many people heard it when it first came out, but for those who did, like Aphex Twin, who would later re-release it on his own Rephlex label, it definitely left a lasting impact.

And this release, contrary to the prior two, charted; not in an *official* capacity, but on UK publication Music Week's 'Dance Albums' chart. For the week of September 9, 1989, Quadrastate had made it to #10, and by the week of November 4, 1989, it had managed to climb all the way up to #1 😎.

This record also marked the end of one chapter and the start of another for the group as well. Gerald Simpson, aka A Guy Called Gerald, who had been in 808 State since its inception, had worked on "Pacific State" before departing (more about that in a future post), and in his place came a pair of much younger guys, Andy Barker and Darren Partington, whose hipper and more modern ideas would mesh well with the experimental and jazz-funk sensibilities of the older duo of Graham Massey and Martin Price.

Old meeting new.

(Source: "The State of Technology," Music Technology, November 1989)

And lastly, Quadrastate was the final 808 State release to be issued by Martin Price's own label, Creed Records. Following this, the 808 State name would grow to become much larger. ZTT, the label that had been co-founded by The Art of Noise's Trevor Horn—who himself is credited as "the man who invented the eighties"—would sign them, and not long after that, 808 State would score a Stateside deal with legendary hip hop label Tommy Boy Records as well.

So, just like their first two releases, which were also issued on Creed, this one isn't on Spotify, either, but here it is in a single YouTube video:

And it looks like most of the rest of their discography following this release *is* on Spotify 👍🙏.

Gonna tackle the "Pacific State" 12-inch after this!

And for those just joining, here's some stuff about 808 State's first two releases:

Newbuild "Let Yourself Go"/"Deepville"