#Ian’s Lone Wanderer

[psychojetcocktail]

I’ll post the other half tomorrow idk :P

[readyforthegarden]

Silver Springs - Part Four

Masterlist

Pairing: Sam Kiszka x Original Female Character

Synopsis: The year was 1976, the season was summer. The days were hot and the nights were hotter. Music was the best it had ever been, especially rock music. Sam Kiszka has been riding the high of being in one of the top bands on the scene, but when his bands tour is accompanied by another up-and-coming band, with a lead singer that gets on his very last nerve, will everything come crashing down or will they end up making music that changes the world?

Warnings: Smoking, drinking, drug use 18+ only, Minors DNI

A/N: The song used in this chapter is by the amazing, incomparable Janis Ian. It's called Stars, and I'm attaching a link to the song here so you can listen to it and hopefully if you don't know it, fall as in love with it as I am.

WC: 1819

🎶 🎶 🎶

A weekend off in Santa Fe, Sam was ready to take a few days and recharge. To step out of the rockstar persona and come back to himself, even if just for seventy-two hours. He tossed his bags on the floor of his room and immediately went to the sliding door, pulling it open and looking over the balcony, down at the pool below. In the dry desert heat, he assumed people would be splashing away in the cool blue water, but it was quite the opposite. The sound of hundreds of window air conditioning units hummed and buzzed through the air, keeping the patrons of the hotel cool and locked up in their rooms. Sam welcomed the heat, tilting his head towards the sun and basking in the sun’s rays.

Sam was content to spend the day down by the abandoned pool, his short blue swim trunks making his tanned legs look even longer as he laid in the lounge chair, large aviators covering his eyes. His brothers filtered in and out of the area, as well as a few of the Blue Jean Babies, splashing in the pool and lounging around, drinking and smoking as they caused a ruckus. 

After a few hours of soaking up the sunshine and having had enough of the noise, he went back inside, padding up to his hotel room and drawing the curtains closed. Laying back on the bed, he let his warm body melt into the lumpy mattress and thin pillow, falling asleep in the mid-afternoon haze. 

He wasn’t sure how long he was out, but when he woke, it was pitch black in the room, save for the glowing red numbers on the alarm clock on the bedside table. Sam sat up, wincing as his head throbbed in argument of the movement. Rolling his head slowly in a circle, he listened to it crack, and pop and heard something else floating in the air. A guitar was being  played, perking up his ears at the soft melody. He stood slowly, his knees popping as he did, and he let his body stretch, his arms above his head as he wandered to the sliding door, and pulled back the curtain.

Light filtered out onto the balcony next door, and now that Sam was closer to the door, the guitar was a bit louder now, and a voice accompanied it.

“I was never one for singing, what I really feel. Except tonight, I'm bringing, everything I know that's real,” Harlow was sat cross-legged, hunched over a beat up ’68 Fender Palomino, a tattered journal in front of her on the balcony floor. Wisps of smoke floated up in the air around her from a small black ashtray, a half smoked cigarette resting in the holder. Her voice was softer and slower than he’d heard it before, and slightly unsure, as she worked through the song, re-strumming the same chord a few times and singing the same word, trying to figure out the song she was writing. He leaned against his doorframe, peeking out and watching her process. 

“Stars, they come and go, they come fast or slow

They go like the last light of the sun, all in a blaze

And all you see is glory

Hey, but it gets lonely there when there's no one here to share

We can shake it away if you'll hear a story.”

Harlow let go of the guitar, leaning even more forward and grabbing up her pencil, scribbling in the journal. She was whispering to herself as she wrote, she paused, strumming a G chord, then a D6 before going back to scribbling.

“You know if you’re gonna watch, I’m gonna have to start charging you.” Harlow spoke without looking up. “A private performance costs a pretty penny these days.” Sam was caught off guard, he thought he had stayed in the darkness of his room, but found he was leaning out the doorway enough to make it obvious. 

“I’m sorry, I just-“

“It’s okay, Sam.” Harlow looked up with a soft smile. “I’d be glad for the company, if you don’t mind.” Sam stepped fully out onto the balcony of his room, over to the railing that only parted their rooms by a few centimeters. 

“What are you writing about?” Sam sniffed, uninterestedly, yet still peering over to the journal pages in front of her. Harlow glanced down at her scrawl on the paper, sighing.

“Just about life on the road, how fleeting all of this feels already.” Harlow shrugged, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. ���How lonely it can be.”

“It uh, it sounded nice.” Sam cleared his throat, giving a small nod of his head. He was about to speak further, add something to diminish the compliment, when his stomach growled loudly between them.

“I have half of a club sandwich from dinner still, if you want it.” Harlow offered, moving the guitar from his lap, standing and taking a plate from the small table next to the unused chair. She walked over to her railing, extending the plate towards Sam. He glanced from the triangle of sandwich to her a few times, making her roll her eyes. “I didn’t poison it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Thanks,” Sam took the sandwich off the plate, taking a large bite.

“No problem.” Harlow took the empty plate back, setting it on the table again before rejoining Sam at the railings. The night air was much cooler than the day, and a chill ran through Sam as the breeze softly blew through his and Harlow’s hair. “It’s crazy how cold the desert can get, huh?”

“You’re gonna talk about the weather?” Sam spoke around the food in his mouth, lifting a judging eyebrow. Harlow huffed annoyedly, crossing her arms over her chest.

“What else is there to talk about with a man who has done nothing but avoid me and refuse to acknowledge my presence until I force him to?” Harlow shot back coolly. Sam continued chewing as she shook her head. “Enjoy your sandwich, Sam.” he watched her clean up her balcony, tucking her journal under her arm and grabbing the guitar by the neck.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Sam called out as she stepped back into her room, feeling awkward without saying something. Harlow stopped, turning towards him with a knowing smirk.

“We’ll see.”

🎶 🎶 🎶

“I’ve had an idea,” Sam looked up from his own journal to see Josh standing in front of him and his brothers in the hotel restaurant, hands in the air in front of him as if setting a scene for a fairytale over their scrambled eggs and bacon.

“Always terrifying to hear from you, but go on.” Jake nodded, waving the back of his hand to usher his twin to continue as he sipped his mug of shitty coffee held in the other. Danny continued with his meal as Josh sat down, pilfering toast and bacon slices from their various plates onto the small tea plate that used to house Sam’s coffee.

“When we get back to Nashville, we have those studio bookings, to work on our next album, right?” Josh began, and everyone at the table nodded knowingly. They had planned the tour around the studio time, to be honest, taking a three week break back home to try and hammer out a few songs for the label. “I want to bring Harlow in and do a song with her.” Josh glanced excitedly around the table, being met with tired shrugs and one shake of the head.

“We don’t need anyone else on our songs, man.” Sam pushed around the eggs on his plate, suddenly losing his appetite. “It’s gonna fuck up the dynamic.”

“No, no, it’s going to add to it.” Josh insisted, biting into a piece of bacon and waving it around. “Listen, she’s got this voice that just flows with mine like honey. And when we sing together it’s almost orgasmic.” Danny coughed, choking on his orange juice as Josh explained his reasoning.

“You getting your rocks off to the sound of your own voice doesn’t warrant bringing an outsider to the studio.” Sam pressed, shooting a glare at his brother. 

“Sam, whatever bullshit you have against her doesn’t have anything to do with the rest of us.” Jake huffed, rolling his eyes. “I’ve heard her and Josh together, and I think something cool could come out of this.”

“And what if it doesn’t?”

“What if it doesn’t?” Jake scoffed, tossing his crumpled up napkin from his lap onto the table. “Then it doesn’t go on the album and we move on.”

“And we’ve wasted studio time and money on something we should have never done.” Sam shot back. “It’s a stupid idea.”

“Okay, so let’s put it to a vote.” Danny cut in-between the bickering Kiszka’s. “All in favor of working with Harlow, say Aye.” 

“Aye,” Jake, Josh, and Danny chorused together.

“All opposed, say Nay,”

“Nay, a very strong Nay.” Sam retorted, glaring at his brothers.

“The Ayes have it.” Danny shrugged, giving his best friend a barely sorry look. “You’re just going to have to deal with it.”

“This is fucking bullshit.” Sam groaned, snapping his journal shut and standing up abruptly. 

“Where are you going?” Josh asked, watching his youngest brother start to stomp away. 

“My room.”

“Don’t forget you have to be at the bus in half an hour!” Josh called out towards the taller mans back. “Or we’ll leave you here!”

Sam took the stairs up to his room, using the exercise to stomp out his aggravation. He mumbled under his breath, cursing his brothers names, Harlow’s, anyone one who he thought of that could’ve led to this disastrous choice. Sure the song Harlow was writing last night had been decent, but it wasn’t up to par with where Sam and his brothers were, musically or lyrically. She was only going to drag them down, and ruin everything they, and especially Sam, worked for. 

🎶 🎶 🎶

Harlow’s ‘we’ll see’ from the night on the balcony was definitely a no. Sam hardly caught a glimpse of the girl over the next week, though he heard her. It was the same with Josh, he was always sneaking off and ended up being found with her, sharing a joint and a drink over sheets of paper, both of their messy, near illegible scrawls all over it. 

Sam would walk down the hallways of the hotels they stayed in, hearing her laugh as Josh spoke, and he would tighten his fists at his side, knowing the late nights they spent together in each others rooms was only going to give in to a doomed collaboration and bad press.

What was worse, Jake had taken in Billy as a protégé of sorts, jamming with him in the green rooms and making up little songs with him on the spot. Even Danny joined in with the assimilation, hanging out with their drummer, Frankie, and sharing tips. Everyone was in love with Harlow and her Blue Jean Babies. Everyone but Sam.

🎶 🎶 🎶

Taglist: @joshsindigostreak @ascendingtostardust @sammysprincess @sammykiszkamyass @belovedsamuel @sunfl0wer-power @indigo-starcatcher @sammyscherub @earthlysorrows @lvnterninthenight @allieisacrybaby @losfacedevil @xserenax-13 @sarakay-gvf @shutupdevvie @myownparadise96 @watchingovergvff @gretavanfleetposts @sacredthefran @josiee-gvf @joshkiszkatoothgap @madneedshelp @gardensgatedaisy @demonrat444 @writingcold @dannyandthekiszkas @lightmylove-gvf @tearsofbri @paleshadow-ofadragon @happy-harpy-stuff @like-a-woman-in-a-dream @starshine-wagner @objectsinspvce @josh-iamyour-mama @mountain-in-springtime @cal-a-bungaa @capturethechaos @jankandjonch @gvfpal

@allybjt @hippievanfleet @weightofbrokenbells @joshkiszkasbadussy @malany-gvf @ruby0antlers @samofthedawn @sacredjake @aim4thedoublee @diditallforyouu @gvfmarge @highladyofasgard @sammysvanfeet@gold-mines-melting @earthgrlsreasy @mountain-in-springtime @forcebond301 @stardust-and-shadows @llightmyllovee @gretavangroupie @comesofarsomehow @starcatcherkiszka @indigofallingsky @hellowgoodbye

[simplegenius042]

Fallout Casting for Yuji "Bitchface" Itadori-wori for Jujustsu Kaisen Abridged react fic

"I'm the stupid but charming protagonist!" - Yuji Itadori, Episode 3 JJK Abridged (by The Schmuck Squad).

Reasons To Why I Believe These Characters Should Be Cast As The Variant of JJK Abridge's Yuji Itadori are listed below:

Elrand Brandt (Fallout Vault Dweller OC, faceclaim Jason Statham) -> Main protagonist privilege, and despite being in his early 20s, will cuss you out unprompted.

Finidy Mona (Fallout 2 Chosen One OC, faceclaim Jessica Alba) -> Main protagonist privilege, and extremely gullible yet a badass.

Alph Dolen (Fallout 3 Lone Wanderer OC, faceclaim Sam Blanckensee. Has transformed into a Ghoul) -> Main protagonist privilege, companions move on from him, despite being smart he has youthful gullibility.

Ryder (Fallout New Vegas Courier Six OC, faceclaim Halle Berry. Has gained cybernetic implants from the Think Tank on Big MT) -> Main protagonist privilege, most definitely not that nice underneath the surface.

Nate Gust Sarid (Fallout 4 Sole Survivor OC, faceclaim Steven He. He is a synthetic human) -> Main protagonist privilege, a bit dense but has some charm.

Vega (Fallout 76 Resident OC, faceclaim Yvonne Strahovski. Has transformed into a Super Mutant) -> Main protagonist privilege, wildly unpredictable and not as smart as she makes herself out to be.

Ian (from Fallout, Elrand's first and closest companion, helped fake his death after fighting their way out of the Lieutenant's attempted interception when the Master decided to blow up the base) -> Closest human companion to the Vault Dweller, seems reasonable enough, his artificial stupidity will be taken as canon and is now prone to accidental friendly fire.

Miria (from Fallout 2, Finidy's wife after both were caught in the act by Miria's father, Grisham, causing a shotgun wedding, and throughout their journey together they become closer and Miria becomes a rather cool fighter, unlike in canon but the mods are impressive) -> Dense and horny but with standards.

Butch DeLoria (from Fallout 3, leader of the Tunnel Snakes and Alph's former childhood bully until he saved Butch's mother's life from Radroaches, and after a turn of events that lead to Alph taking Amata with him out of Vault 101, Butch managed to help gather up a rebellion against Overseer Almodovar and was the one who escaped the vault to find Alph and Amata to get them to return and help. After resolving the issue, the two take Butch with them on their travels, becoming the official founding members of the newest Tunnel Snakes) -> He's got the confidence, the humor, and some small form of gullibility. He checks some boxes.

Arcade Israel Gannon (from Fallout New Vegas, researcher of the Followers of the Apocalypse, a remnant of the Enclave, and a reliable companion whom Ryder respects and appreciates, especially for his finesse in energy weapons) -> Out of all the companions to react to variants of themselves in an abridged series, I think his would be the funniest.

Danse (from Fallout 4, a loyal Paladin in Maxson's chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel, helps Nate get onboard the Prydwen and meet Maxson, a capable ally who warms up to Nate, despite his xenophobic beliefs, has a crisis after finding out his entire life has been a lie when discovering he was a synth the whole time and the group who gave him purpose have turned their back on him. Nate though doesn't give up on him and gets him out of the BoS without being killed, and gives him a place amongst the Minutemen, which Danse was greatly appreciative and grateful for. It's a long journey, but he is letting go of the hatred he had towards others and himself) -> Danse gets the short end of the stick a lot, and I think writing his reaction towards his Yuji!variant would be pretty mind baffling (for him). Not to mention, although dense, he is brave.

Remember, if you chose the last option, reblog and put in the tags an alternative Fallout character, and WHY you think they'd be better.

You can also find my Fallout OCs' profiles Master List right here, which also includes a link to the original post where I pitched my react fic idea. Anyway, hope you enjoy, chow!

[unholycourier]

ok ok so . in my canon lore for elvis his companions don’t die one by one through the events of fallout 1.

tycho and katja die later on through different circumstances, wether old age or something else in the wasteland.

ian and dogmeat are a different situation though. ian died during the events of the game right in front of elvis, similar to how he died in canon ( being fucking flamed to death in necropolis ) but under different circumstances i’ve yet to decide.

dogmeat lived the longest, but he did die to a the few wandering super mutant patrols after the events of the game as well. being a senior dog at this point, dogmeat was not meant to be involved in the fight, but in the end dogmeat probably tried to save elvis from an attack, attacked the super mutant himself, and that sealed his fate.

elvis misses that dog, and he wears his collar around his wrist like a bracelet. he misses all of his friends a lot. he’s kinda lonely in the present, doesn’t really make friends bc he’ll just watch them die over and over again.

[yourtrustyvault13canteen]

All the xmas movies you could ever need! In order of when they (first) got together:

2161 Ian/Natalia

2241 Irina (Chosen One)/Miria

2271 Christine/Veronica

2276 Mila (OC: Boone's sister)/Nancy (OC)

2281 Boone/Ruth (Courier)

2281 Arcade/Manny

2283 Betsy/Marina (Lone Wanderer)

The stories are funny. Politeness progression of "scavenger" > "prospector" > "antiques curator", I guess. And for "the big city", read "a vault". Natalia suddenly being a neuroscientist is a little worrying given her terrible Doctor skill.

The funniest one is still An October December Mystery and its new One For My Baby quest description :) Boone and the Courier look a lot better than they did last year, too!

You might have guessed that the eponymous canine in A Puppy For Christmas is Dogmeat :D And Natalia is wearing Ian's jacket <3

The dollmakers are on dolldivine :) They're really fun, but I don't like how obviously the gay ones are just the straight one spliced together. The women are looking up at a non-existent man, the men are looking down at a non-existent woman. I covered it pretty well in both cases, but the number of f/f couples here makes their faces a bit too similar, which I don't like, and also makes them all be going in for a kiss, which I guess I do :)

Las Vegas being one of the half dozen location options is very convenient for FNV fans!

[renee-writer]

Tiny Beautiful Things Chapter 12

@omgbarbiegurl is the plot designer behind this chapter 💗

AO3

“Perfect.” She grins, her hands resting on her growing bump. “Simply perfect.”

 

“What are you about, Jenny?” Ian comes up behind her, resting his head on his wife’s , laying his hands over hers and their son.

 

She grins, nodding towards the fountain and the couple there. “I am going to use the fountain to get them together.”

 

He laughs. “Always stirring the pot, eh?” He doesn’t disagree. It is past time Jamie start living his life again.

 

A few days later, Claire makes her way out to the beautifully flowing fountain. She is meeting Jenny for a celebratory tea there. Her employer had been so impressed by her and Jamie getting the stubborn thing fixed, that she had insisted.

 

She smiles at the memory. The past is behind her as she makes a new life here. She is doing good work, the renewed fountain is a symbol of that.

 

Jamie approaches from the opposite side. He is glad for his sister’s invitation. He is happy it is for tea and the sun is starting to set. Even with his new comfort with Claire, he still prefers the twilight and dark. The less people see if him, the better.

 

They end up walking up at the same time.

 

“What are you …?”

 

“I thought…”

 

Matching smiles as they gesture for the other to go on.

 

“Sorry, Jenny invited me for a celebratory tea by the restored fountain.” Claire finishes.

 

“The wee bossum invited me for the same.”

 

They look to the table, set for two.

 

“I believe we have been set up.”

 

“Aye.” He debates being storming back into the house and giving his sister, what for, or pulling Claire’s chair out and sitting down to tea with her. His long ingrained manners win out. “Would you join me for tea, my lady?”

 

“It would be my pleasure.” He pulls the garden chair out and she takes a seat. He sits across from her. “She is slick, your sister.”

 

He laughs as he pours tea and passes the platters to her. “Aye, you have no idea.” He tells her stories about their childhood as they eat.

 

“How marvelous to grow up with a sister. Being an only can be quite lonely. Not,” she is quick to add,” that Uncle Lamb wasn’t the best. He did all he could to keep me entertained.” She starts her on stories, about growing up with a wanderer.

 

“He was never content to stay in one place long. I asked him once what home was to him, as we never had one. He told me,” her eyes get misty in the moonlight, “that home was me. I was his home. He didn’t need a place as long as I was by his side.”

 

He places his hand over hers. Their eyes meet and this time, he doesn’t drop his glance. Her breath catches. She licks her lips and he does the same.

 

“Claire, I would very much like to kiss you now. May I?” He shocks himself with the words. Did he really just say that?

 

“Yes, you may.” She doesn’t hesitate, wanting this since the first day she had really seen him, the day of the fountain.

 

He lifts himself up and walks over to her, talking her by the hand, and lifting her up. Keeping her eyes, he frames her face with his hands. Re-wetting his lips, he slowly lowers them. She meets him halfway.

 

It is a shock, the feel of their lips meeting. They both draw their breaths in. She didn’t know what to expect but this… fire running through her veins, was beyond anything she imagined. He is equally entranced.

 

Burning heat, tingling skin, raised pulses, racing breaths. Hands moving over clothing as lips and tongues dual within their mouths. Her hands rake through his hair as his find purchase on her wonderfully round bum.

 

His lips trail down her neck, kissing and licking, driving her mad. His name escapes her mouth, breathlessly said. He has never felt more turned on.

 

She feels him hard as a stone, against her. A moan and a pressing closer. Her fingernails rack over his shoulders, seeking an anchor for the feelings. He sucks on her collar bone, having moved her shirt out of the way.

 

She starts to rock against him. His hands cup her buttocks, lifting her up against him. Her hands move down, needing to feel skin.

 

Everything stills as her hands work under his shirt, encountering the worst of his scars. He moves away, his eyes lust blown, are now also full of shame and regret. How can he have been so hopeful? There is no way she could ever really love a monster like him. He turns and hurries off. She is left standing, confused and wanting.

[mutifandomlover]

30 DAYS WRITING CHALLENGE.

Day 20:Write a new piece of lore for your WIP.

From:@creativepromptsforwriting.

Basic information on the main characters of MMSF4.

[Geo Stelar and Omega-Xis]

Geo Stelar is the leader of the Maverick Hunters. He's fought many dangerous foes with his compatible wizard, Omega-Xis. When the two of them do their EM Wave Change, they turn into Mega Man or the newly named Mega Man X. Geo returned to fighting off evil with Omega-Xis when Dr. Weil and his minions appeared with their end goal being to conquer the world. In addition to his usual equipment, Geo now has a noise wristlet on his right arm where his buster usually is. This new device allows him to collect the radio waves of an enemy after defeating them, and the energy takes on the form of a small gemstone. He can use one of the gemstones in battle if necessary by placing it in the center of his Mega Buster and activating it. He now has a robot dog companion by the name of Comet that his father built for him to assist him on missions. Omega-Xis is very protective of Geo and won't let any serious harm happen to him. He also talks with Leo Kingdom, Pegasus Magic, and Dragon Sky every now and then when he's not fighting.

[Kazuma Hikari and Axl.EXE]

Kazuma Hikari is the grandson of Lan Hikari, a net battle champion and one of the heroes that saved the world on multiple occasions over two hundred years ago. Kazuma is very much like his father and grandfather. He likes to sleep in, he tends to be lazy, and he has a never-ending appetite. He also likes to use roller blades when traveling around the city. He is also an expert hacker and an excellent programmer. He makes battle chips for his Net Navi Axl.EXE. Axl.EXE has some similar characteristics to MegaMan.EXE. Like MegaMan.EXE, he's polite and well-behaved. He's also very loyal to his friends, just like how MegaMan was and is also putting their safety before his. His primary weapons are called Axl Bullets. Two pistols that are capable of rapid fire shots. He can also retract the ends of his pistols and turn them into two small saber daggers called Axl Blades. He can aim his pistols in any angle, and he can throw his daggers and retrieve them after they land a hit on an enemy. Axl's main appearance does very closely resemble his operator with them both having dark brown hair and yellow eyes.

[Ezekiel Chuad and Infinite]

Ezekiel Chuad is the grandson of Eugene Chuad, an official Netbattler who helped MegaMan deal with World Three or WWW. He's very serious and does a task with great determination similar to his grandfather. He's always the one that thinks before jumping into battle and usually has to save Kazuma and Axl from getting hurt. Ezekiel doesn't have any siblings, and he grew up with one parent. He was lonely during his younger years because his mother was always working, and most of the time, she wasn't at home. That changed when Ezekiel met Infinite, an AM-ian that had been wandering space for a new place to stay. Ezekiel asked his mom if Infinite could live with them, and she was okay with it as long as Infinite behaved and kept her boy safe. Ezekiel sees Infinite as a big brother figure since he's always looking out for him. Ezekiel's mom felt bad for always having to leave the house for work because she didn't get much time to spend with her son, so she had a robot cat commissioned for her son named Tempo. When Ezekiel and Infinite do their EM Wave Change, they turn into Zero. Their signature weapon is the Z saber, though they'll resort to using their buster of close combat isn't an option. When he isn't fighting enemies, Ezekiel likes to relax underneath a tree.

[Shade]

Shade is a Net Navi without an operator. His origin is unknown due to him having amnesia when he woke up. He started out in Dr. Weil's base was helping him create his minions, but he got scared of being deleted by Dr. Weil when he was done using him, so he ran away. He met an older Navi who simply goes by Net. Shade doesn't know much about him other than that he also used to work for Dr. Weil and ran away for a similar reason. Shade became Net's apprentice and trained under his wing. Net became a father figure to Shade, and he looked up to him. Some of Shade's data was separated from his body and formed into a compatible wizard named Nebula. Nebula, unfortunately, doesn't remember anything and is just as clueless as Shade about their true origin. When Shade and Nebula do their EM Wave Change, they turn into Nova. Nova has several weapons at their disposal. They have a buster, sword, and a cross bow that they can use to attack enemies. He also has a shied that he can use to defend himself and others with. Due to his seemly endless curiosity, Shade has somewhat a child-like nature to him. He's always asking questions about things in the world and wants to experience as much as possible. Shade also met Rush, a program that was with Net, and they've become good friends with each other. Shade sees Geo, Kazuma, and Ezekiel as big brothers and hangs out with them a lot. And while Shade doesn't remember much, there is one memory that replays in his mind. A vague memory of a buster being aimed at him and shooting him straight through the chest.

[michellemisfit]

Would you give another season to Shameless or Merlin? Why? Why not the other?

Ooooh… The question is who’s writing it? Am I? Is the show running team who did the last season? Can I pick the writing staff? Does it have to be another season at the end of what there currently is? Or can I insert an extra season anywhere?

Basically, how much of a God am I in this scenario? That’s the real question!

Because the Shameless show running team went whack towards the end of the show, so I’m not sure I’d trust them to do much better with an extra season. The show had eleven fucking seasons! That should be enough for anyone to tell a decent story! LOL And I’m not mad about how the show ended. But I would love to give better endings to especially Debbie and Lip. I’d also love to see Carl and Liam and where they are in 5 years time. I’d like someone to do a temperature check on Fiona. I want Mandy to come back. I want Sandy to come back and date the fuck out of Debbie. And hey, Ian and Mickey are a bit of a’ight. Wouldn’t mind some more of them on my TV screen.

Merlin on the other hand started steering that boat towards the iceberg the second they came back with Season 4, and while I love every goddamn minute of that show, there’s a lot of pretty bad minutes. And so much wasted potential. And so much wasted talent!!! And hey, if you let me insert a season in the middle and re-write history, then we can talk. But adding to the way the show actually ended? There’s really only two ways a Season 6 can go. One: Show me Gwen bringing about the Golden Age of Albion while Merlin wanders the earth, lonely as a cloud. Two: The future part of Once and Future. Option 1 would be boring/depressing AF. Option 2 would… take away the magic of having a thousand different people imaging a thousand different ways that the story could go. And whichever way they chose… it wouldn’t be good enough. Because then that would be the definitive way. Currently it’s Schrödinger's Season 6, and there’s all kinds of potential in that. Once you open a box… it’s just a dead cat. Why do you think we’re the Once and Future Fandom? Fascination and Frustration, baby!

So I guess I’d have to say Shameless, because while another season may not solve all problems… Eh! How much harm could it possibly do?

[rattlinbog]

Books Read in 2022

January

The Red-Haired Girl from the Bog: The Landscape of Celtic Myth and Spirit by Patricia Monaghan 

The Unpassing by Chia-Chia Lin

North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell

The Hakawati by Rabih Alameddine 

February

The Final Girl Support Group by Grady Hendrix

The Beauty and the Terror: The Italian Renaissance and the Rise of the West by Catherine Fletcher

The Desolations of Devil’s Acre (Miss Peregrine’s Peculiar Children #6) by Ransom Riggs 

Eifelhelm by Michael Flynn 

The Time Traveler’s Guide to Elizabethan England by Ian Mortimer 

March

The Wives of Henry VIII by Antonia Fraser

The Salt Path by Raynor Winn

The Watchmaker of Filigree Street by Natasha Pulley (reread)

The Lost Future of Pepperharrow by Natasha Pulley

April

The Parted Earth by Anjani Enjeti 

Homeland Elegies by Ayad Akhtar 

Once There Were Wolves by Charlotte McConaghy 

The Last Blue by Isla Morley 

Lone Stars by Justin Deabler 

All the Young Men: A Memoir of Love, AIDS, and Chosen Family in the American South by Ruth Coker Burns

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou

May

The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett

If Beale Street Could Talk by James Baldwin

Klara and the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro 

Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel (reread)

As Long as Grass Grows: The Indigenous Fight for Environmental Justice, from Colonization to Standing Rock by Dina Gilio-Whitaker 

LaRose by Louise Erdrich

A History of Native American Land Rights in Upstate New York by Cindy Amrhein 

June

Four Treasures of the Sky by Jenny Tinghui Zhang

Member of the Family: My Story of Charles Manson, Life Inside His Cult, and the Darkness That Ended the Sixties by Dianne Lake and Deborah Herman

These Silent Woods by Kimi Cunningham Grant

Darkwater: Voices from Within the Veil by W.E.B. Dubois 

Take My Hand by Dolen Perkins-Valdez 

A Marvelous Light by Freya Marske 

Catch and Kill: Lies, Spies, and a Conspiracy to Protect Predators by Ronan Farrow

July

No Exit by Taylor Adams

The Wanderers by Meg Howrey 

A Tall History of Sugar by Curdella Forbes

Peach Blossom Spring by Melissa Fu

Calypso by David Sedaris

My Antonia by Willa Cather 

The First English Actresses: Women and Drama 1660-1700 by Elizabeth Howe

English Animals by Laura Kaye

Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston

August

An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

The Sea Around Us by Rachel Carson

Exhalation: Stories by Ted Chiang 

The Ice Cream Queen of Orchard Street by Susan Jane Gilman (reread)

The Latecomers by Helen Klein Ross 

Unlikely Animals by Annie Hartnett

The Book of Longings by Sue Monk Kidd

September

The Island of Missing Trees by Elif Shafak 

The Invention of Wings by Sue Monk Kidd

Country Roots: The Origins of Country Music by Douglas B. Green

Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead by Olga Tokarczuk

Golden Gates: The Housing Crisis and a Reckoning for the American Dream by Conor Dougherty

Sexing the Cherry by Jeanette Winterson (reread)

J.M. Barrie and the Lost Boys: The Real Story Behind Peter Pan by Andrew Birkin

The Lost Ones by Anita Frank

October

A History of Wild Places by Shea Ernshaw

When No One is Watching by Alyssa Cole

The Corn Maiden and Other Nightmares by Joyce Carol Oates

The Reddening by Adam Nevill

My Heart is a Chainsaw by Stephen Graham Jones

November

It Happened in the Smokies... A Mountaineer’s Memories of Happenings in the Smoky Mountains in Pre-Park Days by Gladys Trentham Russell

Pastoral Song: A Farmer’s Journey by James Rebanks 

Jesus Land by Julia Scheeres 

I Was Told There’d be Cake: Essays by Sloane Crosley

The Postmistress by Sarah Blake

The Thousand Crimes of Ming Tsu by Tom Lin

December

Floating Coast: An Environmental History of the Bering Strait by Bathsheba Demuth

Disappearing Earth by Julia Phillips

Four Lost Cities: A Secret History of the Urban Age by Annalee Newitz

The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories by Angela Carter (reread)

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte (reread)

Mrs. Death Misses Death by Salena Godden

Moon of the Crusted Snow by Waubgeshig Rice

[psychojetcocktail]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LONE WANDERER BTW‼️

[burnwater13]

Grogu wondered how different turns of phrase came into a language. Any language, not just Gal Basic. Things like ‘skank in a scud pie’ and ‘searching for you for many parsecs’ and ‘every once in a while, both suns shine on a womp-rat’s tail’. Why didn’t people just say what they meant?

No one knows what a skank is, what it looks like and if it tastes good or not. Why would you care if one got in your pie if you don’t even know what it is? And for that matter, what was a scud? Grogu had no idea and he’d looked it up. He asked Peli and Cara Dune, but they had no idea either. Was it an animal, a fruit, a vegetable (stars forbid), or just the name of a type of pie? No one knew! Uff.

Grogu also found the ‘many parsecs’ thing odd and annoying. A parsec was a measure of distance. A large distance. A huge, crazy big distance. If you did it on foot you’d never get there. Even Master Yoda would not have been able to walk that long. It was something like 31 trillion klicks. That’s right, trillion with a ’t’.  Or about three light years. Yes, the distance a particle of light traverses over three standard years. 

Now, on the other hand, considering that they had started their search for another Mando while they were on Nevarro and now they were on Tatooine, and Din Djarin was saying this to the marshal of Mos Pelgo, they had actually traveled about 150,000 parsecs. By any form of measurement that was more than ‘many’. That was a lot. An immense distance. 

And sure, when you had a decent hyperdrive it didn’t take a long time. It probably felt like no time really. But the point was people mostly measure the time it took to find a thing, not the distance they traveled. No one said, ‘Mercy, the light years I traveled to get to your party!’ At least, Grogu had never heard anyone make that exclamation. They said things like ‘you're late’ or ‘you're early’, or if you were Grogu’s friend Ian, ‘where’s my present?’, but you get what he means. It’s just a strange phrase. 

Then there’s that whole two suns thing. How many planets had two suns and womp-rats? He knew that womp-rats lived on Tatooine, but did they live anywhere else? Grogu hadn’t heard of them being anywhere else. So why mention them? Did every planet have its own phrases and slang and stuff like that? Why? It wasn’t really short hand if the people you were talking to didn’t come from where you came from. You’d have to stop and explain and people might laugh a bit uncomfortably and then move on. 

But really, why not just say what you mean? For example: instead of ‘skank in a scud pie’ try ‘that’s a problem’, or for ‘sometimes both suns shine on a womp-rat’s tail’ try ‘I got lucky’ or ‘you got lucky’ and finally, for ‘I’ve been searching for you for many parsecs’ try, ‘since this kid showed up I’ve been trying to get rid of him, boy am I glad I found you’. 

Wait. No. That’s not right. The Mandalorian needed Grogu in his life. Who would have healed him from the mudhorn? Who would have kept the kids calm on Sorgan? Who would have turned the fire back on those awful stormtroopers? Who would have given that Mandalorian curmudgeon hugs when he was feeling lonely and out of sorts, which happened all the time!? 

So maybe that one was really along the lines of ‘I’ve been wandering around this great big galaxy and I’m glad to meet one of my own kind because I need some help’? 

That sounded better to Grogu, but maybe it still didn’t accurately reflect that most people measured the distance between hello and goodbye using time, not distance. So maybe the Mandalorian was really saying, ‘It’s been a while since I’ve made a friend’? 

Nope. Sorry. It’s not that either. As far as Grogu could tell Din Djarin made friends everywhere he went. He was helpful, generous, and now had an adorable green pal to take on all of his adventures. So meeting the marshal in Mos Pelgo wasn’t about needing a friend. He had plenty of those. What sort of things did a Mandalorian need that only another Mandalorian would understand? Grogu thought for a while and then it came to him!

“Is there a decent privy around here?”

Yup. That’s what the Mandalorian must have been talking about. Someplace private where he could take his helmet off and shave and do stuff like that. Sure he could go back to the ship, but he knew that Grogu could easily undo the lock there. The Jedi had never needed that much privacy. After all they had coined the phrase ‘haste makes waste’. It’s meaning was pretty clear, right?

[aboutanancientenquiry]

Travels with Herodotus

“ The Observer  Ryszard Kapuściński

Review

Lessons of the Histories

In Travels with Herodotus, the late, great Polish writer Ryszard Kapuscinski weaves epic stories into his own reportage to stunning effect, says Stephen Smith

Stephen Smith

Sun 17 Jun 2007 00.41 BST

Travels with Herodotus by Ryszard Kapuscinski Allen Lane £20, pp275

With Agatha Christie, you know you're off and running when the first stiff turns up in the library, harbinger of a terrible body count. In the case of Ian McEwan, it's a hint of transgressive how's-your-father. Aficionados of Ryszard Kapuscinski, the late grandmaster of reportage, know to hug themselves in anticipation when the following conditions obtain: our man is the last European left in a sweltering hellhole, a wretched government is on its last legs and about to give way to packs of marauding goons and all contact with the outside world has been lost. This was the scene of the Polish writer and journalist's gripping Another Day of Life (1975). He was the only foreign correspondent in the Angolan capital, Luanda, as the Portuguese colonialists fled and rival militias closed in on the abandoned city. In his suffocating hotel, Kapuscinski sweats and frets, a Kafka of the tropics. If the book had been any more tightly wound, it would have turned back into wood pulp in your trembling fingers.

Open Kapuscinski's Imperium (1994), an account of his travels through the collapsing Soviet Union, and you may well be met with a passage like this one, describing the airport at Yerevan in Armenia as 'hundreds, thousands of people' awake to another day of waiting in vain for a seat on a plane, any plane. 'How long have they been sleeping here? Well, some not so long; this is only their first night. And those over there, the crumpled up, unshaven, unkempt ones? Those - a week. And those others one cannot even get closer to because they stink so terribly? Those - a month.'

Travels with Herodotus, which has been published in English following Kapuscinski's death earlier this year, will not disappoint his admirers. We are with the indefatigable reporter in Congo in 1960. 'There is no functioning radio station, no government. I am trying to get out of here - but how? The closest airport is closed. The roads (now in the rainy season) are swamped, the ship that once plied the River Congo has long ceased to do so.' Bliss! You know that by the time you finish Travels with Herodotus, you'll be shaking your own gnawed fingernails from its pages. Once again we have before us the strangely cheering image of the lonely news agency man from eastern Europe endlessly chastising himself for the gaps in his knowledge rather than giving himself credit for what he has learnt the hard way. As before, the roving reporter is bowed down beneath his own bodyweight in books, including the Histories of Herodotus, the ancient Greek who opened the young Kapuscinski's eyes to the world. The great traveller of antiquity, he says, was 'someone who always had many questions and was ready to wander thousands of kilometres to find an answer to any one of them'. Kapuscinski could be writing about himself, of course.

A much-travelled journeyman who came to book-writing in mid-career, Kapuscinski also invites comparison with fellow Pole Joseph Conrad and mention of the author of The Secret Agent leads us to the ticklish issue of Kapuscinski the spy. He was named as a former communist operative after his death. He had allegedly collaborated with the party in Poland in return for the rare licence he enjoyed to travel to the outside world - 'to cross the border', as he puts it. To which one can only say that if it is true, a 'deal' of this kind is what one would expect the authorities to have insisted on. What matters is how Kapuscinski observed his side of the bargain, and that was to publish The Emperor (1978). Ostensibly an account of Haile Selassie's court in Ethiopia and its hysterical feudalism, it was read in his native Poland as a mordant if samizdat commentary on matters closer to home.

Frankly, anyone who was paying attention will know the reporter's dispatches were the flimsiest cover for his 'product', as the spymasters call it. What was encrypted in them was Kapuscinski's humanity. Somehow, he crosses Ethiopia with a local driver who knows only two English expressions: 'Problem' and 'No problem'. How do the pair communicate? Kapuscinski relies on the 'tradecraft' of his own extraordinary empathy. 'Everything speaks; the expression of the face and eyes, the gestures of the hand and movements of the body ... dozens of other transmitters, amplifiers and mufflers which together make up an individual being.'

It may seem perverse to recommend Travels with Herodotus for the beach. But if you haven't encountered Kapuscinski before, you'll be pleasantly surprised by how much satisfaction, as well as salience, there is to be found in this perfect discomfort read.

· Stephen Smith is the culture correspondent of BBC Newsnight

Three to read

Reportage

Imperium by Ryszard Kapuscinski

The journalist's personal portrait of the life and death of the USSR, 1939 to 1991.

Dispatches by Michael Herr

Frontline reports from the madness and mayhem of the Vietnam War.

All the Wrong Places by James Fenton

Powerful examination of South East Asian politics, from the fall of Saigon to the Philippines under Marcos.”

Source: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2007/jun/17/travel.travelbooks

[theweirdspacejellyfish]

Free books on kindle unlimited

A walrus and gentleman by emmaline strange

summary: ragnar ambrose is a simple guy with simple tastes. he enjoys the predictable solitude of his life as a lighthouse keeper, and though hes been unlucky in love, hes content with his quiet routine of collecting oceanographic data, knitting, tending the lighthouse, and of course maintaining his reputation as the towns local crypitd. hes a gruff walrus shifter, who prefers being alone to being the butt of a thousand family jokes. he likes his lonely life. its peaceful. he understands it and above all, its quiet. enter kellan west, an exuberant artist determined to use his prestigious summer painting fellowship at ragnar's lighthouse as a fresh start. a survivor with a heavy past, kel has only one rule: dont get attached. hes only here for the summer, so why indulge his crush on the scowling lighthouse keeper? anyway, he has art to produce, and local mysteries to unravel. when the mysterious creature, he simply has to learn more. what he learns proves to kel he'd been right along; trust is a mistake, and everyone has a secret

Mighty quill by emmaline strange

summary: cassian rhodes is just a normal guy going through normal stuff: weird roommate? check. panic over grade? check. sexuality crisis? uh... falling for your roommate? hold on... finding out your new BFs family is magic wait, wtf???

Dress the neck by emmaline strange

summary: fresh off a case that exposed him to the supernatural world of shapeshifters, detective royce davis just wants his life to go back to normal. unfortunately, between his commanding officer breathing down his neck, and his boyfriend dumping him, normal suddenly isnt all that appealing. so whats a straight- laced detective to do? engage in an ill advised one night stand with a vampire, naturally. when bodies start to drop and people go missing, can royce find a way to trust his blood sucking new beau?

The Tera’s trials by Lucien burr

summary: teras ravage england. only london is safe. in an england where monsters have spilled into the world out of myth, only london is magically protected from the monstrous threat. the university runs the city, allowing family of graduate hunters, healers, scholars, and artificers to live behind the wards. Cassius jones is nineteen and ready for the university. but when a bad year for the teras threat is projected, the university opens its admissions to anyone in england, behind the wards or otherwise, and suddenly the jones' place in london is no longer secure. cassius must contend with every other student vying for a palce, and the darkest secrets of his society, whilst also balancing a tenuous interest in another boy

Mercy by Ian haramaki

summary: a priest and his angel... father ilya pavlvich sokolov is a lonely priest and pariah of his small town. tasked with killing an injured monster in the woods, ilya is certain of his death. instead, he heals the monsters injury and lifts its curse, revealing a handsome, memory-less man. Cocksure danya is a man lost in an unfamiliar world. he struggles to recall his past life, flashes returning as he and ilya grow closer. soon, his appearnace begins to change once more, but not into a beast- instead, danya grows into something just like the sun that ilya has worshiped all his life. with complicated past between them, the two must work together to deal with the corruption of ilya's own church, as well as their blooming feelings for one another

Roman by grae Bryan

summary: danny kingman is used to fending for himself. working nonstop as an ER nurse to pay for his mother's care, hes been putting his own life on hold since he can remember. but when an unbelievably hot, strangely intense man saves him from a mugging, danny has a feeling everything is about to change. especially when that man suddenly pops out a pair of fangs.

roman mourier has been wandering aimlessly for decades, waiting for the inevitable day when the last of his humanity leaves him, and the demon inside him takes permanent control. he doesnt believe in fated mates, or the myth that theres a soul out there that could tether his humanity to him. until he feels a strange pull to the lovely young man at the hospital, and hope stirs in him for the first time. but roman has demons other than just the one inside him. is he strong enough to keep danny safe form the past that haunts him? he knows one thing for sure: now that hes found his mate, he will do anything to keep him.

the gifted complex by L.D valencia

summary: college is hard enough without adding superpowers. gabriel green just wants to go to college and figure out what he wants to do with his life. he is just a regular kid, well one with superpowers that is. he enrolls in the gifted program to learn how to use his gifts to help the world. he never dreamed he would get caught up in secret agents and supervillains. when gabriels friends go missing, it will be up to him to find them. can he overcome what seems like impossible odds?

[chattering-magpie-uk]

Special Collections 2024 – Part 7

https://www.tumblr.com/chattering-magpie-uk/741573968415375360/ian-lavender-iii https://www.tumblr.com/chattering-magpie-uk/743792858556923904/i-wandered-lonely-as-a-cloud-the-daffodils https://www.tumblr.com/chattering-magpie-uk/745398025839591424/barbie-iv https://www.tumblr.com/chattering-magpie-uk/746232686577893376/the-three-virtues-of-brotherly-love-relief-and https://www.tumblr.com/cha…

[unholycourier]

reposting from my twitter and rambles to my bf bc I’m cooking up my own vault dweller lore rather than fallout 1 and 2’a canonical vault dweller lore bc personally i don’t like it when games force my character into extremely specific lore without gaps for me to fill in:

i think elvis’ friends that join him in the wasteland after he’s exiled are the three pre made characters ( albert, max and natalia ) the game gives you the option to play as. elvis helps them survive in the wasteland and all four of them build the community of arroyo. idk who becomes the elder of arroyo but it isn’t elvis— it’s either max or albert, or hell, even natalia! but elvis does not take up that position but he does assume a godfather role OR a fatherly role ( in the case that the elder does die and leaves pat every single elder responsibility, thus she’d need a babysitter to look after her kid ). regardless of either choice, elvis never really finds anyone. he’s a gay man though closeted early on in his non-ghoulified life, and never fathers any children in the first place. he’s just sort of a lone wolf ig?? but despite that lone wolf, somewhat distant status, he is still a part of the arroyo community until one day he just leaves out of nowhere in the middle of the night. the reason for that is bc he started to ghoulify, and he was like, uh oh. and had no idea how arroyo would react. so, he left, ghoulified somewhere in his mid 30s/early 40s. and now present day he wanders the wasteland.

and that’s about it, but!! additionally!! i think albert is the one who ends up becoming the elder of arroyo. albert married and had his daughter, and elvis was his best friend and elvis had a crush on him. but he never did anything about it bc he was a closeted gay man back then. anyway, eventually albert isn’t around anymore and he babysits pat for albert’s wife as she takes up every single responsibility of elder. and, as mentioned, then years later he leaves because he starts to turn into a ghoul and he has no idea how the village of arroyo will think of that. so he leaves, and he doesn’t wanna be found, nor does he want to return no matter how sad it is. he starts going more by iguana as an alias, an old nickname ian and other people started calling him bc he never introduced himself properly. I’m not sure where he goes but he doesn’t go to necropolis, nor any major town or village, he just sort of keeps and lives to and by himself. after all, back then people were less kind to ghouls. and he did not want to risk being shot on sight or make ppl think he’s spreading some disease.

anyway, eventually enough time passes where everyone who knew him was long gone, and california had shifted just so enough where he was not worried about being murdered right on the spot.

hundred years or so later he’s still traveling around, minding his business, mingling with people and still the same whiny mf he was back in 2162.

also:

not once was he involved with the events of fallout 2, by that time homie was still hidden away, probably working as a mercenary for someone under like 20 layers of clothes covering his face.

[dankusner]

The initiation of a young Irishman.

By Frank McCourt | February 14, 1999 | Illustration by Ian Falconer

“You may have ‘The Lives of the Poets’ under your oxter, but you don’t have them in your head, so go home and read.”

When you’re Irish and you don’t know a soul in New York and you’re walking along Third Avenue with trains rattling along on the El above, there’s great comfort in discovering there’s hardly a block without an Irish bar: Costello’s, the Blarney Stone, the Blarney Rose, P. J. Clarke’s, the Breffni, the Leitrim House, the Sligo House, Shannon’s, Ireland’s Thirty-Two, the All Ireland.

I had my first pint in Limerick when I was sixteen and it made me sick, and my father nearly destroyed the family and himself with the drink, but I’m lonely in New York and I’m lured in by Bing Crosby on jukeboxes singing “Galway Bay” and blinking green shamrocks the likes of which you’d never see in Ireland.

There’s an angry-looking man behind the end of the bar in Costello’s and he’s saying to a customer, I don’t give a tinker’s damn if you have ten pee haitch dees.

I know more about Samuel Johnson than you know about your hand and if you don’t comport yourself properly you’ll be out on the sidewalk. I’ll say no more.

The customer says, But . . .

Out, says the angry man. Out.

You’ll get no more drink in this house.

The customer claps on his hat and stalks out and the angry man turns to me.

And you, he says, are you eighteen?

I am, sir. I’m nineteen.

How do I know?

I have my passport, sir.

And what is an Irishman doing with an American passport?

I was born here, sir.

He allows me to have two fifteen-cent beers and tells me I’d be better off spending my time in the library than in bars like the rest of our miserable race.

He tells me Dr. Johnson drank forty cups of tea a day and his mind was clear to the end.

I ask him who Dr. Johnson was and he glares at me, takes my glass away, and tells me, Leave this bar.

Walk west on Forty-second till you come to Fifth.

You’ll see two great stone lions.

Walk up the steps between those two lions, get yourself a library card, and don’t be an idiot like the rest of the bogtrotters getting off the boat and stupefying themselves with drink.

Read your Johnson, read your Pope, and avoid the dreamy Micks.

I want to ask him where he stands on Dostoyevsky, but he points at the door.

Don’t come back here till you’ve read “The Lives of the Poets.”

Go on. Get out.

It’s a warm October day and I have nothing else to do but what I’m told and what harm is there in wandering up to Fifth Avenue where the lions are.

The librarians are friendly.

Of course I can have a library card, and it’s so nice to see young immigrants using the library.

I can borrow four books if I like as long as they’re back on the due date.

I ask if they have a book called “The Lives of the Poets,” by Samuel Johnson, and they say, My, my, my, you’re reading Johnson.

I want to tell them I never read Johnson before, but I don’t want them to stop admiring me.

They tell me feel free to walk around, take a look at the Main Reading Room, on the third floor.

They’re not a bit like the librarians in Ireland, who stood guard and protected the books against the likes of me.

The sight of the Main Reading Room, North and South, makes me go weak at the knees.

I don’t know if it’s the two beers I had or the excitement of my second day in New York, but I’m near tears when I look at the miles of shelves and know I’ll never be able to read all those books if I live till the end of the century.

There are acres of shiny tables where all sorts of people sit and read as long as they like, seven days a week, and no one bothers them unless they fall asleep and snore.

There are sections with English, Irish, American books, literature, history, religion, and it makes me shiver to think I can come here anytime I like and read anything as long as I like if I don’t snore.

I stroll back to Costello’s with four books under my arm. I want to show the angry man I have “The Lives of the Poets,” but he’s not there.

The barman says, That would be Mr. Tim Costello himself that was going on about Johnson, and as he’s talking the angry man comes out of the kitchen.

He says, Are you back already?

I have “The Lives of the Poets,” Mr. Costello.

You may have “The Lives of the Poets” under your oxter, young fellow, but you don’t have them in your head, so go home and read.

It’s Thursday, and I have nothing to do till the job starts on Monday.

For lack of a chair, I sit up in the bed in my furnished room and read till Mrs. Austin knocks on my door at eleven and tells me she’s not a millionaire and it’s house policy that lights be turned off at eleven to keep down her electricity bill.

I turn off the light and lie on the bed listening to New York, people talking and laughing, and I wonder if I’ll ever be part of the city, out there talking and laughing.

“Sorry, folks, we quit at five.”

There’s another knock at the door and this young man with red hair and an Irish accent tells me his name is Tom Clifford and would I like a fast beer because he works in an East Side building and he has to be there in an hour.

No, he won’t go to an Irish bar.

He wants nothing to do with the Irish.

So we walk to the Rheinland, on Eighty-sixth Street, where Tom tells me how he was born in America but was taken to Cork and got out as fast as he could by joining the American Army for three good years in Germany, when you could get laid ten times over for a carton of cigarettes or a pound of coffee.

There’s a dance floor and a band in the back of the Rheinland, and Tom asks a girl from one of the tables to dance.

He tells me, Come on.

Ask her friend to dance.

But I don’t know how to dance, and I don’t know how to ask a girl to dance.

I know nothing about girls.

How could I after growing up in Limerick?

Tom asks the other girl to dance with me and she leads me out on the floor.

I don’t know what to do.

Tom is stepping and twirling and I don’t know whether to go backward or forward with this girl in my arms.

She tells me I’m stepping on her shoes, and when I tell her I’m sorry she says, Oh, forget it.

I don’t feel like clumping around.

She goes back to her table, and I follow her, with my face on fire. I don’t know whether to sit at her table or go back to the bar till she says, You left your beer on the bar.

I’m glad I have an excuse to leave her, because I wouldn’t know what to say if I sat.

I’m sure she wouldn’t be interested if I told her I spent hours reading Johnson’s “Lives of the Poets” or if I told her how excited I was at the Forty-second Street Library.

I might have to find a book in the library on how to talk to girls, or I might have to ask Tom, who dances and laughs and has no trouble with the talk.

He comes back to the bar and says he’s going to call in sick, which means he’s not going to work.

The girl likes him and says she’ll let him take her home.

He whispers to me he might get laid, which means he might go to bed with her.

The only problem is the other girl.

He calls her my girl.

Go ahead, he says.

Ask her if you can take her home.

Let’s sit at their table and you can ask her.

The beer is working on me and I’m feeling braver and I don’t feel shy about sitting at the girls’ table and telling them about Tim Costello and Dr. Samuel Johnson.

Tom nudges me and whispers, For Christ’s sake, stop the Samuel Johnson stuff, ask her home.

When I look at her I see two, and I wonder which I should ask home, but if I look between the two I see one and that’s the one I ask.

Home? she says.

You kiddin’ me.

That’s a laugh.

I’m a secretary, a private secretary, and you don’t even have a high-school diploma.

I mean, did you look in the mirror lately?

She laughs, and my face is on fire again.

Tom takes a long drink of beer, and I know I’m useless with these girls, so I leave and walk down Third Avenue, taking the odd look at my reflection in shop windows and giving up hope.

Monday morning my boss, Mr. Carey, tells me I’ll be a houseman, a very important job where I’ll be out front in the lobby dusting, sweeping, emptying ashtrays, and it’s important because a hotel is judged by its lobby.

He says we have the best lobby in the country.

It’s the Palm Court and known the world over.

Anyone who’s anyone knows about the Palm Court and the Biltmore clock.

Chrissakes, it’s right there in books and short stories, Scott Fitzgerald, people like that. Important people say, Let’s meet under the clock at the Biltmore, and what happens if they come in and the place is covered with dust and buried in garbage.

That’s my job: to keep the Biltmore famous.

I’m to clean and I’m not to talk to guests, not even look at them.

If they talk to me I’m to say, Yes, sir or Ma’am, or No, sir or Ma’am, and keep working.

He says I’m to be invisible, and that makes him laugh.

Imagine that, eh, you’re the invisible man cleaning the lobby.

He says this is a big job and I’d never have it if I hadn’t been sent by the Democratic Party at the request of the priest from California.

Mr. Carey says the last guy on this job was fired for talking to college girls under the clock, but he was Italian so whaddya expect.

He tells me keep my eye on the ball, don’t forget to take a shower every day, this is America, stay sober, stick with your own kind of people, you can’t go wrong with the Irish, go easy with the drink, and in a year you might rise to the rank of porter or busboy and make tips and, who knows, rise up to be a waiter and wouldn’t that be the end of all your worries.

He says anything is possible in America: Look at me, I have four suits.

The headwaiter in the lobby is called the maître d’.

He tells me I’m to sweep up only what falls to the floor and I’m not to touch anything on the tables.

If money falls to the floor or jewelry or anything like that I’m to hand it to him, the maître d’ himself, and he’ll decide what to do with it.

If an ashtray is full, I’m to wait for a busboy or a waiter to tell me to empty it.

Sometimes there are things in ashtrays that need to be taken care of.

A woman might remove an earring because of the soreness and forget she left it in the ashtray, and there are earrings worth thousands of dollars, not that I’d know anything about that, just off the boat.

It’s the job of the maître d’ to hold on to all earrings and return them to the women with the sore ears.

There are two waiters working in the lobby, and they rush back and forth, running into each other and barking in Greek.

They tell me, You, Irish, come ’ere, clean up, clean up, empty goddam ashtray, take garbage, come on, come on, less go, you drunk or sompin’?

They yell at me in front of the college students who swarm in on Thursdays and Fridays.

I wouldn’t mind Greeks yelling at me if they didn’t do it in front of the college girls, who are golden.

They toss their hair and smile with teeth you see only in America, white, perfect, and everyone has tanned movie-star legs.

The boys sport crewcuts, the teeth, football shoulders, and they’re easy with the girls.

They talk and laugh, and the girls lift their glasses and smile at the boys with shining eyes.

They might be my age, but I move among them ashamed of my uniform and my dustpan and broom.

I wish I could be invisible, but I can’t when the waiters yell at me in Greek and English and something in between or a busboy might accuse me of interfering with an ashtray that had something on it.

There are times when I don’t know what to do or say.

A college boy with a crewcut says, Do you mind not cleaning around here just now?

I’m talking to the lady.

If the girl looks at me and then looks away, I feel my face getting hot and I don’t know why.

Sometimes a college girl will smile at me and say, Hi, and I don’t know what to say.

I’m told by the hotel people above me I’m not to say a word to the guests, though I wouldn’t know how to say Hi anyway because we never said it in Limerick, and if I said it I might be fired from my new job and be out on the street with no priest to get me another one.

I’d like to say Hi and be part of that lovely world for a minute except that a crewcut boy might think I was gawking at his girl and report me to the maître d’.

I could go home tonight and sit up in the bed and practice smiling and saying Hi.

If I kept at it, I’d surely be able to handle the Hi, but I’d have to say it without the smile for if I drew my lips back at all I’d frighten the wits out of the golden girls under the Biltmore clock.

There are days when the girls take off their coats and the way they look in sweaters and blouses is such an occasion of sin I have to lock myself in a toilet cubicle and interfere with myself and I have to be quiet for fear of being discovered by someone, a Puerto Rican busboy or a Greek waiter, who will run to the maître d’ and report that the lobby houseman is dogfacing away in the bathroom.

There’s a poster outside the Sixty-eighth Street Playhouse that says “ ‘Hamlet,’ with Laurence Olivier: Coming Next Week.”

I’m already planning to treat myself to a night out with a bottle of ginger ale and a lemon-meringue pie from the baker, like the one I had with the priest in Albany, the loveliest taste I ever had in my life.

There I’ll be watching Hamlet on the screen tormenting himself and everybody else, and I’ll have tartness of ginger ale and sweetness of pie clashing away in my mouth.

Before I go to the cinema, I can sit in my room and read “Hamlet” to make sure I know what they’re all saying in that old English.

The only book I brought from Ireland is the “Complete Works of Shakespeare,” which I bought in O’Mahony’s bookshop for thirteen shillings and sixpence, half my wages when I worked at the post office delivering telegrams.

The play I like best is “Hamlet,” because of what he had to put up with when his mother carried on with her husband’s brother, Claudius, and the way my own mother in Limerick carried on with her cousin Laman Griffin.

I could understand Hamlet raging at his mother the way I did with my mother the night I had my first pint and went home drunk and slapped her face.

I’ll be sorry for that till the day I die, though I’d still like to go back to Limerick someday and find Laman Griffin in a pub and tell him step outside, and I’d wipe the floor with him till he begged for mercy.

I know it’s useless talking like that because Laman Griffin will surer be dead of the drink and the consumption by the time I return to Limerick, and he’ll be a long time in Hell before I ever say a prayer or light a candle for him, even if Our Lord says we should forgive our enemies and turn the other cheek.

No, even if Our Lord came back on earth and ordered me to forgive Laman Griffin on pain of being cast into the sea with a millstone around my neck, the thing I fear most in the world, I’d have to say, Sorry, Our Lord, I can never forgive that man for what he did to my mother and my family.

Hamlet didn’t wander around Elsinore forgiving people in a made-up story, so why should I in real life?

The last time I went to the Sixty-eighth Street Playhouse, the usher wouldn’t let me in with a bar of Hershey’s chocolate in my hand.

He said I couldn’t bring in food or drink, and I’d have to consume it outside.

Consume.

He couldn’t say “eat,” and that’s one of the things that bothers me in the world, the way ushers and people in uniforms in general always like to use big words.

The Sixty-eighth Street Playhouse isn’t a bit like the Lyric Cinema in Limerick, where you could bring in fish and chips or a good feed of pig’s feet and a bottle of stout if the humor was on you.

The night they wouldn’t let me in with the chocolate bar, I had to stand outside and gobble it with the usher glaring at me, and he didn’t care that I was missing funny parts of the Marx Brothers.

Now I have to carry my black raincoat from Ireland over my arm so that the usher won’t spot the bag with the lemon-meringue pie or the ginger-ale bottle stuck in a pocket.

The minute the film starts, I try to go at my pie, but the box crackles and people say, Shush, we’re trying to watch this film.

I know they’re not the ordinary type of people who go to gangster films or musicals.

These are people who probably graduated from college and live on Park Avenue and know every line of “Hamlet.”

They’ll never say they go to movies, only films.

I’ll never be able to open the box silently, and my mouth is watering with the hunger and I don’t know what to do till a man sitting next to me says, Hi, slips part of his raincoat over my lap, and lets his hand wander under it.

He says Am I disturbing you? and I don’t know what to say though something tells me take my pie and move away.

I tell him, Excuse me, and go by him up the aisle and out to the men’s lavatory, where I’m able to open my pie box in comfort without Park Avenue shushing me.

I feel sorry over missing part of “Hamlet,” but all they were doing up there on the screen was jumping around and shouting about a ghost.

Even though the men’s lavatory is empty, I don’t want to be seen opening my box and eating my pie, so I sit on the toilet in a cubicle eating quickly so that I can get back to “Hamlet,” as long as I don’t have to sit beside the man with the coat on his lap and the wandering hand.

The pie makes my mouth dry and I think I’ll have a nice drink of ginger ale till I realize you have to have some class of a church key to lift off the cap.

There’s no use going to one of the ushers because they’re always barking and telling people they’re not supposed to be bringing in food or drink from the outside even if they’re from Park Avenue.

I lay the pie box on the floor and decide the only way to knock the cap off the ginger-ale bottle is to place it against the sink and give it a good rap with the back of my hand, and when I do the neck of the bottle breaks and the ginger ale gushes up in my face and there’s blood on the sink where I cut my hand on the bottle and I feel sad with all the things happening to me that my pie is being drowned on the floor with blood and ginger ale and wondering at the same time will I ever be able to see “Hamlet” with all the troubles I’m having when a desperate-looking gray-haired man rushes in nearly knocking me over and steps on my pie box destroying it entirely.

He stands at the urinal firing away, trying to shake the box off his shoe, and barking at me, Goddam, goddam, what the hell, what the hell.

He stands away and swings his leg so that the pie box flies off his shoe and hits the wall all squashed and beyond eating.

The man says What the hell is going on here? and I don’t know what to tell him because it seems like a long story going all the way back to how excited I was weeks ago about coming to see “Hamlet” and how I didn’t eat all day because I had a delicious feeling about doing everything at the same time, eating my pie, drinking ginger ale, seeing “Hamlet,” and hearing all the glorious speeches.

I don’t think the man is in the mood from the way he dances from one foot to the other telling me the toilet is not a goddam restaurant, that I have no goddam business hanging around public bathrooms eating and drinking and I’d better get my ass outa there.

I tell him I had an accident trying to open the ginger-ale bottle and he says, Didn’t you ever hear of an opener or are you just off the goddam boat?

He leaves the lavatory and just as I’m wrapping toilet paper around my cut the usher comes in and says there’s a customer complaint about my behavior in here.

He’s like the gray-haired man with his goddam and what the hell and when I try to explain what happened he says, Get your ass outa here. I tell him I paid to see “Hamlet” and I came in here so that I wouldn’t be disturbing all the Park Avenue people around me who know “Hamlet” backward and forward, but he says, I don’t give a shit, get out before I call the manager, or the cops, who will surely be interested in the blood all over the place.

Then he points to my black raincoat draped on the sink.

Take that goddam raincoat outa here.

Whaddya doin’ with a raincoat on a day there ain’t a cloud in the sky?

We know the raincoat trick and we’re watching.

We know the whole raincoat brigade.

We’re on to your little queer games.

You sit there lookin’ innocent and the next thing the hand is wandering over to innocent kids.

So get your raincoat outa here, buddy, before I call the cops, you goddam pervert.

I take the broken ginger-ale bottle with the drop left and walk down Sixty-eighth Street and sit on the steps of my rooming house till Mrs. Austin calls through the basement window there is to be no eating or drinking on the steps, cockroaches will come running from all over and people will say we’re a bunch of Puerto Ricans who don’t care where they eat or drink or sleep.

There is no place to sit anywhere along the street with landladies peering and watching and there is nothing to do but to wander over to a park by the East River and wonder why America is so hard and complicated that I have trouble going to see “Hamlet” with a lemon-meringue pie and a bottle of ginger ale.

Audio: Frank McCourt reads from a version of “New in Town,” an excerpt from “ ’Tis,” © 1999. Courtesy of Simon & Schuster Audio. Published in the print edition of the February 22 & March 1, 1999, issue.