#if youre going. far and AWAY best place to be is hispanic heritage building

[ludinusdaleth]

guess who just went to the texas fair..... i tried to honor everyones bear encouragement and ate as much as i could. fried cheese curds, spicy garlic fries, mango ice cream, of course funnel cake with an ungodly amount of whipped cream, tons of water, iced pineapple jarrito soda, and something ive never heard of til now called rattlesnake lemonade (lemonade with tajin and i think jalapeño juice, holy shit). alsp some snacks for home. did i do good 🐻

[evilprincesskeri]

Tean!Dean - Part Two: Too Cool For School

Dean slouched back in the stupid chair-desk combo, his legs splayed wide into the isle.  Blocking the isle wasn’t an issue since he was parked in the back corner of the room as far from any doors or windows as one could get in the cramped, crowded room; that’s what a name like Winchester got you in the public school system.  

At least no one could sneak up behind him.  He snorted in amusement at the thought.  One of the other kids in the class turned around to look at him with eyes wide as a frightened rabbit and then… noisily shushed him.  Dean blinked twice in absolute bafflement ‘Some people’s children,’ he thought and waved a hand at the kid to turn back around.  

These were only two of the many reasons Dean hated being in school; this was not his world.  He was a Hunter, and some damned piece of paper wasn’t going to help him be better at hunting.  Sam was great at it, all the memorization and dry textbooks were right up the kid’s alley.  He just soaked it in like a sponge.  Dean on the other hand had tested straight into remedial everything.  At the moment he was sitting through a Substitute explaining the deep meaning and symbolism behind Piggy’s broken glasses.  Apparently, they symbolized the breakdown of societal structure and common courtesy; which seemed like a overwrought interpretation.  

Without the preamble of raising his hand Dean said “Couldn’t it just symbolize that kids are dicks?”

The stout middle-aged woman peered over her glasses and squinted at him for a moment, then made a show of consulting the seating chart before saying “Mr. Winchester, we raise our hands to participate in my classroom.”

“Sure.” He snorted “We follow the rules to a T when discussing a book about anarchy, there’s no irony there at all.”

“There is no call to be snide, Mr. Winchester.”  

“Mr. Winchester is my father.  My name is Dean, and I’ve got better things to do if you’re ready to kick me out of class already.”

“No, you can certainly stay right where you are, and we’ll give your father a call after class, shall we?”

Dean snorted.  It had been more than two weeks since his father had dropped them at Bobby’s place and they hadn’t heard word one from him.  “Good luck with that,” he grumbled, but dropped the argument.  He held up his hands like he would if a gun were pointed at him to forestall any further arguing and slouched down further in his chair, as if defeated.  

He might be the very picture of teenage rebellion, wearing his leather jacket and ripped jeans, but he could see this interaction for what it was.  The power-play was pretty transparent but he was unmotivated to challenge her authority.  Besides, it was only second period and Auto Shop was up next.  He could suck up 20 more minutes of this biddy spoon feeding these kids a comfortable version of reality for that long.  

He tried not to watch the clock; which of course was futile.  The droning monologue about the symbolism of Golding’s seminal work continued; she touched on the dangers of technological advancement as represented by the fire, and laid out clearly how the island symbolised paradise or eden; and talked a lot about the value of order and societal strictures.  Dean figured that was all valuable information for normal teenagers to have - he supposed that knowing that there were rules, and order, and expectations for behavior in the world might have been comforting to a normal kid.  But, he wasn’t normal and he had heard it all before, at another school, in another remedial English Lit class.  It.  Was.  Mind.  Numbing.  

He forcibly yanked his eyes away from the clock, shifting in his seat so he was sitting in a position where he couldn’t watch the second hand tick, tick, tick along at a snail's pace.  This school wasn’t too bad, he’d definitely been in worse ones.  He had considered going out for the wrestling team, but, it was the first week of March and the season was almost over, so there was no point.  He missed the the team back in Hurleyville; to be honest, he missed a lot about Hurleyville.  But Roosevelt High wasn’t so bad.  

When the bell rang Dean snatched up his backpack and and headed for the door, but the substitute stopped him.  “We’ll just give your Dad a call, shall we?”  

Dean hitched his bag up onto his shoulder “He’s out of town.  We’re staying with Bobby Singer.”  

She gave him a suspicious glance.  “Well, we’ll call him then.”

Dean did his best not to roll his eyes.  “Sure, you can call him.  But you’re going to have to call down to Mr. Nelson and let him know I’m going to be late.”

She pursed her lips in a held his gaze for a few extra moments before she grudgingly said “Oh, fine, go on then.”

He took off with a purposeful pace across the building; headed toward the Garage Annex.  To get there he had to cut across most of the building, the quickest route he’d found was through the cafeteria but it was locked until 4th period, and picking the lock didn’t save time - he’d tried it, so, he went around.  The air was crisp and cold.  He was glad to be wearing his layers and leather jacket, even for the short trip across the courtyard.

Once inside though, he stripped off the jacket, as well as his outer flannel until he was down to just the long sleeved thermal undershirt he was wearing.  He dropped his backpack and the rest on a bench near a seriously battered ‘89 Ford Thunderbird.  There was already a pair of legs sticking out from under it so he crouched down, pushing up his sleeves as he did.  “Hey man, how’s it going down there?”  

The kid underneath rolled out and looked up at Dean; he had hispanic and native heritage with long limbs and a fresh, sunny face.  His name was Jorge, and certain things about him reminded him of Sam.  He was ernest and forthright and talked like the guy from those old Micro Machines commercials.  The kid rattled off the details of what he had been working on and Dean nodded along and then, as he had learned to do, gave himself a minute to just absorb all that information before he responded.  They’d both been stumped by this particular problem for almost a whole week but neither of them was ready to ask for help yet.  So, they took turns tackling it and working through different solutions while the other one made progress in other areas of the rebuild.

Today it was Dean’s turn to make some progress on another area; so he grabbed a pair of coveralls and moved around to the front of the car where the hood was already propped open and dug into the work that needed doing there.  He found clarity in this kind of work, like he did whenever he was working with his hands, a kind of focus he rarely found outside of a hunt.  The engine was a puzzle that could be solved, broken pieces repaired or replaced, and the whole thing could almost always be fixed.  

Unfortunately, time does fly when you’re having fun.  Auto Shop was a double period, and still, it was always over too quickly.  Mr. Nelson dropped by after the first bell to check on the progress the pair was making.  Dean tried not to laugh when Jorge rapid fired questions that skirted around the issue they were having, not yet ready to admit defeat, but clearly stumped.  It was obvious to Dean that Nelson knew they were stuck, but wasn’t going to push the issue so he gave the Shop teacher a rundown on what he was working on and Nelson offered a few suggestions, which Dean was glad to hear, before getting back to work.  

When the second bell rang Dean offered a hand up to Jorge and passed the kid a rag to wipe his hands.  “Any luck?”  He asked.

Jorge ran through everything he had tried, all the small successes and the new problems he had discovered.  Dean nodded, fairly sure they were going to need to ask for help, but it could wait until Monday.  They parted ways and Dean went in search of lunch.  

Like this?  Read what came before.

Part One: Arrival

Or read what comes next:

Part Three: The More You Know

[sacredrite-archived-blog]

Before I begin, I would like to place trigger warnings. I’m not 100% on all the triggers, but if anything comes up as we progress then more will be added before sections. All information is due to research and/or rightful assumptions

#sexual abuse #rape #pedophilia #sexual assault #csa #abuse

Not much has been made clear about Luna’s abuse throughout those twelve years. For awhile, I believe many of us have been suspicious of the extent of it. When the invasion occurred, she was twelve years old. In the Dawn trailer we see her being physically assaulted. This scene alone says a lot about how they viewed Luna. They were willing to harm her physically in order to get her to behave. ( Not much of a surprised, honestly. ) A lot of manipulating, emotional abuse, and possible gaslighting obviously must have happened as well.

           WHAT IS A GOD COMPLEX/POWER DYNAMIC

Now, I know none of us aren’t aware of what this means. It is very important to this post, though. The definition stands as this:

A god complex is an unshakable belief characterized by consistently inflated feelings of personal ability, privilege, or infallibility.

Power dynamic as much to do with a God Complex and often they go hand-in-hand. Those who feel overwhelming power over a person or a group of people will believe they are the ultimate decider on who lives and who dies. They want those around them to seek out protection from them and rely on them as it would seem to be their only source of it. They desire absolute power and control and those who defy them of this will be subject to punishment. 

There are many example to this in the crimin*logy field. ( S*rial k*llers, m*ss m*rders, d*ctators, etc. )  They crave to be another’s one and only safety. To be the one who bestowed judgement and holding control over lives. They believe they are entitled to it even. It is within their right to be seen as such. They may not admit to failures or wrongdoings. 

                    BRIEF PSYCHOLOGY ON NIFLHIEM

History has proved time and time against what a cruel thing conquering & colonization does. The best example I could give you is this video right here which I highly recommend you watching (Especially of you are considered of Hispanic heritage like myself). People are stripped of their land and humanity. They are no longer their own person, but property to another. Repeatedly we are shown that to invade another’s land is inhumane and utterly disgusting. The oppressors have no qualms in treating those they’ve invaded as absolute garbage. They believe that they are right in doing this and that these people deserve no rights.

Niflhiem is introduced as an antagonistic empire which values power over being loved. They care not of how they handle their victims because they now belong to the empire. Lunafreya was just another object of possession in their hands and they were determined to completely break her will.

When an invasion occurs, misogyny comes with it. It’s presence brings suffering to women and girls as they are forced into things they do not want to do. They’re r*ped, s*xually ab*sed, t*rtured, and often killed. This is because their captors do not see them as human. They are so far below them that their needs are not met and they’re worthless. To them, there is no point in taking care of those who don’t matter one bit. 

Bringing in the Dawn trailer once more, we see this is exactly how they view Luna. She’s a material possession that they’re free to abuse and neglect as they please. Her age plays a key role in this as well as she’s a child and the lowest on the scale. 

                                         A CHILD’S MIND

This will just provide more insight on how easy it is to manipulative a child. I do not condone any of these actions and will not go into full detail on it. It’s disgusting and children shouldn’t be used like this.

A child’s mind is very weak. They’re not emotionally mature and they’re easier to break down. This leads to a sickening aftermath in a case like Luna’s. She was already man-handled and treated lower than dirt. Child seek out adults to protect them because that is what we are suppose to do. We are the ones who must keep them safe, but many use this to their sick advantage.

Children are just beginning to learn new emotions from watching their caretakers. They’re beginning to learn how to cope around Luna’s age. These mechanisms are important to teach children as it will aid them in growing up. 

                       WHERE TF IS THE CONNECTION

You probably all already know, but I just wanted to make that the section title. Now that you have a clear picture on all this, I think we can all assume that Luna’s torment was not just physical, emotional, or mental. It includes another form of abuse that I’m quite hesitant to really talk much about right here. So, I will refrain for my own mental health and your mental health. ( Depending on how such a thing affects you. )

It’s right to be suspicious of this. Luna was merely twelve years old and her mother had been murdered. Her kingdom was taken away from her and now she had no control over herself or who she was. She was a pawn in their game and rightfully she is livid. Angry at the empire, angry at the Gods, angry at the world. Stripped of everything that made her who she was and left to gather up the broken pieces. Her identity was completely taken from her. All Luna has left was her duty to the people and her calling to aid Noctis in achieving his destiny. Her determination to be Oracle thrived off her desperation to finally take back control and build her own identity lost so many years ago. She wanted to be someone. This is also why she wanted to not guide Noctis, but stand beside him as an equal. Guiding him felt as those she was mirroring parts of her abusers; something that sickened her. Her goal was to just be someone and not the shell Niflhiem made her to be. 

There was copious amounts of abuse in those years that haven’t seen the light of day yet. We are free to make our assumptions as we please, but I think it’s important to consider the aspects of s*xual abuse in those empty years. I’m not sure if I have  said everything I wanted to, but maybe more will come out of this post. If anything has confused you or you wanted further explanation out of interest, please don’t hesitate to message me or send asks!

[janaholub1622-blog]

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[ramblehound]

You haven’t been to Spain, yet?

I’ve been in Spain three times now. The first time, I lived here and stayed a month and a half in Granada. It was an international situation. No need to go into details. The first time I got stuck in Granada (possibly the best place in the world to be stuck). Since then I’ve been around a bit, Gibraltar (even though technically it’s The UK), all over Andalusía and Costa Del Sol, Madrid, and Barcelona - to name the main points.

I’m not some Park Avenue dandy like Washington Irving, but when I read his expose “The Alhambra”, it resonated with me in a deep and beautiful way after everything I have seen here in Spain. Everything he wrote in that piece was spot, accurate and without embellishment, as much as I’ve been able to experience almost 200 years later after that work being published. Spain is an enrapturing and dramatic landscape that will dazzle your eyes, with a history that makes Lord of the Rings seem almost blahh. By the way, in case you didn’t know... Spain has an incredibly diverse landscape and has been consistently rated as one of the best culinary experiences in the world. Furthermore, they’re also the hot spot for handing out Michelin stars to restaurants the last 10 years. It’s kinda the place to be as a chef, or to start a restaurant. So, if you stop reading here, the synopsis is, *go to España*.

I’ve been to Italy, it’s one of my favourite countries / collection of city states; 1000’s of years of heritage and history. Yea. Cool. I feel fortunate that “I get it”, and I do, but Spain....Spain is the same, but a different animal in so many ways. It’s the same as comparing Rome with Paris, or Rome with Barcelona. For me I’ve just learned to just except the difference, agree there is this incandescent force around them, that makes you feel alive, and are enjoying being reborn, and move on. In the words of the great Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, “buy the ticket, take the ride.”

Progress is everywhere here. They got hit pretty hard by the financial fiasco in 2008, the market tanked just like everywhere else in the world; but like anything truly Hispanic, when it’s up against the ropes, it fights its way out. The Spanish like a fight. Both times I’ve been in Spain, there are new buildings going up everywhere or revamping what’s already established. If you’re a big shopper, they’ve got it all and then some - weird / cool local second hand shops, and then of course your established brands, then climbing up into luxury / high fashion. Shopping isn’t my thing exactly so let’s just take hit the onramp and get back on the highway of this article and keep tracking.

In Spain, I can’t tell you how many high end autos / bikes I’ve seen. As a motorhead, I specifically have seen a few head turners. Porsche, Alfa Romeo, Ferrari, Triumph, Moto Guzzi. The roads here in general are a drivers wet dream. Sweeping curves, long straights and in general, well paved. Now to one of my more favourite aspects, economics. Business in general here in Spain is on a huge upswing. Property values are rising steadily. Barcelona is tied with Berlin for the #2 spot for startups in the EU. Barcelona and Madrid also, consistently find their way into Monocle Magazine’s annual quality of life survey. Portugal, is also no stranger to tough times, the country was close to bankrupt, but now, now the Iberian as a whole is blowing up! All of these things are clear indicators of a shift of not just economics, but a mentality.

Spain is, and has always been a jewel in the world, and there’s always a mix of cultures here. It’s an inherent quality in it’s nature, unquestionably. Geographically it’s impossible for it not to be. I realised that imminently looking across to Morocco and Cetau, from Gibraltar. My friend asked me, “Isn’t it amazing that many people from there are so close and want so badly to be living here, and this is all that really divides us?” Am I bringing this up to be political? Yes. But, I’m not digging deeper into it, aside from saying, if you’re willing to do things legally, work hard and make a real contribution, then you should be welcome anywhere. If you’re not willing to do those things, get the fuck out, or keep your ass parked where it is. Secondly and more to the point though, I’m bringing it up to illustrate it’s ideal geographical placement as a crossroads of cultures while being lavishly shrouded in its own. If you travel more than a little, you know just how singular that dimension is and how rare it is to find.

Geographically you have a peninsula (Iberian) that is a main factor in every aspect of what Europe is in every facet. On top of that you have a culture that was a part of, and lived through however many different shifts. The Phonecians, The Romans, The Moors, The Castilians, The Catalonians, The French and Franco. What that equates to is the truth of their culture, and that it’s as malleable as quicksilver and titanium strong; while maintaining something decidedly luminescent. They’re as fun loving as they are relaxed. When business is on the table, they make moves. They get the balance of work / play on a level most never will. I find it so comical, in the worst of ways, that Hispanics are thought of as lazy. They’re some of the toughest sons of bitches I’ve worked with. They never miss a siesta, BUT they’re never without a bone to break.

Marbella seems like the quiet Monaco of the Mediterranean, while Cagliari, the secret. All too many designer shops, but many more, and more important, the backbones of a local economy. You can hear 5 languages a day, 7 maybe, easy. Today I talked with a local street vendor in Pidgin mixed with Spanish, we seemed to sort things out well enough. His English was well enough, but why deprive myself the opportunity? It was worth the shock slapped across his face from hearing a white boy speak Pidgin.

The local economy of restaurants here is thriving with all local products that make you wonder why you put so much faith in Rome, Paris and others for your culinary standards. The access to fresh seafood is absurd. Even the local market has fresh catches of seafood exclusive to the region for pretty damn cheap. I’ve bought local fish here to barbecue at a market price that couldn’t rival local markets anywhere else in Europe. Let alone a local supermarkets price. Vegetables, local everything for a € or 2€ per kg., maybe slightly more from time to time. This is an appropriate time to laugh at the “5 star or nothing” crowd who are missing out on the 2 or 3 star gems that are ridden by locals who don’t give two shits about writing a review. They know where to get their fix.

I’m a hole in the wall cafe / bar kind of guy. The local joints. I’m more into places that are devoid of the frills, and the types of marketing that lead to impulse buying the weird condoms in the checkout line. I’m not the kind of guy to get bent out of shape about being noticed at the “right places”. I much prefer the awkward feeling of being the new kid on the block when I walk into a local place. That’s the “right place”.

I recently got off the phone with a friend of mine in Firenze (Florence). He’s one of those guys that you’d shake your fist at, and say, “lucky bastard”, when you hear his job. Basically put, he’s a professional rockstar. He lives on the road, he rarely hangs his hat for too long in one place. But he recently got back to Firenze for the 2,977th time, or something like that, and planned to run into some American friends of his who have never travelled outside the country. That’s right. They exist, it isn’t just a myth, somehow. Instead of taking it all in, they were buried in their phones on travel apps. Making sure wherever they stopped was at least 4 stars or 5. As soon as my friend told me this, I said, “Fuck that! Just open your eyes and channel your inner wolf, and put your nose to work!” Don’t be this person! This is a core principle of the difference between a tourist and a traveler.

I’m posted up at a local joint now that I found the same way. I used my basic senses. I didn’t fucking use an app! People forget so often that the apps / websites are there to assist you, not guide you! Where’s your sense of adventure?! I walked by the other day and scoped the digs. Locals? Check. Basic table and settings? Check. The clear smell of something amazing going on in the kitchen? Ample wine supply? Check. That’s it, I’m parking it here. Another dead give away, that places like this have are the jamón legs hanging from butcher hooks behind the bar. They don’t need the 5 star reviews, although they would be nice, they don’t need the expensive marketing campaign and a squeaky clean, amazingly designed website. In fact I’d be surprised if some places like this had one. Things like that are the epitome of an afterthought to places like this. They’re betting on getting your ass in a chair at a table with you walking by and having a butchers. Like waving a red cape in front of the bull. And before you know it, you’re hooked.

Even as I write this now, sitting here with an amazing glass of Rioja, I’m watching a tourist tapas bar across the street getting the grease down. Even from 20 meters I can hear the Brits, Russians, French and Germans, even if I couldn’t hear them I can see them as plain as the nose on their face. Nope, I prefer the sanctuary of this local bastion, the simple, but effective approach of marketing involving nothing more than displaying the legs of jamón and the myriad of bottles of the fruits of Andalucía. There’s no buy 2 get one free deal running here. There’s no guy waiting to hand me a towel to dry my hands in the bathroom like in Ferris Bueller. Christ, even if there was I’d like to see how the hell he could fit. It’s more like a bath*closet*. This is as about as far as you can get from the Embassy Suites or the Four Seasons as possible, and I fucking love it.

I’ve been more of a wino the last 5+ years, and if you enjoy “sunlight trapped in water” (thanks Leo) like myself, then you will find even more of a paradise than you could have possibly predicted. One thing I can say for as much as I’ve experienced is that some of the best wine in the world comes from Spain. Spain holds a dead tie with Italy, with (in my opinion) France just beneath at number 2. You can buy a bottle at a local market here for 3€ - 5€ and be blown away. Start with the 3€-5€ options before you graduate to the 10€+ crowd. Pace yourself, slow yourself down and enjoy the ride. Totally worth it.

Practically everything in the Spanish culinary culture is built to be paired with wine, or alcohol in general. The beer scene isn’t lagging at all in Spain, they’ve got the hipster craft beer thing going, but in a less utterly excessive way (like some places on the globe) but each region usually has its own brewery that’s been adding to the siesta experience for decades or longer. C’mon... who the hell doesn’t enjoy an ice cold beer, in the shade on a hot day?! If we’re talking Spanish beer though, the front runner is absolutely Alhambra Cerveza. Like the New York saying goes, about the pizza there and why it’s some of the best in the world, “there’s just somethin’ in tha water”, concerning the dough, the same holds true for Alhambra, the mountain spring water used for the beer makes it incredibly top notch, Tasting is believing, look for the Alhambra Reserva Roja (Red) or Verde (Green).

Each city or region usually has a local after dinner spirit that ranges from 20% - 45% alcohol. Similar to why the Italians have limoncello. And similar to how people (like myself) actually read Playboy for the articles, this after dinner drink isn’t just about nailing a shot, it’s mean to be sipped and actually helps with digestion.

We talked about the alcohol and the food scene, sure, but let’s talk about something else more healthy and sometimes more fun than a glass of wine, green. Cannabis, in case you’ve been living under a rock, or are just someone who’s wound to tight; has been gaining more and more global acceptance. Why? Because governments are actually using science and logic. They’re also realising they can cut off a piece for themselves in an open and regulated market. The best potweedmarijuana in Europe, is not, contrary to popular belief, Netherlands. 40% - 50% of any ganja lit up in the EU comes from Spain. It’s a fact. I have had some amazing strains in Netherlands, but España edges out just past the Dutch. If you wanna smoke in a 100% legal scenario while you’re here, research the Private Clubs. But the same as with alcohol, don’t be a jacksss. Be respectful of others and have your head on straight.

I’ll stay here for 2 more orders of tapas and then walk around to catch some more shots of the city on a Saturday night, but I’m pretty damn content posted up here. There’s a La Liga game live, on the TV over the bar, an ample of supply of everything amazing a person could want in Andalucía (or anywhere) - nothing left, but to enjoy the minutes spinning off the clock. The owners gotten pretty chummy with me. He’s the 3rd generation extension of the establishment. He sees me look over across the street at the touristafied tapas bar and asks me why I chose his place. I tell him, “¿por que no?” He points to a tapas joint two doors down, another one on the boardwalk a block away on the corner and the finally the one across the street and then shrugs as if to say, “I know my turf, caballero.” I tell him in Spanish, simply, “Your place is real Andalucía. It’s real España. You can see the difference, and taste it.”

You might be thinking, “yeaa... but what kind of crowd? Is it a bunch of pensioners? Families? What about the younger crowd? I haven’t got Spain 100% figured out, but one thing I have sorted is that the legit, local spots, got a full mix. Spain gets the community / family thing a little better than most countries. Whether you’re hitting up a tapas bar, going to a local shop, stopping to catch a flamenco street guitarist (support your local street performers!) or strolling around, people are coming together, loving life and sharing it. When you come to Spain, and when you’re doing life here, time slows down in only the most desirable ways.

Which brings me to the one negative that I can mention with absolute certainty; coming to Spain as someone in a relationship with out your significant other is going to not give you the 100% experience. I’m not gonna get all puppy dog, but when you’re in an environment that so clearly embraces life and getting the most out of it, you feel your other half missing. This country and this region make you as romantic as you will feel in New York, Rome or Paris. I’ve never taken the time to rate the most romantic places in the world, but Spain has to be in the top 10. If you’re single and ready to mingle, Spain is definitely going to be happy hunting. I don’t miss being single myself, but sexuality is, and always has been a strong part of Spanish culture. It’s clearly visible here. Macho y Feminina. Spain is a Mecca of passion.

Synopsis: if you haven’t checked your schedule for the next month yet, or gotten on to the internet to start scoping prices for airfare and accommodations, do it ASAP. If you’re thinking about the job market or starting a new company, Spain. Thinking about buying a new property? Spain. An extended leave of absence? Thinking of going Expat? Holiday? Weekend getaway? Spain. It’s as cost effective as it is luxurious, and it’s as enchanting as it is beautiful.

Buy the ticket, take the ride and get lost.

————

Important notes:

- Bring your preferred method of credit, but always have a good supply of €. A lot of places here hang a middle finger attitude to the tax / banking system. The fees involved with running electronic payment systems have yet to reach an apex in popularity.

- Some places around the globe, you can live WiFi to WiFi, not Spain. If I could call the odds, I’d say you got a 50/50 when you go out, of catching a signal at a cafe, restaurant or shop. Trust me when I say though, sometimes it’s real nice being off the grid.

- Not all tapas are free. The usual case / scenario is, you buy a drink, they bring you a plate. Tapas is Spain’s way of fighting alcoholism and being hospitable. Food + alcohol = less drunk ass holes staggering around their streets. A real tapas place will be free or really cheap and they will have multiple options made with fresh, local ingredients. Steer clear of the jokers advertising 15€+ for a drink and picking 6 tapas if you can. This 15€+ jazz is the normal style of tapas in Madrid more so, and also often in Barcelona; not in the rest of Spain though.

- Gazpacho is the perfect thing to eat for lunch in Spain. All fresh vegetables, served cold, and engineered to keep you pushing in the hot summer heat. The best time for Gazpacho is May - July as the best vegetables of the year are grown then.

- Learn some Spanish before you go. Don’t show the fuck up in someone else’s country and expect them to speak your language 100%. Don’t be a tourist, be a traveller. Even if you don’t nail the pronunciation, this small little piece of advice is applicable everywhere, globally. The little effort you put in will show the locals you care, and aren’t self absorbed, ignorant, nationalist.

¡Hola! - Hello!

Adios - Goodbye!

Yo quiero - I want

Buenas - Hello! / Goodbye! (Spanish equivalent of Ciao in Italian)

¿Donde esta el baño? - Where is the bathroom?

- Leave room in your bags for all the olive oil, jamón and wine you will be bringing back.

- The drivers are a bit crazy. 50% or more know what they are doing. The other side of the spectrum knows better, but just don’t give a shit.

- Marijuana is legal in certain cities and has been decriminalised in general throughout the country. Like many other parts of the world, governments are embracing the truth about cannabis. The best marijuana in Europe, and definitely some of the best in the world, is in Spain - hash, green or moonrocks.

- Siesta isn’t just something from a Speedy Gonzalez cartoon, it’s for real. 75% of everything closes (roughly) between 15:00 - 17:00. Why? Because it’s the hottest part of the day and people are staying out of the sun and also because they’re preparing for the dinner rush, and taking a break.

- Try not to call someone Spanish. Are they from Spain? Yes, but try to detail it to the province they are from if you can. ie: Cataluñya, Andalucía, Castile. Something small, but they will value it a lot. Don’t be a tourist, be a traveler, someone cultivated trying to absorb the culture, not just take from it.

- Everyone advertises for live Flamenco shows. Research which ones are best. 75% of them are a sham compared to the real thing. The best ones are in Granada, Ronda or Seville.

- You can live off just tapas. 100% life hack certified. If you’re really on a budget or if you just want a lot of variety, find the real and local tapas bars. For 5€-7€ you can have a full, and very often, healthy meal.

-Put The Alhambra / Granada at the top of your list of places to visit, the other top choice is absolutely Barcelona. Don’t make the mistake of trying to cram each city into 3 or 5 days. Take 7 and really soak it in and explore.

[melbynews-blog]

May Diary: The Forever War, The Diverse Army, And The Vanishing White Male, Etc., by John Derbyshire

Neuer Beitrag veröffentlicht bei https://melby.de/may-diary-the-forever-war-the-diverse-army-and-the-vanishing-white-male-etc-by-john-derbyshire/

May Diary: The Forever War, The Diverse Army, And The Vanishing White Male, Etc., by John Derbyshire

This month of course ended with Memorial Day, when we remember those who died serving in our country’s armed forces. The Derbs got a more forceful reminder at the very beginning of the month.

Around noon on Tuesday, May 1st my son Danny came into the study to tell me a soldier from his former unit had been killed in Afghanistan the previous day.

The fatality was Spc. Gabriel D. Conde, killed April 30th by small-arms fire in a district northeast of Kabul “while providing security for a U.S. Special Operations unit.” A second U.S. soldier was wounded in the same operation.

Spc. Conde was serving with the 3rd Battalion of the 509th Parachute Infantry Regiment. That was Danny’s unit too, until his four-year term ended last year. They were actually in the same company (though different platoons). Danny knew Spc. Conde quite well. The unit has since been deployed in Afghanistan.

Spc. Conde came from Loveland, Colorado. He was the second U.S. combat fatality in Afghanistan this year, the first having been Sgt. Mihail Golin of Fort Lee, NJ, killed on New Year’s Day while on patrol near Jalalabad in the far east of Afghanistan.

If military schedules had been different by a few months, that could have been Derb, Jr. under fire April 30th. As parents we have the obvious parental feelings about this. What his feelings are, I don’t know. He has maintained a proper soldierly reserve. In any case he mainly keeps his feelings to himself, like his Dad.

What Spc. Conde’s parents are feeling, I think I can imagine. Our heartfelt condolences to them in their grief, and to all who mourn loved ones on Memorial Day.

It’s hard to read of Spc. Conde’s death without feeling anger at our damn fool stupid brainless politicians.

Military.com ran a headline that tells it all: Gabriel Conde Was 5 When the War That Took His Life Began. It Shows No Signs of Ending. [By Richard Sisk, May 3, 2018] From the article:

Army Spc. Gabriel D. Conde’s short life spanned the history of U.S. involvement in Afghanistan since Sept. 11, 2001, from the euphoria over the fleeting early successes to the current doubts about the new strategy to break what U.S. commanders routinely call a “stalemate.”

When Conde was six years old, then-National Security Adviser Condoleezza Rice said the Taliban had been defeated and the Afghan people were now free “to create a better future.”

[There follow eight more paragraphs of cheery uplifting talk about light at the end of the tunnel from Donald Rumsfeld, George W. Bush, Barack Obama, and Donald Trump.]

Last week, the Taliban announced the start of its 16th annual spring offensive.

Politicians are of course necessary to the functioning of an orderly nation. No doubt most of them are decent enough in their private lives. Some appear to be quite intelligent. Plenty of them are clearly trying to do the best for the country, each by his own lights.

There are times, though, there are times when the only thing you want to say about politicians is: God damn them all to Hell.

“I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ, think it possible you may be mistaken.” I’m always ready, in a spirit of proper epistemic humility, to yield to Oliver Cromwell’s beseechment. So in that spirit I ask: Is it possible that I am wrong, that the war in Afghanistan is not a futile waste of American lives and money?

One approach here is to seek out commentators whose opinions you generally respect, to see if any of them makes a plausible case for the opposite of what you believe.

OK: here was Daniel Greenfield, who I agree with much more often than not, posting at FrontPageMag.com on Memorial Day. Title of the post: “How Can We Honor the Soldiers of an Endless War?.”

The era of wars that began and concluded neatly, with declarations, speeches, rules, objectives, deciding battles and signed peace accords, ended before the oldest active duty soldier serving today was born.

The men and women who fight and die, leaving their families never knowing if they will return, and in what form, serve not in wars, but endless police actions, peacekeeping missions, terrorist pursuits and nation building exercises …

The Islamic resurgence has placed us in a state of permanent war. We may debate over which fronts that war should be fought on, but only the left can deny that the conflict itself is inescapable. We may fight it in Iraq or in New York, in Syria or in Sweden, the front lines may shift, but the war won’t go away.

And yet, paradoxically, this form of fighting takes us back to the origins of our military.

The heritage of the US Army goes back to the provincial regiments that fought in colonial territorial disputes with the French and defended the colonies against Indian raids … If you think the Afghanistan and Iraq wars are endless, the Indian wars arguably went on for 300 years …

That’s not much of an argument. Those wars that “concluded neatly” did so because we applied massive and relentless force, to the point where the enemy knew they were thoroughly beaten. We don’t do that any more. Rubble doesn’t make trouble.

I’m obliged to Greenfield for permission to “debate over which fronts that war should be fought on.” Here’s my contribution to that debate.

Let’s stop all Muslim immigration and require all resident Muslim non-citizens to leave. We may still have issues with our own Muslim citizens, but I see no reason those issues couldn’t be handled by ordinary law-enforcement procedures under our Constitution.

ORDER IT NOW

As for “the Indian wars arguably went on for 300 years” Well, yes, arguably they did, because they were conflicts over the ownership of territory. Were North American lands to be settled and farmed by Europeans, or kept as the hunting and tribal-war preserves of the indigenes?

Are Americans clamoring to be allowed to settle and farm in Afghanistan and Iraq? First I’ve heard of it.

Daniel Greenfield is a smart guy who writes a lot of thought-provoking good sense. This piece, though, is a turkey.

Still on the military beat: Last month I commented on some recruiting pamphlets a friend had showed to me. He passes by a recruiting booth on his way to work every day, and, although much too old for service himself, has developed an interest in the esthetics of these brochures.

This month he passed on some more.

Exhibit A: LEADERS FOR LIFE: The Making of an Army Officer. This is a beautifully-produced sixty-page booklet showing on the cover a white female, an East Asian male, and a black male.[Abridged PDF here.]

To be fair, the interior illustrations aren’t as distorted as that. I counted an actual majority of white males, 65 to 43; and that is not counting the scattering of historical photographs from the World Wars. The two-page spread on Special Forces (pp. 46-47) shows nine soldiers, every one of them a white male.

There is some slight discounting needed for the care with which the booklet’s publisher lets us know, by showing uniform name patches, that some of the white guys are Hispanic (Alvarado, Martinez) or Arab (Farid).

Exhibit B: A 34-page U.S. Army Education Program Guide. On the cover, a female who I think is East Asian. Of the 48 people I could identify on a quick scan through, only twelve were white males. Females were an actual majority: fourteen white, twelve black.

Exhibit C: The Making of a Soldier, a light 24-page introduction to the Army. The cover shows a black male. White males are comparatively well-represented inside, though: I counted nineteen out of thirty.

My summary: While the interior illustrations to these publications are merely unbalanced, the cover art is flagrantly, unashamedly anti-white-male.

As with Mars, so also with Venus.

The Mrs and I had the idea to take a weekend break at one of those adults-only hotels in the Poconos. You know the kind of place: heart-shaped jacuzzi, view over a lake, a bowl of strawberries dipped in chocolate waiting in your room, that sort of thing. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s corny. We’re an old-fashioned couple; corny works for us.

I accordingly went on the internet and googled “romantic weekend getaway poconos.” There they were, a good choice of hotels. Heart-shaped jacuzzi, check: view of lake, check: chocolate-dipped strawberries, check.

The thing that struck my eye, though, in the promotional websites for these places, was the extraordinary numbers of photographs showing a black man with a white woman. I put together a montage without trying very hard at all. (Looking closer, I think one of the ladies there may be high yaller; but she’s still way paler than the guy.)

I have nothing against miscegenation — how could I have? — but do they really have to bang us over the head with it like this?

And perhaps I shouldn’t pick out the love hotels for special scrutiny. It’s like this all over. Audacious Epigone tweeted this the other day:

Taken from too far away and observation’s blasé but as I walked the dog tonight I did a census on the posters lining the outside of the Walgreens down the road from home:

4 black women 2 black men 2 white women 1 asian woman 1 hispanic woman 0 white men

City is 80% n-H white btw

Louis Farrakhan, tweeting on May 27th, called for an end to white men. It looks like the people who prepare advertising and promotional displays are way ahead of him.

ORDER IT NOW

As mentioned in Radio Derb’s royal wedding coverage, I have been reading Ed West’s book 1215 and All That. It’s great fun; a sort of grown-up version, with a good bibliography, of the Horrible Histories my kids used to enjoy.

West is very good on how boozed-up the Later Middle Ages were. Writing about the reign of King John (1199-1216), he tells us that:

As a basic rule, everyone in medieval Europe was drunk most of the time, with the typical English peasant consuming on average eight pints of beer per day. There was often no clean water to drink in cities, and it was not until the seventeenth century that coffee and tea brought alternatives to slowly getting off one’s face all day long. Besides which, few people had jobs that required intellect and sobriety and life was pretty awful when sober.

The actual process of getting drunk eight hundred years ago doesn’t sound like much fun.

Beer at the time would have been absolutely disgusting, close to the texture of porridge as it wasn’t until the fourteenth century that hops were introduced from the Low Countries … Not even the most daring hipster has ever tried to recreate thirteenth-century ale as a statement of irony or quirkiness.

The upper classes at least had wine to drink, though, right? Well:

Peter of Blois wrote of the wine at Henry II’s court that “it turned sour and moldy, thick, greasy, stale, flat and smacking of pitch … I have sometimes seen great lords served with wine so muddy that a man must need [to] close his eyes and clench his teeth, wry-mouthed and shuddering …”

Hoo boy. It would of course be annoyingly Pinkerish of me to observe that we are very fortunate to be living in 2018 rather than 1918, or 1618, or 1218.

And possibly, on the gripe homeostasis principle, the general level of human dissatisfaction with life has not varied much through history.

Possibly. I can report, though, that after reading Ed West’s book my dinner-time glass (all right, glasses) of supermarket Pinot Grigio seemed strangely to taste better than before.

Our thirteenth-century ancestors may have endured wretched lives in a drunken stupor, but surely they had the consolations of faith, didn’t they?

Not all of them. Ed West:

Peter of Cornwall, prior of Holy Trinity, Aldgate, complained in 1200: “There are many people who do not believe that God exists, nor do they think that the human soul lives on after the death of the body. They consider that the universe has always been as it is now and is ruled by chance rather than providence.”

King John was likely one of those people.

He apparently did not take Holy Communion after childhood, nor did he receive it at his coronation, which was considered shocking for the time. He openly ate meat on Fridays and hunted on feast days, blatantly breaking religious rules. Like his father, he found attending church unbelievably boring and he didn’t even pretend to make an effort.

I have nursed a mild personal resentment against King John since my schooldays. It seemed unfair that the only English King with whom I shared a name was such an unprincipled rogue, which indeed he was. We all knew A.A. Milne’s lines:

King John was not a good man — He had his little ways. And sometimes no one spoke to him For days and days and days.

Subsequent Johns in the British royal line haven’t fared well. There have been very few Johns in line of succession to the throne since the thirteenth century. John of Gaunt (1340-99) was the only really noteworthy one. He never made it to the throne, but he begat the Lancastrian line of kings that provided Shakespeare with so much material.

In recent centuries there have been few royal Johns. The present queen’s father had a brother John, but he was an epileptic and died aged 13. The Windsors seem otherwise to have shunned the name John.

The New York Times may be vexed by John supremacy but royalty-wise, we Johns are an under-represented minority.

Say what you like about medieval life, there was plenty for everyone to do.

Medieval Europeans were traditionally placed in one of three classes: those who fought, those who prayed, and those who worked. The lords and knights didn’t go fighting every day, and not many of us would think of praying as work. Women mostly minded the house and raised children. Only peasants and artisans did work-work — work as we nowadays understand it.

Here’s a new book that poses the interesting question: How much of the work we do today actually has any point?

Some of it does, of course. Cops, surgeons, farmers, and plumbers do things that need doing. David Graeber, however, the author of Bullshit Jobs: A Theory, thinks a great deal of today’s work is pointless. Graeber[Email him] is Professor of Anthropology at the London School of Economics.

From the Amazon blurb:

There are millions of people — HR consultants, communication coordinators, telemarketing researchers, corporate lawyers — whose jobs are useless, and, tragically, they know it. These people are caught in bullshit jobs.

I haven’t read Graeber’s book, but I read the summary in the May 20th New York Post and didn’t find much to disagree with. Here are the top seven bullshit jobs according to that summary:

Compliance workers in banking and finance.

Student-paper writers. “Writing essays and term papers for college students is now a huge industry in the United States, with agencies employing thousands of paper writers.” Really? I honestly did not know this.

Telemarketers. “I don’t know if I’ve ever met a single call-center worker who didn’t both hate their job and felt everyone would be better off if no one had to do it.” This I believe.

Middle management. “Most middle managers secretly feel they might as well be digging holes and then filling them in again all day.” Never been one but I’ve reported to several, and … yep.

Corporate lawyers. Only corporate ones?

Movie executives. Huh?

Academic administrative staff. “There are hosts of new provosts, vice chancellors, deans and deanlets and even more, who all now have to be provided with tiny armies of assistants to make them feel important.”

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The only surprise to me in that list is that college administrators are at number seven. If there is any place in our society where the sheer density of bullshit jobs is high enough to warp spacetime, it surely has to be the administrative buildings of an average college.

Is there any institution of higher education anywhere in the U.S.A. today that does not have a Dean of Diversity and Inclusion with a raft of Associate Deans, Sub-Deans, Directors, Assistant Directors, Administrative Assistants, and Deputy Administrative Assistants to keep the place flawlessly diverse and inclusive?

I’d argue in fact that the contribution these jobs make to the gross national well-being is not merely null — you could say that of a lot of jobs; if you wanted to be unkind, you might even say it of mine — but actually negative. If they were all laid off tomorrow, we’d be a better country.

In last month’s diary I included a segment titled “Heard around the house,” in which I played back some idioms and catch-phrases I heard from my parents’ generation when I was a child.

Here’s one I missed. It came up in the news this month. An English gent, name of Jim Booth, 96 years old and a veteran of D-Day, was attacked by an intruder.

Joseph Isaacs, 40, knocked on Jim Booth’s door and offered him a good rate on roof repairs on November 22 last year.

When Mr Booth refused, Isaacs launched his attack, hitting the veteran with a claw hammer on his head and arms while shouting “money, money, money.”

The reason it’s just now in the news is that Isaacs was sentenced on May 25th: twenty years for attempted murder.

What got my attention was Jim Booth’s philosophical attitude to the attack: “Worse things happen at sea,” he told reporters.

That was my mother’s stock reaction to minor household calamities: burst pipes, broken glassware, childhood scrapes and bruises: “Worse things happen at sea.”

I’ve used it around my own household. For some reason my daughter, born 1993, took a strong dislike to it.

Thump! or Crash! as someone or something fell or broke.

Me: “Never mind, honey. Worse things happen at sea.”

She: “Da-ad! Don’t say that!

Is this a generational thing, I wonder? Are we geezers better attuned to the fact that life includes an irreducible portion of small misfortunes? Do youngsters, on the other hand, derive some kind of psychic nourishment from indignation or resentment at the world’s imperfections?

Do they? It might be so.

The Daily Mail frequently posts a brainteaser. Most are trivial; this one is comparatively challenging.

On the coast there are three lighthouses.

The first light shines for 3 seconds, then is off for 3 seconds.

The second light shines for 4 seconds, then is off for 4 seconds.

The third light shines for 5 seconds, then is off for 5 seconds.

All three lights have just come on together.

When is the first time that all three of the lights will be off together?

When is the next time that all three lights will come on at exactly the same moment?

John Derbyshire [email him] writes an incredible amount on all sorts of subjects for all kinds of outlets. (This no longer includes National Review, whose editors had some kind of tantrum and fired him. ) He is the author of We Are Doomed: Reclaiming Conservative Pessimism and several other books. He has had two books published by VDARE.com com:FROM THE DISSIDENT RIGHT (also available in Kindle) and FROM THE DISSIDENT RIGHT II: ESSAYS 2013.

The Unz Review: John Derbyshire Quelle

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