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yellowocaballero · 4 years

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You And Me (And Your Friend Daisy)

Thanks for pushing me to finish this, Anon! This is a short, fun, and romantic story written in the verse of my other fics Bell, Book, and Candle and No Sin But Ignorance. Takes place some time post the ending of No Sin But Ignorance. That being said, this is probably very comprehensible without knowledge of those fics, so feel free to just view it as a no-apocalypse au. The majority of this was written while writing Feste - more accurately, when I needed a break from the crushing depression of Feste, so that’s why it’s so cheerful. :)

Yes, it’s named after that Garfunkel and Oates song, because that’s the plot.

The rest of the story is under the cut!

*******************************************

“Are you going to tell me where we are?”

“You have to guess! And no peeking!”

Jon sighed, slouching in his seat. He hated surprise vacations. He hated being forced to leave work and ‘take a break’ because ‘you’re contractually obligated to use your PTO hours’. And he did take vacations, he didn’t know why everybody acted like he didn’t. He and Georgie took Gerry to Blackpool once a year for Spring Break. That was a whole week off. That was enough for anybody.

But Martin had been pointedly sending him emails about ‘fun couple’s trips’ and ‘romantic getaways’ in an ultra-subtle act of subliminal messaging. Indeed, the three emailed promotional advertisements listing off fun, relaxing, and romantic things to do with your significant other were so subtle that Emma was forced to listen in on the automated JAWS voice reading them out and then call him a ‘fucking idiot’.

Whatever. It wasn’t as if Gertrude took any vacations, and nobody got on her back for it. Jon was willing to bet that Dekker never sent Gertrude any passive aggressive emails. He would have to ask him later - they got boba together once a month, he was an excellent conversational partner. He was, of course, slightly insane, both for his fervent adherence to the ancient religions and willingness to come within five feet of Gertrude Robinson for personal reasons, but all the best supernatural hunters were.

“Well, we’ve clearly been driving north for the past eight hours, judging from the angle of the sun,” Jon said, annoyed. The car radio was playing the Archers in a dull drone, which Jon had insisted upon, because he and Daisy never missed an episode. This confused and frightened Martin. A bag rustled, and Jon knew that Martin was fishing around in the plastic convenience store sack for more Jaffa cakes. “Combined with the time, that can only mean that we’re going to Scotland. I don’t have any close friends in Scotland and I’m willing to be you don’t either -”

“Hey!”

“ - so unless you assigned yourself the task of following up on the Scottish Slaughter Statement without me assigning it to you, and deciding to bring me along, I’m guessing that we’re going to stay in a hotel and do...touristy things.”

“Wrong again,” Martin said triumphantly. He liked keeping track of every time Jon was innocently incorrect about something, just to prove it to everyone else. “I mean, yes, we are in Scotland, you’re right about that, but we are not staying in a hotel. We’re staying in the country.”

“Darling, I would love to sit on the Scottish Moors and stare out into the endless, unceasing fog with you in complete silence,” Jon said lovingly, “but I thought you wanted to do something romantic.”

“That’s not romantic?” Martin gasped, horrified. “Have you even read Wuthering Heights?”

“You and Gerry are two peas in a goth pod.”

“He’s goth, I’m gothic. There’s a difference. And don’t tell me that you don’t enjoy gothic literature - you’re literally a Byronic hero.”

“Oh, here we go,” Jon sighed, as the car bumped over a speed bump. He hadn’t heard another car for hours now, and he knew that they had to be in the middle of nowhere. The weather had grown colder, more humid, and occasionally he could hear the bleat of cows. It was...calming.

Then Martin started listing off the very many reasons why Jon was a classical Byronic hero, then Jon had to remind him that none of that stuff had technically happened, then Martin began insisting that it happened in their hearts, then Jon got deeply engrossed into today’s episode of the Archers and felt the need to inform Martin about its illustrious and aged history, which prompted Martin to put on Hatsune Miku when the episode was over and indoctrinate Jon into whatever ‘Vocaloid’ was, and by the time the car transitioned to skittering over bumpy gravel they were both entering a heated discussion about the most superior of the ‘Vocaloids’.

“ - and she created Minecraft?”

“And she’s trans,” Martin said heatedly.

“Good for her,” Jon said, just bemused. The car engine quieted, and keys clinked and rustled. “Are we here?”

“Yep! Seven hours later.” Martin sighed and made a quiet, satisfied noise, probably stretching, and Jon didn’t bother to fight his smile. Man was like a cat. “I want to show you around and everything, but honestly that drive was exhausting and I might take a nap first.” He sighed happily. “Peace. Quiet. No coworkers.”

“I’m your coworker,” Jon pointed out, opening the door of the car as Martin did the same. He stepped onto gravel, grinding his trainer a little into it, and breathed in. The air tasted...fresh. Clean. Pure and just a little chilly. It was nice. It perked Jon up, as the wind lightly tousled his curls. He stretched his legs too, cramped from being knitted up in the small car. Martin popped the boot and started loading packages into his arms, and Jon walked over and held his arms out so he could help Martin carry the packages. Martin dropped a picnic basket filled with snacks in his arms, and handed him his own suitcase, as Martin dropped his own suitcase on the ground with a heavy thump. “How does a teenage girl create a video game? That’s very impressive.”

“This week you are my boyfriend,” Martin corrected him, thumping the boot down. “No Emma getting on my case about misfiling the papers. No Michael concern trolling me. No Eric judging me for my taste in tea. No Gertrude terrifying me every second of the day. I am free. I am not going to think about work, or anybody related to work, for a single second. No Entities. No fear demons. No monsters, besides my boyfriend.”

“Thanks,” Jon said wryly. “Aren’t we forgetting someone?”

“Oh, darn it!” Martin opened the back door of the car, and pulled out a carrier. The wire door of the carrier cinched open and Tiresias came bounding out, barking madly and running in little circles around Jon, his tail beating against Jon’s leg. Jon laughed, lifting his burden higher in his arms, and let Martin loop his arm around Jon’s and guide him towards what he had to assume was some kind of building. “C’mere, boy. Good boy! You were so good for the trip! You’re getting a hundred snacks as soon we get inside.”

“Are you going to tell me where we are yet?” Jon asked, exasperated.

Martin squeezed his arm happily as they walked up an incline, shoes scuffing dirt. “I got permission from Daisy to borrow it. It’s her cabin, just outside of Applecross. It’s really in the middle of nowhere, nobody around for kilometers. Just us and a great deal of cows. It’s really gorgeous, Jon, with such clean air and beautiful hills. I can’t wait to go for walks with you. You’ll get so much time to go through your audiobook collection. And we can snuggle, and I can cook for you, and we can listen to more radio dramas, and we can talk about our future, and you can pet the cows…”

“Sounds wonderful,” Jon said honestly, squeezing Martin’s arm back. They paused, Martin rustling his keys again, and Jon heard the grinding of metal before a door seemed to creak open. “I can’t wait to spend this week with you. I could use a little peace, I think.”

“Gods, me too. You have no idea how stressed I’ve been. It’ll be just you, me, and -”

That’s when Martin screamed, and Tiresias barked excitedly and ran forward, almost bowling Jon over, and a familiar voice broke the quiet of the rustic cabin.

“Aren’t you a good boy, Tiresias? Aren’t you a good boy?” Daisy Tonner’s grin was audible through her words, but it held a familiar tint of ferociousness. “Hullo, Jon. Blackwood. What are you doing here a week early?”

“Early!” Martin squeaked. “I said we were coming up the first week of September -”

“Really?” Daisy said, voice casual. Seemingly. “Because I have it down in my calendar as the second week. This is my vacation. And I’m not leaving.”

Silence stretched between them. Jon smiled happily towards the sound of Daisy’s voice, placing his burdens at his feet, and soon Daisy walked forward and enveloped him in a bone cracking hug.

“It’s so good to see you,” Jon said, hugging her tightly back too. “I’m sure we can share the cabin for the week. It’ll be fun, like a sleepover!”

“Oh, I think so too,” Daisy said, her voice tinged in a wolf’s grin. “Don’t you think so, Martin?”

“Good fucking christ,” Martin said.

****

True to his word, Martin was exhausted enough that he immediately made the bed and collapsed into it. Jon lovingly took off his shoes and socks and Tiresias even, adorably, pulled the comforter up around Martin’s ears. But Martin didn’t sleep: he seemed preoccupied in angrily muttering to himself about how he didn’t get the time wrong, she did, this was all her fault, and it was also completely on purpose, devil woman, everybody was trying to ruin everything -

“Love, if I ask her to go, she’ll go,” Jon said.

“No! Ugh!” Martin screamed lowly, muffled, and Jon realized with amusement he was screaming into the pillow. “It’s her house, she’s doing us a favor, I don’t want to be rude! I can’t kick her out of her own home!”

“Are you going to be passive aggressive at her until she leaves?”

Incriminatingly, Martin was silent.

“She’s more stubborn than you are. If you try to solve this with your usual methods she’ll outlast you.”

“I hate her so much,” Martin groaned.

“Don’t say that,” Jon said loyally. “She’s really come around to you, you know. She hasn’t threatened to chop your dick off in - oh, two weeks now. That’s a new record.”

Martin groaned again. Jon kissed him on the cheek, turned the light off - “Jon, you just turned the light on.” - turned the light off for real this time, and went into the living room/dining room/kitchen to start putting away all the food they had brought. He bent over his suitcase, withdrawing Tiresias’ harness, and whistled to call him over before snapping the harness on. Tiresias stiffened into what Georgie called ‘Buisness Boy Mode’, and Jon grabbed his handle with one hand as he loaded the groceries into the other.

“Here, let me help.” Daisy lifted the other load from the floor, leading the both of them into the kitchen and opening the fridge. “I know Georgie’s organizational system.”

Jon just sighed, slowly navigating his way to the fridge to put his own load away. They had clothing to unpack, things to set up, and arrangements to plan, but Jon had the sense that none of it was getting done immediately.

“What were your plans for this week?”

“I normally go up here to hunt,” Daisy grunted, sliding cans into the cabinet. At Jon’s raised eyebrow, she clarified, “with guns. They’re all locked up in the gun cabinet, as is my ammo and knives. Neither you nor Martin have the keys, but the cabinet is in a closet near the bathroom. That should be locked too.”

“Goodness, Daisy, I’m not an errant toddler. I won’t play with your collection.”

“You’re my errant toddler,” Daisy said loyally, giving him a noogie and making him scowl. “Say it. Say you’re an errant toddler.”

“Goodness, Daisy, leave me be -”

Then she lifted him up, like he was nothing more than a bundle of sticks, and held him in the air as he screamed and kicked his legs, trying to get down. Tiresias, the Traitor, the Serpent, the King of Lies, barked happily. “Let me down! Daisy!”

“Say you’re an errant toddler and I’ll let you down.”

“I shan’t. Daisy, stop -!” But then she started tickling him, which was extremely dangerous, and Jon was forced to cackle out in breathless laughter, “Fine, I’m a toddler, let me down, you crazy woman!”

She tossed him lightly onto the pull-out couch, putting away the rest of the groceries herself, and Jon let Tiresias sit on top of him and lick his face as he could almost audibly hear Martin pouting in the bedroom.

“This’ll be fun,” Daisy said, shutting the cabinet and rustling some familiar boxes. “Can’t believe Tim paid me fifty quid to do this. I would have done it for free.”

“Do what?”

“Never mind. I have your copy of Life, do you want to play?”

“Sure!” Jon sat up, feeling Daisy sit down next to him and set out the game pieces. Then something occurred to him. “Wait. What are you doing with my copy of Life?”

“Georgie lent it to me.”

“...why did Georgie -”

“I was going to leave it here for when you came up,” Daisy said easily, and Jon nodded in acceptance. “Spin the spinner to see whose turn comes first.”

Jon considered thinking deeper about this, but Daisy wouldn’t lie to him. She was the most trustworthy person he knew. She didn’t have a deceitful bone in her body. He shrugged and reached forward and found the spinner, giving it a good twist before rubbing his thumb over the braille. Something occurred to him.

“Maybe we can ask Martin if he wants to join -”

“I’m sure he would prefer his rest.”

“Okay!”

This vacation was going to go great. Why had Jon been worried?

****

That night they had a delicious barbecue outside, cooked by Daisy. Martin ate it in angry silence, which was quickly broken by Jon’s frequent nudges and directions for conversation. He wasn’t the most socially adept person at the best of times, but Martin and Daisy were two of his best friends and he knew how to get the both of them talking. He was even able to draw them into a spirited conversation about 19th century literature - Daisy preferred Russian novels, while Martin preferred Gothic romances and Hugo and Jon tended towards nonfiction. Afterwards Daisy grabbed her gun, kissed Jon on the cheek, did something that made Martin squeak in fear, and tramped off to go hunt deer or something. Jon waved her off with a blessing, his sixth sense thrumming with satisfaction for the Sacrifice.

He spent the night cuddled up with Martin, watching Beauty and the Beast on his laptop. Martin was obsessed with Disney movies in a way that explained a great deal about him, and Beauty and the Beast was his absolute favorite. Jon ran his fingers through his soft and feathery hair as Martin squeezed his hand, and Jon’s heart settled in complete contentment. The audio description voice droned gently about the heartwarming falling in love montages, but Jon wasn’t really paying attention: he just felt safe, and warm, and as if he wanted the moment to last forever.

Then his mobile rang, a clear automated voice saying “Gerard calling. Gerard calling.”

“Oh, I should get that.” Jon straightened, throwing out a hand on the coffee table where he thought he had put his phone, and Martin pressed it into his hand. He accepted the call quickly, putting it on speaker and holding it up to his ear just like, he was reliably assured, ‘an old man’. “Hello, honey?”

“Jon!” Gerry yelled. “Did you get the cabin okay?”

“Oh, so everyone knew but me,” Jon said, amused. “You’re on speaker, Gerry, so say hello to Mr. Blackwood.”

“Hi Martin! Are you guys having a good time? You have to take me next time, I want to see Daisy’s guns!”

“You will not see Daisy’s guns,” Jon said quickly.

“Hi Gerry,” Martin said, a smile clear in his somewhat strained voice. “Sure, you and Georgie should come up next time. Make it a party. Why not.”

“Told you she’d do it,” Georgie said, and Jon perked up. “Hullo, love. How’s your romantic getaway going?”

“Oh, it’s lovely,” Jon said, excited. “We’re going to walk down to the town tomorrow, check out some of their antique stores. I’ll let you know if we find any interesting art.”

“I’ve been up to Daisy’s cabin a few times with Melanie, it’s delightful. Great place for her to hunt and for me to practice my carrion photography. It’s always nice just to get away from it all! I hope you haven’t touched any work, Jon.”

“I haven’t,” Jon said loyally. He paused a beat. “Do Statements count? Because I was planning on listening to a few recorded ones as a sort of bedtime story?”

“That’s just self-care,” Georgie assured him. “Treat yourself, queen.”

“Thanks, honey. Make sure Gerry gets his homework done? Do you need any help? I have some time now -”

“I got it,” Georgie said, laughing slightly. “I can still help a fifteen year old with his English. I’ll make sure he brushes his teeth too. Just enjoy yourself.”

“Have a good time, Dad!” Gerry called, the affectionate nickname making Jon smile. “Bring me back a cow!” Slightly more muffled, Jon heard him say to Georgie, “Mum, when Jon goes on a romantic getaway, what do you think they -”

“Night, honey! Night, Martin! Love you!” Georgie called loudly.

Jon laughed, unable to stop himself from waving a little, as if they were there. “Night, you two. Love you too. Stay safe.”

“We will! Bye!”

The line clicked off, and Martin’s arm stretched across Jon’s shoulders squeezed a little tighter. Jon extended a foot and clicked the space bar on the computer, starting up the movie again.

“You’d make a really good dad,” Martin said, almost to himself.

Jon settled back against Martin, leaning his head against his shoulder. “I feel like one already, honestly. Obviously, I have far more experience with teenagers than babies, but they can’t be that hard. If I don’t drop them…why?”

Martin coughed a little, abruptly flustered. “No reason! No reason.”

“Do you want kids?”

“Can’t exactly have them biologically,” Martin muttered, before sighing. “Yeah, I’d love to...foster or adopt or something. I’ve had my - differences - with my parents, but I’m still glad they adopted me, you know? I’d like to pass that on. But...better. Much better.”

“Georgie is talking about fostering again once Gerard moves in with Eric,” Jon said quietly. The thought of Gerry moving out, of living full time with Eric again - it just seemed weird. Almost wrong, although it wasn’t - Eric adored Gerry, and he was a competent father. It was just that...well, technically, Gerry had been living with them since the beginning of the universe. On a purely literal level, they really had always had Gerry with them. It would be strange. “As a - recipient of the foster care system myself, I’d like to make a difference too.” He smiled thinly. “We’re very compatible, aren’t we?”

“Would it be...you and Georgie…?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter?”

Martin sighed a little. “Is it dumb that sometimes it feels like you already have a family built in?”

Hm. Jon hadn’t quite thought about it that way. “You know those jokes about me and Georgie being married are just jokes,” Jon said reproachfully.

Martin moved away a little, leaning forward, slipping his arm from Jon’s shoulder. He abruptly missed the warmth. “But you’re partners. You’re raising a kid. And I know Daisy and Tim think of themselves as your overprotective big siblings, they aren’t even wrong.”

“Many people have siblings? And friends? Some even have kids, I’ve heard.”

“I don’t.” There was really nothing for Jon to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. “I don’t want my entire social circle to just be through you…”

“It won’t be,” Jon said firmly, reaching out a hand and brushing it against Martin’s arm. He squeezed it firmly. “You don’t have to be Lonely anymore, Martin. I won’t let you.”

“Is that a promise?” Martin said, as if he was joking, as if Jon wasn’t certain that he wasn’t. As if he needed the reassurance.

“How can you be lonely when I’m here?” Jon said, and trailed his hand up along Martin’s arm until he reached his neck and he could cup his face. He rubbed a thumb against his wispy stubble, light and thin. “I’m right here.”

Martin kissed him, and then the movie was quite thoroughly forgotten as Jon necked with his boyfriend on the couch like a teenager. They forgot everything, and for a small period of glorious time Jon forgot everything that he knew, in all of its entirety, and his Eye saw only the here and now.

Then the door thumped open, the wind blew into the cabin, and heavy footsteps thumped into the room. Something dragged behind the footsteps, something that sounded a bit...wet.

Martin, who was thoroughly on top of Jon and almost done unbuttoning his shirt, froze. Jon just craned his head, trying to hear the sounds of what was likely a dead deer being pulled in through the entrance way better.

“Hello Daisy!” Jon said, still pinned down. “How was your hunting?”

“Lucrative. We’re eating venison tomorrow.”

“Great! Need any help getting that put away?”

“No, I’m good.” Tiresias barked happily. “Here, boy, you can have a little. Good boy. I’ll probably skin and clean it outside, I just wanted to get my gloves.”

“Take your time!”

Martin sighed and got off Jon, straightening his own clothing. “Yeah, Daisy, take your time.”

“Oh, am I interrupting something?” Daisy said blithely. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You’re fine,” Jon assured her, fixing his own hair from where it had grown tangled. “Want to finish this movie with us?”

“Sure, let me gut this animal first.”

“Great! Scooch over, Martin.”

“You know,” Martin said, “maybe we want to move to the bedroom?”

“If we stay in the living room I can hook up your laptop to the television and we can watch the movie that way,” Daisy said innocently.

“That sounds good,” Jon agreed. He patted Martin’s hand. “Is that alright with you?”

Martin sighed. “Yeah. Of course.”

That night, Jon curled up next to Martin on the creaky wooden bed, listening to the flies buzz around them and the crickets hiss their lilting song outdoors.

His earbuds were still nestled in his ears, the soft hum of his Walkman cutting the quiet night, his own pre-recorded voice reading out a story. Martin sat next to him, and occasionally Jon could hear the soft shift of the pages of a book turning. Every so often Martin would gasp, or make a little noise at some exciting event in his book.

Jon rolled over, throwing out an arm and pulling Martin in close, resting his head on Martin’s shoulder as he let the earbuds roll gently out of his ears. Martin was soft and warm, the cotton of his t-shirt rubbing up against Jon’s cheek, and Jon let his mind gently bliss out and drift away.

He thought about the breakfast he wanted to make the next morning, and of the soft beat of Scottish sun on his face. He thought about the creak of cobblestones as jumped-up jalopies rolled over them, and of the shifting and groan of old wood. He thought of the bright, sharp summer smell of the highlands, and the sinking and sticky marshland.

“We should visit the antique store in town tomorrow,” Jon murmured. “Georgie’s been looking for a new lamp, and I think they should have a nice Rococo one for cheap.”

“Oh? Maybe I can pick something up too.” Martin gently scratched Jon’s scalp, making him bliss out even further. “Nice of you to always loop us in on the best deals, you little shopping catalogue.”

They, of course, had not been to the town yet, and there was no reason for Jon to know of the antique store, or the Rococo lamp. Jon hadn’t even thought about it, the information as available and easy as the layout of the convenience store down the street and a left turn from his childhood council flat.

Martin’s voice broke the quiet, cutting through the buzz of insects. “You know I love you, right?”

“I know everything,” Jon yawned, snuggling into Martin’s side closer.

“Not what I meant.” Martin hesitated, almost awkwardly. “You’re a literal mind reader and everything, but I’m not, so…”

“Oh, Martin.” Jon reached a hand up and cupped Martin’s cheek. “I built this world from the bedrock of my love for you.”

“Uh - wow! That’s - it’s kind of weird how you can just say that and have it be true!”

“Our lives are weird,” Jon agreed, brushing his thumb over Martin’s lips, and he carefully leaned his head up to kiss him, and they passed the long silent minutes just like that.

Several hours later, Jon found himself jerking awake. Martin was snoring beside him, and he couldn’t feel any sun on his face, so Jon figured it was likely still nighttime. He carefully slipped out of bed, reaching out a hand and trailing it along the wall until he managed to leave the bedroom, navigate down the hall, and enter what he was fairly sure was the living room.

“Jon?” A voice broke the night. Daisy, who had taken the pull-out couch. “You looking for the loo?”

It was only then that Jon realized that he didn’t know why he had gotten up. Tiresias snored loudly in the kitchen, adding a subtle undertone to the noise from outside, and Jon found himself shrugging helplessly. “I don’t think so. Did I wake you up?”

“Nah. Hold tight, I’ll help you to the couch.” Sure enough, after the almost silent footsteps echoed through the main room Jon felt a soft hand on his back, and she led him towards the couch. Jon lightly kicked it, testing its height, and gently lowered himself onto it, the springs of the pull-out bed breaking through the night. “What has you up?”

Jon just shrugged again. The bed creaked beside him, and he felt calloused fingers carding through his hair with gentleness that would have been surprising to most people.

“Am I a bad boyfriend?” Jon asked, surprising himself. He hadn’t even known he was thinking that.

“Did Blackwood tell you that you were?” Daisy asked sharply.

“No! No, not at all.” Jon sighed. “I just...I just have different needs than him.” He could already tell what Daisy was thinking, and he shook his head. “Not about the - the you know what thing. I just...I know how much he loves me. I know what he thinks of me, I know his dedication to me. Sometimes I just assume that he’s - capable, of what I’m capable of. Do I not tell him I love him enough? Am I not affectionate enough?”

“You aren’t as perceptive as you think you are, Jon,” Daisy said, amused. “I think you’ll find that Blackwood has quite a few more secrets than you think he does.” She untangled her fingers from his hair and squeezed his arm. “Blackwood’s insecure. All insecure people want mindreader boyfriends. But you force him to use his words and ask for what he needs, Jon. It’s uncomfortable. But it’s good for him. He needs to learn to speak up for himself.” She hummed slightly. “He reminds me of Basira, a little. She’ll never tell you that you bothered her, and she just lets it pile up and up. But then you go just a little too far, and then she explodes all of that pent up anger and frustration on you. She likes to pretend she’s a real robot, but she’s just as human as the rest of them.”

“I’m so terrified of Basira,” Jon said miserably. “Remember when I dropped a plate and she told me that the reason why my gran didn’t love me was because I was an attention seeking nine year old?”

“She’s so mean. I love her so much.” Daisy patted Jon on the back. “Buck up. I’m working on Blackwood. You focus on enjoying your vacation.”

Jon let himself lean to the side, resting his head on Daisy’s shoulder. “I’m worried that Martin will realize that I’m not capable of expressing romantic affection in a socially typical manner and leave me.”

“God, shut up, whiner.” But the bed creaked and Daisy’s head gently slid out from under his shoulder, and Daisy gently helped Jon to his feet. “I’ll get you back to bed. Bitch about your imaginary relationship problems to me in the morning.”

Translated: I love you, I’ll always be here for you, and goodnight. Jon huffed a quiet laugh. “Aren’t the lights off? How can you see anything?”

When Daisy spoke again, a quiet bass growl echoed underneath her words, and Jon grinned with her. He Knew, like how he Knew that he loved Martin enough to destroy the world, that Daisy’s eyes were flickering yellow in the darkness. “Don’t be fooled by appearances, Jon.”

She helped him back to bed, and when Jon slept through the rest of the night he dreamed of nothing but Martin’s weight on his.

****

“What a beautiful morning!” Martin said loudly. “The birds are chirping, the Scottish highlands are beautiful, I am here on my romantic vacation away from everybody with only my lovely boyfriend for company - and Daisy Tonner!”

“Glad to be here,” Daisy said affably.

“This is so much fun!” Martin said, still loudly.

“I think so too!” Jon said enthusiastically.

Tiresias barked.

After a breakfast pointedly prepared by Martin, they all got dressed and saddled up to go walk into the village. It was a quick walk, only about twenty minutes, and Martin and Daisy enjoyed the scenery as Jon enjoyed the warm grip of Martin’s hand in his and the breeze on his face.

When the trail began sloping further downhill, and their footsteps began to slide against the incline, Jon pulled what Gerry would have called a ‘pro-gamer move’ and moved his grip up until he was clinging to Martin’s arm. Martin sprayed a hand out, resting it against Jon’s back, and helped him down the trail.

“Whoah! You alright, honey? Careful of your step!”

“Jesus christ,” Daisy muttered.

“It’s hardly Jon’s fault -” Martin began heatedly.

“Yeah, Daisy,” Jon said, delighting in setting them against each other like the cold, uncaring god he was, “check your privilege.”

Then they were off, because despite Daisy was allergic to social consciousness, and Jon whistled a jaunty tune, composed in the 15th century and unknown to all but its lonely shepherd creator, as they navigated their way downwards.

The village was small, nothing more than two streets with cheerful wooden facades and swing porches set out on the decks with wizened elderly people sipping from bottles of Irn Bru and smoking down cigarettes to the dregs. At least, as narrated by Martin, who seemed to already be mentally writing his small-town murder mystery in the Scottish highlands (Martin’s poetry needed work, but his fiction held a certain massmarket appeal). Knowing Martin, the protaganist would likely be either a grandmother with his own personality, or a thirtysomething gay man who had twelve counts of arson on his record and was running from the cops.

Wait. Wait, Jon should use his words. Ask instead of look. Display interest in Martin’s inner life - which, granted, seemed to be a waste of time when Jon could just Know and not waste his breath, but Georgie had been coaching him in this.

“You should give the ex-con narrator a boyfriend,” Jon said supportively. “Maybe bring back the gay bar owner from the last book?”

Martin almost tripped over the gravel. “How did you know I was thinking of - Jon, I told you not to read my mind!”

“Lay off, you know he doesn’t do it on purpose,” Daisy said uninterestedly, growling at what Jon guessed were passerby on the street.

“Daisy, stop telling me how to talk to my boyfriend -”

“Oh, he’s your boyfriend now, is he?”

“Yes! Yes, he is!”

“Let’s get some ice cream!” Jon said loudly.

“How did you even know there was an ice cream - fine! Fine, of course!” Martin sighed loudly. “Why not!”

As it turned out, they were right in front of ice cream. Jon loved it when things worked out.

****

Twenty minutes later, after Martin laboriously reading out all of the entirely too many flavors to Jon, Daisy growling at everybody at the store like an errant dog, fighting with the owner of the store extremely politely about his actual dog existing, and finally taking their ice cream outside to sit at a picnic bench and attack their waffle cones, Jon felt content.

He indicated this by telling everybody everything he knew about emulsifiers, which were extremely neat and a lot of fun! Because nobody was stopping him talking by saying ‘let’s talk about something else, Jon’ or ‘isn’t that a bit boring, Jon?’ he moved onto the history of waffle cones, safe in his assumption that everybody was as interested in the topic as he was.

“I love you so much,” Martin said, somewhat dazed, when Jon stopped to draw a breath. “Did you know that this is the second time this has happened?”

That stopped Jon short, when nothing else did. “Really? Has it?”

Martin’s spoon scraped his small paper bowl. “Yep. Uh - for my birthday, I think. Me, Tim, and - and Sasha, and you. You ordered rum raisin. I was thinking...did you actually like rum raisin? Or did you just panic?” He laughed, somewhat self-consciously. “You didn’t remember about it even before the whole apocalypse thing, so no sweat, but…”

“Oh.” Jon realized, for probably the fifth time, that Martin held years and years worth of memories in him, and that Jon had only fragments and impressions. He knew that he had everything important, that everything he needed was within him, but - did he? What if he was missing the key to everything, the key to Martin, and all he needed was to just Look deeper? “That’s - I could remember it, if I wanted.”

“It’s fine, Jon,” Daisy said quietly. “Don’t go giving yourself a migraine.”

“I could,” Jon insisted. “I’d like to remember something like your birthday, Martin. Precious memories, or - or something. Give me a moment, I can send a quick prayer, and -”

“You know,” Martin said, and he squeezed Jon’s hand. “I’d rather make new memories right now. Where we are right now, that’s - that’s the most important place, innit?”

Jon smiled at him, and he knew, in the most mundane of ways, Martin was smiling back. “I like to think so too.”

“Ugh,” Daisy teased, although perhaps to an outsider it may have sounded mean, “get that sappy shit outta my face.”

“You’re just as bad with Basira,” Jon shot back, smiling. “You two are in love -”

“Take that shit back,” Daisy hissed.

“You want to get married -”

“Who told you!”

Jon tapped the lens of his glasses smugly. “A little Eye told me.”

“Beholding cuck.”

“No, that’s Peter -”

“Martin would know all about Peter, huh?” Daisy sneered, and the pressure on Jon’s hand intensified for a brief second before it withdrew completely, leaving his hand cold and empty.

“Jon, can you give me and Daisy a few minutes of privacy, please?” Martin said pleasantly.

Jon raised an eyebrow, licking the ice cream dripping down his hand. It was Vast flavor. Tasted like...ozone. “Why?”

“He doesn’t know the area, you can’t send him off alone,” Daisy shot back, strangely smugly. “Come on, Blackwood. Whatever you want to say to me, you can say it in front of him.”

“You know what, fine. Fine!” Martin thumped the table, making Jon start and Tireasias stiffen. “I have done nothing that warrants this kind of treatment from you. You are disrespecting me, disrespecting my relationship, and you are insulting my fucking intelligence. I appreciate you loaning us your cabin, but if I knew that it would come with strings attached then I would have paid for my own bloody hotel! Why are you doing this!”

“Tim gave me fifty quid,” Daisy said, like the wolf that had caught the canary. “Plus it’s fucking funny.”

“Done what?” Jon asked, confused.

“I want you out of my vacation, Daisy,” Martin hissed. “If you won’t leave the cabin, then I am booking my own Air BnB and that’s fucking final! I don’t care if I have to - to fight you in the street about it, I can and I will, you don’t want to mess with me -”

“Sure.”

Martin stopped short. Jon licked his ice cream, fascinated by the drama. “What?”

“I said sure,” Daisy enunciated clearly. “I was waiting for you to fucking say it. I told Basira I’d be home by tonight, anyway. Knew you’d snap.”

“I - what! What! What?!”

“You’re a pushover, Blackwood,” Daisy said. “Your coworkers, your friends, everyone - they just walk all over you. It’s fucking stupid. You are the archival assistant who survived the apocalypse with memories and sanity intact. You lasted longer on the position than anyone since Emma Harvey, and you didn’t have to lose your soul to do it. You looked Elias in the face as you burned his Archives down. You’re not a pussy. And I was sick of seeing you act like one. It’s fucking annoying.”

“I hate you so fucking much,” Martin whispered, somewhat in shock.

“Well, I hate seeing my best friend date a passive aggressive loser, so we’re both unhappy.” Daisy stood up, feet shuffling against the cement, and Jon felt her press a kiss against his forehead. “You two have a nice day out. I’m going to go hunt things, and head back to London. Take care of yourself, Jon. And cut out the PDA, it’s gross.”

Suddenly, violently, with a crushing realization, the entire vacation was recontextualized.

“I don’t appreciate any of this,” Jon said crossly, scowling in her direction. “Honestly, Daisy, you don’t -”

“Blame Tim. Love you, Jon. Love you, sweet puppy. See you later, Blackwood.”

Jon and Martin sat in silence as the sound of footsteps receded from Jon’s hearing, and the low murmur of the small village set in around them. Martin still seemed to slightly be in shock, his ice cream slowly melting, and Tiresias yawned sleepily in the sun.

“I hate her so fucking much,” Martin whispered.

But Jon just smiled, and reached out to brush a thumb over Martin’s close-cropped hair. He leaned in, whispering into Martin’s ear. “Hearing you yell at the scariest woman I know who isn’t Gertrude Robinson was pretty fucking sexy, love.”

“I hate her so - wait, it was? Really?” Martin coughed awkwardly. “Well, she really had it coming, and it’s not a huge deal, and I know she’s your best friend and I should be nice to her, but -”

“ - but she was right,” Jon said firmly. “An arse about making her point, but she was right. I’m working on using my words. You should too. All of the books say communication is key in a relationship. So let’s communicate, alright?” He faltered a little, uncertain if Daisy would want him to say this. “And - and it was obvious, from what she said, that Daisy respects you. It’s a very difficult thing, to win Daisy’s respect. I think she was trying to help us, in her own - unorthodox manner.”

“I hate her so much,” Martin groaned.

“It was very sexy,” Jon hinted.

Martin leaned in and kissed Jon lightly, and Jon could feel his smile against his own. “How about we finish our food,” he said quietly, “walk around town for a bit, buy some souvenirs for your family, and then go back to the cabin and snog and cuddle for a very long time? If that’s okay with you?”

“I’d like nothing more,” Jon said.

And he was right. It was messy, and weird, and painfully uncomfortable.

It was perfect.

#Bell book and candle #immortal with a kiss #no sin but ignorance #my writing #the closest thing you will ever see me write to a safehouse fic #jonmartin #the magnus archives #jonmartin fanfic #the magnus archives fanfic #tma #*bangs pots and pans* i am ace and sex-repulsed like jon so this is the bible how of how to write ace and sex-repulsed relationships #this is my 10 page apology for sidelining jonmartin in my 500 pages of tma fanfic

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rndyounghowze · 4 years

Text

Black Noses And My Personal History With White Supremacy

I finally got the courage to talk about something that Dana has been challenging me to post about for a while. #blm #stopwhiteterrorism

By Ricky and Dana Young-Howze

Mays Landing, NJ

Venmo: @rndyounghowze

I have a very vivid memory of being teased on the school bus in elementary school for having “a black nose and lips”. Until I got glasses and was diagnosed with Tourettes it was the common theme of my playground bullying. My biggest role model at the time was our bus driver Mr. Garland (I think that was his name) because he defended me. I remember trying to make up some story about how I got plastic surgery and they messed up my nose. He looked me dead in the eye and said “we have to be proud of what we look like. We are beautiful inside and out. They’re ugly on the inside. That’s what makes us better”.

I lived with my grandmother during the week and my parents on the weekends. My mom and dad lived in one of the first “projects” in the US and at that time they were one of two white families living there. I would be playing with the kids in the playground and a Black mom who would be watching us would tell me to come up to them and she would hold my chin in her hand and turn my head for inspection to the other mothers sitting there smoking cigarettes. She would tell me “I don’t care what your mom and dad told you” and would let me go back and play. I never really knew what she meant.

Flash forward to high school. I decided that I wanted to dive into my family history. I was in a play about the Confederate Flag and I remembered that I had family on both sides of the war. I had enough info about my family to join the Sons of Confederate Veterans. I also knew that my family up In Kentucky had fought in the Union. I was proud to have “heritage” on both sides.

I was rooting through photo albums in my Dad’s mom’s house. I came upon a family bible that was really old. It had to be old enough to be owned by the parts of the family that lived in the Appalachian Mountains in the 1800’s. Family bibles used to have these front pages that listed weddings and births. Listed in the middle is a marriage between a woman with the last name Jung and a man named Richard with no last name. This would not have meant anything except that after his name they took the time to list him as “a n*****r”. They then spent a paragraph talking about how he fought in the Civil War and saved lives in a battle by shooting a superior officer and allowing the company to retreat. So he was a n*****r but he was a “good n*****r”.

I knew that the story was that our family had changed our last name from Jung to Young to avoid discrimination. My Dad’s side of the family has an outstanding military history and I know they were worried about appearing to have German ties in the war. I eventually went across the street and asked my great grandfather about this. The only thing he ever told me was “marry a girl with the Irish in her. It’s the best thing you could do.” My great grandfather passed away while I was in Highschool. My grandfather passed away in college. After the funeral I went to the house and looked for the family Bible. I had held it in my hand four times in three years. It was gone. I have never found it again. My Dad has special needs, his mom has dementia. The rest of my Dad’s family has never spoken to me after the funeral. It may be because I married a Black person. Maybe not. I will never know.

One time while driving through my mom’s side of the family’s hometown I saw a church sign that had the family name on it. I asked why we never went there and she just casually said “that must belong to the Black families that live here that share our last name”. I was floored by this. We had a black side of the family? What!? She was quick to tell me that they were in no way related. It was just that the family was as old as we were and had lived in that town as long as we had. My family has lived there and owned land there since before the Civil War. I have been digging into the genealogy based on what she has told me and after two or three generations the family line with our last name seems to disappear. Two white branches of the family go back eight or so generations and seem to have married into the family three generations or so back but there don’t seem to be any birth or death records in their town that support her story that the family had been there for a very long time. There is no not-slave-owning explanation for this. To this day my grandmother refuses to talk about it. She leans into the Scots-Irish side of the story.

In grad school when I first met Dana they made sure to do two things: Tell a very wrong Obama joke and then ask me what I was mixed with. The joke was to see if I reacted to the joke in a ”white way” (their words). If I did they would never feel comfortable being alone with me ever much less date me. The second question is because they saw what every other Black person I know saw. I told them what I knew about the probable Black man on my Dad’s side and my theory about my Mom's side. They kinda looked flabbergasted. Like they were surprised I admitted it.

Dana and I fell hard in love and spent three years trying to do the long-distance relationship thing. We had very long talks about race and whiteness. We had to have massive discussions about privilege and culture. I had reading lists and albums and homework that I had to do and Dana readily admits that in a lot of ways I already ”got it”. However, it was never enough. They wanted me to make a conscious decision to marry into a black family and know what I was getting into.

In August of 2014, I had just gotten back from spending a summer with Dana and I was using my hour before work to buy an engagement ring. I had two months to move to NJ so that we could start a job together. I heard on the news that Michael Brown was shot by a white cop in Ferguson. It hit me like a ton of bricks. It was the first time that the weight of what I was doing rang home in the deepest parts of me. I was marrying a Black person. At the time I wanted to bring children into this world. It finally dawned on me that those children were going to be Black. Just as the math in my childhood was Black nose+white skin=white guy the calculus done in a cop’s head was not going to add up well for our children. I worked at a church so I went to the altar and prayed. I prayed for a whole hour. I got the ring and moved to NJ. Dana and I were married five months later. I never looked back.

Why am I saying this now? Because white supremacy is the scourge of American Theatre. It's the reason why our Asian American artists are afraid to walk the streets at night. It's the reason why our Black artists are having to stand up and form their coalitions to get work done without a ”white yes”. It's the reason why even though I have photographic proof that the Cis males in my family have slowly gotten paler with every generation and that I know with absolute certainty that there is a Black contribution to my heritage somewhere that they locked it down and hid it from me like it was a crime (and it was until Loving V. Virginia, the very state my Dad's side of the family hails from). They appear to have bred as much of it out of me as possible by marrying women with ”Irish” in them. I feel like I was force-fed the blue pill and sidelined from my culture. I will never be black. I’m not even trying to be. I am just sickened that something that every Black person I’ve met can see may or may not come from a heritage that was stolen from me and hidden so well I can probably only prove it with a DNA test.

Whiteness is not a culture, it is an allergic reaction to the existence of BIPOC contributions to American life. It is cancer in our American Theatre and we have predominantly white institutions that are standing out like tumors in our cultural landscape. I am singularly focused on rooting them out not just because I'm married to a BIPOC artist. I'm rooting them out so that I can claim all of my cultures so that I can make reparations for the harm that has happened in my personal history. To create me BIPOC heritage may have had to be bred out and hidden and I may never be able to prove it. The sheer insinuation is enough to sicken me. I will uncover it and amplify my ancestors’ stories if I can find them. I will create a culture where this doesn't have to happen again. It ends with me.

**************Similar Posts*************

https://rickyyoung-howze.tumblr.com/post/620134497865842688/our-promise-to-theatre

*****A Word From Our Sponsors*****

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Wanna be a sponsor? Email us for rates at [email protected]

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#theatre #nj #theatrelives #blm movement #black lives matter #endwhiteprivilege #end white supremacy #end white terrorism

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crimsoncityhq · 5 years

Text

The night has been advertised by multiple commercials in the civilian’s homes, and even dead bodies littered on some residence lawns. It’s dusk on a Thursday in February. The gates to the Fire and Ice Festival are lowered after hours of waiting in the biting Chicago tundra, and the crowd, over 4,000 strong, rushes in. Most are expecting a night of drunken freedom, cozied up by the outdoor heaters that promise a warm welcome, but some foresee the chaos bound to erupt across the lawn.

The first act takes the stage, and anyone who isn’t inebriated, courtesy of the open bar, is perceptive enough to realize that, no, that’s not Kanye West. Instead they are mesmerized by the lyrical lip syncher Dante Yeast—he looks enough like him, it’s better not to question it. One would think that the O’Sheas, Vasiles, and the Fausts all gathered in one spot would spell disaster, yet the evening rolls on without a hitch, despite the tensions slowly building in its periphery. Fausts members, too, are scattered across the ocean of bodies, but some faces are missing, figureheads who pull the strings.

Maybe they’re absorbed by the crowd; maybe they thought better of attending, but there’s a sense of unease that settles in the air. It’s not quite right, but no one can put a finger on why. Another beer, and the thought is lost is the swell of the music—if they didn’t know any better, they’d think the bass replicates the sound of distant explosions.

You’re free to start plotting. You can start posting starters/threads tomorrow, February 20th, 2020 at 7:30PM CST ! Part II coming February 24th ( Plot Slots can be found below the cut ! )

We’re going to allow each person to choose two plot slots for two characters max .If there are any leftovers, we’ll let members know when they can sign up for thirds.

You’ll notice that some of these plots are public, so feel free to have your character react to them/ notice them even if they aren’t happening directly to your character. However, if something feels like it happened privately to another character, please check in with their Mun to see if it’s okay for your character to know.

To be clear: these are not the only things that happen to your character during this plot drop and you are more than welcome to cook up your own trouble.

To sign up for a plot slot message the main! You can start doing that as soon as right now!

CHARACTER A, CHARACTER B, CHARACTER C, are approached by the venue to play as impersonators for the opening act of the show. However, it turns out…they are the show along with other noteworthy impersonators.

CHARACTER D & CHARACTER E end up camped out at the ticket box office on the other side of the lawn seats. They want a refund for the musical event after their cards were erroneously charged the next day on ADAM & EVE. Much to their surprise they come face to face with CHARACTER F( Faust ).

AUTUMN DAWSON is shitfaced prior to arriving at the music festival. They try to crowd surf before the opening act, and would get immediately dropped if NATHAN BURR didn’t catch their fall.

CHARACTER I & CHARACTER J purchased tickets to meet the bands backstage. They are led by the security detail of the event to two tents filled with a scent of gunpowder. Upon further inspection, they find a crate of fireworks. Do what you will.

CHARACTER K jumps on stage to hijack the mic and accidentally falls and breaks their ankle.

CHARACTER L & CHARACTER M are dosed with PCP by a stranger serving up “free” cocktails. Everything is a blur and they both snap back to reality an hour later, but they’re in the middle of an intense fist fight.

EFFIE FAUST & CHARACTER O engage in a mud wrestling contest that is being judged by no one whatsoever.

CHARACTER P & CHARACTER Q make out in a port-o-potty, but realize shortly after they’re locked inside. It’s up to CHARACTER R to either let them out...or tip them over.

CHARACTER S is mistaken as Pat Benatar. ASLI DEMIR drunkenly convinces them to go on stage to sing LOVE IS A BATTLEFIELD.

CHARACTER U & CHARACTER V go hard on the alcoholic beverages & psychedelic treats at the start of the festival, by the end of it neither of them know where their shoes or wallets are.

CHARACTER W finds their soulmate in a drunken stupor and grinds on them for the better half of two hours, only to realize the grindee is ZHI ROU, who has been uncomfortably shifting away from them this entire time.

CHARACTER Y breaks all of their glow sticks and covers themselves in the liquid. It’s all fun and games until that shit starts to burn. CHARACTER Z does their best to quench CHARACTER Y with every bottled water they can find.

CHARACTER A1, CHARACTER B1, & CHARACTER C1 are hired security guards for the event. They have no clue who hired them to do it.

INGRID VASILE starts to overdose on COCAINE. LEV VASILE notices their struggle and assists them to the med tent. DOMINIC MURPHY is around the med tent and notices the commotion.

CHARACTER F1 tries to charge their phone using the musical equipment & gets electrocuted. Also it starts to play the most recent song listened to on their phone which is SONG OF THEIR CHOICE.

GRIFFIN DYER is held up at security when they try to enter the venue, because they tried to smuggle in a small animal. CHARACTER H1 isn’t really security and jacks the animal instead.

SERENITY MICHAELS starts to question their sanity when they see a small animal run in circles in front of them and jet off towards the direction of the port-o-potty.

RACHEL BYRNE feels something small and furry scaling the back of their dress, and, assuming it’s someone’s hand, slaps DAHLIA CAVALLI in the mouth before the small animal scurries away and they have to apologize.

CHARACTER L1 chases the small animal and just when they are sure they’ve caught it, the animal bites them on the neck. CHARACTER M1, who is higher than a motherfucker and hallucinating, sees CHARACTER L1 cradling their neck and automatically assumes a vampiric transformation is happening. CHARACTER L1 has to survive the following attack from a stranger with a pocket knife.

CHARACTER N1 is on their fifth drink at the venue. They hear a loud slurping noise, only to find the small animal lapping their beer in hand. Out of surprise they scream which causes the animal to shit on their hand and run away. CHARACTER O1 looks on in amazement, wonder, and terror as CHARACTER N1 wipes their hand on an unknowing CHARACTER P1. CHARACTER O1 is conflicted if they should say anything but takes a Snapchat video of the whole scenario anyway. It goes viral on Tik Tok the following evening.

The small animal finally gets caught by SANTIAGO PEREZ in a battle that lasts 10 minutes. The small animal is then given to CHARACTER R1 whom they assume is the owner.

CHARACTER S1 is lost to the world, and passes out directly in front of CHARACTER T1 that had just spent twenty minutes in line for a cup of water. The cup of water is spilled on top of CHARACTER S1.

NAOMI WASHINGTON & CHARACTER V1 become instant buddies when they chant to the sound of “SHOTS” around the crowd. IRINA KOSHKIN takes this literally and pulls out their gun ready to fire.

CHARACTER X1, CHARACTER Y1, CHARACTER Z1 all show up to the venue wearing the same exact outfit. You have declared them your number 1 enemy for the entirety of the music festival.

CHARACTER A2 is high as fuck and thinks they’re making a flower crown for CHARACTER B2…..except it’s a crown of shrooms instead. CHARACTER B2 wears the crown, but has to swat CHARACTER C2 away who keeps trying to eat them.

CHARACTER D2, CHARACTER E2, CHARACTER F2 suffer from dehydration. They try to find help at the med tent, but they can’t find where it is.

ROSA LEON gets handsy with the bartender at the open bar and leads them away for a quick fuck, allowing RYAN HAYES and CHARACTER I2 to raid the bar freely.

CHARACTER J2 is the aforementioned bartender and realizes a moment too late their station is being cleared out. Instead of returning to their position, they throw on some neon bracelets and join the party.

CHARACTER K2 is doing some sick backflips in the middle of the crowd and are called out by the currently performing act mid-set for drawing attention away from the stage. CHARACTER K2 does another backflip to retaliate, but accidentally kicks CHARACTER L2 in the face.

JESSE VALENCIA hijacks a ELECTRIC BLUE STRATOCASTER from the backstage, and they are not caught.

DAVUT DEMIR feels like they’re being watched and finds a silhouette with a rifle narrowed in on them perched upon a nearby building. They quickly retreat to find OPHELIA O’SHEA and P2 and warn them about the occurrence, who realize there are multiple snipers surrounding the pavilion.

CHARACTER Q2 swears they heard a sound of explosions over the music, being in front nearest to the stage. They grab the microphone and scream, “WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE.” CHARACTER R2 & CHARACTER S2 start to openly panic.

CHARACTER T2 (O’Shea) gets into a physical altercation with CHARACTER U2 (Vasile). They don’t stop until one or the other is knocked unconscious.

ANDREA REED & BIRDIE MENDOZA try to leave the event, but notice that they’re trapped in the auditorium. CHARACTER X2 makes it to their vehicle, but is stuck in place by the surrounding vehicles around them. Unable to escape fully, they return back to the venue.

CHARACTER Y2 hates their life at this music venue, because they’re stuck behind a rather sweaty individual. Their sweat keeps hitting them in the face, and at one point, they catch it in their mouth. It incites a ferocious bout of vomiting, and CHARACTER Z2 is trying to help, thinking they’ve been drugged, but CHARACTER Y2 can’t even explain what it is that made them sick.

TATIANA BLANTER is hit with a spare bullet, but no one is able to find where the source is. As no one around seems to have their gun out. CHARACTER B3 conceals their weapon perfectly.

NOVA DEVERAUX suffers a panic attack due to the crowd gathered, and clings onto CLARA DAVILLA who is unable to get them to the med tent.

CHARACTER E3 feels something warm splash on their face. They are unsure if it’s warm beer or urine. They’re pretty sure it’s warm beer, but remain conflicted the rest of the festival. CHARACTER F3 offers the shirt off their back for CHARACTER E3 to wipe the liquid off their face.

CHARACTER G3 is doing photography for the event, but realizes midway through the show that the performers aren’t who they say they are. They spot a face they know to be Faust affiliated in the crowd and scurry off toward the exit, only to be stopped by CHARACTER H3 (Faust) at the door.

MILES ST CLARE is the first to notice the lack of Fausts at the start of the music venue. They make their way to the police station in hopes of figuring it out, but instead they encounter burning police cars and chaos.

#crimson.event #crimson.plot #gang rp #crime rp #mature rp #overdose tw #violence tw #drugs tw

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abdifarah · 6 years

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Hotel Pennsylvania

Central Pennsylvania is weird. Homeowners string confederates flags as nonchalantly as Christmas lights. My mom, who moved to Central Pennsylvania against my protests, lives about ten miles from Spring Grove, PA, which we have to drive through whenever we visit my Aunt Darlene and Uncle Kenny right below the Pennsylvania–Maryland line. Spring Grove is a cruel joke of a name as the town perpetually smells of rancid cabbage. The smell emanates from the Glatfelter Paper Mill at the heart of the town. All the shops and services in the town either bear the Glatfelter name or use some corny paper pun in their signage. The old brick row homes that line Main Street have porches but no one sits on them. If you do see someone on the street they have an exhausted expression well beyond their years, perhaps from too many cigarettes, or possibly from years of hopelessly working at the paper mill. A cloud – both literal and spiritual – hangs over Spring Grove.

But there is another kind of small town in Central Pennsylvania. All the companies in this town are higher tech with little pollution to diffuse the sun. Power washed brick houses with immaculately manicured lawns line the small streets of Lititz, Pennsylvania. Voted the Best Small Town in America by AARP, every block has either an ice cream stand, or a guitar shop, or a quaint bed and breakfast. On any summer afternoon the sidewalks and streets are filled with happy people. Kids in their bathing suits weave through older pedestrians on Razor scooters. Fit and fresh faced adults in Tevas and Birkenstocks walk dogs, and still active older couples in Brooks Brothers hold hands while taking an evening stroll. It's the kind of town that takes the Fourth of July very seriously. Year round every house has the same 4 x 6 foot American flag fixed at the same 45 degree angle from a post of the white painted porches that wrap each facade, so as to clear up any confusion with one’s neighbor. “Oh, you’re American? I’m American too! What are the chances?” But around the Fourth somehow more American flags appear. They break out those pleated half-circle numbers with the concentric red, white, and blue ring with the star in the middle, and drape them over their porch railings. Little old ladies plant entire fields of miniature flags in public green spaces, in memory of fallen soldiers. (When exactly did the 4th of July merge with Memorial Day? Let there be no question, Lititz, Pennsylvania loves the troops. In Lititz the 4th alone cannot contain the fireworks, but anytime for about a week before and after you can expect to hear a random boom and see a starburst of red white or blue sparks in the sky.

Unlike Spring Grove, Lititz is thriving, bolstered by a constellation of steady companies offering both good paying blue collar work as well as more tech driven white collar jobs. There is a Rolex factory here. Lititz is what I assume Trump supporters envision when they pray Make America Great Again. Surprisingly, despite the overt patriotism and trappings of Americana, Lititz is not Trump Country. The cute coffee shops and overpriced bistros are populated by salt and pepper haired businessmen pissed that Trump’s steel tariffs are cutting into the bottom line, as well as woke college kids home for summer break shedding genuine tears over the separation of immigrant families at the border. Turns out a lot of white folks despise Trump as much if not more than us various minorities.

Despite the friendly faces and preponderance of liberal allies, my skin still crawls in this still uber-white small town. I am usually the only brown person in sight and while the eyes are kind I do feel all eyes on me wherever I go. I imagine walking into a dark divey bar in depressed Spring Grove and the proverbial record screeches and some grisled bartender asks acerbically, “What are you doing here!?” In Lititz the look on peoples’ faces asks the same “What are you doing here?” without the coldness, but rather with concern or surprise, as if to ask “Are you lost?” “How did you stumble upon our white oasis?” I come to Lititz regularly for work as a subcontractor for one of the big companies fueling the prosperity of Lititz, a company called Tait Towers. Most people will never hear about Tait Towers but they are ubiquitous. If you have gone to a big arena concert in the last 30 years you have seen their work, as they are the foremost supplier of decking and stage equipment for rock and pop concert tours. Anything sleek and shiny and automated that adorned the stage of that last concert you attended was probably Tait. I get called in when they are working on something a little weirder, handmade, idiosyncratic. Over the years assisting Tait’s in-house Scenic Department, we have built a gold vinyl wrapped tiger and lion for Katy Perry, sculpted a 30 foot jungle Tree for Britney Spears, and created an ice crystal themed stage for Lady Gaga. Turns out the ladies of pop like hand made props to counteract their synthesized sound, for which me and my bank account are grateful. It's not the most avantgarde work, but the pay is decent. They put me up in hotel while I am there. For a while I had Hilton Diamond Status after a particularly long five month stay designing and building an inflatable tree for Cirque du Soleil’s Avatar themed show, Toruk. Strangely, I get asked to make a lot of trees.

This past Saturday I was leaving the local laundromat. My hotel has a washer and dryer but I still jump at any opportunity show my black face in town and mix it up with the townspeople. However awkward, I am a glutton for punishment. As I was turning the corner out of the laundromat parking lot I almost shocked myself into an accident as I witnessed a Chinese family on their porch within a row of houses. Where had these people been during those homogeneous 4th of July celebrations or during those awkward evenings I spent at the bar of the Bull’s Head, a local tavern? I suspected that there was a whole unseen community of minorities in Lititz. I remembered the handful of other black and brown people that worked at Tait. Why had I not seen this more diverse crowd during my daily coffee runs to the local bakery, Dosie Dough, or out walking their dogs or playing with their children in the evening? It seemed that the other people of color went to work, did their job, and immediately jetted home as soon as the day was done. Also, a lot of them probably chose to forego small town living in favor of the more urban Lancaster, Pennsylvania about seven miles south of Lititz.

After a few weeks in Lititz, I too found myself retreating to my hotel room after the work day. Should I go out for dinner for a little more ambiance or grab a drink at the bar with its potential for conversation. The pessimistic belief that I would be the only black person and the sole vessel to absorb the awkward stares proved exhausting. I would instead microwave an Amy’s Mexican casserole bowl for dinner and catch up on the last season of The Americans. At some point myself and the other people of color of Lititz made an unspoken pact with the white people of this sleepy town that we would do our jobs and go home immediately in order to perpetuate the belief that this was one of those ideal small towns, the kind that could be voted Best Small Town in America. When I imagine the best small town in America sadly I do not see a Chinese family, black welders, or even myself.

After years of coming to work with Tait I can confidently say that I hate classic rock. Tait is all about classic rock. The founder, Michael Tait, an Australian expat, got his start building stages for the band Yes in the 60’s. As an independent artist, my short stints with Tait represent my only times working in a real workplace with set hours. For years the shop was haunted by an omnipresent Muzak system that played classic rock incessantly. Everyday at around 4pm the Eagles’ “Hotel California”, a song written by Satan himself, would torment us. Working 10 to 12 to 14 hour days to meet a deadline, 4 o’ clock was our witching hour; too late in the day to bring any new energy or insights to the project, much too early to begin cleaning up for the day. The lyrics, “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave” taunted me, less because of their spot on description of my current predicament but more because they’re just stupid. Hearing the same “classic” songs day after day I realized the utter mediocrity of classic rock as whole. Just competently melodic enough to be easy to listen to, unlike say punk or metal (both far superior). Lyrically the stories ranged from completely meaningless, to embarrassingly infantile, to undeniably problematic. Somehow we decided that this was the American music, over jazz, blues, funk, and r&b. Classic rock will be playing on the space shuttle we board after we successfully destroy earth and it will be playing on whatever outpost we establish on the faraway planet we colonize.

Currently, I am working on a set of nine sculptures of Elton John that will array the proscenium arch above the stage for his upcoming tour. Overall, I enjoy this work. At least it is not another tree. And as far as pop music goes I dig Elton John’s music more than some of the other pop stars for whom I have made art. However, at the end of a long day sculpting his strange bulbous nose and thin lips for the seventh, eighth or ninth time I begin to sour a bit on Sir Elton. Elton John is 73 years old (probably older since, like most performers, I assume he gave a younger age when he started out) and we are building a stage for him for a projected three year tour that will net him millions of dollars. How many black artists or other musicians of color are still relevant and can sell out arenas into their 60’s and 70’s? Maybe Stevie Wonder? I can easily name 20 white (male) musicians. We already mentioned Elton John; how about Billy Joel, Bob Dylan, Paul McCartney, Bruce Springsteen, Paul Simon, The Rolling Stones, The Eagles, The Who, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Bon Jovi, Eric Clapton, Rod Stewart, Aerosmith, Sting, Ozzy Osbourne, Jimmy Buffett? I can keep going. Were these giants of rock undeniably better than their female contemporaries or artists of color working at the same time so as to secure an undying career into infinity?

I read in an article years ago detailing some of the financial troubles of T-Boz and Chilli of TLC, that they did not have much money coming in outside of the $1200 royalty check they received monthly. TLC was a group notoriously mistreated and shortchanged by their management and record labels yet they still had $1200 a month in royalties arriving like clockwork. I can barely begin to fathom what a group like the Rolling Stones receives in regular royalties. At any moment a Rolling Stones song plays somewhere on this blue planet. I hypothesize that the proliferation of classic rock around the world may be the biggest form of white welfare. According to the website, Inside Philanthropy, Jimmy Buffett is worth $550 million. He has one terrible song that he has somehow parlayed into a fortune! He is then free to spread that money among various causes or toward organizations like the NRA. Or take rock and roll’s running joke that the Rolling Stones, despite their hard living are somehow, immortal. While humorous and perplexing we all know the reason for these artist’s longevity. Being wanted, having work to do, being asked to perform, and the monetary and emotional support they afford sustains one’s life. I cannot help but feel that the melancholy that we collectively share when a giant of black music dies – Prince a few years back and Aretha Franklin most recently – stems from the understanding that despite their great fame and success their talent deserved more. They deserved Rolling Stones level treatment. Is there a better rock and roll song that Franklin’s “Respect” or “Chain of Fools?” I should have been in Lititz making nine life-size sculptures of Aretha Franklin and not Elton John.

The last time I arrived at Tait to work on a project I noticed the absence of the Muzak system. Every department now controlled their own music. Sometimes someone plays from their Spotify or Apple Music or we just put on the radio. Much to my chagrin and confusion, somehow the Freddy Kruger of classic rock continues to haunt me even with my mostly young coworkers choosing the music. Someone will mindlessly put on the “Beatles Radio” on Pandora, or WXPN, a Philly radio station, will have a “Throwback Thursday” traversing the entire discography of the Rolling Stones. One day during WXPN’s regular offerings (usually a mix of new rock with a few eclectic curve balls thrown every now and then) Childish Gambino AKA Donald Glover’s “This is America” came on (I too am surprised by the ubiquity of this song as I viewed it less as something to casually listen to and more as the multi-level artwork that I was initially presented with through its graphic video. But alas, the song bumps). Almost instinctively, without prompt, fanfare, or commotion one of my coworkers changed the channel. After hours of absorbing banal rock something mysterious sparked a station change. I tried to put this incident out of my mind. Soon after someone put on an Itunes 80’s playlist. Somehow 80’s music has come to mean “White 80’s”; Culture Club, Billy Idol, and all that other Breakfast Club, Top Gun, Say Anything music, completely omitting black acts, save titans like Michael Jackson and Prince. Surprisingly, a Janet Jackson song slipped onto this mostly vanilla playlist, but almost as soon as I started bouncing my shoulders and popping my neck along with Jackson’s “Pleasure Principle” someone calmly put down their tools, walked to the computer and skipped to the next song!

I work with genuinely good people. The same liberal minded white people that I would overhear furiously denouncing Trump in the coffee shop. But there was something unconsciously disturbing about a black voice coming out of the office speakers, and conversely something calming and reassuring about A-Ha’s “Take On Me,” which restored the stasis after Janet’s interruption. Was the promulgation of classic rock and other culturally white genres part of some conspiracy to entrench whiteness as the default and everything else an aberration? The truth was probably less insidious and more banal, but no less effective. Sometimes I’ll muster the courage to take over DJ duties and I will attempt to put on a more colorful station or playlist, but even I find myself squirming with embarrassment if a particular black song plays. I am conscious that, unlike those classic rock songs that we all know to the point of no longer hearing them, every word of an unfamiliar song from an unfamiliar voice conspicuously grabs the attention and appears in bold text before ones eyes, complete with a bouncing ball keeping place. This can become awkward when, say, Adina Howard’s “Freak Like Me” comes on during a 90’s Jams Playlist. I want a freak in the morning/ A freak in the evening, just like me/ I need a roughneck nigga/ That can satisfy me. Why should a song that boldly expresses black female sexuality be awkward for me? I listen to plenty of songs all day that foreground white male sexuality: AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” or Rod Stewart’s “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy.” Or why should a rap song with explicit lyrics put the room in a frenzy? Eric Clapton literally has a song called, “Cocaine.”

White supremacy resides not only within the purview of avowed white supremacists; that resident of Spring Grove or Dover with truck nuts hanging off his gun metal grey Ford Raptor with the giant confederate flag waving. We are all complicit. The MAGA white supremacist is not the only one lying to themselves about America’s past. The liberal resident of Lititz is as well. So am I. Somewhere we all believed the wonderfully illustrative mid-century American propaganda that America was a white family behind a white picket fence and that everyone else is just borrowing space, when in reality people from all ethnic backgrounds have shared this country since day one. And to be more factual there was a time on this land mass before white people; before genocide, theft, and slavery. Us people of color need to combat this as well. We may be mathematical minorities, but we are not new here. We are not the cousin crashing on the couch, lying awake and hungry, afraid to go to the kitchen and make food, so as not to disturb the owners of the house. We need to not be ashamed of our music, our existence. We need to show up and be seen; at those corny 4th of July celebrations and especially at the voting booth, reminding all onlookers that we are just as American. Only then might we all imagine a more diverse picture when we think of the Best Small Town in America, and only then might I be freed from the hell of “Hotel California” playing on my radio into eternity.

#music #aretha franklin #elton john #pennsylvania #america #rocknroll

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aion-rsa · 4 years

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Star Trek: Discovery Season 3 Episode 11 Review: Su’Kal

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This STAR TREK: DISCOVERY review contains spoilers for Season 3, Episode 11

As the season finale looms on the horizon Star Trek: Discovery attempts to begin pulling together its disparate Season 3 plot threads into something like a cohesive story. “Su’Kal” brings the villainous Osyraa and her Emerald Chain back into the picture, investigates the mysterious Kelpien ship that sent the distress call a few episodes back, and finally gives us an answer to what likely caused the Burn in the first place.

If this all feels a bit crowded and overstuffed, that’s because the hour tries to do too much, cramming in a ton of primary exposition alongside its more action-oriented B plot. Plus, if you had “the Burn was somehow triggered by a radioactive Kelpien child who lives in the holodeck version of Plato’s cave” on your Discovery Season 3 bingo card, well – you’re a smarter viewer than I am.

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But, hey, at least Tilly gets to sit in the captain’s chair at last. (In the Prime universe, at any rate.) Take joy in the small things, folks.

The crew of the Discovery is surprised that there’s a life sign emanating from the abandoned Kelpien ship discovered in that mysterious nebula, but we shouldn’t be. This season has been extremely interested in interrogating whether Saru is the right leader for this brutal new future, and for weeks his arc has been foreshadowing a critical choice at a point when he clearly cares more about the needs of the one than the many. The moment of that test is upon him, and it may very well end up costing him his life, or the lives of his crew. (I suspect it will at the very least cost him his captain’s chair next season, but that’s just a shot in the dark.)

How Star Trek: Discovery’s BIG Twist Sets Up Section 31

By Ryan Britt

Star Trek: Discovery Season 3 Episode 10 Easter Eggs & References

By Ryan Britt

There was never any real question of whether Saru would jump at the chance to rescue the child that’s still trapped in the wreckage of that Kelpien ship. And, naturally, Michael can’t resist the opportunity to find out the truth about the Burn she’s been obsessed with since she arrived in the 32nd century, since she blames that event for the downfall of the organizations she most loved. It makes a certain amount of sense for Hugh to tag along since he’s at least a medical professional, but this is another of those installments where it feels as though Discovery simply enjoys constantly putting him – and Stamets – in mortal peril, for no other reason than because it can.

As noted last week, we were always going to miss Philippa Georgiou’s presence on this show, but I didn’t think the weight of her absence would be felt so completely this quickly. Truly, this episode would have been vastly improved by the presence of anyone willing to argue the more difficult points of the situation: That Saru and Michael’s trip into the nebula was actually kind of a stupid plan to begin with and that the smartest decision they could have made once they recognized Su’Kal’s abilities would have been to kill or otherwise incapacitate him in the name of preventing countless more deaths.

This is Star Trek, of course, so that plan would have rightfully gone nowhere, but the fact that no one even mentions the hard truths to Michael or Saru now is kind of a problem. (Except for Tilly, a little bit, as she at least tries to leave Michael and jump Discovery to safety – just a minute too late.)

What emotional heft there is in this story comes from Doug Jones who, thanks to an oddity of the program that protects Su’Kal that cloaks all visitors in skins that will be familiar to him, is for once allowed to convey every moment of Saru’s emotional conflict on his own very human face. The lack of the prosthetics he normally wears allows for a degree of performative nuance that he is not always afforded, and Jones sells every second of Saru’s personal grief and devastation over the things he sees.

The child Su’Kal – now grown to a young man – exists in a world populated entirely by holograms and computer simulations. He’s never been outside the ship he was born on and doesn’t even really understand the idea of “outside” as anything beyond the vaguest of concepts. He seems to spend his life trying to avoid the literal manifestation of a monster from one of his childhood storybooks and is painfully excited to meet Burnham, who he believes to be something new in a world that became stale long ago.

He is also, apparently, the source of the Burn. Which, admittedly, is not the answer to this season long mystery that I was hoping for, particularly since the planet he is trapped on is essentially made of dilithium, a twist which pretty much solves everything that was interesting about this season’s space politics in one fell and largely dull swoop.

Thanks to the combination of extended exposure to subspace radiation and the nearby dilithium nursery that has transformed him into what is essentially Star Trek’s take on Dark Phoenix. (The episode was not tremendously clear on the explanation for any of this beyond Hugh’s insistence that life forms adapt when they have to, so hopefully more exposition is coming, both about what happened 125 years earlier and what Su’Kal is capable of doing now.)

As the final credits roll, Sa’Kul remains a threat that no one knows how to neutralize; Saru, Hugh and Adira are trapped and slowly dying of radiation poisoning; and Michael and Book are left watching Discovery disappear, her spore drive now in the possession of the Emerald Chain.

Now what? We’ve got two more episodes to find out.

Additional Thoughts

If I were going to take my ship into a radioactive death trap, I would definitely take my amazing cat off of it first, Book! Protect Queen Grudge at all costs!

The fact that the Discovery now canonicallyhas what is essentially a veterinarian on board is the best thing. (This must mean that more people have pets, yes?)

Michael Burnham lecturing literally anybody about allowing their emotions and desires to distract from the needs of the larger mission is r i c h.

That said, Michael’s pep talk to Tilly about sitting in the captain’s chair in Saru’s absence was the sort of ladies supporting ladies stuff I always want to see in this franchise.

Tilly’s threat to self-destruct the Discovery before allowing Osyraa to have the spore drive was hardcore. I hate that her determination was undercut by the Emerald Chain just…apparently transporting straight onto the ship with no problem?

Sorry about the mind control, Stamets. You truly have the worst luck.

The post Star Trek: Discovery Season 3 Episode 11 Review: Su’Kal appeared first on Den of Geek.

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bountyofbeads · 5 years

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Trump arrives in El Paso after staying largely out of public view in Dayton as he visits two cities grieving from mass shootings

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Trump arrives in El Paso after staying largely out of public view in Dayton as he visits two cities grieving from mass shootings

By John Wagner, Felicia Sonmez and Arelis R. Hernández | Published August 07 at 6:05 PM ET | Washington Post | Posted August 7, 2019 7:33 PM ET |

President Trump arrived in El Paso late Wednesday afternoon after remaining largely out of public view when he was in Dayton, Ohio, on a day of visits intended to console cities recovering from a pair of mass shootings over the weekend.

As he left the White House in the morning, Trump suggested he would refrain from attacking his political adversaries during the trip. “I would like to stay out of the political fray,” he told reporters.

But that detente lasted mere hours. By the time the president had left Dayton and boarded Air Force One for El Paso, he was back on Twitter and sniping at Democrats. He lashed out at Sen. Sherrod Brown (D-Ohio) and Dayton Mayor Nan Whaley (D), falsely accusing them of mischaracterizing the reception he received during about two hours of meetings at Miami Valley Hospital with first responders, hospital staff and survivors of the shooting early Sunday morning that left nine dead.

“It was a warm & wonderful visit,” Trump tweeted. “Tremendous enthusiasm & even Love. Then I saw failed Presidential Candidate (0%) Sherrod Brown & Mayor Whaley totally misrepresenting what took place inside of the hospital. Their news conference after I left for El Paso was a fraud.”

Neither Brown nor Whaley said Trump received a poor reception at the hospital, and Brown never launched a presidential campaign. Speaking to reporters after Trump’s visit to Dayton, Brown said Trump was comforting in his talks with patients in the hospital. And both he and Whaley said they used their time with Trump to lobby him to push for an assault-weapons ban and stronger background checks, among other measures.

Whaley responded to Trump’s attack with bafflement.

“I don’t – I mean, I’m really confused,” she said as she read Trump’s tweets about her and Brown, according to video posted by the Cincinnati Enquirer. “We said he was treated, like, very well. So, I don’t know why they’re talking about ‘misrepresenting.’”

“Oh, well, you know,” she added with a shrug. “He lives in his world of Twitter.”

In his tweets from aboard Air Force One, Trump also said he was watching footage of former vice president Joe Biden delivering remarks in Iowa and proclaimed the speech “Sooo Boring!”

“The LameStream Media will die in the ratings and clicks with this guy,” Trump tweeted. “It will be over for them, not to mention the fact that our Country will do poorly with him. It will be one big crash, but at least China will be happy!”

Biden’s response, according to CNN: “He should get a life.”

And the president offered a critique of Fox News’s Shepard Smith, declaring that he prefers watching “Fake News CNN” rather than tuning in to Smith’s show, “the lowest rated show on @FoxNews.”

Aside from brief appearances on the airport tarmac in Dayton and El Paso, Trump did not speak publicly or allow himself to be photographed. Reporters traveling with him were secluded as he took part in the hospital visits.

Trump was greeted by scores of protesters in downtown Dayton and more upon arriving in El Paso, where 22 people died Saturday in a massacre that appeared to target immigrants.

The visit to Dayton, a city of about 140,000 people, was a marked break with tradition, as presidents visiting grieving communities typically offer public condolences and use the opportunity to try to comfort the nation.

Ahead of Trump’s tweets about Brown and Whaley, White House social media director Dan Scavino Jr. also accused the two Democrats of “LYING & completely mischaracterizing what took place w/ the President’s visit to Miami Valley Hospital today.”

“The President was treated like a Rock Star inside the hospital, which was all caught on video,” Scavino said on Twitter. “They all loved seeing their great President!”

White House press secretary Stephanie Grisham also chastised the Democrats, saying in a tweet that it was “genuinely sad to see them immediately hold such a dishonest press conference in the name of partisan politics.”

At the hospital, Trump was accompanied by Brown, Whaley, Ohio Gov. Mike DeWine (R), Sen. Rob Portman (R-Ohio), Rep. Michael R. Turner (R-Ohio) and Turner’s daughter, who witnessed the shooting.

Miami Valley Hospital, which is the largest and only trauma center in southwestern Ohio, treated 23 victims from the shooting in the Oregon District, all of whom survived. Of those, 10 suffered gunshot wounds and 13 were injured in the ensuing panic of the rampage. Most have been released from the hospital.

Aboard Air Force One, Grisham told reporters that the White House had not allowed journalists to observe the hospital visit because it was not “a photo op.”

The visit was “about the victims and their families and thanking medical staff,” Grisham said. Soon after, the White House distributed its own photos via Scavino’s Twitter account, and Trump tweeted out a video and photos of the visit. Hospital officials later described the hospital visit to The Washington Post.

Donations from across Ohio poured in as trauma teams worked through Sunday morning. The Del Sol health system in El Paso sent food for all the hospital workers, tying together two cities united in horror.

Trump met privately with the three victims who remain hospitalized but are in stable condition. Hospital President Mike Uhl said the president was “attentive, present and extremely accommodating,” as the patients spoke about their experience, and he encouraged them to focus on both their physical and emotional recuperation.

“It was an authentic visit,” Uhl said. “Everyone was given time to tell their story.”

The hospital also invited victims who had already been released to come back and meet with Trump. About 20 people, including friends and family, met privately with the president and first lady.

According to Mary Boosalis, president and chief executive of Premier Health, which owns the hospital, one female victim recalled her experience calmly for the dignitaries in the room. But within seconds, she burst into tears. Boosalis said the first lady embraced her, and the president said a few words to comfort her.

The commander in chief’s final visit was with police, fire officials and trauma surgeons who helped save lives that morning. The six Dayton police officers credited with taking down the shooter were also in the room.

Trump commended the first responders for their speed and courage in taking down the gunman within a minute and stopping him before he could do more damage inside Ned Pepper’s bar.

“I don’t think we will ever know how many lives were saved,” by their quick thinking, Boosalis recalled Trump saying.

Boosalis and Uhl said despite the charged political atmosphere with protesters outside and calls for gun control, the moment inside the hospital was a serene and much-needed salve.

“It was a moving moment to put politics aside and celebrate survival,” Boosalis said. “It’s not about politics, but about being acknowledged.”

Speaking to reporters before he left Washington, Trump dismissed critics who have suggested that his rhetoric on race and immigration is partly to blame for a rise in hate-inspired violence, such as that in El Paso.

“I think my rhetoric brings people together,” Trump said, adding that he is “concerned about the rise of any group of hate.”

“I don’t like it,” he said, “whether it’s white supremacy, whether it’s any other kind of supremacy.”

He called his critics “people who are looking for political gain.”

Trump also said that he is open to calling on Congress to return from recess to strengthen background checks for gun buyers but that he sees “no political appetite” for banning assault rifles.

Trump’s comments about possible legislative responses to the weekend carnage continued a pattern in recent days of advocating unfocused ideas without specifics — a pattern that would face an uncertain path in Congress.

Many Democrats, including much of the presidential field, advocate reinstating the now-expired assault weapons ban that was included in the 1994 crime bill.

“There is no political appetite for that at this moment,” said Trump.

He has voiced support in recent days for “red-flag” laws, which allow police to temporarily confiscate firearms from a person deemed by a judge as posing a risk of violence.

Recent polls indicate a majority of Americans support some form of ban on assault rifles, though there is a large partisan divide, and fewer than half of Republicans support such measures. A July NPR-PBS NewsHour-Marist poll found 57 percent of the public supported a ban on “the sale of semiautomatic assault guns, such as the AK-47 or the AR-15.” Fewer than 3 in 10 Republicans supported the proposal, rising to a slight majority of independents, and over 8 in 10 Democrats.

Speaking to reporters alongside Whaley, Brown said it has been impossible to pass such legislation because of the opposition of Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-Ky.)

“We can’t get anything done in the Senate because Mitch McConnell and the president of the United States are in bed with the gun lobby,” Brown said.

Whaley said during a brief talk with Trump on the airport tarmac, she told him: “Mr. President, the city of Dayton and the people of Dayton are really looking forward to some action” on gun control.

“I think he heard me. I don’t know if he will take action,” Whaley added.

Scores of sign-wielding protesters — and some Trump supporters — gathered in downtown Dayton, anticipating Trump’s arrival. Protesters changed routes when they heard that the president would be greeting survivors at the Miami Valley hospital and stood along a sidewalk hoping to catch Trump’s attention.

A caravan of emergency vehicles separated the line of demonstrators from the back entrance where the president’s motorcade pulled in.

Stephanie Smith, 67, brought a small printout with a cartoonish image of Trump with the words “Stop Gun violence.” The retiree was awakened early Sunday by calls from relatives worried she would have been in Dayton’s Oregon District when the shooting began.

She then awakened her adult son with the same inquiries.

“It’s horrifying,” Smith said. “I appreciate the work being done on red-flag legislation but I am concerned that not enough attention is being placed on the weapons themselves.”

Along the protest line, demonstrators said they have lost faith in their politicians to “do something” — as they chanted — to stop the kind of carnage that devastated their city.

“Thoughts and prayers don’t stop bullets,” one of several signs read.

Three high school friends used banner paper to hold a sign welcoming Trump to Toledo, referencing a mistake he made earlier in the week during remarks in the Oval Office.

In El Paso, crowds of protesters could be seen gathered down a few side streets near University Hospital, where Trump arrived in the late afternoon. Rep. Veronica Escobar (D), whose district includes the Walmart and shopping center where the massacre occurred, said Tuesday that she had turned down an invitation from the White House to join Trump during his trip.

Some residents of the city were distressed by the president’s visit.

Albert Hernandez, 55, used to be a supporter of Trump. That changed last weekend, when his sister, Maribel Hernandez, and his brother-in-law, Leo Campos, were gunned down by the El Paso shooter.

In recent years, Hernandez said, his sister and her husband shared concerns that Trump was stoking racist and xenophobic sentiment with his rhetoric. Until this point, other relatives, including Hernandez himself, would often disagree.

“I was the one who would tell them that they were exaggerating, but now, with this tragedy, it’s the total opposite,” Hernandez said. “Now that this hit the family, people are starting to wake up.”

Hernandez criticized the president’s recent anti-immigrant and racist rhetoric, citing the incident when he told four Democratic congresswomen of color to “go back” to where they came from as well as the speech Trump gave in Florida where he smirked after an audience member yelled for migrants to be shot.

“[Trump] doesn’t seem to understand that he needs to stop because he’s awakening these killers,” the El Paso native said. “He doesn’t seem to understand that these people — these assassins — feel like they are his soldiers.”

Trump met with some family members of the shooting victims when he visited El Paso Wednesday, but Hernandez said no one from his family received an invitation from the president’s office. Even if they had, he added, he likely would not have attended.

“Honestly, as a proud American, a patriotic American, I think Trump should stay away from El Paso,” Hernandez said. “He’s making it worse.”

Hernandez reported from Dayton. Rebecca Tan, Allyson Chiu, Tim Craig, Scott Clement and Tim Elfrink in Washington contributed to this report.

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technicalsolutions88 · 6 years

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The removal of conspiracy enthusiast content by InfoWars brings us to an interesting and important point in the history of online discourse. The current form of Internet content distribution has made it a broadcast medium akin to television or radio. Apps distribute our cat pics, our workouts, and our YouTube rants to specific audiences of followers, audiences that were nearly impossible to monetize in the early days of the Internet but, thanks to gullible marketing managers, can be sold as influencer media.

The source of all of this came from Gen X’s deep love of authenticity. They formed a new vein of content that, after breeding DIY music and zines, begat blogging, and, ultimately, created an endless expanse of user generated content (UGC). In the “old days” of the Internet this Cluetrain-manifesto-waving post gatekeeper attitude served the slacker well. But this move from a few institutional voices into a scattered legion of micro-fandoms led us to where we are today: in a shithole of absolute confusion and disruption.

As I wrote a year ago, user generated content supplanted and all but destroyed “real news.” While much of what is published now is true in a journalistic sense, the ability for falsehood and conspiracy to masquerade as truth is the real problem and it is what caused a vacuum as old media slowed down and new media sped up. In this emptiness a number of parasitic organisms sprung up including sites like Gizmodo and TechCrunch, micro-celebrity systems like Instagram and Vine, and sites catering to a different consumer, sites like InfoWars and Stormfront. It should be noted that InfoWars has been spouting its deepstate meanderings since 1999 and Alex Jones himself was a gravelly-voice radio star as early as 1996. The Internet allowed any number of niche content services to juke around the gatekeepers of propriety and give folks like Jones and, arguably, TechCrunch founder Mike Arrington, Gawker founder Nick Denton, and countless members of the “Internet-famous club,” deep influence over the last decades media landscape.

The last twenty years have been good for UGC. You could get rich making it, get informed reading it, and its traditions and habits began redefining how news-gathering operated. There is no longer just a wall between advertising and editorial. There is also a wall between editorial and the myriad bloggers who write about poop on Mt. Everest. In this sort of world we readers find ourselves at a distinct loss. What is true? What is entertainment? When the Internet is made flesh in the form of Pizzagate shootings and Unite the Right Marches, who is to blame?

The simple answer? We are to blame. We are to blame because we scrolled endlessly past bad news to get to the news that was applicable to us. We trained robots to spoon feed us our opinions and then force feed us associated content. We allowed ourselves to enter into a pact with a devil so invisible and pernicious that it easily convinced the most confused among us to mobilize against Quixotic causes and immobilized the smartest among us who were lulled into a Soma-like sleep of liking, sharing, and smileys. And now a new reckoning is coming. We have come full circle.

Once upon a time old gatekeepers were careful to let only carefully controlled views and opinions out over the airwaves. The medium was so immediate that in the 1940s broadcasters forbade the transmission of recordings and instead forced broadcasters to offer only live events. This was wonderful if you had the time to mic a children’s choir at Christmas but this rigidity was bed for a reporter’s health. Take William Shirer and Edward R. Murrow’s complaints about being unable to record and play back bombing raids in Nazi-held territories – their chafing at old ideas are almost palpable to modern bloggers.

There were other handicaps to the ban on recording that hampered us in taking full advantage of this new medium in journalism. On any given day there might be several developments, each of which could have been recorded as it happened and then put together and edited for the evening broadcast. In Berlin, for example, there might be a bellicose proclamation, troop movements through the capital, sensational headlines in the newspapers, a protest by an angry ambassador, a fiery speech by Hitler, Goring or Goebbels threatening Nazi Germany’s next victim—all in the course of the day. We could have recorded them at the moment they happened and put them together for a report in depth at the end of the day. Newspapers could not do this. Only radio could. But [CBS President] Paley forbade it.

Murrow and I tried to point out to him that the ban on recording was not only hampering our efforts to cover the crisis in Europe but would make it impossible to really cover the war, if war came. In order to broadcast live, we had to have a telephone line leading from our mike to a shortwave transmitter. You could not follow an advancing or retreating army dragging a telephone line along with you. You could not get your mike close enough to a battle to cover the sounds of combat. With a compact little recorder you could get into the thick of it and capture the awesome sounds of war.

And so now instead of CBS and the Censorship Bureau we have Facebook and Twitter. Instead of calling for the ability to record and playback an event we want permission to offer our own slants on events, no matter how far removed we are from the action. Instead of working diligently to spread only the truth, we consume the truth as others know it. And that’s what we are now chafing against: the commercialization and professionalization of user generated content.

Every medium goes through this confusion. From Penny Dreadfuls to Pall Mall sponsoring nearly every single new television show in the 1940s, media has grown, entered a disruptive phase that changes all media around it, and is then curtailed into boredom and commoditization. It is important to remember that we are in the era of Peak TV not because we all have more time to watch 20 hours of Breaking Bad. We are in Peak TV because we have gotten so good at making good shows – and the average consumer is ravenous for new content – that there is no financial reason not to take a flyer on a miniseries. In short, it’s gotten boring to make good TV.

And so we are now entering the latest stage of Internet content, the blowback. This blowback is not coming from governments. Trump, for his part, sees something wrong but cannot or will not verbalize it past the idea of “Fake News”. There is absolutely a Fake News problem but it is not what he thinks it is. Instead, the Fake News problem is rooted in the idea that all content deserves equal respect. My Medium post is as good as a CNN which is as good as an InfoWars screed about pedophiles on Mars. In a world defined by free speech then all speech is protected. Until, of course, it affects the bottom line of the company hosting it.

So Facebook and Twitter are walking a thin line. They want to remain true to the ancillary GenX credo that can be best described as “garbage in, garbage out” but many of its readers have taken that deeply open invitation to share their lives far too openly. These platforms have come to define personalities. They have come to define news cycles. They have driven men and women into hiding and they have given the trolls weapons they never had before, including the ability to destroy media organizations at will. They don’t want to censor but now that they have shareholders then they simply must.

So get ready for the next wave of media. And the next. And the next. As it gets more and more boring to visit Facebook I foresee a few other rising and falling media outlets based on new media – perhaps through VR or video – that will knock social media out of the way. And wait for more wholesale destruction of UGC creators new and old as monetization becomes more important than “truth.”

I am not here to weep for InfoWars. I think it’s garbage. I’m here to tell you that InfoWars is the latest in a long line of disrupted modes of distribution that began with the printing press and will end god knows where. There are no chilling effects here, just changes. And we’d best get used to them.

Photo by Michael Fenton on Unsplash

from Social – TechCrunch https://ift.tt/2KwVWTl Original Content From: https://techcrunch.com

#Technical Solutions #SEO #Online Earning #Youtube Marketing #Android Developer

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fmservers · 6 years

Text

Chilling effects

Photo by Michael Fenton on Unsplash

Via John Biggs https://techcrunch.com

#TechCrunch

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