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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 18 days

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1968 [Chapter 3: Hermes, God Of Thieves]

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

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

Word Count: 4.5k

Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji @sunnysideaeggs

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

They say it’s the most dangerous job in Vietnam. That’s why I wanted to do it.

Chinooks transport men and equipment, Cobras are gunships, Jolly Green Giants are used in search-and-rescue missions. But the Loach—Light Observation Helicopter—is a scout. We have to fly low enough to spot fresh footprints in mud, glints of sunlit metal, blooms of firelight from smoldering cigarettes in the primordial maze of the jungle. And when you go looking for the enemy, sometimes that’s exactly who you find. U.S. Army regulations decree that each Loach must be inspected after 300 hours of flight time, but they rarely make it that long. I’ve been shot down twice already. You roll out of the wreckage, grab your buddies, and book it out of the area before the Vietcong kill you, or worse: drag you back to the Hanoi Hilton so you can die slow.

Currently we’re just north of Pleiku, coasting close enough to the treetops that I could reach out and touch them. I’m in the back seat with my M16, no door between me and the outside world, my hair tied back with a green bandana, the wind hot and sticky. It’s so fucking humid here. Why can’t the communists be trying to take over Malta or Sweden or Monterey Bay, California?

It was the old men who suggested I might be of greatest service to the family by enlisting. I was 25, newly graduated from Columbia Law—a family tradition—and dreading the desk job that awaited me at the Department of Justice. Some people are born to type their lives away in some leather-upholstered office with a view of Pennsylvania Avenue, but not me, and I know this like I know the sun or the stars, ancient truths that can never be changed. And so when Otto and Viserys sat me down—my father had only had one stroke by that point, and was still relatively involved in the day-to-day minutia of putting a Targaryen in the White House—and said Aemond having a brother in Vietnam would make him more relatable, more sympathetic, more noble, not an observer to the carnage of the war but a fellow victim of it…I told them I’d go.

Everyone needs a project. If you don’t have something to distract you from the futility of human existence, it’ll break you in half. I have the Loach. Otto and Viserys, both immigrants ineligible to serve as president of the United States, have their shared ambition of getting their bloodlines in the Oval Office. Aemond has his legacy. My mother has her children, and Criston has my mother. Helaena has her gardens, her bugs, quiet gentle things that she tends with her own thorn-pricked hands. Aegon doesn’t have a project, he never really has, and it’s driven him to the cliff’s edge of insanity. See what I mean?

Anyway, let me tell you something about Vietnam. The Army gives us all the steak, beer, and cigarettes we can handle, but I’d kill for a lemon-lime Mr. Misty—

“Daeron, get down!” the guy to my left screams over the noise of the rotors. His name is Richie Swindell, and he’s from Omaha, Nebraska, and now he’s plummeting out of the helicopter as bullets riddle his chest. I duck low and cover my head as we spiral sideways into the trees, snapping branches, shredding leaves like confetti. I can hear the pilot yelling something, but I can’t tell what. When we hit the earth, the lightweight aluminum skin of the Loach does exactly what it’s supposed to, crumpling to absorb the shock of the collision and reduce trauma to us mortals inside. I scramble out of the rubble on my hands and knees and go to check on the pilot, but it’s too late. He’s already being hauled out by the Vietcong and gets a bullet to the brain. I reach back into the ruins of the Loach to grab my M16, but there are hands around my ankles yanking me out. And now I’m next, and there’s nowhere left to run, and I’m hoping Criston will be there to hold my mother when she gets the Western Union telegram.

One of the soldiers shouts and stops the others, shoving them aside to get a better look at me. With the barrel of his AK-47, supplied by either China or the Russians, he prods at the patch displaying my last name: Targaryen. His compatriots don’t seem impressed. Again, he batters my nametag, speaking to them in Vietnamese.

He knows who I am, I realize. He knows Aemond is running for president.

Now there is a hell of a lot of excitement. The men are talking rapidly amongst themselves, marveling at me, poking and examining me. Then two of them grab me by the arms. I look to the soldier who knows English, at least enough of it to read those nine fated letters. He smiles at me, not like a friend. Like a wolf baring its teeth.

He says: “It is okay, Targaryen boy. We just have some questions for you.”

Guess I’ll be checking into the Hanoi Hilton after all.

~~~~~~~~~~

You wake up to Aegon strumming an acoustic guitar and singing Johnny Cash. The guitar must be new. The one he left at Asteria is plain maple wood and covered in stickers; this unfamiliar instrument is a vivid, Caribbean blue and has Gibson written across the headstock.

“I hear the train a-comin’, it’s rolling ‘round the bend

And I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when

I’m stuck in Folsom Prison, and time keeps draggin’ on…”

“Let me die. I’m ready to go.”

Aegon laughs, setting his new guitar aside.

“Is Ari okay?”

“Yeah, he’s doing great. And I got the stuff you asked for.”

Sure enough, there are three roomy sundresses hanging from the coatrack—you wanted to have options in case you had trouble finding one that fit correctly, though you gave Aegon a general neighborhood for sizes—as well as an array of cosmetics on the nightstand, including a bottle of shimmering champagne-colored nail polish. “I’m really impressed. You barely forgot anything. Though I will look odd with blush but no foundation.”

“Ohhhhh. Fuck.”

“And this isn’t human shampoo. It’s for dogs. That’s why it has a mastiff on the label.”

“I thought it looked like you,” Aegon says, smirking mischievously.

“Well, thanks for trying.”

“And I found this at the gift shop.” He tosses a card at you like a frisbee. You open the envelope to see a cartoon cow on the front, black and white and wearing a huge copper bell and a party hat. Inside is printed: May your graduation be legenDAIRY! Aegon has crossed it out and written instead I thought this was blank…congrats on the new calf! followed by his illegible scribble of a signature.

“A cow,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “Because I’m Io.”

“You’ve got about a million of those pouring in from all over the country. Congratulations cards, get well soon cards, we really hope your husband gets elected so we aren’t consumed by nuclear Armageddon cards. And then Richard Nixon sent a pipe bomb.”

You set Aegon’s card on your nightstand, half-open so it will stay standing upright. Then you drink the apple juice from the tray the nurses left for you. “Aemond’s not here yet?”

“Uh, no, not yet,” Aegon says vaguely, kicking his feet up on the ottoman. He’s been shopping for himself too. He’s wearing a denim jacket over a black The Kinks t-shirt, ripped jeans, moccasins. He uses the remote to turn on the television: The Dating Game. “So, what did you study in college? You went to Manhattanville, right?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “You really don’t listen when I talk, do you?”

“I try not to.”

“Yes, I went to Manhattanville. And I studied math.”

“No way. You didn’t major in math.”

“Women can’t do math?” you tease. “That’s sexist.”

“I didn’t say women can’t do math. I’m saying there’s no way your parents sent you to a housewife factory like Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart to get a math degree.”

“They didn’t, which is why my bachelor’s is in math education. So half-math, half-kid stuff. Makes it a little more…domestic.”

“Cool. Teach me math.”

“What, really?”

“Yeah. Really.” He digs around in the pockets of his jeans until he finds a receipt, then locates a pen in the nightstand drawer. He hands both to you and then stands so he can watch over your shoulder as you work. You can smell him: cigarette smoke, rum, the cool grey rain that is falling outside. It drips off his hair, carelessly slicked back from his face.

“What’s something you don’t know how to do?” you ask, expecting to get an answer like exponents or calculating the volume of a pyramid.

“Uh. Long division.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Going all the way back to 4th grade. Alright then.” You begin writing. “So let’s take a large number—this year, 1968—and divide it by…hm…how many kids you have. So five.”

Aegon whistles. “Five kids. Goddamn.”

“Yes, and you probably couldn’t name them, but there are indeed five. Trust me, I’ve counted.”

“Okay, this is the part I don’t get. Five goes into 19 almost four times. But there’s no way to say almost four.”

“There certainly is not. Five goes into 19 three times, so we put a three up top and then subtract 15 from 19. We get four, drop down the six from 1968, and now we’re dividing 46 by five.”

“Nine.”

“Right. Five times nine is 45. So the nine goes up top and we subtract 45 from 46.”

“45 is basically 46. Let’s call it a day. Close enough.”

“No,” you insist. “We get one, then drop down the eight from 1968, which makes 18.”

“And five goes into 18 three times.”

“Where’s the three go?”

“Up top,” Aegon says, observing fixedly.

“And then we subtract…”

“15 from 18, which is three. So the answer is 393.3.”

“Wrong. Loser.”

“What! How am I wrong?!”

“You don’t just put the three after the decimal,” you say. “You drop down a zero—”

“A zero?! Where the fuck did a zero come from?”

“From the fact that 1968 is a whole number, so it’s actually 1968.0.”

“Oh.” Aegon blinks a few times. “Gotcha.”

“Add the zero after the three to get 30—”

“And 30 divided by five is six. So the answer is 393.6.”

“I am so proud. You are officially as smart as an average nine-year-old.”

He takes the receipt from you and studies it. “This was super enlightening.”

“You want to try calculus now?”

He cackles and sinks back into his plush salmon pink armchair, his miniature dominion in your hospital room kingdom. “You like teaching?”

“I love it,” you admit. “I had to do a semester of student teaching the spring before I graduated, and at first I was kind of petrified. But the kids are so hilarious and interesting and full of excitement about everything, and they’re sweet in totally unexpected ways. They’d chatter all through a lesson and make me want to jump out a five-story window, and then bring me some of their Easter candy. That’s when I realized they weren’t trying to torture me. They’re just kids.”

Aegon is meditative. “Yeah, kids are fun.”

“I wasn’t aware you had much interest in them.”

“No, I do.” And something about the way he says it makes you feel bad for taking the shot. He runs his fingers through his hair, perhaps debating how much he wants to share. “You know Viserys made us all do these little missions after college so we could learn about the real world, right?”

“Right.” Daeron spent his on lobster boats up in Maine, Helaena learned horticulture in France, Aemond helped register voters in Mississippi and Alabama. You can’t recall ever hearing about Aegon’s.

“I got sent to Yuma, Arizona to teach on the reservation there. When I stepped off the bus, I thought it was hell on earth. And then when my time was up I didn’t want to leave.”

“What did you teach?” And then you add: “Hopefully not math.”

“No, definitely not math,” he says, smiling but distant, remembering. “English. Books, poems, all that. But my favorite thing to do was take a song and break it down line by line, really get them curious about what the author was thinking. And then of course we’d all sing it together. I’d play guitar, they’d run around jumping on the furniture, it was a good time.”

“But you couldn’t stay.”

“No,” he sighs. “I had to come back here so I could get dragged kicking and screaming through law school and then married off.”

“And elected mayor of Trenton,” you say, trying to make him laugh. It works.

“Oh God, we are not talking about that. Most miserable two years of my life.”

“So far.”

“Yeah. If Aemond wins and makes me the attorney general, that might be worse.”

“Knock knock!” comes a cheerful trill from the doorway, and then Alicent and Mimi rush in. They descend upon your hospital bed, cooing and soothing, squeezing your hands and trying to smooth your untamed hair.

“What did it feel like?” Mimi is morbidly fascinated, swaying a little, eyes bleary with gin. “When they were digging around in there?”

“Well, obviously she was sedated, hon,” Aegon says, a bit impatiently. He and Mimi share a nod in greeting, no warmth, no depth. You wonder what it must be like for someone you spent so much time tangled up with to become a stranger.

“Oh, darling, I barely recognize you!” Alicent says. “You poor thing, you must be in such awful pain. I’ve never seen you like this before. Your face, your hair…”

Aegon gives her a quick, disapproving look and then lights a cigarette of the traditional variety. He puffs on it as he gazes at the window, like he’s counting the raindrops on the glass.

“I’m feeling a lot better now,” you assure Alicent.

Her eyes flick down to your belly, still swollen beneath your blankets. “Will it scar terribly, do you think?”

You shrug; you haven’t thought much about that part yet. “It’s a battle scar. Aemond gets them in the real world, I get them in here. Same war, different arenas.” You peek out into the hallway. “Is Aemond…is he with you…?”

“He wanted to be,” Alicent says, like it’s a consolation. “But, Washington, you know…the primary there is so close. So, so close. He kept saying that he and Humphrey were neck and neck, and they still are, I believe. Every vote counts, and he’s campaigning all over the Puget Sound.”

“He’s still in Washington?” Your voice is flat with disbelief, with disapproval.

“He wishes he could be here with you and the baby,” Alicent insists, stroking your hair. “I’m sure he’ll fly back as soon as he’s able. But he’s thinking of you so, so much. That’s why he let me and Mimi leave this morning.”

“Right,” you reply numbly. And then you remember what you’re supposed to say. “The election is important. It affects everyone, our son included. For the greater good, personal sacrifices are necessary.”

“We saw him,” Alicent tells you, radiant with joy. “Aristos Apollo.”

“So precious,” Mimi says. “But so small! And trapped in that hideous machine! We could only see him through those little round windows.”

Aegon casts her a violent glare. You are alarmed. “He’s not in an incubator?”

“They have him in a…what was it called, Mimi?” Alicent asks. Mimi has nothing useful to contribute. “A hyperbaric chamber, I think. To help him get more oxygen.”

“But he’s fine,” Aegon says firmly, giving his wife and mother a warning. “Didn’t the doctor say it was a precaution?”

“He did, he did,” Alicent promises you. “Yes, just a precaution, that’s what we were told. The doctor has been trying to reach Aemond, apparently, but since he landed in Washington, he’s never in one place for long…”

“We should buy gifts for the baby,” Mimi says excitedly. “Adorable hats and shirts and trousers. Although even the tiniest clothes might be too big for him right now.”

“Yes, gifts! We must shop for gifts. Oh, it’s all been such a whirlwind. We hurried off the plane to come straight here, love,” Alicent tells you. “Can Mimi and I get you something for dinner?”

“Sure, sure.” You are distracted, still thinking of Ari. “Anything is fine. Wherever you end up.”

“Would you like me to bring a priest to pray with you? Saint Nicholas Church is right around the corner.”

You smile. “That’s very kind, but I think I’d prefer some books.”

“Baby clothes, dinner, and books. We can do that. Can’t we, Mimi?”

“We absolutely can,” Mimi agrees with tipsy, girlish enthusiasm.

As an afterthought, Alicent says: “Aegon, have you been here all this time? You must be exhausted. We’re going to book a suite at the Plaza, there will be plenty of room for you too. We can drop you off there on our way to go shopping, if you’d like.”

“I’ll stay,” he says softly, watching the rain again.

Alicent’s brow furrows; her dark doe-like eyes are puzzled. “Alright, dear.” Then she and Mimi disappear into the hall.

“Is he really okay?” you ask Aegon when they’re gone.

“Yes. That’s exactly what the doctor told me, just a precaution. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Aegon,” you say, and don’t continue until he meets your eyes. “Why are you still here?”

He lights a fresh cigarette. “I don’t think you should be alone.”

“I’m not alone anymore. Alicent visits me, Mimi visits me.”

“Yeah, but you feel like you have to put on a show for them. Play the perfect Targaryen wife with all that stoic, dignified, unshakable faith. You hate me, so there isn’t as much pressure.”

“I don’t hate you, Aegon.”

“Yes you do. You always have. You don’t have to be polite about it.”

“Well…I have valid reasons to hate you.”

He smiles, exhaling smoke. “Right.”

“And you hate me too.”

Now he shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “Everybody worships you, everybody thinks I’m a waste of chromosomes, is it really that hard to psychoanalyze?”

“No one worships me. They worship Aemond.”

“But you’re a package deal. Jack and Jackie, Franklin and Eleanor.”

You trace the lines in your palm with a fingertip, not knowing what to say. You’re so close to Aemond, so inseparable, and yet so vastly far. “Will you wheel me downstairs to see Ari after dinner?” It’s best to go at night when there are less staff around to try to stop you.

“Sure. You want a Mr. Misty?”

“Yeah. Lemon-lime.” That’s what he brought you last time, and it wasn’t bad for a cardboard cup of florescent green sugar water.

“Got it,” Aegon says, and leaves you alone.

You look at the phone on your nightstand. You’ve tried to call Aemond to no avail, though you spoke to Criston twice; on both occasions he said Aemond was in the middle of an interview. It’s understandable that you would have difficulty getting ahold of your husband while he’s off campaigning, leaping from town to town like an electric current. There’s nothing unusual about it at all. But Aemond could call you anytime he likes. You haven’t moved; he knows exactly where you are.

You keep staring at the phone. It doesn’t ring.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s night again, and you swim up from morphine-soft dreams into your hospital room, dark except for the flashing color of the television, low volume, NBC news. Aegon is curled up in the chair he’s claimed, snoring and half-covered with a cheap, pale blue hospital blanket. And it’s a strange feeling—a foreign language, a new religion—to realize that you’re relieved to see he’s still here, that there’s a comfort in it, a safety.

Suddenly, Aemond is on the television screen. You sit up in bed as gingerly as you can, leaning in, listening close. He’s rarely looked better: blue suit, prosthetic eye, rested and measured and sharp. He’s giving a speech at the Hotel Sorrento in Seattle, three hours behind the time you’re living in on the East Coast. Flanking him on the stage are Criston, Otto, Helaena, Fosco, the eight charming children. Five-year-old Cosmo keeps waving at the camera.

“Right now, my wife and newborn son are at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City,” Aemond says, beaming, and the audience whistles and cheers. You should smile, but you can’t. He’s not supposed to be there. He’s supposed to be on his way home. “But tonight I’m here with all of you, fighting with everything I’m made of to win the great state of Washington. And I won’t leave until the job is done, because I know the greatest act of devotion that any of us can show our children is to ensure they grow up in a better America than the one we find ourselves in today…”

You look over at Aegon and see that his glassy eyes are open, watching the television just like you are. You don’t know how long he’s been awake. The two of you exchange a glance, and there is a silent, shared recognition of what won’t be said. You can’t criticize your husband. Aegon isn’t going to kick you while you’re down. You are grateful for this. It is a conviction he has only recently acquired.

Aegon pulls his blanket up to his chin and rolls over, turning away from you. You close your eyes and dream of being a child back in Tarpon Springs, mesmerized as you watch Greek sponge divers emerge from the bubbling depths in their suits of rubber armor.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the afternoon of the 13th. The Washington State Democratic Convention is being held tonight, and so win or lose Aemond will be walking into Mount Sinai Hospital tomorrow. He has to, he doesn’t have a choice. He’ll have no excuse to be anywhere else, and journalists will be swarming at the entranceway like bull sharks in the Gulf of Mexico.

It’s raining again. You’re reading one of the books that Alicent brought you, Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care. You had been meaning to get a copy before you were consumed by Aemond’s campaign and then his near-assassination, his maiming, his fleeting brush with oblivion. Aegon is cross-legged in the salmon pink armchair and plucking lazily at his guitar, singing so low no one outside the room would be able to hear him. It’s a Rolling Stones song, slow and mournful.

“You don’t know what’s going on

You’ve been away for far too long

You can’t come back and think you are still mine.”

As you flip a page and raindrops patter gently against the window, you find yourself thinking how easy this is, your hair undone and your feet bare, no photos to take or lines to remember, no practiced smiles, no overwrought itineraries, only compassion that is quiet and small and real.

“Well, baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time

I said, baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time…”

Aegon abruptly stops playing, cutting off with a twang. You look up at him. He’s gazing back with eyes that are filling up his face, glistening with horror. You turn to find out what he’s seen. There’s a doctor standing in the doorway, but he’s not alone. There’s a Greek Orthodox priest with him.

“Mrs. Targaryen,” the doctor begins, then glances to the priest. The holy man—black robes, gold chains, clasping a komboskini like the one Aemond keeps in a box on his writing desk at Asteria, stained with his own blood—gives an encouraging nod. “We’ve tried to reach your husband. We’ve called his hotel in Tacoma several times, but the senator must be out campaigning, and…” Again, he looks to the priest. Aegon is setting his guitar on the floor, covering his mouth with his hands.

Ari. Too early, too fragile, too defenseless in a world full of wolves.

Your words come out in a whisper. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

“We must remember, child,” the priest tells you, vague patronizing pity. “That the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, but what is lost to us in this life is never truly gone. Those we love wait for us on the other side in paradise—”

“Please leave. I don’t want to talk to a priest. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

I just gave birth to him. I just started to believe he was mine.

The doctor begins: “Ma’am, I’m so sorry to have to deliver this news—”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone, I want to be alone. So please leave,” you beg, your voice breaking. “I want to be alone. Please leave me alone.”

The doctor looks to Aegon. A man’s permission is sought. “Go,” Aegon manages, raspy and strangled, and the doctor obeys.

“God bless you and your husband, Mrs. Targaryen,” the priest says as he departs with a swift bow. You can’t reply. You’re biting back sobs as the tears begin to slither down your cheeks, scalding and furious, not just grief but the bottomless rage of Nemesis.

Aegon is watching you, not knowing what to do, not knowing what you need.

Aemond would want you to be stoic. Aemond would want you to have faith, forbearance, grace. “It is God’s will.”

“Hey.” Aegon reaches across the space between you, grabs your hand, holds it so tightly your bones ache. Still, you wouldn’t want him to let go. “You’re allowed to be fucked up about this. I am too.”

When your eyes drift to him, they are glaring and heartsick and poisonous. “Where’s Aemond?” Why isn’t he here?

Aegon sighs deeply and picks up the phone with his free hand. He spins the rotary dial with his index finger and then holds the handset to his ear. He waits as it rings. “Pantages Theater, Tacoma, Washington,” he tells the operator. A minute or more crawls by. “I need to speak to Senator Targaryen immediately. Yes, I know there’s a convention underway there, that’s why I’m calling you. Go get him.” More minutes, eternal, terrible beyond description. “What do you mean you can’t find him?!” Aegon snaps. “Okay, give me someone else. Anyone travelling with him. Criston Cole, Fosco Viviani, Otto Hightower, Helaena Targaryen. Hurry up. Let’s go.”

Outside the rain grows heavy and loud; it falls in sheets against the misty windows. In the distance, thunder growls.

“Hi, Criston, it’s me. He needs to come home now. Right now.”

Aegon closes his eyes. Criston must be arguing with him.

“No, you don’t understand,” Aegon says, forcing the words to leave his lips and ride the wires to the West Coast, to where the sun sets, to where the future is dawning. He’s still holding your hand. “Aemond doesn’t have a son anymore.”

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x reader #aegon targaryen ii x you #aegon targaryen x you

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toulousewayne · 4 months

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My DCU Aesthetic: Gotham City

I have entire folder of pictures and ideas of what I want Gotham City to look like in the next film. I’m excited for what James Gunn has planned, but this is what i would do to our favorite crime riddled city. *I will be using photos to serve as visuals. I do not claim them as my own.*

Wayne Enterprise:

I loved the animated series and still watch it. I loved the Dark Deco style and I feel like the next live action Gotham City should borrow from that style especially when it comes to older buildings or those with wealth. Wayne Enterprises is not the original Wayne Tower however. Wayne Enterprises is a new building and housed most of the new branches. Like Wayne Pharmaceuticals, WayneTech, Wayne Entertainment,etc. While the WayneTech is the largest of several divisions Bruce Wayne does invest his time into the other divisions which has their own heads. Like Lucius Fox being the head of the WayneTech division and Tim Drake was once the CEO and the head executive over several departments and still acts as CEO when Bruce can’t attend to certain issues.

GCPD:

I think GCPD is one of the if not the oldest building in Gotham. It houses all of Gotham Finest, as well as the home of the Bat Signal. Commissioner Gordon runs the police for and wants to maintain order as well as restore the order within the precinct. Prior to him joining it the police department was extremely corrupt and made dealing with the mob. The building is old and has went through several revisions and additions like the major crimes building and the maximum security holding cells to hold and temporary hold some of Gotham’s most infamous and dangerous criminals until further transportation.

Old Gotham:

Old Gotham is the largest and south most port of the city. A lot of old family industries are rooted here along with a lot of businesses , the financial district and Gotham’s fashion district are located here. It also where most of the other popular locations are like Slaughter Swamp,Blackgate Prison and Lady Gotham.

New Gotham (Somerest)

New Gotham is the small and most central of the three larger islands. It’s the island that connects Arkham Island to the mainland. It is also where newer companies and corporations have housed the building on this island since its restoration from No Man’s Land. Gotham’s East End is here protected at lot by Catwoman herself. Chinatown is also here as well.

North Gotham (Burnley):

North Gotham is the north most part of the city. This is also the most historic part of the city with a lot of wealthy residents and city officials residing in this area. Gotham State University is also in this area and has several popular small shops, Townhomes, City Hall,cafè, and as well as several prominent landmarks like Gotham Cathedral and several other smaller churches like Devity Church.

Wayne Manor:

Stately Wayne Manor located in the Bristol district, just outside of the city limits. It’s where some of the upper class residents. Most of the older families settled here but a lot of them in last few decades relocated to the city living in penthouses and townhouses. It’s also home to several of Gotham’s oldest and most prominent schools.

Gotham City Map:

I used this map and different variations when I am talking about my version of Gotham city, as well as thinking of locations within the city for storytelling. As well as a additional one I found that looks like a an irl map of Gotham, which is part of New Jersey.

#batfamily #dc comics #dc universe #dc live action #batman #batfam #dick grayson #gotham knights #jason todd #tim drake

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good-realtor-bad-realtor-dynamic · 1 year

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The return of Glenn in today's episode came with lots of classic Glenn Howerton material, glennisms and glensanity, this time in a pink fucking hoodie.

"I like to start from a sterile place before I get things dirty"

Nitrous makes your brain go wowowowowow

Glenn missing the happier, calmer colours he got to play as Dennis before he became so angry. Again.

"Danny! Just a little piece of your body!"

Not knowing how to turn off the water in his garden after a new landscaping job, then feeling emasculated by the fire department

Being against "I eat stickers all the time dude" because that of all things seemed too irrational to him lmao

Asking Rob if "he put his mouth on [people who gave him rides back in his New Jersey hitchhiking days]"

Rob: "I was trying to get my mouth on anything I could — [Charlie perks up] (Glenn: anything?) — well not a dick"

Glenn picturing a man to put one's mouth on vs Rob's immediate instinct to picture a young woman

Glenn bought a French press for a road trip because he refused to drink cheap coffee from a petrol station

Charlie: "Excuse me sir where's your hot water for tea" (for coffee)

Rob calls this "the Glenniest Glenn shit ever"

Glenn likes to add extra steps to make his life difficult

Megan: Rob would've just sucked a guy off for better coffee

Glenn: He would've let the guy drink an espresso and sucked his cock and got the caffeine that way (WTF GLENN WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!)

Walking onto set, Charlie gets transported and nostalgic and can feel Charlie Kelly coming on

Glenn: You can really see the dust in here huh what am I breathing

Never change Glenn.

#this man is certifiably insane and i missed it last week #they also managed to actually discuss this episode for quite a long while between all their stories somehow?!#you can tell they really love this episode. ofc they said as much too.#the gang hits the road #63 the gang hits the road #tasp #always sunny podcast #iasip podcast #glenn howerton #rcg #sur #sur rambles

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drifting-pieces-blog-blog · 6 months

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Breaking down the comics: What big Teeth (Issue 29)

Moon Knight, Issue #29: Morning Star.

Enter WEREWOLF BY NIGHT.

We're going back to the start of it all.

Also, this cover? Fucking BANGER.

(This issue has two stories, but I'm going to cover the second shorter story in a separate post.)

Titles page reads:

"Jack Russell must reach Moon Knight before the full moon, before the change...And before the hooded figures can use him for their own terrible ends."

Yesss….. It’s time to fall back to the roots of it all. A horror story.

We open on a train yard.

"It has been said that the train, outmoded though it may be, functions as the nations lifeline.

But here's something else that's been said: 'As a viable mode of transport, the nation's once mighty rail system is dying a painfully slow death'

Take your pick....Then Decide where that leaves the nation. Or consider this: Here, in the twilight of an Omaha Freight yard, long lines of trains merely slumber.

Reassuring? Nope.

Because the peace of sleep is easily shattered."

We see a man running for his life as people fire on him.

"I could change... I could kill the man... But I don't want to..." He weaves through the train cars and tracks.

"Full moon rising... Soon I won't be able to control myself... Just a little longer!"

He jumps on a train that's starting to pull out.

But the train moves at a crawl.

The men move in.

But the moon is risen and full.

"Dusk dies. Leaving only a circle of silver to light the sky..."

And the monster is awake.

"First night: Darkness and the moon conspired with an ancient curse to answer my prayers --and to give me what I needed. From the shadows of the boxcar I reached out, seized the first man--and Squeezed.

He was surprised. I felt my talons flex under the pressure. Then puncture his flesh. Blood spurted. I bared my fangs and almost howled, but not yet...not yet.

True, I'd become the werewolf again and all awareness of my human identity as Jack Russell had gone the way of my flesh... Still, I was cunning.

Soon the hated man would be dead...But I knew there were three of them. Plenty of time to howl, so I snarled instead."

The wolf carries on. He rips into flesh then runs. The wolf knows it needs more time.

It makes a break into the night on the departing train.

The remaining men rush to the station and demand to know where that train is going.

New York City is about to get interesting.

Back in LA, we find ourselves in a satanic cultist curch where the leader, Schuyler Belial, who also calls himself Morning Star, is giving a midnight mass sermun.

It's typical satanist cultist stuff.

As part of his promise to his followers is that he produce the "Beast of the Apocalypse".

Which he was supposed to produce that night. That obviously is not going to happen.

"You promised you'd produce the beast tonight! That's what we came for! Where is he?"

"Ah, no--Not tonight--But soon. Soon the sign shall be manifest! And you shall see--"

Apparently he's been promising to deliver the beast for the past year.

It's hard to deliver a pissed off werewolf on a time schedule.

The congregation is pretty displeased and most of them leave. This leaves Morning Star pretty riled up.

He needs that beast and he plans to get it.

Time to head to New york.

You know who else is in New York?

This page is just….It’s the heart of this comic. Lockley chilling with his friends. You got Crawley and his flowery language and oddly high insight. Jake asking how Gena and the kids are doing. Flint contacting Moon Knight through Gena’s diner… It’s perfect.

Moon Knight meets up with flint. Flint passes along a letter marked "Super urgent" for Moon Knight.

"Moon Knight, for past favors, please meet me tonight before 6-- Jersey countryside, old house on Deer Run Road just off Routes 27 and 63. -Jack Russell"

Moon Knight has a flashback of him punching a werewolf.

Yeah...that...that sounds about right.

He makes haste but it's a half hour trip and it's already Five thirty.

Yeah that's pretty much how it went last time too.

"Moon Knight wasn't in time. I jumped all over him for it. When the moon is full, I have no control over myself...None! And then I splashed through glass into the night. "

Moon Knight has his own thoughts on it.

"Well, you may have transformed, Russell...But you sure haven't changed much since our last meeting... Still adhering to an altogether too hairy lifestyle."

"Too late by a matter of minutes--And now instead of merely containing him, I've got to capture him."

Moon Knight is not looking forward to this night. He's been faced with capturing him before.

The Wolf runs for freedom, knowing the Moon Knight is after him.

He's easily distracted at the sight of prey.

A large stag frozen in fear before him.

"And there HE was--A wealth of silver moonstuff itself."

Moon Knight bursts into the clearing and startles off the stag.

Russell gives chase. And so does Moon Knight.

There he goes…on the ground again. He has the worst luck.

And Moon Knight takes a hard blow to the head.

The attacker flees and calls up Morning Star to tell him the bad news. "Moon Knight the Avenging white angel" is after the beast.

Morning star elects to wait until Russell has changed back to human form when he is worn out and easier prey.

Speaking of prey, the wolf has taken his own prey down and feasted well. His rage and need for the hunt quelled, he heads to a stream to wash off.

And then the dawn broke and the man was left behind.

"I went to sleep on my feet--standing in water."

And just a few yards away, Moon Knight also awakens.

They’re doing great.

Moon Knight pulls Russell from the water. He and Frenchie take Russell back to Grant Mansion to let him rest.

He wakes from a nightmare.

Moon Knight asks him about the men following him. Russell believes them to be phantoms, since he can't seem to shake them.

"...But no matter how far or fast I go, sooner or later they always show up."

Moon Knight recalls how the cowl mic was filled with static.

He calls in a doctor.

Outside, down the road, the cultists wait for their chance.

After x rays are taken they discover a chip that has been implanted in Jack's head just under the scalp.

The doctor says he can remove it, but it will take time and time they don't have. He will have to wait till the next day to remove it.

Moon Knight explains to Jack how he's being tracked.

In the mean time, he does what friends do best.

"Strap you down, lock you up, and keep watch over you throughout your werewolf phase. Right here."

The moon rises and so does the wolf. He snaps the straps and is now loose in Grant mansion!

Yeah...Moon Knight didn't think this one through....

CONTINUED NEXT TIME!

I have to say, I love how when the wolf appears, we get the narration from the wolf’s point of view and it’s still in Russel’s voice, but more confused and more driven by the wolf.

On a different note, I was excited to see Marvel previews for other comics popping up in the back of this issue! It means that Moon Knight has broken into the big leagues at this point and now they are advertising the more mainstream events and comics.

There was ALSO a letter from the editor, Denny O'Neil stating that Ralph Macchio has been promoted and will be dancing up the Marvel food chain. It also talks about how the publishing schedule for Moon Knight is going to change. They can't give information yet, but the hope is to reach a larger audience.

It's heartwarming to see how this little obscure comic started to get such a following so early on and started to grow.

#Moon Knight #Moon Knight comics #Werewolf by Night #Jack Russell #Marc Spector #Steven Grant #Jake Lockley #They're friends #Everyone Moon Knight makes friends with started with a punch #Nothing makes me happier than Moon Knight having flashbacks to punching a werewolf #That first comic was something else #Let's get this bread #It's spooky time ya'll!#Analyzing the comics

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mariacallous · 3 months

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When turbine blades for the United States’ first offshore wind project left port in September 2023, headed for the Vineyard Wind 1 project off Massachusetts, they were traveling on a barge instead of a wind turbine installation vessel, or WTIV. These purpose-built vessels are common in other parts of the world and make the job much, much easier. A WTIV is a transportation and construction rig in one. Frequently equipped with a big crane, deployable legs, and a dynamic positioning system, WTIVs can support the installation of several humongous turbines per trip.

There are dozens of WTIVs plying the world’s waters. So, why were the Vineyard Wind 1 blades delivered on a barge? This expensive, inefficient workaround was necessary because of a century-old law known as the Jones Act.

Also known as the Merchant Marine Act of 1920, the Jones Act requires anyone transporting goods from one point in the United States to another to use an American ship. And by a modern interpretation of the old law, an offshore turbine counts as a point in the United States. The trouble is, the United States doesn’t have any WTIVs. And without the appropriate equipment, the country’s offshore wind efforts are being plagued by the need for repeated, smaller-capacity barge trips that have added costs to projects already beset by financial difficulties. Danish energy company Ørsted, for example, cited vessel delays when it canceled two planned projects off the New Jersey coast: Ocean Wind 1 and 2.

The country’s first Jones Act–compliant WTIV, the Charybdis, is currently under construction in Texas. While originally planned for completion in 2023, labor constraints have pushed the Charybdis’s launch back at least a year, possibly into 2025, says Dominion Energy, the vessel’s owner.

The Biden administration’s goal is to deploy offshore wind turbines capable of generating 30 gigawatts of power by 2030. That’s more than 2,000 turbines. To meet this target, the National Renewable Energy Laboratory (NREL), part of the US Department of Energy, says there’s a need for four to six WTIVs. But as 2030 draws ever closer, the incomplete Charybdis remains the only one.

The Jones Act is tricky to navigate. For a vessel to be compliant, it must not only be built in the United States and running the country’s flag but also be owned and crewed by Americans. Consequently, US shipyards enjoy a monopoly, which allows them to demand massively inflated prices.

When finished, the 144-meter-long Charybdis will boast over 5,000 square meters of main deck area and accommodate up to 119 people, supported by on-board cabins, mess rooms, and shops, as well as a cinema, gym, and hospital. But the WTIV’s cost has climbed from US $500 million to $625 million. Meanwhile, the major shipyards in South Korea could have built a similar vessel in less time, for less money, and with a more powerful crane.

The reason for the Jones Act’s longevity, says Colin Grabow, a research fellow at the Cato Institute, a libertarian think tank, is that while it tends to benefit only a few people and businesses, the act goes unnoticed because there are many payers sharing the increased costs.

The Jones Act is one in a string of protectionist laws—dating back to the Tariff Act of 1789—designed to bolster US marine industries. The Jones Act’s existence was meant to ensure a ready supply of ships and mariners in case of war. Its authors reasoned that protection from foreign competition would foster that.

“Your average American has no idea that the Jones Act even exists,” Grabow says. “It’s not life-changing for very many people,” he adds. But “all Americans are hurt by the Jones Act.” In this case, that’s by slowing down the United States’ ability to hit its own wind power targets.

Grabow says those most vocal about the law—the people who build, operate, or serve on compliant ships—usually want to keep it in place.

Of course, there’s more going on with the country’s slow rollout of offshore wind power than just a century-old shipping law. It took a slew of factors to sink New Jersey’s planned Ocean Wind installations, says Abraham Silverman, an expert on renewable energy at Columbia University in New York.

Ultimately, says Silverman, rising interest rates, inflation, and other macroeconomic factors caught New Jersey’s projects at their most vulnerable stage, inflating the construction costs after Ørsted had already locked in its financing.

Despite the setbacks, the potential for offshore wind power generation in the United States is massive. The NREL estimates that fixed-bottom offshore wind farms in the country could theoretically generate some 1,500 gigawatts of power—more than the United States is capable of generating today.

There’s a lot the United States can do to make its expansion into offshore wind more efficient. And that’s where the focus needs to be right now, says Matthew Shields, an engineer at NREL specializing in the economics and technology of wind energy.

“Whether we build 15 or 20 or 25 gigawatts of offshore wind by 2030, that probably doesn’t move the needle that much from a climate perspective,” says Shields. But if building those first few turbines sets the country up to then build 100 or 200 gigawatts of offshore wind capacity by 2050, he says, then that makes a difference. “If we have ironed out all these issues and we feel good about our sustainable development moving forward, to me, I think that’s a real win.”

But today, some of the offshore wind industry’s issues stem, inescapably, from the Jones Act. Those inefficiencies mean lost dollars and, perhaps more importantly in the rush toward carbon neutrality, lost time.

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1863-project · 8 months

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I'm reading old reports from before the official formation of NJ Transit right now...

This dates to 1978, and they were still determining what to do with the former Erie-Lackawanna trackage, particularly with regards to upgrading the electrification on some lines. At the time, the passenger service was being operated by Conrail under contract to the NJ Department of Transportation. NJ Transit was founded in 1979, and it officially took over passenger service in 1983.

I'm obsessed with this guy who proposed a suggestion without realizing he was reinventing Manhattan Transfer:

Transcription:

Commuter Alternative Proposed: Dear Editor: Many readers of The Star-Ledger commute on the Erie-Lackawanna Railroad. The state of New Jersey has proposed to re-electrify the line so passengers can ride to New York's Penn Station. I would like to offer an alternate proposal. The state is accepting delivery of new multiple unit cars from General Electric. These cars are slated to be used on the Erie-Lackawanna. However, it will be years before these cars can be used because they are designed to use AC power and the E-L has DC power. There is local opposition to the project due to noisy substations. Finally, how are passengers on the E-L diesel trains going to get to New York's Penn Station? The state should discontinue accepting the new cars pending specification [revision?]. Future cars should be [?] to use DC power, the power the E-L now uses [?] Harrison, where the Erie-Lackawanna and the Penn Central tracks come close together, a station should be built. There would be a high level platform with the E-L on one side and the Penn Central on the other. ALL E-L trains bound for Hoboken would stop here. Passengers wishing to travel to New York's Penn Station would change to waiting Penn Central trains. Those wishing to go to Hoboken would stay on the E-L trains. E-L passengers coming home from New York would change at Harrison to waiting E-L trains. The new AC multiple-unit cars the state now has would provide the shuttle between Harrison and New York. The DC cars of the future would provide the service between E-L points and Harrison. Diesel train passengers as well as those on E-L electric trains could use this service. This service could be instituted much sooner and at far less cost than the state's plan of electrification. Joel N. Rovick, Long Branch

Manhattan Transfer, located in Harrison, NJ, just like where this person wanted to put their version, was active from 1910 to 1937, and its entire purpose was to transfer people from one type of power to another - steam locomotives would pull the trains up until that point, and then passengers would switch over to an electric multiple unit to go under the Hudson into Penn Station. You could also transfer to the PATH (then the H&M) here starting in 1911. Once the PRR electrified south of the station, however, there was no longer a need for it - note that it closed in 1937, and the GG1s had entered service a few years prior starting in 1934. Newark Penn Station, fully electrified, negated the need for a transfer point for both the PRR and the PATH - today you can go straight along the Northeast Corridor through Newark right into New York Penn Station, and you can take the PATH from Newark all the way to the World Trade Center instead of having to take it from Manhattan Transfer.

The only reason Manhattan Transfer lasted beyond 1933, when the PRR was running electric trains through and south of it, was for that PATH transfer. Once that was no longer needed, it was only a matter of time.

I just think it's funny that this person may have unknowingly done this, because this newspaper article ran in 1978, 41 years after the station closed. Depending on the writer's age, it might not have even existed in their lifetime.

And I guess their idea did sort of come into fruition years later, but in a much different location - Secaucus Junction.

#history #I like trains

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beardedmrbean · 9 months

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New Jersey sued the U.S. Department of Transportation for its role approving New York’s planned congestion toll, arguing the federal government should conduct a fuller environmental-impact study of what would be the nation’s first congestion pricing system.

Gov. Phil Murphy announced the lawsuit, filed in federal court in Newark, Friday morning. The suit, which also lists the Federal Highway Administration and two officials at that division of DOT as defendants, could upend plans by New York officials to raise money for the subway system by charging congestion tolls on people who drive into the busiest parts of Manhattan.

“We believe the feds short-circuited the normal review process,” the Democratic governor said in an interview on Good Day New York.

The Federal Highway Administration, or FHWA, doesn’t comment on pending litigation, a spokeswoman said. New York’s Metropolitan Transportation Authority, which will oversee congestion pricing, didn’t immediately respond to a request for comment. MTA officials have previously said they conducted an extensive environmental analysis.

The FHWA signed off on the MTA’s review in late June, and the MTA has begun setting up camera systems needed to charge the tolls. The authority hopes to start charging congestion tolls by the spring of 2024 on vehicles that enter Manhattan south of 60th Street.

Murphy argued that the new tolls will unfairly target New Jersey drivers, who already pay a $17 toll to use the Lincoln or Holland tunnels into Manhattan. Around 111,000 people drove into Manhattan’s business district from New Jersey on an average fall weekday in 2019, according to the New York Metropolitan Transportation Council, a planning group.

The MTA this week convened a board that will set toll rates and consider exemptions—including a possible credit for drivers who must already pay tolls to use tunnels.

The congestion charge could be as high as $23 during rush hour, according to the MTA’s environmental review. Drivers just using highways along the Hudson and East rivers can avoid the fee, and low-income residents of the congestion zone would receive an offsetting tax rebate.

The toll must raise enough money to cover operating costs as well as bonds to finance $15 billion of mass-transit improvements for the MTA. New York approved the congestion pricing in 2019 as part of a larger budget bill in Albany.

In addition to raising funds, leaders of the MTA estimated that the new tolls would reduce traffic by up to 20%, thereby improving air quality and reducing trip times. Similar systems are in place in London, Stockholm and Singapore.

#nunyas news

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coochiequeens · 11 months

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This freak again?

A transgender pedophile currently serving a lengthy sentence at New Jersey’s only women’s prison has filed a lawsuit against the New Jersey Department of Corrections (NJDOC), claiming his Wiccan religion is being discriminated against.

Marina Volz, 34, filed the suit on April 28, claiming he is being denied religious accommodations in accordance with his Wiccan beliefs. Wicca is often classified as a new religious movement, having been established in England in the early 20th century, drawing upon a diverse set of Pagan beliefs.

In his lawsuit, Volz alleges that Joy Lynch, the head of religious services at Edna Mahan, has denied the Wiccans the use of a loosely fitting cloak used during “witch coven” gatherings. The NJDOC permits the practice of Wicca in the state’s prisons, and practitioners are reportedly allowed to access the item Volz is claiming he has been denied.

Other Wiccan items allowed by the NJDOC include the Book of Shadows, which contains instructions for magical rituals, a pentacle, incense, three electric or battery-operated candles, and a cup of grape juice as a substitute for wine.

Volz is currently serving a 25-year sentence for a number of horrific sexual crimes he committed against his own 7-year-old daughter.

On May 6 of 2022, Volz, born Matthew, was sentenced on charges of human trafficking, aggravated sexual assault, conspiracy and endangering the welfare of a child. His charges had stemmed from a 2019 investigation into his conduct after the New Jersey Department of Child Protection became aware he was creating pornography in a home where a child resided.

Volz, along with another trans-identified male named Ashley Romero, had operated a “transgender porn” business in their home through which they produced and distributed fetish content.

A search warrant was executed at the property after it was learned that the child had likely been exposed to sexually explicit material. Electronic devices from the home were subsequently seized, and several sexually-explicit photos and videos of the girl were found after forensic examination.

Volz had been separated from the child’s mother, but traveled to Oregon with Romero to take the child into his custody and transport her to New Jersey in 2018 where he began using her in child sexual exploitation videos. Volz’s horrific pornography scheme was launched just one year after he had served as the Clark College Queer Association president.

Some of the media found by police featured Romero sexually abusing the girl. Romero lived in the residence with Volz and with two other individuals, Sean Allen, who had also sexually abused the girl, and Dulcinea Gnecco, who acted as a domestic servant.

During the trial, prosecutors told the Judge the little girl had been subjected to “a vortex of darkness” after being removed from her mother’s care.

Judge Peter Tober declined to delve into the full details of the case, but noted to the court that she had been subjected to torture-like conditions, mentioning neck collars, a cage in the basement, and sex toys.

“If this was not heinous, cruel and depraved, I don’t know what is,” Judge Tober said, stating that the girl had been taken from her mother “solely for the sexual gratification” of others.

In media coverage of the horrific case, Volz and Romero were referred to as “women” and were addressed using “she/her” pronouns. Volz was also identified as the girl’s “mother” in the Daily Mail and My Central Jersey.

After their sentencing in May of 2022, Reduxx learned that Romero had immediately been sent to the Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women, but that Volz had initially been placed in the South Woods State Prison for men. Just two months later, Volz was quietly transferred to Edna Mahan but was still recorded as a “male” inmate until this year, when the state of New Jersey updated his inmate profile to classify him as a “female” inmate.

Volz had previously sued the Somerset County Sheriff’s Office, claiming discrimination on the basis of his gender identity while being processed following his initial arrest.

According to court documents reviewed by Reduxx, Volz was placed in protective custody in the male unit of the Somerset County Jail prior to his trial for the sexual abuse of his daughter. He would not be moved to the female unit until the next year, after arguing he identified as “female.” The case was settled out of court for $5,000.

Last year, Reduxx spoke to multiple female inmates at the facility who expressed anxiety and fear about the presence of the male inmates in their close quarters.

Miseka Diggs, an incarcerated woman at Edna Mahan, explained that the female inmates were “scared to death” of the men. Under the current policy, the men do not need to undergo any surgery, and Diggs asserts that most of the men are not on hormone replacement therapy. She stated that a majority of women incarcerated at Edna Mahan have past trauma, with many being victims of male violence, and the presence of men in the facility is causing them severe distress.

According to Diggs, women who complain of feeling unsafe are placed in protective custody.

“We can’t express our feelings in fear of being put in protective custody, [which] is like lock-up. If you use the wrong words you will be uprooted and removed from your living quarters. So many women walk around in fear,” Diggs said.

“We feel like we are part of some sick joke. This is a nightmare that we can’t wake up from,” she added. “The women here are traumatized over and over again and it seems as if no one cares about our needs. We feel like second-class citizens with no rights.”

Another female inmate, Dawn Jackson, expressed similar concerns. Jackson is a survivor of lifelong sexual abuse, and explained that the presence of males in the facility caused her anxiety.

“Personally speaking, I have succumbed to a point where I mentally and emotionally cower when in the presence of some of the trans-identified males housed here in prison with me,” Jackson says, “I’ve had to mentally rearrange myself since having no choice… being subjected to live amongst the opposite sex.”

As recently revealed by Reduxx, the state of New Jersey’s policies on gender self-identification in prisons was largely the result of a settlement reached between the ACLU and the Department of Corrections in 2021.

The lawsuit the ACLU launched was on behalf of a transgender male inmate who sought transfer but had been denied. That inmate was anonymized in court records, referred to only as “Sonia Doe.” Reduxx later learned that Doe was in fact Danielle Demers.

Born Daniel Smith, Demers was investigated by the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force and the Atlantic County Prosecutor’s Office for attempting to sell ammunition and pipe bombs. Demers is a member of the “adult baby” community, in which adults role-play as children during sexual encounters.

#USA #New Jersey #New Jersey Department of Corrections (NJDOC)#Marina Volz is a man #Edna Mahan correctional Facility for Women #A child was separated from her mother to be abused by men #NotOurCrimes #Did the courts give this guy $5000 over hurt gender feelz?#KeepPrisonsSingleSex

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lurking-latinist · 2 years

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the main thing I have noticed about Blake’s 7 so far is that the logo looks remarkably like the New Jersey Department of Transportation logo

#blake's 7

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aryburn-trains · 1 year

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One of CNJ's homemade cab cars leads this e/b through NK interlocking on it's way to the NEC and Penn Station Newark. July 21, 1982

#commuter train #cr #conrail #njdot #new jersey department of transportation #cnj #central railroad of new jersey #1982 #trains #passenger train #history #newark #new jersey

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dontmeantobepoliticalbut · 1 year

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Former President Donald Trump’s lawyers identified additional documents with classification markings in a search that spanned three Trump properties, including the Bedminster Golf Club in New Jersey and Trump Tower in New York, according to a report from The Washington Post.

The lawyers, who hired an external team to conduct a search of Trump’s properties following the August raid at his Mar-a-Lago estate, found at least two documents with classification markings in a storage unit in West Palm Beach, Florida. The documents allegedly made their way into the storage unit as part of a 3,000-pound transport of miscellaneous items shipped from Virginia to Florida. It was full of “suits and swords and wrestling belts and all sorts of things,” a source told the Post, who asserted Trump had likely never even been to the unit.

Sources told the Post that the material was turned over to the FBI, which had declined to supervise the searches. Those familiar with the ongoing investigation also indicated to the Post that classified materials were not recovered from searches conducted at the Bedminster club and Trump Tower.

Prosecutors investigating claims from the National Archives that Trump retained hundreds of classified documents without authorization when he departed from the White House remain unconvinced that the former President turned over all classified material. DOJ officials have questioned members of his team regarding the potential of documents having been stored in other locations.

Despite repeated negotiations with Trump’s representation, and assurances that there were no documents remaining at Mar-a-Lago following a June handover of materials, federal agents recovered more than 100 documents with classification markings in their August raid of the property. Some of the recovered materials had “top secret” classification labels and allegedly contained sensitive information regarding other nations’ nuclear programs.

Following the raid, authorities made clear that they suspected Trump and his team had attempted to move or conceal the trove of documents before the raid.

The former President and his counsel engaged in a protracted, yet largely unsuccessful, effort to prevent federal investigators from reviewing the content of the documents seized in the various raids and handovers. Trump went so far as to launch a failed appeal to the Supreme Court he stocked with conservative appointees to prevent the DOJ from accessing the documents.

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tilbageidanmark · 8 months

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Movies I watched this Week #139 (Year 3/Week 35):

2 more back-to-back re-watches of Ron Fricke’s sublime non-narrative Head trip Samsara (“Impermanence”). Spiritual poetry, gorgeous visuals, breathtaking scope. A perfect film to watch while mushrooming. 10/10. (Photo Above).

🍿

First watch (no idea why I waited all these years) of William Friedkin’s Sorcerer, his ill-fated adaptation of Clouzot's 'The wages of fear'. Roy Scheider is a desperado transporting nitroglycerin in the Dominican jungle, together with 3 other unfortunate misfits.

🍿

A enchanting, classic 1974 French drama, Vincent, François, Paul and the Others, my second by Claude Sautet (after ‘The heart at winter’). A group of middle class 40-something friends, lovers, husbands and wives face a series of midlife crises. Among them Yves Montand, Michel Piccoli, Gérard Depardieu and Stéphane Audran. The camaraderie reminded me of the friendship in ‘Goodfellas’ (without the crimes, violence, and immorality). 7/10.

🍿

The big clock, my first Corporate Noir by John Farrow (father to Mia, husband to Maureen O'Sullivan). Ray Millard acts and sounds exactly like Cary Grant-Lite in this less-known thriller.

A curious visual: There's a very stylish shot at an empty executive boardroom with a giant conference table, and the only items on it are oversized personal ashtrays next to each chair.

🍿

Val Lawton X 2:

🍿 The best movie of the week, the documentary Val Lewton: The Man in the Shadows. Produced and narrated by Martin Scorsese. A terrific biography and assessment of this melancholic producer who had the potential to become one of the biggest auteurs, but who is now barely-remembered for a series of 1940's low-budget, B-movies from RKO studio. I previously only saw his 'I walked with a Zombie', but I'm going to watch as many of the others as I can.

🍿 "...My Goodness, ain't nobody likes chicken Gumbo?..."

Lewton's first project, after he was installed as head of RKO low-budget horror department, was Cat People. "A disturbed woman", a Serbian fashion illustrator [Not too many of those] turns into a ferocious panther, after she's shown at her very first scene, littering repeatedly by throwing her discarded drawings in the streets.

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Our friend, my second film by Gabriela Cowperthwaite (After ‘Blackfish’). A sad, non-linear tearjerker, based on a real story. Dakota Johnson is dying of cancer, with her husband, two daughters, and their best friend, who selflessly stays by their side. The first film when I liked the role Casey Affleck plays. 7/10.

/ female /

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The new gonzo documentary Telemarketers reminded me of a chapter from my own life that I'm not proud of. For about 3 years in the mid-90's I sold bogus investments, gold futures, and fake ostrich options (!) over the phones in exactly the same way as the conmen in this sleazy, seedy, funny, cynical story. Except that over in Jersey they sold $35 donations and got paid $10 an hour, while we in Costa Mesa, CA got a $3,500 commission for every time we fleeced $40,000 from someone, which happened very often. So much money, and so many regrets later!

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4 more I can watch over and over again:

🍿 My 10th-15th rewatch of Edgar Wright’s brilliant Hot Fuzz.

1. If you know nothing about it beforehand, and watch it for the first time while stoned, it’s impossible to know what it’s really about until the end; the story changes style, intention, musical cue and genre from scene to scene.

2. Is the violent shoot-them-up climax, cartoonishly exaggerated, (where still, nobody dies) the most cliché-filled action scene ever?

3. The subtle musical score underlining every scene is sublime; I am going to listen/watch it again - without the pictures, just the sound!

4. Actually, the whole editing, visuals, sound editing, borrowing from dozens of prior movies, is extraordinary.

5. Every part of the dialogue - every single line - is highly quotable!

10/10.

And as always, How to do visual comedy, from ‘Every frame a picture’.

🍿 I just saw the trailer for The big Lebowski for the first time; It really ties the movie together pretty well. So I "had to" watch the movie itself again. A masterpiece on every level. Even the IMDb synopsis encapsulates it correctly: "Jeff 'The Dude' Lebowski, mistaken for a millionaire of the same name, seeks restitution for his ruined rug and enlists his bowling buddies to help get it."

I also like Wikipedia's chapter on its 'Use as social and political analysis'. With a magnificent score (which includes Dylan's 'The man in me', Gypsy Kings cover of 'Hotel California', Yma Sumac's Ataypura) and with Asia Carrera as Sherry, the porn actress.

The last sentence in it is 'Say, friend, you got any more of that good sarsaparilla?' Always 10/10.

🍿 Once again, Ali Wong’s first stand-up Baby Cobra. Funny, filthy, hardcore vulgar, very sexy; "Best pregnant comic".

🍿 Top banana, S1E2 episode from ‘Arrested Development’. From Vanity Fair’s ‘List of 25 perfect TV episodes’.

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The source, another banal documentary about a spectacular human being, ultramarathoner Courtney Dauwalter, who just cemented her status as the greatest ultrarunner of all time by the unprecedented triple crown wins of the ‘Western States 100’, the ‘Hardrock 100’, and UTMB in the same summer. Emotionally inspirational.

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The midnight gospel, an adult animated series, my first by Pendleton Ward. I saw the first episode yesterday, and I already can’t remember a single goddam thing from it.

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From Dane Sitagi’s The ballerina project: Basia Rhoden dances in the city of Chicago.

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Throw-back to the "Art project”:

Ballerina Adora.

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(My complete movie list is here)

#movies

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howdytherepardner · 9 months

Text

The Conundrum of Change

is not a phrase that describes the change taking place. It instead articulates a conundrum - not a puzzle, but the puzzling. How one engages with a particular shifting of tides, whether embracing the erosion or building faulted levies, will probably follow their efforts to solve that puzzle - come to some understanding that gives them an operating theory aligned with their ethics. Occasionally, it may transform that feeling of ethics. But I’ve found myself trying to broach more on whether those are just feelings of transformation, self-satisfaction of anesthetic sort. How to disentangle personal temporal disillusionment from more urgent material truths...

Briefly, it may be relevant to note that Jens Lekman’s Night Falls Over Kortedala is no longer available for “legitimate” consumption. Despite my frequent consumption of his work and my reasonably longstanding enjoyment of that record in particular, I did not strive to purchase it before it was taken off of streaming services in March of 2022.

It took me off guard, but didn’t surprise me. His first LP release, 2004′s When I Said I Wanted To Be Your Dog, had some limited sampling (permission granted for “A Higher Power”), but Lekman took strong inspiration from groups like The Avalanches. Oh You’re So Silent Jens, a compilation album of 3 EPs from 2003-2004, had tracks a lot more liberal with existing works and a little more conservative with getting permissions released. It’s been commercially unavailable since 2011, 6 years before I became acquainted with Lekman via Life Will See You Now.

But this post? Blog? Tangent? Thought? isn’t a comprehensive history of the work of Jens Lekman. For some decent dives, I’d recommend This, This, or as always, Wikipedia.

(X) Hazy windows have impacted NJ Transit's newest trains, which were built between 2006 and 2012. The opaque windows aboard the multilevel rail cars make it difficult for riders to locate their stops, especially if they have trouble hearing the train's announcer. Ali Maher, the director of Rutgers CAIT and a professor in the Department of Civil & Environmental Engineering, said the New Jersey Department of Transportation contracted his research team to study the issue. While window haze may not pose significant dangers, Maher said it does impact the riders' commuting experience."It's just not pleasant when you are sitting in the train, and you cannot see outside. Part of riding a train, and the experience you want to have, is to be able to sit, relax and observe the view," he said.

I was like many (most?) for a while, under an impression that the obscured views of the NJ take on the NEC was something that could simply be cleaned or cleared. My bad! Still, what a silly thing that the newest models have the windows degrading fastest. A lot of rides back in college felt like an annoyance, but one in July 2023 on the upper level was a blur akin to cataracts. There was a window across the aisle had an okay right eye, but it was too late to move - I could only stare longingly through for a glimpse of the garden state swimming by.

I have not sought to listen to the many YouTube uploads of the original Kortedala. I do enjoy the remastered and not illegal versions of the tracks on The Linden Trees Are Still In Blossom, also the newly added like the eponymous single. But it is peculiar, the tracks especially changed by the loss of samples. “Sipping On The Sweet Nectar” is a skeleton slightly askew, but with an instrumental break that feels so lacking from the original’s intensity. “Kanske Är Jag Kär i Dig” has to rebuild a hook from scratch, which makes the new track a bit more dynamic, intentional than maybe more of the standard pop in the original. I feel that some of the changes are for the musical better and worse, but that is only how I’m experiencing them.

My conundrum to manage. For a long time I pushed off listening to Linden Trees, to add those songs to playlists while their unplayable, slightly transparent ghosts hung around on older ones. At a time that was based on a belief that they would someday be restored. But I never tried to find the versions elsewhere, and only pursued one recommendation of a fan animation. It is an arbitrary fervency I feel in sticking with the new release, something that feels almost kin to a religious commitment. What within myself would I be indulging, to try and revive that which is dead?

Glasses landed in the package room early January, 2021. Later in my life than the rest of the family, but necessary regardless. It was a peculiar thing, to go back to places known with a vision clearer, but more focused. I feel my gaze could not capture things with the same broadness that I once had.

But that summer brought me to a new place and new spaces. Something that I couldn’t focus in on until I understood it more wholly (perhaps a false framework). But that wholeness came with some kind of detail in a new way. The glasses accounted for a near-sightedness that I believe was intensely exacerbated by screen-based nature of 2020, and a restored-farness was perfect for experiencing the desert, etc for the first time. Vast expanses between places, that defined space.

I love the (US)American southwest. Pinus ponderosa is so brilliant to me, as are other things. While a hint of blurriness is an inherent part of my truth to certain lecture halls and dimly-lit spaces of my early college years, every crevice in a plateau is such a vital component of its enormity.

The Cherry Trees Are Still In Blossom does not hold a conundrum for me. Despite the changes that those songs have seen over years, the versions present there are the only versions I know. And they move me like how Lekman always can - with a clear voice, sincere words, and strong dedication to craft.

The first time I ever wrote anything about any music, after all, was writing about “How Can I Tell Him” for an assignment long ago (discussion on musical depictions of non-traditional masculinity, juxtaposed with “Predatory Wasp of the Palisades”).

You’ll never be moved by the same thing for the first time, but you can forget how minute the context can be to make any repeated experience feel just as strong.

I guess you’ll have a lot of time without change. Look inward - see how that confounds you.

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