#gin mill | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pseudowho · 5 months

Text

Ditch the Party

Nanami Kento hates parties; but the drinks? They make him...bold.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, Nanami Kento is a horny drunk, just regular old smut here

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

"Just...promise me you'll behave tonight," you beseeched Kento as you pressed your earrings into place. You saw Kento lean back into the bathroom on his way out, bristling, indignant. Your nose twitched in amusement as he caught your eye in the mirror, looking stern.

"I don't know what you mean," he replied stiffly. You scoffed.

"You absolutely do," you countered, turning, your hand on his chest. Looking him up and down, in a slim black suit and burgundy shirt, tie-less, you felt outdone.

As you leaned back on the bathroom counter, Kento's eyes had a naughty twinkle as he leaned down towards you. Your eyes narrowed with a smile of warning, and you pressed one finger to his lips. Tapping his nose as he opened his mouth to bite your finger, you reminded him.

"Come on, big guy. We'll be late. The taxi guy's probably sick of waiting for us." You slithered past Kento, feeling his fingers brush your waist for the barest of moments, as you gripped his hand and pulled him towards the door.

In the taxi, Kento gazed at the city lights, considering his life choices; "Why are we going to a party this evening? We don't even like parties." You laughed, reapplying your lipstick in a mirror.

"We don't, it's true. But it's a big birthday for my uncle, and we promised," you wheedled. Kento grunted his disapproval beside you. Your eyes narrowed at him again; "And, it's a family friendly event, so..."

Kento looked at you again, innocent but challenging. He let your statement hang; this time, it was you who was bristling, indignant.

The party had already begun by the time you arrived; held at your aunt and uncle's home, a warm orange glow and thrum of conversation spilled out from the kitchen to the garden, deep green hedges flickering with torchlights and tiny twinkling fairy lights. The music was low, the conversation easy and audible above it. A barbeque puffed out woody smoke. Drinks were flowing freely. You sighed as you approached, relieved.

"See? It's the good kind of party," you pressed, squeezing Kento's hand reassuringly. He sighed, unable to argue with you, reassuring you with a gentle smile that you didn't need to babysit him all evening for fear of him having a dreadful time in the company of others.

While Kento headed in to fetch drinks, you greeted family and friends. Kento returned soon after, with a large gin and tonic for you, and a larger whiskey for him. He slipped an arm firmly round your waist, pulling you flush to him as he planted a kiss to your forehead.

The night wore on, the conversation lubricated by alcohol, and small, tipsy groups milled around the garden fires. As food was served, an elderly aunt approached, and asked Kento how he was enjoying the meal.

"It's delicious, thank you," he replied low and smooth before leaning into your ear, whispering, "it almost tastes as good as yo--"

"I'm sorry, dear?" Kento leaned up, all smiles to your elderly aunt, as you blushed from your ears to your toes.

"I said, it tastes almost as good as your cooking, auntie," he lied and she chirped, flattered, patting him on the arm with a smile. Your auntie headed away, and you spun to Kento with a look of warning. He completely ignored you, honeyed eyes glowing in the firelight.

Eyes narrowing at him, you headed over to the table to fetch Kento a glass of water, and almost immediately felt him cage you against the table from behind, his sculpted shoulders leaning past you to rest on his knuckles on the tablecloth. You felt his warm, whiskey breath against your neck.

"We could always bend you over this table," he murmured, as you felt a throb of lust in your belly, "and see how hard we could make it shake." As you spun, still caged by Kento's arms, a family friend approached just beside you and offered you and Kento an uncertain smile. Kento plucked your hair clip off the table from behind you, holding it up with a cunning smile.

"There it is, darling," he said warmly, the family friend now less uncertain, "I told you we'd find it." The family friend left, and you hissed up at him.

"Kento. Behave." He fixed you with a look of faux-innocence as he stood, finishing his whiskey.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, smiling at your uncle, wishing him a happy birthday as he passed, and then leaned over you again, pulling you close to his chest as he rumbled, eyes hooded and glinting, "but then, you never do make much sense when I'm fucking you until you can't see straight."

You groaned against his chest, hand over your eyes, mortified. You heard your aunt gently asking Kento if you were alright.

"She's fine," he chuckled, "can't handle her drinks, I think." Your aunt cooed, sharing a joke with Kento, and you gaped up at Kento, who accepted another drink from your uncle, utterly shameless.

"Kento," you hissed again, "you are just a--"

"Menace?" He rumbled, ghosting his lips over yours, whispering, "I could be. Just give me a bit of time, and something to tie you up with, and--"

Your mother came over, greeting you both, and you were forced to play drunk, you were so flushed at this point, babysat by Kento as he rolled his eyes fondly at you and made small talk.

Kento slipped his hand lower and lower behind you as he talked with your mother, and you felt his long fingers trace your thigh, surreptitiously climbing upwards beneath your skirt to graze your arse, before creeping round again and you felt his fingers brush softly against your fol--

You squeaked, jumping, your drink sloshing over your toes. Kento flapped a hand above your head.

"Just a moth," he reassured you and your mother. Your mother gave your burning cheek a kiss. Kento waited just long enough for your mother to leave, before looping an arm round your waist, pulling you into the shadows, behind hedges further down the garden. You squeaked with alarm. Kento drained both of your drinks, and unceremoniously abandoned the glasses in a bush, before pulling you onto a sheltered bench by your uncle's koi carp pond.

You were thrumming with embarrassment at this point, and leapt off the bench, mortified by Kento's utter shamelessness and alcohol-loosened tongue, ready to chew him out...but...

Kento sat on the bench, legs spread wide in his tight black trousers, thick, toned arms stretched out across the back of the bench. He looked deeply into your eyes, chiselled face dramatised in the shadows. Slowly reaching a hand out, he pinched the top of your skirt, pulling you in between his spread legs, strong and determined.

"We don't like parties," he toned, low and sultry, as you were pulled into his lap, "but we do like it when you ride me until our clothes are ruined."

Kento grabbed your thighs, forcing your skirt up to your waist and parting your legs around his lap. He hesitated, changing his mind and lifting you off him briefly. With no argument, he stripped off your underwear, pressing it to his nose and breathing in with a groan and a shiver, eyes closed in ecstasy. You hissed to him again, terrified of being found, arse and pussy open to the world--

Kento pulled you back down to straddle his lap again, sinking his hand into the back of your hair and tipping your head back as he ran his tongue and teeth against your throat.

"Nobody else will be able to see that wet little pussy of yours...if it's as close as I want it." Slipping two fingers between your legs, Kento rubbed your clit in tight little circles, and you felt hard and fast pangs of pleasure through you as you trembled, gripping Kento's shoulders desperately.

"Someone will hear, Kento--" he bit your neck in warning, squeezing your arse hard as he moaned, shivering as he continued to press hard against your clit.

"Well then be quiet, my love." You mewled, muffling your face into his neck, quaking as his clever fingers dragged you to orgasm, stimulating you hard and fast until your thighs shook, and his hand was wet with your arousal.

Kento's eyes were dark and determined now, single-minded as he unzipped his trousers and pulled out his cock, solid and weeping pre-cum against his belly as he stroked it, lubricating himself with your cum. Locking his arms behind your back, he lifted you and slammed your sensitive pussy down onto himself, bottoming out immediately.

You shrieked, and Kento clapped a hand over your mouth, nipping your lips as he shot you a lustful, playful look. Hands then locked behind your hips again, he lifted you up and down with wet slaps, immediately seeing stars with the relentless pace, chasing your pussy with his hips as he bucked.

You gasped, breathless against his neck as his cock bullied into you, pliable and shaking as Kento groaned into you, unashamedly loud-- "harder," he insisted, increasing the pace with his hands clenching the fat of your hips, "harder."

His mouth pressed to yours, kisses hot and smoky with whiskey as he nipped at your bottom lip, his groans deep and guttural as he felt your pussy clench around him while you held onto his lapels, mewling, tipsy, completely fucked senseless, as promised.

Feeling the trembling of your plush walls around him (the nerves of his cock already electrified by the alcohol) had Kento reeling and he came, whimpering into your mouth as he ground your hips against his, bottomed out and warm shots of cum spurting directly against your cervix.

You both shook, tangled and sweaty, spent, while Kento chuckled and you slapped him on the chest. You heard voices approach; your uncle, excited to show someone his prized koi carp.

Kento threw you onto the bench beside him as you yanked down your skirt, and Kento zipped himself up, putting an arm around your shoulders.

Your uncle arrived, "Oh, hey kids! Enjoying my carp-- whose are those?"

Kento coughed delicately, eyeing your forgotten underwear at the side of the pond; "No idea," he said, coolly, "they were here when we arrived."

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Infiltration, Chapter 5: Breaking Point, IS coming this weekend as promised...but in the meantime

2K notes · View notes

enviedear · 5 months

Note

A request throught for billy the kid.

He goes to a bar where a barmaid owns and works there, and they sleep together, and when he comes back, she has a little boy running around that looks a whole lot like him....

girl from the north country — billy bonney

request

i got this ask and my brain immediately went 'bob dylan rendition of girl from north country' because this trope has that song written all over it.

tw— allusions to the deed, hidden baby trope, use of, 'momma' as a pet name.

less than three years ago, you made the grave decision to bed an outlaw. he was sweet and soft with you, sweet talking his way into your britches. it had been a fun night, but despite your delighted evening, a sinking feeling took hold of you the minute he caught your eye.

his name was billy. or at least, he went by billy. he was a mess of dark brown hair, kind blue eyes, and honest nature. it felt like fate when you saw him. he had been sitting at the bar, quiet and lonesome. you found it easy to talk to him.

he had given you a bright smile, engaging you in casual conversation as the night turned to morning. slipping out with you when you closed down the bar, only to follow you up the road to your small homestead.

you had never seen him before, but after he left town, you soon learned exactly who he was. wanted posters with his likeness followed his trail, leaving you tight-lipped about the entire situation.

it was about six months after his visit that your lips finally began to move, coming up with fruitless excuses for the townspeople. by then, your stomach had already started to round, bulging into something plain and inescapable. at first, you were terrified and even considered fleeing to another town and opting to try and pass as a widow. even now, despite yourself, the thought lingers in the back of your mind.

you've been lucky though, the town is nice enough to not ask you questions. just watchful stares and a few upturned noses. you kept your job at the gin mill, working through the night while your married friend watched the baby.

you've found yourself a quiet life—a growing meadow of life hidden in the hellish and desolate west.

with a sigh, you turn your attention back to the clothesline, grabbing at the last of the dry garments and flinging them in your basket. there's a storm brewing close in the distance, and a loud crack of thunder has the small child at your feet fretting.

you pick up your fussy toddler, his pink lips curled into a frown, "c'mon bubba, s'just a little storm."

you glance at the darkening sky, feeling the first droplets of rain on your skin. the wind picks up, causing the clothesline to sway with a creak. cradling your son in your arms, you hurry inside, leaving the clothes in your haste of trying to beat the approaching storm.

inside the cozy warmth of your small homestead, you try to soothe the worried toddler in your arms. the distant rumble of thunder grows louder, and you decide it's best to stay cooped up, work be damned. as you settle into a rocking chair, softly humming a lullaby to the sweet boy in your arms, the rain begins to patter against the window.

the hours pass slowly, the storm raging outside, when a sudden knock on the door startles you. with caution, you approach and peer through the small window and see a tall figure drenched in rain, barely recognizable underneath his sopping hat.

you open the door, and the man looks up. his eyes are kind, and eerily familiar. looking like a drowned man, standing at your door, is billy. he looks apologetic and somewhat sheepish. rainwater drips from the brim of his hat as he mumbles, "m'sorry for showing up like this, i wasn't even sure if you were still here."

you eye him cautiously, memories of your night shared with him resurfacing, but the storm outside softens your resolve, "what brings you here, billy?" you inquire, staring up at the rain-soaked outlaw before you, taking in his genuine expression.

his voice trembles as he confesses that he never meant to stay away for so long— but life on the run has its cruel complications. now, drenched and shivering in the midst of a raging storm, he pleads for refuge in your home, desperation etched onto every word as he begs for forgiveness and a safe haven from his pursuers.

hesitating for a moment, you look back at your toddler playing on the floor. with a sigh, you relent, "alright, billy, you can come in, but just until the storm passes."

as he steps inside, you notice the surprise in his eyes when he sees the boy. he's donned in a darling little linen onesie, your own hands had worked tirelessly over the garment. his bright eyes look between you and billy, the hue of your own eyes evident and the blue of billy's scattered throughout. a perfect blend.

a silence hangs in the air as realization slowly dawns on him. his gaze shifts between you and your little one, and in that moment, he connects the dots.

his voice softens, "is he... is he mine?"

the question sends a shiver down your spine and all of your carefully constructed defenses slowly crumble around you. there's no denying it now, the truth of what had happened was laid bare for both of you to see, innocent face staring up at the both of you. you stand in place, your feet rooted to the ground. you can feel your heart pounding in your chest as you realize the confession you're about to make. taking a deep breath, you finally relent.

a nod is all you can manage, the weight of the unspoken truth lingering in the room. billy takes a step closer to the little boy and you start. but his intentions are gentle as he reaches out to touch the top of his child's head, "i never knew." he murmurs, a mix of regret and wonder in his eyes.

you watch as billy kneels down to meet your son at eye level. the child looks up at him with innocent curiosity, and you can't help but feel a twinge of anger mixed in with the guilt that had been festering inside of you for so long. you had carried the weight of this secret for years, the fear of the townsfolk finding out and ostracizing you and your child from the community. but looking down at billy's face, you know that it's time to come clean.

"he's almost three now, billy," you say softly, the regret in your own voice almost palpable, "i didn't know how to find you...i didn't even know your name back then."

billy's expression softens as he turns to look at you, his eyes full of sorrow, "i understand," he says, his voice gentle. "m'sorry i wasn't there for you. for both o'you."

you nod, knowing his words are earnest, "you couldn't have known." you say quietly.

billy stands up and walks towards you, his arms open. his eyes are sad, but they hold a fierce longing that you can feel despite any attempt to deny it. his body radiates with a warmth that you can't help but feel drawn to, despite all of the fear and regret that fills your heart. you close your eyes, allowing yourself to be enveloped by his embrace, feeling his arms wrap around your body and pull you close.

"i'm sorry," he whispers into your ear. "god, m'so sorry for everything."

you nod, unable to find your voice. the storm outside rages on, but inside, the atmosphere is one of acceptance and forgiveness. you have both been through so much, but now, with the truth out in the open, it feels like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders. you look up into billy's eyes, feeling a sense of peace wash over you.

"i forgave you a long time ago," you say, your voice barely above a whisper, "figure i can't keep hiding this little one away from his father. not now, wouldn't be right."

billy nods, his eyes now filled with hope, "i want to be a part of his life, if you'll let me," he says, his voice filled with a conviction that sends shivers down your spine.

you nod, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes, "of course," you say, your voice filled with a mixture of relief and sadness. "he deserves to have his daddy."

billy smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, cupping your cheeks, "what about his momma? seems like she's been gettin' on fine without a man around."

you hum, trying to ignore how easy your heart skips for him, "i reckon she'll make him grovel 'fore she'll be his sweetheart again."

your outlaw lets out a soft chuckle, "then i best get to grovelin', momma."

—reblog and like if you enjoyed, let ur local writer know you like her work !

#—askolivia !#billy the kid #billy the kid x reader #william h bonney #william h bonney x reader #billy bonney #billy bonney x reader #tom blyth!billy the kid #tom blyth #billy the kid 2022 #coriolanus x reader

730 notes · View notes

neil-gaiman · 1 year

Note

Hi Neil! We were talking about Puck of Pook's Hill in one of my seminars, and we were wondering if your Puck in The Sandman was inspired by that book?

Yes and no. Puck of Pook's Hill is hugely influential on me and the way I think about the land and Sussex, and I'm sure it was an influence on Sandman #19.

But my wild Puck is closer to the Robin Goodfellow of the ballad:

From Oberon, in fairy land, The king of ghosts and shadows there, Mad Robin I, at his command, Am sent to view the night-sports here. What revel rout Is kept about, In every corner where I go, I will o'ersee, And merry be, And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho

More swift than lightning can I fly About this airy welkin soon, And, in a minute's space, descry Each thing that's done below the moon. There's not a hag Or ghost shall wag, Or cry, 'ware goblins! where I go; But Robin I Their feats will spy, And send them home with ho, ho, ho!

Whene'er such wanderers I meet, As from their night-sports they trudge home, With counterfeiting voice I greet, And call them on with me to roam: Through woods, through lakes; Through bogs, through brakes; Or else, unseen, with them I go, All in the nick, To play some trick, And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho!

Sometimes I meet them like a man, Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound; And to a horse I turn me can, To trip and trot about them round. But if to ride My back they stride, More swift than wind away I go, O'er hedge and lands, Through pools and ponds, I hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho!

When lads and lasses merry be, With possets and with junkets fine; Unseen of all the company, I eat their cakes and sip their wine! And, to make sport, I puff and snort: And out the candles I do blow: The maids I kiss, They shriek��Who's this? I answer nought but ho, ho, ho!

Yet now and then, the maids to please, At midnight I card up their wool; And, while they sleep and take their ease, With wheel to threads their flax I pull. I grind at mill Their malt up still; I dress their hemp; I spin their tow; If any wake, And would me take, I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho!

When any need to borrow aught, We lend them what they do require: And, for the use demand we nought; Our own is all we do desire. If to repay They do delay, Abroad amongst them then I go, And night by night, I them affright, With pinchings, dreams, and ho, ho, ho!

When lazy queans have nought to do, But study how to cog and lie: To make debate and mischief too, 'Twixt one another secretly: I mark their gloze, And it disclose To them whom they have wronged so: When I have done, I get me gone, And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho!

When men do traps and engines set In loop-holes, where the vermin creep, Who from their folds and houses get Their ducks and geese, and lambs and sheep; I spy the gin, And enter in, And seem a vermin taken so; But when they there Approach me near, I leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho!

By wells and rills, in meadows green, We nightly dance our heyday guise; And to our fairy king and queen, We chant our moonlight minstrelsies. When larks 'gin sing, Away we fling; And babes new born steal as we go; And elf in bed We leave in stead, And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho!

From hag-bred Merlin's time, have I Thus nightly revelled to and fro; And for my pranks men call me by The name of Robin Good-fellow. Fiends, ghosts, and sprites, Who haunt the nights, The hags and goblins do me know; And beldames old My feats have told, So vale, vale; ho, ho, ho!

1K notes · View notes

mirai-e-jump · 3 months

Text

Ohsama Sentai King-Ohger Character Book: Trails of the Kings and Retainers Gira/Douga, Yanma/Shiokara, Hymeno/Sebastian pages Other pages

This is the story of the kings and their retainers who protected the peace of Chikyu… It's unknown who said it, but there's a prophecy:

"After 2,000 years, a miraculous story will be revived!"

Humans and Bugnarak living hand in hand… It was not just the power of the 6 kings who stood up to the threat that created such a "miracle." It was the presence of the king's retainers that made it possible. I'll write down how it happened here. Let us pass it down for all of eternity.

Shuggodam, King: Gira Husty The "strongest country," possessing many strong soldiers, and his retainer, Douga, is also very skilled. The Husty family has inherited the throne for generations, and when they ascend to the throne, they visit the Kingdom of Death, Hakabaka, in order to greet their ancestors. The previous king was Gira's older brother, Racules Husty.

N'Kosopa, King: Yanma Gast The country of technology, where the current king, Yanma, built a system in just a few years. The country was devastated by Hilbil Leech, one of the Uchu Five Jesters, but is now on the road to recovery, led by Yanma, who is skilled in creating 1 from 0, and his retainer, Shiokara.

Ishabana, King: Hymeno Ran The country of beauty and medicine. The people, including the queen, Hymeno Ran, were infected by an unknown disease caused by Kamejim Unka of the Uchu Five Jesters, but Hymeno's advanced medical skills, nobility of caring for her country, and cooperation with her retainer, Sebastian, enabled her to successfully take back the country.

Gokkan, King: Rita Kaniska An extremely cold country where it snows throughout the whole year. Criminals who commit crimes in Chikyu are tried at the international court, located in Zaiban Castle, and imprisoned in the castle's jail, where they are required to shovel snow in front of the castle. Rita's retainer, Morphonia, tends to be intimidated by the many criminals who curse at her.

Toufu, King: Kaguragi Dybowski An agricultural country with a thriving food culture, it's known as "Chikyu's Kitchen." The king's retainer, Kuroda, is an excellent cook. The ultra high grade and rare rice, "Suzume no Namida" was produced with the secret milling method of the Dybowski family, and was endorsed by the previous king, Iroki.

Earth Empire Bugnarak, King: Jeramie Brasieri For a long time, they've hated and fought against humans due to the schemes of Dagded Dujardin, the Uchu King, but they've reconciled thanks to the efforts of Jeramie, the current king, and the Royal Sentai. Gradually, they've come to be accepted by the humans of Chikyu. It's located just below Gokkan.

Profile of Gira: Armed with the KuwagataOhger royal armor, he is a kind hearted young man who's willing to work for the sake of his people. He's a life form born from the power of the Uchu King, Dagded. Due to the influence of the "Rainbow Jururira" that was served to Gira as a child, he lost his past memories of his childhood with the Husty family, but is gradually regaining them.

Profile of Douga: Guard for the king of Shugoddam. He carries a real sword, and when the country is in danger, he goes to the battlefield and fights bravely against the enemy. When the former king of Shugoddam, Racules, was dethroned, he quickly left Shugoddam, but he has remained loyal to Gira, who was inexperienced as a king, and pledged his loyalty to him.

Profile of Yanma: Armed with the TomboOhger royal armor. Born in a slum, he's a talented engineer who has made his country wealthy by making full use of the computer skills he was taught by his foster father, Gin. His core strength, his pride in his own wisdom, his masculinity and commitment of being on top have attracted many people.

Profile of Shiokara: Yanma's retainer who has a friendly personality. He has the utmost respect for Yanma. Until a few years ago, he was a member of a delinquent organization that was in despair over the ruined country, and was involved in the manufacture of counterfeit money, but when he met Yanma, he fell in love with his manly spirit, and is determined to serve him, even if it means losing his life.

Profile of Hymeno: Armed with the KamakiriOhger royal armor. She has an appreciation for aesthetic that sees beauty not only in appearance, but also in the essence of people and their way of life. She is also a skilled doctor, and has an altruistic heart that prioritizes saving the lives of others, even if her entire body is wounded. She invites her close friends to tea and enjoys her time with them.

Profile of Sebastian: Hymeno's retainer. His true identity is a young man named Romane Dearborn, heir to a ducal family. When he was worried about hurting people because of his overly beautiful appearance, Hymeno saved him, and changed his appearance and voice to become her retainer. For the sake of Hymeno, his benefactor, he will listen to any selfish request.

143 notes · View notes

sargeantposting · 4 months

Text

ARTICLE: The Florida Man of Formula 1 (2023)

Source: Michael M. Grynbaum, The New York Times Series: F1, 2023

Logan Sargeant, the only American driver in Formula 1, is zipping around the narrow streets of Baku, Azerbaijan, at roughly 200 miles an hour. His head bounces inside the cockpit as a wheel shudders over a rumble strip. It’s hard to hear over the banshee shriek of his V6 engine, carrying three times the horsepower of a run-of-the-mill Porsche Carrera.

Then the noise stops, and Baku vanishes. We’re inside a low-slung brick building nestled in the Oxfordshire countryside. The track, projected onto a CinemaScope-sized wraparound screen, was a mirage, part of a sophisticated training simulator. (F1 rules prohibit driving the real cars between races.) Mr. Sargeant climbs out of a replica driver’s seat wearing athletic pants. He won’t need a fireproof suit until later.

In three weeks’ time, Mr. Sargeant will do this for real: wind whipping his visor, G-forces of up to six times his body weight pressing on his neck, the ever-present threat of a catastrophic crash as he is watched by roughly 70 million people around the world. For now, it’s time for lunch. “Is chili bad for you?” he asks, digging into a bowl at his team’s commissary. “I don’t think it’s that bad.”

Williams Racing, in Grove, England. It was founded in Oxfordshire in the 1970s, but it’s now an American subsidiary: a Manhattan private equity firm, Dorilton Capital, bought the company in 2020 for an estimated $200 million.

F1 teams employ hundreds of employees and spend hundreds of millions of dollars developing the world’s most sophisticated racecars.

Reaching Formula 1, the highest level of international motor sport, is a big step for Mr. Sargeant, 22, a South Florida native who began racing rudimentary cars known as karts at 6 years old and this year joined the Williams Racing team as the first full-time American F1 driver since 2007.

For Formula 1 itself, finding a hometown hero for American fans is a giant leap.

Although it is enormously popular in Europe, F1 struggled for decades to break into the United States. That began to change in 2016, when the sport was purchased for $4.4 billion by the Colorado-based Liberty Media, owned by the cable magnate John Malone. Liberty ramped up its social media — F1 had barely kept a YouTube page — and backed a popular Netflix documentary series, “Drive to Survive.” Once geared toward aging white men, F1 now has a younger and more diverse fan base. American TV viewership is up 220 percent from 2018, and the sport made $2.6 billion in revenue last year.

Still, a subset of F1 devotees complain about what they see as an overemphasis on entertainment and ginned-up drama. Under Liberty, they argue, pure racing is taking a back seat to cheap tricks to reel in casual viewers. And they often use a dirty word for it: Americanization. “It is becoming more and more like Formula Hollywood,” Bernie Ecclestone, the 92-year-old Briton who built F1 into a global business, griped last year. “F1 is being made more and more for the American market.”

The backlash reached a crescendo at last week’s Miami Grand Prix, which was added in 2022 as a showpiece for American fans. In a prizefight-style pre-race ceremony, the rapper LL Cool J introduced the 20 drivers one by one amid swirling smoke and a squad of cheerleaders. Nearby, Will.i.am conducted a live orchestra playing the rap song he recently recorded with Lil Wayne as part of a “global music collaboration” with Formula 1. (The lyrics rhyme “Max Verstappen,” the name of the sport’s top driver, with “your champion.”)

“Pandering to the American audience is killing @F1,” wrote one fan on Twitter, echoing criticism that bubbled up across numerous F1 websites. Even the racers complained: “None of the drivers like it,” groused Lando Norris, a Briton who drives for McLaren. Undeterred, Liberty announced that the bombastic pre-race sequence would be featured at several more grands prix this year.

In the United States, F1 has long been associated with a certain European mystique, most famously, the louche glamour of the Monaco Grand Prix.

In the United States, F1 has long been associated with a certain European mystique. Its drivers race across the Ardennes forest (Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps in Belgium), the plains of Lombardy (Italy’s Autodromo Nazionale di Monza) and, most famously, the louche glamour of the Monaco Grand Prix. The sport’s stateside image could be summed up by the 2006 comedy, “Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby,” which featured Sacha Baron Cohen as a pretentious French F1 driver named Jean Girard, a snooty Eurotrash foil to Will Ferrell’s macho NASCAR cowboy.

In 2023, F1 can feel a bit more Ricky Bobby than Jean Girard. In Miami, drivers circled a track built in the parking lot of the Dolphins football stadium, past an artificial Monaco-style “harbor”: blue-painted asphalt topped with ersatz yachts. A new Las Vegas race in November will have cars zooming down the Strip past Caesars Palace. Meanwhile, traditional races in France and Germany are gone.

Katy Fairman, a journalist based in Brighton, England, who runs the F1 podcast “Small Torque,” said she was surprised by the spectacle when she attended a race in Austin, Texas. “There were girls with pompoms,” she said. “I remember watching it and thinking, Oh my gosh, this is so different from anything I’d seen F1 do in a long time.”

Ms. Fairman conceded that some Europeans find the American hullabaloo “tacky.” But she added: “When it’s something to do with America, I think Europeans are quite judgmental. I think it’s just a bit of lighthearted fun. You guys like to have a party.”

The arrival of Mr. Sargeant, who grew up about an hour’s drive from the Miami racetrack, has spurred new interest, including a profile and photo shoot in GQ, and he’s happy to play the part. “What’s up America, let’s bring that energy!” he shouted to the cameras after LL Cool J introduced him as “the local boy done good.”

But as with F1, there are growing pains. In Miami, Mr. Sargeant finished last, his race ruined on the first lap when he damaged a front wing. After the checkered flag, he apologized to his team, his voice barely a whisper: “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it.”

Weeks earlier, in an interview in England, Mr. Sargeant had demurred about the pressure of wearing the stars and stripes. “I try not to get too caught up in the talk of the role of ‘first American,’” he said. “It’s still very early for me, and I have a lot to learn still.”

If Mr. Sargeant doesn’t perform, there are dozens of drivers eager to take his spot. “At the moment,” he said, “I just have to worry about staying here.”

For a globe-trotting athlete, Mr. Sargeant can be soft-spoken and endearingly self-conscious.

‘I just want to get back in the gym.’

Before his tough Miami weekend, Mr. Sargeant was asked how he would celebrate a top 10 finish. “Honestly, it might sound lame, but probably just go back to my house and get in my bed for another night before I go back to London,” he replied. “That’s all I want to do.”

For a wealthy, handsome, globe-trotting athlete, Mr. Sargeant can be soft-spoken and endearingly self-conscious. It’s not unusual for someone who, like a tennis prodigy or Olympian gymnast, has devoted their life since childhood to a sole pursuit.

Mr. Sargeant was 6 when he and his brother Dalton got a kart from their parents for Christmas. “No one in the family was really even that much into racing,” Logan said. “We just picked it up as a hobby, something to do on the weekend.” He began winning junior races around the country — too easily. To reach the next level and pursue Formula 1, he’d have to leave behind his friends and beloved fishing excursions for life on a different continent: “We just needed a higher level of competition, and at the end of the day, that was in Europe.”

Mr. Sargeant left Florida before his 13th birthday, bouncing between Italy, Switzerland and Britain as he raced on the European junior circuit; in 2015, he became the first American to win the Karting World Championship since 1978. “As a kid, it was tough,” he recalled. “Coming from Florida, being outdoors all the time on the water, great weather — it was literally vice versa.” He eventually settled in London, where he spends most days working out with a trainer. “I get away from a race weekend, and I just want to get back in the gym,” he said. “I hate that feeling of leaving slack on the table.”

It is incredibly difficult to nab a seat in Formula 1. Today’s drivers are physical dynamos trained to optimize their reflexes and performance levels down to how well they can withstand jet lag — critical in a sport that this year will include 23 grands prix spread over five continents. F1 teams employ hundreds of employees and spend hundreds of millions of dollars developing the world’s most sophisticated racecars. But it’s ultimately up to the driver to execute.

It also helps to have money. Lewis Hamilton, the seven-time world champion and F1’s only Black driver, is an exception, having grown up on a London council estate. Many F1 competitors are the sons of multimillionaires (and some billionaires) who can bankroll pricey travel and high-tech cars.

Mr. Sargeant falls into the scion category. He hails from a wealthy Florida asphalt shipping family. His uncle, Harry Sargeant III, is a former fighter pilot and onetime finance chair of Florida’s Republican Party who has been sued by the brother-in-law of King Abdullah II of Jordan and whose name turned up, tangentially, in the 2020 impeachment of former President Donald J. Trump. (Harry was not accused of any wrongdoing.)

Logan’s father, Daniel Sargeant, worked alongside Harry until the brothers had a falling out. In a 2013 lawsuit, Harry accused Daniel of misdirecting $6.5 million in corporate funds “for the purpose of advancing the international cart racing activities” of his sons, Logan and Dalton; that litigation was eventually settled.

In 2019, Daniel Sargeant pleaded guilty in federal court in New York to foreign bribery and money laundering charges related to his business dealings abroad. He is free on a $5 million bond and is awaiting sentencing. A Williams spokesman said that Logan Sargeant was not “in a position to comment” on any of the legal matters involving his family.

In F1, none of this particularly stands out. The mother of Mr. Sargeant’s Williams teammate, Alexander Albon, was jailed in Britain for swindling millions of pounds in fraudulent sales of high-end cars. A Russian racer, Nikita Mazepin, was booted from the sport after his oligarch father, a close ally of President Vladimir V. Putin, was sanctioned following the 2022 invasion of Ukraine.

James Vowles, the Williams team principal, said in an interview that he hired Mr. Sargeant for his speed, not his U.S. passport. “I’m incredibly pleased that the sport is growing in America, but I think it would be anything but disingenuous to say that Logan’s here for any other reason than I think he’s got this pure talent,” he said.

In his F1 debut in Bahrain in March, Mr. Sargeant finished 12th, outpacing this year’s two other rookies. “He has this insatiable desire to be better, to want more,” Mr. Vowles said. “He’s a perfectionist, and I like that in him.”

Tooting around in a Vauxhall Astra

Britain, where Formula 1 originated in 1950, remains the sport’s spiritual home, where most of its 10 teams are based. Williams was founded in Oxfordshire in the 1970s, but it’s now an American subsidiary: a Manhattan private equity firm, Dorilton Capital, bought the company in 2020 for an estimated $200 million.

It was an important cash infusion for a team that had struggled to keep up with rivals. Manufacturers like Mercedes-Benz pour enormous resources into their F1 teams, which double as an elaborate global marketing campaign and an in-house innovation farm; tech developed for F1, like engines that recycle braking energy as an accelerant, can trickle into consumer vehicles.

Formula 1 car simulators at the Williams Racing factory.

Formula 1 drivers practice on sophisticated training simulators.

The Williams campus is a humdrum brick pile that could be mistaken for an office park — a far cry from McLaren’s space-age complex an hour’s drive away. Many F1 teams provide their drivers with a high-end sports car for personal use; Mr. Sargeant commutes in a Vauxhall Astra, a compact.

Even the team’s sponsors are relatively down-market; whereas the official watch of Ferrari is Richard Mille (starting price: $60,000), Williams has a deal with Bremont, whose timepieces retail for significantly less. (On a recent visit, a Williams press aide was quick to extract a spare Bremont watch from his pocket and ensure Mr. Sargeant was wearing it whenever a photographer hovered.)

Given the huge costs, corporate partnerships are crucial to F1, part of the reason the American market, with its abundance of affluent consumers and wealthy brands, has proved so tempting. Gerald Donaldson, a journalist who has covered F1 for 45 years, recalled how cars were gradually taken over by corporate logos starting in the late 1960s.

“Marlboro paid all the Ferrari bills, including the drivers, for many years,” he said in an interview. “There are eager companies who want the publicity.” Mr. Sargeant’s car features ads for Michelob Ultra beer and an American financial firm, Stephens. In Miami last weekend, beachgoers spotted an airborne banner reading “Go Logan!” alongside the image of a Duracell battery.

Last year, the Miami race was viewed on ABC by 2.6 million people, the biggest American audience for a live F1 telecast. Ratings for this year’s race fell about 25 percent, perhaps a result of a duller-than-usual season dominated by one team, Red Bull.

Still, viewing data show that F1 is expanding beyond affluent cities associated with elite sports: In 2022, its top five American TV markets included Asheville, N.C., and Tulsa, Okla. ESPN is clearly betting on more growth. When the sports network renewed its broadcast rights last year, it agreed to pay $90 million annually — up from the $5 million-a-year deal it signed in 2019.

Liam Parker, a former adviser to Boris Johnson who now leads communications at F1, said the sport was intent on rectifying past mistakes. “We were too arrogant,” he said. “We couldn’t understand why the American fan base wasn’t falling in love with us.” But he also pushed back on the complaints that Liberty’s efforts to raise the entertainment factor had stripped F1 of something essential.

“This whole argument of ‘Americanization,’ it’s a very crude way to describe things,” he said. “We shouldn’t ignore things that can improve things for new and core fans. It’s about giving people more choices in the modern era. It’s modernization of access to everyone.”

Mr. Hamilton, arguably the biggest celebrity of the current F1 lineup, has offered his own endorsement of Liberty’s approach. “I mean jeez, I grew up listening to LL Cool J,” he told reporters in Miami. “I thought it was cool, wasn’t an issue to me.”

For all the debates over elitism, good taste and corporate rap collaborations, the core appeal of F1, when you get right down to it, may be something simpler — something Mr. Sargeant got at when asked in the interview if he had loved cars as a kid.

“I absolutely love driving, as you can imagine,” he said. “But to be honest, I’m not one of those people who studies cars and, you know, likes to know every detail of every single car. It doesn’t really interest me.”

“The part that interests me,” he concluded, “is driving them as fast as I can go.”

Eliza Shapiro contributed reporting from Miami. Kitty Bennett contributed research. Michael M. Grynbaum is a media correspondent covering the intersection of business, culture and politics. A version of this article appears in print on May 14, 2023, Section BU, Page 1 of the New York edition with the headline: The Florida Man Of Formula 1.

#logan sargeant #year:2023 #source:newspaper #one of the best logan articles imo #feel free to message me if you want me to gift you a copy of this article from the NYT with my subscription

72 notes · View notes

bitter69uk · 3 months

Text

“Spend any time around Tura Satana and you can’t help but fall under her spell. One whiff of that perfume – Luna Mystique, if you must know – and you’re a goner, my friend. She’s got a smoky, mischievous chuckle that says life’s a game and the deck’s been marked, so we might as well laugh. Satana still gets a kick out of life and enjoys kicking it back. There’s something noble about Tura. She slugged her way through years of gin mills and flesh pits with nary a dent to her dignity.”

/ From Big Bosoms and Square Jaws: The Biography of Russ Meyer (2005) by Jimmy McDonough /

In Memoriam: statuesque Russ Meyer leading lady (John Waters describes her tough-as-nails performance as the vicious Varla in Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! (1966) "one of the best villains in screen history”), tassel-twisting burlesque queen (billed as “Miss Japan Beautiful”) and all-round ultra-vixen, the fiercely bodacious Tura Satana (Tura Luna Pascual Yamaguchi, 10 July 1938 - 4 February 2011) died on this day. While nowhere near as stellar as Faster, Pussycat! Satana is also a magnificently hostile presence in berserk 1968 exploitation flick The Astro-Zombies. (The fourth of February is a cruel day for aficionados of low-brow trash culture: Lux Interior died on 4 February 2009). Do the Watusi or karate chop someone today in Satana’s memory!

#tura satana #russ meyer #john waters #faster pussycat kill kill #burlesque #sexploitation film #sexploitation cinema #bad girl #miss japan beautiful #go go dancer #exploitation film #lobotomy room #vintage sleaze #vintage smut #astro zombies #fierce

41 notes · View notes

deancasbigbang · 7 months

Text

Title: Summer in the City

Author: one_more_offbeat_anthem

Artist: Callion

Rating: Teen

Pairings: Dean/Cas

Length: 20000

Warnings: Drinking

Tags: Human AU, friends to lovers, bookseller Cas, bartender Dean, first kiss, excessive use of trains as a plot device

Posting Date: October 17, 2023

Summary: For Cas, dinner with his best friend Dean should be nothing new. However, something feels different tonight—it’s hotter than hot, and everyone knows that the city never sleeps. When dinner turns into a night out full of twists and turns, train rides and karaoke bars, secrets are revealed and silences are broken. But will those changes remain when the sun rises?

Excerpt: They find a late night shop about five minutes from the karaoke bar. It’s just like every other late night shop Cas has been to in New Oachica, with the bored cashier, yawning from the hour, the slightly overpriced snacks, the coolers crammed with bottled water and sodas and, if you really wanted it, alcohol. Cas has probably had enough of that for one night. They both get bottles of water and then keep walking until they find a bench to sit down at. Dean collapses on the bench, sprawling as always, while Cas manages to sit down normally, although then he gets in a bit of a fight with the screw top of the water bottle, which Dean takes from him and opens on the first go. “Thanks,” Cas says. The water, and the sitting, and the relatively cool night air, manage to make his head stop swimming. Part of him wants to stay out all night now, because hopefully that will stave off whatever head-splitting hangover that he’ll probably have. The other part of him is tired, so tired. But none of him wants to leave Dean. New Oachica is different at night, and it’s not just the crowds of people milling around and the loud music they can hear through bar windows, nor is it the other streets, with sleeping families or college students crammed into apartments. It’s the fact that, at night, Cas can almost pretend that it’s a different place, and he can discover some part of it that is unfamiliar. Sometimes it feels too familiar, like when he was home, in that small prairie town where everyone knew everyone. Of all of the gin joints in the world, that was the one he wanted to leave the most, but he also wanted to stay forever. That’s how he feels about New Oachica, his new home. Some parts of the city grate at him, too familiar, while others make him feel a bit…free.

DCBB 2023 Posting Schedule

#dcbb 2023 #fic preview #2023 promo #deancas #destiel

55 notes · View notes

soreddieforit · 3 months

Note

vampire Sirius angel reg demon james cowboy remus

it made me giggle that reg sirius and james are all power wielding supernatural beings and then remus is just like 🤠 cowboy

but nonnie i am seeing your vision. cowboy remus riding into town, heading to the gin mill only to find it deserted. the once lively pothouse now desolate, occupied by a lone barmaid wiping down empty tables. remus drawling, “where’d everybody run off to?” the keep responding, “you aint heard? the attacks is happenin’ all over town. one moment they’re there, the next, its a damn massacre”

james and sirius making it a game, taking turns, playing with their food. seeing how scared they can get them, sadistic in the way they mess with them. just for a little fun. one day they come across a working ranch, sirius can smell the person inside— sweat and saddle—can hear their blood gushing fast from exertion. he’s sure that this will be a good one, give him a challenge before he sinks his teeth in and feeds. but when sirius comes face to face with him, he just stops. time suspended as he looks at him, because hes never seen anything quite like him. james tells sirius he’ll do this one, that sirius is getting soft in his old age. and sirius all but growls that he’ll fucking maim him, send james to the ninth circle if he dares lay a finger on him.

so, sirius takes a liking to remus. enter reg, remus’ guardian angel, warning sirius that he should not toy with remus, lest he have to deal with angels and all their high mighty bullshit. but sirius cant help himself. he keeps visiting remus, so reg has to keep coming down to watch. at first, james’ presence irritates him—all demons do really, but james is especially grating. still, he cant help but secretly start to enjoy his company when he has to watch sirius unsuccessfully try to flirt with remus for the thousandth time. saying something as stupid as, “i like your uh- your hat. you know, you- wear it a lot,” only for james to mutter “groundbreaking” from beside reg. and, james really could go out and disembowel people on his own, he doesn’t actually have to be here. but it isn’t as fun alone, and maybe his brain fuzzes out every time he makes reg laugh and he goes a little warm when he sees him smile. so james thinks there’s no harm in sticking around for a little bit longer :)

#... i need to think about this more #nonnie you may have just broke my months long writers block #this has the potential for some really good platonic moonwater #demons are more powerful than vampires but.. james gets sirius' message #sirius is like exactly 634 years old #mail #jegulus #wolfstar #regulus black #james potter #sirius black #remus lupin #marauders fanfiction #marauders #fic: angel reg

42 notes · View notes

blackswaneuroparedux · 11 months

Photo

James Bond: I admire your courage, Miss…? Sylvia Trench: Trench. Sylvia Trench. I admire your luck, Mr…? James Bond: Bond. James Bond.

- Dr. No (1962)

During the Casino scene at Le Cercle (Les Ambassadeurs Club), James Bond plays a game of chemin de fer using cash plaques. It’s in the middle of a game against Sylvia Trench (Eunice Gayson), he utters the line that will immortalise the entire Bond saga, “Bond… James Bond”. After beating her several times, 007 uses his charm to invite the young woman into his room. Sylvia thus becomes the very first James Bond girl.

Les Ambassadeurs Casino was established in 1941 by John Mills, a Polish immigrant, on Hanover Square before moving to Hamilton Place in 1950. At the dawn of World War II, the Pole left his homeland for England. Previously a member of a Polish commando unit and an intelligence officer in Portugal, the man founded Les Ambassadeurs Casino.

Nicknamed “The A’s” by its patrons, the establishment was first located in Hanover Square and then in Hamilton Place, the first building having become too small to accommodate all the patrons.

Built in 1810, 5 Hamilton Place was inhabited by aristocrats, the Conynghams, businessman Leopold de Rothschild and Captain Leonard Frank Plugge before being sold to John Mills.

The club was later expanded to include a nightclub and a gaming club, Le Cercle, in 1961. Run by French croupiers, it has been popular with royalty such as Prince Philip, the late Duke of Edinburgh. Sir Christopher Lee, (the actor and future Bond villain, Scaramanga) was a member and kept a bottles of gin with his name on it.

#dr no #james bond #quote #movie #cinema #film #casino #le cercle #les ambassadeurs #london #gambling #chemin de fer #ian fleming #sean connery

67 notes · View notes

hawkeyeslaughter · 4 months

Note

Do you have any headcannons for what hawkeye (or any of the swamp rats) went on to do after the war?

for my darling hawkeye ? of course i do !

— he’s the only one of the swamp rats not to eventually open up a private practice , but he does get promoted to head surgeon at his maine hospital . some of the more egotistical doctors find him ridiculous because he often bothers himself with small matters that most doctors of his rank don’t ( i.e , treating his patients with kindness , dropping in on them often and such ) . he , in a very hawkeye - esque fashion , tells them to get fucked

— bj tries to convince him to come to california to visit and hawkeye laughs at this idea because as much as he loves bj he would genuinely rather die than suffer the california weather . he’s so annoying about it that bj gives in and they ( he and peg and erin ) make an annual trip to maine every year . hawkeye is always greeted at the airport with a bear - hug from erin .

— uncle hawkeye is also constantly commanded to do the silly voices !! and of course he gives in because he has absolutely no backbone when it comes to kids and cannot say no to them ever . he also teaches erin how to play poker .

— he tracks down loraine blake’s address in bloomington , illinois , and writes her a letter expressing his love for henry , that everyone in the 4077th loved henry . he encloses a picture of him , henry , trapper , and radar with it — all mid laughter . loraine writes him back , thanking him . ‘ you made him laugh , hawkeye , he told me so . ‘ she writes . ‘ no matter what else you did , you made him laugh . and he loved you too . even if he never said it . ‘

— hawkeye takes busses and a train and busses again to iowa to be radar’s best man ( he doesn’t like planes . ) he recalls an embarrassing story or two during his best man speech but all is forgiven when he doesn’t leave a dry eye in the place by the end of his speech .

— it’s hawkeye’s turn to cry when he finds out radar names his son benjamin franklin o’reilly .

— he visits trapper frequently and trapper has a spare key to his house . hawkeye also has his own toiletries and shit at trapper’s . clothes as well .

— he finds out where charles hangs out on one of his frequent visits to trap , and shows up sporting a red carnation ( so charles doesn’t ignore the wrong person ) . charles spots the hawkeye grin a mile off , though . hawkeye makes this a tradition , charles thinks it’s ridiculous , even if from then on he consistently keeps an eye out for a shaggy - haired , carnation wearing , blue - eyed babe to get drunk with whenever he steps foot into the place .

— he’s a faithful penpal to margaret . each of her long letters detailing every event in her life , along with the large amount of photographs she sends are never thrown away , carefully preserved in a shoebox . he also frequently sends her gag gifts , most of which he gets berated for over the phone . he can never listen to those calls with a straight face .

— he looks up frank once , and sends him a pair of his boxers with no letter attached . he gets a run off the mill letter , penned by frank’s secretary , in return .

— he never kicks the alcohol habit , not completely . there are just things from korea that are too painful to remember sober . gin doesn’t taste right to him anymore .

— despite spending most of his time at the hospital , his house becomes cluttered , just like the swamp was .

— while altered , there is simply no denying that fact , hawkeye never turns his back on his hawkeye essence . he lives out his days in maine helping whoever he can , whenever he can , at any time he can . far past the time his mind weakens and his hands grow shaky , hawkeye is always hawkeye .

#i wanted these to be more silly but i got kind of emotional lmao !!#i’m sorry these took so long #but hawkeye my love … hawkeye my love #m*a*s*h #mash #mashposting #mashblr #mash 4077 #hawkeye pierce #hawkeye #lgbt #lgbtq

29 notes · View notes

addamatic · 5 months

Text

“Something I’ve been thinking about a lot in the current battle over the future of (pseudo) AI is the cotton gin.

I live in a country where industrial progress is always considered a positive. It’s such a fundamental concept to the American exceptionalism claim that we are taught never to question it, let alone realize that it’s propaganda.

One such myth, taught early in grade school, is the story of Eli Whitney and the cotton gin. Here was a classic example of a labor-saving device that made millions of lives better. No more overworked people hand cleaning the cotton (slaves, though that was only mentioned much later, if at all). Better clothes and bedding for the world. Capitalism at its best.

But that’s only half the story of this great industrial time saver. Where did those cotton cleaners go? And what was the impact of speeding up the process?

Now that the cleaning bottleneck was gone, the focus was on picking cotton as fast as possible. Those cotton cleaners likely, and millions of other slaves definitely, were sent to the fields to pick cotton. There was an unprecedented explosion in the slave trade. Industrial time management and optimization methods were applied to human beings using elaborate rule-based systems written up in books. How hard to punish to get optimal productivity. How long their lifespans needed to be to get the lost production per dollar. Those techniques, practiced on the backs and lives of slaves, became the basis of how to run the industrial mills in the North. They are the ancestors of the techniques that your manager uses now to improve productivity.

Millions of people were sold into slavery and worked to death *because* of the cotton gin. The advance it provided did not, in fact save labor overall. Nor did it make life better overall. It made a very small set of people much much richer; especially the investors around the world who funded the banks who funded the slave purchases. It made a larger set of consumers more comfortable at the cost of the lives of those poorer. Over a hundred years later this model is still the basis for our society.

Modern “AI” is a cotton gin. It makes a lot of painstaking things much easier and available to everyone. Writing, reading, drawing, summarizing, reviewing medical cases, hiring, firing, tracking productivity, driving, identifying people in a lineup…they all can now be done automatically. Put aside whether it’s actually capable of doing any of those things *well*; the investors don’t care if their products are good, they only care if they can make more money off of them. So long as they work enough to sell, the errors, and the human cost of those errors, are irrelevant. And like the cotton gin, AI has other side effects. When those jobs are gone, are the new jobs better? Or are we all working that much harder, with even more negative consequences to our life if we fall off the treadmill? One more fear to keep us “productive”.

The Luddites learned this lesson the hard way, and history demonizes them for it; because history isn’t written by the losers.

They’ve wrapped “AI” with a shiny ribbon to make it fun and appealing to the masses. How could something so fun to play with be dangerous? But like the story we are told about the cotton gin, the true costs are hidden”

21 notes · View notes