#maelstrom montgomery

[fafnir19]

Twelfthtide

My reflection in the mirror revealed a man who had weathered life's hardships. My weary eyes held the weight of my struggles, and my once-dark hair now showed signs of thinning. The lines etched on my face were testament to my difficult path. Despite the weariness, a flicker of determination still burned in my eyes, a trace of resilience in the face of adversity. I strode through the bustling corridors of the office, a facade of confidence masking the unease simmering within me. Despite my efforts, I found myself ensnared in the sticky web of office politics, with no escape in sight. My direct manager at least seemed to value the dedication I poured into my work, but the looming shadow of the company owner’s, Montgomery Kolthard, disapproval hung over me like a shroud. As the days inched closer to the third Advent, I received a summons from my manager to his office. I tightened my grip on the strap of my briefcase, a sense of foreboding settling in the pit of my stomach. The words that followed shattered what little hope I clung to: the Weynsteen deal had collapsed, and with it, my employment. My protests fell on deaf ears, as the decision to let me go was handed down directly from Mr. Kolthard himself. Dejected, I wandered through the festively adorned streets, my thoughts a maelstrom of despair, when suddenly, a sharp impact sent me reeling into darkness. A speeding car changed everything.

I awoke in a hospital room, only to realize that I couldn't move anything below my neck. The doctor's words delivered the crushing blow—I was paralyzed. Despair settled over me like a suffocating blanket, and I couldn't see a way out of the darkness. The stale air of the hospital room did little to lift my spirits as I lay there, imprisoned by my own motionless form. It was on the night of St. Thomas, the longest and darkest night of the year, that my world twisted into something beyond comprehension. A figure emerged from the shadows, introducing himself as Zamiel. His presence sent shivers down my immobile frame, and I struggled against the urge to flee, though my limbs refused to respond. Zamiel's voice, smooth as silk but tainted with a sinister edge, shattered the silence as he made his proposition. "Do not fear," Zamiel's voice echoed through the room, "for I bring an offer that will unbind you from the shackles of your condition. I can restore your mobility, but in return, you must serve me for a few days every year." I struggled to comprehend his words, the weight of his proposal pressing down on me. "Serve you? How?" I managed to croak, my voice strained with disbelief. Zamiel's eyes gleamed with an otherworldly light as he explained, "I conduct business with mortals, granting them their heart's desires in exchange for their souls. Your task will be to facilitate these transactions on my behalf. And fear not, for your own soul is not part of this bargain." Zamiel explaining that humans without souls did not make good bargains and hence, my soul was not part of the deal.

 A wary skepticism gnawed at my thoughts, but desperation grasped at the threads of my resolve. With a mixture of dread and fleeting hope, I accepted his terms, and Zamiel handed me a quill and a piece of parchment. "How shall I sign the parchment? I cannot even move!" I protested. Zamiel's chuckle sent a chill down my spine. "Ah, but you can move well enough to sign your name. The ability will be restored to you, should you agree." Suddenly I felt the sensation return to my hands. With trembling fingers, I pricked my thumb, and my blood dripped onto the parchment. With newfound strength, I signed the contract. Zamiel summarized the deal: "When the gates between worlds close on the Feast of Epiphany, you will no longer be paralyzed. In return, you will work for me every year from Holy Eve to the Epiphany!" The next morning, I thought that it was just a dream. The days blurred together, and soon it was Christmas Eve. While others reveled in festivities, I could only brood in my hospital bed, feeling like a mere shadow of my former self. The cheer around me only served to highlight the cavernous void within me.

On the morning of the Epiphany, I awoke to a new reality. I found myself in a vast, opulent bedroom adorned with dark, luxurious furnishings. The air was heavy with the scent of aged wood and incense, and the grandiose setting reflected a level of luxury I had never known. As I stumbled across the room to a lavish, ornate mirror, I caught sight of my reflection and I was struck by the transformation that had taken place. No longer the 47-year-old man worn down by life's tribulations, I was now a youthful, athletic figure with an air of sophistication far beyond my years. The room itself exuded an aura of grandeur, with intricate tapestries adorning the walls and an expansive view that stretched out onto the sprawling city below. On the nightstand lay a piece of parchment, aged and weathered, bearing the peculiar mark of a crimson wax seal. As I examined the parchment, the words etched upon it seemed to dance before my eyes: "Your former boss Montgomery Kolthard cannot bear children, but has desperately desired an heir for his business. I, Zamiel, have granted this wish. You are no longer Christian, but Lucius Kolthard, Montgomery's son. Remember our deal: from the Holy Night onward, you must perform your service." Armed with the knowledge of my newfound identity as Lucius Kolthard, Montgomery's long-awaited heir my days were filled with schmoozing at elite gatherings, draped in the finest attire, and basking in Montgomery's adoration.

Everything I had longed for was within my grasp, yet beneath the facade of grandeur, an unsettling unease festered, a constant reminder of the pact I had struck with Zamiel. As the days turned into weeks, I found myself entangled in the web of Montgomery's business affairs, receiving an insider's glimpse into the inner workings of his empire. It was a heady experience, to say the least. Montgomery, often cold and distant, doted on me with an almost doting affection, treating me like the son he had always yearned for. However, the more he idolized me, the more I felt the weight of the unspoken expectations resting on my shoulders. The grandeur of Christmas Eve arrived, and as the festivities ebbed away, I retreated to my opulent chamber.

It was there that an inexplicable urge drew me to the ornate mirror adorning the wall. Stepping through the ornate mirror, I found myself in Zamiel's realm — a breathtaking place adorned with marble and gold, a stark contrast from the opulence to which I had grown accustomed. Zamiel stood before me, his presence commanding yet strangely comforting. "Lucius," he intoned, his voice resonating through the chamber, "what a striking devil you've become. Those tight pants and cloak suit you well." Zamiel's eyes sparked with amusement as he added, "I must say, I quite like the horns." I watched as his gaze lingered on the horns that had materialized on my head, a sign of the Faustian bargain.

With a sardonic smile, he gestured for me to follow, promising to teach me the art of striking bargains and the alluring nature of collecting souls. Despite initial qualms, I found delight in crafting contracts that would cost my clients their souls. My negotiations became increasingly cunning, and I relished my service to Zamiel. Additionally, I enjoyed the company of the incubus demons. As I stepped back into the mortal realm on Twelfth Night, I looked forward to the events of the coming year, such as my graduation and a planned sailing trip. Yet, I also anticipated my next service to Zamiel from the Holy Night onwards.

[ifr1t]

Who Dares To Enter The Mayhem?

Interests/Hobbies, + DNI/BYF under the cut, or save time and read my Strawpage!!

The name’s Ifrit, I’m an Australian (AEST) teenage artist, actor, cosplayer, writer, and professional cringefail nerd.

I use they/he/she/em pronouns sneaky disguised as any/all

I usually just scream into the void but I also post fanart or occasionally write fanfic so keep an eye out for that

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

DNI/F:

Basic DNI (homophobes/transphobes/lgbtqphobes, racists/xenophobes/whitewashers, sexists, p3dos/MAP, r4pe/abvse apologists or jokers, etc.)

Endorse the creation of p3dophilic/racist/incestuous content/“fiction”

Zionists/Pro-Israel

Pro-generative AI

Zoophiles

Pro-ship/fic

Ableist

Anti-neopronouns

General bigots

BYF:

I’m autistic w ADHD, I often use tone tags. They’re not required but appreciated :)

I’m mostly active on Twitter

Please no DM unless we’re mutuals or it’s important (eg. i'm following someone problematic, I said/did something that you think I may be unaware of, etc). Ask is OK!

Though I don’t talk about them often, I’m not afraid to discuss my political beliefs

Music: I listen to pretty much everything to some extent

Ghost

Sleep Token

Hozier

Megan Thee Stallion

Yaelokre

Babymetal

Ricky Montgomery

Bring Me The Horizon

Will Wood /& the Tapeworms

The Oh Hello's

Illapu

Joy Division

Maelstrom Black

Video Games:

Baldur’s Gate 3

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Trilogy (OG & Reboot)

Detroit: Become Human

Overwatch 2 (im so bad)

Movies:

Deadpool 1 & 2

Deadpool & Wolverine

Venom 1 & 2

Spider-Man: ITSV/ATSV

probably other stuff im forgetting rn

TV:

X-Men ‘97

X-Men (original Animated series)

Good Omens

Bungou Stray Dogs

Dungeon Meshi

The Boys (not super into it tho)

Our Flag Means Death ('')

YouTubers:

Kwite

Danny Motta

Russian Badger

Jschlatt

Not Even Emily

Ted Nivison

Tommyinnit

Jack Septiceye

Technoblade

Slimecicle

Other/Hobbies:

Theatre & Musicals

Art

Acting

Hamilton (musical)

Accidental Death Of An Anarchist (play)

The Song of Achilles (book)

Favs!˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚:

Neil Newbon (actor)

Hugh Jackman (actor)

Ifrit and Zephyr (the band Ghost)

Hozier (Musician)

Astarion (BG3)

Karlach (BG3)

Papa Emeritus IV (the band Ghost)

Connor (DBH)

Deadpool / Wade Wilson (Marvel Comics)

Wolverine / Logan Howlett (Marvel Comics/X-Men)

Spider-Man (Marvel Comics)

Morph / Kevin Sydney (X-Men)

Nightcrawler / Kurt Wagner (X-Men)

Storm / Ororo Munroe (X-Men)

My twt mooties

My irls

[salazar2480]

Dobby and Narcissa are on fire

Mr. Montgomery was lazily sipping firewhiskey from a small coffee cup when there was a quiet knock at the door. He hastily gulped down the rest of the firewhiskey and stashed the cup in the top drawer of his desk.

Come in. - came his confident low tenor. A soaked one, to be exact. The matte-gloss wooden door slowly opened, and a tall, long-haired blond man appeared on the threshold. His appearance radiated self-confidence and contempt for everyone else.

To what do I owe the honor? - Montgomery asked dryly, looking at the strange visitor with interest.

My name is Lucius Malfoy. I would like to file a report on the disappearance of my wife, Lady Narcissa Malfoy.

Why don't you have a seat? - Montgomery smiled lightly. The lanky aristocrat lowered himself gingerly onto the offered wobbly chair.

Now let's start at the beginning. How did it all happen? - Montgomery leaned back in his worn swivel chair.

The following has come to light: Mr. Malfoy, a hereditary aristocrat, lives in Malfoy Manor. Son Draco works in London, wife Narcissa resides with Lucius. They have several house elves, including, according to the official registry, a house elf named Dobby.

This morning, Mr. Malfoy found a note scribbled by Narcissa at home: "I've gone away with my lover, believe me, it's better for both of us. There was no way to be sure it was her handwriting, though. Mr. Malfoy searched the entire house and grounds - his wife was nowhere to be found. So she must have left during the night. But with whom? There was no one else in the house. Only the housekeepers. But one of them, Dobby, had also disappeared that night. So Mr. Malfoy decided to seek the help of the magical police, hoping to get to the bottom of the situation. Elmer Montgomery frantically analyzed what he had heard. It turns out that in one night a rich aristocrat, a representative of one of the oldest magical families of Great Britain and a house elf disappeared. A kidnapping? Why would the house elf be a kidnapper? Maybe he's a witness.We must examine your house and try to find traces of the crime. - Montgomery was adamant, and he was worried sick about what was going on. - I'll grab the investigative team, and then we'll apparate to your place. Meet me at the bulletin board in the lobby.

Meanwhile, in a house on the outskirts of Plymouth…

'My darling…' Narcissa exhaled hotly into her lover's ear. - How could we have ignored each other for so long…? He didn't let her finish, and Narcissa plunged into a maelstrom of pleasure. Her lousy aristocrat was not that he was good for nothing, but not as passionate as her lover.

Darling, we're never going to leave here, are we? We're never going to part, are we? - he whispered.

We won't. We can't live without each other. No, Lucius was definitely no match for her lover. Dobby, after all, is not human. He's practically an animal according to the Malfoys. So Narcissa's a zoophile now. Then what is Dobby? Does it matter, though? What matters is that they love each other. They had realized this three months ago, when Narcissa had noticed that Dobby was always hanging around her and serving not Lucius, but her. Lucius, on the other hand, was the one he didn't want to notice. Sure, he had to do his bidding, but he did so sluggishly and glared angrily at his rightful master. Narcissa only chuckled - this elf thought a lot of himself. But he obeyed her orders with fervor and even tried to do her a favor on his own initiative. He would make tea or bake a cake.

The aristocrats' lifestyle consists of socializing and permanent idleness. Narcissa was not a very active person, unlike Bella, but she was still concerned with the problem of "what to do with her brain," unlike most of her colleagues in the golden cage. A lot of things had happened since spring: Draco had found a job and left for London; Lucius had started to go to the left and had grown cold to his wife; Bella had stopped by for a couple of days and left for some Muggle masochist she had been living with for a long time. Narcissa, sitting alone at home, was going crazy with idleness and the horrible contrast of her depressed inner state and the spring storm of hormones. She lost her interest in reading when she went through the literature in her meager home library for the hundredth time. But her interest in walking had to be put on hold - the slush and washed-out roads of early spring were in no way conducive to it. So she began to look at Dobby, to study his behavior, to look at him closely. He was, of course, an animal according to most people. But he's a very sweet and charming animal. He may be small, he may have huge ears, he may have woolly skin hanging down in folds - but he's alive, too!

And one day, Narcissa wished he would never leave her side again. Or to spend as much time with her as possible. She told Lucius that she wanted to learn to draw and decided to draw Dobby. To say that Lucius was surprised was an understatement. First his breath caught, then he managed to take a breath after all. He didn't want to do that, but he launched into a long, convoluted tirade, the point of which was that he shouldn't keep the housekeeper busy with nonsense, let him work like a damned man. But he still allowed him to draw - let his wife have some fun, or she'd get rusty from boredom. So Narcissa began to draw. Dobby posed for her every day, and at intervals he brought her tea. One day Narcissa thanked him, thus doing something of which her husband had only a very rough idea. Dobby cried then. And she handed him a clean napkin…. Later the work on the portrait began to wane. More and more time the sitter and the artist spent in conversation. First on everyday topics, then - about more abstract problems. Dobby, however, was not aware of any of them. Narcissa told him about a world he had never really seen. She was his guide to a world of ruthless exploiters. And the portrait moved ever more slowly. Lucius chuckled condescendingly as he looked at the resulting creation, causing Narcissa to take offense and stop showing him the portrait.

The climax was when Narcissa didn't even pull the coverlet off the canvas when she started working - then she and the housekeeper had talked for six hours straight. That was when she stopped fooling herself. Yes, she was attracted to that animal that so resembled a mouse. Yes, she was uncomfortable with her husband's rough caresses. Yes, she felt sympathy for the houseboys. She looked into Dobby's eyes. He did not avert his gaze. Slave and master were at that moment closer than the most ardent lovers, they didn't need legillement to understand each other without words. Narcissa unconsciously reached out her hand toward him. Dobby pulled himself closer to her. They had lost eye contact and only bodily contact remained. If aristocrats were made by that criterion, Dobby could easily be king. He was insistent, but delicate at the same time. That's when she realized she was no longer an aristocrat. In fact, she could hardly be considered normal anymore. How could it be that the highly respected Lady Malfoy turned out to be a zoophile. And not just a zoophile, but the object of her affection was a pet! Belonging to her husband!

After what had happened, Narcissa couldn't find a place to sit for hours on end. What to do now, how to face her husband and Dobby? She was no longer interested in her husband, but working with Dobby seemed inexpressibly attractive and frightening now. And how did he feel about what had happened? Oh Merlin, what had they done… What if she was pregnant! Narcissa clutched at her head and was overcome with suicidal thoughts. At first she tried to chase them away, but then gave up trying unsuccessfully. Toward evening, tired of the situation, she called Dobby over and asked him bluntly what he thought about what had happened. He blinked and, with his head down, mumbled crumpledly that he had loved Narcissa for a long time and today had been one of the few happy days of his life. Narcissa cried, and he sat down awkwardly beside her on the expensive bedspread, stroking her shoulders with his paw as she sobbed. That night they agreed to see each other as often as possible. And when Lucius returned, Dobby had to leave Narcissa behind and do the long-haired autocrat's bidding. Two weeks later, Narcissa finally realized that she hated Lucius. The vacant seat of her lover was not empty - Dobby had ascended to it. He had ascended like a true aristocrat, albeit dressed in an old pillowcase. He was far more honorable than Lucius.

During one of their dates, they almost got caught - two houseboys wanted to ask the landlady's permission to move a cupboard. Narcissa yelled at the houseboys and wanted to beat them up - but realized she couldn't do that. more application. I mean, they're like Dobby - they're houseboys too, they're just as miserable as he is. So in order not to incur suspicion, Narcissa threatened to flog them next time. The habitually frightened houseboys retreated, forgetting to ask the question they had come to ask. It was then that the lovers began to make plans to escape. Both hated Lucius, and both longed for some kind of freedom. But beforehand, Narcissa made sure that Lucius told Dobby to become her slave. The plans lasted almost a month, after which they finally approved the now executed plan. The cottage on the outskirts of Plymouth was formally owned by the state, but was not actually used - it stood off the roads and communications. Narcissa had memorized it during one of her trips with Andromeda. And already two twenty-four hours later, they had realized their plan. And now they were enjoying each other in the silence of the old house. The whole world had receded into the background - their love was worth it. Narcissa was completely maddened by the flow of new feelings and had long ago lost control of herself. Without true love, she had lost half of her life. And she could have lost all of it without a trace.

Meanwhile, Mr. Montgomery and his crew had thoroughly examined every millimeter of the mansion, scanned the grounds with magic, and concluded that there was no sign of intruders. So who did Narcissa run off with? Dobby or something? It's a confusing situation. Interviews with the houseboys turned up nothing. Especially since they really had no idea how Dobby and Narcissa felt.

We do have a remedy, but it's not, how shall we put it mildly, legal. It can only be used with a prosecutor's authorization.

Give me your remedy! - Lucius shouted.

Illegal…" Montgomery mumbled. - But in your case, for five galleons, I think it's possible.

You damned bribe-taker. - Lucius hissed, dropping the money into the palm of his hand. Montgomery pulled a mirror from his pocket, cast a spell, and the mirror grew to the size of a wall mirror. He set it on the floor.

Now we'll find out where she is… The mirror will show a picture…" and Montgomery waved his wand. A stream of lilac color flowed from it and scattered a hundred sparks near the mirror.

The image that came into view was blurry at first, but after a few seconds it became clearer. Lucius caught his breath: what the hell is she doing? It only got worse when he realized who his wife was with… But the investigation team was also stunned. Narcissa, undressed and breathtakingly beautiful, was lying on the sofa and moaning under the caresses of her lover. The prominent body movements left no doubt as to what exactly Narcissa and her lover were doing. The elf, wrinkled and with sagging skin, at first glance seemed like a tumor on her body, ugly and causing nothing but disgust. Lucius had never seen his wife like this before. Beautiful, predatory and at the same time as if afraid of not being delicate. She was the epitome of femininity. The elf gave her pleasures and she took them. Her disheveled hair made her look like a true witch. She arched and screamed her lover's name. She was the personification of all forbidden passions and vicious instincts, of carefully harbored desires and subconscious dreams, she was eroticism personified. What an idiot he was to cheat on her!

Shut it off! - he yelled. Montgomery reluctantly stopped watching. A map of Britain flashed on the mirror, showing the exact address of that house in Plymouth. - I have no further need of your services! I'm withdrawing my application!

As you wish, sir. - bowed to Montgomery. The police apparated back to the station. Lucius sat down on the floor and cradled his head. He, an aristocrat, had been abandoned by his wife in favor of a houseboy! It was out of his mind… It would be out of the question to even look for her - she was forever defiled by his filthy paws. What does she see in him? She's a stuffed fool! Lucius splashed firewhiskey into a glass and drank it down in one gulp. He wouldn't go looking for her. And when she came crawling back to apologize, he'd throw her out with the toe of his boot. He'll burn the shoe. If anyone asks, his wife's gone to her relatives. That way, no one will know of his shame. And what to say to Draco?

[firesofdainix]

Oc-tober Day 1: OC drawing themself

Itsuki Montgomery actually has artistic talent, which is why he wasn't quite interested in history and had very intricate, colorful paintings in wherever he usually stays in. His walls are filled to the brim with environmental studies, no space left blank. He struggles with painting or drawing actual people, so most of his portraits are splotches. It's fine, because Wu loved them anyway.

Wakano Mirra's first dream before rendered as Alvern's eternal assistant was to become an artist. She was initially very good at portraits, but ever since working with Alvern, she became accustomed to looking at art in a way that extends in the mind. So, when asked to draw herself, she would probably take a moment to reflect herself and come up with an answer before she starts to draw.

Oc-tober Day 2: Them and their favorite flower

Alvern Wand LOVES dahlias, simply because it resembles his personality and love for flora the most. He is fond of fondling these types of flowers, and Kai occasionally finds them hanging in her office. But, what her favorite dahlia is are the black dahlia. Not a coincidence! She also really likes hyacinths and bluebells, and they adorn her formal outfits when they have the chance to show it.

Hideaki Fujimori (Ninjago) is fond of camellias. These flowers were the reason he got together with his wife, before their inevitable end. He usually leaves camellias in his wake, never really seeming to belong anywhere else. His favorite flower post-mortem would be the baby's breath, reminding him of the love that was unjustifiably ripped away from him.

Oc-tober Day 3: Tallest/Shortest OC

Hideaki Fujimori (Ninjago): 189 cm

Itsuki Montgomery: 184 cm

Morro I: 181 cm

Hee-young: 181 cm

Maelstrom: 178 cm

Wakano Mirra: 174 cm

Alvern Wand: 164 cm

Ayumi: 163 cm

Lee: 151 cm

Nozomi: 145 cm

[messedupedits]

dacre montgomery layouts.

please like/reblog if you use or save layouts.

credits on twitter @messedupedits.

[scorpionyx9621]

TW: Death, Queerbaiting, and Voltron

Like I'm sorry y'all I'm just as hyped for the new content as much as anyone but the second I heard Lauren Montgomery was the one directing the first animated movie my heart sank to my god damned stomach.

For those of you who don't know, Lauren Montgomery was one of the co-directors for Voltron: Legendary Defender with fellow LoK creative director Joaquim Dos Santos. For those of you who very fortunately were not on this god forsaken hellsite between the years of 2016-2018 VLD had this website by the god damned throat. From seasons 1 through debatably 6 it was a genuinely good, if weirdly paced show. Then from Season 7-8 the show went down the shitter. FAST.

To make a long story very short that can be easily explained much better than I ever could by a brilliant YouTube miniseries by The Sin Squad. Lauren Montgomery and Joaquim Dos Santos both had an original script that involved killing off one of the characters, but were forced by their production company DreamWorks to keep said character (It's Shiro.) Alive because DreamWorks correctly predicted that Shiro would become the favorite character of the show.

How did Lauren Montgomery and Joaquim Dos Santos react to this news that they had to re-write a heavy portion of the show just to keep Shiro alive? Well they made it work for Season 3-6 with minor jabs towards DreamWorks here and there. Yet the second they could get Shiro introduced fully back into the team on Season 7 onwards they do a litany of things ranging from pretty good to exceptionally bad.

Announce that Shiro actually died but we're gonna fudge with reality and our own universe to bring him back (cool I guess)

Instead of expanding upon Shiro's role as a leader and a character just designate him as a talking head and a wallflower until they get back to earth (Bad)

Upon getting back to earth, the show shoves a half-baked romantic subplot for Shiro involving another man whom we know Jack and Shit about only to have him be on screen for all of like 4 minutes, 3 of them he's fighting with Shiro, and the last 1 minute he's dying. Perpetuating the bury your gays trope yet again. (very derogatory and bad)

Take a character who literally could have been the champion of diversity in an animated show (A gay, physically disabled Japanese man suffering from PTSD) and turn him into a wallflower for what could have been a fantastic growth opportunity and just have him go through even more trauma all for shits and giggles. (Hatred)

LM and JDS both fully admitted that they did all of this and the reason for this being largely because of their resentment towards DreamWorks and they both regret how the show ended. (*Screams into the dark, cold, uncaring void*)

I do not mean this post to be an attack towards Lauren Montgomery. She has a family and loved ones who care about her, sh does not under any circumstances deserve harassment or threats. She is a professional writer who makes a whole lot more money than I do and is able to churn out a literal multi-million dollar franchise in less than 3 years. Even if said franchise crashed and burned in a way that is only comparable to the finale of HBO's Game of Thrones. She has the professional chops and I don't. I am not at all trying to say I could ever fix Voltron after the literal maelstrom of a shit storm it became with the fandom literally threatening to kill people over ships.

But I am never going to forgive her and Joaquim Dos Santos for what they did to Takashi Shirogane. Ever. And after hearing the announcement this morning that she's at the helm of this upcoming animated movie I cannot in good faith just sit by and let people not know what she has done. Yes you can call me a crazed Shiro Stan. You wouldn't be wrong. But Lauren Montgomery and Joaquim Dos Santos both tortured and maimed a disabled Japanese character and turned him gay only for the woke points and to create more pain. They never wanted to make Shiro gay in the first place because they never wanted Shiro to be alive at that point.

I am happy to see that the Team of Bryke is working very closely with Lauren Montgomery on this if only because they were they original creative directors, but if I were in their position being forced to give one of the highest positions to a well known and documented bad-faith actor, I'd keep her on as tight a leash as possible. I'm still going to watch the movie, but I am going to be hyper-vigilant about the fact that Lauren is the one at the helm. I want this movie to succeed just as much as anyone else, but like I said, I cannot in good faith just stand by and let it not be known what Lauren Montgomery has done and what she could be capable of doing again.

[tyblackthorn]

qoaad snippets shared so far

warning: long post from oldest to newest

Mark knocked, and a harried-looking Simon Lewis opened the door.  

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“I can’t do this.” Helen tried to keep her voice steady, but it was nearly impossible. She hoped the strain would be covered by the sound of the waves crashing below them, but Aline knew her too well. She could sense when Helen was upset, even when she was trying hard not to show it. “Baby.” Aline moved closer, wrapping her arms around Helen, brushing her lips softly with her own. “You can. You can do anything.” Helen relaxed into her wife’s arms. When she’d first met Aline she’d thought the other girl was taller than she was, but she’d realized later it was the way Aline held herself, arrow-straight. The Consul, her mother, held herself the same way, and with the same pride — not that either of them was arrogant, but the word seemed a shade closer to what Helen imagined than simple confidence. She remembered the first love note Aline had ever written her. The curves of your lips rewrite history. The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. Later, she’d found out it was an Oscar Wilde quote, and had said to Aline, smiling, You’ve got a lot of nerve. Aline had looked back at her steadily. “I know. I do.” They both had, always, and it had stood them in good stead. But this — “This is different,” Helen said. “They don’t want me here –“ “They do want you here.” “They barely know me,” Helen said. “That’s worse.”

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Fear prickled up and down Emma’s arms like goosebumps. Since she was twelve, she had been terrified of the ocean: she had always believed her parents had died in it, dragged below the surface by Raziel knew what, choked to death on bitter seawater. The surge and crash of waves, the imagined black velvet of the ocean’s depths, had filled her nightmares. Even when she found out her parents had been murdered on dry land by Malcolm Fade, their bodies thrown into the sea after death, the fear remained. She reached for it now, welcomed it in. She could feel it filling the empty spaces, the hollows left by grief. She glanced back down at the sea. The surging whirlpool below, the waves slamming like dark blue walls against sheer needles of stone, looked like a painting of a maelstrom, a photograph of a hellscape taken from a safe distance. The wind screamed in Emma’s ears like a warning. Another wave hurled itself against the cliffs, sending up an explosion of spray. Emma smiled grimly into the wind and salt, and jumped.

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Kit glanced around, wondering if the growing number of people was bothering Ty. He hated crowds. Magnus and Alec were standing with their kids near the Consul; they were with a beautiful black-haired girl with eyebrows just like Alec’s and a boy — well, he was probably in his twenties — with untidy brown hair. The boy gave Kit a considering look that seemed to say you look familiar. Several people had done the same. Kit guessed it was because he looked like Jace, if Jace had suffered a sudden and unexpected height, muscle and overall hotness reduction.

------------------

Isabelle shook her head, then bent down and unclipped a chain from one ankle. She held it out to Emma. “This is blessed iron. Poisonous to faeries. Wear it and you can pack a hell of a kick.” “Thanks.” Emma took the chain and wrapped it twice around her wrist, fastening it tightly. “Do I have anything iron?” Simon looked around wildly, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small metal figure of an archer. “This is my D&D character, Lord Montgomery —” “Oh my God,” said Isabelle.

------------------

Emma had been halfway up the stairs on the way to Cristina’s room when she had seen Mark, leaning against the wall on the landing and looking dejected. “Dru won’t let me in to talk to her,” he said. “I am worried. It is like a faerie to grieve alone, but not, I understand, like a Shadowhunter.” Emma hesitated. She was about to say that it wasn’t unlike Dru to lock herself in her room alone, but Dru had looked more than a little upset when she’d left the kitchen. “Keep trying,” she advised. “Sometimes you have to knock for twenty minutes or so. Or you could offer to watch a horror movie with her.” Mark looked glum. “I do not think I would enjoy a horror movie.” “You never know,” Emma said. He turned to head back up the stairs, and hesitated. “I am worried about you and Jules as well,” he said, more quietly. “I do not like the Inquisitor, or the idea of you being questioned by him. He reminds me of the King of Unseelie.” Emma was startled. “He does?” “They give me the same feeling,” Mark said. “I cannot explain it, but —“ A door opened on the landing overhead: it was Cristina’s. She stepped out, glancing down. “Emma? I wondered if you were —“ She stopped when she saw Mark, and she and Mark stared at each other in a way that made Emma feel as if she had disappeared completely. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Cristina said, but she was still looking at Mark, and he was looking back as if their gazes were hopelessly tied together. Mark had shaken himself, as if he were casting off cobwebs or dreams. “It is all right — I must go speak with Drusilla.” He had bounded up the stairs and out of sight, disappearing around the bend in the corridor. Cristina had snapped out of it and invited Emma in, and now it was as if the moment with Mark had never happened, though Emma was itching to ask about it. “Mark will need you,” she said again, and Cristina twisted her hands in her lap. “Mark,” she said, and paused. “I don’t know what Mark is thinking. If he is angry at me.” “Why would he be angry at you?” “Because of Kieran,” she said. “They did not end things well, and now Kieran is at the Scholomance, and far away, which was my doing.” “You didn’t break him up with Kieran,” Emma protested. “If anything, you helped keep them together longer. Remember — hot faerie threesome.” Cristina dropped her face into her hands. “Mrfuffhfhsh,” she said. “What?” “I said,” Cristina repeated, lifting her face, “that Kieran sent me a note.” “He did? How? When?” “This morning. In an acorn.” Cristina passed a small piece of paper to Emma. “It isn’t very illuminating.”

Lady of Roses,

Though the Scholomance is cold, and Diego is boring, I am still grateful that you found enough value in my life to save it. You are as kind as you are beautiful. My thoughts are with you.

Kieran

“Why did he send you this?” Emma handed the note back to Cristina, shaking her head. “It’s weird. He’s so weird!” “I think he just wanted to thank me for the escape plan,” Cristina protested. “That’s all.” “Faeries don’t like thanking people,” said Emma. “This is a romantic note.” Cristina blushed. “It’s just the way faeries talk. It doesn’t mean anything.” “When it comes to faeries,” Emma said darkly, “everything means something.

------------------

Faerie magic was quiet, Kit thought. There was no noise, no tumult, no flashing warlock lights. In between one breath and another, Mark, Kieran and Cristina simply disappeared.

------------------

“You hated the Shadow Market in London,” Kit said. “It really bothered you. The noises, and the crowd —“ Ty’s gaze flicked down to Kit. “I’ll wear my headphones. I’ll be all right.” “…and I don’t know if we should go again so soon,” Kit added. “What if Helen and Aline get suspicious?” Ty’s gaze darkened. “Julian told me once,” he said, “that when people keep coming up with reasons not do something, it’s because they don’t want to do it. Do you not want to do this?” Ty’s voice sounded tight. The thrumming wire again, sharp with tension. Under the cotton of his shirt, his too-thin shoulders had tightened as well. The neck of his shirt was loose, the delicate line of his collarbones just visible. Kit felt a rush of tenderness toward Ty, mixed with near-panic. In other circumstances, he thought, he would just have lied. But he couldn’t lie to Ty.

------------------

A ghost, Kit thought. Like Jessamine. He looked around wildly: surely there would be more ghosts here, their dead feet leaving no traces on the grass? But he only saw the Blackthorns, clinging together, Emma and Cristina side by side, and Julian with Tavvy in his arms, as the smoke rose up and around them. Half-reluctantly he glanced back: the young man with the dark hair had moved to kneel beside Robert Lightwood’s pyre. He was closer to the flames than any human could have gotten, and they seemed to eddy within the outline of his body, lighting his eyes with fiery tears. Parabatai, Kit thought, suddenly. In the slump of the young man’s shoulders, in his outstretched hands, in the longing stamped on his face, he saw Emma and Julian, he saw Alec as he spoke about Jace; he knew he was looking at the ghost of Robert Lightwood’s parabatai. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did.

------------------

“You have changed, son of thorns,” said the Queen.

------------------

“Please. I’ve taught at Shadowhunter Academy. I —” Catarina began to cough, her shoulders shaking. Her eyes widened in alarm. Cristina slid out of bed, alarmed. “Are you all right —?” But Catarina had vanished. There wasn’t even a swirl of air to show where her Projection had been. Cristina hastily threw on her clothes: jeans, an old t-shirt. She wished with all her heart that Emma was here, that they could talk about last night, that Emma could give her advice and a shoulder to cry on. But she wasn’t. Cristina touched her necklace, whispered a quick prayer to the Angel, and headed down the hall to Mark’s room. He’d been up as late as she was, so there was a high possibility he was still sleeping. She knocked on the door hesitantly and then harder; finally Mark threw it open, yawning and stark naked. “Híjole!” Cristina shrieked, and pulled her t-shirt collar up over her face.”Put your pants on!” “Sorry,” he he called, ducking behind the door. “At least you’ve already seen it all.”

------------------

The pyres were still burning as the procession turned and headed back toward the city. It was customary for the smoke to rise all night, and for families to gather in Angel Square to mourn among others. Not that Emma thought it was likely the Blackthorns would do that. They would remain in their house, closeted in with each other: they had been too much apart all their lives to want comfort from other Shadowhunters who they barely knew. She had trailed away from the rest of the group, too raw to want to try to talk to Julian again in front of his family. Besides, he was holding Tavvy, who was cried out and almost asleep. “Emma,” said a voice beside her. She turned and saw Jem Carstairs.

------------------

“They fear your influence,” said Gwyn. “They know others listen to you. You are very persuasive, Diana, and startlingly wise.” She made a face at him. “Flatterer.” “I am not flattering you.” He stood up. “I am afraid for you. Horace Dearborn may not be a dictator yet, but he yearns to be one. His first move will to be to eliminate all who stand against him. He will move to extinguish the brightest lights first, those who illuminate the pathway for others.” Diana shivered. “You are cynical, Gwyn.” “It is possible I do not always see the best in people,” he said, “as I hunt down the souls of slain warriors on the battlefield.” She raised her eyebrows. “Are you making a joke?” “Maybe.” He looked puzzled. “I think I might have. Was it funny?” 

------------------

Tavvy was running over to see what was happening, and Jaime was asking if Dru still had the knife he’d given her, and she couldn’t help smiling, her first real smile since Livvy. Jaime came back, Dru thought. Finally, someone didn’t leave — they came back instead.

------------------

That’s why I did all this,” Ty said. “I want you with me in any way you can be.”

------------------

Something struck Cristina’s back; she screamed as her feet left the ground. A harpy had sunk its claws into the back of her gear jacket and was lifting her into the air. She thought of stories about how eagles flew high into the sky with their prey and then released them, letting their bodies smash open on the earth below. The ground was already receding below her with terrifying speed. With a scream of fear and anger, she slashed up and backward with her sword, slicing the harpy’s claws off at the joint. The demon shrieked and Cristina tumbled through the air, her sword falling out of her hand, reaching out as if she could catch on to something to slow her fall — she saw Mark’s pale, terrified face turned up toward her harpies surrounding him in a dark cloud — Something reached out to seize her out of the sky. She gasped as a hand caught her elbow, and she was yanked sideways to land awkwardly atop something warm and alive. A flying horse.

------------------

In the reflection of the window glass, Kit saw the bedroom door open and Ty come in. He was still wearing his mourning clothes, though he’d taken off the jacket and was just in a black long-sleeve T-shirt. And Kit knew it was too late to run, that he cared about these people now, and specifically Ty. “I’m glad you’re here.” Ty sat down on the bed and started unlacing his shoes. “I wanted to talk to you.” The door was still slightly open and Kit could hear voices coming from the kitchen downstairs. Helen’s, Dru’s, Emma’s, Julian’s. Diana had gone back to her own house. Apparently she lived in a weapons store or something like that. She’d gone back to get some kind of tool she thought could fish the splinters out of Julian’s bleeding hands. Ty’s hands were fine, but he’d been wearing gloves. Kit had seen Julian’s when he’d gone to rinse them out at the sink, and they’d looked like shrapnel had blown into his palms. Emma had stood nearby looking worried, but Julian had said he didn’t want an iratze, that it would just heal the skin closed over the bits of wood. His voice had sounded so flat, Kit had barely recognized it. “I know how this is going to sound,” Kit said, turning so his back was against the cold glass. Ty was hunched over, and Kit caught the gleam of gold at his neck. “But you’re not acting the way I expected.” Ty kicked his boots off. “Because I climbed up the pyre?” “No, that was kind of actually the most expected thing you did,” said Kit. “I just…” “I did it to get this,” Ty said, and put his hand to his throat. Kit recognized the gold chain and the slim disk of metal attached to it: Livvy’s locket, the one he’d helped her put on before the Council meeting. He vividly remembered her holding her hair aside as he fastened the clasp, and the smell of her perfume. His stomach lurched. “Livvy’s necklace,” he said. “I mean, I guess that makes sense. I just thought you would…” “Cry?” Ty didn’t look angry, but the intensity in his gray eyes had deepened. He was still holding the pendant. “Everybody is supposed to cry. But that’s because they accept that Livvy is dead. But I don’t. I don’t accept it.” “What?” “I’m going to get her back,” said Ty. 

------------------

“Julian, remember what Dane said, that you were the kind of guy who would have a girl for a parabatai?” She knelt up on the bed, raising her chin to look him directly in the eye. “That’s what I always loved about you, even before I was in love with you. You never thought for a second about it diminishing you to have a girl as your warrior partner, you never acted as if I was anything less than your complete equal. You never for a moment made me feel like I had to be weak for you to be strong.”

[writer59january13]

One month into summer 2022 elapsed here...

Within Perkiomen Valley, Pennsylvania, thus far marginal rainfall for season nevertheless...the hazy, hot and humid dog days meanwhile (gad) Zeus

tiredly huffs and puffs...with a growl regarding thunderstorm unable to make headway against invisible firewall shielding this area of the keystone state haul in tandem with the spirit of Saints Peter, Paul and Mary (Southeastern - tri county (also) encompassing the suburban hall, sans Spring Mount Mountain King - an egg gree us fellow - quite tall simultaneously straddling Bucks, Delaware, and Montgomery), and much as I revel, when blizzard conditions raged, a Saul ting self importance of humanity,

where meteorological conditions hurled a wicked frozen curveball forcing fatuous, egocentric brazen arrogance into unassuming (ruff) atoll shape shifting paradigm,

viz dogmatic couture of modesty call out depravity, immodesty, pomposity, et cetera, vis a vis, when "she" declares marshall, law yes only when might

of Mother Nature tempers trumpeting one donning guise of cloudy (with chance of) meatballs

unfortunately indiscriminately striking havoc overall mindful, honest, decent... folks swept up in maelstrom, which pitfall could cause loss of life or limb, this teetotaler inebriated, fascinated, and captivated, and linkedin to thrall

dom wielded by volcanic, tectonic, climatic...

of phenomena take (measure for measure) an indifference to scuttling hominids beef four all lose well that ends well, asper scrimmage maul ling the accouterments of civilization then...deathly still quiet doth befall after unleashed forces exhaust and expend blistering might temporarily silencing madding crowd to standstill, and eventual faint crawl courtesy of a wicked atmospheric drawl!

[thesunlounge]

Reviews 104: Singū

Growing Bin’s dominance of 2018 continues with the expansive and exploratory ambient jazz of Singū. The duo of Kiyofumi and Keita (KETA RA) Sadanaga make post-rock as Simon Reynolds originally meant the term, using guitar, drums, and electronics to build awe-inspiring maelstroms of experimental cosmic sound, every bit as mysterious and portentous as the far-out entity on the LP’s cover. They are as comfortable referencing the psychoactive guitar sprawl of mid-80s Sonic Youth as they are the interstellar journeys of John Coltrane and Rashied Ali, Don Cherry and Ed Blackwell, and Joseph Jarman and Famoudou Don Moye, with a strong spiritual connection as well to kosmische musik and those blissed out early days of Kranky Records…think Magnog, Amp, Doldrums, and Roy Montgomery. 

Singū - Siki (Growing Bin Records, 2018) “Aurora gate” comes to life as Kiyofumi’s loose jazz drumming is surrounded by balmy synthesizers. These immersive layers of sound take on vocal drone overtones and KETA RA’s dissonant guitar notes begin to rain down, eventually working their way towards triumphant and freely flowing chords. All the while, the drums become progressively wilder, crashing, thrashing, and moving back and forth from all out squall to physical whisper. The guitars and hazy synth atmospheres intertwine in captivating ways, sometimes aligning in powerful harmony, other times working against each other in a turbulent conversation. And slow motion dream sequencing enters at some point, like faded streaks of audio starlight fighting through the post-jazz ambiance while the narcotic drum work builds towards something resembling a fixed beat, everything locking in for climactic cosmic romanticism before ending on unsettling start-stops and moments of dark prog fusion with dramatic swings swelling. Then comes the short and sweet “Bop2be,” with bebop rhythms gliding towards the heart of the sun, all intoxicating cymbal play and pulsating kick drum backed by massive sub bass tones. Glistening piano runs flow through the mix, like cascading waterfalls of ivory, moving into and out of cruising leads and gorgeous tapestries of spiritual ambiance.

Our next explosive space music epic comes with “Nabegu.” A miasma of metallic clatter and alien droning backs the liquid LSD bass of Yuhei Watanabe, while cerebral oscillations and snare, cymbals, and stuttering kick emerge from the feverish fog. Strange echo effects float overhead…some sort of outer-dimensional liquid thats glows and swirls around an increasingly active and harsh drum performance led by overblown and fried cymbal work. The primitive laser oscillations grow in strength, constantly threatening to overtake the mix with brilliant sheets of white light and eventually the murky layers of electronics, drums, and Yuhei’s prog bass come together for some semblance of a jam, one built around a repeating bassline with occasional pysch-groove filigree and a smashing beat that sounds as if it could fall apart at any moment. And up in the sky, sci-fi squiggles approximate free jazz fireworks exploding into a stratosphere on fire, while the sounds of the cosmos beam in via gaseous synths. For the next track “Fazarai,” electronics sound like windchimes covered in stardust and an aquatic percolating synth pattern pushes things out to sea. The drums crash like waves with smashing cymbals and concentrated bass drum bursts while flutey tones waft through the air like a mirage. KETA RA’s guitars swell in joyous layers of sound and the drums and starlight electronics build and build towards a violent storm, constantly increasing the contrast with the new age atmospheres growing ever more meditative and dreamy.

The weirdest and most challenging cut here is “828”, built initially around plucked bass tones in drunk timeshifting loops. Outerspace demons chatter alongside bright flashes of industrial rattling and static while underneath, atonal riffs echo to the edge of the galaxy, everything floating on some sort of dark ether that works its way into the mind and induces states of unsettling delirium. Unidentifiable sounds slide up and down some alien scale over the far-out bass flow and electronics sounding like seabirds in an otherworldly jungle drop in as shambolic electronic percussion wanders its way towards nonexistence. By the end, everything has devolved into pure abstraction, the drum pulse almost gone, leaving just psychedelic electronics sounding like coyotes sent through broken interstellar broadcast equipment. The closing piece “44” has as its foundation a repeatedly rising wash of synthesizer that sounds like the breath of the universe. We get our most straightforward drum groove yet here as Kiyofumi locks into a vibrant post-rock swing (though still with plenty of wild jazz flare). Celestial vibraphones and/or e-pianos spread through mix…euphoric, beautiful, transportive...eventually joined by echoing speech that drifts atop the soporific beatscape. The whole piece is a cycling meditation that picks up steam as it progresses, the drums still swinging but with a flashy propulsion, the ascendent synthesizer layers ever-present with their new age mesmerism, and glassy keys blurring into lustrous arcs of gentle noise.

(images from my personal copy)

[dollsome-does-tumblr]

the best of it (rory/paris, ch. 16)

THE BEST OF IT - Gilmore Girls; Rory/Paris; the one where Rory and Paris pretend to be girlfriends for JUSTICE!, and a documentary crew.

Chapter 16: In which Rory and Paris have a Serious Chat.

Read it: [AO3]

Paris storms up the stairs, Rory’s hand locked in hers, and doesn’t stop until she and Rory are standing in the upstairs bathroom. She’s so distracted by the maelstrom of what the hell is going on what the hell what the hell in her skull that she can’t even freak out over the explosion of beauty products sprawled across the counter. God, Lorelai needs to chill. She’s an adult woman, not a tween with babysitting money to blow.

Paris knocks over a bottle of something pink and strawberry-scented as she turns on the sink full blast.

“Is that really necessary?” Rory asks, wincing at the spray of water.

Paris gestures to the door. “I don’t want the camera crew to hear us.”

“They’re going to think I’m washing your rash.”

“That’s love, baby,” Paris snaps. Rory makes a face, and Paris lowers her voice. “Now, what the hell was that?”

“What do you mean?” Rory asks, looking suddenly awkward.

“Your mom cried, Rory. You quoted a Canadian and your mom cried.”

“She didn’t cry.”

“Her eyes were all shiny. It counts. It was officially more emotion than she showed when we watched The Fault in Our Stars last summer.”

“Well, The Fault in Our Stars is drivel,” Rory says fairly.

“True,” Paris says. “And I appreciated watching it with peers who were willing to throw popcorn at the screen with me; otherwise I definitely couldn’t have made it through. But that’s not the point. Why are you doing live readings of L.M. Montgomery and pretending to love me??”

[janeaustentextposts]

Question! I noticed - maybe I'm wrong - that in all the adaptations, the casting for the main characters is similar: Darcy is dark haired, and so is Lizzie; Jane is blonde and (for some fascinating reason) Bingley is ginger-y. Is there a reason? something in the books that I missed? Some extra source? It seemed too much a coincidence (although I do love Ginger Bingley) thanks!!!

First off, I’m going to refer back to Mullan’s What Matters in Jane Austen? again, because he’s done a whole chapter on what her characters look like (and starts off with a basic examination of casting choices in adaptations and the admiration or outrage which always follows.) “How people look is often suggested rather than specified in Austen’s novels.” He then goes on to quote Sterne’s Tristram Shandy, “…paint her to your own mind–as like your mistress as you can–as unlike your wife as your conscience will let you.”

All we know of Jane is that she is considered very beautiful–as much is said by Bingley, her mother (who has no difficulty criticizing her children when they displease her,) and even Darcy must admit it as a fact. Looks are important in novels where often penniless girls must rely on other attractions in their manners and person–”…words used so frequently about characters when we first meet them: handsome, pretty, gentlemanlike, elegant…”. And yet she avoids specifics–perhaps as a reaction to other novels of her era, where a heroine’s precise points of beauty are totted up among her other virtues to make her a peerless wonder. Austen’s heroines are often described by other characters, rather than the narration, as it’s important to consider who is looking, and how, when looking at their judgements. Some people use a mention in Jane Austen’s letters about Jane wearing the colour green and Elizabeth preferring yellow to be some kind of marker of what their haircolours must have been in Austen’s mind’s eye, but that’s a tenuous argument at best, and if Austen had wanted the world in general to know imagined particulars about Jane and Elizabeth, she would have set them down in the text.

We know Elizabeth’s eyes are fine, and dark, but beyond that, we are given no details. On a genetic level, dark eyes are far more likely to occur in people with darker hair, but Austen wasn’t working with genetics–and dark eyes paired with lighter hair can sometimes be a rare sign of remarkable beauty, as in the descriptions of Irene in Galsworthy’s Forsyte Saga books. (A description which was entirely ignored in the casting of my future wife Gina McKee, but then Irene’s beauty and her allure is such a pivotal force in the novels that to pin it down as necessarily belonging to certain shades of colouring is to make it more trite than it truly is. Irene’s beauty is something beyond what one sees at first glance–it is transcendent charm.) Dark could mean brown, or also a very dark blue or grey–it’s impossible to tell, exactly. Anne Elliott’s eyes are mild and dark, Fanny Price’s are soft and light, Harriet Smith’s are blue, Jane Fairfax’s a deep grey, (and her lashes and eyebrows called dark, giving us some notion of the likely shade of her hair,) Mary Crawford’s are sparkling and dark…eyes are often the only thing near to a solid description we are given of physical attributes, and even then half of the description is more to do with the expression of the personality or feeling of the character through their glances and gazes, rather than specifically the colour of their irises. (Only Emma Woodhouse’s exact eye-colour is known–they are “hazle” and no adaptation so far has given enough of a shit to make certain of casting.) Marianne Dashwood has very dark eyes, and there is a general comparative description of the figures of the two sisters–but casting directors rarely, if ever, I think, take specifics of figures into account beyond an ‘acceptable’ level of Hollywood slimness.Now, for the casting trends (exceptions to the pattern you laid out being the 1940 P&P’s Greer Garson being a dirty-blonde/light brown Elizabeth, while Maureen O’Sullivan’s Jane had very dark hair; and the 1980 miniseries with Elizabeth Garvie’s Eliza also having light brown hair while Sabina Franklyn’s Jane was several shades darker–but indeed, the two more recent and well-known adaptations of 1995 and 2005 have the colourings you mentioned,) it’s probably just down to Hollywood mechanics where you’re going to have to combine the tropes of a comparative Ugly Duckling sister as well as a Best Friend/Beta Couple plotline. Coding a blonde woman (or man) as ‘good’ and a darker-haired person as ‘less good’ has been a Thing since long before cinema showed up on the scene. There’s a reason Laura Ingalls spends so much time inwardly (and outwardly) bitching about her sister Mary’s luck in being blonde (and also better-behaved, though this is never explicitly tied to the fact that Mary is blonde, but just ties INTO the overall notion that Mary is The Better Daughter.) Dark-haired heroines throughout older literature have bemoaned their lack of golden locks (notably also in LM Montgomery’s works, with Anne Shirley’s famous sensitivity about her hair being red, but also briefly in Emily Starr’s contemplation of her own black hair and atypical looks, which gets a bit of verse thrown at it which I can’t find sourced anywhere else so must have been made up by Montgomery herself: “If the bards of old the truth have told the sirens had raven hair. But over the earth since art had birth, they paint the angels fair.“So culturally, in the west, there’s a pervasive notion (especially when it comes to women,) that dark-haired women are the ‘darker’ side of their humanity…the temptresses, the more-likely-to-be-bad. (Though any reasonable reader would be like “…well, they’re human, you see, not out-and-out evil.”) But of course anyone compared to the fair-haired saintly paragon of womanhood would look bad–and so equally is the angelic blonde woman a trope in literature, often but not always used in comparisons against her brunette foil.

In cinema, quite often it’s just to better differentiate between characters, and to use these assumptions which are deeply entrenched in our cultures to play upon our immediate and almost instinctive reactions to visual cues. Jane is super-good, so she’s blonde. Bingley is likewise a bright and easy-going character, with more elements of comedy about him, so he’s got lighter hair, too, either as a strawberry blonde or redhead–but he is definitely the sidekick. I, personally, would be all for a ginger Darcy. Or a ginger-everybody P&P. (But that’s not going to happen, because redheaded men are culturally de-sexed/made less masculine or attractive, whereas redheaded women are more inclined to be overly-sexualized. Humanity is weird.) Darcy is a brooding brunette, because darker hair in the case of a male character gives them gravitas and mystery. It’s that damn Byronic thing coming into play. Dark hair, dark secrets. It’s a visual construct we’ve trapped ourselves into, at this point. Also, when you’ve got two love-stories running more or less concurrently, an audience needs visual markers to help them quickly identify and individualize (and therefore emotionally-invest in) the characters. More morally-dubious and fascinating hero and heroine Elizabeth and Darcy are brunettes because we see them making mistakes and drawing our attention by being fuck-ups. Lizzie can’t be the Prettier Sister, so she’s more automatically made the Brunette Underdog. Darcy is brooding and mysterious–so it’s very easy to make him dark-haired. Their contrasts are in their secondary characters–Jane and Bingley. Jane is prettier, and good-hearted (moreso than Eliza, anyway,) so she ascends to Blonde. Bingley is the Good Friend, and seemingly with fewer social defects compared to Darcy, so as the Nice Man, he gets lighter hair to also differentiate him from Darcy and make him more matchy-matchy with Jane. Our brains are making these connections based on visuals even before we’ve gotten half a dozen words of dialogue from any of these people.

This happens often in films and TV shows–in Coppola’s Dracula, Sadie Frost (a natural brunette) was made a vibrant redhead as Lucy to contrast to Winona Ryder’s more sedate and mysterious Mina. (Though this also had the fun effect of tying in a possible reference to the historical link between redhaired people and vampires, and the whole mythos of redhaired women in particular and sexual allure/witchcraft/spiritual evil–particularly as THIS version of Lucy is much more heavily sexualized compared to her book counterpart. I don’t know how much of the hair-colour-change was on purpose from Coppola’s perspective, and largely it’s just handwaved as being so people could really tell apart the ONLY TWO MAJOR FEMALE CHARACTERS IN THE FILM, but personally I think it’s an interesting choice–particularly compared to Katie McGrath’s blonde Lucy.) Again, we see the contrasting of virtue coded in hair-colouring, as Lucy is a character known for her sweetness and purity…as well as being a secondary female character to the heroine, and hence her more-virtuous foil…with lighter hair. Mina’s place as an educated, working, and married woman, with a more active part in the narrative, particularly as her brushes with dark forces mark her as ‘unholy’, makes it easier to code her as ‘complicated’, i.e. a brunette. Interestingly, this is set on its head in Penny Dreadful, where Mina becomes the blonde, doomed damsel, and her friend/lover Vanessa is the raven-haired woman at the center of a maelstrom of fucked up shit full of vampires, witches, and devils. Essentially if you want your heroine to go ‘bad’ a little (or a lot), give her a better-by-comparison blonde friend and have at it.Of course, since these tropes are so pervasive, we do see stories where this is purposefully mirrored or mocked, where the icy blonde is the femme fatale or turncoat who uses her appeal to deceive others–but this relies just as heavily on the initial assumption that a fair-haired character is intrinsically ‘better’ on a moral level.To conclude, this is why I think we see that general trend with colouring when it comes to casting/styling these characters in cinematic adaptations, as we have really very little in the text to go on, but from the characters themselves there are long traditions to draw from for visual cues to quickly and adeptly condition audiences to draw certain assumptions about these characters which enable us to rapidly bond with and understand them to some degree. I want to specify “Western” audiences because the blonde/brunette thing is at its roots kind of a colourism thing which is grossly pervasive in a white supremacist society going back for centuries, and Caucasian beauty standards do not and should not apply globally; but as the media most of us are familiar with is dominated by this white heteronormative patriarchal history, these tropes and codings exist for ultimately gross reasons. Frankly we could all do without them from this day forward, but change can be slow and so these stereotypes continue to exist and blonde people on-screen for now often continue to be the tacit code for ‘these people are the purest bestest people’ while the darker-haired people are almost always more morally-grey, complicated–even troubling–and made more ‘fascinating’ by their more flawed natures. It’s a shitty way of doing things, but we’ve been culturally conditioned to respond to things like that, and so it works.Anyway, thanks for asking this one–my answer went to places I wasn’t fully expecting me to go, but I enjoyed blowing the dust off my film studies qualifications and I always love yelling about culture.

[hellofastestnewsfan]

Nicholas Sandmann was an ordinary 16-year-old student at Covington Catholic High School, a school for boys in northern Kentucky, when he found himself standing at the foot of the Lincoln Memorial on January 18. He was wearing a red Make America Great Again hat that he’d purchased as a souvenir, and standing face to face with a Native American protester named Nathan Phillips. Sandmann smiled at Phillips, who was beating a drum.

Sandmann is now suing The Washington Post for $250 million in damages in the wake of a furious national debate over alleged anti–Donald Trump media bias that quickly became an object lesson in the perils of social media and the limits of objective truth without independent, on-the-ground reporting.

Sandmann’s suit claims that the Post’s linking to a viral video of him and Phillips, and its focus on his MaGA hat and a “relentless smirk,” were “negligent, reckless, and malicious attacks … which caused permanent damage to [Sandmann’s] life and reputation.”

To win his lawsuit, Sandmann must demonstrate that what was written about him was false. He will face what Kristine Coratti Kelly, a spokesperson for the Post, told me would be “a vigorous defense.” The newspaper has not yet filed a response to the suit, but it published an editor’s note on March 1 saying that its first story has been contradicted by subsequent reporting.

Sandmann’s case may turn on whether the “actual malice” standard established by the landmark 1964 case New York Times v. Sullivan applies. The key question here for a judge to decide could be whether Sandmann is considered a public figure, with a much higher burden of proof, or a private one—just another high-school student who, through no fault of his own, found himself in a maelstrom. The experts are divided over how that’s likely to be decided.

After the Post and other major news organizations linked to the first video and began reporting on the episode, a narrative soon emerged in which Sandmann and his Covington Catholic classmates were depicted as menacing Phillips and making racist taunts.

The Post reported on its website and in the newspaper on a “tense scene” near the Lincoln Memorial, and noted that Phillips said in an interview that he had felt “threatened by the teens and that they suddenly swarmed around him.”

Surrounding Phillips, the Post reported, describing the video images, “are a throng of young, mostly white teenage boys, several wearing ‘Make America Great Again’ caps, with one who stood about a foot from the drummer’s face also wearing a relentless smirk.”

The Post did not identify Sandmann by name in its initial report. In its editor’s note last week, the Post said, “Subsequent reporting, a student’s statement and additional video allow for a more complete assessment of what occurred, either contradicting or failing to confirm accounts provided in that story—including that Native American activist Nathan Phillips was prevented by one student from moving on, that his group had been taunted by the students in the lead-up to the encounter, and that the students were trying to instigate a conflict.” The Post’s statement also linked to a third-party-investigation report commissioned by the Diocese of Covington and Covington Catholic High School, which the diocese says “exonerate[s] our students.”

Whatever story line could be taken from the first viral video was blurred by many others that soon emerged, and by the time they had all been viewed and weighed and scrutinized, a different and more complex narrative existed. “As of this writing, it seems that smiling boy, Nick Sandmann, is the one person who tried to be respectful of Phillips and who encouraged the other boys to do the same,” Caitlin Flanagan wrote for The Atlantic five days after the encounter, having watched every video she could find of the moment. “And for this, he has been by far the most harshly treated of any of the people involved in the afternoon’s mess at the Lincoln Memorial.”

The scene at the Lincoln Memorial that Friday in mid-January was a complicated clash comprising various individuals and groups. In addition to the Native American activists and the Covington Catholic students, a third group was also present, the Black Hebrew Israelites, a sect that believes it is descended from the 12 tribes of Israel. The Israelites posted their own video from that afternoon that lasts an hour and 45 minutes. In this rendering, it is the Black Hebrew Israelites who hurl racial taunts at the Native Americans. The Covington students seemed to have been caught between the two, having gathered to see what was going on as they waited for their bus.

As Ian Bogost, another Atlantic writer, concluded in a deft analysis of the limitations of online videos: “It’s tempting to think that the short video at the Lincoln Memorial shows the truth, and then that the longer video revises or corrects that truth. But the truth on film is more complicated: Video can capture narratives that people take as truths, offering evidence that feels incontrovertible.”

New York Times v. Sullivan resulted from an advertisement published in the Times aimed at defending the actions of Martin Luther King Jr. The advertisement levied claims—some inaccurate—against the police force in Montgomery, Alabama, and in response, Montgomery Public Safety Commissioner L. B. Sullivan sued the Times for defamation. The Supreme Court unanimously found in favor of the Times, establishing that defamation against public officials (such as Sullivan) must meet the actual-malice standard: publication of information with “knowledge that it was false or with reckless disregard of whether it was false or not.”

Sandmann is not a public figure like a politician or a traditional celebrity, but he could be deemed a limited-purpose public figure, a legal distinction for people who have “thrust themselves to the forefront of particular controversies in order to influence the resolution of the issues involved.” Or Sandmann could be considered an involuntary public figure who has been thrust into the public spotlight against his will. This can apply to anyone at the center of a public controversy despite whether or not that person willed it.

If Sandmann is determined to be a public figure of any classification, he will need to demonstrate not only that the Post published false statements with negligence, but that it acted with “reckless disregard” for the truth as outlined in New York Times v. Sullivan. “He’s a private figure, not a public one,” says Lata Nott, the executive director of the Freedom Forum Institute’s First Amendment Center, “so he only needs to prove that The Washington Post published the story negligently, meaning that it didn’t do everything reasonably necessary to determine whether the story was true or false.”

Sandmann’s lawyer agrees. “Prior to the incident in question and before the publication of the false accusations against him, Nicholas had zero notoriety within society generally and had not purposely thrust himself into the forefront of a pre-existing public controversy in an effort to influence the outcome of the controversy,” L. Lin Wood told me in an email. “Therefore, Nicholas is neither a general purpose public figure nor a limited purpose public figure.”

But on this point, there is no unanimity. “Sandmann was a private individual before the recording,” conceded William Youmans, a media-law professor at George Washington University’s School of Media and Public Affairs. “What the Post will argue is that once the video got out and went viral, he became an involuntary public figure at the center of a news story. The Post only picked up on the story because it was getting wide social-media attention. In other cases, unknown individuals became involuntary public figures just for being at the center of viral social-media content. The children of celebrities can also be public figures. If he is deemed an involuntary public figure because of what he did in front of the camera, his case will be harder to win.”

Frank LoMonte, the director of the Brechner Center for Freedom of Information at the University Florida, agrees that the case hinges on this determination. “It’s always a perilous gamble to predict whether someone will or will not be deemed a public figure when they had no prior public profile, but if I had to bet, I would say that once your behavior at a public event like a protest becomes a matter of intense national public attention and scrutiny, you probably are a limited-purpose public figure for the purposes of covering that behavior,” LoMonte told me.

“If the court rules that Sandmann is a public or limited-purpose public figure, do you think the Post’s actions still meet the legal burden for defamation: reckless disregard?” I asked Wood, Sandmann’s lawyer.

He responded with a simple “Yes.” It’s an important answer, because if Sandmann’s team wants to win any of the $200 million requested in punitive damages (beyond the $50 million in compensatory damages), they will actually have to meet this higher standard—actual malice—regardless of the public-private–figure determination.

Wood, an Atlanta-based lawyer once dubbed the “attorney for the damned” by the former CBS anchor Dan Rather, rose to national prominence by representing Richard Jewell, the security guard falsely accused of bombing the Atlanta Olympic Games in 1996. He has also represented the former presidential candidate Herman Cain, the family of JonBenét Ramsey, and, recently, a British cave diver whom Tesla CEO Elon Musk called a pedophile on Twitter.

I asked Wood why this case is different. “Nicholas is a private figure plaintiff,” he responded. “Thus, Nicholas can prevail in his lawsuit by proof that the Post negligently published defamatory accusations which caused injury to his reputation and caused him to suffer emotional distress. Furthermore, and importantly, Nicholas is minor child. We also contend that journalistic standards required that the media exercise a heightened duty of care to investigate before publishing damning accusations against a child.”

Sandmann’s complaint, filed in the U.S. District Court for the Eastern District of Kentucky, alleges that The Washington Post is at fault for publishing false and defamatory statements about Sandmann and his interaction with Phillips, the Native American protester.

Beyond reporting, the complaint also says that the Post is responsible for “making the 2020fight Video go viral,” a bold claim that might be difficult to prove in court. Nott, from the Freedom Forum, doubts whether the Post would be found liable for linking to the viral video. “It’s my understanding that you can’t be liable for retweeting something if you’re not the original publisher and you didn’t add anything defamatory,” she told me.

Sandmann’s lawyers assert that “the Post did not conduct a proper investigation before publishing its false and defamatory statements of and concerning Nicholas … its unreasonable investigation did not take long, and contrary information did not stop it from publishing its first story in its Sunday newspaper the next day.”

The complaint says that the Post’s motives were “political.” “The Post ignored basic journalist standards because it wanted to advance its well-known and easily documented, biased agenda against President Donald J. Trump … by impugning individuals perceived to be supporters of the President,” it says.

Wood thinks that anti-Trump bias plays a pertinent role in the case he’s making. “Here, I believe the evidence will support a finding that the Post and many other members of the mainstream and social media mob rushed to attack, vilify and threaten Nicholas because they harbor an anti-Trump agenda and Nicholas was wearing a Make America Great Again cap which he had purchased that day as a souvenir,” Wood said in an email.

A few other legal matters might complicate Sandmann’s case against the Post.

Sandmann’s lawyers are claiming defamation per se, a legal determination in which a defamatory charge is “so inherently defamatory that you don’t even need to prove that it damaged your reputation,” Nott explained to me. “But I’m not sure if The Washington Post stories really qualify, since defamation per se usually applies to statements that someone has committed a crime, or incest, or has a ‘loathsome disease’ like leprosy. But I’d need to dive deeper into Kentucky law to be sure of that.”

Wood thinks it’s obvious that Sandmann’s situation clears this bar. “Kentucky law defines libel per se as defamatory statements that tend to expose the plaintiff to public hatred, ridicule, contempt or disgrace, or to induce an evil opinion of him in the minds of right thinking people,” he told me. “I think that description says it all.”

Nott also pointed out that “in order for Sandmann to prevail in his libel suit against The Washington Post, he has to establish that The Washington Post published false statements of fact, not opinion, that damaged his reputation … The Washington Post could potentially argue that the statements the complaint refers to are matters of opinion, not fact—like whether or not Sandmann was smirking, whether the situation was getting ugly, etc. It could also argue that it did take reasonable care to verify the story before publishing it, and outline whatever steps it took to do so.”

Wood parried at this assertion. “Contrary to public perception, the United States Supreme Court has clearly recognized that there is no wholesale First Amendment protection for opinion,” he said. “The Post will not find shelter under the controlling Supreme Court standards on opinion enunciated in Milkovich v. Lorrain Journal Co. [sic] wherein … if the ‘opinion’ is based on undisclosed facts or is based on false facts, the statement is actionable. The Post’s damning accusations against Nicholas were based upon false facts which would have been known to be false by the Post prior to publication if it had conducted even a cursory review of readily available information. Under the law, the talebearer is as liable as the talemaker.”

He has also made it clear that he plans to sue multiple news organizations, saying last month that he had sent letters to more than 50 publishers and individuals (including The Atlantic) demanding that they preserve all documents relating to their statements and reporting regarding Sandmann and his classmates.

When asked which other news outlets he planned to sue, Wood said, “We are still formulating our [precise] plans regarding complaints against other media entities so I cannot state with certainty the order of the filings. I can tell you that at the present time, our team is carefully analyzing the coverage of CNN, Associated Press and NBC/MSNBC.”

In a recent interview on Fox News, Sean Hannity asked Wood if there were “hundreds, thousands of potential lawsuits here?”

“Certainly hundreds,” Wood said. “The good news is that we have two and a half years to identify and file lawsuits against the wrongdoers because he is a minor. Nick will turn 18 in July of 2020. We’ve got two and a half years. We’ve got a lot of work to do, because the social-media and mainstream mob of bullies was extremely large in number. And they were very vocal.”

What impact the Post’s editor’s note might have on the litigation was also a matter of debate. Wood said it was simply “too little, too late” in a statement to Fox News this weekend.

Kelly, the Post spokesperson, made it clear to me in an email on Sunday that the newspaper does not consider its editor’s note a correction. “While we do not accept the characterizations and contentions regarding our reporting of the incident at the Lincoln Memorial, we have taken steps to address the concerns expressed to us,” Kelly said. “The full story did not emerge all at once and throughout our coverage, we sought to produce accurate reports. Even the comments of the school and church officials changed, and the Post provided ongoing coverage of the conflicting versions of this event and its aftermath, giving prominent attention to the student’s account and the investigative findings supporting it. We thus have provided a fair and accurate historical record of how this incident unfolded.”

LoMonte, from the University of Florida, said that Kentucky is one of the states that allows publishers to mitigate damages through corrections, but that “what the Post has published is not a complete retraction, and I’m not sure whether it rises to the level of a correction. It doesn’t explicitly say, ‘We were wrong about certain facts.’ It just says that those facts have been contradicted or can’t be confirmed.”

Nott said the editor’s note “doesn’t seem like an attempt by The Washington Post to mitigate defamation damages. It seems like a statement that they didn’t engage in defamation at all.”

Youmans, from George Washington, said the statement was “carefully crafted to avoid surrendering ground to Sandmann’s lawyers.”

“It makes the case that inaccuracies in initial reporting were worked out over a series of articles,” he said, “hinting at possible defenses and demonstrating the absence of actual malice.”

from The Atlantic https://ift.tt/2tQQ1Ct

[uniteordie-usa]

Battlefield America Is the New Normal: We’re Not in Mayberry Anymore

http://uniteordiemedia.com/battlefield-america-is-the-new-normal-were-not-in-mayberry-anymore/ Battlefield America Is the New Normal: We’re Not in Mayberry Anymore “Police” in Ferguson Missouri By John W. Whitehead August 29, 2017 “If we’re training cops as soldiers, giving them equipment like soldiers, dressing them up as soldiers, when are they going to pick up the mentality of soldiers? If you look at the police department, their creed is to...

“Police” in Ferguson Missouri

By John W. Whitehead August 29, 2017

“If we’re training cops as soldiers, giving them equipment like soldiers, dressing them up as soldiers, when are they going to pick up the mentality of soldiers? If you look at the police department, their creed is to protect and to serve. A soldier’s mission is to engage his enemy in close combat and kill him. Do we want police officers to have that mentality? Of course not.”— Arthur Rizer, former police officer and member of the military

America, you’ve been fooled again.

While the nation has been distracted by a media maelstrom dominated by news of white supremacists, Powerball jackpots, Hurricane Harvey, and a Mayweather v. McGregor fight, the American Police State has been carving its own path of devastation and destruction through what’s left of the Constitution.

We got sucker punched.

First, Congress overwhelmingly passed—and President Trump approved—a law allowing warrantless searches of private property for the purpose of “making inspections, investigations, examinations, and testing.”

For now, the scope of the law is geographically limited to property near the Washington DC Metro system, but mark my words, this is just a way of testing the waters. Under the pretext of ensuring public safety by “inspecting” property in the vicinity of anything that could be remotely classified as impacting public safety, the government could gain access to almost any private property in the country.

Then President Trump, aided and abetted by his trusty Department of Justice henchman Jeff Sessions and to the delight of the nation’s powerful police unions, rolled back restrictions on the government’s military recycling program.

What this means is that police agencies, only minimally deterred by the Obama administration’s cosmetic ban on certain types of military gear, can now go hog-wild.

We’re talking Blackhawk helicopters, machine guns, grenade launchers, battering rams, explosives, chemical sprays, body armor, night vision, rappelling gear, armored vehicles, and tanks.

Clearly, we’re not in Mayberry anymore.

Or if this is Mayberry, it’s Mayberry in The Twilight Zone.

As journalist Benjamin Carlson stresses, “In today’s Mayberry, Andy Griffith and Barney Fife could be using grenade launchers and a tank to keep the peace.”

You remember The Andy Griffith Show, don’t you?

Set in the fictional town of Mayberry, N.C., The Andy Griffith Show portrays the two stars of the show—Sheriff Andy Taylor and his bumbling deputy Barney Fife—as peace officers in the truest sense of the word as opposed to law enforcers.

Both Sheriff Taylor and Deputy Fife dress in khaki uniforms, a far cry from the black, militarized Stormtrooper getups worn by police today. Andy refuses to wear a gun and only allows Barney to wear his gun on the proviso that he keep his single bullet out of the chamber and in his shirt pocket. Most of all, the two lawmen relate to those under their protection as equals, rather than as enemy combatants or inferiors.

Contrast the idyllic Mayberry with the American police state of today, where local police—clad in jackboots, helmets and shields and wielding batons, pepper-spray, stun guns, and assault rifles—have increasingly come to resemble occupying forces in communities across the country.

As Alyssa Rosenberg writes for The Washington Post, “[The Andy Griffith Show] expressed an ideal that has leached out of American pop culture and public policy, to dangerous effect: that the police were part of the communities that they served and shared their fellow citizens’ interests. They were of their towns and cities, not at war with them.”

That’s really what this is about: a war on the American citizenry waged by local law enforcement armed to the teeth with weapons previously only seen on the battlefield

If you thought the militarized police response to Ferguson and Baltimore was bad, brace yourselves.

As investigative journalists Andrew Becker and G.W. Schulz reveal, “Many police, including beat cops, now routinely carry assault rifles. Combined with body armor and other apparel, many officers look more and more like combat troops serving in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

Thanks to Trump, this transformation of America into a battlefield is only going to get worse.

To be fair, Trump did not create this totalitarian nightmare. However, he has legitimized it and, in so doing, has also accelerated the pace at which we fall deeper into the clutches of outright tyranny.

Everything America’s founders warned against—a standing army that would view and treat American citizens as combatants—is fast becoming the norm. Certainly, this lopsided, top-heavy, authoritarian state of affairs is not the balance of power the founders intended for “we the people.”

Yet in the hands of government agents, whether they are members of the military, law enforcement or some other government agency, these weapons of war have become accepted instruments of tyranny, routine parts of America’s day-to-day life, a byproduct of the rapid militarization of law enforcement over the past several decades.

As Becker and Schulz document in their insightful piece, “Local Cops Ready for War With Homeland Security-Funded Military Weapons”:

In Montgomery County, Texas, the sheriff’s department owns a $300,000 pilotless surveillance drone, like those used to hunt down al Qaeda terrorists in the remote tribal regions of Pakistan and Afghanistan. In Augusta, Maine, with fewer than 20,000 people and where an officer hasn’t died from gunfire in the line of duty in more than 125 years, police bought eight $1,500 tactical vests. Police in Des Moines, Iowa, bought two $180,000 bomb-disarming robots, while an Arizona sheriff is now the proud owner of a surplus Army tank.

Under this recycling program, small counties and cities throughout the country have been “gifted” with 20-ton Mine Resistant Ambush Protected (MRAP) vehicles.

MRAPs are built to withstand roadside bombs, a function which seems unnecessary for any form of domestic policing, yet police in Jefferson County, New York, Boise and Nampa, Idaho, as well as High Springs, Florida, have all acquired MRAPs. Police in West Lafayette, Indiana also have an MRAP, valued at half a million dollars.

Universities are getting in on the program as well.

The Ohio State University Department of Public Safety acquired an MRAP, which a university spokesperson said will be used for “officer rescue, hostage scenarios, bomb evaluation,” situations which are not common on OSU’s campus. In fact, it will be used for crowd control at football games.

Almost 13,000 agencies in all 50 states and four U.S. territories participate in the military “recycling” program, and the share of equipment and weaponry gifted each year continues to expand.

In 2011, $500 million worth of military equipment was distributed to law enforcement agencies throughout the country. That number jumped to $546 million in 2012.

Since 1990, $4.2 billion worth of equipment has been transferred from the Defense Department to domestic police agencies through the 1033 program, in addition to various other programs supposedly aimed at fighting the so-called War on Drugs and War on Terror. For example, the Department of Homeland Security has delivered roughly $34 billion to police departments throughout the country since 9/11, ostensibly to purchase more gear for their steady growing arsenals of military weapons and equipment.

Police departments are also receiving grants to create microcosms of the extensive surveillance systems put in place by the federal government in the years since 9/11.

For example, using a $2.6 million grant from the DHS, police in Seattle purchased and setup a “mesh network”throughout the city capable of tracking every Wi-Fi enabled device within range. Police claim it won’t be used for surveillance, but the devices are capable of determining “the IP address, device type, downloaded applications, current location, and historical location of any device that searches for a Wi-Fi signal.”

Now ask yourself: why does a police department which hasn’t had an officer killed in the line of duty in over 125 years in a town of less than 20,000 people need tactical military vests like those used by soldiers in Afghanistan?

Why does a police department in a city of 35,000 people need a military-grade helicopter?

For that matter, what possible use could police at Ohio State University have for acquiring a heavily-armored vehicle intended to withstand IED blasts?

It’s a modern-day Trojan Horse.

Although these federal programs that allow the military to “gift” battlefield-appropriate weapons, vehicles and equipment to domestic police departments at taxpayer expense are being sold to communities as a benefit, the real purpose is to keep the defense industry churning out profits, bring police departments in line with the military, and establish a standing army.

It’s a militarized approach to make-work programs, except in this case, instead of unnecessary busy work to keep people employed, communities across America are finding themselves “gifted” with unnecessary drones, tanks, grenade launchers and other military equipment better suited to the battlefield in order to fatten the bank accounts of the military industrial complex.

Not surprisingly, this trend towards the militarization of domestic police forces has also opened up a new market for military contractors.

You know who gets stuck with the bill for all of this unnecessary military gear, don’t you?

“We the taxpayers,” of course.

First, taxpayers are forced to pay millions of dollars for equipment which the Defense Department purchases from megacorporations only to abandon after a few years. Then taxpayers get saddled with the bill to maintain the costly equipment once it has been acquired by the local police.

It’s like the old adage: “never look a gift horse in the mouth.” The catch is that this gift horse is an expensive and deadly boondoggle.

For instance, although the Tupelo, Miss., police department was “gifted” with a free military helicopter, residents quickly learned that it required “$100,000 worth of upgrades and $20,000 each year in maintenance.”

In addition to being an astounding waste of taxpayer money, this equipping of police with military-grade equipment and weapons also gives rise to a dangerous mindset in which police adopt a warrior-like, more aggressive approach to policing.

The results are deadly.

As a study by researchers at Stanford University makes clear, “When law enforcement receives more military materials — weapons, vehicles and tools — it becomes … more likely to jump into high-risk situations. Militarization makes every problem — even a car of teenagers driving away from a party — look like a nail that should be hit with an AR-15 hammer.”

The danger of giving police high-power toys and weapons is that they will feel compelled to use it in all kinds of situations that would never normally warrant battlefield gear, weapons or tactics.

This “if we have it, we might as well use it” mindset, by the way, is also used to justify assigning SWAT teams to carry out routine law enforcement work such as delivering a warrant. That’s how you end up with SWAT tactics being employed when police are tasked with searching for a stolen koi fish and enforcing barber licensing laws.

Suffice it to say, we’re long past the days of Mayberry when cops were peace officers and recognized their role as public servants, a marked contrast to the climate of entitlement that has cops today acting like overlords and authoritarians.

Change will not come easily.

As I make clear in my book Battlefield America: The War on the American People, the police unions are a powerful force and they will not relinquish their power easily. Connect the dots and you’ll find that most, if not all, attempts to cover up police misconduct or sidestep accountability can be traced back to police unions and the police lobby.

Just look at Trump: he’s been on the police unions’ payroll from the moment they endorsed him for president, and he’s paid them back generously by ensuring that police can kill, shoot, taser, abuse and steal from American citizens with impunity.

Still, the responsibility rests with “we the people.”

As author Ta-Nehisi Coates reminds us:

The truth is that the police reflect America in all of its will and fear, and whatever we might make of this country’s criminal justice policy, it cannot be said that it was imposed by a repressive minority. The abuses that have followed from these policies—the sprawling carceral state, the random detention of black people, the torture of suspects—are the product of democratic will. And so to challenge the police is to challenge the American people who send them into the ghettos armed with the same self-generated fears that compelled the people who think they are white to flee the cities and into the Dream. The problem with the police is not that they are fascist pigs but that our country is ruled by majoritarian pigs.

Read More: https://www.rutherford.org/publications_resources/john_whiteheads_commentary/battlefield_america_is_the_new_normal_were_not_in_mayberry_anymore

[firesofdainix]

What are Misako’s brothers like?

Oh man,,, I have actually personified Misako's older brother and her one younger brother and youngest sister only... but here's what they're like

Most of Misako's brothers have been, unfortunately, conditioned to be woman haters. It extends to the only girl in the family, since Montgomery keeps on having wives to 'protect' the family name. All of them, even Misako's younger siblings, had children before her, and while her own family line is severed, Lloyd has a bunch of cousins in the central part of Ninjago.

So, here they are

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Itsuki (壱城)

Since Montgomery means king of the mountain, his means 'one castle'

Oldest of the entire Montgomery family, three years older than Misako.

He and Misako are the only fully biological siblings, since their mother died during his younger sister's birth

Itsuki never forgave her for this, because... he's being petty and he's copying his dad.

He's the one that looks and acts mature, but he's definitely not emotionally developed

He has a resting poker face, no matter how many times his dad tries to get him to smile in photos.

He actually respects Misako and her passion, but just like all the rest, cut her out of the family completely and never brought her up again.

He's the smartest of all the siblings, barring Misako (she's arguably a lot smarter than he is) and the scholar of the family. His siblings didn't like him for his so called haughty nature, but that's probably because he was

He didn't marry, because according to him, he didn't want girls to suffer the fate of being forced into marriage with him. He also has a hatred for children.

Maelstrom

Second son, younger than Misako for one year

The opposite of Itsuki; a lot more extroverted, less emotionally constipated, and very hands-on with his involvement.

Prefers Misako and her adventurous nature more to Itsuki's quieter and anti-social one. That is, until Montgomery started to teach him Women Bad

Is actually the most tolerant of the brothers, but he does the bare minimum so don't get your hopes up.

Had four children with one wife- after she died he refused to remarry and turned to drinking. It does more harm to his family than good.

He hates Misako after disgracing their family name and leaving her promised husband to another man. In drunken times, his kids could hear him swearing about her.

In times when he's sober, he actually does a good job managing the household and having rationally-inclined thoughts

Ayumi 彩美

Her name means vivid beauty, because I like to think Misako's kanji also had a beauty character in it.

The youngest of the Montgomery family, she was just a year old when Misako left them, which was like in her early twenties.

She's a little less 'smart' than Misako, but that's more like she lacks the spacial awareness around her surroundings. She's a very nice kid, though, and she's just a really kind and nurturing person.

So that the Misako controversy won't ever happen again, Montgomery and his third wife arranged Ayumi with her childhood friend, Haneul Ahn, immediately when they started taking a liking to each other. TAGOMJTR readers if ur reading this u already know what's happening

She and Haneul married at 16, and immediately had their firstborn girl at 17. She was pressured by her father and her own husband to have another Heir, and this is when her marriage with Haneul started to break

She's basically Misako except she hadn't escaped her situation

I'll probably draw them at some given time, especially Ayumi and Haneul.