#is my irish american ass putting all my 'but THIS time we BEAT THE ENGLISH and DON'T have our whole country fucked' fantasies on robb?

[wulv3r]

𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑬 𝑻𝑯𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑮𝑯 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹, 𝑨𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑫 𝑯𝑰𝑴 𝑮𝑨𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹, / 𝒀𝑬'𝑹𝑬 𝑨𝑳𝑳 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑾𝑬𝑳𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑹 𝑬𝑨𝑹𝑳𝒀; / 𝑨𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑫 𝑯𝑰𝑴 𝑪𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑾𝑰𝑻𝑯 𝑨 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑲𝑰𝑵, / 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝑾𝑯𝑨'𝑳𝑳 𝑩𝑬 𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑩𝑼𝑻 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑬? 𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑬 𝑻𝑯𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑮𝑯 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹, 𝑨𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑫 𝑯𝑰𝑴 𝑮𝑨𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹 / 𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑬 𝑹𝑶𝑵𝑨𝑳𝑫, 𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑬 𝑫𝑶𝑵𝑨𝑳𝑫, 𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑬 𝑨 𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑮𝑰𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹; / 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑪𝑹𝑶𝑾𝑵 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑭𝑼 𝑳𝑨𝑾𝑭𝑼 𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑮 / 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝑾𝑯𝑨'𝑳𝑳 𝑩𝑬 𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑩𝑼𝑻 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑬?

independent & highly selective, highly divergent ROBB STARK of A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE. written by TRAIN. follows back from @gedwimora

[tisfan]

All American Road Trip

Chapter One: Get out the Map | Chapter Two: (A Very Little) Leg Room

Chapter Three: (You’re Gonna) Sing the Words Wrong

I told a girl that my prospects were good And she said baby, it's understood Working for peanuts is all very fine But I can show you a better time Baby you can drive my car Yes I'm gonna be a star Baby you can drive my car And maybe I'll love you

--Drive My Car, The Beatles 

There were a lot of things that Steve Rogers had missed about his best friend, Bucky Barnes, when Bucky had been lost to a combat mission. Had fallen from the train and in that one instance had taken everything -- everything -- in Steve’s life that had been good and constant and true.

He’d missed Bucky’s wit; the man was far too clever for his own good. Which had been a real morale boost during the war. Even when Bucky was suffering (and Steve had known that he was, but hadn’t known how to help, and Bucky had been so desperately trying to pretend that everything was normal, so Steve had just… let him) he was able to make quips and jokes and kept the men entertained.

Steve had missed Bucky’s steadfastness; there’d been something unbreakable between them. Neither of them would ever, could ever, leave the other behind. Steve knew, always, Bucky had his back. Which was good, because quite frankly, Steve had needed that when he was younger and smaller and couldn’t seem to shut the fuck up. His need to prove himself had gotten him into more trouble than it had ever gotten anyone else out of. And Bucky had kept him alive, almost despite himself. (There were times when Steve had legitimately wondered if he’d been suicidal the whole time; wanting some back-alley thug to take him out, rather than choking on his own blood in a bed somewhere.)

He had not, however, missed Bucky’s singing.

Dear fucking Christ on a pogo stick.

More Below the Cut or read the whole thing on A03 [x]

Sam had found some music -- Steve was never going to reconcile modern artists to being musicians -- and the start of his gap-toothed smile had crept out as he hummed along. Sam had a nice voice, soothing, sort of like molasses-dark and a little burr in the way he dropped certain words that made Steve feel warm and happy.

And then Bucky started singing from the back seat.

The way he was sitting put Bucky’s face -- and therefore his mouth -- right next to Steve’s ear, which was completely unnecessary, since Steve could hear him perfectly well. Could have heard him pretty well if he’d been in the car behind them. In fact, that might have been preferable.

And the way he was sprawled in the backseat -- Natasha had once called it man-spreading -- and Steve had to admit when he twisted around to look, Bucky was taking up way more space than he needed to. Steve had seen the man’s bits and balls before, and he was pretty sure that even pumped full of Hydra’s knock-off version of the serum, Bucky didn’t quite need enough room between his thighs for an entire women’s volleyball team. It was distracting as hell once Steve noticed it, because then he kept wanting to look back there. That vee between Bucky’s thighs, the way the denim pulled over his legs and clung to his muscles, was a bitter temptation.

That was something else Steve had missed about Bucky, still missed about Bucky, since Bucky hadn’t yet made any sort of indications that their physical/romantic relationship was something Bucky wanted to pick back up where they’d left it off. Not that Steve blamed him; God only knew what sort of trauma Bucky had endured. Steve wasn’t going to be the one to start it. When Bucky was ready, he’d let Steve know. And if he never was? Well, Steve’s hand worked perfectly well.

Which did not, apparently, mean he was immune to Buck’s physical charms. Didn’t mean his eyes weren’t constantly wandering over the man’s body, storing up images and impressions to use at a later time.

Except for right now.

Because Bucky was singing, and how the fuck did he even know the words to this song?

“Seriously,” Steve said, finally, after the fifth or sixth song in a row that Bucky had known, word (if not note) perfect, “this is what you remember? How do you only know half of your life and yet you can sing Miley Cyrus?”

Buck shrugged one massive shoulder. “Don’t know. Just know.”

Steve didn’t want to say anything. He’d adjusted the rearview mirror a few times trying to see around Bucky’s head and failed miserably, but maybe that was okay, because he could check traffic behind them in the sides and watching Bucky’s face while he was singing was almost worth the terrible noises coming out of his throat. Bucky was singing. And he looked… happy.

And that was enough for Steve.

Except that after a while Steve was starting to look forward to commercials. Anything. Because dear sweet Mary, Bucky’s voice was terrible. And loud.

Bucky’s happiness, however, did not seem to be enough for Sam.

Just a small town girl Livin' in a lonely world She took the midnight train goin' anywhere Just a city boy Born and raised in south Detroit He took the midnight train goin' anywhere A singer in a smoky room A smell of wine and cheap perfume For a smile they can share the night It goes on and on, and on, and on --Don't Stop Believin', Journey

Sam punched the silver button, cutting Barnes off mid-note. For just a moment, the abused and tortured syllable lingered in the empty air while Sam scrolled through the available FM stations, trying to find something else.

He paused on a country station -- not that country music these days was anything other than pretty boys and girls with carefully cultivated hick images that sang songs specifically to pander to a middle-aged white audience and was therefore one of Sam’s most hated sorts of music on the planet -- but as soon as Barnes caught the rhythm, he was right back to singing. And if there was something that Sam wasn’t going to tolerate, it was the fucking Winter Soldier telling him that his tractor was sexy.

Just no.

Sam kept scrolling through the dial. Rap. Two beats and Barnes was rapping along, which was almost tolerable. Sam was pained by the theory of a white man rappin’, but it was somewhat better than the singing, in that Barnes’s I-just-had-the-most-amazing-sex-ever voice was better suited to rap than to any actual melody (Sam would have killed for an in-car karaoke set that had auto-tuner) but there was still back up singing, and Barnes’s voice wandered in and out of the proper range.

Sam couldn’t take much of that, either. Bad enough listening to Barnes butcher music, it was worse when it was music that Sam liked. Which meant he skipped right over the Motown station that Sam was familiar with from mid-state. Because just. No and some more no.

He stopped briefly on a hispanic station, the immediately identifiable sounds of a mariachi band coming out of the speakers. Surely, at least this would be something Barnes was unfamiliar with.

No such luck.

“How th’ hell do you even know Spanish?” Sam demanded, turning all the way around in his seat and the belt cutting into his neck.

“Forty million people in the United States alone speak Spanish,” Barnes said, “and four hundred million worldwide.” He paused, tongue flicking out to wet his top tip. “A sixth of the world’s population speaks Chinese, mostly Mandarin. The pervasive, slow power of American culture has not yet nudged English past third place as the most commonly spoken language, half a billion world-wide, most of them as a second language.”

“Well, that’s some good old-fashioned propaganda comin’ out of your mouth, Barnes,” Sam said, eyebrow quirking.

Barnes actually smirked. “You think American culture ain’t propaganda, I got bad news for you, pal.”

Sam sighed and fiddled the knob again, finally coming across a classical station with no words, which was boring, but at least easier on his ears.

Right up until Barnes started humming.

Seriously. How the fuck was he even doing that?

“What’s the next turn?” Steve asked. The way his hands were on the wheel, ten and two, you’d think the man was a proper driver. He wasn’t. He tail-gated and passed with inches to spare, and generally acted like the other drivers were combat enemies rather than people doing their daily commutes.

“We close enough now, there should be road signs,” Sam sighed. He hated looking at maps. Even if Steve had let him draw all over them with highlighters. He traced their route… gave the next turn.

“After this, we eat,” Barnes piped up. “I ain’t carin’ about any dead author’s house, Stevie, but if you don’t feed me soon, I will kill an’ eat the weakest member of our party.”

Sam did not look around to see if Barnes was staring at him, because if he was, then Sam was just going to have to punch him, and supersoldiers were notoriously hard-headed.

Also, Sam wasn’t entirely sure that Cap would back his play, this time.

“There’s snacks in the footwell,” Steve said.

“Not anymore, there ain’t,” Barnes said.

“What?”

“I ate ‘em all,” Barnes reported. “What of ‘em you didn’t eat. In case you hadn’t noticed, been handin’ em to you for the last fifty miles at least.”

Steve took his eyes off the road for a heart-stopping moment to verify that, yes, there were snack bar wrappers scattered all over the front seat’s foot wells. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

Sam did turn to catch that expression. Barnes was angry, exasperated, but under that, a touch scared. There was fear in the set of his jaw, the way his eyes darted around the tiny car. Knowing he was trapped in the back seat, that getting out past Steve would be an effort.

“Dude’s hungry,” Sam said, leaning back in his seat. “Best feed ‘im or it’s goan be your Irish ass on the line.”

“All right,” Steve said, his fingers tightening on the wheel for just a second, long enough for the cheap plastic to creak before he eased up. “Let’s catch this museum, and then we’ll have some lunch?”

Sam let Steve get ahead before getting out of his seat and pulling it forward so Barnes could clamber out of the back. The man’s spine looked painfully twisted already and he stretched mightily, showing off a brief flash of skin as his shirts pulled free.

Sam spoke quietly, both hoping that Cap would hear him and hoping that Cap wouldn’t. There was this destroyed look on Steve’s face every time he was reminded of what Barnes had been through. “You know, we ain’t your handlers. If you’re hungry, say so. You’re allowed to eat. Or sleep. Or take a piss.”

“Seventy year’s habit, hard to break,” he said, patting Sam’s arm hard enough to knock him two steps sideways. “If you’re feelin’ so sorry f’r the poor little Winter Soldier, y’could let me ride shotgun a while.”

“Hey, fuck you, man,” Sam said.

Barnes flashed him a barely there grin. “Buy a book, while we’re in’ere, okay? I’ll read it. Better’n singing.”

“Anything’s better than your singing, man,” Sam said and that wasn’t nothing but the truth. So help him Jesus.

“An’ I get shotgun.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Fine. Fine.”

Well, me and Mark Twain were having us a ball Telling each other lies, floating down from Hannibal With a bottle and a worm and a cane pole We were fishing for secrets where the catfish crawl And the Mississippi River's flowing downstream Meet the Gulf of Mexico somewhere downstream Meet the Atlantic Ocean somewhere downstream Gonna meet you in the water somewhere downstream Well, we picked up Harry Truman floating down from Independence We said "What about the war?", he said "Good riddance" We said "What about the Bomb, are you sorry that you did it?" He said "Pass me that bottle, and mind your own business" --Downstream, The Rainmakers

He wasn’t sure why Steve insisted on the stops; visiting the homes of famous people long dead had been barely interesting even before they were both older than the person in question. Now that he had lived -- sporadically it was true -- through a century, he found himself utterly uninterested in history.

Fashions had changed again. He’d been trained to blend in, so his eye was drawn to the differences in clothing between the older tourists and the younger ones. Brightly dyed and oddly cut hair was back in style; he hadn’t missed that when the eighties had passed, but at least this time he was old enough to not be expected to blend into a punk scene.

The tour attendant had noticed Steve. Of course she had, it was impossible not to notice Steve; the man was blinding in his grace and beauty. He shone so bright it was hard to look away; everything was dingy and smaller after he’d walked into the room. Using the distraction to slip away, avoiding the useless and somewhat tidied up historical information, he’d found his way to an employee break room.

No one was about, so he took the opportunity to raid the fridge. Someone’s turkey sandwich went missing, along with two bags of chips, a soda, and a bottle of exceptionally sweet tea. Yuck. Oh, look, cake. Only a day or two old. Not that he’d really care about that, he’d been known to eat food from bins on really bad days. This time, at least, he had a few twenties in his pocket; he left two in the employee fridge. Hopefully it would do.

Steve hadn’t even noticed the few moments that he was missing; that was good to know. If he decided that he needed to leave, he might get a few minutes lead before Steve was tearing the world apart looking for him again.

“Where’d you vanish off to, Barnes?”

Well, maybe not. Wilson had eyes; probably not so keen as his namesake, but good enough. Sneaking away and around on him was going to be like dodging the Black Widow. Possible, but he’d have to chose his moment carefully.

Why are you still planning to leave?

He pushed that aside. The habit of more than half a life’s span was hard to break. He always, always had an exit plan. He hadn’t stayed alive as long as he had by getting soft and complacent.

“There was cake in the breakroom,” he reported. “Still is.”

“Man, I ain’t eatin’ someone else’s cake,” Wilson said, eyes rolling up. “You--”

“Michael Phelps.”

“What now?”

“Olympic swimmer--”

“I know who Michael Phelps is, man,” Wilson interrupted. “What’s he got to do with you stealin’ someone’s cake.”

“For performance quality health, Phelps consumes twelve thousand calories per diem,” he continued. “Similar to functionality as an enhanced individual.”

“You eat twelve--”

“Steve is more efficient,” he said, shrugging. “Twelve is enough for him. My required intake on mission is more like eighteen.”

“Dude, you’re goan starve to death on this trip if Cap doesn’t up his game,” Wilson opined.

He shrugged. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t on mission, so his needs were less. And it’s not like they were road tripping in Siberia, where food was hard to find. The amount of high-intake food in American cities was obscene.

Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t think I’d need to tell you this,” he said, “but you are Cap’s whole life. Suffering in silence isn’t goan cut it with him. You saw what that man did to protect you; don’t you be makin’ it all for nothing.”

“Didn’t know you cared,” he managed to say around the lump in his throat. Of course he knew Steve had given up so much to protect him. Even when he didn’t deserve it. Annoying as it was, because he’d been doing fine without Steve around; things had actually been easier when Steve wasn’t around. Steve had a way of making everything louder. More urgent.

“Man, I don’t,” Wilson said. “I care about Cap, let’s get that straight. I near to made myself an exile for life to give him a chance of having you back again. That’s the smallest item on the tally of what you owe that man, so don’t you forget it.”

He scowled. “I didn’t ask him to.”

“Since when did that ever matter?”

Fuck.

[radioleary-blog]

Long Names and Outsourcing Superheroes

It’s not easy writing political comedy.

One factor is the impermanence of a political joke. Even a great political joke has an expiration date, and political narratives change fast these days. Your average political joke has a shorter shelf-life than a pint of half & half that you left in the car. “Honey...when did I write this joke about Trump getting golden showers from Russian prostitutes? Is it still any good or should I throw it away?”

“How does it smell?” she replies from the living room.

“Whew! Pretty funky...I think it’s turned. Dammit! That was a good one.”

“So write a new one,” she says dully, without looking away from whatever TV program has unattractive British servants enduring wretched lives of 19th century drudgery. Which accounts for about half of all PBS programs. Or should I say “programmes.” They’re so depressing. They ought to call it “Downer Abbey.” Or “Upstairs, Downstairs, Blank Stares.” Seriously, man, how much does the BBC pine for the days when the lower classes knew their place? Is that really an era to romanticize, even if they do call it The Romantic era? And who the hell could enjoy watching shows about the help being treated badly? As for me, if I watch even ten minutes of a show with berated butlers and yelled-at scullery maids, I start to get angry. Every time I see some mutton-chopped, inbred Lord of the Manor lining up his staff to lecture and threaten them for poorly-polished silver, or for becoming ‘too familiar’, or for having any normal human desires whatsoever, I have the normal human desire to make him ‘too familiar’ with my fist in his mutton-chop face. Just once, I’d like to see one of the servants he’s giving a good “dressing-down” to turn around and give this privileged twit a good old working-class “beating-down.” I’d like to see the First Footman, or the Second Footman, or some Footman put that foot right up his aristocratic ass.

I was trying to think up some funny-sounding British aristocratic names as examples of noble pomposity, but it turns out they have this new thing called “the google,” so I just looked up some real names instead. These are just a few of the actual descendants of William the Conqueror, who, being British, conquered everything but brushing and flossing:

Flora Paulyna Hetty Barbara Abney-Hastings. That sounds like somebody who never had to fill out their name on a lot of forms. Good luck fitting that on a job application. But of course, nobody with a name that long and dreadfully upper-class ever had to look for work. The longer your name, the easier your life. Hey, I just realized that. I might actually be onto something. Who do you think works harder - a person named Prince Stuart Johann Knud Bernhard Felix Maria René Joseph de Bourbon-Parma (real name), or a guy named Stu Parma? If you’re having trouble figuring that one out, the title Prince is a big clue. The only Prince who ever broke a sweat died last year in Minnesota, and judging by his opioid addiction, it was probably a cold sweat. Stu Parma sounds like an ex-Checker Cab driver from Queens, whereas Prince longname there sounds like an exchequer for the Queen. Big difference between those jobs, and probably all because of the length of their names. Great, just what men need, one more length to feel inadequate about. The only people who work harder than guys named Stu and Kip and Sam are guys with even shorter names like Bo and Al and Ed.

Same thing probably holds true for women, I bet Vikki works a longer shift for less pay than Victoria does. And I bet Kat does things for money that Katerina never would. I’m not thinking sex-worker, necessarily, but if she did it would be all her idea. No, I was picturing Kat doing something more along the lines of a cage-match fighter, or rodeo girl, or tattoo artist. She could set up her own new-school tattoo shop and call it “KATTOOS.” And she’s more likely to be a fun person to party with, too. Kat is a bad-ass who keeps it real, and Katerina will not go down on you even on your anniversary. The longer the name, the less fun and the more stuck up you are. Here’s another real name, and I bet she isn’t bringing any beer or weed to your party: Countess Antonia Charlotte Jeanette Marie af Holstein-Ledreborg. Wow, really? Can we just call you c*ntess for short?

And with the titles and peerage to boot, these names really start to get re-goddam-diculous. Check this guy out, this is a real title: His Royal Highness the Prince Charles Philip Arthur George, Prince of Wales, Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles, Prince and Great Steward of Scotland, Royal Knight Companion of the most noble order of the Garter, Royal Knight Companion of the most ancient and most noble order of the Thistle, Knight Grand Cross of the most honourable order of the Bath, member of the order of Merit, Knight of the order of Australia, companion of the Queen’s service order, member of Her Majesty’s Most Honourable Privy Councillors, Aide de Camp to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth. WTF? That’s not a title, that’s the whole book! And the sequel! Keep in mind this is just a really fancy way of saying this guy is banging the Queen. This title is so long that when you start saying it you have 13 colonies in the Americas, and when you’re done saying it Cornwallis is surrendering at Yorktown.

But that’s the trouble with those british TV servants, they never fought back against the system like we did here in the colonies. That’s why their rigid class-structure hierarchy remained in place for so long, and they’re still sentimental for it in these godawful butler dramas. They never really had a lot of rebels in England, not for very long anyway, they either came here and started killing Indians, or they got arrested and shipped off to Australia to get eaten by sharks. Even today, British culture doesn’t celebrate the rebel like we do in America. The British never had a ‘Cool Hand Luke,’ more like ‘Keep Calm and Carry On Luke.’ The Brad Pitt ‘Fight Club’ character Tyler Durden sounds like it could be a proper English name, but if there was a ‘Fight Club’ in England, the first rule of Fight Club would be No Fighting.

And hey, did you ever hear Brad Pitt try to do a british accent? Yikes. He has all the range of a veal calf. He sounded worse than Bob Dylan trying to speak Chinese. But strangely, British actors have no problem at all doing American accents. Why is that? In fact, they have taken over a lot of our favorite tv and movie characters. On ‘The Walking Dead’, Rick Grimes, Maggie, Morgan, the Governor, and Jesus are all British. There are so many Brits on the show they should rename it ‘The Ambulatory Deceased’.

And the list includes some of our most beloved Superheroes. Henry Cavill, Christian Bale, Andrew Garfield are English, that’s Superman, Batman and Spider-Man. And even the new Spider-Man, Tom Holland is British. Both Jeremy Irons and Michael Caine were Alfred, which begs the question ‘What’s it all about, Alfred?’ (Ah, you’re too young to get that reference). Two actors have played Professor Xavier and they are both English, so are both actors who played Magneto. Fellow X-Men The Beast, Nightcrawler and Jean Grey, and Avengers Quicksilver and The Vision are British. So are the actors who played Doctor Strange, Daredevil, Commissioner Gordon, The Thing, Mister Fantastic, Odin, Ozymandias as well as super-villains Dr. Octopus, Sinestro, Killer Croc, Col. Stryker, Juggernaut, Toad, Azazel, The Lizard, and Loki. All English. Add to that Ryan Reynold’s Green Lantern is Canadian, while Eric Bana’s Hulk, Chris Hemsworth’s Thor and Hugh Jackman’s The Wolverine are Australian. An Australian Hulk? I understand they let Mel Gibson audition to play Hulk. But the Hulk is a rampaging rage monster who smashes everything in sight, and they felt Mel Gibson was just too angry for the role. Plus the Hulk isn’t anti-Semitic. I’m beginning to wonder if we have any American superheroes left, except for the Captain with America right in his name. If Donald Trump is going to bring back jobs to America, can he please start with our superheroes?

But I digress. I don’t remember what my point was, but I’m pretty sure I had one. Oh yeah, British servant shows. Why do women love these Victorian period pieces so much? They’re usually intelligent and independent women, too, yet these butler-laden bodice rippers get them steamier than an Icelandic orgy.

No, wait, I remember my point now: it’s not easy writing political comedy. Reason two, you get distracted. As I just demonstrated with the last ten paragraphs. I was saying the life of a political joke is short, and getting shorter. There was a time before the 24-hour news cycle when a political scandal stuck around for a long time. Watergate hung around for years and years, like an Irish houseguest. Comics in the 1970’s could take months to work out Watergate bits, and if they were solid, you could tell those jokes for half a decade. Fashions and music trends would change before your Watergate jokes got old. The first time you tell your Watergate joke on stage, you’re wearing bell-bottom jeans and a tie-dye T-shirt, and years later you’re telling it on stage wearing a white Disco suit. And it’s the same old joke about E. Howard Hunt, or H.R. Haldeman, or R.L. Stine, or George R.R. Martin, or whoever the hell was involved in the break-in. And actually, it kind of was a Game of Thrones, except instead of a dragon Queen who could walk through fire, you had G. Gordon Liddy who liked to hold a torch to his hand to show how tough he was. If you don’t know who he is, that’s okay, just picture Negan, but high on cocaine and patriotism.

People had better things to do in the 1970’s than obsess on scandals, and the only way to follow it was in newspapers and on the evening news. Which, if you were not home while the evening news was on, tough luck, there was no recording it. And 1970’s people were definitely out, and doing much cooler things than watching the evening news. Like driving around in a Pontiac Firebird and smoking a joint, or going to a Pink Floyd concert and smoking a joint, or throwing a key-party orgy and smoking a joint, or just smoking a joint and smoking a joint. You could do a lot of fun things in the 1970’s, as long as you had a joint. Those were the rules. Even if you got pulled over by the police, you better have a joint on you, the cops will ask you, “Licence..registration...proof of joint…”

So political scandals unfolded at a leisurely pace. Which is not to say people were not involved in politics, maybe it was the draft, or maybe it was the joint, but they were very involved. They were the only generation that ended an unpopular war through protest, and threw a corrupt President out of office. I think it was the weed, because after that, the police stopped making sure you had a joint.

But things are different in the Trump era. If you can call a presidency that only lasts until he quits this summer an “era”. More like the Trump “error”. Trump has a new scandal every day, every fourteen hours to be precise, so by the time you write a good joke, it’s over. It’s old news, and on to the next scandal. Tiny hands, Meryl Streep, grab ‘em by the pussy, Betsy DeVos, Michael Flynn, and now wiretap, the scandals are coming too fast. - That’s what she said! The jokes are obsolete by the time the pen leaves the paper, because by the time you read this, the whole wiretap scandal will be over and he’ll be on to the next inexcusable act. And that will only be like, two days from now.

I realize now that when I write about politics, I’m like one of those monks who make paintings out of different colored grains of sand. It takes them forever to do it, and the minute they’re done, they erase it. And they move on to the next one.

And I’ve never had more fun.

[autoirishlitdiscourses]

Discourse of Saturday, 22 April 2017

I think that your plans by 10 p. The bad news is that the probability that she's not in front of the first three stanzas Patrick Kavanagh's On Raglan Road Patrick Kavanagh, On Raglan Road: Personally, I think that one part or another vision of female sexuality like in the margins, that you must email me your plans by tomorrow, but our wonderful new email server that the overall goal is to make sure to do to get you a five-minute warning by holding up the appropriate number of presentations. We mustn't be led away by words, by the time limit has come up repeatedly, and I'll post a link to the small late plan email penalty ½%, but that a potentially productive paper topic would be doing in the reader/viewer about whom you're talking more quickly, so you have been thinking too much of an assignment that you use Standard English for most students to review that document anyway, especially if the section website that illustrates correct formatting according to the course of the Absurd, or you can keep notes on areas in which you pull very small errors. Students who read actively and who take a look at your main argument. Of course, as a. Ultimately, what you say yes, participation, paper, however.

This is not horribly complicated at the third line of your paper, is that it might be worth digging in to the Irish Republic issued by the screaming, irrational, hysterical, constantly reproducing women in the best way to provide genuine illumination of both the broader issues of phrasing and sentence structure obscures your point or points to which I've posted, I guess, that your research and have a good student, and you had a B, regardless of race were like, and if that works better for those. Try thinking about what your most important of which is also perfectly OK. Even their local happiness seems tuned to a bachelor's thesis or a car accident causing head trauma on your midterm, and I'll accommodate you if you have 86. All of these but not past your level of competence by any means the only reason I haven't.

Because I do not have unpleasant financial aid consequences I am saying is that one of the poem and its inherent assumption of innocence until guilt is proven. Thank you again for doing such a good discussion, then go from there, you'll still want people to discuss whether he could make suggestions, but you did quite an effective analysis. Here's a breakdown on your work. I think, would be the very small number of things well here. Really, you probably just need to be even better delivery of Lucky's speech to the MLA format requires. Students who are interested in doing an even stronger. I would like me to say in my recorder died.

Hi! Anyway, my point is for you. As yet, and have an appointment to discuss how you can which specific parts of the class and kicked ass, and this is what you most need to address directly as you may find helpful, and this is within the absurdist movement Harold Pinter, Paul Muldoon, or if Gertie is actually a pretty solid. Think about what your priorities are if you describe what needs to happen. Ulysses lectures which, given Ulysses, Bacon's paintings, and we'll work something out. Unfortunately, the ultimate payoff for the quarter, and would appreciate having the divergences pointed out, and you incorporate the required texts in a lot of ways here. That's absolutely fine, but I presume that this afternoon, we should be set up a fair amount of perfect communion; To-morrow the hour of the section meetings. I can do at least one of the last chance to pull their grades on subsequent work by correcting the problems she was excellent. You are very important. So, I hope you had an A for the day: Every act of conscious learning requires the professor's signature on a complex relationship to Gonne and his borderline manic feelings while making his rounds quite effectively.

You may remember that the sooner you tell me why you picked to the rest of the work of leading the group, I will try hard to draw deeper into issues raised in orphanages, or twenty minutes if you discover that there are some quotes tagged philosophy of history on my Tumblr blog that are not meeting basic expectations related to specific points in the phrasing of your interest in readymades and in a comparative analysis of another text that they don't warm up the remaining work final exam schedule. You have very perceptive work here, I would like you haven't done the reading. Hi, and don't have to say about gender in relation to them before. /Or #6, Irish nationalism, and what you mean by history if you have specific reasons why my grading sheet, and b an explicit analytical concern would pay off for you.

Have a good selection there. 45: A letter to Martha, V. Thanks for doing such an incredibly high B, almost a B paper turned in up to the group as a check/check-minus-type assignment for another, but writing as a discussion leader is worth the same arrangement or dramatic performance to do to do, unfortunately, whom I will post your recitation to the deadline and didn't support your effort to say, Yes, theoretically. Again, all of you. Hi! Keep your eye on your paper grade. I was the instructor of record. It's just that it's too late to pick options on the gender of each of these two texts and be able to give everyone their preferred text/date combination if possible, OK? However, neither does this figure become significant at the Recitation Assignment Guidelines handout.

Again, though perhaps incidental to the shaven-headed woman tied up outside the range of C to A, whereas Y is like A, if you don't schedule immediately, you two is going, and you nailed it.

IV: Chorus sung: John McCormack singing It's a Long Way to Tipperary sung by Bessie while dying, act IV: Chorus sung: John McCormack singing It's a good job of conveying the weirdness and energy of Francie's early beating 6 p. —You've written a very solid manner. Send me an email saying that he elected to appropriate without attribution. No, because it's easier for you—part of this. Similar things might be intimidated by Shakespeare's stature and then re-reading individual passages, but I think, but you really have done some very solid aspects of the novel within one of three groups reciting from McCabe in your paper that takes experience to be more effective is a recurrent element in your section sent me email since then, I think, too, that particular choice. Again, I miss lecture on the Internet, just as people who wind up on stage and delivered it very well here, I just wanted to make sure that I or the argument that better or more of an analysis of a letter grade. I think that your grade to a question.

Which isn't to say, some people will have to put together an argument from lecture or section in HSSB 2251, and it's a good selection, and you run out of your readings of Heaney, From the Republic of Conscience, p. If you have them. Wow, that's incredibly comprehensive. You should always prepare for lecture and section, not just talking about a particular point, thematically, you must email a copy of The Butcher Boy. Opening up more midterms from my other section times and locations for my records, but that it would have got more points on this requirement. I were to assess attendance now, and have already given up 70 points out of range at this point, you should read it closely in it and give everyone their preferred text/date combination if possible, provided that you should have already left campus.

That is, it allows you to be more specific: I think that making an explicit statement of what you're doing this. You also effectively warmed the class at all a flash in th' shade of a paper, but it is probably an unreasonable estimate because it will help to ground your argument more firmly in its historical situation. However, the American judicial system, forensic science, technology, the number of places where attention to the first excerpt from a generic perspective of the room, but this is different from Joyce's, so I'm forwarding along a proposal from, in the assignment write-up culture: A-87% 90% B 83% 87% B 80% 83% B-81.