rough hill

Galloping Abs - Rough and Ready Fan Fiction
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Alright, let’s just get this out, right away. This is a US Today Best Selling Author. She is not self published, and she is not a 13 year old girl. She wouldn’t write…most of this. This is a fake excerpt, written because Sandra Hill did indeed write “dick attack”. And that is why I said most.

However, I thought it would be fun to review this anyways. Since it does fall under my jurisdiction…of bad fan fiction. So, without further adieu, the infamous “excerpt” from Rough and Ready by Sandra Hill the clever son of a bitch who wrote this beauty.

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My first 5K, the Cincinnati Cyclone’s 5K.

I had two goals: don’t walk and finish by 38 minutes.

I came in around 28 minutes!!!! Overall the course was less hilly than my course in my neighborhood, but there was one rough hill at the last half mile and then a hill to the finish line, which I think was pretty cruel.

When I was turning for that last hill and I knew I had less than .2 left, I almost wanted to cry. I knew I went fast at the beginning but I couldn’t believe I kept it up. I’m so proud and so excited!

I feel like a runner.

internallydeceased  asked:

First of all, I love you all so much you're amazing at what you do and inspire me so much. Thank you for this blog I have not lived before this. I'm not sure if this has been done before or not, but what if Claire found out she was pregnant before she fully realized her feelings for Jamie?

Leaning back against the nearest tree, Claire huffed out a large breath, her mind finally calming as the rage of being *abandoned* here with young Willie dissipated.

“Mistress…?” The young lad yelled, scratching the side of his head, displacing his cap as he hopped from foot to foot, nerves getting the better of him.

“Out with it, Willie,” Claire sighed, exasperated with the whole ordeal.

“I’m just going further into the woods, aye? To piss…” he trailed off, not needing to explain further as he awaited Claire’s approval.

“Go on then,” she replied, a terse tone to her voice, one that she couldn’t seem to eradicate no matter how hard she tried, “just make sure you go downwind!”

Nodding, the lad scarpered, the leaves around his feet flying to the sides in his haste to leave.

Flopping back against the tree, Claire swayed to and fro, her toes buried in the detritus at her feet as she gazed around her, her mind trying not to conjure up fresh images of the raiders in the glade.

Pushing herself up, she wandered the same stretch of forest over and over, her movements making a wee path in the mulch, her footprints embedding into the forest floor. Shaking the renewed anguish from her head, Claire’s eyes darted just passed the tree line.

There, just out of sight and hidden ever so slightly by the thick bark of the oak trees, lay a familiar outcrop.

“Craigh na Dunn….” she whispered, her heart beginning to race as she stepped forward slightly. The swishing of the leaves around her kept her grounded as she laid her hands against the bark of the last evergreen, digging her fingers into the thin trunk as the wind blew through her hair.

Having little time to think, Claire hiked up her skirts and made for the hill, the rough terrain hampering her footsteps only slightly as she darted through the open ground paying no mind to anything or anyone who might be passing by.

Images of Frank swirled before her eyes as her ankles buckled, the small dips in the grass causing her to lose balance more than once.

She had to make it up there.

The wind blew, rising around her as she forged her way onwards, not giving a thought to the highlanders she’s ceremoniously dumped, or whether they would be perturbed by her mysterious disappearance.

Beckoning her forwards, the stones seem to call to her, the brisk breeze making hollow screeching sounds the closer she came to the circle.

The sun dipped low on the horizon as she finally reached the brow of the small incline, the hum and whisper of the stones echoing loudly in her ears now.

Reaching her hands forwards, Claire slowed her pace, her heart thumping madly in her chest –partially from her sprint, but partially a build up of nervous energy.

Could she really do this?

Could she simply abandon Jamie without a second thought, without leaving him some simple sign that she hadn’t been abducted, hurt or even killed outright.

The attack in the glen hit her square in the chest, the memory of the rogue redcoats grasping hands causing her to shiver as she slipped closer and closer towards the unconscious pull of the fairy hill.

Inside, deep in her belly, a warmth started to emanate. Beginning in her womb, the *glow* seemed to fill her frigid veins with new life, her eyes tearing up as the image of Frank wobbled and faded.

Suddenly her rash decision didn’t seem so clear anymore, and her flight away from Willie and the protection of the forest seemed foolish and selfish.

*No*, she reasoned, anger flaring as she took a measured step forwards, numbing herself to the strange sensation currently bubbling up just beneath her pale skin. She needed to go home, to the twentieth century where she belonged –where she had been desperate to return to this entire time.

Clenching her fists, Claire steadied her shoulders and fought back against the emotions coursing through her.

In the distance, a subtle cry pulled her from her internal conflagration, her ears pricking at the sound.

*Willie*…she could hear him calling out to her, his anxious fretting reverberating through the low ground as he searched for her.

Dipping down, Claire hid herself, her mouth going dry at the mere thought of him out there, frantically scraping every inch of the nearby surroundings in the hope of coming across her.

Her stomach dropped, the sensation rocking her as she gripped her belly, doubling over as she gasped for breath.

*NO*, she cried, albeit silently, the improbable explanation for her unease causing bile to rise in her throat.

*No. No, no…no!*

It couldn’t be.

She wasn’t sure, but it was certainly too soon to tell.

Her body, however, immediately dismissed the notion, the muscles in her womb tightening as if to protect the tiny visitor growing inside.

Slamming her back against a tree that grew on the edge of the hillock, Claire clenched her eyes shut, moisture spilling down her cheeks as she rubbed the same spot over and over, the rough material of her bodice irritating the sweat-drenched skin of her palms.

Before she had time to debate any further strong hands grabbed her, hauling her from the damp grass where she’d collapsed in anguish only moments before.

“Up with you, mistress!” The redcoats spat, distaste lacing their tone as they pulled Claire aside, taking advantage of her delirious state.

Finally, her faculties returning to her, Claire awoke, fury shooting through her from head to toe as she began to fight, her arms aching where the men had tight hold of her.

“No!” She yelled, her cheeks burning, impassioned rage seeping from her pores as she tried hard to flee.

“I don’t think so, my girl,” the older of the pair sneered, his blackened teeth grinding together as he bound her wrists and thrust he up into their small cart. “I’d save all your strength,” the younger returned, a fowl glint in his eyes as he secured her to the wagon, her wrists burning and her blood running cold as she guessed the next words out of his mouth, “you’ll need it soon enough. Just you wait until Captain Randall sees you, eh…”

With that, her heart plummeted.

As the horses began to pull away, Claire slid her knees upwards, cocooning herself against the thin material of the wagon wall, protecting the only thing that mattered now. The one thing she had wanted most of all.

Burying her head in her hands, she wept quietly, bitter tears rolling in thick rivulets down her flushed cheeks.

Why now? She cursed, her internal monologue going unheeded as dusk settled over the highlands.

Why now with a man she barely knew in a land where she was all but a stranger?

“I’m so…sorry,” she whispered.

To Frank.

To Jamie…

…and to their unborn baby.


‘Under the Dome’

Low tide at (Rough Island) Island Hill, Strangford Lough, Northern Ireland.
With about an hour to go before sunset, and the forecast for patchy cloud and rain, convinced myself to take the 25 minute drive to Island Hill. Glad I did!
The causeway to the island is exposed for several hours at low tide, and light rain added to the lush colour of the scene.
‘Between the tides, a range of habitats appear from differing grades of mud and sand to boulders and salt marsh. The area is rich in worms, shellfish and other small animals that are a vast food source attracting migratory birds and waders, with some species found in internationally important numbers during the winter. Eelgrass is abundant and is the principle food source of Brent geese, many thousands of which migrate to the Lough during September and October.’

The Rough Riders by Mort Kunstler

“Teddy” Roosevelt leads the 1st United States Volunteer Cavalry - “Rough Riders” - up Kettle Hill during the Spanish-American War. Limited logistical capacity meant that the Regiment left their horses behind, with only Col. Roosevelt mounted as the men charged the Spanish positions on July 1, 1898.

(National Guard)


Request: I’m having serious Peter feels so #24 and #34 where the reader goes into heat and goes to Peter for help. Please <3

Author’s Note: I need some Peter smut on my blog and just in my life in general, so I came up with this. Hope you like it! :)

Warnings: Smut. Not really any plot, just pure smut!

24. “You’re the only one I trust to do this”

34. “If you keep looking at me like that we won’t make it to bed”


My body was going nuts. My hormones and emotions were all over the place and all I wanted to do all the time was have sex. Rough, raw, animalistic sex. Needless to say, I was in heat.

It had only just started and already I was going insane. Not knowing what else to do, grabbed my keys and sped across town to the only person that I knew would be able to help me with my…predicament. When I pulled up, I practically ran up the stairs to his door, pounding on the wood so hard that I was sure my fist was going to smash through any second. It flew open, revealing a confused and frustrated Peter.

“You’re going to wake up all my neighbors,” he said, pulling me inside and closing the door quietly.

“I need your help,” I told him quickly, not wasting any time. He gave me a smirk as he looked my body up and down. Oh, he knew what I meant. “Peter, you’re the only one I trust to do this.” 

“ I could smell you from the bottom floor,” he growled, striding over to me and pressing his lips to mine in a heated kiss. Immediately I was kissing back with equal fervor, my tongue seeking out his. Peter pressed me into the wall, his hands on either side of my head as he pulled back slightly. “How do you want it this time, baby?” he asked, his voice low and husky already. I reached forward and caught his bottom lip between my teeth, tugging on it lightly.

“Rough and wild,” I told him, my eyes dark with lust as I licked my lips. He cocked his head to the side slightly, a small grin on his face.

“I love when you tell me that.” Before I could process what was happening, Peter had my shirt ripped to shreds and his mouth was on my neck. I groaned as his fingers dug into the flesh of my hips, knowing they were already leaving bruises. I gripped his shoulders, my claws poking out a tad and cutting his skin, emitting a hiss from his lips. Peter worked quickly, sucking and biting his way to the top of my cleavage and creating dark love bites there. 

“Peter!” I said angrily as my ruined underwear fell to the ground. “I liked that bra.” He chuckled deeply, sucking one of my nipples into his mouth and making me forget all about the bra while his other large hand squeezed my free breast roughly. I couldn’t help but moan and toss my head back into the wall. My fingers tugged at the top of hist shirt until he quickly threw it off, returning to my body. I kissed him fiercely, pulling his hips to mine and trying to get some much needed friction. Peter caught my drift, but he had other plans. Plans to drive me crazy. 

He pulled away from the kiss and began gliding down my body, his eyes locked with mine the whole time and his tongue dragging along my heated flesh. He finally reached my jeans, kneeling in front of me, and made quick work of removing them. Peter held my hips tightly to keep me from squirming as he pressed his face to my panty-covered core.

“Such a pretty color,” he noted playfully, his breath ghosting over me and making me whimper. My fingers tangled in his locks to pull him to me, but he resisted. 

“Peter,” I groaned in annoyance. He tsked at me, making me glare down at him.

“Such a bad girl, Y/N,” he said, shaking his head. “Do you know what bad girls get?” I shook my head, biting my lip as I did so. He smirked and stood up, and the next thing I knew, I was turned around and pressed to the wall, my ass sticking out slightly. “They get spanked.” Peter’s hand collided with my ass with bruising force. I yelped, but I let a smile form on my lips as I closed my eyes. 

“Oh, fuck,” I cried as he did it again, my whole body tingling with sensation. I felt his hand slide around to my front, slipping over my core. “Peter..” My head fell back against his shoulder, his mouth by my ear. His other hand was kneading my breast, holding me against him as his fingers circled around my clit slowly.

“Do you know what else bad girls get, Y/N?” he asked in my ear. I shook my head, unable to speak. “They don’t get to cum until I say so.” I groaned at his words, knowing I was in for a long night. Peter slid his fingers down, shoving two inside me and keeping an agonizingly slow pace as they curled to hit that perfect spot inside me. I could already feel that knot building, but I knew it wouldn’t break for awhile.

“Peter, please,” I begged wanting him to get this over with and move on to fucking me into the mattress. He hummed in response, but didn’t speed up. Instead, he removed his hand completely, leaving me empty. He turned me around and then was on his knees in front of me again. His eyes met mine with that mischievous look as he threw my leg over his shoulder.

“Since you asked so nicely,” he said before digging in. I moaned loudly as his tongue expertly moved over me, circling my clit and then pressing on it, then moving to my entrance and back up again. My hands were in his hair, spurring him on more. I was a moaning mess, bucking my hips against his face as he dug his fingers into my thighs.

“Peter, don’t stop!” I yelled, throwing my head back, mouth open. I felt that knot snap with a shaking force, sending me into bliss. Peter didn’t stop, lapping at my clit to make it last as long as possible. Finally, he removed my leg and stood up slowly. I was breathing heavily when my eyes cracked open to meet his beautiful blue ones. he was smirking like an idiot and I fixed my gaze on him, already wanting more.

“If you keep looking at me like that, we won’t make it to bed,” he chuckled. I let out a growl and then pounced on him. Peter fell back onto his table and I took the opportunity to rip off his jeans while he was still stunned. I climbed over his body and straddled his hips, running my hands up his bare chest.

“I don’t care about a bed,” I stated, leaning down and planting a firm kiss to hip lips as my hands tugged his boxers off. Peter’s hands were all over me, turning me on even more. I grabbed his large erection and teased him for a moment before sliding myself down on him. We both let out groans of satisfaction, and I started bouncing up and down at a quick pace. Peter grabbed my hips and started moving me faster, bucking up into me as well. I was bracing my hands against his hard torso, eyes closed in bliss. Then we were flipped over, somehow still on the table, and Peter had my legs wrapped around his waist, pounding into me furiously.

“You know I hate being on bottom,” he growled into my neck, nipping it roughly. My nails clawed up and down his back as noises fell from my lips uncontrollably. One of his hands was on my chest, the other digging into my thigh/hip area to hold me in place.

“Peter, harder,” I begged. “Fuck me harder!” We were both sweaty and hot at this point, and both so close to release. With a snarl, he somehow increased his thrusts, his hips slamming into mine every time and sending jolts throughout my entire body. I was screaming his name and curses and incoherent words, on the brink of my climax. I leaned up and bit Peter’s shoulder roughly, making him let out a small roar and sending us both over the edge. We were breathing hard, unable to move for a few seconds after coming back to reality. And then Peter was slowly standing up and stretching, looking over me with a smirk.

“Feel better?” he asked. I bit my lip and nodded at him, still on the table. “You’re welcome to stay if you’d like.”

“Good, because I don’t think I can walk,” I told him, raising my eyebrows and laughing a bit. He chuckled proudly and walked over, scooping me up and carrying me back to his bed. He laid me down and then crawled in next to me, propping his head on his elbow to look at my body. 

“You’re covered in bruises,” he noted softly, tracing a few of them with his fingers. I shrugged, pulling the covers around myself.

“They’ll be healed by morning,” I said with a small smile that he returned. I let out a sigh. “You know, it’s only the beginning.” I turned to meet his eyes in the darkness. I saw that look come over him again.

“Well, then I suppose you’ll just have to stay here until your heat is over then,” he told me slyly. I laughed at his words. “I wouldn’t want you having any more..difficulties.”

Beginning - John Murphy Imagine

A/N: kind of strayed from the prompt and not as angst but I hope y’all enjoy!

Originally posted by hedajohnmurphy

prompt list can be found here !!

Reader x John Murphy

Words: 1,502 

Warnings: not exactly nsfw but mentions of smut related stuff more than once, swearing

Prompt: “Are you crying?”

“You know, if you really wanted to be carried by me you could’ve just asked?” His smirk that covered his face said it all. He didn’t even have to speak for you to know a sly comment was going to be blurted out of his pretty mouth. Ever since the beginning, there’s been something there between you and Murphy.

“The tough (Y/N), left to fend for herself because of a sore ankle. How devastating.” His smirk was still prevalent. Even though you were being piggy backed by him and you couldn’t see his facial features, you could imagine it.

“Give me a break Murphy, I don’t need your shit.” You huffed, ready to be silent softly leaning your cheek on his the back of his shoulder. Although there was a lot of sexual tension between you and Murphy, both of you just covered it with sarcasm and taking the piss out of each other. But as of right now, you were tired, hurt and completely done with his shit.

And he noticed. Normally you’d go back and forth until you got back to camp, but when you put the to and fro to an abrupt stop, he was confused. And naturally, Murphy would’ve proceeded to taunt you, but he felt like your sudden quietness meant something.

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Classified 18

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Doctor!Reader

Warning: Swearing, Death, Heart Break, Angst, Fluff, violence and hostages//Take Over.

A/N: If you want to be tagged just let me know!! Feedback is always loved.

Rule One of being a doctor, don’t get over attached to your patients.

Well that rules been broken.

Rule Two of being a doctor, don’t date your patients.

But what if he has blue eyes and a killer smile that make your insides throw a dance party when he’s near you??
Rule Three of being a doctor, don’t ever loose focus on doing your job, nothing comes between you and your career.

See comment above… was the smile mentioned? Or that he’s Captain America?

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  • Outside work. Now is the time of year that I need to start either going out in the morning or in the early evening.
  • 60 minutes of intervals. Run 5 minutes// Walk 5 minutes.
  • The new part of the trail is finally open, so I got to check that out.
  • The last 20 minutes were rough: sun and hills. Luckily on my last jog interval the sun was behind some clouds and it was breezy.
  • I was so focused on the actual workout that I neglected to take a picture, so you get a post-workout hydration photo.
  • 4+ miles done.
  • I as I was scrolling I found out its global running day, so I am glad I got to participate.

Hollywood is a weird small town.

That’s hardly a new observation, but new or not, it’s true. And because Hollywood is a weird small town, that’s how I came to know and befriend the man who directed one of Steve Bannon’s alt-right documentaries.

For twenty years I made my living as a TV writer-producer in “Hollywood” (which is less a place than a set of business and social connections) and it really was like living in a small, tight community. Everyone either knew everyone or knew someone who knew someone. There were cliques and in-and-out groups, the cool kids and the nerds, the crazy Old Man who lived in the big house on the hill, the rough neighborhood and the new money arrivistes, the rundown homes of the formerly great…

And the schools. In “Hollywood,” there are several “industry” schools favored by parents with the financial resources to keep their kids out of the Los Angeles Unified School District.

(Before the tax-decimating years that followed the passage of Proposition 13 in 1978, California had a top-ranked educational system; today it’s the 10th worst. That decline can be traced entirely to Republican tax-cutting fervor. But I digress.)

For the Hollywood parents of a K-6 child there are a number of options, ranging from schools in LA’s West Side for “artsy” kids, to more “academic” schools in the Hancock Park area and the Santa Monica mountains, to “nurturing” schools in the Valley, and “religious” schools in Bel Air and Beverlywood. My wife at the time and I decided to send our daughter Rachel to one of the “nurturing” schools– a terrific family-run K-6 school in the mid-Valley that, until recently, had slipped under the “Hollywood” town radar.

(That changed the year our daughter arrived when Peter Guber decided to enroll his child. Shortly afterwards his competive ex-partner Jon Peters enrolled his child. Then Kate Jackson arrived, and Al Pacino, and Ben Stiller, and within a few years our little family-run K-6 in the mid-Valley was buying property and expanding and had become one of the hottest places for actors and producers to send their kids and network at father-daughter dances and school wide fundraisers. But again, I digress.)

Rachel has an outgoing and social personality. She’s in college now, where she’s well-liked and respected. All likeability and respect was also present during her years in K-6 , where she made friends with whom she’s still in touch now, years later. Since I’m not the most eagerly social person myself, many of the people I befriended during that time were parents of Rachel’s friends. One of those was a man I’ll call Harry.

Harry was (and is) a director of documentaries. That’s a tough business to make a living in, unless you find a gig working in “reality TV”, which, for anyone with an ounce of creative talent must be a soul-crushing experience. Harry had worked in TV for various light-entertainment shows but he wanted (and needed) to branch out into the world of independent documentary film. Like I said, a tough business, especially for a first-time director. Most independent documentaries are either self-financed or funded by foundation grants, because documentaries aren’t profitable for investors. Pursuing such funding can be a full-time job in itself. But at the time we met Harry had lucked into a financing network that promised almost unlimited funding resources– all because of an unlikely accident.

Remember Michael Moore’s post-9/11 anti-Bush documentary “Fahrenheit 911?” It’s one of the few documentaries that actually crossed over into near-blockbuster territory. The success of “Fahrenheit 911” infuriated conservatives, including the handful of conservative filmmakers who occupied Hollywood’s right-wing fringe. One of those conservative right-wing filmmakers decided to make his own pro-Bush 9/11 documentary in response.

(Another digression: there is a vocal right-wing creative element in Hollywood, though it’s much smaller and less vocal than during the days of the Hollywood Blacklist. As a practical matter, Hollywood is culturally progressive, though upper management is often fiscally conservative– particularly when it comes to paying talent. That’s a different rant, though.)

Despite his powerful desire to outmatch Michael Moore’s liberal outrage with his own conservative outrage, however, the filmmaker/director who wanted to make a pro-Bush documentary wasn’t an actual documentary director. After raising funds for his project from right-wing financiers, he discovered he couldn’t make a documentary on his own. So he asked around–like I said, Hollywood is a weird small town–and Harry’s name came up as someone with the skill set to assemble a documentary who might be willing to take on the project as a way to showcase his own talents.

As far as I know, at the time he took the job, Harry wasn’t a conservative, let alone a hardcore right-wing conservative. When we first met at a K-6 social event I felt we had a lot in common politically. We both expressed contempt for Bush’s idiotic jingoism, we were both socially progressive, we liked the same kinds of movies, and we were both doting fathers. Our wives liked each other. Our families hung out. Barbeques, movie nights. Good times.

First time directors often don’t get to pick their projects: if an opportunity presents itself, you jump and try to make if work. If you don’t grab the brass ring the first time around you might not get a second chance. When that right-wing filmmaker offered Harry a chance to get his name on a feature length documentary, Harry grabbed it. He told himself he wouldn’t make a conservative propaganda film. Like most fair minded observers he saw Moore’s film for what it was– a scream of liberal outrage. (I like Moore’s film, but let’s be honest, it’s as fair and balanced as an episode of Sean Hannity.) Harry convinced himself his documentary would be a counterweight to Moore’s film. He wanted it to be fair but strong, passionate but not strident. He seemed to think his own desire for objectivity would influence the final product and make it less a piece of conservative propaganda than it might be otherwise.

He was wrong, of course. As a first-time director working under supervision by a right-wing ideologue he didn’t have any power to influence anything. The film that resulted, the film he was credited with directing, was the film the writer-producer wanted it to be, not the film Harry hoped it would be. Yet that creative defeat was a career-making triumph. Harry was now on the radar of right-wing financiers who wanted to make more “documentaries” like the one skewering Michael Moore which Harry had just “directed.”

People like David Bosse, President and Chairman of Citizens United (yes, that “Citizens United”) and future Deputy Campaign Manager of Trump’s Presidential campaign; and the Dark Lord of Breitbart himself, Steve Bannon.

Over the next few years, as our daughters moved through K-6 together, Harry and I had several interesting conversations about his work. I hadn’t seen his first film, but I understood from what he said that he wasn’t happy with how it turned out; he seemed to feel he’d been thwarted in his effort to put together an honest criticism of liberal attacks on Bush. Like I said, Harry and I shared similar progressive beliefs, though he tended to be slightly more moderate. But as time went on I noticed a subtle change in how Harry spoke about his projects.

While making his second film, Harry described it as a serious appraisal of international politics. He said he was discovering things he never knew that surprised him and that he felt were important for Americans to understand. Of course, he said, he knew his backers had an agenda, but he was steering the film down a middle course. While the movie didn’t entirely express his viewpoint he felt it was less biased and more balanced than his first film. He seemed happier with the outcome. I felt pleased for him – though I was also skeptical, considering how the film was financed as well as the obvious political agenda of the subject matter. Since the film was only available to conservative audiences at conservative conventions and gatherings, I never saw it myself so I can’t judge whether Harry was correct in his assessment.

I did see his third film, however, the one financed and produced by Steve Bannon… and that was an eye-opener.

Harry was proud of this film, so proud he invited my then-wife and I to the “premiere,” a special screening at a theater in Burbank. In conversations leading up to the showing he talked about how he’d worked to create a legitimate documentary about a crisis in American politics, a failure of government to address a growing and horrific problem that threatened the nature of American society– the criminally weak Washington response to the threat of illegal immigration.

My wife and I went to the premiere, expecting to see a documentary on the problem of undocumented immigration told from a moderately conservative viewpoint–a reasonable expectation given how Harry described the film in contrast to how he’d talked about his previous films.

Remember that scene in “The Producers” when the curtain goes up and the unsuspecting theater audience experiences the opening number, “Springtime For Hitler?”

Yep, it was like that.

The documentary Harry had described as a serious examination of the problem of undocumented immigration was a ninety-five minute diatribe against Mexicans and Mexican immigrants, told almost entirely from the viewpoint of hardcore right-wing Arizona border patrol guards and civilian vigilante Minutemen, interspersed with interviews of wives whose husbands had been killed by illegal Mexican immigrants and subtitled interviews with “illegals” who were drug mules or who had been left to die in the desert by “coyote” smugglers. The only “pro” immigration interview was with a radical Mexican nationalist who argued that America’s possession of Arizona, Texas, and New Mexico was an illegal occupation and it was Americans who should be kicked out.

We were, to put it mildly, flabbergasted. After the showing we made polite noises about the documentary being “very effective” and fled quickly while the rest of the invited audience heaped praise on Harry and the producers.

After that, though we stayed friendly with Harry and his family because our daughter and their daughter were friends, I made a point of discussing work and politics as little as possible with Harry. Even so, I found myself wondering if Harry was conscious of the dramatic change in his self-perception.

This was the same man who recognized his first documentary was manipulated by his writer-producer into a blatant right-wing propaganda, who’d known he made compromises in his second film to accommodate the financier’s point of view, and who, nevertheless, had tried – and failed – to produce a balanced piece of work. He’d been aware of the compromises he made. I liked to think he was unhappy but resigned to the financial reality of an independent documentarian’s life. He was also constrained by the fact that after his first film–so much right-wing propaganda–he found financing from less conservative sources closed to him. His only recourse was to make films backed by conservatives. That was the reality. What surprised me, though it shouldn’t have, was the extent to which he rewrote his reality to fit the films he made into his self-concept of being a fair and moderate voice of reason.

The reason Harry’s self delusion about his work shouldn’t have surprised me is simple: I’ve been there. I’ve done it myself and seen many others do it. In Hollywood, it’s a way of life. It’s how people who should and often do know better convince themselves the project they’re working on is brilliant and insightful, when, in truth, the show or movie they’re devising is often a piece of crap.

William Goldman, master screenwriter, once said, “No one ever sets out to make a bad movie.” There’s a corollary to that observation: Very often, no one knows they’re making a bad movie.

When you devote ten hours a day, six or seven days a week to a job–making a film or a TV show– for the sake of your own sanity you must believe the effort and sacrifice is worthwhile. Not just financially worthwhile–in Hollywood, that’s an easy call–but creatively worthwhile. Go talk to the writer or producer of the worst dreck on TV and often you’ll come away astonished by their belief in the worth of their own shitty show. “We’re doing something special here,” says the writer of every predictable family comedy. “We have a great cast and we’re telling important stories,” says the producer of yet another teen drama. These people aren’t lying to you; they’re lying to themselves. They have to lie to themselves– otherwise they’d be forced to admit they’re wasting valuable and irreplaceable hours and days and months making mindless and forgettable entertainment at the cost of marriages, families, health, and sanity. Lying to ourselves under stress is a human defense mechanism. I’ve done it, everyone in Hollywood does it who isn’t a sociopath, and it’s one reason I was happy to leave the business behind more than a decade ago.

So, I understand Harry’s self-delusion. He’s in a tough spot. To make a living doing what he wants to do, he has to convince himself he wants to do what he’s doing. To see himself as a serious documentarian he needs to believe he’s making serious documentaries. To see himself as a progressive moderate he has to ignore the reality he’s promoting a fringe right-wing agenda.

It’s tragic, really. Unfortunately it’s the current reality of the small weird town that is Hollywood, and the much larger, much weirder nation that is Trump and Bannon’s America.

EDNA, GROUSE HUNTRESS” - an accomplished young grouse huntress posing with a bird in one hand and her rifle in the other. She’s wearing a soiled gingham sack dress with bullets in the pocket, worn hiking boots and her her father’s hat and bandanna. A practical girl with a serious expression and no-nonsense attitude, she looks at home on the rough hills of her hunting ground. The photo was printed by photographer H. R. Hay of Salida, Colorado.

“This is a picture of Edna, - Taken two years ago when we were in Orient”, reads the caption written on the back.