#traders family review

[carabelajaronline]

Cara Daftar Komunitas Traders Family di Surabaya Sidoarjo

[thedaveandkimmershow]

Okay on Saturday we meant to leave at 3 in the afternoon. Instead we leave at 5 after a full day of packing camping gear (Kimmer) and cleaning the house (Dave) plus a little last-minute shopping.

Out the door, on the road, we cruise 405 to Hamptons Seattle/ South Center where we check in around six

We're missing a few things, though, like a luggage strap for one of our giant bags that's actually missing one of its handles so the remaining one just sort of flaps about. We shop some Target and Dollar Tree between six thirty and seven fifteen for the luggage strap (settled for duck tape instead), Easter candy for Kimmer's cousin, a chocolate bunny rabbit for me, and then some additional food for the evening and breakfast the next morning so we can eat on the fly if we have to.

By the time we're back in our room, it's 730. We figure we'll be in bed around 830 because that's the smart thing to do. Instead, we don't settle down for sleep until a little after ten. Kimmer studies. I score a hot chocolate downstairs by the lobby as well as water and a chamomile tea packet to go with the hot water Kimmer's already got going in the room. I decorate my thermos with Harry Potter, National Parks, Cheeky & Dry, Mod Pizza, and some other random stickers. I finish the evening coordinating with the gentleman looking after our cats. Did a huge text dump into his messaging app on the care and feeding of two cats that's so much more complex and complicated than taking care of just the one. Then I set three alarms on my phone. 245. 3. And 305. 245 did the trick, though, because we weren't sleeping at all deeply through the little less than five hours we could. It was more like we were playing tag with sleep. Sometimes we'd catch it. Most of the time it would get away. Not sure what that was all about. Maybe it was excitement on our part. Maybe it was the people, a family Kimmer says, who were arguing in the room next door during the wee hours of the morning.

So when my first alarm goes off at 245...

No big deal.

Our bodies weren't that invested in sleeping anyway.

In no time, we're outta bed, snagging the breakfast Kimmer scored at Target the previous night, mango yogurt and berry yogurt and split a banana. Then I hit the shower after taking a photograph of the alarm clock that reads

Because I can't believe it myself.

While I'm in the shower, Kimmer repacks what little we unpacked the night before, then she gets ready and we're outta there. 

Three thirty five AM we're walking out the front door.

We embark on an eight-minute basically nighttime drive to Doug Fox Parking, during which we travel part of the way almost directly beneath the light rail track that climbs the hill west of South Center Mall.

For the first time ever we're confronted by a Lot Full sign. Not a problem if you have a reservation. Which we do. Unfortunately, I've got it tucked in my bag in the back of the van. So I pull forward, get out the car, grab my reservation which the attendant checks, then we snag parking just as he pulls a shuttle right beside us. The whole process seriously moved. And now we're on our way in a packed shuttle to the Southwest drop-off just before 4AM, mere minutes behind our projected schedule. We check our bags, the two massive ones clocking in at 44 and 47 pounds, meeting the 50-pound limit so thus they travel free. Then we're into the TSA line where, because it serpentines, we get to see all the different ways family resemblance manifests across generations. Also, we're getting our first look at bleary-eyed human beings of all ages. Children, especially. It's like they just pulled an all-nighter. 😳 The morning, in fact, is marked by a lot of kids who look like this. 😕 They're wiped out even though they haven't done anything yet. 

By the way, some are wearing their PJs, some are dressed pretty jazzy, and all are wearing the eyes of being up all night. ☹️

Once we're through TSA and down the concourse, it's three minutes until it's time to take our place in line.

Our super early morning's timing wasn't tight... but it kind of was without us thinking too hard about it.

And the thing I said before about bleary eyed human beings? 

That was definitely the missus 'n me who slept deeply on both legs of our flight, short as each one was.

Landing at LAX around ten thirty was kind of a woozy experience recovering our bags and rolling everything out front and then a coupla blocks over to catch our Lyft at the new transportation hub.

Annoying. Exhausting. Kimmer was not pleased.

A few minutes later, our Lyft driver scoops us up and drops us at Escape Campervan around 11:15AM. Within a half hour, the staff at their  Inglewood location gets us checked in, set up, and on the road with our full complement of camping luggage.

To where, though?

Kimmer's idea is that she'd like to drive down the coast before cutting inland to her cousin's place. 

We're also hungry though.

Plus, earlier at one of the airports we were both remarking on how often we end up traveling on Easter Sunday. Mostly by car or van. This time by plane. But yeah.

Over the years we traveled a lot of Easter Sundays. 

At the same time we're thinking about that, I remind her of that one time we were traveling with Linzy. I think this was in the Rialta RV and we were driving down the coast from Crescent City California. It was taking longer than we figured, though, so we cut inland earlier than intended and Kimmer figured out a hotel for the three of us as we traveled through the middle of the night.

The next morning (of course) after that midnight ride, it was Easter Sunday. Having no plans, we decided on a brunch at the local Denny's. The place was absolutely packed. We did get a booth, though. And, I'm guessing, a bunch of grand slams.

So.

With that memory freshly recovered, we drive down to one of the Denny's restaurants in Long Beach on the Pacific Coast Highway during a relentless rainstorm, water pouring in streams off the roof of the restaurant as we scooted ourselves down the block from the parking lot, along the side of the restaurant, up the stairs, and into the lobby. At our table, we order a Mile High Denver Omelette, a side of fruit, sausages, and brioche French toast along with a coffee and a tea.

Later, we shared our experience there with our waitress and the manager. Our waitress encouraged us to contribute a Google review.

Which I did.

"My wife and I actually had to travel today, Easter Sunday. We were up at 3 in the morning for a 520AM flight with one stopover. So by the time we arrived in California we were pretty wiped out.  😕 We were really hungry, though, and decided to stop in Long Beach for breakfasts for lunch. The service and attention we received from everyone from the manager to wait staff to assistants was the loveliest thing. We were welcomed and attended to in ways that surpass some of our fine dining experiences where there's only one point of contact. We're definitely leaving here feeling more energized and ready for the rest of our day ☺️"

And yes.

It really was that lovely.

We were at the Long Beach Denny's from quarter past noon to one thirty at which point the rain let up.

By this time, with rain dogging our travels, we travel first to the Irvine Sprouts to pick up groceries before heading to Kimmer's cousin's place where we roll in around 230. Kimmer's cousin's prepping his teardrop trailer he's taking camping because that's what we're doing this week: our annual Family Camp on the Hill Above Laguna Beach Adventure! If the weather permits (and it usually does) there's beach exploration to be had, sunsets to watch, stars to see, family campfires to experience and, since this is right along the PCH, I always think good grief, Veronica Mars lives down here. 😉

For now, we pull our bags outta the van, Kimmer and her cousin take it all into his place while I park up the hill. Afterward, Kimmer's cousin, Derek, continues his work, and Kimmer gets cozy upstairs for the papers she's gotta write and the tests she's gotta take for her doctoral program before the day is over.

Yeah. Her doctoral work is ongoing. Even while we're in sunny California.

Around 430 I head out to do some grocery shopping at Trader Joe's and Ralph's for dinner (and dessert) as well as a little bit for the week.

Back at 630, we all break from our late afternoon activities for a meal featuring bacon-wrapped, slow-cooked meatloaf and a viewing of Jesus Christ Superstar, a movie that I've never seen before.

Crazy stuff. 🤔

Afterward, Kimmer's back to papers and tests, Derek finishes his work before turning in for the night, and I hang out with Kimmer's nephew, Kyle, while he plays video games and I write. We do those things and talk at the same time and, eventually, it's just talking about neuroscience and academics, if you can believe that. Plus the story of my cousin in Europe who, whilst interviewing for the job of bodyguard answered the question Would you take a bullet for me? with a prompt No. But if there's time I'll push you out of the way. 🤣

By n by, Kimmer comes downstairs, triumphant in her day's doctoral accomplishments... and joins us.

By now, the day's just nudged into tomorrow and Kyle finally asks the obvious question.

Why are you guys still up???

Hmmm. Good question.

We were gonna take a nap just as soon as we arrived but that never happened.

I guess we just caught our second wind, I tell him. And then proceed to tell the tale of our earlier experience at Denny's, the experience that gave us the shot of energy that sustained us through the rest of the day.

Apparently.

To which Kyle says

Do you know you could've paid way less for breakfast?

Wait. What?

Yeah. Turns out Denny's gotta menu (back of the menu) for kids over 55. Now, I'm not saying the missus 'n I are over 55... but my spin on this is that Hey.

No one there thought we were over 55 so they never suggested we check out that menu.

Yeah. I'm going with that. 😑

In the end, we cruised the full twenty-one of a twenty-four hour filled day. We absolutely did chunks of it bleary eyed... but caught our second wind and just kept going.

Tomorrow, then, Laguna Beach!

😁

[nunununuy]

Part 10

Part 9

Prince x Fem Reader

Tittle: Changing the Fate of the Third Prince

It’s been nearly two weeks since you arrived in Vallora, a bustling trade city in southern Selvaris. At first, everything felt unfamiliar—the cacophony of the marketplace, the rich aroma of spices wafting through the air, and the mingling sounds of merchants’ laughter and hawkers shouting to advertise their wares. But gradually, you’ve begun to adjust to the rhythm of this city, so different from the rigid formality of Zantheria’s capital.

Your days in Vallora are filled with work, an escape from the memories of the capital. As your family’s representative, it’s your responsibility to ensure the success of their new trade branch. You meet countless people—local merchants, sea captains from far-off lands, and even city officials eager to curry favor with your family.

One of the people you frequently work with is Arlen, a local spice trader. A man in his early thirties, Arlen is warm and full of laughter. He often helps you navigate the complex network of Selvaris trade and offers advice on understanding the local culture. His cheerful and open demeanor makes you feel at ease, though you still maintain some distance.

There’s also Lila, a young woman who owns a silk shop in Vallora’s main market. Lila has become a friend you visit whenever you’re exhausted or simply want someone to talk to. She reminds you of Selina—kind-hearted, lively, and full of warmth.

Despite all the new faces you’ve encountered, a hollow ache lingers in your chest. Each night, when the day’s busyness fades, you return to your room on the upper floor of a family-owned trade house. In the quiet solitude, your thoughts inevitably drift back to the capital. Back to Raphael.

You’ve tried not to think of him. You’ve worked hard to forget. But the memory of his face, the deep timbre of his voice, and the small moments you shared together haunt you still. You know you made the right choice—leaving the capital and giving him the freedom to pursue his own happiness. Yet, deep down, the ache of longing refuses to fade.

Every morning, you walk through the market, meet with merchants, and review the financial reports for your family’s branch. Your days are busy, but there are moments when you find yourself standing at the edge of the docks, gazing at the endless expanse of the sea, wondering if Raphael ever thinks of you the way you think of him.

“Daydreaming again?” Lila’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts one afternoon as you inspect a stack of silk in her shop. You offer her a faint smile, masking your emotions.

“Just tired,” you reply shortly.

“Of course you’re tired. You work as if the world is ending,” Lila retorts, folding a silk cloth neatly. “You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone here. We’re all already impressed by your dedication.”

You simply smile, but the truth is that this hard work isn’t to prove anything to anyone else. It’s for yourself—to convince yourself that leaving the capital, and leaving Raphael, was the right choice.

---

Unbeknownst to you, Raphael is now only a day’s journey from Vallora.

He’s thought of you the entire way, his sharp eyes fixed on the map that marks your last known location. His expression is cold, but behind that mask rages a storm of emotions. Anger, betrayal, and longing swirl within him, relentless and unyielding.

The knights accompanying him know better than to ask too many questions. They simply follow their prince’s orders, even when he pushes the pace, traveling through the night to close the distance between you.

“Did you really think you could leave me?” Raphael murmurs to himself, his gaze fierce as he looks toward the horizon. “I’ll bring you back, no matter the cost.”

Vallora’s skyline now looms in the distance, its lighthouse standing tall by the harbor, a beacon signaling the end of his journey. Raphael steels himself. Nothing will stand in his way this time—not even you.

Meanwhile, on the other side of Vallora, you sit on the small balcony of your inn, letting the night breeze carrying the scent of the sea wash over you. Once again, you try to convince yourself that this new life is a fresh start. But deep down, you know there’s still something—or someone—you’ve yet to truly let go of.

And without your knowledge, the storm named Raphael is drawing ever closer.

---

That night, the air in Vallora was calm, with only the gentle sound of waves in the distance. You had just changed into a soft blue nightgown and were about to lie down in bed. The exhaustion from a full day’s work was settling in, and all you wanted was to escape your thoughts with sleep.

But a sharp knock at your door halted your steps. You turned, confused. Who would come at this hour? The knock came again, more insistent this time. Quickly, you walked to the door and opened it. Standing before you was the head steward of the family’s trade house, his face filled with unease and a hint of panic.

“Apologies for disturbing you, miss, but… there’s a nobleman here. He insists on seeing you immediately,” he said, his voice slightly trembling.

Your brow furrowed. “A nobleman? Who would come at such a late hour?” you asked, bewildered.

The steward simply shook his head, clearly uncertain how to explain. “I think you’d best see for yourself, miss.”

Feeling a strange sense of unease, you grabbed a thin shawl to cover your shoulders, exposed by your nightgown, and followed the steward downstairs to the main sitting room. Your heart began to race for reasons you couldn’t quite pinpoint—perhaps worry, perhaps curiosity.

When you reached the sitting room, the door was closed. You took a deep breath before slowly pushing it open. But as the door creaked and you stepped inside, your steps froze.

There, standing in the room, was a figure all too familiar. Raphael.

He was clad in a black traveling cloak, dusty from the journey, but his regal presence was undiminished. His dark hair shimmered faintly in the glow of the candlelight, and his eyes bore into yours, brimming with emotions you couldn’t fully decipher. But one feeling was unmistakable—longing.

“(name)", he said softly, his voice warm and filled with a yearning that rendered you speechless.

Before you could form a response, Raphael began walking toward you. His steps were firm yet unhurried, as though he didn’t want to frighten you. And before you could process what was happening, he stood mere inches away, gazing at you with an intensity that made your chest tighten.

Slowly, he raised a hand, gently brushing his fingers against your cheek, as though ensuring you were real. “You… you’re really here,” he whispered, his voice so soft it was almost a breath.

You didn’t have time to reply. In a heartbeat, he pulled you into his arms. His embrace was firm, almost desperate, as though he couldn’t bear to let go. The familiar scent of him filled your senses, and the warmth of his body against yours was both comforting and overwhelming.

“Raphael…?” you finally managed to say, though it was barely more than a whisper.

Raphael didn’t answer immediately. He held you tighter, burying his face in your hair, before murmuring near your ear, “I missed you. So much.”

The deep timbre of his voice sent shivers through you, and the weight of his words, coupled with the strength of his hold, made your face flush. You were too stunned to either return the embrace or push him away. Your mind felt as though it had stopped working.

“Why did you leave without telling me?” Raphael continued, his voice heavier now, raw with emotions he couldn’t suppress. “I searched everywhere for you. I won’t let you leave me again, (name).”

You remained silent, too overwhelmed to respond. Your body was stiff in his arms, but inside, you were trembling. You struggled to steady your breathing, to make sense of what was happening.

“Raphael, what are you—”

“I came to take you back,” he interrupted, not letting you finish. He pulled back slightly to look into your eyes, his hands still resting on your shoulders. His dark blue gaze was like an endless ocean, filled with emotions you could only begin to guess at.

“I’m not leaving without you,” he said firmly, his voice low but resolute, a small, determined smile tugging at his lips.

You didn’t know what to say. One thing, however, was certain: tonight, all your carefully laid plans for a new life in Vallora were on the verge of collapsing.

___

[minefield-of-a-ninja]

*image of Jensen Ackles is used with permission of the photographer Mandi Lea Photogtaphy.

Summary: After a significant career shift and subsequent break-up, Brandy Miller moves to Wayne County, Pennsylvania, to be closer to family. She invests in a small, sight-unseen condo in a “quiet, charming neighborhood with views of the Poconos and neighbors you can count on.” One particular neighbor seems to have a unique interpretation of what that means.

Characters: Brandy Miller x Soldier Boy, Serge Bernard, Kimiko Miyashiro (mentioned), Maggie Shaw, Annie January, Hughie Campbell, MM (mentioned), John James Davis (AKA Homelander but just as SB’s 21yo son), Butcher (mentioned)

Warnings/tags in this chapter: 18+ ONLY, sexual tension, sexual objectification, rough and degrading sex dream, alcohol, Soldier Boy is a terrible father, explicit sexual content

Words in this chapter: 3,500

Author’s notes: Soldier Boy will be referred to by many names in this fic. The full name I’ve given him is Benjamin James Davis III.

Thank you to @brrose-apothecary @stusbunker and @talltalesandbedtimestories for pre-reads and green lights!

This fills my #Inconsiderate Neighbor square for @jacklesversebingo

SPOTIFY PLAYLIST - key tracks for this chapter: "Smooth Sailing" by QOTSA and "A Mistake" by Fiona Apple

CHAPTER ONE: Inconsiderate Neighbor

The last five years have been wild. A global pandemic impacted our life choices and decisions more than any other event in the previous 50 years. Career shifts, resettling in vastly different communities, honest declarations of who we are as people and who we love — these things I’ve witnessed first-hand.

I was an executive for a nationally renowned advertising agency. My partner of six years was a successful stock trader. About three weeks into our second lockdown, I realized I couldn’t stand the guy. I went through every reason why I’d have stayed for so long if he was so horrible. I wondered if he hated me too. Then one day, he told me.

“Brandy, I can’t do this anymore.”

He didn’t hate me; he just didn’t love me. He wasn’t horrible; he just wasn’t for me. 

Working remotely gave me a similarly renewed perspective on my career choice. I worked 12 hours a day from my home office overlooking Central Park, drank a bottle of wine to go to sleep, then got up the next morning to do it all over again. Meanwhile, everyone in America was tightening their purse strings on ad spend.

Now, I’m in the Honesdale borough of Wayne County, Pennsylvania, working as a freelance document review specialist. I’m single, own my two-bedroom condo outright, and spend Sundays with my sister Amber and her two teenagers over in Damascus. 

These changes introduced me to a set of concepts that I had previously denied. I thought I was happy, successful, content. 

But I’m told that a constant desire for more hinders contentment. Comparison is the thief of joy, as they say. A sense of entitlement will always bite you in the ass. A lack of gratitude prevents you from appreciating what you already have and fosters a need for something beyond.

As it happens, I have a prospective client meeting in Scranton this afternoon, and my brand-new Jeep won’t start. I guess they don’t make them like they used to. 

“Brandy, mon amie, where are you?” my friend Serge answers my call with worry in his voice.

“My truck won’t start,” I whine.

Last month, I complained to Serge and his partner-in-all-things Kimiko that government work was beginning to bore me. I like new things, which is a bummer, considering desire hinders contentment. Kimiko offered to introduce me to her brother, who works with one of the largest healthcare companies in the country. 

“Oh, cher...” Serge laments in sympathy.

“I know, I know. And this fucking podunk town’s got like two cabs and one Lyft serving the entire county.”

I roll my neck and eyes in frustration, and in my periphery, I glimpse a man inside a single garage stall working on a motorcycle. I’ve never seen him before, but judging by the military-themed tattoos, evident dexterity with the tools he’s wielding, and his proportions, he’s the ‘asshole military contractor’ my next-door neighbor, Maggie, told me about when I moved in. 

Serge frets in Frenglish on the other end of the line before returning to the point. “On se’n occupe. We will handle it.”

I watch my newly discovered neighbor deftly flex and twist and wonder if he’s as adept with other motor vehicles. “Please tell Kimiko I’m sorry and understand if this opportunity’s off the table now.”

My words are meant for Serge, but the man not 10 yards away sends me a subtle, knowing look. There’s an enduring facet of competence and perception in every flick of his eyes and wrist, every shrug of his thick, broad shoulders, and the taunting slant of his jaw. He knows I’m watching him and knows I’m in a bind. 

He pities me.

I tell Serge that I’ll let him know how things go with the car before ending the call then tentatively head toward my neighbor’s garage stall.

“Hey there, I’m Brandy.” I thumb over my shoulder, indicating the general area of my condo. “Are you BJ?”

He smirks at his greasy wrench before answering, “BJ, Soldier Boy, Captain,” then pauses as he drags his eyes from his task to pin me in place. “Take your pick, sweetheart.”

He looks me down and up, slow and heavy, licking his lips. His demeanor would be comical at best and frightening at worst if I weren’t so stunned by the sheer audacity. As he unfolds from a squat, his muscles shift and grind under his sweat-slicked skin. He wipes his filthy hands on a filthier rag and saunters toward me. I have never in my life been so blatantly objectified right to my face.

“Need a ride?” he asks, meeting my eyes again. The rounded toes of his grungy work boots tap the points of my Jimmy Choos.

“I-” I attempt to speak but don’t know what to say. I should be outraged. I should tell him he can’t just look at people like that. He can’t just invade my space.

He tilts his head, and his eyes drop to my chest. “You're all flushed, Brandy. Feeling okay?” He drops his rag to the concrete before ghosting a finger along my collarbone.

Air returns to my lungs and the flush in my chest rises up my throat to my face. I smack his hand away and take a step back. “What the fuck?! Do you always harass and assault women half your size, or is it just me?”

Centuries of gaslighting threaten to drown me from one single look. And then he speaks. “My bad. Didn’t know you were a prude.”

He raises his hands in feigned surrender before returning to his bike.

“I’m a prude because I don’t like being evaluated like a pig going to slaughter?”

He rolls his eyes and sighs. “Listen—no harm, no foul, alright? I thought you were game; you’re not, no big deal.”

“Man, I came over here as a neighbor to introduce myself. You clearly heard part of my call and know my car isn’t starting. I thought, since you’re in here working on a motorcycle, you might also know something about cars.”

He nods. “Got it. Is that where we’re at right now? You want me to take a look at your car?”

“Jesus- what?! Are you for real?”

“No? Okay, then.” He turns his back, and I stare at him for a moment.

Thoughts swirl through my mind. Where is your spine, Brandy? Show him what you’re made of. This isn’t over until you say it is.

A slave to my guts and ego, I’m determined to re-engage. “Yes.” 

He slowly faces me again, eyebrows raised and head tilted in question. “Yes?”

“Yes. I’d appreciate it if you’d take a look at my Jeep.”

His expression shifts—softens, some might say, but his eyes remain hard and cold. “‘Course. What kinda neighbor would I be if I didn’t?”

He strides toward my two-car stall across from his, and I follow with no other excuse than my competitive spirit and morbid fascination with opposition. 

“You pay extra for two stalls?” he asks, glancing at the gym area I’ve set up beside my Jeep before rounding its hood.

From what I’ve gathered in this brief and bracing interaction, Captain BJ Soldier Boy isn’t a small-talk kind of person, but I’m not sure yet why he’s asking a simple question like that. I decide to answer as simply.

“Yeah.”

He nods and gestures to the driver’s seat. “Pop the hood.”

I watch through my windshield and the slant of space between the hood and my dash as he quickly pokes and prods at things I know nothing about. Less than two minutes later, he drops the hood shut and walks around to the open driver’s side door.  

“Try it now.” He’s rubbing his hands together and his brow is slightly furrowed like he wishes he hadn’t tossed that rag aside in his garage.

I turn the key in the ignition, and it starts with no issue. 

My morning started with limited knowledge of this man and the inner workings of my Jeep. I had a single goal in mind to expand my client portfolio. I did not grow my business, I have not learned anything new about my vehicle, and my introduction to my neighbor has provided me with very little satisfaction. 

“Coupla loose terminals. It happens with new cars. Gotta break ‘em in.”

I flick my eyes to meet his. He holds my gaze, licks his bottom lip back between his teeth, then backs away before strolling away. 

+

“He’s the fucking poster boy for misogyny.”

Maggie nods as she tops off my glass of wine. “Yeah, calling him an asshole is an insult to assholes, honestly.”

“I felt like I was transported back to the 1950s or something. He’s a caricature of misogyny.”

“The embodiment,” Maggie replies, settling back into her sofa and sipping her wine.

“Does he think that works on women? Like, are there women in his sphere who respond favorably to his behavior? He can’t be rewarded by it. Maybe he’s conducting a social experiment.”

Maggie laughs. “You’re giving him way too much credit.”

“Then why?”

Maggie stares at me for a beat. “The question is, why do you care?”

I’ve thought of nothing else since he left me in my garage yesterday morning. I felt defeated by him. Used, somehow. Inconsequential in the end.

“I hate how he made me feel.”

Maggie remains silent and intent. She’s a great listener, and she never judges.

“I had a dream about him last night.”

She nods. “And how did that make you feel?”

I shake my head and draw a deep breath. It made me feel hot and wild. I was angry and hungry for him. Or for redemption, revenge, or victory. 

“It makes no sense. We interacted for like 10 minutes and I haven’t seen him since. That’s why I care. I can’t get him out of my head. I keep thinking of what I should’ve said or done instead of standing there like a deer in headlights.”

“Don’t let your pride rule you with him. He has no morals, no decency. You won’t win.” 

“You think I’m trying to win something.” 

She’s right. Maggie and I are a lot alike, but she’s smarter and more cautious than I am. Somewhere along the line, she learned a lesson I have yet to let sink in. She learned to resist a challenge and walk away. 

“Aren’t you?”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

“Let’s change the subject,” Maggie suggests. “Did you get that meeting rescheduled, or is it dead?”

I fill her in on my chat with Kimiko. Kimiko’s brother Kenji was gracious enough to reschedule for next week, and I decided it best to go up the night before and spend the night with her and Serge in case I have any other car problems. 

Maggie opens a second bottle of wine and we proceed with our binge of Dead To Me on Netflix. 

+

I’m face down on my weight bench, straddling the padded seat with his fist in my hair and his cock hammering me from behind. He’s saying things to me, violent, hateful words, calling me names.

My wrists are bound, I’m blindfolded, and I am so wet. So wet from his rough hands, the way he slaps my ass and hips and pulls my hair. His voice is deep and rich, and it dominates the atmosphere and my mind. 

He’s had me so many times already, and he wants more. He wants to devour me. He can’t get enough of me.

And I never want him to stop. He treats me like a whore, tells me I’m his whore, and I can’t stop soaking his cock and slicking up the bench. 

“You fucking love my cock.”

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck me.”

I wake up in a sweat after a third night dreaming of him. I feel fractured and unlike myself. I’ve never wanted the kinds of things I’m dreaming about him. I’ve never wanted a man to degrade me or tie me up. 

And this man is a pig of a man. 

But I can’t get him out of my head.

I’m aching and breathless. My sheets are soaked from sweat and my pussy. I reach into my nightstand for my vibrator to soothe the twitching between my legs and rid him from my mind. I think about all the things that usually get me off, but he just keeps coming back around with big, rough hands and dirty words, and teeth that score my tender flesh.

I come silently, arching into my mattress, imagining his hands around my wrists and his cock driving into me hard.

+

When I told the newlyweds who live across the hall from my nemesis that I’d never been to our neighborhood bar, they invited me to join them for burgers and beers. 

“I know it doesn’t look like much, but Butcher’s is an institution. I literally grew up in this bar,” Annie tells me as her husband Hughie distributes sticky menus and napkin roll-ups. 

“I’ll get a pitcher,” Hughie says and heads to the bar.

“I like it. Thanks for bringing me.”

I glance around the space, taking in old pictures and carved sentiments in the wooden beams. It still smells faintly of cigarette smoke after decades of No Smoking laws have been enforced. It reminds me of my favorite New York dive bar.

“Well, I’m glad. I’m sure it can’t be easy to transplant to a place like Honesdale where everybody knows everybody.”

“You know, it hasn’t been too bad. Between you two and Maggie, I’m meeting all the neighbors and learning the ropes like a real local.”

I don’t mention the man who’s rapidly infiltrated every dark corner of my brain since we’re having such a nice time. I don’t want to spoil it, but you don’t always get what you want.

“Ugh, BJ,” Annie gripes, reaching for a menu even though she surely has it memorized. “He is so gross.”

I hazard a glance in the direction of her glare to see the bane of my existence waltzing toward the bar. 

“He better not fuck with Hughie,” Annie says, narrowing her eyes as he brushes shoulders with her groom. 

Hughie gracefully ignores the man’s obvious intention to needle him, gathers three chilled pint glasses and our pitcher, and rounds the crowd away from Captain Creep to return to the table.

“Who’s the kid?” I ask, finally noticing a quiet young man with BJ at the bar.

“That’s his son John. That kid’s been through the wringer.”

John’s smaller than his dad. He’s almost delicate-looking with a thick swath of blonde hair and deep blue eyes. He doesn’t have the swagger of the man next to him, and he seems to wish he were anywhere but here.

“MM, my man, it’s my boy’s 21st birthday! Get him a whiskey and a round for the house on me.”

“Hey.” Hughie settles the pint glasses on the table before filling each one, serving Annie and me first, then sitting down to pour his own. “John’s 21st. This oughtta be an interesting night.”

Annie tells me about watching John when he was a baby, that he was sweet and gentle, quiet but curious, and his dad taunted him for it.

“He called his 6-year-old son a pussy.” She shakes her head. “Who does that?”

John slides into a barstool and idly sips his whiskey. A few of the older patrons wish him Happy Birthday, and MM makes a point to keep his water glass and popcorn bowl full while John’s dad struts around, flirting with every woman and slapping the backs of every man. 

It’s odd to see people react to him positively. Men, no matter their age, appear to admire him, and every woman he smiles at blushes and giggles. 

“Should we order?" Hughie asks. "Butcher’s in the back tonight.”

I decide on the "Terror," a half-pound beef burger with taleggio, prosciutto, and peperoncini, medium-rare. Annie recommends the cheesy house fries with special sauce as a shared dish, and within 20 minutes, we have our food and a second pitcher.

A soft buzz from light American beer warms and loosens me up. In this state, I’m less critical of my thoughts about the man who’s starred in my most desperate and debased dreams this past week. 

He looks good. He’s agile and powerful, which is a spectacular combination. People laugh at his jokes. They gravitate toward him. They think he’s charming and handsome, and from the background of Annie’s stories, I learn that he’s not only a merc but a war hero. 

It’s nice to feel something other than the overwhelming angst and shame I’ve felt all week. He affects people; it’s okay. I’m not an outlier. I just have to ride this out.

We finish our food, and I excuse myself to the restroom. There’s a vanilla candle burning on a table beside a well-loved armchair, a basket with single-size toiletries, pads and tampons, condoms, hand soap, and lotion. Definite homey vibe.

As I step through the door back into the hallway, I’m jolted from my chill by a deep voice.

“Look at you all caszh and relaxed.” 

He’s propped between the men’s and women’s, so close I brush his arm when I whirl around to connect the voice with a face.

“Jesus, you scared me.”

“Hmm.” He pushes off the wall and turns into me, backing me against the closed door.

“There’s that flush,” he murmurs. He does that thing with his finger again that made me smack his hand away earlier this week. This time, I let him.

“Is it because I scared you,” he pauses and catches my eye. “Or something else?”

I close my eyes and let my head fall back to the door, feeling the heat and buzz of a potentially malicious yet certainly pleasurable outcome. He slides a knee between my thighs and skims a heavy hand over my hip, nuzzling against my throat with a low chuckle.

My breath catches in my chest under the hand he has pressed there, holding me in place, keeping me where he wants me. Ire swirls and rises from my gut, and I grip his t-shirt in my fists to yank him into the restroom.

“There she is.” He stumbles backward with a grin as I throw the lock.

“Shut up.” I push him to sit in the chair before climbing astride him and diving in.

His lips are plush and demanding, his beard is soft, and his mouth is superheated and whiskey-wet. He’s hard and hot everywhere I touch as I tug at the button and zipper of his jeans. His hands roam over denim and my cotton t-shirt. He nips at my lips and toys with the button of my jeans.

“Fuck,” I growl, pushing out of his lap to get my pants down.

Before I know it, he’s spun me around, and he’s shimmying my jeans and underwear over my hips and down my thighs. He slumps into the chair and fits a condom over his length, then juts his hips forward to give me a place to rest. One long arm wraps my middle, and he slips two fingers over my wet slit. The wide pads of his fingertips swirl around my clit, and I brace my hands on the arms of the chair. Then he’s teasing me with his hard cock, rutting underneath, making me squirm. 

When he finally pushes inside, I shout and groan from the stretch and insane rhythm he’s keeping on my clit. I go off—ride him, pumping my thighs and elbows, using his arm around my middle for leverage. 

In less than a minute, I’m coming. One second later, he’s on his feet with me on my knees in the chair. He forces me to bend and hold onto the back, grips my bare hips, and pushes inside me again. He’s muttering, grunting, and, god, he’s hitting that spot with every thrust. 

“Come on, Brandy,” he gasps. “Lemme feel that tight little cunt come again. Make me come.”

I reach down between my legs and press over my mound, relishing his measured thrusts. I’m booze and fuck drunk, and my ears are ringing. His hands tighten on my hips, and we both come, swearing and howling.

Chapter Two

What did you think? Reblog to share if you liked it! And let me know your thoughts. xox

More Soldier Boy | MJ's Master List

[whencyclopedia]

The United States Governed by Six Hundred Thousand Despots: A True Story of Slavery; A Rediscovered Narrative, with a Full Biography

"The United States Governed by Six Hundred Thousand Despots: A True Story of Slavery" presents readers with a largely unknown narrative written by John Swanson Jacobs, a formerly enslaved man, a biography of him, and other documents about his life. By making Jacobs’s narrative accessible and available, this volume will help scholars learn more about the global dimensions of slave narratives. This book is well-suited for both scholars and students and is highly recommended.

Discovering forgotten or overlooked sources is always exciting. Jonathan D. S. Schroeder recently rediscovered John Swanson Jacobs’s narrative The United States Governed by Six Hundred Thousand Despots: A True Story of Slavery. Jacobs’s narrative, which had been published in an Australian newspaper in 1855, had been largely forgotten. Narratives published about slavery, captivity, and freedom are important primary sources for scholars. This narrative, which Schroeder correctly labels a global slave narrative, promises to help increase scholarly understandings of slavery and freedom in the Americas.

The volume contains three distinct sections. The first section is the narrative itself, which appears as it was published, albeit with minor corrections, extensive explanatory footnotes, and an introduction from Schroeder. Jacobs was the brother of Harriet Jacobs, the author of another famous narrative. Harriet Jacobs’s narrative, Incidents in the Life of Slave Girl (1861), was published under a pseudonym and heavily edited by white abolitionist Lydia Maria Child. John Jacobs’s narrative, on the other hand, was not subject to any editing by white abolitionists and appeared in an Australian newspaper, which spoke to how Jacobs’s life transcended the borders of the United States. Jacobs took to the sea and, like many other Black sailors, saw himself as a cosmopolitan and the world as his country. Jacobs’s narrative is well worth reading and Schroeder details how Jacobs challenged many of the conventions of enslaved narratives. In the first part of the narrative, Jacobs described his life, his enslaver’s relentless pursuit of Harriet, and his eventual escape to freedom. The second part foregrounded his stinging denunciation of U.S. law and politics, which, he contended, supported and reinforced slavery. He frequently called out specific politicians and correctly depicted Washington, D.C. as a city where slave traders sold human beings and politicians gambled rather than made laws. Interestingly, in light of the recent discussion about 1619 vs. 1776, Jacobs mentioned another date entirely—1522. His use of 1522 should remind readers that slavery did not begin in the Americas in 1619 and that it had existed for more than a century when the first enslaved people were brought to what is now the United States. “The history of the global slave narrative has yet to be told,” (xxx). Schroeder correctly concludes. Jacobs’s narrative will help scholars begin to tell this important story.

The second section of the book is an extended biography of Jacobs, written by Schroeder. Here Schroeder illustrates, in clear detail and powerful prose, Jacobs’s riveting life story. Schroder deftly illuminates Jacobs’s life, noting that he and Harriet “were born into an age of rebellion, and into a family that had resisted slavery for over a century” (80). Schroeder traces their family, explores how both siblings escaped slavery, their lives in the northern states, and John’s decision to leave the United States and relocate first to Australia and later to England. “Through courage, intelligence, and patience, he had walked away from slavery and social death and forged life after life—mariner, abolitionist, miner, husband, father” (178). Jacobs eventually returned to the U.S. in 1873 and died at the end of that year. He is buried in the Jacobs family plot at Mount Auburn Cemetery, but, until recently, his grave marker had sunk underground. “The burial and resurfacing of John Jacobs’s grave marker is an apt symbol for his disappearance from historical memory—and the work that remains to be done to resurrect him” (181). Schroeder also includes a fascinating discussion of why he believes the portrait long known as "The Man Holding the Liberator" (1848) is actually a portrait of Jacobs. The third section of the book contains an array of useful primary sources—both documents written by Jacobs and documents written about him.

Jonathan D. S. Schroeder, currently a Lecturer at the Rhode Island School of Design, recently rediscovered John Swanson Jacobs’s narrative The United States Governed by Six Hundred Thousand Despots: A True Story of Slavery. This book will appeal to anyone interested in learning more about slavery and freedom in the 19th-century world. It will work especially well in classes about historical methods as well as many other upper-level undergraduate courses and graduate classes.

Continue reading...

[aselectsociety]

How Does Your Garden Grow?

In 1891, the editor of New York’s The Independent published a favorable review of the newly published Poems by Emily Dickinson, and then he wrote to Mabel Loomis Todd requesting additional poems to publish in his paper.  She sent him four, from which he printed three.  One of the three was “Went up a year this evening!”

This poem was written in 1859, and some have speculated that it was written in tribute to Amos Newport, a hired hand who helped manage the Dickinson’s Homestead stable and grounds. 

“Old Amos,” as he was known, was the grandson of a man who had been caught as a young boy by slave traders on the coast of Africa; he was brought to Springfield, Massachusetts, and later successfully sued for his freedom.

Amos worked for the Dickinson family for at least 8 years, and in 1851, Dickinson wrote of “Old Amos” in a letter to her brother Austin:

“The garden is amazing - we have beets and beans, have had splendid potatoes for three weeks now. Old Amos weeds and hoes and has an oversight of all thoughtless vegetables. The apples are fine and large in spite of my impression that Father called them ‘small.’"

Amos died at age 84 in 1859 – and, if Dickinson did write “Went up a year this evening” in tribute to him, then perhaps the poem is misdated?

When exploring this  poem, I found an interesting interactive site – a virtual walking tour of Black Amherst called “Reorienting Dickinson,” HERE. “Old Amos” is mentioned at sites 2, “West Cemetery,” and 9, “Newport House.”

[piglet26]

Rey Solo... Rey from Jakku.... Rey No one... anything but Rey Skywalker.

The Last Jedi simply revealed that Rey was a "nobody" – perhaps the most shocking and least expected outcome for the Rey lineage debate. It was a perfect twist in our heroine story despite people seeming desperate for her to be connected to some man already in the franchise.

Daisy Ridley has even expressed her frustration with the Rey’s lineage debate multiple times, “I love that Rey is such a great character, they’re like: ‘No, no, she has to be… she has to be-’She’s her own person! Let her be her guys, let her live."

Exactly! Why did people care so much? Maybe initially, it was fun to hypothesize. However, once the reveal came out people actually liked that she was fresh, a brand new start instead of just nostalgia, or, a way to continue on a males legacy. We have Ben Solo for that, or, at least we did.

More than a shocking twist created just to subvert expectations, the Rey “no one” reveal encapsulated The Last Jedi’s perfect message – anyone could be the hero of their own story.  Rey’s realization was that her heritage don’t matter ... all that matters is who she chooses to be now. Rey’s legacy didn't need to be defined by Luke or Leia, which would leave her free to start her own story - hell, Star Wars to have a future. On the other end was Ben/Kylo Ren, who did come from the mighty Skywalker family and hailed as the son of heroes and wanted to escape that legacy.

Then here comes JJ "Nostalgia Kind" Abrams and Chris Terrio. Terrio here “We also thought that Rey’s arc cannot be finished after Episode VIII. You can leave Episode VIII and say, “Well, now, Rey is content. She’s discovered her parents aren’t Skywalkers, or whatever, and that’s fine.” But so much of her personal story was about where she came from, what kept her on Jakku all those years and the trauma that shaped her. We see quite strongly in Episode VII that something mysterious and troubling happened to her. Although she did get some answers in Episode VIII, we didn’t feel that that story was over. We felt that there were still more questions in Rey’s head about where she came from and where she was going. So, that was the other big idea that we had to address in this film. Rian’s answer to, “What’s the worst news that Rey could receive?” was that she comes from junk traders, and that’s true. She does come from junk traders; we didn’t contradict that.” No, you just went back to what you wanted in the beginning.

By the end Rey takes on not only the Skywalker name but she looks over two suns which brings me to the point of this essay...... if Ben wasn't going to be there, then she should have taken last name. Rey Solo.

What's irritating about LucasFilm/Disney is their desire to appease everyone. I don't give a damn about the antis, nor should they. Reylos were a big support group for the films and mightily invested. TROS came off as trying to please everyone. If we really think about, with the exception of the end of Exegol, the Rey and Kylo interactions lacked depth and intimacy. Perhaps it's just not the style of JJ Abrams and Chris Terrio, who did support the pairing.

While I'm 100% convinced Reylo was planned, all the creators seemed very open to adjusting if it wasn't working. Hence why Finn and Poe were both open considerations, especially Finn. I don’t think Adam or Daisy intentionally played up any sexual tension in their scenes together to give us an impression about something in TFA.  I think it just happened.  Early bird Reylos picked up on it.  Some critics, including the one who wrote the TFA review for Time magazine, picked up on it. Rian Johnson picked up on it too and the rest is history.

Leia’s behavior's is odd for entire decades. Being a trained Jedi herself, she could have taught her son - instead she sent him to his uncle( Oh wait, that was a retcon). Han was either helping with the Resistance or off doing something shady. From the novels we learn that Ben heard his parents arguing and talking about him like he was a monster ever since he was a child, and that when he was sent away this seemed to confirm to him that something was wrong with him and had to be fixed. (From the novels we also learn that he actually had no ambition to become a Jedi and wanted to be a pilot - true Skywalker and also Solo that he is -, but he had no say in the matter.)

For both Ben and Rey, their journey is about letting go of childhood trauma and discovering their own independence. Ultimately it's about their pairing being both emotionally healing AND a balance in the force. They are a DYAD after all. I saw all this to say, he is her closest personal connection and impact through the 3 films. Leia is her master but we don't see that, it happened off camera.

Terrio says that the decision to have Rey take on the name “Skywalker” was a way to show that “you can choose your ancestry.” Which is not true and also a strange thing to say considering.

Which brings me to the correction of this tricky trail. Pay Adam Driver want he wants and reunite the dyad.

[degi-nest]

Moroccan Cuisine A Journey through Flavors and Traditions

The History of Moroccan Cuisine** Moroccan cuisine is a vibrant tapestry woven from the threads of diverse cultures and histories. It reflects the rich heritage of the Moroccan people, shaped by centuries of interactions with various civilizations, including Arab, Berber, and European influences. This unique blend of cultures has given rise to a culinary landscape that is as complex as it is delightful. At the heart of Moroccan cooking lies the ancient Berber traditions, where simple ingredients are transformed into exquisite dishes that tell stories of the land and its people. The introduction of spices and cooking techniques by Arab traders in the 7th century further enriched this culinary heritage. Over time, the influence of Spanish and French cuisines added new dimensions, resulting in a fusion that is distinctly Moroccan. One of the defining characteristics of Moroccan cuisine is its use of aromatic spices. Cumin, coriander, cinnamon, and saffron are just a few of the many spices that bring depth and flavor to Moroccan dishes. The art of cooking in Morocco is not merely about sustenance; it is a celebration of life, family, and tradition. Meals are often communal affairs, where friends and family gather to share food and stories, reinforcing the bonds of community. In this book, we will embark on a culinary journey through Morocco, exploring its flavors, ingredients, and cooking methods. Each chapter will delve into the essential aspects of Moroccan cooking, providing you with the knowledge and skills to create authentic Moroccan dishes in your own kitchen.

[carabelajaronline]

Cara Daftar Komunitas Traders Family di Surabaya Jombang

[sparrow-187]

I really can't understand why I haven't heard any explosive or even insidious love for Starfield.

I don't know shit about the companies or development or whatever, I just know "oh a new game came out and it's been a long while and NO ONE really talked about it..."

I've even seen a few posts saying "I haven't even heard about the side characters and that's a BAD sign Bethesda."

Well... I kinda gotta say, you REALLY should try the game.

I'll stray from spoilers as much as I can, but, let me put it this way.

Did you ever watch Firefly? Ever see that show? The feeling of home and family on a ship that's all your own? An expanse of stars and planets filled with people and work just for a star traveling explorer like you?

Want to MAKE your own ship? Your own weapons? Want to catalog minerals and fauna and flora for every planet you go to? Set up as many research bases as you can with raw materials you dug up yourself? Maybe even be a pirate or trader gliding through space and trading whatever valuables you find?

Then what if you capped off that adventure with multiverses? Seemingly alien powers and tech, that are just from another version of what you've called home all your life?

And along the way you happen to romance your own charismatic smooth talking swashbuckler? Or maybe an ex lawman with a broken family who's trying to be a single dad but still map the unknown for those that come after? Or even an ex soldier from a unification war who was just trying to do the right thing but found she got played and turned a new leaf?

Corporate espionage? Undercover police assignments? Work with trade organizations or steal from them?

Starfield has CONSTANTLY over the few days I've played it so far looked me in the eyes, asked me if I was cozy with life, then dropped a plot twist or surprise in my lap.

Play Starfield. My theory is that anyone who went to review the game, got sucked in and we just haven't heard from them in a long long time because they're still neck deep in their adventure.

[darkmaga-returns]

The market melt-up is in full force as we enjoy the Thanksgiving trading week.

This is easily my favorite holiday. I get a midweek break in the market action filled with food, family, and football — without the added stress of exchanging gifts and all the cleanup that comes after a busy Christmas morning with the kids…

This year, the vibes couldn’t be more bullish. The crypto and market bulls have converged into one massive year-end rally for the ages. And with the election and major earnings announcements out of the way, there’s now little standing in the way of higher prices into 2025.

Stocks have exploded higher following the election, quickly reset, and then continued on their journey to new highs as some of the most speculative areas of the market have seized key leadership roles.

Melt-up conditions are exciting times for traders. Even better, we were totally prepared for this rally! I’ve spilled more than my share of virtual ink talking about this melt-up since the early days of fall.

If you ignored this message before, here it is, again: The market’s in the perfect spot to continue running into the holiday season – maybe even well into Q1 2025. If you’re looking to kick your trading into overdrive, now is the time to take on more risk. You could make your entire year in just a little more than four trading weeks left on the 2024 calendar.

Of course, not every holiday season triggers an automatic stock market melt-up. Sometimes, the market even reveals critical information when it fails to melt up during the final months of the year… and begins to lose ground.

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I’m going to show you how to spot a stalled-out holiday rally. You’ll see the telltale signs of a distressed market cracking under the surface of the major averages. We’ll also review what happens after a melt-up fails…

[things-about-cars-in-posts]

Thanks for answering! Your advice is actually really helpful and now I'm pretty sold on a Toyota.

I do wonder though, I was one phonecall away from buying a 2019 yellow fiat panda cross but a sudden and dramatic financial change meant that I had to stick with my corsa. What's your opinion on this lil guy? The safety rating is abysmal but it definitely looks and feels like a rollercoaster to drive which was super fun! I'm still sad I couldn't have this car months later!

I've also heard the Pandas are fantastic little workhorses. Is this true?

I guess it is time to talk about the Panda, isn't it.

Fantastic little workhorses they most definitely are! The original Panda (which prevailing opinion sees as the only one to refer to by the nickname "Pandino") was produced pretty much unchanged from 1980 to 2003, and you most definitely see them all the time around here even after all these years. And in their prime? Forget it! Everyone has a story that involves a Pandino. My father's is my grandpa was teaching him to drive in one and the shifter came clean off and grandpa covered his eyes. Mine involves my ex's family which has a 4x4 Panda they only ever use to navigate the road between their little mountain town and their house, best described as five "there is actually no way we're not there yet"s up its side. I drove it, once, and recorded my thoughts. Here's a loose retelling:

In the phrase "The cabin is spartan" the most unfair word is "cabin". Although you do get a free rocking chair, in the form of the driver's seat. It's not like driving an 80s car, I own an 80s car, it's like driving an excavator - the steering wheel is super far away and the pedals are super close. If you long for that sensation of feeling the underside of a desk and stumbling into old gum, the steering wheel and shift knob will definitely do something for ya. Wiggling the shifter feels like you're making it come apart and slotting it into gear feels like sheer luck - to find something that engages more reluctantly than this reverse you've gotta look into child marriages. When you push the brake pedal, while you definitely get the impression that you are doing something to decrease the speed of the car, it feels like you're using the pedal wrong, the brakes feel like they're asking if you're really sure. The wiper, being a single wiper for the whole windshield, at anything past a drizzle moves in an endearingly hilarious frenzy. Dear God is it a deathtrap. It feels about as stable as our government. I defined it 'dynamic in its stillness' because it sure ain't shifting and yet it's in a constant state of falling apart, like the ISS orbit. It exudes the optimism and hopefulness for the future that defined the 80s. The optimism of designing a car with such care and then handing that design to Fiat. The optimism of pulling that handbrake on a hill. It's like nature. Admirable and fascinating in its design, but clearly fragile and unwelcoming.

And if you're wondering if the ex that supplied the Panda for the review is at all cool with my slander, yes, they were riding with and seconded most of it. The only thing they seemed upset by was my thoughts on the horn.

Follows the exchange "It's like a wounded dog" "You're a wounded dog" "I mean, the Panda is a wounded dog. Let's admit that."

Now, was it good to drive? I think we established otherwise. Was it good at not fogging up? No, as I was driving they had to keep slapping a rug against the windshield to clean it up. Was its metal good at staying undissolved enough for their use of the car to have any semblance of legality? Well why do you think they only use it in a stretch of road cops don't visit. But it keeps moving to this day. Because that's what Pandas are good at - keeping on moving. And that's what people buy Pandas for. You want a Panda because, whether you need to head years into the future, up a volcano, or both, the Panda will Just Fucken Go there. That's why you still see so many. Because there's still that many people in this country that just need to keep going, and the Panda has never stopped delivering on that front. That's what they mean by "fantastic little workhorses", and that's what I mean when I second that.

And I know in my heart that goes for the latest Panda too (seen here atop a volcano because indeed I was not joking) which I also drove (you know how they say that when Germans say "3" they mean "3:00" and when Italians say "3" they mean "3-ish"? Yeah the Panda's shifter definitely has the latter attitude towards gears. It out-vagues my 42yo Golf on 42yo shifter bushings.). In fact, if you look up "Is the Fiat Panda reliable?" the common consensus is that despite Fiat's... less than stellar reputation reliability-wise the Panda's not bad, but hilariously rather than because the things that normally break in other cars don't break or break less it seems to be because they just aren't there in the first place.

But don't get me twisted: the Panda's a good car. In a way, it's too entrenched in my country's identity, and by proxy my own, not to be. Nothing sums it up more succinctly than a saying of ours, "Italians good people". Of course - could we ever bring ourselves to believe otherwise? And no, beyond the blindness of national pride, the Panda genuinely has great efficiency -it's the bread of cars: basic, unimpressive, but boy do you ever get a lot for the ingredients- and as noted above It Just Keeps Going.

And at the end of the day, you know, I can harp about how it's not a nice car, how it feels cheap and unsubstantial, but anyone interested in a Panda is bound to know that going in, right? And at the end of the day, while it's easy to say for someone whose car's been doing fine, it's about what you like. After all, I sure didn't get myself the most reliable car I could find for my money. I got myself something that I liked.

And that I could afford, of course. Because you can't exactly get yourself a McLaren F1, can you.

I mean, you can't, right? I've been assuming your budget is within seven digits, but it's not like I have your tax returns, so what do I know.

Well actually I do know one thing: how we can combine the three. Because when friend of our blog Gordon Murray, a man so obsessed with lightness that he literally has an entire car collection and still owns no car over 2500lbs (~1130kg), was designing the greatest driver's car there had ever been (and 'accidentally' fastest production car for the following decade) with such care for low weight he would task Kenwood with developing a lighter sound system for it, he saw his neighbor's car and decided "That is too fucking cool, I don't care if it weighs more I've gotta do something like that with the F1." Which results in what you see above, a less cool version of what he saw that day.

And what did he see that day?

A four seat Toyota.

And if you've not yet spotted the part where this is cooler than the McLaren F1, well, look back at the F1's doors. Notice how their roof is plebeian, opaque metal? Pfft. Get outta here with that working class stuff and look at how the big kids do it.

Do I need to add further comment? I don't think I do.

And yes, one of these is for sale in England for under 5k.

And it has the pretty important roof shades, the rare super funky sound system and the floormats. Now, normally, I'd make the mistake of wondering who gives a shit about the floormats, but in the case of the Sera...

So, what are you waiting for? These come and go, so act quickly and impulsively!

[cryptogem]

Top Common Bitcoin Scams That Investors Should Avoid

Bitcoin has become a global investment sensation, captivating everyone from professional traders to beginners hoping to strike it rich. Its rising popularity, however, has also attracted scammers eager to exploit inexperienced investors. Knowing how to spot these scams is crucial to safeguarding your hard-earned funds in the world of cryptocurrency. Today, I’ll walk you through the most common Bitcoin scams and provide practical tips on how to avoid them. My goal is to arm you with the knowledge to keep your investments safe, no matter your experience level.

1. Phishing Scams

What Are Phishing Scams?

Phishing scams are one of the most prevalent online threats and are especially common in cryptocurrency. In these scams, hackers attempt to steal your sensitive information by imitating reputable companies, such as exchanges or wallets. They often send fake emails or create identical websites to trick you into entering personal details like your login credentials or wallet keys.

How It Works

Phishing attacks can be sophisticated. You might receive an email that looks exactly like one from your cryptocurrency exchange, with logos and designs matching the real site. The email may warn you about “suspicious activity” on your account, urging you to click a link to “secure” it. This link, however, leads you to a fake login page where any details you enter go straight to the scammer.

I once nearly fell for a phishing scam when I received a message claiming my account was compromised. The link looked legitimate at first glance, but I noticed the URL was off by a single letter. That’s all it takes for a scam to look genuine.

How to Avoid Phishing Scams

Always verify URLs before entering personal information. Look for HTTPS and double-check the spelling of the site.

Use two-factor authentication (2FA) for added security.

Be cautious of urgent-sounding messages and double-check with the official app or support page.

2. Ponzi and Pyramid Schemes

What Are Ponzi and Pyramid Schemes?

These scams promise incredibly high returns for relatively little investment, usually relying on the money of new investors to pay “profits” to earlier ones. Pyramid schemes involve recruiting others to participate, while Ponzi schemes simply pay returns from new deposits.

How It Works

Ponzi and pyramid schemes often involve people you trust, like friends or family, who may not even know they’re part of a scam. Many scams will boast “guaranteed returns” on Bitcoin investments, a red flag because crypto’s inherent volatility makes such guarantees impossible.

How to Avoid Ponzi and Pyramid Schemes

Be skeptical of “guaranteed” or “too-good-to-be-true” returns.

Look up reviews or do a quick Google search on the platform offering the investment.

Verify licensing and transparency by checking if the investment is registered with financial authorities.

3. Fake Bitcoin Exchanges and Wallets

What Are Fake Exchanges and Wallets?

Some scammers go as far as creating entire fake exchanges or wallets that look and feel just like reputable platforms. Their purpose is simple: to steal your Bitcoin when you deposit it.

How It Works

These fake exchanges and wallets can look identical to well-known platforms. You deposit your Bitcoin, only to find later that you have no way to withdraw it. I’ve known people who unknowingly transferred funds into fake wallets, thinking they were saving in a secure location.

How to Avoid Fake Exchanges and Wallets

Stick to well-known, reputable exchanges and wallets with a solid track record.

Double-check the site’s URL and make sure it’s HTTPS-secured.

Read reviews on multiple sites before signing up.

4. Pump-and-Dump Schemes

What Are Pump-and-Dump Schemes?

Pump-and-dump schemes involve artificially inflating the price of a cryptocurrency by spreading misleading information to attract buyers. When the price spikes, the orchestrators sell their assets, causing the price to plummet and leaving other investors with losses.

Be wary of hype on social media or chat groups, especially with lesser-known coins.

Stick to established cryptocurrencies and popular trading pairs like BTCUSDT to avoid erratic price spikes with unknown assets.

Research thoroughly before buying in—check the project’s fundamentals and team legitimacy.

How It Works

Scammers often start in online forums or social media, hyping up a particular cryptocurrency, usually a small-cap coin. Once enough people buy in and the price goes up, they quickly sell off their holdings, leaving unsuspecting investors at a loss. I’ve seen this happen countless times in crypto communities.

How to Avoid Pump-and-Dump Schemes

Be wary of hype on social media or chat groups.

Stick to established cryptocurrencies and avoid coins that see massive, sudden price increases without any clear reason.

Research thoroughly before buying in—check the project’s fundamentals and team legitimacy.

5. Impersonation and Social Media Scams

What Are Impersonation Scams?

These scams often involve fraudsters posing as well-known figures or reputable companies, offering “giveaways” if you send them a small amount of Bitcoin.

How It Works

These scammers create fake accounts on Twitter, Instagram, or even YouTube, mimicking real influencers or cryptocurrency figures. They’ll post messages saying something like, “Send 0.1 BTC, and you’ll receive 0.5 BTC back!” Unfortunately, anyone who sends funds to these addresses never sees their money again.

How to Avoid Impersonation and Social Media Scams

Verify the account handle and look for the blue verification badge.

Avoid any offers that require you to send crypto to receive a larger amount in return.

Report fake accounts if you come across them.

6. Fake ICOs and DeFi Projects

What Are Fake ICOs and DeFi Projects?

Some scammers take advantage of Initial Coin Offerings (ICOs) or decentralized finance (DeFi) projects by creating fake or poorly designed projects to steal investor funds.

How It Works

Fake ICOs usually promise revolutionary technology or groundbreaking solutions but don’t deliver. These projects may lack transparency, have anonymous teams, or offer extremely vague information about how their technology works. I’ve seen well-designed websites with polished whitepapers that later turned out to be scams.

How to Avoid Fake ICOs and DeFi Projects

Research the team members and verify their identities on professional sites like LinkedIn.

Look for partnerships with known companies and check their legitimacy.

Be cautious of anonymous teams or vague project descriptions.

7. Malware and Ransomware Attacks

What Are Malware and Ransomware Scams?

Malware and ransomware attacks occur when hackers install malicious software on your computer or mobile device to steal cryptocurrency from your wallet or demand a ransom.

How It Works

Malware can be disguised as a link, download, or software update. Once installed, it can track your keystrokes or even access your wallet. In ransomware attacks, hackers lock your data and demand a ransom in Bitcoin for its release.

How to Avoid Malware and Ransomware Scams

Install a trusted anti-virus program and regularly update it.

Enable multi-factor authentication on your accounts for an added layer of security.

Avoid downloading files from unknown sources or clicking on suspicious links.

Conclusion

Bitcoin scams can be frightening, especially if you’re new to cryptocurrency. But by following a few key precautions and staying aware of the tactics scammers use, you can significantly reduce your risk. Remember to always double-check websites, be skeptical of unrealistic promises, and research any project or investment opportunity thoroughly.

Crypto investing can be incredibly rewarding, but it requires a cautious approach. Staying informed and vigilant is your best defense against falling victim to Bitcoin scams.

[whencyclopedia]

Interview: Scotland & the Flemish People

The Flemish are among the most important and perhaps the most underappreciated immigrant groups to have shaped the history of medieval and early modern Scotland. They came to Scotland as soldiers and settlers, traders and artisans, diplomats, and dynasts, over a period of several centuries. Several of Scotland’s major families – the Flemings, Murrays, Sutherlands, Lindsays, and Douglases for instance – claim elite Flemish roots, while many other families can trace their ties to Flemish people who arrived as craftspeople, mercenaries, and religiously persecuted émigrés.

James II of Scotland and Mary of Guelders

Unknown Artist (Public Domain)

In this interview, James Blake Wiener speaks to Doctor Alexander Fleming and Professor Roger Mason, authors of Scotland and the Flemish People in order to learn more about the many ways the Flemish shaped Scotland’s medieval and early modern history.

JBW: How and why did medieval Flemish and their relationship with Scotland catch your attention?

AF and RM: Very little research has been undertaken on the relationship between Flanders and Scotland. What published research has been done took place a number of years ago (in the 1930s and the 1980s), and some academics have questioned its methodology and conclusions. Moreover, current textbooks on Scottish history make scant reference to the Flemish influence on Scotland in the medieval period, and there was a suspicion that the role of these immigrants has been understated. Hence, we felt that there was a need to review the evidence surrounding the relationship between Flanders and Scotland.

JBW: What were the major factors that led the Flemish to migrate to Scotland in medieval and early modern times? Does one factor stand out more than any of the others?

AF and RM: Flemish knights took part in the invasion of Britain in 1066. They were initially given land in England as a reward for participating in the invasion. On becoming King of Scots in 1124 David I of Scotland brought numbers of Flemish up from England to assist him in the economic and social transformation of the country. From the 12th century onwards Scotland benefited from the migration and settlement of Flemish craftspeople and farmers, as well as elite fighting men and merchants. The burgeoning wool trade with Flanders had brought to Scotland the merchants as well as other specialists associated with sheep rearing.

In the 16th century, the Spanish response to the Protestant Reformation in Continental Europe led to the persecution of Protestants in the Low Countries. Many Protestants, some from Flanders, therefore, fled to England, and some may have moved up to Scotland. This was likely a much less significant source of migrants than the other two aforementioned, which were at root stimulated by economic factors – a quest for land in the case of the early knights and economic opportunity in the case of merchants and craftsmen.

JBW: I suspect that many readers tend to think of the Flemish by virtue of their commanding role in the economic, social, and cultural affairs in late-medieval Europe – during the era of the Burgundian State – and later when Antwerp emerged as the capital of early-16th century European finance. Why is public awareness of their impact minimal in Scotland and elsewhere? I suspect the Flemish themselves know relatively little about their role in early Scottish history as well.

AF and RM: As noted above, much of the existing literature relating to the Flemish involvement in Scotland is very dated and has, in any case, not been easily accessible to the public at large. Furthermore, there had not been a comprehensive, readable history prepared on the topic up until now. Putting that aside, our research found that the Flemish influence was brought to bear over a quite extensive period – perhaps in the order of 600 years – so while they had an impact of some significance, elements of which can still be seen today, it was not easily discernible year upon year. The Flemish migrants were very adaptable and quickly became absorbed into Scottish society, a process of 'Scotticisation', as we call it in our book. This process also has tended to shroud the Flemish influence on Scotland.

JBW: I have read previously that it was Flemish or Dutch émigrées who brought the game of golf to Scotland, however, I had no idea that the Flemish left their imprint with regard to medieval and early modern urban planning. Could you tell us more about their contributions therein?

AF and RM: This question is best addressed by citing specific examples. A notable Flemish immigrant was Mainard the Fleming, who was brought to Scotland by David I in the mid-12th century. He was initially placed in Berwick-upon-Tweed, where he was credited with laying out its plan. He was then moved to St. Andrews, an ancient religious site on Scotland’s Fife coast, that was emerging as the ecclesiastical capital of the country. Mainard was then credited with developing and implementing a master plan for St. Andrews. This east-west, wedge-shaped plan became the town's defining characteristic and remains so to this day.

St Andrews, Scotland

Bill Boaden (CC BY-SA)

Our book also sets out the Flemish architectural influence on a number of Scottish churches. Furthermore, in certain parts of Scotland, and most notably in a number of Fife villages bordering the Forth River, some domestic architecture has distinct Flemish/Dutch features. Such features are 'crow stepped' gables and roofing of red and gray clay pantiles.

JBW: Were there any periods of pervasive discrimination against Flemish in Scotland? Or did the Scots see the Flemish as desirable migrants because of their craftsmanship and capital?

AF and RM: This is a difficult question to answer. Some of the early Flemings brought into Scotland by David I may have been used to pacify parts of the country, the presumption being that their presence may not have been totally welcome by the inhabitants in these areas. However, what evidence there is points to the Flemish being well-received and not the object of discrimination.

The Flemish merchants and craftsmen were highly regarded by the Scots. The former helped to stimulate the wool trade between Scotland and Flanders, thus leading to significant economic benefit. The latter, the craftspeople – notably the weavers – were held in high regard, and in the late 16th century, the Scottish government even provided incentives to bring Flemish weavers to Scotland to provide what we today would describe as 'technical assistance'. Those who chose to remain in Scotland were absorbed seamlessly into Scottish life with no evidence of discrimination.

JBW: Did the Scots not form émigré communities in Flanders and Holland, too? Especially after the marriage of James II of Scotland and Mary of Guelders, I imagine there was a great uptick in traffic between Scotland and Flanders.

AF and RM: Given that much of Scottish wool exports went through the Flanders port of Bruges it is not perhaps surprising that a community of Scots sprung up in that town, oiling the wheels of trade. There is evidence that this community also had its own place of worship. We are fortunate that the ledger of the late 15th-century Scottish merchant, Andrew Halyburton, has survived. Largely based in Middelburg, he had extensive links with Bruges and Antwerp and acted as a factor for the Scottish elite, sourcing and supplying the luxury goods that Flanders was famed for. Halyburton married Cornelia Bening, the daughter of the Scotto-Flemish artist and illuminator Alexander Bening, who had close family and professional links with Hugo van der Goes and the Bruges-Ghent artistic community. Van der Goes’ famed Trinity Altarpiece (now in the Scottish National Gallery) was a product of these interconnections.

Trinity Altarpiece Panels

Hugo van der Goes (Public Domain)

JBW: While it may be an exaggeration to say that up to a third of the current Scottish population has Flemish ancestors, it is undoubtedly true that the medieval and early modern contributions of the Flemish to Scotland are profound. In your own words then, why is it important that we acknowledge their impact and legacy?

AF or RM: There is undoubtedly a significant number of Scottish people whose families have their roots in medieval Flanders. Many will not be aware of this fact, so one of the goals of the Scotland and the Flemish People project, and the book of the same name, was to raise awareness on this topic among the population at large. It is important that we acknowledge the impact and legacy of the Flemish in Scotland as this has not been properly appreciated in existing works of Scottish history.

In our book, we have sought to rectify this deficiency. The Flemish who came to Scotland between the 12th and 16th centuries have left indelible traces on the Scottish landscape, its language and culture, as well as its social and political identity. It has been important that, for the first time, the facts pertaining to the long relationship between Flanders and Scotland have been examined, assessed, and set out in a form that is accessible to historians and the public at large.

JBW: Many thanks for speaking with us about an intriguing subject – I wish you both many happy adventures in research.

Alexander Fleming is an economist who held positions at the Bank of England, University of St Andrews and the World Bank. He was awarded an Honorary LLD from the University of St Andrews in 1999.

Roger Mason is Emeritus Professor of Scottish History at the University of St. Andrews. He has published widely in the field of late medieval and early modern Scottish political thought and culture.

Continue reading...

[ash-and-books]

Rating: 5/5

Book Blurb:Spice trader Cinnamon’s quiet life is turned upside down when she ends up on a quest with a fiery demon, in this irreverently quirky rom-com fantasy that is sweet, steamy, and funny as hell.   All she wanted to do was live her life in peace—maybe get a cat, expand the family spice farm. Really, anything that didn’t involve going on an adventure where an orc might rip her face off. But they say the goddess has favorites, and if so, Cin is clearly not one of them.   After Cin saves the demon Fallon in a wine-drunk stupor, Fallon reveals that all he really wants to do is kill an evil witch enslaving his people. And who can blame him? But now he’s dragging Cinnamon along for the ride whether she like it or not. On the bright side, at least he keeps burning off his shirt.…

Review:

A spice trader's life is turned upside down when she accidentally rescues a demon... who now needs her help to go on a quest and kill a fake goddess, just another day in the life. Cinnamon dreams about having a nice quiet life, yet all of that is chucked out the window when she accidentally saves a demon who then request her help in stopping an evil lich pretending to be a goddess. Cinnamon soon finds herself going on a quest, saving demons, fighting monsters, and dealing with the scariest quest of all, falling in love. Fallon is a charming handsome demon who is determined to win Cinnamon's heart. Together they make a really cute couple and this book was just a feel good fun read.

*Thanks Netgalley and Orbit Books, Orbit for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*

[nanshe-of-nina]

I remember reading a really snotty negative review of Titanic on Salon, years ago, that was super outraged that movie wasn't sufficiently respectful to the memory of John Jacob Astor because it introduced him in a "gossipy" way.

I remember thinking, "Cry moar" even at the time. Later, I found out the following about the Astors, which just solidified that feeling:

Much of the resentment toward the Astors in New York was driven by the fact that they were, in effect, the city’s biggest slumlords. The first John Jacob Astor, a butcher’s son from Baden who landed in New York in 1784, had left behind on his death in 1848 the largest fortune in the United States. Astor began as a fur trader but cashed in his fur company in the 1830s to buy up large parcels of New York real estate. “If I could live all over again,” he once said, “I would buy every square inch of Manhattan.” He very nearly succeeded—his son William would be known as “the landlord of New York” for his vast holdings in the city. The Astors preferred to lease out their land to others who would then return the improved real estate once the lease was up. This also spared the family the unpleasant business of collecting rents from the tenements that occupied many of their properties. Astor-owned hotels like the Waldorf-Astoria and the St. Regis put an elegant gloss on the hard fact that three-quarters of the family’s income came from rents derived from New York’s poorest neighborhoods. In this, the Astors and the White Star Line had something in common; the Olympic and the Titanic would never have been built without the lucrative transatlantic immigrant trade to fill their lower decks. The accommodations the Titanic offered its poorer passengers, however, bore no resemblance to the squalid, disease-ridden warrens that stood on Astor-owned properties. Descriptions of these by the crusading writer and photographer Jacob Riis in the 1890s had caused Colonel Astor to unload some of the worst of his holdings by 1900. (from Gilded Lives: Fatal Voyage by Hugh Brewster)

In any case, the Salon film critic's belief that the male passengers on Titanic all nobly and willingly sacrificed themselves for the lives of women and children is probably not completely true. One survivor (who's name I can't recall at the moment) seemed to think that many of the male passengers on the ship did not fully realize what kind of danger they were in until relatively late in the sinking, by which time most of the lifeboats were already gone.

And in any case, the fact is that the "women and children first/only" rule had to be enforced by the Titanic's officers at gunpoint. And there's a reason for that: a 2012 study that looked into shipwrecks since 1852 found that, with the exception of the Titanic, men are much more likely to survive them than either women or especially children.