Mamoudou Gassama, a 22-year old Black man from Mali, without hesitation
scaled four stories of a Paris building to save a toddler facing certain death. Mamoudou is an undocumented immigrant. He knew getting caught would mean deportation.
But instead, France has a new hero. President Macron thanked him, granted him French citizenship plus a job at the French fire brigade.
If the purge was real we’d defend one another, burn the debt records and return the commons, not murder each other, nice try Hollywood, your Hobbesian propaganda doesn’t work on me
U really think we’d defend one another?? Are u joking? People would fight for their lives. Steal & hide. They’d take advantage. Not to the extent of the movie, but have u ever seen a riot? God ur so dumb & I hate u for being so naive
Hey have you read a history or political theory or anthropology book that wasn’t written by the Cato institute?
the whole premise of the purge is inherently flawed. it assumes that crime happens because people just want to commit it, when actually most crime is a symptom of societal disenfranchisement.
yeah, maybe some sociopathic white frat boys would go around terrorizing people because they know there won’t be any consequences, but really, how is that any different than normal?
BUT REALLY, HOW IS THAT ANY DIFFERENT FROM NORMAL?
For those of you who don’t know, I work at an anarchist co-op coffee shop.
Apparently, all the Chicano/Cholo boys in my neighborhood have caught on the the fact that I sneak food and stuff to all the little punk kids and homeless kids at the coffee shop.
There are three in particular who call me Mom.
Not Mami, not Ma, Mom.
The rest refer to me as “Miss”.
They’ve decided to always have one of the three of them there with me on my night shifts. (Especially after they witnessed the last bad shift where I had to kick a bunch of tweakers out. Said tweakers lit my fucking bulletin board on fire.)
Tonight, one of the boys actually charged up a crackhead who wouldn’t get out when I told him to leave.
About an hour later, I was emptying bus tubs when that same lovely boy walked in and wetted a wash rag. I asked what he was doing and he told me not to worry. So, I went about my business, doing dishes, bussing the main dining tables, etc.
I’d left a broom in the smoking room and a fresh trash bag in the bathroom for once I was done with the dishes.
When I walked out, everything was spotless and the trash had been replaced. He’d wiped all my tables, swept, mopped, and emptied all the ash trays.
He’d also picked the lock on the bathroom so his friend could take out the trash for me. (Which I’m not sure whether I should scold him for. Haha)
They snuck around and did my closing shift duties to thank me for keeping them warm and fed.
Did I ever tell the story on here of how we accidentally ended up staying at a gay resort for my grandmother’s funeral.
*drops into cross-legged position in front of systlin, ready for the story*
So. This is about my Awesome Grandma, who I still miss deeply. The Awful Grandma is still alive, kept upright by sheer spite and hatred of everything.
But my Awesome Grandma passed away a couple years ago, at the ripe old age of 89, peacefully and in her sleep. I was devastated. The whole family was. She was an amazing woman.
So, I’m a mess. I get bereavement leave from work for the funeral, and the condolences of my boss and coworkers, and we start trying to figure out logistics.
Dad was her estate’s executor, and he was already up in Wisconsin staying at her house because we’d known it was coming (she’d been ill for some time). Now, Grandma and Grandpa’s house was and is quite small. So, Dad was staying there, Mom was staying there, and my aunt and her husband were staying there, and the house was full up.
My other aunt and her husband who lived nearby opened their house to the family, but their house wasn’t huge either and so of course their children who came home got priority.
Long story short, we needed to find a hotel. And I’m a wreck, who can barely pack a suitcase in between bouts of sobbing, so my hubby stepped up.
“I’ve got it,” He says. “Don’t worry, I’ve got everything.” He’s good at finding hotel deals and stuff, so this is great.
Grandma lived in Baraboo, WI. This is a short drive from the Wisconsin Dells, a popular tourist trap that has a ton of hotels. Grandma died in October, which was off season for the Dells, so there were plenty of good deals. Kev booked a room at a place called Rainbow Valley Resort, which had excellent ratings on Expedia and was inexpensive. We didn’t think twice about this, because every hotel in the Dells has a name like Whispering Pines or Mountain Valley or Pleasant View or Springbrook or whatever.
Anyway, we show up, and find it fine, and pull up to the office which is also the bar.
The bar is named Captain Dix.
This still doesn’t click in my brain, which is running on adrenaline and espresso at this point. And my husband is in Get Shit Done mode, which means he’s wholly focused on getting checked in and then to Grandma’s house to meet up with my family and stuff.
So we walk in, and finally a little pilot light goes on in my brain. Because the walls are PAPERED in Brokeback Mountain posters, Pride flags, and posters of extremely hot shirtless men.
“Oh.” I go. “OH.”
The dude at the desk is cheerfully checking us in, and he is Obviously Gay. In that, he’s wearing a T shirt, literally, that says “Gay” and has a rainbow on it.
There’s a sign on the wall listing the events that they hosted over the summer. I’ve still got a pic, I’ll find and attach it in a minute.
My worry at this point is mostly “Oh man I don’t want these dudes to feel like we’re intruding” but we’re like the only people there because, again, off season.
So we get checked in and get to our room, and I turn to husband.
“Hon.” I said, “We’re at the gay resort.”
“What?” Says Kev.
“Hon,” I said, and then pointed out everything I just listed above, and oh yeah they also had a clothing optional area by the pool.
“Oh.” He says. “Oops.”
But, I mean, the rooms were lovely and comfortable and spotless, and too late now.
Anyway Grandma’s funeral was that afternoon. And by the time we got back, I was a cried out mess, and I wanted a fucking drink. So, we went to the bar.
The owner was the barkeep. We get to the bar, and he smiles at us. “Hey folks, I’m Gary. What can I get you?” He asks.
“Whiskey.” I say.
“Sure, what kind?”
“Brown.” I’ve been awake for 37 hours at this point, and words are hard.
An eyebrow climbs, but he just grabs a Jameson bottle. “Sure hon, anything with it?”
“More whiskey.”
The second eyebrow climbs.
“We just got back from her grandmother’s funeral.” My husband has better people skills than me.
“OH.” Gary upends the bottle at this, and pours an extra couple fingers into my glass, thereby making him my best friend in the world.
Anyway, my husband the People Person strikes up a conversation with Brad as I drink. Turns out Brad and his husband own the place, they don’t mind us there a bit since it’s a slow time of the year for them, and by the end of the night he and my husband are best friends and Kev, the professional locksmith, is repairing a minor problem with their door for them and chatting about cooking.
I’m bringing this back because I just found out from my husband like 2 days ago that after I went to bed and he went to settle the tab, Gary flat out refused to let him pay for my 3 whiskeys-with-extra-whiskey.
“No, she had a rough day, poor girl, losing a loved one is rough, you folks seem nice anyway and you fixed that door we’ll call it good.”
tumblr backup 