#new south softball

[svalleynow]

Post Season High School Baseball and Softball Update

The Whitwell Lady Tigers defeated the South Pittsburg Lady Pirates on Wednesday for the Region Championship. Whitwell host Jo Byrns on Friday in the sectional round. The Lady Pirates travel to Gordonsville, also on Friday in Class 1A. The winners earn a berth into next week’s TSSAA State Tournament (Spring Fling) in Murfreesboro. In the best 2 out of 3 sectional series in high school baseball,…

[the-mononoke-facade]

In a startling lesson of "acknowledge the limits of your skills", Ushi-oni is done just before the new year!

If you missed some quality medicine vendor content in Shu, Oni's got your back, for real, very happy to see how much more like Ri Kusu throughout the show reads here (though Oni has me rethinking why he was Like That in Shu, but I'll save that musing for after getting through the rest of these stories)

Anyway, I don't own the rights to Oni, that goes to Kadokawa and Hideyuki Niki, all that obligatory legal disclaimer stuff

Content warnings:

-Mild descriptions of gore (honestly this one's pretty softball in the potentially triggering content department that I can think of, but if I missed something feel free to let me know as always)

Thank you all for your patience, here's the link to the doc at last:

Next story: Enenra (in progress)

[celestialmazer]

Glen Powell Talks Rom-Coms, Texas Roots, & Rising to the Top

Calum Marsh August 26, 2024

Glen Powell is feeling unusually confident. It’s a Tuesday night in December 2007, and the young Texan actor is on the red carpet at the Cinerama Dome at the ArcLight cinema in Los Angeles for the premiere of the Denzel Washington–directed drama The Great Debaters, in which he has a small but juicy part as the Harvard debater Preston Whittington. Nobody is paying much attention to Powell, whose most prominent screen credit to date had been as “Long-Fingered Boy” in Spy Kids 3D. But Washington’s publicist eventually persuades a solitary camera crew to come his way.

“This guy’s in the movie,” the publicist tells the reporter, who seems skeptical that speaking to this beaming, bushy-haired teenager will be worthwhile. But Powell’s grin, so open and affable, is difficult to resist. “Okay,” the reporter replies warily. “I guess we’ll interview you.”

“I’ve been doing this a long time, and this is the first time where I can definitely feel a shift,”

Glen Powell

Powell speaks eagerly about having been cast by Washington on the strength of a live table read, about what it was like to shoot on the Harvard campus, about what he learned at the gruelling debate camp where he and other actors were sent to bone up before the shoot. The reporter, clearly running out of questions, rounds out the conversation with a softball, asking Powell if he has any resolutions for the new year. Powell, with a glint in his eye, doesn’t hesitate. “I want to be Denzel Washington,” he says.

This must have sounded outrageously brash, if not outright presumptuous, considering that at the time Powell had only barely begun the long and arduous process of proving himself in the entertainment business. But looking back on this moment now — and laughing at his show of mock bravado — even somebody as humble as Powell can admit that maybe his playful red carpet boast had been on to something. Between the stratospheric commercial success of the blockbuster disaster flick Twisters, the near-universal critical acclaim of the awards-season hopeful Hit Man, and the TikTok ubiquity of the future classic romcom Anyone But You, Powell has been decisively coronated as one of the biggest movie stars of his generation — the Denzel Washington, if you will, of a new era.

SHIRT AND PANTS BY BOGLIOLI; TANK BY CALVIN KLEIN; BELT BY LUCCHESE.

“I’ve been doing this a long time, and this is the first time where I can definitely feel a shift,” Powell says. “I got to have a really amazing year where I promoted Anyone But You and Hit Man and Twisters, three movies I’m incredibly proud of, and I feel really grateful for this moment. But right now, I’m just excited to get back into acting, which is where I feel the most like myself.”

He laughs, glancing out the window of the car that’s taking him to LaGuardia, where he’s set to fly to South Africa to continue shooting Huntington, the black comedy with Ed Harris and Margaret Qualley. He looks back my way. “And I’m excited to maybe not have to read a headline for a while, you know?”

Powell tells me that he had reason to feel confident that night on the red carpet in 2007. Only hours earlier, at a dinner with the cast and crew, Washington had introduced him to the legendary talent agent Ed Limato, who had urged Powell to seize this moment by giving up school and moving out to Los Angeles. If he was serious about this acting thing, Washington and Limato agreed, “Now is the time.”

“Any time you can pay the bills and survive on acting, it’s a miracle. I am hyper aware of that. You never forget how people treated you. It’s why I feel this insane sense of gratitude right now. I don’t take any of this for granted — at all.”

Glen Powell

It was a lot for the young man to take in. The people he’d seen go down this path before him, he said, “came back to Texas very different than they left, and the light in their eyes was gone.” It was a fate that Powell didn’t want for himself. “I think I’ve always been a very practical person. So many people move out there with dreams and ambitions. I go into things knowing the odds.”

That night at the Cinerama was a crossroads. “I remember thinking, ‘I have a really good life in Texas. I have a great family and great friends. How much do I love this thing, and how much am I willing to bet on myself?”

The mentorship of Washington and the encouragement of Ed Limato proved compelling enough for Powell to leave home and make a go of L.A., but he likes to say that he went in with a sense of blistering realism. “I’m not a crazy person who went there being like, ‘I’m going to take on this town!’ ” he says, laughing. “I went in there being like, ‘I’m going to get hit in the face. A lot.’”

JACKET BY RALPH LAUREN; TANK BY CALVIN KLEIN; PANTS BY BOGLIOLI.

Those early years were not encouraging. Powell paid the bills — just barely — by appearing in commercials and landing the occasional part on network procedurals. When Powell got a one-off part in an episode of The Lying Game, the teen drama on ABC Family, he was flooded with relief. “I was having a really hard time,” he recalls. Getting on a show like that — no one’s idea of a prestigious job — was nonetheless “a validation that you have some semblance of talent and something to offer.”

It’s the kind of minuscule windfall that can make the whole thing worthwhile. “It’s just a miracle. Any time you can pay the bills and survive on acting, it’s a miracle. I am hyper aware of that. You never forget how people treated you. It’s why I feel this insane sense of gratitude right now. I don’t take any of this for granted — at all.”

Powell has been thinking about this a lot during the press tour for Twisters, which has just wrapped the night before. Twisters is the kind of big, bold action thriller that Powell has always wanted to be a part of: he remembers reading the script for the first time and thinking, “I can’t wait to see this, whether I’m in it or not.” But promoting the movie alongside his family, he found himself reflecting on the old days. “They knew what it was like for me all those years. It was really tough. You don’t forget that feeling.”

JACKET BY RALPH LAUREN

Things started to pick up a bit for Powell in 2014, when he was cast in The Expendables 3. It was the letter that Powell wrote to the director and star Sylvester Stallone that helped land him the part. “I knew Stallone’s reputation,” Powell says. “He’s a hustler. He’s a go-getter.” At the time, Powell was “barely scraping by,” hardly even able to feed himself, and he wanted “to let this guy who hustled and really put his own sweat in [know] that I was willing to do anything to give him one hell of a performance.” It worked; he got the part, and some advice to boot.

Stallone encouraged Powell to be himself and lean into being Texan — something that Powell had spent the past several years desperately attempting to hide. “When I first moved to L.A., I had representation at the time that told me to lean away from it,” he said. “I literally showed up to an agency wearing a cowboy hat, and they were like, ‘Dude, are you straight off a farm? What’s going on here?’ ” When an actor first comes to L.A., Powell explains, there’s “a bit of an identity crisis,” because “people tell you what you should be and how you should do it.” He remembers “wearing the fedora and the skinny jeans” and wondering what he was doing with his life, but it wasn’t until Stallone gave him permission that he was able “to get back to what feels like you.”

Needless to say, Stallone was right. Powell’s Texan roots soon became his identity on and off the screen, and he learned that when done right, “people will respond to who you genuinely are.” And Texas opened up the door for what would become a milestone movie in Powell’s career: Everybody Wants Some!!, the director Richard Linklater’s supremely likeable slacker comedy and “spiritual successor” to Dazed and Confused, in which Powell co-stars as the effortlessly scene-stealing Walt “Finn” Finnegan.

“The thing that I’m trying to do is build trust with the audience that I’m going to work my butt off to make sure they’re entertained. That way, when they show up and pay their $15 for a ticket, they’ll at least be able to say, ‘I know that this dude is going to try to deliver quality. He’s going to summon every bit of himself to try to deliver quality.’”

Glen Powell

Powell and Linklater — who had worked together once before on Fast Food Nation — were now developing a fruitful creative partnership. They were often on the lookout for ways that they could collaborate, which is how they came to discuss a 2001 article by Skip Hollandsworth about a part-time police contractor in New Orleans who develops a knack for playing the part of an assassin for hire. “Brad Pitt had optioned that article, and other people had tried to make it into a movie, but no one had been able to crack it,” Powell says. “But there was a line in there about the guy meeting a woman who is trying to kill her husband, and he goes out with her still in the role, and I thought to myself, ‘That’s the great lie at the centre of this story.’”

That story became Hit Man, the irrepressibly delightful comedy that Powell co-wrote with Linklater, who directs the hell out of it. Powell’s performance, already being tipped for Oscar nominations, is a tour de force. He plays Gary Johnson, the philosophy professor turned part-time faux-assassin, who has an easier time examining life than actually living it. To pull off his sting operations, he crafts characters that are tailored for each suspect, from a ruthless Patrick Bateman-esque killer to a mustachioed Russian macho man. The accent work and costuming are technically dazzling, but what’s truly impressive is how Powell makes Gary visible underneath it all.

SHIRT BY BOGLIOLI; TANK BY CALVIN KLEIN; WATCH BY OMEGA.

“The audience needs to see the baseline of Gary,” he explains. “It’s not The Nutty Professor. I’m not a guy with multiple personalities. This is a guy who is teaching about humanity and not participating in it, and he’s trying on different masks.” But while Hit Man allows Powell to show off his range, it also demonstrates his most abundant natural talent: charm. His chemistry with Adria Arjona is off the charts, imbuing the dark comedy with a full-bodied sexiness that’s rare in modern movies. Their rapport is one of the film’s best assets.

Of course, anyone who saw Powell earlier this year in Anyone But You won’t be surprised. His chemistry with co-star Sydney Sweeney was the cornerstone of the film’s praise. Anyone But You was received not simply as a fine romantic comedy but, indeed, as maybe the first real romantic comedy in recent memory. For proof that Powell is a bona fide star, look no further than this movie, which takes a somewhat banal screenplay and supercharges it with marquee charisma.

Powell says that making Anyone But You a capital-R romcom was “incredibly deliberate,” and that it was always part of the plan for the film to feel like a proper event. And while Powell says that he, Sweeney, and director Will Gluck always believed in it, “the business at large was skeptical of what that movie was and where it could go,” he says.

SHIRT AND PANTS BY BOGLIOLI; TANK BY CALVIN KLEIN; BELT BY LUCCHESE; BOOTS BY SCAROSSO X WARREN ALFIE BAKER.

“I think we were all confident that when a genre is being ignored, it just means you haven’t made a really good one in a while. It doesn’t mean the genre is poisonous. It doesn’t mean that audiences don’t want it.” Are romcoms over? Clearly not. “The genre isn’t dead — you just stopped caring!”

If Powell has one good quality, he says, “it’s definitely caring.” It’s true that there’s a level of care — of effort — in Powell’s movies that isn’t always consistent across Hollywood. Similar to Denzel Washington, Powell brings a certain baseline professionalism and intensity to his movies that raise a project’s floor.

That’s all part of the plan. “The thing that I’m trying to do is build trust with the audience that I’m going to work my butt off to make sure they’re entertained,” Powell says. “That way, when they show up and pay their $15 for a ticket, they’ll at least be able to say, ‘I know that this dude is going to try to deliver quality. He’s going to summon every bit of himself to try to deliver quality.’”

Photography: Brad Torchia (Giant Artists)

Styling: Warren Alfie Baker (The Wall Group)

Grooming: Tim Dueñas

Source: https://sharpmagazine.com/2024/08/26/glen-powell-interview-2024-twisters-hit-man-anyone-but-you/?

[mangoisms]

i'll be the dangerous ledge (you be the parachute)

━ chapter nine: what if we could risk everything we have | read chapter eight

━ pairing: tim drake x f!reader

━ word count: 4.2k

━ warnings: none

━ masterlist

The next morning, you find Tim in your kitchen.

You emerge from the bathroom, having already guessed he was here by the smell of food cooking and from the sound of your TV playing the morning news. Well, late morning news. 

Things settled around the city eventually in the wake of the news about Red Robin. Well, as settled as they can be here in Gotham. But you don’t suspect the Bats are spread too thin. They have, like, a team working here. Batman and Robin, of course, then Black Bat and Signal and Spoiler who doesn’t wear the bat emblem, exactly, but is seen with them frequently enough to be associated with them. This is on top of the few others who also work in the city, like Huntress. So, it’s not like there’s a shortage of vigilantes to go around. 

But the news on the TV is talking about the weather for today, not that. 

“Keep your sunscreen on standby as we have yet another sunny day here in Gotham, with partly-cloudy skies and highs in the eighties. We can expect higher temperatures throughout the week as a heat wave from the south hits us —”

You stop by the boys’ tank, privately pleased to see them having just finished their breakfast, no doubt courtesy of your unexpected guest. 

You glance away from them, to the kitchen, where Tim is currently making eggs, with something else on the counter next to him. Wait, is that a…

“I’m not complaining but… where on earth did that waffle maker come from?”

Tim turns, appearing not at all surprised by your appearance — he’s never spooked, not once, but he does it to you frequently — and shoots you a smile. “Hey, good morning.”

“Morning,” you say, drifting closer to him. You’re both dressed down, with him in sweats and a white t-shirt, and you would bet a decent amount of money that he rolled out of bed, half-heartedly fixed his hair, brushed his teeth, and came down here immediately. You did the same, still in your pajamas, which are a pair of old shorts and a ratty softball shirt from high school. 

It’s not the first time he’s done this but like always, it is terribly domestic and not at all good for your heart.

“So… the waffle maker?” you ask, trying to sneak a piece of buttered toast. 

He gently bats your hand away, looking back at the pan, where eggs sizzle. “You said you like the efficiency of waffles.”

You blink. 

That’s… a lot to unpack.

First of all, when did you say that? 

You pause, searching your memory.

Your prolonged silence clues Tim into your confusion. He flips the egg. 

“When we were at Waffle House in April and the cook and waitress got into a fight.”

“Oh! And the waitress —”

“Stopped the chair thrown at her single-handedly,” he finishes.

“Right, right…” You did say something to that effect after your food had arrived. And it remains true. But of course, waffles are only efficient if you have a waffle maker and —

“Tim, you didn’t get this for me, right?”

“I just thought waffles would be fun,” he says, vague, specifically a non-answer. 

You scrutinize his side profile. Something about him right now… With a spatula in his left hand, his right hand drumming on his thigh. It’s not like him to give up a nervous tell so easily. Not like him at all. 

Your curiosity is unbidden and difficult to suppress, but you decide to step back anyway and let him come to you in his own time. He’ll have to, if the waffle maker really is for you. 

“Well, you’re not wrong,” you say, brushing a hand over his shoulder. “Now we’ll just have to see if you can beat Waffle House.”

“Probably can’t. My waffles are being made peacefully. Mostly peacefully.”

You laugh and help him finish. Mostly by pulling out the waffle, then pouring batter for the next one, the one for him.

Garnished with homemade whipped cream, the leftover strawberries from yesterday, and maple syrup, with a side of eggs and toast, your breakfast is a hearty one. Or rather, your brunch is, since it’s eleven. 

He’s quiet throughout it, eating his food, but with a distant look in his eyes. You still don’t push. 

“I think you did it,” you say when you finish, leaning back in your chair, belly full, making you want a nap. “You managed to beat Waffle House.”

Tim snorts, pushing around the last bits of his waffle. “High praise.”

“Only for you.”

He looks at you, seeming to come back to himself, face softening at your words and at the warm smile you allow yourself to give him. Not too much but enough, enough to soothe some of his nerves, maybe.

You know it’s worked when he glances down at his plate and sighs. 

Setting down the fork, he stands, crossing over to the living room, leaning down to dig through his bag. 

You sit up, curious, at the sound of paper. 

He unearths a newspaper, coming back over to you hesitantly, with the newspaper held folded in his hands. 

“Tim?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, grimacing at something. 

With a big sigh, he eventually extends it to you. 

You unfold the paper and can’t help the way your eyes widen as you get an eyeful of the front page.

The front page, with a picture of you and Tim smack dab in the middle, specifically… specifically yesterday in front of the ice cream parlor, the two of you smiling at each other in a way that appears a little less than friendly. So, naturally, the headline is about exactly that. TIM DRAKE AND MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND OUT ON THE TOWN. Written by Vicki Vale. Of course. You expect nothing less. 

You scratch your cheek idly. “Huh.”

“I’m really sorry,” he says, the words seeming to burst out of him as he takes his seat again, face wrought with guilt. “I should’ve known they were there. I was careless. Should’ve had the cap or something, I don’t know, but I… I got cocky about it, since we’d gotten away with hanging out in public. The PR team is handling it, I swear.”

Handling it. Setting the record straight. You are not Tim Drake’s girlfriend. What a laughable concept. Well, you’re sure the elites are laughing. Probably the whole city. 

Your throat tightens uncomfortably and you fold the newspaper and set it down, shaking your head.

Man. What does he have to apologize for? If anything…

“I should apologize,” you chuckle, glancing away from him. “Since you got stuck with me for that. So, don’t worry about it, Timmy. You’re fine.”

Not much about you that is interesting, save for being friends with Tim. Poor Vicki Vale won’t have much to work with, you suspect. Though that will probably be the focus. That you’re just a no-name teacher’s aide, associating with one of the city’s most eligible. 

Whatever. You don’t want to be anyone else. 

That, you know, is true.

But Tim appears upset, bothered, by something, lips tugged in a frown, a deep wrinkle between his brows that you itch to smooth away with your fingers. The way he looks at you… almost like he’s hurt.

You shift forward. Why is he —?

Before you can ask, he is already speaking.

“The waffle maker is yours,” he says. “I don’t need it and if I do, I can come and use it here. I don’t mind. But… you’re wrong.”

Okay. That’s… a lot. The waffle maker doesn’t need to be prioritized, though, you don’t think. So…

“Wrong? What do you —?”

His eyes flicker around the kitchen, thinking quickly, before he huffs and leans around the table to take your chair and drag it closer to his. You let out a squeak at the jostling movement but don’t stop him, confused for the most part about what’s going on. 

“Tim?”

He shakes his head, reaching for you, hands sliding to your cheeks. Your breath catches in your throat, heart lurching in your chest.

“Tim?”

“Stuck with you,” he mutters, disapproval clear in his tone. “With you. That’s… wrong. So wrong it’s not even funny. If anyone is stuck with anyone, it’s me you’re stuck with.”

Wait, is he…

Your heart thuds in your ears, chest ballooning with nervous energy as you struggle to grapple with this conversation. With the way he is looking at you, his expression the softest it has ever been — for you. Directed at you. 

Heat rises to your face, making you dizzy. 

A thumb absently strokes over your cheek as he studies you. “There is no one else I’d rather it be. Even if it’s inconvenient for you, I’m selfish enough to admit that I don’t want anyone else. I just want…”

“Tim,” you whisper, unable to believe your ears.

“You,” he finishes quietly. “It’s you. I’m sorry.”

You both are wrong, then. 

No one is stuck with anyone. 

And you aren’t going to let him think that way, either.

“I’m not,” you say. “So, kiss me already.”

Tim kisses you.

He kisses you hungrily, a shade too desperate for eleven in the morning, in a way that sparks a fire inside you. But not a spark of creation, it’s the kindling of embers that are always burning, singeing through your veins, and you can’t help but kiss him back just as eagerly. It’d only been yesterday you wanted it desperately and now you have it and more.

The truth, reality forced upon you, for you to bear witness to how soft his lips are, the way he holds your face so gently, how he tastes like strawberries and maple syrup and the wish for more, more than that, takes hold of you violently. You press forward, your fingers sliding into his hair, silky-soft, and he lets out a sharp exhale, shivering in a way that makes you feel something dangerous. 

Astounding how you can have this and still want more.

But you’re starting to think you’ll always want more from him. More, more, more. Like you wouldn’t be satisfied until you two were one, cells and atoms intermingling. It’s a lot. A lot. For you and for him, the enormity of all of it, of what you might ask of him. From him. More than he can give, maybe, but if he feels the same as you do, then you know he’ll give you as much as he can, give everything. 

The necessity of air has you two breaking apart, but he just leans his forehead against yours, warm breath tickling your lips with each breath. 

You’re happy to stay there, eyes closed, catching your breath.

After a minute, he leans forward, lips brushing yours again, but softer this time, less hungry, less desperate, something terribly, terribly tender that has your chest exploding with warmth. You almost can’t believe it, that you’re here right now with Tim Drake cradling your face like you’re made of fine china and kissing you so sweetly, so full of honeyed affection, it clogs the arteries of your heart.

But it would be a good way to die, you think.

Especially here in Gotham.

Maybe you should give it some credit, though. 

Tragedy dogs the city constantly but even still, the impossible remains possible and you are all the more grateful for that fact.

You separate again and like before, you just lean your foreheads together, basking in the moment. 

Tim moves first and you suppress a shiver as his lips brush over your cheek.

“I guess we’re both wrong,” he murmurs.

Ah.

Neither of you can say you don’t deserve one another. Even if you feel it, he disagrees. And if he feels it, you disagree, too. And where else should you go with that?

Nowhere good, you think.

You smile. “I guess so.”

“So, then…” he starts, finally pulling away. Your eyes flutter open and your stomach swoops like you missed a step as you see the open affection in his gaze, written all over his face. It makes you feel treasured in a way you can’t quite cope with. Instead you focus on the flush on his cheeks, a tempting rush of blood that makes you want to kiss him again and see how warm the skin feels underneath your lips. 

“Yeah?”

“I know it’s a little backwards,” he goes on, thumb stroking your cheek, the other dropping to the side of your neck. Your hands find themselves on his forearms, muscles and tendons flexing beneath your fingertips. “But I wasn’t anticipating that.”

You nod. “Neither was I.”

Though you should’ve known your luck would run out eventually.

“I guess it doesn’t matter much now, anyway,” he says, then pauses, nervous, bashful energy filling him again. “Unless — I mean, I would like to take you out on an official date but, uh, I get it if that’s maybe too soon to really say —”

“Tim.”

He stops. You smile and it feels horribly honest, full of affection and warmth and with everything else not yet spoken. He softens, but the red in his cheeks darkens again. It pleases you too much.

“If you’re okay with it, then I’m okay with letting the press think we’re together,” you say, squeezing his wrist reassuringly. “Even if I wasn’t certain, it would probably be best to let them keep the rumor, rather than try and say we’re friends. But as it is…” 

As it is, you’ve since realized these feelings aren’t going anywhere and knowing that he reciprocates, that, maybe, he’s felt it for a while, too, it makes you hopeful. This isn’t just something fun to do over the summer, this is you seeing him in your kitchen in the mornings, still in pajamas, and thinking you’d like to always see him like this. This is from a few weeks ago, when you two slept together on the couch and it was the best sleep you’ve ever had and waking up with him still here, still a little sleepy and bleary-eyed, it made you think you wouldn’t mind having this for a really long time. 

For forever, you dare to think. 

“I know,” he says, and you think he really does know. 

He brushes a few strands of hair from your face, touch gentle. 

“So, then, in that case,” he starts, smile warm as he says your name, the syllables that wrap it equally as warm, “will you go out with me?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” you say, then lean forward to kiss him again.

You aren’t going to get tired of doing that anytime soon.

And by the way he kisses you back eagerly, you know he’s thinking the same.

You both agree to have your date on Friday night. 

But until then, neither of you see any point in changing anything. 

You’ll still drop by after school or he’ll come over. You’ll still watch movies together.

Nothing changes. The core of your routines remain the same.

Well, except for the fact that you two can’t really keep your hands off each other and the entire city now knows you two are dating.

Monday morning, you showed up in class at eight as usual, finding Ms. C. She said nothing much about it, other than, You’re lucky it’s the last week of school. Everyone is going to be unbearable.

Not trying to make you feel bad. A simple fact. A warning, even, and it turned out to be true. The amount of teachers and aides that dropped by the class to talk to you — even if you’d never once spoken to them — was ridiculous. 

Most of the kids were giggly about it. A few jokes. A little grossed out. You get that, though. They’re kids. Don’t know any better.

But for your colleagues and the odd parent that manages to corner you? It’s a bit ridiculous the way some of them look down their noses at the thought of you dating him.

Well, Mrs. Hightower who teaches eighth grade science, you’re married and also not in a better position. Like, okay, you… sort of get the icy mothers (and occasional father) who sniff at the thought with their designer clothes and yachts and vacation homes in Monaco; they have money, so they think they are better suited for him. (When that honestly has nothing to do with it, but you’re trying to make a point, so, you know.) But for your fellow aides and teachers? All of you are in the exact same boat. 

The life of a more of less public figure is a tricky one. 

And honestly, Tim isn’t even as famous as he could be. Imagine what it must be like for Bruce. 

Yikes.

Every gossip page in Gotham digs their grubby little fingers into your past. 

Naturally, they don’t get much.

Moved here at eighteen for college. Majored in education and minored in psychology. Graduated with honors (that’s probably the only exciting thing for them). Worked at Gotham Elementary in Burnley, then moved to Gotham Pointe. 

That’s it. 

But when they fail to find dirt, the conversation naturally turns to how you aren’t suited for him, how he should be dating the heiress to a massive company rather than some nobody teacher’s aide. 

You try not to let it bother you.

Tim works hard to assure you that he doesn’t care about that. That he never has and never will. You believe him, but with it shoved into your face at every given moment, you think you’re allowed the occasional moment of insecurity.

On Thursday, though, you’re in high spirits. The kids have let the issue go, focusing on some other thing that’s gotten their attention and today is probably the first day that only a few people try to talk to you about everything, allowing you to focus on doing your job. For the most part.

Tim told you to come by his place after school, that way you two could make dinner and spend the evening together. After showering and changing, you catch the elevator to head to the fifteenth floor. 

The doors slide open. You step out, your eyes on your phone, reading a text from your brother, who, alongside your parents, remain a little flabbergasted that you wound up in a relationship with Tim Drake. Though your brother claims he ‘saw it coming.’ Like hell he did. All he ever did was try and convince you to send him Tim’s debit card info. 

The sound of your name.

You blink and look up, meeting the wide, bright blue eyes of a pretty blonde.

Wait, you’ve seen her face before —

“Steph — I mean, um, Stephanie Brown, right?”

One of Tim’s good friends and an old ex-girlfriend. He said they dated when they were teens but broke up and are still good friends. 

She grins, stepping back out of the elevator, apparently having been waiting to take it back down. 

“In the flesh. I’m a little surprised you recognize me but it’s great to finally meet Tim’s mystery girlfriend.” The last part is a tease from the newspaper from last weekend.

You laugh. “Tim has pictures of you and the others around his place. That’s how I knew. And it’s nice to meet you, too.” 

“I was popping in to see about it,” she tells you, not minding the elevator doors that slide shut once more. “Wondering when he’d finally bring you around. He doesn’t like to share.”

You grin, cheeks warming. Her energy is infectious. You can see what might’ve drawn him to her. “It’s my last week of school and we have our date tomorrow. So, probably after the first date. The whole press reveal thing kinda threw a wrench in our plans.”

She grins back. “Well, the way he tells it, that was the thing that kicked your butts into gear, so I guess that’s how it has to go.”

“That… Yeah, that is true,” you say with an embarrassed laugh.

“Aw, it’s okay. It would’ve happened eventually. Tim’s just the type to really, uh, collect evidence and draw up conclusions before he likes to do anything.”

You laugh, because he is like that. 

“Either way,” she says, smiling. “At least you got me out of the way. Meeting all of us can be… a lot.”

“So I’ve heard.”

She snickers. “Guess we’ll see you sometime soon. Maybe around his birthday. Bruce’ll want to have dinner or something with him at the manor and I can join them just so you have another familiar face.”

“That would be great. Really. I appreciate it.”

“You really are as kind as he says,” she says, pouting a little. “Now I’m jealous.”

You laugh, flushing at the compliment — both at what he apparently told her and the fact that she agrees with it so much to the point that she’s jealous. Even if it’s just a tease. But honestly, the way her blue eyes twinkle, you don’t think it is. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says, hiking her bag higher over her shoulder. “This homework is calling me to kick its ass.”

Right. Tim told you she was in the grad program for social work at GU. She must be taking summer classes. 

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. You kids don’t do anything crazy, alright?” she says, pointing mock sternly at you as she presses the button for the elevator again. 

You snort. “We’ll do our best.”

She gives you a melodramatic thumbs-up of approval, then steps into the elevator when the doors open. 

The smile on your lips is hard to budge. Steph’s a whole lot of fun, isn’t she? And meeting her now did help some of those budding nerves that rear their head every time you think of the prospect of meeting his family.

But like she said. That might not be until July. Mid to late July, really, since his birthday is on the nineteenth. Speaking of, you need to get back to the rec center to continue working on his gift… Maybe you can do that sometime next week…

Coming up to his door a second later, you unlock it and step inside. 

“Honey, I’m home!” you call out in a sing-song tone, slipping off your slides and locking the door behind you. 

Tim steps out from the kitchen, an expectant look on his face. “You saw Steph on your way here, didn’t you?”

You grin. “Sure did! She’s fun.”

“I wasn’t expecting her today. She wanted to ambush me about you, I think.”

“See when you’ll bring me around? Yeah, she said the same to me.”

He rolls his eyes, exasperated but still fond. “We haven’t even had our first official date. Honestly. They’re all a bunch of gossips, you know? I’m surprised it was just her that ended up coming. I was expecting Cass and Duke, too. Maybe even Alfred. Though he’d come with a much better excuse than ‘I was just on this side of town.’”

You laugh and he shakes his head, extending a hand that you take, not resisting as he ropes you into his embrace. 

“In any case,” he starts, pressing a kiss to your cheek before you sink into the circle of his arms, “how was your day?”

“S’okay. The kids were good.”

“And the teachers?”

You grin into the collar of his t-shirt. “Mostly behaved. They’ve finally grasped some semblance of self-restraint, so, wasn’t too bad.”

He hums, one hand stroking up your back, the other at your hip. You’ve always known Tim was particularly tactile but since everything between you, it’s been turned up a notch. Not that you are complaining. You’re less touch-starved these days, just because of him, but you’ll hardly say no to more of it. 

“How was yours?”

Another hum as he presses his face to your hair. 

“Fine. Lucius asked me to help with some IT stuff and I did that today. Easy work. Cleaned a bit. I sterilized those shells I got for the boys, by the way, and put them in the tank. Don’t know if you saw. Then I saw Steph, as you know. Just started dinner right now.”

“Look at you. All the best qualities of a housewife.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it, honey.”

You giggle, though your face warms at the endearment, and he can tell by being so close to you, chuckling softly as he leans down to finally kiss you. 

You press closer, sliding your arms around his neck while his lock around your waist. The full press of his lean body against yours makes your head spin. Stupid Tim and his stupid muscles…

You’re posturing, of course.

You’re… happy. Glowing with it, according to one of the kinder parents who ran into you at school. You believe it, mostly because some part of you doesn’t believe this is actually happening. That Tim kissed you breathless on Sunday and told you he wanted you. The other part of you basks in the thought, in the realization, in the fact that you get to come home to this. 

You’re so, so lucky. 

Nothing can beat it.

Absolutely nothing.  

━ end notes

1. dc editorial’s worst decision was having steph start wearing the bat symbol. leave her OUT OF IT! let spoiler stand on her own! it’s not like bruce ever approved of her.. or tim for that matter… they did her so dirty… ANYWAY

2. all waffle houses are conduits of gotham energy. thats why they’re Like That. food’s absolutely SCRUMPTIOUS tho

3. pleased to report it is canon that tim uses pet names. that tim is, in general, pretty soft with his s/os. here’s a soft moment with him and steph from robin (1993): page 1 / page 2 (read them consecutively in that order!). then another one with tim being very sweet... and finally, the page where he calls her ‘sweetie’ (and she calls him that too!).

in general, i am not too fond of sweetie as a pet name. however, i am very much appreciative of honey. it has a good balance of domesticity and affection, you know? i wouldn’t be adverse to sweetheart either. or baby. so ;)

4. on that note i continue to push my housewife/houseboyfriend(husband?) tim agenda. thank you.

anyway... about time wasn't it ;)))) we have a little ways to go before the end but i promise it's nothing too extreme. i never really wanted to make their confession a Massive Angsty thing. i mean there is stuff to deal with, particularly what tim said and reader slightly misinterpreting it (because he is apologizing for it being him but also because of what he does that she still does not know about). and no worries, we will deal with that. but ultimately, it won't be made into a Big Thing. this fic isn't really centered around that - i want it to be comforting, you know? but we still have to handle the hangups that come with being a civilian and dating a vigilante LOL

reblogs are appreciated!

[cherrythepiratefox]

INTRO >_<

MY NAME IS CHERRY AND THIS IS MY SIDE BLOG FOR MY AMALGAMATION OF CRINGE INTERESTS

MY MAIN BLOG IS A GIRLBLOG ACCOUNT GO FOLLOW IT MAYBE?? @cherrybitezz

IM A MINOR!!!!!👺

she/her pronouns

fandoms i'm in: FNaF, Creepypasta/Slenderverse, DDLC, variety of animes, Resident Evil, Horror/Slasher, Monster High, (maybe a bit of mlp), South Park, and a lot more I can't think of....

bands i like: MCR, Hole, Slipknot, Rammstein, The Living Tombstone, Weezer, Blink-182, Green Day, The Offspring, SOAD, Limp Bizkit, Korn, Evanescence, Falling In Reverse, Pierce The Veil, Paramore, Fall Out Boy, Canadian Softball, Three Days Grace, and many others....

LEARNING GERMAN🇩🇪💪

dr pepper and mountain dew addict....

FEEL FREE TO DM ME!!! I LOVE MAKING NEW FRIENDS :3

dni sex blogs...

[applbottmjeens]

Sgt. Annabelle "Gremlin" Pham

AKA: Annie (Graves), Belle, Kit, Grem, "GET THIS THING OFF OF ME!", "Little Monster" (Graves)

Blood type: O Positive

Age:

23 (Modern Warfare, 2019),

26 (Modern Warefare 2, 2022),

27 (Present, Modern Warfare 3, 2023)

Height: 4'11

Nationality: American

Ethnicity: Asian/Pacific Islander (Vietnamese + Filipino)

Languages Spoken: English, Tagalog, Vietnamese, Chinese, Spanish

Religion: Catholic

Marital Status: Single (MW1-2), Complicated (MW3)

Faceclaim: Janella Salvador

Family:

Isabella Reyes - Maternal grandmother (deceased)

Cpt. Francisco "Capitan Kiko" Delgado - Paternal grandfather (deceased)

Phạm Ngọc Anh - Paternal grandmother (alive)

Phạm Vinh Trường / Thomas Pham - Father (alive)

Phạm Vũ / David Pham - Uncle (alive)

Maria Soledad Pham née Delgado - Mother (alive)

Ryan Joseph "RJ" Pham - brother (alive)

-

CHILDREN (non canon)

Spc. Sylas Thomas "Tommy" Pham/ Phạm Teo Sỹ / "SAINT"/ (ACES AU)

Phillip Fernando Graves II / "Junior" / Ace (ACES AU)

Affiliates:

TASKFORCE 141:

BRAVO 0-6 / Cpt. John Price

WATCHER-1 / Kate Laswell

BRAVO 0-7 / Lt. Simon "Ghost" Riley

BRAVO 7-1 / Sgt. John "Soap" MacTavish

BRAVO 2-6 / Sgt. Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

ECHO 0-1 /Lt. Isobel "Medusa" Williams (@gipsyavnger)

ECHO 1-1 / Sgt. Maj. Hannah "Sparrow" Clayton (@revnah1406)

2ND COMMANDO REGIMENT : (@kaitaiga)

Alyssa "Aly" Martinez (@alypink)

TANGO 0-1 / Cpt. Lachlan Jones

LOS VAQUEROS:

TANGO 2-1 / Sgt. Damien Whitlock (what're YOU doing here?!)

Col. Alejandro Vargas, Sgt. Maj. Rodolfo Parra, Jesus "Chuy" Ordaz

SHADOW COMPANY (QUEEN OF HEARTS AU + MW3):

Comd. Phillip Graves, Ms Sgt. Shane Sparks (formerly), Rozlin "Rose" Helms (formerly). Velikan, SO. Marcus "Lerch" Ortega

Annabelle Pham was born in San Jose, California and raised in an Asian immigrant household in South San Francisco. Growing up working class, her parents encouraged her to pursue her education while also helping raise her sickly younger brother, RJ. Playing softball and being a bit of a rebel, despite her shortcomings, Annabelle had the opportunity to attend an Ivy league college on a partial scholarship, which she rejected after her father's restaurant was vandalized and robbed.

Rather than use the money for school, she pushed her family to use it to repair their restaurant. Annabelle would choose to attend a 2 year college in a CTE program since it was more affordable, working part time in her family's restaurant while she searched for new employment.

While job searching, she became curious about the recruiters office in her neighborhood, and next thing she knew, she was in the army (much to her mother and father's disappointment.)

At some point, then Private Annabelle "Kit" Pham would meet CIA Station Chief Kate Laswell while fighting alongside SAC/SOG officer Alex Keller. Impressed by the young woman's resolve and improvisation, Laswell would choose Anna as one of the three women she'd first suggest to join Taskforce 141 to John Price.

While hiding from enemy forces who'd kidnapped her in a foreign city, Annabelle's quick thinking kept her alive while her teammates were delayed on their rescue.

Anna got her callsign "Gremlin" from her unpredictable and unhinged behavior thanks to her fellow Sergeant Kyle "Gaz" Garrick. Hiding in walls, crawling in vents and ambushing enemies easily thanks to her small stature and the old fashioned element of surprise.

Smart, resourceful and good with her hands, she's a loyal friend and a cautious person whose instincts are good if they aren't clouded by her own feelings. Anna is a hopeless romantic who wears her heart on her sleeve, which can be a good and a bad thing...Especially when a certain Commander seeks to exploit it.

[liskantope]

Very lightly skimming (and mostly skipping over the lengthy quoted excerpts of) Strom Thurmond's over-24-hour filibuster opposing the (already incredibly weakened) 1957 Civil Rights Law is quite entertaining, albeit in a rather grim way. One interesting and bemusing aspect of glancing through official records of Senate proceedings like this is observing the carefully formatted language used in the Senate chamber, for instance the avoidance of directly addressing each other but instead addressing whomever was presiding over the Senate (in this case, during large parts of the 24-hour period, probably Vice President Richard Nixon, who is nevertheless addressed as "Mr. President" meaning "President of the Senate"). It wasn't a 24-hour monologue because a number of times other senators, after requesting permission in the required stilted language, engaged in back-and-forths with Thurmond which most often took the form of questions sympathetically worded so as to hand Thurmond further ammunition.

Here is an excerpt from some nine hours in illustrating the third-person-centered style of dialogue:

Mr. Knowland: I did listen to the earlier part of the Senator's address. I was in the Chamber at the time. I must confess that for several hours I did get some sleep and was able to freshen up and change my clothes, and I am now back in the Chamber. Mr. Thurmond: I notice the Senator looks very fresh at about 6:15 in the morning. Mr. Knowland: Yes. I am glad to be here with the Senator.

Many hours later, by which time Thurmond's voice must have become much hoarser, another exchange between the same two men that takes passive-aggressiveness to a whole new level:

Mr. Knowland: Mr. President, I do not want the Senator to strain his voice but I do have some responsibilities as minority leader. I do not think the Senator is making any motion, but I should at least like to know what is going on in the Senate Chamber. Mr. Thurmond: Mr. President, I yield for a question if the Senator has a question. Mr. Knowland: My question is, would the Senator speak up? I do not want him to strain his voice, but I should like him to speak a little louder so I should be sure no motions are being made or anything of that sort. I do have some responsibility here. Mr. Thurmond: I suggest the Senator move closer to me. Mr. Knowland: Under the rules of the Senate, which are now being strictly enforced, both Senators being in their respective seats, and this happening to be my seat as the minority leader, I urge my request of the Senator. Mr. Thurmond: We might get unanimous consent to allow the Senator to come closer to me if he wishes. I do not think my colleagues will raise any point. There is an excellent seat here, I may say to the Senator. Mr. Knowland: I am very well satisfied with the seat to which I am assigned. Mr. Thurmond: Mr. President, I continue to read...

Just a bit earlier than this last excerpt, some of the dynamic between Thurmond and Long, a Louisiana senator who was clearly making it his job to throw softball "questions" at Thurmond while Thurmond took extra care to enforce that they were actually "questions".

Mr. Long: Is it not, therefore, true that insofar as the right of a citizen to be tried by jury for a crime is concerned, Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson would have agreed 100 percent that the freedoms guaranteed Americans under their form of government included the right to be tried by a jury of their own neighbors, in the area where the crime was committed, in the event they were accused of committing a crime? Mr. Thurmond: I can yield only for a question. I shall be glad to express myself after the Senator has concluded. Let the Senator ask any question he wishes. I yield for a question. Mr. Long: Is it not correct to state that...

And shortly later in the same exchange, where Long's "questions" become more bemusingly a vehicle for him to make his own points:

Mr. Long: Mr. President, will the Senator from South Carolina yield for a further question? Mr. Thurmond: I yield for a further question. Mr. Long: Is the Senator aware of the fact that Senator Borah's statue is just outside the main entrance of the Senate chamber, immediately outside the door? Mr. Thurmond: That is correct. I see it every time I go through the door.

[emilmoreno]

Full Name: Emiliano Tomás Moreno Nickname: Emil Age & Birthday: 33 - November 20th.  Occupation: Marine Welder Preferred Pronouns & Gender: He/him & cis-male Sexuality: Heterosexual Hometown: Briar Ridge, South Carolina. Neighborhood: Beach Front Family: Isabel 'Isa' Moreno - 9 year old daughter.

Pinterest | Stats | Connections. 

trigger warnings: car accident.

Born locally, Emil had what he would consider a mostly fairly middle of the road childhood. He often felt a bit detached from his parents, but he wanted for very little outside of perhaps a more socially stimulating environment. His uncle who was deemed by his ma as the ‘wild’ one of her family is very close to him.

A lot of times it was his uncle that took him to tee-ball, and sat in the stands all through his schooling years on the field.

Just as he was about to pack his bags and get out of dodge on a baseball scholarship, he experienced one of his first real upsets in life. His ma was in a bad car crash, and had to go through physical therapy. With medical bills and her needing help around the house, Emil put off college.

A semester turned into a year plus, but eventually with luck on his side and some help from his high school sweetheart’s family - Emil left town for his belated start out in San Diego on scholarship and studying physical therapy.

Everything was going pretty swimmingly, even his long distance relationship and he was so close to making the draft that he could practically hear the stadium crowds cheering for him. but alas life had one more curve ball for him & he was given the news that Amaia was pregnant and Emil immediately dropped everything to go back home.

Things went downhill from there in the years to follow. Between his own emotional distress of giving up his dream, there was a lot of tension between him and Amaia that he thought getting married could somehow fix. When it didn’t, the pair had a really ugly divorce and a custody battle you’d expect to be run by Judge Judy. Amaia was successful in painting Emil poorly and in the end, though he’d get visitations, he lost the custody battle for Isabel.

Having followed in his father’s footsteps upon coming back home, Emil nowadays has a very steady career. Though none of it is what he imagined he would be doing growing up he’s far from miserable, he’s adapted pretty well. Being able to turn his welding experience into his own thing by getting all his diving certifications definitely helped him settle in. Coaching tee-ball and being a sub for a local softball team certainly helps as well. The main stress in his life currently is dealing with his ex-wife and having to sometimes fight tooth and nail to get his owed visitations etc. with Isa. It doesn’t help that she’s old enough to ask questions Emil doesn’t always have an answer to, like why she has to stay with her mother. He’s stable enough that he’d like to go back to court, but he’s a little nervous it’d be hard on Isa and that he has less of a leg to stand on when Amaia has had her for as long as she has.

Fun facts:

he has a husky named Hercules after the dog in The Sandlot.

can be a bit of a thrill seeker. Likes roller coasters, dancing, and spontaneous road trips.

technically has enough diving certifications he could be a diving instructor but has little interest.  

owns way too many jerseys kind of sports fan, has seasonal tickets. supports a lot of local teams.

has a serious shellfish allergy, which is slightly amusing given the local cuisine.

likes #DadJokes and always has a snack on him because of either Isa or the kids he coaches for tee-ball.

[phxntomsdusk]

7 summers - Softball!Wilma

note: let’s all thank Lilly for giving me this song to write about 🙏

summary: even after all these years, she still finds herself thinking about you

warnings: swearing, mentions of drinking, fluff at the end <3

tags: @ax-y10 , @joviepog , @pheliiaa , @idontreallyexistyet , @haunted-headset , @vibestillaxxx , @rqvii , @lillylvjy , @ivvees-blog , @average-vibe , @toastyliltoasts41 (ask to be added!)

word count: 769

It had felt like forever since Wilma saw you, she was now 25 and living by herself, down south where summer practically lasted all year round. She remembered constantly how you always wanted to move to a warmer place with her, but the more she thought about it, she questioned where you were right now.

You were probably married, with a kid or two. Living in one of those big white houses with a long ass driveway.

She wondered if when you drank you ever thought about her. Yeah, you both knew better not to think of one another. But she couldn’t help it! You guys always said you’d be together forever. Back then you loved the river, sharing drinks with her. The two of you were the definition of teenage romance.

She questioned if it ever made you sad to know; that was 7 summers ago.

She was shuffling through an old box in her crawl space, finding a picture album from highschool, finding a picture of you when you first learned to drive her truck.

“Bet your daddy’s proud about how you turned out..” She chuckled softly, running her thumb over your face in the photograph.

She remembered how your father was so protective of you when the two of you first started dating, but the second he saw you coming out of your shell and acting like the kids around you, he was over the moon.

He’d constantly thank Wilma for turning you into a ‘normal’ teenager, making you more sociable, getting you out of the house. He loved you two together.

She could feel herself getting emotion, quickly putting the pictures away and stuffing them back up into the attic.

That Friday she was back in her hometown, drinking at her favorite bar and catching up with some old friends she had met there.

“Oh, wait Wilma, did you know that they moved back?” Her friend, Crystal, spoke up and snatched her attention quickly. She immediately knew she was talking about you.

“No shit.. they move back into that beat up double wide their mom owned?” She raised a brow, taking a sip from her glass as she leaned into her chair. “Yeah, I think so. I was surprised to see they were all alone, I expected them to get married by now.” Crystal shrugged before standing up, going to get herself another drink.

This was news to Wilma. You were single and you were back. She just had to find you.

“Hey, guys, I’m gonna head out. It’s late and I gotta see my mom before I start the drive back home.” She watched as her friends tried to protest, giving them all quick hugs and waving them off as she left the bar.

Of course, she wasn’t going to get mom’s house. As she pulled up to the very familiar red light, she had made a left instead of a right, heading straight to your old house.

She could see the porch light on, and a figure out in the small yard taking down old rundown Christmas lights. She knew it was you.

Her truck startled you as it pulled into the gravel driveway, honking her horn before she got out and looked over at you, a smile forming on her lips.

“Hey, sweetheart.” She chuckled softly, stepping up onto your porch so she could match your height on the ladder. “Oh my God, Wilma?” You smiled widely, instantly getting off the ladder to greet her.

“It’s been, what, seven years?” You hesitantly pulled her into a hug, instantly melting in her arms as she wrapped them around you, swaying your bodies from side to side.

“Seven summers, get it right.” She chuckled softly, running a hand up and down your back as she admired you. Oh, how she missed you.

You had invited her inside for a drink, putting on your favorite show on the TV as you caught up with each other's life. You found out she moved down south, adopted a dog and couched softball for a bit.

While you on the other hand had mostly been helping your mom at home, before moving back so you could be closer.

“You know, you’re still as beautiful as I remember.” She smiled slightly at you, not-so-sneakily wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “I’m pretty sure I still have something for you.” She nudged your side slightly, earning a light laugh from you.

“Is that so? What makes you think that?” You quirked a brow up at her, a smirk toying at your lips.

“Didn’t stop thinking about you for seven summers.”

[treethymes]

It’s often said that under capitalism, relations between people appear as relations between things. The butcher, baker, and candlestick maker vanish into the Bed Bath & Beyond. But there’s a countertendency at work within the ruling class, among whom relations between things often appear as relations between people. Mr. Smith seems to have dinner with Mr. Brown, but behind the veil are the bank and newspaper sitting to sup. This is a virtue of the joint-stock model: Huge piles of capital, years of work extracted from labor and subsequently aggregated, meet as men. Capital’s fundamental drive for better-than-average returns means that no operator can be satisfied with a tie, but in order to function the system needs superficial competition on a stone platform of cooperation. In the fascist system competition is external, between nations, its various components conceived as parts of a single body. Individual interest is subordinated to that of the group. That was anathema to [Herbert] Hoover and his fellows, who saw individual interest as the prime mover, society’s engine. Capitalist collectivity emerges in two ways: First, there’s exploitation, wherein capitalists extract bits of value from their employees’ work and gather it up into lumps to reinvest. Second, there’s association, in which investors pledge their gathered lumps to a common cause. Unlike an enveloping fascist state, an associative state comes together like an interoffice softball league, via the ostensibly free and voluntary association of participants.

The stone foundation of capitalist cooperation cracked during the Depression, as near-term self-preservation undermined long-term self-interest. The “Popular Front” alliance between leftists and liberals offered a different model, a democratic state that mediated between capital and labor much the way the associative state mediated among capitalists. The idea had a lot to offer, especially in the face of fascists on the right and communists on the left. The Stanford athletic association treasurer [Hoover] was abandoned, nearly alone in his fidelity. But he grasped something the others didn’t: Financialization and economic democracy can’t blend. If property rights are subject to popular control, then investors will encounter the public as an obstacle, a variable to be managed. For example, banks loaned credit to farms based on existing prices, which were based on the current cost of labor. Improving labor conditions by picket was an attack on property valuation, which thanks to financialization made it an attack on property, full stop. The Roosevelt coalition brought together capital and labor under one roof, but one partner always sought to dominate the other.

Bill Camp was an odd choice for a New Deal bureaucrat, but the banker, cotton planter, and proud son of a Klansman was the right wing of the FDR team, one of the Confederate Democrats who hadn’t left the party yet, except for a single dalliance with the Chief [Hoover] in 1928. He was a link of continuity between Hoover’s agricultural administration and the New Deal version. When the Agricultural Adjustment Act came under legal challenge, Camp was introduced to the left side of the coalition, and he was shocked to discover that his very own lawyer was a communist. Camp knew one when he saw one, and when he realized that Department of Agriculture officials were planning to help the left-wing Southern Tenant Farmers Union get better conditions for cotton workers in the South—Camp’s ancestral stomping ground—he denounced them. Camp called a handful of his conservative politician friends from the cotton belt and they went over the head of the agriculture secretary, Wallace (the new one), straight to President Roosevelt. The next day the president fired the left-wing lawyers, and Agriculture reversed a pro-tenant rule interpretation. But Camp couldn’t forget about his commie lawyer, and when one of Camp’s local congressmen wanted to make a name for himself exposing liberal Reds, Camp fed everything he had on Alger Hiss to Richard Nixon, helping ignite the congressional Red Scare.

Herbert Hoover understood that the social forces Bill Camp and Alger Hiss represented—the plantation owner and the plantation worker—no government could bring into harmony. Capital by its nature dominates labor, and if it fails to accomplish that, it ceases to exist. The rule interpretation Camp objected to bound planters to their existing tenants, which was an untenable attack on their profitability, even though at the time they weren’t profitable at all without the government’s help. The conflict was inherent, and it didn’t take until the end of World War II for the Cold War to start or for liberals to reveal which side they planned to take. After George Creel lost the California gubernatorial nomination to the wacky socialist writer Upton Sinclair, he and FDR knifed the populist author. First they rewrote Sinclair’s platform to moderate it, then they cut a deal with the Republican incumbent, Frank Merriam, anyway—the same Merriam who called the machine guns to the San Francisco waterfront. Merriam trounced Sinclair, who waited patiently for the Roosevelt endorsement that never came. “He didn’t realize at first that communism was the threat,” Camp recalled of Creel, regarding the official’s work; “he became one of the greatest fighters [against communism].” So much for the New Deal.

[…]

Communism, Hoover and his allies saw, was not merely a political party running Russia or an economic philosophy. It was a real movement that threatened to abolish capitalist control over society and thereby destroy capitalism in its entirety. Communists were communists whether they realized it or not, even when they thought they only wanted better wages. It’s easy now to look back and see the Hooverites as victims of a paranoiac fantasy about the world—to see them either as the only ones who really believed the Marxist revolutionary rhetoric or as cynical operators stoking an arbitrary moral panic. But Bert knew the global revolution was real. He saw it in China, narrowly escaped it in Russia, confronted it outside the window in DC, and heard it tear apart his farm in California. They took his mines, and they would kill him and take the rest if he wasn’t vigilant, just like they did to his formerly privileged friends around the world. Still nursing his wounds from defeat but far from vanquished, Herbert Hoover devoted the rest of his life to winning the class war. Palo Alto became his watch tower.

Malcolm Harris, Palo Alto

[svalleynow]

Important Dates for Jasper Youth Sports

Evaluation Dates: February 10 (Saturday afternoon) and February 15 (Thursday evening) Baseball and softball play days March 22 & 23 Easter Egg Hunt March 29. No games. Picture Days: April 2 & 4 Opening Day: Saturday, April 6 Jasper Softball Tournament: Friday and Saturday, April 12 & 13 Jasper Baseball Tournament: Friday and Saturday, April 26 & 27 Valley Classic Tournament: Friday and Saturday,…

[kammartinez]

When Roxy Music was recording “Street Life” for the 1973 album Stranded, they hung a mic out the window of AIR Studios above Oxford Street, but they didn’t like the results and they ended up mixing in the sounds of a Moroccan market instead. As “Street Life” begins, we hear traffic amid four haunting chords and a shimmering hi-hat rhythm, and then Bryan Ferry belts out that he wishes everyone would leave him alone. He goes out for a walk. “Each verse seems to have its own character,” he later said, “like blocks on a street.” A fan since my youth of early Roxy Music, I still hear that song’s ethereal city vibe when I, too, wish everyone would leave me alone and, like Bryan, hit the streets.

If I go left, heading into what I think of as downtown Echo Park, I glimpse the green folds of the Angeles Crest as I pass Craftsman and Victorian houses and courtyard bungalows. I turn onto Sunset Boulevard, passing barber shops, burger stands, bookstores, and botanicas. I can get my knives sharpened and my shoes repaired, shop for groceries, eat eighty different kinds of food. The streets are full of people of all kinds, even as Echo Park comes twentieth in a walkability ranking of L.A. neighborhoods, according to some website. MacArthur Park, which is more population-dense than parts of Manhattan, ranks higher, as does Hollywood. But here I have the option of avoiding commerce by going three blocks north to the park, where I can walk miles of shaded trails. Or stroll my little residential enclave, where people are sitting on their stoops, a guy is working on his ’68 Camaro, trees are heavy with citrus, softball-size dragon fruits shine redly through a fence. I can walk to Echo Park Lake, due west, entirely through an alleyway, where among overgrown fig trees and sidewalk pulverized to dirt you might think you were in some Mississippi backwater Barry Hannah was describing, but you’re parallel and just behind Sunset. At the lakefront are picnickers, food carts, fishermen creating what my son refers to as “pressure on the lake.” One day I watch a guy and girl furtively produce a pristine white duck from a knapsack and release it. They’ve clearly just bought the thing at a live-poultry shop and are trying to rewild it among the mallards and grebes, but the mission seems also to be a form of courtship.

On these walks, minutes from home, I am certain that Los Angeles, which I moved to from New York twenty years ago, is the most beautiful city in the world (and yes, I have seen the world). But that’s only if I go west or north or south. If I head east, toward downtown, 1.5 miles away, my booster talk ebbs. It’s freeway overpasses, empty lots, and fortress-like buildings, a dead zone.

I should be able to walk to the opera house, Walt Disney Concert Hall, the Broad, the Bradbury Building, or City Hall, to the grand old theaters on Main Street, the jewelry district, Union Station. To Philippe the Original on Alameda, a hundred-year-old deli where undertakers from the nearby mortuaries park their hearses and stop in for a sandwich. To the new Frank Gehry building on Grand, across from my son’s music school. (Late in life, Gehry now seems to believe in design that prioritizes not postmodern showiness but plazas and shade and places for the passerby to sit.) But to get to the pedestrian-friendly world downtown involves several blocks of monolithic residential architecture along freeways, all by the same developer, inward-facing buildings with dark and empty storefronts, bunker parking, and sky bridges. The tenants of these places don’t have to ever step foot on the street. I’ve heard they are mostly USC students, but you don’t see them. The only people I might encounter are unhoused individuals, and those in this particular area often appear to be in severe mental crisis, as they linger beyond buildings that are as obdurate and closed as medieval armories.

Dubbed the Renaissance Collection, these buildings form a plaque that separates the people of Echo Park from downtown L.A. They were built by Geoffrey Palmer, a little man who resembles a ventriloquist’s dummy and is gifted at making enemies. Palmer buys up forlorn and odd plots alongside freeways, where he builds his “Italianate” developments, as Italian as leatherette is leather, but less charming. In 1973, the artist Gordon Matta-Clark purchased random little slices of land around New York City for a conceptual art project he titled Fake Estates. Perhaps the unsavory parcels that Palmer acquires would remain similarly conceptual were it not for the very real fake estates he builds on them. This is his own defense—that he’s building where no one else dares—but he seems to take almost libidinal satisfaction in perching rows of apartment balconies over the 110–101 freeway interchange. The off-white stucco exteriors of his buildings are coated with soot within days of completion. In 2003, he illegally bulldozed the last Victorian of Bunker Hill while building the Orsini, a few blocks from my house. Palmer is vehemently opposed to affordable housing and has spent tens of millions on lawsuits and ballot measures to ensure that he won’t have to build any. He recently settled a class-action suit over systematically keeping tenants’ security deposits. One of Trump’s biggest donors, he has bragged that his company hasn’t paid federal taxes in thirty years. In the fall of 2014, a fire was deliberately started in Palmer’s half-built and wood-framed Da Vinci, a block down from the Orsini. Flames shot higher than many buildings downtown, stretched a city block, melted freeway signs, and cracked one hundred and sixty windows in the iconic John Ferraro Building, headquarters of Water and Power. The consensus among architects, residents, and journalists was that almost anyone could have started the fire, given how many people hate Palmer. City commissioners joked, in a planning meeting, that they sure hoped everyone present had an alibi. The city sued Palmer for the reckless conditions that allowed the blaze to grow so large. The person who started it was caught and sentenced to prison. He supposedly did it for Michael Brown, to protest the police killings of unarmed black men. No one was hurt. The Da Vinci was promptly rebuilt.

“Why is Everything So Ugly?” wondered a recent editorial in n+1. The editors structured their thoughts on the subject around a Situationist-style dérive they take through New York City. They begin by pondering a new condominium tower limply called the Josh, which has been erected in place of a recently demolished hundred-year-old building. The Josh, they tell us, is made of plastic, concrete, and “an obscure wood-like substance”—materials that have been chosen not for quality and beauty but on the basis of global supply-chain availability, a cookie-cutter design review process, and a cost-saving preference for semi-skilled labor. The Josh is already looking shabby at five months old. When it rains, its façade gets “conspicuously . . . wet.” Their dérive continues past more than one Bank of America, alongside a vape shop, and into a theater, where a shitty franchise based on a TV show of a comic book is playing. After the movie, there’s a run-in with blindingly bright LED lights, resulting in a visit to urgent care.

Google reveals that the building the editors are calling the Josh is actually the Greenpoint—located, as you might guess, in Greenpoint, Brooklyn—but the Josh does more work to illustrate certain ideas than the real name might. I think I know eighteen Joshes. No offense to any of them; I too have a common name and would wager the Josh could have been called the Rachel in the blink of an eye. Still, the Josh has a certain sound when isolated as a branding mechanism, with its soft landing into sshh, whether put to service selling wine or machines for living. I chuckled about the Josh. It, or he, made me think of that guy Tom from MySpace, everyone’s first friend. I imagined Tom living at the Josh, enjoying an industrial salad at a particle-board table. But names are merely symptoms. They are not the cause of “the violence of the new ugliness” that the n+1 editors ponder. Branding arises from standardization. If the things that are made are more or less the same, difference itself must be manufactured.

The Situationists first began undertaking their dérives—which means to drift, to walk without a fixed plan—in response to a rail strike. Guy Debord and others tumbled drunkenly through the night, walking or hitchhiking, and found that the new routes they forged promised a change of orientation, a new outlook. In Debord’s autobiographical Panegyric, at a point in his life when he had lost hope in the city and headed for the hills, he regrets that a “flood of destruction, pollution, and falsification had conquered the whole surface of the planet, as well as pouring down nearly to its very depths.” (Had Debord, too, noticed how wet the Josh was looking?) Five years later he shot himself in the heart. It wasn’t just that everything was ugly and the revolution stalled, if not foreclosed. Alcohol had done him in.

I decided, on a recent afternoon, to conduct my own dérive, straight into the morass between my street and downtown. I left the house, took a right, another right, and then a left over the 101 freeway. If this overpass could talk, I thought. It might tell of the many women and the many nights of flinty bargains with men in cars. By daylight, it was empty. I turned left onto Temple Street, passing a hotel that abuts the 101, and a sun-blasted bus stop where my kid was let off in grade school, and from which he began conducting his own dérives. This block of Temple has a bakery, a liquor store, and until recently, D’Bongo Party Supplies, then falls into a post-human stretch: there is a tow yard, a recycling center, a cul de sac against the freeway where there was a tent encampment until it burned, and a huge and empty bus yard. That’s all on one side of the street. On the other is the massive retaining wall of a high school baseball diamond. The reason there is open land here, greenery, even if it’s chemically treated monograss beyond chain-link, is that this was an oil field, and it isn’t safe to put up buildings. (What look like lampposts around the field are actually vents that allow methane gases to escape.)

Beyond the baseball/methane field, I pass our own version of the Josh, but it’s called the Charlie. The Charlie is new. There used to be an auto repair and car wash here that was run by a family. Now there is a narrow eight-story building in “space gray” with a gaggle of red real estate balloons bobbing on the wind. I have driven past at night. The units are dark, while the Charlie’s eight-story “parking podium” glows meanly, prison-bright.

From the Charlie I cross the street toward a new Palmer monstrosity on a ten-acre site that used to be a Bank of America data center. Construction is not yet finished. The invasive palms that have been chosen as Palmer’s signature “lush Mediterranean landscaping” have just been trucked in and still have their fronds gathered into ponytails. Even with their fronds let down, they will provide no shade. There’s a giant piss-elegant fountain but it’s dry. now renting 2 months free + free parking, a big sign says. The name of this new addition to Palmer’s suite of Italianate freeway rentals is the Ferrante. Maybe the name came from his wife, a Parisian who seems a little more cultured than he is. Perhaps she’s a fan of Elena Ferrante’s books. I have no proof. I’m guessing.

We’ve been told for years now that Elena Ferrante is a fiction, a made-up name, like Tom, or the Josh. But someone is of course writing those books. Whoever they are, they’re talented, but the insistence on anonymity is starting to seem a little showy, even a bit tacky, if not as tacky as the Ferrante and its 1,150 units. I pass its blank row of street-level commercial spaces. Palmer won’t even try to rent them out. And apparently there’s no fine for leaving them empty. As an architect explained to me, he doesn’t build that income into his plans. Why should a developer care if there is street life? I turn left and walk under a highway overpass and approach the rangy back edge of our neighborhood CVS. What does CVS stand for? No one seems to know. Everything you might want to buy there is now locked up, and you have to press what feels like a panic button to get access to the shelves.

I cross through the parking lot, past a weird machine with a tower on it, flashing a blue light. This is some kind of automated security apparatus, but I’m not sure how it works. A barefoot boy asks me for a light. I don’t have one, I tell him.

Remember how outraged everyone was to discover that the author JT LeRoy, supposedly an ethereal rent boy/lot lizard, was actually a middle-aged woman? They acted like this was the ultimate con, something ugly and counterfeit masquerading as something genuine and tragic and hot. Meanwhile, Elena Ferrante is purporting to be a middle-aged woman. What if she’s a teen boy turning tricks in parking lots? I think, as I turn out of the lot and go right on Sunset.

I walk toward Palmer’s Orsini, which lines both sides of the street, all of its commercial space dark and empty and locked. There is no one here except one man in rags setting bits of trash on fire on the sidewalk. Is it Palmer’s fault that people are setting things on fire? It’s more complicated than that. But with no street activity, people act out. Or, their actions are starker, and less muted by a variety of people and vibrancies that a healthy street should reflect. At the end of this very long, sterile block is one other person, a young woman. Her arms are covered with injection scars. She seems not to notice me. She’s in a kind of Sisyphean struggle, attempting to push an e-scooter that is not activated, its wheels on lock.

The next day I drive back down this street, heading to pick up my son from music school. I spot the woman who tried to push the scooter. She’s still here, as if this bleak zone were her proving ground. Her shirt is off now, and she is throwing her half-clothed body against the brick exterior of the Orsini. But the building is constructed not to feel her, the street not to see her, and I barely see her myself, because my light is green.

While parts of the designed world might be ugly at any speed, it is only the slowness of traveling on foot that causes true discomfiture, by forcing a walker to behold, worry over, brood upon, those to whom this ugliness shouts loudest.

[jerzwriter]

TCAW Day 2 - Beyond

Between Hopkins and OH Book 2

At first... Moving to Boston was a great decision for Tobias. He loved the city, and while his family's legacy was still known by many, it was far enough from his hometown of DC that it did not overshadow him. Many had no idea who the Carricks were, and he liked it that way.

He was still a little "shell shocked" after his final year at Hopkins, so at first, he threw himself into his work. He was determined to make a name for himself and still figuring out what his new life would look like.

More below...

At the time, the only family member he hadn't managed to alienate himself from was his mother. In many ways, he wanted to gain her approval. Professionally, he was doing that with ease, but personally, he wanted to show her he was the man she thought he could be... to an extent.

Personal Life... When Tobias was a 2nd-year resident at Kenmore, he began dating Sasha Carlson (Info here and here). She had just finished her master's degree and was new to Boston, working in the hospital's communications department. They dated for one year, and this was the only serious relationship of his adult life (prior to Casey). She wanted a future, and Tobias couldn't get on board. He cared for her, but she loved him. When they broke up, Tobias committed to bachelorhood. He really liked Sasha. She checked all the boxes, and he was convinced if he couldn't make it work with her, it was because he wasn't meant to live that life. Plus... he hated hurting her. While not friendly in the immediate aftermath of their break up, in time, they became very good friends.

After Sasha, Tobias became much more social. He was a regular at the local bar, known at many of the "in" spots in the city. He was on Kenmore's softball and bowling teams and participated in charity soccer and basketball tournaments. He learned to golf for "business purposes" but found it dull. He also took an interest in the arts (something his mother was thrilled about) and became a collector. That influenced his decision to buy a townhome in Boston's South End, a diverse, artistic community. People questioned him buying a large (4-bedroom) home when they knew he had planned to be a bachelor for life. He said it was an investment, he liked extra space, and it afforded him more opportunities to show off the art he acquired. Plus, he enjoyed entertaining on occasion.

After Sasha, Tobias never settled down. He dated many (many) women. There were some one-night stands but more casual dating. He was always very upfront that he did not want a commitment, but many thought they could "change his mind", then painted him as the bad guy when they couldn't. Between this, a crazy schedule, and just getting older, he came to prefer "arrangments". Not so much "friends with benefits" because they weren't really tight friends, but women who wanted the same thing he did... no strings... just fun. They weren't committed to each other but tended to limit dating/sexual activity to each other until one (usually the woman) wanted to move on to something new/more.

The only significant arrangements in the storyline were Audrey (more here), a nurse at Kenmore who he shared a long-time dalliance with. This proved to be a thorn in his side at the beginning of his relationship with Casey. Also, June Hirata, while not longstanding or significant to him personally, was significant in regard to his early relationship with Casey (more here).

Tobias had tons of friends, but the only two he was very close with were Kerry and Sasha.

Professional life... Tobias's star continued to rise, and he made a name for himself. His research in structural biology and metabolism was the crux of his publishing, but in practice, he found he preferred working in trauma. It was something about the need to make quick decisions, the rush of not knowing what was coming next, and the ability to utilize his knowledge to immediately impact/save lives that drew him in.

He held several different positions during his time at Kenmore, the last title he healed there was Director of Emergency Medicine. This is the position he was working in when he met Casey & Aurora. He also taught at Tufts University Medical School earlier in his career, eventually moving o to teach at Harvard Medical School.

He was very driven, and his career was the most important part of his life. While he was affable and known for having fun, on and off the job, that went away when he was in "work mode." Then he was no-nonsense. He encouraged younger physicians to have fun at work but know the time and place.

Personality/Reputation: Tobias was generally well-liked. He was charming, funny, affable, and liked to make people feel appreciated. However, he was also arrogant and could be shallow. The only deeper relationships he had were with the few people he allowed to see the "real" Tobias; in general, he kept things on the surface.

Those with a "work should also be fun" approach held him in the highest esteem at Kenmore, those who were more traditional doctors did not. However, his knowledge, skill, and ability to get things done had even those physicians willing to overlook certain things because, in the end, he was an excellent doctor.

He had a reputation of being a playboy/lady's man (which he didn't mind), but also a heartbreaker and a cad (which he did mind). The latter pissed him off because he wasn't a kid anymore. He was always upfront with what he wanted and knew it wasn't on him if people chose not to hear what he said. But, in time, he learned not to care what people thought. He knew the truth and that was all that mattered to him.

@tobias-carrick-appreciation-week

[sc0tters]

I realised I’ve never actually done one of these before, so here it is!

hi lovelies! I’m amber ꕥ she/her

here are some things to get to know me better…

massive sports fan!

some of my favourite teams include: Detriot Tigers, Chelsea FC, New Jersey Devils, the All Blacks, the Springboks, and Redbull Racing (F1)

I’m from South Africa and New Zealand making rugby very complicated

I’m a scorpio

my favourite colour is blue

I play rugby as a lock if you know what that is I love you

I also play softball as a short stop

I’m 5ft10!

[nwbeerguide]

The Seattle Mariners, along with Hatback Bar & Grille and Steelheads Alley, welcome you to Victory Hall.

image of Victory Hall, courtesy the Seattle Mariners

Located just minutes from the T-Mobile Park, Hatchback Bar & Grille and Steelheads Alley invite you to visit Victory Hall. Opening on Opening Day celebrating the start of the Seattle Mariners’ 2023 season, Victory Hall is your launchpad or home base for Seattle sports.

Opening at 3 pm, March 30th, fans and visitors will be nourished by two full-service bars, with 20 beers on draft all from the comfort of a 21 and over, exclusive indoor beer garden. During your visit, you’ll be serenaded by Deejay Hershe with the backdrop of baseball (or other sporting events) projected against a 20’ x 11’ TV. Course, for those who wish to roam you’ll catch up on the game, teams around the country, from five 100-inch flat screens throughout the space. 

Whether you're transcending between the indoor beer garden or the 1,200 square-foot outdoor patio, a breathtaking folding glass door greets you.

For those assuming this space is exclusive for the Seattle Mariners, the managers and staff have confirmed this will be an official bar for the Seahawks, Sounder, along with the Mariners. But like any sports watching destination, the televised games will change each day, with schedules posted on the Victory Hall website.

For those looking for an early start on Opening Day, look to the adjacent Hatback Bar & Grille and Steelheads Alley, which will be open at 11am.

While you’re there, check out Opening Day food trucks, Paella House and Isidro’s Authentic Mexican Food.

Reaching out to Victory Bar regarding the construction and what made this building so unique they shared the following. 

Victory Hall is housed in a historical railroad warehouse that dates back to 1914. The 9,500-square-foot space features 18-foot ceilings, preserved fir tree columns, historically preserved wooden ceiling beams, the original exposed brick walls, and the remains of a painted mural that is believed to have been the exterior facade of the 1914 warehouse.  

Luxurious polished concrete floors are surrounded by blackened wood walls stained to mirror the bar counters made by Pioneer Millwork using the Shou Sugi Ban method, a Japanese technique used to industrially char wood.  The space boasts 10 industrial chic steel chandeliers custom designed and fabricated by Resolute. The cut-out motif of the lighting is inspired by baseball stitching and a nod to the Mariners.

Besides food, drinks, audio-visual entertainment, and two locations for socializing, Victory Hall has partnered with Apicii, with its best-in-class catering, for those wishing to host events at Victory Hill. 

Besides this, the Mariners are opening The Boxyard which will feature an indoor beer garden, during Mariners, Sounders, or Seahawks home games, as well as concerts. All of this including Hatback Bar & Grille, Steelheads Alley, and the upcoming baseball and softball training center, await everyone. Reflecting on the progress towards creating an entertainment destination for Seattle sports fans, Seattle Mariners Executive Vice President Fred Rivera shared this. 

We’re excited for our fans to be able to experience Victory Hall on Opening Day and continue to see The Boxyard grow. Our expansion in the Sodo neighborhood is part of our larger goal to invest in our community and help bring more economic opportunities to the place we call home.

Victory Hall is at 12011st Ave South in Seattle, Washington, next to Hatback Bar & Grille and Steelheads Alley. For more information including games, events, and hours, visit www.mariners.com/victoryhall.

About Apicii 

Apicii is a New York City based hospitality company that has developed and operates a collection of acclaimed restaurants, bars, membership clubs and private event spaces across the country. Apicii is led by Tom Dillon, who has an unparalleled, 30-year track record in hospitality, having created, developed, or operated leading global brands, including 5 of the 100 top grossing restaurants in America. Tom has operated venues which have been covered extensively in the press and been awarded Best New Restaurant in America, as well as several Michelin starred venues. To learn more, visit www.apicii.com.

from Northwest Beer Guide - News - The Northwest Beer Guide https://bit.ly/3zgZHI6

[jron]

Great scene, classic, but here me out here.

A ton of stuff in the Blues Brothers was based on current events in and around Chicago at the time (it was filmed in 1980). These included the perpetually unfinished expressway that looked infinitely high in the air, and definitely those Illinois Nazis.

They aren’t just comic relief or generic bad guys, they were an active group. Illinois Nazis were marching on & off in Chicago throughout the 70s, often in Marquette Park on the south side. In 1978 they planned a controversial March in Skokie, home to a lot of Holocaust survivors, but were denied a permit so they went back to Marquette Park again. These were based on real people in the news, and they were rightfully targeted for ridicule.

(Things got worse before they got better, with the KKK & the America First Committee joining the neo-Nazis at Marquette Park a few years later. INCAR (Intl Cmte Against Racism) disguised themselves as softball players at one rally & attacked the racists with bats, but spectators & police chased them away. Similar events occurred throughout the 80s.)

I hate Illinois Nazis.

The Blues Brothers (1980) // Dir. John Landis