#for the rise of our club and is symbolic of an era where we came close to glory many times

[whitehartlane]

hugo’s farewell message has well and truly finished me 😭💔

[sebsallowapologist]

Pothos

Hi! While I have my nerve I’m going to post this- I haven’t written anything for public eye in a long time. 

I’d been thinking for a long time that Bella & Edward’s love story would be so much better if Bella had the chance to mature a little bit. So I wrote this:

When Edward left Bella in New Moon, what if he didn't come back until he was sure that Bella wasn't going to live happily ever after. It's 7 years later and Bella is floating through life as a 25 year old in Los Angeles when he comes back into her life.

Please please please tell me what you think or if this is worth continuing. 

The elevator ride was quiet, just the muzak playing and the quiet dings as we passed the floors that lead down to the basement. Most other people in the office would go home as soon as their computers told them it was 5:00, seldom staying until 8:00. They had families to get home to, dinners to be had, husbands to kiss and tell them how their day was. I filled up that time by staying a few hours late at work, until I got the message that we were meeting up at Umbrella tonight.

When I’d gotten word that morning that Mike couldn’t make it out tonight it made my blood drain from my face. If we wouldn’t go out then shy Angela would have bailed on me too. Theres power in numbers, and two girls alone at a bar wasn’t something Ang was comfortable with. Or maybe she was as long as I wasn’t the only other girl there.

Now that I had some plans for a Friday night I could stomach leaving work behind, moving from one distraction to the other. I shove my phone into my back pocket and grabbed the little black backpack I carried before shutting off my computer and walking out of the cubical I spent 60 hours a week sitting in.

Most people craved the weekend, spent the 48 hours of freedom trying to undo all the work they did over the weekend, but I was the opposite, my weekends were spent trying to run away from my own thoughts, mostly through drinking until I could feel my brain sloshing in my head and then working over my days off, desperately trying to prove to my company, and myself, that I deserved to be there, and it wasn’t just because my guardian angel put me there.

My guardian angel.

The one who got me into UCLA when I applied late and with horrible grades. My guardian angel who made sure I passed every college course, despite how much I didn’t understand the work. My guardian angel who got me the job at Variety, to make sure I was writing and doing what I thought I loved. I hated him, but I took all of his gifts, even though I haven't earned any of them. I was selfish and was plagued by the thought of the person who should have the life I was living, the one I took for granted. All because he felt guilty and I was too weak of a person to deny the silent gifts.

I make it down to my car and throw my backpack on the passenger seat of my little four door, another gift from my guardian angel. Or was it just a coincidence that someone was selling a barely used safe car just for the price I could afford as soon as I needed it? The truck had finally wheezed its last breath my senior year of high school, it was so symbolic it almost hurt, but it was right. A pick up truck didn’t make sense for Los Angeles, I would have spent my salary on gas alone.

I rest my head on the steering wheel, keeping the car keys gripped in my hand as I take three deep breaths and let out everything that happened at work today. The deadline that was moved up without my knowledge, the bitch who took the last k-cup on our floor which made me go to Starbucks this morning.

I sigh and stick the key in the ignition and crank the car to life and back out of the spot without letting the engine warm up. I pull to the mouth of the garage and flash my badge to the attendant, who let the gate rise and let me out. I wave and give a half smile while he waved me on and turned down the street, heading for my apartment.

Los Angeles had ruined my driving, you just didn’t get around this city in any kind of timely manner if you didn’t treat yellow lights like a suggestion. I made it home in a reasonable amount of time, since almost all of rush hour had already died down.

I lock up the car and walk up to my side of the duplex. The duplex I loved, covered in flowers that were cared for by the old woman who lived next door, the old fixtures that reminded me of what Los Angeles used to be- a golden era of film and mob crime. What made LA interesting, as opposed to what it is now- an influencer filled hellhole. I open up the door and slam it closed, the only way the hinge would catch.

I throw my bag down next to the pile of shoes next to my door and head to my small bathroom to freshen up. I bite my lip and stop at the wall of plants lining the window in my living room. Fuck I should water those. The plants all stemmed from the singular pothos plant my neighbor had given me when I first moved in. She taught me that when it grew, a stem could be cut off from the rest of the plant and placed in water. The little section of plant, given the right circumstances, could develop its own root system and thrive on its own, without the home it had once known.

So I did it once, wracked with anxiety that I would kill one of the few flourishing leaves on the plant. It sat in water for weeks before the small root stuck out of the stem. One root became two, and then three as it grew and reached the bottom of the mason jar, and all of a sudden I had a whole other plant that was thriving, the scar I had given it from taking it away from it’s home had grown, and made it possible to survive on its own. So I did it again, and again, until my apartment was covered in pothos vines. I walked around my apartment and watered each one of them until their soil was damp before continuing with my night.

I wasn’t going to any club, but a brush through my hair and a little mascara on the eyelashes doesn’t hurt. I had to act quickly though, since I was getting texts from Mike about every five minutes asking where I was. I tell him that I’m on my way and throw on a jacket over the thin silk and lace top I wore. I didn’t live far from our favorite bar which made stumbling home a few nights a week extremely convenient.

***

The Melrose Umbrella was the bar for people who thought they were too good for bars. The Hollywood nobodies lined the walls, drinking the drinks they could barely afford while trying to all sleep with each other. I’ve been guilty of it, I’d brought home quite a few conquests home from the Umbrella, when I felt like it. I find Mike and Ang at the back of the bar, sitting in our normal booth.

I wasn’t sure if having a normal booth at a bar in a city as big as Los Angeles was something to be proud or ashamed of, but it was our home. I put my bag down and take off my jacket, smiling lightly at my friends. “Sorry I’m late, I’m getting a drink, anyone need?” I ask and they both raise their hands. I laugh a little and head over to the crowded bar, trying to lock eyes with Paul. Pretty Boy Paul the bartender. He smiles and I hold up three fingers, signaling that I needed a drink for his three favorite regulars. He nods and I relax a little, waiting for our drinks. “Hey.” I hear and I turn around to see a man, average height, average build, nothing special about him talking to me like he deserved my attention. “What’s going on tonight, beautiful?”

“Drinking.” I mumble and nod at Paul when I get my three drinks. “Let me get your next round. I’m an actor and-” He starts and I almost roll my eyes out of my head. An actor. Great. “Oh really? What restaurant?” I ask and collect my drinks and go back to our booth, leaving him in the dust.

“You should really make them think they have a chance, it looks like you just kicked his puppy.” Mike laughs and I roll my eyes, sliding him his beer and Ang her margarita. “But he didn’t.” I mumble and Mike rolls his eyes, “What? Don’t need anyone to keep your bed warm tonight?” He jokes. The few times a year I brought a man back over to my apartment were national holidays to Angela and Mike, who insisted that I just needed a more steady flow of orgasms to fix whatever was broken with me. Every time it fell short. Every time I had sex with someone else it wasn’t one tenth- no one one hunderth of the attract, thrill and wholeness that came from just kissing E- No.

“I got a heated blanket, and no. I’m getting black out tonight.” I smile and place the vodka water at my lips, the lime hitting my lips as I take a big sip. As if that was different from any other night we spent at Umbrellas.

Drink after drink I talked with my friends, until my brain was too slow and too cloudy to think about him, until he wasn’t the underlying stream of consciousness that was always going through my mind. The last call bell rings and I sigh, grabbing my jacket. “Alright, I gotta go, I need to work on a piece tomorrow.” I mumble and Mike chuckles. “You would consider 1:45 in the morning to be calling it an early night.”

“I’m a saint.” I smile and he nods. “Do you need help getting home?” I shake my head. “I’ll make it the two blocks.”

I lift my last drink up to my lips and finish it’s remains, letting an ice cube fall into my mouth. I wave to my friends as I exit the bar and let my shoulders curl forward as I shuffle my way back to my apartment. Another successful night. If you could call it that.

I keep my hood up and finally make it back to my place, shedding my jacket at the door. It was too hot. My stomach rumbles and I groan, I hadn’t eaten at fucking all since lunch. I stumble into the kitchen and find a pot, tossing it onto my gas stove before bringing out the boxed mac and cheese.

With shaking hands I get enough water into the pot and set it to boil, leaning over the stove to watch the bubbles rise, but you know what they say about a watched pot, or whatever. As soon as I deem the noodles “done” I drain them and mix in the milk, haphazardly cut butter, and finally the packet of powdered cheese and mix it together, bringing the whole pot into the living room to enjoy my dinner in style. I set the pot down on my coffee table and groan, the burner. I wasn’t so drunk I was going to burn my house down. Stumbling back to the kitchen I glanced at the stove top, expecting to see a small red flame, but everything was off. I was better than I thought.

I walk back to the couch and start eating the mac and cheese while I scroll on my phone. Seeing stories from everyone’s Friday night, posts of everyone laughing with their friends. And I had done that. Succeeded at being a normal human girl. To an extent.

I’d had that smile on my face, I’d laughed and danced, but I just wish it didn’t feel like a cover. I felt like my whole life I was hiding someone’s secret. Tears prick at my eyes as I land on a couple, laughing together outside of a bar, her hands on his chest. I lock my phone and place it face down on the couch. I couldn’t- be around that anymore.

I abandon my full pot of mac and cheese and stumble off to bed, shedding my shirt, my pants, and my bra at my hamper before falling into the bed, pulling the covers up to my chin.  

***

They say hangovers get worse as you get older, but I haven't experienced that yet. When the sun creeps in through my window my biggest symptom is the light headache that I know would go away with some coffee and an aspirin.

I lay in my bed and let a little whimper out of my lips as I stretch. I freeze when I hear the sound that must have woken me up, three quick raps at my door echoed through the apartment. My brow furrows, no one ever comes by. I lean over and check my phone, anyone I knew would tell me before they came over.

I hear the knocks again and roll out of my bed, I was going to have to go in blind. I grab my jeans from last night and a UCLA sweatshirt off my floor, pulling them on as I walk to the front of the apartment. “I’m coming!” I call as I get the knocks again, impatient. I push my hair off of my face and look through my peep hole.

The distorted image did him a massive disservice.

His bronze hair was covered by a dark hood. His white skin was shaded but still brillant, it made my headache scream just a bit.  His golden eyes looked through the peephole and I gasped when we made eye contact, not that he could see. “Bella?” I hear and every muscle in my body freezes. He had to know that I was standing on the other side of the door. My name sounded angelic coming out of his perfect lips. I’d never loved the word Bella so much.

My hand shakes as it moves to the doorknob.

[queenofquiet17]

Digging Deeper Meme

Tagged by the lovely @crinkle-eyed-boo!

1. Do you prefer writing with a black pen or blue pen? Black, but I’ll use blue in a pinch.

2. Would you prefer to live in the country or city? City, no question.

3. If you could learn a new skill what would it be? Stealing Kim’s answer about becoming fluent in more languages. I took five years of German in grade school and graduated high school with a Foreign Language Honor Society cord, but lost most of it over the years and can only hold a very basic conversation now. I definitely regret letting it slip like that.

4. Do you drink your tea/coffee with sugar? I don’t put anything in my tea. I usually take my coffee with milk or cream.

5. What was your favourite book as a child? I was all over the Bailey School Kids books. The Westing Game. The Wayside School books by Louis Sachar. And then once I got to 6th grade/middle school, I started reading Mary Higgins Clark like crazy because my mom had her books around the house.

6. Do you prefer baths or showers? Showers by default, since I don’t have a tub.

7. If you could be a mythical creature, which one would it be? Unicorn

8. Paper or electronic books? PAPER BOOKS. I can not deal with not having the physical copy of a book in my hands. Which means that my apartment is 90% bookshelves/piles of books scattered around.

9. What is your favourite item of clothing? My worn Melissa Etheridge t-shirt from the Never Enough tour is probably the most comfortable thing I own.

10. Do you like your name or would you like to change it? I used to not be thrilled with it, because there were a million Sarahs in my school (including my best friend), but now I can’t imagine being called anything else.

11. Who is a mentor to you? We’ve lost touch, but I’ve always considered my undergrad adviser/professor for most of my music classes to be a mentor of sorts. All I knew back then was that I wanted to create musically, and he really helped me sharpen my ear and listen in ways I never thought to before. He helped me find my voice and tap into my creativity. He also taught the Queer Culture class I took my very first semester, and as a baby gay landing in NYC hoping to be part of a more inclusive environment, that connection meant everything.

12. Would you like to be famous and if so, what for? I don’t know if I would want that, but if it was for anything, I would want it to be for my writing.

13. Are you a restless sleeper? Sometimes.

14. Do you consider yourself a romantic person? In spite of everything, yes.

15. Which element best represents you? Earth? I think?

16. Who do you want to be closer to? I’ve always been super close with my mom. Most of her side of the family, however, is a different story. It definitely smarts sometimes, because they’re very tight and there are moments when I feel like I’m missing out; I know being the liberal gay girl in a family of super conservative people probably has something to do with that. Luckily, I’ve got the best chosen family I could have asked for.

17. Do you miss someone at the moment? I miss my friends, and even though I’m happy to be back home after three months of being back in my hometown because of the pandemic, I miss my mom (although we are back on our nightly phone call game).

18. Tell us about an early childhood memory. My dad was a graphic designer when I was a kid, and really into drawing (he was the illustrator of a locally published children’s book called Barely a Bath for a Bear that came out when I was 1). And I have really vivid memories of coloring with him at the table, or drawing and painting with him on my plastic easel when I was about 3 or 4.

19. What is the strangest thing you have eaten? I...don’t really know? Probably ostrich meat.

20. What are you most thankful for? Right now...my friends, my health.

21. Do you like spicy food? I’m slowly gaining a tolerance for spicy food, I used to not be able to handle any of it. But the stuff I can handle, yes.

22. Have you ever met someone famous? Quite a few, living in New York definitely helps. Among them, I will never be able to get over the fact that I met Megan Mullally. Also, Jill Hennessy is legitimately one of the sweetest and most down to earth people you will ever meet.

23. Do you keep a diary or journal? I tried to keep a diary a bunch of times as I was growing up, but I never stuck with it.

24. Do you prefer to use a pen or a pencil? Pen

25. What is your star sign? Taurus, Taurus rising, Leo moon

26. Do you like your cereal soggy or crunchy? More crunchy than soggy.

27. What would you want your legacy to be? That I loved wholeheartedly and I stayed true to myself.

28. Do you like reading, what was the last book you read? I am always reading. I never leave the house without a book, and I will bring a backup book with me when I’m close to finishing the one I’m on. The last one I finished was a book about the making of Valley of the Dolls (the book and movie), and I’m almost finished reading You Know Me Well by Nina LaCour and David Levithan.

29. How do you show someone you love them? Listen, check in, send things that make me think of them among other things.

30. Do you like ice in your drinks? Yes

31. What are you afraid of? Heights.

32. What is your favourite scent? Coffee, old books, rose, lavender

33. Do you address older people by their name or surname? 100% depends on the person.

34. If money was not a factor, how would you live your life? I don’t think it would be much different from where I’m at now. But I would have a massive apartment, and I would travel 1000% more than I do now.

35. Do you prefer swimming in pools or the ocean? Pools

36. What would you do if you found £50 on the ground? Mini spree in a record store or a bookstore.

37. Have you ever seen a shooting star? No

38. What is the one thing you would want to teach your children? I don’t want kids, but I’m intent on doing my part in teaching my nephew (my best friend’s son) to be openhearted and accepting.

39. If you had to have a tattoo, what would it be and where would you get it? I mean, I already have 13. I was supposed to get three more back in April, but I’m now working to get that appointment rescheduled since my tattoo parlor reopened. I’m planning on a Cher tattoo on my arm, the Lucy Ricardo stick figure cartoon near my collarbone, and the Melissa Etheridge key symbol on my shoulder.

40. What can you hear now? This week’s episode of In Bed with Nick and Megan

41. Where do you feel the safest? With my friends

42. What is the one thing you want to overcome/conquer? My public speaking issues.

43. If you could travel back to any era, what would it be? The 1920s.

44. What is your most used emoji? Double hearts

45. Describe yourself using one word. Easygoing.

46. What do you regret the most? Biting my tongue when I should have spoken up.

47. Last movie you saw? The Broken Hearts Club

48. Last tv show you watched? Party Down.

49. Invent a word and its meaning. I know my best friend and I have invented words but for the life of me, I can’t remember them right now? Way to put me on the spot ;-)

Pretty sure everyone’s probably been tagged, but if you made it to the end of this and you want to play, go for it!

[betterthedevilyouknowuk]

Never Let Your Activism Be Artless: An Interview With Lucien Greaves of The Satanic Temple

Haute Macabre interview June 28, 2017

I recently had the pleasure of interviewing The Satanic Temple‘s Lucien Greaves about art, activism, and what religion means as a framework rather than a faith. “Recently” isn’t quite right — these questions were written back in February, as you might notice by the news reference in one of them, but we hope you’ll forgive us the wait. I’ve been following TST’s work for a while and am wholeheartedly a supporter of their mission, but whether you know their tenets by heart or are just tuning in, you’re sure to find something of interest below.

So, just to get it out of the way, could you describe the difference between The Satanic Temple and The Church of Satan for any readers who may not know?

Well, first off, organizationally, there isn’t any similarity. That is to say, we have an organization, we have active chapters internationally, we have a physical headquarters, and we have active campaigns to advance our goals in the real world. The Church of Satan has none of these things.

One thing that I don’t think is clear to a lot of people is that all of the organized Satanic activity you’ve seen in the national and international press in the past years — from the Satanic monument, to the religious reproductive rights lawsuits, to the After School Satan Clubs — it’s all come from The Satanic Temple. The Church of Satan writes these humorous tirades in opposition to each of our activities, but they always get their facts wrong. For instance, they’ll claim that they would never seek to erect a monument on public grounds because, according to them, they support secularism.

In fact, we very often work with the Freedom From Religion Foundation, Americans United for the Separation of Church and State, American Atheists, the American Humanist Association, and other established defenders of secularism nationwide. Our monuments are made in defence of secularism, and we are very clear about that. We only seek to place our Baphomet monument on public grounds where there is a pre-existing 10 Commandments monument to ensure that the government remains neutral regarding religious expression in public forums. Government has no place in Religion, Religion has no place in Government. If a public forum allows privately donated religious monuments, the Government can’t pick and choose between religious viewpoints. That’s secularism. You can’t let the theocrats take over the Public Square and claim it as their own exclusively.

Of course there are those who complain that a true expression of secularism would be the absence of any religious monuments on public grounds. Well, yes, but when there’s already a 10 Commandments monument on public grounds, it doesn’t do much good to simply say you wish it weren’t there. There isn’t much point to organizing a membership structure and hierarchy when there are no activities associated with those roles. When we’re proposing our monument, the government then has to make a choice — will they accept a Satanic monument, or will they engage in religious discrimination and all but ensure that the 10 Commandments monument will come down as well?

Similarly, The Church of Satan objects to our After School Satan Clubs on the grounds that they feel proselytizing to children is abhorrent. If they learned about our after school program before commenting, they’d find that we, too, find proselytizing to children abhorrent. In fact, the very reason we started the After School Satan Clubs was to offer an alternative to coercive religious proselytizing inflicted on children through evangelical after-school clubs, and we only offer our club in schools where the evangelical presence already exists. Our curriculums don’t contain any items of religious opinion and focus entirely on critical thinking and reasoning skills. To say, then, that we shouldn’t call it the After School Satan Club misses the point. We’re The Satanic Temple, and we’re Satanists, and we’re not going to hide that fact. The schools have to understand, if they allow evangelical clubs, they can’t turn away the Satanists. For children to be aware that there are self-identified Satanists, and that they are friendly, approachable people — it has a counter-indoctrination effect.

So, the incessant criticisms we receive from the Church of Satan are either wildly misinformed, or completely dishonest.

Philosophically speaking, The Church of Satan is a fundamentalist LaVeyan organization, which makes a certain sense from a business perspective because they base their authenticity on the fact that they inherited Anton LaVey’s organization and claim his achievements as their own. They hold to a remarkably similar philosophy as you find espoused by radical Tea Party Christians on the theocratic Right: Ayn Rand-inspired Social Darwinist authoritarian-fetishizing libertarianism, but with a bit of occultic ritual magic thrown in. The Satanic Temple espouses a non-supernatural anti-authoritarian philosophy that views the metaphorical literary construct of Satan as a liberator from oppression of the mind and body. Our canon embodies the Romantic Satanism of Milton, Blake, Shelley, to, particularly, Anatole France, whose Revolt of the Angels is a primary text in TST. From its inception, modern Satanism, as it came to be defined in the Revolutionary era of Romantics, was very much a non-theistic movement aligned with Liberty, Equality and Rationalism. With that in mind, I think we’re rather closely aligned with early Modern Satanism, rather than some type of wildly aberrant, unique and unrecognizable contemporary off-shoot.

Since the religious construct of Satanism doesn’t believe in the supernatural, you say you “turn to literature and art as icons for deeply held beliefs.” Can you talk more about the importance of art and literature, especially during times of conflict?

This, I think, cuts to the very heart of what it means to be a non-theistic, non-supernaturalist religion. As I’ve described elsewhere, non-theistic Satanic religious affiliation has a cultural framework that is deeply significant and far from arbitrary— that is to say, we couldn’t simply re-label it for the sake of diplomacy, nor would doing so be true to our principles.

The narrative of the ultimate rebel against tyranny, the use of blasphemy as a tool for liberation against imposed, frivolous, sanctified superstitions; the cultivation of the individual will and rationalism unencumbered by “faith” or blind subjugation; the willingness to stand as an outsider with a sense of justice that is independent of laws and institutions; all are embodied by the literary Satan.

Those of us who were burdened from childhood by archaic tradition-based dogmas, especially in the era of the Satanic Panic, were instilled with an irrational aversion and fear toward the “other”, the Satanic. Breaking that barrier, defying such deeply-entrenched cultural programming, embracing the symbols, narrative, and outside status of the Adversary, can be a supremely liberating personal experience, not merely incidentally divorced from superstition, but emblematic of, and vital to, the break with superstition. Whether we interpret them literally or not, the mythological backdrop by which we each contextualize our existential grounding is profoundly important in our lives. I feel that theists are subjugated by their myths, while we are empowered by ours. The literary Satanists of the Revolutionary Era understood this, and their power to change the world by way of altering the cultural mythological structure was certainly not lost on them. One can read some artful exposition on this point in Shelley’s A Defense of Poetry. In explaining this, I can only hope to make some people understand that, despite common perceptions, Satanism is (or can be) deeply personally enriching, and isn’t merely an attention-seeking shock tactic directed at observers. When the cameras aren’t rolling, when the journalists have all left the spectacle, we are, in fact, Satanists still. I know this doesn’t quite exactly directly answer the question of how literature and art serve as icons for deeply held beliefs; But the power of metaphor, the vital necessity of narrative to cultivate and define one’s sense of self and purpose, the atavistic desire for art are all self-evident to me. I have a difficult time understanding the bizarre, yet apparently prevalent notion, that religious identity, practice, and ethics should be dependent upon intellectually crippling superstitions. I can’t grasp why it became the norm to believe that mentally-stunted fundamentalists have a more authentic claim to deeply-held beliefs.

Any advice you would give those who are operating at the intersection of art and activism?

Never separate art and activism. Never let your activism be artless, and never allow your art to be orthodox.

In a VICE interview a few years ago, you said, “LaVey is an excellent jumping-off point, but his work was a product of its time, and it’s appropriate to recontexualize it to today’s reality. LaVey was active during a time in which, for decades, the United States was on a dysfunctional spiral of increasing violence.” 2017 also seems to be a spiral of increasing violence; do you see TST adapting to that in any particular way?

I don’t agree that there is a spiral of increasing violence. In fact, violence is at historic lows. Since 2008, in the United States, violent crime has been lower than at any point in over 40 years. There was a rise in crime in 2015, but there’s no reason to believe it’s a trend, and there’s no reason to believe it harkens the end of an overall decline in violence. Broader historical overviews indicate an overall decrease in violence from the beginning of recorded history till now. So why are we being sold this bullshit apocalyptic narrative of increasing criminality and violence? I think the reasons should be clear to anybody paying attention to American politics. There needs to be an emergency in order to declare Emergency Powers. Fear-mongering inures the public to unilateral executive actions that defy the checks and balances of open deliberation. “Othering” strengthens tribal bonds as they unify themselves against a common enemy, and the creation of unease and general panic can be used by leaders to manipulate their followers who offer them the latitude to protect them by whatever means.

In the case of LaVey, he actually was living in a time in which violence in the United States was trending upward and was a cause for alarm. During the 1960s, crime steadily and dramatically rose till about 1995 when it began to plummet, eventually, to where we happily are now. LaVey seems to have looked at what was unique in the culture around him at the time to determine what may have precipitated the rise in crime, and to determine what might need to change to make things better. He looked critically at the Rights Revolution and he despised the Hippy culture. He imagined a stratified and tribally divided, non-democratic world. He advocated police state politics.

Turns out, he was wrong.

Secular democratic states are less likely to engage in war against each other and less likely to engage in terrorism or political violence than autocratic states. The rise in democratic states and the concurrent diminution in autocracies correlates to the global trend in reduced violence. Intermingling cultures — free to “appropriate” from each other — fare better than insular ethnic/religious/nationalist cults. And crime has, as stated, drastically plummeted in the United States without any massive reductions in Civil Liberties. In fact, the Rights Revolution has continued to move forward, slowly — but with great resistance, particularly from the Christian Right — and inexorably. I highly recommend a book by Steven Pinker, The Better Angels of Our Nature, which explores this topic in great detail.

Troublingly, I feel that the greatest threat to our social stability now comes from those who claim we must do something to stop the imagined increase in violence. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. We already see an increased tribalistic zeal, and we see pre-emptive violence in the name of anti-fascism, which will then be used as justification for increased police action. That’s the real downward spiral.

However, an increase in crime now can’t change what we know. It won’t make a stratified, autocratic Social Darwinist system any more correct. That said, one might wonder why I feel LaVey could be described as an “excellent jumping-off point” at all, if he is so entirely incorrect on this important point? LaVey was a bold voice in opposition to faith-driven mindlessness. He was instrumental in establishing recognition of Modern Satanism, even if he did hang on to other forms of magical thinking. If he were alive today, I like to think that he would be able to see the evidence and adjust his thinking accordingly. Being able to live without delusion and adjust one’s thinking to incorporate the best empirical evidence is, I think, a great overriding principle of Satanism.

In certain areas, LaVey was quite progressive, and I’ve gotten to know some of his old friends (who don’t associate with the Church of Satan), and they’ve all said that they suspect he himself would very much appreciate what The Satanic Temple is now doing.

Is there a reason TST’s Baphomet doesn’t have breasts?

The short answer as to why our Baphomet monument has no breasts is because we fight to win in all of our battles. The Baphomet was originally offered as a private donation to Oklahoma’s State Capitol grounds where, in 2012, their government allowed for the placement of a 10 Commandments monument. The Oklahoma Legislature — led on this issue by a Southern Baptist Deacon State House representative — claimed that the 10 Commandments monument wasn’t, in fact, a religious monument, but a secular, historical monument paying tribute to the early foundations of Constitutional Law. In further attempting to build an argument that the 10 Commandments on Capitol Grounds didn’t constitute a government endorsement of religion, Oklahoma made clear that no public funds went into the construction of the monument, thus opening the Capitol Grounds as a First Amendment protected public forum for private donations. Clearly, they didn’t expect anybody to call their bluff. It was the end of 2013 when we sent off a letter to the State of Oklahoma expressing to them that we should like to offer a monument to be displayed on the Capitol Grounds and requesting the documentation required to move our monument request forward. Having obtained that, we then began to design a monument within the parameters of their “limited open forum” requirements. After sketching out various proposals, it became clear that Baphomet was the best, artistically and symbolically. Symbolically, the binary elements of Baphomet aligned perfectly with our effort to counterbalance the 10 Commandments. We meticulously contrived a legal argument for the inclusion of the Baphomet on the Oklahoma Capitol grounds that artfully paralleled the 10 Commandments’ Bill in every way. The Baphomet was to stand as an homage to the unjustly accused, the heretics and the scapegoats: those burned, hung, stoned, and tortured during witch-hunts and crowd panics. An homage to them, we explained, is an homage to the moral underpinnings of our secular Judiciary which works from a presumption of innocence, places the burden of proof upon the accuser, and refuses to recognize claims of divine authority or anti-blasphemy legislation. We constructed an ironclad argument. We knew, however, that exposed breasts would lead to an opportunity for Oklahoma to claim that our monument defied so-called decency standards, and they would be entirely relieved to evade the Establishment Clause issue in favor of a puritanical claim related to community standards. Initially, I worked with the artist to devise some type of covering for the breasts, but they all looked out-of-place and distracting. Artistically, the breastless bare chest looked best. We still occasionally hear from people who insist that they, as purists, would have included the breasts, decency complaints be damned. I just have to shrug and let them know that this is exactly why they’ll most likely never get anything done.

As a hybrid religion/activism group that embraces humor, TST bears some similarity to 60s activist group W.I.T.C.H., which has recently announced a modern reincarnation. I’m also reminded of Discordianism, which was my first introduction to the use of religion as a satirical framework as a teenager. Do you think humor is an integral part of activism?

I think humor is integral to being a well-adjusted human. There is a difference, however, between creating a satirical religion and using satire, as a religious organization, to advance a point.

Our identification as Satanists isn’t “satirical,” however, we’re not adverse to using humor and satire to highlight various hypocrisies and absurdities we run up against. This point is entirely lost on some people who seem to believe that everything is mutually exclusive, and one organization can’t be more than one thing at a time.

We’re often asked if we’re political, religious, an art movement, etc. Why would we have to choose between any one of those things? Why can we not be entirely sincere while also having a sense of humor? For that matter, why is it we seldom see the skepticism that is directed toward us directed toward the Evangelical Right? Is the Evangelical Right a sincere religious movement, or is it merely political? Is there anything in scripture that even distantly implies that a corporation like Hobby Lobby shalt not pay for insurance benefits that include contraceptive coverage? Is their belief that they should not pay those benefits more deeply-held than our belief in bodily autonomy merely because they claim to lack the intellectual nuance to not read their Bible as a literal historical text?

I would like to see that The Satanic Temple never loses its sense of humor, even as there persists this bizarre notion that humor and authenticity are irreconcilable.

According to Breitbart, you reached out to clarify that TST had nothing to do with the counter-Milo protests in California, citing your support of free speech. How do you reconcile having “freedom to offend” with the danger Milo causes to individuals by targeting specific trans or undocumented students at his speeches?

I’m not sure what danger he’s caused to anybody. I’ve never read his material. I’ve never listened to him speak. Even still, after having defended his right to speak, I still don’t give a shit about what he’s saying. I defend the principle of Free Speech, and when you defend a principle, you don’t only defend it selectively. If you can’t support it when it incidentally doesn’t benefit you, you’re not supporting it at all. You can’t claim that you believe in Free Speech, only insofar as you agree with what’s being said. If Milo has posed a legitimate danger to individuals through inciting violence in a very direct and tangible way, if he’s defamed people, or invaded their privacy — this seems like a matter for the civil courts, and the aggrieved parties should consult legal representation. If the “danger” is that he has hurt people’s feelings, then I should be quite clear that I am not sympathetic. For my part, I can’t wrap my head around the cognitive dissonance that has self-proclaimed defenders of Liberal Democracy calling for limitations on Free Speech in the name of “anti-fascism.” The irony is overwhelming. Of course, it seems, nobody quite wants to admit that they renounce Free Speech, so it’s quite popular to try and categorize anything one disagrees with as Hate Speech worthy of censorship. But offensive and even hateful speech is, and should remain, protected under the First Amendment. Threats and incitement are treated differently, and there could be legal claims related to those, if in fact that’s what Milo’s done.

Many are the times in which The Satanic Temple has been wrongly denigrated as engaging in “hate speech” by offended Christian groups who imagine that any and all of our activities are acts of persecution against them. They would argue that while we’re not make direct threats or inciting specific actions against them, our very identification as Satanists nonetheless threatens Christians and incites acrimony against them. Their feelings are hurt. They’re offended. We would support a broadened definition of Hate Speech or accept a less discriminating interpretation of what constitutes a threat or incitement at our own peril.

My impression of Milo is that he rode a wave of celebrity that was largely created by the ignorant little assholes who ran amok lighting fires, smashing property, and macing bystanders in the face wherever he was scheduled to speak. When you take a third-rate comedian who’s saying offensive things and demand his censorship, you suddenly give him the First Amendment high ground. You turn him into a defender of Civil Liberties. You make him a Free Speech martyr, and in the internet age his message is certainly no less accessible, you’ve only given him free publicity.

Incidentally, it appears that Milo’s career as a sweetheart of the alt-right is all but entirely finished, and it wasn’t destroyed because some screaming mob of mindless fascistic “anti-fascists” managed to impose a general censorship of his words, but because he was allowed to speak freely and express things that even his followers couldn’t support or defend.  

Related, does TST have an official stance on punching Nazis?

Personally, I think it’s a bad idea to go out looking to punch anybody. I especially think it’s a bad idea to go out looking to punch thick-skulled miscreants who themselves are looking for a pretext for a fight. I also think Nazis are a bit too easy a target to place all of our post-election angst upon. I’m not particularly concerned that the Nazi Party is going to gain prominence in the United States any time in the near or projected future. Even our most oppressive elements on the right probably honestly believe themselves to be entirely unrelated to Nazis. The self-identified Nazis I know of are angry, uneducated, aggressive yokels who run no risk of organizing a national coup. I just don’t run into Nazis in my daily life or when I’m out socializing. I’m not sure where people are living that they can decide to whimsically travel out and go punch a Nazi at will. Rather, I think the anti-Nazi rhetoric is simply a safe and inoffensive exhibition of discontent. It’s something people can rant about and issue threats of violence toward without any real fear of actual confrontation. I think it would be far more poignant and meaningful if people were to confront Evangelical Nationalism and rail against the Theocratic Right. I get sick of hearing people say, “let’s call them what they really are: Nazis.” No. Why don’t you call them what they really are? They are the Theocratic Right. They are Evangelical Nationalists. They are taking over the public offices and overturning Liberal Democracy. When you call people who have no attachment to Nazi-ism Nazis, they don’t know you’re talking about them, and it’s not clear that you know who you’re talking about either.

You recently opened an international headquarters in Salem. Can you tell us about this?

Our organization has grown so rapidly in the past few years. It made sense to have a dedicated headquarters where we can keep our offices and centralize our operations. The lower floor is open to the public as an art gallery where we regularly have exhibitions. The current exhibition features the work of Vincent Castiglia, a remarkable artist who paints enormous and meticulously detailed works of art in his own blood. We have some amazing sculpture-work by Chris Andres, who also designed our veterans’ memorial in Minnesota. We also have a segment of the gallery dedicated to the Satanic Panic of the 1980s and 90s, and which still persists to a greater or lesser degree today. We also have a lecture room where we show films and host guest speakers.

The gallery is always going to be a work in progress and we’re adding to it all the time. By now, given my explanation of non-theistic religion and the importance and power of art, it shouldn’t seem strange in the least that our headquarters should double as an art gallery. In fact, nothing could be more natural to us. Art is integral to our religion.

People often ask how we’re received by the local community. There haven’t been any problems at all. We get along with the neighbors, the local officials haven’t given us any problems, and we really couldn’t have picked a better place to put our headquarters. When people recognize me on the street, it’s always been a positive and polite interaction. We’ve had many people visit from out-of-state just to visit our headquarters, and it hasn’t been uncommon for them to considering moving to Salem afterward. I have a feeling that Salem will become home to the largest population of self-identified Satanists in the world in the foreseeable future.

You support non-believers having access to religion as a framework. Can you elaborate on what that means? What is the difference between religion and faith?

“Faith” is belief without evidence. Theists ennoble faith as integral to religion: blind belief in intellectually insulting superstitions that offer the benefit of solace in “knowing” that we’ll go to a paradisiacal after-world, so long as we live a life of servitude toward an unseen master. Faced with disconfirming evidence, the theist often withdraws into arguments that attack a lack of moral clarity in science. The superstitious religionist feels that their ethics, community, and sense of cultural identity are founded upon old superstitions that they must strive to believe and struggle to uphold, despite the persistent injuries constantly dealt to those beliefs by critical scrutiny and empirical knowledge.

In the United States we afford certain protections to deeply-held beliefs to respect freedom of conscience. Thomas Jefferson, in his Statute of Virginia for Religious Freedom stated, “all men shall be free to profess, and by argument to maintain, their opinions in matters of Religion, and that the same shall in no wise diminish, enlarge or affect their civil capacities.” Elaborating on this bill (which was important enough to him that it was named among three lifetime achievements upon his grave), Jefferson wrote in his memoirs that in this statute “protection of opinion was meant to be universal”, and the document included “within the mantle of its protection the Jew and the Gentile, the Christian and Mahometan, the Hindoo, and infidel of every denomination.”

Religious opinion was meant to be equally protected alongside faith. The non-believer’s right to express non-belief and not be besieged by a state-sanctioned religious viewpoint is equally protected alongside the right of the superstitious to assemble in houses of worship and implore the good will of a petty and jealous deity to take pity on their pathetic and groveling souls. This is the only tenable interpretation of what “religious liberty” can mean in a democratic pluralistic society. Religious Liberty doesn’t support a “right” to impose a religious viewpoint upon anybody else, or a “right” to limit another’s civic capacities. Religious Liberty gives every one of the us the opportunity to object to impositions of the state that run contrary to our deeply-held beliefs and challenge our freedom of conscience. Superstition does not produce superior ethics or identities, nor does faith provide beliefs that are more deeply-held than the personal moral foundations of any well-adjusted atheist. It would be deplorable to give superstition preferential treatment to rational thinking.

Of course, any time that equal protection for the religious opinion of non-believers is contextualized as part of a fight for Religious Liberty, there’s always some smug asshole, self-identifying as an atheist, who witlessly parrots the witticism, “atheism is a religion in the same way that bald is a haircut,” or, “…in the same way that off is a television station,” or any number of less-than-clever unoriginal variations. Nothing could be more helpful to the Fundamentalists than non-believers who insist that religion is dependent upon superstition, thus defining themselves outside of a protected class. I feel that atheist organizations, as organizations based upon a well-defined religious opinion, or opinion regarding religion, should have no hesitation in arguing for religious privilege and exemption including religious tax-exemption.

I think that the more people come to recognize the legitimacy of non-theistic religions — and there are already a significant population of atheist Jews, Buddhists, and others — the more we will see atheistic Christians making themselves known; individuals who still venerate the Christian myth and its customs, who identify with the Christian community, but simply can’t claim to believe ludicrous Biblical stories — at least not literally.

When superstitious delusion becomes isolated from the real-world benefits of religious affiliation, superstition becomes all the more impossible to maintain and defend. The sooner the atheist movement recognizes that their fight is with superstition, not religion, the sooner we’ll get there.

What are you working on right now? How can people get involved?

Recently, we were approved to place a veterans’ memorial monument in a park in Belle Plaine, Minnesota where a Christian veterans’ monument provoked controversy leading the local officials to open the public grounds as a limited open forum. We’re crowd-funding to offset the cost of that effort.

We have two lawsuits, State and Federal, currently active in Missouri, where we’re fighting against prohibitive abortion restrictions on the grounds that these restrictions violate our religious liberty.

We’re putting a volunteer manual together for our After School Satan Club, so that people who aren’t a part of a local TST chapter can nonetheless apply to present our After School Satan Club (ASSC) curriculum in schools where Evangelical indoctrination clubs are present. We’re going to release our volunteer manual at around the same time we file our first ASSC-related lawsuit.

We’re currently researching the prospect of opening our own religiously-protected abortion clinic.

I’m putting together a syllabus now for ordination coursework through The Satanic Temple, and it’s going to be rigorous and intensive, but it will ensure that our ministry are entirely capable of speaking on behalf of our beliefs.

We’re putting together an online platform so that we can video stream our activities at the headquarters to our membership and better connect with our international community.

In fact, we have a massive number of projects currently in the works that keeping track of it all has become the largest difficulty we face. Expect big things in the near future.

People who want to get involved can check to see if they have a local chapter near them, or reach out to us if there is sufficient local interest in starting one. Keep up with our current campaigns on our website and check up on our daily news on Facebook. Check out our merchandise on ShopSatan.com and keep in mind that your purchases help fund our campaigns.

Anything you want to add?

Please check out GreyFaction.org. Grey Faction is a sub-organization of The Satanic Temple dedicated to combating irrational conspiracy theory-based moral panics, modern witch-hunts, and the discredited therapeutic practices that still haunt us from beyond the formally recognized Satanic Panic era. We are keeping track of professionals in the mental health field that continue to use Recovered Memory Therapies to reveal and propagate delusional narratives of Satanic Ritual Abuse. We have issued petitions against therapists who openly endorse bizarre conspiracy theories related to imaginary Satanic cults to the mentally vulnerable. Our research revealed the connection between one such therapist and the murder of an 8-year old boy not many years ago. Our work with Grey Faction is supremely important, but has received relatively little press coverage.

[chroniclesofawkwardness]

The Awful Truth

During my first three years as an undergrad at Ohio State, I stayed in the dorm closest to Ohio Stadium, the same one Jeffrey Dahmer lived in when he was a student there. Dorm-room technology had probably changed in as many ways as it stayed the same between Jeffrey’s era and mine. In the micro-fridge that had probably been in the room since Jeff roamed the halls of this building named after one of Mr. Lincoln’s acts that freed land instead of people, I don’t remember finding a singular earlobe encased in ice, or a perfectly preserved pubis devoid of flesh that may have once been a good luck charm to suggest that I’d be having friends for dinner in the same room where Mr. Dahmer may have studied the intricacies of human anatomy in preparation for his career of choice. 

The first of the two rooms of my suite had corkboard filled with holes that were probably as much natural as manmade above two desks that sat catty-cornered from one another. As I began to unpack my computer and set it on the desk closest to the disappointingly barren micro-fridge, my brother told me that the Internet connection I was about to plug into was the equivalent of a firehose at a time the standard was a dialup garden hose with kinks in it every six inches.

The bedroom had two beds, catty-cornered from one another like the desks in the front room, and shelving between them that was probably installed around the same time somebody thought a micro-fridge was a good idea. I wasn’t much interested in the shelves, or rock-paper-scissoring it for who got which one. I didn’t want to piss in the corner like a dog marking its territory either, despite the fact that listening to my dad tapping the steering wheel while butchering Incense and Peppermints by Strawberry Alarm Clock on the drive up made doing stop drop and roll in traffic, or deliberately wetting myself just for the attention seem like great ideas. 

All I was focused on when it came to the bedroom was putting my Rita Hayworth poster on the wall above the head of my bed using some bluish silly putty the manufacturer said wouldn’t damage the walls. Once I stuck the poster to the wall, I only pretended to ignore it, secretly hoping that someone would oblige my reference to The Shawshank Redemption by calling me Andy, telling me to guard my pickax carefully because folks around the dorm loved surprise inspections, or wondering aloud how long it would take me to tunnel through the wall with it. 

The eight of us sharing the 1150s suite that year had been scattered throughout Ohio before uniting on Ohio State’s Columbus campus that fall. The only exceptions were one guy from Illinois, and one from Pennsylvania. As college freshmen, we were terrified, yet hungry for new experiences at the same time. Who felt what, when, and why probably varied from man to man. I was more terrified than hungry, yet still eager to prove to myself that I could transverse the sprawling campus without the assistance of the same transportation from the Office of Disability Services that had spectacularly backfired during orientation by either showing up late or not at all to shuttle me back and forth between placement tests.

When I wasn’t out trying to make it from point A to point B, my roommates and I were spending too much of our free time playing video games. At one point, the eight of us were playing old-school Punch-Out on our computers at the same time using emulators like NESticle to reach into the past and bring bits (bytes) our childhoods to the present. That said, most of our screen time was spent playing Madden. I don’t know how he did it, but Illinois would play as the Falcons every time, and constantly call audibles that made Chris Chandler, Jamal Anderson, and Terance Mathis look like first-ballot Hall of Famers. We were powerless to stop him, but that didn’t stop us from trying. 

When it became clear that the eight of us wouldn’t try to kill each other except in Madden, we began decorating the walls of our suite’s common area with posters. Rita stayed in my bedroom not only because she gave off more of the prison cell vibe I was going for, but also because my Rita Hayworth story was both too obvious and too personal for anyone who happened by to see. I was content with the ah-ha moments and laughter that came when a near stranger comprehended the thinly-veiled reference to one of my favorite movies, but I also that hoped the same near-strangers wouldn’t be able to tell just by looking at me that I balled my eyes out every time I watched the ending.

One day, someone hung a poster displaying an awful truth in our common area. It was black and white with The Awful Truth written in all caps across the top. Below that, there were symbols you'd see on the respective signs for men’s and women’s restrooms. The female’s heart was drawn where it anatomically should have been, the male’s heart was in his dick. I got a good laugh each time I saw it, but it was also a stark reminder of how inexperienced I was with the opposite sex at age 19.

Back then, I controlled my libido the only way I knew how: constant unfettered release. My consumption of adult content wasn’t as bad as it would become as Internet connection speeds got even faster, but I won’t lie and say that I didn’t take advantage of the high-speed connection of the time for some high-speed gratification. When 19-year-old me met a real woman, I had no clue what to do, what to say, or how to act. I didn’t know who I was at that time, probably because I was setting millions of little pieces of myself free far too often. It was easier to lose myself in the pornscape than hold on to what naturally made me a man. There, I didn’t have to think of women as real people who could challenge me. There, I never had to be afraid that a woman would call me a creep if I expressed sexual interest. Women across the pornscape never said no, not even to a 19-year-old like me, and they always seemed to enjoy whatever their fellow performers did to them. 

Years later, when I met the woman who would become my fiancée, she was also 19. I’d been leading the English conversation club at the American Corner in Novi Sad, where Zs. was a student at the university. I assume that’s how she found me, but I can’t be sure. I got a friend request on Facebook stating she’d added me. She had no profile picture, and of course, I didn’t recognize her name. Despite these obvious red flags, I acted per the awful truth of males thinking with the little head instead of the big one and accepted her request sight unseen. And to think, when I was 19, I thought my dad was an asshole for doing essentially the same thing at a time before social media exploded.

At first, I thought she was just picking my brain for its knowledge of English. As a student of the language, I assumed she was happy to learn whatever I had to offer as a native speaker in a place where native English speakers were as rare as walls untouched by nationalistic or phallic graffiti. The red flags became even brighter when she’d just so happen to be at the end of my street before I could cross into the city center where one of the schools at which I taught was located. Glad for the attention, neither of my heads was thinking straight. The big one began to fill with love dreams brought to music by the Hungarian composer Franz Liszt - Zs. was, after all, from a predominantly Hungarian-speaking part of Serbia - the little one and its attachment began to fill with blood. Honestly, I didn’t feel as intensely attracted to her as I had to other women. I won’t say she made it too easy, only that the ego wants to want more than it wants to have. 

The interior of her apartment was as cold as her hand the first time I held it. Still, I loved waking up beside her in the morning and watching a VH1 station that played music videos as we lay beneath the covers. Daniel repeatedly tried to convince me that Zs. was working for the Security Information Agency of Serbia (BIA), which meant she was using her sex to pump me for information. He offered to put her under surveillance as often as he congratulated me on being with a nineteen-year-old. Paranoia would slowly seep into my big head as I replayed his words of utter conviction that I was sleeping with a real-life spy whenever Zs. and I were together. Predictably, my little head could not resist the temptation that I’d so often prayed God would not lead me into while growing up Catholic. 

When I saw how ridiculously high her heating bill was, I began to entertain the idea of asking her to move in with me. Our relationship was as new and exciting as it was unknown; I thought I loved her. Plus, I needed someone with whom I could split the bills after escaping the Crazy House and renting an apartment that a fellow teacher had occupied before returning to Seattle. I thought it was a win-win situation for both of my heads.

But, red flags kept waving even before we decided to live under the same roof. Sex with Zs. had been nowhere near as fulfilling for me as it had been with S. Zs. and I never bonded in the same way, however briefly, that S. and I had. This wasn’t entirely Zs.’s fault. Since being kicked out of the house in Sombor and letting my thoughts run wild about my uncertain future, I hadn’t practiced yoga. To this day, I’m convinced that the practice allowed me to enjoy sex with S. so much because not only had the technical difficulties of Sombor kept me from any contact with porn, but, I’d learned to discipline my body in ways I never had before. This combination allowed me to consistently last as long as I wanted, and feel the unchartered contentment of holding S. in my arms after making love without the emptiness of a genital sneeze at the end. The contentment of the feel of her long black hair across my bare stomach as she’d rise slightly to settle herself on top of me, and kiss me upon coming back down. The ecstasy of sinking more deeply into one another’s being, the heat of the summer sun trying to burn its way through the curtains that kept us from prying eyes all the while. The rapture of neither wanting the moment to end.

Zs. did not enjoy cunnilingus nearly as much as S., another red flag. To make matters worse, as the mental and physical discipline instilled in me by yoga faded away, I lost control over my body and mind that I once had. if I could tell Zs. wasn’t into it, or I just wanted sex to be over, I’d ejaculate too early, or almost immediately after penetration out of spite. Eventually, I couldn’t withhold my seed for more than ten minutes if I tried. Since I’d gone back to regularly consuming porn, I found myself envious of how the male performers seemed to be able to both last forever, and ejaculate on cue. Since Zs. didn’t fancy cunnilingus, but could easily lose herself in British literature (she would repeatedly tell me that I just wouldn’t understand Flaubert’s Parrot by Julian Barnes), I privately wondered if I could spice up our relationship by having us pretend to be in a 1960s-themed black-and-white British porn mystery called Alfred Hitch’s Cock Presents, which would later be reimagined as a series of erotic nursery rhymes adapted for after-dark television, featuring the largest of black male talent: Hickory Dickory Cock.

The degree and forethought of my fantasies were at least partially the results of the feast-or-famine lifestyle of substitute teacher taking its toll on me. Some days I’d have three classes at multiple schools. Others, my phone wouldn’t ring at all. I’d be stuck in our apartment watching the slow, flickering death or my laptop screen, and wanting to save it more than save myself. On rare occasions when my laptop was closed, I’d be locked in a staring contest with the vacuum cleaner Zs. insisted we buy. One part of me wanted to run it, another didn’t see the point. If I didn’t do it, she’d yell at me for not helping out around the house. If I did, no matter how hard I tried, she’d be unsatisfied with the results. She’d tell me I couldn’t do anything right, and slap me across the face so hard that imprints of her fingers would be left across whichever of my cheeks got in the way of her palm. Finally, and frequently after long days at the university, she’d do it herself, and make sure I could see the contortions or her angry, embittered, I’m-going-to-kill-you face all the while.

I could have been a better lover and partner to Zs., there’s no doubt, but as both our familiarity and dissatisfaction with one another grew, her attacks became more frequent, and the polarity drained from the relationship. 

The awful truth.

I couldn’t go the cops even though the police station was right around the corner. No one would have believed that my fiancée beat me up, not in a Serbian society still paying the price for repeatedly looking backward while others around it had been opening up to the world, drinking beer from tallboys, and eating lunch at noon for years. Besides, I wasn’t sure what, if any, rights I had on their turf. I like to think that that I was somewhere between the Hungarians and the fifteen layers of downward-rolling shit that separated them from the Roma in Serbian societal hierarchy, but maybe even that’s being generous.

Even as it became clear the relationship wouldn’t work, I couldn’t just hop on a plane and go home. I didn’t want to think of myself as a coward. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t entertain the thought of just turning my back on it all, and watching it burn like one of the precious books Zs. said I’d never understand. Tuesdays would have been my best chance. She had French class at 7:30 A.M. and was at the university all day. I was too scared (scarred) to run the vacuum, so instead of porn fantasies starring Zs. and me, I’d dream of packing everything in the same suitcases I’d drug behind me when I was practically homeless after getting kicked out of the house in Sombor, and never looking back.

One particular Tuesday, amidst my thoughts of flying home and seeing her jaw hit the floor upon walking into an empty apartment, Zs. came home unexpectedly. She had terrible menstrual cramps, and was practically convulsing in pain the moment she walked in the door; I’d never seen anything like it. Through clenched teeth, she managed to tell me how to ask for maxi pads in Serbian, and I went to the corner store to buy some. 

The things you do for dissolution.

Even after she stopped slapping me around (her friends told her she was mean to me), I couldn’t bring myself to love her again. My sometimes-intentional-sometimes-not premature ejaculation paled in comparison to her capacity for cruelty.  I questioned myself as a man for allowing such domestic violence to occur on my watch. I felt as if it was my fault for allowing her verbal and physical abuse to go on for so long. Maybe I did this because I was taught that girls don’t hit boys, and boys don’t hit girls, however untrue that turned out to be. 

Zs. may have been a minority, but she was still a Serbian citizen. If I fought back, and she went to the police with even the tiniest bruise claiming to be a victim, I reasoned that they’d be all too happy to throw me in prison. If the media got wind of it, I could have easily become the new symbol of American aggression against peaceful Serbia. Even a country whose conservative political currents had had no problem looking back over 600 years to their ancestors’ glorious defeat battle of Kosovo wouldn’t have to go back that far - the 1999 NATO bombing of Yugoslavia - to find an example of bloodshed in which Americans like me could easily be blamed. I could see the title card of the Netflix miniseries chronicling my relationship with Zs. in my mind’s eye:

Američki nasiljnik for Serbian-speaking audiences, Bruise is the New Bomb for English-speaking ones.

So I waited. There were many nights when Zs. and I wouldn’t even look at each other after pulling out the sofa bed to go to sleep. I’d stare into the darkness of the ceiling above, dream of coming home in a coffin, and wonder what the hell I’d gotten myself into by agreeing to share a studio apartment of 28 square meters with a woman eight years younger who made me watch Ally McBeal reruns and romcoms until I wanted to throw up. In 2011, when she got a scholarship to study at Montclair State University in New Jersey, I knew I’d have to leave Serbia too, as she had become my basis for staying in the country. 

I came home that summer. When Zs. tried to convince me to come to New Jersey and spend Thanksgiving with her that fall, I told her I wouldn’t. Not long after, we broke up over Skype, the same means I’d used talk to my family while missing out on the previous four Thanksgivings. 

I laugh when people ask me if I still talk to her. I don’t think I spoke to her even once after the Skype breakup. I stopped returning her calls because I wanted her to suffer, like I did when I was alone in my room in Sombor, or solitary in the darkness of my first night in the Crazy House.

I intentionally keep my emotional distance from most people these days. Yet there are times when I’m as sick of the sound of my voice as I am the company of others. Hoping Zs. would suffer was as ill-advised as trying to recapture the contentment of intercourse with S. as we shielded ourselves from the piercing summer sun. My attachment to feelings of that kind is the root of my suffering, not the feelings themselves. My cup may never runneth over, but I’ll find ways of filling it, ways to embrace experiences instead of attaching myself to outcomes. I might even read Flaubert’s Parrot, not out of spite, but curiosity. 

That’s a truth I can live with. Not because it’s awful, but because it’s mine.

[rodrigohyde]

Hip-Hop Has Shaped Our Style More Than We Know

How Hip-Hop Influences Fashion

American hip-hop culture has influenced the way people around the world express themselves and identify with each other for decades. From all corners of the globe, fans are financially swayed by their rap icons, so much so, hip-hop itself is now serving as a major source of inspiration for the most elite fashion houses.

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At the 2018 MET Gala (dubbed the Oscars of the fashion world) hosts included not only the event’s annual chair, Vogue’s Editor-in-Chief Anna Wintour, but also Rihanna. Noteworthy invitees included rappers 2 Chainz, Migos, Wiz Khalifa, Cardi B, Nicki Minaj, Jaden Smith and A$AP Ferg, who garnered a wealth of social media attention and photo coverage usually filled by fashion’s most elite.

RELATED: Hip-Hop Style

Continuing to buck traditional fashion protocol, Cardi B sat front row alongside Wintour during Alexander Wang’s Autumn/Winter 2018 runway show at the former Condé Nast offices above New York’s Times Square. This seat, next to the most powerful figure in fashion, is typically reserved for A-list friends of the designers, powerful editors, industry exes — even royalty. The placement of the one of the hottest, most talked about female rappers today is a strong example of how high fashion has largely been influenced by hip-hop, which, in December 2017, surpassed rock to become the most popular music genre in the U.S.

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Rappers have long used designer fashion as a symbol of status, both in person as well as in their lyrics, and those stories have a direct influence on high-end fashion. It is evident even from hip-hop’s very beginning.

The ‘80s

Kangol bucket hats, chunky street-tuff gold chains, and name-plated necklaces with “Tonya” and “Lisa” written in cursive were all the rage. New York style with Adidas shell-toe trainers with wide white laces and black tracksuits were created by Run-D.M.C, LL Cool J, Funk Master Flash, The Fat Boys, and Big Daddy Kane, who were trendsetters in making authentic fashion statements.

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LL Cool J wore his then signature Kangol hat when few Americans knew anything about the European hat maker, but its association with hip-hop quickly invigorated the brand.

When Run-DMC sang about “My Adidas,” it at once pioneered the use of rap as a fashion advertisement and paved the way for the first endorsement deal between rap and clothing designers. In the mid ‘80s, the Adidas Superstar was an old basketball shoe, originally handed to players in 1969. The way Run-DMC wore their Superstars was different: The combination of sneakers without laces (similar to in prison, where they were removed to prevent inmates hanging themselves), black Lee jeans, leather goose-down jackets, Cazal glasses, and gold rope chains had long been the look of New York hustlers. But as earlier popular artists such as Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five were pushed by their labels into wearing flamboyant, shiny, post-disco gear, Run-DMC would successfully take the street look mainstream.

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The ‘90s

The rise of female rappers such as Queen Latifah, MC Lyte, and Salt-N-Pepa all ushered in black pride wearing Afrocentric fabrics, headwraps, large gold earrings, and asymmetric haircuts, which all symbolized a movement that gave rise to social conscious hip-hop.

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The genre had became a powerful mix of influences — especially for clothing — allowing for the interaction of two theories of fashion diffusion. The upper class of fashion leadership proposes that new styles are adopted or started by groups in higher social classes, and they are later adopted in the lower social classes. This theory explains the early emergence of hip-hop fashion in the ‘80s and ‘90s, when consumers adopted aspirational labels not typically marketed to them, black poor teens, and young adults.

In contrast, however, hip-hop artists wore styles from Polo, Timberland, and Tommy Hilfiger, drawn to their all-American, elite, country club appeal. Yet, in 1994, Timberland’s chief operating officer issued a public statement reassuring customers that the brand wasn’t abandoning it’s so-called core base for the urban market.

RELATED: How to Wear Men's Boots

In 1991, designer Isaac Mizrahi incorporated hip-hop accessories such as African-inspired medallions into his New York Fashion Week runway show, while Anne Klein launched a clothing line especially based on rap music. Grand Puba name-dropped Hilfiger in his hit 1992 track “360° (What Goes Around)” and wore the designer’s clothes on various album covers. In 1994, Snoop Dogg donned a shirt emblazoned with the Tommy name on “Saturday Night Live,” gifted to him just hours before. The new yet immense popularity of the brand in the hip-hop community provided Hilfiger fueled growth and widespread brand resurgence since its founding 10 years prior.

In 1996, Tupac walked down the Versace runway during a fashion show in Milan. This might be one of the most spectacular visuals of just how intertwined hip-hop and high fashion were becoming.

The transformation of the hip-hop “look” to both a mass fashion and high fashion trend pushed hip-hop pioneer fashion labels such as Rocawear, Phat Farm, Karl Kani, and FUBU into iconic status.

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The ‘00s

The Courvoisier-guzzling, supermodel-dating, bling-bling decade of the 2000s became the next huge fashion influence derived from hip-hop culture. This evolution of the style suggested extreme wealth when hip-hop’s biggest stars began wearing more extravagant attire, while Snoop, Tupac, and Biggie were dressing like old-school mobsters in fedoras, bowler hats, large double-breasted suits, and expensive alligator shoes.

Coming off the bright and colorful ‘90s, the advancement of technology and travel brought a wide variety of influences to fashion, and it seemed like every rapper with a little bit of money and power attached his or her name to a clothing label. For every successful Sean Jean and Rocawear from the ‘90s, there was a failed Akoo, Nostic, Benjamin Bixby, and Outcast clothing from the aughts.

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Outside of full-blown fashion brands, some more obscure trends did make their way into the fashion mainstream. Sweatbands influenced by St. Louis rapper Nelly, which had a bizarre crossover appeal, became a sports accessory that young men — white and black — started wearing on completely non-athletic occasions.

One of the most universally known fashion trends of the aughts was the tall white tee. Mostly because an oversized white tee like a beeper signified drug dealer, tall tees were banned in bars and clubs, condemned in the media, and used by the police to profile assailants. Yet, when looking back at the era, the oversize tee of any color was status quo for high schoolers around the country.

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No hip-hop artist in recent memory has influenced high fashion more than Kanye West. When West released his first album “The College Dropout” in 2004, his prepped out style and popped collars was perfectly timed with the rise and dominance to then absurdly expensive teen retailer with uniquely Waspy appeal, Abercrombie & Fitch. It was a brand of prep Americana in every mall kids would save their money for just to have one of the brand’s ironic logo’d graphic tees.

The ‘10s to Today

Kanye's preppy, collegiate style stood out to begin with, but it was at the start of the 2010s that he came into his own with the creation of his profoundly popular collection Yeezy 1. Best known for his incredibly popular sneaker designs, West began designing footwear for Nike almost a decade ago. The Air Yeezy 1 and 2 collections gained instant popularity, setting new records for how much they demanded in resale prices. According to Business of Fashion, the collaboration had "the biggest impact on sneaker culture in the last decade."

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In 2015, West teamed up Adidas, Nike’s biggest competitor, on a line of apparel and footwear simply known as Yeezy, a project that has since reportedly transformed into a $10 million partnership. The Yeezy Boost 350s and 750s presented during the Yeezy Season 1 show sold out globally within 12 minutes and exceeded the resale records set by his collaborations with Nike, with some pairs selling for more than $6,000 on eBay.

West, who refers to himself as the first “hip-hop designer,” has also designed collaborations with Louis Vuitton, Balmain, Giuseppe Zanotti, and A.P.C., but it was his record-shattering collaboration with Adidas as the first deal of its kind with a non-athlete, set an industry precedent that paved the way for other similar hip-hop and sportswear collabos, including Rihanna’s cultlike brand FENTY, designed for Puma.

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West is also, according to GQ, directly responsible for the prospering partnership between rappers and high fashion: “Five years ago, no rapper (or rap fan, for that matter) considered buying Givenchy or Alexander Wang ... West's penchant for luxury brands and avant-garde designers paved the way for guys like A$AP Rocky." A$AP was most recently named the face of Dior Homme, and sat front row at Gucci’s Cruise show in Blenheim Palace.

Dior

With hip-hops’ already immense impact on fashion in the past decades, future holds much promise for this marriage. To be involved with the hip-hop culture is to participate in the defining mood of the spirit of the time. Luckily, fashion and hip-hop aren’t inactive ideas. They’re constantly evolving in ways bold and barely perceptible — but always aiming to be in line with that ineffable quality of being cool.

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Best Rappers of All Time Kanye West Style on a Budget Drake: Looks for Less from AskMen Style https://www.askmen.com/style/fashion_trends/how-hip-hop-influences-fashion.html

[renegadesepiida]

How many cultures around the world celebrate with sheep decoration and alcohol? No, seriously, I’m asking. It would seem that the festival of Sant Joan de Ciutadella on the island of Menorca is not a singular event in the world, especially because it came from Pagan festivals and then incorporated Medieval traditions and Christianity, but they sure do make it all their own. For all the background information you can visit menorca-live.com/festes-de-sant-joan-de-ciutadella-menorca/.

For a bit over a week (9 days) the entire city of Ciutadella celebrates. The origin story, as it was told to me was, this annual festival is to celebrate the medieval knights who went to fight a war with the rest of Spain and the sheep was brought to all the knights’ homes as payment and to symbolize the call to arms. As the knights rode out to battle the celebration ensued. Fast-forwarding to the present, over the next several days the roads are covered in sawdust and broken nuts and knights on horseback riding through the streets. But I’m getting ahead of myself. It all starts with a sheep.

Night 1:

Beginning on Saturday, June 20 (at least in 2015) crowds all gather at a particular person’s home (I think it changes each year) where a male sheep is being kept in a pen about five feet above the ground. It is the tradition for people to visit the sheep and yell at it to keep it awake all night. As there are hundreds of people passing by, taking pictures, and talking to each other it is easy to believe that sound of the street quickly becomes a dull roar. Visitors come and go in shifts; some families come together before dinner, after dinner (which is when we were there), or later and later throughout the night. One can also imagine that as the night goes on a number of drunken people rises rapidly and some craziness can occur, but we left before that.

Day 2 – July 21:

After being kept up all night the sheep is pampered with a wash, a brush and is adorned with ribbons. This day is known as Diumenge des Be or the Sunday of the Lamb. All day long the Homo des Be (man of the sheep) carries the relaxed sheep on his shoulders circling around the city to the different knight’s homes while barefoot and wearing sheepskin. This man is accompanied by a small traveling band made up of a flutist and a drummer whom all met in the early morning at the balcony of the Caiser Senyor where the drummer is given the red and white cross flag of Sant Joan.

While walking through the city, mobs follow the procession through both wide-open squares and thin alleyways. This is not only to listen to the music that is continuously played nor to get a decent photograph or video, which is really difficult because of the sheer number of people (trust me, I was there) but also because petting the sheep’s wool is supposedly good luck. Maybe it’s just luck enough to make it out of the crowd alive, but in whatever way good luck presents itself I’m just happy that I can say I got a pet in while a was taking a video… which is probably why the video itself sucks.

And, of course, no festival would be complete without the traditional booze. In Menorca’s case, the special drink is called pomada, a mix of the island’s gin and lemonade. Even though we, along with the locals, drank this every night it will make a nasty and more entertaining appearance on a later date.

Day 3 – July 22:

As everyone knows vacations are hard, just kidding. With the week off from the field school, the instructors took us to various areas of the island that relate to what each course was more or less focused on. My group, of five, was the scuba divers and so we went straight to the ocean side. Up to the stone ruins of an ancient town high up on a cliff side. From this point, the citizens living there could have seen everything around, the perfect defensible position. We then drove a bit further northwest to caves that were used as homes and temples in an earlier era. What was incredible about that site was that while the outside rock was slightly carved to decorate ‘doorways’, the enormous inside was only a bit natural. While the caves themselves had mostly formed naturally the people who lived there carved most of the separate rooms with all of the special benches, fire pits, and columns.

After we all met together again at the oldest structure on the island (most likely a tomb) we visited a site with Roman and older pottery that was scattered across the ground like bubble gum wrappers or cigarettes in New York City. While a lot of history is known about that specific site it’s the time of Roman occupation not much is known from before, theories fly around that there could be buildings and temples built by the Minoans. Large stones stacked like capital T’s are thought, by some, to be reminiscent of the Minoan bullheads, though there is no official proof of this (for more info: https://www.historicmysteries.com/taulas-menorca/).

Continuing on with the day we all take the time to stop running around and eat a simple lunch at a beach, specifically Cala Pilar. I brought my white bikini, which may have not been the best idea looking back, and I was fairly uncovered. The water was warm and relaxed, not much in the way of waves and so clear we could easily see the bottom. Sand led, on the right side, to large basalt and sandstone rocks growing into a cliff face. In this area, there is another tradition that was shared with us, mud therapy. The red mud at the base of the cliff has been used for a type of lotion for centuries. All the coolest people of our group, at least the ones who didn’t care about getting dirty, climbed over the rocks and reached the mud. We covered our legs, stomachs, backs, and arms. I even painted my own to be more like war paint, putting a few lines on my face as well. Over a short period of time I could feel the mud drying and tighten on top of my skin and in several more minutes, I jumped back into the water to wash it off.

My skin was so soft and smooth, the best ‘lotion’ I had ever used. I know they pack and sell it to different countries, but I would rather spend the time and money to just go back and get it for free. Would be worth it for another vacation. The slight downside is that the mud stained my bikini, but there is an upside to that too; whenever I see that suit with its red stains I always remember that wonderful experience.

Day 4 – July 23:

According to my photo history, since looking back the days all seem to bleed together, the next day was the ‘horse party’, the main event. The main square by the waterfront was where the knights displayed their prowess and control over the huge Menorcan horses they rode. With a growing crowd comes an aspect of danger. While the knights ride directly through the crowds they also rear the horses. Just like the sheep a few days previous it is supposedly good luck to touch horses as they are being ridden, even more so if you touch them while rearing. With a crowd of hundreds attempting to touch the same horse, at the same time, accidents happen. Just one year before we arrived a man died after being kicked in the head as the horse came back down. Whether he was just being an idiot, running up to a rearing horse and not getting out of the way in time or if he got pushed up to the rearing horse and couldn’t move out of the way because of the crowd, it is still a tragic occurrence. And one that I was not anxious to duplicate.

All day and into the night the horses ran through the crowds all around the city. I was able to touch and even pet a few of them (while stationary) over that time and even for the next few days, but I was always weary about where the crowds were because I had a couple close calls early in the day. With the enormous crowds pushing you closer and closer to the action, there are times when you just might have to duck.

Day 5 – July 24:

Over the off week, nights were spent out at bars or clubs almost every night. There was one wide alleyway where the water for the harbor ended and the occasional bridges became shorter and shorter until streets on either side came together in a triangle shape; that was where the clubs were. Where most of the young people spent their time. But this particular night didn’t take place at a club at night, oh no, this started in the early evening and ran throughout the entire city.

Almost nearing the end of the week there were more and more traditions that continued to reveal themselves. One of them was the throwing of hollowed out hazelnuts at each other. During the late morning, before the mandated siesta (break time after lunch), we were out walking as a group and saw heaps of people, both young and old, throwing nuts at each other and laughing. We all decided to join in, throwing at the other people we knew in the group rather than total strangers. It was really fun! Since the nuts weren’t very heavy it didn’t hurt when you got hit either. While we were having our ‘battle’ a film crew made their way over and started to record us. I don’t know whatever became of that taping, but it makes me laugh when I think of a bunch of archaeology students from abroad being featured on Spanish TV at a Spanish festival.

Continuing on with the day another student, Teddy, and I took a break from everyone and went to write in our journals at a café across town. (And yes, I’m being completely literal and serious right now.) For at least an hour we sat outside and didn’t speak while writing. As the sun began to set more and more people were coming outside for another night of celebration. This time I really wanted in on the fun, so after my journal entry was completed I slipped the book and pen back into my purse and together with my friend set off to find the best pomada.

It seemed like every single café and bar had its own pomada recipe, but they all tasted pretty much the same, but also different. At each place, one cup would cost 2€ so Teddy and I took even turns paying for the drinks. Of course, every place gave us cups that we could take away and toss in the garbage, making it easier and faster to walk to each different shop. Personally, my favorite variation was the slushy version that we found at one café, but sadly, we would never find it again.

Eventually, we found ourselves nearby the club alleyway and the harbor. There Teddy saw a sailboat that he thought was too beautiful to ignore, I don’t know much if anything about boats so I wouldn’t be a great judge. The owner was a young man hanging out with his friends who had all come from mainland Spain to celebrate for a few days. While talking, mostly to Teddy, I was kind of listening, in and out, and refocused when they invited us aboard. I was ‘on-board’ (see what I did there??) for this plan cause, hey, free booze and hot guys. This backfired on me a bit because what I didn’t know at the time is that they asked Teddy if he was my boyfriend. Since he wasn’t he told them no (duh), and that, to them meant that it was open season on me, for anything and everything. We chatted a little (and when I say little I mean 5-10 minutes) bit before they started pouring pomada down my throat. Sure I was saying yes at the time and actively participating, but at that point, I was already inebriated, already at the point when I could have easily been taken advantage of. Luckily, Teddy noticed this and asked me if I wanted to go, in one of those silent, mind reading ways, and we politely departed from the men on the boat.

In the square, on the way back to the apartment, we ran into another group from the field school. They brought their own bottle of pomada and were heading to the small inlet beach a couple blocks from our building to drink and chill out. I was definitely drunk at this point, but wanting do as much fun stuff as possible joined them. Here is where my memory gets a bit hazy. I don’t particularly remember walking to the beach, but I remember walking onto the rocks and sitting down and drinking more. We all joked around, though I don’t remember the jokes that were made. And the last thing that I actually remember from that night was joining people in their leap into the water. The funny thing was that I wasn’t wearing my swimming suit, so in true, drunk, 23-year-old fashion, I went skinny-dipping instead.

It wasn’t until the next morning that I was told what happened after that and got those slight recollections in third-person. When you don’t know if it actually happened or if it was just a vivid dream. When I woke up I felt sick, but not an actual hangover, and when I moved the sheets to get out of bed there was a medium sized stain of blood by my feet and my left foot felt stiff and sore. Apparently while climbing out of the water I gashed my foot on a rock, this is when I am glad that I was so drunk that I didn’t feel it, or just didn’t remember the pain. Also because I was so drunk I couldn’t put all my clothes back on so another student lent me a towel to tie around my waist and I put back on my cardigan. Because I just got a gash on the ball of my foot and couldn’t walk Teddy gave me a piggyback ride back to the apartment building where I proceeded to puke my guts out after slipping on my sweats, without underwear, and a spaghetti strap shirt.

Naturally, while listening to this, I was mortified and profusely apologized to everyone who had to see me like that. It was the worst night in terms of my drinking and I scaled WAY BACK afterward, even to the point of not drinking at all. So over the next few days, I went out with people, but I didn’t really party too much and I was even a bit apprehensive about going back to the dock area because I was nervous that those guys would still be there. They weren’t, and the rest of the weekend was enjoyable and ended without any more incidents. After hearing more stories from our group I do wish I had stayed out later on other night, more soberly though, so I could’ve watched the sunrise. Sadly, after that week no one wanted to stay out all night again.

When Monday came everyone had to get back to his or her normal lives and all the evidence of the weeklong party was gone. The roads were suddenly spotless overnight. With not even a speck of shattered nut or speck of sawdust was left on any road. I couldn’t help but marvel at all the work that goes into this festival every year, and how they’ve already been doing it for centuries. The end of it reminds me of a reset button, or a ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’ type of a thing. It doesn’t matter what you do, as long as you learn from it, because everything can be washed clean.

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The Knights of the Pomada and Sheep How many cultures around the world celebrate with sheep decoration and alcohol? No, seriously, I’m asking. It would seem that the festival of Sant Joan de Ciutadella on the island of Menorca is not a singular event in the world, especially because it came from Pagan festivals and then incorporated Medieval traditions and Christianity, but they sure do make it all their own.

[footballghana]

FEATURE: The ‘Rise and Struggles’ of Mysterious Dwarfs in recent times

They pride themselves as the best team in the central region, one of the traditional teams in the Ghana who have graced Ghana football from time memorial, Cape Coast Mysterious Dwarfs.

A team that clasp on tradition has its strength of Cape Coasters always behind them and tout themselves as 'Ebusua'' which means family.

They have an emblem ''crab'' that demonstrate the implacable spirit of Oguaaman. There is a platitude that whatever goes up surely must come down.

Even in our facet of life, one goes through infancy, childhood, adolescent, adulthood, and old age and eventually die.

When you take a product for instance, it goes through a product cycle that is, introduction, growth, maturity and decline at some point.

So it is with football, where teams build, peak and decline.

Some win trophies in the process whiles others do not before the decline. For Ebusua Dwarfs, their fans have had ambivalent experience for the past years.

Seasons gone by, the ''Abontoa Abontoa'' club have achieved some feet that needs to be applauded.

They have been able to produce players who had national teams call ups.

The like of Rashid Sumaila, Kwame Frimpong, Seidu Bancey just to mention few.

The notable one that will forever be remembered is Robert Mensah whose name has been used to name the park at Siwdu in Cape Coast.

In recent times, the Cape Coast based team started some special with the late coach Nana Gyepi in the 2008/2009 division one league.

He qualified them to the middle league when they placed second behind Tarkwa United after 14 matches, amassing 28 points.

Lamentably for the mysterious boys, they were unable to qualify from the middle league to the Premier League when they were beaten to the top by New Edubiase after three games each in a group.

New Edubiase gained first ever promotion with seven points, followed by Dwarfs with six, Gold stars with four and Tarkwa United fallen to the bottom with no point.

The tenacity of the team with crab symbol did not go unnoticed in the 2009/2010 as they qualified for the middle league for the second time.

They came second with 27 points after Medeama (28) in the zone 2B.

The former Dwarfs player guided his team to top their group this time around, winning all the three games with 9 points. Medeama came second with 6 points; Mine stars with 3 points and West ham United were at the bottom of the summit.

Dwarfs appointed former black star captain John Eshun to head the technical area of the team after gaining promotion to the 2010/2011 premier league.

Fast forward, they placed 11 th after 30 games with 41 points at the end of the 2010/2011 premier league.

They had their staunch defender Rashid Sumaila adjudged the best defender of the season.

As the 2011/2012 season was underway, coach John Eshun was sacked some few days before the commencement of the league due to dissensions at the technical area.

Professor J.K.Mintah, the University of Cape Coast lecturer was appointed to lead the team.

As we know for football, most often done not, coaches bring their philosophies and ideas to establish a way they will like their team to play.

Professor J.K.Mintah was not an exception to that.

The yellow and green side started the season not too bad as they got 9 points out of 15 points in their first five matches, they won their two home games (Bechem United, Berekum Arsenal) and drew 3 away games(Ashgold,Hearts of Lions, Mighty Jet).

They looked promising and ended the season with 36 points after 30 games and placed 10 th on the league log.

Position wise, it was a step forward compared to the 2010/2011 that is, from 11th to 10th .

But point wise, it was a decline from 41 to 36.

[caption id="attachment_756076" align="alignnone" width="300"] Prof. Mintah of Ebusua Dwarfs[/caption]

The total performance of the team at the end of the season saw the UCC lecturer con coach as runners up in the best coach category behind Maxwell Konadu of Kumasi Asante Kotoko.

The former best defender in the 2010/2011, Rashid Sumaila maintained his position in the premier league team even though he could not win the best defender for the second time.

As plans were afoot for the 2012/2013, Dwarfs sold their skipper Bismark Aseidu to Medeama, Rashid Sumaila and Seidu Bancey to Kotoko.

Fast forward, the Crabs  were not encumbered by the sale of some key players but came fourth at the end of the 2012/2013 league season.

They improved point wise and position wise, 50 points and 4 th respectively after 30 games.

This granted them qualification to play the CAF Confederation in 2013/2014 season.

Their highest achievement since 2000, when they were knocked out by Ismaily of Egypt in the quarter finals.

An era with great prospect after an improvement in the previous season set the tone for the yellow and green fans to at least see their team win the premier league after trailing six points beneath the summit.

The 2013/2014 season did not go well as expected by the 'Abontoa Abontoa' fans.

Their coach (Professor J.K.Mintah) as part of his national duty as the psychologist for the Black stars, went on assignment with the Black star while dwarfs were preparing for a CAF Confederation match against Petro Atletico de Luanda of Angola.

Management of Dwarfs was not happy with his decision to go with the national team as he had taken a sick leave in the ongoing season.

These disagreements engendered the resignation of Professor J. K. Mintah. The team ended up being relegated as an era also came to an end.

These were good times for the mysterious club. Players like Bismark Aseidu, Rashid Sumaila, Seidu Bancey, Stephen Aidoo just to mention few, played vital role in the process.

We can say that for the past two decade, it was under the tutelage of professor J.K.Mintah that dwarfs played some silky football and CAF Confederation again.

After his resignation, coaches like veteran J.E. Sarpong, Prosper Narteh, Da Rocha, Bashir Hayford, Robert Asibu all tried their best but could not achieve the feet of their predecessors.

So one may ask what has caused them and still causing them not to rise to the occasion as we knew them previous years ago.

Internal gossips from reps to management level have been a stymie to their progress.

The team has it main management in Accra that gives room for rumors. These rumors go a long way to affect some decisions of management there by affecting the team negatively especially the apocryphal stories.

Also, lack of proper planning is also a hindrance to their progress. Every team plans on what to achieve in short term, medium term and long term in terms of buying and selling players, structures etc.

But it is the opposite for the yellow and green club. After 2012/2013 season, dwarfs have struggled to keep coaches who were performing at their tenure.

The notable one was Ricardo Da Rocha who parted ways after placing 4 th in the 2016/17 league.

Because of lack of clear direction, some players who were declining were brought to the club which stifled their progress at some point. Players like Ibrahim Musa and Gilbert Fiamenyo are classical example.

Before the start of the 2019/20 season, the High Court in Cape Coast ordered for the liquidation of the Club over a 20 year debt that was to be paid to Great Liverpool on the transfer of their former player Patrick Villars.

Again, there was no proper planning with the payment effect.

The earlier they find a proper plan to this problem, the better. Furthermore, getting a sponsorship cannot be overlooked.

As money is not easy to come by especially in Ghana, sponsorship goes a long way to help clubs pay salaries of players, staffs, infrastructures and many more.

Salaries of players have been a problem for Dwarfs especially after the death of their bankroller Nana Adu.

There are some salaries outstanding yet to be paid amid covid-19.

The club would have to get a vibrant marketing team to draft proposals for sponsorship giving assurance to the sponsors the mileage and benefit they would get when they come on board.

This will help pay players well enough to give their best to the club. With the right materials and the above hobbles solved, the 'Idepandey Idekay' boys along with management and fans will see their team rise again.

Mysterious Dwarfs won the Ghana premier league in 1965/66 league and the FA cup in the 1968 and will hope to win it again.

  Source: Kwasi Baffoe

source: https://footballghana.com/

[soccernetghana]

Feature: The Rise and Struggles of Mysterious Dwarfs in recent times

[caption id="attachment_616323" align="aligncenter" width="1024"] Ebusua Dwarfs[/caption] They pride themselves as the best team in the central region, one of the traditional teams in the Ghana who have graced Ghana football from time memorial, Cape Coast Mysterious Dwarfs. A team that clasp on tradition has its strength of Cape Coasters always behind them and tout themselves as 'Ebusua'' which means family. They have an emblem ''crab'' that demonstrate the implacable spirit of Oguaaman. There is a platitude that whatever goes up surely must come down. Even in our facet of life, one goes through infancy, childhood, adolescent, adulthood, and old age and eventually die. When you take a product for instance, it goes through a product cycle that is, introduction, growth, maturity and decline at some point. So it is with football, where teams build, peak and decline. Some win trophies in the process whiles others do not before the decline. For Ebusua Dwarfs, their fans have had ambivalent experience for the past years. Seasons gone by, the ''Abontoa Abontoa'' club have achieved some feet that needs to be applauded. They have been able to produce players who had national teams call ups. The like of Rashid Sumaila, Kwame Frimpong, Seidu Bancey just to mention few. The notable one that will forever be remembered is Robert Mensah whose name has been used to name the park at Siwdu in Cape Coast. In recent times, the Cape Coast based team started some special with the late coach Nana Gyepi in the 2008/2009 division one league. He qualified them to the middle league when they placed second behind Tarkwa United after 14 matches, amassing 28 points. [caption id="attachment_458464" align="aligncenter" width="600"] Ebusua Dwarfs[/caption] Lamentably for the mysterious boys, they were unable to qualify from the middle league to the Premier League when they were beaten to the top by New Edubiase after three games each in a group. New Edubiase gained first ever promotion with seven points, followed by Dwarfs with six, Gold stars with four and Tarkwa United fallen to the bottom with no point. The tenacity of the team with crab symbol did not go unnoticed in the 2009/2010 as they qualified for the middle league for the second time. They came second with 27 points after Medeama (28) in the zone 2B. The former Dwarfs player guided his team to top their group this time around, winning all the three games with 9 points. Medeama came second with 6 points; Mine stars with 3 points and West ham United were at the bottom of the summit. Dwarfs appointed former black star captain John Eshun to head the technical area of the team after gaining promotion to the 2010/2011 premier league. Fast forward, they placed 11 th after 30 games with 41 points at the end of the 2010/2011 premier league. They had their staunch defender Rashid Sumaila adjudged the best defender of the season. As the 2011/2012 season was underway, coach John Eshun was sacked some few days before the commencement of the league due to dissensions at the technical area. Professor J.K.Mintah, the University of Cape Coast lecturer was appointed to lead the team. As we know for football, most often done not, coaches bring their philosophies and ideas to establish a way they will like their team to play. Professor J.K.Mintah was not an exception to that. The yellow and green side started the season not too bad as they got 9 points out of 15 points in their first five matches, they won their two home games (Bechem United, Berekum Arsenal) and drew 3 away games(Ashgold,Hearts of Lions, Mighty Jet). They looked promising and ended the season with 36 points after 30 games and placed 10 th on the league log. Position wise, it was a step forward compared to the 2010/2011 that is, from 11th to 10th . But point wise, it was a decline from 41 to 36. [caption id="attachment_257814" align="aligncenter" width="300"] Prof. Mintah of Ebusua Dwarfs[/caption] The total performance of the team at the end of the season saw the UCC lecturer con coach as runners up in the best coach category behind Maxwell Konadu of Kumasi Asante Kotoko. The former best defender in the 2010/2011, Rashid Sumaila maintained his position in the premier league team even though he could not win the best defender for the second time. As plans were afoot for the 2012/2013, Dwarfs sold their skipper Bismark Aseidu to Medeama, Rashid Sumaila and Seidu Bancey to Kotoko. Fast forward, the Crabs  were not encumbered by the sale of some key players but came fourth at the end of the 2012/2013 league season. They improved point wise and position wise, 50 points and 4 th respectively after 30 games. This granted them qualification to play the CAF Confederation in 2013/2014 season. Their highest achievement since 2000, when they were knocked out by Ismaily of Egypt in the quarter finals. An era with great prospect after an improvement in the previous season set the tone for the yellow and green fans to at least see their team win the premier league after trailing six points beneath the summit. The 2013/2014 season did not go well as expected by the 'Abontoa Abontoa' fans. Their coach (Professor J.K.Mintah) as part of his national duty as the psychologist for the Black stars, went on assignment with the Black star while dwarfs were preparing for a CAF Confederation match against Petro Atletico de Luanda of Angola. Management of Dwarfs was not happy with his decision to go with the national team as he had taken a sick leave in the ongoing season. These disagreements engendered the resignation of Professor J. K. Mintah. The team ended up being relegated as an era also came to an end. These were good times for the mysterious club. Players like Bismark Aseidu, Rashid Sumaila, Seidu Bancey, Stephen Aidoo just to mention few, played vital role in the process. We can say that for the past two decade, it was under the tutelage of professor J.K.Mintah that dwarfs played some silky football and CAF Confederation again. After his resignation, coaches like veteran J.E. Sarpong, Prosper Narteh, Da Rocha, Bashir Hayford, Robert Asibu all tried their best but could not achieve the feet of their predecessors. So one may ask what has caused them and still causing them not to rise to the occasion as we knew them previous years ago. [caption id="attachment_379336" align="aligncenter" width="300"] Dwarfs football club[/caption] Internal gossips from reps to management level have been a stymie to their progress. The team has it main management in Accra that gives room for rumors. These rumors go a long way to affect some decisions of management there by affecting the team negatively especially the apocryphal stories. Also, lack of proper planning is also a hindrance to their progress. Every team plans on what to achieve in short term, medium term and long term in terms of buying and selling players, structures etc. But it is the opposite for the yellow and green club. After 2012/2013 season, dwarfs have struggled to keep coaches who were performing at their tenure. The notable one was Ricardo Da Rocha who parted ways after placing 4 th in the 2016/17 league. Because of lack of clear direction, some players who were declining were brought to the club which stifled their progress at some point. Players like Ibrahim Musa and Gilbert Fiamenyo are classical example. Before the start of the 2019/20 season, the High Court in Cape Coast ordered for the liquidation of the Club over a 20 year debt that was to be paid to Great Liverpool on the transfer of their former player Patrick Villars. Again, there was no proper planning with the payment effect. The earlier they find a proper plan to this problem, the better. Furthermore, getting a sponsorship cannot be overlooked. As money is not easy to come by especially in Ghana, sponsorship goes a long way to help clubs pay salaries of players, staffs, infrastructures and many more. Salaries of players have been a problem for Dwarfs especially after the death of their bankroller Nana Adu. There are some salaries outstanding yet to be paid amid covid-19. The club would have to get a vibrant marketing team to draft proposals for sponsorship giving assurance to the sponsors the mileage and benefit they would get when they come on board. This will help pay players well enough to give their best to the club. With the right materials and the above hobbles solved, the 'Idepandey Idekay' boys along with management and fans will see their team rise again. Mysterious Dwarfs won the Ghana premier league in 1965/66 league and the FA cup in the 1968 and will hope to win it again. [caption id="attachment_815803" align="aligncenter" width="597"] Dwarfs performance[/caption] By Kwasi Baffoe baffoediccey@gmail.com source: https://ghanasoccernet.com/

[thecoroutfitters]

Written by R. Ann Parris on The Prepper Journal.

Beyond individual and small-group home, property, and self-defense, we increasingly hear a call for citizens to stand up as modern minutemen. The term is relatively new, but the idea isn’t.

Many preppers have always expected that at some point, they’ll either be joining a group or family, friends, and neighbors with the need to engage an enemy force of some kind. While some of those expectations come from fictional sources, there are some fairly recent precedents that make a compelling argument for the ability to band together.

Images: Koreatown business owners on guard during the LA riots (L.A. Times); business owners during Ferguson’s riots 20 years later (Riverfront Times).

There are also realistic “what-if” situations where a functional independent force not unlike a ramped-up community watch has reasonable applications, long before we start entertaining way-out scenarios involving EROL troops and foreign NWO invaders.

Before we start really looking at individual skills and basic gear, there’s a few key areas that can make or break the success of a Modern Minuteman. They’re things to account for before we gather our gear to march to our woods and fences, and things to ensure any group we join has considered before we sign on, whether we’re signing up now or later.

First, Understand the Minuteman

No, I’m not going to dissect the myths and truths of yesteryear’s minutemen (although… http://www.revolutionarywarjournal.com/minuteman-myth/). I’m not even going to split hairs between minutemen and the militia of the era.

I just want to point out that a minuteman was – just like today’s reservists and guardsmen and many fighting forces large and small for centuries and millennia before and after them – a yeoman, tapped to fight when needed.

They were first and foremost workers. Not soldiers.

For the greatest breadth of that history – all the way up to the modern eras – most of those yeomen were involved in production and trades/crafts, and much of that production involved foods.

While a pyramid helps start to make that point, they still don’t accurately represent the consumerism and contributions of each group. The stepped versions of trophic/energy graphs start getting closer, but it’s still really difficult to appreciate the magnitudes and exponential’s of input required at each level to sustain a single member of the tier above.

Why am I harping on this opening and seemingly tangential point so much?

Because it’s expensive to maintain all the specialists within a society – any type of specialist, to include part-time and full-time soldiers.

When the American minuteman was born, he was led and organized by landowners and businessmen who were mostly still tied enough to the earth to understand production and man-hours – even the city boys.

Many of our founding fathers and the local militia and minuteman organizers were deeply involved in breeding better crop and livestock varieties for the regions, developing management techniques for timber, and fine-tuning stoves, housing, transportation, and tools to better work the land and make efficient and maximum use of resources.

While they understood the need to fight once letter-writing and overseas discussion trips failed, they already inherently understood the need for a populace to feed itself – especially with supply lines about to be disrupted.

(Fun quickie reads: http://www.edisonmuckers.org/founding-father-inventors/, https://www.varsitytutors.com/earlyamerica/jefferson-primer/agronomist)  

Their citizen soldiers were also deeply tied to production. Even the urbanite craftsmen and tradesmen, the accountants and scholars, were much more aware of their larder needs, and of the seasons – harvests and planting, hunting and livestock, foraging and wood cutting.

They understood time with a powder horn instead of a plow and hammer would impact life.

While it doesn’t get the attention other aspects of the Revolutionary citizen soldiers do, the quote traced back to Napoleon was in full effect:

“Amateurs discuss tactics; professionals discuss logistics.”

He’s not the first, last, or only to emphasize it. Alexander the Great is credited with saying that his logicians were humorless, because they knew if his campaign failed, the supply chain was going to be investigated first.

Antoine-Henri Jomni described logistics as the means through which tactics and strategy could be implemented, and the main factor in creating those strategies and tactics.

Those logistics range throughout training and deployment, from mobility of troops and supplies, to types of supplies and sourcing them. Everyone involved in every step of that process has to be fed and kept shoe’d, rested, and housed.

As Sun Tzu said, “the line between disorder and order lies in logistics”.

(Fun fact: Today’s home canning methods came about due to Napoleon’s logistical challenges.)

The minutemen largely fought close to home, not called away as often or as far as the standing army and militia. The same is likely to be true of the Modern Minuteman. Even so, and even though we’ll presumably be better trained than the Revolutionary minuteman, we’re at a disadvantage.

See, we’re now largely what would have been the exception among those citizen soldiers and their organizers.

We very rarely have ingrained understanding of our larders or household supplies like water and fuel, of reasonable production/foraging yield expectations, or of the logistics involved with outfitting even short-term, short-distance yeoman fighters.

That Needs to be the First Focus.

Whether we expect to stand up in mostly “normal” conditions or during a Big-time Event, get the larder and daily-use supplies sorted. Get self- and home-defense taken care of if you’re vulnerable.

Get basic repairs for water, windows, vehicles, and roofs prepped. Know how to handle common injuries like sprains, burns, and foreign objects in eyes.

*It also wouldn’t hurt to remember how often in history yeomen – right up to today’s irregular/guerrilla/insurgent forces – spend some portion of their time producing food, and start practicing that.

Then spend time and money on the sexy run-n-gun goodies.

Next Step: Intel & Comms – No intel, no comms, no mission.

From the most elite modern warriors to cavemen with bone clubs, we rely on information. Even on a personal level – say, a home intruder – if we don’t know there’s a problem, and what it is, we don’t know that we need to react, let alone how to best respond.

Sun Tzu also weighed in on that front. Importantly, he emphasized honest self-assessment and understanding of the community at large along with accurate assessments of the opposing force.

That self-assessment is enormous.

It factors hugely in choosing when and how to engage. And disengage. And when and how to not engage at all.

Being good at making that call is one of the things that made successful resistance fighters difficult to counter even before the Swamp Fox dove around fences and trees instead of lining up to engage Brits with big “X marks the spot” on their chests. It has continued to run empire-ruling armies ragged in the centuries since.

Images: Brits in the First Anglo-Afghan war, and Russian troops fighting the same never-quite-conquered enemy 120 years and several wars later. 

Whichever extreme we choose for our scenarios – commonplace likely events that occur even today or restoring order or freedom during or after something huge – the Modern Minuteman can expect to be facing larger numbers and-or better-equipped professional militaries, just like the guerrilla and insurgent forces before them.

They, too, are going to rely on accurate self-assessment combined with accurate calculation of both the local community and the enemy to successfully engage.

Images: Italian, South Vietnamese, and Greek civilian home-guard militia and resistance fighters of WWII and Vietnam.

Denying enemy intel on us is also a biggie. After all, they’re using information the exact same way we hopefully are.

Communication Is Key.

Again, it’s “no intel, no comms, no mission”. Without the ability to trickle information both ways, intel does no good. Willing, able parties with the best training and all the gear in the world can be rendered totally inoperable without communication systems.

Those minutemen had to be rallied, remember.

Somebody had to tell them where they were massing, and then somebody had to decide on a plan of action based on available information. Unit and individual assignments and instructions had to be passed.

The most likely scenarios leave phones and texting an option for Modern Minutemen. We also have regular ol’ Motorolas. I’m a fan of SSB-CB for middling distances due to cost, ease, lack of regulation, and the possible ranges without repeaters, but there’s also HAM radio – which will also send texts and email these days – and even field phones from various eras.

We can also make arrangements for a low-tech Twilight Bark https://www.theprepperjournal.com/2017/03/04/radio-silence-communication-without-electronics/,  some of which offer pretty decent ranges if we have line of sight.

For near-area alerts that we should check something like a flag, hobo symbols, or message board system, or to tell neighbors on standby that it’s time to rally or to man their stations, we might also consider things like canned-air stadium squealers and boater’s fog horns.

(Having a variety of grid-down comms systems has all sorts of benefits even if A Big Thing never occurs. It also applies to things that have nothing to do with gun-toters: riding to the rescue for births, warning about fires and rising water or stock-killing loose dogs, saving steps and time to call people in for breakfast, telling neighbors we’re sick/injured, helping each other with planting and harvest…)

The Modern Minuteman

The idea of a fast-response or defensive force citizen soldier isn’t new. Nor is it fading away anytime soon. It’s not just tactics, though, or the gear each individual and team needs to employ them. It’s not even the basic skills and abilities required to engage in a fight.

Before we go whole-hog on the combat aspects of the Modern Minuteman, take some time to seriously game plan the basic tenets of logistics, comms, and intel.

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from The Prepper Journal Don't forget to visit the store and pick up some gear at The COR Outfitters. How prepared are you for emergencies? #SurvivalFirestarter #SurvivalBugOutBackpack #PrepperSurvivalPack #SHTFGear #SHTFBag

[vitalmindandbody]

Can Environmentalists Learn To Love Or Just Tolerate Nuclear Power?

In June, California utility Pacific Gas and Electric announced plans for phasing out its Diablo Canyon nuclear power plant, located on the central California coast. If the current timetable holds, late summer 2025 will see the first time in over six decades that the nations most populous state will have no licensed nuclear power providers.

This is big news. Forty years ago, Diablo Canyon stood at the middle of an intense controversy over the safety and desirability of nuclear power. Those debates stand as part of the origin story of the anti-nuclear movement; failure to stop the plant from coming online educated and galvanized a generation of anti-nuclear activists. From this perspective, Pacific Gas and Electrics decision to replace nuclear output with renewable energy seems to be an environmental victory, a belated vindication of the anti-nuclear efforts of the 1970s.

But in the era of climate change, no decision regarding energy production is simple. Californias move away from nuclear power comes alongside a modest reappraisal of a technology that was once vilified by the vast majority of environmentalists. James Hansen, the scientist whose 1988 testimony before Congress provided climate change with much-needed visibility and political salience, has become one of a number of prominent environmentalists to support nuclear power.

The problems of waste, security and ensuring accident-free operation are as vexing as ever. But context is key, and the real but remote dangers of nuclear power may prove more manageable than the more visible and accelerating consequences of a warming planet.

Diablo today might be sitting on a second juncture in nuclear history in the United States, one where environmentalists will have to embrace or even just accept the very technology that helped teach them to be suspicious of relying too much on technical solutions to the political and social challenge of powering our society.

Atom-powered dreams

For decades before it became an activist target, nuclear power was celebrated as revolutionary science. From the first decade of the 20th century, newspapers and magazines reported the discoveries of Ernest Rutherford, Marie Curie and other nuclear pioneers. The prospect of transmuting matter of turning one element into another had been a dream of medieval alchemists, and journalists and their readers alike were quick to thrill to the new science.

It was frequently heralded as something new in the universe, and a symbol of mankinds burgeoning ability to control nature. Moreover, the mere potential of releasing the energy stored by splitting or fusing atoms quickly gave rise to fantasies of technological utopia, in which innovations such as radium-infused medical treatments and uranium-powered ships would transform the world.

A traveling exhibit for the Atoms for Peace program in 1957 when the possibilities of producing electricity from atomic power seemed endless. U.S. Department of Energy

A generation later, the success of the Manhattan Project made such speculation seem plausible. Postwar media reveled in the prospect of all sorts of atomic miracles: electric cars, cheap power, weather control and cancer cures. In 1953, President Eisenhower gave official sanction to at least some of these dreams with his Atoms for Peace initiative, and his second term had barely begun when a power plant in Shippingport, Pennsylvania began supplying nuclear-produced electricity.

Additional plants quickly came online; more than 150 had been licensed by the end of the 1970s. If nuclear weapons filled midcentury Americans with thoughts of doomsday, nuclear power provided its opposite: the dream of a technology-fueled future that might help extend postwar prosperity indefinitely.

Eisenhower himself had put it this way in 1953, when announcing Atoms for Peace: Experts would be mobilized to apply atomic energy to the needs of agriculture, medicine, and other peaceful activities. A special purpose would be to provide abundant electrical energy in the power-starved areas of the world.

Problems emerge

Dreams depend for their vitality not just on what is said explicitly, but also upon what is left unspoken. In this case, the missing element was environmental awareness. It was not until the widespread hydrogen bomb testing of the 1950s that the true health and environmental costs of nuclear energy began to be uncovered; it would be another decade or more before concerns about power generation began to rival those of weapons development.

Diablo Canyon provides a case in point. Sierra Club officials had partnered with Pacific Gas and Electric to select the site in 1965, in the process helping to spare a different and more highly valued wilderness area. They were not particularly concerned about the nature of the proposed power plant. Their concern was simply with the intelligent management of natural resources, and Diablo raised questions about the proper balance of conservation and industrial development. While there may have been fears of a meltdown or other sort of accident, these were not nearly as pronounced as they would become in the next decade.

The original location of the Diablo Canyon on Californias central coast was negotiated by the Sierra Club as a less environmentally sensitive location than a previously proposed one. Later, it was found to be close to seismic fault lines. dirtsailor2003/flickr, CC BY-ND

This cooperation between industry and environmentalists began to fray in the late 1960s. Activist networks in California targeted the plant, and new organizations formed that valued resistance over accommodation and negotiation. David Brower, the executive director of the Sierra Club, helped lead a well-publicized fight with his own board of directors; he would eventually resign to found the more radical group Friends of the Earth.

The countrys changing political climate played a role in this, as Brower and other activists evinced a Vietnam-era skepticism that saw the interests of industry and the public as inherently at odds. Corporations simply could not be trusted to adhere rigorously to safety standards, to value either human or environmental health at the expense of profitability.

Additionally, an evolving environmental movement was positioned to see nuclear power differently than its conservation-focused predecessors had. Indeed, by the 1970s, environmentalists were not simply seeking to manage the pace of modernization, but to question its premises altogether. Best-selling books such as Silent Spring (1962) and The Population Bomb (1968) had prompted readers to question whether or not unbridled growth was desirable, or even possible. High-profile disasters such as the 1969 Santa Barbara oil spill drew attention to the fragility of the natural environment, as well as the disturbing possibility that accidents were inevitable rather than anomalous.

Nuclear power was already becoming suspect because of its association with Cold War institutions, as well as the fearsome potential of radioactive contamination which the historian of science Spencer Weart has identified as perhaps the most distinct element of nuclear fear. By the 1970s, despite the energy shocks of the time, nuclear energy became for environmentalists what fossil fuels are today: a symbol of the mistaken choices of decades past, and a clarion call for rethinking the entire energy landscape.

Much of this was already true before the infamous Three Mile Island accident in 1979. The Nuclear Regulatory Commission would ultimately conclude that the health effects were minimal certainly nothing like environmentalists had feared could happen. But the psychological consequences were considerable, owing both to the days of uncertainty immediately after the accident and to the eerie resemblance between actual events and a recently released movie, The China Syndrome, which depicted a cover-up of safety hazards at a nuclear plant. A few years later, these concerns would be amplified still further through easy association with the anti-nuclear weapons activism of the early 1980s.

Softening stance?

The history of mankind, H.G. Wells wrote in 1914, is the history of the attainment of external sources of power. In the age of environmental awareness, it has also become the chronicle of human attempts to come to terms with the consequences of this attainment. Early anti-nuclear activists at Diablo and elsewhere were quite conscious of this, believing that its productive capacity did not outweigh the risks to nature and human health.

More recently, some environmentalists have warmed up to nuclear power. Stewart Brand, whose Whole Earth Catalog, first launched in 1968, made him an environmental movement icon, is one of the more prominent. Im so pro-nuclear now, he told NPR in 2010, that I would be in favor of it even if climate change and greenhouse gases were not an issue.

Brands enthusiasm makes him something of an outlier, even among those environmentalists whose position has softened. What appears to have changed for them is not their assessment of the risks of nuclear, but an awareness that the environmental crisis is even worse than they imagined in early 1970s, in particular the threat of climate change from the buildup of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere.

What these more moderate proponents have in common both with Brand and their still skeptical environmental brethren is a recognition that questions of energy are not merely technical in nature. They reflect how people wish to organize their societies and their economies. These are the questions that anti-nuclear activists, among others, posed throughout the 1970s.

So it may well be that increased reliance on nuclear power will be part of the toolkit we need to survive climate change. However, that choice will come with risks not just of meltdowns, but also of avoiding the kinds of hard questions that Diablo-era activists tried to ask: Can we power our society without resorting to industrial-scale technology with significant risks? It may not be possible or desirable to live with the trade-offs our appetite for energy demands of us.

David K. Hecht, Associate Professor of History, Bowdoin College

This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.

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