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jswdmb1 · 5 years

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Put the Message in the Box

“Put the message in the box

Put the box into the car

Drive the car around the world

Until you get heard”

- World Party

Yes, I have enjoyed my break, thanks for asking, but it’s time to get back to work. While I was off, I had plenty of time to read through all of the wonderful questions you sent. Well, actually, it was only one. But, given my difficulties sometimes grasping with reality, I couldn’t be sure if it was the only one I got, or if there were more just coming from my head. Turns out, I was mixing up the voices in my head with the radio. So, to avoid any confusion, I’ve included all of them here in my version of (bow to David Letterman) viewer mail. Here we go:

“Astrology. Do you believe there is something to it? I mean like real astrology - like Ptolemy, Cassini, and Nostradamus practiced - not the one-size-fits-all horoscope you find in the newspaper.” - anonymous

Great question. I definitely agree that these silly newspaper horoscopes are a waste of time, but the notion that the stars and planets somehow dictate what happens to us here on Earth is not something that I dismiss. The problem I have is how could anyone possibly figure that out. I am a very analytical person, and I just can’t believe someone like Nostradamus could have had the tools and data available to him at that point in time to make any sort of informed conclusions. Frankly, I think he was just throwing a lot of shit up against the wall and just seeing what sticks. That being said, the vastness and grandeur of our universe certainly suggest that there are forces out there that could have a significant impact on our lives. Unfortunately, I’m a bit too cynical and/or agnostic to believe that anyone will ever be able to prove that, in my lifetime anyway. I guess that relegates me back to the astrology section in the newspaper, but I pass right by it to the crossword puzzle anyway, so I guess I’ll just have to keep finding things out one day at a time for now. But, I’m open to any foresight that can be given to me, with proof of course.

“What’s going on?” - Marvin G., Detroit, Michigan

Gee, Marvin, where do I begin? It seems if you even take a couple of days off there is “shocking” news that has already been replaced with something even more unbelievable. I think, however, that this most recent story of a certain lawyer who worked for a certain boss who made him pay certain porn stars and committed a bunch of laws in the process is going to stick. I think what everyone has to remember, including our president, is that impeachment is a political process and not a legal one. Whether he can be indicted for a crime, or even if one exists that can be proven beyond a reasonable doubt is irrelevant. If the legislative branch feels from a political standpoint that the president needs to be removed due to his actions (or inaction) then they must proceed with impeachment proceedings. If you look at impeachment processes in history, notably Andrew Johnson, Bill Clinton, and even Richard Nixon, what got them in trouble pales in comparison to what this guy looks to have done. I happen to think that means this is going to be going on for a long time and well into the 2020 election cycle. No matter which side you are on, this is going to be political theater at its highest level, so enjoy it if you are into that thing.

“Can you get to that?” - Mavis S., Chicago, Illinois

Personally speaking, Mavis, I can definitely get to impeachment proceedings commencing at some point in the next six-to-twelve months. The question is where do they go once they start and do they ever leave the committee level? Even if they do, it seems unlikely to me that things could move fast enough to the House voting for impeachment by the 2020 primaries. Furthermore, a Senate trial with a conviction appears even further far-fetched given eighteen Republican senators would have to flip on their sitting president (remember that a 2/3 majority is needed to convict). I’m actually okay with that scenario playing out as it allows a lot of probing and debate that hasn’t happened in the past two years and gives the voters in the next election much better information than they had last time. I also think that it gives other Republicans cover to challenge a sitting president in the primaries, which hasn’t happened seriously since Ted Kennedy took on Jimmy Carter in 1980. My prediction is that impeachment never really gets off the ground, but it damages Trump so badly that he never makes it out of his party’s primaries. Of course, this could all change tomorrow with the next bombshell that drops, but for now that’s what I see happening.

“What’s the frequency, Kenneth?” - Michael S., Athens, Georgia

Thanks for the note, Michael. The name’s Jim, actually. Anyway, if you happen to be driving through the Chicago area, I’ll recommend two frequencies for you to try on your FM dial. The first, of course, is 93.1 or WXRT. It is the last true FM rock station left in Chicago that plays everything from blues to classic rock to 80′s new wave to 90′s grunge up to new music from today and everything in between. The DJ’s are knowledgeable and stay out of the way of the music. My favorite is Terri Hemmert on weekday mornings from 10:00 to 1:00. Saturday mornings are also a can’t miss with the three-hour flashback show to a particular year in rock. The other frequency to try is 88.7. This one is fun because in the city it will be Loyola University’s WLUW, but as you drive out west (around Harlem on the Ike) it turns into Elmhurst College’s WRSE. WLUW is the quirkier of the two as you may find an obscure Icelandic electronica song played right after Glen Campbell’s “Southern Nights”. Nothing wrong with either song, but it helps to be in college and on drugs to enjoy those so close together and I am not in or on either. As such, I’m more partial to WRSE as they focus on rock variety with the occasional surprise thrown in. They actually remind me a lot of an amateur version of XRT in many ways. Whichever you listen to, it’s fun to hear college kids learning their way and it makes me feel just a little hip that they let me tune in.

“How bad do you want it?” - Don H., Linden, Texas

You have no idea how bad I want it Mr. H. We’ve been waiting over thirty years in this town for a football team with a real shot at winning the Super Bowl, and I think we have one here. This defense is that good. Plus, as well as the D played against the Rams, I thought seeing the running game going well was a really good sign. We’ll still need Mitch to get it back after hurting his shoulder, but I don’t think the Bears have to ride his arm to the Super Bowl. Now, to get there, they are going to have to win two road games, probably in New Orleans and L.A., but I really think they would have an outside chance at a run if the momentum carries from last week. If they do get to the Super Bowl, I predict they dominate any team that represents the AFC as I think they are better than them all (including the Chiefs and the Pats who they should have beat a few weeks ago). The best thing about this team is that they have a ton of young talent that still has a lot of upside, so even if a Super Bowl isn’t in the cards this year, the Bears are a team to be reckoned with for a while in the NFC. But, first let’s take care of business and win the NFC North title at home over the Packers. After so many years of misery, I can’t think of a better way for this team to make a statement that it is back and the rest of the league will be messing with them at their own peril for years to come.

“Who are you?” - Pete T., London, England

I get it, Pete, I know that I have no authority to really speak on any of these subjects, but I can’t help myself. I just love to answer questions and was very grateful for the one question that came to me from a blog reader. I also think I have done a service by answering some of these additional questions that you all have been singing about for years. I mean, as far as I know, there never have been any real responses to questions like yours. I know there are a lot more out there too, so I’m happy to do it again. I will, so long as I can get some blog reader questions to go along with them. You know, just so people don’t think I’m completely insane. So, Take a Chance and Read Some Crap readers, hit that question button and keep this going as I’m sure Bob M. (Could You Be Loved?), George H. (What is Life?), and Whitney H. (How Will I Know?) would love answers to their questions too. Until then, I hope at least some of these answers have satisfied your nagging questions, but the job is never complete. I think the tide has finally turned for the question and 2019 is going to be full of them. It may get uncomfortable at times, and maybe even downright nasty, but that is part of life and we are never going to evolve without continuing to challenge those with power and always asking why.

It’s good to be back everyone. Until next time.

- Jim

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i-am-very-very-tired · 3 years

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With the impending release of his fifth studio album — the first since the four-time platinum, Grammy-nominated 2016 Views — Drake has many questions surrounding him. Can he again move a million units in a week? Can he prove all the doubters wrong after two years of ghostwriting allegations? Can he top “Hotline Bling” or “One Dance”? Can More Life overtake Take Care as Drake’s undoubted classic album?

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But also, can he, like so many artists in 2016 — Beyoncé (Lemonade), Solange (A Seat at the Table), Rihanna (Anti), Kanye West (The Life of Pablo), Young Thug (Jeffery) — take risks on his new album, exposing a deeper version of himself? Drake and his legion of fans — and his seemingly equal number of detractors — are waiting with bated breath for March 18 to see what the 6 God has been cooking up. But before we can call the new project “classic” or “trash,” before we spend the next few weeks debating the best and worst tracks, here’s the most important question that Drake has to answer: Can he stop attempting to control women?

Over the past eight years, Drake’s built up a reputation as being the compassionate and less threatening (read: soft) rapper who appears on The Ellen DeGeneres Show, cuddles up with professional athletes, and gets tattoos of Aaliyah. He’s played the role of Nice Guy by constantly smiling, and apparently wearing his heart on his sleeve. This appeals to the sensitivities of the women in his fan base. But, as is often the case with these so-called nice guys, Drake plays the charmer — he’ll call you beautiful, open doors for you and send you smiley-face emojis — but the minute he has sex with you, or you move on to someone else, he turns into Michael Ealy in The Perfect Guy.

Drake’s corniness, outward kindness and lack of sexual aggression has been misinterpreted as an overarching respect for women. He’s even been referred to as a feminist. But Drake is as much a feminist as Rachel Dolezal is a black woman. His entire catalog is steeped in respectability politics, accepting women so far as their body count goes.

Those songs pale in comparison to “Shot For Me,” “Marvin’s Room” and “Practice.” They are Drake at his worst.

While he’s constantly praised Nicki Minaj over the years, Drake belittled the Grammy-nominated artist during his beef with her former boyfriend, Meek Mill — Is that a world tour or your girl’s tour? — implying that it’s emasculating for a man to receive second billing to his significant other.

As with stars of rock and country music, almost every successful rapper today, from Jay Z to Future to Chance the Rapper, has at some point performed lyrics that objectify or exploit women. J.Cole’s music has taken on more social justice elements over the years (Drake has spoken out for black causes as well). But Cole, in a 2013 song, called women “b—–s” —I got smart, I got rich, and I got b—–s still/And they all look like my eyebrows: thick as hell — and patriarchally dismisses female sexuality on 2014’s “No Role Modelz”:

My only regret was too young for Lisa Bonet, my only regret was too young for Nia Long/Now all I’m left with is hoes from reality shows, hand her a script the b—h probably couldn’t read along

Even so-called progressive rappers fall into this trap, namely the androgynous Young Thug and the genderfluid Young M.A.

Sometime between Drake’s early rise and his third mixtape being converted into 2009’s So Far Gone, the rapper known for singing about his romantic feelings and the pressure of newfound fame — with a flow that made every 16 bars sound like the hottest verse ever — became his own worst enemy. Drake, known for hits like 2009’s “Best I Ever Had” and 2010’s “Find Your Love,” became synonymous with quote-heavy memes on social media, and fake Twitter accounts such as @drakkardnoir pumped out fake deep quote after fake deep quote.

But the rapper’s verses about loving and being proud of college-educated, independent women — Sound so smart like you graduated college/Like you went to Yale but you probably went to Howard — paved the way for hypermasculine diatribes against the sexual agency of seemingly any woman he’s ever encountered. Through an examination of Drake’s four studio albums, plus mixtapes, collaborative projects and guest features, it is clear that the man who made music for folks who couldn’t get over their exes was himself struggling with the basic concept of “moving on.”

While So Far Gone doesn’t count as a studio album — it was his final mixtape before signing with Universal Republic — it gave listeners a sneak peek into the troublesome lyrics Drake would release in subsequent years. On the soothing track “Houstatlantavegas,” he raps about “saving” an exotic dancer from a strip club:

You go get f—– up and we just show up at your rescue/Carry you inside, get you some water and undress you.

I give you my all and the next morning you’ll forget who or why, or how, or when/Tonight is prolly ’bout to happen all over again.

Thank Me Later, Drake’s 2010 debut studio album, features the rapper slut-shaming women for having previous sexual partners. From “Karaoke” (I hope that you don’t get known for nothing crazy/Cause no man ever wants to hear those stories ’bout his lady) to “Miss Me” (Work somethin’, twerk something, basis/She just tryna make it so she’s right here getting naked. I don’t judge her, I don’t judge her/But I could never love her) to “Thank Me Now” (Alohas to women with no ties to men/That I know well, that way there are no lies), Drake positions women with previous sexual experience as undesirable. On the Rihanna-assisted “Take Care,” he seems to open up to the idea of women having sexual agency, relenting I’ve asked about you and they told me things/But my mind didn’t change and I still feel the same.

Thank Me Later was also at times a celebration of independent women – appreciating women’s “book smarts and street smarts” on “Shut it Down” and “Fancy” — but set the foundation for 2011’s Take Care, which was, at that point, the peak of Drake’s overt misogyny and objectification of women. On Take Care, which won Drake a Grammy for best rap album — he continues his focus on sex workers with “Lord Knows”:

To all these women that think like men with the same intentions

Talking strippers and models that try to gain attention.

Even a couple porn stars that I’m ashamed to mention.

“Under Ground Kings” (Sometimes I need that romance, sometimes I need that pole dance/Sometimes I need that stripper that’s gon’ tell me that she don’t dance) even creates a binary of acceptable and unacceptable behavior. While Drake has an infatuation with exotic dancers, he also makes it clear that admiration only goes as far as sex. “Trust Issues,” which Drake said he made for “fun” and thus didn’t include on the album, has Drake playing into the thoroughly debunked myth that women can’t want sex as much as men, rapping And it’s probably why I’m scared to put the time in/Women want to f— like they’re me and I’m them.

Those songs, though, pale in comparison to “Shot For Me,” “Marvin’s Room” and “Practice.” They are Drake at his worst, going beyond the behaviors of the paternalistic and disapproving ex. He goes from telling a woman she’s drinking away the pain she feels due to leaving him on “Shot For Me” — Yeah, I’m the reason why you always getting faded — to cursing out another for finding happiness with a new lover on “Marvin’s Room” (F— that n—-a that you love so bad).

Despite admitting that he’s a flawed individual in the latter song, in the former he tells the woman that he “made” her and calls her a “b—-.” This then leads to Drake’s most confusing and disturbing song to date, “Practice.” While acknowledging that women can have sex — the song is about a woman having multiple partners — Drake then spins it to his advantage: All those other men were practice, they were practice/Yeah, for me, for me, for me, for me. He senses “pain and regret” in the woman from her past, and then reluctantly accepts the fact that she has casual sex. He tops the song off with an uncomfortable, familial request: You can even call me daddy, give you someone to look up to.

But, Drake can still change. His lyrics paint the picture of a man who is constantly questioning himself.

It’s 2016’s “Hotline Bling” that ignited the re-examination of Drake’s entire catalog. The song is the rapper’s second-best-selling single of all time (behind fellow Views track “One Dance”), and won him two Grammys at last month’s award show. Not to mention, the visuals for the song will go down in music history as one of the most memorable music videos of all time.

But while the chorus is equal parts infectious and mesmerizing, Drake sneaks in two verses and a bridge full of “reductive stereotypes” and body-policing lyrics about an old fling. Whether about said woman “wearing less and goin’ out more” or “going places where you don’t belong,” Drake makes it apparent that he’s offended that she has the audacity to move on with her life. By the end of the song, Drake’s become so desperate that he’s even concerned that the woman is “bendin’ over backwards for someone else.” Textbook narcissism.

His guest appearances have been a mixed bag as well. On rapper The Game’s 2011 track “Good Girls Go Bad,” Drake raps Who’s still getting tested?/Where’s all the women that still remember who they slept with? and a year later added to 2 Chainz’s “No Lie”:

She could have a Grammy, I still treat her a– like a nominee

Just need to know what that p—- like

So one time is fine with me.

Over the past couple of years, Drake has put out two mixtapes, a solo effort If You’re Reading This It’s Too Late, and What A Time To Be Alive with Future. His male chauvinism can be found on tracks “Legend,” “Energy” and “Madonna” and repeatedly calls a woman “ungrateful” for living her life without him on “Diamonds Dancing.” As writer Tahirah Hairston pointed out, Drake has also had questionable lyrics on “Wu-Tang Forever,” “Own It,” “Furthest Thing,” “I’m The Plug” and even notable feminist Beyoncé’s “Mine.”

Back in October, Drake released three tracks from his upcoming More Life album — “Fake Love,” “Sneakin’,” and “Two Birds, One Stone.” Looking solely at those tracks, it appears Drake has let up a little on his control, instead rapping about success, fake friends and his long list of haters. Even his appearance on labelmate Nicki Minaj’s diss to Remy Ma, “No Frauds,” he steers clear of trying to preserve women’s sanctity.

For nearly a decade now, Drake has wrapped up his alarming lyrics inside catchy, Instagram-caption-worthy choruses and tunes. The “light-skinned Keith Sweat” gets away with this because he carefully crafted a “nice guy” persona that deflects the criticism that, say, a 21 Savage, Kodak Black or the Migos would receive.

For many men, Drake’s attitudes reflect their own attitudes and desires, which in turn reflect a patriarchal society that views women as sexual objects meant to be gazed at. For women, they’ve had to deal with sexism in the arts since the beginning of time, so choosing to not enjoy an artist because of his views on sexuality would mean giving up on music all together. And at the end of the day, Drake is just that good at his job, unquestionably the most influential and popular musician in the business right now.

But Drake can still change. His lyrics paint the picture of a man who is constantly questioning himself, consistently trying to become a better person, whatever that entails. From So Far Gone to More Life — age 22 to 30 — he’s learned all the lessons life can teach, from whom to trust to what forms of happiness money and fame can buy. But it seems he’s yet to learn that women aren’t sexual objects. They’re human beings. If the only women of the world were all exactly like the women he seems to respect — his mother or Rihanna or Aaliyah or Serena Williams — we’d call him Aubrey the Riveter. But, they aren’t the only women who deserve his respect.

He knows that. But it begs the question: Does he care?

Martenzie is a writer for The Undefeated. His favorite cinematic moment is when Django said "Y'all want to see somethin?"

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ninabeyou · 6 years

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Jacksepticeye imagine: a night alone

A/N: This isn't a typical imagine (one-shot) because it's just @therealjacksepticeye/Seán in this one, well and the lovely @wiishu/Signe (mentioned only) and @pixlpit/Robin (more towards the end and if you somehow get to read this: Robin I'm sorry in advance). It's a (kind of) horror story about Jack and primarily Anti. Little disclaimer: The characters are not mine I'm just borrowing them for my story. Now buckle the fuckle up and I hope you enjoy!

Seán/Jack's Point of view:

Today was a day that I didn't really want to do anything I wasn't feeling the energy. Maybe because I kind of missed Signe. She was on a trip with her family. I sat down in my couch scrolling through all my socials. I reblogged some posts, replied to a few things. The instant chill packs were the best thing that happened to me, beside Signe of course. I sent her a goodnight message and read some really nice messages from one member of the community to another. A new message popped up. I read it. I've seen the username before but couldn't recall any posts of them.

'Dear Jack, sometimes saying the things I want is impossible, even writing makes me anxious. I'm scared to be judged and I know you won't but I'm still scared so just a simple thank you will do for now. You are my hero.'

I sat back and my eyes scanned over the message again. I wanted to do something but what could I do? I sighed and ruffled my hair out of my face, stupid hair. A reply was posted. Unfortunately not a nice one.

'Attention seeker you just want Jack to notice you.' It said.

I was getting frustrated. You cannot do that online. I raged down some words but before I could press the post button a really nice and inspiring reply popped up.

'Agree to disagree. You think that's the case but don't judge a book by it's cover, we all fight a battle the outside world doesn't see, so be nice and that's what our community stands for. We stand for kindness and humbleness we take care of each other. No matter how bad it gets.You have the right to have your opinion and I will respect that opinion as long as you don't disrespect another human being's existence. Before you comment think will this do more harm than good? If the answer is yes try to say it in a different way or just ignore it if you can't put it in another way but don't hate, please. You push people with real issues back in a box and hurt people that mistreat the fact that these issues exist. I hope you see where I'm coming from here. Thank you for reading. Poster of this post, I can't solve what you're going through but you're definitely not alone, we won't judge you, you are one of us and we care about you deeply. So please take care of yourself.'

I was blown away by how nice people were, it happened in my community every second but it fascinates me. It was really inspiring. A few reactions oozed in, but that one long reaction made me think. I got up and starting pacing back and forth in the living room. I had to do something with this. I had to show that the people in the community inspired me as well because I always say they do but this is a perfect example. A smile crept up my face as an idea popped in my head.

"Jack you're a genius." I smiled to myself, "And also talking to yourself."

I laughed at my realization and walked into my recording studio. Okay starting of with some tests. The setup was over sooner than I realized. I took a deep breath and warmed up my voice a bit. I was about to record when I heard a noise. I frowned. No one should be in here but me. I felt tempted to shout hello, but no one really replies as a burglar do they? I was debating wether I should leave it or be a detective and investigate. The death silence that filled the house convinced me to just let it pass. Probably nothing. I pressed record.

"And now a special reading your comments. Today I wanted to share something very special with you guys. I was scrolling through the twitts and Tumblr as I do and I came passed a post. It was someone who wrote that they were afraid to say what they wanted to say because they were anxious of being judged, which is a really brave move. Reaching out to me even though you feel anxious. I appreciate it, but then there was a mean comment and I was fuming with hate I really wanted to hate on him for hurting someone so courageous and I almost did. Luckily for me one of you was faster than me and she or he wrote a really nice message and I was really inspired by it. Everything she says in it is true. I don't know if I should read it out because it's very long but you can see it on my Tumblr. I don't really know I want to read it though." I said, "Okay I'm going to do it."

I read out the reply, but halfway through a glitch interrupted me.

"Sorry a glitch interrupted me." I apologized.

The noise was back. I was confused. To be honest I was a little scared I looked behind me just to be sure that no one was there. The noise was ongoing so I was doubting to check it out.

"I'm sorry weird things are happening. I'll be right back." I said and opened the door.

As soon as the door opened the noise was gone again, but this time I was going to investigate. All I needed was something to protect myself with. I closed the door behind me and snook into the hall. The first thing I saw that could be useful was a heavy book. It seemed to be the best option for now. I searched around the house but no one was there. I shrugged and went back to my recording room. The door was slightly ajar. I froze in my spot. I'm a 100 percent sure that I closed it. Someone was in my recording room. I took a deep breath and clenched the book in my hand. I pushed the door open, but I didn't see anyone. This was really weird. I sighed and put the book down.

"I'm going insane." I smiled to the camera "Anyway let's continue and yes I was going to attack the burglar with a book."

My screen glitched, again.

"Cute." I heard. "What is happening?" I asked.

I turned around and the message on the board had changed. It used to say "Butterfly Effect" but that had changed into 'I'm watching you Seán'.

"If this is a prank it's real good thank you, but I had enough." I said.

Red liquid started dripping from behind the whiteboard.

"What the f***?"

I touched it. A weighed fell from my shoulders as I realized it was just paint.

"It's paint now, but it'll be blood soon. Your blood." I heard.

I recognised the voice and was glued in my spot. A hand touched my shoulder and I turned around.

"This isn't possible." I mumbled. "It's pretty possible Seán because I'm here." Anti chuckled.

I stumbled back. My back against the board. Anti laughed and glitched around the room.

"It's in your head Jack." I said and covered my ears. "Kind of." Anti smiled, "Only better, I'm actually real."

Anti ghosted his knife over my body.

"Don't fear human, Jackaboy man is here!" I heard. "Glad you could join the party." Anti chuckled and glitched away from me.

Jackaboy helped me up.

"Are you okay?" He asked.

I nodded. I thanked him. Our friendly conversation got interrupted.

"This is just priceless. Jackaboy man, you impressed me who knew you were a backstabbing hero." "I'm not a backstabber. Neither are you." Jackaboy said. "True I prefer the throat. So I can see life pour out of their eyes. They'll know it's me. It's only fair for a villain like me." Anti smiled.

Jackaboy didn't really know what to say.

"You seem caught of guard 'hero'. Should I recollect your memory? I'm here because you wanted me to. You gave me this brilliant idea." Anti smiled. "No I was messing around it was quiet." Jackaboy said.

I stepped back.

"Jack don't listen to him. It's not true." "Take a seat Seán, this is a fun little story." Anti laughed. "Anti don't!"

Anti glitched and suddenly we were on top of the roof.

I looked down and almost screamed. Anti dragged me away from the edge.

"You're afraid of heights don't stand on the edge, weakling." Anti sighed. "Why are we on the roof?" I asked. "I'm going to tell you a story, have you been paying attention?" Anti asked. "I know that but why on a roof?" "A bedtime story under the skies doesn't that sound amazing? I'm the villain not a monster and after the story then I'll kill you. Perfection takes time weak creature." Anti smirked and let the knife roll between his fingers. "Anti stop!" Jackaboy man shouted. "Stop with what? Telling the truth?" "No ruining our home." "Home? You create chaos in his head just so you can be the hero and fix it. Dr Schneeplestien is not a real doctor and Marvin is fascinated by being a crook. Don't you see we're all villains! I'm not the crazy one!" Anti shouted he glitched towards Jackaboy. "Anti stop!" I tried. "You can't stop me!" He said and looked at me. "Anti please I don't want to hurt you." Jackaboy man sighed. "This was your idea, to be free that's what you wanted. Right?" "It gets bored but come on anti we can fix this! There is always another option." "Probably but this is the most fun one. He's weak! Once we're free I can create chaos and you can safe them. I'm doing you a favor here Jack. We don't need Seán. We would do much better on our own, just you and me. Secret allies. I create chaos and you solve it you'll be a hero. They'll love you like they love Spiderman. Come on Jackaboi man. Join me." Anti smirked. "Jackaboy man a hero." He smirked. "Jackaboy, no, he is fooling you." I shouted. "I'm sorry, Jack." He said and turned to anti. "It's okay I forgive you." I smiled.

Jackaboy turned back to me and saw the genuine smile on my face. He took a moment to think and stepped away from Anti.

"I'm sorry Anti I'm a hero." "No!" Anti shouted and glitched his way to me.

We were in back inside, well inside my old room.

"Anti what are we doing here?" I asked. "Listen." Anti said. "Top of the morning to you laddies, my name is Jacksepticeye and welcome to five nights at Freddy's: sister location." The words echoed through the room. "You're first appearance." I realized. "Here I was created to be a monster I was the scary one, the villain, the troubled outsider." "Anti? What's going on? Why did you bring me here?" I asked calm. "Because I liked it here. All my memories are here." "Anti do you miss it?" "I don't! Feelings are for the weak." He snapped. "Jackaboi man for the savior once more." Jackaboy said. "You, again." "You're predictable Anti." Jackaboi said. "Is that so Jackaboy?" Anti smiled.

Anti flashed his way towards Jackaboy man and pushed his knife into Jackaboy's stomach. I felt the pain myself. This was one of my worst fears. Anti looked in Jackaboy's eyes.

"I'm sorry my friend." Anti said. "Anti Stop!" I shouted.

Jackaboy man fell on the ground. His body turned into neon green lights as the symbol on my arm took them out of the air.

"How could you?" I asked. "Sorry you had to see that Seán." Anti smiled. "You're insane! Why did you do that?" "He was in my way."

A tear slipped down my face.

"I failed you, Jack. I'm sorry." I heard. "It's okay, hero." I whispered.

Anti turned around and his eyes were completely black. It freaked me out.

"Okay Jack, you got this." I mumbled to myself.

I swung my fist at anti but he wasn't even bothered by it. Anti stopped my fist and forced me down on my knees. I had never experienced so much pain. I used my other hand to free myself. Anti stumbled back and I ran as fast as I could.

I got out my phone and called the first person that came to mind. Robin.

"Jack? Why are you calling this late?" "Anti just killed Jackaboy and now he's after me!" "So one mental creation killed another mental creation? Jack are you okay?" "This is serious Robin!" I shouted and hid behind the tree.

Anti was nowhere to be seen. I heard his laugh though.

"You heard that too right?" Robin asked. "Yeah I've told you, it's Anti." "He's a creation Jack." Robin said less confident than usual. "I'm in the middle of nowhere in Ireland. He's real." I said "What the - No! Don't please!" Robin's line got cut off. "Robin?" I asked.

Nothing. I cursed under my breath.

"Peekaboo." Anti smiled. It made me jump. I hated the glitchy jump scares. "What did you do to Robin?" I asked genuinely scared. "Don't worry I haven't killed him. Yet." Anti said. "Leave him alone." "I would but you care about him, so I might as well torture you with it." "Anti stop this." I tried, "You're not as evil as you show yourself to be." "You're right weakling, unfortunately I'm much worse." Anti grinned and glitched us back to my home in Brighton.

Robin was lying on the floor. I went over to him. He had a wound in his leg and on top of head

"Robin?" I asked and shook his shoulder. "Jack?" He asked weak. "I'm here Robin." I said an helped him sit up against the wall. "There you go buddy. I've got you." I smiled. "How adorable." Anti laughed. "Jack, go. Get out. You can run, just go." Robin mumbled. "No time to be a hero Robin. I'm keeping you safe." I said determined. "No Seán, run. Maybe someone else will keep you here, Mark, Bob, PJ, Wade or I could always get her in here as well... you know our lovely Signe?" Anti smirked. "Leave her out of this." I said trying to calm myself down. "Don''t worry. I like her I'll only hurt her if you make it necessary." "You're the worst Anti." I said. "Thank you." He smiled.

Robin mumble something but I couldn't understand.

"What do you want?" I asked and gave into his threats. "I thought it was obvious. I want to be free and Schneeplestien had a plan to help me but then he turned on me so here I am. Trying to figure out what he meant. He was a horrible doctor but he had brains in contrast to you." "What did he say before you killed him?" "He said I'd never be free." Anti said and approached me, "But you know what Seán I rather die then be locked up in there." "My mind isn't a bad place." I defended myself. "No it's a beautiful place full of positivity, kindness, love and toys. I hate it. I'm the wrong one out. I don't belong there everything is so bright I might go blind just being in my home. All the colours make it so lively and it's not me. I don't give life I want to end yours, Seàn." Anti said and held the knife against my throat. "Anti Stop!" I heard Robin groaned.

I looked back and Robin was trying to get up.

"Another wannabe superhero, I see." "Anti leave him alone. Robin is our friend." I tried. "I hate superhero's." Anti said and sliced Robin's throat open. "NO!!!!" I shouted and caught Robin in my arms.

My heart broke into a million pieces.

"Robin was our friend." I cried. "He's just a human, you'll get over it." "No he wasn't just another human! He was my friend." I said and balled my fists. "Seán calm down buddy." Anti said and stepped back.

I looked at myself and I held a knife like anti. My instinct was to kill anti but I thought about how it all started. I tossed the knife to Anti's feet.

"Leave and never come back, please." I said and turned around. "Seán. what are you doing?" Anti asked. "I'm forgiving you. I just can't look at you when I do because you hurt my friends and that's not okay, but hate doesn't thrive out hate. Love does." "You sicken me." Anti said. "And I'm sorry just leave." I cried. "No. You can't win this. I'm the strong one." "Goodbye Anti." I said and took a deep breath.

I closed my eyes and everything went quiet. I opened my eyes and I was in the couch no blood on my hands nothing. Was it all just a dream? It felt so real though. I just had to be sure Robin was okay. I couldn't care less if he was asleep I couldn't lose my friend. I called him voicemail. I tried again and again. Why wasn't he answering.

"Come on Robin." I mumbled, "Just try again Jack he's probably just asleep."

I kept trying and I was getting worried. Tears were welling up in my eyes.

"Mhmm. Who is this?" A grudgy voice asked. "Robin?" I asked. "Jack? Is that you?" The voice on the other side asked. "Yeah." I sniffed, "It's me, are you okay?" "You're the one calling me at 3:30, Crying? And you ask if I'm okay? Jack, is everything okay?" "Yeah just a nightmare probably It's stupid sorry I woke you up." "It's not just a nightmare Jack. You called me like a million times what's going on?" Robin asked. "I was recording a reading your comments video and then anti was like a second me and he killed Jackaboi man and then you were there and he killed you and it all felt so real and I don't know I'm freaking out. I think I am losing my mind." I explain freaking out. "Jack breath, I'm okay and as far as I can tell I'm alive. Do you want to like video chat or something? We could play some games to distract you." "I don't want to keep you awake." "Sleep is for the weak. Isn't that something you used to say?" Robin smiled. "Okay, just let me go upstairs." I smiled.

Robin and I switched to video chat. We played some video games and chatted a bit about my crazy night.

"I sound like a hero." Robin smiled. "You tried real hard to be one. It killed you though.” I smiled. “Well don't get used to it I won't do it in real life." Robin joked. "Let's all hope that never happens again." I laughed "Yeah. Anyway you're okay now right?" "Yeah I'm fine. I'm holding on to the positive mental attitude. A nightmare won't change that. I have friends like you who pick up in the middle of the night because my imagination is absolutely messed up." I smiled. "Yeah don't make it a habit. I do need my sleep." Robin smiled. "Don't worry. I won't." I smiled.

I felt the happiness fill my body again. It was just a nightmare. Anti was still a piece of my imagination and not a real person. There was nothing to worry about.

"Keep thinking that Jack." Anti whispered looking at me through the window.

#jacksepticeye #jse #pma #positive mental attitude #oneshot #imagine #wiishu #pixlpit #antisepticeye #jackaboy man

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paharvey99 · 4 years

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No Waitrose October 7 - Days 24-26

Day 24

Saturday, Saturday, Saturday… Saturn’s Day. The Saturdays were a band, weren’t they. I still think of them as a new band, they’re definitely not new. Can’t remember a single one of their songs. Always found it strange that a band would choose to have the word “turd” in the middle of their name as well, but then I notice things like that. Who was in The Saturdays anyway? I think I know some of them… Frankie! Una! Mollie! Rochelle! Another one! Rochelle’s all over the telly these days isn’t she, she presents a terrible music quiz show with her husband Marvin off of JLS, the one with idiots trying to recognise songs. And she does Ninja Warrior UK with Ben Shephard and Chris Kamara, we quite like that one. It’s essentially the Eliminator from Gladiators but over and over and over again, isn’t it. It’s like they went “Oh, how can we make Gladiators but for no money?”, that’s how Ninja Warrior started, I bet you.

Sorry about all that rubbish, I’m stalling because it’s now Monday evening and I literally can’t remember what happened on Saturday. That’s the problem with this pandemic thing, all the days are blurring into one.

Oh, I remember, here we go, let’s start now. I’ll need you to think back to a previous blog, day 18, where I compared writing this blog to running a marathon. Well, one of the main reasons I did that was with the aim of annoying my readers who are marathon runners, namely my older sister. Anyway, on Saturday my older sister, having read day 18 and recognised that I’d set out to annoy her, decided to annoy me by sending me a number of lengthy WhatsApp messages detailing exactly why what I’d said about marathon running wasn’t really correct. To give her her dues, this did really annoy me as I kept having to read lots of messages about marathon running and try to think of something to say about them. I’ll get her back somehow, don’t worry.

What we did do on Saturday was loooooads of baking. First of all we made some pizza dough to have pizzas for the four year-old I live with’s tea, then while that was proving we made some fairy cakes with chocolate icing and sprinkles on the top, then we finished off making the pizzas for the four year-old I live with’s tea and cooked them and ate them.

I did that thing of getting out all the toppings for the pizzas in separate bowls so that the four year-old I live with could put the toppings on herself. I was showing her all the toppings and when I got to the mozzarella I asked if she knew what it was, and she said no, and I was like “it’s CHEESE!”. And she was like, “no it’s not”, so I was like, “yeah, it’s CHEESE! It’s called… MOZZARELLA!” and she said “I don’t like mozzarella” and then it became a Thing. And as anyone who has ever met a small child knows, the last thing you want is for something to become a Thing, you just have to Tony Blair it, change the terms of debate. But stupidly, I couldn’t let it lie, I was all “NO, you DEFINITELY like mozzarella, EVERY SINGLE PIZZA you have EVER eaten has had mozzarella on it, there is simply NO WAY you do not like mozzarella, I will NOT accept that.”

Obviously, this was pretty much the silliest thing I could have said, as the four year-old I live with then dug in even deeper and shouted at me until I went and got the big wodge of Pilgrim’s Choice from the fridge and we grated that all over her pizza and she was happy.

I said we did looooooooads of baking, but actually we just made fairy cakes and pizza, but by the time we’d done that and with the mozzarella meltdown it felt like we’d been through the wars.

We also carved a pumpkin, that’s what we did. I let the four year-old I live with draw a face with a Sharpie and then I did all the carving. I told her to draw a big face, so she drew a tiny face, but to be fair to her it does look pretty scary, I was very pleased with it.

I hadn’t been out all day, so while the person I live with was putting the four year-old I live with to bed I went out for a walk in the wind and rain and immediately regretted it. It was strange though, I went down to the end of my street and at the end of my street there’s a restaurant called Mekan. It used to be called Fishmekan and it’s a huge cavern of a restaurant that never, ever has anyone in it. The person I live with and I exchange regular updates on how empty Fishmekan is, it’s a running joke in our house. Except on Saturday night, there were people in it. It was busier than I’ve ever seen it. I couldn’t believe it. Good luck to them, I’m pleased for them, I suppose we’re going to have to find another struggling business to make fun of now.

Vanessa, that’s the other Saturday, I went and looked it up for you.

Didn’t go to Waitrose.

Day 25

The clocks went back overnight, marking the end of British Summer Time and the beginning of hellish doomscape nightmare time. Have you noticed that nowadays when the clocks change it’s confusing in a different way because your phone seems to do it for you. So instead of thinking “Oh hell, which way do I need to change this clock” you’re looking at your phone thinking “Is that the actual time? Has it definitely changed? How will I know?”. I looked out of the window at the cricket club clock opposite and it said the same time as my phone, which confused me even more, because that suggested that someone had been in the cricket club at the crack of dawn on a Sunday to change the clock for the benefit of pretty much precisely no one.

I thought about sharing this observation with the person I live with, but decided that she probably wouldn’t be interested, so I kept quiet.

The weather was mad all day, it was quite nice and sunny for the most part but with regular yet mercifully brief torrential downpours. After lunch (the rest of yesterday’s pizzas) we decided to brave the elements and go for an outing to the Knepp Estate near Horsham.

I first went there last November after one of my friends, also a reader of this blog (hello Ian), asked me if I’d been to the Knepp Estate near Horsham and I’d never heard of it. I don’t like not having heard of things, so I looked it up and found out how to get there and went for a walk on my week off on my own. Ever since, I’ve been trying to find the time to go back to the Knepp Estate near Horsham with the people I live with in tow for a walk, but haven’t quite got round to it.

It’s a bit ridiculous it’s taken until now, to be honest. The main thing that has kept us sane since March has been going on walks in the countryside. I realised quite early on that if you went anywhere even vaguely off the beaten path in Sussex, you could easily walk for hours without seeing anyone. So that’s what we did. Almost every weekend over the summer we packed a picnic, found an obscure footpath on an OS map and went exploring. Hamsey, Cooksbridge, Chiltington, Laughton, Barcombe, Chailey, Wiston; it was a real roll call of places that barely exist. (I got those names off of my Instagram, I hadn’t remembered any of them).

The best walk we went on, though, was to Paul McCartney’s house. I’ve known for ages that Paul McCartney has a house in Sussex, so every time we went to some obscure place for a walk I’d say, “Oooh, do you reckon that’s Paul McCartney’s house?” and the person I live with would say “No, of course that’s not Paul McCartney’s house, Paul McCartney wouldn’t live THERE”. It got to the point where I actually looked up where Paul McCartney’s house in Sussex is, and it turned out to be near Peasmarsh, which is near Rye over on the Kent-Sussex border. It’s not that far away as the crow flies, maybe 40-ish miles, but the roads are so awful it takes about an hour and a half to get out there from Brighton so we don’t bother very often.

Anyway, it turned out that the person I live with’s sister was on holiday in Kent in August and wanted to come and meet us for a walk and so I was like “OMG WE CAN GO TO MACCA’S GAFF” and somehow everyone agreed to this.

To get to Paul McCartney’s house, here is what you do: drive to Jempson’s supermarket in Peasmarsh and park your car there (Jempson’s is some crazy supermarket/café/petrol station/post office brand that only exists on the Kent-Sussex border, it’s fancy). Then walk up out the back of Jempson’s, across the field, up the lane, down the path, through the wood, along the track, through the gate, across another field and then you get to Paul McCartney’s field. You can tell it’s Paul McCartney’s field because it’s really nice. It’s clearly not a field owned by a farmer, because it’s covered in wildflowers, and there’s a wide grassy path been mown in it for you to walk across. It’s the nicest field I’ve ever been in.

When we were walking across it some deer turned up and ran over the brow of the hill, towards Paul McCartney’s house. However, I didn’t know that that was Paul McCartney’s house over the brow of the hill, I thought it was a different house, so we ended up going and hanging around a house that we thought was Paul McCartney’s house but it wasn’t really and peering in the garden. Then we walked back to Jempson’s and bought miniature tubs of ice cream, ate them in the car park and drove home.

So actually we never did see Paul McCartney’s house this summer, but we had a nice time anyway, and that was the main thing.

Where was I? Ah yes, the Knepp Estate near Horsham, we finally made it to Knepp. It’s a private estate, there’s not a visitor’s centre or anything I think, but there are public footpaths across it so we stuck to those. This would be a good point to explain about the rewilding project that they are doing at the estate, but I know sod all about it, you’ll have to look it up yourselves if you’re interested. It’s owned by a woman called Isabella Tree, she’s on the radio sometimes. We saw some nice trees and Knepp Castle and a mill pond and some historic eel traps. Then we went up a wooden staircase up a tree to a viewing platform, then across a boggy field and did some squelching in mud, which we all enjoyed.

At this point it was getting dark, and the person I live with said “Oooh, it is getting dark early now isn’t it”, and I said, well, that’ll be the clocks going back. Then the person I live with admitted she hadn’t noticed the clocks going back until that point, which made me wish that I had mentioned it to her earlier.

We were walking back to the car along the track that goes up to the main house on the estate when a Land Rover came along, so we got out of the way and as it went past it became apparent that the driver was about 11 years old. He had a load of what looked like responsible adults in the car with him, so I think it was probably ok. He was so proud of himself though, he gave us a little wave as he went past, I think he was over the moon that someone else had seen him driving. Then we saw some deer and went home.

One of the more curious things about Knepp is that it’s a stone’s throw from the A24. There’s a McDonalds drive through about half a mile away. On the way there the McDonalds was so busy that there were hordes of people outside and some of them had spilled onto the central reservation of the A24 to eat their burgers. It seemed to me unnecessarily punishing in a pandemic to eat your lunch in the middle of four lanes of traffic, but I’m not judging. Sundays can turn out like that, can’t they.

Didn’t go to Waitrose.

Day 26

God, I’ve gone on a bit about the weekend, haven’t I? Monday, worked a bit, played a bit, made some banana bread, watched University Challenge, went to bed.

Didn’t go to Waitrose.

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thisdaynews · 5 years

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‘If He’s Not in a Fight, He Looks for One.’

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/if-hes-not-in-a-fight-he-looks-for-one/

‘If He’s Not in a Fight, He Looks for One.’

On July 24, as special counsel Robert Mueller’s uneven testimony came to a close, Donald Trump clearly was feeling triumphant. He gloated and goaded on Twitter. He stood outside the White House and crowed. Mueller had done “horrible” and “very poorly,” the president said on the South Lawn. He called it “a great day for me.” He was, after all, rid, it seemed, of perhaps his first term’s preeminent enemy.

It took him less than 24 hours to flip to the next big fight.

Story Continued Below

Because on July 25, according to reports, Trump pressured repeatedly the leader of Ukraine to help rustle up potential political ammunition on Joe Biden, the man polls at this point suggest is his most likely opponent in next year’s election.

That Trump would so quickly in the wake of the Mueller investigation commit a brazen act some critics say representsan egregious and impeachable abuse of power has mystified many observers. How could he have so blithely ignored the lessons of the nearly three-year investigation? But those who know him best say this is merely the latest episode in a lifelong pattern of behavior for the congenitally combative Trump. He’s always been this way. He doesn’t stop to reflect. If he wins, he barely basks. If he loses, he doesn’t take the time to lie low or lick wounds; he invariably refuses to even admit that he lost. Regardless of the outcome—up, down or somewhere in between—when one tussle is done, Trump reflexively starts to scan the horizon in search of a new skirmish.

“If he’s not in a fight, he looks for one,” former Trump publicist Alan Marcus told me this weekend. “He can’t stop.”

“He’s always in an attack mode,” former Trump casino executive Jack O’Donnell said. “He’s always got adversaries.”

“He does love a confrontation—there’s no question about it,” added Barbara Res, a former Trump Organization executive. “Trump thinks he’s always going to win—he really does believe that—and he fights very, very, very dirty.”

“A street fighter,” Louise Sunshine, another former Trump Organization executive, once told me.

Trump, of course, has said all of this himself, and for as long as people have been paying him any attention. For decades, he has been redundantly clear. “I go after people,” he has said. “… as viciously and as violently as you can,” he has said. “It makes me feel so good,” he has said.

As president, he’s changed … not at all.

“I like conflict,” he confirmed last year.

***

“Donald,” wrote Jerome Tuccille,in the first biography ever written of Trump, in 1985, “was a round, fleshy baby who howled up a storm from the day he was born.” He was “a brat” from the start, according to his oldest sister. In elementary school in Queens, he was a desk-crashing, spitball-spewing, pigtail-pulling playground boor. “Surly,” said one of his teachers. “A little shit,” said another. He was sent at 13 years old some 60 miles up the Hudson River to New York Military Academy, where he was cocksure and hypercompetitive—“so competitive,” his roommate recalled, “that everybody who could come close to him he had to destroy.” His favorite instructor at NYMA called him “a real pain in the ass.” But it was what Trump’s father had taught him to be. “Life’s a competition,” Fred Trump told his second son and chosen heir. Be a “killer.”

In the 1970s, when Trump was a young adult, Roy Cohn continued the tutorial. “What makes Roy Cohn tick?” journalist Ken Auletta once asked Cohn in an interview, the audio recording of which acts as a kind of spine to Matt Tyrnauer’s new documentary. “A love of a good fight,” Cohn answered.

“Roy,” Roger Stone tells Tyrnauer, “would always be for an offensive strategy. Those are the rules of war. You don’t fight on the other guy’s ground. You define what the debate is going to be about. I think Donald learned that from Roy.”

“I bring out the worst in my enemies, and that’s how I get them to defeat themselves,” Cohn once said. Trump was taking notes. “A sponge,” Cohn cousin David Lloyd Marcus told me.

“He made Donald,” added socialite and celebrity interviewer Nikki Haskell, “very confrontational.”

Trump spent the 1980s constructing what’s proven to be an ineradicable foundation, opening the refurbished Grand Hyatt, building Trump Tower and buying Mar-a-Lago, the New Jersey Generals of the United States Football League and a vast stretch of land on Manhattan’s Upper West Side that he would try to turn into “Trump City,” pile-driving into the cultural bedrock the places and props that would underpin his persona.

The consistency of his bellicosity, too, became impossible to ignore. He fought, and he fought, and he fought. Even after fighting the city for lavish tax breaks for his first two projects—and winning—he quickly picked new fights and new foes. He fought preservationists after jackhammering pieces of art on the building he had to tear down to put up the building branded with his name. He fought aghast residents of the neighborhood in which he wanted to plop his most gargantuan project yet.

And as the owner of the USFL’s Generals, he fought … everybody. Arrogant, impulsive and ill-informed, Trump wasted no time starting to fight with his fellow team owners in the second-tier outfit. He then set his sights on the larger, richer, much more powerful National Football League. He wanted to go head-to-head by playing games in the fall instead of the spring. He wanted to fight for players, for television time, for attention. “We’re definitely at war with the National Football League,” he said just six weeks after he acquired the Generals. He wanted the NFL in the end to take in him and his team, and he didn’t want to wait. And enough of his fellow owners finally capitulated. He sued the NFL—and he lost. “Everyone let Donald Trump take over,” one of the owners said. “It was our death.”

Trump, though, hadn’t even waited for the verdict to shift his focus. Two monthsbeforethe upshot in court, he kickstarted his next fight. It started with two words.

“Dear Ed …”

Mayor Ed Koch. His No. 1 antagonist all decade long.

For several years, Trump had been looking down from his Trump Tower perches, from his office on the 26th floor and from his triplex at the top, sometimes with a telescope, watching broken Wollman Rink sitting dormant in Central Park. The city had been fumbling in its efforts to fix it, a stupor of faulty Freon, damaged coils and construction delays. And it still was nowhere close to being done. Trump sniffed the possibility of a fight that could make him look good.

“I have watched with amazement,” he wrote in a provocation of a letter to Koch, “as New York City repeatedly failed on its promises to complete and open the Wollman Skating Rink. Building the rink, which essentially involves the pouring of a concrete slab over coolant piping, should take no more than four months’ time. To hear that, after six years, itwill now take another two years, is unacceptable to all the thousands of people who are waiting to skate once again at the Wollman Rink. I and all other New Yorkers are tired of watching the catastrophe of Wollman Rink. The incompetence displayed on this simple construction project must be considered one of the great embarrassments of your administration. I fear that in two years there will be no skating at the Wollman Rink, with the general public being the losers.”

He made his pitch. He wanted to take over the rink and make it work. “I don’t want my name attached to losers,” Trump said. “So far the Wollman Rink has been one of the great losers. I’ll make it a winner.”

And he did. The rink opened later in the year to great fanfare in the city and around the country. Beyond the specific accomplishment, though, the entire endeavor let Trump fan his feud with Koch. It was a milepost in their sour, never-ending back-and-forth, Trump calling Koch a “moron” and a “disaster,” Koch calling Trump a greedy bully, all of which only intensified later in the decade when Koch spurned Trump’s demands for more tax breaks for his plot on the Upper West Side.

Trump didn’t get the money from the city that he wanted, but the war alone was a sort of a win—a key slice of the Cohn syllabus, passed down. Reporters, as Trump put it, “love stories about extremes, whether they’re great successes or terrible failures.” All publicity was good publicity, he believed, and more than anything else, as he (with Tony Schwartz) would write inThe Art of the Deal, “the press thrives on confrontation.”

The ‘90s were no different. He fought his first wife through their high-profile split and acrimonious aftermath. He fought his lenders and creditors in a desperate attempt to stay solvent. Most people, perhaps all other people, would have concluded that this was more than enough strife. Not Trump. He picked a fight with casino analyst Marvin Roffman (and lost). He picked a fight with Atlantic City resident Vera Coking (and lost). He engaged in headline-generating legal tit-for-tat with Harry and Leona Helmsley. In 1995, still owing his lenders $115 million of debt he had guaranteed during his late ‘80s shopping spree, Trump teetered on the precipice of personal bankruptcy. Restless and unchastened, he spent the rest of the decade tangling with casino tycoon Steve Wynn in Atlantic City, filing lawsuits, calling him names (“an incompetent”) and attempting (and ultimately succeeding) to prevent him from expanding from Las Vegas into what Trump considered his territory.

“He is a man who will say anything,” Richard D. “Skip” Bronson, Wynn’s righthand man at the time, wrote of Trump in a book about this fight,War at the Shore. “It didn’t matter how baseless or how ridiculous the comments, Trump didn’t need to be proven right in order to win. All he had to do was be a nuisance and stall long enough so that the project would no longer be attractive.” Bronson added: “The whole feud had been a game to him and now that it was over, he was ready to move on.”

***

Over the last two decades, as his officious schtick on “The Apprentice” somehow forged a path into politics, he sniped with celebrities before he did the same with Republicans and Democrats alike.

“Trump is a predator,” Republican strategist Alex Castellanos asserted last spring. “When something enters his world, he either eats it, kills it or mates with it.”

“He is not interested in pleasures such as art and food and friendship, and he doesn’t seem to be motivated by love or creative impulses. The one exception is his drive to create conflict, which brings him the attention of others. When he says he likes to fight—all kinds of fights—he is telling the truth,” Trump biographer Michael D’Antonio told me earlier this year, pointing to a “discomfort” Trump seems to feel in “the moment of peace that follows a victory.”

“Yes,” D’Antonio texted this weekend as the Ukraine news was breaking. “It’s always a matter of a new extreme.”

“He’s more comfortable in an adversarial relationship,” O’Donnell, the former Trump casino exec, said when we talked on Sunday. “So he’s thinking about Mueller one moment, and he’s thinking about Biden the next.”

I asked O’Donnell why he thinks Trump is this way.

He told me to call a psychiatrist.

#fight #Foreign #looks #Politics

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bethcanwriteipromise · 7 years

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Kitschy Metaphors

A Literacy Narrative exploring my life in Forensics, written for University Writing course.

I had always been destined to speak competitively, but no betting man would have ever pegged me for Extemp. Even I resisted the pairing. The first Extemp my mother had me give was preluded by an hour of me hunched over in her bathtub, fully clothed, surrounded by files and newspapers, trying to decide between figuring out who the hell Qaddafi was and prying open a second-story window. I don’t quite know how I ended up in the tub. The cold marble and safe seclusion helped, but I had made the drowning metaphor physically inescapable. What intellectual masochism convinced my 13-year-old self to ever indulge in that traumatic process again, I cannot say. But thank God I did.

The language of Extemporaneous Speaking had always been a well-kept secret. Extempers were elite, travelling in gangs with giant tubs of files resting on sleek dollies, Italian leather clacking along a foreign high school’s hall tiles. If you sat and observed them long enough, you’d notice a tendency for them to walk like a backslash, \, leaning back against each step and leading with their hips. No one very much liked the Extempers, who were too dry for the Interpers and too cocky for the Debaters.

I still remember the laughter from Mr. Rocca when I asked him if I could try my hand at Extemp at an upcoming tournament. If a fat, greased, pot-bellied pig were magically made human and forced to coach a high school forensics team, that would give you Mr. Christopher Rocca. Wait, no. The pig might be less sexist. When Rocca heard my request, he boomed out a laugh so forceful that the two flecks of pasta in his beard became crossly dislodged. He did me the favor of explaining that as a freshman girl competing as the sole Extemper from her team, I would never ever stand a chance against the hordes of boys from Durham Academy and Ardrey Kell. I was better off sticking to an event better suited for my “demographic,” like Children’s Literature or Storytelling.

It was then that I decided to succeed in Extemp.

As much as I hated to admit it, Rocca did have a point—competing as the only Extemper on my team meant I would have to figure this thing out from scratch, and I certainly would not be using him for help. My mother was one of the best Interp coaches on the East coast, but as the bathtub incident had proved, she and I were not a compatible fit for Extemp coaching. So, I set off to coach myself. I spent weeks on extempcentral.com, reading and rereading the rules. Thirty minutes before speaking, you draw three current events-based questions, choose one, and return to your seat. The questions could be anything from anywhere with no warning, from a Congressional fiscal sequester to a migrant crisis in Malaysia. The next half hour is for preparation, using files, magazines, and news sources all saved preemptively—no internet. Then, at thirty minutes, you walk to a room, present your topic slip before a judge, and give a 5-7 minute memorized, fluent, sourced, theoretically entertaining speech that, above all, answers your question. No big deal.

For my first tournament, Southside, I stumbled into the prep room armed with two issues of The Economist, one Time magazine, and a travel dictionary. First round I got lucky, drawing a Libya question I could tie back to Qaddafi from the bathtub. By lucky, I mean I recognized the name. It was still an atrocious speech, but the easy room yielded me second place in the round. Second round was not so kind. My entire question read “David Cameron: friend or foe?” One issue—I had no clue who the heck David Cameron was. Now, in retrospect, I realize how incredibly English that name sounds, and that I probably should have started with my England articles and would have in doing so immediately discovered that he was the prime minister, but, alas, I was panicking. See, when I began competing in Extemporaneous speaking, my strength was my ability to craft kitschy metaphors that made these big, scary political concepts fun and comprehensible. Granted, that only worked if I found them comprehensible. My greatest weakness was my total lack of the knowledge foundation needed for quicker connections and deeper analysis. Needless to say, I placed last in that round and the one after it.

As the season continued, I got better—not great, but better. I started actually reading the magazines I was toting along, and my file tub began to grow rapidly. I wasn’t winning, but I wasn’t losing, which was enough to unsettle Durham boys. Through the winter and spring months I established my presence as an Extemper on the circuit. My cheesy, fun metaphors were getting attention, some supportive, some hostile, but all publicity is good publicity. By the time the third day of the state tournament came along, they all knew my name.

A dedicated Extemper, I had invested in my own dolly—my own hot pink dolly—and had wheeled my supplies into the corner of a Marvin Ridge computer lab being used as our elimination rounds prep room. I unloaded my stacks of magazines, placed my lucky stuffed dolphin at the edge of my workstation, and opened my padfolio to a fresh page. “STATE FINALS: AFRICA,” I wrote at the top, forever thankful that the round topic had been released in advance. Draw began, and the clock ticked by. I was sixth and final speaker, so I had 35 minutes to wait. I flipped through The Economist, arranged and rearranged my color coded highlighters, and nervously binged on winter fresh mints. At last, I was called up to draw.

As I stared down at the three topics I was to choose between, every muscle in my body tensed up. It was David Cameron all over again. Two of the three had specific names of people I could never place, no familiarity, zero, zilch. The third was not much better. I carefully turned over the first two, picked up my little slip of paper, and began the mental preparation for another crash and burn. This time it would be worse. This time there would be a whole panel of judges and student observers. Everyone would see.

I didn’t know how I would do it, but I realized that I had to make this work. I gave the topic another reread. “Has the AU responded appropriately to the coup in Mali?” I had two initial questions—what is a coup, and who is the AU? Relieved, I remembered the travel dictionary I still kept at the bottom of my tub. I unburied it, cracked the spine, and found the COU-s. Cougar, Country, County, Couscous. Couscous. My dictionary had “couscous” but not “coup?” It was time for every lesson I had ever learned on context clues to kick in. I searched through my Africa files and found two, short Economist articles about Mali, one of which discussed the coup. It wouldn’t define it for me, but I had enough information to gather that it was some sort of government redistribution, a rebellious takeover. Now that I had made this uncanny conclusion, I had only 12 minutes left.

“Think, think. What do you know about Africa?”

Africa. Africa had had a lot of violent overthrows lately. Libya. Okay. I could talk about how the AU could not possibly have responded to the coup appropriately because the most appropriate response would have been to prevent it in the first place, to look at what was happening everywhere else and take proactive action instead of coming in afterwards. I could tie it together with a metaphor—cookies! If you’ve got a child who is set on having a cookie, and I mean downright determined, the appropriate response is to get the child to exhibit some good behavior and reward them with the cookie. If you simply refuse the request and leave them alone in the kitchen, they’ll find a way to knock the cookie jar off the shelf, sending porcelain splinters all over the kitchen and leaving you with a dangerous mess to clean up. If the people of Mali were set on a change in government, the AU should have incentivized and facilitated a peaceful transition. Instead, no help came to Mali and a violent coup occurred.

Two minutes. Two minutes left. Now I had only one final question—who the hell was the AU? AU… AU… AU… One minute. Screw it, I knew who the EU was, and this was the Africa round. African Union. I would say African Union. My speaker code was called and I rose to leave the prep room, stepping into my heels and petting the dolphin for luck. Down the hall, I entered the competition room. Time froze for about seven minutes as I gave my speech. I barely remember what actually happened in the room, but I will never forget what happened when I left it—I stopped the first Extemper I saw, asked him what the AU was, and when he said “African Union,” I swear I heard the African Children’s Choir sing me a hymn.

I ended up placing third, which was shocking and awesome, but it wasn’t the best part of that day. The grand, unforgettable moment was in prep, with my stupidly cheesy cookie metaphor and context clue dependence, when I realized that I didn’t have to be some uptight know-it-all to give a powerful Extemporaneous speech. It is irrefutably important to be politically smart in the event, yes, and I have continued to work at that in the years since. But it doesn’t matter how deep your analysis is if no one can understand it but you. That’s what my judges wrote on my ballots that day. That even if my depth was lacking, my speech made sense. They got the cookie jar metaphor, and it made the speech fun, “waking them up” after having already watched five Extemps in a row. That it was worth watching.

In my senior year of competition, sometimes I forgot. My speeches were highly analytical and extremely well sourced, but I forgot to have fun with a particular round, or didn’t use a metaphor in the next. Whenever that happened, I would think back to the cookie jar. The fun. The look on Rocca’s face when I held up my third place trophy, or the young freshman girls I saw braving the prep room the next year. In my senior year state finals, I compared Robert Mugabe to Taylor Swift, with the “blank space” on his VP ballot, the political “haters” he needed to “shake off,” and how he and his party were “never ever ever getting back together.” At nationals, Indonesia’s government was Batman, Putin a zookeeper. The metaphors and spunk that week in Texas carried me to the top 12 in the nation. Rocca congratulated me afterwards, some new pasta dish woven into his mustache.

After these years of competition in Extemp, I think it is the things that are hardest to do that are the most important. Even if you have to start by gripping the side of a bathtub, swallowing back the nerves lodged in your windpipe, you must start. Otherwise, the Roccas and the Durham boys and the clock all win. Beat them! And do it with kitschy metaphors. That is what I tell the Extempers I coach today.

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