#FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HIS LIFE SONIC IS DEVOID OF HUMOR FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HIS LIFE SONIC UNDERSTANDS THE MEANING OF WAR

[slimyenemy]

got an eyelash in my eye my god damn freaking life

[stellawolfearts]

"For the first time in his life sonic is devoid of humor. For the first time in his life sonic truly understands the meaning of war"

I know. Way too much sonic lore...

Remember the time that one pop star that crushed on sonic started a revolution against the ai?

Remember that time sonic became God to a planet of aliens?

Remember when shadow stole his girlfriend and became king while throwing sonic to the streets?

Remember tails parents? <.<

Yeah-

[giggleandtears]

Crimson Renegade, Part 2

Look into your eyes (I’m drownin’ in em)

Summary: The newest transfer sees her new quarters and has a long awaited meeting

Pairings: OC/Jim Kirk(Platonic), OC/Leonard McCoy(Eventual Romance)

Enjoy!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

“We can argue that point later but in the spirit of friendship, what will it take for you to put this minor miscalculation behind us?” I say, using my most innocent of voices.  

“You mean what will it take for me to forget you tried to manipulate me into getting your way?”

I mumble a nearly indiscernible ‘yes’ before snapping to attention, staring Jim squarely in the eye.  

“Wait a minute! Why do you get to take the high ground? Don’t act like you haven’t whipped out those baby blues on me to get me to do your bidding.”

“To get a phone number or a free drink, not get out of a mandated physical.”

“Says the man, sorry, Captain, that’s run from every hypo since birth.”

Jim’s piercing gaze volleys back and forth, as if the air itself would supply a worthy retort. His quick wit momentarily slows to a halt until a mischievous simper appears.  

“So Danny, why do you need exclusive use of hold 626-E again?"

All joking aside, my eyes are sharper than Jim’s jawline. “You wouldn’t?”

“Try me.” Leaning forward over my shoulder, Jim stage whispers in my ear. “You know you’re not getting out of this, right?”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I let out a sigh.

I did bring this on myself

“What do you want?”

“You know there’s only one thing I want, Gem.”

“First, you know how I feel about you calling me Gem.” Jim’s devilish grin widens but with a nod he relents. “How long am I to be at your mercy Oh captain, my captain?”

“I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.”

In the corner of my eye, Spock’s face is a vision of pure Vulcan horror, if we can call it that. The speed in which he’s quantifying our non-verbal cues to discern the level of misconduct he is witnessing is dizzying and rather funny. Spock could teach a master class on body language akin to psychotherapist. However, the shrewd Second in Command is, as always, at a loss as to the emotion behind them.  In all likelihood Jim did in fact just proposition me and I reluctantly accepted. But that has never been the type of relationship Jim and I have ever had. How could our fearless leader, not poke the Vulcan teddy bear when he’s so flagrantly missing something.

“Don’t worry Spock. It’s completely consensual.”

“I was not aware the nature of your relationship had changed in the interim of our last meeting.” Spock says, in his cool timbre. 

“Hey, cool it Casanova.” I say, directed at Kirk. Stepping off the lift, I try to clarify the situation for my ever-processing Vulcan friend.  “Spock, Jim wants to take Artemis for a ride, not me.” Jim quietly snorts as we make our way down the corridor. Spock is none the wiser. If only Vulcan humor included double entendre. “And to answer your question, that you didn’t quite get to finish asking, I can get the sample for you after my physical or Scotty can. He has security clearance to access Artemis as well.”

“Thank you. That will be most useful.” Jim keys in the generic code to my new quarters and steps through but Spock remains rooted to his spot. Placing his hands behind him, Spock patiently stands, awaiting my attention. “Commander,” he says after a pause. “I am never one to question your abilities. Your skill as an engineer and subsequently a pilot is well documented. However, was it necessary to disregard my transmission before it was completed?”

“I think I heard a compliment in there somewhere but we’ll unpack that later.” I say with a smile.  “But, if I had allowed you to continue, am I correct in assuming that you were going to express concern for my life?”

“That is an affirmative.”

Taking a moment, I think of what was going through my mind in the split second I chose to execute my plan. In truth, not much. Yes, I deliberately chose to proceed before hearing the consistently sage words of my comrade. But I had the means to keep my weakened crew safe. They could escape due to my actions. How could I not act with the utmost decisiveness?  

“In this instance I refer you to the words of a very wise man, ‘The needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few, or in this case, the one’.”  

Almost instantly, Spock’s brow quirks in what I believe is appreciation. With a smooth nod he utters a simple reply. “Understood.” No further logic needed.  

Returning his attention back to the opened door, Jim hands back the PADD to Spock’s out-stretched hand.  

“Thank you, Mr. Spock. Keep me apprised of the repairs.”

Bowing one last time, Spock turns and leaves at Jim’s polite dismissal.

Stepping away from the door, Jim gestures me inside like a smartly dressed doorman before following behind me. Dropping my bag, I’m astounded at the quarters I’ve been assigned. The pristine grey and white surfaces make the space seem all the grander, in size and amenities.  

“Um, Jim? How are these my quarters?”

“Perks of being a commander.”

Pockets of light splayed around the room set an uncharacteristically cozy atmosphere. The illuminations warmer tinge mimics that of a candle alight, sans the continuous flicker. That small, seemingly insignificant detail, betrays the common star ship adage, ‘efficiency before comfort’.  

“I’ve been a commander for 4 years and my quarters have never been this-” I trail off in awe as I begin to take in more of the details that surround me.  

A small kitchenette sits on the far-right wall, a gleaming replicator at the ready. Trills of excitement run through me at the sight of a small French press on the counter. I can already smell the heady aroma of my first cup of coffee. In the corner, along the same wall, is a doorway of what I believe is the bathroom. Situated in the middle of the room, is a modest entertaining area, fit with a round coffee table and love seat. The darker grey fabric is soft to the touch but undoubtedly durable.  

“Is Spock’s room this big?”

“Let’s just say we won’t be having game night in here.” Jim says, with the utmost diplomacy.  

“Good to know.”

Only a small space separates the back of the couch and the bed. And what a bed it is. Two people, if not three, could easily rest inside its plush borders. Why my mind decides that’s an adequate number, desirable even, I haven’t a clue. Shaking that thought away, I notice more of the small touches unique to the Enterprise.  

A thin strip of light wraps around the bed where the base and mattress meet. Efficient if emergency lighting is ever needed but will also combat the horrid stubbed toe when nature calls in the middle of the night. But suddenly, I’m drawn to the window in front of me. Beyond it is the clearest view of a nebula I've ever seen. Did my head get knocked around more than I thought? Because I swear, I can see individual particulates swirling. Reaching out, I place my hand against the glass. Oddly, its warm against my palm, not cold as you’d expect from something that touches the frigid harshness of space.  

“I knew you’d like that.” Jim says warmly, coming to stand beside me. “Who needs a telescope when you have one of these?” I retract my hand as my brow raises in silent question. Jim just chuckles. “Computer, on.” At once, the “window” comes to life and re-centers on a particular area of the nebula. Scrolling data on the right of the screen details all the atmospheric levels found there. “Now you can explore without ever leaving your room or if you want, your bed.” Jim enlarges a small section of the screen. The seemingly devoid area erupts into various embedded hot stars as it expands on the display, all possibly never seen by the human eye.  

“Jim, this is amazing. Truly.”  I say, meeting his eyes in a glassy side-long glance.

Jim rocks on his heels, hands tucked in his pockets. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a soft smile.  

“After everything you’ve been through,” Jim starts in a hushed tone, “who knew a simple planetary magnification display would be the thing to make you cry.”

A watery chuckle escapes me as Jim bumps my shoulder against his own.  

“We both know there’s nothing simple about this.”

Such sophisticated long-range tech is relegated to what is commanded by the Bridge or specialty items designed specifically for a project. It is most certainly not used for a personal window display of a curious commander.  

“I know, but I think it’s about time we gave a little back. Don’t you?”

“We?” I ask, not fully understanding why the lavish comforts I’ve been credited now originates from a plural body of unknown origin.  

“The Federation. Starfleet. Your crew.” Jim states simply, with a nonchalant shrug.  

I’m not exactly sure if I deserve this level of hospitality and universal concern but I nod at the underlying sentiment of displaying gratitude to those that have served honorably.  

“Why don’t you go change and I'll meet you in Medbay. I need to check in with the bridge.”

I raise my hand in a dramatic mock salute. “Aye, aye Captain.”

Jim smiles in rueful admiration while shaking his head then turns to leave. Before he reaches the door, I call out to him. Facing him fully, I try find the words to adequately express my immense thanks. It’s not just about today but that he’s been championing me even while I was earth-side and he’s light-years away. Without the barrier of space or hologram display, my well-prepared thank-you-for-your-friendship speech dries on my tongue.  

With that bright grin of his, Jim senses the cause of my frustration and lets me off the hook.  

“Anytime, Danny.”  

After Jim leaves me to my own devices, I grab my bag and head to the bathroom to freshen up. Stripping off my jumpsuit, I step into the shower. I'm surprised to see there are two control panels.  

Sonic capabilities and real water. Now I’m just being spoiled.

I choose a sonic for its expediency and in short order I’m ready to pull on a new uniform. The uniform in my bag is perfectly suitable but it isn’t needed. Hanging by the shower is a fresh uniform, newly pressed. Lifting it to the light, a small white tag dangles in my view. It reads, ‘Welcome to the Enterprise’ in neat type. A warmth spreads throughout my chest as I shimmy into my crimson and black ensemble. Taming my bounteous curls takes longer than expected but eventually its slicked back in a neat bun. Admiring myself in the mirror display, I finally look like a proper commander.  

Leaving my quarters behind, I make my way to the Medbay. A soft burst of air brushes against my face as the doors automatically open at my approach. Blindly surveying the open space, every cataloged item is meticulously placed. The CMO must run a tight ship. You'd never know 11 patients came and went in less than an hour. Actually, make that 10 patients. A doctor, clad in science blue, leans over the only occupied bed. I'm sure, if he were to shift towards me, his medical insignia would be clearly visible. Ever so gently, he runs the dermal regenerator over the brow of his patient.  

Cocking his head to the side, he finally acknowledges my presence with a quick glance in my direction. I assume by the angle that he’s sitting, he’s only able to verify that there is in fact a person standing in his vicinity and the color of my uniform. Not bothering to break his concentration from his patient or call a nurse, the dark-haired doctor proceeds to inquire about my current physical condition.

“Cut, burn or concussion?” He says, with a weighty sigh.

“Excuse me?” I ask, coming closer.  

“Did you get cut, burned or whacked in the head?”

“None of the above, although you didn’t say anything about palpations, fever, or hives?” I add with blatant sarcasm. “Don’t mind me. I’ll be quietly dying in the corner over there.”

I hear a soft snort from the lounging figure on the Bio-bed before turning away to meander around. I wish I could see the doctor’s whole expression but the tightening of his jaw will have to do. Dark hair, probably an impressive scowl and distinct southern drawl. Why is that combination so familiar? Wait, did I just meet-

“Bones!” Jim bellows, as he walks into the Medbay.  

“Dang-it man, must you yell every time!”  

“I voluntarily came to Medbay. I thought you’d be happy.” Jim challenges, with a smirk.

Dr. McCoy straightens an imaginary crook in his neck with an audible growl, and continues his work.

I’ve heard quite a lot about the good doctor. Such as his snark and quick wit, lover of all things sweet and covered in honey, and his unlucky (his words) position as Jim’s best friend. But my favorite is his petulance for hating the color red and all the problems that shroud it in infamy, much like the ensign he just dismissed.  

“You’re all done, kid.” McCoy says, stripping off his gloves with a sharp pop. “Next time, try not runnin’ full speed into hangin’ debris would’ya?” McCoy stands and shoos his patient off the bed.

“Yes, doctor.” The young ensign says. He only pauses a moment to acknowledge Jim, quickly muttering ‘Captain’, before scurrying out the door.

It doesn’t escape my notice that unlike the newly healed ensign, Dr. McCoy is completely ignoring Jim and is in no rush to rectify it. Picking up the PADD clipped at the end of the bed, he scrolls and intermittently taps on the screen. Glancing up, his Jim sized problem has yet to disappear.

“What do you want Jim? I have a Medbay to run.” McCoy says, pinching the bridge of his nose after placing the PADD back in its place with a clatter.  

“Aw come on Bones. We live to explore another day and besides, I have a surprise for you.” Jim says jovially, clapping McCoy on the shoulder.  

“How ’bout you keep that to yourself. Your surprises tend to leave my antibiotic ointment supply low and my nurses skittish.”  

Now it’s my turn to snort into my hand. That’s all the confirmation I need that Jim is still, very much, still Jim. Somehow that’s both a comfort and deeply unsettling.  

“I just wanted to know if our latest transfer came by yet.” Jim says. Shifting his stance to the side, he meets my eyes expectantly. With McCoy’s back to me, he has no idea the new transfer is waiting patiently behind him to introduce herself.

Jim has wanted me to meet McCoy for quite some time. He often said his chosen drinking crew was in need of new blood, better bourbon and definitely new stories. He may have added something about thinking I was the best person to properly distract McCoy when he got in a mood. After threatening Jim with a hypo concoction that would leave him very excited and pitifully flaccid, he never brought that particular distraction up again.  

McCoy and I have had a few chances to meet over the years but something has always gotten in the way-class schedules, injuries, being in a completely different star system. You name it. Even in this short interaction between Jim and McCoy, I can already see I’ve been deeply deprived.  

“No, and why am I just seein’ him now. He should have been in here months ago.” McCoy says in exasperation, throwing his hands up. “No tellin’ what he’s been spreadin’ around.”  

“I assure you I haven’t been spreadin’ anything around,” I say, pulling the attention of both men. “We can confirm that whenever you’d like.

Walking towards them, McCoy’s gaze follows me from the tips of my toes until he finally meets my eyes. He keeps his composure far better than most men I’ve met but his eyes still round in surprise. My height usually has that effect. We meet men, women, and all those that fall in between. They vary in color, creed, planetary origin and corporeal state or lack thereof. The permutations are unfathomable and from youth onward, we’ve been taught not bat an eye. But a woman that can look you in the eye is still shocking. Coming closer, McCoy stands the tiniest bit straighter.  

“But no rush. I just hitched a ride on four starships, tracked you here using virtually scraps of data, and drained my ship in a battle protecting you. But please, take your time.” I relax my hip against a cabinet and twirl some sort of metal apparatus I picked up from the counter around my finger. Facing me head on, McCoy crosses his arms as he stares me down. I don’t think he likes the notion of anyone presuming to put him on their timetable.  

“Wait, that was you doin’ all that fancy flying?” He asks me incredulously.

“Is that your version of a thank you? Oh, I forgot. Unless an engineer is under your watchful eye, we pose an imminent threat to ourselves but most importantly, your sanity.”

McCoy next words halt as his mouth hangs slightly agape. A rapid flutter of confusion passes over his eyes as his lips purse in contemplation.  

“You’ll have to excuse me but, have we met?” McCoy finally says.  

“Not officially. I'm just the red that was slowly dying from an arrhythmia, pyrexia, and anaphylaxis.”  

McCoy’s eyes begin to narrow in what I can only guess is his favorite go-to glare and I nibble the inside of my cheek to keep my burgeoning smile at bay. Flicking my eyes to Jim, his smirk has grown into a knowing cheshire grin. He’s thoroughly enjoying the volley between McCoy and I. Honestly, so am I.

“You also may have heard about me from a mutual friend.” I continue.  

Jim has never squandered an opportunity to regale me with the many shenanigans he’s dragged McCoy into. More often than not, he whines about how McCoy takes sick pleasure in smothering every idea he has in common sense before he can fan it into a career defining romp. It’s astounding how easily Jim shrugs off the irony of that statement. Sadly, I think McCoy fails far more than he succeeds. So, I have no doubt Jim’s spoken of our previous escapades as well.

Laying the metal thing-a-ma-bob back down, I extend my hand toward McCoy. “Commander Gemma Danvers. Nice to meet you.”

Flashing a devastatingly handsome crooked smile, McCoy grasps my proffered hand with a soft pressure. “Pleasures all mine.” Gentle creases line his eyes from finally putting a face with the name. “Leonard McCoy.”  He says, introducing himself. “But somethin’ tells me you already knew that.”  

Hmm, where did Lieutenant Grumpy Pants go?

My own smile grows wider in response. “And you’d be correct.” McCoy’s warm gaze draws me in further. I should feel awkward that our joined hands are still slowly moving in unison but watching such a bewitching shade a green has left my senses muted to anything else. After McCoy releases my hand, I quickly clasp them behind my back and take a minuscule step back. Time to get down to business. “So, do you have time for a physical?”

“Always.” McCoy says, without hesitation.  

[speeps-highway]

Hey can you do a sad/angry sonic in the destroyed past with the caption, "For the first time in his life, sonic is devoid of humor... For the first time in his life, Sonic truly understands the meaning of war" (clearly inspired by that knuckles post you did a while ago :v) Love ur blog btw

[ricardosousalemos]

Weezer: Weezer (Blue Album)

Weezer mastermind Rivers Cuomo was such a somber kid that his second-grade teacher trained the other students to tell him, in unison, “Let me see the smile.” Childhood in Yogaville, the ashram and Integral Yoga HQ led by “Woodstock guru” Swami Satchidananda in eastern Connecticut, was isolating, devoid of much pop culture and adventure—until Cuomo heard Kiss. When a family friend brought their fifth album, 1976’s Rock and Roll Over, to the Cuomo house, it sent Rivers and younger brother Leaves launching off furniture in a way only formative music can. “I’ve pretty much based my life around that record,” he has said. With their comic-book personas and distorted riffs, Kiss cracked Cuomo’s young brain wide open and rewired it for good. He had little idea what debauchery they were singing of, but from that point on, Cuomo began having intense dreams about becoming a rock star, and he began obsessively studying the work of his songwriting heroes.

For Rivers, music offered both a coat of armor and an identity. As a pre-teen enrolled in public school for the first time, Cuomo went by a different first name and his stepfather’s last name (Kitts); his chosen moniker—Peter Kitts—was awfully close to that of Kiss drummer Peter Criss. And while Cuomo was still picked on as he made his way through puberty, he eventually found his people: the metalheads. In 1989, Cuomo moved from Connecticut with his high school band to Los Angeles, ground zero for the AquaNetted and Spandexed. There, he found himself in the midst of shifting tastes, both culturally and personally. He started working at the Sunset Boulevard Tower Records, where he was schooled on quintessentially “cool” music like the Velvet Underground, Pixies, and Sonic Youth.

Also in the mix at this time was a new band called Nirvana. When Cuomo first heard “Smells Like Teen Spirit” on the radio in late 1991 while washing dishes in an Italian restaurant, he was sorta pissed he didn’t write it himself. “Rivers says, ‘I should have written that,’” remembered early Weezer guitarist Jason Cropper in John D. Luerssen’s band biography, River’s Edge. “And I’m like, ‘Yeah. That’s totally true.’ Because the music he was writing was improving in quality every day.” Cuomo’s interest in Nirvana became an obsession. He’d taken notes from Brian Wilson, the Beatles, Scorpions, Yngwie Malmsteen, and, of course, Kiss. But for all his knowledge of rock history, he still cared deeply about writing anthems that spoke to his generation, even if he had trouble looking his peers in the eyes.

Weezer anthems were destined to be different. In 1994, the acts dominating the modern rock charts were pushing against something, from the British aesthetes (Depeche Mode, New Order, Morrissey) to the singular weirdos (Beck, Tori Amos, Red Hot Chili Peppers) to the disenfranchised youth (Nirvana, Green Day, Pearl Jam). With rebellion came a facade of cool, and that was something Weezer could never manage, at least not in the traditional way. Cuomo always tried a little too hard. He would become the fidgety anti-frontman with a thousand “revenge of the nerds” taglines and a Harvard degree to prove it. That dichotomy—the big-time rockstar in khakis and Buddy Holly glasses, who never seems totally comfortable in his own skin—is what launched his cult and anchored his unlikely sex appeal. And his band—drummer Patrick Wilson, bassist Matt Sharp, and guitarist Brian Bell—played along, accentuating their innate geekiness to make Weezer feel like a unified front. 

By the summer of 1993, Cuomo had written a number of songs strong enough to convince the alt-rock major DGC to sign Weezer (this despite a lack of buzz around the L.A. scene) and have the Cars’ frontman Ric Ocasek produce their first album. When the group’s self-titled debut—typically known as The Blue Album—arrived in May 1994, Cobain had been dead for a month. A feeling of dread hung over the alternative rock world whose prominence was ushered in by the Seattle sound. With their wired energy, effortless power-pop-punk hooks, and Beach Boys harmonies, Weezer took the alt-rock explosion in a new direction. You couldn’t quite tell if Cuomo was mocking his song’s regressive narrators or sympathizing with them. But once you got past his defense mechanisms and sorting through the humor and cultural references, you found a portrait of a young man’s psyche, riddled with angst and insecurity. And it arrived on the wings of massive riffs and gnarled guitar solos that sounded like they were emanating from a Flying V—on every single song. 

The Blue Album’s exploration of the fragile male ego is in full swing by the record’s second track, “No One Else.” Taken at face value, this is likely the most misogynistic song Weezer has ever released. “I want a girl who will laugh for no one else,” Cuomo sings while the band rushes through the fuzzy pop-punk changes, evoking the hyperbole of masculinity. But there’s more beneath the surface. “‘No One Else’ is about the jealous-obsessive asshole in me freaking out on my girlfriend," Cuomo has said. The song acquires even more resonance in the context of its sequencing on the record. Cuomo described the following song, “The World Has Turned and Left Me Here,” as “the same asshole wondering why she's gone.” In actuality, he spends most of “The World Has Turned and Left Me Here” muttering to his ex’s wallet photograph and masturbating to her memory, getting in a joke along the way, saying she enjoyed the sex “more than ever.” It’s an absurd scene, but imagine the sentiment coming from the wrong person and it’s suddenly not so funny. Weezer were masterful at walking this line between knowing jokiness and legitimately creepy dysfunction.

This base kind of arrested development shifts back and forth between the narrator’s relationship with girls and his views on himself. If “No One Else” and “The World Has Turned and Left Me Here” are mirror twins, so are “Surf Wax America” and “In the Garage.” Given that Weezer were named after a common term for asthma sufferers, no one expected them to be out on a board riding the waves. That tension animates “Surf Wax America,” a well-crafted jumble of harmonic puzzles and barreling punk guitars where the hedonistic surfer lifestyle is both celebrated and chided for its simplistic worldview. Even while the song sneers, the ferocity of Cuomo screaming “Let’s go!” juxtaposed with the solemnness of the band’s Wilsonian harmonies make you believe, once again, in Weezer’s sincerity. Meanwhile, “In the Garage” is an homage to that happy place where no one judges you for your comic books, D&D figurines, and Kiss posters. It seems like over-the-top self-parody, but the garage was indeed a real place where early Weezer practiced and recorded when Cuomo, Sharp, and original guitarist Justin Fisher lived together in the “Amherst House” near Santa Monica. The hopeless ambition of “In the Garage” would make it the defining song of nerd-rock.

In between “Surf Wax America,” a fantasy about someone completely different, and “In the Garage,” a hyper-detailed song about himself, lies a song about his father. There are two more nakedly emotional songs on Blue, which are set off further by Cuomo’s rare embrace of laid-back guitars. Atop a bluesy jangle, “Say It Ain’t So” details the moment when Cuomo’s deepest worries are realized: He sees a beer in the fridge and, remembering how his father drank before he walked out, he senses his stepfather is doing the same. He fears now that he, too, is destined for this fate. Pinkerton, Weezer’s sophomore album, is often described as the tortured confessional to end all tortured confessionals, essentially a diary of Cuomo’s notorious Asian fetish. But “Say It Ain’t So” is just as raw, and arguably has more that its listeners can use, throwing its arms wide open to anyone who’s known the trauma of dad issues. The music is constructed perfectly, building and building until what's left of Cuomo's vulnerability comes out as a bitterly frayed "yeah-yeah," all capped by a guitar solo worthy of the Scorpions.

The desire to write a perfect song can drive some songwriters mad, as their belief in music as a vehicle for emotional expression reconciles itself with the belief that pop is a puzzle that can be solved. On Blue, Cuomo found the ideal balance, as he rarely has since. He understood the rules so well that he also knew when to break them, from Sharp’s super silly new-wave keyboard in “Buddy Holly” to the mumbled dialogue that runs through “Undone” (the band and their friends chatting were a backup plan after DGC refused to clear dialog from an old sci-fi film, “Peanuts,” and more).

The fact that “Only In Dreams” is eight glorious minutes long is Blue’s greatest example of self-indulgence gone right. It confronts the two most perilous teen-boy anxieties—talking to a girl you really like and dancing in public. It’s fiery, gorgeous, well-played, and devastatingly sad. Sharp’s trudging bassline guides the way forward for the narrator, whose fear of stepping on his crush’s toenails is temporarily silenced by the band’s total calamity. Rock’n’roll teaches us that extreme volume can quiet the voices of doubt inside our heads and numb the pain of living inside our awkward bodies. In this sense, the climaxes on “Only in Dreams,” starting around the song’s midpoint, are rock’n’roll lessons of a lifetime. But it’s the big build at the 6:45 mark that plays like a beta male transfiguration. Having re-recorded Cropper’s guitar parts in one take after essentially firing him following Blue’s 1993 recording at Electric Lady, Cuomo ends up axe-battling himself until he’s soloing like the metal gods he grew up worshipping. Wilson’s drumming—an underrated and idiosyncratic force throughout Weezer’s discography—drives home the catharsis. His cymbals crash from every angle and his tricky rolls play like percussive triple axels. By the end of the song, you’re back to reality, exhausted but ready for a fight—even if it’s just against your own doubting voices.

For all the talk about Rivers Cuomo’s anemic masculinity, The Blue Album has a unifying thread of identity that supersedes gender. An essay on the Smiths pointed out that, “Asking people about their interest in the Smiths is another way of asking this question: ‘How did you survive your teenage years?’” The same could be said of Weezer’s debut. Blue quivers with isolation if you look past the pastiche, the deflective humor, and the guitar lines that make you sit up tall. The emotion Weezer tapped into is echoed in music sometimes considered distinctly millennial due to its high levels of anxiety, from Death Cab for Cutie and Carseat Headrest to Mitski’s Puberty 2 and even Drake at his most neurotic.

For as classic as the album is considered now, Blue didn’t make the 1994 Pazz & Jop year-end critics’ poll. Back then, Weezer were considered alt opportunists or even Pavement ripoffs—a comparison that seems silly now, looking at the distinct rock strains since indebted to Cuomo. But MTV and radio airplay for “Buddy Holly” and “Undone — The Sweater Song” made Weezer huge, and The Blue Album went double-platinum within 15 months of its release. Over the next three years, as Weezer 1.0 slowly imploded (bye-bye Matt Sharp, hello rotating door of bassists), the record would sell a million more and be well on its way to canonization. By 2003, Pitchfork named it one of the best records of the 1990s; two years later, Rolling Stone heralded it as the 299th greatest album ever. And so Blue now sits in a sweet spot of commercial accessibility and critical adoration, a combination that guarantees the album will make its way into the hands of a certain kind of bespectacled teenager for decades to come—the ones who really need it. Cuomo never wrote a song as indelible as “Seems Like Teen Spirit,” but he did reach generations of rock kids, proving that coolness is optional if you study hard enough.