#red tirana

[lord-bajromi]

[anxhelotosuni]

PoT

[freckled-lulebore]

👐🏼

[blacksheepvision]

Wine? 🍷.

[imperatrice21]

I'm probably the only person who wants to see Maven x Tirana

[alenasbdesign]

Happy Summer Day, Albania!

[mariacallous]

Faruk Fatih Özer stood in front of a passport control officer at Istanbul Airport, a line of impatient travelers queuing behind him. He pulled his face mask below his chin for the security camera. Surely he was nervous. The 27-year-old had unruly black hair, a boy-band face, and a patchy beard. Normally he overcompensated for his callow features by dressing in a pressed three-piece suit. But this spring day he wore black trainers and a navy-blue sweater hastily pulled over a white polo shirt, as if he had dressed in a dash. A small backpack was slung over his right shoulder. He looked like someone who could have been going on a last-minute day trip—or someone planning to never come back. At 5:57 pm on April 20, 2021, the guard stamped his Turkish passport and Özer shuffled through the crowd to Gate C, a flash drive containing a rumored $2 billion (£1.6 billion) in crypto stashed in his belongings.

After Özer’s plane reached Tirana, Albania, at 9:24 that night, he checked into the Mondial, a popular 4-star business hotel in the capital’s commercial district. A couple of days later, he looked at his social media accounts. A mob was very angry with him: Customers couldn’t access their money on the exchange Thodex, where he was founder and CEO, and people were accusing him of absconding with their funds.

Özer posted a public letter to his company’s website and his social accounts. “I feel compelled to make this statement in order to respond urgently to these allegations,” he wrote. The accusations weren’t true, he said. Thodex—which had nearly half a million investors and $500 million (£400 million) in daily trade volume—was investigating what Özer claimed was a suspected cyberattack that caused “an abnormal fluctuation in the company account.” Assets would be frozen for five days while Thodex resolved the issue. This was terribly bad timing for the big business deal he said he was en route to make: selling the company, or so he had told some employees and his brother and sister before he left. All would be made right. “There will be no victims,” he promised. “I personally declare that I will return to Turkey within a few days and ensure that the facts are revealed in cooperation with judicial authorities and that I will do my best to prevent users from suffering.” Of course, there was this possibility too: He was in the midst of pulling off the biggest heist in Turkey’s history.

Before dawn the day after Özer posted the letter, police squads fanned out across Istanbul and public prosecutors opened an investigation. Law enforcement arrested 62 people, including Thodex employees at all levels of the company—and Özer’s older brother and sister, Güven and Serap. Interpol issued a red notice, a request for law enforcement worldwide to find and “provisionally arrest” Özer pending his extradition to Turkey. Search teams deployed across Albania, Montenegro, Kosovo, and North Macedonia. There were reported sightings of the dark-haired young man across Tirana, rumors that he had gone to a poultry farm, that an executive from the Albanian football league was sheltering him. Soon, the Albanian police arrested people accused of aiding and abetting him. But no one seemed to know exactly where Özer was.

Özer had vanished at a particularly precarious time in crypto’s annals: In the weeks leading up to his disappearance, so-called rug pulls—when a cryptocurrency exchange or altcoin developer absconds with investors’ funds—had crypto investors around the globe flabbergasted. The CEO of Mirror Trading International, a crypto trading company based in South Africa, defrauded users of more than $1 billion, then skipped town; TurtleDex, an anonymous decentralized finance storage project on Binance, reportedly vanished with $2.4 million; another decentralized finance project, Meerkat, reportedly fleeced investors out of $31 million (of which they paid back 95 percent). Blockchain analysis firm Chainalysis ranked rug pulls as the primary scam of 2021, accounting for 37 percent of all cryptocurrency scam revenue that year, up from 1 percent the year before.

Thodex was at the top of that roster, and nearly every major outlet from Bloomberg to Newsweek published headlines like “Turkish Crypto Exchange Goes Bust as Founder Flees Country” and “Turkish Cryptocurrency Founder Faruk Fatih Özer Seen Fleeing Country With Suspected $2 Billion From Investors.” CoinGeek called it “the biggest scam in the digital asset industry in 2021.” The New York Times’ headline read, “Possible Cryptocurrency Fraud Is Another Blow to Turkey’s Financial Stability.” In Turkey, the country I now call home, people were reeling: For years, crypto had been built up—largely by Özer but by others too—as a way out of economic volatility. Now it seemed like just another way to lose your life savings. But something felt off to me, like the whole story wasn’t being told.

[paisholotus]

Now playing: Little Bit~ Lykke Li

Ashia's Pov

Miami, Florida

I came speeding off the highway, pushing the gas pedal at 100 mph in the matter of 10 seconds, swerving past the red lights.

I looked over, seeing Brian's right next to me, both of us neck and neck. I smirked to myself and looked beside me, cranking up both of my Nos.

"Sorry, blondie, yuh gonna have to lose taday." I laughed to myself, I switched gears going past him in a sharp turn, holding my breath as my car jumped into the air.

"RUN DAT SHIT BITCH!!!!"

I yelled, landing on the ground swiftly. I crossed the finished line with Brian coming in right behind me.

I swerved to the right towards Tej's garage and stopped the car, my heart feeling like it was beating out my chest. I smiled and got out of the car as everyone cheered for me.

I looked at Brian and tried to stop myself from biting my lip. He looked so damn good, like seriously the finest white boy I've ever seen. He walked over to me, smiling sadly.

"Well, I guess this will be the last time I'll see you, huh?" He asked, lowly looking down at me.

I smiled, looking into his deep blue eyes, chewing on my bottom lip nervously. "I'll still take you up on that date." I said, as he gave me the biggest smile. Showing off his perfect white teeth.

I felt butterflies in my stomach as he told me he'll pick me up tomorrow at 8.

I looked at sisters and told them to come on. Tej and Suki waved bye to me as I looked back at Brian and blew him a kiss getting into the car. My sister's got into the car as I drove off going back home.

"You sure about him, Shia? Suki told me he was a fuck boy. And I don't want you going out with mfs like that." Rana said, looking at me seriously. I came to a red light and looked back at her.

"I know Tej warned me beforehand. But I don't know. I want to give him a chance, because yuh know mi nuh give men the time of day. I feel good about the date, at least." I said, trying to sound confident.

"Give him a chance, Rana. Mi tink him might actually like her. Yuh, see the way him look at her? It did more dan a "fuck you" look. Him might actually be good fa her." Sasha said, leaning up from the back seat, smiling at me.

Tirana pushed Sasha back in the seat and told her to put her seat belt on, making Sasha slap her shoulder. They argued back and forth as I laughed, pulling in the driveway, and we got out of the car. I walked into the house with a little bit of excitement about my date tomorrow.

[megabif]

Piero Golia

Manifest Destiny, 2008

16 foot jump off the Tsien and Williams ramp onto a 3 x 12 x12 foot red foam mattress

On January 8, 2008 during my visit to Santa Fe, I was informed that the exhibition design for the Biennial would contain a large elevated ramp circulating throughout the show, creating a directed path for the visitors. When invited to create a site-specific work, I chose to intervene by proposing to cut the ramp at the point it reached the height of sixteen feet and set at the bottom a 3’12’12′ red foam mattress. This will generate a situation where, if the Biennial visitors desire, midway through the exhibition they can jump from the platform onto the red foam mattress or just go back.*This gesture arose from pure instinct upon first encountering the ramp. The response will be equally instinctive on the part of the visitors  they can jump or they cannot jump. The ramp forces an experience and logic onto the space by interrupting its circularity. I replace this imposition with a physical experience, different from that which was intended.I remember hearing the Beastie Boys singing, “Ride with me, I’ll take you to the border.” Well, here I take you to the border and I want you to jump. Part shaman and part showman, and, in a way, completely both. The regularly scheduled experience is replaced with a concrete, emotional experience. There is an issue of trust on all sides, and the work is shaped by trust from all involved.*This text was dictated by artist Piero Golia to art critic Andrew Berardini on April 25, 2008 at 11.37 p.m. GMT.After having signed waivers, museum patrons will be permitted to jump from Golia’s work. The crash pad is located in the northwest corner of Gallery 4. The actual jump will be approximately five, not sixteen, feet.Piero Golia’s work addresses issues of identity and the role of the artist through the powerful tools of humor and irony. Although Golia calls himself a ‘small artist’ – referring to his physical sizehis self-deprecation stands in stark contrast to the sometimes Herculean endeavors the artist pursues in order to make something of a legend of himself.For one of his first works, he successfully spent six months convincing a woman he had met to have his portrait and the words “Piero My Idol” tattooed on her back. In 2005, he vanished in New York and reappeared three weeks later at the Royal Academy of Arts in Copenhagen. Within that period of time, he left no trace of himself at all, crossing borders illegally, leaving no proof of payment and pretty much living the life of a fugitive. Typical of Golia’s taste for creating works that are as much talked about as they are looked at, his adventurous journey was reconstructed by a filmmaker with the help of the head of the Italian Police cyber-investigation unit and a criminal psychologist.Golia’s gestures are often as grand as they are futile, as illustrated in the work It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back (2003), where he had the entire facade of a building removed from its original position in Amsterdam and installed in a gallery space in Paris. The humor in his work is catalyzed by paradoxical situations  the imbalance between means and aims, and the way things sometimes never turn out the way we expect them to.In 2001, following an invitation to the Tirana Biennale, he rowed across the Adriatic Sea in the opposite direction to migratory movement, thus becoming the first illegal Italian immigrant in Albania, but also playing with the cliches of the emerging artist striving for notoriety on the platform for large-scale exhibitions. Golia turns himself into his biblical counterpart, David, when he fights against the art system and its rules in On the edge (on the crest of the wave) (2000) – a performance he did for the Artissima art fair in Turin – by climbing a 7 meter high palm tree and threatening to come down only if a collector would buy the photo of the work.He now lives in Los Angeles, a place that blurs the boundaries between reality and fiction, making it the perfect setting for his exploration into the process of myth-making and his ironic outlook on contemporary society. In 2005, Piero Golia and Eric Wesley founded The Mountain School of Arts, an educational institution that aims to become a new spot on the cultural map of the city of L.A.

(via Piero Golia - Artist - PLAY Kortrijk - City circuit for contemporary art) 

Via + Via

[riot-writing]

Title: Mimicry, Imperfectly Understood - Pt 1

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" McTavish, Simon "Ghost Riley/OFC, John "Soap McTavish/OFC, Simon "Ghost Riley/OFC/John "Soap McTavish

Rating: M

Warnings: cursing, discussions of being stabbed, threats of bodily harm

This is going to be part of a series, so let me know what you think!

***

“You fucking touch me again and you’ll wake up without hands.”

The voice isn’t loud, but it’s enough to travel across the briefing room as Ghost follows Price in. 

“Aw, fuck,” Price mumbles, but he doesn’t venture much further into the room. 

Ghost follows his lead and pauses, but there isn’t anything in the room to obscure what’s going on. There’s a woman he doesn’t recognize standing between the table and a whiteboard that’s been tacked with pictures, information scribbled underneath; a yard and a half away from her is a man in near-full tac gear, half a head taller than she is with a British flag patch on his chest. 

“C’mon, love, can’t say you aren’t tempted, can you?”

“I will scoop the eyes out of your head with a cold spoon from the commissary,” she hisses, “and if you don’t consider that a threat, George Taylor, then I would put a little more thought into who you’re harassing on this base.”

The man, supposedly George Taylor, takes a half step back.

“How did you - ”

“Warrant Officer Taylor,” Price interrupts. The woman’s eyes don’t cut over to the captain, but Taylor jumps and seems surprised by their entrance, “is there a reason you’re being threatened?”

“Captain Price, sir,” Taylor swallows. “Um - ”

“Lying’s a bad idea,” Ghost grumbles. 

Taylor looks at him like he hadn’t realized Ghost was there, white around the eyes and panicked. 

“Sir,” he stumbles. “I was just - ”

“Leaving,” the woman barks. “Now.”

Taylor takes another two steps back then turns and flees through the door opposite Price and Ghost. He briefly considers giving chase, but Price ambles farther into the room like the other man doesn’t matter. 

“When he faces his consequences,” he says to the woman, “make sure his body isn’t found within thirty miles of base.”

She scoffs. “As if they’d find his fucking body.”

Price lets out a little laugh and then says, “Ghost, this is Mimic. Mimic, this is Lt Simon “Ghost” Riley. Mimic is going to be leading debrief.”

Mimic is exactly as tall as Ghost imagines average is for a woman. Her hair is cropped short around her ears, and is shaded like it can’t decide if it wants to be brown or red. Her eyes are set deep, light green-grey against the sunburn across her cheeks; her mouth is bitten and dry, cracked to bleeding in one corner. She isn’t wearing anything resembling military gear, instead in light pants and a tunic, a thick scarf wrapped around her shoulders and neck. She looks fit for the desert, not the middle of Hungary. 

“Lieutenant Riley,” Mimic says. “I’ve heard good things.”

“No, you haven’t,” he says.

“No,” she admits, crossing her arms, “I haven't. But Price’ll vouch for you and that’s what matters.”

“My word’s good enough for you now?” Price asks, definitely amused by the situation. “You threatened to cut my tongue out in Minsk, what, four, five years ago?”

“Laswell says your word is good, and I trust her enough to trust you until you prove her wrong. Cutting your tongue out isn’t off the table.”

“You start all your briefings off by threatening people?” Ghost asks. 

“Usually. You get to be threatening by being a big man with a gun. I get to be threatening by following through on what I say. John Price ever turncoats,” she says, looking the captain in the eye, “then I get to cut his tongue out of his mouth.”

“She’ll do it, too,” Price says almost cheerfully. “Who was the bloke in Tirana? I think you took some teeth.”

“Caspian Taggart,” Mimic says. “Fell asleep on watch and nearly got us all killed for it. I took his eye teeth for that.”

“Both of them?” Ghost asks.

“All four,” she says. 

Ghost doesn’t know many women in their line of work, but he can appreciate thoroughness. Mimic seems vicious right out of the gate, and he wonders for a moment if she’s always been like that or if it’s a learned habit created from being dismissed as a woman who is very unthreatening in stature and build. He quickly decides it doesn’t matter and he doesn’t care. So long as her intel is good and she can get them to the mission objective without any casualties, it doesn’t matter why she is the way she is.

Before Price can say anything else, the door behind them opens, admitting Soap and Gaz. Both are kitted out, but Soap is still damp around the ears from a shower. 

“Sorry we’re late,” he says, but doesn’t offer an explanation.

“No, you’re not,” Mimic says dryly. 

Soap looks past the captain and lieutenant and lights up like a kid on Christmas.

“Tima fucking Mosney, you absolute cunt!”

He takes a couple of happy steps forward, but Mimic - real name Tima Mosney, apparently - crosses her arms.

“McTavish, I swear to God, if you touch me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he laughs, waving her off. “You’ll gut me where I stand. I’ve heard it all before, and here I still am. Where the fuck have you been the last few years?”

“Working,” she says shortly. “Now are you gonna stand there and bother me with questions you know I’m not going to answer, or can I get on with my fucking day?”

“Good to see you, too, Mim,” he says, smiling like an idiot.

“Mimic,” Price says, interrupting anything else she’s preparing to say, “You know Sergeant McTavish, and this is Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick. Gaz this is Mimic. She doesn't use her real name often.”

“Why do they call you Mimic?” Gaz asks. 

Ghost can’t say he isn’t curious himself. Soap opens his mouth like he’s going to answer for her, but Mimic shoots him a look so scathing it’s almost comical. 

Turning her attention back to Gaz, she says, “Ask me three questions.”

“Uh, any questions?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. What’s your favorite color?”

She doesn’t answer, but she does wave him onto his next question.

“Where are you from?”

Still no answer, but another insistent gesture.

“How’ve you been lately?”

Mimic stands there for a moment, mouthing words, but as far as Ghost knows, none of them are particularly skilled at lip reading. She tilts her head back and forth like she’s making some kind of decision.

“My favorite color’s blue,” she says, but it isn’t her voice anymore. She’s talking back at them in Gaz’s voice, the same tone, same inflection, same accent that they’re used to over the comms. “Where I’m from’s none of your fucking business, and I’ve been shit.”

Price and Soap don’t seem surprised by the mimicry, but Gaz seems floored, and Ghost is willing to admit he’s a little impressed. 

“Do Ghost next,” Soap says.

“Can’t,” Mimic says shortly, her voice her own again. “Too low. Might be able to with some practice, but I don’t see a need. Now, can we please get on with this briefing? This has taken up too much of my time already.”

“Yeah?” Soap scoffs. “You got somewhere else to be? Fashion show maybe?”

“I’ve got,” she pushes back the sleeve of her tunic to show off a simple leather-banded watch, “seventy-seven minutes to brief you assholes and make it back to my room for Shabbat. This is the first Friday in two months I haven’t been in the fucking field and I’ll be goddamned if I let you cunts keep me from it.”

“Alright, fair enough,” Soap concedes. 

What follows is probably the shortest, most intensive briefing Ghost has ever sat through. Mimic lays out their transport, destination, and target succinctly, leaving no room for any kind of misinterpretation in their objective. They’ll mostly be acting as her escorts into and out of Ezuz, a small town on the Israeli border. One of her contacts has gone dark, and it’s her job to find out what’s happened to him and if they need to count anyone or anything as compromised. 

“We leave at oh-six-hundred Sunday morning. Any questions?”

Soap raises one of his hands. 

“What, McTavish?”

“Why the fuck are you taking us with you? I’ve seen you do these runs on your own before with no trouble. This seems simple enough, so why bring us into it?”

Mimic looks unhappy that he’s asked this specific question, but that just makes Ghost more curious about the answer. It’s a good point. This is essentially a milk run, something that wouldn’t normally be assigned to their team.

“I’m…” she hesitates. “physically compromised. It’s not enough to keep me out of the green and yellow zones, but Laswell has dictated that anytime I’m needed somewhere too hot, I have to have an escort. The one-four-one was the closest team available with members I trust enough not to shoot me in the back.”

“The fuck do you mean by ‘physically compromised’?” Ghost demands. 

Price seems to be having the same thought, but he’s decided to let Ghost be the one to voice it. 

Mimic checks her watch. “Three years ago, I got stabbed. The wound went septic, and they had to remove a rib and part of my lung. I’m fully recovered, but I only have 80% of my natural lung capacity left. It was enough that Laswell thought there should be some stipulations on how I get to operate.”

“Three years ago?” Soap asks. “In Poltava? With the Russian missiles?”

“Yes, in Poltava.”

Soap doesn’t ask any more questions, but he does scowl like he’s got more to say.

“Any questions pertaining to the mission?”

“What’s physically compromised look like for you?” Price asks.

“I can’t run long distances as well as before. High altitudes are off limits except for flight travel. I have to adjust to protect my left side where the rib is missing in the event of a close quarters fight. Other than that, it mostly just feels funny when I stretch.”

“Laswell and I will be having a word about this,” Price tells her.

“Do what you need to,” she says. “If there isn’t anything else, I’m going to clean up and bunk down.”

Ghost turns to follow Price and Gaz out of the briefing room, but slows his steps when he notices Soap hanging back. The other two continue on down the hall, but he hangs back near the door to listen to whatever kind of confrontation this is going to be. It’s obvious Mimic and Soap have worked together before, even well, going by the way Soap was happy to see her. He’d even been able to pinpoint the mission Mimic had gotten stabbed on.

“Tima,” Soap says, and it half sounds like he’s begging for the answer to a question he hasn’t asked. 

“What?”

“Poltava…”

Mimic heaves a sigh.

“It wasn't anything you did, John,” she says. “You did what you could, and we’re still alive because of it. This is just how things go sometimes.”

“I could’ve - ”

“Could have what?” she interrupts, though she’s being much softer with him now that they’re alone. 

It makes Ghost wonder what exactly the nature of their relationship was.

“I dunno,” Soap sighs. “Gotten you back to base sooner? Done a better job disinfecting the wound?”

“It wasn't the skin that went sour. Whatever that fucker had been doing, it hadn’t been keeping his knife clean. Doctors said there’s literally nothing that could have been done to prevent it. It was too late by the time the knife went in.”

Soap doesn’t say anything.

“Go away, John. Shabbat’s in twenty minutes and I still have to go to the commissary.”

“I’ll walk you.”

“Fucking mother hen,” Mimic complains, but doesn’t actually protest his company. 

Ghost takes his leave.

[vizu-al]

Quilted Flowers: 1940s Albanian & Epirot Recordings from the Balkan Label LP Limited Edition

Ajdin Asllan was born in Leskovik near the present-day southern border of Albania on March 12, 1895. At the age of 30, on July 12, 1925, he married a girl named Emverije, who was one month shy of her 16th birthday, in her native town Korçë, about 80 miles north. He arrived in New York by himself less than a year later on September 20, 1926, and when he filed his Declaration of Intent to become an American citizen in 1928 as a resident of Detroit, he gave his occupation as "musician." Emverije joined him in New York City on July 27, 1931. Asllan appears to have made his first recordings in November 1931 as a clarinetist on four songs issued as 12” discs by Columbia sung in Albanian by K. Duro N. Gerati. In January 1932 he recorded again, this time singing and playing oud on three Columbia 12”s along with several Albanian singers and the violinist Nicola Doneff (born March 21, 1891 Dichin, Bulgaria; died July 19, 1961 New York). In 30s Asllan launched an independent label called Mi-Re (roughly “With New” in Albanian) Rekord primarily to release his own recordings, but it stalled out after about 6 releases. In October 1941 he accompanied a Greek singer and songwriter named G.K. Xenopoulos as an oudist along with the beloved Greek clarinetist Kostas Gadinis and accordionist John Gianaros for the Orthophonic subsidiary of Victor Records run by Tetos Demetriades. The trio of Gadinis, Asllan, and Gianaros cut another four sides for Orthophonic May 1, 1942. Shortly thereafter, Asllan relaunched his label as Me Re with the help of Doneff and then quickly renamed it, more generically, Balkan. Gianaros came in as a business partner, and Balkan released scores of records, some of them seemingly selling thousands of copies in the mid-40s, but Gianaros split angrily with Asllan after just a few years over money problems. By 1947, Doneff had trademarked the Kaliphon label, which drew from much of the same roster of New York musicians of the Greek- and Turkish-speaking performers as Balkan and apparently collaborated in distribution, marketing, and manufacturing into the 1950s, but some business distinction had been drawn. A third label, Metropolitan, was launched and became at catchall for further Greek, Turkish, Armenian, and Ladino material by New York players, but it's not clear who was in charge or how things were divided up. Maybe Metropolitan was started by Asllan as a separate business to dodge the taxman or old creditors? We don’t know. All three labels shared a standard black-on-red color scheme that, it would seem reasonable to guess, was based on the Albanian flag and Asslan’s original, core purpose as an artist and impresario. Adjin and Emverije lived during the 1930s into the 50s first at 143 Norfolk St. and then at 42 Rivington St. (where Asllan opened a record shop), in Manhattan's Lower East Side, where Eastern European Jewish immigrants surrounded the small Albanian community and Turkish-speaking Sephardic Jews, and abutting Little Italy and a strip of Greek coffee houses on Mulberry Street. He worked within a network of primarily Turkish- and Greek-speaking performers in New York and released recordings prolifically made both locally and overseas through the 40s and 50s. He corresponded with his brother Selim (who sings on track 1, side A, later worked on the radio in Tirana and co-founded the National Ensemble of Folk Songs and Dances) back home, who was able to secure masters of Albanian performers recorded in Istanbul and Athens along with performances by Turkish- and Greek-speaking stars including Rosa Eskenazi and Udi Hrant (both of whom subsequently made extended visits to the U.S.) Greeks and Armenians had, even at the low ebb of immigration during the 1940s-50s, substantial immigrant populations in New York and around the country - Boston, Chicago, Cleveland, and many other cities. Those markets kept the Balkan label afloat for nearly 20 years. But Asllan also issued about 40 discs for the Albanian-language market ca. 1945-50 (at which point he retained a 500-series numbering scheme for them, picking up where he’d left off with his Me Ri label a decade earlier), including both folk music of southern Albania and choral music, much of the latter anti-Fascist Communist songs. In addition, three discs were issued as part of Balkan’s Greek series of uncredited musicians from Pogoni and Konitsa, towns about 30 miles south as the crow flies from where Asllan was born. The total Albanian-speaking population in the U.S. at the time was less than 10,000, and many couldn’t afford record players. But despite the small market for Albanian-language songs, he made sure to release discs for his countrymen. It was a time of immense political and social turbulence in both Albania and Greece, and the sense of duty to music is palpable in his work. Balkan’s business model was haphazard. Its numbering system, if one can call it that, indicates a tendency to start a series, then add to it - or not - sporadically, driven largely the question, “can we sell 500 of these? (And if so, can we sell 1000?)” The last Balkan 78s were issued around 1959; a few LP releases appeared around 1960, more than 20 years after Asllan released his first discs. We know he visited his native home and family in 1951, 25 years after having become American. He died in New York in October 1976. He had no children, save the records. ========= We have so far been able to trace a biographical narrative of only one of the other immigrant performer among those who play on this collection, Chaban Arif, who apparently sings on track 9. He was born May 22, 1899 in Berat, Albania, attended school through the second grade, and arrived alone at Ellis Island on November 2, 1920 at the age of 19 under the name Aril Shaban. His intention upon arrival was to meet up with a cousin, Mahomet Hajrules (who, in turn, had arrived only six months earlier under the name Mehemet Airula) in Southbridge, Massachusetts. However, there was a family of four from Shaban’s hometown on the same steamship who were headed to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania (via a stop first at the south Philadelphia home of a relative), so Shaban wound up in Pittsburgh. He filed his first papers to become a U.S. citizen in Canton, Ohio in 1925, but he had returned to Albania in June of 1928, where he married an 18 year old woman named Nadire, and by 1931 had returned to Allegheny County, Pennsylvania, where he was working at the Duquesne, Pennsylvania Carnegie steel mill. (When his cousin Mehmet Hajrulla filed his Declaration of Intent to naturalize as a U.S. citizen in 1937, he was a widower living on Braddock Ave. in Pittsburgh and working as a painter.) The 1940 census found Shaban Arif relocated to 55 Clinton St. on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, about seven blocks from Adjin Asllan’s place on Rivington. Arif told the census enumerator that he worked 60 hours a week, 52 weeks a year for $916 a year (about $17,000 a year in today’s money) at the counter of of a restaurant. The man he listed on his WWII draft registration card as his closest contact was named Kardi Braim, who gave his country of origin either as Albania and Macedonia on different documents, had himself worked for a brick manufacturer in Erie County, Pennsylvania in addition to a string of other laboring jobs and worked at the time at Stewart’s Restaurant. It would seem reasonable to guess that both Shaban Arif and Kardi Braim were in Adjin Asllan’s limited social circle of Albanians in the neighborhood in the early 1940s when he recorded on this song. The $1 that the disc cost could have represented three and a half hours of labor at the restaurant. We know nothing else of Shaban Arif’s life except that he died in New York City in September, 1971. (Kardi Braim died in 1978.)

[lord-bajromi]

[sleepysheepytea]

I saw your day 19 and day 31 posts for tktober, you said that day 19 was a part of Zetsubo’s lore, do you mind telling me more about them (they’re so cute I wanna hug them)

OO YAY AN EXCUSE TO YELL ABOUT OCS OKIE

gonna put a warning for potentially disturbing topics? things like captivity/physical torment/and manipulation ig (also some talks of the afterlife idk if some are weirded out by that)

OKIE so to properly describe his story i'd have to bring up two other characters: those being the two other demons in both of those drawings. (also i showed them in day 4's drawing)

soo Tirana and Akuma were inseparable friends when they were alive. Akuma didn't have any other friends so she wasn't sure what normal friendships were like so she didn't catch any red flags

over time, Tirana grew very attracted to Akuma, and not in a good way. she discovered herself to be a raging sadist and she really wanted to hurt Akuma and keep her to herself - obv she didn't want to hurt her too bad cuz she still loved her but she rly couldn't hold off her desires for too long

once they both died and unfortunately ended up in hell, Tirana figured she might as well unleash all of her desires and chased Akuma down for quite a while. eventually, Akuma ran right into Zetsubo, who was pretty much just minding his business. She ran right past him and managed to escape Tirana's sight. Tirana then caught sight of Zetsubo, who was about the same size and overall look of Akuma. because he's not very strong, he couldn't really fight Tirana off, who's immensely strong. Tirana took him instead as a sort of placeholder for the time being until she could find Akuma

sooo to put things mildy, Tirana pretty much kept Zetsubo in a cave chained up for years on end. every day, Tirana would leave in search of Akuma (sometimes she'd leave for longer or shorter, it was pretty sporadic), then she would return and expel her frustration onto Zetsubo, pretty much doing everything she wanted to do to Akuma to him (this included a bunch of stuff tho she does desperately want to wreck Akuma with tickles so she does that to Zetsubo a ton) (its also one of the tamer things she does fhhf) ANYWAY

later on, once the main story like actually begins, Tirana does eventually find Akuma and takes her back to the cave thing. This is how Akuma and Zetsubo become friends and they try to make plans to escape

believe it or not, they're in the same universe that my ice cream bois are in, i just mainly draw those guys when Tenshi’s alive cuz it's less confusing

this isn't even the main storyline of this universe but like oofers

ok this is so honking long i gotta shut up i could talk about them forever, sorry if i overshared fhhfhg

[p21-adrift]

red pants white tank is mini lucas tirana wow

[boomgers]

Ahora todos los reinos son bienvenidos… “Descendientes: El Ascenso De Red”

Ahora que es Directora de la Preparatoria de Auradon, la exvillana Uma invita a Red, la revoltosa hija de la Reina de Corazones que gobierna el País de las Maravillas, para que asista a la escuela.

Hace mucho tiempo que esta reina tirana siente rencor hacia Auradon, y en especial contra Cenicienta, así que cuando lleva a su hija a la escuela, aprovecha la oportunidad para vengarse.

La Reina de Corazones lidera un golpe de Estado contra Auradon, por lo que Red tendrá que viajar al pasado con Chloe, la hija perfeccionista de Cenicienta, para tratar de evitar que ocurra el evento traumático que impulsó a la joven Reina de Corazones a transitar el camino de la maldad.

Estreno: 12 de julio de 2024 en Disney+.

Dirigida por Jennifer Phang, la película cuenta con las actuaciones de Kylie Cantrall, Malia Baker, Dara Reneé, Ruby Rose Turner, Morgan Dudley, Anthony Pyatt, Mars, Peder Lindell, Joshua Colley, Melanie Paxson, China Anne McClain, Brandy Norwood, Rita Ora, entre otros.

Pósteres Individuales

Video Musical: What's My Name (Red Version)

Video Musical: Red

[ghanashowbizonline]

Sports Online - Ghana forward Raphael Dwamena scores brace but sees red in Egnatia’s win over KF Tirana in Albania

Raphael Dwamena, the Ghanaian international, showcased his goalscoring ability by scoring twice for Egnatia in their 3-2 away victory against KF Tirana in the Albanian top-flight. Dwamena’s goals helped Egnatia secure the win after initially falling behind. The striker has been in impressive form this season, scoring nine goals in eight games. Key Takeaways from Meeting Notes: – Raphael Dwamena,…