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leveloneandup · 17 hours ago

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The 36-year-old Press, a two-time World Cup champion who just signed a one-year contract to stay with the club, began her pro career in Boca Raton, Florida. She played for magicJack, a club that lasted one season in the now defunct Women’s Professional Soccer league: “A lot of toxic and unprofessional things went down there; it was a ‘wow’ moment for me.”

From there she moved to Sweden, and she had a wonderful experience playing in the country’s top division, where her team shared a “dark, dingy” locker room with a boys’ team.

And then she was in Chicago, playing for the nascent NWSL’s Red Stars, on a Benedictine University’s football field in the suburbs. “You might have a coach today, your coach might not show up tomorrow, you’re playing on a college football turf for your games,” Press said. “You don’t have staff, you don’t have a GM, you don’t have a collective bargaining agreement, you don’t have an HR department. …

“All of the things that we didn’t have became a daily grind for me to try to convince often-male leadership that we needed,” said Press, who was among the U.S. Women’s National Team members who won equal pay. “To be told that I was demanding and be told that I was the squeaky wheel. It’s not easy to be a woman advocate. …

“[But] it is our duty, our responsibility and it’s something that brings us great joy, to make the game better for the future. And it has been a great burden, one that all of the work that we’ve done is so that the next generation doesn’t have to do the same.”

The beat goes on: “It’s like, yes, you care about the crest,” Press said. “Yes, you care about the city and the team and a sport. But there’s a larger thing that everyone’s fighting for, and I really feel that there’s a synergy between soccer and basketball particularly in the last few years in this country. In the W, they’re getting the respect and the coverage that is getting closer to what they deserve, and that’s really, really powerful and important thing for women’s soccer, too.”

Angel City raises the bar with upgraded training facility

THOUSAND OAKS — This is awesome! It’s about time.

This is so great! But what’s next?

That’s where we’re at with this women’s sports boom.

There’s a steady drumbeat of groundbreaking achievements: Just in the past few days, soccer star Naomi Girma agreed to move to English side Chelsea for a world-record women’s transfer fee of $1.1 million. In the WNBA, Caitlin Clark’s Indiana Fever announced plans to improve on their previous team-dedicated digs with a new $78 million training facility.

And Tuesday in Thousand Oaks, the ribbon-cutting ceremony for the new Angel City Performance Center, the largest dedicated training facility in the National Women’s Soccer League.

And as the beat goes on, it’s just hammering home many things at once: Yay, progress! But, wow, have women athletes had it tough. And, dang, there’s still so much more work to do. But, yes, let’s goooo – and let’s keep it going.

It’s a lot to digest, so it’s small wonder that veteran standouts Ali Riley and Christen Press got emotional Tuesday talking about their new workplace. Or that their teammates did too this week the first time they toured their new performance center, a reimagined facility on the upper crest of California Lutheran’s campus, space the Rams occupied for eight years before their move to Woodland Hills last summer.

Matt Wade, Angel City’s assistant general manager, recounted how the big reveal elicited screams and tears when players saw their spacious new locker room, where lockers are twice the size as those they used before in temporary trailers down the hillside.

And then there’s the film room, with a projector screen and stadium seating – no more tall people in the back so everyone can see the TV.

And the massive weight room! What was fit for one professional football team is fit for another.

Sean McVay’s old office? Kids space now, where children can safely play while their moms are at work nearby.

Also: a 5,400-square-foot gym, a medical treatment and hydrotherapy area. And, where the Rams used to practice, a full soccer pitch and adjoining half field.

It’s a clever remodel, functional and stylish; from floor to ceiling it’s in keeping with the club’s distinctive asphalt-and-sol rosa color scheme. A spokesman for the team didn’t want to reveal a price tag, but the L.A. Times’ report that it was in the multimillions seems right.

And it all means so, so much to players like Riley and Press, native Angelenos who have experienced about everything in their soccer lives.

From there she moved to Sweden, and she had a wonderful experience playing in the country’s top division, where her team shared a “dark, dingy” locker room with a boys’ team.

The facility upgrade should help a club recruit and retain talent – and a permanent head coach, said new sporting director Mark Parsons, who insisted he won’t rush his search for the right replacement for Becki Tweed, who was ousted after Angel City went a disappointing 7-13-6 last season.

“It’s going to be very hard,” he said, “for people to not want to be in this environment.”

What’s an advantage should be the standard, said Willow Bay, who last July became a controlling owner of the club with her husband, Disney CEO Bob Iger.

“It sets the bar,” said Bay, the dean of the USC Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism. “But it really should be the norm.”

Around the NWSL and the WNBA (ahem, @LASparks).

#christen press #angel city fc #ribbon cutting ceremony #article

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darklinaforever · 7 months ago

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So, I don't deny that Ohsmir is his own ship different from Reylo. This is definitely the case. Acolyte knew how to create his own story for this relationship.

But as I said, beyond being a bit the same archetype of couple and therefore having inevitable similarities, what I mean is that just like Reylo exists thanks to Bastila & Revan while being his own thing, Oshmir exists thanks to Reylo while being his own thing (although for me, they should stop using the Kylo Ren / Ben Solo theme song for Qimir and just create one especially for him...)

Do you understand ?

People complain about the comparison to Reylo, but it's pretty inevitable in the end with this context.

Especially with those who allow themselves to continue to spit on Reylo to put Oshmir on a false footing.

Disliking Reylo and liking Oshmir is completely valid.

But consciously spitting on Reylo to raise Oshmir, when without Reylo, this ship would probably not exist as such, that cannot be done. It's inappropriate.

And again, I have not spoken of those who now allow themselves to spit again on the physique of Adam Driver and prize that of Massy Jacinto.

It's simply disgusting.

Also, I maintain, for me the Star Wars postlogy was very good written until the Rise of Skywalker where they decided to screw up all the character arcs built / set up in the other 2 movies.

Honestly, I'm disappointed, I thought Oshmir would be an opportunity to bring the Reylo stans and other Star Wars fans together again, and in the end, some Oshmir stans are still waging war with the Reylo stans, and I don't understand why.

In the end, we are all in the same side.

Literally I already see antis emerging with the same arguments as for Reylo, and let's not talk about those who object to the swimming scene just as was the case for the shirtless force bond scene of Kylo Ren / Ben Solo in The Last Jedi... (It's crazy to see how angry people get over nothing... 🙄)

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alexandreaiteiaabronia · 3 months ago

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The Lotos-Garland of Antinous

by John Addington Symonds

Behold a vision of the world-old Nile—

Of porch and palace-tower and peristyle

Glassed in the oily current smooth and calm,

With many a fringéd mile of sultry palm

Shimmering in noonday sunlight! O the roar

Of the full-voiced swart-visaged swarming shore,

As the gilt barge, with flash of oars, and cry

Cast on the waters of shrill minstrelsy,

Down the broad tide bears Adrian the king,

Lapped in luxurious ease and winnowing

All husk of hard thought from his heart this day—

So men surmise—to laughter given and play!

Lo the full sails of Tyrian silk out-spread

Like wings of wildest plumage overhead;

The cedar masts with crusted pearl and scale

Of Indian beetle rough; the bellying veil,

Star-sprent, gold-dusted, hyaline in hue,

That tempers like a mist the burning blue

Ofthose bronzed heavens; the heavy-scented flowers,

Plucked from what dim mysterious temple bowers

Deep in the dewy twilight—tuberoses,

Starred jasmines, lotos, crimson chalices

With myrtles woven! Mid that bloomy sea

Are girls, half-seen, reclining dreamily;

Some white as swans unruffled, pure and cold;

Some glowing with the delicate dim gold

Of amber, warm on throat and neck beneath

Black heavy coils of lustrous curls that wreathe,

Snake-like, smooth temples. O the subtle stir

Of laughter and of little feet, the whir

Of fans like night-moths fluttering, mid the wild

Voices of choiring boys, that naked piled

On Persian broidery, to the sound of flute,

Viol and fife and soul-subduing lute,

Make music, piercing shrill and sad and clear

With yearning memories the drowsy ear!

On glides the flashing galley. But the king,

In Roman strength austere, each goodly thing

Serenely reckons. He hath felt the glare

Of shadeless deserts; by the Libyan lair

Of lions hath out-watched the fiery day,

Patiently waiting for his royal prey:

The clash of arms he knows, the thirsty march

O’er sands with wormwood set, where fevers parch

Black lips and tongue, and hollow eyes grow dim:

No Syrian wreath or crown of rose for him

The circlet of the Empire! And behold,

This morn in Theban temples dusk with gold,

While spiry flames from smoking altars flew,

And incense clouds voluminously blue

Sun-proof involved those columned aisles, the seer

Foaming with eyes fixed on the unseen Fear,

A rede of death enwrapped in riddling gloom

Had uttered:—yea, that even for him the doom

Of icy death, unless some spirit free

Of man or boy, unbought, might willingly

Yield life for life, amid the dance and feast,

When hollow-eyed grim Death seems last and least,

Lurked shadow-like. So spake the shuddering priest.

And Adrian heard; yet trembled not, but read

As in a book the doom of Rome dismemberèd:

For on his life alone the Empire hung;

And to his single strength the nations clung,

As clings a vine with leaves and weighty fruit

To some strong pine’s stone-circling massy root.

And none but Adrian heard—save one who stayed

Beside him; one in whose quick pulses played

Fire of free life imperious; a boy

Of nineteen summers, framed for power and joy.

Crisp on his temples curled the coal-black hair;

White myrtle flowers and leaves were woven there:

His eyes had solemn light in them, and shone

Flame-like ‘neath cloudy brows: his cheeks were wan

With passion; and the soul upon his lips,

Smouldering like some fierce planet in eclipse,

Breathed fascination terrible and strong,

As though quick pride strove with remembered wrong.

But oh! what tongue shall tell the orient glow

Of those orbed breasts, smooth as dawn-smitten snow;

The regal gait, processional and grand,

As of a god; the sunny-marble hand,

Grasping a silk-enwoven cedar-wand?

He heard, Antinous! and in his breast

His heart leaped, and his flaming eyes confessed

The fervour of his spirit; still and calm

Standing the while, like some full-fruited palm

Tall by a river-bank. Then forth they went,

The youth divine and royal victim, blent

In silent awe and blind bewilderment.

Down to the Nile they came, and eager men

Pressed round them myriad-voiced with wonder: then

Taking their barge, upon the stream sailed forth,

Downwards all day steering by West and North.

All day the lazy ripple to the prow

Whispered; and all day long by palms arow,

By cities populous with blazing quays,

By tracts of flowering bean and verdant maize,

They glided. Towers and temples sunny bright,

Like mirage in the desert, swam from sight

Behind them; and the wild tumultuous noise

Of nations shouting with a single voice

Grew fainter on the current. All day long,

Lulled to a slumberous symphony of song,

Sails flapped, oars flashed, and boys and maidens made

Cool music in the silken scented shade.

But Adrian dreaming lay, and at his side

Antinous with large eyes blank and wide

Lay dreaming. Thus adown the sleepy tide,

As in a trance toward Lethe through still air,

Lost to the joy of living did they fare.

But now the sun who all day long had driven

His glittering chariot o’er the enamelled heaven,

Began to wester. Level smote his rays,

A furnace-fire of splendour; and the blaze

Burned upon stream and city: in its fire

The pillared shrine and solitary spire,

Tall cypress or thick tamarisk-tangle, swam

Like clouds you scarce can see amid the flame

Of sunset; and the whole vast concave through,

Across the light-irradiate airy blue,

Ran conflagration. Then, ere day was dead,

The slaves who had that service came and spread

The Emperor’s table; and Antinous rose,

For his it was before the banquet’s close

To bear the wine-cup, at his master’s knee

Like Ganymede serving imperially.

He rose, and from his shoulder’s ivory

The veil fell fluttering to his rounded thigh:

Naked he stood; then on his forehead set

A crimson wreath of lotos, cool and wet,

Fresh from the tank, with ivy mixed; and bound

Roses about his breast; and from the ground

A tendril-tangled thyrsus raised, and flung

The quivering leaves aloft that clasped and clung.

Next half the lustre of his limbs he hid,

Like some night-reveller or Bassarid

Fresh-flown from Indian thickets, with the fur

Of panthers streaked and spotted, sleek with myrrh

And musky-fragrant. In his hand a bowl,

Carved of one beryl, soft as if a soul

Throbbed in its flush, he took, and called his crew.

They to their Bacchus with loud laughter flew,

Tossing flame faces, twinkling tiny feet

In measured madness to the timbrel’s beat—

Wild hair behind them flying, loosened zone,

And flowers about their flanks for girdles strewn.

Girls were they, girls with vine-leaves garlanded,

Or jasmines white as their own maidenhead!

Boys too; ye gods, the beauty of those boys,

Lithe as young leopards! the soul-thrilling noise

Of their shrill voices!—Bells are at their feet,

And silver armlets, tinkling as they meet,

Make the air mad.

Behold, in such wild glee,

With dance and music and with witchery,

Paced forth the youth, for whom it seemed that all

His life to come might be one festival.

Yet in his soul was sadness. Well he knew

That ere those lotos-flowers had lost their dew,

He forth would fare upon the dismal way

Of dying.—Thus of many thoughts that day

This one had triumphed: he would die to shield

Adrian from death, if so the doom revealed

By god-sent oracles might be withdrawn

From that great head.—Like Phosphor in the dawn,

Solemn he was and tender; larger eyed,

Of more majestic stature; and his wide

Bare bosom swelled with nobler weight of thought

Than e’er within his heart had yet been wrought,

Since from his fields Bithynian and the play

Of childhood, on a lustrous night of May,

He had been borne by pirate hands, and woke

To weep his mother.

Through the awning broke

The clear-voiced choir; but Adrian in good sooth

Rose from his pillowed couch to greet the youth,

So proudly paced he: and the dying sun,

Shooting that moment from low vapours dun,

Transfigured all his face; and in the glow

The ruddy lotos-flowers upon his brow

Blazed ruby-like, and all his form divine

Blushed into crimson, and the crystalline

Bowl of the gleaming beryl flashed, and dim

With dusky gold the fur that mantled him,

Spread tawny splendour. So he stood and smiled,

Bending his crowned head, like a god who, mild

To mortals, will be worshipped. Such a sight,

So framed, so sphered in music and sunlight,

Had ne’er in court or theatre or grove

Fashioned by Nero for his insolent love,—

Nay ne’er in Syrian valleys where the Queen

Mourns for her lost Adonis, on the green

Of Daphne or of sea-girt Tyre been seen.

He spake: ‘To thee, in semblance of a god,

To thee supreme, who Jove-like with thy nod

Scatterest states and kingdoms, lo! I come

Bearing strong juice of Bacchus. See the foam

Leaps in the crystal for thy lips, and red

As rose or maiden in her bridal bed,

Glows for thy kisses! Health for thee, my king,

Health and long life within the cup I bring.

Yea, were it mine, this youth thou thinkest fair,

(Fair in thy thought, for verily whate’er

Thine eyes have praised, is fairest,) were it mine,

Brief as it is, scarce worth one thought of thine,

(For lo, it blooms to-day, to-morrow dies,

Nay even now is fading, as the skies

Fade after sunset)—were it mine to give,

Thinkest thou, king and master, I would live?

Were it not well to die for thee, and know

There in the scentless myrtle bowers below,

That thou wert living this new life? What breath,

How sweet soe’er, were sweeter than such death?

Nay, Lord, I flatter not. This is no smile

Of hollow semblance on false lips to wile

Kind speech from thee, much prized by us who serve

For could I, from this will I would not swerve!’

Thus spake Antinous, and the table round

Murmured approval; for the honeyed sound

From those calm lips on idle ears like dew

Fell with fresh fragrance and a pleasure new.

Sophists were there, whom Adrian fed, and they

Clapped loud applause, averring the long day

Had kept till eve her flower of perfect speech:

For such fine flattery, like the perfumed peach

Most subtly flavoured, could no palate cloy.

Thus clamoured they, wine-wanton; but the boy,

Bending his lilied brow beneath the wand,

And kneeling to his master, with one hand

Lifted the cup:—a lotos falling stirred

The wine refulgent; then, without a word

Or smile, he raised the sunlight of his face.

But Adrian drank, keeping the flower to grace

His wreath; and bade Antinous take the bowl

Of beryl. Then he turned with graver soul

To some grey counsellor beside him placed;

And the cup-bearer with his revel passed

Forth from the tent imperial.

Lo, the West

Bathing with liquid lustre brow and breast—

Lustre of orange, amber, green and blue,

Glassed on the waves, and gemlike in the dew

Of heaven translucent; the cool breeze that flew

Past silken sail and tent-roof; the black bars

Of palm-groves and of porches; shimmering stars,

And the low moon to eastward, pearly pale

Mid roseate refluence! In one woven veil

Of varied hues the universal world

Seemed by some hand omnipotent enfurled,

Where in the midst the barge, a moving spark

Herself of light, yet mid such splendour dark,

Slept on her shadow. And was this the night,

Centre of all things fair, for thee to blight

Thy blossom with cold frost of death—to die,

Sweetest of all sweet things beneath the sky?

The decks were vacant, as at even-tide

Of chills and sudden dew-fall. Free and wide

The sandal planks thick-matted with bright wool

And furs and flowered embroideries beautiful,

Spread for his pacing; and the lazy plash

Of rippling waves that round the galley wash,

Cooled the clear air. He went as in a dream

Forth to the prow, land o’er the luminous stream

Leaned; and behold, a golden lamp up-borne

By Isis (on her brow the sacred horn,

And at her waist the lotos, leaf by leaf,

And flower by flower, twined in a jewelled sheaf

Of lilies) cast a glimmer pure as pearl

On the veined marble of the watery swirl.

Here stayed Antinous, while the darkening west

Deepened from crimson into amethyst,

From fire to blood-red orange thin and still,

Under faint streaks of tenderest daffodil

Which faded. Soon, as drops of fiery dew

Gleam on a withered primrose, so there grew

Forth from this pallor the intensest glow

Of Hesper’s love-star: tremulous and low,

Poised o’er the palms, he panted; and his beam

Danced like a living lamp upon the stream.

Then spake Antinous: ‘My hour is nigh!

Night cometh, and the guardians of the sky

Illume their cressets!’ So he rose and spread

The panther skin and thyrsus, and the red

Wreath of dead lotos laid upon the ground:

Next in his hand the bowl of beryl, crowned

With roses, from a gleaming golden jar

He rilled; and gazing at the level star,

Thrice made libation, crying: ‘Father Nile,

And Isis and Osiris! ye who smile

On mortal births and burials! lo, I give

My life for Adrian’s! Wherefore should I live?

Have I not learned to trail my manhood’s pride

In the world’s golden gutters?—Like a bride,

Sumptuous with sacrifice and pomp and choir,

Forth from the doors I issued; and the fire

Of Flamens shone to light me: now, alone,

With saffron veil unbound and broken zone,

My blossom withered, lo, a wanton’s doom

Awaits me, or the purifying tomb!—

Nay, even now I weary. Day by day

It irks me to consume the hours with play;

Hearing soft speeches, propped on pillowed down,

To gather smiles; or, when I choose to frown,

Drink womanish tears. Better I ween were strife

With lions than this fulsome flower of life!

And when the flower is faded, what remains?

Yea, heaven, I thank thee: lo, the little pains

Of dying bring me guerdon of great gains!

For in my bloom I perish, having bought

Unending honour. What I give, is nought

But a mere piece of boyhood thrown away:

While he, the Emperor, lives. Even so. This day

Dates a new aeon in the age of Rome;

Wherethrough, a name for ever, in the dome

Of people’s praises, I shall pace, and be

Equalled with heroes in mine infamy!

Nay, what on earth more godlike? I have heard

Of soldiers dying at a general’s word;

Of patriots who drained their hearts to save

A nation: they beside their fathers’ grave,

Before their city walls and smoking shrines,

Fell on the long resounding foeman’s lines

And perished: this was easy; yet they bore

Victorious crowns and hymns for evermore.

But I, what city or what home have I?

What duty, dear or sacred, bids me die?

A slave—the toy and bauble of a king,

Picked from the dust to play with—a cheap thing,

Irksome as soon as used—a cup to sip,

Then fling with loathing from the sated lip!—

Therefore I die more nobly. Where are ye,

My father and my mother, and the glee

Of brothers and of sisters, who were dear

Far off in years forgotten? Not one tear

Shall your calm unfamiliar eyes let fall

For me.—How like a gilded dream is all

The life that I have lived in glorious Rome!

How like a dream it leaves me!—Lo, I come,

Ye awful, soul-exacting, pitiless Powers!

Prepare your laurels and the moony bowers

Of myrtles! Not ignoble, not a slave,

I perish, but of mine own will, to save

The Father of the Empire.—I have seen

In Roman theatres the dying queen

Of weak Admetus, pale Polyxena,

Cheiron, Menoikeus; and the people, ah!

The people how they shouted! Tears and cries

Greet even an actor when he nobly dies:—

Will not the people of the unnumbered dead,

Showering their pallid crowns upon my head,

Nobly receive me noble, dying thus,

Calm in my strength, young, proud, luxurious,

Not torn by pangs, not wasted, not outworn,

But in my splendour?’

As he spake, a horn

Shrilled through the twilight; and he saw the tower

Of Besa, where that night they tarried, lower

Dusk o’er the champaign. Speechless from the bark

He dropped: she onward glided o’er the dark

Breast of the glimmering Nile with lamp and light:

He through the mirrors of the cool black night

Unruffled, dying drifted; and his death

Was seen by no man. Nay, there lingereth

Old legend in the town Antinoë,

Called by his name, a fair town and a free,

How that a flight of eagles from the sky

Down swooping, bore him, rosy breast and thigh

Lustrous like lightning on their sable plumes,

Up to the zenith, where, a star, he blooms

In that bright garden of the grace of Jove,

The martyr and the miracle of love.—

Of this the truth we know not; but we know

That in the town of Besa, where the flow

Of Nile is stayed upon the eastern bank

With wattles and with osiers, for a tank

That draws therefrom through sluices deep and wide

The living waters of the sacred tide,

There in the morn was found as though asleep,

The perfect body of the boy; and deep

Around him, known not till that day, there grew

Great store of lotos flowers, red, white, and blue,

But mostly rose-red, flaming in his hair,

And o’er his breast and shoulders floating fair,

And with his arms enwoven, pure and cool,

Screening his flesh from sunrise. Thus the pool

Burned with a miracle of flowers; but he,

Raised on their petals, pillowed tenderly,

And curtained with fresh leaves innumerous,

Smiled like a god, whom errands amorous

Lure from Olympus, and coy Naiads find

Sleeping, and in their rosy love-wreaths bind.

https://paganreveries.wordpress.com/2012/09/06/the-lotos-garland-of-antinous-by-john-addington-symonds/

Picture: My Antinous

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ddejavvu · 3 months ago

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Just wanted to let you know that you're fan fucking tastic. I read ur cm fics when the came on my dash, and your fics convinced me to watch the show. Tempted to have a star wars movie marathon now I've read some of that anakin smut...

I love your writing so much, it got me back into writing after I stopped for a while. Take a break if you need to honey because a haters gonna hate, but youre great <3

THANK YOU!!!! that's all so very sweet, i'm always flattered when my fics convince someone to watch a 17-season show or a massie behemoth media empire like star wars. i hope you're thoroughly enjoying them if you've started/finished them and i appreciate your understanding of my hectic schedule! I don't want to take a break, in fact, i want to write more now than i have in a few months, but I do have to balance my schedule out </3 luckily the most rigorous course I've ever had in my entire life is ending in 2 weeks and i'll be FREE <33

#mei's mail

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ozma914 · 12 days ago

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Write-In Ballots Challenge Sanity

During the last national election (in the otherwise cursed year of 2024), Tippecanoe County, Indiana received a number of write-in ballots for the office of President. I've always thought of write-ins as being the sign of a healthy, free country, where citizens can voice their displeasure with the two main party candidates.

But sometimes, not so much.

In addition to the write-ins, one ballot was held back as provisional because the voter dropped it off on election night--at a Colorado polling place. Half the people of Colorado probably don't even know where Indiana is, let alone Tippecanoe County, and vice-versa.

As far as write-in votes, the biggest vote-getter was Jill Stein, who was running as the Green Party nominee. I don't know what their platform is, but I like the color.

39 voters chose the candidates for the Party of Socialism and Liberation. I guess their goals are pretty much right there in the title: They believe revolution is necessary to establish socialism. In my study of history I've noticed most socialist revolutions lead to a few people being in charge, and a lot of other people being dead.

Cornel West and Melina Abdullah also snagged a few votes. No, I don't know either, let me check ...

Oh--activists! Also socialists, and although that's not my thing, I have to admire Cornel West's awesome and intimidating hairstyle.

U.S. Rep. Thomas Massie, a Republican from Kentucky, got two votes, but I hear he's way more popular in Kentucky. He got the same amount of votes as Kanye West, who I hear is not as popular in Kentucky.

Jesus got 6 votes, and God got 3. Honestly, it seems like those should be combined.

So, who else got write-in votes?

Mike Rowe, he of "Dirty Jobs", one of the few people in the entertainment industry I'd actually vote for. Also one of the few who has an actual idea of what the average Joe does for a living.

Johnny Cash, who I'd probably also vote for except he's kind of, well ... dead. Not that I'd trying to discriminate against dead people, mind you. Lots of dead people vote every election.

Former President John Quincy Adams, by all accounts a man of principle, but sadly also dead. For awhile, now. He would be eligible, though, as he was a one term President, and I'm not sure there's anything in the Constitution forbidding dead candidates. Some people in Congress look awfully dead.

John Quincy--who wouldn't love those sideburns?

Singer Willie Nelson. I can't help thinking he'd have a "legalize marijuana" plank in his platform. If not a plank, at least a joint.

Alfred E. Neuman, the "What--me worry?" mascot of MAD Magazine, which doesn't have the circulation it once did. He may be a little too laid back.

Michael Vick, sportsball star who also ran a dog fighting ring that got him put in prison. Lots of politicians have gotten away with worse stuff than that, but as a dog lover I kind wish he was still behind bars. Which ... also isn't necessarily fatal to a political career.

Kermit the Frog. Yeah, I'd totally vote for him. I mean, he kept the Muppet Show more or less under control, and as First Lady Miss Piggy would also serve as butt-kicker in chief.

And finally, the one I'm really surprised didn't get more votes:

"They All Suck."

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Remember: Vote for the guy with the most books.

#indiana #humor #history #us politics #politics #elections #election #presidential election #election 2024 #writing humor #humor writing #funny

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mymusicbias · 2 years ago

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#black boy joy #steel pan #downs syndrome #massy trinidad all stars #Daniel #mmb

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caedmonofwhitby · 16 days ago

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Twelfth Day Cakes

In London, with every pastry-cook in the city, and at the west end of the town, it is ‘high change’ on Twelfth-day. From the taking down of the shutters in the morning, he, and his men, with additional assistants, make and female, are fully occupied by attending to the dressing out of the window, executing orders of the day before, receiving fresh ones, or supplying the wants of chance customers. Before dusk the important arrangement of the wants of chance customers. Before dusk the important arrangement of the window is completed. Then the gas is turned on, with supernumerary argand-lamps and manifold wax-lights to illuminate countless cakes of all prices and dimensions, that stand in rows and piles on the counters and sideboards, and in the windows. The richest in flavour and heaviest in weight and price are placed on large and massy salvers; one, enormously superior to the rest in size, is the chief object of curiosity; and all are decorated with all imaginable images of things animate and inanimate. Stars, castles, kings, cottages, dragons, trees, fish, palaces, cats, dogs, churches, lions, milkmaids, knights, serpents, and innumerable other forms, in snow-white confectionery, painted with variegated colours, glittering by ‘excess of light’, reflected from mirrors against the walls, festooned with artificial ‘wonders of Flora’.

from Wiliam Hone's Every-Day Book, (1827)

“Twelfth Night”

Engraving by Robert Seymour

Published in The Book of Christmas by Thomas K Hervey

#english imagination #english culture #albion #england #quote about england #quote #historic view of england #history of england #twelfth night #twelfth day of christmas #cakes #twelfth night cakes #19th century #english tradition

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scotianostra · 1 year ago

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On February 1st 1918 the author of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, Muriel Spark was born in Edinburgh.

Spark did not publish her first novel until she was almost 40, but she quickly gained admirers for her taut, comically disturbing works that often depicted odd, malevolent forces insinuating their way into the lives of ordinary people. She was best known for "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie," her 1961 novel about a charismatic schoolmistress.

Originally Muriel Sarah Camberg, she attended the James Gillespie's High School for Girls. There she met educator Christina Kay who became the inspiration for one of Spark's most famous characters.

At the age of 19, she married Sydney Oswald "Ossie" Spark. The couple sailed to Africa soon after they wed. The union proved to be a brief and turbulent one. She had a son, Robin, with her husband before the pair split up. For a time, Spark supported herself doing odd jobs. She returned home during World War II, leaving her son in Africa in the care of some nuns.

Back home, Spark became involved in London's literary world. She served as editor of the Poetry Review from 1947 to 1949, and published poetry, short stories and critical biographies of figures like William Wordsworth, Mary Shelley and Emily Brontë. In the 1950s, Spark suffered a nervous breakdown and converted to Catholicism. Her first novel, The Comforters in 1957, earned critical acclaim from such established British writers as Graham Greene and Evelyn Waugh.

While she largely considered herself a poet, Spark built up an impressive career for herself as a novelist. After The Comforters, two more novels soon followed —Memento Mori and The Ballad of Peckham Rye . But it was her tale of a teacher at a girls school that really brought her widespread commercial success. The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie became a best seller when it was published in 1961. The book began the basis of a successful London play starring Vanessa Redgrave in 1964. This production later moved to Broadway with Zoe Caldwell as the title character. In 1969, Maggie Smith starred in the film version, which earned Smith an Academy Award for best actress.

By the end of the 1960s, Spark moved to Italy. She lived in Rome for many years. There Spark met artist Penelope Jardine. The pair became inseparable, eventually setting up house together in Tuscany. Jardine acted as Spark's aide and companion. While some have speculated that their relationship was a romantic one, Spark told reporters that it was an "old-fashioned friendship," according to The New York Times.

As her career progressed, Spark continued to explore both the dark and light sides of life in her work. Not everyone knew what to do with this odd balance of the comic and tragic. Scottish writer, Allan Massie (Who I met several times at a writers workshop when at school) described her as "a comic writer with a sense of evil, a metaphysical in all sense of that difficult word" in the Spectator. Another critic for New Criterion wrote that "what first seems like caricature often passes, on closer reading, as unvarnished reportage."

Spark turned her mighty pen on her own life with the 1992 memoir Curriculum Vitae. In 2004, Spark published The Finishing School, which proved to be her final novel.

Muriel Spark died, aged 88, on April 13,th 2006, in Florence, Italy and is buried in the cemetery of Sant'Andrea Apostolo in Oliveto.

#scotland #scottish #history #edinburgh #author #witer #strong woman #literary figure

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filmmakersvision · 1 year ago

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Jawan Review

November 17, 2023

by Inakshi Chandra-Mohanty

In the 1970s, Amitabh Bachchan’s entry into Hindi cinema gave birth to the “Angry Young Man.” He was a hero, who fought against the system, who fought against injustice, and became a voice for the subdued people in society. It was one man against the world. Through the 80s, this phenomena continued, but as the new century neared, the romantic hero emerged and the action hero became an afterthought. People either no longer wished to change the system, or they no longer trusted a lone hero to do it. With the birth of a new generation, softer male leads became the norm with Shah Rukh Khan at the height of romantic stardom.

Though Hindi films let go of this concept, South Indian Cinema, continues to celebrate its heroes through films on injustice with a male lead as savior. So it is only natural that Atlee, a South Indian filmmaker, brings back to Hindi cinema the heroic mass entertainer, ironically starring the very actor who had originally taken away the limelight from the “angry young man” of the 70s and 80s. Jawan follows a man who strives for justice, who wishes to correct a system which favors those who are guilty over the many innocents, and for that, he resorts to vigilantism putting him in the crossfire of both the police and an evil arms dealer.

I did not have great expectations from Atlee. Though his films are entertaining, they have never risen to greatness, barring Raja Rani, which is the best of his work. However, he has great mass appeal and Jawan promises the same.The plot is intricately woven with an amalgamation of elements that tackle many relevant issues in society today. From farmer suicides to hospital inadequacies, by blending real stories into a fictional universe, writer-director Atlee appeals to the struggles of the common man and attempts to raise awareness regarding the flaws in the system that governs Indian society. Alongside important themes, the film’s strength lies in its strongly choreographed action sequences with women at the forefront. Shah Rukh Khan as the man of many names is the hero, but he is surrounded by powerful women fighting for themselves and for others. It is exciting, entertaining, and visually captivating with a thoroughly ‘massy’ feel.

However, my biggest issue with Jawan is the same problem I’ve had with Atlee films in the past, particularly Mersal and Bigil. They’re all over the place. The shift between present and past, the placement of flashbacks, too many characters, too many plot points, everything is a disjointed mess. There isn’t a singular arc keeping the story moving. In an attempt to create suspense, using non-linear storytelling, the makers sacrifice emotions. We begin to connect with a character, or get interested in a certain plot point, but a sudden shift in the story, leaves us hanging. By the time it returns, our emotions no longer remain the same.

Nevertheless, it is entertaining and much credit for that goes to the performances. Every single actor in the cast does a tremendous job: the army of six girls (Lehar Khan, Sanjeeta Bhattarchaya, Priyamani, Sanya Malhotra, Girja Oak, Aaliyah Qureishi), Deepika Padukone in a cameo appearance, Seeza Saroj Mehta as the little girl Suji, Sunil Grover, Ridhi Dogra, Eijaz Khan, and even all those in small bit roles. As for the central trio, anything I say in their praise would be less. Nayanthara is enigmatic and powerful as the law-abiding officer in search of who she believes to be a problematic vigilante. I am glad her stardom is finally extending beyond the borders of the south. Though Vijay Sethupathi has already made his mark on the Hindi audience through Farzi, it is through Jawan his versatility comes forth. I have seen so many actors struggle outside their comfort language, but he doesn’t let his difficulty with Hindi get in the way of his menacing performance. And last but not the least, is the star of the show, Shah Rukh Khan. Comedy, romance, drama, action, there is no genre in which he lacks and Jawan touches upon it all. Such a strong, versatile range of emotions is displayed through one character. This film is a reminder that Shah Rukh Khan’s stardom and aura are unmatched.

Jawan is not perfect, it is not without its flaws. But its entertaining nature, the larger-than-life characters, and Shah Rukh Khan’s explosive comeback make it a worthwhile watch.

#bollywoodreviews #jawan #atlee #shah rukh khan #nayanthara #vijay sethupathi #netflix india #hindi cinema #indian cinema

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