#why the hell do we race in stockton

[arcticdementor]

I don’t revisit my old work. I’ve been writing this weekly column for four and a half years now, and I never reread old pieces. Because for me—and I’m sure I’m not alone among opinion journalists in this regard—each essay I pen represents a catharsis of sorts. I had some bee in my bonnet, I wrote about it, and now I’ve had my say. What reason is there to go back? If what I’ve written resonates with readers, the piece will go viral. If not, it won’t. But regardless, I’ve relieved myself of whatever was busting to come out.

…

The sense of release that comes from having your say and being heard, though it may seem trivial to those with no opinions to share, can in fact be quite powerful.

Which brings me to the recent crop of right-wing mass shooters: Robert Bowers in Pittsburgh (shot up a temple), Brenton Tarrant in Christchurch (shot up a mosque), and John Earnest in Poway (shot up a different temple). As an old-timer with a morbid fascination for these things, there’s an odd twist to this new breed of gunslingin’ whiteys, compared with the ones from my youth. Before James Huberty shot up a McDonald’s full o’ Mexicans in 1984, he tried to seek medical help for what he knew was an incipient psychotic episode. Huberty had no political goals. He was feeling compelled to “hunt humans,” and deep down, he knew there was something wonky with his wiring.

In 1989, Patrick Purdy opened fire on a bunch of Asian schoolkids at Cleveland Elementary in Stockton, Calif. (our crappiest cities love naming their schools after even crappier ones, as a reminder that things can always be worse). Purdy started his day by calling in a threat to the school, telling them what he was going to do. Then he drove his car behind the school and set it on fire…loaded with fireworks! Still, the teachers and staff laughed it off, displaying the keen intellect that so exemplifies California public school employees. “We got a threat of a mass shooting? And now we have an exploding car? Crazy coincidence, man. Jupiter must be in renegade or somethin’.”

…

But today, the white dudes who commit these types of shootings leave behind lengthy, detailed manifestos. More than that, they leave themselves behind. Mass shooters in the ’80s and ’90s rarely survived, typically dying by their own hand. But these guys seem to really, really want to be taken alive. Anders Breivik in Norway was the first. Lengthy manifesto, taken alive, and he stood trial with no apologies, like a political dissident facing a kangaroo court (which it kinda was; the bastard got only 21 years for 77 murders). The Pittsburgh, Christchurch, and Poway shooters, same deal. Lengthy manifestos and 8chan posts, taken alive, now awaiting trial. Charleston’s Dylann Roof? Lengthy manifesto, taken alive, unapologetic at trial.

This is the age of the “intellectual” (and please note the scare quotes) racist killer. Black mass shooters continue to excel at their preferred specialty—workplace massacres. But white mass shooters have evolved, so to speak. Now they all want to be op-ed writers. Which brings me back to my initial point: the cathartic nature of ranting in an essay and putting it out for the world to see. It has a cleansing, purgative effect, like (again, not to be crude) a really good poop. I’ve read every one of those racial murder manifestos, and you know what? They’re as good as anything on any leftist race-baiting site. Roof? Tarrant? Earnest? Breivik? In terms of writing ability, in terms of effective polemics, their work is no worse than what you find leftists spewing on BuzzFeed, HuffPost, Salon, ThinkProgress, Vox, etc.

“White guys are killing us,” “Let’s deport all white males,” “White men must be stopped,” “White men are the face of terror,” “The plague of angry white men,” “White people are cowards,” “When white women cry: How white women’s tears oppress women of color.” These actual essays are just as racist and just as inflammatory as anything the murderer Breivik wrote. But guess what? You can post ’em freely on Facebook and Twitter!

Leftist antiwhite sites that are allowed to exist by our benevolent internet overlords—sites that are allowed to have advertisers, sites you can post on social media—employ writers who are no more skilled than these murderers, and just as hateful. In terms of writing ability, I’d put Breivik and Tarrant up against any of the semi-tards who post at Salon. Hell, those two guys, whose manifestos together total more than 1,574 pages, are exactly the kind of prolific ideologues who, were they leftists, would be highly sought after by the editors of high-quantity political sites.

But ay, there’s the rub. See, the right-wing versions of left-wing race-haters aren’t allowed the catharsis. Banned from social media, banned from websites with traffic, they write their “masterpieces” knowing that the only way their work will be seen is if the media has a reason to publicize it. So, they give the media a reason.

…

Since Breivik, every racial mass murderer with a manifesto has stated that he hopes his words and actions will provoke a race war and foment racial conflict. Same exact goal as the leftist race extremists at CNN, The L.A. Times, HuffPost, and BuzzFeed. Stir shit up between the races. But leftists get to do it with words. They’re allowed to do it with words…words that are seen and heard. When Don Lemon comes home after a hard day of yelling at white people, as he greases his backside with Vaseline, don’t doubt for a moment that he feels a sense of satisfaction that his hate has an audience. Again, this is the catharsis that ideologues feel when they know their words are actually reaching people.

…

The increase in verbose, “literate” white racist mass killers is not unrelated to the banning of far-right thought from popular internet platforms (and, in some cases, from the internet itself). Do you think it’s gone unnoticed by extremists that the only way these manifestos get seen by a wide audience is when they’re accompanied by murder? Several of these manifestos have expressed a hope that the concomitant murders will provoke governments into imposing more censorship, more gun control, and upping the antiwhite rhetoric, thereby creating even more racial conflict. And the left has responded exactly as these killers hoped. More censorship, more gun control, and more antiwhite rhetoric, thus disrespecting the victims by carrying out the wishes of the nuts who murdered them.

After 9/11, the left’s favorite line was “Don’t let the terrorists manipulate us into doing their bidding! They want us to start bombing Muslim countries! They want us to initiate a war between the West and Islam! We honor the victims of 9/11 by understanding what the terrorists were trying to bring about, and not letting it happen.”

Notice how that’s never the talking point in the wake of a racist mass shooting. You know why? The left genuinely did not want to go to war against Muslim nations. The left genuinely did not want conflict with the Muslim world. But the left really does want the same race war that Roof, Tarrant, Bowers, and Earnest seek to foment. So leftists ignore their own post-9/11 advice, and play right into the killers’ hands.

[tellerford-mayhem]

Americano: No hablo su Jesu Cristo Chapter 5

Masterlist

Ship: Chibs x OC

Word Count: 4,172 Words

Synopsis: Isa and Chibs grow closer as he finds out more information about her father’s killer. Some unwanted guests visit turning his world upside down.

Rating: M

Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Innuendos, Mentions of Death and Self-Harm.

A/N: Happy Holidays everyone! This is my Christmas present to you: an extra long chapter! I hope this makes up for my hiatus. Please let me know what you think of this part. If you want to be tagged in any future chapters, please let me know!

Chibs POV

He walked into his condo and found her on the couch with a pizza box on the floor next to her. She was watching Wheel of Fortune while she indulged herself with her 3rd slice of meat lovers. “Oh, ye dinna order pizza, did ye, lass?”

She was mid-bite when she glared at him. “What did you expect me to do? Starve?”

“I expect ye t'ken tha’ it’s dangerous to invite strangers over while ye are hidin’!”

She rolled her eyes and took another big bite of pizza. She turned the volume up on TV as she ignored his exasperated sigh. He turned down the hallway to shower and change clothes. Quickly, he was bathed, dressed, and back out in the living room to catch the next puzzle. “Tomorrow,” he started, “dinna think ta do somethin’ like this again. I’m tryin’ ta keep ye safe, and I canna do tha’ if ye keep announcin’ yer presence ta the world.”

“Well you have no food in the house.”

“I’m no’ used ta havin’ guests over, lass.”

“How much longer am I expected to stay here?” she asked, turning her attention back to the television.

“Till Jax says.”

She yawned and stretched. He looked at her on his couch. In her messy state, he still thought her to be beautiful. He noticed she was in some of his clothes in an effort to make herself comfortable which caused him to smile a little. He never was able to have this kind of relationship with Fiona, which he always regretted. They never had much of a true martial relationship thanks to Jimmy O, but that was several years ago and there was nothing he could do to save his girls, yet. It had been years since he’d been with a woman he cared about. The Croweaters were…well��Croweaters, not necessarily someone Chibs had a deep emotional connection with, nor would he want one. He liked Isa, and he couldn’t explain it. He felt drawn to her, compelled to protect her.

Isa could tell he was still staring and turned to look at him. “Take a picture; it will last longer.”

He cleared his throat and walked into the kitchen to fix himself some Jameson and ginger ale. “Ye want any?” He shouted in her direction.

“Sure.”

He grabbed two glasses and brought the alcohol into the living room with him. “For every vowel they buy, take a drink,” she said.

He chuckled and sat down by the coffee table in front of her, leaning up against the sofa. “I dinna think ye’ll last long, mo chiùin.”

“I’ll last longer than you will, old man.”

Her POV

He poured the glasses and drank to the first vowel bought.  Before long, they were both laughing and completely wasted. His accent had gotten worse the more he drank, and she spoke more Spanish the further into the bottle she got. “No puedo creer que esté bebiendo con mi enemigo,” she said quickly in between laughs.

“I dinna speak Spanish, lass.”

She laughed and took another drink. “Por mucho que odie a SAMCRO, no eres tan malo.”

“Right,” he said, filling his glass again, “I’ll just pretend like I ken wha’ ye said.”

“I said,” she began, “you’re not that bad, despite my hatred of your club.”

The room was spinning. She lazily reached up and covered her face with her hand. “Oof,” she moaned.

“Too much ta drink?”

“Oh please, I’m just getting warmed up.”

He laughed. “I dinna think so. Ye look like yer about to lose yer dinner.”

Isa let her hand fall and she looked at him with a smile before taking another drink. “I’m not about to lose to a Scot.”

“Lass,” ‘he reached for her glass, “I think ye’ve had enough.”

“I’ll tell ye when I’ve had enough,” she said, mocking him.

He held up his hands in surrender and returned to his own drink. Her eyes fell as she immediately regretted her tone. “Lo siento. You’ve act’lly done nuthin’ ‘cept try to help me and keep m’safe.” She leaned on her knees, to be closer to him. She felt the need to speak softly, to make the moment just a little more intimate. “You’re lookin’’ into th’murder of my father for no other reason than  t’help me, an’ you’re keepin’ me here t’make sure I’m not sleeped in my murder.”

He laughed at her drunken state. “Yer fine.”

She was inches from his face. “Maybe tomorrow,” she started. However, she leaned too far and fell into him, asleep.

***

The sun crept in and woke her up at around 7:00. She stumbled out of bed to search for Ibuprofen in the bathroom, but she noticed her pants were gone and the only thing she had on was a large SAMCRO shirt that went down just below her bum. She shuffled into the bathroom to see how much of a mess she was. She couldn’t remember what happened after Wheel of Fortune ended. She brushed her hair and pulled it back into a bun before going back into the bedroom to find her pants. Once she stepped out of the bathroom, she stopped in her tracks. She was frozen with panic when she saw that she hadn’t slept alone last night.

“Oh no no no no no no no.” She jumped onto the bed and shoved Chibs until he woke up.

He grumbled at first but then rolled over with a smile. “Mornin’, lass.”

“No. Why are you in here?” She was kneeling next to him, pushing the t-shirt down. “Did we…”

He lightly patted her thigh. “Sadly, no.”

“Then where are my pants? Why are you in bed with me?”

Chibs laughed and rolled out of bed. She was slightly thankful that he was still in his boxers. “I canna help ye with yer pants, but I carried ye ta bed last night. Ye begged me ta stay with ye. So, I put these pillows underneath ye between us and fell asleep.”

She felt a wave of relief wash over her. “Good.” Isa slowly backed away and found her pants tossed across the room.

“Although, I canna help ta say tha’ the alternative woulda been fun.”

She laughed. “Don’t count on it, Scot.”

He walked over to her, almost pinning her against his dresser. “Oh, I won’t. Ye begged for me last night; ye’ll be the one beggin’ again.”

She felt heat rise in her face and her heart race. “That was the Jameson talking.”

Chibs smiled and inched closer to her. “We’ll see about tha’, lass.”

She tried to think of something to clever to say, but her mind had completely gone blank. She didn’t know how long they stood there like that. The tension was thick and everything was still. Isa was sure Chibs could hear her heart beating, because it was so loud she almost didn’t hear his cellphone ringing. He turned to grab his phone, leaving her leaning against the dresser. She finally let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

“Jackie Boy!” he exclaimed. “He did. When? Should I bring her? She deserves ta know. Okay. Okay. I’ll tell her. See ye in a bit.”

He hung up and turned to face her. “Tha’ was Jax.”

“I gathered that much,” she said crossing her arms.

“I need ta head out.”

“What do I deserve to know?”

He ignored her as he threw on jeans and his kutte. “I’ll be back tonigh’.”

“Chibs.”

He started walking out of the room. “Filip, Lo juro por Dios, te perseguiré por la calle.” She chased after him. “¡No vas a dejarme aquí sin avisarme!”

Chibs spun around and faced her. “Calm sìos, boireannach! I will tell ye more when I get back tonigh’.”

She grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the door. “Where are you going?”

He sighed. “If I tell ye, ye need to promise ye aren’t gonna leave here until I come and get ye.”

“Fine.”

“Stockton. We might ‘ave information about yer da.”

She froze. “My dad…”

“Just stay here until I get home.”

Her grip tightened on his arm. “Take me with you.”

“I can’t, lass.”

“Take me. With you.”

“Mo ghràidh…”

“I’m not giving you a choice. Take me with you.”

“Yer no’ even dressed.”

“Chibs,” she moved closer to him, “you know I deserve to be there.”

He looked down at her. “Go get dressed. Ye will do exactly as I say. Bheil thu ‘tuigsinn?”

She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.” Isa ran back and quickly threw on a pair of jeans and a shirt before returning to join Chibs on his bike.

He held out a helmet for her to strap on as she swung her leg behind him and climbed on. She wrapped her arms around him as they sped towards Teller-Morrow. She was excited and nervous to learn new information about her father’s murder, but she couldn’t help but feel nothing but gratitude towards the Scot in front of her. As they pulled into the lot, she saw Jax and another SAMCRO standing outside the clubhouse. Upon seeing her, she could tell Jax was not happy she left the safety of Chibs’ condo.

“Chibs! What the hell is she doing here?” Jax said as he rapidly approached them.

“She wasn’ takin’ no for an answer.”

Jax looked at Isa, pissed. “Are you looking for a way to get yourself killed?”

“I’m looking for who killed my father. I’m here, so deal with it.”

He clenched his fists and Chibs stepped between the two of you. “I’ll keep an eye on her. Don’t worry about her. She’ll be in the clubhouse while we are in chapel. I’ll have Prospect watch her.”

“If she gets in our way, we are sending her back to the rez and she’s on her own.”

“Thank you, Jax.” He turned to leave. “Thank you, Chibs.”

“Just stay outta trouble, lass, for both our sakes.”

They walked toward the clubhouse, only to be stopped by Gemma at the door. “Who’s the new Croweater?”

“She’s no’ a Croweater, Gemma.”

“Oh?” she said, eyebrow raised.

“Isadora White Dove.” She thought it was wise to leave off her last name.

“Gemma. Come with me, sweetie, while the guys are in the chapel. I can put you to good work.”

She looked at Chibs who smiled and turned into the clubhouse. Gemma threw her arm around her and guided her in after them. “So, are you what’s been keeping our dear Chibs busy?”

“I’m sorry?”

“He’s never around anymore, and he left early yesterday to get home. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so anxious to get back to his empty condo, unless of course it wasn’t empty.”

She looked away, nervously. “I don’t have a place to stay right now, so he’s letting me stay for a few days until I find my own place.”

Gemma smiled. “I’ll let that slide, but I wasn’t born yesterday.” She handed Isa a trash bag. “Prospect is busy doing club business, so we need to clean the clubhouse for them. Start picking up bottles and trash.”

Isa did so obediently.

“Are you from the rez?” She looked up at Gemma. “White Dove gave it away.”

“My mother was, yes.”

Gemma glanced over at her before she drug a dishcloth over the bar. “You Chibs’ new old lady?”

Isa’s face flushed. “No.”

She looked at the girl again. “Then what are you doing with him?”

Isa was under the impression that she was supposed to be afraid of Gemma or at the very least intimidated by her, but she wasn’t. “Nothing.”

She tossed the rag to the side and walked to the pool table that Isa was cleaning. “These are my boys,” she said, motioning to the closed chapel door, “and I will do anything to make sure they aren’t hurt again. He may appear to be tough, but I’m not going to let anyone hurt him or my club. The man’s been through too much.”

Isa stopped what she was doing and gave Gemma a small glare. “Look, I’m not here for any of that. If you want the God’s Honest truth, I can’t stand…”

“Woah, lass,” the door flew open as chapel ended and Chibs came to break up the cat fight he sensed was in motion, “it’s time we make our way to find ye a new apartment.”

Isa dropped her trash bag and made her way to the door. “Chibs,” Gemma called after them. He sent Isa to wait for him by the door to see what the Biker Queen needed. “I like this one.”

Chibs smiled. “Is no’ like tha’, Gem.”

“Sure it’s not,” Gemma smiled, “Go find her a new apartment.”

He shook his head and ran to catch up with her. “Jax is no’ happy yer here.”

“Do I look like I give a shit?”

“Look ‘ere, Clay is already askin’ why yer here and where I keep runnin’ off to. We need to keep ye outta sight.”

“Does he know?” She felt her heart race.

He looked around and led her out of the clubhouse to his bike. “No, but tha’ dinna mean he will, ya ken.”

“Look, after Stockton, I’ll stay home. I promise.”

He sighed. “Tha’s the other thing. Jax dinna want ye to go to Stockton. It’ll be on record if ye come. We canna risk tha’, no’ with the brotherhood working so closely with the Mayans and, “ he rubbed the back of his head, “monitoring our every move.”

Her phone rang. It was Wolf calling. Chibs sighed. She knew they did not like each other, and that made her laugh a little. “Have him stay with ye until I get back, please?”

Isa nodded and answered the phone. “Your Uncle is looking for you,” he said, “Alvarez.”

“Why?”

“He said he’s worried about his new associates and the Sons. He wants you to stay with him until this blows over.”

“Did you tell him I can’t?”

“Yeah right. You can talk to him.”

“Why didn’t he call me?”

“He said he tried but it kept going to voicemail all morning. Where were you?”

She looked at Chibs. “Busy.”

“Well you can call Marcus and explain to him your predicament. Hand me over to the Scot.”

“Wolf, no.”

“Isa,” he sighed. “Let me talk to him.”

She nudged Chibs. “He wants to talk to you.”

He looked at her, confused. “What?”

She could heard Wolf as he talked at Chibs. “I don’t know what you know about the Mayans and their business, but she is to stay out of the crosshairs. You protect her from anything that blows back on you.”

“Aye, fine, lad.” He closed the phone and handed it back to her. “Time to go.”

They sped back to his condo before he left her for Stockton. “I have business to attend to after this, so I’ll be back late tonight.”

She nodded and continued walking to his door. “Lass,” he called after her, “I would take ye…”

“I know.” She smiled softly at him. “Thank you.” She turned back and entered his small condo.

Chibs POV

He returned late into the evening. He had been drinking, especially after the encounters he’d had that day. He stumbled into his condo and headed straight for his booze cabinet to polish off another half-emptied bottle of Jameson. Noisily he grabbed a glass and poured the drink. He slammed it back and poured another. It didn’t phase him when the lights came on and she was standing in his doorway, messy hair and SAMCRO shirt she claimed as her pajamas.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asked. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Aye,” he drank, “I ken.”

“Are you drunk?”

He slowly looked up at her. “No.”

“You are.” She grabbed his bottle and placed it on the counter. “Let’s go.” She forced him to stand and wrapped her arm around him to drag him to his bed. “Same arrangements as last  night, so don’t get any ideas.”

He laughed. “I’m sober enough to remember I told ye tha’ ye’d be the one beggin’ again.”

She elbowed him in the ribs. “I’m sleeping on the couch tonight.”

His head was spinning and he didn’t feel like arguing. His day was draining on every level; all he wanted was to sleep and forget everything. Chibs sat at the end of his bed and began undressing while she ran into his bathroom to grab Ibuprofen and a glass of water. “Take these when you wake up. The last thing I want to deal with in the morning is a crabby, hungover Scot.”

He smiled and set them on his night stand. “Thank ye, lass.”

There was a knock at the door. Before he could stop her, Isa was already headed back down the hallway to open it. “Lass, leave it.”

He sat there, trying to catch his bearings. He heard her answer the door and a familiar voice linger down the hallway. “Who are ye?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Isa replied.

He heard the intruder trying to make her way down the hallway. “Where is he?”

“Sleeping.”

“Filip!” That voice was Fiona.

“I said he’s sleeping.”

“I heard ye, and I dinna care,” she said, “Filip!”

He heard Isa sigh and step in front of her to block her from going down the hallway. “Move out of my way, bitch.”

He quickly rose and stumbled into the doorway. “Fiona…”

“Who is this?” she asked, motioning to Isa.

“A friend. What do ye need?”

“I was thinkin’ about earlier today, and…ye need to leave, mo ghaol.”

He looked at Isa and back to Fiona. “How did ye get ‘ere? Where’s Jimmy?”

“He’s out.”

Isa walked to stand next to Chibs, she felt compelled to protect him from this woman. She slowly gathered this was his estranged wife.

“I canna leave.”

She looked at Isa and back to Chibs. “Then take her with ye, but ye need ta leave. We both ken Jimmy will think yer tha’ one who told ATF.”

“I ken.”

“Then ye ken he’ll kill ye,” she looked at Isa, “and her.”

He stood taller. “Fi,” he walked to her, “I ken ye are tryin’ ta protect me, but ye are puttin’ yerself in danger just being ‘ere. I canna have ye doin’ that fer me. Kerri needs ye. Go home.”

“Filip,” her voice broke, resting her hands on his chest, “please…”

He kissed her lightly. “Go back, Fi.”

Chibs led her to the door and opened it for her. “I can take care of myself.”

Fiona looked past him at Isa. “Take care of my Filip.”

He closed the door behind her and leaned his head against it. Isa walked past him and sat down on the couch in the living room. Chibs turned and joined her. “I’m sorry about tha’.”

“Was that your wife?”

“Aye. Tha’ was Fiona.”

“Where did you go today?”

He sighed and looked at the door, only slightly wishing she’d come back. Though they had been estranged for years, Fiona was still his wife and he loved her for whatever that was worth. All he wanted was for her and his daughter Kerri-ann to be safe and away from Jimmy O. He didn’t care if that was here or Ireland; so long as they were safe. “I saw Fiona today. I heard she was in town.”

“Why is she worried about ATF?”

Chibs leaned back on the couch and patted her knee. “It’s bein’ handled, lass.”

“Who is Jimmy?”

He sighed. “Ye dinna need ta worry about anythin’.” He could feel himself sobering up the longer he sat on the couch with her. “I’m taking you home in the mornin’.”

“Why?”

He smiled. “I found yer da’s killer. Tig isn’ gonna tell Clay yer dangerous, and we can take ye home.”

He saw excitement flood her eyes. “Who?”

Chibs turned slightly to face her. “He’s one of the Nords. Chad Williams. He’s an inmate in Stockton.”

“And?”

“Otto has it handled.”

“Did they say why he did it?”

He went to grab the Jameson and his glasses. He waited until he poured them both a drink before telling her. “There were many reason, lass. First, they wanted to blame us so we’d never ‘ave a peace treaty with yer people. The Nords also wanted ta get back at the Mayans for tryin’ to kill Darby.”

He saw a tear well up in her eye. “It really was one of them?”

“Aye, lass. I told ye we dinna do it.”

She looked around, trying to find a reason to continue hating him. “How much do you trust this source?”

He placed his hand on her knee again. “Listen, I ken ye spent all this time hatin’ us, hatin’ me, but we dinna murder yer da. We killed plenty of Mayans, and they killed plenty of us. I promise ye, I’m tellin’ the truth.”

She felt a weight was being lifted off her shoulders when she looked at him. “What is Otto going to do?”

“We’ve got friends on the inside that will handle him. It’s over. His memory can rest now.”

She covered her face and let out a small sob. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him. She shook from her few sobs she let out. Isa leaned into him and let the final grief wash over her. He let her cry until she couldn’t anymore before she wiped her eyes and looked up at him. “Why did you do this for me?”

Chibs looked at her, her eyes told a whole different story now. They held appreciation in them instead of disdain and he smiled. “Canna have ye thinkin’ ill of us, especially with my club workin’ so close with yer tribe.”

She looked up at him and smiled. They had never been this close before and she okay with it. He felt her leaning in to him, but they were quickly interrupted by another knock at the door. “Not now, Fi,” he said.

The door burst open and his condo was flooded with five or six men. Two of them ripped her out of his arms and threw her against the wall while two other grabbed him and held him on the ground. “Let her go!” No one talked, except for Isa who was yelling at them in a mixture of English and Spanish. He looked up and saw them place a bag over her head and zip tie her wrists together. They were dragging her out kicking and screaming as two men held him down at gunpoint.The next thing he felt was a cool burning sensation spread throughout his skull as they hit him with the butt of their guns, leaving him unconscious on the floor of his living room.

***

He woke up next morning to Jax and Bobby nudging him. “Chibs, wake up.”

He rolled over and rubbed his head, trying to remember what happened the night before. He sat against his couch and looked around the room. The entire club was in his house cleaning up the mess and looking for clues as to who attacked him. As his head began to clear, he realized she was missing. “Where’s Isa?”

“She wasn’t here when we got here,” Bobby said.

“Chibs!” Juice ran into the room. “I found this in the driveway.” He handed him her cellphone that was destroyed.

He grabbed it from him. “They took her,” he said.

“Who?”

“I dinna ken, but they knocked me out and took her. It’s either the Irish or AB. I need to tell her uncle,” he said.

“What is Charlie going to do?” Juice asked.

Chibs sighed and rubbed his face with his hand. “Marcus,” he breathed.

“Marcus. As in Marcus Alvarez?” Clay interrupted.

“Aye.”

“She is Alvarez’s niece!”

“Aye.”

Clay, clearly irritated, sat down. “I’ll set up a meet, but after this, we are talking about her.”

“She dinna know anythin’, Clay. She isn’t tellin’ the Mayans anythin’.”

Clay looked at Tig and Jax. “He’s telling the truth,” Jax added, “she’s not a threat.”

“We,” he motioned at Jax, “are having a long discussion later.”

“You really want to do that, old man?”

“Can we just find her?” Chibs interrupted. “I’ll go see Marcus. He thinks she hired me fer protection anyway.”

“Yeah, and if he thinks you lost her, he will kill you,” Jax said, “I’ll go with you.”

Chibs grabbed his kutte and a hoodie and sweatpants and walked to his bike. He stored them, because he remember what she was wearing the night before. He looked at the tire tracks in his yard. Those were the only pieces of evidence left of her kidnappers. He had no idea who took her or where they went. “We’re going to find her, Chibs,” added Jax.

“When we find’em,” he began, “I’ll kill’em.

[cutsliceddiced]

New top story from Time: ESPN’s New Michael Jordan Documentary Is Exactly What We Need Right Now. Here’s How They Made It

ESPN has taken noble swings at programming a sports network with no sports. But there are only so many airings of marbles races, old games and gabfests about the April 23–25 NFL draft—an event that, during the COVID-19 pandemic, feels as significant as a speck of sand—that viewers can take. That’s why fans clamored so hard for ESPN to move up its highly anticipated 10-part docuseries starring Michael Jordan, widely regarded as the greatest athlete ever to grace this earth, from an original airdate of June 2—coinciding with an NBA Finals series that no longer exists—to ASAP. People need a dose of nostalgia, and reason to anticipate any kind of shared cultural experience, now more than ever.

Luckily, the network listened. The first two episodes of The Last Dance, which chronicles Jordan’s final championship season, with the 1998 Chicago Bulls, debut on the network on Sunday, April 19. On each of the following four Sundays, a pair of new episodes will premiere on ESPN; the series will stream on Netflix outside the U.S. starting on April 20. Through previously unaired footage captured from a crew embedded with Air Jordan and the Bulls that 1997–1998 season, and fresh interviews with all the major characters—including Jordan, his running mate Scottie Pippen, coach Phil Jackson and Dennis Rodman, who went on a team-sanctioned bender in Las Vegas with then girlfriend Carmen Electra in order to clear his head a bit—The Last Dance offers raw, rare insight into a team that became the subject of global obsession. (Game 6 of the 1998 NBA Finals, in which Jordan’s final shot in a Bulls uniform clinched Chicago’s third straight championship and sixth in eight years, remains the most-watched NBA game in history, having averaged 35.6 million viewers.)

For a generation of fans who never witnessed Jordan or those Bulls teams live, the film will serve as a satisfying crash course on the MJ mystique. And while amateur Jordan scholars probably won’t discover any new bombshells, at least in the eight episodes available to the media, the project offers all viewers a useful reminder: Jordan’s career arc was unfathomably bizarre. He first retired in his prime after his father’s tragic murder, shifted to playing baseball—baseball!—then took a second forced retirement after ’98 because Bulls executives, for some still inexplicable reason, felt inclined to break up a team that did nothing but win and thrill the globe. If Jordan existed in today’s Twitter-mad, media-saturated world, the unstable Internet would have already lost its collective mind.

Ron Frehm—APMichael Jordan scores 55 points vs. New York, while wearing No. 45, upon returning to the NBA in 1995.

Moving the documentary up a month and a half to appease the quarantined masses added some logistical challenges. The final two episodes aren’t done yet, and the production crew is working remotely to see it to the finish. Before the pandemic, director Jason Hehir compared the edit process to preparing Thanksgiving dinner, where he could be in the kitchen communicating with people preparing different portions of the meal. “Now, instead, they have to send me the potatoes, send me the carrots, send me the turkey via messenger,” says Hehir. “Then I can taste and tell them what I want it to be. It’s a more roundabout process.” One of the most crucial interviews—with Utah Jazz point guard John Stockton, a key Bulls foil in the 1997 and 1998 Finals—was conducted in Spokane, Wash. in early March, just before the outbreak shut down the state and the rest of the country.

Going into the 1997–98 season, Bulls management hinted that the team’s dynasty was nearing its end. So Andy Thompson, then a field producer for NBA Entertainment—and uncle of current Golden State Warriors star Klay Thompson—thought this final campaign should be recorded for posterity. But the league needed buy-in from Jordan. An up-and-coming NBA exec, current commissioner Adam Silver, pitched the idea to Jordan; he could sign off on how the footage was ultimately used. At the very least, Silver told Jordan, he’d have the most amazing collection of home movies for his kids.

The NBA shot more than 500 hours, a haul that sports documentarians had been lusting after for nearly two decades. At the 2016 NBA All-Star Game in Toronto, producer Michael Tollin, co-chairman of Mandalay Sports Media, met with Jordan’s reps. Tollin pitched the project not as a documentary but as an event. The market for long-form epics was taking off: OJ: Made in America, the multipart doc that would go on to win an Oscar, had just debuted at Sundance. (With the continued rise of streaming services that give the films a bingeable home after airing, the demand for such docs has only grown.) Jordan, assured that the project would offer breathing room to share his full story, signed on.

Although Jordan had a hand in the project—two of his longtime business managers, Curtis Polk and Estee Portnoy, are executive producers—The Last Dance doesn’t feel too sanitized. Turns out, he’s the Michael Jordan of documentary interviewees: the best talking head in the film, honest, conversational, unafraid to unfurl profanities. We see Jordan at his most petty, like in archival footage when he pokes fun at the height and weight of diminutive Bulls general manager Jerry Krause, with whom Jordan feuded for years. (Krause died in 2017.) In one interview, ex–Bulls center Will Perdue calls him an “a–hole,” before in the next breath acknowledging Jordan was a “hell of a teammate” for pushing Chicago to greatness.

Jordan defends his ruthless motivational methods. “Look, winning has a price, leadership has a price,” he says during one interview in The Last Dance. “You ask all my teammates—one thing about Michael Jordan was he never asked me to do something he didn’t f-cking do.” The film cuts to a montage of Jordan lifting weights and running sprints. Still, Jordan tears up, a middle-aged man conflicted by his past. For once, many can relate to him.

Jeff Haynes—AFP via Getty ImagesMichael Jordan celebrates his sixth, and final, title with coach Phil Jackson in 1998; both soon leave the Bulls.

The Last Dance also takes on the controversies, like Jordan’s penchant for gambling and aversion to politics. He famously refused to endorse Harvey Gantt, the African-American Democrat from Jordan’s home state of North Carolina, in his 1990 Senate race against conservative Republican Jesse Helms, who opposed the Martin Luther King Day holiday. “Republicans buy sneakers too,” said Jordan, whose Nike Air Jordan sneakers launched the concept of sports marketing into the stratosphere. (In the film, Jordan insists he made the statement in jest.) Even Barack Obama, an unabashed Bulls fan, admits to the filmmakers he wished Jordan had publicly backed Gantt.

Jordan’s defense: activism’s just not in his nature. He was too focused on his craft. “Was that selfish? Probably,” he admits. “But that’s where my energy was.”

While The Last Dance deserves credit for exploring this part of Jordan’s legacy, the section still feels like short shrift, given the emergence of social activism among today’s sports stars. What does Jordan think of modern athlete engagement? How do today’s stars, LeBron James and others, view Jordan’s neutrality? These questions go unanswered. Even in a documentary covering the late 1990s—and even amid a pandemic where politics has taken a back seat to more serious chaos—placing Jordan in a contemporary context feels not only appropriate, but crucial.

Such nitpicking, however, counts as part of the fun. And we sure can use a little of that. No Michael Jordan treatment, even one as comprehensive as The Last Dance, will leave everyone entirely fulfilled. Viewers can look forward to weekly debates about the documentary’s merits and shortcomings. Whether it’s during his playing days, his retirement years or a still surreal quarantine, His Airness is always worth talking about. Even from a social distance, it turns out, Michael Jordan can bring us together.

via https://cutslicedanddiced.wordpress.com/2018/01/24/how-to-prevent-food-from-going-to-waste

[necromaniackat]

Addict

Pairing: JuicexReader

Warning: Swearing. Drug abuse. Child abuse. Rape. Violence. Blood.

Word Count: 1,351

Addict Chapter 1.

You couldn’t possibly be able to thank Nessa enough for pulling the strings she has. When she heard you were headed West without a solid plan at foot she immediately hopped on the phone with her brother and asked him if you could stay with him for a while. He argued with her but then they came to the agreement that you’d stay the maximum of a month before you had to be out on your own. You couldn’t thank him enough for letting you stay with him. But at the same time, you felt bad for using them like you were. Nessa had no idea why you were going that far West. You told her it was to get away for a while, maybe start fresh.

The day before you left she found you in the bathroom, shooting up for the first time. She knew you had issues but she had no idea that you were a user. She asked if you were going to some kind of treatment center in California. You lied to her. You lied right to her face after every thing she’s done for you. You told her that you didn’t want your family to worry about you so you were going in secret, they knew you were going on some kind of vacation but not to rehab. You made her promise not to tell her brother, you wanted to leave that part of you behind. Really, you were just ashamed that you were running away with your addiction.

The entire flight to California was riddled with anxiety and a giddy feeling. That and you’ve been on a plane for six and a half hours plus the time you spent at the airports so that’s a total of eight hours. You were coming down from the high that you got the night before. You were cold and shaky; your mouth was dry and you felt agitated by even the slightest things. Your body was beginning to feel sore and craved the drug again. It was like being pregnant and having a food craving that just won’t go away but you don’t know what you want. It nags and nags and nags at you until it’s satisfied.

Even as you stepped off the plane into the hundred-degree weather of California, you felt cold underneath your long sweater and leggings. It was certainly brighter here than it was in Queens, you immediately pulled out your sunglasses from your carry-on and hid your sunken in eyes from the sun.

You hated being in big crowds, couldn’t trust anybody there. They could do anything at any point. Juice said he’d be there waiting for you but you couldn’t see him, then again, you didn’t know what he looked like. Nessa neglected to tell you what he looks like. Hopefully you find each other sooner rather than later, you didn’t like being in this thickening crowd. You knew it was just the drugs making you paranoid, or were they? Were they the ones making you paranoid or do you really have a reason to be this nervous in this crowd of people. You weren’t like this in JFK, why all of a sudden are you making like a chihuahua in LA/X?  

You stopped when you saw a light brown man standing in the middle of the airport arrivals section wearing camo pants and a black tee shirt, he had tattoos; two tribal ones on either side of the brown mohawk. He slightly resembled Nessa but in a manlier way. He was holding up a small white board with your name written on it in blue dry erase marker. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself in relief and make your way through the thick crowd to him.

By the time you reached his spot your smile faded and you just wanted to get the Hell out of here. You stood much shorter than him, he could easily rest his chin on the top of your head.

“Y/N?” He said cocking an eyebrow in disbelief by what he was seeing. You were used to how people reacted to your appearance but nonetheless it still hurts. You pursed your lips and nodded. You suddenly felt very little compared to him. He looked healthy and . . . drug free. This made you feel even worse about lying to Nessa about things. You were also lying to him about why you were here.

“Are . . . you okay?” Juice asked, lowering the sign and his head to get a better look at you. Your skin was as white as glue and you didn’t look too well in his opinion. You sucked in a sharp breath of air, shoving your hands into the pockets of your sweater and shook your head with a nervous quarter smile.

“Can we just get my shit and get outta here? I don’t like big crowds.” You honestly replied as a cold shiver crawled up your spine. Juice nodded in agreement and went with you to baggage claim where it took forever for your single small suitcase to come through. You knew better than to bring drugs with you, unless you were doing a road trip type of thing but never ever through an airport. So, in your bag there were no drugs you could easily get your hands on.

The entire time your mind was racing on how you were going to get to your new dealer’s place. Your dealer back in Queens managed to hook you up with one of his friends in Stockton and you had some cash to pick up some dope that’ll last you until the end of the week when your parents get paid and will surely put enough money into your account that’ll get you at least another week’s worth. Your parents felt bad for what happened in the past; for their addictions getting in the way of raising you and then ultimately being the reason that you went into foster care.

When your single small suitcase came through you could barely lift it off the conveyor belt. Juice managed to lift it without any issues, he even made a comment about how light it was. You didn’t reply to his comment as you two went to leave the airport.

“You and my sister go to the same School or something?” Juice asked, trying to create small talk as you two walked away from the airport. You rubbed your arms as a chill shot through you again. You smacked your lips together and looked crookedly up at him.

“No.” Truth. You didn’t finish School. You dropped out in tenth grade. Juice cocked an eyebrow and glanced down at you. He knew you were about the same age as him. You were only a few years older than his sister, of course you didn’t meet her in School. She didn’t finish School either. She got kicked out in eighth grade for fighting. But Nessa never told you that, as far as you know she finished School.

“So, how do you know my sister?” Juice questioned again. You shook your head and frowned.

“Mutual friend.” Lie. Kind of. Nessa had the same weed dealer as you back when you two were in High School, you two met at a party he invited you to. You’ve been as thick as thieves since.

“Drug dealer?” Juice’s assumption caught you off guard. Your eyes went wide as you turned to face him. He couldn’t really see the shocked expression on your face due to your large black sunglasses. Juice smirked at you and shrugged.

“Brett Walkerman still dealing shitty weed to High School kids?” He laughed lightheartedly. A wave of relief washed over you when you realized he had no idea about your other addiction. Nessa hasn’t told him anything about the meth.

“Yeah,” You paused. “–He is.” Another lie. You had no idea if whoever this Brett was is still selling shitty weed to School kids. But you didn’t care either, nobody knew about your meth addiction and it’ll stay that way.

[ehealthy-diet-plan]

The Lingering Question Around A Bulked-up Bryson: Is He At Enhanced Risk Of Damage?

It’s doubtful even if Bryson DeChambeau became a polarizing determine from delivery—we’d ask his fogeys, and they would no longer respect the query—however, he’s certainly divided fanatics considering rising into the public eye as a relentlessly resourceful golfer. From gadget to a method to his own body, DeChambeau has certainly not been afraid to tinker in ways that go in opposition t the activity’s inherited knowledge. His latest undertaking, gaining strength and mass by a comprehensive weight regimen and food plan, has touched a nerve like nothing else. To witness the influence in person is each bizarre and awe-inspiring, and the reactions, to place it mildly, are blended.

Some are excited by the unconventional, vigor-based approach, but others fall somewhere on the spectrum between “aggravated” and “threatened.” For the naysayers, the most offensive part is that it’s in reality working. When the PGA Tour back after the COVID-19 shutdown, DeChambeau, 26, put collectively four straight precise-10 finishes that culminated in a victory at the Rocket personal loan classic. With the added vigor—his 350.6-yard usual two weekends ago set a PGA Tour checklist for an experienced winner—he’s taking the distance revolution to dizzying heights. His success so far has annihilated certainly one of golf’s presumed truisms: a player who adds that a lot of weight and muscle could be restrained in his movement and sacrifice contact.

And so a further truism emerges. A refrain of analysts and fans alike accept as true with that DeChambeau can’t maintain this mode of play—hell, this way of life—without getting damage. More muscle equals more susceptibility to harm, the pondering goes, and his new body makes him a ticking time bomb. Despite everything, seem what happened to Tiger.

It’s a comforting notion for those that consider distinctly uncomfortable gazing Bryson radically change their favorite game. However is it genuine?

To reply to that question, we first need to bear in mind precisely what he’s attempting. Greg Roskopf would likely hate being called a “guru.” The notice implies mystical powers, and his system is very lots based on empirical information and real-world results. But when DeChambeau is a health revolutionary, Roskopf is his nonsecular e-book. We spoke on the telephone last week after the two had simply finished a “tune-up” in Denver (DeChambeau skipped the Workday Charity Open forward of playing at this week’s Memorial, which he received in 2018).

Roskopf has been at it for 30 years, working with seasoned sports groups and corridor of fame athletes Peyton Manning, John Elway, and John Stockton, among others, establishing the equipment he now calls “Muscle Activation recommendations.” Describing his work with athletes all the time runs the chance of over-simplification, but ordinarily, the MAT is about steadiness, and the guiding principle is that no muscle on the body is less vital than another. You’ll often hear DeChambeau echoing the theory that every athlete is only as strong as his weakest hyperlink, and Roskopf likes to use a motor vehicle metaphor: He’s performing a kind of alignment for the human physique.

Roskopf all started as an electricity and conditioning instruct at Fresno State, and labored in California and later in Colorado with Mike Schy’s sister. Schy is DeChambeau’s longtime swing coach, and as early as Bryson’s school golf days at SMU, the longer-term iconoclast becomes working in MAT concepts with one in every of Roskopf’s proteges. DeChambeau sought out Roskopf upon turning professional in 2016, because why not work with the guy who pioneered the entire equipment? Shortly after they made a connection, even though, Roskopf changed into a foul site visitors accident and suffered annoying mind harm. Months later, neatly into his healing, DeChambeau reached out once again, but Roskopf wasn’t sure if he might do the job.

“Then we can simply talk shop,” DeChambeau mentioned. He flew out to Colorado, and the two had been working collectively ever because. after they began, DeChambeau weighed 190 pounds—he weighs around 240 now—and Roskopf’s first assignment becomes not to add muscle or bulk but easily increases the “verbal exchange” between DeChambeau’s muscle groups and worried equipment. This step geared toward assisting free DeChambeau from the ache and tightness he changed into experiencing—in other phrases, to redress specific weaknesses and work toward the full-physique concord he calls “complete body balance.” Trauma to at least one a part of the body tends to inflame and weaken muscle groups so that they don’t contract, or set off, quite so readily. Roskopf likens it to unfastened battery cables, and in the event, you trust that muscle groups are vital to stabilizing joints and combating harm, these loose cables put the whole body at risk. It’s like strolling on ice, he noted, basically unstable.

via quite a lot of hands-on thoughts, Roskopf helped DeChambeau reduce muscle tightness and ache, and as soon as the activation becomes physique-broad, there was a superior biomechanical basis in place. That intended DeChambeau could begin adding muscle in earnest. “He’s superior now via superior ranges of movement,” spoke of Roskopf, “and he’s gained clubhead speed and ball velocity. His flexibility has in reality improved seeing that he first came to me in 2016.” For Roskopf, that’s the key component. DeChambeau can add strength and mass all he needs now—he’s outlined getting as excessive as 270 pounds—so long as flexibility isn’t sacrificed. There’s not a agonize about any underlying actual problems. They’ve already “melted the ice.”

This, despite the fact, appears to run contrary to what many observers have stated: DeChambeau appears stiffer. He doesn’t appear notably bendy, and youngsters this notion is belied with the aid of his outcomes, he appears limited using his measurement.

“It’s truly a false impression,” Roskopf pointed out. “He feels like a weightlifter, but he’s obtained the pliability of a golfer. If in case you have a greater range of movement and stronger electricity through these degrees of movement, you’re seeing what it does to his game.” After his Rocket personal loan win, DeChambeau went back to Colorado for a tune-up. That intended being run via a gamut of workout routines and checks, and inspecting his body move via circulation, muscle via muscle. DeChambeau may say he feels extraordinary, but via this minute examination—to proceed with the automobile metaphor, Roskopf thinks of it as upkeep carried out on a stock car within the mechanic’s store after a race—they could establish areas of weakness. Here's necessary as a result of left unattended, Roskopf says, weak point lead to injury. DeChambeau’s concerns when he first came to Colorado, which included boundaries in hip motion and spinal rotation, are ones they each need to maintain safety during the past.

so far as weight loss program, Roskopf lets DeChambeau run free—by way of his reckoning, Bryson drinks as much as seven protein shakes day after day—with the identical essential caveat that any introduced mass doesn’t lessen strength or flexibility. That’s the comprehensive gadget they’re employing, and each is rather aware of the hazards of damage. For DeChambeau, here's not a mad dash to musclehead reputation; it’s a carefully considered system that’s been unfolding for years.

half 2: Does greater muscle imply greater injuries?

Let’s deal with this query commonly to delivery. We consulted a handful of consultants, and their conclusions have been identical. Greg Wells, Ph.D. in activity Physiology, Director of activities Science at the Canadian Sports Institute, former Director of recreation Science for Golf Canada:

“I don’t think that including muscular tissues is associated with an accelerated chance of injury. I suppose that I’d be difficult-pressed to find any analysis proof to imply that … if anything else, I suppose that there’s constant research that shows that if you’re effective, and you’ve received decent muscle feature, and you’ve got first-rate mobility, that your risk of damage would decrease.”

Nick Potter, Director of excessive efficiency and activities Science, Duke Basketball:

“A general precept in a game that has won heightened consciousness in contemporary years, and is supported with an abundance of analysis, is that energy is good for reducing the risk of harm. If his strengthening program is carried out safely, he should still be at less possibility of harm when he’s greater.”

Greg Gatz, Director of power & Conditioning for Olympic sports, school of North Carolina:

“If it’s finished appropriately, it’s likely going to keep him in shape.”

half 3: however it’s a bit of more complicated than that

The fact is that anyone making a blanket observation that extra electricity equals extra injuries is flat-out wrong. Despite the fact, that doesn’t suggest DeChambeau’s experiment comes without hazards.

Potter echoed Roskopf in certain aspects, principally concerning the importance of a full-physique approach. “You want a finished software that enhances strength, mobility, agility, and proprioception whereas integrating the skill aspect of the video game,” he observed. “if you lose one factor whereas building energy and vigor, that’s when you can break down fairly quick.”

Potter in comparison golf to baseball within the sense that you don’t necessarily get harm if you happen to develop drive, but for those who’re attempting to dissipate it. The rotator cuff, for instance, is accountable for decelerating the arm, and that’s one of the crucial normal damage spots for a pitcher. Similarly, a golf swing designed to generate rotational drive and vigor is most inclined when that drive must be stopped.

“It’s like in a vehicle,” Potter mentioned, again sounding eerily like Roskopf. “The faster you're, the greater effective your brakes have to be.” but when a player like DeChambeau has better power and more suitable latitude to decelerate after producing brilliant force, everything may still steadiness. That deceleration is achieved via a combination of mobility and eccentric energy—the electricity of a muscle because it lengthens, in preference to contracts. Any deficit in both will result in forces being transmitted to bone and ligament right through the physique, and the resulting stresses and accidents depend upon how the specific athlete compensates.

half 4: but what about Tiger?

In golf, here's the remarkable energy grasp-up. Tiger received larger, and Tiger received harm. It’s all too tempting to make a causation error right here. It became Roskopf who got here closest to linking the two. “sure,” he said when requested if Tiger’s case may have been an illustration of uneven practicing. “As individuals coach, they develop into dominant, they bench press or they squat or they work their quads and hamstrings, however, they don’t work their deep hip rotators or abductors or adductors, and that they create imbalances within their body.”

You comprehend the leisure: The motor vehicle is out of alignment, and the harder you power that unaligned automobile, the more seemingly you’ll smash it. The different experts didn’t wish to touch upon Tiger’s case especially, given that they didn’t recognize his exact regimen, but they warned of the dangers of reading too an awful lot into one case. “If anything,” Wells referred to, “his power and conditioning make it possible for him to play golf on the stage he performs it at for so long as he has, principally generating that type of force and energy. His health likely kept him secure from harm rather than inflicting injury.”

injuries also can be complete flukes, like Potter, the Duke basketball activities science director, was reminded when Zion Williamson’s sneaker came aside at the seams right through the Duke-UNC game in 2019 and resulted in knee harm that nobody might have prevented. When anything like that occurs, everyone from the media to fans to the clinical group of workers wishes to be aware of the “trigger,” but now and again there’s no rationale past unhealthy luck. And injuries are likely to lead to other accidents, which Potter believes is always due not to some “magical drive that motives injuries,” however bad biomechanics and compensation patterns after the initial harm.

in short, we don’t be aware of exactly why Tiger acquired hurt, or why he saved getting damage, but blaming his strength practicing is reductive, and comparing him to DeChambeau is to examine apples and oranges.

part 5: The insanity weight-reduction plan

DeChambeau currently gave us an image of his existing weight-reduction plan, and the headline is that it facets a glut of protein shakes. He listed his meals through a regular day, after which estimated that it ran to about “three,000 to 3,500 energy.” any individual who has attempted a weight loss plan for greater than a day likely had a pretty good chuckle at that, and Roskopf laughed, too, when the quantity becomes mentioned—he and DeChambeau noted it that day, and Roskopf told him it sounded a lot more like 6,000 calories than three,000.

As Gatz explained to me, an increase in protein intake helps power and keep muscular tissues, which would be vital for DeChambeau’s structure, particularly when he’s burning so much energy running on a golf path in hot circumstances. However, is that in shape? Is it sustainable? Rachel Manor, the Director of Olympic activities food at UNC, courteously praised DeChambeau for the consistent events, given that ingesting on a schedule is a staple of an outstanding competitive weight-reduction plan, but took a more “nuanced” view of the relaxation.

[samdelpapa]

Se sapete l'inglese capite meglio={Oh, What a Lovely Race War! - Taki's Magazine

photo credit: Wikimedia Commons

Anders Behring Breivik

I don’t revisit my old work. I’ve been writing this weekly column for four and a half years now, and I never reread old pieces. Because for me—and I’m sure I’m not alone among opinion journalists in this regard—each essay I pen represents a catharsis of sorts. I had some bee in my bonnet, I wrote about it, and now I’ve had my say. What reason is there to go back? If what I’ve written resonates with readers, the piece will go viral. If not, it won’t. But regardless, I’ve relieved myself of whatever was busting to come out.

Not to be crude (a phrase inevitably uttered by those who are about to be crude), but it’s a bit like having a really good bowel movement. After you’ve had a fully satisfying bathroom experience, your body feels free, emptied, unburdened. And you’re ready to move on.

The sense of release that comes from having your say and being heard, though it may seem trivial to those with no opinions to share, can in fact be quite powerful.

Which brings me to the recent crop of right-wing mass shooters: Robert Bowers in Pittsburgh (shot up a temple), Brenton Tarrant in Christchurch (shot up a mosque), and John Earnest in Poway (shot up a different temple). As an old-timer with a morbid fascination for these things, there’s an odd twist to this new breed of gunslingin’ whiteys, compared with the ones from my youth. Before James Huberty shot up a McDonald’s full o’ Mexicans in 1984, he tried to seek medical help for what he knew was an incipient psychotic episode. Huberty had no political goals. He was feeling compelled to “hunt humans,” and deep down, he knew there was something wonky with his wiring.

In 1989, Patrick Purdy opened fire on a bunch of Asian schoolkids at Cleveland Elementary in Stockton, Calif. (our crappiest cities love naming their schools after even crappier ones, as a reminder that things can always be worse). Purdy started his day by calling in a threat to the school, telling them what he was going to do. Then he drove his car behind the school and set it on fire…loaded with fireworks! Still, the teachers and staff laughed it off, displaying the keen intellect that so exemplifies California public school employees. “We got a threat of a mass shooting? And now we have an exploding car? Crazy coincidence, man. Jupiter must be in renegade or somethin’.”

Sadly, five Vietnamese and Cambodian kids soon realized it wasn’t just a “crazy coincidence” as Purdy’s bullets shattered their bodies. Having defeated the dastardly tykes, Purdy killed himself. Authorities found that he’d carved the words “freedom,” “victory,” “Earthman,” and “Hezbollah” into his rifle, and on his flak jacket he’d scrawled “PLO,” “Libya,” and “death to the Great Satin [sic].”

“I’m not saying the recent spate of racist shootings can be entirely pinned on the silencing of the far right, but I do believe it’s a factor.”

And on that very day, a homicide detective coined the phrase, “the fuck?” Because how disjointed can you get? There was no coherent agenda. Death to America, hooray for PLO and Hezbollah, yet he targeted Asian kids and practically dared the school to stop him before he killed. Like Huberty, this was no ideologue. He was a loon with a bunch of loose screws.

But today, the white dudes who commit these types of shootings leave behind lengthy, detailed manifestos. More than that, they leave themselves behind. Mass shooters in the ’80s and ’90s rarely survived, typically dying by their own hand. But these guys seem to really, really want to be taken alive. Anders Breivik in Norway was the first. Lengthy manifesto, taken alive, and he stood trial with no apologies, like a political dissident facing a kangaroo court (which it kinda was; the bastard got only 21 years for 77 murders). The Pittsburgh, Christchurch, and Poway shooters, same deal. Lengthy manifestos and 8chan posts, taken alive, now awaiting trial. Charleston’s Dylann Roof? Lengthy manifesto, taken alive, unapologetic at trial.

This is the age of the “intellectual” (and please note the scare quotes) racist killer. Black mass shooters continue to excel at their preferred specialty—workplace massacres. But white mass shooters have evolved, so to speak. Now they all want to be op-ed writers. Which brings me back to my initial point: the cathartic nature of ranting in an essay and putting it out for the world to see. It has a cleansing, purgative effect, like (again, not to be crude) a really good poop. I’ve read every one of those racial murder manifestos, and you know what? They’re as good as anything on any leftist race-baiting site. Roof? Tarrant? Earnest? Breivik? In terms of writing ability, in terms of effective polemics, their work is no worse than what you find leftists spewing on BuzzFeed, HuffPost, Salon, ThinkProgress, Vox, etc.

Leftist antiwhite sites that are allowed to exist by our benevolent internet overlords—sites that are allowed to have advertisers, sites you can post on social media—employ writers who are no more skilled than these murderers, and just as hateful. In terms of writing ability, I’d put Breivik and Tarrant up against any of the semi-tards who post at Salon. Hell, those two guys, whose manifestos together total more than 1,574 pages, are exactly the kind of prolific ideologues who, were they leftists, would be highly sought after by the editors of high-quantity political sites.

But ay, there’s the rub. See, the right-wing versions of left-wing race-haters aren’t allowed the catharsis. Banned from social media, banned from websites with traffic, they write their “masterpieces” knowing that the only way their work will be seen is if the media has a reason to publicize it. So, they give the media a reason.

I’m not saying the recent spate of racist shootings can be entirely pinned on the silencing of the far right, but I do believe it’s a factor. Groups like the ADL and SPLC, and cowards like Zuckerberg and Dorsey, have so effectively cleansed the ’net of rightist thought (including the commonsense, nonviolent kind), extremist whites are not allowed the release of taking a good figurative shit (oh wait, I forgot to preface that with “not to be crude”). Yeah, they can write stuff for their eyes only, but any real opinion journalist knows that the catharsis comes not just from the writing, but from knowing that your words will be seen. That’s where the feeling of satisfaction comes in. That’s what allows you to move on.

Since Breivik, every racial mass murderer with a manifesto has stated that he hopes his words and actions will provoke a race war and foment racial conflict. Same exact goal as the leftist race extremists at CNN, The L.A. Times, HuffPost, and BuzzFeed. Stir shit up between the races. But leftists get to do it with words. They’re allowed to do it with words…words that are seen and heard. When Don Lemon comes home after a hard day of yelling at white people, as he greases his backside with Vaseline, don’t doubt for a moment that he feels a sense of satisfaction that his hate has an audience. Again, this is the catharsisthat ideologues feel when they know their words are actually reaching people.

A feeling of helplessness and the frustration of being ignored often accompany mass killings. This helps explain why blacks prefer workplace shootings to ideological ones. D’Quanté Jones can scribble a barely literate “essay” about how “white people be racist when they be chewin’ they food,” or “white people need to STFU and quit havin’ babies,” and it will get published, guaranteed, at HuffPost, The Root, Ebony, The Grio, etc. His screed will be allowed on Twitter and Facebook, and he’ll see, from the cheers and jeers in the comments and the retweets and reposts from friends and foes alike, that he’s had an impact. He’ll get that purgative release. But at work? D’Quanté feels left out, ignored by his white colleagues, who, oddly enough, don’t enjoy socializing with someone who hates them.

Eventually, D’Quanté will deal with those feelings of frustration by coming to work with a gun. “Now y’all pay attention to me, motherfuckers.”

The increase in verbose, “literate” white racist mass killers is not unrelated to the banning of far-right thought from popular internet platforms (and, in some cases, from the internet itself). Do you think it’s gone unnoticed by extremists that the only way these manifestos get seen by a wide audience is when they’re accompanied by murder? Several of these manifestos have expressed a hope that the concomitant murders will provoke governments into imposing more censorship, more gun control, and upping the antiwhite rhetoric, thereby creating even more racial conflict. And the left has responded exactly as these killers hoped. More censorship, more gun control, and more antiwhite rhetoric, thus disrespecting the victims by carrying out the wishes of the nuts who murdered them.

After 9/11, the left’s favorite line was “Don’t let the terrorists manipulate us into doing their bidding! They want us to start bombing Muslim countries! They want us to initiate a war between the West and Islam! We honor the victims of 9/11 by understanding what the terrorists were trying to bring about, and not letting it happen.”

Notice how that’s never the talking point in the wake of a racist mass shooting. You know why? The left genuinely did not want to go to war against Muslim nations. The left genuinely did not want conflict with the Muslim world. But the left really does want the same race war that Roof, Tarrant, Bowers, and Earnest seek to foment. So leftists ignore their own post-9/11 advice, and play right into the killers’ hands.

To be clear, neither side will get its beloved race war. As is the case with all wars, the vast majority of ordinary people want none of it. They go about their lives, generally getting along well with others, reserving violent impulses for domestic situations and personal squabbles, rather than grand ideological goals.

But still, the clown parade will march on. Leftist race extremists will continue to be allowed major platforms to spew antiwhite hatred with a clear desire to provoke, while rightist extremists, denied platforms to do the same, will continue to find “creative” ways to be heard. There’ll be no race war, but lots of small-scale bloodshed. And the twisted, unspoken “partnership” between far-right killers and the media and government leftists who do their bidding will continue.

And everyone will live happily ever after (except for the victims and their families, but c’mon, who cares about them when there’s a race war to wage!).}

[savingfairies-blog]

not a poem i wrote this cause its 1am and im bored

every day i set my alarm for 5:45am to allow myself a fake ‘lie in’ and then when it goes off i turn it off and go back to sleep and set another alarm which is usually 7. when i open my eyes its usually just before 7 and so i quickly turn the alarm off before it goes off, i don’t know why but the idea of an alarm going off after i have already woken up really bugs me and quite frankly i hate loud noises and abrupt deafening sounds, especially when i have just opened my damn eyes !!!? sometimes i think i must have died in a past life of being screamed at or another alternative life i would have probably drowned because the ocean scares the crap out of me but thats another story for another day. and so after i have switched the alarm off quickly before it goes off puts me in a bad mood all day, i usually, although i should take full advantage of waking up earlier, get back into bed and go back to sleep because after all i’ve still got time hunny. then i wake up to my mum or dad telling me to get up and asking why i haven’t moved yet and it’ll be like 7:30 and i’ll be like shit i have aprox 28 mins to get dressed to catch the bus at the bus stop 2 mins away for 8. so i dash out of bed like sonic the blue hedgehog and i sometimes think wow i’m way too hungry a gal gotta catch breakfast and make myself late which i’ll get into. so its usually two slices of lightly toasted bread with whatever chocolate coated cereal we got in with some water. i hate water, it tastes like weird, if you think water has no taste then i envy you cause i taste some weird taste every time i drink water from any tap, any bottle, any source. i take it upstairs and eat it on my bed cause it tastes better that way for some reason and it makes me feel more relaxed about being behind schedule. hate that word schedule like some people (like my dad) say shedule n i’m like wtf. shed? also an ugly arrangement of letters sorry schedule fans. and so i probably watch anderz which is a vlog channel on youtube by helen anderson and her life is a lot more interesting than mine so it spices things up a lil you know. and practically swallow my breakfast whole cause i’m in that much of a rush and then pick an outfit which takes me forever and turns out to look shit anyway lol kms and dash straight into the bathroom like sonic himself and go to the toilet for my routine wee and then wash my hands, brush my teeth, wet my face with warm water, put clearasil face wash on my face and then rinse it off with water again and then wash my hands again. because i have an addiction to washing my hands and i like to carry hand sanitiser with me wherever i go but its usually not enough because i like the feel of cold water splashing on my hands and hand sanitiser thats been sitting in the bottom of my above room temperature bag doesn’t quite compare. so then i put deodorant on and get all my fresh clothes on ya know the drill !!! and go sit on my phone again and continue to watch anderz vlogs and then see the time n think ooo i’m really living life on the edge here so i start to put makeup on my face and most of the time i don’t look at my face while putting it on because over the years i have grown accustomed to not liking my face at all for a various number of reasons and so i prefer to not look at it much ya no it really kills my vibe and i wanna feel like queen b not a rodent ok . i usually take a long time to get ready to then only look like a large poo emoji hahah !!! but then i chose my trainers that i’ve grown a little collection of and i set off for the bus feeling fine. after checking i have the correct £1.40 in my pocket so i don’t have to count it at the bus stop with a potential bus arriving or even worse, on the bus when i can feel peoples piercing eyes on me and i am terrible at counting money quickly sorry its not my fault you’re late for work deborah, i’m late myself and i can’t have the guilt of you too this gal already to emotionally unstable n i’m gunna collapse. i double check the change like seven times while i’m standing at the bus stop and keep a look out for the bus. one time i was at a bus stop (the other day actually) and because the bus stop is on a road just before a corner, you can never be sure when a bus is gunna come cause u can’t bloody see wtf who’s idea was this ?? and so whenever you hear a bus like engine roaring up, you gotta act fast. so i’m stood at the bus stop, a woman comes and stands behind me, cool i’m not alone whatever. a bus imitating noise comes along and i sure as hell move my ass fast from inside the shelter to outside of the hut where i get as close to the edge of the road to depart and climb on board of the bus. after aprox 3 seconds a truck flies past and i jump out of my knickers and back the hell up, i’m sure the woman thought i was straight up going to take my 19 years that morning, it didn’t happen. i feel a little silly, the bus comes, i’m running late like most days and by now i don’t even see the point in checking the time, i either make it or i don’t, looking makes it more real so i chose to do a timeless sprint from the bus station to the train station flying past everybody at, in my mind, 70mph. i feel like a bird flying through the air, by about 5 minutes into my power walk i feel like a penguin trying to fly and my shins start stabbing and feeling like they’re gunna snap off and because i’m in no form fit, i can’t breathe and this particularly day i was wearing heeled boots, bad move wtf you should have gone for one of my nice selection of trainers silly. i speed round a corner feeling good and like lightning and then my ankle swerves on an uneven pavement piece (wtf ?!!!) and i nearly fall on to a bunch of 16 year old middlesbrough college sport boys. its embarrassing but i’m already red from the flight. i run up the stairs going light headed and get on my train with 2 minutes to spare. i couldn’t breathe but it was brilliant, i did it. the train usually sets off like 5 mins later than 32 minutes past 8 as it should. i don’t mind much, in fact i couldn’t care less. i then proceed to pant and break into a mild sweat and because i’m an idiot, i never pack water and so i dehydrate but least i’m gunna make it to uni right? so i put my bag on the seat next to me and put my earphones in because i don’t have any friends as you will probably realise lol. i put a bit of kanye on or something like that, maybe london grammar if i’m feeling suicidal or feeling like i’m gunna die from a heart attack because of the exercise, i’d wanna go out to something nice like that ya know. train trugs along, thornaby, stockton, billingham, seaton carew and then hartlepool. it goes on further to better places like cool newcastle but stops there for me like most things in my life hehe !! so then i get off and power walk into the uni building with kanye or something blasting down my ear canals making me feel like a full blown g. i often forget my uni card so the g stops usually at the door where i stand pondering how the hell i’m gunna get in and if i’m ever gunna make it. usually someone comes and then they have a card and so its cool, i get up the stairs and go into the room where the magic happens lol jk. nothing happens here in the story for like ¾ hours cause i just sit by myself occasionally doing some work while taking breaks of staring into space because not many acknowledge me haha :) i then realise nothing will literally happen if i just leave, so then i go home again, sometimes after an hour lol i just hate it. i like the course, i love drawing even though i can’t really draw anything but apart from that i just wish the train would be completely late :) so i repeat the travelling process but in reverse and get home for like 2/3. i then go on the computer often playing sims and then get a shower and get my pyjamas on and get into bed. i don’t talk to anyone apart from my family all day every day :) my friends have dropped me which is ya know a bit disheartening but you can’t persuade someone to like you so i’ve just left them to it. i’m alone now and i’m depressed. my days are just slow but racing past and everything is going downhill by the second. 2016 was shit. hope 2017 isn’t or i dunno what i’m gunna do. i have my friend Shannon, she’s like my bestfriend but its a bit poo cause shes in uni so its hard to get to see her much but im going to manchester to see her for a weekend next week and we’re going to see jeremy kyle live so thats funny, i actually can’t wait. But the rest is drab and i hope for change and i hope i find some friends around here haha

[mattthegearhead]

To the dickhead that stole my toolbag

Fuck you man, I really liked that torque wrench. And what the hell are you going to do with some oil, a timing light, and a bunch of non-metric wrenches???