#Bonanza live two sure for today

[nerdy-novelist017]

A Date (Benny Cross x Shy!Reader Pt 3)

Thank you so much for all your kind words, likes and reblogs on my last two posts! You guys are keeping me so entertained with the comments!

Ugh I rewrote this like 3 times :( I just couldn't get it right and I'm still not sure how I feel about it OH WELL

Benny x Bunny Masterlist

Word Count- 2.2K

Summary- You were sure you'd never see Benny Cross again. . . you were wrong.

******

“Benny’s been asking for ya.”

Your heart skipped a beat and you nearly dropped the receiver into the bowl of cake batter. Kathy’s statement came out of left field, the two of you having been discussing the latest news on the block – what kind of lipstick Sheryl Dickie uses that somehow always lasts an entire night of bar hopping. “What?”

“Yeah, says he’s real desperate to ask you somethin’,” Kathy’s tone was flippant, but you’ve known her long enough to hear the excitement she’s hiding in her voice.

“What could he possibly have to talk to me about?” You asked as you set the whisk down and moved around the kitchen counter to peak down the hallway towards the living room where you knew your father sat in his large recliner, watching a rerun of Bonanza. 

“I dunno, maybe you should come to another meetin’ so you can find out.”

“No, I’m not going to anymore of those.” you declared firmly, yanking the cord so that the phone was up to your other ear. “I don’t know how you can stand being around those guys.”

Kathy laughed, the static spiking. “C’mon, they’re fun, and you know it. Did you tell your parents how you got to ride on the back of a Vandal’s bike, and not just any Vandal!”

“No!” you squeaked. “And they’re never going to know. It was a one-time thing.”

“It doesn’t have to be. They’re having another meetin’ tonight. I’m sure Benny could pick you up–”

“Well, I can’t tonight,” you cut her off. “I have plans.”

“What plans?”

“My date.”

“Date?” Kathy asked, voice lowering dubiously. “With who?”

“Pete,” you said quietly. 

“Who?” she asked again.

You sighed. “Pete? The guy from Mama’s church?” 

Pete was introduced to you last week by your mother who was introduced to him by his mother. It was a train of people who wanted to matchmake, to see young love blossom before their eyes, even if it was forced. Pete was nice enough and he had kind eyes that sat behind wide-rimmed glasses. You’d been on one other date with him. He was an engineering student in his first year and he talked a lot about his school. He liked school. And he liked to golf nearly every weekend (his family belonged to the country club on the upper side of town). And mostly – he talked a lot about himself. He seemed to really like himself too.

“Oh, okay.” Kathy sounded unimpressed.

“My family really likes him. My dad likes him.”

“Yeah?” 

At her unenthusiastic response, you added quickly, “And I’m excited!”

“Is that why you’re stress-baking?” Kathy inquired as if she could sense it.

You glance down at the bowl of cake batter. No, it wasn’t, actually. You weren’t nervous to go on your second date with Pete; he didn’t make her nervous, didn’t fill your belly with those pesky butterflies. Pete was . . . just Pete. No, you were stress-baking because of a certain blonde Bikerider whose ocean blue eyes wouldn’t leave your thoughts all night. You were up, tossing and turning, replaying every moment with him like a broken record. It was one ride, the logical side of your mind had to say, and you’ll never see him again. You allowed yourself the rest of the night to think about him, and then you wouldn’t set aside any more time. 

In theory, it was a nice strategy. But when you woke up today, your thoughts were absolutely clouded with him and his incredibly direct eye-contact and his deeply rich voice and his hand touching your thigh and his lips encasing the cigarette—

You were doing it again! It had been one ride! One ride and a few hours. One ride where your arms wrapped so tightly to his solid form. One ride where he showed you places you’d never seen before, from a point of view you’d never been before. One ride where you felt as though you were seeing the world in a whole new light. One ride that you couldn’t get out of your head.

“Yes, because of Pete,” you replied evenly. “And I’m going to have a good time with him tonight.”

There’s a smile in her voice when she says, “Okay, sure. Say, what restaurant did ya say he was takin’ you?”

********

Thanking the driver, you stepped out of the cab, your heels connecting softly with the concrete of the sidewalk. Taking a moment to smooth any wrinkles on your pink dress, your gaze fluttered across the street to the restaurant Pete told you to meet him at. 

Ricardo’s was one of the most expensive restaurants in town, somewhere you never found yourself frequenting, but Pete absolutely gushed about their food. Coming from old money, Pete had no hesitation picking here for your second date. Pete’s family was well off, that’s what your mother liked to point out. He was a good boy with good money. He would provide for you, buy you a nice house with a picket fence in the front yard. A safe bet for the same routine life that nearly all the women of your family had spanning back several generations.

You made your way across the street, eyes taking in the lineup of expensive cars parked out front: Mercedes, Rolls Royce, Cadillac . . . Harley-Davidson motorcycle. You did a double-take at the shiny metal glinting underneath the streetlamp, eyes traveling upwards to the figure leaning casually against it. He was looking at the restaurant, head turned to give a generous view of his profile, and he hadn’t noticed you yet. For a split second, you considered taking advantage of that and booking it into the front door before he had a chance to stop you. But some deeply intrinsic part of you yearned to memorize every detail of him and you simply couldn’t look away. As a moth drawn to flame, you were drawn to him, to the golden streaks of his hair, down to the strong slope of his nose, the curve where his top lip sat so perfectly against the bottom – even with the cigarette tucked between. He wore long sleeves under his club jacket and the same distressed jeans from your last encounter. Half shrouded in the darkness of night, with the orange glow of the streetlight nearest to him, he looked like a beacon of mystery. Abandoning your previous course, you turned and approached him.

“What are you doing here?” You asked once you were close enough for him to hear you. 

Benny turned and a smile broke out over his features, eyes sweeping down your figure. “Do you dress like that all the time or only when you’re gonna see me?” He asked, nodding to your dress and heels. 

You stopped about 6 feet away from him (a reasonable distance), hopping up onto the sidewalk. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

“What a chance encounter,” he proclaimed with a secretive wink that sent your stomach on a roller coaster ride. 

“Chance encounter, or Kathy’s loose lips?” you quipped and he rubbed a hand over his mouth to keep from smiling, fingers grazing through the blonde, recently-trimmed facial hair.  

“Why are you here?” You asked again, this time a touch quieter.  

“Well, I have a coupon,” he replied simply.

You couldn’t stop the smile from tugging at your lips, your brows raising incredulously. “A coupon? To Ricardo’s?”

“Mm-hm,” he nodded, straight-faced.

You rolled your eyes at his antics. He had a coupon, your ass. A well-dressed elderly couple walked past you both on the sidewalk, each shooting a look of disapproval toward the dirty young man leaning against his death machine. Benny seemed not to notice them, his gaze still on you. 

“Why are you here?” he questioned.

“I–I have a date,” you replied and desperately tried to ignore the heat rising to your face at the admission. “But something tells me you already know that.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, looking down to the ground for all of five seconds before his gaze flashed back up to you. “Wanna go for a ride, Little Bunny?”

“What? No.” You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Why not?”

“Well, I just told you I'm here for a date,” you replied with a tilt of your head. 

Benny shrugged. “So?”

You shook your head but he continued, “Why are you wastin’ your time with dates when we’re gonna be married anyway?”

Your mouth fell open in surprise. The nerve on this guy! Part of you was surprised that he still had it in his head of marrying you. You thought maybe he had a few too many beers last night or was just smooth-talking you so that you’d let him sleep with you. But here he was, showing up on the sidewalk, giving you those puppy eyes. You’d already denied him once. Could he not take a hint?

“I don’t recall you ever asking.” you pointed out, feeling emboldened by his casual attitude. 

He perked up at that, tossing the remainder of his cigarette to the ground. “You want me to ask?”

You fought to remain neutral-faced at his playfulness. “No, thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . . I have a date.” One that you were excited about before you caught sight of Benny and your train of thoughts completely derailed.

Benny held his hands up in a conciliatory way and you turned on your heel, leaving him out on the streets as you made your way inside.

******

The clock on the far wall seemed to be mocking you, minutes ticking by mercilessly. You resisted looking at it, instead planting your chin in the palm of your hand as you watched the door, waiting for Pete’s familiar face to appear. It had been over an hour. He was over an hour late for your date. 

Each time the waitress returned to fill your glass of water, you told yourself a new lie. He was just stuck at work, he’ll be here soon. He was running behind getting ready, he’ll be here soon. There must have been an emergency, he’ll be here soon. He wouldn’t stand you up, he’ll be here soon. 

But as the seconds passed, you sunk further and further into your seat, humiliation forming a ball in your stomach. Surely, he had gotten his days mixed up? He really seemed to enjoy your first date, so why was he nowhere to be seen. Every time someone walked through the front door, the little bell chiming above, you glanced up, certain it would be him. But it never was. At first, you were angry. How could he have the audacity to leave you hanging without so much as calling you before he left if he knew he wouldn’t be able to make it. Then a bitter thought came to mind: what if he stood you up because he didn’t want to go out with you again. What if you weren't good enough for him. You had spent your whole life on the never ending hamster wheel of trying to be good enough for everyone else. Was your hard work even noticed?

Recognizing the sting of unshed tears, you looked down at the napkin folded neatly in your lap, blinking rapidly in an attempt to get control of yourself. The bell chimed over the front door, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look over at it, not wanting to feel the crushing disappointment of another wealthy customer walking inside and not your date. 

Then a flash of dark clothing popped across from you and you looked up just as Benny Cross slid into the empty seat. You opened your mouth, but no words came out. He leaned forward, elbows of his leather jacket propped over the tablecloth.

“Pete not show?” he asked, expression solemn. 

Your ears burned and you shook your head. Too preoccupied by your embarrassment, it didn’t even occur to you that you had never told him Pete’s name. 

He frowned and he genuinely appeared upset. Unable to maintain his direct gaze, you glanced away and caught the eyes of everyone else in the restaurant staring wide-eyed at the two of you. You realized that it was Benny who they were gawking at. And you didn’t seem to notice until now that he looked totally out of place with his worn clothes and dirty hands. As if sensing their not-so-subtle staring, Benny turned and looked about the room.

“What’s with all the stiff shirts in here?” he asked, sending you a conspiratorial glance. “I think they might be intimidated by you.”

“Me?” You furrowed your brow. It definitely wasn’t you they were looking at. In fact, the only person who was staring at you was Benny. 

“Yeah, I bet they’ve never seen anyone as pretty as you. Most people haven’t and they don't know how to act when they do.” He grinned and you had to look down at your lap as heat rose to your face.  

“I guess Pete wouldn’t agree,” you muttered quietly, feeling the anger in your heart fizzle out to meer disappointment. 

“Fuck Pete,” Benny said passionately, causing an elderly woman behind you to gasp and you giggled, shocked at his language. Benny was bad, he was trouble . . . but he was also fun, and you couldn’t hide your eagerness as he leaned his arms across the table, moving closer to address you privately. 

“You wanna get out of here, Bunny?” His question sent a gust of anticipation through your veins. 

“Yeah,” you admitted, smiling shyly. 

He stood quickly and you followed in suit. Then he did something that caused a wave of butterflies to roll through your stomach; he reached out and clasped his hand with you, interlocking fingers tightly. You grinned, excitement making you feel light and airy as he pulled you through the restaurant, past all the staring faces and harsh whispers and out the door into the night which felt alive with a whole new feeling of possibilities. 

*Tag List*

@imusicaddict @elizabeth916 @jaiuneamesolitaiire @dudii4love @ironmooncat @beebeechaos @astrogrande @pearlparty @themorriganisamonster @sillylittlethrowaway @ughdontbeboring @penwieldingdreamer @charmingballoon @eugene-emt-roe  @sunnbib @semperamans @groovyangelkisses @killerqueenfan

[mycryptosuite]

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[thejaymo]

I’m sure you have all seen this clip of David Bowie talking about the Internet back in 1999 “I think we're actually on the cusp of something exhilarating and terrifying”. 

One of the things that is always missing whenever that clip goes viral is the context from which he was speaking. 

David Bowie was in the Metaverse before most people were even on the web. Here’s an overview

At the time of the recording ALL of the following was already happening and going on in his life:

BOWIE WORLD (1999)

Created by World’s Inc. in 1999, Bowie World was the first 3D virtual world created by a creative artist on Bowienet. Bowie World allowed users to experience the immersive world of David Bowie, interact with fans from around the world, purchase merchandise and meet with David in avatar form.

The 3D environment was powered by worlds.com technology and featured integrated chat room etc.

See this paper from 1996 ACM interactions, Sept-Oct 1996 journal for more details.

"He would never announce it in advance, but he would get on to the chat board and talk to us. The handle he always called himself by was Sailor," says Mr Carrington.

In 2016 daily dot went to visit Bowie World and documented their experience. there were people in the world chatting! Still! 17 years later! 

// If you’re so included you can read my experience of doing something similar. I toured Active Worlds (launched 1995) in the book Lost Zone. Hiking the Dawn of Metaverse //

Cyber Song (1999)

The same year 1999, Bowie recorded the worlds first ‘Cyber Song’.

Fans were invited to send in lyrics to help co-write a track, and 80,000 people responded. The song Bowie chose was by a 20-year-old American, about the idea of having a virtual life on the internet. 

You can find the song on the album Hours...

"What's Really Happening?"

Grown inside a plastic box Micro thoughts and safety locks Hearts become outdated clocks Tickin' in your mind

Fans were invited to watch the track being recorded live via a 360-degree interactive webcast!! back in 1999! 

The chat logs from that session are still online and archived at bowiewonderworld.com

The chat reads like literally any twitch livestream you’d read today:

*** Now talking in #BowieNetChat

Eileen: hmph - pFuRs: looking glass studios Bonster1: I like the hair especially ;) Eileen: (duh) Mechnic: his hair! *sigh* Eileen: I LOVE his hair.. Bonster1: it's getting really long Bonster1: my husband is jealous Eileen: first time in my LIFE I have actually LIKED the way he wears it LdyofDarkness: if I could be anyone's hair in the world, it would be his William: silly old man

Bowie also showed up

TotalBlamBlam: Is that Davis Bowie? Bonster: (David Bowie) yes I smell great

A potion of that chat in addition to the recording session is taken up with discussion about the (then upcoming) adventure game: The Nomad Soul developed by Quantic Dream and published by Eidos Interactive. 

The Nomad Soul (1999)

David Bowie is not only *in* the game and also wrote the soundtrack with Reeves Gabrels from The Cure!

I’ve never played the game but here’s a two line review:

In an alternate reality, all hell is breaking loose. And only one person can stop it - YOU.... sitting at your computer. That's not a witty commentary on video gaming, it's the plot of the game. And that's just the start of this bonkers bonanza. 

Lastly, for completeness I should also mention BowieNet

BowieNet (1998)

From 1998 - 2006, BowieNet wasn’t just David Bowies website with its virtual world, chat rooms, live-streamed concerts etc 

It was also the name of his ISP

Thats right, for 8 years Bowie ran an Internet Service Provider offering high speed and “uncensored” access to the Internet. 

The ISP provided every user with 5MB of web space, encouraging them to create and share their own websites. Newcomers were told they’d need at least a 28k, but preferably 56k modem connection – this was demanding at a time when the commercial WWW infrastructure was still in its infancy.

Through his Ultrastar company he negotiated deals to give users access to music services like the Rolling Stone Network, which livestreamed concerts, and Music Boulevard, one of the first companies to offer paid-for downloadable music tracks. 

For Bowie, this ISP wasn’t just a new means of marketing his material to the masses, it was the realisation of something he’d always understood about music: that the fan response completes the art. 

Anyways, hope his ‘Alien Life Form’ have a little more context. 

Bowie was in the Metaverse way before many of us were even on the web!

[olivinesea]

In the Golden Dark, pt. 2

Part 1

a/n: This was already pretty much done so here you go. These parts are all rather short but that can be nice right? ~1.6k

i can’t concentrate if i keep seeing your face showing up in tea leaves lit up on my tv i can’t stand up straight under your gravity so i lay awake with my eyes closed

“Did you know 12% of people dream in black and white?”

“Wha-what?” Hotch groggily looked at the time on his phone. He had answered it blindly, autopilot kicking in to attend to the buzzing beside him on the couch. He blinked again and brought the phone back to his ear to hear Spencer’s voice more clearly.

“Yeah! It used to be a lot more when television was only in black and white but now that’s shifted obviously. Elderly people are still a lot more likely to have dreams that are—“

“Spencer,” Hotch interrupted the way the words were beginning to tumble out. When he was met with an abrupt silence he realized he didn’t have a follow up, he just needed a moment to breathe. To take in the dark living room, the flickering light of the television, its muted colors and grainy film showing a syndicated rerun, the kind only played in the middle of the night or the middle of the day, times when no productive person was meant to be watching. Something soft in its age, he found it comforting to put it on when he couldn’t sleep, woken again by nightmares that some monster had found their way to Haley and Jack. That they were suffering and he didn’t even know.

On the other end of the line, Spencer held his breath. He had been nervous about making the call, he wasn’t sure if it was too intrusive, too far across the boundaries they normally worked within. It wasn’t that he was worried about waking Hotch, he knew the other man was already awake. Even before they had started talking more, casually sharing details about the time they spent away from the office, it was obvious that Hotch did not sleep like a normal person. It was something else that they shared.

Seemingly endless minutes passed without another word from either man and his fear that he’d made a mistake grew. He told himself that Hotch was not pleased with the interruption. That he was being too assuming—why would Hotch be interested in anything he had to say at three in the morning? He’d called spurred on by the acute need to share a thought and, though he wasn’t totally conscious of it, a wish to hear that comforting voice, maybe even a quiet chuckle. He had smiled imagining that gentle sound, only he hadn’t realized it, the corners of his mouth moving without informing the rest of his mind. He touched his lips now with cold fingertips, running them over the dry skin, oblivious to the way his jaw clenched.

The silence between them hung like a bridge. There was a moment where both of them looked out at their respective living rooms, mentally steeling themselves to take a step and hope the other would meet them. Hope that they wouldn’t find themselves suspended over the water, alone as ever.

“I’m sorry for calling so late,” Spencer sounded so remorseful Hotch felt guilty immediately. He hadn’t meant cause him any anxiety with his long silence, he was just trying his best to gather his thoughts. To make sense of what he meant to do.

“It’s ok, really, I—“ Hotch hesitated, unsure how much detail to go into, how much reassurance was the right amount. He felt unreasonably awkward suddenly and twitched his fingers in irritation, “I wasn’t really sleeping anyway.”

“Really?” Spencer scrunched his eyes up, disliking the eagerness bleeding from his voice. He couldn’t help it though, the prospect of having the other man’s attention, even if it was only his voice reflecting from a satellite, knowing that Hotch was listening made him feel more secure. He’d spent too many restless nights pacing his apartment, starting and abandoning tasks in attempts to distract himself from the way the night was pressing uncomfortably close, threatening to overtake his mind. To have a friend to talk to, to reflect back his own reality, was a gift he could barely believe he deserved.

Hotch grunted as he adjusted himself on the couch cushions, supporting the back of his head on the pillows, resting the phone between his shoulder and ear. With his free hand he pulled up the blanket that had tangled at his feet. “Wide awake,” he said dryly. “What were you saying about dreams?”

Spencer’s smile was so big Hotch could hear it through the phone as the man stumbled ahead with the details of some completely unnecessary study. Hotch wanted to ask what had led to him reading such a thing but he was enjoying the happy way Spencer was running through all the new material he’d learned. He adored listening to Spencer speak, how he sometimes stopped short when remembering a related detail and how there’d be a pause while he took a split second to make the choice whether to jump to the new train of thought. Hotch smiled to himself and was pleased enough to offer hums of interest at inflection points. He let his eyes wander back to the television, as the title credits of another episode of Bonanza played across the screen, the pale wheat and horses and cowboys, already a distant fantasy in the 1960s, ancient history by today’s standards. His eyes fell half closed as he continued to listen to Reid’s voice.

“And, they just published a new study about how sleep deprivation decreases the body’s pain tolerance.”

Hotch snorted softly at this. “They really had to get a bunch of scientists together to figure that out? Someone paid for that?”

“Well it is always important to gather data and scientific evidence for these types of things. Anecdotal testimony won’t lead to any developments in the care for conditions like chronic pain,” Reid paused when he heard more quiet laughter from Aaron. He grinned.

“Do you want to hear something really crazy? They’ve found a connection between a person’s favorite sleeping position and their personality. Can you imagine!”

“Hmmph,” Hotch sank deeper into the cushions, settling in for whatever came next.

*

The calls became as regular as the midnight pancakes. Spencer would call with some piece of trivia, every night a new topic. He had a seemingly endless well of knowledge to draw on. In truth he spent the day trying to think of new ideas to share, new information he thought Hotch would appreciate. For no reason other than his own private satisfaction, he grouped topics thematically. This week they were going to be talking about space.

Now Hotch was ready, drowsy but checking his phone every few minutes to see if he’d somehow missed it ringing. He was looking at it yet again when it buzzed. He stared at the screen for a moment before answering, letting the name that flashed send a small thrill up his spine. He was not sure how it’d happened but he had come to rely on these calls. They still hadn’t discussed it, hadn’t acknowledged what this extracurricular time spent together might mean. They were simply seeking comfort, not questioning how this might be perceived outside these invisible moments.

“Hey Spence,” he barely got the words out before Spencer launched into that night’s prepared curiosities.

“Did you know most of the visible stars are actually multiple star systems? The singular stars are so much harder to see that astronomers used to believe that it was fairly uncommon to find a singular star like our sun.They hypothesized this was a contributing factor to why we hadn’t found evidence of extraterrestrial life. It is much harder for a planet to have the stability necessary for a habitable atmosphere with the potential fluctuations of a binary star system. Without as many single stars it made sense that it was exceedingly unlikely for life to form outside of our solar system.”

“I think it’d be nice,” Hotch murmured, not really thinking about what he was saying.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, ah,” Hotch stammered, a little embarrassed to have the comment acknowledged. He felt his neck growing warm as he tried to make out a reply. “Well, having two suns. I think it could be nice."
 “Why?” Spencer was genuinely curious.

“Um, I guess, I imagine it would be warmer for one,” he paused before adding on, waiting to see what Spencer’s reaction might be. He could almost hear the wheels of his mind turning with all the reasons Hotch’s logic was faulty. He hurried on before he became too self-conscious to finish his thought. “And, I’ve just never really liked the night, all the darkness. Maybe with two suns we could have a little more light in the world.”

Instead of responding, Spencer remained quiet, surprised by this uncharacteristically whimsical thought. Hotch could feel his whole neck had turned red, along with the warming tips of his ears.

“I—I don’t really like the night either,” he tried to sympathize. “It can feel…overwhelming.”

They sat for a moment, not sure where to take this or how the facts had turned into feelings.

“I’m happy I have you to talk to though.”

It was simple, but it was true and sweet and Hotch smiled, closing his eyes to better absorb the words.

“I’m happy too, Spencer.”

Now they were both blushing, the depth of meaning behind these brief statements readily apparent. For a moment, feeling the heat dancing across his face, Hotch wondered if this wasn’t a mistake. Maybe he was allowing things to become something irresponsible, something he couldn’t so easily walk back. He pictured Spencer, sitting across from him, animated and full of life, pulling further away from the shadows that teased around the edges. It didn’t matter, he decided. It didn’t matter what this was, only that they had found a hand to hold through the night.

“So, what else have you got for me?”

~Part 3~

[chicgeekgirl89]

A Tale of a Fateful Trip

Fandom: NCIS LA

Characters: Sam Hanna, G Callen, Kensi Blye, Marty Deeks, Nell Jones, Eric Beale, Otis the Sea Lion

Summary: The mate was a mighty sailing man, the skipper brave and sure. Four passengers set sail that day, for a three hour tour. The team sets out for an afternoon of fun on Sam's boat and gets in a lot of trouble.

A/N: This just demanded, DEMANDED to be written. LOOK AT THOSE LYRICS! THE STORY WRITES ITSELF! Enjoy the nonsense! 

                           XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Ahoy matey!” Eric called to Sam as they walked up the dock. “Shiver me timbers and blow me down!”

“How many nautical references is he going to make today?” Deeks asked Nell.

“As many as he possibly can,” Nell said. “I’m pretty sure he made a list.”

“You can’t tell me that Eric works for the Navy and doesn’t know the difference between a pirate ship and fishing boat,” Callen asked.

“Oh he knows,” Nell said. “He just doesn’t care.”

“Deeks did you put my sunglasses in here?” Kensi called from behind them, having stopped briefly to search through her bag.

“They’re in the side pocket,” Deeks said. 

She dug around and pulled them out. “Oh thanks babe!”

“Wow, Sam, the boat looks great!” Nell said as they came aboard. 

In honor of completing his final renovations on the vessel Sam had invited the team aboard for an afternoon of fishing. They’d all seen the “before” pictures and Sam had truly outdone himself; Michelle’s name gleamed in the sunlight, water lapping cheerily against the hull. 

“Welcome aboard,” Sam said, clearly pleased at the attention his boat was getting. 

“Looks like you’ve got everything here in ‘ship shape,’” Eric said, looking around to make sure everyone had heard him.

Deeks and Nell exchanged an amused look while Sam rolled his eyes. “Sam you’ve really done an amazing job,” Kensi said, setting her bag down on the deck. “I can’t believe you did all of this yourself.”

“More like he didn’t trust anybody else to do it,” Callen said knowingly.

“You want something done right, do it yourself,” Sam said.

“Is that a new addition to the SEAL Ethos?” Deeks asked with a smirk.

Sam glared at him while the others laughed. “So, are we casting off soon Skipper?” Eric asked.

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Skipper?”

“Skipper. You know.” Eric broke into song. “Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip.”

Deeks joined in. “That started from this tropic port aboard this tiny ship!”

“This boat is completely seaworthy,” Sam said calmly. “We’re not going to sink and land on some godforsaken island.”

“Although if we did, the Skipper here would know exactly how to survive,” Callen said, slapping him on the shoulder.

“All right,” Sam shook him off. “Enough jokes. Before we get underway we need to discuss safety regulations and procedures.”

“Sam we work for the Navy,” Kensi said with a snort. “I think most of us are clear on watercraft safety procedures.”

The amused looks all around suggested everyone else was thinking the same thing. He silenced them all with a patented Sam Hanna glare. “Life jackets are located in the wheelhouse. If there is a water emergency you should immediately don a flotation device.”

“I’m sorry, are you a boat captain or a flight attendant?” Deeks asked skeptically.

Another glare. “All garbage and recycling should be thrown in the proper receptacles located at the front and rear of the boat. There is no smoking—“

“No one here smokes,” Eric pointed out.

“No discharging of weapons on deck—“

“You would be the most likely to do that,” Nell said.

“No excessive inebriation—“

“And no fun!” Callen finished up for him. “Anchors away Skipper!”

Sam folded his arms across his chest. “You know if I’m the Skipper that makes you Gilligan.”

Callen thought for a moment and shrugged. “I can live with that.”

“Hey, Sam, before we cast off, do you have a fridge on this puppy for the beer?” Deeks held up the cooler he and Kensi had brought from the bar.

“That depends. Is it regular beer or some concoction the two of you made up full of snails and seaweed?” Sam asked.

Deeks looked at Callen. “Was that this batch?”

“No this one is blueberry and cayenne,” Callen said.

Nell eyed them both. “Sometimes I really wonder about you two.”

“Don’t we all,” Kensi said, nose wrinkling at the thought of trying yet another of her husband’s beer experiments.

“There’s one downstairs,” Sam said. “Get comfortable, we’re going out pretty far.”

They all waved goodbye to Otis and within thirty minutes the shoreline had disappeared. Sam took his time finding a good spot and dropped the anchor, coming out of the wheelhouse to get the fishing rods ready. 

Deeks whistled the Gilligan’s Island theme song as he baited his hook. “Stop with that song,” Sam said.

“What, were you more of a Brady Bunch fan?” Deeks asked. 

“I would bet Sam watched a lot of Bonanza,” Callen said.

“Really? I would have pegged him for a Dragnet guy,” Nell said from where she was laid out, sunning herself on the deck in a large hat and sunglasses. 

“Would you all stop it?” Sam asked, setting down the bait bucket. “I didn’t watch any of those shows.” He cast his line. “I watched The Munsters.”

“That explains a lot,” Kensi muttered.

“What could that possibly explain?” Sam asked. 

Eric inhaled deeply. “Gosh, just being out here, the salty air, the wind in the sails—“

“Not a sailboat,” Callen said with a shake of his head.

“—makes me feel like breaking out my tap shoes and doing a little number from ‘Anything Goes,” Eric said.

“You sure about that?” Deeks asked. “You’re looking a little pale there buddy.”

Indeed, Eric had lost what little color he had in his cheeks and upon close inspection seemed clammy. “No, nope, I’m great,” he insisted, gripping the rail a little tighter as the boat swayed on the waves.

“Babe you should put on some sunscreen,” Kensi said, pulling a tube out of her bag.

“Don’t need it!” Deeks said. “Too many hours surfing the waves. I’m like a golden god.”

Kensi sent him the bemused look that she saved especially for him. “Deeks put the sunscreen on.”

Everyone was distracted by a retching sound as Eric turned and began hurling his guts out over the side of the boat. “Whoa hey, not on the deck!” Sam said, jumping up and rushing over to make sure nothing marred the boat’s new paint job.

“Yikes, thar he blows,” Deeks said, giving Nell a low five of sea related humor as he walked by. 

“I don’t understand,” Eric said, coming up for air, eyes wild. “I took a dramamine.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes that doesn’t help out in the deep water,” Sam said, patting his back.

“I think I packed some of those pressure point bracelet things,” Kensi said, digging in her bag once again.

“Who are you today, Mary Poppins?” Callen asked.

“It’s always good to be prepared,” Kensi said, pulling a bracelet out of an inner zippered pouch and handing it over to Sam who shoved it onto Eric’s wrist as he began to heave again.

“Ooh I think I got one!” Deeks said, his line pulling down hard toward the water.

Callen anchored his own line and came to help, both of them pulling and tugging. “Holy Blackbeard what is it a Great White?” Deeks grunted as it nearly jerked out of his hands.

“Just keep pulling!” Callen said.

Without warning the line snapped sending both of them tumbling onto the deck in a heap. Callen landed on top of Deeks’ chest, the wind knocked out of both of them. “Well this is awkward,” Deeks said when he could breathe again.

“Geez Callen, Kensi is right here,” Nell said. 

“Yeah if you’re going to make a move you could at least do it somewhere private,” Kensi said, neither of them moving to help the guys up.

“Ha ha,” Callen said as he got to his feet and held out a hand to Deeks. “Sorry Deeks, looks like it’s the one that got away.”

“Like Carrie Jenkins,” Deeks said morosely, staring at the water.

“Who’s Carrie Jenkins?” Eric asked, popping his head up briefly.

“My third grade crush. She moved to Boise and I never heard from her again.”

“How tragic,” Kensi said with a roll of her eyes. 

“Um, hey guys?” Nell said, coming out of her seat, eyes focused on the horizon. “Is it just me or is that boat getting really close, really fast?”

Everyone’s eyes followed hers to see a rather large boat approaching as a fast clip. “Could just be somebody out for a joyride,” Callen said as Sam procured a pair of binoculars. 

“There’s been a pretty big increase in drug running up and down the coast in the last couple years,” Deeks said, coming to stand next to Sam. 

“Can you see anything?” Kensi asked.

Sam shook his head. “Not yet. But they’re moving pretty fast.”

He handed the binoculars to Callen. “I’m going to go blast the horn.”

“They’re not slowing down,” Nell said as Sam hit the horn three times. 

“No, they’re definitely not,” Callen said. 

If anything they seemed to be speeding up. The realization hit all of them at the same time, but it was Callen who managed to get the words out. “They’re going to ram us! Everybody down!” 

They all hit the deck and seconds later there was a bone shattering impact as the other boat clipped the bow. “Everybody all right?” Callen yelled, the waves rocking them so hard it seemed like they were in danger of capsizing.

“We’re good!” Deeks yelled back, an arm thrown over Kensi’s shoulders.

“Fine!” Nell yelled.

“I’m going to throw up again,” Eric moaned.

“Sam!” Callen started to scramble to his feet only to come back down again as the rapid staccato sound of gunfire burst through the air.

“What the hell is going on?!” Kensi cried.

“There are weapons in the hold,” Callen said. “Cabinet next to the fridge!”

“I’m on it!” Deeks called, crawling to the stairs. 

Gunfire continued to rain down on them and then there were several short bursts and Sam reappeared from the wheelhouse, Glock in hand. “Can we assume the ‘no firing weapons on deck’ rule is out the window?” Callen yelled.

Sam spared half a second to glare at him before letting off another round. Deeks reappeared and tossed weapons out to the rest of the team.

It seemed their added firepower was enough to run off their attackers because as fast as it had started it was over. The boat turned in the water, churning up massive waves in its wake as it sped away.

Things seemed deafeningly silent in the moments that followed. “Everybody good?” Sam called.

“Good,” they all chimed in one at a time.

“We need to call it in,” Nell said, her voice less than steady.

“I’m on it,” Callen said.

“I have to check for damage to the engine and see if we’re taking on water,” Sam said. Even he seemed unusually shaken. It was one thing to be shot at in the line of duty, it was another to be taken completely by surprise on your day off.

“I’ll come with you,” Deeks offered.

“We’ll bag up the brass out here,” Nell said. 

“There’s uh, there’s bags down in the kitchen,” Sam said. “Gloves in the drawer next to the stove.”

Eric made another gagging sound and Nell pulled a face, pushing him gently back to the railing. “Let’s try to barf away from the evidence, okay?”

[rachelbethhines]

Vintage Shows to Watch While You Wait for the Next Episode of WandaVision - The 80s

OK so we are back to the sitcom timeline shenanigans so lets jump into the 80s.  

1. The Greatest American Hero (1981 - 1983) 

A more comedic spoof on the superhero genre, even more so than the pervious Batman series. A regular joe finds an alien suit that gives him superpowers and antics ensue. 

2. Family Ties (1982 - 1989) 

One of the most successful family sitcoms of the 80s, Family Ties is mostly remembered for launching the career of Michael J Fox. While his character of the suave, yet nerdy Alex P. Kenton does steal the show, the series smartly plays him as part of an assemble and not the singular star.  Allowing him to bounce off his fellow cast members and provide levity or tear jerking moments when needed. Often at the same time. 

Which is what proved to make the show popular as it merged serious topics and drama within the sitcom format. This cultural turning point in sitcoms is evident in Wandavision’s episode five as things become far more serious. It’s also evident in its opening titles which pays homage to the series. 

3. Knight Rider (1982 - 1986)

If you prefer a more serious 80s super hero show then there is Knight Rider. Now the main human character is considered the ‘star’ of the show but the real hero is the robotic talking car as his team mate. Voiced by Mr. Feeny himself William Daniels. 

4. The A-Team (1983 - 1987) 

The last of the spy shows for awhile, and arguably not even a spy show, but it follows the format of action spy shows of the pervious 70s. A team of ex-military special forces go on the run when framed for crimes they didn’t commit and become a bunch of mercenaries with morals. Come for the explosions but stay for the Mr. T. 

5.The Cosby Show (1984 - 1992) 

While some may wish to forget this show given the later revealed scandals involving it’s star and creator, there is no denying the impact the series had during it’s time on air. It helped to further break the glass ceiling and normalize black led family sitcoms on air. 

6.Growing Pains (1985 - 1992)

Perhaps Family Ties only real competitor during the 80s outside of The Cosby Show. The main draw of the series was that it had not one but three cute teenaged boys to compete with Michael J Fox. Which is hard cause it’s Michael J Fox, but still its something that a pre-teen straight girl or gay boy would nevertheless find appealing. Especially with pre-Titanic DiCaprio over there.  

7. ALF (1986 - 1990) 

Like with the pervious decade, there wasn’t many fantasy sitcoms on the air in the 80s. ALF was the exception. Like with My Favorite Martian and Mork and Mindy before it, the show involved hiding an alien away from the rest of the world in US suburbia. The biggest difference was that it was a whole family keeping the secret rather then just one sole confidant. Also as a puppet and not a human actor, Alf could not blend in with the rest of humanity making the task that much harder and that much funnier. 

8. Full House (1987 - 1995)

My brain automatically catalogues this series as a 90s show because of TGIF on ABC. In fact it’s canonically in the same universe as those shows. But it got it’s start in the late 80s and is referenced a lot in this week’s episode. Not the least of which because Elizabeth Olsen is the sister of Mary Kate and Ashely Olsen, who become famous due to their role on the show. 

As for the series itself, it’s basically Three Men and a Baby the series, but with two extra little girls added into the mix. 

9. The Wonder Years (1988 - 1993)

First came Happy Days creating nostalgia for the 50s and then came wonder years giving us 60s nostalgia instead. 

10. Quantum Leap (1989 - 1993) 

For our anthology series this week, lets head back to our sci-fi roots with yet another show that features time travel. Quantum Leap is about a man who leaps into the bodies of people who lived through out history, temporarily possessing them, as he tries to find his way back home to his own body. In order to make another leap he has to ‘fix’ what ever current problem that person is facing. 

Runner Ups

Battlestar Galactica (1978 - 1980) 

The original Battlestar Galactica was just Bonanza meets Star Wars and it was glorious!

Cheers (1982 - 1993) 

One of the most successful sitcoms of all time is just about a bunch of middle aged white folks getting drunk in a bar every week. Which is kind of brilliant in it’s simple stupidity. 

The Golden Girls (1985 - 1992)

Do I even need to explain what the Golden Girls is on trumblr? Well in case you’ve been living under a rock it’s a sitcom about four old women living together, having lots of sex (no, not with each other), and talking about social issues that are still relevant today. 

Married ...with Children (1987 - 1997)

A spoof of family sitcoms of the time featuring a dysfunctional meanspirited family. There’s no seriousness or sweetness here but there sure are a lot of laughs.  

Roseanne (1988 - 1997)

If Married ...with Children was a spoof, then Roseanne was a serious satire. Much like the Honeymooners before it, Roseanne defied the idyllic suburb living family and strove to show the real, gritty, and often forgotten working class family. To mixed results. Even ignoring how unpleasant its main star can be in real life, you’ll either love or hate the show, there’s not much in-between. 

[justkindaoverhereobsessing]

the stars always make me laugh (1/4)

Now complete! Here is chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4, and the epilogue.

A year to the day after Ziva departs D.C. to return to Paris and reunite with her family, her newfound contentment is shaken by an unexpected loss. Tony and Tali are right where they belong—safely by her side—but she still finds herself feeling drawn to reflect on the past. She might just be able to use this new grief to bring peace to old wounds, renewing hope along the way for a future with her family... but only if she can find a way to let go of what haunts her.

Written as a combined response to two different challenge prompts; also available for reading on ff and AO3. This is angsty but will ultimately be soft. 

_________________________

"And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend. You will want to laugh with me. And you will sometimes open your window, so, for that pleasure… And your friends will be properly astonished to see you laughing as you look up at the sky! Then you will say to them, 'Yes, the stars always make me laugh!'"

—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

_________________________

January 7th, 2021

It's a Thursday morning when Tony gets the call.

He's working from home today, and he's nearing the end of a video conference when his phone buzzes—he looks down to check it and sees his favorite unflattering photo of Tim McGee on the screen. Paris is six hours ahead of Washington, where McGee presumably still is, which makes it… hmm. It's four in the morning there. He's probably not reaching out for a casual chat, then.

Something tells him to take the call.

"Sorry to be rude," Tony says quickly in French, looking back at his computer screen, "but there's an emergency I have to deal with. Let's go ahead and wrap this up for today and we'll talk progress next week, same time as usual—Félix, go ahead and email me that report, if you can. I'll check in when I'm back at the office tomorrow. Have a good morning, all of you."

Then he abruptly ends the conference; he cares very little if he comes across as impolite, because his thoroughly French team has always seen him as a hopelessly crass American anyway.

Tony hits a button on his cell, catching the call just before it would have gone to voicemail. "Why, if it isn't Tim-Tim-Timothy McGee!" he cries, jovial as usual even though he's a little apprehensive about the nature of the unexpected conversation. "What can I do for you?"

"Hey, Tony." McGee sounds tired, which is little wonder given the time difference. "Do you have a moment to talk?"

"Sure," Tony agrees, dropping the slightly mocking enthusiasm from his tone. "What's up?"

"I don't know how to tell you this, so I'm just going to say it, okay?"

"...okay."

"There was an accident last night, and—"

"Who?" Tony can read between the lines—he doesn't have to hear the word "death" to understand that someone he knows has passed away.

"It was Ducky."

_________________________

Tony is on the phone with McGee for another fifteen minutes, getting all the details and committing them to memory as best as he can through his slight haze of shock. Though Ducky had always been the oldest member of their team and clearly couldn't live forever, he had seemed… invincible, somehow. He was an institution, something timeless and never-ending.

Of course, that had been an illusion, but still, it's strange to know that the vibrant old man is now just…

Gone.

The rest of the workday is spent processing all of this new information and making preparations. Tony can't imagine a world in which they wouldn't fly back to the States to attend the funeral, and though he hasn't yet talked to Ziva about it, he feels fairly comfortable arranging emergency bereavement leave from work and informing Tali's school that she'll be out next week.

Near the end of the call, McGee had asked if Tony wanted him to call Ziva, too, or if Tony wanted to tell her himself. Tony's answer was immediate: he knew without needing to stop and consider that telling Ziva in person would be the right thing to do.

It doesn't matter how much he hates having to give bad news.

Tony intends to do it tonight, once his wife is home from work… she has experienced too much loss in her life for him to be anything less than absolutely gentle in telling her about their old friend. There's no need to make it harder than it needs to be; an impersonal phone call across the Atlantic may have been an inevitability for Tony himself, but now that he knows, he wants to be there to hold Ziva's hand when she finds out, too.

He would give anything to spare her from as much pain as possible, and while he can't do much, he can do this.

Fortunately, the timing of McGee's call is decent—Tali has choir practice after school today, effectively speeding up the rest of the evening's schedule. By the time Ziva gets home, it'll nearly be dinner time, and bedtime will follow shortly after.

Tony doesn't want to delay giving Ziva the news, but he thinks it best to wait until Tali is safely tucked away. That way, they don't have to worry about putting on happy faces to keep from scaring her.

_________________________

As soon as Ziva walks in the door, she can tell that something is wrong. Tony looks tired or sad, or maybe both. He kisses her in greeting as usual, though, and when she gives him a questioning look, he answers with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Later, she understands that to mean.

Ziva is concerned, but she trusts him.

Still, Tony seems eager to rush through Tali's evening routine, telling Ziva her unsettled feeling isn't merely a product of her typical anxiety… she's right, and something has happened or is happening still.

If she was Gibbs, she'd claim a gut feeling.

"Tony, is everything alright?" Ziva asks in a low, tense voice once Tali's bedroom door is shut for the night.

Tony shakes his head. "Let's go sit," he answers softly.

He leads her to the couch and she sits next to him automatically, her heart starting to race in a horribly familiar way. "Please just tell me, whatever it is," she murmurs anxiously.

Tony takes her hand. "Alright." His voice is gentle. "Just don't forget to breathe, Ziva, okay? I got a call from McGee today, and he had some bad news. Ducky was in an accident last night… he passed away this morning."

Ziva's pulse is thudding in her ears, and she focuses on the grounding anchor of Tony's hand on hers as she tries to internalize what he just told her. "An accident?" she echoes, sounding distant even to herself.

"Yeah…" Tony shakes his head and unexpectedly gives a quiet, incredulous laugh. The sound pulls Ziva out of her head a little, and she makes a conscious effort to squeeze his hand back as she waits for details.

He gives her a warm smile, recognizing the gesture.

"Honestly, it was the 'Duckiest' way that he could have died, I think," Tony explains. "He had apparently been out in Newfoundland exploring some continental fault thing, and on the way back, his plane hit some bad weather and ended up crashing. Palmer says it was very quick—Ducky never would have felt a thing."

Ziva nods, slightly faint but quickly getting over her shock. With any luck, she'll avoid a full-blown anxiety attack; the frequency of the attacks has decreased since she reunited with her family a year ago, but they'll always be a threat that she has to be prepared for.

Tony seems to understand that she's not quite ready to talk yet, so he keeps going. "There are worse ways to go, for sure, and I think Ducky would have wanted to spend his last minutes just as he did: coming from from an adventure in a tiny two-seater Bonanza. You know what I mean?"

"Yes… yes, I am sure you are right," she agrees, her voice steadier.

"I'm really glad that we got to see him recently, too. We had a good time, didn't we?"

"We did." A few months back, Ducky'd had a daylong layover in Paris on a trip to a remote area of Siberia, and they'd spent a very fun day showing him around the city. Their daughter had warmed to him quickly, which was hardly surprising.

"Hopefully Tali was old enough that she'll remember it, I think."

"Yes."

Tony pauses, and with his free hand, he reaches up to briefly caress his wife's cheek. "Are you alright?" he questions, concerned. "You're not saying much. I don't want you to pass out on me."

"I am—" Ziva stops in the middle of her sentence and takes two deep breaths. She had nearly said 'fine,’ but she's not, is she?

Ziva likes to think that she can be open and honest with Tony these days, as much as a lifetime of trials has given her the impulse to keep things to herself. The fact that Tony waits patiently for her to finish rather than interrupting tells her that she's right—she shouldn't shut him out.

Finally coming to a decision, she shakes her head. "No."

Tony nods. "I thought that might be the case."

"Are you?"

"Alright?"

"Yes."

"No. No, I'm really not. But I will be."

Tony's words suddenly pull a memory to the forefront of Ziva's mind, and she tilts her head for a moment, considering something.

Tony waits, a slight frown furrowing his brow.

"Come," Ziva decides finally. "There is something that I want to show you."

_________________________

A few minutes later, a bemused Tony watches from the doorway as Ziva digs determinedly through a box in the back of their bedroom closet. He knows what's in that box, and he knows that several identical boxes stacked neatly in the corner contain more of the same: Ziva's old journals from NCIS, dozens of them thoughtfully shipped to Paris by Ellie Bishop.

"Are you looking for one in particular?"

"Yes," Ziva answers, but she doesn't explain any further. After a few more seconds, she makes a noise of triumph and rises with one of the journals in hand.

"Found it?"

"I did."

She leads him back to the bedroom and sits on the bed, inviting him to sit next to her; Tony is relieved to see that while she definitely looks pained and tired, there are no obvious signs of an impending anxiety attack.

Once they're settled, Ziva gently—almost lovingly—pats the cover of the thin book. "This is one of my journals from late 2009 until early 2010."

"That's—"

"Shortly after I was rescued from the desert, yes."

Tony nods; it's not his favorite time to think about, and he knows it can't be for Ziva, either—so why did she pull this notebook in particular from the dozens of identical ones chronicling her experiences?

"Ducky was… helpful to me, in the aftermath of my rescue."

"He was?" Tony interjects in surprise. "You've never talked about that before."

"It is not a subject that I deeply enjoy discussing, something I am sure you can understand."

"Sure."

"Well, because I believe that sharing this memory will honor Ducky, I would like to tell you more about what he did for me."

"Are you sure?"

Ziva nods, and she keeps the journal clutched lovingly in one hand as she reaches over to lay a hand on Tony's thigh. "It has been a long time, and I think I am ready." She offers a smile—it's small and watery, but it's very sincere, and something about it makes Tony's own eyes start to sting.

He's been too busy to cry today, but he knows it's coming sooner or later. Ducky had been family for a very long time, and with this on top of that loss...

"Okay," he agrees roughly, clearing his throat. "Take it away. I'm all ears."

Ziva squeezes his thigh and then pulls her hand away, glancing down at the journal; this one will always be one she cares for above its brethren, because its painful content reminds her of how much she has overcome.

After a pause, Ziva opens it carefully.

Then, her voice surprisingly steady, she starts to read.

_________________________

January 7th, 2010

There is a reason that I have not penned an entry in quite some time; I have walked a difficult road these past months. Today, however, I was offered a comfort that I had not previously possessed the courage to ask for. If I have any hope of sorting through my own thoughts on the matter, though, I need to reconsider earlier events.

Before returning to Mossad more than half a year ago, I was faced with a dilemma that I had successfully avoided in my career before that point—that is, the dilemma of who to trust and who to side with when personal and professional obligations become hopelessly conflicted. I have already written at length about the choices I and the others made in the midst of that conflict.

Much has happened since then, but recent forced introspection has shown me an important connection between the difficulties of Michael's death and the horrors I endured after: a connection between who I was then and who I am now. That night, it only took a few minutes to change the course of my life: in that time, Tony and Michael fought, and Michael was killed. Every single one of us has had to deal with the consequences of those events ever since.

At the time, I let my anger and my grief consume me, destroying all vestiges of rationality in my thoughts and decisions. I followed that pain to the Horn of Africa, hurting and reckless and prepared for death.

Of course, I did not die, and that has brought consequences of its own… consequences that I am only now beginning to come to terms with.

In the wake of Michael's death and doubly so in the wake of my experiences in the desert camp, I found myself vulnerable. For the first time in my life, I'd been forced to acknowledge my heart and acknowledge its fragility. It could be bruised. It could humiliate me. These were things that frightened me, because I knew from recent experience that they could—and likely would—be used against me. My fear led me to withdraw, to hide again; acknowledging my own weakness demanded far less bravery than I would have needed to share that vulnerability with my friends.

I defaulted to an old defense mechanism. I leaned on ability borne of long experience to simply feign contentment. I passed my psychological evaluations, I sent my resignation to Abba, and against all odds, I was instated as a probationary special agent at NCIS. After a time, my colleagues stopped watching me when they thought I could not see, waiting for me to fall apart. I had convinced them that I was alright; perhaps I even convinced myself some of the time, too. Maybe I was not yet as 'fine' as I seemed to be, but I was sure that in time, I would reach a point where my conscience felt as carefree as my forced smile looked to those who loved me.

Darkness, however, is difficult to chase away with one single flickering candle, lit only by the flame of my own exhausted determination. My candle burned low, worn down over time, and I found myself in need of help. I alone could not summon the light that had long since fled my tired soul.

Though I did not know to whom I should turn, fate helped a friend to find me. It was—of all people—Ducky. In many ways, he is something of a saba* to me, the kind that I wished for as a child. Even so, I would not have thought to seek him out as a confidant. I see now how remiss I was in taking him for granted as I have sometimes done. It turns out that he was just who I needed.

He found me this evening in the midst of… I do not know how to define what I was feeling. I can only say that I was lost in a moment of weakness. At the time, being seen that way was humiliating, but now, several hours later, it feels serendipitous.

Ducky and I spoke quite candidly then… I will not record the details of the conversation here, because I feel in no danger of forgetting what was said. I am confident, however, that today marks something of a new beginning for me. There is still so much to sort through and process, but the shadows already feel less dim.

Today, I invited a friend to see my darkness, and despite what he saw, he did not pity me; he only held my hand and lit another candle.

_________________________

*saba = "grandfather" in Hebrew

[amisssunbeam]

My Top Ten Favorites

@rhavewellyarnbag tagged me to list my ten favorite characters, so, Harvey, here I go!

Terror: Evabidy. All of them. I want to help them all with their homework and make them aprons when we get in the kitchen to make tahini. For instance, I love the molten sex imp Hickey, the big-assed angel Irving, the ox-eyed giant dimwit Sir John, the hey-bud-my-voice-is-a-clavier Hodgson, our divine environmental guardian Crozier with the cookie head, alls alls of them, but it is true that I love James Fuzzjames the moistest, with his transparent desires and the way he turns to Frankie who finds him in his Juliet dress and says, “but, Fuzz, I never . . . “, “Oh, don’t stop, Frankiest, don’t stop . . . “ etc.

Star Trek: TNG: “Jean-Luc Picard/Hit Me Hard/Left Me Scarred” Surely by now even the embryos understand the appeal of that guy. Remember the “Yesterday’s Enterprise” ep where they go through a temporal rift where they're twenty years in the past and the Klingons are mopping the floor with the Federation and it's kind of an AU and everybody's nerves are on edge, and it's really sexy, and Jean-Luc has to snarl at Riker for being such a big freelance pussy, and barkeep Guinan is acting battle strategist! But the greatest moment is one which repudiates all the ST: TOS crabapples who say that Jean-Luc is a social worker and a big femme and a girlycow that goes moomoo. At an analogous climactic moment when Shatner just kind of weaves around whining, "Those Klingon bastards killed my son", My Man leaps off the bridge like Nijinsky, says to the Klingons who want him to surrender, "That will be the day, cocksuckers!" and proceeds to machine-gun his way back to "real" time. Breath breathe breathe.

Star Trek: DS9: Miles O’Brien. I love him. I love his singing, his fooling around with Julian, his costumes on the holodeck. And I love how he always rolls his sleeves up, forever reminding me of my favorite painting, Vermeer’s “The Milkmaid.” (Even his Playmate Action Figure – which I ran out and bought at Toy’R’Us on the night of January 4,1993, yes, even his Playmate Action has ROLLED-UP-SLEEVES!)

Okay, on the wayback machine - Wild Wild West: Ross Martin (the pure embodiment of jolie-laide) as Artemus Gordon. This late Sixties series was only the slashiest thing ever on network television. Jim West and Artemus Gordon lived on a railway train made for two where they solved crimes as secret service men. Insanely provocative double-entendres every three minutes, like clockwork. And it was s/m-est as hell, too! I mean, I know there was that stupid movie with the three actors I hate the most in the world!!!!, but I think the real Wild Wild West deserves a second chance with characters truer to the originals.

More wayback machine to the early Sixties: Bonanza: Adam Cartwright! You know, you enfants terrible of today who studied history under Billy Joel probably think oh, the Sixties, they began in blabla when blablablabla, but it was Adam Cartwright, dressed all in black, who up and left his horrible prosperous oppressive corporation family and all their money to go out and start the Sixties. He was the first mainstream alienated rebel beamed into American homes weekly.

Schitt’s Creek: David, what else can you expect of me?

U-Deux: L’edge. In the drag photos of 1992, he has such a purty mouth.

Rome: James Purefoy. Lotta hotties in Rome, but James Purefoy just embodied IT. Loved him in his Maybelline eyeshade.

Mammals: ring tailed lemurs. Must you ask why?

And my favorite Tumbleristo: surprise! Rhavewellyarnbag! I will worship him mostly in private; however, what you read when you are on solid ground, Rhavewellyarnbag is what you read when you’re a mer-person, no breathing, eyes stinging, gotta finish reading before you are absorbed by the blood-flavored sea. Inexplicably beautiful.

I don’t think I know ten people, but I would like to tag, if they’d like to do this, and reveal their ten favorite characters: @lenetaylor, @wildcard47, @divorcedmilfaddict, @ciegi, @teacat12, @claudiahantschel, @thefearedfish, @clovepinks, and @shark-from-the-park

[stonecoldjerseyfox]

Jersey on my mind (part 16)

“You’re safe.”

Mila looks up from the half empty, half full bottle of Stolichnaya and is met by Rick, standing in the door of the bedroom. He’s all sweaty and stained with blood, but seemingly unharmed. Maybe a bit bruised but-

“Erhm... yeah.” Mila says, looking at him in disbelief. “You're back.” 

“I am.” Rick replies and sighs.

“Alone?”

“Michonne’s back too.”

Rick walks up to the bed, where Mila has barricaded herself since she left the battle scene outside. 

Her ‘maybe planned’ torture of the Wolf (it was because of him Mila had barely been able to dress herself for several days) was interrupted by Morgan, who dragged him away to the makeshift prison cell. He then forbade Mila to go near him, to which Mila gave Morgan a haywire smile, saying it wasn’t something she could promise. Then she returned to the house... well, after she had stopped to vomit into a beautiful rose bush around the corner. On shaking legs she ran up the stairs to the bedroom, where she found Juri, hiding underneath the covers in the bed with his walkman. At the sight of her, he burst into a sunny smile and wrapped his arms around Milas neck; squeezed all the anger, all the crazy, out of her. Mila held him close, pressed his little body against her chest and inhaled the scent of his soft hair, whispering to him what a good boy he was, how brave he was when he threw the bottle out the window.

“You are my brave, brave Solnishko.” 

Mila caressed him across his small face with the fingertips. Juri imitated, pulled his soft little fingers over her face, then buried them in her hair, pulled her close and gave her a kiss on the nose. She fell down next to Juri on the bed, just laid there, looking at him. Half an hour later, Juri was asleep and Mila had opened a bottle of vodka. 

Rick sits down on the bedside. He looks tired.  

“What happened?” she asks monotonously. “What went wrong?”

“They got out of the quarry.” Rick meets her gaze. “All of ‘em.” he sighs. “How’s the-” he nods towards her stomach.

Mila lifts the half empty bottle, to answer his question. Her goal is to drink herself to apathy, to the point where she won’t feel anything at all, neither her aching abdomen or emotions. It’s been too long since her last booze-bonanza. Half a bottle doesn’t affect her that much, a whole bottle is manageable but does the trick. Two bottles are quite a lot, definitely causes her to sway and spontaneously dance.  

She reaches Rick the bottle. It looks like he needs it. He takes it, removes the lid and takes a mouthful of the clear liquid and coughs, before giving it back to her.

“I talked to Morgan. And Carol. They said you did a hell of a job.”

“What did Morgan say?” Mila scoffs. 

“That you’re crazy.”

“Could’ve been worse.” Mila raises her eyebrows and takes a mouthful of vodka. “On the other hand, Gandhi’s right though. I am crazy.” 

“Seems like crazy saved a lot of lives.”

“Crazy’s not allowed to come out that often.” Once again Mila meets Rick's gaze. “You didn’t answer my question. Where are the others?”

“Michonne’s back too, and Heath and Scott.” 

“That’s not all of you.”

“We lost some.” Rick says, knows what she is referring to, or whom. “He’s with Abraham and Sasha.” he continues. “He’ll be alright.” Rick takes her hand, squeezes it. “Thanks.”

Mila looks at her hand.

“For what?”

“You held the stands here. Made sure people were safe. Protected them.” Rick lets go of her hand and takes the vodka bottle, takes a new sip. “I’m scared too. But I need you now. There’s about a hundred walkers on the other side of that wall.” he points towards the window. “Daryl’s not here. Glenn’s gone. People died. Morale’s low and the walls are weak. I need you to help me fix this. To keep this place safe.”

“I just-” Mila says. ”I just need to-” she pauses. “I don’t know what I need. Besides getting batshit drunk.” 

She takes back the bottle from Rick and drinks. When in doubt, she needs more vodka. That should be a Russian proverb, if anything, she thinks. What she really needs, or wants, besides alcohol, she can’t have in this life.  

That's when she sees the ring on Rick's ring finger. A wedding band. Huh, she hasn’t noticed it before.

“You’re married?”  

Rick looks down on his bloodstained, bruised hand.

“Was. Or-” Rick pauses, strokes the wedding band. “She died.”

Mila pulls out her necklace from inside her shirt and holds out for him to see. Next to the small, dainty gold heart she got from her mother at her twelfth birthday, a narrow gold ring with three small stones, dangles on the gold chain. 

“He died- turned, a few months ago.” Mila looks at the three diamonds, next to each other. On the inside, it says ‘Can’t start a fire without a spark’. It must’ve been hard for Jim, the devoted country music fan, to pick a Bruce Springsteen engraving instead of some cheesy country love song. “I killed him.”

”Juri’s father?”

”I don’t even know who that is. That’s another, fucked up story.” Mila looks down and takes a bountiful sip of vodka. Yeah, that really is a story for another time, advantageously if every person attending at that moment is heavily drunk. ”We had it all figured out. Jim was going to adopt Juri, we were going to get married. We were attacked in Louisville, Kentucky, on our way to his parents in Oklahoma. He didn’t tell me he was bitten. Two days later he turned. At a motel in Missouri.” she takes another sip. ”I hid Juri in a closet. I thought I was going to die. Jim was big, tall, all muscles. But I killed him. Buried him. Left him in a shallow grave behind the motel.” Mila looks at Rick. “You asked me if I’d killed anyone, do you remember? Alive or dead. I killed Jim. Whatever he was, dead or alive or something in between, I killed him. I did that. And now I have to live with that for the rest of my life. Morgan’s wrong. All life isn’t precious. That bastard down in that cell, he ain’t precious. But Jim’s was. And he’s dead.” 

“That’s called surviving.” 

“No, that’s called unfair.” Mila looks at Juri, lying next to her on his back with the headphones on. She pats him gently on the foot. “He’s the reason why I went out there today, partially. Or, more like, the reason I went out there, and came back. I came back to him.”

Rick takes her hand again. 

“You’re brave. And you care about people. You showed it today if anything.” Rick declares. “You saved people, protected them. Carl and Judith included. You’re part of this group. Both of you. People need other people to stay sane, to stay alive.” 

Something runs down her cheek. A tear. Oh for christ sake. Half a bottle of vodka doesn’t stop tears, she needs at least a whole bottle for that. To become completely numb, emotionally. Rick puts his arm around her shoulder and pulls her closer. It’s a friendly hug, it reminds Mila of her foster brothers, Adam and Peter Galka. A brotherly, kind embrace. They sit like that for a while, next to each other, sharing the vodka.

“He asked about you.” Rick says after a moment's silence. “Daryl. In his own way. Wanted me to make sure you were safe.” 

“I’m feeling brilliant.” Mila exclaims confidently. That might also be because of the vodka, but she doesn’t tell. Truthfully, she’s exhausted. “Brilliant...”

“Yeah.” Rick nods. “Can’t say the same about the guy in the cell. What did you do to him?”

[mycryptosuite]

Bonanza Sure Banker Today Live 06/01/2023

Bonanza Sure Banker Today Live 06/01/2023

Bonanza Sure Banker Today Live 06/01/2023 Bonanza sure banker today live – bonanza lotto banker two sure live drop, i need two sure for today ghana lotto bonanza, bonanza banker for today. Two sure for Friday bonanza has just been leaked to the lucky once today and my lotto spy at NLA has briefed me of the latest development, just count yourselves among the lucky once. Today Friday bonanza…

[piratewithvigor]

Love Break My Heart: Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Summary: A half-life relationship is disintegrating at the seams. Neither of them is good for the other, but after 14 years together, they don’t know how to be with each other anymore.

Word Count: 2059

A/N: A prize story written for @slashscowboyboots​ that I keep putting off working on until I have massive fruitopia-fueled writing bonanzas when I’m supposed to be going to sleep because I work tomorrow. Enjoy!

I can remember back to the first days we spent in the studios. Cutting demos, the silence punctuated by growling stomachs. We were hungry literally and figuratively. Daily scrapings of cash were what we ate from and some days, sleep was all we could afford for dinner. Working on the first album was much of the same, but not quite as desperate. We had a bit of an advance. Something we could eat off of, but nothing that was keeping us in the lap of luxury. We still all shared a shitty house with a carpet full of burn holes and not a single piece of furniture that didn’t boast an array of stains, dents or scrapes. But we weren’t starving for anything except success.

It’s different now. You didn’t have to look beyond the people occupying the studio to know the energy felt different. Steven was gone, to begin with. He’d struggled along with the rest of us, and now he was gone because he found something that meant more to him than we did. Success got to his mind and gave him the delusions of invincibility I had seen so many of my heroes succumb to. My mind drifted to him sometimes when nothing else was occupying it. Call it a happy place, if you will. It’s simply a corner of my mind I can go to when the reality around me doesn’t live up to my expectations of it.

The other difference is everyone’s attitudes about the albums-in-process. Our collective passions were what created the first, but this? The passion here lay in something besides music. Slash is doped up, hiding behind his curtain as if he thinks we can’t tell. He used to share this passion with Steven and me, but times are different now. Duff’s baby is in the bottle. How his liver hasn’t exploded yet is beyond me. His passion lies somewhere deep within his endless bottles, in drinking them down like he’s trying to find it. Axl? His passion lies in control, in perfection. In a way, it always has, but it’s begun to overpower him and, in turn, the rest of us. His demand for perfection drives everyone to their respective new passions as well. As for myself, I’m no saint. I’ve drank my fair share and I took part in every drug I could get my hands on. But they weren’t my passions. The struggles I went through to kick all of them were in the honour of the one thing who held control over me: the bitchy redhead who’s barking orders at everyone in the studio.

I’m trying to comply with what he’s saying and follow directives. Axl’s in no mood to hear anyone’s ideas but his own. Neither Duff nor Slash seem eager to offer any. Matt and Dizzy look more inclined to lick peanut butter off his ass than to offer constructive criticism. It’s no one’s fault the day is going this way; simply the cycle that’s been constructed during these albums. A single mistake in the morning leads to an outburst, which leads to stress, more mistakes, more anger and fear which leads to shit being taken secretly to cope, then playing gets sloppier, and eventually, something will break. It’s as certain as any law of motion.

I’m not even sure who messed up when Axl pauses us again. I started tuning him out after we did a perfect run-through and he still found problems. As much as I love him, sometimes a tune-out is the only way to cope. It’s the only way I can keep loving him. He’s in the control room, arguing with our producer. I can’t hear his exact words through the soundproofed glass, but I can see his lips moving and his body language isn’t screaming “I’m in a fantastic mood; please approach.”

It takes five or so minutes for our producer to eventually lean into his mic to be heard in the recording booth.

“Iz, Axl thinks you might be flat.”

I purse my lips and make a show of checking my tuning quickly. I’m not flat. Axl knows I know I’m not flat. He’s lashing out because something isn’t living up to his grand vision and he isn’t sure what it is. I’d have heard if someone was flat. He would have too, without having gone through an entire shouting match with the producer to wreck his voice.

Satisfied with my efforts, Axl returns to the booth and we start another take. They’re numbered, for some reason, but we’ve done so many, I don’t know why anyone would bother to keep track. It’s the same for every song. Every song on these twin albums that we thought would be a great idea. No one had anticipated just how much of a pain they would grow to be. A single album takes months. We’ve been at both of them for over a year. Almost a year and a half, by my count. A year and half of my time spent being yelled at by a man who just wishes he could yell at the universe, but instead chooses to whittle it down to who he used to consider his universe.

I’m playing again, but I don’t remember beginning. Everyone is playing, but no one looks like they’re actually here. Mentally, anyway. We’re all in our respective happy places. Axl stops us again and the room heaves a collective mental sigh. The take was as perfect as he’s going to get. For tonight, anyway. Time passes in a different way in the studio. The lack of windows and clocks ensure it. Once the exhaustion sets in, minutes seem like hours, seem like seconds. I know I ate breakfast with Axl this morning, but nothing since. I can easily bet that it’s beyond lunch time.

Once Axl’s back is turned in the control room, I pull my neck strap over my head and place the guitar on one of the stands in the corner, unplugging it in the process. The minute details of imperfection have Axl swamped sufficiently that he doesn’t notice when I leave the recording booth. Nor does he notice that I’ve left the studio.

It’s late evening when I walk outside. Full moon on the rise and everything. For the first time today, my movements aren’t planned. Sure, I’ll eventually have to return to the studio and face Axl’s wrath, but for a few moments, I’m free. It’s yet crowded enough that Axl would be a fool to walk in the streets. Moments like these are when I respect Kiss and everyone who had the same idea as them: when you become famous, your face is no longer your own. It belongs to the public to use as they please. So they created new faces to give to the public and keep the ones they were born with for themselves. Staying out of the spotlight gives me a variation of the same luxury. A fan could identify me if they tried, but a casual viewer never could like how they would be able to with Axl. Being the frontman, everyone knows his face. He’d get swamped the instant he set foot outside the studio. I’m walking with my hands shoved into my jean pockets to keep them a little warmer. It might be Californian May, but it’s still nightfall and growing colder. Not enough that I’m wishing I had something warmer on, but enough that it’s starting to grow unpleasant. 

The first time I remember my intentions for leaving the studio is when I reach a cheap diner a few blocks away. The kind that looks like it employs people who spit in your food if you order anything more complicated than a burger and a soda. In short, the perfect place for a hiding musician.

The diner is empty save for a couple of skeevy patrons dotting the bar stools and other booths. A pretty sorry dinner rush, but the food looks edible enough to spend money on. Playing safely gets me a coke and a cheeseburger served in a plastic basket, somehow both looking like the most beautiful things I’d seen all day. Grease is seeping through the parchment paper lining the basket and the coke is a little flat, but it’s quiet. No strings cutting into my fingers while I played the same two minutes of a song over and over, no screaming, no more little bubble of resentment that was building up deep within me. Just soft conversations between patrons. For the first time in almost a year and a half, it’s quiet enough that I can let myself think.

A little scrap of paper’s been metaphorically burning a hole in my pocket since we began writing for the album, but I never knew what to add to it. My original idea was to write a love song for Axl, but the frustration of having nothing to say only got me more depressed. I hadn’t even tried to put anything down since I got clean.

I uncap a pen and begin to write. Nothing in particular, just a few words that could maybe be something some day. I eventually finish the cheeseburger and start dedicating my brain power to scribbling while I sip on my flat coke. The chorus is starting to come together and the verses are well on their way when someone slides into my booth across from me. I know without looking up. A pair of aviators join my field of vision of the table, but I’m not giving Axl the satisfaction of acknowledging him yet. It’s what he wants; to have the proof that I know I wronged him. So I keep at the task at hand. If he’s able to read my handwriting upside-down, he’s not saying so. Just sitting as uncaring as I am. As soon as I leave the diner, shit is going to fly. If I’m lucky, my nose will stay intact, but I’ve never been known to be that lucky before. All I do know is that the longer I sit here, the worse I’m going to have it. It’s the little quirks like that that you pick up on after 14 years with someone.

The final verse closes up under my hand as I awkwardly slurp up the last few drops of coke hidden under semi-melted ice cubes. I fold up the scrap of paper and put it back into my pocket as I get up, leaving most of my spare change on the table as a tip. I still haven’t looked Axl in the eye, but I can tell he’s been staring me down ever since he entered. When I push open the door to exit, he follows, no more than an arm’s reach away.

The first time he touches me is when we pass an alley and he grabs my by the collar to pull me in. The jolt is strong enough to startle me, but not strong enough that it hurts. He shoves me so my back is against the grimey alley wall before socking me across the jaw.

“You… Izzy, you…” He looks like he wants to saw something else, but he punches me again instead.

“…you backstabbing son of a bitch!” He figures out what he wants to saw as he swings again, but I’m ready for him this time. Ready enough that I block his arm with mine.

“Cool it, Fireball.”

“Cool it?” He chuckles like he’s in a strange sort of delirium. “You fucking throw me under the bus to deal with those fucking dipshits and you tell me to cool it?”

“I didn’t throw you under any bus you weren’t already swan-diving towards,” I counter, keeping a firm grasp on his wrist. I’ve both thrown and received my share of punches, but it doesn’t mean I’m fixing to get any more. Especially from Axl.

“You’re as bad as they are! Are you all fucking trying to mess up and delay the albums?” He’s struggling against my grasp enough that I let go. Right now, he’s not planning on hitting me anymore. Just yell a little bit and maybe pace some before the steam will be all out. We’ll kiss and we’ll go home together and we’ll call it love when deep down, we know it’s anything but.

[edenforest]

for @oryss for the send me a one word prompt and i’ll write a summary for a fic someone else should write about it thing   

groceries: A meet cute where Arya is reaching for the last box of her favourite cereal on the highest shelf at the grocery shop and a tall, surly-looking stranger wearing headphones arrives and easily grabs the box but then walks away cause it’s his favourite cereal too and she’s now ready to fight him for it

I don’t know was anyone really supposed to write a fic, but I was inspired so I did. english isn’t my first language and it’s no beta read, bc it’s the midsummer weekend and I’m a little rosé tipsy, so I don’t really care. I hope it’s not too bad and happy midsummer!

Boo Boo Bull’s Berry Bonanza

The day had been long and frustrating. Arya entered the small corner store meaning to grab some frozen meal, but when even that seemed too much work - she was no mood for poking plastic and waiting for the microwave to do its thing - she headed for the cereals. She discarded anything that looked too healthy for her, that was not what she wanted. She wanted E-colours and sugar. And when she saw the garish and yet comforting shade of nearly neon purple that was the box of Boo Boo Bull’s Berry Bonanza on the top shelf her mind was made. And as there was only one box of it, it felt like destiny.

Arya reached for the box, rose to her tiptoes and stretched her hand, fingers nearly brushing the colorful cardboard, but not quite. She huffed and flopped her hands down, quickly glancing was there a stepladder or crate or anything really she could stand on and grab her pink and purple cereal treat. There was nothing that wasn’t made out of flimsy cardboard, and she hated to go ask for help. She reached again, cursing to whoever had though shelves this tall would be a good idea. Probably some smug tall person who had no idea how frustrating not reaching something was.

Her toes were hurting and Arya had to give up. She made a low and quiet grunt before facing up the fact that she needed to find someone taller to help her. She was already leaving to find someone when a guy appeared from behind the tall piles of soda crates, seemingly suddenly, almost stopping next to him. 

He looked sturdy and surly, in a quite interesting and hot way. Black unruly hair and bright blue eyes, wearing jeans and grey t-shirt, and one of those big headphones people who took listening music seriously, or pretending to be someone who wants to look like they were taking listening music seriously, had. And he was definitely tall enough to reach the top shelf. He was probably a head taller than Arya, who had stayed the same humble size since thirteen.

She had merely opened her mouth when he had already grabbed the purple cereal box, destined to be hers, and walking away.

“Hey!” Arya was surprised she reacted so fast and even more so that the tall stranger stopped. He turned, frowning, slightly moving his headphones from one of his ears. “Those are my cereals.”

The guy looked confused. “What?”

“My cereals,” Arya repeated and pointed the purple box. “That’s mine, I was just grabbing it.”

“Well grab another.”

“There isn’t another, it was the last one.”

The guy shrugged, moved his headphones back on and turned away.

Arya could've left it. She could've. Easily. Just let the guy leave, pick another sugary cereal from the shelf. It would’ve been easy.

But she had already decided she was destined to get the Berry Bonanza, and he was being kind of rude. She took a few quick running steps, twisted herself in his way at the narrow aisle. He grunted when he had to make such a sudden stop, and yanked his headphones down, to dangle on his neck.

“What’s your problem?”

“That's my cereals,” Arya said between her teeth. “Pick some other brand. I want the Berry Bonanza.”

“Are you five or something?” The guy asked, raking his black mop of a hair, looking frustrated. “I grabbed it, it’s my box.”

“I was reaching it first, you just grabbed it in front of my nose while I was asking could you hand it to me because I couldn't reach it.”

“Listen, lady, I don’t know what your deal is but I took the box from the self fair and square. So could you please step away from my way?”

“I’m not a lady.”

“I don’t really care to be honest.”

Arya gritted her teeth, her hands balled into fists. She wanted that cereal box and she was ready to fight for it if it came to that. But then he was sort of huge and looked super stubborn, so quickly she changed her strategy, she was nothing if not adaptable.

“Listen, I’m sorry,” Arya sighed. “I am just having a bad day and Boo Boo Bull’s Berry Bonanza is sort of comfort food for me.”

The guy made the kind of small hmph that indicated that he understood her.

“Could you maybe find it in your heart to let me have this one,” she asked, making a slightly awkward little smile, played innocent and fragile like she was a baby bird.

The guy frowned slightly deeper, Arya could see him starting to crack. He glanced the box and Arya made a slightly sad face.

“I'm just a dainty girl. I need the sustenance,” she muttered and tried her hardest to look like maybe she would wither away if she wouldn’t eat pink and purple cereals right now.

His face tensed up immediately. “There is nothing dainty about you.”

“What?”

“You look like you probably start bar fights,” the guy accused. “Like you probably have a knife in your bag.”

Arya eyed her gym bag in which she definitely had the switchblade Jon had given her. “Well, what if I have? I still want my Berry Bonanza.” She tried to grab the box. The guy pulled it away and tried to swat her further like she was a fly.

“You are really a pain in the arse, has anybody ever told you that?”

“All the time.”

“Get out my way!”

“Give me my Boo Boo!”

“What you are gonna do, fight for it?”

***

The day had been long and frustrating. Gendry leaned his head against the grey tile wall behind him. He had just wanted some comfort and sugar into his system. It was going to be just a quick trip to the corner store to grab his cereals and head out. “I can’t believe I got arrested because of cereals,” he muttered.

The girl sitting a few chairs away, on the same hard plastic chairs snorted. “No one’s arrested, you’re exaggerating.”

“Well we are at the police station,” Gendry pointed out the obvious. “And the shop owner is still trying to decide if he's going to sue, so it’s not really exaggerating.” He peered at the girl, her arms were crossed and she was scowling him back. She was annoying. And insanely cute with her big grey eyes and perky ponytail, soft pink pursed lips, looking healthy like she had just left the gym. Her hair looked still slightly damp from the shower. She probably smelled really nice if he would lean in closer. He wasn’t going to, though, she had almost gotten him arrested. And now her cuteness was distracting him from her annoyingness.

“He is not gonna sue,” she said. “It’s not like anything even happened. Though if he for some reason is going to sue, that’s going to be on you, because you were the one who knocked down the flat of pasta sauce.”

“Because you basically tackled me!”

She just huffed. “I barely touched you. A slight shove. A slight.”

Gendry shook his head and turned away from her. He couldn't believe that he was at the police station because of that stupid box of cereals.

The younger of the two officers that had arrived at the shop was approaching them. Gendry was happy it wasn't the tall blonde. She had been scary. He in the other hand seemed relaxed and the kind of person who would understand that sometimes even good people were pulled into weird situations, because of other, smaller and crazier people. Gendry straightened his back.

“The owner has decided not to press charges,” the officer said.

Gendry sighed. He glanced at the girl, who was peering him back again, looked like she wanted to say I told you so, but also secretly relieved. “But you need to pay for the damage you caused -”

“Of course.”

“- and you are both apparently barred for the shop.”

“Fair enough.”

“I think that’s an overreaction.”

“Please shut up.”

“Then there is this,” the officer said and lifted the nearly neon purple Boo Boo Bull’s Berry Bonanza box.

“It’s mine,” she said quickly.

“No, it’s not,” Gendry claimed.

“I bought it.”

Gendry scowled at her when she reached her hand and the officer handed the cereal box to her. She looked cute even while incredibly smug.

“Please get out of here,” the officer sighed.

***

Arya marched out of the police station, keeping her pace brisk, cradling her cereal box against her chest like an artificial berry flavored child.

“You didn’t buy it,” he said as soon as he entered behind her, and Arya spun to face him, then turned quickly back into walking.

“Pretty sure I did.”

“You grabbed it from me when they were already escorting us out, threw a tenner to the cashier and shouted keep the change,” He squinted at her with his eyes narrowed to thin lines. “It was a dick move.”

Arya jiggled her cereal box. “It worked.”

“Still a dick move.”

She stopped and sighed. He looked still so surly, and Arya felt sort of guilty for all the trouble they had gone through because of the box of cereals. “Listen, I’m sorry,” she said. “I know I said it before, but that was clearly an act. But now I’m being serious. I’m sorry that all this happened. And I’m sure you think I’m a crazy person. But I’m not, I’m quite nice actually.” His brow cocked up like he was doubting her. “But I really needed some pick me up today and when I moved here to attend uni I practically lived on Berry Bonanza like three years. It helped me then and it’s gonna help me now. I’m sure you don’t care about it, but in case you do, just know that this box and these sort of disgusting cereals mean the world to me.”

The guy looked like he considered what to say for a moment and then nodded. “It’s fine, it’s just cereals. Maybe I can find some other place that sells them.”

“I think this it’s too late for that,” Arya said, feeling suddenly apologetic.

He shrugged. “Well, what can you do.”

“And you probably grew up eating these, so you have had your fair share. We didn’t have these up North.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, and for the first time, his face softened. “My mom bought them for me for a special treat. Nothing really makes you feel like five years old with no cares in the world than drinking that purple leftover milk from the bowl.” There was a hint of a smile on his lips. “He used to… call me his little bullhead.” A shade of pink flushed his cheeks after that and he clearly regretted saying that last part.

Arya hummed, cracked a smile for him. He was really cute. “I guess you just have to go visit your mom and hope that she has some in her cupboards.”

His eyes dropped from hers and he shrugged again. “She died when I was seven so probably not.”

Arya’s face sank and the hand holding the box relaxed to hang limp against her side. He didn’t look like he was making it up or even saying things just to appeal her emotions. “I can’t believe you just played the dead mom card.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, I just -

“I know.” Aya sighed, glanced the garish purple box and then handed it towards him. “Just take it.”

“What?”

“Take it before I change my mind. I’m not gonna take cereals from someone who bought them because of their dead mom. I’m not a monster.” He didn’t move, just looked at her, so finally, Arya shook her hand and the box rattled. He reached to take it from her. “Enjoy,” she muttered.

“Thanks.”

Arya looked at the box in his big hands. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“Oh, well…”

“I was clearly talking to the box,” Arya said when he looked so awkward suddenly. “I mean I was looking at it. You better take good care of it.”

He shook his head, but the corners of his lips were tugging up.

Arya didn’t know what to say anymore, there wasn’t much to say. They had met. They had fought over cereals and almost got arrested. Now they parted their ways. She made weird twitch with her shoulders when waving felt too much and turned to leave.

“I live a few blocks away.”

Arya turned back to face him.

“And I have milk.” He looked surly again, but differently than before, like he didn't quite know what to do and it was annoying him. “You wanna grab a… bowl?”

Arya hadn’t looked the time, but it was already dark and she was standing in the street, in front of the police station and a hot stranger she had had a brawl with was inviting her to a bowl of cereals. It was not the way she had thought to spend her night. “Don’t you have any friends to spend time with?”

“...no.”

“Of course you don’t. You have no mom and no friends. How’s your dad?”

“Never met him.”

“I really walked into that one, didn’t I?”

He snorted, his smile was baring his teeth. Arya shook her head, trying not to smile herself.

“Well lead the way, I guess,” she said, moving towards him, her mind made. She would now have to be his friend. He had no other and he had her favorite cereals already. They started walking further down the street. “I’m Arya. Do you have a name, sad boy?”

“Gendry. And I’m not sad.”

“Please, it’s like you were built in a sad-angry-hot-boy-factory. Here, let me help and carry those.” Her hand reached toward the box, almost grabbing it while he looked surprised she had accidentally let slip out the fact that she thought he was hot. But Arya couldn't imagine he wouldn't already know it, surely there had been girls telling him that before. At the last moment, he managed to gather himself and pull the box away from her reach.

“Nice try.”

“I wasn’t going to steal them.”

“Sure.”

“I wasn't. And I can’t, because technically they are mine. I bought them.”

“With a dick move.”

“And real money.”

“This should be considered a tie because I bought the milk.”

“I doubt the milk cost ten dragons.”

“Neither did the cereals. Paying that much was your own choice.”

“It was the only bill I had! I’m just lucky I didn’t end up paying more.”

He laughed, looked at her in a weirdly soft way Arya wasn’t sure anyone had ever looked at her before. She could just feel how she would end up work tomorrow wearing what she was wearing right now, having Berry Bonanza for breakfast, and probably a hickey on her neck.

[nikinaki23-blog1]

7 golden tips from the real estate business

If there is a sector of solid tradition to invest, it is undoubtedly real estate. Those who are dedicated to developing houses, corporate offices, warehouses, shopping centers and mixed developments in Mexico know that it is a land of opportunities in which, if things are done correctly and there are the right people, everything can go very good.

In Mexico City alone, 37,000 marriages take place annually, which represents 58% of the demand for new homes.

Another feature of this business is that it is not exclusive, although there are great players it is very easy to participate, since there are also hundreds, but thousands of small ones involved.

“It is a pulverized business, the barriers are few. If you do it with professionalism, market knowledge and deliver a good product, you have a chance that it will go well. And I say pulverized because there are few barriers to entry, there are no great players. For example, the largest developer in the DF has no more than 5% of the market. If you have a five-apartment building, it is competition as well as one of 500. It is easy to enter the sector, ”adds Gabriel Casillas, director of Marhnos Habitat.

Experts say

To explain what it means to invest in this sector and how to do it, we choose some of the builders and developers with greater probity and experience in the country. Companies with several decades or young people, who have managed to change the face of the areas where they work.

STUDY IN FUND TO THE CUSTOMER

Grupo Marhnos has more than 60 years of experience in Mexico and is a leading company in the sector. He has ventured into the construction of homes, infrastructure, shopping centers, hotels, hospitals and offices.

Today one of their main bets is the issue of mid-level housing, in which they are experts. Before making a decision, Marhnos studies location, segment they want to reach, facilities around the area and previous experiences in it .

“We are studious of our clients. Our success is that we go into the way of life of our main client : the Mexican middle class. We have invested time and resources in surveys, focus groups and studies to see what adds value to your way of life. We give them a context, not just a house. We consider everything: communications, interior spaces, amenities, services in the area, among others, ”says Casillas.

Among Marhnos' works, the corporate buildings of Bimbo and Bancomer stand out; and various real estate developments in the metropolitan area of ​​the Valley of Mexico.

PREVENT TRENDS

A young company, which in a few years has built a name in commercial, tourism, housing and services developments is Arquitectoma, whose partners, José Portilla and Francisco Martín del Campo are architects of origin who have incorporated the vision in the march business and have been launched to make projects of great proportions.

Arquitectoma partners do not doubt what their best practice is: “search and deliver products above the expectations of our customers. Sacrifice even utility. Always give a good return to investors. ”

One of the most emblematic projects of Arquitectoma is the Garden Santa Fe shopping center, in the west of Mexico City, but they are also responsible for some vertical housing developments such as the Taua Towers, Rubén Darío 123 and Santa Fe 443, a building mixed use.

“More than following trends, we anticipate. For example, before the small departments were not used. We started to do them because we saw that people cared about the location, but for the price it did not access and the way to do it was to build smaller but better distributed spaces. In Capital smart city we made the first apartments with generous terrace and private pool. We also capture the need to make spaces for people who live alone, who are divorced or leave their home early. Now those markets have expanded a lot, ”explains José Portilla.

TWO SECRETS TO CHOOSE A PROJECT

In general, two essential aspects to decide to invest or develop a project are to identify needs and problems and then to conceive a project that provides a solution and find a good land, at an affordable price and in a well located area.

“We choose based on spatial and social needs. Once we define what is needed, we mold it mentally thinking about space, volume, size and area. With that diagnosis we are going to look for the raw material, which is the terrain. In Mexico City, there is less and less land and it is more expensive. We discard a lot of land for the prices, ”explains Martín del Campo, from Arquitectoma.

Another relevant issue is to consider what is the vocation of the land and do market research. In cases where it is large land, it is very good to do mixed developments, in which end consumers are given much more than just housing.

HOW TO ASSESS PROFITABILITY

To invest it is vital to evaluate the profitability. The value at which it can be sold is very predictable because of the prices in the market, since the value of the materials and labor is calculable and, in general, the investor can know how much the construction will cost. The only variable is the terrain.

“In terms of business, what we always try to achieve is that the partners who put the capital give them an annual return that suits them instead of having it in the bank. From 12 to 15% per year, on average, ”explains José Portilla.

As for those who buy real estate, it is generally also a good business. As the Arquitectoma team says: hardly the value will go down, it usually goes up. “You can ask people with many resources and you will see how many times they have bought debt papers or shares that they have disappointed. They will tell you five, 10 times.

Instead, ask someone who has bought a good and does not depreciate, nobody loses. Unless, of course, they mess with a thief, ”says Martín del Campo.

THE RED FOCUSES

In order not to go through what others have already gone through, these are the red spots that the leaders of the sector see:

·         Procedures and management in general. It is important to do everything in a transparent, legal way and take care of the relationship with the authorities. Bureaucracy and corruption can be an ordeal in this sector.

·         The relationship with the neighbors of the place where you are looking to develop a project is fundamental. You have to maintain a close relationship with the colony, the neighborhood and the community. “Sometimes the norm allows it, but there are communities very reluctant to carry it out and it becomes a huge problem. You better not get in, ”comments Martín del Campo.

·         A subjective issue is timing, the opportunity to make a development or not. It is necessary to always consider economic factors and market circumstances before carrying out a new project. “There are projects that we have already canceled with the purchased land. We worked some beach projects when there was bonanza worldwide, everything promised to go well, but the crisis came and we decided not to embark on a high-risk adventure. Sometimes the most important decisions are not to do something, ”says Portilla.

7 gold tips

Gabriel Casillas, Marhnos Group:

1. Take advantage that Mexico City is in an unbeatable position in real estate terms. Globally, the price of the square meter is below what it will cost in some years. Good years are coming to invest.

2. Serve the neighbors. Not turning to see the neighbors can compromise a project. The investment must be committed to the boundaries and the area of ​​influence of development, to benefit nearby families.

Francisco Martín del Campo, Architect:

3. Check the veracity of the ownership and use of the land in which you plan to invest. There are those who invest with the idea of ​​getting good. They are buyers dressed as investors. If that is the case, it is important that the product in which you invest is the one you want to live.

Fernando Abusaid, former national president of Canadevi:

4. Invest in truly sustainable projects that have good connectivity, good services, schools, etc.

José Portilla, Architect:

5. Investigate well with whom to invest. Moral quality, the work record. As an investor it is important to get involved in the project.

 Óscar Peralta, GMI Group:

6. Be sure to be able to fulfill the commitments that are contracted  with University town and have the ability to withstand the slow payments.

7. Do a thorough market research, so as not to be mistaken in what kind of services and products to offer that are competitive.

"The opinions expressed in the articles and comments are the responsibility of their authors." "Cubic Meters respects the plurality of ideas and comments, as long as they are not discriminatory or harmful to the identity, race, condition or dignity of people."

[alcalavicci]

(Disclaimer: if you wrote this and don’t want it up, send me an ask and I’ll take it down)

Snippets of Geordie James’ letters to Claire, May-August 1974

Letter 1:

As you've probably noticed, there aren't enough of us Stockwell fans around. Before my first letter about Dean and Guy was published in the January issue of RBH [Rona Barrett's Hollywood], I felt a bit paranoid in my affection for them. I knew they must have fans somewhere, although maybe few and far-between. Now that I'm corresponding with several other fans of theirs, I can't believe it! I really enjoy exchanging praises about Dean and Guy. They are two subjects I never tire of reading or writing about. I hope you feel the same.

I know that when you wrote your letter, you didn't know how much I adore Dean -- as you've probably guessed by now, I've done as much research as possible on him. The one thing I didn't know about Dean was that he's living with Russ Tamblyn. I had heard from this fellow who wrote a book about former child stars that Dean "lives in Topanga Canyon with a very beautiful roommate." Now Russ Tamblyn is attractive, but I must admit I had something else in mind!

************

Your letter is very interesting and intelligent. This has been the case with all the Dean fans who have written me. If it's true that certain artists attract certain types of fans, I'd say that Dean definitely attracts mature and intelligent people.

Dean fans are generally older than are the fans of others, which prompts me to ask your age, if you don't mind telling me?

About myself -- I'm 27, a Pisces like Dean. In fact, his birthday is the day before mine.

*********

The most up-to-date information I've heard about Dean is that he was in Albuquerque in March of this year, on stage in a comedy called "Relatively Speaking." In an interview from the Albuquerque newspaper, Dean said that he would "prefer to exclude neurotics" in his roles in the future. He complained of being typecast, probably as a result of "Compulsion," his success at playing a poetic, deranged genius, his common character up til now. He said that he would like to do comedy and work with Mel Brooks. Reviews from the play raved that Dean was brilliant in comedy.

How does this news impress you? I ask because I'm wondering if you share my views, which are in complete sympathy with Dean. From that old "Bonanza" segment Dean did, I knew he had comedic sense that was very appealing. If you'll recall, that show opened with Dean playing a drunk, begging for whiskey in the saloon. When taken out of context from the story, that swaying, groping drunkeness showed a great scope for comedy. He is fantastic, able to play it up or down. It is Dean's subtleness, somehow, that makes him so great -- he could never be described as a ham, don't you agree? His acting style is convincing and he makes it look so easy! Just a look, the tiniest gesture, and he says everything. Dean definitely has a charisma, some sort of magic that only a few actors have shared. I often compare Montgomery Clift to Dean, which must be very terrible to do, but I consider Monty to have been the similar type of acting genius Dean is. I'd call it "realism," I guess. When an actor is charged with so much emotion in his work and is able to convey it without over-acting, that's something to praise.

**********

I'm sure I know that look you describe on Dean's face, that disgusted look. When reading this part of your letter, I could see him doing it, so you must have described it well. When I watch the adult Dean acting, I always wait for that subtle, quick scratch. Do you know what I mean? Usually it's his eyebrow that itches him, sometimes his nose. Somehow when I see his scratch, I know everything is all right. I realize I sound a bit like a nut here, but I'm so fond of Dean that I love his little quirks. I think if I ever saw him act when he didn't scratch something, I'd probably think something was wrong. Perhaps I'd better change the subject before I sound like a genuine nut!

*****************

Have you by any chance ever heard from Dean? I ask because no one who's written me has. Personally, I have written Dean half a dozen times at various addresses without any luck. For some time now I have been trying to get in touch with him and ask his permission about starting a fan club for him. All we Dean fans have agreed that we need some means by which we can keep abreast of his career, but the main snag is finding Dean. I'm continuing to try. Right now I have several lines out – if only I can get a bite.

Letter 2:

I agree with you completely in regard to Dean's scope for other characters beyond the neurotic ones. I've read several places about actors and actresses who really suffer prolonged, damaging traumas related to typecasting in neurotic and mercenary roles. Mercedes McCambridge blamed her alcoholism on just such typecasting, as one example. I heard from someone that Bette Davis said that celluloid villains were always the nicest people in Hollywood and now that I consider it, it seems to be so. I think Dean is very together, but all the same it must be very frustrating to see that producers invariably think of him as "the perfect nut" for the part. It is frustrating for any creative person to be confined to one outlet of expression.

"The Happy Years" is one Dean movie I haven't seen, but I'd really love to, especially now after you've described the scene in the classroom. I agree about his flair for comedy, though, in what I have seen of him. What bothers me most about Dean's dissatisfaction is that he just might give up acting, if only temporarily, if producers continue to see him as the perfect nut. This is a secret opinion, never before revealed to another soul, Claire, but have you noticed Dean's lack of enthusiasm for his most recent roles? In particular, that "Police Surgeon" segment, you'll recall, wherein Dean played a prosecuting attorney who was kidnapped in exchange for the mobster he was trying to convict. Dean's fire just wasn't burning very much in that part, unless it was my imagination. Was it? I thought it very refreshing that he played a Good Guy for a change, but something seemed wrong somehow. I don't know if you get "Orson Welles Great Mysteries" there, since we get it here through Canada and it is a British-made series, but Dean was fantastic in that. He had another Good Guy part, as an innocent fellow accused of murdering his girlfriend's husband. What, by the way, do you think of Dean's "ponytail?" I think that I'd love to see his hair let down long -- I'm very curious how he'd look if he "let his hair down." I like long hair on men, anyway, so long as it's not ridiculously long, but in a broader sense Dean's endears me to him more because of its obvious symbolism. Dean is unique, an odd mixture of flashiness and seclusion, a mystery. Someone called him a "male Greta Garbo" and in a way it befits him. I see him as very real, don't you? As a person one could talk to, though I'd probably be terrified to speak to him, I must admit. However, I'd love the chance to be terrified.

"Compulsion," which you mention for its fainting and rape scenes, is one of my favorite Dean films, although I feel like a traitor for saying that, since this movie was the most responsible for his typecasting, it seems. So much was left out of "Compulsion," probably because of the time it was made, but the homosexual relationship, the sado-masochism between Artie and Judd, the helplessness under Judd's superior attitudes. . . so much was trimmed and altered or left out entirely from the book, but Dean put back every word with his eyes, with his gestures, with those melting looks, the never-quite-smiles. For that reason "Compulsion" is one of my favorite films, because never did Dean say so much by saying nothing.

I think my favorite movie from Dean's childhood is "Home Sweet Homicide," so far, but I haven't had the opportunity to see them all. Dean was precious in HSH, don't you think?

Did I tell you last letter about reading how Dean worked as a field laborer in Mexico when he quit acting in his middle teens? I meant to if I didn't. Had you ever read about that?

Letter 3:

Protocol would have me first apologize for the small delay in replying this time and secondly thank you kindly for the adorable pix you copied of Dean for me -- but I know you will forgive me for being rude this time, since I have some fantastic news that just came today. First, I heard from Dean!!! Second, he wrote personally! And thirdly but not leastly, he actually authorized ME to start a FAN CLUB for HIM. Can you believe it? I am so excited that I have scarcely touched the ground all day, as you can imagine. I am absolutely thrilled! He wrote that he has never even felt inclined to endorse a fan club before this, "in all my years," as he phrased it, but recently he has had a change of heart and feels he should "involve" himself in the "give and take" between himself "and those who admire and enjoy my work." He writes a very intelligent letter, needless to say -- and he has told me to go ahead and conduct the club any way I choose and that he will cooperate as much as possible. I repeat, can you believe it? He said I should notify him of receiving this letter and he will write more and contribute information, which of course I did immediately.

***********

As for the fan club we'll be putting together, we will have to start out on a small scale and build through publicity. Of course, you and the other Dean fans who write to me are automatically members, which goes without saying, but we really do need the publicity to reach the masses of Stockwell fans. Have you any suggestions? Any help you can offer would be very much appreciated. I plan to order some printed ads to send here and there and of course I will try Rona -- I have the National Fan Club organization address somewhere -- they print ads, too. Right now I'm so excited that I feel like going door-to-door!

***************

No, I didn't get the Albuquerque interview from Richard. I received it from a very nice woman by the name of Olive White who lives in Albuquerque. She just happened upon my letter in Rona's mag and sent me the available material from the newspaper. We now correspond – she's very nice. Yes, I thought too that it sounded just like Dean to say "a bit of fluff." He has a really unique way of writing and speaking as himself, in my opinion, because he sounds very intelligent and yet very -- "free." If you know what I mean. That's a combination one doesn't find every day.

************

Dean mentioned in his letter that he has just returned from eight weeks location filming in the Phillipine Islands, but he didn't go into detail about it. I asked, of course, and I'll pass that information along to you as soon as he responds again.

I agree with you about that "Police Surgeon" episode Dean guested on. Like you, I feel he just didn't try to get into the part. I'm not sure I understand why an actor would accept a part that he wouldn't really give his best to, expecially when the actor is as gifted as Dean. (Only Dean is as gifted as Dean, come to think of it.) Perhaps it was a question of timing or maybe he was sick or something like that. I know

Dean is a veteran, though, and a trooper, and I'm convinced he could sing and dance with a 104 degree temperature if he wanted to -- I guess, in conclusion, the only thing that makes sense is that Dean didn't want to do the show and yet for some reason or another was obligated to. Perhaps he and the director were at each other's throats two minutes after they were introduced. Any speculations from you? I think I've run out of possibilities.

****************

On the question of Dean's ponytail, all I know is that he apparently had it still in March, during his Albuquerque run. The profile long-shot I received shows it clearly, but the photo was definitely inferior for copying material. I would assume he still wears it, probably lets his hair down at home. I think it's very becoming, don't you?

*****************

About your questions on Dean's marriage [to Millie Perkins], I have no facts, only gossip I've been collecting. I don't know how they met but the implication seems to be that it was through Fox, where both were under contract. They supposedly secretly married on a hiatus together and didn't reveal it til they had to -- they opened a bowling alley together -- how's that for a weird fact? Millie retired from her acting career and refused to fulfill her contract to Fox, which caused her several hassles. The general gossip is that Dean said one actor in the family was enough, what with the nomad's life actors lead and all the separations they might face, so Millie gladly retired, wanting only to be his wife. She followed him everywhere and they faithfully shunned photographers and refused to grant interviews. Naturally, Dean was blamed for making Millie "aloof" since he always had that "aloof" reputation. She married him in her heyday, career-wise, I would assume. In any case, I have a small clipping about Millie's reaction to the divorce which heavily insinuates Dean divorced her, and that she was heartbroken about it for awhile. She pulled herself together, one reporter observed, and was determined to "make a comeback" in films. A footnote to this, though, was that she was blackballed for her behavior during her marriage to Dean.

Letter 4:

As far as Dean's side of the club goes, he's still in there supporting and contributing his best. He said that he has no intention of withdrawing his support (I had feared that he might, since it took him so many years to agree to a fan club). He's sent me quite a bit of information, but more on that in a moment.

***********

The fact of the matter is, Dean has established personal communication with me and I am the only one he has entrusted with his home address and telephone number. In a way I am naturally very honored and in another way, I feel very MEAN indeed having this privilege when you and others love Dean as much as I do. But I'm sure you understand that I can't break Dean's trust because he has really given of himself a great deal to go this far. He told me that he intends to get a post office box number in his home (the city in which he lives, I mean -- Topanga) for the fan club members to use, if they'd care to write.

***************

Dean sent me a monstrous, fat collection of papers -- his biography, a copy of which should be sent to each member. It's several pages long and would cost a fortune for me to copy, just for a few members. Now I'm holding off having it copied myself, as I'd like to know if you could have it copied free of charge?

***************

I have constructed a newsletter about Dean's doings which I am getting copied immediately to be sent to the members of the club.

************

I have spoken to Dean twice and he is really wonderful, Claire! He is very kind and very natural. Naturally he is very intelligent and has an amazing kaleidoscope of interests. What impressed me singularly about Dean from the phone conversations is that he is very real, very easy. He gives one a very calm, happy feeling about things. My biggest thrill happened when Dean went off in a verbal fantasy, when talking about his hottest new interest, a martial arts form called arnis. He started to act, heatedly talking about this martial art. A performance for me alone. I smiled for days afterward!

*****************

I agree with you, I would like the club to be unique and mature, a true reflection of Dean's greatness. I certainly would not want the club to be teenybopperish, as you say, or in any way an embarrassment to Dean.

[deanky]

Total - Space Oddity

Denzel Washington may be surprised to learn that, in 1993, he was interviewed by an unemployed cartoon superhero who was trying to make a comeback as a late-night talk-show host nearly 30 years after he peaked as an intergalactic crime fighter.

"To this day I don't think Denzel Washington knows that," says grinning Space Ghost Coast to Coast cocreator and producer Andy Merrill, who produced the original demo for this strange new talk show after Cartoon Network programming Senior VP Mike Lazzo was zapped by a dead-of-night brainstorm. Merrill's "goofy little mock-up" intercut a Denzel interview from CNN with clips from the 1966­68 Hanna-Barbera series Space Ghost and Dino Boy, overdubbed with new Space Ghost voiceovers that posed deeply cosmic questions, such as, "Do you have enough oxygen?" Thus was born a slyly subversive send-up of American pop culture that's proved equally appealing to suburban mall rats, urban hipsters and Merrill's grandmother in Orrville, Ohio.

"What Andy did in that closet with two half-inch machines and a Radio Shack microphone," recalls Lazzo, "was more entertaining than this very expensive pilot" later produced by a Hollywood production company. "So we said, you know what? Let's just try to do this here in Atlanta. And that's the show you see."

Well, not quite. As Space Ghost enters its fourth season as the crown jewel of Turner's burgeoning Cartoon Network--which now boasts 42 million households--the 26 new episodes that begin airing July 18 are being produced with state-of-the-art equipment, not Radio Shack gear. And though the demo never aired, Denzel Washington would fit right in with the A-list celebs who've since traded non sequiturs with Space Ghost, from Jim Carrey and Fran Drescher to upcoming guests Goldie Hawn, Charlton Heston, the Smashing Pumpkins and Beck. The show's even spawned a spin-off, Cartoon Planet, with a brain-damaged space pirate named Brak who now gets more fan mail than Space Ghost. But success hasn't spoiled a talk show aptly described as "baffling, yet confusing" by Simpsons creator Matt Groening (whose Coast to Coast appearance in last season's premiere will reair July 11).

"Who wouldn't want to be on a show whose bandleader is a big bug?" asks upcoming guest Kevin Smith, writer-director of Chasing Amy and Clerks. The bug he cites is Zorak, a cackling evil mantis from the original cartoon series who--along with fellow supervillain Moltar, a CHiPs fan who "directs" the show with a joystick--has been imprisoned in late-night hell by the perpetually clueless superhero. "I love the uncomfortable silences," says Metallica singer James Hetfield, one of many hapless guests who've risked being zapped by Space Ghost's power bands whenever he gets bored, annoyed or just plain feels like it. "I like how my brain operates on low oxygen." Besides, adds Smith, "There's the Roger Rabbitappeal of being blended into a cartoon."

To learn how that process works, I took a crash course at Cartoon Network, where creating one 15-minute episode can take several weeks. The first things tossed in the blender are the pre-taped interviews with guests, who must suspend disbelief to converse in outer space with invisible cartoon characters. "I knew Beck would be great, but Charlton Heston was hilarious," reports talent booker Isabel Gonzalez. "He was scolding Zorak with all these 'Thou shalt nots.'"

Next comes the team of four staff writers, who pour over the raw footage as if they were studying for the bar exam. All last week they replayed Erik Estrada, who's now being scripted and plays right into Moltar's CHiPs obsession. "We have Moltar writing lyrics to the CHiPs theme and singing it for Erik Estrada," explains Merrill, picking up a ukulele and breaking into tuneless song: "Poncherello! He's always scoring the hot babes down at the disco," which will be cut with a sound bite of Estrada crying, "That's Poncherello! That's exactly the way he is!" to create a classic Moltar moment.

When that moment comes, Moltar will be voiced by C. Martin Croker, who, like most of the creative team, wears multiple hats: he also voices Zorak--whom he championed for the sidekick slot--and directs the show's new animation. Today, he spits out Zorakian insults in a sound booth, then dashes to an editing suite, where he marries digitally cut out frames from the old animation with new backgrounds and special effects. "Can we get a graphic artist out here to draw a couple of eyes on Space Ghost?" asks super-savvy guest Peter Fonda on the edit screen, where a surreal scene unfolds: The masked superhero promptly sprouts eyeballs, then floats languidly over a live-action panorama of purple mountain's majesty exulting, "Hey! I can see clearly now!" Still to be drawn are the "huge buttocks" Zorak then demands to appear on Space Ghost. "The cool thing about Zorak," Croker confides, "is I can pretty much say what I'm thinking with Zorak's voice. Like when overbearing fans get in our face, I'm like, 'Yeah, well, pipe down, sonny, I hear your mother calling you.'"

Fearing Zorak's wrath, I don't press Croker for details about the show's new season. Besides, that would only spoil the fun. What can be revealed is that it kicks off with a prequel, featuring the B-52's Fred Schneider at the show's dress rehearsal. A few more cryptic hints can be gleaned from the writers, who hold the characters' fates in their hands.

"One who's never spoken before will speak," Merrill announces portentously. "And one will die," writer-producer Dave Willis adds. "We don't have a death," objects producer Pete Smith. "Sure we do," rebuts writer Chip Duffey. "Sort of." "Oh, yeah, that is true," Smith concedes. "One will die. And we may have a musical." "May," Merrill hastens to add. "May."

'Space Ghost Coast to Coast' airs Fris., 11 p.m. ET on TOON. New episodes begin July 18. Catch the 'Space Ghost' fan bonanza at www.totaltv.com.

[tatetate03-blog]

Murdoch Lawyer Accused BBC Of Phone Hacking Vendetta

Murdoch Lawyer Accused BBC Of Phone Hacking Vendetta

Murdoch shut the paper last July amid a torrent of allegations about alleged ethical and legal lapses by its staff. In two letters, dated March 10 and 11, Pike suggested that the BBC might be pursuing the hacking story for business or political reasons rather than for journalistic motives. In his March 10 letter, Pike noted that the BBC was planning to broadcast Panorama’s investigation at a time when the British government was actively considering Murdoch’s bid for BSkyB’s remaining shares. BSkyB is a principal competitor with the BBC in Britain. Pike said it was “quite apparent” that the program the BBC was preparing was “yet another attempt to undermine New Corp’s bid for Sky” (sic).

In response to a request for comment, the BBC told Reuters: “Panorama investigations always come from a point of public interest and operate within the BBC editorial guidelines and Ofcom’s code. A spokesperson for News International, Murdoch’s principal newspaper publishing company in Britain, said the company had no comment on Pike’s accusation that the BBC had pursued the phone hacking inquiry for ulterior motives. The Guardian also reported that the BBC had referred Farrer & Co to a disciplinary authority for British lawyers because of this aspect of Pike’s letter. The BBC confirmed that it had “written to the Solicitors Regulation Authority. In Britain, solicitors are lawyers who handle most out of court and pre-trial litigation, while barristers are lawyers who handle trials and appeal proceedings in higher courts. Pike did not respond to an e-mail requesting comment. But a representative of Farrer & Co. disputed the Guardian’s interpretation of Pike’s letter and what Pike had said to Parliament. The firm had no further comment on its accusation that the BBC had acted for commercial or political motives.

It is also right to keep a steady eye on what areas the BBC should operate in, and where it should draw back to allow other voices to flourish, whether they be local newspapers, the national press, or independent podcasts. Nevertheless, however tempting it may be in the moment to taunt it as the “Brexit Broadcasting Corporation” (or whatever the current anxiety may be), it is also right to take the long view of the BBC. That must surely mean defending its importance as a bastion of the UK’s democracy, culture and identity. The BBC was formed from a set of enlightened decisions taken during the birth pangs of broadcasting.

If Company Profile & SWOT Analysis considers the conditions of the world we live in now, these decisions look especially prescient. Today, this promise of broadcasting in the public interest means not commodifying your data against your will, or giving you fake news. The threats to democratic discourse presented by the filtering of information via the algorithms of multinational companies have become obvious. We are beginning to digest how politics (in Britain and overseas) may have been influenced by the use of data acquired on Facebook and elsewhere. But the BBC is vulnerable. For 40 or so years in the late 20th and early 21st centuries, the television was the hearth around which all Britain gathered.

It was the carrier of a common culture. That is no longer true. UK public-service broadcasting (including from Channel 4 and others) still accounts for 70% of content seen by audiences in Britain, but providers such as Netflix and Amazon are claiming more and more of viewers’ attention. The BBC is also gradually waking up to the fact that 16- to 30-year-olds are rapidly drifting away from it, as a recent speech by Tony Hall acknowledged. This is bonanza time for audiences: never has there been so much high-quality material available to watch, whenever we like. The BBC needs to greet the future with boldness. If the television is no longer the carrier of the public sphere that it once was, then what is? One answer is, of course, the internet. What if BBC engineers were to build a mechanism for structuring and shaping audience’s experiences of the web, in the public interest? That kind of thinking would take imagination, patience and creativity - not just from the BBC, but from the government.

9 of the Anglotopia Print Magazine in 2018. Support great long-form writing about British History, Culture, and travel by subscribing to the Anglotopia Magazine. Every subscription helps keep Anglotopia running and provides us to the opportunity to produce articles like this. You can subscribe here. While no longer alone amongst Britain’s media powerhouses, at one time, the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) was the only game in town. Since its incorporation in 1922, the corporation has been responsible for informing and entertaining the British public, tasks for which it continues to excel at 95 years later. In September 1923, one of the BBC’s most influential documents began publication with the first issue of the Radio Times.

The periodical provided a schedule of the corporation’s limited programmes, but also served as an educational resource for budding amateur enthusiasts as well as carrying the manufacturers’ advertisements for the newest radio equipment. The RT was also the only place to find the radio schedule, as newspapers viewed it as a competing medium and thus refused to publish it. The BBC’s first major test came during the General Strike in 1926. At the time, the BBC was in renegotiations with the GPO over its license, an issue that was left up to the Crawford Committee. Several of the manufacturers wanted out due to the unprofitable nature of the consortium, while Reith wanted the BBC to become a public service.

Reith wanted the BBC to maintain its monopoly and serve the public interest, feeling its expansion should be funded by the government for the general welfare. Meanwhile, the General Council of the Trades Union Congress was trying to get the British government to stop wage reduction and improve the conditions for the nation’s coal miners. Negotiations between the TUC and the government broke down, and the strike began on 3 May 1926. The strike had an effect of temporarily halting newspaper production, rendering the BBC the only source of regular news. Behind closed doors, Reith was firmly on the side of the government with regards to the strike, even letting the Prime Minister broadcast from his own home.

This helped to keep the government out of the BBC’s business insofar as it did not attempt to use the radio service as its mouthpiece. The BBC then presented some of the most even coverage of the strike, representing the viewpoints of both the workers and the government during the work stoppage. This cemented the BBC’s audience as well as establishing its reputation for fair and balanced reporting. The company came out of 1926 in a strong position, and the Government accepted the Crawford Committee’s recommendation that the BBC have a new status as a non-commercial, Crown-chartered organization in 1927, then becoming the British Broadcasting Corporation. The original 1927 charter established objectives, powers, and obligations of the BBC, entrusting John Reith as its Director-General to execute the document’s provisions.

1928 would see another leap for the BBC as construction began on Broadcasting House. The corporation had operated its radio broadcasts out of Marconi House and buildings in the Strand and Savoy Hill, but Broadcasting House would be its first purpose-built headquarters for radio broadcasting. G. Val Mayer designed it in an Art Deco style for the exterior, while Raymond McGrath designed the interior in a similar vein. Meanwhile, as Broadcasting House was going up, something else revolutionary was being born. Scottish engineer John Logie Baird had been experimenting with television since 1924, beaming the first images across a room and later demonstrated his experiments at Selfridge’s and the Royal Institution. By 1937, technology advanced enough that televisions had 405 lines of resolution.

1937 would also see the BBC’s first outside television broadcast as the corporation filmed the coronation of King George VI. Unfortunately, the outbreak of World War II in 1939 would see a suspension of the television service for the duration of the conflict. In response to the danger presented by the London Blitz, the BBC would move much its radio broadcasting out of London to Bristol and then Bedford. St. Paul’s Church in Bedford actually became the home studio for the daily service until 1945. The BBC Television Service would resume on 7 June 1946 with Jasmine Bligh as the first presenter back on the air.

October 1946 would see the beginning of television programming dedicated solely to children, with shows such as “Muffin the Mule” being broadcast from the corporation’s new television studios at Lime Grove. One of the biggest changes to the BBC to occur post-war was the introduction of the television license. As mentioned earlier, at the advent of the company back in 1922, the General Post Office was responsible for issuing licenses to amateur and professional radio operators. Besides broadcasting, those who wanted to receive radio broadcasts paid a fee of 10 shillings. With the resumption of the BBC Television Service in 1946, the Post Office merged the receiving radio broadcast license with television reception, and the cost for both was a mere £2 (roughly £76 today).

With the advent of color television in the 1960s (more on that later), a surcharge was added to cover the new technology. Television would only grow as a medium with Newsreel beginning in January 1948 and the first televised Olympic Games in the summer. While only 100,000 British homes had televisions by this time, the BBC still broadcast 68.5 hours of live coverage during the games. The next year would see the return of live weather broadcasts that had been pursued tepidly before the war. Things were relatively quiet until ITV came along in 1955 to challenge the BBC’s monopoly on the television airwaves.

The new company was a direct result of the Television Act 1954, which created the Independent Television Authority (later the Independent Broadcast Authority) to regulate the growing medium and license franchises. One major event that took place in 1956 was the establishment of the Radiophonic Workshop. The workshop was established because the BBC wanted to develop its own music and sound effects for the radio and television programmes it produced. The workshop would craft some of the most innovative sounds over the next few decades, including Doctor Who’s famous TARDIS dematerialization sound effect and the programme’s theme tune. The Radiophonic Workshop would not close up shop until 1993 when the corporation determined the department was no longer viable.

In 1958, one of the BBC’s most important children’s programmes would be born when “Blue Peter” premiered on 16 October. Blue Peter would also become one of the first television programmes to move into the famed BBC Television Centre when it opened in 1960. Much like Broadcasting House before it, Television Centre was purpose-built for TV broadcasting. The building was designed by Graham Dawborn, who was initially stumped by having to design a building for the triangular property. The story goes that he went to a local pub where he drew the boundaries of the land on an envelope with a big question mark over it.

This ended up becoming the basis for his design that would permit eight tv studios, offices, production galleries, recording studios, and separate entrances for guests and delivery trucks. Construction on Television Centre actually began in 1950, but government restrictions on the building made the process a lengthy one. The sanctions on building and the licensing of materials stopped the construction until 1953, and in the meantime, the BBC opted to renovate its studios at Lime Grove, Hammersmith, and Shepard’s Bush Empire. Science-Fiction television programming would change forever in 1963. The BBC’s then Head of Drama, Sydney Newman, wanted a new programme that would help teach kids about history by using time travel. 1966 would also see another major innovation for the BBC with the advent of color television.

The corporation announced that it would soon bring color to television screens in 1966, though it would be another year before its first colorized broadcast to the public. The BBC had actually experimented with color transmissions for the first time in 1957 with broadcasts made to both houses of Parliament, but would not bring the technology to the masses for another nine years. Local radio stations such as Radio London also began to appear at the time, spurred on by the existence of pirate radio ships. These maverick stations, such as Radio Caroline, were headquartered on ships anchored in the North Sea and broadcast popular music that wasn’t as widely available on BBC Radio.

As they weren’t government sponsored, they also featured copious amounts of advertising that eventually forced the BBC to permit nationally based advertising services. The 1970s continued to push innovation as the BBC partnered with Open University to bring higher education to the masses through early morning and late-night educational programmes. Even today, Open University and the BBC’s partnership continues to bring new ways of learning to the public through online videos that cover everything from the color spectrum to how cars are built. Many of the BBC’s most endearing television programmes also got their start in the 1970s. Leaving Bradbury V British Broadcasting Corporation (Court Of Appeal) to follow his own path, John Cleese started the show “Fawlty Towers” with his then-wife Connie Booth. Other comedies such as “Are You Being Served?