#was FDR a saint? NO!!

[iteh3xael]

So you know how the US was still on the “right side of history” during WW2 against the NAZIS but still, y’know, committed human rights atrocities against black people for existing? Now put that in perspective with today’s rhetoric and maybe see how, before the US joined the war against fascism, there were active KKK rallies in DC and we (like Italy) were NOT on the right side until things escalated so like… keep that in mind

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 9: Dionysus, God Of Ecstasy]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.9k

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💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

The October surprise is a great American tradition. As the phases of the moon revolve towards Election Day, the candidates and their factions seek to ruin each other. Lies are told, truths are exposed, Tyche smiles and Achlys brews misery, poison, the fog of death that grows over men like ivy. The stars align. The wolves snap their jaws.

In 1844, an abolitionist newspaper falsely accused James K. Polk of branding his slaves like cattle. In 1880, a letter supposedly authored by James Garfield—in actuality, forged by a New York journalist—welcomed Chinese immigrants in an era when they were being lynched by xenophobic mobs in Los Angeles and San Francisco. In 1920, a rumor emerged that Warren Harding had Black ancestry, an allegation his campaign fervently denied to keep the support of the Southern states. In 1940, FDR’s press secretary assaulted a police officer outside of Madison Square Garden. In 1964, one of LBJ’s top aids was arrested for having gay sex at the Washington D.C. YMCA.

Now, in 1968, Senator Aemond Targaryen of New Jersey is realizing that he will not be the beneficiary of the October surprise he’s dreamed of: his wife’s redemptive pregnancy, a blossoming first family. There is a civil rights protest that turns into a riot in Milwaukee; this helps Nixon, the candidate of law and order. For every fire lit and window shattered, he sees a bump in the polls from businessowners and suburbanites who fear anarchy. Breaking news of the My Lai massacre—committed back in March but only now brought to light—airs on NBC, horrifying the American public and bolstering support for Aemond, the man who has vowed to begin ending the war as soon as he’s sworn into office. The two contestants are deadlocked. Election Day could be a photo finish.

Nixon is in Texas. Wallace is in Arkansas. In Florida, Aemond visits the Kennedy Space Center and pledges to fulfill JFK’s promise to put a man on the moon by 1970. He makes a speech at the Mary McLeod Bethune Home commending her work as an educator, philanthropist, and humanitarian. He greets soldiers at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola. He feeds chickens to the alligators at the Saint Augustine Alligator Farm Zoological Park.

But it is not the senator the crowds cheer loudest for. It is his wife, his future first lady, here in her home state where she staunched her husband’s hemorrhaging blood and appeared before his well-wishers still marked with crimson handprints. In Tarpon Springs, she and Aemond attend mass at the Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Cathedral and pray at an altar made of white marble from Athens. Then they stand on the docks as flashbulbs strobe all around them, watching sponge divers reappear from the depths, breaking through the bubbling sapphire water like Heracles ascending to Mount Olympus.

~~~~~~~~~~

You kick off your high heels, tear the pins and clips out of your hair, and flop down onto the king-sized bed in your suite at the Breakers Hotel. It’s the same place Aemond was almost assassinated five months ago. He has returned in triumph, in defiance. He cannot be killed. It is God’s will.

You are alone for these precious fleeting moments. Aemond is in Otto’s suite discussing the itinerary for tomorrow: confirmations, cancellations, reshufflings. You pick up the pink phone from the nightstand on Aemond’s side of the bed and dial the number for the main house at Asteria. It’s 9 p.m. here as well as there. Through the window you can see inky darkness and the kaleidoscopic glow of the lights of Palm Beach. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones. No intercession from Eudoxia is necessary this time; Aegon answers on the second ring.

“Yeah?” he says, slow and lazy like he’s been smoking something other than Lucky Strikes.

“Hey.” And then after a pause, twirling the phone cord around your fingers as you stare up at the ceiling: “It’s me.”

“Oh, I know. Should I take off my pants, or…?” He’s only half-joking.

You smile. “That was stupid. Someone could have bugged the phone.”

“You think Nixon’s guys are wiretapping us? Give me a break. They’re goddamn buffoons. They’re too busy telling cops to beat hippies to death.” You hear him taking a drag off his joint, envision him sprawled across his futon and enshrouded in smoke. “Everything okay down there in the swamp?”

You shrug, even though Aegon can’t see you. “It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“My parents were there when we stopped in Tarpon Springs. They kept telling everyone how proud they are of me, and I just felt so…dishonest.”

“Of course they’re proud. If Aemond wins, the war ends and more civil rights bills get passed and this hell we’ve all been living in since 1963 goes away.”

“I miss you,” you confess.

“You’ll be back soon to enjoy me in all my professional loser glory.” He’s right: Aemond’s entourage will spend Halloween at Asteria. You’ll take the children trick-or-treating around Long Beach Island—with journalists in tow, of course—and then host a party with plentiful champagne and Greek hors d’oeuvres, one last reprieve before the momentous slog towards Election Day on November 5th, a reward for the campaign staffers and reporters who have served Aemond so well. “What are you going to dress up as?”

“Someone happy,” you say, and Aegon chuckles, low and sardonic. “Actually, nothing. Aemond and Otto have decided that it would be undignified for the future president and first lady to be photographed in costumes, so I will be wearing something festive yet not at all fun.”

“Aemond has always been somewhat confused by the concept of fun.”

“What are you going to be for Halloween?”

You can hear the grin in his voice as he exhales smoke. “A cowboy.”

“A cowboy,” you repeat, giggling. “You aren’t serious.”

“Extremely serious. I protect the cows, I comfort the cows, I breed the cows…”

“You are mentally ill. You belong in an asylum.”

“I ride the cows…”

“Cowboys do not ride cows.”

“Maybe this one does.”

“I thought you liked being ridden.”

Aegon groans with what sounds like genuine discomfort. “Don’t tease me. You know I’m celibate at the moment.”

“Miraculous. Astonishing. The Greek Orthodox Church should canonize you. What have you been doing with all of your newfound free time?”

“Taking the kids out sailing, hiding from Doxie, trying not to step on the Alopekis…and playing Battleship with Cosmo. He has a very loose understanding of the rules.”

“He does. I remember.”

“He keeps asking when you’ll be back.”

“Really?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah, it’s cute. And he calls you Io because he heard me do it.”

“Not an appropriate myth for children, I think.”

“Cosmo’s what, seven years old?”

“Five.”

“Close enough. I think I knew about death and torment and Zeus being a slut by then.”

“And you have no resulting defects whatsoever.” You roll over onto your belly and slide open the drawer of the nightstand. Instead of the card Aegon gave you at Mount Sinai—you’ve forgotten that you’re on Aemond’s side of the bed—you find something bizarre, unexpected, just barely able to fit. “Oh my God, there’s a…there’s a Ouija board in the nightstand!”

Aegon laughs incredulously. “There’s a what?!”

“A Ouija board!” You sit upright and shimmy it out, holding the phone to your ear with one shoulder. The small wooden planchette slides off the board and clatters against the bottom of the drawer. “Why the hell would Aemond have this…?”

“He’s trying to summon the ghost of JFK to stab Nixon.”

“Oh wow, it’s heavy.” You skim your fingertips over the black numbers and letters etched into the wooden board. There’s something ominous about the Good Bye written across the bottom. You can’t beckon the dead into the land of the living without reminding them that they aren’t welcome to stay.

“Aemond is such a freak. Is it a Parker Brothers one, like for kids…?”

“No, I think it’s custom made. It feels substantial, expensive. Hold on, there’s something engraved on the back.” You flip over the Ouija board so you can see what your hands have already felt. The inscription reads in onyx cursive letters: No ghosts can harm you. The stars were never better than the day you were born. With love through all the ages, Alys.

“What’s it say?” Aegon asks from his basement at Asteria.

You’re staring down at the Ouija board, mystified. “Who’s Alys?”

Instead of an answer, Aegon gives you a deep sigh. “Oh. Yeah, she would give him something like that. Fucking creepy witch bullshit.”

“Aegon, who’s Alys?” She’s his mistress. She has to be. It fills your skull like flashbulbs, like lightning: Aemond climbing on top of another woman, conquering her, owning her, binding her up in his mythology like a spider building a web. And what you feel when the shock begins to dissolve isn’t envy or pain or betrayal but—strangely, paradoxically—hope. “She’s his girl, right?”

“Please don’t be mad at me for not telling you,” Aegon says. “There wasn’t a good time. When I hated you I didn’t care if he was fucking around, and then after what happened in New York I didn’t want to hurt you, I didn’t know how you’d take it. It’s not your fault, there’s nothing wrong with you. She was here first. He’d have kept Alys around if he married Aphrodite herself.”

“I’m not mad.” You’re distracted, that’s what you are; you’re plotting. “Where is she?”

“She lives in Washington state. I’m not sure exactly where, I think Aemond moves her a lot. He doesn’t want anyone to see him around and start noticing a pattern. Neighbors, shopkeepers, cops, whoever.”

“Washington.” Just like when Ari died. Just like when Aemond didn’t come back. “Who knows about her?”

“Just the family. Fosco and Mimi found out because when they married in, the fights were still happening. Otto and Viserys demanding he give Alys up, Aemond refusing. It’s the only thing he ever did wrong, the only line he drew. He said he needed her. She could never be his first lady, but she could be something else.”

“His mistress.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says reluctantly. “Are you…are you okay?”

“I’m okay. What’s wrong with Alys?”

“What?”

“Why couldn’t Aemond marry her?”

“I mean, she’s the type of psycho who gives people Ouija boards, first of all,” Aegon says. “And she’s…she’s not educated. Her family’s trash. She’s older than Aemond. Hell, she’s older than me. She would be an unmitigated disaster on the campaign trail. She unnerves people. But Aemond, he…”

“He loves her,” you whisper, reading the engraving on the back of the board again. “And she loves him.”

“I guess. Whatever love means to them.”

A thought occurs to you, the first one to bring you pain like a needle piercing flesh. “Does she have children?”

Again, Aegon sounds reticent to disclose this. “A boy. Aemond’s the father.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know, I think he’s around ten now.”

And that’s Aemond’s true heir. Not Ari, not any others he would have with me. That place in his heart is taken. He couldn’t mourn the loss of our son because he already has one with the woman he loves.

Out in the living room of the suite, you hear the front door open. There are footsteps, Aemond’s polished black leather shoes.

Aegon is asking: “Are you sure you’re okay? Hello? Babe? Hello? Are you still there?”

“I’m fine. I gotta go.”

“Wait, no, not yet—!”

“Bye.” You hang up the phone and wait for Aemond to discover you. You’re still clutching the Ouija board. You’re perched on the edge of the bed like something ready to pounce, to kill.

Aemond opens the bedroom door, navy blue suit, blonde hair short and slicked back, his eyepatch covering his empty left socket. He’s begun wearing his eyepatch in public more often—not for every appearance, but for some of them—and whoever finally convinced him to concede this battle wasn’t you. His right eye goes to you and then to the Ouija board in your hands. He doesn’t speak or move to take the board, only studies you warily.

“I know about her,” you tell him.

Still, Aemond says nothing.

“Alys,” you press. “She’s your mistress. You’re in love with her.”

“I did not intend to hurt you.” His words are flat, steely.

“I’m not hurt, Aemond.”

“You shouldn’t have ever known about this. I apologize for not being more discrete. It was a lapse in judgment.” But what he regrets most, you think, is that his secret is less contained, more imperiled.

“What we have is a political arrangement,” you say. The desperation quivers in your voice. “You don’t love me, you never have, and now we can be open about it. You need me to win the White House, but that’s all. Your true companion is elsewhere. I want the same thing.”

He steps closer, eye narrowing, iris glinting coldly, puzzled like he couldn’t have understood you correctly. “What?”

“I want to be permitted to have my own happiness outside of this imitation of a marriage.”

“No,” Aemond says instantly.

Your stomach sinks, dark iron disappointment. “But…but…why?”

“Because I don’t trust you to not get caught. Because I need to be sure that I am the father of the children you’ll give birth to. And because as my wife you are mine, and mine alone.”

Tears brim in your eyes; embers burn in your throat. “You’re asking for my life. My whole life, all of it, everything I’ll ever experience, everything I’ll ever feel. I get one chance on this planet and you’re stealing it away from me.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees simply.

“So where’s my consolation?” you demand. “You get Alys, so where’s mine?”

“What do you want?”

You don’t reply, but you glare at your husband with eternal rage like Hera’s, with fatal vitriol like Medusa’s.

“You think I don’t know about that little card you keep in your nightstand?” Aemond is furious, betrayed. “You used to hate him.”

“I was wrong.”

“Because he was at Mount Sinai and I wasn’t? Three days undid everything we’ve ever been to each other? Our oaths, our ambitions?!”

“No,” you say, tears slipping down the contours of your cheeks. “Because he’s real. He doesn’t try to manipulate people into loving him, he doesn’t pretend to be someone he’s not, when he’s cruel it’s because he means it and when he’s kind that’s genuine too. And he wants to know me, who I really am. Not the woman I have to act like to get you elected. Not who you’re trying to turn me into—”

Aemond has crossed the room, grabbed the front of your teal Chanel dress, and yanked you to your feet. The Ouija board jolts out of your hands and lands on the carpet unharmed. Your long hair is in disarray, your eyes wide and fearful. You try to push Aemond away, but he ignores you. You can’t sway him. You’ve never been able to. “Aegon has nothing to his name except what this family gives him,” Aemond snarls, hushed, hateful. His venom is not for his brother but for you. You have upended the natural order of things. You have dared to deny Zeus what he has been divinely granted dominion over. “You would jeopardize his wellbeing, his access to his children? You would ruin yourself? You would doom this nation? If you cost me the election, every drop of blood spilled is on your hands, every body bag flown home from Vietnam, every martyr killed by injustice here. What you ask for is worse than being a traitor and a whore. It is sacrilege.”

“Let go of me—”

“And there’s one more thing.” Aemond pulls you closer so he knows you’re paying attention. You’re sobbing now, trembling, choking on his cologne, shrinking away from his furnace-heat wrath. “Aegon isn’t capable of love. Not the kind you’re imagining. He gets infatuated, and he uses people, and then he moves on. You think he never charmed Mimi, never made her feel cherished by him? And look how she ended up. I’m trying to carve your name into legend beside mine. Aegon will take you to your grave.”

Your husband shoves you away, storms out of the bedroom, slams the door so hard the walls quake.

~~~~~~~~~~

Parading down streets like the victors of a fallen city, jack-o-lanterns keeping watch with their laceration grins of firelight. Hecate is the goddess of witchcraft, Hades rules the Underworld, Selene is the half-moon peeking through clouds in an overcast sky. The stars elude you.

The children—ghosts, pirates, princesses, witches—dash from doorstep to doorstep like soldiers in Vietnam search tunnels. They smile and pose in their outfits when the journalists prompt them, beaming and waving, showing off their Dots, Tootsie Pops, Sugar Daddies, Smarties, Razzles, and candy cigarettes before depositing them in the plastic orange pumpkins that swing from their wrists. Only Cosmo, dressed as Teddy Roosevelt with lensless glasses and a stuffed lion thrown over one shoulder, stays with the adults. He is the last one to each house, approaching the doorway reticently like it might swallow him up, inspiring fond chuckles and encouragement from the reporters. He clutches your hand and hides behind you when towering monsters lumber by: King Kong, Frankenstein, vampires with fake blood spilling from their mouths.

Aemond wears a black suit with orange accents: tie, pocket square, socks. You glimmer in a black dress dotted with white stars, clicking down the sidewalk in boots that run to your knees, silver eyeshadow, heavy liner. You almost look your own age. There are large star-shaped barrettes in your pinned-up hair, bent glinting metal. As the reporters snap photos of you and Cosmo walking together, they shout: “You’ll be such a great mother one day, Mrs. Targaryen!”

Fosco is Ettore Boiardi—better known as Chef Boyardee—an Italian immigrant who came through Ellis Island in 1914 with a dream of opening a spaghetti business. Helaena, Alicent, and Ludwika are, respectively, Alice, Wendy, and Cinderella; Ludwika clops along resentfully in her puffy sleeves and too-small clear stilettos. Criston is Peter Pan. Aegon wears a white button-up shirt, cow print vest, ripped jeans, brown leather boots, a cowboy hat that’s too big for him, and a green bandana knotted around his throat. He stays close to you and Cosmo because he can, here where the journalists expect to see him being a devoted father and active participant in the family business of mending a tattered America. Teenagers are fleeing their families to join hippie communes and draftees in Vietnam are getting their limbs blown off and junkies are shooting up on the streets of New York and Chicago and Los Angeles, but here we see a happy family, a perfect family, a holy trinity that thanks the devotees who offer them tribute. Otto, who neglected to don a disguise, glares at you murderously. You have failed to give Aemond a living child. You have dared to want things for yourself.

Back at Asteria in the main house, the children empty their plastic pumpkins on the living room floor and sort through their saccharine treasures, making trades and bargains: “I’ll do your math homework if you give me those Swedish Fish,” “I’ll let you ride my bike for a week if I can have your Mallo Cup.” While the other adults ply themselves with champagne and chain smoke away the stress of the campaign trail, Aegon gets his Caribbean blue Gibson guitar and sits on the couch playing I’m A Believer by The Monkees. The kids clap and sing along between intense confectionary negotiations. Cosmo wants to share his candy cigarettes with you; you pretend to smoke together as sugar melts on your tongue.

Now the children have been sent to bed—mollified with the promise of homemade apple pies tomorrow, another occasion to be documented by swarms of clamoring journalists—and the house becomes a haze of smoke and indistinct conversation and music from the record player. Platters of appetizers have appeared on the dining room table: pita, tzatziki, hummus, melitzanosalata, olives, horiatiki, mini spanakopitas, baklava. Women are chattering about the painstaking labor they put into costumes and men are scheming to deliver death blows to Nixon, setbacks in Vietnam, Klan meetings in Mississippi. Aemond is knocking back Old Fashioneds with Otto and Sargent Shriver. Fosco is dancing in the living room with drunk journalists. Eudoxia is muttering in Greek as she aggressively paws crumbs off of couches and tabletops. Thick red candles flicker until wax melts into a pool of blood at the base.

Through the veil of cigarette smoke and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch, Aegon finds you when no one is looking, and you know it’s him without having to turn around. His hand is the only one that doesn’t feel heavy when it skims around your waist. He whispers, soft grinning lips to your ear, rum and dire temptation like Orpheus looking back at Eurydice: “Let’s do some witchcraft.”

You know where Aemond keeps the Ouija board. You take it out of the top drawer of his nightstand in your bedroom with blue walls and portraits of myths in captive frames. Then you descend with Aegon into the basement, down like Persephone when summer ends, down like women crumbling under Zeus’s weight. You remember to lock the door behind you. You’re not high—you can’t smoke grass in a house full of guests who could smell it and take it upon themselves to investigate—but you feel like you are, that lightness that makes everything more bearable, the surreal tilt to the universe, awake but dreaming, truth cloaked in mirages.

Aegon has stolen three red candles from upstairs. He hands one to you, keeps a second for himself, and places the third on his end table beside a myriad of dirty cups. You glimpse at his ashtray and a folded corner of the receipt that’s still tucked beneath it, and you think: I have my card, Aegon has his receipt, Aemond has his Ouija board. I wonder what Alys likes to keep close when she sleeps. Then Aegon clicks off the lamp so the only light is from the flickering candles.

He tosses away his cowboy boots, hat, vest and is down on the green shag carpet with you, his hair messy, his white shirt half-unbuttoned. He’s taking sips of Captain Morgan straight from the glass bottle. He’s lighting a Lucky Strike with the wick of his candle and then giving it to you to puff on as he places the planchette on the board. “Wait, how do we start?”

You exhale smoke, setting your candle down on the carpet and then tugging off your own boots with some difficulty. “We have to say hello.”

“Okay.” Aegon places his fingertips on one side of the heart-shaped planchette and you rest yours lightly on the other. He begins doubtfully: “Hello…?”

“Is there anyone who would like to send us a message from the other side this evening?”

“You’ve done this before,” Aegon accuses.

“I have. In college.”

“With a guy?”

You chuckle, taking a drag as the cigarette smolders between your fingers. “No, with my friends. It’s not really a date activity.”

“I think it’s very romantic. Candles, darkness, danger, who’s gonna protect you when the ghosts start throwing things around…”

“You’d fight a ghost for me?”

“Depends on the ghost. FDR? You got it. I can take a guy in a wheelchair. Teddy? No ma’am. You’re on your own.”

“Which ghost should we summon?”

Aegon ponders this for a moment. “John F. Kennedy, are you in this basement with us right now?”

“That is wrong, that is so wrong.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Aegon says. “JFK, how do you feel about Johnson fucking up your legacy?”

“That is not the kind of question you’re supposed to ask. We’re not on 60 Minutes.”

“JFK, do you haunt the White House?” Aegon drags the planchette to the Yes on the board. “Oh no, I’m scared.”

“You are a cheater, this is a fraudulent Ouija board session.” You put your cigarette out in the ashtray and then take a swig from Aegon’s rum bottle. “JFK, are we gonna make it to the moon before 1970?”

Aegon pulls the planchette to the No. “Damn, Io, bad news. Guess the Russians win the Space Race and then eradicate capitalism across the globe. No more beach houses. No more Mr. Mistys.”

“Give me the planchette, you’re abusing your power.”

“No,” Aegon says, snickering as you try to wrestle it away from him. In his other hand he’s clutching his candle; scarlet beads of wax like blooddrops pepper your skin as you struggle, tiny infernos that burn exquisitely. Red like paint splatter appears on Aegon’s shirt. You grab the green bandana around his throat, but instead of holding him back you’re drawing him closer. The Ouija board and all the world’s ghosts are momentarily forgotten.

“You’re dripping wax on me—”

“Good, I want to get it all over you, then I want to peel it off and rip out your leg hair.”

You’re laughing hysterically as you pretend to try to shove him away. “I’m freshly shaved, you idiot.”

“Everywhere?” Aegon asks, intrigued.

You smirk playfully. “Almost.”

“Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.” Aegon sets his candle down on the carpet and strips away tacky dots of red wax: one from your forearm down by your wrist, another from your neck just below one of your silver hoop earrings, wax from your ankles and your calves and right above your knees. His fingertips are calloused from his guitar, from the ropes of his sailboat. They scratch roughly over you, chipping away who you’re supposed to be.

Then Aegon stops. You follow his gaze down. There is a smudge of wax on the inside of your thigh, extending beneath the hem of your dress, glittering black and white fabric that hides what is forbidden to him. Aegon’s eyes are on you, that troubled opaque blue, drunk and desperate and wild and afraid. With your fingers still hooked beneath his bandana, you say to him like a dare: “Now you’re going to stop?”

His palm skates up the smoothness of your thigh, and as he unpeels that last stain of red wax his other hand cradles your jaw and his lips touch yours, gently at first and then with the ravenousness of someone who’s been dying of thirst for centuries, starving since birth. You’re opening your legs wider for him, and his fingers do not stop at your thigh but climb higher until they are whisking your black lace panties away, exploring your folds and your wetness as his tongue darts between your lips, tasting something he’s been craving forever but only now stumbled into after four decades of darkness, trapped in you like Narcissus at his pool.

You are unknotting his green bandana and letting it fall to the shag carpet. You are unbuttoning the rest of his shirt so you can feel his chest, soft and warm and yielding, safe, real. The candlelight is flickering, the thumping bass of a song you can’t decipher pulsing through the floor above. Now beneath your dress Aegon’s fingers are pressing a place that makes your breath catch in your throat, makes you dizzy with need for him. He looks at you and you nod, and he reads in your face what you wanted to say months ago in this same basement: Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon lifts your dress over your head, nips at your throat as he unclasps your bra, and you are suddenly aware of how the cool firelit air is touching every part of you, how you are bare for him in a way you’ve never been before. You catch Aegon’s face in your hand before he can see the scar that runs down the length of your belly and say, your voice quiet and fragile: “Don’t look at me.”

Pain flashes in his eyes, furrows across his brow. “Stop,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead as you cling to him. Then he begins moving lower and you fall back onto the carpet, no blood on Aegon’s hands this time, only your sweat and lust for him, only crystalline evidence of a betrayal you’ve long ago already committed in your mind.

You’re combing your fingers through his hair and gasping as Aegon’s lips ghost down your scar, not something ruinous or shameful but a part of you, the beginning of your story together, the origin of your mythology. Then his mouth is on you—yearning, aching wetness—and you thought you knew what this felt like but it’s more powerful now, more urgent, and Aegon is glancing up to watch your face, to study you, to change what he’s doing as he follows your clues. And then there is a pang you think is too sharp to be pleasure, too close to helplessness, something that leaves you panting and shaking.

You jolt upright. “Wait…”

Aegon props himself up on his elbows. His full lips glisten with you. “What? What’d I do wrong?”

“No, it’s not you, it’s just…it’s like…” You can’t describe it. “It’s too…um…too intense or something. It’s like I couldn’t breathe.”

Aegon stares at you, his eyebrows low. After a long pause he says: “Babe, you’ve come before, right?”

I’ve what? “Yeah, of course, obviously. I mean…I think so?”

He’s stunned. He’s in disbelief. Then a grin splits across his face. “Lie back down.”

You’re nervous, but you trust him. If this costs you your life, you’ll pay it. He pushes your thighs farther apart and his tongue stays in one spot—where you touched yourself in the bathtub in Seattle, where you wanted him when he slipped his fingers into you for the first time—and suddenly the uneasy feeling is something raging and irresistible like a riptide in the Atlantic, something better than anything you knew existed, and you keep thinking it’s happened but it hasn’t yet, as you cover your face with your hands to smother your moans, as your hips roll and Aegon’s arms curl under your thighs to keep you in place so he can make you finish. It’s a release that is otherworldly, celestial, terrifying, divine. It’s something that rips the curtain between mortals and paradise.

It’s always like this for men? That’s what Aemond has been getting from me, that’s what I’ve been denied?

As you lie gasping on the carpet Aegon returns, smiling, kissing you, running his fingers through locks of hair that have escaped from your pins. “Not bad, right little Io?” he purrs, smelling like rum and minerals, earth and poison. Now he’s taking off his jeans, but before he can position himself between your legs you have pushed him onto his back and straddled him, pinning his wrists to the floor, watching the amazement ripple across his flushed face, the desire, the need. You tease Aegon, leaning in to nibble at his ear and bite gingerly at his throat, never harming him, never claiming him, grinding your hips against his and listening as his breathing turns quick and rough. Then you slip him inside you, this man you once hated, this man who was a stranger and then a curse and now a spell.

Aegon wants to be closer to you. He sits up as you ride him, hands on your face, in your hair, kissing you, inhaling you, shuddering, trying not to cry out as footsteps and laughter and thunderous basslines bleed through the ceiling. You know he’s been high on so many things—things that corrupt, things that kill—and you hope you can compare, this brief clean magic.

He can’t last; he finishes with a moan like he’s in agony, and as the motion of your hips slows, you take his jaw in your grasp and gaze down at him. “Good boy,” you say with a grin. Aegon laughs, exhausted, drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He embraces you so tightly you can feel the pounding of his heart, racing muscle beneath bones and skin.

He’s murmuring through your disheveled hair: “I gotta see you again, when can I see you again?”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t have an answer. You unravel yourself from Aegon and dress yourself in the red candlelight: panties, bra, dress, boots, all things that Aemond chose for you, all things he bought with his family’s money, all things he owns. Aegon has nothing to his name and neither do you. You are—like Fosco once said—pieces of the same machine.

“Where are you going?” Aegon asks, like he’s afraid of the answer.

“I have to go back upstairs to the party before someone realizes I’m missing.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.” You kneel on the carpet to kiss him one last time, your palm on his cheek, his fingers clutching at your dress as he begs you not to leave. “I have to, I have to,” you whisper, and then you do.

You grab the Ouija board and planchette off the green shag carpet, hug them to your chest, and hurry up the steps. The first floor of the Asteria house is a maze of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses, guests who are dancing and cackling and drunk. From the record player strums Johnny Cash’s Ring Of Fire. You slip unnoticed to the staircase.

In the blue-walled bedroom you share with Aemond, you carefully place the Ouija board and planchette in the top drawer of his nightstand exactly as you found them. Then you go to your vanity to try to fix your hair. As you’re rearranging clips and pinning loose strands back into place, the door opens. Aemond is there, feeling beloved and invincible, looking for you. He crosses the room and closes his long fingers around your wrist. He wants you: under him, making children for him, possessed by him.

“Come to bed,” Aemond says.

“Not right now. I’m busy.”

“You aren’t busy anymore.”

“I told you no.”

He wrenches you from your chair. Instead of surrendering, you strike out, hitting him in the chest. You don’t harm him, you’re not strong enough, but genuine shock leaps into his scarred face.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you hiss. You can’t let Aemond undress you; he will find the evidence of your treason, he will see it, feel it, taste it. But that’s not the only reason you stop him. “Every goddamn night I give you what you want, and exactly how you want it. Tonight I’m saying no. You want to take me? You’ll have to do it properly. I’m not going to give you the illusion of consent. You remember what Zeus did to all those women, right? Go ahead. Act like the god you think you are. But I’m going to fight you. And if those people downstairs hear me screaming, you can explain to them why.”

Aemond stares at you in the silvery light of the half-moon. You glare boldly back. At last he leaves and descends the staircase into an underworld of churning smoke, returning to the party to sip his Old Fashioneds and decide what to do with you.

[sgiandubh]

I was wondering if anyone else had this same fear as mine? I’m not sure it’s really a fear but I think there are going to be sex scenes in Sam’s upcoming project and who knows maybe Cait as well.

Is it crazy to feel uneasy, fearful, nervous or any of those emotions about watching Sam or Cait do sex scenes with people other than each other? I know it’s their job if the script has these scenes but maybe I’m worried that what I see on screen with them in their sex scenes with each other and how special it is isn’t as special as I think?

It’s probably an irrational fear and no it’s not the only reason or even the reason why I am a shipper. Their chemistry on screen sent me down the rabbit hole and it was really what has happened off screen that made me a shipper.

Sorry I think I rambled quite a bit there but you seem to welcoming and friendly and most importantly rationale.

Dear Uneasy Anon,

Let the woman in the audience who was NOT even mildly - how can I put it elegantly - ehrm.. unsettled by The Reckoning cast the first stone at your question and my answer.

*crickets*

I thought so.

I remember my stupefaction on a balmy late August night (not unlike this one) when I watched these scenes for the very first time. Shouted like a crazy woman at 4 AM something along the lines of OH, DEAR ME, WHAT THE HELL (literally: what the mother of all devils, told you that being a native speaker of obscure idioms is infinite fun)? And then immediately hit rewind, questioning my sanity and grateful I was under the radar.

I had never seen anything like this on a screen, let alone in what I thought to be a whachamacallit divertimento (Sam, who? Caitríona, who?). And chemistry is a paltry, almost sorry term to describe sexual attraction, in their case: these two were not blocking anything, and I do not mean it in a lewd way, but in an emotional one. A much more serious affair than a, heh, hydraulic incident while having to put up with carpet burns.

What we saw there were two people very much attracted to each other and yes, clearly in the early stages of falling deep and hard in love with each other. And I do not mean Jamie and Claire, here, for I have never made the confusion. Let's not be hypocrites: what consistently happened on and off-screen, in the Season 1- Season 3 interval, despite all the hurdles and the shitshow, is a real story on the constant brink of taking over the performance side of things. So much so, that at some point I almost completely blocked the characters and had to re-watch, for the sake of keeping up with that neglected storyline: it was embarrassing, but in a good way.

That was not acting, dear Uneasy Anon, and bless his heart, he repeatedly spilled the tea about it. Knowing that and having experienced that Mach3 impact yourself, I doubt you would feel uneasy by S/C shooting formulaic sex scenes with other people. An example: When the Starlight Ends. I howled in my popcorn. That is to say that particular movie was a doomed project. That is also to say: you'll know how 'not special at all' that is, when you watch it.

So, in a nutshell, I can only offer you this answer, along with the hope that it makes sense or helps you somewhat: you may feel uneasy because you know how rare and fragile that is and also because you are probably afraid of breaking that spell. But you immediately tell me that it is their off-screen shenanigans that made you a part of our rank and file: what you call fear is nothing else but maybe a bit of projection and certainly a deep fascination. You are desperately normal, dear Anon. Last but not least, remember FDR: the only thing to fear is Fear itself. Go ahead. Watch those with an honest eye. I guarantee there will be absolutely nothing to write home about.

This, however (emphatically NOT The Reckoning). This always punches me in the damn gut. This is better than Mantegna's Saint Sebastian. Objectification, schmobjectification:

[titoist]

It was Richard Nixon who got me into politics, and now that he's gone, I feel lonely. He was a giant in his way. As long as Nixon was politically alive -- and he was, all the way to the end -- we could always be sure of finding the enemy on the Low Road. There was no need to look anywhere else for the evil bastard. He had the fighting instincts of a badger trapped by hounds. The badger will roll over on its back and emit a smell of death, which confuses the dogs and lures them in for the traditional ripping and tearing action. But it is usually the badger who does the ripping and tearing. It is a beast that fights best on its back: rolling under the throat of the enemy and seizing it by the head with all four claws. That was Nixon's style -- and if you forgot, he would kill you as a lesson to the others. Badgers don't fight fair, bubba. That's why God made dachshunds.

[…]

If the right people had been in charge of Nixon's funeral, his casket would have been launched into one of those open-sewage canals that empty into the ocean just south of Los Angeles. He was a swine of a man and a jabbering dupe of a president. Nixon was so crooked that he needed servants to help him screw his pants on every morning. Even his funeral was illegal. He was queer in the deepest way. His body should have been burned in a trash bin.

[...]

Kissinger was only one of the many historians who suddenly came to see Nixon as more than the sum of his many squalid parts. He seemed to be saying that History will not have to absolve Nixon, because he has already done it himself in a massive act of will and crazed arrogance that already ranks him supreme, along with other Nietzschean supermen like Hitler, Jesus, Bismarck and the Emperor Hirohito. These revisionists have catapulted Nixon to the status of an American Caesar, claiming that when the definitive history of the 20th century is written, no other president will come close to Nixon in stature. "He will dwarf FDR and Truman," according to one scholar from Duke University. It was all gibberish, of course. Nixon was no more a Saint than he was a Great President. He was more like Sammy Glick than Winston Churchill. He was a cheap crook and a merciless war criminal who bombed more people to death in Laos and Cambodia than the U.S. Army lost in all of World War II, and he denied it to the day of his death. When students at Kent State University, in Ohio, protested the bombing, he connived to have them attacked and slain by troops from the National Guard. Some people will say that words like scum and rotten are wrong for Objective Journalism -- which is true, but they miss the point. It was the built-in blind spots of the Objective rules and dogma that allowed Nixon to slither into the White House in the first place. He looked so good on paper that you could almost vote for him sight unseen. He seemed so all-American, so much like Horatio Alger, that he was able to slip through the cracks of Objective Journalism. You had to get Subjective to see Nixon clearly, and the shock of recognition was often painful.

[...]

He has poisoned our water forever. Nixon will be remembered as a classic case of a smart man shitting in his own nest. But he also shit in our nests, and that was the crime that history will burn on his memory like a brand. By disgracing and degrading the Presidency of the United States, by fleeing the White House like a diseased cur, Richard Nixon broke the heart of the American Dream.

- "THE DEATH OF RICHARD NIXON: NOTES ON THE PASSING OF AN AMERICAN MONSTER…. HE WAS A LIAR AND A QUITTER, AND HE SHOULD HAVE BEEN BURIED AT SEA…. BUT HE WAS, AFTER ALL, THE PRESIDENT." Hunter S. Thompson, May 1, 1994

[darkmaga-returns]

By Will Stoutamire

You know what? I’ll give it to them. The Democrat party once ran a hustle of progressive yet reasonable policies. These policies consisted of issues ranging from less spending on the military, more representation for minorities, more spending toward social welfare programs, more gun control, universal healthcare, and more dollars for future alternative energies. Republicans usually resisted these policies, but in the eyes of most moderate Americans, they were simply “reasonable.” These were policies that Americans voted for in 2008 and 2012 during the back-to-back elections of Barack Obama.

Now, I ask a simple question. What in the name of Saint Peter changed over the last decade with the Democrat party? Most critical-thinking people who are grinding away at work and home life, who normally do not care to think about politics, who have voted the Democrat ticket like their ancestors going back to FDR, now realize that the new Democrat party has morphed into Alice in Wonderland, flying monkeys, and psychedelic leftism over the last decade.

It is evident that the hysteria of the Democrat party began on the night of November 8, 2016. The legacy media believed that the darling of the to-be new age, Madam Hillary, would soundly defeat the pusillanimous New York real estate tycoon Donald Trump. They stuck it to the Donald for 1.5 years throughout his first campaign, always assuming the pariah dark horse would never reach 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

[languageyeti1985]

The Wonderful World Of Beer....

He was a wise man who invented beer - Unknown.

Welcome to the fascinating world of beer! 🍺 

Let's explore some captivating facts and trivia that will leave you thirsty for more:

What is the Most Expensive Beer in the World?

Have you heard of "Tutankhamun"? This brew is crafted from an ancient recipe University of Cambridge archaeologists recovered. Served in limited, numbered editions, each bottle fetches a staggering $52. Talk about a taste of history!

Which Country Boasts the Most Individual Beer Brands?

Belgium takes the crown with an impressive 400 unique beer brands. It's a beer lover's paradise!

Do you know the origin of the Rule of Thumb?

Before thermometers, brewers relied on their thumbs to gauge brew temperatures. If it was too cold, yeast wouldn't grow; too hot, and it'd perish. Talk about hands-on brewing!

Who Brewed America's First Lager?

John Wagner brewed the first US lager in 1840, using yeast from Bavaria all the way. That's one way to bring a taste of Europe to the States!

What is Cenosillicaphobia?

It's the fear of an empty glass – a nightmare scenario for any beer enthusiast!

Do you know who King Gambrinus is – The Beer Patron Saint?

Move over, St. Arnold! King Gambrinus reigns as the ultimate patron saint of beer. Cheers to royalty in every sip!

How Long Did Prohibition Last?

Prohibition wasn't just a dry spell – it lasted a whopping 13 years, ten months, 19 days, and 17 hours. That's a sobering thought!

Best-Selling Brand in the Western Hemisphere:

Brahma Beer, brewed with Brazilian flair in Sao Paulo, takes the top spot outside the US.

Bonus Beer Trivia:

Have you ever wondered why beer foam sticks around? A sprinkle of salt on your napkin can keep your glass in check.

Beer: It's not just a beverage – Bavaria considers it a staple food!

Calling all beer bottle collectors – you're officially labeorphilists!

From vending machines to train stations, beer is everywhere in Japan.

Need a drink? The first Marine Recruiting Station was conveniently located in a bar!

Tossing salted peanuts in your brew? It's the secret to making them dance!

Looking for a strong sip? Samuel Adams Triple Bock packs a punch with 17% alcohol by volume.

Did you know? American beer is often brewed with rice to appeal to a broader audience.

Beer isn't just refreshing – it's also a source of B-complex vitamins!

Say cheers to Australia for inventing the portable beer cooler in the 1950s – a game-changer for enthusiasts everywhere!

And Here's More:

The longest bar in the world? It stretches 684 feet (about 208.5 meters) at the New Bulldog in Rock Island, IL.

According to the folks at Guinness, lifting a pint of beer about ten times results in losing about 0.56 ml in a beer drinker's facial hair. That's a lot of wasted beer!

Franklin Delano Roosevelt (FDR) won the 1932 election by promising to end Prohibition, which he followed through on once in office.

Monks brewing beer in the Middle Ages were allowed to drink five quarts (approximately 4.73 litres) of beer a day. That's quite the daily allowance!

So, grab your favourite brew, raise your glass, and here's to the wonderful world of beer – cheers! 🍻

[tvrundownusa]

tvrundown USA 2023.05.31

Wednesday, May 31st:

(exclusive): Drag Me to Dinner (hulu, party planning competition, all 10 eps), Fake Profile (netflix, Colombian steamy drama series, all 10 eps)

(movies): "Mixed by Erry" (netflix, Italian real life dramedy, 90mins)

(streaming weekly): Dr. Romantic (hulu, season 3 opener, first 4 eps), "Class of '09" (hulu), The Clearing (hulu), Saint X (hulu, limited series finale), Platonic (apple+), High Desert (apple+), Ted Lasso (apple+, season 3 finale), The Good Bad Mother (netflix), The Ultimatum: Queer Love (netflix, next 4 eps), "Rhythm + Flow: France" (netflix, season 2 finale)

(specials): "FDR" (HIST, night 3/3, docu-series finale, 2hrs+), 2023 Scripps National Spelling Bee (ION, semi-finals, 2hrs), 30 for 30: "The American Gladiators" (ESPN, finale, 2hrs)

(earlier - hour 0): Nick News (NICK, monthly special)

(hour 1): Nancy Drew (theCW, final season 4 opener, new night), MasterChef (FOX)

(hour 2): Riverdale (theCW), Gordon Ramsay's Food Stars (FOX), Sistas (BET, Tyler Perry's season 6A opener)

(hour 3): Dave (FXX, ~70mins, season 3 finale), Mayans MC (FX, 85mins), We Need to Talk About America (FUSE, part 1 of 2), . / Awkwafina Is Nora From Queens (COM)

(hour 4 - latenight): SisterS (IFC), Mayans MC (FX, contd)

[on hiatus, midseason finales aired last week: House of Payne (BET) / . / Assisted Living (BET) ]

[real-american]

I find that the "lesser of two evils" argument is a false narrative. I mean, who then? Who should be running for President that is so great. and I'm sure Teddy R. was just as "evil" as today's politicians. Everyone thought FDR was a fucking saint for years before they found out what a piece of shit he was and obviously we don't know as much about Teddy R as we do about anyone today because of technology and communication so I'm sure he had his negative qualities as well. Just because he was tough doesn't make him good. Trump is tough as illustrated in recent events and in my opinion is also good on policy. His mistake last time was having too much deep state around him, but I feel he has learned his lesson, for example, his choice for VP this time VS 2016. Anyone you think would be good either will never run for President because they don't want that hassle or will have problems to be exposed if you dig deep enough and everyone gets dived into. Trump is the most vetted person to either run for office or actually hold the office of President and he is far and beyond better then anyone we have ever had. That's why they use fake news, lawfare, and assassination attempts against him, because they can't het him any other way because there is nothing to get him on. My point is people keep saying "lesser of two evils" without ever putting forward a "non evil candidate". The lesser of two evils" argument is meant to divide us.

In a world full of weak politicians like Biden, Trump and others. We really need another Teddy Roosevelt. Man is iconic American figure. That's my president

[maturemenoftvandfilms]

My Top 10 list

Favorite Daddy Sex Scandals: Part I

Whether rumored or proven fact, these are a few of my favorite Daddy Sex Scandals.

#10: Megachurch Leader in Mega-sized Sex Scandal

Bishop Earl Paulk, Founder of Chapel Hill Harvester in Decatur, Georgia, was at the center of a sex scandal of biblical dimensions: He slept with his brother's wife and fathered a child by her. All that while sleeping with a number of female members of his congregation and was even accused of child molestation. I don’t approve of what he did, but sleeping with all those women of his congregation, fucking his brother’s wife, getting her pregnant and his brother raise him as his own. That’s straight pimpin. But the child molestation thing coming out completely soured him for me.  

#9: Larry "Wide Stance" Craig

Larry Craig, was a U.S. Senator for 18 years, when he was arrested on June 11, 2007, and charged with lewd conduct in a men’s restroom at the Minneapolis–Saint Paul International Airport. The following months brought a long, sordid, and confusing sequence of angry denials, Craig’s guilty plea to a misdemeanor charge of disorderly conduct, press conferences and more denials, a promise to resign, an attempt to withdraw the guilty plea, a statement that he would not resign after all and a long series of men reporting that Craig had either solicited them for sex or had actually engaged in sex acts with them. I thought he was hot at the time and would probably do him today.

#8: FDR Affairs

Franklin D. Roosevelt was rumored to have had multiple extra-marital affairs beginning in 1914, and continued until he died in 1945 outside his marriage to Eleanor. Roosevelt had polio and was stuck in a chair, but still got ass until he died. That’s straight pimpin. And there’s a real possibility that a romantic relationship existed" between FDR and Princess Märtha of Sweden, who resided in the White House during part of World War II. At least five relationships outside his marriage and maybe even a princess. All while mostly being in a wheelchair. Damn, he’s the man. How could I not admirer FDR.

#7: Jimmy Swaggart Scandal

In 1980s Jimmy Swaggart, a Pentecostal televangelist, attacked televangelist Jim Bakker on past issues and he retaliated by hiring a private investigator to find dirt on Swaggart. Apparently, Swaggart was cheating on his wife with a New Orleans prostitute. Not only that, Swaggart was an avid consumer of porn and experimented with BDSM, all while condemning such "immoral" acts. He was forced to step down from the pulpit in 1986. He was caught three years later with another prostitute. I just remember seeing balling like a baby on tv and laughing my ass off.

#6: Harding’s Lechery

Warren G. Harding, the 29th US president reportedly had at least seven mistresses, the three known were Grace Cross (a former aide), Carrie Phillips (his wife’s best friend) and Nan Britton (She lost her virginity to him when she was twenty and Harding was fifty) who bare a child during the 1910s and early 1920s, prior to his death in 1923. He wrote tawdry letters to all his lovers filled with euphemism and sexual innuendoes (“Jerry” was the code word for his penis.) And he had so many female admirers (nicknamed his lollapaloozas) that his security guards worked overtime, keeping them at bay.  

#5: Frank Gifford Set-Up

In 1997, The Globe tabloid set up the then a 66-year-old veteran football star and ABC Monday Night Football commentator in a two-day tryst with a married 46-year-old TWA flight attendant, Suzen Johnson. I found it hot because all he did was make out, had a blow job and fuck her anally. Which means he prefer hitting the starfish and his wife, Kathy Lee didn’t give it up. And it put a new light on the gay rumors in his past and the fact he’s at least BI.  

#4: Jumbo

Lyndon B. Johnson, the 36th US president had extramarital affairs with multiple women over the years with one allegedly led to pregnancy with a son out of that relationship. This isn’t surprisingly considering that LBJ was known for exposing his genitals (nicknamed Jumbo), whirls it around whenever he’s in the john, shouting “Woo-eee, have you ever seen anything as big as this”, and bragging that he’d had sex with more women than John F. Kennedy—whose exploits were well-known in D.C. One of the reasons why he’s my favor president.

#3: Joe Barton

In November 2017, nude selfie pictures of then US Rep. Barton surfaced online from a video of him masturbating, and sent it along with sexually explicit messages to a women with whom he was having consensual sexual relationships. The photo of Barton, who had pointed his camera upward from below his genitals, next to a text message reading, “I want you soo bad. Right now. Deep and hard.” Reading this and not knowing who he sent it to had me believing he sent it to a man. Wishful thinking on my part.

#2: “Waitress Sandwich” at La Brasserie

In 1985, Senators, Edward M. Kennedy and Christopher J. Dodd reportedly took their dates to a fancy Washington, D.C., restaurant, La Brasserie. Plenty of alcohol had been consumed. Plenty of alcohol had been consumed. When the meal was coming to an end, their dates went to the ladies’ room. A waitress was summoned to the private dining room where Kennedy allegedly picked up the waitress and threw her on the table, knocking plates and other items to the floor. He reportedly lifted her up again and put her on top of Dodd, who was seated in a chair. Kennedy then engaged in an attack that continued until another employee entered the room. That was the kind of shit senators were doing back then.

#1: Poolboy Scandal

The sex scandal rocked Jerry Falwell Jr.'s marriage and ended his stewardship of the evangelical education empire founded by his father, Jerry Falwell Sr.. The guy banging his wife claimed that Jerry enjoyed watching him have sex with her and even claimed that they formed a ‘throuple’ - a polyamorous couple who invite a third person to join their relationship. Jerry, denied that, but you can guess he was at least being cucked. At most joining in. All this is hot to me because of his father. First, because I wanted to fuck him. Second, because he’s turning in his grave.

[astrognossienne]

What celebrities can you think of that have managed to develop their sun or reach its highest potential if that makes sense? Like how you said Betty White is one of the few developed Capricorns, do you think there are others who have done the same with their sign?

aries: lady gaga, kristen stewart, reese witherspoon, jennifer garner, selena, jessica chastain, bette davis, marvin gaye, gregory peck

taurus: malcolm x, audrey hepburn, george clooney, leonardo da vinci, elizabeth II, penelope cruz, cher, william shakespeare, daniel day-lewis, stevie wonder, orson welles, tchaikovsky, socrates, jimmy stewart, laurence olivier

gemini: lauryn hill, lenny kravitz, jfk, marilyn monroe, stevie nicks, johnny depp, prince, paul mccartney, naomi campbell, judy garland, jean-paul sartre, marquis de sade, michael j. fox, anne frank, miles davis, josephine baker

cancer: robin williams, princess diana, meryl streep, diahann carroll, prince william, elon musk, solange, dalai lama, nikola tesla, tom hanks, nelson mandela, angela merkel, mike tyson, alexander the great, frida kahlo, liv tyler, ernest hemingway, anthony bourdain, julius caesar, natalie wood, franz kafka, ringo starr, richard branson, malala yousafzai, debie harry, elizabeth warren, chris cornell, missy elliott, marcel proust, antoine de saint-exupery, cat stevens, helen keller, kawhi leonard, lena horne, michael phelps

leo: jackie kennedy, jennifer lopez, arnold schwarzenegger, robert de niro, coco chanel, kate bush, helen mirren

virgo: michael jackson, keanu reeves, mother theresa, karl lagerfeld, elizabeth I, jeremy irons, ray charles, mary shelley

libra: desmond tutu, rita hayworth, cardi b, brigitte bardot, gwen stefani, catherine deneuve, kim kardashian, oscar wilde, bruce springsteen, christopher reeve

scorpio: lisa bonet, grace kelly, vivien leigh,alain delon, pablo picasso, winona ryder, marie curie, hedy lamarr, rupaul, chloe sevigny, robert f. kennedy, carl sagan, sylvia plath, joni mitchell, anna wintour, albert camus

sagittarius: jimi hendrix, zoe kravitz, brad pitt, bruce lee, tina turner, frank sinatra, ludwig van beethoven, edith piaf, maria callas, jane birkin, adam clayton powell jr, marina abramovic, jane austen, gianni versace

capricorn: david bowie, aaliyah, betty white, dolly parton, mlk, ralph fiennes, michelle obama, francoise hardy, kate moss, sade, marlene dietrich, joan of arc, benjamin franklin

aquarius: abraham lincoln, jennifer aniston, shakira, mozart, oprah, megan thee stallion, paul newman, fdr, thomas edison, virginia woolf, kelly rowland, brandy, michael hutchence, peter gabriel, eddie van halen

pisces: sidney poitier, anais nin, albert einstein, kurt cobain, liz taylor, drew barrymore, juliette binoche, edgar cayce, jon bon jovi, johnny cash, chopin, michelangelo, nina simone, fred rogers, ruth bader ginsburg

[st-just]

Barely coherent rambling about nation-states, culture, the Hapsburgs, and Canada

Because why have a blog except to occasionally purge one of the essays floating around half-formed in your brain. To be clear, it’s still half-formed, just on tumblr now. 1,666 words, here’s the Deveraux essay mentioned. Book is Martyn Rady’s The Hapsburgs: To Rule The World

So I’ve had like, nationalism on my mind recently.

And so there’s a kind of recurring beat in left-of-centre American political discourse (like, not ‘internet rnados screaming at each other’ discourse, ‘people with doctorates or think tank positions having debates on podcasts or exchanging op eds’ discourse) where you have some people on the radical end list some of the various horrible atrocities the country is built on, the ways that all the national myths are lies, and how all the saints of the civic religion were monsters to one degree or another – this can come in a flavor of either righteous anger or, like, intellectual sport. And then on the other end you have the, well, Matt Yglesiases of the world. Who don’t really argue any of the points of fact, but do kind of roll their eyes at the whole exercise and say that sure, but Mom and Apple Pie and the American Way are still popular, and if you’re trying to win power in a democracy telling the majority of the population that their most cherished beliefs are both stupid and evil isn’t a great move.

Anyway, a couple weeks back Deveraux posted an essay for the 4th of July (which I don’t totally buy, but is an interesting read) about why the reason American nationalism is so intensely bundled up into a couple pieces of paper and maybe a dozen personalities is precisely because it isn’t a nation at all. Basically, his thesis is that in proper nation-states like England or the Netherlands or wherever, there really is a core population that is the overwhelming demographic majority and really have lived in more or less the same places since time immemorial, and that once the enthographers and mythologists finish their work, all those people really do identify with both the same nation and the same state as its expression. America, by contrast, is by virtue of being a settler nation whose citizenry was filled by waves of immigrants from all the ass ends of Eurasia in a historical eyeblink, even before you add in the native population and descendants of slaves lacks any single core ethnicity that is anywhere close to a majority, as well as any organic national traditions or claims to an ‘ancestral homeland’ that aren’t obviously absurd (and we are trying to include the descendents of slaves and the native population these days, to varying levels of success). All this to say that his point is America is a civic state, not a national one, with the identity of ‘American’ being divorced from ethnicity and instead tied to things like the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, the whole cult around the Founding Fathers, Lincoln, and [FDR and/or Reagan depending on your politics].

Which, like I said, don’t totally buy, but interesting. (to a degree he overstates how homogenus ‘actual’ nation-states are, he makes America sound very special but if his analysis holds that it’d presumably also apply to several other former settler colonies, in the American context there’s a fairly solid case to be made that the whole ‘nation of immigrants’ story and the racial identity of whiteness were constructed to function as an erratz national ethnicity, with incredible success, etc, etc).

But anyway, if we accept that the American identity is bound up in its civic religion and the mythologized version of its political history, it’s absolutely the case that there’s several segments of the left who take incredibly joy in tearing said civic religion and national mythology apart and dragging whatever’s left through the mud. I mean, hell, I do! (reminder: any politician whose ever had a statue dedicated to them was probably a monster). And, well, call it a greater awareness of historical crimes and injustice, or the postmodern disdain for idols and systems leaking out through the increasingly college-educated populace, or the liquid acid of modernity dissolving away all unchosen identities, or a Marxist cabal undermining the national spirit to pave the way for the Revolution or whatever you like, but in whichever case, that critical discourse is certainly much more prominent and influential among left and liberal media and politics types that is was in decades past.

And, okay, so I finished Martyn Rady’s The Hapsburgs a few days ago. And I mentioned as I was reading it that the chapters on the 19th and 20th centuries reminded me quite a bit of courses I’d taken in school on the late Ottoman Empire and Soviet Union. Because all three are multi/non-national states (Empires, in Deveraux’s terminology, though that’s varying degrees of questionable for each, I think. Moreso for the Hapsburgs than the rest) who outlasted their own ideological legitimacy. And in all three cases it just, well, it didn’t not matter, but even as all the ceremonies got more absurd and farcical  and the politics more consumed by inertia punctuated with crises, things kept limping along just fine for decades. Even in the face of intense crisis, dissolution wasn’t inevitable. (The Ottomans are a less central example here, admittedly, precisely because of the late attempt to recenter the empire on Turkish nationalism. But even then, more Arab soldiers fought for the Sultan-Caliph than ever did for the Hashemites, and most prewar Arab nationalism was either purely cultural or imagined the Empire reformed into a binational federation, not dissolved).

But as Rady says in the book – losing WW1 crippled Germany, it dissolved Austria-Hungary. And in all three cases, as soon as they were gone, the idea of bringing them back instantly became at least a bit absurd.

And okay, to now pivot to talking about where I actually live but about whose politics I (shamefully) know significantly less than America’s. I mean, maybe it’s because most of my history education from public school was given by either pinko commies or liberals still high off ‘90s one-world universalism, or maybe it’s just a matter of social class, but I really can’t remember ever having taken the whole wannabe civic religion of Canada seriously (the only even serious attempt at sacredness I recall was for Remembrance Day). Even today, the main things I remember about our Founding Father is that he was an alcoholic who lost power in a railroad corruption scandal.

Really, in all my experience the only unifying threads of national/particular Canadian identity are a flag, a healthcare system, those Canadian Heritage Minute propaganda ads, a bill of rights from the ‘60s, and an overpowering sense of polite smugness towards the States.

And that last one (or, at least, the generally rose-colored ‘Canada is the good one’ view of history) is taking something of a beating, on account of all the mass graves really rubbing the public’s noses in the whole genocide thing. At least among big segments of the intellectual and activist classes, most of the symbols of Canadian nationhood are necessarily becoming illegitimate as Canada is, in fact, a project of genocidal settle colonialism.

But it really is just purely symbolic. Most of the municipalities who cancelled their Canada Day celebrations are going to elect Liberal MPs and help give our Natural Governing Party its majority in the next election, no one of any significance has actually challenged the authority of the civil service or the courts. And, frankly, most of the people who are loudly skeptical of all the symbols of the nations are also the ones whose political projects most heavily rely on an efficient and powerful state bureaucracy to carry out.

(This is leaving aside Quebec, which very much does have a live national identity insofar as the vigorous protection of national symbols is what wins provincial elections. If I felt like doing research and/or reaching more there’s probably something there on how pro-independence sentiment has largely simmered down at a pace with the decline of attempts to impose a national Canadian identity).

I mean, Canada does have rather more of a base for a ‘national’ population core than the US (especially if you’re generous and count the people who mark French on the census as a core population as well). At the same time, no one really expects this to continue to be the case – even back in Junior High, I remember one of the hand outs we got explaining that due to declining fertility most or all future population growth would come from immigration (I remember being confused when my mother was weirdly uncomfortable with the idea when it came up). I suppose our government gets credit for managing public opinion such that anti-immigration backlash hasn’t taken over the political conversation. Which you’d think would be a low bar but, well.

But anyway, to try and begin wrapping this rambling mess up – it does rather feel like Rady’s portrayal of the late Hapsburg empire might have a few passing similarities to the future of Canada. A multinational state whose constitution and political system and built on foundations and legitimized by history that no one actually believes in anymore, or at least no more than they have to pretend to to justify the positions they hold, but persisting because it’s convenient and it’s there and any alternatives are really only going to seem practical after a complete economic collapse or apocalyptic war. (Though our civil service is a Josephist’s dream by comparison, really.)

Or maybe I’m premature, and the dominant culture will just be incredibly effective at assimilating immigrants into that civic identity. Anecdotally, the only people I know who are at all enthusiastic about Canada as an idea are first generation immigrants. I could certainly just be projecting, really – I’ve never really been able to get all that invested in the nation-state as an idea of more moral power than ‘a convenient administrative division of humanity’, and certainly liberating ourselves form the need to defend the past would certainly rectifying certain injustices easier.  

Or maybe I’m just being incredibly optimistic. Half the economy’s resource extraction and the other half’s real estate, so decent odds the entire place just literally goes up in flames over the next few decades. BC’s already well on its way.

[riflebrass]

Case and point Nixon has nearly 80% of the votes on the poll. Why? Watergate? The war on drugs? Taking us off the gold standard? All shitty things but nowhere near as bad as FDR who is still treated as a saint.

Libtards love to hail the cripple as a hero for all his socialist bullshit but they don't want to face the fact that he personally made the policy that put Americans into concentration for their racial heritage. These asshats LOVE fuckin talking about the internment camps as an example of how racist America as a whole is. Blame the whole goddamn country but they still gotta turn a blind eye to who made it happen. This wasn't some bill that all our legislators voted on and then FDR signed into law. He personally wrote it as an executive order and then signed it.

Why wasn’t Reagan on the worst presidents poll

Because, shock and horror, Ronald Reagan wasn't the worst president in American history.

Tumblr, however, having gotten all of its historical knowledge through half-remembered public education and hyperbolic posts on this very hellsite, thinks that he was not only the worst president, but the single worst human being to ever exist.

Was he a perfect man? No. Was he a good president? Probably not. But the worst? Not by a fucking mile.

[monstrousgourmandizingcats]

It’s a wonderful life headcannons? 👀

Less a headcanon than an extrapolation (since we very briefly see the inside of George’s church and it obviously has a high altar) but the Baileys are Irish Catholic, although Mary might have converted in to marry George.

OR: The Hatches are Catholic and George converted to marry Mary.

The guy who runs away when Clarence introduces himself as an angel is experiencing genuine numinous dread, not just running away from someone he thinks is crazy.

The “Joseph” who Clarence takes orders from is St. Joseph, and is George’s patron saint the way Clarence is his guardian angel.

Bedford Falls is a mostly Republican community. George and Mary voted for FDR the first and last times, but not the second or third.

George genuinely doesn’t understand what’s so horrible about Mary being an unmarried librarian in the Pottersville timeline; he just can’t stand that she doesn’t remember him. (If you watch the acting in the relevant scene, Jimmy Stewart doesn’t react at all to Henry Travers’s AWFUL REVEAL of Mary’s life situation; he just keeps demanding to know where she is.)

The Building and Loan eventually goes under in the 1980s savings and loan crisis, but George is retired by that point and his kids have had enough of a good influence on local government and business that Bedford Falls’ economy comes out okay.

[locke-writes]

Requested By: Anonymous

Imagine Nick attempting to teach you the rules of True American

True American. What was it and how did you play it? The two questions that plagued anyone who had been roped into a game or who had come across the members of the loft in the middle of a game. While you should have known not to ask the temptation was overwhelming and the words were out of your mouth before you realized what you may be condemning yourself to.

Nick could have the patience of a saint when it came to certain topics but with True American every second and every decision mattered. He treated the explanation like it was a drill, running you through tests after explaining every rule. It was honestly mind boggling how anyone kept track of anything in the game. Maybe there was some benefit in being drunk when playing. After all how does one expect to know just how the number five connects to FDR?

Over and over again you went through the rules, Nick asking questions and you replying while slowly beginning to understand just what Nick was saying. It still was complete nonsense although it was now becoming clearer nonsense than the befuddled mess it was the hour earlier when you had started this task.

The only rule you were certain that you'd always remember is that you shotgunned a beer before the game actually commenced.

Tag List: @randomfandomimagine​

[ellsey]

Agents of Shield Rewatch 7x01 The New Deal

A kind soul provided me access to all of season 7 (you’re a saint bless) so that means it’s REWATCH TIME!! 

And yeah, I’m going to lose it after the first couple episodes it’s fine. But let’s get started

Dateline: NYC 1931

Luckily we don’t jump to that many time periods so I can keep up

I think

Immediately we are reminded that Chronicoms can’t human

This will be a consistent theme

Also they steal faces

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I LOVE THE PERIOD TITLE CARDS THIS SEASON

And we’re back with LMD Coulson. I’m neither surprised nor do I blame Daisy for pushing that button, but also...it was very impulsive.

And poor Coulson is having to adjust to a lot at once

Interesting in this process of remembering things he remembers the FS wedding which of course we will come full circle back to at the end

Simmons explains that this isn’t traditional time travel and that they’re just following the Chronicoms which I guess is a good way to handwave time travel

“We don’t know the rules because there aren’t any ok?”- the writers

ENOCH I LOVE YOU

I’m going to say that a lot just accept it

“Even the Kree let us make our own boot juice” DEKE NO

No alien contagions or purple hair. Director’s orders.

But I love the purple and Daisy should totally bring it back. I feel like Sousa would be into this based on nothing other than I write a lot of Dousy fic.

PS if you thought this season rewatch wouldn’t be all about Dousy you know nothing about me

But also welcome to my blog

They make a big deal about needing Coulson to potentially get ahead of the Chronicoms, but did they really? I mean other than the time loops and then Coulson’s magical computer abilities later, did they really use him?

Don’t get me wrong I love having him around but also it feels like they forgot about that thread

Coulson mentions that he will “re-evaluate” after this is all over and wow did we circle back to that in the end

Mack says the same, which I guess means build a heli-carrier?

Spoiler alert

These period costumes are straight up fire

Deke gives the time stream discussion but obviously they just forget that in the process of making an 80′s cover band and picking up a 1950s boyfriend

Lol Daisy does an amazing job threatening that cop

Oh but I guess we did use Coulson’s history knowledge so eh I take back what I said?

This healing set-up looks scarily like something Aida did

Elena is healthy yay!!!

And they made her new arms which Elena is reluctant to take, and I love her so much

It’s a speakeasy wheeeee

Chronicoms don’t know about rearview mirrors either I guess

Ok jk I forgot Coulson dies this season as well he’s a good robot

KOENIG!!

I’m a little confused as to why Fitz was going to be sending message since for him it was only a small amount of time, right?

Also Deke, honey, you totally are the natural suspect for messing things up Nana doesn’t mean anything by it

So there’s some plot here involving FDR supposedly but really it was an excuse to have a fancy 30s party

Daisy’s dress is amazing though and I want it for fancy occasions

And everyday wear

And Mack does look good thanks for noticing Daisy

Viscous Jemma is back 

Coulson really is living the dream here

THE TARGET IS FREDDIE!

GASP

Also young Freddie is fine ngl

And Freddie and Deke have...chemistry

Don’t @ me

“You’re right this one really sucks” hahahaha poor old timey Koenig

HE’S A MALICK

Uh oh, May is gone

“You had one job Enoch” OMG HAHAHAHA

Also May is being a creepy spider sooo

Yeah that happened

Of course, the return of the rewatch means the return of Ellsey’s completely arbitrary and pointless rating systems! I mean first things first, we are firmly at a 500/10 on the Costumes Scale and will stay there for much of this season so...yeah. Coulson rates a 10/10 on the Robo Life Crisis scale. Poor guy. But happily this episode only rates like a 4/10 on the Time Travel Shenanigans scale. That rating is going to go up rapidly from here obviously.

This playlist for this most of this season will be era appropriate music, so that’s fun. Well, for me anyway. So this episode’s song is “Stardust” performed by Bing Crosby (but apparently he did a version in 1939 too, so rest assured this is the 1931 version). Honestly it doesn’t really relate to the episode at all, but I used to play this on the piano and sing it with my Grandma all the time, and she would tell me stories about dancing to this song so anyway, that’s my pick.

[rhiawriter]

Can you answer Ravenclaw questions 8, 11, 19 and 23, please?

Happy to!

8. Tell us an interesting fact

This is an interesting fact that’s also really fucked up. So Sally Hemings who was Thomas Jefferson’s slave who he raped/forced to be his mistress and had a bunch of children with was actually his wife’s half-sister! His wife’s father had raped one of their family slaves and that’s where Sally Hemings came from. So at the time, it was considered weird, not that Thomas Jefferson had a slave mistress, but that the mistress looked just like his dead wife! Because she was her sister! America is so fucked up, and we haven’t even begun to deal with it. 

11. Which historical figure fascinates you and why?

Empress Theodora of Byzantium. She was a famous actress who became empress because Justinian I changed the laws so he could marry her. She welded a ton of power, and she’s a saint in the Orthodox church, and she held opposing religious views to her husband, which was a really big deal at the time. 

19. What’s your biggest ‘what if’?

What if America had embraced FDR’s Second Bill of Rights and used it as a framework to create a more just and egalitarian society instead of falling into the depravity of Reaganomics?

 23. What’s the most useless thing you know how to do?

Read ancient Greek?