#we can have a little joking about the excuse for the iraq war. as a treat :>

[squishysphealgirl]

what have you done.

death to america °w°

[leilajoon]

An Educational Leap

My name is Leila. I'm a lesbian from Iran. I migrated to Britain a few years ago. I was a teacher in my country and the story that follows happened in the summer of 1986 when I was in my twenties. In order to make my story understandable for a foreign reader, I should explain the situation of those years. Shortly after the 1979 revolution, a theocratic dictatorship began which harshly oppressed the women in Iran. In 1980, a war started between Iran and Iraq. Since the government couldn’t provide sufficient military hardware for its army, the army had to rely on human waves. Masses of humans had to be brainwashed into believing that they are fighting in a holy war and if they die they go straightly to Heaven. But what kind of place was this Heaven? According to Islamic clergy, Heaven is a paradise full of tasteful food, beautiful palaces and Houris – mindless sex slaves who always stay virgin and unconditionally offer themselves to faithful people! The government used propaganda to encourage martyrdom. Since it’s a little hard to brainwash a grown man with that promise, the propaganda mostly targeted children. Brainwashed child soldiers were suitable for human waves since they made submissive cannon fodders. There was even a lesson in school books about a 13 year old child soldier who tied grenades to himself and jumped under a tank! I'm ashamed to admit I had to teach such lessons at school without realizing their effects on my students. Back then, I had made a small safe world for myself which was separated from the rest of society. Nobody cared about me and I didn't care about anyone else either, except for my partner Faranak. She and I were friends since our childhood. We grew up together, went to school together, realized that we were lesbians together and became partners in secret. She was also a teacher and worked in the same school with me. We are still together after all these years. Our families were close too. Back then single women weren’t allowed to live alone and homosexual relationships were a cardinal sin which could lead to execution as well. So, Faranak and I found a solution; There were many people living in our families small homes, so we asked them for permission to rent a small unit just across the corridor from theirs. With us so close, our families felt as though we were just living in another room, and their homes had more space. Faranak's family was also okay with that for similar reasons. Thus, I managed to create a safe place for myself and my love to live freely and happily. The government of Iran enforced mandatory wearing of Hijab for women and was extremely harsh on women teachers. We had to cover all of our body except for face and hands with thick black clothes. On the outside, I was a strict Muslim woman who dressed in black and preached the governmental propaganda at school. On the inside, I was a sexy lesbian who listened to western music and went to bed with another woman every night. One summer I had to teach the students who had failed their exams. Unlike the educational year before the summer when classes were crowded, my class only had 10-12 students who had failed in their Mathematics exam. I tried very hard to educate them, but it was useless. I dressed in a thick black veil in an extremely hot summer, went to school, spent several hours teaching Mathematics and gave them a small booklet which was simplified as much as possible and contained anything they needed to know to fully answer every single question in the final exam. But all that was to no avail. They never listened. Their minds were not in the class. I had become well acquainted with them. They were good people. Some of them had jobs and were providing for their families. We were in a relatively poor neighbourhood and as a result of hard lives, their faces looked much older than their age. Some of them had really believed the governmental propaganda and expressed a desire for going to the war fronts. That saddened me. I felt that I couldn’t just hide in my little safe place with my love and ignore the outside world. Faranak – who didn't work during that summer – agreed with me as well. She encouraged me to motivate them. Failing could have meant no future for them. Most of them probably would have ended their education after that. They had all the material means for passing the exam. All they needed was to read my booklet thoroughly and carefully once or twice. But that was too much to ask. They had failed the previous exam, not because they were stupid or lazy, but because they felt that there was no point in schooling. The "heroic" lifestyle which was propagated back then for a student was abandoning education, becoming a religious zealot who sacrifices himself for the ruling government, goes to heaven and finds Houris waiting for him there! At the last session I tried one last time to educate them. I explained a simple question which I was planning to put on the final exam. But when I asked them to repeat my solution, there was no response, as if I had talked only for myself! So, I resorted to my final solution: a motivation. I knew they were close friends, so I said "If you all pass the exam I will buy you cookies and if you all get a high grade I will buy you ice cream". I meant to motivate them to work together and encourage each other for studying harder. But they started laughing. One of them said "How about giving us pacifiers? Those work better for us!" another one said "Get a lollipup for me!" and another one said "I want a bedtime story!" I realized my mistake. They were not little children. I couldn’t motivate them with candies. I felt stupid and embarrassed. How could I have made such a mistake? As I was processing my mistake in shame and regret, I heard another voice. "What if we all get the perfect score?" That was surely not a serious question. They wanted to mock me some more. I really don't know how it happened or what I was thinking; maybe I felt so belittled that I felt compelled to give a mind-blowing answer to put them in their place; Maybe after realizing how childish my original promise was, I decided to replace it with a grown up one; Maybe I meant to challenge their manly pride by offering them something they couldn't reject for fear of being belittled themselves; Or maybe it was a combination of all these reasons. But, in any case, I gave the following answer: "If that happens, I will get naked and do an Arabic dance for you all!" Suddenly the laughter and buzz stopped. They all stared at me with their eyes wide open and mouths half open. After a few seconds someone replied, "Seriously?", and I answered, "Of course! You think I'm a liar?" At that moment I felt powerful for silencing them and ending their mocking. Now it was them who needed to defend their manly pride. In their minds, turning down an offer like that would have meant that they are not interested in women! And since one person's failure would have meant no prize for the rest, that put extra pressure on them for working hard to get it! They made me swear that I would do it. When some of them objected that fulfilling my requirement was impossible, I assured them there will be no question they wouldn't be able to answer if they understand my booklet perfectly. I promised to dance for them and to make it more believable, I reduced my promise from dancing buck naked to dancing in bra and panties. They all agreed to study as hard as they could in order to get the highest grade possible, which wasn't very hard to achieve if they really tried. I went home laughing. I thought to myself: They are such simpletons! They actually believed me! When they realize I lied, it will be too late! By that time, they will all have graduated with good grades! That’s what's important, not their disappointment afterwards! I told the story to Faranak. She was shocked. We had talked before about how the governmental propaganda was harming the students. She asked how my promise was less corrupting for their minds than the promise of Houris in an afterlife paradise? I tried to convince her my intent was to motivate them toward something that would actually benefit them. She insisted that if I lie to them, I might motivate them once, but they would feel stupid and betrayed and will become untrusting for the rest of their lives. She said "If they graduate like this, they will fail next year, end their education there and you have merely wasted one year of their time." She was speaking the truth. I had made a hasty decision without considering the consequences. I was thinking of my own success and not their future. But what could I do after realizing that? That was the last session of our class. I couldn’t see them until the exam. I couldn't come to an acceptable solution. There was no acceptable excuse for not doing what I had promised. I could have made the exam harder than what I had promised. One mistake was a sufficient excuse. I could have been very strict when it came to correcting their papers. But that was a betrayal of their trust. Faranak asked me "Why don't you actually do it?" At first I thought she was joking, but she was serious. She reminded me that we danced at the secret parties we attended without our families knowing. She asked me, "What's the difference? Are those students less decent or more outsider than some of those weirdo guests who stare at your good parts at the parties? Besides, the school is almost empty when you go there. The only other person except the students is an old janitor who never visits your classroom in that hour and you can lock the door to make sure of that." I began to think for myself. I realized that I had become a tool in the hands of the government for preaching its nonsense ideology. Why can we promise the students that they will see some imaginary sex slaves waiting for them in heaven if they get themselves killed for some stupid cause, but they can't see a real woman who is not covered in suffocating black clothes? How was dancing for them as a present for accomplishing something beneficial immoral but promising Houris as a present for doing something criminal was moral? I thought if I left them like that, not accepting my responsibility in preaching that poisonous propaganda and never try to change what I've done, how can I justify my own lifestyle? What if someone like one of them discovered what I did in secret? Even if that never happened, I had to live the rest of my life feeling guilty as a hypocrite. I put myself in my students shoes for a minute. What was a woman in their imagination? What image had I created in their minds? A strict and sullen person who always covered herself in black in order to avoid provoking their sexual desire – that was the legacy which I left for them, whether I liked it or not. I labeled them perverts from whom women need protection from. But I didn't want that to be my legacy. I had one final chance to correct that. I could prove to them that women can be fun and sexy without being slutty. I could prove that they didn’t need to die for some stupid cause to receive sex machines as a present in the afterlife; They could have real women who had minds, cared about them, were honest with them and appreciated their good behavior. Faranak also argued that punishing all of them for a tiny mistake of a single student wasn't fair and would ruin their friendship with any person who failed to get the highest grade despite trying hard; and if I'm going to do what I had promised, I should ignore a few slips and do it if I become assured that they have really tried their best. So, I took Faranak's suggestion. I prepared a sexy set of black bra and panties which went well with my white skin. I got an Arabic music cassette tape and practiced some Arabic dancing. On the day of the exam I put on some makeup and did my hair. Faranak also accompanied me to encourage and support me, make sure I fulfill my promise and, perhaps more importantly, see me dance semi naked in front of the class! As we were expecting, none of the school staff except for the old janitor (who barely left his room or cared about anything) was in the school. Students were disappointed when they saw another teacher with me. One of them asked, "Miss, what about your promise?" I informed them that my promise stands and Faranak was there to make sure of it! I sat them away from each other to make sure no one cheated. The exam began. As I had promised, studying my simplified booklet was sufficient for answering all the questions. After the exam, Faranak helped me to correct the papers. And what do you know! There was not a single slip! They all got the perfect score! When I announced that, there was a hooray! I was somehow relieved that I prepared myself for keeping my end of the promise. Disappointing them at this level could have made them very angry. One of them asked, "So, will you do it?" and I replied "Of course, did you doubt me?" But I asked them to listen to me for few minutes before getting their reward. I explained the conclusions which I had arrived at and apologized for preaching the nonsense which I had taught during the year. I explained that being beautiful and sexy isn't equal to being a slut and they should see me as a person who is entertaining and rewarding them for their hard work, not a sex toy who wants to seduce them to having sex with her; and that they should respect women and value their personalities as well as their outer beauty. After that I locked the door and put the cassette player which Faranak had brought on my desk. I asked the students to sit in the front row. Faranak also sat there with a big smile on her face. I was still covered in the official black veil, scarf and gown but I was just wearing a sexy set of black bra and panties under them. I removed my veil and opened my scarf, revealing my black hair which the students were forbidden to see and had no idea how beautiful it was. I wanted to make the last part a surprise, so I turned away from them towards the black board and undid the buttons of my gown. Then I turned towards them while I was holding my gown from opening with my hands. I asked "Ready?" they simultaneously replied "Yes!" and Faranak replied the loudest! I dropped my gown and revealed perhaps the most astonishing sight they had seen in their lives (except for Faranak of course!). There was only silence and amazement for a few seconds, until Faranak broke it with whistling and clapping and soon everyone joined her! I laughed and realized that I wasn’t ashamed or afraid at all. I posed for them for a minute and let them get used to my body. Then I turned on the cassette player and started an Arabic dance. The viewers clapped with the rhythm of the music. I danced for about five minutes, until the end of the music. When I stopped, Faranak began chanting "Again! Again!" and not surprisingly, everyone joined her! I was just getting warmed up, so I met their demand. I felt that I was getting better and their whistling and clapping encouraged me further. After the second round, chanting started as before: "Again! Again!" by this time, you don't need me to say who started it! "Nope. It's over!", I said. "Ahhh! Please! We were having fun!", they pleaded with me, and I surprised them again: "No, don’t get me wrong. I meant that the prelude is over. I'm just getting warmed up. I'm not going to repeat the same dance for you until you get bored with it. Since you have been very hardworking and polite, you deserve a special reward." They asked what it is, but I didn't say a word. I just smiled, gently opened my bra and threw it on the desk! The class exploded with whistling and clapping! Especially Faranak was so excited that it was like she had never seen me naked! I began the third round. This time I did my best. I just wish we had a video camera back then to record it! That day I danced a total of five rounds which lasted about half an hour. I was topless during most of it. Despite all the sexual attraction my body and moves may had for my students, I felt that what excited them the most was my courage and honesty, not mere sexual attraction. My students could find pictures of naked women elsewhere, but finding a teacher who dared to risk her life in order to fulfill her promise, in a society which was polluted with hypocrisy and lies, was something to celebrate! At the end I thanked them for their hard work and politeness. I had danced almost naked for them for half an hour without hearing a single indecent word. That meant a lot for me and proved that they really listened when I asked them to be respectful towards women and not see them as sex toys. I knew that I couldn’t expect them to keep the whole affair a secret, but I wasn't afraid of any gossip. On the contrary, I preferred to publicize what I had done without confessing to doing it. I felt that I had nullified preaching those horrible ideas during the educational year by my final act, and I stand by my decision to this very day. That night Faranak returned my favor. We stayed up all night, tussling beneath the sheets, body to body. As a result, two of my best memories took shape in a single day!

[simmonsofshield]

Broken, Mended Chapter 6

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader, Sam Wilson x Reader (platonic)

Summary: After breaking off an engagement, Y/N may have possibly hit rock bottom. But she doesn’t have time to think about it because she gets deployed to Iraq. Leaving their daughter with her friend, Sam Wilson, she’s gone for a year. She doesn’t like talking about her ex-fiance and is unsure if she’ll ever be able to love again. What happens a certain Captain is his literal doppelganger?

Words: 1800+

Warnings: Takes place in a hospital, but no medical jargon/scenes or anything.

A/N: Starting this chapter, we veer from canon. Or at least there’s no Raft situation. I don’t really know how I would place this parallel to canon, so I’m just not gonna think about it. This is for @ussgallifreyfics​​​ 550 follower writing challenge! Takes place during Civil War.

tag list is open

The steady beeping of the heart monitor is all too familiar. Sam thinks back to when he was sitting in this same exact spot - next to a bed - two years ago when he was waiting for Steve to wake up. 

Doctor Rush comes in and he stands. He looks over at his friend’s body as her chest rises and falls steadily with the beeps of the monitor. 

“Her most recent tests have come back. At this point it’s too hard to tell when or even if she’ll wake up. She fell from quite a height and a lot of damage was done.”

“Do you have any kind of estimate?”

“Nothing accurate. If she wakes up the earliest it would happen is maybe three weeks.”

He slumps back into the chair, “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Does she have any family we can contact?”

He shakes his head, “Only a four year old daughter. She’s staying with a friend and I don’t want to worry the mother quite yet.”

“Okay. I’ll come back with any updates. You’re free to stay until visiting hours are over.”

“Thanks.”

Hours pass but Sam doesn’t even notice. He alternates between sitting beside Y/N, holding her hand and talking to her, and pacing the room. He tries to distract himself by reading the newspaper or looking at his phone, but it doesn’t work. He only can for a couple minutes at a time. Then he’s back at her side.

He blames himself. Even though he doesn’t know why or how she was there. He does know that her wing pack malfunctioned because Vision was aiming for him. Now Rosemary may have to grow up without either of her parents, be put into foster care. And it’s all his fault.

Six weeks later

He wakes up to his phone ringing. Telemarketer or not, what kind of person has the audacity to call him at - he rolls over and looks at the clock - 2:45 in the morning? He throws his arm over to the side table and picks up his phone. About to silence it, he squints at the caller id and almost drops it as he struggles to answer it. It’s from the hospital.

“Hello?”

“Is this Samuel Wilson?”

“Yes.”

“We have a patient here, Y/N L/N, she’s asking for you. This name is also written down as her next of kin. I’m assuming that’s you as well?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Great! Come down if you can. Sorry to call you at this hour.”

 “No problem. Thank you. I’ll head your way.”

He quickly puts on some sweatpants and a tee shirt and tapes a note to his door in the Compound before heading to the elevator. The nurse’s tone wasn’t bad in any way, especially considering that Y/N has been comatose for about six weeks, but it wasn’t objectively good either, and that worries him.

Walking through the kitchen he nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears the refrigerator close. 

“Holy shit.” he turns to see the culprit, “what are you doing up Steve?”

He holds up a glass, “Water. You?”

“Y/N’s awake.”

He smiles, “That’s great!”

Sam smiles softly then jerks his head toward the elevator, “Wanna come with? I could use someone. The nurse said she’s been asking for me, but considering the damage that was done, who knows what she’s gonna be like?”

“Of course, Sam.”

When they arrive at her room, Sam takes a moment and looks at her from outside. She’s smiling, probably having just made a joke with the nurse tending to her. It makes him smile. 

Before he can go in, the doctor catches him. “Ah, Mr. Wilson. It’s nice to see you back here.”

He shakes his hand, “Dr. Rush. How’s she been?”

“It was touch and go for a couple weeks, but she made it through. She’s a fighter.”

“That she is.”

“However, now that she’s awake, we have run into a couple complications.”

His breath hitches, “What kind of complications?”

“Considering her fall, we knew there would be some sort of brain damage, but we didn’t know how severe until she woke up.” Sam nods as he continues, “We’re still unsure of the full severity, but it seems that her memories are a little scattered. What’s good is that she seems to remember you.”

“Yeah, we were in the Air Force together for a couple years.”

“Good, well, thank you for your service. For now, I would recommend that your friend here wait outside while you go in. We don’t want to confuse her.”

He looks over at Steve and nods, “Of course. Thank you Dr. Rush.” They shake hands again and he heads into her room.

Hearing his footsteps she turns and smiles at him, “Sam!” she tries to sit up but a small ow comes out of her mouth and she lays back down. “What happened?”

That was a loaded question. How was he supposed to explain what actually happened if she wasn’t fully coherent? He tries his best, getting to the point as quick as possible, “You were shot down. You tried to get your parachute out in time but didn’t. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Oh,” is all she says. She begins looking around, “Where’s Rose- what’s Ransom doing outside?”

Sam’s eyes go wide at the question as he turns around to see Steve standing across the hallway chatting up some nurse who apparently had just offered him some coffee given the plastic cup now in his hand. Seeing Sam looking at him, he takes it as the okay to come in. Before Sam can shake his head or say anything to Steve, he speaks. “Hey, Y/N, how are you feeling?”

Instead of answering the question, her eyes focus on the cup in his hand, “I don’t remember you being a coffee drinker, Ransom.”

“Ransom?” Steve turns to Sam with a little bit of fear and concern in his eyes, unsure of what to do. Sam looks back at him with close to the same expression. It’s silent for just a couple seconds too long.

“Sammy?” she looks at him, also confused, “is everything alright?”

Always quick on his feet, he give her his signature gap-toothed smile, “Yeah, Y/N. The doctor, Dr. Rush, just said that your memories may be a little scattered. He wasn’t sure if you’d remember - uh, Ransom here,” he claps Steve on the shoulder, “he wanted me to talk with you alone first. Apparently I made quite the impression, because I was the first person you asked for when you woke up.” 

She laughs as good as she can considering the pain she’s in, “You always make an impression Sammy.”

He smiles back at her. “How are you feeling? You want water or anything?”

“Well, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. But I’m good for now, thanks.”

He nods, “I’m gonna take Ransom outside for a second and chat with him. We’ll be right back.”

“Okay.”

The two walk out and go down the hall a little bit until they know they’re out of earshot of Y/N. They sit in a couple chairs across from an empty room and look at each other. 

“Shit,” Sam looks down at the floor while Steve takes a sip of the coffee in his hand. “we gotta think of our next move. She has no idea who you are.”

“We could start with telling me who Ransom is?” 

“Right,” Sam pauses while he contemplates, head bobbing while he goes back and forth in his mind.

“Sam?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just..she told me specifically not to tell you.”

“Why-” “But I feel like this is a situation that would cancel that out. At this point, you need to know some things...” Steve sits silently while Sam fights with himself. A few more seconds pass before he makes his decision. “Okay, so the short version is that you look like him.”

“Like Ransom?”

“Almost exactly. Real Black Mirror shit.” Steve raises an eyebrow, to which Sam waves off, “it’s a show.”

“Okay,” Steve shakes his head, “and the long version?”

Sam shrugs, “She hasn’t even told me it. But what I do know is that some shit went down, he got arrested, and she broke up with him. They were engaged.”

“Shit,” he runs his hand through his hair, “and she thinks I’m him.”

“Well, she’s only said like five words to you but it seems like maybe she doesn’t remember leaving him. She might think they’re still engaged...” he sighs and shakes his head, “which I don’t know if that makes this easier or harder for us.”

“Maybe you should start by asking her what she remembers.”

“Yeah...yeah, that’s a good idea.” The pair walk back and Sam enters the room while Steve waits outside in a chair across the hall.

Her head turns at the sound of the door sliding open. “Get everything sorted out?”

He nods as he pulls up a chair beside her. “Yeah, a little. Can you tell me what you remember? You know, since Dr. Rush said that the injuries you endured have caused you to be a little fuzzy...” he trailed off, hoping she’ll take the excuse.

She nods, closing her eyes to help focus. “Um...well, what I know for sure because the nurses ask me like two or three times a day is that it’s June 2016, I’m at MidHudson Regional Hospital in New York, Matthew Ellis is the president, and my name is Y/N L/N,” they both laugh as she continues, “I’m assuming that’s not what you want though. So, I know that you’re Sam Wilson, we were both in the Air Force - that’s how we met - and we both participated in Falcon missions. I have a daughter named Rosemary. I live in Boston with Ransom, we’ve been engaged for three years.”

Sam smiles as she talks, but it fades when she mentions Ransom. How was he going to break all of this to her? And apparently she didn’t remember the fight in Berlin at all or why she even was in the hospital, besides what he told her. 

Y/N notices the change in expression, her brows furrowing together, “Are you sure everything’s alright, Sammy? Where’s Ro?”

He gives a tight-lipped smile as he tries to go through all the plans in his head, “Yeah, yeah, just fine. She’s at a friend’s house. Would you like me to call the mother and bring her here?” she nods and closes her eyes for a moment, “okay, I’ll do that right now. Be right back.” he says softly as he exits the room.

Considering it’s around 5:00 in the morning, Sam is not surprised that Julie doesn’t answer. He leaves a message about Y/N being awake and meeting halfway in Philly later in the day to pick up Rosemary. He walks back into the room to see her peacefully sleeping. He smiles and leaves a note on the side table, letting the nurse know about it so someone could give it to her when she wakes up. He thanks them and him and Steve head back to the compound.

tags:

@cake-writes​​ @supraveng​​ @vxidnik​​ @kallafrench​​ @itsallyscorner​​ @polarcrystall​​ @eliza5616​ @ilovesupersoldiers @ashwarren32​ @itsgonnabe-brian-may

[atypicalcreekdump]

All’s fair in love and war (Part 3) - A Creek Fanfic

First of all: Sorry this update took so long. I don’t even have a real excuse xD. I don’t know yet if this will be the last chapter, most probably it will, but as I said, I didn’t make up my mind yet. Working on something kinda special right now, but we’ll see what the future holds. Hope you have fun anyways :)

~~~~~~

I guess none of us had ever been so excited to get into the car, drive through the Rockies in deep winter for about two hours to finally get to the Denver airport. The day had finally come: My brother's duty in the army was now finally over, meaning that he could come back home now for the first time in a little bit more than a year. Of course it was just the four of us who went to Denver to pick him up, even though some of his best friends wanted to come with us. We wanted this moment to be something special for our family, so it was just me, my parents, and Tweek of course. Tweek had been my brother's boyfriend since I was six, so almost ten years now, so he was practically a part of our family. I actually don't know why though, but he was like a brother to me, too. I guess if a person you live with spends so much time with someone they love, you get pretty much used to them. Plus, Tweek was super cool to me too and helped me through some pretty rough phases in my life, when I needed someone to talk to, but didn't want to go bother my brother, as he could become a cynical asshole pretty easily.

Everything was quiet, no one dared to break the silence in the car. As far as I could observe from the back seat, my parents were filled with joy and anticipation to finally see their son again, but observing Tweek was way more interesting. He usually shivered most of the time and had some bad twitches. But not this time though. He just sat there, had his eyes closed, and if you watched him very closely, you could see a tiny semblance of a smile on his face, the only hint of an emotion that managed to escape from his soul. I had no doubt that on the inside he almost snapped of anticipation to see Craig again. The last year had been really harsh to him, but you couldn't tell if you saw him. He looked a little bit tired though. I would've helped him if there was a way to make him happy again, but the only thing he needed was Craig, and what a luck it was today that he came back.

I took out my phone and opened my chat with Tweek. It had become kind of our thing, we communicated most of the time via whatsapp, even if we were in the same room together.

"Are u alright?" I heard his phone vibrate, so he took it out, saw that it was me who texted him and replied to my message.

"Are you kidding? I'm so fucking excited", he replied, exchanging some quick glances and a short smile with me.

"You look a bit tired tho"

"I'm fine, I've just not slept for about three days or so... I was too nervous to fall asleep..."

"But you know you're not going to get much sleep for the next few nights, right?" I grinned at him and he blushed, not being able to suppress a small grin that spread across his face.

"I guess?"

"You boys don't screw around so much, the walls are thin!"

"We'll... give it our best."

"That's all Jesus asks of you."

 "Guys, we're there", my Dad interrupted our "conversation", and as I rose my view I saw that we in deed had reached the airport's huge parking lot. We got out of the car as soon as possible, going straight towards "Arrival."

We stood there for about thirty minutes until we were finally released by the announcement that Flight E332 from Philadelphia, where Craig had arrived with his first flight from Iraq, finally had landed. When the first passengers left the baggage claim area and reached the arrival hall where we stood and waited for Craig to show up, I began to feel nervousness flodding my whole body, too, observing the exit carefully, checking every single passenger two or three times to make absolutely sure that I didn't miss him. Tweek nervously scratched his arm for almost the whole time, biting his lower lip. He hated waiting. It was one of the main things that worsened his spasms. Good thing it came to an end pretty soon.

"H...hey guys..." we all turned our heads to our side to see him standing there, just a few feet away from us. It was a tall, buff young man with short black hair, deep blue eyes and some fuzz on his chin, wearing black army boots, Jeans, a black shirt and a camouflage jacket. The sports bag with his hand luggage was strapped around his shoulder. He grinned like I've never seen him grin before as he ran straight towards us.

"Craig!", we exclaimed canonically, our mouths wide open as if we couldn't grasp how his appearance had changed over this one year that we haven't seen him. The first of us who managed to move was Tweek, impulsively sprinting into his direction. Tears of joy ran out of his eyes as he reached my brother, jumped into his arms and hugged him so tightly that we feared that he could've broken some of Craig's rips. None of them said a word, they just hugged and desperately kissed each other for the next few minutes, trying to catch up for a whole year they had lost. Even my brother cried and I don't think I've ever seen him cry before. I knew they loved each other, but I didn't know that Tweek was able to wake emotions this strong in my big brother.

"We...welcome back, Craig.", Tweek whimpered tear-stained, but with an amazingly wide grin on his face, bursting with joy.

"Can... can we go now?", my Dad asked after leaving the two lovebirds some moments for themselves, nonetheless touched by the emotional situation. Tweek only laughed happily and got away from Craig after another quick kiss, smiling gently while my parents and I almost squeezed him to death in a big family hug, too. "I'm so glad you're back unharmed, honey", mom said, "We're so proud of you, son...", my Dad added. Even he shed one or two tears, which was very uncommon, too. Now it was finally my turn, I hugged my big brother and kissed him on the cheek (what he usually hated, but I had an excuse this time), telling him that I missed him and welcomed him back at home.

"Mom, Dad? Could... could I get a minute alone with Tweek, please?"

They both nodded. "Of course, honey. Let your father grab your bag, we'll wait at the car until you're ready. Take all the time you need." Mum poked into Dad's side, signalizing him to grab the bag and leave with her. "Tricia, you come with us."

"I have to go to the bathroom real quick...", I improvised. I really loved my brother, but I couldn't just pass up on a chance to peek on him and Tweek making out after a whole year of absence. I know that's kind of weird, okay?

My parents left for the parking lot, Tweek and Craig disappeared around a corner and I pretended to go to the bathroom, but followed them not far behind.  They were leaning against a pillar near the wall, which made it possible for me to hide behind the pillar, eavesdrop on what they said and I could even manage to observe what they were doing through the gap between wall and pillar. It was just perfect. They whispered something in each other's ears, which I think might have been a "I missed you so much", began to cuddle quite tenderly now, obviously enjoying each other's presence again. Shit, I hope I'll never have a boyfriend who will have to leave for a whole year.

After exchanging some long, way overdue kisses, Tweek blushed, still completely high on endorphins, not crying anymore though, whispering "I've got something for you. As some kind of a "welcome back home"-gift, I hope you like it..." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a blue chullo hat with a yellow toorie on top. Craig grinned happily as he put on the hat. "Thank you so much honey, it' just perfect... wait a second, is that self-made? Did you knit that?" Tweek nodded with a smile of pride on his face. "I had a LOT of time for the last year..." "Holy shit dude, that's amazing! I know why I'm gonna marry you...", my brother joked and kissed Tweek on the lips who wrapped his arms around Craig's neck, making it easier for the two of them to finally start making out properly.

"Shht! It's supposed to be a secret...", Tweek giggled almost incomprehensibly into Craig's ear. It took me a few seconds to understand what I just heard. No. Fucking. Way. It couldn't be. My brother couldn't get married. He was not joking. He was serious. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

[justforbooks]

I’ve been trying to remember, was it The Sorrow And The Pity they were lining up for when, sick to death of the medium-is-the-message windbaggery of the pseudo-intellectual – now there’s a term to blast me back – in front of him, Alvy actually produces Marshall McLuhan from behind a lobby card? The association strikes me as a natural one, since I’m about to gather with the other acolytes in an art house cinema. Will anyone in the queue reference or be moved to imitate the McLuhan moment, I wonder?

And where were they? Was it at the Regency at 68th street? (Was it even called the Regency? It hardly matters, since it’s gone now, like the New Yorker at 88th, the movie house at 72nd and Broadway, the Thalia {{which does show up at the very end of the movie, when he runs into Annie after they’ve stopped dating and introduces her to a young, young Sigourney Weaver, fresh out of Yale}}, the Metro, the Bleecker and, of course, Theater 80. With all the rep houses having ceded their real estate to condos and their authority to Netflix, who is curating the tastes of the city’s undergraduates? How will they even know about The Sorrow And The Pity? Mondo Cane? How can the budding homosexual flower without the occasional force-feeding of a double feature of Now Voyager and All About Eve? To wit – and to extend this parenthetical yet further: in senior year, at the last meeting of our Japanese literature seminar before Spring break, the professor – ageing, erudite, one of the few, perhaps only, Western recipients of countless Japanese cultural laurels – asked us our plans for the coming week. I allowed as how I would be staying in town in order to write my thesis. ‘Well then, of course you’ll be going to the Bette Davis festival every day down at the Embassy.’ He said it as if stating an obvious prescription, like recommending medical attention for a sucking chest wound, or ‘You’ll want to call the fire department about those flames licking up the front of your house.’ Only a self-destructive lunatic would think he could survive the week by missing the Bette Davis festival. I took his advice and went every day. Did it help my thesis any? Hard to say. It was a long time ago.)

The time when a Woody Allen retrospective would have evoked that kind of fierce cinéaste devotion seems long gone, having been tempered out of us not just by the years (such performative loyalty is really the province of the youngsters who nightly go to Irving Plaza right near my apartment, passing the hours sitting on the pavement singing the songs of the artists they are about to see), but by Woody Allen himself. The tsunami of mediocrities like Hollywood Ending and Melinda And Melinda effectively obliterates why Manhattan mattered so much. I can’t help feeling like he’s dismantled the very admirable legacy of his earlier work by his later, overly prolific efforts. It’s a more benign version of Ralph Nader (with the key difference that I hate Ralph Nader, whereas Woody Allen simply makes me a little bit sad).

Then again, no one worth a damn doesn’t make the occasional bit of bad work: there are episodes of The Judy Garland Show that are absolute train wrecks of creaky squareness, made all the more ghoulish by the presence of an aphasic gin-soaked Peter Lawford, and I take a back seat to no one in my love for Judy Garland, the most talented individual who ever lived (ladies and gentlemen, my Kinsey placement); I read a lousy late Edith Wharton novel this summer, The Children, that was a tone-deaf, treacly muddle; I don’t care for Balanchine’s Scherzo à la Russe and I’ve said it before, even though it is considered a cinematically signal moment by the Cahiers du Cinema crowd (zzzzzzz), I’m no great fan of the movie Kiss Me Deadly.

Perhaps taken as a whole, the twenty-eight films will start to exert their own internal logic and I will see and delight in how Allen mines his themes over and over again. Or perhaps it will be like the Broadway show Fosse, where a surfeit of the choreographer’s vocabulary made all of it suffer and the entire thing looked like the kind of shitty entertainment that takes place on a raised, round, carpeted platform at a car show. I’ll see, I guess.

As one might expect for the 1:30 p.m. showing on the Friday before Christmas, there are only about a dozen of us waiting. Our ranks swell to about thirty people closer to show time, but at first it’s just me and more than a few men of a certain age (whose ranks I join with ever greater legitimacy each day), about whom it might be reasonably assumed that we spend an inordinate amount of time fixating on when next we might need to pee. Thoughts of age stay at the forefront in the first few minutes of the film, when Woody Allen himself (who, it must be said, in later scenes, stripped down to boxers, kind of had a rocking little body in his day) addresses the camera directly and tells us that he just turned forty. I’m older than that by two years.

How many times have I seen this, I wonder? Unquantifiable. The film is canonical and familiar and memorized, almost to the point of ritual. Perhaps this is the spiritual solace the faithful find in the formulaic rhythms of liturgy. It’s as comforting as stepping into a warm bath. Diane Keaton is enchanting, there is no other word for it. She comes on the screen and you can hear the slightest creaking in the audience as corners of mouths turn up. There is Christopher Walken, a peach-fuzzed stripling. And there, doe-eyed, with drum-tight skin: Carol Kane playing Alvy’s first wife, Allison Portchnik.

Allison Portchnik. Oy. I am generally known as an unfailingly appropriate fellow. I have very good manners. But when I fuck up, I fuck up big time. Suddenly I am reminded of how, three years ago, I was on a story for an adventure magazine, an environmental consciousness-raising whitewater-rafting expedition in Chilean Patagonia (about which the less said the better. It’s really scary. Others may call it exhilarating, and I suppose it is, the way having a bone marrow test finally over and done with is exhilarating. And Patagonia, Chilean Patagonia at least, while pretty, isn’t one tenth as breathtaking as British Columbia). On the trip with me were Bobby Kennedy, Jr., hotelier André Balazs and Glenn Close, among others. Everyone was very nice, I hasten to add.

After lunch one day, my friend Chris, the photographer on the story, came up to me and said, ‘I’d lay off the Kennedy assassination jokes if I were you.’

I laughed, but Chris reiterated, not joking this time. ‘No, I’d really lay off the Kennedy assassination jokes. The lunch line . . .’ he reminded me.

And then I remembered. I had been dreading this trip (see above about how totally justified I was in my trepidation) for weeks beforehand, terrified by the off-the-grid distance of this Chilean river, a full three days of travel away; terrified of the rapids and their aqueous meatgrinder properties; terrified of just being out of New York. All of this terror I took and disguised as an affronted sense of moral outrage, that such trips were frivolous, given the terrible global situation. I explained it to Glenn Close thusly:

‘I was using the war in Iraq to try and avoid coming down here,’ suddenly, unthinkingly invoking the part of Annie Hall where Alvy breaks off from kissing Allison because he’s distracted by niggling doubts: if the motorcade was driving past the Texas Book Depository, how could Oswald, a poor marksman, have made his shot? Surely there was a conspiracy afoot. Then, with Bobby Kennedy, Jr. helping himself to three-bean salad on the lunch line not five feet away, I switched into my Carol Kane as Allison Portchnik voice and said, ‘You’re using the Kennedy Assassination as an excuse to avoid having sex with me.’ Then I followed that up with my Woody Allen imitation and finished out the scene. Nice. No one pointed out my gaffe or was anything other than gracious and delightful.

Despite how well I know the material, the film feels so fresh. All the observations and jokes feel like they’re being made for the first time, or are at least in their infancy. By later films they will feel hackneyed (in the movie Funny Girl, the process of calcification is even more accelerated. You get back from intermission and Barbra Streisand already feels like too big a star, a drag version of herself ), but here it’s all just terrifically entertaining. And current! Alvy tells his friend Max that he feels that the rest of the country turning its back on the city – It’s the mid-70s. Gerald Ford to New York: Drop Dead, and all that jazz – is anti-Semitic in nature. That we are seen as left-wing, Communist, Jewish, homosexual pornographers. And so we remain, at least in the eyes of Washington and elsewhere, a pervy bastion of surrender monkeys. There was an Onion headline that ran after a sufficient interval of time had passed post-9/11, that essentially read, ‘Rest of country’s temporary love affair with New York officially over.’

Rest of the country’s perhaps, but mine was just beginning when I saw the film at age eleven. By the time the voiceover gets to the coda about how we throw ourselves over and over again into love affairs despite their almost inevitable disappointments and heartbreak because, like the joke says, ‘we need the eggs,’ (if you need the set-up to the punchline, what on earth are you doing reading this?) I am weepy with love for the city. Although, truth be told, it doesn’t take much to get my New York waterworks going.

Walking out, my friend Rick, thirtyplus years resident said, ‘I had forgotten how Jewish a film it is.’ I really hadn’t noticed. But I’m the wrong guy to ask. It’s like saying to a fish, ‘Do things around here seem really wet to you?’ I wrote a book that got translated into German a few years back. There was a fascination among the Germans with what they perceived as my Jewish sensibility; a living example of the extirpated culture. I’ve said this before, but I felt like the walking illustration of that old joke about the suburbs being the place where they chop down all the trees and then name the streets after them. At least a dozen of the reviews referred to me as a ‘stadtneurotiker’, an urban neurotic, a designation that pleased me, I won’t lie. Especially when I found out the German title for Annie Hall.

Der Stadtneurotiker.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[187days]

Day One Hundred Forty-One

I always say the hardest thing I teach about is Iraq because my brother’s an Iraq War veteran, and I have deeply personal, conflicting feelings about that war. The second hardest thing to teach about is Afghanistan because that’s where we lost our first friend. 

Her name was Laura. She was in my brother’s class at West Point (and our fathers were classmates there, too), and they were really close. I only saw her at the balls and banquets I attended over the years, but we always got along. It’s nice to have girl friends at those events, and I counted her as one of mine.

She was killed after overseeing the construction of a road that the Taliban didn’t want built. If you’re a longtime reader of my blog, you know that I talk about roads a lot (and about the need for infrastructure in general). The war in Afghanistan is, on some level, a war to keep the roads open. This is a country where people suffer because they lack of access to the things they need, and it’s going to be vulnerable to extremists until that changes, so roads matter. 

Laura wrote an article explaining this before she died.

It’s a good lesson, but it’s a somber one to teach. I think about what the wars cost- for the Afghan people, for us and our allies, for families like Laura’s- and how much of our lives have been taken up by them. My students were born after the war started, and the fact that it’s technically over hasn’t changed how it looks to them, so they’re a little cynical about the possibility for change. It’s on me to prove that it’s possible, that there is a road (see what I did there?) to recovery.

And, like I said the other day, it demands so much wisdom. I can only hope I have enough.

It makes me quiet, too. At our team meeting today, everyone else was telling jokes and sharing funny stories (AP bio students coming late to class because they had to clean up deer hearts after dissection- how wild an excuse is that?!), and I just didn’t have much to say. Coach T noticed it at practice, too; he asked if I was okay. 

I am okay- let’s be honest, a lot of people suffered a lot more than I did in wartime- and I have a quote from Matt Gallagher that sums up what I know to be true: “Someday, I’m going to write something that has nothing to do with war.”

[smallgeneration]

what we didn’t write down

Non, rien de rien

Non, je ne regrette rien

Car ma vie, car me joies

Aujourd’hui, ça commence avec toi

 - Edith Piaf

We wrote a lot of poetry about Paris then. We wanted to capture everything, like the afternoon sunlight and rose pink sunsets that flooded through the apartment’s one window, or the way the cigarette smoke curled through the air and mingled with the steam of pasta boiling on the stove. There was Lou’s cat, Sanska, a slinking black thing whose growth had been stunted a year earlier when she’d accidentally ingested some rat poison laid out by another tenant and would consequently remain kitten-sized the rest of her life. She had a habit of leaping from the floor onto our backs to drape herself over our shoulders as we were cooking, and when we left the bedroom skylight open, she would fall from the roof into the bed, waking us up in the mornings. I remember using the word “cinematic” a lot during those months.

I had a notebook, a little 1 euro legal pad of graph paper, where I tried to write it all down. On one page is a list, scribbled in my sloppy handwriting, titled “details to remember” and it looks like this:

dried lavender in an empty jack daniel’s bottle window light, 3:45pm

red wine stains on lou’s lace blanket               made tacos, 2am

harry named one plant ed dunkle             anneli named the basil plant emmanuel

ashtrays: wooden egg cup, baby food tin, bonne maman jam jar

pink teapot full of weed and the cocaine no one wanted to try  

       in france they call frosted flakes frosties

pays d’hearault = second cheapest wine at carrefour, tastes better than 3rd cheapest wine

111 stairs to lou’s apartment (eleventy-one!)

There were many moments so heart-stoppingly beautiful, details so small and yet imbued with such a powerful sense of perfection I could hardly believe their reality. We saved them all, taped every receipt and metro ticket and museum pass into our journals. We even kept our empty cigarette cartons, because the hundreds of polaroids we took with Jess’s camera fit perfectly inside them in neat little stacks of ten or twenty. By October we filled a shoebox with them. All this was evidence that the lifestyle we never hoped to dream of truly did exist, and many of our conversations were rehashed stories of the days we met, jokes from past parties repeated until we knew them all by heart.

This was the Paris we wanted to remember. But there were times we didn’t speak of, stories we chose not to retell in hopes that they would fall to the cutting room floor of our memories, mental edits to our so-called cinematic experience. In our silent way, we tried to forget, unable to admit the chaos that haunted the city beyond our brightly lit apartment.

In the fall of 2016, Paris was in the midst of the refugee crisis. When the New York Times released an article titled “Paris is the New Calais, with Scores of Migrants Arriving Daily,” I opened it on my laptop but couldn’t bring myself to read. But the numbers were there, and I had seen them in person. Over one hundred migrants were arriving in the city each day, the result of war and political unrest in Africa and the Middle east, and the demolition of what France called “The Jungle,” an unofficial refugee camp at the port of Calais. Consequently, thousands of migrants from Afghanistan, Pakistan, Syria, Nigeria, and Iraq were living in the streets of Paris. They camped in tents below the Stalingrad metro station, under bridges down the Canal St. Martin, and roamed the tourist areas asking for money. I remember families with young children clustered together on the Pont des Artes and the Pont Saint-Louis, watched their formations change as they fanned themselves with newspapers in the heat of early September and gathered blankets and scraps of cardboard when the cold began to settle. There was one family I saw several times stationed on the quai beside Notre Dame with a colorful set of blankets and a handwritten sign asking for help. There were two young girls, no more than nine or ten, and an older woman who might have been their mother or grandmother, I couldn’t tell. But what struck me were the bunnies. They had three of them, two brown and one black, and I often saw them cradled in the girl’s arms, wrapped up in the blankets, or hopping around the sidewalk, kept close by a makeshift shoestring leash. One September afternoon on my way to the bookshop, I saw the woman kneeling on the ground, head bowed in prayer as the girls fed the bunnies bits of grass and old vegetables. They were smiling, and I was struck by the resilience and generosity of those young girls who fed and sheltered their pets in spite of their own dispossession. But as the weeks wore on and the warm days of late summer disappeared, their inspiring resilience became much more devastating. By late October, Paris had shed its golden hour afternoons for dense cloaks of fog and drizzle, and though the small family remained, the bunnies disappeared. And then, one day, the family was gone.

The day I first noticed their absence, Harry and I found ourselves meeting Jess, Lou, and Anneli in front of Notre Dame at midnight with a bag of limes and a bottle of cheap tequila. We thought it would be “cinematic” to take shots in the empty courtyard in front of the cathedral. But as we passed the bottle around, I couldn’t tear my eyes from the empty sidewalk on the quai where that family had been only days earlier. When Anneli asked me what was wrong, I blamed my tears on the liquor. I sucked the lime and tried to forget.

Less than a year before I arrived in Paris, 130 people were killed in a coordinated suicide bombing attack claimed by ISIS that hit several locations across the city. This attack followed several others in Paris and across France in 2015, but November 14th stands out in devastating horror as the bloodiest terror attack in the country’s history. The Bataclan theater, where three men open fired on the crowd of over a thousand music fans, is a five minute walk from Lou’s apartment. She heard the guns, the screams and police sirens.

We rarely talked about the attacks, and never discussed the looming possibilities of another. But there was a quiet fear throughout the city. Gendarmes patrolled the tourist areas and major metro stations, and we often saw them on the streets harassing refugees and migrant families. Flowers and candles still adorned the various locations of mass shootings, and every anonymous white van was surveyed with silent but intense apprehension. Crowds would hush in the wake of sirens that were often followed by streams of six or seven police cars, and we would check our phones for the bad news we feared was about to break. A man working at Shakespeare and Company once told us how he very well could have been in Nice, one of the crowd in the Bastille Day celebrations run down by a lorry leaving 84 dead. He just missed his train.

We were heading home to Lou’s apartment after a morning at Sacre-Coeur, and for one reason or another everyone was in a bad mood, though we dared not admit it. We were probably cold, unaccustomed to the chill that blew into the city in mid-October, and disappointed that the view from the top Paris’s tallest hill was overshadowed by a rainy gloom that didn’t fit with our aspirations of the day. But as we trudged our descent into the Anvers metro station, a woman’s shrill and terrifying scream jerked us from our temporary disenchantment.

Several people stood frozen in the underground, staring at the nightmarish scene before them. A young woman was being held against the wall of the station by two men who were shouting at her in a language I didn’t understand. She tried to get away, but was pushed to the floor where she let out another terrible scream. The woman yelled at the onlookers, begging for help, demanding we call the police while the two men continued to harass and restrain her. People shuffled awkwardly around the chaos as they entered and exited the metro. All the while, sitting behind the plexiglass window of the ticketing booth, was the station worker, another young woman who seemed only mildly disturbed at what was happening three feet away.

Harry broke our panicked trance and ran up to the ticket counter, and asked the woman if she’d called the police yet. They exchanged a few words, and for a moment we had hope that the abuse would be justly resolved. But Harry returned to where Anneli and I stood, his anger scarcely concealed the fear and uncertainty in his eyes.

“She told me there’s nothing she can do,” he said. “Says the men are undercover police and that the girl stole some drugs or something.”

The woman moaned as the men heaved the woman up from the floor and shoved her once again into the wall.

“They don’t seem like police,” Anneli whispered.

The train ride home was hauntingly quiet. I felt sick. Harry was saying something about what he should have done, how he could have fought those guys or asked to see a badge or gotten some kind of answer. We left the scene of the struggle before its resolution, if it ever had one, nauseous and afraid and shamefully embarrassed that we had witnessed a violent assault and done nothing. We didn’t try to stop those men, and we didn’t search for any additional help above the station where there was more than likely a gendarme nearby. We hadn’t called the police, and our excuses felt limp and meaningless. What could we have done if the men really were undercover cops? Besides, mine and Anneli’s phones weren’t on an international data plan, and Harry’s was dead. Our French wasn’t good enough to communicate with a police officer. But we were struck silent by the poisonous doubt that even if our phones had been working, we might not have chosen the path of heroism we thought ourselves capable of. Our confidence was shaken, the cinematic bubble had burst. We weren’t the protagonists of our own living movie as we’d come to believe, only delusional cowards in a world of common chaos.

Everyone took naps when we made it home. We wanted to distance ourselves from the morning as swiftly as possible, and when we woke with that hollow dread still seething in our stomachs, we bought some wine and and walked to the jazz club. By the next morning, we had resumed our movie. I never wrote anything down about that day, never saved my metro ticket. Weeks later we returned to Sacre-Coeur on a sunnier afternoon, and the view was breathtaking. We transposed our memories of the assault with a walk around Montmartre and tried to let ourselves forget.

But I still think about that woman and what I could have done to help her, just like I still think of the young girls and their bunnies and the many sirens in the streets of Paris. There were other times we couldn’t romanticize, disagreements between friends that went unresolved, drunken nights that left lovers fighting in the apartment hallways and friends sleeping on the bathroom floor to avoid confrontation. And even though we did our best to idealize everything, reality spread its sticky mess through our stories, and the golden sunlight that beamed through the window didn’t always augur a perfect day. We wrote a lot of poetry about Paris then, about the black cat and the pink sunsets and drunken nights spent climbing eleventy-one stairs to Lou’s apartment, but we never did forget, and those memories remain undocumented but indelible in my memory.

[recentnews18-blog]

New Post has been published on https://shovelnews.com/snls-pete-davidson-hasnt-apologized-for-mocking-a-gop-candidate-who-lost-an-eye-in-war/

SNL's Pete Davidson hasn't apologized for mocking a GOP candidate who lost an eye in war

Amy B Wang

General assignment reporter covering national and breaking news

Lindsey Bever

General assignment reporter covering national and breaking news

November 5 at 2:53 PM

Pete Davidson of “Saturday Night Live” is facing mounting pressure to apologize for a widely condemned bit in which he mocked a wounded veteran and GOP congressional candidate for wearing an eye patch.

Following Davidson’s remarks about Dan Crenshaw, who is running for a seat representing Texas’s 2nd Congressional District, the comedian, his show and SNL’s executive producer were hammered by politicians, talk-show hosts, veterans and others.

“This is absolutely appalling,” tweeted Sen. Tammy Duckworth (D-Ill.), who lost her legs in Iraq. “No one should ever mock a Veteran for the wounds they received while defending our great nation, regardless of political party or what you think of their politics. Pete Davidson owes Dan Crenshaw an apology.”

Former White House press secretary Sean Spicer said that SNL’s executive producer Lorne Michaels should be fired.

Saturday Night Live mocked the appearance of a combat veteran that lost an eye on the battlefield. This was not funny in any way. They scripted it, rehearsed it, laughed at it, aired it and promoted it. VSOs should demand @nbcsnl head Lorne Michaels he fired #FireLorneMichaels

— Sean Spicer (@seanspicer) November 5, 2018

But Crenshaw — who lost his right eye in 2012 after a bomb exploded during a mission in Afghanistan, his third military deployment — said he won’t ask for an apology from Davidson or SNL.

“They probably should apologize, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to demand an apology,” he said Monday on “Fox & Friends,” adding: “They certainly crossed the line, but their apology won’t mean anything to me.”

When asked about the matter on Sunday — and again on Monday — NBC representatives said the network would not be commenting.

Davidson has not yet responded to the criticism.

Despite being told he would probably never see again, Crenshaw, a Navy SEAL, regained sight in his left eye and went on two more deployments. “It’s actually a miracle I can see at all and can continue serving the American people,” he said on Fox.

Davidson seemed to be aware of Crenshaw’s background during Saturday’s “Weekend Update” segment, in which he gave his “first impressions” of various candidates running in this election cycle.

“This guy is kind of cool, Dan Crenshaw,” Davidson said, as an image of Crenshaw wearing an eye patch flashed on the screen.

His co-host, Michael Che, chuckled and said, “Yo, come on.”

“Hold on,” Davidson replied. “You may be surprised to hear he’s a congressional candidate from Texas and not a hit man in a porno movie.”

The audience laughed.

“I’m sorry; I know he lost his eye in war, or whatever,” Davidson added, shrugging and grinning. “Whatever.”

[Utah mayor and father of seven killed in Afghanistan on fourth deployment]

Online, scores of people have expressed anger over the sketch and demanded Davidson and NBC apologize.

“Getting dumped by your pop star girlfriend is no excuse for lashing out at a decorated war hero who lost his eye serving our country,” Jack Pandol, a spokesman for the National Republican Congressional Committee, said in a statement that referenced Davidson’s much-publicized recent breakup with singer Ariana Grande.

Eric Trump tweeted that NBC and SNL “should be ashamed of themselves . . . Thankfully, we have brave men & women like @DanCrenshawTX otherwise gutless cowards like #PeteDavidson wouldn’t have a desk to sit behind.”

The Texas Republican Party called the bit “utterly abhorrent.”

Rep. Peter T. King (R-N.Y.), another candidate who was mocked in Davidson’s sketch, said the jab at Crenshaw was a “disgrace” and indicated that the comedian should be booted from the show.

“What are NBC’s standards for firing? PC to insult wounded vets?!?” King demanded, adding: “(Davidson also insulted me. Who cares?!)”

“This is outrageous. It isn’t funny at all,” wrote Dana Perino, a Fox News contributor and former White House press secretary. Crenshaw, she wrote, “served his country — sacrificed for it — and now is willing to serve again as a Member of Congress (or whatever).”

On Monday, “The View” hosts called it a “sucker punch,” a “tone deaf” statement and a “really crappy joke.”

But Joy Behar said offensive humor is SNL’s “stock in trade” and that the show “doesn’t take any prisoners.”

“They took a shot at Alec Baldwin, who is part of their family, so they go after a lot of people,” she said. “And this kid Davidson, his father died in 9/11, and he said, ‘I like making things of a dark, awkward — weird things that you don’t really find funny, funny. There’s nothing I won’t joke about, and I think it’s because of what happened to me.’

“So, I mean, he’s coming from a place of, you know, you make fun of things that are so painful to lighten the load. That’s where he’s coming from, I think.”

Fellow SNL cast member Kenan Thompson also acknowledged the challenges that comedians are up against, but he said that Davidson “missed the mark.”

“It’s tough when you’re fishing for jokes, like that’s how stand-ups feel — like there’s no real filters out there in the world when they’re trying to go for a great joke,” he said on the “Today” show. “But at the same time, when you miss the mark, you’re offending people. So you have to kind of like really be a little more aware, in my opinion.

“He definitely missed the mark, and I think he was more so commenting on the fact that the joke maybe didn’t land as hard as he wanted to, as opposed to being like, ‘I don’t care about veterans.’ I think Pete’s a very humble dude, and he’s got a big heart. I don’t think he goes out to offend people. But stand-ups, they’re the ones that help us laugh through the most awful things in the first place, so they’re always fishing in weird places.”

In a tweet over the weekend, Crenshaw acknowledged the overwhelming outrage over Davidson’s remarks.

He didn’t demand an apology, but he did urge the show’s writers not to use injured veterans as “punchlines.”

Good rule in life: I try hard not to offend; I try harder not to be offended. That being said, I hope @nbcsnl recognizes that vets don’t deserve to see their wounds used as punchlines for bad jokes.

— Dan Crenshaw (@DanCrenshawTX) November 4, 2018

Crenshaw later told TMZ that he didn’t necessarily want an apology.

“I want us to get away from this culture where we demand apologies every time someone misspeaks,” he said. “I think that would be very healthy for our nation to go in that direction. We don’t need to be outwardly outraged. I don’t need to demand apologies from them. They can do whatever they want, you know. They are feeling the heat from around the country right now, and that’s fine.”

He added: “But I would like [Davidson] and ‘Saturday Night Live’ to recognize something, which is that veterans across the country probably don’t feel as though their wounds they received in battle should be the subject of a bad punchline for a bad joke. And here’s the real atrocity in all of this: It wasn’t even funny . . . It was just mean-spirited.”

Appearing Monday morning on Fox, Crenshaw suggested that Davidson and his SNL colleagues consider pooling money together and donating to a veterans charity.

Read more:

Kanye West praised Trump in a meandering speech on SNL. It didn’t air.

In SNL’s cold open, Fox News hosts offer some thoughts on the migrant caravan. Spoiler alert: They’re not fans.

The SNL season premiere was also obsessed with Pete Davidson and Ariana Grande

Post Malone is the perfect pop star for this American moment. That’s not a compliment.

Source: https://www.washingtonpost.com/arts-entertainment/2018/11/04/pete-davidson-takes-heat-snl-bit-that-made-fun-veteran-candidate-who-lost-an-eye/

[jackpot807]

Warrior - Act I Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Aetheas sat in the car for a few minutes, waiting on the small security detachment to confirm where they will be going. In a place as quiet as this (compared to America and the USSR), the need for security was rather not necessary. Even still, Aetheas had made a lot of enemies just recently.

“Sir, do you have anywhere you want me to bring Aage or..?” Isabella questioned. Aetheas broke away from the window and looked at her,

“Uh, no. How about-” He decided against letting her follow him through the day. The American press would feast on the sight of the leader of Aethos with a younger maid, given all that he has been through.

“I’ll take him, Isabella.”

At this point, Aage was fully awake and babbling. She was bouncing him on her leg, “You sure? You’ll be shaking a lot of hands, today.”

“Yea, I need to be seen with him. Make sure the people know I am looking towards the future.”

Isabella gave a little nod and handed Aetheas Aage. He held him up with his hands and looked at him and he looked back. He had those absent green eyes, completely innocent of the chaos roiling around the world right now.

Aetheas held his son and felt hollow. Numb.

His disposition changed. He got out of the car and used his free hand to knock on the driver’s window. When he opened the window, Aetheas leaned in and told him, “Let security know I’m not waiting for them any more, I’m going in now.”

The driver’s eyes shifted behind his glasses and he replied, “Yessir, I’ll let them know.”

Aetheas ducked into the passenger cabin again and said to Isabella, “I’m heading in. Go do whatever, I’ll find you if I need you.”

Isabella nodded. In her head, she registered a subtle change in Aetheas’ mood.

There were a couple groups of men huddled around, talking to one-another on the stairs leading up to the House. When one saw Aetheas walking up the steps, he turned to look. And when the rest noticed, they too stopped talking and watched.

If you were a high-ranking Aethosian official at that time, you would have heard rumors of some recent scandal revolving around Aetheas Stronos. One involving Lebanese citizens and a firing squad. In America, CNN ran a news piece over the mistreatment of Lebanese citizens during the first few days of the invasion, and they still talk about it even months later. The incident has become a column for the anti-war protests - a face of evil.

Of course, soon any hard proof linking Aetheas to it would soon be gone. Everybody who would be at risk of talking will soon no longer be a risk. Soon everything will be back to the way it was.

Except there’s a mammoth-sized hole in Aetheas’ heart.

And he’s losing his sanity and morality.

And some unknown group is watching his every move.

He paid no mind to the men watching him. Hyena’s in awe of a Lion, he thought. Was it arrogance saying that? Maybe it was, but he had the competence to back it up. He got up to the towering, aging mahogany doors, turned the knob, and drew it open with a loud, echoing creak.

The House of Celebration is an old building. Supposedly built in the 1300’s by Venetian architects, it has been host to many a royal ball and supper. Built using late Gothic architecture, its marble-white columns supported the heavy stone and lead roof, which in turn acted as a support for the marvelous arches over arches over arches, each one bounding over each other like waves. The upper echelons of the House were decorated with stained glass, depicting the Pax Aegica, the War of the Brothers, and further events of Aethosian history.

On the floor was a great swirling piece of art of Saint Gabriel warding off the dark. He held a sizable torch forward, and several little black gremlin’s were scurrying from it. It was normally a welcoming sight. Unfortunately, you would be lucky if you could even see your own feet, due to the sheer number of people in the House at the moment.

With the onset of war in the East, the grovelling Governors of the provinces under the Delta all came here looking for guidance from the central governing body that was based on Cyprus. Aetheas was meant to be at the heart of that central governing body, but the Coalition has grown so large so fast, that he has had to divide the workload up amongst a group of Consuls, Marcus being one of them.

Aetheas, with Aage in his arms, found an opening in the herd of suited men and women, and proceeded to forge a path to the rear of the atrium, where the Governors and Consuls waited. Many people he moved past were too busy chatting to notice him. Those who did notice him stammered for a minute before trying to greet him and introduce themselves. He gave a few token Hello’s and handshakes and, by the time he had gotten to the other end of the atrium, he had gathered a small crowd of sheep following him, doting like peasants to a King.

Actually that last part is kind of true.

At the end of the atrium stretched a long semicircular table, draped in white cloth. Sitting behind that table were the Consuls and Provincial Governors of the many states that made up Aethos.

Furthest left was Antelmo Leapold. He was the Governor of the Reformed Italian Republic. After the war, Leapold thought it was prudent to make himself a Bishop. And the Church didn’t dare tell him he couldn’t do that. Some say he was the one who shot Mussolini and maybe even Aetheas’ own father. But if there were ever any proof of that, Aetheas would have found it by now.

Next to him was Berardo Gilmato, Governor of the poor, sorry backwater of Armenia. Aetheas didn’t know much about him, save that he has too much on his plate. A famine has been gutting his people and all aid from Aethos has been going right into the Soviet Union. It was a choice Aetheas did not make lightly but, if he had to choose between the USSR and a small state like Armenia, he’d go with the USSR. Gilmato probably hates him for it.

There was Anton Serafim, Marshall of the Aethosian Navy and nicknamed ‘Reaper of the Hellespont’ for his antics during the War. He was in the room with Aetheas when the attack on Beirut was launched. A good man, if Aetheas ever saw one.

On the right was Zaton Nitanail, King of the Greek States. He kept to himself most of the time and what little Aetheas knew about him was from his writings on democracy and capitalism. For all his writing on democracy, Aetheas found it funny that the Greek States was a monarchy.

And of course, Melchor Demetri, King of Spain, and the most recent member to join the Aethos Coalition. With this addition, the only part of the Great Mediterranean not under coalition control is the Middle East. He talked as if he owned the building, slouching over other people’s plates,laughing at the most bland jokes, putting his arms over others, then terminating it all for some moments as if he were deep in thought.

They all saw Aetheas at the same time. The first one to stand up was Antelmo, followed by Demetri. Then the rest figured they might as well follow suit as to not look bad. Aetheas looked at them all and, with a gesture, he said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

He went along the table, shaking their hands and greeting them. When all the cordialities were through, he went and took his spot at the center with Aage on his knee. Aage seemed nervous with all the people around, he was looking in every direction.

Melchor leaned over and looked at Aage and said, “Is this the little Prince, Aetheas?”

Aetheas brought his hands up to support the toddler in his arms, nodding, “That’s right, this is Aage.”

Aage turned to look at Melchor, who in kind looked back with those big black eyes that held the weight of a kingdom in them. He looked like he was sizing up Aage, who was just confused and fidgeting.

“Say Hello to King Demetri, Aage.”

Aage’s eyes lolled around, locking onto one thing then aimlessly glaring at something else, he opened his mouth,

“hiiiiiiii”

Melchor gave a small chuckle then waved, “Hello, little Prince. I’m so glad to finally meet you.”

“Is your daughter here, Melchor?”

Melchor looked back up at Aetheas and sat straight, “She’s with her mother in one of the rooms over there somewhere.” He waved his hand over to the right, at nothing. “I’m interested on what has been going on in the Middle East, Aetheas. You have gotten the entire coast from Syria to Israel, yeah?”

Aetheas absent-mindedly bounced Aage on his knee and replied, “And we’ve been holding it with no problems. The Soviets have Afghanistan and we’re currently building up for the push into Iran and Iraq. The Pope likens this whole thing to another Crusade. He actually came to meet me a few months ago to thank me and Anton over there.” He gestured to the Marshall, who seemed to be nose-deep in a fried chicken.

Melchor leaned his elbow on the table, “That’s good, I’m happy to hear that. Y’know it’s their fault in the first place. The Moors were Muslims, and they forced their religion onto my people a thousand years ago. They took all of North Africa and damn near got us too. If it wasn’t for Charles Martel, we would all be speaking Arabic right now. I for one am happy we are striking back.”

Melchor sounded like a warmongering barbarian, but he was right. The Muslims forcibly converted North Africa to Islam, followed by Spain and part of France. Maybe it was a valid excuse to be doing what Aethos was doing. If Aetheas told himself that enough times, maybe he would believe it.

Aetheas was about to say something when his attention was taken by a photographer, a girl in her late-twenties with thick plastic glasses and a bun.

“Sir, can I get a picture?”

Aetheas looked at her and said, “Of course, of course. How do you want me?”

“Just the way you are. Try and get him to look at the camera.” She pointed at Aage.

Aetheas leaned into Aage’s ear and said, “Aage, look at the camera.”

Aage turned to look at the camera with a curious stare. Then the flash went off, blinding him. He started to cry. A few of the women in the crowd audible awwww’ed.

Aetheas only smiled at the minor embarrassment, “Melchor, let’s go see your family.” He said as he began getting up. Melchor got up too, gesturing him to follow.

It was at this point that most people in the House were aware that Aetheas was actually here. Most of them were around that table and made way for him as he moved through the crowd.

Over on the other end of the room there was a stage. On that stage, a man tapped the microphone and said into it, “Misses Caterina Caselli, ladies and gentlemen.”

Aetheas heard some scattered applauds from confused guests who didn’t know what was going on. A lady stepped up onto the stage and began singing. Some of the crowd was drawn away, leaving a little more breathing room.

There was a oak door in front of Melchor and he grabbed the knob, “In here” he said before opening it.

In the corner of the room sat Queen Demetri, rocking her daughter in her arms. She wore a wildly decorated dress. Vines were sewn up and down the seams, curling into red blossoms. She looked up and saw Melchor in the doorway. Her mouth opened to say something but before she could, Melchor said “I have someone I want you to meet.”

He made room for Aetheas to appear, and the sight caught her by surprise. She stood up and half-bowed, “King Stronos, I am honored to finally meet you.”

Aage’s face was buried in his father’s shoulder. Aetheas waved at her, “Hello, Lady Demetri. I’m happy we can finally meet.” He went over to her and placed a brief kiss on her cheek. He took a step back and caught out of the corner of his vision some weird angry look that Melchor was giving to her. Aetheas spoke up, “Go ahead and sit.”

The couch Atheas sat on had a neat little knitting pattern that caught Aage’s interest. He traced the lines with his finger.

“Is that her?” Aetheas asked

In Lady Demetri’s arms was her daughter, Justine. She had her mother’s long, black hair and doe eyes that looked around the room curiously. Justine was going to fulfill every little girl’s dream and be a princess.

“Yes, this is Justine. She’s been giving me the silent treatment all day, I haven’t been able to get her to say Hi to anyone.”

Aetheas looked down at Aage, “You wanna play with Justine, Aage?”

Aage bumbled out a “yaaaa”

Aetheas gently set him down on the sizable rug and he proceeded to crawl around aimlessly. Lady Demetri set Justine down.

“liiyun” Aage said.

“I don’t have Lion, Aage, I think ‘Bella does.”

“Who’s Lion? His stuffed animal?” Melchor asked.

Looking up at them, Aetheas replied, “It is. He barely lets it out of his sight, he’s so fond of it. I gotta stop talking about it before he realizes it’s not here.”

That last remark caused Lady Demetri to giggle, “He’s an angel.”

“He is. He never cries or screams when he doesn’t get his way. He’s much better-mannered than I was at his age, so my father told me.” Aetheas replied.

Lady Demetri used her foot to push forward some blocks that were at the edge of the couch she was sitting on, trying to get Justine’s attention.

“Aetheas I have to ask you something.” Melchor asked.

And here comes the business, Aetheas thought.

“What’s that?” He asked.

“This alliance with the Soviet Union - what are your plans for the far future with them? Their reputation has been questionable since the day they were formed. With this feud between them and the United States growing, what is our place in it all?”

Aetheas could finally shed the mask of the humble King. He no longer had to carefully pick his words. He looked at Lady Demetri and said to her, “Lady Demetri, I know you will not talk to anyone about what you are about to talk about.”

The sudden change in demeanor had surprised her. She quietly nodded.

Looking back at Melchor, Aetheas started, “The Soviet’s are a useful ally at the moment, to keep America off our backs. About a year ago, they gave us the means and the people to start our own nuclear program. I’ve focused a lot of resources into it and we actually detonated our first bomb a month ago in Siberia. The Soviets claimed responsibility for the test.”

Even Melchor raised his eyebrows at the stunning accomplishment.

“The American’s ‘Domino Theory’ has put a lot of countries up for the taking in the name of Communism or Democracy. Both sides of the Iron Curtain are fighting for these countries to adopt their ideology. Currently, to surmount the USSR and the USA, we need a significant increase in manpower and land. I intend to make Aethos work for the USSR as their attack-dog, taking whatever countries they want us to. Lebanon, Syria, Afghanistan, the Congo, and so on. We will take them. We install our own government, under the Delta. We control the people, we control the guns, we control the resources. As long as we answer to the Soviets.”

Aage and Justine were playing with the blocks while Aetheas spoke.

“But if we were to take control of enough countries to, say, rival the USSR, theoretically, we could absorb them. The mistake of the West is not openly invading Russia. With the concept of Mutually Assured Destruction, it is guaranteed neither side will use their nuclear bombs. At the very most, they will use them in a tactical capacity. Their people are tired after all they’ve been through and I have world-class analysts telling me that there is going to be a massive famine in Russia in a few years. And I believe them.”

Melchor waved his hand, “You want to invade Russia?”

“I do.”

Lady Demetri looked at her husband with a little bit of unease apparent.

“You would start another World War, Aetheas. Our homes will be made nuclear ash.

Aetheas sighed quietly, “Like I said, Melchor, I don’t believe they will use their nuclear weapons. I am going to call their bluff, when the time comes. With the addition of Spain, I’m confident we can eventually get enough strength behind us to take them down.”

Melchor, a normally very proud man, knew he was tiptoeing in sensitive territory. At least the man knew when to quiet down. He said, “You really think we can do it?”

Aage managed to spell out ABC with the blocks.

“We will have the momentum of the Mediterranean and Africa and the East, maybe even with help from the West. What we need to do right now is find out how we can get an edge over their technology. We still aren’t on their level, military-wise.”

Melchor leaned forward, “You re-united Aethos after the Allies tore it apart. You brought it back from the ashes to heights it hasn’t seen in a long time. But Hitler could have never defeated the Soviets. Germany was doomed from the moment Operation Barbarossa began. Russia will never let their country be taken. I guess it really would take the combined power of the rest of the world to take them on.”

He nodded his head.

“But if you think we can do it, Aetheas, the Kingdom of Spain is with you.”

A manic smile shot across Aetheas’ face. He got up and said “Then we will cement this agreement with the marriage of our two families.”

Melchor nodded and got up, extending his hand, “We will.”

The two shook hands, silently declaring the birth of a new, deadly alliance.

“Why?”

Aetheas looked past Melchor and saw his wife sitting timidly in the corner, “What?”

“I-” Lady Demetri stammered, losing the courage to continue the moment her husband turned to look at her with blood in his eyes.

“Watch your mouth, whore.” He growled. She visibly recoiled at that, and shut up. He looked back at Aetheas and said “She is too sheltered to understand why. The ambition of Aethos knows no limits, and we will do our best to make sure its appetite is sated.”

Aetheas nodded, “Yes we will, Malchor.”

He felt a tug on his pants. Looking down, he saw Aage reaching up to him. “You want up?”

Aage spat out an “aah”

Reaching down, he picked up his son and held him with his arm. Looking at Melchor, he said “Thank you.”

Turning to the door, Aetheas said, “Now that that’s out of the way, let’s go put on a show for the people.”

“Uh give us a minute. We got to… Make sure we have everything in here. We’ll be out in a minute.” Melchor said, sitting back down, wrapping his large arm around his wife’s waist, to which she shuddered and looked the other way nervously.

“I’ll see you out there, then.” Aetheas said. He opened the door and stepped out into the atrium again. He could hear the pronounced thump of a hand hitting Lady Demetri’s face the moment the door clicked.

Aetheas looked forward. The crowd was distracted with the singer on the stage. He managed to sneak back to the table and sat down with Aage, and stayed there for a few token photo shoots and speeches until they left for home at around six.