#I’ve never sculpted with more than play-dough | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

desired-victim · 3 years ago

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Helloo! I wanted to request hisoka with corruption kink. Just write however you want to lolol i dont mind any freaky🏃

Ha *wipes sweat off forehead* I hope this hard work pays off. I put every ounce of effort in writing this 😮‍💨. I didn’t do any bullet points on this one but it does have about four thousand words! Please ignore the possible grammar mistakes, I do have trouble writing dialogue. I worked on yours all night long and I’m exhausted. My fingers sure are. I kept your request deeply in mind. You can see poor, little (Y/N)’s innocence melt right off her like ice cream ;). Anyway, here’s your request, my love 💕

I wanted to honor the divine feminine so you will see my appreciation for the female body below 👇

💕TW: The content below contains: degradation, domination kink, submission kink, dub con, threat of forced anal intercourse, pure smut, corruption kink, possible bad grammar, loss of virginity, dirty talk, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, corruption of innocence, Oh, and Hisoka is a TW itself.

Enjoy…

He’s tall.

God, he is so tall. Such long, strong legs - slender yet thick with muscle. Despite being erotically pleasant, his legs weren’t the best part of him. The best part of him was what your eyes followed. From his shins, to his knees, to his thighs, to his hips, to that beautifully sculpted torso of his, to his neck, and then you reached his eyes.

Those eyes. Those sharp, golden eyes of his.

His eyes unsettled most people. It was as though they could pierce your very soul, and see how weak and worthless you truly are. He's a predator - always keen, always aware, and always watching for a reason for you to be his next target.

Hisoka… how did you get those eyes?

She wondered how she caught his attention. He was the type of man to overlook girls like her. A blushing, doe eyed dolt, who could barely speak to strangers without stuttering a storm.

Why? Why would someone like Hisoka find her worthy of even being near him? Of being in his bed, of being by his side, of being between his legs. He is so very special, and I'm…

“My Little Slice, you look delightful when your down there~”

His voice shook her out of her thoughts. She looked at his teasing gaze and meekly lowered her sight to his lips. There, she saw them curl up into a grin. She tensed up and covered her naked chest with her arms. Just then, she realized how unbelievably exposed she was to his scrutiny.

“Oh, nervous now~,” he laughed out, sitting up from the headboard and closer to her face, “isn’t that sweet…”

More red than ever, she turned her face from Hisoka and leaned back. Instead of letting her move away, his hand wrapped around her wrist and thrusted her towards him. She yelped out as her cheek pressed against his hard chest, her face embarrassingly hotter than his cool skin. His chest rumbled as he let out a chuckle.

She put her hands against his chest and attempted to pull away, but his arm wrapped itself around her. She struggled to shove herself away and her efforts were all for nothing; he hadn’t moved an inch.

Perhaps it was foolish to pursue a 200th floor fighter. Where was her older brother to protect her now? He had lectured her beforehand about the dangerous people here and she laughed him off and teased him about being some sort of guard dog. Now, she needed him more than ever. She had never been in a situation like this before.

“No boys allowed, Y/N!” he usually shouted out, a vein practically popping out of his forehead. It almost seemed like he loved saying that as it was repeated over and over throughout her life.

All she wanted to do was explore a place she never ventured to. To seek the thrill that felt so curious and good, yet hidden like the inside of a flower that hasn't bloomed yet. A buzzing heartbeat that formed when she laid alone at night and gently ran her fingers up her skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps and shivers.

Please help me, B/N…

Her struggles came to an end as she huffed, breathlessly. Hisoka’s hand trailed down her shoulders to her waist and to her hips. His hand was met with the pleasant plumpness of her bottom. She squeaked out in shock as his hand roughly squeezed her ass and kneaded it like dough. A loud crack reverated across the room as he slapped it, leaving a red blur behind. She gasped and her face converted into an embarrassed cringe. Frustrated tears pricked in her eyes as her fingernails dug deeply into his skin.

Once again, she attempted to wiggle away. Instead of his arm wrapping around her shoulders once again, she was swept over and under him. He was hovering over her and there was no way to escape. Her previous attempts at fighting back were a failure, and she no longer wanted to fight, only to flee.

Her eyes shot out towards Hisoka’s face only to find him smiling down at her. His warm breath fanning her face and his hips between her thighs.

The glint in his eyes shook her to the core. His facial expression was teasing and playful, but his eyes told a completely different story. She’s seen that look on his face before. The same expression on his face as he killed his opponents. He looked like an apex predator who was about to break the neck of his prey with his jaws.

“You’ve never been fucked before, haven’t you?” he asked, his finger trailing down her cheek, rubbing off a tear she hadn’t noticed fell.

Her face scrunched up at his vulgar language.

“No, I’ve never been f-“ she paused, hesitating before quickly spitting out, “no, ive never been f… fucked before.” Another tear came out of her eye. She never cursed - She wasn’t allowed to.

Hisoka giggled, his smile twisting even further. He looked down at her precious expression and felt his arousal rise.

“You're utterly adorable, you know that? I almost feel a little bad about this. Almost. But you wanted to play, and don’t be a spoiled brat when the other player is better at the game than you.” He mocked, his sardonic gaze on her. It made her want to shrink into the mattress and never come out.

“Now, now,” he said, sitting up, “I’ll make it as comfortable as I can.”

He spread her thighs and examined her high waisted shorts. He grabbed the zipper at the top and unzipped it. Down and down it went, until her underwear was revealed to him.

“After all, the first cut into the cake has to be perfect.”

Her shorts were suddenly off her and on the ground. She was only in her underwear now, more exposed than ever. Most naked she’d been since that time she went to the beach. She’d gotten sunburnt that day. At least then she had a top, now her whole body was on display to him.

Hisoka hummed as he tugged his own bottoms off, revealing the thick length of his cock. His cock looked magnificent combined with the rest of his body. That sexy v-cut of his looked like two arrows directing me to look at his big dick, so large it almost dangled under its own weight. It held its own though, refusing to droop over.

How is that thing going to fit inside of me? she thought.

He spread her legs wide open and examined the thin material of her underwear as the form of her vulva showed through. The flimsy material was practically invisible.

Hisoka’s big hands grabbed her behind her knees, pushing her legs up while also spreading them even further. The bed squeaked out as Hisoka crawled on his knees over to her, placing himself over her.

Hisoka’s claws clenched themselves around her legs, indenting the soft flesh, “You have such a soft, innocent face,” he said, his face hovering over menacingly. “But I know a hungry little whore lies beneath the surface… let me feed that little whore~❤️.”

Hisoka let go of one of her legs and let it fall against the bed. Her loose leg was between his two thighs and her other leg was still being held. The top half of her body was still on the bed. Hisoka’s strength was maintained as he carried half of her body weight into the air.

He’s so strong… of course he is, that’s to be expected of a top floor fighter.

The bed let out a groan as Hisoka pushed himself onto her covered cunt, rubbing his dick between her labia majora. His cock stroked the sensitive heat over and over again, he could feel her hotness tightening and then softening as her pussy throbbed to the beat of her heartbeat. The head of his cock stroked her hard clit over and over again, the little bump riddled with sensitive nerves. Her underwear was sopping as her pussy leaked out sweet nectar. The tip of Hisoka’s cock was also leaking with precum, mixing in with her own sweetness and creating an erotic cocktail.

“Yes, don’t stop,” she begged. “Please don’t stop - I want to cum so bad. Please let me cum, please!”

Hisoka let out a breathy laugh. “If you want to cum so bad, you need to beg for it. Only good girls get to cum. Are you a good girl~?”

“Yes! I’m a good girl! I’m your good girl, Hisoka!”

“Aw, you're so cute when you beg. But I don’t think you're a good girl. No, I think you're a naughty, little slut. Little sluts only get to cum when they're being fucked.”

The sensitive head of Hisoka’s cock pulsated with pleasure as he rubbed it against the soaked underwear. If he kept doing it, he was going to cum way too fast. He couldn’t let that happen. Not before he stretched her virgin pussy with his cock. He’d be damned if he let himself orgasm before biting into her innocence.

His nails dug into her thigh as he pushed himself further into her, making sure there wasn’t an inch of space between their heats. He was going to blow and If he didn’t stop, he wasn’t gonna see that shocked expression of hers when came in her for the first time. The longer he waited, the better.

(Y/N)’s pussy clenched and her breathing sped up. She was going to cum.

I’m going to cum, I’m going to cum, I’m going to cum, I’m going to-

Hisoka pulled back.

“No!” She yelled, kicking her leg in frustration. She let out another yell as her leg didn’t even move an inch in Hisoka’s grip. His grip was too strong. There was no way she could force her way to freedom.

“I was so close!” she shouted, a tear threatening to fall from her eyes. “Why did you stop! I felt so good!”

Hisoka threw his head back and let out a loud, sadistic laugh.

“Haha, you're so cute when you're feisty! I’m glad I’m the first who gets to fuck you.”

He let go of her leg after getting over his giggling attack. She found herself embarrassed as she blew out strings of her own hair out of her own mouth.

As she was pulling strings of hair out of her mouth, she was suddenly pulled back onto the bed by Hisoka’s hands around her hips. She gulped as she saw Hisoka’s face hovering over her crotch.

The part of her underwear that directly covered over her cunt was a darker shade than the rest of her underwear from when they grounded against each other like animals in heat.

She watched nervously as he adjusted his position. She let out a whole body shiver as both of his thumbs opened her lips like a little book.

Hisoka licked the side of her cunt - not directly stimulating her but gently teasing her. While not directly pleasuring her, the motion relaxed her from her last intense session. A little between-the-main-courses snack, if you will.

She sat up on her elbows and watched as Hisoka lapped at both sides of her lips. She felt a swell of affection begin to grow in her chest as she watched Hisoka’s cheek press itself onto the inside of her thigh. She realized how bold she’s gotten since they began to play with each other. In such a short while, Hisoka had corrupted her - denting that once-perfect surface with his perverted nature. To think ten minutes ago she was so shy she could barely even curse. In such a short time, she’d cursed more than she had in a year. A pang of guilt filled her as she thought about how her older brother would react. But he wasn’t here, and he never had to know.

In her own thoughts, she didn’t notice Hisoka’s face twist into a mischievous smile. Her eyes widened in terror as she felt his tongue on her covered asshole.

“Hisoka!” She shouted out.

How can someone be so vulgar?

“Oh, I’m sorry, my Little Slice~. I just love it when your sweet, angelic face turns into one of horror. It turn me on so badly~❤️”

Hisoka only smiled and slid his tongue upwards towards her pussy. He pushed the tip of his tongue against the entrance of her vagina and wiggled it there. If it wasn’t for her underwear, his tongue would have been inside her pussy.

The nerves around her hole were ablaze and her legs were shaking - with fear, excitement or pleasure? Perhaps all three, she did not know. All she wanted was to be pounded by him; she didn’t care how big and thick he was (from what she saw earlier, his cock had to be as thick as her forearm). Though she was unexperienced and naive to the acts of sex, this feeling was primal and indispensable. She needed it, she needed it like a runner needs water.

His tongue dragged itself from her entrance to her clit.

“Yes, yes,” she moaned out and spread her legs wider without an ounce of shame.

It was overwhelming in the best way possible. It was the most electrifying thing she’d ever experienced and she never wanted it to end. She wanted to be there forever - in that limbo of titillation and erotic reality that was unlike anything she could recreate with her imagination.

Hisoka rapidly moved his tongue against her clit. She squealed out loud and attempted to move her hips but his hands grabbed her hips and pushed them to the bed and continued to flick her covered clit with his tongue.

She lifted herself up to her elbows and looked down at him. A hint of fear aroused in her as she made direct eye contact with him. She was so caught up in her own pleasure she didn’t realize how deeply she was looking into his eyes.

As she continued to lock her eyes with his, her pussy began to relax, getting ready to tighten and cum on his tongue. Her heavy breathing paused and she caught that expression in her eyes.

Then her panties were ripped in half and her bare cunt was revealed to him. In a split second, his entire tongue was inside of her.

She screamed as her virgin cunny squeezed itself around his long, wicked tongue. Hisoka laughed out and wiggled his tongue - messaging and caressing her inner walls as she cummed.

The wetness of her aroused cunt seeped out and dripped down to her asshole, to which Hisoka slurped up and continued his assault on her cunny again. He did this over and over again until I couldn’t handle it anymore. My hands tried to push him away but he didn’t even budge. It wasn’t until my legs began to kick out in panic did he pull away.

“Ah, ah,” she panted, body completely limp. Hisoka observed her body. Her soft stomach was gleaming with sweat and the inside of her thighs were also gleaming.

“You might be the sweetest candy I’ve had since I first tried Bungee Gum all those years ago. I knew the moment I popped it into my mouth it would never leave me, marking me with its sweet syrupy taste just like a Scarlet Letter. Would it be a bold thing to say that you're just like Bungee Gum? You get so pink when you're played with. The pink on your cheeks is almost the same shade as my favorite snack.”

Hisoka let out a sudden dramatic sigh that startled (Y/N) for a second. “Unfortunately, the company who used to make Bungee Gum went bankrupt so now I have to search far and wide just to get a taste. Luckily for me, something similar is always nearby for me to stretch and pull at.”

He paused, looking directly into (Y/N)’s eyes with his own yellow ones. “You are, my sweet little slice~”

Hisoka grabbed her ankles and slapped her legs together. The loud smack of her thighs' sudden connection reverated across the room.

Hisoka wrapped his big hand over both of her ankles and grabbed his cock, stroking back the foreskin to reveal the pink, sensitive tip and a pearl of precum forming. He placed the tip of his cock on her clit, rubbing it in little circles before sliding it down her slit until it reached her entrance at the very bottom. He felt tempted to slip it into her ass before deciding it wasn’t worth the screeching. Even though he could easily cover her mouth and sodomize her tight little ass, he couldn’t just jump into completely breaking her; It would be a better idea to slowly lower her into the fire. A slow burn would be ten times more satisfying.

Putting both of my legs onto one side of his shoulders, he used his weight to push his entire cock into her pussy until his ballsack was resting against her ass.

She hissed through her teeth and threw her head back. She was filled with his cock. So full. So, so full.

She was bursting with new sensations. A new type of pain, a new type of pleasure. It was unlike anything she’d ever felt yet so primal and familiar. It was an instinct she never realized she had.

Bending over her with her legs still on her shoulder, Hisoka connected their lips for the first time that night. She could taste her own saltiness on his lips. It wasn’t the type of kiss she’d seen on romance shows (the ones her brother decided were appropriate enough to watch). No, this kiss was the complete opposite of those. This kiss was rough, unlike anything else.

She felt a burst of bravery as she slipped her tongue out and shyly lapped at his bottom lip. Hisoka let out a sardonic chuckle.

“Feeling brave now, are we?”

(Y/N) yelped as Hisoka slid his entire tongue inside her mouth, licking every corner of her mouth. Nothing was left untouched.

After completely violating her mouth with his tongue, Hisoka pulled away, smiling down at her.

“Are you ready?” He whispered. (Y/N) let out a shuddering breath and nodded. She braced herself by meekly grabbing onto the shoulder that didn’t have her legs with one hand, the other gripping onto the sheets.

Hisoka pulled back until only the tip of his cock remained in her, then he slammed into her with great strength. Her breath completely left her body with the slam of his hips. His hips smashing against her buttocks made a filthy sound that made her want to cum. The plop, plop sound that her pussy was also doing things to her.

Hisoka grunted with every hard thrust. She fit him just like a glove. It was almost like she was made for him. While the male penis did not have as many nerve endings as female genitals, a man can augment his sensations and cause it to heighten by being caressed just right. By holding her against himself, fucking her in a salacious dance, the more sensation builds up in his penis just like when a woman’s clitoris is tapped just so…

The friction of his cock pulling on her inner walls before being pushed inside once again left (Y/N) in a concoction of emotions. First, complete and utter pleasure. As he slammed his cock into her, dopamine bursted in her mind like an explosion of drugs. Second, regret. If her brother ever found out, how would he react to his own little sister getting fucked by the murderous Magician, Hisoka? She knew he’d feel like all his work to keep her safe were a waste of time and energy. Like all those years of pampering and protecting went right down the drain. She couldn’t let him find out. And thirdly, a rebellious energy. She was tired of being locked down by her own innocence. She wanted to explore the world. There had to be more to this world than just what she knew. There had to be.

From head to toe, she felt a symphony of pleasure as she came. Her toes clenched until they cramped. But she didn’t care, the pleasure outweighed the pain. Her fingers dug into his shoulder. She was sure there would be a five fingered mark there the next day. It would be a reminder of his clawed reach and her deflowering.

She screeched out as Hisoka went faster, overwhelming her. She hadn’t even gotten over her orgasm before he began to thrust into her twice as hard. She could feel his cock rub itself against the entrance of her womb.

It was primal to push into her beautiful, soft female body and pull back, only to push himself back. He could feel himself building up the height of his pleasure. The more he pumped, the higher the tower built, just ready to topple over and leave a big mess.

He looked at her closer than ever. Watching as her breast bounced and her lips glowed from their mixed saliva. He saw her eyes as she looked up at him, red from crying in complete pleasure. Her appearance increased his desire to come.

“Ahhhh,” he moaned out, feeling his orgasm in his very bones. It was a sensation he was familiar with. After defeating a powerful enemy, he sometimes glowed with the aftertaste of their fight and his victory. This was very similar - yet so different. More intimate, of course. His prey was still alive and he was still inside their body.

(Y/N) closed her eyes in bliss as Hisoka’s cum finally rested inside of her. Her breathing slowed down and the blush on her cheeks faded into softer shades of pink. The sun was coming down. Its orange tones highlighted her sweaty body like a canvas. It almost seemed like she was a freshly painted portrait. Divine Feminine tamed at last.

Both of them laid on their backs, observing the plain ceiling. It was relaxing to lay down after such an exhausting task. All she wanted to do was shut her eyes and rest.

Rest, rest, rest…

My brother! His fight is over!

(Y/N) shot up from the bed, practically tripping over herself as she gathered her things - putting them on. She didn’t even notice her bra was inside-out. More shockingly, she didn’t even notice cum was dripping down her legs.

Hisoka watched amusingly from the sidelines at her scattering around the room.

(Y/N) scanned the room for one final time. She groaned as she saw her wet panties on the bed, right next to Hisoka. She jumped onto the bed and reached for her underwear. As she pulled back, Hisoka grabbed her wrist.

“Tell me, (Y/N), how would your older brother react to hearing about how I ruined his little sister's innocence? How I fucked her and she enjoyed every second of it? I bet he’d try to kill me~.”

(Y/N)’s mouth opened and closed, not a single word leaving her starstruck mouth. Her body was paralyzed with fear. She forgot who she was dealing with in her panic.

“What's the matter? You want to keep our little secret just between us two? Fine. However, come to my room tomorrow at the same time you did today and we’ll have some more fun. If not…”

She didn’t need to ask - She knew. She imagined the consequences in her mind, thinking about the outcome of her moment of weakness.

Hisoka wasn’t done with her; this was just the appetizer.

—-

“Hey, (Y/N), where were you during my fight? I didn’t see you in the crowd at all.”

“Oh, I was just getting some snacks.”

“Ah, alright. Next time just tell me beforehand. I wouldn’t want a stranger taking advantage of my little sister. Right, sis?”

“Haha, yeah…”

#hxh imagines #hxh headcanons #hxh hisoka #hxh x reader #hisoka morrow x reader #hisoka x reader #hisoka morow #hisoka #hisoka imagine #hunter x hunter #hisoka x y/n

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mythicalmenagerie-blog · 7 years ago

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Salt Dough/Homemade Playdough Recipe

Easiest stuff in the world to make, I’m using it to make some models for a competition (and maybe some other stuff since I have enough left over). Under no circumstances do you get the stuff you make wet without letting it dry thoroughly and then sealing it with something super waterproof and even then I still don’t recommend this stuff meet water.

3/4 Cup Salt

2 Cups AP/Normal Flour

Enough HOT water to bind

Mix it together until it forms a soft but not sticky dough (I like mine a little wet because I can be slow working), this can take more or less water than most recipes state so I didn’t list an amount for the water but it being hot or at least good and warm is important, I have never gotten it to bind right while using cool water. The flour to salt ratio can be played with, my grandmother made this stuff all the time for me as a kid and just threw them together until it came out right, seriously the easiest stuff to make ever and it’s relatively cheap too if you’re like me and just starting out with sculpting and a playground for learning.

I’ve also seen a couple methods for baking your creations to set them even better and dry them out more that I’ve yet to try but a quick search on Google or Pinterest will yield quite a number of results on how to make salt dough, this is just how I do it.

As an aside, this is SUPER messy to make (for me at least) so be mentally prepared to wipe down your whole home when your done...

#DIY #diy projects #crafts

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weneverlearn · 7 years ago

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Replacements - For Sale: Live at Maxwell’s 1986

The Replacements, pre-this new live album - Photo by Greg Helgeson

I’ve been to Maxwell’s in Hoboken, NJ, many times. @newbombturks played there a few times. There’s even an official DVD with a few tunes from a wild night we had there. But I wasn’t around NYC in 1986. I saw the Replacements on this tour while still growing up in Cleveland, a few months before this show, if memory serves.

“If memory serves” serves as more than just the ubiquitous rock’n’roll maxim when it comes to the Replacements. Drinking, specifically cheap beer, really was essential to being in, and into, the Replacements. Luckily, I wasn’t yet seduced by the gut-scraping joy of Natural Light when I first saw the Replacements back then. So memory is fully subservient here.

My friend and I went because we’d heard a little bit of them on college radio, probably, and went to any show with a band that had a vaguely punk-sounding name. I think Death of Samantha was opening, and I saw them every time I could.

Stone sober I sat there as the Replacements jumped into their set. And by the third song, I knew this was something to sink myself into fully, I told my pal, who preferred sitting and watching if the choice was there, that I HAD to go down front, which I did during what I thought sounded like “Rock My Up” (which I later learned was “Take Me Down to the Hospital” -- why “hospital” sounded like “rock me up” to me, I have no clue. But again, not drunk. Maybe the ears were already ringing...), and stood agog and bopping for the rest of the show. To this day, it’s the closest I ever felt to what it must’ve been like to see the Beatles at the Rathskeller, the Stones at some London underground dive in ‘65, the Velvet Underground at La Cave in Cleveland in ‘68 -- a show you instantly know to commit to memory, something you can impress the youngins with years later.

Side story: While working at CMJ in 2008, someone was quitting, it was their last day, and we all decided to go to lunch with him that day. So one person decided to start a conversation: “Name a band you saw live who later got really huge.” After a bunch of interns scratched their heads and at best came up with “Uh, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah,” it came around to quitting guy who said, “Well, I saw [forgotten 2002 hype band], and a little someone named Ted Leo opened up.” Murmured “Ooooo”s arose. When it came around to me -- being at least 13 years older than anyone at that table -- I didn’t have the heart to name drop the Pixies, the Replacements, or Jesus & Mary Chain (all three of whom have done recent reunions, but man, it was way better back then, man!), and feigned a french fry getting caught in my throat.

So anyway, yeah, that Replacements show was one of the most exciting I ever saw. They perfectly fit my evolving notions of all-decades post-war trash rock smelted into one whiz-bang rock’n’roll gang, a tiny corner of “my generation’s Rolling Stones.”

Photo by Caryn Rose

But over the years... well firstly Don’t Tell a Soul came out, so, yeah. Then the cult of the Replacements slowly over-mythologized them, and suddenly by the turn of the century, they seemed to be the reason “no depression” existed, and no one wants to take credit for that. How did that ragged Johnny Thunders punk, constant self effacement, dumb hair, and ‘70s thrift store clothes morph into bearded dudes in flannels offering their left nuts to be able to write “Answering Machine” as an NPR essay? The Replacements were so deft (when “on”) at concocting that midwestern mix of a goofy sense of humor, severely pissed sonic squalls, and a predominant sense of swingin’ fun. But here they stood -- well their myth anyway -- as solipsistic neo-folkers just because “Here Comes a Regular” was so fucking good.

Not unlike R.E.M., the earliest moves of the band seemed to have been swallowed up by the (relatively, in the Replacements case) latter day hits and staid reputation as “serious influence.” So with R.E.M. you had Live and Counting Crows name-dropping them; with the Replacements, Built to Spill and Ryan Adams Hey, fun-stompers -- the Replacements liked the DeFranco Family and the Sweet at least as much as CCR.

(The brief rumors that the Black Lips were going to play the Replacements in a kind of quasi-biopic? Now THAT made sense, even if whatever that idea was seemed to have gotten ground down into this.)

Thankfully, Bob Mehr’s excellent biography, Trouble Boys, came along in 2016, right after the short-lived Replacements reunion tour, to more roundly realign the band’s brazen garage band spirit and shit-stirring, shit-faced, and sometimes just plain shitty sides.

Photo by Caryn Rose

And now we get aurally realigned with this new, top-notch live double-album, For Sale: Live at Maxwell’s 1986; recorded, superbly, with Warner Bros-backed pro shit in lieu of a promotional live album that never happened, since guitarist Bob Stinson was kicked out not long after this 1986 tour. Compared to my memory of that Cleveland show the same year, and given that if there is one constant in the Replacements story, it’s that “some nights they were great, other nights they were even more drunk,” I recall way more funny in-between song banter and bitching. As the fine liner notes (by Bob Mehr) cop to in this release, this was not a night for witty banter. Whether that was from simple mood -- and the fact that for 3/4 of this show, the band really does blaze from one song to the next, so no fucking complaints -- or the fact that the band’s relationship with Bob Stinson was disintegrating exponentially right around then, and so the no chat/go fast rhythm here may be railroading emotions. That is often the default gear for most great rock’n’roll bands.

Photo by Caryn Rose

Ripping versions of “Hayday,” Hold My Life,” and God Damn Job” are just some of the highlights from the first half. As the drunken but not completely sputtering, 1/4-baked covers of ‘Mats’ fame start to roll in, the album takes a slightly woozy turn into the moodier side of the band. If my aforementioned platzing about solipsism implied that I don’t deeply revere the band’s melancholy impulses, I apologize. The Replacements and their Minneapolis brethren of the time (Husker Du, Soul Asylum, Magnolias) were the best in r’n’r’s history at effortlessly brewing up bawdy adolescent swagger coin-flipped with engrained, five month-long winters stuck in a dank basement brooding and coming up with riffs until adulthood might most likely make that 12 months.

So as they make T-Rex’ “Baby Strange” their own slicing garage song, “Hitchin’ a Ride” a stein-hoister, and pulling out the amazing dark tunnel drive of the shouldabeen A-side but lost comp track “Go,” they aren’t just the drunk band filling out the set because they’ve forgotten which originals they already did, though they were. Admittedly, it was notoriously hard to just stop and leave Maxwell’s stage because of no easily sneak off-able side door. Bands tended to go five songs too long there. But also -- as somewhere in there Westerberg mumbles about “This ain’t the most rocking show we ever did,” self-effacing to the end -- there is a shadow slowly descending on this set. The crowd is noticeably having a hoot, but there could’ve only been about 125 people there. So this is no posthumous, classic rock band triumphantlism stadium live document, with massive crowd cheering, of course. It’s an amazing American rock’n’roll band, if not to be recognized as such outside of the college radio crowd until much later.

It’s a band just on the brink of starting to lose energy and patience for their already sloppily sculpted myth. It feels like a true pouring out of everything they got. Partly as it was supposedly a favorite club of theirs to play; partly because they knew some dough was being dumped into this promotional folly; and partly because a few nights before they performed the perfunctory middle-finger flip Big Apple show that all the big wigs were at who could’ve helped them get more popular. But mostly because the Replacements were a really fucking great rock’n’roll band, maybe at their greatest as a seasoned touring band right here on this cold February night. Not that spring was right around the corner or anything...

#the replacements #bob mehr #rhino records #new bomb turks #paul westerberg #r.e.m.

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some-thoughts-and-crosses · 7 years ago

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Visitations!

It is October in Rome…and a lovely month it is. Technically Autumn, it’s only now getting slightly chilly in the mornings. It also marks almost 3 months since I arrived, and what a 3 months it’s been. I’ve settled into a groove, and am enjoying my work. A few trips are on the horizon and a few have just been, which helps stave off the persistent homesickness. Also helping greatly in this regard are visits from my people!

Faeeza and Pria came to Rome! They arrived on Saturday 30th September, bringing their lovely selves, along with home treats, much chat, and the priceless comfort of dear friends. The first thing I did after their somewhat gruelling journey was make them climb to the top of Gianicolo! It did provide beautiful views though – my justification.

The first of several selfies, taken with enthusiasm if not skill!

In the afternoon we traipsed through Rome a bit, visiting Fontana di Trevi (of course), the Spanish Steps, and the Keats and Byron museum.

Sunday took us to Naples! A lovely train ride of a little more than an hour and the friendliest tourist office staff led us to our first destination…Basilica Santa Maria della Sanità in Piazza Sanità. We came for the catacombs! Our first…and probably not the last. Was a really interesting insight into savvy priests and gullible (but rich!) nobles of the time, that saw them pay vast sums to be ‘purified’ and entombed after they died. The price they paid for this saw the church built in just 10 years – unheard of in the 17th century! This is a fresco of a couple that reputedly died on their wedding day. The women is depicted in what we were told is typical, no-nonsense Neapolitan stance – hand on hips! Even then...

After all this excitement we needed sustenance. Perhaps you’ve heard that the best pizza in Italy can be found in Naples…we did! And to be frank, this was the aspect that pretty much decided Naples as our day-trip destination of choice. It turned out to be the perfect choice. We all 3 loved it! There’s a mad energy there, a realness, and so much to see at every corner that is either beautiful, stimulating, or both. Graffiti is wall art. Crazy locals stare from their windows. Seafood is sold on every street corner, and the traffic follows its own, decidedly Neapolitan rhythm. No one wears helmets on the many scooters. We passed scooters with kids standing on the seat as an adult rode, and pizza delivery guys holding the pizzas in one hand and steering with the other. Speaking of pizza…

I really love this pic of the 3 of us, eating our pizza on the pavement and watching the world go by!

The texture of the dough is different in Naples, being more pliable and thicker than in Rome. And while our pies were tasty, I have to say, I will take Roman pizza any day. The below sample is from La Bocaccia in Rome, a spot Pri and Faeez found for me, a dangerous 10 minute walk from my apartment. I would highly recommend it…so good!

After some pastries (for which Naples is also famous), we ventured forth to see the status of the Veiled Christ. It is hauntingly beautiful. We weren’t allowed to take pics of our own, but Wikipedia obliges us. The artist ‘was charged with producing "a marble statue sculpted with the greatest realism, representing Our Lord Jesus Christ in death, covered by a transparent shroud carved from the same block of stone as the statue.":

We headed back to Rome, with Naples leaving its mark. It was a somewhat busy work period for me so I was back to work next day, which left Faeez and Pri to their own sweet wills. Here you see them posing romantically in what is, I believe, the English graveyard Keats is buried in.

On Monday evening we reconvened, and went to the Forum for a night-time audio-visual tour focusing on Caesar. The play of light and sound was incredible – it recreated the Forum and let us see what it would have been like when built. Completely (and expensively) funded by Caesar, he saw it as a way to show-case his glory. As such he refused to have any artists sign their work, lest it detract from him. Kind of a dirt-bag move Caesar…but then again, he did get quite the comeuppance. (This is the first time I’ve used ‘comeuppance’…it won’t be the last).

Too soon, Pri left us lamenting. This gave Faeez a couple days to explore Rome on her own, and on Friday we met again at the airport for the final leg of our adventure…Milan!

Faeez’s fashion credentials necessitated the trip, and almost immediately, the change in dress was visible. The Milanese are a funky bunch. Saturday morning started with coffee and cornettoes in Caffe Armani…

We spent the morning on a fashion tour, with our guide giving us a fashion history lesson and taking us through some of the designer stores, conveniently located around 4 core, inter-leading streets. This part of Milan is really quite small and contained, and the chaos during Fashion week – with celebs in tinted luxury cars on the little, gridlocked streets – can only be imagined. The tour was fascinating…who knew Armani started out his empire by providing clothing for the first wave of professional, working women at the time! The window displays are curated with much care, and are frequently spectacular. We learnt that Valentino has a trademark colour – Valentino Red!

We also realised just how big the fur trade still is…with fur trimming in high demand on everything from accessories to floor-length coats. Interestingly, I just read that Gucci is committing to going fur-free in 2018. This is extremely promising, since it seems Gucci is at the top of its game right now, and was by far the busiest of the designer shops we visited.

Our tour came to an end and Faeez and I went in search of sustenance. We had tea at a venerable old lady of a tea room – 200 years old! Pasticceria Cova…you were a lovely glimpse into what 1800s café society was all about.

The last and most magnificent stop of the day was the Milan Cathedral. Faeez spotted it first as we exited the underground (who knew it would be right there?!) – and it pretty much took our breath away. We lit candles inside and spent a few moments enjoying the loveliness.

Sunday was also a tour day, the primary reason behind it being to secure a viewing of The Last Supper. If you’re going to Milan and want to see it, make sure you book your tickets early. Once they sell out, as they did, you can only hope to access it via a tour. In an attempt to maintain the humidity levels of the room in which it is painted (an old priestly cafeteria!), we passed through 2 sets of doors that seal behind us, and have 15 minute slots for viewings. Pictures are allowed, flash is not. When I was a kid in high school art class, I never imagined that one day I would actually get to see the things I was learning about. It was just so beyond my frame of reference. Each time I do, I am quite overcome. The Last Supper was no exception.

Overall, Milan was lovely. The people were gracious and friendly, and everything seemed to work smoothly. Giulia reckons it’s because the Milanese aren’t frustrated like Romans!

If I had to place Italian cities along a scale of ordered to crazy, I’d place Naples on one end and Milan at the other – with Rome somewhere in the middle. What really made these trips special though, was getting to enjoy it with F & P

Disclaimer: “The information posted on this blog reflects my personal views and opinions and does not necessarily represent those of my employer.”

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notestonadia · 7 years ago

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A Note on Intelligence

Nadia, will you be smart?

As you grow and develop, as your inclinations and interests begin to shine through the clouds of toddlerhood tantrums and cast light and shadows over your everyday actions, this seems like a very natural question to ask. Every parent wants their child to end up being “smart,” right? Even Forrest Gump had a vested interest:

But before we run with Forrest’s question, we should ask—is it even the right question?

When I was a teacher, I presented the idea of multiple-intelligences to my students. The concept behind this is that intelligence is not binary. You’re not either “smart” or “dumb” in an absolute sense. Instead, intelligence exists on a wavelength, with peaks and valleys and no average altitude that defines what you’re capable of.

It’s a nice idea. It’s an elevated concept (HAHA). But teaching it and believing it are two different summits to climb.

And maybe I’m still at base camp, but I really think I’m ready to start the trek. I think we all may need to start gazing upward to a place where we can meet at the top.

With this theory of multiple intelligences, there are still head starts. Some people are still going to be inclined (this metaphor is contrived, I know, but I swear I didn’t try to do this one) towards some areas over others. But the beauty of the multiple intelligences theory is that A) if you have weaknesses in one area, you can make it up with strengths in others, and B) You can always improve in every area.

So how’s it looking so far, Nadia?

Verbal-Linguistic Intelligence (Word-Smart)

So, Nadia, you don’t really like books. Like, you tolerate them. We’ve made reading books a part of your bedtime routine, so you accept it as a part of life. But if you have free time and a choice about what you want to do, picking up a book and reading it is never one of your choices.

It makes me, as a parent, and as a former English teacher, feel a little self-conscious. After all, I’ve seen so many other parents post pictures of their kids mangling books with the caption, “OMG, SHE LOVES BOOKS SO MUCH!”

Which can lead to only two conclusions:

1. That kid really likes books. 2. That parent is lying.

Really, the truth of the above is inconsequential. It’s more about the awareness of the parent (Self-Smart reference #1) than it is about the ability of the child.

I want you to love to read...I really do. But it’s not really something that can be forced. Also, Verbal-Linguistic Intelligence is about WAY more than just reading. It’s about vocabulary, memorization, and making up stories. And you can make up a hell of a story with “poop” at every twist and turn.

Logical-Mathematical Intelligence (Number-Smart)

It’s interesting that this intelligence is associated with “numbers.” It makes you think that an accountant, for example, represents the exemplar of this intelligence.

But really, it’s more than that. Sure, you can count to 30, or maybe even 40 (you skip 15 a lot, for some reason). But this isn’t about knowing your numbers--it’s more about using logic to know how one step leads to another step--and then being able to explain the relation between those steps.

A kid that can count isn’t “number smart”--that’s just memorization. (Self-Smart reference #2). But a kid that understands what those numbers mean and can apply them to everyday situations IS. At that point, you’re using logic--not memorization.

You seem to be pretty astute at this, Nadia. You work through little puzzles in your head all the time in order to arrive at the conclusion that it was Daddy’s fault. And you’re usually right.

Spatial Intelligence (Picture-Smart)

I have some high hopes for you here, despite the fact that this may be one of my lowest intelligences.

Of course, there are two sides to the genetic coin--and when you flip it, sometimes you get heads or tails...The coin doesn’t suspend upright on its edge.

I’ll often walk into a room, and your mother will just be staring at nothing. When I ask her what she’s doing, she’ll say: “Visualizing.”

So, this intelligence isn’t necessarily just about being able to draw, paint, sculpt, or whatever--it’s more about being able to picture something that isn’t already there. (Self-Smart reference #3)

When your mom asks me to look at the blank wall that she’s staring at, she’ll say, “What do you see?”

And I’ll say, “I see a fucking wall.”

But to her, she sees frames, and wasted spaces, and opportunities.

I think your ability as a builder might mean that you have some natural talent here. You love using your blocks to build structures that I wouldn’t have ever dreamed of, constructing patterns that just seem to make sense.

Your artwork kind of sucks, to be super honest. But your visualization seems to suggest that you’ve hopefully got some of your mother’s abilities.

Bodily-Kinesthetic Intelligence (Sports-Smart)

I remember when you were barely two, we took you to a park with a soccer ball. We couldn’t believe when you just took off running, dribbling the soccer ball with one foot in stride. You didn’t stumble, and you displayed this natural, untaught ability to keep the ball near your foot as you moved exceptionally fast.

So, logically, we signed you up for soccer at your school.

You hated soccer.

Well, that’s not fair. I don’t think you hated soccer. You loved that freedom of just running and dribbling a ball with no intended goal. What you hated was the rules and discipline that came with soccer.

At your school, soccer isn’t about dribbling, or kicking, or really any ball-related skill. It’s about freezing or sitting on your ball when the coach blows a whistle. Sports, at an early age, are about discipline, rather than the body motions that go along with playing that sport.

I think that also relates to the other sports we’ve signed you up for--dance, gymnastics, and even yoga.

I’m not saying that discipline is a bad thing. I’m just saying this is a mix of intelligences. In order to show that you are good at a sport at a young age, you also have to display some ability to follow directions, which is an entirely different type of intelligence. (Self-Smart reference #4)

So the fact that you don’t want to play soccer doesn’t mean that you won’t be good at soccer. We’ll let you decide.

Musical Intelligence (Music-Smart)

You really don’t have a lot to work with, here. Not genetically.

Not long ago, you were staging a fake birthday party for...I think, a toilet...And you sang “Happy Birthday” to that toilet.

After hearing you sing, I remember remarking, “Awww, Nadia, you sing just like your mother!” This is exactly the kind of snarky-ass, passive aggressive “compliment” that adults give to their unknowing kids. Don’t knock it. It really is one of our only guilty, mostly harmless, pleasures.

And me...well, by now, when you’re reading this, hopefully you’ve gotten to enjoy a number of my “birthday songs” that I’ve written and performed for you.

But you should know a few things:

Writing and performing these songs is HARD for me. It is not something that comes natural for me.

Also, I have no problem admitting that these songs are objectively bad. The key is off, the musical pacing is horrendous, and the final result of putting the voice/instruments together has often been laughably terrible.

But this goes back to an earlier point I tried to make: You CAN improve at something if you really have the desire to--even if it’s something you’re not naturally talented at. In the nature-nurture debate, I’ve always tended to side a little more strongly on the nature side--you’re born, genetically, with a certain set of skills, and those may provide the playdough that shapes the person you ultimately become. But that in no way means you can’t get some dough from another can and see what you can make of it.

Listen--every teenager thinks they’re “music-smart.” We adorn our Myspace accounts (just a super obscure reference for you to look up) with statements like “MUSIC IS LYFE”, as if that means that we could be musicians in a future life.

But liking music and being “good” at it are two different things. Being honest with yourself can lead to how much you decide to pursue something like music (Self-Smart reference #5)

Naturalist Intelligence (Nature-Smart)

This is a fun juxtaposition to the previous section. With music, I made the argument that you can be “bad” at something, but improve at it if you have the interest.

Just know that if you are naturally bad at something, and you also don’t have the interest, it’s okay to just suck at that thing.

That’s where I’m at with this intelligence.

Gardening? Nah. Cooking? That’s what Grubhub was invented for. (Self-Smart reference #6)

But just in case you’re interested in this kind of intelligence, know that your mother is working her ass off to be a guiding example. It’s not something she’s exactly naturally inclined to. I once told your mother that our house is where plants go to die.

And as for something like cooking. You recently told your mother, “Mom, you shouldn’t cook anymore, because you burnt yourself. You should let dad cook.”

But to your mother’s credit, she has continued cooking, and she’s getting a lot better at it, despite some potential genetic deficiencies. I once told her that she had effectively ruined fish for me. But since then, she has made some fish dishes that were absolutely edible.

Hope abounds. And for you--who knows. Maybe even if you don’t feel like working too hard at this, maybe genetics skips a generation and you’ll get your Grampy’s natural ability. You already seem in tune with nature--whether it’s your love for flowers, caterpillars, or animals. Do what you will, my little nature girl.

Interpersonal Intelligence (People-Smart)

Nadia, you’re awkward af. It’s fine, though. You’re only three. These are skills that you can develop over time.

To be real, developing this intelligence makes me a little nervous.

In its best form, high levels of Interpersonal Intelligence leads to people who are great communicators--leaders who use their affability to create positive change.

In its worst form, high levels of Interpersonal Intelligence leads to being a bully: People who can read others and exploit them. People who use charm and affability for nefarious causes.

You have some interesting examples to deal with: Your mom, who is an introverted extrovert: Someone who isn’t naturally gifted at gab, but who is interested in meeting and conversing with people in order to learn more.

And, your dad: An extroverted introvert: Someone who has the natural ability of public speaking and making personal connections, but who would rather stay home and watch stupid-ass sports on TV instead of interacting with anyone. (Self-Smart reference #7)

I’m interested in seeing what happens to you in regards to this intelligence. Despite my nature-based leanings, this ability does seem to be something that can be taught (or, observed, I guess) as as opposed to inherited. Let’s check back in 10 years and see how much time you’re spending in your room.

Intrapersonal Intelligence (Self-Smart)

I saved this intelligence for last, because in my mind, it may be the most crucial of all the intelligences.

As you’ve seen in the references I’ve inserted above, I really feel like this intelligence informs and enables all of the other intelligences.

The other quirky thing about this intelligence is that it presents a paradox:

The more you’re sure you have this intelligence, the less likely that you actually have it.

If you ask people a question like, “How well do you know yourself?”, the people who are quick to yell, “REALLY WELL!” are the people who may not actually be that self-smart.

If you have high levels of Intrapersonal Intelligence, it means that you question yourself daily. You spend a considerable amount of time pondering the decisions that you’ve made and thinking about whether they were the right choices.

It seems like an intelligence that is severely lacking in our world today. And I get it. Constant reflection can be uncomfortable. It’s easier to just move forward and ignore the mirrors, literal and metaphorical, that you inevitably pass in your everyday life.

And the other thing is that of all the intelligences, Intrapersonal Intelligence might be the hardest to measure. You can take IQ tests that measure your Verbal, Logical, and Spatial intelligences. You can be pretty sure whether you’re a good athlete based on the trophies you accumulate, and you can be confident in your musical abilities based on the applause you get after performances. You can judge your natural abilities by the lushness of your garden, or your people abilities by the number of friends you have.

Though the above measures aren’t totally indicative of your ability, they’re at least a glimpse.

But how do you measure whether you’re “Self-Smart?” There isn’t a test for that. There isn’t a reliable metric.

Also, of all the intelligences, it’s unclear how much of a role genetics have in Intrapersonal Intelligence. Is it something you inherit? Or is it something you have to work on?

I’m not sure. I’m really not. But I know that improving how well you know yourself is super important in understanding what you’re capable of--it helps you know what you might want to pursue as you decide to be who you want to be.

So here are some tips:

1. Spend some time reflecting every day. Am I happy with the decisions I made today? Do I regret the way I acted in any moment? 2. Ensure that the ideas and beliefs that you endorse actually conform with your core beliefs as a human. For example, if you support a person that wants to make it harder for disadvantaged people to get ahead in life, does that reflect your core beliefs about helping the poor? 3. If you examine yourself and realize you’ve done something wrong, be willing to address that wrong, OR apologize for your actions. There is no time limit on this...You can apologize days, weeks, or even years later. This is super hard, but it is vital. I had a close friend once apologize for an argument we’d been in years before--he told me he was wrong, and he was sorry. I wasn’t holding this argument against this friend...It had been long forgotten. But the fact that he brought it up said so much about him...It meant he had done some self-reflection, and he wanted to come clean with himself. It wasn’t really so much about our friendship--we would have been friends whether or not he opened up that old, forgotten wound--but it was more about coming to terms with something he regretted.

So, apologize to people, even long after the event. Not for them--but for you.

Now, you can’t obsess over every wrong thing you’ve done in your life. It would drive you crazy. You can’t hunt down every stranger you may have somehow offended to make things right. But you can come to terms with it in your own mind and send unreceived apologies out into the universe, even if it’s for your own sake.

For example...Manager of the Marco’s Pizza, I’m sorry I chewed you out when my online order had been deleted and my pizza wasn’t ready. I should have handled that situation much more elegantly.

Nadia--I hope you aren’t too confused by this post somewhat contradictory message. There’s a bit of cognitive dissonance to try and do these two things at once:

1. Evaluate you on your current progress of these different intelligences at only three years old, and 2. Declare that these intelligences are something that can be learned, gained, and improved upon as you progress through your life.

So, yeah...Your daddy is a jackass. (Self-Smart reference #8)

But what I want you to gain most from this post is to look at yourself, and others, as more than “smart” or “dumb.”

We should all endeavor to start looking at intelligence as something that is a sum of all parts--and even the total sum doesn’t decide your worth.

Instead of labeling people as “smart,” consider calling people “thoughtful, logical, creative, reflective, intuitive, bold, resourceful, and engaging.”

And before calling someone “dumb”...well, take a long, deep look at yourself and think about what makes that person different from you. (Self-Smart reference #9)

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saleintothe90s · 8 years ago

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306. “24 Hours at Super K” (12/18/1994 article by Glenn Gaslin)

(image from the Breeden Company)

So, the idea for this entry was that I just found out that the Kmart in the town I grew up in closed.

I was driving down Mercury Blvd in Hampton, Virginia (yes! the one mentioned in the intro of Hidden Figures!) after my dentist appointment, because I wanted to reminisce and see what was up with the house I grew up in. I also got a tip from the receptionist that their old location near a dilapidated shopping center was being torn down soon and I wanted to get pics of that (it hasn’t been torn down yet).

For the past few years, I’ve been having this dream where I’m driving down Mercury, and I look over to where the Kmart was, and its closed, and the dream takes on a scary tone. Abandoned Kmarts are the ultimate in suburban scares.

Well, turns out my dream came true. I actually said out aloud in the car, “When did that happen?!”. It happened last year! I was totally asleep at the wheel on the retail history of my hometown (my blog!) — something I try to keep up with even if I live an hour away in the sticks, where there are no stores.

I remembered something else in the process. Does anyone remember those few seconds in the mid to late 90s where Super Kmart was this amazing thing in retail? This was right before WalMart’s super centers began being tacked onto regular tiny WalMarts. There was a Super Kmart that opened up a couple towns over in York County back in 1994, and I think the shining star of it was that it was open 24 hours a day, which was a big deal back then. Such a local anomaly, that a reporter from our newspaper, Daily Press decided to spend 24 hours in Super Kmart back in December of 1994. I actually remember reading this article when I was 11, and thinking what a magical place it must be. Here are the highlights:

By the time I leave tomorrow, about 22,000 people will have visited this village.

I feel like a KMart doesn’t even get that many visitors a year now.

2:45 p.m. Alex Llorente, the smiling, spiky-gray-haired store manager, agrees to not throw me out and tells the unseen security force about me.

"They've already spotted you on the cameras," he says.

Llorente says he loves his job and this place, and has spent more than 24 hours here at a time. Two straight days, once.

He wears out a pair of shoes a month walking around his domain, eavesdropping and saying, "Hey," to his constituents, watching and walking through a few of what he calls "the million stories in the Naked City."

1:15 p.m. I turn around and head back toward the food, but a message stops me. "Attention, Kmart shoppers, we're having a Blue-Light Special on Barney in our toy department. Regularly $5, now only $2."

[…]

What's it do?" asks a scowling woman as she picks up a Barney.

"Nothing," Wilkins says.

She drops it and walks on. Wilkins says he's working here for the holiday season, leading parents to the Gak and telling them he's out of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers.

Another woman picks out two Barneys. McKail Wilkins smiles and stamps them with $2 price stickers.

1:36 p.m. There's no room to sit at the Islander Cafe, a 24-hour restaurant in a corner of the store. A half dozen employees sit and smoke on their break

I’m amazed that people could smoke inside the restaurant inside KMart in 1994! It was 1994!

2:42 p.m. I find the "Baywatch" soundtrack and, frightened to learn that David Hasselhoff does a duet with Laura Branigan, I leave the electronics department.

Here it is.

4 p.m. A frowning, glassy-eyed woman standing near the frozen potato products says, "Buy two packages of Pillsbury cookie dough, and I'll give you the little doll for free." She holds up a plastic replica of the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

"What's it do?" I say.

"Nothing."

"No thanks."

How could you not want a Dough Boy. Stop acting snooty, Glenn!

4:57 p.m. Chris Waite scoops out a bowl full of fluffy purple frosting into a garbage can behind the bakery counter.

"The colder the whip, the better," says Waite, a wiry 22-year-old wearing a Grateful Dead baseball cap and eating a chocolate doughnut while working. The purple stuff got a little too mushy to sculpt.

He smooths what looks like a sheet of paper onto a cake. It's covered with characters from the movie "Aladdin," it's edible and, once Waite traces the cartoons with chilly icing, you won't notice the sheet. "It melts on there," he says. "You can't even pull it off. I don't think it changes the taste any."

5:52 p.m. A couple near the deli bickers about baked goods.

"Stuart, you don't need this junk," says the woman, shuffling through pastry items. "Fattening. Fattening. Fattening." Stuart raises his eyebrows and pleads with her. She gives in and they keep the cakes.

9:15 p.m. A surreal calm falls over the store as the Kmart Radio Network plays the theme from "Chariots of Fire" really loud. A woman with an armload of ground beef talks into a cellular phone, "Mmm hmm."

9:17 p.m. Somebody on the public-address system says, "Good morning, America!"

omg, David Hartman and/or Charlie Gibson snuck into Super KMart.

10:50 p.m. I'm not there to see it when a man stuffs an $86 portable telephone into his jacket and heads for the front door. Security spots him and notifies Chris Thompson, 23, a part-time Thomas Nelson Community College student who is patrolling the parking lot.

Thompson and another guard confront the man outside, next to the kiddie rides. The suspect moves to bolt, but the guards grab and try to cuff him.

He fights and resists and tries to yank a handcuff off his wrist. During the struggle, the suspect cuts his face on the cement, leaving blood on the sidewalk.

What is he referring to when he says “portable phone”? A cordless phone? He’s gotta mean a cordless phone. Cell phones were still insanely expensive back then.

(this is one of my magazines, I forgot what magazine it came from, I’m thinking Seventeen from November or December of 1995, I took this pic years ago)

12:15 a.m., Sunday, Dec. 4. Six high school students in suits and velvet dresses enter the store.

[…]

They just came from the Warwick High School Ring Dance. As Puckett and Daria Harris, 16, explain in unison: "The dance sucked!"

So they escaped to this 24-hour fluorescent theme park.

"Every weekend I have to come here and get three candies for 10 cents. And you can walk around and ride the bikes without getting into trouble," says Keikilani, beaming and wearing a baseball cap backward.

"This is the place,'' adds Dave Johnson, 16.

12:29 a.m. The Ring Dance fugitives lead me to the makeup aisle. The girls have vast collections of lip gloss and want to show off their knowledge.

I ask if any of them ever make out in the parking lot here. Irma speaks up: "Let's just say a lot of fantasies were fulfilled in the parking lot at Super Kmart."

(from my Toy Mania commercial)

3 a.m. On the public-address system: "Toy Mania is still in full swing in our toy department!"

There's nobody in the toy department.

5:20 a.m. A 53-year-old Hampton man sits in the Islander and pores over several notebooks. He has exams at the College of William and Mary, he says. Usually he studies at IHOP, but it's too crowded this morning. So is Denny's. And Waffle House.

For some reason, I never thought about people going to places other than libraries to study back then. I always just kind of thought people began doing this with the age of Starbucks.

Noon. Without buying anything except what I needed to survive, without making an impulse or irrational purchase, after witnessing a few of the million stories in the Naked Discount Retail Mart, I leave.

On the public-address system I hear: "We thank you for shopping your Tabb Super Kmart Center."

—

This Kmart stayed “super” until 2011 when the grocery section of the store was shut down, and hours were reduced from 8am to 10pm. 2 Today, a Kroger sits where the grocery section once was.

(my snapchat @thelastvcr)

The other day, I went by the old Super Kmart, which is now just a tiny Kmart that thankfully got a remodel when the store was split in half. It wasn’t that bad. I’m sure not very many fantasies are being fulfilled in the parking lot these days thought.

1. Glaslin, Glenn, “24 Hours At Super K,” Daily Press, December 18, 1994, http://articles.dailypress.com/1994-12-18/features/9412160168_1_blue-light-kmart-shoppers-super-kmart-center.

2. Kennedy, Amber Lester, “York County Super Kmart To Close Grocery,” Williamsburg Yorktown Daily, February 2, 2011. http://wydailyarchives.com/2011/02/02/york-county-super-kmart-to-close-grocery/

#1994 #the 1990s #1990s #super kmart #kmart #shopping #consumerism #daily press #tabb virginia #old commercials #reporting #24 hours #hampton virginia #closed kmart #abandoned

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how2to18 · 6 years ago

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“A PROTEST POETRY intended to induce funks of ambivalence.” That phrase appears in Stan Apps’s “Free Dolphin Radio,” the opening poem of Flarf: An Anthology of Flarf. While its placement may have been fortuitous (given the book’s alphabetical arrangement by author), it seems a fitting motto for the entire collection, as well as for the movement the book presents as a whole. “Flarf” refers to a self-styled avant-garde collective that sprung up around 2000 and was devoted to exploring the web, then in its “wild west” phase, as a resource for making poetry. On a private email list, its members developed a technique they refer to as “Google sculpting,” which calls for the poet to trawl the internet for preexisting language, usually by putting combinations of intentionally silly or offensive keywords into a search engine (“pizza” and “kitty,” “Rogaine” and “bunny,” “pussy” and “turtleneck”) and then creatively arranging the results into strange, funny, and unsettling collages. Voilà: “Arthur Treacher grabs my assclown / Assclown grabs my squid / Squid signs me up for the NOW Action Alert list.” (This is from Sharon Mesmer’s “Squid Versus Assclown.”)

The name “Flarf” is a neologism, which one of its founders, Gary Sullivan, defines as describing “a kind of corrosive, cute, or cloying, awfulness. Wrong. Un-P.C. Out of control. ‘Not okay.’” It is also, he explains, a verb, meaning “to bring out the inherent awfulness, etc., of some pre-existing text” (thus, one can “Flarf” any unsuspecting piece of writing). Flarf, you might say, is what poetry would sound like “if pirates pumped the stuffed-up airwaves full of dolphin hymns and rat speak,” to quote another line from that same opening poem.

In the early 2000s, Flarf was a big cartoon thumb stuck in the eye of the poetry establishment. Pumped full of “rat speak” by pirate poets sailing the high seas of the internet, Flarf poems were disjunctive works made from the ugly feelings, vulgarity, and raucous surreality that colors our everyday experience in the digital age. With language extracted from chat rooms, message boards, and the underbelly of our online lives, the poems were deliberately messy, abrasive, and distasteful. But Flarf was also ostensibly “a protest poetry”: from the start, the Flarfists explained that they were supplying a subversive response to the nightmarish absurdity and deceit of contemporary culture in the post-9/11 era. Mostly, though, it seemed custom-designed to provoke misgivings from arbiters of taste and to induce “funks of ambivalence” about its aesthetics, its politics, and its worldview from both staid cultural gatekeepers and other avant-garde poets.

The funk continues to linger over Flarf, now more a period style than a going concern. While it has been claimed as a powerful and enduring intervention in the development of American poetry, some see it as little more than an extended prank; others insist it was only a tired retread of Dada and other earlier avant-garde experiments. Some claim its practice of borrowing language from “ordinary” people on the internet (often riddled with misspellings, stupidity, racism, and xenophobia) is ultimately patronizing, elitist, a form of punching down. Flarf has been dogged, too, by ethical questions about whether the reproduction of hateful, offensive language perpetuates rather than critiques harmful stereotypes and prejudices.

This anthology will probably not put such questions to rest. For one thing, it’s not clear why the Flarfists decided to publish this collection of their work (co-edited by five of its members) now, at a time when many of the poets themselves have moved on, and the more heated debates about the movement have subsided. Is the anthology meant to provide a snapshot of a vital and ongoing phenomenon, like Donald Allen’s The New American Poetry? Is the timing of its appearance intended to suggest that Bush-era Flarf is now newly relevant in the dark age of Trump? Or is it more a bid for canonization, an enshrinement of a now-defunct avant-garde in poetic history?

It’s even harder to answer these questions because, unlike many such collections, Flarf is completely devoid of scholarly apparatus and critical framework: it has no preface or introduction, no manifestos or statements of poetics. There’s no effort to define Flarf or trace its origins or goals, no attempt to explain its methods or sketch out its intellectual or poetic investments. It is nearly impossible to tell when the poems were written, or whether any of the material in the book is new or recent, or if it all dates from Flarf’s heyday, over a decade ago. Of course the editors’ decision to remove all context and helpful framing is probably deliberate, in keeping with the anarchic spirit of the movement, which is as allergic as Dada was to high seriousness, “official” institutions, the canon, and so on. But if that’s the case, then why produce an anthology at all? At the very least, a few signposts would have helped orient a younger generation of readers who missed the Flarf moment the first time around.

What we are left with, of course, are the poems themselves, giving us the opportunity to take stock of Flarf’s achievement, as it gathers in one place many of its best-known, and best, works, including Drew Gardner’s “Chicks Dig War,” Jordan Davis’s “Pablo Escobar Shopping T-Shirt,” Michael Magee’s “Mainstream Poetry,” Sharon Mesmer’s “Annoying Diabetic Bitch,” K. Silem Mohammad’s “Mars Needs Terrorists,” and selections from Katie Degentesh’s The Anger Scale. Left to fend for themselves, these poems do make a sort of argument for Flarf’s value, and relevance. From the vantage point of 2018, Flarf can be seen as a compelling extension of the long, vital tradition of avant-garde collage, appropriation, and remix, updated for the internet age in intriguing ways. The best Flarf poems use the resources of search-engine technology to capture the exuberance, the strangeness, and the cracked beauty of what Anne Boyer calls our “electronic vernacular.” Jordan Davis suggests as much in one poem when he writes, “‘What I love about the chat rooms / Is that they’re already halfway to poetry, / What’s poetry but lines, what’s a chatroom,’ / He started rubbing the squid.” Where else can one find a poem titled “Humanism Is Cheese” or another with lines like these: “Phoenix is the land of milk dowsers, / and I’ve always been / a wolverine bunny cage xenocide forum asshole”? The poems teem with a density of reference, evincing the strange magnetic power of labels, names, and data in a culture drowning in signifiers: “Dag Hammarskjold rolls off our lips as easily as Lassie,” Boyer writes. “I just killed the Pillsbury dough boy,” the speaker of one of Gardner’s poems announces, before quickly bouncing off toward Terry Gross, “Charman” Mao, Shelley Duvall, Wallace Stevens, Minnie Driver, and Dan Rather.

Other poems crackle with the upending of clichés (“Same old job, / same old Diplodocus bong water orgy” — Gardner again). They frequently delight in the twisting of expectations, as in these lines by Mohammad, where the hackneyed language of romance is infused with militarism and violence:

love is a Pakistani Mirage fighter jet frozen, strange like it had, you know, bubonic plague

I’m a bit less crazy about Flarf’s fondness for goofy, supposedly “transgressive” scatology and the sometimes exhausting levels of zaniness — poems where we learn that “I have to conduct snot viscosity experiments / with ass-lint,” (Mitch Highfill) and so on. But although the movement has been maligned for focusing too much on play and hijinks, for being just a bunch of friends “fucking around with google on the man’s dime” (as Gardner himself once put it), Flarf can in fact be fiercely political: poem after poem takes aim at toxic masculinity, American warmongering and imperialism, virulent racism, the intersections between porn and rape culture, and the penetration of neoliberal capitalism into every sphere of daily life. I fully expected to find that revisiting Flarf at this particular historical moment would feel like stepping out of the Tardis into the now distant days of “Shock and Awe,” where John Ashcroft makes jokes about Abu Ghraib over the sound of Howard Dean’s scream and ends up in a spider hole of denial. But many of the poems feel surprisingly timely, very much in touch with our own batshit zeitgeist. “I hate the high levels of jerk war around here,” Gardner writes in “Skylab Wolverine Bunny Cage Nub” (Twitter, anyone?). Benjamin Friedlander’s potent poem “When a Cop Sees a Black Woman” has a different charge in a post-Ferguson world:

Black hair is more fragile than most.

It requires TLC when a cop sees a black women he can’t think

everything through. She is the shiznit. She tempts and she taunts. She speaks in a bold

outspoken manner. But bypassing a metal detector, his forced and never-bending

monotone drone is not a factor in her arrest.

The same could be said of Gardner’s “How to Watch a Police Beating,” which follows its title with these scathing opening lines: “First off, there should be two sets of laws — / act like an ox and try not to be nonwhite…”

Other poems repurpose gender codes and tropes in ways that resonate powerfully in the #MeToo era. Consider Nada Gordon’s “I Love Men” (“I love men, but they wear me out with all their confusing issues. One day they / say they love you and the next they see someone with bigger ass. // I love men, muscles, sex, porn, and chocolate”). Or Katie Degentesh’s “I Was Horny,” which stitches together a series of found statements, substituting the word “boy” for “owl,” creating an affecting, creepy commentary on predatory masculinity and the culture that fosters it:

Boys are interesting creatures.

[…]

The boys tear their prey, swallow it whole, and spit up pellets. They prey on small things. Boys fly silently. They see well in the dark, hunt at night and sleep in the daytime. They scare others by fluffing up.

[…]

I hope boys never go extinct and I hope they never get endangered. I love boys.

In the decade and a half since Flarf emerged, strategies of appropriation of the sort these poets deploy have spread far and wide. It is worth noting that they have proven particularly useful as vehicles of political critique and dissent for a long list of poets of color not affiliated with the (largely white) Flarf coterie itself, who have seized on such tools to create works that take aim at racism, US foreign policy, police brutality, oppression, and misogyny, often more directly and powerfully than Flarf. In her award-winning collection Look, for example, Solmaz Sharif incorporates euphemistic phrases from a Department of Defense manual but scrutinizes, dismantles, and subverts them, redeploying this found material for both intimate personal reflection and for expressing coruscating outrage at contemporary racism, xenophobia, and anti-Muslim policies. I would recommend reading this anthology of Flarf alongside other contemporary poets like Sharif, Tracy K. Smith, Robin Coste Lewis, Philip Metres, Layli Long Soldier, Shane McCrae, and Tyehimba Jess to get a fuller sense of the ends to which such tactics have been put in recent poetry.

Faced with the daily calamity of the Bush years, Flarf testified that verbal play, and the creative détournement of our culture’s own language, could be a liberating act of resistance. Its antics were a valuable method of pushing back against what Wallace Stevens called, in another dark time, the almost unbearable “pressure of reality.” Perhaps right now we desperately need art forms that can seize on the language of our time, expose its absurdity, its deceit, and its sinister designs on us, and repurpose it for different ends. But in 2018, the online culture of misogyny, racism, stupidity, and hatred that Flarf exposed doesn’t need much further unearthing: it seems to be everywhere. As we gasp for air and sanity in the depths of Trumpworld, Flarf seems prescient but also somewhat redundant. To paraphrase Man Ray’s famous remark about why Dada could not survive in New York: Flarf cannot live in America. All America is Flarf, and will not tolerate a rival.

Andrew Epstein is the author, most recently, of Attention Equals Life: The Pursuit of the Everyday in Contemporary Poetry and Culture.

The post Funks of Ambivalence: On Flarf appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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topmixtrends · 6 years ago

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love is a Pakistani Mirage fighter jet frozen, strange like it had, you know, bubonic plague

Black hair is more fragile than most.

It requires TLC when a cop sees a black women he can’t think

everything through. She is the shiznit. She tempts and she taunts. She speaks in a bold

outspoken manner. But bypassing a metal detector, his forced and never-bending

monotone drone is not a factor in her arrest.

Boys are interesting creatures.

[…]

I hope boys never go extinct and I hope they never get endangered. I love boys.

Andrew Epstein is the author, most recently, of Attention Equals Life: The Pursuit of the Everyday in Contemporary Poetry and Culture.

The post Funks of Ambivalence: On Flarf appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

from Los Angeles Review of Books https://ift.tt/2LBSmbD

#Los Angeles Review of Books #topmixtrends

0 notes