#Replica 1975

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

𝔅𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔨 𝔖𝔞𝔟𝔟𝔞𝔱𝔥 – 𝔚𝔞𝔯 𝔓𝔦𝔤𝔰

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 11: Hephaestus, God Of Fire]

A/N: Only 1 chapter left!!! 🥰💜

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.4k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Here is our final interlude. Do you have the patience?

President Lyndon Baines Johnson has halted all U.S. attacks on North Vietnam: no bombs from the air, no infantry on the ground, no artillery shells launched by destroyers cruising in the South China Sea. The election will determine what happens next. If Nixon wins, military operations will resume until the South Vietnamese are in a sufficiently advantageous position to defend themselves from the communists. If Aemond is the victor, troop withdrawals will begin shortly after he is inaugurated on January 20th.

Regardless, it will not be until almost a full year from now, in October of 1969, that it becomes illegal for employers to reserve positions for men; the common practice of refusing to hire women with preschool-aged children will not be outlawed until 1971. Unmarried people will not be guaranteed access to contraception until 1972. Abortion will not be legalized across all fifty states until 1973. Women will not have a right to their own bank accounts or credit cards until 1974. It will not be illegal to exclude women from juries until 1975. The first female Supreme Court justice, Sandra Day O’Connor, will be appointed in 1981. There will be no female president of the United States, not for at least half a century after our story ends.

Each night on CBS Evening News, Walter Cronkite recaps the latest poll numbers. Nixon appears to have a slight advantage, due in large part to pulling ahead in Florida, Illinois, Ohio, and his home state of California. Aemond has comfortable leads in Texas, Pennsylvania, New York, and New Jersey. George Wallace will likely sweep the Deep South: Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Arkansas. From their hovels, the racists rejoice. From her grave, Lurleen Wallace rests uneasily, scratching at the lid of her coffin with the bones of her fingers, entombed in dark oblivion like all the rest of the world’s discarded wives.

~~~~~~~~~~

You go for the door, but Aemond is faster; he catches you just as your hand is twisting the handle and the hinges creak. He throws you against the wall so hard the paintings rattle: replicas of Monets and Warhols, Almond Blossoms, The Birth of Venus. You fight, clawing at him, ripping off the eyepatch that Alys must have at last convinced him was no defeat to wear. The hollow, gore-colored abyss of his left eye socket beckons you to fall in and be burned: Hestia’s eternal hearth, the volcanic forge of Hephaestus. He’s fire all the way down, hunger and fury, bones charred black and brittle. You think of the uninhabitable furnace of Jupiter’s moon Io, lethal radiation, poisoned air, lava bubbling up like blood through a bullet wound.

“You can’t hit me,” you gasp. “You need me for photos—”

His knuckles are in your belly, crosshairs made of scar tissue. The air collapses out of your lungs; your vision dims like twilight, like an eclipse. You’re on the floor and trying to crawl away from him. Aemond’s fingers hook into the fabric of your robe; it matches the silk nightgown you wear beneath, a pale anemic pink, something soft and young and desireless, something eternally at others’ mercy, something to be guarded or gutted. He’s dragging you towards him.

He’s going to hit me again, he might even kill me.

“Stop, stop,” you plead, still struggling to breathe. “What if I’m pregnant?!”

You almost certainly can’t be, but Aemond doesn’t know that. Yet his lone eye glints like metal, like coins, no weak mortal compassion. “I would have no way of being sure it was mine.” And then he tries to cover your mouth as you scream for help. You bite at his fingers; your bare feet kick the wall. Your hair, long and loose and wild, flows around you like a bride’s veil.

Too late, Aemond realizes that the door is still open a crack from when you grabbed the handle. There are footsteps and a voice that crescendos as it approaches: “What on earth is going on in here…?” Fosco appears in the threshold, yellow tweed jacket, tight olive green trousers. He stares thunderstruck down at where you and Aemond are entangled on the floor.

You beg: “Fosco, help me.”

“No, no, no,” Fosco says, jolting from his paralysis and holding a hand out towards Aemond. “No, you cannot do this, whatever has happened, you cannot touch her like—”

“She’s not your wife,” Aemond says. She’s not your property. Fosco hesitates; his large dark eyes shifting between the two of you from behind his glasses.

“Aemond, brother, listen to—”

“Get out.” Aemond’s voice is low, searing, malignant.

“Fosco, please don’t leave me,” you whimper. You try to pry Aemond’s fingers off your robe; they dig in deeper, bruising the flesh underneath. “Don’t leave me, don’t let him hurt me.”

Abruptly, Fosco turns and sprints out of the room.

“No!” you shout after him before Aemond grabs your face, his hand like a claw, fingernails leaving half-moon indents in your cheeks, crushing pressure on your jaw.

“You’re trying to sabotage this campaign.”

“I didn’t see the reporters, I swear to God.”

He knocks the back of your skull against the wall so hard that you see momentary flashes like stars, that all the words vanish from your throat, that words cease to exist at all. “You’re a traitor. Do you know the penalty for treason? The U.S. Army would have you executed by firing squad. Zeus would chain you to a rock so your liver could be carved out.”

“You betrayed me first,” you hiss through clenched teeth, your head pounding hot and maroon.

“I have been working for this since before you were born. You can’t take it away from me. I won’t let you.”

“I did everything right and you still couldn’t love me.” You swing at Aemond and he catches your wounded hand, squeezes it, digs his thumb into the spot where the doctors stitched you closed. The pain is excruciating, incapacitating. You wail as scarlet flowers bloom through the white of your bandaged palm.

Now the door flies open again and Aegon collides with Aemond, sends him sprawling, crouches over you. He’s screaming something at Aemond, gripping your shoulder to keep you under him, his too-long hair hanging in his face, black turtleneck sweater, one of Daeron’s frayed army jackets thrown over it, ripped jeans, bare feet. Aemond grabs his brother by the lapel of his army jacket and draws back his fist. His golden wedding ring flashes in the grey November sunlight that streams in through the windows. Aegon doesn’t flinch. He’s taken knuckles to the face before; you remember cleaning blood off his skin under a streetlight in Biloxi, you remember not wanting to wash him away.

“Don’t you see what it will look like?!” Fosco is saying, trying to coax Aemond to relent. “If he is photographed with a busted face after that story comes out? If she has bruises or a black eye? By harming them you are confirming what your enemies have printed, and the voters will believe it is the truth.”

“They already know it’s true!” Aemond snatches the Wall Street Journal off the table and hurls it at Fosco. Then he paces back and forth through the room, glaring at where you are still crumpled on the floor, sobbing, cradling your bleeding hand to your chest. “It’s right there, three goddamn photographs, and that’s all it will take to bring down a lifetime of work!”

Fosco studies the pictures again, shaking his head, one hand covering his mouth. At last he offers weakly: “It could be worse, Aemond.”

“How could it be worse?!”

Aegon scrambles to Fosco to rip the newspaper out of his hands, then returns to you. He hasn’t seen the front-page story yet. He skims it frantically. “This? This is what you’re losing your mind over? It’s dark, it’s blurry, they can’t even see what’s going on!”

“I have one fucking eye and I can see it!”

“So come up with another explanation, this doesn’t prove anything.”

“If she costs me the election—”

“If you lose, it won’t be because of her!” Aegon roars back. “It will be because the Democrats have held the White House for eight years and the world has gone to hell on our watch, it will be because of Kennedy, and Johnson, and Vietnam and the riots and the hippies and the drugs and the assassinations, it will be because Nixon is promising law and order in a time when nobody is safe, it will be because you just weren’t good enough. But she has given more to your cause than anyone. You hit her and you’ll lose your other eye.”

“They were in conversation,” Fosco says, meaning the photos. The four of you know that’s not true; it is a lie for the rest of the world, it is hope for Aemond’s campaign. “On the beach. They were whispering, comforting each other. Because of Mimi. That is all.”

Aemond scoffs, his remaining eye fierce and wrathful as it lands on you again. Aegon grips your shoulder, still crouching over you, still shielding you. “You bitch. I should have left you at that party in Manhattan to be the dope-smoking whore you were when I found you.”

“I shouldn’t have helped save your life in Palm Beach.”

And Aemond blinks at you, not hurt but bewildered, like he doesn’t understand your words, like what you said is impossible. He doesn’t believe you saved him. He believes it was God’s will.

Otto storms into the hotel room and takes in the scene: you and Aegon on the floor, Aemond pacing furiously, Fosco attempting to mediate. “Nobody says anything,” Otto commands, deep booming voice, black suit like he’s going to a funeral. “The Wall Street Journal hates Aemond. Everyone knows that, they’re probably the only national publication that would run the story. Our newspapers are already pushing the counternarrative, that this was a shameful, deceitful, desperate attempt to discredit Aemond right before the election. Our supporters will insist upon an innocent explanation. Nixon’s will use the photos as evidence of our degeneracy, our amorality, us immigrants with our strange faith and our progressive politics. Everyone else in the country will be warring over this headline. We will say nothing. We will conduct business as usual. The best thing we can do now is go out there and keep our schedule as planned.” He looks meaningfully at Aemond. “And your wife must be at your side. Smiling, unscathed, devoted.”

“I lost my composure,” Aemond says to you, more collected now, businesslike. He is smoothing any wrinkles out of his suit jacket. “I was wrong to put my hands on you. I apologize for that. It was beneath me.”

You reply: “Very little is beneath you, I’ve learned.”

“You have been.” A trace of a grin, crooked and cruel. “Plenty of times. And you will be again.”

Aegon is watching is brother, seething but terrified, sheltering you with power that is only illusory, never real. It is a mirage that Aemond or Otto could punch through at any moment. It is glass that would shatter into crystalline dust.

“If I win, you will beg on your knees for forgiveness,” Aemond tells you. “You will beg in private, you will be perfection in public, and I will magnanimously overlook this indiscretion in which you were taken advantage of by my notoriously dissolute brother. There was no affair. There was a fleeting moment of weakness on your part and depravity on Aegon’s. We will put it in the past. I will be the president of the United States and you will be my first lady. You will spend every second of your existence in service of my career, my country, and my legacy. You will give me children. You will obey me entirely. And you and Aegon will never be in a room alone together for the rest of your lives.”

“You can’t keep me away from her,” Aegon says.

“I just did. I make the rules here, I am the heir to this empire. If you wanted that responsibility, you should have seized it. You squandered it, you cursed it. It’s mine now.”

A whisper: “Aemond, it’ll kill me.”

“Then have the dignity to die quietly. It will be the most useful thing you’ve ever done.”

“Aegon must be seen in public too,” Fosco says, trying to sound like he isn’t defending him. “If you appear to be punishing or excluding him, it will be used as evidence of his guilt.”

Aemond nods, then turns to his brother. “As soon as the election is called, whichever way it goes, I want you gone. I don’t care where you go. I don’t care what happens to you once you’re there. You will disappear. We will say it was your choice, and if you comply you can keep your children and receive a modest amount of severance pay to get you started. And as long as you abide by my terms, my wife will not be harmed.”

Aegon doesn’t reply. His large Atlantic-blue eyes glisten, his lips tremble, his hand is still on your shoulder. You think through the throbbing pain of your bleeding palm: Is this the last time he’ll ever touch me?

Otto grabs Aegon, wrenches him away from you, drags him yowling and clawing at the carpet through the doorway.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your hand is freshly bandaged, pristine white gauze that people in the crowd jostle to touch like the relic of a saint, to pray over, to kiss. Men tell you how brave you are to bear the pain without weeping. Women give you komboskini, stained not with their husband’s blood but with only the clean, colorless ether of hope, faith, reverence, love.

Fosco and Helaena have been dispatched to accompany the children on a tour of the Franklin Institute, one of the oldest centers of science education in the nation. Aemond is giving a speech in front of the Liberty Bell at Independence Hall. You and the others are arranged around him like a starving crescent moon. You are standing immediately on Aemond’s left side, Aegon placed at his right. He looks drunk, he looks drugged; you aren’t sure if anyone else can tell, but you can. His cheeks are flushed. His eyes are pools of murky, desolate indigo like the night sky between stars. A few attendees give the two of you curious glances, but no mention is made of the accusations in the Wall Street Journal. You get the sense that if someone took it upon themselves to ask a question on the subject, they would be jeered, reviled, banished like President Johnson, who is currently besieged in the White House by the ghosts of Vietnam.

When you look to Aemond, you see his scar, his prosthetic eye, fierce and stoic determination in the lines of his face. He is quoting the inscription on the bell: “Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof…” The bronze metal has a crack in it like one of Zeus’s lightning bolts. The smile on your face is frozen, demure, humble. Aegon’s eyes accidentally catch on yours—a childlike vulnerability, a deep raw woundedness—and then swiftly dart away.

“America is the Land of Opportunity, but some have forgotten that,” Aemond says into the microphone, and vengeance creeps into his voice like a spider up a wall. “Unfortunately, for as long as new communities have arrived at our shores, vile and prejudiced lies have been used to demonize them. Greek immigrants have been crossing the Atlantic for over a century. In 1909, rioters violently expelled them from Omaha, Nebraska. In 1922, an anti-Greek initiative was launched by the Ku Klux Klan. In 1924, Congress drastically restricted my people’s entry in favor of migrants from Northwestern European nations like Britain and Germany. Greeks have been condemned as unintelligent, immoral, and unworthy of the glorious opportunities of this country. We have been barred from jobs and universities, we have been used as cannon fodder in the World Wars. Discrimination against any group is antithetical to the American Dream. I have given an eye for this nation, my wife has bled for it, my brother has—even in the midst of personal tragedy—uprooted his life and the lives of his children to fight alongside me for a better America, and I will not stand by silently as the Targaryen name is tarnished by bigoted falsehoods…”

Now you can no longer hear him over the thunder of the applause, and you remember all the other faces in all those other cities, their eyes illuminated as if by fire, as if by the sun. You imagine devotees of the Greek gods bowing low in temples of white marble and flickering torches, bringing offerings of gold and livestock, grain and blood, murmuring prayers, bargaining for miracles. Did the gods hear them? Do the gods love anyone but themselves?

Alicent and Criston are watching you and Aegon with the same eyes: large, dark, shimmering, a curious combination of horror and profound sympathy. You can feel yourself becoming a ghost, a legend, a myth. One day people will read about you in textbooks and academic journals, in plaques erected at Aemond’s alma mater, Columbia University, and your own, Manhattanville College; and they will know only the fabled version of you. Who you really were will fade into nothingness like Echo, like Icarus into the waves, like Eurydice when her lover Orpheus dared to glimpse back at her.

That night in your penthouse suite at the Ritz-Carlton, you get out of the bathtub—dewy with steam, donning your pink robe—and then go to your side of the king-sized bed and slide open the top drawer of the nightstand. The card Aegon gave you at Mount Sinai isn’t there. Your heartbeat quickens; your stomach lurches.

“What…?”

You get down on your knees to reach into the back of the drawer, to see if the card has snagged somewhere. You hear footsteps and whirl to see Aemond standing in the doorway between the bedroom and the living room. He is holding the card. The cartoon cow beams jubilantly at you. You recall what Aegon wrote inside after crossing out the manufacturer’s message: I thought this was blank…congrats on the new calf! As your eyes widen, Aemond rips the card down the middle.

“Don’t!” you scream, rushing for him. “Please don’t, it’s all I have from—!”

Aemond shoves you back and then, with a grin more like a wolf baring its teeth, tears through the remnants again and again until the card is nothing but shreds. He opens the sliding glass door that leads out onto the balcony and throws them into the cold night wind, where they scatter in a flurry like snowflakes, like bones turned to splinters by cluster bombs in the swamps of Vietnam.

The paper fragments spiral down thirty stories towards the zooming headlights on South Broad Street, and you think about following them. Then Aemond pulls you into his arms as frigid air blows through you and whispers: “You don’t need Aegon anymore. You just need me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Monday, November 4th, and you are walking alongside Ludwika on Broadway in Astoria, Queens, the part of New York City known as Greektown. She chats about the modelling jobs she did here before meeting Otto, her Louis Vuitton stilettos clicking on the sidewalk, her Camel cigarettes smudged with red Yardley lipstick. It is an act of kindness; she is trying to distract you. A few yards away, Fosco is telling Aegon about how he just won $500 by betting on the NASCAR Peach State 200, held at Jefco Speedway in Georgia. Aegon nods along, preoccupied, miserable. He has dark shadows around his eyes and is smoking one of his Lucky Strikes. He is wearing a green knit cap, windblown curls of his blonde hair escaping from underneath. You’re not supposed to stare at Aegon, but sometimes you can’t help it. You miss him. You’re worried about him.

The Targaryens have suites reserved at the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan, where the family will stay through Election Day to witness the results as they are tallied on the evening news. The children are there now, enjoying pizza from Little Italy with Helaena and the nannies. But you and the other adults are being photographed by flocks of journalists as you head for lunch at one of the oldest Greek diners in the United States, paying homage to Aemond’s ancestry. The candidate himself is locked in a fraught conversation with Otto and Criston: polls gaining here, polls slipping there, Nixon inching further ahead in Florida, the state you were supposed to help Aemond win.

“What should I order?” Ludwika asks you. “Not spinach pie, oh, horrible, worse than Hitler. Something else. Why can’t we go to a Polish restaurant for once? I will take you sometime. You will see. You will try a pierogi and never look back. We invented bagels, you know.”

“Beagles?” Fosco says. “What an accomplishment! They are so cute!”

“Bagels, stupido.”

“Do not bully me. I am suffering too. I should be back at the hotel eating a prosciutto pizza.”

As you pass an electronics shop with stacks of televisions in the windows, all turned to NBC news, the journalists begin to gasp and chatter excitedly amongst themselves. The flashbulbs strobe madly, shutters clicking and reporters shouting for Aemond to give them a comment. The youngest Targaryen brother has appeared on the screens, bruised and gaunt and missing teeth. He looks twenty years older than he is. His once-golden hair is turning white.

Otto sputters: “What…what the hell is that?!”

“Oh my God, Daeron!” Alicent howls, and then bursts into the shop so she can hear what her lost son is saying. The rest of you hurry after her, locking the front door behind you so the journalists can’t follow. Through the windows, they take photographs until Fosco and Ludwika lower the blinds.

Inside the maze of electronics, three adolescent employees gawk at the presidential candidate and his retinue. “Out,” Otto instructs them, and then, when they are too stunned to immediately vacate the premises: “I said, get out!” The teenagers scurry into the backroom and slam the door.

“Daeron,” Alicent moans in front of a Zenith color television. Tears flow torrentially from her huge, horrified eyes. Criston holds her, arms circling, his cheek pressed to hers, and you are reminded of how Aegon touched you in your hotel room in Houston, in his basement at Asteria, on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean.

Daeron is saying: “The United States has committed war crimes in Vietnam. I am ashamed of the actions my country has taken here. We have burned children with napalm, executed innocent civilians, and interfered in matters that we have no legitimate jurisdiction over…”

“He is reading from a script,” Fosco says. “You can see his eyes following the words.”

“Shh,” Otto snaps.

Daeron continues: “The only honorable course of action now is to immediately withdrawal all American soldiers from Vietnam…”

“I think this will help us, actually,” Otto says. “People will know he’s being forced to make propaganda for the communists, and they will have sympathy for him and the family. They’ll want to rescue him and all the other servicemen too. He’s obviously…under duress.”

Aegon drops to his knees and puts his palm against the screen over Daeron’s face, just like the shadows of your fingers once fell over Ari as he fought for his life in an incubator in Mount Sinai Hospital. “Do you see what they’re doing to him?” He turns to Aemond with tears in his eyes. “What you did to him? You left him there, you abandoned him, and now he’s being tortured.”

Alicent looks to Aemond, puzzled, petrified. “You tried to get him out, didn’t you?” Aemond doesn’t answer. Otto averts his gaze, counting the tiles on the floor.

“Dear lord,” Ludwika mutters, lighting a fresh Camel cigarette and puffing on it anxiously.

“Was it worth it?” Aegon demands. “Selling your soul?”

Aemond is steely, resolved. “It’s almost over.”

“You were all right.” Aegon stands, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his green-striped sweater. “I don’t have what it takes to win the presidency. I couldn’t do something like this. Me, the perennial fuckup. Me, the godless degenerate.”

“Aegon,” Alicent whispers. “Please…please don’t…”

He turns to his mother, insurmountably sad. “Mom, I tried to stop him.” Alicent sobs and covers her face with both hands as Criston embraces her. She can’t even look at Aemond. She can’t believe what he’s become. Her long coppery hair flows like blood.

You reach for Aegon, your fingertips brushing his ruddy cheek, and immediately he folds into you, burying his face in the curve of your neck, breathing in your warmth as you inhale his smoke and rum and pain and terror. “Daeron will be home soon,” you say, not knowing if it’s true. Your bandaged hand aches; your throat burns.

“I should have gone instead. It should have been me.”

“No, Aegon. Your children need you, I need you. I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

Then Aemond yanks you away, his grip on your wrist like an anchor, like chains.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Dad, play us something,” Orion says; and it is the first time you can remember him calling Aegon that. Aegon smiles. He’s sitting on one of the couches in the penthouse suite you share with Aemond, the Gibson guitar he bought back in July lying across his lap as he strums it absentmindedly. The television is on and turned to CBS News. It’s just before midnight on Tuesday, November 5th, Election Day. The children are thrilled. It’s the one night they’re allowed to stay up as late as they’re physically able to. This allowance is not purely altruistic; Aemond wants them awake and ready for photographs as soon as the winner is announced.

“What should I play?”

“Frank Sinatra,” Fosco says. He is beside Aegon on the couch, smoking a cigar and flipping through the Sports section of the New York Times, which he’s not really reading.

“Marvin Gaye,” Ludwika suggests. They are both on your side of the room. Aemond, Otto, Sargent Shriver, and a number of campaign staffers are huddled around the television, transfixed by the ever-updating vote totals. Alicent and Criston are between your factions, murmuring back and forth to each other, flutes of golden champagne in their hands. Helaena is on the floor entertaining Violeta, Daphne, and Neaera with Crayolas and coloring books full of scenes from gardens. You recall how eerily calm Helaena had been the night Aemond was shot in Palm Beach, like she somehow already knew he’d survive. Now she is nervous, looking fretfully around the room, wringing her hands, filling outlines of butterflies with ten different shades of blue.

“The Beatles,” Orion tells Aegon, casting Fosco and Ludwika a judgmental teenage glance.

“Any particular song?”

“You can pick.”

Aegon sips at his rum, ice cubes clinking in the glass. He looks over to the coffee table, where you are embroiled in a game of Battleship with Cosmo. He’s getting better; he’s genuinely sunk your destroyer and submarine so far. Then Aegon’s eyes drop to his guitar strings and he plucks the opening notes of In My Life. His voice is soft and low, almost secretive.

“There are places I’ll remember

All my life, though some have changed

Some forever, not for better

Some have gone and some remain…”

Cosmo turns to watch his father. Orion, Spiro, Thaddeus, and Evangelos are gathered around Aegon’s feet, gazing up at him with admiration, with love.

“All these places had their moments

With lovers and friends, I still can recall

Some are dead and some are living

In my life, I’ve loved them all...”

Cheers erupt over by the television; Aemond has just won Michigan. But then tense, indistinct deliberations follow. Florida is still too close to call, a bad omen. You wonder where Alys is as she watches the results come in. There must be some part of her—however small, however smothered—that fears Aemond will win. If he captures the presidency, she could be separated from the man she loves for the better part of a decade. You drink your Pink Squirrel, wishing it was stronger. You think of sea sponge divers down in the depths and imagine what that first gulp of air tastes like when they resurface, when they shed their rubber suits and brass helmets and step back into sunlight, warmth, freedom like Persephone returning from the Underworld each spring.

“But of all these friends and lovers

There is no one compares with you

And these memories lose their meaning

When I think of love as something new…”

You wear a sapphire-colored gown that Aemond chose for you, strings of silver around your wrist and throat, diamond teardrops hanging from your ears. Your hair is up, your fingernails painted a tasteful opalescent shade, the aching of your bandaged hand dulled by booze and Vicodin.

“Though I know I’ll never lose affection

For people and things that went before

I know I’ll often stop and think about them

In my life, I love you more.”

More triumphant shouts and applause across the room by the television: Aemond has won Washington state. From his own suite at the St. Regis Hotel a few blocks south on 5th Avenue, Nixon’s people must be celebrating that he just secured Ohio’s 26 electoral votes. He needs 270 to be the next president of the United States.

Florida, you think. If Nixon can take Florida, I think he’ll win the whole thing.

As Aemond and Otto are distracted, as Fosco and Ludwika watch with pitying, knowing eyes, Aegon sets his guitar aside and walks by you with his rum in hand, taps your shoulder, disappears onto the balcony. You wait a few minutes—Cosmo wins Battleship and goes to color on the floor with Helaena—and then follow Aegon.

Outside the night sky is moonless, starless, thick with clouds. Rain is beginning to fall, soft hushed pattering. Far below taxis and limousines are still rushing and blowing their horns on West 59th Street. You can see the vast forested shadow of Central Park and streetlights like constellations. In apartments and office buildings, windows are illuminated as Americans sit numbing their fears with beer, wine, shots of liquor, smoldering hand-rolled joints.

Aegon is cross-legged at the ledge, one hand on the iron bars of the railing, staring out at the nightscape of Manhattan. His hair lashes in the cold November wind. His nose is pink, his eyes wet and faraway. He passes his Lucky Strike cigarette to you as you join him and says: “I don’t think Aemond can win without Florida.”

“No,” you agree, taking a drag.

Aegon snatches a rattling orange bottle from the pocket of his olive green army jacket, pops it open, and swallows three pills with a swig of straight rum, dark amber poison.

“Don’t do that,” you say, you plead.

“I need it, babe.”

“I want you to still be alive in ten years.”

Aegon smiles and reaches over to pat your cheek twice. “I think that ship might have sailed, little Io.” Can decades of self-destruction be undone, uninflicted, nullified like Heracles becoming immortal? Can the Underworld be escaped? “Come with me. No matter what happens tonight.”

“Aegon, I can’t.”

“I’m in love with you.”

“If I leave, he’ll hurt you. He’ll hurt me worse.”

“It’s not fair,” Aegon says, his voice breaking.

“Nothing is.”

There is an uproar inside the hotel room, screams that could be horror or triumph, realized dreams, breaking bones, bullets through flesh. You and Aegon are on your feet, hauling the balcony door open, stepping through the threshold into the rest of your lives.

Glasses are being toasted until champagne rains down onto the carpet. The telephone is ringing so Nixon can concede. On CBS News, Walter Cronkite is reporting that Aemond has won Florida and thereby accumulated 270 electoral votes. The blue text on the screen reads: Senator Targaryen will be the 37th president of the United States.

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Ikarus 620 Cabrio, 1962. Ikarus was a Hungarian bus manufacturer with a history dating back to the late 19th century. They made 7 of these open buses for sightseeing tours in Budapest in the 1960s and early 70s. All of them were scrapped in 1975 but more recently a bus enthusiast has converted a regular 620 series bus to make a replica. Ikarus went out of business in 2003

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

1975 Buick Century Pace Car

Buick was selected to pace the Indianapolis 500 in 1975 and produced 1,813 'Free Spirit' Pace Car Editions to commemorate being chosen as the Indy 500 pace car that year. 

This 1975 Buick Century Pace Car edition has just 3,000 miles from new. The 1975 Century Pace Car Edition is identical to the actual pace car, except for the engine. This is the most original example known to exist. It was purchased new by the original owner, Stanley Ainsworth of Warren, Ohio, in April of 1975 and used only for parades and celebrations marking America's bicentennial. After Mr. Ainsworth passed in 1976, it was placed in climate-controlled storage until 2004 when purchased by its current caretakers. While the actual pace car used a 455cid V-8, under the hood of this replica is a 175hp 350cid V-8.

All Buick Century Pace Car editions were finished in white with red and blue graphics, identical to the pace car. Actor James Garner drove the actual pace car on race day. Equipped with the famous Hurst Hatch T-tops, this car remains in all-original unrestored condition with just 3,000 miles from new. Even the tires are those as delivered from the factory.

[usafphantom2]

Where are the SR 71’s today?

They are all on display in America with one exception. #962 is at Duxford, Great Britain. this SR-71 was the one that was the most frequently stationed in Great Britain It’s a permanent loan from the United States to Great Britain with our thanks.

Arizona

#17951 flew on March 5, 1965, and served as a test bird throughout its career. It is currently displayed at the Pima Air Museum, Tucson, AZ.

California

California is home to more SR-71 aircraft than any other state. It houses six of them, listed below:

•SR-71A #17955 - AFFTC Museum, Edwards AFB, CA.

•SR-71A #17960 - Castle Air Museum near Atwater, CA.

•SR-71A #17963 - Beale AFB, CA.

•SR-71A #17973 - Blackbird Airpark, Palmdale, CA.

•SR-71A #17975 - March Field Museum, March AFB, CA.

•SR-71A #17980 - NASA's Dryden Flight Research Center as #844.

Florida

In Florida, specifically at the USAF Armament Museum, Eglin AFB, FL, the SR-71A #61-7959, also known as the "Big Tail," is on display. This nickname dates to 1975, when it was chosen as the platform for a new series of sensors placed in an extension towards the rear of the aircraft . The last flight of this aircraft took place on October 29, 1976

Georgia

At the Museum of Aviation, Robins AFB, GA, the Blackbird SR-71A #17958 is on display. According to various records, on July 28, 1976, this example facilitated a human being (pilot captain Eldon W. Joersz and major RSO George T. Morgan Jr.) to reach the highest speed ever aboard an aircraft.

Kansas

SR-71A #17961 accumulated 1601 flight hours until February 2, 1977, the date of its last flight. It is currently on display between a Northrop T-38 Talon advanced trainer and a life-size replica of the Space Shuttle at the Kansas Cosmosphere and Space Center, Hutchinson, KS

Louisiana

At the 8th Air Force Museum, Barksdale AFB, LA, the SR-71A #17967 is on display, one of two examples reactivated in 1995 for USAF service before the program was canceled in 1998. Over the years, this aircraft accumulated more than 2700 flight hours.

Texas

At the USAF History and Traditions Museum, Lackland AFB, TX, is SR-71A #17979, which was used as a reconnaissance aircraft during Operation Giant Reach in the Egyptian-Israeli war.

Michigan

Two trainer variants were built, denoted SR-71Bs. One crashed on approach to Beale AFB on January 11, 1968, while the other, SR-71B #17956, is displayed at the Kalamazoo Aviation History Museum in Kalamazoo, MI. This SR-71 has more flight hours than any other Blackbird, nearly 4000, and is believed to have been photographed more times than any other.

Nebraska

At the Strategic Air and Space Museum near Ashland, NE, SR-71A #17964 is on display. Its first flight took place in 1966, and the last in 1990, when it was delivered to Offutt AFB, NE, to be permanently exhibited

Ohio

The first operational ( Jerry O’Malley and Ed Payne) mission of an SR-71 was carried out by SR-71A #17976 before concluding its career with about 3000 flight hours. It is among the first SR-71s to be permanently exhibited and best preserved. It is displayed at the National Museum of the United States Air Force, Wright-Patterson AFB, OH.

Oregon

Below the right wing of Howard Hughes' H-4 Hercules at the Evergreen Aviation Museum in McMinnville, OR, is the most complete and accurate SR-71, SR-71A #17971, which has accumulated over 3500 flight hours.

Utah

As mentioned, after January 11, 1968, when half of the SR-71 trainer fleet was lost due to the crash of #17957, a replacement trainer was built, designated SR-71C #17981. This aircraft is currently on display at the Hill Aerospace Museum, Hill AFB, UT. Irregular maintenance procedures and aftermarket construction caused constant yaw of the aircraft; therefore, the SR-71C was used on a limited basis between 1969-1976.

Virginia

The state of Virginia hosts two SR-71s:

•SR-71A #17968 is displayed at the Science Museum in Richmond, VA. 2. The #972 at Udvar-Hazy

Chantilly,

Linda Sheffield

@Habubrats71 via X

[oliveroctavius]

I got this ask on main but thought I'd pick it up here, my comics history/fashion ramble blog. I'd been wondering this exact same thing recently, and Google initially wasn't much help—Rocketeer replica jackets describe themselves only as "Rocketeer jackets" and the one Lobster Johnson cosplay thread just suggested ordering one of those.

The most curious part is the double seam and horizonal row of buttons that mark out the entire front as possibly being an unbuttonable "bib", like a plastron front. (Please don't ask how late in the game I worked out that "plastron" is the right word for that.)

The closest genuine Golden Age example of a plastron jacket I found was the military tunic style uniform of Blackhawk, created in 1941.

(Pics from the '52 movie serial (right) really show how awkward it is to combine open lapels + plastron. On a double breasted coat, that chest panel IS the bottom lapel, folded shut.)

Here's the thing: This outfit mirrors that of the Nazi ace pilot he fights in the origin issue, von Tepp (middle). And compare further to the far right: real life WWI flying ace Manfred von Richthofen, AKA the Red Baron, in imperial German Uhlan (lance cavalry) uniform.

"The Germans had designed such great costumes, we decided to use them ourselves," co-creator Cuidera is quoted as saying in Steranko's History of Comics, which (more dubiously, in my opinion) compares the look to the Gestapo or SS. Breeches or jodhpurs weren't strictly a Nazi thing at the time, but they do add to the overall effect.

Compare two other military tunic themed costumes from 1940, on Captain Marvel and Bucky Barnes. These are asymmetrically buttoned, and switch to a more classic circus strongman look below the waist.

But somewhere around 1975, with the Invaders book, Bucky gets a buttoned bib! There's something infectious about it—the symmetry, maybe. (Even re: the characters we started with; Mignola didn't draw Lobster Johnson with buttons down the right side, but every artist after does. And Spider-Noir wore a sweater under his coat until Shattered Dimensions introduced the double-breasted vest.)

If it didn't reach his belt, Barnes' button-on front + shirt collar combo would resemble a bib-front western shirt, like the one that became the Rawhide Kid's signature look in '56. (Or Texas Twister's in '76.)

This shirt entered the old-West-obsessed public imagination in the 1940s/50s largely because John Wayne wore it in several cowboy movies. In reality it was rare among cowboys, more common with firefighters and civil war era militia.

Military tunics, Western shirts, alright, but does anything match the style and material and era, or are these jackets a total anachronism? I tried looking into 1930s leather flight jackets and was surprised when the closest-looking results were marked as Luftwaffe.

It took me a bit to work out why: USAF and RAF issued standard flight jackets with a center closure. The Luftwaffe instead let their pilots buy non-standardized ones. The 'weird' double-breasted black German flight jackets were in fact fairly normal (but repurposed) motorcycle racing jackets.

Far left is an English biker's jacket that dates back to the 1920s. Even without the bib, this may be as close as you'll get to an authentic Rocketeer. The jodhpurs were pretty common to complete the look. (What was an early motorcycle anyways, if not a weird metal horse?) The first biker jacket with the now iconic off-center diagonal zip was designed in America in 1928 and yet as far as I can tell, not a single actual pre-war pulp hero wore one.

The greatest weakness of this post is that I haven't been able to find any of these artists' notes on how, exactly, they arrived at similar versions of this iconic Pulp Front Panel Jacket. I'm sure I've missed some things. But as far as I can tell, this jacket is an odd bit of convergent stylistic evolution from the above influences that's picked up enough momentum to now be self-perpetuating.

The problem with pulp heroes is that for the most part, they just wore clothes. The appeal of this jacket is actually very similar to what the 1940s thought the appeal of the bib-front shirt in westerns was: It's alien enough to feel "old". It looks like something invented before zippers or synthetic fabrics. It looks formal and militant but also renegade, rebellious. It also looks a little mad-sciencey*. It's a costume, but you can nearly fool yourself into thinking the past was weird enough that you could find something this cool on the rack.

If I wanted to end on some grand point, I could try to argue that there's a thematic throughline between fascist fashion, John Wayne movies, and throwback pulp. A manufactured aesthetic valorizing the violence of a fictional golden age... but I think the noir stylings of the post-Rocketeer comics in this lineup mean that, at least on some level, they know the "good guys" didn't dress like this.

*If I had another couple weeks of time to burn, I'd try to trace the visual history of the Howie coat in popular culture and investigate its possible connections to this. Alas, I do actually have a life.

[rossmacdonaldsgf]

be my mistake.

you can’t quite pinpoint the beginning of the end. it happened in a harsh blur of events that left you wounded and bleeding. your heart begged for mercy and rest as you watched the days aimlessly swim by in a circle of dread and sorrow. a hole shaped like him carved into your heart forevermore.

the time you spent together consisted of fleeting moments of love and tenderness. his hours ticking by as you helplessly clutched onto the strings, trying to sew together a future. he was cold and cruel, but he was warm and kind. he made your head hurt with his juxtaposing sides. forever spinning in a binding circle of happiness and him. he asked you to stay and you would. you did. forever. you would always stay as long as asked. so you still sat, a stone image of where he left you, cold and distant. the seasons changed but you always stayed, your hand reaching into the distance longing for a lingering touch.

immersed in the given darkness you watched the hope and light fade. he took away your opportunity to turn off the lights, leaving you in sinking darkness. across the city, he was sat, the city nightlife creating a hue of warm light in his room. he craved for darkness, the serenity it bought could’ve covered him with a shielding blanket away from his own tormented mind. he longed to feel you, smell you, love you, he ached in desperation to be with you again. he was trapped in a cage of his own mind, each time he blinked he was forced to replay the agonising moments it all went wrong. he was and forever would be, your mistake.

-

he was drunk. that much he could distinguish. his mind hazy and clouded, thoughts of you locked away as he clutched desperately onto the hips that weren’t yours. her hair was itchy, not comforting, her breath was too warm down his neck, too unfamiliar. her whisper was too harsh, she complimented his jeans, his mind was too hazy to remember where he got them. but you remembered, the day you fell so fast and hard, the day your life got caught up in a whirlwind of rock bands, tattoos and fame.

you had gone out together, browsing a few empty shops while interlocked in each others loving bubble, laughing and happy. he’d seen a pair of jeans, some old vintage ones, he declared he must have them, you bought them when he wasn’t looking. he’d swooped you in a kiss, declaring you the love of his life, you didn’t object.

the memory fought its way through the barricades of alcohol, battling its way to stop any decisions. she nestled closer, he pushed away the sick feeling in his stomach, the feeling that it wasn’t you. he took her home. not his home, a hotel room with clothes strewn across it, he felt nothing. he laid down next to her, his heart erratically beating, out of nerves or exhaustion he wasn’t sure. his head swam with the oncoming hangover and the guilt eating away at his thoughts. she threw her leg over his waist, nuzzling close to him, his body prickled, he didn’t want to hug. not now. not ever. not when she wasn’t you.

his eyes were heavy, the weight of exhaustion threatening to pull him into a slumber he wishes would last forever. she tries to talk, turning her head to look at him. his eyes water with the overpowering scent of lavender. a replica of your massage oil, he took it for granted, your soft hands. your loving touch. if he closed his eyes he could feel the lingering touch of your fingers melting away his anger. her touch was hard. he jolted away. she blamed it on the alcohol.

morning came with a noisy arrival. a repetitive banging awakening him. his head pounded, his vision blurry. his gaze fell upon a figure next to him, a figure he most certainly knew was not you. he dragged his feet, his muscles feeling heavy and weak, as if he were to collapse at any point. the door was heavy and agonisingly slow to open. your eyes were red, yet still so beautiful. he stared at you, for he feared if he dared to open his mouth, he’d be sick. sick out of guilt. you let out a breath that turned into a broken sob, his chin wobbled. he didn’t deserve to cry. not now, not ever. he explained a story that you had no care for. he got lonesome he said, he forgot he said, he’s sorry he said. god. all he does is speak, he’s not sorry you thought. ‘you’re not sorry.’ you said, it was quiet and broken, you were distant and cold, he felt your shame and longed to feel the warmth of your love. his chest heaved and for a moment you felt sorry, you opened your mouth, maybe to apologise or make a snarky comment, you weren’t quite sure. he told you to save the jokes. he shut the door, blocking you out. you reached a longing hand.

that night he drank. enough for george to tell him to quit and order a water. he didn’t touch it. the pristine liquid moving with each jolt of the table. each movement of the water making the nausea cascade in waves, he felt dizzy and unsure, if he were to try and walk he was sure he’d falter and fall. maybe he’d never get back up. maybe he’d never try. he took himself to the smoking area. he never fell.

his hand hovered over you. your picture so bright on his screen. the smile you held clawing at his heartstrings, he clicked, he wasn’t sure if he was expecting you to answer but you did, you were quiet, unsure. you weren’t you. his heart broke a bit more then, he wasn’t sure what to say. no word or sentence sounding good enough, he just whispered ‘she was my mistake.’ you hung up. he was thrust back into the memory of shutting the door on you, he wondered if that gave you the feeling of revenge, leaving him sat on the line, waiting to hear you. he felt angry, but he wasn’t sure at who.

he saw the girl who wasn’t you again, he felt lonely, he needed someone. he didn’t love her, no. but she made him feel good. she gave him that power back. but she wasn’t you. and she would never be. she never made him weak, never made him laugh so loudly people would turn, never made his eyes crinkle in the way that always gave you a chance to call him an old man. she never lived as hard as you. she just was there. he woke the next morning to a silence so deafening he covered his ears. no persistent banging on the door. just silence. torturous melancholy silence. you weren’t there. he wasn’t sure if you ever would be again.

the ghost of you trailed after his being in everything, he picked up his guitar and strummed a tune that sounded like you. his heart stopped for if he thought hard enough your lingering hand on his shoulder could be found. you could still see him sometimes, curled up in the duvet, sat on the sofa or waiting outside the door, but then you’d blink at he’d be gone. you watched his life through a screen knowing you’d never be part of it, your arms staying forever lonely with the reminder of his warmth. you don’t remember when you first heard the song. the lyrics lingering and stinging in a way that had you aching for salvation. he was your mistake. your loving, forever mistake. a mistake that would never be solved, he just lingered. and for you, you stayed in your ever lonely bubble, waiting for him, for if he’d come back. you think you’d let him be your mistake all over again.

[nexility-sims]

have been feeling listless and unmoored re: sims stuff lately, but i got a healthy dose of inspiration from @warwickroyals & @prydainroyals this past week, so i did a little succession / magazine-ish thing :^) obviously beatriz's 2023 death would be commemorated in uspanian vogue !!!!! obviously !!!!

transcribed text below:

Fashion is a Royal (and Family) Affair

That Crown Princess Barbie is a student of Uspanian style isn’t a surprise. For this issue, she recounts the historical episode at the heart of our memorial for the late Queen Beatriz. Pictured above in private photos are: Mother Desideria in 1860; Mother Zuriñe in 1885; Mother Rowena and then-Crown Prince Alfonso in 1926.

THE “BIRDIE” ISSUE OF VOGUE USPANA debuted in 1973. At the time, the magazine was in its infancy. An issue shaped by the queen—and it was, from cover to cover, driven by her desires and presence—ensured longevity. It proved to be a bestseller. Clothes, too, flew off the racks as Uspana’s designers received a boost among popular consumers. A textiles renaissance commenced among women of a certain class who had been looking elsewhere for quality fabric. Then and now, this was the mission of the magazine: loyalty to Uspanian fashion. The Birdie issue was a testament to this, from the sensibilities it imparted to the sourcing of its materials. The queen’s favorite designers, stylists, and photographers filled the issue; it made them iconic, and they would continue to set national trends for decades to come. More importantly, the Birdie issue fit into a larger project underway during Beatriz’s reign. Foreign fashion’s creep into the Uspanian mainstream had started two centuries before Beatriz obtained the Crown, but it reached its cultural apex under the sway of her mother. Uspana’s people had long reviled Queen Rowena’s taste in one breath and wished to emulate it in the second. The two women were not seemingly opposed in a diametric sense. They overlapped under the label of “extravagant,” namely, but Beatriz was forgiven her excess. The Birdie issue, in retrospect, shows why. In an initial meeting with the queen, she told then-editor Lluc Soler that she cared deeply about a “revival” of traditional fashion in the country. Soler replied that traditional fashion was alive and well—“in the mountains, with the grandmothers.” Some in the annals have suggested that this retort led to control of the issue being ceded informally to a team with whom the queen preferred to work. (By 1975, Papan Ibarra had risen from those ranks to become the magazine’s new editor-in-chief, a position she occupied until 1991.) Nonetheless, a certain truth in Soler’s statement formed the foundation of the issue. It did draw heavy inspiration from those grandmothers in the mountains. This included people such as the queen’s own grandmother, Mother Zuriñe, who readily embraced the aesthetics of Yaas and was a master weaver in her own right. The cover reflected the elevated homage orchestrated within. On it, Birdie herself posed in a wool rebozo hand-dyed with cochineal. This garment was a perfect duplicate of the so-called suncloths the queen’s great-grandmother, Mother Desideria, wore on a regular basis in the late nineteenth century. Fittingly, it was also topped with a replica inspired by the time. One of the many jewelry pieces destroyed during the 1880s had been the Shield Flower tiara with its red fire opal set in gold and symbolic allusions to the sacrifice and self-immolation of Uspana’s founding mothers. Queen Beatriz wore tiaras on many occasions, but it was widely known that she preferred to wear the true Uspanian symbol of elite regalia: the jade necklace. For that reason, jade

BIRDIE, 1973 Shield Flower tiara by Xiuhcozcatl for the House of Tecuani. Rebozo by Quilatzli Castañeda. Necklace creator unknown. Fashion editor: Papan Ibarra.

[rhapsodynew]

#everything you need to know about rock

Keith Richards.

The whale had to literally "grow up to be an instrument." Grandpa Gus, a jazz musician, teased his grandson's interest by hanging an acoustic guitar on a higher wall with the words : "When you get it, I'll let you play."

UK rock musicians are a friendly community where everyone knows each other. Every talented guitarist became famous two or three weeks after his appearance in London. John Wetton did not stay idle for long after the collapse of King Crimson. One day he received an envelope with an invitation to attend a rehearsal of the famous band "Jurai Hip", which needed a professional bass guitarist. In early 1975, Yuri Hip lost one of its musicians, Gary Thane, who died of a drug overdose. John Wetton replaced him, and very successfully. The appearance of an experienced musician in the band changed the atmosphere radically. John, a powerful generator of new ideas, became the real leader of the group.

John Anderson's most famous project after the Yes band was the duo Jon and Vangelis — with the legendary keyboardist and film composer. They first crossed paths back in the mid-70s, and then we'll give the floor to John:

So, I got Vangelis's phone number, he lived in Paris, I went and called him. He said (feigning a rude Greek accent) "Hello." I said, "My name is John Anderson." He asked: "What?" I replied: "I sing in a band called Yes." He said: "Are you a singer? Well, come on over." And I came. I was greeted by a tall and sturdy man in a long caftan. He had a bow and arrows slung over his shoulder. I followed him to a luxurious apartment that was located near the Champs-Elysees. We walked down the long hallway leading to the living room. And then Vangelis took out a bow, pulled the string and shot an arrow along the corridor — it hit the open window exactly. I said: "Vangelis, you could have killed someone." He said, "Oh, don't worry, I'm Greek." I said: "I know you're Greek, but damn..." And he was already busy at the stove. In general, I was crazy about this reaction."

The story of the song "The End" by The Doors.

According to the band members, this song was conceived as an ordinary farewell song after Jim Morrison broke up with his girlfriend Mary Werbelow. During the creative process, however, it gradually became more complicated and modified, overgrown with universal images.

The album version consists of two glued parts. The second, which appeared later, the "Oedipus" part was added to the first directly from the words "The killer awoke before dawn", which can be detected by changing the sound when listening carefully. The song was recorded the morning after Morrison's next "frenzy", possibly still under the influence of drugs. Morrison replaced the censored "fuck you" in the "oedipal" part with an inarticulate mumble.

The song is included in the list of the top five hundred according to Rolling Stone magazine (No. 328); the guitar solo of the song is ranked 93rd in the list of the 100 best guitar solos according to Guitar World magazine.

Richie Blackmore.

During his school years, Richie was actively involved in javelin throwing and swimming. Richie hated his studies and teachers for their formalism and suppression of non-standard thinking among students.

Roger Taylor and his mini-replica, drawn using words from his songs.

[riaaanna]

Montreux Part 6: The Mixing Desk with Justin Shirley-Smith - 2 Sept 2023

One more post for the afternoon session at the QSE in Montreux! It is well-known that the studio has a mixing desk feature where you can mix your own version of two songs: Made in Heaven and Mother Love. However, for the birthday celebration, Justin Shirley-Smith (!!!) was going to be there with many other tracks to select and mix, particularly some special ones from the debut Queen album.

I have to reveal my nerdy self - this was the event that convinced me to go to Montreux that day, dissertation deadline being a couple of days away and all. I could have gone any other day if it were just for the statue and visiting QSE, but this was unmissable. So here's a look at the studio first and then the event! Long fangirling post warning.

The top left photo (📸 Richard Gray) is what it looks like when it's empty, which obviously I couldn't get on that day but it's a clear view of where everything is. My photo on the top right was the view of the console in the studio that day. The newly inaugurated bust of David Richards was placed next to the mixing desk, but now it's been moved to the casino gardens. Written description on the plate:

David Richards 20 February 1956 - 20 December 2013 Musician, Sound Engineer, and Producer in charge of Mountain Studios While his name is most often associated with the British rock band Queen or even David Bowie, his numerous artistic collaborations have made him a major figure in the history of music. in addition to his work at Mountain Studios, which he bought in 1993, David recorded the Montreux Jazz Festival over a period of 38 years, contributing to the musical archives granted UNESCO World Heritage status in 2013.

There's a circular plate on the studio floor which marks where Freddie stood to record his last vocals for Mother Love. Honestly, no words needed to describe how profound and emotional it was for me to be there on the very same spot.

There were several display cabinets in the studio. Firstly a miniature replica of Freddie's statue, designed by Irena Sedlecká. Also on display on the other side of the room are the lyrics of A Winter's Tale and Mother's love which I posted previously here. Finally, there was also this analogue 24-track recorder:

Original Struder A80 Analogue 24 Track This Swiss made Struder A80 analogue 24-track recorder is one of the two that were used in this studio from the beginning in 1975. This machine, and the rack equipment either side, have been kindly loaned to Queen: The Studio Experience by David Richards.

And now to this baby!! Now this whole thing isn't an actual working mixing desk, save some actual faders that are designed to do so (only 10 of them) but it's certainly based on the original. Here's Justin Shirley-Smith's note regarding the console:

The console at Mountain Studios was a 1975 vintage Neve 8048. The Studio Experience exhibition features a specially created faithful and full-scale representation of that desk. The main surface of this is a 2D printed image formed from over 300 separate photographs of the original Neve modules. The frame and trim were constructed with reference to the original 1974 Neve drawings. This replica console was the work of the brilliant Nigel Knight and his talented team at RMA Ltd in UK. The original Neve console is now owned by Svenska Grammofonstudion of Gothenburg in Sweden, who kindly allowed it to be photographed by Andrew Guyton for this use. The original desk was updated in the late 1980’s with Neve ‘Necam’ moving faders but the image in the exhibition shows the original 1975 manual faders … and in the spot where originally there were sixteen red group faders, we have put some real red faders so anyone can mix a Queen song there once more.

You can see above the ten red faders which are functional and set up to mix Queen songs the way you want them. It's amazing because you get to hear certain backing vocals or instruments on their own if you set them all the way up and the rest of the faders down, and I have an obsession with getting to hear those kinds of things.

You can also see four red buttons on the right. Two of them are to select songs you can mix, which are Mother Love and Made in Heaven. The other two aren't for mixing but they do play Bicycle Race and The Invisible Man in surround sound in the studio. So these are the default options available on any day.

I took pictures of the rest of the "faders", which are actually just stickers but represented the original setup when it was used back then. You can see that there are Roger's drums (BD = bass drums, SN = snares, HH = hi hats, etc, OH = overhead? AMB = ambience? I'm just smart guessing!) John's bass, Brian's AC 30 amps, everyone's mics etc. All of which add up to 24-tracks. I wish I were an actual sound engineer to deeply know more about mixing details, but for me this was already mindblowing as it is!

Now this is where it gets fun! For the celebration, Justin brought out these songs available to mix. Basically he connected his laptop to the system so he can connect these multitracks. We just come up to him and request which one we want to try!

These handwritten boards are just labels that we put on top of the faders when we select the song, as a guide to label which fader corresponds to which track. They're removable and he would just put them on according to whichever song we chose. You can see that each song has different split tracks, some of them have more guitar and vocal tracks, some of them have more piano or keys, etc.

Here's a tiny clip of me trying on A Winter's Tale. I'm not left-handed but I had to hold the camera, and idk if you can see it but I was shaking lmao. This song always sends chills down my spine and to be able to hear just the backing harmonies or just the guitars? It was incredible oh my God. I was so grateful I could go to Montreux.

This was just a snippet of what I tried, because the room was open for 4 hours and I ended up being in there for 2 hours, which nobody else did lol. It wasn't empty, it was quite crowded but most people come in and out just to try 1-2 songs. To clarify I did not hog the board to myself for two hours lmfao (wish I could!) but I was in the room to watch other people give it a try and when there's no one else then I come up and try. I got about 4-5 tries I think!

So you can see it was a small room, and I swear I tried to not look like a weirdo standing there for 2 hours watching people do their stuff, and I really was gonna try to come up to Justin and chat with him at some point. Turns out he beat me to it, he came up and said hi(!!! 😭 but that's probably because I was just stood there in the corner for ages like 🧍‍♂️ sdkjfdfk). I told him could only be there that year and made sure to express that, despite not being sound engineering expert, his event was why I came to Montreux on the celebration day, and I think he was glad to hear it!

Anyway he was sooo kind and insightful. I asked him which songs he would recommend me to try, and which parts I should turn up to hear what you wouldn't normally hear very clearly in the album.

He suggested My Fairy King, which are there in raw tracks (without effects!) and because it's from the debut album. He suggested to turn up Freddie's piano in the last verse (the super quick instrumental part) and it was incredible to hear. I also got to hear which parts of that song had acoustic guitars (you wouldn't hear it as is on the song!), isolated parts of the drums and bass, and isolated vocals (you are NOT ready for Roger's isolated backing vocals oh my GOD).

Some other highlights for me are isolated everythings of Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy, Bring Back That Leroy Brown, and A Winter's Tale. I tried to spend time on tracks that we never had stems or multitracks of, either somewhere on the internet or from the official 5.1 surround mixes (which A Night At The Opera and The Game was once released in). And that's just those four songs I mentioned. Of course I wish I could stay the whole time to try every song and put on every isolated track, but I had to keep it together lol.

I stayed for as long as I could before my Ask Phoebe session, I requested several songs enough times that Justin jokingly said "didn't you try that one already" 💀 I didn't even have it in me to be embarrassed lol it's once in a lifetime my man let me live! But yes I eventually finished, got a selfie with him, and finally felt okay enough to go.

Have a bonus mirror selfie of myself on my way out. I'm sure I don't have readers left by this paragraph but if you're here, thank you for reading my Montreux series! Just one or two more before I wrap it up, and it will be on the Official Freddie Birthday Party!

Late edit: I want to put a big thanks to Lurex B. and Dry Paint Dealer Undr. That day I couldn't properly remember which songs we already had, whether in stems or full multis, so when I panicked in the chat they were the ones standing by online and helping me prioritize. They probably don't remember it being a big deal but that virtually held my hand throughout lol, so thank you guys. ❤️

[dustedmagazine]

Royal Trux — Twin Infinitives (Fire)

“Map of the City,” a song on Royal Trux’s terrific Thank You (1995), includes these lyrics: “I’m drawing up a plan for the city / Filled with ten thousand crooked stairs / Some lead up to heaven….” If we freely allegorize and think the “plan for the city” as an account of the Royal Trux’s strange career and the “crooked stairs” as their many, many songs, then some do “lead up to heaven”: “Back to School,” “Ray O Vac,” “Blue Is the Frequency.” We could go on. But as the lyric notes, only “some” lead up into the beautiful blue, while others descend into decidedly more disordered, berserk domains. For a map of those abject regions, you might consult Twin Infinitives, the band’s 1990 double LP, which has been reissued by Fire Records.

Some may wonder if the world ever needed the initial release of Twin Infinitives, much less a reissue (available as a “limited edition Double Silver LP,” natch). It’s a notoriously difficult record, and there are audiences that liken its racket to the relative “unlistenability” of other perversely audacious double LPs: Trout Mask Replica (1969) or Metal Machine Music (1975). Twin Infinitives lacks the poetic spirit and structure of Captain Beefheart’s songs, and it doesn’t have the conceptual rigor of Lou Reed’s infamous noise project. Mostly the record seems to document the bodily rhythms and psychological extremities of dope addiction, which Neil Hagerty and Jennifer Herrema were deep into during the album’s creation.

There’s some relevant historical context there, if we recall the early 1990s period of so-called “heroin chic” — we might summon the seductive image of Vincent Vega (John Travolta), high as hell and cruising LA freeways in his cherry red ’64 Malibu, from Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction. The junkie vibe suffusing the Royal Trux’s early records intensified their scuzz-punk rep, but there’s nothing superficially sexy or effortlessly cool about the music on Twin Infinitives. Songs like “Yin Jim Versus the Vomit Creature” and “Lick My Boots” are too ragged and distorted; they sound unhealthy. If the heroin chic amounted to a sort of cynical slumming in vicariously hazardous aesthetic territory, Twin Infinitives feels too urgently dangerous. It’s the sound of minds purposefully reducing themselves to wreckage.

For all that grim junkie detritus, Twin Infinitives has its moments of musical power. Most compelling is “(Edge of the) Ape Oven,” a fifteen-minute tour on the road of excess. It never clarifies into anything vaguely song-like, but it has ideas about musicality that provoke. The bursts of cowbell, Hagerty’s guitar tone, the spectral organ that occupies a space out in the distance of the mix: the track feels assembled with a variety of idiosyncratic artistry.

Listening back to Twin Infinitives, one has the sense that the run of excellent records that followed, from Untitled to Sweet Sixteen, owes something to the cauldron of infernal weirdness Hagerty and Herrema baked in for a while. Check out the mutant blues of “Move,” the spooky vibe-out of “Driving in That Car (with the Eagle on the Hood),” the pacing of “Shadow of the Wasp.” They all bear the traces of the chaotic welter of Twin Infinitives, and for audiences still engaged by the best of the Royal Trux (in spite of all the messy drama), it’s sort of interesting to track the band’s work through the 1990s, as they stitched songs and their souls back into more coherent forms. Just watch your step on those crooked stairs if you’re headed down the other way.

Jonathan Shaw

[yourwizardofaus]

Elvis And Linda Thompson

Elvis’ entourage could be impenetrable, exclusive and cliquish, but the one girlfriend they happily accepted was Linda.

One of the earliest pictures of Elvis with Linda was taken at the National Gospel Quartet convention in October 1972.

Linda was photographed with Elvis and his longtime Tupelo friend Janelle McComb, when she visited Graceland sometime in December 1972.

Elvis with Linda before his afternoon concert in Atlanta on June 30, 1973.

Elvis and Linda with Vernon Presley and his wife Dee.  They were at the Kang Ree karate studio in Memphis on July 23, 1973.

Linda looks at Red West as they arrive in Los Angeles on May 11, 1974.

Elvis and Linda in a hotel room around 1974-75.

Sam Thompson, his wife Louise as well as Elvis and Lisa Marie were pictured in August 1975 with Linda and her parents Sanford and Margie Thompson.

Elvis and Linda entering the front gates at Graceland after a trike ride on September 8, 1975.

Elvis and Linda in a limousine leaving the airport for Arlington Park Hilton in Chicago on October 14, 1976.  It is the last known photo of Elvis with Linda as she left a month later.

Linda in later life.  She is wearing a replica of the jacket made around 1973 by East West Musical Instruments Co. of San Francisco.  Ginger Alden, the girlfriend who more or less replaced Linda in Elvis’ love life, stated that Elvis gave her the original jacket while at Graceland in 1977.

[goldengay49]

Car headcanons

Alabama: some sorta truck

Alaska: a huge truck (and a plane which he calls a car, bro also has dog sleds and boats but we’re talkin cars here)

Arizona: some sorta ATV and a Prius

Arkansas: a really old pick up

California: Ferrari (California T, obvi) and a Tesla

Colorado: some sorta mountain truck

Connecticut: Toyota Prius

Delaware: bros so old he don’t know what a car is he got a horse carriage

Florida: monster truck

Georgia: Orange 1969 Dodge Charger

Hawai’i: [idk, tell me what you think]

Idaho: definitely a truck

Illinois: [idk, tell me what you think]

Indiana: [idk, tell me what you think]

Iowa: some sorta truck

Kansas: [idk, tell me what you think]

Kentucky: [idk, tell me what you think]

Louisiana: bro has a marsh buggy but idk what his main car would be

Maine: some type of truck

Maryland: [idk, tell me what you think]

Massachusetts: [idk, tell me what you think]

Michigan: bro just has a bunch of unfinished cars in his garage

Minnesota: [idk, tell me what you think]

Mississippi: [idk, tell me what you think]

Missouri: [idk, tell me what you think]

Montana: definitely some sorta off road truck

Nebraska: [idk, tell me what you think]

Nevada: both a truck and some sorta sparkly custom Cadillac limo

New Hampshire: [idk, tell me what you think]

New Jersey: [idk, tell me what you think]

New Mexico: [idk, tell me what you think]

New York: bro has a fucking taxi

North Carolina: [idk, tell me what you think]

North Dakota: [idk, tell me what you think]

Ohio: [idk, tell me what you think]

Oklahoma: some truck

Oregon: Tesla

PA: [idk, tell me what you think]

Rhode Island: he has one of those toy electric cars that two 6 year olds could fit in [JK, idk, tell me what you think]

South Carolina: [idk, tell me what you think]

South Dakota: [idk, tell me what you think]

Tennessee: jacked up truck, and a replica of the psychobilly Cadillac

Texas: 2 of the biggest jacked up trucks because bro is compensating

Utah: something big enough for all his kids

Vermont: [idk, tell me what you think]

Virginia: [idk, tell me what you think]

Washington: [idk, tell me what you think]

West Virginia: an old pick up truck

Wisconsin: cheese wedge 1975

Wyoming: [idk, tell me what you think]

I feel like a lot of the “[idk, tell me what you think]” could be trucks

[lesbian-cal-kestis]

It's my 18th birthday in approximately three weeks, so I'd like to share a little extra about myself. Nothing vital, per se, just some sweet father-child relationship stuff.

My dad is the one that originally got me into Star Wars at the ripe age of 9, if my memory serves me correctly. I was home from school due to a power surge caused by a thunder storm at my primary school, and he suggested we watch some movies to pass the time.

The movies he suggested?

All six of the Star Wars movies that were out at that point in time.

Although he made the mistake of starting with The Phantom Menace (child me and my limited focusing capabilities was bored to the high heavens), they were easily ranked as the best movies I had seen in my life. I doubt it would mean a lot, coming from a kid, but at seventeen? I still think they're the best movies I've seen in my life.

Not because of the theatrics or the CGI, or anything else like that.

Because I got to watch them with my dad. My dad, who barely had enough time to do things like this with me. My dad, who worked in the mines as a FIFO (fly-in-fly-out) worker, solely to provide me with a good start in life.

I got to watch them with him. And it was the most significant part of my life. I even wore a Padawan braid all throughout year six, which had me on the receiving end of odd stares from my private school teachers, but it made me happy.

Not long after we watched the movies, he told me about how when A New Hope first came out, he begged my grandfather to see it in the cinemas with him as he was a nine-year-old at the time (A New Hope was released in 1975, keep in mind).

He's seen every star wars movie since.

He's watched every show.

And it brings warmth to my heart, knowing that my old man shares an interest that's the same as one of mine. Knowing that long after he's gone, he'll be there with me whenever I rewatch Revenge Of The Sith for the nth time. Watching with me and smiling.

Anyways that being said I'm planning on getting a cal kestis lightsaber tattoo done along my spine next year or the year after that, providing I have enough money after my paramedic courses. And I'm getting my dad a replica of Qui-Gon Jinn's lightsaber, because Qui-Gon is his favourite Jedi

TL;DR my dad got me into star wars

[thehobbitsonbikes]

The view from the roof of the Presidential Palace. The tanks on view on the left are replicas of the two tanks that smashed through the gates you can see on 30th April 1975 this symbolising the fall of Saigon and the end of the Vietnam war. The two original tanks are officially national treasures and are in museums in Hanoi. The helicopter you see at the end is in the location where helicopters landed to ferry people to safety at that time.

[art-damaged]

Statue of Minerva / backhoe

In June 2024, this 1860s marble statue - a replica of the famed "Athena Pallas Giustiniani" (aka "Minerva Giustiniani"), a Roman statue which was itself based on a Greek bronze sculpture from 5-4 BCE - was destroyed while in the care of Wells College in Aurora, NY, where it had been installed for 156 years.

The statue, gifted to the school by its namesake family in 1868, was a beloved mainstay at the college, with students having long kissed the figure’s feet for good luck and referring to “her” as a fellow student. However, following the announcement of the college's closing in April, the statue was prepared for removal - but, as reports later explained, "in an effort to cut corners, the administration ordered the statue moved without professional assistance and without any protective materials using a backhoe, a dolly, and chains."

Workers strapped the statue to a furniture dolly before hanging the statue horizontally from a backhoe’s bucket with moving straps. Without proper support, the weight of the statue caused its head to snap off, hitting the ground with a thud.

Representatives from the Wells Legacy Society, who hope to preserve items from the college campus for future display, are currently exploring their options for restoration.

Interestingly, prior to this incident, the statue had survived an on-campus fire in 1888, as well as a kidnapping by students from a neighboring school in 1975.