#thinking about it again recently

[deviant-nomad]

This Christmas Party Was So Fun That Now I’m a Communist, by Brennan Lee Mulligan

Highlights:

[I] thought to myself, “This is the most fun I’ve ever seen anyone have. ... This is… so great. This is… completely fucked.”

This party cannot be allowed to happen again. It was too much fun! No human being can justify having that much fun. There is an indirect but tangible connection between my family’s inability to purchase health insurance, and the quality of the hors d’oeuvres at this party. The world that makes my childhood friends go on large, unnecessary detours to get a shot at their dreams is the same world that heaps largely unappreciated splendors on these party-goers. It’s not an intuitive conclusion to draw, but when you think about it, the reason this chocolate truffle tastes so good is that my brother and I went to a state school. The reason this champagne is on the house is that the house is largely on Africa, South America and rural India.

This party is so much goddamned fun and it has to be stopped.

I wondered if I had been too harsh. Perhaps there was some kind of justice to all of this that I, as the malnourished, hayseed-child of the working poor, could not fully comprehend.

In that moment, I knew that I would never again experience a party this fun. Because the next time I was at a party this fun, I’d be burning it to the ground, holding high the banner of the revolution.

--- 

If you had guessed there would be a fortuneteller at this party, you would have been dead wrong. Because there were two fortunetellers at this party.

This party was so insane, extravagant and incredible that the hosts hired not one, but two separate soothsayers. The services of two women capable of piercing space and time with their minds were required for this shindig. Next to one of the three fully-stocked open bars, there was a woman wearing a bird on her head who was reading palms. And downstairs, in a hallway filled with ancient Buddhist art recovered during the Chinese invasion of Tibet, there was a Romani woman giving Tarot card readings. I mean, take your pick, really. Do you prefer the occult prognostications of cartomancy, or the intimate and personal revelations of the mysteries of your own goddamned hand? Because this party had both.

This party was so far off the fucking chain that you could have one of two magic women tell you what was going to happen to you in your future. And if you didn’t like what she said, you could get a second opinion, and never be more than thirty feet away from a fondue pot.

There was also a magician in a tuxedo walking around doing sleight of hand tricks. So to reiterate: Three different wizards were working at this party.

This party was the most fun anyone has ever had. And something needs to be done about it.

I arrived at the party as they were still setting up. The penthouse, located a few blocks from the eastern edge of Central Park, was in a word "palatial." It felt like I had stepped out of the gilded, art deco elevator into the distant palace of some Caliph at the height of the Ottoman Empire, were it not, I should add, for the many Christmas decorations being put up by an army of party planners. Pine garlands the length of city buses, with the circumference of an elephant’s leg, wrapped around marble banisters on staircases that ascended to impossible balconies overlooking Park Avenue. Shelves lined with ancient and powerful scotches, first edition books beyond reading, paintings and sculptures by artists so French that, were I to whisper their names, I would first need to buy a Rosetta Stone app. And all of this was being slathered in artisanal glass ornaments, gilded candles, sprigs of holly and every other thing that turns the darkest part of the year into the hap-happiest season of all. Guys, this party made the trailer for The Great Gatsby look like the strip mall parking lot where two divorced parents meet to exchange their children.

In the scraps and shreds of memory that come to me from that wild night of celebration, I remember certain landmarks. As guests exited an elevator that opened directly into the foyer of the apartment, they were greeted by butlers holding glasses of bellinis, champagne and sparkling water. They walked to a floor of waitered tables and a small dance floor, while being serenaded by a rotating cast of singers and pianists. These areas were overlooked by balconies with performers and entertainers of various stripes and shades, and from these balconies led hallways that arrived at various catered dining rooms and seating areas, all cozy, lovely and intimate, all just the right size to see that, yes, other people were having fun, but not too many other people were having too much fun too close by. And throughout it all, guests were bombarded with trays of lobster, caviar and truffle oil brioche canapés.

This party was like if the Dalai Lama and Elrond Half-Elven owned a castle together, and had decided to throw a birthday party for Santa Claus. More money than I have yet made in my life was spent on this party. It was immediately the most fun I’ve ever had, and within minutes, I was deeply unsettled.

As the immaculately dressed and bejeweled guests wended their way to banquet tables of delicious food and various dance floors, they were lit from not a single actual light bulb. I don’t know when I realized it, but aside from candlelight and the glow of the city through the windows, there was not a single visible source of light in the entire party. “Why do the rich find light bulbs so distasteful?” I thought. Every light had been tucked, hidden or sequestered from view, ensconced in little cubbies or stowed underneath cabinets, so that a warm glow filled everything, and you couldn’t tell how or from where. It became almost maddening as soon as I recognized it. Where is all this light coming from? Is this why I’m poor? Too much direct light?

While I was trying to piece this together, the music had once again changed, and I peered from the balcony where I was standing, to see the hired singer and pianist walk from the small raised stage with its rented Steinway through the doors into a literal servants’ quarters, like in Downton-motherfucking-Abbey. AND THERE WAS A PARTY IN THERE! A separate party for people working at the first party! The performers, jugglers, soothsayers and probably sex-workers that had been hired by the hosts had a separate catering group attending solely to their needs. This party was so dope, it was spawning sub-parties to bolster the spirits of workers for what I’m now calling “The Motherparty.”

I ducked into the servants’ party to discover that one of the singers had a day-job at the New York Metropolitan Opera. This Christmas party was so fucking great, that one of the 16 people they hired to sing in one of the rooms is a professional Opera singer at the Met.

I began to notice how many people were working at this party. There were the many performers and entertainers, and a fleet of photographers, separate from the gentlemen running the rented photo booth, which swarmed all night with beautiful young women immortalizing their splendor. One such woman was photographed while instagramming herself in front of the photo booth, which is maybe how wormholes are created. There were business staff, house staff, building staff, the host’s personal and executive assistants, custodians, and caterers, all of whom disappeared into grey hallways, designed to be ugly but also kind of invisible, a place where the help disappeared to. When you’re rich, you can afford to have sections of your home into which you never go.

As I watched the quick, nervous movements of the help, I began to look at who was actually attending the party. I ate my free lobster and furrowed my brow. These people probably didn’t even call their free lobster “free lobster.” They probably just called it “lobster.”

I watched the beautiful children of the rich mingle and converse. Young, gay men so fabulous that I couldn’t even tell you the most basic elemental details of what they were wearing. Possibly a fabric? Maybe not. It could have been a ceramic. I just don’t have the facts. Some young Ivy League dudes, pupating senators and ambassadors. The young women were gorgeously dressed, adorned with jewels, and so beautiful that they seemed photo-shopped in person. It would be easy to write off these airbrushed debutants as vapid, but they weren’t. They all had sharp, predatory eyes and laughed quickly and with fierce intelligence. They were ubermensches, as much the daughters of their bloodthirsty, corporate fathers as their supermodel mothers. These stunning women would spend the rest of their ball-gowned lives handing out their fathers’ likely ill-gotten fortunes to worthy charities, and going to parties just like this one.

From a distance, it was hard to tell the mothers and the daughters apart. Rich women don’t age, they just desiccate. Their jewelry, hair, gowns, even their posture and attitude all stay the same as their elegant, somewhat more humid daughters. A rich young woman and a rich old woman, standing next to each other, kind of look like a snake having perfectly shed its skin.

The old men were by far the most diverse bunch. Old billionaires wear whatever the fuck they want. One man wore a maroon, velvet, three-piece suit and a paisley cravat, and he must have been sweating in it, but I couldn’t tell because he had doused himself in a cologne that I’m going to call “A Million, Billion Different Kinds Of Fruit, by Calvin Klein.” There were two shaven-headed men of Caucasian descent, wearing black hakama robes and some kind of pendants. They had white socks and sandals, and from the way people were bowing to them, I’m guessing they were some kind of religious officials, but I can’t be quite sure. Whatever faith they practiced, it wasn’t Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, Sikhism, Baha’i, Taoism, Shinto, Confucianism, Voodoo, Wicca or the Dreamtime Faith of the Aboriginal Shamans. If I had to guess, I would say they were either members of the Illuminati, or we are living in the Matrix and they are priests from the remaining human city in the real, outer world.

I don’t know what religion they were from. Do we get why that’s scary? Aside from the fact that a vast chunk of my education centered on world religions and mythology, religions really want you to know about them. That’s their whole business model. They tell you why things are the way they are and then you give them money. So the fact that there’s a religion that I’m too poor to know about is deeply troubling.

These rich old billionaires were the kindest, sweetest old gents. In conversations I overheard more than once, a man worth more than my entire extended family (which is Irish and therefore vast and mighty) talked about another man at the party as “just being the sweetest soul,” or referred to a cupcake at a certain café as “sinfully seductive.” And I realized, these men may have been cutthroat sharks before, or they may have inherited their fortunes, but none of that matters now. They won. They won life. They are lions that, having killed enough gladiators, are now left gloriously alive to become old and toothless. The host of the party had an entire wall covered in plaques and trophies. I read most of them, and still couldn’t tell you what he did for a living. Because whatever he had done, he certainly didn’t need to do it anymore. His accomplishments referenced his humanitarianism, his civic heroism and his contributions to culture and civilization. So whether or not this man had worked at Bain Capital gutting companies in the American Heartland didn’t matter, because he had rescued a bunch of Tibetan art and now he was kissing other billionaires on both cheeks and saying, “Tom, I’m in love with you!” because who gives a fuck, I’m rich!

I watched these crazy old holiday wizards and their jeweled scarab wives, their Oxford sons and Cambridge daughters, and thought to myself, “This is the most fun I’ve ever seen anyone have. Louis the XVI would've shit a brick if he'd ever thrown a party this good. This is… so great. This is… completely fucked.”

I began to notice that people were looking at me funny. For a moment I became scared that they realized I was poor. Perhaps I had used the wrong fork, or a moth had flown in lazy spirals out of my wallet, or my toes had popped out of the holes in my shoes. But then I realized it was my expression that was drawing looks. I looked flabbergasted and astounded. And they didn’t.

That’s when I realized it. These motherfuckers weren’t going to the best party of their lives. They weren’t even necessarily going to the best party of their week. Who knows? Maybe one of these plutocrats was sneering at the lack of a third fortuneteller. “No augur divining mysteries from the movement of birds? No oracle breathing poison and screaming prophesies? You call this a Christmas Party!”

Well fuck that!

This party cannot be allowed to happen again. It was too much fun! No human being can justify having that much fun. There is an indirect but tangible connection between my family’s inability to purchase health insurance, and the quality of the hors d’oeuvres at this party. The world that makes my childhood friends go on large, unnecessary detours to get a shot at their dreams is the same world that heaps largely unappreciated splendors on these party-goers. It’s not an intuitive conclusion to draw, but when you think about it, the reason this chocolate truffle tastes so good is that my brother and I went to a state school. The reason this champagne is on the house is that the house is largely on Africa, South America and rural India.

This party is so much goddamned fun and it has to be stopped.

The last singer finished a tear-jerking rendition of Ave Maria, and the DJ came out. A man who looked like a young, handsome Santa Claus wheeled out his holly-studded turntable and then killed it. Every song he played was fucking perfect. Cecilia. Signed, Sealed, Delivered. Rescue Me. This goddamned DJ could do no wrong. And the patricians began to dance.

And oh how they danced. I used to think that only we poor, starving bohemians could truly dance with the hedonism and reckless abandon of our pagan ancestors. I was WRONG, guys. Starving artists don’t dance with reckless abandon. We dance like we’re trying to forget that the rent is past due. We dance to sweat off that last box of Annie’s Mac & Cheese. We dance to trick the endorphins into healing our tired, unkempt bodies.

The rich, however, dance as if possessed by Pan himself. The young and old alike gyrated, wiggled and bounced like they had not a care in the world. Sorry, let me rephrase that. The young and old alike gyrated, wiggled and bounced BECAUSE they had not a care in the world. And it was magical. Every face beamed with glorious jubilation. I saw five separate people fall in love that night, and I know it’s going to work out, because of just how good that party was. It was the most magical night I have ever witnessed, and so help me God, I will toil unyieldingly to ensure it never happens again.

For a brief moment I surveyed the upper balcony. The host and his wife smiled gaily, singing along and dancing. They looked so serene. So happy. And I saw the host turn, and start handing out tip money to the staff. $50 bills flew from his fingers into the waiting hands of the army of party workers. And they thanked him for his kindness. And he was kind. He was a kind man, this white-suited oligarch. In that moment, I wondered if I had been too harsh. Perhaps there was some kind of justice to all of this that I, as the malnourished, hayseed-child of the working poor, could not fully comprehend.

The caterers left the hall, and the DJ stopped.

That’s when I noticed that while the dance party had been happening, a Pinkberry and a Wafels & Dinges had both opened inside the penthouse.

Let me say that again.

A Pinkberry and a Wafels & Dinges both had their grand openings during and inside this party. Two, miniature, satellite restaurants with mobile service stations, serving free food, staffed by uniformed employees, with their full assortment of products, had sprouted up within the span of ten minutes. For every fortuneteller in this party, there was a restaurant in this party. And the choir sang. And the people ate. And the champagne flowed. And the two fortunetellers ordered extra nutella on their wafels & dinges. And the velvet suit fruit man hugged a young gay boy wearing a scarf with the whole Bhagavad Gita written on it and whispered, “We are never, ever going to die.”

In that moment, I knew that I would never again experience a party this fun. Because the next time I was at a party this fun, I’d be burning it to the ground, holding high the banner of the revolution.

Merry Christmas. Happy New Year. Fight the Power.

— Brennan Lee Mulligan

[aleatoryw]

i've started looking at weight and health the way i look at class and income and it really puts a lot of things into a new perspective.

let me explain: in america at least, the lower class have significantly worse health outcomes, even when accounting for other factors. just being poor is enough to make your overall health worse. we don't know that being fat makes your health directly worse, like the data just isn't there, but for a moment, pretend it does.

imagine going to the doctor with a health problem and the doctor looking at your chart and saying well, this problem will be less severe if you go up an income bracket. have you thought about becoming rich? it would really help. start by saving a little money every month.

ridiculous, right?? very few people successfully go from working class to rich, it just doesn't happen on a large scale in society. maybe for a time you pick up some overtime hours, spend a little beyond your means, and appear rich. but eventually you burn out, your car needs to be repaired, and you return to being working class.

we do have this data: only some people can successfully lose large amounts of weight, and only a tiny fraction of people who lose that weight actually keep it off for more than a year. telling people to lose weight for their health is just absurd because they almost certainly can't do it any more than they can double their income for their health.

and yet i see it everywhere. a little poster in my work breakroom tells me to improve my blood pressure by losing weight! a psa on the radio says you need to take care of your heart by losing weight! we can't even conclusively prove that weight is the cause rather than just correlated with a lot of these problems but here it is offered anyway: have you tried being rich?

[choccy-milky]

ty to @icedmatchawoatmilk13 for sending this to me! i may have gone a bit overboard but this was so much fun to fill out/think about BAHAHA💖 ill still never get over how perfect the song sarah smiles is for them...the lyrics AND the fact that its an alliteration...im gonna do an animatic about seb and clora to that song one day i swear 😩 ((blank template by oakwolves!))

[bunnieswithknives]

Mephone takes the Operational out of Operational System.

[dreamaruu]

Hello RvBGTBQ+ community

[lazylittledragon]

ok i swear i'm not going to talk about my breakup forever but the thing that just keeps bothering me:

i know that not getting what you need in a relationship is a COMPLETELY valid reason to end it but also. i feel like having a very vulnerable moment where i opened up about my struggles with intimacy and being relieved that i didn't have to keep doing things i wasn't comfortable with, then being dumped a YEAR later because of my lack of intimacy. is something i should be allowed to be very hurt by???

[skunkes]

[avariantflaire]

teruhashi's "he'd probably be sitting sullenly in the corner, but i still would have enjoyed having him here" is genuinely one of the most beautiful she's ever been in the series. saiki's response ("you're wrong; i'm smiling slightly right now") pales in comparison to the sheer honesty of her claim - that she knows saiki, and she enjoys his company. it's not "she enjoys his company despite his sullenness" or "he's bitter but she's got shit taste" or anything of that sort.

it is simply, so simply, that she enjoys his company. of course such a sentiment put a slight smile on saiki's otherwise stoic countenance. it approaches 'rolling your eyes (affectionate)' at someone, or something like that. it makes her beautiful to me because she can cherish this kind of trait in another person.

[linktoo-doodles]

in the strangest fma mood today... thought I'd never draw him again

[thevegetablewhichnoonedaresname]

I really like that scene in mob psycho 100 where those random guys try to bully mob, but then, before mob can even do anything, dimple makes the guy disrobe and ritsu tries to kill him and the body improvement club just kinda circles up and squishes him between their pecs until the guys beg for mercy and leave. because it's a very stupid scene. kinda the epitome of the show's goofy weird slapstick humor. and so when you're watching it the first time you assume that's the purpose of the scene--to be dumb slapstick humor. because it succeeds at that, so it would be perfectly functional if that's all it was.

but THEN it turns out that it's actually setup for two episodes later when mogami traps him in a mind dimension to try and turn him evil and he's standing in the SAME PLACE and he sees ritsu on the bridge but ritsu doesn't acknowledge him. and he gets bullied. and not only is he powerless to defend himself, he has no one who cares. the scene plays out an evil mirrored version of itself where it's straightforward. it's harsh. it's empty. mob gets beaten up, and he is alone.

and that would've been a good scene on its own, too. but to me the fact that you see the silly ridiculous version of it FIRST (the one that culminates in the body improvement club suffocating a guy with their man boobs) is really important to me. because then, later, you feel how much more it hurts for mob to be alone when you've already seen what it could be, what it is. and then on a rewatch when you see the goofy version of the scene you can't help but feel an undercurrent of dread and a sense of how dangerously close the absurd is to tipping over into something way too real and visceral. which is a feeling that runs throughout the entire show.

anyway.

[abzania]

I want to point out that Aziraphale tries to stay. His first response to the Metatron's offer is, "I don't want to go back to Heaven."

I feel like people think he's going into this somewhat enthusiastically, but that's just not true. You can see the weight of his actions on his face, especially on the elevator at the end. He's not as ignorant or naive as people think. He's just in too deep.

He tries to say he doesn't want to go. That he's made a mistake (right before they leave, he says, "I think I--"), but he cuts himself off. I think this is because of two reasons.

Aziraphale is too scared to say no to an angel who outranks him (both because of who he's talking to, and his overall behavior when talking with other angels). Speaking to the Metatron is literally tantamount to speaking to God. Aziraphale is fully aware of this. He doesn't want to say no. Both out of fear, and because now, he has to save the world again.

He has it in his head that he has to fix Heaven. Not for the world, the other angels, or even for himself, but for Crowley. Even though Crowley said no and rejected him, Aziraphale doesn't know the real reason. He probably thinks that if things change, Crowley will be willing to join him again. But it isn't Heaven or Crowley that really stops Crowley from joining him. It's what already happened. Coming back to Heaven wouldn't erase God's mistake. It would only cover it up. This is what Aziraphale needs to learn. As well as the story of Crowley's fall and what it truly did to him.

But I don't think he really wanted to go. I think he knows exactly what this means, and I think the implications will be very interesting to see when season 3 comes out.

[unknownarmageddon]

i’ll tear you limb from limb, or i’ll fall in love

cross belongs to jael peñaloza killer belongs to rahafwabas

[torchickentacos]

Truly annoying when most of a song fits Things and Situations perfectly but there's one line or verse that just throws the entire thing off. How dare.

[hiding-under-the-willow]

He looks at you with his big sweet eyes like some kind of owl and offers you a game of poker that may or may not result in the loss of your humanity, wdyd?

[craigularory-joe]

rip dean pelton you wouldve loved Chappel Roan's outfits

[martyryo]

Dudes from maths notes is all I can offer for now 😵‍💫