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denimbex1986 · 1 year ago

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If you have not watched Christopher Nolan’s magnum opus yet, there is still time to see it in theaters. A 100-day cinema run is a rarity these days, and the fact Nolan was able to secure it attests to his clout in Hollywood. But brilliant as it is, the film is not without faults, although most will go unnoticed by regular viewing audiences and only miff the worst of nitpickers. But Poles are particularly peeved whenever our contribution to great historical events is erased from the narrative for the sake of pacing.

To set the record straight right from the get-go, this is not intended as a criticism of Nolan’s film. But it is vexing to see the Polish contribution treated like something most easily disposed of when the story needs to be simplified. Even in the old days, when films such as 1969's “The Battle of Britain” and 1977's “A Bridge Too Far” were made, Poles got slightly more respect than Rodney Dangerfield.

Nowadays, we see films such as the 2014 film “The Imitation Game,” which tells the story of Alan Turing and his Bletchley Park team of codebreakers working on cracking the Enigma code. As Dr. Grażyna Żebrowska, an adviser at the Polish embassy in D.C., said of the film, “there was an audible sigh in Polish cinemas when [its] contribution was reduced to just one line.”

But Marian Rejewski, Jerzy Różycki, and Henryk Zygalski, who broke the code back in 1932 and whose work later allowed Turing to crack successive, more sophisticated versions of the Enigma, were absent from the film, and, after all, it is a film about Turing, not about them. Perhaps they deserve their own film?

Similarly, “Oppenheimer” is a story about none other than Robert Oppenheimer. But with so many characters, many of whom the audience will probably struggle to even remember the names of (those strange foreign names, like Teller, Szilard, Fermi, Bethe, Bohr, Lomanitz, Alvarez, Rabi, and a certain inconspicuous old man named Einstein), it just seems almost deliberate that not once is Stanisław Ulam even mentioned.

There is no point in wallowing in self-pity. If Nolan did not think Ulam was an interesting enough character to include in his picture, let him have his way. In the meantime, here is the story of Stanisław Ulam, who, like Rejewski, Różycki, and Zygalski, probably deserves his own film.

Stanisław Ulam was born on April 13, 1909, in Lviv, modern-day Ukraine, then part of the Austro-Hungarian empire and known by the Polish name Lwów, or Lemberg in German.

He was the son of Józef and Anna. His father was a lawyer, and the well-off Ulams were assimilated into Polish culture, which is attested to by the fact that Stanisław received a typically Polish name associated with two Polish Roman Catholic saints.

The outbreak of World War I forced the family to leave the city, which fell to the Russians before being retaken by the Central Powers later in the war. His father being a staff officer of the reserve mobilized for the war effort, the family moved around the Habsburg empire during wartime, initially to Vienna and then to Moravská Ostrava in what is now the Czech Republic. It was during that time that Stanisław learned German. But young Ulam did not only have a knack for languages. His mind was definitely mathematically oriented.

Even at a young age, he displayed a genius for numbers and would independently come up with solutions to mathematical problems he encountered before learning about how to solve them later in school. His father initially wanted Stanisław to study law and take over the family business but recognized that his son’s talents lay elsewhere, and ultimately Stanisław Ulam went on to study engineering at the Lviv Polytechnic in 1927.

But it seems that engineering was a bit too practical for him. He would spend more time attending courses in math taught by such great minds as Stefan Banach than engineering classes. Ultimately, he decided to pose himself a challenge: should he successfully solve a yet unsolved mathematical problem, he would abandon engineering in favor of studying mathematics.

After all that we have learned about him, will it be a surprise to anyone that Stanisław Ulam ultimately received his doctorate’s degree in mathematics at just 24?

Lviv was a major hub of what is now called the Polish School of Mathematics, which achieved many breakthroughs in the field during the interwar period. It was a great place for forward-thinking mathematicians, but Ulam thought it unlikely that he would be able to attain a professorship in his home country. Mathematics being a universal language, he therefore went on to lecture abroad, initially in Western Europe and then in the U.S.

Ulam lectured at Princeton and then at Harvard. In the summer of 1939, he briefly returned to Poland to collect his younger brother, Adam, who got into Brown University and went on to become a prominent scholar (philosopher, historian, political scientist, Sovietologist, and Harvard professor) in his own right.

While on their way across the Atlantic, the brothers learned of the Ribbentrop-Molotov pact via the wireless and of the German invasion once they arrived in the U.S. Stanisław and Adam would be the only members of their immediate family to survive the war, while the rest perished in the Holocaust.

In 1940, Stanisław Ulam got the post of professor at the University of Wisconsin, where he also met his wife, Françoise Aron, a French student of English literature. Next year, he was also granted U.S. citizenship. With his country of birth under brutal occupation and with the U.S. bracing itself for the inevitability of joining the conflict, Ulam felt a need to contribute to the war effort, but he was turned back by the military on account of his poor eyesight (this was also the case with his brother). But he continued to seek an opportunity to work for the army, and in 1943 he was recommended for the Manhattan Project.

The recommendation came for Hans Bethe, whom you could see in Nolan’s film portrayed by Gustaf Skarsgård (yes, of the Skarsgårds).

To put it in brief, Ulam’s job at Los Alamos entailed him doing the thing he was best at, which was coming up with novel and innovative solutions on how to calculate things that were not even theorized about before. The physicists came up with the theory, and when they stumbled upon a problem, they tasked Ulam with doing the calculations.

As the project was nearing completion, some of the scientists at Los Alamos, including Enrico Fermi, Edward Teller, and Stanisław Ulam, were delegated to a branching out “Super” bomb project, which would eventually evolve into the hydrogen bomb. In essence, a hydrogen bomb uses a nuclear bomb (which operates on the principle of splitting atoms, known as nuclear fission) as a charge to launch the process of nuclear fusion, during which atoms of hydrogen are rammed together with enough power to fuse into atoms of heavier elements. To realize how powerful a reaction that is, you have to do nothing more than look up at the Sun.

In 1945, Ulam was struck by a bout of acute encephalitis but managed to recover following emergency surgery, although he did briefly lose the ability to speak, and he feared that the illness could have adversely influenced his mental faculties. Reportedly, after waking up from the post-surgery coma, he was unable to answer the doctor’s question as to what is the product of adding 13 and 8, but upon being asked what is the root of 20, he answered that it was about 4.4. Ulam’s illness had also caused a brief panic at Los Alamos, one reason being the fear that in his fragile state he might spill some secrets and the other being the supposition that his condition may have been caused by radiation, although this turned out not to be the case.

In 1949, the Soviet Union detonated its first nuclear bomb. Its development was facilitated by several scientists working for the Manhattan Project who were either spies motivated by communist ideas or were morally apprehensive about the imbalance of power caused by only one country being in possession of such a powerful weapon.

Yes, because what could possibly be wrong with the proposition that a balance must be maintained between democracies and genocidal dictatorships by giving the latter access to weapons of mass destruction?

This galvanized the U.S. effort to develop an even more powerful “super” bomb, the hydrogen (or thermonuclear) bomb mentioned earlier. Edward Teller headed the project, but the work appeared to be going nowhere as there was no immediately apparent method to exert enough force on hydrogen atoms to start the fusion reaction. Ever the innovator, Ulam suggested some tweaks to the design, which inspired Teller to change it even further and eventually come up with what eventually became the Teller-Ulam design (or configuration), which the two presented in a classified paper in early 1951. The first thermonuclear bomb was successfully tested the next year.

It is odd that anyone would want to compete for the dubious honor of inventing a weapon with a destructive force thousands of times stronger than the nuclear bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. But the only one who appeared to want the honor purely for himself appeared to be Teller, who went so far as to say that Ulam himself never believed in the design and merely signed the paper upon Teller’s request, thinking that otherwise no one would believe in its feasibility.

It is impossible to know the definite truth, as the documentation remains classified even seven decades later, but other people involved in developing the H-bomb credited both Teller and Ulam to a greater or lesser extent equally, and perhaps Hans Bethe put it in the wittiest manner:

“After the H-bomb was made, reporters started to call Teller the father of the H-bomb. For the sake of history, I think it is more precise to say that Ulam is the father, because he provided the seed, and Teller is the mother because he remained with the child. As for me, I guess I am the midwife.”

As for Ulam himself, he claimed in his autobiography titled “Adventures of a Mathematician”, that he believed the development of a weapon so powerful would make the war an impossibility, except if someone made a mistake.

As we know with the power of hindsight, Ulam was a brilliant mathematician but not much of a prophet. Fortunately, thermonuclear weapons have never yet been used in conflict.

And this is the story of Stanisław Ulam up to the point of the development of the hydrogen bomb. Afterward, he returned to academia and lectured at various U.S. universities. In the aftermath of World War II, Poland became part of the Soviet-dominated communist bloc, whereas his city of birth found itself annexed by the Soviet Union and incorporated into the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic. All of his family, except for several cousins, were murdered by the Germans during the Holocaust.

In 1976, the London-based Polish government-in-exile, which, although largely unrecognized internationally, lingered on until communism in Poland finally collapsed and it dissolved itself in recognition of the now-democratically elected authorities in Warsaw, awarded Ulam the Commanders’ Cross of the Order of Polonia Restituta, one of Poland’s highest state awards.

Stanisław Ulam died of a heart attack in Santa Fe on May 13, 1984, exactly one month after his 75th birthday. His widow, Françoise Aron Ulam, buried him in her own country, at the Montparnasse Cemetery in Paris, and was laid to rest by his side when she died in 2011.

Their only daughter, Claire Ulam Weiner (1944–2020), served as a consultant when her father’s 1976 autobiography “Adventures of a Mathematician” was adapted on screen by German film director Thorsten Klein with an international cast and crew. The German, Polish, and British co-production was released in early 2020, and Claire could still see the story of her father on screen before she passed away in December of that year.

Yes, that is correct. Stanisław Ulam does actually have a film telling his story. Based on a book he himself penned and filmed with the contribution of his family.

So if you believe that it is possible to make an interesting film about a person such as a physicist or a mathematician (apart from “Oppenheimer” and “The Imitation Game”, there is, after all, “A Beautiful Mind”, the acclaimed film about John Nash starring Russell Crowe), perhaps you might want to give “Adventures of a Mathematician” a go.'

#Oppenheimer #The Imitation Game #A Beautiful Mind #Alan Turing #John Nash #Adventures of a Mathematician #The Manhattan Project #Hans Bethe #Edward Teller #Enrico Fermi #Niels Bohr #Isidor Issac Rabi #Stanislaw Ulam #Princeton #Albert Einstein #Christopher Nolan #Gustaf Skarsgård

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petervintonjr · 2 years ago

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(This is going to be another difficult read; be ready.) While the account (and the historical weight) of John Brown's unsuccessful 1859 raid on Harper's Ferry is well-known, some of the individual participants are less familiar, and are only just now beginning to be rediscovered. Brown's group of raiders consisted of 22 men who ranged widely in social class and education. Significantly five of those 22 were Black, though Brown certainly had hoped for a great deal more --one of the objectives of the raid was to liberate enslaved people and inspire them to join in a larger-scale insurrection.

At the (probable) age of 43, Dangerfield Newby was likely the oldest of all of John Brown's raiders. His exact age is uncertain as he was born into slavery sometime between 1815 and 1820 in Culpeper County, Virginia. Newby's father, a white man named Henry Newby, was himself married to an enslaved Black woman, Elsey Pollard, which accounted for Dangerfield's notably light complexion. Henry Newby eventually obtained his wife's owner's permission to move himself, Elsey, and their 11 children (including Dangerfield) to Ohio, where by law any slaves setting foot onto Ohio soil automatically became free.

Dangerfield himself became a blacksmith by trade, and later married an enslaved woman named Harriet, still in bondage in Prince William County, Virginia. Lacking any legal standing in Virginia, the marriage produced seven children and Dangerfield devoted himself to saving enough money to one day buy his entire family's freedom. Unfortunately Harriet's owner, Lewis Jennings, dealt Dangerfield a setback by selling Harriet and the children to a plantation in Louisiana, and while Newby had indeed accumulated sufficient earnings to attempt to head off the sale, Jennings reneged on the arrangement and changed the conditions of the agreed-upon price. This was almost certainly Newby's motivation to join Brown's raid.

Stalwart in his determination to liberate his family, Newby met with the already-infamous abolitionist in Ashtabula County, Ohio. Throughout the summer of 1859 Dangerfield, along with the rest of Brown's brigade, lived and trained in the Kennedy Farmhouse preparatory to the plan to seize the armory and inspire an armed rebellion among the slaves. Newby's familiarity with the area was instrumental in supplying arms and other provisions to Brown's brigade.

Late on October 16, and early into the morning of October 17, Brown's team infiltrated Harper's Ferry, successfully cut the telegraph lines, occupied the armory and took hostages, and set lookouts upon the Potomac and the Shenandoah bridges. Unfortunately that was the extent of the raiders' success; the insurgents were soon outmatched, first by the citizens of Harper's Ferry and then by arriving additional militia. As a manufacturing town there were plenty of guns, but very little ammunition and so Brown's raiders fired pretty much anything they could fit into a gun barrel. One such man was shooting six-inch spikes, one of which struck Dangerfield in the throat, making him the first of Brown's team to be killed. Newby's body was mutilated; his ears and genitals cut off as souvenirs, and his remains partly eaten by hogs. His body, as well as those of nine other raiders killed, was left in an alley and eventually thrown into a box which went into a pit, without ceremony or clergy. In 1899 the remains of Newby and the other nine raiders would be reburied in a common grave near John Brown's burial site in North Elba, New York.

But perhaps most heartbreaking of all were the letters from Harriet that were found on Dangerfield's body: Dear Husband: I want you to buy me as soon as possible, for if you do not get me somebody else will. The servants are very disagreeable; they do all they can to set my mistress against me. Dear Husband,. . . the last two years have been like a troubled dream to me. It is said Master is in want of money. If so, I know not what time he may sell me, and then all my bright hopes of the future are blasted, for there has been one bright hope to cheer me in all my troubles, that is to be with you, for if I thought I should never see you, this earth would have no charms fo me. Do all you can for me, which I have no doubt you will. I want to see you so much.

Sadly Jennings' sale went ahead, and Harriet and her children were sent to Louisiana, though after the war they returned to Virginia, where some of their descendants still live to this day. In 2020 a number of local elementary schools opted to recognize Dangerfield Newby after decades of obscurity; among other acknowledgements a state highway marker in Culpeper County was approved by the Virginia Department of Historic Resources.

Highly recommended for further study: Five for Freedom: The African American Soldiers in John Brown's Army by Eugene L. Meyer. Also worth a view: "John Brown's Black Raiders" as shown on PBS's Africans in America (Part 4: Judgement Day), indexed at https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/aia/part4/4p2941.html

#black lives matter #black history month #harpers ferry #dangerfield newby #teachtruth #dothework

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dargeereads · 9 months ago

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So Hectic Eve Dangerfield (Silver Daughters Ink, #3) Publication date: May 23rd 2024 Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

A Super Spicy, Enemies to Lovers, Playboy, standalone romance from critically acclaimed author Eve Dangerfield

Tabby DaSilva’s life sucks. Her dad’s AWOL, her Prosecco-themed music festival ‘Sparkling Whine’ bombed, and her big sister’s pregnancy means she’s officially transitioning from ‘youngest kid’ to ‘weird aunt.’ But hardest to take is her best friend Toby Tennant becoming pure evil.

Relieving him of his virginity was supposed to seal their alliance. Instead, Mr Nice Guy vanished only to resurface as a full-blown finance douche, complete with Lamborghini and a podcast shilling creatine every five minutes.

Frankly, it’s a fate worse than death.

But Tabby has the perfect solution: run away! All she needs is enough cash to start a new life in Colombia, and since Toby’s petitioning for her to tattoo him, what’s a girl to do but slowly inject ink into her enemy’s rippling Ken doll torso?

Little does she know that her ex-best friend doesn’t really want a tattoo. Toby wants her, mind, body, and soul. He’s spent the last two years becoming the Sugar Daddy of Tabitha DaSilva’s dreams, and he’s finally ready to show her that he can take care of her and dominate her in ways she can’t even imagine…

SO HECTIC is a full-length contemporary novel and is the third and final book in the Silver Daughters Ink Series.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks

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EXCERPT:

Tabby had had a bad feeling about the Belle, but she’d dismissed it like she always dismissed bad feelings when she was seven drinks in. She’d wandered up to the bar, and instead of finding a decent range of tequilas and limited chemical relief, she found Toby Tennant having a public threesome. Well, almost… He was sitting in a leather booth across from the bar, his arms around two stunning blondes, both of whom were sticking their tongues in his mouth.

For a second, slower than all the unboiled kettles in the world, Tabby watched them, her heart pumping bile. Running into him after all that time always would have sucked, but he looked so… good.

Everything about it did.

It looked like a fashion shoot: Toby in his hot pink and blue shirt, the girls in matching green dresses, and the bottle of vodka in front of them. Tabby’s mind had unwittingly formed an advertising slogan.

‘Chopin Family Reserve; it’ll get you sucked off two at a time!’

She’d watched the three of them writhe around, none of them concerned that banging in public was still very much illegal. She’d wanted to be mistaken. Wanted to be dead. Wanted to believe Toby had set up this sleazy scene just to hurt her because the alternative—that this was just how he lived now—was too painful to comprehend.

But she didn’t know anything about pain, not yet, because before she could pull her jaw off the floor, Toby disentangled himself from his paramours and looked straight at her.

The memory still had more knives than a butcher shop. Unlike her, Toby’s surprise rapidly morphed into amusement. He’d scanned her body like she was a topless waitress, and Tabby had just stood there, dumbfounded. He’d always been cute, but in the Village Belle Hotel, he’d looked amazing. He’d put on at least ten kilos of muscle, and his fuckboy haircut perfectly showcased his pale blue eyes and killer cheekbones.

Their gaze met—had his lashes always been a foot long?—and he’d smirked. Smirked. Smirked at her like he’d punched her v-ticket.

She wanted to be disgusted, but a fluttering heat had licked through her like flame, and all she could think about was his weight on her body as he thrust hard and fast. “That feel good, Tabby? You gonna come on it again?”

Author Bio:

Eve Dangerfield’s novels have been described as ‘genre-defying,’ ‘insanely hot’ and ‘the defibrillator contemporary romance needs right now’ and not just by those who might need bone marrow one day… OTHER PEOPLE! She lives in Melbourne with her beautiful family and can generally be found making a mess.

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / TikTok

GIVEAWAY! a Rafflecopter giveaway

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#Eve Dangerfield #So Hectic #release blitz

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thelatestbyte · 11 months ago

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Quasimodo: The Hero They Could Not Re-Write By: Richard Harrington Twitter: @TheLatestByte

Disney is a language we all can speak. All of us dwell in the shadow cast by the House of Mouse, that looming and imperial cultural entity. Every one of us, no matter our nationality, has been steeped in Disney. If your country had enough electricity to power a VHS in the 1990s, you’ve seen their work. Nearly every girl has dreamed of being a Disney princess- and why not? There is a Disney princess for every imaginable color or creed. Asian girls have Mulan, Native girls have Pocahontas, and red-haired Gaels have Merida. Disney Princes are a harder market to sell, but what boy didn’t want to be Hercules? Fewer polyester dresses and parties, perhaps, but lessons, nevertheless.

Disney Princes have something in common–at least, those not invented whole cloth or derived from children’s fables—Hercules and his father Zeus, John Smith of Pocahontas, etc. I was mildly outraged as a child when I read the true myths of Heracles and realized that the Disney version was very much a lie: Zeus was not a good-natured stand-in for the fathers of the children who watched the film. Heracles violently murders Megara and his children in a fit of insanity. I wondered what else had been concealed from us.

Perhaps the strongest deviation from reality is, interestingly, the subject of my thoughts here. Quasimodo- the half-formed bell ringer of Victor Hugo’s magnificent work- the eponymous Hunchback of Notre Dame. The novel and the film have little in common and tell very different stories. Hugo’s story could never - should never- be shown to children. We must cotton-wool the world to some degree, lest we corrupt. Yet in doing so, the diligent writers at Disney found themselves with an unsquareable circle: how can Quasimodo triumph?

You see, all Disney movies are comedies. Not merely because they are amusing, but because they typically end with romantic success, the hallmark of ancient Greek comedy. The classic happy ending of a story, as one professor told me, is rather like Rodney Dangerfield’s pronunciation at the end of Caddyshack; “Hey, everybody! We’re all gonna get laid!”

Indeed, heroes do get laid- within marriage, of course. John Smith wins the heart of Pocahontas, Hercules wins the heart of Megara, Aladdin with Jasmine. Beast regains his very humanity, and love follows. It is a very essential moral lesson to young boys: be a hero, be exceptional, struggle, and sacrifice. If you do, women shall love you. What could be a better motivation for young boys and men, other than the affection and approval of women?

I discussed this with a good friend, who objected to the entire trope. It is a vile thing, she said, for women to be reduced to a prize, something for the winning. This might very well be true, but a prize is, at the least, valuable. Many men dream of possessing intrinsic worth- it would make for an easier life- yet traditionally men acquire worth through the gaining of virtue, and women by the keeping of inherent virtue. The classics such as Cinderella are linked with those of later Disney such as ‘The Lion King’: women are presented as uncomplicated, virtuous beings, static in their character growth. They desire, and desire more- as seen in the obligatory ‘I Want More’ song, where the heroine pines for something better than the hum-drum. The love of a woman is the reward for beating the bad guy, for saving the day, and for slaying the dragon- with a big kiss at the film’s crescendo. That is the audience’s pay-off as much as it is the character’s. The man must struggle to improve himself, to become better- to become a hero. A woman begins as a heroine and must maintain that position. Exceptions exist (such as Mulan), but the chief trope maintains itself. It is Simba who must revolutionize himself: Nala possesses no flaws.

Such ideas are unpleasant for modern people, so we softened the edges of our moral lessons before ditching them. Nu-Disney is a confused morass of messages that may well amount to the oft-brayed ‘basic human decency’. It is an odd and Rousseau-esque moral assertion, but it’s the only morality we seem to have left.

This, of course, presents an issue. Quasimodo is, as one would expect, the hero of the film. He is the titular ‘Hunchback of Notre Dame’: a sweet-hearted, gentle, painfully shy man of ambiguously-young age. He lives in the bell tower of the great cathedral, and from its heights, he looks down upon Paris with sorrowful envy. He sits like a seagull on a rock, perched above the city of love, utterly alone save for the bells of the cathedral and the voices in his head- for no one else can see his gargoyle friends move, nor hear them speak. His only company, if one can call it that, is the sinister and domineering Judge Frollo, the villain of the piece.

Quasimodo is alone in the gulping void of his loneliness, carving and painting figurines of people he sees in the streets below, mimicking their voices and imagining one day, somehow, he could join them. His chief song, ‘Heaven’s Light’, is a gut-wrenching admission of his ugliness, his isolation, and the utter impossibility of achieving any true human connection.

For, unlike all other Disney ‘princes’: Quasimodo is ugly. Tremendously so. He is as Richard III- scarce half-formed, cheated of form by dissembling nature, an envious mountain heaped on his back. Unlike Beast, he has no magical transformation into a handsome man. He must ‘descant on his own deformity.’ He is a prisoner of his flesh and bone, as much as of the stone of Notre Dame itself. And he knows it. Worse, Esmeralda knows it. The children who watch the film know it, although they cannot speak it. The writers knew it and were brave enough to say it.

‘Hunchback’ is by far the bravest Disney film, and perhaps the most problematic for the orthodoxy of its day- though not ours. The 1990s were a time of good feelings, of civilizational euphoria. Race was invisible, and so was disability. A lie, of course, for disabled children were tormented as ferociously as ever, and race riots never stopped. Yet the story circulating through the culture was that of an ‘end of history’, of old sins forgotten.

Quasimodo sits alone in the pantheon of heroes. His genuine, awe-inspiring bravery, his rejection of the father figure who tried to drown him as an infant, his saving of his friends, and his physical courage, are not rewarded in the usual way. See, Quasimodo is ugly. He is deformed. Esmerelda could never love him. Who could? She may like him, or admire him- yet she, instead, chooses Phoebus as her partner- her enemy, the captain of Frollo’s guards, and the two kiss passionately as Quasimodo stares in bitterness and horror. He smashes his figurines and reiterates what he knew all along; that he ‘would never know that warm and loving glow’.

Yet, unlike the much-reviled sexual rejects of our modern day- the Incels- Quasimodo makes his peace with rejection. It is presented to his credit as an act of sublime nobility. He outright blesses their union and takes his role as a second-rate hero, a mere mascot of Paris. The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Disney had the sheer guts to tell people what they already knew: a beautiful, vivacious woman will never love someone like Quasimodo, will never have children with him, and will sooner redeem her tribal enemy than unite herself to a failure. This utterly flies in the face of the story we are all told: that there is someone for everyone, that it is what’s inside that matters. Yet, perhaps, it doesn’t- and that is a truth, cruelly spoken today.

The film was produced in the very small valley of time where an ugly but otherwise heroic man dying alone was an unacceptable narrative choice. Before the 1990s, before the anti-bullying campaigns the politeness of offensives, and the great softening of society, it was seen as more normative and often more amusing to mock and torment the weak. The disabled, mentally or otherwise, were kept away from our eyes or put in freakshows, or consigned to a multitude of other grim fates. One could, for example, mock an epileptic as a ‘spastic’ with near impunity, or at the very least be seen as reasonable for deducing that the terribly disabled would die without marriage. We enjoyed a long series of movies- Forrest Gump not least of all- that extolled the virtues of the simple-minded but good-hearted man. No such film would be made today.

The 1990s were indeed a cruel time, as many of us can remember. The television shows have aged poorly in Zoomer's eyes. Yet it was a liminal time, and now we have once again come to accept the fate of the ugly and awkward. The Age of Nerds is over: 1984-2018. In our modern and cold age, the Incel has arisen as the acceptable vessel of derision. It is no wonder- they certainly do bring it on themselves- yet many of them are marred, either internally or externally. The initial flaw is usually some psychological disability or physical deficiency, and they internalize that flaw: it is the eternal cause of their exclusion from sports, from friendships, from the arms of beautiful women. They are mocked and excluded, and we accept it without question. Women must have their choice, after all. The narrative choice is once more acceptable.

Yet not at the time, and someone higher up at Disney must have noticed the bad-tasting message. In a cash grab only possible for Disney, they undid all their good work by inventing a sequel out of whole cloth, simply to conjure up someone to love Quasimodo. The film was a forgettable, hollow dud, rightly forgotten. It would do well to wonder why.

My friend disagreed with my assessment of Quasimodo as unworthy of love. Esmerelda had a choice, and he wasn’t it. His ‘worth’ had nothing to do with it.

I say, of course. Yet Quasimodo was no one’s choice. Not in the movie, nor the novel. Would you, dear reader, marry him?

Would anyone?

Then why do we keep lying?VARIOUS TYPES OF STORIES ARE HERE

#Story #original story #stories #sims 4 story #ts4 story

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sumukhcomedy · 2 years ago

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When Comedy Becomes a Job

Whenever I find myself in a social situation with someone new, it is inevitable that I will tell them that I am a comedian. I have been a comedian for 16 years. It is an essential part of my life. I’m proud of that part of my life. However, the reactions are always similar. It’s a pleasant reaction but always something in the realm of “That’s fun!” While it is “fun,” comedy is a job. With that comes all the elements of a job that can make it potentially less fun. There comes a point where, in the passion for something you love, it shifts from being fun to a career and it’s essential to understand that and one’s place in that to continue to find the joy in it.

To me, the first year of comedy is the best. It allows you to be the most open, to be able to screw up, to have fun, to socialize and to connect with others. It’s like any other venture that’s new and exciting and, with it, the possibilities feel endless.

I realize it’s now rare in our current times but by the end of my first year, I was being paid to be a comedian. I hosted a weekend at Go Bananas Comedy Club in Cincinnati. My friend Riley Silverman said to me, “You’re now a professional comedian.” She was right. I was being paid by a comedy club to be a comedian. It quickly was now a job and one I was proud to have accomplished. The headliner that weekend was Bob Zany, someone who has become a legend in comedy and around my age at the time in the 1980s was doing Rodney Dangerfield HBO specials. I ended up driving him around a lot and most of that involved Zany just staying in character but, at one point, he asked me, “Why do you want to be a comedian?” I gave him some answer that was probably hopeful and excited that he deep down rolled his eyes at but it’s a question that has stuck with me and with any sensible comedian throughout their time doing it. To me, it’s a question you have to constantly ask yourself the deeper that you get into the business.

There comes a point for anyone who is passionate about comedy where it shifts from being something fun to a career. As a result, comedy and entertainment as a career are no different than any other career or industry. It becomes no different than any other job and the pursuit of success within it. It is perhaps even more challenging and even more aggravating given its outside of the norms nature, its possibilities that can lead to fame and riches, and the large number of people pursuing that gamble in life. But, at its core, to work in the business is the same as to work in any other business. It is filled with awful bosses and the deeper one gets in the industry, the deeper one is affected by corporate influences no different than would be the case in any other white-collar path.

Having been raised by immigrants and Indian parents, I was instilled with a certain work ethic and logic. Of course, an artistic pursuit as a career was already completely outside the realm of their logic. So, I kept a job while I was doing comedy. Part of it was for the steady income and part of it was so that my parents would simply be kept at bay in their insistence on me pursuing a career that furthered all the sacrifices they made in immigrating and providing for myself and my older brother. To technically be pursuing two careers was aggravating and time-consuming but ultimately worthwhile. By pursuing both an artistic career and a conventional career, it may have been excessive some days, but it gave me perspective, economic stability, and enhanced my work ethic and skills. As I can admit now humorously, my damn parents were right.

For a while, there was a lot of emphasis on going “full-time” with comedy. To those who yearn and want to do that, I applaud them. Personally, there was no way I was going to do that without feeling mentally, emotionally, and financially stable. So, essentially, this is why I’ve never done it. To go “full-time” was to completely embrace the instability that comes with comedy and the entertainment industry. It was to succumb to being at its whim and the erratic nature of that business. That didn’t appeal to me. That could only make my love for comedy deteriorate.

I moved to L.A. at the beginning of 2016 not just as a career decision but also a philosophical decision and a life goal. To me, if I absolutely loved comedy (which I do), I had to pursue it at the highest level and being a part of that epicenter. I loved L.A. but it also exposed to me how full throttle and entrenched one had to be in the comedy and entertainment industry to even remotely succeed at it. I frankly was now too old, experienced, and logical to even want that. The downfall of having pursued two careers was that I had worked to provide myself options. Very quickly into being in L.A., I wondered what exactly my goal was. Even if I were to get into the writers’ room of a TV show, how would this be any different or better than the position I was already in working in compliance for a company? I’d still be a part of corporate America and now at the expense of my own creativity. I now had two careers that I loved and so it was best suited to continue how to keep that love in both of them.

For comedy, I continuously question why I do it. Sadly, in a world in which entertainment success means fame, I realized fame was of no appeal to me in why I do comedy. I enjoy making people laugh, making them feel better, helping them, and being able to explore my creativity in the way I want to. Whoever wants to experience that is great. Whoever doesn’t is fine, too. I like comedy earning me money but I don’t yearn for it currently to be my primary source of income or my major career or my focus every single minute of my life. I have other interests. I have other pursuits. I see the meaninglessness of comedy just as much as I embrace my love for it.

My friend Jim Tews wrote a great piece years ago about working jobs while being a comedian (disregard the Louis CK component) which I still think about and feel is so accurate to balancing two work lives. By working and pursuing another career, it allowed me to possess the stability to make my own decisions with my creativity. When you’re full-time in comedy, when it’s your job, you may not have such luxuries. You take what you can to pay rent. You take awful gigs. You get a credit on a TV show you’d be embarrassed to tell anyone about. But that’s working. That’s being in the business. That’s being in the entertainment industry. Unfortunately (or fortunately) for me, I never wanted the industry to dictate my passion.

Every comedian who pursues it with passion will reach a point where it becomes more a job or a career than a “fun thing.” What one does from that point is up to them. In my case, I’ll continue being a comedian because I love it. But that love could have only continued for me by regularly questioning what was most valuable to me with it as a career.

#comedy #stand up comedy #careers #business #entertainment #industry #compliance #ethics #bob zany #Jim tews #indian #indian parents #immigrants #hard work #work ethic #logic

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immaturityofthomasastruc · 4 years ago

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#5: The One With Astruc's Self-Insert

In my introductory post, I said the main inspiration for this blog was @hypocrisyofandrewdobson. For those who don't know, Andrew Dobson is an infamous webcomic artist known for drawing webcomics that tend to demonize people he's come across in public or people who disagree with him online (either critical of his art or his political views), while portraying himself as the victim or wise man calling them out on their differing beliefs.

If you want to learn more about this guy who I consider to be far worse than Astruc, check out the blog in question. And no, I don't know why he draws himself as a blue bear.

Why am I talking about this? It's one thing for some schmuck on the internet to use his work to respond to criticism, but the creator of a popular animated series dedicating an entire episode to attacking his critics and trying to get others to feel bad for him is another story.

The second episode of Miraculous Ladybug's third season, “Animaestro” served as a wake-up call for fans (myself included) to make them realize how immature Astruc could be. The plot centers around the premiere of a movie about Ladybug and Cat Noir directed by Thomas Astruc, who voices himself in the original French dub.

And this isn't just a brief cameo like what Stan Lee did in the MCU. Astruc is the Akumatized person this episode, so there's naturally a lot of focus on him. Throughout the first half of the episode, Astruc portrays himself as this timid man who nobody recognizes or respects, like this idiot who doesn't know what animation is.

Doorman: This is a private event, sir.

Astruc: Huh? Excuse me? I'm Thomas Astruc, the movie director.

Doorman: You filmed Cat Noir and Ladybug? What are they like in real life?

Astruc: Er, it's an animated movie. It's all cartoon characters. We don't actually film anyone. See, there's this whole team that draw the chara—

Doorman: Whatever. Who would want to see Ladybug and Cat Noir as cartoon characters?

Get it? Wasn't that meta joke hilarious? This is how much I was laughing:

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And Astruc continues to get about as much respect as Rodney Dangerfield when he interacts with other characters like Jagged Stone and Chloe.

Jagged Stone: Ladybug is one of my best buds! I can't wait to see her movie!

Astruc: Well I—I'm the director, so actually it's more my movie, so to speak.

Jagged Stone: Oh, so you're the one who created the story?

Astruc: Well, technically the screen writers wrote the story, inspired by Ladybug's exploits.

Jagged Stone: Oh, okay. So you did all the drawings?

Thomas: No, no. The animators do all the drawings.

Jagged Stone: So what do you do then?

(Later on...)

Chloe: So you're the one responsible for this movie?

Astruc: Yes, yes! Exactly! That's me!

Chloe: Then you were the one who left Queen Bee out of the trailer. You're lame, utterly lame.

I can't believe Astruc had a scene where he interacted with Chloe and didn't insult her at all.

The episode is determined to make the audience feel bad for Astruc. Nobody respects him and what he does. Isn't that saaaaaad? Nobody cares about animated film directors like Walt Disney or Tex Avery anyway. Not even these stupid children understand how hard Astruc works.

Several Children: Ladybug! Where's Ladybug?

Astruc: Hey there, kids!

Teacher: Ladybug isn't here children. We came here to meet the director of the movie. Children: (frowning in disappointment) Aww.

(Astruc looks visibly disappointed.)

Way to insult your primary demographic, Astruc. I thought you said kids have a better understanding of these stories when people criticized the writing of a certain episode (It's that scene in “Puppeteer 2” if you're curious/don't value your sanity).

It's almost like you're using that as an excuse to half-ass your work while still getting to claim this show is so groundbreaking.

In case you can't tell, “Animaestro” is one of those episodes. The ones where the showrunners decide to dedicate an entire episode to attacking critics of the show in a blunt fashion. Whenever a show addresses criticism, they either create an obvious strawman character to parrot the opinions of fans who don't like their work, or have someone defend the show and insult the critics directly.

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The problem isn't that they're ignoring criticism. It's their show, and they aren't obligated to listen to critics or fans who don't like the direction the show is taking. On the other hand, they aren't obligated to fight back like this and treat their audience like crap. Any show that does something like the three clips I showed you usually comes off as petty and immature because they dedicate so much time to insulting the critics.

Even during the Akuma fight, Astruc has to call out Ladybug for having problems with his movie in-universe, obviously representing critics of the show Astruc claims have no right to criticize the show while it's still airing.

Ladybug: What's with that trailer too? I am not scared of cats, at all.

Astruc/Animaestro: You haven't even seen the movie and you're already slamming it?

Cat Noir: He does have a point, you know.

Ladybug: I wasn't slamming it. It's called constructive criticism!

Yeah, how dare Ladybug be angry that this movie is portraying her as a powerless coward dependent on Cat Noir as opposed to a confident and brave superhero. She just doesn't understand the genius of Thomas Astruc!

And of course the character Astruc claims is “perfect” is the one to take his side.

And that's another problem with this episode, the metatextual references. Before he gets akumatized, Astuc says he spent three years of his life working on his movie. I get that time in this show is weird (we somehow had episodes taking place on the first day of school, Christmas, Valentine's Day, and the first day of Summer), but how did Astruc's self-insert work on a movie based on a superhero who has only been active for a year? Meta-wise, it's an obvious reference to the scorn Astruc has gotten from fans after working so hard on his show, but the only people who would get that reference are the ones who are aware of Astruc's reputation online.

Self-Insert aside, I actually think the titular Animaestro is one of the more visually impressive Akumas featured on the show. Animaestro takes on several forms based off several different forms and eras of animation, like flash, anime, rubber hose, and they all stand out. Granted, some of them are obvious parodies of other characters like Goku or Sailor Moon, but the actual Akuma fight is fun to watch. According to the Mexican Miraculous Ladybug Twitter account, this episode took two and a half years to create, and it shows. It's too bad the story behind it is completely insufferable, almost like the cartoon equidistant to Pixels.

But then comes the part that honestly makes the episode worth it, mainly for how unintentionally hilarious it is. Do you want to know what Animaestro's weakness is? Do you really want to know?

Animaestro is physically incapable of moving unless someone is watching him. I am not making this up.

Ladybug and Cat Noir literally defeat Animaestro by getting everyone to stop paying attention to him.

I could make so many jokes with this, but I can guarantee you're already thinking of something just as good, if not better, than whatever I write.

And there's the end where Astruc gives Marinette his ticket to the movie, which prompts Marinette to kiss up to him for no real reason.

Astruc: Sorry, I guess you don't know who I am either.

Marinette: Of course do. You're Thomas Astruc, the movie director!

Astruc: She recognized me. Somebody actually recognized me!

Nothing happened to make her change her opinion on the Ladybug movie, she didn't really say anything to him earlier in the episode that connects to this exchange, and outside of a few lines Animaestro said, she doesn't even know why he got akumatized (even though ironically she and Chloe accidentally contributed to it because of the awful subplot involving Kagami I talked about last time). If anything, it comes off less like she actually appreciates Astruc's work, and more like she's stroking his ego just to keep him from getting akumatized again.

So yeah, this episode is awful, and the fact that it came out right after the controversial “Chameleon” only proved to show what kind of direction the show was taking this season.

But honestly, even if Astruc still wanted to make about how he doesn't get enough respect the episode could have potentially. All he had to do was make a simple change: Instead of making it about validation for Astruc as a creator, make it about validation for animation in general.

It's a common misconception that animation is only used for shows and movies aimed at children, so the episode could reflect it. Instead of the huge turnout where several celebrities appear at the premiere, instead, the turnout could be a lot smaller, with the media dismissing it as some stupid kiddie flick. Instead of getting akumatized because he gets humiliated in public/getting no respect from anyone else, Astruc gets akumatized because he sees the audience didn't go wild for the movie after the premiere. All he can hear them say is that it's just “kids stuff”.

So when Astruc is Animaestro, he goes on about how important animation is. How it's helped produce propaganda since World War II. How it helped improve special effects in big blockbusters. How the medium is used to create movies that simply can't be filmed on a physical set.

After defeating Animaestro, Ladybug shows up to talk to him. She had seen the movie earlier, and actually enjoyed it. She had a few problems with the story, but they were just minor nitpicks and inaccuracies Astruc wouldn't know about, and she was blown away by the animation. She tells Astruc not to be deterred by his critics, and continue to do what he does. As a designer in her civilian life, Ladybug knows the joy creating brings her, and both she and Astruc want to spread that joy through their work.

Back at the premiere, Astruc thinks about what Ladybug said to him when he sees some kids reenacting a scene from the movie. Astruc walks over to them and asks what they thought of the movie. They said they loved it and how energetic it was. When he tells them he is the director, the kids' faces light up and they say they want to do what he does when they grow up, bringing a smile to Astruc's face.

Isn't that a much more humble approach instead of what we got? It would have helped Astruc come across as more sympathetic, especially with animation fans. But instead, we got an entire episode of Astruc whining about how misunderstood he is.

And you know the footage used for the movie at the beginning? Remember that, because I have a huge rant about it saved for a later post.

For now, here’s an example of a creator appearing in his work done right.

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bongaboi · 2 years ago

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Geelong Cats: 2022 AFL Premiers

The Cats saluted for this year's premiership on Saturday, completing a dominant season in equally as destructive fashion against Sydney with an 81-point win at the MCG.

One of the oldest clubs in the competition added the 10th cup of its history to its coffers in commanding style, with the Cats claiming their 16th consecutive win with the 20.13 (133) to 8.4 (52) thrashing.

The Grand Final was back at the MCG for the first time since 2019, with Robbie Williams producing the greatest pre-game entertainment footy has seen. But the result was similar to three years ago, when Richmond hammered an overawed Greater Western Sydney.

And through it all, Geelong was on top, with Chris Scott notching his second premiership as coach after his debut triumph in 2011. Surely this one was sweeter, given the Cats' close runs and near misses in previous campaigns.

Surely, too, for captain Joel Selwood, who secured his fourth premiership but first as skipper in a brilliant 26-disposal typically hard-edged performance.

The Cats' comprehensive win carried storylines everywhere: from the mature-age recruits who dominated, such as Isaac Smith and his three-goal and 32-disposal performance. Smith's standout game was rewarded with a Norm Smith Medal, another astounding part of the game in his second season after crossing from Hawthorn where he was a key member of its triple-premiership teams form 2013-15.

Then, to the veterans like Tom Hawkins (three goals) and Mitch Duncan (27 disposals, one goal) who weren't going to let the chance for another premiership slip, to the superstars who so desperately wanted their first flags in Patrick Dangerfield (26 disposals, nine clearances) and Jeremy Cameron (18 disposals, two goals).

There were the fresher faces, like Sam De Koning, Zach Guthrie and Brad Close who all paid their way, and Tyson Stengle? His story grows another incredible chapter after a game-high four goals, while another two Irishmen became premiership players – Zach Tuohy and Mark O'Connor.

This was a Grand Final Bloods bath – from start to end.

It was a first quarter that will live on in the memories of Cats fans forever. In fact, it might already be on repeat around the country.

After dominating the first nine minutes without getting the scoreboard reward, Geelong then banged home six goals in the next 21 minutes to set up a 35-point lead at quarter-time – the biggest in a Grand Final since the 1989 classic.

Hawkins started the run with back-to-back goals out of the ruck inside 50, before Selwood and Dangerfield's commanding midfield performances led to more opportunities. Selwood wound the clock back with 12 disposals in the opening term while Dangerfield was destructive, having six touches and three clearances.

One of those led to a goal to Smith, who then streamed forward and kicked his second. Smith then set up another for Close, who capped a terrific term by slotting a difficult shot. It wasn't as if everything was falling Geelong's way – the Cats had forced it this way with a brutal beginning.

All-Australian forward Stengle got involved in the second term, kicking two goals, but the Bloods stopped the bleeding to hold the deficit to 36 points at half-time.

The Swans had managed to get back into the contest around the ball as co-captain Callum Mills slotted a long bomb and Isaac Heeney's goal just before half-time in what was just his second kick of the game at least saw him impact the contest.

But it was short-lived. If the first quarter was the business, the third quarter was the party. The Swans could manage just one point as the Cats piled on six goals to steamroll them into oblivion.

They came in different ways: Duncan the beneficiary of a holding the ball free kick, Close the winner from a Tom McCartin miskick. Smith added another long goal before Stengle kicked two of his own, his fourth coming from the boundary line in front of a Geelong faithful that has embraced the former Crows and Tigers small forward from the moment they recruited him last year for a last chance.

The Swans had entered the game on a nine-match winning streak after last week's one-point thriller against Collingwood, but that proved to be their limit as they were outplayed by the season's best side. Chad Warner (29 disposals, two goals) was among the few winners for the Swans, while Tom Papley tried hard. Lance Franklin was held to four kicks and one behind in his sixth Grand Final and was jeered late in the game.

There were only cheers for Geelong, though, as the Cats cruised to the premiership, a success many years in the making and one set to be celebrated for many years to come, with Selwood's late banana the cream on the Cats' cake.

GEELONG 6.5 9.8 15.11 20.13 (133) SYDNEY 1.0 4.2 4.3 8.4 (52)

GOALS Geelong: Stengle 4, Hawkins 3, Smith 3, Cameron 2, Close 2, Blicavs, De Koning, Duncan, C. Guthrie, Parfitt, Selwood Sydney: Warner 2, Hayward, McLean, P. McCartin, Mills, Heeney, Papley

BEST Geelong: Smith, Dangerfield, Hawkins, Stengle, Selwood, Close Sydney: Warner, Fox, Rowbottom, Papley, Lloyd

INJURIES Geelong: C. Guthrie (hamstring) Sydney: Reid (adductor)

LATE CHANGES Geelong: Max Holmes (hamstring) replaced in selected side by Mark O'Connor Sydney: Nil

SUBSTITUTES Geelong: Brandan Parfitt (replaced C. Guthrie in the fourth quarter) Sydney: Braeden Campbell (replaced Sam Reid in the third quarter)

Crowd: 100,024 at the MCG

#2022 #geelong cats #afl #australian football league #afl grand final

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phroyd · 4 years ago

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One of our Great Comedians leaves us this day! Rest In Peace, Jackie! - Phroyd

Jackie Mason, whose staccato, arm-waving delivery and thick Yiddish accent kept the borscht belt style of comedy alive long after the Catskills resorts had shut their doors, and whose career reached new heights in the 1980s with a series of one-man shows on Broadway, died on Saturday in Manhattan. He was 93.His death, at Mount Sinai Hospital, was confirmed by the lawyer Raoul Felder, a longtime friend.Mr. Mason regarded the world around him as a nonstop assault on common sense and an affront to his sense of dignity. Gesturing frantically, his forefinger jabbing the air, he would invite the audience to share his sense of disbelief and inhabit his very thin skin, if only for an hour.“I used to be so self-conscious,” he once said, “that when I attended a football game, every time the players went into a huddle, I thought they were talking about me.” Recalling his early struggles as a comic, he said, “I had to sell furniture to make a living — my own.”The idea of music in elevators sent him into a tirade: “I live on the first floor; how much music can I hear by the time I get there? The guy on the 28th floor, let him pay for it.”

The humor was punchy, down-to-earth and emphatically Jewish: His last one-man show in New York, in 2008, was titled “The Ultimate Jew.” A former rabbi from a long line of rabbis, Mr. Mason made comic capital as a Jew feeling his way — sometimes nervously, sometimes pugnaciously — through a perplexing gentile world.“Every time I see a contradiction or hypocrisy in somebody’s behavior,” he once told The Wall Street Journal, “I think of the Talmud and build the joke from there.” Describing his comic style to The New York Times in 1988, he said, “My humor — it’s a man in a conversation, pointing things out to you.”“He’s not better than you, he’s just another guy,” he added. “I see life with love — I’m your brother up there — but if I see you make a fool out of yourself, I owe it to you to point that out to you.”He was born Yacov Moshe Maza in Sheboygan, Wis., on June 9, 1928, to immigrants from Belarus. (Some sources give the year as 1931.) When he was 5, his father, Eli, an Orthodox rabbi, and his mother, Bella (Gitlin) Maza, moved the family to the Lower East Side of Manhattan, where Yacov discovered that his path in life had already been determined. Not only his father, but his grandfather, great-grandfather and great-great-grandfathers had all been rabbis. His three older brothers became rabbis, and his two younger sisters married rabbis. “It was unheard-of to think of anything else,” Mr. Mason said. “But I knew, from the time I’m 12, I had to plot to get out of this, because this is not my calling.”

After earning a degree from City College, he completed his rabbinical studies at Yeshiva University and was ordained. In a state of mounting misery, he tended to congregations in Weldon, N.C., and Latrobe, Pa., unhappy in his profession but unwilling to disappoint his father.Hedging his bets, he had begun working summers in the Catskills, where he wrote comic monologues and appeared onstage at every opportunity. This, he decided, was his true calling, and after his father’s death in 1959 he felt free to pursue it in earnest, with a new name.He struggled at first, playing the Catskills and, with little success, obscure clubs in New York and Miami. Plagued by guilt, he underwent psychoanalysis, which did not solve his problems but did provide him with good comic material.Nevertheless, he found it hard to break into the nightclub circuit in New York — in part, he claimed, because his act made Jewish audiences uncomfortable. “My accent reminds them of a background they’re trying to forget,” he said.

While performing at a Los Angeles nightclub in 1960, he caught the attention of his fellow comedian Jan Murray, who recommended him to the television personality Steve Allen. Two appearances in two weeks on “The Steve Allen Show” led to bookings at the Copacabana and the Blue Angel in New York.Mr. Mason’s career was off and running. He became a regular on the top television variety shows, recorded two albums for the Verve label — “I Am the Greatest Comedian in the World Only Nobody Knows It Yet” and “I Want to Leave You With the Words of a Great Comedian” — and wrote a book, “My Son the Candidate.”

After dozens of appearances on “The Ed Sullivan Show,” Mr. Mason encountered disaster on Oct. 18, 1964. A speech by President Lyndon B. Johnson pre-empted the program, which resumed as Mr. Mason was halfway through his act. Onstage but out of camera range, Sullivan indicated with two fingers, then one, how many minutes Mr. Mason had left, distracting the audience. Mr. Mason, annoyed, responded by holding up his own fingers to the audience, saying, “Here’s a finger for you, and a finger for you, and a finger for you.”Sullivan, convinced that one of those fingers was an obscene gesture, canceled Mr. Mason’s six-show contract and refused to pay him for the performance. Mr. Mason sued, and won.The two later reconciled, but the damage was done. Club owners and booking agents now regarded him, he said, as “crude and unpredictable.”

“People started to think I was some kind of sick maniac,” Mr. Mason told Look. “It took 20 years to overcome what happened in that one minute.”His career went into a slump, punctuated by bizarre instances of bad luck. In Las Vegas in 1966, after he made a few ill-considered remarks about Frank Sinatra’s recent marriage to the much younger Mia Farrow (“Frank soaks his dentures and Mia brushes her braces,” one joke went), an unidentified gunman fired a .22 pistol into his hotel room.A play he starred in and wrote (with Mike Mortman), “A Teaspoon Every Four Hours,” went through a record-breaking 97 preview performances on Broadway before opening on June 14, 1969, to terrible reviews. It closed after one night, taking with it his $100,000 investment.He also invested in “The Stoolie” (1972), a film in which he played a con man and improbable Romeo. It also failed, taking even more of his money. Roles in sitcoms and films eluded him, although he did make the most of small parts in Mel Brooks’s “History of the World: Part I” (1981) — he was “Jew No. 1” in the Spanish Inquisition sequence — and “The Jerk” (1979), in which he played the gas-station owner who employs Steve Martin.Rebuffed, Mr. Mason set about rebuilding his career with guest appearances on television. His new manager, Jyll Rosenfeld, convinced that the old borscht belt comics were ripe for a comeback, encouraged him to bring his act to the theater as a one-man show.

After attracting celebrity audiences in Los Angeles, that show, “The World According to Me!,” opened on Broadway in December 1986 and ran for two years. It earned Mr. Mason a special Tony Award in 1987, as well as an Emmy for writing after HBO aired an abridged version in 1988.

“I didn’t think it would work,” Mr. Mason said. “But people, when they come into a theater, see you in a whole new light. It’s like taking a picture from a kitchen and hanging it in a museum.”In 1991 Mr. Mason married Ms. Rosenfeld, who survives him. He is also survived by a daughter, the comedian Sheba Mason, from a relationship with Ginger Reiter in the 1970s and ’80s.“The World According to Me!” generated a series of sequels — “Politically Incorrect,” “Love Thy Neighbor,” “Prune Danish” and others — which carried Mr. Mason through the 1990s and into the new millennium.He published an autobiography, “Jackie, Oy!” (written with Ken Gross), in 1988. He also found a new sideline as an opinionated political commentator on talk radio. In the 2016 presidential campaign, he was one of the few well-known entertainers to support Donald J. Trump.Mr. Mason’s forays into political commentary caused him trouble. He was reported to have used a Yiddish word considered to be a racial slur in talking about David N. Dinkins, the Black mayoral candidate, at a Plaza Hotel luncheon in 1989. Mr. Mason was a campaigner for Mr. Dinkins’s opponent, Rudolph W. Giuliani. Mr. Giuliani said the incident had been blown out of proportion but nevertheless dismissed Mr. Mason from the campaign. Mr. Mason at first refused to apologize but did so later.

He drew attention for using the same word regarding President Barack Obama during a performance in 2009.Appearances on the cartoon series “The Simpsons,” as the voice of Rabbi Hyman Krustofski, the father of Krusty the Clown, confirmed his newfound status, and earned him a second Emmy. Not even the 1988 bomb “Caddyshack II,” in which he was a last-minute replacement for Rodney Dangerfield, or the ill-fated “Chicken Soup,” a 1989 sitcom co-starring Lynn Redgrave that died quickly, could slow his improbable transformation from borscht belt relic into hot property.“I’ve been doing this for a hundred thousand years, but it’s like I was born last Thursday,” Mr. Mason once said of his career turnaround. “They see me as today’s comedian. Thank God I stunk for such a long time and was invisible, so I could be discovered.”

Michael Levenson contributed reporting.

Phroyd

#rip #jackie mason

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themedicalstate · 4 years ago

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Life Without Your Cerebellum

Tucked away at the back of your brain is a phenomenal, but ignored structure. This amalgamation of neurons contains almost 50% of the cells in your brain, but only takes up 10% of the space. Even so, it remains unextolled and little considered. In the words of researcher and neurologist Jeremy Schmahmann, it’s the “Rodney Dangerfield of the brain” because “It don’t get no respect.” It’s the cerebellum.

The cerebellum in lateral and anterior views, from Anatomography maintained by Life Science Databases (LSDB)

Even though the cerebellum has so many neurons and takes up so much space, it is possible to survive without it, and a few people have. There are nine known cases of cerebellar agenesis, a condition where this structure never develops. These people live life a bit differently than the rest of us and have provided a unique view of how the cerebellum works.

Most scientists, and even regular people, know the basic function of the cerebellum. It helps coordinate motion and ensures that you remain balanced and controlled in daily life. When the motor cortex in your cerebrum tells part of your body to move, the cerebellum makes sure that motion happens in the right way.

If you wanted to scratch my head with my right arm, you’d have to do it in a very specific order. From the lift of my arm to the curl of the fingers, the motion has to be organized just right to make sure you’re not scratching the air or slapping yourself in the face. That’s what the cerebellum does. It makes sure that everything goes in order.

If you’ve ever seen someone pulled over on the side of the road, doing a sobriety test with a police officer, you’ve seen a basic test for cerebellar function.

But people with cerebellar agenesis have let us see a lot more of what the cerebellum does, and it’s not just motor coordination. Before the development of fMRI, and even today when we have that technology, one of the best ways to learn about how a portion of the brain works is to find people who are missing that portion, or in whom it has become damaged. One of the people who lives without a cerebellum is Jonathan Keleher, a 36 year-old man from Boston.

Jonathan was born without a cerebellum, it just never developed. On an X-ray, there’s a black space where his should be. At first, his family didn’t realize this, but signs started to appear after a few months. Babies have “developmental milestones” that they hit pretty regularly. These are things like sitting up on their own, walking, and talking. Most babies hit these milestones at about the same time, give or take a few weeks. When Jonathan missed all of them, his family started rushing him to experts to figure out the problem.

Finally, at five years old, a brain scan revealed what was wrong. There was a black space where his cerebellum should be.

The cerebellum should be in that big black portion on the bottom right, but there’s nothing but air. Photo from Feng Yu, et. al https://academic.oup.com/brain/article/138/6/e353/269537

That’s when physicians and researchers got to work, studying Jonathan’s development and helping him to be as normal as possible. Today, thirty years later, he’s not without symptoms, but his brain has adapted remarkably well. Even so, it’s given us some insight into what this part of the brain does.

People with cerebellar agenesis are clumsy. Most can walk (though they may need a cane), but fine motor skills like writing, typing, and speaking are a challenge. Their speech is never quite perfect and their handwriting is always a bit off. Their reaction times are slow and they can’t drive cars or ride bikes, there’s just too much going on. This is how Jonathan lives. He can write slowly, type fairly well, and has learned to speak in a slightly stilted manner. But motor changes aren’t the only pathology seen in Jonathan and those others who live without cerebella, they also demonstrate emotional, social, and intellectual changes.

People with cerebellar agenesis have trouble developing deep, complex relationships like most of us form with our spouses, best friends, and partners. They lack emotional nuance and complexity, and so are unable to form these bonds. This shows the role the cerebellum must play in emotional coordination. It’s not just a motor center.

These people also struggle to “read a room” like most of us can. They have difficulty adapting in social situations, both the simple and the complex. The cerebellum clearly has some role in coordinating social stimuli as well as motor. We’re not yet sure how deep this effect is, but there is certainly some.

People who were born with cerebellar agenesis tend to adapt to it fairly well. The brain is plastic, it’s adaptable. fMRI imaging has shown that Jonathan’s other brain areas help make up for his lack of a cerebellum. The role of this part of the brain is distributed to many others so these people can continue to live complete, functional lives. Even so, these other structures never accomplish the job quite as well as the cerebellum can. The cerebellum is specially designed to carry out these functions. Other brain structures can technically do it, but they’re not as effective. It’s like putting a linebacker in to play wide receiver in a football game. They know the basics, understand the rules, and can probably run the routes, but even a great linebacker like Brian Urlacher would never have been as good a wide receiver as Jerry Rice. He doesn’t have the same abilities.

That’s similar to how Jonathan’s brain has developed. It has passed cerebellar roles on to parts that aren’t refined and bred to carry them out. In his brain, many roles are filled passably, but most of the work of the cerebellum remains poorly executed.

A rearview of the cerebellum, from the book, Tumors of the Cerebellum via the Internet Archive.

What would happen if your cerebellum disappeared today?

That wouldn’t be good.

Unlike Jonathan and those other adults with cerebellar agenesis, your brain hasn’t developed to give these roles to other areas. The responsibilities haven’t been redistributed. So your brain function wouldn’t adapt, there would just be things missing.

That means you wouldn’t be able to walk, speak, eat, think clearly, or feel emotions, at least not in a complex way. Sure, you could still feel happy, sad, or angry, but you’d lose the emotional warmth of a summer’s day, or the melancholy of late winter. Essential parts of the human experience would just disappear.

So, life without the cerebellum. It is possible, and it’s not too bad all-in-all. But, if you have to pick a part of your brain to lose today, you should probably choose something else.

by Luke Hollomon (Medium)

#science #neuroscience #medicine #cerebellum #academia #health #medblr

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deathwithacutename · 4 years ago

Text

* I just wanna preface this entertaining story by saying that yes this is a true story, some major facts and details were changed and the story is kept vague on purpose.

If you're easily triggered by me saying black lives matter and you feel some type of way, well, that's life snowflake and just like facts idc about your feeling #sorrynotsorry #blm

I just went thru hell today ....for $185...from a job that fired me a week ago...

I can't make this shit up. I from a small town in the south and I recently had a falling out with my dad. Prompting me to move across the country with my bf. I've never lefty small town in my life but did on that day (real long story I'll post it some other time rn I feel tired) so long story short I needed a job. I cannot stress enough how shitty this place was....

First of all, these kids had no discipline, no structure, and no respect. (Not to sound like Rodney Dangerfield over here, but I gets no respect, lemme tell ya)

Every day, was like:

Me:Hey (kids name) why are you throwing paper?

Kid: idk

Me: well could u do me a favor (yes I would ask them to do me a favor as a means of trying to communicate with them with some oz of respect) could you not throw paper, please.

Kid: (looks me dead in my face and smirks while grabbing a piece of paper and throws it without breaking eye contact)

Me: *sigh, didn't I just tell you not to throw paper?

Kid: (WITH A STRAIGHT FACE) I didn't know you were talking to me.

Me: 😳 ???

You looked at me, DEAD IN THE FACE when I SPECIFICALLY SAID YOUR NAME, SMILED AND DID THE VERY FUCKING THING I TOLD YOU NOT TO FUCKING DO!!!! WHILE LOOKING AT ME THE WHOLE GODDAMN TIME!!!

😡😡🤬🤬.....

😤😪 let it go d.w.a.c.n....theyre, kids, you can't hurt them....it's just a job...

**RAGE RAGE, FUCKING RAGE the ppl in my head are screaming this at this point**

Mind you, I'm in a whole new state with very little to my name, in a town full of Trumpettes, in an interracial relationship with beliefs that black lives matter, fuck da police, and smoke weed everyday etched in my soul with only my spouse to have my back, (and I aint a punk and I can hold my own in a fight, but the way the wild life situation is...it would be too late for rescue should my anger get the better of me and my family can help, so we not gonna test these gator infested waters round here) but I don't have my birth certificate, so I can't get my license so until I get straight and on my own, I gotta play it safe. So kids will be kids...more or less 🙄

So Friday is field trip day for these...childrennn and while the first one went alright, the second Friday I'm there was a complete disaster. Also on that second Friday I'm there I had to work 2 extra hours

Enter Monday, I come in for 8 hours and leave. At this point I'm already looking for another job, so any excuse to leave would have been fine, I just wanted to have another job lined up...but luck was never on my side and sure enough that Monday night the director TEXTS me to tell me she's letting me go blah blah, mind u this wasn't a permanent job l, I was really there to fill in some gaps for the summer, but nevertheless it's a shock. But, cool, whatever, she tells me she can email me the check or I can pick it up, I say email is fine and that's it. Next Friday I get it emailed, I can print it, cash it, get on with my life. Simple right?

No....no no...absolutely tf not, nothing can ever be simple.

So, Friday comes and I call to make sure I am still gonna receive it, do they have correct emails address blah blah and the director then says,

"you can come pick up your check, d.w.a.c.n if you want".

Hmm...hubby just got paid, and I gotta run errands anyway, why tf not? It's right down the road I'll go get that check, get his, cash them and be on my merry way, right

Why tf did I say yes? Cos the minute I did, shenanigans of a malicious nature began. So I run up to this miniature hell...I mean...daycare and here's what happens

8 am: inquire about check, confirming I'll pick it up

Me: I can come through and pick it up

Director (D): ok, give me a few minutes to get there

9 a.m. I text to see if she's at the office, no answer...

10 a.m. I drive there to see if she's there; no show

10:30 a.m. me and hubby still waiting on this woman to arrive

It was then I decided to go get hubby's check, cash it and put it on his card, grab a quick breakfast and get back before she leaves and if she does dip, well, she can surely just cash it and leave it for me right?

Word of advise kids, never EVER leave fate up to chance, especially when you're born with hellaciously bad luck as I have been gifted. Don't. Do. It.

11 a.m sure enough she dipped. Can anyone guess what she didn't do?

For those who said she didn't print the check, you are correct, here's a cookie.

But, death, u may ask, how hard is it to print a check, surely not that hard right?

Rule number 2, and I cannot stress this enough. NEVER, EVER IN YO LIFE UNDERESTIMATE THE STUPIDITY OR INCOMPETENCE OF OTHERS. Don't do it, they'll surprise you every goddamn time cos I swear, trying to get these ppl to print this check convinced me that it would be easier to train a cat to grow opposable thumbs and open the tightest jars of pickles at will. Kid u not, can not make this shit up.

Fast forward and it's now 3 p.m.

No check, once again. So I call instead of going up there, mostly cos I don't want to get my ass kicked from cops bc I go up there and show the repressed nigga inside ready to pop out and fuck some shit up. I've never been to jail, but it would be my luck to get shot instead, especially now (and we not gonna make this shit political, ok? Any blue lives matter or all lives matter motherfucker who wanna come here and start shit will do well to remember that this ain't about u, this is just me venting, I ALSO have free speech and if you want to start some shit with me, I'm just gonna tell you to kiss the deepest, blackest part of my ass after I take a shit, and that's as far as I'm gonna engage with u ok? Ok)

So, long story (condensed) I finally get my check after my ghetto side leaks thru the phone. How much for my struggle?

Well if you were paying attention, you would know: $185.00

That's it. I went all day and had to eat d8 to not feel like crashing my car into this daycare center (kids were on a field trip, don't worry they weren't gonna be in harm's way, I hate kids but I am not THAT crazy) for a whopping 185.

I hate this world.

#antiwork #late stage capitalism #fuck da police #smokeweeedgethigh #tragic comedy #personal thoughts #blmisnotatrend #pls help #the struggle is real

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rawiswhore · 4 years ago

Text

Patrick Bateman x Fem Reader- “Call Me”

Patrick Bateman doesn't just have to purchase a hooker on the streets.

He can even sometimes call them.

In 1986, Patrick was at home, sitting on a chair and looking at a local newspaper, looking to see if there's any chicks who are

His eyes were peering down and through the articles, until his eye caught an advertisement typed in bold black letters for a prostitute, or rather, a call girl, looking for a hookup.

But this hookup wasn't for a date to a movie theater, no, this hookup was for sex.

The number for this call girl was typed down, and luckily, Patrick had a pen handy with him, where he pulled that pen out, popped the cap off and circled the number.

And that call girl, by the way, was none other than you.

Patrick walked over to the telephone in his living room, holding that newspaper he was reading, and picked the phone up, pressing buttons for your number.

He held the phone up to his ear, hearing the phone buzzing in his ear.

You, meanwhile, were sitting on your bed in your penthouse, your phone was sitting on the nightstand next to your bed.

You picked that phone up, your face lit up when that phone rang, spreading an ear to ear smile, and placed the phone up to your ear.

"Hello?" you asked.

"Hi!" was the answer on the other line, said by Patrick Bateman himself "I saw your ad in the newspaper, looking for some hot men to come and fuck you for money!"

"Mmmmmhmmmm!" you replied, nodding your head. "Y'wanna come fuck me?"

"Why do you think I called you?" Patrick asked, which made you chuckle.

"What's your name?" you asked him.

"Patrick Bateman" he replied. "I don't need to know your name, you gave it in the newspaper"

"So what time do you wanna fuck me?" you asked.

"I'd say maybe...6:00 PM" he decided "That's when I'm not working"

"I just hope no one's gonna be fucking me then" you confessed.

You had a notebook sitting on your nightstand next to your bed and a pen, and you picked that pen and notebook up, pressing the top of the pen until it clicked.

"Alright, so Patrick Bateman at 6:00 PM" you said, writing down his name on the notebook with that pen.

"Mmmmmhmmmm!" he replied, nodding his head.

"Do you wanna come to my house or should I come to yours?" you asked.

"Why don't you come to my house?" he suggested "I actually work for Wall Street"

Despite his smooth talking, he's probably lying about working for Wall Street.

He's probably some fat, ugly looking bum.

Though, this is New York, maybe he does work for Wall Street, and maybe he's well groomed.

"Really?" you asked, sounding surprised.

"Not lying at all" he admitted "If you saw me, you would NOT be disappointed"

Hmmmm, he's quite the narcissist...

Despite that he's a psychopath, and a symptom of psychopaths is pathological lying, that's also a symptom of narcissistic personality disorder, he isn't lying about working for Wall Street.

He had such a smooth, suave voice, there's a lot of charisma in his voice, maybe he does work for Wall Street.

Though, there's the classic "face for the radio" phrase.

"What do you look like, Patrick?" you asked him.

"People tell me all the time I look like Tom Cruise" he confessed.

He's probably just saying that to woo you.

He probably looks more like Rodney Dangerfield than Tom Cruise.

"Really?" you asked him.

"Really" he replied. "Who do you look like?"

"Well, some people say I look like *insert celebrity you look like*" you confessed.

"*Insert celebrity lookalike*, you say?" he asked.

He's so charming and charismatic, you hope he isn't some creepy psychopath.

"Well, despite you're the one calling me" he said "Appelle-moi mon cherie"

Ooh, he speaks French! you thought.

"What's that mean?" you asked him.

"It means 'call me, my dear'" he answered. "Amore, chiamami"

"Amore" is Spanish, you thought, but what do the other two words mean?

"What's that mean?" you asked him. "What language is it?"

"It means 'love me, call me'" in Italian" he confessed.

Hearing him speak those words is making you feel so tingly inside and makes you light up.

"Would you like to do it tonight?" he asked "As in fuck?"

"Oh God, yeah" you admitted, nodding your head "I just hope no one tries to call me that night or I'm having sex with someone".

Working as a call girl sucks. Why?

Because men are calling you at any time, they even try to call you while you're having sex.

Actually, working as a prostitute sucks in general.

If you aren't making enough money for your pimp, he beats you.

Most of the men who want to have sex with you are ugly and hideous.

"So, 6:00 PM tonight, at my house" he said.

"I'm not sure, I'll have to think about it" you confessed. "What about tomorrow at 6:00 PM, do you have freetime?"

"I do" he admitted, nodding his head.

"So you wanna do it tomorrow at 6:00 PM?" you asked him.

"Sure" he agreed, nodding his head. "Do you wanna fuck at my house or yours?"

Ooh, that's a tricky one, you thought.

"I need to decide on that one" you confessed. "Why don't you do it at my house? My house is completely clean, trust me, I'm a call girl!"

"Touché" he replied. "Maybe your house is clean, maybe it isn't"

"What if we did it in a motel room?" you suggested. "Or a hotel?"

"Hmmmm, good suggestion" he replied. "But you don't have to pay money to stay at my house, or yours, besides me fucking you"

You chuckled and giggled after you said that.

"Well, let's do it at my house!" you suggested "Please?!"

"Well, alright then" he decided, rolling his eyes.

He tried not to huff in frustration like he didn't want to do this.

Maybe you truly do have a beautiful home.

"I'm sure you do have a beautiful home" he said.

"I do" you admitted. "But what if we do it at a motel? That way you won't have to have difficulty driving to where I live"

"Good call" he said.

"I'm afraid you won't be able to find where I live" you confessed "What motel or hotel do you want to do it in?"

"How about Holiday Inn?" you asked. "You know the one that's across the street from Wendy's?"

"Oh yeah!" you remembered. "I've done it there before"

"How about that one?" he suggested.

"Sure!" you decided, nodding your head.

"Then it's settled!" he decided. "I'll even check you into this hotel!"

"Really?" you asked. "That's so sweet!"

"Why thank you" he replied, smiling and grinning. "Yes, I will"

Pretty soon, the two of you hung up the phone, saying "bye" to one another.

You hung up the phone after he did.

You sat there so happy and giddy inside like a schoolgirl, so happy you have a "date" tonight.

But what does he look like?

He could be as handsome as he described himself, he could also be absolutely hideous.

Hmmmm...

Working as a call girl sucks.

Why?

Because these men will have difficulty driving to where you live and trying to find where you live, and then when you wanna do it in a motel, it's like, what motel?

The one close to Burger King, which Burger King then?

Seriously, the day after you fuck Patrick, you're quitting your job as a call girl.

Thank goodness that 3 decades later after this, we have GPS.

Later on that day, Patrick called the Holiday Inn to check into that hotel, specifically at 5:45 PM.

The next day, you prepared with what you were going to wear.

You decided to wear a leopard print fake fur coat you've bought from making all that money as a call girl to cover the outfit you were wearing underneath, the outfit you wore was a sexy, slinky outfit.

On this day, you tried to make yourself look good for him, teasing and hairspraying your hair and putting on makeup to make you look more beautiful.

You hired a taxi to take you to this hotel, and speaking of taxis, why doesn't Patrick call a taxi for you to come to his house?

Though, you don't know where his home is.

The taxi driver knows where this Holiday Inn is, so no need to give him instructions.

As you rode around in that taxi, you were staring out the window at the various hotels, homes and restaurants, looking at some homeless people on the sidewalk or by these restaurants.

Pretty soon, the taxi driver pulled up to this Holiday Inn you and Patrick were going to do it in, and your eyes lit up when you saw the Holiday Inn's bright lights, your mouth spread an ear to ear smile.

You felt like someone visiting Hollywood or New York City for the first time.

Not only that, but as he pulled up to the automatic doors, there was a Tom Cruise lookalike dressed in a suit standing by the lobby holding a bottle of wine.

Who was that Tom Cruise lookalike?

Patrick Bateman.

When you saw that man, you thought to yourself, is that Patrick Bateman? Is that my date tonight?

He's so handsome.

Before you left the taxi, you opened your purse, pulled out some money and paid the driver.

You got out of the taxi, shutting the door and waving bye to the taxi driver, who drove off.

You walked up to this Tom Cruise lookalike standing by the automatic doors, your heels clicking on the pavement.

"Are you...Patrick Bateman?" you asked him, pointing at him.

"Why yes, I am" he answered, nodding his head.

"Are you sure?" you asked him.

"If I wasn't, would I say 'No, I'm Mike Simpson' or something like that?" he asked.

He's standing by the automatic doors of a Holiday Inn and even holding a bottle of wine.

Yep, he's Patrick Bateman.

And he's exactly like how he described himself.

He really does look like Tom Cruise, hell, you think he's even hotter than Tom.

He's so handsome, tears of happiness could well in your eyes over seeing him.

"Wow, you really do look like Tom Cruise!" you stated.

And he's dressed in an expensive looking suit.

The two of you walked through the automatic doors that separated and opened for the two of you, where the two of you walked through the lobby, your heels clicking on the shiny floor.

Patrick ushered you over to an elevator, where he pressed the "up" button with his index finger.

When the elevator doors separated and showed you an empty elevator, the two of you entered that elevator, the doors closing after the two of you entered it.

Patrick pressed the button to the floor the two of you will make love in, he's arranged what room the two of you will do it in.

It would be a lot better if he entered you in a romantic hotel with silky bedsheets, especially considering he's a rich yuppie, but he's gotta eat and pay the bills...

"Patrick, I'm gonna quit my job as a call girl tomorrow" you confessed to him.

"Why?" he asked.

"Well, because tricks call me and want to come to my house" you confessed "And they don't know where my house is, I don't know where their house is, they have difficulty driving over to my house"

"Touché" he replied.

Thank goodness while the two of you are riding this elevator, the elevator isn't stopping for people, so that way no one will hear your conversation.

Pretty soon, the elevator stopped at the floor where Patrick reserved a hotel room for the two of you, the doors separating apart when it stopped.

The two of you walked out of that elevator, where Patrick took your hand and ushered you down the hallway to the hotel room he reserved for you.

His eyes were looking down at the numbers next to the doors of these hotel rooms, trying to find his door.

Eventually, his eyes caught his hotel room's number, where he told you that's the room he's reserved for you.

The two of you stopped walking when the two of you reached your hotel room, he slid his hand into one of his pants pockets and pulled out his hotel key, shoving it into the keyhole and turning it.

He then put his hand on the door's knob, where he turned the knob, the door opening.

Yes!!, he thought.

He let the door open even more so the two of you can enter it, and he held the door open for you.

He's so courteous, you thought, and you smiled as you entered your hotel room.

"Thank you!" you thanked as you entered the hotel room.

"You're welcome" he replied, grinning at you "It's my pleasure"

He's so unbelievably charming, but men who are so charming and charismatic usually turn out to be...psychopaths.

And yep, Patrick is a psychopath, but he ain't gonna hide his true colors yet.

He closed the door after he had entered the hotel room, you hung your fur coat in the closet on a hanger, revealing the outfit you wore underneath.

"Wow" was the words out of your mouth when he saw that outfit you hid under your fur coat, his eyes bugging out.

"Yeah" you replied "I hid this outfit under my fur coat so people won't think I'm a prostitute"

He nodded his head, understanding you.

"Before we get it on" you confessed "I need to do something quick".

You entered the bathroom and opened your purse, flipping the light switch on, where the lights above the mirror turned on, you pulled out a little bottle of Chanel No. 5 perfume out, spraying it on your neck while you looked in the mirror above the sink.

You brought your perfume with you because you don't want your fragrance to fade away.

You made your lipstick above so you can look at your teeth, seeing if there's any lipstick on your teeth.

Nope, thank God.

You put the perfume back in your purse and shut your purse, flipping the light switch off when you left the bathroom.

When you exited the bathroom, you walked over to one of the beds, where Patrick was sitting on, waiting for you.

You stopped walking when you were standing right in front of him.

"So what do you want me to do to you?" you asked him.

"You smell so good" he complimented you "What are you wearing?"

"Chanel No. 5" you confessed "But you didn't answer my question...what do you want me to do to you?"

"Do you want me to kiss you?" he asked. "On the lips?"

"God, yes!" you replied, nodding your head and smiling.

He got up from the bed, where he wrapped his arms around your waist and slightly dipped and tilted your body, he leaned his face into your face and kissed your lips.

Your eyes shut when his lips locked with yours.

He then turned you around to the bed and placed you on the bed, your back lying on the mattress.

He leaned over your body and proceeded to start kissing you, and you kissed him back.

Your arms were wrapped around his sides, your hands feeling and stroking up and down his back.

When he leaned on top of you, he wasn't trying to crush you with his weight despite his body pressing on yours.

As your lips were attaching and separating and attaching over and over again, his tongue snuck into your mouth, the tip of his tongue licked the tip of your tongue.

You felt his tongue licking yours, and you couldn't resist not French kissing him back.

The tip of your tongue lifted from your mouth, where it proceeded to lick on Patrick's tongue.

While Patrick was kissing your lips, your lipstick was getting on his lips, which is not a good thing.

Now he's gonna have lipstick on his lips!

Speaking of lipstick, he can taste the lipstick on your lips, which doesn't taste very good.

Should've worn some flavored lip gloss instead.

Both of your hands slid up his back until they stopped at his shoulders, where you pulled the blazer he was wearing off of his arms.

You hope he really doesn't mind that, considering it's probably an expensive suit he's wearing.

But you don't know he's a psychopath, and psychopaths don't care.

When his blazer was off of his arms, he sat and placed it on the bed you're lying on next to you.

One of your hands slid up his back and stopped when it was behind his head, where your fingers were laced through his hair.

He slid one of his hands up your back and stopped behind your head, where he ran his fingers through your dry, hairsprayed hair.

The perfume scent sprayed on your neck distracted him from the smell of hairspray, and you'd love for him to kiss your neck.

He's wearing a button down dress shirt, and you're tempted to unbutton all the way down.

Patrick began to slide his lips all the way down the middle of your neck, though you really hope he doesn't leave a trail of pink lipstick smeared down your neck.

You're feeling tingles while he slides his lips down the middle of your neck, chills are running down your spine.

"Ohhhhh God, Patrick" you moaned, your head leaning back and your face looking like you're having an orgasm.

"You smell so good, babygirl" he purred, his voice husky, sexy and warm on your breath.

He proceeded to kiss you all over your neck, his kisses not puckered tightly but rather open mouthed and breathy.

His kisses weren't on the side of your neck, but also on the left and right sides of your neck.

"Oh God, kiss me Patrick!" you ordered him, saying that in a breathy moan.

You wanted him to cover you in kisses, though you're worried about something.

"Wait, Patrick!" you interrupted him, your facial expressions changing from looking like you're having an orgasm to concerned.

He stopped doing what he did and looked up at you.

"Sorry" you apologized "But do I have any lipstick smeared from the middle of my chin down to the middle of my neck?"

You pointed to your chin and neck, where that smeared lipstick might be.

"No" he answered.

"Are you sure?" you asked him.

"Positive" he promised.

"May I go to the bathroom and check?" you asked him.

"You don't have any lipstick smeared down your body" he confessed "The inside of my top lip slid down your skin"

Touché, you thought.

"But may I please check?" you asked him.

He could be lying to you.

He is a psychopath, and psychopaths lie constantly, though you don't know he's psycho...

"Would I lie to you?" he manipulated.

You have no idea.

He acts like such a gentleman, but psychopaths are very superficially charming and charismatic, but again, you don't know if he's a psychopath or not.

He's so generous; he held the door open for you and pushed the elevator buttons open for you, and he really does look like Tom Cruise.

He might even be rich, so maybe he really isn't lying.

"I guess not" you decided. "You said over the phone you look like Tom Cruise, and you really do look like him"

"See?" he stated "I wouldn't lie to you"

Actually, if he's lying to you, why don't you try to wipe the lipstick down your skin?

You put one of your index fingers and slid it down the middle of your chin and neck, looking at the pad of your index finger after you slid it down the middle of your chin and neck.

Nope. No lipstick.

"Are you checking to see if you have any lipstick?" he asked.

"Mmmmhmmm" you replied, nodding your head.

You could've sarcastically snapped back at him and said "No, I'm wiping some sweat off of me" and followed it with "of course I'm checking for lipstick!", but you don't want to sound rude.

"Is there any lipstick?" he asked.

"No" you answered, shaking your head left and right.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"No" you confessed "See?"

You then showed him the pad of your index finger. No lipstick.

"Look, let's forget about it" you suggested "Let's get back to doing it"

Despite you not knowing if he's a psychopath, you hope he doesn't snap at you and say "you look hideous!".

"Why do you care so much about how you look?" he asked.

"Because I want to look beautiful for you" you confessed "I wanted to look beautiful for you tonight".

"You are already beautiful" he flattered "Even without makeup"

"I want this afternoon to be perfect" you confessed, despite you not knowing he's a psychopath.

"It already is" he said. "Now, where were we?"

He buried his face in your neck again, kissing you on many parts of your neck.

He was helping heat your neck up with his kisses.

While he kissed your neck, he put his hands on your white tank top and lifted it up your torso and over your head, making sure that your top won't have any of your makeup smear on it.

He placed that tank top next to the two of you, and his hands cupped over your silky black pushup bra.

His hands proceeded to caress and stroke up and down your bra cups, and feeling his hands rub on your bra cups, you could feel your areolas and nipples being chafed under your bra, but chafed in a good way.

His palms were slightly pressing on your breasts and areolas when he caressed and stroked them, his palms brushing up and down your clothed areolas.

You slid your feet out of the stiletto high heels you wore tonight, your feet breathing a sigh of relief.

"I want you all over me" you pleaded, saying that in a breathy tone of voice "Kiss me all over"

Patrick was getting tired of kissing your neck, so he slid his lips all the way down to the middle of your chest.

He moved his hands behind your back, where he squeezed his hands in between your back and the mattress, where he tried to separate the hook and eye closure of your bra, separating them successfully.

Your breasts could breathe a sigh of relief when the hook and eye closure of your tits separated, no longer clasping and attaching to one another.

Despite being a psychopath, he wanted to comfort your aching breasts, his hands sliding under your bra cups and cupping over your naked breasts, where his hands caressed and stroked your tits.

He heard your demands of wanting him to kiss you, where he planted various kisses on your skin below your neck.

Despite prostitutes and call girls being women who pleasure men, Patrick is the one sexually pleasuring you.

Patrick is taking a quick pause from caressing your tits, where he slid his hands from off of your tits and grabbed onto your straps, where he slid your straps all the way down your arms and down your hands and knuckles, where he tossed your bra away to the floor.

When your bra was tossed away, you were laying there topless, the air in the room feeling cold on your tits and torso, but you have Patrick there on top of you to keep you warm.

Patrick placed his hands back on your tits, where he covered and shielded them, and proceeded not just to fondle and stroke your breasts, but squeeze them a bit too.

Him rubbing your breasts, especially his palms up and down on your areolas, felt so fucking good, your pussy is getting wetter and your clit has blood rushing to it.

He's kissing you over your tits, pressing his lips on the skin above your breasts.

Since he has lipstick on his lips thanks to kissing your lips, he probably is going to leave his kiss marks on your skin, but you don't care about it, really.

Maybe this is his display of affection, he's leaving his mark on you.

He slid and brushed his lips down the middle of your chest, and once his face was in between your breasts, he slid and shifted his lips and face towards your left breast, moving his hand out of the way to make room for his face.

He stopped moving his head once his lips were wrapped around your nipple, where he proceeded to suck on your nipple.

He didn't just do that, but drew circles on your areola with the tip of his tongue.

His tongue is tickling your areola, and it feels so good.

"Ohhhhh yeahhhhhhh, Patriiiiick" you moaned while he did this to you. "You're driving me crazy"

But in a good way.

Sometimes, his mouth is also kissing your areola, not like he's pressing and puckering his lips on it, but open mouthed kissing it.

His hand on your right breast, meanwhile, changed what it was doing, where instead of drawing circles on your areola with the tip of his index finger, he now placed your nipple in between the pads of his index finger and thumb, where he tweaked and twisted it.

"Ohhhh God, Patrick!" you moaned while he did this to you.

He tweaked your nipple for a little while, only to slide his hand down your body, tingles and chills were running down your body while he did this to you.

As he sucked your breast, he put his hands on your skirt, grabbing into the sides of your skirt, where he slid and pulled your skirt down your thighs and legs.

You'd love to unbutton his shirt, but it's difficult for your hands to reach and unbutton on his shirt since he's sucking one of your breasts.

When your skirt was pulled down, he put your nipple in between the pad of his index finger and thumb, where he proceeded to tweak your nipple.

"Mmmmmmmmmm" you whined and moaned.

Patrick was getting tired of sucking your nipple, so he shifted his head over to your right breast, where he proceeded to suck your other nipple, moving his hand on your right tit out of the way to make way for his head.

He sucked your other breast like he sucked the previous one, letting the tip of his tongue draw circles on your areola.

One thing Patrick is tempted to do is slide his hand under your thong and either rub your clit, finger your twat or both.

He may as well do it.

One of his hands roamed down your torso, until his hand slid under your panties.

When his hand crawled under your thong, his palm and fingers could feel your fuzzy but trimmed pubic hair.

You didn't have a severely hair 1970's bush, just nicely trimmed pubic hair.

The tips of his fingers touched your vulva, where he made his index and middle fingers together attach to each other, where he proceeded to start rubbing your clit quickly, heating your clit up.

Your clitoris tickled when he rubbed it, feeling tingles as he caressed it.

"Oh God, Patrick!!" you cried out. "Rub me some more!"

He picked the pace up as he rubbed your clit, rubbing it even faster than before.

He was rubbing your clit while trying to suck your nipple and lick your areola at the same time.

Your pussy is getting wetter as he rubs your clit and sucks your breast.

Sometimes, he wraps his lips around your nipple and kisses your nipple like it was your lips previously.

The fingers on his other hand wrapped his fingers around one of your thong straps, where he proceeded to help pull part of your thong down your hip and thigh.

One of his hands is busy right now playing with your clit, though maybe he can take his hand out of your panties and slide your thong down.

His hand left your panties and wrapped his fingers around the other thong strap, the tips of his fingers sticky from touching your wet cunt, and while using both of his hands, he pulled your thong down your thighs and legs, exposing your twat.

Your panties had slid from your hips down to your ankles, where he slid his panties across your feet and over your toes, tossing them away.

Patrick was getting tired of sucking your tit, so he shifted his face over to in between your chest.

He buried his face in the middle of your torso, where he sunk himself down lower and lower down the middle of your torso, moving his hands behind your back, where he let one of his hands stay behind the small of your back, while his other hand slid up to the top of your back and stay there.

He held and cradled you in his hands, sliding his lips down the middle of your torso.

His lips were tingling and stroking down your body, giving you tingles as they slid down your skin.

His clothed body pressing on your nude skin was helping keep you warm.

He let his breath out of his mouth while his lips slid down the middle of your body.

When he reached in between your legs, he didn't know whether to eat your twat out or not.

To eat your pussy or not eat your pussy?

Hmmmmm...

"Hey y/n" he said, which made you lift your head up. "Can I eat your pussy?"

Oh boy, that's a tricky one.

"Even though I wouldn't mind you eating me out" you confessed "I'm scared of catching AIDS"

"Touché" he replied, nodding his head. "I've actually thought of fingering your pussy, putting my finger up your cunt hole"

He probably won't get an STD from fingering your twat.

"You can do it" you advised.

"Thanks!" he replied, smiling at you.

"You're welcome!" you chirped.

He moved one of his hands behind your back to in between your thighs, where he took his index finger and inserted it into your moist, damp pussy hole.

When his index finger was inside of you, he began letting that finger fuck you like it was his cock in your cunt, thrusting and moving his finger back and forth inside your pussy hole.

"You're so damn wet!" he complimented while he did this to you.

He also moved another one of his hands behind your back to your crotch, where he placed another finger on top of your clit, this finger rubbed up and down your clit furiously.

He rubbed your clit fast and quick, the same pace as his finger fucking inside your twat.

He's thinking of putting two fingers up your pussy hole, so he slid his middle finger up your cunt hole, that finger joined his index finger and stretched your pussy hole wider, where he let two fingers fuck you this time.

You could feel something else that joined inside your twat hole.

Meanwhile, you're moaning and whimpering your head off, your head is leaning back and you're resting your elbows on the bed.

"Oh God, Patrick!" you cried out. "Just rub me, baby!"

The inside of your pussy was easy for his fingers to slip in there, amongst other things.

His thumb was heating your clit up again when he rubbed it.

Speaking of rubbing, one thing you're thinking of doing is rubbing your nipples and areolas while he fingers you.

You may as well do it, it'll give you more pleasure.

You put your nipples in between the pads of your thumbs and index fingers, where you tweaked and twisted them a bit.

Your nipples could feel some sensations and sensitivity when you tweaked them that felt so good, you could do this all day.

"Patrick" you said to him, saying it in a nonsexual/moan-y way so you can catch his attention.

He looked up and saw you tweaking your nipples like he did.

He loves this sight, he could masturbate to it.

But he's busy fingering you right now.

Despite being a psychopath, he's been so gentle with you today, he doesn't seem like a psychopath.

And speaking of fingering you, his wrist is getting sore from fingering you and the two of you have been having foreplay for quite some time now.

So much, he's getting bored of foreplay, his dick has been killing him over how horny he is.

He slid his fingers carefully out of your twat, one by one.

Your pussy wasn't really all that tight.

He put those fingers in his mouth and cleaned them off, sucking off any pussy juice on his fingers.

He also lifted his other index finger off of your clit.

Once his fingers were clean, he began undressing, loosening his tie and tossing it to the floor, unbuttoning each button on his shirt and shedding his shirt off.

You, meanwhile, noticed his fingers weren't in or on your pussy anymore, so you opened your eyes, only to find him undressing.

He has such a beautiful body under those clothes, like a Grecian statue almost.

Your eyes are growing wild seeing him undress, and he's furiously undressing, trying to shed out of those clothes.

He slid his belt buckle out of the pants loops by pulling onto his buckle, as his belt buckle slithered through his pants loops like a snake in the grass.

He dropped his belt to the floor, and after that, he slid his hand down his slacks and pulled out a condom, where he placed the condom on the bed for now.

He then unbuttoned his slacks while pulling his zipper down at the same time.

After that, he slipped his fingers under both his boxers and his slacks, where he gripped onto both of those clothing items and pulled them all the way down to his ankles, lifting his feet out of his pants holes.

He bent down further and lifted his feet off of the floor and slid them as well as his legs out of the legs of his tight white boxers, placing his boxers on the floor.

Now he was standing there completely nude.

He didn't bother to place his clothes somewhere else despite them being a nice, expensive looking suit, but maybe that shows what a secret psychopath he is.

He then grabbed the condom on the bed and tore the top of the wrapper off and pulled the condom out of the packet, tossing the condom wrapper to the floor.

He placed the ring of the condom on top of his penis, only to roll that condom all the way down to the bottom of his shaft, until it completely covered and concealed his cock.

He might be a psychopath, but he's trying to hide that he is a psycho, and even he somewhat cares about not catching AIDS.

After that condom was covering his erection, he began crawling on top of you like a panther hunting for its prey, his face looking down at your face.

"You ready?" he asked you.

You nodded your head, smiling at him.

Though, you're thinking of maybe doing it with him under the blankets.

"Can we do it under the covers?" you asked him.

Hmmmm, good question.

"But then I won't be able to see you under the covers!" he protested.

"Touché" you replied, nodding your head.

"I'll keep you warm" he coaxed, wrapping his fingers around his shaft.

While he held his penis, he began to slide and insert his penis into your twat hole, his rubber covered cock entering your twat.

Condoms don't really feel good at all, but you're doing this to stay safe.

Wonder if you'll have an orgasm even when his dick is covered with a condom?

As his cock slid and entered your twat, he unwrapped his fingers off of his shaft as it entered more and more further into your pussy hole, until it wasn't really visible for others to see.

Once his cock was entirely inside your pussy, he slid his cock back a few inches while his dick was still inside your twat, only to quickly shove his cock further and forward into your cunt hole.

He began to thrust, push and shove his cock back and forth inside your pussy, pounding his cock in your cunt.

While he was fucking you, the bed was rocking back and forth thanks to him.

He held onto your wrists while he banged you, but surprisingly, not too hard, considering he's a psychopath.

While he fucked you, you were moaning out loud, your mouth was wide open and your head was arching back, the back of your head pressing on the mattress.

Patrick opened his eyes to look at your chest, his eyes staring at your breasts bouncing up and down thanks to him fucking you.

He loved seeing your tits springing while he thrust in you, he licked his lips while he banged you.

His hands were pressing on your wrists while he pounded in you, and you hope that while he's fucking you, he won't nudge the bed into the wall and break a hole in the wall.

His skin is getting hotter while he thrusts in and out of you, so is your skin.

"Ohhhhhh God, Patrick!" you moaned and cried. "Yessss, fuck me!!"

Despite him busy fucking you, he wants to do some things to your body, but surprisingly, killing you isn't one of them.

He leaned his face into your face, where he kissed your lips, nudging and pressing his lips on your lips.

You could feel his lips on yours and you craved more of him.

"I want you!" you pleaded. "I need you! Kiss me!"

"That's a good girl" he murmured, and he kissed you once more on your lips, and not just that, but poked his tongue in your mouth, licking your tongue.

While kissing him is wonderful, it probably is gonna be difficult to kiss him while he's fucking you, so maybe you should stop with asking him to kiss you.

He lifted himself off of you and put his hands on your breasts, where he squeezed and fondled your tits, playing with them.

You can feel his palms pressing on your areolas and nipples.

Since his hands are on your breasts, you may as well tell him what you really want him to do with your tits.

"Tweak my nipples!" you ordered him to do.

He then put your nipples in between his thumbs and index fingers, where he tweaked and turned them like a radial dial.

"Ohhhh, yeahhhhhh!!" you moaned. "This feels sooooo goooood!"

You're not faking your orgasms tonight, you really do enjoy this.

There's so much build up to him fucking you, your pussy's getting wetter, you feel like you're getting higher and higher as he pounds into you, you can't stop moaning.

Blood's been filling up your clit since he's been on top of you, but now it feels like your clit is about to explode any minute now.

Your hands want to grab onto the blankets while he's fucking you, but his hands are holding your wrists tight.

You've had so much sexual pleasure while he's fucking you, and he's been pleasuring you for such a long time, you have to do something about it.

"I-I'm gonna cum!" you cried out, and pretty soon, you did cum, letting out a high pitched cry when you came.

Your cum drenched his cock still inside your twat and still fucking you, your clit pounding like a heartbeat.

However, it isn't over until he jizzes inside of you.

Even though you've came, as evident as that high pitched cry you released, Patrick wanted to pleasure you some more.

He leaned his face into your neck again, burying his face in your neck, where he kissed your neck, and not just that, but nibbled on it a bit, putting a little bit of your skin in between his teeth.

However, he wasn't gonna kill you or eat you, he wasn't even trying to do those things.

You lifted one of your hands up from his grip, and he doesn't surprisingly mind it, he's not trying to hold your wrist back down.

You placed your hand behind his head, where you ran that hand up to the top of his head, your fingers sliding through his brown hair.

His hair was getting a bit messy from fucking you.

You wish you could've ran your fingers through his hair before you came.

Will he let your other hand slide behind his back?

He lifted his head from your neck, placing his hands off of your tits, only for him to bury his face into one of your tits, sucking one of your nipples quickly.

He shifted his head to your other breast and quickly sucked that nipple.

His hands, meanwhile, were sliding up and down your body, roaming, traveling, stroking and caressing your body.

His touch was giving you tingles as his hands caressed your skin that felt so good, you could cum again.

He was feeling a huge rush while he fucked you, such a rush, that he came inside of your twat and inside the condom shielding his dick.

Hopefully the condom hasn't broke and he won't get you pregnant, or worse, an STD.

He released a throaty groan from his mouth when he came, his eyes closed and his mouth was slightly agape.

A few seconds after he had came, he withdrew his cock and pulled it out of your pussy hole.

The condom covered part of his penis was covered in your creamy, white, slippery cum, whereas underneath that condom, his jizz was dripping down his shaft.

The two of you were both out of breath, breathing a bit heavily.

But that was a lot of fun.

"Hey Patrick" you said, lifting your head up.

"Hmmmmmmm?" he asked, opening his eyes and looking at you.

"Y'wanna call room service?" you asked him. "We could have some wine glasses"

Wow.

This was a one night stand, he wasn't expecting room service!

A few days later, you attended an STD clinic and took a pregnancy test.

You luckily weren't pregnant (but he's gorgeous, you wouldn't mind getting pregnant by him), and even better, didn't catch an STD.

________________________________________________________________

Yes, this fanfic is based on Blondie’s “Call Me” song.

I actually wanted to post and finish this fanfic on Halloween, but I had used the Internet a LOT that day uploading and reblogging pics, gifs and fanfics, and I was tired in the afternoon.

#patrick bateman #american psycho #blondie #call me #1986 #80s #fanfiction

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malgal7777 · 4 years ago

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Hiking with Tracy 2021: Put it on the board...YES!

I did it!!!! Woo-Hoo! I walked 100 miles - almost in the whole month of April. Since the last weekend of April was a bit of a snow bust, I had to finish my 100 miles this past weekend 5/1-5/2! And what a way to finish...

I was feeling defeated last week when I wasn’t able to complete the 100 miles up in Tahoe. I ended up being 17 miles short! Can you believe that? 17 miles!! And I have a friend, let’s just call him “Barry” who was going to give me the whole $1000 if I was able to do it. So I really felt down knowing I had blown it. Blown all that training and blown it for the Ride4Reason fundraiser. But “Barry” said hey, finish it up this weekend and you’re still in the running. So I went back to the drawing board to find another route that would push me over the finish line. But it was Bob who suggested I hike San Francisco. AND, if I hiked SF, he would be encouraged to join me. Bob’s a city slicker. If he goes too far from being able to purchase a newspaper out of a metal box, he gets hives. So, we mapped out a 10-12 mile route (I had to go easy on the guy) starting from the Ferry Building and walking the circumference of the SF peninsula to Ocean Beach. It was FAN-TAS-TIC! WOW. Just WOW.

We started at Justin Herman Plaza and since it was May Day we were hoping to find a rally or march happening. And in perfect SF fashion, we were not disappointed! Sure enough a large rally was gearing up to head down Market. I’m going to assume the march was for workers rights, but it was actually unclear to us what their message was. Not a good sign for a march/rally!

This first stretch of The Embarcadero was a bit sad. Covid and the lockdowns have definitely taken their toll. I know it was early and a weekend, but a lot of these businesses are still shuttered and closed. And there’s a couple of homeless encampments taking over the street car kiosks. The homeless. Sooner or later I have to go there. I can spout my love for California all I want, but it’s California’s biggest shame. It’s no longer a skeleton in the closet, it’s all out in the open for all to see. And I have no answer for it. It’s always been here, since I’ve been here. And it definitely has gotten A LOT worse within the past 10 years. And it’s not just one issue, it’s the perfect storm of multiple issues coming together: not enough affordable housing; not enough livable wages; mental instability; drug addiction; nomad living lifestyle - yes that’s a thing. I don’t think California is doing nothing. There’s just too many people. And you can’t just throw them in jail or put them onto a bus to make someone else’s problem - like other regional areas have done, there has to be some compassion and humanity. But these encampments are not humane. They are breeding grounds for disease and despair. What does that say about you as you walk on by? Trying to ignore the garbage and filth these people are living amongst. But I have no answer. I don’t even know where to begin to help these people. So for the time being, I’m going to continue to stick my head in the sand and hope that California will rise to the challenge and find some solution, sooner rather than later.

The Embarcadero curves around and leads you to the touristy part of the city...Fisherman’s Wharf. I personally hate this part of town. It’s just too much: too many people; too many lame chain restaurants; too many cheesy chotchkie stores. My parents on the other hand love it. When they come to town all they want to do is come to Pier 39 and Alcatraz. My dad would live on Alcatraz if he could. One of these days I just may lock him in one of the cells. Today though, things were different. I loved seeing that Alcatraz tours are once again up & running. AND not a lot of people yet...wink wink wink...for those of you who've tried to go but weren’t able to get a reservation. It was early, so the area was just coming alive. The street vendors setting up their wares or street performers getting into character. Then there’s the abundance of colors of all the flashy stores and restaurants. The sounds of the sea lions barking at the tourists watching them. The marina with the famous “Rocket Boat!” I was digging it. Fisherman’s Wharf also has some great views of Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge. It wasn’t so horrible. Bob showed me Scoma’s restaurant, a tiny seafood restaurant that’s been here for years and is supposed to be pretty darn good. There’s even a chapel for the local fishermen. Then of course there’s Musee Mecanique. A museum of antique slot machines, animations, coin operated pianos and the like. It’s pretty cool and I believe most of the games are still functioning, so you can play. Unfortunately it is also closed because of the pandemic. You can donate to help keep it open though. Just go to https://museemecanique.com.

Then we hit Aquatic Park. An interesting cove at the West end of Fisherman’s Wharf. This is where crazy people swim in the freezing waters of the bay, most without wet suits. On this cold, windy morning we found a group of children being taught how to acclimate their bodies to the water so they can grow up to be crazy people. Horrible way to spend a Saturday if you ask me!

We continued to go around Aquatic Park and up and around to Fort Mason. There’s a great trail that we’ve never taken that gives you an even better view of the GG bridge and Fort Mason below. And once you get on the other side, you’re in local land of OZ! Where the curtain is pulled back and the locals are enjoying the real SF. Now for those tourists who spend their whole time at Fisherman’s Wharf and The Embarcadero, more power to you. Just don’t say you’ve been to San Francisco. Because you haven’t. Once you get over the hump, one of my favorite scenes of SF...the buildings. Squat, square homes of multiple pastel colors rolling like waves along the hills of San Francisco. In other areas of the city, the hills are rolling with colorful victorians. The colors are what I love best about San Francisco.

It was here that I realized I was hiking with Cher. We had to make yet another stop so Bob could make a wardrobe change. It’s also kind of a production with him narrating what he’s doing. I got to hear all about the ins and outs of why he rolls his flannel rather than fold. Why he’ll wait to take off the thermal leggings. Where to put his first UO sticker. Yada, Yada, Yada. Good thing he’s pretty cute. As he was changing, we noticed a statue of an older man in a suit but no plaque telling visitors who he is. I thought he looked like Rodney Dangerfield. But why would anyone put up a statue of Rodney Dangerfield in SF? That would be the ultimate “no respect” though, a statue but no plaque. Ends up it’s a guy named Phil Burton. He was a US Congressman from California who is responsible for 87,000 acres of the SF Bay Area being designated as a National Park. I was basically ending my hike in a National Park thanks to this man. He deserves a plaque god damnit!

So once you pass Fort Mason, you are now in the Marina district. It’s where Cal Berkeley students go after they graduate. They mutate here on the hollowed grounds of Crissy Field. Like yuppy gremlins. Working out or drinking Philz Coffee. The homes along Crissy Field are gorgeous. Huge picture windows with a front row seat to the Golden Gate Bridge. Each one is architecturally different and once again, the colors! Beautiful. The only downside was the wind. It was pretty darn windy along this stretch. But Bob had his windbreaker and I had my knit cap. I can endure the wind if I have my ears covered.

It’s a long stretch from Crissy Field to the Presidio. The old barracks of the Presidio on one side and the entrance of the Bay on the other. The GG Bridge is the main attraction here. It’s majestic. Great time to get over there. Parking was plenty and not a bad way to have a picnic. There’s a climbing gym, a trampoline park and under the bridge is Fort Point. I have been here before, took my parents. I was able to slyly divert their attention from the bells and whistles of Fisherman’s Wharf with the chance to view history! They are suckers for historical buildings. And Fort Point is a National Historical Site. It was built during the Civil War in 1861. It’s been awhile so I don’t remember too many of the details, but definitely worth a visit.

Now we began our assent to the Jewel of this hike...The Golden Gate Bridge. It’s a National Icon and San Francisco’s mascot. As you climb the hill and get closer to the bridge there are a bunch of tunnels and “hide outs” along the way. Remnants of the military presence that once dominated San Francisco. But the absolutely coolest thing about this hike was I had NO IDEA you can actually walk underneath the bridge itself...like right below the huge steel red frame!! It’s literally a wind tunnel, so hold onto your hat! But super duper cool!! If you have any engineers or construction people in your circle, this would be a great spot to bring them.

As you continue around the bend, you come to Baker’s Beach. Not sure if it’s still a nude beach, but it used to be. The unfortunate thing about nude beaches is the people who SHOULDN’T be nude are the first ones to get into their birthday suit. But that’s my problem, not theirs! Some nice trails along this stretch, but nothing too exciting to report.

We soon came upon the neighborhood Sea Cliff. Now this is where the really rich people live. Like Robin Williams had a home here; Nancy Pelosi I think lives here. Mansions with a view of the Pacific. Bob & I had to walk through right? I am happy to report the other half live very well. I stopped to smell the roses (literally) but I noticed that all the gardens actually smelled horrible. The fertilizer was strong here. Bob & I laughed that that was how they kept the riff-raff away, by surrounding their homes with a shit moat. Worked for us! We high tailed it out of there.

Now we came to our last stretch...Land’s End. A labyrinth of trails along the coastal edge. We needed to stop for another wardrobe change. This time his leggings were going back on. Which meant he needed to get down to his underwear. Let’s just say a whole group of people got a little more than they were expecting that day!

Finally we made it to Sutro Baths and the Cliff House! Fantastic! Unfortunately the Cliff House closed due to the pandemic and is not reopening. I cannot imagine this space will be closed for long. Fingers crossed. We decided to head down to Ocean Beach and end our hike by having lunch at the Park Chalet. We were both famished and Bob was getting cranky. Needed to feed him STAT. I have more to report here but Bob might get mad at me, so if you see him again, just ask him about our new friend Franklin!

BTW, Sunday I did my final 4-5 miles back at my MacArthur Trail. I brought Stella this time and she loved it. It was as fabulous as ever!

I’m still going to hike y’all and write about it. So check in to see where I go next. I enjoyed writing my thoughts and feelings down. Even if nobody reads it, it’s my journal to this wonderful life I’ve been blessed with. Why not tell the world!

Thank You to all who have donated to the Ride4Reason fundraiser and have endured reading these ramblings. But, That’s All Folks! (for now). xoxox

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