#and he wants ford to be the acolyte of an acolyte?

[twilights-stuff]

Just finished my art of Stan and Ford for my GFxSW AU. Just to be clear, this au took place during the time of the Galactic Empire and both Stan Twins are in their salt and pepper era. Really loving the whole red and blue thing they have going on.

Bonus art, a wip of Grand Inquisitor!Bill and Ford in this au, The Master and The Apprentice:

[themsource]

Gravity Falls AU - 7alt8: Stanley Pines

I love Gravity Falls and I recently finished Book of Bill XD

So! AU idea splurge time!

What if Stan had never broken Ford's science project? Had let Ford go off to West Tech and stayed in Glass Shard Beach?

What if Bill had taken an interest in Stan to be his "partner" rather than Ford? Wanting someone he thought was stupid enough to never be disloyal to him and yet strong enough to be of use, and decided to prey upon Stan's loneliness and daddy issues as a heartbroken teen at 17 before stealing him away with the promise of 'never having to be alone ever again'?

You get this, a Stan that's spent the last 43 years as Bill's acolyte in the nightmare realm and seems to have gotten perpetually stuck in the angsty 90s. A Stan that doesn't return to his world until it's time for him to start taking it over one country at a time in Bill's name with the henchmaniacs at his side.

...a missing twin that has been sought after by his brother for the last 43 years.

[stargazerlily7210]

Alright, here's a big claim for the finale (whether I actually believe/want any of these individually is besides the point. This is purely about how these all vibe together):

Sutekh is ultimately acting as RTD's Harbinger for opening the Classic Who floodgates as he sees fit.

Susan Triad will still turn out to be Granddaughter Susan. It will be revealed that the smattering of Susan Twists across The Doctor's travels will turn out to have been her Time Lord (aka. 'Complex Space-Time Event') consciousness calling out to her Grandfather for help. And, speaking of that, the Kind Woman RTD mentioned who is on a far away planet with something vital to The Doctor and Ruby, will be either one of Susan Triad dream selves or Carol Anne Ford herself. The something vital will either be the hope/confirmation/proof/information needed to unlock Susan's Memories and restore Susan Triad to her full Regenerated Susan Granddaughter self or Baby Ruby.

Ruby's mom is either revealed to just be an innocent, albeit unfortunate person turned acolyte of Sutekh (think, the speech Harriet/Sutekh gave about 'The Vessel. Which, presumably is the TARDIS but could honestly be referring to any/all of the current female presenting mystery based characters, as well.) The Trickster working under Sutekh. Or, more likely, Ruby herself.

The 'heartbreaking' moment we keep hearing about will either be Mel's death (as victim or sacrifice, hard to say), Ruby's death (imagine she learns she's a manifestation somehow brought about by the fight with Sutekh. Then defends her self sacrifice claiming it's fine because she doesn't really exist) or a reveal that refocuses this all back to The Doctor's foundling status.

The Doctor (and Ruby, or Mel, depending on who dies) will escape Sutekh in 2024 by using the oddly solid time window/'memory'/recording of the TARDIS to enter the Memory TARDIS (aka. The consciousness of the TARDIS itself that's defending itself against Sutekh's control). Which is shielded from Sutekh, but doesn't have the power to do anything else... Until Tales of the TARDIS gets revealed as The TARDIS calling out for help by using the time=memory=reality hack that Tales of the TARDIS has been alluding to.

If it's Mel who died, she will get brought back to some sort of existance (whether fully back to life, or only within the confines of the Memory TARDIS) through the magic of the Memory TARDIS. Kind of like how Clara was semi undead and had her own TARDIS.

If it's Ruby who died, the 15/Ruby scenes we saw bookending the Pyramids of Mars TotT episode will be something like a mix between the 'literally living on through memory' magic mentioned above and the Teacher Clara Shadow in 12's Mind Palace TARDIS. But she will ultimately be brought completely back to life.

Mrs. Flood will remain an off-putting mystery but will seemingly be on The Doctor's side, albeit away from any of the immediate action for the majority of, if not the entire episode. However, whether her identity gets revealed this episode or not, we will get confirmation that she is a Time Lord herself... and she'll inevitably be revealed as The Monk (for even longer winded reasons that ultimately amount to nothing).

[andrewlovely]

Homecoming

USS George H.W. Bush USS Gerald R. Ford They dock in my hometown and dominate the landscape. Holy Roman Empire Such power is seductive… You can’t take your eyes away Two Bechtel A1B nuclear reactors Five squadrons of multirole air superiority strike fighters

Who could oppose them? And who would even think to? We are nothing. Provincials on the outskirts of Rome

I want to believe in Big Brother I want to rest easy knowing that Father protects the world And beam with pride whenever I see his warships coming on the horizon. Guardians of the Free World Sentinels of the West

But I’ve been too close and seen too much I know too much and I know better

Satanism in the frat house Machiavelli’s acolytes thirsty for blood But they’ll settle for red death and sexual assault. A brood of vipers A school of sharks who eat their own young

They turn on each other out of a kind of boredom Or simply because they know of nothing else better to do. Brotherhood is betrayal

Patio get-togethers with smoked salmon queso carrot dips and forced laughter. Amidst the bad jokes and the desperate cackling my dad’s friend tells me how much he loves Batman and how much he misses killing people.

Post 9/11 lonestar quarterback varsity cheerleader pep-rally culture Band of Brothers jingoism and Republican family values Post Reich Fourth Reich zeitgeist propaganda films Our dear beloved Hero of The Fatherland Our dear beloved American Sniper scouting the aisles of HEB for Always Ultra Maxi Pads and cheap microwave dinners.

I’m getting Laguna Beach flashbacks and Homeland Security Orange Terror Alerts. Over a million killed in Iraq, But Janet Jackson’s exposed nipple is somehow the pinnacle of moral depravity. Wealth is health.

Long gone the Comanche trails we used to hike and the old wooden watchtower where the good Christian children warned of strange nightly rituals and animal sacrifice. Now they paved the sacred grounds with another shopping mall and you can buy arrowhead souvenirs where every burger joint meets every coffee shop. Interstate I-95 on the next exit. Highway marker 279. Food and gas in 16 miles.

I woke up on some European toll road federal highway built by Colonel Sanders’ military junta. I could just as easily have been driving back from San Antonio Airport. Home of the 1999 NBA Champions. The signs are the same everywhere But they all lead back to the same source.

Rick was a driver for Halliburton. Always spoke to me in a heavy drawl about the importance of having a good attitude. “We gotta fight ‘em over there so we don’t fight ‘em over here, Andrew.” I always thought that was just the way he talked. Turns out it was the highballs and the VA drug cocktail he drank every morning. He wasn’t even from Texas.

I never did find out who “they” were. The ones we were supposed to “fight over there.” But apparently they were in cahoots with whoever it was he fought in Vietnam.

Rick had a pretty good attitude about driving a truck I guess. About as good of an attitude as you could have really. He went to church every Sunday and blew his brains out on the Fourth of July. A patriot to the very end. Yeah, they used him up pretty good alright.

Beverly was a Dallas debutante with a sweet disposition, if maybe wound up a bit too tight for the likes of Austin. I probably seemed alien to her and maybe too polite, or too gentle for the rugged “boys will be boys” expectations that southern women seem to cater to and delight in.

She always asked me if I wanted more sweet potato casserole with a mixture of disappointment and confusion. I think I just seemed strange to her. But she was nice enough, and everyone was always “doin’ good, ya know And we’re all just doin’ fine… And you know, Doyle just bought that new boat he was wantin’ And I think we’re finally thinkin’ ‘bout sellin’ that old house finally.”

Beverly eventually jumped off the roof of a nine story parking garage. But that just got swept under the rug right alongside everything else.

There was a murder in Dallas and all Americans carry it three layers deep in different forms of societal conditioning and infra-red shades of misplaced anger and resentment. “The military industrial complex now permeates all aspects of our national identity and daily life: the political, the economical, even the spiritual.”

Ordinary citizens are buried and there’s nothing left, they’re all used up. Empty vessels filled to the brim and then discarded At the brink, at the brink, the cracks always form at the brink!

Lightning strikes splitting down Dick Van Dyke’s milk bottles, crazing through the glass, and just at the moment of critical eclampsis, the water cannot hold, it’s too late for the light, too late for Japanese Kintsugi, and everything not saved will be lost.

There will be no apotheosis, no final reckoning with the cowardly and dastardly adversaries who always hid themselves, but who, thinking their time nigh and the hour at hand prepared duly and dutifully beforehand to be utterly invincible, their case bulletproof, their charge noble and steadfast, now suddenly dare to reveal themselves, [and what a gift (!)], so you can finally stand up and fight, so you can finally show yourself, and show your power, and fight them head-on, and fight them in the light of daybreak, and fight them in the light of high noon, and with no more evasions, and with no more doublespeak, and with no more shadows, no…

There will be no final apology, no great apocalypse, just a tired whimper and a bewildered release.

Now the casket was lowered with military honors, and we all saw that, we all saw it. But The Beast was never slain. It gave the eulogy at its own funeral dressed in drag. Hairline trigger fingernail painted black. The CIA has operatives with dreadlocks and man-buns now. They meet all their diversity quotas. All of the bureaucratic vestiges of The Republic have been allowed to persist. They carry on the day-to-day affairs of The Empire and seem to please the people Conjuring up images of some past glory or vaguely reminiscent of some new half-promise half-remembered. It’s been a successful rebrand.

We all live on three job credit cards, but if we can just figure out which bathrooms we’re allowed to use, we’ll probably be OK. - Lovely

[sweetperversiongirl]

Friendship, love, and the stubby apple tree

Arthur x Eames Warnings: Students, ex friends

- I don't understand why you're puffing up your hood like that, mate," Yusuf shrugged. - I think it's as plain as it ever was. Well, he's a bit dressy. Well, he likes clothes, that's true. Who doesn't? Look at you... 

Eames swipes a blade of grass pulled off the lawn and frowns irritably, casting a sideways and unkind glance at the approaching company. They are chatting merrily and don't seem to notice anyone or anything around them. 

- What about me? - He looks down at his outstretched legs, wiggling his feet. 

Yusuf lets out an obscenely loud snort. A couple of students sitting on the lawn three meters away turn around. Eames pokes the Hindu unhappily under the rib. 

- No, really. Really? - Yusuf rolls his eyes and smirks ironically, dodging the other's elbow too deftly for such a hamster. Eames barely restrains himself from slapping him. - Eames, you're like a walking advertisement for Tom Ford clothes. These sneakers cost, what, a thousand bucks? And jeans no less, that's for sure. I don't care about that Jew or his suits. 

- That's right, Yusuf. You don't understand. It's jeans and sneakers. I don't care how much they cost. What is he, 19? He looks like a high school punk. What's the point of showing off?Shirts, ties. And the hair... Hell, I could just wrap it around my arm and cut it all the way off. 

He wrinkles squeamishly, plucks another blade of grass and sends it into his mouth to replace the one he has already safely chewed. The company, meanwhile, approaches and passes within a meter of them. 

- Shit. The shoelace comes undone. 

Cobb, one of Arthur Weig's entourage, stops and gets down on one knee. 

- Hi, Eames," Arthur says, turning ninety degrees. 

He looks at Eames with squinted eyes, and there are little devils dancing in them. It seems like they're about to pop out and scatter all over the lawn. And those dimples on his cheeks... They make everyone melt like jellyfish on hot sand. Even the toughest teachers love that skinny bastard. And the girls are always hanging around him... 

Eames stares at Arthur for a few seconds, putting his palm up against the sun. He snorts dismissively and turns away to Yusuf, ignoring the greeting. No, he's not like that! He's not like that. He's not like that. With those dimples and protruding ears... Let him test his charms on his wretched minions. 

Arthur only shrugs his shoulders. 

- How are you, Yusuf? 

- Hello, Arthur. I'm all right. How are you? - The traitor is flattered by the pleasantries, for which he is immediately elbowed in the chest again. 

- I'm fine. Is Eames not in the mood, as usual? 

- Arthur, baby, you better get out of here," Eames snapped irritably and nodded toward the waiting company. - Your acolytes are all impatient. You can't keep people waiting that long. It's indecent. 

Arthur smiles nonchalantly as Eames plucks another herb from the lawn and pops it into his mouth. At this rate, he'll soon be chowing down on all the grass on the university lawn. 

- These are friends, Eames. I wish you could understand that," Arthur announces, as if he were addressing an imbecile. - See you, Yusuf. 

He waves goodbye to Yusuf and leaves. Ims wants to pull off his sneaker and throw it at the pompous brat's head. But of course he doesn't. It's a lot of honor to throw Tom Ford sneakers at a bunch of glossy Jews. 

He and Arthur have lived - and continue to live - in neighboring houses since their early childhood. Their parents are friends, and the hedge between the yards has a passageway that isn't even covered by a wicket. 

Eames and Arthur are far from being so friendly. They've been feuding, not much more than that, since high school. And if anyone asks Eames why, he just snorts and doesn't say anything intelligible. Just because... 

The trouble is that Eames, no matter how hard he tries, can't remember why. He and Arthur were thick as thieves when they were kids. Spent weekends together, climbed into each other's rooms through the window on the branch of an old, gnarly apple tree. 

The apple tree is still in the same place, just as old and stubby. And no one even bothered to cut the branch down. Eames had been threatening to do it for years, but he couldn't get around to it. 

Yusuf climbs awkwardly off the lawn and grunts like a panting hedgehog. Looks like someone needs to stop eating burgers and pizza," Eames thinks with a chuckle and follows him, picking up his sweatshirt and backpack. 

- It's about time you guys got together for a beer," Yusuf says authoritatively as the two of them slowly make their way to campus. - You're obviously in some kind of trouble. And they're not solving them on their own, as you can see. So why don't we just sit down and have a heart-to-heart? 

- We don't have any problems," grimly grumbles Eames. - You can talk to him yourself if you like. He might even be kind enough to give you a place among his henchmen. Somewhere between Cobb and Ariadne. 

- You know, buddy, you can be such an asshole sometimes. 

- Of course I am. I'm not Arthur, not like their highnesses. 

- Asshole. 

- Pfft... 

- Yeah, yeah. A real one. 

*** 

Nash is throwing an end-of-school-year party. It's the perfect excuse to go out and get pissed. Eames would never miss a chance like this. And make sure Arthur and his entourage show up. With Friends," Eames concludes wryly. For some reason, today is the day when he feels that something really important must happen. He is electrified and the air around him vibrates. 

Eames calls the first girl he comes across, the one he chooses among the many contacts on his cell phone. The girl predictably agrees to go to the party with them, chirping with ill-concealed enthusiasm. Eames hums, as he would have expected, and promises to pick her up at seven.

At the beginning of eight, the three of them, including Yusuf, show up on Nash's doorstep. He greets them in person, smiles lusciously, and hands them each a plastic glass of cheap beer. Nash is a creepy slug and doesn't like Eames at all. However, his parties always turn out to be quite bearable. He knows how to keep a crowd occupied, and that's what counts. Tonight, though, the most important thing for Eames is having beer, or should I say, an exorbitant amount of it. He's serious about getting drunk. 

Eames tries not to think about the reasons for this boring desire to plunge into inadequacy. But they certainly have nothing to do with Arthur, who right now is demonstratively making out with some strange girl. I don't care if he swallows her whole, what does it matter to Ims? They're not even friends. If they were, he'd be sure to tell Arthur that this skinny hen with the pink strands in her perehid hair was no match for him at all. Next to the brilliant Arthur Weig she looks like Quasimodo with Marilyn Monroe in his arms. 

But they are not friends," Eames reminds himself, "not anymore. And it's certainly not his own fault. It was Arthur who had once decided to distance himself from him, he remembers that for sure. Eames has never even thought of pushing him away. Why should he? He had been very comfortable with Arthur, and there was something about him that he didn't have. Let him have his puppy dog eyes now, for all Ims cared. He'd learned to spend his time well enough without Arthur. After all these years, of course, he'd learned. Not that it came so easily to him right away. 

- If you don't stop staring at him like that, you'll see a hole in the back of his head," Yusuf teases. 

The beer had already given him a decent buzz and now mocking Ims had become his raison d'être again. 

- I'm not staring at anyone," Ims snaps and drinks the remaining two-thirds of the glass in one gulp. Immediately he reaches for the next. 

- Оh... Not at all," Yusuf grins evilly. - And you're certainly not trying to drink yourself into a piglet's mouth. Look, there's someone touching your girl now, while you and Artie are trying to establish a telepathic link. 

Eames doesn't even turn his head in the direction Yusuf is pointing. He doesn't care about the girl or who's groping her; he doesn't care about the fact that his eyes are already blurry and all the partygoers are doubled up to the point of nausea. Right now, for some reason, his chest felt so tight that he wanted to punch someone. No, not anyone, of course, but one particular Jewish-looking prick. 

Not to look at him like Eames owed him something. So he doesn't suck up to that defective Barbie of his with low social responsibility. Hands itching, knuckles itching, Ims just needs a fight. Somehow he's a hundred percent sure that as soon as his fist meets the pretty, swarthy face, he'll finally let go. Except that the trouble is that he can't bring himself to just walk up and punch Arthur for no apparent reason. 

The idea comes to him all by itself. If Eames were the least bit more sober, he certainly wouldn't have thought of it, but he's not sober now. He's already drunk out of his skull and can't go to any sea. Even beer. Even if it's Arthur and an over-hydrated blonde splashing around in it. 

Yusuf stares intently at Eames. He clearly suspects that this isn't going to be good. If he weren't so drunk, he'd grab Eames under the armpits and drag him out of the damn party before he could do any more damage. But Yusuf is just as stoned, so he just smirks mockingly and rubs his hands together in anticipation. 

Well, gentlemen, you want a show? I'll give you a show. Eames has always liked to attract the attention of the crowd. Right now, he didn't give a damn how he decided to make a splash here. The main thing is that he's decided, and now you can't stop him with a tank. He must provoke Arutra, or he'll explode. I can't take any more of this crunching.

With a lazy, unsteady gait, he makes his way through the crowd of guys and girls who are just as drunk as he is. He shoved someone with his shoulder, stepped on someone's foot, but he didn't apologize. He didn't have to worry about any moral issues right now. Ims conscience is sound asleep, dreaming colorful dreams. 

Arthur stands with his back to him and whispers in the blond's ear, probably some high-minded vulgarities of his own. Eames spits nervously: "Damn Casanova, how does he ever get laid? No wonder girls fall for his expensive clothes. 

- Hey, kid," he pats Arthur on the shoulder with his palm. - Can I have a minute of your precious attention? 

The curmudgeon's reaction was enviable; it's worth noting, he didn't even flinch. It was as if he was just waiting for Eames to get his hands on him. 

- Hey, man, back off. We're kind of busy here," the blonde squeaked nastily. 

- Shut up, Aisha," Arthur barked, too impolite for such a well-mannered Jew. 

Holy shit! Aisha? Seriously? What is she, some kind of snotty hippie? Eames snorts contemptuously and looks at the blonde, telling her to fuck off and let the big boys talk. But who's going to talk? Eames certainly won't. 

He thinks briefly before he finally loses the last vestiges of resolve and pulls Arthur to him, hooking his fingers into the fabric of his nauseatingly white fancy shirt, and presses his parched lips against the other man's ajar lips in amazement. Arthur is clearly confused, Eames is triumphant, but the jubilation lasts only a second. Until a hot, strong palm rests on the back of his head and Eames's cheeky, wet tongue is in his mouth. 

Eames is so shocked that he can't even move. Arthur isn't acting at all the way he envisioned when he conceived all this unhealthy shit. He growls hoarsely in a kiss, pressing Ims firmly against the back of his head with his palm, grabbing the belt on Diesel's jeans with his other hand. 

Arthur tastes like beer and expensive cigarettes, and a little like strawberry lip gloss for a cheap blonde Barbie-Aisha. His tongue is sassy and greedy, and so insistent that Eames himself does not know at what point or why he begins to give in to this vile provocation. But as if on the periphery of his alcohol-impaired consciousness, he feels himself responding to Arthur. And with just as much enthusiasm. 

- Follow me," Arthur commands, pulling away from Ims's mouth as abruptly as he sucked on it a few seconds ago. Grabbing his arm, he drags him somewhere behind him. 

The crowd goes wild, whistling approvingly to the point of gagging. Eames resists, tries to wrench his hand from his dead grip, but Arthur is no longer the frail and weak boy he remembers him as when they were teenagers. He's strong and tenacious, and seems very determined to... 

What exactly, Eames has no idea, but suddenly realizes that he'd really like to find out right now. 

They go out into the courtyard. There, as in the house itself, it is annoyingly crowded. Everyone is drinking and smoking and partying. Having fun and smoking and drinking. And no one seems to care about the two boys who never once sneak around the corner. 

Finally Arthur lets go of Eames' wrist and pushes him against the wall. Starts unbuckling his belt.

 - What the fuck are you... Are you out of your fucking mind?" yells Eames, his voice finally breaking through. 

He tries to push Arthur away. Apparently it's not very convincing. Or he's very determined. Either way, he has no intention of backing down. And Eames isn't one hundred percent sure if he really wants Arthur to stop. He feels his knees treacherously shaking, and his spine is aching. And his pants are suddenly too tight for an exceptional straight man who suddenly decides he's being groped by an ex-friend.

- Did you expect me to hit you? - Arthur grinned venomously and somehow too bitterly as he tackled Eames's waistband and fly. - I have to disappoint you, my love," he drops and runs his hand right down the elastic band of Eames's boxers. 

Eames is completely speechless. He only hisses through his teeth as Arthur jerks him off in a dark corner of someone else's house. He looks him straight in the eye. Eames looks away with pleasure. He feels humiliatingly helpless as he whimpers and thrusts his hips against the sassy, hot palm that is squeezing his erect cock with such stupefying force. But there is absolutely no power not to look into those black eyes. He seems to drown in them. Drowning in Arthur. And suddenly for a second he thinks he recognizes that stray gaze.

 - How long has it been? - he wheezed, leaning back and leaning the back of his head against the rough wall. - How long, Arthur? Tell me... I must... 

- Always... - Arthur's voice is as husky and muffled as ever. - I've loved you since you were a child, you bastard. But you don't care... And then it was... - he kept fondling Eames' cock. Not so rough anymore, almost gentle, but still just as insistent. 

Eames realizes he can't hold out much longer. It's as if some kind of spring in his lower abdomen is being unleashed. His waist and balls ache like they never did with the sexiest chick in the world. It's definitely not normal, but he doesn't care about anything right now. Everything that's happened to him up to this point. Everything but Arthur. 

- Then why...? Why did you... push me away? Why didn't you say anything to me? We were... were friends... 

Arthur is stubbornly silent, only wrinkling so painfully that the rest of the air is knocked out of his lungs. Continuing to press on the caressing palm, Eames decisively pulls back the strap of Arthur's tight pants and runs his hand into them. Squeezes Arthur's hard and ungodly flowing cock with his fingers. 

- Eames... God... I... oh, fuck... - Arthur moans muffledly and immediately pours himself into Eames' palm, hopelessly soiling his underwear and obviously expensive pants. 

Eames follows him with a long howl exactly two seconds later. 

They stand, eyebrows furrowed, trying to catch their breath. Eames is sober as a whistle. So is Arthur, it seems. Or maybe he wasn't drunk at all. Nothing would surprise Eames now. Except that somehow a flock of rabid butterflies fluttered in his stomach. And that he really - really! - wants to kiss Arthur again. 

The latter, of course, is still abnormal, but who said Eames ever considered himself normal? He wouldn't hesitate to spit in the man's face. Just as he hadn't thought twice about kissing Arthur the first time. Even if it was pure provocation on his part then. Or maybe it wasn't, who knows? Eames, here, couldn't be sure of that anymore.

 - Arthur," he called softly, finally pulling his cum-soaked hand out of Arthur's pants. Without thinking long, he wipes his palm on the wall beside him. 

Arthur tilts his head back and lifts his stubborn chin. Now he reminds Eames again of the boy he once had the nerve to sneak into the bedroom, even in the middle of the night. The one he'd always so secretly admired, but somehow couldn't admit it in time, even to himself. 

- If you're still going to punch me in the face, know that I regret nothing," Arthur said hotly, nervously zipping up Eames's fly. - So you might as well hit me. I won't even resist. I'm tired. 

- Puppy, you're such a fool, you know that? - Eames laughs softly and pulls Arthur to him. He sighs convulsively and bites his nose into Eames's neck. 

- I have missed you, Eames... So missed you...! Forgive me... 

Arthur sobs tearfully and sniffs his nose loudly. The collar of Eames's hoodie is getting suspiciously damp. 

It's his turn to sigh. His eyes begin to tingle treacherously. Perfect. Now he's going to snot like a silly girl. Although, to be honest, he doesn't care. Somehow Eames was no longer ashamed of exposing herself to Arthur. 

- If you try to run away from me again, I'll bury you right under our apple tree," he threatens grimly, and holds Arthur tighter to him. 

He laughs nervously and then bursts into a roar, clutching at Ims's hoodie with his fingers like a drowning man at a straw. 

Eames strokes his boy's disheveled hair. How nice that he never bothered to cut down a branch on the apple tree after all these years.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

I had met him (Akira Kurasawa) when he was here for the New York Film Festival. At  that time I was starting a campaign [out of concern for] color fading in  film. I wanted all these filmmakers around the world to make a change  and be aware of the history, preservation, and restoration [of film]. So  I got ten minutes to speak to [Kurosawa].

They said, “You can speak to him for ten minutes.” He was in this  hotel. I walked in and Akira Kurosawa took his watch off, put it down  and said, “Talk,” and I talked fast—faster than I’m talking now, much  faster—and I was explaining this whole thing, how all our cinema’s going  to be destroyed. And then he said, “Ten minutes are up. I will consider ��putting my name on this.” I said, “All right,” and that was it. I  thanked him very much, left.

Then he saw Raging Bull about four months later and he sent  me a telegram saying, “I saw your film, I like it, I will put my name on  this.” Some years later, he was talking to Francis [Ford] Coppola and  he said, “You know, I want somebody to play Van Gogh. I like that guy  Scorsese, he had his eyes—he was just so manic when he spoke to me that  time about film preservation. Do you think he would do it?” And Francis  said, “Sure, call him up.” So he wrote me this beautiful letter, and  what could I say? I told him I would try it.

He sent me the script and I remember I was in my trailer doing Goodfellas. In between long takes, I’d be memorizing this script. The worst part was that he started shooting Dreams and I was late on my film, so he was waiting for me and that was a bit nerve-wracking.

- Martin Scorsese on meeting Akira Kurosawa

In 1990, the great Japanese director Akira Kurosawa release Dreams, his 28th feature film which marked the first film in 45 years on which he was the sole author of the screenplay. The film would go on to define Kurosawa’s back catalogue and involved another legendary filmmaker, Martin Scorsese, this time taking on an acting role.

Made up of eight different vignettes, Dreams was categorised as ‘magical realist’ picture and was, according to Kurosawa himself, inspired by actual dreams that the filmmaker had actually experienced throughout his life. It was this level of integrity that propelled the film into a new space.

The idea of the auteur director  has been a controversial one at times given the sheer number of people  required at every stage to produce a film. But it hangs together for me  when you look at the films of say, Martin Scorsese or Akira Kurosawa,  both directors with very distinctive visual languages and ways of moving  the camera. Granted, neither director would be who he is without their  crack teams of actors, writers, composers, cinematographers, etc. However it  is part of their genius to consistently pull those teams together to  realize visions that none of the individuals involved could fully see on  their own. Though the final product may be the result of millions of  dollars and thousands of hours of work by hundreds of people, the films  of an auteur take shape foremost in the directors’ mind’s eye (and paintings and storyboards) rather than the writer’s script or producer’s conference room.

These directors are driven, like painters, to realise their visions,  and in Kurosawa’s case, that drive lasted right up until the end of his  life. (It was his wish to die on set, though an accident that left him  unable to walk and put an end to his directing career three years before  the end of his life.) A painter himself,  his films have always been colorful and painterly, and his final few projects were intensely so.

One of those last films, 1990’s Dreams, the  first of his films for which he alone wrote the screenplay, not only  originated fully in Kurosawa’s mind, but in his unconscious. A departure  from his typically epic narratives, the film follows various Kurosawa  surrogates through eight vignettes, based on eight recurring dreams,  each one unfolding with a surreal logic all of its own. In the fifth  short episode, “Crows,” Kurosawa casts Scorsese, his fellow auteur and his equal as a visual stylist, as Vincent Van Gogh.

The camera begins in a gallery, moving restlessly before several Van  Gogh paintings and behind an art student—identifiable as a Kurosawa  stand-in by the floppy white hat he puts on in the next scene, when he  wanders into the French countryside of the paintings. The fields,  bridge, and barns are rendered in Van Gogh’s brilliant colors and skewed  lines - and the student journeys further in to meet the artist himself:  Scorsese in red beard and bandaged ear. This is the only episode in the  film not in Japanese; the student speaks French to a group of women, and  Van Gogh speaks Scorsese’s New York-accented English, giving a lesson  on “natural beauty”.

It is not  the most convincing performance from Scorsese, but that hardly seems to  be the point. This is not so much Scorsese as Van Gogh, but rather Van  Gogh as Scorsese, and Kurosawa dreams himself as a younger acolyte of  his American counterpart.

[fantasticstoryteller]

Kingdoms ch.1

The army quickly overran the small castle. The moat, which had been created to repel intruders, was quickly forded. The walls, built high and smooth as possible, were quickly scaled due to the superior numbers of the oncoming horde. They built ramps out of their own bodies to reach the top of the walls. Soon enough, the ones that made it inside reached the drawbridge and cut the ropes holding it up.

Less than an hour afterwards all of the inhabitants of the castle had either been killed or rounded up. Those that weren’t dead were taken to the courtyard and bound roughly with rope. The leader of the army smiled as he strut in front of his prisoners. The moonlight over the castle bleached all color from the scene, but the leader knew who he was looking for.

Spotting his target a hand darted down and hauled the bound man up. “And there you are,” purred the leader of the army. “Are you ready to submit?”

Long hair, glowing gold even in the moonlight, framed the angular face. “We will never submit to you,” his captive said.

“Oh, never is a long time,” the army leader said. “All right,” he ordered his men, “throw the rest of these into whatever excuse for a dungeon this castle has.” He shook the one he was holding. “This one is going to need—a more personal treatment,” he said.

The reigning monarch, the Queen of the Arachnid kingdom, surveyed her court. Many of the couriers were arguing about the best action to take over the heinous actions of the Golden kingdom. They were pretty evenly split down the middle on whether they believed it was better to attack the Golden kingdom to reclaim Death’s Lands, or to wait and see what happened. There was only one opinion she wanted to hear.

Her emerald eyes scanned the court until they fell upon one of the priests. The priests, who were ostensibly not taking sides. As representatives of the Goddess, they were neutral to all courtly debates. As fellow humans, they had their own opinions.

Queen Mary banged her scepter against the ground, the hard bronze striking sharply against the stone. “I have heard all positions,” she said with a calmness that she did not feel. “And I will make a decision. High Priest Parker!” she called. The court stilled as she rose from her throne, the wispy linen hanging off her tall, lean frame. “I desire the consultation of the Goddess,” she said as she stepped away from the throne (a large bronze affair depicted with all the different spiders of the kingdom) and towards the group. She led the priest, who obediently followed in his dark linen robes, to the gardens.

None of the court—not courier, priest, or servant—dared to enter the garden while the Queen was in there. For a moment the two simply strode through the tall, ridged trees. The light purple blossoms scented the air. “Has the Goddess granted you with advice?” she asked.

High Priest Parker, Peter, the child she’d grown up with, bowed slightly to her. “No, Majesty,” he said simply. “The Goddess has granted me no wisdom for this occasion.”

It was nothing more than she’d expected. Wisdom from the Goddess usually came in the form of warnings for natural disasters, not advice on how to help a country whose prince had been captured by another nation. A brutal nation. The Ajax were not known for their gentle treatment of prisoners.

“And you? Peter?” she asked transforming them from Queen and High Priest to Peter and MJ, old childhood friends.

The carved bronze staff Peter held creaked in his grip as he stared out, unseeing, at the garden. “I want to save him,” he said quietly.

“Good,” said Queen Mary, with a firm nod. She put a hand on his shoulders. “You will take my army, you will save him, and you will make sure those bastards know what will happen to anyone who dares to threaten our allies.”

Dark brown eyes met emerald green ones. “With pleasure,” he said firmly.

That night he knelt in the temple, in front of the alter of the Goddess. He felt the change in the air behind him as the Goddess blessed the world with Her presence. “You have asked for no blessing, my priest,” she said, her voice that of an old, careworn woman.

“I deserve none,” Peter responded without hesitation. “Ajax is a country defined by its soldiers.” He opened his eyes and stared at the statue, not seeing the carved marble. “They are a horde, eating into their neighbors. If I was a true councilor I would council caution. I would council for us to sit and wait as we build our own reserves of military forces. And I would council this because Ajax will not be satisfied with what it has gained from its neighbors—and if they keep up, they will soon be neighbors with us and it will take all we have to keep our people safe from them.”

“Tell me my priest,” said the Goddess, “why have you not counseled your queen so, when this is what you believe?”

Peter remembered Wade. The two of them had only met a few times before, but a bond had sprung up between them. The cheerful, loud, crude person had become someone Peter cared for. Someone he loved. “I have to save him,” Peter said. He knew it was the wrong thing, that this was the wrong time to attack the golden kingdom—but it was true. He was willing to do whatever he had to in order to find and rescue Wade. His other half.

Two hands of the Goddess reached over and held themselves over his glands, coolness coating them. “You do,” she affirmed. “With this blessing, you will not receive your heat until after you and your mate are home and safe. Call on me in the morning and I will grant the entire army this blessing.”

“I—I am not worthy of this,” Peter said as guilt roiled through his gut.

“This is a matter,” the goddess said implacably, “that must be resolved. You must rescue your mate. Ajax must be halted in its conquest. Whether you feel you are worthy or not, you are My Priest.”

The presence of the goddess faded from the temple, but Peter still did not rise. The acolytes knew better than to bother him as he spent the night in contemplation and prayer.

[ljones41]

"STAR WARS: EPISODE IX - THE RISE OF SKYWALKER" (2019) Review

"STAR WARS: EPISODE IX - THE RISE OF SKYWALKER" (2019) Review Despite its success at the box office, the second film in the Disney STAR WARS Sequel Trilogy, "STAR WARS: EPISODE VIII - THE LAST JEDI", proved to be something of a publicity disaster. Many film critics loved it. An even greater number of moviegoers disliked it. Many have attributed this schism within the STAR WARS fandom as a contributing factor to the box office failure of "SOLO: A STAR WARS STORY". To regain the universal love of the fandom, Disney Studios and Kathleen Kennedy of Lucasfilm brought back J.J. Abrams, who had directed "STAR WARS: EPISODE VII - THE FORCE AWAKENS", to handled the trilogy's third entry, "STAR WARS: EPISODE IX - THE RISE OF SKYWALKER".

Disney Studios and Lucasfilm heralded "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER" as not only the end of the franchise's Sequel Trilogy, but also the end of the Skywalker family saga, which began under George Lucas. The 2019 movie began a year after "THE LAST JEDI". The Resistance under Leia Organa has been hiding from the ever growing threat of the First Order, which has been ruled by her son, Kylo Ren aka Ben Solo. Leia has also been training Force acolyte Rey, while orchestrating the Resistance's attempts to rebuild the organization and form contacts with other worlds and factions throughout the Galaxy. However, the film's opening crawl reveals that Emperor Sheev Palpatine is still alive, despite being tossed down the second Death Star's reactor shaft by Anakin Skywalker aka Darth Vader, while being electrocuted in "STAR WARS: EPISODE VI - RETURN OF THE JEDI". Palpatine vows revenge against the Galaxy for its rejection of him and his power. Leia charges Poe Dameron, Finn and Rey to search for Palpatine and destroy him. Kylo Ren also seeks Palpatine with the intent to kill the latter and maintain his own supremacy of the First Order. Kylo Ren eventually manages to find Palpatine on the remote planet of Exegol. He learns that his former master, Snoke, had merely been a puppet of Palpatine. And the former Emperor wants him to find Rey and kill her in order to remove any possible threat to the resurgence of the Sith Order. When I learned that J.J. Abrams would return to the "STAR WARS" franchise to conclude the Sequel Trilogy, my reactions were mixed. On one hand, I disliked his handling of "THE FORCE AWAKENS". On the other hand, I completely loathed what Rian Johnson had done with "THE LAST JEDI". And when Abrams had promised to do right by the Finn character, which had been so badly mishandled by Johnson . . . well, some part of me did not know whether to welcome Abrams' return or be leery of it. There were aspects of "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER" that I liked. I was impressed by Dan Mindel's cinematography for the movie, especially in scenes that featured the planet of Pasaana. I thought Mindel did an excellent job of utilizing the country of Jordan for those scenes, as shown below:

I was also impressed how Mindel shot the visual effects for the last duel between Rey and Kylo Ren among the second Death Star ruins on the Endor moon. Some of the film's action sequences struck me as pretty memorable, thanks to Abrams' direction, Mindel's cinematography and stunt coordinator Eunice Huthart. I am referring to those scenes that feature the heroes' occasional encounters with the First Order on Psaana and aboard the First Order star ship. I was also relieved to see the trilogy's three protagonists - Rey, Finn and Poe Dameron - and Chewbacca spend a great deal of the movie together. The four characters managed to create a pretty solid dynamic, thanks to the performances of Daisy Ridley, John Boyega, Oscar Isaac and Joonas Suotamo and it is a shame that audiences never got a chance to experience this dynamic in the trilogy's other two films. There was an aspect of the film's narrative that delivered a great deal of satisfaction to me. It is a small matter, but involved Rey's Jedi training. I am very relieved that Abrams finally allowed Rey to receive substantial training from a mentor, who happened to be Leia. A year had passed between "THE LAST JEDI" and "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER". Rey's first scene established that Leia had been training her during that year. The movie also established in a flashback that Leia had received her training from her brother Luke Skywalker. Why did I find this satisfying? Most of Luke's own Jedi training had also occurred during the period of a year - between the events of "STAR WARS: EPISODE V - THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK" and "RETURN OF THE JEDI". And during this period, he had received his training from . . . you know, I have no idea on how Luke managed to complete his training. Even after so many years. To this day, it is a mystery. And this is why I am grateful that Abrams and co-writer Chris Terrio had made it clear that Leia had continued Rey's training between "THE LAST JEDI" and "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER". The performances featured in the movie struck me as pretty solid, especially from the leads - Ridley, Boyega, Isaac and Adam Driver. The movie also featured solid, yet brief performances from returning cast members such as Kelly Marie Tran, Domhnall Gleeson, Mark Hamill, Harrison Ford, Billie Lourd, Lupita Nyong'o, and the late Carrie Fisher. Dominic Monaghan, Naomie Ackie, Keri Russell and Richard E. Grant all made nice additions to the trilogy. It was great to see Billy Dee Williams reprise his role as Lando Calrissian. He was one of the bright spots of this film. Hell, it was even nice to see Denis Lawson as Wedge Antilles again, despite his brief appearance. But if I must be honest, I was not particularly blown away by any of them - including the usually outstanding Boyega. Actually, I take that back. There was one cast member who provided a moment of superb acting. I refer to Joonas Suotamo, who did an excellent job in conveying a true moment of grief and despair for Chewbacca's character in the film's second half. But I do have a complaint about one particular performance. And it came, from all people, Ian McDiarmid who portrayed the surprisingly alive Emperor Palpatine. How can I put this? This Palpatine seemed like a ghost of his former self. No. Wait. That was phrased wrong. What I meant to say is that McDiarmid's portrayal of Palpatine in this film seemed like an exaggeration in compare to his performances in the Original and Prequel Trilogy films. Exaggerated . . . ham-fisted. I found McDiarmid's scenes so wince-inducing that I could barely watch them. However, aware of McDiarmid's true skills as an actor, I finally realized that his bad performance may have been a result of J.J. Abrams' direction. The latter's failure as a director in Palpatine's scenes and failure to visualize the character as a subtle and manipulative villain really impeded McDiarmid's performance. Unfortunately, McDiarmid's performance was not my only problem with "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER". I had a host of others. Many film critics have bashed J.J. Abrams for trying to reject what Rian Johnson had set up in "THE LAST JEDI". I find this criticism ironic, considering that Johnson had rejected a great deal of what Abrams had set up in "THE FORCE AWAKENS". Not that it really matters to me. I disliked "THE FORCE AWAKENS". I disliked "THE LAST JEDI". And if I must be brutally honest, I disliked "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER". Like the other two films, I thought the 2019 movie was pretty bad. My first problem with "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER" was its main narrative. Basically, the entire story revolved around the heroes and the First Order's search for the now alive Palpatine. The film's opening crawl pretty much announced to movie audiences that Palpatine was alive without bothering presenting this revelation as a surprise. It is simply the old case of "tell and not show" that has hampered a great number of fictional works throughout time. I believe this narrative device especially does not suit a plot for a motion picture or a television series, because it comes off as a cheat. It is lazy writing. Worse, most of the main characters spend a great deal of the movie searching for Palpatine. And when they finally discover him, no one bothered to ask how he had escaped death after being allegedly killed by Anakin Skywalker aka Darth Vader in "RETURN OF THE JEDI". How did Palpatine survive being tossed to his death, while being electrocuted by Force lightning? Well, STAR WARS fans finally learned the truth in the film's novelization written by Rae Carson. The only major character who immediately managed to find Palpatine was Kylo Ren, who used a Sith wayfinder . . . or compass. Meanwhile, Rey, Finn, Poe and Chewbacca had to resort to following clues to lead to first a Sith dagger, and later, a Sith wayfinder - traveling from one planet to another at a dizzying speed. This whole search for a wayfinder and Palpatine struck me as unnecessarily rushed. I do not think it is a good thing when a person complains about the fast pacing of a movie with a 142 minutes running time. For me, this exposed the hollow nature of the movie's narrative. As I had earlier stated, the majority of the film's narrative is centered around the protagonists' determination to find Palpatine. A part of me wonders how did the Resistance and the First Order had planned to kill him, once he was discovered. And yes, the First Order's leader, Kylo Ren, also wanted Palpatine's dead. But how did any of them plan to kill him? The movie never conveyed any of the other characters' plans. Worse, this search for Palpatine had transformed the movie into some space opera version of both the INDIANA JONES and NATIONAL TREASURE movie franchises. Was that why Abrams had decided to expose Palpatine's return or resurrection in the film's opening crawl? So he could have his major characters embark on this "Indiana Jones" style hunt for Palpatine from the get go? Or relive the whole "map to Luke Skywalker" search from "THE FORCE AWAKENS" that proved to be so irrelevant? Well guess what? The "Search for Palpatine" proved to be equally irrelevant. Watching Rey, Finn, Poe and Chewbacca hunt down artifacts that would lead them to Palpatine was one of the more ridiculous aspects of this film. I felt as if I had watched a hybrid STAR WARS/INDIANA JONES/NATIONAL TREASURE movie. It was fucking exhausting. Returning to Palpatine, I was unpleasantly shocked to learn that during the thirty years he was missing, he had created a new fleet of Star Destroyers, each ship equipped with a planet-killing laser. Thirty years. Is that how long it took Palpatine (or his clone) to create a fleet of planet killing Star Destroyers? Is that why he had taken so long construct these ships? If one Star Destroyer can destroy a planet, why did he bother to wait so long to use any of them to re-take the Galaxy? Three decades? I wish I could say more, but I do not see the point. Is a Star Destroyer strong enough to be used as a "base" for a laser powerful enough to destroy a planet?

I have also noticed that the lightsaber duels featured in "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER" . . . well, they were bad. Quite a travesty, if I must be honest. I have never been that impressed by the lightsaber duels in the Sequel Trilogy, but even I must admit that Kylo Ren's duels with both Finn and Rey in "THE FORCE AWAKENS" were somewhat better than the Obi-Wan Kenobi/Darth Vader duel in "STAR WARS: EPISODE IV - A NEW HOPE". But after the 2015 movie . . . dear God. Rey and Kylo Ren's fight against Snoke's guards in "THE LAST JEDI" struck me as something of a joke. But Rey and Kylo Ren's duels in "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER" were simply abysmal. Dan Mindel's cinematography and the movie's visual effects team could do nothing to hide the laughable nature of the duels. Both Daisy Ridley and Adam Driver seemed to spend a great deal of their time slashing at each with no semblance of swordsmanship whatsoever. Where is Nick Gillard when you need him?

Not surprisingly, "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER" revealed a number of Force abilities that appeared for the first (or second time) in the STAR WARS franchise. The Force bond between Rey and Kylo Ren, which was created by Snoke in the previous film; allowed the First Order leader to snatch a necklace from the Resistance fighter's neck in a violent manner - despite the fact that the pair was thousands of miles from each other. And in another scene, while Rey faced Palpatine and Kylo Ren faced the Knights of the Ren, she was able to hand over a lightsaber to him - despite being miles apart. How did they do this? I have not the foggiest idea. I do not even understand how Abrams and Terrio managed to create this ability in the first place. And frankly, I find it rather stupid and implausible. Force healing. For the first time in the history of the franchise, a Force user has the ability to heal. How did this come about? I have not the foggiest idea. If this had been the case during the events of the Prequel Trilogy, chances are Anakin Skywalker would have never become a Sith Lord. The Force healing ability made its debut in the Disney Plus series, "THE MANDALORIAN" . . . I think. However, Kylo Ren had the ability to use Force healing. So did Rey. I do not know who taught them or how . . . fuck it! I will just treat this as another plot device that came out of Lucasfilm's ass. "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER" also revealed that the "resurrected" Palpatine had the ability to transfer one person's essence into the body of another. How? More contrived writing.

Speaking of contrivance, there is the matter of one Leia Organa. Although a part of me still believes Lucasfilm should have killed off Leia Organa in "THE LAST JEDI", in the wake of Carrie Fisher's death a year before the film's release; I must admit that Abrams did an admirable job in utilizing old footage of the actress from "THE FORCE AWAKENS", digital special effects and Billie Lourd as a body double for some of Leia's scenes. But I hated the way Leia was finally killed off. It was similar to Luke's ludicrous death in "THE LAST JEDI". I HATE how Disney Studios and Lucasfilm portray the Force as some kind of energy that can kill an individual if it was used too long or too hard. As if the Force user was some kind of goddamn battery. I really hate that. And this is why I dislike Leia's death just as much as I disliked Luke's. In fact, this movie seemed to be filled with contrived writing. As for the Rebel Alli . . . I mean the Resistance, I noticed that their numbers had grown since the end of "THE LAST JEDI". Had Leia managed to recruit new members for the Resistance's cause during the year between the two films? If so, "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER" did not hint one way or the other. I mean there were barely enough Resistance members to crowd the Millennium Falcon in the last film's finale. And the narrative for "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER" seemed to hint that aside from Maz Kanata, hardly anyone new had bothered to join the Resistance during that year between the two films. So . . . if this is true, why did the number of Resistance members seemed to have tripled during that year between the two movies? Among the new members is one Beaumont Kin, portrayed by "LOST" alumni Dominic Monaghan. Speaking of characters - the arcs for the major characters have proven to be as disastrous as those featured in "THE FORCE AWAKENS" and especially "THE LAST JEDI". I was surprised to see Maz Kanata as a member of the Resistance. Her recruitment into the organization was never seen on screen. Even worse, the former smuggler and tavern owner was basically reduced to a background character with one or two lines. Actress Lupita Nyong'o's time was certainly wasted for this film. Although I thought Rose Tico was a promising character, I never liked how Rian Johnson had used her as a very unnecessary mentor for Finn in "THE LAST JEDI". However, my hopes that J.J. Abrams would do her character justice in "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER" proved to be fruitless. In this film, Rose had been reduced from supporting character to minor character, who spent most of her appearances interacting with Monaghan's Beaumont Kin in three or four scenes. What a damn waste! Speaking of waste . . . poor Domhnall Gleeson. His character, General Armitage Hux, was another character whose presence was wasted in "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER". Audiences learned in the film's second half that he had become a mole for the Resistance, supplying the group information on the First Order's movements. The problem with this scenario is that film had Hux explained that he was simply betraying his leader, Kylo Ren. But his reason for this betrayal was never fully explained, let alone developed. Harrison Ford returned in a brief cameo appearance as the ghost of Han Solo. Wait a minute. Let me re-phrase that. Ford returned as a figment of Kylo Ren's imagination . . . as Han Solo. How was his performance? Unmemorable. "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER" also featured a good number of new characters. Probably too many. I have already mentioned Resistance fighter Beaumont Kim. Abrams and co-writer Chris Terrio also introduced Jannah, a former stormtrooper who had deserted from the First Order like Finn. When she was introduced, I had assumed that Finn's background would finally be explored. Never happened. Worse, Abrams only allowed Jannah - a new character - to speculate on her background in one line spoken to Lando Calrissian. And nothing else. Next, there was Zorri Bliss, a smuggler and former paramour of Poe Dameron's, who provided the Resistance with information on how to interpret the Sith dagger in their possession. Aside from this task, Bliss managed to miraculously survive the destruction of Kijimi, her homeworld to participate in the final battle against Palpatine and the First Order. Through her, audiences learned that Poe was a former spice smuggler . . . a drug smuggler. More on this, later. And finally, we have Allegiant General Enric Pryde, who came out of no where to become Kylo Ren's top commander. It occurred to me that Pryde turned out to be the Sequel Trilogy's General Grievous. I love the Prequel Trilogy, but I never liked Grievous. He should have been introduced a lot earlier than the Prequel Trilogy's last film. And Enric Pryde should have been introduced earlier than "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER". It would have made his brief conflict with Hux a lot more believable. I read somewhere that the character of Kylo Ren aka Ben Solo is the most popular in the Sequel Trilogy. I am a firm admirer of actor Adam Driver and I thought he gave a solid performance as Kylo Ren. But . . . the character has never been a favorite of mine. I could complain that Kylo Ren is bad written, but I can honestly say the same about the other major (and minor) characters. Yet for some reason, Lucasfilm, a good number of the STAR WARS and media seemed to think the stars shined on Kylo Ren's ass. I hate it when the glorification of a story or character is unearned and then shoved down the throats of the public. In "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER", Kylo Ren's character arc proved to be just as rushed and full of writing contrivances as his relationship arc in "THE LAST JEDI". Honestly. Unlike Anakin Skywalker in the Original Trilogy, Kylo Ren's redemption was never properly set up in "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER". It merely sprung up in the film's last third act so that Abrams (the unoriginal storyteller that he is) could allow him to mimic his grandfather's arc. Looking back on Kylo Ren's character, he should have continued his arc from the end of "THE LAST JEDI" - as the main villain. Instead, Abrams and Lucasfilm brought back Palpatine so they could have Kylo Ren repeat Anakin's arc and avoid dying as the film's Big Bad. This decision only brought about bad writing. And then we have Poe Dameron. In some ways, Poe proved to be the worst written character in this trilogy. It almost seemed as if Lucasfilm, Abrams and Rian Johnson did not know what to do with him. His death was initially set up in "THE FORCE AWAKENS" and he spent most of that film off-screen, only to make a miraculous re-appearance near the end, with no real explanation how he had survived the crash on Jakku. In "THE LAST JEDI", Johnson had transformed Poe into some hot-headed Latino stereotype, who questioned the decisions of the Resistance's two female leaders - Leia and Admiral Holdo. And "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER" made another revision to Poe's character. The movie revealed that Poe had a past romance with the smuggler Zorri Bliss and was a spice runner (drug smuggler). How quaint. Abrams and Terrio took the only leading character in the Sequel Trilogy portrayed by a Latino actor and transformed him into a drug lord. Where the two writers watching "NARCO" or old reruns of "MIAMI VICE" when they made this decision to Poe's character? God only knows. I do know that in my eyes, this was another mark of racism on Lucasfilm's belt. Speaking of racism . . . what on earth happened to Finn? Following Rian Johnson's shoddy treatment of his character in "THE LAST JEDI", J.J. Abrams had assured the franchise's fans that he would do justice to Finn. And he failed. Spectacularly. Did Finn even have a character arc in "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER"? The former stormtrooper spent most of the film either participating in the search for Palpatine, while keeping one eye on the constantly distracted Rey, like some lovesick puppy. He seemed to lack his own story in this film. "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER" could have provided the perfect opportunity for Lucasfilm to further explore his background as a former stormtrooper. With the creation of Jannah, I thought it would finally happen. Instead, the movie focused more on Jannah's questions about her origins. And Lucasfilm and Abrams wasted the chance to even consider at subplot regarding Finn and the First Order's stormtroopers. Boyega also spent most of the film hinting that he had something important to tell Rey. Many believe he was trying to confess that he loved her. That is because the movie DID NOT allow him to finally make his confession. Even worse, audiences learned that he wanted to confess his suspicions that he might be Force sensitive. And Lucasfilm confirmed this. Why on earth could they NOT confirm Finn's Force sensitivity on film? Why? What was the point in keeping this a secret until AFTER the film's release? I also noticed one other disturbing aspect about Finn . . . or John Boyega. I just discovered that John Boyega had been demoted by Disney Studios and Lucasfilm from leading actor to supporting actor. Only this had happened a lot sooner that I thought. In the studio's Academy Awards campaign for "THE FORCE AWAKENS", it pushed Boyega for a Best Actor nomination. But in both "THE LAST JEDI" and "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER", the studio pushed him for a Best Supporting Actor nomination. Yet, for all three movies, Lucasfilm and Disney also pushed a white actor for Best Actor. They pushed Harrison Ford (along with Boyega) "THE FORCE AWAKENS". They pushed Mark Hamill for Best Actor in "THE LAST JEDI". Yet, both Ford and Hamill were clearly part of the supporting cast. And they pushed Adam Driver for Best Actor for "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER". Hmmmm . . . Driver went from supporting actor to lead actor, while Boyega was demoted from lead actor to supporting actor. A few more notches in Lucasfilm/Disney's racist belt. God, I am sick to my stomach. And poor John Boyega. He was poorly misused by Lucasfilm, Disney Studios, Rian Johnson and J.J. Abrams. As for Rey . . . I am completely over her as a character. Although I found her Mary Sue qualities annoying, I found her arc in "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER" a complete mess. The only good that came from her arc was the fact that Leia had trained her in the ways of the Force for a year. Otherwise, I had to grit my teeth and watch her behave in this chaotic manner throughout the entire film. Every time she and her friends were in the middle of some situation, she would get distracted by Kylo Ren's presence and break away. Why? So she could kill him . . . I guess. Apparently, killing Kylo Ren was more important to her than completing a mission for the Resistance. Why? I have no idea. The movie's narrative never explained this behavior of hers. And it gets worse. Rey eventually learns that she is Palpatine's granddaughter. Granddaughter. Palpatine managed to knock up some woman years ago and conceive a son after he had become Emperor. That son conceived Rey with her mother before dying. Palpatine, who had been alive all of these years, never bothered to get his hands on Rey . . . until this movie. Why? I have no idea. During Rey and Kylo Ren's final duel, she managed to shove her lightsaber blade into his gut. And then she used the Force to heal him. Why? Perhaps she felt guilty for nearly killing him. Who knows? Later, she is killed by Palpatine (who could not make up his mind on whether he wanted her alive or dead) before Kylo Ren Force healed her. And then she planted a big wet kiss on his pucker. Lucasfilm and Disney claimed that the kiss was an act of gratitude on her part. I did not realize that gratitude could be so sexual. Nevertheless, Lucasfilm and Disney ensured that the only leading male that Rey would exchange bodily fluids with was one who shared her white skin. Despite the fact that this . . . man had more or less abused her - mentally and physically - since "THE FORCE AWAKENS". There was no real development that led to this sexual kiss of gratitude. But I guess Disney and Lucasfilm were determined that Rey would not exchange a kiss with the two non-white men. Another notch on Lucasfilm/Disney's racist belt. Oh . . . and by the way, the film or Lucasfilm had established that Rey and Kylo Ren were part of some Force dyad. What is a Force dyad? Two Force-sensitive people who had created a Force bond, making them one in the Force. And this happened because Rey and Kylo Ren were grandchildren of Sith Lords. I have never heard of anything so ludicrous in my life, especially since it was established in "THE LAST JEDI" that Snoke - a creation of Palpatine, by the way - had created their mental bond. How he did that I have no idea. You know what? I could go on and on about "STAR WARS: EPISODE IX - THE RISE OF SKYWALKER". But I now realize it would take a goddamn essay to explain why I dislike this movie so much. I should have realized that J.J. Abrams' promises that he would fix the problems of "STAR WARS: EPISODE VIII - THE LAST JEDI" was worth shit in the wind. He, Chris Terrio, Disney Studios and Lucasfilm only made the Sequel Trilogy worse . . . as if that was possible. Not only was "THE RISE OF SKYWALKER" a waste of my time, so was the entire Sequel Trilogy. And it wasted the acting skills of its talented cast led by Daisy Ridley, John Boyega, Oscar Isaac and Adam Driver for so many years. 

[bigskydreaming]

There’s just...there’s just so much I need to know!

Are all the Academy X kids back? DJ? Kidogo? Loa? Wallflower? Blindfold? OMG IS TAG BACK, SHOW ME JULIAN REUNITING WITH HIS BFF, DEAD FOR YEARS AND NOW BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE.

There’s just...imagine, an entire class of mutant teenagers who were all tragically killed and now are resurrected into this new world that’s so different from the one they last saw, like everything’s changed in the blink of an eye. What’s that even LIKE? How do they feel about owing their return and resurrection to one of their own former classmates, who’s now part of this group of five mutants revered on Krakoa with idol-like status as the ones who like...defeated death for the mutant race? How do all the kids who died on M-Day like Hydro, never even having time to know what happened, feel about learning about the Decimation and why they died in the first place? How do the kids who died on the bus like DJ feel, trying to reconnect with their classmates like Julian and Cessily and Santos who have been through SO MUCH since they last saw them, literally lived through wars and the threat of extinction and are so changed now by experiences they can’t ever (hopefully won’t ever) be able to relate to?

Is Jay Guthrie back? What’s it like for Sam and Paige and the rest of their siblings to suddenly have him back? What does Sooraya feel about this? How do she and Jay interact now? How does the every mutant is automatically a citizen of Krakoa thing work....all the Guthrie kids are mutants, but their mom Lucinda isn’t...is she allowed to come and go, according to Krakoa law? There must be exceptions made for some humans to live on Krakoa, surely, given that Corsair is part of one of the Dawn of X line-ups....who makes the distinction and how?

Speaking of the Summers, what’s up with Gabe’s resurrection? How does that work? Does he remember everything, and his past crimes are forgiven on the basis of the amnesty law, so long as he plays nice? Or did Xavier take advantage of being the man who puts all the mutant minds back in their shiny new bodies and conveniently rearrange a few memories regarding why Gabe hates him so much, and now Gabe gets along with everyone just fine?

OMG ARE PETRA AND SWAY BACK AND IF NOT WHY NOT.

What about Kevin Ford aka Wither? Selene was one of the mutant villains granted amnesty when she came to Krakoa, does that mean her former pawns are granted the same resurrection treatment as any other mutant, and if so, how does Kevin feel about being resurrected by Josh....the very person who killed him in the first place?

Oooh, and Clarice....not to mention Jono. What’s it like for some of the more heroic descendants of Clan Akkaba to now be living on the same island as their long distant villainous ancestor, Apocalypse himself?

Speaking of Apocalypse, anyone else catch that bit of gossip from Bar Sinister about how gladly Apocalypse would trade in any of his later Horsemen for his original four....with Hickman having made a big deal about alluding to some long ago war Apocalypse and his original Horsemen waged on Krakoa against some other dimensional foes.....with those Horsemen dying or imprisoning themselves to stop them? Who wants to bet that was to set up a storyline where like, maybe part of Apocalypse’s conditions for working with Xavier and Magneto on all of this was to have his original Horsemen resurrected as well somehow? Like SOMETHING’S going to happen there.

Oooh ooh ooh......what about the fact that ALL OF LOGAN’S 13378427842 dead mutant children are now potentially alive again? CLAN SNIKT? ADRIAN CORBO? WON’T SOMEBODY PLEASE THINK OF JIMMY?

And and and and and they better fucking bring back Chris Bradley and I will literally pledge my firstborn if somebody writes in a scene where Bobby Drake gets to see his little buddy alive and well again, sans Legacy Virus. Look, it doesn’t matter that I’m probably never going to have a firstborn, its the thought that counts, shh, its allowed.

What about Magneto’s original Acolytes, the ones who died when Asteroid M crashed? Chrome, Delgado and Anne-Marie, etc? What might their reactions be upon say, running into Traitor McBetrayal, Fabian Cortez?

IS SIENA BLAZE BACK OMG PLZ LET SIENA BE BACK I WILL....crap, already pledged my firstborn. Ugh, second is the best?

SPEAKING OF....I forget what launched this tangential thought but Mikhail Rasputin anyone? HIS BABY SISTER IS ONE OF THE FOUR WAR CAPTAINS OF KRAKOA, LIKE...TALK ABOUT *SCREEECH* WAIT, SAY WHAT? REVELATIONS TO WAKE UP TO.

Just how long are they gonna tease the whole ‘no but really there’s ANOTHER Summers brother’ plotline this time?

OMG are Emplate, the M twins and Monet all supposed to play happy family in a shared environment, holy shit could you imagine the epic staredowns everytime Marius and Monet run into each other in like Krakoa’s town square or the market or something and Jubilee just stage whispers “Awkwaaaaard.”

Holy shit, how are Ev and Angelo going to react to coming back to life and discovering that Jubes is now a MOM???

What about depowered mutants we haven’t seen get their powers back yet, are they all repowered now thanks to Hope? Is Dallas Gibson on Krakoa, shadow powers intact? What about Shola and Freakshow and Wicked, aka the only interesting characters Claremont has invented in 30 years, no, Lifeguard and Slipstream DO NOT COUNT.

WHAT DOES ALL OF THIS HAVE TO DO WITH THE RETURN OF THE 2099 UNIVERSE IN A COUPLE MONTHS, LIKE HOW ARE THE X-MEN 2099 and X-NATION GONNA LINE UP WITH ALL OF THIS?

And will we get Twilight and Clarion and December back, and finally some kind of answer on whether December is a descendant of Bobby or Emma or both?

Is Leon Nunez, the REAL mutant behind Ink’s powers, a resident of Krakoa because the amnesty law got him out of jail and did he take the power back from that LOSER and did Ink get his stupid ass kicked to the curb because everyone was like lol nobody even likes you and you’re not even a mutant, go be an Avenger ITS WHERE YOU BELONG?

Probably not, but look a guy can dream.

What’s St. John gonna think about this new twink running around using his name, HE’S the only real flamer in town! Or is he just not gonna care, and retire to spend his time resuming his career as a romance novelist? (THIS IS CANON, I DID NOT MAKE THIS UP).

Most importantly, WHAT THE HELL IS THE PREMISE OF THE MARAUDERS BOOK AND WILL I LIKE IT AND WILL BOBBY BE WRITTEN WELL AND SINCE IT HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH THE HELLFIRE CLUB AND EMMA’S A KEY PART OF THE BOOK WILL WE GET CHRISTIAN THERE TOO AND WITH SIMON AS PART OF THE MARAUDERS LINEUP WILL I FINALLY GET THE CHRISTIAN/BOBBY/FIRE-GUY-EVEN-IF-SIMON-IS-A-SUBPAR-SUBSTITUTE-FOR-JOHNNY LOVE TRIANGLE I NEED AND DESERVE?

OMG and Daken’s on Krakoa too, oh shit, is Bobby gonna finally get to be the hot girl? So many gays, so little time...whoops, Bobby can make clones of himself too.....oh shit did I make it weird, WHO CARES, BOBBY HAS POTENTIAL LOVE INTERESTS NOW, PLURAL, NOT SINGULAR, HUZZAAAAAAAAH.

And also all the other stuff is still interesting too. But like. Bobby boyfriend. Make it happen.

[faveficarchive]

The Secret Histories: Part 2

An Archaeologist, High and Low

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Set soon after All the Colors of the World, an old flame wanders back into Mel’s life, and threatens a relationship already wrought with unspoken problems. Janice is sent off to Bavaria to work with the Monuments Men, and Mel isn’t far behind. Will their shaky relationship withstand the test of distance, violence, and ancient obsession?

September 1945

Sergeant Sally Phillips stared anxiously at the pair of khaki legs that emanated from under the car she usually drove. Grunting sounds came from the partially hidden body. "Janice, can you fix it?" she said.

"I don't know yet, Sal. Cars other than Fords...I don't know much about," Janice replied from under the vehicle. They were in a driveway outside the U.S. Embassy; Sally, with whom she became friends during basic training at Fort Oglethorpe, was a driver for the U.S. Ambassador's Office. She had called Janice in a panic, remembering that her friend knew something about cars...and she, hardly Rosie the Riveter, knew nothing about them, except how to drive one.

Sally despaired. "I know. But I can't take it back to the garage. They'll kick my ass. This is about the third time this thing has died on me, and Murtlock'll kill me..."

"It's not your fault. They should know that," Janice said, her voice muffled.

"You know how that bastard is. If anything goes wrong, he blames one of us."

Janice chuckled. "Yeah, you're right. Murtlock is a real prick."

Unfortunately, Sally felt his presence before she could warn Janice. She snapped to attention. Major Murtlock, their commanding officer, was standing right behind her. There was no telling how much of the conversation he heard, but the last statement alone was more than enough to...she sighed inwardly. She knew that Janice would get the worst of whatever shit Murtlock would ladle out; her friend was too outspoken and too indiscreet about her affair with the beautiful black-haired woman that Sally had met only once...whatever her name was...she was a looker, though, almost enough to make me switch teams...

"Stupid foreign cars...ACKPHLT!" Suddenly Janice slid from under the car, covered in oil. "God, I think I swallowed some..." Janice tried to wipe the oil off her face with an equally black hand, which made it worse.

Then she noticed Murtlock.

From her position on the ground he looked even bigger than usual. And he was a big man, probably six and half feet in his stocking feet. This was one of those moments when she envied Mel her height; if she were as tall as her beloved companion, she might feel a little less intimidated, even sitting down. The Major scowled at her, his heavy black brows crashing in consternation. "Don't get up, Covington," he rumbled. "I have something for you." He pulled a packet of papers out of his jacket, and tossed them down to her. They landed in her lap. "I'm very pleased to say you have new orders. You're shipping out in two days. The information"—he nodded at the papers—"is all there. I hope you have a pleasant trip," he grunted sarcastically.

"Yes, sir," Janice replied perfunctorily. Her lips shifted nervously in a frantic attempt to dissuade a smart-ass smirk off her face.

"Oh, and by the way, you've been promoted. To Lieutenant." He glared at her in disgust while she raised both eyebrows in surprise; the idea that such a woman could be an officer was simply too much for him to bear. "Congratulations, you little dyke."

He turned on his heel and left.

Sally exhaled with relief. "He sure knows how to sweet-talk a girl," she cracked, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket. She handed it to Janice, who took it gratefully and proceeded to wipe oil off her face. Sally peered at the papers in her friend's lap. "Hey, where do you think you're going?"

Janice handed them to her gingerly, clasping them between greasy thumb and forefinger. "You tell me," she replied. "I'm too sullied to touch them. At least Murtlock thinks so."

She was also too nervous to read them, and didn't give a rat's ass about Army protocol—at this point in my so-called military career, I'd announce my orders with a bullhorn to anyone who would listen, she thought.

Sally unfolded the papers and scanned them quickly. "You're going to...Bavaria? Some place called New—what—stein? Fucking Krauts and their mile-long names."

Sally watched as Janice scratched her cheek thoughtfully; her friend did not seem too surprised at the news—in fact, her green eyes narrowed knowingly. "Huh, I'll be damned." So I'm the bait. Good. At least I'll be there to keep an eye on that blonde bitch.

"Why?"

"Long story. Wanna get some lunch?"

"Sure, Lieutenant Covington."

"Now that was a surprise." Janice hoisted herself up from the ground.

"Yeah." Sally grinned, and poked her friend in the ribs. "Congratulations, you little dyke."

***

June, 1937

"You're amazing," Catherine said. She laid on the floor of her room, gazing up at Mel, sprawled in her divan. The Southerner's feet dangled pleasantly over the edge and she hummed "Oh Susannah" in her rich, pleasant voice. Her dark hair cascaded over one arm. She was quite drunk, having consumed five gin and tonics. Catherine had thought it would only take two; but she is a big girl...a very big, beautiful girl. "I can't believe you've never been drunk before."

"No...once I got just a little tipsy on some sherry, at a Daughters of the American Revolution benefit..." Mel suddenly found the ceiling very fascinating, as her head lolled back of its own accord.

"What the bloody hell is that?"

Mel burst into laughter. "I don't want to tell you...it's so stupid."

"Then don't." Catherine wiggled the empty bottle. "Wish we had more."

"Me too."

"I bet we could get some from Daphne."

"Oh dear. Daphne doesn't like me. You better ask her yourself."

"She's merely jealous of you, my darling." Catherine stood up. "Come on, let's go."

"Jealous?"

"Of course. Don't play Miss Modesty with me, Melinda. You're both incredibly beautiful and smart."

Mel giggled. "Oh, thank God someone said it. I really wanted a compliment."

"Really? I couldn't tell at all." The blonde held out a hand to Mel, who hadn't moved from the couch. "Come along."

"Must I?"

Catherine smirked sadistically. "You must."

Reluctantly Mel took the proffered hand and hauled herself up. Trailing behind Catherine, she was amazed at her own ability to walk in such a state, and quietly marveled at herself as they navigated the stairs to a lower floor, where Daphne's room was located.

They were giggling quite loudly when they crashed against Daphne's door simultaneously. Catherine pounded upon it. "Come on, Daph, open it," she roared.

Another minute of pounding, plus the threat that Mel would sing "Swanee River," finally persuaded the reluctant Daphne open the door. Like in a Keystone cops film, the two lovers spilled through the doorway. Catherine was on the floor, with Mel atop her, laughing like children.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," said a voice above them. Daphne, of course.

"Hallo, darling," Catherine trilled. "Melinda and I seem to be having a crisis."

"Yes, you're both in my room, uninvited."

"What, I thought we had an invitation!" Mel burbled. She and Catherine began a new round of giggling as they stood up.

"Don't be a bad hostess, Daph. There's a quite simple way to get rid of us."

"I know. All I have to do is let you continue to make a ruckus here, and they'll expel you."

"No, dammit. I want a bottle. Of scotch."

"Or gin. That's my favorite," Mel interjected.

"I don't have any fucking alcohol, Cat. It's all gone." Daphne drummed her fingers on her desk.

A dead giveaway, Catherine thought, watching the spidery fingers drum their distress signal. She always does that when she's nervous...or lying. "You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"

"I had guests over yesterday. We drank everything here."

Catherine's dark eyes narrowed, and the mood of the room seemed to alter with it; it was one of those sudden shifts that occur deep in the night, and/or deep into drunkenness. "You bloody little mooch. All the time I've paid for your drinks, bought you things...you won't even give me a damn bottle of booze?"

Daphne returned the angry glare, a fire blazing across her cheeks. But she said nothing.

Mel rolled her eyes. She didn't know why Catherine had insisted on coming down here in the first place. "Let's forget it, Catherine," she said. "I'm tired anyway. Let's just go back upstairs and go to bed."

Daphne's cold eyes did not leave Catherine's. "Go on, then. Listen to your little tart. Get out."

Mel wanted to laugh out loud. She had never been called a tart before, or anything even close to hinting at sexual promiscuity. Usually she was called "cold," "aloof," "frigid" (by a Freudian acolyte at Vanderbilt who had stuck his hand up her skirt within 20 minutes of their first date), or a "tease." It was an amusing change of pace.

"You should mind your manners, darling," Catherine threatened in a low voice.

"Or what?"

Mel gripped Catherine's arm. "Leave it," she said quietly. "Let's go."

"Look, you cow, will you just shut up?" Daphne spat at Mel. "Everything was fine until you came along, you miserable twat. Do you think she really loves you?"

"Shut up," Catherine growled between gritted teeth.

Daphne was on a roll. She inserted herself between Catherine and Mel. She was not as tall as either one of them, but stood her ground menacingly, her angry, contorted face near the Southerner's, the curls of her marcelled hair shaking and threatening to unfurl into Medusan tresses...or so it appeared to Mel's gin-addled mind. "Come on. You don't really think Catherine feels anything for you, do you, you little fool? She only wanted to bed you because you're supposedly so damned beautiful." She paused, grinning triumphantly, before delivering the coup de grace. "And because she wanted to deflower you."

Catherine opened her mouth to file the obligatory protest (true enough, but...), but she saw something that intrigued her. It was like a translucent film were covering Mel's face, darkening her features and her cerulean blue eyes. It was an anger that transformed her entire being. She had never seen her lover so angry. And it excited her. She watched, fascinated.

Daphne had noticed the transformation too, but bravery—or, more accurately, stupidity—caused her to fling one final insult in Mel's face. "You're just another notch on her belt," she drawled.

When Mel swung her arm, it was in a wide, lazy arc, as if hitting Daphne were barely worth expending energy. But this belied the force of the backhanded blow which sent the woman hurling through the air, across the room.

Mel blinked. Jesus Christ, did I just do that? She looked down at her hand, which trembled. It had been like a splash, a blot of black ink, that had spread within her, into a terrible rage. She clenched the shaking hand.

The few seconds that they stood there seemed like hours. Catherine’s look was one of amused amazement as she turned her eyes from the body slumped in the corner to Mel’s confused face. Then she slowly made her way over to the body. She felt around for broken bones, checked Daphne's breathing and pulse, and returned to Mel. "I think she'll be fine," she remarked airily. "Let's go."

Mel blinked. "What? We can't leave her here. We should take her to the infirmary. We need to tell someone...the dean..."

The blonde laughed. "Don't be ridiculous. We'll both be sent down if that happens. And she's fine, trust me. She's a stupid girl with a thick skull. She'll live. And she'll know better next time." She placed her hands on Mel's warm cheeks and kissed her soundly. "You're magnificent. I love your strength. Your power. You think you don't have it, but you do. You really do."

Blue eyes narrowed at her in disbelief. "You're crazy," Mel retorted bluntly. Or maybe I am the one who’s crazy. What did I just do? What's wrong with me?

Catherine's lips twitched a little, biting back a dozen different retorts. "I'm crazy, but I'm all yours." And you don't know how true that is, my dear Melinda.

She was on a black horse, chasing a group of men who ran away from her on foot. There was a dull pain traveling through her legs, which were twisted and crippled; when she looked at them, she wanted to scream. A rage in her was so thick and bitter she could bite into it. With each stroke of the sword it seethed, then cooled, until the need struck again: the black urge to lash out, to kill, to obliterate. Man after man fell under her. The last one begged for his life, and then a man on horseback, his dark hair pulled into a ponytail, shouted at her not to kill the last one. But she did it anyway. It felt...so good. Better than anything in her miserable life up to that point. Better than the money. Better than the fucking. Better than the power.

It felt so good. It feels so good. Doesn’t it?

The question burned in her mind as she woke up. And she woke Catherine as her body jerked forward, out of the blonde's loose yet possessive grasp.

"What is this?" Catherine murmured a sleepy protest.

"Nothing," Mel replied perfunctorily, Southern manners always at the ready. I could be bleeding, I could be dying...yet I'd still say "Oh please, don't mind me, I'm fine." Her voice felt so hoarse that she hardly recognized it.

"Bad dream?" The tone was casual.

"Yes." She sat up, on the edge of the bed, and groped for the glass of water that she knew would be on the night stand.

"Tell me." An edgy hint of command in the voice.

"I don't want to."

"Come on," Catherine cooed gently. She let her fingers trail along Mel's bare back. A shudder—desire, disgust, perhaps both—shimmied along her skin.

The tepid water felt good as it soothed her ragged throat. "All right," she murmured. Cautiously she settled back on the bed, as if sleep itself would reach up and claim her again, and the nightmare replay itself. But it didn’t. And so she told Catherine about the dream.

The blonde's legs had wrapped around Mel's as she told the dream, and contracted, almost painfully, then relaxed. "Very interesting," Catherine commented. "Why do you think you're having these dreams?" Well, at least those sessions with Freud were somewhat helpful—I get to steal his inane questions.

"I'm not sure...when I was little my Daddy always told me these stories, about some ancient warrior woman—we're supposed to be her descendants somehow. They were scary sometimes, but she—my ancestor—always wore the white hat. But in this dream, it's like I am her, but she is...not a good person."

"Hmmm. Funny how things get twisted around like that." This time Catherine sounded amused. She let her fingers run along Mel's smooth shoulders.

"I think...I'm just feeling bad about what happened the other day." Mel alluded to the Daphne Incident, which had occurred a scant three days prior. But this morning, in the courtyard, she had encountered Daphne as she and Catherine left the quad. Instead of entering the building, as she obviously intended to do, the girl bolted like a prized race horse, in the other direction. Mel had never seen anyone look at her with such abject fear.

And Catherine had laughed. This time, her laughter seemed brutal as it echoed through the air. And so familiar.

"Oh darling, just let it go." The fingers skittered along her skin.

There was something about the way Catherine touched her...it was stimulating, yet there always a threat — implicit in the curl of her hands, in the way she held back, in the way she pulled back when her touches grew too wild or passionate — of anger, as if that tactile contact would erupt into violence...if they were not careful.

And the funny thing is...I sometimes think I feel it too. Am I just projecting it onto her? Mel slid her arm out of Catherine's grasp easily. She stood up and threw on a deep blue robe. "I think...I'll read for a while."

Catherine laughed derisively. "Do you still remember how? I don't think you've picked up a book in at least a month."

Mel rubbed her aching head. She did not know how she could possibly read with such throbbing in her skull—another hangover contributed to her dissonant state of mind, already troubled by the dream—but she wanted to try. "I know," she replied grimly, and left the bedroom.

***

1945

"Guess what."

"What?"

"I'm a lieutenant."

"Have they gone mad?"

"I think so. But guess what else."

"What?"

"I have orders to go to Bavaria."

Mel stared at Janice in shock. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" she demanded.

"Sorry, sweetheart, your needs seemed more...pressing." Janice had been sprawled out in the wing chair—her favorite seat—in Mel's hotel room, her legs flung comfortably over an arm of the chair, when Mel arrived. Before she had a chance to say anything, she felt Mel's mouth on her own, and the delicious combination of kisses and caresses made her forget about the promotion, about Germany, about everything.

"Damn it all," Mel muttered. She stood up from her kneeling position in front of the chair, impatiently shoving locks of her loosened black hair behind her ears and straightening her skirt.

"Hmmm, Miss Pappas is swearing. Never a good sign," Janice teased gently. She sat up in the chair and buttoned her shirt, which had become undone in their proceedings.

"If Catherine had anything to do with this, I'll..." Weeks ago, she had officially turned down the offer. She had thought the matter closed. And every day, she hoped for Janice to be discharged, so they could get on with their lives. It all seems like some sinister plot. And if Catherine is involved, it probably is.

"Of course she had something to do with it," Janice retorted gently. "You were the one who said point-blank that you wouldn't go without me. She obviously wants you to be there, Mel. So she ships me there, you follow. I should be grateful I'm not being sent somewhere else."

"I don't trust her."

"Neither do I. But I can't refuse orders." As much as I’d like to.

"This is ridiculous! They should be discharging you. We should be going home." The tall Southerner paced a little, hands riding on her hips. It was rare that Janice saw her so agitated.

Janice smiled. "You look like you’re gonna bust me out of the Army, like Jimmy Cagney busting out of jail."

Mel scowled and hung on stubbornly to her bad mood.

"Mel, we will go home soon. I promise you," Janice replied soothingly. Wherever that was, she thought sarcastically. But I do know...my home is wherever you are, baby. She watched as Mel scanned the room disconcertingly, as if searching for something. She chuckled a little, then withdrew the scholar's glasses from her breast-pocket and held them out to her. "Here."

How did she...? Mel smiled. "Thanks."

"You know," Janice began quietly, "it's not as if we haven't done dangerous things before." She watched as Mel slipped on the glasses. Much as Xena was transformed by the sword in her grasp, the armor on her body, the chakram at her side, so Mel was transformed with glasses. They were a shield, and a weapon: her well-honed intelligence glinted in her magnificent blue eyes, refracted by the glasses. Her scholarly demeanor, self-effacing at times yet always rigorous and keen, was firmly in place. "Battling Ares was a pretty impressive stunt," the archaeologist added.

"That was Xena, not me."

"Well, it was you and not Xena who went to Macedonia in the first place. Pretty risky for a Southern belle in high heels."

Mel conceded this with a hum. She rubbed her neck. "I just...want some time with you. We nearly lost each other, do you know that? You've spent over a year getting in and out of dangerous situations. You got shot. Your friend died. You...almost died." Her voice wavered. "It's all too soon to risk losing you again."

"My life has been pretty dangerous in general," Janice smiled bitterly. "That's probably not going to change...much." Will it change? Also, did she want it to change? She loved the danger of what she did, thought little of risking her own life, but now...looking at Mel, she found a very good reason to keep herself in one piece. A very good reason for telling the Army to go to hell. Which I'd very much like to do at this point, she thought.

Mel sighed in exasperation. "Don't patronize me, Janice Covington. I'm not totally naive. I know what you do is sometimes risky. And I know it's worth it, for the scrolls. That is a risk I'm happy to take. But this was a war. In a way...it's not really over yet. And that is a totally different ballgame, as you would put it." She looked at Janice, who had raised an amused eyebrow. "I did use that word correctly, didn't I?"

***

September, 1938

When she was a child the sight of Manhattan from the sky was exciting. She could forget her fear of flying as they sailed over the toy city. It felt as if she could reach out and touch the tip of the Empire State Building—if only because she wanted to.

Now, as the plane descended toward Idlewild, she did not look out the window at the glorious city. Indeed, she had not looked out the window in hours. She had fallen into a light sleep; a stupor, almost, where she kept the conscious world at bay. The plane was not crowded, fortunately, and she sat alone.

She opened her eyes at the stewardess's touch upon her sleeve. "Miss, we're landing in five minutes...please fasten your — oh, I see it is fastened! Good girl!" She smiled at Mel (a blonde, a damned blonde just like Catherine, thought the irritated Mel) and moved on to another passenger.

Good girl.

She turned her brooding gaze to the window. Her father was supposed to meet her at the airport; they had a suite at the Plaza. He thought that staying in New York for a few days might cheer her up before they headed home. He informed her that he had bought a new house, in North Carolina, where they would live. But...why? she had wailed on the phone, immediately thinking of their home in South Carolina, where she grew up, where she could still look at a chair, or a curtain, and still recall her mother being there, inhabiting that particular physical space.

She could practically hear his shrug over the transatlantic connection. I think we both need something new in our lives, don't you?

She had not told him what happened, why she suddenly decided to leave Cambridge. She used the increasing conflict between the English and the Germans as an excuse, but she knew he wasn't entirely fooled by that. What could she possibly say, how could she possibly phrase it? (Even though he knew her nature...) Sorry Daddy, I fell terribly in love with this debauched girl who dumped me after six months...who made my body come alive, who did things to me I couldn't even imagine, yet who made me see the darkness in myself...I never hated myself so much as when I loved her.

If this is what love is about, I'll have no more of it. This is what happened when I stopped being a "good girl." No more love. No more desire.

She glared at the stewardess.

No more blondes.

Her father had a taxi waiting at the airport. She had to admit that it felt good to be really taken care of again; he had hugged her fiercely when she came through the terminal, after her passport and luggage had been checked.

The minute they entered the cab her head fell back against the seat, as if a lead weight had burrowed itself in the bun of her hair. She closed her eyes.

He squeezed her arm affectionately. "You haven't been sleeping." His tone challenged her to contradict the obvious.

"Not...very well." She scrunched her eyes as if in pain, then opened them with an effort. "Daddy, I've been having dreams...they're very odd."

"About Xena," he said flatly.

She seemed surprised. "Yes. You've had them?"

He nodded. "I used to have dreams about her...oh, all the time it seems, when I was young. Rather horrible at times. Violent. She wasn't always a great heroine, you know."

Mel frowned. Yes, he had always said that—that Xena had been "bad" but then she turned "good." But Mel had pictured Xena, her wicked past, and her ultimate redemption in terms of, say, Bette Davis in Jezebel. Not hacking people into bloody little bits. "But you don't anymore?"

He smiled wistfully, and rubbed his chin with his thumb in a thoughtful manner. "No, I don't. It's strange...I stopped having the bad ones, not long after I met your mother."

The following day at the office, Mel informed Frobisher of her decision.

He did not seem surprised. "So you're going?"

She nodded.

"I assume Janice is being transferred there."

She nodded again.

"That's the only reason why you're going, isn't it?"

She paused, looking guilty. A slight smile creased her face. And she nodded again.

He returned the smile wearily. Again, she felt bad; his office was busier than ever, and she hated leaving him in the lurch like this. But as busy as he was, he gave her top priority. "Then let's get cracking on the paperwork, shall we?"

The day seemed to pass quickly, once she made the decision, as if a burden had been lifted. When she arrived back at the room she found Janice already there, sitting comfortably in her favorite chair, a few envelopes scattered on her lap.

"The Army has finally seen fit to deliver my mail," she growled. "All of these are about six months old."

"What did you get?"

"A letter from Dan's mom...which was nice," she added cautiously. She had written to Blaylock's mother after his death, and now she had received a kind letter in return. I thank you for all that you did, his mother had written. But I didn’t do a goddamn thing, she thought. And it called forth that feeling again, the empty burning sensation...of failure. It was easier to get it under control now, but there was no doubt it still existed within her. She continued. "And, um, something from Harvard—they want me to teach a class in the fall. I think they figure that since they can't get any alumni donations out of me, they might as well put me to work. And this." Amused, she held up a pink envelope.

"Janice, darling, I think you better inform your army of ex-girlfriends that you are quite unavailable now."

"Look at the return address."

Mel peered at the upper left corner of the envelope. "Jack Kleinman?"

"I always wondered if he was a nancy boy," Janice said idly, as she tore open the letter.

Mel smirked, recalling Jack's puppy-like attentions to Janice. "I don't think so."

"Let's see what he says here....He apologizes for the stationery, says it belongs to his sister...says our cousins are fine..."

"Cousins?" Mel blurted in alarm. Good God, she can't be related to Jack.

"He means the scrolls. That's his 'code' for it."

"Oh." Mel was impressed. "I didn't know you two had worked out a 'code.' "

"Actually, we haven't...it just says right here in the letter, in parentheses, 'you know I mean the scrolls when I say cousins, right?' "

Mel laughed as Janice continued to scan the letter. A strange look came over the archaeologist's face. "What is it?"

"He asks...about you, how you're feeling...if you've fully recovered from your..." The deep green eyes turned up from the letter and stared at her. "...influenza."

It hung in the air between them. Oh...damn, Mel thought, surrendering to an obscenity. She couldn't think of what to say.

"He...misspelled it, of course." Janice tapped the paper with a finger. "I know Jack exaggerates things sometimes, but..." Her hard, inquisitive eyes caught her lover's guilty look. "He's not making this up, is he?" she demanded quietly.

Mel closed her eyes for a moment to regain herself. "I...no, Janice. He's not. I was...very ill."

The lithe young woman stood up so quickly that it startled Mel. She paced, something she loved to do when angry or frustrated. "Why didn't you tell me?" Janice spat out. "You...you could've died." Now you know how I felt, Mel thought. "Why did you keep that from me?"

"It wasn't important at the time." Mel was surprised at her calmness. "Finding you was."

Janice continued to fume. "Goddammit! Well, you found me, and you still didn't tell me!" she shouted.

"I'm telling you now." It had been a long time, it seemed, since she had encountered Janice's temper. Probably not since they first met in Macedonia. It threw her a bit, but she hoped that by remaining calm, she could get her companion's blood pressure to decrease.

"Only because you had to. You got caught." Is that a sneer on her face?

"I...I didn't think it was important," Mel responded helplessly. The Southerner felt as if she were in emotional quicksand.

"Bullshit! It's more than important. You withheld the truth from me."

Whatever thread of patience Mel possessed snapped. So she wants to be honest here, eh? She couldn't fight the dark impulse to lash out. Hello, darkness...hello, Xena. "Since we're discussing the truth here, Janice, there is something I must ask you." The tone was low, the accent almost gone under the burden of the deepening voice. The eyes were icy. "Would you care to tell me if you've made an acquaintance with an Englishwoman named Meg? During the war?"

The look of shock on Janice's face was simultaneously satisfying and sickening to Mel. So it's true. Janice's jaw shifted. "How did you know...about that?"

"I was mistaken for her in a pub. The gentleman who did the mistaking told me a little tale he heard, about Meg's amorous encounter on a ship with, I believe he said, 'A little American WAC.'" She let her eyes run over Janice's figure in a mocking appraisal. Even in her anger and pain she felt a flicker of desire. And love. "I believe you fit the bill."

"Christ," Janice swore softly. "How did—"

"Everyone on the ship knew. You're fooling yourself if you thought otherwise."

And I thought I had been so...discreet. Everyone hid it well, I must say. No one acted different, no one said a damn thing. But they sure as hell didn't keep it to themselves. Janice rubbed her temple. "You? You were in a pub?" she asked distractedly. The dizzying revelation of events left her disoriented. And picturing Mel in a smelly pub seemed the height of this surrealism. Yet it seems anything—everything—is possible these days. The whole fucking world has been possessed by madness, why not us as well?

Mel shook her head in disbelief; she did not know if she would laugh or cry. "I was looking for you," she retorted angrily.

A silence stretched out for a few seconds, as they took it all in. "I never thought I'd see you again," Janice whispered.

The tall Southerner slammed her hands down on the table that separated them, and left them there, spread out before her. "Did you think I'd let you go so easily?" Mel growled fiercely. "Couldn't you tell how much I loved you?"

Frankly, no, Janice thought. "I didn't know...I thought...I meant very little to you." She saw the pained look on Mel's face. And instantly felt sorry. "Why? You know why, Mel. You did since the day we met. Since the day we recognized who we truly are. You were the noble heroine and I was your sidekick, never measuring up to you. I know now...that's not the way it was for them. But I didn't know—I still don't—if that's the way it would be for us."

Mel walked away and sat down for a moment. She felt...very tired, and her voice was edged with resignation. "I suppose...I had no claim on you at the time." Tell me otherwise, Janice. Please.

Janice leaned uneasily against the table, unable to say the words that sprang instantly to her mind. Actually you did. You already had my heart. I just didn't know it, really. Before she could get past the shame, the anger, the hurt, and say the words, she heard the door slam.

***

Mel entered Hyde Park. The sky was already darkening and a fine rainy mist descended from the sky and drizzled her hair and face. Good....she thought. That means I can cry and no one will notice. The rain came down harder, and it felt good, even strangely comforting. She sought shelter under a large tree for a few minutes, then realized that wandering around in the rain was doing little good, for the same thoughts circled around in her mind. Confounding woman! She cursed the skies. Why do I love her? It's probably some sort of karmic debt. She walked back to the hotel, her coat wet, heavy, like armor. Probably not as heavy as armor, but if Xena had to wander around the hot sticky ancient world saddled with such weight, then my respect for her has risen even higher.

As she entered the lobby she encountered a strange sight: Sergeant McKay was standing awkwardly in the lobby, nervously twisting his cap. The big ruddy Irishman looked rather incongruous within the ostentatious elegance of the hotel. His stricken look told her all she needed to know.

McKay did not hate Janice, but he did possess an irrational fear of the beautiful young woman. No doubt it stemmed from his belief that she was somewhat unnatural: the attire (even off duty, she never changed out of khakis), the smoking, the swearing...she was, he thought, everything a woman shouldn't be. Melinda, on the other hand, met with his approval. He suspected the nature of their relationship, and didn't really want to know any more but, he thought, a woman should act like a woman, and not—he concluded, watching Janice pace the hospital corridor like an expectant father, cursing under her breath—like that.

He was the first to see Mel emerge from the room down the hall. When he jumped up from his seat Janice glared at him in alarm, then stopped as she saw Mel's approach. Still damp from the rain, she pushed rain-curled hair out of her face with an absent-minded air.

They looked at her expectantly.

"He's had a stroke," she said, as calmly as she could.

Approximately two hours ago McKay had entered his superior's office, to see if the old man needed anything before he left for the day, and he found Frobisher slumped over the desk, unconscious.

"Will he...?" whispered Janice.

"They don't know. It's rather touch and go right now." Wearily she sat down.

"Bloody hell," murmured the Sergeant. "I've got to get back to HQ, then. Have to let everyone know..." he sighed. He already felt exhausted. Mel touched his sleeve gently; despite his gruffness, she knew McKay was quite devoted to and fond of his commanding officer. "If you need anything, Sergeant, let me know. I'll probably be here most of the night."

"Miss, you should go home," McKay insisted. "You're all wet—your coat, your hair...don't want you to get the flu, you know."

At the word flu she felt Janice's hard gaze on her again. And she returned the glare. "I'll be fine, Sergeant." McKay nodded, yet squirmed as he sensed the discord between the two women. I don't want to know, he thought.

Her eyelids fluttered, and the blue eyes emerged like butterflies from a chrysalis. The clock at the end of the corridor read 6:35. Morning, she realized, and stretched her long, aching limbs. The doctor would be around soon, she remembered, and would update her on Anton's condition.

Her sleepy eyes blinked in disbelief

Janice was curled up fetally in a chair across from her, sleeping. She clutched her cap as if it were a teddy bear. She stayed here with me. Last night, Janice had left with McKay, and returned a half-hour later with clothes for Mel. Wordlessly she had placed them beside Mel and walked away, down the corridor, without a word. Mel never knew that she had returned; when she drifted off to sleep around 2 (or was it 3?) she was alone.

She felt relief. When she watched Janice walk away from her last night, she wondered when she might see her lover next. Will she run off and join the Foreign Legion this time? Disappear on a dig? Go on a bender? She sat and studied the sleeping woman, as she had done on many an occasion: the brows, darker than the red-gold hair (which was pulled back in a pony tail), were pressed together, as if the archaeologist were deep in thought, even unconsciously; the cheeks were slightly flushed, the full lips parted sensually, the breathing deep and regular. I think you tamed her, Anton had said to her about Janice a few weeks ago. Was this proof of that, the fact that this woman was back at her side? I like her a little wild, Mel conceded, but I'm also glad she's here.

She was so engrossed in her study of Janice that she did not notice the nurse who had crept up to her on little cat feet and gently touched her shoulder. "The doctor's here," she told Mel.

The doctor, waiting for her at the end of the corridor, was young. Yet like so many young men of his generation, he carried around a sense of permanent fatigue, as if the rest of his life would not be long enough to recover from the war. And it probably wouldn't. "You're Colonel Frobisher's...wife?" he asked, with uncertainty.

She almost laughed. "No, just...his family."

He looked confused for a moment, then continued. "I see. He's had a rather nasty stroke, as you've been told. His chances for survival are good, since he made it through the night. As for a full recovery, I can't say. Only time will tell. I'd like to keep an eye on him for a few days, then we'll send him home. He's a bit groggy, but you can see him in a few minutes."

"Thank you," she replied quietly.

Later she entered his room. He looked smaller, paler, fragile. As did her father, when he was dying. It was more dramatic with Daddy, she thought, since her father had been a big, strapping man. It had been agony to see him waste away. And it was almost as horrible to see this. Not again, she vowed. I don't want to go through this again.

Janice could smell coffee. Coffee...I need to get Mel some coffee, her foggy brain registered the imperative. Her body jerked awake. The first thing she saw was a cup of coffee in front of her face, held by a familiar, beautiful hand.

"Good morning," Mel said softly.

"Oh Mel," groaned the archaeologist, as she stretched out the kinks in her back and legs.

"Hmmm?"

"Goddammit, I was going to wake up before you and get you some...coffee" She took the proffered cup. "I fucked up again."

"You didn't." She said it gently. But she knew it would not convince Janice—or even herself, she was ashamed to admit—of that fact.

"Thanks." Janice stared into the black liquid, as if she had never seen coffee before. "How is he?"

"He's...better. They think he'll pull through. How much damage has been inflicted to his body, and to his mind...well, they just don’t know yet. We have to wait and see."

An uneasy silence passed between them.

I should apologize, Janice thought. I should tell her I didn't mean to hurt her, I didn't mean for it to happen...it meant nothing, I love her, I really do.

I should apologize, Mel thought. I did lie to her. And I really don't care about what happened. She could sleep with everyone in England right now, and I wouldn't care...would I? Okay, maybe everyone is pushing it...but it doesn’t matter as long as she loves me. Right?

But what Mel thought—and what she said—were quite different. A deeply imbedded impulse to hurt, something she scarcely acknowledged, something she was afraid of, reared its head and bared its ugly truth.

"I can't go with you," Mel blurted. I'm such an idiot, Mel sighed. I could have said it...in a better way. "You know that."

The words were like a hammer. "Uh...yeah," Janice acknowledged in a husky voice, while blinking like a punch-drunk boxer. "I know that. You should be here. For him."

"Janice, I'm sorry."

The newly promoted lieutenant stood up and stretched quickly. "You know something? I've got to go. I need to be briefed before I leave tomorrow."

Mel felt helpless. "I...will I...?" God, you can't leave like this. She reached out to touch Janice's arm, but she skittered easily out of Mel's grasp.

"I'll...see you later. Okay?" Janice managed to force the words out. Before Mel could respond, she was gone, striding quickly down the bleak corridor.

She had reached her threshold of exhaustion. She finally left the hospital in the afternoon, returned to the hotel, and collapsed. When she awoke several hours later, she was contorted on the bed, in her slip, and the wild colors of the sunset were flooding the room. She chastised herself for not closing the curtains earlier, and was debating getting dressed merely to go over and close them, or to dash over, scantily clad, and risk having someone see her. Propriety strikes again, she thought heavily.

Then she heard the key in the door.

The door swung open, and Janice swayed in. Drunk. Her rolling gait managed to carry her over to the bed, where she plopped down on the edge. Mel slid over to where she sat, and gasped. Blood dribbled from the archaeologist's nose, and had coated her lips. "Oh, God," whispered Mel.

"Fight," Janice supplied.

I thought so, otherwise that was one very rough debriefing you got, Mel thought. She stood up with the intention of going to the bathroom and procuring a washcloth to clean off the blood. Janice grasped her arm. "No," she moaned the protest. "Stay here for a minute."

Mel sat down on the bed and touched the bloodied lips with her fingers, wiping away some of the blood. "What?" she whispered urgently.

"Kiss me."

She did not. Instead, she pressed a cool hand to Janice's warm forehead. "Why, why do you always insist on hurting yourself?"

"Do you think I punched myself in the face?" Janice was angry, but did not pull away.

"No, that's not what I meant." But I can probably guess what happened to you, darling. You went into a pub, and you picked a fight with the biggest, nastiest piece of work you could find. If beating yourself up isn't sufficient enough, you find someone else to do it for you.

"Don't say anything else. Please."

"But—"

"I need you." Janice's lips, saturated red, claimed Mel's. The bitter, coppery tang of blood seeped into the scholar's mouth. It did not bother her. I know you so well, your blood has mingled with mine since our beginning. How many times has your touch burned through me and quenched itself within my blood, my heart? Could anything you give to me, could anything you do, be so horrible? Nothing, except leaving me. She felt Janice's hands tangle carelessly within her hair, and she slid a hand inside a khaki shirt, her touch gliding over the smooth neck and rippling shoulders. She felt guilty, thinking that perhaps they should be talking about everything that happened. But the desire was a way of coping with the imminent loss, the easiest way of doing so. It was a way of saying goodbye. As she stripped away the clothes, so she hoped someday she would be able to strip away all the layers of defenses, the bravado, the insecurities of this...complicated woman.

And I’m not complicated? she asked herself.

She gently pulled Janice back on the bed, and covered her with her own long body. Then her mind stilled and she listened as their bodies spoke to one another.

Later in the night Janice had awakened. Another nightmare. Mel held her as her breathing slowed, and until the sweat on her brow cooled. Janice never really talked in detail about the dreams, or what happened in them...all she knew was that they were somehow connected to what happened in France, to her friend's death—Janice somehow felt guilty about it. She gently traced the small scars on Janice's strong thigh, where she had been shot. She felt a muscle twitch under her fingertips. As the scars intersected each other, like pieces of a puzzle fitting together, so did something formulate in her mind.

"You've never killed anyone before, have you?" Mel probed gently.

Janice's head, buried in her chest, shook from side to side. No.

The gun she always carried, the Smith & Wesson...she knew that Harry had given it to Janice, and, from seeing her in action with a gatling gun, she knew the woman could shoot. But she hadn't really thought it through—in a way, didn't want to know—if Janice had ever really shot anyone. Or killed anyone. She didn't want to know if the rumors about "Mad Dog" Covington were true, didn't want to know if Xena's bloody legacy tainted them both. But one afternoon in Macedonia—after Ares, just before they returned to the States—she recalled the Smith and Wesson flashing in the sun as Janice twirled it around, like Jesse James. It was a romantic image. And she had felt the first glimmer of desire for Janice at that moment: her quick hands, her wide grin, her tanned, lithe body, the golden hair that rivaled the sun in its luster....Janice had caught her fearful yet fascinated look at the gun, and laughed. Usually I just wave it around, fire off a few shots maybe, and people leave me alone, the archaeologist had assured her.

***

Alexandria, 1933

A wooden ramp lead down into the excavation pit. The crew of a dozen young men watched as a bloodied, unconscious body rolled unceremoniously down the ramp, staining the pale wood on its journey. Dust swirled around the body, as it thudded to a halt in the dirt.

Fayed, the foreman of the group, looked at the body unsympathetically. He clucked and pushed back a lock of his unruly black hair. He had known that the man who lay at his feet would not last long here: He had seen the way Cherif had eyed Harry Covington's daughter. And since Cherif was his wife's cousin, he felt an obligation to warn him that it wasn't worth it—that Covington would beat him within an inch of his life if he tried to seduce her, and would definitely kill him if he succeeded in bedding the girl. And he had been right.

He turned his attention to Covington, who loomed above them at the edge of the pit. He was short yet powerfully muscular, built like a wrestler. Shouting in Arabic, hands on hips, he informed them all that the next man who laid a hand on his daughter would die. Then he ordered them back to work.

Reluctantly, the group of men walked away from the body. Except Fayed, who awaited Harry's instructions.

"Fayed..." Harry began wearily.

"Yes, Harry?" Fayed was the only one in the crew who was bold enough to call the archaeologist by his first name.

"Get that bastard out of here. Drive him home. Get someone to help you if you need to."

Fayed nodded.

"And Fayed?"

"Yes?"

"Tell your wife I'm sorry."

The Arab nodded again, a smile tugging at his lips. He couldn't wait to tell his wife I told you so.

Harry walked back to his tent. He hesitated in front of the flap, and took a deep breath. He pushed back the flap and entered.

Janice was curled on the cot, her legs tucked up against her chest, and her arms wrapped around them. Her head was pressed against her knees. She did not look at him as he came over to her. He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. "Janie?" he whispered.

Almost a minute passed. then finally she raised her head. Her lip was bleeding and, he noticed for the first time, there were violent bruises around her neck. His anger flared anew, and he recalled the scene he had found just a half-hour ago, when he came back from the marketplace ahead of schedule: Cherif in the tent, one hand pinning Janice down by the throat, she half-naked and squirming under him, his other hand fumbling with the buttons on his trousers.

The guilt hit him. Dammit, I shouldn't have left her here. In fact, she shouldn't even be here at all. This is no place for a girl. But where would she go—willingly, for that matter? She'd follow me here every time. I know her. Gingerly he reached out and touched her hair. she did not pull away, but he felt the shudder travel down her body. "I'm sorry, Dad," she said hoarsely.

"It's not your fault," he said emphatically. "If that man knew the proper way to behave, it wouldn't have happened." He sighed. "Honey, let me take care of that lip for you. Then I'm gonna show you how to take care of yourself. It's been a long time coming."

Intrigued, the girl looked at him quizzically.

He stood up and walked over to the other cot in the tent. He threw off the thin blanket and reached under the pillow. Grinning, he pulled out a Smith & Wesson revolver. "I'm gonna show you how to use this. Between that and some boxing lessons, kid..." his smile faded, and he concluded darkly, "...no one's ever gonna hurt you again."

***

A jeep sailed across the runway. Catherine, watching from the hangar, half-expected the thing to rise off the ground, as if it were a plane too. As the vehicle drew nearer she recognized the red-gold hair flying in the air, the eyes hidden by sunglasses. The jeep stopped at the other end of the hangar. Covington climbed out of the vehicle, exchanging a few words and a quick hug with the driver, another WAC. Interesting. Is the little bitch capable of cheating on her lover? I couldn't be so lucky. It would make things too easy.

With her rucksack slung over a shoulder, Covington swaggered over to her. She wasn't in full uniform, Catherine noted with disapproval. A leather jacket covered the white t-shirt she wore, which showed off her taut physique quite nicely—and Catherine did approve of the flat stomach and the full, rounded breasts that were available for her viewing pleasure. They probably fucked like rabbits last night. In fact, I hope they did. For it will be the last time, I swear.

"Lieutenant," she drawled in greeting. "Glad you could make it." Upon a closer view, she saw that Covington’s nose looked a little red, a little bruised. Oh dear...did she make Melinda lose her temper? It takes a lot...but it is possible, and this one is just as annoying as Daphne ever was.

"Sorry about the delay. I woke up late."

"Of course," replied the OSS operative archly. "I won't ask what detained you. That wouldn't be terribly lady-like, would it? Not that either of us are ladies." She let a grin curl her face. Let the torture begin.

To Covington's credit, the young lieutenant did not rise to the bait. She smirked in return. "I agree, neither one of us are ladies. But that shouldn't keep us from our mission, should it? Are we ready to go?"

Catherine nodded toward the bomber that sat on the runway. "Yes. Over there. Shall we?" together they walked toward the plane. Catherine pulled a silver cigarette case out of a pocket and opened it with one smooth gesture. "Cigarette, Lieutenant?"

Janice hesitated for a nanosecond, then accepted. No point in antagonizing the woman. Sometimes a cigarette is just a cigarette, no? And besides, I could use it. When she left in the morning Mel had still been asleep. She had not the heart to wake the slumbering scholar, nor had the time to leave a note. She only hoped that Mel understood somehow. But I ditched her again. Maybe now she'll ditch me...for good. I guess I deserve it.

"Thanks," she said to Catherine, as the blonde agent lit her cigarette.

"Who knows, Lieutenant...this may be the beginning of a beau-ti-ful friendship," the OSS agent declared in a sing-song voice.

Janice let the angrily spewed smoke speak for itself.

***

October, 1945

"Thank bloody Christ," Sergeant McKay said, as he opened the door of Frobisher's home, and saw Mel standing on the doorstep.

"Hello to you too, Sergeant." She strode into the townhouse, bringing with her a gust of crisp autumn air. Once again he felt like a troll next to her, and cleared his throat anxiously.

"Er, sorry, Miss Pappas. But the Colonel's been acting funny today...and I'm just glad you're here."

"What's happening?" Mel asked, as they mounted the stairs to Frobisher's bedroom.

"He won't stay in bed, and he's been wandering around everywhere. It's like he's lookin' for something, but he won't tell me what."

He probably can't, thought Mel. Since his release from the hospital almost three weeks ago, the Colonel had been unable to speak, and barely able to move. Usually when he did speak, it was nonsense, although the notes he handed to Mel yesterday made more sense than usual. Every day since he left the hospital she would come by and spend the better part of the day with him and the nurse. Usually she read to him. Her unconscious selection of reading material — Trollope's Can You Forgive Her? — irked her, the title wailing its insistent question, immediately bringing to mind her errant lover.

Yesterday, however, he had seized the notepad she had bought for him, and a pen, and rather laboriously scrawled out the following message:

I hate Trollope, it said.

She nodded sympathetically. "How about Austen?"

He made a face.

"Balzac?" I'll go through the alphabet if I have to, she thought.

He shrugged. Then nodded. Then, as if he suddenly remembered something, started to write on the pad again. After a few minutes of watching him grimace and scowl with the effort, the pad was thrust at her.

Go to Germany.

"I can't...not now," she replied firmly, mentally begging him to change the subject.

He shook his head vigorously, like a wet dog trying to get dry. "Oh!" he cried softly, in frustration, which startled her. Again he set to work on the pad. Beads of perspiration popped against his forehead.

"Take it easy," she cautioned him gently, laying a hand on his arm, which trembled under her touch. He handed another message to her:

You don't understand. It's danger.

It hit a nerve. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. "I know it's dangerous. I know. But she's a grown woman. She can take care of herself." And she better...because when I get my hands on her, I'm going to kill her, Mel had thought angrily. And while that had been the day prior, her anger still lingered, of course. She leaves without so much as a word, not even a "goodbye"...what am I supposed to think? It's my own fault too, I should've said something, I should've said so much...she is driving me insane...this whole situation is driving me insane. Mel was agonizing over this in her mind for what seemed like the millionth time when she and McKay entered the Colonel's bedroom.

The old man stood in the center of the room. His bathrobe hung limply around his thinning frame, as did his fleur-de-lis pajamas. His gray hair, uncombed, stood out in wild tufts here and there. He looked utterly confused.

"Uncle Anton, I never thought I'd ever be saying this to you, but...get into bed right now!" Mel chastised.

"Nonsense," the old man muttered. "I need..." he trailed off with a sigh.

McKay looked at her, concerned. She tapped her shoulder bag, hoping to distract him. "I did bring some Balzac," she said. It was an old leather-bound volume that she bought at a bookseller's on Portobello Road earlier in the day: A Harlot High and Low. Another title that prompted her mind to wallow in all sorts of scathing commentary concerning Janice Covington. None of which she said, of course.

He sighed and looked around the room.

"Are you looking for something?" she asked.

"Love in all the wrong places," he replied.

McKay rolled his eyes. "If you could tell me what you're looking for, I can help you," she offered. "Maybe if you try to write it down."

He shook his head. "My...bag," he said emphatically. "Leather!" he cried.

"Your briefcase!" she clarified.

He nodded vigorously.

"What d'ya need that for?" McKay asked impatiently.

Frobisher growled.

"Just...look for it, Sergeant. Please?" Mel asked.

It took him half an hour, but finally McKay found the old leather briefcase. It was in a broom closet downstairs, where McKay had shoved it weeks ago after bringing home the Colonel's clothes from the hospital. The Sergeant had apparently mistaken it for a real clothes closet.

He brought it up to Frobisher, who snatched it from him and proceeded to rummage through it with great speed. He sat on the edge of his bed, Mel beside him. Papers fell at his feet as he dug through the briefcase. Finally he was staring at a black leather binder. He thrust it at Mel.

She took it and opened it. The first word she saw, screaming out to her in blood-red letters, was CLASSIFIED.

"Anton," she protested, "I can't read this!" She shoved it at him.

He shoved it back.

She exchanged a look with McKay, who appeared just as confused—and nervous—as she.

Anton's eyes were pleading as he held out the binder to her. Reluctantly, she turned her head to the document, and started reading in her usual brisk manner. But as she progressed her mouth dropped open in quiet shock. "Oh...God," she whispered.

The classified report—it was not directed to Anton but the London head of OSS, and she had no idea how he had got a hold of it—detailed Catherine Stoller's activities in Berlin during the war. She and a fellow agent had been posing as an SS official and his wife: Hans and Lotte Steiner. Three months before the end of the war, her fellow operative was dead, an apparent suicide — an encoded radio message sent by Catherine indicated that their mission had been found out. She had escaped capture, but he did not; rather than risk revealing anything to the enemy, he took his own life. Catherine had then disappeared until resurfacing in London just after Germany's surrender.

An additional document, attached to the report, was a deposition from an SS soldier, a prisoner of war. This man claimed that, indeed, the Germans had discovered — indeed, had known for quite some time — that the officer known as Hans Steiner was a British agent. They monitored his movements for some time before arresting him. After a unsuccessful attempt at extracting information from him, he had been executed by one of their agents. A double agent. Catherine Stoller.

She let the sheaf of papers fall to floor. History repeats itself. Even the history you do not know, even the history you are not aware of.

Anton's hand sought hers, and squeezed it with more strength than she imagined he had. "Go," he said simply, his voice ravaged.

She nodded mutely. Didn’t I say I had a bad feeling about this?

[toshootforthestars]

The problem is that words like “viability” and “success” mean different things to different people. Tallying up 700,000 subscribers and $35 million in annual revenue would be clear markers of success to a person who just wants to run a viable, mid-sized business that pays people good wages to write interesting things. But those numbers mean something wholly different to an unfathomably rich person like [Ev] Williams, who is always in search of the next billion-dollar idea. MEL succeeded in publishing work that people wanted to read, but perhaps not in providing whatever it is a razor company was looking for when it decided to launch a publication.

It’s tiring to keep living in cycles where headcount at some point becomes bodycount for editorial operations, either through incompetence, negligence, or hubris of would-be media barons. And these notions of what a successful media company actually looks like will only become more distorted as more of them are placed in the hands of rich people who suffer from a terminal disconnect from reality.

The last several years in media has brought breakneck deals between former media upstarts that mirror the legacy newspaper mergers they thought they were innovating beyond. Vox Media gobbled New York magazine, Vice handcuffed Refinery29, BuzzFeed grabbed HuffPost at the end of last year. When these mergers happen, employees always get the same gaslit song about how cuts won’t be made. BuzzFeed founder Jonah Peretti told The New York Times last fall that everyone should feel good about his company’s merger with HuffPost. A few months later, he went about gutting HuffPost’s newsroom.

If there was a tipping point in the business of journalism, we’re likely far past it. I was writing about these same problems as a Serious Media Business Reporter Person almost six years ago. Not much has changed since then, except the names and the amount of us who have lost or left jobs.

The channels for distributing news, and the ad dollars that flow in the direction of the eyeballs they capture, are dominated by Facebook, Twitter, Google, and YouTube. The audience, either perceived or real, for the information created by journalists, is atomized beyond any historical comprehension. And the economics? Largely controlled by a collection of wealthy figureheads and tech acolytes whose motivations and interests vacillate from apathetic altruism and curious benevolence to reckless hostility.

The future seems bleak as hell, so is it a surprise writers are gleefully (or, warily) jumping to Substack? Substack, much like Medium, is another deal with a devil you only partially know that doesn’t want to share the granular details of its proprietary product. But, given the toxic atmosphere in media (I will save my rant on the ways newsrooms are hostile and traumatic to anyone who doesn’t resemble a 54-year-old white man for another day), the economics and freedom, even at a newsletter company with opaque motivations, are favorable by comparison.

And yet, there is another option: collective action. There’s a reason there’s been an explosion in new unions and bargaining units within media companies in the recent years. It’s the same reason there’s been further expansion in nonprofit news, news cooperatives focused on marginalized communities, or even (ahem) subscription-based blogs focused on community. 

If the work is actually about speaking truth to power, that belief system has to matter in our own house.

At this point getting laid off, being a surveyor or survivor of the wreckage in this industry, should only lead to one conclusion: Nobody is coming to save the day. We have to do it ourselves. As long as journalism remains beholden to wealthy dilettantes, be they Ev Williams, Jonah Peretti, Laurene Powell Jobs, Jeff Bezos, The Newhouse family, or a swarm of locusts wearing a Tom Ford suit and Jordans that have formed a hedge fund, any endeavor will ultimately be poisoned by the bias and interests of its benefactor. Because money will always look after more money, not the interest of journalism or the people who want to read a chronicling of the world as it is ground to dust in money’s path.

Justin Ellis: Rich People Are Never Going To Save Media

Defector   /   26 Mar 2021

[iwantedtowriteyouthis]

It's been 10 days since my 10 day retreat. (Edit: actually, 20 now but I didn't get to paint this draft until now!) I haven't yet been able to draft up my thoughts for this blog, but I will. And life, in the meanwhile, carries on.

I spent my first days out with with Mohit, a local Puneite who, almost as soon as the Noble Silence ended, invited me to stay with him and his family in a suburb of the city. He wanted to tour me around the important sites, but admitted that he hasn't yet been himself. We would have to hire a tour guide. Not a problem, I said lead the way!

We started by going his place, for a home cooked meal, to have a tour and look at his family mementos and childhood drawings. I got very excited about the cutlery holder which I imagine is fairly standard in Indian homes, but which represented to me the richness of the treat I was getting to experience. They don't have these in restaurants or hostels, where I chat mainly with foreigners, or on occasion traveling Indians. Home life - the settled-in and staying-put life in another country - It's not normally accessible! I was stoked to look around the kitchen and fridge.

Mohit brought me to the local shrines and temples, snapping selfies and sharing his life stories. We drank sweet lime juice from the street vendor he visited in his school years, a vigorous man caught in time, plying the same crowd on the same spot; his mechanical press, cracked cart, and faded umbrella other relics from those days long past.

We visited his old school, well-regarded for fostering leadership qualities in its well-rounded, only male students. It reminded me of my own high school, though dustier, on larger grounds, and with 50 students crowded into each classroom. Unfortunately, we arrived too far ahead of the final bell, and left before I could investigate an empty classroom and interview an Indian teacher.

Still driving around in search of 'unmissable' experiences, we went to the German Cafe near the Osho compound, which was the site of a terrorist attack a few years back. In fact, we later discovered, this day was precisely the 10-year anniversary of the event. A small vigil was up on the sidewalk, but it was business-as-usual inside.

I'd been craving a massage after the long painful sits in Vipassana (yes, craving - I know enough to name it, but I indulged myself anyways). They were offering them next door at quite a low rate, and the quality was consistent. But good enough! We returned home for a simple meal, mediated, then went to watch a movie at the cinema, deciding that Ford vs Ferrari was the most appropriate option available.

I should fast-forward a little. The next day, after extended farewells, I ran some errands in Pune (experiencing and overcoming the standard litany of logistical challenges), walked past the Osho compound itself with its red-robed foreign acolytes and forbidding perimeter walls, and took my overnight bus straight to Palolem beach, heading directly to Kashish Yoga on arrival to reunite with my wife after two weeks apart!

Lindsay and I spent a weekend together at Patnem beach, walking-distance south of its more popular neighbor. Great eating, swimming, shopping and catching up. I joined her for two days at her Yoga teacher training all-inclusive (reading her copy of Little Fires poolside while she was busy in classes), then one night beachfront (where we returned a few days later - the second weekend), then left for two nights at the Tribe eco-resort a few km north of town.

Here we'll slow down again, because Tribe really captured my interest during my too-short stay. It's a fledgling project, just beginning to become a sustainable business. But they've been in the business of sustainability for a few years now, organizing beach cleans and dog spaying/neutering, creating a wildlife sanctuary and reintroducing biodiversity into an ex-cashew plantation. The main dorm is an open-air raised wooden platform beneath a thatched roof, with impressively effective bug nets cocooning the single mattresses. Private living spaces are simply shacks of varying sizes spread throughout the property, with reclaimed fabric curtains and short ladders.

There's a feeling of immersion, being well removed from the beaten path by distance and dirt roads, as well as a different mentality - not to *take* enjoyment from the natural wonders of the Goan landscape, but to *give* it the richness back after decades of exploitation.

There's also community, with volunteers coming to stay for months at a time to build, restore, and support. One couple from Quebec offered yoga and a Cacao ceremony during my short stay. Everyone shares what they have. It felt good to offer my Ambigrams and I Ching readings to the folks, and then, the morning I left, a formal Acro lesson - my first ever!

This Acro class deserves an explanation. Lindsay had volunteered me to teach her classmates some moves, and it was important to me to do it right. These are full-fledged 500-hour teachers, almost, after all! I planned a flow that would be accessible to beginners, but included some challenges for any who could master the basics. I strategized how to introduce concepts in a sequence that was logical and safe... And then I fretted some more! Wouldn't it make sense to practice teaching the class? I went round after breakfast on Saturday morning to advertise my offering... The time came, and so did the people! They listened, they tried the things. They gave each other insightful feedback and good spotting. Nobody got hurt and folks seemed to be having fun. I'd say it went pretty well!

Later that afternoon, the embodiment professionals were a touch more prudent, conscious of their comfort boundaries, learning lots and having fun, but feeling more secure with me basing or spotting and guiding through the trickier moves. Also a good class, just a bit more 'me' centered. This does wonders for my ego.

One more low-key weekend at the beach, with plenty of sun and sand and sea, tasty treats and resort-like treatment at our small hostel, then a strange jilted week ahead. I thought I might catch Carnivale in one of the four major cities it's in by overnighting in Margao on Monday. Unfortunately, it quickly became clear that the parade had passed through prior to my arrival, and had already moved north. So instead today I am on the train to Hampi, the not-so ancient capital of the Vijayanagar Empire, now an extensive city of ruins. They say one can spend months there fully taking in the majesty. I'll be racing through in a day and a half. Luckily the travel, though long, is relaxed. Soon we'll say long to the South of India and the heavy heat. We've begun to book our stays in the mountains... So stay tuned for the next adventures!

Graham

P.S. The man below me on the train to Hampi brought an electric kettle for the journey!

[justforbooks]

I’ve been trying to remember, was it The Sorrow And The Pity they were lining up for when, sick to death of the medium-is-the-message windbaggery of the pseudo-intellectual – now there’s a term to blast me back – in front of him, Alvy actually produces Marshall McLuhan from behind a lobby card? The association strikes me as a natural one, since I’m about to gather with the other acolytes in an art house cinema. Will anyone in the queue reference or be moved to imitate the McLuhan moment, I wonder?

And where were they? Was it at the Regency at 68th street? (Was it even called the Regency? It hardly matters, since it’s gone now, like the New Yorker at 88th, the movie house at 72nd and Broadway, the Thalia {{which does show up at the very end of the movie, when he runs into Annie after they’ve stopped dating and introduces her to a young, young Sigourney Weaver, fresh out of Yale}}, the Metro, the Bleecker and, of course, Theater 80. With all the rep houses having ceded their real estate to condos and their authority to Netflix, who is curating the tastes of the city’s undergraduates? How will they even know about The Sorrow And The Pity? Mondo Cane? How can the budding homosexual flower without the occasional force-feeding of a double feature of Now Voyager and All About Eve? To wit – and to extend this parenthetical yet further: in senior year, at the last meeting of our Japanese literature seminar before Spring break, the professor – ageing, erudite, one of the few, perhaps only, Western recipients of countless Japanese cultural laurels – asked us our plans for the coming week. I allowed as how I would be staying in town in order to write my thesis. ‘Well then, of course you’ll be going to the Bette Davis festival every day down at the Embassy.’ He said it as if stating an obvious prescription, like recommending medical attention for a sucking chest wound, or ‘You’ll want to call the fire department about those flames licking up the front of your house.’ Only a self-destructive lunatic would think he could survive the week by missing the Bette Davis festival. I took his advice and went every day. Did it help my thesis any? Hard to say. It was a long time ago.)

The time when a Woody Allen retrospective would have evoked that kind of fierce cinéaste devotion seems long gone, having been tempered out of us not just by the years (such performative loyalty is really the province of the youngsters who nightly go to Irving Plaza right near my apartment, passing the hours sitting on the pavement singing the songs of the artists they are about to see), but by Woody Allen himself. The tsunami of mediocrities like Hollywood Ending and Melinda And Melinda effectively obliterates why Manhattan mattered so much. I can’t help feeling like he’s dismantled the very admirable legacy of his earlier work by his later, overly prolific efforts. It’s a more benign version of Ralph Nader (with the key difference that I hate Ralph Nader, whereas Woody Allen simply makes me a little bit sad).

Then again, no one worth a damn doesn’t make the occasional bit of bad work: there are episodes of The Judy Garland Show that are absolute train wrecks of creaky squareness, made all the more ghoulish by the presence of an aphasic gin-soaked Peter Lawford, and I take a back seat to no one in my love for Judy Garland, the most talented individual who ever lived (ladies and gentlemen, my Kinsey placement); I read a lousy late Edith Wharton novel this summer, The Children, that was a tone-deaf, treacly muddle; I don’t care for Balanchine’s Scherzo à la Russe and I’ve said it before, even though it is considered a cinematically signal moment by the Cahiers du Cinema crowd (zzzzzzz), I’m no great fan of the movie Kiss Me Deadly.

Perhaps taken as a whole, the twenty-eight films will start to exert their own internal logic and I will see and delight in how Allen mines his themes over and over again. Or perhaps it will be like the Broadway show Fosse, where a surfeit of the choreographer’s vocabulary made all of it suffer and the entire thing looked like the kind of shitty entertainment that takes place on a raised, round, carpeted platform at a car show. I’ll see, I guess.

As one might expect for the 1:30 p.m. showing on the Friday before Christmas, there are only about a dozen of us waiting. Our ranks swell to about thirty people closer to show time, but at first it’s just me and more than a few men of a certain age (whose ranks I join with ever greater legitimacy each day), about whom it might be reasonably assumed that we spend an inordinate amount of time fixating on when next we might need to pee. Thoughts of age stay at the forefront in the first few minutes of the film, when Woody Allen himself (who, it must be said, in later scenes, stripped down to boxers, kind of had a rocking little body in his day) addresses the camera directly and tells us that he just turned forty. I’m older than that by two years.

How many times have I seen this, I wonder? Unquantifiable. The film is canonical and familiar and memorized, almost to the point of ritual. Perhaps this is the spiritual solace the faithful find in the formulaic rhythms of liturgy. It’s as comforting as stepping into a warm bath. Diane Keaton is enchanting, there is no other word for it. She comes on the screen and you can hear the slightest creaking in the audience as corners of mouths turn up. There is Christopher Walken, a peach-fuzzed stripling. And there, doe-eyed, with drum-tight skin: Carol Kane playing Alvy’s first wife, Allison Portchnik.

Allison Portchnik. Oy. I am generally known as an unfailingly appropriate fellow. I have very good manners. But when I fuck up, I fuck up big time. Suddenly I am reminded of how, three years ago, I was on a story for an adventure magazine, an environmental consciousness-raising whitewater-rafting expedition in Chilean Patagonia (about which the less said the better. It’s really scary. Others may call it exhilarating, and I suppose it is, the way having a bone marrow test finally over and done with is exhilarating. And Patagonia, Chilean Patagonia at least, while pretty, isn’t one tenth as breathtaking as British Columbia). On the trip with me were Bobby Kennedy, Jr., hotelier André Balazs and Glenn Close, among others. Everyone was very nice, I hasten to add.

After lunch one day, my friend Chris, the photographer on the story, came up to me and said, ‘I’d lay off the Kennedy assassination jokes if I were you.’

I laughed, but Chris reiterated, not joking this time. ‘No, I’d really lay off the Kennedy assassination jokes. The lunch line . . .’ he reminded me.

And then I remembered. I had been dreading this trip (see above about how totally justified I was in my trepidation) for weeks beforehand, terrified by the off-the-grid distance of this Chilean river, a full three days of travel away; terrified of the rapids and their aqueous meatgrinder properties; terrified of just being out of New York. All of this terror I took and disguised as an affronted sense of moral outrage, that such trips were frivolous, given the terrible global situation. I explained it to Glenn Close thusly:

‘I was using the war in Iraq to try and avoid coming down here,’ suddenly, unthinkingly invoking the part of Annie Hall where Alvy breaks off from kissing Allison because he’s distracted by niggling doubts: if the motorcade was driving past the Texas Book Depository, how could Oswald, a poor marksman, have made his shot? Surely there was a conspiracy afoot. Then, with Bobby Kennedy, Jr. helping himself to three-bean salad on the lunch line not five feet away, I switched into my Carol Kane as Allison Portchnik voice and said, ‘You’re using the Kennedy Assassination as an excuse to avoid having sex with me.’ Then I followed that up with my Woody Allen imitation and finished out the scene. Nice. No one pointed out my gaffe or was anything other than gracious and delightful.

Despite how well I know the material, the film feels so fresh. All the observations and jokes feel like they’re being made for the first time, or are at least in their infancy. By later films they will feel hackneyed (in the movie Funny Girl, the process of calcification is even more accelerated. You get back from intermission and Barbra Streisand already feels like too big a star, a drag version of herself ), but here it’s all just terrifically entertaining. And current! Alvy tells his friend Max that he feels that the rest of the country turning its back on the city – It’s the mid-70s. Gerald Ford to New York: Drop Dead, and all that jazz – is anti-Semitic in nature. That we are seen as left-wing, Communist, Jewish, homosexual pornographers. And so we remain, at least in the eyes of Washington and elsewhere, a pervy bastion of surrender monkeys. There was an Onion headline that ran after a sufficient interval of time had passed post-9/11, that essentially read, ‘Rest of country’s temporary love affair with New York officially over.’

Rest of the country’s perhaps, but mine was just beginning when I saw the film at age eleven. By the time the voiceover gets to the coda about how we throw ourselves over and over again into love affairs despite their almost inevitable disappointments and heartbreak because, like the joke says, ‘we need the eggs,’ (if you need the set-up to the punchline, what on earth are you doing reading this?) I am weepy with love for the city. Although, truth be told, it doesn’t take much to get my New York waterworks going.

Walking out, my friend Rick, thirtyplus years resident said, ‘I had forgotten how Jewish a film it is.’ I really hadn’t noticed. But I’m the wrong guy to ask. It’s like saying to a fish, ‘Do things around here seem really wet to you?’ I wrote a book that got translated into German a few years back. There was a fascination among the Germans with what they perceived as my Jewish sensibility; a living example of the extirpated culture. I’ve said this before, but I felt like the walking illustration of that old joke about the suburbs being the place where they chop down all the trees and then name the streets after them. At least a dozen of the reviews referred to me as a ‘stadtneurotiker’, an urban neurotic, a designation that pleased me, I won’t lie. Especially when I found out the German title for Annie Hall.

Der Stadtneurotiker.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[rolandfontana]

The Man Who Murdered the Sixties

It’s been a half-century since Charles Manson and his loopy minions conspired to commit a series of murders that still fascinate and flabbergast the world.

Manson, who died in prison in 2017, would savor the attention he continues to attract, including in this summer’s Quentin Tarantino film (“Once Upon a Time…in Hollywood”) and several new books,  including my own.

In March 1967, at age 32, Manson was a fresh federal parolee who stumbled into San Francisco as American ingenues in peasant dresses and bellbottoms—runaways, hitchhikers, and lost souls—were streaming in for the Summer of Love. His timing was impeccable. The patchouli-scented sexual revolution created a perfect petri dish for his predation.

Using prison-honed talents as a con man and middling skills as a guitarist and singer-songwriter, Manson soon began building a cult of as many as 35 young hippies, three-quarters of them women.

He would spin campfire lectures for his stoner clan featuring Psych 101 dogma about projection and reflection. He basted their brains in a mix of Jesus Freakiness, Dale Carnegie hucksterisms, Norman Vincent Peale’s sunny-sided platitudes (“You are perfect!”), and the buggy self-help triangulations and “dynamics” of his prison-library Scientology.

Charles Manson. courtesy Oxygen

They believed he was a godly mystic.

The writer David Dalton nailed Manson in eight words: “if Christ came back as a con man.” Joe Mozingo of The Los Angeles Times said, “He was a scab mite who bit at the perfect time and place.”

Using the playbook of pimps and cult patriarchs, he isolated troubled young women from their past lives and controlled their bodies and minds. He was the Wizard of Oz for libertines, and he as much as told them so.

Susan Atkins, who became one of Manson’s most prolific killers, said Manson often mocked his own followers’ blind faith.’

“He said, ‘I have tricked you into doing what I want you to…It’s like I’ve got a bunch of slaves around me,” she told a grand jury in December 1969, after her arrest.

The Enigma of Charles Manson

Manson was an enigma on many levels.

The “Manson Women” Photo courtesy Oxygen

He was a racist and sexist imbued with the old-timey sensibilities of an Appalachian upbringing. He preached female subservience and racial segregation, and his young followers lapped it up in the midst of a flowering civil rights movement and on the cusp of modern women’s liberation.

Many were willing to kill for nothing more than Manson’s validation.

“You can convince anybody of anything if you just push it at them all of the time,” Manson once said, “…especially if they have no other information to draw their opinions from.”

Just 29 months after Manson began assembling his naifs into a communal Family, these “heartless, bloodthirsty robots…sent out from the fires of hell,” as a prosecutor would describe them, carried out a series of proving-ground murders in Los Angeles over four weeks in the summer of ‘69 that still has a place of prominence in America’s storied pantheon of crime spectacles.

The primary motive was money to allow the Family to finance a retreat to California’s Death Valley to ride out the race war that Manson predicted was coming.

The first victim, the Family’s good friend Gary Hinman, was Killed on July 27. Two weeks later, on Aug. 9 and 10, Manson followers killed the pregnant actress Sharon Tate, coffee heiress Abigail Folger, Leno and Rosemary LaBianca, and five others in acts of casual savagery that remain a peerless mashup of celebrity, sex, cult groupthink, and bloodlust.

Police outside 10050 Cielo Drive in Hollywood where the blood-splattered bodies of Sharon Tate and her four friends were found. Photo by George via Flickr

“It had to be done,” one of the killers, Leslie Van Houten, explained after her arrest. “For the whole world’s karma to be completed, we had to do this.”

Writer Dalton, who covered Manson for Rolling Stone, called him “the perfect storm” for 1969.

“It was the conflation of mystical thinking, radical politics, drugs, and all these runaway kids fused together,” Dalton told me.

“The world seemed to be in death spiral of violence, and we thought the whole hippie riot was about to begin to save use all. We were going to take over and everything would be cool. In fact, the opposite was happening, embodied by Charlie Manson.”

The implausible Manson story cannot be separated from the context of its era, as some Americans were asking essential questions about what their country ought to be.

The half-decade of 1965 to 1970 saw ghetto riots, the emergence of a vibrant new psychedelic culture, shocking political murders, riveting space exploration, escalation of the war in Vietnam, and burgeoning protests of the same.

Two months alone in the summer of 1969 brought an extraordinary series of events. On June 28, a police morals-squad raid on the Stonewall Inn, a gay bar in New York’s Greenwich Village, touched off three days of rioting—and ignited the gay rights movement. On July 18, Ted Kennedy, surviving male heir to the American political tragi-dynasty, fled the scene of a fatal car wreck on Chappaquiddick Island, Mass. On July 20, the world watched on TV as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin took their stiff, bouncing strolls through moondust.

Among the viewers was a small group of friends and kin gathered at the home of Sharon Tate. Twenty days later, on Aug. 9—50 years ago today—four members of the same group would be savagely murdered by Manson’s second kill team. A week after that, more than 400,000 peopled endured organizational bedlam to attend the Woodstock Festival, 100 miles north of New York City. That same weekend, Hurricane Camille pounded ashore on the Gulf Coast, east of New Orleans at Pass Christian, Miss., killing 256 people.

The Sixties created Manson, and his crimes were an exclamation point to a turbulent decade.

A ‘Child of the ‘30s’

But as he liked to say, “I am a child of the ’30s, not the ’60s.”

He was born to a prostitute mother and drive-by father in 1934 and raised by relatives in Kentucky, Ohio and West Virginia coal country. He became a chronic juvenile delinquent who flailed his way through a Dickensian childhood. A tiny boy who grew into an elfin but sinewy man, he was locked up in reform school, jail or prison for all but a few years of his life from age 13 to the grave.

He spoke or wrote a million words about his life and crimes—in court, in letters, in media interviews. He bleated many excuses for his wasted life, almost always beginning with a lack of parenting and proper education.

Manson often played crazy, but that was a studied tactic. As Vincent Bugliosi, his prosecutor and biographer, told Time magazine before he died in 2015.

“His moral values were completely twisted and warped, but let’s not confuse that with insanity. He was crazy in the way that Hitler was crazy…So he’s not crazy. He’s an evil, sophisticated con man.”

Manson preached a homespun version of liberation theology—the freedom to be you. But a switch was flipped in the fall of 1968, when the Beatles released their White Album.

Manson convinced his followers that the world’s most famous band was sending him direct messages in the lyrics, including those of “Helter Skelter.” He imagined that Paul McCartney’s song presaged a race war that would induce the Family to retreat to a desert hideout, then emerge heroically and install Manson as a world leader and master breeder.

Manson recast his horny young stoners into a classic apocalyptic cult, prepping for end times. Growing impatient for the race war, Manson decided to “show blackie how to do it” by committing a series of murders and leaving clues meant to implicate the Black Panthers, that era’s subject of America’s ever-changing moral panic.

The starry-eyed plan was a failure on every level.

Before Manson “got on his “Helter Skelter” trip,” according to Paul Watkins, another follower, “it was all about fucking.”

Five former members of the Family, all senior citizens now, are still imprisoned, 50 years along: Leslie Van Houten, Patricia Krenwinkel, Charles Watson, Bobby Beausoleil and Bruce Davis.

Manson follower Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme was imprisoned for the attempted assassination of President Gerald Ford. Photo via YouTube

Many others have died, including Watkins and Susan Atkins.

Most renounced Manson long ago, although Lynette (Squeaky) Fromme, an early acolyte who served 34 years in prison for a 1975 assassination attempt on President Gerald Ford, self-published an autobiography last year that was largely dedicated to minimizing Manson’s culpability.

Atkins, who once seemed to enjoy her public profile as an illustrious sexpot murderess, had a personal reckoning before her death from brain cancer in 2009.

“In hindsight,” Atkins wrote in her memoir, “I’ve come to believe the most prominent character trait Charles Manson displays is that of a manipulator. Not a guru, not a metaphysic, not a philosopher, not an environmentalist, not a sociologist or social activist, and not even a murderer.

David Krajicek

“His long-term behavior is one predominantly of a practiced manipulator.”

She called him “a liar, a con artist, a physical abuser of women and children, a psychological and emotional abuser of human beings, a thief, a dope pusher, a kidnaper, a child stealer, a pimp, a rapist, and a child molester. I can attest to all of these things with my own eyes.

“And he was all of these things before he was a murderer.”

This essay is adapted from David J. Krajicek’s new book, Charles Manson: The Man Behind the Murders that Shook Hollywood (Arcturus).

The Man Who Murdered the Sixties syndicated from https://immigrationattorneyto.wordpress.com/

[theconservativebrief]

On Saturday morning, 11 people were shot to death at the Tree of Life synagogue by a gunman believed to be inspired by an anti-Semitic internet conspiracy theory.

The alleged gunman, Robert Bowers, was a deeply committed far-right anti-Semite, and surrounded himself online with other anti-Semites. He based his reasoning for his murder spree on a conspiracy theory that the migrant caravan currently working its way through Mexico is a Jewish plot intended to destabilize America, a theory that has its own lengthy history.

Anti-Semitism is an ancient form of hate, stretching back for millennia and leaving ghettos, pogroms, and mass industrialized murder in its wake. And the language of the anti-Semitism of the Wannsee Conference is being repeated today, on 4chan and by far-right mayoral candidates alike.

Bowers posted online that he had lost his faith in President Donald Trump because Trump hadn’t supported white supremacist groups, sharing a post that read in part, “First Trump came for the Charlottesville 4 but I kept supporting Trump because he is better than Hillary Clinton.”

But though the Pittsburgh shooter ultimately rejected Trump — and to be clear, Trump’s daughter and son-in-law and their family are practicing Orthodox Jews — Bowers was present in a political moment when prominent figures, from Fox News hosts to Trump surrogates and even Trump himself, have encouraged and even enabled conspiracy theories to flourish, including birtherism, QAnon, and Trump’s accusations about the father of Sen. Ted Cruz (R-TX) being involved in murdering John F. Kennedy.

An environment where conspiracy theories flourish and find new ground is the perfect environment for anti-Semitism itself to flourish and find new acolytes. Anti-Semitism is a distinct form of hate, one deeply rooted in conspiracies about the role Jewish people play in shaping public life. But moreover, anti-Semitism itself is a conspiracy theory.

Anti-Semitism in America is a form of hate, but its motivations aren’t identical to other forms of prejudice.

For example, while anti-black racism or white supremacy revolve around on the (wrong) idea that black people or nonwhites are inferior, anti-Semitism, as practiced by many of its adherents today from a number of political and social backgrounds, is based on the idea that Jewish people have too much power, or even that Jewish people are secretly in charge — of the government, of culture, of the world in its entirety.

I spoke with Heidi Beirich, director of the Southern Poverty Law Center’s Intelligence Project and an expert on far-right white supremacist organizations. “In general, racism against people of color tends to denigrate their abilities or ascribe criminality to them,” Beirich told me. “With Jewish people, it is more often the case that they are seen as nefarious connivers who engage in activities to harm the majority population, meaning white people, by bringing in nonwhite immigrants or refugees.”

The idea that Jewish people, or Jews in general, hold secret power over everyone else is widespread among anti-Semites. Nation of Islam’s Louis Farrakhan (himself deeply anti-Semitic) put his views bluntly in February of this year: “The Jews have control over those agencies of government. When you want something in this world, the Jew holds the door.” (Anti-Semitism on the left has its own very worrying history and legacy.)

In short, as writer John-Paul Pagano, who has discussed anti-Semitism extensively in his work, put it on Twitter, anti-Semitism is essentially a conspiracy theory. And in our conversation, Beirich agreed, telling me: “The whole anti-Semitic narrative is based on conspiracies. That is the thing that often sets apart anti-Semitism from other forms of hatred.”

This is well-intentioned and moving, but wrong.

Anti-Semitism is different from most racism in that it “punches up” against a perceived oppressor–the Jews, who are cast as a diabolical elite. Anti-Semitism is a conspiracy theory. That’s why it leads to salvationist mass murder. https://t.co/RP7bN6afAY

— John-Paul Pagano (@johnpaulpagano) October 27, 2018

Kenneth Jacobson, deputy national director for the Anti-Defamation League, told me religious anti-Semitism and racial anti-Semitism have been factors in anti-Semitic language and actions for centuries. (Examples of religious anti-Semitism include blaming Jewish people for the crucifixion of Jesus Christ or accusing Jews of using the blood of Christians in religious rites. In acts of racial anti-Semitism, people sometimes spread fear about Jewish people “contaminating” non-Jewish people’s bloodlines, essentially making a religious group into a race.)

Jacobson said that if there’s one thing that differentiates anti-Semitism from racism more broadly, “it’s that racism is largely ‘what you see is what you get,’ but anti-Semitism to a significant degree is not.” A racist sees a nonwhite person and is prejudiced against them. But to anti-Semites, he said, “Jews appear to be normal people but in fact the reality is that there’s something hidden, something powerful, something nefarious. Reality is not what it appears with the Jew.”

He added that demagogues the world over have picked up on that theme to argue during crises or turmoil, “what’s really troubling is that the Jew is behind it all.”

Anti-Semitism argues not that Jewish people are inferior, but that Jewish people are dangerous. Often those who espouse anti-Semitism use the political interests of any Jewish person, be they left-wing or right-wing, as evidence that their Jewishness is the real basis of their political beliefs and thus, that those beliefs cannot be trusted.

The conspiracy theory that is anti-Semitism has many parts and works in many different ways. For one, the anti-Semitism of the white supremacist far-right argues that Jewish people secretly hate white people — or more generally, “everyday Americans,” generally conservatives — and are attempting to subvert them through politics or through the media, using nonwhite people to do their bidding.

Here’s a recent example. In 2016, Trump-supportive musician Ted Nugent a meme posted on Facebook containing photos of prominent Jewish Americans like Sen. Chuck Schumer (D-NY) and former New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg, each with Israeli flags superimposed over their photo and with the tagline, “so who is really behind gun control?” His answer, apparently: Jews.

Know these punks. They hate freedom, they hate good over evil, they would deny us the basic human right to self defense …

Posted by Ted Nugent on Monday, February 8, 2016

Nugent’s point was clear: These people aren’t real Americans interested in gun control for their own personal reasons; rather, they’re trying to rob real Americans of their rights through subversion and lying for selfish purposes — perhaps even doing so on behalf of Israel (as three figures in the meme are explicitly linked to either Israel or “Russian Jews”).

As Beirich told me, “Anti-Semites have for centuries accused Jews of being globalists who do not care about the countries that they live in and lack patriotism, instead favoring building up their own worldwide power. In today’s terms, that is called “globalism” and these unpatriotic Jews are seen as driving nations to extinction in favor of their own global power.”

“This is the same kind of conspiracy you find in the bogus Protocols of the Elders of Zion, which is read to this day by white supremacists.” The Protocols of the Elders of Zion is a fake document (likely created by Russian secret police in the late 19th century) that purportedly details the secret Jewish plan for world domination.

The term “globalism” has been used by self-described “nationalists” — like Trump — and by, say, anti-capitalist protestors, but the false idea of the “rootless” and “globalist” Jewish people who lack real ties to their home countries has a lengthy anti-Semitic history.

Anti-Semites view Jewish success as further evidence of the conspiracy theory that Jews are secretly in charge of everything, while arguing that Jewish Americans aren’t “real Americans” and that they are somehow disconnected from traditional American values.

These sentiments are hardly new to the American imagination: Henry Ford, the founder of the Ford Motor Company, believed that the “international Jew” had no real statehood and took part in funding wars to profit from them while destroying non-Jewish countries, saying in 1925, “That is what I oppose — a power that has no country and that can order the young men of all countries out to death.”

Ford was one of the biggest promulgators of the Protocols, publishing them in his newspaper, the Dearborn Independent, in 1920. (He apologized for doing so seven years later.)

As I mentioned above, the conspiracy theory that is anti-Semitism as practiced by the white supremacist far right — the world in which the Pittsburgh shooter was deeply immersed — is racist. Both during the civil rights movement and today, anti-Semites believed that Jewish people controlled nonwhite people and their actions, making them truly “responsible” for what anti-Semitic racists viewed as an effort to encourage miscegenation — “race mixing.”

Take the Christian Anti-Jewish Party, founded by J.B. Stoner, a former member of the Ku Klux Klan, in 1945. In its literature, the CAJP held that Jewish people were “behind race mixing,” arguing that Jews were secretly the driving force behind desegregation efforts led by the NAACP. “A Jew, Julius Rosenwald, spent $30 million financing organizations and writers that promote mongrelization. A race once mongrelized is mongrelized forever.”

A leaflet from the Christian Anti-Jewish Party, early 1950s.

Another racist organization of the 1950s, the National Anti-Jewish Party, argued in its own leaflets that ���through inter-mixture of the races the Jews hope to lower the white race to a servile status so as to realize the longed worked for dream of Jewish world domination.”

From a pamphlet from the National Anti-Jewish Party, April 1956.

These words were echoed by George Lincoln Rockwell, founder of the American Nazi Party. In April 1966, Rockwell was interviewed by Playboy, and he said that Jews were behind desegregation, arguing that Jews “won’t be mingling like the rest of us. They believe they’re too pure to mix; they think they’re ‘the chosen people’ — chosen to rule the world. But the only world they could rule would be a world of inferior beings. And as long as the white man is pure, they cannot succeed. But when the white man permits himself to be mixed with black men, then the Jews can master him.”

From Playboy Magazine, April 1966.

On Gab and elsewhere online, from older forums like Stormfront to newer ones like 4chan’s /pol/ board, that language still resonates. Anti-Semites argue that Jews are “using” nonwhite people — like Muslims, or people in the migrant caravan, or even mixed-race couples — to subvert white Americans.

From a Gab user responding to the Pittsburgh shooting. October 27, 2018.

On the subject of Muslim immigration, the Pittsburgh shooter shared a posting several weeks ago reading, “Open you Eyes! It’s the filthy EVIL jews Bringing the Filthy EVIL Muslims into the Country!! Stop the kikes then Worry About the Muslims!”

To that end, in the mind of anti-Semites who believe that Jewish people are engaged in, as one of the Pittsburgh gunman’s Gab postings put it, a “war against #WhitePeople,” then, taking action against Jewish people through violent means — like killing people in a synagogue — is a defense mechanism.

But anti-Semitic attitudes that argue Jewish people are secretly in charge of everything haven’t been left to what some might call “serious” anti-Semites — hardened neo-Nazis and white nationalists like the Pittsburgh shooter.

In a 2016 interview, far-right provocateur Milo Yiannopoulos argued that anti-Semitism being voiced by younger people was intended to be “ironic”, saying that the alt-right’s focus on Jews and jokes about “annuda Shoah” — the Shoah is the Holocaust — were intended only to “trigger the libs.” He said, “It’s not because there’s a spontaneous outpouring of anti-Semitism from 22-year-olds in this country. What it is is it’s a mischievous, dissident, trolly generation who do it because it gets a reaction.”

But Yiannopoulos then added that while the alt-right might not “care” about Jews, “they may have some prejudice about Jews. Like, ‘The Jews run everything.’ Well, we do. ‘The Jews run all the banks.’ Well, we do. ‘The Jews run the media.’ Well, we do. You know they’re right about all that stuff.” In Milo’s view, the conspiracy theory isn’t a conspiracy theory, because it’s accurate. (It isn’t.)

During the 2016 election, Donald Trump gave tacit credence to the memeing “ironic” anti-Semites and their harder-core brethren, both of which sent journalists and others thousands of anti-Semitic tweets and emails and death threats. In 2016, when Trump was asked about anti-Semitic death threats aimed at a writer who had profiled his wife, Melania, Trump responded, “I don’t have a message to the fans” — which neo-Nazis took as an “endorsement.”

But whether it be “ironic” anti-Semitism that assumes that jokes about the Holocaust or the death of Jews are humorous because they are offensive, or the violence we witnessed in Pittsburgh believed to be caused by a gunman who wrongly believed Jews were responsible for demographic changes that put him at some sort of risk, these forms of anti-Semitism have mixed and blended online to create an amorphous mass of hate.

In fact, the Pittsburgh shooter himself seemed to combine these ideas, reposting Holocaust-denial memes he clearly believed to be humorous while sharing “ZOG” cartoons (“ZOG” is short for “Zionist Occupied Government,” a theme among American white supremacists since the 1970s) and using “1488” as his Gab profile header — 14 for the “14 Words,” 88 because H is the eighth word in the alphabet, and HH means “Heil Hitler.”

While anti-Semitism is based on a false conspiracy theory, its ramifications are far too real. Online and in person, these viewpoints have remained deeply embedded within the conspiratorial far right. And those viewpoints have now contributed to yet another act of horrifying violence.

Original Source -> How the rise of conspiracy theory politics emboldens anti-Semitism

via The Conservative Brief

[matthewhorton]

Pet Shop Boys, Introspective: An introduction

It took some time for house music to get to the UK, let alone make it up the A41 from the London clubs to the suburbs. I grew up in Berkhamsted, tucked into the Chiltern hills between Hemel Hempstead and Aylesbury, out on the north-west limb of Hertfordshire that poked (and still does, in fact) into Buckinghamshire. It wasn't a hotbed of musical endeavour and couldn't have dreamed of being at the vanguard of dance music even if it knew what it was. But, you know, some commuter-belt teenagers were switched on enough to realise things were changing, and once we knew something thrilling was afoot, we wanted to share it with our friends. The tentative proddings of hip-hop had made a difference to us and when Run-D.M.C. made a fantastic mess of Aerosmith or Melle Mel sexed up Chaka Khan we had something fresh to cling onto. But house only started to make its presence felt when the mainstream succumbed too and plonked Steve 'Silk' Hurley's Jack Your Body right on top of the UK singles chart at the start of 1987. This was alien stuff, sparse, hypnotic and like nothing we'd heard before – it took electro, something we were vaguely aware of, and drained it of melody, hope and street-swagger, replacing it with harder beats and blank-eyed repetition. If nothing else, this was dead cool. And it was Number One! Well, the floodgates were open now. The higher reaches of the singles chart soon fell to M/A/R/R/S's Pump Up The Volume, Bomb The Bass's Beat Dis and S'Express's Theme From S'Express as sampling rapidly became the lingua franca of cutting-edge dance and scratchier, less refined house music found an audience of some power. Mind you, these were the poppiest extremes. In the hands of a canny producer, sampling could sound cartoon-like and you have to wonder how many of the hordes of buyers were picking up these records because they amused them rather than moved their purist feet. House, techno, whichever Chicago, Detroit or New York enclave floated your boat – these movements had spread their commercial wings with alarming speed. Of course, we didn't really know the difference at the beginning, but all that changed in the summer of 1988 – the Second Summer of Love, to adopt the nickname thrown at a loose scene by the music and style bibles. It was an extraordinary experience, even without the drugs or the sweaty London basements or even the right clothes. The backdrop to a day of realisation was almost unbearably prosaic. In fact, it was the day of our GCSE results, our passports to a professional life or a couple more years of school beyond the age of 16. Some brave soul was throwing a party a few miles outside Berkhamsted and, although our own little crowd didn't know her, we had enough mutual friends to be able to stride in, no questions asked. It was an enormous house with huge gardens but – on a close, sticky August evening – everything was happening in the garage. This was almost too good. Weren't all the best New York parties garage parties? We're not sure they were thinking about a space big enough to fit a Ford Escort, a gardening implement or two and some empty cans of paint, but what the hell? This garage would do, and it was pumping out sounds deep enough to rival any Manhattan warehouse. These sounds were almost too deep though. If Steve 'Silk' Hurley had sounded stark and austere, this was barely even music. It was an unassuming little cassette squirting out loops and bleeps, and in the middle of the garage one of the hipper lads in our year was giving an accidental dancing lesson to a crowd of amused acolytes. He'd grown his hair since term finished a month or two earlier, pushed out a pair of massive sideburns and discovered a new fondness for washed-out denim and vast badges with smiley faces on them. His name was Tom and he had a copy of Acid Tracks. Phuture's acid masterpiece has its firm place in history now, but out in the Home Counties in August 1988 it was a bewildering curio, potent and divisive. The boys and girls who laughed or scoffed that night probably carried on laughing and scoffing throughout the nineties and continue to now – if they ever give dance music a second thought. The more welcoming remainder felt their doors of perception opening, and they were high on little more than cheap cider and even cheaper cigarettes. Naturally, I can't speak for everyone else, but I never looked back after that night. My GCSE results were underwhelming – the inevitable result of boundless arrogance and minimal revision – but they were good enough to send me back to school for another couple of years; two years that were followed by another four years of lazy and undeserved achievement at university, and a career that gradually slipped into focus. Whatever, I'd fallen hard for the dance music bug and every week in sixth form was a drawn-out drag of a warm-up for another weekend party I could light up with my amazing mixtapes. No one else had been bitten quite so deep so there was no competition for the stereo – whatever the quality of my compilations, I was the only one who was going to get the dancefloor (usually the kitchen floor, let's face it) jumping. The collection I built up and the knowledge I amassed gave me the keys to the university decks too, launching a semi-professional (or, more accurately, quarter-professional) career as a DJ with no actual technical skills. Good God, what about the Pet Shop Boys? Well, they took dance music to the masses in 1988 too. They'd been heading this way, of course. From the early electro burblings of their nascent career in the first half of the eighties, Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe had been fashioning a curiously English take on the dance music coming out of the United States. More strictly, they had been taken with Hi-NRG, where disco met euphoric electronic climaxes on the gay scene, and particularly New York's Hi-NRG producer-supreme Bobby 'O' (Bobby Orlando to his mum). Tennant and Lowe had already written many of the songs that would become polite pop classics later in the decade, but they didn't lay down serious recordings until they found an audience with Orlando. With their main man in the chair, they made an early, disco-orientated version of their breakthrough hit West End Girls in 1984. It created waves in the right circles but failed to hit commercial paydirt, not even managing a full UK release. No matter – pop triumph could wait; the first fumblings were all about implanting pure dance chops in their DNA. The route to the UK charts and ensuing international fame took hard-nosed ambition and a small dose of compromise. The producer Stephen Hague had tasted some success with the poppier ends of electro personified by The Rocksteady Crew and Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark's less challenging synthpop, and his safe hands repurposed West End Girls for the late 1985 Number One slot that made the Pet Shop Boys' name.  Sharp lyrics and a craftsman's way with a pop tune saw Tennant and Lowe build on that quick winner to consistently race to the top of the singles chart over the next couple of years and achieve similar results with their first two albums, 1986's Please and 1987's Actually. The dry titles suited their sardonic manner and unshowy presentation, but there was real heart to the Pet Shop Boys' music too. No genuine cold fish could come up with the delicate Love Comes Quickly, the at once pointed and ambiguous Rent or the breathtakingly poignant What Have I Done To Deserve This?, also a remarkable revamp of the career of sixties blue-eyed soul legend Dusty Springfield.  But underneath this golden age of British pop that the 'Boys were almost singlehandedly ushering in (no exaggeration), there was a bubbling subculture that could not be ignored – and Tennant and Lowe had no intention of ignoring it. Rare were the bands who curated alternative versions of their own music, but the Pet Shop Boys threw themselves right in, second-guessing fans who might attempt to convince naysayers with the old "Yeah, but you have to hear their remixes" gambit. Wedged between Please and Actually was a companion piece that pointed the way to a parallel universe. Disco, released in autumn 1986, was officially endorsed and presented as beautifully as any 'regular' Pet Shop Boys album. It consisted of remixes of hits like West End Girls, Opportunities (Let's Make Lots Of Money) and Suburbia alongside fan favourite (and Suburbia B-side) Paninaro, the sort of track whispered about by the in-the-know Pet Shop Boys aficionado. They'd blown apart the cachet of rarities like that but at the same time took a hold of their own destiny and shaped a 360-degree market for pop's more canny operators. The next imperial pop star to shove out their own remix album was Madonna, You Can Dance arriving a year after Disco. That second album proper, Actually, came out in September 1987 and threw the Pet Shop Boys' chart dominance into sharp relief. It housed two Number One singles in the obliquely confessional It's A Sin and the more straightforward Heart, and even took the time to stand back in between as non-album single Always On My Mind (a cover of the country standard made glorious by Elvis Presley) took the 1987 UK Christmas top spot. As 1988 dawned, the Pet Shop Boys could do whatever they darn well pleased. That's what they did and that's why we're here. Introspective turned up in October 1988 and turned the entire remix album concept on its head. What if we release the extended versions first and cut the radio edits later? That, near enough, is the off-beam question that struck Tennant and Lowe. They could finally be the dance act that made the odd concession to the pop market, not the other way around. It was a dazzling thought. Introspective's closest antecedent was The League Unlimited Orchestra's Love And Dancing EP in 1982, a collection of Human League remixes handled entirely in-house by their producer Martin Rushent. But that was the accidental result of fulfilling 12" obligations – with Introspective, the Pet Shop Boys wanted to trump that thinking, to make the full-length track the thing, the single mix the obligation, even the afterthought. This new thinking was symphonic, a new way of looking at dance music, or at least a return to Giorgio Moroder's intentions. What could have seemed like an interim album in the vein of Disco became a genuine opus in its own right. All it needed was the public to think beyond its relatively few tracks – six of them, but in their extended form still topping 48 minutes – and accept that it stood alone. Ostensibly the sales bore this out as it ultimately became the Pet Shop Boys' biggest selling album, but appreciation of its artistic status was a tougher challenge. With its bold striped sleeve – human images confined to the inner sleeve or card – Introspective seemed to be reaching out to the anonymous dance spheres, a white label in Technicolor, bright but austere and, yes, inhuman. Inside, however, was a concept album that truly hung together as a piece, disparate parts joining up in an exploration of that most human of conditions: loneliness. Introspective was the sound of the dancefloor in your head.