#I think I just want stranger things but it was actually produced in the 80s

[brat-pack-it-up-boys]

Slightly inspired by one of my mutual post, but

WHY ISN’T THERE ANY BRAT PACK HORROR MOVIE???

I’m talking Matt Dillon, ally sherry, Tom cruise, Emilio estevez, Molly ringwald, John cusack

[alexthefunniest]

Funniest mileven arguments to why byler won’t be endgame

I’m sorry if there’s any grammar errors or mistakes, I wrote this angrily at 2 am when I couldn’t sleep.

1. “Its the 80’s”- as if there isn’t any movies that have happy queer endings that were made/set in the 80’s, yall are just lazy and don’t want to actually do any research.

2. “It’s a Netflix original”- ok? And? Like we literally get a new mlm/queer show on Netflix every year, byler is a mlm relationship which Netflix has a lot of, young royals, heartstopper??? Are you guys ok?

3. “Cuz it’s too popular” - we already have over two queer confirmed characters in stranger things, the show that’s about fighting forced conformity ?? The show that focuses on nerds, losers and people that don’t ‘fit in’ ? And y’all find it so hard to see ur two main characters being gay? Read the room respectfully.

4. “It’s one sided” - if it was one sided they would make Mike tell Will he doesn’t like him in s3 and give Will a new love interest in s4 (it has been confirmed that there will be no new characters in s5 and that the producers want every character to have their ‘perfect ending’) Will believed he was a mistake and thought he wouldn’t fall in love, because he is queer so he most definitely will have a queer love interest and it will be Mike.

5. “Mike is in love with el”- is he tho? He never actually said he loved her to her face without the world and her life depending on it, he’s been pressured to say it twice and when she told him she loves him back the man didn’t look happy but conflicted.

6. “Mileven endgame” - it’s really not, the amount of symbolism that points to their downfall (such as everyone calling them the ‘star crossed lovers’ which are basically lovers deemed to fail, and more) is HUGE, they have too many familial parallels it’s insane, why parallel the it couple with family themes and relationships? Another problem I have with this it’s the fact that it’s very rare for the first ‘original’ pairings to stay together till the end of the show (like with Bob and Joyce or Steve and Nancy)

7. “Byler wouldn’t make sense to the plot”- watch the show again, just because somethings more subtle, doesn’t mean it’s not there, y’all will always say that about queer relationships but whenever u guys see a straight relationship in these subtle moments you jump into conclusions that they might end up together, it’s called being a hypocrite.

8. “Mike isn’t gay” - it’s what he’s been telling himself too, the guy was obviously made fun of and called slurs like Will, everyone already thought and knew their relationship was ‘special’ and everyone suspected something, that’s why Mikes own dad was surprised and said “our son, with a girl?” Also your so called straight Mike has a room filled with pictures and posters of buff men, he’s never shown any interest in girls or women (except el who’s been said, looked like a boy in s1) not to mention the first song on his official Spotify playlist being “small town boy” (yk the song about a young gay man running away from his homophobic small town??).

9. Mikes love confession- if u call that a love confession I wouldn’t wanna date u brother, he was pushed to say ily by Will, the same Will that was in the frame of Mike lying when he said that his life “started” when he found El in the woods, which was obviously a lie because Mike called El a weapon and said he’ll “send her back to pennhurst or wherever she comes from” after they found her, also if the love confession was honest why would El be still upset with Mike and not talk to him after??

10. “El wasn’t upset at Mike but was sad about Max” - me when I’m in denial, she wasn’t sad about Max until she found the coke bottle underneath her bed, then we get the flashbacks of her and Max having fun in s3, she wasn’t thinking abt Max before that, its called common sense and logical thinking skills.

11. “There would be no time for byler to develop in s5” - it might seem crazy what I’m about to say, they were literally childhood best friends and it’s been confirmed that Will had a crush on Mike since s1, they literally started to build their romantic relationship MORE in s4, with all the ‘[emotional, tender music playing]’ and parallels between byler and jancy, also even if they haven’t started to build their relationship up in a romantic way in s4, y’all remember how in less than a season Jonathan and Nancy slept together or how Max and Lucas got together in a spawn of a season (mind u they met in the same season). Byler knows each other since little kids and always had potential y’all are just in denial.

12. “Why make Mike queer” - why not? Do y’all actually believe that one of the main characters plot line is just about getting with the girl at the end? Even if it was (which lets be so fr now) why would Mike get with El from the first season (they kissed in s1 and basically u can count that as they’re together wtv) if that was his main goal as a character? Well written shows have something called a “character development” which the producers of st love apparently, so why make Mike just a bland character that just gets with the main girl character, and why have El date the first guy she ever met, I just think it would be very shallow.

That’s all, this was written in a silly way cuz it’s basically me talking to myself, it’s okay if u ship mileven I just really don’t like disrespectful fans that yell at bylers and call the ship disgusting, I don’t care about what who ships as long as we all just have fun and not yell at each other 🫶🏻

[arr-jim-lad]

i want to give some context to the vague post i made yesterday bc i feel like this is something that actually needs to be addressed.

i posted a completely non-sexual, non-suggestive drawing to the bionicle subreddit and like 80% of the comments i got were weirdo hornyposting insisting my picture is something it clearly was not.

i don't remember when was the last time i felt this uncomfortable in a fandom space, and reddit proves once again that it has the worst fandom community, regardless of what the fandom is of.

however this is absolutely not a reddit-only thing, and i think modern fandoms and the anonymity of social media made people way too comfortable posting sexual comments on a stranger's content, expecting everyone to be fine and just as comfortable with it.

the barrage of sexually suggestive comments on a picture of a character just Standing There, drawn in my usual style, made me so uncomfortable that i ended up deleting it altogether to avoid future comments of the sort, even though it was doing really well notes-wise. Frankly, I got the vibe that people saw my discomfort in the replies and purposely added to it. I don't see myself posting art to that subreddit again because of this experience, which really sucks, because i really wanted to reach out to other bionicle fans there.

i think it's important to mention that i am not a sex-negative person, i am firmly of the belief that adult material should not be banned on every website and people should be allowed to produce and have access to it. however, i am also asexual and fairly sex-repulsed when it comes to my own space. entering my comment section is entering my space, as i will read everything you say there, so the least you can do is show some god damned restraint when you're unsure if the artist is okay with sexual comments or not.

you'd think this was basic etiquette but i guess the power of anonymity really rots people's brains.

[fizzigigsimmer]

i wanna hear about all your fics!! so bachelor au, blinding baby like city lights, news paper au and love aint fair at all!!

Ahh bless you nonny. Some of these are still just outlines but a few have chapters posted.

Starting with OUTLINES

The Bachelor Au: This is still one of my favorite ideas lol, born of my love of the insanity that is the bachelor franchise and the poorly concealed producer plants who are clearly just there for the drama. You can't tell me Billy wouldn't make a perfect Chad. The gist is Steve is the first Bisexual bachelor contestant. An icon, An American sweetheart looking for love. Robin and The Party are crew members and all the stranger things teens are contestants (Nancy, Chrissy, Eddie, Jason, Argyle, Heather) vying for his hand and represent various types of typical bachelor contestants. The funny ones, the good guys, the people there for clout, the people who somehow think they can get away with going on a dating show while still involved in a situationship back home, and the people who decide to do a reality show instead of go to therapy for their bag of issues. Billy is an instagram model hired by producers to be the seasons 'villian' and be hated by the audience. It's just supposed to be a free vacation where he gets to make some extra cash to be his most extra before he's finally sent home. But oops, they fall in love. Leaving them to figure out how they build a life together after the show when there are NDA's involved and they are the most hated ship in America.

Newspaper Club Au: This is a no upside down college fic featuring Billy/Nancy friendship, nerd!billy and jock!Steve. I haven't decided yet whether it's modern, 80s, or an ambiguous setting but the basic gist is the boys meet in college. Steve is there on a sports scholarship and chose California to follow Nancy, now his ex-girlfriend. Billy's an English major who works on the school paper with Nancy (one of his electives). He's pissed when she puts him on the sports column as it means he actually has to attend the games. He starts using the column to flirt with/aka harass swimmer Steve through increasingly ridiculous and suggestive commentary. The campus thinks it's a riot. Steve thinks Billy's an asshole and making him the butt of a joke just because he's a "dumb jock". Nancy plays matchmaker and also saves the integrity of her paper by finagling Billy into helping Steve write an essay for his English literature elective. Billy takes the opportunity to show him he was 1000 percent serious about wanting to know if his dick is even bigger out of the speedo.

Onto the POSTED fics

Blinding Baby Like City Lights: Is a dom/sub au where everyone is either a dominant, submissive, or switch. Basically some people need to dominate to stay balanced and others need to submit, or some mix of the two. And everyone responds differently to different things, creating many different 'types.' Naturally not all types are good for each other. Billy is a masochistic sub, has known it for a long time but wasn't safe to explore it growing up with an abusive sadist for a father. He's managed to claw his way out of his abusive home and become a successful business man who is often mistaken for a dom. He found family in Heather & Chrissy, but never a dominant he can trust enough to handle him and give him exactly what he needs. Steve's a recovering sadist. Too much privilege and neglectful parents lead him to some pretty unhealthy and toxic tendencies in his relationship with his first love Nancy. Losing his sub nearly broke him, but he broke good and has been rebuilding his life with his best friend Robin for the last few years. He just wants to take care of people by making good food, and find someone he can take care of always, without having to be afraid of his own desires. Steve might just be perfect for Billy, and Billy might just be what Steve needs to finally embrace who he is.

*** EDIT

When you have so many WIPs you confuse two of them.

Love Aint Fair At All: Werewolf au + a/b/o dynamics. This is a retelling of Snow White that takes place in an alternate version of Hawkins where magic exists. Some peoples magic makes them Wolf Shifters (people who are born with the ability to turn into wolves) and others use their magic to bend the external elements, these people are called Hags. Steve lives in the Cold Zone, a portion of the country that is suffering under a powerful Hags curse. Billy is a Wolf Shifter, exiled from their former pack in California, he and Neil make their way as huntsmen for hire. But everything goes to shit wen Neil brings the family to Hawkins to serve Steve's cousin Elsie, a powerful and mysterious Hag whose obsession with beauty and power threatens to cover the world in ice. The only thing holding her at bay is an old curse that limits her powers and a prophecy that promised one day an omega child would be born who was fairer than her. Good thing Steve is a perfectly normal bland beta boy - until he isn't.

[cloudycleric]

fun little stranger things story.

okay so i was watching rpdr15 right. & they have to lip sync to running up that hill. & as soon as i hear it im like oohhhh my god. & i look at my mom & we're like ohhh my god.

& my dad is like "kate bush? i've never heard of this" & i was like he'll recognize it when it gets to the chorus right. well he DIDNT. & we were like... he doesn't even know the cultural impact this song had. so i turned to my dad & i said "it was one of the main songs of st4."

& he was like, "oh," & then added "it just sounds like over produced 80s music"

& i just said sternly "THATS THE POINT"

me & mom then explain the scene where max is running out of vecna's mind palace. & im getting way too energetic because autism. i'm just saying how hard it fucks. & i'm like "sadie sink got awards purely for her performance in that scene yadadaa." BUT MY MOTHER IS AGREEING WITH ME. so this makes my dad more receptive to watching the scene.

but saying he didn't know the song had opened a pandora's box & he knew it & he just decided to tough it out with me. & i turned to him & i said "after this lip sync, you are sitting down & you are watching this ONE scene."

(context: my father has been a stickler about watching stranger things because he didn't like the second season & decided to never pick it up again. & then obviously i can be annoying about it so yk. he's made vague comments about maybe potentially rewatching the whole thing bc me & my mom told him it gets better after s2, but like he never was serious i think. & i've asked him if he'd watch the entire series with me so he can truly experience s5 with me & my mom but he has yet to take up with offer.)

so after the lip sync im like i have to turn this episode on real quick because he NEEDS to see this. i cannot lose this moment where he is genuinely interested in watching this. so i know the episode & time stamp & everything & i start it from when max enters vecna's mind palace. i accidentally started it further back then i wanted to originally so i was worried he would lose interest. but he WATCHED. he was WATCHING.

& then it gets good, max runs out, & the scene ends & i'm like "doesn't it fuck so hard." & he was like "hermherm no comment"

then me & my mom start gossiping like he do. & i was like "i think he like actually got invested watching that scene" & she was like "he was totally."

so TLDR is that rupauls dragrace may have gotten my father back into stranger things. but only time will tell

[living-with-herpes]

2 years on

So I completely forgot about this blog and have recently found it again.

It’s two years later and reading what I wrote makes me want to cry for myself. I honestly was so convinced my life was over and I can completely tell you, it is not!

I won’t lie, I was very low for a fair while and I cried about it a lot. I continued to google every which way under the sun and continued to terrify myself. I read so many statistics it made my mind swim.

But slowly I accepted what had happened.

I was so angry about it and so upset. I did some research into testing for it and in the uk apparently doctors don’t routinely test for herpes for 3 main reasons:

1) the tests are roughly 50% accurate if it is not swabbing an actual sore. A blood test will just test for antibodies and as not every person who carries the virus reacts to it, some people might be carrying the virus and not have needed to produce antibodies

2) the nhs doesn’t consider herpes to be dangerous enough to need testing for regularly. Let’s face it, you wouldn’t go to the doctor after kissing a stranger on a night out and ask them to take a blood test to test for a cold sore (hsv1 herpes) just in case

3) doctors consider the mental health implications of knowing you have the virus, worse than the symptoms of the virus itself so they almost think it’s better that sometimes people don’t know. I can personally attest to this.

Every site you go to the statistics vary slightly but the general consensus is that roughly 80% of the population have herpes (hsv1/hsv2).

I thought this diagnosis would be the end of my sex life, no one would want to touch me again. I was so wrong. Using barrier contraception like condoms really does minimise the potential for passing it on.

There is lots of talk on the internet of whether people need to disclose a herpes diagnosis or not to new partners. Again after all, people would disclose that they’ve had a cold sore before. I’m still undecided on this one but so far I have told my partners before sleeping with them. I can tell you now that no one has ran for the hills, in fact most don’t even care.

I’ve learnt a lot, in fact if I was on mastermind now I think my specialist subject could be herpes!

Basically the herpes virus lives in your nerves and can flare up from time to time, lots of things can trigger this from a cut, to stress or illness. Not every time you have a flare up, you have an actual outbreak with the little blisters. When you have a flare up with or without the blisters, it’s called viral shedding and this is called viral shedding. You are particularly contagious when viral shedding, and if you don’t always have blisters, this is why it’s so important to use protection as you don’t know when this happens.

Your first outbreak is usually considered the worst and in my experience it completely was! Since then I’ve had a few outbreaks. But now an outbreak consists of one tiny blister.

My doctors put my antiviral on a repeat prescription for me so I have made it so that I always have a pack in my bathroom cupboard so I can start them as soon as I feel one coming. It’s only a two day course.

Honestly it doesn’t affect my life massively at all now. It’s all manageable and I had no reason to worry.

Obviously I would prefer to have continued living my life without herpes. But it really is no different now I’m living with it.

I’m even now at the point where sometimes I go weeks without remembering that I have herpes.

Honestly all I could say to someone going through a diagnosis is, be sad if you need to be for a while but know there is a light at the end of the tunnel and it does not mean your life is over.

Xo

[abtan]

A SUMMER PLANT CARE GUIDING TIPS

LOOKING FOR GUIDING TIPS FOR YOUR PLANTS? I GOT YOU!

Picking the right spot

We all know plants requiring sunlight is a well-known fact. But the harsh rays of sunlight in this summer can be harmful to the plant, therefore making it wilt. The pro tip we have is: When plants placed in the south and west, it have a tendency to receive more powerful rays of sunlight. So move them further away from those directions to protect them from getting sunburnt.

The humidity matters

Plants with decorative leaves such as ferns, mosaic plants and spider plants are the ones which thrive in highly humid conditions (mostly houseplants). Therefore, it is important to mist them from time to time in long periods of heat. We can create a tiny humid microclimate for our plants to beat the heat. Just fill up a bowl with water and pebbles and place the pot on the pebbles and it should be working!

Maintain and Retain the soil moisture

This summer season heat can deplete the soil’s moisture. We can always test the moisture by simply touching the soil or even poking the soil with popsicle or any sticks. If there is a gap between the soil and the sides of the pot, then there is a lack of moisture in the soil. But don’t worry, I got u! there are ways to replenish this. Adding organic compost like fruits and vegetables that is already rotten, it doesn't only retains the moisture in the soil but also helps in providing nutrients to your greens. They also help lock in the moisture for longer periods of time.

Water sufficiently but not too much

Overwatering can be fatal for indoor plants. While it's tempting to think they need more water in the summer, there are better watering techniques to consider. Ensure water is absorbed evenly by watering your plant gradually, and a helpful tip is to do so either early in the morning or after sunset to minimize evaporation.

Pro tip: If you’re going on a summer vacation or will be gone for an extended period, don’t fret! There are longer-term hydration solutions to keep your houseplants alive while you’re away to test out.

Avoid the use of chemical fertilizers

Fertilization leads to excess growth. And this, inturn, leads to lots of leaves and stems outgrowing the root system, causing stress to the plant especially when it is a houseplants or succulent. So adding chemicals for their growth during summertime is a huge no, maybe use a natural fertilizer like rotten fruits and vegetables.

Prune and trim the plants

Don’t wait till the end of summer to prune your pretty pants! It is natural for plants and their leaves to turn yellow or begin to wilt in the heat. Although the damaged part of the plant can cause stress to the health of the plant, it is important to remove the dead foliage to keep your plant healthy. This also helps in preventing the loss of water through transpiration.

WANT TO HEAR SOME PLANT FACTS?

DYK??

Plants make up 80% of the food we eat and produce 98% of the oxygen we breathe.

Plants love music. Growing plants can be a quiet and peaceful experience but they also want to listen to your playlists. House plants love music and it encourages growth, so turn up the music! (not too loud!)

Plants reduce noise pollution. Houseplants, such as peace lilies and succulents, have been found to absorb sound! Surround workspace, house and anywhere with plants to create a quiet sanctuary

Plants ‘talk’ to each other. They do this via their roots in a very unique way, by secreting chemicals into the soil. These chemicals, called ‘root exudates’ tell every other living thing in the root zone how the plant is doing.

Did you know that plants also have such a clock? This means that they can prepare themselves for various times of the day. Plants use sugar signals to establish this circadian phase when it’s light and dark.

The smell of freshly-cut grass is actually a plant distress call.

Biologists have found that plants exhibit competitiveness amongst strangers of the same species but they are more accommodating towards their siblings. It means, plants compete with strangers by allocating more of their roots below ground. This helps them as they fight for access to water and soil nutrients.

[bnnuy-wabbit]

HAAIIIIII you can call me Lago, im 21 (i dont know how EITHER), im just some guy*. this is my main blog and where i throw funny things that makes my brain produce juices and also random ass personal poasts.

one of those he/shes they never warned you about (pathogenic variant they have yet to make any vaccines to protect you from)

my art tag is #feral art tag.

there will be adult things in this blog because im an adult. follow at your own risk etc. were horny in here towards men occasionaly.

I'm brazilian. From Brazil. As in born here, living here and stuck here for the foreseeable future. é nois 🤙

Everybody says I'm really nice! I am Unable to hit people up first though, but if you'd like to be friends, send me an ask and I'll give you my discord!!!!

i have many interests (mostly music and nerd shit) and funny things that I'll be putting under the read more lest this post get Unbearably Big. There are flashing blinkies down there by the way.

OK SO INTERESTS. I like MANY things! and i have favorite things! I think it's really cool of me to have favorites. i decided I'm going to wear them on my sleeve. anyways Here's some things i Like.

MUSIC!!! its one of my favorite things ever. I play the guitar and a bit of bass. heres stuff in no particular order of favoriteness. Just stuff i care enough right now to remember.

Linkin Park (meteora, hybrid theory <3)

My Chemical Romance

Red Hot Chili Peppers

Mindless Self Indulgence

scalene

Rammstein

Ft-rj (listen to it or i am going to chase you with a broom)

francisco el hombre (i recommend the rasgacabeza album)

danny bond

2000-10s pop!!! fuck it, lady gaga, britney spears, kesha, katy perry, black eyed peas, that sorta jazz.

Every single Homestuck song there is. i have listened to all of them multiple times. My favorite albums are colours and mayhem and also the beforus fan album.

Dad rock (acdc, queen, talking heads, nirvana, judas priest, Some pink floyd etc)

Industrial and Adjacent. I've been listening to code:redcore a lot and some grammostola actaeon lately. processor also fucks.

OTHER THINGS I ENJOY

Eragon (the books)

Disco elysium.

ADVENTURE TIME. I AM OBSESSED.

How to train your dragon (the books. specifically.)

Animated movies!!! Specially the hand drawn ones.

My horrible little OCs (@honsebeasts just go there but also Beware.)

Worldbuilding. I do aliens and monster speculative biology. Most of my thoughts on it are on the Above mentioned blog though.

Real life physiology and anatomy also

MEN (and like 3 fictional women.)

HORSES!!!!!!!!!!!

stranger things

Pokemen (i do not know a single thing after gen 6 though.)

Dungeons and dragons, sometimes

Traditional art like watercolors and oil pastels

Drawing my blorbos in the same side facing pose or just standing there.

Drawing in General actually! Designing characters is my passion

Fictional fathers

sewing and felting and sculpting and painting and singing and playing

COLORS. i love colors. i love looking at them. i love playing with them. i would like to eat them if i could. i love warm palettes.

Hiveswap (pissing screaming CRYING)

MONSTERS!!!!!! They're really cool and gay and hot.

Portal (the games. all of them. glafos........ kissing her)

Half Life.

y2k and 80s-90s vibes. i think its awesome.

I am afflicted by the human condition and also a few other funnier conditions. my brain and my body dont work right.

If you want to know the brunt of the brain ones: autism adhd avpd. they all impact heavily how i interact with people with people. Sorry in advance if i can't keep conversation going.

I'm some sort of queer thing. If we need to get really specific, id say "bisexual aromantic bigender femme", mostly into men and butches, but Queer will do just fine. I'm a self entitled part time pretty fag and ugly dyke in my free hours. Intersex it turns out.

[hms-no-fun]

it’s not just rental stores either. if there’s no physical version of a film or tv show to acquire, then libraries are trapped in the same IP-licensing hell that all other streaming media is. the kanopy access i’m granted through the seattle public library lets me watch three (3) entire movies per month. three! if you’ve got a college library account i think you get ten. it’s the same with books. last summer i wanted to get into ursula k leguin, only to discover that not only were all the physical copies of her books checked out and back-reserved for months, their ebooks were all checked out too! ebooks! the seattle public library ran out of ebooks!!!!!! a digital file that can be reproduced infinitely at zero cost made arbitrarily scarce because greedy publishers want to give us as few legal ways to read stuff for free or at low cost when we could be buying them at full msrp instead. which creates more waste than the alternative, inevitably traps us in digital ecosystems which WILL be destroyed and replaced wholesale within the decade. oh and where do people buy most of their books today? oh amazon, oh that’s funny, that’s a cute coincidence.

but let us not forget that blockbuster itself was an invasive corporate parasite that drove countless independent video stores into bankruptcy using the very same business model that defines tech companies today: get big on a national scale, make prices unreasonably cheap and just eat the losses, choke out all the competition, and then hope that when it comes time to actually be profitable that they’ll just be too big to fail. unfortunately it turns out that what actually happens in this case is that when the competition is dead and you’ve stripmined every cuttable corner, your profit margins decline and you go bankrupt and now an entire industry is blown to smithereens. golly that does sound familiar! probably won’t happen with any other monopolies though, i mean what happened with blockbuster was sort of a fluke because usually the rate of profit only ever goes up! i think. i’ve only ever skimmed marx but i’m pretty sure that’s what he said

and this whole process exists in concert with the death of broadcast media and syndication. i’ve been a film nerd for a long time, i got it from my dad early on because we would watch reruns of hollywood schlock from the 40s and 50s together for hours. tv stations revived countless old undervalued media through rebroadcast. it’s a wonderful life is just one very famous example of a film that was generally disliked in its day but found an audience decades later through syndication. and yes, they did this because it was cheaper than producing new content to fill a 24/7 broadcast schedule (this was before they invented reality tv to scab for a striking writer’s guild), but it’s an undeniably more sustainable business model than what we have now. so much media today is produced for right now specifically. stranger things exists for social media, it exists to be talked about in the week of its release, it exists to bolster netflix’s name and capitalize on the very present-tense nostalgia for 80s aesthetics in an incredibly surface-level, conservative america friendly package that removes everything about the films it worships which once made those very films deeply transgressive and uncomfortable in an outsidery sort of way. and none of this even touches on the matter of how streaming media pays out infinitely less royalties for airing existing media (oh hey kind of like how spotify fucks over musicians, that’s another weird coincidence)

once a full season of streaming tv is dropped in a single day, yes, sure, hypothetically you can watch it again whenever you want. but do you? when new stuff shows up on the platform constantly, do you really go back and watch what you meant to watch earlier? doesn’t it feel like a waste of time to watch something that isn’t very immediately in the zeitgeist? so instead of recycling existing media, using the hypothetically infinite reproduceability of digital media to give a new generation of young people unprecedented access to classic films and tv shows, evolving and expanding the framing techniques that made turner classic movies so charming, they’ve opted to infinitely devalue everything which does not obviously meet the metrics of virality in an algorithm they literally paid a guy with a degree in money making to invent out of thin air. if an executive cannot see the immediate obvious shareholder-related value of something, they can choose to throw it in the trash and we’re just stuck with that decision. execs at hbo discovery can indefinitely memoryhole infinity train because it isn’t a story to them, it isn’t art, it is private property. and in the eyes of the government, that gives them every right to put it in a vault forever if they so desire. at least until it passes into the public domain in, oh, i don’t know, eighty years? thanks for that one disney. oh shit, another monopoly! it’s so funny how we keep running into those

physical media is a license that cannot be revoked. a corporation can’t invalidate it, take it away from you, make you pay for it again (except by inventing new technologies that utilize a different storage/playback technology), or keep it out of libraries. they only ever tolerated this lack of control over their ~~~intellectual property~~~ in the past because they had no alternative. but now, in the age of infinite digital reproduction, artificial scarcity is more valuable than ever. isn’t it funny that the overwhelming media narrative about physical media over the last fifteen years or so has been that it’s dying? always it’s dying. bookstores are dying, rental stores are dying, comic stores are dying. and yet the cause is never actually consumer habits, but market capture and price-fixing by unrestrained and totally unmonitored corporate capitalists. most everyone i talk to prefers reading physical books if given a choice. everyone loves vinyl and tapes despite the fact that they universally sound like shit! even streaming die-hards have copies of their favorite movies on discs.

physical media isn’t dying. corporations are deliberately killing it to bolster their bottom line.

i will never be against piracy ever but i also need physical media to remain

[serendipitous-magic]

You know what, fine, I’ll say something about it. Because as an author and a librarian, I feel pretty damn qualified to.

If we expunged every single creative work on earth that had any kind of harmful or hurtful content at all, there would be nothing left.

Nothing.

There’s not a single thing on earth that isn’t problematic in some way.

Before you jump into rage mode, what I’m not saying is “Whatever, people can do whatever they want in art and it doesn’t matter!” Because… obviously not. (Just look at me ranting about how Joss Whedon treats women in his works. But don’t get me started there.)

No one is out here saying “antisemitism is fine” or “racism is fine” or “homophobia is fine” or what-have-you. Similarly, no one is out here saying “it’s unnecessary to hold authors and other artists accountable if they’re shitty.”

What I am saying is, yes, books and other works of art have harmful content in them. Pretty much always. Give Tumblr 10 minutes and I guarantee you they could find something problematic in Blues Clues. However, the internet has cultivated something really unhelpful where these echo chambers build, and everything ever is either black or white. No gray.

I.e.: purity culture.

If something isn’t absolutely irreproachable in every way, it’s heinous.

Except it’s not.

(Let’s make a disclaimer: there ARE works and artists that are just total pieces of shit. Say, Might is Right by “Ragnar Redbeard” (nice Asshole L.A.R.P. name, Arthur Desmond). We can pretty reasonably toss that whole crock of bullshit and the bull that produced it. We’re talking about normal literature here, not like… literal Nazi screed.)

If we forbade anyone from ever participating in or enjoying things with harmful tropes or stereotypes, well, goodbye literally every 80s movie and everything before it. Goodbye like 99.9999% of movies, actually. Goodbye every classic book ever. Goodbye Stranger Things. Goodbye Batman. Goodbye Holy Bible (that’s a WHOLE other can of worms). Goodbye… literally all media, ever. We’d lose all of it. Especially the stuff from like… any past decade. Is that all useless? Is there nothing good or useful about any of it? Of course there is! Because nothing is 100% good or 100% evil. (Again, we’re not talking about Nazi screed or the like, that’s a different ballpark all together.) So are we saying that a work with both good and bad in it, even if it’s mostly good, is absolutely useless and evil? It just doesn’t work when you try to apply it to real life situations outside of a Philosophy 101 classroom.

And furthermore, what I’m also saying is, people are perfectly capable of reading (or watching, or whatever) a work that has societally hurtful elements in it, and using their brain, and saying “hm yeah that’s a pretty outdated harmful stereotype,” or, for example, “the fuck, Rowling.” And then moving on. It doesn’t mean the reader agrees with the sentiment expressed there. You could even - gasp! - read a work with harmful stereotypes and enjoy the work as a whole without enjoying or agreeing with those stereotypes. And that really, really shouldn’t be a controversial statement.

To assume that people aren’t capable of reading or even enjoying an entire work without agreeing with or supporting *every single theme and message in that work* is frankly ridiculous. We’re not toddlers. We have rational thinking. It’s honestly kind of insulting to humans in general when you assume they’re not smart enough to form their own opinions and recognize when something doesn’t line up with their morals or ethics.

Furthermore, if people only EVER read and enjoyed things that met someone’s (say, your) standard of what’s 100% good and pure, those people would have a pretty anemic set of morals and ethics. Because guess what? People need to be exposed to ideas they don’t agree with in order to figure out “hm, I don’t agree with this.”

The sterilization of media will only ever lead to a morally and ethically stunted population.

This is why we don’t take Republican propaganda off the shelves at the library. Yeah, it’s bad! But if people are never given the chance to interface with these harmful ideas, they’ll never actually form their own opinion - or even form the ABILITY to form their own opinion. Morality is a *skill*, not an inherent trait. Take away any chance to exercise it, and you’ll end up with pretty weak morals, even if they’re the “good” ones.

Going on a witch hunt for people who enjoy fiction that has problematic elements is useless. Especially because it shuts down conversation. It shuts down the possibility of any growth. If two people had a conversation like “oh hey I see you’re reading Brave New World, there was some fucked up shit in there,” and they had a discussion about what parts of it were societally harmful and what parts of it were thought provoking or impactful or whatever, they both come away with a better understanding of their own morals, the literature, and the wider world. That would never happen if the conversation stopped at “You’re not allowed to like Brave New World because there’s some fucked up shit in there.”

And finally, refusing to participate in Harry Potter fandom won’t affect Rowling in literally any way. She’s already richer than the dreams of avarice. Same with, like, Marvel. If this was, say, one woman doing online publishing through Amazon, and she turned out to be kind of a gross terf, then sure, don’t buy her stuff, don’t encourage her by applauding her books or whatever. But that’s not the situation. And even if it was - see above.

If an individual chooses not to participate in a fandom because they don’t agree with the creator’s ethics or morals, great! You do you. However, it is not your place to demand that everyone else make the same choice that you do.

Punishing people for enjoying Harry Potter, and demanding that they banish it from their lives entirely, does not affect Rowling being a terf, or whatever else. If people want to fight racism, transphobia, antisemitism, homophobia, etc. in media (or outside of media), good news, there’s a ton of ways to do that. But getting pissed off because people still enjoy a fandom that’s like 98% not those things is… not gonna do shit except make people upset. Yeah, it sucks that the 2% of grossness is there. And we shouldn’t ignore it. It deserves to be acknowledged and held to task. But pitching out the entire series and the entire huge fandom surrounding it is a child’s way of dealing with this. And it won’t have any meaningful or lasting effect on the actual core issues.

TL;DR: You’re right, harmful shit like racism in media *should* be held accountable and scrutinized and fought - but the way to do that is not to expunge the whole work from the earth. People are thinking, intelligent creatures. We can enjoy a work without supporting each and every single theme and message in it. And if people *don’t* have the maturity to do that, they probably don’t have the maturity to safely navigate the internet alone.

There’s a LOT more that could be said here but frankly I’m tired of typing.

Inbox person, I probably sound mad and/or intense, and it’s not directed at you. It seems like you come from a place of confusion or hurt, and this isn’t an attack on you. It is, rather, a very tired and frustrated response to the increasing purity culture witch-hunt the internet has been staging (and yes, I know you disagree with that phrase being used here). You happened to trigger thoughts on a much larger topic. I’m not answering your asks because I don’t want to seem like it’s a “fight,” and I don’t want to potentially enable anyone to come bother you. But please give this some thought. I doubt I’ll convince you because this is a VERY hot topic for many people, with emotions running very high around it, and opinions are pretty polarized. But I’ll be happy if I can introduce an alternative perspective, at least.

[iamnotdame]

Doing Too Much, Caring About Too Many People - How I Went From Humble to CEO

Taking a look back on everything since 2014, what has been on my shoulders?

In 2014, I prayed & cried to God for 45 minutes and expressed how passionate I was about helping others. In that prayer, I shared with God that I didn’t know how I could help people, or who I could help, I just knew that I had a dying passion in my heart to pour myself into others.

Less than a year later, God blessed me with an opportunity to fly to New York City to visit a music school… during this visit, I started to think of all of the things right & wrong with music education and made a promise (on video) that, “when I got back to LA, I would show music creatives how to be proper professionals in the music industry…” I spent the rest of my New York trip, which was about 2 additional weeks, sitting in a hotel, dreaming, fantasizing, drawing up ideas & plans on how I could start doing ‘small’ music workshops in LA, introducing aspiring music professionals to what it really takes to be successful in today’s music industry.

This wasn’t an idea to make money. I didn’t do this for notoriety. I did it because I wanted to help. I did it because I felt there was a dire need for it. I wanted to pour my ideas and passion for helping into people. I took this as, “God is showing me where and how I can help”, since this is what I asked him for back in 2014. I took this as a mission, a duty to provide a wholesome service to complete strangers.

My steps moving forward from this point were purely heart-driven and have been up until today, 8 years later.

So, let’s go back to the initial question:

Taking a look back on everything since 2014, what has been on my shoulders?

I requested something from God, he gave it to me, now I have to move forward as a serviceman.

I had to turn my passion into ideas, ideas into a physical concept, a concept into a product, create organizational structure behind this product, define who could benefit from this product, create the actual product, test the product with a particular audience, use the feedback from this audience then make the product live, set dates, create an environment for consumers of this product that provided results, and success, then repeat, scale and expand.

I had to learn how to share my ideas, vision and plan with people I trusted and respected.

I had to consult with my peers and use their feedback, both positive and negative to create sureties within myself.

I needed to gain more confidence.

I needed money.

In 2015, I applied to over 80 jobs and came up empty. I applied to a temp agency and they told me they would call me if something came up. In the meantime, I applied to other A level, B level & C level jobs, with C level jobs paying minimum wage and being the only companies who actually offered me opportunities being that I had spent my entire career in the music industry as a producer, with no current relevant experience to any of the jobs I was applying to. Albertsons called me and offered me a position as a Bagger, starting at $9.75. My pride was like “Hell no”, but I swallowed that pride and quickly accepted the position.

I bagged groceries. Retrieved grocery carts from the parking lot, swept store aisles and cleaned the store bathrooms once/twice a day.

I worked there for 10 days and they fired me, because I questioned a manager for training us to do one thing, and watching them practice another… I was confused, like what was the point in all of this, literally crying because now I’m back at square one, with no money… that’s when the temp agency called me 2 days later with a 60-day Internship at corporate relocation company in Huntington Beach. I quickly accepted, even though one of the requirements was having a car, and I didn’t at the time, but agreed to catch the Bus and never be late. I bought a mountain bike on Craigslist for $150 and rode 5.5 miles to work (one way) every day. I lost 20 lbs riding 11 miles to work and back everyday to this job, and looked at it as a blessing because I was in the best shape of my life.

As I approached the 60-day mark of this Internship, my worries started to re-visit me because this company only offered positions to 5% of their Interns… they offered me a full-time position with a starting salary of $58,000, and of course I accepted. Now I had the financial resources to pour into my ideas, vision and plans to “help others” in music. My plan was to use all of my money to start my music workshops, and I did, to a fault… this new job was HARD and demanded every minute of my time, and did not really allow for extra-curricular activities, especially in the first 6 months. They flew me to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania for a 7 day corporate training, all expenses paid, and what did I do? I used the trip as an opportunity to schedule Music Focus Groups at all of the local Universities in Pittsburgh through Facebook events months prior to going to Pittsburgh.

While all of the other employees who were also flown out to Pittsburgh for training were getting together after training to meet at bars and talk about the job, family and kids, I was taking Ubers to PITT & Duquesne University for Focus Groups I scheduled in their libraries, despite having no idea where the campuses were lol. 3 people showed up… I walked through the campuses and universities interviewing random students, asking them about their thoughts on college, chasing your passion, dropping out of school, dreams, etc, just to make sure I didn’t waste my time there. (I still have all of this footage and have never shared it. One day I will, especially after writing all of this.)

Here I am, in 8-hour corporate training classes, for one of the biggest corporate relocation companies in the world, in Pittsburgh for the first time, drawing up plans for music classes in the notebooks provided for writing notes about our corporate protocol & processes. I’m pretty sure you guys can all tell that I didn’t last long at this job.

I worked the internship from May - July of 2016, accepted the full time position and was officially hired in August of 2016, flew to Pittsburgh in September 2016, and was fired on December 12th/13th of 2016, because my mind was not there at all. I had already completed 2 of my music workshops by this time (September 2016 and November 12th 2016). I was printing copies and music workshop flyers on my jobs corporate printers. One day, they asked me why I printed 120 copies, and of what… smh. I was printing flyers to pass out in LA at all of the local music schools to promote my upcoming music workshops.

They gave me a $4,800 severance check 1 week before Christmas… I told myself that I was going to put the entire check into my new company, Monster Sessions and schedule classes in January, February & April of 2017. If the classes worked, I’d keep going, if they didn’t, I would find another job.

They worked. No one showed up to the January class though, so I moved it to February. 5 students came to the February class, with 2 students saying “this was the best music class I’ve ever been to in my life” and providing me with the ultimate confidence to schedule an even larger class for April 2017.

This April 2017 class shattered all plans and projections with 21 students paying for the class and 16 of them flying/driving to LA to attend. Monster Sessions became an official company by August 2017.

Now I am a “CEO” by default, but I still have the mind of a humble servant of God that just wants to help music creatives.

Now all classes are full, an hour after posting them online. Now it’s real… really real.

I don’t have any income coming in, and I’m not business minded or money driven… but it had to be God, because now I have people offering me hundreds of thousands of dollars to do classes away from Monster Sessions, I have people offering me hundreds of thousands of dollars to expand Monster Sessions, to the point where I stopped doing Monster Sessions classes by the end of 2017.

In September of 2017, a German company paid me $185,000 to stop doing Monster Sessions classes, and to start filming virtual classes for a new dead project called “The Elite Producer”, or something like that. This was a disaster and was not worth any of the money they paid me. All momentum I had built up for Monster Sessions over a year had been halted and never rolled the same, ever. But these type of money opportunities did not stop coming, I just refused to accept any after The Elite Producer.

I now have a large core of loyal students and subscribers who believed in Monster Sessions, aspiring music professionals from all over the world, that I catered to on my hands & knees. I cared about them because I felt they cared about me.

I stopped publicly promoting Monster Sessions and just offered classes to our internal group of students who had already been to workshops and classes. Remember, my vision was small to begin with, so I shifted to helping this small group, instead of expanding, because the unknown was scary.

But Idk. I’m thinking that it was how accessible I was to my students, how much opportunity I provided them for free or for barely any money, how much advice I lended them all, how much I empowered everyone, I started to feel taken advantage of, unappreciated, walked over and stepped on, by the same people I gave my life towards helping. Because of this, I kept coming up with ways to give more, thinking this would make people finally appreciate me. I’d draw up clearer roadmaps for students to reach their ‘goals’ as subscribers to my services, because it didn’t seem like they really understood what it took, even after attending multiple classes… but it all just got worse.

Once again, “taking a look back on everything since 2014, what has been on my shoulders?”

I am now a teacher.

I provide REAL placement opportunities, but none of the students (with the exception of maybe 2-3, out of hundreds) have the talent or ability to secure them, but people are judging the legitimacy of the company and service on how many placements I secure, not the current state, or lack of talent in the music community and pool of music creatives subscribing to services like mine, that actually deserve REAL opportunities, or my help, advice or time.

… but I committed to this, so I have to do what I asked God for back in 2014.

Now I need help. I need to build a team. Now I’m creating Internship programs with local high schools and universities (USC, UCLA, LMU, LBSU, UCI, etc), while allowing current Monster Sessions students to fly to LA to work for me. Now I have a different responsibility. I have to make sure people who are flying in to help me, are good mentally, physically, financially…

I’m helping students with everything but music, their resumes, with moving to LA, finding apartments, jobs, family counseling, talking them out of depression, out of suicide, offering financial advice, helping them to learn which music gear they should invest in, all while helping them to be music professionals as students of Monster Sessions.

I am fielding partnership opportunities with corporate music companies: AVID, Arturia, Native Instruments, Focusrite, Waves Audio, Ableton and others. I am now friends with Presidents of these companies and music products I used as a kid, because they believe in Monster Sessions, like what??!

I am responsible for all Marketing efforts. Web design. Flyers. Promo. If we set a date for a music class, all seats need to be filled. How, with no marketing budget? Photoshoots, camera equipment, camera angles, picture & video editing… now I need Photoshop & Final Cut, AND I need to learn how to use them, while I’m on 1-2 hour personal phone calls with music students from around the world.

Students in other countries can talk at 3pm their time, which is 4am my time, so I have to schedule Skype calls to teach them how to effectively sell beats online, only for them to totally not listening to anything I said during our 1.5 hour free call, them not see any results, as I predicted, now their depressed and want me to give them advice on how not to take their own life…

Now I have a migraine because I’m thinking about a producer in Switzerland, hoping he doesn’t die because he told me he wanted to.

Taking a look back on everything since 2014, what has been on my shoulders?

Now it’s 2019, and I’ve totally forgotten about, ME. I’m sick. I’m in the hospital twice a month because, I’m overwhelmed but can never show it because, I need to be there for them… the people I asked God to allow me to help back in 2014. I can’t complain because I asked for this.

I made a commitment to “die over this” if I needed to, and I was planning that… I felt like, my honor, integrity and commitment to my prayers is what would carry my “legacy” if I were to drive myself into a grave… but I’m now realizing, that is not at all how any of this works.

Let’s just totally skip 2019, COVID, post-COVID…

Today, September 22, 2022:

Taking a look back on everything since 2014, what should be on my shoulders going forward?

Exploring and discovering what “I” actually want for myself.

My health.

My happiness.

Still honoring my commitment to God, but with all that I’ve endured and experienced, learning how to honor my commitment as a true CEO and Director of a successful company, without the void of feeling like I need to give myself as a sacrifice for the betterment of complete strangers who don’t give a flying frick about ME.

Learning how to be human, and not feeling like I need to be a selfless robot to make God proud.

Learning how to be selfish.

Saying “NO”.

Caring less about what people think.

Finding and walking in the confidence I keep trying to bury.

Embracing my different.

Setting a price for myself and making people pay above and beyond that.

As incomplete as this blog may be, I feel a lot better for not stopping halfway through and publishing 70% of how I feel about the answer to this self-provoked question, “Taking a look back on everything since 2014, what has been on my shoulders?”

Thank you, God, for everything.

I know I will live for many years healthy and well, and I look forward to the next steps that you place in front of me.

Monster Sessions is still the future, and I look forward to it helping THOUSANDS of music creatives who need it, but don’t realize it yet. I also look forward to working with future business partners and creatives.

[soyouareandrewdobson]

…the ugly. SYAC: The Master Review 4

Last post I covered much of what I consider the good or passable strips of SYAC of the pre-Dobbear era. What I have admittedly not covered yet, were three certain characters of the strip that exist beside Dobson.

Persistent Pam

 Curmudgeonly Carl

And… this guy I am not even sure has a name.

No, seriously. He shows up in like the 61th strip of the series for the first time and yet I never see his name mentioned once

All I know is that he is an accountant, who pities Dobson (for good reason)

And despite Dobson not liking alcohol, they regularly meet up in a bar as if they are some late 80s comedy duo

Funnily enough, he shows up way before Pam, who would have her premiere in these strips

 And despite only showing up in a few strips after her premiere (mostly to make “fun” of overbearing and snarky commissioners I suppose…)

 She actually managed something no other character or series by Dobson managed to get: A fanclub

 Not that she would really be of any major importance afterwards.

As for Carl, he is supposed to be something like an antagonistic embodiment of Dobson’s “old” art teachers and people being stuck in old ways, who shows up for the following strips forming a sort of arc.

In addition, it is very obvious, that Carl is supposed to be a mockery of people flaming Dobson. Not helped by the fact that THIS character sheet of him made by Dobson assures us, that there were quite a few even less “endorsing” things he wanted to name the character.

Yet funnily enough, Carl turned into such a popular character with readers, Dobson was essentially “forced” to make him reappear in other strips. Not of the “classical” SYAC strips, but he showed up as the “antagonist” to Tenku in the storydriven multi pagers. Though even antagonist is a strong word, as he is essentially more of a jerkish art teacher and college advisor who is harsh on Tenku, but actually has his best interests in mind. To the point he even offers him to be his “harsher” art critic in the years till he enters college, because he wants to see him grow artistically.

 However, Carl was also more of an “accident”. Cause when it came otherwise to tackling criticism or things that irked Dobson (and were not anime related) he would end up more or less creating strips that painted him in a manner where he would supposedly always look like “the better” compared to his opposition or mock it. Which is where a lot of the irk Dobson would earn over the years eventually comes from.

Now to be fair, I do not want to call every comic in that regard “strawmanning”, nor do I want to say that Dobson doesn’t have the right to also mock to a certain extend the mentality of certain “snobs” and so on. For example…

On one hand, I know there are people out there who think they are “special” by having the best tools at their disposal. When in reality you can achieve good results also with less expensive stuff. So mocking that sort of attitude is fine to me to some extend

BUT, when you also make down the line a comic like this…

… essentially making yourself come off as a “better” artist or person than others because you have “chosen” the better mass produced crap (btw, that is coming from someone who types this review on a Mac that runs Windows) , then the hypocrisy ends up to be rather strong with you.

 Which is also essentially the biggest issue with the strips I am about to show. The hypocrisy of Andrew Dobson. And no, I do not mean the tumblr blog by that. I mean the simple fact, that the content of some of the soon to follow strips gets kinda muddled when you take into consideration some of the things real life Dobson had said and done either at the time or in the years to come. Well that and the way how he tries to mock issues people have with his work, not realizing how he is essentially just reassuring those “silly critics” in their opinions while making his flaws more obvious to people that may have been previously unaware of them.

But enough talk, let me just show you in quick succession examples to confirm said point.

Considering Dobson’s longterm disdain for DnD you have to wonder what the joke really is outside of him portraying DnD players as ugly nerds, supposedly too geeky even for him. Which is hilarious in hindsight as he would years later become a fan of TAZ among other things.

Less hypocritical but the set up is kinda flawed. Like, you are obviously at a convention trying to sell stuff. Why would some old dude not interested in “kids crap” be at the convention anyway? Is he just bringing someone there and just wants to go, but first needs time to belittle your life choices?

 Rather hilarious in hindsight to me. Cause for someone claiming he has ideas that last for a life time and who seems rather distraught on the idea of others giving their input, he turned out to be so in need of ideas. Alex ze Pirate e.g. became from 2015 onward only defined by Dobson talking about the sexualities of his characters (and not even in comic as by that point it was discontinued, but rather in tweets and so on). Formera, which ran heavily on cheap shonen anime tropes ended up cancelled after two volumes, Cabin Rest was a failure after 20 strips, 2019 he relied primarily on cheap comics about Miraculous Ladybug and his understanding of certain genres is so bad, he can’t even think up the most basic ideas for a magical girl story.

Weirdly enough, that pitch of a garbage truck driver who fights crime? I think that could make for an enjoyable short story about a vigilante a la the Punisher or Sin-City.

 The way Dobson perceives criticism, while also essentially giving a quick rundown how he appreciated criticism in his childhood way better than in adulthood. Yeah, because criticism by your parents as a kid was always VERY constructive. (looks back at certain drawings from own childhood) brrr. And sorry Dobson, but sometimes criticism by strangers is better than criticism from friends. Cause friends may mince their words. Plus people have over time given you quite some insightful criticism aside “U SUX” when it comes to comics. You were just never willing to listen

Hey Dobson, you hear that? That is the sound of your career, dying and no one caring.

Yeah, I think someone who made such “brilliant” comedy as in these comics, totally has the right not to listen to what seems to be solid theoretical advice.

BTW, that Talus comic… I swear to god the worst “joke” Dobson ever told.

 Wow. You essentially make a point why you suck at drawing. While still not trying to change.

And as someone else once said: Don’t play with fire if you can’t deal with the heat, BLOCK-son!

This is not how I perceived your shit over the years. See, on one hand it is true that Alex ze Pirate e.g. has its own webpage to read the comic for free. HOWEVER most of his comics Dobson would hide from the start behind a paywall. The idea being that he would e.g. put a small reading sample of 10-15 pages up somewhere and then expect people to buy his comic for full price to get the rest. And you know, if you are e.g. a professionally published writer, that is fine. But when your average art output looks like THIS

And you expect people to pay more than 10 dollars for something that is only around 70 pages long while most people can get 200+ pages for the same amount of money that look like this…

 You can frankly go and screw yourself.

On one hand I get that the joke is meant to be, that as an independent content creator you may find yourself in a weird spot where your “child friendly” work may be put in a palace between edgier stuff other creators sell at conventions. On the other hand, I find it rather insulting in hindsight, that self declared feminist Andrew Dobson portrays such competition as either psychopathic murderers or stereotypical cartoon bimbos. If modern day Dobson saw the same strip by any other person, he would be insulted on behalf of the female that she is portrayed as a bimbo, when she could also be a very smart and attractive woman who knows how to tell brave and sexy stories.

Also, I have read your “child friendly” stuff, Dobson. I would call Atea or Alex abusive bitches who like to bully orphans but child friendly? Not to forget that your work is so basic and shallow in depth, it’s like the someone tried to create a chimera out of some of the worst traits associated with Dora the Explorer, 80s toodler cartoons and the Fairly Oddparents.

I frankly hate this theory on comedy. It is true, a lot of comedy can be deprived from conflict, misunderstandings etc. Looney Tunes, Tom and Jerry and other cartoons as well as screwball comedies such as Rat Race can depend on it. Heck, one of my favorite comedians of all time is Christopher Titus, who based his entire career on the misery and absurdity of his life.

But comedy is not just defined by misery and conflict.

There are for example also the following theories when it comes to comedy…

And to get back e.g. to Titus, yes, he has build a lot of his comedy on the bad stuff that happened in his life. But he is also someone who in his comedy has build a lot of punchlines on the absurdity of certain situations he has been in life but which in a way have enriched his life positively.

 What I am trying to say is, comedy (and entertainment in that regard) does not just have to be defined by misery. And all things considered Dobson, you could have really tried to also just make comics wherein either you or your characters are just happy with their situation in life.

For example, this page from an Owl House fancomic?

I think it holds more entertainment value than your “joke” right here, despite not even telling a joke.

Simply because as a page overall, it tries to convey a positive emotion. Which is more than I can say about the strip.

Because of a lack of different level of thickness regarding your lines, which would trick people into perceiving depth, the fact that the fill bucket and shade layers can only do so much to cover for the rather monochromatic dull nature of your comic, the fact that your characters are not really all that complex and look rather simplicstic even compared to stuff from a comic like this…

And that is just coming from the top of my head as someone who never studied art. If any reader has something to add, I am willing to listen

And considering you could in later years never keep up to any release schedule, which among other things resulted in only three SYAC strips in total being released in 2016, I say go fuck yourself. Not to forget that even some of the worst newspaper comic strips out there tend to actually find a decent following and good jokes eventually, otherwise they would not manage to stay popular for years, if not even decades.

As someone who has worked internships a lot in life, I just want to say fuck you in all our names. Glad to see you having just as much respect for interns than any other scumbag on the planet. Probably even less respect, cause you know, in some places interns tend to get paid.

Also, there is supposedly an entire real world story going on about Dobson having worked at his former university at the time the comic came out and Chaz is based on a fellow intern.

Things are unfortunately rather vague in that regard and only hold up by demonstrative evidence such as the name of Chaz showing up in certain pages of the university and Dobson’s internship being mentioned somewhere.

Well, would you look at that: People have different opinions on your stuff.

There are ways to draw memes funny and then there are ways to fail at them

 You failed.

Funnily enough, that comic rings a lot truer to text than you expect. Considering how Dobson would often emulate certain aesthetics in his comics of shows that were rather passee by the time he published his stuff, plus how he will obsess over certain trends and games for years to come (like Skyrim or his Quiet Hate Boner) while also being unaware about current trends (how do you e.g. not have heard of My Hero Academia by 2018 at least once by accident?) Dobson has always been kinda late to the party. Missing the “zeitgeist” of nerd culture and as such never quite finding an audience.

Yeah, what Pam says. Not helped by the fact that yes, the floating eyebrows are real. Look at some earlier sketches or “professionally published” comics by his and you will see that each time characters get excited, their eyebrows will suddenly split into sets of three and float higher than Pennywise’s victims.

Ironically, that fits real life Dobson at the time and later on even more so than this comic version did. Sorry, but what am I supposed to call a person who has an hate boner on anime for years for superfluous reasons, made Danny and Spot a “gaming webcomic” deliberately to piss on non Nintendo fans and has admitted in some by now deleted youtube video, that he kept a list of usernames from an old forum just to remember even years later the people that were mean to him online?

 Fuck both of you. I do not expect the Sixtin Chapel in the background, but something to filll up the empty space behind you is at times needed.

The comic here is actually called politics. … ironic how things changed once a certain reality show host turned president.

Jesus Christ. I am not even that much of a Transformers fan (Prime fan for life however) but even I know that this is not supposed to be what you design the head of a Transformer like. Not even if they ever produce the Transformers equivalent of Teen Titans Go.

Too bad you still can’t stand the heat, otherwise you wouldn’t have completely disappeared last year.

When you know you are in a no win situation, and still manage to choose an even dumber option to escape. I really don’t get it. I just think the Portal reference makes the comic dated and Dobsn’s attempt at a smug face looks so stupid. Like his cheeks are falling in and his mouth is about ready to get raped by a garden hose or something.

Yeah, considering Dobson’s later constant need for safe spaces and to be in control of a situation and the narrative, which led to so many blocks over the years… if you know anything about Dobson, how this comic becomes harsher in hindsight is rather self explanatory. I just want to say one thing: There is a difference between genuine agoraphobia and just wanting to be by yourself. And I think Dobson just prefers the later on average. Which is okay, but humans still need to interact with other human beings in one form or another, even just for the sake of keeping their mental health stable. Why do you think are so many people getting depressed in times of covid lockdowns, despite many having all sorts of technical gimmicks at their disposal to at least keep boredom at bay?

And by putting himself into a bubble like that, I think Dobson has deprived himself of some of the most basic human interaction, which was likely a severe factor in his mental degeneration over the last years.

It is still a valid suggestion! Just draw some cartoon characters or a nice fantasy scenario on a mural and earn yourself some bucks. Just be sure they are not by Disney or the Mouse will tear down the school!

… Just google up the words Andrew Dobson and Samus Aran commission by ED and you will see how this comic just further shows how much Dobson seems to actually be proud of being an unproductive asshole.

 And by the way, I know that any form of artistic work takes time. Just writing these review posts takes a lot of time for me. But that doesn’t change the fact that people should post and create stuff in a timely fashion, especially when there are e.g. deadlines to hold up too. And by the way, Sloth’s don’t have fingers, they have claws!

And that is it.

Sorry if I missed anything folks, but I just saw how many pages in word this is already filling up, so I call quits for this part here right now. I think I made my point about how Dobson trying to badly deflect arguments people may make against his art and work ethics via jokes clear enough, while also showing some posts that are either harsher or hilarious in hindsight.

Next time we will however address one certain issue about our main character, that has been not directly addressed here. In the meantime, have a little fun video that shows hopefully how entertainment and a certain amount of comedy can be gained NOT via misery.

[snowgloberoundandround]

This trend of telling people to “wear a d*mn mask” or calling people selfish for choosing not wearing a mask in public needs to stop. It is a callously cruel thing to say, and extremely damaging to hear every single day. People have their reasons for not wearing a mask, just as much as you have your reasons for wearing yours.

Here are just a few reasons people don’t wear a mask:

Assorted medical reasons - most places are making exceptions for medical reasons in the fine print, but most medical reasons a stranger on the street won’t be able to see, they’ll just see the lack of a mask. People with legitimate medical exceptions are harassed every day by people, both strangers and employees, who assume they are just being apathetic and flippant. They are berated by social media’s inflammatory hashtags and posts that demand you wear a mask. It’s not okay to assume why someone is not wearing a mask, it’s not okay to judge someone for not wearing a mask, and it’s not legal to ask what the medical condition is. You’re not a doctor, you’re not their doctor.

Asthma/respiratory fatigue - for oxygenation we measure what is called your Sp02 levels. A normal, resting level should be in the 98-100 range. Under anesthesia if it gets in the low 90’s we’re mildly concerned and trying to restore it, we never want to see it in the 80’s. Some studies with the masks have shown Sp02 levels in healthy, fit individuals wearing masks while walking briskly for several minutes dropping into the 70’s. That’s very, very bad. One of my friends has bad asthma, she wore her mask for a quick 5-minute trip into the store yesterday. It took her TWO HOURS to recover. If you have a pre-existing respiratory condition, wearing a mask can be extremely harmful. You shouldn’t have to be told you’re a bad person because someone doesn’t get that you’re just trying to breathe.

Skin conditions - Masks trap moisture close to your face. If you have severe acne, eczema, psoriasis, are prone to infection, etc. having a mask on your face repeatedly for long periods of time can result in bad infections and be a painful irritant. Along with all the other points on this thread, employers also have little care for the health and well-being of their employees in this regard, especially corporate employers, who rather cover their risk of being sued rather than allow their employees to not wear a mask for the sake of their health. There have also been cases of young and healthy individuals getting lung infections from wearing a mask 40+ hours a week. Constantly breathing in moisture and carbon dioxide was not something that the human body was meant to do.

Anxiety/panic attacks - I have anxiety, and most the time I can handle it. But I’ve had anxiety about going to the store by myself LONG before this all started, so if I have the mask on for more than five minutes at the store I start feeling like I can’t breathe well. And my anxiety isn’t anywhere near as bad as some. We’ve had to call 911 for my mom at least half a dozen times in the span of my life, and those are just the really bad panic attacks, not all the little after shocks. Now think about if you’re having an anxiety attack, and had to take your mask off, and it’s not that severe but you’re teetering on the edge, and some rando comes by and says “HEY PUT A MASK ON” or “It’s not doing anything if it’s not on your face.” Imagine how much worse that makes it because you’re already struggling to keep it together and now you’re met with confrontation.

Physical/sexual abuse victims - imagine having to live through someone trying to actually suffocate you, and then you’re told you have to wear a mask at all times. All you feel is that hand over your face, all you feel is the inability to escape, being constricted and restrained. THEN imagine everyone telling you you’re being selfish for not wearing a mask, simply because they don’t know what horrors you’ve been through. Further more, the governor of my state said anxiety is not a good enough excuse not to wear a mask, so you’re branded a criminal for not wanting to relive the worst moment of your life in memory.

PTSD - this is basically the same principle as the two afore mentioned, as PTSD comes in many shapes and sizes. However it bears stating the lasting emotional trauma masks will have on many children in schools. For a nervous little third grader, telling her for eight hours a day she can’t sit with her friends, can’t play with them on the playground, can’t interact with anyone, has to be screened every day, and in some schools are required to stay in little solitary cubicles... that ABSOLUTELY can give a child PTSD while also inhibiting their development.

Autism - some autistic people have severe texture adversities. For any child having a mask over their face is a difficult thing to tolerate, but especially for an autistic child who can only tolerate a select few materials when it comes to normal clothes. This is a good post that goes into more detail on how the current hostility toward anyone who doesn’t where a mask promotes an ableist outlook

In protest - Because they believe that the deaths and emotional trauma from mask culture is more detrimental than the initial virus, such depression, the medical treatment that was denied and people died from because it was not deemed “essential”, the families that go hungry because of jobs lost, the resulting crime and lawlessness that hurts people, the panic/anxiety and emotional scarring it will have on children in schools, etc. Many people will call it selfish to not wear a mask out of protest, but in reality it is BECAUSE you care about people that you protest by not wearing a mask. If you believe it is doing more harm than good for the population as a whole, the most selfless thing you can do is risk being ridiculed and punished for standing up.

Science and statistics - Many people simply believe that the science doesn’t prove that masks are unequivocally beneficial and that the statistics don’t validate their efficacy. The ideology has become “the masks are better than nothing” but as the above points listed have countered, sometimes a mask is WORSE than nothing. Furthermore, instituting mandatory masks on the basis of it may or may not help is extremely poor leadership. You don’t collapse a society, cause lasting economic and emotional crisis for something you don’t know for certain if it will work. You don’t create laws on a maybe. That is a detrimental way of thinking because it is destroying our society, producing casualties of all kinds, for something you don’t even know if it really helps. People have lost their lives, their food, their jobs, their businesses they built from the ground up because of the astronomical fines and closures if they do not enforce masks that may or may not be effective. Masks are not necessarily a “temporary inconvenience”, there are lasting effects. Most people who don’t wear masks, don’t do so because they are short-sighted and selfish, but they do so because they believe it is in the best interest of everyone to make masks optional, because of their great care for others and how it impacts everyone involved.

But the bottom line is this:

The simple reason that I believe it’s better for my health not to wear a mask is reason enough to not have to wear one. I have the right to decide what is best for my health and act accordingly, and I should not be attacked for that.

[t-o-m-hollands]

PARIS PART II of III

Warnings: Swearing, heavy drinking, smut. +18.

SUMMARY: Timmy is an artist living in Paris in the 1950′s. You come to him to model for a painting but you have an unusual demand for the artist.      

R E A D    P A R T   O N E    H E R E

1st of October, 1952 - Paris.  

It’s Tuesday and Timothée is tired. It’s 1 in the afternoon but his head is still aching from last night. It's been seven months since you left Paris, and somehow, life has gone on.  

The sun is shining mercilessly bright and he wishes he was back in his studio, so he could hide from it. But it’s a place he spends as little amount of time as possible in as of late. Instead he’s sitting on a bench just below Sacré-Cœur, wearing last night's clothes, a mess of curls framing his tired face. In one hand a cigarette and in the other a freshly printed copy of the Tatler. On the front page is your face, radiantly beautiful, in a wedding dress and veil, diamonds in your ears and diamonds on your head. Next to you is your Freddie, looking straight at the camera, unnecessarily smug; or so Timothée thinks. Inside the magazine there’s an entire montage in the happy couples’ honor, complete with exclusive pictures from the high-society occasion.  

“Dubbed the wedding of the season this intimate affair took place on a drizzly September morning between baron Freddie Fairfax and his blushing new bride. Freddie, who is the son of the 9th Earl of Abington, was overheard by some guest remarking over the beauty of his new bride, who was wearing a bone-white couture gown signed Christian Dior and accessorized with a diadem, an heirloom of the Fairfax family that has been in their possession for generations and borrowed to the bride on this special occasion. The nuptials were exchanged in St Margaret’s Church, gloriously decorated with bunches and bunches of yellow chrysanthemums, aconites and white lilies, in front of an audience including representants from most of the royal households of Europe and the English social elite. The reception took place at the Earls 25,000 acres estate in Oxfordshire and upon arrival the guest were served ice cold”    

Timothée stops reading and throws the magazine down on the bench. For a long time he sits there, watching as people climb their way up the stairs to the church, and smoking cigarette after cigarette until his throat feels sore. It’s a fine October day, the air crisp and clean. The leaves on the trees changing from emerald green to vibrant shades of orange and yellow. Some have already fallen to the ground. A melancholic part of him, the majority in fact, can’t help but to think of it as a metaphor of his life. He’d met you and the entire world had seemed in bloom. Now it was rapidly fading.  

Someone sits down beside him on the bench, but he ignores them, mind too far away to care.      

“You are monsieur Chalamet, I presume”. With a startle he looks at the person next to him. It’s an elderly lady, possibly in her 80’s, with hair in a sophisticated updo, burgundy lips and sparkling eyes. She’s clothed in an expensive fur coat and with diamonds on every finger. He suddenly feels dirty in his unwashed clothes.        

“Yes madam, and who are you if I may ask?”  he answers politely.    

“Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright” she introduces herself, stretching out her heavily bejeweled hand. He shakes the elderly woman’s hand. It feels strangely cold in his.    

“And what can I do for you, madam?”    

She doesn’t answer at first but looks down on the magazine between them. “Pretty, isn’t she?” she asks. He doesn’t answer at first, doesn’t know what to say to that. “Yes, very pretty” he answers at last.  

“It was a terrible wedding” she continues. “Terrible”.    

“And how do you know the bride?” He asks, feeling rather uncomfortable

“She’s my grandniece” she says and looks up at him again, studying his face. “She lived with me for a period, here in Paris. I believe you know one another?”  

He doesn’t answer her question, knows she already knows the answer to it, instead he asks “and why was the wedding so terrible?”  

“Oh” she says and swats with her hand, but there’s a look of worry on her face he can’t look past. “When the bride’s wearing the wrong dress, or the bridesmaids won’t behave, or the food’s terrible, well those are all things one expects at a wedding. But when the bride marries the wrong groom, well, that’s not quite as easily overlooked. Then you find yourself actually praying for an ill-fitted gown instead”.  

He stares at her in confusion. “What do you mean, the wrong groom?”  

She observers him with shrewd eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”  

“Madam, with all due respect, I not sure what you want with me” he says slowly.  He finds himself wondering if maybe he’s still asleep and this is a strange dream produced by too much absinthe. If he’ll perhaps wake up in a ditch soon, with a hangover from hell.

“But don’t worry” she says with a kind smile “We can still fix this”.  

  He wonders if he should leave, for this is not a conversation he wants to have, especially not with a complete stranger. But despite himself he says “there’s nothing to fix”.  

Then she takes him by surprise, for she grabs the magazine from the bench and hits his arm with it, not hard, but enough to get a reaction out of him. “Ow!” he bursts out, “what was that for?”

“For you to get a grip of yourself! Don’t be so defeatist, I told you we can fix this. You still love her and she loves you, not that absolute buffoon”.  

“It’s too late, she’s already married him. And I'm over it” he lies, trying to keep on to some kind of dignity in this bizarre situation.  

“Don’t be ridiculous, you haven’t moved on from any of it, I know an idiot in love when I see one, and you’re it”.  

“Gee, thanks” he mutters, rubbing the sore spot where she hit him with the magazine.  

“Now, what are we going to do? Are you going after her?”  

He stares at her in disbelief, “no, she’s married, I told you, it’s too late”.

“Do I need to use this again?” she threatens and holds up the magazine, but there’s a humorous gleam in her eyes that makes him smile.    

“Why are you trying to help me?” He asks.

“Well, quite frankly dahling, I'm not trying to help you. But that girl, my dahling niece, is miserable.” There’s sadness now in her old eyes and something twists uncomfortably in Timothée’s chest.  

“It’s that bloody women's fault, her mother!”  She bursts out, taking him aback. The venom in her voice almost palpable, “She’s whispering ideas of self-sacrifice in her ear. Not that her father’s any better – defeatist! That’s the only word to describe him! Never could fight for himself. To think that my dahling sister could have given birth to such a fool. And now my grandniece...” she trails off, sadness in her voice again.    

“Now your grandniece has a title and is married to one of the richest people in England.” He states firmly.    

She throws the magazine down on the bench again and swats her hand in front of her, as if to get rid of a particularly annoying fly, and the diamonds on her hand sparkle in the sun. “Yes, but it’s not what she wants. Is it? What she wants is, well, it’s you.”    

There’s something so penetrating about her eyes and the way she looks at him. Crinkled and full of wrinkles her face may be but those shrew eyes shine bright as ever. They are very familiar eyes, a strong remembrance to another pair of eyes that haunt his dreams.  He looks away,    

“But she did decide to marry him, that was her decision. Doesn’t mean I don’t understand it, but there’s where we’re at. There’s nothing to be done.”    

“I saw the painting you made of her” She says in a voice that make him think she’s fishing after something and in the corner of his eyes he can see her inspecting him. He lights a new cigarette and avoids her eyes. “The one with yellow tulips?” she adds, making it sound like a question.    

Ah    

“’s just a painting” he mumbles, feigning nonchalance.    

She continues to observe him before sighing. Then, she pats him on his arm and in a gentle tone she says “we both know that’s not quite true”.    

And suddenly he wants to weep. Weep in a way he hasn’t since he was a child. Without holding back, without grace or shame. Weep, and subject the poison from his body. But he doesn’t. Clenching his hands around the rim of the bench with all of his strength he manages to keep the storm at bay. Only when he feels he has his emotions locked up and under control does he look at her again. Her familiar eyes, full of sympathy, observes him and something inside his chest is screaming.  

“Could I paint you, madam?” he asks with a smile, to lighten the mood.  

She throws her head back in laughter. “Oh, how sweet of you, but I'm afraid my modelling days are far behind me. But if you ever need something, a listening ear or” and she looks at his dirty clothes “or perhaps a loan, then feel free to keep in touch.”

She gently pats his shoulder, then gets up and leaves.  

  *  

February 12th, 1953  

In a dimly lit club in Pigalle Timothée is writing a letter. Smoke surrounds him and the dim light shining through gives the illusion of a halo around his head. It’s a bad place to conduct letters in. People around him are cheering and talking, singing and howling with laughter while a modern band plays experimental jazz. It is rowdy, and it is wild, and it’s the perfect distraction.  

It’s a shabby sort of place, where the floors are sticky with god knows what, the music is loud and the liquor comes cheap. Timothée thinks it’s heaven.

A man sits down next to him in the bar and orders a Gin Rickey.  

“Terrible, aren’t they?” He questions in a broad American accent, gesturing toward the band as the bartender hands him his drink. Timothée nods in agreement and gestures with his empty glass to the bartender, implying need of a refill of his whiskey neat. The barman catches his gesture and pour him a new glass of Glenlivet and hands it to him just as the band begin a new tune.  

“Hardly Duke Ellington” he says to the stranger and nods to the scene. He folds the unfinished letter and puts it in his pocket for later. The other man snorts in response, “that’s putting it kindly” he says, amusement in his voice. Timothée takes a good look at the stranger. He looks to be about his own age and is wearing a nice grey suit and hat tilted to the side. With a square jaw, a tall stature and piercingly blue eyes he could pass for a movie star. Lighting a cigarette, the man then offers one to Timothée, who gladly accepts the offer in a gratified manner. He’s been running low on his own stash these last few days.    

They start talking. Discussing the differences in American and French jazz, the best drinking holes in Paris and who really is the great American writer. Timothée claim it’s Hemingway (“mark my words, he’ll win a Nobel price one of these days) whereas the stranger argues for F. Scott Fitzgerald (“the way he writes about the promise of the American dream, no one can rival Fitzgerald” he proclaims and Timmy wants to argue that surely he writes about the failed promise of the American dream, but they move on to a less dividing topic). The discuss bourbon and whiskey and rum as the bartender refill their glasses and the liquor no longer burns his throat and his eyes have adjusted to the smoke in the room as they mindlessly chat on. Timmy finds out that the strangers name is William and that he’s originally from California though went to boarding school in ‘good ol’ England’ but that he’s spent the last year in New York. Also, that he’s just separated from his wife. Timmy in turn tells him of his own life in broad strokes, his American mother and French father, art school and life as a painter in Paris. A few drinks later still and they get a hold of an old, wooden table at the far back of the room and so they cross the room, avoiding collision with the dancers, all in various states of drunkenness, and they begin a game of cards. The jazz band plays on.      

William turns out to be quite the gambler and Timothée, who’s been walking around for months now with a feeling that he has nothing more to lose, can’t help but bet on the few things he has. They laugh and play and share stories of their youth while the jazz band play louder and louder. Perhaps the good company and distracting surroundings goes to his head, because a couple games in and Timmy is indebted to the American. He has had a bad hand overall as of late and he tells his opponent as much. The man in turn laughs and leans back in his chair, his cards in one hand and a cigar in the other. He takes a long drag from it before blowing out smoke across the space between them. Around them people dance to the chaotic music.  

“Hell, I’m feeling generous tonight and you’ve been good company. Not many people I can talk to here in France, my French is terrible. So, you’re a painter, how about a painting, then? And I’ll write the whole thing off.” he suggests and smiles broadly.    

Timothée hesitates. His apartment has been unusually empty of paintings as of late. The few ones he had he sold just last week in order to meet rent. Inspiration to paint new ones had not been with him. Not since you left. Everything he had managed to paint had come out drained of colour and bleak and he ended up losing interest in it.    

He only has one painting left.  But he couldn't, could he?

“Alright” Timmy agrees. Because what choice does he have? Maybe it’s time to put this ghost to rest, once and for all. Your gone and no wishful thinking or practices in gratefulness can change that simple fact. You’re married and there’s nothing he can do about it, despite madame Marguerite’s words of your misery ringing in his ears. There’s nothing he can do to save you now. You’ve made your choice, and all there is now is the aftermath. The post mortem. You have to live with that decision and so does he. Even if he doesn’t want to. So, why should he keep the painting? The baron got to keep the real you after all, and the only thing he has is the picture of you. A picture that can’t talk or laugh, can’t smile or play with his hair or touch him or dance to Chopin or lecture him about classical music. A painted image that he has stared himself blind at for these past few months, grieving that he cannot bring it to life, while the baron got the real you.    

His unfinished letter burns in his pocket but he ignores it.  

And so they leave, on unsteady legs and heads swirling with liquor, and the jazz band plays them out to their worst tune yet as they exchange the smoky club air for a cold night’s breeze.  

“Fuck” William mutters as they enter the night. “Fucking freezing” he adds and shivers in his nice suit. “No worry” Timothée slurs “not far”. They stumble their way across the cobblestoned streets. “You damn Frenchmen” the other man mutters after some distance, “always got to fucking walk everywhere, taxis where invented tor a reason, you know!” Timmy snorts and points to a building just a couple of meters away. “Live there, yeah?”  

And with a lot of effort they help each other up the stairs to the loft. Once inside William asks if there’s any brandy, for ‘recovery purposes after their hellish journey’ and so, they drink some more. They start discussing politics, a bad idea all around, before venturing into the less dividing topic of French cinema. It’s not long after that they’ve both fallen asleep, William slung on the sofa, his long limbs hanging over the edge, and Timothée’s sprawled out on the carpet, the bottle of brandy clutched firmly in his hand. (For recovery purposes.)  

A few hours later and Timmy’s hurling down the toilet. He wants to check his head for bullet holes, that’s how bad it’s aching. After having cleaned up, although there’s nothing to be done about the mess of curls that is his hair, he joins the American in his living room.  

William is sitting up on the sofa, but it looks very much as if he’s just woken up, hair a mess and a 5 o'clock shadow, his expensive suit all wrinkles now. The sun is shining mercilessly bright and its rays lights up the room as he rubs his eyes. “Coffee?” he requests in a gruff voice. Timothée nods, before realizing that any movement of the head is a terrible idea as pain shots through it.  

“What a fucking night” William mutters some time later as they drink their coffee. “And I’ve got a meeting with the lawyers this afternoon, not the sort of thing one should do hungover.”  

“Oh yeah?” is all Timothée manages to get out, head still too sore to put any thoughts together.  

“Yeah, divorce proceedings”  

“Rotten business” Timmy states and the other man laughs. “Rotten business, indeed” he agrees and cheer him with his mug of coffee. “Still, a necessity that must be endured.” He looks around the loft. “But I’ll have a new painting to hang in my bachelor pad, that’s something to write home about!” he says, more cheerful now.  

And fuck, he’d forgotten that part.  

Feeling nauseous again he puts down his coffee cup. “Yeah, you’ll have a new painting” he agrees, mostly to fill the silence.    

“Haven’t seen any of your work yet though” William considers. “You might be shit. My five-year-old niece might be a better painter, and I’ve just promised to write off your debts to me” he adds and laughs. Timmy gets up, there’s no putting this off. “I’ll go get it and you’ll decide” he says and heads for his bedroom.  

The paintings leaned against the wall.  He doesn’t turn it, doesn’t want to see it one last time. There’s not enough brandy in the world for that recovery. Something inside his chest is rioting against the very idea of handing the picture over to anyone else, but he pushes down the feeling of nausea and heads back to the living room, canvas clutched firmly in his hands.  

“Well” he says and holds it up, so the other man can see. “Here’s your winnings”.  

William looks up at it and then, the strangest thing happens. His entire being freezes, his mouth ajar, stuck mid-movement as he had begun to say something before having seemingly been struck by lightning. Bells are ringing alarmingly in Timothée’s head, going off like sirens. Somethings wrong.  

He observes Williams glossy eyes taking in the portrait in front of him, mouth still agog in chock. He places to painting on the dingy little table but William still doesn’t take his eyes off it. He gets up slowly and walks over to the painting, as if in a trance, like a man bewitched, and he reaches out a hand to touch the painting and with hesitant fingers he gently touches your cheek. The nude portrait of you, the one Timothée had painted on the day that you left him, posing slung on the very same sofa William’s just slept on.    

And it hits him then, like a collision.  

That this is William. The William. The man who broke your engagement and sailed across the Atlantic with his new bride. A bride he’s apparently already separated from.    

“How, how-” William begins but he seems unable to finish the sentence.  

A sudden feeling of being a side character in somebody else’s story settles inside of Timothée. Words like destiny and star-crossed comes to mind as he observes the other man and his wide, wild eyes, the way he looks at the painting in absolute wonder.  

“Is, is she still here? Is she still in Paris?” and his voice is weak but full of hope. Slowly Timothée shakes his head. “She’s left.” He confirms, and the crushing disappointment is so clear in the other man’s face that it feels cruel to continue, but he does. “She’s married now. To a baron”.  

William’s head snaps away from the painting for the first time since he saw it. “Freddie?” He asks, voice bitter and Timmy nods. “That fucker” he swears “he always was sniffing after her” he adds resentfully. He looks back at the painting and his expression soften, but he looks sadder too.    

“That’s why you came here, isn’t?” Timothée asks hesitantly. “To look for her?”  

William nods, seemingly unable to look away from the picture. He reaches for it and an overwhelming urge to stop him, to remove the painting from his sight washes over Timothée. To hand this portrait of you away to a stranger had seemed like a sad but unavoidable thing to do. But to give it away in due for his debts to your ex fiancé… It felt dirty and cruel.    

But what choice did he have?  

And so, he watches William take the painting and watches him leave with the only thing he has left of you.  

Because Timothée is 26 and he still hasn’t got any money. And he can’t compete with handsome William, or to Freddie the baron. Because Timothée is 26 and all he’s got to show for it is an apartment he can’t afford anymore and a broken heart.    

He runs to the bathroom and hurls in the toilet again, unable to ignore the feeling of nausea and guilt any longer.

*

That night you come to him in his dreams. Like a vision you appear at the end of his bed, drenched in water. White, wet silk clenching to your body, hair slicked to your face and such a haunted look in your eyes that he involuntarily reaches out for you, to hold you, to help you, to save you. He’s not quite sure. But before he can reach you the scenario changes. Because suddenly – as is the way of dreams, you’re the Tate museum watching John Everett Millais Ophelia. Your standing next to him, water dripping from your drenched body down on the floor. He looks at you, but you keep your eyes on the painting.

And when he looks back at it, it’s no longer a portrait of Ophelia lying dead in the water. It’s you.  

He wakes with a jolt, drenched in cold sweat, gasping for air. It feels like he has to force fresh air into his lungs, like he’s been under water for too long. He feels around himself, automatically, to feel for your body, make sure you’re safe.

Bur you are miles away.

*    

February 14th, 1953  

Timothée writes a new letter.    

It’s 5 am and I'm drunk and I am thinking of you and in a few hours it’ll be 12 am and I'll be drunk and I'll be thinking of you. And so the story goes.    

I met your William, charming bloke, shame about his wife. He came here looking for you, you know? Don’t worry, I told him you got married to a baron. Your wedding pictures looked lovely in the Tatler, by the way.  Diamonds suits you.

I haven’t painted much since you left. I have no inspiration. For anything.  

You know, we've made a beating heart out of my pain. It’s a living, breathing creature and it walks with me everywhere, hidden somewhere under my ribcage. Like a second heart. Where I go it follows. What I feel for you, it’s a Frankenstein's monster kind of grief, bits and pieces cut out from us both, turned into a living creature. Can you hear it beating for you? Can you hear it screaming out for you? Saying ‘where did she go? Where did she go? Why can’t I follow?’ Like a child begging for its mother. Come back, come back and collect your second heart, take it out of my body, remove it from me, I cannot stand its begging. I'd kill the monster, but it’s the only thing I have left of you now. Don’t think I could stomach the loss.    

I’m not the same I was before I met you. This love has made a different man out of me. This love has made a bitter man out of me. This love sure feels a lot like drowning. In my dreams you come to me, all Ophelia-esque and suffering, and I want to pull both our bodies out of the water, but you’re determined to sink and I don’t want to let go of your hand and so – we drown.    

I know it’ll pass, this longing I have for you. It must. I cannot keep walking these streets wrecked with grief. One day at a time. That’s what I tell myself each morning as a watch the sun rise over Paris, my head and heart pounding in revolt, one day at a time.      

There’s a Swedish saying that goes ‘a lot of water shall run under a lot of bridges before I forget you’. What it essentially means is that it’ll take a lot for me to forget you, or the way you made me feel.    

But I'm sorry. One mustn’t be morbid. I won’t write you again. I’ve tried to be grateful; I am trying. I hope married life is treating you well. I hope you’ve gotten all you ever wished for. I hope you’re happy. I honestly do. You deserve the best life has to offer. I’m just sad I can’t be the one giving it to you. Being without you is a hard thing to be grateful for.    

One day at a time.    

Yours,      

Timothée      

*    

The next morning, he calls the model agency. Later, just as his headache is subsiding, a blonde model named Lucy knocks on his door. She’s chatty and friendly and moves around too much when he paints her. Her laugh is loud but childlike and she keeps the conversation going. He plays a Benny Goodman record and her hips gently swing along to the rhythm almost involuntarily and she sings along in a sweet voice to ‘The Sunny Side of the Street’.  

Outside the sun is shining and the whole world seems at rest. It’s not the same – God knows it’s not the same – but for the first time in months it all seems, not alright perhaps, but bearable.      

Later that night as he washes himself clean from the yellow paint that’s stained his fingers, he tries to push the feeling of guilt down from where it seems to be stuck in his throat. When that doesn’t work he tries to wash it down with absinth but as he lays down on the livingroom floor, too tired to make it into the bedroom, he watches the golden painting of Lucy gleam even in the dark, he wonders if perhaps absinth is what makes guilt grow.    

*  

1st of Mars, 1953  

Timothée wakes to sunlight streaming in through the large and unwashed windows. For a long while he lays there completely still, sprawled out on the white linen sheets, curly hair draped over the pillow; trying to force his eyes to get used to the light. His head is pounding, and his body aches, but the sensation feels as familiar as the scent of turpentine and oil paint. Slowly he moves his limbs, first wiggling his toes and his hands; as if to count them all, and then, with monumental strength of character, he gets out of bed. Naked as the day he was born he walks over to the window. Far down on the street Paris is already awake, cars and passer-byers chasing down the streets. Some have changed out of their heavy, winter jackets to lighter coats as the bustle off to their individual destination.

It is the first day of spring.  

He turns away from the window, in search for some clothes but stop in his tracks. As if seeing the room with new eyes he takes it in. Around the bed lay bottle after bottle of liquor, the sheets are old and dirty, the room hasn’t been dusted in months, and various pieces of clothing lay scattered everywhere.

He can’t go on like this. It’s time, whether he wants it to be or not. He has to go on.  

He pours down the absinthe, the rum, the whiskey and the brandy down the kitchen sink and watches as it disappears. He cleans and wipes the floor, washes his sheets and clothes and then carefully folds them and puts them away in his closet.  He finishes his painting of Lucy and then starts on another. He calls his delighted art dealer and informs him of the progress, tells him that he’ll have more ones in no time. He then swallows his pride and calls madam Marguerite, asking for the loan she offered. Pride won’t keep him warm if he loses the apartment due to not paying rent. She too sounds delighted and tells him he can pay her back by coming over for dinner. They both need the company.      

And so, he walks to her apartment, a bouquet of daffodils in hand, smelling like clean laundry and with his newly brushed hair it all feel an awful lot like going to church. Upon arriving at Marguerite’s home, a maid opens the door for him and he tries not to smile when she wrinkles her nose and takes his old and patchy coat. The apartment is palace-like in grandeur, white marble everywhere, and decorated with expertise. She leads him into the lounge and announces him.  

“Mr. Chalamet, madam”.  

“Yes, thank you Louise” Marguerite answers and the maid leaves them.  

“A cocktail?” she asks, holding up an empty martini glass. He politely accepts and looks around the room as she prepares it. “Is that a Picasso?” he asks astonished, pointing at a blue portrait of a woman on the wall opposite.  

“Yes” she says and hands him a martini.  

“How- how?”  

She smiles at him indulgently. “I knew him in my youth” she explains and takes a sip from her own drink. He stares at her in amazement. “You know Pablo Picasso?”  

She scoffs. “Oh, don’t be jealous of that, man’s an absolute fool”.

And so, they talk, all through drinks and then dinner.  About art and music. About both of their childhoods, different though they both may have been. She tells him stories from her long and impressive life. About dahling Humphrey. After dinner, which had been a superb affair of duck confit; served on the finest of porcelain and paired with the finest of wines, they’d gone out on the terrace for drinks and smokes. He sticks to his old Lucky Strikes and she to imported Russian cigarettes, (a habit she’d picked up during the war, she’d told him).  

“Darling Humprey would have liked you, he would have rooted for you” she says and leans back in her chair, a Hermès blanket in her lap to keep her warm.  

“Oh really? Was he a good gambler?”

“Oh god no, he was terrible better. And a sore loser.”  she says and smiles in the fond way she does when she thinks of her late husband.  

“How reassuring for me” he says dryly.    

“Dahlinh” she begins in a drawl that would have made Betty Davis proud, “what should be reassuring is that I’m fighting in your corner, and I don’t believe in a losing hand”. Then, changing the subject she says “My niece is quite right you know, your knowledge of classical music is subpar, so I'm educating you. Next week, I'll take you to the opera.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, indeed. Gianni Schicchi. I have a spare ticket so feel free to bring someone along with you”.  

 “Puccini?” he says with a grimace.

“Now boy, I'm fond of you but if you say bad word of Puccini I will throw you of this balcony myself”.

He smiles, but she reminds him so much of her grandniece in this moment and something in his chest is calling out for you

Later that week he calls Lucy and they go out dancing. He doesn’t take her to Pigelle, wants to keep away from its smoke-filled rooms and sticky floors. Escapism isn’t heaven. Not anymore. Instead he takes her to La Noyade, a nice place where nice people go to have fun. And they dance, and she makes him laugh and it’s not world-altering or butterfly-inducing but it’s a good way to pass the time. They mindlessly chat about movies, and music and film stars over glasses of Champagne and they never once wade into personal territories. She wears a nice and tight dress in a sunny color, her golden blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, and as he watches her seductively move her hips to the live band's music, he finds himself thinking ‘why not?’ And when she kisses him with painted-pink lips under a streetlamp he kisses her back. Because why not. And when he takes her to bed that night and fucks her into the mattress, her moans ringing in his ears, and her yellow hair sprawled over his pillows he nearly manages to forget you.  

Nearly.      

He holds her as she falls asleep and he tries to get used to the unfamiliar scent of her hair, the unfamiliarity of her body next to his. One day at a time.

(In his dreams you come to him, through the haze of a misty beach. You take his hand and guide him into a boat. And there you lay, as the boat drifts away and you watch the stars. You hold him close, and breathing feels easier. The rioting creature inside his chest finally at ease.)

*

Walking of the stairs of L'Opéra Garnier one can’t help feel anything but small. The supreme grandeur of the palace is designed to make you feel inferior after all. The high ceiling, gloriously painted by Isidore Pils, is enough to knock the breath out of anyone, and then white marble and gold for as far as the eye can see.  

Timothée is wearing a tuxedo, the cheap rental kind, and the collar hasn’t been starched properly. It itches, and he fights the urge to scratch at his neck, and so he keeps his hand occupied by taking Lucy’s hand in his, and they make their way forward.  

They make their way down the grand foyer. All around them people are dressed up to the nine’s in evening dresses, furs and tuxedos and more diamonds than he’s seen in his entire life, and god, Timothée misses Montmartre. Through the crowd he can see madam Marguerite, fitting her surroundings perfectly.  

“Madam” he greets and kisses her cheek.

“Timothée” she responds, and she sounds fond. However, before he can introduce Lucy to her Marguerite looks over his shoulder and excitingly exclaims “Oh, there you are darling!” Without thinking he turns around to look at whomever Marguerite is greeting.

His body reacts before he does and goes completely still and for a moment he doesn’t understand what’s happening to him.

It’s you.  

With your hair up in an eloquent hairdo, wearing a black velvet gown that he bets costs more than his apartment, and diamonds around your neck, you’re walking towards them. Arm in arm with you walks a man Timothée recognizes from the Tatler, Freddie, with blond hair and upturned nose. He’s certainly not wearing rental wear. “Timothée?” you ask in a weak voice as you reach him. You’re seemingly unable to believe your eyes. “Is it really you?” And with your painted blood-red lips you lean in to kiss his cheek, but they never touch his skin. You pull away and he sees how Freddie’s arm tightens around your waist.

Then you look at Lucy.

“Oh, yes of course, this is Lucy she’s my, uh” he halters.

“Muse” Lucy fills in and Timothée wants to protest, wants to catch the word midair and change it for something else, something less familiar. But he can’t. So, he watches in silence as she stretches out a hand for you to shake, which you elegantly do and even though you’re politely smiling there’s a frozen look on your face that unsettles him. With effortless grace you introduce yourself.  

Then, “and this is my husband, Frederic”. You smile up at him and something inside Timothée chest is wreaking havoc. Freddie looks bored.  

“Should we move along?” Freddie says in a drawling, posh voice that makes Timmy’s skin prickle in displeasure.  

“Of course” Marguerite says, and leads the way, calling out ‘hello’s’ and ‘dahling’s’ to various familiar faces as she goes. Lucy crosses arms with him and they follow the older women's lead, you and your husband at your heel.  

Timothée feels disorientated, head swimming with thoughts. There are too many feelings at once inside of him, too many different emotions fighting for dominance. But somehow, he continues to put one foot in front of the other and before he knows it, they’re in the auditorium. They’re in one of the boxes, and Marguerite places herself front row, next to an elderly gentleman she greets with fond familiarity. In the row behind them Freddie guides his wife and then sits down next to her. He and Lucy take the two seats behind them, Timothée ending up in the seat right behind you. He sees how Freddie leans in to whisper something in your ear, but he can’t hear his words. All he can see is that you stiffen, and slowly shake your head.  

He looks at you, you’re perfect updo, not a hair out of place, the immaculately painted lips, the swan-like neck and perfect stiff posture. Your face still with that unsettling frozen look, as if you’ve retracted somewhere far inside yourself and he remembers how you used to dance in his studio, unguarded and free. Laughing and dancing while he painted you. A sudden urge to take your hand grabs hold of him. To take your hand and lead you away from all of this, away from the man sitting down beside you. To loosen your hair and limbs. To take you home and play Chopin and make you laugh again. Erase that frozen, still look from your face.  

The lighting dims in the auditorium and then the orchestra begin the dramatic first chords of the opera but Timothée finds it hard to concentrate. Lucy has her eyes set on the stage, her hand on his knee. He feels like a trapped animal.  

He thanks his lucky star that it’s at least only a one-act opera he tries to focus on the performances, but his eyes keep moving back to your neck. Your dress is backless and if he reaches out his hand, he could touch your skin. But doesn’t. Knows you wouldn’t want him to.

When O Mio Babbino Caro starts playing he sees how you lean forward, mesmerized by the beautiful voice of the soprano and he smiles, for he remembers you telling him it’s your favorite aria. But he sees how Freddie puts a hand on your arm, making you sit straight again.  

‘Huh’ Timothée thinks and looks at your husband, ‘so this is what pure hatred feels like’. He digs his nails into his hand, leaving little half-moon shaped marks.    

Eventually the wretched thing ends and after having applauded the performers and the orchestra you all rise up to leave. You turn and look at him and he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch your cheek, tell you how beautiful you are, how brave and wise and kind, and how undeserving the man next to you is. But he doesn’t.  

Once outside it’s decided that you and your husband are going back to George V with your aunt for drinks. Politely you invite him and Lucy but he reclines with a bad excuse. He observes you, and even with your perfectly polite manners it’ like you’re walking around half-asleep, still with that frozen look in your face that’s beginning to scare him. And Christ, you’re just so guarded. You bid your goodbyes, and kissing her cheek he thanks Marguerite for the tickets, but when he tries to say goodbye to you, he can see Freddie’s arm tighten around your wait again. So instead of leaning into a kiss on the cheek he politely bows his head and you and in a gentle voice he says “goodbye then, it was nice seeing you again”. You smile back, eyes glossy and for a moment he wonders if you’re about to cry but a moment later you’ve pulled yourself together and politely bids goodbye to Lucy.  And then you’re walking away, Freddie’s arm still around your waist.  

* The next morning he goes to visit madam Marguerite, a book in hand. Louise lets him in, looking down on him as usual. “Would you like me to mend this, monsieur?” she asks, both sarcasm and contempt clear in her voice, as she looks takes his coat, indicating the big tear in one of the sides. “If you wouldn’t mind” he answers cheekily and walks past her.  

Marguerite is sitting on the terrace eating breakfast, Le Monde in front of her. He puts down his copy of Jane Austen’s Emma in front of her.  

“There” he says and sits down in the chair opposite her “your literary soulmate”.

She scoffs “Mr. Knightley really isn’t my type”

He rolls his eyes, but smiles fondly at her “No I shouldn’t think so. And I meant Emma, not Mr. Knightley. You and Emma are the same”.   “Oh what utter nonsense!” She burst out, indignant, “I’ve never meddled a day in my life!”    

Timothée stares at her in disbelief.  

“Honestly!” she defends herself “I didn’t know they were coming to Paris until the day before and then, well, it seemed unnecessary to tell you”.  

“You should have warned me she’d be there” he says sternly. “If nothing else then because then I wouldn’t have invited Lucy”.

She has the decency to look ashamed. “Oh, I dare say I should have warned you. But I was afraid you’d cancel, and I needed you to see it with your own eyes.”

“See what?”

She looks him dead in the eye then, a grave look, “the change in her, of course”.  

He stays silent, doesn’t know what to say, drags his hands through his hair in distress.  

“So” she says after a few moments of silence, “what do you make of Freddie?”

“The words princeling comes to mind”.

She observes him for a second, a sceptic look on her face, “I’m sure that’s not the only word that comes to mind”.  He can’t help but smile at that, because she’s right. “True, but those are not words I'd use in front of a lady. She bursts out in laugher. “Darlinh, I practically invented swearing, no need to hold back in front of me.”

“What do you think of him?" He asks instead.

She huffs. “I prefer Picasso”. *

14th of Mars, 1953

Timothée is painting. Specks of yellow and gold adorn his hands and white shirt. The afternoon sun is lighting up the room and Chopin is playing for the first time in months on the record player. The knock on the door startles him, and since he was in the process of painting the details of Lucy’s eyes a stroke of dark paint ends up on her eyebrow as his hand jerks in surprise at the sudden noise.  

“Fuck” he swears, and with a great deal of annoyance does he go to open the door.

You look surprised as he flings the door open.  

“Sorry” you say, apologetically. “Is this an inconvenient time?”

He doesn’t answer, can’t seem to find his voice, just steps aside, inviting you to come in. You do, and move into the studio. He walks after you, seemingly in a daze.  

“Drink?” he asks eventually, interrupting the pressing silence.

“Yes please” you answer. He looks at you, your hair is elegantly styled and your wearing another expensive looking dress. You’re not looking at him though, but instead at the golden portrait of Lucy he’s in the process of making. You don’t say anything. There’s still that still look on your face and it unsettles him.  

He hands her a glass of gin. “Where’s dear Freddie then?” he asks, in a feigned nonchalant manner as he offers you a cigarette. You step closer to him so that he can light it. You’re so close he can smell your familiar perfume, and feel the heat from your skin. He looks down on you as you try to get the end to gleam. He can count your eyelashes from this distance, see every single feature in your face, every crook and corner. In the beginning, when you had first come to this studio, he had felt obsessed by the idea of painting your perfect likeness.  But the closer he looked at you, the more impossible it felt.       “Freddie is at a business function. I was not required” you answer and steps away from him, blowing out smoke into the room.   “And where’s your muse?” you ask, and there’s a certain amount of resentment in your voice that you can’t seem to keep at bay.

“Right here” he answers simply, looking at you.

“And Lucy?”

“I don’t know” he responds truthfully.  “I got your letter” you say, calmly.

Ah,

“Sorry” he says. “Shouldn’t have sent that. I was drunk”.

You keep looking at him, seemingly deep in thought.   And before he loses all courage he asks, “may I paint you again? One last time?”       “In what colour?”       “In all your colours, just as you are” he answers, and then “I don’t have rose-colored glasses when I look at you anymore”.     The room goes very still for a moment.   “Do you still want me?” you ask, voice small.     And with sincerity clear in his voice he answers. “More than ever”.

“No” you say and put down your drink, stubbing out your cigarette in the ashtray. “No, I don’t want you to paint me”.

Something twists painfully in his chest.  

“That’s not what I want you to do to me” you continue and step closer.

And then you kiss him.  

He grabs hold of you and kisses you back, trying to express every ounce of longing he’s felt since you left into the kiss. But he can tell part of you is holding back.   “Don’t do that” he says in a low voice, pulling away from you. His eyes are bright and shining. “If you’re with me, you’re with me. Don’t keep foot out the door. If you’re with me; be with me. If you don’t want to be, then you have to leave. I don’t want you half-heartedly. I understand you can’t stay with me longer than today but if you’re with me then don’t keep your mind on him.”       You stare at him, taken aback.       “Well?” he asks “is this what you want?”       Your answer is a red-hot kiss. Your answer is your hands, trying to tear his shirt off of him. Trying desperately to get your hands on his skin and he wants to cry from the sheer relief of feeling you touch him again. Frantically you’re tearing at his clothes. He grips your hands to stop you.       “Slowly” he whispers in your ear. He can tell that you’re worked up from your labored breathing, chest rising and falling quickly, your eyes gleaming as you look up at him. The frozen look finally gone. You look alive again. He can tell that all you want right now is for him to lay you down and fuck you as hard and fast as he can. But he doesn’t want to rush this, knows this is all the time he’s going to get. And he feels like a man living on borrowed time.     He kisses you, languidly, and your lips taste like gin. He leads you down, so you’re lying on the soft carpet, hovering above you. For ages all you do is kiss, your hands roaming his body, like you can’t stop touching him. Eventually he starts to remove your clothes, the silky material of your dress soft like water in his hands as he takes it off you, sneaking in kisses all over your body as he does so. You in turn help remove his dress shirt and trousers. Until eventually there’s nothing but air separating you.       He looks you directly, deep into your eyes “Sure?” he asks, because he must hear it. Couldn’t live with himself if you ended up regretting this.       “Yes” you say, voice barely louder than a whisper, but it doesn’t waver.       The last rays of golden sunshine lights up the room and maybe it’s his overactive imagination, but he swears the light forms a halo around your head. He’s prowling over you, settled in-between your legs.  He thinks you must see, surely you must see, all the wonder in his eyes that he feels when he looks at you.       He kisses your sensitive nipples and you shiver in delight. Your hands in his hair and you move up against him, desperate for him to touch more of you. He bites, nips, licks and sucks your breasts, leaving wet traces as he goes and god, he’s missed this; missed you. The taste and feel of your soft skin, your gasps and moans, your hands tugging at his hair. Some part of him, a particularly cynical part of him, thought he’d must have made it up, that in the aftermath of you leaving his brain had beautified the memories of you until you’d reach almost divine proportions. But it was all real.

He grinds his body against yours, fill his hands with your breast, kisses you everywhere he can. He reaches down a hand to the wetness between your legs.     “So wet” he murmurs against your skin “have you been thinking about this all day?” He pushes a finger inside you and you buckle up against him in response. “Mon cœur” he continues as he presses wet kisses against your throat, and adds another finger inside you, touching you with expertise in just the way he knows will send sparks of pleasure all down your spine. He remembers exactly how you like to be touched. “I asked you a question”.       “Yes” you moan.       He looks down on his fingers, moving in and out of you, glistening with your wetness. “Have you missed it?” he asks, voice low, and he speeds up the pace, his thumb moving over your clit. Your head thrown back you let out a deep moan and in a breathless voice you answer “yes, yes, missed it so much”.

Your hair has fallen out of its elegant hairdo, your cheeks flushed and wet and lips swollen from kisses. You look wild and free.

“I’ve been thinking about this, touching you; fucking you, ever since the opera” he leans down and kisses your clit, fingers still moving inside of you. And then he sucks on it and you explode around his fingers, cramping down around them, hips bucking and moans falling freely from your lips.

He strokes your cheek and kisses your face as he lets you catch your breath. Eventually you start kissing him back, softly at first, then ardently. He so hard he feels he could self-combust but as he lines up at your entrance, he looks you in the eye and asks “sure?”  

“Never been more certain” you reply, voice like honey, and you wrap your leg around his waist, trying to guide him inside you.    

He lets you get used to him, adjust to his size, before he starts moving. Your hands are in his and he can feel your wedding ring against his skin.

You try to incite him to move faster, bucking your hips against him, but he doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t want to go too hard on you.

“I’m not made of porcelain” you hiss, frustrated “you’re not going to hurt me. Fuck me like I'm yours”.

He’s starts fucking you with more force then, grinding where he knows you like it. Your nails are scratching his back, pulling at his hair. Sounds – moans, whimpers and begging's of more – escaping your mouth uninterruptedly. You can’t seem to stop them. He looks down on you and he swears out loud. The good damn sight of you like this, he knows he’ll never get the image out of his head. Knows that in months from now – when you’re back in good old England with your husband and he’s all alone here in this apartment – that he could paint this moment with picture-like perfection. Your glossy eyes filled with bliss, wild hair and flushed skin, lips still painted red and formed in a moan. But he won’t. He’ll let it be a memory, the thought of anyone else seeing that painting too unsettling for words.         You come again then, eyes tight shut and head thrown back, mouth wide open in a silent scream. He feels your orgasm, can feel you spasm around him and he swears he’s gone to heaven.   And as the final rays of sunlight disappears outside, he calls your name – half prayer half cry– and releases inside you, white hot pleasure racing down his spine, and then the whole room goes dark. The only reasons he knows the world hasn’t ended are your warm and sweaty body beneath him. The only sounds in the whole, wide world are both of your breathless gasps.   *    After, you put on your clothes in silence, avoiding the others eyes. He feels almost shy. The thing inside his chest is crying, knowing that you’re minutes away from leaving again, that this time it’s forever.   How do you do something even though it kills you?       “I’m sorry, for everything” you say and it startles him.     “For everything?”       “Yes. I’m sorry I came back” you avoid his eyes as you speak “well, I’m sorry but I don’t regret that part. And I’m sorry I can’t stay. I’ve never meant to hurt you.”       Because it’s the right thing to do.  

You are staying with your husband. This is your decision. He can’t force you to leave, or stay. He can’t save you, no matter what Marguerite says. Not when you’re determined to drown.   “I’ve loved you wholeheartedly and I have no regrets. I’ve loved you of my own free will. You don’t owe me anything.”    

The frozen look is back on your face and your spine straight again, hair fixed in place. You’ve put your armor back on.  And like this, you leave.

* 18th of April, 1953

It’s a fine morning in April and Timothée is headed over to madam Marguerite’s apartment, a box of treats from her favourite patisserie in one hand and bouquet of magnolias in the other. Later this week she’s taking him to the opera again, Rossini this time, and he wants to give her something as a thank you.

Outside on the street an ambulance is parked. He walks past it and starts climbing the many stairs to her apartment. When he gets to Marguerite’s floor he’s taken by surprise. The apartment door is wide open and in the doorway stand a sobbing Louise, being comforted by a medic. Dread settles in his stomach.

“What’s going on?” he asks, and he can hear the panic in his own voice. “Where’s madam Marguerite?”

Louise starts sobbing even louder and the kind-looking medic pats her sympathetically on the shoulder.

“She passed away in her sleep last night. This woman here found her this morning”.

Something falls inside Timothée and is lost forever. The ground feels unsteady under his feet and for a second, he waivers. “Have you notified her family?” He asks.

The man shakes his head, “no, not yet”.

“I’ll do it” Timothée says firmly, letting it be known that this isn’t up for discussion. 

*  “Frederic Fairfax speaking” Freddie’s drawly voice answers when Timothée calls your London address.  

“Hello, it’s Timothée Chalamet, could I speak to your wife, it’s urgent”  

Silence for ten long seconds.

“No, anything you want to tell her you can tell me” Freddie eventually answers and there’s tension in his voice.

“Is she not in?”

“Yes, she is, but I'd rather you take this with me, Mr. Chalamet”.

“I see” Timmy answers, and he somehow manages to keep the rage he feels out of his voice. “But I have some very distressing and urgent news I have to pass on”.

“Then I suggest you share them with me”

Timothée wants to bang his head against the wall. But he keeps his voice calm. “You see, her greataunt Marguerite has passed away.”

“I see” the other man answers in a cold, unfeeling voice. “Well, if that was all, Mr. Chalamet, good bye.”

And he hangs up.

* May 1st, 1953.  

In a red brick building on Chancery Lane, London, Timothée is sitting smoking in an armchair. The solicitor’s office looks like you would imagine a solicitor's office to look like, with oak furniture and cabinets full of files with important documents, outside busy men in suits hustling by and secretaries in pen skirts tapping on their typewriters’.  

Madam Marguerite’s solicitor Mr. Lancaster looks on the crowd gathered for the reading of the will.

There’s Timothée, lounging in his chair, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else and avoiding looking at you. There’s you, perfectly poised and wearing black, hands clapped in your lap to stop them from shaking. Then there’s your parents, your black-clad mother sniffling into a tissue and your father, with a grave look on his face.

Freddie is nowhere to be seen, and this surprises Timothée.  

“Shall we begin?” the solicitor starts, organizing the papers in front of him. There’s a general hum of agreeing from the crown and Mr. Lancaster clears his throat. “Very well then. I had the great fortune of knowing Mrs. Beauchêne-Wright and I considered her a personal friend. She was a remarkable woman” he clears his throat again and Timothée shuffles with his feet, still not understanding why he’s been called to be present at this occasion. “An extraordinary woman” he repeats and look down at the papers in front of him. “Very well then” he says, before beginning to read from the will. “This is the last will of me Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright of 55 Rue de Châteaudun 75009 Paris -”

*   It’s raining outside, a gentle but persistent drizzle. TImothée  stands under his umbrella and observes as your mother storms off, her husband at her heel, into a taxi. She slams the door and they drive off, water splashing up on the sidewalk. His head feels foggy. The whole situation feels unreal. He’s standing outside the red brick building smoking, trying to get a grip on the situation. In a few hours he has to get back to Victoria station to take the night train back to Paris.  

You walk out of the solicitor's office, a dazed look on your face, seemingly not even noticing the rain falling down. You seem him and walk up to him and he lifts his umbrella so you’re under it too.

“Gotta admit, didn’t see that one coming” he states and hands you his cigarette. You take it gratefully and inhale deeply.  

“No” you say, some seconds later, “no I didn’t quite see that coming either”. A homourless laugh escapes you. “They’re furious about it” referring to your parents. “Asked if they could contest the will. Mr. Lancaster told them they didn’t have a leg to stand on”.   “So” you say and look up at him. “What are you going to do with the money?”

The money. Marguerite’s entire estate divided between him and the woman in front of him. There had been a few smaller bequests to various people and charities, but the absolute majority of the fortune where to be split between you. Even after all the death duties it was by all consideration a fortune.  

“Dunno” he answers. ”Haven’t really thought ahead that far”.  And then, because he can’t contain his curiosity anymore. “Where’s dear Freddie then?”       You’re silent for a moment, avoiding his eyes as you watch the rain create patterns in the puddles. “Freddie’s left.” you say eventually. “He’s seeking for a divorce. God knows he’s got grounds for it.”  the cigarette shakes in your trembling hand. “I’ve been a terrible wife all things considered.”    

He’s stunned into silence, too much life-altering information having been dropped on him already today. Eventually he gets a hold of himself and states, because he already knows it to be true, “he knows about us, doesn’t he? About what happened in Paris.”    

You nod, and two tears fall down your cheeks. “They’re furious with me.”

“Who are?” he asks, confused.  

“My family”  “Why?”

A grimace, then “doesn’t matter”. Drop the cigarette on the ground and stomp it out. “Mr. Lancaster says we have to go to Nice. Apparently, most of her possessions are there and we need to go through them. He says that since we own the house now, we can live in it while we do so”.

He observes her for a moment. “I have an exhibition in Paris this month, I can’t leave before that’s done.”

You smile, but it’s still devoid of humour. “And I have a divorce to settle.”

The rain keeps falling around them.  

“How about this” you say “we’ll go there in July, a summer on the riviera doesn’t sound too bad, and we’ll...” you trail of for a second “and we’ll settle everything then”.  

Gently he puts his fingers under your chin and tilts your head up so that you look at him. You look as if you’re bursting at the seams, like you’re at your last straw. “Alright” he says and leans in to gently press a kiss on your forehead. “Alright, sounds like a plan”. And then he looks you in the eyes again “Everything will be alright, you know. Everything will be fine”.

You smile again, and this time it’s more genuine. Then you lean in, and place the softest of kisses on his mouth.  

Then you leave.   A/N: jesus christ, I spent a good 25 minutes of my life googling the rules of aristocratic titles in England.  Freddie’s father is an earl, that makes freddie as the oldest son a baron and his wife a baronet? Right? If that’s not correct then, well, sorry, but those rules are mind boggling. 

Other things I've googled a lot is the language of flowers and what different flowers symbolizes.  

That ‘Swedish saying’ timmy refers to in his letter is not a saying but in fact from a song by Veronica Maggio called Stopp and very badly translated by me.    

Also. I know that timothée’s letter is a bit... disturbing, but the thought of it wouldn't leave my mind so I had to write it.

I am planning on writing the last part, but this story always takes a lot of effort to write so it’ll be a while.   

[passionate-reply]

In this installment of Great Albums, we’re back to talking about albums nobody’s ever heard of! You might not know who Zaine Griff is, but you’ve probably heard of a guy called Hans Zimmer, and Zimmer is the real mastermind of this record: a masterpiece of New Romantic synth-pop made long before he made his name composing for the big screen! Not to mention contributions from Ultravox’s Warren Cann, YMO’s Yukihiro Takahashi, and even Kate Bush. Find out all about it by watching this video, or reading the full transcript below the break!

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! Today’s installment is going to feature an album that is most definitely towards the obscure side--but, like most of the more obscure artists and albums I’ve talked about, I think this one is every bit as good as the classics. Zaine Griff’s Figures is not only a forgotten album that I think deserves more acclaim, but also an album that, in many ways, feels like it could have been a huge success in its own time.

Zaine Griff grew up in New Zealand, and moved to Great Britain in the 1970s in the hopes of pursuing a career in music. His debut LP, 1980’s Ashes & Diamonds, would mark him as one of the many artists straddling the musical landscape in the aftermath of glam, in the long shadow of David Bowie. With keen visual panache, a suave way of slurring when he sang, and the requisite killer cheekbones, Griff fit in perfectly with the so-called “New Romantics,” as stylish and sophisticated as Visage, Ultravox, or Japan.

Music: “Ashes & Diamonds”

The real turning point in Griff’s career was his being “discovered,” so to speak, by Hans Zimmer and Warren Cann. Cann had already become a figure of some renown, as the percussionist for the aforementioned Ultravox. Despite his tremendous fame today, Zimmer actually had much less to show for himself at this point, aside from a somewhat dodgy stint in the Buggles. While geniuses in their own ways, neither of them were necessarily natural frontmen, and Zaine Griff seemed like the perfect missing piece to fit into their pop ambitions.

Even setting aside Zimmer and Cann, Figures is actually full of recognizable talent, and I think it may have the single most stacked list of album credits I’ve ever seen in my life! You’ll also hear contributions from Yellow Magic Orchestra’s Yukihiro Takahashi, backing vocals from Linda Jardim, who was also the soprano on the Buggles’ famous “Video Killed the Radio Star,” and a guest appearance by none other than Kate Bush. That’s really a lot of clout going around, which is one of the reasons I’m so surprised this album went nowhere. Anyway, that aside, the most dominant sonic footprint on display here is certainly that of Hans Zimmer. Zimmer is credited with producing the album, and his dynamic, expressive, perhaps “cinematic” work with digital synthesisers is surely the driving force behind Figures’s sound.

Music: “Fahrenheit 451”

It’s easy to imagine “Fahrenheit 451” is the thumping theme to some delightfully 80s adaptation of Ray Bradbury’s classic novel. Its theme of lustful but dangerous romance is a constant throughout the album, most notably on tracks like “Hot” and the haunting closer, “The Beating of Wings.” The song’s tense and dramatic mood is well bolstered by those soaring synths, courtesy of the Fairlight CMI. One of the most distinctive sounds of mid-80s synth-pop, the soft, breathy tones of the Fairlight hadn’t yet reached full saturation when Figures was made--Zimmer was an early adopter of this particular musical revolution. You might be surprised to learn that “Fahrenheit 451” only saw minor distribution as a single, exclusively for the French and Belgian markets. I think that sort of mismanagement on behalf of Polydor really shafted this album. Its lead single was actually its title track.

Music: “Figures”

The title track of Figures isn’t the worst song I’ve ever heard, but I do think it just might be the worst song on this album. With a strident, stabbing synth riff and a somewhat sparse and anemic soundstage, the title track is not particularly exciting, and also not particularly representative of what the rest of the album sounds like, with no indication of the lush and vibrant textures that dominate tracks like “Fahrenheit 451.” It also has less lyrics than the other tracks, and offers Griff little opportunity to demonstrate his pipes. Thematically, though, its imagery of wispy and mysterious personas, flitting in and out of substance in a world where appearance and identity are trifling and ephemeral, is something that resonates strongly with the album as a whole, as one might surmise from its title also being used for the album. “The Vanishing Men,” another song that easily feels like a better single than “Figures,” handles the same sort of subject in a more playful and upbeat manner.

Music: “The Vanishing Men”

The titular “vanishing men” are quite clearly the life of the party here, and in the world of this track, the insignificance of true identity is portrayed as an invitation to experiment and have fun with it--though not without a slight hint of danger as well. Perhaps it’s a good metaphor for the curated aestheticism of the New Romantic movement, decried by some as “style over substance.” New Romanticism really didn’t have much time left by the time *Figures* came out, being so strongly associated with trends in fashion that were on their way out by this point. Even Ultravox would find themselves pivoting towards more of a pop rock-oriented sound for their final classic lineup LP, 1984’s Lament. I can’t help but think that the changing landscape of musical trends is part of the poor reception of Figures, which is such a consummate New Romantic album, which basks in the full flush of the movement’s prior penetration into the mainstream. As stated above, “The Vanishing Men” is all about the glamour of mutable identity, but other tracks on the album seem to assign this theme a bit more weight, as in “The Stranger.”

Music: “The Stranger”

The titular character of “The Stranger” is described as “a stranger to himself,” but also “no stranger to anyone else.” This track seems to be more focused on the negative aspects of fashionable persona-play: losing the dignity and security of a true form, the people around you seeing through your charades, and becoming trapped in an existence defined by arbitrariness and artificiality. I’d also be remiss not to mention this track’s winsome pentatonic synth riff, which helps create a mercurial and ambiguous mood. It might be interpreted as a nod towards the rampant Orientalism of New Romantic music, which ran with the early 80s verve for all things Asian, and wasn’t shy about appropriating “Asiatic” musical motives like pentatonic scales to evoke mystery and wonder. Griff and friends’ use of such here is relatively subtle, though, and perhaps a bit more tactful than how many of their contemporaries approached other musical ideas associated with the East.

The unforgettable cover of Figures is as dramatic and infused with capital-R Romantic sentiment as the music contained within. Above the text relating the artist and title, which uses a V for a U for a touch of the classical, we see Griff splayed dramatically in a pond of lilies. With sharp makeup that emphasizes his lips, and a diaphanous, blousy top that turns translucent in the water, he seems to be the perfect tragic hero of some lost work of Shakespeare’s--complete with another flower stylishly pinned to his chest. As I mentioned before, Figures is an album that rides the wave of New Romanticism particularly hard, and I think its cover is yet another symptom of those sensibilities.

Speaking of Shakespeare, I can’t help but want to compare this image with a famous painting of one of Shakespeare’s best-known characters: Ophelia, by Sir John Everett Millais. Painted in the early 1850s, Millais’s Ophelia depicts the moment where Ophelia, driven mad by Hamlet’s romantic rejection of her, drowns herself in a river. It’s exactly the kind of story of wild, passionate, and doomed love portrayed on tracks like “Fahrenheit 451.” Ophelia is also associated strongly with flowers in the text, and features in a particularly memorable scene where she doles out various symbolic blossoms to members of the royal court. Besides the affinity of subject matter, even the composition of Millais’s work resembles the cover of Figures, contrasting its subject’s pale skin with the dark and murky natural surrounds, and emphasizing the drapery of their wettened attire. Ophelia is often considered the definitive masterpiece of the short-lived art movement, the “Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,” who, as their name implies, sought to recapture the intuitive, colourful, and emotive power of art created prior to the High Renaissance. Not unlike New Romanticism, the Pre-Raphaelite movement would crumble after only a few years, but not without leaving behind a trail of masterpieces that would continue to inspire future artists and admirers, far removed from their own time.

After the release of Figures, Zaine Griff remained involved with Hans Zimmer and Warren Cann, and, as the supergroup “Helden,” they embarked on an even more ambitious musical opus together: Spies, a sort of synth-pop oratorio about immortal Nazi super-spies falling in love in a futuristic dystopia. Spies is about as out-there as it sounds, and brings the flamboyant musical excess of Figures into a suitably theatrical setting. It’s also got nearly as star-studded of a cast as Figures, featuring not only Zimmer, Cann, and Jardim again, but also Eddie Maelov of Eddie & Sunshine as a mad scientist, and the enigmatic French electro-cabaret chanteuse Ronny, in the role of a super-computer with a sultry female voice. Griff portrays one of the titular immortal spies, known only as “The Stranger”--which, of course, begs comparison to the track of the same name on Figures, and prompts the question, to what extent was Spies already in the works when *Figures* was being written and recorded?

Music: “The Ball”

We all know the rest of the story for Hans Zimmer, who began working with music for film in the mid-1980s, such as the queer cult classic My Beautiful Laundrette. But Zaine Griff obviously never became a household name. Despite being finished in 1983, Spies never got to see an official release, as it was a bit too out there for a label to take a chance on at the time, and it would probably be lost media today if it weren’t for a vinyl bootleg that’s thankfully fairly easy to find online. Griff decided to retire from music shortly after this, and recounts a story of having walked past an extremely talented street musician, and having a sort of epiphany about just how hard it was to make it in music. After all, if a true virtuoso could end up busking on the street, how fair and rewarding could the industry possibly be? Disillusioned with the world of pop, Griff returned to his native New Zealand and got a day job as a golf instructor. More recently, though, he’s also released several new solo albums in the 2010s, surprisingly enough, and attempted to push forward into some very contemporary-sounding pop rock. The world is, of course, a very different place nowadays than it was in the 20th Century, and particularly in the world of music distribution, so perhaps it makes sense that our brave new world has room in it for someone like Zaine Griff to return.

My overall favourite track on Figures is probably “Time Stands Still,” which I think is perhaps the most accessible, pop-friendly track to be had on the album, and the one I would’ve released as the lead single had I worked for Polydor. With a big hook and simple, repetitive lyrics, it’s a true pop song through and through--though, if an artist releases a commercial-sounding album in the woods, and nobody is around to buy it, is it still really “pop?” Anyway, I also love this track’s delightful outro, imitating a skipping record to represent a freeze in the flow of time...though I admit it’s a lot less harrowing to hear when listening digitally! That’s all I have for today--thanks for listening.

Music: “Time Stands Still”

[rametarin]

And further thoughts about the yaoi paddles.

If you’re under 20, and just now learning that fandom seniors in their late 20s, 30s, 40s, even low 50s, used to run around slapping eachother on the ass with yaoi paddles in anime and comic conventions after anime became a household media staple, you probably have.. questions.

You’re probably thinking, “Wow!! It was really lawless and anarchistic back then, wasn’t it! They never heard about personal space or sexual harassment laws! SOCIETY must have been SO different, back then!”

NO. I cannot stress enough, the Yaoi Paddle phenomenon was borne PURELY because the demographic MOST LIKELY to protest and be wet blankets about everything fun and sexual and admittedly VERY SKETCHY sometimes in fiction, and ALWAYS bad in reality.. turned off and said virtually nothing. Wokesters that’d protest about the environment and sexual assault against women would take off their Problem Glasses by night and act like paddling was harmless, contextually acceptable behavior.

Yaoi Paddle shit appeared because something absolutely magical happened in scifi and fantasy fandoms. It survived purely because boys didn’t complain, or their complaints were not taken seriously. I promise you, I assure you, if you grew up in the late 80s, your night time TV was INUNDATED with heavy handed messages about how sexual harassment (always male-on-woman flavored) was wrong, even proxy or indirect violence to women (tossing rubber gloves in their lap) was wrong, and to never, ever, ever do that thing or they’d rub your nose in it and consider you mentally diseased until the day you died.

Fandom was always niche, with sci-fi and fantasy stuff being off in its own little corner. Conventions, before the internet was king, was one of few places where more rural, disparate suburban and city-definition isolated geeks, nerds and dreamers could get together and just cut loose. Comic books, novels, video games. All that GOOD shit. But if you knew a girl in the 80s and 90s, you knew a girl that knew a girl that was getting them to be less tolerant and “more conscious and aware” (80s and 90s parlance for Woke) and when that happened, a new persona was created. A new bunch of dialogue options, created.

Suddenly they didn’t say stuff like, “Ew. Why is this character dressed like a SLUT? Typical male writers. Like we’d ever draw ourselves in this or put ourselves in this.” Because that’d be a personal, subjective opinion. Instead, the option to say, “It’s endemic in our western culture that male chauvinist authors and writers in a patriarchal system exploit femininity in media and reproduce misogynistic culture.”

And so assured this was true by mob mentality AND the idea that learned, educated, acredited and tenured academics had this opinion, they were scientists, and so they were right, permeated. Suddenly girl-fans had outlets to have justified apprehension for everything they saw and didn’t like or, if they actually liked it, STILL interpreted it through their lenses to be on, “the right side of history.”

It made fandom miserable and a sausage fest for a while, if only out of fear of driving away female friends. You couldn’t share that shit unless you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that your female peers and friends wouldn’t disregard you like a “typical misogynistic western male” for enjoying that stuff.

Sentiments and peer pressure thoughts emerged. Like, “The comic industry is hostile and cruel to women that try and enter it, and they exploit the image of women for cheap dollars.” So they simply weren’t interested in comics- mostly- unless the comics were written by women and sold with that virtue in mind. In which case, you had boys glowingly mentioning just how much they liked this authentically written adventure by this female comic author. Isn’t that just so special? Not like those horrid anti-woman cigar smoking old man stories, right?

There was always something to nag and get vitriolic about with the media. That’s part of why the Whedon brand of feminist writing got so popular in the 90s. it was low hanging fruit of peppy “sassy” girl characters doing girly things. They weren’t like “other” girls written in comics and cartoons. They were actually girly. Not idealized infantalized children, like those horrible white men write, you know.

Well. Things were looking really bleak for the forseeable future. Lots of boys just felt like comics and cartoons were lost to girls that weren’t specifically into them, and that meant more sausage fest conventions or hobbies, and signing off hope on those things being respected and accepted on the merits of what they are and were. The girls had embraced serials-filed-off radfem rhetoric and lenses, sometimes without even knowing the origins of where those truisms like the Male Gaze even came from, just assuming it was true and indisputable. And it complimented their insecurities, so they’d embrace that shit until they couldn’t anymore.

And then.. something absolutely miraculous and amazing happened that blindsided this whole vitriolic culture.

Anime.

And amazingly, every complaint that a lot of nerdy girls had about the very much sanitized, policed and made PG writing and characterization of characters in western comics and cartoons, just... fucking up and vanished. Seemingly within a fucking YEAR, the entire social culture of Problem Finders, finding everything wrong about these stories, the characters, the writer and the company that produced them being misogynistic male chauvinism, dried up. Those voices quieted, or were shut out of the groups.

Media from Japan was some of the most infantilizing, sexist, tittelating shit compared to mainstream American comics and cartoons and video games, and girls fluttered to it like flies to shit. We had Buffy basically subverting boogymen that a bunch of girls had been taught were still relevant after the 1950s by fighting crime in melee combat with men, and winning, while wearing jogging pants and cracking sassy, like Lola Bunny being a “tough girl.”

Japan had doe eyed, waif bodied ballet dancers that basically farted iridescent glitter, hearts and all the symbols and shapes of the Lucky Charms, riding unicorns and fighting evil in cute outfits. Being childish and not at all mature or professional to show how womanly and competent they were, basically being overgrown 11 year old girls fresh off the playground swing set.

And the fangirls loved it. Those nagging voices that would speak up and remind them about misogynistic, male chauvinistic “societies” and culture? Just.. they fucking VANISHED from the mind for AN ENTIRE GENERATION. I’m not exaggerating. Tolerance and fun and innocence was back again. The problem-glasses felt too ostracized and alienated, or didn’t even want to wear them anymore for personal reasons, and the Radfem Baby Wokes just seemed to grow out of that collective hysteria and pretend it never happened and never existed.

That’s why the very EXISTENCE of Yaoi Paddles at conventions was just so fucking bizarre to those of us that lived up to that point. After, “Stay in your own personal space, boy. DON’T even TOUCH a GIRL unless she VERBALLY AND PUBLICLY CONSENTS or it’s proof you’re just living up to this misogynistic, objectifying society’s evil history!” was drilled into us, day on the playground by day on the playground, by women with axes to grind and good-boy sycophants performing sharing those sentiments for brownie points, it was so fucking surreal to IMAGINE girls just running around sexually assaulting and physically assaulting random strangers because they thought they looked like cute, gay men.

It wasn’t that they didn’t know any better beforehand, it’s that they COMPLETELY put those sentiments away and up and decided, as girls, it was okay to violate male autonomy because they weren’t women, and “it’s okay to paddle a yaoi boy ^.^!” With NO self-awareness whatsoever.

The very fact it existed is testament to how attention starved boys were for girls approving gaze and playful interaction, that they’d tolerate some pocky fingered little cow stranger smacking them on the ass with a plank of wood because it was a socially acceptable way to just interact with girls in their lonely assed fandom and interest. It was an acceptable way to meet girls and positively interact. That’s the degrading bullshit boys said virtually nothing about at the hayday of yaoi paddles, purely to be welcoming to girls in anime and hentai approving spaces.

WE GREW UP hearing and watching horror stories and boogymen stories about true crime and sitcoms and crime shows about evil evil men violating the personal space of women for lewd and lecherous reasons. We had it drilled into our heads that the tolerance for boys and men doing that was negatives, and the general sentiment was men caught doing that (to women, or children of any sex) were effectively free game for any violence you personally felt like unloading on them, confident that in such outraged rape and sexual assault hating times, juries would excuse that passion as a defense.

So if you look back on the era of Yaoi Paddles and think. “WOW. That must be like driving cars before they invented seat belts and cough medicine before they invented the drug safety and scheduling legal system!”.. NO.

It was not like the 50s-70s, where many of the rules hadn’t been written yet so it was anarchy and chaos. Yaoi Paddles existed almost PURELY because girls HAD no rules if they didn’t want to respect them. The Yaoi Paddle phenomenon flew in direct opposition to how interactions were supposed to go, and ABSOLUTELY NO ONE would tolerate the reverse; no cis straight man could walk around randomly smacking women on the ass with a plank of even foam in pantomime, or ‘floating hand’ pretending to be a perverted character. The double standard was GLARING. The Double Standard was a fucking bugbear that had grown from a tiny screaming goblin and was now hanging upside down from the ceiling, roaring.

But because it was GIRLS inflicting it on BOYS, absolutely no party cared enough to raise a stink about it. The Radfems kept their mouths shut, because boys were the recipients. The Radfem Sympathizers really wanted to spank boys, so suddenly they couldn’t find their problem glasses and instead put on their neko ears. The boys were either stoic and amused by it or really wanted to be seen as cool and not buzzkills, so they tolerated to reveled in it.

Many times when you hear about things that happened either when you were a child just too young to really personally experience a thing, or before you were born, we’re quick to assume it’s a medieval place and the people were so uncultured as to have never pondered the social problems of spanking one another on the ass unprovoked. Violation of personal space, personal sovereignty- all that. That was NOT okay at the time. It happened because fujoshi decided it was okay and nobody argued with them to not do hat, or they were told to stop and did it anyway.

And as I’ve laid it out, that is the most bizarre and surreal element to the whole thing. They DID know better, but felt it didn’t apply to THEM because they were girls, and a girl slapping a boy on the ass “as a joke” didn’t mean anything- because it wasn’t happening TO them, FROM a man.

And irony of ironies, it was NEVER okay, EVER, throughout that entire era, for the reverse to be a thing. It was very specifically and exclusively not. As a man if you ran around slapping cute looking girls with the Yuri Paddle, you goin’ to either juvy hall, or prison, boi. Both sexes knew it. And yet, yaoi paddles STILL became a thing.