Jay Peterson
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I have a problem looking at any accusation of human rights abuses by Israel and not immediately calling bullshit.

5/15/2018

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The Nakba is a cruel, stupid lie. Celebrating when their ancestors skipped town so the neighboring countries would cover their homes in a fresh coat of Dhimmi blood, only to discover, horror of horrors, that they got their asses kicked instead. Then spend the next several generations being used as a propaganda tool against said Dhimmi rather than make a living.
I got some pity for Palestine. But that pity only lasts as long as their unwillingness to see who really screwed them over, because hating Israelis is easier than pointing out the neighbors that sold them out.
There is a Palestinian state. It's called Jordan. Only nobody has the guts to actually admit it. They'd rather fire off rockets at schools and snivel on camera because they wrote the book on the "kill a kid in the crossfire, get video of the wailing mother, then show your outrage to the news" school of propaganda.
If Israel was composed of people who hadn't been the victims of an attempted genocide who were bound and determined not to practice effective genocide on others, this "drive them into the sea" bullshit would have ended in a pyramid of skulls decades ago.
Instead it's wearing kid gloves, being stabbed through them, and being blamed for it anyway.
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Barbarian etiquette excerpt

5/14/2018

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"Chances are that you, first world inhabitant, are waited on by servants about as much as a minor noble was 400 years ago.
Two major differences come into play:
One is that instead of one or a few men/maids, you're served by multiple different people every day: the drive-through cashier, the uber driver, the retail associate, what have you.
Two is that unless you're really old money, you're probably not used to thinking in terms of servants.
This unfamiliarity, more often than not, draws animosity on both ends. Unless you've worked retail or some in-depth customer service, you roll your eyes and wonder how a grownup could screw up and inconvenience you so much in remarkably petty ways. And the servants themselves are dealing with petty tyrants because some idiot in the corporate hierarchy decided they were going to do something stupid and didn't plan better for it.
So, how does a proper Master/Mistress manage such things?
Be polite, look them in the eyes, and generally treat them like human beings.
Keep remarks that can earn you a punch in the face to yourself. Just because they have to take it doesn't give you a right to dish it out.
Watch for honest mistakes or decisions made above their pay grade, and don't take your frustrations out on them for bearing your bad news.
Tip well but without a lot of fuss. Remember you're showing your appreciation, not your fortune.
Remember that a distance exists between you, so acknowledge it, but don't revel in it.
(That goes double for any you find physically attractive. It's a nigh-guarantee that any perception by you of an open and attracted nature on their part is being forced upon them by their employers one way or another. Using such to indulge in your own desires, however minor, is as loathsome as forcing them yourself. Return their smiles from arm's length, and save your lines for someone free to shoot you down wholeheartedly)"
- Drink Responsibly from your Enemy's Skull:
Savage Manners for Modern Barbarians
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Teacher appreciation week

5/9/2018

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Thinking about those who made me who and what I am.
(this isn't anywhere near complete, just stream of consciousness).
I wouldn't be near the martial artist I am without a number of folks, particularly Master Anthony Lisi and Grandmaster Jim Sams. Lisi was the one who hammered it into me that being the big one meant being the responsible one, being the trained one meant being the responsible one, and big & trained meant you looked out for everyone, deal with it. All this before I hit six feet. That's where my place in the brute squad started.
Sams, on the other hand, kept me from getting too big for even my oversized britches by throwing me around like a flour sack, several decades older than me and smaller than anyone I ever dated in the process. And once my ass had been thoroughly kicked, that blessed man would say, "some little punk tries that on you, counter it with this..."
I wouldn't be near the person I am were it not for the festival folk that raised us on everything from making art and money to treating people.
That flirting meant that getting shot down was a natural hazard, and should be taken with grace.
That bon mots should never be aimed for or taken in the heart but only in the ego, which needs the occasional pruning all the more in those really that damn good at it.
That sometimes triumph is just inciting a smile, a blush, or a bodice heave from across the room, and failure just means taking your leave gracefully.
This world needs more like the late John Broadfoot and Rowland Greyhame more than ever these days.
Damn, gents. If I ever reach your level I'll have done good.
I wouldn't be near the actor I am were it not for my teachers on that road, notably from Sharon Morrow to Frank Miller to Gregalan Williams.
Each in their own way sending me along that path from "ready to duck incoming tomatoes" to "being occasionally worth what I'm occasionally paid."
Wouldn't have become a Marine without Gunny Maupin.
Wouldn't have been nearly as good a one had it not been for people like Dan Hubbert and Brandon Robinson, who did not have an easy task, dealing with an overweight, unfocused, stubborn boot who was too book-smart for anyone's good.
I learned eventually.
And I wouldn't be even a shadow of the choreographer I am today without the Society folk, particularly David Brimmer, KJ Jones, Richard Ryan, Scot Mann, Mike Chin, Martin Noyes, Chuck Coyl, MJ Johnson, Paul Dennhardt, and Bob MacDougall.
Wouldn't be who I am without those I won't mention. Because they taught me the privilege of other people's secrets and the duty of keeping your damn mouth shut.
I'll even spare a nod to the bad examples I've seen. The turds, the overrated, and the clashing. Whether good at their trade but bad pedagogues to the good instructors but horrible people, even they showed me the valuable points of where not to go.
And nowadays, what's making me are my students. Not a day goes by that I walk out of a classroom that's ostensibly mine without discovering something new.
My thanks to them all and more.
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Giving an actor a gun

5/1/2018

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    Jay Peterson

    Musings on violence, storytelling, and humanity in general.

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