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musedblues · 4 years

Text

Between The Lines

a/n: Here it is! Nothing but pinning and fluff for the much anticipated STL Event! This is my gift for the lovely wonderful @joemazzmatazz I really hope you enjoy this, lovie! And I hope that your day is beautiful regardless of this silly little holiday. 💖

w/c: 6k

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It was Valentine's day. Usually, you were only excited about the day that followed, when all the chocolates went on sale. But this year your roommate had plans to throw some big ridiculous party. Tilly had been planning this bash for over a month now, and you had agreed to help set up and mingle with mutual friends. But until later tonight, you had far too much more to worry over.

"I've gotta go get Joe from the airport." You sighed, sliding your arms into a thick jacket.

"Oh," Tilly realized with a playful roll of her eyes. You let out a frustrated mewl at her disregard as you scrambled to grab your purse.

"I just don't get it." Tilly continued smirking. "Why are you nervous, again?"

"Because." You hissed. "I've gotta tell him. And I don't want to."

Tilly must have registered the true dread bubbling closer to the forefront of your system; because she slouched closer to the door as you stepped out into the hallway. She said, "You have no reason to be nervous. Trust me."

Oh, but how wrong she was. Since Joe had up and left overseas to film his latest project, you missed him. But you came to realize the magnitude of your feelings for your dear friend smack dab in the middle of a grocery store's freezer section, last month. After spending too long debating on ice cream flavors, you chose cherry, because Joe loved cherry and you loved him. Oh shit. The thought seamlessly pieced itself together in your mind as if it were a fact as clear as any other. You raced home in a panic and spilled your guts to Tilly like she was a priest and you, a dirty sinner. Your roommate helped you through that night, and several more that followed when you regretfully avoided Joe's phone calls. You were afraid of letting your true feelings seep through the phone speaker, or at all. But time was up. You had agreed to fetch your dear friend from the airport some odd weeks ago, and according to the time on your phone, his flight just landed.

Joe deserved to know how you felt, so why not rip the plaster off right away? He'd be pissed if you kept this from him for too long, and you couldn't act like everything was fine. You knew you had to tell him. You just really didn't want too.

As you slid into the driver seat of your car, you reached toward the visor for the pair of sunglasses you stashed there. From out of nowhere a tiny piece of canary yellow stock paper came fluttering into your lap like confetti.

"Oh, wonderful." You huffed a laugh. It was a note from Joe. He was always stashing these tiny pieces of yellow paper in odd places for you to find later, with silly little sentiments jotted down. This one read:

"You're only a day away!"

He must have left this one before he left to go film.

Some notes Joe left were inside jokes. Some were thank you's for dinner. Some were doodles of dinosaurs and maps. You kept them all in a ball jar on your dresser. But all you could do with the latest note was stash it in your jacket pocket with a frustrated groan as you began to drive off.

It all started the first night you went out to dinner with your hoard of mutual friends, who were the only reason you'd met Joe in the first place. They each left one by one, and soon you and Joe were alone with a basic knowledge of each other's existence, finishing dinner at a six-person table. By the end of the night, you'd exchanged life stories and ended up rambling over the topic of arcade games. You marveled over how fun they seemed growing up, but how you came to understand the sad reality that most arcades were just scams to collect change in disguise. But then Joe brought up some bowling alley he swore had a rigged Pacman machine that spit out tickets that won some above-average prizes. He decided he would invite your group of friends there, next weekend. Then, he exchanged his phone number on a slip of canary yellow stock paper because your phone had died and he left his in the car.

The following weekend you met up with all your friends at that bowling alley. They were shocked to see you'd come out of hiding two weekends in a row, and invited you to pick a team to bowl to the death. But then you locked eyes with Joe, walked past the lanes and headed straight for the arcade in the back. Joe had been right about the rigged Pacman. He showed you how to pause the ghosts by holding down a broken button to cheat. But after racking up mega points, the machine was out of tickets. You both presented this sob story to the jaded arcade prize gatekeeper, who simply did not care. Not like you did, either. Even though you had your eye on a silly looking plush green crocodile from the midlevel prizes; the time you'd spent with Joe was reward enough for you.

He called it a night soon after, leaving you with the few friends who couldn't be stopped from bowling. You joined their team, even though you already felt like you'd won something.

You were at ease that evening as you headed toward the dusty car park.

You notice something was resting against your windshield. You were alarmed enough to wonder if this was one of those trafficking tricks, where a kidnapper left something for you to be distracted by long enough to snatch you. But then you noticed just under your windshield wiper, a canary yellow slip of stock paper. It read:

"Sorry I couldn't win you the alligator you insisted was a crocodile. Hope this will do until next time."

Next to where Joe had left the note, you found a tiny keychain with a neon green frog attached. It wasn't quite the river monster you'd been hoping for, but Joe had left it just for you, alongside a note; the latter of which would become a tradition. You stashed both mementos in your pocket and wondered when you'd see Joe again.

One long year had passed by, and you managed to see Joe at least once a week since those first fateful meetings. You added the frog charm to your keychain. And every time, without fault, Joe would leave behind a note for you to find.

You spent days accidentally snowed inside each other apartments. He bought you Christmas presents and you took him out for his birthday. You watched terrible movies for fun and wound up alone together even in the midst of your group of friends, who were the reason you'd known Joe at all. You'd seen each other cry and fought over things that did and didn't matter. But it wasn't until he flew across the ocean for a while that you realized exactly why you missed him so much.

Considering the time you'd spent with Joe, practically attached at the hip, your heart sunk at the realization that if anything romantic had been blossoming between you, Joe would have done something about it by now. But you had to tell him how you were feeling, waiting any longer would only complicate things further. So as you pulled up to the airport gates and marched into the waiting area, you practiced a speech in your head one thousand different ways. There was a swarm of people buzzing in different directions hardly paying you any mind, but soon one voice cut through the crowd.

"It's you! It's really you! You haven't aged a day in the hundred years I've been gone!"

You spun toward the sound of Joe's excitable greeting and barely caught a glimpse of his bright smile before he was pulling you into a hug. You couldn't help but laugh as you hugged him back, welcoming the boy home, but selfishly longing to be so much nearer to him all at once. Oh no. This was too weird.

"Welcome back." You grinned as Joe reached for his suitcase once more. He was still smiling that stupidly pleasant smile.

"That's all I get?" He playfully jeered. "No, 'I almost died of boredom without you? '"

A nervous chuckled escaped your throat as Joe started walking toward the sliding doors, right up to your car right outside.

"Uh, actually... I. Well." You began, sheepishly following Joe out of the airport. "I was going to tell you something but we can worry about it later." You feigned passivity, all the things you practiced to say melting off the page in your mind. That wasn't the plan, but the words were out before you could think of reforming them.

"What? You found someone funnier than me to add cometary to hallmark movies?" Joe quirked a brow.

"Impossible." You assured, opening your back car door so he could lift his luggage inside. "How was your time?" You scurried to change the subject, not really sure what happened to the plan you'd promised yourself to stick by.

Joe didn't seem to notice your internal battel as he eased into your passenger seat, already rambling about where he'd been and what he'd done. You listened with care, truly interested in knowing what he had to say. But one half of your mind buzzed with worry and confusion while you drove Joe home.

You unlocked his door while he managed his luggage from your car. When Joe made his way inside you remembered the plans you'd made for the rest of the evening. He was apart of the group chat where your roommate birthed the idea for her Valentine's day party. Joe was invited, and one late night over the phone (before you started having this strange crisis) you offered to spend the rest of this afternoon with Joe so he could hitch a ride with you to the party.

"So Tilly's party isn't until nine, now. I promised to pick up Zoey and Lyla and stop for dinner someplace." You chatted naturally as any other time you'd spoken to Joe. Regardless of your feelings, Joe was still your friend and you had plans. You naturally expected Joe to shrug and agree like he always did when your shared plans became altered. He was standing before you, bright forest colored eyes searching your face as his usually permanent grin began to fade.

"Actually..." Joe frowned, flicking his eyes to the floor then back up to yours. "Well, is it okay if I just meet up with you where you stop for dinner? I kind of need to do something. Alone."

"Oh... sure." You tried to hide the shot through your heart as you processed this. Of course, he wanted to show up alone. Lyla always had a thing for Joe, never one to hold back her lingering stares. Joe was single and it was Valentine's day. And right now, you had to pretend like you couldn't care less.

"Thank you for picking me up, Y/N. Text me where to find you." Joe shifted, dawning a little smile.

"Of course, Joe." You smiled brightly, stepping out of the already opened door.

"I'll see you tonight! And you can tell me whatever it was you mentioned earlier!" Joe promised as you skipped down the steps toward your car.

"It doesn't matter anymore!" You waved a hand, opening the driver door, trying like mad to remain casual. Shit. Why did I say that? You just dug a deeper hole for yourself.

"Oh. Well okay! See you later!" Joe waved from the door, shutting it as your engine started.

Okay... Was it just you and your twisted, jumbled up mind, or was Joe acting weird, too? Maybe he picked up on your vibe and didn't want to spend any more time near you than he had too. You boggled your brain all the way home, wondering why you were such a wimp. When you unlocked your apartment door, Tilly was pinning bright red cartoon hearts across the living room wall.

"Oh." She cocked her head at your arrival as you shut the door behind you. "You're alone."

"He's meeting up with us later, I guess."

"You guess?" Tilly wondered in a curious tone.

"I didn't tell him." You huffed, kicking your shoes off.

"You were supposed to bring him here either way! He said he'd help decorate." Your roommate pouted, nodding toward a box of Valentine-themed tinsel on the sofa.

"This is all a bit ridiculous don't you think?"

Tilly's excuse was that every holiday deserved a party, even the one couples famously spent alone together. You proceeded to help decorate, draping streamers and tossing flower petals in place. Your roommate made 'Love Potion' with peach schnapps, red grapefruit juice, and vodka, while you jammed strawberries onto the side of clear plastic cups.

"I'll be handing these out. Take your pick." Tilly held out a bin full of plastic headbands. Some were pink with cartoon hearts attached to a couple of cheap springs, like an Instagram filter come to life. Others were deep red devil horns covered in glitter. You just rolled your eyes and went on setting up snacks.

"When are you going to tell him?" Tilly asked from across the room as she placed her bin of headgear on a table near the door.

"Oh, you know what?" You raised the pitch of your voice. "I think I'll do it right in the middle of your bangin' Valentine's party." You pointed toward Tilly, as if this idea had just come to you like a message from cupid himself. Tilly let out a dry mocking, "Ha Ha."

"You can break out that Prince vinyl, and I'll stand on the coffee table and rip my own heart out in front of everyone!" You really hoped you sounded more like you were joking, and less like you wanted to cry.

"I'm sure we'd all love a bit of a show. But babe, it's gonna be okay." Tilly softened.

"Isn't it funny how you keep saying that and I keep on feeling the opposite way?" You groaned, abandoning the kitchen past a doorway full of shiny maroon ribbon.

"You have exactly an hour to dress up for seduction!" Tilly comically hollered your way, skipping toward her bedroom.

"You mean confession!" You shouted back, sulking toward your own room. After shutting the door, you unearthed Joe's latest note from your pocket. The one that fell from your visor. How hadn't you found it sooner? Without too much thought, you opened the jar on your dresser where other notes had been collecting and went about getting ready.

You stared into your closet for far too long, almost talking yourself into throwing on a pair of leggings and calling it a day. But then you found an unassuming longsleeved dress, one that was passable in the cut-throat world of party fashion, but somehow remained supremely comfortable. It would do.

Then you hurried to fetch your friends from across town. Zoey and Lyla were dressed in tight velvet and equally as confused when you showed up to their door without Joe. "He's never not with you." Zoey pointed out. "Is he okay?" Lyla worried. This only made your heart hammer despite all your efforts to pretend everything was perfectly fine.

You pulled into a shitty diner because Zoey wanted breakfast for dinner. Both girls were enjoyable company, laughing over memes and telling you their latest gossip. The three of you were nearly through your meals when Joe finally showed up to join the party. He was dressed for the occasion, in a cozy blue sweater and dark jeans. You had to turn and sip your soda to keep from staring. Joe slid into your side of the booth with an arm across the seat, trapping you into his side and unknowingly making your guts twist up. Lyla seemed unusually unassuming. Every time before now, when Joe was in her line of sight, Lyla hardly ever hesitated to throw her self near him. You wondered why the hell everyone was being so insanely weird tonight, but then the thought brought you comfort, hoping you weren't alone in all the unease.

While Zoey and Lyla waited in a long queue to pay, Joe dragged you around the corner to an empty section of the diner. For just a moment, Joe stalled and looked to you with a barely noticeable furrow in his brow. It was as if he had something to say but forgot in a flash. Just when you were about to question Joe's antics, he turned away from you and walked deeper into the unused room. There was a giant, brightly painted claw machine in the corner, stuffed with prizes of the highest caliber.

"I dont have any quarters." You frowned, looking toward your friend. His smirk was back, the one you'd missed seeing all this time. Joe just chuckled, reached into his pocket and stepped up to play the game.

You should have been distracting him with a joke. You should have been saying something. He dragged you all the way back here to be apart of the fun. But all thoughts faded while you kept an eye on your dear friend. Joe was surprisingly good at operating the machine, eyes focused on the claw, fingers moving the control in just the right direction. It was becoming a challenge to keep your lovesick thoughts from burning your skin.

Joe broke out into a celebratory jig when the claw latched onto some plush toy and you laughed all the while, snapping back to reality. Joe retrieved a small plush bear from the prize slot and tossed it your way. You caught the thing without missing a beat, but the action caused your head to clog up all over again.

Luckily, Zoey and Lyla popped around the corner, excited to leave for your roommates long-awaited Valentine's day party. You kept a hold of the claw machine prize while you drove the girls in your car, watching Joe's following close behind.

The party was in full swing by the time you arrived. With the plush bear dangling by its paw from your grasp, you led your crew inside. Past guests who had all already shown up, mostly Tilly's friends. Men with sharp jawlines and nice cologne. Girls in tight dresses, lingerie peeking out from hemlines. And a couple of people you knew, offering hugs and demanding selfies in their matching themed headbands.

Your friends grabbed some from the bin next to the door. Joe chose a headband with cartoon hearts but turned to put it on your head like a crown. All you could do was hope to high heavens that you weren't blushing.

"Snacks in the kitchen. Don't forget to try the 'Love Potion' it's actually pretty good." You shrugged, passing a massive bowl of pink alcohol nestled behind a row of already filled cups. Joe grabbed one as he followed your lead.

"Everyone is in there." You gestured toward the living room entryway, where a group of girls lingered, taking selfies. Zoey and Lyla scurry hand in hand into the dim dance party.

"And you should be too! Nice of you to finally make it." Tilly twirled into your vision, toting an empty tray, her sequined dress sparkling right in your eye.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." Joe greeted with a smile. She gave him a half-hearted hug, complaining about running out of finger foods. Your roommate loaded her tray with cups full of candy hearts and dashed back into the room where the party raged on.

The kitchen was empty and quiet now. You reached for a skewer of cherries and plucked one off to eat. A distraction.

"You look really nice. I like this." Joe actually honest to God tugged at the hem of your dress. And somehow, you magically managed to keep from fainting into a puddle.

"Thanks. You too." You shrugged, eating another cherry. You were being weird again. Usually, you'd make a joke or sashay around the kitchen to show off your look. But your feelings were collected in a mess of worried thoughts, and you were being weird. You knew Joe noticed, but if he cared, that didn't show. He just downed his 'Love Potion' and reached for two wine glasses from the rack near your stove.

"The usual?" He asked in a funny voice, already reaching for the bottles of wine on your counter.

"Of course."

You liked white wine, but not too sweet. He liked red wine, but not too bitter. So you learned one night, to mix them together. Everyone around you practically shrieked in terror, because of etiquette or whatever. But you and Joe eventually figured out the perfect proportion to mix, and he made a show of it every time. You were laughing again, as Joe poured each wine in a separate glass and went on pouring one into the other until he was satisfied. It was like watching a middle schooler at a science fair. He offered you one of the experiments and leaned across the counter to enjoy his own glass.

Then you settled into conversation, like always. He talked about his flight. You bit your tongue. You kept waiting for Joe to mention anything about being occupied earlier. Where he might have gone and why. But he never did. So why did he skip out from you in the middle of the afternoon? And why was he acting like nothing was strange at all? Why was Joe standing in the kitchen with you, instead of flirting with one of Tilly's pretty friends with sparkly devil horned headbands peeking through their silky hair?

Your intrusive thoughts were quieted as Joe asked about you. And somehow you both stared laughing about stupid old jokes, reaching for another love potion and gripping a little tighter to the plush bear in your fist.

When Tilly turned off too many lights and cranked up some tasteless raunchy record, Joe rolled his eyes. You watched him move to the other end of the kitchen, snatching the two bottles of wine, and an unopened box of frosting covered cookies.

"Come on!" He snickered, clearly headed right toward your room. You giggled, pushing yourself from the counter to follow behind him, toward your bedroom.

Usually, when Joe hung out at your flat, you'd had to hide away in your room together often. At first, because Tilly would bring dates home who couldn't keep their hands to themselves far past the living room couch. Later on, because it became a normal and relaxing spot to unwind.

So when you shut and locked the door, to keep any drunken partiers from breaking in, it didn't feel weird. And it wasn't unnatural the way Joe flung himself toward your bed. He reached across the empty blanket-covered space to grab your remote. You ripped off your stupid cartoon heart headband and rested it on the dresser with your plush bear, the same space the jar of notes had taken residence.

Before you knew it, Joe had queued up 10 Things I Hate About You, kicked off his shoes and settled in for one of your favorite stories. Naturally, you floated to his side and tore into the tin of iced cookies, much like any other normal movie night with your friend.

Joe made you screech like a loon, adding his own commentary and laughing too hard to even go on doing so. Maybe it was the wine, but either way, it was paradise. And Joe always made you laugh that hard. Between the sweets and all the wine, You and Joe nearly laughed yourselves sick. When the film cut to the scene where Kat was meant to read her poem, Joe lunged for the remote and clicked pause.

"Okay, name ten things you hate about me, Go!" Joe laughed, laying back and looking up to where you sat cross-legged, sipping some water you'd earlier filled your cup with from your bathroom sink.

"One..." You thought for a second, glancing at the bottle Joe kept a loose clutch on. "That you're hogging all the wine." You laughed, swiping the bottle from his grasp. He gave it up easily, chuckling with you.

"Nine more to go." Joe rose a brow, searching your eyes as you held the wine bottle to your chest. You couldn't think of anything besides the way Joe's eyes peered into yours, how they still seemed so bright in your low lit bedroom. You were suddenly a little too flustered by the sight of Joe laying against your pillows.

"I can't think of anymore." You looked away from Joe's gaze and took a swig of wine right from the bottle.

"I'm sure that's not true," Joe chuckled again, egging you onto listing off the things he did that annoyed you. But you couldn't seem them right now, you couldn't see much of anything past the way your eyes fogged over with a rosy sheen.

"I dont hate you, Joe." There you went again, speaking without thinking and letting your tone reveal more than intended. You hadn't even considered a response before that one came tumbling past your lips, like a half-hearted confession. It was quiet then, with the movie on pause. Even the heavy thrum of music from past your closed-door seemed light-years away.

"What were you going to tell me? Earlier?" Joe asked, propping himself up a little so his eyes could catch yours again.

"Oh uh- no. Nope, not yet. I should probably wait." You decided, feeling vile for admitting you had something to say but holding it hostage all because you were suddenly not at all ready to give up this moment. You figured Joe would catch on to any way you acted trying to hide your feelings, but when you froze up, Joe had yet to call you out. So now you were trapped in feeling too frightened to give any of this up. Say how you felt would ruin all the fun. You didn't want to confess, watch Joe leave and spend the night locked away alone while strangers made out in the hallway outside your door.

Thankfully, Joe didn't push you any further. He just watched you watching him. You knew better than to say another word. But then, Joe shifted. He slid off the side of your bed onto the floor beside you, kneeling with one knee on the ground.

"What the hell are you up to?" You couldn't help but cackle, out of nerves mostly. Joe had that look in his eye, the one he got before telling you a story or showing you something he was proud of.

He reached into his back pocket.a Joe pulled out a pretty velvet wallet. He held it out in front of you.

"I uh... I tried to give this to you at the diner. Unzip." Joe demanded, still holding onto the thing.

You glared suspiciously out of the corner of your eye, taking a beat to try and figure out what this is all about. After setting your bottle of wine on your bedside table, you did as he said. Inside the wallet was a tiny yellow note.

It read "Happy Valentine's Day" in Joe's writing. Nothing more. Nothing less. It was the first note he'd given you in ages, even though you'd only just found the last one he left, today... This one felt different. Your heart seemed to grow three sizes as you glanced over his holiday greeting once more.

"It always takes you way too long to find my notes. Keep this with you, I'll put them in here for you to find, from now on." Joe explained with a sleepy smile.

"I do." You mocked his kneeling on one knee, ignoring the butterflies multiplying in your belly. Joe's smile was soft as he slowly shifted to sit on the edge of your bed next to you.

"There's something else in there." His voice nearly caught in his throat, it was so quiet. The muffled music from the party outside your door was beating as heavily as your heart inside your chest. Joe was so close to you that you could practically feel him, just far enough away to leave you wishing you really could.

You let those thoughts seep into the back of your mind while you reached into the wallet once more. You pulled out another piece of trimmed stock paper. This note was an unusual shade of tea green, and three words were meticulously scrawled in dark marker.

"I love you."

I love you?

"Joe..."

"I 've had this plan forever, but I started overthinking everything. So I waited till the last minute and I had to go buy more of this paper and I felt really bad about sending you away without earlier any explanation. But I wanted you to have this. It's like a promise. You keep the wallet, I'll keep giving you these notes." Joe gestured toward the gift as you gapped at him. "And also I love you. I know it's a cheesy holiday but it doesn't matter, I couldn't as hold it in any longer and I wanted to do something for you anyway but I didn't wanna freak you out and -"

"That's what I was gonna say. Earlier. I was gonna tell you that I'm in love with you. But then I got scared. I... I never thought you'd. .. " You look back down at the note. His confession.

"Well, I do."

"You really love me?"

"I love you a whole fuckin' lot."

"I love you." You grinned in near disbelief. The irony of this situation was almost unreal. Joe was here, something you'd been so nervous about. If only you could have spoken up at the airport, maybe this day would have gone differently. But a wave of affection washed over you thinking back to Joe's sweet presentation. You wouldn't have wanted this day to have gone differently, after all.

And slowly, you both leaned in. Joe was the first to brush his lips against yours. You pressed yours back with all the care in the world. That must have been enough of a confirmation for Joe, as he moved to cradle your head in his hands while proceeding to part your lips and kiss you like a soldier coming home after too long gone. Your head spun as you registered the way he smelt like fancy cologne and the way his fingertips pressed into your head, pulling your lips closer to his. You thought of nothing but the way he kissed you, warmly and deeply. You lifted a hand to rest on his shoulder. But you couldn't tell if it was because you longed to touch him, or if you needed the extra support from how dizzy his kisses were making you. But they slowed after then and turned into lingering pecks. As you parted ways to catch your breath, you glanced to his gift still in your grasp.

"Thank you for this, Joe." He looked to the wallet you'd fixed your gaze on. "You've got a lot of notes to catch up on, ya know?" Joe had been gone for longer than you allowed yourself to keep track, feeling void grow vaster every day he wasn't around.

"I hope those two will suffice for now," Joe smirked, searching your face. His eyes were still sleepy but they were filled with all kinds of multitudes; flecks of gold and green you'd always wanted to look at a little longer each time your eyes managed to meet his.

"They're the best notes you've ever left me." You beamed, glancing at Joe with a wide smile. Then you were struck with the realization that everything still felt normal. Exceptionally normal. Tilly was right when she warned you not to worry. You rested the wallet on your side table next to a bottle of wine and turned back to throw yourself toward Joe, wrapping him in a hug that was more like a tackle. He laughed at your antics, chuckles dying down when you pressed your lips against his, again. Joe gave you a sweet kiss back before he broke out into quiet laughs once more.

"Were you really gonna lay all that on me at the airport, earlier? Why didn't you? We could have gone viral on Facebook, or something." Joe teased. Yep, still normal.

Even though some shitty pop music still blasted from the living room, you reached for the remote to start the movie over and turned up the volume. The rest of the night faded into some pulsing daydream version of all the things you longed to do with Joe. Lingering touches you'd never let yourself wish for, because you were so sure they'd never come true. Sweet, hot kisses that each lasted a little longer each time you met again after pausing to breathe. You laughed the whole night long, about how you stopped Joe from leaving marks on your neck long enough for you to focus on your favorite part of the movie. You laughed over one of Joe's stupid puns. You muffled your giggles when some drunken party people tried their luck at your locked door handle. You marveled the colors Joe was made up of and he traced every shape of you, with focused eyes and a smile you could have gazed at forever. After the deed was done, and done again, you ended up wearing Joe's sweater, polishing off the last of the wine from the bottle. Joe had somehow found that stupid Valentine's day themed headband (the one with the cartoon hearts) and wore it a little crooked while he snacked on those cookies he'd stolen from the party earlier. He actually ate the last cookie, even as you protested. You were actually kind of hungry, by now.

So once you noted that the music from the living room had been turned off for a while, and noticing the clock on your wall ready somewhere around 2 in the morning, you had no qualms with sneaking to the kitchen for a midnight snack. You collected all the trash you'd accumulated and skipped out of your bedroom door as quiet as a mouse, really hoping some of the fruit skewers were left. There were a couple of guys passed out in the frame of the hallway entry, and you had to maneuver around a few more sleeping beauties in the living room. By the time you rid your arms of two empty wine bottles and an empty tin of cookies, someone else pushed open the kitchen door.

"Holy shit, I thought everyone was asleep." You gasped with a hand on your chest, watching Tilly groggily shuffling toward the refrigerator.

"Fuck!" She cursed weakly. "Someone stole my Gatorade."

"Take one of my coconut smoothies from the back." You shrugged, knowing your roommate only sought to prevent feeling like shite in the morning.

"God, you're an angel." Tilly croaked as you snagged the last skewer of cherries and kiwis from the fruit stained cutting board. Tonight had really turned out in your favor.

"But you look like hell." Tilly went on, shutting the fridge and moving to make her exit. But before she could leave she kept an eye on you while you snacked on the leftover fruit. And the look in your roommate's eye shifted as she gave you a once over.

"Care to explain in explicit detail why you're wearing Joe's sweater?" She asked with a grin and a look in her eye that made you believe the girl would have acted far more excited if she wasn't so partied out.

"You don't need to know everything..." You turned slightly to hide the blush on your cheeks, even in the dark kitchen. But Tilly already knew everything, even what you weren't telling her. "Yet."

After you shared a hardy laugh, Tilly sulked back to her room with one of your favorite smoothies in hand. But not before she said, "I told you there was nothing to worry about."

Of course, she had been right all along. You wondered how Tilly could have been so sure all this time as you walked back to your bedroom. There you found Joe had tidied up the colossal mess you'd made of the sheets and was in the middle of queuing up one of your favorite shows. You performed the ritual of locking the door and throwing yourself on to your bed, and into Joe's arms. He engulfed you in a familiar hold and chuckled as something on the television. As much as you enjoyed being with him, you couldn't get over the fact that he was here with you. You laid next to Joe in the stillness of your bedroom, considering the whirlwind your day had been, reveling in how everything ended up.

You used to only like the day after Valentine's day, when all the chocolates went on sale. It was three in the morning on the fifteenth, and you had a whole lot more too look forward too, now.

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#joe mazzello #joe mazello x reader #joe mazzello fanfic #stl event

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giftofshewbread · 3 years

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Days of Prophecy

By Daymond Duck Published on: March 28, 2021

Jesus compared the end of the age to the days of Noah and the days of Lot.

So much Bible prophecy is being fulfilled, these days could also be called the days of prophecy.

Here are some recent events that caught my attention.

One, in early Mar. 2021, Israel announced plans to build the “Peace Railway” to connect Israel with the Gulf nations, China, the EU and others.

This could take a few years, but it is prophetically significant because China has already spent hundreds of billions of dollars building the “silk railroad” to the Middle East, and the Bible teaches that the Kings of the East (probably China and others) will invade the Middle East during the Tribulation Period.

Two, concerning peace in the Middle East: on Mar. 16, 2021, Israeli Prime Min. Netanyahu said there are 4 more normalization agreements (peace treaties) on the way.

Netanyahu did not name the 4 nations, but it is believed that 3 of them are Indonesia, Mauritania and Saudi Arabia.

If 4 more agreements are signed, that would up the “Abraham Accords” to 8 nations.

Israel is moving closer to the covenant with death (Isa. 28:14-15; Dan. 9:27).

Three, concerning the Battle of Gog and Magog: on Mar. 19, 2021, Middle East expert Joel Rosenberg said “the threat of war between Israel, Iran and Hezbollah is rising.”

He noted that three Israeli leaders took emergency trips to Europe and Russia to relay Israel’s concern that war is coming.

Israel’s Pres. Rivlin and IDF Chief of Staff Kochavi visited Germany, Austria and France.

Israel’s Foreign Minister Ashkenazi visited Russia.

Rivlin has also secured an invitation to visit the U.S. to address a joint session of Congress (the time of this depends on when Congress can meet because of Covid).

Four, also concerning the Battle of Gog and Magog: on Mar. 21, 2021, it was reported that there is a growing alliance between Russia, Iran and Turkey and a growing dislike by these three nations for the U.S.

Russia, Iran, and Turkey are working together to divide up Syria and gain more influence in the Middle East.

Five, concerning the U.S. being a blessing or a curse to Israel: on Mar. 18, 2021, it was reported that the Biden administration will reset America’s relationship with Israel in four areas: 1) The U.S. will re-establish diplomatic ties with the Palestinians; 2) The U.S. will return to the Two-State Solution (division of Israel); 3) The U.S. will oppose putting the “Made in Israel” label on products from the West Bank; and 4) The U.S. will return to giving the Palestinians millions of U.S. tax dollars each year.

Six, concerning world government: in a video that has reportedly gone viral on social media, a doctor from Ireland, Anne McCloskey, warned that “The Great Reset” is being pushed by globalist elite individuals and groups that want to drastically reduce the population of the earth.

McCloskey believes the Coronavirus crisis is a created event that people are using to establish a totalitarian world government.

McCloskey warned that these people are coming for you and everything you have, including all of your property, savings, and freedom.

It is important to understand that the Antichrist and False Prophet will use the economy (buying and selling) to control people and silence or eliminate those who disagree with their godless world government.

Seven, concerning the cashless society: it is being reported that one goal of “The Great Reset” is to completely transform the global money system into a cashless society.

Central Banks in several nations, including the U.S., are already discussing the creation of digital currencies that can be tracked.

These digital currencies will eventually make paper money worthless.

People will not be allowed to buy and sell without them.

For your information, the Republican Gazette recently reported that the cryptocurrency market has passed one trillion dollars in value.

This is fact, not a conspiracy theory that could be several years in the future.

Something like this could be a precursor to the Mark of the Beast.

Eight, concerning the coming economic collapse:

On Mar. 17, 2021, it was reported that Biden has asked Congress to reform the Tax Cuts and Jobs Act of 2017, so he can raise corporate taxes to cover some of his spending, and the Tax Foundation has estimated that it will destroy 159,000 jobs (be aware that this is at a time when many businesses are locked down and facing bankruptcy).

On Mar. 17, 2021, it was reported that Biden signed an executive order on the day he was inaugurated that canceled the sale of oil and gas leases on 80 million acres of land in the Gulf of Mexico, and the Louisiana Oil and Gas Association estimates that will endanger an industry that employs about 250,000 people (experts are warning that everyone’s utility bills will skyrocket).

On Mar. 22, 2021, it was reported that Biden regularly consults with former Pres. Obama on a number of issues (recall that Obama promised to transform America, spied on Trump, his people were involved in the Russian Collusion Hoax, etc.).

On Mar. 22, 2021, it was reported that Biden plans to spend more than $100 million on bus and airline tickets, hotel rooms, detention facilities, Covid treatment, etc., for illegal immigrants.

On Mar. 23, 2021, it was reported that Biden is preparing a $3 trillion stimulus package to deal with Climate Change, rebuild America’s infrastructure, etc. (Know that many U.S. citizens didn’t receive a stimulus check from the last stimulus package.)

Nine, concerning mandatory vaccinations and tracking people, on Mar. 17, 2021, the Israeli Knesset approved a bill to require certain people to wear an electronic bracelet that will monitor whether they are obeying Israel’s quarantine laws or not.

These bracelets, called “Freedom Bracelets,” won’t track a person’s movements, but if that person leaves the area that they have been quarantined to, the authorities will be notified.

Officials are using Covid as an excuse to race toward many kinds of tracking systems to locate and keep up with the movement of people.

Ten, concerning the Coronavirus, the Center for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) recently reported that 85.01 million doses of vaccine were given in the U.S. between Dec. 14, 2020, and Mar. 5, 2021.

1,524 people died in the first 48 hours, there were 31,079 adverse incidents (5,507 serious), and 85 reports of miscarriage or premature birth.

The short-term risk of death or serious affliction is small, but it is there, and there has not been enough time to determine unknown long-term risks.

In addition to the above, on Mar. 16, 2021, the Office of Attending Physicians reported that only 75% of the members in the U.S. House of Representatives have been vaccinated.

Even though 25% have not been vaccinated, all House members are allowed to use the House gym showers, locker room and swimming pool.

So, why are gyms, etc., locked down in several cities and states when House members are using the House gym, etc.?

Eleven, I want to share an e-mail from a reader that doesn’t want to be vaccinated.

Much of it is over my head, but it is well-stated and, in my opinion, very important.

Knowingly putting the name of Lucifer into your body is literally identifying yourself with him (The enzyme that activates the quantum dots in Gates’ vaccine is called Luciferase. Lucifer was Satan’s name when he fell; Isa. 14:12).

Knowingly taking aborted human fetal tissue into your body is not much different than cannibalism (When you can’t eat by mouth, you get nourishment through an IV into your body, so what’s the real difference?).

Satan is behind this whole thing, because it is unnatural for a person to want to exterminate their own species; even animals have respect for their own kind!

He (Satan) started his attack on the human genome (DNA) in Genesis 6, and nearly accomplished his agenda, BUT GOD intervened and protected the human race through Noah and his family because they were the only people on earth who had clean genetics (the pure human genome).

Jesus came as a human with a pure, uncorrupted human double helix of DNA; therefore, His sacrifice was done as a human and is for human beings only, not for animals, or synthetics, or ‘transhumans’ because none of them are ‘in the image of God.’

This current vaccine will begin the process of altering the human genome, but it does not splice into the double helix and completely change the DNA; however, the ‘mark of the beast’ (the Quantum Dot Tattoo) will totally corrupt the human genome, splicing itself into the double helix, so that the person who takes it will no longer be ‘in the image of God’ but will be ‘in the image of Lucifer’ with an alien form of DNA, one that was not created by God but is an abomination just like the Nephilim.

I never thought I would see Hosea 4:6 so clearly as I do today: “My people are destroyed for lack of knowledge: because thou hast rejected knowledge, I will also reject thee, that thou shalt be no priest to me: seeing thou hast forgotten the law of thy God, I will also forget thy children.” I wonder if the believers who take it will pay a price in eternity? If they are born again, they cannot lose their salvation, but God says they will not be ‘priests,’ and He will ‘forget their children,’ so does this mean that they will lose rewards? I think so! It’s up to each of us to be responsible for our actions, as God says in Romans 1:20 that ‘they are without excuse.’

Twelve, here is another interesting e-mail from a reader in MO.

No one is date-setting, but this is amazing, if true, and I pray that it will brighten your day.

The reader’s pastor asked his congregation at their Wednesday night Bible study to open their Bible to the last two verses in the Bible (Rev. 22:20-21).

The verses are 20 and 21 (as in the year 2021), and they read, “He which testifieth these things saith, Surely I come quickly. Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. Amen.”

Some would love for Jesus to come quickly for His Church in 2021.

Finally, if you want to go to heaven, you must be born again (John 3:3). God loves you, and if you have not done so, sincerely admit that you are a sinner; believe that Jesus is the virgin-born, sinless Son of God who died for the sins of the world, was buried, and raised from the dead; ask Him to forgive your sins, cleanse you, come into your heart and be your Saviour; then tell someone that you have done this.

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todaysbiggesthits · 4 years

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The Exam

Best Music Moment of 2019

BC: Three straight hours of this

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in my Chapman Ryder Cup match with Code -The Robert M. Chennault Playlist in my Ryder Cup match with Laser -Vampire Weekend's "M79" with Parks and Rec theme interlude in Pawnee Peytonville with my babe -Late night music game with JD and Chaps this Fall -My kids competing for best air guitar solo to Daft Punk's "Digital Love" -The Stones soundtracking Raceday morning with Counterfeit Kenny and the Kennel Boys

Codem: -Picking up the keys after closing on #our house and listening to Arden's dreams for the pad while listening to the songs that brought us together in the first place. -Perched in the balcony of Park West watching Chromatics live and in person. -The Chapman format playlist that Brendon and I put together. It was just one song on repeat. Xtal - Aphex Twin -Plugging in my klipsch's for the first time in the new house to listen to elliott smith on the day of his death. the sound of his discography wafting throughout the whole house was a true delight.

Bronco: My 6-year-old discovering Green Day. My 9-year-old discovering Metallica. Both discoveries have awakened something in them that is hilarious and awesome to behold. And seeing Tool was pretty flaming awesome.

JD: March: Realizing I’d never heard this Stones song, nodding along to the opening riff, and exploding into my biggest laugh of the year at the first line.

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June: The Joni Mitchell performance in the Rolling Thunder Review documentary on Netflix. June: Catching the Thom Yorke Anima short film at the IMAX theater on the Upper West Side. July: Code and I getting a perfect 99 score on the greatest rendition of “Emotional Rescue” karaoke you’ll ever see. October: Playing the music game WAY too deep into the night with BC and Chap (look for the next day’s hangover on my worst moments list).

Chap: Patrick Stickles singing "I'm sorry dad no I'm not making this up" to his dad in the audience.

Nasty: Listening to music at BOB. Nothing but jams that whole weekend. Driving in with Laser - GOOGLE MUSIC JAMS. Trip to the casino - JAMS. Hanging out on the deck - JAMS. Driving to the course with Blazer Black - Fuck Buttons - Sweet Love for Planet Earth aka JAMS. In the cart with Code - JAMS. Driving Chappy and Sfreddo to the rental car - JAMS (but quietly).

Larse: Greta Thunberg speech dubbed to metal

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Best Shows Seent in 2019

Nasty: The Killers @ Summerfest. Hot Fuss will always be an all-time favorite album and Mr. Brightside is the best pop song of our lifetime, IMO. Also, my wife loves them which is about the only band in middle of the venn diagram.

Larse: The Lonely Island at Summerfest

BC: Dead & Company

JD: 1. The Rapture at Music Hall of Williamsburg 2. Viagra Boys at Bowery Ballroom 3. The Strokes and Parkay Boys at the All Points East fest in London with drunk lads screaming along to the guitar parts 4. B Boys at Union Pool 5. Titus Andronicus at Bowery Ballroom 6. Avey Tare at Market Hotel 7. Tame Impala at MSG 8. Weeping Icon at Elsewhere 9. Priests at Elsewhere

Code: interpol - chicago theater illuminati hotties - hideout it looks sad - subT downstairs robyn - riviera steve malkmus - art institute eleventh dream day - hideout colleen green - sleeping village swearin' - lincoln hall surf curse - subT shura - the bottle

Chap: TA was the only show I saw. It was great!

Bronco: All of them. They were each great in their own way. Aside from Tool I was able to interact with the band members at each of the shows. One I didn't have a ticket for and scored one at the door. One was in the tiniest venue I've seen a show at. One had a surprisingly entertaining opening act. And Tool surprised me with how much I enjoyed an arena show despite being so far away I couldn't see the facial features of the band members. And there was SOOOOOOO much weed being smoked in the Garden that night. And I was with a few good buddies. And I was able to sell my fourth ticket for twice what I paid, simulatenously covering me and my fourth friend who had to bail because his life sucks because his wife sucks.

Confession of 2019

Nasty: I consume more music at my cushy, suburban OrangeTheory workout classes than in my own free time. S/O to Coach Vanessa for having some Girl Talk on her playlists.

Codem: i had more fun listening to stuff that i already knew about than stuff that was coming out.

BC: I saw a Yacht Rock cover band and didn't hate it -I succumbed to social pressure and saw DMB -I didn't realize until the last minute that my favorite album was released in 2018 (Wild Nothing). Removing it greatly reduced my loyalty to my list.

Bronco: I'm losing my edge. I enjoyed way more lady singer bands this year than in any other year.

Chap: Couldn't get my shit together on the tracks list so just posted a random playlist

Larse: Not really a confession but more of a TIL (today I learned), but Raphael Saadiq was an original member of Tony! Toni! Tone!

Biggest Disappointment of 2019

Bin: The National @ Summerfest. From the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel "the frontman was completely detached, even confessing at one point that he was excited to get back home to his family. The result was an incredibly depressing show — which, given the band's dour songs, is really saying something." ... Huge Bummer.

BC: Didn't see nearly enough shows with nearly enough of yous

Chap: Sturgill Simpson... unlistenable!

Bronco: Baroness.

Laser: Modest Mouse opening for The Black Keys

Code: i was really messed up by dave berman's passing. i had tickets to see him play at the end of august. it was going to be my first catching him live and in concert. i had waited for this moment since i picked up american water back in 2003. two weeks before he was supposed to come through town, he up and died. also, much less of a bummer, the chromatics show in miami that Arden and i were going to attend got canceled two days before the show.

Most Overrated of 2019

Nasty: Kanye's shoes

Chap: LEGACY! LEGACY! – Jamila Woods seems to have been highly regarded? Not my thing

BC: FKA Twigs

Bronco: Baroness.

JD: Big Thief

Code: cancel culture

Larse: Mayor Pete

Make it Stop 2019

Chap: In my house, the Nutcracker Suite. It's great, until the 300th time that day.

Nasty: Cage the Elephant (but children, instead of elephant, and in real life, not the band)

BC: Lizzo

Code: lizzo

JD: Memes

Larse: Trump

Bronco: News

Biggest TBH Regret of 2019

Chap: Can't seem to get to more than one show per year; Jessica Pratt in a church by my old place

JD: Missin’ dat Pratt yet Nick!

BC: Should've listened to the Kanye album. Should've spent more time with the Deerhunter record.

Rotty: Skipping CHVRCHES at Summerfest

Code: another year with no fog party

Nasty: Not going to Indy 500. lol jk.

Bronco: I didn't buy tickets to a few shows I would've liked to have seen. One of them I went to the venue and didn't get in. That bummed me out, but I crossed the street and had a few beers by myself for good measure, so it wasn't a total loss.

Detective Murtaugh of 2019

JD: Everything.

Bronco: Shows that don't start until 10pm. That Girl Band show nearly wrecked me.

Chap: How much I loved Bruce Springsteen's adult contemporary western-themed old-man album.

BC: The ten seconds I lasted with 1000 GECS

Nasty: For the life of me - I cannot figure out how to operate the "play next" queue on these apps.

Laser: Lizzo at Summerfest - lot of younglings running around; people were racist towards Lizzo's security guards, she vowed not to come back to MKE, one of the most segregated cities in America :(

Resolution for 2019 Status

Laser: — How It Went: Who can even remember this shit...I'm sure it was that I'd do better at keeping track or listen to more shit people suggest and I'm sure I failed.

BC: Listen to one new album a week; reboot the Classic Album Review Club How It Went: Noooot toooo gooooood

Code: catch ovlov, pictureplane, washer, chromatics, EMA and colleen green live this year. How It Went: i saw chromatics and colleen green. last i checked .400 gets you into cooperstown.

JD: Greater consciousness of how I’m using my attention - an ineffectual and meaningless protest of the ways the world is burning down in pursuit of it. How It Went: Not bad! I especially nailed the “ineffectual and meaningless” part.

Chap: Learn Piano; Guilt Joe Dons into finally inviting me to a concert. How It Went: Learned some piano but got to busy for it... Couldn't guilt JD to invite me anywhere but I DID invite him to a show! The same one I went to! With him!

Bronco: Read more 'classic’ books. I didn’t read many of them, even in school (especially in school? Never could read a book I was told to read). But I’m leaning in the sci-fi direction of 'classics’. I just read Dune this summer, and wrapped up Fahrenheit 451 the other day. I’m feeling an unexplained need to beef up my nerd credentials and this seems the way to accomplish it. How It Went: Nope. Fell back in to zombie-apocalypse genre series that I've been reading for a while. But I am currently reading arch-nerd Neal Stephenson's "Fall; or, Dodge in Hell". It's almost 900 pages, I feel like I've been reading for months now, and because I'm a stupidly slow reader, I read only before going to bed, and can only make it 10 minutes before falling asleep and hitting myself in the face with my phone, I'm only 25% of the way through. But man is it painting a creepy yet eerily plausible scene of the near future. Guy just knows how to write.

Nasty: Hope last year I was smart enough to leave this blank. (editor’s note: [removes shoes, pets cat, puts on slippers, retires to favorite easy chair, sips martini, slowly pulls reading glasses out of cardigan pocket, dusts them off, loads todaysbiggesthits.tumblr.com, scrolls to ‘Resolution for 2019’] “Nasty: I’m sticking with it - get to NY for a show with JD.”)

Resolution for 2020

BC: See Phish in 2020

Codem: i'm making it easier this year. catch ovlov, washer, EMA and colleen green live this year. bonus points: see dom's much anticipated return to the stage.

Bronco: Build a vinyl collection. I know I dumped on Brendon for suggesting he press copies of Carpet Affair, but my kid's getting way into music and listening to it on his own (via Alexa in my bedroom which is super fucking annoying), so we're getting him his own record player and I think it's going to be a cool activity to go record store diving for whatever classics we can scrounge up.

JD: Get to more shows. Take more aimless strolls spinning tunes.

Bin: Send an email about music on the TBH! thread.

Larse: None

Chap: Eh I'm cool

Most Anticipated of 2020

Code: my man dom said that he is coming back to the world this year. i have to believe that he'll keep his word. i'm thinking 2020 is going to be the year for chromatics' Tommy.

Chap: TWOD, Perfume Genius, Jason Isbell

BC: Huey Lewis and the News, Tame Impala, Run the Jewels

Bronco: Kvelertak and Mastodon, maybe some surprise extra Tool material?

JD: Working Men’s Club

Nasty: Spotify getting Jay-Z's catalog back.

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930club · 5 years

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GET FAMILIAR: Week of February 18, 2019

Welcome to Get Familiar, a breakdown of the standout music releases you should be on the lookout for in the week ahead! Posts will feature three releases that will be placed into the following categories: Coming Soon, Local Legends, and Wild Cards. The “Coming Soon” category will highlight an artist whose tour will be touching down in DC sometime in the near future, while “Local Legends” will feature artists hailing from the DMV, and “Wild Cards” will showcase a release that the Half-Past team is beyond stoked about!

Check back each week on Monday to find your next favorite artist and to be the first to know about the latest drops from those who are already in heavy rotation in your headphones. Get familiar, and get to listening!

COMING SOON: GARY CLARK JR.

Release Title: This Land (LP)

Release Date: Friday, February 22, 2019

What To Expect: There’s a reason that Austin, Texas native Gary Clark Jr. was dubbed “The Chosen One” by Rolling Stone and frequently receives comparisons to the likes of his idol Stevie Ray Vaughan and Eric Clapton, the latter of which is such a big fan that he once wrote a letter to Clark as a thank you for inspiring him to play again. He’s the type of guitarist that can define a generation, and he’s still only just begun his ascent to stardom. The release of his next studio-album, This Land, should send shockwaves through the music world, and, judging by the reception he’s received to the project’s first three singles, it should cement his status as blues-rock royalty.

Just over two weeks ago, Clark blessed us with the first two singles: “I Walk Alone” and “This Land.” Both songs showcase his talents in a new light, with the former serving as a funky display of his vocal range and the latter being a psychedelic, electro-laden anthem that sees the singer commenting on our country’s equality imbalance and his frustrations with those that have seemingly only accepted him for his newfound success. Not content with stopping there, he released the final single for the album, “Pearl Cadillac,” late last week. The song is a soulful love ballad that sees Clark fawning over a lost love, and possibly attempting to rekindle the flame. It’s a beautiful track, but the Texan made sure to include a face-melting solo that is sure to knock any listener off their seat. All three songs are exciting exhibits of his growth both as a musician and person, and all signs are pointing to This Land being a pivotal moment in the career of America’s next great rockstar.

Catch SWMRS at The Anthem on Saturday, March 30 — tickets available here.

MUSIC ● WEBSITE ● FACEBOOK ● TWITTER

LOCAL LEGENDS: PRIESTS

Release Title: ???

Release Date: Sometime this week

What To Expect: Practicing what you preach is more than just an obvious pun for DC-based, rock band Priests. The group has always stood for what they believed in, from creating their trailblazing DIY-label Sister Polygon Records to organizing the infamous 2017 benefit concert No Thanks, “a night of anti-fascist sound resistance in the Capital of the USA,” the day after the inauguration of our 45th president. At times they’ve been characterized as “activist rock,” but the band’s style of play has always been a gritty and determined brand of post-punk realism.

Fans everywhere rejoiced after the January announcement of their next studio album The Seduction of Kansas, scheduled for release April 5th. The core of the group remains intact with singer Katie Alice Greer, guitarist GL Jaguar, and drummer Danielle Danielle, but the departure of bassist Taylor Mulitz has led to some noticeable differences between the new single and the group’s past records. The song is perhaps less frantic than many of the band’s existing tracks, but certainly no less punk. Greer’s voice kicks off the track, falling somewhere in between Blondie and Joan Jett, and seamlessly ranging over her bandmates driving instruments. With a haunting chorus, mesmerizing synths and lyrics that touch on everything from a “bloodthirsty cherub choir” to the Koch brothers. The track serves as kickass first taste of what the band will be bringing to the table as a newly minted trio, and the group announced on their Instagram last Thursday that they would be dropping new music this week. It will expectantly be another track from the album, but who knows what they have up their sleeves. Whatever the group decides to release though, one thing is for certain, it’s going to unabashedly rock hard.

MUSIC ● WEBSITE ● FACEBOOK ● TWITTER

WILD CARD: BENNY SINGS

Release Title: City Pop (LP)

Release Date: Friday, February 22, 2019

What To Expect: Dutch producer-musician-singer-songwriter Benny Sings finds himself with a renewed sense of self as he prepares to release his sixth studio-album, City Pop. The latest signee to independent juggernaut Stones Throw Records will be unleashing his own brand of quirky, groovy pop music onto the world this Friday, and according to his new label the project will be, “his most personal record yet, both in terms of his musical taste, with a strong influence of jazz and soul, and the moods he expresses.”

The album’s lead single “Not Enough” serves as a cheerful and uplifting display of this musical jack of all trades’ many talents. The songs starts with Benny’s bubbly, airy voice floating over one of his famously catchy keyboard riffs, reminiscent of his friend and frequent collaborator Rex Orange County. The track takes on a lighter feel than most of those on the artist’s last project, 2018’s punchy and psychedelic Beat Tape. Time will only tell if the rest of the release will follow suit with this insanely catchy tune, but one thing’s for certain: the marriage of the ever-versatile Benny Sings with the creative geniuses over at Stones Throw should make for one unforgettable label debut.

MUSIC ● WEBSITE ● FACEBOOK ● TWITTER

- Matt Singer

#Get Familiar #The Anthem #Gary Clark Jr #Benny Sings #Priests #This Land #I Walk Alone #Pearl Cadillac #The Seduction of Kansas #City Pop #Beat Tape #Stones Throw Records #Sister Polygon Records #Upcoming Show #Matt Singer

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pandemicstress · 3 years

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Grieving through the Pandemic

I interviewed my neighbor, Elsa in June 2020 about the story of her son’s death and how the lockdown affected her and her grieving process. Elsa has been exposed to a lot of stress in her life and she can bear a great deal, but his death was an intense trauma that she did not see coming. James passed away on 21 February 2020 at 30 years old. He was living in Dubai and working as a Regional Marketing Manager for a multi-national organization.

Elsa and her son spoke at least once a week on the phone and shared each other’s ups and downs. She was getting ready to visit James in Dubai as part of a trip. When they last spoke, James said he would be there to collect her from the airport. They were both so excited to see each other after about four months apart.

Elsa is a business owner and sells custom-made merchandise at markets in various cities and on her online store. A few days after speaking to James, she was finishing off packing for a market with a friend who was going to sell her products at three markets in her absence. At around 1:30pm on Saturday 22 February 2020, the phone rang and it was a Dubai number but the call dropped. Again, it rang and the call failed to connect. She stepped outside and answered. It was Ryan, James’ friend. She knew immediately that something was wrong. Ryan told her that her son had passed away. He didn’t know the details but he only knew that James was found dead.

Elsa screamed and collapsed. Her partner, Donald spoke to Ryan to elicit more information about what had transpired. The police did not provide any details of the circumstances of James’ tragic death. She phoned his father (her ex-husband) as well as her other son to tell them the news. She also phoned the South African embassy in the United Arab Emirates but they could not provide any information without his passport number.

It was the biggest trauma she has ever experienced in her life. Her other son and her own brother came over to the house to comfort her. Elsa called her friend Cathy who they referred to as James’ ‘Dubai mom’ to let her know. Cathy had seen him recently in Dubai and he was in such good spirits. At least she had her visa organized because of the trip she was planning. Elsa’s partner, Donald, booked tickets and her son’s fiancée helped her to pack. She also brought her a herbal remedy to help with the shock.

Elsa could not sleep at all on the flight. Cathy connected Elsa with Viv who was from an organization called Middle East Assist. While they were flying, he had obtained as much information as possible from the police. Viv offered to act as intermediary to make it more efficient for the authorities to communicate the correct protocols. Viv helped them to find out that the cause of death was a fall. They also needed to arrange for the expatriation of James’ remains.

They went to James’ office building and spent some time with his colleagues who were in shock from the terrible news. His peers respected him greatly and they had strong bonds with him. For two hours, Elsa sat in the boardroom where James’ colleagues showed her great compassion and all offered her messages of support and kindness. James’ manager flew out from India to meet with her. Her son was so valued and his organization and peers referred to him as a ‘creative genius’.

After the trip to the office, they went to James’ apartment. Elsa was very connected with James and she knew instantly what had happened. His death was recorded around dawn at 6:30am. He used to love sitting on railings and watching the sun rise. He had fallen, probably being distracted by something and slipping from the railing several stories to his death. It was completely heart breaking to think of this unnecessary tragedy that took James away from her and all those who loved him.

Elsa was putting together the pieces of what happened. He had a lunch appointment with a friend on the Friday he passed away, for which he did not show up. His friend went to his place and the security guard told her what had happened. She got in touch with Ryan who was able to notify Elsa directly.

On the flight back to South Africa, they had good Wi-Fi and Elsa started making arrangements for James’ memorial. On Tuesday, she went to Modderfontein, Johannesburg to make the plans and they held a memorial on Thursday with friends and family.

The church was full and many people spoke well of him. James’ father attended the service but could not say a eulogy. They didn’t have a good relationship and it must be very difficult for him to process the grief under these circumstances. It would be James’ wish to donate to his favorite charity, Pink Table, instead of sending flowers so the family asked loved ones to make donations.

Viv was arranging the cremation and autopsy back in Dubai. The following Thursday would be the cremation. James’ company wanted to hold a memorial service in Dubai. Elsa and James’ brother applied for urgent visas flew to Dubai for the memorial.

They had to identify James’ body. After forensics has been conducted, the authorities brought his body for viewing in an ambulance. Her other son was with her during the harrowing experience. She was coached not to be emotional and say ‘no’ because the authorities would interpret it as the body not belonging to James. I cannot imagine how a mother could endure such an experience and have to withhold emotion on top of it.

James’ brother did the talking and gave a positive identification to the authorities. Elsa cannot remember seeing James’ face as the incident was so traumatic. She only recalls seeing the back of his head. She collapsed afterwards and they bundled her into the car and back to the hotel. They held the cremation and thereafter, a memorial at the Catholic church. The priest was wonderful and they did not expect Elsa to say any words at the service but she insisted. James’ brother also spoke.

Many of James’ friends and colleagues in Dubai also gave her money for the charity that James supported. Elsa was touched by how many people thought so highly of him. After the service, the 80 mourners gathered at a hotel. Elsa remembered how James would light up a room. So many people said that he had taught them something. She got a personal letter from many of his close friends detailing the impact James had on their lives. Many of his friends had spent his 30th birthday with him and for a lot of them, this was the last time they saw him.

The following day, Elsa went to spread James’ ashes. Ryan and some friends suggested going to the Love Lakes, two heart-shaped lakes with swans and koi fish. The location does not allow public gatherings so they all had to pretend it was a picnic. Ryan and the other friends brought blankets and snacks along to support the illusion. Elsa peeped thorough a hedge and found a spot where they were building a new garden. The friends all put their hands on the urn and said their goodbyes before spreading James’ ashes on the foundation of future beauty.

Elsa also had to sort out James’ belongings in his apartment as part of this trip. She wanted to see where his body landed but about seven security officers surrounded her and she almost got arrested. Her friend Ryan took them to the airport. Donald was away for ten days when she got back from the trip which gave her some time to openly grieve. That time passed in a blur.

Elsa had to take care of James’ estate which was also a challenging experience. It meant engaging with her ex-husband on a few matters and making decisions for James about his belongings and his investments. It allowed Elsa to focus her attention on doing something which was helpful, but the activity was also a constant reminder that he was truly gone.

The effect of COVID-19 was mostly felt from the lockdown perspective. In March 2020, the South African government initiated a hard lockdown for three weeks which was extended to five weeks. It was extreme in that citizens were only allowed out of their property for food and medical supplies. Exercise outside or walking dogs was not permitted and even online shopping was prohibited at first.

For Elsa, it felt like being in prison at home with her intense grief. Donald had to work at home as his chain of stores were all closed during that time. This meant that he was in her environment at a time when she needed the space to show her grief and it was difficult with another person around. As a result, she internalized a lot. Her weight dropped significantly and she did not have weight to lose, being very skinny already. Elsa struggled to eat. Some wonderful friends called her daily to offer support and love. When they were able to, these friends brought her soups which were easier to consume.

Her spiritual beliefs help her to cope with the loss. She spots feathers everywhere which make her think of him. She collected them and put them between her phone and her phone case to feel closer to him. Elsa thinks of him first thing when she wakes up and when she’s cooking. James was an excellent chef and she would often ask him for help and send him a photo of what she made.

Elsa joined the compassionate friends on Facebook, an opportunity for her to be surrounded by a community of people who understand her struggle. It is common that people who experience a severe trauma have difficulty in connecting with those who have not shared the experience. That can be isolating especially in the midst of a pandemic where we are not able to easily connect with large groups of friends or travel to visit loved ones. Some parents on the group have not been able to identify their child’s body or hold a funeral due to COVID-19 so at least she was able to do that.

She recalls how she felt when she first got the news and how completely distraught she felt. For the first three months, she barely slept. She felt the pain physically in her chest - a broken heart that would take years to heal. It has been a long journey to feel almost human again. A journey that required great courage and healing thorough a variety of interventions and influences.

Elsa started journaling as a form of expressing the grief. She carried her journal around with her to capture anything that came up. She also read many books on grief including Permission to Mourn by Tom Zuba and On Grief and Grieving by Elizabeth Kübler-Ross and David Kessler. She also read A Soul’s Journey by Peter Richelieu to understand what happened to James beyond death and to find comfort in the fact that he lives on in another form.

She went to a psychic, an experience that provided comfort that James was okay and the insight that his death happened exactly the way she thought it had. It was a relief and it brought a sense of closure. James was always a free spirit so living in Dubai had been challenging for him in complying with the many rules and restrictions. He would not have enjoyed lockdown or any of the COVID-related rules. He’s free now. The psychic told her that James thanked her for all she did for him in his life. She is grateful for how she brought up her boys and she has no regrets.

Elsa embarked on a series of healing methods to support her as she grappled with not only the trauma on an emotional level but also on a physical level. She went for a multitude of alternative treatments such as reiki, kinesiology, acupuncture and shiatsu massage. These have eased her grief and allowed the trauma felt in her body to be released to a degree. She also went for a numerology reading for James and it was confirmed that he was in the house of death that February. It was his time to go and that brought some understanding and acceptance. Personally, I think some personalities shine so bright that they cannot sustain a full lifetime.

She is an achiever and has found it very difficult to allow herself the time to grieve and focus fully on her own well-being. It has been challenging to slow down and to listen to what her body needs. Being in lockdown meant that all the markets were cancelled, her primary mechanism to sell her merchandise. She wanted to throw her focus into work to offer distraction from the grief but she felt handicapped by the inability to sell her products. She spent some time on new designs for T-shirts and clothing and this was a productive way to use her creativity as a distraction. She has lacked focus at times which doesn’t feel like her usual self. She assisted her partner Donald in his business and even in her state of grief, she was able to help him with the many arrangements that needed to be made as part of the pandemic.

Elsa has struggled to give herself permission to grieve because it feels self-indulgent. She has always been very hard on herself and expects a great deal in terms of being productive, even at this time. Simply for her own sanity, she tries to do just three things per day. She planted a succulent garden and a vegetable garden which offered a rewarding distraction as she could harvest and use the produce at home. She made sure to plant bulbs that will flower around James’s birthday as a way to honor him regularly. Elsa also reached out to friends and spent time visiting others and inviting her friends over for tea to catch up.

Elsa remarked that James’ death offered her the gift of knowing who was really there for her. One friend of 30 years did not even contact her still up to a year after his passing. Others who she didn’t expect to care, were wonderful to her. It’s hurtful to deal with the disappointment on top of the grief, but it is helpful. Elsa is a warm and friendly person who cares deeply about others. She has a large circle of friends and has been very blessed to have many people visiting and dropping off food and checking in on her periodically. This experience has shown her that she was not truly there for some of her friends who suffered losses in the past. Only once we experience these things ourselves, do we know what others need. She feels guilty and grateful at the same time.

It has been hard for Elsa to get back into exercise, which she needs since she has osteopenia and needs to do weight bearing exercise to improve her bone density. She used to do a lot of yoga but the studio went out of business due to the pandemic. She was not inspired to walk at first but sometimes sat on her patio while reading just to get some sunshine and to be outside. A few weeks ago, she started doing yoga therapy with a qualified teacher who comes to her house. This allows for the beautiful combination of exercise and healing.

James’ brother got married towards the end of 2020 which was a challenging experience for Elsa. Her grief made it difficult to fully celebrate in the joy of a young couple starting their lives together. The wedding was a beautiful intimate celebration and some of James’ ashes were included in a pretty flowerpot as a gesture of him always being with the family on their significant experiences.

Elsa mourns for not only him but for all the things he won’t get to do, for example getting married or having children. She shares posts on social media each day and is constantly reminded by the memories that pop up of all the trips and experiences shared. These are bittersweet in that she relishes the time she had with James but she still misses him every day and will do for the rest of her life.

She knows through her reading that the final stage of grief is to find meaning but she has not reached that point yet. As I release this story, James’ anniversary is approaching which creates a sense of dread and pressure for her. All international flights are still cancelled which is devastating because Elsa planned to visit Dubai and attend a memorial that his friends are hosting. They wanted to visit the Love Lakes to celebrate his life on the anniversary of his death. She will no doubt find a special way to honor him on this day and on his birthday each year.

Life is forever changed for Elsa and she will carry this grief with her always. She is a resilient person and will keep living and sharing her kind and caring nature with the world. Sometimes we are unaware of the enormous burdens people around us carry. Let Elsa’s story be a reminder to be grateful for each moment with our loved ones, even through the arguments and struggles, and to appreciate the people we love every day.

#grief pandemic COVID19 PandemicStress Compassion

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kmp78 · 7 years

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So I just wanted to add my “twopenny’s” worth of opinion on the kids/family/social pressure discussions. Despite the fact that I now have a husband and 4 year old, I can really relate to the pressure that so many women face on having kids, getting married and fitting into the “social norm”. For most of my adult life I never wanted to get married nor did I want kids. I was never the girl who grew up imagining her wedding or her wedding dress or naming their future kids - ffs I wanted to be a fighter pilot and travel the world (though probably not at the same time tbh!). I felt that I spent most of my 20s and early 30s defending my decision to not want children but instead to have a career (not as a pilot, sadly) and live my own hedonistic life in my free time. I travelled, I partied and I had fun - my life WAS complete. In fact, in my 30s if there was one subject that was bound to make my short fuse even shorter, it was when “well meaning” family and friends would utter the words “so when are you going to settle down, you’re not getting any younger” . At best I was called “picky” , at worst I was “selfish” . Then in the summer of 2010, I went to a friend’s party and met a guy who I really liked. I wasn’t looking for anyone - my life was already complete. He wasn’t my type but for the first time, I met someone who I could be myself with and who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Within 3 months we’d moved in together and within 5 months we were engaged. And guess what my f***ing family and friends said ? “It’s too fast” , “You need to slow down” , “You have time - wait and see how this goes” . And I thought “FFS - Make up your mind!!”

I didn’t get married to adhere to the social norm. I got married because I wanted to - I didn’t have to, I just wanted to have that commitment. And I would have married him on a wet Wednesday in February with just the 2 of us at a registry office - the “day” didn’t matter (we actually married in Rome with 50 guests but that’s beside the point). And how did I feel on my wedding day? Well, I am a cynic at heart and I will be honest to say I laughed at all those people who said it was the best day of their lives. Because how could it be? I’d trekked the himalayas in Bhutan; walked with Mountain Gorillas in Rwanda; done air safaris in Kenya; had a 2 month sabbatical learning baroque art in Rome; travelled the world solo. How could a mere wedding day even compare to those life experiences? It couldn’t and on the whole, it didn’t - It was just a party in a nice dress. But there was one moment that was at the time the most precious moment of my life - a moment where I felt the most calm, and the most happy I had ever been. And that was the moment we stood in front of the priest and said “I do” . It was the strangest sensation - an almost out of body experience - and I never thought I would be the person to feel it. The happiest moment now is actually the day my son was born. It’s not that the other life experiences weren’t or aren’t valid - they are and they were amazing. Like I said earlier, I never wanted children. They weren’t on my agenda. Luckily my husband felt the same. I was 38, he was 40. Chances of conceiving naturally were probably slim and we just thought we’d nonchalantly try, you know, just to see “what if?” I guess we just felt we should try so we didn’t regret not trying. Neither of us thought it would happen. Yet, our son was conceived on our honeymoon so we philosophically thought it was meant to be! I had a horrible pregnancy and actually was in denial for most of it. I thought of my son as a parasite because he was actually draining my body of its nutrients and making me ill. So, I wasn’t in the best frame of mind and I really regretted getting pregnant for most of the term. Then he was born, and I held him for the first time. And it was magical. I cannot explain the love I have for him and the love I felt from the moment he was tucked in beside me - he is my world and genuinely he is the love of my life (sorry hubby). Interestingly, friends and family all say “ Your life is complete now….” inferring that before marriage and kids, my life wasn’t complete. And they are quite shocked at my response, because whilst I do feel complete in my life now, I also felt complete in my life before. The experiences I was having were just as valid. The life I was living was just as happy as my life now - it’s just a different life. One isn’t better than the other - it’s not a competition. It’s about choice and about doing what makes you happy. There isn’t one version of a “happy life”.

I don’t like to give out advice about how people should live their lives but I will share something about having kids. THEY ARE HARD WORK. Period. It may sound obvious but they really are 24/7/365. There is no break - especially in the first 3 years. So if you’re in a rocky relationship, odds on bet the stress of a child will kill it. It’s not the sleepless nights or the actual caring that’s difficult. It’s the fact that you do not get a timeout and they turn your whole life upside down. Whether you like it or not, they are and have to be the centre of your universe and that’s tough when you’re used to things your way.

So would I go back to my old life? Yes there are days when I truly long for a free weekend or to plan an exciting trip somewhere when I see an enticing ad in a magazine. But that’s probably just 5％ of the time because, whilst it’s not easy, I wouldn’t swop my son for anything. He is 200％ worth it. And I haven’t stopped ALL the things I used to do, it’s just now I arrange things so he can be part of it and I look forward to sharing those life experiences with him - showing him the world, having fun with him and sharing memories….. including buying him a ticket to join me to see Mars next March for his 5th birthday… 😁

***

goldilisa - thanks :)

Yeah I think what you described is the flipside to the saying “You can´t really miss something you don´t even have” or “There´s no use in mourning for something that has not yet happened” etc.

We just can´t know what that other kind of life is - it´s only in our imagination until the day when it may become reality.

It could be a good reality or a bad one, there´s no way to know.

(Disclaimer and rules)

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junker-town · 5 years

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The Ticket

Sinners, Scalpers and the Search for God: One man’s descent into the underworld of sports

This story is being published in partnership with Epic Magazine. Names have been changed throughout.

2014 World Cup - Porto Alegre, Brazil

I ducked behind a food stand, checked my burner phone, and stashed $20,000 in my money belt. The churrasco smoke made for good cover.

A drunken choir of Dutchmen poured into the stadium chanting their national anthem. They howled over the shoulders of the riot policemen guarding the gates, the orange lions on their replica jerseys waving in the wind. The louder the Dutchmen sang, the tighter the Brazilian security forces gripped the muzzles of their automatic weapons.

The Australian fanatics were next, draped in Southern Cross flags and kangaroo swag. Soon their own inebriated chant rang through the air: Aussie! Aussie! Aussie! Oy! Oy! Oy!

The fans who needed tickets stood out. We called them “straights” because they stand straight up in a crowd protecting the cash they’re unused to carrying, hands stuck in their pockets, and you could make a few thousand dollars in a couple of hours if you knew how to spot them. The game was to sell your tickets for as much cash as the straights could cough up.

I had 30 tickets left with 20 minutes to kickoff. If I didn’t sell them they’d be worthless — deadwood. But with undercovers swarming the stadium, the risk of arrest swelled with every sale. Ticket scalping in Brazil carried a multi-year prison sentence, and I couldn’t speak Portuguese, so I had to be careful. Avoiding capture meant closing deals quickly and moving every five minutes. These were techniques my mentors taught me on street corners, outside the track at the Kentucky Derby, in the parking lots bordering the Masters, the hotel lobbies by the Super Bowl.

I slipped behind a well-dressed straight and whispered, “Tickets? Entradas?” He answered in the affirmative. I nodded my head toward the nearest barbeque stand. I was always surprised when people followed me, a complete stranger.

My clean-cut Mormon looks usually closed the deal, but there were also critical soft skills — a smile, counting money slowly, a somber nod — that eliminated doubt if the straights were hesitant.

I was down to 20 tickets when I spotted a repeat customer. I went over to him and nodded. He knew the drill. I slipped him two tickets. He passed me the money. We shook hands.

My clean-cut Mormon looks usually closed the deal, but there were also critical soft skills — a smile, counting money slowly, a somber nod — that eliminated doubt if the straights were hesitant.

Then someone grabbed my arm.

“Cambista!” he hissed.

The guy had jet-black hair, a leather coat, and sunglasses. I didn’t know if he was a cop, a competitor, or a disgruntled customer.

“Don’t touch me,” I said calmly.

He pulled me close and flashed his handgun. Behind him, the Brazilians working the barbeque stand motioned for me to run. I was in trouble. A cop.

The man with a gun shoved me onto a bench and unzipped my bag of tickets. His face spread with a smile.

“Cambista,” he whispered.

My repeat customer slumped on the bench beside me, hanging his head. Clearly, he’d ratted me out. In plain view, the detectives in the parking lot started divvying up my tickets. Another man reached in the front pocket of my jeans and pulled out the ball of Reals from my last 10 sales. My money belt was still hidden.

A tall man opened the back door of an unmarked car and shoved me inside. We drove along a river overhung with lush tropical trees. A cross hung from the rearview. I watched it bounce to the rhythm of potholes. Houses splashed with graffiti hugged the river trails. I doggedly fought the idea that an undercover would kill me over a few grand as we drove past kids between cars begging for money.

As the stadium shrank in the haze behind us, I wondered about Brazilian prison conditions. I wondered about extradition treaties. But mostly, I wondered what my dad would think.

1997 Final Four - Indianapolis, Indiana

When I was 12, I made a deal with my father. If I beat him in one-on-one basketball, he’d take me to a Final Four game. It was the second biggest deal I’d made that year. The first was with the Mormon church.

Twelve is an important age for a Mormon. That’s when, if you promise to obey the church’s commandments, you’re given a distinction called the Aaronic priesthood, which bestows the authority to prepare, bless, and pass the sacrament in church on Sundays.

It’s basically the beginning of a bargain: If you do what the church tells you to do, they promise you’ll get into heaven. At least, that’s how I understood it at the time. But as a lunatic sports fan, I had a very different idea of paradise.

Growing up, my father inhabited the world of my dreams: Super Bowls, Final Fours, National Championship Games. He was athletic director, and blockbuster events were networking meccas for men with entry-level jobs in college athletic departments. When he would come home, he’d unzip his luggage and hand out shirts, highlight DVDs, and Nerf balls with team insignias. Then he’d whisper with my mom about which universities had openings in their athletic departments.

Dad was good at networking. As a result, by the time I turned 12 we’d moved five times to four different states — and I eventually won the bet I’d made with him as a newly-minted priest, and he kept his word. I guess he thought that at 14 years old I was ready to see a world beyond church.

We couldn’t afford a hotel room in Indianapolis, so we split one with Dad’s friends. When we got to the Holiday Inn, his buddies Darryl and Cliff towered over a bed staring at what appeared to be piles of cash. Before I could get a closer look, my dad pulled me away. One of the men noticed.

“Probably didn’t think you and your boy would be sharing a hotel room with the Kentucky Six, did you, Pete?” Darryl said.

My dad laughed.

“Who else is in the Six?” he asked.

“Well, me and Cliff,” Darryl said. “Then there’s another guy in Lexington we work with named Pain, my two cousins, Jerry and Frank. And Redd. We’re the best ticket scalpers in the country.”

My dad laughed again. I’d never seen him laugh like that at church or around the house. I wasn’t sure what a scalper was, but Darryl and Cliff were already the most interesting men I’d ever met. And my dad didn’t dismiss them or tell me not to pay them any attention like he did when I hung out with non-Mormon kids. He was just as interested in The Kentucky Six as I was.

We woke up early the next morning. My dad put on a three-piece suit and we packed into a taxi. The cab stopped at a nice hotel in downtown Indianapolis and Dad opened the door. I wasn’t invited.

“You might have better luck getting autographs on your own,” he said. “What do you think?”

I was a gawky kid with acne. Leaving Dad to roam the city on my own sounded terrifying and perfect.

“We can watch out for him,” Darryl offered, nodding in my direction.

Dad looked briefly pained, then handed me a wad of twenties. “Alright then,” he said. “Be safe.”

Seconds after he took off, Darryl and Jerry produced a dozen bundles of Final Four tickets wrapped in rubber bands. Cliff started counting out thousands of dollars on his lap. Darryl noticed me staring, cracked a big smile, and said to Cliff, “You know what? We might be able to put this kid to work.”

Darryl noticed me staring, cracked a big smile, and said to Cliff, “You know what? We might be able to put this kid to work.”

Five minutes later, we pulled up to the RCA Dome. The University of Kentucky’s Big Blue Nation marching band was parading the streets and fans had camped out overnight to buy tickets.

“You ready for some action?” Darryl asked.

He flung the taxi door open and launched into the crowd. “Who needs tickets?” he shouted. Cliff jumped out right behind him. “Who has tickets?” he barked. Redd and Jerry followed, each hollering, “Tickets!” I ran to keep up.

The Big Blue Nation horde grew denser as we neared the ticket window, pressing in from all sides. I felt a tug on my sleeve. It was Darryl. He’d cut in line. The poor guy he leapfrogged had waited all night for his spot, but Darryl was bigger, a former high school point guard with a dangerous quickness to him.

“Here’s the situation,” Darryl said, handing me an inch-thick brick of bills. “That’s four grand.” He pointed towards the ticket windows. “I want you to get in there and buy lowers, the best available.”

I’d never seen that much money in my life.

“Like lower bowl?” I asked.

“Exactly,” Darryl said. “They’ll have a map at the window. Get half-court.”

Moments later, the blinds over the ticket windows snapped open and I slipped toward the head of the line. Then I was standing in front of a window, looking at a middle-aged woman.

“I need lower-bowl half-courts,” I said.

“That’s $1,100 for two,” she said with concern. “Those are the expensive ones. You probably want something cheaper … ?”

I counted out the money.

A sign beside the window read, “Limit 2 Tickets per Person.” But I figured Darryl had given me four thousand for a reason. In a shy Kentucky drawl, I asked, “Can I get two more? For my mom and brother?”

She gave me a kind look and slid me two more tickets.

Redd materialized and grabbed them from me. “Holy shit, you got four together on mid-court,” he said, rubber-banding them to his own stack.

Darryl appeared. “What are you doing with my tickets?”

“The kid’s selling them to me. How much, son?” Redd asked.

Darryl didn’t back down. “So you’re telling me if a kid buys tickets with my money, I have to give you the tickets?”

“He just gave me the tickets.” Redd said. “Besides, you owe me. Remember that four-pack I delivered at the Marriott? What about that, you sonofabitch?”

“Do I need to put you down?” he shot back. “Because I will destroy you.”

Redd peeled four tickets off his two-inch stack and tossed them at him, disgusted. It wasn’t an admission of wrongdoing. “I gotta pay my bills, asshole.”

Darryl didn’t bat an eye. He turned to me and held out the tickets. “This what you bought?”

I nodded.

Without a word, Darryl stormed back into the crowd. I walked down the street to a hotel restaurant and sat at a table. I still had $1,800 in my pocket.

In Sunday School, we were encouraged to imagine ourselves in different situations and ask: What would Jesus do? What would Jesus do if he saw someone stranded on the road? What if he saw someone crying alone? What if he were 14 years old and a guy as big and mean and exciting as Darryl slipped him $4,000 to buy half-court seats to sell illegally?

The waitress came over and asked me what I wanted. I’d never been to a restaurant by myself before. I grinned and ordered a Coke.

2006 World Cup - Frankfurt, Germany

For the faithful, Mormonism is much more than a Sunday pastime. The church gifts its followers detailed blueprints for a lifetime of prefab happiness, seven days a week. With a divine script to follow, there can be no doubt, no sleepless nights. And for my first 18 years, I upheld my end of the bargain, primed to accept the blessings the lord would hand down one by one over decades of obedience.

After all, Mormons like to say, it works. I watched my peers who left the fold: suicide attempts, overdoses, family estrangement. By their fruits ye shall know them. Leaving the church was unthinkable. But as I approached the grown-up milestone of serving a mission, the pressure mounted. Sunday school hypotheticals were one thing, but those who questioned the tenets of the church — or even some of the more arbitrary rules — faced severe social disapproval, ostracism, and the threat of losing precious spiritual blessings.

I questioned. And I watched with mounting distress as my peers donned short-sleeve dress shirts and headed to Paris, Plano, Siberia, Sao Paulo. In Europe, you’d be lucky to convert one Catholic, but South American missions were more like pool parties. Entire neighborhoods went into the baptismal front, one after the other. I tried to at least look forward to learning a foreign language.

But my body couldn’t take it. I’d gone to church, studied the bible every day before school, prayed, expelled hate from my heart, repented, taken the sacrament, passed the sacrament, blessed the sacrament, tithed, been baptized, gone to the temple, fulfilled my priesthood duties, and abstained from alcohol. Still, I questioned. As I approached 19, I developed Crohn’s disease, and lost my faith in God. Heartbroken, sick and alone, I decided to enroll in college and delay committing to a mission for one more year.

That’s when I met Alexis. I had staples in my stomach from having a big chunk of my intestine removed, but I walked happily walked up four flights of stairs to a friend’s apartment to get to know her. She was French. Her sacraments were wine, olive oil, art, nudity, and poetry — and I was her hopeless initiate. She’d just dropped out of fashion work in Europe. I’d just dropped out of religion. Our meeting felt preordained.

We drove up to Alaska to work on a salmon boat in Juneau. I worshipped Alexis as she laughed with lifelong fishermen, operated a hydraulic crane in a storm, and shoveled ice on the aft deck in the sun. We talked about moving to Europe. Traveling. When the season was over, we moved back to Salt Lake City and took weekend trips to Nevada to gamble away our fishing proceeds.

My parents knew none of this — just that I was living in sin, haunting casinos, and writing bad poetry. My dad arranged a lunch with Darryl at a steak place in Provo. It was an intervention, and his tool, as always, was sports.

I hadn’t seen Darryl since I was 14. He looked the same, but I looked wild, sporting a big bushy beard and shoulder-length hair.

“Looking scruffy there, sailor,” Darryl said.

“I’ve been running salmon from Juneau to Sitka,” I said.

“That’s hard work,” he said, smiling.

“How’s the ticket game?” I asked.

“We went international,” he said. “Killed it in France at the ‘98 World Cup. Did two and a half million in four weeks.”

I was impressed. It seemed a big step up from the operation I’d been briefly a part of eight years earlier.

“We’re putting together a new team for the World Cup in Germany. You interested? Or are you a fisherman now?”

Ticket scalping in Germany sounded safer than risking my life at sea — or worse, becoming a poet. My dad had given his blessing. So had Alexis. I didn’t hesitate.

“I’m in.”

Three months later, I landed in Frankfurt-Au-Main carrying a backpack stuffed with $30,000 in cash. Darryl had given me my instructions a week earlier.

“Keep the money in one bag,” he’d said. “Don’t put 10 grand here and 10 grand there, that’s just more ways of getting caught. Put it all in the one bag and don’t get it seized.”

Right. Don’t get it seized.

“And get a haircut. Lose the beard. And wear a collared shirt.”

Travelers could bring $10,000 into Europe without declaring the money. I was bringing in triple that. But I had also swapped my flannel and beard for the crisp suit and Eisenhower-era haircut of a Mormon missionary. I smiled as the beret-wearing customs agent waved me through the “Nothing to Declare” line. One cab ride later, I stood in front of a gothic apartment building that looked like it had survived both World Wars.

Darryl buzzed me in to the stash house. I followed him to a room on the fourth floor where two missionaries counted money on separate couches. A World Cup game played on a flatscreen in the background. More interesting to me was the desk with a half-million worth of tickets stacked in piles two-feet high. Darryl took a seat and pulled the cash out of my backpack. I thought he was going to count it. Instead, he dropped it into a suitcase on the floor beside him.

“First rule,” he said. “You don’t tell anyone how this business works.”

He leaned forward and glared at me.

“Ever.”

“You gotta be careful,” Darryl warned me. “A ticket hustler — unless he has heard of you, or knows who you work for — will rip you off. Don’t ever trust anyone. That’s rule number two.”

Darryl didn’t need to worry: I had no idea what was happening. I learned what I could between frenzied phone calls and chaotic bursts of activity. Sometimes we had to move product as fast as possible. Sometimes we’d hand-deliver to the straights. Sometimes we’d stuff tickets in FedEx envelopes. Mostly, we whittled down the piles by selling stacks to other ticket scalpers for cash. How the tickets landed on Darryl’s desk in the first place was a mystery.

I worked as a doorman, escorting guests from the street to the stash room. I greeted hustlers from Texas, New York, Tennessee, California, and England — listening as they argued over busted orders, chargebacks, flip-its, consignments, the board, blinks, and blowouts. Cliff, who had the build of a collegiate fullback, sat next to the desk of tickets, ready to pounce on anyone who made a false move. This was serious business.

“You gotta be careful,” Darryl warned me. “A ticket hustler — unless he has heard of you, or knows who you work for — will rip you off. Don’t ever trust anyone. That’s rule number two.”

On the third day, Darryl handed me 20 tickets for Mexico vs. Iran in an envelope scrawled with the name of a hotel and the name of a straight.

“I need you to take these to this hotel in Nuremberg,” he said.

“Where’s Nuremberg?”

“Do I look German?” he snapped. “Look at a map.”

I went to the Hauptbahnhof train station. Two hours later, I got off in Nuremberg, showed a taxi driver the name of the hotel, and phoned the client from the lobby. There was a mariachi band playing; Mexican fans were passing around bottles of tequila. As Darryl instructed, I asked to see a photo ID and had him sign a receipt. First delivery, done.

Satisfied, Darryl began sending me all over the country: Munich, Gelsenkirchen, Kaiserslautern, Berlin. I would leave the stash room in Frankfurt with a satchel of tickets and return with more than $100,000 in cash. On the train rides, I learned to authenticate tickets. Scalpers have a word for counterfeits: blinks. To avoid getting blinked, I studied the weight, feel, and shine of Darryl’s genuine World Cup ticket as the train rolled through blooming fields of hops.

Between deliveries, I listened to the small talk between Darryl, Cliff, and the crew. When other hustlers found out we were Mormon and didn’t smoke, drink, or curse, they trusted us. Trust helped cash deals operate smoothly. Being Mormon advanced the business, but it also made for a genuinely warm dynamic in the stash room. Cliff and Darryl asked after my dad, mom, brothers. They spoke about their own kids ruefully, lovingly. We talked basketball. They told stories from their missions in Europe and South America.

Then, after nearly two weeks, Darryl got off a phone call and noticed me sitting on the couch, waiting for my next delivery. Normally, he’d just hand me an envelope and tell me to hurry up. Now, he stared at me.

“Imagine this was your company,” he said, waving around the room. “What would you do?”

The World Cup was heading into quarterfinal play. Brazil was facing off against France in a re-match of the ‘98 final. It was a hot ticket. Face value was about 185 euros for a Category 1 seat. Darryl had buyers at 3,000 euros each.

“I’d try to pick up Brazil-France,” I said.

He reached into a suitcase and pulled out three bundles of 10,000 euros.

“Good idea,” he said. “Find some guys who are off the pulse.”

“Off the pulse” was how Darryl referred to hustlers who didn’t know the market and couldn’t track the surges in supply and demand. I took the metro into the city center and set up next to a strip of bustling bars with a cardboard sign that said “I Need Tickets” in English, French, and German.

Crowds of sweaty men chanted old songs at the beer gardens, flags around their necks like capes. Groups of women, shrouded in face paint, looked miserable as it dripped down their cheeks in the heat. I was wearing a polo shirt, khakis, and tennis shoes. We all wore tennis shoes in case we had to run.

I spotted four shirtless guys holding signs that read “Tickets” in French and English. They catcalled women who walked by, and their pants sagged. One had a mermaid tattoo. I was pretty sure these guys were off the pulse.

“Tickets?” I asked. “What do you got?”

Mermaid Tattoo smiled and flashed a half-inch stack. I handed them a list of tickets and rates devised by Darryl: 50 percent below market. Mermaid’s colleague pulled out a pen and crossed off all the prices, penning in numbers closer to street value. He knew what he was doing. But there was one game he didn’t cross off: Brazil-France, 2,000 euros each. I pointed. “Four.”

“Oui,” said my mark, nodding seriously. I inspected the tickets, smudging them with my sweaty thumb. The ink didn’t run: legit. I suppressed a smile as I counted out 8000 euros and handed it across the table. We shook hands, and the trio melted into the crowd.

I may as well have skipped back to the stash house. My first-ever ticket deal was set to make the company 4,000 euros. Bursting with pride, I tossed the tickets to Darryl and waited for a handshake. But I wasn’t going to get one.

“What the hell are these?” he shouted. “Come here and read this to me!”

I took the tickets back and he stabbed them with his finger. The words “Obstructed View” were printed across the middle.

“You know what that means? It means there’s a fucking pole right in front of them. Nobody’ll buy them. They’re deadwood.”

I stood there silently, crushed. My first ticket deal, and I’d been played.

“Are you worth $10,000 to me?” he demanded.

“No.”

“Then get out of my office,” he said.

Darryl was still in a foul mood the next day. Cliff had been arrested in Cologne and the Polizei had seized all of his tickets. By the time he bailed his brother out of jail, I had prepared myself for the inevitable tongue lashing. Instead, he wanted to talk about home.

“You know, most people find God when they have a disease,” he said.

My dad had told him about my Crohn’s. My eyes welled up, and it took all of my strength not to sob in the stash room. Watching me shake, Darryl softened.

“Look, I get it. Sometimes I doubt the church and I go every Sunday. But at some point you got to give something back to your parents. My dad thought me and Cliff were losers until we hit a big lick in France. Call that rule number three. If you want to make it in the ticket game, you need to grind out enough money to earn your father’s respect.”

I was silent.

“Those French hustlers played you yesterday because you were wrapped up in the romance of the game,” he said. “I told you not to trust anyone.”

Three days later the World Cup ended and I flew home to Utah.

2010 Winter Olympics - Vancouver, Canada

Cliff and Darryl hired me full time. They could trust me with a bag of money and that was enough to overlook a five-figure mistake. For four years I worked street corners, hotel lobbies, parking lots. I darted in and out of lines at ticket windows. I was finally going to all of the events I’d dreamt of as a kid.

The danger made it all the more enticing. Every ticket I sold gave me a clearer understanding of the things people will do to fuck you over for money. There were petty tricks — blinks, fake money, bad credit cards, lying about seat locations — that could cost you thousands if you weren’t careful. Big mistakes could cost more. A busted order could cost your reputation.

Ahead of the 2010 Olympics, Cliff invited me on a trip to do market research and smuggle cash into Canada. We carried the money on behalf of our new partner, “Brent Fish”, a self-ordained concierge to the super wealthy. Fish ran an office-style brokerage in Texas offering international ticket packages through a network of country clubs. Now he needed a street presence in Vancouver. Fish agreed to cover our expenses, put up a retainer fee, and give us a backend on the profits. In return, we’d help him navigate the market, handle deliveries, and fill orders for tickets he’d already sold.

Our hotel was in downtown Vancouver. Minutes after check-in, we were circling the Olympic venues, eyeing the ticket windows. I read aloud from the Vancouver Sun as we walked: projected attendance, demand, pricing.

It was still three months before the opening ceremonies and we didn’t see any hustlers in Vancouver. Rink events — hockey, speed skating, curling — were hosted in the city but the snow events would be at the Whistler ski resort. Cliff called Darryl who said he’d call around and find out who was on the mountain.

Networking with other scalpers was an important aspect of the business. Most couldn’t resist gossiping about prices and contacts. Talking and swapping stories with them kept us on the pulse and helped us find what we were really looking for: Olympic officials selling tickets under the table.

Whistler was still open for recreation. Skiers carrying gear over their shoulders walked the iced-over cobblestone paths to the lifts. At the Olympic Village, we finally bumped into two hustlers we knew: Jessie West and Gene Hammet.

Jessie had started his career as a ball boy for the Orlando Magic — scalping tickets he got from Shaquille O’Neal — and never looked back. Gene had made a name for himself at the 2008 Olympics in Beijing by partnering with the Bunevacz family who had official Olympic ties through a hospitality company in Eastern Europe. Through the Bunevaczes, Gene procured thousands of tickets from the “vault” — a hotel room with boxes of tickets for IOC insiders only. Brokers believed he could repeat the trick in Vancouver. So Gene started taking orders — selling tickets he didn’t have yet — months in advance of the opening ceremony. He was set to make a killing.

In the spirit of camaraderie, Gene doled out burners and took us to the bank with the most generous exchange rate. Workers were stringing blue lights in the trees over the icy streets, and there was a wet snow falling on the mountains like rain. For a minute, it seemed like everything would be perfect.

It wouldn’t last. A week later, Gene’s rental car was found abandoned at the Vancouver International Airport. He’d presold three and a half million dollars’ worth of tickets to the biggest ticket brokerages in the world. But his connection to “the vault” had gone bust. When it came time to deliver, he fled, his reputation ruined and his career over for good.

That I had shook hands with Gene back on the mountain scared the hell out of me. Darryl was right. I couldn’t trust anyone.

“This baby is heating up,” Fish said.

He looked out the window of our high-rise condo. Fish had flown in from Texas with two Tupperware bins full of tickets from his concierge contacts. Prices had spiked by a few hundred percent since the news of Gene’s disappearing act broke — and having tickets in hand gave us a leg up on the hustlers who’d hitched their wagons to a man who fled the country.

We weren’t totally insulated, though. Fish had ordered about $80,000 worth of tickets from Gene and most were for the Alpine skiing downhill race — the first event. We didn’t have many options for handling refunds. Deputized to run the show, I took a wad of cash and a few pairs of emergency tickets up to Whistler to reconcile the mess Gene had put us in.

“Those customers are pissed,” Fish said as I walked out the door. “It’s going to be ugly.”

He was right. The first few clients I met at the Fairmont Hotel were pleasant young married couples, all wearing the same pairs of red Olympic mittens. Other than that, it was chaos. Brokers were promising to deliver tickets by helicopter and mothers of Olympic athletes who’d purchased tickets from Fish months in advance were promising to call the papers if their orders weren’t filled. I had to move fast. Fish’s company was recognized as an official hospitality company so I commandeered a Chevrolet Tahoe with Olympic insignia on the side and a security pass on the dashboard to finish delivering refunds to clients. Parking the rig on the curbs of the hotels, I noticed all the valets wore the same red mittens, too.

Around midnight before the event, I called the folks I hadn’t found yet and begged them to accept cash refunds or a morning delivery. These were millionaire businessmen who owned their own companies — or in layman’s terms, complete assholes. When I delivered their busted ticket orders, they spit on me, threw wine at my feet, and jabbed at my chest with their fingers. “Cash? You think I want cash? I gave you cash because I needed fucking tickets!”

But I had spotted the trends. The Olympic mittens I’d seen everyone wearing had sold out in department stores. Between events, I bought a couple hundred pairs. The day before the closing ceremony I stuffed my suitcase with red Olympic mittens, knowing I could double my investment flipping them online. And there, engulfed in the smell of unworn fresh-woven cotton and with Gene in the wind, I realized I’d finally seen the dark side of the business.

2012 Masters - Augusta, Georgia

I was running down a highway ramp with $4,000 worth of tickets in my mouth. Golf fans stuck in traffic gawked. A police helicopter swooped low against the tree line. “YOU’RE EVADING ARREST!” a megaphone blared from overhead.

It was Wednesday, the day of the Par 3 tournament — the most sought-after single-day-ticket in golf. It’s when the players relax, chat with the crowd, and let their wives and children carry their bags before the main event begins on Thursday. You could make $30K to $40K in four hours if you knew what you were doing.

But this morning, business was slow. Hustlers working corners beside ours hung their heads and smoked cigarettes. Cliff made calls, trying to find a spot with some action.

“No one’s picked up anything inside the course either,” Cliff said.

“What’s the move?” I asked.

“You want to work the ramp?”

“Sure.”

“They’ll grab you if they see you.”

“I know,” I said.

Traffic was heavy and the Georgia sunrise was bubbling pink above the highway. Face value for Wednesday passes was $50 and we could flip them on the highway for $400. But when you sold more than two passes the straights took forever to count the cash — and cars started honking. Ten deals in, I was set to make a killing when the police helicopter pegged me from above the canopy.

I chomped down on the tickets and leapt over a highway barricade into the Georgia pines. As I made for the forest, the rotor downdraft swirled the grass on the side of the road and puffed up my shirt. With the chopper blasting the treetops and cops fanning out, I dove under a fallen tree and covered myself in moss and dirt.

The sun filtered through ash trees. I heard the crunch of boots in the underbrush. Georgia had just upped the penalty for scalping. They could charge me with resisting arrest, public endangerment, money laundering — and that was before they tacked on any ticket charges. I could go to prison.

Moses received the Ten Commandments on a mountain, but I met God in a forest. As far as I was concerned, the woods were a great place to reflect. I closed my eyes. I was scared. Not scared enough to go back to church, but enough to ask for an assist.

“Help get me out of this, if you’re listening,” I said under my breath.

The whir of the helicopter receded. The boots trudged away. After 15 minutes, I peeked over my log. All clear. I jumped up, dusted myself off, and looked at the tickets. Some teeth marks, but otherwise still worth a decent amount. I exhaled and returned a call from Jessie West.

I stayed in touch with Jessie after Vancouver, and he’d recently offered to connect me with one of his contacts in London. The biggest ticketing company in Europe had an opening for a managerial position. The ticket game was changing. Kids with degrees were taking the business from street corners to computer servers while police in Augusta chased me through the woods. If I kept working with Darryl and Cliff, I’d never rise beyond consigliere. A good hustler knows when to walk away — and my days of selling by the side of the road were done.

Rolling Stones 50th Anniversary Show, Nov. 29, 2012 - O2 Arena, London

My final job interview was at a tapas bar in East London.

“Hi, Candice,” I said.

“Call me Candy.” She smiled. “White wine okay?”

She had green eyes and dyed blonde hair. Here in East London, she was “fit.”

“Essentially, your job would be taking brokers out and convincing them to put tickets on our site. You’d have a staff of three, and you’d be running your own department. You’re sure you could handle that?” she asked.

“Candy,” I said, “I might be the most qualified candidate in the world.”

She swirled her wine. Then she hired me on the spot to dress up the business I’d learned holding a sign on the highway.

Tickets International was the biggest player in Europe, one of the pioneers in connecting buyers and sellers online without ever physically possessing tickets. To start the “Last-Minute Sales” department, I was given a staff of three “supply executives”, a group of women in their 20s.

Julie was from Marseilles and had worked at the UN. Her je ne sais quoi inspired confidence. Faye was from Liverpool and armed with street-corner jokes. I was concerned about Rosie, who was from Brighton and had the look of an adorable scamp who could do no wrong. But then it hit me: In our Mormon garb, Cliff, Darryl, and I smuggled money past customs agents and outwitted police with ease. With her unassuming good looks, Rosie was actually perfect. And I had just the job for her.

Ahead of the Rolling Stones 50th anniversary show in London, I secured Tickets International a lease on a cocktail bar inside the O2 Arena. Entertainment giant AEG owned the O2 and we were illegally operating on their turf. If anything went wrong, I was fired. The night of the show, our company was hosting investors and journalists from around the world to showcase the new Last-Minute Sales department.

I took the tube to the arena with Rosie and Faye. The Underground was choked with Brits in leather jackets and gold chains. Lithographed red lips and tongues adorned white T-shirts. Mick Jagger was on the cover of every paper in the city. Last-minute ticket requests came in from all over: Tel Aviv, Stockholm, Moscow, Tokyo. I had an American phone, a European phone, a Secret Service-style earpiece connected to our bar security, and a few thousand pounds inside my black wool coat.

“Where’s Julie again?” Rosie asked.

“On a food truck,” I shouted — the tube under East London was so loud you had to yell to be heard.

“I beg your pardon?” Faye asked.

“Yeah, she’s coming into the O2 with the Stones tickets on a food truck. We’re going to sneak the tickets up the food service elevator.”

Faye and Rosie smirked.

We got off at North Greenwich and walked into a cold and foggy night. Security greeted us at the entrance to the O2, checked our bags, and waved us in. My UK phone buzzed. Julie had texted me a picture of her smiling and smartly dressed — boxes of tickets right behind her on the cocktail bar.

Reselling soccer tickets in England is considered a felony to this day.

London was a notoriously tough place to do business. In the 1980s, law enforcement had officially blamed scalpers for the rampant violence that was occurring in England’s soccer stadiums. They outlawed the trade under the logic that soccer hooligans wouldn’t be in the stadiums were it not for the men selling tickets on the corner. Reselling soccer tickets in England is considered a felony to this day.

In response, London touts bunkered operations in back offices. On my visits to these lairs, well-spoken gentlemen offered me tea. I listened to them tell stories of relatives who’d been famous bank robbers and then I’d convince them they could make more money by selling tickets online. I loved learning the market from London touts, but I hated automating the game. It ate at me. But Candy kept me too busy to think about it much.

One day she grabbed me outside a conference room. “Your department is doing quite well,” she said. “We’re going to need you to scale across Europe.”

Soon Rosie, Julie, and Faye were collecting stuffed envelopes at cocktail bars in European capitals. We smuggled boxes of tickets down Las Ramblas in Barcelona ahead of El Clásico. We operated pickups and stash rooms in hotels in Milan and Madrid for Champions League soccer matches. We ran satellite operations in Sydney for the Australian Open, in Hong Kong for the Sevens International Rugby Tournament, and in Singapore for the F1. As the girls learned the ropes, our take-home increased. Between pickups I encouraged them to buy watches and handbags to camouflage our operations at customs. Our department grew by 300 percent.

My parents had never been happier. They mentioned me at family functions again.

2013 Wimbledon - Victoria, London

“Charlatans!” an elderly British lady shouted.

Rosie and Julie fluttered around the champagne bar offering drinks, excuses, and refunds. I’d rented a high-end spot near Buckingham Palace as a pickup point for our Wimbledon clientele. But delivery had been delayed; our usually calm, courteous customers morphed into a pack of spoiled monsters. I worried we might be evicted when a waiter in a tuxedo told me I had a phone call. It was the head of the Wimbledon box office.

“We have a customer here of yours with an invalid ticket,” he said in a clipped British accent. “We needn’t remind you that what you’re doing is illegal.”

I saw clients screaming across the lobby. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

“There must have been a mistake,” I said. “I’ll send Rosie right over.”

Hours later, as the last clients left the champagne bar, Rosie rang me in a panic.

“They have me! I’m stuck in the box office, what should I do?”

“What do you mean, they have you?”

“I’m in the Wimbledon ticketing office. Security has me, and they’re calling the police. What should I do?”

“Run!”

A good hustler always runs.

Rosie got away. To reward her for her daring escape, I took her to the Men’s Wimbledon Finals. Touts we knew waved hello from their corners as we approached the grounds. Chalkboards outside all the pubs advertised Sunday roast and champagne specials. I had on a blue summer sport coat I’d bought in Paris and Rosie was wearing a white floral dress and heels.

“Hope they don’t recognize me,” she said, smiling as we entered the grounds of the oldest tennis tournament in the world.

I grabbed a couple half-bottles of champagne and two plastic flutes from a green stand between the empty grass courts. Bushy green ivy swam up the walls at the gates of the centre court stadium and we were given pins with purple ribbons to wear to show we were guests of the All England Club. I watched the eyes of the ticket takers and security guards to see if any of them recognized Rosie while we held hands and walked under the concourse.

From our seats we saw English legends, football stars, fashion designers, and old actors chit-chatting with princes and princesses inside the royal box. The ryegrass of the court was worn behind the end lines, but freshly watered. The players danced lightly on their feet, loosening their long athletic strides, warming up their swings, and judging the bounce of the ball before the first serve.

“C’mon, Andy!” Rosie shouted.

In anticipation of witnessing a proud day in their history — the first British-born tennis player to win at Wimbledon in 40 years — something spiritual welled up inside the stadium. The umpire hushed the whistling chants and the crack first serve echoed throughout the stadium. He won the first set, and then the second. Rosie clenched her fists between tie breaks. The spirit was growing and more members began to believe.

Andy won three straight sets and the teary-eyed Brits gave a standing ovation. Flags waved. With the ball boys and line judges standing in attention at the net, Andy hoisted the trophy in the air and the spirit-filled crowd burst with joy — vindicating the millions of pounds spent to see the game.

Henman Hill overlooked the Wimbledon grounds and Brits wanting to keep the party going found refuge there. I grabbed a few more half-bottles and a bowl of strawberries with cream. Plump, sunburnt tennis fanatics kicked off their shoes and twirled flags in bare feet. From where we sat on the crest of the hill, you could see the ticket office. Rosie pointed out the escape route she’d taken a few days earlier. The sun lowered over the skyline and the heat from the grass courts rose in a misty haze.

Two weeks later Candy fired me for drinking on the job. Without a company to work for, I became a hustler for hire. And hired guns had to take chances. Sometimes crazy ones.

2014 Winter Olympics - Sochi, Russia

Sochi had the feel of the communist beach town it once was. Palm trees arched over broken cement. Reagan-era, Russian-made cars were parked under blockish apartment buildings with unopposed views of the Black Sea. At night, the streets were empty apart from roaming packs of Russian policemen walking their dogs. They patrolled past Lenin statues casting angular shadows in the moonlight. It felt like if you made the wrong move you could disappear forever.

Fish thought he could make a $1M in Russia. Since Vancouver, he’d assembled contacts on the Olympic committees of corrupt countries. Estonia, Philippines, and Angola were all willing to sell under the table. Fish was also dabbling in the hotel game. He’d rented rooms on a cruise ship parked in the Sochi port and had plans to mark them up in Olympic travel packages.

We flew from JFK to Moscow with Tupperware bins full of Olympic tickets stashed in the carry-on compartments. The Aeroflot food was inedible; I drank five or six vodkas to believe Fish knew what he was doing. If our stash house got raided, Fish was my only hope of posting bail. None of my old Kentucky Six colleagues were making the trip to the former Soviet Union.

With reports of Chechnyan terrorists bannering news channels, American hustlers had decided that working the Games wasn’t worth it. Cliff scoffed at our plan. Darryl didn’t like it, either. But they helped me secure my deal with Fish: expenses plus 30 percent on any tickets I sold in the street. Cliff reminded me to try and make money on the side and look out for myself. I teased him for being scared to work in Russia.

“You can say what you want,” Cliff said. “But there is a color over there, and when you see the Russian Police wearing it, you’ll understand you made a mistake.”

“But there is a color over there, and when you see the Russian Police wearing it, you’ll understand you made a mistake.”

“A color?” I asked, slightly alarmed at Cliff admitting to fear.

“Yeah,” Cliff said. “If you see cops wearing snow camouflage — run.”

Because they’d decided to host the Winter Olympics in a beach town, the Russian Olympic Committee had to build a 28-mile road up the Caucasus Mountains for snow events. Esquire reported that the ROC could’ve saved money if they’d paved the road with caviar — provided that caviar was not also procured through layers of oligarchic kickbacks. If the corruption wasn’t enough to deter potential clients, Sochi had gone into military lockdown two weeks ahead of the Opening Ceremony as the KGB hunted for an Islamic terrorist named the “White Widow” who supposedly wanted to blow up train stations.

Once we landed in Sochi, I took a taxi to see an Israeli broker I’d done business with in London. He was staying at Zhemchuzhina Hotel, the only five-star joint in town. Workers were laying tile in the lobby.

“I don’t think you understand. The entire event is at stake here. You might not be able to sell these at all,” the broker said, flipping through my consignments.

“C’mon,” I said.

“This is supposed to be the classiest hotel in Sochi? My contacts tell me Putin is staying here, and they’re still laying tile and hanging lights in the lobby? Now? A few days before the Opening Ceremony? Look around you. They might not have built the seats in the stadium.”

Stray dogs roamed the parking lot outside of the Zhemchuzhina, where I waited for a cab. The hopes of finding high-rolling Russian clientele looked grim. I was staying with Fish at a hotel outside Sochi, where we had 40 extra rooms. The following morning, Fish opened the Tupperware bins on his hotel bed — facing the horror of losing $1M if the tickets went unsold.

On my first night out, I met two women who were performing in the Opening Ceremonies and could speak English. I hired them as translators. To drum up business, I took them to the boardwalk along the Black Sea and we passed out business cards that had the word “tickets” printed in Russian and English with a burner phone number on the back. Fish hired local kids to answer the phones. We had a small-scale Russian-speaking boiler room up and running within 48 hours.

Each morning, I stashed the previous night’s profits under hotel furniture in my room, took a shower, had a glass of champagne, and dressed in Russian regalia to blend in with the crowds outside the stadium. Around 8 or 9 a.m., I would visit Fish’s hotel room, collect the day’s unsold tickets, arrange them in envelopes according to venue, and take a train to the Olympic Village. It wasn’t until about a week in that I first saw soldiers wearing Cliff’s color of terror.

In an act of corporate sabotage, one of Fish’s contacts started double-selling tickets on the Olympic secondary exchange without telling us. These sales voided the physical tickets we’d already purchased from him. Suddenly, the tickets I was selling outside of Olympic stadiums were invalid. I only found out when a Russian client tackled me in front of the Olympic flame.

One of the Russian oligarchs embedded in the ROC had somehow won a contract that allowed him to burn off excess natural gas via the Olympic flame. It sounded like an industrial blowtorch. While the enraged customer was rubbing my face in the sidewalk, I looked up and saw a battalion of Russian soldiers in snow camouflage holding AKs with silencers.

The battalion was slowly making their way towards the commotion. The client was dragging me towards the battalion. Before the trap closed, I jumped to my feet, counted out 10,000 rubles, slapped the bills in my client’s hand, and ran.

I fled to the Adler train station — a midway point between the Sochi and mountain venues — and caught up on emails. In the midst of sending a furious missive to Fish for supplying me with voided tickets, I saw an urgent note from my mom. My grandma had died.

Grandma grew up taking horse-drawn winter sleds to church on Sundays in Idaho. All six of her children played musical instruments and served two-year missions. I was the first relative on her side of the family not to attend Brigham Young University since it was founded. All of the values she lived for were lost on me. I walked down to the shore of the Black Sea, took off my shoes, walked into the water and cried. It was time to go home. In the business lobby of the Radisson, I booked my flight at the same public computer as a band of hustlers from Liverpool.

“Tough work this, wasn’t it lad? Beats working for wages though, doesn’t it, Trav?”

I nodded and told them it might be the last time I’d see them, because there were good chances of my flight blowing up. Russia had just invaded the Ukraine, and the only flights out of town were through Kiev.

“It’s alright though,” they said. “If it blows up, ye can scalp limbs, can’t ye? Arms? Who needs arms? Legs? Ye need a leg?”

They cackled.

On my way home, I called my dad to tell him what I’d gotten myself into. I told him about working in Sochi, the bad tickets, the brushes with the police and riot dogs, and the changing nature of the game that put my career at risk. The more I told him, the more he laughed. And then he did something unexpected. He encouraged me.

He said if I wasn’t scared to sell tickets outside of stadiums in Russia, then I shouldn’t be scared to sell tickets anywhere. If I understood the ticket business, I could start my own sports company. He wasn’t an advocate of backroom deals in foreign countries, but he’d found humor in what I’d become — and opportunity.

2014 World Cup - Porto Alegre, Brazil

The unmarked car came to a stop. The taller of the undercovers threw open my door, pulled out his pistol, and re-checked the safety. An abandoned building loomed over police headquarters. Slowly, I got out of the car.

No one spoke English inside the police station. Heavy-looking undercovers stood in a corner, barricaded with assault rifles. A uniformed cop grabbed me by the arm and dragged me down the hallway into detention. There were separate rooms — divided by glass walls — for recording statements. Trying to wiggle free from the cop I saw some hustlers I knew from Liverpool and Holland. They winked and smiled. I overheard a female detective interrogating a Liverpudlian tout in a neighboring office.

“How did you get here?”

“I fuckin’ hitchhiked,” he said.

We were more than the Brazilian police force could handle. The cop tossed me onto a chair in an interrogating office while the rest of the undercovers watched the Australia-Netherlands match on a small television above some filing cabinets.

The cop tossed me onto a chair in an interrogating office while the rest of the undercovers watched the Australia-Netherlands match on a small television above some filing cabinets.

The broadcast echoed in my interrogation room. I closed my eyes and imagined the view from mid-field. I sold a pair of tickets to a Brazilian girl with long dark hair. I could smell the fresh watered grass on the stadium floor and hear the Dutch trombonists playing behind us.

A detective began peppering me with questions in broken English. I told her, in worse Spanish, that I was a fan and not a scalper. I projected the nervousness of a straight and the innocence of a kid who attended church every Sunday.

A couple hours later, I had them convinced. I had to sign a statement written in Portuguese, and they gave me back my money in a white envelope. An undercover offered to drive me back to the hotel.

When I got to my room, I took off my money belt. It was humid so I opened a window and took off my shirt. I took two tiny bottles of whiskey from the mini-fridge and poured them into a glass with shaved ice. Burner phones buzzed on the dresser. I ignored them.

I looked up “cambista.” The direct translation was “money changer.” In 2008, during the banking crisis, a bunch of traders from Wall Street showed up in Latin America with duffel bags of U.S. bills and traded down multiple Latin American currencies by hand. I looked in the mirror and tried to understand how I was in league with the types of men I promised myself I’d never become.

Summer 2017 - Sitka, Alaska

Four clients found me holding a sign and handed me their tickets. Cold mist from the Pacific Ocean hung low over the tree line of the fjords. Mountains collided along a choppy coastline. Glacier current lipped at the docks of the cruise ship terminal. I took their tickets and we shook hands. The massive crowds emptying from the ship, walking up the boat ramp in front of us weren’t chanting a country’s name, or singing, or cursing rival fans. They were whispering and snapping pictures of bald eagles.

“What are we fishing for today?” the clients asked.

In the years following the World Cup in Brazil, ticket offices around the world shut down shop. Ticket International’s London office was raided under suspicion of corporate fraud. FIFA executives faced prison time on racketeering charges. The Live Nation/Ticketmaster merger was proving to be a monopoly, and the automation of the street corner forced ticket guys to find new work or get mauled on thin margins. So I used the hospitality skills I’d learned to get back into the woods.

“The fishing is good right now. The salmon are in,” I said.

“I sure would like to catch some honkers today,” said an overweight Texan as I knelt down to tie his river boots for him.

We hopped back in the truck armed with nets, 7-weight fly rods, and freshly punched fishing licenses. Clusters of Sitka spruce towered over us, covering the sky. Brushing back the low-hanging hemlock branches, I walked the clients onto a stone washout below the bank of the Sitka river. The dorsal fins of the salmon skated on the surface of the deep pools in the bend.

“My GAWD, boy, this is where you work?” another Texan gasped, trying to catch his breath from having walked a few hundred yards.

I lined up the clients and showed them how to cast, swing, and strip their fly through the school of salmon. They hooked trees in their back-casts, and popped off flies when they hooked up, not knowing how to fight fish. One of the Texans made small talk while I re-tied a fly to his tippet.

“Now what do we do if we see a bear?”

“There’s only one rule if you see a brown bear: Don’t run.”

After the clients returned to the cruise ship I broke down the fly rods, rinsed waders and boots, and hung them on a wooden railing outside of the fly shop. I walked down the street and sat on a bench overlooking the Old Sitka harbor. Seine fishermen mended their nets on the dock, charter captains unloaded their catch in coolers, and deckhands hosed away fish blood while deck bosses smoked cigarettes and cursed the sounds of roaming sea lions.

I was counting a wad of twenties when my phone rang.

“Cliff.”

“How’s Alaska?”

“Catching salmon.”

“So you’re a fisherman now?” he asked.

“Cruise ship clients think so. I’ve already broken an Alaskan state record,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“I’ve dunked 15 clients this season.”

“Dunked?”

“You know, fell in the water and flooded their waders. I’m baptizing ‘em up here.”

“So if I go on a trip with you I’m more likely to get wet than catch a salmon?”

“It’s 50-50.”

“How are the bears?”

“I see signs of them every day.”

“Signs? What would you do if you saw a bear?”

“I have a gun.”

“If I found out you were the one in charge of aiming the gun, I’d request a different guide.”

In the face of automation, Cliff had found a new market. At the Trump Inauguration in Washington D.C., he’d gotten in with one of Kellyanne Conway’s aides, buying reserved seats at a grand and flipping them out at a nickel apiece. He did the deals in the Capitol building, and after he’d finished with Conway’s aide, he popped his head in other senate offices to see if they had inauguration tickets, too — scalping the halls of Congress.

I walked along the water to the Pioneer Bar, 1,000 miles from nowhere and one of the only places left in America where you can still smoke inside. You could see killer whales spouting in the back of the bay, hunting underwater. It reminded me of Cliff and Darryl counting money in the early morning — their shadows on hotel room walls — the work of an underworld never seen by the fans outside stadiums.

Inside the bar were long-lining captains, bush pilots, and all manner of bickering, violent alcoholics. There were smoke-stained photos of old boats from the trolling fleet and a giant golden bell with a rope swing that fishermen fresh from sea would ring to buy a round of drinks at the bar.

There was also an old deckhand named Chaz I’d worked with when I first came up to Alaska. He’d smuggled rum in and out of Puerto Rico in the ‘50s and ‘60s, and he’d sailed in and out of the Caribbean Islands before they had electricity. He’d talk about what it was like to pull up to port in a boat plugged with illegal rum by candlelight. His hands were rope-worn and weathered. And somehow, there, amid stories of risks taken and fish that had slipped through their nets, I found God’s love in the dusty light pouring through the windows. I found it in the faces of the deckhands, sleeplessness leaving their faces at the thought of their first drink. I counted out my dollar bills onto the bar, and let myself disappear. The cigarette smoke made for good cover.

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tessatechaitea · 5 years

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Teen Titans Spotlight #12: Wonder Girl

All Donna has to do is pretend that her grip slip and she's done with this jerk!

Like I'm going to believe Terry Long has any friends!

Look how excited Terry is to show Donna proof that he has a friend! What a sad sack of potatoes! He's worse than Ross from Friends! Donna reads the letter and is all, "This sure looks like your handwriting, Terry." And Terry is all, "As Icki Mudd, I had to learn to write like Captain Midnight! For secret missions!" Donna fingers her lasso of truth while I get distracted from writing this dialogue because I used the verb fingered so here's there actual conversation which is practically the one I was going to write anyway.

Shit is going down!

This is really good Terry Long fan-fiction. Everybody reading comic books forever has always known that Terry Long is a piece of shit. But he's almost constantly written by Marv Wolfman, the one guy who thinks Terry Long is a fucking catch (if I don't say this in a parenthetical reference, somebody else will say it in the comments so "because Terry Long is totally Marv Wolfman"). Moench even makes a point of having Terry Long mention the book he's never going to finish because he keeps expecting Donna to help him with her knowledge of the ancient characters gained through personal relationships. I believe he even loses his professorship due to never finishing the book. And this is why! Because he was just using the idea of it as an excuse to go get drunk with an old friend and maybe jerk each other off like old times.

Arguments Over Breakfast Starring Donna and Terry. I could read an entire series of just this. It's delicious.

Donna walks over to Titans Tower to smash things in the Smash Things Simulator while thinking, "If this man I thought was a sensitive feminist is actually a fucking loser boy in a squishy man's body, what if all men are just as terrible?!" If Donna were a video game character, she would level up five times from this realization. Everybody is selfish but somehow men manage to be even more selfish than women. It's a pretty good feat and I don't know how they accomplish it. Being raised under the Patriarchy, I guess? "But not all men," think the men who are only thinking about themselves and how not selfish they are. The problem is that Terry and Donna can spend a week fucking any time! But when is Terry going to get to fuck his old friend from childhood?! Practically never, that's when! How can Donna blame him for not wanting to miss this opportunity? Would she expect Terry to understand if she had to interrupt a blow job to go save the multiverse?! I don't know if the comparisons track logically but I don't have time to consider my words. Let's move on! While Donna is away, Terry rushes off to El Salvador. I don't know how long Donna is working out her frustrations before she gets back home but it seems to already be too late. Somehow in that time, he's phoned a travel agent, purchased tickets, hailed a cab, got to the airport, waltzed through 1987 security, waited for the flight, boarded, waited on the tarmac due to engine trouble, had to deplane, boarded a new plane, and took off to El Salvador! Donna did have to spend a little time realizing there was a secret Captain Midnight message encoded in the letter that said, "Hey! Fuck up! Stop thinking about jerking me off, you gay! I've been kidnapped by drug lords! Send the Justice League!" but since she thinks, "Bingo! On the first try," after decoding it, I think she could have caught up with Terry at the airport. Don't cancel me over the "you gay" bit in the message from Terry's friend. Remember that they were best friends and this is 1987. We're lucky the entire letter wasn't homosexual references! Once Terry gets to El Salvador, he finds out that his friend, Dennis Heiman, hasn't been in his hotel for a week. So being the great explorer he totally knows he is, Terry marches off into the jungle to find his friend.

"Sure, it's almost certainly a path created by a dangerous creature or armed drug lords but on the super off-chance it is Denny's path, won't he be fucking surprised!"

Terry Long gets caught by some drug lords and now Donna has to save him. Oh man is she going to have some great ammunition for their next fight over breakfast!

Wait. Do they have a running argument about which one of them is most like Tarzan? I just learned more than I wanted about their sex life.

Terry runs for his life while Donna deflects bullets. She doesn't strategically let one that will hit him in the ass get by because she's a better spouse than I would be. But Terry still pays for his matrimonial crimes when he falls in a pit. The good guys with guns who are only running drugs and making their community a dangerous hellhole because they live in poverty run away when they realize that their guns aren't killing Wonder Girl like they're supposed to. What good is a gun if it can't kill the person who should keep minding their own business instead of ruining your livelihood?! Stupid assault rifles! Now that all the people who love guns more than anything aren't reading this because I used the term "assault rifle," it's time for cupcakes! I wish I could pass out cupcakes online. Nothing would bring me more joy than denying people I don't agree with cupcakes. Oh, except maybe the cupcake! Donna follows Terry down the hole and thinks, "Why is this pit here? Oh, I bet it was a secret passageway Mayan priests used to reach the temples and make their 'magical' appearances." So she already knows more about Mayans than Terry does. She realized Terry isn't going to be able to finish the book no matter what the subject is so she's already begun research on the new project he just proposed over that morning's breakfast. But what she finds at the other end of the tunnel is disturbing (but for Marv Wolfman only).

Is this what people online call "fan service"?

I just tore out the last eight pages of the comic book. Does that make the death of Terry Long canon? Teen Titans Spotlight #12: Wonder Girl: A+! I can't believe it! The death of Terry Long! What a bold move to place in an ancillary Teen Titans series! This issue must be worth five figures! Mostly because I have the only copy. It really does read better if you stop at page fourteen. Because who wants to read page fifteen where Terry has to explain to Donna why he hid in the Mayan Beheaded Magic Trick Box? I mean Illusion Box. I bet he was thinking, "Just wait until Donna sees me dead! Then she'll be sorry for getting upset with my misogyny over breakfast! That'll show her! Man, I'm really hard right now!"

Notice how Donna destroys the guns after saying, "Murderers." Checkmate people who say guns don't kill people, people kill people.

Donna might also have killed the guys holding the guns. It's hard to tell because the coloring of the dimly lit cave might just be obscuring the blood and brains that are almost certainly leaking from their bodies. Maybe Batman couldn't kill Joker even after Joker killed Robin but Donna's no Batman. Of course, Terry Long is no Robin (even a Jason Todd Robin). So is he worth Donna killing for? It's a philosophical conundrum that most people will conclude "no" is the proper answer almost immediately. So I might have used the word "conundrum" too rashly. Terry accidentally became trapped in the Mayan Illusion so I guess Donna can't be too angry at him.

Okay, now she can be mad at him.

It looks like Donna's flashing Terry in the above image and he totally frightened by what he's seeing. It is now canon that Wonder Girl's lady parts have blistered tentacles and maybe a small beak. I don't understand Terry's line about girls wearing girdles. Is it a feminist saying? Maybe he just made it up in his terror at seeing her squawking nether regions? The drama isn't finished even though I finished my review a few paragraphs ago. When it becomes so intense that Terry and Donna believe their lives might actually be in danger, the story gets really fucking disgusting.

Oh god. I did not need the image of Terry's boner rubbing against Donna's thighs as he smears his filthy facial hair all over her iron face.

I was being less disgusting than the actual panel by suggesting he was just rubbing his cock against her through their clothing. Upon rereading those narration boxes, I think they actually just fucked. "No time for tenderness" has to be code for a quickie, right? I think the next page is proof of that theory:

Terry puts his dick away as Donna thanks him for the "we almost died" sex. Of special note: Terry thinks you can start a campfire with a condom.

Donna kills a bunch of drug lords in a fiery explosion but she says "They probably all got knocked out by the shockwave!" to assuage her guilty conscience. She's definitely read Batman's best selling book, One Thousand Ways to Convince Yourself and Others That You've Never Killed Anybody. While a lot of the reasons are "If doctors didn't stop the internal bleeding in time, maybe the violent thug should have purchased better insurance that allowed for a better hospital with a more competent staff" and "Dying of complications from losing a spleen to a batarang are completely the fault of the person who didn't take the proper care for a person who is living without a spleen," quite a few of the reasons boil down to "Did you see anybody dead that couldn't have more probably been unconscious when you left the scene? Because I sure didn't and I have bat eyes!" Batman then had to release a follow-up novel due to the reaction of his book on Twitter. He called it, Contrary to Popular and Stupid Opinions, Bats Actually Have Great Eyesight. Anyway, they save Terry's best friend who isn't imaginary at all.

While hanging out with Terry, Donna often entertains herself by thinking stupid jokes.

Teen Titans Spotlight #12: Wonder Girl Rating: F! Terry didn't die after all! Poop!

#Teen Titans #Teen Titans Spotlight #DC #DC Comics #Wonder Girl

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gracewithducks · 7 years

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#blessed (Matthew 5:1-12)

I am so glad to be back with you all today. I’ve been feeling a bit of whiplash, though, making the transition from a week with my family in the happiest place on earth… back into the real world. We spent several days rubbing shoulders with families from all over the world, where we heard many languages spoken, where my girls lit up with wonder to see that It’s a Small World after all; we spend a week in a place where – for all the tantrums, and yes, there were plenty – a place where nevertheless we were surrounded by people who smiled at us, who helped us, who went out of their way for us, who treated my children like royalty, who did everything they could not just for our family but for every family there.

And then we came home… we flew home on Inauguration Day, and it quickly became apparent that things are changing and changing quickly. I don’t know about you, but my head has been spinning – trying to keep up with “alternative facts” and executive orders and gag orders, hearing the voices of neighbors fearing for their immigration status, families terrified of losing their health care, couples wondering if their marriages could be overturned, not to mention the sheer number of people who do not see the painful irony of closing the doors to refugees on the very same day of a “pro-life” march and remembrance for the victims of the Holocaust.

And what hurts my heart the most are the number of our Christian brothers and sisters who don’t see it. I keep hearing in my head the echo of Paul’s words to the Galatians: I am astonished that you are turning away from the truth of the gospel, that you are being fooled by a false gospel – because that’s what we’re seeing. So many pastors, so many of our neighbors and colleagues and friends, are falling in line behind and preaching a gospel where might makes right, where God’s favor can be earned, where riches are a sign of God’s blessings, and only the strongest survive.

That’s not the gospel I know; that’s not the gospel Jesus preached… that kind of gospel is really only “good news” to the rich and the powerful – and a gospel that is only good news to the rich and the powerful is one Jesus wouldn’t recognize at all.

That is, I think, why these familiar words from the Sermon on the Mount, why they are so profound and radical indeed. What’s happening here is, it’s very early in Jesus’ ministry. He’s been tempted in the wilderness, he’s just called his disciples, and then he went on a tour through the area of Galilee. And this area, it wasn’t the richest area. It was an area populated by fishermen and their families, by farmers and their families, by working people just trying to take care of one another. Jesus went through the area teaching, and giving good news, and healing many who were ill. And the news began to spread, that there was a new young teacher in Galilee who spoke good news and offered healing, so that people started to travel from all around to find him, bringing their sons, their daughters, their parents, their neighbors, themselves, looking for relief from pain and possessions and all the suffering that they faced. And Jesus welcomed those desperate people, and he healed them, and this large crowd of those looking for help and those who’d found it, this large crowd started to follow him.

And Matthew says, when Jesus looked at the crowd, that’s when he went up on the hillside and he started to teach. As he looked out at the crowd of local families and foreigners, the crowd of hurting and sick and poor and grieving people, the crowds of people hungry for bread and hungry for hope – Jesus started to speak. And he said,

“Blessed are the poor in spirit…

“Blessed are those who mourn...

“Blessed are the meek…

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness…

“Blessed are the merciful…

“Blessed are the pure in heart…

“Blessed are the peacemakers…

“Blessed are those who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

“Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you, lie and say all kinds of evil about you, because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward.”

Those crowds, just like the crowds today, had long been told that they didn’t matter, that they weren’t important. They’d been taught that God’s blessings came in the form of money and power – and because they had neither, they didn’t matter to God, and they didn’t matter to the world, either. They were nobodies. They were expendable, bit players in the corner of the global stage, and while the high priests and the caesars were off shaping the world, they were forgotten; no one saw them, no one heard them, no one even knew their names.

Jesus looked out at those crowds – and he didn’t see nobodies. He didn’t say, if you just worked harder, if you just tried harder, if you had enough faith and did all the right things, then God would bless you, because God helps those who help themselves.

No, Jesus said:

You are already blessed.

You are already blessed, when you can’t help yourself. You are already blessed, when you can barely get out of bed in the morning. When your heart is breaking, when you’re alone and afraid, when you’re hungry for justice, when you’re just plain hungry – God has not forgotten you. You are not abandoned; you are not forsaken. God doesn’t look at you and see a nobody; God looks at you and says, You, I love; You, I know; You are mine, and you are blessed.

Is anybody on Twitter at all? Basically, Twitter is one a way that, if you have something you want to say, you can “tweet” it – you put it out on Twitter and send it into the universe. And there is this thing on twitter called a hash tag. What you can do with a hash tag is put a tag, a label, on your post, so that everyone who’s interested in a certain topic can find what people are saying about them. People hashtag politicians, they hashtag disasters and popular TV shows, they hashtag #MissUniverse and #WomensMarch and #love and #cute and #SuperBowl.

And this week, I decided to see what people were saying that they chose to label with the hashtag #blessed.

Let me give you just a sample of what I found:

The very first thing that popped up was this – someone posted, “Got pulled over doing 42 in a 30. Told the police officer I’m in a rush [because] Popeyes closes at 9:30 and he let me go. He a real one #blessed”

Many of the posts were similarly – we might say, trivial? Like the college student who tweeted, “I just realized I only have one class tomorrow… at noon #blessed”

Or the food fan who posted, with a picture, “There’s a twenty-layer rainbow crepe in Queens #blessed.”

One young lady gushed, with an ad for a clothing store attached, “I have this sweater in pink and its my favorite thing and now they’re 60% off (hearts for eyes emoticon) (crying my eyes out emoticon) #blessed”

How about the – I hope sarcastic? – post: “I have lived to see the era of Artisanal Pop-Tarts #blessed.”

Ah, yes, I remember well when Jesus said, “Blessed are you when your artificial breakfast pastries are slightly less artificial, for yours is the breakfast of heaven.”

There are, of course, plenty of #blessed posts about boyfriends and girlfriends and spouses and children; I found a surprising number celebrating the blessing of snowdays and school delays. There were the obligatory folks bragging about days on the beach or trips-of-a-lifetime, and others giving thanks for new jobs or promotions or raises. But there were also many about make-up and mac and cheese and new cars and cups of coffee… And it really, really amazed me to discover that, at this time of year, more than half of the #blessed posts have to do with offers to play college football. I lost track of how many times I read “I am committed to play at” or “Proud to have an offer from” (insert university name here) #blessed.

Don’t get me wrong: there’s a lot to be said for celebrating the good things in our live, the big ones and the small. There’s something healthy about celebrating hard work paying off with good grades or scholarship offers; there’s something healthy about celebrating friendships and relationships; and there’s something healthy about being thankful for the little things, for favorite socks and a good cup of coffee. I get that.

But I just can’t help but think that, when Jesus said, “Blessed” – that’s not what he meant. Could you even imagine what those tweets would look like?

They say God won’t give me more than I can handle, but I don’t even know where God is any more #blessed

My mother just died; I am heartbroken and don’t know how I’m going to live the rest of my life without her #blessed

Got yelled at at work again today; I know it’s about them not me, but I still cried in the bathroom #blessed

I am so hungry, my check doesn’t come in until next Friday, feeding my kids ketchup sandwiches while my stomach rumbles again tonight #blessed

Tried to make peace at family dinner but plates were still broken, hurtful words were yelled, and I ended up alone again #blessed

Going to lose my job because I told the truth #blessed

I am so lonely #blessed

I can’t get out of bed today #blessed

Crying so hard, it’s hard to breathe #blessed

But that’s what Jesus says: you’re blessed when you’re mourning, when you’re feeling weak, when you’re hungry for justice, when you’re thirsty for truth, when you can’t make ends meet, when you’re good to those who don’t deserve it, when you’re trying to make peace, when you’re lied about, when you’re losing the fight, when you’re feeling alone… when you’re feeling cursed, that’s when you’re blessed.

Which begs the question: What does “blessed” mean? – does it mean happy? Lucky? Privileged? Fortunate? Favored?

It can’t be the same as our usual understanding, where being #blessed has to do with escaping speeding tickets and catching footballs and eating desserts. Jesus never says happy are the rich, happy are the popular, happy are the powerful and the comfortable… He says, happy, blessed are the mournful, the poor in spirit, the hungry, the peacemakers and the meek.

And there are lots of theories about what Jesus means when he says that, but I think what he meant was – as he looked out at that crowd that day, the crowd of people who’d been forsaken and overlooked and ignored all their lives, he said: you, and you, and you are blessed. I see you; God sees you. You are blessed, right in the middle of your mess – not because everything is easy, but because it’s real, and it’s in the real stuff of living that God meets us. You are blessed, because it’s in the real mess of life that Christ chooses to be. God didn’t send a king, an emperor, or a president to save us; God sent a child, born to two poor parents, born in a barn, raised in a modest home, taught to work for a living – God came as someone who knows what it is to be ordinary, to be overlooked, to struggle to make it through.

Jesus said, if you look for me, look among the poor and the hungry and the naked and the sick and the imprisoned, look with the immigrants and the refugees and the outsiders, and I’ll be there.

When we feel as far away from #blessed as we can be – that’s when we need to know that God is still with us, God see us, God loves us, God chooses us…

Which means we have two questions before us today:

First, do we really believe that God is with us, that we are beloved by God, even when we’re struggling, when we’re suffering, when we’re weighed down with grief and doubts and pain? Dare we call ourselves “blessed” when nothing comes easy, and it really takes an act of faith to do it?

And the second question is, dare we call others “blessed” too? Are we making room at our table for those whom God has called beloved and blessed? Do we welcome the hungry? The struggling? The ones who are filled with difficult questions? Do we welcome the strangers, the immigrants and refugees? Do we welcome those who try to walk the narrow middle road, to make peace? Do we welcome those who speak truth and call us to justice?

Do we really want to be blessed? Do we want to be with those whom God called blessed? Are we willing not just to “serve” but to be served? Will we listen, will we learn, trusting that as we do, we will get a clearer picture of the heart of God?

Especially in the world we face today, we need to be brought back again and again to the real good news: God is not on the side of the loudest or the most powerful; God is not on the side of the rich insiders of the world. God is always on the outside; and when we feel left out, God is there with us; and when we see others being left in the cold – God is with them, and God challenges us to be with them, too.

God’s grace, God’s love, God’s blessing is big enough for us all.

You are blessed today. You are blessed, you are beloved, you are welcome, you are wanted, you are seen, you are heart, you are loved.

Let us know that we are blessed; let us bless others, in the name of the God who loves us still.

God, you challenge us today. You challenge us to reconsider how our priorities line up with yours. We long to be comfortable, to be safe, to be happy; we want things to be easier – but you remind us that you are closest to us in the midst of the struggle. Comfort us as we mourn today; teach us humility, and make us hungry for justice and thirsty for what is right. Help us to show mercy, to love not just the people we agree with, to help not just those whom we deem worth – but to love as generously and help as graciously as you do. Show us how to be peacemakers, and when the path leads us to persecution, when we struggle, when we stumble along the way – bless us with your love, bless us with your strength, bless us with your courage and your grace once again. Help us to make peace; help us to have peace. May we be blessed; may we be blessings. In Christ’s name we pray; amen.

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wknc881 · 4 years

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Upcoming Metal Shows

What’s going on Butcher Crew?! There has been tons of shows that have been announced and I know that it can be hard to keep up with, but I decided I would help out my Butcher Crew and make a list of the tours that will be coming through North Carolina!! The Saw will be at most of these shows, will I see you?

Monday, March 9th: Local 506, Chapel Hill

This show is going to be killer!! You have some of the most hard-hitting bands on one bill! I am mainly excited to see Kublai Khan because I love their most recent album, Absolute, and I can’t wait to hear them play those songs live!

Sunday, March 15th: Amos’ Southend, Charlotte

Literally every band on this bill I am excited for. I haven’t seen Aversions Crown or Fit For An Autopsy in a few years!!I’ve just recently seen Thy Art Is Murder a few months ago and I love seeing them any chance I get.

Sunday, March 15th: The Ritz, Raleigh

Killswitch Engage is one of the OG bands for the new wave of metal that opened the door for metalcore bands, and they are bringing another heavy hitter, August Burns Red, with them!

Friday, March 20th: The Pour House, Raleigh

Vio-lence has never been to Raleigh and this will be their first time coming here! They have some of my Local Butchers opening for them! I will be the MC for this show!

Saturday, March 21st: The Drunk Horse Pub, Fayetteville

Pathology and Pyrexia are some big-name bands that have had a huge impact on the heavier realm of music, and they are bringing some more of my Local Butchers with them to open up this show! The Saw will be there, will I see you?

Friday, May 8th: The Blind Tiger, Greensboro

Suicide Silence is hitting North Carolina again with their newest record, Become the Hunter, and they will have many of my Local Butchers with them! The Saw will most definitely be there!!

Sunday, May 10th: The Ritz, Raleigh

I am so excited to see Motionless in White, Knocked Loose, Stick To Your Guns, and Ovtlier. There is a wide variety of bands on this bill and I am very interested to see how this shows goes!! I am super excited to see all of these bands!

Monday, June 1st: The Ritz, Raleigh

Do I really need to say anything about this tour? Two of my favorite bands are touring together, so it’s a no brainer that I will for sure be there.

Sunday, June 14th: Red Hat Amphitheater, Raleigh

Megadeth, Lamb of God, Trivium, and In Flames will be hitting Raleigh and I am super-excited for all of these bands! I haven’t seen Megadeth in so long and I can’t wait to yell their lyrics back to them!

Wednesday, June 17th: PNC Music Pavilion, Charlotte

Slipknot is bringing A Day To Remember on this run and, honestly, I love seeing the mixed genres that bands are bringing on tour with them! Slipknot and ADTR never disappoint!

Friday, September 11th: Charlotte Metro Credit Union Amphitheater, Charlotte

Let’s be real, I love all of these bands on this bill: Parkway Drive, Hatebreed, Knocked Loose, and Fit For A King. I already got my pit tickets for this show and I can’t wait to mosh to all of these bands!

Thursday, September 17th: PNC Music Pavilion, Charlotte

I have never seen Judas Priest live so hopefully this will be my chance to see them!

Are you going to any of these shows? Did I miss any that you are excited about?

Stay Metal,

THE SAW

#WKNC #WKNC 88.1 #The Saw #The Saw's Butcher Shop #Upcoming Metal Shows

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maestasbqhansonet90insuranc-blog · 5 years

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Tip cheap car insurance for new drivers over 25

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Tip cheap car insurance for new drivers over 25

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Tip cheap car insurance for new drivers over 25

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