#parker macmillian 5

[dddragoni]

Oh good an excuse to gush about some of My Guys

I want to talk about Sexton Wheerer.

(Art by birbteef aka @spookyprime. Sexton is the horse. The cat is Yummy Elliott, she'll be important later.)

Blood type: Love. Coffee style: Milk Substitute. Pregame Ritual: Eating a Bird.

In Season 1, Sexton Wheeler (not a typo) was a bad pitcher for the absolutely terrible Los Angeles Tacos. Only 1.5 stars- though this did put him in a three-way tie for highest pitching stars on the rotation. Like the rest of the team, he was tricked by the Tacos' manager, Al Pastor, into joining the ILB when he thought he was signing up for an intramural klickball league.

Sexton Wheeler was, at the time, a fairly normal human man, though he claimed to be somehow responsible for- and ashamed of- the creation of the La Brea Tar Pits. Then came the Wyatt Masoning- after the Grand Unslam tore apart Los Angeles into the Infinite Cities of Los Angeli, every Tacos player took on the name of the team's worst batter, Wyatt Mason. Commissioner Parker MacMillian III attempted to repair the team, with mixed success, and Sexton Wheeler became Sexton Wheerer- a multiversal discrepancy that became clear when a season later, the Alternates decree swapped Sexton out for a version of himself from another one of the infinite Los Angeli, one populated entirely by centaurs. His name was Sexton Wheerer, though a year ago, everyone had started calling him Wheeler for no apparent reason.

So this Sexton, the centaur, is the one we're talking about today. He was an even worstle pitcher than Wheeler was, which is impressive, and largely kept to himself until Season 7- the Snackrifice. In a display of unity and an effort to break the game of Blaseball, all of the Tacos pitchers offered themselves up to take 5 of the 10 spots above the red line on the Idol Board, which would result in them being Shelled- trapped inside of giant peanut shells for an unknown length of time. Potentially forever. With the entire rotation Shelled, there would be no one to pitch the ball- and with no pitchers, there would be no Blaseball.

The league rallied behind the Tacos, and Sexton and the others were all successfully Shelled on Season 7, Day 99. The "break Blaseball" plan didn't quite pan out, since the Tacos just received a new pitcher, Pitching Machine, but they'd still shown their unity and protected 5 other players from being Shelled.

Midway through season 8, Sexton was pecked free from his shell during Bird weather. He was a little uncomfortable with the spotlight this puts on him, but he rose to the occassion, pitching two-thirds of the Tacos' games for the rest of the season. A heavy workload, but it wasn't going to be long- the others would be pecked free soon.

Except... they weren't. All of season 8 went by with none of the other Tacos being pecked free. At the end of the season, Pitching Machine was Shelled as well, leaving Sexton as the sole available pitcher. Where every other pitcher in the league had 4 days of rest between games, Sexton was out there every day, working himself past the point of exhaustion, making sure things were handled for when the others were freed. (Incidentally, this also led to him topping the idol board- even a mediocre pitcher is very lucrative when he pitches every game.)

Then, at the end of Season 9, all the Shelled players were taken by the Shelled One- leaving Sexton as the sole "survivor" of the Snackrifice.

He took this... poorly. With a mountain of survivor's guilt on his back, Sexton threw himself onto the only thing he could- pitching. With a second whole season solo ahead of him and no reprieve in sight, Sexton spent every moment either on the mound or training in the bullpen. It paid off- the Tacos had their first winning record and playoff appearance in season 10- but the strain nearly destroyed Sexton. His team ended up having to force him to rest and recover.

After Season 10 Day X, the PODS fell back to random teams. One fell to the Tacos, but it wasn't one of their wayward players- it was Peanut Bong. A second pitcher was a welcome relief, but one that was a constant reminder of what had happened? And one he was allergic to? A mixed bag.

But it was Peanut Bong's replacement once he got shadowed that really changed things for Sexton. Her name was Yummy Elliott, and she'd grown up in the Infinite Cities, idolizing the Tacos players- and Sexton in particular. Her enthusiam reignited the spark of hope Sexton thought he'd lost, and she became his protégé, eventually outpacing him to the point where he retired from pitching, taking upo a new, much less stressful role as a batter.

Sexton still hadn't quite overcome his tendency to put everything on himself, however, and after Yummy eventually took the Tacos to their frst championship in Season 17, a change was in order. He moved to Yellowstone, joining the Magic- and got savaged by consumers, returning to Los Angelia year later worse off and somewhat humbled. He remained there until the universe ended in Season 24.

okay while people are reading my blase posts i am so far behind on player lore. somebody tell the story of their favorite player so i can cheer or cry a lot or reblog it 10,000 times and hype them up to all my friends

[planet4546b]

take the wheel, this could be your chance/in a spiral of ants

[image 1: parker macmillian 5 is standing unbalanced and covering his face with his hand, eyes wide. behind him, silhouettes in blue, pink and red show the deaths of parkers 1, 3, and 4. white text in all caps reads ‘now you remember where you came from’

image 2: a close up shot of parker 5s chest. he is holding the microphone, which is the same bright pink as the previous silhouettes. white text that wraps around the microphone reads ‘now you remember where you’re going’.

image 3: a gif that shows rotating shots of parkers 1, 3, 4 and 5, all seen from the chest up in the same position. they are outlined by blue and red. white text above them reads ‘you are one ant’]

stills of the last gif below the cut because tumblr is REALLY killing the quality lol

[chaoswillfallrpg]

MARCUS OLLIVANDER is TWENTY-FOUR YEARS OLD and an ASSISTANT WANDMAKER for OLLIVANDERS in DIAGON ALLEY. He looks remarkably like ISRAEL BROUSSARD and considers himself aligned with THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX. He is currently OPEN. 

→ OVERVIEW:

Born nine years after his sister ROSE it was safe to say that Marcus was not planned, despite this fact however his parents BEATRICE and GARRICK OLLIVANDER took the surprise in their strides and loved him whole-heartedly. Since he could remember Rose was always away at school and so he got the attention of both of his parents completely, except for the holidays which were always too filled with joy and happiness to ever notice he had to share them. Because of the age difference Marcus and his sister lived separate lives, she would spend time with her school friends whenever she was home and her lack of interest never really bothered him, he knew she loved him and would be there if he needed it and that was enough for him. The Ollivanders lived in a flat above their shop in Diagon Alley that had been undetectably extended more times than Marcus could count. Although Marcus was a social boy he also loved time alone, and his favourite place to go when he needed his own space was in his fathers workshop, he was enamored by the raw magic that was down there, half-made wands on every surface and jars filling every wall with their magical cores within. When his father wasn't looking he would pick up the wands and feel the life within them, testing every single one that was made to figure out which type he would get by the time his letter arrived and he could get his own. 

It was pretty obvious that Rose was interested in another path in life, and so on his seventh birthday his father took him down to the workshop and told him he was going to be his assistant. After that Marcus never needed to sneak downstairs, for he was always welcomed by his father with another lesson to be taught, he learnt all about wand lore and how exactly the wands go about choosing the wizard, and the day he made his very first wand, under the watchful eyes of Garrick of course, he was taken to Florean Fortescue's where he was told to order whatever he liked. Whilst his father was talking to the ice-cream parlor’s owner Marcus noticed a table in the window that was full of children his age, plucking up all his available courage he asked if he could sit, a girl slightly younger than himself looked up with a beaming smile and invited him to. That day he met PANDORA and PHAEDRA FORTESCUE and CELESTE, ELINOR and PARKER POTAGE and was tied to each of their hips from that day on. The group spent their days in the alleys, splitting their time evenly between the ice cream parlor, sitting by the fountain in Carkitt Market and looking at everything they would buy and take with them to Hogwarts in Gambol and Japes joke shop. As the years went on their group slowly dwindled, each getting their letter they would leave the alleys and head to school, when it was Marcus’ turn he was nervous but excited, the excitement only heightening when his father handed him a wand box with the most beautifully engraved wand he had ever seen, he plucked it out of its box and the world around him felt right, it would seem that his father had been watching each time Marcus had picked a wand up in the past and had created the perfect one for him to go off to school with. 

Setting off for Hogwarts was the first time Marcus had felt truly alone, his parents weren't there to ease his fears nor were his friends there to pry a laugh out of him. Adamant to make friends and make them quickly he looked through the carriages until he came across one with a singular girl that had worry etched across her face. Glad to see his inner turmoil so easily expressed upon this girl's features he marched into the compartment with the intention of making them both feel better. ROWENA ROWLE was a lovely girl and the pair spent the entire journey discussing Hogwarts. Being sorted into Hufflepuff with Rowena was the perfect place for him, he soon fit in with a group of his own, keeping his friendship with Rowena just between the two of them. RUFUS BELBY, SAMARA CLEARWATER and TIMOTHY VANE made excellent friends and studying companions, the four Hufflepuffs could often be found hold up in their corner of the library with piles of books surrounding them. Samara and Marcus especially would go well into the evening sitting with each other reading, Marcus wanted to read everything Hogwarts had to offer on wand lore to impress his father when he went home and Samara, a Muggle-Born witch wanted to know everything about the magical world, often spouting the most random and obscure questions at Marcus for him to answer. 

Throughout his years in Hogwarts Marcus took an increasingly large interest in Quidditch, and in his fourth year he applied for the position of chaser which he got. Through Quidditch he met EDGAR BONES a fellow teammate who then introduced him to his own misfit group SAOIRSE MACMILLIAN, AUGUSTUS ABBOTT, TILDEN TOOTS, EVE DIGGORY and SYBIL TRELAWNEY. Marcus had never felt more at home than he had in the Hufflepuff common room surrounded by his closest friends, and when the position of Head boy came into question he was told by all of them that he was a shoe in. When not with his new teammates and their friends you could still find him with Samara in the Library, their friendship never wavering they slowly but surely fell in to a relationship, hugs turned in to hand holding, hand holding turned in to stolen kisses and soon they had asked themselves why it had taken them this long to be together. His final years at Hogwarts he spent studying for exams, fulfilling his prefect duties and trying to juggle his down time between his two favourite girls, the only problem he seemed to have was that they didn't see eye to eye, Samara prone to jealousy whenever he spent time with Rowena. 

Leaving school with exceptional grades and a head boy's badge to boot there was no question about his future plans, working in his fathers shop as an assistant his life fell into place. Wanting to move out of the family home but not yet ready to move in with Samara he rented a flat above a shop in Carkitt Market with Rowena and Celeste after he introduced the pair and they hit it off. Sadly the move did not sit well with everyone, Samara having fits of jealousy whenever Marcus mentioned Rowena, and now that he lived with Celeste she also became untrusting of her too. The move meant the end of their relationship, sad as Marcus was about it he couldn't be with someone who didn't trust him. To distract from the pain of the break-up Marcus spent most of his weekends with his old Hufflepuff Quidditch team, playing friendly matches and then hitting the pub. Although Marcus would like to blame it on the adrenaline from the game or the three too many butterbeers he drinks afterwards he has started to develop a crush on Edgar, finding him a lot more dashing in his Quidditch uniform than he ever had at school. Spending more and more time with Edgar has led the boy to open up about other areas of his life, and once realising he could trust Marcus completely he introduced him to ALASTOR MOODY who spoke about the Order of the Phoenix. Until then Marcus had it would seem to have been living under a rock, he had seen no signs of a war brewing but after being told about it he couldn't stand by and allow this injustice to continue. 

Joining the Order meant having his eyes open to all the horrible things going on in the world, it also meant that he was gaining a better idea of what sort of people were joining the forces of the dark-side. After realising that Rowena was spending a considerable amount of time with her cousin and his friends, who were suspected members Marcus and Celeste, another member of the Order, spent many evenings worried and waiting up for the girl. Vowing to do all that they could for their mis-lead friend they spoke in length about their predicament and decided to slowly bring her over to the light, the pair taking on their own mission of slowly persuading her to join the Order. At present the Order had given him their own task to complete, he was to work with an older member PATRICIA RAKEPICK to pool together a list of known Death Eaters, she had asked him to spend his spare time listening in to conversations and also making a list of all known wands that were owned by suspected members to allow for the Order to put illegal tracking upon the wands in question, making it much easier to solve certain crimes and cases that are currently left open. 

→ ADDITIONAL INFORMATION:

Blood Status → Half-Blood

Pronouns → He/Him

Identification → Cis Male 

Sexuality  → Bisexual

Relationship Status → Single

Previous Education →  Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (Hufflepuff)

Family → Garrick Ollivander (father), Beatrice Ollivander (mother), Rose Ollivander (sister)

Connections  → Pandora Fortescue (childhood friend), Phaedra Fortescue (childhood friend), Elinor Potage (childhood friend), Parker Potage (childhood friend), Celeste Potage (best friend/roommate), Rowena Rowle (best friend/roommate), Rufus Belby (close friend), Timothy Vane (close friend), Samara Clearwater (ex-girlfriend), Edgar Bones (close friend/potential love interest), Saorise Macmillian (friend), Augustus Abbott (friend), Tilden Toots (friend), Eve Diggory (friend), Sybil Trelawney (friend), Patricia Rakepick (friend)

Future Information → N/A

MARCUS OLLIVANDER IS A LEVEL 5 WIZARD.

[banditoxkenshin]

Bandito’s Masterlist

> ---------------------------------------- <

Prompt Lists (Not Mine--Credit to Writings of a Hufflepuff)

Prompt List 1

Prompt List 2

Prompt List 3--Spoopy/Haunted

Prompt List 4--Christmas Time

Prompt List 5

Prompt List 6--Lines from Poems

Criminal Minds

Characters I write for:

Spencer Reid

Aaron Hotchner

Derek Morgan

David Rossi

--

Angst

Blurbs

Character Bios (mostly for OCs)

Fanfics

Fluff

Headcanons

Dead by Daylight

Characters I write for:

SURVIVORS:

Dwight Fairfield

Jake Park

Steve Harrington

KILLERS:

Evan MacMillian- The Trapper

Michael Myers- The Shape

Anna- The Huntress

Amanda Young- The Pig

Frank and Joey- The Legion

Danny Johnson- Ghost Face

Kazan Yamaoka- The Oni

Pyramid Head- The Executioner

--

Angst

Blurbs

Character Bios (mostly for OCs)

Fanfics

Fluff

Headcanons

Defending Jacob

Characters I write for:

Jacob Barber

Andy Barber

Derek Yoo

---

Angst

Comatose- Jacob Barber

Blurbs

Character Bios (mostly for OCs)

Fanfics

Fluff

Headcanons

Detroit: Become Human

Characters I write for:

Connor

Markus

Simon

Josh

Hank (maybe)

--

Angst

Blurbs

Character Bios (mostly for OCs)

Fanfics

Fluff

Headcanons

DND CONTENT

Five Nights at Freddy’s

Five Nights at Freddy’s 1

Five Nights at Freddy’s 2

Five Nights at Freddy’s 3

Five Nights at Freddy’s 4

Five Nights at Freddy’s Sister Location

Five Nights at Freddy’s Pizzeria Simulator

Five Nights at Freddy’s Ultimate Custom Night

Five Nights at Freddy’s Security Breach

Rock ‘n Roll- FNaF: Security Breach Fanfic (ONGOING)

Intro

---

Angst

Blurbs

Character Bios (mostly for OCs)

Fanfics

Fluff

Headcanons

Ghost of Tsushima

---

Angst

Blurbs

Character Bios (mostly for OCs)

Fanfics

Fluff

Headcanons

Gotham

Characters I write for:

HEROES:

Jim Gordon

Bruce Wayne

Harvey Bullock

Harvey Dent

Alfred Pennyworth

VILLIANS:

Edward Nygma

Oswald Cobblepot

Theo Galavan

Jervis Tetch

--

Angst

Blurbs

Character Bios (mostly for OCs)

Fanfics

Fluff

Headcanons

Half Alive

People I write for:

Josh Taylor

--

Angst

Blurbs

Character Bios (mostly for OCs)

Fanfics

Fluff

Headcanons

HENRY DANGER

People I write for:

Henry Hart

Ray Manchester

--

Angst

Blurbs

Character Bios (mostly for OCs)

Fanfics

The Ghost of Swellview (ONGOING) ((MATURE AUDIENCE))

Chapter One: Not the Best Driver

Chapter Two: Job Interview

Fluff

Headcanons

IT

Characters I write for:

Bill Denbrough

Eddie Kaspbrak

Richie Tozier

Stanley Uris

Ben Hanscom

--

Angst

Blurbs

Character Bios (mostly for OCs)

Fanfics

Fluff

Headcanons

Jurassic Park / World

Characters I write for:

Ian Malcom

Zach Mitchell

Grey Mitchell

Owen Grady

--

Angst

Blurbs

Character Bios (mostly for OCs)

Fanfics

Fluff

Headcanons

Marvel

Characters I write for:

Captain America/Steve Rogers

Iron Man/Tony Stark

SpiderMan/Peter Parker

--

Angst

Blurbs

Character Bios (mostly for OCs)

Fanfics

Fluff

Headcanons

Random Story/Fanfic/HC Ideas

--

Angst

Blurbs

Character Bios (mostly for OCs)

Fanfics

Wolf Story (Title Pending)

Intro

Ranks/Before the Fic

Fluff

Headcanons

Stranger Things

Characters I write for:

Steve Harrington

Will Byers

Mike Wheeler

Dustin Henderson

Lucas Sinclaire

--

Angst

Blurbs

Character Bios (mostly for OCs)

Fanfics

Fluff

Headcanons

The Umbrella Academy

Characters I write for:

Diego Hargreeves

Klaus Hargreeves

Five Hargreeves

Ben Hargreeves

--

Angst

Blurbs

Character Bios (mostly for OCs)

Fanfics

Fluff

Eye of the Storm PT. 1

Headcanons

Uncharted

Characters I write for:

Nathan Drake

Samuel Drake

Rafe Adler

Harry Flynn (maybe)

Victor Sullivan (maybe)

--

Angst

Blurbs

Character Bios (mostly for OCs)

Camila Drake

Fanfics

Honor Among Thieves- Uncharted 2 Fanfic (ONGOING)

Intro

Chapter One: Crash and Burn

Chapter Two: Borneo 

Chapter Three: Unexpected Surprise

Chapter Four: Train Wreck

Libertalia- Uncharted 4 Fanfic (FINISHED)

Intro

Chapter One: Panamanian Jail

Chapter Two: Rekindle

Chapter Three: Crossfire

Chapter Four: Madagascar

Chapter Five: Bombshell

Chapter Six: Libertalia

Chapter Seven: Regret

Chapter Eight: Epilogue

Back in the Game- Uncharted Fanfic (ONGOING)

Intro

Chapter One: Welcome Back

Fluff

Headcanons

YouTubers

YouTubers I write for:

Markiplier/Mark

Jacksepticeye/Sean

CoryxKenshin/Cory

The Shadow Samurai (ONGOING)

Chapter One: Shogun Down

CrankGamePlays/Ethan

NateWantsToBattle/Nathan Sharp/Smith

--

Angst

Blurbs

Character Bios (mostly for OCs)

Fanfics

Fluff

Headcanons

[thatssosvech]

Adrenaline Report: Games 2&3 April 29-30 2017

Farewell:

Wehebe Darge has been with the Adrenaline since 2009, and has played hockey continuously around the globe for the past 5 years, bringing his talents to teams including the Florida Eels (MetJHL), Alaska Avalanche (NAHL), Dayton Demonz (FHL), Chiefs Leuven (BeNeLiga) and, most recently played for the Peterborough Phantoms in EPIHL. He has also represented Australia at an international level, most recently in Romania at the IIHF Div2 A World Championship, where the team picked up the Silver. 

He’s now taking a well-earned break before returning to the AiHL in June, where he will, for the first time, suit up with the CBR Brave. (It hurts so bad, please look after him)

Wehebe was the first player on the Adrenaline that I followed as a fan and I know that the Brave are getting a great player, who last season, racked up 20-32-52 points in 28 games, the second season in a row where he’s hit the 20-goal-mark. Thanks for everything, perhaps one day we’ll see you back in the City of Churches

Okay, on with the games.

This weekend the Adrenaline travelled to Victoria, to take on the oldest of the two teams who represent the state, the Melbourne Ice. Playing at O’Brien Group Arena, the home team came out strong and didn’t back off, downing the visitors, 5-2.

Melbourne Import, Kristoffer Backman (Umeå, Sweden) scored the game-winner, with fellow Swedes, Viktor Gibbs-Sjödin (Uppsala), Niklas Dahlberg (Visby) and Sebastian Ottosson (Karlskrona) scoring. Canadian-Born (Orleans) Aussie Matt Armstrong scored the other Ice goal. The Melburnians outshot the Adrenaline 42-15, and had Goodall Cup-Winning Dayne Davis in net.

Adelaide had goals from Darren Corstens, bringing his 2-game total to 3. Newly-minted Aussie (formerly of the Czech Republic) Josef Rezek added the other Adrenaline goal, as well as an assist.

Sunday saw us lacing up for a re match against the Ice, who are favourites to win the Goodall Cup this year. A much better game to start, with both teams piling in the goals. Melbourne came out on top, once again. The final score 8-5.

Backman racked up a hattrick for the Ice, including the GWG (a penalty shot), and had a total of 5 points for the game. Canadian Import Cameron Critchlow, playing for the Adrenaline, played incredibly to score a total of 4 goals. Fellow Canadian, Cole MacMillian scored the other goal for the Adelaide team. The Adrenaline scored all 5 goals on just 14 shots.

Critchlow is currently sitting second in league scoring with 7 behind Northstars’ Felix-Antoine Poulin (8). The Adrenaline are in sixth position in the standings*, going 1-2-0-0 over the first 3 games. Perth Thunder are currently on top of the ladder (2-0-0-1).

 Adelaide played without Graham Charbonneau who welcomed a son, Parker John during the week. Sean Greer also stayed behind, also on baby-watch. 

*Point System

Win (Regulation) 3 Points

Loss (Regulation 0 Points

Win (OT Shootout) 2 Points

Loss (OT Shootout) 1 Point

*I’d like to point out that it is extremely hard to stay neutral on these reports. 

[wendyimmiller]

Dismiss British Garden Writers? Absurd.

Beth Chatto’s Gravel Garden built on the remains of an old car park gives hope to gardeners everywhere that matching the plant to one’s conditions can spell success.

Guest Rant by Marianne Wilburn 

Given the choice of dinner companions at an industry event, with fourteen topics on the table and the wine flowing softly and smoothly, Scott Beuerlein would be at the top of my list. He is entertaining, clever, and charmingly self-deprecating — and an excellent conversationalist.

That’s why it pains me greatly to say that he has his head right up his smart ass.

When, in his July/August column for Horticulture[1], he advocated for the total abandonment of British garden writers by American gardeners, and went so far as to tell the late and sainted Beth Chatto to “bugger off,” he no doubt knew he’d get some pushback.

And as it happens, I’m just in the mood.

“Brit garden writers have had it so good for so long!” he wailed. “[Their] books, gloriously illustrated…filled with classic design ideas and expert care instructions – are naught but works of deception. They have brought us Yanks nothing but suffering and heartbreak.”

Beuerlein’s passionate words went on to decry the injustice of meconopsis. Christopher Lloyd’s name was taken in vain. A Big Gulp was inexplicably referenced.

“Just sell your damn books to the Australians,” he ended. Or at least he should have done.

I am not a British garden writer. But I admit to a dog in the fight in that I hold two passports.

Although one of them will no longer be looked upon with favor in European airports after Brexit (the other one never was), I have a certain fondness for the country.

I went to university there. My son was born there. I developed a deep and abiding love for gin and tonics there, and have recently begun guiding other like-minded souls around its great gardens under the auspices of CarexTours.

These admissions might crush all pretense of neutrality if it were not for the following statement: I am not and never have been an inhabitant of the Pacific Northwest — the only region in North America whose populace can guzzle from the well-spring of British garden literature and never taste bitterness.

Instead I live in Northern Virginia, bitterly cold in February, life-suckingly humid in July.  Each year we are offered the promise of an English spring and then delivered an Amazonian summer.

Oh yes, I have tasted the bitterness. Big frothy gulps of it.

And yet my shelves are overflowing with the very best of the Brits. In addition to scores of excellent books and articles penned by American garden writers, there lurk the Vereys, the Chattos, the Lloyds and the Dons. Three shelves are given over entirely to British garden essayists, and I admit to the profligacy of international subscriptions to Gardens Illustrated and Country Living UK.

And Scott, here’s why:

Prose as poetry

Musa basjoo towers over the century-old yew hedge at Great Dixter, where in 1993, Christopher Lloyd shocked the establishment by ripping out roses and planting an exotic garden.

Christopher Lloyd was as caustic & clever as Dorothy Parker, but as loveable as Ogden Nash. Chatto beguiled us with the humble words of a self-taught gardener, but won ten successive gold medals at Chelsea and created a global masterpiece in the Essex countryside. Monty Don (as author, not as television sex symbol and international man of mystery) writes with a sensuousness worthy of Coleridge:

There are peaches to be eaten warm from the brick of the wall they are grown against, peas picked off the tendrilly plant and shucked straight from pod to mouth…tomatoes waiting to release their own musty muskiness as teeth break their skin.[2]

When he starts undressing figs with his fingers I need a moment to compose myself.

Critical eyes, witty tongues

Wit is an elusive quality in gardening prose. There are millions of outrage merchants out there, but it’s quiet, clever criticism that gets my attention – and keeps it. At this the British excel.

Here’s Christopher Lloyd, calling out the snobs:

There are some gardeners in whose company I feel vulgar.  They will expect you to fall on your knees with a magnifying glass to worship before the shrine of a spikelet of tiny green flowers…yet will themselves turn away disgusted from a huge, opulent quilt of hortensia hydrangeas.[3]

Or the ideologues:

I confess to being unattracted to the concept of gardening with a moral implication. It puts a dampener on going all out to garden full-bloodedly in whatever way appeals to you most.[4]

The best British garden writers have honed the ability to inflict dagger-sized wounds with the prick of a pin. Even when it’s your own ideologies that lie bloodied and martyred, you cannot help but smile.

And read more.

An abundance of foliage and flower leading to The Hovel at Great Dixter.

Gardening as a cultural premise

The British population is presented at birth with a trowel and a bit of twine. They are also presented with a packet of Bishop’s flower and sternly told to call it Ammi majus. Thus the population is primed and ready for garden writers who won’t have to waste precious time explaining what a cold-frame is before they can explain what to do with it.

The British don’t have to vainly search an HGTV channel to find a bit of G. Gardening programs run freely through their radio and television networks, their streaming choices, and quite possibly through their dreams at night.

This premise results in a different approach toward garden writing. Authors don’t need to claim that “it’s easy.”  They assume you know it may be difficult, but it’s worth it.

In the words of St. Beth:

If Damp Gardening sounds like hard work, I can assure you that, unless Nature provides for you, initially it is…But when it is successful I think it is possibly one of the most beautiful forms of gardening.[5]

We’re frightened to do this as American garden writers. We know we’re often holding people by the fine thread that connects ‘lifestyle’ to ‘the garden.’ Saying “it’s difficult” could send them over to scrapbooking.

Garden gravitas

They’ve simply been doing it longer. Their gardens are older. Their tools are better oiled. There is nothing television-worthy about a rumpled and grubby Monty Don; except, there is.

We can chafe and grumble at such cosmic injustice and lash out with words like ‘stodgy’ and ‘predictable,’ but Lloyd was never predictable, nor is Noel Kingsbury, nor Dan Pearson, nor Keith Wiley. And they get to apply all that generational knowledge and exciting innovation to gardens that sport stone walls older than a bit of Brooklyn Brownstone.

Green, juicy envy

Scott, sometimes we need a bit of envy in our lives. We need inspiration. We need something that, by its sheer sumptuousness, primes the engines within us and gets us moving.

Something that gets us thinking. Gets us creating. Makes us fall in love again.

That’s Christopher Lloyd’s Flower Garden, Hugh Johnson’s The Principles of Gardening, Rosemary Verey’s The Making of a Garden; and, I have no doubt, Jimi Blake & Noel Kingsbury’s new book A Beautiful Obsession.

Have you ever read Hugh Johnson, Scott?  You’d think the man wouldn’t have time to pen clever words about magnolias with the amount of French wine he’s quaffing from his veranda in central France.  Johnson’s words could ignite envy in the Dalai Lama.

I want to be Hugh Johnson. Failing that, I want to read Hugh Johnson.

The long border at Waterperry Gardens in Oxfordshire on a sunny September day.

The Accent

The only thing better than reading Monty Don is listening to Monty Don read Monty Don.

That’s got to piss you off, Scott.

I understand. A Cincinnati short-a accent grappling with ‘clematis’ just doesn’t have the same…well…gravitas.

Sure, these people garden with the sweet Gulf Stream at their backs and beautiful French plonk just a day-trip away. My garden no more resembles theirs than Vita Sackville-West resembles Mama June.

But then, my garden doesn’t resemble Jenks Farmer’s gorgeous farm in South Carolina either, or Nan Sterman’s xeriscaped designs in Southern California. This is, after all a big country.

I study their words anyway, and try Farmer’s crinums when winters are kind, and Sterman’s agaves even though they never are. I appreciate Henry Mitchell’s wit and the grace of Elizabeth Lawrence, and lap up anything Andrea Wulf is serving on either side of the Atlantic.

We take what we can from each of these authors – British or American – and feel connected in our shared passion. Particularly over a very large gin and tonic.

Therefore I urge readers to reject the obviously tortured, Zone 6, possibly 5b words of Scott Beuerlein. Do not give up on the gorgeousness of great British garden porn in a burst of American Puritanism, or avoid an occasional doomed flirtation with meconopsis. Let those Brits tempt and tickle you. Love affairs should not be squelched because they are hopeless.

Sometimes those are the very best ones.

__________________________________________________________

Marianne is a garden columnist and the author of Big Dreams, Small Garden. Read more at smalltowngardener.com or follow @smalltowngardener on Facebook and Instagram.

[1] Scott Beuerlein, “Time for a Grexit,” Horticulture, July/August 2019, 64.

[2] Monty Don, Gardening Mad, London: Bloomsbury,  1997, 108.

[3] Christopher Lloyd, In My Garden, New York: Macmillian, 1984, 220-221.

[4] Christopher Lloyd & Beth Chatto, Dear Friend and Gardener, London: Frances Lincoln Ltd., 1998, 15.

[5] Beth Chatto, The Damp Garden, Second ed., Sagaponack, NY: Sagapress Inc. 1996, 13-14.

Dismiss British Garden Writers? Absurd. originally appeared on GardenRant on July 18, 2019.

from Gardening https://www.gardenrant.com/2019/07/dismiss-british-garden-writers-absurd.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

[turfandlawncare]

Dismiss British Garden Writers? Absurd.

Beth Chatto’s Gravel Garden built on the remains of an old car park gives hope to gardeners everywhere that matching the plant to one’s conditions can spell success.

Guest Rant by Marianne Wilburn 

Given the choice of dinner companions at an industry event, with fourteen topics on the table and the wine flowing softly and smoothly, Scott Beuerlein would be at the top of my list. He is entertaining, clever, and charmingly self-deprecating — and an excellent conversationalist.

That’s why it pains me greatly to say that he has his head right up his smart ass.

When, in his July/August column for Horticulture[1], he advocated for the total abandonment of British garden writers by American gardeners, and went so far as to tell the late and sainted Beth Chatto to “bugger off,” he no doubt knew he’d get some pushback.

And as it happens, I’m just in the mood.

“Brit garden writers have had it so good for so long!” he wailed. “[Their] books, gloriously illustrated…filled with classic design ideas and expert care instructions – are naught but works of deception. They have brought us Yanks nothing but suffering and heartbreak.”

Beuerlein’s passionate words went on to decry the injustice of meconopsis. Christopher Lloyd’s name was taken in vain. A Big Gulp was inexplicably referenced.

“Just sell your damn books to the Australians,” he ended. Or at least he should have done.

I am not a British garden writer. But I admit to a dog in the fight in that I hold two passports.

Although one of them will no longer be looked upon with favor in European airports after Brexit (the other one never was), I have a certain fondness for the country.

I went to university there. My son was born there. I developed a deep and abiding love for gin and tonics there, and have recently begun guiding other like-minded souls around its great gardens under the auspices of CarexTours.

These admissions might crush all pretense of neutrality if it were not for the following statement: I am not and never have been an inhabitant of the Pacific Northwest — the only region in North America whose populace can guzzle from the well-spring of British garden literature and never taste bitterness.

Instead I live in Northern Virginia, bitterly cold in February, life-suckingly humid in July.  Each year we are offered the promise of an English spring and then delivered an Amazonian summer.

Oh yes, I have tasted the bitterness. Big frothy gulps of it.

And yet my shelves are overflowing with the very best of the Brits. In addition to scores of excellent books and articles penned by American garden writers, there lurk the Vereys, the Chattos, the Lloyds and the Dons. Three shelves are given over entirely to British garden essayists, and I admit to the profligacy of international subscriptions to Gardens Illustrated and Country Living UK.

And Scott, here’s why:

Prose as poetry

Musa basjoo towers over the century-old yew hedge at Great Dixter, where in 1993, Christopher Lloyd shocked the establishment by ripping out roses and planting an exotic garden.

Christopher Lloyd was as caustic & clever as Dorothy Parker, but as loveable as Ogden Nash. Chatto beguiled us with the humble words of a self-taught gardener, but won ten successive gold medals at Chelsea and created a global masterpiece in the Essex countryside. Monty Don (as author, not as television sex symbol and international man of mystery) writes with a sensuousness worthy of Coleridge:

There are peaches to be eaten warm from the brick of the wall they are grown against, peas picked off the tendrilly plant and shucked straight from pod to mouth…tomatoes waiting to release their own musty muskiness as teeth break their skin.[2]

When he starts undressing figs with his fingers I need a moment to compose myself.

Critical eyes, witty tongues

Wit is an elusive quality in gardening prose. There are millions of outrage merchants out there, but it’s quiet, clever criticism that gets my attention – and keeps it. At this the British excel.

Here’s Christopher Lloyd, calling out the snobs:

There are some gardeners in whose company I feel vulgar.  They will expect you to fall on your knees with a magnifying glass to worship before the shrine of a spikelet of tiny green flowers…yet will themselves turn away disgusted from a huge, opulent quilt of hortensia hydrangeas.[3]

Or the ideologues:

I confess to being unattracted to the concept of gardening with a moral implication. It puts a dampener on going all out to garden full-bloodedly in whatever way appeals to you most.[4]

The best British garden writers have honed the ability to inflict dagger-sized wounds with the prick of a pin. Even when it’s your own ideologies that lie bloodied and martyred, you cannot help but smile.

And read more.

An abundance of foliage and flower leading to The Hovel at Great Dixter.

Gardening as a cultural premise

The British population is presented at birth with a trowel and a bit of twine. They are also presented with a packet of Bishop’s flower and sternly told to call it Ammi majus. Thus the population is primed and ready for garden writers who won’t have to waste precious time explaining what a cold-frame is before they can explain what to do with it.

The British don’t have to vainly search an HGTV channel to find a bit of G. Gardening programs run freely through their radio and television networks, their streaming choices, and quite possibly through their dreams at night.

This premise results in a different approach toward garden writing. Authors don’t need to claim that “it’s easy.”  They assume you know it may be difficult, but it’s worth it.

In the words of St. Beth:

If Damp Gardening sounds like hard work, I can assure you that, unless Nature provides for you, initially it is…But when it is successful I think it is possibly one of the most beautiful forms of gardening.[5]

We’re frightened to do this as American garden writers. We know we’re often holding people by the fine thread that connects ‘lifestyle’ to ‘the garden.’ Saying “it’s difficult” could send them over to scrapbooking.

Garden gravitas

They’ve simply been doing it longer. Their gardens are older. Their tools are better oiled. There is nothing television-worthy about a rumpled and grubby Monty Don; except, there is.

We can chafe and grumble at such cosmic injustice and lash out with words like ‘stodgy’ and ‘predictable,’ but Lloyd was never predictable, nor is Noel Kingsbury, nor Dan Pearson, nor Keith Wiley. And they get to apply all that generational knowledge and exciting innovation to gardens that sport stone walls older than a bit of Brooklyn Brownstone.

Green, juicy envy

Scott, sometimes we need a bit of envy in our lives. We need inspiration. We need something that, by its sheer sumptuousness, primes the engines within us and gets us moving.

Something that gets us thinking. Gets us creating. Makes us fall in love again.

That’s Christopher Lloyd’s Flower Garden, Hugh Johnson’s The Principles of Gardening, Rosemary Verey’s The Making of a Garden; and, I have no doubt, Jimi Blake & Noel Kingsbury’s new book A Beautiful Obsession.

Have you ever read Hugh Johnson, Scott?  You’d think the man wouldn’t have time to pen clever words about magnolias with the amount of French wine he’s quaffing from his veranda in central France.  Johnson’s words could ignite envy in the Dalai Lama.

I want to be Hugh Johnson. Failing that, I want to read Hugh Johnson.

The long border at Waterperry Gardens in Oxfordshire on a sunny September day.

The Accent

The only thing better than reading Monty Don is listening to Monty Don read Monty Don.

That’s got to piss you off, Scott.

I understand. A Cincinnati short-a accent grappling with ‘clematis’ just doesn’t have the same…well…gravitas.

Sure, these people garden with the sweet Gulf Stream at their backs and beautiful French plonk just a day-trip away. My garden no more resembles theirs than Vita Sackville-West resembles Mama June.

But then, my garden doesn’t resemble Jenks Farmer’s gorgeous farm in South Carolina either, or Nan Sterman’s xeriscaped designs in Southern California. This is, after all a big country.

I study their words anyway, and try Farmer’s crinums when winters are kind, and Sterman��s agaves even though they never are. I appreciate Henry Mitchell’s wit and the grace of Elizabeth Lawrence, and lap up anything Andrea Wulf is serving on either side of the Atlantic.

We take what we can from each of these authors – British or American – and feel connected in our shared passion. Particularly over a very large gin and tonic.

Therefore I urge readers to reject the obviously tortured, Zone 6, possibly 5b words of Scott Beuerlein. Do not give up on the gorgeousness of great British garden porn in a burst of American Puritanism, or avoid an occasional doomed flirtation with meconopsis. Let those Brits tempt and tickle you. Love affairs should not be squelched because they are hopeless.

Sometimes those are the very best ones.

__________________________________________________________

Marianne is a garden columnist and the author of Big Dreams, Small Garden. Read more at smalltowngardener.com or follow @smalltowngardener on Facebook and Instagram.

[1] Scott Beuerlein, “Time for a Grexit,” Horticulture, July/August 2019, 64.

[2] Monty Don, Gardening Mad, London: Bloomsbury,  1997, 108.

[3] Christopher Lloyd, In My Garden, New York: Macmillian, 1984, 220-221.

[4] Christopher Lloyd & Beth Chatto, Dear Friend and Gardener, London: Frances Lincoln Ltd., 1998, 15.

[5] Beth Chatto, The Damp Garden, Second ed., Sagaponack, NY: Sagapress Inc. 1996, 13-14.

Dismiss British Garden Writers? Absurd. originally appeared on GardenRant on July 18, 2019.

from GardenRant https://ift.tt/2JNypiC

[planet4546b]

happy birthday parker 5!!!

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[planet4546b]

erica western teleport - a parker 5 animatic

the inherent tragedy of being parker 5 and being haunted by memories that arent technically yours when you dont know who you are....ok

[planet4546b]

 woah guys look whos in smash

+bonus

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image 2: a drawing of parker macmillian 5 in the animal crossing style. end id]