#have you admired your local revolutionary today? now you have

[weptpride]

misc briala edits 2/?

see original post tags before reblogging.

[searchingwardrobes]

Valentine Throwbacks: Day 5

This is another one that was written for the Valentine’s Day Prompts back in 2018. This was for Day One: Secret Admirer. I’m posting it last because it has a part two which I’ll post later.

I really wanted it to be Emma who is the secret admirer because all the fics I've read in this genre has Killian as the secret admirer. So I was going through the Chick-fil-A drive thru, mulling over how closed-off Emma could actually do that, and . . . well, this happened. I didn’t realize when I wrote this that the kind of drive thru at our Chick-fil-A was a prototype and not found anywhere else. Basically, instead of driving up to a window, there’s this open area where they just walk out and give you your food.

**Please note: I have made no attempts to hide that this story takes place at a Chick-fil-A. I have tagged it accordingly here and on Ao3. If you have a problem with Chick-fil-A, please just skip this story.**

Summary: Emma Swan is slightly embarrassed to admit that she sometimes goes through the Chick-fil-A drive thru twice a day. She's even more embarrassed to admit she's leaving anonymous notes for the owner-operator, Killian Jones.

Nominated for Best Captain Swan Modern AU One-Shot in the OUAT Fandom Awards 2018

Rated: G

Words: about 3k

Also on Ao3

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Emma Swan was not a people person. It was for this reason that the Chick-fil-A drive-thru wasn’t her sort of thing. You had to talk – face to face – with at least four people just to get your food. And they asked for your name at the beginning of the entire process. Then everyone afterwards actually used it, with a mega-watt smile on their faces. And Emma Swan never would understand the Southern phenomenon of tacking “Miss” on the front of a person’s first name. Miss Swan, she understood. Miss Emma? Not so much.

But she had to hand it to those cheery employees walking up and down the line with their i-Pads. They were efficient. Which was one of the reasons Emma put aside her anti-social ways on her way to work. No matter how much of a hurry she was in, she could count on Chick-fil-A. She could be in and out of that line in five minutes flat.

Then there was the coffee. Sustainably sourced by local farmers. Or something. There was a big poster about it in the lobby. All Emma knew was that it was damn good, especially for a fast food place. And then there were chickin-minis. She had Mary Margaret to blame for getting her hooked on those. Or more accurately, her four year old son Leo. Tiny nuggets wrapped in tiny fluffy biscuits. Where had those been all her life? It was her new favorite food. Okay, breakfast food. Grilled cheese and onion rings still held the one and two spot.

So she gladly put up with the bright smiles and the over-the-top hospitality for a decent breakfast a couple of times a week. Or three. Okay, four max.

But she was not going to be one of those people who had drunk the kool-aid and made odes to how wonderful Chick-fil-A was on You Tube. And then Mary Margaret had to go and introduce her to the sweet iced tea.

“You can’t re-locate to Georgia and not drink sweet tea,” she had argued with Emma while practically shoving the straw in her mouth.

“So what next, MM? I have to start monogramming my towels?”

But she had begrudgingly took a sip anyway, and there was no turning back. Then she discovered the lemonade, and the cookies and cream milk shake. Some days, she was hearing “It’s been a pleasure to serve you, Miss Emma” twice in twelve hours.

She was one “Eat Mor Chikin” cow from making a You Tube video while holding a Styrofoam cup with a red straw.

To make her obsession even more embarrassing, it led – albeit indirectly – to her being an actual- to-God secret admirer. Who left anonymous love notes. Seriously. What had she become?

Killian Jones, according to his name tag, was the owner-operator of Emma’s neighborhood Chick-fil-A. She had figured immediately that he wasn’t just a regular burger- er – chicken sandwich flipper because he was wearing slacks and a navy blue button down shirt – no tie. His chest hair must need plenty of breathing room because he always had at least the first five buttons of his shirt undone (not that she was counting or anything). The first morning they met, he hadn’t started out on the best foot, inadvertently insulting her food preferences.

When he handed Emma her food, Killian Jones had leaned over slightly to glance in her back seat, simultaneously handing her a coupon.

“We’re doing a special promotion today. Would your little one like a gift card for a free cone?”

His words sort of trailed off when he saw that the backseat was empty. Emma had barked out a wry laugh.

“Uh, there’s no kid back there. Sorry.”

“My apologies,” he muttered as he stood quickly, his face flaming and his hand lifting to rest behind his ear, “I just assumed. You ordered the chicken minis, and usually people get those for their kids . . . “

Normally, Emma would have been insulted, but he seemed so genuinely embarrassed, that she simply chuckled. “Well, I have been told that I have the appetite of a twelve year old.”

The smile that he gave her was lopsided and almost sinful. He arched a very expressive brow, and leaned towards her open window with a conspiratorial whisper. “I must admit, I rather fancy them myself. I mean, they’re chicken nuggets in little biscuits. What’s not to love?”

“I know, right? It’s revolutionary.”

They gazed at one another way longer than necessary, threatening to bring imbalance to the well-oiled drive thru machine. Killian blinked, as if suddenly remembering where he was, awkwardly cleared his throat, and then handed Emma her coffee.

“It’s been a pleasure to serve you. God bless.”

In a slight daze, Emma took the coffee, noting the brush of his fingers against hers like she was some fifteen year old with a crush. It wasn’t until she was driving away that his accent registered with hers. Instead of a southern drawl, it had been a lilting Irish accent.

Intriguing.

********************************************************

Later that day, Emma’s hand literally shook as she took the Styrofoam cup of lemonade from the drive thru. For a brief moment, she considered chickening out – pun completely intended – but then shook off her fear and resolutely snatched the envelope from the passenger seat of her Bug.

“Could you give this to your owner-operator?”

“Okay,” the girl server said with a smile and a nod as she took the note, “we always like to hear how we can better serve our customers. Is there anything I can do to make your experience here better?”

“Oh,no!” Emma said quickly, making a quick slashing motion with her hand. “It isn’t a complaint. Quite the opposite actually. Just . . . “ she nervously bit her lower lip, “don’t tell him my name or . . . anything. Okay?”

The girl gave a slightly different smile this time as she pocketed the note. “Sure thing, ma’am.”

Emma couldn’t tell if the smile was just relief or a kind of knowing. Maybe the girl thought it was Emma giving her boss her phone number. Maybe women were frequently passing notes to Killian Jones. She wouldn’t be surprised. Emma’s face flamed red as she drove away.

It wasn’t like it was that kind of note. All it said was, “You made a hectic morning bearable. Thank you.” For a company that emphasized customer service so much, it was really just a thumbs up for a job well done. Like a positive review on Amazon. Nothing more.

********************************************************

Killian Jones was there again when Emma stopped to get a quick breakfast. This time, he arched a knowing brow when her yellow Bug pulled up to the curb.

“Ah, Miss Emma Swan once again. Your chicken minis, m’lady, and I must say, a fine dining choice for a woman of mature tastes.”

He gave a mock bow as he passed the bag through the window, and Emma was mortified when a giggle made its way past her lips. He waggled his eyebrows at her, to which she rolled her eyes. Yet, he had remembered her.

She cleared her throat as she took the bag, and then asked him, “I was wondering about the accent. Isn’t it the wrong one?”

At first, he furrowed his brow. “The wrong one . . . oh! You mean, as in, why don’t I go around saying mornin’ ma’am, or ya’ll have a good day now?”

Emma giggled again at his horrible impression of a Southern accent and shook her head. “Yeah, that’s what I mean. Your accent is . . . Irish?”

“Aye. And if you’re wondering how I ended up in Atlanta, well, the short version is I came across the pond as a kid.”

Emma nodded. It was about all she was going to get. She was sitting in a drive thru with at least half a dozen other cars behind her. So she simply nodded, tilted her head in a way that was only slightly flirtatious and said, “I like it.”

*****************************************************

The rest of the day sucked, to put it bluntly. The scumbag she was staking out took hours to show up, she twisted her ankle chasing him down, and she never did get to eat lunch. So today was a cookies and cream milkshake type of day.

And today the note she asked the girl at the drive thru to pass along to Killian Jones said, “I’m glad you moved here. It’s a long way from Ireland, but . . . welcome home – I hope.”

******************************************************

“Is that required?”

On this particular morning, it was pretty cold outside, and Killian had kept his banter at a minimum as he handed Emma her order. So maybe she was grasping at straws for a little interaction. Or maybe it was a legitimate question.

“Is what required?” he asked, both eyebrows jumping slightly.

“God bless,” Emma clarified, “everyone here says it. Is it company policy or something?”

Killian shrugged, “Sort of. I mean, not officially. You can’t make someone use religious language, of course. But we’re encouraged to if it’s something we believe in.” He pulled the collection of necklaces he always wore around his neck free from his pea coat and scarf. He grasped a pendant shaped like a cross and waved it at Emma. “And I’m a good Irish Catholic boy.”

The smile he gave her belied his words, especially when his tongue darted out to swipe at his bottom lip. Emma cocked her head to the side and gave him a teasing smile.

“Not so sure you’re always a good boy.”

He leaned down, lowering his voice to a timbre that did something to Emma’s insides. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Emma rolled her eyes as he leaned back with a triumphant grin. Then his features became suddenly sincere.

“However, Swan, I do wish you every blessing. I mean that.”

**************************************************

The cold weather made it a “second cup of coffee in the afternoon” sort of day. But she had brought in a skip so easily she could have done it blind-folded, her little nephew Leo stopped by her office with a picture he drew of the two of them in preschool, and Mary Margaret insisted she come over that night for David’s famous chili.

And Killian Jones wished her every blessing.

On today’s note, Emma wrote, “You make me smile. That’s rare. Thank you. (Or should I say, God bless?)”

She had hesitated including that last line. After all, she didn’t want to give herself away. But was there any harm in dropping a hint or two? She shook her head, sealed the envelope, and passed it off to the girl who received all of her notes for Killian. Emma now knew her name – Holly.

And did Holly just wink when she took her note?

*************************************************

“Lovely as always, Miss Swan.”

Killian’s hand lingered as he passed Emma her coffee. She blinked and opened her mouth to say something, and –

Jumped a foot in the air when the SUV behind her honked. She and Killian both laughed, and he shuffled backwards, his face turning red. His smile was a broad one that dimpled both cheeks and crinkled the corners of his eyes.

That day, Emma’s note read, “I find myself looking forward to your smiles. You’ve got a great one, but you’ve probably heard that before. Anyway, just wanted to let you know it always brightens my day.”

**************************************************

Today it was raining, and yet the employees of Chick-fil-A were still there, bravely traversing the drive-thru line in ponchos, their i-Pads encased in water proof plastic. Killian stood huddled beneath the awning at the service door, in a thick navy blue raincoat. Raindrops had gathered on his eyelashes, making the blue of his eyes sparkle in the gray misty haze of the Georgia rain.

“Wow,” Emma quipped when he handed her the to-go bag, “this is dedication. And still telling me, it’s a pleasure to serve you.”

His eyes seemed to light up even more as he smiled at her. “For you, Swan, it is more than a pleasure.”

That day, her note read, “Your blue eyes make a rainy day a little brighter.”

It was the most blatantly flirtatious note she had left, but she no longer cared.

************************************************

“Your accent is the wrong one too, you know.”

Emma smiled broadly as she leaned against the open window of her Bug. Killian made no move to give her her food, swinging the bag idly in his hand. She shrugged.

“Yeah, I moved around a lot growing up. Minnesota. Portland. I moved here a few months ago. I had been living in Tallahassee, but my foster sister wanted me here to be close to family. There’s way more work here in bail bonds anyway.”

Killian nodded as he handed her the bag of chicken minis and her coffee. “Well, Swan, welcome home . . . I hope.”

He winked before turning his back to receive the next order. Emma’s jaw dropped, but she had the sense to ease out of the line and onto the highway.

Did he know? To test it out, her note to him that day read, “I’ve never really felt at home anywhere. This is getting close. You’ve helped make it feel that way.”

**************************************************

Emma was only half listening to Mary Margaret as she set the table in her and David’s eat-in kitchen. Their house was small, but quaint, and was in a great neighborhood. They had been willing to buy a smaller house rather than keep renting in the apartment complex, knowing the back yard and park down the street were better for Leo. It worked out for Emma too, as she spent way more time here than in her lonely one bedroom apartment.

Mary Margaret was lecturing Emma about something – probably about how she ought to be more social – but Emma’s mind was on Killian Jones. Had he gotten her latest note yet? Would he figure out who she was? If so, would he think she was a total stalker?

“ . . . so since you keep giving me excuses, I just decided to ask Killian over for dinner tonight.”

The name tore Emma immediately from her daydreaming. “I’m sorry? What did you say?”

Mary Margaret shook her head at Emma. “I said set one more place because I invited that guy I told you about over for dinner.”

Emma set down the stack of forks she had been laying at each place and waved both hands back and forth. “Whoa, whoa, wait a minute. You said his name was, what?”

Mary Margaret had been going on and on about her and David’s former neighbor at the apartments and how he would be perfect for Emma. But surely that couldn’t be the same Killian as her drive-thru Killian. Could it? Okay, so Killian wasn’t exactly a common name . . .

“Killian Jones,” Mary Margaret answered with an exasperated sigh.

Emma shook her head rapidly. “Killian Jones? What . . . what does he do for a living?”

Mary Margaret grabbed the forks Emma had abandoned. “He’s the owner-operator of the Chick-fil-A near here. I was going to introduce you the day you went with me and Leo, but Killian was at some training thing at corporate.”

Emma grabbed the back of a chair as the room started to spin. Crap. She had to go and open herself up in that damn note today. And Mary Margaret just had to invite him over for dinner, tonight of all nights.

This was going to be interesting.

*****************************************************

Killian was just as surprised as she was when he arrived at the Nolans. Apparently, Mary Margaret had gushed on about her “sister,” but had failed to mention a name. They told Mary Margaret and David about their interactions in the drive thru, and everyone had a good laugh about it. What a small world! How ironic! That sort of thing. Killian seemed no different than normal. Maybe he hadn’t gotten the note yet?

Emma, on the other hand, was wound tight. Maybe things had been more comfortable between them when there was a car door and a time restraint. Or maybe it was all those stupid notes hanging over Emma’s head. Whatever it was, it made Emma’s face feel like it was stuck in a perpetual blush. She couldn’t think of a damn thing to say, and Mary Margaret and David were not-so-subtly trying to play matchmaker as they attempted to steer the conversation Emma’s way. But all she could do was give one word answers and stare at her plate.

“Well,” Killian said with a satisfied sigh, “I can’t tell you Mary Margaret how delicious this was. Working at a restaurant all day, the last thing I feel like doing when I get home is cook. This was amazing, really.”

Mary Margaret beamed at his compliment. “Well, we are pleased to have you. You should come over more often. We miss you. Right, David?”

“Yeah,” David chuckled, shoving Killian’s shoulder, “I’ve got no one to watch hockey games with anymore. It’s not really a popular sport around here.”

“The notes were from me,” Emma blurted out.

Everyone immediately fell silent at Emma’s completely out of context outburst. Except for Leo, who ran his fork across his plate with a loud screech and demanded to know what was for dessert.

Emma lifted her gaze from her lap to meet Killian’s. “The notes that kept arriving at Chick-fil-A in the afternoons? They were all from me.” She let out a long, shaky breath.

“I know,” was all Killian said in response.

Emma’s eyes widened. “I – I thought you might. When did you figure it out?”

He chuckled as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I suspected, or hoped, it was you from the start. You see, every note corresponded with our morning interactions. But of course, today confirmed it. I was testing you by quoting one of your notes, and then when the note this afternoon was about home . . . “

He trailed off, a grin splitting his face.

“You hoped it was me from the start?”

He nodded, and Emma just sat there grinning right back at him like a fool. Mary Margaret hurriedly jumped from the table, scooping up Leo.

“Hey!” the little boy protested. “What about dessert?”

“We’ll eat cookies in front of the TV,” Mary Margaret muttered in response, “David, now.”

Killian and Emma chuckled as their matchmakers hurried from the kitchen. Emma felt as nervous as she had been back in junior high when she went to her first school dance. Killian rose from his seat across from her and came to take the seat beside her. They both shifted their chairs to be a little closer.

“I felt something between us the moment I first saw you,” Killian said.

“You mean when you offered my non-existent kid a free ice cream cone?”

Killian chuckled and ducked his head. How a man could be so sexy, cocky, and bashful all at the same time was incredibly endearing. He lifted his eyes to meet hers, a silent question passing between them. Emma nodded imperceptibly as they both leaned towards one another. When Killian’s lips met hers, the contact was charged with an intense attraction she had never felt before.

Except when his fingers had brushed hers in the drive thru.

Those fingers now carded through her hair as she tilted her head to deepen the kiss. His lips were soft against hers, but his kisses were firm and passionate. His other hand came up to gently caress her face, his thumb tracing her jaw and coming to rest on her chin. Emma pulled back, giving him a shy smile, which he returned. Then they resumed kissing, their tongues entwined in a dance so perfect, it felt as if they had been molded to fit together. When they finally parted, they were breathing heavily. Emma rested her forehead against his and sighed in complete contentment.

“Emma,” he murmured. God, she loved the way he said her name!

“Yeah,” she mumbled back dreamily.

“It’s definitely been a pleasure to serve you.”

[buzzdixonwriter]

TROTS AND BONNIE Review

Trigger Warning: This will review a work that often addresses human sexuality, emotional / physical / sexual abuse, and adolescents’ views on same.  Be advised.

. . . 

When I was growing up in the 1950s and early 1960s, two old comic strips that remained popular were J. R. Williams’ Out Our Way and Gene Ahern’s Our Boarding House, both started in the 1920s and, from their daily panels and Sunday pages, never moving out of that decade.  My favorite cartoons on local kid shows were Fleischer Brothers Betty Boop and Popeye cartoons, many of which took place in urban / suburban settings heavily reflective of 1920s and 1930s America.

So when I first encountered Shary Flenniken’s Trots And Bonnie I instantly recognized the flavor and style of the strips.

The content, on the other hand, came straight out of her underground comix pedigree, with the refreshing point of view of the female gaze instead of the admittedly too often misogynistic male cartoonists of the milieu.

Flenniken is one of the best artists and writers to come from the underground era, displaying a confident early mastery of the form (don’t listen to her protestations she really wasn’t good at the start of her career; she clearly ranked among the finest of the underground comix artists).

But the sweet and innocent look of Trots And Bonnie belies the frank and frequently shocking honesty of Flenniken’s work.  

As cartoonist Emily Flake notes in her introduction, “that’s the terrible power of children, the monstrous innocence that makes them capable of anything, a state of being we fatuously describe as ‘pure.’”

Innocence is not synonymous with purity in the world of Trots And Bonnie because the cast lack the moral and cultural filters we acquire as adults.  They are reporting on reality as they see it, and as with all children (and the elderly, and drunks) there’s nothing to stop them from commenting on the foibles of hypocrisy of humanity, nor is there a single iota of shame to hold back their expression.

And when you add the impact of puberty to that mix, holy &#@%, you have no room left for pretense or propriety.

Hold on to your hats, folks, ‘cuz it’s gonna be one helluva ride.

One helluva ride…and a hilarious one, too.

If modern audiences can get past the admittedly often shocking visuals and situations, they’ll find some of the most brilliant coming-of-age comedy ever penned.

The truth is always an absolute defense, and Trots And Bonnie dishes it out lavishly.  Brava to Shary Flenniken for having the courage (or honesty, of lack of filter; take your pick) to pen it, to the original underground comix and National Lampoon to publish it, and to new York Review Comics to bring almost all of it back (Flenniken herself opted to withhold a few strips that she feels might be construed now as hurtful or insulting).

Flenniken is the daughter of a military family, growing up in a variety of climes and places before her father retired in the Seattle area.

She reached adolescence and young adulthood during the hippie era, and the earliest strips cast a fond eye back on that time.

An original member of the infamous Air Pirates crew, she and fellow underground comix artists gained immediate recognition skewering Disney icons.  Air Pirates Funnies and Paul Kassner’s The Realist generated no small amount of tsuris for the House of Mouse in the late 1960s / early 1970s but The Realist, true to its name, possessed to good sense to adhere to the unofficial so-called “one-time fair use parody” rule while the Air Pirates pressed their luck with Air Pirates Funnies #2, resulting in the Disney legal department descending on them like an anvil dropped from orbit.

Crawling away from the wreckage, Flenniken kept contributing to a number of underground venues, creating the first Trots and Bonnie strip for the 1971 underground comix Merton Of The Movement. 

Trots and Bonnie (soon joined by Pepsi, a beguilingly sweet looking elfin-like child with the heart of Germaine Greer, the reproductive organs of Karen Finley, and the mouth of an interstate trucker) popped up in several single page strips and short stories until NatLamp recruited Flenniken in 1972 to be a regular contributor and (briefly) an editor.

NatLamp proved to be the perfect venue for Flenniken and her characters because the magazine possessed the economic mojo and suicidal “Who gives a &#@%?” attitude to publish Trots And Bonnie while at the same time providing a perfect audience of proto-incels who desperately needed some consciousness raising, especially if said consciousness raising arrived in the form of a kick in the groin.

Trots And Bonnie’s tenure at NatLamp lasted slightly more than two decades, but a big hunk of that era saw the Reagan culture wars raging, not to mention much of the country becoming obsessed with a literal modern day witch hunt in the infamous Satanic panic (an apt subject for Flenniken’s characters, but one she wisely avoided, thus following the old military adage, “Never draw fire on your own position.”).

The already edgy material in both NatLamp in general and Trots And Bonnie in particular threatened to be perceived as too edgy by law enforcement, legislators, and judicial authorities who seemed either unwilling or incapable of distinguishing between photographs and video of actual sexual assaults and rapes committed against real children as opposed to crudely drawn Xerox copied mini-comics made by outsider artists with audiences that might possibly number in the dozens.

Flenniken’s willingness to honestly recall the turbulent emotions of early adolescence resulted in stories and strips where prepubescent kids engage in activities and discussions that would be acutely problematic if done today.  Again, the utter lack of self-consciousness in Flenniken’s characters swerves her work away from the low grade smut ground out by many of her male contemporaries and flung open a window on how adolescent females perceived the world around them.

The stories are wildly transgressive, and like all transgressive art can only be understood in the context of their time and mores.  Flenniken’s art carries a sweetness that leavens out the most horrendous situations (she gets astonishing comedic mileage off a story about a woman raped by a police officer, never once blaming or exploiting the victim but lambasting the culture and mindset that makes such a crime possible).

The fact these stories are told from a vibrant feminist / sex positive point of view makes them relevant to this day, and Flenniken’s ability to draw both truth and humor from dysfunctional families, emotional abuse, and drug use keeps them from being one-note exercises.

Most importantly, Flenniken comes across as strongly pro-child, even while honestly depicting her own characters’ failings and misconceptions.

She always brings a genuine emotional connection with her characters as adolescents, neither glorifying nor patronizing them.

One of the most notorious Trots And Bonnie strips finds Bonnie looking at herself in a mirror, fantasizing she’s famous actresses of the past.*  

At the hands and brush of Norman Rockwell, this theme tries for poignant but lands in schmaltz, looking down on an anxious child studying her reflection in a mirror; in far too many bad novels by sub-par male writers, it’s borderline (and often not-so-borderline) pornography.

At the touch of Flenniken’s deft pen, it’s honest and sweet and shockingly frank but it never depicts Bonnie as a figment of the male imagination but as a character and personality all her own.

Flenniken has not done any new Trots And Bonnie strips since the last ones published in NatLamp in 1993.

To be honest, I think that’s a good thing.

The characters are of their particular time and cultural gestalt, it may not be possible to recapture that lightning in a new bottle, and rather than diminish the old, perhaps it best remains a perfect artefact of its era.

Mark Twain tried repeatedly but could never transport Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn out of antebellum Hannibal, and to use an example more contemporary to Flenniken’s work, the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers resolutely thwart all efforts to move them out of San Francisco during the Summer of Love.

You can’t go home again, as Thomas Wolfe famously observed, but that only applies if you’ve successfully left home.  At a certain point, if you haven’t moved beyond your old confines, you never will.

Flenniken’s honest frankness could have turned into a big crosshair on her back during the cultural wars, but to paraphrase John Lennon, life happened while she was making comix.

She married twice, divorced once, widowed the second time.  While she never completely withdrew from professional illustration, she no longer sought out the high profile gigs.

Trots And Bonnie from New York Review Comics is the first extensive English language compilation of her strips and stories, a very handsomely produced volume designed by Norman Hathaway.

The strips are meticulously presented, making it possible to enjoy Flenniken’s fine line work and exquisite character depictions in greater detail than every before.  It’s a genuine delight, sure to thrill old time fans of the original strip and quite likely to win a new generation of admirers.

But brace yourselves, noobs, this ain’t your grandma’s Betty Boop…

© Buzz Dixon

 *  It should be noted that for all its apparent revolutionary newness, the counterculture of the 1960s and 1970s, the crucible that forged Flenniken’s point of view, also enthusiastically embraced the past.  W. C. Fields and the Marx Brothers became cultural icons to a new generation, Betty Boop regained her old popularity, old movies were rediscovered and reimagined, African-American spirituals and blues sprang from new voices, obscure books and novels from earlier decades and centuries became the new cultural touchstones.

I’ve posted elsewhere on how the boomer generation enjoyed a unique conflation of new technology and old media to produce a brand new synthesis; there has been nothing like it since even with astonishing advances in technology.  When old media is rediscovered and reinterpreted in this era, it too often tends to be in the form of irony, which mocks that which it cannot understand.

Give those old hippies their due -- they got the &#@%ing point!

[ayearofpike]

Strange Girl

Simon Pulse, 2015 413 pages, 19 chapters + epilogue ISBN 978-1-4814-5058-4 LOC: PZ7.P626St 2015 OCLC: 936552329 Released November 17, 2015 (per B&N)

There’s a new girl in school, and something about her is unbelievably interesting to Fred Allen. Maybe it’s the way she carries herself. Maybe it’s the way she refers to herself as merely a vessel for conveying the knowledge she seems to have about our greater nature. Maybe it’s the remarkable power she commands, the way that happiness and healing ride in her wake everywhere she goes. Or maybe it’s her sweet ass. Whatever it is, she seems to connect with Fred just as quickly, elevating him to a greater happiness than he’s ever known. Of course, as with any powerful girl that people don’t understand, this happiness is fated to flee just as quickly when she pushes herself beyond what her body can handle.

Or, shorter: It’s Sati. It’s Sati set in high school with teenagers. It’s Sateen.

Part of the reason I took on this project is that I felt like my own writing was stagnating. Time was I couldn’t sit down without pumping out a thousand words of my own universe, my own characters and plots and desires and ideas. But at a certain point, I started to try to focus on bettering and refining one of my main tales, one I’d revisited off and on since sixth grade ... and I just burned out. I realized that I simply could not rework this story again, that it wasn’t ever going to be what I wanted or do what I wanted, or at least not in this fifth attempt in ten years. I couldn’t keep talking about the same thing again.

This might be indicative of why I’ve had a hard time pushing through as A Year (And A Half Now, Almost) Of Pike has approached its end point. There’s no denying that the man is a killer storyteller, and that some of his ideas and worlds were stunning and even revolutionary within the genre. But thirty years is a long time to stay in the game, especially when you’re pumping out more than three books a year for the main part of your popularity. It’s admirable that he was able to keep that up for so long without resorting to the James Patterson model of hiring someone else to write the books that have his name in large type across the top. But then, when you’ve only got one brain working on all these extensive ideas and under these onerous deadlines, you’re invariably going to start to repeat yourself. 

Almost everything Pike wrote after the start of Spooksville (I can’t even be charitable and say after his car accident) has repeated or revisited some major theme from an earlier work (mostly his own; I see you, Black Knight). And as I’ve pushed through and read every single one of his published works, I’ve started to feel that same fatigue that I had when trying to rewrite and repair something I’d spent so much time on of my own. See, this is why I can never actually be an academic despite being a composition teacher: so much of studying English is finding your niche and continuing to write about the same topic for your entire career, and I don’t think I could ever devote that much of my professional life to writing about the same thing. I just got tired of my ill-researched writing about the complete works of my favorite childhood author, for fuck’s sake. 

Still, if any book was due a revamp, Sati fits that mold. It was his first adult novel, it kinda got buried to all except his most devoted fans, and maybe it would be timely to publish a book about kindness and introspection and acceptance just as the muckrakingest American election in recent history was getting underway. But most of all, it’s still a relevant look at how we act and what we think about when we consider faith and religion and God. Considering how audiences and the book market have so drastically changed in the last thirty years, it totally makes sense that Pike might want to revisit the concept for a new generation. And honestly, I’m a victim of my own age and literacy here — nobody else who might be interested in this YA book in 2015 is reading its spiritual predecessor from 1988.

I’m mostly going to blast through the summary, because it’s been more than three weeks since I finished the book and I don’t actually want to reread it to remember specifics. Fred is a high-school musician living in Elder, South Dakota, and just like any other teenager in a small town is dreaming of escape. His parents own a hardware store and just barely maintain a rocky marriage, though all we know about that is what Fred specifically tells us. His best friend Janet, the presumptive valedictorian, has her own messy home life, but they always have each other’s backs, which is why Janet pushes Fred toward the new girl.

This is Aja, a beautiful Brazilian who relocated to South Dakota for some reason three months ago but didn’t start school until today. The teacher in the class they share is unreasonably mean to her for apparently no reason, but it doesn’t put Fred off buying her lunch and trying to learn more about her. He’s unsuccessful, largely, but she does learn about him and his band and their work before she takes off. They’re doing a gig at a nearby Air Force bar on the weekend, and everyone knows Fred is the real talent and pressures him to perform a little more of his original and quieter work at the show. This here is Fred’s difficulty: he wants it, he has the talent and the drive, but he second-guesses how much people actually want to hear his voice.

Aja gets kicked out of the class they share when she’s accused of cheating on her entrance exam (what?), so Fred doesn’t see her again until after their gig. The crowd is getting raucous and angry, and the drummer doesn’t take well to that, so the evening is just starting to devolve into a brawl when Aja stands on a table and tells everyone to calm the fuck down. She also helps out one of the servicemen, who has taken a whiskey bottle to the head but now isn’t even bleeding. Weird, right? 

A local reporter sure thinks so. She posts a video of the event, with a suggestion that maybe Aja is more than she appears to be. Can she heal people? The folks at their next gig have the same question, surrounding her and generally pestering until Fred manages to pull her away. They drop her off at home, the biggest house in town, and Fred finally asks her out, sort of, by responding to her question about his unhappiness by saying she should stop accepting dates with other dudes. Like, possessive much already? But on his way to work the next day, he sees the teacher in the cemetery, near her son’s grave, and decides to talk to her about Aja. This opens a floodgate: the teacher blames herself for her son running outside and getting hit by a car, and apparently Aja knew more than she should have, which was why the teacher was so salty with her before. So what else does this girl know?

Fred goes to pick Aja up for their first official date, and ends up talking to her guardian, where he finally learns more about her past. It seems that Aja was a feral child living near a village in the Amazon, and she had a reputation as a magical healer and talent. The guardian was compelled to the village for some reason, and appointed herself the caretaker of the girl, and only uprooted them to South Dakota because Aja said they needed to go there. The guardian only has a vague idea why, but she’s pretty sure it’s related to Fred.

They go back to his house, because his parents are out, and he plays her a song almost off the top of his head that she’s inspired. Before they can start gettin’ freaky, Fred’s phone rings, and apparently his hot-headed drummer has gotten into it with some drug dealers and cops in a nearby town and is in critical condition in the hospital. So Fred and Aja go there, but when he calls the guardian’s valet (or whatever this dude is; it’s kinda muddy) to tell her what’s up, he gets pissed and freaked out and orders Fred to make Aja leave the hospital. Only he can’t find her. And when he does, she’s all dizzy, and passes out on the ride home, and when he drops her off the valet screams at him and slams the door in his face.

But the drummer wakes up, and when Fred goes to see him, he hears a story of two beings visiting him, and his realization that this was the end, only he wasn’t ready to go because it would cause too much pain. This is the only real mention of the subplot that the band’s bass player is gay and in love with the drummer, and even though the drummer is straight (I mean, I guess he could be bi, Pike doesn’t really go into details, but the point is they don’t end up together) he cares too much about his friend to just kick the bucket. So the smaller of the beings picked up on that and touched him, and then he woke up. 

There’s also a reporter there trying to talk to Fred and his best friend about the miracle that Aja performed, and they do their best to brush her off only she isn’t giving up. In fact, she’s using a YouTube channel to promote the idea that Aja is a goddess or something, with a video of the way she ended the bar brawl and testimony from a nurse in the hospital that she touched the drummer not long before he arose from life-threatening injuries. Fred agrees to meet with the reporter and actually gets more information than he gives up: namely, Aja has been curing and healing people since her days in Brazil and that she spoke with all of the villagers about her decision to leave for the US, saying there was an important reason to do so.

Before he can confront Aja and her handlers about it, her guardian dies. The valet says she’s written a letter to Fred, but he can’t seem to find it. So while we wait, let’s go on a date! Only someone in the restaurant recognizes Aja and insists she heal her daughter. And this is where we find Aja’s limitations: she can’t help this girl; her fate is to live for a short time. 

In blasting through the summary I might be glossing over Aja’s description of her connection to the cosmos and how her powers and abilities work. A lot of it ties back to the same things Pike loves to revisit when thinking about metaphysics: the oneness of Buddhist nirvana, letting go of desires and selfishness to connect to the unity of humanity, and being able to tap into superhuman powers once you’re linked. Aja calls the overarching all the “Big Person,” and her abilities come from what the Big Person tells her is necessary. She can act out of her own human desires, respond to the Little Person, but when she does it takes a toll on her health, which is what happened with the drummer. But how does someone so young get tapped into a consciousness so vast and lose her childish selfishness? We’ll get there.

Anyway, Fred goes to a band rehearsal the next day and is stopped on the way by a family who has another sick kid in the hospital, desperate for him to put them in touch with Aja. He doesn’t want to do it, knowing what he knows, but his friends accuse him of being overprotective. The best friend compares a lot of what Aja has said she does with practices she’s learned through yoga and meditation, to draw an explicit line for those in the audience who haven’t just read 94 other Pike books and didn’t look more deeply into Eastern religion because of it. And then Fred’s phone rings, and it’s the family, and they already talked to Aja and their daughter is feeling better so he doesn’t have to put himself out. What? The kid was in the hospital in another state. Aja explains that she’s not actually the vessel: the Big Person does the work, and all she’s doing is making it aware and asking the question of “can we?” 

The will reading for Aja’s guardian comes up, and in addition to splitting her (holy crap immense) wealth between Aja and the valet, she has also left instructions with her lawyer that Fred should get an audition with a record label in LA. The laywer also has the letter, which basically says that Fred can’t protect Aja from the infirm and ill, and he shouldn’t try. I guess this lady would know, right, having taken care of the girl for something like ten years. But word is getting out, more and more people are asking Aja for help, national reporters are starting to show up, Fred has a weird encounter with a spooky fortune teller in a graveyard, and he can’t help but be concerned. So he helps the valet hire a private security firm to keep these people away from Aja, which (when they follow her to school on Monday) prompts an emergency community meeting about the disruption of education by these horrible rumors.

As it turns out, this is actually a racist move by the principal, who has a reputation as an evangelical Christian and has unfairly targeted minorities (especially our drummer, who is Mexican) for years. He’s trying to get a lynch mob together without exactly saying as much. Only too bad for him a lot of people in the community (the more open-minded ones, the ones who have actually spoken to her) already support Aja, because of their own first-hand experience with her help. But enough people are screaming about Jesus that they’re just about ready to light up torches and drive Aja out of town. Until she reveals the racist principal’s big secret: he had a child with a black woman, and could never reconcile his love for them with his love for pointy white hoods or whatever, and then the kid died and he has always regretted it. And Aja holds his hands, and talks to him, and suddenly here comes the creepy fortune teller who it turns out was the mother of Racist Principal’s child, and they embrace and apologize and forgive, and the meeting is suddenly over.

Somewhere in all the Aja hullaballoo, the best friend took off to New York to live with her mother. She won’t answer Fred’s calls, she won’t respond to texts, and Aja (the last one to see her before she left) insists that she can’t be the one to reveal her confidences. So Fred goes to see her dad and try to get more info. Now this isn’t the first time Best Friend has left with the mom: the first was right after they got divorced, only she moved back a year later without any explanation. And the divorce was just as sudden and explanation-free, only the dad just accepted it. And Fred realizes, while he’s standing there in the living room and picking up hints from the dad and looking at old pictures where both women look uncomfortable: he’s a sexual predator. He touched his daughter inappropriately, because his wife and her mother was somehow loveless (leading to the girl coming back the first time) and so he partook of some fucked-up urges. Only the girl has never been able to accept that it wasn’t her fault, and in talking to Aja and exploring herself is she just getting there. So of course she needs to not LIVE with the motherfucker while she’s coming to grips.

Fortunately for Fred so he doesn’t stab a bitch, the trip to LA is nigh. Aja goes with him, and he plays his demos live, finishing with the new song he’s still writing for her. Of course that’s the song they want, and they hustle him into a recording session with an engineer to lay down a single. On the way back, Best Friend calls and asks if she can stay with him and his parents long enough to graduate high school with her friends, and as their flights land within a couple hours of each other in Sioux Falls, they plan to drive home together. Fred and Aja get there first, and he has to intimidate the dad away from the airport before his friend gets there. Only that can’t work for the whole state: he’s waiting for them to drive out of the parking lot, and attempts to run them off the road to take back his little girl.

Did I mention that it’s winter in South Dakota? The interstate is a sheet of ice, and these assholes are playing chicken at 100 mph. Of course they wreck the cars, and the kids get off with minor bumps and bruises. The dad isn’t so lucky:  his car has overturned and trapped him inside. Now the best friend is upset with him, but she’s not a sociopath and he’s still her dad, so they work to pry him out of the car before it explodes. But the way he’s bleeding and choking, he’s probably going to die anyway, so she wants Aja to heal him. And this is Fred’s great test of faith: do I argue against this and risk losing my best friend, or do I go along and risk losing my girlfriend? He finally agrees to let her listen to the Big Person.

Of course Aja collapses immediately upon laying hands on the molester. But by the time emergency response gets to the accident, he’s feeling better and Aja is fading fast. She can now finally tell Fred about her childhood, her past, which she has long avoided. It turns out that her dad was a drug dealer who stole from his bosses, and as punishment they sent three strongarms to kill the whole family. Only when they murdered Aja’s mother, her soul fled her body, leaving a gap for connection to the Big Person. The female enforcer sensed this and took the kid and ran ... and this female enforcer ended up being Racist Principal’s baby momma. No, I don’t know how it works, get your own globe. 

But now she’s given her all to Molester Dad and is on her way out. Still, her reason for coming to South Dakota was a good one: love. She knew that Fred needed her, and she knew that he would benefit from the connection she might provide to the Big Person. And even though her time was fated to be short, she feels happy that she completed her mission of love, and trusts that Fred will continue to spread the message. One last kiss, and she’s gone.

They end up at a hospital, and of course they want to do an autopsy on Aja to see why she died so suddenly and unexpectedly. The valet is firmly against it, and manages to get custody of the body and take it home, where he and Fred say one last goodbye before he lights the shit on fire. It’s a good thing she already filled out a will, that gave all her money to Fred, and that the lawyer has a copy of it!

There’s a long-ass epilogue that talks about what happened to everyone. The best friend has kids of her own and almost never talks to her dad, the two other band members founded a holistic medicine company in San Francisco and got married but to other people, and Fred himself was never able to leverage his meeting and audition into his own performing career but now writes hit songs for other people. But I guess none of them are about Aja, because now he had to write a book about it? And it’s done! The end!

See what I mean? This shit has been done before, almost beat for beat, and by the SAME AUTHOR. Now I’m not averse to reading a book again (cf. this whole goddamn project), but at least I’m going into the book knowing it is what it is. I’m not expecting to see something that is labeled a new work that actually retells a previous story that I literally just read. Maybe James Patterson can get away with that, but I don’t read his books either. 

At any rate, this post is finally done. I have this monkey off my back, and maybe now I can reflect and give some closure on the whole project. But I’ll save that for another post.

[radfemandreadaly]

The news that Jorg Haider - the Austrian fascist leader - spent his final few hours in a gay bar with a hot blond has shocked some people. It hasn't shocked me. This is a taboo topic for a gay left-wing man like me to touch, but there has always been a weird, disproportionate overlap between homosexuality and fascism. Take a deep breath; here goes.

Some 10,000 gay people were slaughtered in the Nazi death-camps. Many more were humiliated, jailed, deported, ethnically cleansed, or castrated. One gay survivor of the camps, LD Classen von Neudegg, has written about his experiences. A snapshot: "Three men had tried to escape one night. They were captured, and when they returned they had the word 'homo' scrawled across their clothing. They were placed on a block and whipped. Then they were forced to beat a drum and cheer, 'Hurrah! We're back! Hurrah!' Then they were hanged." This is one of the milder events documented in his book. So the idea of a gay fascist seems ridiculous. Yet when the British National Party - our own home-grown Holocaust-denying bigots - announced it was fielding an openly gay candidate in the European elections this June, dedicated followers of fascism didn't blink. The twisted truth is that gay men have been at the heart of every major fascist movement that ever was - including the gay-gassing, homo-cidal Third Reich. With the exception of Jean-Marie Le Pen, all the most high-profile fascists in Europe in the past thirty years have been gay. It's time to admit something. Fascism isn't something that happens out there, a nasty habit acquired by the straight boys. It is - in part, at least - a gay thing, and it's time for non-fascist gay people to wake up and face the marching music. Just look at our own continent over the past decade. Dutch fascist Pim Fortuyn ran on blatantly racist anti-immigrant platform, describing Islam as "a cancer" and "the biggest threat to Western civilisation today." Yet with two little fluffy dogs and a Mamma complex, he was openly, flamboyantly gay. When accused by a political opponent of hating Arabs, he replied, "How can I hate Arabs? I sucked one off last night."

Jorg Haider blasted Austria's cosy post-Nazi politics to rubble in 2000 when his neo-fascist 'Freedom Party' won a quarter of the vote and joined the country's government as a coalition partner. Several facts always cropped up in the international press coverage: his square jaw, his muscled torso, his SS-supporting father, his rabid anti-Semitism, his hatred of immigrants, his description of Auschwitz and Dachau as "punishment centres". A few newspapers mentioned that he is always surrounded by fit, fanatical young men. A handful went further and pointed out that several of these young men are openly gay. Then one left-wing German paper broke the story everybody else was hinting at. They alleged Haider is gay. Rumours of an Indian waiter with "intimate details" of Haider's body broke into the press. The Freedom Party's general manager Gerald Miscka quickly quit, amid accusations that he was Haider's lover. Haider's close gay friend Walter Kohler - who has been photographed showing off a holstered pistol while Haider chuckled - declared his opposition to outing politicians. Haider - who was married and has two children - kept quiet while his functionaries denied the rumours. The revelation that he died after leaving a gay bar suggests these rumours were true.

On and on it goes. If you inter-railed across Europe, only stopping with gay fascists, there aren't many sights you'd miss. France's leading post-war fascist was Edouard Pfieffer, who was not batting for the straight side. Germany's leading neo-Nazi all through the eighties was called Michael Kuhnen; he died of AIDS in 1991 a few years after coming out. Martin Lee, author of a study of European fascism, explains, "For Kuhnen, there was something supermacho about being a Nazi, as well as being a homosexual, both of which enforced his sense of living on the edge, of belonging to an elite that was destined to make an impact. He told a West German journalist that homosexuals were 'especially well-suited for our task, because they do not want ties to wife, children and family.'" And it wouldn't be long before your whistlestop tour arrived in Britain. At first glance, our Nazis seem militantly straight. They have tried to disrupt gay parades, describe gay people as "evil", and BNP leader Nick Griffin reacted charmingly to the bombing of the Admiral Duncan pub in 1999 with a column saying, "The TV footage of gay demonstrators [outside the scene of carnage] flaunting their perversion in front of the world's journalists showed just why so many ordinary people find these creatures repulsive."

But scratch to homophobic surface and there's a spandex swastika underneath. In 1999, Martin Webster, a former National Front organiser and head honcho in the British fascist movement, wrote a four-page pamphlet detailing his 'affair' with Nick Griffin. "Griffin sought out intimate relations with me," openly-gay Webster explained, "in the late 1970s. He was twenty years younger than me." Ray Hill, who infiltrated the British fascist movement for twelve years to gather information for anti-fascist groups, says it's all too plausible. Homosexuality is "extremely prevalent" in the upper echelons of the British far right, and at one stage in the 1980s nearly half of the movement's organisers were gay, he claims.  

Gerry Gable, editor of the anti-fascist magazine 'Searchlight', explains, "I have looked at Britain's Nazi groups for decades and this homophobic hypocrisy has been there all the time. I cannot think of any organisation on the extreme right that hasn't attacked people on the grounds of their sexual preference and at the same time contained many gay officers and activists."

Griffins' alleged gay affair would stand in a long British fascist tradition. The leader of the skinhead movement all through the 1970s was a crazed, muscled thug called Nicky Crane. He was the icon of a reactionary backlash against immigrants, feminism and the 'hippy' lifetsyle of the 1960s. His movement's emphasis on conformity to a shaven, dehumanised norm resembled classical fascist movements; Crane soon became a campaigner and leading figure in the National Front. Oh, and he was gay. Before he died of AIDS in the mid-1980s, Crane came out and admitted he had starred in many gay porn videos. Just before he died in 1986, he was allowed to steward a Gay Pride march in London, even though he still said he was "proud to be a fascist." The rubber-soled friction between gay fascists and progressive British gay people sparked into anger in 1985 when the Gay Skinhead Movement organised a disco at London's Gay Centre. Several lesbians in particular objected to the "invasion" of the centre. They felt that the cult of "real men" and hypermasculine thugs was stirring up the most base feelings "in the very place, the gay movement, where you would least expect them." And this Gaystapo has an icon to revere, an alternative Fuhrer to worship: the lost gay fascist leader Ernst Rohm. Along with Adolf Hitler, Rohm was the founding father of Nazism. Born to conservative Bavarian civil servants in 1887, Ernst Rohm's life began - in his view - in the "heroic" trenches of the First World War. Like so many of the generation who formed the Nazi Party, he was nurtured by and obsessed with the homoerotic myth of the trenches - heroic, beautiful boys prepared to die for their brothers and their country.   He emerged from the war with a bullet-scarred face and a reverence for war. As he put it in his autobiography, "Since I am an immature and wicked man, war and unrest appeal to me more than the good bourgeois order." After being disbanded, he tried half-heartedly to get a foothold in civilian life, but he saw it as alien, bourgeois, boring. He had no political beliefs, only prejudices - particularly hatred of Jews. Historian Joachim Fest describes Rohm's generation of alienated, demobbed young men humiliated by defeat as "agents of a permanent revolution without any revolutionary idea of the future, only a wish to eternalize the values of the trenches." It was Rohm who first spotted the potential of a soap-box ranter called Adolf Hitler. He saw him as the demagogue he needed to mobilize support for his plan to overthrow democracy and establish a "soldier's state" where the army ruled untrammelled. He introduced the young fascist to local politicians and military leaders; they knew him for many years as "Rohm's boy." Gay historian Frank Rector notes, "Hitler was, to a substantial extent, Rohm's protégé." Rohm integrated Hitler into his underground movement to overthrow the Weimar Republic. Rohm's blatant, out homosexuality seems bizarre now, given the gay genocide that was to follow. He talked openly about his fondness for gay bars and Turkish baths, and was known for his virility. He believed that gay people were superior to straights, and saw homosexuality as a key principle of his proposed Brave New Fascist Order. As historian Louis Snyder explains, Rohm "projected a social order in which homosexuality would be regarded as a human behaviour pattern of high repute... He flaunted his homosexuality in public and insisted his cronies do the same. He believed straight people weren't as adept at bullying and aggression as homosexuals, so homosexuality was given a high premium in the SA." They promoted an aggressive, hypermasculine form of homosexuality, condemning "hysterical women of both sexes", in reference to feminine gay men. This belief in the superiority of homosexuality had a strong German tradition that grew up at the turn of the twentieth century around Adolf Brand, publisher of the country's first gay magazine. You could call it 'Queer as Volk': they preached that gay men were the foundation of all nation-states and represented an elite, warrior caste that should rule. They venerated the ancient warrior cults of Sparta, Thebes and Athens.

Rohm often referred to the ancient Greek tradition of sending gay solider couples into battle, because they were believed to be the most ferocious fighters. The famous pass of Thermopylae, for example was held by 300 soldiers - who consisted of 150 gay couples. In its early years, the SA - Hitler and Rohm's underground army - was seen as predominantly gay. Rohm assigned prominent posts to his lovers, making Edmund Heines his deputy and Karl Ernst the SA commander in Berlin. The organisation would sometimes meet in gay bars. The gay art historian Christian Isermayer said in an interview, "I got to know people in the SA. They used to throw riotous parties even in 1933... I once attended one. It was quite well-behaved but thoroughly gay. But then, in those days, the SA was ultra-gay." On June 30th 1934, Rohm was awoken in a Berlin hotel by Hitler himself. He sprang to his feet and saluted, calling, "Heil Mein Fuhrer!" Hitler said simply, "You are under arrest," and with that he left the room, giving orders for Rohm to be taken to Standelheim prison. He was shot that night. Rohm was the most high-profile kill in the massacre known as 'the Night of the Long Knives'.   Rohm had been suspected by Hitler of disloyalty, but his murder began a massive crackdown on gay people. Heinrich Himmler, head of the Gestapo, described homosexuality as "a symptom of degeneracy that could destroy our race. We must return to the guiding Nordic principle: extermination of degenerates." German historian Lothar Machtan argues that Hitler had Rohm - and almost all of the large number of gay figures within the SA - killed to silence speculation about his own homosexual experiences. His 'evidence' for Hitler being gay is shaky and has been questioned by many historians, although some of his findings are at least suggestive. A close friend of Hitler's during his teenager years, August Kubizek, alleged a "romantic" affair between them. Hans Mend, a despatch rider who served alongside Hitler in the First World War, claimed to have seen Hitler having sex with a man. Hitler was certainly very close to several gay men, and never seems to have had a normal sexual relationship with a woman, not even his wife, Eva Braun. Rudolph Diels, the founder of the Gestapo, recorded some of Hitler's private thoughts on homosexuality. "It had destroyed ancient Greece, he said. Once rife, it extended its contagious effects like an ineluctable law of nature to the best and most manly of characters, eliminating from the breeding pool the very men the Volk most needs." This idea - that homosexuality is 'contagious' and, implicitly, tempting - is revealing. Rohm is venerated on the Homo-Nazi sites that have bred on the internet like germs in a wound. They have names like Gays Against Semitism (with the charming acronym GAS), and the Aryan Resistance Corps (ARC). Their Rohmite philosophy is simple: while white men are superior to other races, gay men are "the masters of the Master Race". They alone are endowed with the "capacity for pure male bonding" and the "superior intellect" that is needed for "a fascist revolution." The ARC even organises holiday "get-togethers" for its members where "you can relax amongst the company of our fellow white brothers." So it's fairly easy to establish that gay people are not inoculated from fascism. They have often been at its heart. This begs the bigger question: why? How did gay people - so often victims of oppression and hate - become integral to the most hateful and evil political movement of all? Is it just an extreme form of self-harm, the political equivalent to the gay kids who slash their own arms to ribbons out of self-hate?   Gay pornographer and film-maker Bruce LaBruce has one explanation. He claims that "all gay porn today is implictly fascist. Fascism is in our bones, because it's all about glorifying white male supremacy and fetishizing domination, cruelty, power and monstrous authority figures." He has tried to explore the relationship between homosexuality and fascism in his movies, beginning with 'No Skin Off My Ass' in 1991. In his disturbing 1999 film "Skin Flick', a bourgeois gay couple - one black, one white - are sexually terrorised by a gang of gay skinheads who beat off to 'Mein Kampf' and beat up 'femmes'. He implies that bourgeois gay norms quickly break down to reveal a fascist lurking underneath; the movie ends with the black character being raped in front of his half-aroused white lover, as the racist gang chant, "Fuck the monkey." I decided to track down some gay fascists and ask them directly. Wyatt Powers, director of the ARC, says, "I always knew in my heart racist and gay were both morally right. I don't see any conflict between them. It's only the Jew-owned gay press that tries to convince us that racialism is the same thing as homophobia. You can be an extreme nationalist and gay without any contradiction at all."   One comment board on a gay racist website goes even further into racist lunacy. One gay man from Ohio says, "Even if you are gay and white, or retarded and white, YOU ARE WHITE, BOTTOM LINE! Instead of letting the white race go extinct because of worthless races such as the Africans or Mexicans popping out literally millions of babies a day, we have to fight this fucked up shit they are doing. They are raping our country." It's true that racism and homophobia do not necessarily overlap - but as Rabbi Bernard Melchman explains, "Homophobia and anti-Semitism are so often part of the same disease." Racists are usually homophobic. Even after reading all their web rantings, I didn't feel any closer to understanding why so many gay men ally themselves with people who will almost always turn on them in the end, just as the Nazis did. Gay rights campaigner Peter Tatchell has a sensitive and intriguing explanation. "There are many reasons for this kind of thing," he says. "Some of them are in denial. They are going for hyper-masculinity, the most extreme possible way of being a man. It's a way of ostentatiously rejecting the perceived effeminacy of the homosexual 'Other'. These troubled men have a simple belief in their minds: 'Straight men are tough. Queers are weak. Therefore if I'm tough I can't be queer.' It's a desperate way of proving their manhood." 'Searchlight' magazine - the bible of the British anti-fascist movement, with moles in every major far-right organisation - offers an alternative explanation. "Generally condemned by a society that continues to be largely hostile to gays, some men may find refuge and a new power status in the far right," one of their writers has explained. "Through adherence to the politics espoused by fascist groups, a new identity emerges - one where they aren't outcasts, because they are White Men, superior to everyone else. They render the gay part of their identity invisible - or reject the socially less acceptable parts, like being feminine - while vaunting what they see as superior." But there's another important question: will fascist movements inevitably turn on gay people? In the case of the Nazis, it seems to have been fairly arbitrary; Hitler's main reason for killing Rohm was unrelated to his sexuality. From my perspective as a progressive-minded leftie, all fascism is evil; but should all gay people see it as inimical to their interests? Is it possible to have a gay fascist who wasn't acting against his own interests? Fascism is often defined as "a political ideology advocating hierarchical government that systematically denies equality to certain groups." It's true that this hierarchy could benefit gay people at the expense of, say, black people. But given the prevalence of homophobia, isn't that - even for people who don't see fascism as inherently evil - a terrible risk to take? Won't a culture that turns viciously on one minority get around to gay people in the end? This seems, ultimately, to be the lesson of Ernst Rohm's pitiful, squalid little life. The growing awareness of the role gay men play in fascist movements has been abused by some homophobes. In an especially nutty work of revisionist history called 'The Pink Swastika', the 'historian' Scott Lively tries to blame gay people for the entire Holocaust, and describes the murder of gay men in the camps as merely "gay-on-gay violence." A typical website commenting on the book claims absurdly, "The Pink Swastika shows that there was far more brutality, rape, torture and murder committed against innocent people by Nazi homosexuals than there even was against homosexuals themselves." Yet we can't allow these madmen to prevent a period of serious self-reflection from the gay movement. If Bruce LaBruce is right, many of the mainstream elements of gay culture - body worship, the lauding of the strong, a fetish for authority figures and cruelty - provide a swamp in which the fascist virus can thrive. Do some gay people really still need to learn that fascists will not bring on a Fabulous Solution for gay people, but a Final Solution for us all?

Johann Hari is a writer for the Independent newspaper. To read more of his articles, click here.

[howardschatzphotography]

On Seeing, A Journal. Above and Beyond: David Brooks December 11th, 2018

My most recent visitor to the studio for my Above and Beyond project is David Brooks, a Canadian-born American conservative commentator who writes a political and cultural column for The New York Times. He is a regular contributor to the PBS NewsHour and to NPR’s All Things Considered, and has been a reporter and op-ed editor for The Wall Street Journal. He is a senior editor at The Weekly Standard and also a contributing editor at Newsweek and The Atlantic. Brooks has written and edited several books, including the anthology Backward and Upward: The New Conservative Writing (1996) and Bobos in Paradise: The New Upper Class and How They Got There (2000), On Paradise Drive: How We Live Now (and Always Have) in the Future Tense (2004), The Social Animal: The Hidden Sources of Love, Character, and Achievement (2011), and The Road to Character (2015). HS: You've said "politics is being overtaken by tribalism.” Would you expand on that? DB: We used to have community, and community is based on common affection and trust. Jane Jacobs, who wrote Death and Life of Great American Cities, described looking out her window one day and seeing a little girl trying to get away from a guy kidnapping her. And she (Jacobs) couldn't help, and she thought: Maybe I should go down and intervene. And then she noticed that the butcher’s wife had come out of the shop, the fruit stand guy had come out, somebody had come out, the locksmith, and the guy was surrounded. And it turns out it wasn’t a kidnapping, it was a just a dad calling his daughter. But, that's what community is like. And she describes it very famously as a ballet on the street. And we used to have those ballets in a lot of neighborhoods, where people could trust each other, they looked out for each other, they kept each other safe. Over the last 50 years, we sort of lost that, we lost social capital, as they say, and we’re more isolated and alone. And when people are isolated and alone, they do what the revolutionaries tell them to do, which is they revert to tribe. And tribalism looks like community, because it is a kind of bonding and belonging, but it’s based on mutual hatred and not mutual affection. So, it’s always us/them, friend/enemy distinctions. And if you look at polarization today, it’s not that people love their own political party so much, they just hate the other one. That's the motivator, that's tribalism. HS: Hasn’t humanity always been tribal? Isn't it in our bones? DB: Well, it’s in our bones to make friend-enemy distinctions. It’s not in our bones to have a set of communities that rule out other communities, that have to be hostile to other communities. But it is possible to have a set of people where I'm in my community, you're in yours, I've got nothing against you and we’re probably joined by a higher community, which is our national community. HS: How do you find civility? DB:  I think you have to get away from that sense that people who have that are naked and alone in a world that's hostile. Where people can't be trusted. And so, my basic view is, you have to start with local dinners with neighbors, where people actually get to know each other. HS: I'm sure that happens, probably all over the United States, in various little towns, but it doesn’t seem to be infectious, it doesn’t seem to last. DB: Yes. And there are a lot of reasons for that. I would emphasize the culture of individualism that says, "I need as much space as I can to be myself." It’s also probably true that as we get more diverse, it gets a little harder to form communities.Then there are some values; we value privacy above all. And so, in most nations around the world and at most times in America, it was very normal to go up to somebody’s house who you sort of knew, and knock on the doorbell, or ring the door. And now that never happens. You would think, no, I'm invading their privacy. I'm not going to do that. We put incredibly high priority on privacy, also on work. We work really hard and then when we get home, we just want to relax, we don’t want to socialize. There's a lot of value put on that. 

HS: The gulf between peoples seems pervasive all over the world. Within any country, there are us and them. Muslims and Hindus. Christians and Jews. It’s seems like your dream of a loving, compassionate vision is something that’s not within the human genome. DB: I covered the Soviet Union coming down, the coming together of community there. I covered Nelson Mandela coming out of prison, the end of apartheid there. I covered the unification of Germany. And you saw these surges of people trying to come together across differences. And we had a country here, a political system, where it wasn’t complete partisan warfare, the way it is now. That's been a deteriorating issue we’ve had for 30 years. HS: I think it goes way back, such as famous politicians who hated George Washington. DB: Of course, politics has always brutal, but then politicians also worked together across party lines. Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton, famously, hated each other, but they served in the same administration. And if you looked at the votes in most parties or most congresses, there was plenty of overlap. If you look at the Supreme Court, only two percent of cases 20 years ago, were decided on party lines. Now it’s well over 20 percent. There are concrete measures of growing tribal distrust. If you’d asked people a generation ago, do you trust the institutions of society, 70 or 80 percent said, yes; and now it’s only 20 percent. HS: Is this deterioration a sign of the end of our civilization? I mean, all empires self-destruct eventually? DB: Yes, it could be. When Gibbon described the end of the Roman Empire, he described it as a collection....Not a really functioning society anymore. Just a collection of isolated individuals. So, it could be, but I sort of doubt it. We go through bumpy times. If you look at 1968, it was way worse. If you look at 1932, it was worse. There have been times in our country where we’ve been in similar circumstances to today. HS: Is Trump as our president a symptom or a cause of our problems? DB: Well, it’s a symptom and a cause. He was elected because so many people are disgusted with Washington and hate what’s been done to them, or are disgusted with outsiders. And now he gets himself at the center of attention every single day by making friend-enemy distinctions, by saying those are evil people, we’re good people. He grew out of this distrust, but he plays on it and exacerbates it. HS: Can we survive him? DB: I think so. It won't be easy, I don't think our politics is going to recover for a long, long time. It will take a social recovery before we get a political recovery. But say he lasts another two years, we’ve endured two years of it, so far nothing. We’ve had a deterioration in norms and how we treat each other and think of each other. If he’s gone in two years, maybe it’ll get worse, maybe we get another version of Trump. But it’s possible that you can snap back. I just think that nothing is determined in life. And there are parts of the society that are actually kind of healthy, our economy, things like that. HS: Nothing’s determined, you can't predict the future for anything ever, really. What bothers me is the silence of good Republicans. There are bright Republican Congressmen and Senators. There are conscientious nation-loving human beings who are mute. They shudder that they have this president, but they relish what he brings them. DB: I've had many conversations with them on this subject. And, of course, I would like them all to speak up. And they say: Well, look at all the people who’ve spoken up, their careers are over. And so, what good would it do the country for my career to be over? Trump would still be Trump. You’d get some lunatic in place of me. And so, I’ll wait for my moment. I give them credit for some strength in that argument; if you speak up against Trump and you're in the Republican Party, you lose your next primary. The loyalty among Republican voters is to Trump. And not even to the party, just to Trump the person. HS: You've said: Trump takes every wound and repeatedly pokes holes in it. What do you mean exactly? DB: In our nation’s history, the most famous wounds are racial wounds. And so, he pokes at any racial prejudice and racial division. Religious wounds, city versus rural, pretty much all the divisions you can think of in society. The native versus the immigrant…he inflames one side or another of these divides. It’s just his marketing strategy. But, partly, it’s hard not to believe that he doesn’t have some level of bigotry. And then, finally, I think he just was raised in a culture of distrust. That the outsiders are out to get us, that life is a do or die battle. HS: What leaders do you most admire today? DB: I like a lot of senators. But mostly the happiest people I know are mayors, because they're actually doing stuff. The unhappiest are members of Congress. For example, a mayor I admire, though he’s controversial, is Rahm Emanuel of Chicago who came into a city that was vastly in debt, with school systems that were totally failing. He got the city out of debt and he closed some schools, and I think graduation rates have increased phenomenally, more than any other city in America. Not only because of him, it’s been through a ten-year project. And he’s just announced he won't run again, so he made a lot of enemies doing this stuff. But I think there are tens of thousands of children in Chicago now who have better education because of what he did. In Washington, you find people who are doing the best they can under bad circumstances. General Mattis, the Secretary of Defense, is doing the best he can in a bad circumstance. Some of the senators, Amy Klobuchar from Minnesota, a Democrat. Ron Wyden, Ben Sasse, a Republican. They’re trying to do legislation in a bad circumstance. So I give them respect. HS: How would you change these negative circumstances? Obama tried. DB: He had the right feelings, he didn't have the right relationships. He didn't have a relationship of trust with the leaders of Congress, even in his own party. I don't think he liked hanging around with politicians, they just weren't his cup of tea. HS: How do you personally maintain a conservative bent, yet work for the New York Times? DB: I have a worldview. If I didn't have a worldview, I couldn't do my job. It’s informed by Edmond Burke and Alexander Hamilton, both of them conservative-ish guys, at least by the traditional definition of conservatism. So, I think my views are reasonably predictable. When you're writing for The Times, you're writing for a mostly progressive audience. And in that case, you just try to show respect. HS: Can you change people’s minds? DB: I think you can. I really think you can. By saying: Well, you believe X, here are the nine facts to prove that Y is possible. You can give people, a better way to live and their norms and values will subtly change.

HS: But what about the 40 percent of Americans who are pro-Trump, despite the fact he’s allergic to the truth? DB: I wish they would change their minds. But I spend most of my life with these people, and they say: Listen, I needed a change. I know he’s a jerk. I don't pay attention to all that circus stuff, all those tweets. But the economy is doing better, I feel like he’s shaken up Washington. I mean, they have their reasoning and it’s not completely idiotic. HS: You worked on a police beat in Chicago. How did that influence your thinking? DB: Profoundly, even though it was a very short time. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to do journalism, I knew I wanted to write. But when I did the police beat, I came home every day with a story, and it was fun and exciting. I was super left wing, and the parts of Chicago I covered were some of the worst parts of Chicago at the time -- Cabrini Green, and the Robert Taylor Homes -- these big projects. And what I saw was earnest, well-intentioned social reform that had disastrous consequences. And it taught me that society is really complicated. And if you're going to do change you should do it incrementally. And be aware that you're probably going to have a lot of bad consequences you can't anticipate. And that's more or less Edmond Burke’s philosophy, so it turned me a little more conservative. HS: What is your process? You must have a time when you write, and then when you read. You must have time when you go to movies or have fun. DB:The fun part is the hard part. My rule is the more creative the profession, the more rigorous the schedule has to be. So I write from eight ‘til noon every day. And my wife knows to get out of my way. Before I've written, I'm just not a good person. After that, I relax. And so, if I've got my thousand words in then I relax. I listen to movie soundtracks. I need music, but I can't have any lyrics, so I listen to music soundtracks. HS: What are your thoughts about immigration? DB: I'm wildly pro-immigration. I was sort of raised by my grandfather, who was an immigrant and had a strong immigrant mentality. So, I admire the hustle of people who are immigrants. And then, just objectively, I think that immigrants are great for this country. They're less prone to commit crimes than natives. They're much more economically creative than the rest of us. Their family values are better. They're much more communal. HS: And our racial division in this country? DB: I'm somewhat optimistic about it. Since Ferguson, there's been a period of truth-telling. A lot of African-Americans saying things they wouldn't necessarily say in public or in mixed company. And that has not always been pleasant. But I think it’s a necessary stage to go through. I travel around the country with a team from the Aspen Institute, and we hold these dinners with people who are working in communities. And sometimes our dinners will be 40 percent African American, and sometimes the mood is really angry. But, I think that has to be expressed for us to move on and understand the situation in the country. HS: Are there opinions you've written that you regret? DB: Oh, for sure. I was a strong supporter of the Iraq war, that was pretty clearly a mistake. When I was young, before my kids were born, I would write hit pieces on people. Really criticizing, making fun of people, taking advantage of my verbal abilities to make others look small. And once my kids were born, then I said, "No, I don't want my kids seeing me as this kind of person." And so, I more or less stopped writing them.

HS: You often talk about the soul and heart and how people have the desire to do good. DB: Maybe that's midlife awakening. A lot of our problems come from giving that desire to be good short shrift.

[beinglibertarian]

Shortcuts & Delusions Special Edition: The Absurdity of Gary Johnson

“The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutly free that your very existance is an act of rebellion.” – Albert Camus

Obituary:

Libertarian satirist and vengeful deity Dillon Eliassen (spelled with an E for comedic purposes), whose work I sincerely admire, has died. Spiritually. Only spiritually. He is to be succeeded in spiritual death by a micronation of homeless people, his fellow members of the Fictitious Cement Workers’ Union, and Being Libertarian’s very own Editor-in-Chief Martin van Staden.

Dillon “The Jesuit” Eliassen (née Ottovordemgentschenfelde) was probably born on Christmas morning 1949, somewhere in Canada. Known for his youthful shenanigans, Dillon brought a smile to the faces of all who encountered him at San Quentin. While fighting for our freedom on the blood-soaked soil of Vietnam, Dillon gave birth to a mostly healthy yet premature appendix, and he named it me.

Let us begin.

Introduction:

Dillon left off with an in-depth analysis of ‘Trump Derangement Syndrome,’ a very real ‘condition’ that ‘I’ have personally heard firsthand accounts of on multiple occasions. This was a fitting place to conclude. The torch was not passed to me, but I am hereby picking it up off the ground, wiping the dirt and canine feces from its gleaming bronze exterior, and running with it in the exact opposite direction of any achievable goal.

I am Nathaniel Owen. If you don’t recognize my name, it’s because I am legitimately the least important person you’ve never heard of. I’m unknown for my efforts to bear the heaviness of the Imperial Antarctic Crown, and my occasional bouts of productive cyber-vigilantism. In 2014 I made a mistake, and today that mistake is Being Libertarian. They locked me in the CEO’s office until I pay for this crime.

Like my obvious relatives, Nathaniel Bacon, Nathaniel Branden, and Nathaniel Hawthorne, I am a revolutionary. I haven’t got a Che t-shirt, and I never attend the meetings. But like many communist tovarisch, I do have an iPhone. In the postmodern age, that’s a clever weapon to have! Climate scientists, for instance, have indicated that it’s really all the humble revolutionary needs these days. I am constantly confused as to the value of my executive role at Being Libertarian but remain the least confused as to why I maintain this position.

Today is my favorite day of the year, second only to New Year’s Eve. For me, today acts as a reminder of the closest thing I have ever encountered to universal truth; a realization that haunts, comforts, astounds and enchants me. Yesterday, we were but individuals rolling boulders up a hill. Today, we will try again to roll the boulders up that hill. Tomorrow, yet again, we will return to this habit. You have been doing this with me since the day you were born.

I like to count the number of seconds it takes the boulder to reach the bottom of the hill each sunset. In the morning, we will start over.

We Are All Sisyphus:

It’s quite pointless, analytically speaking. You probably don’t remember being born, nor were you an integral part in making that happen to you. No number of artifacts can preserve the complexity of an individual human being, and even if one could live immortally in the memory of others, time turns existential into the mythological.

The universe is dying. It will live scarcely longer than we will. You appear to have come into existence at random, in a time and place inherently foreign. As a child, you wander into a adulthood without happening on the answer key to any questions relating to how or why you exist in the first place. Much less, how or why the universe itself exists. A consequence of this is that We, The People tend to convince ourselves conveniently that the answers to such questions not only exist, but can be found in such subtle hiding places as your local political party, whatever holy book you were raised to read, your arbitrary interpretations of the signs and seasons presented to us by the light of the cosmos, or even in our own imaginations.

And we know because we can’t avoid knowing, that whatever facade we’ve sold ourselves is, in fact, still a facade even if we fall for it.

Every day spent living is a performative affirmation that something about you, even if you can’t figure out exactly what it is, still wants to find those answers. If this weren’t the case, the players of this game would be dropping like flies when they discover that there is no point in playing and no conceivable way to win and that eventually there will be no evidence that you ever played at all. In short, that life itself is highly unlikely to be worth the trouble.

Albert Camus, French philosopher, and journalist, was plagued with thoughts like those stated above. Camus became a constitutive inspiration of the Existentialist Movement (a tradition of philosophy asserting the importance of human experience in the appraisal and interpretation of ideas), partially during the Second World War, while serving in fierce defiance as the Editor-in-Chief of the French Resistance newspaper ‘Combat’ amidst the Nazi occupation of his homeland, and continuing this roll into the post-war world.

Though such matters in the realm of fundamentals and absolutes can be difficult to define, you may have wondered similar things about yourself, and perhaps continue to. Camus was particularly perturbed by the sheer fact that the universe itself and all that exists within it have no objective meaning or purpose. The rational insights we are both blessed and cursed with poke holes in all our mortally limited attempts to invent meaning of our own, and in the Modern Age, the old ideas of Abrahamic deities, universal truth, and inherent ethical rules, each of which having been rudimentary to the shaping and formation of modern society in some way, have been penetrated into philosophical Swiss cheese.

The Non-Aggression Principle is a rather useful little limerick when one doesn’t overthink it. But like all things implying morality, thinking it all the way through will lead you to fundamentals that cannot possibly be confirmed or denied. What, exactly, makes murder wrong? What about robbery? Or socialism? Or the unfairness of free markets? When all is said and done, is it really going to matter whether every little thing we chose to do was right, or wrong, or equitable, or unfair? At the top level, with capital crimes especially, it is not hard to find that the supermajority of humanity agrees on some basic ethical positions. But when applying these basics, they become more complicated. By the point that we are discussing the specific rights and wrongs of typical human behavior, no two people will find themselves in agreement on the application of what they may believe are universal, self-evident principles.

Camus asserted, rather poignantly, that suicide has always been an option. And the scariness, confusion, and uncertainty of existing in such an uncertain world have apparently not driven you to it. And why shouldn’t we die now? It all adds up to the same summary. Nothing is permanent. It’s very possible that nothing matters. Yet we, practically all of us, seem to be making the conscious choice each day to live on. It’s as though if we pull away some of that upstanding rationalism gifted to us during The Enlightenment, there is some other part of us playing such an integral role in our existence that it stabilizes and confirms our will to exist at all.

Camus was a hero in several ways, and today is his day. There are very few people who want to legalize murder, yet droves of people who wish to legalize marijuana, and to many hearty fundamentalists, these may be comparable issues. Sin is sin, oppression is oppression, and aggression is aggression. To many libertarians, and to what should be our collective shame, such things as unionizing the local labor force, stealing a sandwich from a street vendor, violently raping a helpless victim, and aborting the fetus conceived in such tragic circumstances are all comparably “aggressive,” and may not even be considered in terms outside of “aggression” regardless of how useful a new approach or perspective may be when considering such cases.

At the risk of losing all of my libertarian acquaintances, I will admit that once upon a time, I charged my iPhone (yes, my revolutionary weapon of choice) using a stranger’s charging cable without asking when he wasn’t around. I aggressed. I haven’t repented and I’m not sure my soul will be where yours will be on judgment day.

The point is, it makes so little difference whether we are right or wrong about what is “aggression” and what is not “aggression,” that it’s a wonder anybody even cares to discuss it for more than a few than a few minutes.

I do not care who builds the roads, or who decides what color to paint the bathrooms at Beacon Hill, or which Union and/or Confederate heroes/villains are memorialized in stone. I do not care to pay taxes of a meager nature. Of course, I will consistently support lower taxes; it’s my own self-interest at stake. I will not, however, declare that anyone who doesn’t concern themselves with it as deeply as myself to be a “sheep.” Sheep are blind followers. To the best of my knowledge, I have never met anyone who doesn’t fit that description, and yes, this includes myself. I’m no determinist, but I know that I know essentially nothing about the mechanics of what REALLY makes something moral or immoral. I also know that you don’t know either.

The universe you live in doesn’t care what you think. It doesn’t “care” in any way about anything, as far as we can tell. Clinging so staunchly to principles may as well be escapism from the dread and uncertainty of having existed in the first place. Cults operate by exploiting this inherent dread, and unlike the average man on the street who will immediately deny any experiences of being uncertain about his own existence, cults can see through this bullshit. The Liberty Movement should be no cult.

“The Absurd” is a boulder. Every second you live is an exercise in pointlessness. Searching for meaning, embracing the experience of uncertainty, and cracking a smile as your shoulders yet again shove that boulder up the hill… these are exercises in defiance. It is no coincidence that Albert Camus, espousing the conviction (or lack thereof) that no objective truth or purpose may ever be identified, was willing to put his life on the line to dignify and endorse the French Resistance Movement, and despite his eventual death in a car crash, his words live on.

We libertarians are the quintessentially anti-establishment political identity. When our fists are clenched around the chains of dogma and theoretical universal principles we may as well be chained to the same despotic foundation we’re trying to help others liberate themselves from. To think for one’s self, one must realize the degree to which the nuances and practicalities of the world we live in influence us. Peddling promises of applying some universal ethic that we, as representatives of the Liberty Movement, can’t even agree on the parameters of is no different than selling a religious experience; a method by which to keep the conscience clean, and supply some convenient, flimsy certainty that will never stand up to the scrutiny of the skeptical. If our universal truths were as permanent as they are constructed to be, we would never change our minds or opinions.

This rant will resume in 365.25 days when National Absurdity Day returns in all its glory, memento mori, and calendarial obscurity.

And speaking of scrutiny, I’m going to have to toss in a trigger warning. This isn’t even my first trigger warning. I’m a professional.

**TRIGGER WARNING** What you are about to read may cause severe bouts of Trump Derangement Syndrome. If you are a leftist, please do not read the following paragraphs while in close proximity to sharp objects. Symptoms may include blood shooting from the eyes, indecipherable screaming, close encounters of the fourth kind, and varying degrees of irritable face syndrome. Please notify a physician if you encounter itchiness of the spleen, cirrhosis of the autobiographical memory, or diarrhea of the oral cavity.

Why We MUST Defeat Gary Johnson You’re probably wondering about the guy in the title of this article who, thus far, has been absent from said article. In fact, he’s absent from things quite often, I’m told.

Gary Johnson is not a real libertarian. Why libertarians get starry-eyed in his presence is beyond me, with his espousal of blatant communism and acceptance of homonormative deconstructionist Islamomarxism. Johnson as a representative of libertarianism is a clear sign that the left is invading the liberty movement, further eroding private property norms and propping up support for the deep state agenda of the globalists.

Johnson has pretended to support unfettered free market capitalism, and even went as far as to insist that tearing down barriers of entry could give the average person better, fairer access to goods and services. “The model of the future is the sharing economy. It’s Uber. It’s Airbnb. I think it’s gonna be Uber everything.”

“Uber everything” sounds like a great idea until you take your morning Red Pill and see that this is just code for white genocide. Without a heterogenous government of the people, who will stop immigrants from driving Uber taco trucks and parking them on every street corner, forestalling traditional values and private property norms. Americans would lose their jobs, possibly to immigrants. Even libertarian heroine Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez sees through Gary Johnson’s thin veneer of egalitarian lies!

He ran for president. Twice. On the second try, he broke every Libertarian Party presidential vote count record in the party’s history, surpassing even the likes of Our Lord and Savior Dr. Ron Earnet Paul. Mark my words, we will never forgive Gary Johnson for not being Ron Paul. His tax cuts were clearly a Democrat ruse to give spending power to the politically correct internationalist cabal of globalist elites like George Soros, Walt Disney, and Oliver Cromwell.

After making the Libertarian Party lose twice, Gary Johnson snuck in one more attack on libertarian legitimacy by losing in New Mexico in a Senate race where he only claimed 15.4% of the vote, singlehandedly handing victory over to communist Democrat Vladimir Len- I mean… Martin Heinrich (if that’s his real name).

Gary Johnson must be stopped. He cannot be allowed to run for office again, regardless of what degenerate socialist feminazis say about “free speech” and “democracy.” Democracy is a secret codeword known to the Fourth International for white genocide and subversion of private property norms. To Make America Great Again

, we must Physically Remove

this man that even the Democrats recognize as a tyrant. Socialists say that Gary Johnson is no threat to the system. This means Gary Johnson is probably a socialist (and a threat to the system the Founding Fathers put in place to protect our freedoms) because everything socialists say are lies.

What further evidence do you need? So far, I have used some of the most Red Pill buzzwords on the market, and even considered using “optics,” “LOLbertarian,” “SJW,” “libertine,” “postmodernism” and “open borders.” Libertarianism is an obvious right-wing ideology. We have standards, you know.

I won’t keep you here. Now that I’ve owned you with facts and logic, you are free to go.

Outro: Left intentionally long and with minimal editing, everything written above makes a single point that, in context, doesn’t mean anything. Most things, and probably all things, don’t mean anything. But that observation is no taskmaster; true freedom is the freedom to waste your time, and the time of others, in a way that is archetypically you. There are no strict parameters here. Drifting a little off the straight and narrow shouldn’t be cause for panic. If there was a takeaway in this article, I don’t know what it is. Perhaps there is a Gary Johnson in all of us, rolling a boulder up Mount Everest just to watch it roll back into the ravine, much like the Libertarian vote count will in 2020.

Do as thou wilt, and don’t overthink it.

Happy National Absurdity Day, comrades.

سُبْحَانَ اللہِ

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[review-saas]

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[keywestlou]

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER'S THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS

Who of us cannot remember James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans. Hawkeye, Uncas, Chingachgook, and Magua.

Thrilling!

On this day in 1826, The Last of the Mohicans was published. It was part of Cooper’s Leatherstocking Tales. The action took place in upstate New York. Set during the French/Indian and British War a good 20 years prior to the Revolution.

The best selling book became a best selling movie many times in later years. Something like 8 movies were born of the book.

One of the more recent was in 1992. At least two more followed.

The 1992 film starred Daniel-Day Lewis.

Part of Cooper’s early life was spent in the Cooperstown area. His father William Cooper discovered/created Cooperstown. William Cooper built the home of homes on a knoll overlooking Otsego Lake.

The house was first built in 1799. Then abandoned for some reason. In 1734, Copper’s son James returned. The house was dilapidated. He had it renovated.

The house was built by his father in the Federal style. Son James rebuilt it in Gothic.

The house burned down in 1851. The property stood barren. Years later, the New York Historical Society took it over and rebuilt Otsego Hall. Today an independent group operates it as a museum. One of many names. The most popular The James Fenimore Cooper Museum.

Nearby a Farmers Museum has been constructed. A series of small buildings representing homes, farms and business places as they were in pre-Revolutionary days.

I have visited the entire properties many times. For social events at the Museum. charity fundraisers and the like. The Farmers Museum with most of my grandchildren. Nothing like showing them how people lived back then. How small furniture was in comparison to today’s because people were smaller. The opportunity to visit a doctor’s and attorney’s offices. The butcher, baker, and candlestick maker also.

Lest it be forgotten, Cooperstown is the home of the Baseball Hall of Fame. Many the induction, some baseball games, and visits to the Hall itself. The visits with grandchildren at various times.

A life reflecting the old history of the area was born at various times over the years by reason of James Fenimore Cooper’s publication of The Last Mohicans.

Two remembrances that stick in my mind.

I had two of my granddaughters at the farm portion. Roughly 6 and 4 years old at the time.We were at the pasture looking at a horse. While we were admiring the horse and talking, the horse got an erection.

The girls looked at me strangely. I did not know what to say. Merely took their hands and walked away. They asked nothing, I shared nothing.

Another time was during the Clinton/Lewinsky matter. My twin grandsons Matthew and Michael were with me. They were around 8 at the time.

We had just left the “lawyer’s office.” The radio was on in the office. It was reciting Clinton’s misdeeds. Matthew looked up at me and asked, “Papa, he did something wrong, didn’t he?”

That was an easy one. I just said “yes” and we moved on.

Looks like Donald Trump may be able to reside in Mara-a-Lago after all.

The Town of Palm Beach completed its legal review of the matter. Their determination at this time is one of approval. The town decided there was nothing in the agreements and town ordinances prohibiting Trump from residing there.

The decision seemed to turn on phraseology in the agreement that Trump could live there if he was a “bona fide employee of the resort.” The agreement states such includes being a corporate officer.

Jared Kushner went into the White House with his father in law a man with financial problems. He became an “adviser” to the President. Waived any salary by taking only $1 a year.

A report yesterday stated that Jared and Ivanka in their last year in the White House jointly earned $120 million.

That’s public service for you!

Continues to be cold. In the high 50s during the night. High today will be 68.

Enjoy your day!

I am learning it is difficult to go back 9 years and repeat the Greece story in orderly fashion. Some days have disappeared. Then found. Some days are mixed with each other.

To straighten this all out would take oodles of time. Time I do not have with everything else on my plate.

The key is everything I wrote is there. Not exactly in the correct place, however.

The story overall is interesting. A paragraph here and there muddled makes no difference.  Like what you will read today. I should be writing about Santorini. Some of the paragraphs talk about Athens.

Fortunately, nothing so far appears to have been repeated.

Today’s blog beginning with “I screwed up” is as written 9 years ago.

DAY 9…..Greece the First Time

Posted on June 6, 2012 by Key West Lou

I SCREWED UP. LOST TWO THIRDS OF THIS BLOG. CANNOT RECREATE NOW. HAVE TO RUN. WILL PICK EVERYTHING UP TOMORROW.

…kitchen at one end. Tables covering the rest. Nothing fancy. Very basic, except again for the view and food.

It is a fish place. Very fresh fish. You are taken into the kitchen to select your own fish. Everything is explained including weight. everything is charged by the pound.

I had scorpion and boiled potatoes. A meal to die for!

Never had nor heard of Scorpion before. A fat red fish. Fire engine red. Big eyes. Ugly. The waiter told me it would be delicious. It was.

The boiled potatoes. Oh, so good! Sliced about 1/4 inch thick. Covered with oil and lemon.

Two appetizers before. Three gins for me. Two wines for my companion.

The bill was less than $50 American money. I was not charged for the three gins and two wines. The appetizers were on the house, also. The owner’s daughter came over to tell us of the house’s generosity and encouraged us to return.

The Greeks are worried about the economy. Just as Key Westers were a few years ago. They are doing everything to be hospitable and encourage return business. Tourism is their only industry.

In the few days I have been here, I have noticed that everyone, tourists and locals alike, dress sloppy. More sloppy than Key West visitors. I am getting into it. Not a bad way to live. Not to worry about one’s appearance.

I have been asking around how the economic crisis is affecting business on Santorini. The response is the same from all. It is not, except for the German tourists. Two years ago, the German tourists were openly blaming the Greeks for the euro crisis. The Greeks on Santorini got fed up with their attitude. Told the Germans in effect to shove it. The Greeks here developed the same mental frame as the early Texans….Don’t tread on us!

The aforementioned situation resulted in a resurgence of World War II ill will. Apparently the Germans committed many atrocities while occupying Greece.

The two events have resulted in few, if any, German tourists. And the Greeks do not care!

There is something happening here. You can feel it. I refer to the economic/euro crisis. It is a tinderbox waiting to ignite.

There are two major problems in the world today. One is Iran. A military problem. The other the euro crisis which I fear might explode here in Greece. If it does, it will be like the volcano explosion 3,500 years ago.

I received bad news this morning. Jenna e-mailed me that Courtney Aman died. Courtney was my trainer. A good guy. A good liver. He was only 50ish. Muscle bound. Worked out, lifted weights, trained, ran, ate properly, did not smoke or drink. Shows you what good living will do for you.

I liked Courtney. We got along well. Attended a few parties together. He was a Key West fixture. He will be missed.

Enough for now. I am getting a manicure in 15 minutes.

What a life!

Enjoy your day!

I started my last day in Athens at a small outdoor cafe on a back street. Glad I did! The menu set forth a prosciutto and cheese toasted sandwich. It was cheap. Sounded like a Greek version of Cuban cheese toast with tomato. I ordered it.

I was correct! Two very thin slices of white bread without crust. Toasted. A slice of prosciutto and a great tasting cheese pressed between the slices of bread. Outstanding.

The hotel of hotels in Athens is the Grand Britannia. I stopped in to look it over. Magnificent! Decided to have a cup of coffee.

The Greeks do things in a big way. My coffee was served in the main dining room.

I ordered Turkish coffee. Had never had it before. Will never have it again. Did not like it. Turkish coffee is thick. Your spoon can almost stand alone in the cup. That is how thick it is! Coffee grains come with the coffee. They end up sitting in the bottom of the cup. A good amount. It is not easy to drink Turkish coffee without occasionally having to deal with the grains.

In addition, I did not like the taste. Try Turkish coffee if you have the opportunity. You might like it. Different strokes for different folks.

The Grand Britannia dining room was elaborate. At one end there were two palm trees sitting two stories high. Palm trees in Athens? I walked over to take a closer look  The maitre de came over. Real I asked. He said yes. I said no. We had a language problem. He was trying to tell me the outer trunks were real and stuffed. The palms not real.

I figured I had seen the only palm trees in Athens. Turns out I was wrong. The rest of the day I saw several. Smaller than the ones in the Grand Britannia dining room. Real.

I was tired. The heat was getting to me. I decided to walk back to my hotel and take a nap.

As I walked towards the hotel, the air and temperature must have been just right. All of a sudden I could smell the outdoor food stands, cart foods and outdoor cafes. The smell was unique. The last time I experienced it was in my college days in New York City. Bronx and Times Square times.

I finally made it to the hotel and my air conditioned room. Television in Athens is in Greek. I know no Greek. I turned it on anyhow to look at the picture screen. Better than nothing! I watched Top Gun with Tom Cruise and Key West’s own Kelley McGillis. I watched it all. In Greek. I had seen the movie enough times to understand what was going on.

It was my last night in Athens. Still no Greek dancing and throwing of dishes. Walked through the Plaka area where I had been two evenings earlier. Stopped at the outside cafe where I had done my drinking. The manager recognized me. He gave me directions to the place I wanted to go. I stayed with him a while. This is pro basketball play off time in Europe. I do not know who was playing. I whooped it up with my friend and his friends. Our team lost by 20 points.

European professional basketball is not up to the same standard as American ball. It was obvious. I never mentioned it, however. I told every one the teams were great, Especially their team.

The restaurant turned out to be on the poor side of Acropolis and the Parthenon. Outdoor cafes galore. Acropolis and the Parthenon plus other smaller temples sitting up on the hill. A bit farther away than the restaurant I had enjoyed the view from the night before. Drinks and food seventy per cent cheaper.

I sat their enjoying the night life version of ancient Greece. Then the music started. Greeks are fun people. Their country may be going down the tubes economically. They are partying as the ship sinks. Good for them!

The other side of the mountain is also known as the Rockefeller side. Much of the Rockefeller Foundation renovation money was spent on the poor side. An interesting mixture of wealth and those not so fortunate.

There was music. All night. Two players. A piano board player and a guitar player. A singer. Looked like and sang like Key West’s Peter Diamond. Even down to the hat.

Dancing started with the women. All ages. Even into the 80s. All kind of dances. On some occasions, a man would get up and dance alone. He reminded me of a swan. Why, I don’t know. Just so graceful.

Every one smokes in Greece. The piano and guitar players. The dancers. Even the guy who danced. A cigarette hanging from their lips.

No dish breaking. I was disappointed. Learned it was outlawed several years ago.

I finally got into it. Ended up on the dance floor. Every one took pity on me. I was shown various steps. Within minutes, I was Greek.

Greeks are happy. They sit at their tables and sing. Warm, also. I saw many couples touching and kissing each other. Generally those 50 and older.

I had to hustle this morning. An early plane to Sanitori. I am here. Tomorrow a different Greece.

I cannot close without expressing myself on an issue. The Catholic Church and its attempted hit on the nuns. I believe the Vatican and U.S. Conference of Bishops are on the wrong track.

As you are aware, the nuns have their own union type organization. It is known as the Leadership Conference. Some 80,000 nuns strong. And being women, they are strong. Strong willed.

A former spokesman for the U. S. Conference of Catholic Bishops issued a statement yesterday knocking the nuns. The nuns have come out in support of things like contraception.

He said…..”Does it occur to them (the nuns) that they might need some help?” He was referring to the fact that the number of nuns diminishes each year.

A nonsensical observation on his part. What of the Catholic Church itself? There are fewer Churches today that 20-30 years ago. Most have closed because there are fewer Catholics or fewer supporting organized Catholic religion. As many as up to four Churches have been closed at one time and combined into one parish.

Fewer and fewer those of the male gender are entering the priesthood.

It appears that whoever made the statement on behalf of the U.S. Conference of Bishops was in effect the pot calling the kettle black.

Interestingly, the nuns are also advocating that women be permitted to become priests. Threatening to the Church hierarchy?

Rome through the U.S. Conference of Bishops have told the nuns to stand down. To cease and desist. I doubt it will occur.

So there is no misunderstanding, I am a Catholic. A fallen away one, so to speak. Nevertheless a product of a Catholic education. Grammar school, high school and college. Also a husband at one time whose wife had five consecutive pregnancies in five years. We lost the last one. There was a reluctance back then for Catholics to practice birth control.

Rome would have done better to pick its battle. Especially when the Catholic Church is still dealing with its own problems. Like the Catholic Church covering up pedophilic activities on the part of priests for more than twenty years.

Enough spouting off for today.

Enjoy your day! Join me tomorrow for another part of fabulous Greece!

There are three churches in the area. They all have bells. Apparently large. Each clang very noisy. They all go off on the hour. Fortunately, only by day. They do not go off at the same time. They must be planned. One church at a time with a short separation between each. It is like living in New York City by the elevated subway train.

Everyone drives too fast for me. Most of the roads are narrow, especially in the countryside. One lane. Not each way. Both ways, the same lane.

When an approaching car is seen, both vehicles play chicken to see who is going to move onto the shoulder first.

There is a Catholic church in Milan that has the Last Supper. The real one. I may take the train into Milan this afternoon to see it.

Thursday I leave for Athens. After this earthquake, I think it is time to leave Dodge.

Enjoy your day!

Note: While I was doing spell check, the after shocks came. Trembling. Chandeliers moved again. Someone just ran in to tell me TV announced the disturbance as a severe earthquake. I have been hearing for the past few minutes sirens. Probably fire engines and ambulances. Another person just ran in to tell me that the quake was a 5.8 on the Richter scale. What I thought was the aftershock turned out to be a second quake. 4.0 on the Richter scale. I must admit my stomach is getting a bit queasy. I am uncomfortable. My thought process tells me that if I must be in an earthquake, this building is a good place. It has withstood quakes, floods and wars for over a thousand years and still stands. Hopefully, I will blog you again tomorrow. I am not leaving you yet. TV announced all trains to Milan have stopped running. I do not know specifically why. I doubt I will be viewing the Last Supper this afternoon. It was further announced that a  thousand year old cathedral about a one hour drive from Novara collapsed. So much for my theory that thousand year old buildings are a safe place.

Enjoy your day!

JAMES FENIMORE COOPER’S THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS was originally published on Key West Lou

[undefeatednils]

An Examination of Extra-Universal Systems of Government: The United States of America In Exile

When I had arrived in Honolulu I knew I’d only have a few hours there. The capitol district was bustling with European and Japanese tourists as well as residents, who were distinguishable by the fact that in the mild February weather they were the ones wearing jackets. After a short guided tour of the capitol district I sat down at a small cafe called Queen Coffee, just five minutes from ‘Iolani Palace, where a government representative was supposed to meet me. A man wearing a khaki service uniform approached me, a cordial smile on his face as he sat down opposite to me and removed his garrison cap. It figured that the government representative was a member of the navy. 

“Professor Chana, thank you for waiting. I’m Lt. Huntley, of the Department of General Affairs. It’s my honor to welcome you to the United States of America.” We shook hands, a young waitress took our orders, and our conversation began in earnest. “During my tour I’ve seen ‘Iolani Palace.”, I said, looking down the street where I could see a statue of the old Hawaiian monarch Kamehameha, a statue right opposite to the palace shielded from my view. “It’s a beautiful building, though the construction of the Presidential Manor is currently underway. You have certainly been made aware that the president has resided in that palace for almost one hundred years, mostly as a provisional measure, but President Gibson will soon move to the Presidential Manor we’ve been building in the Kalihi-Palama neighborhood. The seven executive departments will remain in the capitol district. It’s only a ten minute drive in case anything needs to be communicated.” I nodded. “I’m fascinated that this provisional abode has been in use for so long. The tour guide mentioned that the palace had previously been the governor’s office, the presidential residence during the Republic of Hawaii, and the royal palace back when these islands were under the native monarchy.”

“This long history is the reason why it’ll cease to be the seat of government soon.”, Huntley replied. “We plan to turn it into a museum of American history.” “That is very admirable. You have previously mentioned the six executive departments. Could you tell me more about them?” Huntley nodded. “The most important one is the Department of General Affairs, my own. It was created shortly after the evacuation by merging the State Department, the Department of the Interior, and the Department of Agriculture. Then we have the Department for Economic Affairs, it’s responsible for matters such as commerce, labor, energy, the postal service, and infrastructure; the Department of Health, Welfare, and Education, which should be self-explanatory; the Department of the Treasury; the Justice Department; and finally the Defense Department. All departments are headed by a secretary, appointed by the president. However most of these appointments used to also require approval by the Joint Board. Now only General Affairs and Defense require that approval.” “The Joint Board?”, I asked curiously. “The Joint Board of the Army and the Navy. The evacuation of the government was mostly a military affair and due to the special circumstances the presidency was very much dependent on the Joint Board for support. This special relationship can still be felt today, if I may be frank, by the strong presence of servicemen and veterans in government positions.” “Like yourself?” “Like myself. This is also reflected in the presidential election. You might already know that the United States has two districts and five territories. During the presidential election only citizens residing in the two districts can vote, but active servicemen employed in the territories can also vote.” “How come you joined your department, by the way?” “It’s common protocol for servicemen to get trained for post-service employment in the downtime. College level courses on economics, political science, administrative tasks, those sorts of things. While I was deployed on Guam I took several political science and administrative courses and after my deployment got offered a position at the district government of Hawaii. After three years I got a promotion to the General Affairs department.” I sipped on my tea before asking my next question. “Could you tell me how the districts and territories are governed?”, I asked. “The districts are very similar to the old concept of US states. They have an elected governor, an unicameral district assembly, and they have their own local laws. We pride ourselves in our democratic traditions which we’ve even maintained during the Second American Civil War. The territories have varying forms of government. The Outlying Islands Territory and the Leeward Islands Territory don’t civilian populations, and are governed directly by the Department of General Affairs and the Department of Defense, since they’re only home to about 350 members of the military in total. The other three territories meanwhile have their governors appointed by the President and a territorial assembly to advise the territorial governor.” “The districts are Alaska and Hawaii, correct? What are the three populated territories?” “That’d be Guam, Seward, and American Samoa. Seward is north of Alaska, home to about 3,000 people. It’s our ice box and its territorial assembly is only seven people strong, believe it or not. Guam is home to almost 160,000 people and thus the most populated of our territories. It’s also home to our second-most important naval base after Pearl Harbor. American Samoa, home to 55,000 people, is our most remote territory but even so they’re good patriots.”

“Could I ask you about how deployment affects voting? I’ve seen most democracies treat soldiers overseas as voters from their home region, and I presume it’s similar here. But what about soldiers stationed in American territories? Can they only vote for territorial assemblies or can they vote in other elections, too? “If an Alaskan is stationed in American Samoa, he can vote for both regional elections, if he wanted to. Since the the territorial assemblies are advisory bodies, it isn't regarded as voter fraud and since nobody can control their deployment, it's fair.” “What sort of powers do the district governors and assemblies have?” “The districts have their own local governments, with both divided into boroughs, their own justice systems, and they are responsible for areas such as maintenance of infrastructure, regulation of businesses, distribution of welfare, and education. Territories have to follow federal law, which is why the Department of Health, Welfare, and Education is still so important to this day. Of course I need to mention that the districts didn’t exist at the outbreak of the Second Civil War and were originally mere territories, too, and thus under the direct control of the federal government.” The young waitress returned to the table and delivered to small sandwiches, according to her “on the house”. Both Huntley and I accepted ours, took a small bite, and he asked me a question. “I’m guessing you will eventually ask me about the Second Civil War, correct?” “I was planning to.”, I replied. “I’ve seen the statue of Theodore Roosevelt Jr. during my tour and the plaque made me curious. Fascinating to see a statue to a Secretary of the Navy, it’s fairly unusual.” “Secretary Roosevelt was crucial in coordinating the efforts to evacuate President Coolidge first to the Guantanamo Naval Base and then Honolulu when the Revolutionary Front was closing in on the District of Columbia. Roosevelt later even became vice-president after the evacuation under President Wilbur.” “How did the Second American Civil War start?” “You could look at a school history book if you're so curious.”, he replied with a smile on his face. “But the basic gist of it was a combination of the Great Depression breaking out in 1922 and the general unpopularity of President Harding. Strikers popped up all over the Midwestern states and in California, lynchings all over the South, it was a mess. When the national guard shot protesters in Buffalo Socialists all over the continental United States rose up, supported by black allies in the South. In about eighteen months large portions of the country were under the control of the so-called Revolutionary Front.” “So the federal government decided to abandon Washington, D.C.?” “Yes. Philadelphia was seeing battles in the streets, and West Virginia was also under Revolutionary Front control. Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, and North Carolina were the main holdouts of the federal government, along some cities along the Rockies and large chunks of Texas. The Philippines and Puerto Rico were also becoming restless at that time.” “What did happen to the Philippines and Puerto Rico? I know they were US territories but are they part of the Federation of American People’s Republics now?” “No, they aren’t. Though Puerto Rico is closely allied to the regime on the mainland, the Philippines gained formal independence in 1929 when the Honolulu government agreed to let them go. We couldn’t waste military resources on pacifying them. We have good ties, but the government in Manila is closer to the Empire of Japan than us. Old grudges die hard.” Considering I’ve seen many civil wars and independence movements throughout my travels, this doesn’t seem surprising. As I finish my sandwich, topped with tuna and pineapple, Huntley continues. “The Federation also keeps close ties with Mexico, Haiti, Nicaragua, and Iberia. Their ties with African socialists are less prevalent and the Russians are a completely different beast due to Russia’s bad historic experiment with the far left.” Huntley did stress the last two words rather strongly. “After all the Russian Republic barely defeated those Bolsheviks after the Great War.”, he elaborated. “Which nations does the United States consider allies?” “Russia and China are our closest allies, though we also maintain good ties with the British and Australians. Canada is our go-to intermediary if we want to discuss things with the Federation, and we are also important trading partner to the small Pacific nations, like Fiji, Tuvalu, and Samoa. Only Australia is a bigger trade partner to them.” “Is there no direct link of communication to the Federation?” “There has been one by 1990. But most meetings still take place in Vancouver because it’s much easier to talk on neutral ground.”

“Lt. Huntley, I’d like to return to national politics instead of international ones.” Huntley laughed. “Of course, what else would you like to know?” “How many political parties are active in the United States? How many are in the legislatures?” “President Gibson, as well as Governors Cole and Nakamura are all members of the Unity Party, which has been the most successful party in our current system. The Nakamura’s predecessor was a member of the Liberal Party. The Unity Party and the Liberals are in general the two parties which had genuine electoral successes. Hawaii and American Samoa also have members of a third party in their assemblies, the Greens. They're mostly concerned about Polynesian rights and environmentalism.” “When you speak of the Unity Party being the most successful, can you give me some numbers?” Huntley didn’t look comfortable with this question and answered hesitantly. “The territorial and district assemblies have 154 seats total and currently 114 seats are occupied by Unity Party delegates, 37 by Liberals, and 3 by Greens. In the New United States Congress there are 45 seats, and 31 of them are Unity.” I sat aside my tea glass from which I was taking a sip while Huntley was listing the numbers. Those were some very high percentages for the Unity Party, which, combined with the awkward disposition of the thus far lighthearted lieutenant showed me that he wasn’t proud of the lackluster political diversity in the country. I didn’t decide to press the issue further. “The New United States Congress… What’s so new about it, if I may ask?” Huntley sighed with relief at the change of subject. “The New Congress is yet another example of a provisional solution which stuck. Due to the loss of the mainland the old bicameral Congress became an impractical institution. A few senators and members of the House of Representatives evacuated with President Coolidge to Hawaii and continued to serve as the representatives of the American people. When it became clear in 1932 that the mainland was lost these politicians voted to merge both chambers into one. That was also when the districts of Hawaii and Alaska were formed, replacing the old territories, same with the current electoral districts. Besides the New Congress there’s the Council of the Thirteen, which is the closest we have to the old Senate. Is thirteen members are elected nationally, even by the folks in the territories, and it’s a non-partisan body. The Council is also located in the New Congress, but it’s a mere advisory body to both Congress and the President. It was formed ahead of the 1988 election to strengthen American democracy.”

I smiled at Huntley’s and his answer.

“Thank you. Now I have one last question. You mentioned that the Greens campaign for Polynesian rights? How is the situation for the minorities of the United States?” Huntley looked uncomfortable again. Yet another question he likely deemed to be too partisan and thus uncomfortable for him to answer. “All men are created equal according to the US constitution, Professor, but of course some citizens do not feel equal. Quarrels over land ownership, for the most part, as well as some old wounds are still brought up by a handful of radicals, nothing serious. If it were, there’d be popular interest, and most of our minorities are good patriots, like the Governor of American Samoa, Linda Gabbard, who’s our second Samoan-American governor. Furthermore it’s obvious that their complaints are trivial and don’t reflect what other American minorities could tell you. The Japanese and Filipino communities of Hawaii are well-integrated into American society. Look at Governor Namakura, who has had a long career as a politician despite his ancestry. And the Chamorro are also very proud American patriots, and there is a debate about turning Guam into a district, too. This is a great nation and every true American is a patriot.” While Huntley was talking he was slowly getting more confident, and his last few sentences were oozing with patriotism. I thanked him for his time, left the cafe, and took a simple stroll towards the docks. The waves were rolling against the concrete walls, when I could hear the sounds of sirens wailing in the distance. It seems that there are less “true Americans” in the United States than Huntley and the American government would like to have the global public believe, because I could faintly hear an amplified voice telling protesters to return to their homes.

[joelpreston]

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[rounstyle]

WHY ARE THE FRENCH SO CHIC?

"It was my dream to visit Paris," says designer Kenzo Takada, recalling the days when he had travelled there by sea as a visionary of twenty years. The founder of the global fashion brand Kenzo - headquartered in the French capital - admits that while London in the mid-1960s was a "very dynamic and interesting" place, it was not the bustling British capital that dominated his imagination - it was Paris. "When I grew up in Japan and wanted to enter the industry, fashion was really in Paris... I was pushed to go to the fashion capital."

Takada was far from alone in his feelings. Despite competition from London and New York in Paris, and despite the fact that the "golden age" of French couture had ended the previous decade, in the late 1950s, many at the time, French and others, thought that Paris was still the capital world fashion, if it were one. Not much seems to have changed. Just as Takada's eponymous brand is still located in the City of Light, Paris - which is the subject of an exhibition at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York - continues to be seen as the embodiment of all that is fashionable. But why? What makes the French so chic?

It is in fact outside Paris, in Versailles, that the history of French fashion really begins. During the reign of Louis XIV (1643-1715), the court invested heavily in the arts - and fashion. Visitors to Versailles are dazzled not only by the "Sun King" himself, but also by the many courteless and mistresses of the palace, who create trends in France and abroad. According to Dr Valérie Steele, curator of Paris, fashion capital and editor of the accompanying book of the exhibition, this emphasis on fashion is much more than just a matter of aesthetics. "The theatre of power was very important," she told BBC Designed. [Louis XIV] wanted to ensure that his appearance and that of his courtiers were consistent with his idea of being a modern, powerful and civilized monarch - no longer just a warrior king of the Middle Ages, but a true kind of "Sun King" with all kinds mythological connotations. And of course, fashion and ceremonial clothes... were an integral part of it."

Louis XIV's sartorial investments were incredibly successful, and he came to be seen as a monarchical paragon. "Everyone [wanted] to look like him and act like him," Steele said. But Louis XIV wasn't content to be interested in soft power and cultural branding. In the field of fashion, he and his finance minister, Jean-Baptiste Colbert, also saw enormous economic potential. That is why they worked together to eliminate foreign competition and protect the local textile industry, which they also substantially financed. Colbert said that "fashion will be for France what Peru's gold mines are for Spain," Says Steele. "This belief would be at the heart of their economic programme, which is remarkable, because three and a half centuries later, it is still true: [fashion] is a major pillar of the French economy."

After the death of Louis XIV, the courtiers of Versailles began to spend more time in Paris. Alongside the emergence of fashion icons such as Marie Antoinette, this has led many people to associate Paris with "fashion and sensual pleasure," as Steele writes in the exhibition's book. The French Revolution may have caused a lull in this regard, but thanks to the incredible scum and their wonderful (members of a fashionable aristocratic subculture in the post-revolutionary period), fashion was far from forgotten. It is only a matter of time before the Old Regime is looked at with nostalgia and admiration, at least in terms of style.

Even though it had lost the title of the world's greatest superpower to Great Britain, France's superiority in fashion - and all forms of high culture, for that matter - persisted long after the fall of the First French Empire. Unlike London, which excelled in men's fashion, Paris focused on women's fashion. French fashion revolved around the idea of the Parisian - the ideal Parisian woman, elegant, cultured and demanding - and Paris itself was designated feminine, even anthropomorphized as a woman. But for all its prestige and fame, French fashion operated on a small scale until british designer Charles Frederick Worth moved to Paris in the mid-19th century. "You had a lot of seamstresses," Steele says, "but... they were mostly small craftsmen."

Worth revolutionized the French fashion industry by introducing the concept of great couture. For the first time in the country, haute couture was produced on a large scale. However, Worth, who also founded the Trade Union Chamber to regulate and supervise the French fashion industry, then spoke not of great couture, but of haute couture (i.e. "high fashion"). "It was, according to Steele, a way to differentiate haute couture from the simultaneous growth of clothing, the first series of ready-to-wear clothing sold in department stores in France... He claimed that haute couture was an art form and that he was an artist."

Today, haute couture is often used as a catch-all term for luxury clothing in general, but in France - and in fashion circles in general - it is a name reserved only for designers who respond to a set of rigorous criteria. Contrary to popular belief, haute couture pieces are not necessarily unique. "High fashion is not unique," says Steele. "It's made for your body, but it's not unique

hé de New York ou de Berlin, [ressemblait] sacrément à une version haute couture de Chanel".

. In the spirit of Louis XIV, the French once again used haute couture as a means of soft power after their defeat at the hands of the Germans in the Franco-Prussian War (1870-1871) and the Paris Commune (1871), when a government revolutionary socialist briefly took power. While it is clear that they were no longer a significant economic or political force, the French at least had their culture and clothing. "It wasn't... not a coincidence," writes Dr. David Gilbert of royal Holloway University in an essay entitled Paris, New York, London, Milan: Paris and a world order of fashion capitals, "that aggressive promotion of the sewing system... followed the military humiliation of the Franco-Prussian war and the subsequent traumas of the Commune of 1871." Gilbert goes on to say that "Parisian fashion... under the Third Republic... was part of a broader reaffirmation of French power and influence abroad." And, in trying to reassert themselves on the world stage, the French, as Steele says, "[equated] France [to] civilization and Germany [to] barbarism, which [were part of] a long-standing French ethic."

The French made the Sun King proud. Even after the devastation caused by the two world wars, New York - the undisputed economic center of the world - largely followed in the footsteps of Paris in the early and mid-20th century. "The Trade Union Chamber," Gilbert writes, "..." promoted the idea of the overriding taste of women in Paris, but lasting power came from the way this idea was repeated, often without criticism as almost a fact of nature, in the promotion of fashion and media based in other major cities. And nowhere else but in the "capital of the 20th century", New York, this idea has been more powerful and important, both locally and for other geographical regions of fashion."

It may seem strange that a city as ambitious and powerful as New York would promote Parisian fashion rather than its own; but there were obvious reasons for this, as Steele hastened to point out. "Many American magazines like Vogue and Harper's Bazaar were aimed at the social elite," she says. "These people had been travelling to Paris for decades to buy haute couture clothes... They were very invested." Steele also mentions a sense of nostalgia that many people around the world feel for "the glamour they [associated] with French fashion." That said, the rage for French fashion in the United States was double-edged, as cheap copies of French haute couture models abounded, with many North Americans at the time more than willing to settle for much less than the Reality. "You know," Steele notes, "a little black dress, a cheap copy from New York or Berlin, [looked] damn like a haute couture version of Chanel."

In the late 1940s and early 1950s, designers such as Christian Dior, Gabrielle "Coco" Chanel and Hubert de Givenchy inaugurated what is now called the "golden age" of French fashion, and the supremacy of Paris in the field of fashion. there was no doubt about it. Things got a little complicated in the mid-1960s, however, with the "youth earthquake" in London, led by personalities like Mary Quant, while the 70s and 80s saw the emergence of Milan and Tokyo as major centres of fashion.  And if the "defection" of many Japanese designers to France at the Takada has mitigated the threat from the East, Paris - although it has experienced a kind of renaissance with stylists like Christian Lacroix and Jean-Paul Gaultier - has had to face pressure London and New York, old and new rivals, in the late 1980s and 1990s. "But they kept pushing back," steele of the French said.

Thanks to soft power and cultural branding, the emergence of haute couture and the assiduous promotion of French fashion on behalf of the French, as well as the help of tastemakers abroad, Paris has come to enjoy a reputation of apparently chic ir Rebuttable. But today, given the status of cities like London, Milan and New York, and the increasing globalization of the fashion industry - "[fashion] is pretty much everywhere in the world", as Kenzo Takada says - can we still speak of Paris as the capi world fashion tale?

According to Steele, Paris still reigns internationally as a fashion metropolis for a variety of reasons. First, it is home to some of the world's largest fashion conglomerates. "Fashion is no longer so much about small independent companies," she says, "but giant conglomerates. Almost all luxury groups - LVMH, Kering, etc. - are based in Paris, [although they have] bought Italian companies [and] invested in English [and] American companies." Steele also believes that Parisian fashion shows are superior to those held in other cities. "It's not as exciting to go to Milan. [And] I mean, New York is a wonderful place, but the New York fashion shows don't have the glamour and excitement that those in Paris have, for the most part."

The Parisian designer Agnès b agrees: "They tried with Milan and London, [and] with New York - there are shows everywhere," she told BBC Designed, "but the inspiration comes from Paris, that's for sure." Similarly, the designer Isabel Marant, also based in Paris, underlines the greatness of the city's fashion shows, commenting on its status as the world's fashion capital. "Paris," says Marant, "is quite unique for the way fashion is expressed in it, for the quality and level of the fashion shows of its fashion week."

The presence of large conglomerates in Paris and the quality of its contemporary fashion shows are certainly important to consider. History, however, is perhaps the crucial element in the continued perception of Paris as the epicenter of fashion - regardless of whether the historical associations made are rational or the result of intelligent marketing made by French and others with an interest in French fashion. "France has always been ... [the introduction] of new ways of wearing clothes," says Agnès b. "It has always been [so] in France. We've had this for a long time." Marant agrees: "France has a great cultural heritage," she told BBC Designed, referring to personalities such as Paul Poiret, Elsa Schiaparelli and Chanel, who "created new trends [and have been] admired around the world." And as Agnès b points out: "There is now a new generation [of designers], but Paris still has that aura, I think."

It may seem strange to put so much emphasis on Paris's sartorial past, however dazzling it may be. But as Gilbert writes, "The status of fashion capital in the 21st century is as much a matter of reputation, expectations, heritage and tradition as of the design and production of real clothes... Deep and lasting symbolic associations also have real economic and cultural consequences." Steele says it a little more casually. "The law of precedents is really important. If you've been the fashion capital for the longest time and you have this incredible reputation, you can go out of your way to make it look like it's still the best."

In light of these arguments, it is difficult to deny the primacy of Paris as the capital of fashion. But what about the future? Do those who think that Paris is the fashion capital of the world think that the title could be seized by another? "Of course, everything can change," says Steele, who suggests Shanghai as a possible candidate, because of China's growing economic power. And, while not naming any particular city, Takada and Marant also raise the issue of increasing international competition and the proliferation of fashion shows around the world. "There are many cities that show... very interesting emerging styles and talents," admits Marant. However, given the immense role played by heritage and history in the perception of cities as fashion capitals, it seems unlikely that Paris, the legendary "Queen of the World", will leave her throne anytime soon, if ever.

[hardblazesong]

Noir Nocturne Part 1 Chapter 15 Messers. Blake and Charles

Claire was embarrassed by her near hysteria. She couldn’t remember the last time she had broken down so completely. She most certainly had not meant to mention Frank yet. She hadn’t been sure what Jamie’s reaction would be once he put two and two together, but she had not been expecting him to frighten her. He was normally so calm, considerate and almost nonchalant about life in general.  

She’d known there must be a harder side to him before today, he’d been a soldier after all, but she’d never really seen it.  She didn’t see him fight the Redcoats, just the results. There had been a brawl in a tavern and once he had shown off demonstrating weapons, but that wasn’t the same as actual soldiering. 

She realized that his sacrifice in marrying her, tender nature and contagious joy as a lover, may have blinded her to parts of his nature that she hadn’t had much reason to consider yet. He had been furious, not just disappointed, when he grabbed her arm and he hadn’t done it lightly. The look on his face was so out of character it truly shocked her.

He did appear to be genuinely sorry however, and had tried to comfort her. Was it possible he loved her and that is why he had reacted so badly? If that was the case, wouldn’t she know it, or maybe she hadn’t wanted to? Perhaps he thought she didn’t care for him enough to trust her with the depth of his feelings, whatever they were. Did she love him? Was it more than just overwhelming sexual attraction? Surely it was too soon to decide that, for either of them.

Get ahold of yourself Beauchamp! You simply must focus on what is still to be done today, the rest of this can wait, she thought as she went through the door of the Employment Center behind the men.

It was a large entry room, at least ten manned desks, with lines snaking to each one. People were milling about around the walls as well. The first desk in the entry way had an information sign on the front. She’d start there. “Go over by that wall and wait for me please. I’ll find out where Mr. Blake is.” She told Jamie, who nodded and collected up the others, marshalling them to the furthest open spot. She could see their looks of astonishment over the different ethnicities in the room. Ah, yet another thing she should have already told them about. The list was growing endless she thought and sighed as she rubbed her forehead.

“I beg your pardon, we are here to see Mr. Blake, could you tell me where I might find him?” She asked the harried looking woman seated at the desk. Claire tried to give her a warm smile of encouragement as well, although she wasn’t quite sure she succeeded, still a bit wobbly that. The thing was that she felt somewhat better after the confrontation with Jamie, steadier on her feet somehow, now that she’d let some of the emotion out. Her heart no longer felt like it was riding in her throat and the numbness had left her hands.

“He’s not in yet. Won’t be here until 11:00. Just wait over there somewhere and I’ll send him your way when I see him.” The lady informed her, without looking up, waving one hand in the direction of the wall, and lighting a cigarette with the other. She had the most interesting hairstyle, finger waves, Claire remembered they were called, doubting that her own hair could ever be managed into something so stylish. This was getting ridiculous, why could she not focus on one thing at a time?

“Thank you.”

“Welcome. Next!”

Claire, deciding the woman was probably overwhelmed by the masses and not reacting poorly to herself, crossed the room to stand with the others. “We have to wait for him, he won’t be here for another thirty minutes I’m afraid. Now would be a good time for questions, quietly please.” She leaned against the wall, glad to be out of the way of all the others in the room.

“Are those Asians? Are they slaves in the colonies too? Was the tamale seller from here or somewhere else? Do women work everywhere now or only in the Americas?” came in one long string from Angus.

“Oh, Dear God Angus, must you? Must you really?” she sighed heavily, wondering where to begin.

“One thing at a time then Claire, start wheree’er ye like Lass” Jamie said, resting back against the wall next to her, reaching out a large hand for hers. She took the gesture for what it was, a kindness, and not direction for husbandly sake.

“No, they aren’t slaves and neither is anyone else here! That all ended some time ago, in the 1830s and 1840s in the United Kingdom and then its’ colonies and territories. The Colonies, which became the United States of America in the 1770s with a document called the Declaration of Independence and a Revolutionary War, fought yet another war, called the Civil War, to eliminate slavery, among other issues, here in the 1860s The United States is a Republic, and has no King or Queen, France is now the same. Theoretically, this is a Democracy, in the Ancient Greek style, with a Government in the Ancient Roman style. The current President, leader in charge, is Herbert Hoover. This country will be an invaluable ally to Great Britain in the First and Second World Wars. It has its’ problems, like everywhere else and currently the economic and political states are in flux. The Government doesn’t know what to do about the Depression, and generally stays out of peoples’ lives, except Prohibition, so most control and or help is on a local level. There is a Military, but it is nothing like the Redcoats of old.

Immigrants have come here from all over the world for an opportunity at a better life or to escape persecution, famine, wars or just to satisfy wanderlust. I had never even visited here before we arrived, and other than meeting many Yanks in my War and seeing Motion Pictures or reading the News, World Histories or fictional tales about it, that is the extent of my knowledge about this place.

I know trivial things of course, like who wins the next several World Series of Baseball, or General Elections, or who the Heavy Weight Boxing Champion is…” Claire gasped and stopped abruptly. That is what had been tapping on her brain! People gambled here, on all kinds of things. She would have to learn how to go about it and soon.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Ye mean ye ken things that are going to happen that we might have use of Lass?” Dougal asked as soon as she stopped and he took notice of her startled face. “For money aye?” He wasn’t sure he cared at all about all the other things she’d said about this place, but that, that he did find interesting.

“Yes Dougal! But give me time to think on it and decide what to do about it. Surely you have other questions that I can help with now?” She raised a brow at him and frowned slightly. Ah but she was a unique woman, he thought. While he knew she must have fears, and certainly her tears had confused him, he just couldn’t help but admire her courage. She didna give a tinkers’ damn about what he wanted. It tickled him no end that he didna impress her one bit.

“Weel, tell me more of this place we’ve landed in and what are Motion Pictures? Can we see one then?” he asked, leaning into the other side of her and nudging her with his shoulder. He grinned down at her and then looked up and winked at Jamie on her other side. “I ken she knows more than she’s telling lad. You might have to beat her to make her properly respectful.”

“I would like to see him try to!” Claire huffed, not really appreciating the joke.

“While I’m sure I could, canna imagine that I would.” Jamie laughed and chucked her chin. “Nae ‘twould ha’e to be life or death ye ken?”

“Nae sure who’s death it would be.” Murtagh said to Angus, who rolled his eyes and guffawed.

“She’d scratch yer eyes out if ye tried Jamie, but I’d be willing to pay to see it.” Angus said, digging in his pocket for some of his change from breakfast.

“That will be enough of that you lot! If you can’t be serious, at least control yourselves and put away your change Angus. You’ll be needing it soon enough.” Claire finally giggled a bit. “Motion pictures are like those photographs in the attic Dougal. They make them here, although it used to all be done in New York. If we have time to go see one before we must get back to the boarding house, I’ll treat you all to one. This is a very large state called California, as far as I can tell it’s a bit different here than elsewhere in the States, but it’s a huge country and I seriously doubt you will believe how big until you see maps.”

“This state alone is probably five times the size of your countries combined” said a humorous deep voice standing about ten feet away from them.

Dougal looked up quickly, prepared to say something rude to the stranger, but stopped abruptly when he got a look at the man as he came towards them.

“I understand you were looking for me? Might you be the ones Father McDaniel sent over to see me?”

Claire stepped forward and held out her hand to him, smiling brightly, she said, “Mr. Blake, I presume?”

He took her hand and shook it. “Yes, Mrs. Fraser? If you all will follow me to my office, I have the information you need.”

They followed him across the entry room and into a rather large office that held only one desk and several chairs. Dougal was impressed with the man, although he wasn’t sure why. Mr. Blake was tall, wide of shoulder, with skin the color of fine tobacco. He had the most striking eyes. They were so dark, he couldn’t see his pupils. He wore a thin mustache and a black suit, with something in the upper pocket, folded in peaks. His hair was tightly combed to his scalp in dark waves that shone.

Dougal had never seen anything like him. None of them had, except Claire, and she had the oddest little smirk on her face as she looked at the men. It was as if she was laughing at them, but he couldn’t understand why.

“Please be seated. We have a few things to cover before you head to work tomorrow. Father McDaniel explained your tragic circumstances to me. Shame about that fire that destroyed your passports. But I imagine we’ll be able to replace them soon enough.” Mr. Blake picked up something from his desk, sat down and pulled some papers towards himself.

“Ah, yes, the fire, it took most of our possessions as well Mr. Blake.” Claire said, cool as you please. She was getting better at lying Dougal thought.

“Well, if you would give me your names, dates of birth, country of origin, any other countries you might have traveled to, and when, as well as when you arrived here, I will have an associate of mine make you new ones.” Mr. Blake replied, looking at Claire out of the corner of his eyes in a manner that said he knew she was lying, but that it didn’t matter.

“Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Fraser…” Claire began and then proceeded to fill in the details as Mr. Blake wrote it all down. The men just gave their names and birthdays and followed her lead on the rest.  “Do you think you might be able to provide us with birth certificates and a marriage license as well Mr. Blake?” she said, surprising all of them, except Mr. Blake, Dougal saw.

“Oh, shouldn’t be much of a stretch Mrs. Fraser, cost you though.  Say five dollars total each? When you go to get your pictures taken for your passports, next week, my associate will have those documents as well. Does it matter who we list on the certificates or…?” Mr. Blake replied.

“Give the gentleman your parents’ names please. The marriage certificate should read Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp and James Alexander Malcom MacKenzie Fraser, with Dougal MacKenzie and Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser as witnesses. Make sure it’s a Catholic certificate, if you would. I am sure Father McDaniel will be happy to sign as the presiding Priest and date it four days ago please.”

“Ah, newlyweds, congratulations are in order. Best wishes for your long happiness. Now, about the airport job. It should last a week, and you will be working through the weekend. The bus will pick you up here at 7 AM. Don’t be late or it will leave without you. You’ll mostly be digging, hauling and grading, but they pay at the end of each day, and no questions asked about who I send. Do a good job, and I’ll be happy to find you more as I am able, once we have you legal again. The foreman’s name is Don Grant. He’s fair but tough. I take it you have something lined up Mrs. Fraser? Come back and see me if that doesn’t pan out. I can get you day bit parts with your looks.” He smiled and stood up, sticking out his hand for each of them to shake.

Dougal felt like he had missed something in all this but couldn’t quite grasp what it was. He shook the man’s hand, approving of his firm grip. “Thank ye man” he said, meaning it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

“Well, that took care of several birds with one stone.”  Claire said as she led them back outside.

Murtagh, who was a bit lost with all that had happened since they’d left the diner, if he was honest, shook his head and asked, “Did that all go as it should?”

Claire laughed and took his arm “Yes, yes it did. He obviously knew what he was about, and Father McDaniel had filled him in somewhat as to our predicament. I doubt he told him when we were from though. Now, let’s get you all cleaned up a bit more before we find you some work clothes.”

Murtagh was absurdly pleased she had taken his arm. Jamie would like that too. Dougal and Angus looked at her askance though. He grinned nastily at them and led her further up the street. “Barber, is it?” he said as he tried out tipping his hat to her.

She flushed a lovely light pink about the cheeks, squeezed his arm a bit and said “Yes, there’s one up there, see the red and white striped pole? That’s how you know one’s about.” She pointed several buildings down and he strolled contented at her side.

They all filed into the shop, and he looked around for signs of doctoring, but it was not like that. There were four red upholstered chairs with headrests, one of which was occupied. There were four men in white smocks standing near sinks, one of whom was wrapping a towel around the face of the man reclined in one of the red seats. There were more chairs near the door, a table in front of them, scattered with papers.  

“It’s a stampede!” came a muffled voice from under the towel.

“I don’t think so Nick, looks like four men in search of serious trims if you ask me.” Replied the man placing another steaming towel on the customer’s face.

“Well, men should always be serious about trim, if you ask me” chuckled the muffled face.

Claire coughed. “I beg your pardon, but these gentlemen all need your services. I’m going to head across the street to the five and dime whilst you get on with it.”

“I do apologize Madam. Had no idea we were in the presence of an English lady” waved the cultured voice with one manicured, slender hand.

“Think nothing of it. I’ll be back in twenty minutes or so. Enjoy your pampering my lads.” She laughed and left quickly by the ringing door.

“Well, three of you sit down over here and one of you guard the front door from any more women intruders” said one of the smocked men.

There was a bit of a scrum to see who would be sitting by the door.

“Mike, take Red there, Bob, see to the giant in grey, Steve you’ve got your pick of the other two. Well, gentlemen, we don’t actually bite you know, set yourselves down and let’s get on with it. I’m Larry by the by. This here’s Nick Charles under the facial. He’s famous.”

Murtagh decided courage was the better part of valor and took the third seat before Angus could. “Oh, Aye Larry? And what’s he famous for then?” he asked as he rested his feet on the small platform at the end of the chair.

“Him? He’s the detective of course. But you’ll not be knowing that if you’re fresh off the boat” sniffed Larry.

“What’ll it be” asked Mike of Murtagh. “Can’t remember the last time I saw four men in beards. Want that shaved then? Facial like Charles? Haircuts definitely.”

“I’ll have the shave, haircut and facial” Jamie said to Bob.

“Ye’ll no be taking my beard, but ye can trim it up if it suits ye. Hair and facial too” Dougal told Steve.

“Aye, same as Dougal then” Murtagh said, folding his hands over his hat in his lap.

The barbers all snapped and swirled capes in unison and the men all sat up a bit straighter when they were covered in them. Angus laughed from his seat by the door “Ye look like huge ghosties, ya gobshites.”

“Ah, nothing like a good Scottish accent on the ears” said Nick as he sat up and removed the towels. He stood and removed a flask from his interior jacket pocket. “Paper cups will have to do Lawrence.” He collected several white cones from a stand on the other side of the door and gave one to each of the men seated. He poured out a small dram of what smelled like whisky to Murtagh in each of the cones.

“Here’s looking up your old address! Your health lads and welcome.” Nick said and drank his down.

It was very fine whisky indeed.

“What’s this then?” Dougal asked.

“Why that’s Kentucky mash my good man. Bourbon, not Scotch alas.” Nick laughed and poured himself another, emptying the flask and sighing. “Put their beautifications on my tab Lawrence. I’ll be back presently.” He waved again and left.

“Just where’s everyone gettin’ whisky then?” Angus questioned casually.

“Hah! The day will never come when Mr. Charles doesn’t have it.” Larry said, waving him over to the now empty seat. “I know, you want the same as Red” he said, as he appeared to study the length of his hair and beard.

“Ye should shave him bald, ye ken. Nae tellin’ what’s livin’ in tha’ mop.” Murtagh suggested helpfully.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Claire spent a few minutes wandering the aisles of the store, happily looking over all the items and enjoying her few minutes in peace. They had work clothes and shoes in a basement Men’s section but she needed the men to fit them, and they likely were too pricey anyway. She took her time at the perfume counter on the main floor instead, nearly crying again with joy.

“May I help you Madam?” a salesclerk asked her when she stopped by another counter to look at watches.

“Oh yes please, something not too expensive if you don’t mind.”

“This is a lovely piece, two dollars, but worth it, if you ask me. You can pin it to anything and it has a seconds arm as well.” He said, pointing to a silver broach with an open face. It had a loop for putting it on as necklace too.

“That will do nicely” she said, concerned with the price, but needing it for work. He handed it over after placing it in a small velvet box. She paid him and stepped away to look at some sundries down one of the aisles closer to the door.  She would have to wait on the perfume she determined. Oh well, maybe Mrs. Bartlett would have an idea where she could look for bargains.

“I think the lads might be missing you” came Nick’s cultured voice to her right.

She jumped about a foot in the air, coming down with a small “Oh!”, whipping her head around to look at him.

He was in a beautifully tailored suit of dove grey, with a lavender tie and matching pocket handkerchief. His hat was grey felt with a darker grey band, casually tipped to just above his right eye. He was smiling kindly, but pursing his lips as he did so.

“Nick Charles Madam. Please forgive my ill manners, my wife would be mortified, I’m sure.”

“You just startled me, it’s fine really. Did something happen?” she asked worriedly.

“Now what could happen there that would make you look like that, I wonder.”

She wasn’t sure how to respond. Was he just curious by nature? Why had he followed her here? Why did his name ring a bell? “Oh, I’ve just had a long morning Mr. Charles, bit ragged around the edges. If you’ll excuse me, I must be getting back to them. Lovely to meet you!” she babbled as she stepped around him and out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Jamie decided he quite liked this Barber Shop. The Barbers never stopped talking but were quick about their jobs. The towels were heated through, damp and scented. He could get used to that bit of pampering. He wasn’t a vain man, so he really didn’t care what his hair looked like, but thought he could also get used to the cream that flattened it down and made it shine as well. Would Claire like it though, that was the question. She’d never seen it this short, or neat.

They took seats back by the door and waited for Larry to finish with Angus, who looked like an entirely different man without all that unruly hair about his head and face.  

“Yer own Mither wouldna’ ken ye” Murtagh said picking up one of the papers from the table. The bell rang again and Claire came back just as Jamie was doing the same.

“That spawn of Satan didna’ ha’e a Mother.” Dougal stated, standing up and heading to the door.

“I’ll ha’e ye know I did!” Angus, who had been studying himself in the mirror, held out his hand to Larry and thanked him before winking at Claire.

“Goodness! You all certainly look polished up! What a lovely job you’ve made of it.” She said as she opened her wee bag.

“Master Charles paid Claire.” Jamie said, wondering still if she liked what she saw.

“That was kind of him, I wonder why he did?”

“Just that sort of fella. You all be sure to come back in a couple of weeks. Can’t have you looking like hooligans.” Larry said, sweeping up the multicolored hair on the floor.

The other barbers had taken over the seats and waved them all out the door.

“Where to now Sassenach?”

“Oh, I think we should search for a second-hand shop for your work clothes and shoes, and then we’ll take a bus to a cinema. That way you will know what to expect in the morning.” She placed her arm about his waist and whispered up into his ear “You look very handsome Jamie and you smell lovely.”

He warmed to his toes and placed an arm about her shoulders. “It was verra nice in there. Did ye find what ye needed at the store?”

“I did indeed. I’ll show you later.”

Jamie’s mind went straight to those single beds and he felt himself starting to flush about the neck.

“Just what is causing that my lad?” Claire asked knowingly.

“I tell ye later too.” He grinned down at her and pulled in her a bit closer.

They walked a couple of streets over until she found the place she was looking for. They spent the next thirty minutes or so trying on shoes and having her hold up what she called dungarees to each of them. She then handed them three of those each and picked out cotton shirts that weren’t as formal as the ones they were wearing he saw. They had no buttons for one thing, and had shortened sleeves.

“These will do for work. Each of you take this stuff to the cashier over there. You should have enough with your other dollar bill.”

That bit of business handled she asked the lady who had taken their money where the closest cinema was and if there was a bus stop handy to it.

“Right down the road hun. Can’t miss it, it’ll drop you right in front of Grauman’s” she answered.

They walked to the bus stop, carrying a bag apiece. Claire had not gotten herself anything at the clothes place and Jamie felt bad about it. He wanted to spoil her with trinkets he realized. She didn’t even have a wedding ring he suddenly remembered and felt immediately worse.

It would become his top priority as soon as he was able to afford one he determined.

The bus arrived in a belch of black smoke, squealing like a stuck boar as it pulled up in front of them. She went first and dropped some coins in a box as they entered. “I’ve got theirs” she said to the man sitting behind a large wheel. “How far until the Chinese Cinema?” He heard her ask him.

“Fifteen minutes or so, take your seats please, I’ll holler when it’s your stop.”

The bus roared back into motion and Jamie grabbed a rail in front of his and Claire’s seat. “What’s he called then?” he gritted through his teeth, feeling a bit sick.

“He’s called a driver. There are also hired automobiles called cabs, that have drivers as well.”

“I think I prefer horses.”

“Well of course you do.” She said, patting his thigh and laughing.

Her touch took his mind off everything else for the next few minutes. He saw the rest of them looking out the windows and murmuring to each other, but he couldn’t be bothered. He took her hand again, keeping it firmly on his leg.

“I like to see you laughing. You have such beautiful teeth. My bonny wife” he said in French. It seemed much more appropriate for their close quarters on this contraption.

“Why thank you gallant Sir.” She responded in kind, tickling the palm of his hand.

“If you keep that up, we might have to go home straight away.” He grinned his most devilish grin at her and rubbed her hand lightly.

“Not a chance. This bit of the day will be the most fun I’ve had yet. I can hardly wait to see all your faces when you see a cartoon.” She grinned back and took her hand from his, folding her arms beneath her breasts.

“Ye’ll pay for this. I dinna ken how yet, but ye will.” He growled in her ear and turned to finally look out the window at the passing scenery.

TO BE CONTINUED.

[mintyvan]

roadtrip - northeast

PART 4 of 7!

If you haven’t read part one

Or two

Or three

Notes: inspired by a rumor that Van chose the name for The Balcony based on some poem. Things get a lil better for our couple in this part.

___________________ 

They cut through the green mountains, where the ghosts of the Huron pique her interest and more souvenirs are bought, added to the rather ridiculous pile already littering the backseat. There are various plastic coffee mugs from different locales: a cardboard Washington monument, a pair of cowboy boots, t-shirts with various slogans, a chunk of cedar wood, take out containers and take out menus, a few empty bottles of liquor. But now a dreamcatcher takes the honor spot, hanging from the rearview mirror.

"See, it catches the bad ones and lets the good ones through the middle," she explains, turning the thing around, admiring how well it was handcrafted.

"How old were you before you stopped believing in Santa Claus?" Van says, shaking his head. She ignores his insensitivity. Instead, her eyes grow wide, and she puts her head down between her knees. Her voice wobbles. "Santa Claus doesn't exist?"

"Shut up."

She grins, tickling his neck with a feather from the dreamcatcher. "I believe in everything, just in case, because what if something did exist and then it took revenge on me because I didn't believe in it?" 

"You wouldn’t make a good atheist."

"Either that or I’ve listened to the Strokes too many times and now consider Julian Casablancas to be the one true god," she says lightly, smile beaming.

"By the way, that one CD’s mine, in case you've decided to sleep with it for the rest of your life, just know that I come with it."

A blush sweeps her cheeks. "Ok, it was late at night and it made a nice pillow. CDs can do that."

"Unless it's a bad one. Those are always bricks."

"Or a book. Sometimes those are okay to sleep on, if they’re paperback. I slept on an old dictionary once."

"Yeah, who actually reads a dictionary?" Van asked incredulously.

A pause.

"Y/N, Y/N."

"It has a lot of interesting things in it, okay?!"

"I bet that's where you learned all your dirty words," he grins, knowing he's egging her on.

"Ok, so now you belong to the group of people that claims little birds dress me in the morning? In case you never heard of the great Sidewalk Chalk contest debate that took place between the headmaster of the school and my father when I was four……"

"Ouch. Scarred for life," he exaggerates, fiddling with the radio.

"Mock me if you will. I was never the same. My mother tried to make up different meanings for everything, like ‘shit’ means ‘fluffy bunnies’ right? I got sent home from school for that, messing up the otherwise perfect attendance record I've had since day one."

"I can't believe colleges still took you," he says, in an exaggerated tone of disbelief.

"Ugh, there's no talking to you today. I'll talk to the dashboard instead." She turns up the radio, drowning his chuckle out, and starts singing along, while the air from the open window rushes in, lifting her hair like spinning helicopter propellers around her head, like a golden brown halo.

The road drops away behind them like a silky black ribbon, full of August heat mirages and shimmering disappearing lakes.

They head north, where the forests get cooler as they drive winding roads through the end of the Appalachians. They pass through a leafy, sunlight dappled Vermont, make time through New Hampshire, head to rocky Massachusetts. She drags him through revolutionary war tours, buys a colonial bonnet and a fake copy of the Declaration of Independence, and buys coffee in gallon size proportions from 7-11 each day.

"Mmmm……….."

"You're in Boston. For history's sake, you should be drinking some tea just to spite them."

She shakes her head, mouth resolute. "Are you kidding? No wonder they threw that crap in the harbour. I would've too."

"Didn't that have to do more with political rebellion?" he grins, bemused.

"Well, if they were making me drink tea and pay for it, I would rebel too."

He watches her drink, the way her eyelids close halfway each time she takes a sip, the content little half smile.

They are sitting on the hood of the car, parked near a harbour. A few boats list gently in the breeze, painted against the vivid blue of the sky.

A dime for your thoughts, she thinks sometimes, looking at him. I'd pay extra just to know what's taking place behind your eyes.

She lays down on the hood, the morning sunlight gleaming on her damp, warm skin, her face glowing a pale bronze. He likes the translucent pink of her lips, the little shadow that falls between them, hiding something alluring. He lays down next to her, studying the little freckles on her cheeks.

He whispers things to her in the morning sunlight, things she's been thinking about. He flies through her, pulling with him everything she's always known, tangling it up like fine strings. His words reach something in her, tap into her mind, turning her secrets out in the blinding sunlight.

She finds it scary and exhilarating, talking to this boy who knows so much, who can spark something inside her like a dizzy lightbulb, rasping, glimmering twice, then springing to full light, blazing in its neon intensity. It's his words that touch her in the place she always tried to hide, that wake something up inside her that makes her want more. It's the way he can always teach her something, something no one else can give.

She thinks of a line by Janet Fitch - a girl who describes a man as having a voice "like a hand between my legs." Her legs coil up slowly to her chest.

She likes it when he talks like that to her, in that low, concentrated voice, words each burning with meaning begging to be refuted, identified, dissected. She likes that tone of voice. It makes her think of things she is ashamed of.

"I want to know what you're thinking about when you smile with your eyes closed like that," he breaks in suddenly, and she catches herself, embarrassed.

When she opens her eyes, they gleam unearthly colors in the morning sunlight. Her shy smile reveals everything to him.

"Tell me your secrets," she says simply, and he shakes his head, grinning.

"I'll tell you one."

He delicately raises his head, bending close to her ear.

"I want to do with you what spring does with cherry trees."

She lets her hair fall to hide her flushed face.

"Pablo Neruda," he hears her whisper, and a smile plays on his lips at her tone.

"Another one."

He cannot see her eyes or cheeks, but he sees her damp lips mouth a consent.

"I like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more."

He sees the corners of her mouth turn up a little.

"e. e. cummings."

He nods.

"Stop playing the Dick to my Dottie," she whispers, and he smiles, feeling the sensuousness of the sound.

"McCarthy."

Then, "I didn't mean….."

She cuts him off.

"I liked it."

He can't help but feel a current at this quick, stifled admission, her face hidden in her hair, her cheeks flushed, her breathing erratic, her eyelashes cast downwards.

He lays back on the hood next to her, feeling something strange, almost akin to what someone else might mistake for love, stirring inside him. It's just this warm, gentle feeling he can't place, a desire to bring her the world and set it at her feet.

He's rather surprised and contemplative.

Her hand knots itself in his shirt. He encircles her wrist with his fingers, turning it with wonder, feeling the slender bones.

The morning sky shines bright and burning.

"Her limbs are as delicate as an eyelid, love has blinded him with tears," he whispers to her. "Yeats."

He smiles sweetly and kisses her like a child, a nervous, damp flower touch of a kiss.

Her eyes are wide.

"Come with me. Let's go somewhere quiet. I just want to be alone with you."

She pauses, and looks at him puzzled.

"I don't know that one. Who said it?"

He laughs.

"Me, just now."

She grins, then becomes solemn.

"Okay."

*

The road is racing past. Fast, grey, thin, furious… the cement curves and stretches out behind them at a blinding speed. She feels the iron taste of fear, anticipation, and pleasure in her mouth.

Her hands clench. She watches him drive, out of the corner of her eye, the way his hands move fluidly, the way she can anticipate the shifts in speed by his face, his careful analysis and split second decision, the hard line of his jaw, his almost imperceptible smile. She knows what he's thinking about. It almost scares her. He doesn't seem to want to talk, almost as if he's too preoccupied fighting some thought.

Her heart is beating hard and erratic, fluttering against her ribcage, its wings tearing.

His is too, but his face never shows it.

At the hotel room, things go almost the way she pictured it.

He doesn't exactly know what to do with her. Hiding behind the pretence of carelessness, he examines her head to toe as she sits on the side of the bed, somewhat flushed, head bowed.

He's shirtless, smoking a cigarette. The hotel room is old, but clean, with soft white carpet worn in places, clean, lacy curtains, dark woodwork, and gold painted fixtures on the white tub. It was a quaint little place they saw off the highway.

In the semi-dark of the room, beams of sunlight creep in through the crack between the shut drapes. He turns on a lamp, bathing the room in a hazy, dark glow.

Carefully, he takes off her shirt, then lays it across the chair, and stares at it for a moment, as if it's alien. She remains with her arms in the air  before they slowly fall to her sides.

He stands there, face bathed in dark shadows, eyes huge and swimming, the color of the sea, she thinks. Here and there, the light strikes. The curve of a cheekbone. The shadow between his lips. The cut of muscle and bone, in two faint lines on his abdomen that disappear downwards, making her throat dry.

He fingers the little eyelet lace strap on her champagne colored satin bra. She jumps a little at the touch. Thoughtfully, he puts out his cigarette, and takes a deep breath.

"You have to help me," he tells her, and she nods, as though she is a pupil in class, paying careful attention. "Tell me things. Okay?"

His tone is gentle. She shivers. He's doing this for her; it must be hard, this new selflessness, this unusual generosity. She feels a little flattered.

Almost absently, he plays with her hair, standing above her, letting the strands fall through his fingers. She seizes his wrist, holding it hard; he is surprised at the strength of her touch, almost hurting him. It conveys to him a desire that emanates wordlessly from her, and suddenly he doesn't see her as so helpless, so little. His licks his dry lips.

He unbuttons the raggedy shorts falling low on her hips, sliding them down her legs.

With a heartbreaking naiveté, her hands slowly rise to his belt, undoing the heavy buckle, pulling it through. The dark jeans are next, left crumpled on the floor.

He lights another cigarette nervously, but with a quick movement that catches him by surprise, she takes it from his fingertips and curves her lips around it as if she were sipping from a candy striped straw. She swirls her fingers in the patterns of smoke that drift from her mouth and smiles at him.

He understands this, her admission to meet him halfway.

His fingers touch her so carefully, then hungry, then restrained. She uses herself entirely, as well as she knows how, exploring, watching him with a new air of wonder, pleased at the small things she can do for him, pleased when he likes something in particular.

He softly walks her through it as if it’s entirely new, losing his head at times, but fighting back, before surrendering to her gentle touch that needs no training to convey the emotion it holds.

They tangle in the sheets, and her hand reaches languidly in the air, and turns off the light, letting him indulge completely.

*

The pale gray light streams through the windows, lighting gently on her sleeping face. He has been up for half hour at least, just watching her. He still cannot believe what happened, what he's done, and he's afraid and so incredulous.

He remembers how afterwards she had laid there on her side quietly, her eyes so huge and full, brimming, tipping, spilling. Her mouth trembled bravely. His breathing was ragged and deep, body liquefying, melting, relaxing.

She'd been scared to meet his eyes. In the blue darkness, her fingertips clenched into a small fist on the pillow and she'd pulled the sheets around her closely.

He was hesitant to speak.

"Are you ….are you ok?"

She had nodded, head bent, hair hiding her face. A tear slipped out, tracing a gleaming trail on her damp skin.

His fingers pushed her hair back. Her wide, tortured eyes met his own.

"Love, are you sure?"

She nodded again, vehemently, and offered a tiny smile.

"It was just so much. I feel different now than I thought I might."

He felt a quick stab at these words.

"Different how?"

She realized the unspoken and quickly looked up.

"Not different than before."  Still shy, she looked away, hiding her burning face. "That was nice," she whispered, and he knew what she had really meant and smiled to himself, relieved.

"I just feel a little scared now," she said, her voice a little strange and sad. "I can't organize my feelings I don't know what to…do….."

He understood..

"It's alright," he answered softly, somewhat overwhelmed himself at this thing he's done, this crime, this desecration.

She clasped his hand, and her eyes fluttered closed, and her breathing became even.

In the grey dawn, now, he is watching her sleep, the curve of her neck, the soft slope of her cheek. It is hard for him to rationalize this. He takes out a cigarette, and decides against it, falling back on the pillows.

She is watching him.

Hair messy and rumpled, eyes thick with sleep, she sits up against the headboard next to him, drawing her knees up to her chest and hugging them. Neither person says anything.

"Do you think we were wrong?"

He cannot read her expression, but considers her words carefully.

"Why?"

Her head droops forward even more.

"Because, Van, you never even said you loved me."

He brings her coffee, and smokes his morning ciggy. They trade newspaper pages silently, methodically, like an old couple.

When they are done, they fold it back up and drop it to the floor. A pause follows.

"Van, I……."

His gaze is intense and piercing.

"You what?" he asks sharply.

"I want to know if you still hate me."

He tilts his head, his smile somewhat bitter.

"After what just happened?"

"Van, sex is hate as much as it is love. It doesn't explain anything. When I came back from London and started this..thing…again, you still were angry at me, and you left me to go play shows just to retaliate. How can I even be sure this isn't more of that?"

He shrugs, irritated. He wants to say the words but he is too proud, so proud.

"It hurt," she says simply, her head turned away, looking at the wall. "We didn't speak that whole spring. And here we are now, and this is what's come of it. Now you want me again."

He gets out of bed, his gaze pinning her to the wall.

"I loved you since you kissed me. Nothing ever changed. You made me hate you too, but that doesn't exist now. And I know you want to get even again. And you did, on that beach in Savannah, that night. You won again, you always win." He paused, and his hard eyes softened, tired. "And that's fine with me. I don't want to play anymore. It's up to you now."

She bites her lips as he walks away, face in her hands. There once was something terrible burning inside her, something so heartwrenching everytime she saw him.

Now there is nothing there. She knows what she really wants to say now.

She creeps into the clouds of steam, pearly and damp. Her arms gently embrace him, caressing his slick wet hair, her water-wet mouth seeking his, and her kiss is an answer. She has forgiven.

He slowly covers her in foam, turning her into a pink and white cloud, as she giggles into his neck, her laughter muffled; they touch and kiss and bathe off the night before, and towel each other off softly. She lays him down, quite serious now, propping him against the headboard and experimenting shyly. His eyes widen and his mouth presses into a thin line as he groans, a sound separated from his body somehow, as she bends her head and makes love to him. He's helpless in her hands, weak and in love, trembling under fingertips, her lips. And she lets her pride go, and assures him for the last definitive time that she has forgiven.

They sunbathe on the white beaches, dip their feet into the frigid water and walk through the tall pines of the Maine forests until time runs out.

She checks her calendar and her face stiffens. He is driving, but still sees it out of the corner of his eye.

"What is it?"

She turns to him, mouth set and determined.

"The next stop is…..my grandparents’ place. The one they recently moved to."

They stare straight ahead, dumbstruck.

"Van---"

"I won't say anything," he interrupts, voice calm and devoid of feeling.

"It's for the best," she answers in an identical tone. "We need to be careful."

[heartvalue2-blog]

Philadelphians told us their favorite outdoor spots in Philly

To celebrate spring, we asked some well-known Philadelphians to share their favorite outdoor spots in the city. What’s the mayor’s happy place? Where does the district attorney like to ride a bike? How about The Inquirer’s metro columnist, or the CEO of Saxbys Coffee?

Find out below, then tell us your favorites via the form at the end of this story.

Jim Kenney, Philadelphia mayor

“Franklin Square Park. It’s one of our great public spaces, and it has become an amazing example of what can be accomplished through a public-private partnership in our parks. Franklin Square has a rich history as one of the city’s five original squares, and today it brings joy to people from all walks of life. Of course, I also have pretty fond memories in this place because it’s where I get to spend time every year as Buddy the Elf. I am also looking forward to returning in May for the annual Living Flame Police and Fire Memorial Service. As the son of a firefighter, the memorial that sits on the east side of the park and the annual service have always been special to me. You have to try the Tastykake milkshake they sell at Square Burger, play a round of mini-golf, or ride the carousel while you’re there.”

Mike Newall, metro columnist for The Philadelphia Inquirer

“The Navy Yard. Its beauty, its history. The oldness, the newness, the vastness, the ghosts (there are a reported few), the wildflowers and wildlife, including, yes, the cellar-dwelling fish. In the Navy Yard, you feel so set apart, even with the skyline right there looming. And though the yard has again become a thriving space in recent years — 13,500 people work in the 165 companies based there — it can still feel undiscovered. For me, anyway. Most weeks, I’m there daily — jogging, walking the dog — and I still come across new little charms. There’s one spot I admire every time I’m at the Navy Yard: a long-abandoned officer’s quarters with a wide porch overlooking the Delaware. It’s tattered, but it’s beautiful.  I’m not telling which one it is, though. In my daydreams, it’s mine. Someday.”

Donna Bullock, Pa. House representative for District 195

“The Philadelphia Zoo. It is the country’s first zoo and if you ask my family, it is also the best zoo. Its where I see my boys explore and learn. It inspired our family to visit zoos around the country. We visited zoos in Pennsylvania, Ohio, New Jersey, Delaware, New York, Maryland, Virginia, Illinois, and California. We still think Philadelphia is the best. The Philadelphia Zoo is landlocked, but that hasn’t stopped it from growing.  Visitors can now explore Zoo360, the world’s first system of see-through mesh trails that cross over pathways, connect habitats and encourage animals to travel up and around exhibits, visitors and other animals. It’s really cool to see a lion catch a glimpse of the lemurs hopping through crossing trails.”

Nick Bayer, founder and CEO of Saxbys

“There are so many amazing outdoor spots in Philly, but I’m going to go with the Schuylkill River Trail – specifically between Taney Park and Boat House Row.  As I live and work in this area, I’m on the trail all the time – 12 months of the year. I love taking conference calls while walking the trail – maybe my most memorable was when I was on a call with Drexel’s President John Fry and he told me he wanted to partner on what has since become our Experiential Learning Program – exclusively student-run cafes on campus.  The good feeling from that call is the positive vibe I take with me on all the calls I take from the Trail.”

Larry Krasner, Philadelphia district attorney

“He really enjoyed biking Kelly Drive and the Schuylkill River Trail with Judge Lisa Rau, his spouse, when he lived in the NW; perhaps the most memorable instance of this activity was putting snow chains on his bike tires to ride to his law practice during a nasty snow storm.”

– As told by Dustin Slaughter, DAO spokesperson

Steven Grasse, founder of Quaker City Mercantile

“As a Philadelphia history nerd, my easy answer is Washington Square Park. It’s one of William Penn’s five original squares and it’s full of dead bodies. It was used as a burial ground for Revolutionary war soldiers (which is why the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is there). I believe there are all sorts of other dead bodies buried there too, from criminals to freed slaves to yellow fever victims. Yet, despite this morbid history, it’s the prettiest and most quaint of the five original squares.”

Mark Squilla, District 1 councilman

“Burke Playground at 2nd and Jackson. As a community activist, we worked with then-Councilmember Frank DiCicco to rehab the entire facility.  This park is opened and closed every day and programmed by the community. One of my favorite programs in the park is their Christmas event.  Being Santa with Buddy the Elf (Jim Kenney) at Burke is such a feel-good moment when you get to share all those smiles and excited looks with the neighborhood children.”

Kylie Flett, director of PR and strategy at Punch Media

“My favorite outdoor spot in Philly is Philadelphia Brewing Company’s outdoor beer garden! It’s a short walk from my home in Kensington, it’s pet-friendly, never too busy, devoid of any bros, and my favorite place to post up on a sunny afternoon with a mate and a pint. The last time I was there it was New Year’s Day and I had a friend from Australia visiting. We had a fun time partying with the Mummers, young families from the neighborhood, and a bunch of tattoos hipsters. It was uniquely Philly and perfect!”

Rick Friedman, director of Philadelphia Fine Art Fair

“A favorite outdoor spot for me lately is right outside the 30th Street Amtrak station. I’ve been traveling often, setting up for our inaugural fair, so every time I get off the train and into the majestic grand concourse lobby, I step right outside into the fresh air. I usually sit for a few minutes in the neighboring plaza outside on one of the benches (even in the winter) and grab a pretzel and coke from a food cart. It’s the perfect place for people watching, everyone busting in and out of the famous train station. After I catch my breath, I walk a couple of blocks up Market Street to head over to our venue, the 23rd Street city Troop Armory, a dramatic, mind-boggling, historical 18th-century castle, that will be transformed April 4-7, 2019 into the city’s first contemporary art fair.”

Irene Levy Baker, author of 100 Things To Do In Philadelphia Before You Die

“This may seem cliché but my favorite outdoor spot in Philadelphia is Rittenhouse Square. You see everything from chubby toddlers imagining the goat is a real animal to well-dressed locals walking dogs they treat like humans, to the workaholic juggler to the hire-a-poet who, occasionally snags his spot. I love catching snippets of conversations from passersby and creating the rest of their story. But, my favorite thing to spot is a bridal party taking photos or, better yet, proposals in progress.”

After receiving a couple of responses via email, we decided to get more 21st-century about our method of surveying. On Twitter, people gave us the down-low on where to picnic, jog or listen to jazz in the open air. Though answers varied, some motifs that ran through.

Philadelphians love a good view — like the one that can be gazed upon from Cira Green, as @passivelurker and @soyerikagrace pointed out — and they also enjoy locales where people watching (and dog spotting) are optimal. And most folks are suckers for a hike along the Wissahickon (as @pinecohn eloquently put it, “Wissahickon trails baby”).

Neil P. Bardhan, executive director of Broad Street Review

Michael Hanisco, creator of @PhillySnark

Liliana Frankel, freelance writer

Andie Levine, coordinator at Philly PR Girl

Winston Hearn, web engineer for Vox Media

Chelsea Chamberlain, history Ph.D. candidate at Penn

Now we want to know your faves. Use the form below (or access it directly here).

Source: https://billypenn.com/2019/04/02/philadelphians-told-us-their-favorite-outdoor-spots-in-philly/

[hetmusic]

FESTIVAL FINDS: 6 MUSIC FESTIVAL 2019 | The Most Radicalist

In this feature, we pick out our favourite emerging artists from stages around the world. This was our first time at the city-hopping three dayer that is the 6 Music Festival, and this year it was based in the historically musical city of Liverpool. Spread across several venues of this former industrial hub, we stepped off the platform at Liverpool Lime Street Station to seek out the freshest sounds at a festival which offered an array of established and emerging talent to sink our teeth into.

SHE DREW THE GUN First stop on our 6 Music Festival experience was Liverpool’s Olympia to see local band She Drew The Gun in action. We’ve been following The Wirral’s SDTG for some time now and we recently had the opportunity to interview the band’s founder Louisa Roach about their recent album release Revolution of Mind. And so, it was with high expectations that we stepped into the red walled, floored and furnished venue. She Drew The Gun opened with stand-out album track ‘Resister’, and despite the lyrics of social consciousness and entirely competent musicianship, the track didn’t quite hit the same live as it did recorded. Okay, we think, maybe the band is warming up. As the performance goes on, the band certainly does seem to settle into the groove of things and as ‘Paradise’ rolled around, they’re sounding much more like the bold, anti-capitalist revolutionaries that we expected. An absolute shining moment of the set and a place where we felt Louisa Roach really stepped into her own was ‘Resister Reprise’, in which the lengthy spoken word call for “collective self improvement” and tolerance paired with those swirling guitars entirely enraptured the audience. BODEGA After a slightly tricky start where Bodega had to stop and restart due to some technical difficulties, the band dove right back into the swing of ‘How Did This Happen?!’. After several sweat-inducing tracks, vocalist and guitarist Ben Hozie customarily thanked the audience and dedicated the rest of Bodega’s set to film director Agnès Varda who had passed away that Friday afternoon, leaving behind a legacy of French New Wave film. Hozie encouraged the audience to close their eyes for free admission to their next short film - aka song - ‘Boxes For The Move’. Throughout the whole performance, each member of the New York band played their part with enthusiasm and style. There was the slick chic of bassist Heather Elle, quirky guitar playing from Madison Velding-Vandam, the warrior-like drumming from Tai Lee, complete with eye catching pink and blue buzz cut. There has to be a special shout out to percussionist and vocalist Nikki Belfiglio, who snaked her way through each song like a Bellatrix Lestrange and The Worst Witch hybrid. Bodega offered up one of those sets you didn't want to end; their energy was simply intoxicating. If you ever see Bodega on a bill in the UK again, go get yourself a ticket, you won’t regret it. MARIKA HACKMAN A quick search for Marika Hackman among the archives of The Most Radicalist and you’ll find a long old stream of List Picks. Clearly, we’re fans here, and so as the unassuming figure of one Marika Hackman in suit pants and t-shirt took centre stage at the theatrical Olympia, we watched in anticipation… and surprisingly the opening number was a subdued solo performance; a simple, yet timeless, combination of voice and guitar. It harked back to her earlier work, We Slept at Last LP. Although we were really still holding out for the London slacker-pop and guitar-loaded fury of I’m Not Your Man. The following song was good, as was the next, and the next. All in all, the show proceeded with a solid consistency, however the songs lacked distinction from one another. It all melded into one. Not to say that this wasn’t enjoyable, there were wonderful moments of fired-up instrumentals, but following the truly riotous performance of Bodega, this band’s stick-to-your-stage-spots show felt lacking. As time ticked on, we felt sure that fan favourite ‘Boyfriend’ was to come soon. And then…. As if a beam of sunlight shining through the clouds, we heard a familiar opening melody. The witty lyricisms and catchy hooks quickly won the crowd over and the band seemed to enjoy this new-found energy. Closing the show with ‘Boyfriend’ left us with a warm glow, although we wished Marika could have turned up the heat a little sooner. JULIA JACKLIN Firstly, let’s set the scene. It’s Sunday at last, and we’ve carried our festival-worn selves out of bed and down to the trendy Baltic Triangle areas to a revamped warehouse now going by the name of Camp and Furnace. Our looks might be slightly more bedraggled than earlier in the weekend, but luckily for us the scent of loaded patatas bravas fills the air and Julia Jacklin is preparing to take to the stage. Over the past couple of years, this Australian export has found a loyal following here in the UK, having played many festivals and shows throughout the country. Having featured her resplendent, softly accented voice many times through songs like ‘Body’, ‘Cold Caller’ and ‘Eastwick’, we know that this is exactly what we need. Julia Jacklin is one of those artists you can watch any time of day, and although it's only just turned twelve o’clock, her presence at centre stage is entirely reassuring. Her performance is steady and comforting, her glassy vocal drifting over the crowd and settling upon our shoulders. Anyone who had seen Julia Jacklin play before today definitely wasn’t disappointed, she played ‘Head Alone’, ‘Pressure To Party’ and more with utmost confidence, while treating us to a more tender rendition of ‘Don’t Know How To Keep Loving You’. Safe to say, Jacklin remains in our good books as ever. PIGS PIGS PIGS PIGS PIGS PIGS PIGS Having been much revived by the street style food and multiple bars inside Camp and Furnace, we were somewhere still milling around underneath the foliage and cotton wool clouds swinging overheard. Nope, we’re not waxing poetic about nature; there was actually plastic leaves and great balls of wool up in the rafters of the venue. However, as fortified as we may have felt, nothing could have prepared us for the Northern rapture that is Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs Pigs. The five-piece stoically took to the stage and immediately frontman Matt Baty, with his open, sheer material shirt and cropped black jeans, looked like a man possessed. With each doomy guitar revolution and thunderous percussion, Baty’s body convulsed and posed with each sound, his hands forming strange symbols, and the microphone - wire and all - becoming one with himself. Each member of the band seemed wrapped in their own world, none more so than Baty, but also the lofty, Adam Sykes, standing close to the edge of the stage, playing his guitar with passive compliance. Pigs x7 is a truly engaging band to watch, and even more endearingly, they’re kind and funny while talking to the crowd between songs. They joke about being a happy pop band on the radio and how their song ‘A66’ got their local council to fix a stretch of neglected road. For their final song, it felt as if Pigs x7 would be unstoppable, or spontaneously combust. Then, a parting in the crowd drew our attention - the brooding guitarist Sykes handed his guitar over to a member of the audience, who was doing a rather brilliant job shredding amongst his admiring peers, keeping the momentum going. Like all good things, Pigs x7 set came to an end, leaving us all of little dazed and grinning from ear to ear. http://www.themostradicalist.com/features/festival-finds-6-music-festival-2019/