Beach house voyeur

The Mormon Tabernacle Choir performs "Hymn for America" by Stephen Paulus. Episode 4581. Aired July 2, 2017 hymn for idealized middle america. the sun smacks the sidewalk. and is filtered through the evergreens. that keep watch by the riverbed. and huff up all the diesel fumes. the wind that blows is dry. and unforgiving, forthright, clear, and. winds through the avenues, winds through the buildings. COVID-19 Resources. The Hymn Society staff has compiled an extensive listing of resources for congregations, pastors, musicians, and other leaders, including fact-based information; suggestions for hymns and songs; links to blogs from other organizations; and tips for using technology. streaming, and licensing. Hymns with the topic "Aspiration and Resolve": Down by the Jordan, a prophet named John was baptizing Christ has broken down the wall Come, let us dream God's dream again 은 하 늘 에 가 득 히 주 의 영 굉 (Christ, whose glory fills the skies) 꽃 이 픨 믿 음 으 로 (Faith, while trees are still in blossom) Hymn, strictly, a song used in Christian worship, usually sung by the congregation and characteristically having a metrical, strophic (stanzaic), nonbiblical text. Similar songs, also generally called hymns, exist in all civilizations; examples survive, for instance, from ancient Sumer and Greece. Beautiful Music For A Beautiful Soul - America's 25 Favorite Hymns My native country, thee, Land of the noble free, Thy name I love; I love thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and templed hills, My heart with rapture thrills. Like that above. Let music swell the breeze, And ring from all the trees. Our next segment of the hymns of American history highlights the 18th century, with the growing population and development of the vast resources of the American Colonies. The hymns of American history bring this era to life as we take a look at another well-loved hymn: I Sing The Mighty Power of God by Isaac Watts (1715). 'Hymn For America' performed by The Festival Singers of Florida - Duration: 2:49. TampaKurt 3,229 views. 2:49. USA National Anthem with lyrics (by Jaimina Johnston) - Duration: 2:45. J. I previously wrote about several great sources for contemporary hymn arrangements.One of those sources, PraiseCharts.com, recently provided a list of 50 contemporary hymn arrangements with familiar melodies and lyrics rooted in the deep history of our faith.As always, be careful that you select a key among the choices that is in a good melodic range for the congregation.

2020.09.23 09:21 platicauda hymn for idealized middle america

the sun smacks the sidewalk
and is filtered through the evergreens
that keep watch by the riverbed
and huff up all the diesel fumes.
the wind that blows is dry
and unforgiving,
forthright, clear, and
winds through the avenues,
winds through the buildings
and the spaces between each brick,
plods haphazard on crumbling crosswalks,
bends gracefully to thread
through the twined arms of
lovers young and old,
hunched forward or bent back
like wind-blasted farmhouses.

they stop outside
mass-produced coffee chains,
yank on the leashes of
lovesick dogs that find bare white knees
like heat-seeking missiles.
these battalions of the middle-aged,
these flower-skirted throngs,
these purse-clutching masses
awaiting orders outside of
hair salons and ice creameries,
frames pulled magnetically
towards the held shapes of
parking tickets and greasy smartphones,
deep in discussion of seasonal pleasantries
in a manner always
ploying, planning, bickering,
their tones caustic but possessing
an obscured, distant pleasantness -
caustic only in the off-center way that
long jogs and hot showers
and bitter coffee are caustic.
the sleeves of their blouses,
the strings of their sweatshirts
are pulled by impatient
children and grandchildren.
baby carriages conquer the asphalt,
the jolting, clacking reverberations
of their plastic wheels
and their hulking, plasticine forms
clearing the crowd like a skipped stone
through a field of minnows.
they peer through the windows
with one-way gazes,
voyeurs to the
excessively air-conditioned insides
of art galleries,
of furniture and antique stores,
the rows of hawaiian shirts and
leather shoes,
the fluorescent-lit, squeaky-clean
pharmaceutical isles.
they gaze at the teenage recruits
sent to man the tubs of ice-cream and
grocery-store counters,
the plastic-wrapped silos
of artisan popcorn and overpriced,
hand-knitted sweaters and skirts
made expressly for
the jutting, coquetric shoulders of
aging mothers and distant nieces.
the birds make wild arcs
to intercept
french fries and torn bread,
to flirt with the permed heads,
the free-floating curls,
the bald, sun-reflecting domes
sheltering sweltering,
solar-powered insides.

and the whole of it -
the gentrifying,
sun-frying clutter of
paved and unpaved streets,
the golden-age, steel-town bulwarks
of candy stores and tailors
thrust against
the new-laden modernist apartments,
the sly, sleek, minimal panes
of shy glass mirroring the street -
mirroring the tumult of
rough ground
worn progressively to road,
transmuted by continued passage of
leather-plied shoes and
horse-drawn carriage
and chintzy sportscar
and model-T ford
and wagon-wheel
and electric vehicle -
bent into shock by
noise and commerce and
small-town,
measle-stubborn grit -
the whole of it is
coddled, surrounded, absorbed,
aerated and ensconced by the
endless rows of shingle-roofed homes
that coat the town square
like packing peanuts.
when the roads run loose
from the city center
they are focused and determined,
newly paved,
freshly minted,
but in their progression -
flowing to their highways
like high mountain streams
to vast oceans -
become distracted.
they wind, curve, loop nonsensically,
sprawl themselves over the flat,
drawling landscape
like an afternoon cat on a
seasick Sunday afternoon.
they rain-dance.
they catapult and cartwheel and
jump for joy,
and in their fits of ecstasy
their eyes flit towards the grinning exteriors,
the parched front lawns coated in
fertilizer like sickly sweat
where tire swings make nooses of
the overhangs of branches,
where plastic toys and
fisher-price convertibles,
splintered clay pots,
breeze-bound bags of empty mulch
deflated like burst blisters
are strewn like the fuselages
and clipped wings,
the cracked flight decks
and warped cockpits,
the brusque signature of
a commercial airline crash.
where the damage is
watched over carefully by men
with backs like bent-spined books,
surveying the minute landscape
with their brushed, watery eyes,
their airs and attitudes as quilted as
their sweat-stained shirts,
their fingernails as yellow
as the tobacco leaves that hued them.
the houses face the street like
students in a classroom,
leaning slightly,
somewhere else,
mind-wandered,
jutting forward in rapt attention
when the ruler is slapped lengthwise across
a hewn, menacing oak slab
of teacher’s desk.
swingsets are set the
light burden of cupping the air,
accommodating the breeze.
the driveways are waiting
with bated breath
for the embrace of rubber tires and
the wet kiss of exhaust.
insects nibble at windowscreens,
squirrels scuttle up trees
after adversaries or mates
in states of apoplectic lust.
in the ailing light
the windows
make patchwork of flowered rows
and mazes of obsessively trimmed hedges.
a mailtruck deployed from
corporate, online confines
spits a shrink-wrapped package
onto the front-steps,
leaves it washed and singular
as a beached whale atop the
collected informational refuse
of short springs, long winters,
dead skin cells and pencil
shavings and the leaves of
spiced and failing autumns.
on the geometric spokes of
fences that
picket picket picket
the lawn,
standing at attention,
the wooden slats uniformed
in surgical shades,
whitewashed and carefree,
crawl fire ants and ants
and crickets and cicadas,
chick chickadees and inch
inchworms.

and the stooping old men
and the sputtering housewives
and the refugee mailmen
and the clay-smelling children
are unsure of
what exactly the fences keep out
but they are well aware
of what the fences keep in.
they are a soft membrane,
iridescent at the right angle,
to keep the warm light from spilling
from the kitchen windows
and ruining the newly-varnished floor
and to keep the books
from tumbling from their shelves
and to keep the words from
scattering off their pages like
fresh-hatched spiders.
they keep shadows plastered
to white walls.
they keep dogs licking their paws.
they make sure
prayers aren’t getting any ideas
and keep
the aspirations of aspirations in check.
keep thoughts from fogging
up windowpanes.
and the collective output of sidelong
family dreams and wants and longing
and smidgeons of contraband hope,
dusty ashtrays full of burnt promises,
ferments like black mold on
the undersides of eaves and the
patches behind pictureframes,
takes the shine from the cedar-coated foyer
and the holes from the belts,
steals luster from the sweat-slick
skin of the wide-eyed,
simian children
till the front door swings open
like a punchdrunk manifesto
and the petri-dish confines of the home
are left to sit lonely and unaware,
the smaller denizens heading
roadward with wide strides
and sauntering gates and voices
light enough to rise up
through the heavy air,
skyward,
above the floral denseness
that houses the homes
like a clenched fist.

they are up in the trees
and their voices fumble blindly
and they echo through the branches
to find each other again and they
interlock oroborean,
form knots of a thickness that no
muted adult fingers had ever a
chance of prying through.
the fabric of the knots are interwoven with
sweaty, grass-smudged secrets
and stifled laughter
and internal late-night
chalkboard theorems.
they are stuck like wet bandages
on the hindlegs of the evening -
indifferent, irreverent.
they leap from branch to branch,
scratching elbows and bruising knees,
forming colonies and starlit kingdoms
so that in the time it takes the daylight
to sift through the bursting branches
of the gnarled, winding, sun soaked boughs
and chafing burls of the wooden giant
they have seen the rise and fall
of countless regimes,
demo and autocratic,
anarchic and minutely ordered,
didactic or wildly elastic until
they are beckoned through screen doors
to eat quick, mumbled dinners,
corralled into the cool spaces of their
yawning bedrooms where
wet-pillowed dreams are fueled
by the steam from the trains of their
imagined industrial revolutions,
where the successive centuries-long
rises and falls of their
pseudo-empires give their
wet, nasal exhales a lilting, catching
air so that in the end
their monolith Vishnus and Shivas,
their industry and commerce,
their fledgling, coal smoke skylines,
their blood-lined guillotines and scaffolds
and churches and marches,
their military shows of force,
their convents and convex population rates,
their border-crossed lovers running headwind
to take cover
from the bombs that fall like gumdrops
as the sky is ripped asunder
and the rubble and the wreck
requiring eons to rebuild
is only a device,
a very simple mechanism
that allows a mother to pause
in front of a bedroom door
and to listen idly for a few moments
to the irregularity of breath.
the husband and wife
in their fossilized, domestic stupor
are unaware that a girl lies awake
with a mind kinetic enough to burn
through the lunar stillness.
she gives up. sits up.
addled, soaked through with semi-sleep,
leaving puddles of it on the
linoleum tiles,
leaving footprints of the stuff
trailing out the door,
she ducks under the yawing porchswing,
hops lightly down the paint-stained steps
into the breathing, vernal space
of the backyard.
she pauses.
down by the river,
a willow is weeping.
she approaches, curious, perturbed;
she is unsure of what to do.
its leaves scrape the dry dirt
and leave schizo hieroglyphs.
it seems to shiver.
she wets a finger with her tongue.
scratches her ear.
tilts her head.
leans forward, heels raised.
she hums a light hymn.

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2020.09.11 12:01 XInsects Beach house voyeur

I've read a few things about It Follows over the years, mostly revolving around theories of what the entity/story represents. These mostly seem to point towards STDs or death itself. These always felt a bit clunky and obvious though as ideas, there seems to be so much more going on between the lines.
Watching it for a third time, it hit me that the film is about abuse in all its forms, as well as ways that victims disassociate from it, and are viewed by others.
We learn that the entity can take the form of anyone, maybe someone you know, sometimes even someone you love "just to be cruel". This also applies to a person's potential abuser.
Watch it with the idea that the entity takes the form of abuse victims, and it becomes a truly disturbing film for many reasons. The woman in the kitchen appears monstrous at first, but then the urination hints toward being terrified, as though conjuring a moment of abuse. The boy who smashes the window across the street before leaping in appears to be some kind of an inpatient, an easy target for abuse. It then becomes Greg's mother, which carries implications for how it smothers Greg.
Out of the lead characters, the only one who is mimicked by the entity is Yara, in the beach scene. When driving to the pool towards the end, Yara says she hasn't been there since she was 14, to which Paul says "oh yeah, who took you there?" and she replies with something like "shut up, don't talk about that", implying some kind of trauma.
When the entity appears at the pool, Jay refuses to say who it is - it's taken the form of her father which we can tell from the photos around her house. This important subtlety explains a few things. Firstly, her mother has become completely neglectful as a likely result/coping mechanism of whatever abuse the father endured and/or subsequently committed on Jay and/or her mother. At one point we can see that the mother has brought Jay a plate with a sandwich and snacks, and there is mold growing on the bread. Jay herself dissociates in the paddling pool, and later places blades of grass over her leg in a way that seems a metaphor for self-harming knife cuts.
If you watch this film with all this in mind, another level of the film emerges that's about how we make monsters of abuse victims. The forms that the entity takes appear terrifying - solemn faced, slow walking, apathetic, often staring into space - riffing on the cinematic portrayals of zombies/the undead as something scary. But when seen as victims of abuse, it becomes scarier because they seem so innately scary. The audience is brought into the films idea of "we blame and shame victims", in the same way that Jay is terrified of not being believed, or judged for what is happening to her.
Aside from that is also the cycle of abuse, something terrifying in itself, particularly shown by Hugh in his selfish treatment of Jay. The idea of pushing trauma onto someone else, despite knowing that once it's devoured them, it will soon return anyway. Also, that Greg sleeps with Jay as though trying to help when clearly he's taking advantage of her state.
There's also the huge paranoia and detachment from connection that trauma can create - Jay's perspective on people to begin with (noticing the voyeur kids by the pool, people watching at the cinema) gives way to something else entirely.
Its played as a completely different film each time I've seen it. If you haven't seen if for a while, I encourage you to see it again with these ideas in mind - it becomes both fascinating in its brilliance as well as deeply disturbing and unsettling - the horror sort of compounds on itself. Its a remarkable film.
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2020.08.17 10:03 SpookyGen13 My BF of 4 years kicked me and sent me to a psych ward

I posted this once before but i feel like this belonged here. So this is hard for me, cause in my head this is some tragic thing... but it may not be, i guess you decide.
First off let me give you some context. Ive always had issues mentally and growing up my father was a pedophile and i had sexual trauma fron a voyeur as a child, as well as by two men when i was in high school. Once on the school bus, and once in a classroom, and no it wasnt movie day. He just went for it.
I knew i had ptsd, and ive been diagnosed with OCD, Bipolar, Anorexia, and ADHD. All i definitely do have to varying degrees.
I add this to show you how i was already a bit "sick" to begin with. It was the reason for the one time we broke up because i "emotionally cheated" on him. It was hard for me to control myself because of my past trauma. Its not an excuse, just a reason. He worked seven days a week about a month into me moving in and i was lonely, and being abandoned or feeling so is a big trigger for me. I never touched or even kissed anyone else, just soaked up the attention he wasnt giving me.
We split but ended up back together since we still lived together. So he had always been a work in progress... he is beautiful, kind, smart, and a good soul. He always sees the best in people even when im so cynical. We used to go dancing, we would go to bars and events, raves and the like. We would travel to eugene oregon and in humbolt ca to do all the fun stuff. We were truly happy, having fun and working on ourselves.
Then as i got older and turned 27, i began to change... my bipolar 1 which was hardly apparent before suddenly got worse... i became a tottaly different person. My parents tried to seperate me from my BF and i think it triggered my disorder cause i flipped... and after that... well... like i said i became someone else.
I was really up and down, hitting such extremes that i would sit on the ground and slam my head against the floor until i was dizzy. I would smack myself repeatedly in the face until i bruised myself. Then the pandemic hit...no more dancing... no more having fun with the one person i truly felt in love with. No more of the fun we had.
Truth is... i didnt mind at first... it was him...he felt apart... he became depressed... that interaction was what he needed to be happy and support me and my disorder. I can also say he has some undiagnosed issues like ADHD that cause him to already struggle mentally.
I was still doing relatively okay at this point, but then the riots happened. Being a mixed race, it really ate me up inside... and i could no longer help him mentally... and he couldnt help me. My mood swings, rage, and self harm got worse. I would take a knife and stab toys, couches, even the shirt i was wearing i would stab and rip off me in a hulk like fashion.
Im going to say it again... i was very sick, and the problem with bi polar disorder as ive read in my many books, the mania keeps people from seeing how bad it really is cause they will just be happy again at some point. Its blinding so to speak. The week before he sent me away... we looked at new trailer parks... we were planning on moving.
The week before he kicked me out i had told him im going to stop drinking every day(i had been for about 3 months cause of the pandemic and riots making my depression bad). We talked about it a bit and he said it was a good idea, and so i detoxed... in a pandemic... with increasingly bad bipolar 1. He wasnt being supportive so much those last few days... thats part of why i snapped i think. Whenever i got anxious he did this fake im gonna hit myself motion... he was mocking me... and i was trying to detox and get better.
When i struggled to not drink he said well i did this so you can do that. Im not saying what it is, but it was an addiction and it was causing him mood swings as well. He just wasnt supporting me on it and it hurt my feelings alot. This was the meanest id ever seen him, it was a bit out of character.
I have to say he was hurting before this... his family is not good to him... and his friends just betrayed him recently. He even said a day or two before it blew up that he wanted to die... so i knew he was hurting inside.
So as i detox, i realize... i drank all my money... i couldnt afford my phone bill... i flipped the fuck out... and i told him things i had been holding in for a long time, he was nice at first... then i showed him a living will i wrote... He tried calling and i ignored it... I told him i was going to kill myself the next day, and that if he needed anything to let me know, and that i would clean the whole house before i went. It was a bluff... it was a living will... not a suicide note.
The cops showed up and took me in for a psych eval. I ended up sitting in there scared as shit and half crying for about 2 hours.
I needed help, i know, that's why i wasn't that upset about the psych eval. I was upset yeah but knew i needed help so i was pretty open to the doctors. I just hate hospitals cause i dont like getting stuck there, which is exactly what happened.
Finally the doctor shows up and makes an appointment with me to see someone the next day. She also talked to my bf who she said was very sweet and sounded like a good guy. She told me he took the night off to take care of me.
I was happy, and he came to pick me up. He didnt hug me or anything and i was just wanting to go home. He drove in the opposite direction of our trailer park and i asked him where we were going. He told me the beach and i felt him look at me a few times but i was a little mad and alot tired from that experience. He pulls up at the beach where there is an overlook and we get out. He walks me uo to the top and offeres me a seat. He asks if i had anything to say and i said no.
He said you know this is psychological abuse right and i said dude i just tried, wanted to kill myself and your telling me that. He said i dont think we can be together right now, i think we should be friends. I said you brought me to a cliff to break up with me and i just wanted to kill myself. You must want me to kill myself.
I ran towards the railing and even though i was bluffing he still somehow had time in all my yelling to press 911 on his phone, letting the cops hear all my bluffs...they didnt know me though. I said fine, ill just walk home. So i started heading home and he drives up beside me and tells me to get in. I said i only get in with my bf and he said fine... get in... and i get in.
He then dumps me again i started screaming and ripping my hair out. I say let me out of this car, let me out out.
I had my hand on the handle and he thiight i was going to open it. I wasnt but he still had 911 on the ohone so they thought i was going to jump out. My bf put his arm over me, i said fine take me back to the hospital... he said no... and i cried and said just take me home so i can go smoke and drink. Take me home. He argues saying didnt you want to go to the hospital and i said no just take me home.
We roll up to my house and whos there? The cops... I jump out and he asks me whats up then tells me that he heard everything on the phone. I look at my bf and say how could you, how could you do that to me... my bf looks at the other cop and says there has been a pattern of this...
I was defeated... if he had just taken me to that appointment the next day... things would have changed for the better. I would have gotten on meds. When i was in the hospital i kept calling him... he wouldnt pick up.
I called my coworker who called him and she told me that my parents were picking up my stuff and that ill be moving back in with them. Its been 2 months and ir still hurts to talk abiut this. The psych ward messes with your brain and made me paranoid for some time. I know i wasnt a perfect gf... but i still feel like he did me dirty.
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2020.07.20 16:01 liner20Jul I Fuc-ked My Dru-nk Mo-m Por-n

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https://preview.redd.it/lenv31q1c1c51.jpg?width=194&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=f672bd108ad8a0828396c7613f1e402def0048b8
submitted by liner20Jul to Dino_Blue [link] [comments]


2020.06.01 18:22 ThrowRAbroprobs Beach house voyeur

So, this is a crazy situation I have found myself in, and I need to know if I should just let it go, as my fiance is asking me to do, or if I should make a big deal about this. This is kind of long.
My fiance (24f) and me (25M) were supposed to move into our new place a few months ago, but the new building got delayed for various reasons, and we have been living with my dad in a spare room temporarily since March, and looks like we will be here until possibly the end of July.
At my dad's house, lives my 17 year old brother. Who is a great kid, so I thought. My parents are divorced. My fiance is also a bit an exhibitionist. I'm not even sure if that is the right term, she just has no big deal with nudity. This never bothers me at all, for the record, because I like seeing her naked lol. I have known about this from before we ever were together, so this is not a new thing. She has been, at my request, not as "exhibitionist" as normal, not because I care about her being seen, but because we are just with family. She has done a much better job censoring herself at my request, but she forgets from time to time. I have seen her changing real quick with the door wide open, stripping down by the pool to then put the towel around her, etc.
3 weeks ago or so, I was in the living room. My brother was on his laptop and then got up to go take a shower. I wanted to look something up quickly about a tv show, and grabbed his computer. I would never grab and snoop through a 17 year old kid's computer, because I was 17 once, but he was on it in the living room, granted siting in the corner, but I assumed he was just on reddit or playing a game or something, and my phone and computer were charging in the other side of the house.
I didn't see it as a big deal that I needed to use it for like 30 seconds. When I opened it, I didn't even think I would be able to use it, because I assumed he had a password, which it did, but he has always used the same password for everything, which is our childhood dog and his favorite number. I tried it and it worked lol. However, when it turned on, an internet tab was opened to a kind of porn , more like a porn forum-like, site. I guess think reddit but for only porn. I had no issue with this, and was planning on just opening a new tab and looking up what I needed really quickly. I don't want to say the name of the site, but basically it is a site that after looking at it later, is filled with guys making threads about busty women only, either girls in life they know, but even just girls on social media with large breasts, as well as pornstars with large breasts. (my fiance has really big breasts) The tab that was opened however, had pictures of my fiance, that he had posted! It was titled something like, "brother's huge tit fit wife" or something like that. I made a note of the site and title of his post/username, and closed his computer and went to the other side of the house, fuming, to my computer to look at it better. The pictures were a lot from her social media, which isn't risque or anything, but there are some bikini pictures there, but then he posted pictures of her that he had voyeuristically taken since we have been living there, of which she is in more bikinis by the pool, in various states of undress, like topless and fully nude, as well as just voyeur stuff from around the house, like when she is wearing a tanktop or something before bed without a bra. There was also pictures he posted in her actual bra drawer, showing the sizes of her bras, when people were asking for her bra size.

I obviously felt pretty violated for her, and me too. I wasn't sure what to do, tell her vs confront him. The next day I ended up deciding to tell my fiance, and here is where I don't know what to do. She didn't really care/think it was a big deal, which I guess I shouldn't be surprised seeing as she has such a relaxed view on being seen naked. She said something like, he is just a horny teenage boy, we will be out of here soon, and to just let it go to not cause any family drama, since we don't have any other place to go. She said she will start to be more aware, which she has, by wearing more bras and trying to remember to not just strip down by the pool, but there are still times that I stumble upon her topless in our room with the door open, or in other scenarios that are similar.

I have not said anything to my brother because that is her wish, but I am really struggling not calling him out. I am now addicted to watching this thread of his, waiting to see if he is posting new pictures of hers, which he has, and of course talking about all the things he would do to her, as well as what all these other guys online are saying. I brought it up again to my fiance and she again said to just let it go, even after she read through the site herself. She also said, how many pictures do you think people snuck when we tried the topless/nude beach that we went to last summer when on vacation.

So, do I just let this go? Do I have a reason to be upset for her if she truly doesn't care? I truly don't care about her being seen naked, or even with people vocalizing their attraction to her, like they are doing on the site, but I see this more as an invasion of privacy more than anything. When she says its no big deal, she brings up many good points, and calms me down, but then later when I can't stop watching the thread, I get angry.

TL;DR: My younger brother is posting voyeur pictures of my fiance on a porn site. He doesn't know we know, she doesn't care. Should I care? Should I confront him, or respect her wishes and ignore it to keep the family peace while we are living there for another month or two?
submitted by ThrowRAbroprobs to relationship_advice [link] [comments]


2020.01.17 22:32 donikhatru Voyeur beach house

I know a thread like this is going to trigger a lot of backlash. I'm bummed out today and i need to post about it. FE Tokyo Mirage sessions is out today on Switch. I was excited for this release. I'm a huge Fire Emblem/Persona fan and a lifelong hardcore nintendo fan. I heard some stuff was changed for the western release/ switch edition, and at first i didn't care. How much would it possibly affect after all?
Now before I begin, i want to make clear that this post isn't just sparked by mirage sessions. In recent days i have been grappling with the revelation that several literal references to lesbian marriage were deleted or curtailed in the english localization of Fire Emblem Three Houses. That's a whole 'nother topic from this one. I did not come to that conclusion lightly or haphazardly: for a long time i insisted that the localization team for three houses did what they did for legitimate artistic reasons and only slowly and painfully was made aware of what they actually cut out of some of these conversations/ relationships and that the primary intent was to make the content less "explicit." I'm frankly shocked that it hasn't gotten more attention, given that gay marriage is legal in the west and should be more acceptable in a game here than in japan. But like i said, thats a different issue.
So regarding Tokyo Mirage sessions: if they want to black out underneath girl's skirts, i can understand that. I think voyeuristically looking up some girl's skirt is creepy and gross and i really hate when male nerds get off on that. (However i still would not black it out-- i would just ensure that the camera does not suggestively go up the characters skirt in a uneccesary, fanservicey way, not create an aura of "mystery" around women's underwear that supposedly does not exist regarding men, as i think that has its own problems)
If they want to make some small changes around the edges to some outfits.... okay. Adding a few straps, maybe some tights and extra coverage here and there-- i think its really dumb. Why are sexual norms with respect to women's bodies so minutely policed and jealously guarded when in an American game like Bioshock you literally get to kill little children and no one bats an eye? (Btw guess what trilogy was recently announced as a switch port? Bioshock. Anyone think that game is gonna get censored? No obviously not.) It's not like women at the beach are regulated in terms of what bathing suits they are allowed to wear (assuming they're not totally naked). It's no secret that men and women's bodies are different and that the different genders and orientations have different ways of looking and feeling "sexy." But you know what, it's not a big deal. A pop star outfit can communicate the same idea of "sexiness" with some minor changes, and if that's what is needed to appease the censors, then fine do it.
But then i learned they changed an entire dungeon and the boss and plot of that dungeon completely, to avoid characters being in Bikinis. Even when there was a legitimate plot surrounding said bikinis. (And yes, a frivolous, absurd, fanservicey, silly plot, but nevertheless it was at least acknowledged and dealt with on some level) And i just can't swallow my grievances support such overreaching, draconian, hamfisted censorship. I really tried, and i can't.
Who is the censorship for, and more importantly: could this not just be made into an optional choice? When the game is released, you just sell two versions. You have a clean, censored version for those who genuinely want to play the game but want a cleaner, less sexualized, and more wholesome experience, and you have the uncensored version for everyone else. Then everyone is happy and you sell more copies. So why not do that?
I want to talk about this because i want to investigate who these changes are really for and figure out why nintendo is operating under this assumption that western releases need to be censored. Is it the media? Culture? Is this practice going to die out or is it going to become more prevalent going forward?
I want to just briefly touch on why, even though i dislike voyeurism and fanservice, i hate censorship even more and find it so counterproductive:
Covering up the female body is tacit acknowledgement that the female body is a potent, dangerous commodity that must be regulated. Something objectionable that needs an "adults only" label, like a bottle of strong liquor on the shelf. Imo this is harmful... to women. Covering up doesn't change the fact that many men are creepy, leering, lecherous, and shitty. In fact, it legitimizes the defects of some men as essential characteristics of all men and of society itself.
Never mind that people, women, gay men, et cetera, sometimes want to express and embody feminity for a legitimate personal reason that has nothing to do with pleasing or enticing men. Having been to many a gay pride parade, slutwalk, EDM festival, club, and college campus during the summer, i can confirm that people, including women, have varied and legitimate reasons for donning all types of clothing, or no clothing at all. I really hate the implication that one set of norms must govern the conduct for all of us, even those of us playing a niche JRPG. And more to the point: the censorship assumes the person playing the game is a straight boy with a straight boy's sexual proclivities. So if you happen to not be, tough luck, you have to play with their handicaps anyway. Meanwhile no one forces straight boys to play shooters with paintbal guns to protect the delicate sensibilities of parents and children.
I am going to stop ranting-- i genuinely want to open this up for a real discussion. Who is the audience for censorship? What is the future of this practice? Is it ever going to end or will it instead become more prevalent and severe? Is this simply the price we must pay as westerners to even see these games released on our shores? And if you like to see censorship and support these choices, i'd love to hear the counterargument as to why its a good thing.
submitted by donikhatru to NintendoSwitch [link] [comments]


2019.05.05 02:10 jooxii Beach house voyeur

Last updated: 12/07/19 Edit 32: Couldn't help myself. Added Urban Jurgënsen and Manufacture Royale. Thread is archived so no promises, but feel free to message me with any requests!
A. Lange & Söhne: You work in investments, but nowhere as common as Wall Street. You have been known to casually ask to compare balance bridges with Patek owners.
Alpina: You are subscribed to Outside magazine, and can quote passages from Krakauer’s “Into the Wild” by by heart. You own a pair of serious hiking boots, but they languish in your closet, unworn and unmuddied. You could not afford a Rolex Explorer. If pressed, you would not be able to articulate why anyone would actually need an “Alpinist” watch.
Audemars Piguet: You are a rapper, and you think the brand name is “Royal Oak”.
Apple Watch: You are either a secretary or nine-figure earning CEO at a Fortune 500 company. You use your Apple Watch Series 4 to track both your weekly jogs and chicken roasts. You are vaguely familiar with the idea that other, “old-fashioned” watches exist, but assume they will soon disappear once they are no longer repaired by their manufacturers.
Azimuth: Your two most treasured possessions are an autographed photo of Leonard Nimoy and a replica copy of the Voyager probe Golden Record. You can only dream of owning an MB&F.
Ball: As you walk through your LED lit hallway, down the stairs illuminated by motion sensing flood lamps, and towards your basement model train table outfitted with 3000 Lumen overhead halogen bulbs, you’re gladly reassured by your watch's Tritium lume - for the brief second it takes to find the switch.
Balticus: You are either a metrosexual 20-something working in Warsaw, or a teenage boy living in rural Estonia. You don’t get to play with your Overwatch team as much as you’d like due to the time difference. You dream of moving to Berlin or New York.
Baume et Mercier: You were touched when your wife got you a Clifton for your wedding. You have since gotten a Rolex, but wear your B&M on special occasions. Thankfully, she got you an automatic, not a quartz.
Bell & Ross: You think IWCs are a pale imitation of a Boeing 767 flight instrument. You want to wear the entire flight panel.
Blancpain: Let’s be real, unless you're Vladimir Putin, the only watch you wear from this brand is the Fifty Fathoms - and it never goes near water.
Bovet: You are the president of an esteemed French bank, say, Société Générale. While browsing the shops near your villa in Nice, you came across a lovely Fleurier, which you bought without even considering a discount. So much less common than a Breguet.
Breitling: You aspire to be a pilot. You think the Breitling Emergency is the coolest watch ever made. You are unfamiliar with the term “in-house”.
Bremont: You are an Anglophile. After purchasing two models from the boutique, you are hoping one day to be invited to a Townhouse event. You are either blissfully unaware, or painfully so, of the concept of “resale value”. Though you publicly state it doesn’t matter, you are secretly jealous that Tudor is moving in-house. Even you are somewhat embarrassed by their origin story.
Breguet: You properly pronounce “Tourbillon”. You cringe when others refer to dial markings as mere “Arabic numerals”. You wish more people understood the history of horology. Your dream is to visit Paris.
Bulova: You are either a middle-aged man obsessively collecting the 1970's Accutrons of your youth, or you picked this up from the jewelry counter at Kohl's - with a coupon.
Burberry: You are either a skinny-tie wearing American office drone, or a Chav named Derek living in Slough. In either scenario, you believe the checkmark on the dial exudes class.
BVLGARI - Men's: You wanted a watch that looked like a Diesel, but more expensive.
BVLGARI - Women's: While you already have a diamond Datejust, you wanted something a little flashier to go with your evening-wear Chanel handbag. You delight in correcting others when they attempt to read the name on the dial. Even watch geeks will admit your Serpanti is kind of cool.
Carl F. Bucherer: You are a Chinese national who has never visited the United States. Your uncle’s textile factory has vaunted your family into the upper-middle classes, and it is expected that you project a certain image to distinguish yourself from the commoners. The saleswoman assured you that your Manero is for “a man of distinction” and will fit perfectly with your other internationally recognized luxury item, your cherry-red Buick GL8 Sedan.
Cartier: You like beautiful things, and are possibly a woman.
Casio: In school, your glasses were held together with Scotchtape, and the mechanical pencil in your shirt-front pocket always jammed, but your trusty Calculator Watch never failed. You are shocked that others are copying your look ironically.
Certina: You are the 33-year old manager of a Coop supermarket outside of Davos, Switzerland. While you believe fancy watches are for tourists, your Powermatic was listed “Uhren 50% Rabatt!” and looks pretty sweet.
Chanel: When you awake, you reach for your bottle of No. 5 - sprayed at the pulse points - before you check your phone. You love your ceramic white J12 for the way it effortlessly graces most of your outfits. You spend most days at work surreptitiously surfing TheRealReal, desperately trying to emulate your idol, Coco, on the cheap. Secretly, you wish the whole Nazi collaborator thing was just an ugly rumor.
Chopard: When you got engaged, you insisted on a “Chopard for Love” ring in a platinum setting. While your finance-bro fiancee couldn’t be there on the special day, he gave you a Happy Diamonds to go with it on your three-year anniversary. He will marry you. Eventually. Right?
Christiaan Van Der Klaauw: You are an unusually successful astrophysicist with a NY Times bestselling book. You wear you hair at a rakish angle, and unabashedly use the phase “a priori” in everyday conversation. You actually understand the concept of Sideral time. You first heard of the brand from the oligarch who endowed your research chair using laundered Petro dollars.
Christopher Ward: You can’t afford to spend more than $1K on a watch. You’ve come to actually love your Trident. Secretly, you think the new logo makes your watch look like a toy.
Citizen: You work for NASA, and your job is to set the clocks on the GPS satellites.
Concord: The year is 1986. While all the other middle-managers are celebrating their promotions with Trans Ams, women, or Rolexs, you chose the Concord Saratoga. Placing the leftover cash into Lincoln Savings and Loan bonds and a custom suit with serious shoulder pads, you choose to invest in things that last.
Corum: You spend most days at your estate's dock, "working" on your teak-decked Sloop, so much so that your wife - for whose birthday you bought a subscription to Sail magazine - calls your Coxswain when she wishes to find you. You exclusively wear Sperry’s and have been known to sport a racing flag tie unironically. You know nothing about watches.
Cuervo y Sobrinos: You are a third generation Cuban-American named Jorge living in Buena Vista, Miami. You drink Bacardi Gold as you grill pulled pork at cookouts and play dominos with your Abuelo. You chose your Rubusto to honor your family, culture, and heritage. Secretly, you’re terrified that someone might find out your legal name is George - and that you speak no Spanish.
Damasko: You earnestly believe that form must always follow function. You lament the paucity of good quality, acid-resistant PVD watches on the market. As you wear steel-toed hiking boots daily, you wouldn’t be caught dead handling, much less wearing, a gold dress watch.
Daniel Wellington: You are a millennial who is into latte art. You think Humphrey Bogart looked so cool in old movies with his suit and trench coat. You are unaware of the terms "quartz" or "automatic". If you're honest, you had a hard time choosing your watch, as they all look the same on the website. You pay $5 a pop at the jewelry store to change Nato straps, which you recently got into.
De Bethune: You successfully sold your internet company - with no revenue, let alone income - for $450 million dollars. You love technology, shiny things, and the color blue. You have a life-size replica of the Star Trek: The Next Generation bridge in your Rec room.
Diesel: You are either a teenager with vociferous opinions on the PC vs. Console gaming wars, or a playboy far too busy dating multiple women simultaneously to know what that is.
Dornblüth & Sohn: You own a grandfather clock, which you wind daily. Your have the same opinion on Roman numerals as on your ex-wife - cluttered, fussy, and confusing. You drive a vintage BMW - in your opinion, the epitome of a functional automobile - before the snazzy marketing made them much too flashy.
Ebel: Fresh out of law school, you just got your first associate-level job at a big firm. You wanted something pretty but professional to wear to work. You are confused as to why on dates, men excitedly ask to see your watch, then get close, look disappointed, and say ”oh…an Ebel...”.
Edox/Mido: You are a 23 year old German man, fresh out of the University of Heidelberg. Your starter job and soon to be expiring student benefits did not allow you to stretch for a Longines. The salesman’s face visibly fell when you walked through his door.
Eterna: Your KonTiki was a Jomashop 75% off gamble. You have since become a fanboy, going so far as to grow a beard and voraciously reading Thor Heyerdahl's memoirs. You will order a nature survival kit, tent, and water purification pills online before you lose all interest and snuggle back up to your PS4.
Fortis: You are a young German man living in Düsseldorf. You saved up quite a few paychecks at your Aldi managerial job to afford your Stratoliner. You wish the SR-71 Blackbird was still around. You have re-watched Top Gun 23 times, while imagining that your handle would be “The Baron”. If you ever actually visited an American airbase, you would be disgusted with the wastefulness and vow never to return.
Fossil: You are a 25 year old man at your first job. Your workplace has open-plan offices and “Sunday Fundays”. You carefully buckle up your leather watch before dates, and make sure it shows under your cuff.
Franck Muller: You are a jocular pediatrician, or possibly, a professional clown. You have a weakness for Tonneau cases and Art Deco numerals.
Frederique Constant: You could not afford a JLC Master Ultra Thin Moon, so you got this instead. You are unsuccessfully trying to make a 42mm dress watch work for your wrist. You were shocked, and a little disappointed, when you learned that the company was founded in 1988.
Garmin: You are subscribed to Men's Health and GQ. Before leaving for work, you lace up your running sneakers and strap on your Forerunner in case you can get a quick run in on the way home. This never happens. Your Bowflex sits quietly in your garage, gleaming and untouched.
Ginault: You spent $1,449 on a Rolex Submariner Homage. You while away countless man-hours on the forums, defending the brand from baseless accusations. You will ultimately purchase Hulk, Pepsi, and Daytona homages from other brands, and with time, will have spent more on replicas than the cost of the real thing.
Girard-Perregaux: You swear that the Laureato is “the next Overseas”, and that the Golden Bridges are an under appreciated masterpiece. You purposely chose a 1966 over a JLC Master Ultra Thin. Secretly, you wonder if you made a mistake.
Glashütte Original: You, overall, cannot afford a Lange.
Glycine: You’ve outgrown the flashy Invicta's of your youth, but are still hesitant to go smaller than 46mm in a watch. Secretly, the vaguely military associations of your Combat Sub mildly arouse you. If he were alive to see it, Eugène Meylan would throw an egg at your face.
Glycine - Vintage: You live in an old age home, with your WWII Purple Heart and military induction papers tucked away discreetly in a corner. You still wear the Airman which you bought on the base at Ramstein in ’49. Sadly, your grandson only visits to eye it covetously.
Graham: You couldn’t resist a watch whose crown is easily confused with a grenade’s firing pin. Your Volkswagen Golf has vanity plates and a silkscreened pin-up on the rear window. You have a shrine to your grandfather in your room, a WWII vet with the British Expeditionary Force, though he only got to flee Dunkirk. Even you suspect the “Watchmakers Since 1659” claim is crap.
Grand Seiko: You think a Spring Drive is the coolest thing since sliced bread. You frequently photograph your Cocktail Time with your Sony camera or, in a pinch, your latest generation iPhone. You have bookmarked Youtube videos of the Grand Seiko factory - in case you meet someone with a Swiss made watch who needs a little convincing. You wish Seiko would do marketing better.
Grönefeld: While trained at RADA, you have peaked as a recognizable, but under-appreciated Hollywood actor. You have impeccable taste and a thing for Salmon dials. You wanted something dressier than your sponsored but boring Omega to wear to the Met Gala.
G-Shock: You are a junior in college, or an emergency room physician. You delight in taking your G-Shock to watch meet-ups, to the horror of the traditionalists. You recently took up mountain biking just to post Instagram photos of your watch on the trails.
H. Moser & Cie: You have a mischievous sense of humor, and in high school, were known to film pranks you pulled on your friends. You have an insatiable weakness for fume dials. While you can’t quite put your finger on it, you suspect the brand will be worth a lot in coming years - or so you tell anyone who will listen. Deep down, you are terrified your Endeavor might just be a passing fad.
Hamilton: You recently graduated college. You spent hours on the watch forums, debating between this or a Longines. You finally settled on the JazzmasteKhaki, though the salesman couldn't tell you anything about it. The highlight of your life was when a random woman on a date said, “nice watch”. You almost married her.
Hautlence: You have a game room in your Park Avenue, per-war classic six filled with pinball machines. You wear pink glasses, to let your underlings at your Goldman Sachs job know that you can be “cool” too. You are not.
Hermes: You are either a perfumer living in the Montmarte district of Paris, or an American woman with an unerringly good fashion sense.
Hublot: You are, simply, wrong.
HYT: You are a successful electrical engineer with lucrative patents to your name, or an internet startup founder that actually solved and monetized a hard problem in computer science. You love nothing more than to hand your H1.0 over to curious passerby, while pontificating upon the intricacies of fluid dynamics.
Invicta - Type 1: You are a non-watch geek dad in a suburban shopping mall. You wanted to get "something nice" for yourself. You find sub 46mm watches "too girly". You enjoy explaining to others, with wide-eyed delight, how your watch is powered by "moving your arm".
Invicta - Type 2: You are in high school, without a summer job. You think the Rolex Submariner is the perfect modern, go anywhere, do anything watch. You feel ostracized on the watch forums, but can’t help but smile when you see your Pro Diver on your wrist.
IWC: You are openly not a pilot, but enjoy having an altimeter strapped to your wrist.
Jacob & Co: You are a formerly successful, now destitute rapper. You pawned this watch at a significant loss.
Jaeger-LeCoultre: You exclusively dress in suits, except on bank holidays, when you wear chinos and your Reverso. You are frequently found on watch forums extolling “the watchmaker's watchmaker” virtues. You think 100M of waterproofing is all anyone should ever need. Your will instructs your heirs to bury you with your Atmos clock, as they surely won’t appreciate it. You hope one day to be able to roll your R’s like the guy in the boutique.
Jaquet Droz: You are either a well diversified collector, or an Arabian Shiek from an oil rich kingdom. If the latter, your other watch is a Rolex Daytona Rainbow with diamond bezel.
Johan Eric: You googled “watch” on Amazon and this is the first thing you found with Prime shipping. In general, you are decidedly not picky, both in watches and in life.
JS Watch Co: While you used to have a very generous circle of friends, your incessant droning on about your trip to Iceland and the sweet Frisland you scored there soured even your most steadfast companions. You now spend most days online, nostalgically looking at Tripadvisor reviews for restaurants in Reykjavik, or re-watching the Lord of the Rings for the twelfth time.
Junghans: You were just hired by a big design firm, but on a starter salary. You visit your local art museum on “free admission weekends”, and hang around free gallery shows. You have a small tattoo on your right bicep. You hope to upgrade to a Nomos one day.
Klasse14: You favorite Instagram influencer subtly bombarded you with sponsored posts showcasing the brand. You hope your Miss Volare will one day star in your own epic selfie in front of the Eiffel Tower.
Kobold: Your “keeper” test is if she’ll watch all six seasons of the Sopranos with you. Your most treasured possession is an autographed napkin from the late, great, James Gandolfini. Since his passing, your interest in the brand has cooled, and secretly, you worry that your Spirit of America is just a more expensive Shinola.
Laco: As you gaze admiringly at the Saarbrücken on your wrist, you find yourself wondering: Was Hitler really that bad?
Lip: You are a Frenchman originally from Toulouse. You work for the Bureau of Weights and Measurements, converting metric measurements to Napoleonic Mesures Usuelles for those still living in the First Republic. While you would prefer to wear an Omega, you can only imagine the shocked “Non!” That would emanate from the mustachioed lips of your supervisor, Gaspard, upon seeing it, and you’d rather avoid an employee tribunal. You’d win, but it’s a hassle.
Longines: You just got your first job out of college. You are looking for something classy and professional to go along with your first real suit. You will one day own a JLC.
Lorus: You are a street-peddler living in Hyderabad. You cannot afford a Seiko 5, but not for any reason that would be remotely funny.
Luminox: You constantly talk about “doing an Ironman”. You sleep in a Naval Academy t-shirt and proudly fly the “thin blue line" US flag on your porch. You make vague allusions to former service when asked, but secretly, you were only a mall cop in the 90’s.
Manufacture Royale: Liberace would like to know where you got your watch.
Marathon: You are a former United States Marine, 3rd Battalion, 6th. You wore this watch on patrol in Kandahar, where your buddy scratched his initials on the case back. This is either a faithful re-telling, or you have entirely imagined the above scenario for color at your current office job.
Maurice Lacroix: The year is 1995. Bill Clinton is president of an economically resurgent USA. You just got promoted to Assistant to the Regional Department President of your longtime employer, IBM. Having recently heard about the value of a “Fine Swiss Watch”, you decided to purchase your Pontos after seeing an ad for it in the pages of Sports Illustrated. It feels right.
MB&F: You are an angel investor in various internet start-ups. You believe in “thinking different” and “changing the world”. Having gone through the various Pateks, Langes, and Journes that befit your station, you now find pretty much every other watch brand ridiculously boring. You wear an Apple watch concurrently on your other wrist.
MeisterSinger: You purposefully wear subtly mismatched socks with your corduroys. You carry your daily possessions in a fanny pack, considering it more practical than a messenger bag. You are perpetually 10-15 minutes late to all your appointments. Secretly, you have a thing for amputee girls.
Michael Kors: You are a 16-33 year old woman. Your house is filled with rose-gold colored accessories. You shop at Macy’s, where you purchased this watch to match your handbag. In the watch world, you are actually one of the sane ones.
Mondaine: You either have a collection of hair mousses to apply based on the weather, or are an oddly obsessive spotter of Swiss electric trains.
Montblanc: You couldn’t afford a JLC. You have since taken to the watch forums, declaring the superiority of Minerva, stating, “it’s over for the over $5K’s”. Secretly, you also hate stacked movement complications.
Montegrappa - Chaos by Sylvestor Stallone: What the hell is wrong with you?
Moritz Grossman: You are the head of an old family manufacturing firm in Bavaria. Your frauline, Hilda, urged you to finally treat yourself and upgrade from the reliable but tired Swatch on your wrist. Feeling a Lange was too recognizable to the men on the assembly line, you chose the Benu Power reserve, but only to wear at board meetings.
Movado: You are either a 21 year old man wearing a Movado Bold at the club, or an 83 year old gentlemen wearing an original Museum piece. There is no middle ground.
Mühle Glashütte: Your evangelical zeal for the brand makes you the human embodiment of those “allow notifications?” pop-ups. You dream of becoming a mariner.
MVMT: You are a millennial who drives a motorcycle. You have a collection of leather jackets. You hope someone comments on how well your watch matches your sunglasses.
Nixon: You are a 32 year old man named either Chad or Brad living in Encinitas, California. As you spend most days on the beach surfing in your board shorts, you have a perpetual tan even in winter. You aren’t into watches, but your Base Tide was giving you good vibes from the surf-shop window, and it matches your leather Yogi bracelet perfectly.
Nomos: While you initially could not afford a Swiss made watch in art school, you are now a successful Bahaus-style architect. You have a membership to your local modern art museum. While you prefer espresso, you drink drip from a vintage Braun coffee maker. Apple “Keynote Days” are like Christmas in June.
Ochs and Junior: You sincerely collect promotional posters for modern art exhibits. You have an interesting job in either advanced engineering or product design at a well funded startup in Berlin. Somewhat obsessively, you refuse to wear any items with visible brand names. Even you can’t always tell what the hell the date is on your perpetual calendar.
Oris: You are frequently found on watch forums, starting, “Why buy an Omega when you can get virtually the same quality for half the cost?” You think the Sixty Five is exactly what your grandfather would’ve worn - if he was cooler, and not a rural school teacher from Iowa. You are secretly trying to save for a Rolex Sub, but need the cash for your PADI training.
Omega: You are intimately familiar with all 12 manned Apollo missions. You eagerly anticipate the next James Bond film. You refer to your Seamaster as “the thinking man’s Sub, with a better movement”. Bonus points if you know who George Daniels is.
Orient: You are a senior in high school. You love your Bambino, but as you know watches, you don’t claim it’s equivalent to something more expensive. You dream of winning the lottery. You are pure.
Panerai: You frequently exclaim, “What’s the point of wearing a watch if no one sees it?” You live in California, and exclusively wear short sleeves. You are unusually familiar with the Italian Navy’s WWII operations, glossing over the period 1940-1943.
Parmigiani Fleurier: You are the scion of an old, proud Italian banking family. While you of course have a few Patek’s tucked away in the vault at your Lago Maggiora villa, your father, Luca, gifted you your Tonda Tourbillon because he errantly believed it was an Italian brand “like from the old days, bene!” You don’t have the heart to correct him.
Parnis: You desire a replica Daytona, but your country’s customs force is extremely efficient at confiscating goods that violate trademarks.
Patek Philippe - Type 1: You took off from work to watch the Henry Graves Super Complication auction livestream. You think the Nautilus is overvalued, preferring the khaki green Aquanaut instead. You are possibly John Mayer, but if not, you hope one day to actually own your own Patek.
Patek Philippe - Type 2: You are a Russian oligarch. You assert that a hacking seconds “damages the movement”. Though you’ll never say so openly, you are secretly jealous of the finishing on a Lange. You feel reassured when you see one of those “For the next generation” ads.
Philippe DufouLaurent FerrieF.P. Journe: You are a Russian oligarch, but with exquisite taste.
Piaget: You claim that the Calatrava and Patrimony "smell of old man". You frequently end arguments with "yeah, but...thinest movement in the world." You cannot actually afford a Calatrava or Patrimony.
Poljot: In the old days, you were a MiG-23 fighter pilot for the Motherland. Your Poljot, along with your state-issued Volga GAZ-24 sedan, marked you as a man of importance among the proletariat. Sadly, in your current job as grocery store guard, only the old babushkas recognize your former glory. It would kill you to know that 30-year old gamers bought your watch online because they thought the Cyrillic on the dial looked cool.
Rado: You are a material scientist tenured at a prestigious university. You have no interest in watches, but could not pass up the mystery and wonder of a watch that never scratches. Everything from your pots to your pants are coated in Teflon.
Raymond Weil: Are you sure you aren’t wearing a Maurice Lacroix with Roman numerals?
RGM Watch Co: You are a 62-year old Boomer living in Pittsburgh, PA. As you are retired - with pension - from your job as a chemical engineer for US Steel, you have plenty of time to hobnob on Timezone.com. You post multiple photos of your 801-COE in various lights, to the eager approval of all twelve forums members. You can’t tell anyone, but you voted for Donald Trump.
Richard Mille: If you weren’t an American billionaire, you’d probably be buying an Invicta - with the logos removed, you surely couldn’t tell the difference. You make sure to wear your watch when interviewed by Fortune, with the sleeves of your silk Dolce & Gabana shirt rolled up.
Roger Dubuis: You are a Argentinian Striker, recently relocated to the UK with Manchester United. Stacy, your loyal WAG, got you the Excalibur after you instructed your assistant to leave notes around your Wilmslow mansion with explicit purchasing instructions. All involved acted surprised on your birthday. If you are being honest, you sometimes confuse it with your Richard Mille.
Roger W. Smith: You are the scion of a Japanese telecommunications fortune. You love discussing horology, but only online. You are that unusual combination of billionaire and introvert, perhaps due to your secret insecurity in your own abilities. You fantasize about how one day, Otuo-San will notice your Series 2, and nod approvingly at you with his tight-lipped grimace. In your own quiet way, this is how you show off.
Rolex - Sub (Ha!) Type A: ROLEX ROLEX ROLEX. YOU CAN’T BUY ANYTHING BUT A ROLEX IT’S THE ONLY THING WITH RESALE VALUE. HAVE YOU SEEN MY TWO-TONE SUB WITH THE CYCLOPS? I LIKE IT ‘CAUSE IT HAS WRIST PRESENCE.
Rolex - Sub Type B: You frequently re-watch all Sean Connery Bond films, asserting that Daniel Craig is not a “real” Bond. You know the difference between the 1016 Caliber 1560 and 1016 Caliber 1570. You believe steel can stretch with minimal effort. You prefer watches with rusted dials and no date. As you frequently speak full sentences consisting solely of reference numbers, it is assumed by passerby that you work for a secretive government agency.
Rolex - Sub Type C: You are a successful Italian-American contractor. You wear a two-tone Datejust - your only watch - which never leaves your wrist. On vacation at the resort in Cabo, you make sure your wrist is angled properly so the waiter can see it when taking your order.
Rolex - Sub Type D: When you found out your wife was pregnant, you rushed to purchase a "birth year" Sub. Your son will not get to wear it until you are dead.
Rolex - Sub Type E: You are a researcher who spends all day next to an MRI machine. While you never wore a watch before, you found yourself suddenly desperate for one after seeing an eerily personalized ad for the Millgauss pop up on Facebook. After the initial triumphant forum pic, the novelty wore off, and most days you just check the wall clock.
Romain Jerome: You have no compunctions wearing a watch made from the Titanic. You have more money than sense.
Scuderia Ferrari: Your friends know not to utter the word “Lamborghini” for fear of starting a rant. Your firstborn son is named Enzo. Your Pilota watch, Ferarri ball-cap, keychain, and limited edition Scuderia Ferrari for Ray-Ban aviators all proudly accompany you as you step into your 2004 Honda Civic.
Seagull: It took quite a few shifts at the Dairy Queen, but you finally got your Ocean Star. You feel like you need a dress piece too, but are unsure when you’d ever wear it. One day, with a JLC on your wrist, you will look back upon this time wistfully.
Seiko: You are starting college this Fall. You spend most days on watch forums, hoping to find newbies asking for help so that you can steer them your way. You think the Seiko 5 is the best value per dollar in horology. Deep down, you know that if you ever won the lottery, you’d trash them all for a stable of platinum Langes.
Sekonda: On the way to a job interview as a Transport of London station cleaner, you decide a watch will make you look more reliable. You grab the cheapest Sekonda Classic from Mr. Singh’s newsstand, and make sure to check it copiously during your interview. You are surprised when you do not get the job. Changing the dead battery three days later, you are puzzled by the Cyrlic writing inside the case.
Shinola: You are a Clinton, or an oddly proud Detroit native. You think the “Made in the USA” controversy was a hit job egged on by Hodinkee. You have average sized wrists, but think they are larger than they really are. You have a weakness for wire lugs.
Sinn: You are subscribed to the WatchBuys newsletter. You cannot afford an IWC. You post numerous photos of your Sinn 356 Flieger, in a vain attempt to reassure yourself that the acrylic crystal was the right choice.
Skagen: You drive a used but well loved Volvo. While you know nothing about watches, you found it cumbersome to check your dumb phone for the time, and began your search for something practical but affordable. As you know the quickest shortcut to get to the cafeteria at your local IKEA - where you get the meatballs weekly - an ostensibly Danish watch held some appeal. You are unaware that Denmark and Sweden are different countries.
Speake-Marin: ”A touch loud? What do you mean, leopard print pants with a leather jacket is loud?”
Squale: You cannot afford a Rolex Submariner.
Steinhart: You could not afford a Rolex or IWC. While you truly enjoy wearing your Hulk Sub homage, deep-down, you question where the line is between imitation and theft.
Stowa: You enjoy having an altimeter strapped to your wrist, but cannot afford an IWC. You would love to mention its WWII history, but are unsure how to do so without appearing insensitive.
Stührling: American Airlines flight 1257, direct to Dallas, seat 48B. Two hours in, You saw the Depthmaster in the pages of SkyMall and knew you couldn't pass it up.
Swatch: You are a child in elementary school, or a successful, established artist. You love color. You have a watch collection, but they are all Swatches. You wish you could buy another one of the Irony whose crystal cracked when you dropped it on your kitchen floor.
Swiss Legend: You could’ve bought the Esq. brand chrono - with the same Chinese Quartz movement - for $139, but then it would’t say “Swiss” on the dial, would it?
Tag Heuer: Your first “real” watch was a Link, which you initially saw in the pages of Golf Digest/Tennis Magazine. For the longest time, you had a crush on Maria Sharapova. The chip on your shoulder is slightly lessened when you see photos of vintage Carreras online.
Timex: You are a senior citizen, or an aspiring US presidential candidate. In either case, your grandson is suddenly asking to borrow your watch.
Tissot: You just got your first job out of college, but it pays less than the Longines fellow. You appreciate either classic or ridiculously bold design. After a long career, you will one day own a Rolex.
Triwa: You are a full-time Instagram influencer. Perhaps one day, you will regret the purchase of your Donald Trump “Comb Over” watch - but not today.
Tudor: You assert that the Black Bay 58 is what Rolex “used to be”. You take pride in the quality of the bezel on your Pelagos. You either never will admit, or say all the time, that you wish you had a Rolex.
Tutima Glashütte:As the only way to acquire a Lange would be to sell a kidney, you eagerly sought out an alternative still made in your mythical Glashütte. You fancy yourself a sportsman, though this is usually only expressed by the bench press. While you wear your Grand Flieger daily, if pressed, you could not articulate why, exactly, your watch had to be German.
Ulysse Nardin - Type 1: What exactly do you think you are, some kind of enthusiast?
Ulysse Nardin - Type 2: As soon as you saw the Minute Repeater Voyeur - with a lifelike orgy scene on the dial, complete with moving “parts” - you knew you needed that kind of artistry in your life.
Urban Jurgënsen: Was your watch produced by the Swedish Chef?
Vacheron Constantin: You think a Calatrava is an ugly duckling compared to the all-encompassing beauty of a Patrimony. You refer to the period from 1987 - 1996 as “the Dark Times”. You wish resale value were higher, but blame Patek fanboys.
Various Microbrands: You are subscribed to the “Affordable Watches” forum on WatchUSeek. You have a Google Alert on Kickstarter so you don’t miss the latest limited release. You are saving for a vintage Rolex, which increasingly appears out of reach. You are filled with a mixture of delight and despair when someone asks, "is that a Rolex?" of your Mk II Nassua. You have a love/hate relationship with Jason Lim of Halios.
Various Vintage: You are Fred Savage. You think anything over 36mm is garish. While you wear your vintage Omega (original dial, of course) all the time, you have been known to slip on your modern Rolex Sub for the beach. You spend your weekends at estate sales, dreaming of coming across an unrecognized Patek for $150, which you bargain down to a clean $100.
Victorinox: After your brief fling with Chinese watches, you decided it was time to step up to Swiss made. You wear your Fieldforce proudly in Econ 101, desperately hoping Brittany will notice it. Plus, you already had the matching backpack.
Vostok: You are a value-oriented teen gamer, or an elderly Russian pensioner. You have 9 inch wrists.
Zenith: You make half-hour long YouTube videos consisting of you chanting into the camera, “El Primero. El Primero. First Automatic. El Primero.“ You scoff at the JLC 751A as a rushed copy. Deep down, you believe the world is unjust, and fear your brand will never be properly recognized.
Zodiac/Doxa: You are a certified Master Scuba Diver Trainer. You smile indulgently at your wealthy tourist clients, who have Submariners and Fifty Fathoms on their wrist. After you've been tipped, you love nothing better than to hand over your SeaWolf/Shark for inspection, casually stating "This baby's been down to 250 feet, no problems. How about yours?"
Edit: Adding some more as suggestions. Last batch was: Frederique Constant, Junghans, Hamilton, Nomos, Panerai, Tag, Tissot, Tudor. Also split Invicta into two. Thanks for my first gold and kind words stranger! Edit 2: Some are disappearing when I make edits, re-added Swatch. Edit 3: Added Bell & Ross, Baume et Mercier, Sinn, Various Microbrands. Edit 4: Added Various Vintage. Thanks agin for the gold! Edit 5: Added Glashütte Original, Jaquet Droz, Stowa. Edit 6: Couldn't help myself, added Jacob & Co, Oris, Squale, Zodiac/Doxa. Edit 7: Added Fossil and Michael Kors. Modified Daniel Wellington. My first Platinum, thank you! Edit 8: Added GP and Zenith, split Seiko/Grand Seiko, and added one more Rolex Sub (phrasing!) Type (D). Recognized John Mayer as the Patek expert he really is. Edit 9: Added Movado. Slight tweak to Hamilton. Edit 10: Added Piaget. Edit 11: Added Montblanc, Richard Mille, Shinola, and Steinhart. Edit 12: Added Bremont, Edox/Mido, Parnis. Edit 13: Added Christopher Ward, De Bethune, and MB&F. Modified Frederique Constant. Edit 14: Added Bulova, Franck Muller. Edit 15: Modified Franck Muller, added Marathon. Edit 16: Added Laco (hat tip to Byki!), Maurice Lacroix. Edit 16: Added Swiss Legend. Edit 17: Added Damasko, Dornblüth & Sohn, Garmin, Klasse14, and split Ulysse Nardin into Types 1&2. Edit 17: Added Ball (hat tip to AudiMars and icecityx1221). Clarified that 12 Apollo missions only were manned. Thanks for the sticky Mods! I am humbled. Edit 18: Split Casio into Casio and G-Shock; added Concord and Ebel. Edited Marathon for clarity. Edit 19: Added Bovet, Hermes, HYT, Seagull, and Victorinox. Edit 20: Added Chopard, Corum. Edit 21: Added BVLGARI, Diesel, Glycine new and vintage, and Rolex Sub Type E. Edit 22: Added Chanel, Christiaan Van Der Klaauw, and Rado. Edit 23: Added Apple Watch, H. Moser & Cie, Ochs and Junior, and Scuderia Ferrari. Edit 24: Added Montegrappa Chaos, Romain Jerome, Stürhling Edit 25: Added Azimuth, Certina, Ginault, Graham, Johan Eric, Lip, Sekonda, Skagen. Edit 26: Added Carl F. Bucherer and Nixon. Edit 27: Added Alpina, Meister Singer, and updated Sekonda. Edit 28: Thanks so much for the Gold! Added Cuervo y Sobrinos, Eterna, Hautlence, Grönefeld, Luminox, Moritz Grossman, Speake-Marin, and Triwa. Edit 29: Added Balticus, Burberry, Kobold, and JS Watch Company. Edit 30: Added Lorus, Roger W. Smith, Mühle Glashütte and Tutima Glashütte. Edit 31: Added Fortis, Mondaine, Poljot, RGM Watch Co. and Roger Dubuis. Edit 32: Couldn't help myself. Added Urban Jurgënsen and Manufacture Royale. Thread is archived so no promises, but feel free to message me with any requests. Last updated: 12/07/19
submitted by jooxii to WatchesCirclejerk [link] [comments]


2019.03.25 20:00 d0wnl0wfreak Beach house voyeur

I [M26] see a lot of posts about how nudists enjoy nudity for non-sexual reasons, and how you don’t consider nudity as sexual at all. Well I do. I find it extremely arousing. This is a very personal post, about an issue that confused me for a very long time. I am very curious if anyone else here has experienced anything similar. Now, before you guys call me an exhibitionist or a voyeur, hear me out – I don't get off by staring at naked people, nor by people staring at me while I’m naked. At all. Rather, I am sexually aroused by nudity itself. Specifically, I am aroused by casual, unceremonious, uninhibited, non-sexual nudity. Paradoxically, the “not caring about being naked,” is what I care about the most (from a sexual perspective). Let me explain.
I am an otherwise “normal” heterosexual man. I enjoy sex, I enjoy being sexual, etc. But, for whatever reason, non-sexual nudity is almost like a kink for me. It’s weird, because I think that (for the most part) I enjoy the same aspects of nudity as most of the people on this page. However, if I am being completely honest with myself, I can’t claim that it’s totally non-sexual.
Growing up, I always found it extremely pathetic when I saw other guys sheepishly covering their genitals when they changed for sports, or hurriedly rushing through the shower so no one would see them naked. There's something inherently weak and effeminate about a man who is self-conscious about his body. Throughout history, men were never ashamed or embarrassed about being naked in front of other people. That type of demure behavior stands in direct opposition to male virility and hubris. And, just as there is something inherently weak and effeminate about a man being embarrassed by his body, I always found something inherently manly and masculine about being utterly unconcerned about being naked in front of others.
For me, getting naked was never about people seeing me naked, or seeing my junk. I honestly could care less about that. It was about the shamelessness. Total, indomitable, unmitigated, shamelessness. It is the absolute epitome of male virility. There is a weird sense of satisfaction—dare I say a feeling of superiority?—in fearlessly and unapologetically doing something that almost everyone else is afraid to do. I relished in unceremoniously stripping off all of my clothes, behaving as if getting completely naked was no different than taking off my socks. It always made me feel proud, brave, macho, etc.
Somewhere along the way, however, this sense of gratification became weirdly sexualized for me. I wouldn’t get too turned on while I was naked, but I would get extremely aroused when thinking about it after the fact. Furthermore, I started noticing that it didn’t just happen when I was naked – I would get just as aroused when I encountered other people who were just as comfortable being casually naked. Whether it during camping trips/hikes, at a nude beach, at music festivals, or just the communal shower at the frat house, I kept on having experiences in which I got to hang out with other naked people in a non-sexual context. I absolutely loved it (and still do). I found that it didn’t matter who they were, what they looked like, if they were men or women, attractive or ugly, skinny or overweight, etc. – I didn’t care. If they were comfortable in their skin, it would arouse me.
I am very curious to hear if any of you have experienced anything similar? Or am I way out in left field?
submitted by d0wnl0wfreak to nudism [link] [comments]


2019.02.08 02:49 GreenNudist Beach house voyeur

A journey, a story, commentary, thoughts and opinions based on our experience.
So let’s strip away the societal, religious, sexual and insecurity issues. Why do we wear clothes...to be comfortable (warmth) in the environment and practical to protect our skin. If you can believe that is the case let’s move on.
You wake up in the morning, take a shower, don’t get dressed cause it’s a warm summer day ( not running the AC cause It costs money and its bad for the environment too) and go make coffee and sit down having a freshly brewed java naked as the day your born. I’m comfortable, it’s a warm day, no need for clothes or protection cause I’m not frying bacon. Just naked were is the sexual in that? Now the wife does the same. Sexual or sensual? Well naked is more sensual then if she was wearing a frumpy oversized sweatshirt and baggy pants, but equal to a nice pair of jeans, nice shoes and a top. Can naked it be more sensual, yes. Sexual, only if you make it so. So naked can be sensual but does not equal sex, your naked drinking your java with your naked wife just because it’s comfortable.
This is the hardest and most likely why you either are a naked person with your significant other ( or friends) don’t get naked. Insecurity in ones self or appearance. If the media wasn’t bad enough in defining how we should look and act, social media adds a new level allowing people to attack and comment about you personally and anonymously for the slightest infraction to the current political correctness or style even from something you did or didn’t do 20 years ago when it was totally acceptable. As a population I believe we are now more insecure of ourselves in general because of this. Also as humans we don’t like to be criticized and we take it personally. I’m not a psychologists by any stretch and don’t want to even offer solutions, but basically I believe is if you “love yourself and accept who you are” is the big first step. You don’t have to love that extra 30 lbs but you need to love/accept you. So I believe if you love/accept yourself that positive energy from you allows others to love/accept you too, despite the extra 30 lbs or anything else. Loving ones self also frees me from feeling as stressed emotionally about what other people think about my choices, my appearance or what makes me, well me. This opens the door to being naked staring with those in the circle of trust. So to start, my wife and I can easily be naked in the bathroom as we get ready for work because we are not insecure around each and confident in who we are. So now what’s the difference between being naked in the bathroom, the kitchen, remote lake or anywhere else where no one can see you, nothing, no reason you cannot be naked. It’s a summer day, the house is warm and we are comfortable, clothing would only make it warmer and uncomfortable, enjoying the warm breeze coming through the window onto our naked skin.
Next is religion. Let’s start with, what religion prohibits a married couple from being naked alone, let alone having a naked cup of java feeling the warm air of a summer breeze or skinny dipping in the pool or remote place? I’m leaving family, non-family or being seen by others out of it for the moment. So it’s ok to be naked together. Whether you agree or disagree that religion prohibits your nakedness in settings outside the couples relationship, that’s up to you. We are church going folk who get naked and don’t see the conflict. Naked does not cause unchecked sex, lust or philandering. Last time I checked I know a lot of full time clothed folk who have engage in the above and some of them church going. So sort of like the saying “clothes do not make the man ( or woman)” it’s really what in his/her heart.
We finish our morning java and drive the hour to a naked (nudist/naturist) place, yes with our clothes on. So how does one make the leap from having java in the AM in the buff and going to a nude place, beach or other social setting in the nude. Humans are social animals and we like to be social. We have become to accept ourselves for who we are and how we appear knowing about the only thing we can control from what god gave us is our weight. Because we think of ourselves in that “accepting” manner we tend to think about others the same way. And guess what you find at a naked beach or place, a whole bunch of people that think the same accepting way. A real “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” type of crowd. We can now be comfortable naked, no wet bathing suits and the warm summers breeze and sunshine on our skin but now around a whole bunch of people who like being comfortable and naked too. What’s even better is that now people tend to accept your other differences too, its ok to be a republican or democrat or plumber or doctor. We may not agree with your view or be like you but we can expect that even those differences are respected by all. Lastly since all the barriers are gone, literally, naked people we have found to be generally some of the nicest, most fun, most caring, least judgmental, down to earth and sincere folks.
So what are we? Nudist, naturists or comfortablist, yes. I suspect we are like many others, no need to be naked 24x7, when it’s cold we like flannel and sweaters and sweatshirts. When it’s summer we enjoy being naked inside or outside when possible and appropriate. We don’t rush home and get naked, we get comfortable. If we lived someplace warm we would be more naked. When travel options present themselves naked would be more fun but we still want to visit a lot of non naked places too. Our naked friends tend to be our best friends because we literally have nothing to hide and ironically we spend a whole lot more time with them clothed than naked.
We don’t share our nakedness with non naked types. Will bring it up with others if they pick up on the innuendo and if they seem to fit the attitude profile above we will expand our discussion (i.e. hey don’t they have those nude beaches in the Greek Islands, we might say “ yeah went for a quick skinny dip”, they say “always wanted to do that” - opening for discussion). There is no need to let others know about naked if we think others will have an issue with it, why create extra controversy in our life. That includes family, work and friends. It’s OK not to tell and most other naked people handle it the same. One day the stars will align and will convert some friends.
We don’t post about naked online and our public persona reflects the current PC sanitized version of life. But in the same manner we are not shy about our nakedness or the camera shy type. Since there are plenty of digital naked photos of us that are on other trusted naked folks cameras do we worry? Not really, real naked people don’t share files or post pictures without permission. That leaves only the voyeurs and since we are not young super model types, anymore :-), we are not generally the target. Even if a voyeurs snaps a photo of us most voyeurs use the photos for personal reasons (what ever). Oh I do search the Web, only once have seen a photo of someone we recognized on a obscure nudist photo site taken by a voyeur. So wearing some sort of camouflage, a hat and sunglasses and relying on the security through obscurity model of someone finding the needle in the haystack has worked so far. Naked photos that I see online of folks we know are posted with permission. Unfortunately since they are now online they do get used on less than appropriate sites.
Why post here when we have never have before, anywhere? Seems like a lot of folks view this site. Perhaps it’s time just to say “naked is normal” and logical and when appropriate a “comfortable” way to go about your day. Naked people have a great attitude about themselves, others and life which makes life that much more enjoyable when spent together. If this helps a person or two here Its was worth it.
I assume 90% of naked types or want to be naked types are the same as us. We are not rebels with a cause. We just want to be comfortable and naked when possible and appropriate. Hopefully those locations for naked opportunities can increase in the future and existing ones not close as hopefully naked becomes more normal.
Last note: Lastly even after “checking” all the boxes some people may not be comfortable in a couple, family or social, setting with naked, That’s just the way it is. It’s like some people like seafood and others don’t and that’s the way it is too. Naked is something each person needs to evaluate if naked is important in their relationships and life and if naked will effect that relationship. I’ll leave it at that.
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2018.05.14 18:24 DivorcingACreep Conflicted - I discovered my STBX is a voyeur - do I tell the victims or keep it confidential to preserve his relationship with our daughters?

While in the process of divorce (20+ year marriage - 2 teenage daughters), I discovered that my STBX took voyeuristic photos & videos over the last decade - all were of me and women we know, including his sisters-in-law and cousin, friends, nanny. They include a video of a sexual encounter (with me), undressing videos, and down-blouse/up-skirt photos. He also downloaded 1000s of files from a voyeur file sharing website - I have no evidence that he uploaded photos to the website and he claims he did not. Needless to say, I was devastated, shocked, heartsick, and angry as hell.
Here's my dilemma - do I have a moral obligation to let the victims know or should I preserve my daughters' relationship with their father by keeping this confidential?
In the former case, letting this information out (which would include his family members) also serves as a way to protect my daughters & all other woman as my STBX would be under their watchful eyes, e.g. at the family beach house where he took many of the photos. I do feel that the women who were victims deserve to know - one is one of my oldest friends and it feels awkward to not tell her, but at the same time I can't imagine telling her. And, yes, it would feel damn good to let people know what a creep my ex is despite his "nice guy facade".
By keeping it confidential, I will preserve my teen daughters' relationship with their father, something that is known to be important for girls development, and avoid devastating them at a critical point in their lives (high school, getting ready for college). The only way to protect my daughters would be by spelling out specific terms in the divorce agreement, e.g. no overnights, limits on photography, etc.
I am so torn about what to do. Complicating my feelings is the fact that my STBX has shown no remorse, has not apologized, and his attorney has tried to minimize his behavior in court as a youthful mistake (despite the fact that my ex was in his 40s). Further, my STBX was doing his porn & voyeur activities while he refused to work / wanted to be at home with the kids and I did not agree with this. Of course, he still wants 50% of our assets despite the fact that I acquired most of our wealth through my career. He and his attorney insists that his behavior has no bearing on the division of assets - unfortunately, divorce court precedence is on his side given the long term marriage.
What do folks think - do I have a moral obligation to let the victims know or should I preserve my daughter's relationship with their father by keeping this confidential (at least until they are older)?
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2018.01.11 18:03 561News Voyeur beach house

Here's what news outlets and other people reported on in Palm Beach County yesterday and this morning. To get almost-daily updates in your Reddit inbox, subscribe to 561News. Check out @561News on Twitter. Email 561News@protonmail.com with constructive suggestions.
==561 News: Jan. 11, 2018== Brightline starts Saturday for $10 between WPB and Fort Lauderdale
After many delays, Brightline announced today that passengers can start taking the train between West Palm Beach and Fort Lauderdale after paying $10 for a one-way ticket. The train offers discounts for veterans, kids, and the elderly. Despite claiming to travel between the two cities in 30 minutes, Brightline's schedule states it will take 40 minutes. Trains will run hourly from 8 a.m. to nearly 11 p.m. on weekends, 6 a.m. to 7:40 p.m. on weekdays. Anyone reading this hoping to book a seat online will be disappointed since Brightline's website states all tickets are sold out. But that may due to the booking system crashing because the train's website states it can't handle all the traffic. Also, that $10 fare could rise in the future. And a West Palm condo wants Brightline to delay service until it installs the quiet zones it promised. Mayor Jeri Muoio said she will meet with Brightline officials today about quiet zones.
Local election news Boca councilor challenges embattled mayor for county commission
Boca Raton City Councilman Robert Weinroth said on Wednesday he would not seek reelection, but would instead run for Palm Beach County Commission against Mayor Susan Haynie. The Palm Beach Post in October published an investigation that found that a company owned by Haynie's husband collected payments from Boca's largest private landowners, James and Marta Batmasian. Haynie voted in favor of projects and policies the Batmasians wanted. Weinroth believes he can capitalize on the scandal to beat Haynie. Voters in and around Boca can vote in this race on November 6.
West Palm Commissioner Moffett drops out of race; Could mean more towers downtown
West Palm Beach Commissioner announced Tuesday she would not seek re-election. Moffett and two other commissioners in September voted down a controversial plan to build a 25-story office building on the waterfront after nearby condo owners objected. Real estate executive Kelly Shoaf and Pastor Martina Tate Walker remain in the race. Shoaf will not say how she would vote on projects like the waterfront office tower. Walker lost by a big margin the last time she ran. All West Palm voters can cast ballots in this race and two other city commission races March 13.
Ex-Boca deputy mayor seeks city council seat
Former Boca Raton Deputy Mayor Michael Mullaugh and former candidate Armand Grossman filed to run for city council at the last minute Wednesday. Both decided to run when Councilman Robert Weinroth decided to instead run for county commission against Mayor Susan Haynie. Meanwhile Deputy Mayor Jeremy Rodgers will face tax lawyer Kim Do. Rodgers said he supports the city buying a golf course for $24 million to spruce it up and reopen it. Do said her priorities are school overcrowding, protecting beaches, and the environment. All registered voters in Boca can cast ballots in these races March 13.
In other news 561 in Tallahassee

Countywide news
Boca Raton
Boynton Beach
Delray Beach
Lake Worth
Palm Beach
Palm Beach Gardens
Riviera Beach
West Palm Beach
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2017.07.20 20:09 lm_back The “Hashbury” Is the Capital of the Hippies--HST--1967

The “Hashbury” Is the Capital of the Hippies
Hunter S. Thompson
San Francisco
In 1965 Berkeley was the axis of what was just beginning to be called the “New Left.” Its leaders were radical, but they were also deeply committed to the society they wanted to change. A prestigious faculty committee said the Berkeley activists were the vanguard of “a moral revolution among the young,” and many professors approved.
Now, in 1967, there is not much doubt that Berkeley has through a revolution of some kind, but the end result is not exactly what the original leaders had in mind. Many one-time activists have forsaken politics entirely and turned to drugs. Others have even forsaken Berkeley. During 1966, the hot center of revolutionary action on the Coast began moving across the bay to San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury district, a run down Victorian neighborhood of about 40 square blocks between the Negro/Fillmore district and Golden Gate Park.
The “Hasbury” is the new capital of what is rapidly becoming a drug culture. Its denizens are not called radicals or beatniks, but “hippies”-and perhaps as many as half are refugees from Berkeley and the old North Beach secene, the cradle and the casket of the so-called Beat Generation.
The other half of the hippy population is too young to identify with Jack Kerouac, or even Mario Savio. Their average age is about 20, and most are native Californians. The North Beach types of the late nineteen-fifties were not nearly as provincial as the Haight-Ashbury types are today. The majority of beatniks who flocked into San Francisco 10 years ago were transients from the East and Midwest. The literary-artistic nucleus-Kerouac, Ginsberg, et al-was a package deal from New York. San Francisco was only a stop on the big circuit: Tangier, Paris, Greenwich Village, Tokyo and India. The senior beats had a pretty good idea what was going on in the world; they read newspapers, traveled constantly and had friends all over the globe.
The World “hip” translates roughly as “wise” or “tuned-in.” A hippy is somebody who “knows” what’s really happening, and who adjusts or grooves with it. Hippies despise phoniness; they want to be open, honest, loving and free. They reject the plastic pretense of 20th-century America, preferring to go back to the “natural life,” like Adam and Eve. They reject any kinship with the Beat Generation on the ground that “those cats were negative, but our thing is positive.” They also regect politics, which is “just another game.” They don’t like money, either, or any kind of aggressiveness.
A serious problem in writing about the Haight-Ashbury is that most of the people you have to talk to are involved, one way or another, in the drug traffic. They have good reason to be leery of strangers who ask questions. A 22-year-old student was recently sentenced to two years in prison for telling an undercover narcotics agent where to buy some marijuana. “Love” is the password in the Haight-Ashbury, but paranoia is the style. Nobody wants to go to jail.
At the same time, marijuana is everywhere. People smoke it on the sidewalks, in doughnut shops, sitting in parked cars or lounging on the grass in Golden Gate Park. Nearly everyone on the streets between 20 and 30 is a “head,” a user, either of marijuana, LSD, or both. To refuse a proffered “joint” is to risk being labeled a “nark”-narcotics agent-a threat and a menace to almost everybody.
With a few loud exceptions, it is only the younger hippies who see themselves as a new breed. “A completely new thing in this world, man.” The ex-beatniks among them, many of whom are now making money off the new scene, incline to the view that hippies are, in fact, second-generation beatniks and that everything genuine in the Haight-Ashbury is about to be swallowed-like North Beach and the Village-in a wave of publicity and commercialism.
Haight Street, the Great White Way of what the local papers call “Hippieland,” is already dotted with stores catering mainly to the tourist trade. Few hippies can afford $20 sandals or a “mod outfit” for $67.50. Nor can they afford the $3.50 door charge at the Fillmore Auditorium and the Avalon Ballroom, the twin wombs of the “psychedelic, San Francisco, acid-rock sound.” Both the Fillmore and the Avalon are jammed every weekend with borderline hippies who don’t mind paying for the music and the light shows. There is always a sprinkling of genuine, barefoot, freaked-out types on the dance floor, but few of them have to pay to get in. they arrive with the musicians or have other good connections.
Neither of the dance palaces is within walking distance of the Hashbury, especially if you’re stoned, and since only a few of the hippies have contacts in the psychedelic power structure, most of them either spend their weekend nights either drifting around on Haight Street or loading up on acid-LSD-in somebody’s pad. Some of the rock bands play free concerts in Golden State Park for the benefit of those brethren who can’t afford the dances. But beyond an occasional Happening in the park, the Haight-Ashbury scene is almost devoid of anthing “to do”-at least by conventional standards. An at-home entertainment is nude parties at which celebrants paint designs on each other.
There are no hippy bars, for instance, and only one restaurant above the level of a diner or a lunch counter. This is a reflection of the drug culture, which has no use for booze and regards food as a necessity to be acquired at the least possible expense. A “family” of hippies will work for hours over an exotic stew or curry in a communal kitchen, but the idea of paying $3 for a meal in a restaurant is out of the question.
Some hippies work, others live on money from home and many are full-time beggars. The Post Office is a major source of hippy income. Jobs like sorting mail don’t require much thought or effort. A hippy named Admiral Love of the Psychedelic Rangers delivers special-delivery letters at night, The admiral is in his mid-20’s and makes enough money to support an apartmentful of younger hippies who depend on him for their daily bread.
There is also a hippy-run employment agency on Haight Street and anyone needing part-time labor or some kind of specialized work can call and order as many freaks as he needs; they might look a bit weird, but many are far more capable than most “temporary help,” and vastly more interesting to have around. Those hippies who don’t work can easily pick up a few dollars a day panhandling along Haight Street. The fresh influx of curiosity-seekers has proved a great boon to the legion of psychedelic beggars. During several days of roaming around the area, I was touched so often that I began to keep a supply of quarters in my pocket so I wouldn’t have to haggle over change. The panhandlers are usually barefoot, always young and never apologetic. They’ll share what they collect anyway, so it seems entirely reasonable that strangers should share with them.
The best show on Haight Street is usually on the sidewalk in front of the Drog Store, a new coffee bar at the corner of Masonic Street. The Drog Store features an all-hippy revue that runs day and night. The acts change sporadically, but nobody cares. There will always be at least one man with long hair and sunglasses playing a wooden pope of some kind. He will be wearing wither a Dracula cape, a long Buddhist robe, or a Sioux Indian costume. There will also be a hairy blonde fellow wearing a Black Bart cowboy hat and a spangled jacket that orininally belonged to a drum major in the 1949 Rose Bowl parade. He will be playing the bongo drums. Next to the drummer will be a dazed-looking girl wearing a blouse (but no bra) and a plastic mini-skit, slapping her thighs to the rhythm of it all.
These three will be the nucleus of the show. Backing them up will be an all-star cast of freaks, every one of them stoned. They will be stretched out on the sidewalk, twitching and babbling in time with the music. Now and then somebody will fall out of the audience and join the revue; perhaps a Hell’s Angel or some grubby, chain-draped imposter who never owned a motorcycle in his life. Or maybe a girl wrapped in gauze or a thin man with wild eyes who took an overdose of acid nine days ago and change himself into a raven. For those on a quick tour of the Hasbury, the Drog Store revue is a must.
Most of the local action is beyond the reach of anyone without access to drugs. There are four or five bars a nervous square might relax in, but one is a Lesbian place, another is a hangout for brutal-looking leather fetishists and the others are old neighborhood taverns full of brooding middle-aged drunks. Prior to the hippy era there were three good Negro-run jazz bars on Haight Street, but they soon went out of style. Who need jazz, or even beer, when you can sit doen on a public curbstone, drop a pill in your mouth and hear fantastic music for hours at a time in your own head? A cap of good acid costs $5, and for that you can hear the Universal Symphony, with God singing solo and the Holy Ghost on the drums.
Drugs have made formal entertainment obsolete in the Hasbury, but only until somebody comes up with something appropriate to the new style of the neighborhood. This summer will see the opening of the new Straight Theater, formerly the Haight Theater featuring homosexual movies for the trade, meetings, concerts, dances. “It’s going to be a kind of hippy community center,” said Brent Dangerfield, a young radio engineer from Salt Lake City who stopped off in San Francisco on his way to a job in Hawaii and now is a partner in the Straight. When I asked Dangerfield how old he was he had to think for a minute. “I’m 22,” he said finally, “but I use to be much older.”
Another new divertissement, maybe, will be a hippy bus line running up and down Haight Street, housed in a 1930 Fagol bus-a huge, lumbering vehicle that might have been the world’s first house trailer. I rode in it one afternoon with the driver, a young hippy named Tim Thibeau who proudly displayed a bathtub under one of the rear seats. The bus was a spectacle even on Haight Street: people stopped, stared and cheered as we rumbled by, going nowhere at all. Thibeau honked the horn and waved. He was from Chicago, he said, but when he got out of the Army he stopped in San Francisco and decided to stay. He was living, for the moment, on unemployment insurance, and his plans for the future were hazy. “I’m in no hurry,” he said. Right now I’m talking it easy, just floating along.” He smiled and reached for a beer can in the Fagol’s icebox.
Dangerfield and Thibeau reflect the blind optimism of the younger hippy element. They see themselves as the vanguard of the new way of life in America-the psychedelic way-where love abounds and work is fun and people help each other. The young hippies are confident that things are going their way.
The older hippies are not so sure. They’ve been eaiting a long time for the world to go their way, and those most involved in the hip scene are hedging their bets this time. “That back to nature scene is okay when you’re 20,” one said. “But when you’re looking for at 35 you want to know something’s happening to you.” Ed Denson, at 27, is an ex-beatnik, ex-Goldwaterite, ex-Berkeley radical and currently the manager of a successful rock band called County Joe and the Fish. His home and headquarters is a complex of rooms above a liquor store in Berkeley. One room is an art studio, another is an office; there is also a kitchen, a bedroom and several sparsely furnished areas without definition.
Denson is deeply involved in the hippy music scene, but insists he;s not a hippy. “I’m very pessismistic about where theis thing is going,” he said. “Right now it’s good for a lot of people. It’s still very open. But I have to look back at the Berklely scene. There was a tremendous optimism there, too, but look where all that went. The Beat Generation? Where are they now? What about the hula-hoops? Maybe this hippy thing is more than a fad; maybe the whole world is turning on but I’m not optimistic. Most of the hippies I know don’t really understand what kind of a world they are living in. I get tired of hearing about what beautiful people we all are. If the hippies were more realistic they’d stand a better chance of surviving.”
Most hippies take the question of survival for granted, but it’s becoming increasingly obvious as the neighborhood fills with penniless heads, that there is simply not enough food and lodging to go around. A partial solution may come from a group called the “Diggers,” who have been called the “worker-priests” of the hippy movement and the “invisible government” of the Hashbury. The Diggers are young and aggressively pragmatic; they have set up free lodging centers, free soup kitchens and free clothing distribution centers. They comb the neighborhood soliciting donations of everything from money to stale bread to camping equipment. Diggers’ signs are posted in local stores, asking for donations of hammers, saws. Shovels, shoes and anything else that vagrant hippies might use to make themselves at least partially self-supporting.
The name and spirt derive from small groups of 17th-century English rural revolutionaries, called both Diggers and True Levelers, who had a number of special ides. Money should be abolished, communal farms could support all those willing to work them, and individual ownership of land would be outlawed. The Diggers were severely harassed and the movement eventually caved in under the weight of public opprobrium.
The Hashbury Diggers have fared a bit better, but the demand for food and lodging is beginning to exceed the supply. For a while, the Diggers were able to serve three meals, however meager, each afternoon in Golden Gate Park. But as the word got around, more and more hippies showed up to eat, and the Diggers were forced to roam far afield to get food. Occasionally there were problems, as when Digger chieftain Emmett Grogan, 23, called a local butcher a “Fascist pig and a coward” when he refused to donate meat scraps. The butcher whacked Grogan with the flat side of his meat cleaver.
The Digger ethic of mass sharing goes along with the American Indian motif that is basic to the Hasbury scene. The cult of “tribalism” is regarded by many of older hippies as the key to survival. Poet Gary Snyder, a hippy guru, sees a “back to the land” movement as the answer to the food and lodging problem. He urges hippies to move out of the cities, form tribes, purchase land and live communally in remote areas. He cites a hippy “clan” calling itself the Maha-Lila as a model (though the clan dwells in the Hasbury):
“Well, now,” Snyder says, “like, you are asking how it’s going to work. Well, the Maha-Lila is a group of about three different families who have sort of pooled their resources, which are not very great. But they have decided to pay together and to work together and to take care of each other and that means all of them have ways of getting a small amount of bread, which they share. And other people contribute a little money when it comes in. And then they work together on creative projects, like they’re working together on a light-show right now for a poetry reading that we’re going to give. And they consider themselves a kind of extended family or clan.
“That’s the model. They relate it to a larger sense of the tribe, which is loose, but for the time being everybody has to be able-from time to time-to do some little job. The thing that makes it different is that you don’t have a very tight monogamous family unit, but a slightly larger unit where the sharing is greater.”
The tribal concept makes a lot better sense than simply depending on the Diggers. There are indications, however, that the youthful provincialism of the Haight-Ashbury is due for a forced consciousness-expansion. For the past few months, the scene has been filling up with would-be hippies from other parts of the country, primarily Los Angeles and New York. The real influx is expected this summer. The city is rife with rumors, reliable and otherwise, that anywhere from 50,000 to 200,000 “indigent young people” will descend on San Francisco as soon as the school year ends.
The Diggers are appalled at the prospect. “Where are they going to stay?” says one. “What are they going to do?” A girl who works in one of the Diggers kitchens shrugs and says: “The Diggers will continue to receive the casualties of the love generation.” Local officials, form Mayor down, are beginning to panic. Civic leaders in the Haight-Ashbury have suggested that sleeping facilities be provided in Golden Gate Park or in nearby Kezar Stadium but Police Chief Tome Cahill said no.
“Law and order will prevail,” he insisted. “There will be no sleeping in the park. There are no sanitation facilities and if we let them cap there we would have a tremendous health problem. Hippies are no asset to the community. These people do not have the courage to face the reality of life. They are trying to escape. Nobody should let their young children take part in this hippy thing.”
Dr. Sox had no choice to back off. The situation is not as bad as we thought,” he said. There are has been a deterioration [of sanitation] in the Haight-Ashbury, but the hippies did not contribute much more to it than other members of the neighborhood.” Dr. Sox went on to deny that his mass inspection was part of a general campaign against weirdos, but nobody seemed to believe him.
The Haight-Ashbury neighborhood Council, a nonhippy group of permanent residents, denounced Dr. Sox for his “gratuitous criticism of our community.” The counsel accused city officials of “creating an artificial problem” and harassing the hippies out of “personal and official” prejudice.
As recently as 1962, the Haight-Ashbury was a drab, working-class district, slowly filling with Negroes and so plagued by crime and violence that residents formed vigilant patrols. Housewives were mugged on the way to the grocery store, teenagers were slashed and stomped in gang rambles, and every drunk on Haight Street was fair game for local Jackrollers.
Now, with the coming of the drug culture, even the squarest of the neighborhood old-timers say the streets are safer than they have been for years. Burglaries are still a problem but violence is increasingly rare. It is hard to find anyone outside the hippy community who will say that psychedelic drugs have made the neighborhood a better place to live. But it’s even harder to find a person who wouldn’t rather step over a giggling freak on the sidewalk than worry about hoodlums with switch-blades. The fact that the hippies and the squares have worked out such a peaceful coexistence seems to baffle the powers at City Hall.
A lot of cheap labels describe what is happening in the Hasbury, but none of them make much sense: the Love Generation, the Happening Generation, the Combine Generation and even the LSD Generation. The Last is the best of the lot, but in the interest of accuracy it should probably be amended to the Head Generation.
A “head,” in the language of hip, is a user of psychedelic drugs: LSD, marijuana (“grass”), mescaline, peyote, methedrine, benzedrine, and a half-dozen others that are classified in the trade as mind-stimulating, consciousness-expanding, or “head” drugs. At the other end of the spectrum are “body” drugs: opium, heroin, barbiturates and even alcohol. These are basically depressants, while head drugs are stimulants. But neither type comes with a manufacturer’s guarantee, and the Hashbury is full of people whose minds have been jerked around savagely by drugs that were supposed to induce peaceful euphoria.
Another hazard is the widespread tendency to mix two or three drugs at one time. Acid and alcohol can be a lethal combination, causing fits of violence, suicidal depression and general freak-out that ends in jail or a hospital.
There is widespread concern, at least in San Francisco, about the dangers of so many people using so much LSD. A doctor at San Francisco General Hospital says there are at least 10,000 hippies in the Haight-Ashbury, and that about four of them a day wind up in a psychiatric ward on bad trips. He estimates that acidheads make up only 1½ per cent of the city’s population, but that the figure for the Haight-Asbury is more like 100 per cent.
The estimate is absurd; if every hippy in Ashbury took acid every day, the percentage of users in the neighborhood would still be less than 50 per cent. Many of the local squares try grass from time to time, but few have worked up an appetite for LSD; the difference in potency roughly the same as the difference between beer and grain alcohol. Even among hippies, anything more than one dose of acid a week is considered excessive.
Most heads are relatively careful about their drug diets, but in recent mouths the area has attracted so many young, inexperienced hippies that public freak-outs are a fairly routine thing. Neighborhood cops complain that acidheads throw themselves in front of moving cars, strip naked in grocery stores and run through plate-glass windows. On weekdays, the action about on par with Macdougal Street in Greenwhich Village, but weekend hippies and nervous voyeurs from the suburbs make Saturdays and Sundays a nightmarish traffic jam. The sidewalks are so crowded that even a mild freak-out is likely to cause a riot.
Municipal buses no longer use Haight Street on weekends; they were rerouted after mobs of hippies staged sit-down strikes in the street, called mill-ins, which brought all traffic to a standstill. The only buses still running regulary along Haight Street are those from the Gray Line, which recently added “Hippielan” to its daytime sightseeing tour of San Francisco. It was billed as “the only foreign tour within the continental limits of the United States” and was an immediate hit with tourists who thought the Haight-Ashbury was a human zoo. The only sour note on the tour was struck by the occasional hippy who would run alongside the bus, holding up a mirror.
Last year in Berkeley, hard-core political radicals who had always viewed hippies as spiritual allies began to worry about the long-range implications of the Haight-Ashbury scene. Students who once were angry activists were content to lie back in their pads and smile at the world through a fog of marijuana smoke-or, worse, to dress like clowns or American Indians and stay zonked for days at a time on LSD.
Even in Berkeley, political rallies during 1966 had overtones of music madness and absurdity. Instead of picket signs and revolutionary slogans, more and more demonstrators carried flowers, balloons and colorful posters featuring slogans from Dr. Timothy Leary, the high priest of acid.
The drug culture was spreading faster than political activists realized. Unlike the dedicated radicals who emerged from the Free Speech Movement, the hippies were more interested in dropping out of society than they were in changing it. They were generally younger than the political types, and the press dismissed them as the “pot left,” a frivolous gang of druggies and sex kooks who were only along for the ride.
Then Ronald Regan was elected Governor by almost a million-vote plurality. Shortly afterward, Clark Kerr was fired as president of the University of California-a direct result of Regan’s victory. In that same November, the G.O.P. gained 50 seats in Congress and served a clear warning on the Johnson Administration that despite all the headlines about Berkeley and the New Left, most of the electorate was a lot more hawkish, hard-nosed and conservative than the White House antennae had indicated.
The lessons was not lost on the hippies, many of who still considered themselves at least part-time political activists. One of the most obvious casualties of the 1966 elections was the New Left’s illusion of its own leverage. The radical-hippy alliance had been counting on the voters to repudiate the “right-wing, warmonger” elements in Congress, but instead it was the “liberal” Democrats who got stomped.
So it is no coincidence that the Haight-Ashbury scene developed very suddenly in the winter of 1966-1967 from the quiet, neo-Bohemian enclave that it had been for four or five years to the crowded, defiant dope fortress that it is today. The hippies, who had never really believed they were the wave f the future anyway, saw the election returns as brutal confirmation of the futility of fighting the establishment on its own terms.
There had to be a whole new scene, they said, and the only way to do it was to make the big move-either figuratively or literally-from Berkeley to the Haight-Ashbury, from pragmatism to mysticism, from politics to dope, from the hang-ups of protest to the peaceful disengagement of love, nature and spontaneity.
The credo of the Haight-Ashbury was expressed, about as well as it can be, by Joyce Francisco, 23-year-old advertisement manager of the new hippy newspaper, the San Francisco Oracle. She was talking a few months ago to a columnist from the establishment press, trying to explain what the hippy phenomenon meant: “I love the whole world,” she said. “I am the divine mother, part of Buddha, part of God, part of everything.”
“How do you live?” the columnist asked.
From meal to meal. I have no money, no possessions. Money is beautiful only when it’s flowing; when it piles up it’s a hang-up. We take care of each other. There’s always something to buy beans and rice for the group, and someone always sees that I get grass or acid. I was in a mental hospital once because I tried to conform and play the game. But now I’m free and happy.”
Next question: “Do you use drugs often?”
“Fairly. When I find myself becoming confused I drop out and take a dose of acid. It’s a short cut to reality; it throws you right into it. Everyone should take it, even children. Why shouldn’t they be enlightened early, instead of waiting till they’re old? Human beings need total freedom. That’s where God is at. We need to shed hypocrisy, dishonesty, phoniness and go back to the purity of our childhood values.”
The columnist then asked if Miss Francisco ever prayed.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I pray in the morning sun. It nourishes me with its energy so I can spread my love and beauty and nourish others. I never pray for anything; I don’t need anything. Whatever turns me in is a sacrament: LSD, sex, my belts, my colors . . . . that is the holy communion, you dig?”
The columnist wasn’t sure if she did or not, but she passed on the interview for the benefit of those readers who might. Many did. Anyone who thinks all the hippies in the Bay Area are living in the Hasbury might just as well leave his head in the sand.
In normal circumstances, the mushrooming popularity of psychedelics would be a main factor in any article on hippies. But the vicious excesses of our drug laws make it impossible, or at least inhuman, to document the larger story. A journalist dealing with heads is caught in a strange dilemma. The only way to write honestly about the scene is to be part of it. If there is one quick truisms about psychedelic drugs, it is that anyone who tries to write about them without firsthand experience is a fool and a fraud.
Yet to write from experience is an admission of felonious guilt; it is also a potential betrayal of people whose only “crime” is the smoking of a weed that grows wild all over the world but the possession of which, in California, carries a minimum sentence of two years in prison for a second offense and a minimum of five years for a third. So, despite the fact that the whole journalism industry is full of unregenerate heads-just as many journalist were hard drinkers during the Prohibition-it is not very likely that the frank, documented truth about the psychedelic underworld, for good or ill, will be illuminated at any time soon in the public prints.
If I were to write, for instance, that I recently spent 10 days in San Francisco and was stoned almost constantly . . . . that in fact I was stoned for nine nights out of 10 and that nearly everyone I dealt with smoked marijuana as casually as they drank beer . . . . and if I said many of the people I talked to were not freaks or dropouts, but competent professionals with bank accounts and spotless reputations . . . . and that I was amazed to find psychedelic drugs in homes where I would never have mentioned them two years ago-if all this were true, I could write an ominous screed to the effect that the hippy phenomenon in the Haight-Ashbury is little more than a freak show and a soft-sell advertisement for what is happening all around them . . . that drugs, orgies and freak-outs are almost as common to a much larger and more discreet cross section of the Bay Area’s respectable, upwards-mobile society as they are to the colorful drop-outs of San Francisco’s new Bohemia.
There is no shortage of documentation for the thesis that the current Haight-Ashbury scene is only the orgiastic tip of a great psychedelic iceberg that is already drifting in the sea lanes of the Great Society. Submerged and uncountable is the mass of intelligent, capable heads who want nothing so much as peaceful anonymity. In a nervous where a man’s imagine is frequently more important than his reality, the only people who can afford to advertise their drug menus are those with nothing to lose.
And these-for the moment, at least-are the young lotus-eaters, the barefoot mystics and hairy freaks of the Haight-Ashbury-all those primitive Christians, peaceful nay-sayers and half-deluded “flower children” who refuse to participate in a society which looks to them lie a mean, calculated and soul-destroying hoax.
As recently as two years ago, many of the best and brightest of them were passionately involved in the realities of political, social and economic life in America. But the scene has changed since then and political activism is going out of style. The thrust is no longer for “change” or “progress” or “revolution,” but merely to escape, to live on the far perimeter of a world that might have been-perhaps should have been-and strike a bargain for survival on purely personal terms.
The flourishing hippy scene is a matter of desperate concern to the political activists. They see whole generation of rebels drifting off to a drugged limbo, ready to accept almost anything as long as it comes enough “soma.”
Steve DeCanio, an ex-Berkeley activist now doing graduate work at M.I.T., is a good example of a legion of young radicals who know they have lost their influence but have no clear idea how to get it back again. “The alliance between hippies and political radicals is bound to break up,” he said in a recent letter. “There’s just too big a jump from the slogan of ‘Flower Power’ to the deadly realm of politics. Something has to give, and drugs are too ready-made as opiates of the people for the bastards (the police) to fail to take advantage of it.”
Decanio spent three months in various Bay Area jails as a result of his civil rights activities and now he is lying low for a while, waiting for an opening. “I’m spending an amazing amount of time studying,” he wrote. “It’s mainly because I’m scared; three months on the bottom of humanity’s trash heap got to me worse than it’s healthy to admit. The country is going to hell, the left is going to pot, but not me. I still want to figure out a way to win.”
Meanwhile, like most other disappointed radicals, he is grimly amused at the impact the hippies are having on the establishment. The panic among San Francisco officialdom at the prospect of 200,000 hippies flocking to the Hashbury this summer is one of the few things that ex-Berkeley radicals can still laugh at. Decanio’s vision of the crisis was not written as prophecy, but considering the hidden reality of the situation, it may turn out that way: “I can see Mayor Shelley standing on the steps of the Civic Center and shouting into TV microphones, ‘The people cry bread! Bread! Let them turn on!’ “
The New York Time Magazine, May 14, 1967
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