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segadores-y-soldados · 8 years ago

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Reaper: References

Alright so that “The game’s in the refrigerator” full audio came back around on my dash and I realized that not everyone probably recognizes Reaper’s references, so I figured I’d make this post to help pool sources and quotes, and also as a potential resource guide in the future.

Lots more under the cut!

A little bit of context

So as most Reaper/Gabriel Reyes fans know, Gabriel is from Los Angeles, California. Los Angeles is the second-most-populated city in the United States (second only to New York City). When the Spanish came, they founded a mission in the region named “Mission San Gabriel Arcángel” (wink wink) for the Archangel Gabriel, messenger of God. For those of you unaware, the original route connecting for the 21 Californian Missions is called “El Camino Real,” or “The Way of Kings”/ “The Royal Way” - whether intentional or not, Gabriel’s last name of “Reyes” means “Kings” in Spanish. The route is now historic and marked with bells that denote the way.

There are two major “valleys” in California - the Great Valley or Central Valley which spans the majority of the state, and is where the majority of California’s agriculture is grown, and the San Fernando Valley, which is the smaller valley where Los Angeles is located. Californians can refer to either as simply “The Valley,” but more often than not when someone says they “went to the Valley,” or are “heading to the Valley,” they are referring to the San Fernando Valley. Among American pop culture, “going to the Valley” is often a reference to someone heading to Los Angeles or Hollywood to try and become famous.

Lastly, Blizzard’s headquarters are located in Irvine, California, which is one smaller cities that make up the “Los Angeles metropolitan area.” This is cheekily referenced in the Numbani map, where a flight from “Irvine, CA” is listed as “delayed” on the Airport’s board. Meanwhile, the Los Angeles flight is still “on time” on the map’s flight board.

Gabriel’s first reference to his ties to L.A. is on the Hollywood map, where he will say the line “Home sweet home” occasionally.

The Los Angeles Lakers

It’s not surprising then that Gabriel is a fan of the Lakers, one of Los Angeles’ two professional NBA basketball teams. The Lakers have been known to be a strong team for some time (although we can nitpicks over fluctuations in their status), and regardless of how someone might feel about them (...like me), the team has produced some of the greatest players and basketball games in the sport’s history.

Second Reference: “The game’s in the refrigerator.”

The full line is: “The game's in the refrigerator: the door’s closed, the lights out, the eggs are cooling, the butter's getting hard, and the Jell-O's jigglin'!” (note that this is Reaper’s exact line). This is a nearly dead-on word-for-word quote from a LA Lakers’ commentator, Chick Hearn, who was known for his unique phrases.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chick_Hearn

You can watch the original quote here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XVi98BZ2OwA (against the Sacramento Kings!)

The meaning of the phrase is basically that “the game is pretty much over, we pretty much know who won.”

What’s fucking HILARIOUS about this is that by the time the “game” of Overwatch takes place (roughly 2076-2078) the line is almost NINETY YEARS OLD. Reaper is making a fucking sports reference that, for him, occurred almost a century ago.

BUT THAT’S NOT ALL.

Third reference (that may not be finalized): “Kobe, eat your heart out.”

https://clyp.it/y34uzzv0?token=d18fc817b96d0f98c6fd8b1e461a28a7

About 7 months ago, a user on reddit pulled a bunch of then-unused audio lines from the game ( https://www.reddit.com/r/Overwatch/comments/4sz7o8/i_extracted_some_of_the_audio_files_from_the/ ). Some of them have been used (the Halloween and CNY lines). Reaper, Lúcio, and Reinhardt have basketball reference audio lines that may or may not make to the game (March Madness event, maybe?). Reaper’s line is a reference to one of the greatest basketball players of all time, Kobe Bryant, who just retired in 2016. Kobe spent all 20 years of his professional basketball career on the Lakers and among most Americans is simply referred to as “Kobe.” A fairly popular “slang term” among Californians (and other Americans) is to say the phrase “Kobe!” when taking a shot - at the hoop, at the trashcan, at...anything really. The slang version was first popularized by Dave Chapelle, an American comedian.

http://full-lifeconsequences.tumblr.com/post/152446878702

Here, the McElroy Brothers demonstrate how the term is supposed to be used.

...It does not guarantee skill.

Sports, sports, sports!

And this is the one that got me thinkin’ about writing this, because I have yet to see ANYONE talk about this:

Fourth reference: “Welcome to the black hole.” / “Welcome to the Black Hole.”

I’ve offered an alternate version where the words “black hole” are capitalized because the phrase is almost certainly another sports reference.

Another Californian sports reference.

https://youtu.be/X_2hsVvBPS8?t=391 (time 6:30 - I haven’t actually heard him say this in-game tbh)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l8rdZ8wBsr4

The most diehard, intense fans of the Oakland Raiders have been called “The Black Hole” for sometime now, due to the fact that they dress in the team’s dominant color of black, accented with silver and/or grey. These are the primary colors Reaper dresses in as well. The phrase “Welcome to the Black Hole” is used by these fans as, well, a greeting or a statement.

Oakland is pretty damn far from Los Angeles, but the LA Rams are...not as notorious as the Oakland Raiders. Oakland is far closer to San Francisco in Northern California (on the other side of the San Francisco Bay). It has quite the reputation in the U.S. for being a “rough city,” but recently there’s been quite a bit of changes in the area (the gentrification of Oakland and SF Bay as a whole is really not the point of this post). The Raiders’ entire aesthetic matches Reaper’s to a tee.

Which comes to the next one:

Fifth Reference: “Just win, baby!”

“Just win, baby!” was the catchphrase of one of the most well-known Raiders’ coach Al Davis, who led the team to a era of success in the 60’s and 70’s. This makes the quote literally over a century old for Reaper (dude’s a nerd, I’m telling you).

“Under Davis' management, the Raiders became one of the most successful teams in professional sports. His motto for the team was "Just win, baby."[1] Davis was active in civil rights, refusing to allow the Raiders to play in any city where black and white players had to stay in separate hotels. He was the first NFL owner to hire an African American head coach and a female chief executive. He was also the second NFL owner to hire a Latino head coach. He remains the only executive in NFL history to be an assistant coach, head coach, general manager, commissioner, and owner.” - Wikipedia on Al Davis

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0RAlrzcdfRY

The Raiders are unfortunately currently in the process of trying to move to Las Vegas, Nevada unless the city of Oakland can meet the team’s requirements for staying.

Lights, camera, action

And just to round out the group, I’m gonna cover all my bases and get the easier ones out of the way too.

Sixth Reference: “I’m back in black.”

I kinda assume most people are familiar with this one, but in case you are not, this is a reference to the song “Back in Black” by AC/DC.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pAgnJDJN4VA

(God damn, what a fucking good song)

Another song titled “Hell’s Bells” also came from the same album (“Back in Black”) as the song “Back in Black”...yeah it gets a little confusing at times. The album “art” is easily among the most iconic albums of all time for both its drama and its simplicity:

https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/92/ACDC_Back_in_Black.png

Seventh Reference: “If it lives, I can kill it.”

This one is a reference to Arnold Schwarzenegger's line “If it bleeds, we can kill it.” from the movie Predator.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNr0WXQ3Ho4

Notably, Schwarzenegger is one of the more recent “Hollywood movie stars” to have become a prominent Californian politician. (Also notably, the Soldier: 76 skin “Commando” is another reference to another Schwarzenegger film “Commando” - aka the original “Taken”.)

Eighth Reference: Death Blossom

This one was new to me too!

https://www.reddit.com/r/Overwatch/comments/5ufces/til_death_blossom_is_in_fact_an_actual_military/ddtjbzy/

“Death Blossom” is a reference from the movie “The Last Starfighter” as a “last-minute surprise attack” where all enemies are obliterated in a “guns-blazing” “death spin.”

https://youtu.be/nmPGuMGs8cg?t=125 (time: 2:05)

(Seriously, please watch the link, I’m begging you)

The term has been picked up by American military members as a reference to surprise attacks where someone goes in “guns-blazing” as a final-resort attack.

Ninth Reference: “I’m not a psychopath - I’m a high-functioning psychopath.”

Finally - a reference that isn’t already thirty to forty years old. This one comes from the BBC series “Sherlock,” in which the modern version of Sherlock Holmes says as a retort to accusations that he’s a “crazy psychopath”: “I’m not a psychopath - I’m a high-functioning sociopath.” (I believe modern psychology does not differentiate between the two anymore, although really, neither term is particularly medical or scholarly.)

Reaper’s turn-of-phrasing on this one is meant to be cheeky and sarcastic: he’s correcting people by pointing out that he’s not “not just a psychopath” but an “ultra, high-functioning psychopath.” Interestingly, there’s a concept among the modern theories of psychopathy that there are “successful psychopaths” - people who have low empathy abilities, exhibit ruthless behaviors, and may manipulate others to get what they want, but typically have the social skills to stay out of jail for any crimes they may (or may not) commit. The hypothesis argues that many CEOs, politicians, lawyers, etc. are possibly “successful psychopaths” who channel their behaviors into economic or social successes.

http://www.psychologicalscience.org/news/were-only-human/psychopath-successful-psychopath.html

“They found that fearless dominance was significantly associated with overall presidential performance, leadership, public persuasiveness, communication ability and willingness to take risks. Scientists have examined the relation between fearless dominance and “everyday heroism”—that is, altruism entailing social or physical risk, like administering CPR to a stranger in need. Fearless dominance was associated with such everyday heroism, and it was also associated with early wartime heroism among U.S. presidents.

“So are psychopaths and heroes simply “twigs from the same branch”? Perhaps, although the successful psychopath remains something of a scientific enigma. This provisional evidence points to some tantalizing possibilities, but we still do not know for sure why one person with pronounced psychopathic traits ends up as a habitual and cold-blooded criminal, while another ends up as the prototype for Agent 007.”

(Please note that this is not an academic, scholarly, or medical piece - merely a conversation-starter)

And last but not least:

Keith Ferguson, Reaper’s American voice actor, was born and continues to live in Los Angeles.

http://thebageltron.tumblr.com/post/145037436303/i-still-cant-believe-reaper-and-bloo-share-the

So the real question we need to be asking Blizzard is:

WHEN WILL REAPER GET A “It’s hot in Topeka” LINE.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L_IlsPypwZs

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cliffordbradshawcharleykringas · 3 years ago

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beetlejuice moments that make me laugh every single time (mostly dialogue)

“how YOU doin’? woah, not good! adadoodoodeedadoo da da!”

“if you die during today’s performance the show will not stop :-)”

“apart from frustration pain and financial drain it’s fun !!!”

“look at these jugs!” (beetlejuice turns around and then looks disappointed)

the little dance they do during “what’s the point of having children if we’re drowning in debt”

“maybe 80%” “i’d say 78”

“sometimes puppet shows are sad”

“i mean say we are…dead…that’s…that’s bad, obviously-“

“ghost zombie jesuuuuuus”

“you don’t recognize me. i’m your father.” “…dad?”

the face barbara makes when beetlejuice gives her the femur

“we. are. invisible.” (spank)

“mmmmmmmYYYyyess, there’s Very Good Energy In Here”

“he’s my white whale” “i don’t see race <3”

“oh god delia. you erotic astronaut”

“you said ‘stop being so we-eird, i need this job’”

“knock knock! who’s there? happiness-!” “NO”

“it’s just a figure of speech jesus christ adam why you gotta be so sexy”

“whose head is that???” “..i don’t know..”

beetlejuice air-drumming during the first chorus of fright of their lives

“dolly levi, matchmaker!”

the backup singers in fright of their lives’s entrance AND exit

barbara and adam’s little dance after they say “let’s hide their phones!”

“fuck brigadoon”

“see you in hell! bah! i’m gone!”

“hey guys..? fuck you guys”

“let’s…haunt this biiiiitch”

whatever barbara is doing during adam’s “if we wanna win back our home” part

delia dab

“it says i’m warm, i’m friendly, and i think about death only a normal amount.”

“LYDIA NO GIMME THAT! smash.”

“what’re they saying?” “buy more crystals”

“and you have to buy a cat cause that’s your last chance to have a family”

“we used to make these haunted houses in the garage, but in the summer, so no one was expecting it”

“adam that’s not why she doesn’t like it here” “i know but it’s not helping”

third leg

“she’s always like get a job, why is your hair purple, i should have left like your father”

adam and barbara possession song and dance

“fool your friends! fun at parties! i did iiiiit”

“i was kicked in the head by a dressage horse!”

“as my guru otho always says, DAYYYYYYY-O.”

“on behalf of delia and myself, i’d just like to say WORK ALL NIGHT ON A DRINK OF RUM”

“barbara, the pig!” “who wants bacon?!” “no! stop! i’m a vegan!”

“hello! i’m from the u.s. census bureau, time for a few Oh My God!”

“if i were alive i could get out of this house, meet my kind of people. yknow socially liberal but fiscally conservative.”

“what, where’d i lose ya? oh, it’s not a real marriage. it’s like a green card thing! yeah, strictly business.”

“who are we decapitating?” “beetlejuice.” “you should! he’d love that”

“hate is a strong word, but i…do not like him!”

“woah…! this is such an interesting font!”

“a spin your own yarn kit?!?” “okay, that was not as much fun as i thought it would be”

“break it.” “*gasp*”

“you have a big brain.” “you make it big.”

“and the age gap is upsetting :D”

“👏did 👏you 👏e👏ven 👏read 👏the 👏hand👏book. 👏what 👏else 👏do 👏you 👏have 👏to 👏DO mami? you’re dead!”

“Nietzsche was right you know, to live is to suffer, bro!”

juno “running” with the walker

“your mother knew this was going to happen.. i mean not this, i don’t think anyone could have predicted this-“

“i hid it in case that dancing football player found me. he was so fast! so much poise!”

“what’s wrong sugar lumps? did you think i wasn’t coming back?” “i mean you literally jumped into hell to get away from me”

“mr. juice.”

(i’m listing this as three separate jokes)

“NOW HOLD ON ONE DAMN MINUTE.”

“MISTER beetlejuice. since we met, you have PINCHED ME, GROPED ME, and HARASSED ME, sir.”

“and i wanna tell you in front of all these people, that it! has! worked.” (skeletons gasp) “i want you, beetlejuice.” (unbuttons collar)

“saggy old asses”

“i found me a wife. l’chaim. to life.”

“i was ignored, but now i’m adored! ‘cause i extorted, tortured, and lied! give it up for my underage briiiiiide!”

“i can’t believe some cultures think this kind of thing’s alright :/“

“YOU.” (BWAMMMMMM)

every “this guy knows what i’m talking about” but especially the last one

“yeah i’m a part of this too i don’t get it but i’m a part of it!!!”

“well look at you! all ganging up against the mean lady from hell!”

“check it out lydia! now we both got dead moms!”

“delilah.” “delia.” “we didn’t hang out much. charles-“

“TELLLLL MYYYY STOOOORYYYY”

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice the musical #bjtm #beetlejuice musical #beetlejuice broadway #if i left out something iconic. apologies.#this is one nerd's humble opinions #posts i wrote

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spilledreality · 4 years ago

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Sporting vs Herding

I wanna talk about two blogposts, Seph's "War Over Being Nice” and Alastair's "Of Triggering & the Triggered." Each lays out the same erisological idea: that there are two distinct modes or cultures of running discourse these days, and understanding the difference is crucial to understanding the content of conversation as much as its form. Let's go.

One style, Alastair writes, is indebted to the Greco-Roman rhetorical and 19th C British sporting traditions. A debate takes place in a "heterotopic" arena which is governed by an ethos of adversarial collaboration and sportsmanship. It is waged in a detached and impersonal manner, e.g. in American debate club, which inherits from these older traditions, you are assigned a side to argue; your position is not some "authentic" expression of self. Alastair:

This form of discourse typically involves a degree of ‘heterotopy’, occurring in a ‘space’ distinct from that of personal interactions.

This heterotopic space is characterized by a sort of playfulness, ritual combativeness, and histrionics. This ‘space’ is akin to that of the playing field, upon which opposing teams give their rivals no quarter, but which is held distinct to some degree from relations between the parties that exist off the field. The handshake between competitors as they leave the field is a typical sign of this demarcation.

All in all, it is a mark against one in these debates to take an argument personally, to allow arguments that happen "in the arena" to leave the arena. This mode of discourse I see exemplified in LessWrong culture, and is, I think, one of the primary attractors to the site.In the second mode of discourse, inoffensiveness, agreement, and inclusivity are emphasized, and positions are seen as closely associated with their proponents. Alastair speculates it originates in an educational setting which values cooperation, empathy, equality, non-competitiveness, affirmation, and subordination; this may be true, but I feel less confident in it than I am the larger claim about discursive modes. Provocatively, the two modes are dubbed "sporting" and "herding," with all the implications of, on the one hand, individual agents engaged in ritualized, healthy simulations of combat, and on the other, of quasi-non-agents shepherded in a coordinated, bounded, highly constrained and circumscribed epistemic landscape. Recall, if you are tempted to blame this all on the postmodernists, that this is exactly the opposite of their emphasis toward the "adult" realities of relativism, nebulosity, flux. Queer Theory has long advocated for the dissolution of gendered and racial identity, not the reification of identitarian handles we see now, which is QT's bastardization. We might believe these positions were taken too far, but they are ultimately about complicating the world and removing the structuralist comforts of certainty and dichotomy. (Structureless worlds are inherently hostile to rear children in, and also for most human life; see also the Kegan stages for a similar idea.)

In the erisological vein, Alastair provides a portrait of the collision between the sporting and herding modes. Arguments that fly in one discursive style (taking offence, emotional injury, legitimation-by-feeling) absolutely do not fly in the other:

When these two forms of discourse collide they are frequently unable to understand each other and tend to bring out the worst in each other. The first [new, sensitive] form of discourse seems lacking in rationality and ideological challenge to the second; the second [old, sporting] can appear cruel and devoid of sensitivity to the first. To those accustomed to the second mode of discourse, the cries of protest at supposedly offensive statements may appear to be little more than a dirty and underhand ploy intentionally adopted to derail the discussion by those whose ideological position can’t sustain critical challenge.

ii.

Seph stumbles upon a similar division, though it is less about discursive and argumentative modes, and more about social norms for emotional regulation and responsibility. He calls them Culture A and Culture B, mirroring sporting and herding styles, respectively.

In culture A, everyone is responsible for their own feelings. People say mean stuff all the time—teasing and jostling each other for fun and to get a rise. Occasionally someone gets upset. When that happens, there's usually no repercussions for the perpetrator. If someone gets consistently upset when the same topic is brought up, they will either eventually stop getting upset or the people around them will learn to avoid that topic. Verbally expressing anger at someone is tolerated. It is better to be honest than polite.

In such a culture, respect and status typically comes from performance; Seph quotes the maxim "If you can't sell shit, you are shit." We can see a commonality with sporting in that there is some shared goal which is attained specifically through adversarial play, such that some degree of interpersonal hostility is tolerated or even sought. Conflict is settled openly and explicitly.

In culture B, everyone is responsible for the feelings of others. At social gatherings everyone should feel safe and comfortable. After all, part of the point of having a community is to collectively care for the emotional wellbeing of the community's members. For this reason its seen as an act of violence against the community for your actions or speech to result in someone becoming upset, or if you make people feel uncomfortable or anxious. This comes with strong repercussions—the perpetrator is expected to make things right. An apology isn't necessarily good enough here—to heal the wound, the perpetrator needs to make group participants once again feel nurtured and safe in the group. If they don't do that, they are a toxic element to the group's cohesion and may no longer be welcome in the group. It is better to be polite than honest. As the saying goes, if you can't say something nice, it is better to say nothing at all.

In such a culture, status and respect come from your contribution to group cohesion and safety; Seph cites the maxim "Be someone your coworkers enjoy working with." But Seph's argument pushes back, fruitfully, on descriptions of Culture B as collaborative (which involve high self-assertion); rather, he writes, they are accommodating in the Thomas-Kilmann modes of conflict sense:

iii.

Seph and Alastair both gesture toward the way these modes feel gendered, with Culture A more "masculinized" and Culture B more "feminized."[1] While this seems important to note, given that a massive, historically unprecedented labor shift toward coed co-working has recently occured in the Western world, I don't see much point in hashing out a nature vs. nurture, gender essentialism debate here, so you can pick your side and project it. This is also perhaps interesting from the frame of American feminist history: early waves of feminism were very much about escaping the domestic sphere and entering the public sphere; there is an argument to be made that contemporary feminisms, now that they have successfully entered it, are dedicated to domesticating the public sphere into a more comfortable zone. Culture B, for instance, might well be wholly appropriate to the social setting of a living room, among acquaintances who don't know each other well; indeed, it feels much like the kind of aristocratic parlor culture of the same 19th C Britain that the sporting mode also thrived in, side-by-side. And to some extent, Culture A is often what gets called toxic masculinity; see Mad Men for a depiction.

(On the topic of domestication of the workplace: We've seen an increased blurring of the work-life separation; the mantra "lean-in" has been outcompeted by "decrease office hostility"; business attire has slid into informality, etiquette has been subsumed into ethics, dogs are allowed in the workplace. Obviously these changes are not driven by women's entrance into the workplace alone; the tech sector has had an enormous role in killing both business attire and the home-office divide, despite being almost entirely male in composition. And equally obvious, there is an enormous amount of inter- and intra-business competition in tech, which is both consistently cited by exiting employees as a hostile work environment, and has also managed to drive an outsized portion of global innovation the past few decades—thus cultural domestication is not at all perfectly correlated with a switch from Culture A to B. Draw from these speculations what you will.)

There are other origins for the kind of distinctions Seph and Alastair draw; one worthwhile comparison might be Nietzsche's master and slave moralities. The former mode emphasizes power and achievement, the other empathy, cooperation, and compassion. (Capitalism and communitarianism fall under some of the same, higher-level ideological patterns.) There are differences of course: the master moralist is "beyond" good and evil, or suffering and flourishing, whereas Culture A and B might both see themselves as dealing with questions of suffering but in very different ways. But the "slave revolt in morality" overwrote an aristocratic detachment or "aboveness" that we today might see as deeply immoral or inhuman; it is neither surprising nor damning that a revolting proletariat—the class which suffered most of the evils of the world—would speak from a place of one-to-one, attached self-advocacy. One can switch "sides" or "baskets" of the arena each half or quarter because they are impersonal targets in a public commons; one cannot so easily hold the same attitude toward defending one's home. This alone may indicate we should be more sympathetic to the communitarian mode than we might be inclined to be; certainly, those who advocate and embody this mode make plausible claims to being a similar, embattled and embittered class. A friend who I discussed these texts with argued that one failure mode of the rationalist community is an "unmooring" from the real concerns of human beings, slipping into an idealized, logical world modeled on self-similarity (i.e. highly Culture A, thinking over feeling in the Big 5 vocabulary), in a way that is blind to the realities of the larger population.

But there are also grave problems for such a discursive mode, especially when it becomes dominant. Because while on the surface, discursive battles in the sporting mode can appear to be battles between people, they are in reality battles between ideas.

iv.

As Mill argued in On Liberty, free discourse is crucial because it acts as a social steering mechanism: should we make a mistake in our course, freedom of discourse is the instrument for correcting it. But the mistake of losing free discourse is very hard to come back from; it must be fought for again, before other ideals can be pursued.

Moreover, freedom of discourse is the means of rigorizing ideas before they are implemented, such as to avoid catastrophe. Anyone familiar with James Scott's Seeing Like A State, or Hayek's arguments for decentralized market intelligence, or a million other arguments against overhaulism, knows how difficult it is to engineer a social intervention that works as intended: the unforeseen, second-order effects; our inability to model complex systems and human psychology. Good intent is not remotely enough, and the herding approach cannot help but lower the standard of thinking and discourse emerging from such communities, which become more demographically powerful even as their ideas become worse (the two are tied up inextricably).

The fear of conflict and the inability to deal with disagreement lies at the heart of sensitivity-driven discourses. However, ideological conflict is the crucible of the sharpest thought. Ideological conflict forces our arguments to undergo a rigorous and ruthless process through which bad arguments are broken down, good arguments are honed and developed, and the relative strengths and weaknesses of different positions emerge. The best thinking emerges from contexts where interlocutors mercilessly probe and attack our arguments’ weaknesses and our own weaknesses as their defenders. They expose the blindspots in our vision, the cracks in our theories, the inconsistencies in our logic, the inaptness of our framing, the problems in our rhetoric. We are constantly forced to return to the drawing board, to produce better arguments.

And on the strength of sporting approaches in rigorizing discourse:

The truth is not located in the single voice, but emerges from the conversation as a whole. Within this form of heterotopic discourse, one can play devil’s advocate, have one’s tongue in one’s cheek, purposefully overstate one’s case, or attack positions that one agrees with. The point of the discourse is to expose the strengths and weaknesses of various positions through rigorous challenge, not to provide a balanced position in a single monologue

Thus those who wish us to accept their conceptual carvings or political advocacies without question or challenge are avoiding short-term emotional discomfort at the price of their own long-term flourishing, at the cost of finding working and stable social solutions to problems. Standpoint epistemology correctly holds that individuals possess privileged knowledge as to what it's like (in the Nagel sense) to hold their social identities. But it is often wrongly extended, in the popular game of informational corruption called "Telephone" or "Chinese Whispers," as arguing that such individuals also possess unassailable and unchallengeable insight into the proper societal solutions to their grievances. We can imagine a patient walking into the doctor's office; the doctor cannot plausibly tell him there is no pain in his leg, if he claims there is, but the same doctor can recommend treatment, or provide evidence as to whether the pain is physical or psychosomatic.A lack of discursive rigour would not be a problem, Alastair writes, "were it not for the fact that these groups frequently expect us to fly in a society formed according to their ideas, ideas that never received any rigorous stress testing."

As for myself, it was not too long ago I graduated from a university in which a conflict between these modes is ongoing. We had a required course called

Contemporary Civilization

, founded in the wake of World War I, which focused on the last 2,000 years of philosophy, seminar-style: a little bit of introductory lecture, but most of the 2 x 2-hour sessions each week were filled by students arguing with one other. In other words, its founding ethos was of sporting and adversarial collaboration.We also had a number of breakdowns where several students simply could not handle this mode: they would begin crying, or say they couldn't deal with the [insert atmosphere adjective] in the room, and would either transfer out or speak to the professor. While they were not largely representative, they required catering to, and no one wished to upset these students. I have heard we were a fortunate class insofar as we had a small handful of students willing to engage sporting-style, or skeptical a priori of the dominant political ideology at the school. When, in one session, a socialist son of a Saudi billionaire, wearing a $10,000 watch and a camel-hair cashmere sweater, pontificated about "burning the money, reverting to a barter system, and killing the bosses," folks in class would mention that true barter systems were virtually unprecedented in post-agricultural societies, and basically unworkable at scale. In other classes, though, when arguments like these were made—which, taken literally, are logically irrational, but instead justify themselves through sentiment, a legitimation of driving emotion rather than explicit content, in the Culture B sense—other students apparently nodded sagely from the back of the room, "yes, and-ing" one another til their noses ran. Well, I wanted to lay out the styles with some neutrality, but I suppose it's clear now where my sympathies stand.

[1] It should go without saying, but to cover my bases, these modes feeling "feminized" or "masculinized" does not imply that all women, or women inherently, engage in one mode while all men inherently engage in another. Seph cites Camille Paglia as an archetypal example of a Culture A woman, and while she may fall to the extreme side of the Culture A mode, I'd argue most female intellectuals of the 20th C (at least those operated outside the sphere of feminist discourse) were strongly sporting-types: Sontag, for instance, was vociferous and unrelenting.

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whatnotmemes · 5 years ago

Text

————————BEETLEJUICE THE MUSICAL SENTENCE STARTERS PT. 2 change as needed. mentions of death, suicide, and comedic references to, well, creepy old guys.

Girl Scout “This is it- the day I've been waiting for.” “I’m gonna sell some cookies.” “It's not their fault that they're overprotective.” “My heart is defective.” “They'd have my back if anything went wrong with me.” “When you're a Girl Scout, everything's gonna work out.” “Just gonna ring the bell of this creepy looking house.” “Hello, little girl.” “I'm here today to support the Girl Scouts by selling cookies.” “Why don’t you come inside?” “No one gets molested by a gothy teen.” “It’s so dark in here.” “Maybe I should come back another time when your parents are home?”

That Beautiful Sound “Do you hear that sound?” “The sound of a scream is music to me.” “Ain't it the sweetest noise around?” “Someone’s at the door.” “You wanna answer it this time?” “Don't oversell it, act natural.” “Come on, you're giving me advice?” “I don't live here, I'm dead.” “It fills you with pride.” “We’re ruining lives.” “You know what would make all this even more awesome?” “All we wanna do is hear that sound.” “Let’s make some more people scream!” “You know overnight delivery costs extra?” “Holy moly, a lot of people come to this house.” “New neighbors? I brought you a pie.” “No more condescending adults hanging around.” “Look at me. I’m finally free.” “You’re finally free.” “I was invisible but now they all see.”

Barbara 2.0 “Look at this stuff. God, it's depressing.” “You don't like this stuff?” “Well, then maybe we should go.” “It's the stuff of our lives and all of it's shit.” “Okay, that... wasn't as much fun as I thought it'd be...” “We are not kombucha people.” “Take it and trash it. Burn it or smash it.” “We can be fighters with fire inside us.” “We're finally alive!” “The _____ you married, she Is dead and buried six feet below.” “Say hello to _____ 2.0!” “I never even used this...but then I felt bad that I never used it.” “I think I've been hiding.” “We've got nothing to lose. We can finally begin!” “The new _____ is wiser.” “We could just walk but we've done that before.” “What we cannot ignore is _____ needs us.” “She needs people who won't run away.” “Time to let go.”

What I Know Now “I went to parties a lot.” “But I was depressed.” “I had such low self-esteem. I was a mess.” “I gave it all up for the netherworld.” “I've been here forever, girl.” “I would've stuck it out, knowing what life's about.” “Everyone here is alone.” “If you are breathing, go home.” “If I knew then what I know now I would have looked within and let love in somehow.” “If I only knew the truth back then I wouldn't have had my little ‘accident’.” “You left your whole life behind.” “Death is final and you cannot press rewind.” “Nietzsche was right, y'know, to live is to suffer, bro.” “Don't cheat on the one you wed.” “Why did it take death to see happiness was up to me?” “I thought I knew but I was wrong.” “Life is short but death is super long.” “Before they lower the curtain, be certain to enjoy the show.” “If I only knew what I know now!”

Home “Tired of talking to myself here.” “Here I am in the abyss.” “Are you really in this place?” “I could search for all eternity and never see your face.” “I'm lost without you.” “No idea which way to go.” “Whichever path I choose I lose, you know.” “I don't know which way's home.” “You always saw life as a game but since you left, it sucks to play.” “Where to next?” “Terrified of letting you go.” “Speak to me and I'll understand.” “Is this the end you meant for me?” “There's no home without you in it.” “I've burned all my bridges and came.” “I don't wanna forget you.” “I promise I'm never gonna forget you.” “I'm gonna go back home.” “It's messy but they're all that I have.” “I'll make the best of being flesh and bone.”

Creepy Old Guy “Everywhere, fellas would stare out on the street.” “I felt used, kinda confused.” “I would refuse to look in their eyes.” “I really love creepy old guys!“ “Hey, baby, smile!” “They make me blush.” “Now one of them loves me, wants to be mine.” “I’m marrying my own creepy old guy.” “I’m so happy I could cry.” “Girls may seem disgusted, but we’re actually just shy!” “I am older, but I’m glad I waited.” “Get him prepared for Armageddon.” “Sure, the groom crawled out of a tomb, but hey, it’s a wedding.” “Have you guys seen Lolita? This is just like that, but fine.” “Our faith has been renewed, now love is alive!” “I wanna see a tear in every eye as I pass by.” “I know that on the outside he’s disgusting... and even on the inside, he’s disgusting.” “OMG, dressed to a T. Fancy and formal.” “I found me a wife. L'chaim! To life!” “This is so normal!” “I was ignored but now, I’m adored.” “I can’t believe some cultures think this kind of thing’s alright.” “Doesn’t he deserve a chance at life?” “I have chills.”

Jump In The Line “I tell you, friends, I adore her.” “When she dances, oh brother.” “She’s a hurricane in all kinds of weather.” “Okay, I believe you.” “Doesn’t this just blow your mind?” “I was on a mission.” “This is what I left behind.” “I’ll miss you every day.” “Seek a little strange and unusual and you will find life, beyond all comprehension.” “A little unconventional, I know.” “I’m home!”

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innuendostudios · 6 years ago

Video

youtube

A small supplement to Always a Bigger Fish, The Origins of Conservatism. If we’re going to claim conservatism is fundamentally about preserving social hierarchies and defending the powerful from democratic principles, we need to talk about where conservatism comes from, going all the back to the late 18th Century. From there we take an extremely truncated traipse through conservative thought throughout the ages.

Keep this series coming out by backing me on Patreon.

Transcript below the cut.

I have suspicions that some of the claims I make in Always a Bigger Fish - that conservatism isn’t, at its core, about fiscal responsibility, limited government, or the rights of the individual, but is about maintaining social hierarchies, that it believes people are fundamentally unequal and likes the free market because it sorts people according to their worth, and even softly implies capitalism itself may be innately anti-democratic - might, ah, raise some eyebrows? So I’m gonna show my work on this one.

Two of the architects of conservative thought were Edmund Burke and Joseph de Maistre, who formulated much of their political theory while writing about the French Revolution. They, in turn, were influenced by earlier writings from Thomas Hobbes on the English Civil War. And what all three of these men were doing in writing about these wars was defending the monarchy. The sentiment that the masses should be powerless in the face of nobility was being challenged, and, while these men thought the revolutionaries themselves actually quite compelling, the democracy they were fighting for Hobbes, Burke, and de Maistre found repulsive.

Come the end of the Revolution, when it seemed democracy might actually spread across Europe, Burke, especially, began to hypothesize ways that one’s position within the aristocracy might be preserved even should the monarchy fall. He turned his eye to the market.

So, OK, round the cusp of the 19th century, the prevailing economic theories were those of Adam Smith, who championed what’s called the Labor Theory of Value, which I don’t super wanna get into because there’s like a billion videos about it already, but really briefly: if you take materials out of the ground and turn them into useful goods, it is that labor that makes the good more valuable than the raw material, and when someone buys that good, they cover the cost of materials plus the value your labor has added to them. In contrast, what Burke argued was… well, a lot of nebulous things, but, among them, that, in actuality, when a person of means buys a good, that, rather than the moment the good is produced, is when value is bestowed upon it. Value is not dictated by the producer, but by the consumer.

Now there’s like two centuries of argument about this, we’re not gonna dig into it all, but, obviously, this is, in some sense, true: if the people with money don’t want to buy a good at a certain price, eventually the price will come down. So price is not solely dictated by labor. But what Burke does is claim that price and value are the same thing. No one ever gets cheated, no one ever gets a good deal, whatever the buyer pays for a thing, that’s what the thing is worth. Your labor is only as valuable as the degree to which it satisfies the desires of the moneyed classes.

This was Burke’s nod to the fact that, within capitalism, the wealthy held outsized influence - being that, the more money you had, the more value you could dictate - and he argued that this was moral. That the wealthy deserved this influence. (Burke was, by the way, wealthy. Sort of. He had a royal pension) What he felt the French Revolution revealed was not that oppressive nobility was bad, but that France must’ve just had the wrong nobles, because a proper aristocracy wouldn’t have been overthrown. The problem was, as we’ve discussed, not the hierarchy itself, but the wrong people being in power.

The Revolution had taught him that perhaps power should not come by birthright. Perhaps we needed a system whereby those deserving of power could prove their worth. This should, ideally, be war, but capitalism would suffice. The structure of royalty would continue to exist, simply derived by different means, because the structure of democracy, where, on election day, the nobleman has no more power than the commoner, was, to an aristocrat, profane. What the structure needed was some tinkering to make it democracy-proof.

So that’s Burke. Over the next century, democracy did, in fact, spread across Europe, and Burke’s - and several others’ - theories of value were picked up and iterated on in what came to be known as The Marginal Revolution by economists Carl Menger, Stanley Jevons, and this Valjean-looking motherfucker Leon Walras. Marginalism amped up the idea that it is a good’s utility to the consumer, and not the worker’s labor, that gives it value, which confers a unique power upon those with money, and brought this thinking into a post-monarchal world. Their theories became especially popular when people realized they could be used to rebut Marxism. Jevons was taught all over Europe, and Menger became core to the Austrian School.

And by the time we get to Austrians, this mass of theories has, somewhere after Burke and before Hayek, coagulated into what we know of today as “conservatism.” These are among the most influential thinkers in conservative thought, and they are in a direct lineage with Burke and de Maistre.

Now, while Burke is called “the father of modern conservatism,” these boys are not the alpha and omega of early conservative thought, but their ideas helped form the basis of conservatism and have never gone away. If you can point to some paradigm shift in the history of conservatism where the royalist sentiments of Edmund Burke and Joseph de Maistre were rooted out, I’d love to hear about it. Because I listen to the thinkers championed by conservatives throughout the ages, and I keep hearing the same thing: that humans are innately unequal and society flourishes when power is doled out to the deserving.

Friedrich Nietzsche was not a conservative but was deeply influential on the early Marginalists, and he claimed the purpose of society was to produce the handful of Great Men who created everything that made life worth living, believing, “Only the most intellectual of men have any right to beauty, to the beautiful; only in them can goodness escape being weakness."

James Fitzjames Stephen, who wrote a book-length rebuttal against early progressivism, believed, “[T]o obey a real superior, to submit to a real necessity and make the best of it in good part, is one of the most important of all virtues—a virtue absolutely essential to the attainment of anything great and lasting."

Hayek and Schumpeter believed, respectively, that “The freedom that will be used by only one man in a million may be more important to society and more beneficial to the majority than any freedom that we all use” and “[W]hat may be attained by industrial or commercial success is still the nearest approach to medieval lordship possible to modern man." (He’s saying that’s a good thing, by the way.)

Need I mention Ayn Rand’s belief that "The man at the top of the intellectual pyramid contributes the most to all those below him, but gets nothing except his material payment... The man at the bottom who, left to himself, would starve in his hopeless ineptitude, contributes nothing to those above him, but receives the bonus of all their brains."

The “godfather of neoconservatism,” Irving Kristol, echoing Burke’s yearning for a good war, felt the hierarchy should extend beyond the borders of a single country, believing, “What's the point of being the greatest, most powerful nation in the world and not having an imperial role?"

And modern conservatives love the “natural hierarchies” of Jordan Peterson, who believes “blblblblblblblblblb.”

We keep behaving as though conservatism’s disdain for equity isn’t there, or, if it is, that it’s new. But it’s been there since the beginning. Conservatism upholds the status quo and defends the powerful, first from democracy, then from communism, now from social justice. Conservatism has rallied every time a movement has tried to share power with the disadvantaged: They were against same-sex marriage, they were against giving women the vote, they were against freeing slaves (note I said conservatives, not Republicans; do your research.)

Conservatives say, “We are the party of measured steps, caution, of evolution over revolution,” and that’s usually just before they say, “But now, now is the time for swift, decisive action!” Most every Republican claims to be a break with tradition. “This time we’re gonna flip the script: bend the rules, outspend Democrats, invade your privacy, and start a war with no exit strategy.” And that’s what they’ve always said. All that changes is which continent the war is on. I’m not going to say the slow, stodgy conservative doesn’t exist, but it has never typified the Party. Rhetorically, it’s a character that they bring up to contrast themselves with whenever they need to rally their reactionary base. They tell us that’s what their Party is like, and we just take their word for it.

I don’t feel the need to pretend that, just because most democracies have a left wing and a right wing, that both are equally valid and moral. There is no rule that proves this. There is only the liberal sentiment that saying otherwise is poor sportsmanship (a standard the Right does not hold itself to). Conservatism is a reactionary politics that has, at best, mixed feelings about democracy, where my biggest issue with liberalism is that it is ill-equipped to deal with the problem of conservatism and does not fully commit to its own democratic principles.

I’m going into all of this not because I want to stick it to the people who insist I don’t research my videos - though I, a little bit, do - but because we can’t talk about the Alt-Right if we keep portraying them as a break with the conservative tradition. They are the conservative tradition, only more. There is nothing they believe that conservatives don’t have a long history of being sympathetic towards, they’re just usually more ambivalent about it. As I’ve said before, this is, ultimately, my interpretation of history, and, while many experts agree with me, I am not an expert. But I do my homework.

So, tell you what: I’ve made a post on Tumblr listing all the books, essays, and documentaries I’m consuming for this series - the ones I have lined up, the ones I’ve completed, and some notes on what I’ve found valuable in them. I’m going to treat this as a living document and add to it as the work continues. Not that the people who say I just make shit up ever read the show notes, but I will keep a link in the show notes of every video, so, if you want to check my work, or research alongside me, you can do that. I have also livetweeted several books, including the primary source for this and the previous video, The Reactionary Mind by Corey Robin, under the hashtag #IanLivetweetsHisResearch, so, if you want a play-by-play of an entire book complete with my own observations, that’s where you can find it. So far, in addition to Robin, I’ve done Bob Altemeyer’s The Authoritarians, Jason Stanley’s How Propaganda Works, and one weird essay on Lara Croft I read for the Fury Road video.

If you want to read more about the history of conservative philosophy, in addition to The Reactionary Mind, I recommend “No Law for the Lions and Many Laws for the Oxen is Liberty” by Elizabeth Sandifer, in the essay collection Neoreaction a Basilisk. (El recently got some grief from Nazis, so maybe consider buying her excellent book.)

Going forward, if anyone comments that I clearly don’t know anything about conservatism, I hope you will stand with me in not taking them too seriously unless they demonstrate having done at least some research, because I do mine.

#video essay #alt-right #the alt-right playbook

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skeletonscribbles · 6 years ago

Note

📂 📂 📂

hello my darling!! I know you’ve given me three but I wanna toss out just one longer little thing for you this time, ok? I’ll make up the other two to you somehow.

today I was thinking about how Richie and Eddie might have met if they’d gone to different colleges in the same area

and I imagined Richie somewhere sort of grassroots…liberal arts for sure, with a clear divide between people who talk about Nietzsche in the dining halls and people who laugh at the people who talk about Nietzsche in the dining halls (Richie is the latter). everyone’s on some kind of drug

versus Eddie’s somewhere more preppy. he’s a hardworking boy at a school that values hard work. he’s not always happy with it, but his mother Approves, so he stays.

there are a couple different colleges in this specific geographic area. one of the special benefits of attending college in this area is that there are classes you can take on other nearby campuses

so come second semester junior year, Eddie’s panicking about not fulfilling his arts pre-req yet, and his advisor’s like “look buddy. you need to calm down. take a class off-campus maybe. how about this one.” the guy chooses a course randomly from Richie’s college’s course catalog. it’s playwriting.

Eddie doesn’t know SHIT about playwriting.

his advisor signs him up anyway.

Eddie almost has a nervous breakdown taking the bus over to this other school. he’s never taken a class off campus before - what if these students are crazy? what if he gets lost? what if he gets laughed at

he does get lost, but he doesn’t get laughed at. he bumps into a really cool red-headed girl who so happens to be going to the same building as him, and they walk together.

once he’s settled and introductions are made, Eddie’s relieved to find that he’s not the only off-campus person in the class. there’s another kid from the nearby state school. his name is Ben, and he’s very friendly. Eddie sits with him

they learn on that first day that their capstone project for the class is going to be to collaborate with two other classes that run concurrent to their own class. they’re each going to write a play, and then the plays will be given to the Directing I and Acting II students to be produced properly

Eddie promptly forgets about that project, because it’s not happening for another two months

he finds, though, that he really likes playwriting. more than that: he’s GOOD at playwriting. it’s a place to put all of the stress and anxiety and general helplessness that consumes him on a regular basis…and it turns out that all of those things make for good, engaging plots and dialogue

Ben is his editing partner. Ben is also an excellent author. the two of them SHINE

and then before either of them know it it’s time to crank out that final project. Eddie’s nerves return immediately. working with other people is TERRIFYING.

Eddie is assigned to write a two-person scene - for one male actor and one female actor. he writes and scraps and writes and scraps…and finally decides to throw caution to the wind and write something based on the disaster of his first and only high school relationship; namely, how it helped him figure out that he was gay

after he submits it and Ben edits it, it’s passed along to his director. he has a meeting with them in lieu of class one Thursday. he’s fucking petrified (what if this person doesn’t LIKE what I WROTE holy FUCK)

Eddie walks into the blackbox ten minutes early. the other person is already there. it’s a boy, with blonde hair and an intense blue-eyed stare. Eddie is mortified.

the boy smiles, and the tension in the room disappears.

“I’m B-Bill Denbrough. I love your p-p-play…my friend Stan is so j-jealous I get to d-do it. He says it’s juh-just like an experience he huh-huh-had in high school.”

Eddie and Bill get along immediately! it’s like they’ve known each other forever. Eddie’s sure the play is in good hands, and is excited to meet the actors - which he gets to do during the next class meeting

and lo and behold, one of them is the redheaded girl that helped him find his way on that first day!

she introduces herself to Eddie as Beverly Marsh and he immediately develops the biggest friend crush known to man

and Ben’s eyes are so obviously on her from across the room, which Eddie’s going to make a point of teasing him about later, but he can’t do it now, because…

“Oh, look at you.”

Eddie takes one look at the male actor in his scene and remembers exactly why he was afraid of meeting new people…because right now he’s staring into the eyes of the most bizarre looking beanpole he’s ever seen and his heart is beating at a fucking machine gun pace and he’s forgotten his own name

“You’re Eddie? Jesus Christ. No wonder you wouldn’t tell me anything about him, Billiam. You knew I’d hop the bus and go snatch him up.”

Eddie is somewhat cognizant of how red his face is, but it’s like it’s happening to someone else. he’s frozen.

“B-beep beep, asshole. Eddie, th-this is Richie T-Tozier. I’ll handle him, d-don’t worry about him muh-misbehaving.”

“Hi,” Eddie manages softly, and Richie’s face lights up. Behind him, Bill is rolling his eyes, and Bev has a hand over her mouth.

“Cute, cute, CUTE.” Richie grabs Eddie’s hand and presses his lips to the back of it. “Hi Eds - like Big Bill said, I’m Richie. Some of my friends call me Rich, but you…you can most certainly call me later. Charmed to meet you, if I haven’t made that totally obvious by now. Remind me which bus is the one to your campu–”

he doesn’t finish his sentence because Bev elbows him in the stomach. it doesn’t matter, it’s too late. Eddie’s already head over fucking heels.

Eddie is now absolutely LIVING for playwriting class, pre-med shit be damned. having a crush is fucking exhilarating, and having a crush on Richie is a rush like no other

(although he gets the sense that Richie’s kind of just…a general flirt, and that he shouldn’t be getting his hopes up super high, but Eddie’s nothing if not kind of an emotional disaster, so he goes in on the hopes thing anyway)

he and Ben are even going so far as to regularly get lunch with Bill, Bev, Richie, and all of their friends after class!! the food at Eddie’s school is vastly superior (in his opinion), but the company makes it worth it

he meets Stan and Mike through those lunches - Mike is directing Ben’s scene, and Stan has a scene that he absolutely abhors, and they’re so FUNNY and interesting and Eddie can’t believe that this little group of amazing liberal arts nerds is being so nice to him

he kind of forgets that it’s going to end

and end it does. show week rolls around and Eddie’s quietly heartbroken. he’s never felt like he belonged anywhere before, and the fact that he only has a week left of belonging is fucking devastating

the performance is perfect, of course. Bill has worked wonders with Eddie’s little script - and Bev and Richie are SO talented. Richie’s on stage talking about liking boys and being true to who he is like he stepped out of Eddie’s high school memories and honestly it’s a little bit overwhelming and it’s really not Eddie’s fault that he sneaks out before the piece ends because how was he supposed to stay, in the face of that?

he cries behind the building for a while. he’s not sure how long he’s out there until he’s found but…he is eventually found.

“Oh, kid…Jesus. C’mere.”

and suddenly there are skinny arms pulling him up and wrapping around him and it’s just like the first time again - Eddie’s paralyzed

“I’m sorry, Richie,” he chokes into Richie’s shirt

Richie tilts Eddie’s head back and wipes the tears off of his face with his thumbs. Eddie shivers; Richie chuckles.

“You’ve got snot all over your face, Spaghetti Man.”

Eddie opens his mouth to exclaim in horror. Richie takes that opportunity to cover Eddie’s mouth with his own mouth.

Eddie pulls away immediately to resume exclaiming in horror.

“That’s fucking disgusting, Richie!”

Richie is full on cackling at this point. “You should see the look on your face, though! Oh, man…you want a re-do, huh?”

“Yes!” Eddie practically yells, and then freezes, because what the fuck did he just say

but Richie carries on like he fully expected that to be Eddie’s reaction.

“Then come to the after-party,” he says, and it’s easy; light. “Bring tissues. We’ll see where things go from there.”

Eddie does what he says, and is rewarded handsomely for it in the form of exchanging phone numbers with all of the new friends he’s made (he already had some numbers for rehearsal purposes, but it feels good to complete the set) and promptly being added into a horrifying 7 person group chat

he also gets the privilege of watching Ben and Bev’s flirting get progressively less awkward with every shot they take

and finally, finally, finally, he gets not only more kisses from Richie, but a promise: an assurance that Eddie’s the only one Richie’s ever wanted this badly, the only one Richie’s ever cared about this much. this is backed up by Bev, Bill, and Stan…and Eddie chooses to trust

so he still takes the bus over to that other college regularly, just…not for class anymore. now it’s for fooling around in sunlit fields, laughing into Richie’s chest as they sit curled into one another on Richie’s newly changed sheets (never mind that Eddie had to bribe him to change them)

and now sometimes Richie takes the bus, too - to make jokes about the “sweater tied over both shoulders types” that Eddie usually has class with, and more importantly, to kiss Eddie soundly while holding up a middle finger to those “sweater tied over both shoulders types”

they’ll be apart for the summer (Richie’s a CA kid, Eddie’s east coast), and that’s going to be tough - but Richie says it’ll be nothing to worry about, and smiles a shark-toothed smile

“Why?” Eddie asks, suspicious and hopeful.

“I signed up for your stats class at your campus next semester,” Richie tells him proudly, clicking through to the course selection page on his school profile and showing off his schedule.

Eddie is so surprised that he falls off of his own bed

(and it turns out to be the best math experience Eddie’s ever had)(but more importantly it leads to Richie discovering how much better the food is at Eddie’s school)(so group hangouts migrate over and Eddie ends up taking the bus way less)(which finally brings Eddie the peace AND the friendships he so richly deserves)

….(he buys his advisor a really nice gift basket at the end of senior year)

#it headcanons #imrichie #ily thank you i'm SORRY this turned into such a monster!#she's been rattling around my head all day :/#more of a mini-fic than a HC tbh #reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #reddie fanfic #ben hanscom #stanley uris #mike hanlon #bill denbrough #beverly marsh #the loser's club #it 2017 #it 2019 #stephen king's it #too many tags

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analogscum · 6 years ago

Text

HARD ROCK ZOMBIES (1985, d. Krishna Shah)

NOTE: I RECOMMEND WATCHING HARD ROCK ZOMBIES BEFORE READING THIS REVIEW IF YOU WANT TO AVOID SPOILERS!

Human ambition is a funny thing. It can lead to great triumphs, but also great tragedies. Without human ambition, we would not have rock n’ roll, the most vital of American art forms. On the other hand, human ambition also lead the Third Reich to exterminate more than six million Jews, Catholics, homosexuals, physically and mentally handicapped, and Romani people. How does this tie in to today’s film, Hard Rock Zombies? Well, for now, let’s just say that it is a testament to both sides of the coin of human ambition that the sickos who made Hard Rock Zombies said to themselves, we’re going to make Hard Rock Zombies…and then actually went out and made Hard Rock Zombies. I’m honestly not sure if I mean that as a compliment or not.

We open on two metalheads riding a T-Bird convertible down a winding desert road. Lo and behold, they stumble upon a buh-buh-buh-baaaaabe hitchhiking. What are they gonna do, NOT invite this bodacious blonde into their sweet ride? We now cut to a dwarf with an eyepatch and a troll dancing around with a guy holding a camera by a river. You read that right. The metalheads and the blonde pull up on the other side of the river, strip down to their skivvies, and do a little skinny dipping. Suddenly, she drowns each of them one by one! And also does something else, because the water turns blood red, but I have no idea what that could be. The camera guy takes pictures of this gristly scene, while the dwarf and the troll celebrate the carnage. They chop off one of the victims’ hands, blondie picks it up and sings “I wanna hold your hand.” Again, you read all of that right.

Cut to: our heroes, the band, whom the movie never bothers to name (seriously, this band has no name), rockin’ out before a sold out crowd. Right away, we’re confronted with the major problem of all of these 80s metal horror movies: these guys just do not sufficiently rock. I mean, they have a synth player, for cryin’ out loud! This was not too long after Van Halen risked losing their metal fanbase by adding synths to “Jump,” because synths were pop, and pop was for pussies. But seriously, these guys make Billy Joel sound like Napalm Death. Oh well, at least the crowd of roughly 12 people seems to be having a good time.

Backstage, the band strip down to their banana hammocks, and their manager, Ron, tells them that they have to have their photos taken with a bunch of groupies. None of the dudes in the band, especially the lead singer, Jesse, seem to want to do this. They’re incredibly ambivalent about potentially sleeping with these women. Which of course is par for the course for 80s metal bands. Most of Motley Crue’s autobiography, The Dirt, is about the dudes politely sipping Earl Grey tea and discussing Nietzsche. We soon get an idea as to why Jesse is not interested in all of these women who want to ride his mullet, and believe me, you’re not gonna like it.

As he’s escaping all of these annoying women who wanna show him their boobs, Jesse runs into Cassie. Now, the movie is not entirely clear on how old Cassie is supposed to be, but let’s just say she’s young. Like, teenage. Like, below the age of consent. She warns Jesse to stay out of the town of Grand Guignol (subtle), where the band is scheduled to play the next night. Jesse instantly falls in love with her, because this movie hates you, and we’re treated to white hot, sexually charged flirting such as this:

Jessie: You're neat.

Cassie: No, I'm not.

Jessie: Yeah, ya are.

Cassie: ...shakes head...

Jessie: Yeah, ya are.

Guys, it’s rare that I make a point of writing down dialogue in these movies that we talk about, but Hard Rock Zombies left me with no choice but to slam that pause button and record some of these lines, because holy macaroni, peep this screenwriting magic:

“I got it from a book. You know, a boooooooook?”

“You guys ready for the show? The loud show? Loud music show? Rock and roll?!?!”

“Oh bullshit, young stupid!”

“You suck, mister! I know it and everyone knows it!”

Eat your heart out, Aaron Sorkin!

So the band arrives in Grand Guignol, and wouldn’t you know it, they pick up the same hitchhiking blonde, who invites them to stay at her family’s mansion. The family is pretty normal, you’ve got blondie, the photographer, the dwarf, the troll, the groundskeeper who, um, is that a Swastika armband he’s wearing, and grandma and grandpa, who speak in thick German accents and we meet them while they’re in the bone zone and the dwarf and the troll are watching them. Oh, and by the way, they’re secretly Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun, and Eva Braun is a werewolf. I PROMISE THAT ALL OF THIS IS TRUE.

As it turns out, everyone in Grand Guignol is a backwards rube who thinks that rock n’ roll is the devil’s music that will lead to “physical sex” (again, actual quote). So they get super duper outraged when the band engages in some antics that wouldn’t be out of place in an episode of The Monkees. They skateboard around, do silly dances, and mug for the camera. The sheriff throws them in jail, the town council cancels their concert, and outlaw all rock n’ roll in general, leading to a scene where everyone throws their records and tapes in a pile and destroys them (again, subtle).

Meanwhile, Jesse and Cassie keep running into each other and falling deeper and deeper in love, and the movie keeps rubbing our faces in their obvious age difference, because apparently the overt Nazi imagery wasn’t cringeworthy enough. Just wait until we get to the song he writes about her, because you’ll have to go to jail once you hear it. They practice at the creepy mansion, and the family tries to electrocute them. That doesn’t work, so instead they murder the band members one by one overnight. The drummer is stabbed in a terrible homage to the Psycho shower scene, the keyboardist is felled by werewolf Eva Braun, I don’t remember what happens to the guitarist, I think he falls out of a window or something, and Jesse is crucified and disembowled with a weed hacker by the groundskeeper. This means Hitler is finally ready to turn California into the fourth reich…here we go…no turning back…complete with gas chambers. Which come into play later. THIS IS ALL FROM A REAL MOVIE THAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED.

Luckily, before he croaked, Jesse gave Cassie a tape he made of a bass lick that can raise the dead. Look, just roll with me here, ok? You’ve made it this far. So Cassie plays the tape at the band’s grave, and they rise from the dead, ready to get revenge on Hitler and Eva Braun and co. In zombie form, they all sport weird mime makeup that kinda looks like KISS in the early days before they figured out their image, and they walk around as if they’re doing a combination of the robot and the Macarena. These are both choices that the filmmakers made. So they pretty much instantly murderize the Hitler clan with no problems, but whoops, they don’t stay dead for long, because now they’re zombies too, and they’re attacking all the hicks in town, which makes THEM zombies. Now we’ve got Nazi zombies and redneck zombies running around, which is not an ideal situation to say the least, but for now, the band have to go play their big gig.

This is where we finally get to hear Jesse’s love ballad to Cassie in it’s entirety, and, well, here it is…

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“I’m so in love, but you’re so young.” BARF BARF BARF BARF ETERNAL BARF. Anyway, see ya in jail, which is where I live now because of this song!

I’m really loathe to talk about the rest of the movie, because at this point, it takes a turn into goofy comedy, and just completely falls flat. Not that their satirical bits about the PMRC and anti-metal hysteria were all that biting, but at least they were trying to say something, whereas these Zucker brothers-lite groaners are just insufferable. There’s a gag about a girlfriend who’s so possessive of her boyfriend that she won’t let any other women get near his severed head after a zombie rips it off, which the filmmakers obviously thought was beyond hilarious, but is really torturous. Then there’s an even less funny gag where some Pointdexter is like, hey, since zombies are brainless, they must be, like, allergic to brains? So if we all walk around with these giant cardboard cutout heads, they’ll leave us alone? Huh? And of course it doesn’t work, and of course the zombies just eat everybody, and as he’s being devoured, the Pointdexter yells, “Don’t believe everything you read!” Ugggh, read this: you suck, movie.

OK, there is one running gag from this section that I liked: after the troll becomes a zombie, he just eats his own body until he’s a burping skull. I happened to think that was charming and great.

Eventually the townsfolk try to sacrifice Cassie to the zombies, because they read that if the undead feast upon a virgin, then they’ll rest for another hundred years. Whatever. So Cassie is totally about to be gang banged and devoured by zombie Hitler and his gang (wow, what a sentence), when luckily the band shows up, and lures them away by playing that resurrection riff that Jesse learned from a book (you know, a booooooook?!?!) And where do they lure them? Ugh, sorry…here goes…they lure them to the gas chambers, where they’re all gassed to death. You know, like in the Holocaust? I have nothing more to say.

The film ends, in perfect fashion, by spelling co-writer/director Krishna Shah’s name wrong in the credits. Fantastic.

When a movie looks particularly bad, I often like to say that it reminds me of a fake movie meant to play in the background of a real movie. Well, as it turns out, that’s the actual origin story of Hard Rock Zombies. Originally, the film was supposed to be 20 minutes long and featured as the movie the characters in another Krishna Shah production, American Drive-In, go to see. Apparently Shah decided at some point that he could double his profits by turning Hard Rock Zombies into its own feature film. This begs the question: is this where all the Nazi stuff was added? Because it’s easy to imagine characters in a movie occasionally checking in with the drive-in movie and seeing a bunch of rockers rising from the grave, but that Hitler subplot is just so bizarre and so incongruous that I can’t help but think it was tacked on.

Hard Rock Zombies is the craziest film I’ve seen in awhile. It approaches Demonwarp and Spookies levels of what the hell am I watching madness. You genuinely will not be able to predict where this movie is gonna go from scene to scene. However, the tacked on nature of that madness keeps you at arms length a bit, and eventually it just becomes tiresome once you realize it’s not going anywhere beyond mere shock value. I mean, this movie is nearly an hour and forty minutes, and ends with a scene in a goddamn GAS CHAMBER. So, by all means, show this one to your friends, just don’t blame me if they never talk to you again. You may be right, they may be crazy, but in the end, it’s still rock n’ roll to me.

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artificialqueens · 7 years ago

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Cheap pack of cigarettes (Pearlet)

Hey everyone, that’s my first fic in English and even though I feel really fucking insecure bc of the language, I think it’s time to step over it, right?? No beginning — no result, in the end. Hope y'all enjoy it. Much love.

“I do not want to hear this,” Matt says, feeling slightly annoyed. He’s used to it. He’s always slightly annoyed. “What I want to hear is at least one thing explaining the reason you want to be here, darling. I get it, you choke on Santino’s balls every day on lunch break, but what’s the point of waking up early every day, coming home at six in the evening and constantly, constantly find some inner strength to annoy the others if you have the nicest opportunity to just…leave it?”

Okay, Matt knows that Kevin will stay here, even if his cheeks explode right in front him (which is pretty expectable as Kevin’s pale cheekbones are just radiating pure shade of radish right now), because Santino hates useless people and because there are a lot of hot model guys on the fourth floor, stupid ass models that assume Kevin is kind of an other Santino for their little bronze arses.

“Hey, what’s going on?” he hears Santino’s voice suddenly, blinks and sets a schmaltzy cheshire smirk on his lips.

“Nothing”, Matt says, “just talking about life with your arm candy.”

“Ow, and following whom? Nietzsche? Raskolnikov?”

“More like Father Goriot vibes,” Matt smiles acidly and walks away from the room, knowing for sure that Santino’s going to eat up any kind of shit he comes up with. He’s not just a marketing guy, he’s the marking guru, although it’s been just seven months of his practice. Matt even wears these adult Hugo Boss suits because Santino takes him to every business deal, whether it’s just a lunch or an official meeting.

The perks of being smart. Or cons. Depends.

Right now, he’s impatiently staring at slowly changing numbers in the elevator, from twenty two to one, even more impatiently playing with the lighter in his left hand. He quickly crosses the hall filled with the sounds of ladies’ heels clatter, marimba ringtone and scent of hot coffee and storms out of the building, to the parking lot, a fag already between his lips.

Fuck.

Once, twice. Four times, then a couple more. His lighter is dead. Matt harshly swears under his breath.

The sky is grey. You can’t even see it under this big cover of massive clouds — with their purples, indigos and even dirty greens looking more like fresh bruises on a pair of pale knees. And god, the air is unsparingly humid, feels like you can raise your hand and stay with handful of cotton candy. Matt wants it to rain so hard the water would wash him away, dissolve his body under the pale clouds above.

And there it is. A quiet cough somewhere next to Matt, causing him to lift his gaze down and turn a little bit.

There’s a guy. In a white tee shirt and ripped grey jeans. He’s pale and his dark, Matt would even say ebony hair tied up in a bun, very messy and very, very curly one. He has a baby pink satin gym sac on his shoulder and a lighter in his hand, which he points at Matt with.

Matt nods. The boy puts a cigarette in his mouth and walks forward to Matt, lighting his cigarette first and not breaking their kind of heavy eye-contact. He’s a little bit taller. And smells like organic shampoo, no wonder why his hair looks so soft.

The boy blinks and lights his own cigarette. Matt licks his lips.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

The matter is, the guy’s probably a model. Tall, slim, legs for miles and not dressed up like a Wall-Street habitué. And although they usually drink smoothies and vanilla frappuccinos whilst smoking and also smoke in front of the building, posing for street style websites, he really looks like a model. And Matt doesn’t like models. At least all the models he’s met here were pretty much obsessed with talking shit about each other, that’s literally all.

“Jason!”

They both turn their heads to the sound of a female voice, and Matt recognizes Isabelle, the CEO of the whole company in this petite woman, quickly making her way towards them on her heels. He’s see her a lot of times and Santino even told him once that she said she was really pleased with Matt’s work, but they’ve never interact properly. Isabelle is dressed as perfect as usual, milk chocolate hair framing her well-aged face, yet a little bit concerned at the moment.

“You know I don’t encourage this,” she says, pointing to the cigarette in the boy’s fingers. “And we’re going to be late, so…oh, Matthew!” she exclaims, turning to Matt. Very surprised Matt. “It is such a pleasure to finally meet you, darling, not the greatest time, but nevertheless, I’m so glad we’re having you here!” she finally stops in from of them and quickly shakes Matt’s hand with her diminutive one, crinkles by her eyes as she smiles make her look even more sympathetic.

“It’s an honor for me, honestly,” Matt shakes it in awe, feeling a little bit awkward at the same time.

“Really wouldn’t want to treat my best workers like that, but you will have to excuse me, we’re running out of time, honey. See you later!”

She even fucking kisses him twice on the cheeks, and Matt sees that mocking smile on the boy’s, Jason, apparently, lips, after that, but then Isabelle just grabs his hand and the two of them quickly walk to the car, the woman’s sweet chirrup stuck in Matt’s head for a long time after they disappear.

***

The next couple of weeks go as usual, except Matt thinks of ripping the fuck away all the collars and sleeves of his shirts more and more — it’s physically hard to wear anything but tees in August.

Santino claps his hands and smiles.

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, we’re having a five minute break now, please don’t be late, we still have a lot of stuff to discuss today.”

And the whole room of people rushes out of the door as fast as possible, mostly to grab some water. Matt, the lucky motherfucker who never sweats, goes directly to the back staircase, no time to go to the parking lot. One very smart and wise man, Kurtis, who now works in fucking Interview magazine, once showed him this quick and unproblematic way to have a minute, bless his chicken-loving heart. No, seriously, the lad loved chickens more than he loved his husband.

“Oh, hi.”

The moment when Matt is gone with the memories of his working life master is ruined with…Jason.

“Hel…lo?”

“It’s not illegal, right?”

Matt feels himself smiling a little.

“What?”

“Using the stairs. I’ve just spent fifteen minutes waiting for the elevator, like, it’s really too much for a one minute ride, right?”

“Yea, just a busy day here. It’s fine, using the stairs is not illegal.”

“It’s just special, then,” the boy says, his expressions go mock-coquettish.

“For elite only,” Matt agrees and takes a long drag, studying the boy who slowly walks down. He’s wearing a pink tee shirt and little shorts, leaving his long legs open for admiring. Dark curls this time cascading down to his shoulders, making the boy’s eyes deeper and bigger. They’re also dark, as far as Matt can make out, but he’s not sure.

“I cannot imagine how y'all wear that shit every day, I’m dying even in a t-shirt, you know. It’s hot as fuck.”

“Thanks for the compliment, I know it suits me,” Matt teasingly retorts, causing the other boy to raise his eyebrows and the right corner of his lips to turn upwards.

“I was actually talking about my t-shirt, not your suit, love.”

Matt chuckles and nods, defended, and throws the fag away.

“Have a nice day, Jason.”

“Same to you, Matthew.”

***

Matt is really fucking hungry, the only thought keeping him alive that past hour was the loveliest still-life, deserving to be hanged in Tretyakov’s gallery — a big, shiny with its fat, hot Barcelona burger, a plate of oily french fries and a giant vanilla milkshake from Mile’s. Matt takes a deep breath and opens the door to the cabinet to take his jacket and freezes under two pairs of eyes — Santino’s and Jason’s. It’s been two or three months since he last met the boy, and again, that’s more than unexpected.

“Hi Jason,” he says slowly, shaking off the confusion, but still looking into the boy’s eyes. He can’t read them, he cannot understand them, same confident, amused expressions, yet blank, matte. Emotionless.

“Hi Matthew,” he slowly answers, not breaking the eye contact either. Hell knows what he’s thinking about. His leg could be burning right now, and Matt still wouldn’t understand that.

“Oh wow,” it’s Santino’s turn to talk. His voice, just like his face, is…shook. Matt doesn’t know why, but he enjoys it. “Alright then. Have a nice evening, boys. Matt, see you tomorrow.”

They’re alone now. Matt blinks and slowly puts on his jacket.

“Um…”

“I’m hungry,” Jason announces, lifting his chin and crossing his arms on his chest. “Actually, I told him I was waiting for a friend here and he didn’t believe me and offered to take me for a dinner and I said I was not hungry, in case if you were listening.

"I wasn’t.”

“Oh.”

Jason looks like a swan, like a proud, elegant, yet offended bratty swan with his long neck, hair tied up in a messy bun again and long pale arms crossed.

Matt has seen this person twice before this evening, but he still feels like there’s something wrong. The boy’s still calm, still confident and poise, but Matt feels as if there are invisible hurdles all over him, very agressive and very, very traumatic indeed.

“So you’re not waiting for a friend here?”

“Technically, you were that friend. I wanted to ask if I could have a cigarette from you.”

“Sure you…”

“Are you going home now?”

Matt blinks twice, trying to read the consequences of a positive and the consequences of a negative answer.

“I was actually going to Mile’s, because I’ve been fucking starving,” he says cautiously. And then, even more cautiously, adds “wanna join?”

He notices that tension slowly leaves the boy’s body and his dark brown eyes soften. His arms are still crossed though, but Matt understands. He still doesn’t know a thing, but he understands.

“I do.”

***

“But what if you like another one more?”

“I’m pretty satisfied with how much I like Barcelona, thank you Ja—”

“You’re a coward.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said you—”

“Good evening gentlemen, can I take your order?”

Jason crosses his arms on his chest again and turns his face to the petite blonde with an IPod.

“Hi, yes, thank you, we’d like to have two vanilla milkshakes, a Sicilia and a Barcelona burgers, and two french fries, please, one with cheese topping.”

“Both with cheese topping,” Matt corrects, watching Jason.

“Both with cheese topping, please.”

“Owkay, anything for the dessert?” the girl asks, winking at Matt.

“Later,” they say in sync, nodding.

She pouts a little (Jason’s shady eye roll doesn’t go unnoticed) and repeats their order, takes the menus and goes away, leaving the two of them tête-a-tête again.

“How did you find that place?” Jason asks, which was a bit unexpected, because he still seems a bit tensed. As if he put himself together, but there was too much going on, too hard to pretend. “I’ve never heard of it before.”

“I was looking for Vivi Bubble Tea actually, it was here a year ago or something, but they moved and I decided to go try—”

“Barcelona.”

Matt licks his lips, teasingly annoyed.

“Yes. Barcelona. And I think that this talking-over habit of yours is really worse than smoking, love.”

“Is that an invitation?” the corners of Jason’s lips tremble slightly.

“Well you were waiting for me and my pack all in all, so yeah, it is.”

“You’re so sweet, you know.”

“To your bitter.”

“Rude,” he holds the door for Matt, before they enter the street, busy, noisy and so different to the comforting little cafe, filled with friendly radio songs and french vintage posters, and pleasing smell of oil and frying meat too.

“Why didn’t you buy yourself a pack?” Matt asks, watching Jason lighting his cigarette. For some reasons, their whole connection just flies around Marlboro Lights or Camel Yellows.

“I forgot my wallet at home and went to ask my mom for some cash but she wasn’t at the office and then I remembered you.”

“How nice,” Matt chuckles, deciding that he really doesn’t want to remember the Santino part of today. “How you’re going to go home?”

“My driver,” Jason shrugs. “He’ll pick me up at seven, so you’re stuck with me until then, love,” he mimics, and Matt rolls his eyes. And smiles.

***

The bitch took his Barcelona burger as soon as their order came.

“Jason, what the fuck, give it back to me, Jesus Christ,” Matt groans, whilst the boy next to him shakes his head unapologetically.

“Stop nagging, you knew it was going to happen sooner or later.”

“What? Having to tolerate Satan itself till seven pm?”

And Jason starts laughing, like, properly laughing, with his head thrown back and crinkles by his eyes visible. Not as adorable as it could’ve been when your burger dreams are fading right in front of you. But still kind of nice to see.

“No, I mean trying a new burger. Come on, I’m sure it’s actually better than Barcelona.”

“You can have it,” Matt grabs the plate with both hands and puts it in front of Jason. “There, bon appetite, now give me my—”

“You know what, we’ll share.”

“Oh god.”

“Yeah, you’re eating the half of Sicilia and then you’ll have your precious Barcelona half, deal?”

“No, not deal, you don’t even have money to fucking pay for this.”

“I’ll pay you as soon as my car arrives, with my wallet and stuff, besides, you brought me here, you initiated this, so the gentleman pays, asshole,” Jason’s clearly having the time of his life right now, and for some reasons unknown to humanity, Matt prefers this, not gone with clearly not that bright thoughts Jason.

“I’m not a gentleman, you fucker—”

“Well I’m clearly less a gentleman than you are, so shut up and eat the burger while it’s hot.”

It’s actually enough for Jason to just look directly into Matt’s eyes to make him take the burger in his hands. One poise, domineering look of dark brown eyes — and Matt just obeys, biting the bloody burger.

And if likes Sicilia more than Barcelona, well. Jason doesn’t need to know.

***

It’s 6th of October, the birthday of this shithole Matt works at. Not exactly a shithole actually, but sometimes there’s nothing but shit going on here. Sometimes Matt thinks it’s too adult for him, but then he’s just too exhausted to expand this thought.

He’s on the twenty eighth, the last floor of their building, in a group of people he couldn’t give less fucks about. Like, they talk about work, even when there’s free booze all around and each of them knows for sure no one wants to talk about the rises and the falls of the week. But they still do.

That’s why he’s staring at the window. He loves this floor, because it’s actually a very elegantly designed restaurant, with giant windows for walls and tender creamy lights, making people’s faces look prettier than they are. And the city is there, this endless metallic city, with towers and bridges, lights and tabloids, constellations of people and tragically lonely wolves wandering around. Matt canot really see the sky, because of the light’s reflections on the windows, but he sees himself, his bored and annoyed self, in a crisp white shirt, and navy-blue suite. He wants to take these clothes off, grab a can of beer and throw himself at one of these sofas just in his boxers and watch America’s Next Top Model.

He swallows two glasses of pink champagne and goes to the bar for ridiculously sweet screwdriver; sweet, but not schmaltzy. Matt’s definitely feeling buzzy by 10pm, when they start serving fish délicatesses. He hates fish.

And also public bathrooms. But moreover, public bathrooms with no music playing. And thank god, neither of those things he has to experience this night. The bathrooms are still kind of public, but fancy-public, with little bouquets of lavender by the sink and four clean towels, just like at Matt’s mom’s bathroom. And the soap is pink, with little pieces of chai roses.

There’s fucking Jason standing in front of the bathroom door when Matt opens it. His eyes go wide for a second.

“Don’t even pretend to be shocked, you knew we would meet, we always meet,” Matt says sardonically.

“Um, for the record, I was watching your tormented breakdown for twenty minutes, so yea, I knew we would meet. I’m shocked that you’re still alive and didn’t actually hang yourself in the bathroom.”

“My…my breakdown?”

“You looked really pathetic standing by the window a couple of minutes ago. Pathetic, noble and mentally destructed.”

“So you worry about me.”

Jason is frozen for literally half of a second. Then, he raises his eyebrows high, blinks so bitchily that Matt feels as if he’s just been bloody read, and huffs with the grace of Mean Girls.

“I was worried that if you die there will be no one left to buy me a drink, so yeah, I was, darling.”

“Wowowow, so I have to buy you a drink now? Interesting,” Matt chuckles and leans on the door frame.

“Everyone here knows me. No one’s going to let me drink,” the boy rolls his eyes and crosses his arms on his chest.

“How old are you? Fifteen?”

“I’m nineteen, asshole, just get me a drink, you don’t even have to buy it, all the booze’s on my mom,” Matt could swear, he has never ever known a creature meaner in his life.

“Don’t get drunk too fast, kid.”

He earns one more heartwarming eyeroll.

***

To Matt’s surprise, Jason takes him to the back staircase. They have a bottle of champagne and two glasses (Matt really shouldn’t have drunk one more screwdriver), and now the noises and talks and music is gone — just the two of them sitting on the stairs.

“I’m actually a bit confused that you didn’t stay there.”

Jason exhales the smoke with his pouty lips and turns his face to Matt.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I thought you’d talk to all these models and people and Santino…ah, fuck.”

“Dot get drunk too fast, huh?” the boy smirks.

“Shut up, I’m not drunk.”

“Well, I’m not a model. And not one of "all those people”.

“I thought you were.”

“I’m not. I’m a dancer.”

“A dancer?”

“A ballet dancer.”

“Dude.”

Jason laughs and takes a sip of champagne.

“Uh-huh.”

“Where did you go with your mother that day we met at the parking lot?”

“The premiere of Swan Lake.”

“You…you’re taking part in Swan Lake?”

The boy nods with a little smile, watching Matt, clearly amused.

“And who’s your character?”

“The evil magician.”

“The Rothbart one?”

It’s Jason’s turn to be surprised. His eyebrows fly high again, but not in a teasing way.

“I’m impressed, Matthew. You’re not just one of those who watched "The Balck Swan”, yeah?“

"I didn’t like it. I like the story of Odette more than Natalie Portman going crazy over some role.”

Jason’s laughter light up the whole empty space of twenty eight flights.

“Same, darling, same.”

“I think you’d do a great Rothbart.”

“I think it’s my nose.”

“Your nose?”

“Yea. It’s huge. And, like, aquiline a bit. Ugly, but Rothbart.”

“You think your nose is ugly?”

For the first time in the history of their meetings, Jason looks a bit unsure. He shrugs a little.

“I like your nose.”

“Matthew, honey, right now you’d like anything,” Jason licks his lips and lights up another cigarette.

“Okay, maybe you’re right,” Matt watches Jason exhale. “But tomorrow I’ll be sober and I’ll still like your nose,” he shrugs and takes the bottle.

There is silence after that. It makes Matt look at Jason again just to find the boy watching him, head pressed to the wall, smoky haze filling up the air slowly.

“Why do you work here?”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t like these people. You don’t fit in. You’re different. There are people like you, you’re not the only one, but they have some reasons I at least can figure out. And yours…I think I might have an idea, but nevertheless. Why do you work here?”

“What’s the idea?”

“I asked first.”

“I’m drunk.”

“You said you were not.”

Matt glares at him and daringly swallows his whole glass of champagne in two seconds. He wrinkles his nose a bit and puts the glass on a stair.

“Well I am now.”

Jason slowly shakes his head and rolls his eyes with a smile.

“So what’s the idea?”

“You’re a coward.”

“Explain.”

“It’s the same thing with the Barcelona burger. Like, you tried it once and you liked it and it’s enough for you, you’re satisfied. You don’t try anything else, even if you’re like, tired of it, you’re scared that you won’t like any other burger. Well, yea, I mean, it’s possible, lots of things don’t work out and we have to search more, but you’re not even twenty five, you’ve just finished uni, you already have a year of practice here and it would be an honor for any other company to have you for an employee, like, you have so much potential and ideas and you’re so fucking smart, yet you’re stuck here, because, like, why? It pays well and everyone loves you and you don’t have to put much effort here. It really would be enough for someone who’s fourth years old. But you’re done here, this step is completed, go higher, you have to go higher. You’re meant to be higher.”

Silence, again. Matt wants do dissolve in these walls, cigarette smoke and Jason’s voice. He doesn’t want to think, he doesn’t want to move, his head is so hard, but it’s numb, it’s fucking empty at the same time.

“I feel so wasted right now.”

Great. And his voice sounds like fourteen years old girl’s after she found out Zayn had left the band.

“I’ll make sure you’re home safe if you let me stay at yours this night.

The boy’s…bizarre.

"I…I don’t understand this, but…sure, I guess?”

“You have no choice anyway.”

“We always have a choice.”

“I enjoy this fake-deep conversation in a very odd way, you know.”

“I bet we look so dramatic and artsy.”

Jason laughs quietly.

“I think so too.”

***

Matt is a lucky motherfucker not only because he never sweats, but because he’s also never hungover. So when he wakes up in the morning, feeling pretty much fine, he thanks god for the millionth time for this gift.

He feels the familiar warmth of Honey lying next to him and turns to be greeted with her wet black nose and rough pink tongue.

Although…wait. Matt frowns a little, feeling that her paws are wet as well. He quickly sits in his bed and takes them in his hands, because she easily could just break a plate or a glass and hurt herself…but her paws are fine, wet as if they’ve just been washed, and…and they smell like his shampoo.

Jason.

Matt briefly remembers hearing the door closing a while ago, twice, and that means…that means Jason walked with his dog.

It’s almost one pm.

He remembers waiting for the taxi and the feeling of Jason’s shoulder under his cheek in the backseat. He remembers Jason’s hands on his waist and his voice asking for permission to borrow a tee shirt and sheets. And he remembers the glass of water Jason made him drink before closing his eyes.

No one’s there in the sitting room when Matt enters it with Honey pressed to his chest. Two towels, pillows and sheets are carefully folded up on the couch, a cup, a plate and a spoon are in the sink. Honey licks his nose happily and makes him turn his face to her, a little frustrated.

He knows he has a lot of things to think of. He has always had them, this particular subject, but Matt is one of those people who needs people like Jason to tell him everything right in the face. He prefers to be blind until someone wipes the glass in front of him. And he couldn’t be more thankful for that.

The only thing that breaks Matt a little bit in this morning is that Jason has left no note. He shouldn’t have, for sure, he’s done more than Matt could even expect, no one has never walked his dog in the morning, but. Like.

That’s stupid.

And people do think stupid sometimes.

***

“So are you, uh, dating Jason?” Santino asks Matt on Monday morning, causing him to choke on his coffee.

“What.”

The man shrugs and keeps looking at the papers in his hand, clearly trying to show how little does he care. Of course.

“You two were hanging out on Friday night together, and then that time he came here to pick you up after work…”

“We’re not dating.”

“Oh. I see. He’s pretty hot, innit?” he smirks and winks filthily. What the fuck.

This whole dialogue left Matt tensed for hours after that. No, of course he’s not dating Jason, not even close, but the thing is, Matt suddenly finds himself clearly not in favour of Santino showing interest to that curly-haired menace. He remembers how annoyed and tensed Jason was that day Santino asked him out, and for sure he doesn’t know what is going on between them, but on Tuesday Matt finds himself in front of Isabelle’s office with the stupidest thought in his head: he has to tell Jason. And to make it work he’ll ask his mother for his phone number, yeah, thank you very much.

He hasn’t come up with a not-creepy explanation of why he needs his CEO’s son’s number yet and he has no idea what he’s going to say when Isabelle looks up at Matt like there’s clearly something wrong with him, but he has to do that.

People also do act stupid sometimes.

His whole plan is ruined when Isabelle’s secretary nicely informs Matt that she’s in Chicago. He doesn’t know what to do now. He doesn’t want Jason to be bothered by Santino, moreover, he doesn’t want Jason to be one of many guys Santino’s had.

God help Matt, bless his little trembling heart. Little trembling jealous heart.

***

Despite all the what-the-fuck-are-you-doings and this-is-the-most-embarrassing-shit-you’ve-ever-been-up-tos, Matt takes his seat in the second row, right in the middle of it. He doesn’t know if it’s god who helps him, or he’s really that kind of really bloody lucky motherfucker, or both, but he, for almost the first time in the history of Matthew Lent, didn’t leave everything for the last moment and bought the ticket a week ago, because when he opened the theater’s website yesterday to check up the address, all the seats were taken. They perform twice a month, have been doing Swan Lake for about five months now, and the show is still really demanded by the public.

Matt has no idea if he’ll be able to catch Jason after the ending. He has no idea if Santino has already got to him. He also can’t predict Jason’s reaction. But he’s doing something, it’s really a lot, because, despite his success at work, Matt is still the best at doing only one thing in his life — nothing.

He does nothing. He’s a coward. He’s lazy. He’s not interested most of the time.

And that’s different, for unknown reasons. Maybe because Jason is different. Maybe because of magnetic fields and stuff. A shit ton of explanations.

But there’s no room left for them when he sees the tall shape of Jason on the scene, dressed in dark blue tight costume, showing his slim elegant body that is totally, absolutely flawless. The music is loud and sublime, the lights turn soft and kind of silky, everything works for that boy there, getting Matt mesmerized, breathless. He forgets where he is, he forgets the main purpose of this night, he’s just there, in front of a work of art moving fast and slow at the same time, making everyone feel like the whole world stopped for a while to admire this one creature.

He’s superlunary.

***

It’s cold as fuck outsides. Matt has no idea what he was thinking about, but he’s too exhausted to go home. He wanted to buy flowers in the nearest flower shop, but it was really late and all he got was a little pot of violets. And now there’s a chance that they fucking die before Jason shows up. If he ever shows up, actually, because maybe there is an other door for dancers and staff.

Fifteen minutes to eleven. Ten. Seven. Four. It’s eleven pm. The only thing keeping him waiting is Odette and some other dancers, Matt saw them walking out of the building. He feels stupid. He knows he’ll feel even more stupid anyways: either he’ll meet Jason or he won’t.

His hands are burning and so are his cheeks. The coat keeps his body warm, yeah, but not his toes that he’ll probably have to amputate — Matt stopped feeling them ten minutes ago.

He feels vibration in his pocket. For a half of a second he thinks, maybe it’s Jason, but Jason doesn’t have his phone number. And why would he call him now, Jesus Christ.

It’s Matt’s mom. He taps on the green circle, and a very familiar warmth starts creeping up from his chest after his mom’s “Hello, sugar!”.

“Hi, mom. Sup?”

“Nothing particular, just checking out,” the woman talks with a smile in her voice. “What are you up to? You’re outsides?”

“Yeah, waiting for a friend,” Matt says, looking up at the doors.

“Someone special?” she asks teasingly.

“No, just a friend.”

Liar.

“Don’t worry, sugar, you’ll find so—”

“Mom.”

“Alright-alright, big boy. By the way, are you planning to come home for Christmas? We’ve all missed you loads.”

“Yeah, for sure I’ll come, no way I’m missing you’re pudding and—”

“What was that, honey?”

“No, nothing, it’s just, my friend is here.”

He’s really here, enters the street and makes Matt’s heart pound so hard he feels it on the tips of his fingers.

And he’s with someone else. Some guy telling him something and making the boy smile. Boom.

There was no way people like Jason are single.

“Oh alright then, I’ll call you—”

“No, I denoted,” Matt quickly turns his back to the theater and looks at the violet in his hand. “Keep talking,” because you’re the only reason I’ll be fine tonight.

“Matty, what’s happening?”

“Where?” playing dumb is also on the list of things Matt does the best.

“Matt.”

“What?”

“What is going on?”

“Mom, I was wrong, it wasn’t my friend, it’s crowded here, I’m not wearing contacts, what do you want from me?”

“Why are you not wearing your glasses?”

“I forgot them at home.”

“Don’t tell me you were driving without you contacts.”

“I was not driving, I took the train. My friend lives far and I was tired.”

“Where are you two going all tired and at eleven in the evening?”

Oh for fuck’s sake.

“There’s kind of a performance downtown, you know? Like Marina Abramovic kind of stuff, it starts in an hour.”

“Wow, sounds great! Will you manage wake up tomorrow?”

Matt chuckles a bit.

“Yeah, I have a meeting at eleven am, it’s fine.”

“Okay, sugar, take care! Waiting you for Christmas. And don’t forget Honey!”

“I won’t mom, see you later. Bye.”

“You did it so good I almost believed you.”

Matt is one hundred percent sure his heart just missed a beat. He feels a hand on his arm, making him turn slowly. Every lie he just keeps coming up with in his head sounds ridiculous. What he told his mom was also ridiculous, starting from the part where he’s not wearing contacts (he’s basically blind without them or glasses), but she ate it up, she always does. And Jason, who’s not smiling or smirking, just staring at Matt with his big shiny eyes, he’s not his mom. He radiates warmth, his cheeks are blossoming from the cold, curls framing his pale face with same unreadable expressions on it.

“Hey,” he says quietly, not even blinking.

“Hi.”

“You’re cold.”

“You were busy.”

“Saying goodbye to my best friend after the show.”

Matt feels his ears burning. Not from the icy air around.

“I’m speechless.”

“Me too.”

“Why?”

“You’re first.”

Jason smiles. Smiles. Not smirks. Or rolls his eyes.

“You’re the last person I expected to see here. Ever.”

“I had to talk to you. I tried to ask you mom for your phone number, but she was in Chicago.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Santino was hitting on you and I thought I had to warn you.”

“Warn me?”

Matt hates himself so much right now. He knows his face is pomegranate-coloured, from the elbow to his neck.

“He’s an asshole.”

“I had a crush on him for two years.”

Boom.

“And then I realized I was too good for him.”

That’s something Matt has never thought he’d hear from a nineteen years old guy.

“Everyone wants Santino.”

“I’m not everyone.”

“I know.”

“I’ve never been given flowers after the show, you know.”

Matt looks at the little ugly pot of violets in his hand.

“I wanted to buy a bouquet of something white, but they ran out of flowers in the evening. And I got this.”

“Something white.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s awkward.”

“Thank you very much, very nice of you, you know.”

Jason carefully takes the pot from Matt’s hand.

“Oh my god, your hand is fucking red.”

“That sucks,” Matt shrugs and almost puts his hand in his pocket, but Jason’s warm fingers stop him.

He doesn’t feel the electricity or fire or butterflies. He feels warmth, like liquid, like butter or honey crawling down his spine. And of course it’s Jason who leans in and captures his lips between his own, because Matt is a coward and he’s ridiculous and stupid and, and, and. But he feels the heat of Jason’s mouth, his fingers holding the fingers of Matt’s, his breath that smells like cigarette smoke. And oh god. He finally realizes that he’s falling so fucking hard.

***

He’s quit the job after finding a much better place — some controversial website with 70s theme and 90s Kate Moss for an idol. They also print 6900 copies of their shit once in six months and sell it for fifty bucks per exemplar. Everyone eats it up because it’s fucking sick. He also has bought about thirteen or fourteen everyday tee shirts. Finally placed all his X-men comics in the right order. Stopped using contacts. He drinks more milkshakes than beer. Smokes more. Meets new people and explores new places. Has watched a shit ton of movies he had to watch, the whole list of them in his notes is full of ✖️emojis. Oh. And he tried all the burgers and all the soups, salads and desserts in Mile’s.

Because of fucking Jason.

The boy who spends most of his mom’s money on cigarettes.

Matt knows his haircare routine — nothing but organic shampoo. No conditioners, masks, no balsams. Just shampoo. And love. He knows that he listens to Beethoven and girlsbands. And that it’s impossible to hear him walking at home — he’s noiseless. Literally. He knows what it feels like to have Jason inside him. Both physically and mentally. He knows that Jason doesn’t have a lot of friends and Odette and Odile and the others don’t like him, they really don’t like him. Matt knows that Jason doesn’t care, like, he really doesn’t, because he’s younger than all of them and still a better dancer. They have that pot of violets in Matt’s kitchen, because Jason spends more time at his than at his mom’s now. They bloom a lot. They are pretty. Jason likes violets. So does Matt now. He would never had guessed that he’d love violets the most.

Because of fucking Jason.

#please remember your tags!!#pearlet #violet chachki #pearl liaison #rpdr fanfiction #submission

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networkingdefinition · 5 years ago

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Peacock Quotes

Official Website: Peacock Quotes

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• A few months ago, I had the pleasure of actually visiting the Playboy Mansion. I saw the peacocks, fed grapes to the monkeys, and even braved the fabled Grotto. After seeing the estate, I understood why anyone would be reluctant to leave. – Diablo Cody • A peacock escaped from the Central Park Zoo and wandered around the city. Either that or I just saw a pigeon on his way to a gay pride parade. – Jimmy Fallon • A peacock that rests on his feathers is just another turkey. – Dolly Parton • An example I often use to illustrate the reality of vanity, is this: look at the peacock; it’s beautiful if you look at it from the front. But if you look at it from behind, you discover the truth… Whoever gives in to such self-absorbed vanity has huge misery hiding inside them. – Pope Francis • And that’s how the Peacock saved the Chameleon – Ally Carter • As regards this vice, we read that the peacock is more guilty of it than any other animal. For it is always contemplating the beauty of its tail, which it spreads in the form of a wheel, and by its cries attracts to itself the gaze of the creatures that surround it. And this is the last vice to be conquered. – Leonardo da Vinci • At twenty a man is a peacock, at thirty a lion, at forty a camel, at fifty a serpent, at sixty a dog, at seventy an ape, at eighty a nothing at all. – Baltasar Gracian

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• Be motivated like the falcon, hunt gloriously. Be magnificent as the leopard, fight to win. Spend less time with nightingales and peacocks. One is all talk, the other only color. – Rumi • British men are peacocks. You see a lot more style on the streets here than you see anywhere else, on every level. – Tom Ford • But why wasn’t I born, alas, in an age of Adjectives; why can one no longer write of silver-shedding Tears and moon-tailed Peacocks, of eloquent Death, of the Negro and star-enameled Night? – Logan Pearsall Smith • Dear Alec and Magnus, This is the first postcard of five. Don’t freak out or anything, but I need you to send me $150,000 to cover the cost of: 1) Two diamanté crowns 2) 20 peacocks 3) 300 chocolate lollipops in the shape of your heads 4) My dress 5) 500 lbs of glitter 6) One white horse (More to come in other cards) -Isabelle – Cassandra Clare Death, Stars, Writing • Dream tonight of peacock tails, Diamond fields and spouter whales. Ills are many, blessing few, But dreams tonight will shelter you. – Herman Melville • For all the feminist jabber about women being victimized by fashion, it is men who most suffer from conventions of dress. Every day, a woman can choose from an army of personae, femme to butch, and can cut or curl her hair or adorn herself with a staggering variety of artistic aids. But despite the Sixties experiments in peacock dress, no man can rise in the corporate world today, outside the entertainment industry, with long hair or makeup or purple velvet suits. – Camille Paglia • Genius and virtue are to be more often found clothed in gray than in peacock bright. – Van Wyck Brooks • Hansel is certainly about comfort, while still sort of having a peacock principle of wanting to attract attention. – Owen Wilson • He said that people who loved [animals] to excess were capable of the worst cruelties toward human beings. He said that dogs were not loyal but servile, that cats were opportunists and traitors, that peacocks were heralds of death, that macaws were simply decorative annoyances, that rabbits fomented greed, that monkeys carried the fever of lust, and that roosters were damned because they had been complicit in the three denials of Christ. – Gabriel Garcia Marquez • Here is a kitchen improvement, in return for Peacock. For roasting or basting a chicken, render down your fat or butter with cider: about a third cider. Let it come together slowly, till the smell of cider and the smell of fat are as one. This will enliven even a frozen chicken. – Sylvia Townsend Warner • How come it can’t fly no better than a chicken?’ Milkman asked. Too much tail. All that jewelry weighs it down. Like vanity. Can’t nobody fly with all that [stuff]. Wanna fly, you got to give up the [stuff] that weighs you down.’ The peacock jumped onto the hood of the Buick and once more spread its tail, sending the flashy Buick into oblivion. – Toni Morrison • I am Plato’s Republic. Mr. Simmons is Marcus. I want you to meet Jonathan Swift, the author of that evil political book, Gulliver’s Travels! And this other fellow is Charles Darwin, and-this one is Schopenhauer, and this one is Einstein, and this one here at my elbow is Mr. Albert Schweitzer, a very kind philosopher indeed. Here we all are, Montag. Aristophanes and Mahatma Gandhi and Gautama Buddha and Confucius and Thomas Love Peacock and Thomas Jefferson and Mr. Lincoln, if you please. We are also Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. – Ray Bradbury • I can live without it all – love with its blood pump, sex with its messy hungers, men with their peacock strutting, their silly sexual baggage, their wet tongues in my ear. – Erica Jong • I designed collections around whatever struck my fancy … fruits, vegetables, politics, or peacocks! – Lilly Pulitzer • I do not believe that any peacock envies another peacock his tail, because every peacock is persuaded that his own tail is the finest in the world. The consequence of this is that peacocks are peaceable birds. – John Ruskin • I don’t know if it’s animalistic or what, but men become like peacocks with their feathers up when women are around. – Bradley Cooper • I fear I must agree,” Magnus murmured. He pressed a hand over his heart and his new peacock-blue waistcoast. “I strive to find some respect in my heart for you, but alas! It seems an impossible quest. – Cassandra Clare • I just love the way the ’60s rock stars put themselves together, because they were like dandies and peacocks. They really lived out their fantasies – and dressed their fantasies. – Anna Sui • I know exactly how strong he is… He is like a peacock, spreading his feathers and squawking loudly to distract you from the back that his body is but weak.” -Jason to Mahiya – Nalini Singh • If a man knew anything, he would sit in a corner and be modest; but he is such an ignorant peacock, that he goes bustling up and down, and hits on extraordinary discoveries. – Ralph Waldo Emerson • If thou seest anything in thyself which may make thee proud, look a little further and thou shalt find enough to humble thee; if thou be wise, view the peacock’s feathers with his feet, and weigh thy best parts with thy imperfections. – Francis Quarles • If you get bored of doing it (Peacock Pose) with two hands, try it with one. – Dharma Mittra • It dances today, my heart, like a peacock it dances, it dances. It sports a mosaic of passions like a peacock’s tail, It soars to the sky with delight, it quests, Oh wildly, it dances today, my heart, like a peacock it dances. – Rabindranath Tagore • It is reported of the peacock that priding himself in his gay feathers he ruffles them up; but spying his black feet he soon lets fall his plumes. So he that glories in his gifts and adornings should look upon his corruptions, and that will damp his high thoughts. – Anne Bradstreet • It’s an awful stretcher to believe that a peacock’s tail was thus formed but … most people just don’t get it – I must be a very bad explainer – Charles Darwin • Le geai pare des plumes du paon. A bluejay in peacock feathers. – Jean de La Fontaine • Let me drive,” she said, reaching for the reins. He turned to her in disbelief. “This is a phaeton, not a single-horse wagon.” Sophie fought the urge to throttle him. His nose was running, his eyes were red, he couldn’t stop coughing, and still he found the energy to act like an arrogant peacock. “I assure you,” she said slowly, “that I know how to drive a team of horses. – Julia Quinn • Maggie threw her head back and laughed. ‘So you’re going to try…what? Birds of a Feather?’ she quested. ‘Of course not,’ Kat said. ‘Everyone knows the French government banned the importation of peacocks in 1987. – Ally Carter • Many a peacock hides his peacock tail from all eyes–and calls it his pride. – Friedrich Nietzsche • Men’s clothes are becoming kind of mod. They’re becoming more colorful and more flamboyant, and the male peacock is beginning to show his true plumage. – Liberace • Music really influenced me when I was growing up. I did go through a Jimi Hendrix phase. My hair was naturally quite afro, and I wore low-slung jeans with very high heels. Siouxsie and the Banshees had a lot to answer for. I was in a top hat with peacock feathers and thigh-high black boots. I was 17 — old enough to know better. – Helen McCrory • My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water’d shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these, Because my love is come to me. Raise me a daïs of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me. – Christina Rossetti • My philosophy on what makeup is…it’s very different from what a woman’s is. Makeup came from a very psychological place – of the peacock. – Jeremy Renner • News is history shot on the wing. The huntsmen from the Fourth Estate seek to bag only the peacock or the eagle of the swifting day. – Gene Fowler • Only you could love such a vile, selfish peacock, Evie. – Lisa Kleypas Paradise, Way, Satan • Patterns drawn in ultraviolet might make those ordinary little petals into the exotic peacocks of the botanical world, and yet we cannot appreciate them. – Victoria Finlay • Peacock bass like to hide at ambush points, away from the strong canal currents. If you fish early and know those peacock hangouts, you will have little or no trouble catching peacocks on lures and live bait. – Mark Hall • Peacocks have the bright feathers. Fish have the long tails. Women have the mall. – Janette Rallison • People are crying up the rich and variegated plumage of the peacock, and he is himself blushing at the sight of his ugly feet. – Saadi • Play not the Peacock, looking everywhere about you, to see if you be well deck’t. – George Washington • Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. – John Masefield • Recently, while I was in England, I saw a documentary on the BBC about the border between India and Pakistan at Wagah. When the border closes each evening around six o’ clock, the soldiers on each side do these amazing high-stepping peacock march-offs (like a dance-off). The displays are almost identical on each side and thousands gather to watch them. Though they’re patrolling along their separate borders, what comes across is how similar they are. – Matthea Harvey • Ruin, weariness, death, perpetually death, stand grimly to confront the other presence of Elizabethan drama which is life: life compact of frigates, fir trees and ivory, of dolphins and the juice of July flowers, of the milk of unicorns and panthers’ breath, of ropes of pearl, brains of peacocks and Cretan wine. – Virginia Woolf • She is a peacock in everything but beauty! – Oscar Wilde • Simple DNA gradually morphed and evolved, so that you had the coming into being of ever more complex and diverse creatures, until one day you wake up and find there are peacocks and giraffes. Nature is an open-ended experiment based on morphing a DNA code, and ours is an open-ended experiment based on morphing a crochet code. – Margaret Wertheim • Skaters are very much like peacocks. – Jon Heder • Tell me about this Wizard Howl of yours.” “He’s the best wizard in Ingary or anywhere else. If he’d only had time, he would have defeated that djinn. And he’s sly and selfish and vain as a peacock and cowardly, and you can’t pin him down to anything.” “Indeed? Strange that you should speak so proudly such a list of vices, most loving of ladies.” “What do you mean, vices? I was just describing Howl. He comes from another world entirely, you know, called Wales, and I refuse to believe he’s dead! – Diana Wynne Jones • The Italians are fond of red clothes, peacock plumes, and embroidery; and I remember one rainy morning in the city of Palermo, the street was ablaze with scarlet umbrellas. – Ralph Waldo Emerson • The Italians have voices like peacocks – German gives me a cold in the head – and Russian is nothing but sneezing – Edward Bulwer-Lytton, 1st Baron Lytton • The masculine imagination lives in a state of perpetual revolt against the limitations of human life. In theological terms, one might say that all men, left to themselves, become gnostics. They may swagger like peacocks, but in their heart of hearts they all think sex an indignity and wish they could beget themselves on themselves. Hence the aggressive hostility toward women so manifest in most club-car stories. – W. H. Auden • The peacock in all his pride does not display half the colors that appear in the garments of a British lady when she is dressed. – Joseph Addison • The pride of the peacock is the glory of God. – William Blake • The pride of the peacock is the glory of God. The lust of the goat is the bounty of God. The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God. The nakedness of woman is the work of God. – William Blake • The sparrow is sorry for the peacock at the burden of its tail. – Rabindranath Tagore • The sun fades like the spreading Of a peacock’s tail, as though twilight Might be read as a warning to those desperate For easy solutions.- John – Ashbery • The thing you fail to grasp is that people are not basically good. We are basically selfish. We shove and clamour and cry for adoration, and beat down everyone else to get it. Life is a competition of prattling peacocks enraptured in inane mating rituals. But for all our effacing and self-importance, we are all slaves to what we fear most. You have so very much to learn. Here. Let me teach you. – Christopher Nolan • There are eight different breeds of peacock. I have them all. – Bidzina Ivanishvili • There are no preconditions for jealousy. You don’t have to be right, you don’t have to be reasonable. Take Othello. He was neither right nor reasonable, and Desdemona ended up dead. I wouldn’t mind Leanne ending up dead. I wouldn’t mind exploding her into fireworks of peacock and pearl. – Franny Billingsley • To frame the little animal, provide All the gay hues that wait on female pride: Let Nature guide thee; sometimes golden wire The shining bellies of the fly require; The peacock’s plumes thy tackle must not fail, Nor the dear purchase of the sable’s tail. – John Gay • To Paradise, the Arabs say, Satan could never find the way Until the peacock led him in. – Charles Godfrey Leland • Turkeys are peacocks that have really let themselves go. – Kristen Schaal • We ask ourselves all kinds of questions, such as why does a peacock have such beautiful feathers, and we may answer that he needs the feathers to impress a female peacock, but then we ask ourselves, and why is there a peacock? And then we ask, why is there anything living? And then we ask, why is there anything at all? And if you tell some advocate of scientism that the answer is a secret, he will go white hot and write a book. But it is a secret. And the experience of living with the secret and thinking about it is in itself a kind of faith. – Vaclav Havel • We may put too high a premium on speech from platform and pulpit, at the bar and in the legislative hall, and pay dear for the whistle of our endless harangues. England and especially Germany, are less loquacious, and attend more to business. We let the eagle, and perhaps too often the peacock, scream. – Bill Vaughan • When the peacock has presented his back, the spectator will usually begin to walk around him to get a front view; but the peacock will continue to turn so that no front view is possible. The thing to do then is to stand still and wait until it pleases him to turn. When it suits him, the peacock will face you. Then you will see in a green-bronze arch around him a galaxy of gazing, haloed suns. – Flannery O’Connor • Who cares what a man’s style is, so it is intelligible,–as intelligible as his thought. Literally and really, the style is no more than the stylus, the pen he writes with; and it is not worth scraping and polishing, and gilding, unless it will write his thoughts the better for it. It is something for use, and not to look at. The question for us is, not whether Pope had a fine style, wrote with a peacock’s feather, but whether he uttered useful thoughts. – Henry David Thoreau • Women are a source of energy in life. I’ve always wanted to be in a war or baseball movie, but the thought of having no women on set for six months – that’s hell. I don’t know if it’s animalistic or what, but men become like peacocks with their feathers up when women are around. – Bradley Cooper

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'a', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_a').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_a img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'e', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_e').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_e img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'i', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_i').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_i img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'o', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_o').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_o img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'u', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_u').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_u img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'y', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_y').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_y img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

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equitiesstocks · 5 years ago

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Peacock Quotes

Official Website: Peacock Quotes

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podcastcoach · 6 years ago

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The Power of Your Knowing Your Why

Because of My Podcast: Free Tickets

2:00

Brad from the Cinema Guys ( www.wearethecinemaguys.com ) explains how he was approached by a small local Cinema Chain who listens to his podcast. Brad worked a deal that enables him to get tickets to movies. Brad (being the cool guy he is) is using them as a give away for his audience. He has also worked to do a screening of Brad's all-time favorite horror movie, "John Carpenter's The Thing." They get to introduce the movie and then do a Q&A afterward.

Earn Money Referring People to the School of Podcasting

7:20

As a podcaster, people may approach you about how you started your show. You may be thinking of creating an online course, or an ebook. Instead of spending all that time and resources, you can signup to be a School of Podcasting affiliate and earn a commission when they subscribe and also for every month when they stay subscribed. For more information go to www.schoolofpodcasting.com/affiliates

Why Knowing Your Why Matters

8:00

It keeps you focused. You are no longer distracted by things that don't help you achieve your goal.

If you know why you're doing something, you can see the results clearer. This enables you to spot the small victories that then motivate you to keep going.

It is then the motivation that enables you to try again.

When another small victory comes along, you get another dose of motivation, and a pinch of this thing called confidence.

How My "Why" Gave Me Super Powers

I had been wanting to lose weight, and over the last year, I have been going up and down. I would get down to maybe 218 lbs, and then go up to 221 or 222. I wanted to get up and go to the gym in the morning. I knew to drink lots of water, and get plenty of sleep. I knew what to do. However, when I listed my priorities I wrote down things like rewriting my book More Podcast Money, I needed to update some tutorials at the School of Podcasting, and take a class on SEO. Nowhere in there is anything about my health. That's when I realized why I wasn't losing weight. It simply was not a priority.

I got a call from letting me know that I was being inducted into the Academy of Podcasters Hall of Fame. The minute I hung up the phone, I said out loud, "Well somebody's getting up early tomorrow." While it is somewhat weird, as I normally try not to care what people think of me, I knew there would be lots of pictures. I even hired a photographer to take pictures during my presentation. Suddenly, like a light switch, I had willpower. I had focus. I had a purpose. No longer did I need to watch TV. I realized that most of the taped TV shows I use to watch rarely delivered any real value. I could take that time and use it at the gym, or walk around, or cook healthy food, and THAT would deliver value to my goal of losing weight.

When You Know Your Why You Can Make it Through the How

“He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.” -Friedrich Nietzsche

The two most important days of your life are the day you were born and the day you discover why you were born.– Mark Twain

Apple Podcasts hits 550,000 Podcasts

I listened to my first episode, and in it, I mention in April of 2005, there were maybe "4000" podcasts. This article says in 2005 there were 3000 podcats, now there are 550,000 and according to this TechCrunch article, there have been Fifty billion episodes have been streamed/downloaded since launch. The new numbers include 18.5 million individual episodes representing 155 countries, in more than 100 languages.

So in 2005 when I was explaining to people how cool podcasting was, and how awesome it was that you could "teel the software to watch this site" (better known today as a subscription) and that you didn't ' need a Mac, and you didn't need an iPod to listen. IT WAS PAINFUL as many people just didn't get it (it took a while for me to get it). But I knew the potential power of podcasting, and I had quit listening to radio, and I wanted people to experience the same joy I had found. It didn't seem hard because if I helped ONE person understand and start listening to podcasts, and I had ONE more person to talk about Dawn and Drew with, it was worth my time and effort.

When you know you're why the "work" doesn't seem like work. It just seems like something you do. When I first started playing the guitar it was BRUTALLY PAINFUL, but I knew I wanted to play. I wanted to be like my brother (who played) and so the pain wasn't so bad. I knew it was temporary, and I could make it through the how.

My "Whys"

I get to help people (my background is in training. I have a Bachelor's Degree in Education specializing in Technical Education from the University of Akron)

It's creative (my hobbies are music, writing, photography, poetry).

It's geeky (I get to play with software to build websites, track downloads, and more)

I get to leave a very small fingerprint on the planet. Neither of my marriages produced any children. The word "Legacy" seems a bit much, but you get my point.

I am meeting and creating great friends.

It's helping me to pay off my student loans

If I lost my job today, I would have a cushion of money coming to tie me over (and in reality, I would probably be able to the School of Podcasting Ful time)

I'm not sure what I would do with my free time if I didn't.

Your Why's Might Be:

Share your knowledge

Get your message out out

Promote a business

Stay connected to friends and family

Be seen as an expert

Open the door to possibilities

Find like-minded people

Inner office company communication

Educate

Entertain

Getting the Motivation To Start

I just listened to a great episode of the You Wanna Do What? Podcast by Monica Rivera where she interviewed Jeff Haden about motivation. It was a really good interview and had some great insights into motivation. Including:

You only need enough motivation to start. If you set small achievable goals, those "little wins" give you the motivation to try again and keep moving. So some examples of small achievable goals my be

Buying your equipment

Plugging everything in and making your first recording

Getting your artwork

Publishing your first episode

Syndicating to Apple, Stitcher, etc

Getting 10 downloads for an episode

Getting 50 downloads an episode

When accomplishing these little milestones, it feeds your motivation to keep going.

25:10

Brenda from My Tech Toolbelt explain how her kids are grown, and while she is thankful for her job, it can be kind of boring, and she is podcasting because she enjoys learning. Yes, there is a lot to learn but as she put it, "It's fun. It's exciting, and I've already got two press passes (to be continued)"

27:37

Jim Collison from The Average Guy Network (and my Co-host for Ask the Podcast Coach) is a lot like me. We both love being around people, we both love helping people. We both like to talk and to influence people to help them do things.

The #1 Killer of Motivation and Why Podcasting is Like Golf

30;03

There is a reason that employees at companies are strongly urged not to share their income amount with other employees. If two people share that information, one person is leaving that meeting upset. So when people share how many downloads they get in a Facebook group, and their numbers are three times as many as you, ignore it and instead of focusing on their numbers, focus on your audience and how you can serve them.

If two golfers shared their scores, someone is going to think, "WHAT?! How is that person better than me? Well, there are a number of factors:

Better equipment

More experience

Better coaching

Better attitude

More athletic

More time to practice

So if you came to me and said, "I can't believe they are better than me! And I answered:

Your sound quality is very distracting

You have half as many episodes

They have a completely different niche

They have more time to promote their show

They have a budget to market your show and you don't

They have no children and you have five

They went to the School of Podcasting and you watched outdated YouTube Videos

Wouldn't you be able to see why someone might be getting more downloads than you (and keep in mind, there are more ways to measure podcast success than downloads).

So unless you want to detail your podcast DON'T COMPARE YOUR SHOW TO OTHER PODCASTS.

Heli PR77D Microphone Shootout

35:02

The Heil PR77D is basically a Heil PR40 with a bass roll-off switch, and something that will look very cool in any videos. It comes in black and purple and retails for $249 where the Heil PR40 is $308. You will hear these with my mic preamp the DBX 286 $199 off during the shootout.

In today's shootout, I compare it to an

Electrovoice RE320 $299

Audio Technica AT2005 $79,

Audio Technica BP40 $349,

Blue Yeti $129

The Heil PR77D has that traditional warm Heil Sound. When I switched it voice mode (which cuts out frequencies below 120Hz) it seems a little too clear for my voice). It comes with a nice black velvet bag to keep it in. It's a very sturdy microphone, and I love the retro look.

Of the microphones above, the only one I steer people away from is the Blue Yeti unless you PROMISE to read the manual, buy an over-priced pop filter, and use it on a boom arm. I personally use the Electrovoice RE320, but I liked the warmth of all the Heil Microphones and I need to play with it a little more to see how the proximity effect is (if it has more bass when you get close to it). The rear rejection seemed about as good as the other microphones.

Where Will I Be?

42:07

Catch me speaking at Podcast Movement July 23-26 in Philadelphia PA (and being inducted into the Academy of Podcasters Hall of Fame )

I will also be speaking at Podcast Midatlantic in September in Philadelphia PA

Ready to Start a Podcast?

One on one consulting

Podcast Reviews

Online Courses

Mentoring Programs

www.schoolofpodcasting.com/workwithme

The Question of the Month

As a podcast listener, do you look at Show notes? If so, what do you want to see in show notes? I need your answers by 6/22 go to www.schoolofpodcasting.com/contact

if you email me from that page, please put "June Question" in the title of the email. You can also call 888-563-3228 (be sure to mention your podcast)

Check out this episode!

#podcasting #podcast #coaching #new media

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thatfragilecapricorn30 · 8 years ago

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All Things Begin to Appear: Chapter 8

What happens when Scully starts having visions while her and Mulder are hunting a serial killer?

season 5 case file | 30k words | tw: some depictions of violence

One Two Three Four Five Six Seven

Read on Ao3

“He who fights monsters should see to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze for long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” – Nietzsche

“You want what?” Agent Callahan exclaimed, obviously not understanding the agents’ request or not believing that a sane person would ask for the something so ridiculous.

Mulder and Scully exchanged glances. They had waited until the morning to make their appeal, strategizing that Callahan might be in a better mood the next day as opposed to being called in the middle of the night. Now Scully wasn’t so sure that their plan had worked. Maybe she should have brought some coffee along to butter him up.

“The records of all patients being treated for cancer at St. Luke’s,” Scully repeated.

Callahan’s eyebrows reached his hairline. “Are you crazy? Not only will no judge grant that request but it will be impossible to go through that many files. What do you even want them for anyway?”

The two agents shifted uncomfortably. Scully knew how unorthodox their request sounded, but she absolutely needed those records if they were going to solve this case. She just hoped the rest of the precinct couldn’t hear this exchange.

“We have a ... feeling... that the killer has some connection to the oncology department. If you remember, Jane White was being treated for cancer and she was one of the victims,” Mulder explained.

Agent Callahan looked at the both of them, probably trying to figure out how legitimate their request was. Callahan sighed, “Why do I have the feeling that this is how you two normally operate?”

Scully gulped. She was getting nervous that he wouldn’t be able to help them and she didn’t exactly like her competence as an FBI agent being called into question. Callahan studied both of their guilty faces for a few more seconds and then shook his head.

“I might – might – be able to pull a few strings with DA and she may be able to get a judge to sign a subpoena. It's a long shot though. And I still think you both are crazy.”

But with that he walked away, clearly ready to make a few calls on their behalf. Scully let out a long breath and prepared herself for a long wait.

A few hours later, Agent Callahan dropped a stack of folders on the conference table with a loud thunk. Mulder, who had been “resting his eyes,” jumped at the sound, lifting his head from off the table. Scully put down the newspaper she had been reading, and sat up straight, ready to get to work.

“There’s a lot more where that came from,” he stated, gesturing towards the uniformed officers carrying boxes in. “Is there something specific we’re supposed to be looking for? Other than cancer, that is.”

Scully answered without thinking, “Nasopharyngeal cancer.”

Agent Callahan looked at her oddly. Scully opened her mouth to explain but even she didn't know how to rationalize that one.

Callahan shook his head. “You know what; I'm not even going to ask.”

They were lucky that the district attorney was in an argumentative mood today because she went to bat for those patient records, even though the legal reasoning for the subpoena was pretty weak. Luckily (or unluckily?) everyone in Cleveland was getting a little antsy regarding the serial killer so the judge was more lenient than he normally would be. For the first time in a while, Scully felt like they were on the right track and she eagerly started flipping through the files. Mulder and Callahan seemed a little more reluctant to take on such a daunting task but they got to work too.

They literally spent hours going over patient files. It’s no surprise that many people were treated for cancer at St. Luke’s, as it was known for having one of the most renowned oncology departments in the state. The agents had to comb through patient records from the past two years, which is how far the subpoena allowed.

Scully was just completing a cursory review of the files, since she knew exactly what she was looking for. She was almost positive that the killer had the same type of cancer that she did, and since it was pretty rare it would be easy to narrow the suspect pool down.

Scully opened up the next record. It was for a white male, age 52, diagnosed with a brain tumor six months ago. Bingo, Scully thought. She read on further: the tumor was located in his brain, right behind his nasal cavity. Just like the tumor Scully had a little over six months ago.

“I found him,” Scully said, not quite believing it. The other two were so engrossed in their work that they didn’t even notice that she spoke.

“I found him!” she said a little louder, startling both Mulder and Callahan. They looked at her expectantly.

She continued, “His name is Louis John Stanton. He is a white male, age 52 who is currently being treated for nasopharyngeal cancer.”

“Is there a photo?” asked Mulder, moving to look at the file over her shoulder.

“No,” Scully answered after ruffling through all the papers quickly. “But I’m sure we can look him up in the DMV database. And look,” Scully kept perusing his patient file. “His address is 48 Constitution Street!”

That sealed the deal for her. She knew, without a doubt in her mind, that Louis John Stanton was the serial killer. The address matched, the cancer matched and he matched the description that Mrs. Collins had provided. Scully felt her heart start to race, excitement building. She could not believe that they actually had him. Not only was she looking forward to going home but she was ready to put all these psychic visions behind her. It was amazing to think about all the work that had gone into this case and the answer had been waiting for them all along in a few pieces of paper in a manila folder.

Callahan actually looked impressed. “Hmm, well that’s a good sign.”

Scully was ready to grab her coat and track this man down instantly. “We have to go look for him,” she stated emphatically.

Callahan sat up a little straighter. “Now, wait a second. We can’t go confront him just yet. One, we don’t want to spook him and then he skips town. And two, a lot of our evidence is still circumstantial. We really need to put together a good case against this guy before we go talk to him.”

“We have his DNA!” Scully exclaimed, confused as to why their first step wasn’t to go bring him in for questioning.

“And you know that we can’t do anything with that until we have reason to request a DNA sample from this suspect,” he said gently. “I want to make sure this case is airtight so that when it goes to trial we can nail him.”

Mulder decided to pipe in. “I agree, Scully. We need more evidence before we try to take this guy in.”

That really set her on edge. Mulder, king of wild theories and questionable police ethics, was now the voice of reason? But from the looks on their faces, Scully knew that she wasn’t going to win this argument. So she decided to sit tight for now, allow the men to put together the case, and when she got a chance, she would go after him. She wasn’t going to let this guy Stanton hurt anyone else.

When they got back to the hotel, Scully was antsy. The rest of the day was spent building the case against Stanton. They had a lot of evidence: his footprint, his blood, his hair, his neighbor as a potential witness. Callahan was hoping to track down more witnesses that could place him or his car at the scene of the crimes. He also wanted to go back to the hospital and conduct a second round of interviews, focusing on Stanton specifically. That would take way too long, she thought. Scully wanted to get this guy now.

She paced around the room. She couldn’t sit still knowing the name and address of the serial killer that had been terrorizing Cleveland for the past few weeks. “Alleged” serial killer, she corrected herself. Finally she couldn’t take it anymore.

She knocked twice before pushing open the connecting door into Mulder’s room. He was watching TV, seeming totally relaxed. He turned to look at her.

“What’s up, Scully? Wanna watch the game?” He smiled at her.

Scully kept pacing. “Mulder I think we should go look for him.”

“Who?” he asked, until realization dawned on his face. “You mean Stanton? The serial killer? No, Scully.”

“Why not? A lack of evidence has never stopped you before.”

Mulder swung all the way around in his chair. “Ouch, Scully. But we’re not talking about me. I think experiencing these visions has clouded your judgment.”

“What! If anything it has given me a better perspective on this case,” she argued.

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to say. You feel an even greater sense of responsibility towards the victims, which is why you feel it’s your duty to catch the killer. But Agent Callahan is right – if we really want to nail this guy we have to have all our ducks in a row.”

Scully wasn’t convinced. “Well if you don’t want to go, that’s fine. I’ll just go by myself.”

Mulder jumped out of his seat, completely oblivious to the cheers on the TV from the most recent point scored. “Like hell you are! You got near this guy’s house and passed out. What’s going to happen if you’re actually close to him? Not to mention that he’s a dangerous serial killer who has been targeting women.” He looked at her like she was insane.

Scully definitely felt a little crazy. What Mulder was saying sounded pretty similar to thing she had warned him about when he wanted to run straight into danger. However, she just knew another murder was going to occur soon and she wanted to prevent that from happening. She decided that if Mulder was going to be of no help, then she would just figure out her next step on her own.

She gave him her haughtiest look and said “I’ll see you tomorrow Mulder.” She left his room and shut her connecting door with a confident click and locked it.

Immediately, she could hear pounding. “Scully! Don’t do anything stupid!”

She ignored him, deciding that a night apart would probably be good. She walked around the room, trying to decide if she should do her own investigative work. Then she realized that Mulder had the car keys. Damn! She thought. Her plan started falling apart. She could take a cab if she was desperate, but then she was at the mercy of the Cleveland taxi service.

Her nerve was fading. She hadn’t considered what Mulder said. She might react badly to being so close to the killer, especially after getting a view into his mind’s eye. She sighed dramatically and flopped down on her bed. If she was feeling charitable she would go tell Mulder not to worry but she felt like making him sweat a little. It would be payback for all the times he ran off and left her behind. Scully didn’t like acting so petty but decided she was allowed a pass for this case because of the extenuating circumstances. So instead of apologizing to Mulder like she should, she just got ready for bed and went to sleep.

Though sleep did not come easy and when she finally succumbed to slumber, she found herself immersed in a dream. Except it wasn’t a dream. She could tell because everything was brighter than normal and felt more real than her dreams usually did. It was like an out of body experience because Scully wasn’t herself – she was seeing through the eyes of the killer, or Louis John Stanton now that she had a name. She – he – was walking down a dark street and up ahead there was a tall man with brown hair. His back was to Stanton. Scully could see him quietly approach this man and put his arms around him, using a cloth to cover his mouth. Scully was horrified, but she was helpless to stop it from happening. It looked like Stanton knocking someone out with some type of drug like chloroform. But why is he going after a man and why would he not kill him? Scully tried to move or yell but she was stuck just watching the events unfold through Stanton’s eyes. This was the longest she had been immersed in a vision and it unnerved her. She wasn’t sure what she was going to see or what that meant for her psychic link to Stanton.

Scully still didn’t have a view of the victim’s face even as she felt his weight give out. She – and Stanton – lowered him to the ground and Scully caught a glimpse of his visage. It was Mulder.

Scully immediately woke up, her heart pounding. She had never been kicked out of a vision so fast so she felt very disoriented, trying to get her eyes to adjust to the dark room. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, wiping away beads of sweat that had formed there while she was dreaming. Scully was extremely confused and realized that she didn’t know when the vision was from. It obviously hadn’t happened yet so that meant it was from the future, or the very near present…

She jumped out of bed and almost sprinted to the adjoining door, needing to make sure Mulder was okay. Why did she even want this closed in the first place? When she opened the door, she realized that Mulder wasn’t in bed. Oh no I’m too late, her mind wailed. But then she noticed him sitting cross-legged on the floor, right by the door that Scully shut to keep him out. She was so happy to see him that without thinking she dropped to the floor to crawl into his lap and wrap her arms around his neck.

He didn’t react to her physical touch except to squeeze her tightly. It was almost like he was expecting her.

“Why are you on the floor?” she whispered after a few minutes of hugging him tightly, neither of them saying a word.

“I wanted to make sure you weren’t going to go look for him,” he whispered back, his breath rustling her hair.

That reminded of her of why she went searching for Mulder in the first place.

She pulled away a little. “Mulder, I dreamt–“

But he cut her off, “No more dream talk. It can wait until the morning. Let’s just have one night without bad dreams.”

She wanted to tell him what she saw – it was vital that he know but she also recognized that it could probably wait another few hours. She just couldn’t let him out of her presence.

In response, she nodded and they remained embraced for a few more minutes, still not talking. Scully was just glad that Mulder was alright. She would worry about the dream in the morning.

Eventually, when Scully started getting sleepy again and her eyes were having trouble staying open, Mulder picked her up and carried her to the bed. He helped pull the blanket over her and moved to leave but she grabbed his wrist. Until this was all sorted out there was no way she was letting him go anywhere alone.

“Don’t go,” she said.

There was no discussion after that. He crawled in next to her and turned off the light. She could hear him breathing and it comforted her as she fell back into a dreamless sleep.

When Scully woke up, she felt the most comfortable she had been in a while. Mulder was curled around her like a comma and his body heat was seeping through her thin pajamas. She didn’t want to get up just yet, until she remembered what she dreamt last night, which made her sit up suddenly.

Mulder, who was still half asleep, whined a little and tried to pull her back towards him. She didn’t let him.

“Mulder, I have to tell you something.”

“Can’t it wait?” he asked, his voice muffled by the pillow. His hand tugged on her wrist, his thumb smoothing over her pulse point.

“No, Mulder. It’s important!” She was looking down at him, his hair ruffled. He looked much younger this way, especially when Scully had the physical upper hand, which didn’t happen often.

He turned to face her more squarely, still lying down, but now ready to listen to what she had to say.

“I dreamt that the killer abducted you.”

Mulder opened his mouth to interject but Scully cut him off before he could say anything. “I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to ask if I’m sure it was a vision. And yes I’m positive.”

“Okay,” he stated, squeezing the hand he still had wrapped around her wrist.

“Okay?” she asked, surprised that was all he had to say.

“What did you expect? An argument?” he asked, smiling.

“Well…yes,” she admitted sheepishly.

“Scully, I wasn’t lying when I said I believe you now. So if you say that the vision was real, then I believe you. The question is what we’re going to do now.”

“Well, for one I’m not letting you out of my sight,” Scully declared.

That made Mulder grin. “And I wouldn’t expect anything less. But Scully, we can use this to our advantage.”

“How?” she asked, skeptical.

He looked thoughtful. “I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

That worried Scully but she decided to keep those thoughts to herself for the time being. Until they solved this case once and for all, she would have to keep an eye on Mulder and make sure nothing happened to him. Easier said than done, she thought glumly.

Read Chapter Nine

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