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dankusner · 3 months

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BOOKS Dispatches from the shadows

PR pro dishes on his shady dealings with some notable names

Meet Phil Elwood, an insider’s insider of Washington.

A public relations professional, he has stealthily managed challenging assignments over the years, from Qatar’s contested World Cup bid to Vogue ’s disastrous 2011 profile of Bashar al-Assad’s wife, Asma.

His passion is controlling the narrative — leveraging valuable intelligence and his media savvy to deliver for clients.

And oh, what a client list it is.

Under the surface, though, Elwood is a wreck.

Diagnosed with depression when he dropped out of college, he self-medicated with booze (and more) as he built his Washington career, battling a succession of mental health crises that culminated in a suicide attempt.

After recovering from that episode, he’s telling his story in

All the Worst Humans: How I Made News for Dictators, Tycoons, and Politicians ,

an account that’s part therapy, part cautionary tale.

What makes Elwood’s story stand out from the typical Washington read is that his personal demons are so intertwined with his professional choices.

Most dramatic is his realization at the end of the story that his addiction to adrenaline — the power rush from working behind the scenes — is also a feature of his bipolar II disorder, which led him to the edge.

The book also pops because it’s funny — despite everything.

Elwood’s prose is zippy, even Sorkin-esque, and he relishes dark humor.

“Karl Marx said religion was the opium of the people,” Elwood writes in a section about becoming addicted to pain medication following a serious hip injury. “You know what’s a lot more like the opium of the people? Opiates.”

Elwood’s D.C. journey began in the summer of 2000.

Even though he blew up his college career, he finagled a Senate internship with Daniel Patrick Moynihan (D-N.Y.) with the help of a well-connected friend, then landed in the office of Sen. Carl Levin (D-Mich.).

Through Levin’s pull, he completed his formal education, then launched his professional life in Washington PR.

His lucky breaks made it clear to him how unfair the system can be.

He soon landed a job at Brown Lloyd James, the PR shop headed by former Beatles manager Peter Brown with a long client list of what Elwood deems the “worst humans,” including Libyan dictator Moammar Gaddafi and Syrian President Bashar al-Assad.

Needless to say, the job gave Elwood the excitement he craved.

Except that it was a bit too exciting.

One of Elwood’s wildest tales took place in 2009, when, he writes, Brown dispatched him to Las Vegas with Mutassim Gaddafi, son of the Libyan dictator, to make sure he and his entourage stayed out of the headlines while they had fun.

There were drugs, guns, a Cher concert (Mutassim was a fan) and lots of gambling.

A terrified Elwood realized that if anyone in this brutal, unhinged gang wanted to kill him, they’d probably get away with it.

He left Las Vegas relieved to be alive, only to be told he was needed in New York.

This time, it was Mutassim’s father, Moammar Gaddafi, whom BLJ had to (try to) manage during his notorious appearance at the U.N. General Assembly, as part of his short-lived rehabilitation phase with the West.

Tasked with housing and other logistics, the firm scrambled to organize a massive tent on the Bedford, N.J., estate of Donald Trump (the only willing host, according to Elwood) and find a sacrificial goat for the Libyan delegation, just to name a few to-do list items.

Elwood recounts that his moral angst and self-doubt became more acute in 2010 when he was part of Qatar’s successful effort to beat the United States in its bid to host the 2022 World Cup — a FIFA decision so controversial that the Justice Department eventually investigated.

He was further shaken on a business trip to Bosnia, where he visited the site of a Bosnian Serb massacre of Muslim civilians and was “confronted with the gritty reality of totalitarian power.”

He didn’t have to ponder too long; upon his return, Elwood recalls, Brown told him, “The Arab Spring has been bad for our business model,” and fired him.

Elwood then landed at Levick Strategic Communications.

There the clients were less brutal, but some were still, in Elwood’s assessment, dodgy; he cites the example of Kim Dotcom, a hacker and internet entrepreneur who has had decades of run-ins with the law.

Eventually, Elwood started his own shop.

This time, he worked with an Israeli firm, Psy-Group, that became ensnared in the Mueller investigation for allegedly pitching an election influence campaign to Trump’s team in 2016.

Elwood was questioned by the government but let go — and deftly managed to keep his name out of the press.

Another close brush.

One of the juiciest parts of Elwood’s story is his work with the media.

Early on, after he negotiated with CNN to air a strategically useful clip, he describes an “aha” moment:

“My job isn’t to manipulate public opinion. My job is to get gatekeepers like CNN to do it for me.”

This sounds cynical, but what he describes is an exchange in which both sides mutually benefit.

Elwood has an innate understanding of how journalists work and genuinely respects them.

He makes that clear as he spills details of his tradecraft: working with reputable reporters at top publications (he divulges a long A-list of names), selectively picking outlets for maximum impact and exploiting the “scoopiness” that journalists prize in exchange for results for his clients.

He describes this quid pro quo as a form of “insider trading” but points out that valuable information in Washington, like all commodities, is appraised and traded on a market.

And information is valuable only if it’s true, or at least true-ish.

To that end, he counsels his fellow PR flacks against trading in bad information — reminding them that good journalists will quickly detect lies when they are handed to them.

Elwood is a troubled but sympathetic narrator, and most readers will probably find themselves relieved to know that, at the end, he’s in a better place.

He closes his story lurking in the background, as a black rectangle on a Zoom call with clients.

But this time, he says, he’s working for “the good guys.”

All the Worst Humans How I Made News for Dictators, Tycoons, and Politicians Phil Elwood Henry Holt, $28.99

All the Worst Humans Author: Phil Elwood

CHAPTER 1

Of Marble and Giants

EIGHTEEN YEARS EARLIER, JULY 2000

The halls of the Capitol Building are empty this morning.

The clinks of the liquor bottles in the hand truck I’m pushing are the only sound.

I love being alone here, marveling at marble columns propping up carved ceilings.

Under the massive dome of the Rotunda, paintings tell the mythology of early America.

In Statuary Hall, I nod to a bronze statue of Huey Long, an assassinated senator who some consider a hero, others a criminal, and then enter a wood-paneled corridor.

Spiral staircases of iron and marble materialize out of dark corners.

I maneuver the bottles past unmarked doors that lead to the hideaway offices of Senators Trent Lott, Mitch McConnell, and Ted Kennedy.

Senators steal away to these coveted havens to host meetings they’d rather not have eyeballed by reporters or to nap after marathon debates.

The booze is heavy, and I’m out of breath when I reach Sen. Daniel Patrick Moynihan’s hideaway.

Vodka soda sweat leaks through my cheap, white collared shirt.

We interns were out late at Politiki bar last night.

I let myself in and head for the brass bar cart.

Fifths of whiskey, gin, scotch, and Tio Pepe sherry, Moynihan’s favorite, get loaded in and lined up.

When I’m finished, I sit on a leather couch dyed the same dark mahogany as the regal desk and spark up a Camel.

Moynihan is a fellow smoker.

His hideaway reeks of tobacco.

The hundred or so hideaways in the Capitol are passed down through handshake deals.

Seniority rules, and sitting on the Finance Committee doesn’t hurt.

Junior senators fight over windowless basement rooms the size of utility closets and furnished with cots.

Moynihan has earned a view of Pennsylvania Avenue and space for ten people to sip cocktails.

Standing under an oil painting, I pull back the cream-colored curtains and take it all in.

I imagine the senator from New York in here, lighting up, pouring a tumbler of Tio Pepe, and telling stories about the presidents he has advised.

Sitting in the private office of a Senate demigod still doesn’t feel real.

I’m a twenty-year-old college dropout whose only credentials are a job at a Mexican restaurant and a cocaine problem.

The rest of my intern class are the kids of campaign donors and New York City’s financial glitterati.

My dad is a pastor in the other Washington.

He preaches to a congregation in Olympia.

Six months ago, I was a sophomore at the University of Pittsburgh on a debate scholarship.

Debate is about speed.

Being able to talk fast was the prerequisite for entry.

On weekends, I traveled to universities around the nation to argue about what policies would lead to nuclear war.

Rapid-fire reading of news clippings scored points in a round.

So did biting insults lodged at your opponent in an attempt to trap them in a rhetorical mishap.

You won by manipulating the news and calling it “evidence” to advance your argument.

I won a lot.

My grades were nearly perfect until I started working nights as a cook at Mad Mex.

The waiters survived on a diet of wings and cocaine.

One night, one of them noticed that I seemed a bit down and he offered me a pick-me-up from his bag.

It worked.

For fifteen minutes.

Three months later, I was failing five out of five courses.

I don’t believe I attended one.

The week before finals, I called my older brother in a panic.

He jumped on a plane to Pittsburgh.

We debated my options.

I tried to advance the argument for my brother taking my finals.

It was raining when we went to the registrar’s office and filled out the forms.

The first Elwood to drop out of college.

My parents collected me at SeaTac airport.

I deplaned drunk on whiskey and clutching a plush toy of Opus the Penguin, from Berkeley Breathed’s comic strip.

My father shook his head and made me see a shrink.

I snowballed my way through the sessions.

Left out the cocaine use.

The shrink informed me that I was suffering from “situational depression.”

“Since you are removed from the situation,” she explained. “The problem must be resolved.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

It didn’t.

And the depression didn’t lift.

A childhood friend, who I’ll call Preston, worried that I had no prospects after dropping out of school, threw me a lifeline.

His college classmate Eric, a trust fund kid, worked in Washington, DC, as Senator Moynihan’s aide.

If he liked me, Eric could get me an internship on the Hill.

I called Eric, and he told me to meet him the next Tuesday, at 10 p.m., at 1823 M Street.

“Northwest M Street, the one near the White House,” he said. “Do you have a fake ID?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Bring it. You’ll need it in DC,” Eric said. “Your official interview will be on the Hill the next day. But this one is more important. I vet the interns for the staff.”

My parents bought me a suit at the mall, and I flew to Washington.

Résumé in hand, I cabbed it to a redbrick building with blacked-out windows on M Street.

My fake ID fooled the bouncer.

Inside, Ice Cube’s “You Can Do It” played as a dancer sprayed Windex on the pole before taking off her underwear.

A topless woman asked if I wanted some singles.

Eric wasn’t hard to spot.

He was the only other guy wearing a suit in the strip club on a Tuesday night.

He chugged a Bud Light at a table with a clear view of the stage.

I handed him my résumé.

He gave it to a dancer in a neon-yellow G-string.

“Relax,” he said, sliding me a beer. “You met me at Camelot on a Tuesday night. You passed the test.”

In Moynihan’s hideaway, I kill my cigarette and flush it down the toilet.

I lock up, push the empty hand truck past Minority Leader Tom Daschle’s office, and ride an elevator down to the basement.

I flash my badge to a guard, cut through the crypt under the Rotunda, and head into the Capitol Hill Tunnels.

I love these underground passageways, that feeling of special access.

I walk the pedestrian pathway alongside a miniature subway trolley modeled after the Disney World Monorail.

A group of congressional aides are taking the two-minute ride, briefcases on their laps.

To my right, I spot Sen. Fred Thompson.

“Good afternoon, Senator,” I say. “Die Hard Two was on TNT last night.”

“Was it really?” he replies in the deep southern drawl that was so out of place when he played a New York district attorney on NBC’s Law & Order. “Walk me back to my office.”

On the twenty-minute trip to the Hart Building, Thompson asks whether I think DC or Hollywood is the more terrifying place.

I argue in favor of Hollywood.

The Capitol doesn’t frighten me.

Just the opposite.

From the moment I set foot in DC, I knew I was home.

The Hill is a real-world version of debate team.

Everyone talks fast, and there are winners, losers, and nukes.

Last week, I had a drink with Sen. Russ Feingold, who told me stories of working with John McCain and Carl Levin on trying to pass campaign finance reform.

I’ve gone from bussing tables at a Mexican restaurant in Pittsburgh to rubbing elbows with senators.

I never want to leave.

I weave through redbrick-walled tunnels back toward Moynihan’s staff office in the Russell Building.

Discarded and broken office furniture lines the bowels of the Capitol Hill office buildings.

I pass the Senate barbershop, where I recently got a bad haircut sitting next to Majority Leader Lott.

A quick elevator ride up from the basement takes me to Russell’s fourth floor, where I drop off the hand truck and head down a flight of stairs to a private parking lot.

Two interns are already out here smoking.

The senior senator from Michigan Carl Levin’s beaten-up blue Oldsmobile sticks out among the rows of luxury sedans.

I smoke another Camel and watch Kit Bond of Missouri climb out of a black town car.

Kay Bailey Hutchison struts by, followed by her “purse boys,” two young, attractive male aides who carry her luxury bags around Capitol Hill.

When senators bum a smoke before hustling to their next meeting, I feel like a young Henry Hill parking cars for Paulie’s crew in Goodfellas.

It’s almost four o’clock.

In this town, the most important hour is happy hour.

I head back out into the muggy city, down First Street, passing the Supreme Court and the Library of Congress, where 3,700 boxes of Moynihan’s personal papers have been kept for posterity.

It’s the largest one-man collection in the library, Moynihan’s legislative director recently told me over whiskey and Cokes at the Capitol Lounge.

At Pennsylvania Avenue, a helicopter buzzes across the sky.

The pilot shadows a motorcade of black SUVs careening downtown, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

When the street clears, I duck into the Hawk ’n’ Dove.

I nurse a vodka soda, holding a good table with a view of the TVs, tuned to CNN.

Just like the hideaway office system, this place runs on dibs.

Soon the bar will be teaming with staffers from both sides of the aisle.

They will drink, party, date, and sometimes put together bipartisan legislation.

Tables are valuable currency.

As an intern, I take it as my sacred duty to make sure the staff doesn’t have to stand at the bar.

At five o’clock, Moynihan’s staff trickles into Hawk ’n’ Dove in ascending order of the food chain.

Legislative correspondents arrive first, along with the rest of the interns.

An hour later, the legislative assistants claim their seats.

Then come the legislative director and, finally, around seven, Moynihan’s chief of staff.

His blue suit is rumpled, and he looks exhausted.

In his hand is today’s “clip sheet,” a binder compiling daily press filings that mention our boss.

The interns create it each morning by cutting apart the Washington Post, the New York Times, and the hyper-local weeklies and meticulously underlining Moynihan’s name.

“Thanks for holding down the fort, Phil,” the chief of staff says. “Look at this. Hillary Clinton is going to walk into Moynihan’s seat. Rick Lazio doesn’t stand a chance.”

I’ve landed in Moynihan’s office just in time.

He’s about to retire after twenty-four years in the Senate.

The alumni list from his office reads like a who’s who of Washington, DC—and they help each other out.

I spent the rest of the summer helping them out by following the legislative director’s instructions:

“Do anything we ask. And do it with a smile. Even if it’s not part of your job. Even if it’s weird.”

I take his words to heart.

Moynihan’s staff takes a shine to me because I volunteer to huff cartloads of Tio Pepe and get menial intern tasks done at my restaurant pace.

There are two ways to go about a career here: get in deeper or get out.

I know one thing: I’m never leaving Washington.

But a college dropout’s trajectory is limited; I need a degree.

Before my internship ends, I apply to George Washington University.

I draft my own letter of recommendation, and Moynihan’s chief of staff, for whom I’ve held tables all summer at half the bars in town, signs it.

“Motivated and gifted with his words, Phil Elwood will make a valuable addition to your storied university.”

I wake up in a holding cell.

Two cops yank me into an interrogation room and slam me with the accusation that I drunkenly crashed through a window at GWU’s Gelman Library.

I can’t remember last night, but my throbbing head and the cuts on my body indicate that the police are telling the truth.

I’m frog-marched into a sheriff’s van and handcuffed to the floor.

I stand in front of a judge, who tells me he knows I’m very sorry for what I’ve done and that I will never do it again.

He slaps me on the wrist with twenty hours of community service.

Later, I hear that Moynihan’s office made a call.

A few days after I get home from central booking, a thin letter arrives from George Washington.

I am no longer welcome on campus.

I’m certain I’ll be excommunicated from DC.

I’ll have to return to Olympia.

My parents will once again watch their son emerge at the Arrivals gate holding his plush toy Opus the Penguin, like a deadbeat Sisyphus.

Instead, I’m promoted.

Moynihan’s office makes one call, and I’m hired as a legislative correspondent for the senior senator from Michigan, Carl Levin.

The happy hours continue.

It’s amazing I get anything done with all the booze.

Toward the end of my first year, the chief of staff hauls me into his office.

“I strongly suggest you get a college degree,” he says. “George Washington is off the table, clearly. What about Georgetown?”

Given my high school C average, Georgetown should be off the table, too.

But it turns out Levin has considerable influence with the university.

One letter from the senator and I’m accepted as a transfer student.

I realize this is how the world works, or at least how this world does.

It is not a meritocracy.

In the basement office of the Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations, staffers drop off crates of documents.

“Go through these. Look for anything suspicious,” they instruct.

They leave to fetch more boxes.

Levin is leading an inquiry into the malfeasance of Enron’s board of directors.

Enron’s spectacular implosion has been a lead story on CNN for months.

Now Levin is making it his mission to codify the company’s wrongdoing into the national record.

I drink coffee with a team of lawyers who haven’t seen the light of day in weeks and sift through thousands of pages of emails with a highlighter.

Most of the material is banal talk about steakhouse lunches and corporate retreats.

Every few pages, I notice the obscene dollar amounts of Enron’s transactions.

Villains get paid in numbers with extra zeros.

On the day of the Enron hearings, I go watch the fireworks at the Hart Building.

A homeless man stands at the front of a long line stretching down Constitution Avenue.

I watch a sharky-looking guy in a jet-black suit hand the homeless man a ten-dollar bill and slide into his place.

Lobbyists have probably been pulling this trick since the Grant administration.

I flash my staff ID and follow the lobbyist past security and into the Senate hearing room, where I stand against the back wall.

Levin strides up to the dais in a baggy suit, the last of his hair combed over a sun-spotted scalp.

In 2013, BuzzFeed News will publish a list of the “23 Most Important Comb-overs of Congress.”

Levin will come in second place.

A man of the people.

He’s the hardest-working member of his staff.

I watch, rapt, as he rakes Herbert Winokur Jr., Enron’s Finance Committee chair, over the coals about a half-billion-dollar loan.

“Now, when you met with my staff, did you also tell my staff you did not have much recollection of that transaction?” Levin asks, peering down his glasses, pushed far down the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, sir.”

“Now that you have refreshed your recollections. Enron was borrowing a half a billion dollars from Citibank, but it did not show up on the balance sheet of Enron as debt but rather as preferred shares, which looked more like equity than debt. It was a loan disguised as equity in order to avoid showing debt on the books.”

“Sir, I believe it was accounted for as a consolidated subsidiary with a—”

Levin cuts him off. “Was it shown as a loan?”

“It was shown as—the entity was consolidated and the $500 million of Citibank was a minority interest.”

“But was it shown as a loan?”

Levin’s got him dead to rights.

I watch Winokur break. “No, sir.”

An exchange worthy of a headline.

I spot a gaggle of reporters taking notes at the side of the chamber.

As in a debate, they’ve got their evidence.

Now they’ll print it in tomorrow’s paper.

And some college debater will use the article as evidence in a round where the topic is “fiscal regulation.”

It’s codified into the record.

The truth, as far as anyone is concerned.

I’m fascinated by this bloodbath, particularly by the criminals on the witness stand.

Who helps them?

Who prepped them for this massacre?

Whoever it was, they aren’t good enough at their job.

Where’s the consistent messaging?

Why weren’t they expecting these questions?

Why aren’t they repeating the same five lines over and over and over?

Why are they just giving easy sound bites to the senator and the media?

I realize I’m probably the only person in the world who has this reaction to the Enron scandal.

I lean out into K Street, hailing a cab.

It’s the first week of summer.

School is out.

I’ve been barhopping with Hill staffers.

A yellow cab pulls up, and I attempt to hop over a Jersey barrier.

My foot catches the edge.

I spin as I fall to the curb.

I can’t walk.

I crawl into the cab’s backseat and tell the driver to take me to the nearest trauma center.

When we arrive at George Washington University’s ER, nurses put me in a wheelchair.

Three hours later, a tech looks at my X-ray, says, “Oh shit,” and starts to run out of the room.

I grab his arm.

Make him show me the image.

The ball of my hip is floating, completely separated from my femur.

I wake up sucking oxygen from a tube.

My mother is sitting in a chair next to the bed.

My mother lives on the other side of the country, so I figure something is probably wrong.

I don’t remember anything after looking at the X-ray.

I’m on crutches for a month.

Then I graduate to a cane.

For the rest of my life, I’ll walk with a slight limp.

And the three titanium screws in my hip will ache when the temperature dips below forty degrees.

A few months later, I skydive out of an airplane for the first time.

At a checkup, I inform my surgeon that he must have done some good work.

He is not pleased.

My parents fly in for Georgetown’s graduation ceremony.

They seem relieved that I made it to the finish line.

Levin writes yet another letter, and I’m accepted into the London School of Economics.

I live in a flat in Notting Hill, attending lectures on trade wars with the kids of prime ministers and international diplomats.

One day, I’m walking on campus when I pass a balding young man with hard eyes flanked by massive bodyguards.

I’ve heard about Saif Gaddafi.

The students whisper that he’s a dictator’s son.

I’ve heard we share a weed dealer.

In a few years, he’ll be one of my clients.

Long after I’ve been on his family’s payroll, the world will find out that Saif allegedly bought his PhD in philosophy from LSE with millions of pounds in bribes.

Howard Davies, the distinguished institution’s director, whose signature is on my diploma, will resign, disgraced.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

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massagewell · 2 years

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laresearchette · 2 years

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Friday, December 02, 2022 Canadian TV Listings (Times Eastern)

WHERE CAN I FIND THOSE PREMIERES?: CHRISTMAS WITH THE CAMPBELLS (AMC+) SLOW HORSES (Apple TV+) DARBY AND THE DEAD (Disney + Star) THE GREAT AMERICAN BAKING SHOW: CELEBRITY HOLIDAY (The Roku Channel) HOTEL FOR THE HOLIDAYS (CTV Life) 7:00pm MATT ROGERS: HAVE YOU HEARD OF CHRISTMAS? (Crave) 10:00pm

WHAT IS NOT PREMIERING IN CANADA TONIGHT? A BIG FAT FAMILY CHRISTMAS (Premiering on December 04 on Crave at 12:40pm) CLOUDY WITH A CHANCE OF CHRISTMAS (Premiering on December 08 on CTV Life at 7:00pm) THE CROODS: FAMILY TREE (TBD - YTV) DESTINATION FEAR (TBD - DTour) FATAL FAMILY REUNION (TBD - Lifetime Canada) HOW DO THEY DO IT? (TBD - Science)

NEW TO AMAZON PRIME CANADA/CBC GEM/CRAVE TV/DISNEY + STAR/NETFLIX CANADA:

AMAZON PRIME CANADA THE CROODS RICHES (Season 1) THREE PINES YOUR CHRISTMAS OR MINE

CBC GEM MY OLD SCHOOL QUESTION TEAM SISI STAY TOONED

CRAVE TV 1UP COCAINE, PRISON & LIKES: ISABELLE’S TRUE STORY (Episodes 1-3) COMEDY CENTRAL’S JEFF DUNHAM – ME THE PEOPLE DEEP HEDGEHOGS THE HUNGER GAMES THE HUNGER GAMES: CATCHING FIRE THE HUNGER GAMES: MOCKINGJAY: PART 1 THE HUNGER GAMES: MOCKINGJAY: PART 2 A LITTLE PRINCESS MATT ROGERS: HAVE YOU HEARD OF CHRISTMAS THE POWERPUFF GIRLS MOVIE TITANIC (1997)

DISNEY + STAR DIARY OF A WIMPY KID 2: RODRICK RULES MICKEY SAVES CHRISTMAS PENTATONIX: AROUND THE WORLD FOR THE HOLIDAYS

NETFLIX CANADA FIREFLY LANE (Season 2 Part 1) HOT SKULL LADY CHATTERLEY'S LOVER MY UNORTHODOX LIFE (Season 2) SCROOGE: A CHRISTMAS CAROL "SR." SUPERMODEL ME: REVOLUTION (Season 1) WARRIORS OF FUTURE

FIFA WORLD CUP SOCCER (TSN/TSN3/TSN4/TSN5) 9:45am: Korea Republic vs. Portugal (TSN2) 9:45am: Ghana vs. Uruguay (TSN/TSN3/TSN4/TSN5) 1:45pm: Camaroon vs. Brazil (TSN2) 1:45pm: Serbia vs. Switzerland (TSN/TSN4) 9:00pm: Match of the Day

NLL LACROSSE (TSN3) 6:00pm: Wings vs. Thunderbirds

NHL HOCKEY (TSN5) 7:00pm: Sens vs. Rangers (TSN3) 8:00pm: Blue Jackets vs. Jets

NBA BASKETBALL (SN/SN1) 7:30pm: Raptors vs. Nets (TSN2) 7:30pm: Lakers vs. Bucks (SN1) 10:00pm: Bulls vs. Warriors

MARKETPLACE (CBC) 8:00pm: Investigating CDI College and uncovering a pattern of using misleading information to enroll students; the questionable claims about accreditation and revealing the real cost of dropping out.

RODEO NATION (APTN) 8:00pm: It's the moment we've all been waiting for! Cameron, Lionel, PJ and Jake travel to Las Vegas, each determined to become the next world champion. Cameron goes head-to-head with past champ, Jayco Roper, while Lionel attempts to recover from some big buck-offs.

MY SOUTHERN FAMILY CHRISTMAS (W Network) 8:00pm: Under the guise of a journalist, Campbell has a chance to get to know her biological father for the first time -- without him ever knowing who she really is.

CATERING CHRISTMAS (Super Channel Heart & Home) 8:00pm: Fledgling caterer Molly Frost is hired by perfectionist Jean Harrison for the renowned Harrison Foundation's annual Christmas Gala, but things get complicated when she falls for Jean's nephew.

TRAVEL MAN: 48 HOURS IN… (CBC) 8:30pm: Richard Ayoade is joined by comedian Joe Wilkinson for a 48-hour fling around the historic city of Krakow. Poland's second city is known for its culture, fairy-tale old town and baked goods.

CATWALK 2: THE COMEBACK CATS DOCUMENTARY (CBC) 9:00pm: Exploring the stories of the people and cats involved in the competitive cat show circuit.

TRANSPLANT (CTV) 9:00pm: Bash's psychiatrist suggests an unexpected form of therapy; Mags gets evicted and meets an old patient who holds a grudge; Theo makes some questionable choices with a patient's mother; June's personal and professional worlds collide.

THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF CHESHIRE (Slice) 9:00pm (SEASON PREMIERE): Reality series which looks at the homes, and lifestyles of Cheshire's most glamorous residents.

SUNDOWN (Crave) 9:00pm: A wealthy man is vacationing with loved ones at a resort in Acapulco, Mexico until he receives a phone call. There's been a death in the family, and everyone must return home. However, the man pretends to lose his passport, which delays his return.

CANADA'S DRAG RACE: CANADA VS. THE WORLD (Crave 2) 9:00pm: You're invited to The Weather Ball on this week's episode of Canadas Drag Race: Canada vs the World.

1UP (Starz Canada) 9:00pm: Valerie is a competitive gamer whose impressive skills have landed her a place on her university's male-dominated esports team. Told she'll never be a starting player, Valerie forms an all-girl team to take down the guys at the national championship.

CRIME BEAT (Global) 10:00pm: Terrie Ann Dauphinais, a young Metis woman, is found dead in her home; her death was deemed a homicide, but no charges were ever laid, and the case went cold; new developments in the investigation lead to a dramatic turn of events.

CASEY ANTHONY: HER FRIENDS SPEAK (Super Channel Fuse) 10:00pm: More than seven years after her acquittal, Casey Anthony's friends recall their tense interviews with police and the media circus surrounding her high-profile trial in which she faced the death penalty after her daughter was found dead.

#cdntv #cancon #canadian tv #canadian tv listings #marketplace #rodeo nation #travel man: 48 hours in...#transplant #canada's drag race #crime beat #fifa world cup #nll lacrosse #nhl hockey #nba basketball

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takecareluv · 2 years

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if you want to write this maybe reader wanting to spend some quality time with vinnie because they haven't really done much in the past few days but him just wanting to play video games and then him being annoyed and lashing out on reader with like a happy ending idk

btw i really love your work and writing and you come off as a really sweet human being who i just wanna hug🫂 lots of love <333

a.n thank you, lovely! you are so sweet <3 i wanna give you a big hug !!! sending you all my love 💌☺️

forgivness & face masks || vinnie hacker x reader

vinnie arrived home late last night from a gaming event he attended in las vegas. you had already been fast asleep for hours by the time he had walked through the door, not getting the chance to properly greet him.

you didn’t worry too much about staying up since you expected to spend the entire next day with him, especially considering the lack of quality time you've had together.

with that said, you were suprised to wake up to an empty bed the following morning. rolling over in search of the missing boy, you immediately spotted him sat at his desk, streaming. already? you thought.

you loved vinnie and supported all of his endeavors, but really? it seemed like video games were all that he cared about recently.

“morning vin,” you called out.

no response.

you groaned, getting up from the bed and walking over to where his desk was stationed the corner of the room. “morning vin. you have a good flight home?” you asked while rubbing his shoulders.

“what? oh yeah, it was fine.” was all you got in a mumbled reply.

you rolled your eyes, deciding you needed coffee and breakfast before you dealt with him anymore.

—

following a big cup of coffee and some waffles, you got distracted with a few extra chores you’d been meaning to get done.

it wasn’t for another couple hours that you headed back up to see vinnie. and much to your dismay, you walked into the bedroom to the sight of him still streaming. wasn’t he tired?

“hey bub, i was thinking we go get lunch today? check out that new greek place that opened up in town.”

you were met with silence.

this time you decided to push a little further until you got a proper answer. “vin, did you hear me? how does that sound?” you questioned, clearly irritated.

“what? babe, can’t you see i’m busy? i don’t have time for-”

“for what? me?” you madly interrupted him.

“what, no. that’s not what i was going to say.” he paused. “but you know now that you bring it up, maybe i don’t always have time for you. is there anything wrong with that?”

you could tell he was growing more heated each second that went by, and you weren’t big on confrontation. you cared about this relationship too much to say something you’d instantly regret due to a moment of anger. so you presumed it would be best to let the matter go for the time being and return to it when you were both feeling much less emotional.

“i guess not.” you sighed, “i’ll just see you later.” and with that, you were out the door. not giving him the opportunity to respond.

—

after leaving the house in a rush, you realized you had no where to go. you drove in circles a couple times before choosing to stick with your original plan of having lunch at the authentic greek restaurant. only instead of being accompanied by the love of your life, you were sat alone at a table for one.

but you didn’t mind. you weren’t going to let some boy ruin your day. especially one that would rather play video games than spend time with his girlfriend.

you enjoyed a delicious meal but still wasn’t ready to head home quite yet. so for the remainder of the afternoon, you partook in a little bit of retail therapy.

you hit up all your favorite stores, shifting through what seemed like an endless amount of racks, and trying on a ton cute pieces. by the time you had made it through all of best shops on the block, you were left carrying way too many bags to even count. okay, now it was time to go home, you concluded.

—

the last thing you expected when you stepped foot through the front door of your home was a trail of flowers leading you down the hall, up the stairs, and into your bedroom.

at the end of the trail was a remorseful looking vinnie holding out a bouquet of your favorite flowers with a basket of all sorts of goodies, including face masks and candy, perched next to him.

“baby i am so sorry for lashing out at you earlier. i was just so stressed after going to that gaming thing and seeing all these other streamers do so much better than me, it made me feel like i wasn’t working hard enough. but i realize now that i should not have taken that out on you. it is no excuse and it will never happen again, i promise. i love you so much, i don't ever want to lose you. can you please forgive me?”

you slowly stepped over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist while mumbling out, “yes i forgive you. just please don’t do it again, it made me sad. i thought you didn’t want to spend time with me.”

“no baby, never.” he grabbed your face with both his hands so you would look up at him. “i'm sorry for making you sad and thinking i don’t want to spend time with you. i would spend every minute with you if it were possible, my sweet girl. never think otherwise.” he then leaned in to place a kiss to your forehead, the tip of your nose, and finally your lips.

“i rented all of your favorite movies, and got all of your favorite snacks. oh and that face mask you like, so we can have a night just us. and then tomorrow i’m taking you to lunch at that greek place you were talking about.”

“oh vin, you didn’t have to do all this.”

“this is the first time i've seen you smile all day, i most definitely had to do all this.”

you didn’t say anything, but he felt you squeeze him tighter and that was all he needed. “so what should we do first? face masks or food?”

#vinnie hacker #vinnie hacker imagine #vinnie hacker fanfic #vinnie hacker x reader #vinnie hacker blurb #vinnie hacker fluff #vinnie hacker x y/n #vinnie hacker x you

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parvuls · 4 years

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@missellewoods wrote this post, and i wanted to respond to it, but i also didn’t want to add a thesis-length response to their post. the post was about the complexity of the parse iii scene, and i highly encourage looking at it before reading this, because it’s a direct response.

i wasn’t sure i was gonna do it, but i’m fascinated with jack’s pov, so.

(transcripts from parse i-iii, plus visual cues from lva@pvd i)

[jack turns around, obviously unhappy/startled] "kent." "hey, zimms. didja miss me?" [smirks]

so parse shows up at the haus for the second time, after jack’s seen him last in either freshman or sophomore year. jack is not happy to see him. this is probably the part the remains the most ambiguous to us as an audience, because it leads up to parse iii: shitty’s story about parse’s first appearance is supposed to make us think that jack is jealous, and that he’s holding a grudge because parse is living his dream while he’s at samwell. however, this story isn’t included to give us more information about jack’s psych -- it is, after all, what we expect from jack after his year 1 arc -- it’s there so the impact of parse iii is more significant. it’s the first time we’re given reason to doubt jack’s heterosexuality and are given an actual glimpse to jack’s past since ‘the hockey prince’.

so is shitty’s story true? obviously ngozi is playing with the narrative here: smh all claim parse is a modest, super nice bro, but then we hear how he talks to jack in parse iii. meaning, ngozi is telling us: believe no one. you can’t actually know what he’s like, or what jack and he are like.

so our scene begins with jack, 1) either upset because his former friend shows up and triggers his intense jealousy, or 2) is upset because his former flame shows up and triggers unresolved feelings. honestly, in my opinion, jack himself isn’t sure which one it is. which is a great set up for the unfolding of the next scene.

[jack and parse are talking about jack’s nhl plans]

"...you have no clue?" "i mean... it could be montreal, it could be l.a. okay? i don't know." "...what about las vegas?" "i... i don't know, okay?" "..." [parse probably moves closer/tries to kiss him] "pars---" "..." "..." [whispered] "--kenny... i can't do this." "...jack. come on."

their conversation starts out relatively neutrally. we’re given enough clues from this update and the future of omgcp to deduce that parse isn’t over what he and jack had. this is also the very reason they don’t work and why this conversation takes a sharp turn downwards from here: parse equates his feelings and whatever sexual/romantic connection they had to the chemistry they had on the ice. to him, jack leaving him and going to play for some obscure college is just as upsetting as their ‘thing’ ending. parse spends most of this scene trying to convince jack to come play with him in lv -- the only reason we even know it’s in some way romantic is because of his reaction to the Cup Kiss in year 3. otherwise, he makes it sound like he misses jack as a liney and best friend, maybe as a sexual partner.

but the catch is, jack was in a really bad place when they were playing together, and he doesn’t want that back. does parse know how bad things were? does parse know about jack’s anxiety? how well does parse know jack, really? this is all kept intentionally hidden from us. you could say that they were best friends, so it’s reasonable that parse knew all of this (thus painting his character in a much worse light), or you could say shitty is jack’s best friend and he still didn’t know major things about him. ngozi doesn’t want us to be able to tell how aware or not aware parse is.

so in the beginning of this scene, we’re on the edge of an inevitable cliff. parse wants jack back, as a friend/flame and as a teammate, and jack’s obviously torn. he doesn’t push parse away immediately, but he also doesn’t consent. my opinion is that jack is torn between his old dream (all his 18-year-old self wanted was to play in the nhl with parse, and win win win), and knowing this isn’t what he wants. but does not wanting that necessarily means he doesn’t want parse himself? jack’s obviously not sure, because he lets parse corner him/kiss him before he decides it isn’t right.

if anyone here has ever met an old flame, especially someone who was bad for you but you cared for for a long time, you’ll know how easy it is to fall into patterns. for a moment the idea of having that all again is so enticing. but then the illusion shatters, and...

"no, i-- ...uh." [and then much louder] "kenny--" "--zimms, just fucking stop thinking for once and listen to me. i'll tell the gms you're on board and they can free up cap space. then you can be done with this shitty team. you and me --" "get out."

here is the most important part of this scene in my opinion. kent doesn’t know jack anymore. anyone on the face of the planet could tell you that jack is a hardass, that he’s tough on his teammates, that his dream is the nhl. but jack loves his team. he didn’t necessarily always know how to be their friend, but he certainly doesn’t think of them as a ‘shitty team’ he’s stuck with.

and parse makes the mistake of shattering the illusion he’s built (with the clever use of the wording ‘shitty’, which probably reminds jack of the friends he has now). jack wakes up from the dream he had when he was 18 and comes back to reality: he’s samwell men’s hockey team’s captain, he cares for his team, and his new dream is to win the ncaa championship and go to the nhl. he doesn’t want this thing parse is offering him, because the person he’s offering it to isn’t him anymore.

and here is the first twist of this scene that op is referring to: jack starts to get angry.

"--jack." "you can't-- you can't come to my fucking school unannounced --" "--because you shut me out--" "--and corner me in my room--" "--i'm trying to help--" "--and expect me to do whatever you want--" "FUCK -- JACK!!! what do yo want me to say? that i miss you?” [twists his fingers in jack’s shirt, crowding into jack’s space. jack turns away, frowning angrily] “i miss you, okay? ...i miss you."

does parse really miss jack, or is it a ploy? honestly, i think the facial expressions we’re privy to in year 3 hint that he really means that. he misses jack. he doesn’t necessarily miss the current jack (it’s likely that he’s stuck on the fantasy of what they had when they were younger), but he means what he says. he wants jack back.

but jack is angry, because parse is complicating things for him. they were talking about playing together, and then parse insulted his choices, and now parse is talking about being together, and jack -- who took A YEAR PLUS to figure out his feelings for bitty -- probably has a hard time handling all of these things at once. for parse there’s nothing complicated here: the jack he knows wouldn’t want to play for a college team (therefore, =shitty team), and playing with jack=being with jack.

for jack none of these things work like that anymore. they’ve grown too far apart.

"...you always say that." "...huh. well, shit. okay. ...you know what, zimmermann? you think you're too fucked up to care about? that you're not good enough? everyone already knows what you are but it's people like me who still care."

and... okay. so things go south now, and quickly. if you’re a parse stan... honestly, i hope you’re a parse stan who’s aware parse needs a shit ton of therapy.

jack insults parse, whether intentionally or unintentionally, by being casual about parse’s declarations of feelings. to be fair, jack thinks parse was playing dirty. but parse doesn’t see it like that, so he’s offended, and apparently when he’s offended he gets angry and lashes out.

now. the unfortunate thing about knowing someone at their most vulnerable time is that you also know exactly how to kick them down to their lowest. we all hurt our loved ones the most, because we know them the best. but parse doesn’t just hurt jack here: he goes for the jugular. he kicks jack and then makes sure he stays down. and this is actually the most we see parse say in the whole comic, so... we can’t judge parse as a whole person, but. i’m sorry. he’s definitely not a good friend to jack.

(how bad of a friend? depends on how aware he was of jack’s anxiety and thoughts and feelings. if he was aware, this is a highly emotionally abusive thing to do. if he wasn’t aware, he was just being a shitty friend. either way, parse needs therapy, because he’s holding on to a lot of anger and is expressing it in a really awful way. but we can’t analyze him any further as a character because parse is not the focus of this story and we don’t know anything more about him.)

[faintly] "--shut up--" "--you're scared everyone else is going to find out you're worthless, right? oh, don't worry, just give it a few seasons, jack. trust me." [probably begins shaking] "...g-get out of my room." "fine. shut me out again." "and stay-... stay away from my team." "why? afraid i'll tell them something?" [voice growing stronger] "leave, parse." [door opening; jack and parse are surprised to find bitty outside the door. jack is visibly shaking, holding the attack at bay]

op asked how jack’s anger turns into a full blown panic attack. the answer is parse goes for his weak points faster than jack can prepare himself, just when jack was open for an attack. he calls jack ‘worthless’, which is jack’s second worst fear, and then (probably) tries for the sexuality angle. it’s unclear whether he’s threatening to out jack or to tell the team about his substance problems, but more likely the former, because the latter was all over the news.

parse is clearly upset here. is he just angry for being rejected? is he humiliated? is he heartbroken? we don’t know. the only hint we have is ‘shut me out again’, which implies he’s at least still upset about jack cutting him off after the draft. what we do know is that jack, with the last shreds of his will power, tries to defend his team. tries to cling on to the idea that he knows there are people who believe in him (this is very hard under the cloud of anxiety).

either way, jack’s panic isn’t even about parse or what parse used to be -- it’s just that parse knows where to press.

[parse clears throat, putting his indifferent mask back on] "hey. well. call me if you reconsider or whatever. but good luck with the falconers." [lands the final blow] "...i'm sure that'll make your dad proud." [jack's panic attack takes over. he retreats to his room, slams the door, and slides down to curl into himself on the floor for an undetermined amount of time]

and then parse, in front of jack’s teammate, lands the worst punch he has in his arsenal. jack’s worst fear. disappointing his dad.

jack spent all of year 2 talking to nhl teams and being watched by scouts and negotiating contracts, and consulting with his dad and his teammates to make a decision. he’s not sure about the falconers until much later, but he obviously leans towards them. which is a whole essay in and of itself: jack leans towards the falconers, a smaller, younger team with no cups, but with a lot of potential and good people and something to prove. this is a metaphor for jack’s growth as a character. he could go for a more established team to look good in front of the world, or pick a winning-streak team like the aces to feed into his anxiety. parse is taunting him with his own growth, making him doubt himself: you think you can change? you think you can really be someone new after playing in some college team? if you’re not who you were when you were 18 and first-pick at the draft (before you ruined everything for yourself and ended up here), you’re no one. and your dad will never be proud of you.

[end scene.]

#omgcp #omgcheckplease #jack zimmermann #pimms #...? i really don't wanna tag that but i guess that's accurate.#text #meta #i get easily triggered by pimms discussions but i do think this scene was brilliant story-wide #*wise #so i wrote out all my thoughts and i hope no one who disagrees will get overwhelmingly mad at me

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destieltaggedfic · 4 years

Text

Alternate Universes - Part 1

If you’ve read my intro post, you know that I’m not really into AUs, but I do occasionally read them (sometimes because they aren’t tagged as AU and by the time I figure it out I’m hooked on the story)

Put your money where your mouth is ‘verse – kototyph Ao3

AU. After accidentally getting married in Las Vegas, co-workers Dean and Cas fall into a genuine friendship when Dean starts helping Cas renovate his house, somewhere along the way forgetting to get divorced. 6 stories in this series, mostly involving them getting to know each other and falling in love in part 2, but then a few more stories of them being together.

Word Count: 57k Graphic Sexual Acts

It’s a Grind – lizzy ate deanspie Ao3

AU. Months after starting up his own mechanics shop, Dean needs a break, and preferably to get laid. After striking out at the local bars he calls a phone sex line. The next day when buying coffee, he gives the same fake name as he gave the phone sex worker. Turns out the barista and the phone sex guy are the same person. Cas and Dean start dating after he writes his number on Dean’s coffee cup.

Word Count: 45k Graphic Sexual Acts

Play it all night Long - Janie_tangerine LiveJournal

AU. Dean is the host of a late night radio show. Cas loves to listen, and one night after the death of his sister, he finally calls in requesting a song. Cas starts calling in more often with Dean chatting to him while songs are playing rather than on air. Then a couple of months in they meet when Cas calls Dean for help.

Word Count: 43k Graphic Sexual Acts

Ridiculous Untitled Cuddling Fluff ‘verse – cadignan Ao3

It’s a terrible life AU. Stressed out, Dean Smith goes to a session of touch therapy, basically lying in a pile of cushions being cuddled by a guy called Castiel. They hit it off, but when Cas gets fired their attraction very quickly turns into something more serious. 6 stories in the series.

Word Count: 27k Graphic Sexual Acts

Not Part of the Plan ‘verse – Annie D Ao3

AU. Castiel is in The Republic for an arranged marriage to help relations between 2 countries. On his last night of freedom before meeting his betrothed he goes out to lose his virginity in an act of rebellion. He meets Dean who offers to take care of him. Imagine the surprise the next day when meeting Sam Winchester his intended, that Cas already knows his brother! When Sam runs away, his parents offer Dean instead for the marriage. Once they are married, cue misunderstandings while getting to know each other all the while both of them insisting that its best to keep things impersonal. Despite that they fall in love, such a shame that both their countries are using their marriage for political intrigue to try and start a war… 8 works in the series

I read this a couple of months ago for the first time, and despite its epic word count, I’ve just finished reading it for the 4th time. I only intended on reading the first story about the one night stand, but got sucked in, and now it is pretty much my favourite spn fic.

Word Count: 338k Graphic Sexual Acts

#destiel #fic recs #Alternate Universe

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princess-of-riviaa · 4 years

Text

Inflicting Misery ch.3

Pairing: August Walker x Reader

Summary: A mission gone awry puts in the hospital on life support. In the meantime, August tries to process everything.

Author’s Note: This chapter will be in August’s POV and the following chapters will be back in reader’s POV.

Warning(s): none, just angst and floof :)

word count: 2094

“How have you been, August?” Dr. Tolsen asks me, like we’re old friends catching up over a cup of coffee.

“Why don’t you ask the bags under my eyes?” I bark. I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours. My brain is starting to play tricks on me, begging me to close my eyes for just an hour. But every time I blink, all I can see is Lorenzo shooting that damn bullet through Y/N’s chest and her dying in my arms.

No. She hasn’t died yet. What happened to her is much worse. She’s stuck inside the nation’s top medical facility and hooked up to a million machines that are breathing for her, keeping her heart beating, keeping her body working. She’s at the goddamn misery of those hideous machines. If they switch off, she’s gone.

“You went on a recent mission to Las Vegas,” Dr. Tolsen says. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

“No,” I growl.

But Dr. Tolsen has been my therapist for long enough that he knows the game I’m playing. He doesn’t bother getting frustrated. Instead, he addresses the heart of the matter. “Your partner, Agent Y/L/N, got hurt during the mission. How does that make you feel?”

How does that make me feel? Like I want to rip Lorenzo’s head off of his body. Like Y/N should have moved faster, should have gotten her gun out sooner, should have stopped looking at me with that light in her eyes like I meant something to her, and maybe she wouldn’t be in that goddamn hospital right now.

Helpless.

It makes me feel absolutely fucking helpless. Because I watched it all happen. Because I didn’t protect her. Because that bullet should have gone straight through me, a man who’s more monster than human, and yet it went through the best woman I’ve ever known instead. And now she can’t even breathe on her own.

I did that to her.

It’s my fault.

I may as well have been the one to shoot her.

“These are all reasonable emotions to be experiencing when someone you care about is dying,” Dr. Tolsen says, and that’s when I realize that I just said all of that out loud. I tend to dissociate during these therapy sessions. If I’m too far inside my head to even realize my mouth is moving and words are tumbling out, it somehow makes it all easier to say out loud. “It’s times like this when it’s crucial for you to remember that emotions in and of themselves aren’t good or bad. They’re just emotions. But it’s how you choose to react to them, the actions you take in response to those emotions that is good or bad.”

I know that. He’s said that at least a hundred times by now. He probably thinks that if he repeats it enough times, I’ll start turning into a better person. The thought is laughable. I’m beyond saving. Doesn’t he realize that?

“Have you visited her yet?” Dr. Tolsen asks.

No. I haven’t gone anywhere near her. It’s my fault she’s in there to begin with. Me being around her now, when she’s desperately in need of a miracle, will only make things worse.

“I think seeing her will provide you with some much needed closure,” he says.

Closure? She’s not fucking dead.

“Not yet, but--”

No! She’s not gonna die. She’ll recover. She’ll get better. But if I come to visit, that’ll ruin everything. I have to stay away and then she’ll come back to us.

“To us? Or to you?”

This isn’t about me.

“It’s been about you since day one,” Dr. Tolsen argues. “This woman cares about you, and deep down you know it. I think that’s why you’re feeling so guilty. You think you’ve corrupted her somehow. That getting shot was her consequence for daring to care about you.”

Everyone who gets close to me dies. That’s just how it works.

“You didn’t sign her death sentence, August,” he says. “And whether this woman lives or dies--none of that will matter if you can’t see that. You need to forgive yourself. You did not put her in harm’s way. She knew the job she signed up for. She knew what she was getting herself into. You did not do this to her. She’s not in the hospital right now because of you. August--look at me.”

My eyes jump to his.

“Hear me when I say this: You. Did. Nothing. Wrong.”

Yeah, right.

He repeats himself, again and again. “You did nothing wrong. You did nothing wrong. You did nothing wrong.”

He says it enough that the words fight through the barriers of my mind and suddenly my head is in my heads and I’m crying, I’m fucking crying like a baby and I can’t stop, not even to get air in my lungs and it’s hurts, oh god it fucking hurts.

...

She stood out in a crowd of beautiful women. Even from the first moment I saw her I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her. I wanted this woman.

I go to take a seat beside her at the bar. I give the bartender my order and turn to her. She keeps her head down, trying to be as unnoticeable as possible, but I can’t take my eyes off of her. I eye the glass in front of her.

“Vodka your drink?” I ask.

She looks at me for the first time. Her eyes are a deep brown and there’s a flicker of innocence in them. Her cheekbones are sharp and that mouth--

I want that small mouth wrapped around my cock. As if hearing my thoughts, my cock stirs to life in my pants. I’m grateful for the dim lights in the bar. She can’t see my body’s reaction to her.

“Usually nothing’s my drink,” she confesses, and her voice is like a smooth velvet. “But tomorrow’s my first day at my new job and I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight without some help.”

I say nothing, letting her continue. I like the sound of her voice as much as she likes to talk, apparently.

“I’m sorry, I talk when I anxious,” she admits with a blush. “And when I’m drunk. And when I’m anxious and drunk.”

“You’re really that stressed about your job?” I wonder.

She gives me a sheepish smile and then pauses, looking a me with a defensive expression. “I’m sure you’re nice and everything, but I have too much going on right now to have a hookup, so you should probably try your moves on some other drunk woman.”

That makes me chuckle. “I don’t do hookups, either. I was just trying to have a conversation.”

Her face flushes. God, I love how easy it is to get a reaction out of this woman. “Oh, shit. I’m so sorry--that was rude. I didn’t--I just, um... I’ve had a little too much to drink and it’s turned me into a bit of a ballsy bitch.”

I offer her my arm. “Why don’t I help this ‘ballsy bitch’ find a cab? You’ll need sleep before tomorrow.”

She gives me a grateful look and takes my arm. Her hands are so small that they can’t even wrap around my entire arm. I wonder how big my cock would look in her hands--though now I’ll probably never get a chance to find out.

I wave over a cab for her outside and open the back door for her.

“You’re really sweet,” she says before she enters the cab. “I’m so sorry for talking your ear off and being rude. This isn’t really my best moment.”

“Let’s just hope you’re having a better moment tomorrow,” I say. “A good first impression with the boss is crucial.”

She giggles drunkenly. “Yeah, they are, um... what’s your name?”

I say the first name that comes to mind. “Henry.”

She blinks up at me and damn, those lashes are long. This woman is completely gorgeous and she’s so unaware of it. “I’m glad I met you, Henry.” And then she kisses me. Her mouth moves clumsily against mine, sloppy due to her drunkenness, and I let her kiss me for a second. I even kiss her back before pushing her away. “I’m sorry, I thought you wanted, um... I’m sorry.”

I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and assure her, “Believe me, I wanted that. But I’m not about to take advantage of a woman who’s too drunk to remember me in the morning.”

She opens her mouth, but the cab driver honks his horn impatiently, and whatever she was about to say dies on her lips. She gives me one last smile before getting the cab. I close the door behind her and watch the car drive off.

Little did I know that my company’s new agent we’d hired a week ago was starting the next day. And it was her, my little drunken girl that I’d already thought about fucking the life out of. God, was I in deep shit.

...

I run through the halls of the hospital. My feet can’t carry me to her room fast enough. After what feels like a year I make it to Room 246. Half the team is already in there, crowding around Y/N’s bed. I pause in the doorway. She looks up at me. She’s actually awake.

“You’re awake,” I say, stating the obvious like an idiot.

She smiles, but I can see the strain on her face. She’s exhausted. “You can’t get rid of this ballsy bitch that easily, August.”

Hearing my name in her mouth... God, I should be sent to hell for the things I’m thinking. She just woke up from a fucking coma and all I can think about is fucking her.

“How are you feeling?” Savannah asks, our team’s weapons expert and medic. She runs a hand down Y/N’s arm and I know it’s meant to be comforting but dammit, I’m seconds away from cutting Savannah’s hand off. No one touches Y/N. No one but me.

“Tired,” Y/N confesses. “The doctor came in just before you all got here. He said they performed surgery on my lung. They got the bullet out but my body’s going to need a while to recover.”

“Of course,” Savannah said in a soothing voice. This girl was really getting on my nerves right now.

“Is there anything you need from us?” Lorenzo asks.

Wait.

Lorenzo?!

What the fucking hell is he doing here?

I look over to see him standing in the corner. How the hell had I not noticed him already? In two strides I’m in front of him, his shirt in my hand. I punch him hard in the jaw before I feel someone pull me back. Savannah.

“What the hell, Walker?” she shouts.

“He fucking shot her!” I exclaim. “He shouldn’t be here--he shouldn’t be anywhere near her!”

“August!” Y/N calls out. Her tone is pleading.

I force myself to breathe and take a step back. Lorenzo clutches his jaw. His eyes are watering. Savannah wraps an arm around him and drags him out of the room, leaving me alone with Y/N.

“It was an accident,” Y/N insists. “He wasn’t trying to hurt me.”

“Yet here we are,” I say bitterly. “If he know what’s good for him--”

“Please,” she sighs. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

I look into her brown eyes, as alluring as ever. “Want do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t want to talk,” she admits. “Can you just... can you lie next to me?”

I hesitate.

“Don’t make me pull the crippled card,” she jokes.

I take in a breath and move to her bed. She does her best to slide over to make room for me, but these stupid hospital beds are built for twelve-year-olds, so there’s hardly enough room for us to both fit. She moves into my arms and rests her head on my chest. Shit, she can probably hear how fast my heart is beating. Her hand rests on my stomach. The touch is completely innocent, but I fucking want her. I’ll take her right here and now if she’s willing. But I hear her breathing slow and even out and I know she’s fallen asleep. With her in my arms--with her awake and breathing and talking--my body finally relaxes. I close my eyes and let sleep take over.

#august walker #august walker imagine #august walker mission impossible #august walker has a heart and i will prove it #henry cavill #henry cavill kiss

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mymovementpt · 4 months

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Tissue Manipulation Therapist in Las Vegas - My Movement PT

What is SMT in physical therapy?

Spinal Manipulative Therapy (SMT) is a technique used in physical therapy to treat back pain, neck pain, and other musculoskeletal conditions by applying force to the spinal joints. The goal of SMT is to restore the structural integrity of the spine, reduce pain, and initiate the body's natural healing processe.

Physical therapists use different clinical decision-making approaches when employing SMT. Two common models are the segmental clinical decision-making approach and the responder clinical decision-making approach. The segmental approach focuses on identifying a dysfunctional vertebral segment and using SMT to restore mobility and alleviate pain. The responder approach categorizes individuals based on signs and symptoms that suggest a likely positive response to SMT

SMT involves various techniques, including high-velocity low-amplitude thrust manipulation, mobilization, and adjustments. These techniques are applied to the spine and surrounding soft tissues to improve joint range of motion, increase blood flow, decrease tissue restrictions, and improve soft-tissue mobility. It's important to note that SMT is not exclusive to physical therapists. Chiropractors, osteopaths, and other medical doctors may also offer SMT as part of their treatment approaches.

#tissue manipulation therapist las vegas #physical therapy at home las vegas #mobile kinesio taping las vegas #travel plyometric therapy las vegas #cupping therapy las vegas #travel physical therapy las vegas #functional movement therapist las vegas #travel sports therapy las vegas

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defleurtradingco · 5 years

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Epoch- Pain

(Previous: Cruelty, Next: Film)

Verdei’s house, considering the situation, was quite cozy. He was well to do and if anything, it kept Solaina wondering why he’d invited them all there in the first place.

She was sure it was going to be a trap of some sort.

Gray was the first to disappear, as per usual, just like he’d done at Osy’s house. As soon as they all stepped inside, he made a rush for the FARTHEST room in the house from the front door to sit and sulk.

“He did that th’ last time I had’im,” Monte had said.

Solaina could only grimace to express whatever she was feeling by that point.

Disgust? Discomfort? What?? She wasn’t exactly sure, but it wasn’t anything good.

Children...all of them…

“I know this whole thing must seem a pain, an’ frankly it is, I won’t lie ta you. Not that I ever intended ta do so in the first place.” They reconvened around the dining room table, with Verdei standing on one side, and Solaina and Monte standing on the other.

She had her arms crossed as she drummed her fingers. “Seeing as unexpected things keep happening, I want to be very brief with this. Grayson has asked me to help him locate his family. He was found out in the desert by my employee Mr. Wormbane here, and since then, he has been trying to assist him in doing so as well.

And now we are here. In your house.”

“Right then.” Verdei sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes back into his skull. “My turn.

Gray’s been singin’ the same song fer years about the whole family thing.”

“What?”

“Frankly I ain’t so sure about it myself. I think they up n’ left if ya ask me.”

Solaina furrowed her brows in confusion. “What do you mean?” “Y’ found ‘im out there in the desert right? Did’e have anything on’im?” Verdei turned his attention to Monte.

“Hmm...no, can’t say I did. Just himself all chewed up. Them ghouls musta gotten to’m.”

“Uh-uh.” Verdei shook his head. “Ya might think it weird fer a cop ta suddenly step outta line (you know what I mean) in regards to the whole lil’ stunt I pulled out there when I pulled ya over. Now if I HADN’T, then it woulda been off ta the slammer again fer’im fer illegal drug and supply trafficking. You think general law enforcement’s gonna know what th’ hell t’ do with someone like him?” “Wait-” Solaina pinched the bridge of her nose. She was starting to get a headache with each new reveal. “How do you know this?” “How do YOU think? Stick my nose where it don’t belong, it’s easy. Specially if ya happen ta catch the idiot on camera, along with OTHER idiots.

Ain’t like they don’t know about him. Got warrants out fer ‘im. In fact, I should be turnin’ his sorry ass in, but I never do.”

“What places is he bringing these materials to??” Solaina asked. “Is it somewhere nearby? Are there others who have been caught doing the same thing?” Her head was reeling back to the conversation she and Liam had had.

Other Weres being caught with supplies, out in the middle of the desert.

Gray was a Were. He had to have been. He was one of them.

“From what I been able ta dig up? Lil’ hospitals and practices here n’ there that so far all seem ta be privately owned by that big ol’ gene therapy lab. They do a lotta outsourcing.” “Gene therapy lab?” “Oh yeah,” Monte poked at the inside of his remaining cheek with his tongue. “I saw th’ billboard fer that big ol’ thing on th’ drive up n’ through the Strip when I got here. Phoenix Labs or somethin’ right? Din’t pay too much attention ta it, they cure like...uh… illnesses n’ stuff right?” “That’s what they say, yes,” Verdei nodded, “Heavy research inta exactly what it says. Genes. Only time anyone hears about them is if there’s bad news. They don’t tend ta publish very many things out fer the public ta see. Kinda makes ‘em look like a shady bunch if ya ask me.”

“So Grayson delivers supplies for them.

And he did not think to tell me this?” At the rate she was going, even ibuprofen wasn’t going to stop the headache that was now developing in the back of her head. What else could Gray be omitting? Why? Was it supposed to be a secret? Obviously.

“I got a feelin’ they’re watchin’ him. And by proxy, us too.” Verdei’s eyes wandered towards a window. The curtains were drawn over it so no one could look in. “’S all a work in progress on my part though. Been tryin’ ta crack THAT case fer years but THIS ONE over here,” Gray, “keeps disappearin’ on me. And y’know, doesn’t help me. At all. What with the robberies and what have ya. And that’s just ta start.”

“Boy this rabbit hole sure keeps gettin’ deeper. An’ we’re stickin’ our necks inta it further n’ further,” Monte exclaimed with a note of humor in his voice. He was far from amused by the whole lying thing though. “So then, cat-boy likes lyin’ ta folks who genuinely try ta help huh? A’right then. I’ll keep a note of that up here fer later,” He tapped at his forehead in exasperation as he turned to face Solaina. “I dunno if we should get caught up in all this Solaina. Might be best if we head off-”

Solaina had a hand over her mouth and under her chin in thought. “Why have I not heard of such a place before...I know they exist but...”

Monte shrugged. “Dunno. Whatever it is they’re doin’ though, even IF Weres are involved- ain’t that supposed ta be Adrian’s business?” “Adrian,” Solaina scoffed. “He has not done so much as lift a single finger in regards to taking care of his own district. And if he will not, then I must.” She eyed Verdei again. “I had received reports about there being other Weres found in the desert much like Mr. Randal, only they were caught with the same supplies that you described. From there they were always turned over to local enforcement, as a military base is not exactly equipped nor staffed to take care of such things. Nor is that their primary duty.” “Military base?” Verdei raised a brow. “You mean-” Before he could continue, Solaina had already grabbed a napkin off a table and a nearby pen from a cup. “Do you happen to have the address of the main building of this Phoenix Lab company? Are they here in the Las Vegas area?” The officer shook his head. “Nah, no address anywhere I’ve looked. Which is kinda weird. I thought too maybe they’d have some kinda facility open in th’ city, since, ya know, Las Vegas. Big spenders there. Nada though.”

“What about the city’s public records?” “I mean, ya could try there. I ain’t had th’ time to, an’ the few times I did look I din’t come across nothing-”

“There may be something worth looking into there, if there is anything. Or maybe-”

Monte began to tune the both of them out after a while, opting to move away from the kitchen table. That was all they’d done at Liam’s house anyway. More discussing, more table-surrounding.

He’d had his fill for one day. A day and a night rather.

So he stepped outside, hands in his pocket. Only one came out with his phone as he sat on the porch to text away.

Been a bit of a delay. Might be some more days. Solaina’s gotten her nose into something again and no one’s around to help her. I’ll keep ya posted.

Aw...ok. Well do whatever you gotta do.

I know. Big Chinese buffet night when I get back, my dime.

Sounds good! Firefly misses you.

A picture came then of a horse showing its teeth at the camera. And at a hideous angle to make it all the worse.

Monte cringed.

Gee thanks honeybee.

#epoch #solaina whispers 'finally someone whos actually got a brain holy shit'#well partially anyway #monte just wants to go home #grays going through his emo phase in rapid fire and a liar

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advancedmanualtherapy · 2 years

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mymovementpt · 3 months

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Sports Physical Therapy in Las Vegas - My Movement Pt

What is the difference between physiotherapy and sports therapy?

Difference Between Physiotherapy and Sports Therapy

Physiotherapy and sports therapy are both allied health professions that focus on treating conditions that limit a person's ability to move and perform daily tasks. While there are similarities between the two, there are also some key differences in their approach and scope of practice.

Physiotherapy typically uses a manual, hands-on approach with soft tissue and fascial releases, stretches, and massages. Physiotherapists also employ exercise-based approaches to help patients rehabilitate and regain strength, flexibility, and range of motion.

Sports therapy, on the other hand, concentrates solely on musculoskeletal rehabilitation and has a sports-centric background. Sports therapists often work with patients who are aiming to return to exercise or other physical activities. They focus on whether the patient has returned to or can maintain the physical level required for their desired sporting activity.

It is important to note that these are generalizations about the two professions, and many physiotherapists specialize in sports rehabilitation, while many sports therapists have experience in other areas of rehabilitation. Therefore, it is not always a straight choice between physiotherapy or sports therapy, and both professions are trained and insured to treat musculoskeletal disorders.

In summary, the main difference between physiotherapy and sports therapy lies in their focus and approach. Physiotherapy uses a manual, hands-on approach with exercise-based therapy, while sports therapy concentrates on musculoskeletal rehabilitation with a sports-centric background. However, there is overlap between the two professions, and many practitioners have expertise in both areas.

#home physical therapist las vegas #movement screening las vegas #cupping physical therapy las vegas #local mobile pt las vegas #physical therapist at home las vegas #instrument assisted soft tissue manipulation #mobile cupping therapist las vegas

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fairyshuuu · 7 years

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Fate

Genre: fluff Length: 1.3k Happy (belated) birthday, sister! This one is for you @gwaenchanhajagiya.

Six words. Your fate exists of, and is powered by six words, printed in thick, bold letters on your forearm. It’s been there ever since you can remember, loud, and somewhat obscene but beautiful nevertheless. Your mother has fourteen, painted in a delicate cursive on her small wrist. Your father has twelve, small, blocky letters slightly faded through hard work. The concept itself is, much like the meaning, too complicated for a lot of people, surrounded by lore and lies, and wishful thinking. A riddle, to tell you how to live the rest of your life in joy.

Many don’t figure out the answer later in life, after learning and seeing more, or never at all. Some riddles ask people to face fears to find the answer, or reach into yourself too deep, and those people often turn away from fate, choosing to live quietly in the shadows that cast when another finds their light. Everyone stays curious though. Wondering is silence, even after they give up trying. It comes with a question you’ve learn to both hate and love.

‘What do yours say?’. When you were a small child, that’s when the hurricane of enthusiasm inside would be released, proudly showing the letters carved into your skin to family or other children, who would do the same. Later in life, that’s when it starts becoming something to hate. When others start finding the answer to theirs, and when you don’t have an answer yourself. You’ve come to expect it though.

What would make eternity worth living?

When you are eleven, looking out through the window at the small white birds flying by, you think you have found the answer for the first time. If anything can make eternity worth living, it’s the sky, you think. You spend days, weeks, finding gratitude in that answer, making plans for a future you can’t even imagine yet. It’s, looking back, both childish and poetic, thinking bliss can be found in the thing that surrounds us at all times. Childish, because it isn’t something that follows a person wherever they go, instead struggling, finding leaks and pathways to flow through, when other emotions make way. Poetic, for if you were to choose, you’d wish happiness upon mankind above all.

For your twelfth birthday, you get to visit the sky for the first time, eagerly strapping on the belt as the plane takes off. Though the flight is quite long, you don’t sleep for a second of it, big eyes taking in the clouds below you, while the sun hits them, radiating it’s light all around. Your parents wanted to take a trip to the Andes before they were both too old to even consider it, so taking with the eager ball of passion and adventure that is you. You think that’s when you truly learn to appreciate the small moments that you’ll look back on when remembering happiness.

Some days, you still think your answer might be the sky, when rain comes down in truckloads and you run over to open the doors to your terras, letting the sound fill your entire apartment as you work. That, mixed with the sounds of cars and taxi’s driving by. When you run outside in giggles, tugging on your baby blue rain boots like a true New York wallflower, rushing over to carry your bright potted plants inside as your clothes soak in the water, making you shiver down to the bone. Those moments, that others might call wretched and unfortunate, are part of your eternity.

You are sixteen when you think you have found the answer for the second time. You’re young, and in love, crushing like most others at that time. He was tall and tanned, with one of the brightest smiles you’ll ever see on a person, and you think you’d like him to be eternity. His name is Kim Jongin, and he sits two desks in front of you, on the other side of class. He has the table next to the window, though he never drifts off into a daydream, like you do. Kim Jongin is a model student, which is why you like him. He seems more grown than other boys your age, and grounded steadily in reality, with strong ideas of what his future will look like.

Some days, you think back to that time and wonder what if, what if things would have been different. What if you would have tried harder, and had married Kim Jongin, how your future would have looked like. Would you have been a dynamic duo, making a name for yourself all around, or would you have become his sweet wife, who got to kiss two little head goodnight? Those days are still scary, and you still don’t like those days, since the idea of singlehandedly ruining your forever is always looming. Looking back though, you think Kim Jongin would have been a safe option, steady in both morals and lifestyle, but never the missing part of your happiness.

The third time you think you have found the answer, you are twenty two, driving to the airport. This time, you think the answer is work, something you throw yourself on fully, the child in you screaming in elation at the idea of doing something you love while getting paid. Journalism is the best of both worlds, since writing and traveling are all you want to do. You are young still, and giddy to explore the world, learning about others and yourself, and more things that bring happiness. Like the sound of children playing in the streets, excited giggles and the pats of little feet on the cement filling your small room through the window, while the white linen curtains wave back and forward. You pass through places at high speed, South Africa, Osaka, Mexico City, Paris, Sydney, Stockholm, Las Vegas, as you have the time of your life, and you learn to enjoy being alone.

Some days, you think the answer still might be work, days where you sink deeper into the bed, covered safely in warm blankets and a coffee in hand, hands drumming on your laptop nervously. Days where you wake up at four in the morning, with random ideas that need ways to get out and only can when you put them down on paper. Days where you turn up the heath in the apartment to warm your cold feet while you lay upside down in the couch, reading through words until they don’t make sense in your mind anymore and days where you proudly present your second book, dabbling in between excitement and stress.

The fourth, and final time you think you have found the answer, is Christmas night, twenty four years old. This day, you now see, is a special day. It’s not just any Christmas, though that in itself could make it special as well. It’s special, because that day you find the answer to your six words. It’s the day you bump into him, pink cheeks and wide eyes, as he apologizes profusely for spilling his hot chocolate on your ugly snowman sweater. It’s also the day you think back on now, and are the most grateful for, since it brought you all the irreplaceable moments that fill your days. Like the late night therapy moments, when you pull your fingers through his black hair, listening to his concerns and worries as his arms wrap around your waist. Like the quick kisses when he walks into the kitchen with his gold rimmed glasses, holding you to his chest while you cook. Like the nights you wake up to an open door, blankets pushed to your side of the bed, and the sound of soft melodies from the living room, his voice cutting through the silence.

And some days, you look at Jongdae, much like you are now, his parted lips and messy hair as his hands fist into the blankets after a long day, with the doors to the terras wide open and wet socks and a cup of coffee in hand, and can’t help but think why anyone would ever want to spend an eternity worth living any other way.

#exowritersnet #kpoptrashtag #exo chen #chen fluff #exo jongdae #jongdae fluff #kjd #exowriting #exo soulmates #exo au #soulmate au

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