#i thought this would be like interesting newspaper anecdotes but it seems to be more history

[publicdomainbooksdevotee]

So bold was [Joe Disberry, thief] that, according to reminiscences preserved by early settlers, he was known to enter the kitchen of a dwelling when the family were in bed, start up a fire, cook a meal and eat at his leisure. If disturbed in this agreeable occupation he relied on his swiftness of foot to escape.

The more things change…

#didn't know revolutionary era pennsylvania had a famous thief #it's the first one i clicked on but the writing style is distressingly dry #i thought this would be like interesting newspaper anecdotes but it seems to be more history #daily stories of pennsylvania #public domain books #came back to add more tags: #i thought this book was going to be daily life stories from the 20s but it's a series of daily history stories…from the 20s #it's also not very well written so i give up on it. no more quotes #i would also file this one under 'worse than usual' on the racism front

[charlie-rulerofhell]

For they know exactly what they do

Today there was a pretty long article published in the German newspaper FAZ, written by Julia Schaaf. Since there were quite a few interesting topics raised in it and Måneskin talked about some new aspects (or in more detail), I translated the whole thing (it might also have helped me to procrastinate).

Full interview in English under the cut.

For they know exactly what they do

June 22, 2021

Four young rock musicians from Rome are today's hottest band. Måneskin are enchanting Europe. Why? We met them for an interview.

Every romance needs its founding myth, an anecdote from the beginning, something you can tell later in more difficult times for self-assurance.

In the case of the band Måneskin, who first had Italy and now half of Europe wrapped around their fingers, and who are now trying to conquer the rest of the world with their rock music, there is the story of the shoe box. Rome, around five years ago: Four teenagers who are meeting every day after school in their rehearsal room to make music together, and sometimes they play their songs on the Via del Corso in the city centre in front of a changing audience. One day they want to record their own stuff. They find a studio that they can actually afford and as they go there they bring a shoe box, with the name of the band written on it, 'moonshine' in Danish, the bassist's mother is Danish. In the box: around seven kilogram of coins. The things you get from playing music on the streets. Everyone searching through Instagram for photos from that time can find four hippies with children's faces, three boys in batik, the girl is wearing a straw hat.

As they have to pay [for the recording], frontman Damiano David, 22, says that there was this guy, Angelo, and his bandmate Victoria De Angelis, 21, is interrupting: “No, Andrea, not Angelo”, and all of them have to laugh because a rigid studio manager with the Italian name 'angel' would be even funnier for a founding myth. David continues his story: “The guy was completely dumbfounded. 'We can't do that.' We went: 'Sure we can, that's worth the same even if it's just 20 cent coins, it's still 300 euros.” Thomas Raggi, 20, the guitarist of the band, is gasping for air as he laughs, while drummer Ethan Torchio, 20, is smiling dreamily. David finishes: “And then we snuck off before he was able to count it.” [the German text says 'verdrücken' here which is just a colloquial way of saying 'we left', but it entails some sort of a dramatic exit, so yeah, let your thoughts get creative how they left exactly :D].

Four young musicians on the verge of global fame are sitting on a white interview sofa in Berlin, completely styled, babbling across each other like overeager teenagers.

Ever since the Roman band first won the music festival Sanremo and then also the Eurovision Song Contest, carried by the enthusiasm of European viewers, you could say Måneskin has become a phenomenon. “Rock 'n' Roll never dies!”, Damiano David yelled fueled by the adrenaline of winning, and the insinuation that circulated on social media of the singer snorting during the counting of votes in front of a live camera – including their strict denial followed by a negative drug test result – might have given an additional boost to their public interest, their exploding album, ticket and merch sales, and their outstanding success on Spotify.

“We think it's a shit prejudice against rock music that there always have to be drugs involved. We fully threw ourselves into our participation with the utmost professionalism. We give everything for the music. So of course we don't want people to think that we can only do that because we take drugs.” – Victoria De Angelis

Prior to Eurovision, Måneskin was more of an insider's tip outside of Italy. Handmade rock music, not creating something entirely new but paying homage to the good old times with classic guitar riffs and cracking drum beats, being a lot of fun but also quite fragile and vulnerable at times and, first and foremost, conveying a captivating energy. Finally, on the stage of Rotterdam, live after so many months of isolation and renunciation, this wave of energy spilled straight over into European living rooms. It seemed easy to (mistakenly) interpret the winning song “Zitti e buoni” (Shut up and behave) as a declaration of frustration of our youth in times of a pandemic. In fact, singer Damiano David is singing about the favourite topic of the band: the unrelenting need to, against all odds, be yourself, despite or perhaps because you are different. The message fits their provocative sex appeal, which the band uses to demonstrate their independence of gender norms at any given time. But the core essence of rock music has always been the promise of unlimited freedom.

Thus at the first moment, the meeting with Måneskin is kind of startling. It's Wednesday, we are in the top floor of the new Sony head quarters in Berlin. The four Italians have just started their two-week long promotion tour through Europe. In the afternoon there will be a live concert in a queer club [the SchwuZ, but that's not mentioned here] in Neukölln, which will be streamed via TikTok. Around one million viewers will watch the show, some of them even from Brazil, so people at Sony are pretty excited [for Måneskin to come here]. But at first, these stunningly gorgeous creatures [yes, that's the exact wording :D] are standing surrounded by an entourage of people – their management, PR team, a stylist, a photographer, people who can hold a smartphone or a cigarette if needed [this paragraph is worded a little weirdly, especially taking into account that basically their whole team / 'entourage' is just friends of them, but it seems like the journalist didn't know that or maybe they just wanted to describe their first impression]. They seem like fictional / artificial characters out of a Hollywood movie. Transparent frill blouses with blazers and flared leather trousers, even the platform boots, everything brand-new, the makeup makes their faces look like a glossy magazine cover even in person. The smokey eyes of De Angelis and Raggi make them look smug and bored. Later, on the pictures it will probably look cool.

So of course your first impression might be: This band is under contract to industry giant Sony ever since their success on an Italian casting show [X Factor] in Winter 2017. The music industry must have its hand in the game when a band is photographed half-naked by Oliviero Toscani and styled by Etro. Also, one does not simply rent a villa with a pool in Rome to produce new music there, isolated from the rest of the world. And who else went to London for two whole months, shortly before the winter lockdown, just for inspiration? After the TikTok concert in Berlin – De Angelis and David are now wearing fishnet shirts that sparkle with every move, their bare nipples covered with an X of black tape – the band is posing with a few influencers. In the world of social media you would call that 'producing content'. But what does that mean for a band who are preaching their hosanna of authenticity? How authentic is Måneskin? And is their pointedly casual approach to sexuality and gender cliches in today's pop-cultural spirit more than a marketing strategy?

We're in the interview, the recording device is running for not even five minutes, when Victoria De Angelis says: “Actually, we just try to be ourselves and do what we really want to do.” And really: The more you listen to those four how they speak about the early days of the band in their slurred Roman dialect, about the shoe box and their own experiences with being different, but most importantly about their shared obsession [with music], the more you realise that [De Angelis] is  very serious. Ethan Torchio, who got his first drum kit at the age of six or seven from his father because he was beating everything he could reach, says: “For me, music is like food. I cannot live without it.” The bassist next to him laughs at his pathos. Singer Damiano David applauds the otherwise more reserved friend for his truthfulness [it says 'klarer Punkt', meaning 'for the point he makes', but it makes it seem like Damiano is agreeing with Ethan here, although it doesn't indicate whether he agrees that yes, music is everything for Ethan or that he understands and feels the same].

De Angelis and guitarist Raggi already knew each other from middle school and they were the ones who tried to form a band at the age of only 13, a band that actually took music seriously.

De Angelis: “It's just difficult at that age to find other people who really put everything into music and who truly commit themselves and are willing to invest a lot of their time.”

Raggi: “We set strict rules and scheduled fixed times for the rehearsals, for every day.”

David: “Fever, stomach ache, there was no excuse. Even if you were feeling sick in the rehearsal room. At least you were in the rehearsal room.”

The way the four of them talk across each other, completing each other's sentences, taking turns in talking and sometimes joking about each other, seems intimate and playful. Singer David remembers how at first bassist [De Angelis] was merciless towards him when it came to her first metal band project, as she told him that he wasn't committed enough [to the music]: “Back then I was still playing Basketball. I was one of the people that Vic absolutely didn't want [in her band].” Drummer Torchio was later discovered through Facebook, even though there had already been a drummer, a close friend, but he was not good enough. It seems as if even back then music was everything for them. Even if it meant that only Raggi managed to graduate.

And why rock, why rock music of all things? Because it's great, the four of them say in unison. David adds: “Actually, it's a genre that allows you to do everything you want to do.”

When they played on the street, they were laughed at by their classmates. But not only there. De Angelis explains that she never wanted to be a typical girl: “I was always deterred by those stupid boxes that people put you in, and that are just restricting and constraining you, because something is only regarded as male or female. I always rejected that. Instead, I just wanted to do the things I enjoyed doing, I went skating and played football.” Torchio says: “Friends who are not friends anymore were already telling me at the age of ten that those“ – he grabs his long, silky black hair – “were wrong. Because I'm a boy and boys are meant to have short hair, long hair is only for girls. I was bullied a lot for that.”

“Compared to the past, people in our age became much more open-minded. It gets better.” – Thomas Raggi

Frontman David on the other hand, for whom eye shadow, jingling earrings and nail polish as well as his bare torso with the tattoos have become trademarks by now, says: “I was actually more of the average boy.” De Angelis convinced him to try out some eyeliner, which he describes as a spiritual awakening: “I liked myself much more [with makeup]. I saw myself more as myself. As if it had been a suppressed desire of mine.” On a trip to Copenhagen with the others, when he realised that it really didn't matter what people were thinking about him, he got his first fake fur [coat? the article doesn't specify that] in a second-hand shop and let his clothing style be guided by his own love to experiment: “I realised that my whole life I was just going at half speed.” When it comes to diversity all four of them are becoming almost missionary.

At the same time, their success is not only opening doors for them. Back home in Rome they are barely able to go out on the street due to all the paparazzi. “[You need a] hoodie and huge sunglasses”, David says, “the mask is quite helpful, too.” And still, none of them is complaining, and Torchio explains why: “Even if those experiences right now may have sides that are not so pleasant, we still know that for us a dream is coming true. We experience something that we always had in our minds, so we are willing to face every consequence that this entails.”

So is the band facing difficult times, is Måneskin going to change with all the success? Again, all of them answer at the same time.

David: “I'm not worried about that.”

Raggi: “No way!”

De Angelis: “On the contrary. Everything that happened to us happened because we are who we are, so we want to continue the exact same way and stay ourselves.”

Just a few hours later, they are at the stage in Neukölln, bouncing around like pinballs, hammering at their instruments, flirting with each other. “We are out of our minds, but different from the others”, David sings their winning hymn against conformism, and: “The people talk, unfortunately they talk.” Here on stage, the four paradise birds [a German word describing someone with a flamboyant personality] with their half-nude-glittering outfits are radiating an incredible energy with the utmost sincerity, and you begin to wish there was a live audience instead of the TikTok cameras, absorbing and spreading this energy. Måneskin. A cry for a life after the pandemic, a cry for freedom and a better world.

“We do what we wished for all our lives.” – Ethan Torchio

#måneskin #maneskin #måneskin interview #my stuff #i'm sorry if someone already translated it but i was working on this for the past 3 hours now so i'm still gonna share it #i know most of it is not very new but there were some quite interesting details in there #and it's just always great to read about those four dorks so i wanted to share it with all of you who wanted to read it but couldn't #enjoy and please ignore any possible mistakes i didn't have the time to proof-check everything

[phoneybeatlemania-bit-the-dust]

Angela McCartney and Geoff Bakers “novel” - an analysis.

So @beatlepaul4ever brought this to my attention - in the review section of Amazon, for the book “Rock Bottom” by Geoff Baker, there is a comment from someone claiming to be Angela McCartney.

For context:

Paul McCartneys dad (Jim McCartney) married a woman named Angela, sometime after the passing of his first wife, who was Pauls mum. Jim died in 1976, but Angela is still alive at 91 years of age.

I haven’t read Geoffs book, but from what ive been told about it, it is a fiction book about PR man who has to cover up the gay affairs of a famous rockstar.

There’s this article written for a little more insight regarding Paul and Geoffs relationship - but take this with a grain of salt, because it is the Daily Mail (if you live in England then I know you know what I mean by “its the daily mail”) (basically its a crap newspaper)

Geoff Baker was Pauls publicity chief, and worked with him for 15 years. Paul fired Geoff in 2003, after he allegedly tipped off a photographer about a private appearance the he was making. Paul later retracted the sacking but Geoff left his employment a year later. Perhaps it should also be noted that this is around the time of Pauls marriage to Heather Mills.

On this website it states: “Baker is claiming he wasn’t sacked: he resigned over the old cliché ‘irreconcilable differences’ with Paul’s powerful missus Heather Mills McCartney.”

The same website also states this quote from Geoff: “I could write hundreds of books about Paul, but I’d never do it…It would cheapen everything. I think it’s entirely wrong to work for someone and then write a book about them.” But you could do it? There would be nothing stopping you? “Of course I could do it. But it isn’t a consideration. It’s never going to happen.”

Based on quotes from this post, it seems that Geoff and Paul did not end on sour terms. There was conflict im sure, and he appears to have really disliked Heather, but overall I don’t think he’s held a strong grudge against Paul.

So is this Amazon review legit? Lets assess:

My initial thought was, quite possibly it is! Because Angela McCartney is not a particularly well known name, and quite an obscure figure in Beatles history - and so it would be bizarre for someone to steal her identity. It certainly wouldn’t be impossible for someone to impersonate her, but I feel it would be unlikely that someone would.

But also, I did consider that it would be surprising that a 91 year old would be capable of using the internet to a pretty functional degree - most elderly people I know really struggle with using the internet. BUT after doing a little more research, and reading this interview, it appears that she’s one of those old people who are actually pretty competent with technology!

Another notable aspect of the comment is that she congratulates “Geoff and Jill”. I presume Jill is Geoffs wife, though there isn’t much information on Geoff Baker, and so I am not able to verify that fact. But if it is true that he is married to “Jill”, I think that would be almost definitive evidence that this is the real Angela, because it would be such an obscure fact that really only the real Angie would know.

So do I, personally, believe that this review is from the real Angie McCartney? This might come as a surprise because im usually such a skeptic, but I do actually believe that this is quite likely to be the real Angela! We can’t really tell for certain, because theres no profile picture and no way to verify her - but this seems pretty legit!

So now, assuming this is legit, lets analyse the contents of Angie’s comment:

The thing I find most notable, is that she uses quotation marks for the word fiction (“fiction”) - clearly implying that she does not think that this is actually a work of fiction.

I haven’t read the book, so I have no idea what its about - but if its true that the novel is about a PR man having to cover up for a rockstars gay relationships (as one anon told me) then I think that that, combined with the “fiction” comment, is really notable.

Also that she finalises her comment, talking about being inspired to write her own memoir tells us that she does not consider Geoffs book a work of fiction. Additionally, I think that she being Pauls step-mother gives us perhaps another inference: that she thinks Geoffs book is largely about Paul, and that she is considering writing her own memoir, telling her stories regarding both her own life, but also im sure, her relationship with Paul and anecdotes about him, at least to some degree. And she appears not disagree with or discredit any of the stories, that she believes to be true, in Geoffs book. And Geoffs book is about a closeted rockstar. So my suspicions have been raised - one amazon comment that may or may not be legit is nothing definitive, but maybe its a little insightful, if it is legit

Anyway, those were just some thoughts - feel free to share and discuss :)

Somebody whose actually, you know, read the bloody book probably has something more interesting to add then anything ive said really lol

#mclennon #angela McCartney #jim mccartney #mclennon evidence #discussion #geoff Baker #beatles books #analysis

[thedreadvampy]

This pride discourse really reminds me of a newspaper column a few years ago (I would link it but A it's in Dutch B it's at least five years old so I couldnt find it if I tried) about a dude who was taking a walk together with his daughter who was a toddler at the time when they came across a pride parade. And the guy thought well I want to raise my daughter open minded and she really liked all the glitter she sees, I'll stay and watch for a while. And then a boat came by filled with the exact kind of leather gays the worst sides of this discourse is about, and the man got concerned because how do you explain that to a toddler and all that, and then his daughter said: "look dad! Pink balloons!". She either didn't see the outfits, or didn't care enough to point them out when there are way more interesting balloons to look at.

Which of course is anecdotal evidence not statistics, but most children just Dont Care about people wearing weird black outfits when there are Balloons and Colour and Glitter around

Yeah! "Look dad! Pink balloons!" is a really really good summary of it, I think. Most kids, especially little kids, aren't quite as traumatised by Setting The Wrong Thing In Public as a lot of people seem to think, they've got their own priorities.

Related thought: I have a t-shirt I wear around sometimes that says FUCK on it in big rainbow letters, and my feeling on that is: a child either already knows what FUCK means and that it's a bad word, in which case me wearing it won't tell them anything they don't already know, or they don't know what it means, in which case it's just a meaningless rainbow word and the worst that's going to happen is they'll go 'daddy what does 'fuh uh cuh cuh mean?'

Like kids Aren't Adults they don't bring all the associations to the table teenagers and adults do, unless they've already found out that Kink Exists Swearing Is Dreadful Sex Is Scary.

like people are so fashed about pictures of leather pups around kids; well I've seen kids interact with leather pups and furries (not at Pride but at comicons, at goth events, at Glastonbury) and they don't go 'OH NO A SEX THING' they go 'daddy look he's a puppy!' and most pups and furries, being reasonable boundaried adults, are Perfectly Capable (and I've never seen it happen otherwise) of behaving entirely appropriately when that happens.

[sparrowwritings]

Final Fantasy Writing Challenge Day Thirty-One: All that glitters is not gold

Day Thirty -- Masterpost

Normally, Bailey Gatlin wouldn’t even bother looking at a job like this. She generally got by through odd jobs and the allowance that her brother gave her each week (when the money was available, anyway). Living like this didn’t leave a whole lot of room for frivolous spending, and her boots were worn down to the point where she could feel every bump in the road so that needed to be addressed. 

But. She absolutely, desperately wanted to pick up that jewelry set that she saw in the market just that morning. The pieces were gorgeous and bright and they matched her violet eyes and there was a kind of net of gems and gold that would look so nice in her hair...at the cost of Bailey needing to use her boot money to get it. Just as she was about to lament her lack of pretty things, a sheet of paper had blown into her face. After a minute of wrangling it and looking at the offender, a she suddenly had a plan for being able to get both relatively easily.

A journalist for the biggest newspaper in Ul’dah, The Mythril Eye, was looking for help with an article. No journalism experience required, all travel expenses paid, with a stipend to be granted on completion of the article. No actual number had been put in the ad (since they’d get everyone at their doorstep if they did), but there was an address listed for those who wished to apply. There were more details, but Bailey ignored them in favor of running straight for the place. 

This was going to be absolutely perfect.

-----

“No.”

“Wha’ d’ya mean, ‘no?’”

The miqo’te journalist folded her arms and gave Bailey a disapproving look. “I shouldn’t’ve taken on that ad is what I mean by no. You’re the fifth person today that’s just looking for a quick buck. You’re gonna run off as soon as I tell you what the article’s about.”

Well that just wasn’t fair. “I’ll have you know I c’n handle anythin’ ya throw at me.” She threw her arms to each side. That, combined with her annoyed expression made the lalafell look more like a pouting child. She knew that, but still maintained eye contact with the journalist who still hadn’t even introduced herself. 

After several solid seconds of silence, Bailey’s stubbornness won out. The journalist sighed and scratched at one of her ears. “I’m not going to hold my breath about that one...I’m writing an article about all of the good the Warriors of Light have done for us lately. With interviews and testimonials from whoever I can get to talk to me. Your job would be to not only get a hold of and arrange for me to talk to people, but also any other way you can assist. Arranging rooms, making sure we both eat, that sort of thing.”

She could feel her eye twitching. Her right ear certainly did with her irritation. “Sorry, I don’t think I heard ya right...yer sayin’ ya want a glorified gofer? So ya don’t hafta do th’ hard work while writin’ yer article?” 

The journalist at least had the decency to look sheepish. “I’m trying to do something big and flashy for my first official article. I suggested writing a piece on the Warriors of Light since people have been starting to talk about them a lot.”

Bailey thought back to a newspaper her brother, Rennis, had been reading the other day. “Doesn’t th’ Harbor Herald already write about the girl Warrior of Light? What’s her name…”

“Lara Marner?”

“Yeah, her.” 

“She was already something of a local celebrity before she was known as a Warrior of Light,” The journalist answered with a head shake. “I’m looking more specifically to write about people who know both her and Roger Briden as the Warriors of Light.”

“But why?” Bailey pressed. “People with way more experience than you are writin’ about’m already, what’s gonna make yer article pop?”

“Pop?” The journalist’s brow furrowed. 

“Yeah, pop.” She emphasized the word with a literal pop from her lips. “Make it different than all th’ others. Leave th’ readers ta only wanna read yer stuff. Articles don’t get advertisement like a store does, an’ most people are only gonna read it once so ya gotta be more creative ta draw attention.” With a shrug, she added, “Maybe find some sorta gimmick you think people’re gonna be willin’ ta go with.” 

Rennis had always been the more business savvy of the two. As long as the person was right in front of him, he could generally get even the most stubborn of customers to get something from his shop. It didn’t leave him a lot of room to be artistically creative, so the advertisement side of things was all Bailey. She had been the one to coin the name, Gatlin’s Goods. She had worked so hard she could barely stand just to scrape up enough coin to post ads in at least one newspaper. She was fully willing to test her brother’s mechanical inventions in public so that people would ask questions (even though she definitely would have done so even without an ulterior motive).

Instead of mentioning any of that, at the continued stare of the journalist Bailey gave a small grin and a shrug with, “I know a thing’re two about marketin’ yerself.”

Again, all was quiet between the two of them. Then, the journalist slowly, gently, started to smile. “You know what, I think you have a good idea. And a job.” She held out a hand towards the lalafell. “Sahve Lhuke. I can’t promise that it’s gonna be an easy job, but I’ll do my best regarding that.” 

Seriously hoping that said job wasn’t actually going to involve being a glorified gofer, she extended her hand in kind. “Bailey Gatlin. I’ll hold ya to it.” 

The two shook on it. 

“So, what’s yer plan? Or new plan from th’ look’ve things.” 

“It’s going to be a whole series of articles.” Sahve was already rapidly writing something into a blank book she kept in her back pocket. “And we’re going to need to talk with the leaders of Gridania, Limsa Lominsa and the Sultana at some point.”

Well Bailey couldn’t fault the girl for her ambition, even if she was suddenly daunted by the task. “We’re startin’ small tho...right?”

“Of course!”

She let out a sigh of relief. 

“We’re going to talk to the Warriors of Light themselves.”

“WHAT?!”

-----

Warriors of Light Tell About Experiences! An Interview with Young Heroes was a middling success. Sahve had been hoping for more of a hit, but Bailey could tell that the journalist was milking the praise for all it was worth. Again, she couldn’t really blame the young woman. Having her article out there meant more people would read it and come find them instead of making Bailey go looking. Which she definitely was doing more often than anything else.

At least she was getting paid for her help in “assisting” the journalist in her writing. Mostly it was a lot of running around as if she knew what she was doing and managing to stumble into interesting anecdotes about the Warriors of Light. Bailey outright refused to actually write anything. “I’m not lookin’ fer my name on th’ byline, but I also ain’t gonna be blamed fer crap you mess up on.” Was a line that she refused to budge on and Sahve seemed to understand, even if she asked Bailey’s opinion on word choices every so often. 

It was turning into a good arrangement. 

Even Ren couldn’t help but comment on it the next time she helped him with his booth. “Yer bein’ run ragged, but ya look about as happy as when ya get ta test out my stuff. That’s somethin’.” 

Bailey blinked at him with a head tilt. “Really?”

“Yeah. Guess those articles are worth more’n just th’ regular paycheck, huh?”

It took her a long moment to realize that yeah, they were. She hadn’t even noticed that she had saved up more than enough money for the jewelry set until then. The idea of picking it up just didn’t appeal to her, anymore though.  Bailey’s thoughts these days were mostly on who next to interview, and the process to contact them. Followed by talks with Sahve about what was done and what was *to* be done for the next article. It was all kind of nice. Like she had something of a purpose.

The fact that everyone that she’d talked to (or listened as Sahve interviewed them) had nothing but praise for the Warriors of Light helped Bailey a lot. If the kids (because they really were kids, she’d discovered) had been selfish or cruel or greedy she probably wouldn’t be enjoying this job so much. Maybe that would change with time or with more grey-colored choices, but for now this was how it was. 

That gave Bailey an idea. She made a mental note to talk to Sahve about a future article. One that goes over how the Warriors of Lights’ feelings had changed over time. 

After they finally manage to get that interview with the Sultana that Bailey had been trying to schedule for ages.

#ff14 #Final Fantasy 14 #final fantasy xiv #fanfiction #writing challenge #All that glitters is not gold #lara marner #roger briden #bailey gatlin #Sahve Lhuke #i made her up #name generator did well here #idk i wanted to go a different route and ended up with journalism somehow #bailey as a journalist (or at least journalist assistant) really fits her tho #anyway #CHALLENGE COMPLETE #I DID IT #WOO

[kreekey]

also 6- I remember people used to quote how the apple crew didn't like when she ordered them as a reason to hate her like SERIOUSLY? white men hate a foreigner woman (who's recovering from a miscarriage btw) how tf is that not coming from internalized racism/sexism? and 7- I remember an audio from get back (?) sessions where Linda was repeatedly saying Jahn JAhn, making fun of yoko's accent, to get the whole squad laughing.

6 Haha I know. Here’s the Barry Miles quote, from the Zapple Diaries:

John railed to anyone who would listen that the other Beatles and the staff of Apple hated Yoko because they were racists, but this was not true. As Derek Taylor pointed out, they didn’t hate her, but they didn’t love her either. As for the accusation of racism – musicians and most of the music industry have traditionally always been free of racism and bigotry, although there might have been a residual anti-Japanese feeling (the war had only ended twenty years earlier and stories about Japanese wartime atrocities frequently featured in the newspapers). Still, the real reason that people disliked Yoko was because she ordered them about and sent them on errands in a particularly rude way; she was brought up with servants, and that’s how she treated the staff of Apple.

As thecurvature said in response:  

...I’m really just smacked in the face and simply can’t ignore the utter absurdity, obliviousness, and inability to self reflect in the assertion that musicians!!!! and the music indutry!!!! have always been free of racism and bigotry!!!!! Like that’s literally the dumbest whitest shit this white woman has ever fucking heard. Anyone who has the gall to believe that to the extent that they actually wrote it down and shared it with the world has shown their racist hand and relinquished their right to a fucking opinion.

X

(There is no war in Ba Sing Se no racism in the 1960s. Maybe a teeny tiny bit lol. Certainly not enough to influence anybody’s opinions at all.) But yes it’s true she was born with servants, in fact in 1945 after the US firebombings of Toyko, Yoko's mother took her three children and their last remaining servant to the countryside where the chance of air raid was decreased. But yes, Yoko had a relatively privileged childhood, and when she grew older, she also rebelled against materialism and such facets of her background lol, I believe she hadn’t had a ‘servant’ in roughly two decades by that time? And it’s true she suffered miscarriages and a car crash during that time, was also already hated by the public, and was dealing with the fact contemporaries were saying her avant-garde career was dead already. And there is the factor that, especially at that time, many white men would’ve (subconsciously?) resented a non-subservient foreigner woman. But it’s not like the Beatles themselves have ever been rude to staff. For one example, Emerick recalled in his biography that during a White Album recording session, John’s amp was up to “an ear-splitting level” and he politely asked John to lower the volume so he could better record it. John replied caustically and asked him to just do his bloody job, and “Come on, get with it, Emerick. I think it’s about bloody time you got your act together.” This made Emerick mad, he couldn't even respond. He also said it was more memorable than the fact Yoko first joined them that same day too (she was reportedly very quiet/shy, John just plunked her there lol). And I don’t have a link, but Barry Miles did a talk/Q&A during which he had an anecdote where Paul really chewed out an underling who had brought him a drink, but forgot a coaster. Around that time, some of Paul’s staff mentioned he could be hard to deal with. ...However, this was around the time Linda’s health wasn’t great, so he was under stress. But does Yoko’s stress not count, or something? Idk. There is a certain empathy usually extended to idols like Paul and withheld from Yoko.

Also some other accounts on Yoko’s personality:

...Yoko seem[ed] to many people a manipulating, psychic, power-wielding egotist who would stop at nothing to get her way. This judgement hid the truth from people who didn't want to face it: Yoko's appeal, to John and the people close to her, was that she was such a strong-minded, artistic individualist. She combined all this with a fearsome practicality. Above all, she would not tolerate weakness in people. Many people who were aware of their own frailties winced at Yoko's intuitive recognition of their failure to do anything about them. John did not; he wanted his woman forceful, intelligent, powerful, domineering, and one step ahead of the game.

... One of the popular myths about John Lennon has been that he was tough, hard-hearted, vicious, and unsentimental. One of the great myths of Yoko Ono is that she is a manipulative witch, power-hungry, and cold. The reverse is true in both cases. Lennon was incurable romantic all his life and that quality manifested itself with great intensity after his reunion with Yoko. Yoko too has always been emotional, tearful, and compassionate.

Lennon, by Ray Coleman

It was a big plus to her [Yoko's] personality, that she's strong... but not to say overbearing, not 'mean' strong, you know. She's a tough girl. You know, a good New Yorker can take care of herself and she doesn't get pushed around too easily. And I think that helped John 'cause John would have more of a tendency to be nice to somebody or you know, say, 'Okay,' when he didn't really mean 'Okay,' because he didn't want to piss somebody off. You know, whereas, Yoko would be much more pragmatic. It the answer was 'No,' she'd just say 'No' and say, 'Next question.'

Elliot Mintz in Lennon Revealed, by Larry Kane

7 I haven’t heard that audio, so I really can’t comment on it. If someone has a link? The Get Back tapes are hours and hours long so I can’t look for it myself haha sorry. I’d love to give Linda the benefit of the doubt, and the social climate of the 1960s was surely different (and the mood just in Abbey Road Studios was tense as well.) 

Anyway thank you anon for sending these in! Interesting points to consider, some comparisons and things I hadn’t even thought of. Also nice to hear people bring that up because it can be hard to discuss things like this, things like racism in the fandom or double standards. But it’s worthwhile, IMO. If anyone has anything to add, I’d be interested in that too <3. 

#whole squad laughing.lol anon #again ty for sending in your thoughts #yoko ono #asks #anon #answers #long post #the beatles fandom #retrospective

[daydreambts]

“Any route with my gorgeous car on it would be scenic, hell it’s the scene in most places”, Seokjin joked before chewing off the doughnut in his mouth and taking the plates you guys had used to the appropriate disposal area. Coming back, he made sure to open the door for you and made a big show on being very careful with the delicate doughnuts. He was trying very hard to be discreet but something about you and cheer had got him off guard, as if he had just realised how much there was to unpack in terms of details between the both of you. “I didn’t know you did cheer in high school, the only sport I engaged with was snowboarding and we don’t get a lot of cheerleaders there surprisingly.” He said driving through the similar field of flowers but this time on the other side the shallow branching of the Han river became the canvas for the sinking sun. “What else did you do in high school? I was the typical class President and head of clubs, even tried the newspaper but that was pretty short lived considering I wanted the first feature to be an in-depth criticism of the school’s cafeterias culinary efforts” he added turning towards home, that felt nice to say, perhaps the house you both shared was starting to feel a lot more like a home. 🦄

•━»•»🌸«•«━━━━━━━━•••

His comment about his car made me chuckle. "Are you sure that's the right script? Shouldn't the line go that I would be the scenery wherever we go?" I teased, raising an eyebrow. Once in the car, I made good on my promise, tearing spherical puffs off the mochi doughnuts and feeding Seokjin as he drove. At his comment about my cheerleading past, I shrugged. "It wasn't something I was particularly passionate about, nor was my school a serious contender in it. The squad was simply recruiting girls who could do cartwheels and splits, and were... well, cute." I smiled wryly. "I thought it would be fun, because Misa and our other friends were there." My high school was known for its academic prestige rather than athletic prowess; Papa had said that even if I were to pursue art, I at least had to go to the high school and university that the Taira family traditionally attended. "You can snowboard? That's cool... I'm not exactly athletic either," I admitted. I was a little surprised by his comment about the cheerleaders from his school, but perhaps he was just a little dense with regards to his admirers. As the car rolled past the scenery towards home, I pointed at an avenue that would cause a slight detour but was bordered with cherry blossom trees, nearly bare by now. "Turn there!" I called out, reaching up a hand to catch the falling petals. His anecdote about his journalistic foray made me laugh. "Now why does that sound very much like you, and also the school anime love interest who seems conventionally perfect but is surprisingly wacky?" My laughter subsiding, I tilted my head thoughtfully. "I was never really comfortable with the leader role, though I was shunted into heading a club once or twice. I tried a lot of things; choir, tennis, drama... I was a rather popular anonymous poetry contributor for the school paper, and also a writer for an RPG site that one of my classmates ran. I wasn't really consistent with any of them. I probably had a better attendance in the unofficial anime and videogame clubs." I chuckled at the memory. When we had parked by the house, I tried picking out petals off the seats. "Sorry about that... umm, Seokjin? I'll go ahead to the bathroom, okay? I want to relax in a bath before getting ready for later." I hoped that the end of the drive wouldn't break the level of conversation we had earlier... there was still so much to find out about him.

#universityhusband!seokjin #unicorn anon #bts roleplay #jin au #jin rp #bts rp

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Cry Me A River.

anonymous  asked:

Prompt: Cry me a river, I cried a river over you.

Part TWO:

In the days following their first meeting, Claire did as Jamie had suggested and began reading her uncle’s memoirs the moment he emailed them to her.

One box of tissues hadn’t been enough.

Neither had two.

The bin beside her bed had been emptied a few times by the maid who supposedly was only employed to clean once a week but seemed to be there every day. She would (unobtrusively) appear in Claire’s room. Remove the overflowing bin and return it empty - a task she was certainly capable of herself but had no energy to point out.

As predicted, the draft was funny, sad, motivating and humbling all at the same time. She could pick out Lamb's voice in an instant and it made her sob harder to think that she’d missed these precious moments. There were embarrassing stories written about her, but she found that she didn’t mind them. This was for Lamb, by Lamb and she knew everything he’d passed on to Jamie was something interesting and vibrant, something suitable to be shared. Her past was suddenly coming back to life before her eyes, an easier time (though she hadn’t realised it). Free of the restraints of her family name and the ridiculous entitlement that had gone with it. The words seemed to lift off the page and in an instant she was back in a dusty tent, the taste of her first cigarette still coating her tongue as she coughed and laughed with some of the younger members of the group.

It had been a flurry of thought, her mind alive with images she’d forgotten long ago, an emotional rollercoaster that excited her and punched her in the gut all at the same time. When she reached the end, Claire had returned to the beginning and started again. She read deeper into each and every word, hooked on the sentences as they took her from his early life - a life before her own had even started - through to nearly the very end, until Jamie’s voice became larger than Lamb's as he took the reins of the story.

As the day of the funeral dawned, Claire had yet to even leave the confines of her appointed room. Cleverly, food had been left on a tray outside her door at mealtimes and she had not been disturbed by anyone in the house for anything. There were calls, of course, from the family solicitor and the funeral director to arrange the final details but he had sorted the newspaper announcements in a number of different ways to ensure that colleagues far and wide knew of poor Quentin’s departure.

She had even written the eulogy - but, without thinking, she had incorporated and rewritten some of her favourite adventures from the book. It seemed fitting to use his own words, to add a little of Lamb into his own funeral.

Though without Jamie’s support, she knew she couldn’t use it.

Terror gripped her at the mere thought of asking for permission. Having been absent -her own choice- when she should have been a more conscientious niece, Claire felt unworthy of using the words Jamie had so very carefully hashed out with Lamb during their long days together. Part of her thought *maybe* he should be reading the speech that sent him off to his final resting place. After all, it was him that had seen him the last important years of his life.

She could tell, though, that there was no way he would accept that. Something about his demeanor the day he’d picked her up, unannounced, at the train station told her much of his character. He was selfless, that she could guess. Willing to go above and beyond for the people he cared for - and she suspected he held Lamb in such high acclaim that he’d personally seen to it that she was provided for in every way from the second she arrived as her uncle would have wanted (despite her previous lack of attention).  

Staring at her unpacked suitcase, the remnants of her search for a decent funeral outfit still splayed half across the floor of the small room, she sighed and turned to face her closed laptop once more. The temptation to open it up and re-read the manuscript again was growing by the minute though she knew she didn’t have the time.

“Claire?” A knock on the door brought her out of her longing and she threw the half crumpled summer dress (why she’d packed that, she’d never know) onto the bed with a pile of other rejected outfits.

“Yes? Is the car here?” She questioned, looking at her watch to confirm that it was indeed still too early and that she still had time.

“Nay, not yet. I just wanted to make sure ye were alright. Mary said ye didna eat the breakfast she prepared for ye this morning and I was a wee bit worrit.”

Pulling the ties of her dressing gown closer around her chest, she pulled the door open wide enough for him to see that she wasn’t half starved and languishing on the floor. For the first time in a while an honest smile graced her lips and Jamie’s forehead evened out and the weight of worry fell from his shoulders. “I don’t want her to think I’m not grateful...it’s just that I'm not really that hungry this morning, sorry.”

“Did ye read it?” He asked, changing tac as he pointed to her computer where it sat, positioned haphazardly on the bedside table. He seemed intrigued and the rise of his question gave her the perfect opening.

“I did. It’s...magnificent. So powerful, and funny too. I forgot how much he used to make me laugh.” Her face lit up as she spoke, the deep lines on her brow easing as she sat on the bed causing Jamie to have to cross the invisible line into her room for the first time since she’d arrived. “Honestly, I can’t imagine it not being snapped up - at least by his former colleagues and friends - the moment it hits the press.”

The smile that made Jamie’s face beam from ear to ear made Claire’s heart swell. Genuinely worried about her response, he was obviously pleased that she’d found it acceptable.

“I have a question to ask, if it’s alright with you?” She continued, his relaxed demeanour bolstering her.

“Aye, ask away.”

“I’ve written my speech, the eulogy. Reading through his biography gave me a myriad of ideas, it reminded me of how much light and energy he brought to the world...but I used it to help me in writing my account of him. I’ve tried to put my own memories into my own words, though I’d like to use some of his own -some direct quotes from the manuscript…”

“Can you hold on for a moment, please?” He asked, holding his hand up and then rushing from the room.

Holding her hands together in her lap, she waited, her heart beating double time as she tried to quell the rising panic. If he said no, she’d understand but she would have some quick thinking to do.

She had nothing to worry about as Jamie returned in a flash, a piece of paper clutched carefully between his fingers. “Here,” he said, passing it over, “read this. I think it would be perfect to add to what you’ve already written. It was something we spoke about in passing the last few days and I wrote it down, just on the off chance that it would fit somewhere. No’ knowing, of course, that it might be the last thing we spoke about in reference to the book.”

Happiness fled from his eyes for a second as the sobering reality of what they were about to do set in before he shook the sombre feeling from his bones and placed his hands back carefully in his freshly steamed trousers.

“Oh, Jamie,” she sobbed, the new tears blurring the words as she held the paper away so that they didn’t ruin the script, “it’s perfect...but I think you should read this. You heard his voice, you’ve written what he told you so beautifully that I think he would want it to be you who voiced this in church.”

Grinning as he shook his head in disbelief, he took the proffered notepad back from Claire and placed it in his jacket pocket. “Are ye sure?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Ye should wear this,” he returned, changing the conversation once more as he plucked a clean lined black dress from the unsullied pile on the case. “Ye’ve still got the blazer he had made for you, the one wi’ the tools embroidered on the pockets and down the collar?” He asked, reminding her of a later section of the book, one where he had detailed Claire’s Masters graduation gift in detail including the story of the seamstress who’d adorned the pesky fabric and pinned herself that many times she’d scored the prints off her fingers by the end.

“Yes,” replying through the rapidly falling tears, she pointed to the door where the aforementioned article was hanging neatly on the back. “I still have it.”

“Aye. The dress wi’ that. You’ll look stunning, Claire.”

--

The service went out without a hitch; the church was packed, people having travelled halfway across the globe to share this arduous time with both Claire and Jamie. She’d spoken at length, far surpassing the one sided sheet of paper she had originally intended to stick to, the words falling from her freely. She felt stronger than she had on entering, her eyes glazed and large as she took in the sheer size of the audience, but once she had started, she found it difficult to stop.

Jamie did his part spectacularly, having almost the entire visiting congregation in hysterics. Just as Claire had predicted.

It made the wake a more relaxed affair and she stayed in amongst a group of Lambs oldest friends for the most part, laughing and reminiscing with them about everything she’d been taught by them and Lamb.

Seeing the light hearted nature of the conversation, Jamie watched from afar, talking to people here and there about the anecdotes he had shared during the funeral. She’d been quiet, of course, barely making a sound in the house since her arrival and he’d been cautiously optimistic about her opening up to him sometime soon. The aura of sadness she carried with her had distanced itself, the invisible black cloud dissipating with every breath she took of Scottish air and although she was still a mostly closed book, a small part of him wanted to entice her to stay and heal in Glasgow, on neutral ground, rather than return to Oxford straight away.

“I think that’s the last, Jamie.” Breaking the silence, he looked up to see the empty living room, a few plates strewn around with various elements of discarded food in the absence of life which had once preceded it but no more mourners.

“We should…”

“How about we leave it, just until tomorrow,” she interjected, sliding the last of the food waste into an open black bag, “I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.”

“Aye,” succumbing to the extreme fatigue that covered him from head to toe, he grabbed a tumblr and held it aloft, “agreed. How about a wee dram and a private toast?”

“Perfect.”

“To Quentin.” The commencement began with him passing Claire a double whack of whisky before clinking his glass with her own. “A man of honour…”

“...and grace…”

“...with passion and love in his heart.”

“Long may he rest in peace.” Claire finished, slugging back the spirit and closing her dry eyes. She’d finally cried herself out, and though she felt the familiar tinge of sadness building in her chest, she managed to feel somewhat at peace herself at long last.

#;Mod MBD #Cry Me A River #Jamie X Claire #Outlander Ficlet

[chaoskirin2]

As a long time Queen fan, is there anything you know about John Deacon that most fans are unaware of or forgotten? Any misconceptions? There is a lot about him but I hear all sorts of rumors like the stripper story.

I wish I could answer this with actual information. It would be great if I had something to bring to the fandom. Cool facts. Amusing anecdotes. But I don’t.

What I can say is this:

You can sense a lot about a person by how they present themselves. I think on some level, everyone has an empathic connection with the people they admire. Sometimes we find kindred spirits or people we look up to. We always want to say “My fave would never!” but the truth is, the people we look up to are human, too. They have their flaws and vices just like everyone else does.

Because people aren’t just black and white. We’re not all separated into “hero” and “villain.” There’s no alignment chart that encompasses whole populations. Sometimes bad people do good things. And sometimes good people do bad things. We should always look at the whole, and see any individual as a complete, balanced person.

We can identify and praise the good, but we can also examine and denounce the bad.

It’s important to not turn a blind eye to the bad things. But I think we also have a responsibility, before we attack, demean, or cast someone out, to verify that those things about them are true. The internet brings us into a world where published accusations have no filter, reach masses, and spread like wildfire. Before rumors can be contained and lies extinguished, too many people get absorbed into a groupthink mentality and lock themselves in an echo chamber where reality doesn’t shine.

I looked into the story of John and the adult club with an open mind. I knew I might find that it was all true in the end, and that would have been disappointing. But the important thing is that I didn’t trust the writings of an infamous, sensationalist tabloid and did the necessary work to uncover its veracity. I didn’t want to pry into John Deacon’s private life, but I think as his fans, we owe it to him not to spread false information.

And it wasn’t an easy process. In my original conversations with Sophisticats, I was told they wouldn’t talk to me unless I was seeking an audition. In fact, I didn’t hear back on the answers to my questions until months later, long after I published the original debunking. (I’ll post that under a read more below.)

In the end, I think Deacon has given us an indescribable part of himself that can’t be quantified or be given a price tag. And we owe him his privacy. We also owe him the courtesy to not seek out scandal just because he is a quiet, private man.

My original debunking of the Sophisticats Bullshit:

After carefulconsideration, I've decided to fact-check the story about John Deacon's forayinto strip clubs, titled "Queen's Boring Bassist," published in theDaily Mail on January 30, 2005.

 First, looking at theDaily Mail's track record, it is considered to be an unreliable, far-right(conservative) newspaper. According to readers on Quora, it "has zerocredibility" and is "sensationalist nonsense." User GraemeShimmin states that he uses the Daily Mail as a reverse fact-check: "if the Daily Mail says something is true thenI assume it is untrue."According to Media Bias/Fact Check (mediabiasfactcheck.com/daily-mail/) thepaper has a "poor track record with fact-checkers.) The Wikipedia articleabout the Daily Mail states that it is unreliable and biased, and has also beencriticized for instances of copyright violation.

 It has also come underfire in the past for its powerful bias. In the 1930s, the Daily Mail ranseveral articles praising Nazism and Fascism. Virgin Trains recently stoppedstocking the Daily Mail due to its strong-right stance as beinganti-immigration and anti-LGBT, among other things.

 Most notably, severalcelebrities, including Diana Rigg, Elton John, and J. K. Rowling, have brought successfullawsuits against the Daily Mail for publishing false information. Of particularinterest, and almost directly related to the subject matter of this fact-check,Melania Trump received a settlement based on allegations published in the DailyMail stating that she had been an "escort" in the 1990s.

 Wikipedia will also notallow the Daily Mail to be used as a source.

 The article itself ispoorly-written, is riddled with grammatical and punctuation errors, andcontains a general lack of impartiality. Any publication with integrity willhave a preference for neutral language which does not lead its readers to aparticular conclusion. It also contains heavy speculation pertaining toDeacon's decision to not tour or give interviews related to Queen.

 It makes the medicallyinaccurate statement that Freddie Mercury "died of AIDS." (it isimpossible to die from AIDS. People who suffer the disease die due tocomplications from AIDS' attack on the immune system. In Mercury's case, hepassed away due to bronchopneumonia related to AIDS.)

 Lastly, there are nocorroborating sources - no other articles in any publications mention that JohnDeacon ever visited a strip club or had an affair. Compare this to theextensive coverage of Brian May's marriage problems with his current wife,Anita Dobson. Needless to say, it is extremely important that multiple sourcesverify any information for it to be considered true. Of note, other far-rightsources that publish articles with no corroborating sources include BreitbartNews and the Westboro Baptist Church.

 It was very interestingthat the Daily Mail has a quote by Opposition dancer Jenny Fewins, but it isnot attributed. I found the quote's source by accident, when looking forinformation about her and her credibility. The quote in the Daily Mail wasstolen from a book called Queen: TheEarly Years by Mark Hodkinson, with no credit given. This was a surprising,but welcome, confirmation of the sources that state that the Daily Mail hasbeen cited for copyright infringement. The part about Freddie Mercury arrivingat the wedding wearing a feather boa, as well as Roger Taylor's assessment ofDeacon's personality, are also from the same book, and also uncredited.

 Both anecdotes are alsotruncated and incomplete, and spliced with false paraphrasing. For example,Roger Taylor did not say, "We were so over-the-top, we thought thatbecause he was quiet, he would fit in with us without too much upheaval."The correct quote from the original source is, "We thought he was great.We were all so used to each other, and so over the top. We thought that becausehe was quiet, he would fit in with us without too much upheaval. He was a greatbass player, too -- and the fact that he was a wizard with electronics was alsoa deciding factor."

 I cannot find any sourcefor the quote by Robert Ahwai, nor much about him, other than the fact that itseems he is a real person. His quote in the article, if it is real, is alsospeculative, and from a person who only knew Deacon from college and had noassociation with him at the time of Freddie Mercury's death.

 Unfortunately, whilesearching for information about whether or not Deacon's relationship withdancer Emma Shelley was, indeed, an affair (as well as whether or not sheexisted) I had to compare information about the affairs of Brian May and RogerTaylor. The reason behind this endeavor is to set the bar for how much information ispublished about the personal lives of Queen members. In my search, I foundseveral articles about May's affair with secretary Julie Glover, as well as ahandful of candid photographs. I also found a few articles, and one picture,about Roger Taylor's affair with Fay Lawrence. Despite celebrities' attempts tokeep extramarital affairs secret, there are always a few photographs thatappear, especially in the UK, where tabloid press is viciously always on thelookout for gossip. Paparazzi can earn quite a bit of money from an exclusivephoto.

 When Simon Langer and hispartner, John McKeown, took over the Sophisticats strip club in 2001, heestablished several club rules, which directly conflict with information fromthe article. First, that clients in the strip club are not allowed to have anycontact whatsoever with the dancers. The article states that Shelley was a"lap dancer," which would, of course, require some pretty close contact.

 Second, dancers are notpermitted to accept addresses or phone numbers from clients. Clients whoacquire personal information are not permitted back into the club, and thedancers are terminated.

 I attempted to findcontact information for Mr. Langer or Mr. McKeown, however, I was unable tofind any current addresses or phone numbers. In hopes that an email would reachthe proper entities, I sent a message to the account set up for bookings andauditions, which was the only email address listed on the site.

 I wished to ask about howstrictly the rules are enforced. I also found it odd that apparently Mr. Langerhad no problem with giving out client information to the Daily Mail,specifically stating that he knew Deacon visited the establishment. Even more shocking,he gave out information about his employees - someone named "Olga"with no last name given, as well as Emma Shelley. This seemed like a breach oftrust to me.

 The strip club that Johnis said to have attended, Sophisticats, does indeed exist. As Sophisticats hasno contact information on their website, I messaged their page on Facebook,asking as to whether they employed any women named "Olga" or"Emma Shelley" circa 2000-2001. I also located an email address aftersome extensive searching, and sent the same question to that email, as well.

 Unfortunately,Sophisticats declined comment to my inquiry. The only response I received askedwhether or not I planned on auditioning.

 The strangest thing aboutJohn Deacon's alleged affair with Emma Shelley is that one particular photo isposed, as if taken with his permission. Considering the fact that multiplesources (including the Daily Mail, which published the photo) state that Deaconis secretive and reclusive, he would not pose for a photo with a mistress if hewished to keep the affair secret. This photo is also blurry, which is atechnique of photomanipulators who have severely edited a photo. Had Deaconactually posed for this photo, there would be no need for it to be blurry, asthe photographer wouldn't have had to rush to take it. Interestingly, it isalso impossible to tell whether or not the man in the photo is actually JohnDeacon.

The answer to this point might seem obvious - the photos were taken in secret.However, with the saturation and contrast in these photos (a point I willexplore in more detail shortly) they must have been taken with a flash. Whileit might have been possible to take such a photo with a high ISO, the entirepicture would have been extremely bright and grainy. If you check the photos,you'll see that there is absolutely no grain indicative of a high ISO, nor isthere enough blurriness to support a conclusion that any grain was removed. Thebrightness of the subject matter and the extreme black background can only meanthat a flash was used.

 Which Deacon would havenoticed. As would have the dancer in the photos. The person who took the photoslikely would have had his camera confiscated, and would have been escorted outof the club - they would not have had the opportunity to take one photo, thenmove, and take a second photo.

 And... This is as far as Igot with the research before I stopped working on it. As I was unable to getany further information (including from another club that may have beeninvolved - Stringfellows) I could not continue my research. Take from this whatyou will.Sorry about the incompleteness of this. It's all I was able to accomplish.

#queen #queen band #john deacon #that fucking article that won't fucking die #Anonymous

[starringemiliaclarke]

Press: Emilia Clarke interview: the Game of Thrones star on leaving Westeros behind to tackle the West End

Emilia Clarke interview: the Game of Thrones star on leaving Westeros behind to tackle the West End

Clarke, who now stars in Chekhov’s The Seagull, tells Louis Wise that the HBO fantasy series made her feel like a ‘small cog in a big machine’

      Gallery Links:

PHOTOSHOOTS & OUTTAKES > 2020 > 2020 The Sunday Times

MAGAZINES > 2020 > 2020 The Sunday Times Culture Magazine – March 15

  The Times: Emilia Clarke says she views herself primarily as a stage actress, which is a little weird when you consider that she has only appeared in one play professionally before, and it was an absolute turkey. Or, as the 33-year-old star of Game of Thrones says, in her jolly British way, it was “terrible, awful, awful! Bad! That was a bad show!” The piece was Breakfast at Tiffany’s on Broadway in 2013, and it’s safe to say Clarke’s Holly Golightly did not enchant. “I’ll never forget, someone said to me after press night the only thing they liked was the cat.”

If Clarke relays this with surprising good humour, this is part temperament, part experience. For one thing, in person she is relentlessly chipper and pukka. Whereas on HBO’s mega-fantasy series Game of Thrones, she grew in stature as Daenerys Targaryen, a still, dignified stateswoman (until that end), in real life she is a goofy motormouth chatterbox, always eager to catch the joke at her expense. And she is no stranger to what we shall politely call “the mixed review”. She has known some drubbings, whether for that Broadway show, or films such as Last Christmas or Terminator Genisys, or indeed the final series of GoT, which — euphemism alert! — didn’t quite turn out the way everybody wanted.

Luckily she never reads reviews. “Because if it’s really, really good, someone will tell you. And if it’s really, really bad — some f***** will tell you.”

We are meeting today, though, at a rehearsal space in south London, because she is chucking herself back into the fray. For only her second stage appearance, Clarke is going straight into the West End, in Chekhov’s The Seagull, and taking on the prestigious role of Nina. If she is nervous, she’s handling it in the usual way, which is to say with huge blasts of good cheer.

Two clichés about meeting starsis that they are a) smaller than you thought, but b) their features are stronger than expected. Both are true of Clarke. She is tiny, proper Kylie-tiny, nicely decked out in a gauzy beige-cream knit, some fashionably frayed jeans and pointy, well-worn white cowboy boots. Yet her eyes and grin look extra big: if she stays still, she’s a dainty doll, but as soon as she moves it’s Looney Tunes. To be clear, she never stays still.

This energy feels helpful, as we have a lot to pack in. After all, Clarke’s past decade has been particularly wild. Not only did she rocket suddenly to fame in GoT (until then, her only screen credit was an episode of Doctors), she also lost her father to cancer in 2016 and, as she revealed in 2019, had suffered a sequence of brain haemorrhages in her early twenties, just as the madness of GoT was kicking off.

In private, she experienced various exhausting surgeries at the same time as becoming one of pop culture’s favourite mascots, scrutinised relentlessly on a moral, artistic and very physical level. She recalls being in hospital recovering from an operation and picking up a newspaper. “I was, like, ‘I’m going to see if I can read it,’” she says. “And I was, like, ‘Oh my God, there’s a review of the show. And, oh God, they are just talking about how fat my arse is.’”(Which is the last review she read.)

All of which brings us to the elephant, or dragon, in the room. Over seven seasons, Daenerys, aka Khaleesi, Mother of Dragons, had one hell of an arc, going from weak dynastic pawnto all-conquering queen, a kind of Catherine the Great with sub-Barbarella hair. And then, oops! Daenerys, thrilled at almost achieving her goal of ruling the Seven Kingdoms, lost the plot, turned into a psychotic dead-eyed tyrant, massacring a whole city and essentially going the full Pol Pot. She was then abruptly bumped off by her lover-cum-nephew, Jon Snow, and a worldwide fanbase stopped and went: what?

For Clarke, it had been a hard secret to keep — she had known the ending long in advance. She admits she is still processing it all.

“When the show did end, it was like coming out of a bunker. Everything felt really strange. Then obviously for it to have the backlash it did …” Did she expect it? She slows down, a rare occurrence. “I knew how I felt when I first read it, and I tried, at every turn, not to consider too much what other people might say, but I did always consider what the fans might think — because we did it for them, and they were the ones who made us successful, so … it’s just polite, isn’t it?”

It’s clear Clarke is caught between her close friendship with the series’ creators, David Benioff and DB Weiss, and her deep awareness of what most fans wanted. In fact, she first suggests that it’s the news wot done it.

“I do think that the global temperature, how much horrific news there is consistently, goes a way to explain the enormity of the fans’ outrage,” she argues. “Because people are going, finally, here’s something I can actually see and understand and get some control back over … and then when that turns, and you don’t like what they’ve done …”

Hmm. It’s a nice theory, but with Daenerys we were just denied a happy ending, right? She nods quietly. “Yeah.” So did not getting that also make her sad? She tries to explain that “as an actor” it was actually all “a gift”, but eventually the tornado of diplomacy peters out. “Yeah, I felt for her. I really felt for her. And yeah, was I annoyed that Jon Snow didn’t have to deal with something?” She lets us out an exasperated laugh. “He got away with murder — literally.”

She also eventually agrees with the critique that the final season condensed far too much in far too little time (“We could have spun it out for a little longer”) and that it could simply have had more dialogue. “It was all about the set pieces,” she agrees. “I think the sensational nature of the show was, possibly, given a huge amount of airtime because that’s what makes sense.”

Is she at least happy it ended when it did? “I mean, ‘happy’ is a funny word. It’s a strong word. Again, the show was so big. I was a small cog in a very, very, very big machine …”

What she means, though, is that she actually liked this. The show provided a routine, a family, something to fall back on every year; it also gave her experience. “I very much feel my career is something that’s happened to me, as opposed to the other way around,” she says. But she can see that being a cog has its limits, as doesforever having to cater to fans and, yes, to the press. “Doing a show so many people had opinions about doesn’t serve your creativity on any level.”

All of which explains why she is doing this Seagull with Jamie Lloyd, the director who just landed raves for his Cyrano with James McAvoy. And, yes, although she knows it’s “hilarious”, she somehow does “identify closer with theatre”. This is mostly to do with her dad, who was a theatre engineer; her mother is a vice-president in marketing for a management consultancy firm. Clarke and her brother had an idyllic-sounding childhood in Oxfordshire. Inspired by her father’s job, she always wanted to be an actress, apparently from the age of three. “I think of him whenever I’m walking through the West End,” she says. “My dad is everywhere in the theatre, 100%.”

She says this happily; I get the impression she hasn’t finished grieving, she’s just moved on to a better, celebratory phase. How would he feel about her playing Nina? “I think he would be nervous for me,” she says with a chuckle. It is, she knows, a big role: Nina, the aspiring actress whose dreams of fame are dashed, but who plugs away regardless. “I was never your Nina at drama school, that’s for sure,” says Clarke. “I wasn’t really a favourite [there], at all.”

Instead, she got parts like Jewish grannies, or ���a down-and-out, pissed-off, washed-up prostitute”. But did she always want to be Nina or Juliet? “Well, of course I did. Oh my God, yeah. So I’m in no doubt there’s still some of that in me where I’m like: ‘Oh my God, guys, check it out! Finally she got there.’”

Clarke does like to cast herself as an underdog, although, thankfully, she does seem mostly to be aware that she is coming from a place of privilege. By the end of GoT she was reportedly paid $500,000 an episode. Is money a concern any more? “I am careful,” she says. “I’m a lot more careful now than I was.” She has a lovely house in north London with a bar in the garden. She can pick jobs for their artistic content first and foremost (“I want to work with an auteur!”). So yes, she knows she has it good, which is why she waited several years before revealing her brain trauma.

“I didn’t want to turn it into this celebrity sob story. I didn’t want people’s pity or ‘Oh, poor little rich girl, your successful life ain’t good enough?’” She is now happy she did it. “It’s done a huge amount of healing for me, being able to open up about it.” Her health status is “beautiful” now. “I was match-fit six weeks after the second surgery [in 2013],” she clarifies. “But mentally …”

On the other end of the spectrum, her fame has made something else hard: dating. “I am single right now …” She says with a smile. “Dating in this industry is interesting. I have a lot of funny anecdotes, a lot of stuff I can say at a fun dinner.” She was last seen in 2018 with a film director, and before that she was linked to Seth MacFarlane and James Franco. Does she mostly date fellow actors, because that’s how the industry works? “I was, and now I’m not,” she says — more smiles.

“I mean, I wouldn’t say I’ve completely sworn off them, but I do think actor relationships that are successful are few and far between, and you have to have a ton of trust.” Now and then her friends tell her to try Raya, the dating app that is supposedly for more exclusive celeb types. When she looks at it, though, “it’s just models. What am I going to do there?”

In short, everything about Clarke’s life is still monumentally weird, but she is doing a good job of pretending it’s not. After the play, she has “any one of nine projects that could go at the end of this year, and I have no idea which one will win”. A lot, she announces, are “dark”. Would she do fantasy again? “I think, if I did, it would be me having a giggle,” she says. I take this to mean her doing a send-up, a kind of Extras take on GoT, but no: “I want to do something absolutely stupid and silly, like, you know, The Avengers or whatever. Something where I got to have a giggle with mates.”

I’ve never thought of the Marvel mega-franchise as a downtime laff with pals, but that’s the level Clarke is operating on. I suppose it’s a pretty good happy ending.

The Seagull, Playhouse, London WC2, until May 30

Press: Emilia Clarke interview: the Game of Thrones star on leaving Westeros behind to tackle the West End was originally published on Enchanting Emilia Clarke | Est 2012

#emilia clarke #game of thrones #game of thrones cast #GOT cast #daenerys targaryen #me before you #terminator

[sukunasdirtylaugh]

Surprise Me  (2/?)

Word Count: 2.6k

Pairing: Bucky x Female Bookstore Reader

Summary: Bucky finally decided to go out to the city. ( I really want to say more but this story will most likely make you a wreck and I don’t want to spoil it). All I can say is, be warned, enjoy it, laugh, smile, cry, and squeal if you must because you have just signed yourself to the RMS- I’m gonna fucking die if you don’t update this shit- ship.

Current Summary: You better be ready sweetheart because these two dorks are flurrying up some sarcasm. Honestly, why can’t they date already? And why do I want to date Bucky Barnes? 

Chapter 1    Chapter 2

A/N: THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE SUPPORT IN THE LAST CHAPTER! I’d love to hear some more feedback if that’s alright please 

It’s been a week since that particular stranger came to your (well it’s not really your) bookstore. God, you were so stupid for not knowing his name.

 “And you didn’t ask him for his name?” your friend, Cordelia asked. 

You shook your head, “No! I didn’t! I was too busy thinking about what book to give him! It was as if I forgot to function- you know I’m not like that, right? I always introduce myself, always.” 

Your other friend, Macy giggles, “So let me get this correctly: you were working in this bookstore on a Friday when all-of-a-sudden, this tall, dark seemingly handsome stranger walks in and talks to you having no idea what kind of book he wants and you couldn’t get his name? Oh sweetheart! You’re still so young in the name of love!”

You smiled at your old friends as you leaned against the counter-getting support from your elbows-noticing some new grey hairs in your friends hair. “Well, you can’t really blame me! I haven’t really…”

 “Haven’t really what? C’mon sweetie, you’re young and beautiful-not to say kind as well. Haven’t you got a boyfriend? I’m sure you’ve got boys piling up at your doorstep-maybe you don’t realize it!”

You mentally laughed.

 Ha ha. Boys. Boyfriend, me? Have you seen me?

To be honest, you had your fair share (not really). You went out with this guy once when you were 17 but he never called it a date so was it a date? The two of you talked for a bit but the poor guy was too nervous to even talk. You both decided to cut it short and left with an awkward hug and smile-that’s it. 

Your second encounter was when you were in college; there was this guy in your Literature class and he seemed nice but you already had a feeling something was going to happen. He asked you out (again, not even calling a date) and the two of you met at an ice cream shop. He seemed to not be interested and he excused himself to take a call outside and never came back, leaving you inside for almost an hour. When you got to class that week, he sat next to the new girl that just transferred into your class that semester. Yet she happened to be the smartest girl in the class. Leaving you at second. 

Can’t really say you’ve had dating experience either. You were just the ‘girl to ask about boy problems’ in your local dormitory. Girls who had boyfriends would show up to your room and ask you for advice while you yourself had never held hands with a boy except your baby cousin’s. Even the popular cheerleaders would ask you. Learning that you were actually good at talking with girls at 2am, mascara running down their eyes and half-melted strawberry ice cream on their laps, you realized you were pretty damn good at doing what you did. 

Besides giving advice, you were also pretty damn good at writing.  Unknowingly, your professors would comment on your work-some even encouraging you to publish a book.

Little did they know you hoped for that.

You hoped for something great. Working in a bookstore was like a dream come true. There was no one else but you and Mrs. Antilly. That was it. It was both relieving being alone and handling things yourself but you also wished for help at times-but always pulled through. You liked that independence.

You started out small. Since there were Schools and a nearby University, some students would occasionally pop in in search for a book. You offered writing help and with the money you eventually came to earn, you put some of that money in funding that bookstore and the current club/organization you had; not even knowing you had made new valuable elderly friends. 

“Oh no,” you laughed it off bringing yourself back to reality, “I don’t have one.”

“Oh please, haven’t you been in love yet? Look at yourself darlin’!”

Darlin’  a voice echoed behind her. 

-

“Do you like it?” She had asked.

“Well Darlin’, I haven’t even read it yet.” He lied. “What made you want to give me this?”

“You looked like you needed something, different. You seem like you need something new, refreshing. You need change.” 

-

It was almost as if he spoke behind her behind her ear.

“Look at yourself!” Cordelia pulled you out of your thoughts, “You’re an angel! You’re sweet, kind, and funny! Any guy would be stupid not to fall in love with you,”

You smiled at their words and looked down at the counter shaking your head. 

“Was it nice?” You asked, “Falling in love? How was it?’’

The ladies gave you a look of what seemed to be motherly adoration and their answers were filled with anecdotes and themes you could pull from.

You sighed nodding. You were glad to have them.

‘’Do you think he’ll come back?” you asked them.

“Who? Book Boy?”

You laughed and nodded, “Yeah, book boy.”

“I give it a week,” another voice called. Your heart dropped looking from the source of this new voice. It was masculine.

“Oh Richard!” Macy called out, “You came!” 

“Of course I did, Baby.” he said before wrapping an arm around Macy; he tipped his hat down. Richard was Macy’s husband. He worked for the NYT Newspaper as a writer and he met Macy through a rush down the subway. Quite romantic actually.

“Now, I hear there’s this boy? What’s going on?” he asked as he adjusted his collar shirt.

“Oh it’s about this boy that came into the shop and we think that our little Tilly here is finally getting a boyfriend!”

You bit the inside of your cheek trying hard to not laugh or blush but failed.

“We just talked! I just gave him a book, Rick! That’s all, a book.”

“Yeah,” Cordelia snickered, “A free book.”

Macy stepped in, “Honey, that’s like the equivalent of a girl that would now-a-days flash a boy.”

Your cheeks flushed red and your eyes widened.

“Ha! See? I’m right! That guy was special after all!” Cordelia says as she throws in a finger to further prove her point. 

“Thing is, Ricky,” his wife said, “She didn’t even trade names with him which is so unlike her! And now we’re thinking when he’ll come back.”

“How long has it been?’’ Rick asked you.

“A week,” you say as you and him look at one another.

He nods and places his hand on his chin, he’s thinking. Rick looks into your eyes and continues to read you very well before he nods again.

“A week,” he said. “I still give it a week,”

“But it’s already been a week!” Cordelia whines. “Why is this boy taking so long?”

“Still, a week.’’ he said decidedly. “It’s been 7 days. If he comes back on the 10th, he’s definitely hesitant but if he comes today, the same day of the week he came last week, then he’s traditional-or just worried that he might not see you again. Had to wait all this time in order to catch you again. It’s too soon to tell where he stands; you don’t know what is going on with a boy now a days but you keep being yourself sweetheart. The boy isn’t worth causing your pretty little head headaches if he can’t seem to respect your self dignity. You’re not here to please him-just yourself. Drop him if he does, okay?” he finished as you nodded thankful for having a somewhat father figure in this big city.

Not really having a father figure really did cause this sense of unbalance within you; making you take the role of a mother and father along with your mother while raising your sibling. Rick was probably one of the first (if not the only) to ever give you this kind of advice, or fatherly protection. A protection you never had but always felt like you wanted. Trying not to cry, you nodded-thankful for having him in your life.

“Thank you Rick. Thank you Macy, thank you Cordelia, you’re all the best.” you said as you absentmindedly wrapped your arms around yourself.

They all noticed before Rick called you out on it.

“Oh come on and give us a hug Tills!” he said as you smiled-tears threatening to fall as you sucurriedly headed their way as you gave the 3 a group hug.

And that was it.

Well for now at least. Rick, Macy, and Cordelia would always step in the morning to say hi and then leave to run some errands you wished you could help but you already had your own responsibilities. Later that day, Cordelia and Macy would stop by at around at 3 along with other elders to come join your self organized and funded (with the money you earned for tutoring) Knitting club held every friday from 3 to 6- something you were internally proud of hosting. 

Quite frankly, you loved Fridays. There really wasn’t much to do since you had all your preparations done for the day so all you could do right now was sit in your laptop and write. And that’s what you intended on doing for a couple of hours.

So you decided to write.

Popping in your earphones, you began writing a story that you would hope others would find interesting.

After writing for what seemed to be minutes, you look at the bottom right corner of your laptop it’s been almost two hours of writing.

It’s 11am, you thought. He came around 11 last week. Oh my god it’s officially a week and I’m just realizing that the girls are doing something to me. It's just a guy!  You think as you make some facial expressions mentally arguing with yourself. 

Let’s get back to writing now. Just for 5 more minutes. 5, nothing more. Then, I can get back to checking the shelves again even though they’re already in good shape. 

Little did you know, someone was on their way for a little visit.

Hearing a bell ring from the background, a part of you hoped for it to be the boy from last week. Taking a moment, you looked from the corner of your eye and noticed it was him. Your heart started palpitating in agitation. 

Dang it he’s here! What am I supposed to say? Should I have had some lines prepared or something? You asked yourself. Of course not! Your conscience says. You just met him a week ago! This isn’t some romantic movie from Netflix, Tilly. Get yourself together! C’mon, he’s waiting for you and you’re going to do this: look up, take your earphones off, and look extremely cool, calm, and collected. Yeah, the 3 C’s haha. Oh my gosh that was cool- DO IT!!!  That voice yelled from the back of your mind. 

Doing exactly what you planned, you gave him a small smile, “Oh hey, book boy. I see you came back,” you comment as you motioned to the book that you let him have.

“Of course,” he says as he walks up to you and the counter, “couldn’t leave one of my favorite bookstores in New York without comin’ back.”

You scoff in response, “Oh I’m flattered. You know, you don’t have to flatter me to get another book you know? There’s actually this method I hear of where people just ask for something and if they’re nice enough, that person might help them?” you say as you look at his facial expressions-getting a better view than last time. 

Dark hair, watery steel blue eyes…

“Well I’m glad that I’m talking to the right person,” 

You hum in response as you repeat his words in your mind. ‘Well I’m glad that I’m talking to the right person.’

“So what did you think of the book?”

He either liked it or hated it, she thought.

I finished it in two days, Bucky thought. Maybe even in one if it weren’t for Sam’s constant bugging. 

By now you had moved and tilted your laptop slightly to the side.

“Well,” He started as you noticed him leaning on your counter. Your counter.

“For 422 pages, Fitzgerald really did himself. He wrote quite the book actually. It was like… trying Champagne for the very first time, or trying on a new suit. Like you said, it was very refreshing. Who knew he would get so much success for a book inspired on his relationship with his wife?”

“What an analogy,” you say sarcastically as you rest your chin on your hand. “You did some research didn’t you?”

Bucky’s eyes widened. Fuck how’d she know?

She could tell his surprise. “What’s the matter, book boy? Cat got your tongue?” You teased with a smile and a knowing look.

He didn't say anything so she decided to keep the conversation going. “I’m just messing with you.’’ you say as you let out a slight nervous laugh, “Glad to hear you liked it.”

“But I didn't say I liked it,”

“Doesn’t matter, you read it and did research on it. I could tell you liked it by the way you were talking to me moments ago. Sounds like a paraphrased NYT review if you’d ask me,”

You continued to talk. “You were using words from others,’’ you lectured, “It’s not a bad thing to get inspiration from that but don’t let that take control over you; don’t let it take over who you are as a person alright? Not even to impress others,”

“Who said I was trying to impress you?”

Your stomach churned a little at a loss for words for a split second

You burst out laughing and changed the subject, “Okay you definitely need a new book.” you say as you get off your seat, “ Fitzgerald you is starting to irritate me and we just met. You need something else.”

Internally, Bucky felt as if he just won that battle.

“Fine by me, Glasses.”

You turn your head in his direction, “Glasses?’’ you parroted, “Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“Oh no,” he says as he places his hands in his pockets, “It quite suits you,”

“Yeah but it’s not as ironic as Book Boy,” 

He shrugs, “True-but I’m not as quick-minded as you when it comes to talkin’, Glasses.”

You raise your eyebrow at him-an amusing grin fills your smile, “Flattering again, book boy? Geez.”

His dark hair moves swiftly on his shoulders and he releases a chuckle, “It’s not really flattering unless the person sees it as flattering,” he says as he shoots you a look; a look that you dodge.

“Just gotta ask, book boy,” you murmur under your breath loud enough for him to hear. 

“So…” he starts after a moment of silence, “How long have you been workin’ here?” 

You raise your eyebrows at him in surprise, “Oh so now we’re sharing life stories now, huh?  I see how it is,”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, “Maybe we should. Tell you what, how about you give me any book in this shop and I give you one. We read them, then we discuss. Oh, and I should have paid you for-”

You raise your hand and shake it dismissively, “No, no, it’s okay. You don’t have to pay for it. Consider it as a gift.”

He nods, “I see,” he says as he looks down in thought for a moment, “Are you busy right now?” he asks.

You shake your head-a nervous lump forms in your throat, “Not really.”

Book Boy smiles at you, “Okay,” he nods, “How about I buy you a coffee in return from the book you gave me last week?” he asks.

Your eyes widen and you swear you feel like you’re living in a Hollywood movie and you feel your heart go from your chest to your esophagus, “Right now?” 

“Why not?” he questions, “I could use someone to talk to right now and who better than you, Glasses?” 

A/N: IM DYING I SWEAR IM SO SORRY FOR UPDATING TWO DAYS LATE BUT THIS FEELS RIGHT! I ALREADY HAVE PARTS DONE FOR CHAPTER 3 BTW AND PLEASE DON’T FORGET TO LIKE AND REBLOG-I’D LOVE TO HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS ON THIS PRETTY PLEASE

#bucky #Bucky Barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky x reader #book #bookstore #broklyn #Avengers #infinity war #endgame #avengers endgame #avengers infinity war #james #james barnes #sebastian stan #sebastian #Stan #marvel

[mzhong2014]

Weekly reading digest (7/28-8/3)

A break to remember: Stanford faculty reminisce about their college summers:

Reading about the faculty members whom I admire so much, this was a humanizing post that reminded me that everyone has struggled through the routine and impossible just like you have. My favorite quote from Ambassador Eikenberry about his summer learning how to jump out of an aircraft while at the US Army Airborne School. Ambassador Eikenberry is the embodiment of poise, humbleness, and courage, so I particularly enjoyed reading his blurb:

“As the aircraft rumbled toward the drop zone, one of the cadre, a very seasoned sergeant, gets in front of me, grabs my two shoulder straps, looks me in the face and because of the deafening engine noise, shouted at me: ‘Airborne,’– which is how all students are addressed – ‘are you nervous?’

And although I was nervous, I gave the answer I thought he wanted to hear.

‘No, Sergeant,’ I said. ‘I’m not nervous.’

The sergeant looked at me and very calmly said: ‘Airborne, I want you to be nervous. This is your first jump.’

I’ll never forget that expression on his face and his sincerity.

‘Every time you jump out of an airplane in the future, I want you to be nervous,’ the sergeant said to me. ‘Because when you are nervous, you are thinking hard about the challenge you are facing. In your mind, you are going through all the training you had – what is the next thing to do and what to do should something go wrong.’

And then he said: ‘What I don’t want you to do is be afraid. Be nervous, but don’t be afraid. If you let your fears control you, then you are going to make a mistake.’”

To be great, you must first be vulnerable. 

The Brethren: Inside the Supreme Court

I started listening to this on audiobook when I spontaneously decided to drive to San Diego at 10;30 pm on a Saturday night and back Sunday afternoon (totaling 5 hours of driving).

The Brethren is written by Bob Woodward, yes, one of the reporters of the Wategate Scandal. Earlier this year, I grabbed coffee with a litigator in an effort to shed light on the mysterious question of what does it mean to be a lawyer. He recommended this book to help elucidate this question, and only 30 minutes into the audiobook, I understood why. It is perhaps the most intimate account of the prestigious Supreme Court, uncovering the day-to-day scenes hidden behind the white marble columns and impressive wooden bench. In contrast to my other readings that cover the intellectual origins of the judiciary branch, The Brethren shows how the justice system works in a very raw and real-life manner. Spanning 1969-1975 during Burger’s early years as Chief Justice, it shows exactly how politics mixes with the supposedly nonpartisan judiciary system, the nitty-gritty of how varying legal philosophies translate to vastly diverse approaches towards handling legal issues (especially during a very contentious period with the civil rights movement), as well as how the different personalities impacted the very tactical routines of the Supreme Court.

No specific quotes because, unfortunately, I do not have the auditory version of photographic memory, but initial reactions:  

I was surprised by how the Justice’s different opinions extended beyond the question of whether something was constitutional, but also the question of how do policymakers tactically carry out a Supreme Court decision. For example, the first few chapters focused on the decision around how to issue a court order regarding Brown v Board of Education as Southern states dug their heels in to prolong the delay of integration of schools. Because of the vague phrasing used in the ruling opinion, “with all deliberate speed,” lawyers were using this language to justify these 15-year delays. The court order had to achieve and balance a number of objectives: avoid appearing submissive to the delay and admonish any attempts to prevent integration while balancing the practical concerns for allowing time to let schools create and implement a sound plan for integration to minimize the chaos / violence during this time. But should these practical considerations be up to the judiciary branch to decide? 

As a junior consultant, it was interesting to see how exactly the Justices manage their clerks and how each Justice’s personality dictated their working norms -- shows how collegial the Court is but also how political it can be 

It was also interesting to see the different philosophies that the Justices had towards being a judge. To grossly generalize, the Justices had very different opinions on the degree to which they cared about being legally rigorous in their opinions versus arriving at some legal conclusion with considerable political and social implications

The Brothers Karamazov: Ivan’s Rebellion

One of the most famous passages in The Brother’s Karamazov is Ivan’s rebellion, where he rejects God of his justice system. The dialogue occurs between Ivan, the intellectual of his three brothers, and Alyosha, the most spiritually pure of the three. Ivan focuses his argument on the suffering of children to illustrate the injustice of God. 

“I won't speak of grown-up people is that, besides being disgusting and unworthy of love, they have a compensation—they've eaten the apple and know good and evil, and they have become 'like gods.' They go on eating it still. But the children haven't eaten anything, and are so far innocent.”

Ivan proceeds to provide anecdotes that he has collected of children suffering – which are based on true stories that Dostoevsky collected from the newspaper. Ivan recounts tales of how the Turks cut open “the unborn child from the mother’s womb,” skewering babies with their bayonets in glee. He tells another story of a five-year old girl beaten to pulp by her parents, her mouth smeared with excrement, left to sleep in the cold frost of an outhouse. With relentless momentum, Ivan recounts his last story about a serf-boy who throws a stone at a kennel of hounds, and hurts the paw of a general’s dog. The child is summoned to the general and stripped naked.

“He shivers, numb with terror, not daring to cry… 'Make him run,' commands the general. 'Run! run!' shout the dog-boys. The boy runs…'At him!' yells the general, and he sets the whole pack of hounds on the child. The hounds catch him, and tear him to pieces before his mother's eyes!”

The Bible reasons that all, including children, must suffer for man’s sin. Even the most innocent, children, “must suffer for their fathers' sins, they must be punished for their fathers, who have eaten the apple.” These damned children, Ivan continues, some may twistedly suggest that “the child would have grown up and have sinned, but you see he didn't grow up, he was torn to pieces by the dogs, at eight years old.”  

Ivan concludes that he cannot accept God if his justice requires children to suffer for an “eternal harmony.”

“I must have justice, or I will destroy myself. And not justice in some remote infinite time and space, but here on earth, and that I could see myself. I have believed in it. I want to see it, and if I am dead by then, let me rise again, for if it all happens without me, it will be too unfair. Surely I haven't suffered simply that I, my crimes and my sufferings, may manure the soil of the future harmony for somebody else. I want to see with my own eyes the hind lie down with the lion and the victim rise up and embrace his murderer. I want to be there when everyone suddenly understands what it has all been for. All the religions of the world are built on this longing, and I am a believer. But then there are the children, and what am I to do about them? That's a question I can't answer.

[…]

While there is still time, I hasten to protect myself, and so I renounce the higher harmony altogether. It's not worth the tears of that one tortured child who beat itself on the breast with its little fist and prayed in its stinking outhouse, with its unexpiated tears to 'dear, kind God'! It's not worth it, because those tears are unatoned for. They must be atoned for, or there can be no harmony. But how? How are you going to atone for them? Is it possible? By their being avenged? But what do I care for avenging them? What do I care for a hell for oppressors? What good can hell do, since those children have already been tortured? And what becomes of harmony, if there is hell? I want to forgive. I want to embrace. I don't want more suffering. And if the sufferings of children go to swell the sum of sufferings which was necessary to pay for truth, then I protest that the truth is not worth such a price.”

And that is the crux of the passage – the prospect of an eternal harmony is not worth the suffering of the innocent to repent for the Sin of Man.

In face of our inability to find the meaning of seemingly meaningless suffering in the empirical and physical world, we are faced with two options: 1) consult the transcendental for truths that lie outside of our physical world or 2) turn inwards to provide meaning ourselves. Both are fairly unsatisfactory frameworks, in my opinion. An argument against the first is well illustrated above, and there is little that I can add of intellectual value to Dostoevsky’s work. 

As for the second point, everyone tells you during intense moments of suffering that you will always learn something in hindsight -- in an attempt to imbue seemingly meaningless suffering with meaning. After all, the human mind cannot fathom the possibility of meaningless suffering -- that all of this pain is for nothing; that there is no such thing as karma or justness in the world. This seems equally absurd because why does learning have to require so much suffering? Are humans just too dumb to learn from happy experiences? 

For the meantime, I’m not sure what exactly sure why there is so much suffering in life and whether it is justified by some external or internal truths. For now, all that I know is that a lot of terrible things in life happen, and all that humans can do is simply react to them. 

[ellanainthetardis]

Here we are. On the penultimate chapter! I hope you enjoy it! It’s a long one so let me know your thoughts!

[FF] or [ao3]

Chapter 59 :  The End Of An Era

Effie’s first fashion show was an immediate hit.

Haymitch sat in the first row and watched model after model strut down that catwalk, bored out of his mind and barely listening to Harwyn’s approving comments next to him. He had no idea what half the stylist said meant and he wasn’t particularly interested either.

He sat and watched the different designs he had seen several variations of invading the apartment during the last few days – because Effie was nothing if a work-alcoholic and had momentarily moved back to her city apartment for the few weeks before the show and Haymitch had followed after only a few days without her, disturbed by the strange loneliness he wasn’t accustomed to anymore.

By the time the last model walked down the aisle, wearing a wedding dress full of round angles and delicately crafted pink roses, everyone was standing and clapping. He hadn’t known wedding dresses traditionally finished the show and thus he was a second late in joining the applause but he didn’t refrain from letting out a whistle when Effie appeared from between the heavy velvet curtains and walked out from backstage with a compelling flush and a genuinely pleased smile.

She was radiant in her green dress and red wig. She was wearing the sapphire necklace and earrings he had offered her too – for good luck, she had said earlier – and when she took a small bow, applauses only increased. He saw her blue eyes darting to the empty chair next to her sister – a chair that had been reserved for her mother – and disappointment briefly flashed on her face. She soon plastered a bright grin on her lips though because cameras were rolling.

Her gaze settled on him next and he knew she was dying to jump in his arms, to share the moment with him, but he discreetly shook his head, smirking at her. This was supposed to be her moment and if they were photographed together, it would be all about them.

She was so over the moon he didn’t even resist her attempts at dragging him to the after-show party. She drank too much and was completely wasted by the end of the night. He was uncomfortable being the sober one but he figured she had earned a night to cut loose because she had worked herself raw for that fashion show.

She was all over him well before he had carried her back to her apartment, giggling into his neck all about how her life was perfect and she was so happy and how much she loved him… He felt a tinge of resentment but he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because, while he was happy with her, his own life was far from perfect.

It was her night and he humored her though.

He even fetched different newspapers for her the next morning when she was too busy lying on the couch with a headache the size of District Seven.

“Read the columns for me.” she begged, curling up against the back of the couch, her glass of orange juice clutched to her chest like a shield. “I am too scared.”

He wasn’t sure what she was scared about because everyone had been pretty much unanimous the previous night about how well the whole show had gone but he cleared his throat and read all the same. Four out of seven newspapers were calling her the next Faun Harwyn, one was calling her innovative but not exceptional, another was more interested in her relationship with him and the last one had hated it all.

“Five good reviews out of seven are pretty good.” he told her when he saw her pout. “Can’t make everyone love you, sweetheart.”

It was very obvious to him it was a success.

Even if she kept second-guessing.

It was only when her assistant called with a summary of how many orders and requests for exclusive designs they had signed the previous night that she let herself believe she had really made it.

She wasn’t Twelve’s escort anymore, she was a recognized stylist.

He figured it helped made the transition a little smoother.

Still, when the day came to officially pass the title along, she was in a weird mood. Haymitch was all against attending the show but nobody asked his opinion on the matter. He was the Quell’s victor and he was in the city so he would have to attend – besides, Effie remarked, it would have looked odd if he hadn’t come to support her. So he was forced to get through a red carpet and sit in the middle of the audience and watch the ridiculous hypocrisy on stage.

They never had shows for departing or arriving escorts. They were usually announced a little before the next Reaping with fuss and pump but not with an official Games program to boost. That year, it was going to be a complete turnover though. No escort was staying in their position, either they had been promoted or they had declared they would retire – or had been forced to retire but none of them were stupid enough to say that out loud.

There was a short recap for every leaving escort, from their first Reaping to their last, quite a few anecdotes from Caesar and a lot of forced laughter on everyone’s part.

In Haymitch’s opinion, it was depressing.

He wasn’t friends with a lot of escorts, not to say the only one he really liked was Effie, but they were familiar faces. All the young people they called on stage to replace them had one thing in common: they all looked far too naïve. Most of them were current celebrities: singers, models, actresses…

Haymitch had to look away when Effie shook Alys’ hand and officially passed Twelve’s escort title over. Of course, then the camera panned on him and he forced a smirk and a wave but he didn’t think he managed to hide his bitterness very well.

It felt like the end of an era.

It was a relief to sneak backstage once the show was over. The mood was subdued. The former escorts were laughing together, trying to keep their spirits up but it was plain to see most of them were worn out. It had been that way since the Quell.

He found Effie chatting with Two’s former escort, the both of them sporting strained smiles and polite masks of indifference. He placed a hand at the small of her back to alert her to his presence, nodding once at Valeria. He was uncomfortable with her. Knowing that Brutus had been to her what he was to Effie made it awkward. When he looked at her, he saw who Effie could have been if he had died in the Quell and…

Not going there.

There was a party they couldn’t get out of, naturally, which meant another red carpet he could have done without. It was easier to bear when Effie’s hand was squeezing his but he hated the whole theatrics of being seen. He wasn’t in a good mood. He made an effort not to be too curt with fans because offending anyone wasn’t an option for him anymore but he wasn’t in a good mood.

There was no escaping the press. They were like bloodhounds, avid for the smallest gossip and ready to transform the most innocent sentence into something scandalous. He let Effie deal with them. She answered questions with her usual charm, cheerfully expressing her excitement for the next Games…

“And you, Haymitch? Are you excited?” the man asked, jutting his mic so close to Haymitch’s face he almost hit him in the nose.

He nudged it away with a snort. “What do you think?”

“It will be less stressful than last time.” Effie joked, looping her arm around his and very much digging her nails into his forearm. “Won’t it, darling?”

She batted innocent loving eyes at him but he read the warning in her gaze as clearly as if she had uttered it. He wasn’t the grumpy bitter victor anymore and he couldn’t afford that kind of mishap. Not with Effie’s, Peeta’s and Prim’s lives on the line. Not with all he had already done to prevent anything happening to them.

He forced himself to relax, a smirk stretching his lips. “Sure. No one’s coming at me this time around.”

They all laughed as if it was a good joke. Haymitch was already glancing at the doors of the grand hotel the party was taking place in, desperate for an escape, but the journalist clearly wasn’t done with them. “Do you think it will be weird for you to work with another escort? Effie has been with Twelve for a long time…”

“We shall not give numbers.” she teased.

“It’s gonna be an adjustment, yeah.” he nodded. The man seemed to expect something more so Haymitch shrugged. “I’m really proud of her, you know? She’s been the best escort and now she’s moving on to being the best stylist… That’s my girl. The overachiever.”  

He nudged her and she shook her head at him, a smile tugging at her lips. “You are ridiculous.”

“You love it.” he accused.

“Perhaps I do.” she grinned.

He could almost hear people awing at them and he lifted an inquisitive eyebrow in the journalist’s direction. The man took the hint and thanked them for their time before hurrying to Three’s new escort.

“Are you really?” Effie hummed as they finally joined the party that was now in full swing. “Proud of me?”

“I’m only charming for the cameras, Princess.” he deadpanned.

She chuckled and dragged him to the dance floor. There were worse fates than dancing with her so he surrendered.

If one good thing had come out of the whole mess, it was being free not to hide anymore, not to calculate every move in fear of being discovered. He liked being able to hold her closer than propriety allowed, to whisper in her ear if he wanted to, to keep his hands on her at all times… Over all, he liked being perfectly entitled to growl possessively at sponsors and leering old men who thought they could take her for a spin.

The fact that his acting all possessive turned her on was a nice bonus.

It was the end of an era though.

On the eve of the following Reaping, he and Alys boarded a train to Twelve. It felt so… odd to leave Effie on the Capitol’s platform… She seemed equally at a loss. She kissed him hard one last time – even if they hadn’t really stopped kissing since that morning – and tugged on the lapels of his coat so they would fall properly before smoothing imaginary creases from the fabric.

“It is only two nights. We are being utterly silly.” she declared with a laugh that sounded painfully fake.

“Try pathetic.” he mocked and kissed her again. He didn’t let himself look back before climbing on the train. It was ridiculous. But they didn’t often spend nights apart anymore and never so far away from each other.

He shared a boring dinner with Alys who kept up the chatter just to keep the silence at bay, it seemed. She reminded him a little too much of Effie when she had first started and he tended to tune her out. He and Effie had already decided she would spend the duration of the Games in the apartment instead of making the half hour trip from and to their house every day. At least until Twelve was out of the Games. Then he would be free to move out of the penthouse. She had talked about inviting Peeta over for a few days but he wasn’t sure about that yet. They had agreed it would depend on how the Games went.

Useless to say, they went badly.

It was good to see the boy again. It had only been a few months but Peeta looked even more grown up than he had before the Tour. Things in Twelve really weren’t great, the kid told him before the whole thing started, and more often than not he was left to play buffer between the Mayor and the Head Peacekeeper. Haymitch felt guilty about not being there but one look at Thread told him it was probably for the best. Effie humiliating him hadn’t made the man any more partial to him than he used to be.

Alys reaped a fourteen year old girl and a sixteen year old boy.

The girl sobbed from the moment her name was called to the moment the train stopped in the Capitol, the boy had no fight in him, Peeta was too invested mainly because he knew the male tribute from school and their new escort was useless. Effie having left her position, there was alcohol on the train again and Haymitch was thoroughly tempted to get wasted.

He chain-smoked his whole cigarette packet instead.

The Parade was a disaster. Their new stylist hadn’t been stupid enough to leave them on a cart half naked – and wasn’t that a fond memory, Haymitch mused – but the miner outfits were too classical and boring. Overdone. The kids didn’t pique anyone’s interest.

“We have a shot.” Peeta kept insisting even though it was as far from the truth as possible.

These were his twenty-sixth Games and Haymitch could see it plain as day: those kids would never make it past the Cornucopia.

He had forgotten how it had been before Effie. Alys showed the kids to their rooms, made sure they knew how everything worked and then disappeared from the penthouse, probably to a post Parade party or another.

“Isn’t she supposed to help?” Peeta frowned once the elevator’s doors had closed on her.

“That was all Effie.” Haymitch muttered.

He tried to prepare the boy for the inevitable loss but Peeta wouldn’t see reason, insisting on bringing the kids to the living-room and listing their skills as if it would help. Haymitch didn’t want to listen, didn’t want to get to know them, didn’t want to hear about their hobbies and what they liked to do in their spare time because, too soon, they would become two more ghosts to add to his nightmares.

At long last, Haymitch reached the end of his tether and stormed out to seek the safe haven that was supposed to be their apartment. Effie was home, getting ready for a party no doubt, and she frowned when she saw the state he was in.

“They’re no victors.” she declared. He didn’t ask her how she knew. She had seen the Reaping and the Parade and she had become just as good as he was at determining who would live and who would die.  

“Nope.” he snorted, making the p pop.

“Peeta is having a hard time understanding that.” she surmised.

He sighed and leaned against their bedroom’s doorframe, rubbing his face. “I can’t do this without you. Alys already fucked off to whenever, there’s paperwork I haven’t filled in thirteen years and how the fuck do I coach those kids to act more… proper?”

That was her thing. She did the attitude coaching and he worked with them on the interview content – when he even bothered to do that much. Effie had been the one shouldering most of the mentor responsibilities for more than a decade and without her…

“I will help you with sponsors.” she promised. “And you can probably get Peeta to do the paperwork, he has a better handwriting anyway.” He barely smirked at her teasing, already too tired of the whole thing. “As for the coaching… I will have a talk with Alys.”

She was in front of him suddenly, her arms loosely wrapped around his neck, and the tension slowly left his shoulders.

“What would I do without you?” he asked, more sincerely than he had meant to.

“Let’s never find out, shall we?” she grinned, pressing a kiss against his lips.

Effie wasn’t officially part of the team though and it made her helping difficult. She wasn’t allowed in the penthouse or backstage and thus was limited to areas open to sponsors. She helped him get a couple of pledges but, on other fronts, it was all a total disaster.

There was a real global disorganized feel to that season. With so many new escorts and almost none of the usual mentors, it was chaos. Even Gamemakers seemed at a loss. Plutarch was running everywhere all the time, trailed by his brand new assistant – Haymitch wasn’t sure what had happened to Fulvia Cardew, she had simply… vanished.

The Quell had been very successful, it was always difficult to design Games that would please the audience after a particularly good year. As it was, Haymitch was asked to attend far too many parties and events. They showed him off to appease the public’s lack of interest in the new tributes and to distract them from the numerous blunders committed by the new staff.

The arrangement suited him. At least while he was being busy being herded from one party to the next, often with Effie on his arm, he wasn’t doing the hopeless mentoring Peeta had taken upon himself.

Haymitch told him times and times again not to get attached. He had been there, he had done that.

Effie also tried to warn the boy and it all fell on deaf ears.

The kids didn’t last two minutes. They were amongst the first to die during the bloodbath.

Haymitch barely flinched, barely closed his eyes when it happened.

Peeta downed half a bottle and then declared he was going home with the coffins despite Haymitch’s awkward invitation to come and stay with them at the country house for a few days.

The boy was gone before the Games had even properly started. Haymitch moved out of the penthouse and back to their place. It didn’t save him from having to show up at parties, events and shows but at least, at home, he wasn’t forced to look his failures in the face.

It was hell to remain sober.

Having to face the Games without the comfortable friendship of his fellow mentors, going through the nightmares every night, waking up out of breath and fists flinging around to hit invisible enemies… The ghosts he could see so plainly even when he was awake, the ghosts telling him he should be dead too, the ghosts accusing him of being responsible for their deaths… He had lost count of the number of times he had cried into Effie’s shoulder like the pathetic weak man he had become by the time they had crowned a new victor.

Worst thing was… Nobody really cared about the fifteen year-old girl from One.

Watching their favorite victors battle to the death had been much more entertaining than watching a bunch of kids kill each other. Haymitch was afraid of what the Gamemakers would invent to compensate the following year.

He was right to be concerned because the Seventy-seventh Hunger Games were ruthless. The arena was a deadly trap, the mutts were cruel and the audience loved it all. Twelve’s tributes lasted five and fifteen minutes respectively. Not bad all things considered but there was no explaining that to the rest of his team.

By the end of the first day, Peeta had left for Twelve and Alys told Haymitch she was quitting.

Plutarch promised to find him a good escort, not one of the silly birds that kept coming and going because victors complained they couldn’t do their job properly. His next escort was a former model who liked to trail proprietary hands on him and who figured herself to be the next Effie Trinket – in the Games and in his bed.

No need to say she only lasted one year.

He never really found out what happened between her and his wife but Effie must have made things very clear very fast. One day, he watched her follow the woman in the ladies and when they came out, Twelve was lacking an escort again. Even Peeta cracked a smile at that.

For the Seventy-ninth Hunger Games, Effie surprised them all by becoming their new stylist.

“I am tired of not being allowed backstage.” she snapped at him one night, smearing cream all over her hands, glaring at him in the mirror of her dressing table. “I am part of the team. I never stopped being part of the team. I might as well have an official position.”

He didn’t mention that coming back as a stylist after having been an escort seemed a little desperate and that she was sure to face some mocking comments for it.

Mocking comments were nothing she wasn’t used to nowadays anyway.

They had been officially together for four years at that point and since they were showing no signs of separating soon – although there had been quite a few rumors because of that stupid escort the previous year – what had, at first, been dubbed a delightful forbidden romance was now becoming an eccentricity.

They were still popular but they were old news now. An old couple.

Haymitch liked it better that way truth be told. It meant less people snooping into their private affairs.

“It’s not a good idea.” he insisted from where he was lying on their bed, listening to the faint honking of the geese outside. The gaggle was big now, mostly because she kept gifting him with another goose to cheer him up every time he felt low. It had become habits for him to go down to the pen one morning and find a new bird with a fancy pink bow around its neck, signaling it was new and a present. “You know it’s not.”

“And why not?” she retorted, turning around to glare at him more easily, her lips pursed and her head tilted to the side like always when she was annoyed. “I have never been this popular. I am the stylist en vogue. Why, if they knew I planned to work for the Games, every District team would be after me…”

“Cause you’re out.” he growled. “You’re fucking out. Stay that way. If I could…”

“I have never been out.” she scoffed. “I do not think anyone ever leaves the Games. Do you?”

There was no good answer to that, so he sighed and kept his peace. It was selfish too. He knew she was too bossy for her own good and would never be able to stick to the clothes department.

They never managed to keep an escort more than one year after that. It was well-known that Effie Trinket was impossible to work with when the Games were concerned and that, because she was Haymitch’s lover, she was given free reigns over Twelve’s floor. She might not have officially been their escort but she certainly acted the part. She always publicly denied and was smart enough to never get caught undermining an official escort’s authority but everyone who counted knew better.

It was a relief to have Effie back and Haymitch counted his blessings where he could find them.

Peeta worried him.

He was distant and sullen and the path the boy was walking on was such a familiar one for Haymitch that he tried to talk to him a few times. Effie tried too. There was no reaching him. Phone calls between them became far and few in-between until they more or less stopped. It hurt Effie to be pushed away like that, he knew, but he didn’t force the boy to remain in contact, understanding too well he needed his own space to grieve. Prim – who still called them from time to time – kept him on the straight and narrow at home anyway.

Rumors of another rebellion started arising around the eighty-first Hunger Games. Haymitch was picked up by a car at their house one morning and spent a whole week going over possible rebel cells in different Districts with Plutarch. They found one mostly composed of teenagers. Everything else seemed to be shadows. When he came back home, his face grim, Effie took one look at him and ran him a bath.

She didn’t ask but he told her everything anyway.

He was grateful for her, grateful for the life they had managed to build. He might have not been sure in the beginning but he was now. The house might have been big and it might have been very different from everything he had ever expected but it was their home and it was a safe haven from the rest of his life.

When they were there together, they managed to pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.

They often argued, sometimes to the point of shouting horrors at each other and slamming doors, but when it came down to it, they also always made-up. They had a routine. They had habits. They were growing old, as Effie often joked, and it was amazing.

Haymitch didn’t fit in with the other victors anymore. The old ones were always a bit wary around him despite their claims that they wouldn’t have acted differently during the Third Quell – with the exception of Alina and Lyme who were always friendly – and the younger ones were simply too… young. He didn’t feel like playing the old mentor anymore, he didn’t feel like taking them under his wing like he had done for Finnick or Johanna and he was uncomfortable with the way most of them looked up at him like he was the ultimate role model. He was simply happy that the spotlight was slowly but surely moving away from him and onto the younger ones, leaving him free not to attend every party and boring event.

The Capitol could keep the parties, he liked growing old with Effie in their little corner of the world better.

The rumors wouldn’t die though.

They were always there, like whispers on the wind. Snow was getting restless, reaching levels of paranoia yet unseen. Personally, Haymitch thought the President was going mad, that all this blood coughing had finally reached the brain.

He lost count of the numbers of times he was ordered to the city between the eighty-second and the eighty-third Hunger Games, to chase rebels they had no hope of catching. If they were there at all, they were well hidden.

“Do you think it’s true?” Effie asked him one night, in a murmur, as they lay staring at the ceiling. “Is there another rebellion in the work somewhere?”

Sleepless nights were nothing new to them. She was worried about her new upcoming collection and he was brooding over Snow threatening to burn his whole house down to the ground with Effie in it if he didn’t produce the rebels he wanted. It had taken all of Plutarch’s diplomatic skills to prevent a disaster.

Mostly, Haymitch wasn’t really worried. Every time he saw the President lately, it became more and more obvious that he was three seconds away from kicking the bucket. The government was good at keeping up the pretence but it was the men shadowing him everywhere that held Haymitch’s attention now. They were the real danger, he had decided months ago, and as long as they were satisfied he was working for the Capitol, his family was safe.

“I don’t know.” he offered honestly.

He wanted to say it would be a good thing but, at the same time, he was too aware of what it would mean for them. They weren’t the good guys. Worse, they were the bad guys and he didn’t have much hope for their chances if rebels took over.

Effie rolled over and snuggled against his side. He buried his hand in her hair and rested his cheek against her forehead.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, you know that, right?” he mumbled, trapped in one of those gloomy moods he could never really shake off. He had known her almost two decades, there were not many reasons to be self-conscious about his feelings anymore.

“I love you.” she muttered in answer, clearly drifting off.

“Still?” he teased.

“Always.” she chuckled, pressing a sleepy kiss against his shoulder.

The dead thing that was his heart clenched. Sometimes – often – he mused she was the only thing keeping him alive.

President Snow died a little after the Eighty-Third Hunger Games. His barely nineteen year-old granddaughter was appointed as the next President within forty-eight hours.

Haymitch watched the national funerals from the comfort of his living-room, Effie curled up next to him. He tried to feel glad about it but all he felt was a void. There was no sweetness to a revenge served too late. He thought about his mother, his brother and his girlfriend – whose faces had long been erased by time – and about Katniss. He wondered it that made it a bit even. He concluded that it didn’t.

Effie was cheerful. He didn’t have the courage to ask if it was because she was glad the tyrant was finally dead or because his granddaughter was wearing an exclusive dress from her private collection and that meant not only more money but more fame to come.

It was only to be expected but Ilirya Snow wasn’t her grandfather. She was a silly girl, a puppet whose strings were held tight by advisors and secretaries of states. They managed to keep it up for almost two years.

By the time the Eighty-five Hunger Games was about to roll around, everything was ready to collapse.

Rumors of a possible rebellion grew so loud that even Capitol citizens couldn’t ignore them. The city was restless, the talks about unrest in the Districts were on every lips, common things in the city like food or fabrics became difficult to find. Haymitch didn’t have time to let the looming ten years anniversary of the Quell be daunting, he was too worried over what the government was keeping from them, not stupid enough to believe the “everything is alright” line they kept feeding them on TV.

His calls wouldn’t get through to Twelve.

The same went for Eight and every victor he tried to get in touch with.

The Capitol had used him to hunt and capture rebels for ten years and now that he actually wanted to be brought in on what was going on, he was shut out. The government was tearing itself apart, according to Plutarch, they were all stabbing themselves in the back trying to get on top and the whole pyramid was crumbling.

With every passing day, he felt the dread increase, certain the rebels were marching on the Capitol right then and that nobody was telling them. Effie stopped going to work on his request, she dismissed their staff, and mostly trailed after him all around the house while he tried to make sense of what was going on. His guts were screaming at him that it wasn’t good, not good at all. He withdrew as much cash as he could from their bank accounts in case they needed it later on.

He started planning escape routes. They went over them every night until Effie could recite them in her sleep. She was terrified, he could see, but he wanted her prepared.

He had thought they would have more time.

But he wasn’t really surprised when the estate’s gates blew up one morning.

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #into that good night

[adventures-in-mangaland]

ChatBug!

Hey @judiejodia, here is your full Christmas present for @mlsecretsanta! (I was on tumblr mobile before.). I tried for Beauxbatons, and failed, but I’ll try to finish it for you one day! In the meantime, have silly identity/friendship shenanigans. Also, link to the fic on AO3 here.

It was an act of desperation.

Mme Bustier stood at the head of the class, smiling benignly, completely unaware of the despair she had inspired.

“I’ll be collecting your forms now. I do hope you all found a suitable placement for the next two weeks. Remember, M. Damocles and I will be reviewing all your applications, and depending on their approval, you should all be able to begin your Work Experience on Monday!”

She seemed delighted for them. Marinette just cringed, sinking even lower into her seat.

This is going to be so humiliating.

She had tried everything.

She had asked everyone in the class (except Chloe) if their parents might have work experience placements for students in their work places. She had contacted countless Fashion Houses and Design Studios. She had scoured the newspapers and Yellow Pages. She had asked random customers at the bakery and phoned all of her parents’ friends. She had even advertised her desperation on Craig List.

Finally, she had asked Mme Bustier if she couldn’t just work at the bakery, only to be told her family’s business was not an option.

“It’s a chance to experience a new working environment, Marinette,” she had explained kindly. “To prepare you for your first day of work after you finish school.”

And then she had found it.

Her Salvation and Destruction in one neat bundle.

As her teacher collected the accursed form she groaned and let her head hit the desk with a defeated thunk. Alya patted her back sympathetically, clearly trying not to laugh, before shaking her head sternly at Nino when he turned around with an inquiring look.

But that thrice-damned sign she’d found pasted to the wall of the bakery, like a portent of doom, had been her only lead in her mad scramble of a job search, and the only positive response to boot.

So, as of Monday, she would be sacrificing her dignity in the name of Work Experience.

This was the worst day of her life.

Correction, this was the worst day of her life.

She stared at herself in the mirror through her parted fingers, aghast. The suit was not completely skin tight (it had not been designed for her, after all) and sagged in strange places, despite stretching tight over her bust. Not to mention the material was cheap and luridly bright. And the red of the boots they had given her to wear did not match the rest of the outfit, and had heels to boot.

Heels! I thought I was supposed to be doing a lot of walking! Why would they give me heels! Ladybug doesn’t even wear heels!

It was grossly unfair, especially as she had seen their Chat Noir’s costume, and he had not been subjected to the same indignity.

There was a knock at the door and it opened before she could squeak a reply.

“Ready?” It was Claudine, the co-ordinator of the Tour Company. She gave Marinette a once over and nodded her head in satisfaction.

“Good. Good. You’re a little younger than the real Ladybug, of course, and it shows, but you certainly look the part! Have you memorised your lines?”

Marinette gritted her teeth, but managed to nod with a smile.

She had memorised them. She had memorised every single cringe-worthy one.

Claudine beamed. “Excellent! I’m sure you’ll have a great time! Your Chat’s almost ready, and your first group should be arriving in about ten minutes, so just relax and go over the FAQ in the meantime. I must say, your knowledge is excellent. Just don’t let us down!”

On that passive-aggressive note, she waved and left the room, shutting the door with an unnecessarily loud bang behind her.

Marinette slumped.

This was definitely the worst day of her life.

This was the best day of his life.

Adrien grinned and bounced on his toes as he admired his reflection in the changing room’s mirror.

True, the material of his suit wasn’t real leather, was rather tacky, in fact, and true, his bell didn’t jingle right, and his tail was a limp, inanimate belt. But here he was Adrien Agreste, dressed up as his Crime-Fighting Alter-ego, and his Father couldn’t stop him.

He had tried, of course, insisting that as a celebrity, Adrien’s security could be threatened, that he didn’t even need work experience, since he had plenty with his modelling, and that if he had to waste two weeks of schooling, he might as well spend it doing something useful, like learning the ropes of his own future business.

But to Adrien’s intense gratification, Mme Bustier had stood firm.

No, the point of the placement was to expose Adrien to new experiences. No, he couldn’t spend the time working for his Father. No, he couldn’t work for any of his Father’s business associates at a rival Fashion House either.

She did concede the need for anonymity, for the sake of Adrien’s safety, a concession he was more than willing to embrace.

And then she had brought him the advertisement with a kind, expectant smile.

“I know it might be a little outside your comfort zone, Adrien. But I’ve noticed you’re a little shy sometimes, and this opportunity could really build your confidence! And your experience as a model should help. It’s a little silly, I know, but I think you could have a lot of fun with it.”

Lord knows, you need it.

She hadn’t needed to say it, but the words hung in the air, and Adrien whole-heartedly agreed.

So here he was, brimming with a tingly mixture of nerves and excitement. All the freedom he usually experienced as Chat Noir at his fingertips, and he was still Adrien.

No Gorilla, no schedule, no name.

Even his Father had admitted that, without the name Agreste, and with his face obscured by a mask, he was in no more danger than any other teenage boy. So, with strict instructions to call Nathalie at the beginning and end of every shift, and during his breaks, to prove he was still alive, he was free to explore Paris as himself.

He glanced at the clock. Claudine had said their first tour would be starting soon, so really it was time to go and meet his ‘Lady’. His stomach buzzed with nerves again and his smile faltered.

Would she like him? Could they be friends? What would she be like? It was weird he couldn’t tell her his name, wasn’t it? Would she find it creepy?

Anxiety began to overtake the excitement.

He had never really met people his own age outside of school before. And there he had a schedule, and clear, unwritten boundaries to dictate his behaviour. There he had Nino, not to mention school work to save him from the need to interact with anyone else. Not that he didn’t like socialising with his classmates, of course. But after a mostly solitary childhood, it could be overwhelming. What unspoken social conventions was he stepping on now? It was a mine field, one he was glad to walk, but nerve-wracking anyway.

His own reflection caught his eye again.

I’m Chat Noir. I’m a Superhero! I can do this.

Squaring his shoulders, he threw open the door.

And froze as he heard it make contact with someone’s face. Pushing the door more cautiously, it swung back to reveal a girl in a Ladybug costume, cradling her nose and swearing under her breath.

Shit. Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! What should I do? She’ll hate me!

“A-are you OK?”

She looked up and blue eyes met his, looking so much like his Lady as her face scrunched up into a scowl at the sight of him.

“I’m fine. No thanks to you. Stupid Cat.”

She immediately clasped her hands to her mouth, looking mortified and began to stutter an apology.

But, for whatever reason, her irritation eased the tension from his shoulders and pulled a smile from his lips. Whoever they’d hired to play Ladybug must have been a megafan, because her impersonation so far was excellent.

This was familiar. This was the pattern of so many of his actual encounters with his Lady. True, it wasn’t real, but he could pretend; this whole job was about pretending. And no one could do Chat Noir better than him.

He straightened, stretching as an excuse to flex, while watching her out of the corner of his eye.

“I am so sorry, My Lady. What can I say? I always make an impact!”

She just scowled and rolled her eyes, muttering something before saying more loudly: “Come on, you. The tour group will be here in five minutes. Let’s go over the routine.”

So it wasn’t too terrible.

Marinette loved Paris, and once she put over the indignity of the costume (and the one-liners), she rather enjoyed showing it off to tourists.

True, most of them were interested in hearing about how it had been torn up on numerous occasions – it was a Miraculous themed guided tour, after all – but that didn’t stop her attempting to sneak in some historical and cultural facts alongside epic accounts of explosions and akuma.

Surprisingly, her partner had been some help there. He acted like an irresponsible poser of a flirt, but he knew his history, always ready to back her up with a date or an anecdote, and even quotations.

He’d only mouthed “Home schooled” at her over an English tourist’s shoulder at her raised eyebrow.

He might have posed far too much, and he told terrible jokes, but he was kind of fun to be around.

And today, the biggest recompense of all.

“Jagged Stone!”

Turns out, he was a huge Ladybug fan. Not surprising, really, considering the number of times he had been caught up in akuma attacks, not to mention his own akumatisation. And to Marinette’s unending delight he had requested a private tour. With her.

“You’re that young girl who designed by glasses, right? And the cover of my album.”

Marinette fought to keep her face calm and composed.

“Yes! I am!”

So much for that.

“Great! You’ve got good taste! This tour will be rockin’!”

She wasn’t sure what her artistic taste had to do with her competency as a tour guide, but Marinette beamed until her cheeks ached.

Beside her, ‘Chat’ shuffled awkwardly, glancing surreptitiously at their guest with a slightly annoyed expression before ducking to whisper in her ear.

“You don’t have to make that weird face. He’s just a guy.”

Marinette’s smile froze. Fortunately, Jagged was busy chattering animatedly with his manager and hadn’t heard.

“What are you talking about?” Her lips barely moved as she attempted to keep the smile in place. “He’s Jagged Stone! He’s a rock star!”

And he remembered me.

She chose not to add that last part.

Her partner huffed and crossed his arms petulantly. “He’s still just a guy. He’s nothing special.”

This time, Marinette didn’t even try to cover her annoyance, huffing and fixing him with a look. “Oh, please! I saw how you reacted when you saw the roster for today. You actually screamed.”

“I did not scream!”

“Yes, you did! You were just as excited as me.”

“Well, at least I haven’t been drooling over him since he arrived! It’s not… It’s not professional!” He finished loftily, impressed with his own flash of inspiration.

“Well, I don’t think – ”

“Excuse me? Is there a problem?”

Jagged’s agent, Penny, was watching them with a look of concern. They both flushed at being caught bickering.

“Of-of course not! Everything’s fine. We’re just… preparing.”

“Yeah. Chill, Penny. They’re getting into character! They sound just like Ladybug and Chat Noir!” Jagged patted his manager’s shoulder, grinning at them expectantly. Marinette managed to return the smile weakly.

“Mr. Stone has met Ladybug and Chat Noir,” Mlle. Stone announced ominously as the Walking Tour got under way. The So you better not screw upwent unsaid, though Marinette would probably laugh about it later, when she wasn’t choking on completely irrational performance anxiety. Luckily, her Chat had no such issue.

“Oh yeah!” He said, with his usual cheerfulness. “I remember that one vividly. On the Eiffel Tower, right?”

Jagged preened, looking pleased by the acknowledgement. As if he wasn’t a famous Rock Star and akumatization wasn’t a traumatic event.

Chat laughed. “So, shall we skip that one on the Tour? Been there, done that?”

“No way!” Jagged cried, as oblivious as Chat to Marinette’s glower, because, really, that was just insensitive. “I want to know all about The Mime!”

“It was pawsitively awesome,” Chat agreed. “My Lady was breathtaking. Every swing of her yoyo wrapped itself a little tighter around my heart. And saved a precious landmark,” he added, as an after thought.

“Yes, she and Chat Noir saved the day, protecting the city’s heritage and preventing cat astrophic property damage and loss of life.”

Chat shot her a grin and a fist bump.

“Any other favourites?” Chat asked innocently.

“Oh yeah! I want to see that Plaza were Animan swallowed Ladybug! And the fountain where Ladybug fought Chat Noir! And Hotel de Ville! I have got to hear about Darkblade and Kung Food. I was there, but I don’t remember! It was wild!”

“We could do a re-enactment!” Chat exclaimed, brimming with enthusiasm.

“Would that be safe?” Mlle Rolling cut in, eyeing Chat dubiously.

For some reason, that irked Marinette. Sure, he was some teenager, not an actual super hero, his insistence on anonymity aside, but dammit, he was still her (temporary!) partner. She opened her mouth, and was saved from a breach in professionalism by Jagged cutting in.

“It’ll be totally fine!” he said, brushing away his manager’s concern, like crumbs.

“I’m just not sure if there’ll be time,” she hedged.

“Oh, no worries, Penny. I don’t know if you have noticed, but all these akuma attacks happen in this exact area.”

“Convenient,” she said dryly.

And it certainly was for Chatbug Tours, and for Marinette’s Work-Superhero-Life balance. It was almost as if she, Chat Noir and Hawkmoth all lived in the exact same neighbourhood.

Eh. It was great for tourism in Central Paris, at least.

So they stopped at Trocadéro for Timebreaker stories (Marinette did not tear up) and pictures of the view. And an epic recreation of the Eiffel Tower’s near death experience, complete with Chat whipping his cheap plastic baton around athletically and energetically enough to attract a small crowd.

They agreed not to cross the river, but continued on through the Right Bank, paying tribute to the Pharaoh at the Louvre - “Penny! What rhymes with Egyptian?” - and Stormy Weather’s Ice Dome park.

Jagged even exclaimed over the bakery as they passed the scene of Animan’s defeat.

“Penny! We should buy croissants!”

Marinette cringed. If her parents saw her in this get-up she might be forced to drown herself in the Seine. But Chat was already bouncing forward, like an overexcited kitten chasing a butterfly.

Heh. She’d have to save that one for Chat later - the real Chat, her Chat. It suddenly felt like ages since their last patrol.

“This is where Ladybug and I made our strategic…. retreat during the battle,” Fake Chat announced, interrupting the sudden onslaught of feelings . “But, that’s not all! Ladybug and I would be nothing without the brave citizens of Paris -”

“You wouldn’t have any akuma, for a start,” Mlle Rolling muttered.

“ - And this fact has never been more evident than during that tumultuous struggle! The Dupain-Cheng family, who own this bakery, risked their lives to protect us and sheltered us within these very walls!”

He was hamming it up mightily, clasping his hands to his chest with emotion. Jagged was enthralled and even Mlle Rolling looked reluctantly impressed. Despite herself, Marinette couldn’t help wiping her eyes. Her parents were awesome!

“We have got to go!” Jagged crowed, shaking his manager’s shoulder, like a child begging for a treat.

“Right!” Chat enthused. “Their madeleine are to die for!”

Also, wait. How did he know all this? Was he one of their regulars? She appraised him subtly, but, as usual, got nothing. Just a teenage boy her age, like millions of others in Paris.

He probably lived in the area. Perhaps his school was making him do Work Experience too?

Small world.

Chat started to cross the street, grinning like he could already taste the macaroons.

And that was when the screaming started.

#mlsecretsanta 2k17 #miraculous ladybug #fanfiction #xana's writing #ladybug #chat noir

[insightshare]

Seven things I learned about Participatory Video for Most Significant Change

by Anna Patton, InsightShare Associate and training participant

Laptops banned. No notebooks allowed. For those of us who like to write everything down, the instructions for the latest InsightShare course on Participatory Video for Most Significant Change (25-27 October, in London) were a bit daunting. How would I remember it all?

Fortunately, visualisation (lots of drawing, arranging of keywords and mind maps) and experiential learning (going through the process ourselves as participants) helps it stick. Here’s what I learned:

1. “Most Significant Change” sounds a bit fluffy, but it’s actually a recognised evaluation technique.

Participatory monitoring and evaluation means that those affected by (and those affecting) a programme are involved in the process of assessing what worked. Together the group negotiates and agrees how to measure progress.

The Most Significant Change process, developed in the mid-1990s, is one form of participatory M&E. Groups collect people’s stories of significant change in their lives, analyse them, and then systematically select the most significant ones. Reflecting on the stories at each stage allows those involved to learn about what causes change.

MSC is now accepted as a valid monitoring and evaluation technique, and has been used by government agencies like the UK’s Department for International Development and international organisations like Oxfam.

2. Adding video makes a lot of sense.

MSC was conceived mainly as an oral exercise, with stories captured in writing. This can have its issues, especially if you’re gathering hundreds of testimonies. One user of MSC reports that it was difficult to get the evaluation teams to write up stories, because they saw it as adding to an already heavy workload. Written stories also risk being left unread: some people may be illiterate; those who can read might be put off by many pages of text. Writing also loses the expression and body language of the storyteller.

Using video, meanwhile, can bring those stories to life, potentially increasing the impact on the viewer. As InsightShare facilitator Isabelle explains: “It takes data off the paper, and it makes it human”. Since anyone can learn basic video skills, storytellers can speak to peers, in a familiar setting; they can watch videos back immediately and as a group. People may also be more inclined to attend a screening than to take part in a focus group. In short, it’s fun and accessible, yet still analytically rigorous and data-rich.

3. It’s best suited for organisations prepared to learn — and maybe even change.

With so much pressure these days to demonstrate the value of a project and show what’s been achieved, it’s easy to think evaluation is about reassuring funders. But as one of my fellow trainees put it, this is evaluation “that aims to improve — not to prove.”

The stories are based on responses to an open question — usually: “What has been the most significant change in your life [in x time period]?”. That prompts unforeseen answers. Perhaps the programme had unintended effects; participants might not mention the aspects you thought were crucial; maybe something else entirely influenced the change they talk about.

So organisations considering PV MSC need to be doing it for the right reasons. (It works especially well as part of a long-term intervention, when the findings of a first phase can feed into the next one.) And they need to know that the process “can bring a cost”, as InsightShare facilitator Neville says, and “the cost is change.”

4. It’s not going to replace quantitative methods any time soon.

Quantitative methods help you see what has changed and by how much. MSC isn’t a replacement for that: it doesn’t use predefined indicators, or anything that needs to be counted and measured.

But MSC can work well alongside quantitative research, by exploring why things have changed, as Soledad Muniz, InsightShare’s head of innovation and development and our trainer for this course, told us. It adds a deeper understanding of what a programme or activity has actually meant to people, she said, and that “lets you understand people’s perspectives on how change happened in their lives, as well as how other enablers contributed to that."

Many InsightShare clients, such as Nike Foundation, have used PV MSC as part of a much bigger evaluation exercise.

5. It can also build skills and experience among those involved.

PV MSC gets you more than just useful feedback: it can also build capacity.

Training local evaluation teams — beneficiaries, local staff, other stakeholders — and taking them through the whole process means they learn and practice data analysis, presentation and public speaking, consensus-building and negotiation, and video recording/editing skills. Depending on existing levels of education/experience, training and support can be time-consuming and costly; though the process can also be done on a much more limited budget, without ticking all the participation boxes.

6. Sharing personal stories can be powerful stuff.

How often have you simply talked to people who listen, without interruption, for as long as you needed to, knowing you were in a safe space? Oddly, something so simple seems rare these days.

Day two of InsightShare’s PV MSC course offered this experience. After the story circle, one of my fellow trainees said she found it “enriching and liberating to have the opportunity to share my story in a safe and neutral space. It was the first time I’ve shared my story so freely… It was beautiful… to feel truly listened to.” Another said that sharing her story “made it real and opened new doors for reflection and decision-making”.

As for me, talking and listening sparked a palpable sense of connection in a room of near-strangers. We each described different things — but there were common experiences, similar worries. Even when there’s little in common, you’ve shared something of yourself that you maybe don’t even bother your best friends with.

It’s not hard to see how storytelling circles can build solidarity among a community and develop people’s confidence in speaking up. (Of course, the process can also be difficult and even traumatising; in some cases a trauma counsellor might need to be present.)

7. Selecting one story isn’t random.

This was the bit I struggled most with. How can one story ever be representative of a hundred or more? And what about all the detail you miss by focusing only on one story?

The point, though, is that the evaluation team have heard and analysed all the stories. They can choose what data to capture from them, and this can feed into a final report.

And in fact, it’s not really about the selected story being representative, but about being meaningful. Two metaphors for the MSC process help illustrate why it makes sense to focus on the meaningful:

“Do you remember the average things [about a holiday abroad] or the wonderful and terrible things? MSC helps teams of people focus on the memorable events and uses these events to help realign effort towards achieving more of the wonderful things and less of the terrible things. When the focus is on learning, we need to capture more than just the average experiences.”

“A newspaper does not summarise yesterday’s important events via pages and pages of ‘indicators’ (though they can be found in some sections) but by using news stories about interesting events… The most important stories go on the front page and the most important of these is usually at the top of the front page.”

From ‘The ‘Most Significant Change’ (MSC) Technique: A Guide to Its Use’ by Rick Davies and Jess Dart

And MSC is robust because of the breadth. Hearing a few stories from the field might be merely anecdotal, but as the InsightShare PV MSC toolkit explains, “when 50 or 300 stories or more are collected and analysed, meaningful patterns emerge.”

What about defining significant? As our group struggled to choose which of our six stories to select, Soledad suggested another metaphor: “think of a chrysalis becoming a butterfly”. Change is something that can’t be reversed.

Aside from this, what any given group decides is significant will be subjective — and that’s ok. Because the criteria that a group uses to select their story also says something about what matters to those people. That’s a valuable thing for any organisation to learn about those it’s trying to help.

Photos: Ingrid Guyon

References & further reading: http://insightshare.org/resources/participatory-video-and-the-most-significant-change/ https://www.odi.org/publications/5211-msc-most-significant-change-monitoring-evaluation http://insightshare.wixsite.com/videogirls/the-pv-process http://www.mande.co.uk/docs/MSCGuide.pdf http://www.tools4dev.org/resources/the-most-significant-change-msc-technique-tool-review/

[cooperjones2020]

Second City, chp. 11

Summary: Sometimes she worries she’s settling — for a smaller job, a smaller city, a smaller life than she’d promised herself — but that was before she found out Jughead Jones lives in Chicago. That was before she found out the final secret of Jason Blossom’s murder.

A/N: I had planned to wait til tomorrow to post this, but once again I have no self-control. Also it’s been written for like two weeks now and it needs to leave the nest. More author notes on Ao3.

ao3–>http://archiveofourown.org/works/11409360/chapters/25556550

All previous chapters of “Second City” and “Nobodies Nobody Knows” under the tag #second-city and on the Who Sings Heartache to Sleep series page on Ao3

11. In which Betty Cooper keeps up with the Joneses

Like clockwork, every visit home, she returns to Pop’s. It is the purest distillation of Riverdale, its heart and soul, its joy and nostalgia, its corruption and its artifice.

Today, though, the scars are hidden. The broken windows have been replaced, the spray paint scrubbed off. A dozen years down the line, and everyone pretends a man didn’t near to lose his life bleeding out on the floor and, in the process, touch off a civil war that shook them all to the bone.

She looks at Pop’s, shiny as a new penny, and still sees that broken-down shell, still feels the echo of her teenage self’s terror and rage. But today, thus far, is definitely better than yesterday.

Today, she arrives slightly out of breath in an old pair of leggings and a Riverdale High cheerleading t shirt she’d discovered in the back of her closet. The run to Pop’s is her half-hearted conciliatory gesture towards the amount of salt, sweet, and fat about to enter her body. Burger, fries, and a milkshake, Ben and Jerry’s, Starbucks—she can’t really bring herself to care. Pop’s is mandatory, emotional trauma makes her hungry, and she’s long since conquered the Alice Cooper voice in her ear that liked to equate dress size with beauty, and beauty with happiness.

This is the first time since they were born that Betty has been in Riverdale without her niece and nephew, their first summer at sleepaway camp a circumstance jointly engineered by her mother and Cheryl, who, horrifyingly, adore each other. There are a plethora of reasons their absence strikes Betty as weird but the one she keeps circling back to is that it is one more reminder of how her life has circled back to the year after their father’s death.

She’s cogitating on these thoughts, on the Riverdale that was, when a menu drops down in front of her face and a perky voice says, “Elizabeth Cooper!”

She looks up to a face she recognizes. Or rather, doesn’t exactly recognize, but a pattern of features she’d know anywhere. “Jellybean?”

“In the flesh.” Her face lights up when Betty can place her.

“Hi!” Betty sits up straighter. “Your brother mentioned you worked here now, but I completely forgot.”

“Yep, paying my dues as a minimum wage automaton and pestering Pop to change up the menu. Do you know what you’re having?”

“Don’t you dare touch a single thing on this menu. You’d have a riot on your hands. And, always. Cheeseburger, fries, and a vanilla shake.”

Jellybean scribbles on her notepad before sliding the pencil behind her ear. “Coming right up!”

When she comes back with Betty’s food, the milkshake is adorned with a second strawberry, and the plate contains a little dish of mayonnaise tucked in amongst more fries than Betty can possibly eat.

“Pop said the garlic mayo has always your favorite. He also said, and I quote, he’s ‘glad the big city hasn’t ruined your appetite.’”

Betty can’t help but laugh even as she rolls her eyes. “He says that every time I come in.” They’d bonded over the long nights in which Betty would sit at the counter, staying late to finish whatever article or essay she was working on, Pop feeding her caffeine addiction. Sometimes she thought he knew she was hoping Jughead would show. Not that he did very often.

“So did you ever find that dining set you were looking for?”

Betty can feel the surprise on her face when Jellybean follows up with, “Sorry, I feel like I know you. Your family talks about you a lot, and, well, Jughead.”

Betty smiles at her. “You do know me. After all, I did babysit you for five years.”

JB’s answering smile would light up a subdivision. “Yeah I guess you did.” It seems to dissolve some of the awkwardness between them. She doesn’t know what Jellybean knows about her and Jughead, though she suspects it’s more than she herself does.

Betty eats her food slowly, continuing to pick at the fries long after she’s full. Now, when Jellybean comes to check on her, she shares delightful anecdotes, like about the aneurysm Jughead had had when Jellybean had started dating or how he insisted they go out and chop down a real tree every Christmas, even if it meant he was the one vacuuming up the fallen needles every day cause Lord knows neither Jellybean nor FP were willing to. She opens a door into the domestic details that Betty, though she couldn’t have put it into words, had missed the most. She tells her about being fourteen, and crying in her room when FP had bought the wrong tampons, only for Jughead to sneak in later that night with the right ones. And being sixteen, when he did a special reunion tour with his Serpents jacket and motorcycle to intimidate the fuck out of some jerkwad who was her harassing her, saying she only kissed girls for attention.

Betty’s staring out the window and stirring her straw around in her empty milkshake glass when Jellybean returns. “B. Coop, you look distracted. Is it about my brother?” she asks as she slides in across from Betty. Then she wiggles her shoulders until her head rests against the backrest of the booth and stretches her legs out so her black converse are on the bench beside Betty.

Betty pushes back her smile. “Sort of. I just found out something about when we were dating and it’s filling in some missing puzzle pieces. I’m still processing.”

“Ah, so you finally know. I would like it formally on the record that I’ve been bugging him to tell you for years.”

“Noted.” Betty’s voice sounds stiffer than she means it to be, as she realizes that her hunch was right. Jellybean, and probably the whole world, knew before she did.

“I don’t mean to get in the middle of it or anything. I know it’s your guys’ business. I’m just a firm believer in saying things while you still have the chance.”

“Yeah, I get that. And, hey, I was sorry to hear about your mom.”

Jellybean shrugs. “Thanks. I would say the same about your dad—I mean, I’m sorry for you and Polly and the twins—“

“It’s okay. Honestly, right now, I’m kind of glad about it. He’s safer where he is. And I have no idea where I would start if he were still here.”

“Look, again, not my business, but, do you think you can forgive him now that you know?”

She sighs, “I really don’t know. I can’t even think about it yet. Right now, I just want to find out the truth. It’s all I’ve ever really wanted. And forgiving him for not telling me then is one thing, but now there’s other…” she lets her words trail off as she looks back out the window. Then she corrects her posture and turns back to Jellybean. “Anyway, I’m not the same girl as I was when I was 15.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I can’t be. That girl was fearless, throwing herself into situations—into people—with no thought of the outcome. Growing up means learning to look before you leap.”

“Of all of the things that may have changed about you, I’m pretty sure that’s one that hasn’t. After all, didn’t you just up and move halfway across the country to a city where you only knew like three people, one of whom you weren’t speaking to? Didn’t you just show up here, determined to find out the truth about your father, no matter how much it will hurt you? The fear may be there, but the grit is stronger.”

Betty reaches a hand across the table and settles it on the other girl’s arm. Jellybean responds by placing her hand on top of Betty’s.

“When’d you get so wise? It makes me feel old.”

They’re still sitting in a shy but contented silence when a tiny Japanese girl plops down on the bench beside Jellybean, pecks her on the lips, and tosses a leg across her lap in an easy gesture that Betty so envies. A dreamy look flits across Jellybean’s face, before being replaced by a smile.

"Ami Tanura, this is Betty Cooper. She used to babysit me. She's a...friend of my brother's." Jellybean’s voice picks up on the word ‘friend’ as if it were a question, and Ami’s eyes cut from Betty’s face to her girlfriend’s. But she quickly schools her expression back into friendly interest.

"Oh cool! Jughead's awesome. So you've read his book, right?"

“Yes. I’ve definitely read his book. I actually just interviewed him for the newspaper I work for.”

“Awesome. We’re obviously big fans. Some of the kids at school actually used one of his lines for their senior quotes in the yearbook.” Betty wonders if Jellybean’s told her brother that. She can imagine exactly the kind of face he would make. This whole afternoon has made it harder and harder for her to be mad at him.

Jellybean interrupts her thoughts. “Anyway we gotta go. Got dorm shopping to do."

"Oh so you decided to go?"

"No.” Then she grumbles something under her breath Betty can’t quite make out, though she’s sure it has to do with interfering big brothers. “Ami’s going to Skidmore.”

“Oh, congratulations! I went to Vassar. They’re in the same athletic conference.”

“Cool! All of the sports genes in my family definitely went to my sister but I’m great at being an athletic supporter.” Betty laughs when she catches the reference.

“Yeah, she’s been to all of my field hockey games since, like, sophomore year.”

“I may have had an ulterior motive for that.”

“Whatever. I still appreciated it.” She pushes Ami off of her to get her out of the booth, then follows, before explaining to Betty, “Tuesday's the day Dad's at the Whyte Wyrm late doing inventory and accounts and stuff, so it's our weekly date night.” Betty doesn't miss the look exchanged between the two and its charged undercurrent. She grasps, with a bit of chagrin, that she's most definitely the adult in this situation. "Okay, well have fun then. But, you know, safe fun."

Jellybean rolls her eyes then pulls Betty out of the booth to hug her. She's surprised and touched. It's been half a lifetime, and yet, Betty realizes, some people are family no matter how long it’s been. She’s pleased to know that Jellybean is one of those people for her.

“I’m glad you came in today. I’m kind of shocked that I’ve been back four years and we haven’t managed to do this yet.”

“Me too. And I’m glad all the bullshit between our families doesn’t have to affect us.”

They smile at each other as they pull away, and Betty can’t help but feel a link has been forged, one independent even from Jughead.

“Oh wait!” Jellybean scribbles something on the pad in her apron, then tears the sheet off and places it facedown on the table. “Just take it up to Pop when you’re ready, Betty.”

Then she takes Ami’s hand and they leave, laughing with an intimacy that makes Betty’s heart ache.

It’s late that afternoon when Betty shows up at the Whyte Wyrm. They’re closed on Tuesdays, but when she knocks, FP opens the door and she’s surprised at her second warm greeting from a member of the Jones clan. As FP holds the door open for her, he says, “Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

He is too. He retains the masculine Jones uniform of dark jeans, t shirt, flannel, but his eyes are less red, less haunted, than she remembers. Granted last time she saw him he was sitting in a cell.

“Hi Mr. Jones. I don’t want to disturb you, I know you’re working. I just had something I wanted to talk to you about, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, Betty. Come in. And I think you’re old enough to call me FP.” He leads her to the bar, where he seems to be putting away glasses, so she climbs up on a stool and hugs her purse to her lap.

“Can I get you anything? I’m not supposed to serve when we’re not open, but I think we can make an exception for you.”

“Oh, no. Just water’s fine.” He uses the soda gun to fill a glass with seltzer and tosses a lime slice over his shoulder that lands in the glass with a satisfying plink. Betty claps.

She takes a sip of her drink, then says, “It’s been a long time. How have you been?”

“Good, good. Keeping out of trouble. At least, except for the kind my eighteen year old daughter likes to land me in.”

Betty cracks a grin. “I just saw Jellybean at Pop’s. And I met Ami.”

“They’ve been together a while now. I like her. JB can be so serious sometimes, like she’s got the world on her shoulders. Ami helps with that.  The girl definitely takes after her brother, though. You see much of him?”

“Ah, yes, actually. I saw him this weekend.” In a Biblical sense. She feels awkward, as she runs her thumb up and down the seam of her leggings. “Look, I was at his apartment Sunday and I found some photos. I know my dad was here the night Jason Blossom was killed.”

FP’s eyebrows climb up to his hairline for a minute. Then he settles his face and reaches both arms out to brace himself against the bar. “You’re a straight shooter like your mother.”

The comparison always makes her uncomfortable, but especially now when she’s unsure what Alice nows, how complicit she was in the attempted framing of the man in front of her.

“Yeah. I want to apologize on behalf of my family.”

He doesn’t pretend not to know what she’s talking about. “Betty, you don’t have to do that. You’re not responsible for them. Regardless of what your dad did or didn’t do, his testimony is why I got such a short sentence. It’s why I got to be here for my baby girl to be in high school.”

“Do you know what he did?”

FP shakes his head as he wipes down the bar. “I don’t know what to tell you, kiddo. I definitely can’t tell you anything Jug hasn’t already. I didn’t know anything til I got the call from Mustang and showed up to clean up the body. Your dad was long gone by then. I didn’t even know he was here till Jug told me.”

Betty nods and then watches the sweep of the rag for a minute or two.

“Okay, well I really just wanted to apologize and ask—But I should go. Let you get back to work.”

“Okay. Here, let me walk you out.”

After he’s held the door for her again, he blocks it open with his body and crosses his arms. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and my son but I know you’re a good person. Don’t hurt him like that again. He wouldn’t survive it.”

Betty’s mouth drops open and for a moment, she’s indignant. He talks like it’s her fault. Like she broke his heart. But then, maybe she did. She rubs her lips together before she answers. “I’m not trying to.”

He looks at her like her knows something about her she doesn't. “Take care, Betty.”

“You too, FP.”

When her father died, her mother did a deep clean of every room of their house, ruthlessly erasing him from everything but the picture frames. But she wouldn't set foot in his office. She seemed to want to close that door and leave it closed, a memento mori for all their sins. Eventually, Polly had taken it upon herself to box up and transport what remained of their father to the basement. Which is where Betty stands, sweaty and streaked with grime, when Jughead finds her.

“Betty.”

“Jesus Christ, Jughead. What are you doing here?” She clutches her chest like a heroine in a period film before bending down to sit on a box until her heart stops pounding.

He shrugs and leans against a cement column. “I followed you. Booked a flight as soon as we hung up yesterday.” Surprised as she is at his sudden appearance in her basement, she’s not surprised he came. She wonders what that says about her, about them.

“How’d you get in?”

“Fred Andrews still has your spare key, and I still know where his hide-a-key is.”

Betty sighs. Then, she realizes his body is strung taut as a wire. “Why did you come, Jughead?”

“I’ve been trying to solve this mystery for over ten years. You’re the first real lead I’ve gotten. Do you really think I’d let you investigate it without me?” He pushes off the column and stalks towards her. “Besides, I know you. When there’s a puzzle in your head, you’re like a dog with a bone. You need someone to tell you when to give it a rest.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You harassed Sheriff Keller. You questioned FP. What's next, Betty? Were you going to interrogate Jellybean?” Betty feels heat suffuse her face. “Oh, you thought I wouldn’t know about that, huh?”

“I did see JB,” she mumbles.

“Fuck, I knew she was lying.” By now he’s standing over her and she’s trembling.

“Jughead, I’m not— I know you did everything you could but you didn’t find anything. I know my dad is dead so it’s probably a fool’s errand. But I have to try. I mean, there’s all this evidence—” she sweeps her hands toward the boxes around her, “that you didn’t have access to. And who knows what my mom knows.”

“Okay, but you can’t cut me out of this.”

“Ditto. Not anymore. Clearly neither of us is good at investigating on our own.” She jumps up and hugs him and for moment she feels him stiffen, but then his arms come around her and she slips her fingers into his beanie-less hair while he rests his head in her neck. They take a shared breath, torsos rising and falling together.

She whispers into his shirt, “I’m so tired. I don’t want to fight anymore.” You can only wage a war on so many fronts.

“Me either.”

“So cease fire? While we figure this out?”

“Cease fire. But with one rule: we leave FP out of this. He’s finally got his life together and moved on. Our mutual obsession doesn’t have to be his.”

“Deal.”

Before he shows up, she would have sworn she didn’t want him here. That she couldn’t handle the twin eddies of feeling—one about her father the potential murderer and one about her ex-boyfriend who he sacrificed like a chess pawn. But before, she felt overwhelmed at the sheer mountain of things she did not know. Now, she feels stronger.

So, they make a plan. Holmes and Watson, Nancy and Ned, reunited once again.

#bughead fanfiction #riverdale fanfiction #bughead #betty x jughead #betty cooper #jughead jones #riverdale #mine #second city