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The /r/hockey Trade Deadline Game - Day 2 Thread
NOTE: This is FAKE HOCKEY. To talk about actual hockey, go to the latest Daily Discussion thread Trade Deadline Tonight will continue TONIGHT! The /hockey Trade Deadline Game is back for day 2! Starting today at 8:00 AM MT trading is officially open again. Trading will run until Thursday, January 30th at 6:00 PM MT. You are not late! You can still sign up at http://www.tdgdb.com When you are traded, change your flair on hockey-related subreddits and spend the week from January 31st through February 7th cheering for your new team. Here are this year's reporters, the people who will make things up break news of trade negotiations:
The original Megathread got archived automatically by Reddit, so I've now re-upped it. This megathread is to compile all the information into 1 place so that information can be accessed more easily and smoothly. Please post all questions/comments on this thread. This includes selling/buying tickets, meetup plans, etc. Any further posts about the tour, including questions, will be removed. Please feel free to use the "#live-shows" channel on the subreddit Discord server to discuss and post about the tour. Next, please use Reddit’s spoiler feature when discussing things about the tour that others want to be surprised about. As posted in the sidebar, you can now hide your text on Reddit, so please utilize this feature in posts and comments. Don’t ruin the fun for other members of the horde!
Media
The tour will feature the brand new, highly-anticipated “Cube V3” – with new visuals completely designed by Deadmau5 himself!
NOTE: While the UMF 2019 set may spoil some things for the tour, Joel has confirmed on Reddit that there will be A LOT of changes for the tour - including new visuals and NEW MUSIC! Ultra was essentially just a way to test out the new system before tour season begins.
Set times, ticket prices, age restrictions, and other regulations vary for each venue, so your best bet for specific venue questions would be to visit venues' websites or call them.
The set length will be about 2 hours and 15 minutes, and the opening sets will each be about an hour long.
VIP PACKAGES:
1) deadmau5 On Stage Experience: -One Premium Reserved or General Admission ticket to the show -One (1) Meet & Greet with deadmau5* -One (1) Individual photo with deadmau5* -The ability to watch the first 3 songs of deadmau5’s set, side-stage* -Exclusive access to special VIP pre-show production tour (see the new cube up close and personal)* -One commemorative VIP laminate -One exclusive merchandise item -Priority entry into the venue* 2) deadmau5 VIP Meet & Greet Experience: -One Premium Reserved or General Admission ticket to the show -One (1) Meet & Greet with deadmau5* -One (1) Individual photo with deadmau5* -Exclusive access to special VIP pre-show production tour (see the new cube up close and personal)* -One commemorative VIP laminate -One exclusive merchandise item -Priority entry into the venue* 3) deadmau5 VIP Cube Tour Experience: -One Premium Reserved or General Admission ticket to the show -Exclusive access to pre-show production tour* -One commemorative VIP laminate -One exclusive merchandise item -Priority entry into the venue* * = no liquids permitted side stage (alcohol, soda, etc)*side stage locations will operate in a different format from city to city depending on local venue capabilities *production tour done in groups of 10*meet & greet and photo opportunity may occur after general doors have opened
MORE DATES WILL BE ANNOUNCED SOON:
No need to complain yet that you don’t see the city that you wanted. Joel also confirmed on Mau5Trap Radio Episode #28 that although this first part of the tour is United States only, they are working on plans for worldwide dates afterwards. GUEST VOCALS:
LIGHTS (EVERY SHOW)
SOFI (Select shows only)
OPENERS: (In alphabetical order:)
ATTLAS
BlackGummy
Callie Reiff
E̶D̶D̶I̶E̶ (EDIT: CANCELLED DUE TO VISA ISSUES - replaced by Bentley Dean & Julian Gray)
Great Hall Stage: Testpilot, Layton Giordani, Rinzen
Kings Hall Stage: ATTLAS, BlackGummy, MSTRKRFT, SIAN, Speaker Honey
Lost Circus Stage: Todd Edwards, Jay Robinson, Gooey Vuitton
LOS ANGELES POP-UP SHOP:
What:
Special pop-up shop with an interactive art & music installation (powered by Specdrums from Sphero)
Buy exclusive merch
See special displays (i.e. mau5heads, McLaren 720s Spider, etc.)
Meet Mau5Trap artists & get stuff signed
Drink Corona
Where:
Sunset Strip - 1114 Horn Ave, West Hollywood, CA 90069
When:
Thurs. September 26th to Sat. September 28th
12:00PM - 8:00PM PDT
Deadmau5 signing from 3:00PM - 5:00PM PDT on 26th and 27th
i_o signing from 2:00PM -5:00PM PDT on 27th; 4:00PM - 6:00PM on 28th
Various Mau5Trap artists appearing/signing on 28th (including a Q&A panel from 1:00PM - 2:00PM PDT)
DENVER POP-UP SHOP:
What:
Special pop-up shop with an interactive art & music installation (powered by Specdrums from Sphero)
Buy exclusive merch
See special displays (i.e. mau5heads, McLaren 720s Spider, etc.)
Meet Mau5Trap artists & get stuff signed
Drink Corona
Where:
2100 Larimer Street, Denver, CO 80205 (Intersection of Larimer & 21st Street)
When:
Fri. November 1st to Sat. November 2nd
11:00PM - 8:00PM MDT (both days)
Deadmau5 signing from 2:00PM - 4:00PM MDT (both days)
i_o signing from 5:00PM - 5:45PM MDT (Nov. 1 only)
Other Mau5Trap artists signing from 5:30PM -7:30PM MDT (Nov. 2 only)
NEW YORK CITY POP-UP SHOP:
What:
Special pop-up shop with an interactive art & music installation (powered by Specdrums from Sphero)
Buy exclusive merch
See special displays (i.e. mau5heads, McLaren 720s Spider, etc.)
Meet Mau5Trap artists & get stuff signed
Drink Corona
Where:
260 Johnson Ave, Brooklyn, NY, 11206
When:
Thurs. February 6th to Sun. February 9th
12:00PM - 6:00PM EST (both days)
Deadmau5 signing from 3:00PM - 5:00PM EST (Feb. 7th & Feb. 8th only)
SETLIST:
NOTE: Keep in mind, the below setlist compiles every track he's played at the shows so far in order - so therefore, he doesn't play ALL of these songs each show. Every show has a slightly different setlist. BOLDED = Unreleased
Hello mama, it’s June Bug. I got no real idea how this might come to you, but by post or freight or law man’s hand, you should know it’s me this time. I read in the paper that folks been writin’ you on occasion saying they’re me and apologizing for all the mischief I got up to. I ain’t written to you but once since I left home and that’s right now. That reminds me of the sign up at Busser’s, one that hanged over the stationary? “If you’re going to write, write right!” Were they selling Bics, or what? I can’t remember. Busser’s is where this all started but of course you know that. In fact, I presume you might know a whole lot more of this than when I left back in spring. Delilah is like to have told you how I met Todd — Mr. Lightnin’ T Daniels of national infamy — when he drove that fine Cadillac up to Busser’s for some ice cream. Maybe you’ve talked to the others, and they’ll have lied if they said I didn’t want to go with him. I guess that’s all true, but what they didn’t tell you, couldn’t tell you, is that I saw Todd for the first time a week earlier. He was working up at the Targrady pits when we went up there on a field trip so the boys could see how they were going to make their money one day and the girls would know how hard their men were going to be worked. He smiled at Carla Weathers, not me, when we walked past him in a group, even tossed her a lump of furnace coal and told here there was more where that came from. She blushed, but so did I. I wanted a man like that to look at me. Since I left Arson County, I’ve found that there are a lot of men like Todd, especially in the big cities. But just six long months ago I thought there couldn’t be a second man like him on earth. He was tall, bristling with muscle and sweaty charm, and polished smooth and clean looking despite the grime on his coveralls. He didn’t look like the fat, broken coal miners or their simple, soon-to-be-broken sons. He didn’t look either like the bloated, soft-handed bankers or turned-out souses that came up from the railyard for church some Sundays. No, he was a man of his own making. He was smoking that first time, cloistered in a little taped-off area and leaning against a broken rail cart. He’d tied his coverall shoulders around his waist and his grimy undershirt clung to his torso like cellophane. Maybe every girl saw him. Maybe it was only me. I committed him to memory the way I had started doing with certain men, certain I’d never see him again. I was wrong, of course. He came up to Busser’s a week later in a casual sort of hurry. Nonchalant but rushed, sauntering into the place and ordering an ice cream milkshake with a cherry on top. Mr. Pushkin gave him a mean look, but started smiling all the same when he dropped cash on the counter. Real hard currency, big bills like I’d never seen a man his age carrying before. He rested his back on the bar to drink and look around, his legs splayed out before him. He had thick heels on the black leather boots that left dark scuffs on the floor. His jeans were tight, very tight for a man, and ended in a broad black belt at his hips. He had a white t-shirt on above that, also tight, and black leather jacket. He looked like an absolute criminal, and when he ran his hands through his hair, my God mother. I just didn’t know what to do with myself. He doesn’t look like that now, as you might guess. By the time you get this letter, I suppose what beauty Todd had known on this earth will have all but fled him. But at that moment he looked like an angel. One of the kind that wasn’t afraid to tell God what he thought then and again, and I wanted him to fall into my arms. He finished his drink and I followed him outside. The other girls, Delilah, Ethel, Mary, they squealed and urged me to come sit back down. None of them would have ever had the courage to follow him out that door, none of them did. They’ll live long lives, I suppose, telling their children about me as a cautionary tale. But I didn’t care what they had to say then and I certainly don’t now. We talked by his car. I fixed my blue eyes on him they way I’d been practicing in the mirror, trying my best to look like one of them girls in the cigarette ads. It must have worked, cause he stopped telling me to get lost and got lost himself, running his hand through that hair and leaning against the car. I told him he had bad posture, and asked him real slow that if that car wasn’t there, what else would he like to lean against? You should have seen the look on his face. Todd likes to try looking like a wolf. He licks his teeth, is the most noticeable thing, and I’d never seen a wolf before he took me to the zoo. That’s where I first made that connection. He could almost bristle that big jacket of his like a pelt, and he made himself stand on his toes, like he might spring at any minute. But he was a puppy on the worst of days. You and me, mama, we know about real wolves, don’t we? He told me he liked the way I talked to him and I asked what he meant. He told me I shouldn’t play with fire and I told him I didn’t play with fire, but that my daddy let me use matches sometimes. He laughed and asked me what it was I was after and I told him he had a nice car. He asked if I wanted a ride. I said yes. We drove out by the high school and he tried to put the moves on me. I said no and we drove some more. Up north into Carbones County, up past Gun Cotton and to the highway, then back down through roads I’d never seen before. Past little hamlets and nowhere towns full of staring black or white faces and the occasional house set into hillside where nobody could possibly get to it. He got quiet as we drove. I asked him if he was mad I turned him down and he laughed and said that wasn’t it. He told me he wasn’t from West Virginia and had to be leaving soon. Real soon. I asked him how soon and he said tomorrow. Then he told me I might not want to be around Busser’s around noon and I asked why, though it’s obvious to anybody now what he meant by that. Then he dropped me off. You were awful mad at me when I got home. Slapped me on the face as I recall, and hard too. I cried for you the way you like and ran in to daddy. He shushed me and patted me on the head. How is he now? Are you done with him? Is it time to move on again or are your wings too old to catch the wind? I’ll never know the answers to those questions, but I have my suspicions and they help me sleep nights. I went to sleep and you woke me up in the middle of the night. I remember what you told me, though I won’t commit that hatefulness to paper. And you squeezed me where it hurts, twisted and pinched the way you do and told me not to ruin things the way I always did. You reminded me of what daddy had to lose for us to live there, what my life meant to the people around me. And the second you left that room I packed what I thought I’d need in my backpack. I hid my school things under the bed, where I’m sure you eventually found them. I ate breakfast full knowing I was about to leave Blunt, West Virginia for the last time. To leave you for good. We had eggs. I told you they were delicious. You rode me to school that day. I thought you’d figured me out, having done that same shuffle and ride a dozen or more times just in my lifetime. But you didn’t suspect a thing, not from your dear little June Bug. You sat there in the Packard, gripping the steering wheel with your prim white driving gloves, hair up underneath one of those silk headwraps you started wearing in Cincinnati. You could have told me you loved me, any number of nice motherly things I see women say to their children in the movies Todd eventually took me to. But you just gave me your typical sermon, the one I always got after one of your late night visits. And you told me I was old now, old enough to be a threat if I didn’t watch myself. You reminded me I could be replaced. You warned me I better behave myself. I watched you drive off down the dirt road that led to that dismal one-room learning shack they called a school and that was the last I ever saw of you. In person at least. I saw you in the news a few weeks later, crying on the front page of the Charleston Independent-Star and asking me to come home. Then a couple months after that on the New York Times, crying and telling me you better never see me again. That headline read, “Mother mourns recalcitrant daughter.” It made me smile. I didn’t even go inside the school. Some of the other girls would eventually tell the police they saw me walking “with determination” toward some other destination. I actually stopped and talked with Debby Marks, and asked her to cover for me until the afternoon, just in case. I’ve never seen that detail in any newspapers so I guess she kept that little tidbit to herself. Smart girl. I sat alone in Busser’s until noon, and he showed like clockwork. The shiny red Cadillac pulled up at the far end of the corner lot and he sat there alone, his eyes blocked by square black sunglasses. The armored truck pulled up a second later and I figured out the score right then and there. The truck had the big Walther Hi-Sec Transportation Inc. logo down the side. Any kid in the valley could tell you that was the payroll wagon, here to bring cash down to the pit bank for payday. You take into account all the money they needed to pay the workers and make purchases, and there was maybe $20,000 in there. At least that’s what Todd thought. A paunchy old man came in wearing a Walther Security uniform and Todd came in behind him. Now, things have been changed up a bit in the papers. Those newspapermen like to make a lot of interesting additions to the stories about us, particularly this one, painting Todd as some smooth Lothario who just talked people out of their money. Once we were famous, sure, that actually happened a couple times. But this time he was nervous. Scared even. He smiled under those beetle-shell glasses and put the gun against the security man’s head. Told him to open up the back of the truck. And you know what that security man did? He said no! Honestly and truthfully, that old man, with his moustache and bent back, told big Lightnin’ T Daniels no and went back to his coffee. Todd might have just turned and walked out if not for me. I screamed and ran to him, getting the attention of the few old men sitting around taking their coffee. Even Mr. Pushkin dropped his skillet in the kitchen and ran out. I wasn’t letting anybody ruin this for me. I jumped between Todd and the old man, pressing against the big automatic pistol with my chest so my breasts showed full and large to either side of it. He swallowed. I felt his insecurity. I begged him not to hurt the old man, I’d do anything, just drop the gun and walk away. He recognized me and asked under his breath what I thought I was doing, and I yelled for him to take me instead at the top of his lungs. He grinned and pulled me close to him. I twirled into his arms like a dancer, relishing the warmth of his forearm against my cheek even as he pressed the automatic to my temple. That display made short work of the Busser’s patrons. They begged Todd not to hurt me and I worked up some tears and hollered about how he was just confused. The old security guard looked at the other patrons like they’d lost their minds. I suppose they had. They almost tore the man’s clothes off trying to get at his keys so the big, bad man in the leather jacket wouldn’t hurt the pretty blonde. It was like a dream how fast we went from the inside of that diner to driving down I-64 at nearly twice the speed limit, laughing like crazy. He didn’t even want to let me in the car with him at first, but I convinced him the locals were all heavily armed and would shoot him to pieces the second I left him. By the time we reached Charleston he didn’t even care. We counted the money from the heist in a filthy motel on the edge of town. Then we had sex. It wasn’t wonderful, but I loved it all the same. The ecstasy of my escape from Blunt clouded over the meager pain of his entrance. I loved the smell of him, his sweat covering my chest and stomach. The way his arms crushed my body against his. It ended almost as quickly as it had began, and I let him finish where I shouldn’t have, but I didn’t care. I was free. I slept in his arms on a pile of ill-gotten money. More cash than I’d seen in my whole life, $10,500. That was the first night of honest sleep I’d had in maybe my whole life, and the first time I hadn’t dreamed of little Trixie since that night by the old woodshed last fall. Little Trixie not-my-sister, as you might say. Of course I don’t have to remind you of that, you were there. Or do I? I certainly haven’t seen you mention it all those wonderful little stories you’re in. I cut each one I find out of whatever paper and keep them in a small card box Todd bought me in Arizona. It has a turquoise June bug on the lid, which he thought was adorable. He’d bought himself one just like it that holds a bent, blackened spoon, some rubber tubing, and an oversized eye-dropper with a needle tied to the end. My big, beautiful man had a bad habit. I was surprised how fast we could go through all that money, money you could live off for a year gone in just a few weeks. But he spent it on me too, buying me books and clothes and nice dinners at places where people spent big cash on little plates. He made new friends and lost them every week, even tried to lose me a couple times, but after a while he knew that I was his and, more importantly, that he was mine. We traveled across the states, pulling that exact same heist we’d thrown together on the spot a Busser’s at every stop. I change my hair color after the papers started reporting on me, going from blonde to red and finally to black. I tried brown for a second but it reminded Todd of his mother and he wouldn’t touch me until I changed it. He talked about her, his mother, quite often. I lied about you. I said you were great, real decent. I convinced him on that first sweaty night in Charleston that he’d left those nasty bruises on my nipples. I was just a fragile thing. He was too big and too rough. I also convinced him I wasn’t a virgin, because I couldn’t tell him that you’d broken me when I was twelve, kicking me between the legs because I wouldn’t stop crying. Because Brian not-my-brother and Pauline not-my-sister had kept calling my name as the car slipped beneath the waves at Glass Shard. I never told him about any of that. About Kevin, or Julienne, or Matthew, or Ronald, or Victor, or Samuel, or Michelle, or Rebekah. The not-my-sisters and not-my-brothers I wasn’t allowed to mourn, and the parade of daddies who were only ever to be called daddy and not Mr. Kelso, or Mr. Valentine, or father, or papa, or dad. When we traveled through Cincinnati, Gary, Decatur, Chicago, and Pierre, I told him I’d never been to any of those places. All the while I glanced out the windows of our stolen cars, looking for that riverbank, that ash pile, that abandoned lot. I never told him how those road trips made me feel like my mother, a sparrow on the wing, looking for a new nest. And I never told him about Trixie. Our heists worked the way we’d been doing them until we reached a little bank on the outskirts of Fresno. I’d always gone inside first, scouting the place out on the pretense of opening a checking account. Then I’d be the hostage when Todd stormed in and demanded the money. But this time someone was waiting for us. The counter girl acted strangely when she saw me, and I didn’t notice anything off about the way she looked down at her lap. Now I know she was looking at my picture. She must have pressed a button or something, because a man swept up behind me and whispered in my ear that I better behave. He told me I needed to tell Mr. Daniels to surrender as soon as he walked in the door. I started crying real loud. Customers walked over and started asking the man what he was doing, then he cuffed me on the back of the head and told me to shut up. Some Dudley Do Right took that chance to run up and deck him one, knocked the big man out cold. I thanked him and ran off in hysterics. I found Todd in the same alley where we’d parked. There was a man at the head of the alley where Todd couldn’t see, facing away from me with a gun sticking out of his sport coat. Clean and simple, I walked up, slipped his gun out of its holster, and shot that man to death. Then I put his gun in my purse and walked into the alley, where Todd was standing with his own gun out. We hopped in the car and I explained things as we drove like mad out of California and across the Rockies. That was at the height of summer, though I’m sure you know all about that. “Dragnet: Federal agent shot dead by Lightning T Daniels and the June Bug.” That’s what the papers started calling us around that time. The first time I ever saw those names was in the Des Moines Register. I clipped the article out and put it in the box with the little turquoise June bug on the lid. The fame and the pressure got to Todd and he started getting rough in bed, doing all those awful things to me that you used to do, the poking and prodding and twisting. But it felt so good when he did it. He would get sullen afterward sometimes and tell me I was too beautiful for things like that. He said he was debasing me, that I was a flower and if he plucked me I’d wilt. I told him I was his June Bug and the only thing he had to do was keep me from flying away. He liked that. And he was a good man, despite how we made our living. He didn’t yell or cheat or hit me, with a single exception on each account. The cheating I wouldn’t even call cheating. You see, pickings got slim after the botched job in Fresno. Cops were looking for us like never before, and we couldn’t stay in the same place long, much less cause a stink with a big heist. So we did little things, robbing underground casinos and junk dealers. I carried a gun then. The agent’s mean little .38 special, in fact. I don’t know what such a big man had needed with such a tiny gun, but it fit my tiny hands perfectly. I killed three men with that gun, the agent, another, and one I’ll tell you about right here. His name was Buggy and he was something of a hot shot, for South Dakota. Buggy knew Todd from a stint in a Minnesota prison Todd didn’t talk about much, and apparently they owed each other a host of favors. Buggy had everything Todd needed that wasn’t me, most of which came folded up in little paper squares and dollar bills. Todd started doing small jobs for Buggy, enforcing, running packages, and he’d leave me cooped up in a dingy motel for days at a time. I got sick of that real fast. It reminded me of Blunt, and all the little cages you kept me in before Blunt. I went out on the streets and found Buggy’s place by dropping his name here and there. By the time I found the dive he operated out of, a converted speakeasy with big steel shutters over the door, Buggy knew I was coming. Buggy was a nasty guy, as his name suggests, and he had a bad habit of spectacle. He was the biggest show, the only show, in town and he made sure people knew he was important. He dressed like a mobster and let on that he knew a few made guys, though he never quite had the courage to call any by name. His suits were new and as nicely tailored as you could get out there in the sticks, but they did nothing to shape up the nasty little man. He had a sloppy gut and breasts that disturbed the spread of his lapels, along with a stringy black comb-over and a thick, warty nose. He intercepted me just inside the door and told me where to find Todd. I had figured he wanted to keep Todd around in town, to fold him into the crew for the respect Lightning T Daniels’ name would bring. But I hated South Dakota, and that nasty little town and I wanted to leave. When I left, Todd would go with me, but only if we were still together. Buggy didn’t want that to happen. He led me to the main room, where Todd lay back on a couch almost completely off his mind from the stuff. A pretty girl, red-haired and about my age, was on her knees in front of him, her mouth where you’d expect. I sighed as Buggy started on some rant about men these days and how he never expected he’d walk in on something this shocking. Todd’s eyes took a few seconds to focus on me, and he started trying to push the girl off him. I think Buggy expected me to start crying and run out of that grungy hole in the ground, or maybe to just fall apart right then and there. The only thing I’m sure of is that the greasy little pusher man had a low opinion of woman. I saw his point and made him a counter-argument. The girl, undoubtedly in on the whole thing, looked up at me with smirk on her face, almost daring me to do something. I went over to Todd, still so beautiful in his sweating delirium, and pulled his switchblade out of the interior pocket of his leather jacket. Dull recognition dawned on the redheaded girl’s face just a second too late, as I grabbed a fistful of that hair and sprang the blade open. I cut her just twice, long strokes that made an X on her pretty young face. They didn’t bleed until I pushed her away, then they wouldn’t stop bleeding. She blindly ran from the room, screaming for somebody to help her. Buggy jumped to his feet and started toward me, cursing. I pulled the federal agent’s snug little .38 out of my purse and shot him through his ugly nose. The bullet pulled off the back part of his skull and everything inside spilled out when he hit the ground. I remembered Trixie right then, her skull coming apart in the dark of the woodshed. Her beautiful face, so like a tiny angel’s, ghastly and malformed in the smoky light of your kerosene lantern. Dirt on my hands. Blood underneath my nails. Dogs in the woods and your harsh whisper telling me they couldn’t smell her, they wouldn’t smell her. Keep digging June. Keep digging. I’m still digging that hole now, gonna’ keep digging until I hit bottom. Until I get down low enough to pull the sides in over me like a blanket. There may be blood and heat at the end, I know, the smell of pistol smoke and burning flesh. But before I go to hell I’ll smell that rich West Virginia earth, and I’ll feel splintered wood in my hands as I work, work, work that shovel. She called me Sissy, God damn you. She called me Sissy. The security man from the front came down with a pump action shotgun in his hand. I didn’t kill him, just asked him if he’d ever been shot before, and pointed at what was left of Buggy. I told him neither of us were going to miss at this distance and he agreed, dropping the shotgun. I promised not to shoot him or anybody else if they filled a tablecloth with money and drugs and didn’t try anything funny. Nobody did, so I kept my promise. Todd never apologized for the way I found him down there. He refused to even talk to me even until we were in St. Louis. He had another friend down there, Luther, who was a much better friend than Buggy. Luther took half of what we had off our hands in exchange for the keys to a room in a northside tenement. Todd got drunk the first night and slapped me when I wasn’t expecting it. I fell on the ground and started crying in earnest. I’d never been hit by anybody I cared about before. And it hurt so much worse than when you hit me. He told me I was crazy and who did I think I was? He told me he didn’t know who I was anymore and asked what right I had to be involving myself in his personal matters. He told me that just because we slept together — he used a different phrase — that didn’t mean I had any right to pry into his affairs. I told him I was pregnant and he took a seat on the edge of the bed. His fine dark hair was in disarray. He apologized to me and told me he’d do whatever he could, but his heart wasn’t in it. He sounded tired, wrung out. I knew then he was probably going to leave me, and started concocting ways to keep him. Then I thought of you, and all my daddies across this great, God-fearing nation and I stopped. I really was, still am, pregnant. Rest assured, you’ll never see the child. Todd got himself shot a couple weeks later. He burned through all the rest of our money and the drugs we’d stolen from Buggy in the days after I told him I was carrying his child. Luther set him up with a crew knocking over drug dealers in town. None of them knew he was the famous Lightnin’ T Daniels from the paper, and none of them would have cared if they did. I don’t know the specifics of how he got hurt. I do know he showed up to the job almost too high to stand on his own. I know they relied on him to do something and he failed to do it. And I know it took some special intervention from Luther to keep the crew from putting a bullet in Todd’s head right then and there. He was shot by a small caliber handgun. The bullet went in his thigh and bounced around inside his pelvis, leaving a half a dozen tiny tunnels. The insides of his hips now looked just like the insides of the bituminous coal mine where I first saw him, lean and pretty and leaning up against that ruined old mine cart. I had him take his pants off to show me. Blood trickled from the tiny entry wound, but everything from the bottom of his thighs to the top of his stomach was swollen and purple. He told me he needed to go to a doctor and begged for me to get him some stuff, anything to take the edge off. I told him that wasn’t possible, we were near out of money and he’d be arrested if I took him to a hospital. He told me to do anything I could, he didn’t care what, he just needed another hit. It hurt too bad. It was killing him. Then he looked at me and told me I was killing him. I pawned the turquoise boxes he’d bought us, most of our clothes, and the two pistols he’d acquired since we left West Virginia. Blunt felt so far away then, sitting in the dark with him dying beside me in the stale autumn heat. I spent all the money on drugs, a bit of food, and a straight razor so I could shave him, which I did. Luther stopped by about a week after Todd had been shot. He stood in the door, repulsed by some smell I hadn’t noticed. He asked me what I was going to do, what I expected to happen. I told him I didn’t know. Todd wasn’t going to get better, and if he did he’d just leave me anyway. In the depths of his eyes, behind the drugs and the pain, I saw fear when he looked at me. No hint of love or longing, no apology for how he’d treated me, just fear, and a dull sort of hate. Luther reached out and took my hand then, and I knew what options I had. I knew Luther wanted me, my body, terribly. I was still young and beautiful, and my pregnancy was little more than a slight bump that any dress could hide. Would he accept a child as part of my being there? I knew he would. I knew I could make him want that child as much as me, that I could sell him the Golden Gate Bridge with that hot piece of hellfire between my legs. And I thought of you. I thought of you and a long line of daddies, stretching out across the Midwest and back into my history to the first one, the real daddy who put me on you like a curse. I thought of raising a pretty little version of myself with Todd’s hair and big blue eyes, and all the daddies I could give her. All the not-her-sisters and not-her-brothers who’d have to make way once we entered the nest. Luther kept talking while I thought of that line of violence and tainted love that had brought me to Blunt, that had shot me out of West Virginia like a cannon. That had torn my heart and soul to blackened pieces before I ever became a woman. And I thought of Trixie, who’d told me how much she’d wanted a sister. Who read so well despite how young she was, and who trusted you when you took her to play hide and seek in the woods around midnight. Who cried and called me Sissy when you told me to take that ax and “earn your keep you ungrateful little bitch.” Luther told me he’d treat me right and ran his hand over my cheek. I looked up at him like I’d looked at Todd all those many months ago, and I asked him, yeah? Would he. And I kissed him. And he told me the cops already knew where we were, that he’d tipped them off to get a friend of his out of a bind over the trouble Todd had caused. That I really didn’t have a choice anyway. I told him that was fine by me, because Todd was weak and a junkie to boot, and he didn’t know how to treat a lady. And I asked Luther did he? Did he know how to treat a lady? Could he show me? He asked if Todd was still there and I said yeah, he was, but he was junked out and wouldn’t wake up for hours. I told him we had a little space atop the table just inside the door, that I didn’t care about being comfortable ‘cause it’d been so long since I had a real man. Luther smiled at me and shut the door behind him. I pulled him over to the table and sat and wrapped my legs around him, pulling him close. Our tongues met in my mouth and then his. He didn’t notice me slide the federal agent’s tiny little pistol out of my purse and put it behind his ear. He squeezed my breast and then bit my lip so hard it bled when I shot him, tearing away a thin piece of skin when he fell away. My ears rang. Todd lay in a daze on the mattress. I went over to him anyway and lay down beside him. I told him I loved him and I meant it. And I told him he was the best thing that’d ever happened to me, and that was true too. I curled up beside him and slept one last time, never smelling the rot setting into the wounds on his stomach or the filth he was leaving behind in the bed. I woke and started writing this. I started this morning and now it’s almost midnight. The moon is up outside and the windows are open. The breeze feels nice. Warm, despite the brown and gold leaves on the trees outside. There aren’t many of them in this neighborhood, but the ones I can see are so very beautiful. There are men down on the street, and I know they aren’t from the neighborhood because they’re mostly white and have good posture and comfortable shoes. If they arrested me, I bet I could talk my way out of a life sentence. The papers have blamed everything on Todd, because he’s a man and nobody believes women can do evil things, not really. That if they do evil things, they’re trite and pointless. Crimes of passion, neglect, or stupidity. Understand that everybody that has died on our sojourn across America is dead because I was sick of getting ice cream at Busser’s. Because I wanted more than the quiet security the men you preyed on provided. Because I couldn’t handle the guilt of what I did to Trixie, or face the consequences like an honest human being. I could have ended this thing whenever I wanted to, and I didn’t. I hate you, mama. I hate you like you wouldn’t believe. Or maybe you do. You never mention your mama and I can only imagine she was just like us, or at least bad enough you turned out the way you did. I’m not writing you to say goodbye, I’m writing you so that you know I did this all on my own. I did it for me, because I’m my own bad person, not because you corrupted me or because Todd drove me crazy. I did this. All of this. And I did it for me. And if anybody else happens to read this, you should understand that Todd was the innocent bystander. Tell his mama or papa or whoever is still around that he got wrapped up with a bad woman who twisted him around her finger like a piece of taffy. That he could have walked away from that armored car or me or this life at any time if I’d have let him. And he wanted to. But I didn’t. And, if anybody else happens to read this, Trixie Macintosh is buried in a busted old woodshed off Rural Route 5 outside of Blunt, West Virginia. She was the most wonderful little girl and I killed her with an ax because I’m a coward. I’m going to finish this letter now, and leave it up here on this table. Then I’m going to take Todd down off the bed and bring him by the window. The breeze is nice and I want him to feel that before I take that straight razor I bought and send us both to hell. And God I hope there is a hell, ‘cause if there is then there is a heaven. And if there is, that Trixie will be up there with her mama, living some sort of happiness. And that when you die, you’ll be down here with me. -June Bug westsidefairytales.com
Does anybody know if the 2-100 spread limit game there gets any players? Treasure Island Resort and Casino in Red Wing Minnesota I'm aware that Running Aces and Canterbury are better choices but I'm so much closer to Treaure Island right now.
On Netflix - Trump: An American Dream—Documentary traces rise of New York real estate billionaire - By Fred Mazelis - 11 June 2018
Trump: An American Dream—Documentary traces rise of New York real estate billionaire By Fred Mazelis 11 June 2018 Trump: An American Dream, the four-part television series released in Britain last year and now streaming on Netflix, is a devastating portrait of the current president of the United States. It raises crucial issues about the experiences and lessons of the past 50 years, which have witnessed the accelerating decline of American capitalism on the world arena. It depicts the swamp of financial speculation, capitalist politics and degraded culture out of which Trump emerged to claim the US presidency. Much of the material in this documentary is well known, but its presentation of recent decades—the near-bankruptcy of New York City, the victory of Ronald Reagan, the speculative orgy of the 1980s, which has only deepened since—together with footage tracing Donald Trump’s rise to prominence in New York and then nationally carries a powerful punch. The viewer can watch the demagogue developing over an extended period. There is much in the young Donald Trump of what he was to become. The combination of archival television and numerous interviews adds up to a revealing picture. The record of Trump’s business and political ventures over more than 40 years demonstrates that he is a petty, vindictive narcissist, a man without knowledge or political principle, whose primary need is for the incessant accumulation of wealth along with displays of obedience and adulation from those around him. He is driven by a lust for personal power and an outlook that he himself sums up as “kill or be killed”—the law of the jungle. Among the interviewees, undoubtedly in the interest of evenhandedness, are a number of Trump intimates and supporters, including longtime friend Nikki Haskell and political advisers Sam Nunberg and the repugnant right-winger Roger Stone. Among the more noteworthy contributions are those from Tony Schwartz, the credited co-author of Trump: The Art of the Deal (1987), and David Cay Johnston, the journalist and author of The Making of Donald Trump (2016), who has known Trump for nearly 30 years. As Schwartz puts it, Trump is “value free,” a sociopath who has “a primitive binary world view.” Johnston calls Trump “the greatest con artist in the history of the world.” While one hesitates to use the adjective “greatest,” he is certainly up there, with few rivals. The film’s focus is on Trump’s life and career, and it does not pretend to explain how he became president. However, the portrait confirms the analysis summed up in the very first paragraph of the World Socialist Web Site’s comment only one day after the 2016 vote: “The victory of Donald Trump in the US presidential election is a political earthquake that has exposed before the entire world the terminal crisis of American democracy. Such is the degeneration of bourgeois rule that it has elevated an obscene charlatan and billionaire demagogue to the highest office in the land.” Trump’s personality cannot be divorced from its economic, political and historical context. His rise is a barometer of the decline of American capitalism and its productive industrial base. It is significant that he first emerged in the midst of the near-bankruptcy of New York, which was followed nationwide by deindustrialization, the financialization of the economy and the transformation of the US into a debtor nation during the Reagan administration. Crucial to Trump’s career was his lengthy relationship with Roy Cohn. Cohn first became prominent as the chief counsel to red-baiting Senator Joseph McCarthy in the early 1950s. Not yet 25 years old, Cohn became McCarthy’s alter-ego, copying the bullying tactics of the Senator and becoming a major public face of the witch-hunt on national television. Cohn also played a key role, as a Justice Department attorney, in sending Julius and Ethel Rosenberg to their deaths after their conviction for conspiracy to commit espionage. After the Red Scare wound down, Cohn developed a law practice in New York. Trump turned to Cohn not only for legal representation, but also for advice on politics and dealing with the media. The vicious red-baiter, a vile specimen without scruples who utilized the techniques he learned in Washington to work behind the scenes as a “fixer” in New York law and politics, became Trump’s mentor. This is where Trump learned how to employ bluster, bravado and demagogy and how to use the capitalist media to turn himself into a household name, beginning to assemble a following for future political purposes. For nearly 15 years Trump relied on Cohn, but abruptly dropped all connection to him as his reactionary mentor fell ill with AIDS in the mid-1980s, succumbing to the disease in 1987. Trump was not just lucky, as some pundits have suggested. The son of successful builder Fred Trump, he had major advantages, but he set out on his own quest to far surpass his father in the scale of his operations and his influence. Above all, Trump is the product of an era. His father built homes for workers and middle-class people. The son built extravagant monuments to and for the rich. This paralleled, fundamentally, the historic shift from General Motors and the Rockefellers to an increasingly parasitic economy based on various forms of speculation, including Trump’s gambling interests. The symbiotic relationship between Trump and the capitalist media, including tabloids like the New York Daily News and the Post, was crucial in his rise. Especially revealing is the documentary footage of Trump’s interviews with sycophantic gossip columnist Rona Barrett in the late 1970s and with the equally toadying Connie Chung, the prominent television news anchor in New York City in the 1980s and 1990s. Barrett’s interview illustrates the way Trump, almost 40 years ago, used the world of celebrity gossip to advance his personal fortunes. Chung, the news anchor supposedly in the mold of predecessors like Walter Cronkite, is even more revealing. She practically salivates in admiration for her interview subject. These snippets provide some indication of the criminal role of the big business media, which has long specialized in encouraging the worship of wealth and all forms of cultural backwardness, along with the politics of race and gender to obscure the fundamental class issues. Navigating capitalist politics was integral to Trump’s career. As a young man, not yet 30 years old, he brashly demanded a huge tax break from New York City in order to refurbish the old Commodore Hotel, next to Grand Central Station. Trump promised, amidst the chaos of the mid-70s, to improve the area. The City Council voted to grant him a 40-year tax abatement as inducement for his project to transform the Commodore into the Grand Hyatt on East 42nd Street. This kind of “corporate welfare” has of course become the norm in recent decades. The abatement was worth $100 million in tax savings for the up-and-coming multimillionaire. The documentary points out in passing that Abe Beame, the Democratic Party mayor at the time, was “very close” to Fred Trump. Trump’s abatement came at the expense of social and public services desperately needed by the working class. As he and others enriched themselves, inequality grew by leaps and bounds in the center of US and world finance, and the city’s basic infrastructure and social conditions deteriorated. The consequences can be seen today in the decay of the mass transit system and the growing homelessness amidst a luxury residential building boom. The future president truly arrived on the scene in the 1980s. As the film puts it, “Ronald Reagan let capitalism off the leash.” Deregulation, already begun under the Democratic administration of Jimmy Carter, escalated under Reagan, along with speculative borrowing and a stock market boom. These conditions were “tailor-made for Donald Trump,” the narrator notes. He might have added that this was possible only because of the social counterrevolution that Reagan accelerated with the breaking of the PATCO air traffic controllers strike in 1981, ushering in a decade of union-busting, accompanied by enormous budget-cutting. The eponymous Trump Tower, only the first of many buildings that were to bear his name, was completed in 1982. The 58-story mixed-use building, noted for its garish and opulent ugliness, used a concrete frame instead of the steel frame usually used in skyscrapers. The film briefly notes the role of the Mafia in the concrete industry and the connection with Cohn, who represented leading organized crime figures, in addition to Trump. Barbara Res, project manager for Trump Tower, points out in her interview that, in contrast to the opulence in the lobby and atrium, there was “a lot of crap in the apartments” upstairs, where Trump manifested his trademark style of promising wealth and success while doing everything on the cheap and stiffing his suppliers and customers—in the case of Trump University, hard-pressed students. Trump’s fortunes reflected the ups and downs that came along with the growing speculative booms and busts. His early successes in opening casinos in Atlantic City, New Jersey were followed by disaster when he borrowed $675 million in the bond market at a 14 percent interest rate to build the giant Taj Majal casino. The October 13, 1989 Wall Street crash, a collapse on a scale unseen since the Depression, deepened his problems and he later went through the first of several Chapter 11 bankruptcy proceedings. Despite having a personal debt of some $800 million at one point, Trump survived in a soaring stock market, raising $140 million in one initial public offering and securing loans from the banks after he was deemed “too big to fail.” Much has been made by ruling class critics and pundits of Trump’s epic failures as a businessman. All true, but then again, the same could be said for the leading banks, the AIG insurance giant and the real estate industry. The federal government stepped in to rescue Wall Street in 2008, just as Wall Street somewhat earlier had stepped in to rescue Trump. The failures were above all those of the capitalist system, not of one company or one sector. Trump’s career in the 1980s and ’90s, it should also be noted, paralleled the presidencies of Reagan and Bill Clinton. Both of these representatives of American capitalism—the old B grade actor and the “man from Hope [Arkansas]” who “felt your pain”—were also con men, if not as crude as their successor. Two particularly revealing moments in the film are when we see both Reagan and later Clinton intoning the very phrase in their campaigns that became ubiquitous with Trump—“Make America Great Again.” This only underscores the fact that Trump is not an aberration, but rather the outgrowth of a crisis that has deepened over decades. In 1988, Trump first openly toyed with the idea of running for the presidency. When ex-wrestler Jesse Ventura won as a third-party candidate for governor of Minnesota in 1998, Trump soon paid a visit to gain pointers on a possible third-party campaign for the White House. He hesitated and then decided to bide his time, both in 2000 and 2012. Meanwhile, he began to rely increasingly on the advice of dirty trickster Roger Stone. He found a national audience via the reality television show “The Apprentice,” and later was convinced to open a Twitter account. Both of these moves were part of a longer-range effort to lay the basis for the presidential campaign that he finally announced in 2015. Along the way Trump decided, as Stone explains, that if he was to attain the presidency it would have to be as the candidate of one of the two major capitalist parties. It was by no means excluded that he try for the Democratic nomination. He had registered as a Democrat earlier in his career, and the film shows the famous photo of Trump and the Clintons enjoying themselves at Trump’s 2006 wedding to Melania Krauss. As the crisis deepened, it was the Republicans who proved ripe for a “hostile takeover.” After decades of whipping up militarism, religious fundamentalism, thinly-disguised racism and xenophobia, they had created a vocal ultra-right-wing base that felt continually betrayed, especially by the McCain and Romney candidacies of 2008 and 2012, respectively. Trump launched a major nationwide furor in 2011 with his demand that Barack Obama, then running for reelection, produce his birth certificate proving US citizenship. Testing the waters, Trump found that the adoption of the right-wing and racist conspiracy theory about Obama attracted a small but noisy base for his own ambitions. This was by no means the first time that Trump had trafficked in racist demagogy. In 1989, he had spent $85,000 for full-page advertisements in the New York City newspapers calling for the return of the death penalty, to be used against the five black youth charged in connection with the rape of a jogger in Central Park. More than a decade later, the Central Park Five were exonerated. Needless to say, Trump never retracted his attacks. The racism and xenophobia attracted a following, but what made Trump’s 2016 campaign possible, let alone successful, was above all the role of the Democrats and the unions, amid the continued hollowing out of the economy following the 2008 real estate and financial crash. Sections of the lower-middle class had lost their jobs and homes, workers were consigned to low-wage or minimum-wage employment. The Republicans expected to reap the political benefits of the bitter disappointment with the Obama administration, who had been elected twice on promises of social improvements, but whose only answer to the deepening crisis was honeyed phrases along with a program of austerity, attacks on democratic rights and endless war—all supported by the trade unions as well as the upper-middle class exponents of identity politics. Trump took advantage of the social anger. He had bided his time, and now made short work of all of his Republican primary opponents, tarring them fatally with the brush of the political establishment. First he used fascistic demagogy to lock up the Republican nomination, and then he pivoted slightly toward populist promises, combined with vicious attacks on immigrants, in the campaign against the hated candidate of the Wall Street Democrats, Hillary Clinton. It was above all the collapse of Democratic Party liberalism over a period of decades, illustrated by the presidencies of Carter, Clinton and Obama, the three Democratic presidents in the last half century, that enabled Trump to become president. The Democrats’ lurch to the right reflected the essential economic and political bankruptcy of the capitalist system, which could no longer hold out the promise of even minimal social reform. The trade unions, likewise speaking for the ruling class, have worked openly for decades to suppress the class struggle. Under these conditions, Trump, like similar forces in Europe, filled the vacuum to a certain extent with right-wing populism. Attracting some support from desperate workers, he benefited mainly from the fact that millions stayed home rather than vote for Clinton in 2016. On this basis, Trump eked out an electoral college victory, the “political earthquake” that is only the precursor of far greater upheavals as the working class moves into struggle.
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