#when bearcat went dry

[frankendavis]

For October 6th, something I put together ages ago.

[junker-town]

Sean McVay vs. Zac Taylor is a fascinating coaching duel

Kirby Lee-USA TODAY Sports

Super Bowl LVI features an elite head coaching matchup.

It’s so easy to slip into cliches when discussing the links between the two head coaches in the Super Bowl, Sean McVay and Zac Taylor. Sure, there’s an element of “student and master” to this, but that’s kind of a lazy approach that doesn’t appreciate the twists and turns along the way. Instead this is a battle of two, young, dynamic peers who represent not only eerily similar paths to this point, but the direction of the modern NFL.

The story of these two coaches really begins in 2007. Taylor, an undrafted quarterback out of Nebraska, was desperate to try and keep his playing dream alive. After being released by the Buccaneers he went to Canada, latching on the with the Winnipeg Blue Bombers of the CFL. It wasn’t long before he hung up his cleats all together, becoming an offensive assistant at Texas A&M under his father-in-law, Mike Sherman.

While Taylor was struggling to make it back to the NFL, McVay saw the writing on the wall. A receiver at Miami of Ohio at the time, there was no way he was going to make it to the NFL — even as a camp invite. A strong football legacy throughout his family, McVay looked to follow in his grandfather John’s footsteps, a long-time coach of the New York Giants, and eventual executive of the 49ers during their glory years. Sean went straight from college to the NFL, becoming an offensive assistant for the Buccaneers.

The two coaches took different routes, but mirrored each other. Taylor using his experience as a passer to become a QB coach in Miami, McVay doing the same with wide receivers in Washington. Both showing incredible promise as young offensive minds, and getting promoted to the role offensive coordinator at extraordinarily young ages. Taylor became the offensive head of the Dolphins at the age of 30, with McVay taking over Washington’s offense at 28.

Both were trapped in terrible situations, but still shined. Taylor was credited with developing Ryan Tannehill as a passer and lifting the Dolphins, while McVay did the best he could with lackluster offensive personnel under Jay Gruden.

The shocker came in 2017 when McVay was named head coach of the Rams. The youngest head coach in NFL history, the hiring was a huge leap of faith. While he’d done great things with the likes of Kirk Cousins, Pierre Garcon and DeSean Jackson, it was still an extremely bold move.

There wasn’t nearly as much luck for Taylor, who went down with the Dolphins’ sinking ship, and returned to college football to rebuild his resume with the Cincinnati Bearcats. Then, not even a year into his new role, Cincinnati head coach Tommy Tuberville abandoned the team, resigned, leaving Taylor in the lurch. Now it seemed the bright offensive mind would be snuffed out, swallowed by a new regime and left out to dry.

Luckily there was someone who believed in Taylor’s potential. Saw the man who developed Tannehill and identified the underlying talent. Sean McVay had found his new wide receivers coach in Los Angeles. The real master stroke in the hire was identifying future gaps on his staff. McVay knew that quarterbacks coach Greg Olson was making a brief stop on the Rams, and would unquestionably be hired away, as would offensive coordinator Matt LaFleur, who was garnering head coaching buzz as well. Taylor would be the perfect man who could step in and continue Jared Goff’s development.

In only McVay’s second season as head coach, and Taylor’s first as quarterbacks coach, Goff flourished and the Rams made the Super Bowl. The young team wasn’t ready to contend with the Patriots, but the potential of their young, offensive-minded approach was paying huge dividends.

The Bengals identified Taylor’s talent too, and much as it was a shock when McVay was hired by Los Angeles, it was a stunner to see Cincinnati bring in a QB coach as their head coach. The organization didn’t want to wait, and knowing they needed a new quarterback that Taylor could develop, stunned the NFL world.

Now, in his third season with the Bengals, Zac Taylor is now in the Super Bowl, just as McVay made the big game in his second year. Two organizations took leaps of faith to put these two bright offensive minds in charge of teams, but there is no doubt that without McVay throwing Taylor a lifeline, he’s never in this position — or even potentially still struggling to build his resume in college football.

The Rams now enter their second attempt to hoist the Lombardi Trophy under McVay. They’re now the old team looking to demolish the young hopeful, just at the Patriots did to them in 2018. At the front of it all are two remarkably similar coaches who owe so much to each other, and no matter what happens, both seem poised to dominate their conferences for the next decade.

[verrottweil]

april is the cruelest month, is it not?

WidowReaper Week, day 1: Catalyst

a spark, something that gets things started.

ao3 | series

.

When Talon first made use of his mercenary services, it was nothing more than petty robbery.

What Reaper hadn’t expected however, was that Talon had assigned Widowmaker to accompany him; she was already strapped in, sitting impassively on the metal bench in the hull of the drop ship. He seated himself opposite to her, back straight and arms crossed over his chest, and he didn’t exchange so much as a word with her during the flight.

When Reaper caught her watching him with her bright eyes, she seemed to regard him with the same kind cool curiosity of a cat looking down on an ant.

They were dispatched under cover of a rock formation, a couple of kilometers off the intersection between Route 95 and Palm Canyon road. It was close to nightfall when they finished their trek to the foot of a power pylon; the craggy teeth of mountain tops are clear-cut against the red horizon. It’s a hot, dry and dusty place, with its cracked underground, brownish-green scrubs and prickly pear cacti. The temperature dropped unexpectedly sometime after noon and the wind started to pick up.

Static rustled through the intercom when their handler told them the convoy would be arriving in the next twenty minutes.

Reaper watched disinterestedly how Widowmaker sunk to the ground, cross-legged, and began to check her ammunition, propped up the bipod and got into her position. They were both wearing camouflage, but while his uniform was strictly military, her skintight bodysuit reminded him of desert sand under the hot, midday sun, and her bluish skin contrasted the color nicely.

Something about lilacs and a dead land came to mind, but he couldn’t afford any distractions, so he shook off the thoughts with a shrug.

She flicked her gaze from his mask, over the cartridges strapped across his chest, to the shotguns in their holsters at his hips, and then back at her rifle; the question in her eyes was content to remain unvoiced. There were flashes of lightning in the faraway distance and that meant rain. He tilted his head to the right, watching the road for any sign of their target. Two old-fashioned motorbikes came cruising ahead of a Lenco Bearcat that’s been out of use for three decades at least, resold for domestic purposes; the heavy rumble of their engines resounded through the open area, faintly at first, but gradually the noise became closer, and louder.

One nod and they fell into motion together. She activated the infrared visors in her helmet and relayed to him how many enemies there were and what their positions in the vehicle were.

Widowmaker settled back down on her stomach and glanced through her scope. The purple glare of her visors reflected harshly in the almost mellow darkness, like blood highlighted in UV light. Reaper didn’t delude himself into thinking the barrel of her rifle was to be aimed on enemy targets only as he stepped forwards, towards the road.

He kept an eye on the moving Bearcat, grabbed his shotguns and teleported onto the roof.

He transmuted into wraith form and slipped through the crack of the open window. Hooked an arm around the driver’s neck. Aimed one of his shotguns to the armed guard in the passenger’s seat.

“Boo,” Reaper deadpanned, head cocked to the side, and splattered the guard’s brains all over the front window with a buckshot. “You,” he addressed the driver then, “Slam the fucking brakes.”

When they came to a screeching halt, the trunk careened sharply to the left; Reaper heard a loud clang, probably of a vault slamming against the solid partition with the driver’s seat, and two more thuds, underscored by grunts and groans. Guess they fell out of their seats, he thought smugly, before he grabbed the driver by the back of his head – claws digging into the skin – and repeatedly slammed him face-first against the steering wheel.

The high-pitched honks that followed caught the bikers’ attention.

Reaper clicked the door handle open and kicked the driver out of his seat – the driver, who was sporting a bloody nose and a bruised forehead by then, moaned gruffly when he collided harshly to the concrete. It started to drizzle when he climbed out of the Bearcat, and the faint grumble of thunder underscored the loud slam of the backdoors opening. He spared an unperturbed glance at the motorcycles racing his way – the bikers readying their uzis– and turned around, focusing on the three guards stampeding towards him.

“Leave them to me,” Reaper ordered brusquely, his breath hot against his own nose behind the mask, before he shifted into a swarm of shadowy tendrils and engulfed the last guard.

There was some crackling through the intercom, then the sound of her voice, accented, soft and slightly incredulous: “All of them?”

He got the last guard in a headlock, biceps straining against the kevlar fabric, barrel of a shotgun caressing the underside of the guy’s chin, the other one trained on another guard’s forehead. They were shell-shocked. He took the shot, and pieces of cranium, blood and brain matter splattered all over his mask, the vehicle and the struggling guard in his chokehold. Everything reeks.

“Take out the driver then,” he growled before pivoting on his heels and using the guard as a human shield against a spray of bullets from one of the bikers’ uzis. “I’m on trial, remember?”

Widowmaker started to laugh: a cold, scathing sound that would’ve gotten lost in the cacophony of gunshots and screeching tires and soft rainfall on his mask if it wasn’t for the fact that it echoed onwards between his own two ears. Reaper felt the guard kicking and struggling in his death throes. When the guy’s muscles went slack, he lunged forward, dropping the body to the ground. Pressed a shotgun to the remaining guard’s chest. Shot him point blank. Some pellets lodged themselves into the vehicle’s thick metallic door.

He glanced over his shoulder, seeing one of the bikers rounding around the Bearcat’s trunk, and knew he couldn’t afford to keep his back exposed. He whirled around, both arms stretched out in front of him. Emptied his shotguns onto the motorbike’s front tire and aluminum frame.

It was a gamble and it paid off.

The biker lost his balance and came skidding down the slightly wet concrete, ending trapped under his motorcycle. Reaper threw away his shotguns and grabbed a new pair from his holsters. He tilted his head to the right when he heard the roar of the other motorcycle’s engine and the squeaking of the tires.

“We’re done here,” Reaper simply stated over the mic as he watched the motorbike drive off, and walked over to the biker wailing pitifully on the concrete; his back turned to the Bearcat and the driver, who had crawled over to one of the dead guards and staggered upwards. Reaper, uncaring, put his boot on the biker’s throat in warning. “Quiet you.”

A single gunshot rang through the air, staccato, followed by a heavy thud. He smirked behind his mask, not bothering to glance at the now-undoubtedly dead driver.

He knocked the biker out cold and checked the vehicle’s trunk. According to Talon’s intel, the gold bars should’ve been stored in a vault. Well there’s a vault, he thought wryly, nudging the thing with the steel-tipped toe of his boot, but fuck if I know what’s really in there. She caught up to him in the meantime, leaning against the doorway of the trunk with the bipod in her hand.

“Impressive,” Widowmaker praised – and while her tone of voice was cool and detached, there was the hint of a smile curved along her lips.

Her bright-eyed gaze lingered on his blood-stained gauntlets, then his chest, and his mask. There’s something different about it, he thought. He cocked his head, challenging her to make a comment about his methods or their outcomes, about the carnage; but to his surprise, she raised her chin, propping a forearm against the doorframe, glancing at him with half-hooded eyes, and she smiled. Her smile was sharper than any mountaintop in the Arizona desert.

Reaper huffed, a little unsettled, and dryly asked, “So, … did I make the cut?”

“You certainly did not disappoint.” Widowmaker laughed curtly – that harrowing, haughty sound again – and pushed herself off the doorframe. Looking at him from over her shoulder, she said, “Bienvenue chez Talon, Reaper.”

.

[angelic-distortion]

Y’all. I keep forgetting about this little thing called my blog. So that means that I really don’t remember anything but the super highlights of the past 2 weeks. I mean, there were quite a few highlights, but I still like sharing little things with y’all sometimes, but I guess they were so little I don’t even remember them now. Maybe I should put blog writing down in my planner so I can stay #consistent…. Will that work? Who knows.

Anyways. We ended last blog post with the end of my first week of school. Since then, my AC has finally been fixed, and my carpet is dry. I had a mini (major) freak out about losing important documents on my computer. I had a silks class (from which I was majorly sore after and actually didn’t go back to this past week because of being sick). I also got my makeup kit for my Stage Makeup class, and Christina gave me this lovely scorpion sucker to commemorate The Scorpion Saga 2k17. I stayed on top of my homework for the most part, and then the lovely, lovely three day weekend came. Also, here’s another lovely picture from the theatre cookout mentioned in last week’s post!

One big thing I want to mention about last week, is that I was #stressed about our first critiqued art piece in Drawing 1, but by the time I got through with the class, I was #blessed. The people in my class are really good at realistic drawings, and I frankly am not. So, when I went in with this super abstract drawing, I was very nervous for what other people would think of it, even though I had a great explanation behind it and also know I shouldn’t compare myself to other people. But everyone thought that it was really cool and meaningful, and someone even said that it was their favorite one to look at! The only pictures I got of it are an unfinished one, and then the finished one, but only the changed part (you’ll understand when you see the picture).

Title: Hanging on by a Thread

Medium: Pen & Watercolor on Paper, Thread

Explanation: (From the bottom, going up) My brain sometimes gets filled with anxiety about all the things I have to do. The patterns represent my thoughts, and the color represents the people in my life. My thoughts are sometimes louder than the people telling me I can get through this, but then the people keep encouraging me and helping me out and the color gets stronger. My thoughts start to fade until I’m focused on what I need to do and then my brain is this nice happy place again.

I wish I had a picture of the full length finished product, but just imagine that what you see in the close up with the colors is also on the full length hanging one.

I went home to dogsit and just chill with my family. We went to the Bearcat game Friday night and I got to see a lot of my friends and watch them win! Saturday, I did a lot of homework and went to Nantee’s to watch my future school (hopefully) play football. Sunday, after church, we literally watched like 4 episodes of Call the Midwife. It was great. I also got to use my brand new 132 pack of Prismacolors. I’m in love. Because it was Labor Day, I got to stay a little bit on Monday, but had to leave after lunch because it was Chi Mu’s night for TWIRP!

Our TWIRP (The Woman is Required to Pay) theme was Geezer’s Night Out, so I got to wear one of my favorite dresses and dance like I normally do… like I’m 80 and have a broken hip. Michael was going to be my date, and then he had rehearsal, but about 30 minutes into the party, he showed up with Kacy. What a meanie. I still love him. It was a great time, and I was much too sore the following day. We also inducted 3 new beaus into our club during Chi Mu Beaus Late Night Pose! Welcome to Chi Mu Jeffrey, Caleb, and Colton!

Because I had done a bunch of homework over the weekend, I didn’t have much homework to do during the week, so I had an odd amount of free time. I mostly played video games and hung out with my friends, but I also finished all the seasons of Call the Midwife that were on Netflix (I cried a lot). Also, super excited about this, but Spotify Premium for Students came out with this new bundle where you pay the same price ($4.99) for Spotify Premium AND Hulu, which I had been considering getting anyways because there are some shows on there that aren’t on Netflix that I want to watch and catch up on. So, I definitely hopped on that deal and caught up on the latest and final season of Bones (I also cried a lot). AND I CAN FINALLY FINISH X FILES!!!! Y’all know how much I complained when the took it off Netflix 2 seasons before I could finish it. And I can catch up on New Girl, Bobs Burgers, and then finish shows that I started watching in Chicago on my roommates Hulu account, like Scream Queens and Brooklyn 99. Y’all. I’m pumped. (I promise I’ll do my homework first, mom).

Ever since Wednesday morning of this week, I had sinus problems. So, I’ve definitely had to deal with being sick for the greater portion of the week. Which sucked. A lot. But thankfully, it wasn’t as bad as it usually is when I get an allergy/cold (aka I can’t tell which it is). I didn’t have the painful drainage sore throat that makes it feel like I’m swallowing needles. And while I’m writing this, I’m about 95% better.

Tunes rehearsals are about to begin and I’m excited. Tunes reveal was on Friday and it was a blast! Get ready for the Chi Mu Dominoes to knock you down! But on top of rehearsals some nights, I also have SAI things that are happening at the same time, so prioritizing and comprimising are going to be big things for the next couple of weeks. Hopefully my stress levels will stay normal. And hopefully I remember this lovely little blog.

Fearlessly,

Allison Brooke

What is Consistency? Y'all. I keep forgetting about this little thing called my blog. So that means that I really don't remember anything but the super highlights of the past 2 weeks.

[sharnngan]

5 Ways to Flirt in 1921 that Are Still Sexy in 2021

Can we please bring back petting parties?

La Villa d’Este: France XXe siècle (1923) | Public Domain

No other decade has more monikers to describe its exuberance — The Roaring 20s, The Jazz Age, the Harlem Renaissance, and the Age of Wonderful Nonsense.

In the wake of the 1918 pandemic, a much younger America threw off sexual mores, swigged bathtub gin, and danced the Charleston in speakeasies. Women could finally vote, and their hemlines raised with hopes for an emancipated future. E. E. Cummings coined the word “partied” as a verb in 1922, and Dorothy Parker penned enough sexy double entendres to last a century.

Oh, and we also got the term “dating” from the young singles who were finally allowed to meet unchaperoned. Thanks, 1920's.

Now, sociologists are predicting an equally hedonistic dating trend to follow the COVID pandemic. But oddly, the name they have given this one is not as cute — “The Whoring 20s.”

Yep. That’s right. Everyone will be getting laid in the next few months. Or so the predictions go.

Similar to the 1920s, America had its share of growing pains in the last year. And we faced some of those growth spurts with all the aplomb of a zitty teenager with raging hormones. Will history repeat in one glittering bacchanalia?

Only time (and STD rates) will tell. Until then, here are a few old-timey pastimes from the 1920s that I wish we could bring back.

“Tell him I was too f*cking busy — or vice versa.”

— Dorothy Parker

Petting parties

The 1922 headline said it all — “Mothers Complain That Modern Girls ‘Vamp’ Their Sons at Petting Parties.” The article warned parents, “The boys of today must be protected from the girl vamp.” These jezebels were doing the unthinkable — touching boys at parties.

“Petting” included kissing, hugging, and well…petting. It did not include sex. In the very unliberated 1920s, premarital sex could still destroy any woman’s reputation. So petting parties became a safe (and only) way for young women to explore their sexuality without risking their future marriage prospects.

Well, thank god that slut-shaming is over.

But the petting part…let’s bring that back. Today, intimate kissing and long caresses have been replaced with dating app hookups — the fast food of romance.

But true intimacy does not move at the speed of a thumb swipe. And this is why I grow nostalgic for petting parties — delayed gratification. It’s the marshmallow test with a sexual twist. And if you pet your lover like a kitten…I promise you will drive that bearcat crazy with lust.

(Actually, I make no such promises. I never get to use 1920s gangster slang and couldn’t resist.)

“If I had to live my life again, I’d make the same mistakes, only sooner.”--Tallulah Bankhead

Baker in her banana costume in 1927 | Public DomainDancing

In 1926, audiences packed into the hottest Paris nightclub, Folies Bergère. The curtain raised to reveal a painted backdrop of a tropical paradise, hanging with vines over clear, blue water. The drums thumped out a slow, steady beat as Josephine Baker crept behind a fallen tree prop like a graceful tiger about to pounce. Suddenly, she sprang forward, gyrating her hips in whip-cracking speed…with a girdle of bananas around her waist.

Now that is hot and funny. Every woman in that audience wanted to move like Josephine Baker.

Young people learned Josephine’s sultry moves and crowded into smoke-filled speakeasies and cabarets to dance the Charleston, Black Bottom, waltz, and tango. The horns blared, and the bootlegged whiskey flowed as couples rocked their pelvises against each other. Dancing was freedom.

Aren’t we tired of not touching each other? Dancing is one of the best forms of exercise and has been shown to reduce Alzheimer's. And if you are going to grow old with someone, you might as well keep their memory sharp.

Ice Cream Socials

When Anheuser-Busch could no longer sell alcohol during Prohibition, they turned to a different pastime — ice cream. Other companies followed suit. The result was the invention of the Good Humor Bar, Dixie Ice Cream Cup, and the popsicle.

While alcohol might be the quintessential social lubricant, research shows sugar makes for sweet romance too. In one study, couples reported they like each other more after eating something sweet. And an ice cream headache beats a wood alcohol hangover any day.

William Ruppert breaking the pole-sitting record of 23 days, in 1929 | Public DomainFlagpole sitting

Before TikTok stars and influencers found fame by doing pretty much nothing, wannabe celebrities had flagpole sitting. Flagpole sitting is just like it sounds — people sat on top of a flagpole for as many hours as boredom and your spine could endure.

It’s a dating activity that probably wouldn’t take off today. Modern couples are so distracted with dinging cellphones and dopamine firing social media that we have lost the art of silence. But any man who can sit on a flagpole with me for twelve hours without distractions is a keeper.

“Ah, good conversation — there’s nothing like it, is there? The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing.”

― Edith Wharton

The telephone

In the 1920s, a hesitant man could ask a woman out by ringing her at her parent’s home. This prevented him from experiencing in-your-face rejection.

Today, most people ask for a date in a text message. It’s a low level of risk.

But while we have reduced the risk, texting has also created a world of two-dimensional relationships that never lead anywhere. And why would they? Since 90% of communication between most humans is nonverbal, it’s no wonder why we struggle with intimacy. Sorry, but your emoji laugh doesn’t get my heart thumping like your real laugh.

This is why your phone is one of your sharpest screening devices. The reason is simple — people who text for weeks and weeks without asking for a date are either bored, dating someone else, not that into you, or lack confidence.

There I said it. Set the trolls loose on me. But before you attack me for expecting the man to do all the work, I have asked out plenty of men who won’t make a move (or hinted ridiculously). If you think that is sexy, you don’t understand women.

Usually, I ghost my pen pals after about a week. By then, my inkpot has run dry, and I get as mercenary with my delete button as a husband-hungry Jane Austen character. And many women will agree with me. It’s one of the most common complaints I see on dating apps —“not looking for a pen pal.”

When someone writes that, you should believe them. Or better yet, pick up that newfangled device known as a telephone, and quit the lollygagging, cake eater. (That’s my last 20s slang…maybe)

You will get one of two answers — a yes or a no. But if you hide behind your screen, you will get gray hair and a first date story that only happened in your head.

“A woman should be able to kiss a man beautifully and romantically without any desire to be either his wife or his mistress.”― F. Scott Fitzgerald

Dating without expectations

Daters today seem to fall into one of two camps — seeking serious courtship or casual sex. I saw one female writer advise single ladies to swipe left on any guy who fills out the “not sure” box for whether he is looking for a relationship.

Please stop swiping left on Mr. Unsure. There’s nothing wrong with approaching dating without expectations. Not everyone has a binary goal of either saying no or yes to a relationship. There’s a lot of adventures to be found in that unpredictable space of “it depends.”

It depends if you have chemistry and compatibility. It depends on the delicate timing that makes you prioritize relationships. And it depends on a host of socioeconomic factors — geography, desire to have children, sense of humor, and matched ambitions.

But with one in three couples meeting online now, the mystery is uncloaked. Want to know if a guy is looking for a serious commitment? It is listed in his profile. Want to know if a girl is open to a hookup. Also listed in her profile. Her favorite music. It’s on her Spotify list. His passions? That dead fish is speaking to you.

Dating was not as transactional in the 1920s. Both men and women went on dates to potentially meet a husband or wife but, more importantly, to socialize.

Socialize. Remember that little verb? It meant if you wanted a meaningful connection with someone, you had to peel back the layers. (And by layers, I don’t mean clothing, kids.)

But flirting today has become a stultifying game of putting people in neat boxes. Hot or not. Rich or poor. How about giving people a chance without any expectations of how we can retrofit them into our lives?

Desires blooms in odd places. It might even happen over soda pop and some necking in your flivver. (Now that was my last 1920s slang.)

More dating tips from Carlyn Beccia:

Old-Fashioned Flirting Tips that Still Work

5 Ways to Flirt in 1921 that Are Still Sexy in 2021 was originally published in P.S. I Love You on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

How Do You Feel About Love?

[hjfoley]

When Bearcat Went Dry 1919

When Bearcat Went Dry 1919

Bearcat Turner Stacy loves Blossom Fulkerson and promise her to give up drinking.Turner s after is arrested and he find Blossom in the arms of Jerry Henderson.Kindard Powers attack Handerson thinking hes a Officer.He can rescue himself and hid in Blossoms cabin.Later he is attacked again but this time rescued by Turner.He forces him into marry Blossom from hes deathbed and when he die,Turner goes…