#that wouldn’t be for much beyond entertainment? enrichment?

[paunchsalazar]

I think I like reading because all it demands of me is time and attention… which isn’t such a small thing but it doesn’t take much effort or skill and all the other things I consider require that first phase of floundering or researching

[pukefactory]

° ° ° SACCHARINE HONEYBEE ° ° °

» Summary: A compilation of headcannons featuring V as your caregiver

» Character(s): Serial Designation V (Murder Drones)

» Genre: Headcanons, Fluff, SFW

» Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

╰┈➤ It took her awhile to become accustomed to your preferences, but once she learnt that you personally gravitated towards her for protection it was much easier for her to get into the swing of things. I mean, how could she not when she knows you trust her so much? She didn’t protest beyond this point.

╰┈➤ V doesn’t necessarily like to carry you around everywhere unless you’re tired, but when she’s feeling up for it she’ll carry you piggyback style. She won’t be your chauffeur for insanely long distances, much preferring it if you’d just walk beside her to get all your zoomies out. Although should you happen to fall asleep mid carry, V will continue to hold on to you until she finds a safe place to put you down.

╰┈➤ Her pet name for you is strictly just ‘baby’ because that’s what you are - a little baby. V uses this in both a teasing and endearing manner depending on her mood. There are slight variations such as: ‘little baby’ and ‘my baby’. If you’re misbehaving though, she’ll refer to you as ‘little twerp’. As for herself, she’ll let you get away with calling her ‘VeVe’ but she absolutely hates anything else; she’s picky.

╰┈➤ She’s not really physically affectionate yet head pets come in the dozens. However, if you do exactly what she says, she’ll lovingly run her fingers through your hair before gently kissing your little nose (as long as no one else is around, of course). You may even get a peck on the cheek if she’s feeling more warmhearted although I wouldn’t expect it.

╰┈➤ Surprisingly (or maybe unsurprisingly) V is an exceptionally protective caregiver. Once she adapts to your specific needs, she’s always close behind you to guarantee your safety. You never really notice that she’s there but she certainly is there, watching, observing, listening. You don’t really suspect anything until she starts to conveniently appear out of thin air whenever you have a minor inconvenience. She wants her little to be protected and she’ll be damned if she wasn’t going to be your guardian.

╰┈➤ V gets on her knees to talk to you at eye level. It’s generally just a preference of hers so she can make sure that you’re focusing on what she’s telling you. This is also her default position for when she’s scolding you, attempting to comfort you, listening to what you have to say…maybe it’s just her default position with you full stop. At least she knows if you’re paying attention or not.

╰┈➤ V finds it hilarious if you copy her sassy attitude, especially if you repeat her exact words right back at another drone whose aggravating either of you. Not only does she think it’s amusing but adorable also. If she catches you copying her mannerisms (hands on hips, rolling your eyes, ect) she’ll give you a tiny smile of approval and then use you as leverage to prove her point.

╰┈➤ If you ask her real nicely she may bring out her bubble blower for you. V doesn’t know why you find it so entertaining considering it’s just a stress reliever to her, but it's better than you being bored and getting grouchy. It never seems to run out of juice somehow; you get to pop as many bubbles as you want for as long as you want! V might possibly get a little playful and give you a challenge to see how many bubbles you can pop within a certain amount of time. Enrichment for her baby.

╰┈➤ V is a very no nonsense caregiver and won’t tolerate any disrespect from you. Talking back is the ultimate big no-no. She’ll lecture you and put you in time out until you’ve learnt your lesson. When you apologise it has to be with genuine sincerity (V will know if you’re lying just to get out of your punishment).

╰┈➤ That being said, she’ll definitely let you get away with disrespecting others. She enjoys watching you stand your ground, stomping your feet in anger as you fiercely babble at whoever is in front of you. V will even encourage you to be meaner if she feels like you’re being too soft. The drones always run away after a couple of minutes; you’re completely obvious to the fact that V is standing right behind you, claws and teeth on full display, ready to escalate things should they not listen to you.

[anemone-minus]

Why do people ship Zhongchi? 1. FUN. PRETTY. Need I say more? XD

This is going to get rambly, so my actual serious answer will be put under the cut. (Also, re-reading this after recovering from the sudden violent urge to write a 10-page of infodumping on one of my favorite ship, I see that might have gotten carried away and realized that the question was maybe "why people weren’t more put off by the power dynamic" rather than "why do people even like this ship", I’ll still leave it as it is since I think the ship analysis is interesting; and that the power dynamic and how people try to resolve/address it is on the reason why it’s so popular).

2. In all seriousness, I personally really like this ship (might be biased since a really well written Zhongchi ship was one of my first real exposure to the fandom) because I find the dynamic really interesting, there’s a lot of room for drama (fun factor) but also character introspection (differences highlight similarities) and progression. There’s a reason why mortal-immortal pairings are very popular in general, being worlds apart and yet managing to find common ground is a very compelling trope. Like yes, There are many ways that this kind relationship can go horribly wrong (which can be attractive in itself), but I believe that there are also many ways in which this can go right and both parties end up enriched by the experience

3. Zhongli and Childe are my favorite kind narrative foils, in which they are in some many ways very different but also share some key similarities, which means that putting them together makes both of them shine brighter. Ex: Childe is young, loud, lives to be in the now, attention seeking and pretty much destined for a very short life. While Zhongli is beyond ancient, calm and poised, works behind the scenes and spends most of his existence reflecting on the past. BUT Zhongli knows of the brutality of war, Celestia’s ruthelessness and the pandora’s box that is human ambition. He is steadfast and honors his word ; and wouldn’t you say that Childe’s unwavering sense of loyalty and duty is very reminiscent of Contracts? I think both of them wish to make the world a better place (Childe does it in a very fucked up way and is selfish about it but I don’t think he has completely giving up on this world nor does he wish to see it go up in flammes). Both of them like to weave together truth and lies: Childe present himself as someone who prefers the path straightforwardness and honesty, while being  surprisingly good at analyzing situations and quite apt at delivering lies and manipulations if he feels he must do so /Zhongli, once the brawn to Guizhong brains and now the "humble funeral consultant", dabbles in cunning plans and hides secrets behind silence and contracts. Know for their martial prowess but still value both strength of the mind and body. They both experience a disconnect with the mortal world, they are lonely people with few personal connections. They both used each other during the Liyue AQ, Zhongli for money and pulling strings (wouldn’t be surprised if he nudged Childe toward Osial and the sigils of permission) and Childe using Zhongli for intel. Both did morally questionable deeds during the AQ to achieve their goal. Zhongli collaborating with the Fatui and traumatising Liyue and his adpeti as a test of strenght (smart but callous) and Childe’s infamous backup plan (yes he thought Morax would have stop it but he still took the risk). Ect. The way they mirror each other over history and core values makes them bounce of each other in a way that’s quite entertaining.

4. Contrasting and complementing motifs: Earth and Sea. A dragon and a thief. A retired old god and a mortal from a small village reaching for ascension. King and Knight. Prestance and elegance blended with a past filled with bloodshed and grief vs Relentless violence coupled with an idealist and naïve heart. Summer harbor and harsh winter. The pupetteer and the puppet.  A god who transfers power to humanity, a human reaching for god-like power. An adeptus isolated by the reverence his kindred and a family-man far from home. A king stuck on pedestal, an upstart who lacks the respect of his seniors. A lying good guy and an honest bad guy. A god being very bad at being undercover and a clueless human who’s not quite so human anymore. Really, I could go on with this forever.

5. This ship enables character growth via the characters background and the fact that they are foils to each other. For example, Zhongli’s relationship with Xiao could help Childe recontextualize Childe devotion to the Tsaritsa (as a child soldier endoctrinated by an organization that sometimes act like a cult, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of Childe venereation doesn’t border on fanatiscism). Childe’s humanity can help Zhongli feel more connected to individual relationships instead of and lessen Zhongli’s clinging to past regrets and memories. Zhongli’s wisdom could convince Childe to value himself as and pursue less self-destructive, Childe pro-active role in the Tsarista plans and thirst for life could convince Zhongli to be more than a bystander to humanity’s growth.

6. Plot relevance and variety: being an archon and a harbinger, it is more easily feasible to explore different plot points (canon or otherwise) without the characters  feeling too much out of place or out of their narrative role. Ex: Dehya escorts Nilou to a Sumeru-Fontaine danse collaboration and one of the girl gets dissolved which involves them in the the Fontaine archon quest and also leads them to realizing their feelings for each other. This is more harder to pull off than a story about Zhongli going to investigate Fontaine with Tonia after he encounters her while she is searching for her brother’s whereabouts after receiving a bunch of suspicious letters from the latter. (not that’s saying that’s not ooc, but there’s less dissonance than the Dehya/Nilou story because we use more stuff that could likely happen: Childe goes to Fontaine, gets put in jail, goes missing and the Knave has to send fake letters to prevent word getting out that one of their top executives has been wrongfully imprisoned and possibly died).

7. Zhongli and Childe getting together is something like seeing two not quite-human trying very hard to be human for each other. It’s very compelling to see the failures and successes of two idiots trying to be kind and just to the other while being hindered by their own baggages of issues.

8. Like maybe they are not each other’s ideal partners. But what if they chose to love each other anyway? I think they have it in themselves to make each other happier that if they were alone. It’s not an easy love or a simple one, but what really matters is how much effort you’re willing to put into that love. Is the action of choosing to be with each other, no matter how brief this relationship can be, very romantic and a rewarding kind of love? Maybe there’s some sadness and hardship along the way and maybe you could have settled for something easier but this is yours and there might be other people who are "better for you" but does it matter if you dont love those other options? (i.e if you ship x/y instead of z that’s fine but it shouldn’t prevent others of shipping x/z even if you think that x/y is "objectively better") Love is not simply a competition where you get to pick and chose the best candidate, its a commitment to do right by the other, hoping that this relationship makes you a happier and better person.

9. None of this is exclusive to Zhongchi, ChildexTraveler, or even now ChildexNeuvilette, ticks a lot of the "boxes" that I mentionned. But the presence of those characteristics in other ships does not negate its presence this shop and only makes both of them more compelling.

10. I think most people who ship Zhongchi don’t use  "Real world lenses" where you analyse how close to an ideal picture perfect relationship where every action is healthy and fulfilling (even then that’s a hell of a high standard to have in the real world) but rather see this as an interesting dynamic to explore where the good, the bad and the ugly sides of each character gets to shine.

11. Overall, Zhongchi just seems to lends itself very well to all kind fun tropes and also a special kind of bittersweet tragedy if Childe doesn’t become immortal that can have the very hopeful tone of cherishing and valuing finite experiences. Like, less about forever and happy everly after and more let’s make the most of what time we have together; less crying about what could have been and more being glad about what we did end up having.

I get that there is some weird takes among the zhongchi shippers like making either of them overly feminine/submissive (ex: Childe becomes a powerless housewife) and putting a disturbing emphasis on portraying childe as a «young innocent boy». But that’s hardly a fair portrayal of everyone who likes the ship and this is nothing new in the world of shipping, especially the ships who become hugely popular. Like, usually the more popular something is the more dubious takes you’re gonna see right? Like I’ve seen plenty of bad Chilumi stuff where Lumine is reduced to the classic meek girl who cannot help but fall for badboy playboy Childe who’s borderline abusive. And also, a lot of the age difference/power dynamic is also present in Chilumi (cuz let’s face it the traveler is very likely some sort of eon old forgotten god or something), yet it’s probably as the same level of popularity as Zhongchi. So I think a lot of people ignore this type of dynamic as long as both parties are represented as being in a consensual relationship, they aren’t seen as overtly exercising power over the other and they both learn from the other different outlook in life.

And anyway, is there any Childe ship that’s not a little fucked up? This boy wouldn’t know healthy mindset if it hit him in the face. This take is on Zhongchi is hardly unique to this particular dynamic.

There’s probably more that can be said but this is getting awfully long and rambly. At the end of the day, everyone is free to agree to disagree. We should enjoy whatever we like however we like (under reason ofc), that’s all that matters as long as we do the same for others. 

I’m not the best at coveying tone and intention (nor do I always perfectly grasp what people mean to convey) so I want to make it clear that I dont mean to sound rude or agressive. This is just a friendly discussion! :)

P.S. Personally I’m not really fond of the term "pro-shipper" since every ship can become problematic depending on the portrayal and its too often used to pit people against each other by creating a "morally right" way to ship when it’s too often just personal bias. Not that I’m implying this is your intention, but it might explain why this post seems to have a more polarizing/triggering effect?

Cheers to whoever managed to read till the end of this disjointed mess of thoughts.

Sincerely, an overworked uni student who doesn’t know when to stop obsessing over things.

Hot take: zhongchi is an *insanely* problematic ship.

One of the guys is 5000 years old and the other is, what, 22 max? I don't understand how you people are not finding it weird.

[shimmershae]

Some, okay a lot, of pre-mid season (tri? season) finale thoughts.  As if you actually asked for them, lol.

And no, I haven’t actually watched the last episode yet.  I’ve been putting it off all morning.  For reasons.  Reasons that I felt the inexplicable need to put on paper, er, screen.  

If you care at all to read the purging of my fatigued TWD fangirl mind, please look beneath the cut.  Fair warning.  It’s long so pull up a chair maybe, lol.  

I’ll admit it.  The spoilers indicating a significant lack of Carol/Melissa content has dampened much of my enthusiasm and there wasn’t all that much to start with.  

Let me tell you why--

The season, so far, has been woefully unbalanced in favor of the Reaper storyline and the Maggie/Negan conflict (which ties back to the Reaper storyline by the flimsiest of strings) and I’m just not invested.  

Why?  

Well, it’s multifold.  

#1 reason why?  Having a third of the last season ever of TWD devoted to going inside “the lions’ den” of villains I have no emotional connection to or curiosity about is a big fat fail.  

You might say “but there’s the Daryl double agent” aspect and I say “so fucking what” because it was so poorly conceived and has felt like such a WTF set of fraying puppet strings for this plot Angela was apparently jonesing to tell from the GO, damn the torpedoes she had to know where inevitably coming her way.  

Seriously.  I had talked myself into accepting that which I could not change, citing Daryl’s emotional brokenness after Rick.  Convincing myself he’d lost his anchor to goodness and hope and fulfillment in his years of self-imposed exile from Carol and what was left of his family and to a certain extent?  I can still by that explanation.  But really.  It’s the Leah of it all.  

Let me attempt to explain.  

To do that, maybe I should detail how I’ve always perceived Daryl.  

Daryl, IMHO, began this journey with us and the rest of Team Family with a figurative fortress erected around his true, core self.  

He was prickly.  Defensive to any overtures of kindness because he inherently did not trust them.  Loathe to form any real connection to anyone other than Merle, his blood.  

Daryl balked at the possibility of emotional connection and flinched in learned fear from physical touch.  

He did not recognize or accept affection or respect at face value because it was something rarely shown to him before.  

Anybody else remember that childhood abuse book from Consumed?  You know.  One of those first times the showrunners/writers dumped a character nugget in our laps and left it to us to do all the backstory in our own imaginations so they didn’t have to enrich their own characters beyond the scratch and sniff, wham bam this is who they are work?  

Anyway.  We were left to extrapolate from that what most of us h ad already suspected--that Daryl’s formative years were already a living hell before the ZA ever happened.  

So he was standoffish.  He didn’t form emotional connections lightly and physical intimacy was something light years out of his comfort zone.  

Until Carol.  

Daryl’s defenses started to crumble from the very start with Carol because she piqued his interest.  He looked at her, watched her withstand Ed’s abuse, and recognized something of himself.  

Against his will, Daryl started to care and when Carol lost the one good thing that had come out of her miserable life with Ed--Sophia--Daryl’s core identity started to be revealed to us and probably?  To himself after burying it so deep for so long.  

Long story short?  Daryl connected with Carol pretty quickly on a base level through the trauma of Sophia’s loss.  

The real connection, the emotional work it too to peel all those protective layers away took more like--like planting a flower from seed and tending it to help it survive and flourish.  

Simply said?  The work was put in and Daryl bloomed with Carol’s (and Team Family’s) care.  They all put in varying degrees of work but Carol planted the seed of his “belonging.”  

And the thing about Daryl?  Once he bloomed?  He grew strong.  He stretched toward the sun.  

He and Carol essentially bloomed and fought their way toward the sunlight together.  

And little by little, Daryl learned to accept the kindness, trust, and love he always deserved.  

From that newly confident man emerged a Daryl not so fearful of forming connections and none have ever been more powerful than his connection to Carol.  

I’ll spare ya’ll the paragraphs of how Daryl and Carol gravitated toward each other like magnets no matter the means of separation.  

I’ll just spell it out like this:  their bond supersedes all others, even Daryl’s bond with Rick.  And with Daryl only accepting affection from those he trusts implicitly, Carol and Daryl have been the only potential “romantic��� pairing that has ever fully made sense for his established character.  

At least the character before Angela launched the grenade of Leah into the mix.  

Leah was a fail from the start.  

And you know what?  I’m thinking that was largely intended (for various reasons) but I still think they could have shown Daryl as receptive to having a “romantic” relationship to those willfully blind to the possibility that he’s actually been in a “romantic” relationship with Carol since Season 2.  Never mind that Carol and Daryl haven’t (yet) crossed certain physical boundaries yet.  Emotionally? They are already there even if neither is able to admit it out loud with the actual words yet.  But I digress.  The people that never wanted to “see” Carol and Daryl as “romantic” because they couldn’t fathom Daryl as seeing Carol in that light had already deemed that Daryl just didn’t feel that way about her, that maybe he didn’t feel that way about anybody (if they couldn’t have their way and have him feel that way about their preferred choice for him, they preferred him alone), and Angela wanted to show them differently.  To show them the light.  

That said, if Angela was so hellbent on doing Leah?  There were a multitude of better ways.  

Here.  I’ll give you one of them.  

Daryl isolates himself from his family after Rick’s “death” same as he did in Angela’s version.  

Carol’s been being pulled more and more to the Kingdom because Henry’s needing a mother figure is like catnip to her hurting natural-born, hurting Mama’s heart.  So Daryl’s anchor to the man he’d matured into, the one with all these earned emotional attachments, is reeled back in, little by little, leaving him unmoored.  

Dog literally runs into him just as before.  It hardly makes sense given how young and floppy and uncoordinated puppies are and thus vulnerable to danger, but this is the least of things we need to worry about suspending disbelief for right?  ;)

Dog and Daryl continue to have these run ins until Daryl decides to retrace the puppy’s clumsy trail and viola!  He finds Leah’s cabin and Leah inside.  She levels the same shotgun at him, they have a standoff, until---

Leah suddenly lowers the gun and incredulously says Daryl’s name.  

That’s right.  One simple change and Daryl and Leah have an undefined past already.  

Daryl doesn’t completely let his guard down because he’s Daryl, but he relaxes enough that we see he doesn’t immediately regard Leah as dangerious to his own well-being.  

From that point on, instead of tying Daryl up and threatening him, we could have been told the story of how they knew each other from before.  

My version goes a little something like this--

Daryl met Leah through Merle.  Merle, in turn, met Leah through the military before he got discharged.  He and Leah had an ongoing “I scratch your itch if you scratch mine” thing and Leah?  Well, she always had a bit of a soft spot/interest in Daryl that Daryl never really returned.  

The thing is, though?  With losing the chosen brother that filled the hole left behind by his lost blood brother Merle and losing Carol to her chasing after a chance of a new family (because she feels Daryl’s out of her reach too, our too blind and stupidly, silently in love idiots)?  Daryl finds himself embracing the shared memories however minimal of that brief past and his grief and loneliness leave him receptive to Leah’s eventual advances in ways he never was before.  

We’re still given hints of their unfolding relationship and we still don’t like it, but it makes more sense for Daryl to cling to the past when he feels he’s lost his future.  

Leah still gives her ultimatum (there’s a reason she gravitated toward Merle in perhaps his most toxic state, she’s more than a little fucked up too) and it’s not as much of a hard sell that Daryl might be pulled in Leah’s direction when he feels Carol is all but lost to him.  

Hell.  They could have even explicitly discussed Carol.  But wait!  Angela would have never allowed that because she doesn’t want to shatter all the crackship dreams in one fell swoop.  

But the story from that point on could have continued just as it has and probably I still wouldn’t have liked it but I could have at least bought it somewhat and understood it.  

Obviously, it didn’t. 

I don’t buy the Leah of it all.  Angela built that “relationship” with monopoly money and it shows.  

Because I don’t buy Leah period.  I don’t buy Daryl giving even giving a shit about trying to or feeling like there’s a snowball’s chance to redeem her so I’m not engaged whatsoever with this Daryl double agent story and him even givign her crumbs about his real family.  

That part rings false.  

So that’s a big problem right there and we haven’t even gotten to the other part I don’t buy.  

You know what else I don’t buy?  

#2?  

Why the hell are the Reapers so bloodthirsty for Maggie’s departure from this mortal coil?  

Without giving better reasoning than they’re just cray-cray, the entire faceplants and considering it’s taken up about 70% of 11A’s focus?  I’m pissed.  

Because, IMHO, they should go big or go home on this to give it any entertainment value because it’s all stale, recycled air if not.  

Maggie’s been established as a much darker character this season.  Which led me to believer the Reapers probably had a legit beef against her, but it seems Angela is reluctant to go all that way down the rabbit hole and doesn’t want to commit to what could be a more entertaining and potentially fascinating story than just Maggie’s in the right, the Reapers are just evil.  

Maggie is right about Negan, IMHO, but she’s also wrong in not listening to him when what he’s saying reeks of simple common sense.  Ignoring sage advice makes her seem more like an angry toddler stamping her feet in defiance than the leader they are so bound and determined to tell us she is.  

You know what?  The window for me to give more than the half a fuck I’m giving right now as they beat this dead horse to dust closed when Maggie decided letting Negan rot in the ASZ jail cell was enough and spared him when she finally had her best chance to end him once and for all.  

Maybe if they stopped having the same damn conversation and they didn’t take up 20% of the screen time left after the boring Reapers/Leah shit, I would be less resentful but I’m not and again, I’ll tell you why.  

BECAUSE.  We are in the last season of the OG TWD ever and this show has chosen to waste screen time on stories nobody cares about to the exclusion of the ones we’re yearning for more of.  

Like ASZ.  We’ve barely seen more than an hour of the eight hours devoted to Carol, Aaron, Rosita, Lydia, Judith, Kelly, Jerry and Co. in total.  Especially since they’ve been trying to establish the Commonwealth on the side, too.  

I mean, I never really expected to dig the Commonwealth so my expectations for it were lower than low so they’ve been exceeded at a miniscule level.  But I expected and hoped for ASZ and those characters we’ve cared the most about to receive much more emphasis and the fact that they haven’t in this last season so far has been the biggest FAIL.  

And okay.  Selfishly, I want more Carol.  She’s like salt.  She makes almost everything go down better.  

But really. Give me more of all the characters we actually care about, please.  The Reapers and the offshoots from that story wheel aren’t it.  I love Daryl but I hate this retread story for him.  Leah is a weak point that pressed upon?  Makes this weak ass arc collapse.  Maggie and Negan are giving us nothing new.  They are the definition of the word STALEMATE and that’s not what you want or need on the finale season of a show.  

Yes, I have enjoyed the majority of the episodes overall, but that was because the moments I loved I weighted more than the ones I didn’t and know they have the most impact on the show down the road.  

Probably 11A will fare better when all is said and done and the show can be binged but standalone?  It’s been an overall disappointment and that saddens me more than I can say.  

Anyway.  I’m going to stop rambling now and try to psyche myself up for episode 8.  I’ll be back with thoughts on it later, maybe.  

Sorry for the word vomit, but I felt maybe I could in someway give voice to some of the feelings floating around out there and let you know that you are not alone.  

Until later, lovelies.  

[red-jaebyrd]

The Gift

Damian had always wanted to have a cat, but he had never told anyone. So when Pennyworth presented him with one in the Cave it came as a bit of surprise. He wasn’t even sure Pennyworth liked him, though he tolerated Damian.  Every subordinate “tolerated” Damian, Pennyworth wasn’t any different. Soon Pennyworth would grow to dislike him. They all did, but Damian couldn’t be bothered to care. It was beneath him to entertain such feelings. What did he care if Pennyworth liked him or not?

It was astounding the amount of disrespect and rebellious behavior Father tolerated from Pennyworth. The butler constantly meddled in their business by monitoring their sleep, making sure they were fed before and after patrol; and even had the gull to bench them from patrol due to injuries. The insolence of it all was hardly anything Damian could tolerate from a servant.

Father said Pennyworth’s rules and restrictions were just his way of showing that he cared about them and their safety. Damian thought it was a way for Pennyworth to assert his power over the Waynes and one day take over. He thought his Father naïve for having such faith in a butler. Pennyworth may care about his father, but not him. None of the servants at his Grandfather’s compound ever cared about his wellbeing enough for Damian to trust them. Their care for him was conditional. They feared for their lives more than they cared about keeping him safe.

Damian wasn’t sure what to make of Pennyworth’s meddling actions. It wasn’t because Pennyworth cared about him, no it was to remain in his Father’s good graces.

But then Pennyworth had given him a cat. Damian had always wanted a cat, but Grandfather saw them as useless, disgusting creatures and never permitted him to keep one. One day Damian had found an abandon kitten and he had been allowed to care for it, but it was a test. Everything with the League was always a test. When approached by his Grandfather to kill the kitten, Damian refused seeing no purpose in an act so senseless.  Of course he was punished for refusing to end the animal’s life and since then he had been wary of caring for any animals; that was until he came to stay with his Father. Father had gotten him a dog and eventually let him keep the cow he rescued from a slaughterhouse.

He must not get attached to the cat, which shouldn’t be hard as it was currently hissing at Damian. The cat was a young tuxedo cat with a white marking across its whiskers like a mustache just like Pennyworth.

“He has potential. I’ll call him Alfred.”

It seemed like an unusual name to give to a cat, but it fit. The cat was bold for such a small creature and commanded respect, just like its namesake.

Damian watched with great interest the incredible care and patience Pennyworth had with a cat that seemed to hate him. He never attempted to pick up the cat, instead he’d kneel down and allow the cat to sniff his hand and only then would Pennyworth pet his head. He would always wait for the cat to come to him. At first the cat seemed to only be affectionate when it knew it was getting fed, but little by little he responded to both Pennyworth and Damian by curling up on their lap whenever either of them was seated.

It surprised Damian the effort Pennyworth took in helping him care for his cat. Pennyworth suggested they go to the pet store to get cat toys as cats ‘needed stimulation and enrichment’ and cat toys would help Alfred with human interaction and his trust issues.

A month had passed and the cat had stopped hissing…at Damian and Pennyworth. Pennyworth was the only other human Alfred the cat tolerated besides Damian. He was also the only person Damian trusted to help care for his cat.

The cat had been completely distrustful of everyone when it had first arrived, just like Damian. Perhaps that is what Pennyworth meant when he said, ‘I saw him and thought of you’? Damian still wasn’t sure of Pennyworth’s motives where the cat was concerned.

Pennyworth did prove himself to be a very trustful ally when caring for Alfred and if the cat trusted Pennyworth; that was good enough for Damian. Cats were instinctual creatures and their trust was hard earned.

There was still something that had been niggling at the back of Damian’s mind. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter to anyone else, but it mattered to him.

“Why did you get me a cat?” Damian asked, throwing the mouse toy at Alfred. The cat rolled on his side clawing it and kicked it back to Damian with his hind legs.

“I told you Master Damian. I saw him and thought of you.”

Damian furrowed his brow at Alfred. “Why were you thinking of me?”

“I’m always thinking of you, and your Father, and the boys,” Alfred smiled.

“Because it’s your job.”

“No, because you are all my family and I want to see you happy.”

“We’re your family?”

“Of course, my dear boy. This role that I have here at the Manor is more than just a job to me. Surely, you know that, Master Damian.”

Damian thought back to all the times that Pennyworth had taken care of him and yes, it was his job as the butler to take care of things in the household and by extension the people who lived in the house. But one thing Damian didn’t account for were the times Alfred took special care in remembering things that each of them liked, didn’t like, or couldn’t tolerate.

Pennyworth never once made Damian feel bad or force him to eat meat once he decided to be a vegetarian. Instead he altered recipes and respected Damian’s choice and helped him with his new chosen lifestyle.

Since the day Damian had arrived at Wayne Manor, Pennyworth had been patient with him, respected him and his space. There was no agenda, no act, no conditions.

Pennyworth cared for them all beyond just his role as the butler. His protectiveness for them was more like how a father cares for his children. Did that mean that Pennyworth thought of him, Grayson, Todd and Drake as his grandsons?  

“The cat was a gift from me to you, Master Damian. Because I felt he needed you and that you needed him.

Pennyworth came over to the floor and stroked Alfred’s head lightly.

“I always regretted not getting a pet for your father when he was young. He could have used the distraction and responsibility of caring for a pet to cope with his grief. I saw how well you responded to the task of caring for animals and I felt it was an attribute that should be nurtured. I made the executive decision to add another animal to your growing menagerie.”

“I am not grieving,” Damian retorted.

“Not in the same sense as your father did back then, but you have been through a rather difficult transition. You are adapting to a new lifestyle far removed from the way you had been previously reared. New expectations have also been set upon you now that you are here with your Father; that in itself is much to take in at such a young age.”

“You forget, Pennyworth. I am not a child.”

Pennyworth smiled. “You may have been raised to not think of yourself as a child, but don’t be so quick to grow up. Allow yourself some childhood trivialities. I’m sure there are many that you have yet to experience. Most importantly let others look after you, like me, your Father, and Master Dick.”

Damian nodded.

“Why do you care so much if I’m happy?” Damian asked, ashamed of the vulnerability in his voice.

He regretted the question immediately once the words left his mouth, but he couldn’t take it back. Alfred put his arm around Damian and squeezed him in a side hug.

“Grandads always care to make sure that their grandchildren are loved and happy,” Pennyworth answered, placing a kiss on Damian’s head.

Damian looked up at him. “You see me as a grandson?”

“Since the moment you walked through our doors, Master Damian.”

“But I was so awful to you.”

Alfred smiled and leaned his cheek onto Damian’s head. “I saw potential. Now what do you say to some cookies and hot chocolate?”

Damian laughed and followed Alfred toward the kitchen.  

[a-swines-baptism]

🎂 -midnight-radio-host

{Let’s dial in to this recently passed Blight season for a little treat for @midnight-radio-host​, how about?}

Jude wouldn’t normally say that there was such a thing as too much time with Amanda, but this was the one exception to that rule. He shifted uncomfortably in his spot on the concrete floor, wincing as the shackle fixed tight around one wrist tugs at raw skin. How long had it been since she’d chained him up? It’s hard to say, easily days’ worth, but beyond that time really didn’t have meaning in Gideon. All he knew is that she was there, watching him. Always keeping at least half an eye on her Jude, making sure he stayed safe and by her side as she prowled and babbled to herself in those low, drowned tones. It’s hard to look at her, warped and diseased by the Blight that infected her. Sometimes she gets up close, forcing the intercoms in the room to speak for her in their garbled voice and repeating his name over and over as she makes him look at her distorted mask, grip only getting rougher and more distraught when he tries to look away. It’s not his girlfriend, right now... it’s something else. The lights are on in Amanda’s head but nobody’s home.

Not that there’s anything he can do about all this, chained up as he is to the bed in one of the alcoves in her control room. She took his ring, the gift given to him by the Bastard that was supposed to keep him safe. Whatever part of her brain still worked understood that it could free him, get him away from her. He tried that, while he still had it-- you can’t blame him for it, he was scared-- but she’d seen, and got to him quickly. Freaked out, and gave him a nasty knife to the throat. He was lucky that none of that glowing stuff had got in him, but it turns out that without the Entities to resurrect you, you just wake up right where you died anyways. Same body, too, barely healed. That had been a rough day. He’d had to plea with her once hunger started to kick in, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Were the survivors all this cut off from the Entities right now, or was it something about being near her? She knows to bring the ring back to him every so many hours, at least, though she keeps her knife right at his neck as he uses it to summon food for himself, or clean himself up. Then it goes back on her desk.

She’s brought him other things too, random stuff to keep him entertained. It’s like she thinks he’s a housepet in need of enrichment or something, but there’s not really much more he can do aside from waiting for her to get better, or for something to change, so he fiddles with the random things to pass the time. Apparently she’s found something else for him to play with, the killer dropping to her hands and knees (it seems to hurt her less than walking around) and pulling herself over to him.

“Jude-- jude- jude, jude, jude--” the speakers in the room fade and fail as her scattered thoughts filter through and she scoots her hideous form right up in front of him, roughly grabbing his shoulder and shaking it to get his attention.

“Yeah? I’m looking, I’m looking, what is it?” He can’t keep the mental and physical exhaustion out of his voice, but he knows she doesn’t hear it. She’s already pressing the new toy into his hands-- it’s the steel puzzle box she gave him a while ago. He’s only gotten so far into solving it, she’s refused to help him each time he asked for a hint. “You want me to work on this?” He sighs, trying to scoot a little further away from the not-Amanda and nodding sluggishly. “Sure, okay. Fine.” That seems to appease her, and with a few more garbled  “jude”s she leans in to give him a painfully tight embrace before pulling back and going to her desk to do... whatever foul mimicry of her usual actions she’s trying this time. Maybe she’ll go play with whoever she lured here again, he could have sworn the yelling and begging sounded like Samuel that one time. Either way, she leaves him alone as he starts to work slowly at the box, managing to actually make some headway by the time his energy flags and she returns to put the rough sack over his head (apparently this is how the blighted brain understands ‘let me sleep’, instead of, oh, turning off the lights?).

The next day he works at it some more. Then a little more the next day... It’s interesting, at least. Amanda clearly put a lot of work into it, each step solved primes another lock with a different solution to any of the ones before. It’s fun, if frustratingly hard. But he keeps at it for a good few hours each day, until finally, on day whatever of his captivity-- there’s a ‘click’. The mechanism he just solved slides back and fixes itself in position, and suddenly the lid isn’t as resistant as it was. It’s open. And so, after taking a second to bask in his little victory, he opens the lid to find--

There’s a little drawstring pouch sitting inside, nestled in little space of the box. On top of it sits a little slip of paper with Amanda’s tight, hurried handwriting.

‘Jude,

You know I’m kind of shit at romantic stuff, but hopefully you can forgive me on this one. I really can’t figure out how to keep shit simple, huh?

There was a point to this, though. I’m not gonna get too depressing here, but you know how my brain is. I’m a worrier. So here we are, I guess you could call this my solution. If you’ve stuck around long enough to actually solve the box and open it to read this... I guess you must be really serious about us. So, uh... this is the part where I show that I am, too.

Love you, buddy.

--Your messed-up girlfriend’

Jude’s brow furrows as he reads. It’s sweet, and needlessly complicated-- that’s definitely not unusual for anytime Amanda ever tries to talk about her feelings-- but what is all this? Glancing at the pouch, then to the feral Blight wearing her girlfriend’s body and sitting at her workdesk, then back to the pouch. He starts to put an idea together... but it couldn’t be, right? Probably not, he’ll just check and make sure--

And he removes a simple ring. Simple, made of hammered copper, no gems or anything fancy, clearly handmade, but a ring nonetheless. A ring and some words from someone who’s not quite there right now, but clearly meant it then.

{I would write more, but I think we should leave Jude to process his feelings in peace. Hope you enjoyed this little moment.}

[kainablue]

LECTURE ME - Don’t Ask (part 1)

[Chain Reaction]  [Distracted]  [A Quick Smoke]  [Into the Wild]  [Heavy Rain (part 1)]  [Heavy Rain (part 2)] [Moonstruck (part 1)] [Moonstruck (part 2)] [On the House]

-

Okay, wow, I have a small collection here! Yay! 

Here’s the next chapter (finally!) In case you’ve forgotten - this is a dirty little bundle of stories about a professor and his student (and some other peeps). You can read them in any order that you like (except for the ones with ‘part 1′ and ‘part 2′ on them - these chapters were too long and that’s why I separated them like this)

The first part is pretty safe. Only some profanities and a bit of thirst! Enjoy! 🍷

Don’t Ask (part 1)

Oliver

What a shitty day. And not just because of rain.

As if getting scolded by the department's secretary for losing the keys to my office - again! - wasn’t bad enough, a couple of students at my last lecture were particularly annoying. Two wiseasses trying to convince me that morality is completely unnecessary in modern times. I wanted to crack their shit-filled skulls with an iron bar. But I kept my cool, I did. Barely, though. And I wonder was it really worth it because now I have a fucking headache as if someone smacked me with an iron bar.

A familiar smell of petrol tickles my nose. My eyes dart to my dashboard - I’m almost out of juice. Fuck. I rub my throbbing forehead and wonder what the helI did I do for karma to punish me like this. 

Well - I can feel a smirk tugging my mouth - I haven’t been an innocent lamb jumping around the meadow, have I?

As I turn around the corner, two streets away from my home, a slight silhouette darkens my peripheral view. I would have missed Filipa if she wasn’t always on my mind. I do believe my brain is overstimulated and now I am hypersensitive to anything related to her.

I memorized the sound of her shoes walking over different types of floors. From the way utensils are positioned on a plate, I can recognize her leftovers in the dining hall. And I can sense her arousal by breathing in her sweat enriched with musk and floral perfume. Aaah, just the memory of that sex aroma, that perfect combination of refined and vulgar, is making me dizzy.

I pull over next to a willow tree bending over the gates like Juliet over her balcony. A shower started recently, a light drizzle, but strong enough to be annoying. Filipa is pacing, her head bowed down, carrying a box in her hands. Several rectangular stamps are one it. Oh, so she’s been to the post office. But why aren’t her packages delivered to the Academy's department office, like everyone else's?

I open the window. “Need a ride, pretty lady?”

Filipa lifts her head and stops, swaying a bit. There’s something odd. Was she— A tight knot of pain stabs me in the throat. Was she… crying? There are no telltale signs on her face, just… the feeling. Like when you see a famous actor on the street for the first time. They look the same but it’s not the character you know. Like another person. Like someone without a mask.

Filipa doesn’t avert her eyes (she’s never the first to buckle - never!) and approaches my car. A lovely, almost innocent smile curves her lips and the whole costume is back on - the mask, the robe, the hood – the girl I saw just a second ago has vanished.

She places one her elbow on the window edge and the other hand holding the mysterious box on the car roof, bending her back. There isn’t much happening at the front of her clothes: her flat chest covered by her school uniform with buttoned up shirt. But her skirt… I imagine it is now way up. As she lowers her upper body, adjusting herself to my height, the skirt is going up and up, slowly sliding above her knees and her thighs. Maybe even her ass. 

A passer-by checks her out from behind, looking under her skirt like a fucking pervert! 

That ass is mine! 

“We are going in opposite directions, professor.”

Her voice is creamy like always, with some light notes of mirth attached to the word professor. 

“How about a detour?” Really, why not? “Hop on. I have something to show you.”

Her eyebrow jumps in surprise and then joins the other one in vexation. A very different sounding words shoot me.  

“Seriously? Of all the cheesy lines you have, you are offering me 'I have something to show you' one? I know how your dick looks, Oliver.”

“But it’s a very fine dick, wouldn't you agree?”  The rolling of her eyes was expected but always entertaining. “No, something else, but not as big, I’m afraid. Come.”

“Where to?”

“My apartment.”

She tilts her head, amused. “Wouldn’t it be suspicious, professor: a young naive student and her mentor heading to his unholy den?”

“To earn her some extra credit.” 

I crack myself up sometimes. The absurdity of my statement even draws a low chuckle from Filipa.

“All right,” she sighs and pushes herself away from my car. I forgot about the box. Such a dull looking thing, wrapped in a brown paper, and yet she holds it like a treasure… The familiar static fills my brain clouding my every thought. Oliver, don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do —

“What’s in there?”

You. Fucking. Did. It.

If eyes could make a sound, hers would be hissing at me.

“I should head back, professor.” And with that statement, heavy as a concrete block, she proceeds to march towards the Academy.

I fucked up.

I put my Ford in reverse and start to follow her.

“Fine. I’m sorry. Don’t tell me what’s in your damn box. Let’s go.”

She doesn’t stop. There is no other person who can blank you like Filipa can. I turn off the engine and take a deep breath. She won’t like this. Not at all.

I get out, leaving the car door open. In several big steps I catch up with her and immediately block her way. Because she was walking with her head down, probably protecting her eyes from the rain, Filipa headbutts my chest. I touch her upper arms but she springs backwards. She clenches her package and snarls like a monkey holding stolen goods. The ire in her eyes is so forceful I freeze. 

We stand like that for a few moments. Rain is dripping down my face and dampening my shirt. It's cold. I swallow a lump. Filipa is all wet and beyond pissed now. Why do I get horny when she looks like she wants to massacre me.

“Come on, doll. I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”

She hardly blinks. Rain is getting heavier by the minute and she… isn’t bothered even the slightest? Blinking is for the weak, and Filipa is everything but weak, I laugh inwardly.

A much lighter expression takes over Filipa’s features. Not necessarily a good thing. She shifts into a more relaxed pose. 

“Beg.”

Not what I expected. “Okay, please.”

“No. I mean… beg.”

Oh. 

Someone could fucking see us! I turn around: luckily, the street is empty, but that can change in a second. And far more importantly - my clothes! Crap! I stare down at her. I could literally scoop her up and carry her to my car, but… She wouldn’t just kill me then, though; she would literally crush me into a lump the size of a marshmallow and eat me.

The resting bitch face in front of me is unforgiving. I know she doesn’t care. She will just leave if I refuse. And… I don’t want that. Just like I wouldn't want any of my nails pulled out with rusty pincers. 

I take a deep breath in… and kneel. A humiliating wet cold enters my clothes and spreads over my knees and calves. Fuck! 

“Please.” I stare at Filipa’s ugly, dirty shoes, gritting my teeth. Someone will see us! And then I’m screwed! “Please, please, please.”

Filipa is silent. She is enjoying this so much, I just know it. Murky water around my knees is restless from the raindrops hitting it. But I can somehow make out two faces: one pathetic, with eyes wide open in apprehension; the other, upside-down – and victorious.

Her foot moves up, water dripping from the shoe sole. The dirty, worn-out tip has a shallow scratch - just above her big toe. 

"Kiss."

I swallow. I was expecting this.

Let's get this over with.

I close my eyes and press my lips on a dry patch, just above the scuff. The smell of mud and old leather tickles my nostrils.  

“Are you satisfied?” I croak. My head is flying from one side to the other, checking if someone’s approaching. This is so dumb and risky and… exciting. I suck on my lower lip. Fuck me and my sick, twisted brain! I want to bend even more, shove my elbows in this disgusting sewage water and lick her legs. I want her to place her hand in my hair and pull while —

A finger brushes along my jaw and lifts my head up. Filipa’s lips are curved into a poisonous smirk. Her smile is like a drug – a deadly line that boils my blood and ruins my life. And I need it all the time. 

All the fucking time.

“Very,” she whispers, a slight tremble in her voice. She really is. “Let’s go.”

***

Filipa

I expected Oliver’s room to be a bit more… chaotic. More bachelor like. More I’m-overwhelmingly-anxious-to-keep-my-job-but-also-uncontrollably-hedonistic-like. But it isn’t. 

His shoes are neatly aligned next to a hallway wall. The wooden floor is old but clean, not even a pebble stuck between the boards. No weird stains, no underwear on the kettle, no porn hastily hidden bellow a carpet. He has a separate bedroom, but I bet he even made the bed before leaving his apartment this morning. Smell of cigarettes is glued to every piece of furniture and I soon spot a full ashtray. But aside from that dirty metal container and a bunch of papers and books scattered all over the floor and any horizontal surface, this apartment is… quite neat.

“I don’t think you came here before?” Oliver moves the curtains and more grey light colours the room. 

“I haven’t.”

There are no pictures on the walls. I think they used to be white,long time ago when this house was built; but they are more creamy brown now. Years of tobacco using tenants did that, I guess. Except for one spot where colour is still unsoiled and almost completely clean. In the perfect center, opposite from the windows, there used to be a cross. Not a large one, nor particularly prominent judging by the shape. But it bothered Oliver enough to remove it.

“Have a seat,” he points to an armchair in childish excitement, “and get ready to be amazed.”

I humor him and take a seat. Right in front of me, taking up quite a large portion of the living room, is a… table? A desk? Huge tablecloth covering it falls down some unexpected curves. Not to mention the tabletop is set too low for any standard chair. And yet it’s also too high for a coffee table.

Oliver removes piles of books that were covering the top and, with a wiggle of his eyebrows, he asks: “Are you ready?”

This can only be something incredibly stupid when he’s so excited. I brace myself expecting to see a rocking horse or an overly complicated sex toy. I nod.

He takes the tabletop and lifts the whole thing in one swift move. Table cloth flies with it and for a moment Oliver resembles a magician uncovering a rabbit underneath a mystery box.

But there is no rabbit. Only a - bathtub.

Although,  I have to admit, a beautiful one. It is wooden and shaped as those old baths that you can see in period dramas. But this one is brand new and shining like a freshly licked candy. I stand up to get a closer look. It really is gorgeous. 

“You made it?”

“Yup.” This big man’s ego just got a bit bigger. “Touch it.”

I glide tips of my fingers along the rim. It’s like ice.

"I used seven layers of finish so it could be as smooth as glass," he trails off and zones out. For a few seconds I was almost able to observe his tiny thought monkey with cymbals taking a break from wanking himself and actually using his brain for a change. And then he spoke in enlightenment: "...for your lovely, precious, little ass."

I don't know what I expected.

"Lord Byron, step aside, you've been outshined."

Oliver chuckles. “I would be honored if your ass would be the first one to sit in it.”

I look at the bathtub again. Is there a trick? Will something happen? I hardly believe Oliver would do something to openly anger me, but to simply push my buttons for shits and giggles – yes. And I’m not in the mood for it.

“Come on, sweetie. You know you want to soak that wet and cold flesh of yours in a hot bath.” He shifts behind me, a towering presence of muscles and heat. Oliver kisses the top of my head. “I will wash you, my mistress.”

A purr escapes my lips in response to this deep, rich and velvety voice whispering in my hair. It would be quite nice to replace the moldy odor of this sad room to a floral scent of soap. Bliss overcomes me as I imagine warm water clinging to my body and the brisk air biting my flesh when I expose myself. Oliver moves closer to me. A slow shiver shoots up along the back of my thighs, where his legs are touching mine. And, of course, the idea of his hands gliding up and down my skin, feeling me, caressing me, teasing me in all the right ways - does sound divine.

“Fine, my beast. You can have your wish.”

~~~

[to be continued…]

[crimethinc]

The Mythology of Work: Eight Myths that Keep Your Eyes on the Clock and Your Nose to the Grindstone

What if nobody worked? Sweatshops would empty out and assembly lines would grind to a halt, at least the ones producing things no one would make voluntarily. Telemarketing would cease. Despicable individuals who only hold sway over others because of wealth and title would have to learn better social skills. Traffic jams would come to an end; so would oil spills. Paper money and job applications would be used as fire starter as people reverted to barter and sharing. Grass and flowers would grow from the cracks in the sidewalk, eventually making way for fruit trees.

And we would all starve to death. But we’re not exactly subsisting on paperwork and performance evaluations, are we? Most of the things we make and do for money are patently irrelevant to our survival—and to what gives life meaning, besides.

This text is a selection from Work, our 376-page analysis of contemporary capitalism. It is also available as a pamphlet.

That depends on what you mean by “work.” Think about how many people enjoy gardening, fishing, carpentry, cooking, and even computer programming just for their own sake. What if that kind of activity could provide for all our needs?

For hundreds of years, people have claimed that technological progress would soon liberate humanity from the need to work. Today we have capabilities our ancestors couldn’t have imagined, but those predictions still haven’t come true. In the US we actually work longer hours than we did a couple generations ago—the poor in order to survive, the rich in order to compete. Others desperately seek employment, hardly enjoying the comfortable leisure all this progress should provide. Despite the talk of recession and the need for austerity measures, corporations are reporting record earnings, the wealthiest are wealthier than ever, and tremendous quantities of goods are produced just to be thrown away. There’s plenty of wealth, but it’s not being used to liberate humanity.

What kind of system simultaneously produces abundance and prevents us from making the most of it? The defenders of the free market argue that there’s no other option—and so long as our society is organized this way, there isn’t.

Yet once upon a time, before time cards and power lunches, everything got done without work. The natural world that provided for our needs hadn’t yet been carved up and privatized. Knowledge and skills weren’t the exclusive domains of licensed experts, held hostage by expensive institutions; time wasn’t divided into productive work and consumptive leisure. We know this because work was invented only a few thousand years ago, but human beings have been around for hundreds of thousands of years. We’re told that life was “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short” back then—but that narrative comes to us from the ones who stamped out that way of life, not the ones who practiced it.

This isn’t to say we should go back to the way things used to be, or that we could—only that things don’t have to be the way they are right now. If our distant ancestors could see us today, they’d probably be excited about some of our inventions and horrified by others, but they’d surely be shocked by how we apply them. We built this world with our labor, and without certain obstacles we could surely build a better one. That wouldn’t mean abandoning everything we’ve learned. It would just mean abandoning everything we’ve learned doesn’t work.

One can hardly deny that work is productive. Just a couple thousand years of it have dramatically transformed the surface of the earth.

But what exactly does it produce? Disposable chopsticks by the billion; laptops and cell phones that are obsolete within a couple years. Miles of waste dumps and tons upon tons of chlorofluorocarbons. Factories that will rust as soon as labor is cheaper elsewhere. Dumpsters full of overstock, while a billion suffer malnutrition; medical treatments only the wealthy can afford; novels and philosophies and art movements most of us just don’t have time for in a society that subordinates desires to profit motives and needs to property rights.

And where do the resources for all this production come from? What happens to the ecosystems and communities that are pillaged and exploited? If work is productive, it’s even more destructive.

Work doesn’t produce goods out of thin air; it’s not a conjuring act. Rather, it takes raw materials from the biosphere—a common treasury shared by all living things—and transforms them into products animated by the logic of market. For those who see the world in terms of balance sheets, this is an improvement, but the rest of us shouldn’t take their word for it.

Capitalists and socialists have always taken it for granted that work produces value. Workers have to consider a different possibility—that working uses up value. That’s why the forests and polar ice caps are being consumed alongside the hours of our lives: the aches in our bodies when we come home from work parallel the damage taking place on a global scale.

What should we be producing, if not all this stuff? Well, how about happiness itself? Can we imagine a society in which the primary goal of our activity was to make the most of life, to explore its mysteries, rather than to amass wealth or outflank competition? We would still make material goods in such a society, of course, but not in order to compete for profit. Festivals, feasts, philosophy, romance, creative pursuits, child-rearing, friendship, adventure—can we picture these as the center of life, rather than packed into our spare time?

Today things are the other way around—our conception of happiness is constructed as a means to stimulate production. Small wonder products are crowding us out of the world.

Work doesn’t simply create wealth where there was only poverty before. On the contrary, so long as it enriches some at others’ expense, work creates poverty, too, in direct proportion to profit.

Poverty is not an objective condition, but a relationship produced by unequal distribution of resources. There’s no such thing as poverty in societies in which people share everything. There may be scarcity, but no one is subjected to the indignity of having to go without while others have more than they know what to do with. As profit is accumulated and the minimum threshold of wealth necessary to exert influence in society rises higher and higher, poverty becomes more and more debilitating. It is a form of exile—the cruelest form of exile, for you stay within society while being excluded from it. You can neither participate nor go anywhere else.

Work doesn’t just create poverty alongside wealth—it concentrates wealth in the hands of a few while spreading poverty far and wide. For every Bill Gates, a million people must live below the poverty line; for every Shell Oil, there has to be a Nigeria. The more we work, the more profit is accumulated from our labor, and the poorer we are compared to our exploiters.

So in addition to creating wealth, work makes people poor. This is clear even before we factor in all the other ways work makes us poor: poor in self-determination, poor in free time, poor in health, poor in sense of self beyond our careers and bank accounts, poor in spirit.

“Cost of living” estimates are misleading—there’s little living going on at all! “Cost of working” is more like it, and it’s not cheap.

Everyone knows what housecleaners and dishwashers pay for being the backbone of our economy. All the scourges of poverty—addiction, broken families, poor health—are par for the course; the ones who survive these and somehow go on showing up on time are working miracles. Think what they could accomplish if they were free to apply that power to something other than earning profits for their employers!

What about their employers, fortunate to be higher on the pyramid? You would think earning a higher salary would mean having more money and thus more freedom, but it’s not that simple. Every job entails hidden costs: just as a dishwasher has to pay bus fare to and from work every day, a corporate lawyer has to be able to fly anywhere at a moment’s notice, to maintain a country club membership for informal business meetings, to own a small mansion in which to entertain dinner guests that double as clients. This is why it’s so difficult for middle-class workers to save up enough money to quit while they’re ahead and get out of the rat race: trying to get ahead in the economy basically means running in place. At best, you might advance to a fancier treadmill, but you’ll have to run faster to stay on it.

And these merely financial costs of working are the least expensive. In one survey, people of all walks of life were asked how much money they would need to live the life they wanted; from pauper to patrician, they all answered approximately double whatever their current income was. So not only is money costly to obtain, but, like any addictive drug, it’s less and less fulfilling! And the further up you get in the hierarchy, the more you have to fight to hold your place. The wealthy executive must abandon his unruly passions and his conscience, must convince himself that he deserves more than the unfortunates whose labor provides for his comfort, must smother his every impulse to question, to share, to imagine himself in others’ shoes; if he doesn’t, sooner or later some more ruthless contender replaces him. Both blue-collar and white-collar workers have to kill themselves to keep the jobs that keep them alive; it’s just a question of physical or spiritual destruction.

Those are the costs we pay individually, but there’s also a global price to pay for all this working. Alongside the environmental costs, there are work-related illnesses, injuries, and deaths: every year we kill people by the thousand to sell hamburgers and health club memberships to the survivors. The US Department of Labor reported that twice as many people suffered fatal work injuries in 2001 as died in the September 11 attacks, and that doesn’t begin to take into account work-related illnesses. Above all, more exorbitant than any other price, there is the cost of never learning how to direct our own lives, never getting the chance to answer or even ask the question of what we would do with our time on this planet if it was up to us. We can never know how much we are giving up by settling for a world in which people are too busy, too poor, or too beaten down to do so.

Why work, if it’s so expensive? Everyone knows the answer—there’s no other way to acquire the resources we need to survive, or for that matter to participate in society at all. All the earlier social forms that made other ways of life possible have been eradicated—they were stamped out by conquistadors, slave traders, and corporations that left neither tribe nor tradition nor ecosystem intact. Contrary to capitalist propaganda, free human beings don’t crowd into factories for a pittance if they have other options, not even in return for name brand shoes and software. In working and shopping and paying bills, each of us helps perpetuate the conditions that necessitate these activities. Capitalism exists because we invest everything in it: all our energy and ingenuity in the marketplace, all our resources at the supermarket and in the stock market, all our attention in the media. To be more precise, capitalism exists because our daily activities are it. But would we continue to reproduce it if we felt we had another choice?

On the contrary, instead of enabling people to achieve happiness, work fosters the worst kind of self-denial.

Obeying teachers, bosses, the demands of the market—not to mention laws, parents’ expectations, religious scriptures, social norms—we’re conditioned from infancy to put our desires on hold. Following orders becomes an unconscious reflex, whether or not they are in our best interest; deferring to experts becomes second nature.

Selling our time rather than doing things for their own sake, we come to evaluate our lives on the basis of how much we can get in exchange for them, not what we get out of them. As freelance slaves hawking our lives hour by hour, we think of ourselves as each having a price; the amount of the price becomes our measure of value. In that sense, we become commodities, just like toothpaste and toilet paper. What once was a human being is now an employee, in the same way that what once was a pig is now a pork chop. Our lives disappear, spent like the money for which we trade them.

Most of us have become so used to giving up things that are precious to us that sacrifice has become our only way of expressing that we care about something. We martyr ourselves for ideas, causes, love of one another, even when these are supposed to help us find happiness.

There are families, for example, in which people show affection by competing to be the one who gives up the most for the others. Gratification isn’t just delayed, it’s passed on from one generation to the next. The responsibility of finally enjoying all the happiness presumably saved up over years of thankless toil is deferred to the children; yet when they come of age, if they are to be seen as responsible adults, they too must begin working their fingers to the bone.

But the buck has to stop somewhere.

People work hard nowadays, that’s for sure. Tying access to resources to market performance has caused unprecedented production and technological progress. Indeed, the market has monopolized access to our own creative capacities to such an extent that many people work not only to survive but also to have something to do. But what kind of initiative does this instill?

Let’s go back to global warming, one of the most serious crises facing the planet. After decades of denial, politicians and businessmen have finally swung into action to do something about it. And what are they doing? Casting about for ways to cash in! Carbon credits, “clean” coal, “green” investment firms—who believes that these are the most effective way to curb the production of greenhouse gases? It’s ironic that a catastrophe caused by capitalist consumerism can be used to spur more consumption, but it reveals a lot about the kind of initiative work instills. What kind of person, confronted with the task of preventing the end of life on earth, responds, “Sure, but what’s in it for me?”

If everything in our society has to be driven by a profit motive to succeed, that might not be initiative after all, but something else. Really taking initiative, initiating new values and new modes of behavior—this is as unthinkable to the enterprising businessman as it is to his most listless employee. What if working—that is, leasing your creative powers to others, whether managers or customers—actually erodes initiative?

The evidence for this extends beyond the workplace. How many people who never miss a day of work can’t show up on time for band practice? We can’t keep up with the reading for our book clubs even when we can finish papers for school on time; the things we really want to do with our lives end up at the bottom of the to-do list. The ability to follow through on commitments becomes something outside ourselves, associated with external rewards or punishments.

Imagine a world in which everything people do, they do because they want to, because they are personally invested in bringing it about. For any boss who has struggled to motivate indifferent employees, the idea of working with people who are equally invested in the same projects sounds utopian. But this isn’t proof that nothing would get done without bosses and salaries—it just shows how work saps us of initiative.

Let’s say your job never injures, poisons, or sickens you. Let’s also take it for granted that the economy doesn’t crash and take your job and savings with it, and that no one who got a worse deal than you manages to hurt or rob you. You still can’t be sure you won’t be downsized. Nowadays nobody works for the same employer his whole life; you work somewhere a few years until they let you go for someone younger and cheaper or outsource your job overseas. You can break your back to prove you’re the best in your field and still end up hung out to dry.

You have to count on your employers to make shrewd decisions so they can write your paycheck—they can’t just fritter money away or they won’t have it to pay you. But you never know when that shrewdness will turn against you: the ones you depend on for your livelihood didn’t get where they are by being sentimental. If you’re self-employed, you probably know how fickle the market can be, too.

What could provide real security? Perhaps being part of a long-term community in which people looked out for each other, a community based on mutual assistance rather than financial incentives. And what is one of the chief obstacles to building that kind of community today? Work.

Who carried out most of the injustices in history? Employees. This is not necessarily to say they are responsible for them—as they would be the first to tell you!

Does receiving a wage absolve you of responsibility for your actions? Working seems to foster the impression that it does. The Nuremburg defense—“I was just following orders”—has been the anthem and alibi of millions of employees. This willingness to check one’s conscience at the workplace door—to be, in fact, a mercenary—lies at the root of many of the troubles plaguing our species.

People have done horrible things without orders, too—but not nearly so many horrible things. You can reason with a person who is acting for herself; she acknowledges that she is accountable for her decisions. Employees, on the other hand, can do unimaginably dumb and destructive things while refusing to think about the consequences.

The real problem, of course, isn’t employees refusing to take responsibility for their actions—it’s the economic system that makes taking responsibility so prohibitively expensive.

Employees dump toxic waste into rivers and oceans.

Employees slaughter cows and perform experiments on monkeys.

Employees throw away truckloads of food.

Employees are destroying the ozone layer.

They watch your every move through security cameras.

They evict you when you don’t pay your rent.

They imprison you when you don’t pay your taxes.

They humiliate you when you don’t do your homework or show up to work on time.

They enter information about your private life into credit reports and FBI files.

They give you speeding tickets and tow your car.

They administer standardized exams, juvenile detention centers, and lethal injections.

The soldiers who herded people into gas chambers were employees,

Just like the soldiers occupying Iraq and Afghanistan,

Just like the suicide bombers who target them—they are employees of God, hoping to be paid in paradise.

Let’s be clear about this—critiquing work doesn’t mean rejecting labor, effort, ambition, or commitment. It doesn’t mean demanding that everything be fun or easy. Fighting against the forces that compel us to work is hard work. Laziness is not the alternative to work, though it might be a byproduct of it.

The bottom line is simple: all of us deserve to make the most of our potential as we see fit, to be the masters of our own destinies. Being forced to sell these things away to survive is tragic and humiliating. We don’t have to live like this.

[berniesrevolution]

The U.S. is a rotten basketcase of a nation, with an ancient and constantly backfiring Constitution, a severe case of declining empire neurosis, and an executive branch shot through with criminals and scam artists.

The elite press corps of the imperial capital plays an important part in our government's corruption, as was on vivid display once more with the tired charade of the White House Correspondents' Dinner this weekend. Comedian Michelle Wolf did what political comedians are supposed to do— use jokes to cut through the comfortable hypocrisy and expose some unpleasant truths, namely that the Trump administration is full of disgustingly amoral cretins. Much of the assembled crowd of bigshot reporters then played their part, performing scandalized outrage in defense of the corrupt regime.

This same routine has been playing out off and on since 2006, when Stephen Colbert gave the assembled Washington press an even more severe walloping over their complicity with George W. Bush's corruption and warmongering.

I was a bit curious to see if things would change this time, as Trump is not even bothering to hide how he is using the presidency to enrich himself, multiple former administration and campaign officials are under indictment or have pleaded guilty to serious crimes, and Trump himself is constantly whipping up psychotic anti-media hatred. Indeed, during the dinner itself, Trump was lambasting the media at a rally: "Is this better than that phony Washington White House Correspondents' Dinner? Is this more fun?" (The crowd roared.)

But no. When Wolf launched a few mild zingers at Sarah Huckabee Sanders and Kellyanne Conway — saying that Sanders' "smoky eye" makeup was made from "burnt facts," speculating about how to get Conway trapped under a tree, and attacking CNN for profiting off the Trump presidency — most of the elite D.C. press leaped to their defense. CNN's Chris Cillizza said Wolf was bullying Sanders. MSNBC's Mika Brzezinski tweeted that Wolf's makeup joke was "deplorable." The New York Times' Maggie Haberman wrote that it was "impressive" that Sanders didn't walk out. "Being mean isn't funny," whined Politico Playbook. "It's mean." Mike Allen, the dean of D.C.'s political journalists and (not coincidentally) an extraordinarily ethically compromised person himself, announced: "Media hands Trump big, embarrassing win."

Margaret Talev, the president of the White House Correspondents Association, capped things off with a statement on Sunday night lamenting that "the entertainer's monologue" wasn't in the spirit of the dinner's supposed "mission."

Let's be frank here: The basic job of Sanders and Conway is to lie and dissemble on behalf of a corrupt president who has taken vicious media-baiting far beyond the Spiro Agnew level. They do it nearly every time they open their mouths. That it is possible to react to these mild insults outside of this overtly and personally threatening context is final confirmation that the above journalists are not capable of perceiving the reality of the American state, much less how they are enabling it. As Alex Pareene once noted, "These people practice a form of corruption in which the corrupt individual literally cannot understand why anyone wouldn't consider him or her a stalwart and productive member of society."

(Continue Reading)

[izartn]

Dunno I’ve been thinking and the last book I remember liking by RR was The Son of Neptune bc outsider pov on percy??? I’m always a sucker for those. Also the Leo and Jason parts of the first of HoO; Piper was meh, Jason a little less meh and Leo surprisingly good. But I just lost any major interest in the series with Mark of Athena; it was entertaining but it didn’t thrill me anymore. Maybe I had grown too old? But mostly I think it was so many charas saturating the plot. 

But really, The Last Olympian is such a good finale? Of course I wanted to read more of Percy and Annabeth but I was so happy when I finished it... And of course the undervalued Kane Chronicles, whose mythology and fantasy I liked even moren although the charas weren’t superior; that trilogy deserved so much more. 

The nome system, the different specializations and rituals and the way the protags are living gods at different points of the story??? the whole walt-anubis-sadie situation? and zia, omg? The romance is also wonkers in this trilogy, it’s so subtly creepy-wrong and the supernatural vibes... But like, when treated more seriously. Hello Sadie is 13 by book 2 and I completely forgot that bcs she was being romanced by a god and a 15-16 years old, and doing dangerous things and being Isis avatar, and like no way she is that age. Also, Anubis as a 5.000 years old teen is like... no, riordan. It’s still being a bit weird. I wasn’t expecting the kiss >_< You could’ve made it an interesting exploration of the mutable qualities of the egyptian gods and the lack of like, modern standards of behavior, and then go ahead with the Walt-Anubis plotline. And after PJO and seeing the results of god-human unions... Play with what it means, but for the love of god, Sadie’s age >.>

But I loved her being obsessed with Adele bcs by then I was too. XD

TW INCEST. Here I go off the rails speculating for a parragraph on ancient egypt royalty and the kanes, if you don’t want to read it, close the tab or scroll past it, it’s nothing too dark, nor it’s explicit in any case. More like the result of reading too much weird fic. 

And really that no one (no god ever) ever mentioned the practice of marrying family in egyptian dynasties to horrorize or joke a little to carter and sadie? (i know my mind is perturbed but these two see each other when? once, twice a year a bit more in the lucky ones? honestly if this was and adult or even ya and the author another it’d been an interesting conflict treated seriously. keeping canon ending pairs et all!!)  Although carter knows for sure and just hasn’t clocked in what it means they’re the blood of pharaohs. Yup your ancestors x-generation removed were into incest for purity reasons. And know you’re the incarnation of the horus-pharaoh in earth too. Enjoy! (this is like in yu-gi-oh!! fandom where we pretend the concept didn’t exist bcs too serious and creepy to be treated seriously. and like atem died at 15? 16?)

END TW

 I guess they did the whole explaining the gods have the same relationship their vessels have with each other by feels-possesion double track influence, so that one is resolved, bcs if not it’d be beyond weird that isis is both their mother and the spouse of their osiris-julius and also sadie sometimes. Like, Kane Chronicles mythology is much much older than in other RR series and it tracks with the undercurrents of the trilogy (crap under the radar i think?) and how the gods acts i think.

But you see the above clusterfuck??? If RR had aged a bit the charas, bc is not as if Sadie is a real 12-13 years old, more like a 15-16 one at minimum with how she acts and the narrative treats her, and made Carter like 18-19? Thinking about what he wants out of life and uni, etc because for him it clocks with his arc. Or even older; I think that would be have been better but then it’d be another kind of book. Make Sadie the one starting uni and Carter the one finishing his master in egyptology bcs that’s all he’s known all his life, and he’s interested in it truly, and their father is still the one who wants to reunite the three for Sadie’s birthday going with Carter in plane from whatever university he’s in (could be one in egypt Julius has ties to) and it’s then when all goes to shit.

 The conflict, the stakes... You could treat the family conflict and well, the racial aspect of the books in more profundity. Maybe make them biracial but their father is afroamerican and the mother is british but descendant from egyptian immigrants, so yup. You have that connection with the original land of the myths, and Carter and Sadie perspectives on being poc shoe the contrast btwn the sister raised by her mother parents, and the brother by the father. But that’s need much more sensitivity than RR is able of. I wouldn’t dare to write that book alone, that’s for sure. 

 As I understand it there are more than some problematic elements to RR tendency to diversify his cast without doing profound analysis and research and using sensivity readers so. I’m south european white, I don’t have a real idea of all the messes he made with Kane Chronicles so I don’t have anything more say anything more about this. But yeah, it’d been another demography completely different from the original, and would have needed another author which I think would have suited the mood I get from this trilogy even now. 

We all know the errors RR makes like doubling down on romance forever saving the day and female characterization or his well. Well-intentioned if misguided discourse? (that cursed word) I’m all for social justice, but Magnus Chase read like a pamphlet at various points instead of being organically integrated in the story (KC and HoH have sometimes that problem but in MC is really blatant) who am I going to lie, although Magnus has fascinating potential as a protag.

 And Alex chara too, plus Hearth and Blitzen. I think he made a full on queer protag quartet without realising it (which is why Blitz and Hearth are those two guys instead of confirming any status. like just besties, or qrp or budding romance, which one? we can’t have full on queer quartet) plus Samira and his poor we’ll call it that, handle of her muslim lifestyle from what I’ve seen from muslim fans reviews. (so, my idea of sadie above wouldn’t been plausible) If she’s gonna marry make her at least older than 20? After finishing uni, which I think is something you usa (noarospec) people do regularly without religion or anything? But really marriages just make me go yikes anyway so. Do away with that plot point you don’t have to follow so exactly the myths. 

And so their charas aren’t explored with profundity. Although they could have been really interesting.

 And the ending was... meh. The point was the anticlimax, but Loki was well build enough in the two first books and the third was a deception honestly. 

But again, I think I also simply aged of his books + started noticing his fails. See above my KC tangent. Curiously I think the PJO books (not HoO) are good as they are... No urge to make charas older or anything. The dysfunction is different in both stories I feel.

 I KNOW! It’s because in KC we see the magician society and it’s full of adults and seriousness so it would have fit having two older teens-young adults be the protags, exploring it properly and so Carter and Sadie being the chiefs of the Brooklyn nome and the initiators of the gods path in contemporary times wouldn’t struck me as so weird. The nome politics ;_; We were robbed. 

Compare that to the ways PJO with its ephemeral demigod lives and constant death and youth as the one who bring the necessary change for the gods (plus the absence of older demigods coming back to help in TLO, be it bcs they’re done with greek gods or they’re dead, functions really well following Percy since he’s 12 to his 16 birthday and beyond if he had managed to do the roman fussion correctly. Make it so PJO ends with Percy and Annabeth at 16 and HoO alt series, starts 4-6 years later. Because the roman camp and its senate and norms and village are more serious and imply a heavy adult-political presence, with legacies etc; because the gods are starting to forget their promises; bring up the parallels with Luke and mentions of how live has been treating both Anna and Percy. Enrich the world and make the sequel interesting to your original audience who is much older than when they started reading the PJO books. 

Well. This is a fantasy...We know RR would never ;_; Although he’s done much for young fantasy. And know I’m searching the impossible fic.

[scrawnydutchman]

Why “The Ricklantis Mixup” Should be Awarded (SPOILERS)

So for those followers of my blog about entertainment (with a primary focus on animation) may have read before, I made an article about Season 3 of Rick and Morty. The article highlighted some issues the viewing public had at the time (when the latest episode was Pickle Rick), and was all about me giving my take on why people may have been disillusioned with the way the series was going. In it I proclaimed it was possible that the show was running out of ways to surprise us as an audience: that it’s gone so far in establishing it’s own sense of charm and storytelling that audience members aren’t reacting as much as they did when the show first launched and that the show was losing it’s core ability to surprise us. Allow me to refute my statements.

I was VERY wrong.

Because holy SHIT was “The Ricklantis Mixup” a good episode. Before anyone points it out, I know the news of this episode dropping is long past and there’s been another decent episode to come out since then (and another episode dropping tomorrow no less), but I don’t care. This episode is a storytelling masterpiece that deserves to be talked about more. Not only is it hilarious, not only is it shocking, not only is it everything we love about any Rick and Morty episode, but it manages to accomplish in 20 minutes what some television programming fails to accomplish in entire seasons. It truly is groundbreaking in multiple areas and sits with me in a way no Rick and Morty episode has ever done before or since. That includes my all time favorite episode “The Rick’s Must be Crazy”. So let’s break down why this episode is just so amazing into 3 different sections: Worldbuilding, Voice performance and storytelling from multiple perspectives.

1. Worldbuilding

When developing a narrative in a fictionalized world, an important but often overlooked aspect is making your setting believable and interesting. The location in which all the events take place is a character onto itself, and is enriched by the architecture featured, the societal system inhabiting it (if any), and of course the world’s inhabitants. Batman wouldn’t be as interesting without Gotham city, it’s villains and it’s cops. Another point about worldbuilding is that often times in order to do some substantial development you have to step away from your main characters for a time. Let the audience know what’s going on in the universe besides the misadventures of Rick and Morty. This episode does precisely that (but not without a classic misleading teaser from the writing staff). We’re treated to finding out what ever happened to the now disbanded council of Rick’s and the Morty’s left without Rick’s in an episode that is a “Tales of Springfield’ kind of narrative where we just follow the everyday lives of Ricks and Mortys just trying to cope in a new society they’ve created complete with an economy, a democracy, a justice system and prejudice. We get to see what life on the Citadel is like from multiple perspectives from Morty’s living in the Ghetto to Rick’s coping with middle class jobs that undermine their intelligence . . . and a Morty running for president. Not only are we treated to multiple perspectives but we’re also given a mesh of different genres, including a buddy cop homage, a political drama and a buddy road trip adventure following a group of runaway Mortys. In just 20 minutes they manage to establish a convincing and compelling world that eerily mirrors our own in spite of only featuring two kinds of people in it. The irony is this Citadel world is more like city life than the actual stand in city that the Smith family live in. What’s cool about each of these stories going on is that while they seem disjointed and unrelated, they all prove to contribute to a larger overarching conspiracy, leading to the biggest plot twist the show was ever given us. It gets especially grim in the last minute when in just a few flashes we learn how all the characters we got attached to lives changed and they don’t even completely understand why. All along the way we get sprinkles of commentary about prejudice, morality, the meaning of life, what it truly means to be happy, whether or not we can escape being cogs in the machine known as society, and so much more delivered in that signature “Rick and Morty” way where the answer is hilariously pessimistic. It’s the last thing I would have expected from an episode titled ‘The Ricklantis Mixup’ but God am I glad I got it. It makes the universe of Rick and Morty infinitely more fresh and immersive than it would have been had they never gone this route.

2. Voice Performance

So let’s talk about the voice acting for a second. This episode is comprised entirely, ENTIRELY, of different versions of Ricks and different versions of Mortys, with the only exceptions being a quick voice clip of a young Beth and a narrator for the “Simple Rick’s” commercial. That means JUSTIN ROILAND IS 98% OF THE DIALOGUE IN THIS EPISODE. That alone should earn him an Emmy for outstanding character voice-over performance. I can’t imagine how his voice must have felt after pulling off an episode like this. What’s interesting about this is that while you’d think listening to the same two voices for twenty minutes would get incredibly annoying and would make your ears hurt, especially since this guy is most noted for playing comically annoying characters like Lemongrab, surprisingly this episode never suffers from that problem (in my opinion). I think what contributes to this is the fact that despite everyone having the same voice their personalities and overall characters are JUST distinct enough to let us know who is supposed to be who, even if we aren’t watching the visuals. Plus each character is just so engaging that it makes the voices easy to look past. Not to mention all the different accents and speech patterns Justin put on to make this episode work. The overall execution of this episode through dialogue and visual storytelling is excellent, but of course a major contributor is just how natural every character feels. For one man to be single handedly responsibly for pulling that off is no small feat.

3. Storytelling from Multiple Perspectives

So as mentioned before, this episode’s story is told from several different perspectives within the citadel. This further compliments the world built for us because we get to hear different opinions on how it is, and we get to see how different kinds of people cope with their situations. Following each and every character around in this story is a blast, and it involves some genuinely heartfelt moments that immediately creates sympathy within the audience. This show has an uncanny knack for that. We get to visit different locations, see Ricks and Mortys in different occupations, and every nook and cranny of this episode is a distinct parallel to how things are in the real world. Every character also gets their own unique conflict. The Morty cop is so deeply troubled and disillusioned by the abuse done to him by Ricks that in order to survive he got hard and ruthless, not even sympathizing for other Mortys. The Rick cop shows initial implications of prejudice towards Mortys but is revealed to be a by-the-books golden boy officer who learns that everything he was taught will only increase his likelihood of getting killed. We see a Rick assembly line worker struggling with finding his own happiness because he knows his potential is far greater than just assembling packaged processed desserts. We see a group of schoolboy Mortys run away from their prescribed destiny on the small smidgen of hope that they can change their lives for the better. And of course underneath it all is a harebrained scheme from a certain evil Morty to take hold of the citadel . . . and winning. This episode goes above and beyond in creating a believable world with a slew of likable characters, and tells a story in a very progressive and interesting way where everything neatly ties together in the end for, once again, the best plot twist this show ever threw at us. 

Man oh man, WHAT an amazing episode. It goes in a completely unexpected direction, creates a much more interesting world than we could have ever thought, gives us a whole lineup of lovable characters and executes the most mindblowing ending we’ve seen in a long time, performed entirely by one man . . . all in 20 minutes or less. Try to pitch this kind of episode to any other board room and the board would call you insane, but the Rick and Morty team pulled it off. I really hope the time comes when this episode is majorly recognized as some of the best and most effective entertainment tv has seen in the long time.

[dystopialiving]

Case Study #11: Meta Media

Some background:

Meta-media is, as near as I can tell from a very cursory Google search, a term that I’m coining for the sake of this blog.

Seems fair.

The same concept has been touched on by some writers under the terminology of recaps and recap culture, but that analysis in my opinion doesn’t capture the complete nature of the issue. Probably because most other pop culture outlets don’t operate from the premise that we’re living in an inescapable hellscape of our own making.

I’m not sure why, because I’m having a blast here.

Anyhow! Meta-media is media whose sole purpose is to revisit other (most often contemporary) previously-consumed pieces of media, typically in the form of podcasts, television, or streaming video.

You’re likely already familiar with at least one piece of meta-media. Examples include Talking Dead, The West Wing Weekly, Watch the Thrones, and Here to Make Friends.

Media about media is nothing new, as the long history of film and literary criticism, digests and the like attests. However, meta-media is distinct from these other historical forms in that it expects the viewer or listener to have already consumed the primary piece of media in order to engage in the meta-level consumption.

In other words, you’ll read a film review to help you decide if you want to spend your time watching the film in question, and you’ll read Soap Opera Digest to catch up on the episodes you missed, but Talking Dead is not a show you watch if you missed The Walking Dead. It’s a show you spend your time watching if and only if you just spent the last hour of your life watching The Walking Dead. And you don’t listen to The West Wing Weekly to decide whether or not you want to start watching The West Wing. It’s only coherent if you’ve already watched the show.

Whereas historical media about media was created to save you time, meta-media is created to compound the amount of time you spend consuming. So not only do you have to contend with a truly overwhelming amount of primary media, you’ve now got to make sure you’re up on all your hippest recaps as well. 

Meta-media is coming for every goddamn minute we have.

The Dystopia:

There’s nothing inherently bad about media consumption, and there’s no shortage of media that provides opportunities for personal enrichment—It’s when we reach overconsumption, and in particular overconsumption of the types of media that don’t provide personal enrichment, that problems begin to arise. Speaking of a rise: 

Source

That’s right—Americans now spend more than 11 hours each day consuming media of one form or another, and that number is rising. That’s nearly ⅔ of all waking hours (factoring in the less-than recommended 6.8 hours of sleep per night the average American gets).

Frustratingly, the meta-media problem is further compounded by how serialization of media has changed with the advent of streaming video. It is only very recently that media creators expect viewers to consume, for example, every episode of a television series. Even up until the early 2000s, series-long story arcs didn’t require the viewer to consume even the majority of a series’ episodes to be comprehensible, and important plot points were often recapped with the expectation that not all viewers were able to keep up with essential episodes (see, for example, The X-Files). Now, when entire seasons of television are dumped in a single day and viewers can binge watch over the course of a weekend, every episode is designed to be essential viewing.

Whereas the historical digest format would be even more helpful now, in what can only be called a content glut, we’ve instead moved in the opposite direction. Meta-media not only compels us to watch every episode of a television show, it also compels us to watch or listen to every episode about every episode. 

In pulling this post together, I spent several hours listening to and watching meta-media, and I came away with one predominant thought: I’m never getting those hours of my life back. But it was certainly a learning experience.

I dove into The West Wing Weekly and Here to Make Friends (each hour-long podcasts recapping single episodes of The West Wing and The Bachelor, respectively), Beyond Stranger Things, Talk the Thrones (an hour-plus long live webcast recapping single Game of Thrones Episodes), and Talking Dead.

In terms of the content that most meta-media explores, it tends to live in the world of commentary, but rarely approaches criticism—it’s all far more expository than analytical. Hosts will give surface-level opinions about the primary media’s narrative, and make predictions for future episodes or installments, but rarely do they delve deeper into themes or questions like what a piece of media says about the culture at large. Controversial opinions are almost nonexistent, as if the meta-media exists primarily to validate positive feelings that consumers have about the original piece of media. This characteristic is particularly egregious for meta-media that’s produced by the very same entity that created the primary media.

In a best-case scenario, meta-media will include in its discussion someone who was involved in the production of the primary media to give behind-the-scenes insight into the making of the original product. In other words, you’re basically watching this:  

So, yeah, I’m using “best-case scenario” pretty generously here. It’s derivative, it’s uncreative. It adds very little to the conversation started by the primary media, and it’s really only a simulacrum of a conversation.

Meta-media also pays a very real part in our deepening entrenchment in our own particular content bubbles, in that it does little to open us up to new perspectives or ways of thinking. There are only so many hours in the day, and filling those hours with meta-media leaves less and less room for experiencing novel primary media. In a time when we could stand to learn about as many new things and ways of thinking as possible, it seems borderline irresponsible to consume something that, instead of being about love or acceptance or trauma or family or friggin’ dragons, is just about another show.

But Why?

A defense of meta-media I’ve heard from friends and acquaintances is that consuming it feels a lot like hanging out and chatting with friends. But if that’s the case—why aren’t we just hanging out and chatting with friends? Do they not like the same shows that we do? Are we disappointed that they’re not as witty as our favorite podcast hosts? Or do we just not have the time, what with all the meta-media we’re consuming?

At what point does media consumption become another obligation rather than a real pleasure?

Critically, meta-media lacks the most crucial element that hanging out and chatting with friends grants us: actually voicing our own opinions. Sure, we might have thoughts and feelings upon consuming a particular episode, but if we then immediately follow that with simply dumping professional content creators’ positive opinions in on top, do we even have space to fully form and flesh out our own ideas about media?

It’s like a reverse Two Minutes Hate. Let’s call it 60 Minutes Love.

Assuming we don’t receive a cease-and-desist from the Leslie Stahl fan club:

And there, I think is the real answer to why meta-media has grown so enormously in recent years: More consumption means more advertising dollars, and in terms of effort to both create and consume, meta-media expertly scrapes the bottom of the barrel. It’s a low-budget media format that, at its least complicated, reliably gives its consumers warm and fuzzy feelings. More insidiously, meta media also spurs ironic consumption. Sure, you wouldn’t normally be caught dead watching The Bachelor, but Here to Make Friends is funny, so you’ll watch it on a lark. Congratulations—advertisers don’t care why you’re watching the Bachelor. They got your eyeballs anyway.

Redeeming Qualities:

Particularly given the aforementioned opinions about what it feels like to consume meta-media, I’m not going to deny that plenty of meta-media is entertaining. Most meta-media hosts are deliberately chosen to be funny and engaging, so from a strictly hedonic perspective, meta-media has a role to play on the mindless end of the entertainment spectrum. I certainly understand wanting a break from dense, emotionally or intellectually heavy media.

That’s not to say that meta media is dumb, per se. At its best, it can be witty and occasionally insightful, but what it’s not is intellectually original. It is, by its very nature, derivative. And while I understand the impulse to sometimes just kick back and enjoy something untaxing, there’s so much primary media that could fill that void! Or even non-media choices altogether.

I suppose at best that meta-media can be seen as a manifestation of the completionist impulse that lies at the heart of certain fandoms. If we love something enough, we’re happy to sacrifice novelty for depth, and that’s okay as long as we fully grasp the consequences of that choice. Still, I can’t help but feel that there’s a fundamental difference between A World Of Ice And Fire and Watch The Thrones.

Can we fix it?

The first step to fixing this is to just be honest about what we get out of our favorite piece of meta-media and decide whether or not it’s enriching in a way that’s deserving of our increasingly scarce time. More broadly, though, we also need to work towards dealing with a larger cultural problem in content creation: Talk Show Disorder.

Talk Show Disorder is a problem that manifests itself time after time in the behavior of otherwise extremely talented comedians and performers. When presented with a crossroads in their career, they overwhelmingly make an extremely boring and predictable choice: hosting a talk show (see: Conan O’Brien, Stephen Colbert, Ellen DeGeneres, etc. etc.).

These are extremely capable people who could otherwise do just about anything with their time and be successful. Why is their impulse to choose to spend five days a week sitting behind a desk, talking about the things that other people are doing? Is it just good, easy money? Is it the cultural weight we’ve assigned to talk show hosts as authority figures?  Why are so many creators compelled to do something so thoroughly unoriginal? To put it another way:

Meta-media, I think, is a symptom of this larger disorder. The notion that this media format is something to aspire to is embedded deeply enough in the zeitgeist that people are going to continue creating and consuming meta-media until it changes.  

Just as every hour we spend consuming meta-media is an hour not consuming better media, every hour spent creating meta-media is an hour not spent creating primary media. Hopefully, if enough people stopped consuming meta-media, market forces would push content creators away from this form and towards using their intellectual capital on more worthwhile pursuits.

Look—at the end of the day, it’s your life. You can spend it doing whatever you want. But know that just as you vote with your dollar, you also vote with your time. So if, for example, you’re a young white dude who took three weeks of improv classes and is convinced that the best thing you can do with your time is record a combination Ballers/60 Minutes recap podcast called Ballers & Stahlers, maybe do your old pal Kevin a favor and try directing your creative energies elsewhere.

Up next: I may well go a few years without posting again, but hey—America has concentration camps again, so the basic premise of this blog is kind of shot. Maybe we should talk about that soon.

[thewhiterabbit42]

After the Rain

Summary:  When the weather gets in the way of something Gabriel needs to do, you remind him he has everything he needs right at home.  

Pairings: Gabriel x Reader

Warnings/tags: fluff

Word Count: 2428

Author’s Note:  This was written for @becaamm who I thought could use some fluff right now.  If nothing else, I hope this can be a happy little distraction for you. <3

It was written using April’s @gabriel-monthly-challenge statement prompt:

He stared out the window, silently cursing the rain that was pouring from the sky and ruining all of his grand plans for the day.

This one didn’t make it through my betas.  Apologies for any mistakes.  

***Please do not repost or copy my work to any other site without my written permission.  Giving credit does NOT count.  Reblogging is ok.***

He stared out the window, silently cursing the rain that was pouring from the sky and ruining all of his grand plans for the day.  It wasn’t just any day.  Today was the day.  The one where he desperately needed everything to fall into place.  As usual, the universe refused to cooperate, causing the thread of what made him an archangel to begin to fray, drawing a little more of the innate, primordial being to the surface.  

That was how you found him, staring out the sliding glass door to the deck, glowering fire and brimstone down upon the first gloriously sunny day you’d had all week.  

“Uh, Gabe?��  You’d sounded confused and more than a little wary, though the caution your words carried wasn’t the kind where you recognized the inherent danger in him.  It was where you wondered if he hadn’t somehow slipped out, drank a liquor store in your absence, and now you were going to have to keep him entertained or spend the rest of the day hiding the existence of Sparkle Fingers (his drunk alter ego aptly named for his tendency to zap things indiscriminately) from the rest of suburbia.  

Unbeknownst to you, what he was looking at was halfway across the world and under the threat of taking on some serious water.  Sure, he could snap his fingers and there’d be clear skies again, but it was one thing to clear up a little rain storm and completely another to wipe out a category four typhoon.  The latter might draw a little more attention than he hoped considering he was technically still in hiding.  Though that was mostly from the Winchesters at your insistence since the Brothers Grimm had already gotten you both respectively killed during the apocalypse.

Gabriel hadn’t argued considering how painful it had been resurrecting you once, not to mention how nearly devastating to most of North America.

“Is something wrong?” You continued when he didn’t respond.  He turned, forcing himself to rein in his vexation as he made an attempt at a convincing smile.  The excuse he gave sounded hollow to his own ears, though his tongue was more talented with those than the even weaker attempt at reassurance that followed.  The way you continued to regard him like you were trying to remember where you kept the holy oil suggested he hadn’t been very successful.  

The joke was on you.  There wasn’t a single drop of the stuff left on the property after the last stunt you pulled, no matter how justified you’d been using it.   

Eventually, you had wandered back out, leaving him to figure out just what he was supposed to do about his dilemma.

He thought about changing locations, but it would be too risky.  He’d studied this place from every angle, knew the surrounding terrain, and had run through every potential complication in his mind.  Well, all save one, apparently.  Regardless, there was never a good contingency plan for Mother Nature when she came out in full force.  

No, it needed to be there.  Too much depended on it, which just meant it couldn’t be today.  Except it had to be today.  He’d sat on the knowledge for weeks now, letting it grow heavy with mounting urgency until it had erupted in a fever pitch, threatening the serenity of everything you two had worked so hard to build.  

He was at a standstill, and if something didn't give, he wouldn’t be moving anytime soon.

“Brought you something,” your voice broke through his thoughts and as before he’d been too caught up to hear you approaching.  Your instincts were still sharp, though it had been years since you’d quit hunting, and this time you were waiting in the doorway for him.  

His eyes fell to the plate in your hand and the smell of warm sugar and cinnamon wafted in with your approach.  How he had missed you baking his favorite cookies was beyond him, considering last time that had happened, he had smelled them clear across the neighborhood.

As you stopped in front of him, his eyes weren’t on the treats you offered but solely on you.  He realized he’d been so preoccupied lately the only exchange the two of you had since breakfast yesterday was when you wandered in earlier.  It was uncommon to go this long without having some meaningful interaction since the two of you had decided to try being “normal.”

Well, you were pretending to be normal.  Gabriel was just doing his best not to do anything that would make you have to move again.  

Today there were traces of the past lingering beneath your eyes.  The dark circles were a reminder of just how poorly you slept without him there and guilt gave a hearty nudge somewhere near his spleen when he realized he had never made it to bed last night.  Patience laced the weary smile you gave him, suggesting you’d probably drop from exhaustion before ever mentioning it to him.  Your need to protect him in ways he never considered had his frustration fading.  

He reached out, tenderly erasing a streak of flour that ran across your forehead from where your fingers had tried to keep your hair out of your face and failed.  A halo of strands framed your face, falling from where you had them haphazardly secured at the back of your head.  Now that he was the only being you had to worry about tugging on your hair, you’d let it grow out and he had a sudden urge to see it.  He reached for the tie, gently freeing y/h/c until it tumbled past your shoulders, giving you a tousled look that normally put all sorts of unwholesome thoughts into his head.  

Today, it simply reminded him of how lucky he was.  

He took the plate from your hands, setting it on a nearby stand before drawing you against him.  Even the feel of your body was different.  Intentional or not, the Winchesters had a way of draining people dry before leaving a (normally dead) husk in their wake and while you were with them you were in a constant state of agitated survival.  You lived every moment wondering when the next enemy would round the corner, knowing the moment you let your guard down it would likely be your last.  

Now, there was nothing but a calm that came from knowing you didn’t have to worry about anything hurting you anymore. There was a contentment from letting go of the need to chase that next case, to save just one more person before you could even consider thinking of yourself.  The two of you were able to connect in a way he never thought possible because you were both so relaxed knowing the only world whose fate either of you had to worry about was each others’.  

He brought his lips to yours, liking the low hum of appreciation you gave in response.  There was no more need for urgent, impassioned kisses as if they might be the last ones you shared and he found he preferred the series of slow, gentle ones he stole in quiet moments like these.  His hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, splaying across your lower back.  His fingertips drank in the smoothness of your skin, reminding him of how the only scars acquired since your resurrection had been through far more ordinary means.  

He never thought he could be content with what always seemed like such a mind-numbing existence, day in, day out the same routine, buying groceries, mowing the lawn, fixing leaks without snapping his fingers, only to have to go back and do it all again.  There was safety in simplicity, however, and a greater depth of joy than he had known in quite some time.  

Then again, that may have had more to do with you being  along for the ride than the ride itself.   Regardless, he never thought he could be content with the “mundane”.  Once again, you’d gone and surprised him and it was exactly why he needed to follow through with his plan sooner rather than later.  

He finally drew back, a rare smile touching lips as he allowed all these sentiments to come soaring to the surface.  

“You know how much I love you, right?”  Impulsivity sparked a question he hadn’t realized just how much he needed the answer to until the words had left his mouth.  He suddenly needed you to understand just how much you enriched his existence in a way he never thought possible and he needed it to happen right now.

Whispers of the past echoed through the present in a startling and sudden shift that had shadows casting over your features.  They brought with it a familiar, manic edge that lined the borders of y/e/c, hinting at the panic that flared in a vibrant flash of emotions that were better left buried.  

“Don’t do it,” you whispered, barely able to breath life to words he could tell you desperately wished you didn’t need to.  “Whatever it is, you don't need to do it.”

The vehemence rising swiftly within your tone almost left him speechless.  Had you somehow known where he’d been going all this time? How could you when he had been so careful to ensure you were always at work when he left?

“Is it the Winchesters?” You demanded, anger burning bright and dangerous.  “Did they find you?”

Him.  Everything was focused solely on Gabriel to the point it had an ache blooming deep within his chest.  He had hoped a quieter life would tame that blinding need to protect those around you.  If anything, it had only made it grow more fierce.  

“It’s not them,” he reassured, stepping back and taking your hands into his.  He didn't know how to explain things to you, not without giving everything away.  It wasn’t until he felt the fear buzzing through your system that he realized even the snap of his fingers couldn’t calm the storm gathering in the darks of your eyes.

Today was the day and it was happening right here whether he wanted it to or not.  

This was exactly why he did whatever struck him in his current mood rather than attempting to plan ahead.    

A dizzying bout of nervousness rushed through his system as he realized this was it.  The way his heart hammered against his vessel was disconcerting.  He couldn’t remember it doing that in what had to have been centuries.  He’d forgotten how loud his pulse became and how off kilter it made him feel being acutely aware not only of his heart rate but suddenly of everything about him.    

“Just tell me,” you insisted, determination rallying your  strength and resolve as you prepared yourself for the worst.  “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.  Together.”

Your declaration brought out a blinding moment of clarity.  He’d been wrong.  He didn’t need the tropical island.  He didn’t need the magnificent ocean view at sunrise.  All he needed was you to tell him you’d be by his side no matter what came along.

“Marry me?” He asked, his tone quiet with a touch of tenderness as he flashed you a tentative smile.  Everything in your gaze stilled as you continued to stare at him.  You seemed to forget how to breathe, let alone blink and it took a minute before your chest rose again.  Your lashes fluttered once.  Twice.  A third had your brow arching clear to your hairline.

“You serious this time?”  You questioned, seeming to have recovered.

Exasperation seeped in in the wake of his fading anxiety.  Ok.  He might have deserved that.  In his defense, however, only one of those times you had actually been a joke.  The other he’d been wholly serious (though also wholly inebriated).

“Third time’s a charm?”  For the love of his father, why was that suddenly a question?  Where was the archangel in him now when he could use a little absoluteness?

“Is this why you’ve been acting strange?”  You asked, hope sparking beneath the question in a way that had sentiments squeezing tighter around his heart.  

“Yes,” he promised, eager to reassure you that what you both had was not under threat.  His patience on the other hand, might have been a different story as nerves renewed their jarring thrum the longer he waited for your answer.  

You let out a slow breath, relief easing the tension that had crept into your frame. 

“I’ll take it into consideration,” you replied, as if he were asking you to change the color of the curtains than make a lifelong commitment to him.  His brows raised in disbelief, unable to bridge the discrepancy between who you had been just one minute ago and your sudden indifference to an incredibly important matter.  

“You’ll take it into consideration?” He demanded, hands moving to his hips.  “Are you seri-uufff--” you shoved a cookie into his mouth, cutting him off with a burst of delectableness that almost had him moaning.

How you baked such heavenly creations without a touch of divinity in you was beyond him.   

“Of course I’ll marry you, chuckles.  I just figured I owed you some sweat and heart palpitations for once,” you said dryly.  He froze, mouth stopping mid-chew.  He had run all the variables for both the situation and your personality, carefully mapping every potential response he could receive from you in hopes of calculating the chances you would accept.

He never imagined you’d end up being just as much of a smart-ass as he was.  

He also never imagined it would be so hot.

There was nothing gentle about the way his mouth came down this time, his lips searing over yours, unable to get enough of the taste of you on his tongue.  The moan you gave was decadent, drawing him further beneath the waters of desire as your fingers raked through his hair.  

“You have ten seconds to make it to the bedroom,” he warned, forcing himself to release you.  

“Or what?”  You challenged, eyes glinting playfully.  

He leaned forward again, nose grazing yours as his voice dropped to a sensual husk, “Or I’m going to take you against that sliding glass door and give our neighbors the show of their lifetime.”

Considering you were pulling his hands back on you before you even started moving, you were lucky you didn’t end up revealing anything that would give you no choice but to pack up and leave yet another neighborhood behind.  

GMC tags: @lacqueluster   @archangel-with-a-shotgun  @ashiewesker  @revwinchester  

All the tags:  @girl-next-door-writes @sumara62 @fand0maniac @feelmyroarrrr @omgreganlove @jannalionheart  @baritonechick

Gabe tags:  @theblackenedsky @bloodstained-porcelain-doll  @pepperwoodatnight @samikitten

[junker-town]

Johan Cruyff is soccer’s greatest mythical figure

As long as the sport exists, Cruyff can never really die.

Johan Cruyff was born on this day 69 years ago. He died in 2016 after a long battle with lung cancer. He actually thought that he would have died at the age of 45, as his father did.

“My father died when I was just 12 and he was 45,” Cruyff said. “From that day the feeling crept stronger over me that I would die at the same age and, when I had serious heart problems when I reached 45, I thought: 'This is it.' Only medical science, which was not available to help my father, kept me alive.”

He survived, and would later state that he was, in a way, probably immortal.

“In a way I’m probably immortal.” - Johan Cruyff A year ago today, football lost one of the greats. #JohanCruyff http://pic.twitter.com/XbufDgDE70

— Photos of Football (@photosofootball) March 24, 2017

Like many of the other Cruijffiaans — his way of speaking, usually one liners that border between profound and obvious — the suggestion that he couldn’t die seemed absurd. He was still a man of bone and flesh. Though he was more exceptional than most others, death has no sympathy for overachievers.

Cruyff was a self-aware and intelligent man, though. He was arrogant, ideological, brutally honest and petty, but he wasn’t stupid. When he was removed as Barcelona’s honorary president in 2010 by the newly elected president, Sandro Rosell, Cruyff vowed to never step foot in the Camp Nou as long as Rosell led the club. Later, when he reflected on the dishonor, he seemed to have come to peace with the fact that time and life generally tends towards the negative: “I’m ex-player, ex-technical director, ex-coach, ex-manager, ex-honorary president. A nice list that once again shows that everything comes to an end.”

Cruyff’s physical life might be gone but as Mitch Albom writes, death ends a life, not a relationship. Cruyff was always much more than a man and he knew that there are many ways to live beyond the body. He is football’s greatest myth. Its greatest romance. Because he had the radical idea that the sport should be beautiful, that just as quality without results was pointless, results without quality was boring, he has become the soul of the game.

There are players who myths because of their quality on the field. Paolo Maldini, Pele, Rivaldo, Ronaldo (both of them), Lionel Messi, Zico, Ronaldinho, Eusebio, Gerd Muller, Xavi, Marco van Basten, Gianluigi Buffon, Franz Beckenbauer, Alfredo di Stefano and so on. The list is endless. There are others whose personalities are as great as their skills and who take on a larger life away from the game. Eric Cantona, Socrates, Diego Maradona, George Best. There are others, like Pep Guardiola, whose time as a manager overshadows his playing career and then there are managers, like Arrigo Sacchi, who were never players, or good ones anyway, who become romantic because of what they did from the touchline. Managers who changed the game.

Cruyff managed to be great in every category. As a player, he was the best. He invented moves, he was the first player to win the Ballon d'Or three times, he turned the meek Netherlands into a footballing powerhouse — they never lost a game he scored in, and he scored often. He won the league six times with Ajax, left for Barcelona and won there, took a detour in the United States and then Spain, came back to win again with Ajax before leaving them for Feyenoord to win the league when Ajax assumed that he was done at the top level. He was flair, grace, technique, speed, efficiency, creativity and leadership, all embodied in a skinny frame. In 1999, he was voted the European player of the century.

As a manager, he was just as impressive. He won the European Cup and KNVB Cup (2 times) with Ajax before going to Barcelona to win four league titles in a row among a multitude of other awards. He brought in the 3-4-3 formation, taking the notion of total football of his former manager Rinus Michels, and making it his own: “I was criticised for playing three at the back, but that’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard. What we needed was to fill the middle of the pitch with players where we needed it most. I much prefer to win 5-4 than 1-0.”

Photo by Paul Gilham/Getty Images

As a romantic figure beyond the field, he saved Barcelona from crisis, he gave them a permanent identity. Just as he did with the Netherlands. He became an idol for players and a guiding light for managers like Guardiola. He didn’t just reuse old systems, but thought that the game should be seen as a science and experimented with. He was the justified idealist, the troublesome genius.

It would take forever to list all of his accomplishments and at the end of it, the list still wouldn’t capture the greatness of Cruyff. At some point he became more than all of the categories that could be used to judge him, more than his goals, trophies and little quips.

Cruyff is immortal, because he now exists in the game itself. His influence is everywhere. It’s in the philosophies of Guardiola, Txiki Begiristain, Arsene Wenger, Ronald Koeman, Michael Laudrup, Luis Enrique, and is enriched by all of their achievements. He is alive in Ajax, and in every team that mimics Barcelona. He’s in the rapid, interchangeable movement of players, in one and two-touch football, in the resulting spectacular goals. Cruyff exists in every player, manager or team that sees football not only as a problem to be solved, but as an art, as entertainment. He is what best represents the beautiful game.

There will be generations that will grow up never seeing the man as a player, manager, director or honorary president. There will be those who don’t know him as a physical being. They will still know him as something else, even if they are unaware of it. As long as beautiful attacking football still exists, Cruyff will be alive. As long as those who he has influenced do the same with others, passing down the lessons that was his life’s work, thinking of the sport as a creative and not a mechanical job, then he will always be alive.

Cruyff’s nice list that shows that everything comes to an end, also shows that new lives begin right after. And just as he was practically a manager while a player, and a technical director while a manager, he had been football’s greatest mythical figure the entire time. In the end he was right, as long as the sport exists, Cruyff can never really die.

[btsbloodtearssquees]

Ring Around a Rosy: Part One

Requested ~ (Arranged marriage/best friends AU - Kim Seokjin) 1 2 3 4 5    She could feel it. The unbreakable love which lit the room in laughter and wholeness and gave life to the pastel colourings. They were smiling close into each other’s eyes as if the entire world around them had faded into a misty haze. Swaying in time to their heartbeats. Enriched by the future that began in that moment. Y/N had never seen anything so beautiful in her entire life, nor did she think she would ever see again. Her mother was a real life angel in her floor-length white gown and with the bedazzling clear jewels in her hair. Those were almost dull against the depths of her joyful blue eyes. Her fingers fit perfectly into the hands of Y/N’s new father - the only one Y/N had ever known, and therefore the only one she cared to. An excitement filled her six year old heart as she watched. My family, she whispered, clutching her ribbon-tied bouquet of daisies. My family forever. The song which had been playing faded out and a new more upbeat piece took over. But three loving souls didn't notice the difference. The bride, the groom - and Y/N.

------------------------------- “I wasn't expecting ‘I love you’.” “Then what were you expecting you blonde ditz?? Guys don't stick around for two weeks if they don't feel something. Gosh.” Seokjin laughed out loud at your wonderful commentary, delighted by the mocking atmosphere against the contrast of a highly emotional movie scene. “Ugh,” you rolled your eyes again at the terrible dialogue and soppy story line. “However, if he does say he loves you after two weeks, I'd be questioning his motives when he's lying in the same bed as you.” Your best friend rolled over into more loud laughter. You both had been ripping apart the film the entire time, finding it more interesting than watching it as it was. Personally, romance wasn't a genre for either of you but it was a favourite entertainment to endure it for the sake of making fun of the weak characters and clichés. Of which the film made that very easy to do. “You want more popcorn?” Jin asked as the scene ended, collecting up a few of the dirty dishes disregarded on the coffee table. “I think it's time to whip out the dark chocolate and ginger beer. The climax scene is coming so we need to settle our stomachs.” He pointed to the kitchen and made haste to do as you had instructed. As you sat back watching the film, you couldn't help but feel repulsed by how they were acting. Could love truly do that to a person? Apparently it really was losing your mind. Willing to risk all for a person they knew stuff all about. “Please punch me if I ever get like this,” you pleaded as Jin returned. He handed you your ginger beer and set the chocolate in between yours and his side of the couch. “The chances of that ever happening are about as high as my face becoming ugly.” You scoffed and whacked his arm lightly, amused by the dorky grin on his face. Sometimes you loved his sense of humour. But only sometimes. “Hey cupcake, bed’s in the other room.” You nudged Jin a couple of hours later; the TV off and your best friend sound asleep against the back of the couch. He stirred slightly, making zero attempt to open his eyes. “Seokjinie.. I ain't strong enough to carry you.” He shifted again, then twice more as you tickled his nose with a stray feather. “Hmmm,” he complained, squinting open an eye - and then two as he sat up and stretched. “How long was I out for?” “About twenty minutes. You're pretty cute when you sleep, you know.” “Really?” He answered in an unaffected tone. “Yeah. Like a little baby.” “How sweet.” You grinned and slapped your own thighs; bounding off of the sofa. It was already well past a humane bedtime, and you did have work in the morning. Taking a claim on the bathroom first, you went in and cleaned your teeth then briefly returned to the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of water. “Oh, no don't do that!” You protested when you saw Jin finishing off the last of the dishes. “I was going to do that in the morning.” He shook his hands into the sink and dried them on a tea towel. “And now you don't need to.” You smiled and gave him a friendly squeeze around his shoulders. Having him here had proven pretty beneficial so far; the stress of everyday life had definitely gone down. Eyes quickly passing over the ring on his fourth finger, you ignored the funny feeling in your stomach and proceeded to get your glass of water. The two of you scuttled exhaustedly down the hallway together. “Good night,” he waved to you, hand on his bedroom doorknob. You poked your tongue out at him. Entering your dark room directly across from his, you then gave him a brief smile before switching on the light and shutting the door. You'd long surpassed the stage of energy and numbly changed into some baggy pj's. Crawling under the cool bed sheets in satisfaction, you quickly set your alarm. A moment of hesitation passed over. You stared at the golden ring on your finger as if it were foreign and unwelcome. Like it was dissolving your skin away. Then you slipped it off and switched off the light. That ring didn't define you anymore than a choice of burger would. It was merely a symbol to show that you and Seokjin would have each other’s back for many more years to come. As friends. ------------------------------ The car ignition switched off as you reached over the seat for your bag and then pulled out the keys; opening the door in the same few seconds. It had been a reasonably long day at work and you were exceptionally pleased to be home. Locking the car on your way out, you walked clumsily up to the house and stumbled your way inside. Your senses instantly detected something delectable. You turned your attention to the kitchen where Jin was half buried in the pantry. Smiling as you tossed down your bag and slipped out of your shoes, you walked into the kitchen and slowly bent down to his height. He still hadn’t even noticed that anyone had entered the house; immersed in finding something that was clearly difficult to access. “Ra!!!” You yelled, jumping onto his back as he stumbled and hit his head in surprise. “Holy mackeral, I never noticed you come in!!” “I know,” you giggled wickedly, moving back so that he could stand up. He collected the pan he had been searching for and then straightened, giving you a quick playful glare. “And after that trauma, would you mind getting the salad out of the fridge and slicing up some of that bread?” “I do.” He looked despondent. “But I’ll do it anyway.” The table was set with the plates, glasses, and cutlery... and the salad and French bread, in just a few minutes. Jin’s masterful roast chicken and vegetables were placed victoriously in the centre. You breathed in the smell in satisfaction as he sat across from you. “Well, let’s eat.” You both gladly obliged. “How was work today?” He asked after a couple of minutes of dedicated eating. “Pretty good actually. Managed to find some fairly cheap airfares for Adolene for her conference in the Bahamas. Also finally finished organising her nightmarish emails.” Jin nodded in respect, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin before speaking again. “When does she get back from England?” “This weekend, when she’ll finally have a slight rest.” “But you won’t, no doubt.” You sighed, crunching on a fresh forkful of salad. “Keeping up with Adolene is not a restful job.” “At least it’s reasonably well paid.” You nodded in agreement, stabbing through a piece of chicken. “And how about you? Was it busy at the restaurant today?” “Not very. Only about thirteen separate customers came through during the lunch hours, and it was practically dead during the day.” “You’re working the evening shift tomorrow night, aren’t you?” “Yep. So you have to make your own dinner.” He grinned at your pout. If you could describe your cooking in one word, it would be ‘microwave’. The two of you merely enjoyed the food silently for the next little while; you planning what work you could get done after dinner. Even after a full day in the office, there was still so much that it often carried on into your ‘free’ hours. “I was thinking… we should go out somewhere this week. Like - a nice restaurant… other than my own -” he grinned, “- and a walk along the pier…” “As in a date?” You responded in a suddenly cold tone. Jin lowered his eyes to his plate. “Shouldn’t we at least be trying?” A bubble of anger boiled inside of you that he was bringing this up again. “For goodness’ sakes, Jin, you’re my best friend. We don’t need to go beyond ourselves.” “You’re also my wife.” You froze as that sick feeling leaked into your bones. There was that word. You hated that word. “Don’t say that,” you breathed. “It’s different for us.” He shifted his food around on his plate miserably. Guilt clawed at your conscious, furthering your frustration. If he didn’t keep acting like you should be behaving less like a friend and more like a spouse, there wouldn’t be any of these problems. “I thought we had agreed to marry on the basis of joining finances and because romance is all a big pile of dog dung, anyway,” you told him in as quietly calm a voice as you could muster. He swallowed down a piece of roast pumpkin that seemed to stick in his dry throat, then slowly wiped his mouth. “We did agree to that.” “Then what is the problem?” You watched as he painfully fed himself the last of his food and then stood up with his plate; deliberately averting his eyes from yours. “It’s fine. Are you finished?” You choked down the urge to scream and dug your fingernails into your leg; passing him your plate with as realistic a smile as was possible. “It was delicious, thank you.” --------------------------------- I’m still aliveeee!!!! :P This was requested ages ago but as I’ve been painfully working my way through my other two requests, the person who requested probably thought I had forgotten! I indeed have not and have instead produced a story line that I am actually rather proud of. It’s probably not what you expected but I hope you won’t be disappointed ;). Part Three of both History and Outskirts are both a work in progress ATM. They shall be here as soon as my brain kicks into gear. - Dolceice

[faizrashis1995]

How to Become an Android Developer

As mobile apps connect more of the planet, and enable users around the globe to engage in more interesting and innovative ways than ever imagined, the job of the mobile app developer has become ever more enriching, fulfilling, and necessary to the modern global economy. The mobile apps we use every day have changed the way we conduct business, the way we communicate and consume entertainment, the way we learn things about the world. You wouldn’t be wrong if you thought mobile app development sounded like one of the coolest job industries of the moment.

 So how do you become a mobile developer? Here’s the bare bones version: you pick a platform—like Android, iOS, or Windows Mobile—learn the technical skills, bone up on your soft skills, and have at it.

  But let’s get into a little more detail. Here, we’re going to tackle the prospect of becoming an Android developer specifically.

 Why Android?

Android is the indisputable leader of global smartphone market share. Thanks to growth in emerging markets like Mexico, Turkey, and Brazil, that dominance isn’t ebbing any time soon.

   Graph via 9to5Mac

 That market leadership translates to serious job security for Android developers.

 Moreover, the Android platform is open source (the entire Android source code is browsable, albeit with some proprietary software such as Google Play), making the developer ecosystem dynamic and collectively enriching. Android developers share tips, tricks, and tutorials across the Android community, and since Google helps developers by building tools like Google Play Services for common app tasks like sign-in, authentication, location, and storage, Android developers can focus on building their apps’ core functionality.

 Basically, it’s a particularly exciting time to launch a career in Android development. There’s a healthy supply of jobs, demand for Android apps promises to soar into the future, and the technology—including wearable apps and apps for TV—is intriguingly advancing.

 The Hard Skills: What to Learn

First things first: the technical skills. Android development can be done on a Mac, Windows PC, or Linux computer. You’ll also need an Android device (you can use an emulator like Genymotion for development, but eventually you’ll want to test on a real device). Here’s the short list of the must-know tools to become an Android developer.

 Java

The most basic building block of Android development is the programming language Java. To be a successful Android developer, you’ll need to be comfortable with Java concepts like loops, lists, variables, and control structures. Java is one of the most popular programming languages used by software developers today, so learning its ins and outs will stand you in good stead for work (back-end development anyone?) even beyond the Android platform.

 SQL

You’ll also need to learn the basics of SQL in order to organize the databases within Android apps. SQL is a language for expressing queries to retrieve information from to databases. Once you can write it, there won’t be any questions you can’t ask of your data.

 Android Software Development Kit (SDK) and Android Studio

One of the best parts about developing for Android is that the necessary tools are free and easy to obtain. The Android SDK is available via free-of-charge download, as is Android Studio, the official integrated development environment (IDE) for Android app development. Android Studio is the main program with which developers write code and assemble their apps from various packages and libraries. The Android SDK includes sample code, software libraries, handy coding tools, and much more to help you build, test, and debug Android applications.

 Another highlight of developing for Android is the ease of the process of submitting apps. Once you’re ready to submit your app to the Google Play store, register for a Google Play publisher account (which includes paying a $25 fee via Google Wallet), follow Android’s launch checklist, submit through the Google Play Developer Console, wait for Google to approve, and see it appear. Simple and satisfying.

 XML

Programmers use XML to describe data. The basics of the XML syntax will be helpful in your journey to full-fledged Android developer in doing tasks like designing user interface (UI) layouts and parsing data feeds from the internet. Much of what you’ll need XML for can be done through Android Studio, but it’s constructive to be grounded in the basics of the markup language.

 The Hard Skills: How to Learn and Showcase Them

Resources abound for Android developers to sharpen their skills and share tips and best practices. A few industry favorites include Stack Overflow, Android Weekly, the Android Dev subreddit, vogella tutorials, YouTube lessons, and Google’s official Android Developers site—especially the Building Your First App module. If you’re more of a print learner, popular Android books include Head First Java, Android Programming: Pushing the Limits, and Java: A Beginner’s Guide.

 As you start to think about attracting job opportunities, and selling yourself as a viable candidate, consider showcasing your Android work on LinkedIn, Xing, through an online personal portfolio, or on sites like Behance and GitHub. Rub elbows, in person and virtually, with other Android developers and hiring managers or recruiters through meetups, conferences such as droidcon, and digital networking hubs like LinkedIn groups, Twitter chats, and Quora feeds. You never know what you’ll learn, or who you’ll meet.

 The Soft Skills

As with any job, it’s not enough to have the technical stuff down pat. You’ve got to sharpen your interpersonal skills as much as your coding chops.

 Perseverance

Practice really does make perfect when it come to app development. Inevitably, you’re going to hit a roadblock in the development process, especially when you first start out. You’ll need a deep store of perseverance to power you through the frustrating times. Luckily, since Android is open-source, Android developers can take advantage of crowd-created libraries and frameworks posted on sites like GitHub.

 Collaboration

Collaboration is of vital importance to most developer jobs. Even if you’re working by yourself on a project, you’ll inevitably have to put heads together with others—like designers, marketers, or upper management—in the company or organization. Start getting comfortable with accepting feedback on your work, compromising with coworkers, and teaming up with other players to create exceptional products.

 Thirst for Knowledge

All good developers, mobile or otherwise, are committed to lifelong learning. Especially in the rapidly developing landscape of mobile apps: with the advent of wearables, TV apps, auto apps, and more, mobile developers must keep their eyes and ears open to new technology and changing best practices. No matter how advanced you get, don’t stop investigating, exploring, playing around, and asking questions.[Source]-https://blog.udacity.com/2015/05/become-android-developer.html

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