[Above: OWS protestors hold the line and refuse to move.]

[Above: Police move protestors with extreme brute force.]

The Cleansing of Zuccotti Park by Zach D. Roberts

Fuck. My lens is busted - a goddamn cop hit it with a night stick. Then he hit me. Then he shoved me backwards - I nearly fell backward into the crowd, tripping over the edge of the sidewalk. I would have been trampled.

That's when it got a bit scary.

He was yelling, "GET BACK!!! GET BACK!!!"

There was the road and moving traffic behind us, but he didn't seem to care - so the choice was keep walking backward and filming, possibly backing into moving traffic or dart between the taxis - I made the decision to turn and dart, keeping my camera facing back just shooting wide and point in the cops general direction.

Some kids got plastered into and over the cab, which luckily at this point had stopped. Others fell, and while trying to get up were whacked with night sticks, "MOVE, MOVE!"

The fact that they were on the ground, on their back getting hit and held down didn't really matter to the NYPD. Eventually the cops allowed other protestors to drag the kids away and out of the street.

This night wasn't about making arrests, it was about beating heads and making a point. The 17th was only 48 hours away and the police wanted to make sure that everyone knew they were the law (to be read in a Judge Dredd voice)


[Above: Police push back protestors away from Zucotti Square, pushing one woman to the ground.]

Ok, so here's what happened in Lower Manhattan early Tuesday morning.

Fuck. That's what happened.

Free speech, the right to assemble peacefully, and some well meaning kids were pissed upon by a 3-term mayor who is also a billionaire and owner of a media empire.


[Above: Police arrest protestor for jaywalking.]

I'm sorry for the expletives, but if you were there you'd know they were needed. I haven't seen this sort of police madness since the years of the Bush admin when dirty hippies and the press were fair game. Also watching a kid get slammed repeatedly in the face with a police shield has it's effect on your bias. I'll admit it here - I'm with the kids, the protestors, with the occupiers. If we have any hope for this nation it will be from the ones at the business end of a baton - not the one swinging it.

After the initial confrontation with the NYPD, protestors were bottle necked and then split up so their numbers would be too small to take on the masses of over-timed police that were standing, waiting with pepper spray, helmets, shields and batons. I saw all of the aforementioned used as weapons that night in a way that you knew that their supervisors weren't watching.

NOTE: This was the first time the uniformed NYPD (the blue shirts) were not directly supervised by the white shirts (Leuitenants and up in rank).



Word got around that everyone was reconvening at Union Square to figure out what exactly to do. Foley square was also mentioned, but the group that I decided to go with was going with Union. The group started out with about a dozen then attached itself to a larger contingent of about 50, this metastasizing went on for a while until we were in the East Village (about 15 blocks from Zuccotti) and our numbers were 150-200.

Unfortunately these numbers included a contingent of what might be called black bloc. These are the people you see on the news - the only ones that the mainstream cameras usually go with. Garbage cans being thrown in the street make for much sexier footage than a protestor explaining the intricacies of why they are marching. I understand why they do. Personally I'll take the shots and let my editors decide. Luckily I usually work for smart editors - I don't work for The Post.

Somehow we lose the police. I can't tell if it's because they gave up chasing us (your average protestor is in better shape than your average cop, it's a fact - I'm sorry) or if our quick and flowing changes in direction made them lose us. Either way, there's 150 protestors running down the middle of Broadway with only 5 members of the press (counting me) to cover it. This. Is. Awesome.

Full disclosure, I used to be a protestor, a community organizer (gasp!) but then I got sick and tired of losing and not getting anything covered by the news so I decided to switch allegiances and start covering the events.


[Above: Protestors make it up to Houston St. - many blocks from Zucotti Park - on their way to Union Square.]

Ah shit. Lights, and they're coming up quick. Holy shit they're coming up quick. Really quick. People are yelling, "Watch out! Watch out!" I grab one of my friends, another freelance shooter out of the way from a cop car flying by. That was close, waayyy too close. The cop drives the car into the crowd of protestors up ahead nearly hitting about 10 that couldn't jump out of the way quick enough. He's immediately out of the car, baton ready, and grabs the first kid he sees and slams him face down into the hood of the car.

Fucking brilliant! AP shooter John Minchillo and I are the first ones there. The kids are sprinting ahead now, while others stay behind chanting "SHAME! SHAME! SHAME!" One gets hauled away in the cop car.



We’re off again, this time back towards Zuccotti - or at least I think so. The cops are very outnumbered, so they stay behind and let us retake Broadway and then Houston. Some of the black bloc protestors run up the front of taxis waiting at the stop light to the surprise of the tourists inside. The driver actually looks somewhat bored.


[Above: Protestors take the street in the East Village.]

Stand off at Zuccotti.

Five hours later and probably about five miles of cat and mouse games with the police we're back at where this all started - standing near the closest entrance to Wall St. Well not on the street; My best friend since grade school, CS Muncy (another brilliant shooter), is standing with me on top of a police car. We're exhausted. CS was sleeping comfortably when I called him screaming, "They're clearing the fucking park!" He lucked out and made it in the Zuccotti Park to shoot the actual cleanup while I was stuck on the outside. He jumped the police barricades and ignored the cops yells to stop, getting some front page shots before being thrown out. Press were not allowed. No photos for the history books - except for the ones that he got. That's what he does.



It's 6am. There is now a general feeling of victory in the air. People are playing music and dancing. A couple makes out for a solid 15 mins on top of a phone booth. Half for the pleasure, half for the photographers. This is their moment in the sun, their 15mins - what better way of spending it than making out with your girlfriend. I've got my injured camera.

Black bloc starts letting the air out of the tires of the police cars that we are currently occupying.



I'm wondering though as the police start pushing forward to clear this part of the street, to push us again away from Zuccotti, is this the crest of the wave? Will this be remembered 20 years from now by anyone other than a handful of protestors and journo's as they reminisce over beers? Will I write about this like Hunter Thompson wrote about the middle ‘60s?

To steal a better ending than I could write I'll use Hunter's words.

There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Hudson, then up the Brooklyn Bridge or down Broadway to Zuccotti. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .

And that, I think, was the handle — that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting — on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . .




[Above: NYPD in front of the new World Trade Center building near Zucotti Park]
[Below: Zucotti Park being sanitized.]






***

Zach D. Roberts is a photo/video journalist who’s work has been seen in the Observer, The Guardian Online, TheNation.com, The Minnesota Independent, among others. For the past 5 years he’s been working as a researcher/producer for Greg Palast. He produced several DVD’s and news pieces for the BBC’s Newsnight show. Zach edited Palast and RFK Jr’s Steal Back Your Vote comic - which had nearly 100,000 downloads and print copies distributed throughout the world). Currently he works regularly as a video producer for Jamie Kilstein and Allison Kilkenny’s CitizenRadio.

Zach has been detained in New Orleans by Exxon Mobil security, threatened with arrest over three dozen times but has never been arrested. In 2010 he met Sarah Palin while working on his soon to be released first feature length documentary ‘The Rogue Candidate: Sarah Palin’s Real Alaska.’ While in Alaska he broke several stories via TheMudflats.net. For more visit his website, Facebook, and Twitter.

by Blogbot



Artist / SG Member Name: JulesDoll or just Jules.

Mission Statement: Art is my religion. Paint is my passion. It's buried deep into my soul, and under my fingernails. You will find me drawing and painting every day, like my life depends on it.



Medium: Oil, acrylic, watercolor, and ink.

Aesthetic: Surreal psychedelic fantasyland. Much of my work is inspired by nature, animals, and an Alice in Wonderland complex.



Notable Achievements: I have painted hundreds of pieces, though right now I'm still trying to break out. I have boxes and stacks full of work.

Why We Should Care: I put real time and blood into my art. Living the poor artist lifestyle is not glamorous, but I wouldn't change a thing. These are not just pretty pictures, they all tell an interwoven story of the Ink Well. I always finish the canvas and paint on the sides, so there is more story to be told that is unseen.
A few of these are in groups or series and make much more sense when placed next to each other – like pages in a book.

I Want Me Some: I have an Etsy store and am open for commission work as well.









***

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by Ryker Suicide

Ingredients Tacos:

• 1 can of black beans


• 1/2 can of Ro*Tel diced tomatoes with peppers


• Lime juice


• Fresh cilantro


• 1 clove of garlic


• 1 small butternut squash


• Olive oil


• 1 package of ground tofu "beef" bits (I love Smart Ground Original)


• 1 TBS Chinese 5 spice seasoning


• Ground Sage (to taste, I used about a TBS)


• Sea salt and fresh ground pepper to taste


• 1/2 TBS ground cumin


• Pickled onions (recipe follows)


• 3 diced peppers (jalapenos or serranos work great)


• Optional: Sour cream or yogurt (I used soy yogurt, to keep with the vegan theme)


• Corn Tortillas

Preparation:

Combine beans, Ro*Tel tomatoes, lime juice (I used a generous squirt of refrigerated lime juice), and about 1/8 of a cup of chopped cilantro leaves. Stir until warm, add 1 clove of crushed garlic and simmer on low stirring occasionally to prevent beans/garlic from burning.

In a large skillet heat olive oil (a few turns of the pan) until it begins to smoke. Add chopped butternut squash (about 1/4 inch pieces or so, whatever your preference is), ground sage (fresh would also probably work great here, I just didn't have any on hand), salt/pepper, 5 spice, and ground cumin. Sauté for about 10 minutes until squash is very tender. Add "beef" crumbles and a pinch more of previously mentioned spices (to taste) and cook another 4-6 minutes until flavors have combined and are scrumptious!

Warm tortillas in a dry pan. Serve butternut squash/veggie ground mixture topped with beans, diced jalapenos/serranos, pickled onions, yogurt, and fresh cilantro.

Eat and enjoy!

Ingredients Pickled Onions:

• 1 cup of red wine


• 1 cup of red wine vinegar


• Approx. 1 TBS mustard seed


• Approx 2 TBS whole peppercorns


• 1/2 cup of packed brown sugar


• 2 tsp red pepper flakes


• 2 small yellow onions

Preparation:

Combine red wine and red wine vinegar in a pan over med-low heat. Stir in sugar until melted. Add mustard seed, peppercorns and pepper flakes. Add onions (I sliced them in half and then did thin slices). Heat over medium-high until boils. Transfer to mason jar and allow to pickle 8-12 hours (or longer). They keep for about 10-14 days in the fridge and are heavenly

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Blackboards In Porn is a highly amusing site that claims to celebrate “pornographers who go the extra mile when set dressing classroom porn and actually write something on the blackboard.”

Its anonymous but obviously British editor and webmaster, who we’re reliably informed has a BEng in Electronic Engineering and an MA in Screenwriting, focuses his or her considerable analytical and creative skills on the equations, diagrams, and notations drawn on said boards, checking for accuracy and scouring for greater meaning.

Though not a porn site ourselves (we like to think we’re naughty but not nasty, and pinup rather than pornography), we thought it’d be fun to set BiP some homework. Thus we challenged 'em to set their logical prowess loose on the chalk boards of SuicideGirls. Here’s what BiP came up with while checking out Nina Suicide’s Back To School photo essay…



WORK HARD AND DO YOUR BEST

There can be few better exhortations to students than this. Working hard and doing one’s best will always produce the finest possible results, either in the classroom or on the playing field. After any exam or sporting challenge there is no failure if one can say afterwards “I did my best.” (England footballers please take note.)

A game of Noughts and Crosses is underway on the blackboard. If this has been done by a student then it should have been rubbed off immediately (see post #9 re Wilson and Kelling’s broken windows theory). But if this is actually part of the lesson then a gold star should be awarded as Noughts and Crosses is a great introduction to many mathematical and computer science concepts from combinations and symmetry to artificial intelligence.

A first question to pose to the class would be how many games of Noughts and Crosses are possible (the game tree size)? A naive answer would be 9! = 362,880 (assuming X always goes first). However, many games will be over before all the squares are filled, and many more are simply rotations and reflections of others (in effect there are not nine, but only three starting places: corner, centre and edge). Taking these into account gives an answer of 26,830.

Devising an algorithm to produce perfect play is also a favorite challenge, exploring ideas such as backwards reasoning and recursion. These can then be applied to other, more complex games such as Connect 4 and draughts, through to unsolved games such as Reversi, chess and Go (with its game tree complexity of 10360).

However, if this is an attempt to teach the strategy of perfect play then one must hope that the teacher has picked a very poorly played game to illustrate what not to do. Assuming that X’s first move was in the corner (always the best start: of the then 73 possible games, assuming perfect play on X’s part, 71 result in victory and two in a draw), then O has immediately blundered by playing the far edge instead of the centre (where his/her only hope of a draw can come from), resulting in what should be certain victory for X. X could then force a win by playing the centre, but has him/herself blundered by playing middle bottom. O can now snatch a draw from the jaws of defeat by playing centre or top right, leaving X to harp on about how the Wags should have been allowed to stay in the team hotel.

Despites its pedagogical pedigree, Noughts and Crosses quickly becomes futile when both players can easily force a draw. This was well-illustrated in WarGames, when the military supercomputer, equating the game to global thermonuclear war, evaluated all possible outcomes and remarked, “Strange game. The only winning move is not to play.” Failing that, just work hard and do your best.

8/10 An inspired choice of teaching material.




Visit blackboardsinporn.blogspot.com/ for more case studies on mathematics as featured in erotica.

by A.J. Focht



The internet exploded early Monday morning when Variety announced that David Yates, director of the final four Harry Potter films, was “teaming up with the BBC to turn its iconic sci-fi series Doctor Who into a bigscreen franchise.” The only problem with this was the BBC didn’t even know about it. A tweet from the BBC’s official Doctor Who Magazine said:

So for those of you who were hoping that the Doctor would finally make it to the big screen, it looks like you’ll have to wait a bit longer. Still, Yates seemed rather adamant; maybe something will come of it.

Thor director Keneth Branagh has revealed his reasoning for not returning to Thor 2. Turns out it was simply an issue of timing. Branagh didn’t have time to get back into the project quickly like Marvel needed. He also generously noted that he, along with many others, is excited about the new director Patty Jenkins.

The first previews from Middle Earth will likely hit this December. According to Andy Serkis (Gollum), the first trailers for The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey should be in theatres this holiday season.

In a recent interview with TV Guide, Bruce Campbell talked about the decision to cut the role of Ash from the new Evil Dead. Campbell said that while the decision pissed many off, ultimately, they decided it was best not to run a direct parallel to the character, even though this is a remake. Campbell also notes that he wouldn’t have wanted to put any actor in that position, and I don’t blame him. Following in the footsteps of Campbell in his most famous roll would be rather daunting.



DC heroes aren’t just storming the comic stores, Cartoon Network is adding a block program called DC Nation that will feature several DC cartoons. During the sneak peek to the new Green Lantern animated series, Cartoon Network aired a teaser for the block program. It looks like many of the classic heroes, as well as some new ones, will be featured in the segment.

Geek news has been a bit lacking this past week. It might be because everyone has been stuck inside playing Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3. The newest game in the COD franchise broke its own record selling more than 6.5 million units in less than 24 hours. While the game might have been the best seller, it wasn’t the only major game released this week; it was also competing with The Elder Scrolls: Skyrim and Assassins Creed Revelations.

Modern Warfare 3 is getting the sales, but it is one of lowest ranked games of the month generally pulling 8/10 and ‘B’ ratings. Batman: Arkham City, Skyrim, and Assassins Creed have been pulling in higher 9/10 and ‘A’ ratings. All of these games are likely to land one Game of the Year prize or another, although Skyrim and Arkham City have managed the highest reviews.

The Xbox 360 is the oldest system of the current generation on the market. After six years on the shelf, everyone is wondering when it will get a replaced for real and not just upgraded with accessories like the Kinect. That time might be closer than you think. New rumors report the next Xbox will be called the Loop. Those who claim to have the inside scoop say the system is smaller and cheaper than the current Xbox system, yet more powerful and next generation. We’ll just have to wait and see what comes of these rumors.



Finally, the final episode of Dragon Age Redemption starring Felicia Day is now live. For those who haven’t been following, it is an excellent web series based in the Dragon Age universe. If you haven’t tuned in, now is your chance to watch all of the episodes without the week wait in-between.

SG contributor Greg Palast's latest book contains more stinking shit per page than there is in the tanks at your local sewage works. A detective story that’s all too true, in Vultures’ Picnic, Palast, a forensic accountant and PI turned author and investigative journalist, uncovers the power and money hungry elite who take a big fat dump on our environment and democracy as a matter of course – common decency merely being the cost of doing business for these “high living” scum.

Over the course of the book’s 400+ pages, Palast, a honey-dipper* extraordinaire (who is perhaps best known for being the first to figure out exactly how Bush stole the 2000 election), chases the “turds around the planet” who are responsible for some of the biggest steaming piles of shit to hit newspaper headlines in recent memory.

The Deepwater Horizon explosion and subsequent oil slick in the Gulf of Mexico and the Fukushima Dai-ichi nuclear reactor meltdown and radiation leak in Japan may have been conveniently excused under the polite euphemism of “accident” by the companies responsible — and the media that kowtows to them — but it turns out the incidents were entirely foreseeable, cost assessed, and cynically calculated as a risk worth taking by those who care more about the bottom line than they do about the health of our planet and/or human life.

But before Deepwater Horizon, the company in part responsible for the ultra-deepwater blowout, BP, was also to-the-neck deep in an earlier record-breaking oil spill in Prince William Sound, Alaska. Palast had spent some quality time on the scene there doing what he does best, uncovering shit, but this time the shit got the better of him. Burnt out and disillusioned by his investigations into the Exxon Valdez “accident” (despite the name on the tanker, there were many fingers, including BP’s big fat one, in that poop pie), and our press and lawmakers apathetic (at best) response when confronted by the truth, he sought out pastures new.

Palast turned to England and The Guardian newspaper in the hopes of finding a culture that still had some semblance of a sense of justice and an outlet that vaguely understood the meaning of journalistic integrity. As this except from Vultures’ Picnic reveals, Palast soon found himself knee deep in some excrement partly of his own making, with his pants literally and metaphorically down by his ankles…



Vultures' Picnic: We Figured Out Who Murdered Jake

by Greg Palast

Blackpool, England, 1998

Now, if this were a movie, you would hear the audience screaming, DON’T TAKE THE KEY! DON’T GO UP THOSE STAIRS!

The reporter part of my brain was screaming THIS SMELLS BAD, but I couldn’t hear a thing because, while I was out for the story, the memory of Ms. Jamaica’s hand in my pocket had drained the blood from my cerebellum.

So I took the key she left for me at the desk with the message to meet her up in her room. I went up the stairs. Knock-knock. No answer.

DON’T OPEN THAT DOOR!

I opened the door.

FOR GOD’S SAKE, DON’T TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTHES!

I took off my clothes. I needed to change my shirt and pants for the New Statesman party, though if she walked in, hey, we could start the party early.

The door opened. I smiled . . . at the desk clerk and Ms. Jamaica’s husband.

Husband! This bitch has a HUSBAND? The poor pudgy schmuck had a face like the map of Liverpool, lost and pathetic and pugnacious at the same time.

The clerk, turning red, stuttered, “I explained the circumstance, sir. . . .” But I got the impression from the husband’s look that this wasn’t the first time Ms. Jamaica had handed some guy her hotel room key.

Thank god the Lord told me to pull up the pants a moment before the door opened. I babbled. ”How’s the vote count looking for our gal?” She was running for the Labour Party’s leadership council, the hand-picked candidate of the Prince of Darkness. To get the shit on the Prince was the reason I went “undercover” (so to speak).

This was not a nice moment. I fell all over my own words. ”Been trying to, to, trying to call her. Guess I’ll meet up — say, are you coming? — catch up with her at the New Statesman ‘do.’ Guess I’ll get going.”

Guess I will.


***

Look, this was not an easy investigation for me. My face had already been all over the front page of every newspaper in England when I broke Part I of the story in July 1997.

In a nutshell, here’s what happened. In the late 1990s, I was still going through my withdrawal, legal and emotional, from the Exxon Valdez investigation. I was done with being an investigator, a fancy gumshoe. I was hunting for a new job, a new life. OK, I’ll be a poet. I took poetry lessons from Allen Ginsberg, who was terminally sad because, by that time, he was too old to die young. If that’s how you end up, forget poetry.

Why not academe? There’s me: sucking a pipe and pontificating to hormonal grad students. I lectured at Cambridge University, Oxford, University of São Paulo. I could feel myself rusting.

OK, back to my roots, to labor unions, guys who do real stuff. To India, Peru, to Brazil to meet Lula, to London, forming a flying fighting unit against the international power pirates, targeting a company no one had heard of, Enron. Now I was going in reverse. Bang: I’m forty-six — this only happened to other people! Old people!

What could I do with my decomposing self? All over the world, I had heard people scream, but no one was listening. Americans just turned up their TVs. The victimized could scream through me. Journalism. If Clark Kent could do it, why not me?

I sent a fax to The Guardian in London, dropping some tidbits from my files about an operation called Southern Company; and at four the next morning, an editor rang to bring me over to Britain immediately. “Do you know how explosive this is?”

I did, but America didn’t. I would learn the cruel lesson that to report the news about my homeland, I would have to leave it. So, I moved house to England to work for The Guardian and its Sunday paper The Observer. I quickly formed a partnership with . . . a fifth of Felipe II. Our relationship began after more than a few rounds at the Coach & Horses, the pub near the The Guardian, also known as The Guardian's second newsroom.

While still sober-ish, I got an assignment: American power companies — Southern Company, Reliant, CSW, Entergy — were buying up Britain’s power systems left and right, sucking out the cash with big straws. It started with Maggie Thatcher but got worse under the new Labour Prime Minister, Tony Blair.

Oddly, Blair allowed the gigantic London Electricity system to be swallowed by a company from Little Rock, Arkansas. Entergy International of Arkansas, had once hired the Governor’s wife for legal work, but she didn’t work too hard. Her billing records, which I reviewed, were phony as a three-dollar bill. The firm really hit the jackpot when the Governor, Bill Clinton, became President of the United States and Entergy’s gal Hillary Rodham became a Lady.

But that was nothing. American power giants were screwing with Britain's environmental laws, messing with regulations, and getting strange exemptions signed by Prime Minister Blair himself.

This game was up when N. Gregory Levy of Strategies & Solutions, consultants for the little-known Houston outfit Enron, blew the whistle. Levy had secretly recorded lobbyists tied to Trade Minister Peter Mandelson and Chancellor Gordon Brown. On the tapes, the lobbyists detailed how they got laws fixed, rules pushed aside, and were slipped confidential government budget information for their clients, US banks, power companies and others. For a fee of £5,000 a month, these lobbyists would let you in through the back door of Downing Street, literally. ("Levy" received an invitation to go right in. No kidding.) For what you got, it was damn cheap.

N. Gregory Levy was reporter Greg Palast. Strategies & Solutions was The Guardian/Observer’s elaborate front.

The upshot? My story pulled the political pants off Mandelson, the man known throughout the realm as Prince of Darkness, the Prime Minister’s claw hand, Tony Blair’s Karl Rove.

Some of the U.S. energy giants and banks I’d exposed in the cash-for-access goo with Mandelson were not amused.

My most flamboyant connection was an icky little lobbyist named Derek Draper, “Dolly” to most. Dolly was only in his twenties, and Prince Mandelson, in his forties, liked boys. My editor, Will Hutton, wanted to know if Mandy and Dolly . . . “well, you know.” I didn’t know and didn’t want to. What Mandelson shared with Dolly was a deep sense of Mephistophelian amorality. It was Rasputin and Rasputin-in-training. Or Lord Voldemort and his snake, Nagini. What they did with other men before they ate them, I don’t care.

When my “Cash for Access — Lobbygate” story broke in The Observer, it splashed over the front pages of every British newspaper for a week. And so did I. In letters bigger than their “Hitler Defeated” headline, The Mirror’s front page screamed, “THE LIAR.”



The photo of me was most unflattering, suggesting that because I had no hair, I was bald. As you can imagine, it was difficult, then, to go back undercover. My face was known, and the list of those who wanted to see me die in pain was now long enough to cross the Atlantic.

I was only able to pull off my scam because I also played a third fake character, Greg Palast. Not the journalist, but Greg Palast who had been the American expert advising candidate Tony Blair in 1996 and 1997 on power and nuclear industry regulation. I pretended I was trying to secretly cash in on that connection, and the creeps who were cashing in on their own connection to Blair bought it.

In 1997, as Blair was on the cusp of being elected, and I was his advisor, not yet his accuser, I showed up at the Labour Party Conference gala with the (soon to be) Deputy Prime Minister, the rotund and confused John Prescott, and other political poo-bahs. The hotel dance hall was filled with pasty-faced Brits turning red from fattening ales. One gent had unbuttoned his shirt down to his bare chest and was rubbing his own nipples. And they make fun of Americans!

Across the room, alone and quiet, a slender woman. A woman who sizzled. How the hell did she sneak in here? And before I could avert my gawking eyes, she had knifed across the hall and asked me to dance. “So how did you get in with Prescott and Blair?” Power is an aphrodisiac, and combined with celebrity and opportunity, an orgasm in a bottle. She was vibrating. With ambition.

She slipped her hands in my pockets and asked how she could work her own way into the Labour Party leadership. For her, that would be easy. Half-Black Jamaican and all female. That made her a “two- fer” that the Prince of Darkness could surely use on a ballot somewhere. He did: The next year, Mandelson ran her for the Labour Party leadership council against another female, one of Mandy's enemies. Smart, that prince.

Jamaica gave me her coordinates, played some more in my pocket, and asked me to call her. My male idiot ego could never imagine that this sweet little muffin — and her husband — would, in a year or so, set me up like a bowling pin.

I don’t think she started out with such a plan to set me up for the kill. I surmised that the lady just wanted to have fun, a little dance, a little tickle — and maybe make some politically advantageous connections. She would not be the first talented woman to climb up the political ladder panties first.

***

One year later, after I busted Mandelson and Blair, I see she’s running for office as Mandelson’s cat’s-paw. Another Party Conference and their galas were coming up in September. I hunted for Jamaica’s number. I left a message and she called back breathlessly telling me I was far more handsome than those terrible photos in The Mirror (“Trouble, Palast, trouble,” a wise voice spoke before I smothered it). Mandy, I learned, had failed to get his star two-fer a ticket to the New Statesman party, the one that anyone who’s anyone just has to attend. I called the magazine’s editor and told him whom I would escort: My nemesis’ little gal.

***

With my shirt on, I headed off to the New Statesman ball, without his wife. Or mine.

I hit the dance floor, looked around, but Ms. Jamaica wasn’t there. Well, fuck her, the cheating bitch. (It didn’t bother me that I was a cheating butch.) Not by my third gin and tonic. It was the only time since the age of fifteen that I made a decision to get drunk drunk drunk.

Then I saw her. Not Jamaica, but Sweden. That is, one of the two all-legs-and-long-blond-hair women that had stood next to Dolly at his Banqueting Room reception months before, cooing and rubbing him all evening. The Banqueting Room is where King James lost his head.

I was about to lose mine.

How we ended up dancing, I don’t know. But Sweden was close, she was warm, it was going to be a good evening after all. The Son of God was Jewish and all was well, especially when she put her hands inside my suit jacket, rubbing up and down, and down the legs of my trousers. Oh my.

Then the rubbing got a little, it seemed, violent. She was patting me down, harshly, fury in her eyes.

“Where is it!? Where’s the tape recorder! You have a tape recorder! You just wanted to get me to talk to you about Derek. I can’t believe I was about to . . .”

No no no no, I wanted to tell her, but I had to step back to avoid a roundhouse slap to the head. I really truly just wanted your cool thighs crushing my ears. I just wanted to see an angel in underpants who would make me forget Dolly and forget Ms. Jamaica and forget Prince Poofy Mandy-kins AND HOW DARE YOU HIT A DRUNK!

I didn’t want to be a reporter tonight. (Sure, I was recording her. Fake cigarette lighter. Blondie should have noticed I don’t smoke. Asthma.)

***

Hangovers are not my thing. Don’t like them. No, I don’t. And here I was, made nauseous by the filthy carpet in the hotel lobby. The carpet was pulsing at me, threatening me. I didn’t like it. The Labour Party press office had woken me at a criminally early hour and told me I had to, had to, get to Party Headquarters and right now or I’d lose my press credentials.

New Labour never got drunk. It sipped white wine and knew nothing of love lost. But I said with cheer, “I’ll be right over, mate!” You scrotum-biting crud muncher. Mate.

Got there, waited in line, hating Blackpool and exile from the United States. Well, Palast, stop bellyaching and let’s just get to work.

“Greg Palast? No, sir, no credentials, sir, for you.”

Look, Princess Di or whatever your Limey name is, they told me to come in right now right away for the press pass.

“Been withdrawn, sir. Revoked.”

Huh? What for?

“It says here, for ‘moral violations.’ ”

MORAL VIOLATIONS?

“You must leave the Blackpool red zone directly.”

I pushed out the door to the street, looking down at my shaking cell phone, when I was slammed hard by two guys standing outside the doors.

I began to apologize when they each slammed me again, even harder, with their shoulders, and pushed me back against a stone wall.

“Palast, we know what you’re up to.”

One then whipped out a camera and started clicking it in my face as the other prick held me pinned to the bricks.

Even hung over, I knew I must not run. Never, ever run when there’s a camera. Every time a target of mine ran, they looked guilty guilty. The prick twins stayed on me, squeezing me from either side. We must have looked like quite a trio.

“We’ve got you in her room, Palast. We know what you were doing in her room, but why don’t you tell us. Make something up, Palast.”

Who the fuck were these guys? Later I would get their names: Will Woodward and Stephen White. If you see them, urinate on them, squeeze them against a wall and take their photo.

Thank God I wore my fedora. In England, some folk would recognize it. The Lord sent me Paul Farrelly, now an Honorable Member of Parliament. About the only honorable member of Parliament.

“Get away from Palast or I’ll have the cops on you.” Paul’s a little guy but built like a brick shithouse. He clearly was not going to wait for the cops to take care of these twats.

And Paul obviously knew them.

The gin and tonics had by now sweated out of me, and Paul, my guard, as they stalked behind us, said, “They’re from The Mirror.”

Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

The next morning, I was hungover from my hangover and grabbed a coffee and a newspaper, with the screaming headline:



“SEX SCANDAL ROCKS PARTY CONFERENCE”

And: “FROM THE LIAR TO THE LURKER”

And: “UNDERCOVER MAN’S SNEAKY NIGHT AT A LABOUR HOTEL”

Well, at least they didn’t use that ugly photo of me again. Instead, they had the hottie herself, Ms. Jamaica, and me with a “you’ve caught me!” guilty surprise on my face against the Party Headquarters wall.

That was just page one. There were five more pages of nothing but the Sex Maniac and poor damsel, Prince Mandelson’s lovely and innocent protégé. Well, at least I’d upstaged Tony Blair at his own convention.

The Mirror had dropped hundreds of free copies around the convention area so no one could miss it.

“He broke into my room! He’s been stalking me for two years! I’m a married woman!”

Two days later, The Guardian’s political columnist, Simon Hoggart, wrote that he was standing right near Alastair Campbell, Tony Blair’s press officer and feared political hit-man, who “thanked” The Mirror’s editor for “what you did for us.” For Tony.

The Mirror’s editor, the dirtball who had pulled this stunt, the man who makes vomit look like apple pie, the cockroach who would later be removed as editor of his shitty little tabloid for running a completely fabricated story with faked photos, the schemy little spider is named Piers Moron by Private Eye.



Yes, Piers Morgan. Who returned from the crypt as a judge on America’s Got Talent! And now, Pus Moron has replaced Larry King as a big-time TV host for CNN.

This confirms my theory that when American television executives need a replacement for a news show, they simply wait for a toilet to overflow.

Jackson, Mississippi

But this isn’t about America’s talent, journalism’s celebrity turds, Mata Hari politicians, or Dolly’s blondes.

This is about power. Nuclear, coal-fired, and oil-fired electric power. And political power.

Electric power and political power are two sides of the same doubloon. There is no way to separate the power you get through a wire so you can burn your morning toast, from the political power needed to overcharge you for it.

Prince Mandy, now the Right Honorable Lord Mandelson, Tony Blair, Piers Morgan. Who are they, really? They are high-priced messenger boys, no more than that. The question is, Whose message were they carrying?

Piers didn’t write “THE LIAR” headline story out of his own tiny head. I traced it back to the consigliere for a New York power company, a nuclear plant operator, Long Island Lighting Company. I’d taken the company down for racketeering. Guess they didn’t like that.

Then there’s Southern Company, the biggest power corporation in America. But that was not enough for them; they were going for biggest in the world.

In 1995, Southern, which operated in Mississippi, Georgia, Florida, and Alabama, made a move that was thought to be legally impossible: buying another company across the ocean. Their first cross-border raid was on England’s Southwest Electricity Company. I had questions about how they could get around the law, the U.S. Public Utility Holding Company Act. But before I could get an answer, industry lobbyists had eliminated the law.

I had questions for Southern Company's executives. I put these questions in that article I faxed to The Guardian, the one that provoked their 4 A.M. call to me in New York. They splashed it across Britain’s front pages, and that had turned me into a reporter in the space of thirty-six hours. My query to Southern was, Who Killed Jake Horton? And where are the parts?

Horton was the company’s Senior Vice-President who was taking the fall for breaking that Holding Company Act. He had been caught making illegal payments to Florida state regulators for Southern. The company had the shit on Jake, all right, but Jake had more on them. The company, I learned, was charging its several million electricity customers for coal from its own mines, but the coal trains were loaded up with rocks. Really. There was more, lots more, and Jake borrowed the company plane to lay it all out to a state Attorney General.

A few minutes after the plane took off, it was blown to pieces.

The Chairman of the Board told our BBC team: “Poor Jake, I guess he saw no other way out.”

And the other question: Where are the parts? Not the pieces of Jake sprinkled over the Southland, but the spare parts Southern used at Plant Vogtle, its Georgia nuclear station, and on the company’s power lines. Southern charged its customers about a hundred million dollars for using the parts. But the parts were not in use. A group of law firms brought me down from New York to Georgia and Mississippi try to figure out the magic trick, the accounting ledger-demain.

I began at the capitol building in Jackson, Mississippi, at the state regulator’s document file storage room, a warehouse of haphazard folders and old carbon-paper copies. I jumped into the hopeless task of finding the spare parts accounting sheets for Southern’s Mississippi unit. All the while, behind a desk covered by a mess that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years, sat a gentleman in short sleeves whose entire conversation with me consisted of shrugging his shoulders and “Don’t know ’bout that.”

It was Delta hot, no air-conditioning and the fan above simply stirred the flies and humidity. I was hungry but couldn’t bring myself to buy the pickled pigs’ feet being sold from a huge jar in front of the Governor’s office.

Then Jackson Ables walked in, straight from the pages of a John Grisham novel: a rotund and lively lawyer wearing a white seersucker suit, smart as a whip. In a drawl thick with Southern syrup, Ables told short-sleeves, “Jasper, this here young man, he’s a good boy.” New York Jew-boy need not be added.

Short-sleeves spoke. “Over there, right on top of the cabinet.” And indeed, there it was: The Unholy Grail, a hundred pages of spare parts accounts, and they left in my briefcase.

Southern had charged for parts never used, a complex accounting game that violated several sections in the thick rule book used for setting the prices charged by the monopoly power company. I took two months to decode it and lay it out for Ables. His firm sued on behalf of the public: fraud, wire fraud, misrepresentation, conspiracy, racketeering.

Our racketeering and fraud complaint alleged that Southern overcharged its millions of electricity customers tens of millions of dollars for using spare parts it never used. Technically, the company had violated the accounting regulations set out by the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission under federal law.

Southern Company’s view was No problem: The industry simply had Congress repeal the law and end the regulations. The company walked away waving its parts at me.

So, when you hear the word deregulation said with glowing praise, think Southern Company and poor Jake. Because when they say deregulation, they mean de-criminalization.

The judge said, case dismissed. But I kept that list of parts from Plant Vogtle.

***

Today, as I write this, I have taken time to reach out to two sources.

• Source 1: “I was a Southern Company——.!.!.!. I knew Jake.!.!.!. It has taken some time, but we have figured out who murdered Jake, and the weapon used.!.!.!.”



• Source 2: “He clearly committed suicide and murdered the two pilots in the process.!.!.!.”

You know, it would be nice if insiders could have just one story. Anyway, Southern Company didn’t mention Jake in their application to take over a piece of the British market. But I did, in The Guardian. And, from my file cabinet, I pulled out the list of phantom parts. I was not making friends in the power industry.

Houston, Amsterdam

Three other U.S. power companies swiftly joined Southern’s corporate invasion force offering to buy the remainder of England’s electric system.

First, there were the Arkansas boys, Hillary Clinton’s former client, Entergy. When the First Lady’s old law partner was indicted for phony billings, he accepted a short prison term rather than rat on her. On his way to the Big House, the felon was hired by Entergy as a “consultant.” Then Entergy bought London Electricity with the helpful blessing of the White House. I’m not saying these things are connected. These are just dots, you draw the lines.

There were two other companies, Texans on the prowl for English utilities, CSW and Reliant Inc. Together, they owned two nuclear reactors, called the South Texas Project. Reliant makes that famous nuclear plant engineer, Homer Simpson, look like Leonardo da Vinci.

When Reliant and partners first proposed the South Texas nuclear plants, they were challenged on the gargantuan cost and sheer bone-headedness of building the twin reactors. But the companies got the state to order customers to subsidize building the nukes by promising regulators they could build the reactors in just five years for just $1.2 billion. That was the “definitive cost estimate.” And they swore to it under oath. It took twelve years. Ultimate cost: $5.8 billion.

In an attempt to keep costs down, the companies had drilled holes in the workers’ locker room, dropped in secret cameras, attempting to find out which employees were ratting them out to the Nuclear Regulatory Commission on their shortcuts to safety. The companies were busted, indicted, but got off with only a fine for their nuclear crime spree.

Reliant and its contractor, Halliburton’s Brown & Root, ultimately ended up paying more than a billion dollars in fines and penalties when the state Public Service Commission ruled they were “imprudent” managers of the plant. Imprudence is the regulatory term for gross incompetence. Still, several billion dollars to cover those cost overruns on the plant were loaded on to the electric bills of Texas consumers, thanks to a deal Reliant cut with Governor George W. Bush.

And “SEX SCANDAL ROCKS . . . ”? The business with Ms. Jamaica became a dum-dum bullet that the Texas boys used on me in Amsterdam. I’d tattled on the operators of the disastrous South Texas Nuclear plant in The Guardian just when Reliant wanted approval from Her Majesty’s government to buy a hunk of the UK power system. When Reliant, the nuclear disaster-maker, made a move on Holland's power plants, my investigations were given a big play in Handelsblad, the Wall Street Journal of Europe. Reliant didn’t like that, so they slipped Handelsblad the SEX SCANDAL files.

Reliant was the Rosemary’s Baby of utility “deregulation.” It had once been Houston Lighting & Power, then changed its name to Houston Industries and shifted its corporate shape. Houston morphed into Reliant for cross-ocean raiding and mergers, then took on the alias NRG Corporation (NRG = En-er-gy — get it?).

But more South Texas–type projects ultimately put NRG/Houston/Reliant/HLP, international power giant, into Chapter 11 bankruptcy.

I thought I’d seen the last of them and they assumed they’d seen the last of me.

We were both wrong.

NRG, this once-bankrupt financial ghoul, after blowing billions on the crime scene known as the South Texas Nuclear Project, has come out of its crypt to feast on the U.S. government’s new loan guarantees for new nuclear plants. The Southern Company, Jake's former employer, also grabbed for the Treasury's guarantee. In 2010, NRG, and in 2011, Southern, were designated the winners of the U.S. Department of Energy’s contest for our cash. That’s the first hot load of cash from Obama’s nuke ‘em program.

It was NRG’s internal files that had arrived in that big fat Radioactive Brick. Or I should say, “NINA's” internal files. NRG, as I’ve mentioned, has shifted shapes again. While the Nuclear Regulatory Commission had considered pulling Reliant’s license for lack of “moral integrity,” in its latest mutation, NINA, “Nuclear Innovations North America,” is getting the Treasury loot.

(NINA's banks, the ultimate beneficiaries of the Treasury guarantee, must have had quite a laugh at the name used to get government loan backing. "NINA" is the finance industry's acronym for No Income No Assets, which pretty much summarizes the nuclear consortium's profile.)

Now, as soon as I show you the file I have on them, I assume they’ll show you their file on me: so I've done it for them. You now know as much about my penis as NRG/NINA. I’m taking away their favorite trick: Discredit and destroy.

You want to know what’s in the Radioactive Brick file? In a moment. What’s more important is why I’m telling you this, and what brought me here tonight, a hundred miles from the kisses of my twins, to write this to you. And why I have been waiting many, many years to sit with you and tell you tales of polar bears and oil drills.

***

Excerpt from Vultures' Picnic reprinted with kind permission of Greg Palast and Dutton, a division of the Penguin Group. © Greg Palast, 2011.

Greg Palast’s reports can be seen on BBC Television’s Newsnight. He is a Puffin Foundation Writing Fellow for investigative reporting, and is the author of the New York Times bestsellers The Best Democracy Money Can Buy and Armed Madhouse.

His latest book, Vultures' Picnic: In Pursuit of Petroleum Pigs, Power Pirates and High-Finance Predators, which he describes as “a tale of oil, sex, shoes, radiation and investigative reporting,” is available now. Visit GregPalast.com and VulturesPicnic.com for more info.

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Greg Palast’s Vultures' Picnic book tour is swooping into a city near you:

Wednesday, Nov. 16 - Los Angeles, CA
Thursday, Nov. 17 - San Diego, CA
Saturday, Nov. 19 - Denver AND Boulder, CO
Monday, Nov. 28 AND 29 - Chicago, IL
Wednesday, Nov. 30 - Madison, WI
Thursday, Dec. 1 - Albuquerque, NM
Friday, Dec. 2 - Santa Fe, NM
Monday, Dec. 5 - New York, NY
Tuesday, Dec. 6 - Washington, DC
Thursday, Dec. 8 - Houston, TX
Monday, Dec. 12 - Burlington VT
Wednesday, Dec. 14 - Atlanta, GA

*A person who collects sewage.

by SG's Team Agony feat. Casca and Leandra

Let us answer life's questions - because great advice is even better when it comes from SuicideGirls.


[Casca in Professor]

Q. I was with my school sweetheart for 11 years and was married for 6 of those 11 years. I worked hard to give her the world till one day I found out she had been cheating on me. We tried to give it a second try. Because we got married on Halloween, I paid for us to go to Euro Disney, but thing's after we came back got even worse, to the point that now our marriage has ended. I still love and want her in my life, but I’m just an old romantic at heart. Friend's say that I will find someone special again but I don’t know? I’m a tattooed English guy who feels lost in the world we live in!

A: Hiya hun! I’d like to start by saying that I can relate to what you are going through. I started seeing my partner in my first year of college and we have had more than our fare share of ups and downs.

Leaving school and starting college can be a very emotionally draining time. It therefore a common that the passion filled relationships we had with our childhood sweethearts tend to change or fizzle out around this time in our lives. There is nothing wrong with adapting and trying to make it work, but there is also nothing wrong with knowing it is time to call it a day. It seems like you have tried very hard to make the relationship work, and that’s great, but it sounds like there were some trust issues going on and that can ultimately kill a relationship.

It can be hard to move on from your first love, but it can be done. You will find someone else in the future and part of the fun in is finding that person. You will never forget this person, and you don’t even have to get over her; the key is to learn from that relationship and pour all the good stuff into a new one. Your friends are right, there are plenty of other women out there, and you will never know if one of them is that special someone until you try.

Good luck and all the best!

Casca
XOX

***


[Leandra in Verdugo]

Q. Hey Suicide Girls, I've been having problems with a girl I have know since her birth. We lost contact in 1999. She called me out of the blue in 2006 and we have been best friends since. We fell in love a couple months back, but she told me she doesn't want to date me right now. I didn't think this was fair.

I have trouble making friends in the first place, let alone trying to pick-up a girl. I was looking online at people in my area to make some friends with and a girl’s profile got my attention. She liked horror and does horror make-up for a job. How cool is that? Turns out though that my friend went to high school with her and told me not to talk to her. We got into a fight. We talked most of it out, but she left things out there.

The next day she calls and asks if I would pick her up to bring her down to my house for a few days. Her family was looking to kick her out since she hasn't done anything since she got out of high school earlier this year. Well, I helped her out. I didn't bring up anything about the fight or what her family was saying. I'm 30, and, to be honest, I'm with them on this. The problem is, after helping her out and dropping her off, she won't stay on the phone for more then 5 minutes with me now.

What do I take this as? And should I continue with the other girl and ask her out being that she is 18?

A: I'm going to be brutally honest, I don't think you can be too much into this girl because you are looking elsewhere, and someone else has caught your eye. She has said she doesn't want to date you, and that would be enough for me to consider it over and done with as far as a relationship is concerned. Her asking for help, and then not being particularly grateful, also indicates she was just using you rather than looking to start up anything. Furthermore, you sound like you have already had enough of this, so I would let the girl and the situation go.

As for the other girl, I don't think age really matters –– it depends on the maturity of the people involved. Most of my more intense relationships have been with older men. The problem is, how do you approach someone you don't know? I would tread carefully, you don't want to come across creepy in any way or scare her off. Just start with casual conversation and see if you guys could have something going on between you.

Good luck and thanks for writing in!

Leandra
xxx

***

Got Problems? Let SuicideGirls’ team of Agony Aunts provide solutions. Email questions to: gotproblems@suicidegirls.com

by ExAddict



Late last summer, a controversy erupted in National Hockey League circles after three prominent on-ice enforcers passed away during the off-season. Wade Belak, Rick Rypien and Derek Boogaard died of a tragic combination of mental illness and addictions. The three were so called 'tough guys' - called on by other players to keep the action rough, and let goal-scorers do their jobs.

Much of the media-driven controversy of course was centered around the amped-up Don Cherry, a highly-charged broadcaster who labeled three other former league bruisers as 'pukes' for stepping outside of the shadows and linking NHL fighting to substance abuse and depression.

In typical NHL fashion, sports fans’ tongues went wagging and opinions varied from demands for a crackdown against unfair hits to protect players from concussions (the current enemy #1 in pro-hockey) to banning fighting outright.

So that's what's happening in hockey, a so-called 'real sport'. We can expect that because it is one of the big four pro-sports leagues, the issues surrounding mental health and drug abuse will be addressed both by the player's association (NHLPA) and NHL league executives.

That's all well and good to save lives and protect athletes on the ice. But there might be another sport that needs the attention of media....

Unfortunately for fans of sports-entertainment, or 'pro-wrestling' as it once was called, voices calling for an increased examination of the cause and effects of mental illness, tragedy and death in this highly-athletic profession are few and far between.

With respect to the squared circle, there is a much more horrific tale lurking beneath the surface excitement of the storylines and dramatics put on by World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE), Impact Wrestling (TNA) and the hundreds of other smaller grappling organizations that operate worldwide.

Every week, for the past eighteen years, WWE and Monday Night Raw has been entertaining millions of fans who clamor to follow and cheer on names like John Cena, CM Punk, and The Undertaker as they do battle with evil-doers like R-Truth, The Miz, and Mark Henry.

Yet beyond the spotlight, there is a tough road of dues-paying and hardship for up-and-coming wrestlers as well as a path of serious discontent for names from the past. Even the biggest name in wrestling history – the immortal Hulk Hogan – now toils for the #2 wrestling organization, hobbled by numerous surgeries to repair a body damaged by nearly thirty-five years of competitive action. On average, an NHL player can expect to play five to six seasons.

For wrestlers, there is no off-season or players' union. If it was any other sport, there would be a Congressional investigation concerning the numbers of athletes dying before age fifty.

For once-famous grapplers who fall through the cracks, hanging on to the spotlight can be mentally devastating.

Scott Hall, a former champion in WWE, is the latest tragedy to garner attention. An ESPN feature that compared the journeyman wrestler to the fictional character portrayed by Mickey Rourke in the film The Wrestler was completed in mid-October but this did little to address the susceptibility of once-popular celebrities to mental illness and substance-abuse problems.

Earlier this summer, former Impact Wrestling and WWE superstar Matt Hardy ran into his fair share of legal trouble after crashing his car and getting arrested for possession of illegal substances. His brother, the equally-as-famous Jeff Hardy, encountered similar difficulties.

So what happens after the spotlight fades and wrestlers are left fighting for fame and the few dollars that past glory affords? Hopefully, a change is afoot. Perhaps gone are the days when wrestlers used to performing in front of tens of thousands in packed arenas are left toiling in front of a few dozen fans in high school gymnasiums, left alone and isolated as they slowly descend into mental illness.

In response, WWE has instituted a tough Wellness Policy for current superstars and pays for substance abuse rehabilitation of former “independent contractors.” The Wellness Policy serves as a “three-strikes-you're-out” safety net meant to protect current and former wrestlers from life on the road. WWE has even gone as far as to ban infamous chair-shots to the head and remove blood from broadcasts – an effort to maintain a PG friendly atmosphere and to protect the long term health of employees.

Christopher Nowinski, a Harvard graduate and former WWE Alumni himself has much to say about sports-related injuries in his book Head Games: Football's Concussion Crisis and in 2007 became the founder of the Sports Legacy Institute, dedicated to researching brain trauma in professional and amateur sports. That same year, former WWE World Champion Chris Benoit killed his wife and son in a brutal double murder suicide.

An examination of Benoit's brain revealed that extensive injuries and concussions suffered by the Canadian could have caused dementia. Since that time, the stigma of mental illness has meant he’s all but been erased from the record books. Benoit's name is never mentioned on WWE broadcasts and his reign as champion is scrubbed from history.

For pro-wrestling a.k.a. sports-entertainment to truly address the demons of mental health and addictions, gone must be the notion that those addicted to drugs or the spotlight are criminals or unrepentant. It's time that all professional sports addressed the 1-in-5 statistic of mental illness that effects all North Americans. If more wrestlers are willing to speak out about mental illness in sports, it may very well set a precedent for other athletes in other sports to address these issues in a very public way.

For WWE, it's time to take the bull by the horns and end the stigma of mental illness in sports. Lives are on the line. To save just one, I'd pay top dollar.

Images: Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler

by Steven-Elliot Altman (SG Member: Steven_Altman)

Our Fiction Friday serialized novel, The Killswitch Review, is a futuristic murder mystery with killer sociopolitical commentary (and some of the best sex scenes we’ve ever read!). Written by bestselling sci-fi author Steven-Elliot Altman (with Diane DeKelb-Rittenhouse), it offers a terrifying postmodern vision in the tradition of Blade Runner and Brave New World...

By the year 2156, stem cell therapy has triumphed over aging and disease, extending the human lifespan indefinitely. But only for those who have achieved Conscientious Citizen Status. To combat overpopulation, the U.S. has sealed its borders, instituted compulsory contraception and a strict one child per couple policy for those who are permitted to breed, and made technology-assisted suicide readily available. But in a world where the old can remain vital forever, America’s youth have little hope of prosperity.

Jason Haggerty is an investigator for Black Buttons Inc, the government agency responsible for dispensing personal handheld Kevorkian devices, which afford the only legal form of suicide. An armed “Killswitch” monitors and records a citizen’s final moments — up to the point where they press a button and peacefully die. Post-press review agents — “button collectors” — are dispatched to review and judge these final recordings to rule out foul play.

When three teens stage an illegal public suicide, Haggerty suspects their deaths may have been murders. Now his race is on to uncover proof and prevent a nationwide epidemic of copycat suicides. Trouble is, for the first time in history, an entire generation might just decide they’re better off dead.

(Catch up with the previous installments of Killswitch – see links below – then continue reading after the jump…)



[THE KILLSWITCH REVIEW – CHAPTER FIVE, PART TWO]

[FALSE IDENT]

[Previous Chapter / Next Chapter]

The conference room they were shown into was a far cry from the cubicle with mismatched chairs and ancient table they’d just left. Haggerty guessed they reserved it for interrogating celebrities and other detainees with the power to make things difficult for the chief of police. Apparently one of the critical uses for the police budget was to provide the chief with a private suite the size of the average CC living compartment. There were two men in this room. The band’s bassist sipped what looked to be an imported carbonated beverage while taking in whatever the extremely agitated man standing next to him was whispering in his ear. Haggerty pegged the man as a lawyer. Despite having been called out of bed in the middle of the night to represent his client, he was immaculately dressed in an expensive, conservative suit with an equally expensive com visible in the breast pocket. The lawyer straightened as they entered the room, gave the bassist a stern glance, and turned his attention to the newcomers.

Woyzeck performed the introductions. Haggerty recognized the lawyer’s firm as the proprietary counsel to the rich and celebrated. Gregory, Mendell and Finkelstein had a reputation for winning cases even when their clients’ guilt was widely accepted. He wanted very much to excuse himself to pop a celtrex, but decided against it.

Woyzeck futilely raised his empty KeepAwake bottle to his lips. Finally he gave up and poured himself a mug of coffee from the carafe on the counter beside a sizable refrigerator. The counter was also equipped with an antique espresso machine and an assortment of refreshments including a bowl of real dried fruit.

Haggerty and the lawyer shook hands and took seats at the polished mahagony conference table, with Haggerty opposite the lawyer and his client.

“Mr. Haggerty,” Ryerson began in his best courtroom voice, “you will please limit your questions to your company’s hardware. I warn you that I will veto any question pertaining to the criminal investigation.”

“Understood,” Haggerty said as Elsa poured coffee into a porcelain mug and handed it to him. “My assistant will be recording, if that’s acceptable.”

“That’s acceptable, on the condition that such recordings will be used solely by BBI and not made part of the criminal investigation. But understand that I’m only allowing this to show that my clients are willing to cooperate.” He tapped the com in his pocket. “I’ll make my own recording, as well.”

Haggerty glanced at Woyzeck, who nodded agreement. If anything pertinent to the detective’s investigation was said, he wasn’t apt to forget it. Client-attorney privilege protected whatever Ryerson recorded, and Haggerty’s recording wouldn’t make or break this case.

“Your condition is noted,” Haggerty said, sipping his coffee, and turned his attention to the bassist.

Elsa began recording.

“Let’s dive right in. I assume that Cherub is your legal name. Is that correct?”

“Right, had it changed,” the bassist answered.

Had Haggerty not recognized Cherub from the viewcast, the blisterbrandings he and his bandmates favored would have given him away. Cherub couldn’t be more than twenty-two years old, Haggerty surmised. His hair was cropped and spiked and tinged with the popular gold and silver. Blisterbrandings were visible from the top of his tunic to the base of his neck and also adorned his palms. He seemed slightly high and, as was to be expected, somewhat nervous.

“Did you know the JCs who pressed had black boxes in their possession?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Did you know they were illegally obtained?”

“I figured.”

“Do you know how the kids came into possession of them?”

“Not exactly.”

“How do you think they got them?” Haggerty said.

Cherub looked to Ryerson.

“My client has stated that he does not know. Whatever he would answer is pure conjecture and speculation, and not admissible in court,” the lawyer told Haggerty. “You know that.”

“And we’ve agreed that this interview is not part of the criminal investigation,” Haggerty reminded him. “But anything your client can tell me might help us clear up this matter.”

Ryerson told Cherub to answer.

“I guess they got them the same way we get whatever we want — through Shintag or one of his assistants.”

Ryerson winced.

Haggerty swooped in. “Did you know the kids were going to use the boxes onstage during the concert?”

“Don’t answer that,” Ryerson instructed his client.

But he was too late.

“I didn’t know she was going to kill herself,” Cherub blurted. “She was a good kid and she seemed happy.”

Woyzeck smiled at Haggerty.

“That pertains to the criminal investigation, Mr. Haggerty,” Ryerson said, trying to regain control. “I insist that it be removed from the recording.”

He turned to Cherub.

“I must caution you not to answer questions against my advice. As your lawyer, I am experienced in how certain lines of questioning can lead to an appearance of wrongdoing even if you’ve done nothing wrong.”

He glared at Haggerty. “Pull a stunt like that again, and this interview is over right now.”

Haggerty nodded. “But since your client brought up the girl, let’s talk about her,” he suggested. Before Ryerson could object, he said, “She had an unregistered unit, and we can’t ascertain her identity.”

“That was a global viewcast,” Ryerson said. “Surely someone recognized her. No one’s come forward with information?”

“No one,” Haggerty confirmed. “And we’re not in a position to wait around for leads to drop in our laps.”

If Ryerson wanted to prove his client was being cooperative and gain leverage in the criminal investigation, he’d have to cave on this point.

“All right, Mr. Haggerty,” he said tightly. “Ask your questions.”

“Do you know who the girl was, Cherub?”

“She called herself Teardrop,” he said. “Never assumed it was her real name. I told the police that.”

Haggerty recalled the blisterbrand on the girl’s cheek as Woyzeck nodded.

“And Tyler Stelwyn. You knew who he was?”

“We all knew who Tyler was.”

“What about the other boy?”

“Never caught his name,” Cherub said. “He was a quiet one.”

“You hung out in hotels with them for weeks and you never asked him his name?”

“That’s the end of this line of questioning, Mr. Haggerty,” Ryerson said.

Haggerty tried a different tack. “Are you a believer in the product my company dispenses and the services we provide?” he asked Cherub.

“Don’t answer that,” Ryerson said forcefully.

Cherub ignored him.

“I don’t think the government should have any say in the matter,” he told Haggerty, looking him directly in the eyes. “I believe in a person’s right to die as they see fit.”

“Do all your band’s members feel that way?”

“I insist that we end this interview,” Ryerson said.

Cherub reclined in his chair, put his boots up on the table, and took a long pull on his bottle. “Ever listened to any of Zephyr’s lyrics, Mr. Haggerty? I can’t speak for anyone but myself, but it’s pretty much all there out in the open,” he said.

“Would you be willing to publicly decry the act?” Haggerty asked. “We have grave concerns regarding copycats among your fans. Some have already pressed or found other ways to suicide. Your cooperation could prevent further tragedies.”

“That’s very sad,” Cherub said. “But I would not decry it, if that’s what they chose to do.” He gave Haggerty a pitying look. “You don’t grok, do you? We’re no longer one nation indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. We’re divided by age, by privilege. The average age for first jobs, legal ones anyway, is rising every year. The Gen-Ohs aren’t going to begin their careers until they’re in their sixties. Who the hell wants to wait that long for life to start? They can’t afford to live. So every day, underage citizens file petitions under the Kevorkian Act. And every day, the courts approve those petitions and the government puts Killswitches into their hands. What’s the difference if someone doesn’t bother with the formalities? Isn’t the choice already made? Hasn’t society already said it’s okay to make that choice? Who the fuck am I to decry what’s going on?”

“This interview is over,” Ryerson interrupted, pulling his client to his feet.

“Wait,” Cherub stopped him. “Do you happen to know when the funerals are planned?” he asked Haggerty. “I’d like to attend them, if I’m free.”

“The Stelwyns haven’t informed us of their arrangements. If we can’t find next of kin, I don’t know how long the bodies of the other two will be held before the state inters them.”

“We’re out of here,” Ryerson stated firmly.

“Thank you, Cherub,” Haggerty told the bassist. “I wish you the best of luck with your case and your career.”

Woyzeck led Ryerson and Cherub from the room.

Polygraphic analysis? Haggerty linked to Elsa. The old term had stuck for a vastly more sophisticated analysis of human physiologic reactions, such as pupil dilation, than had been available with the ancient polygraph machines of past centuries.

Elsa considered her analysis. He grew extremely agitated when you asked about the boxes. He knew they had them, and that they were going to use them onstage. However, when cross-analyzed with his admission that he had no prior knowledge of the girl’s intent to die, I calculate a ninety-seven percent certainty that he was telling the truth.

Haggerty considered, sipped his coffee. He knew they were going to use the units, but not that they would die? That doesn’t make sense. Did he think they were just making a political statement?

Elsa reviewed the data. His indication of the girl specifically, not the three collectively, suggests her death in particular brought emotions of remorse.

I caught that, Haggerty sent through the link. I’d bet they were sleeping together.

That is my analysis, as well, Elsa agreed.

Think there’s any connection to that cult, the Indivisibles? Haggerty asked.

His response to your inquiry on right-to-die issues was markedly hostile, but he does not appear to believe in the right to die. His comments about the Kevorkian petitions and reference to the Indivisibles indicate disapproval, but perhaps also resignation. I don’t believe he’s a member of the Indivisibles, merely that he’s acquainted with their philosophies and finds merit in them. Overall, he doesn’t think that they will effect any change in society, and he is resigned to things as they are. Cross reference of full interview suggests that he was well rehearsed, knew to some degree that the incident was planned, and strongly disapproves of what actually occurred. It came as a shock to him.

“You don’t grok, do you?” Cherub’s challenge sounded in Haggerty’s mind, echoed by the boy Timothy’s words before he threw himself off the roof: “Maybe someday you’ll understand.” Haggerty doubted that he ever would.

Thank you, Elsa, he linked. I’ll want a full briefing on the Indivisibles later. They seem to keep popping up. Now let’s see what we can get from the band’s manager.

* * *

Shintag Lake had turned the room where he was being held into the temporary nerve center of his global entertainment corporation. To Haggerty it seemed like security measures were keeping out undesirables rather than restraining the occupant. The conference table had been moved against one wall, and most of the chairs that usually surrounded it stacked to the side. The few kept in use were scattered throughout the room and the center of the floor was piled with large cushions covered in costly hand-painted silk — certainly not part of the original decor. Lake’s clothes were even more expensive, with one element predominating. His vest, flared pants, and boots were all black suede. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt; his smooth, hairless chest was visible under the open vest. If Haggerty had thought the leather jacket on the rich kid in the Orphanage men’s room was a statement of contempt, Lake’s fabric choices were beyond that: CCs who might find his wardrobe deplorable were less than dirt to him.

“If one person suggests we cancel a single tour date, I’ll cancel them all. Do you understand!” Lake barked, his com’s earset half buried beneath thick, braided hair.

Two female assistants, of Asian descent like Lake and clad in red suede sheath dresses with mandarin collars and hems slit to the thigh — suede seemed to be required wear for his employees, as well — made notes on their coms as he paced the floor. The four-foot-seven mogul barely acknowledged the new arrivals, dismissing them with a hand wave. Finally he disconnected his call and turned to one of the women.

“Pasha, get me a drink. Then get someone on the line from the appellate court who can make a decision.”

He muted the viewscreen.

“Just the collector,” he ordered Woyzeck. “You and the android remain outside. And close the door! You’re letting the air-conditioning out.”

Haggerty looked at Woyzeck, who nodded that the break in procedure was all right. It bothered Haggerty that Elsa would not be present to polygraph, but he would take what he could get.

Lake motioned his assistants to leave; they hurriedly retreated to a smaller room off the main conference room, rather than into the corridor with Elsa and Woyzeck. Acknowledging Haggerty with a bob of the head, Lake waved him into a chair as he himself sank onto the pile of cushions.

“My name is Shintag Lake,” he said. “No doubt you know who I am, just as I know who you are, Mr. Haggerty.”

“Sorry to meet you under such harsh conditions,” Haggerty said ironically.

“Don’t waste my time with your attempt at amusement. Ask your questions.”

“All right, then. Did you get those kids their stolen units?”

“I authorized it. Whatever the band or their select entourage requests — drugs, women, bloody farm animals if they feel like it — I see that it is obtained for them. Why they want something is of no consequence. I keep them happy because they make me money — a very considerable amount of money.”

“Are you saying that you had no direct knowledge of what you were supplying, or the purpose for which it was intended?”

“Your hearing is good, at least,” Lake said dryly.

“Do you know who supplied the boxes?”

“I employ over four hundred men and women to do my bidding, Mr. Haggerty. I have as little knowledge of where things come from as I do of which delivery service prepared the band’s last meal.”

“Can you find out?”

Pasha returned and knelt at Lake’s side, offering him a snifter of brandy. Lake took the snifter and dismissed her to search for an amenable judge.

“I suppose it is possible,” he said. He sipped his brandy. “But why should I?”

“The recordings off those units provide damning evidence against the members of your band.”

“Clone Jesus is only one of my bands, Mr. Haggerty. In my hundred and two years I’ve had scores of them, and I’ll have scores more before I’m through.”

“But Clone Jesus is the one that will go down in history, and like it or not my findings will be part of how that history is written. I don’t think you want your role in it tarnished by my proving you a willing participant in the corruption of minors through narcotics and a rash of suicides used as a promotional device.”

Lake searched Haggerty’s expression for any trace of bluffing.

“You think you have power over me, Mr. Haggerty. You haven’t the slightest notion of what power is. If you held it for a moment, it would slip through your fingers like sand.”

“Maybe,” Haggerty said. “But Antonio Stelwyn does, and he will probably hold you responsible for the death of his only son. You don’t want that hanging over your head.”

Lake took another sip of brandy. “You have finally managed to impress me, Mr. Haggerty.” He inclined his torso in a half bow.

Haggerty bowed back. “You’ll contact me with the name of the provider as soon as you have it?”

“And you offer in return?”

“What do you want?”

“The recordings,” Lake replied.

* * *

Excerpt from The Killswitch Review, published by Yard Dog Press. Copyright 2011 Steven-Elliot Altman.

Steven-Elliot Altman is a bestselling author, screenwriter, and videogame developer. He won multiple awards for his online role playing game, 9Dragons. His novels include Captain America is Dead, Zen in the Art of Slaying Vampires, Batman: Fear Itself, Batman: Infinite Mirror, The Killswitch Review, The Irregulars, and Deprivers. His writing has been compared to that of Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Michael Crichton and Philip K. Dick, and he has collaborated with world class writers such as Neil Gaiman, Michael Reaves, Harry Turtledove and Dr. Janet Asimov. He’s also the editor of the critically acclaimed anthology The Touch, and a contributor to Shadows Over Baker Street, a Hugo Award winning anthology of Sherlock Holmes meets H.P. Lovecraft stories.

Steven also bares ink on his body, and is bi, as in bi-coastal, between NYC and LA. He’s currently hard at work writing and directing his latest videogame Cursed Love, an online free to play gothic horror RPG from Dark Hermit Studios, set in Victorian London. Think Sherlock Holmes, Jack The Ripper and Dorian Gray mercilessly exploit the cast of Twilight. Friend Cursed Love (Official Closed Beta) on facebook and you can have fun playing out this tawdry, tragic romance with Steven while the game is being beta tested!

Diane DeKelb-Rittehouse spent several years in Manhattan as an actress before marrying her college sweetheart and returning to the Philadelphia area where she had been born. Diane first worked with Steven-Elliot Altman when they created the acclaimed, Publisher’s Weekly Starred-Review anthology The Touch: Epidemic of the Millennium, in which her story “Gifted” appeared. Diane has published a number of critically acclaimed short stories, most notably in the science fiction, murder, and horror genres. Her young adult fantasy novel, Fareie Rings: The Book of Forests, is now available in stores or online.

Interested in buying a printed copy of The Killswitch Review? Well, Steve’s publisher Yard Dog Press was kind enough to put up a special page where SuicideGirls can get a special discount and watch a sexy trailer. Just follow this link to KillswitchReview.com and click on the SG logo.

* * *

Related Posts:
Fiction Friday: The Killswitch Review – Chapter One
Fiction Friday: The Killswitch Review – Chapter One, Part Two
Fiction Friday: The Killswitch Review – Chapter One, Part Three
Fiction Friday: The Killswitch Review – Chapter One, Part Four
Fiction Friday: The Killswitch Review – Chapter Two, Part One
Fiction Friday: The Killswitch Review – Chapter Two, Part Two
Fiction Friday: The Killswitch Review – Chapter Two, Part Three
Fiction Friday: The Killswitch Review – Chapter Three, Part One
Fiction Friday: The Killswitch Review – Chapter Three, Part Two
Fiction Friday: The Killswitch Review – Chapter Three, Part Three
Fiction Friday: The Killswitch Review – Chapter Four, Part One
Fiction Friday: The Killswitch Review – Chapter Four, Part Two
Fiction Friday: The Killswitch Review – Chapter Four, Part Three
Fiction Friday: The Killswitch Review – Chapter Five, Part One

by Laurelin

“Please go with me,” my friend Leanne asked. “I really need this job but I can’t go alone.” I was doubtful. I didn’t want to work at that strip club in Providence, she did. But I guess it wouldn’t kill me to tag along. “Just waitressing,” she had said, and I agreed. There was a group of about ten girls and the club manager gave us all a tour of the floor, the back rooms, and backstage. It was a lot bigger than it looked outside, dimly lit with flashing lights, perfect cooshy chairs lined a perfectly strobe lit stage, and a DJ announced each girl as they started to dance, looking more beautiful than anyone I had ever seen. When it came time to fill out an application I shook my head, but the manager touched my elbow and gave such an encouraging smile that I thought, “well, maybe.”

She called exactly a week later, saying I had a job. My friend didn’t get a call, and even though I felt terrible I also got a bit of a rush. This was so… dangerous. Not my style. I was still in college, in a sorority who’s motto was “Be womanly always.” This was womanly, I guess. Naked womanly. I was all in. The manager met me at the front door and walked me in, showing me to my dressing room and handing me my waitressing uniform. It was the most wonderful thing I had ever seen -- black lace up knee high pleather boots with lace up matching pleather booty shorts and a black and red striped lace up corset. It all fit like a glove. I looked at myself in the mirror with what seemed like millions of movie star dressing room light bulbs making me glow. All I could hear was the pounding of my heart and I stepped out of the room and into the dark.

I don’t remember when I went from nervous to confident, from being the new girl to being the girl who commanded the room. Days turned to weeks and weeks to months, and a few shifts a week turned full time. I was still in college and making more money than I knew what to do with. I knew every man that set foot into that club, and I knew their stories and what they drank and what they wanted to talk about, especially what they wanted to hear. These men were lonely, whether it be a wife or girlfriend who had settled into routine too quickly, or if there was no one really in the picture at all, no friends, family, just us, just me, a regular girl transformed by a life of strobe lights and glitter.

Soon I wasn’t just waitressing. There were backrub girls too, and when I saw how much money they were making, after one year I was ready to make the switch. Looking back now I still can’t believe it. Armed with scented baby oil gel I ruined these guys, sending them home slimy and smelling of lavender. One year of work turned to two, and then to three. Back rubs and waitressing were now supplemented with foxy boxing and hot oil and whipped cream wrestling on Friday and Saturday nights. The money rolled in, and every single shift I was smiling. I walked out on the stage to my fake name and I worked the room. I wanted to be there. I loved this act, this secret person, this girl who knew just what to say to walk off making a man feel like a million bucks while really, he was just giving it to me.

I remember the night things started to change. My boyfriend had come to visit, and instead of me being able to visit with him like usual I was busy in the champagne room. I had been in there with a customer for over two hours, and I was drunk. The dancers hated when the guys took me in -- I didn’t dance or take off my clothes -- I was never am entertainer. This night though, my boyfriend had brought someone for me to meet. “Laurelin, out of the champagne room, you have a guest on the floor!” the DJ announced and I squealed, grabbing the bottle of Moet Nectar and running to see who it was. There was my boyfriend and a man, standing at the stage waiting for me. I stumbled walking up to meet them; champagne and I didn’t always agree on walking in a straight line.

“Laur,” my boyfriend said, grabbing my hand, “meet my Father.”

I stood there, trembling, my confidence and buzz falling into my stomach. I was suddenly aware of how I looked -- white high heels, naughty nurse uniform with my ass and frilly red shorts hanging out, too much makeup and a fake orange tan. My fake eyelashes suddenly felt too heavy and I saw myself as this man did, a used up drunk girl who couldn’t even stay and talk because I had to go back into a room and spend time with a man who was old enough to be my father. I couldn’t even shake his hand, one was full of champagne and the other clutched a diamond necklace that man had bought me.

What was going on? I left my boyfriend and his Dad at the stage with a handful of ones, and when I was finished with that work shift I scrubbed my face until it was red. I wanted to see my freckles again. I tugged and combed out my hair until all the curls were gone. The dressing room was exactly the same, with all those shining movie star light bulbs and I really saw myself. Too tan, too thin, the line between me and the girl I created at my club so blurred that I wasn’t sure who was who anymore.

I went home that night with my boyfriend and his Dad, and I know that his Dad still has the t-shirt I gave him from my club. He loved it, loved me and everything about that night, but I was horrified. I went in the next night, done up like always, and I put in my two weeks. The manager looked at me like I was crazy. “You’re our best girl!” he said. “I know,” I said. “But I need to get out of here. It’s time.” He gave me a hug, and those last two weeks were the saddest and happiest of my life. I said my goodbyes and on my last night we had a fantastic party. It’s been seven years since then, and when I walk into that club I still know everyone. The men, the drinks, the stories. It’s impossibly sad, but part of it will always be home. As I drove home to my boyfriend’s house on my last night at the club I turned the radio on, my eyes filling with tears. This was really the end of an era. What now? Where did I go from here?

“Boston” by Augustana was playing on the car radio, a song I had never heard: “I think I'll go to Boston, I think that I'm just tired, I think I need a new town to leave this all behind, I think I need a sunrise, I'm tired of the sunset…”

“Boston,” I thought. “That sounds nice.”



***

Related Posts:
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: Fake It ‘Til You Make It
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: Apologies and Other Useless Utterances
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Life Beyond the Bar Scene: Anger and Other Mostly Useless Emotions
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: One of the Guys
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: A Case of the Crazies
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: Unsettled
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: Boys of Summer
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: Play On Playa'
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: How to Lose a Girl in Ten Minutes
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: Naked Laurelin Reading
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: Healthy Relationships are for Boring People and Other Mishaps
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: Letting Go
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: Does it Exist?
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: The Dating Game
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: After a Few Beers Everyone Looks Good and Other Love Stories
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: Getting Naked With Laurelin
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: Seven Days and Seven Nights of Sobriety
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: When it’s Time to Move On
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: Starting Over and Other Stupid Resolutions
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: He Broke Up with Me on a Post-it and Other Travesties
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: The End of Four Loko As We Know It
Life Beyond the Bar Scene: Boston’s Top 5 Dives

by Blogbot



Artist / SG Member Name: Oliver / Ortegart71

Mission Statement: My work is an only-spare-time-thing, I do it to recreate from work, from the noise of this world, to make time stand still for some moments.



Medium: Formerly pastels on paper, digital since the beginning of 2011 using Corel Painter and Wacom Intuos.

Aesthetic: Endzeit-female beauty-darkness-creepiness.



Notable Achievements: To be able to do my own wall decoration.

Why We Should Care: The world may be bad, god may be dead, but there still is hope.

I Want Me Some: Anyone interested in my art/commissions/putting it in galleries etc. can message me via SG.







***

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by Rachelle Suicide

A column which highlights Suicide Girls and their fave groups.


[Rachelle Suicide in In Daydreams]

This week, Rachelle Suicide sizes up SG's All Boobs Great And Small Group.

Members: 4,988 / Comments: 10,300

• WHY DO YOU LOVE IT?: Breasts are like snowflakes, each one different, unique, and beautiful in it's own way. This group has everything: web cam boobs, Suicide Girls' boobs, great cleavage, tattooed tits, side boob, under boob (my personal favorite view), small, medium and large breasts. Who wouldn't love it?


• DISCUSSION TIP: Everyone has their own personal preferences on boob size and shape, be respectful. This is a positive, fun group –– negativity isn't tolerated.


• BEST RANDOM QUOTE: I don't know why but I love seeing a girl scratch an itchy boob, or adjust their bra strap. Call me a perv if you must, I just think it's cute, sometimes they make really cute faces when doing so. Anyone else in this boat?"


• MOST HEATED DISCUSSION THREAD: The "Boobs That Made You Join!!!" thread contains some of the hottest Suicide Girls AND their boobs! Very hot.


• WHO’S WELCOME TO JOIN?: All Boobs Great and Small is for boob enthusiasts who appreciate all shapes and sizes.

***
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SuicideGirls' Group Therapy - Aadie on Suicide Boys
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SuicideGirls' Group Therapy - Chrysis on Itty Bitty Titty Committee


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SuicideGirls' Group Therapy - Ryker on Harry Potter
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SuicideGirls' Group Therapy - Apple on All Your Base Are Belong To Us
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SuicideGirls’ Group Therapy - Ceres on Girls Only
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SuicideGirls' Group Therapy - Cheri on Skateboarders
SuicideGirls' Group Therapy - Noir on SG Military
SuicideGirls' Group Therapy - Exning on Weight Loss
SuicideGirls' Group Therapy - Aadie on Cute Overload
SuicideGirls' Group Therapy - Eevie, Luffy, and Praesepe on SG420
SuicideGirls' Group Therapy - All on Urban Art
SuicideGirls' Group Therapy - Clio on Hardcore Music
SuicideGirls' Group Therapy - Epiic on Hirsute
SuicideGirls' Group Therapy - Tarion on Atheists
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SuicideGirls' Group Therapy - Thistle on Vamos Gigantes

by A.J. Focht

Even the prequels are getting sequels. British actor Jason Flemyng who played Azazel in X-Men: First Class has said that a follow-up could soon be in the works. First Class was a surprisingly good addition to the franchise; hopefully tacking another one in won’t kill the series on a bad note.

Iron Man 3 is being shot in Wilmington, North Carolina. If you want to make the trip out there (or are lucky enough to live nearby), you can register to try and be one of thousands of extras needed for the shooting.

Over the last few weeks, dozens of set pictures and several videos from the shooting of The Dark Knight Rises have been leaked - see roundup here. A couple of major spoiler could be contained, including a characters death scene.



Not everyone is convinced that the Metropolis project is happening. For those of us still holding out hope, the Metropolis IMDb page now lists Joe Davola and Alfred Gough as the executive producers; Gough being one of the original creators of Smallville.

On the comic front, DC Comics continues to dominate. The New 52 has really paid off as DC pulled in over 50% of all comic sales last month.


J.J. Abrams reportedly is after Benicio Del Toro to play the roll of the villain in the up coming Star Trek 2. No one is quite sure who the main villain will be. Theories range from the return of Khan to the Klingon’s and everything in between. The last movie created an entire new timeline so the possibilities are endless.

We’ve known that there were plans to another Blade Runner film; Ridley Scott says the project is likely to be a direct sequel. Scott also said that the project is quite a ways along, and they are close to finding a writer.

Reports from Middle Earth have been scarce lately. Last week, Peter Jackson and the crew released the new video blog. The video covers the finer points of shooting The Hobit in 3D, with several on set shots. The first part of The Hobbit is set for release holiday 2012.

Do you want to forever immortalize yourself in the Whedon-verse? Well, if you’ll settle for a walk on role, this could be your chance. A walk on role in Whedon’s next project, In Your Eyes, is being auctioned on eBay. At the time of this writing, the bidding is up to $2,550. So how bad do you want it? Oh, and did I mention the proceeds go to The Adrienne Shelly Foundation.

Sad news from the land of Oz. Bruce Campbell’s cameo scene has been cut. Bruce tweeted that such things happen in epic flicks, and that there were no hard feelings toward Sam Raimi.

http://geek-news.mtv.com/2011/11/08/marvel-comics-on-the-barnes-and-noble-nook-tablet/ " target="_blank">Barnes & Noble has revealed their tablet, complete with Marvel comics. As if almost in response to the Kindle Fire’s deal with DC, Barnes & Noble has released their own tablet featuring several of Marvels comics. The tablet is starting at $249 and is available on November 18.

by Mentalrage



Arkham Asylum pretty much set the standard for how good a game based on a comic book character and the world they inhabit could be. Previously, game's based on comics were generally speaking either ill thought out, poorly executed, hurriedly produced tie-in's with film properties or otherwise underwhelming and insulting to fans of both good games and the comics they were based on with very few exceptions.

Developer Rocksteady at that point had only produced the distinctly average Urban Chaos. Which made both their treatment of the Batman universe and it's polished presentation and execution in Arkham Asylum all the more surprising.

Now the much-anticipated follow up Arkham City is upon us.

Simply put, Rocksteady has defined how to produce a follow up to a successful game. It builds on everything featured in the previous game, tweaking things here and there as well as adding plenty of new elements. Arkham City is an almost perfect example of digital alchemy, balancing deep lore that Bat fans will appreciate, but not to the extent that it will drive away gamers unfamiliar with the intricacies of Gotham City.

Arkham City finds a section of Gotham City partitioned off and transformed into a vast penal colony overseen by mysterious psychiatrist Hugo Strange. Bruce Wayne soon finds himself incarcerated in Arkham City for speaking out against Strange and it's down to the Dark Knight to figure out what Strange is really up to and what “Protocol 10” is.

Chances are, unless you've been living in a cave for the last few decades, you'll be familiar with at least some of the numerous villains that make up the Dark Knight's rogues gallery (which is arguably the best in comics). Rocksteady has once again produced some great character designs with the Penguin re-imagined as a sadistic, eccentric Cockney wide-boy being just one of them. You can also look forward to seeing Mr. Freeze, Harley Quinn, The Joker, and Solomon Grundy, to name but a few, and that's just the main story, there are side missions involving Bane, Mr. Zsasz, and The Riddler, plus additional Catwoman story missions which intertwine with the main story (her design is heavily influenced by Adam Hughes iconic take on the character).

The presentation all round is slick and highly polished. The Arkham facility which you find yourself in, with its array of buildings and alleyways, really feels like part of a city. It's a gothic delight that’s equal parts urban decay and neon excess. These aren't just random buildings either, Bat fans will pick up on numerous things like the building you first suit up as Batman in being Ace Chemicals. The voice acting is universally excellent with Kevin Conroy once again being a solid Dark Knight and Mark Hamil putting in another sublime performance as The Joker.

Unlike its predecessor you have a vast area that you're free to explore open world style after the opening scenes. Gliding and grappling your way across the myriad of rooftops and perching upon a gargoyle before listening to a bunch of thugs debate whether crossing Two-Face or The Joker is worse before dropping out of the night sky and taking them all out is a thing of beauty it has to be said. If you're so inclined you can actually spend a considerable amount of time just exploring before even starting any missions.

The downside of this new open world approach is Arkham City doesn't have the claustrophobic story driven narrative of its predecessor, the varied selection of villains are battling each other for both territory and screen time it seems. Though I don't think –– as impressive as Batman's rogues gallery is –– there are many characters that would support a full story like The Joker, so in this regard Rocksteady has made a wise move.

To aid your navigation around Arkham City, Batman now has a divebomb move which can be used either as an offensive maneuver (once you've got the necessary upgrade) or can be used to gain height and speed by pulling up at the last minute before soaring into the night sky. Another addition is the line launcher, an adaptation to the Batclaw which enables you to travel horizontally between buildings and can even be fired mid flight to travel around corners.

Combat in Arkham City is built around the same mechanics as the previous game, but things have been tightened up with new options thrown into the mix too. Now you can use the numerous gadgets at your disposal in the midst of a fight easier. Watching a hammer wielding goon take out half his own men after being hit by the Remote Electronic Charge (a new addition) never gets old. Counter moves are a big factor in combat and learning the timing will literally save your life. Arkham City thugs aren't completely brain dead either, they will team up on you and not just form an orderly queue while you take them out. Also if another gang of thugs is witness to your brawling, they'll come steaming down the street and join the fray. This can result in facing a literal horde of bad guys where you can really show off your combat prowess.

One of the best things about combat in Arkham City is it doesn't fall into the all too familiar problem of tedious repetition. Performing the same few moves over and over can quickly go from exhilarating fun to boring chore in a combat oriented game. Thankfully the combat here is influenced by your surroundings, find yourself up against a wall facing a mob of goons, and your counters will take this into account with Batman slamming faces into said wall until you move away from it.

Stealth quite rightly is also an important part of surviving in Arkham City. Even the Dark Knight isn't invincible, so taking on tooled up goons head on will just lead to a quick demise. Vantage points are key and so is patience. Learning patrol patterns and picking your moment to strike before disappearing into the shadows will lead to goons freaking out and firing at shadows, which will lead to an intimidation experience bonus when you clear the area. If things do go a bit awry you can employ a new smoke bomb to cover your escape.

It's not quite as easy this time around though, with goons later in the game sporting some hi-tech gear. For example they’re equipped with thermal imaging headsets which make you visible even if you're hiding in the shadows, and have signal jammers which screw with your Detective Mode, meaning you have no access to the usual readouts on enemies in the vicinity.

Experience will allow you to level up where you can upgrade your Batsuit and gadgets, and learn new special combat techniques, amongst other things.

As for the Catwoman missions I mentioned earlier, they're just as well executed. In fact they're so good you'll find yourself wishing there were more of them. Navigating Arkham City as Catwoman is a completely different experience as you utilize her whip and pounce from rooftop to rooftop or scale larger buildings in stages. Combat is different too. Catwoman is faster, but takes more of a beating if a goon connects. Her combat style is similar to Batman's but the counters and stealth takedowns (dropping down off the ceiling for one) are more graceful and acrobatic in their approach and there's a different set of gadgets to have fun with. I think Rocksteady may have gone a little overboard on sexing up Catwoman, I don't think her catsuit needs to be zipped down quite that far to be sexy.

There's plenty of other little details like Batman's Batsuit taking damage as you progress, radio communications with both Alfred (with his trademark subtle dry humor) and Oracle. And listening to Penguin or Joker berate their goons as you take them out is highly amusing in a twisted way. “Batman's never killed anyone but that doesn't mean he won't start with you,” quips The Joker.

Added to all that, there's Riddler trophies to find, challenges to complete, and did I mention you get to punch a shark and can hitch a ride on a helicopter?

by Ryker Suicide

Ingredients:

• 3 tablespoons good olive oil


• 1 1/2 cups chopped red onions (2 onions)


• 2 handfuls of baby carrots, chopped


• 3-4 cloves minced fresh garlic


• 2 pounds vine-ripened tomatoes, coarsely chopped (3 large


• 1 can diced tomatoes


• 1 1/2 teaspoons sugar


• 1 tablespoon tomato paste


• 1/4 cup packed chopped fresh basil leaves, plus julienned basil leaves, for garnish


• 3 cups chicken stock


• 1 tablespoon kosher salt


• 2 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper


• 3/4 cup heavy cream


• Garnishes can include all or any of: julienned fresh basil, a basil/Parmesan croustini**, shredded Parmesan, and/or fresh cracked pepper.

Preparation:

Heat the olive oil in a large, heavy-bottomed pot over medium-low heat. Add the onions and carrots and sauté for about 10 minutes, until very tender. Add the garlic and cook for 1 minute. Add the tomatoes, sugar, tomato paste, basil, chicken stock, salt and pepper, and stir well. Bring the soup to a boil, lower the heat, and simmer uncovered for about 45- 50 minutes, until the tomatoes are very tender and aromatic.

Add the cream to the soup and ladle it by serving into blender (or process through food mill or veggie mixer). Reheat the soup over low heat just until hot and serve with desired garnishes.

**Directions for Parmesan Croustini:

Slice a loaf of fresh French bread into small diagonal pieces, sprinkle with olive oil, Parmesan cheese, and a bit of dried sage or basil (basil works particularly well with this recipe). Go easy on the basil if you plan to further garnish the soup with it (recommended). Bake until cheese begins to brown at about 250 degrees (about 10 minutes).

Enjoy!

Related Posts:

What’s Cooking In SG’s Kitchen? Ryker Suicide’s Pumpkin Lasagna

What’s Cooking In SG’s Kitchen? Mimmi Suicide’s Vegan Chili With Guacamole

What’s Cooking In SG’s Kitchen? Ryker Suicide’s Mahi-Mahi Tacos with Red Cabbage Slaw, Avocado-Tomato Salsa and Pineapple Hot Sauce

by Darrah de jour

Republicans Meet Muslims Halfway, In Bed

If you remember, in my last column, I reported on the New Jersey Republican state senate candidate who relegated his Twitter account to a Joyce Brothers-style dating advice forum. He targeted us rambunctious women by advising us via tweet that if we want to keep our man, we should be “faithful, a lady in the living room and a whore in the bedroom.”

I don’t know about you, but I don’t need a 40-something real estate dude chiming in on what I do between the sheets. Or in the back seat. Not to mention, the idea of putting my own needs aside, in an act that is supposed to be about both partners’ satisfaction and connection (or simply for two or more hot and sticky bodies to reach nirvana via some nerve bundles) to serve the man solely. Seems like, how do you say it? Bullshit.

Unless your job is to get paid for sex – you probably want to enjoy it. And since when did a ring on your finger or a nice bouquet of flowers equal whoredom?

Scarier Than Who Killed Amanda Palmer

Malaysia recently made international headlines for starting a “club” not unlike your grandmother’s knitting circle. Only, The Obedient Wives Club teaches Muslim women to reinforce their role at home. National director Fauziah Ariffin stresses that “in Islam there are four things that wives must do to enter Heaven: to pray, to fast during Ramadan, to protect their chastity, and to be obedient wives – and it is often the fourth aspect that modern wives neglect.”

She goes on, “Husbands should treat their wives like first-class prostitutes.”

Huh? Wait, I’m sensing a common thread here. Basically, over in America, GOP national candidate Mitsch tells us we should be a whore in the bedroom to win our man’s fidelity. And clear ’cross town in Southeast Asia, women are taught, via this version of Islam, that they should – be a whore in the bedroom to win their man’s fidelity.

Ariffin continues, “Our wives provide men with top-level service. However, ordinary prostitutes can only provide good sex, but not love and affection which only a wife can provide.

“Hence, as wives, we must treat our husbands better. It’s not just in bed, but everything that a wife can offer. Optimise [sic] your role. If we provide our husbands more than a prostitute can give, then our husbands will not go out looking for it.”

OK, gotcha. So, not just any prosy* will do. It should be a top-level one. Because let’s not leave out classism. Escort party-people. The kind you and I would be. Not that other kind that the poor are.

Fauziah reasoned that obedient wives will not cause husbands to take their partner for granted, but in fact, it will make them better husbands.

“When a husband comes home and receives good treatment from the wife, they become better and more loving husbands. Why would they treat their spouse badly if they are treated well?” she said.

I would ask Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad that one.

Even scarier, OWC has launched in Singapore, Indonesia, Australia, Egypt, Syria, Jordan, Britain and France.

This didactic schooling of women, which is pervasive and dates back to whenever it was that witches were broiled and our new patron saint was supposedly a virgin, begs many questions. First off, I can’t help but wonder, why are women told to think sex is bad but harassed to ‘give it up’? Wouldn’t it be smarter to convince us that sex is wonderful, and then prove it patiently and methodically? And, if men are indeed so horny all the time, then why are we whores if we give them what they need in order for them not to ‘get it’ from somebody else?

Perhaps, it has something to do with his voracious sexuality spinning him into a state of utter nonsensical frenzy. This unique, untamed erotic animal roaring to be freed. Into as many different women’s anatomies as possible.

If so, then why are we spending so much time trying to tame women – who apparently have less sex drive than men do? And if sex is dirty, then women are closer to God by virtue of our virtue, so why are we not being worshipped like men are?

Crazy times. Roll with it, dude.

Oh! Ariffin also hypothesizes that, by wives following the above guidelines, rape and incest rates will lower – proving a total lack of understanding around why rape and incest actually occur: control, fear, cycles of violence. And societal breeding. A breeding of entitlement made worse by factions like this encouraging women should neglect their own needs and “service” their mates. (P.S.: A lot of men are visiting sex workers to be led around on a leash and done in the backside with a dildo. Let’s be clear – men often visit prostitutes to live out fantasies they can’t explore at home. I’m not saying wives should don a catsuit, but when we lower stigmas around sexuality in society, perhaps we will also lower rates of cheating. And the less we proselytize to women for exploring their inner sexual voice – maybe, just maybe – fewer women will use sex work as a means to discovering it.)

Sicker Than Secretary, But Not In That Yummy Conscious Way

In case you were itching to know… the men in Malaysia are encouraged to join the male version of the Obedient Wives Club. The Polyamory Club. Founded by Global Ikhwan Sdn Bhd – a multi-national conglomerate – the controversial Polygamy Club, which opened in 2009, persuades husbands to take more than one wife to satisfy their masculine desires.

Hold the phone. Women are encouraged to be obedient and servile to keep their man and men are encouraged to hunt for more wives? Yup. Roll with it. You’re just along for the ride. Right?

Or maybe…

Girl Zone Loan

Women, let’s stop being so fucking judgmental of one another. If we continue to allow men like this to dictate our morality, we will shrink our ovaries, lose our clitorises, have feet like lotus flowers and hang out in the kitchen more than the board room. We’ll walk around topless and ogled, yet handcuffed to chastity.

I say – say it loud. Say it proud. I like sex and I’m a woman. I won’t be put on mute. I won’t be turned into a meek sexless coward by a Fascist moral dictatorship. I am an erotic Goddess. Now, hubby, please rub my feet. I had a long day at work. And there are more of me than you in the workplace right now. And I make up 51% of the nation. And I’ve served you long enough.

*Prosy is slang for prostitute and was directly lifted from Secret Diary of a Call Girl with Billie Piper. Go rent it.

***
Post-feminist sex and sensuality expert Darrah de jour is a freelance journalist who lives in LA with her dog Oscar Wilde. Her writing has appeared in Marie Claire, Esquire and W. In her Red, White and Femme: Strapped With A Brain - And A Vagina columns for SuicideGirls, Darrah will be taking a fresh look at females in America. Visit her blog at Darrahdejour.com/srblog and find her on Facebook.



Related Posts:
Red, White and Femme: The Girl Zone – Madonna Meet Whore Part 1
Red, White and Femme: When Mean Girls Grow Up
Red, White and Femme: Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Polyamory, Part II
Red, White and Femme: Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Polyamory Part I – With Annie Sprinkle
Red, White and Femme: America is FUGLY
Red, White and Femme: Trusting The Ring of Purity - Faith vs Sex Education
Red, White and Femme Fearless Femme Spotlight: Mia Tyler

Got Problems? Sex, Love and Relationship Advice From SuicideGirls' Team Agony

by SG's Team Agony feat. Perdita

Let us answer life's questions - because great advice is even better when it comes from SuicideGirls.


[Perdita in Eames]

Q. Hi, and first of all, thanks for bringing so much sunlight into my life! I forget how long I've followed your site, but it's been constantly reassuring to know that not everyone is hung up on the (double) standards we're surrounded by every day.

OK, here goes…My personal life's been in turmoil for a while now. After much fretting and moping, I broke up with my girlfriend last spring (we met just around my 19th birthday). Almost immediately, a not-very-close friend began showing interest in me. I started paying attention after a mutual friend arranged a date for us, which ended in sex (which, I have to say, was for me the best in maybe a decade, and she said the same).

I'm a responsible kind of guy and something of a sucker for vulnerability, and when after that first encounter she confessed she didn't want to be just a one-night stand, I fell for her. I started spending more time at her place. She told me about her life: she'd quit a very well-paid job a couple of years previously due to burnout, had been beaten to within an inch of her life by her ex-husband, and was deeply in debt thanks to the unscrupulous nature of said ex. She has a six-year-old son with him, who's the reason they keep in touch and are on cool but civil terms. I don't want any kids of my own, but I get along splendidly with the young man; everyone seems to agree my presence has been a helpful influence for him (he was put through hell by the ex too, back when they were still together).

One thing led to another, and within a couple of months, I found myself married to her. (Which is something I hadn't thought I'd ever do, but when the question was put to me, it seemed natural enough.) I don't exactly make enough to support all of us, so I quickly started developing heavy debts, but my wife kept reassuring me her consulting firm would more than make up the deficit once it got off the ground. I supported her efforts the best I could, naturally. But she never really got started; it was too much like the job that had burnt her out previously. We talked it over and agreed that we'd be able to make ends meet if she followed my lead and took a job doing what she loves, even though it doesn't pay well, because she'd be energized by it and wouldn't feel the need to do it in her free time.

Well, it didn't really happen. Her first paycheck paid for little besides the equipment she'd had to buy for the job. It's starting to look like we both need to quit the jobs we love and find something better paid. This is creating friction. We fight over trifles (as well as politics), the sex is dead, she's convinced I'm messing around (I'm not), we're both depressed while trying to keep up appearances for the son's benefit, and she's threatened suicide more than once (she claims one of the times was a misunderstanding, but I was convinced enough that I called the paramedics after I couldn't wake her up). I'm basically having a constant anxiety attack. All of it's looking a lot like what I had before with my ex-girlfriend. Frankly, I've started thinking that marriage may have been a hasty decision.

Now, I'm trying to be as unbiased as possible. I know I have to pull my weight financially. I'm aware we've only known one another for a short time. I wonder if everything seems so familiar because I'm causing it somehow –– in which case I could alter my behavior and make it better? And, most of all, I'm painfully aware that she's put a lot of faith in me after all the trouble she's been through, and I'd hate to disappoint her (not to mention all the people who were happy to see her find a decent guy, including my parents). I have to say I'm a pretty easygoing fellow who hates conflicts and is easily led, and I fear I may have let her convince me to get into something we both wished would work out, but is ultimately damaging.

I'm torn. What should I do? Endure the misery until we're better off and can be natural again? Or cut my losses and go back to being single, leaving her bitter and disappointed once again? Or even something else, like separate to let the air clear and then try again? (A lot of "agains" there.) Any advice or perspective would be most appreciated.

A: It sounds like there is a lot going on here and you seem to have a very clear understanding of the situation, however you need to make a decision. I do think you both need an outside and neutral mediator to help because it sounds like you want to make this work and you care enough to stick around, but you guys are constantly butting heads at this point. If you are able to seek professional help for this, I would highly recommend it, if more for your wife than yourself. A single suicide attempt is more than enough of an indication that someone is dealing with more than they can handle, and she is also clearly carrying baggage from her past relationship. If you’re worried about the cost, many states have options for people seeking help with mental health issues that do not have insurance or the means to pay full price, so I would seek those out to see if you qualify.

You guys are also in financial straights right now in the middle of one of worst economies in 100 years. Believe me when I say that working a job you’re burned out on is no fun, but neither is being homeless, or up to your eyeballs in debt. You also have the needs of a little boy to consider, and sometimes you have to take the job you don’t love because it provides what you need. You both need to suck it up to an extent, and, if you have access to better jobs, now is the time to get them. I understand that it can be frustrating and unfulfilling to work at a job you hate, but this relationship would benefit from structure and stability. As for your finances, you need to sit down, take a look at all the debt you have and figure out how to manage it, make a budget and stick to it. Once you get a handle on your finances and get into a regular routine, there’s no reason why you can’t pursue your interests (together and separately) as hobbies, at least in the meantime.

Ultimately every relationship takes work, and while this relationship may take more work, it sounds like something you are willing to do. So get some professional help, start discussing your issues on a regular basis and concentrate on improving your financial situation, that way you’ll be moving in the right direction for a healthier, happier relationship.

Perdita

***

Got Problems? Let SuicideGirls’ team of Agony Aunts provide solutions. Email questions to: gotproblems@suicidegirls.com

by ExAddict



The first four were tight. Real tight.

It’s a late night sometime during the ‘90s at any one of the millions of households, college dorms and computer labs across the planet…Productivity is at an absolute standstill because much caffeine, Doritos, freewill and time have been surrendered to what was simply put, the greatest game ever.

Fast forward to today and an entire generation of gamers await the next chapter in the series. But like the adventures of Duke Nukem before it, this one may end up stuck in the design stages for a vaporware eternity.

The game was SimCity. Or should I say SimFuckinCity. The ingenious city building and urban planning series created by software company Maxis and designer Will Wright. Sadly, since January 14th, 2003 – the release date of the last true SimCity title – the series has been dead in the water.

Sure there have been newer interpretations and incarnations of the Sim brand, especially since the 1997 acquisition of Maxis by the giant gaming conglomerate Electronic Arts. Despite SimCity’s incredible sales success and cult following, gamers have been crying for the next edition for close to nine years. Yes, believe it or not, it’s been almost nine years since SimCity 4.

So what happened? Mainly, a ton of platforms, iPad this. Nintendo 3DS that. While the original SimCity and it’s four true sequels (SimCity 2000, SimCity 3000 and Sim City 4) kicked serious ass on PC and Mac for fifteen years, the arrival of powerful handheld gaming systems, and later the iPhone and tablets have meant a new audience for an old standard. Afterall, as the piss-poor Duke Nukem Forever proved having tempted fans for 15 years, if it ain’t broke, why fix it?

Thus a legion of first-time gamers and business users going portable are spending countless hours creating and exploring exciting and worthwhile cities in an essentially unchanged gaming environment. Recent releases of SimCity have been based mostly on SimCity 3000, a.k.a. the crown jewel of the Maxis empire, released in 1999.

Something deep within the development teams of Electronic Arts must be clinging to the assumption that good code can always be recycled. While recent remixed versions and deluxe editions of the best of the series stand to bring a flood of fans to this legendary world-creator, we still don’t have what we want – SimCity 5.

Some might be asking, what about The Sims? Isn’t that a logical sequel to the brand? Nope, not even close. Even though The Sims, Spore, SimEarth, SimFarm, SimTown, Streets of SimCity, SimCopter, SimAnt, SimLife, SimIsle, SimTower, SimSafari, and SimPark all offer the Will Wright brand of world-building and exercises in environmental simulation, nothing beats the very first time your city comes alive, the moment you power up the transformer to bring electricity to your city. And many of us have hundreds, if not thousands, of hours of game time to prove it

Besides, although The Sims is in fact the highest selling video game of all time, the engineers and architects hidden inside all of us clamor for a return to world-building, not romantic plot-lines involving debates over purchasing a new couch and nonsense gibberish conversations with neighbors. For that, we have reality.

And then there’s the matter of Civilization.

First released in 1991, Civilization 1 through 5 have consistently offered a new and expanding universe for fans of extended (and time-consuming) adventures that revolve around the gamer playing the role of deity. The last Civ title was released in September 2010 and for some hardcore players, a new PC or Mac chapter of Civilization often means a complete upgrade in system hardware.

Will SimCity 5 ever see the light of day? Hard to tell. In 2007, EA released SimCity Societies, billed by some as the theoretical next sequel, but not a true SimCity 5. A review in two words: It sucked. Focusing far too much on being a bastard hybrid of both The Sims and a childish version of SimCity 4, SimCity Societies left a bad taste in many mouths.

Core to the reason why we may never see another worthwhile installment of this gaming classic, designer Maxis let the series design rights slip to Tilted Mill Entertainment, so they could concentrate on EA’s Spore, an underwhelming creature-builder also inspired by Will Wright.

If it ever is to see a real release, SimCity 5 may be born through the decision in 2008 by Maxis to release the SimCity source code under a free software license. If there’s one thing the free software community knows how to do, it's fork the fuck out of original code.

If the fifth chapter in the book of SimCity is to be written, it might be authored by a fifty-six year old Senegalese crop worker or a banker riding the subway booting Ubuntu.

Maybe it’ll be worth the wait.


Other recent gaming notes…

* Will the Angry Birds movie threaten to score big box office or go down as yet another example in the long history of video game to big screen adaptations that have totally flopped? * Ever since my Xbox 360 surrendered to the red ring of death, I’ve been putting off investing any more money in Microsoft for this generation of gaming. But Battlefield 3 (from EA) just dropped and may change all that for me. I’m sick of waiting for a PS4. * WWE ’12 (from THQ) for PS3, Nintendo Wii and Xbox 360. Demolition and the Legion of Doom have been added as legends and I can see myself picking this up for the deepest Create-A-Character mode in the history of gaming. Throw in Brock Lesnar and the return of the F5 and my dollars are done.

by Nicole Powers



Let me introduce you to a lovely lady I met on October 7th at #OccupyLA. She was there simply to tell her story. Like many people in this economy, she had been finding it difficult to make ends meet, so when Obama's Loan Modification program began it seemed like a godsend. Little did she know, it would be the start rather than the end of her problems.

She duly completed all the paperwork her bank, Wells Fargo, asked her to, and was told what her reduced payments would be. She continued to pay her mortgage, but at the adjusted rate, as she'd been instructed to by Wells Fargo. She never missed a payment, and was not in arrears.

However, months later, out of the blue, she found out her application, for whatever reason, had been rejected. At this point, Wells Fargo treated her like she had been in arrears, because she'd been paying reduced payments on a mortgage that had failed to be modified. To add insult to injury, Wells Fargo then slapped her with a slew of interest charges and fees, because they in effect retroactively considered her account to be in default because of the Loan Modification decision.

Her bank then suggested she reapply, which she did - twice. Two more times, exactly the same thing happened. Following the third failed application, Wells Fargo began proceedings to repossess her home, even though she had made all her mortgage payments in exactly the way the bank had prescribed.

Turns out, the Loan Modification process is notoriously flawed and has been accused numerous times of causing foreclosures, as was the case here. Richard Gaudreau, an attorney, explains in an essay for Huffington Post exactly why the Loan Modification process fails to help troubled homeowners while lining the pockets of banks (surprise, surprise!):

Obviously this kind of behavior is unconscionable. It's hard to comprehend that a "trusted name" like Wells Fargo would want to force a loyal customer and her family out onto the street in order to make a quick buck on a few fees. But this is happening to untold numbers of people all across our nation at the hands of nearly all the major banks.

My #OccupyLA friend had done everything required of her to meet her obligations, but somehow that wasn't enough -- is that remotely fair? But these days we don't seem to require fairness, never mind empathy and understanding, from the financial institutions in which we entrust our wealth, our security, and our futures. Clearly this was not an institution worthy of the trust this lady had been placed in it. Is it worthy of yours?

If you need to put a human face on the reasons why you're being asked to move your money from a big bank to a community institution or credit union on November 5th -- Bank Transfer Day -- let my #OccupyLA friend be it.

To find a credit union in your area visit: moveyourmoneyproject.org

Related Posts

#OccupyLA -- A Remarkably Civilized Society
#Occupy You Must
The Start of OccupyLA
Why Aren't We Seeing More Prominent People Coming Out In Support of #OCUPPYWALLSTREET?

by Yashar Ali


[Xtine in Dr. X-Girlfriend]

My friend Karen (all names changed to protect privacy) was confused and frustrated when she called me on a Friday night.

About a year ago, she met a guy, Michael, through work. They met a few times for drinks with colleagues and then one night, she met him for dinner, which ended with the two of them “hooking up” (whatever that means).

She liked Michael a lot, and wanted to see him again.

After they had dinner, a week went by when Karen got a text message from Michael, “What’s up? How are you?”

She was happy; he wanted to hang out again.

Now, Karen wishes that was the last time she ever heard from him.

As she explained the manner in which she and Michael were communicating, I realized Karen was dealing with a situation several other women very recently talked to me about.

Since their last night together, Michael kept in touch with Karen on a regular basis. Every couple of weeks, Karen received a text or email from him. The messages always started out the same way, “What’s up?”

Karen would always respond.

“How are you?”

“Good, what’s up with you?”

Karen would proceed to fill him in on her life and Michael would always respond with the same short answer, “That’s cool.”

After one or two text messages, Michael would usually disappear. But a couple of weeks later, he would show up again. Sometimes their conversations would go deeper — ten minutes of texting back and forth. Karen would find hope in those longer texting sessions, thinking that he was finally engaging with her.

Michael would sometimes get more creative, giving Karen the impression he cared about her and her life.

“What’s up? How was your holiday weekend?”

“What’s up? Saw your Facebook post, so funny.”

A couple times he even texted, “We should have dinner soon.”

But every time Karen agreed to dinner, Michael would tell her about his really busy month at work, delaying the need to schedule a real date. Then, he would never follow up.

This faux-relationship wasn’t going anywhere and Karen was left feeling confused and frustrated about Michael’s intentions.

But these sporadic texts weren’t even about sex. Michael never even proposed any sort of rendezvous. And Karen’s motivation was certainly not friendship. “I have enough friends,” she said.

“He’s not even trying to sleep with me, what’s the point of all this?”

I told her, “Karen you’re being e-maintained”

“Is that an official term?” she laughed.

The week before, I had come up with the term as a joke, but the idea actually made sense. Michael was maintaining her — keeping her, in his mind, satisfied — and he was doing it electronically.

My friend Julia was dealing with the same issue. She was subject to these short, rapid bursts of texting with men on a consistent basis and she always got her hopes up that something was moving forward, but there was nothing. No substance at all.

“Are these actual adult men with responsibilities or are they children? I can’t figure it out,” she said to me.

I’ve always been fascinated, and disgusted, by the notion that in order to be happy, women need to be “maintained” in a sexual and/or romantic relationship. This kind of treatment of women is on par with our taking care of a car in need of an oil change or dealing with a wood deck in the backyard in need of a coat of varnish.

The concept of maintaining women is billed, through the conditioning our culture imposes on men, as a solution to keep women from being hysterical. According to mainstream social ideas, women are illogical and crazy when it comes to relationships and dating. Men engage in conscious maintenance as a way to “calm” women down so they can get what they want from their women partners (sex, attention, etc.).

This is why so many men are in a rush to cram their love and affection into holidays, birthdays, anniversaries. We don’t teach men or boys that day-to-day affection is equally, if not more important, than special dates.

And what has always been alarming to me is that this so-called maintenance of women has defined behavior that shouldn’t be considered “extra” in any kind of relationship or partnership. Acts of maintenance consist of behavior that should be inherent and the foundation of all relationships: basic human respect, affection and attention.

So, if men are taught about certain critical steps to keeping women happy, “duties” that are treated not as normal behavior, but as annoying, time-consuming steps, how does this make women feel?

My friends, who are or were dealing with e-maintaining, or even just dealing with good-old-fashioned maintaining, are left in a strange, emotional limbo. Women who are “maintained” by men, electronic or otherwise, are made to feel legitimate for short periods of time and then left to question their position with their partners, and sometimes themselves.

Are these women supposed to be happy with a guy who stays in touch every-so-often on his terms? Are they supposed to be satisfied when their spouse buys them an expensive piece of jewelry or remembers their anniversary? Even though their love and/or attention come in waves — inconsistent and sometimes abrupt — are my women friends ungrateful for expecting something more, something more substantial, something more basic? Does any form of maintaining make up for days, weeks, months, years of emotional silence from men?

We’ve always conditioned men to maintain women — this isn’t something new. What’s different is this “maintenance” has become completely electronic for some men, and the men doing the “maintaining” aren’t seeing or even making an effort to see the women they connecting with. Men are just texting, emailing or using social media to give the impression they are checking in or they care — in order to maintain these women.

For these men, the definition of “maintenance” has shifted from traditional strategies like sending gifts and engaging in the occasional dinner, drinks or movie, to this incredibly convenient and empty form of communication based on text messages, emails, and social media: e-maintaining. And it is a mode of communication that isn’t even based in reality.

For some of my women friends, this kind of texting/emailing communication was keeping them engaged until they discovered what e-maintaining really means.

Some of the men I spoke with didn’t even realize their e-maintaining of women was a pattern of behavior. Most of them admitted to doing it when they were bored: waiting at the doctor’s office, in bed at night when they couldn’t sleep, at the airport.

But many of these men knew exactly what they were doing.

“You can’t write about this, you are literally ruining the greatest scam of the century,” my friend Carlos told me over breakfast.

“What’s the scam?”

“I can keep these women satisfied by just texting or emailing. I don’t have to do anything else.”

“It’s like walking a dog, as soon as you do it, they just calm down,” a progressive friend (more on that later) told me via email that same day.

So why not move forward, especially if some of these women are willing to sleep with them?

“Its about options, possibilities,” a friend added.

“I do this because I don’t want to hear her bitching about how I just call about sex, so this way I have a history of having stayed in touch.”

My friend Josh gave an example, “Last Thanksgiving when everyone was out of town, I had someone to hookup with, we even went to the movies.”

In this age of digital communication (texting, Facebook, email), our way of connecting has obviously become more frivolous. While our random, electronic check-ins with friends are usually made with good intentions, the men who engage in e-maintaining don’t want to be friends with the women they text and email (the women don’t want friendship either), and more significantly, their texting is not filled with good intentions.

So, is e-maintaining ultimately about men and women placing different weight on communication? Do women believe that communication is about moving forward — are they being practical and mature? And do men see communication in this form in a more flippant manner, that it doesn’t necessarily lend legitimacy to their desired outcomes?

Is e-maintaining more evidence of gender imbalance in our culture? Does this virtual maintenance of women show the lack of respect our culture requires or expects men to have for women?

Last week, I checked in with Karen to see if she was still pining for Michael and frustrated by his e-maintaining.

She has moved on.

And from now on, Karen’s policy is very simple when it comes to communicating with the men she is interested in, “Where’s the beef?”

The lack of substance in an e-maintained relationship no longer satisfies her.

***

Yashar Ali is a Los Angeles-based columnist, commentator, and political veteran whose writings about women, gender inequality, political heroism, and society are showcased on his website, The Current Conscience. Please follow him on Twitter and join him on Facebook. 

He will be soon releasing our first short e-book, entitled, A Message To Women From A Man: You Are Not Crazy — How We Teach Men That Women Are Crazy and How We Convince Women To Ignore Their Instincts. If you are interested and want to be notified when the book is released, please click here to sign-up.

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